Zombie Chaos Box Set | Books 1-4

by Martone, D. L.

  Tough to get answers from a corpse.

  If I couldn’t snag the keys, I’d have to figure out another way to liberate my van, which wouldn’t be easy. Without electricity, I couldn’t even throw power tools at the problem. And if I couldn’t move the zombie-mobile… Azazel and I would be stuck in Walmart – which would totally suck!

  So, my best option entailed humoring the psycho long enough to locate the keys and get the fuck out of the store. If I could help the “good” side in the process, all the better.

  “Man, this is some batshit-crazy stuff going on here,” I said. “Fucking bullets and arrows flying from every direction. Like a bloody warzone.”

  He nodded gravely. “People will do just about anything when their ass is on the line.”

  They sure will.

  I, for instance, needed to appease a diabolical asshat if I hoped to leave Walmart alive. I just prayed Jeni, wherever she’d hidden herself, would forgive me for buddying up to her enemy.

  “Yeah, when you jumped outta the car,” I said, feigning dismay, “I worried that our deal was off.”

  “Nah, man,” he replied. “Just didn’t want to get shot.” He glanced over his shoulder again. “We’re in enemy territory, you know.”

  I peered around the jeans, as if in solidarity against Jeni’s group. “So, what’s the plan?”

  “Well, if we stay low, I think we can use the jewelry area to get back to the grocery section. Left my brother and a few other guys by the bakery.”

  Apparently, the good guys had taken over the western side of the store, from the hardware section to the garden center, while the bad guys had hunkered down on the grocery side. If the battle lasted too long, I feared Jeni and her husband would run out of food. I wanted to help them, but if I got the chance to leave the premises before the war ended, I had to take it. Clare and Azazel, after all, came first.

  With a nod, I scrambled to my feet, bent my knees and back as low as possible, and followed Matt past an assortment of cheap watches and other shiny junk straight off the boats from China. Eventually, we reached a wide aisle and, after peeking in both directions, darted across the gap, into the cereal and coffee section.

  Mmm… coffee with chicory.

  Even though evening fast approached, a cup of coffee would’ve hit the spot at that moment. Normally, I alternated between java and diet soda throughout the working day, but since waking up in my courtyard, I hadn’t had much caffeine – and unfortunately, pure adrenaline wouldn’t sustain me forever.

  Naturally, though, I had no time to shop. Just had to focus on my current goal.

  Able to walk upright again, Matt and I trekked toward the produce and baked goods near the front of the store – in the diagonally opposite corner from the auto care center.

  “It’s me, fellas,” he said.

  At the sound of his voice, a half-dozen men stepped from behind various bins and displays. Four of them carried bows, while two possessed rifles. Fittingly, one of those carrying a firearm sported the same uniform that Matt wore – complete with grease and sweat stains. Given the similar hair color and face structure, I immediately knew it was the ringleader’s brother.

  Matt turned to me. “Wait here for a sec.”

  In reluctant compliance, I hovered near the canned fruit while he approached his fellow ruffians. I had no idea what he planned to tell his brother about me – or my van – but I doubted he had any intention of helping me. More than likely, he merely wanted to employ me – and my shotgun – to assist in his Walmart takeover, and undoubtedly, he planned to kill me and steal my ride once I’d outgrown my usefulness.

  Matt whispered something to his brother, giving me the chance to compare their features. They weren’t twins – for one thing, Matt seemed a few years older than his sibling – but the resemblance was uncanny.

  A glint drew my eye to the brother’s waist, where I noticed a set of keys hanging from his belt. So, Matt had told the truth about one thing: His brother really did have what I required.

  Good thing I didn’t blow a hole in the punk’s face.

  I needed that keyring to free myself from the madhouse, and as Matt himself had claimed, people would do just about anything to survive.

  As he turned, signaling me to join the group, I must’ve let my poker face slip because his smile morphed into a frown. Clearly, he sensed my hesitation, meaning that whatever he’d told his brother no longer mattered.

  And just like that… the jig is up.

