Zombie Chaos Box Set | Books 1-4

by Martone, D. L.

  “Holy crap.”

  “Damn beasts done broke troo da veil. Emptyin’ d’Infernal into our realm,” she murmured.

  I had no clue what she was muttering about, but I didn’t have the patience for some lengthy spiritual lesson. Besides, the goings-on outside fascinated me a lot more.

  Although I couldn’t really tell if the zombies had ultimately linked the bad smell to the rosemary plants, I still wanted to ask Myriam how she knew the herb would serve as such an effective undead repellent. But instead, I merely watched in amazement as the horde dispersed from the intersection.

  With her demonstration done, Myriam ambled away from the door. “So, where’s Clare?”

  “Baton Rouge,” I said, my focus drifting toward the Employees Only door near the cash register.

  I wondered if the back area – which I knew doubled as a storage room and Myriam’s tiny apartment – led to a side alley. All the times we’d gone there, I’d never noticed a pathway beside the building, but I figured it might be less conspicuous than waltzing out the front door. Especially if the zombies weren’t as deterred as they’d seemed.

  “At her mama’s?”

  “Yep.” I turned toward her voice and noticed her rummaging through a satchel atop one of the dryers, the cigar resting in a small ashtray. “Say, Miss Myriam, does this place have a back door? I need to get to Governor Nicholls.”

  “No way out da back,” she said, nodding toward the front entrance, “but it’s almost clear enough out dere.” Her point made, she returned to her feverish search.

  I stepped toward her, curious about the hunt capturing her awareness.

  Suddenly, her brown eyes brightened, and a satisfied smile spread across her round face. “Aha!” She pulled out three small baggies, each of which contained a fine grayish powder, though the candlelight made it hard to pinpoint the exact color. After turning toward me, she stepped closer, slid the baggies into the pocket of my long-sleeved shirt, and buttoned the flap.

  I arched an eyebrow, suspicious of her intentions. “Probably not the best time to get high.”

  She shot me an aggravated look. “Not for puttin’ up your nose, stupid. Dis dried frog powder.” Perhaps reading my confused expression, she continued to explain. “Blow it onto a zombie, an’ it can kill ’em. Might even take out more dan one. Even if you don’t get it right in deir faces, it could at least hurt ’em. Give you time to get away.”

  “Frog powder, huh?”

  OK, she might’ve been my savior, but she was still an eccentric old woman. Even after living in New Orleans for more than a decade, I had yet to meet a voodoo practitioner who’d convinced me of his or her powers.

  Still, she’d been right about the zombies. They apparently hadn’t approved of the rosemary plants, which, frankly, made me wish I had some of the miraculous herb to hang around the exterior of our step van. I considered asking Myriam for a few sprigs, but I didn’t want to push my luck. She’d already been more generous than I had a right to expect, given our tumultuous history.

  I turned toward the glass door. Even through the haze from the fires, the intersection seemed clear. Though wary to venture the three lengthy blocks that lay between Myriam’s place and Troy Blanville’s home, I couldn’t waste any more time.

  As if reading my thoughts, the voodoo priestess meandered to the door and threw the bolt.

  “What about you, Miss Myriam? What’s your plan?” I stepped closer to the entrance. “Maybe you should come with us.”

  She shook her head vehemently, her gray-tinged brown curls bouncing against her full cheeks. “Dis my home. No damn zombies gonna chase me off.”

  Just as stubborn as my neighbor Robert. Unwilling to let a thousand or more marauding zombies force her out. Admirable, perhaps, but the spreading flames would likely kill her before the undead could take their chance. Rosemary had a variety of uses, but as far as I knew, it wasn’t known for extinguishing fire.

  “You sure?”

  She nodded. “I’m sure.” She unleashed a toothy grin. “But I ’preciate da offer.”

  “Not a problem.” I winked. “Bet Clare and I could use some voodoo mojo on the road.”

  She chuckled, her whole body trembling with mirth. “Bet you could, too.”

  As she opened the door, I stepped cautiously across the threshold, still gripping Azazel’s carrier in one hand and my handy axe in the other. Glancing over my shoulder, I smiled at her.

  “Thanks for helping me, Miss Myriam.”

  She shooed me away. “Jus’ take care uh dat wife uh yours. She a keeper.”

  I smiled. “That she is.” I hesitated, then said, “Good luck.”

  “You, too.”

  I took a few steps to the corner and surveyed both ends of Bourbon and Ursulines. Unfortunately, even through the smoky haze, I could see a massive amount of zombies still packed in three of the four directions – luckily, not the one I needed.

  Taking one last look at Myriam, I noticed she had stepped outside to survey her part of the neighborhood. After apparently noting the three hordes of undead soon to converge at the intersection, she shifted her eyes to the corner, where I still stood like a catatonic platter of raw meat.

  “Run, dummy,” she said as she retreated inside and bolted the door.

  Chapter

  11

  “No, please don’t kill me, Mr. Ghostface. I wanna be in the sequel!” – Tatum Riley, Scream (1996)

  Taking Myriam’s advice, I bolted past the twenty-four-hour deli on the opposite corner. Known as the Quartermaster, it had long been my favorite spot for late-night munchies. Though one of the dirtiest joints in the neighborhood – where spotting roaches and rats scurrying along the baseboards wasn’t uncommon – it had never looked so horrendous.

  The weathered, glass-paneled doors barely hung from the hinges, and as I hurried past, I caught a glimpse of the decimated interior, with broken bottles, blood, brain matter, and intestines strewn across the dingy tiled floor and adorning the tightly packed shelves. That particular Halloween was probably one night the employees had wanted to close and lock their always-open doors.

  Without stopping to see if I recognized any of the victims, I continued down Ursulines, toward the Mississippi River. I had to zigzag between the mutilated corpses and body parts on the asphalt – the cat carrier and go-bag banging against me as usual – but I covered the hazy, eerily quiet block in less than twenty seconds.

  At Royal Street, I surveyed both directions, straining to see any movement through the smoke. Though I could still hear screams, gunshots, and other sounds of pandemonium all around me, I didn’t see any zombies in the immediate vicinity.

  It made me sad to think of all the cool historic homes, quaint inns, clever art galleries, and cluttered antique shops that lined Royal – and know they would either burn to the ground or become infested with the undead. There was nothing I could do to remedy the awful state of my old neighborhood, so I squelched the dismay, turned left, and headed toward Governor Nicholls Street.

  As before, I jogged down the middle of the road, afraid of getting myself trapped against the buildings or between the parked cars, and as before, I did my best not to trip on the previous night’s ill-fated revelers. If I were Robert or Myriam, I wouldn’t have remained in the Quarter for lots of reasons – not the least of which was that, even if those who stayed managed to subdue the zombies and put out the fires, they would still need to remove all the carnage from the structures and the streets – or else, the neighborhood would look and smell like death for months to come.

  I reached the corner of Royal and Governor Nicholls, where a three-story, dark gray structure towered over the intersection. Known by tourists and residents alike as the LaLaurie Mansion, it was an infamous, supposedly haunted home once owned by Nicolas Cage and frequently mentioned on the walking ghost tours that happened nightly.

  Glancing at the bodies around me, I could tell at least three tour groups had been present when the zombie commoti
on had begun. Among the tattered, blood-stained costumes, I could still see some of the stickers the competing tour companies typically distributed to their paying customers.

  What a terrible way for a cheesy ghost tour to end.

  Turning right, I breathed a little more easily. So far, I hadn’t encountered any undead, and I only had one block left to go.

  Troy Blanville, my infrequent drinking buddy and the owner of several pawn shops, tacky souvenir emporiums, and strip clubs throughout the city, lived in one of several historic, multimillion-dollar homes in the Quarter. Actually, being the sleazy, over-the-top guy he was, he wouldn’t have been satisfied with the usual fancy domicile, like the kind Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie had famously owned many years before.

  No, Troy had to possess one of the finest properties in the neighborhood and, as a bonus, piss off the wealthy New Orleans elite: the hoity-toity businessmen, philanthropists, society wives, professors, politicians, museum directors, and local celebrities who would never have welcomed him into their high-brow soirees. So, when the former owners of the Soniat House – three well-appointed townhouses built by a French sugar plantation owner in the 1830s – had decided to sell their business, Troy swooped in with the highest offer.

  Situated at the western corner of Chartres and Governor Nicholls Streets, the former hotel included a couple adjacent buildings and two shady courtyards. In its heyday, it had been lauded as one of the most elegant hotels in New Orleans, boasting modern conveniences, gorgeous European fabrics and antiques, and all the classic architectural touches, from hanging gas lamps to wrought-iron grillwork on the galleries.

  When Troy had gotten his hands on it, however, the place had undergone massive renovations. Eventually, it had reverted back to being a private home, complete with a sumptuous outdoor pool and an interior decorating design that could only be described as bordello chic.

  As soon as I neared the peach-colored property on the corner, I suspected Troy was still alive. Normally, all the windows and doors on the multiple levels of the adjacent townhouses were exposed, but on that day, green shutters concealed almost all those facing Governor Nicholls, making them much harder for zombies and looters to breach. Topped with wrought-iron spikes, the concrete wall that protected the sides and rear of the property would also prove to be a challenging obstacle.

  Though hard to tell with the shutters closed, it wouldn’t have surprised me if his house still had power. He and I had discussed prepping on numerous occasions – even before I knew civilization was coming to an end. In fact, shortly after embarking on my doomsday prepping, I’d received plenty of solid advice from him.

  Naturally, he hadn’t believed me when I’d told him about the imminent zombie apocalypse, but ultimately, he hadn’t really given a fuck about the specific reason for Armageddon. Whether solar flares, volcanoes, comets, or other unstoppable disasters came to pass, Troy – that resourceful, morally challenged bastard – would be prepared for the end of life as we knew it.

  I’d almost reached the side door of Troy’s complex when I noticed a man careening around the corner, from the front of the property on Chartres. Dressed like a doctor for Halloween, he looked as though he’d seen much better days, and I suspected it wasn’t expert make-up that had resulted in his horrific appearance.

  Huge gashes marred his face, so deep I could see his teeth through his cheeks. One eye was missing from its socket, and a broomstick protruded from his chest. Yep, someone had jammed a broken broom handle deep into his rib cage. It apparently hadn’t slowed him down, but I figured it would offer me a bit of leverage.

  Moaning loudly, he lunged toward me. To prevent an untimely impaling, I dropped my axe and poor Azazel’s carrier and pushed against the handle. The far end must’ve been lodged against his spine because it stayed firmly in place, which helped me to keep the zombie at bay.

  Azazel, meanwhile, caterwauled from somewhere behind me. No matter where or how her carrier had landed, she was understandably one unhappy feline. I felt bad for her, of course, but while tussling with the latest threat, I didn’t have time to soothe her.

  Even with the handle jutting awkwardly from his body, the zombified doctor managed to tackle me to the ground, the contents of my go-bag jabbing me in the back. Although his weight almost knocked the wind from me, he’d fortunately landed on his side, so the broomstick failed to impale me. Before his teeth had reached my exposed neck – or I’d passed out from the rotten smell emanating from him – I pushed the handle upward, turning him away in the process, and scurried from beneath him.

  After scrambling to my feet and retrieving my axe, I thought about chopping into the zombie’s head, but I knew I’d be in trouble if the weapon got stuck in his skull. Particularly since I’d spotted a trio of zombified teenagers headed my way, from farther down Governor Nicholls.

  By the time I’d picked up Azazel’s carrier – which had, once again, landed upside-down – the zombie doctor had risen to his feet. As his white coat fell open, I noticed an enormous hole in his stomach, from which poured a green-tinged black goo – the likely source of the awful smell that almost overpowered the ever-present burning odor in the air.

  With my back facing Troy’s complex, I surveyed the immediate area and retreated toward the side entrance. Four zombies were converging on my position, so while I kept an eye on them, I used my axe-wielding hand to ring the doorbell and rattle the outer gate. Luckily, the zombified doctor slipped in his own gore and landed on his ass.

  At that moment, I heard a hearty bellow from above me. Looking up, I noticed Troy on his second-floor balcony. Framed by the vibrant foliage hanging from the ceiling and along the iron railing, the large black man was, not surprisingly, wearing his uniform of choice: a red-and-black smoking jacket that made him look like an overweight, dark-skinned Hugh Hefner. He was also staring directly at me, grinning like a hyena.

  “Well, well, well, if it isn’t my old pal Joe Daniels. The man who predicted this whole mess.” He chuckled. “Good to see you’re alive and well, my friend.”

  I glanced at the struggling doctor and the three approaching teens, then back at Troy. “Yeah, well, if you don’t open this fucking door, I might not last much longer.”

  Chapter

  12

  “You play a good game, boy… but the game is finished. Now you die.” – The Tall Man, Phantasm (1979)

  Troy chuckled again. “Looks like you’re in quite a pickle.” Some distant movement must’ve caught his eye because his gaze shifted beyond me, and his shit-eating grin quickly faded.

  I turned to trace his worried glance and spotted a sizable group of zombies ambling amid the smoky haze between the LaLaurie Mansion and Troy’s ostentatious home.

  Snapping my head back to the gallery, I shouted, “Enough bullshit! Just get down here and open the fucking door.”

  “Down in a sec.” He turned and vanished around the corner, presumably headed back to an open doorway along the front gallery.

  While I waited for my questionable savior, I refocused on my present dilemma. With every passing minute, the two converging groups of zombies were getting closer, but the doctor still posed the most immediate threat. He’d finally managed to regain his footing and bypass his innards without slipping onto his ass again.

  I had to give him kudos: He was one determined fucker. He lunged toward me, but even with the cat carrier in one hand and the axe in the other, I was still able to push him backward, using the broken handle as a lever.

  After repeating the same tiresome dance a few times, I finally squeezed the axe behind my belt and clutched the broomstick. The zombie tried to swipe at me, but luckily, the splintered handle was longer than his reach.

  Naturally, the insanity couldn’t last forever. Soon, at least a dozen zombies would have me and Azazel pinned against Troy’s courtyard wall – with no exit in sight. With mere seconds to spare, I calculated the odds of my evading the undead – abandoning Clare’s ring in the process – before I became
hopelessly trapped.

  My cat seemed to sense our impending demise, too, as she’d begun hissing at the approaching zombies – and probably wondering why the hell her daddy had endangered her in such a ridiculous way. In fact, her furry face had just turned to hiss at me when I heard several locks click and the wooden door creak open behind me, followed by the gate.

  Suddenly, I felt a meaty hand grab my shirt and yank me backward, almost making me lose my grip on the carrier. If I dropped Azazel in a mess of zombies, I might as well let them take me, too – because Clare would never forgive me.

  “Get your ass in here,” Troy growled.

  I shoved the broomstick as hard as I could, propelling the zombified doctor into the trio of undead teenagers. All four creatures toppled to the sidewalk as I stumbled backward into the well-lit foyer. As the working doorbell had already indicated, Troy definitely had electricity, no doubt powered by the various concealed generators on his property.

  While I steadied myself and tried to soothe Azazel with a few choice words, Troy slammed the gate, closed the door, and engaged the assorted locks and bolts. Then, he whipped around, raised a rather menacing .44 Magnum revolver, and pointed the barrel at my head. My heart rate, which had quickened outside at the thought of my imminent death by zombies, sped up even more.

  Instinctively, I stepped backward and shifted Azazel’s carrier behind me, which didn’t prevent her from hissing and growling with disapproval. Hopefully on my behalf.

  I stared coldly at Troy, wondering how a supposed friend could turn on me – especially during a zombie apocalypse. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  Troy’s eyes traced my frame – certainly a bloody, goopy mess – but the sad truth was none of the blood belonged to me.

  “Have you been bitten?” he asked, his tone both fretful and reluctant.