Still, the stitch in my side had already made me its bitch, and my heart threatened to pound itself out of my chest – not from exertion but from fear. I hadn’t had time to get scared when the zombies attacked me (one at a time, I might add) in the courtyard, but staring at a slew of undead about to get a whiff of my tasty flesh, I panicked I wouldn’t be able to withstand a gang attack.
Luckily, a woman’s startling shriek diverted most of them onto St. Philip Street. Even with a few of them still headed my way, I decided I shouldn’t bolt. Smarter to opt for a power walk or maybe a slow jog, but not a full-out run. As I moved toward Dumaine, the next cross street, the woman’s screams abruptly ended.
Sorry, lady.
At that precise moment, I finally noticed the level of yelling and gunfire around me. Beside my gate, I’d heard the terrifying sounds in the distance, but the havoc was much closer than I’d realized. The odors of fire and rotting flesh had grown more pronounced – the fires were almost as disconcerting as the zombies. In a neighborhood like the Quarter, where the buildings huddled close together – with few gaps, plenty of trees, and too many wooden fences – fire could spread like a wrathful god had soaked the neighborhood in gasoline.
Prior to the zombie apocalypse, the local fire department had taken blazes seriously in the Quarter; its response time had been way more prompt than that of incompetent NOPD officers to the scene of a mugging, rape, or murder. No one wanted a repeat of the Great New Orleans Fires of 1788 and 1794 that had destroyed most of the structures in the historic neighborhood, particularly since, by the twenty-first century, it had become ground zero for the city’s tourism industry. But I doubted many firefighters were left to operate the hoses.
I couldn’t believe I’d been so clueless – and not just about the encroaching fires. I’d been so focused on my own situation back at the house, the truth simply hadn’t registered. Amid the decomposing corpses, a lot of people – living people – were still fighting for their lives against hungry zombies. In both directions on Dauphine and Dumaine, I witnessed life-or-death battles taking place in the streets and alleys, on the sidewalks and driveways, even on rickety galleries and balconies.
I needed to get the hell out of there and reach my wife as soon as possible. So, striving to ignore the angry shouts, tearful pleas, breaking glass, and frenzied gunshots in all directions, I bypassed the zombies in my path and continued toward St. Philip.
Chapter
9
“Be afraid. Be very afraid.” – Veronica Quaife, The Fly (1986)
Farther along Dauphine, a preppy guy clung to an old-fashioned gas lamppost. Given his bloodshot eyes and wobbly legs, he was obviously drunk. Never a shocking sight on All Saints’ Day, but how the idiot had managed to stay alive was a complete mystery to me. The only weapon he carried was a bottle of tequila. Empty, of course.
Our eyes locked, and he smiled faintly, but from his squinting expression, I assumed he couldn’t see me all that clearly. When my focus shifted past him, to the scantily clad, blood-splattered, zombified teenager shuffling toward him, he lazily followed my gaze to the approaching girl.
Unfortunately, he was either too bleary-eyed or too brain-numbed (or both) to recognize the danger, so when she was merely twenty feet from him, he slurred, “Hey, baby! Show me your tits!”
An only-in-New-Orleans kind of thing, it was a commonly heard request at Mardi Gras parades – and every night on Bourbon Street. During crowded weekends, for instance, the balconies along Bourbon would be packed with horny guys – and even more than a few gals, eager to take part in the action. As women of all colors, shapes, sizes, and ages strolled on the street below, the balcony hogheads would holler, “Show us your tits!” If a lady complied, the guys and gals would toss her a set of cheap plastic beads – made for pennies in China.
Every time I’d witnessed the all-too-familiar spectacle, I felt grateful Clare and I had never had any kids… at least none of the non-furry type.
As soon as the preppy dude propositioned the zombie chick, she closed the gap between them and, without preamble, bit a huge chunk of cloth-draped flesh from his shoulder. The consequence for offering her nothing in return – not even a cheap set of Carnival beads.
