Fortunately, the I-10 wasn’t my only option. Before the interstate was constructed in the 1950s, the main route between New Orleans and Baton Rouge was Airline Highway, a rather schizophrenic thoroughfare known for golf courses, schools, various businesses, and prostitutes. Lots and lots of prostitutes.
It also happened to bypass the Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport – hence, the name. Even if Airline were relatively empty, it would take longer than an obstacle-free interstate, but it would certainly offer more turnarounds and side streets, enabling me to avoid blockades and keep moving toward Baton Rouge.
I only hoped fifty thousand other people hadn’t made the same assessment.
Chapter
21
“You want me to salute that pile of walking pus? Salute my ass!” – Captain Rhodes, Day of the Dead (1985)
The quickest way to exit the interstate was to put the van in reverse and retrace my route through the bodies, zombies, cars, and survivors. Out of habit, I glanced in my side-view mirror and noted a new wrinkle: At some point during my stop-and-go journey, a small BMW convertible had apparently trailed my path of destruction and now encroached upon my back end.
Seriously, who the fuck drives a soft-top convertible during a zombie apocalypse?
From what I could tell, a well-dressed, sixtysomething white man sat behind the wheel, while an attractive redhead, likely in her twenties, occupied the front passenger seat. As I rolled to a halt, shifted into reverse, and assessed my options, the jackass in the BMW honked his horn at me – possibly because he’d spotted my red taillights.
Had he learned nothing since the zombie virus had begun to spread throughout the city? Horns, gunshots, and other often avoidable sounds would only attract unwanted company.
I rolled down my window, just a crack, and yelled at him, “Hey, dumbass! Back up your stupid Beemer!”
As I’d feared, his relentless honking lured hordes of zombies from both directions. Luckily, I managed to crank up my window just as an undead clown reached his blood-smeared fingers toward the gap. Azazel and I might’ve been safe for now, but another look in my only functional side-view mirror told me a few of the zombies were already tearing through the cloth top of the convertible. The redhead – who was undoubtedly not the man’s daughter – shrieked and slapped her companion’s arm, probably trying to compel him to move the fucking car.
Still, despite the urgency of the situation, the entitled idiot staunchly refused to shift into reverse. Hastily, I unbuckled my seatbelt and stepped to the rear of the van, where I plucked the shotgun from beneath the tarp and loaded it with shells from a nearby drawer. When loaded, the 12-gauge shotgun could be a deadly weapon – not just a pseudo Wild West prop, like back in the parking lot.
Through the smudged windows of the rear doors, I noted three zombies clawing at the roof of the BMW. The redhead, whom I could barely see through the car’s windshield, had apparently tilted her seat all the way back, so the first zombie who managed to slip his arm into the vehicle (a particularly eager postal worker) couldn’t quite grab her.
Smart girl.
She might even have a chance to live if she wriggled out of the situation and away from her dumbass sugar daddy.
Not surprisingly, the driver didn’t seem as quick-witted or resourceful. It appeared he hadn’t thought to lower his seat, and an obese female zombie had managed to reach through the roof, grasp a bunch of his salt-and-pepper hair, and yank him upward, as if to pull her meal through the slit in the soft convertible top. The third zombie, meanwhile, had clambered onto the hood and smeared his nasty face against the windshield. I wasn’t entirely sure what he was trying to do.
He’s a zombie, so who the fuck knows?
Normally, I would’ve tried to figure out a way to avoid putting myself at risk for an ignorant stranger. But despite the durability of my van, the rear bumper hadn’t been reinforced like the front – and since it wasn’t a monster truck – I didn’t think reversing over the BMW was an option. So, I chambered a shell and opened one of the back doors. I had to be efficient and take care of business quickly – before the zombies still lingering by my driver’s-side window found their way to the open rear door.
I raised the shotgun, aimed the barrel at the zombified mailman still trying to reach the redhead, and pulled the trigger. The creature’s skull exploded with the blast, leaving only its lower jaw attached to the rest of its body. As its knees buckled, its arm slipped free of the top, and the former postal worker toppled onto the concrete.
