“Y’alright, son?”
I turned my head to survey him in the lantern light. Calling me son would’ve seemed odd coming from a man who couldn’t be more than fifty, not even a decade older than I was, but he looked like the type that would use his “father voice” with anyone he believed needed protection and comfort. Tall and as solid as a brick shithouse, he had the close-cut hair, no-nonsense air, and practical apparel of a military man. Likely a Marine. And a Cajun, to boot.
Equally well-built, neatly groomed, and sensibly dressed, the teenager looked like a mini-version of the man. No doubt his son.
“Guess so,” I said, gazing back at the father. Then, almost as an afterthought, I added, “Thank you. For saving my life, I mean.”
“No problem.” He grinned. “Name’s Ray.” He nodded toward the teenager. “Dat’s my boy, Travis.”
Ray and Travis both sported a thick Cajun-Yat dialect. I’d encountered it often during my time in New Orleans, and frankly, I’d never tired of hearing all the varying accents in my adopted home of southern Louisiana.
“I’m Joe Daniels.”
“Nice to meet ya, Joe,” Ray said, shaking my hand with a predictably strong grip.
“Hey, mister,” Travis said, drawing my attention back to him. He was scanning my van with wide eyes. “Cool rig.” Spoken in a dreamy tone, as if he’d forgotten he’d just shot someone in the head.
Instead, he resembled his age again, like a boy who’d seen his first treehouse.
“Would be even cooler if she didn’t have a leaky radiator,” I lamented. “And a busted side mirror.”
Blood, brains, bone, and zombie goo covered much of my trusty van, and frankly, it had begun to reek. My shotgun needed a bit of scouring, too, but first, I had to retrieve it from where I’d reluctantly surrendered it in the den.
A glint drew my focus to the ground, where I spotted my keys beside Kevin’s motionless hand. I crouched down and picked them up.
“Hate to seem ungrateful, but I need to check the van,” I said, straightening up. “Make sure my cat, Azazel, is still inside. I’m afraid all the gunshots might’ve made her bolt, and with the garage door open…”
Travis swallowed, his expression sheepish. “Sorry. Dat was my fault. Forgot to shut it when we slipped inside.”
I smiled. “You and your dad saved my life. I can hardly complain. But my wife’ll kill me if something happens to Azazel.”
Just then, I heard padded feet on the steps behind me, followed by a plaintive whine. Turning, I noted the dog I’d rescued standing inside the garage.
“Nice of you to show up,” I said. “See you waited ’til the coast was clear.”
Ignoring me, the dog trotted past Ray and paused beside Travis. He nudged the boy’s denim-clad knee with his nose, until, with an unabashed grin, Travis knelt on the floor and gave the eager pup a vigorous petting.
“Looks like he knows you,” I said.
“He does,” Travis admitted. “He’s Frankie. Da Hamiltons’ dog.”
“Dis was da Hamiltons’ house,” Ray explained. “Dog ran away right before dey packed up an’ left. Tried to find him, but dey was too scared to stay.”
As I’d suspected, the dog belonged there. No wonder he’d tried to dig his way into the backyard instead of fleeing the zombies. He probably figured he’d find safety with his family, but sadly, they’d already left him behind.
“Can’t blame them, I guess.” My eyes drifted to the rear of the van, and I silently prayed Azazel was alright. “But I could’ve never left my cat behind.” I glanced back at Ray.
He nodded, plucked the lantern from the floor beside his son, and walked toward the front of my van. “Mind if I take a look atcha radiator?”
“Be my guest.”
He seemed like a resourceful guy. Maybe he’d have more luck repairing it than I’d had so far.
Leaving Travis to comfort Frankie, and Ray to peek under my hood, I stepped toward the rear of my van. My chest tightened, as I feared the worst. Most of the time, Azazel was feisty and brave, but as with most dogs and cats, loud noises scared the crap out of her. Fireworks, thunderstorms, rumbling trucks, falling trees, and gunshots usually drove her under the nearest chair or table. But with the van doors and a garage entrance open, all bets were off. Even for a lifelong indoor cat.
