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

by Martone, D. L.

  Hell, no!

  I had no intention of opening Azazel’s carrier in that place.

  Fuck, somebody here’ll probably try to smoke her.

  The girl looked so eager, though, I couldn’t refuse her completely. So, following a brief warning about Azazel’s unpredictable temperament, I permitted the girl to slip her hand beneath the lid atop the carrier and stroke my cat’s soft fur. Usually, if a stranger invaded Azazel’s space, said stranger would soon have puncture wounds on his or her hand, but that time, my ferocious tiger actually allowed the redhead to scratch her ears. Maybe she sensed the girl only posed a threat to herself.

  “Her name’s Azazel,” I told the young woman.

  “Wow,” she said, “my name’s Ariel.” She leaned closer to the opening and gazed into Azazel’s eyes. “Maybe we’re related,” she continued… to the cat.

  “Yeah, maybe,” I replied hesitantly. “Listen, I need to find a way out of this place.”

  “Really? But you just got here,” she said as she stepped outside.

  Reluctantly, I followed her onto the seriously overburdened gallery. More than a hundred people seemed to be dancing and jostling on the creaking floorboards, and as sturdy as it had always appeared from the street, the gallery now felt like a shifting boat deck.

  For all I knew, it had suffered massive termite damage over the years and could no longer bear such weight and movement. Even in pristine condition, it probably wasn’t rated to withstand all that pressure, and I could easily see it collapsing under the bulk of the raging party. Whatever the case, I didn’t intend to stay long.

  “Hey, man,” a handsome, dark-haired dude dressed as a court jester said. “Welcome to my crib.”

  “This is your parents’ house,” Ariel reminded him. “Not yours.”

  “Well, they’re probably dead now,” he lamented. “So, I guess that makes it mine.”

  Sadly, he had a point.

  The music, emanating from built-in speakers throughout the house, shifted to Dr. John’s “Indian Red” – one of my favorite songs. If New Orleanians, even the young ones, had anything in common, it was their appreciation for great music. An appreciation Clare and I definitely shared.

  Just as I found myself reflecting on all the wonderful local musicians and bands we’d listened to over the years, I heard a shout from the far end of the packed gallery. Apparently, one of the clueless partygoers had tumbled over the iron railing.

  “Oh, fuck, man,” the dark-haired jester said, pushing his way toward the railing and gazing down into the street. “Hey, Dramond! You OK, man?”

  Out of morbid curiosity, I pushed forward, too, and peered over the grillwork. Good news: Dramond had fallen onto a cushion of sorts, namely the countless zombies currently crowding the building. Bad news: The poor guy had become witness to a feeding frenzy in which he was the main course. The creatures surrounding him ripped his body apart so quickly, he barely had time to scream before he died.

  Only a few minutes after he fell, two zombies started fighting over his head. One had jammed its hand up his neck, while the other had stuck its fingers in Dramond’s eye sockets, gripping his bloody skull like a bowling ball.

  This zombie nightmare keeps getting better and better.

  Just when I thought I’d seen the sickest shit imaginable… bam, two zombies began playing tug-a-war with a dude’s head.

  As stoned and drunk as the kids appeared to be, several of those who’d witnessed the carnage abruptly puked onto the heads of the zombies below, which only further incited the moaning creatures and made them even more eager to reach the end-of-the-world revelers. Worse, as soon as some of the guys and girls started crying, more people from inside ventured out to look down on the street. I could see the zombies pushing against the support poles below and hear the floorboards groaning loudly.

  The far end of the gallery drooped, and I decided I’d stayed long enough. Quickly, I tucked my axe behind my belt, linked my right arm through those of the dark-haired boy and the redheaded girl, and yanked them back into the bedroom just as the rest of the gallery facing Royal Street collapsed, sending everyone else tumbling into the zombie-filled street below.

  Chapter

  16

  “I think that I am familiar with the fact that you are going to ignore this particular problem until it swims up and bites you on the ass!” – Hooper, Jaws (1975)

  The combined momentum of my two new friends caused all three of us to tumble backward onto the hardwood floor of the bedroom, knocking over a few other freaked-out partygoers in the process. Unfortunately, the inadvertent fall made me loosen my grip on the cat carrier, which rolled a couple feet away, only to be kicked back toward me by a panicked girl dressed as a sexy imp. For the third time that morning, poor Azazel ended up upside-down, and from the hissing she unleashed toward me, I knew she was pissed beyond belief.