  Without hesitation, I lifted the Mossberg. My seven adversaries, meanwhile, readied their own weapons. But before any of them had a chance to unleash their bullets or arrows, I scurried back into the cereal aisle and unloaded a round into one of the guys holding a rifle (not, incidentally, Matt’s brother).

  My blast, which pulverized the dude’s torso and sent him screaming to the ground, also blew apart several boxes of dried milk. The powdery eruption gave me just enough cover to bolt down the aisle. At the other end, I turned to the left, aiming for the rear of the store, but a few aisles later, an arrow whizzed past my face, narrowly missing my jaw.

  I slipped behind an endcap and peered around the shelves. My attacker, a rotund guy gripping a bow, stood down in the meat section. As he fumbled with his next arrow, I cocked my head, gave him a what-the-fuck look, and swung the Mossberg in his direction. I didn’t plan on shooting him – not sure I could hit him from such a distance – but when I pumped the gun, he dropped the bow and dove into a vat of unrefrigerated animal parts.

  Serves you right.

  Given that I’d likely killed one of Matt’s pals – and, as a result, his gang was now gunning for me – I probably should’ve shot the fat archer when I’d had the chance, but instead, I took the opportunity to keep moving.

  Part of me wanted to retreat into the clothing section – maybe even search for Jeni and her husband – but a few more whizzing arrows and bullets nixed that idea. Besides, I needed to stay close to Matt and his brother to get the damn keys.

  So, I hunkered down and sought solace in the booze aisle – beer and wine on one side, hard liquor on the other. From the plethora of empty bottles lining the floor, I figured Matt’s crew had already downed several adult beverages, and from the streaks of blood everywhere, I assumed they’d murdered at least one person amid the alcohol.

  As I crouched against a stack of six-packs, trying to formulate a plan, my gaze fell upon a fallen mop, which someone had clearly used to wipe up some of the blood. Naturally, they’d only managed to smear it even more.

  I scanned the shelves around me and spotted one of my oldest brother’s favorite brands of bourbon. I wouldn’t have minded taking a swig for courage, but given all the crap I’d already endured in one day, I feared a single shot might send me into a coma.

  Besides, what I really required wasn’t the best liquor – only the highest-proof stuff. The kind that said lightning or moonshine or blast on the label. Before Matt’s gang could stop me, I grabbed as many bottles as I could carry and hurled them in opposite directions. Glass shattered, releasing high-octane alcohol all over the tiled floor.

  Gunshots sounded from either side of me, hinting that Jeni’s group had joined the current fight. While the good guys kept the bad guys occupied, I readied my shotgun, grabbed the discarded mop, and doused the blood-splattered stringy end with an entire bottle of white lightning. Then, I pulled out my lighter and ignited the alcohol-soaked mop.

  In mere seconds, my makeshift torch was fully ablaze and kicking out a fair amount of smoke. As I worked my way toward the end of the aisle, not far from the clothing section, I could hear gunshots, screams, and other sounds of mayhem all around me.

  “Motherfucker,” a familiar voice shouted from the adjacent aisle. “The bastard’s lighting the store on fire!”

  “We gotta stop him,” a similar voice replied, no doubt that of Matt’s younger brother.

  Not yet, boys. Not yet.

  Careful not to step in any of the puddles of b
ooze strewn about the floor, I scooted to the edge of the aisle just as Matt and his brother darted around the corner. Acting on instinct, I shoved the flaming mop into Matt’s face, released the handle, and sent a shotgun blast toward his brother.

  While I didn’t hit the kid directly, I managed to pepper him with glass and liquor from the bottle I did shoot – something called Old Man Joe – which seemed fitting. Having never heard of it before, I just hoped it contained enough alcohol to ignite.

  As Matt screamed and clutched his singed face, I reclaimed the flaming mop and swung it toward his brother, who caught fire almost immediately.

  Nice job, Old Man Joe.

  The young man screamed in pain as the flames licked his face and body. In retaliation, Matt raised a gun he’d obviously concealed from me, but before he could pull the trigger, someone else shot him in the head. He dropped lifeless to the ground.