Releasing the lamppost and stumbling backward, he tried to push her away. From the look on his face, though, he’d barely felt the actual bite. He seemed too inebriated to register pain. Of course, when the zombie girl lunged toward him again and chomped off part of his nose, he seemed to notice that. With an anguished yelp, he crumpled onto the sidewalk and clutched his bloody face.
No matter what the girl did next, he was a gone pecan. So, I did the only reasonable thing I could: I sidestepped the ill-fated couple.
That’s what you get, asshole.
Clare and I might’ve lived in the French Quarter – the place where the party had never seemed to end – but except for Halloween, we hadn’t usually hung out in our own neighborhood. Naturally, we had our favorite bar – The Kerry Irish Pub, over on Decatur – but that cozy, music-filled joint had always been more popular with the locals.
For the most part, we’d stopped walking down Bourbon Street several years prior, before we’d even moved into our most recent apartment. We’d long had a distaste for the smelly, garish street, but our disgust increased the night we’d witnessed a large group of college-aged guys on a hotel balcony, tossing plastic beads at a girl who had collapsed on the sidewalk. Her friends had done nothing to help, so the assholes had just continued to hurl crappy necklaces at the poor young woman, vying to hit her in the head and cackling each time one of them scored. Like it was a righteous sport – or an innocent rite of passage in the Big Sleazy.
On second thought, maybe the world was better off with the zombies. Frankly, most of mankind sucked.
Beyond the Kerry, Clare and I had mainly stuck to the Marigny, the residential neighborhood adjacent to the Quarter. We were especially fond of the clubs on Frenchmen Street.
Goddammit, this sucks.
I would seriously miss the old-time jazz and blues music routinely blasting from The Spotted Cat and d.b.a., providing a rhythmic backdrop for the young dancers who often gathered in those clubs, twirling and twisting like colored feathers in the wind. On more than one occasion, Clare and I had promised each other we’d learn to dance like that, but perhaps knowing we’d never look as graceful had kept us from trying.
That and being a couple of old lazy asses.
Hey, most of those kids were just over twenty; we had an entire generation on them. Morbidly, I wondered how graceful the zombie versions of those dancers would seem now. Yeah, I’d really shown them: The graceless, overweight, old guy had endured among the zombies longer than most of the slender youngsters that once frequented Frenchmen Street.
Quite the victory.
Keeping an eye out for zombies, I turned onto St. Philip and, amid a smoky haze, promptly spotted a small group of people running for their lives down Bourbon Street, only a block away. I ducked behind an SUV, just as a horde of zombies, moving way too fast for my liking, chased after the free meal. Luckily, the walking dead (or, in that case, the running dead) and their victims were headed in the opposite direction from my destination, and once the path seemed clear, I resumed my trek across the French Quarter.
Someone familiar with the city’s geography might ask why I was moving away from the parking lot on Rampart Street – where my ride out of Zombietown currently awaited me. Well, besides not leaving any guns in my apartment, I’d done something else pretty stupid.
Since I hadn’t had enough money to buy all the shit I thought we would need during the impending apocalypse, I had applied for every high-interest credit card I could (all of which I’d happily never have to pay back). I’d also pawned Clare’s maternal grandmother’s wedding ring, given to my wife after her beloved grandmother had passed away – and like a real asshole, I hadn’t told Clare.
Yep, I had to get that damn ring back before I headed out of
town. Even if Clare preferred my safety over her grandmother’s ring, I still wouldn’t have felt right betraying my best friend and soulmate like that.
The pawn shop where I’d gotten eight grand for the ring was located in Mid-City, but I knew the owner, Troy Blanville (with whom I’d occasionally sipped beers at the Kerry), lived in the Quarter. I also knew he kept the ring at his house, not in the shop. I just hoped nothing had happened to him – or the ring – during the night.
As I neared the city’s notorious party street, the smoke from nearby fires grew thicker and more pungent. Closer to the intersection, I realized flames engulfed several buildings on Bourbon, including my postal shop on one corner and Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop Bar on another.
