Zombie Chaos (Book 3): Terror on the Bayou

by Martone, D. L.

  Terror on the Bayou

  Zombie Chaos Book 3

  by

  D.L. Martone

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Survive the Zombie Chaos

  About the Authors

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright © 2020

  D.L. Martone

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the authors – except for brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the authors’ imaginations and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, businesses, and individuals, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, visit the authors’ website: dlmartone.com

  For the real Azazel,

  Our beloved muse and master.

  Chapter

  1

  “Sure, as long as the machines are working and you can dial 911. But you take those things away, you throw people in the dark, you scare the shit out of them – no more rules.” – David Drayton, The Mist (2007)

  “Meeow-ra-roww.”

  That was Azazel speak for you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.

  During the previous twenty hours, she and I had endured quite an ordeal together.

  First and foremost were the countless zombie attacks, many of which should’ve ended me. And Azazel, too.

  Plus, I’d had the unique pleasure of tussling with other survivors, including several assholes trying to swipe my sweet ride. Not to mention a bunch of psychos at Walmart.

  And as if all that weren’t enough to fill the frenzied hours of the longest goddamn day of my life, I’d even managed to help some folks, receive assistance from others, and face the mind-numbing, heart-breaking discovery that I’d actually been knocked out, fully unconscious, for an entire day before all the perilous shenanigans had begun.

  Finally, after having feared my wife, Clare, might not have survived the initial two days of Louisiana’s first-ever zombie apocalypse without me, I’d received word – specifically, a text – that she was alive and in serious trouble.

  “Meeow-ra-roww!” my seven-year-old tabby howled again, staring through the bars that guarded the front windshield.

  And now for something completely different… and yet somehow still terrifying. Not to mention fucking inconvenient.

  For nearly half an hour after I’d deposited Sadie at her gator-guarded home, the moonlit journey along Airline Highway had been relatively smooth – a welcome respite after the harrowing drive between the Big Easy and Gramercy. Despite the occasional need to plow through meandering zombies and abandoned vehicles, I’d made pretty good time, all post-apocalyptic things considered.

  True, most of the ride had been a nebulous blur (thanks to my fatigued brain), but I’d still managed to take advantage of the lull – if only to reflect upon my bizarre conversation with Sadie, who was, coincidentally enough, the sister of a voodoo priestess I’d known back in New Orleans. Sadie (and her sister, Myriam) believed that the zombie infection, which had begun in India – and was presently spreading throughout America and beyond – had resulted from a breach between Earth and another dimension, one she referred to as the Infernal.

  Jesus, that sounds bleak.

  Her theory had sounded insane, of course, but how could I have seriously questioned a voodoo practitioner while simultaneously battling the reanimated corpses in her swampy front yard? Besides, although I’d hoped there would be time down the road to figure out how the zombie apocalypse had really begun, an engrossing heart-to-heart with Sadie hadn’t been an option.

  My top priority was simple: reaching Clare before it was too late.

  Consequently, I’d felt grateful for the uneventful drive toward Baton Rouge, which had done much to calm my nerves. In fact, only a few minutes before, Azazel had even felt secure enough to leave the safety of her carrier, which I had strapped in place on the passenger seat. Following a quick nap on her blanket, she’d rattled her water trough and meowed plaintively, her green feline eyes fixed on my face, until I’d unlatched the gate and let her hop onto the dashboard of our zombie-proof van.

  That was where she presently knelt, staring with unmasked chagrin at the latest obstacle in our path: a concrete overpass that had collapsed onto the highway, blocking it completely.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  I brought the rig to a complete stop and stared at the massive pile of rubble. Even with my vehicle’s big-ass tires, I couldn’t possibly drive over the debris, and the embankment on either side was too damn steep to serve as a viable detour.

  Apparently, I had asked too much of the universe, expecting to reach Baton Rouge before the sun rose on the third morning of America’s overwhelming zombie shitstorm.

  Maybe it’s time for a fucking asteroid to crash down and put an end to this fiasco.

  I glanced at the grimy side-view mirrors and peered through the gore-smeared windows. With the help of my bright headlights, the eerily glowing taillights, and the diffused moonlight all around, I realized the closest undead were roughly a hundred yards behind me. So, it seemed momentarily safe to emerge from the step van and take a closer look at the latest hurdle on my trek to Louisiana’s capital city.

  I unlocked and slid open the driver’s-side door. Before exiting the vehicle, I shut off the engine, pocketed the keys, and grabbed my shotgun. Then, I hopped down to the ground and shut the door behind me.

  Better safe than sorry.

  After all, I didn’t want some jackass to steal my van – or Azazel to make an inopportune escape – while I was gone. I’d had enough headaches and near-misses for one bloody day.

