Unfortunately, my plan had fallen to shit when I’d noticed the ridiculous number of zombies and automobiles blocking much of the parking lot. Perhaps it shouldn’t have surprised me that, in the wake of an undead epidemic, many New Orleanians and local suburbanites had rushed to a Walmart in Harahan to stock up on supplies, only to find themselves overrun, bitten, and transformed into mindless carnivores. But due to the exhausting day I’d already had, my situational awareness wasn’t as sharp as usual.
Afraid to get trapped by the ravenous horde, I’d immediately jerked the steering wheel to the left and made a rumbling beeline toward the alley that ran behind the store.
“Sorry, Azazel,” I’d said, turning toward the cat carrier I’d secured in the passenger seat. “Daddy screwed up, but he’s gonna get us outta this mess.”
Having noted the carrier was empty, I’d recalled that, after successfully chasing some inconsiderate yuppie passengers out of my van with a tear gas canister, I’d released Azazel, my seven-year-old tabby, from her temporary prison. So, it was anyone’s guess as to which nook or cranny she’d decided to curl up inside for a while.
Must be nice, kitty. Wish I had time for a fucking nap.
Just then, as I turned back to the windshield, still musing about Azazel’s whereabouts (and wishing we could trade places for a bit), I suddenly found myself staring at a parked minivan, which inconveniently blocked my route about halfway down the rear alley. Cursing to myself, I slammed on my brakes to avoid a collision, but the next viable option eluded me.
A quick glance in my one still-functioning side-view mirror informed me I had unwanted company. Lots of it.
Apparently, one of the zombies in the parking lot (if not more) had noticed the careening meals-on-wheels that had ducked behind Walmart, and after that curious creature had shifted my way, many more had followed suit. A shitload of foul, undead monsters presently stumbled and trotted into the back alley, aimed directly for my van.
Awesome. What’s next?
I knew reversing out of there would be impossible. Given the narrow width of the rear access lane, I could never plow my way through such an enormous zombie horde. At most, I might be able to squish a few of the relentless creatures and carve out a twenty-foot-long path before getting my wheels stuck in the carnage and my van surrounded by the countless predators that remained.
Likewise, if I tried to plow through the minivan blockade, I’d risk getting hung up on the crushed metal and fiberglass – even with the steel bars across the front of my van. And then where would I be? Just as ensnared by the approaching zombies.
Shit, they’re a hundred feet deep. Fuck. That’s a lot of goddamn pus-sacks.
My only saving grace? The closest ones were still far enough away that I had a little time to deal with the situation. Maybe two minutes before the crowd would overwhelm my van, trapping me and my poor cat and ensuring we’d never see Clare again.
With no time to spare, I grabbed my trusty 12-gauge shotgun, which I’d wedged beneath the passenger seat. Then, after making certain the Mossberg was loaded, I climbed down from the van, slid the door shut (in case Azazel emerged from her nesting spot), and rapidly assessed the problem before me.
The vehicle blocking my path was parked at a perpendicular angle to the alley, its front grill pointed away from the building, as if the driver had been trying to turn the minivan around before his life had gone sideways. Due to the blood-drenched windows, I couldn’t see the interior of the vehicle, but I assumed no one was alive inside. Of course, that didn’t mean no one was moving.
In fact, while cautiously approaching the minivan, I observed a pair of hands pawing at one of the side windows. It was hard to say whether the sound of a moaning, hissing zombie horde or the prospect of fresh meat outside had roused the vehicle’s occupants, but either way, the frenzied fingers managed to wipe away enough smeared blood to allow me a glimpse inside the minivan. Three figures jostled around inside: two in the front seats, one in the middle.
Quickly, I slid open the side door and hopped backward. A fat zombie, wearing an old-fashioned blue-and-yellow Walmart vest, tumbled from the minivan and onto the pavement. As he righted himself and stumbled toward me, I realized the zombie looked familiar. He had a round belly, shaggy hair, a scruffy beard, and tired half-moons under his eyes. Given his wrinkles and graying hair, I assumed he’d been in his sixties before transforming into the rotting, bloodstained creature he’d become, and at some point in his time as a zombie, he’d gained yet another disgusting attribute: part of a large human nose entangled in his beard.
