Zombie Chaos (Book 3): Terror on the Bayou

by Martone, D. L.

  She stared at me, her brow deeply furrowed. “What the hell happened to you?”

  “It’s nothing,” I said, trying to shrug it off. “On Halloween night, I was standing in our kitchen when I heard a ruckus outside. Seemed worse than usual. So, I went to check it out, and a zombie pushed through the front gate.”

  No doubt my nostrils were flaring.

  “OK, I accidentally let it in,” I admitted sheepishly. “I didn’t know the shit had already hit the fan. Anyway, I managed to slam that axe you bought me into its skull. That did the trick.”

  “But, Joe, that was almost three days ago. Why did it take you so long to get here?”

  “That would probably take a week to explain.”

  She waited patiently, prompting me with her relentless gaze.

  “My memory of that first night is a bit hazy. After killing the zombie, I think I might’ve tried pulling the axe out of its skull and ended up slipping on some of its blood. Knocked myself out on our steps.”

  A familiar laugh erupted from the adjacent living room. Jill had obviously heard our entire conversation. Clare sighed, then shot me her customary be-nice look, a common occurrence whenever we visited her mother.

  I followed my wife into the living room, where my soon-to-be-zombified-mother-in-law sat in front of her dormant fireplace, perched in an ultra-uncomfortable armchair that most people would’ve purchased for cosmetic reasons, not for actual sitting. An open book lay in her lap, though I doubted she’d found it easy to read in the diffused natural lighting that pervaded the house. Perhaps she just needed to do something normal after three days of dealing with undead mayhem.

  Ignoring Jill’s snide expression, I turned back to Clare and continued my brief explanation.

  “When I came to, I thought it was just the next morning… It wasn’t until much later that I realized I’d been unconscious for about thirty-six hours.”

  “Great,” Jill mocked. “Our hero.”

  “Good to see you, too, Jill.”

  My mother-in-law merely smirked.

  “Mom,” Clare said, “we should show Joe your scratch.”

  Jill waved away her daughter’s concern. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Mom…”

  After carefully placing Azazel’s carrier on the glass coffee table, Clare walked toward her mother, gently slid aside the left sleeve of Jill’s sweater, and removed the bandage on her forearm.

  Not sure what I’d expected, but the wound didn’t look too terrible. Just a scratch, surrounded by a rash. No sign of a radioactive glow, zombie goo, or putrid pus. Jill did seem more languid than usual, but then again, she’d been fighting off the undead for almost three days.

  So, perhaps my mother-in-law would be alright. How did I know what it took to infect a person? Since waking up in my courtyard, I hadn’t had much time to study the intricacies of our new zombie-infested world.

  Then I remembered my track record. Bad luck often found me the way mosquitoes could sniff out blood. No doubt Jill would ultimately become a zombie and attempt to devour us. Me, in particular.

  Fucking fantastic.

  “Doesn’t look too bad,” I said, surveying the wound. “We’ll just keep it clean and hope for the best.”

  Clare nodded as she applied a fresh bandage from a nearby first-aid kit. “So, what’s the plan, honey? Mom and I grab our stuff and get in the van?”

  “I’m not getting in that nasty thing,” Jill snapped. “I peeked out the window when you screeched up. That so-called vehicle of yours is filthy. Covered in zombie gore. Probably stinks to high heaven.”

  “She’s been through a lot, that’s for sure, but she’s ideal transport in our current situation,” I said, almost defensively. “Fortified, filled with weapons and supplies. Eventually, we’ll have to stock up on more food, water, and gas, and I still plan to mount the guns for easier access, but all she really needs is a good washing. Which I intend to do as soon as we get up north.”

  “It’s disgusting,” Jill insisted. “Why don’t I just follow you in my car?”

  I had to stop myself from laughing. Jill’s only vehicle was the ancient little Toyota sitting under the carport out back. Like her daughter, she often kept things until they self-destructed, meaning the damn thing would probably fall apart halfway to Michigan.

