“Yeah, but won’t they reach us first?” Jess said, gripping the borrowed rifle like a pro.
Not a surprise, given the resourceful dad she had.
“I don’t think so. We need to shoot the zombies up high, in the back.”
“You mean the ones climbing over the others?” Clare asked, her eyes wide with alarm.
“Yep. Those are the ones that might reach us before Sal can pull the boat away.”
The zombie bridge, which had expanded and angled itself toward the Stargazer as we sailed past Vicksburg, was closing in fast. To keep it from reaching the vessel, the five of us lined up along the railing and opened fire on the upper part of the undead heap. We executed some of the creatures and merely incapacitated others, but we couldn’t make a dent in the growing horde. As I’d experienced on the old tower, it seemed that, as soon as we dispatched a zombie, two more would climb onto the undead platform.
From the crackling reports above us, I figured some of Sal’s crewmates were targeting the zombie horde as well.
The more, the merrier.
Particularly since the other passengers were yelling, crying, and generally offering no assistance whatsoever. I wanted to tell those closest to us to shut the hell up—since they weren’t helping my relentless headache either—but I didn’t have the time or energy.
“Is that the same wildling that came after you?” George asked.
Oh, it was her alright. Even from our position on the river, roughly a hundred yards away, I could see the giant, pus-filled blisters and raw, reddened flesh gleaming in the sunlight. The damage, in other words, from yours truly hurling dried frog powder into her hairy face.
Without my binoculars, I couldn’t discern her exact facial expression, but based on the speed and determination she demonstrated as she scrambled over the undead bridge, I assumed she was one pissed-off rougarou.
Thanks to our fancy shooting and Sal’s skills at the helm, the Stargazer had actually widened the space between us and the zombies. I’d thought we were almost in the clear until the wildling had shown up. Suddenly, she posed the greatest threat to us as she rode the wave of zombies to close the gap.
With her gaze fixed on mine, she ran, crawled, and did whatever else was necessary to climb the zombies without getting buried or drowned by them. And having witnessed the heights the wildlings could reach, I couldn’t assume that she wouldn’t be able to leap off the end of the zombie pileup and land on the ferry. Once that happened, I had a feeling she could murder every last one of us before she was through—especially given her unhinged sense of revenge.
No more clever one-liners came to mind. No frog powder would make that distance. But I couldn’t let this bitch win. Not after all the shit I’d overcome.
“Keep shooting,” I yelled, sprinting back to the van. “Reload as much as possible but target the wildling!”
She seemed too wily for ordinary rifles, but maybe they would slow her down long enough for me to finish the job.
In a flash, I clambered into my vehicle, darted to the storage space beneath the couch, and retrieved a weapon that I’d only shot half a dozen times at the range. The Ruger Hawkeye Hunter, a long-range sniper rifle, was a thing of beauty. Awkward and heavy as hell—for me, anyway—but I hoped it would offer the steadiness I required.
After loading it, I hopped out of the van and braced the weapon atop a vintage, cherry-red Dodge Charger parked next to my own vehicle. The kind of car I’d salivated over back in the day—but at the moment, it merely served as a base for my rifle.
“Hey,” some well-dressed, sixtysomething dude hollered, hurrying toward me. “Get off my car!”
I remained lying across the trunk, the rifle poised in my hands, and shot him a don’t-fuck-with-me look. “Yeah, so?”
“So, you’re scratching the paint. Use your own damn car.” He wrinkled his nose as he scanned my baby. “It’s already a disgusting wreck.”
“Yeah, well, that ‘disgusting wreck’ has saved me and my family more times than I can count. While you’ve been sitting pretty on this boat, I’ve been out there fighting off the undead. Can’t expect to survive without getting your hands—and wheels—a little dirty. And since my friends and I are trying to save your useless ass, I suggest you back the fuck off.”
Still walking toward me, the man opened his mouth to retort, but then stopped in his tracks as I chambered a round and flashed him my meanest I’m-about-to-kill-this-creature-then-I-might-shoot-you glare.
Ignoring the jackass, I leaned in, squinted my left eye, and gazed through the scope with my right. Then, I clicked off the safety, located the target—who had gotten a lot closer while I’d verbally sparred with the fucktard nearby—and took my shot.
Naturally, I completely missed.
The Dodge owner guffawed. “You even know how to use that thing?”
“Don’t tempt me, motherfucker,” I mumbled.
But I ignored his smug expression. And I shut out every other distraction, too—the gunfire, the screaming, the zombie pile growing ever closer.
None of it mattered as much as sealing the wildling’s fate. Although I’d encountered the shrewd creatures several times before, I had yet to kill one. But that was about to change. Cuz my life and the lives of my loved ones depended on it.