“Well, that isn’t yours,” I quipped as I raised the Mossberg and shot him in the head.
Pumping another shell into the chamber, I watched him crumple to the ground. My focus drifted from the unsightly, goo-rimmed hole in his skull to the name tag on his uniform: Davey. No wonder he’d seemed so familiar: I’d often seen him at the front doors of Walmart, lazily greeting shoppers as they ventured into the store. Usually, he had a couple of old cohorts with him, two other Walmart greeters well past their prime. No doubt the pair of fidgeting zombies in the front seats of the minivan.
Before the zombie infection had spread to New Orleans, none of the three guys had ever seemed particularly pleased with their jobs (or with one another), and I’d always wondered how the disgruntled, bickering threesome had landed their greeting gigs, much less the same shifts. Some big-hearted manager must’ve taken pity on the downtrodden trio – and yet graciously refrained from subjecting other greeters to their bitter antics.
Sorry, boys. I’m all outta pity.
With a zombie horde breathing down my neck, I had no time to waste. I stepped over Davey’s motionless feet, opened the driver’s-side door, and watched as another zombie stumbled out, falling to his knees. Dressed in khaki pants, a white Oxford shirt, and a more stylish Walmart vest, the former greeter was much slimmer than the first one. He had a small, angular face, with dyed brown hair, perfectly coiffed.
Despite the decaying flesh and bloody streaks on his clothes, John (as his name tag read) was one of the tidiest zombies I’d yet seen. Well, except for the enormous chunk missing from his upper right arm. Given Davey’s blood-spattered beard, I suspected he’d taken the chip out of John. I just wasn’t sure if that had occurred before or after Davey had bitten off someone’s sizable schnoz. John’s nose, after all, was still intact.
The trim greeter had started pushing himself to his feet when I pulled the trigger. With an explosive whop, the slug deepened the part in his hair, carved a ridge from his forehead to the back of his skull, and sprayed blood, brain matter, and black zombie goo all over the minivan and nearby pavement. John rocked backward from the force of the slug, then crumpled at the knees and collapsed forward across Davey’s thighs.
By the time I’d pumped the shotgun, the third zombie had crawled through the driver’s-side door and emerged from the vehicle. Taller and skinnier than the other two, he only had a smattering of gray in his hair, but not surprisingly, he was missing much of his nose. No doubt, the rest of it was still entwined in his former greeting buddy’s beard. As a result, the last of the unfortunate trio was the most disgusting, with rivulets of awful, foul-smelling black zombie goo dribbling from his shredded nasal cavity.
I glanced at his name tag. “Well, Shaun,” I muttered, aiming the shotgun, “looks like the end of your fucking shift.”
He responded by groaning and swatting at the barrel.
“Sorry, Chief. Should’ve gotten a real job.” I retreated a couple of steps and pulled the trigger.
It no longer mattered that his pal had bitten off his nose; the shotgun blast pretty much removed the rest of his face, and he fell backward across the other two greeters.
More than likely, they’d sought refuge in the minivan after zombies had invaded their place of employment, but at least one of them must’ve been infected, resulting in the carnage I’d just witnessed.
Well, you lived together, and you died tog
ether. Who can ask for more than that?
Given the groans and hisses loudening behind me, I turned to check on the horde’s progress.
“Fuck.”
Some of the creatures were faster than I’d estimated. I didn’t have much time.
Quickly, I stepped over the former Walmart greeters and peered around the sticky steering wheel. Though the key was in the ignition, the damn thing was still in the on position.
Figuring the battery was likely dead and the stupid minivan wouldn’t start, I set the Mossberg down on the seat, jammed the shifter into neutral, cranked the wheel all the way to the right, and pushed the vehicle as close to the building as I could. When the right headlight smacked into the concrete wall, I shifted the minivan back into park, reclaimed the shotgun, and darted back to my own vehicle.
