Now that Armageddon had come, though, it didn’t really matter anymore, and after all our hard work, we had to abandon the place anyway. In the end, we still lost our deposit – not due to a disgruntled landlord, but because of a fucking zombie apocalypse. Who could’ve predicted such a thing? And how, frankly, would more money have helped us anyway?
Money, like so many assets and commodities of an eradicated civilization, no longer meant what it had. Guns, bullets, fuel, water, food, alcohol, medicine, and toilet paper would be the primary currencies in the new undead world.
Yep, that’s right. Fucking toilet paper.
You might laugh, but bath tissue would now be as good as gold. How many people wanted to wipe their asses with their hands? Not many, I’d bet.
One of the preppers who’d followed my blog had filled his entire attic with toilet paper and booze. He would fare well in the new bartering economy.
Standing in the foyer, with my wife over eighty miles away, I still found it hard to accept the truth: The cozy apartment, where Clare and I had made and shared so many wonderful memories, would no longer be our home.
Glancing to my right, I smiled wistfully at my favorite enhancement. I’d sliced a large hole in the wall between the small foyer and the even tinier kitchen, installed shelves and a countertop, and painted everything a cool mint green, creating a pleasant breakfast nook. As a bonus, I’d also improved the kitchen space, bringing in natural light from the large window and partial glass door in the foyer and providing the counter space I required for cooking.
In our old life, our roles had been simple: I was the cook, Clare was the dishwasher. Jobs that had pleased us both – although I’d sometimes doubted her claim she found washing dishes meditative. Tidying up my messes couldn’t have been easy, but she’d rarely complained. She’d just seemed grateful I enjoyed cooking so much – which I always had, since before I’d even gone to college.
As a native Midwesterner, I’d especially embraced the cuisine of New Orleans, my wife’s hometown. The zombie apocalypse depressed me for lots of reasons, not the least of which was knowing my limited stores of cayenne pepper, filé powder, and other local ingredients wouldn’t last forever. How would I survive in the future without regular doses of seafood gumbo, jambalaya, and shrimp Creole?
Red beans and rice would be less problematic, but once the ham and sausage supplies had vanished, the traditional “laundry day” dish wouldn’t be nearly as digestible. At least for me. Clare, as I’d learned at the beginning of our relationship, would pretty much eat anything – even moldy fruit and other foods well past their expiration date. Often to her detriment.
The only minor advantage of the apocalypse – besides the chance to thin out the assholes and reboot civilization – was that I no longer had to remove my shoes each time I entered our apartment. Since our decision to leave town, Clare had lifted the no-shoes policy that kept us from tracking all manner of French Quarter filth, from urine to vomit, into the house. With three weeks left before the end (or so we’d thought), we just hadn’t had time to waste on our germaphobic tendencies.
Gazing at my blood-speckled sneakers, though, I couldn’t help but laugh. A few weeks earlier, zombie goo would’ve been the last thing we’d have feared bringing into our home.
I stepped into the small living room, which, thanks to the traditionally high ceilings of the French Quarter, we’d been able to turn into our own private movie theater. I’d installed a high-end projector, a surround-sound system, and an eight-foot-tall electronic screen, which we could raise and lower with the touch of a button.
Our home theater setup had offered hours of late-night pleasure for me and my fellow film buff, but while the screen would remain there in perpetuity, the projector was long gone. I’d shipped it north during my preparations for abandoning the city. What better time, after all, to escape into the movies than during a zombie apocalypse?
As I stood in the living room, clutching the axe and surveying our framed sci-fi and horror show posters one last time, I heard a plaintive meow emerge from the adjacent room. My eyes shifted to the wine-red curtain that separated the living room from our small bedroom.
A few seconds later, Azazel slunk beneath the curtain and squinted at me with the give-me-a-treat-now! expression she usually reserved for Clare. She’d been alone all night, ever since I’d left my half-prepared dinner on the counter and ended up knocked out in the courtyard. Not surprisingly, she was seeking some attention – whether treats or a chin scratch would satisfy her, it likely didn’t make a difference.
