I, meanwhile, had opted to stay at home on All Hallows’ Eve, not only to finish packing, but also because the Quarter mayhem was never as much fun without my partner in crime. I just hoped, given what had happened in the Big Easy, Clare was safe at my mother-in-law’s house. Surveying the bloody, body-filled area that had once served as our private sanctuary, I decided the time had come to get out of town, head to Michigan’s Lower Peninsula, and snatch my wife along the way.
Chapter
5
“I can’t profess to understand God’s plan. Christ promised the resurrection of the dead. I just thought he had something a little different in mind.” – Hershel Greene, The Walking Dead (2012)
Before grabbing the last of my stuff, I crept toward the gate and listened for any activity in the street. One aspect of the courtyard Clare and I had always enjoyed was the bizarre way it dulled sound. We could often hear our neighbors along the sides and at the rear – particularly when they had rowdy company – but street sounds were faint at best.
Honking car horns, rumbling delivery trucks, and blaring karaoke songs from the gay bar on the opposite corner were all much less obnoxious than they might’ve seemed from the two front apartments. The clip-clopping mules, creaking carriage wheels, and cackling late-night revelers headed toward Bourbon Street were less intrusive, too.
The courtyard walls, plus the houses surrounding us, provided a barrier of insulation between our hidden oasis and the outside world. Oftentimes, Clare and I would find it difficult to know what was happening on St. Ann without venturing to the gate for a look-see. Even Mardi Gras parades – including our favorite, the dog-centric Krewe of Barkus – had passed by the building without disturbing the relative peace and quiet of our courtyard.
The night before, however, had been an unusual situation. I’d been preparing a quick dinner in the kitchen when I heard the first screams. Right away, I’d realized those weren’t the normal sounds of drunken revelry but, rather, bloodcurdling shrieks of a much more fucked-up nature.
After snatching the decorative axe from the wall, I’d slipped out the door, tiptoed down the alley, and opened the gate, only to be rewarded with my first encounter with a zombie. The very same undead pirate lying in my courtyard, oozing foulness from his head.
As I currently approached the gate, I didn’t discern much of anything – just a few shouts, groans, and gunshots in the distance. Similar to the sounds I’d often perceived in the French Quarter. In a way, it was worse than hearing the screams of living victims, since it implied most of the people in the Quarter had been either killed or turned during the late-night and early-morning hours.
Then, as I strained my ears, I gradually heard it. A perpetual buzzing sound, like the droning made by a hive of hungry bees in a rose garden.
Slowly, I unlocked the gate, tightened my grip on the axe, and stepped onto the sidewalk, hoping my curiosity wouldn’t result in the same antics I’d experienced the night before.
Immediately, I noticed dead bodies in the road. A lot of bodies, in fact. Partially eaten, lying in haphazard piles, their costumes torn and bloody. Even worse than the mangled corpses, though, were the body parts: just random heads, limbs, and torsos, like what you’d see in the aftermath of a terrible plane crash… or the lair of a rogue alligator. If the street cleaners who scoured the Quarter biweekly were still in business, they had quite a task ahead of them.
A tuft of bloody fur caught my eye, and stepping closer, I realized humans weren’t the only victims splayed along St. Ann. Amid the costumes and gore lay several feral cats and leashed dogs, too. Obviously, no living organism was immune to a zombie’s hunger.
I felt more sadness for the lost animals than the deceased people. Not a revelation for me: I’d always preferred cats, dogs, goats, elephants, and other innocent creatures to my fellow humans. People usually hated me for those beliefs.
And I just hate them right back.
The buzzing had increased as I’d neared the asphalt roadway, and I could finally see the reason why. Hundreds of flies hovered, dove, and landed on the corpses, doing what flies did best: scavenging from the dead. Numerous rats crawled and nibbled their way across the bodies, too. I wondered if sampling from the zombies’ victims would turn them into undead insects and rodents. If so, I hoped they couldn’t spread the infection to other unsuspecting animals and humans. As if it weren’t already a plague to end all plagues.