With the closest zombie only a few yards away, I yanked open my driver’s-side door and found myself staring into the wide, green eyes of Azazel, who’d apparently jumped into my seat while I’d been busy dispatching the trio of zombified greeters.
“Jesus, kitty, you scared the shit outta me!”
Hastily, I slid the shotgun onto the floor, hopped into the van, slammed the door shut, and engaged the lock. Ignoring Azazel’s customary harrumphs, I shoved her off my seat, turned the key in the ignition, and stepped on the gas pedal.
While I’d had no time to push the minivan flush against the building, I had straightened it enough for my immediate needs. So, after rolling over the tragic trio, my rumbling, fortified vehicle managed to squeeze past the minivan and continue down the alley.
Perfect timing, too, since I heard several loud thunks as the nearest zombies hurled themselves at the rear and sides of my step van. From the odd scraping sounds I discerned amid the thumps and moans, I also suspected I was dragging something via my back bumper, but I had no desire to stop the vehicle and investigate the situation. I just hoped it wasn’t one of the former Walmart greeters.
Not that it mattered. I had a much bigger problem on my hands: As I headed to the far side of the alley, hundreds of zombies poured around the corner of the building.
Hell, this group’s even bigger than the one behind me!
Given my tendency toward bad luck, the sudden inundation of walking corpses shouldn’t have shocked me. But, frankly, I’d hoped to avoid becoming part of an enormous zombie sandwich.
“Son of a fucking bitch,” I grumbled. “Give me a goddamn break!”
No such thing, though: Both hordes were too dense for me to penetrate, even with my badass van.
I glanced at Azazel, who’d jumped on top of her carrier, not inside it (where I preferred her to be). “Sorry, girl. Looks like we gotta do something drastic.”
As if translating drastic to stupid, she harrumphed once and wedged herself against the passenger seat.
Since I’d visited that Walmart many times before, I was intimately familiar with the layout. I knew, for example, that the automotive center sat alongside the building, between our current position and the zombie horde in front of us. So, to free us from our sticky situation, I intended to ram my way into one of the five available service bays.
Fortunately, my crazy-ass plan proved unnecessary. As I rolled down the alley, I noticed that the closest of the large, overhead garage doors was miraculously up.
My skeptical inner voice questioned the good fortune: Why was the door open? Had any zombies wandered inside because of it?
But I had no time ponder whether it was good or bad luck. I needed a temporary port in the storm – or just a viable route out of the alley.
Without overthinking it, I pulled the steering wheel hard to the right, slipped into the darkened bay, and stomped on the brakes. My back end cleared the opening just as my front bumper tapped an old, metallic blue Ford Focus that someone had left behind.
A hasty glance through my grimy windshield indicated three key factors in my future escape from Walmart. One, the five front-facing, overhead doors of the auto center were all closed, meaning I couldn’t just step on the gas and shoot out the other side (shit). Two, I wasn’t completely in the dark yet, as each of the doors featured a row of small windows that enabled dusty shafts of late-afternoon sunlight to illuminate parts of the shadowy space. And three, I’d likely have to use the compact car ahead of me as a makeshift battering ram.
Terrific. What can go wrong?
First, though, I had to keep the zombies outside from getting inside.
After pocketing my keys, I grabbed the shotgun, jumped to the ground, and slammed the door shut. Then I darted toward the wide-open entrance, wishing I could reach the overhead door and yank it closed. But alas, I wasn’t twelve feet tall.
I glanced around the murky space, which still boasted the familiar scents of oil, sweat, and gasoline, but no glowing lights or other signs of working electricity. So, it probably didn’t matter that I needed a key to operate the control box mounted beside the open doorway. It wouldn’t function anyway.
Taking a chance that destroying said box would somehow release the overhead door, I aimed my Mossberg and pulled the trigger. Shards of the ravaged control panel flew everywhere, but naturally, the door didn’t budge an inch.
Worse, the sound of the reverberating gunshot nearly deafened me – and undoubtedly caused the converging zombie hordes to quicken their pace. In fact, I observed several eager creatures heading my way.