  “Sorry, girl,” I grumbled as I wriggled from beneath the two stoners and reclaimed the carrier.

  Although the axe tucked behind my belt had shifted in the pileup, I’d once again escaped an irreversible injury to my genitals. For that, if nothing else, I was grateful.

  Rising to my feet, I surveyed the commotion. People were bolting like headless chickens in every direction, including the naked couples who’d just been having sex on the bed, and the ensuing cacophony of blues music, terrified shrieks, and hysterical crying almost overwhelmed my already compromised eardrums (thanks to a long-ago ear infection).

  Carefully, I edged toward a window beside the open French doors and glanced downward onto Royal. The scene was as nightmarish as I’d expected, rife with flailing limbs, splattering brains, and blood-curdling screams. Perhaps worse, the floorboards were still hanging from the side of the house, and the poles had crumpled in such a way that the nightmare was far from over.

  “Fuck,” I shouted, “we have to get outta here!”

  “No, man,” the dark-haired jester said, shaking his head vehemently. “We gotta help my buds.”

  “They’re all dead,” I said, looking from him to the redhead, whose tear-stained cheeks underscored her frozen stare of terror and confusion.

  “Jesus, man, this is bullshit,” the jester whined. “Now, I do hope my parents are dead, cuz if they aren’t, they’re gonna fucking kill me.”

  “Somehow, I think they’d care less about the damage… and more about the fact that you’re about to die!” Clutching Azazel’s carrier with one hand, I tugged Ariel from the room. “Seriously, we have to get outta here.”

  Numbly, the jester followed us through the madhouse until I reached a rear hallway.

  Then, I turned toward the two of them. “Listen, that gallery is now a ramp.”

  They merely stared at me, their foreheads crinkled, their eyes squinting in confusion.

  “Christ, guys, it’s a fucking ramp. From the street to this floor,” I explained, beyond exasperated – and confident I was about three seconds from leaving the two dumbasses in the hallway. “Soon as those goddamn zombies are done eating your friends, they’re gonna climb up here and start attacking the rest of us.”

  Comprehension finally seemed to dawn on the jester. When, a moment later, I heard the front doors splinter and crash into the first-level foyer, followed by a new wave of terrified screams, Ariel seemed to catch my meaning, too. The zombies were now in the house, and they’d soon be upstairs as well.

  “I know a way out,” the jester said as he moved toward the staircase in the spacious sitting room.

  “We can’t go down there,” I yelled, following him to the top of the stairs. “They’re already in the building.”

  At that moment, another long-haired dumbass took the opportunity to kneel beside me and blow pot smoke into Azazel’s cage.

  “Heh, heh,” he chuckled. “Kitty gonna be stoned.”

  How the hell had the idiot missed the mayhem around him?

  Maybe ignorance really is bliss.

  “That is so not cool,” Ariel scolded h
im. “You don’t even know if he lets his cat smoke.”

  Likely meaning to push him away from Azazel’s carrier, she inadvertently shoved him so hard he tumbled backward down the stairs – just as one of the invading zombies reached the lowest step. With our mouths hanging open in disbelief, the jester and I glanced at each other and then back down the stairs, where the zombie and five of his mates were devouring the screaming stoner who’d taken the fall.

  The redheaded girl wore a horrified, shameful expression on her face, but the unfortunate accident had probably saved our lives. The zombies who’d converged on his body had now wedged themselves on the staircase, temporarily blocking the path from other marauding creatures.

  “We have to go up,” the jester said, grabbing the stunned redhead’s hand and dragging her back toward the rear hallway.

  Without hesitation, I followed the two of them to a narrow staircase I hadn’t noticed before. Rapidly, we leapt up the wooden steps. Glancing backward, I noted several of their friends had begun to follow us. But the zombies had either cleared the main staircase or found a way up the ramp created by the collapsed gallery because, as soon as the unfortunate people reached the foot of the stairs, they were tackled from behind.

