Zombie Chaos (Book 1): Escape from the Big Easy

by Martone, D. L.

  Still moving forward, I lifted the carrier and eyed my cat. “Alright, Azazel, get ready for a bumpy ride.”

  Once again, she didn’t seem pleased. In fact, she was still growling. I tried blinking tenderly at her, which usually soothed her, but the calm, sleepy demeanor from earlier in the day had vanished. Chased away by her sickening tumbles, the broomstick-wielding zombie, and everything else she’d endured in the last few hours.

  Like me, she probably just wanted to get the fuck out of New Orleans. Like me, she probably longed to see Clare again.

  I lowered the carrier and glanced up and down the block. The zombies behind me were still headed my way, so I picked up the pace. Although survival was uppermost on my mind, I couldn’t help but notice the familiar landmarks as I hurried past them: the kumquat trees Clare and I had often raided, the patisserie where we’d spent many tranquil, high-calorie mornings, and all the historic homes and inns that made the Quarter so unique.

  During the decade or so I’d called the Big Easy home, each one of those structures had left a permanent mark on my brain. Almost every day, even during rainstorms, I would walk through the Quarter and the hipper, artsier Marigny, and I’d often note the medley of curious architecture that made up New Orleans, from Caribbean-style bungalows and double-shotgun homes to ornate, multistory European townhouses. I especially favored the gorgeous, Spanish-style wrought-iron railings that bordered most of the balconies and galleries in the Quarter, many of which supported a cornucopia of hanging vines, plants, and flowers.

  Admittedly, as beautiful and sweet-smelling as they were, I’d often cursed those very same plants on my daily walks. Mainly because the tenants and homeowners always seemed to pick the most inopportune moments to water the foliage, frequently showering me with cold water as I trekked below.

  Damn it.

  The momentary daydream dissipated as I realized I was once again being sprinkled from above. Glancing upward, in search of rain or dripping flowers, I acknowledged the sickening truth: It wasn’t water, but blood, raining down on me from a second-floor balcony, where a female zombie was devouring the innards of her soon-to-be zombie mate.

  Way to kill the fond memory.

  After ensuring no infected blood had landed on Azazel’s carrier, I continued toward the intersection of Ursulines and Royal, where a private walled compound sat on one corner, a cleverly disguised parking garage on another, and a vintage pharmacy on the third. From the fourth, I suddenly heard a familiar blues riff, cranked up louder than it should’ve been. The three-story brick home on the western corner of the intersection had long been one of my favorites in the Quarter, complete with gas lamps, hanging greenery, iron grillwork, and a set of double doors on the lower level painted an eye-popping shade of red.

  Until a few years before, the impressive, 19th-century home had only had two floors, but following an extensive renovation amazingly approved by the hard-ass Vieux Carré Commission, it now boasted three levels.

  A beer bottle crashed to the asphalt in front of me, and I gazed at the wraparound gallery on the second floor, which was filled to capacity with young, drunken revelers, all dancing, hollering, and basically being typical New Orleanians. Yep, they were partying during a zombie apocalypse.

  Well, it is the Big Easy.

  Glancing up Royal Street, I noticed a herd of perhaps a hundred zombies stumbling toward me – or, rather, the music. In the other direction, I could see a group twice that size headed my way. Behind me, the number of zombie followers had grown, and just ahead, my route toward the parking lot also appeared to be blocked. While the normally soothing sounds of Tab Benoit’s “Medicine” vibrated the floorboards overhead, countless zombies continued to surround me and Azazel, leaving no clear route to our destination.

  “Hey, dude, what the hell you doin’ down there?” a scraggly-haired kid in his twenties shouted from the balcony.

  Before I could answer, a young, red-haired woman, wearing a kaleidoscopic gown fit for a Mardi Gras ball, leaned over the railing and eyed me warily. “Whatcha got in the carrier?”

  “My cat,” I replied as I glanced in each direction, still hoping to conjure up a doable exit plan.

  “Aww…” she cooed. “Can I see him?”