So, I chambered another round and focused on the scope. Sure, I wished I’d practiced more with the Hawkeye back at the range, before the end of the world had arrived. And yes, I hated being so new at shooting, so uncertain of my skills, especially when it came to hitting someone or something in the head. But I had no time for doubts. I had the bitch in my sights, and she was looking directly at me, with a recognition that, had I not just experienced the scariest fucking few days of my life, would’ve sent chills down my spine.
She seemed to be daring me to shoot her, as if assuming I’d simply miss again.
“Fuck this,” I whispered, then squeezed the trigger and hit my target—right in the forehead.
She seemed to fly backward with the force of the bullet, and the relentless zombie wave soon passed her by.
Good to know they’re not indestructible.
Clare, still standing beside the railing, cheered. “Nice shooting, baby!”
“Can’t celebrate yet,” George hollered. “It’s gonna be close!”
She was right. One corner of the zombie wave had nearly reached the boat, but at what seemed like the last possible second, Good Ol’ Captain Sal managed to complete his turn, straighten the vessel, and propel us up the middle of the Mississippi—too fast for the floundering zombies to reach us.
I exhaled the breath I’d been holding and sat back on my haunches.
Clare, George, Casey, and Jess watched as the distance lengthened between the Stargazer and the undead front-runners, then they slung the rifles on their shoulders and strolled back to the vehicles.
“We’ve been through some awful things lately,” George said, “but that was easily the scariest shit I’ve ever seen.”
“I don’t know,” I replied, picking up the Ruger. “I’ve seen some pretty fucked-up shit.”
Clare leaned against the Charger as I scurried to the ground.
“Come on,” the Dodge guy pleaded. “Watch the paint job.”
“Dude, piss off,” my wife said, shooing him away with her hand. “We just saved your asses. So, I’m gonna have to ask you to go away now.”
I chuckled and kissed her cheek. Sure, we were being assholes, but if not for us, that guy might’ve never gotten the chance to drive his stupid, impractical car again.
As we cleared the city of Vicksburg, Clare and I didn’t look back at the mass of zombies behind us. We chose instead to gaze forward, upriver, where we’d hopefully find some safety and security in the wilds of northern Michigan.
But the meditative moment couldn’t last forever. I needed to lie down before I fell down.
“OK, gang, I’m officially retired for the day.” I slipped my arm around Clare’s shoulders.
“Why don’t y’all hang on to the weapons—in case there’s more trouble—and let me grab some sleep?”
Casey accepted the Hawkeye. “You got it, Joe.”
George winked. “Sweet dreams, guys.”
“Yeah, won’t that be nice?” I quipped. “Just try not to wake us for a while. You know, unless a zombie’s about to eat my face off.”
Clare and I climbed into the back of the van.
Right before closing the doors, I leaned out and said, “Seriously, if you need us, don’t hesitate to bang on the side.”
George nodded. “We’ll do our best not to need you.”
“Thanks.”
I shut and locked the doors, then joined Clare by the sofa. After pulling out and making the bed, we stripped off our filthy clothes, donned some clean ones, and let Azazel out of her tiny prison. She chirped her appreciation, then disappeared into her litter box.
Clare and I crawled into bed. For a while, neither of us said a word—just lay on our sides, pressed together, breathing gently, lost in our own thoughts—or, in my case, struggling to ignore all the aches and pains assailing my battered body. Occasionally, we’d hear Azazel digging through her litter, but otherwise, the van was a quiet little sanctuary in a world gone insane.
While lying there, I wondered if I should’ve set up the shortwave radio and attempted to contact our families—or, at the very least, let John know that we’d survived our battle with the zombified scouts. But I was too damn tired. All I wanted was to relax for as long as the universe would allow.
Clare broke the peaceful silence first. “So much has happened… it feels like I lost Mom a long time ago. Can’t believe it’s been less than half a day.”
“I know, baby. And all I can say is… I’m sorry.”
“I know you are.” She sighed. “I just miss her… and seeing Jess in one of her old T-shirts…”
“I’m sorry about that, too. I should’ve asked you, but you were sleeping, and the poor kid needed some clean duds.”
“No, it’s fine,” Clare assured me. “I’m glad they’ll get some use. It’s just a reminder of what happened. Not like I need a stupid shirt to remind me.” She sighed wearily. “It’s crazy, I know, but I keep thinking I could’ve saved her.”
I didn’t know how to respond. I’d already told her how impossible that would’ve been, but I didn’t have the heart to say it again. As I lay there, not sure how to comfort her, I suddenly remembered the ring in my soggy jeans pocket.
Quickly, I tossed off the covers and scrambled over Clare.
“Where the heck are you going?”
“I just remembered…” I dug through the garbage bag of nasty clothes, plucked out the garnet-and-diamond ring, and held it aloft triumphantly. “Your mom, uh, gave me this to give to you.”