  Cocking my shotgun but keeping it pointed at the ground, I strolled toward the giant heap of concrete rubble, rotting corpses, and busted, blood-splattered cars. Besides a late-season hurricane, a random tornado, or an even more random earthquake, I had no idea what could’ve caused an overpass in southern Louisiana to crumble like that. It couldn’t have been an accident, right? Even a horde of marauding zombies didn’t weigh that much. Explosives had to have been involved, which meant living humans were likely to blame.

  Pausing in mid-thought, I pivoted my head to check on the progress of the undead amblers behind me. They seemed closer, but not moving any faster – perhaps unaware that a fresh, tasty meal stood ahead of them.

  As I turned away and took another tentative step forward, I heard a gunshot and simultaneously saw a spark ricocheting off the asphalt beside me.

  “What the fuck?!”

  A second bullet hit several feet behind me. It had passed between my legs to get there. I suspected a skilled sniper was currently aiming a night-vision scope in my direction – and he or she had probably missed me on purpose. Or else, my unknown assailant was, lu
ckily for me, a terrible shot.

  Either way, that was the only warning I needed. I darted back to the van, scrambled into the driver’s seat, slammed the door shut, and cranked the engine. I had just begun reversing along the asphalt when another vehicle sped forward in the adjacent lane.

  In the glare of my headlights, I could see a frizzy-haired female driver behind the wheel of a brand-new, self-charging hybrid. A pretty pricey car. It would’ve taken me and Clare five years of eating nothing but ramen just to be able to cough up the down payment for one. At least… before the zombie apocalypse had become our shared reality. For all I knew, the woman couldn’t have afforded one either. Perhaps she’d stolen a neighbor’s vehicle before fleeing town.

  As I carefully navigated backwards down the highway, I caught a glimpse of an older man in the passenger seat beside her. He raised the nose of a shotgun just as she stepped on the gas.

  I wondered what the hell she planned to do with her tiny hybrid. Did she think, through sheer force of will and desperation, four monster-truck wheels would sprout beneath the compact frame and propel her and her armed companion over the debris-filled barrier?

  I only had a few seconds to ponder her harebrained scheme before someone (or, more likely, several someones) riddled the vehicle and its occupants with bullets.

  Glass shattered, blood and viscera flew everywhere, and I kept my foot on the gas.

  “Fuck!” I shouted as I continued reversing down Airline Highway. Incidentally, not the easiest feat given the formidable size of my vehicle, her numerous blind spots, and the varied obstacles strewn across my path.

  Catching a glimpse of movement in my side-view mirror, I veered to the left and managed to steer clear of two oncoming vehicles. Azazel and I watched in horror as the newcomers careened into the melee several yards ahead of us. The first, a small hatchback, struck the hybrid, presently shredded and ablaze, while the other, a rusted pick-up truck, lost its own battle with an ear-splitting volley of bullets.

  “Hang on, girl,” I whispered to Azazel as she wedged herself against the windshield.

  The few lumbering zombies I’d seen earlier had morphed into a small racing horde, no doubt lured by all the gunfire. I crushed one of the decomposing creatures as I swung the van around, shifted gears, and returned the way I’d come. Fortunately, the moonlight and my headlights enabled me to avoid the rest of the oncoming rush of undead.

  Maneuvering around a few particularly spastic zombies, I recalled spotting a turnoff a couple miles earlier and decided to make a beeline for it.

  A few moments later, I veered around a corner… and onto an unexpectedly shortened road, which inconveniently dead-ended at a wooden fence. A weathered house stood on either side of the street, but neither held my attention. I was too busy noting the steely-eyed strangers checking out me and my fortified ride.

  “Well, shit,” I muttered.

  I mean, seriously, why do I keep expecting anything to be easy? Nothing ever was before the zombies came.

  Chapter

  2

  “We decided to leave town just one damn day too late.” – Valentine McKee, Tremors (1990)

  In a matter of minutes, I’d gone from being shot at by some unknown sniper to facing down a small troop of no-nonsense women… all pointing rifles at me.

  “Oh, come on,” I blustered as I brought the van to a screeching halt in the middle of the street, in plain view of the two houses.

  Although I hoped my high-pitched brakes wouldn’t attract any curious undead from the nearby highway, I assumed the previous gunfire was far more enticing. Besides, I had other problems to contend with.

  Before each domicile stood a cluster of women, heavily armed and apparently in the process of loading up two SUVs with supplies. At least, that had been their primary focus before noting my less-than-quiet van rumbling down the darkened street. Now, they had turned their attention – and their weapons – toward me and my furry companion.

  Seven rifles were presently aimed at my head. I might’ve installed bars on all the windows, but it would only take one well-aimed bullet to shatter the glass and end my sorry existence. And worse than being forever dead was the thought that Clare, if she were still alive, would never know what had become of me – or Azazel. A thought I’d had several times over the past day or so.