Spotting the sticky gore on my knuckles, I opted not to infect my cat with zombie germs. Instead, I took a moment to wash my hands in the kitchen sink before reaching down and scratching the soft white fur under her chin.
“Sorry, girl. I got delayed a bit. But now, we need to go get your mama.”
Meowing pleadingly, she gazed toward the top of the fridge, where we normally kept her kibble and treats (most of which, along with an extra litter box and some of her favorite toys, were already in the van). Instinctively, I glanced at her food and water bowls, both of which were now empty. She must’ve cleaned them out while I lay bleeding in the courtyard.
“I know you’re hungry. I am, too. But we have to get outta here.”
Besides, Clare and I never give you food or water before a big road trip.
Though a pretty laidback traveler (for a cat), Azazel had a tendency to get an upset stomach while in motion. No need to fuel the fire – and end up with yet another mess on top of everything else.
Still, I could sympathize with her. In addition to filling my rumbling stomach, I wouldn’t have minded treating my head wound either. Unfortunately, I had precious little time to waste.
To her credit, Azazel seemed to understand the urgency of the situation. Without her usual fuss, she allowed me to scoop her up and guide her into the carrier. Once I’d latched the gate, she settled down on her blanket and waited for my next move.
After pausing to wonder if I’d forgotten to pack anything essential, I tossed the previous night’s half-made dinner into an open, half-filled garbage bag and wolfed down two granola bars for a much-needed energy spike. Then, I popped two aspirin for my brain-splitting headache (no doubt amplified by my extreme hunger and lack of caffeine) and drained half a bottle of diet soda.
Lastly, I picked up Azazel’s bowls and tucked them inside my “go-bag” – the supply-laden satchel preppers usually grabbed when they had to leave somewhere in a hurry. Just a glorified backpack, my go-bag still lay unzipped on the bed, waiting for any last-minute weapons, tools, food, or other supplies.
I spotted my cellphone beside the bag and picked it up, hoping for a message from Clare. But even though I’d been unconscious all night, no voicemail or text messages awaited me. I was worried; it would’ve eased my mind to hear her voice. So, I tried calling her, but not surprisingly, the circuits were jammed. For the foreseeable future, nobody would be able to reach anyone.
Gazing at the open satchel, I felt so stupid for having painted myself into a corner. I might’ve had my go-bag, but I’d stowed all the guns, crossbows, blades, and other weapons in the van. I hadn’t wanted to carry them out in the open, afraid that, if a cop stopped me, he’d arrest me for my illegal arsenal, so I’d packed them earlier in the process and failed to leave myself anything to fight with. The zombie-killing axe would have to do.
While considering the stained weapon, I noticed the gore on my T-shirt and jeans. Although I was eager to reunite with Clare, I didn’t think my wife would appreciate seeing me covered in zombie brains and blood. So, I stripped off my clothes and shoes, jumped in the shower, and wiped the guck off my face and hair. Then, after donning some fresh apparel and disinfecting the gash on my skull, I checked each room for any other necessities.
Satisfied I had everything I needed, I zipped up the go-bag, swung it over my shoulder, and slipped my wallet and the van keys in my back pockets. I dumped my soiled clothes and
sneakers in the last garbage bag and secured it with a twist-tie. Though unwilling to let the trash rot in our former home, I fully realized no city worker would ever claim it from the can in the courtyard.
Guess it’s true what they say… old habits die hard.
I tucked the axe behind my belt and picked up Azazel’s carrier. Then, taking one more look around – at the apartment I’d never see again, at the stove where I’d prepared so many yummy pots of gumbo, at the couch where Clare and I had watched so many movies on our huge-ass screen – the sadness suddenly left me. Anger quickly replaced it.
“Fucking assholes, you screwed the whole world,” I muttered to myself, loud enough to wake up Azazel, her wide green eyes watching me warily through the slits of her carrier.
Right then, the lights in the kitchen went off, the ceiling fan above me slowed down, and the refrigerator’s hum fell silent. The apartment was eerily quiet, with meager streams of daylight coming through the frosted kitchen window and the glass panes in the foyer door.