“Fucking door.”
I scoped out the bay, looking for anything that could help me pull the door down, but the light was too spotty to see much – including obstacles in my path.
During my mad search, I knocked over several toolboxes, sending various sockets and wrenches skittering across the concrete floor. I accidentally toppled a few folding chairs as well. Some grease-stained uniform shirts slipped off the chairs, spilling their contents, which amounted to little more than cigarettes, lighters, and a few joints.
Good to know the mechanics had taken their jobs seriously.
Not that I’ve got anything against smoking a little weed, but really, guys? On the job?
What did it matter, though? The grease monkeys who’d once worked there were likely all dead.
I would be, too, if I didn’t hurry. Gazing at the open bay door, I could see the zombies fast approaching from both sides.
Less than ten seconds, and the hordes would reach me. No time left to scavenge for tools. I’d just have to dive back into the van and wait out the undead storm. Experience had taught me, however, that zombies were a relentless lot – and unlikely to give up the chance for a free meal.
Before resigning myself to the dubious safety of my zombie-mobile, I looked toward the ceiling and spotted the heavy chains holding the overhead door in place. Impulsively, I swung the shotgun upward and shot the chains twice. The first shot had been buckshot and wouldn’t have mattered if my aim had been perfect. The second slug simply missed the target. I was out of time.
Crap. Crap. Crap!
The first creature had tramped through the gaping entrance and immediately headed my way. I lowered my weapon, aimed, and fired. Puncturing the once-pretty face of a tall, redheaded woman didn’t thrill me, but unfortunately, it had come down to a choice between her or me – and since she was already missing her left forearm and a sizable chunk of her midsection, I’d decided to choose myself.
Several more zombies were closing the gap when I lifted the shotgun and targeted the chains again. Luckily, the third shot did the trick, shattering the links to bits. The door slammed down just as more pus-sacks reached it.
A cacophony of pounding and groaning echoed throughout the automotive center as hundreds of zombies collided against the metal door and its four mates, which vibrated and shook so much that I wondered how long they would hold.
I exhaled heavily. “That was too fucking close.”
Too fucking close had become my new reality. It sucked but, given how quickly the world had gone to shit, I couldn’t imagine it being any other way.
&n
bsp; With my latest hurdle cleared, I turned back to the van… and promptly tripped over a corpse. Not the unfortunate redhead. Nope. It was the facedown body of Shaun the former greeter, whose vest had gotten snagged on my vehicle’s undercarriage.
Back in the alley, I’d sensed my van was dragging something, but the approaching undead horde had taken precedence. Once I’d screeched into the auto center, I’d been so preoccupied with securing the entrance that I hadn’t noticed my unfortunate tagalong – or the bloody, goopy streak he’d left on the concrete floor.
Fan-fucking-tastic. That nasty crap is probably all over my shoes.
Naturally, His Grossness wouldn’t be the last infected remains I’d encounter. In the days and weeks to come, I’d likely have to disinfect myself, my duds, my weapons, and the van’s interior and exterior more times than I could count. But for the moment, my priority was getting back on the road – and, ultimately, back to my wife.
So, with a shrug, I unceremoniously kicked the corpse loose and stepped toward the driver’s-side door, where I spotted a familiar pair of green eyes staring at me through the barred window. While I’d been dealing with the pus-sacks, Azazel had apparently hopped into my seat and pressed her furry mug against the glass.
“I know, I know.” I frowned. “Now, what?”
Yes, I’d managed to escape the zombie horde currently pounding on the metal door like a spastic ten-year-old at his first drum lesson. But my cat and I faced a new dilemma: We were trapped inside Walmart. Actually, we were trapped inside Walmart’s auto care center.
I peered around the van and gazed at the sturdy side door leading into the rest of the store. Hopefully, it was unlocked – or at least easy to bust through. If I had to hunker down in Walmart for a while, I wouldn’t mind exploring the grocery section for some tasty junk-food treats.
Zombie Chaos Box Set | Books 1-4 Page 18