  Tempted to tell Clare’s mother she could stay behind for all I cared, I simply said, “Look, I know she’s not the prettiest ride, but she’s definitely sturdier than your car, and it’s safer if we all stick together.”

  “Mom, I agree with Joe. It makes no sense for us to split up. True, the van’s in sorry shape, but getting up north safely is all that matters.” She turned to me and smiled. “I think it’s an awesome vehicle, minus the zombie goo. I can’t wait to name her.”

  I smiled in spite of my annoyance with Jill. Sometimes, it was hard to resist Clare’s optimism.

  Squealing tires abruptly shattered the quiet moment, followed by screeching brakes and two slamming car doors. Clare and Jill both jumped in alarm. I hastened toward the nearest window and peeked through the boards. The station wagon had returned.

  Pivoting back toward my wife and her mother, I noticed that Jill had drawn a small .38-caliber handgun, which she presently aimed at the window. I couldn’t help but wonder if she even knew how to use the damn thing.

  Shaking my head, I explained, “You don’t need that. I know these two. Well, sort of. The boy and his mom helped me get rid of the zombies around your house. They were the ones who led them away with the honking horn.”

  Reluctantly, Jill lowered her pistol.

  Then, without waiting for her customary protest, Clare and I headed toward the kitchen to greet our unexpected guests.

  “Take your cat with you,” Jill shouted from the living room. “You know I’m allergic to her!”

  Ignoring her yet again, I grabbed a knife from my go-bag and pushed the kitchen table aside. Then, once Clare stood ready with her trusty hammer, I unlocked the wooden door and swung it inward. Before welcoming our visitors, we needed to take down the trio of zombies on the rear patio, but by the time I opened the outer screen door, the boy and his mother had already done the deed with a pair of screwdrivers. Apparently, they were handy with more than just a rifle and an old station wagon.

  Cautiously, the two of them approached the doorway. The woman still clutched the rifle, ready to use it, but luckily, she didn’t aim it at me.

  I hadn’t expected to see my wife’s saviors ever again, but suddenly, I was grateful for their unanticipated return.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” I spluttered. “I don’t think the house would’ve held together much longer.”

  A huge grin spread across the woman’s face, making her seem a lot less formidable. Younger, too. In the light of day, she seemed to be in her late thirties, while the boy was probably in his mid-to-late teens, and both of them sported frizzy red hair that shimmered in the sunshine.

  While the boy kept a lookout for wayward zombies, the woman extended her hand.

  “I’m Georgina,” she said, “but you can call me George.”

  Another tough-as-nails broad.

  Needless to say, I liked her immediately.

  With an unabashed grin, I shook her hand. “I’m Joe Daniels.”

  “This is my son, Casey,” George replied, squeezing the boy’s shoulder.

  After shaking Casey’s hand, I introduced Clare.

  “And I’m Clare’s mother, Jill,” an annoyed voice said behind me. “This is my house, by the way.”

  Instinctively, I rolled my eyes and sighed. I hadn’t realized she’d followed us from the living room.

  “Good to meet you folks,” George said, glancing around the backyard. No doubt ever-vigilant against undead trespassers.

  With a harrumph, Jill vanished into the kitchen. “We don’t have enough food to feed every stray that comes up to us,” she grumbled loud enough for all of us to hear.

  I’
d have been lying, and all of my tells would’ve given me away, if I’d said otherwise, but frankly, I figured there would soon be one less mouth to feed. Zombie Jill wouldn’t require normal sustenance. Besides, we wouldn’t be staying at her house for long.

  I shook my head, indicating George and Casey should simply ignore her, then welcomed them inside and barricaded the back door once again.

  In the end, it had turned into a pretty decent morning. We’d met two new friends, I’d finally been able to hug my wife, and Azazel had been reunited with her mama.

  Still, realizing the horde of zombies could return at any moment, I knew we didn’t have much time to get back on the road.