“Just fucking perfect. Couldn’t wait another hour before going off?”
If the power had gone out in the entire Quarter, that would make my exodus from the city even tougher. Our van sat in a parking lot behind two giant swinging doors – controlled by the electric garage-door opener in my backpack.
Oh, well. Time to go.
I’d deal with that minor dilemma once I got there. Just needed to make one quick stop first – and pray I wouldn’t run into any complications along the way.
Chapter
8
“This is no dream! This is really happening!” – Rosemary Woodhouse, Rosemary’s Baby (1968)
After pointlessly dumping my trash in the outdoor garbage can and momentarily lingering in our former-sanctuary-turned-zombie-graveyard, I headed up the alley one last time. At the front gate, I protectively held Azazel’s carrier behind me, leaned against the wood, and listened for any sounds coming from the street. Besides the persistent buzzing of the flies, I could make out a strange thwacking sound, like someone repeatedly hitting a wet punching bag.
Slowly, I opened the gate. Just a crack. Just in case.
When no undead face greeted my own, I swung open the gate and stepped onto the sidewalk. Immediately, I spotted Robert, standing on his front stoop, hunched over the zombie bartender, who had apparently slithered up the steps and almost reached his door.
Granted, she was no longer in a condition to slither anywhere. Her head now resembled the consistency, if not the vibrant color, of a smashed overripe watermelon, and yet, Robert continued to beat her brain pulp with his gore-covered baseball bat.
“That’s for cutting me off!” he shouted, whacking her again.
OK, so I did get the chance to see my skinny old neighbor one more time. Honestly, though, I wished I hadn’t.
Following the epic smackdown between the young woman’s skull and Robert’s trusty bat, he couldn’t hide the evidence. Blood, brain bits, and black ooze clung to his hands, face, and worn terrycloth robe. Each downward swing onto the unfortunate girl’s head resulted in a new spatter of zombie goo. And all for what? Some end-of-shift stinginess in a French Quarter bar?
OK, fine, maybe the zombified version of her deserved some comeuppance.
Somehow, though, I suspected his anger was misdirected. Like me, he had long been a grouch and a misanthrope, but also like me, he probably didn’t think a zombie apocalypse would be the best solution for humanity’s problems. Thumping the undead buzzkill on his front stoop was merely a substitute for taking down the powers-that-be who’d allowed the end-of-the-world crisis to happen. Still, for all we knew, those people – along with Samir and Dibya – were already dead.
Or deadish.
Gazing past my neighbor’s stoop, I observed a large undead herd shambling along Burgundy. “Robert, you better go back inside. Those zombies might spot you.”
Sure enough, two of the creatures swiveled their heads toward my old neighbor. Lured by either the whomping sounds or his tempting smell, they abruptly turned onto St. Ann and made a beeline for his front steps. Like mindless lemmings, the rest followed suit, but unlike the bludgeoned bartender, those zombies weren’t crawling. In fact, they appeared to be trotting.
All at once, Robert stopped hitting the girl’s motionless body. “Fuck.”
I set Azazel’s carrier on the ground, closed the gate, and made sure it was locked. More out of habit than from any real concern for the belongings I’d left behind – though, I had to admit, I hated the idea of looters or zombies trashing our house.
As Robert retreated from the dead bartender and stepped into his open doorway, he paused to gaze down at me. “Goin’ to get Clare?”
I nodded, smiling at the thought of seeing my wife again. But my grin soon morphed into a frown. Abruptly, I’d realized that, while his harsh beating of the poor bartender had alerted the zombies to our presence, I was the one who would need to make a break for it.
“Good luck, boy,” he said, slipping inside his apartment.
Well, shit.
I didn’t have time to say goodbye – much less tell him about the blocked fence in the courtyard – before he slammed the front door and shoved something heavy against it, blocking the window that, as with my own door, inconveniently filled the upper half.