  Realizing the only viable escape route would involve entering one of the nearby buildings, I looked up at the girl and shouted, “If you let me in, I would be happy to show her to you!”

  She promptly disappeared into the dancing crowd, and I stepped closer to the corner, trusting her vanishing act meant she’d headed downstairs to let me in. I turned my back toward the double front doors and surveyed all four directions, just as the first zombie stepped within shooting distance. Actually, it was two zombies, connected at the torso.

  “Holy crap,” I said to no one in particular. “That’s an awesome costume.”

  Before an inconvenient apocalypse had crashed the city’s annual Halloween celebration, the couple had obviously taken a lot of care with the joint outfit. Both painted in silver from head to toe and featuring a medley of faces and limbs, the man and woman resembled the T-1000 from Terminator 2 (a kickass movie from the early 1990s). Specifically, they looked like the melting version at the climax of the film – when the cleaved, metallic villain tumbles into a pit of molten steel and morphs into all the bodies it’s previously copied.

  The two revelers had assembled one of the coolest creations I’d ever seen – and the blood and gore only added to the chilling effect. Honestly, even though someone had bitten off the lady’s nose, and the guy was missing an entire arm, they still could’ve won the top prize at a Halloween costume contest.

  Of course, their killer costume presented an added benefit: Even after the turmoil of being eaten by and turned into zombies, they were still sewn together via their silver bodysuits, which made it easier for me to swing them around and off balance.

  “Woah,” someone shouted from above. “What a cool fucking costume!”

  Shit. Shit. Shit!

  The peanut gallery had spotted the couple. Worse, all the stoned, drunk, ridiculous partyers cared more about how amazing the zombies looked than the fact that they were fucking zombies – and Azazel and I were once again in danger.

  Remember how I said most of humanity sucked?

  Just then, in an explicable feat of coordination (or muscle memory), the linked zombies righted themselves and headed directly for me. At that moment, I made the decision to pocket the untested derringer and retrieve my trusty axe from the mesh side pouch on my backpack. Even as I sidestepped the three zombie arms grasping for me, the partygoers above started booing me, as if finally comprehending how I intended to use the weapon gripped in my right hand.

  “Leave ’em alone,” some idiot yelled. “They never hurt nobody!”

  “Please don’t kill ’em, mister,” another moron hollered.

  “I think they’re already dead,” I shouted in response.

  “You don’t have to be so negative, dude,” yet another voice piped up.

  “Jesus, give it a rest,” I grumbled.

  While it did seem a bit sacrilegious to slay the poor unfortunate undead to the remarkable sounds of one of my favorite blues guitarists, I felt certain Tab – if he were still alive – would understand. Survival, in the end, trumped artistic respect.

  Taking an overdue peek at the streets around me, I figured the T2 couple wasn’t my only problem. The zombie hordes were closing in quickly, the front doors of the party house remained closed, and I had run out of time. Suddenly, camping out at Troy’s palace of pleasure didn’t seem so intolerable after all.

  I spun the T2 couple around again. Just as before, the zombies couldn’t keep their balance, but when the guy stumbled to his knees, yanking his noseless counterpart with him, I took the opportunity to bring my axe down onto the guy’s skull. Not sure what to blame – my anger at the inebriated idiots above me, the renewed energy Tab Benoit’s rocking blues always gave me, or the couple’s accelerated decompos
ition due to the zombie virus – but my decorative axe split the man’s head open like a rotten cantaloupe, almost to the bridge of his nose. His morphing days were over.

  Luckily, the axe didn’t get stuck (as it had during my first kill with the weapon). I rolled the guy backward onto the ground, in a supine position, so I could more easily put down the woman. Raising the axe above my head, I realized I had yet to kill a female zombie.

  But hey, there’s a first time for everything.

  Before I could unleash my swing, though, I heard a creaking sound in front of me, barely discernible amid the pulsating music.