For a moment, I paused to consider the irony: Lafitte’s was one of only a handful of structures to have survived the Great Fires of the 18th century. Who could’ve guessed it would be a zombie apocalypse that finally destroyed it?
Many New Orleanians claimed the tavern had been haunted by two pirates said to have died after a bloody knife fight over a woman. Though a diehard horror nut, I’d never believed in ghosts. (Well, before recent events, I never would’ve believed in zombies either.) But, if the story about Lafitte’s were true, I figured some pissed-off ghosts would soon be roaming the streets of the French Quarter, looking for a new place to haunt.
The fires were so intense I could feel them from the other side of the street; one look at Azazel’s unhappy face told me she felt them, too. And for a kitty who could spend hours in front of my parents’ fireplace up north, that was saying something.
So, after glancing to the southwest and watching as the herd of undead caught up with a few of the unlucky souls I’d seen running, I turned northeast and edged closer to my destination.
Understandably, there were even more corpses on Bourbon Street than I’d observed on St. Ann and Dauphine. Most partyers must’ve congregated there before the first zombies arrived.
Having to leap over bodies made my journey tougher, but I still did my best to jog down the middle of the narrow street. If I encountered any zombies, I assumed it would be easier to dodge to one side or the other – and avoid getting trapped between cars and buildings.
I lifted the cat carrier and checked on Azazel: Now that we were keeping our distance from the flames, she seemed ready to go to sleep again.
Ah, to be a cat.
She’d even rolled onto her side (or maybe all my jiggling had knocked her over), enabling me to see the pronounced leopard spots covering her belly. They’d always made her look like one badass kitty.
Letting my mind wander a bit too long, I managed to run smack into another zombified businessman, which sent both Azazel and me to the ground. I landed hard on my ass, forcing my jaws to clamp shut and unleashing a jolt of pain through my torso that rivaled the headache. The axe promptly dropped from my hand, jabbing me in the crotch. At least I hadn’t sliced my own balls off. The cat carrier, meanwhile, flew from my hands and tumbled end over end toward the gutter.
But, as luck would have it, the zombie dude had caught his suit jacket on the side-view mirror of somebody’s piece-of-shit Toyota. So, I wasted no time getting to my feet, picking up poor Azazel’s overturned carrier, and ensuring she was unharmed (if a tad disoriented and disgruntled) before quickly continuing down the street.
By the end of the block, though, I knew my cat and I were in serious trouble. I stood frozen at the intersection of Ursulines Avenue and Bourbon Street, not sure which way to go. In all four directions, I could see burning cars and buildings. Even worse, I spotted hundreds of zombies, shambling toward me from every direction, about to converge exactly where I stood.
I’d barely survived the first morning of the zombie apocalypse. I’d failed to escape the bloody, burning French Quarter, and I’d ultimately let my wife down. I was about to be devoured right there – and if not, Clare would likely kill me herself for endangering Azazel.
Chapter
10
“If we hole up, I wanna be somewhere familiar, I wanna know where the exits are, and I wanna be allowed to smoke.” – Ed, Shaun of the Dead (2004)
“You crazy, boy?”
My head swiveled as I searched for the woman presumably talking to me. I recognized her as soon as my eyes landed on the dingy launderette on the northern corner of Ursulines and Bourbon. Myriam Beauvoir, a rotund black woman in her early sixties, stood in the wide-open doorway, beckoning me inside. Somehow, it didn’t surprise me to see the joint was still intact and untouched by the nearby fires… although, as with every other building in the tightly packed Quarter, its preservation might not last long.
With a glance at the converging hordes, I calculated my shitty odds of survival and bolted through her front entrance. Once Azazel and I were safely inside the dimly lit washateria, Myriam closed and locked the glass door behind me – though a bit slower than I preferred.
I cautiously gazed around the place. Blinds covered all the windows. A musky, ginger-scented incense wafted through the air. Spaced across several old washers and dryers, half a dozen candles burned, which, beyond the sunshine spilling through the glass door, offered just enough light to make out most of the room.