Meanwhile, I chambered another shell and swung the shotgun toward the undead fat lady still attempting to tug the driver through the roof. As I pulled the trigger, the creature moved her head just enough to avoid a kill shot. Still, the shell tore through her left shoulder, promptly separating the arm that dangled through the convertible top from her torso. Though the zombie’s fingers still clutched the man’s hair – a real fucked-up instance of rigor mortis – the rest of the fat lady lost her balance and stumbled backward from the vehicle.
“Put your fucking car in reverse,” I shouted, noticing several more zombies headed our way. “Now!”
After that, I slammed and locked my back door. Through the glass, I watched the man fumble with something below the dashboard, presumably the gearshift, then the BMW jolted into reverse, causing the third zombie to roll from the hood onto the road.
With the zombie arm still flailing above the shredded roof, the convertible continued reversing all the way to the Orleans Avenue entrance ramp – the same one I’d used to get on the stupid interstate. Unfortunately, the two disgruntled zombies behind my van righted themselves, just as a couple additional zombies, groaning loudly, appeared from either side and banged on the reinforced doors.
My turn to get the hell outta here.
I darted back to the driver’s seat, set the shotgun on the floor, and buckled my shoulder harness, then I shifted my rig into reverse and hit the gas. I felt several thumps as the van flew backward. Presumably, I’d crushed at least a couple of the zombies lingering behind my rear tires, but I didn’t stop to make sure. I just kept my foot on the gas and used the driver’s-side mirror to maneuver around the cars and bodies lining my path.
Regretfully, I passed some of the trapped survivors, their faces a mixture of fear and hopelessness, but there was no way I intended to stop. It was a simple mathematical dilemma: I might’ve had a small arsenal in my van, but only one shooter, and I’d never be able to take down all the zombies surrounding those luckless victims before getting overwhelmed myself.
Eventually, I neared my turnoff and veered backward down the oval-shaped entrance ramp – not an easy feat for an awkward zombie-mobile. When I reached the bottom of the ramp, I noticed the man had parked the BMW on Orleans Avenue, stepped out of his vehicle, and started shaking the zombie arm loose from his head like a demented headbanger.
As I paused the van beside the BMW and considered an alternate route, the girl winked at me, slid into the driver’s seat, and shifted the gearstick. Then, before the man could stop her, she tore off down Orleans Avenue. No doubt she knew what I suspected: The rich guy couldn’t protect her. Not in the new undead world.
With a flabbergasted expression on his face and the stupid zombie arm still flopping above his head, he bolted down the street in his shiny loafers and struggled to chase the car on foot. Not once did the redhead stop – not even when a pack of undead ventured from a side street and hauled the moron to the asphalt.
Yep, that chick is definitely a survivor.
Chapter
22
“You think this is a fuckin’ costume? This is a way of life.” – Suicide, The Return of the Living Dead (1985)
After bypassing the mob of zombies feasting on the former BMW driver, I made a U-turn on Orleans Avenue and headed back toward the I-10 overpass. Now that I’d nixed the interstate as a possible route, I needed to rely on surface streets to reach Airline Highway – which meant venturing thr
ough a few neighborhoods many residents had considered sketchy and outright dangerous even before the walking dead had shown up.
Honestly, it had always amazed me how the city’s tourism industry never seemed to take a major hit from the high crime rate. Armed robbery, assault, rape, kidnapping, and murder had all been daily threats, no matter which neighborhood New Orleanians called home. Given how compact the town was – squished between Lake Pontchartrain and the Mississippi River – none of her neighborhoods had been immune to violence and crime.
What had really surprised me, however, was how skillfully the mayor, city council, NOPD, CVB, and Times-Picayune staff had kept a lid on the ugly statistics – at least on a national level. A barbaric gang of thugs could rob several couples at gunpoint in the Garden District or French Quarter or Marigny, and still, the tourists and conventioneers continued to pour into the city: many because they hadn’t heard about NOLA’s high crime rate, and others because they simply didn’t care. The Big Easy offered too many temptations to ignore.