  His brother, meanwhile, had stumbled to the floor, spreading the flames to the large pool of spilled booze. A moment later, the entire aisle was ablaze, blasting heat in my face.

  Gunshots echoed throughout the store, and several arrows sailed past my head, from the far end of the aisle. The Battle of Walmart would end soon… and not just because the two brother-mechanics were down for the count, but also because at least three aisles were now on fire.

  I hopped over Matt’s corpse and gazed down at his brother. He writhed and screamed, clearly still alive.

  Quickly, I dragged him away from the flames, grabbed a barn jacket from a nearby rack, and patted him down. His screaming faded as he looked up at me. His face was blackened, and his clothes were shredded, but for having been on fire, he didn’t look as awful as expected.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  I had no response for him, so I just yanked the keys from his belt and slipped them into my shirt pocket.

  Considering all the horrible shit that he and his brother had perpetrated, I toyed with the idea of pushing him back into the flames, but someone else – perhaps the same person who’d executed Matt – did the dirty work for me. A muscular man, roughly my age, lifted the kid and tossed him into the flames, then spit at him for good measure. After offering me a stoic nod, he ran back into the clothing section and vanished into a cloud of thick smoke.

  Matt’s brother didn’t scream or even let out a whimper. He just settled into the flames and burned. A terrible death to witness, but I didn’t feel any sympathy for him. And I didn’t have time to contemplate my mixed emotions – arrows and bullets were still flying, some toward me but others headed elsewhere.

  Hastily, I trekked back through the jewelry department and into ladies’ apparel, where I ran smack into Jeni and her husband, Jason. She aimed her shotgun at my stomach, while he targeted my chest with a high-powered rifle. They’d ensnared me – yet surprisingly, neither of them pulled the trigger.

  After a few tense seconds, Jeni lowered her shotgun a few inches.

  Course, now it’s aimed at my crotch.

  Her husband, who stood well over six feet tall (about a foot taller than she was), did not in fact lower his weapon. He kept his gun pointed squarely at my sternum.

  I tilted the Mossberg toward the floor and resisted the urge to pull out my loaded pistol. “I’ve got no beef with you. Just wanna get back to my van and get the hell outta here.”

  “So you’ve said,” Jeni retorted, clearly pissed.

  “Look,” I said, “we don’t have time to argue. You folks need to get the hell outta here.”

  “Well, now we do,” Jason spat. “Thanks for lighting the place on fire.”

  “Sorry about that. I was about to be shot. Had to think quickly.” I nodded toward the Ford Focus. “Anyway, I still have the keys. If you want ’em.”

  Slowly, I slipped one hand in my jeans pocket, retrieved the small set of keys, and dangled them between me and the incensed couple.

  Jeni lowered her weapon all the way. “Babe,” she said, glancing at her husband, “we knew this was never gonna end well.”

  Begrudgingly, he nodded and let the rifle hang by his side.

  With a grateful smile, she accepted the keys. “Did you get the ones you needed?”

  Nodding, I patted my shirt pocket.

  “Is Matt dead?” she asked.

  “Yep… though I can’t claim the kill. Someone else took him out before he could shoot me.”

  “What about his brother, James?” Jason asked. “I hope he burns in hell.”

  “Trust me, he’s burning alright.” I gazed back at the ever-spreading flames and smoke. “Speaking of that… I really think it’s time to go. Good luck to you both.”

  With that, I slipped past them and headed toward the auto care center.

  Behind me, I could hear Jeni and Jason yelling at the top of their lungs, doing their best to urge any remaining colleagues to vacate the premises.

  “The store’s on fire,” she hollered.

  “Everyone needs to get out!” he added.

  On-the-nose observations perhaps, but some folks needed an engraved invitation.

  By the time I reached the gaping hole I’d left in the wall, the gunshots and arrows had stopped flying. I could hear the revving engine of the Ford Focus far behind me – though it wasn’t loud enough to drown out the zombies, still relentlessly banging the overhead doors alongside the alley.

  Knowing I didn’t have much time, I bolted toward the front of the auto center and tried almost every key on the ring until I found the right one. Quickly, I released the bolt lock, but before lifting the overhead door, I darted back to the van and unlocked the driver’s side – just in case a slew of zombies awaited me in the parking lot and I needed somewhere to run.

  Headlight beams flashed across the rear doors of the auto center. Jeni and Jason had obviously turned the Ford around and were working their way toward the giant hole in the wall.

  Hoping Azazel was too scared to escape, I set the shotgun on my seat, sprinted toward the front entrance, grabbed the bottom of the door with both hands, and pulled it up hard and fast. I didn’t spot a single zombie in the immediate vicinity, though a group of them milled near the far corner of the building. Likely hearing the loud-ass door, one of them turned and noticed me, but luckily, he and his undead buddies were too far away to pose a problem.

  I hurried back to the van, secured myself in the driver’s seat, and started the engine. Before hitting the gas, I turned toward the murky interior of the van.

  “Azazel, baby, are you in here?”

  If I left Walmart without ensuring my cat’s safety, I’d never live to tell Clare the bad news.

  But when Azazel failed to respond, I decided to pull out the big guns. As a New Orleans kitty, she’d always come running whenever she heard jazz or blues. So, I grabbed my phone, opened a folder of downloaded music, and blasted one of my favorite Tab Benoit tunes.

  Sure enough, I heard a tiny feline meow, and then Azazel slunk out of the darkness.

  “That’s my girl.”

  As Tab continued to play, I drove the van through the service bay, out the open doorway, and into the parking lot. I veered around the zombie horde pouring from around the corner, and a few seconds later, the Ford Focus shot through the bay opening.

  Jeni and Jason would live… for now. I hoped their friends would make it, too, but I had to focus on my own survival – and finish the journey to Baton Rouge, where, hopefully, Clare still waited for me.

  Seconds later, I exited the parking lot, turned right onto Plantation Road, and looked for an obstacle-free route to Airline Drive. As usual, though, I was probably hoping for too much.

  Chapter

  4

  “Buckle up, Bonehead. Cuz you’re goin’ for a ride!” – Ash, Army of Darkness (1992)

  As lifelong horror, sci-fi, fantasy, and thriller fans, Clare and I could always find the perfect movie or TV quote to suit any occasion. Whether funny, sad, or weirdly insightful, such pop-culture references usually managed to put even the scar
iest and most stressful situations into helpful perspective. But I’ll admit, not even my favorite shows could’ve prepared me for the terrifying (not to mention disgusting) shit I’d experienced since the zombie infection had spread to New Orleans.

  The day after my first real-world encounter with the undead felt like the longest of my life.

  And it isn’t over yet.

  Since waking up in my courtyard at the crack of dawn, I’d said farewell to my French Quarter apartment and the few neighbors that remained; lugged my poor cat through mobs of zombies to retrieve my wife’s diamond ring and our fortified step van; made a perilous, radiator-busting journey across town; and even helped a few deserving folks along the way. Then, after having rescued six ill-prepared yuppies near Xavier University, almost losing control of my vehicle to the ungrateful asshats, and unceremoniously dumping them in the middle of the Earhart Expressway, I’d hightailed my ass west, across the Orleans-Jefferson Parish line, and into Metairie, a sprawling suburb of New Orleans.

  Despite my extreme hunger and fatigue, though, I couldn’t stop yet. Beating a path out of the Big Easy (my beloved home for the past decade) was only the beginning of my epic battle for survival. The fucking zombie nightmare had truly engulfed the globe, turning average people everywhere into monsters. And not just the undead kind.

  If I had any doubts about that, my reluctant participation in the recent Battle of Walmart had proven that the current desperation and insanity knew no bounds.

  But no matter what else came my way, I’d need to keep fighting if I hoped to reach Clare in Baton Rouge and safely transport us both to our sanctuary in northern Michigan.