With my go-bag hanging from one shoulder, a gun holstered on my hip, the machete gripped in my dominant right hand, and Azazel’s carrier in my left, I stood near the back door and hoped the zombies would get bored enough to go away. My companions encircled me, perhaps thinking the same thing.
“Well, genius,” Jill said, “what are we gonna do now?”
Grimacing, I met her irritated gaze. She looked worse than she had a few hours before, her face slightly greenish in tone, her hazel eyes a bit bloodshot.
Honestly, if I’d been in my right mind, I would’ve done more than lock the bedroom door before taking a nap. I would’ve tied her ass up. It crossed my mind, too, that we could use her as a decoy while the rest of us escaped, but sadly, I knew Clare would never agree to that.
That might sound mean, but Jill was the same woman, after all, who had heckled and undermined me for nearly two decades. Once, while Clare and I were dining out with her at a Chicago seafood restaurant, she’d even tried to set my wife up with the waiter. Never mind the fact that her daughter and I had just gotten engaged.
Seriously? Who the fuck does that?
Choosing to ignore Jill’s question, I stared instead at the back door. Each time one of us had spoken or moved too loudly, the zombies outside had responded in a collective frenzy. Although I wasn’t certain about the mental capabilities of the undead hordes, their hearing and ability to smell fresh meat seemed intact.
Turning to Jill, I asked, “Hey, do you have a portable radio?”
“She has one in her girl cave,” Clare responded and then dashed through the dining room, presumably to retrieve the radio in question.
A minute later, she returned with a bulky stereo, the kind popular in the early 1980s, when ridiculously huge boom boxes were all the rage. Frankly, I could’ve used the thing as a weapon.
I set Azazel’s carrier on the floor and accepted my wife’s offering. “That’ll do.”
“You can’t use my radio,” Jill exclaimed, rousing the zombies outside. More quietly, she added, “I mean, you could at least ask me first.”
“I did. I asked if you had a portable radio, which apparently you do.”
“Well, what are you gonna do with it?”
I gestured toward the back door. “What do you think?”
A few seconds passed, and her eyes widened with realization. “No, you can’t,” she said, tugging the stereo toward her. “It’s one of the few things left from before…”
Normally, I might’ve pitied her. Even though, at the age of sixty-five, she often claimed to have reached a state of peace and enlightenment (toward all but her son-in-law), I knew how much it weighed on her… the loss of her belongings in the hurricane that had chased her from the Big Easy. Books, puzzles, photographs, letters, albums, and so much more – most of which had some connection to her beloved daughter’s childhood.
But a fucking outdated radio? Really?
All at once, I could no longer squelch my frustration.
“Seriously, Jill?” I sighed. “Let’s weigh our options, OK? One, keep this sweet nod to early-’80s excess safe and get eaten for our trouble, or two, throw the damn thing out the window so we can escape.” I yanked the stereo from her grip. “Hmmm. What a choice.”
“Asshole,” she spat.
“Maybe,” I agreed, “but at least I’m doing my best to keep you alive.” Without waiting for a response, I turned to the others. “Everyone needs to be ready to make a break for the vehicles.”
“So, you still think we should take the wagon, too?” George asked.
I appreciated the fact that, unlike my mother-in-law, she didn’t disparage my step van. Despite the gore-covered exterior, she was obviously the sturdiest of the four vehicles in Jill’s driveway.
No way I’m leaving her behind. Not after everything I’ve been through.
“Having two vehicles could definitely come in handy,” I replied. “Especially if one breaks down.”
George nodded in agreement.
“Also,” I added, “your wagon is blocking my ride. Might be a badass van, but I don’t think she’s up to driving over other cars.”
George chuckled. “Good point.”
I set down my gear, Casey got his keys ready, and then George and I carefully slid the kitchen table away from the back entrance. Then, while everyone huddled quietly by the door – even my cat – I turned on the battery-powered radio. Immediately, static crackled through the speakers, and the zombies’ groans loudened in eagerness and frustration. I spun the dial, heard snippets of the same emergency message on various AM and FM stations, and finally stopped to catch the whole thing.
“This is an emergency broadcast,” the recorded voice said. “All citizens should remain in their homes. Do not, for any reason, attempt to leave your home or seek out loved ones. The Federal Emergency Management Agency is working with all local and state officials to bring an end to the current crisis. We will continue to broadcast information as we receive it.”
A few seconds of silence passed, and then the brief, detail-free message began to repeat itself.
“Great, FEMA is on the case,” I quipped.
“That’s the same message we heard yesterday,” Casey said. “When we first hit the road.”
“Apparently, there’s been no new information to broadcast,” George added.
I sighed. “Nothing good anyway.”
Since waking up in my courtyard, I’d been so preoccupied with other matters that I hadn’t even thought to tune into the radio in my van. But obviously, I hadn’t missed much.
No wonder no one had heard from the Feds since the so-called “crisis” had begun. If FEMA was in charge, we were all fucked.
Those were the same asswipes, after all, that had taken five days to transport water to refugees in the stifling Superdome way back when Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans. The same douches that, a couple decades later, had distributed the wrong vaccine during the Pneumonic Super-Plague outbreak in Kansas City. And who could forget that massive earthquake in Salt Lake City a few years back, when the useless bastards didn’t even show up pretending to help?
After all those and other debacles, my fellow Americans no longer had much faith in FEMA, but it didn’t matter anymore. The zombie apocalypse was the plague to end all plagues, and truth be told, most of the FEMA staff were likely long gone – or had become part of the very crisis they had tried to handle. Same with the local and state officials mentioned in the canned message.
Leaving everyone in the kitchen, I hurried through the dining and living areas and into the guest bathroom that lay on the opposite side of the house from the driveway. The only window in the tiny space, high above the bathtub, faced a wooden fence lining the narrow alley alongside my mother-in-law’s home. The two-foot-by-three-foot sheet of frosted glass permitted light to pass, but not air. Never intended to open, it wouldn’t have worked as an escape route. Even if we’d managed to bust a large hole in the window, the noise would’ve lured too many undead fuckers, making a stealthy getaway impossible and likely trapping us in the alley.
Still, for my off-the-cuff distraction to work, I actually needed to make some noise. So, after temporarily setting the boom box on the closed toilet seat, I lifted the heavy lid from the toilet tank and used it to bust out the lower left corner of the window. Probably would’ve been easier to toss the lid through the glass, but I didn’t want to give the zombies any ideas, just in case they were smart enough to reason that what flies out through an opening could also be hurled back inside.
The hole I’d loudly created was ideal for the boom box, but not big enough to accommodate a zombified interloper. Of course, it wouldn’t take much to break the rest of the glass – not that I planned on sticking around for that inevitable outcome. The ruckus I’d caused from busting through the window had already attracted some attention. Even over the repetitive FEMA broadcast, I could hear an increased level of moaning from the front end of the alley.
As the
first shadowy heads appeared on the other side of the frosted glass, I yanked down the shower curtain and tied one end to the handle of the boom box. Then I turned the volume up to its loudest setting, pushed the radio through the hole, and slowly lowered it toward the ground. Several figures immediately pressed themselves against the glass, grappling for the noisy object, and in less than a minute, one of them had grabbed the shower curtain and tugged it completely through the opening.
While the ancient radio did its job, I hustled into the living room and cocked my head toward the front door. The pounding, moaning, and hissing on the porch had already begun to decline in volume, and after a few more minutes of waiting – with the rest of my fellow escapees staring in anticipation from the kitchen – the zombies seemed to have cleared away from the front lawn.
Behind me, the emergency broadcast continued to blare, inciting a cacophony of undead moans. Bloody hands slammed against the glass, weakening it with every thrust. When one of the zombified fuckers caught a glimpse of me through the hole in the bathroom window, I knew we couldn’t wait much longer.
Hoping the back entrance was also clear, I darted back to the kitchen. But, unfortunately, the moaning and pounding seemed to have increased in my brief absence.
“Crap,” I said. “Why aren’t they leaving, too? The ones out front headed straight for the noise.”
Clare stepped toward the right of the door and peered through the boarded-up window. “Looks like some of them piled up near the side fence. Apparently, more just came up the driveway and filled in the gap.” She sighed. “So, basically, the door’s still blocked.”
“Shoot,” Jill said. “The rear gate’s closed. They can’t get into the alley from here. They’d need to walk down the driveway and around the front.”
“Well, shit,” I grumbled. “Why the hell’s it closed?”
Jill glared. “Don’t snap at me. I never keep that gate unlocked. Why the hell would I? I only keep the front one open for the meter readers. Besides, it’s not like you told me the plan before you trashed my radio.”
“Fuck,” I spat, wishing I could strangle my mother-in-law instead. “These sons of bitches aren’t making this easy for us.”
Course, what the hell’s been easy about this apocalypse? Absolutely fucking nothing.
As usual, four faces had turned to me for answers, and as usual, I wanted to put someone else in charge.
“OK, new plan,” I said, picking up my go-bag. “We’re going out through the front door. Right now, it seems, all the zombies out front headed around the side. Course, there’ll probably be some in the driveway, so we’ll need to get in the vehicles as fast as possible.”
I turned to Clare, who carried a full backpack on her right shoulder, clutched a hammer in her right hand, and gripped Azazel’s carrier in the other.
“You OK to carry her?”
“Of course. Just get your keys ready, and let’s do it. Waiting around is only making it worse.”
Grinning, I plucked my keys from my jeans pocket. “Everybody else ready?”
Three heads nodded, albeit with doubt and fear in their eyes, but no one said a word. Even Jill remained silent. No typical argument or sarcasm. Just reluctant compliance. Likely due to the fact that her daughter was in danger. She really didn’t give a shit about anyone else.
Cautiously, the five of us moved into the living room, pushed the heavy-ass couch away from the front door, and steadied our nerves. We were about to make a break for it when the FEMA broadcast abruptly ended in mid-sentence. Either one of the goddamn zombies had devoured the boom box, or the fucking batteries had run out.
In any case, we were about to get fucked.
Big time.
Chapter
19
“No, see-see, this is a really shit idea. You know why? Because it’s really obviously a shit idea.” – Jim, 28 Days Later… (2002)
“Fuck,” I muttered.
I didn’t really want to open the door. Since the stupid radio had failed as a distraction, I suspected it wouldn’t take long for the zombies to meander back to the porch. But as much as I dreaded what awaited us outside, I knew we couldn’t stay any longer.
“OK, guys, get ready.”
I retracted the deadbolt and unlocked the doorknob, but before I had a chance to spring us, Jill gasped from directly behind me.
“I forgot… I have to set the alarm.”
With my hand still gripping the knob, I turned to face her. “Are you serious?”
“Mom,” Clare said, touching Jill’s forearm, “we don’t have time for that. Besides, the electricity’s out, so the alarm won’t work anyway.”
“And there are probably no cops left to respond,” I added.
Ignoring me, Jill’s pinched face focused on Clare. “But what about looters?”
During hurricane evacuations of the past, looting had always been a major concern. But I doubted there were many human thieves left in Baton Rouge, and even if there were, they were welcome to scrounge whatever they could. We had a better place to be.
“Don’t worry about them,” Clare said gently. “We have to go, and it won’t matter what happens once we’re gone. We’re never coming back here anyway.”
Though it gratified me to hear my wife voicing the truth – obvious as it might’ve seemed to the rest of us – I knew it wasn’t the ideal time for such a realization. Jill’s face crumpled with sadness. She glanced around the living room, as if accepting reality for the first time.
“Jill,” I said, suddenly feeling a spark of compassion for my doomed mother-in-law, “I know it’s hard to leave. It wasn’t easy saying goodbye to our place either. But there’s nothing left for any of us here. Just death and horror. Up north, there’s hope.”
Maybe it was all a pipe dream. Maybe northern Michigan was just as fucked as southern Louisiana, but at the moment, I couldn’t afford to think like that.
Shattering glass interrupted my rambling thoughts. The zombies had finally pushed their way into the guest bathroom.
“Shit,” Clare squeaked, glancing over her shoulder. Looking back at Jill, she said, “Mom, I know this sucks, but we’ve got to go. Right now!”
Without waiting for a response, I turned the knob, yanked open the door, and carefully stepped outside to ensure the coast was clear.
Naturally, it wasn’t. I could see zombies everywhere. To my left, ambling from the now-silent alley. To my right, milling about the driveway. And even directly ahead, stumbling around in the street, along the sidewalk, and on the goddamn lawn.
“Go. Go. Go,” I whispered, ushering George and Casey onto the porch and into the yard.
The two of them darted toward the driveway, making a beeline for the battle wagon. As soon as some of the zombies spotted fleeing flesh, they began converging onto my mother-in-law’s property.
I turned to Clare and Jill. “You, too. Go!”
My wife complied, but her mother hesitated.
“I should at least lock it,” she said, holding up a key for the deadbolt.
“No time for that,” I shouted, slipping my own keys into her palm. “Just get to the van!”
Wearing a stricken expression, she hurried after her daughter. Against my better judgment, I pulled the door shut before bolting toward the driveway.
Luckily, George and Casey had little trouble reaching the station wagon and climbing inside before any of the undead got to them. My family and I, however, weren’t as fortunate.
Just as we approached the rear doors of the step van, two meat-seeking zombies made their move. The first, a hefty black man, bolted up the driveway, past the rumbling station wagon, and lunged for my shoulder. Despite my fatigue, I managed to whirl away from his grasp and kick him squarely in the crotch. Predictably, he stumbled backward onto the grass, but unlike a human male, he recovered more quickly than I’d hoped and, with the stamina of an NFL lineman, moved much faster than his girth would’ve suggested.
After scrambling to his feet, h
e stumbled toward me again, just as the second zombie, a skinny, partially eaten Asian teenager, veered up the other side of the driveway, toward my wife and her mother.
“Baby, look out!”
While Jill struggled to unlock the rear doors of the van, Clare turned to face her attacker. Still gripping Azazel’s carrier with one hand, she whacked the girl’s skull with her hammer, which barely made the zombie flinch.
After all I’d endured to reach Clare, I found it hard to accept that I might lose her there, trapped between two vehicles in her mother’s driveway. I wanted to help her, but I was preoccupied, trying to dodge my own walking pus factory. I needed to dispatch him quickly, but he was inconveniently agile for an undead fat guy.
I shouldn’t have worried, though. Even while slicing at the man’s neck and torso with the machete, I kept an eye on Clare, who did just fine on her own. Quickly, she slipped the hammer behind her waistband, then kicked the girl in the solar plexus as hard as she could. Knocked off-balance, the zombie flew backward and landed across the hood of the battle wagon.
Just then, Jill opened one of the rear doors and scrambled into the van.
“Clare,” she shouted, “get your ass in here!”
Without hesitation, Clare slid Azazel’s carrier into the vehicle and climbed inside after her.
“Come on, Joe,” she yelled from the safety of our home-on-wheels.
No need to tell me twice.
I hadn’t yet taken down the big black zombie, but it didn’t matter. Too many of his undead cohorts were headed our way, converging from all directions, and I certainly couldn’t kill them all. So, with one last bob-and-weave maneuver, I managed to escape the situation and squirm into the van.
Zombie Chaos Box Set | Books 1-4 Page 44