Don’t get me wrong: Despite the crime, the floods, the humidity, and the damn mosquitoes, I love New Orleans. I love her live music – the blues and the old-time jazz – and her incredible cuisine. I love the unwavering spirit of her citizens. I love her resiliency – and the way the so-called City That Care Forgot rose from the ashes of numerous fires and hurricanes and floods, a few wars, even a yellow fever epidemic. I love how she always managed to rebound from any hardship… but I guess the accurate term now would be loved. Past tense.
Yes, I loved the Big Easy, and I knew she’d never recover from this zombie apocalypse.
Doubt any city could.
Turning right onto North Claiborne Avenue, which ran alongside the interstate, I caught a glimpse of the vibrant murals on the concrete columns beneath the overpass. I sure would miss the art, music, movies, and books that the one-of-a-kind city had inspired during her more than three centuries of existence. There had never been any place like her – and there never would be again.
As I passed the brick walls of St. Louis Cemetery No. 2, I noticed a massive cluster of zombies in the road ahead. Afraid to press my luck against such a mob, I took a right onto Bienville Avenue and did my best to maneuver around the cars, bodies, and undead peppering the street.
Driving through the Tremé certainly differed from walking across the French Quarter. It wasn’t just the architecture, but the condition of the houses that varied. Overall, French Quarter denizens had more money to maintain their structures and landscaping, so while I’d spotted a few burning buildings over there, the entire Tremé seemed to be ablaze. Sadly, the homes had lit up like kindling, the flames searing a path through the historic neighborhood.
On either side of Bienville, buildings smoldered and burned, making the air so thick with smoke that visibility became a real issue. As I crept up the avenue, wary of obstacles and lamenting the loss of an entire culture, I reflected on all the amazing experiences Clare and I had shared in the Tremé. Sampling down-home Creole food at Dooky Chase’s. Catching a painted coconut at the Krewe of Zulu parade. Even watching a few second lines.
Traditionally, walking brass band parades in New Orleans were composed of two lines: the first, typically including the brass musicians and the club members who’d paid for the parading permit, and the second, consisting of those merely following the parade, relishing the music, clapping and dancing in the streets. No big surprise: During such events, second lines usually multiplied in size until they grew much larger than the original parade.
For decades, New Orleanians had used first and second lines to celebrate someone’s life after he or she had died. In the Tremé, the saddest of such jazz funerals came after the shooting death of a child or teenager. Even then, though, it could be both somber and energetic – and always a memorable way for people to mourn the loss of their loved one.
Usually, the brass band would lead the mourners up and down the streets, playing traditional tunes like “In the Sweet By and By” and “When the Saints Go Marching In,” luring others along the way, inspiring them to dance (and, naturally, drink) in celebration of life. Not disrespectful but, rather, expected and encouraged.
Granted, New Orleanians staged second lines to celebrate pretty much anything, from weddings to graduations. Once, I’d witnessed a dude celebrating his forty-third birthday with a second line in the French Quarter. A small brass band had led him and his plastered buddies down Bourbon Street, other people joining in the fun as they’d passed.
Only in New Orleans could you – for a few hundred bucks – buy a permit to throw yourself a parade. For no reason at all.
Sure am gonna miss that.
I’d miss seeing the Mardi Gras Indians, too. What a sight they’d been to behold.
Tough to pinpoint their exact origin. Frankly, the stories of how the tribes had formed always seemed like the stuff of myth and legend to me, but most New Orleanians had traced them back to the time when American Indians would often shield runaway slaves. The Mardi Gras Indians had become the local African-American community’s way of paying tribute to such strength, sacrifice, and cultural pride.