Familiar scents wafted in the autumn breeze: stale hints of urine, vomit, feces, beer, and trash, just as typical in the French Quarter as the more pleasant aromas of coffee, boiled seafood, and sweet olive trees. But, beyond such common odors, I noted a burning smell on the wind, like that of a distant fire.
Worse, though, was the oppressive stench emanating from the bodies, so foul it was actually making me dizzy. I’d never known much about how fast a body could decay, but it seemed as if the corpses were more rancid than I’d expected. Maybe that was due to the mangled body parts, covered with every kind of gore you’d never want to imagine.
Glancing up and down the street, I didn’t see anything – or anyone – in motion. No breathing, no twitching, no struggling to stand. Despite the horrifying scene, I found the relative stillness reassuring: At least those victims were too brain-dead to be reanimated.
Then, I noted movement in my peripheral vision. Turning my head to the right, I spotted a young woman dragging herself down Burgundy Street. From a distance, I couldn’t see the details of her face, but she appeared to be missing the lower half of her left leg. She was either one tough survivor – or a zombie on a mission.
When she paused to taste a fallen police officer, I had my answer. After a bite or two, she crawled over the uniformed torso.
Guess the body isn’t fresh enough for her.
“What’re you doing out here, Joe?”
The unexpected sound almost flatlined my heart rate. It took a few seconds to recognize the voice of the crotchety old man who lived in one of the front apartments of my building. He was standing above me, his slippered feet planted on the small stoop to my right. I’d been too distracted by the carnage to notice him.
“For fuck’s sake, Robert,” I said, glancing upward. “I almost pissed myself.”
Chuckling, he eyed my gore-stained face, clothes, and hands. “Good to see you made it. Since I didn’t hear any noise in your apartment, I thought you might’ve bitten the dust.”
Clare and I had warned as many friends, relatives, and neighbors about the impending zombie apocalypse as we could. Unfortunately, most of them, having thought we’d finally seen one too many horror flicks, had simply stopped speaking to us.
Though Robert wasn’t one of the naysayers, he’d never seemed convinced by Samir’s news. Even after we’d played him the audio file. But his calm demeanor in the wake of the Big Easy bloodbath made me suspect he’d either believed us all along or, despite his usual unwillingness to change, adapted to the new normal quickly.
“Nope, still here.” I glanced toward the partially open door behind him, where a scuffed, disturbingly bloody baseball bat leaned against the jamb. “Where’s Carolina?”
Carolina was Robert’s only obvious companion, an aging greyhound who would more often whimper and trot for cover than bark and stand her ground in the face of danger. Loud trucks, thunderstorms, and fireworks terrified her most of all.
He sighed. “Where else? Cowering under the bed upstairs. Ever since the screaming started, she’s refused to come out.”
“Can’t say I blame her. I’m sure Azazel’s not too happy either.” And I wasn’t too pleased to realize Azazel and Carolina would be just as tempting to a zombie as I had been. Blinking away the image of dead pets in the street, I shifted my focus toward the other front stoop, a few yards to the right of Robert. “Have you seen Allison?”
Allison was our other neighbor, a bitter, thirtysomething Goth chick who’d rarely told me and Clare “hello,” much less stopped to chat with us.
; He shook his head. “She and her boyfriend went away for Halloween. Wanted to spend the night in the doll room at Myrtles.” He chuckled again. “The Quarter always did attract freaks and weirdos.”
As usual, I refrained from contradicting Robert. No point in admitting Clare and I, self-confessed horror nuts, had long dreamed of staying in the infamously creepy, doll-filled bedroom at the Myrtles Plantation, the supposedly haunted mansion in St. Francisville.
Robert nodded toward the woman slithering across the bodies on Burgundy, and I followed his gaze.
“I know that little bitch,” he said sardonically. “She tended bar over at Lafitte’s. Cut me off once. Serves her right.”
I stared at my neighbor of four years. “Really? For that, she deserves to be a zombie?”
He shrugged, as unapologetic as always.