  Looking up, I noticed one of the red doors of the party house was wide open. The gown-wearing girl who’d wanted to see Azazel up close and personal stood in the doorway, a stoned yet horrified expression on her pretty face. Clearly, she had no intention of watching me chop the woman’s skull to smithereens, so before she could change her mind about inviting me inside, I lowered the axe, tightened my grip on Azazel’s carrier, and bolted toward the open doorway. Not so gently, I pushed the girl backward into the foyer, slammed the door with a resounding thud, and threw the deadbolt.

  Then, I closed my eyes and remembered to breathe again.

  Chapter

  15

  “Meat’s meat, and a man’s gotta eat.” – Vincent Smith, Motel Hell (1980)

  Once my breathing had steadied, I peeked through the blinds covering the nearest window in the shadowy foyer. The female half of the undead T-1000 was still lying on the pavement, repeatedly trying to tug herself upward, but apparently encountering too much resistance from the dead weight beside her. With her limited zombie brain, she just couldn’t figure out why she was unable to detach herself and rise to her feet.

  The scene might’ve been comical if not for the fact that the six zombies following me down Ursulines had finally entered the intersection and were now headed for the red double doors like missiles in search of a bull’s-eye.

  I’d almost forgotten the stoned redhead behind me when she finally found her voice.

  “You were about to hit that woman with an axe,” she said, her tone incredulous.

  I turned to face her. “Um, yeah, she’s a zombie. If you don’t put ’em down, they’ll rip you apart or turn you into one of them. A mindless cannibal.”

  She shook her head slowly, disapproval in her eyes. “You’re not supposed to ever hit a woman.”

  Was the girl simply stoned out of her gourd? Or would she have labeled me a misogynist or a domestic abuser even if she’d been completely sober?

  “I’m an equal-opportunity zombie killer.” I smirked. “Or just think of me as a feminist. If it’s good enough for a male zombie, it’s good enough for a female.”

  She cocked her head and stared at me for several seconds before finally nodding. “Cool… well, welcome to our party.” She squinted at me. “So, what are you supposed to be? A zombie?”

  I glanced down at my blood-splattered clothes and the equally gory axe. “Uh, yeah, right. This is just a costume.”

  “Cool.” Grinning, she turned away from me and wandered into the living room, where several costumed people were milling about, lounging on sofas, or getting high.

  Peering through the blinds again, I saw the zombie hordes had converged. Seven zombies had now become hundreds, maybe even thousands. And all of them seemed to want an invitation to the party.

  Even with the amplified music reverberating throughout the house, the thuds and grunts loudened against the front doors, and I wondered how long the solid wooden barrier would hold. My only consolation: I hadn’t lured the zombies to the drunken smorgasbord. The blues had done the job for me.

  After a moment, during which I weighed and tossed aside my limited options, I turned to find the redhead waiting for me at the bottom of the nearest staircase. Glancing through the slits of the carrier, I could see Azazel’s green eyes fixed on my face, as if willing me to make a decision. So, with a shrug, I opted to follow the girl upstairs.

  I doubted anyone there would be useful in a zombie fight – or sober enough to survive one – but I certainly couldn’t leave the way I’d come. And maybe I’d locate a back exit before the ravenous zombies managed to beat down the front doors.

  For the moment, I tried to appreciate the fact that I was finally getting a glimpse inside a mansion I’d long admired. Predictably, the interior was stunning, with high ceilings, ornate chandeliers, antique furniture, and everything else you’d expect from an expensive, traditionally decorated home in the French Quarter. Even the fake cobwebs, furry spiders, and other Halloween paraphernalia hanging everywhere didn’t detract from the architectural splendor of the place.

  Battery-operated lanterns and natural lighting through the window blinds provided the only illumination, and the air downstairs felt stagnant thanks to all the body heat and the lack of air conditioning. It made me wonder how the homeowners – or squatters – had managed to blast the music throughout the house.

  Are they seriously stupid enough to waste a generator like that?

  One look at the folks downstairs, who were either drinking, smoking, sleeping, or fooling around, and I had my answer.

