Chapter
6
“Oh, no tears, please. It’s a waste of good suffering!” – Lead Cenobite, Hellraiser (1987)
Using the little flashlight as a guide, I returned to the van, made a pit stop in my tiny bathroom, and grabbed my cellphone. Since that morning, I hadn’t been able to reach Clare via text message or phone call, and the silence between us had really started to weigh on me.
In our more than seventeen years together, we had collectively spent no more than three weeks apart. Most couples we’d known had thought we were nuts for living and working side by side, day in and day out. Pretty much no one could believe we’d successfully done it for almost two decades without driving each other insane. Both of my older brothers had divorced their wives after lengthy marriages, and I myself had gotten a divorce from my first wife, an ill-matched college girlfriend, in my early twenties.
Clare and I were different, though: When we’d said, “I do,” we’d meant forever. We often joked that, given how much time we’d spent together, it felt as if we’d been a cohabitating-turned-married couple for twice as many years as we actually had. Equivalent to thirty-five years for most partnerships. And we’d claimed that about ourselves in the best possible way. We were each other’s soulmate, best friend, favorite traveling companion, and most compatible partner in crime. I thought nothing – not low funds or health scares or meddlesome mothers-in-law – could tear us apart.
I just hadn’t counted on being separated once the zombie epidemic had begun. Given that a friend of mine, far away in India, had warned me about the impending apocalypse and even offered me a timetable for its inevitable spread to America, I thought we’d had more time.
That was how Clare had ended up eighty miles away from me on the night of Halloween, when the horrendous, zombified shit had hit the fan in the Big Easy. She’d gone to Baton Rouge to fetch her mother, Jill – or at least convince her to escape to northern Michigan with us. I hadn’t been pleased with her decision to venture there on her own, but I’d needed time to finish packing the rig, and I knew she’d never forgive herself if something bad happened to her mother, no matter how stubborn, sanctimonious, hypercritical, and insufferable that witch could often be.
But more than thirty hours after Clare had left the French Quarter in a friend’s car and more than twenty-eight hours since I’d heard her voice (when she’d called to tell me she’d made it safely to her mother’s house), I felt a bit lost without her, like a part of my soul had flown elsewhere. In the time she’d been away, the constant ache of fear and loneliness inside my chest had only deepened.
It had pretty much been the shittiest day of my life. I was fucking exhausted, my rig was busted, perhaps beyond repair (or at least my limited mechanical skills), and I still didn’t know if Clare was safe. Or even alive.
True, she’d reached her mother’s house, but given how rapidly the violence and mayhem had spread throughout New Orleans and her surrounding towns, I doubted Baton Rouge was any safer. The six yuppies I’d rescued and dumped out earlier in the day had vocalized as much. That had been the reason for the near-mutiny and subsequent expulsion: They hadn’t approved of my plan to head to Baton Rouge to rescue my wife, so they’d begun scheming to commandeer my vehicle and venture to the Georgia coast instead. Hence, my gratitude for the gas mask and tear gas canister I’d remembered to stow beneath the driver’s seat.
I still had to fix my radiator and find a way to the state capital, but first, I needed to check on my wife again. While I’d forgotten to charge my phone, it still had enough juice for me to dial Clare’s number and receive the same irritating message as before. Apparently, the circuits were still fucking busy.
Goddammit.
As an alternative, I tried typing out a brief text to her, giving her my location – and telling her I loved her. Not that either of us had ever questioned our affection for each other; we just said and wrote “I love you” more often than most people. After I hit the send arrow, nothing happened for a few moments. Perhaps the phone was searching for the closest network. Any kind of network.
I stood outside the van, in the near dark, staring stupidly at the screen, waiting for the text to reach the love of my life. Finally, I received the Sent notification and closed the messaging app. As I did so, I noticed the date on my phone.
What the fuck? It’s November second?!
All goddamn day, I’d thought it was November first, All Saints’ Day, the day following my first zombie encounter. Apparently, though, I’d lain unconscious in my courtyard for two days, not one. I had spent every lucid moment of the day believing the zombie apocalypse had arrived in the Big Easy only the previous night, when really the terror had come two nights earlier.
Two days and two nights not knowing what had happened to Clare.
Two fucking days and two motherfucking nights!
No wonder the Summers trio I’d helped at Home Depot had given me such strange, mournful looks every time I’d mentioned going to Baton Rouge to pick up Clare. Given how long the zombies had been running amuck, it made sense how little faith Alvin, Ellen, and their granddaughter, Jenny, had seemed to harbor that I’d ever see my wife alive again. Bizarre comments that Troy, the strip club owner, and Marci, the stoned party girl, had said to me earlier made a helluva lot more sense, too.
Still doesn’t fully explain the fucked-up scene at Walmart, but whatever. People be psychos sometimes.
As did the overpowering smell of rotting flesh in the French Quarter and the fact that poor Azazel’s food and water bowls had both been bone-dry when I’d finally returned to our apartment following my first zombie encounter. My poor little girl had been wandering around our home for thirty-six hours, thirsty, starving, listening to the bloodcurdling screams outside, and wondering where the hell her parents were.
Shit, she really deserves a few bites of tuna. Maybe even a whole can of her own.
My eyes watered, and my chest tightened with every breath. It was even more imperative that I make it to Baton Rouge. Sooner rather than later. Too much time had already slipped by.
With my eyes burning in the near-darkness, I reopened the messaging app and continued staring at the screen. I didn’t want to budge until I’d heard from Clare. Even if it was just a quick response to my text. The phone kept searching for a signal, draining the battery even more, but I never heard from her – and I never saw Sent change to Delivered beside my message to her, so for all I knew, she’d never even received it.
OK, enough fucking around. I need to fix my goddamn radiator and get the fuck outta here.
Pocketing my useless cellphone, I stepped to the front of my van and propped open the hood. Like the heavy garage door, the hood was certainly not quiet. It creaked loudly as it moved upward, but except for the groaning zombies in the driveway, I couldn’t hear anything on the other side of the inner door leading into the house. No human footsteps. No zombie moans. Nothing.
Holding my flashlight above the engine compartment, I spotted the problem right away. Even with my limited skills, I could see a sizable hole in one of the hoses leading into my radiator. Not huge, but large enough to siphon away the radiator fluid and cause the engine to overheat.
Crap. Now, what?
During the two weeks I’d gathered supplies for the predicted end of the world, I’d considered food and water stores, medicine, weapons, ammunition, basic tools, batteries, generators, and other essentials, but I hadn’t given much thought to radiator hoses. So, while cranking my flashlight to brighten the glow, I took a spin around the garage and searched for anything I could use as a replacement hose. But after a full circuit around the tidy space, searching through every cabinet and drawer and along both side walls, I couldn’t find a damn thing that would work. Clearly, whoever had lived there had been smart enough to take any auto parts with them.
Just fucking great.
Chapter
7
“Itʼs not a monster. Itʼs not a monster. Itʼs just a
doggy…” – Donna Trenton, Cujo (1983)
Since I doubted my van would make it any farther down the road, I had no choice but to search the house for something that could replace the busted radiator hose, if only temporarily. At the very least, I needed the vehicle to carry me, Azazel, and our supplies to Baton Rouge, where I might then have the time and means to find a permanent fix. As a last resort, I could use the duct tape Alvin Summers had given me at Home Depot, but I preferred a more reliable solution, if possible.
So, after resecuring the hood and ensuring I’d locked the side and rear doors of my vehicle (both to safeguard my stuff as well as my cat), I edged toward the innermost garage door, which was accessible via a short staircase. With my Mossberg at the ready, I tiptoed up the six steps, pressed my ear to the wood, and listened intently, but I could still hear nothing on the other side. After a moment of holding my breath, I carefully turned the knob, which was thankfully unlocked, pulled the door aside, and aimed the shotgun forward, the flashlight clutched between my left hand and the barrel of my weapon.
The door had opened onto a cozy utility room, featuring a washer, a dryer, and an extra-deep, free-standing sink on one side and a folded ironing board and a well-organized shelving unit on the other. So far, the house appeared to be as neatly kept as the garage, and luckily, no trigger-happy humans or ravenous zombies had yet to greet me. Of course, my tour of the strange house had just commenced.
Cautiously, I repeated my listening-opening-aiming routine on the second door and soon found myself in a kitchen. Scanning the room with my flashlight and shotgun, I discovered no one living and nothing undead waiting for me. But, unlike the tidy garage and utility room, the kitchen was a downright mess. In fact, so was the adjacent den. Everywhere I looked, I noticed random towels, papers, clothes, toys, framed photos, and other ordinary items strewn across tables, sofas, even the floor. In the harsh glow of my flashlight, I spotted a few overturned chairs as well.
Frankly, I didn’t think anyone had looted the house. I could still see a variety of appliances, electronics, and other valuable items throughout both rooms. No, it looked more like the rightful occupants had been in a big, damn hurry to leave.
Given the present state of the world, I could certainly understand such desperation. Not everyone had been blessed with foreknowledge of the worldwide zombie epidemic, and most people wouldn’t have prepared for such a ridiculous scenario anyway. Before Halloween, the majority of humans had likely believed zombies were the stuff of graphic novels and Hollywood screenplays. Some survivors were probably still in denial.
An upright picture frame on a ransacked bookshelf caught my eye. It contained a photo of a well-groomed family of five, dressed in their Sunday best. I hoped the man and woman in the image had survived and made it to a decent haven, along with their three kids and the large shaggy dog posing in front of them.
Who knows? Maybe they’re some of the lucky ones.
Doubtful perhaps, but anything was possible. I was still alive, after all, and considering how many close calls I’d experienced in the past twelve hours or so, I probably should’ve died several times already.
I decided to return to the kitchen and search the drawers and cabinets for any item that might serve as a makeshift hose, but as I turned, movement in my peripheral vision drew my focus to the sliding glass doors in the den. Lowering my weapon and flashlight, but keeping my ears alert for trouble, I stepped toward the doors and gazed into the family’s spacious, recently mowed backyard.
In the haunting glow of the waning twilight, I spotted an attached deck, which featured an assortment of wicker patio furniture, a sheltered table, and a large barbecue grill. Another short staircase led into the yard, which contained a sturdy swing set, a trampoline, and other kid-friendly items.
For a moment, my mind drifted to thoughts of my own childhood, playing in the yards of our various houses with my two older brothers. Since regaining consciousness outside my apartment that morning, I hadn’t spared much thought for my brothers, their daughters, and our parents, all of whom were spread around the country, from Florida to Chicago. My main concerns had revolved around Azazel and Clare, but I certainly hoped the rest of my family was alright, too.
Naturally, I had shared my friend Samir’s warning with all of them, but I doubted they’d believed me. I was, after all, a horror nut with a filmmaking background – not to mention the black sheep of the family. While my parents and brothers considered Clare a bit more pragmatic and definitely more responsible than I was, even her apparent trust in our prepping plan hadn’t done much to convince them. Admittedly, the notion of an impending zombie apocalypse was pretty insane, at least in the real world. I just hoped I’d get the chance to see them all again, even if I had to refrain from saying, “I told you so.”
Man, I hope they listened to me for once.
Recalling what had drawn me to the glass in the first place, I gazed at the Gothic-style wooden fence enclosing the backyard and, through the gaps, noticed a furry animal on the other side, trying to excavate his way beneath the slats. For an instant, I fretted it was another one of those hairy man-wolf monstrosities I’d seen on the Earhart Expressway – the one that had terrorized the six ungrateful yuppies I’d kicked out of my van. But, while squinting for a better look, I realized it was just a large, familiar-looking dog, similar to my brother James’s labradoodle or my parents’ long-deceased wirehaired pointing griffon. As if Benji had a bigger, darker cousin.
Apparently, he was trying to pull a reverse jailbreak, digging his way into the yard, not out of it. I suddenly grasped why he seemed so familiar: He didn’t merely resemble pets I’d known and loved, he was the actual dog in the family photo I’d recently seen.
Poor guy. He’s hoping to come home.
My gaze drifted farther along the fence, and I noticed two zombies stumbling down the rear alley, toward the hapless canine. Given my fondness for horror films, I knew zombie lore varied when it came to non-human animals. In some, the undead ravagers devoured other creatures indiscriminately, from horses to goats, while others left all non-humans with little to fear.
Of course, in the real world, I’d already seen the mangled corpses of assorted dogs and cats in the French Quarter, not to mention the viscera of poor Francis, the resident feline mascot of the Pet Mart. So, I assumed the shaggy canine outside was in grave danger. From the whining and barking I could hear through the glass, I suspected the dog also realized his pursuers weren’t the friendly sort. Instead of running from the situation, however, he just carved up the ground more furiously.
“Fuck.”
If you knew me at all, then you’d already figured out how I felt about most of humanity. In truth, I believed the planet could’ve benefited from such a cleansing epidemic at least two millennia earlier.
It wasn’t that I had no sympathy for the people who had perished (and continued to perish) in such painfully gory ways. I’d just never had much faith in humanity as a whole. In my defense, men, women, and children had been dying since the beginning of our existence, sometimes at the hands of disease, old age, and Mother Nature, but just as often because of their fellow humans.
The rest of the animal kingdom, however, had always been a different story for me. True, some possessed venomous saliva, carnivorous appetites, and violent urges, but most non-human animals were usually innocent, loyal creatures… until awful humans got ahold of them.
If any cosmic entity oversaw the universe (which I highly doubted), he, she, or it realized I couldn’t ignore the present situation. Although I was an omnivore by nature (and, therefore, more than willing to consume beef, pork, poultry, and seafood), my instinct to save or assist any helpless animal placed in my path resonated deep within my soul. Just as with the ill-advised Pet Mart rescue in New Orleans, I usually wouldn’t hesitate to risk life or limb for dogs, cats, foxes, elephants, and other non-human creatures, so the anxious canine on the far side of the fence was no exception.
“You bet
ter be grateful for this,” I mumbled as I unlocked the sliding glass door and stepped onto the deck.
Stuffing my flashlight in my shirt pocket, I hastened down the steps and across the backyard. As I made a beeline for the dog, who was still frantically clawing at the dirt beneath the fence, I surveyed the area and tried to craft a rescue plan. Unfortunately, the fence didn’t have a rear gate, and it was too tall, about even with my chest, for me to lean over and pick up the dog from inside the yard. So, as soon as I reached the perimeter, I kicked out one of the narrow wooden slats near the dog. Naturally, the impact of my sneaker on the wood startled the animal, but following a brief glance at me and back at the encroaching zombies, he must’ve figured I was the lesser of two evils because he resumed his frenzied digging.
Before I could kick out a second slat, however, and grab the dog, I realized the zombies would reach him first. Quickly, I raised the Mossberg and trained the sight on the closest zombie, an obese woman wearing a green apron. Presumably, she’d been cooking a meal when someone had bitten off nearly half her face. As the slug hit her square in the forehead, she slumped to the ground and fell on her back. My eyes, which had adjusted to the dim light, could barely make out the saying on her bloodstained apron: Don’t fuck with me, or I’ll poison your food.
Zombie Chaos Box Set | Books 1-4 Page 23