As I focused my attention on the first zombies approaching the building, Myriam remained near the door, wordlessly removing a cigar from her shirt pocket, snipping off the end, and igniting it with a slender lighter. Years earlier, the local government had banned smoking in public places, but now that the zombie apocalypse had arrived, Myriam no longer had to slip outside for her daily cigar fix. Comforting to know a few silver linings had resulted from the end of the world.
She took a puff and exhaled a heady stream of smoke. “Idiot boy, why you runnin’ ’round out dere?”
Wishing I hadn’t packed all my own cigars in the van, I ignored her question and simply said, “You should get away from the door, Miss Myriam, or the zombies will see you.”
She casually glanced over her shoulder, through the door, and pointed with her chin. “Da rosemary’ll keep ’em away.”
I traced her gaze to the two large, potted plants bookending the outer entrance. “The rosemary?” I stared at her as if she had lobster – or, more appropriately, crawfish – scrambling from her ears. “Rosemary, as in the herb?” I backed farther into the room, away from the easily breakable glass door.
She chuckled, shaking her head. “I told dat pretty wife uh yours you was no good.” She took another satisfying puff on her cigar. “She shoulda listened to me.”
Yes, it was true: Like my mother-in-law, Myriam had never approved of me – even though Clare and I had once been two of her most frequent customers. For nearly a decade, we’d used her launderette at least twice weekly, and while she’d legitimately liked Clare and merely tolerated my presence, she’d eventually banned me (and, by extension, my poor wife) from the premises.
Even now, I couldn’t attribute the expulsion to one particular reason. Perhaps she’d grown weary of my repeated complaints about the dirty, unreliable condition of her machines. Maybe she didn’t find my outlandish stories and controversial opinions as amusing as Clare did. Maybe, just maybe, she was still pissed about the time I’d snorted loudly after overhearing her conversation with a distraught woman – during which she’d revealed the fact that, as a voodoo priestess, she could easily remedy the woman’s troubles with the no-good men of New Orleans.
OK, yeah, that’s probably the moment she started hating me.
Regardless, I was no longer welcome in the launderette, which had ultimately led to our decision to install a small washer and dryer in our courtyard. Although Clare had grown to appreciate the convenient laundry setup, the situation hadn’t initially pleased her. Never superstitious – or even religious, for that matter – she’d still considered it unwise to piss off the voodoo priestess who ran the only convenient washateria in the French Quarter. Used washers and dryers such as ours, bought from Tulane college kids, could break, after all.
Given what had happened between me and Myriam, I was just grateful she’d offered me sanctuary from the ravenous zombies outside. I couldn’t kid myself, though. While she’d often been a generous soul to the ladies of the neighborhood, she likely wouldn’t have come to my rescue if I hadn’t been toting Azazel’s carrier. Even she knew how much Clare adored the temperamental tabby – who, after her recent tumble in the street, had fallen asleep yet again.
I glanced from the carrier, still gripped in my left hand, to the glass door. The zombies outside had almost reached the entrance when the trio in front staggered to a halt, causing an almost comical traffic jam behind them. The three creatures gazed around the area in confusion and, bizarre as it might sound, lifted their noses in the air, as if sniffing something suspicious.
With their blood-stained faces, missing teeth, and swollen cheeks, eyes, and mouths, the three guys looked as if they’d endured a fifteen-round fight with an ogre, so it wasn’t easy to discern subtle changes in their features. Still, their noses appeared to crinkle, as though they’d gotten a strong whiff of an intolerably foul smell, and the zombies behind them reacted in a similarly disgusted way. Seconds later, the crowd retreated from the launderette and lumbered elsewhere, likely searching for a more appetizing meal.
“Still doubt me?” Wearing an annoyingly smug expression, Myriam continued to puff on her cigar. “You see witcha own eyes.”
Zombie Chaos Box Set | Books 1-4 Page 5