  We passed a couple making out on the stairs, and the redhead snickered but kept going. When we reached the second story, my giggling guide came to a brief halt and gazed around the stifling sitting room before proceeding through the crowd. Maybe she sought someone in particular. Or maybe she couldn’t recall where she’d been headed. It wouldn’t have surprised me if she’d even forgotten I was behind her.

  Reluctantly, I followed her across the spacious area, which was presently packed with even more costumed partygoers than I’d seen downstairs. All in their twenties and thirties. Empty beer and liquor bottles, various pills and powders, and partially nibbled munchies lay on nearly every table, and I counted at least a half-dozen bongs being passed from person to person.

  Even me – the oldest dude there – was fair game, as I discovered when a scruffy-looking guy in – you guessed it – a fucking pirate outfit offered me a hit. I looked longingly at the bong, but ultimately passed.

  Throughout my life, I had smoked a bit of pot here and there: in college, while hanging out with Clare’s old university buddies in Los Angeles, and during a visit to some conservative hippie friends on South Padre Island. I’d always found it a pleasant way to relax, but a few years earlier, I’d sadly discovered my middle-aged system couldn’t handle the new marijuana strains.

  At one of our movie nights in the courtyard, I’d taken a couple hits from a neighbor’s joint, and my heart rate immediately spiked. In fact, my pulse raced faster than it ever had before. No matter what I did, I couldn’t calm down, my breathing grew labored, and I thought I was going to die.

  It had also freaked Clare out. Not the pot – which she, eight years younger, was still able to smoke with no complications – but my racing heart. Even slightly stoned herself, she’d followed me inside our apartment and watched me with the patience and determination of a mother hawk.

  Eventually, while lying across our bed, I’d felt my heart rate and respiration normalize, and thirty minutes after taking the troublesome marijuana hits, I was fine. Just to ensure that specific strain hadn’t been the problem, I tried smoking on another occasion. Got the same results.

  So, my pot-smoking days were over. Besides, as much as I longed to relax with a bit of “chronic” – or, hell, an Abita beer – I needed to keep my wits, energy, and focus intact.

  After declining the offer, I continued trailing the redhead across the second floor until she abruptly stopped and turned to face me. She stared at me for a moment, her eyes glassy, her brow furrowed, then walked forward again.

  Yep, this chick is definitely out of it.

  Still, she seemed to be in far better condition than most of her fellow revelers. Beyond the booze and pot, people were embracing an assortment of other drugs. Snorting cocaine. Popping pills like candy. Even tripping on the floor, empty syrin
ges beside them. Excellent activities during a zombie apocalypse: They wouldn’t ensure survival, but at least the partyers would feel less worry and pain while being eaten.

  Frankly, I couldn’t believe so many idiots had endured the night. I could only guess they’d been attending a massive Halloween bash there when the mayhem had begun. Whether they’d taken the danger seriously, it was difficult to say, but perhaps they’d merely turned the disaster into an opportunity to keep partying. Seriously, the place and the people looked like they’d already endured a weeklong celebration.

  It wouldn’t have been the first time that had happened, of course. Over the years, many New Orleanians and other residents of the Gulf Coast had ignored dire hurricane warnings and, instead of evacuating with their families, stayed behind to host weeklong hurricane parties, riding out the storms in style. Some figured they’d go out with a bang, while others claimed living in the present would somehow avert disaster.

  Predictably, some people had perished that way, especially in historic storms like Camille and Katrina. But, as with most preventable disasters involving stupid people, such horror stories hadn’t kept some locals – particularly the young ones – from stubbornly holding on to tradition.

  So, their Halloween celebration had simply morphed into a zombie hurricane party, and if the morons managed to triumph, who was I to say they were wrong?

  In a large bedroom, with French doors that opened onto the crowded gallery and a king-sized bed currently occupied by several entangled couples, the redhead paused again.

  “Oh, yeah, I remember what I was gonna say.” She stared at me for a few seconds, as if still struggling to recall her thought. Then, a wide grin lit up her face. “Can I see your cat?”