  Chapter

  15

  “You cannot escape them. Sooner or later, when they’re ready, they will take your family.” – Edwin Pollard, Dark Skies (2013)

  As I trailed the others into the living room, I reflected on my recent journey. Over the course of one long-ass day and night, it had taken me more than six hours of actual driving to cover roughly ninety miles between New Orleans and Baton Rouge. I’d seen countless zombies, witnessed my fair share of horror and mayhem, and experienced the nefarious dregs of what remained of our society. But I’d also encountered some incredible folks along the way and received help in the most unexpected of places.

  Despite despising me for as long as I could remember, a sassy voodoo priestess had generously rescued me and Azazel from a convergence of ravenous undead creatures in the French Quarter. A Cajun Marine and his children had saved my ass more than a few times in Gramercy. A crew of tough, gun-toting women had guided me and my cat safely through Gonzales, and George and her son had spared my wife from an unthinkable fate.

  I was grateful for all of them – and relieved to have reached Clare in time.

  All at once, though, the hunger, fatigue, and stress of the past day caught up with me, and I longed to stretch out on one of Jill’s beds and grab some shuteye. Unfortunately, it was only nine in the morning, and we needed to hit the road as soon as possible. Also, I’d just invited two complete strangers into my disgruntled mother-in-law’s house. So, I couldn’t justify a nap quite yet.

  No rest for the wicked, I guess.

  While George and Casey cautiously sat on the leather couch still blocking the front door, Jill resumed her post by the fireplace, shooting invisible daggers at me with her eyes.

  In the awkward lull that ensued, Azazel unleashed an ornery meow. Glancing down at the carrier on the coffee table, I could see her green eyes shifting between me and Clare.

  My wife knelt on the carpet and caressed our impatient furbaby through the upper lid. “How long’s she been in there?”

  “Not too long. I let her out a few times on the way up here.”

  “Still… she could probably stand to stretch her legs.”

  “No,” Jill stated emphatically from her perch. “I can’t have your cat running around the house. You know how allergic I am.”

  “Cool it, Mom,” Clare said. “We’ve all been through a lot, including Azazel. She deserves a breather before we hit the road again. If it becomes an issue, you can always pop a Benadryl.”

  Besides, she’s gonna be a zombie soon anyway. And the undead don’t seem to be allergic to anything but a head shot.

  As usual, I wanted to back up my wife and put my mother-in-law in her place, but Clare was doing just fine on her own.

  Ever since we’d met, Clare had often been far too kind and flexible for her own good – a pushover with friends and relatives alike, especially her mother – but whenever she doubted her own will and backbone, I’d always remind her she was sneaky strong inside. I actually felt proud to have seen that part of her, even if it was sometimes directed at me. Odd as that might sound, I took comfort in the fact that revealing such anger toward me meant that Clare had complete faith in us.

  So, although she rarely stood up for herself in public, I knew she possessed a deep well of strength, particularly when it came to me and Azazel. And because she typically exuded a warm, easygoing personality, whenever “Angry Clare” reared her head, people usually took notice.

  Case in point: Her mother said nothing in reply. Just harrumphed and sulked in her ultra-uncomfortable armchair.

  Clare, meanwhile, turned her attention to me. “Do you have any of her stuff in your go-bag, or is it all out in the van?”

  Luckily, I had grabbed Azazel’s two bowls before leaving our apartment. Taking the hint, I poured some bottled water into one, put a handful of kibble in the other, and set them both on the carpet. Then, while Clare liberated our cat from her tiny prison, I ventured into the kitchen for a makeshift litter box.

  Most of Jill’s pots and pans lay on the counters, cleverly filled to the brim with water, but I managed to find a glass baking dish in one of the lower cabinets. Fortunately, I also discovered a box of cat litter in the laundry closet. I didn’t quite understand what it was doing in the house of a notorious pet-hater, but I refused to question the rare stroke of good luck.

  Of course, when I returned to the living room and started pouring litter into the baking dish, Jill was quick to express her displeasure.