  “Fucking fantastic,” I grumbled, glancing at my wide-eyed cat. “This shit just gets better and better.”

  My streak of bad luck had grown tedious. Then again, Azazel and I were still alive – and given all we’d survived so far, I had to admit… our situation was probably far better than that of most folks.

  From what I’d observed in the short time I’d been on the road, it seemed the majority of humans had fared far worse than us. Hell, if the zombie chaos had truly spread worldwide, it wouldn’t have surprised me to discover that ninety-eight percent of the people out there had already perished or turned.

  “Shut off the engine, and step outside,” one of the women instructed from the passenger side of my van. “With your hands up!”

  Yeah, that’s not gonna happen.

  My first full day of Louisiana’s zombie apocalypse had yet to end, and I’d already grown sick and tired of all the bullshit. I was fucking exhausted, my stomach rumbled from renewed hunger, my head still throbbed unmercifully, and I had too many bruises and aching muscles to count. But despite all that, I refused to give up without a fight. It just wasn’t in my nature – as my wife knew all too well.

  With a sigh, I powered down my van, pocketed the keys, picked up the Mossberg, and loaded a couple extra shells into it. Then, as I rose slowly from my seat and glanced once more at my nervous traveling companion, I decided that maybe it was time to go full-bore badass.

  I know, I know. Delusions of grandeur. So, sue me.

  Cautiously, I edged toward the murky living area of my step van. Now that my headlights no longer blinded the women outside, I suspected they were able to keep a close eye on my progress, so I opted against making any sudden moves. Nevertheless, I had no intention of being ill-prepared for my latest encounter with a crew of trigger-happy strangers.

  “What’s taking so long?” another voice shouted from the street. “Get your ass out here!”

  “Hold your goddamn horses,” I muttered, too quiet to be heard by anyone but Azazel, then lifted the sofa cushion and removed my AR-15 from the hidden compartment below.

  Following another glimpse at my frightened feline, whose wide eyes were locked on mine, I stepped between the two front seats, bent toward the dashboard to kiss her furry head, and unlocked the passenger-side door.

  “OK, I’m coming out,” I announced as I carefully slid the door open with my elbow and stepped onto the road, keeping both the shotgun and the rifle pointed at the three women on that side of the vehicle.

  Worried about Azazel, I awkwardly used the knuckles of my left hand, the one gripping the AR-15, to slide the van door shut without turning my back on the armed women. I cringed as the screeching metal shattered the stillness of the tense standoff.

  After repositioning the rifle, I glanced left and right to ensure that the four ladies from the driver’s side of my van had yet to come around the front or back. When I didn’t spot any movement in the moonlight, I faced forward and took a measured step toward the three women. Though they varied in shapes, sizes, ages, and other features, all three wore sensible shirts, jeans, and sneakers – ideal duds for such post-apocalyptic times.

  “I said ‘with your hands up,’ asshole,” the tall, slender brunette at the center of the trio barked.

  Like me, she seemed to be in her mid-forties. I might’ve even called her attractive had she not been sporting such an extremely pissed-off look on her face.

  “I heard you the first time,” I said, “but I’m a bit outnumbered here, and trust is in short supply these days.”

  As I held the woman’s stern gaze, I noted movement in my peripheral vision. The other two women had spread outward o
n either side of her, as if attempting to put some distance between themselves – probably to diminish my chances of shooting the three of them in quick succession. Such behavior unnerved me, as it demonstrated how streetwise the ladies were. Out of fear and uncertainty, most people would remain in a tight cluster when facing a potential enemy and, as an unfortunate result, become an easier target. The seven armed women on that darkened street near the town of Gonzales were clearly not most people.

  Though grateful to have two weapons at the ready, I knew I couldn’t fire the Mossberg one-handed. I’d once made that mistake while practicing on the shooting range, and my right hand had stung and ached for the next twenty-four hours. I couldn’t afford to lose functionality in one of my hands – especially my dominant one. Even for a night.

  Normally, I would’ve assumed that most ladies – hell, most people – wouldn’t recognize the foolhardiness of firing a shotgun with less than both hands. They might at least hesitate at the sight of a burly, bearded white dude gripping a double dose of deadly firearms. The gun-toting women in front of me, however, had yet to flinch. None of them seemed to be impressed by my badass facade. Not in the goddamn least.

  While I suspected that, like me, none of them really wanted to fire their weapons and lure hordes of zombies onto the dead-end street, our uncomfortable standoff couldn’t last forever.

  Apparently, the time had come to offer honesty and sincerity rather than useless intimidation.

  “Look, ladies, I don’t want any trouble,” I said, keeping both weapons trained on the evident leader of the group. “I’m just trying to make it to Baton Rouge. To get to my wife.” I rocked my head to the right. “But the overpass collapsed back there, and I was hoping to find a way around it.”