Although bustling French Quarter streets and the wildlife-filled woods of northern Michigan had always fascinated her, they’d routinely terrified her as well, enough to keep her furry little ass inside. In fact, except for one time as a brash, three-month-old kitten, she’d never bolted through an open outer door. In the current situation, however, she might’ve found the outside world less threatening than usual.
Just be hiding in the damn van!
From the rear of the vehicle, I flipped on my hand-crank flashlight and scanned the van’s interior. Only a few tense seconds passed before I was rewarded with the sight of two glowing eyes peering at me from the driver’s-side footwell.
I smiled, the relief likely evident on my face. “Always knew you were a smart girl.”
She blinked once, and I returned the gesture.
“Sorry about the ruckus. I’ll try to keep it down. Just sit tight, OK?”
Then I pulled the tarp over my exposed cache of weapons, secured the doors, and strolled to the front of the van. With the lantern perched on my radiator, Ray leaned over the engine compartment, gripped the busted hose, and examined the area for additional damage. When he sensed me beside him, he stepped back from the van, wiping excess coolant from his hands.
“I can fix dis for ya.”
“Seriously? That would be awesome.”
He nodded toward the side-view mirror. “Can fix dat, too. Course, in a pinch, all ya need is a li’l duct tape.”
“Yeah, I forgot a few key items when I was packing up, but luckily, a nice guy back in New Orleans took pity on me and gave me some tape before I left town. Just haven’t had a chance to fix it yet.”
“Well, ya got a chance now. Hard enough drivin’ out dere wit’out bein’ half-blind.”
“True enough,” I said. “But I don’t know how to repay you. I already owe you for my life.”
Ray gazed at his son, who sat on the concrete floor, surrounded by dead bodies and wrestling with the dog.
“You saved da dog. Dat’d make him yours, but… let Travis take him an’ do me one more favor, an’ I’d say we’re even.”
“Looks like Frankie already made that decision for us,” I said. “Besides, I don’t think Azazel would appreciate him much.”
The Cajun dude and his son had saved my life, rescuing me (and my cat) from a bunch of murderous rednecks. On top of that, he was offering to repair my radiator and my side-view mirror. Figured the least I could do was give him the shaggy dog I’d just met and help him with whatever task he had in mind.
I glanced at Ray. “What do you need from me?”
Ray’s focus shifted from me to Travis. “Son, go git my red toolbox. An’ bring ya li’l sis back witcha. Tell her to pack her 9mm.”
“Yes, sir,” the boy replied with the discipline of a Marine sergeant. Then, he rose to his feet, approached the garage door, and flipped on a small flashlight.
As he peered through the glass window, no doubt checking for trouble, Frankie scrambled to his feet, too. Obviously protective of his new family, the dog trailed behind Travis and nudged the teenager’s leg.
Turning, Travis simply said, “Stay here, boy. I’ll be right back.” Then, he readied his gun, turned the knob, and slipped into the darkness, shutting the door behind him.
“Wait,” I said to Ray. “Should he really be out there by himself?”
“Trust me,” he said. “Dat boy know his way round a gun.”
Instinctively, I glanced down at Kevin’s mutilated skull and recalled how Travis had killed him without hesitation.
Yeah, no shit he can handle himself.
Ray had obviously taught him well – a fact for wh
ich I’d be eternally grateful.
Chapter
10
“Trust’s a tough thing to come by these days.” – MacReady, The Thing (1982)
Frankie sat on his hindquarters a few feet from the door, fixated on the glass and patiently awaiting Travis’s return.
Ray, meanwhile, surveyed the bodies still lying on the concrete floor, his expression stoic. Not remorseful at all. Hell, I wasn’t sorry either that the assholes were dead.
Better them than me.
Besides, if vigilante justice was ever socially acceptable, I had to believe it was during a zombie apocalypse.
I just didn’t think I could’ve dispatched the rednecks as rapidly as he and his son had. I’d only shot my first man that morning, and even though it had been a clear case of kill-or-be-killed, murdering humans didn’t come as easily to me as putting down zombies. Ray, however, was as solid as iron, as sharp as nails, and as accurate as a heat-seeking missile, and Travis seemed to be following in his father’s footsteps.
I felt like one lucky bastard, thankful they’d decided to sneak into the Hamiltons’ garage when they did. Armed and ready to take out the neighborhood looters. If they’d waited a few more minutes, mine might’ve been one of the bloody bodies on the floor. My only consolation was knowing I would’ve stayed dead and not arisen as an undead carnivore.
First, because the rednecks would’ve likely shot me in the head.
Thanks a lot, assholes.
And second, as far as I knew, you had to be bitten to turn into a zombie. It didn’t seem like a situation where a virus lay dormant in every living human, ensuring we’d all turn into zombies after death, no matter if we’d been bitten or not. At least, I’d seen no evidence of that yet. Every zombie I’d encountered so far had sported an obvious wound or missing body part.
All I’d learned from my friends, Samir and Dibya, was that the zombie epidemic had started in their home country – India – and if I’d correctly grasped their reasoning, the infection itself had likely come from “somewhere else,” whatever the hell that meant.
True, Myriam Beauvoir – the laundromat-owning voodoo priestess who’d saved my ass in the French Quarter – had mentioned a place called the Infernal. But seeing as how I’d never heard of that before, I couldn’t automatically assume that somewhere else and the Infernal were one and the same. Especially since the details of the epidemic’s origins were still nebulous at best, and with Samir and Dibya likely long-deceased, I certainly couldn’t ask them for a better explanation.
Someday, perhaps, someone would uncover the real facts of how the whole end-of-the-world crisis had begun, but for the moment, all I needed to know was that the zombie infection had spread around the globe and that I had to stay alive long enough to protect my feline spitfire and see my beloved wife again.
I glanced at Ray. “Did you know those guys?”
He shook his head. “Not from aroun’ here. We saw ’em go into several houses ’long da street. T’ought about droppin’ ’em den, but dey was only goin’ into empty places.”
I nodded in understanding. Why risk his life, and those of his kids, to stop some armed looters? Though tempted, I refrained from asking why he and his children had opted to stay behind in the first place when most (if not all) of their neighbors had already fled. They seemed more practical and resourceful than that – the type of streetwise survivalists that would’ve had a bug-out site in mind.
“But den Travis saw ’em enter dis house,” Ray continued, “as you was savin’ da dog out back.”
I waited for a smart-ass comment about putting myself at risk for a damn dog, but it never came. Regardless, I almost opened my mouth to justify myself (and what some might think was a misguided preference for animals) by saying that pets could become zombified creatures, too, and ultimately turn on their families, but I hadn’t actually witnessed that yet. So far, dogs, cats, and other non-human animals appeared to be just more fodder for overactive, ever-present undead appetites. And after the corpses I’d already seen in the French Quarter and elsewhere, I couldn’t have stomached watching poor Frankie get eviscerated by those two zombies. Especially since he reminded me of my parents’ old griffon, Gypsy – the finest dog I’d ever known.
“Knew we best git over here before dey didya in,” Ray admitted.
Well, ain’t that something. Saved several times today cuz of my love for animals.
Once the gunshots had stopped ringing in my ears, and I’d realized my new pals had no intention of killing me as well, I’d briefly wondered if rescuing Frankie had saved my life. I gazed at the dog, who still stood by the door but had pivoted himself around to watch me. For a moment, I held his eyes, long enough to convince myself we shared a mutual understanding and perhaps even mutual respect. I’d saved him from the zombies, and he, in turn, had spared me from the rednecks’ bloody fate via the neighborly intervention of Ray and Travis.
Suddenly, Frankie shifted his focus beyond me and unleashed a guttural bark. Alarmed, I whirled around and noted Azazel’s face, forepaws, and upper torso in the passenger-side window. She’d apparently climbed onto her carrier, leaned against the glass, and spotted Frankie in the shadows with her impressive night vision. Of course, she was hissing and grunting at the strange if friendly-looking dog. And Frankie, who stood on all fours in a protective stance, was growling in return.
Sighing, I turned to Ray. “See what I mean? Taking Frankie was never a possibility.”
Ray chuckled, then frowned. “We best calm ’em down, or dey’ll lure ev’ry zombie in da area.”
I certainly didn’t want such an outcome, not the least of which because Travis and his little sister still had to navigate their way back to the Hamiltons’ garage. In the dark, no less.
So, while Ray clutched Frankie’s collar, I carefully slid open the driver’s-side door of my van, stepped inside, and scooped up Azazel before she had a chance to wonder what I had in mind. Gently, I guided her inside the cat carrier, and naturally, she cried with displeasure as I secured the gate. To placate her and distract her for a while, I opened a can of tuna, spooned about a third into a porcelain ramekin, and slipped it through the little lid atop her carrier.
As expected, she stopped meowing immediately and dug into her favorite treat. I stroked her furry head, tucked the remaining tuna in the fridge, shut the carrier lid and the van door, and rejoined Ray near the dead looters.
“Oh, shit,” I said. “I forgot those idiots left the back door wide open when they grabbed me.”
Hoping the barks and gunshots hadn’t enticed any unwanted visitors into the Hamiltons’ house, I retrieved my trusty axe from the passenger-side footwell in my van and led Ray up the steps, over Paw’s bullet-riddled corpse, and into the den. By the light of the lantern my companion carried, I didn’t see any zombies inside the house, but I could certainly hear a few undead interlopers moaning along the rear fence. Without hesitation, I shut and locked the sliding glass door, then picked up my shotgun from the tiled floor. Felt good to hold the Mossberg again, even if the barrel was still covered in zombie foulness.
After performing a quick sweep of the rest of the house, we returned to the garage. While we awaited his children, Ray briefly related the tale of how he, Travis, and his daughter, Nicole, had returned from a fishing trip on Lake Maurepas to find the boat launch overrun by decomposing carnivores. Although he didn’t strike me as a fan of horror movies, he matter-of-factly explained how he’d encountered and dealt with the sudden zombie epidemic. Obviously, he didn’t care whether his enemy was an Iraqi insurgent or an undead corpse; he’d handle either situation with the same precision and determination.
As I’d assumed, Ray was a former Marine. He’d dedicated more than two decades to the service and would’ve done so for the rest of his life – if only his wife hadn’t gotten cancer, forcing him to retire earlier than planned. After she’d died, Ray had willingly raised his children on his own, teaching them all he knew about defending their ho
me, property, lives, and loved ones.
So, naturally, all three of them had been armed, even his daughter, on their shocking return to the boat launch. A few well-placed head shots, and they’d reached their truck and made it home more safely than most people surely had.
Based on his accent, I’d also assumed Ray was a native Cajun, and I was right. Raised on the bayous of southern Louisiana as a shrimper and a gator hunter, he’d returned to his fishing and hunting heritage during his retirement. But he’d obviously kept up with his shooting practice and physical conditioning, too.
Shit, the dude couldn’t be more of a badass if he tried.
He certainly put my own attempts to prepare for the zombie apocalypse to shame. While I’d spent the past two weeks gathering supplies, walking twice a day, and learning how to use my varied firearms, I was still overweight, out-of-shape, and nowhere near ready for such a species-ending challenge.
I glanced down at the bloody floor of the garage. Just as I wondered whether Ray and I should stack up and cover the bodies of the dead looters, Travis returned with his little sister and his father’s toolbox.
I’d worried that the sight of the three corpses would upset the young girl, but perhaps not surprisingly, she turned out to be as tough and imperturbable as her father and older brother. Roughly three-foot-nothing and maybe seven or eight years old, she marched right up to me, stuffed her Glock in a side holster, and thrust out her hand. Despite her small stature, she had the same black hair and no-nonsense vibe Ray and Travis possessed.
“I’m Nicole,” she said.
With a wry grin, I accepted her hand and shook it. Her grip was almost as firm as her father’s. “I’m Joe. Nice to meet you, Nicole.”
Ray, meanwhile, took the toolbox from Travis and placed it on the workbench. Dents, rust, and even what resembled dried blood marred the large red box. It looked as though it had already endured an apocalyptic event.
Zombie Chaos Box Set | Books 1-4 Page 25