  “What the hell are you doing? You can’t use my bakeware for your cat’s toilet.”

  “I know it’s not a perfect solution, but it’ll have to do for now.” I set the dish a couple feet from Azazel, who continued to hover over her water bowl.

  “Well, I hope you plan to replace it.”

  “Christ, Mom,” Clare said, rocking backward on her heels and leaning against the wall. “You can’t be serious. There are fucking zombies outside, and you’re worried about a goddamn baking dish. In a normal world, I would get you a new one, but as it stands, I think you can live without it.”

  “You could’ve at least asked me first,” Jill grumbled.

  “Drop it, Mom. We can’t take everything with us anyway. There’s only so much room in the van. Besides, we have plenty of baking dishes up north.”

  Damn, girl.

  Although I’d always been impressed by my wife’s intellect, compassion, and integrity, I suddenly felt even more pride for her current no-nonsense attitude. Having endured years of maternal manipulation, Clare had developed several self-preservation techniques for dealing with her mother and keeping the peace between them. Sometimes, despite her own contrary desires, she would succumb to Jill’s self-centered whims and appease her martyrish tendencies. Other times, she would dispel the tension with humor or a new topic. More often than not, though, she would simply pretend to ignore her mother’s self-absorbed stories, sanctimonious advice, and judgmental remarks – and then bitch about her on the car ride home.

  But after being trapped with Jill for three days and nights, Clare had obviously reached her limit. And I couldn’t really blame her. After spending only a few minutes with my mother-in-law, I was usually ready to bolt for the door.

  “By the way,” I asked her, too curious for my own good, “why’d you have litter in the house? In all the time I’ve known you, you’ve never had a cat.”

  “For your information,” Jill snapped, folding her arms across her chest, “it’s got a lot of other uses. Gets rid of musty odors. Absorbs oil and grease spills. Even scares away rodents from my garden.”

  As she spoke, Azazel moseyed over to the baking dish, sniffed its contents, and proceeded to hunker down and attend to her biological needs.

  “Huh,” I muttered. “Learn something new every day.”

  Jill sighed melodramatically, but whether in response to my snarky comment or Azazel’s potty break, it was hard to say.

  Throughout the entire discussion, our two new pals had remained on the couch in awkward silence. Trying to put them at ease, I decided to change the subject.

  “So, George, Casey… I have to ask… how did you two survive all this madness?”

  “Well, it’s kind of a long story,” George said.

  “We’ve got some time,” I replied, handing them each a bott
le of water from my go-bag.

  “Thanks,” Casey said, then proceeded to drain the entire container.

  Poor kid acted as though he hadn’t drunk anything in days. Maybe he hadn’t.

  George, meanwhile, took a couple polite sips before launching into their tragic tale.

  Apparently, she and her son had driven from Lafayette, where the day before Halloween had unfolded in a fairly typical fashion, with the two of them spending their time at a nearby high school – Casey as a senior, George as a biology teacher. Their troubles began that evening, however, when George’s husband, David, had failed to come home.

  A longtime manager on one of the offshore oil rigs that peppered the Gulf Coast, David had been due back from his latest two-week shift by midday, but George had found no sign of him or his vehicle upon returning to the house. During the course of their twenty-year marriage, he’d never once been late without giving her a heads-up via phone. So, understandably worried, she’d immediately called her husband, only to reach his voicemail. She’d also tried contacting the company he worked for but hadn’t been able to get in touch with anyone there either.

  By the time Casey had returned from soccer practice, George had exhausted all normal methods of tracking down her husband.

  “Needless to say, neither of us slept well that night,” she said, nodding toward her son.

  “And when Dad still hadn’t shown up or called by the next morning,” Casey added, his eyes glistening with tears, “we knew something was really wrong.”

  Initially, they’d feared a rig accident, perhaps even an explosion, but no such accounts had surfaced on the local news programs. The anchors and reporters had seemed way more concerned about a mysterious increase in violence throughout the region.