The lie had popped unbidden into my brain. I certainly didn’t want to tell her how I’d really claimed the ring.
Clare sat up. “When?”
“When we were outside the van, before she…”
Her eyes watered. “Oh.”
After coating Jill’s ring in copious amounts of hand sanitizer, I placed it in Clare’s open palm. Then, I climbed back in bed and gently pulled her into my arms.
“I know it’s hard, baby. I can’t imagine how you feel right now, but just remember… your mom sacrificed herself so we could live.”
A moment passed, then Clare whispered, “Well, that’s exactly what we’re gonna do.”
Survive the Zombie Chaos
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About the Authors
D.L. Martone is the joint pen name of husband-wife duo Daniel and Laura Martone. Part-time residents of New Orleans and northern Michigan, the Martones travel the country in their mobile writing studio, a cozy RV dubbed Serenity. As you might have guessed, they’re huge fans of Firefly, which is why they remodeled the interior of their travel trailer to resemble Captain Reynolds’ beloved spaceship. Together, they enjoy writing space opera, LitRPG GameLit, urban fantasy, cozy mysteries, and, of course, post-apocalyptic zombie tales.
Acknowledgments
We appreciate the support from our friends, family, and fellow writers—and the inspiration gleaned from various zombie flicks and TV shows, especially Shaun of the Dead, The Walking Dead, and George Romero’s Dead movies—as well as our fellow fans of such stories.
Of course, we couldn’t have continued this series (or finished this book) without the love and support of each other and our beloved kitty, Ruby Azazel.
Lastly, we’re grateful to you, our fellow survivors, for joining Joe on his harrowing journey through zombie-filled America.
Azazel the Zombie Slayer
a Zombie Chaos short story
by
D.L. Martone
Copyright © 2020
D.L. Martone
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means (including photocopying, recording, scanning, information storage, retrieval systems, or otherwise) without written permission from the authors—except for brief quotations in reviews, fan-made graphics, and other noncommercial entities permitted by copyright law. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without written permission.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, incidents, and dialogue are either drawn from the authors’ imaginations or used in a fictitious manner and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, businesses, and individuals (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Also, it should be noted that no humans were harmed during the making of this short story… well, OK, maybe a few got hurt… but at least none were killed.
For more information, visit the authors’ website: dlmartone.com
Dedicated to the one-and-only Ruby Azazel,
our beloved, feisty furbaby,
who likely would be a fierce zombie slayer if given the chance
D.L. Martone Store
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Below you will find a direct link to our Azazel the Zombie Slayer merchandise but there is also general Zombie Chaos gear and stuff related to the other genres we write in.
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Authors’ Note
Azazel the Zombie Slayer is a short story that takes place during Scout’s Horror: Zombie Chaos Book 4. Since the tale follows our series favorite, Azazel the cat, it offers no spoilers—except the fact that, by this time in the overall saga, the main characters, Joe and Clare, have been reunited. Hopefully, though, you won’t consider that an actual spoiler… because, of course, our series narrator and his beloved wife would reunite amid a zombie apocalypse. We’re not monsters, after all. ☺
That said, we hope you enjoy Azazel’s adventure.
Chapter
1
Did I ever tell you about the time I became a zombie slayer?
No? Well, sit back and enjoy the ride…
I know what you’re thinking: You’re a cat, and cats do nothing but eat, sleep, groom themselves, occasionally play, and cause trouble for humans.
Well, all of that might be true, but it doesn’t mean that’s all I do. Most cats, after all, aren’t lucky enough to be raised by my parents—who just happen to be zombie slayers.
Honestly, they’re the only humans I can tolerate.
I know my momma loves me. She fe
eds me and gives me yummy treats every day. She hardly ever lets my food and water bowls get empty, and any time she does, she always apologizes and gives me extra treats, especially when I let her know about the oversight.
I curl up and snooze on her almost every night—and she seems to like it that way. Neither of us sleeps well without the other one. It’s just how we roll.
She also gives me lots of affection. She’ll rub my spotted belly until I’m purring like crazy—and then she promptly stops when I politely inform her that I’m no longer digging it.
She even compulsively cleans my litter box. Like, at least twice a day. I mean, seriously… almost as soon as I leave a treasure behind, she’s scooping up that poop and tossing it away.
Then, there’s my dad. Yeah, he’s not a daddy or a papa, he’s just Dad. And I know he loves me, too.
Sometimes, though, he used to freak me out whenever he’d yell at that stupid light box of his. Particularly if it wasn’t working right.
“Mother freaking computer,” he’d say. “Piece of poop…”
Only he didn’t say “freaking” or “poop.”
Yeah, my dad likes to swear a lot. Momma wishes he wouldn’t do it so much, so I try to set a good example by not swearing. I think she appreciates it.
Zombie Chaos Box Set | Books 1-4 Page 68
