Zombie Chaos Box Set | Books 1-4

by Martone, D. L.

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  Chapter

  1

  “It’s been a funny sort of day, hasn’t it?” – Barbara, Shaun of the Dead (2004)

  After a harrowing trip from Baton Rouge to southern Mississippi, our group had finally made it to Homochitto National Forest. I still sat behind the steering wheel; my wife, Clare, still occupied the passenger seat beside me; and our seven-year-old tabby, Azazel, still lay curled up inside the carrier on her mama’s lap.

  As far as I knew, my mother-in-law, Jill, was still resting on the sofa behind me. Hard to tell, though, since she was unusually quiet—which, frankly, unnerved me, given the undead infection spreading within her.

  The two-lane roadway sliced through the darkened pine trees, barely illuminated by my headlights—and those of the station wagon following us. Back in Baton Rouge, we’d added two more travelers to our Michigan-bound escape plan: a badass woman named George and her teenage son, Casey. Though I often had trouble trusting anyone but Clare and my two older brothers, I was grateful for the presence of our two new friends—especially given the batshit-crazy world where we’d found ourselves.

  In the short time we’d been traversing the Deep South together, we’d already encountered a slew of horrors and atrocities—not the least of which had entailed a colorful VW Beetle careening towards us, driven by a terrified woman who, thanks to her three zombified tagalongs, had eventually crashed into a tree and set the whole grotesque show aflame.

  In fact, that horrendous sight had only happened a couple minutes earlier. Clare and I were still reeling from the awful images… when yet another roadblock halted our northward progress.

  “This shit just gets better and better,” I grumbled, bringing the step van to an abrupt stop.

  Luckily, George had the wherewithal to brake before plowing into my rear bumper. Without a word via the walkie-talkie I’d lent her, she pulled the battle wagon alongside me and kept her eyes on the scene in front of us.

  Both sets of headlights shone on a narrow bridge, which spanned a ten-foot-wide creek. But the bridge wasn’t the problem. No, that honor belonged to the VW Bus that stood between us and the waterway—a Bus, incidentally, containing a handful of squirming, moaning zombies. Naturally, the vehicle couldn’t have blocked just one lane. With our spotty luck, it had to be parked sideways, cutting off the entire bridge.

  I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again… fan-fucking-tastic.

  As far as I could figure, I only had two viable options: back up and seek out another way across the creek… or try to remove the zombie-filled obstacle from our path. The first choice could add a lot of unnecessary miles and time to our trip—a less-than-stellar idea when my sleep-deprived self hoped to call it a night soon—but worse, the second possibility could get me killed, particularly if there were other undead hippies in the vicinity.

  While juggling such problematic decisions, I heard shuffling footsteps behind me. Assuming my mother-in-law had finally morphed into a zombie and opted to make me her first meal, I jerked my head around—only to spy her typically annoyed face looming in the shadows.

  Not a zombie yet. Good thing, cuz I’m too fucking exhausted to fend her off.

  She frowned. “What now, dummy?”

  Jill had merely poked her head up front to offer her usual encouragement.

  Her gaze shifted forward, where the blood-smeared windows of the VW Bus and the uncoordinated movements of its passengers were a dead giveaway (no pun intended) of our dilemma. Foolishly, I expected her to back off after recognizing the problem, but instead, she merely dished out more flack.

  “Smart move, heading into the forest.” She sighed dramatically. “Bet another great idea’s coming, I can feel it.”

  My blood pressure spiked, and despite the ever-present fatigue, a ball of anger rocketed from my gut. “Jill, I swear—”

  “Mom, please. Just go sit back down,” Clare said, coming to her mother’s rescue.

  My wife knew me well enough to suspect that I was mere seconds away from kicking Jill out of the van and letting the zombies chase her through the trees.

  “You need to rest,” Clare added more tenderly. “And we need a minute to figure this out.”

  After a few seconds, Jill nodded and shuffled back to her makeshift bed. While she frequently gave me a hard time, she rarely ignored her daughter’s heartfelt requests.

  I glanced at my wife and mouthed thank you before turning toward the other half of our caravan. Casey met my gaze and rolled down his window a couple inches, so I did the same.

  We could’ve used the walkie-talkies to communicate, but that seemed silly given our proximity.

  “More hippies,” Casey mused. “Must’ve been with that Bug we just saw.”

  “Yeah, I’d assume. Nothing like a fall retreat for a bunch of free-lovin’ senior citizens.” I shook my head. “Didn’t stand a chance against the undead.”

  Based on the vintage vehicles and vague scent of reefer in the woodsy air, I figured they’d been lifelong flower children or, rather, ancient baby boomers trying to recapture their glory years. Either way, they were all dead. Or deadish.

  Jesus, how old are these zombies? Eighty? Ninety? Does it even matter?

  I recalled the grizzled, long-haired dude bracing himself atop the VW Bug that had zigzagged past us en route to its final blaze of glory. Even if the guy hadn’t become a zombie, he would’ve looked close to death. Scraggly, wrinkly, and fairly used up, riding the roof as if he’d once starred in a crappy surfer movie in which, well… people did stupid shit like that.

  Still, I felt bad for the undead hippies. Like many other humans around the world, they hadn’t deserved such a horrific fate.

  Abruptly, the thought crossed my mind to simply push the hippie-mobile aside with our van. But since it sat mere inches from the bridge, I worried the damn thing could get hung up on the railing, which would leave us in some serious shit.

  As with the three undead Walmart greeters I’d violently dispatched the day before, I needed to lure the zombies out of their vehicle so I could shove it into neutral and steer it out of the way.

  “Well, Mr. Joe,” Casey asked, “what’re you thinking?”

  “Trying to figure out the best way to get rid of the hippies.”

  “We could just shoot them,” George proposed from the driver’s seat of the station wagon.

  “Yeah.” I gazed into the surrounding woods. “But that’ll make a lotta noise. We might be able to find a good spot to bunk down for some rest, but not if we make a huge racket.”

  Unfortunately, even a national forest wouldn’t be without its share of the undead.

  “Looks like just a few in there,” I surmised. “I think we can take ’em out quiet-like.”

  George and Casey quickly agreed. No doubt they were as sick of being on the
road as I was.

  So, while they waited in the relative safety of their vehicle, I ventured toward the rear of my rig—past my scowling mother-in-law—to one of the kitchen cabinets I’d previously loaded with weapons and tools.

  After a minute of rummaging, I plucked out an axe. Not the ornamental one Clare had given me as a long-ago Christmas present—the one, incidentally, that had saved my ass in our French Quarter courtyard. No, this was a double-sided battle axe that I’d purchased from an eccentric-but-talented weaponsmith.

  As with most of the gear, guns, and other prepping essentials Clare and I had amassed prior to the inevitable zombie apocalypse, we’d discovered the wacky artisan during one of our many online searches. According to his now-defunct website, he’d handcrafted a wide array of badass weapons, from daggers and broadswords to maces and crossbows—the kind of items that would’ve suited role-playing gamers in a live-action campaign of Dungeons & Dragons.

  To say his workmanship had awed me would be a major understatement.

  Instead of having the battle axe and other medieval weapons I’d purchased shipped to northern Michigan—like the bulk of my prepping essentials—I’d had them sent to my mailbox at the French Quarter Postal Emporium. Why? Cuz I knew I’d feel better having access to those babies on the road. And as a bonus, wielding them made me feel less out of shape and more like Conan the Barbarian from those old movies starring Arnold Schwarzenegger.

  Suddenly, I wondered if ol’ Arnie had survived California’s undead invasion. Even at his advanced age, he could’ve easily pummeled a zombie to death—something I certainly could never do.

  But I’d had an advantage over most people—even those richer, stronger, and more famous than I’d ever be. Unlike them, I’d received early information about the impending zombie apocalypse, ultimately giving me two weeks to prepare for the worst. True, I wasn’t in top fighting shape—and likely never would be—but when it came to enduring a world-ending crisis, I’d prefer foreknowledge over brawn any day.

  And weapons. Lots and lots of weapons.

  Armed with my battle axe, I headed back up front. Thankfully, Jill remained silent as I passed.

  “Stay here,” I told Clare. “And keep the engine running.”

  My wife nodded, her brow furrowed with worry. “Please be careful.”

  I smiled reassuringly. “I’ll do my best.”

  Based on how tired I felt, though, I hoped my current “best” would be enough to avoid any mistakes that might end with a geriatric zombie biting my fucking nose off.

  Chapter

  2

  “I kinda like the sight of blood… but this is disgusting!” – Col. Malcolm Grommett Spears, The Stuff (1985)

  As soon as I hopped out of the van and slid the driver’s-side door shut, Casey opened his own door.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” George snapped. “This time, you stay here.”

  I couldn’t really blame her. During our last extravehicular activity, Casey and I had almost met a grisly end, thanks to two zombified canines and an enraged wildling. Though George was one of the toughest broads I’d ever met, she was first and foremost a mother.

  “Come on, Mom,” Casey whined. “I can handle it.”

  George’s face softened. “I know you can, but it’s my turn.”

  While Casey remained in the passenger seat, sulking, his mother emerged from the battle wagon, gripping a tire iron.

  Catching my eye, she patted the holstered 9mm handgun I’d given her earlier. “Just in case. Better a loud noise than a nasty bite.”

  I cupped my own holstered pistol. “Damn straight.”

  The two of us gazed around the area, checking for any meandering undead, and then cautiously advanced toward the hippie-mobile. Our blazing headlights brightened the kooky, kaleidoscopic paint job on the ancient VW. Someone had clearly instilled the vehicle with plenty of heart, soul, and creativity, but somehow, I doubted the interior looked as nice.

  As if to prove my point, the occupants smeared their filthy hands across the windows, which were already covered in blood and zombie goo. Roused by our bright lights and rumbling engines, the zombified hippies evidently sensed our approach, as their moans loudened and the flailing intensified.

  Despite the obvious danger they posed to us, I couldn’t help but notice how ominous our looming, weapon-wielding shadows seemed, cast against the giant peace symbol emblazoned on the driver’s side of the Bus.

  George chuckled. “Suddenly, I feel like ‘the Man,’ showing up to kick the hippies off the muddy field… shutting down the concert for good.”

  Neither of us had been alive in August 1969, when the infamous Woodstock Rock Festival had occurred near Bethel, New York, but still, I appreciated the reference.

  “You damn kids,” I quipped, “get off my lawn.”

  She laughed once more, but before I could join her, a zombified palm smacked one of the windows facing us—hard enough to crack the glass.

  I frowned. “Guess they didn’t think it was all that funny.”

  From our vantage point, I could tell the driver’s-side door was locked, so George and I quietly circled the vehicle to the passenger side. Not quietly enough, though, as the ravenous occupants immediately shifted their focus to our new location.

  Many of the undead creatures I’d encountered so far seemed a lot smarter (or at least more aware) than those depicted in much of the zombie lore I’d previously read, heard, or viewed. They didn’t merely smell brains, or fresh meat in general; they also relied on sight, sound, and a keen sense of movement.

  As I lingered by the side doors, readying myself to open one, George leaned toward me.

  “I think there’s only two of them in there,” she whispered.

  I gazed at the dirty windows. “I don’t know… looks like too much blood and goo for just a couple of ’em. But I hope you’re right.” I shrugged. “Only one way to find out.”

  “So, how do you want to handle this?”

  “Tell you what,” I replied, holding out my badass battle axe, “how ’bout you take this?”

  Without hesitation, George laid her tire iron on the road and gamely accepted my weapon. “OK, now what?”

  “Now, I’ll open the door, but only partially… enough so one of those fuckers can stick its head out…”

  “And then I brain it,” she concluded, hacking the air with my axe.

  “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

  She grinned. “Sounds like a plan.”

  I took another gander at our surroundings, just to make sure no unwanted visitors had arrived, and then I grabbed the door handle with both hands. “On three. One… two… three!”

  Figuring the Bus had a few years on her, I assumed the door wouldn’t open smoothly, but as I tugged the handle, it damn near flew out of my hand. And naturally, the zombies inside were ready to bolt.

  Almost immediately, what had once been a slim-yet-muscular eighty-year-old man tried to launch his undead body through the gap. Hastily, I adjusted the opening—which turned out to be much easier said than done.

  For an old wrinkled fucker, he was pretty damn strong—or perhaps the foulness running through his zombie veins had made him so. Either way, he didn’t intend to go meekly to his final doom. As I attempted to lessen the gap, he strived to widen it—so it took all my dwindling strength to repel his impressive force and shove the door against his neck, pinning his head in place.

  Once again, George didn’t hesitate. She swung the axe downward and whacked the zombie’s balding noggin with a sickening thunk, splitting his skull.

  Hard to believe I’ll ever get used to that sound. Pretty fucked up if I do.

  The dead zombie slumped downward, and George yanked the axe from his disgusting head. As she did so, she peered inside the Bus.

  “You’re right. That’s an awful lot of blood for only two zombies.”

  Before I had a chance to respond, the second creature—also a male octogenarian—propelled himsel
f forward. Clearly, all the activity had thrown him into a frenzy, as he appeared to have every intention of finishing what his unfortunate pal had started.

  Rather inconveniently, he had a much thinner frame than his compatriot—which he’d twisted in such a way that his head and torso had squeezed outside the vehicle before my fellow zombie-killer noticed the danger.

  “George, look out!” I shouted, a bit louder than prudence would advise.

  “What the…” She stumbled backward as a gnarly hand reached out to grab her.

  Despite my efforts with the stupid door, the old dude managed to brace himself on his dead hippie friend and, with an incredible burst of energy, leapfrog out of the van. He landed in an awkward crouch on the bridge but immediately started to rise.

  Evidently caught off guard, George retreated too far and ended up slipping on the road’s steep shoulder. Inevitably, she lost her balance and tumbled down the embankment, but luckily, she caught herself before sliding into the creek. The blunder might’ve bruised her ego, but otherwise, she seemed unharmed.

  Unfortunately, though, that left only one target for the zombie.

  That’s right… yours truly.

  And of course, George still clung to my axe, leaving me empty-handed.

  As the zombie righted himself and headed in my direction, I reached for my pistol. I could hear Clare and Casey hollering from their respective vehicles, but I didn’t have time to ease their minds. As much as I might’ve longed to, I couldn’t flee to the van either. Not with George in such a tight spot.

  Despite the imminent peril, I didn’t want to shoot the creature. For all I knew, the damn forest was jam-packed with the undead. A gunshot could lure them toward us, like ringing Sadie’s dinner bell for fresh human meat.