If Robert had lived in a suburban house, with a yard of his own, instead of a French Quarter apartment, he probably would’ve been the quintessential curmudgeon on the block, the sort of old man who’d frequently yell, “Hey, you fucking hoodlums, get off my lawn!” at the top of his alcohol-soaked lungs.
At least, most people in the neighborhood viewed him that way.
Clare and I actually liked the guy. Over the years, we’d often brought him containers of homemade gumbo and jambalaya, let him wash his clothes in our washer and dryer, and visited with him and Carolina on the way home from collecting our mail, dropping off our rent payment, or running to one of the nearby grocery stores.
In exchange for such limited companionship, Robert regularly checked on our place during the summer months, when we’d typically head to northern Michigan to escape the oppressive heat of southern Louisiana.
Still, Robert had a reputation as one of the most disagreeable neighbors in the Quarter. He’d routinely report homeowners for violating the rules of the Vieux Carré Commission, shout at motorists who littered or played their music too loud, and holler at bicyclists who went the wrong direction on one-way St. Ann or sailed past the stop sign at the Dauphine intersection.
Once, I’d even witnessed him picking up a pile of shit some thoughtless dog owner had failed to bag. Then, before I could question him, he’d impressed me by throwing it twenty yards, pegging said owner in the head. That made Robert more than OK in my book.
Naturally, the fact that I understood and condoned Robert’s behavior disturbed my wife, who worried I would become an even grouchier old man someday. But, what could I say? Robert amused me – and made a lot of sense to boot. I found most humans to be just as selfish and inconsiderate as he did. Probably didn’t help my case that he seemed to prefer us to the rest of the neighbors, too.
Unfortunately, the female zombie Robert and I had observed was eyeballing us with a ravenous expression. Whether she’d heard our voices or smelled our flesh hadn’t made a difference. Obviously, the decaying organs in the road weren’t nearly as tantalizing as the fresh meat standing in front of our building.
“Shit.” He grabbed the baseball bat and held it against his right shoulder. “I think she’s coming over here.”
Fucking fantastic. Just what I need. Another hungry zombie to fend off.
“Listen, Robert, I’m getting outta town. Clare’s already at her mother’s place in Baton Rouge.” I glanced toward the crawling girl, who was making decent progress over the bodies strewn across St. Ann. “I think you should come with me.”
“Nah, I’ve lived in this neighborhood for over forty years.” He gripped his bat with both hands, readying himself for a fight. “Goddamn zombies aren’t gonna chase me off.”
I shook my head, realizing that would likely be the last time I ever saw Robert alive. Sadly, I’d already experienced too many last times – and no doubt, there would be plenty more.
I backed toward the open gateway behind me. “Alright, man. If you’re sure…”
“I’m sure.” He looked down at me and winked. “But thanks.”
“OK, then, good luck.”
“Same to you and Clare.”
Leaving my neighbor to deal with the stingy zombified bartender, I once again retreated behind my gate. It was well past time to go. I just needed to grab what remained of the stuff we planned to take with us, prod Azazel into her carrier, and try to reach our vehicle with as little violence and mayhem as possible.
Shit.
I paused halfway down the alley, beside Robert’s kitchen window. I’d almost forgotten: There was still one stop I had to make before leaving town, and it was nonnegotiable.
Chapter
6
“I’m your number one fan. There’s nothing to worry about. You’re going to be just fine. I will take good care of you. I’m your number one fan.” – Annie Wilkes, Misery (1990)
Sighing in aggravation, I continued toward the courtyard. As I emerged into the disheveled, gore-covered space, I surveyed the three smashed zombies, the large gaping hole in our broken fence, and the fidgeting creature still trapped by the vines. The pirate, the cook, and the businessman were no longer a problem, but I didn’t want the space cowboy – or the busted fence – to become a dilemma for Robert.
Since he’d decided to remain in New Orleans, he would have enough of a challenge staying alive without being attacked by surprise from the rear of the building. If too many zombies wandered into the courtyard and crowded toward the front gate, some of the more determined creatures might climb atop one another and reach the side windows that led into his living room and kitchen. For all I knew about zombies, some of them might even try to slither beneath the raised house and claw their way through the floorboards.