  At the top of the staircase, I set Azazel’s carrier on the floor and signaled for the jester to help me push a large wardrobe from the wall and pivot it onto its side to block the stairs. We managed to shove it in place just as the first undead creature reached it. With just one of them pushing against the cabinet, it held long enough for the three of us to make our next move.

  I felt a tug on my elbow and turned to see Ariel pointing toward an open doorway, where the jester was waiting for me.

  Quickly, I picked up the carrier and followed the two of them onto a back deck. From there, we had a hazy view of Ursulines Avenue and the zombie hordes still being lured by the music, which, sadly, no one had thought to shut off yet. I wasn’t sure what my new pals had in mind, but the only exit appeared to be a multistory staircase leading to the gated driveway below.

  I shut the door behind me. “Now, what?”

  The jester pointed to a side gate in the wall lining the driveway. “That leads to a narrow alley behind the empty house next door. We can use it to get out – and then run like hell to Bourbon.”

  I shrugged. Looked like, regardless of what choice I made, I was going to die: either there in the House of Death or down in the zombie-filled streets three stories below. The worst aspect of that realization, though, wasn’t so much my impending death – or even Azazel’s. I shuddered instead to think of what it would mean for Clare: She’d never learn what happened to us, and without me by her side, she might not last long either.

  It tore me up inside to let her down, but at the moment, I had limited options.

  Might as well go down swinging.

  Just as the three of us reached the driveway, we heard a crash above us and spotted at least two zombies milling about the third-floor deck. Luckily, they hadn’t noticed us yet. Unfortunately, though, a lot of the screaming had faded, meaning the zombies had nearly finished brunch and would soon be searching for their next meal.

  Cautiously, we opened the gate at the far end of the driveway, crept along the narrow alley behind the adjacent house, and turned onto an even narrower lane on the other side of the vacant structure. At the gate facing Ursulines, we peered through the metal bars and watched a few more zombies trickle past, en route to the pulsating buffet on the corner.

  I extended my hand to the dark-haired jester. “By the way, I’m Joe.”

  He shook my hand and grinned. “I’m Peter.” He cocked his head toward the redhead. “That’s Marci.”

  I turned to her. “Thought your name was Ariel?”

  She smiled bashfully. “Oh, that’s just my middle name.” She glanced down at the carrier. “Sorry for freaking Azazel out. I’ve always had a thing for kitties.”

  I shrugged. “Hey, no harm done. I figure if you hadn’t been curious about my cat, she and I would’ve died back there.”

  “Along with all our friends,” Marci whispered.

  “I’m sorry you had to witness that,” I said. “The world turned insane overnight.”

  “Well, it took a little longer than that,” she said, still wearing a shocked expression.

  “Yeah,” I replied. “Guess it’s been going crazy for a while now.”

  “No kidding,” Peter agreed. “But I’ll say this, if you hadn’t been there, we’d probably be dead, too.”

  “Yeah,” Marci added. “Thanks for pulling us off the gallery in time.”

  For two people who’d seemed fairly stoned ten minutes before, they were both pretty damn sober now.

  “Listen,” I asked, “where are you two going?”

  “Marci’s parents have a place Uptown,” Peter replied. “Think we’ll try to make it up there.”

  “But you don’t even have weapons,” I noted. “Look, I’m headed to my van right now. I can take you out of the city if you want?”

  Marci shook her head. “I need to see if my parents are alive. I only came over to Peter’s place for the party and stayed because… well, because.”

  Obviously, Peter and Marci were a couple, so it made perfect sense she’d want to be with her boyfriend as the world ended. Even if they’d been too stoned to accept the reality. They’d likely figured the best way to face – or ignore – the apocalypse was to host a balls-out bash with all their pals. The ultimate hurricane party for the storm of the century – not in the hope of ignoring the typical wind, rain, and flooding outside, but a once-in-a-lifetime cyclone of the walking dead.

  Hell, if I had a choice, I would’ve spent last night with Clare. Preferably well beyond New Orleans.

  Gazing between the bars of the gate, I noted more passing zombies.

  “Look,” I whispered, “you two haven’t been out there yet, so you don’t know how it is. You’re gonna be scared, and that’s OK, but try not to run. