As I stood beside the van, contemplating my options, the tall kid slid one of my shotguns from the pile. He tucked his own gun into his waistband and held out mine like a cocky sheriff from the Old West. When he took the fun too far, attempting to spin the shotgun like the Rifleman himself, he lost control of the weapon, and it clattered onto the pavement. While he scrambled to retrieve the shotgun – and his friend turned away from me to give him shit for being an idiot – I took my chance to slip toward the front of the parking space and behind the Range Rover sitting beside my van.
I knelt behind the front driver’s-side tire, removed the derringer from my pants pocket, and fumbled in the other pocket for a couple bullets. With all the guns I’d stored only a few yards away, I couldn’t believe I had to load the damn derringer again. How did I stand a chance against two automatic weapons and whatever else those two assholes decided to throw at me?
“Where’d you go, man?” the older one yelled. “Shit, you can’t trust nobody.”
“Last chance, guys,” I shouted with more bravado than I felt. “Get the fuck outta here, or it’s your funeral!”
“Fuck you, cocksucker,” the older one replied, his voice coming from the other side of the van. “I’m gonna shoot you with your own damn gun. Gonna shoot you in the head, too, so’s you don’t come back as one of them dead fuckers.”
“Jamal, come on, man,” the younger one chimed in, his voice getting closer to my position. “Why da hell we want dis dude’s piece-of-shit van? Probably runs like crap. Let’s just grab some uh dose guns an’ get da fuck outta here.”
Bending forward, I peered underneath the SUV. The shorter one moved between the two vehicles, edging closer to the front bumpers, while Jamal seemed to be scoping out the far side of the van. Abruptly, his shoes stopped next to the passenger-side door.
Shit. Azazel.
“What’s that?” Jamal asked. “You got a fuckin’ cat in here? What are you, some kind of pussy?”
The other one immediately stopped in his tracks. “Hey, man, fuck you. I gotta cat, too. Leave dis dude alone an’ let’s get outta here.”
“Well,” Jamal said, as I heard the passenger-side door open and a small hiss in response, “maybe I’ll just cap the cat first.”
Afraid he’d make good on his threat, I rose to my feet, stooped over in an awkward crouch, and hastened along the side of the Range Rover, toward the rear of the parking spaces. In my peripheral vision, I saw the shorter one turn toward me, but I reached the other side of the van before he could shoot me.
When Jamal spotted me, however, he immediately whirled from Azazel’s carrier, raised the shotgun, and pulled the trigger.
Click.
Nothing happened, not even when he pulled the trigger again.
When he’d threatened to shoot Azazel, my paternal instincts went into overdrive – not because he had my shotgun, but because he had his own piece, and I couldn’t see, from the other side of the Range Rover, which one he’d been holding. If I’d realized he was still clutching the Mossberg, I wouldn’t have worried at all. Cuz the truth was… I hadn’t taken the time to load the shotgun before putting it in the van.
Clearly frustrated, he tried shooting me yet again as I closed the distance between us.
“Should’ve used your own gun,” I said as I raised the derringer level with his head.
“Fuck,” he replied, likely knowing what was coming next.
With only a second of hesitation, I pulled the trigger. It wasn’t a head shot, but I’d nabbed him in the neck. With a shriek, he dropped the shotgun and covered the wound, blood spurting between his fingers. I doubted he’d be any more trouble.
The other one, unfortunately, was another story. He’d dashed around the front of my vehicle before I had a chance to react. “You killed Jamal,” he spluttered.
I glanced toward the ground, where Jamal writhed in pain. “He’s not dead yet.”
Despite my confident facade, I had mixed feelings about what had just happened. I’d always considered myself a strong man, willing to sacrifice myself for those I loved: namely, my wife, my cat, my brothers, and my parents. But while I’d always believed myself capable of killing someone who threatened me or any of my loved ones, I’d never actually shot a living person before.
Zombies, yes. People, no.
I pointed my gun at Jamal’s friend – the one I hadn’t shot yet – just as he aimed his gun at me. Neither of us pulled the trigger.
“What kinda gun is dat?” He crinkled his nose. “Looks old. Can’t have many shots.”
“It’s a derringer. And two is all it needs.” I sighed, knowing I had no desire to shoot the kid. “Look, my name’s Joe. What’s yours?”
“Samson,” he replied. “Like in da Bible.”
I squinted, my eyes tracing his short stature, then arched an eyebrow.
Before I could say anything, he explained, “My mama had a strange sense uh humor.”
Movement behind him caught my eye, and I realized we had visitors. Apparently, some of the zombies had heard either our voices or the gunshot and, eager to investigate the potential meal, shoved their way between the giant doors. Samson and I had run out of time.
“Seems we have company,” I said.
“Zombies?” he asked without shifting his eyes – or his gun – from me.
“Listen, Samson, I don’t want to shoot you, and I don’t think you want to shoot me.” At least I hoped he didn’t.
“Naw, man,” he said, glancing from me to his dying friend to the zombies heading our way. “I never wanted to do dis bullshit. Just tryin’ to survive.”
“Why don’t you go find your mama?” I asked. “And get her outta the city?”
Sighing wearily, he nodded and lowered his gun.
I lowered my pistol as well.
“Good luck, mister.”
“You too, Samson,” I said, bending down to retrieve the shotgun.
I looked up in time to see him bolt past me and leap for the upper ledge of the brick wall. Some of the zombies were only a few yards away and rapidly closing on my position, so I sprinted toward the passenger door of the van and slammed it shut. As I dashed to the open rear doors, I caught a glimpse of Samson disappearing over the wall. A part of me hoped he’d make it.
Hastily, I grabbed my keys, climbed into the back of the van, shut and locked the doors, and scrambled toward the driver’s seat. I’d just buckled my seatbelt and started the rumbling engine when the first zombies reached us. Ignoring me and Azazel, they made a beeline for Jamal. Probably lured by the smell of fresh blood. And his groans.
Several zombies disappeared from view as Jamal screamed. I could only assume they were tearing him apart, devouring everything in sight. His bloodcurdling shrieks were almost too much to bear.
Eh, fuck him.
He’d tried to rob me – and kill me – and ultimately gotten what he deserved.
Chuckling, I realized Robert would’ve been proud of my eye-for-an-eye attitude. Even if Clare would disapprove.
Carefully, I pulled out of the parking space and headed for the giant doors. The gap was much wider now, but still not wide enough for my vehicle to pass. The high volume of zombies presently flooding into the lot would make it impossible for me to stop the van, climb from the driver’s seat, and manually open the doors as I’d planned.
Only one way to go.
“Sorry, baby,” I whispered, before gunning the van and ramming through the doors.
The wood splintered with a deafening roar, but we made it onto Rampart Street, dismembering zombies, scraping the sides of my vehicle, and whacking the passenger-side mirror in the process. The makeshift battering ram had done its job, and the van now had real damage – and real blood – to match its fake patina.
“Oh, well,” I said, glancing at the dangling side-view mirror. “Every car has to have its first scratch.”
Driving northeast on Rampart, headed for the nearest I-10 entrance ramp, I could finally breathe a
little easier.
True, I still had to swerve around busted cars, hapless survivors, and zombie herds on the roadways. Hunger, thirst, and fatigue had almost derailed me a few times. My headache had returned with a vengeance. And I couldn’t shake the terrible memories of being chased by zombies, seeing countless bodies in the streets, and watching dumbass stoners be ripped to shreds.
Yes, I hated leaving neighbors behind and knowing I might never again see the people and places that had made New Orleans home. And indeed, I realized more than eighty miles still lay between me and Baton Rouge.
But despite quite a few obstacles – and several close calls – Azazel and I had miraculously survived. Finally, we were headed to the highway. On our way to Clare. As we should’ve been hours earlier.
I patted the coin pocket of my jeans. Fortunately, I could still feel the outline of Clare’s diamond ring through the denim. How futile that nearly fatal trek would’ve been if I’d lost the damn thing between Troy’s place and the parking lot.
Glancing through the slits of the carrier, I noticed my poor cat was stretched out like a tiny manatee and snoring gently. I’d assumed that, once we reached the van, she’d start clamoring for food, treats, water, or her litter box, but she seemed beyond pooped. She’d been through a lot, too – and deserved as much peace and luck as I did.
But, since everything good in life seemed to come at a price, I couldn’t help but wonder what additional horrors we’d face before making it to Clare.
Chapter
20
“The world we know is gone, but the will to live never dies. Not for us… and not for them.” – Mattie Webber, Pulse (2006)
Naturally, getting the hell out of Dodge – or, rather, New Orleans – wouldn’t be as easy as I’d hoped. Hard enough to navigate a heavy, oversized, extensively modified delivery truck – a real beast of a vehicle – around numerous dead bodies and abandoned cars (some of which were charred, smoldering, or outright burning). But the real trick to maneuvering on the narrow, pothole-filled surface streets of a post-apocalyptic Crescent City was to avoid the small – and not-so-small – herds of zombies that were seemingly everywhere.
While driving northeast on Rampart Street, I encountered a slew of undead obstacles – more than I’d observed when first squeezing my fat ass into the parking lot near Ursulines. The unavoidable gunshot that had incapacitated my would-be murderer had also lured quite a few of the walking pus-sacks from nearby buildings and adjacent side streets. Now, a bunch of mangled motherfuckers had crept across Rampart and unfortunately blocked the closest turnaround.
“What am I thinking?” I muttered to myself – and perhaps to Azazel, if she’d still been awake.
No need to wait for a proper turnaround – not today.
Abruptly, I turned the steering wheel hard to the left, and the front, all-terrain tires responded by hopping the curb and rumbling across the neutral ground – or, as the rest of the country had always called it, the median.
In pre-zombie days, an illegal maneuver like that would’ve garnered me, at best, a pricey ticket or, at worst, a painful beating by an overzealous NOPD officer. But these were different times. Since waking up in the courtyard with the axed pirate zombie, I had yet to see a living cop – just a few dead or undead ones – and traffic laws no longer existed.
In fact, all municipal laws seemed to have been suspended. Indefinitely.
Frankly, I wasn’t worried about getting in trouble for driving across the neutral ground. As a creature of habit, I’d simply needed a minute to realize official turnarounds and one-way streets no longer meant anything.
No, what troubled me most about taking the unorthodox route was that, beyond typical hurdles like palm trees and streetcar tracks, the neutral ground now boasted piles of dead people. Dead, as in ravaged bodies… and dead, as in the zombies still munching on them.
The heinous scene resembled a twisted version of a traditional crawfish boil, but instead of hovering over a steaming heap of cooked crustaceans, peeling out the tails, sucking the heads, and discarding the shells onto a refuse pile, the zombies on the so-called neutral ground were pigging out on various twitching parts or fresh kills, slurping up human brains, and tossing the unwanted bones and rotting flesh aside. One seriously fucked-up feast I currently plowed my way through.
Fortunately, the zombie-mobile did its duty, shoving the ravenous diners out of our path while maintaining traction on the carnage-covered ground. I had no time – or desire – to examine the grill, tires, or undercarriage of my baby, but I assumed there was now plenty of real gore to match the comic-con paint job.
Once I’d mowed across the zombies and their unfortunate victims, and my front tires finally hit the asphalt of the westbound lanes, jolting the van and its occupants, I again turned the steering wheel to the left and headed in the right direction: what native New Orleanians would’ve called the “lakeside” of Rampart Street. As I passed the headquarters of the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Foundation, I heard a plaintive meow beside me.
Glancing to my right, toward Azazel’s carrier, I spotted her wide, green eyes staring at me through the slits. “Sorry, sugarplum. That was pretty bumpy, I know.”
She meowed again, sadder that time.
I shifted my eyes back to the street ahead, but continued trying to soothe my little girl. “You’re probably hungry. Thirsty, too. And sick of that stupid carrier. But I can’t let you out just yet. For your own safety.” I peeked at her again. “As soon as we’re able to take a break, I promise, I’ll let you roam around a bit.”
She meowed once more – whether to underscore her displeasure or agree to my terms, I couldn’t be sure – then she lowered her furry head and presumably went back to sleep.
Just as I returned my gaze to the road, I noticed several people darting across Rampart, probably headed to Louis Armstrong Park – a well-tended, thirty-two-acre oasis in the infamous Tremé neighborhood that bordered the French Quarter. They likely hoped the tall, iron fence surrounding the park – once a popular place for outdoor concerts and festivals – would keep them safe from the undead. I almost tagged them as I crossed St. Ann.
Gazing in my side-view mirror, I watched as the fleeing people made it mere steps from the stately front gates of the park, when a mass of zombies suddenly surged from the Quarter – surely their reason for running in the first place. Before any of the potential victims could even start to climb the gates, the undead had tackled the lot of them and, as usual, commenced ripping them into horrifying pieces.
After taking a shortcut down St. Peter and Basin Streets, I edged closer to the I-10 entrance ramp Clare and I normally used when headed to her mom’s house. It felt strange driving on traffic-free roads with nonoperational stoplights, so close to the NOPD station, St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, and other neighborhood landmarks usually bustling with people – now either overrun by zombies or hauntingly vacant.
Someone must’ve still been alive inside the police station because I heard several gunshots from within. Along the outside of the building, enormous piles of destroyed bodies were stacked against the entrance and near a few of the windows. The cops – or whoever was inside – certainly put up a valiant fight, but the hordes of zombies kept coming. Sooner or later, the survivors would run out of ammunition – and then they’d either starve to death, barricaded inside, or be eaten as they tried to escape.
I shrugged and kept driving.
By the time I reached the interstate entrance, I’d figured out my greatest obstacle to leaving the city. As much as I hated to admit it, Troy had been right about the highway: It was jam-packed with stalled vehicles.
Despite the suddenness of the zombie invasion, plenty of people had apparently had enough time to evacuate. Or at least attempt to evacuate. Hard to believe so many New Orleanians had managed to reach their automobiles and hit the highway – given all the mayhem of the night before – but a strong sense of self-preservation had apparently provided the necessary dose of
adrenaline and resourcefulness.
Presently, most of the cars and trucks appeared to be abandoned, with zombies weaving between both the vehicles and the bodies of those who’d unfortunately made a run for it – and ultimately lost the race. I immediately tried to bulldoze a path between the crowded lines of automobiles. With my responsive driving skills, I managed to miss most of the meandering zombies, but when a bleached-blonde woman with half of her face missing moved in front of my van too quickly, I inadvertently caught her with the front left edge of my bumper.
Although numerous obstacles made it impossible to drive fast, it was such a tight squeeze between vehicles that I simply couldn’t avoid her. The van knocked her to her knees, and my bumper crushed the remainder of her face against a brand-new Lexus. Her head squished like a grape, but luckily, most of the blood and zombie goo seemed to splash onto the once-pristine hood of the luxury car. Not that I was truly concerned about how the exterior of my zombie-mobile looked.
Hampered by numerous obstacles as well as the smoky atmosphere of a city on fire, it took me almost twenty minutes just to drive a couple hundred yards. Beyond dead bodies and abandoned cars, I spotted several survivors trapped inside their vehicles, surrounded by ravenous, unrelenting zombies.
In a perverted way, the scene reminded me of those camera-wielding paparazzi encircling hapless celebrities – only the zombies wanted a bit more than a salacious photo. The undead creatures craved organs, flesh, and blood – and they wouldn’t leave until they’d devoured their fill. It was a waiting game: The zombies would eventually claw their way inside or the humans would inevitably starve to death. Either way, the zombies couldn’t lose.
It didn’t take much longer for me to accept the interstate wouldn’t work as a viable passage to Baton Rouge. Assuming I could plow my way through most obstructions, I was bound to reach a point where even the van’s makeshift battering ram wouldn’t suffice.
Zombie Chaos Box Set | Books 1-4 Page 11