Without further hesitation, I picked up Azazel’s carrier, pulled the axe from my belt, and darted to the corner. I turned toward the Lower Quarter and hastened down Dauphine Street, hurdling over dead, fly-peppered, rat-covered bodies wherever they lay. Given my poor conditioning and the awkward imbalance of toting a thirteen-pound cat over decomposing obstacles – with the carrier banging against my left thigh and the go-bag whacking my lower back – I wasn’t shocked when I felt winded a half-block later.
Unfortunately, while pausing to catch my breath, I spotted several zombies stumbling down Dauphine, headed directly toward me. Still a couple blocks away, they were closing fast, and considering my next turn lay between me and them, I didn’t have time to rest. Even if my lungs cried out for a break.
Although Samir and Dibya had given me fair warning about the imminent apocalypse and granted me enough time to amass a bunch of survival gear, I would’ve needed at least six months (if not more) to get into solid fighting and running shape. I wasn’t in the worst condition for my age – maybe I’d put on twenty pounds since Clare and I had gotten married (OK, more like forty pounds) – but I typically walked three miles, twice a day, so I wasn’t exactly inactive.
Still, the stitch in my side had already made me its bitch, and my heart threatened to pound itself out of my chest – not from exertion but from fear. I hadn’t had time to get scared when the zombies attacked me (one at a time, I might add) in the courtyard, but staring at a slew of undead about to get a whiff of my tasty flesh, I panicked I wouldn’t be able to withstand a gang attack.
Luckily, a woman’s startling shriek diverted most of them onto St. Philip Street. Even with a few of them still headed my way, I decided I shouldn’t bolt. Smarter to opt for a power walk or maybe a slow jog, but not a full-out run. As I moved toward Dumaine, the next cross street, the woman’s screams abruptly ended.
Sorry, lady.
At that precise moment, I finally noticed the level of yelling and gunfire around me. Beside my gate, I’d heard the terrifying sounds in the distance, but the havoc was much closer than I’d realized. The odors of fire and rotting flesh had grown more pronounced – the fires were almost as disconcerting as the zombies. In a neighborhood like the Quarter, where the buildings huddled close together – with few gaps, plenty of trees, and too many wooden fences – fire could spread like a wrathful god had soaked the neighborhood in gasoline.
Prior to the zombie apocalypse, the local fire department had taken blazes seriously in the Quarter; its response time had been way more prompt than that of incompetent NOPD officers to the scene of a mugging, rape, or murder. No one wanted a repeat of the Great New Orleans Fires of 1788
and 1794 that had destroyed most of the structures in the historic neighborhood, particularly since, by the twenty-first century, it had become ground zero for the city’s tourism industry. But I doubted many firefighters were left to operate the hoses.
I couldn’t believe I’d been so clueless – and not just about the encroaching fires. I’d been so focused on my own situation back at the house, the truth simply hadn’t registered. Amid the decomposing corpses, a lot of people – living people – were still fighting for their lives against hungry zombies. In both directions on Dauphine and Dumaine, I witnessed life-or-death battles taking place in the streets and alleys, on the sidewalks and driveways, even on rickety galleries and balconies.
I needed to get the hell out of there and reach my wife as soon as possible. So, striving to ignore the angry shouts, tearful pleas, breaking glass, and frenzied gunshots in all directions, I bypassed the zombies in my path and continued toward St. Philip.
Chapter
9
“Be afraid. Be very afraid.” – Veronica Quaife, The Fly (1986)
Farther along Dauphine, a preppy guy clung to an old-fashioned gas lamppost. Given his bloodshot eyes and wobbly legs, he was obviously drunk. Never a shocking sight on All Saints’ Day, but how the idiot had managed to stay alive was a complete mystery to me. The only weapon he carried was a bottle of tequila. Empty, of course.
Our eyes locked, and he smiled faintly, but from his squinting expression, I assumed he couldn’t see me all that clearly. When my focus shifted past him, to the scantily clad, blood-splattered, zombified teenager shuffling toward him, he lazily followed my gaze to the approaching girl.
Zombie Chaos (Book 1): Escape from the Big Easy Page 4