True, it was Robert’s dumbass choice to stay in Zombietown. I’d offered him a chance to leave, and I couldn’t do much more to protect him from himself – or any of the undead left in the Quarter. But even with my less-than-stellar conscience, I couldn’t leave him so vulnerable either.
Gazing at the facedown cowboy, I tried to figure out how to neutralize him without getting into chomping range. I could’ve used my trusty axe, but I didn’t want to risk tripping amid the vines and receive a fatal bite for my trouble.
As an alternative, I placed the axe atop the covered dryer and dragged an old two-by-four from beneath the building. Leftover lumber from the previous Halloween, when I’d built an outdoor movie screen in the courtyard and treated me, Clare, and some of our closest friends to a horror flick marathon.
Slowly, I approached the space cowboy. When he finally noticed me, his wriggling became more frenetic. He extended his arms forward and swung them in a frenzied, crisscrossed pattern, obviously trying to grab me.
Given that the two-by-four was nearly six feet long, I could thankfully avoid getting too close to his outstretched hands. Standing just shy of his leather gloves, I slammed the plank onto his head. A pained moan rumbled from his throat, and black ooze squirted from his nose, making me gag a little before I hit him again.
Not surprisingly, the Captain Mal lookalike had a hard head. It required seven skull-crushing swings before he finally stopped twitching. Surely, any remaining Firefly fans would forgive the insult, but regardless, that space cowboy needed to be put down.
Once he was no longer a threat, I set down the bloody, brain-flecked two-by-four and glanced at the gaping hole in the fence. Luckily, the thumping and groaning noises hadn’t lured any more zombies into the adjacent courtyard. Afraid to press my luck, I didn’t linger for long.
Instead, I stepped over the cowboy and picked up the old box-spring leaning against my side neighbor’s wall. With a sheet pulled tautly across it, the box-spring had served as a decent movie screen for the previous year’s Halloween party. After countless rainstorms had rendered it soggy, rusted, and useless as a screen, it would finally have a newfound purpose as a zombie barrier. Suddenly, I was grateful I hadn’t heeded Clare’s repeated requests to toss it in a nearby dumpster.
I lifted the box-spring over the dead cowboy and set it against the gap in the ragged fence. With some effort, I hef
ted my heavy grill over the dead pirate and onto the flower box to pin the box-spring in place. Then, I slid the patio table and our giant heating lamp against the grill for some added fortification. Hopefully, the barrier would hold. At least for a little while.
Of course, like the incompetent Army Corps of Engineers who’d merely patched the levee breaches following Hurricane Katrina – only to weaken the rest of the structure – I’d just succeeded in securing the hole, nothing more. The rest of the fence was still woefully inadequate as protection. Wouldn’t take much for a hungry zombie to bust through the weaker slats. I could only hope the large, thorny bougainvillea bush beside the pile of junk would deter any flesh-seeking creatures – or at least slow them down a bit.
Chapter
7
“You have created a monster, and it will destroy you.” – Dr. Waldman, Frankenstein (1931)
Convinced I’d done all I could in the courtyard, I picked up the axe, bypassed the oozing zombie bodies on the ground, and trudged up the steps. As I entered the cramped foyer, a crushing wave of sadness hit me. Clare and I had made the simple, one-bedroom apartment our home. For the past four years, we’d spent a lot of time renovating it to take full advantage of every square inch – from building extra storage shelves in the bedroom and bathroom to adding a cat-sized viewing platform next to the lowest glass pane in our door.
True, we’d never sought our landlord’s permission for such alterations – a fact that rankled my rule-abiding wife. But, according to the landlord’s head maintenance man, no tenant had ever received approval for a construction project. Whenever we decided to give up the apartment, we could only hope the wacky, temperamental lawyer who owned our building (and many structures throughout the Quarter) would appreciate the redesign and merely keep our security deposit in lieu of suing us.
Zombie Chaos (Book 1): Escape from the Big Easy Page 3