At the time of the zombie apocalypse, the city had boasted around forty tribes, typically composed of black men and boys from the poorest neighborhoods. With names like Creole Wild West, Yellow Pocahontas, and Wild Magnolias – all mentioned in the traditional song “Indian Red” I’d just heard playing at the zombie party – those tribes were colorful and mysterious. Their members wore impressive, handmade costumes made of beads, feathers, and other vibrant materials, reminiscent of American Indian attire, and customarily matching or at least blending with the colors of each distinctive tribe.
Every tribe had various positions (like the flag boy referenced in the song “Iko Iko”), but the leader was the Big Chief. You’d have known him by his enormous feathered outfit, weighing as much as one hundred pounds (if not more), as he led his braves through the streets of New Orleans – to do “battle” with other tribes. When two different tribes would encounter each other, they would “fight” by chanting, dancing, and claiming to have the prettiest Big Chief.
It might sound weird, but it is… I mean, it was an awesome sight. I was never sure how the “warring” tribes had determined the best Big Chief. Maybe he’d simply been the loudest and the boldest – or the Chiefs had just taken turns stepping up and backing down. Regardless, though, the energy, passion, and resolve of the Mardi Gras Indians had been contagious – and a terrific way to celebrate special occasions like Mardi Gras and St. Joseph’s Day.
So, it came as no surprise when I spied one last Mardi Gras Indian on my way out of town. An enormous headdress of yellow feathers framed his face, and he still clung to a yellow feathered staff. In its heyday, the outfit must’ve been gorgeous – and made him one proud Big Chief. But the heyday had certainly passed – for the costume and the chief.
Presently, he stumbled down the center of the two-way street, the staff gripped in one hand (perhaps out of mindless habit), his other hand dangling by mere tendons from his wrist. Nearing him, I could see long red gashes across his midsection, as though a zombie had clawed through his costume to reach the flesh beneath. He tripped into the path of my vehicle, and I caught a glimpse of his eyes – surely once dignified and defiant, now revealing the hollow glaze of the undead. And to boot, he was on fire, flames licking at the feathers, turning the vibrant yellow into charcoal.
Yep, I’ve got a fucking, flaming Big Bird zombie headed directly for me.
And nope, I didn’t have the heart to run over him. Plus, I had no desire to collide with something on fire. So, I swung the steering wheel to the right and pulled onto someone’s yard to veer around him.
I then learned my first major lesson of the day: Sentimentality had no place in the new undead world.
In my effort to avoid the blazing Big Bird, I hadn’t noticed a rusted iron post in the yard. At one time, it had likely held a light of some kind, but it had sin
ce become a mere lawsuit waiting to happen. Jagged and broken, ideal for a horror-movie impaling and just high enough to clip the lower part of my radiator. As soon as I heard a thunk and a hiss, I knew I’d done some real damage.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!”
Even on a cool fall day in southern Louisiana, a heavy van wouldn’t last long without a working radiator. Hopping off the curb and continuing toward North Broad Street, I watched the temperature gauge steadily rise – my suspicions about the busted radiator now confirmed.
Immediately, I flipped on the vehicle’s heat and cranked the blower as high as it would go. A trick that had once extended the life of an old Chevy Cavalier station wagon – by about three months.
For the first time, I was grateful Clare was elsewhere. As an adult, my poor wife had always had an extreme sensitivity to heat, and with the vents blowing full blasts of hot air, the zombie-mobile would get uncomfortable quickly. Even Azazel, who usually appreciated warmth and would willingly lie in a beam of blazing sunlight, didn’t look pleased by the change in atmosphere.
“Sorry, girl,” I said to the squinting eyes between the carrier slits. “Blame it on Big Bird back there.”
I checked the temperature gauge. The indicator had almost reached the overheating point, the red line that says…
You’re fucked – or, in this case, more than fucked. In fact, you and your cat are dead.
Luckily, the vents continued to kick out blasts of heat, which eventually stabilized the temperature. The trick wouldn’t sustain itself for three months. I just needed it to work long enough for me to get the hell out of that problematic city – and on to someplace where I could repair the damn radiator.
Zombie Chaos Box Set | Books 1-4 Page 12
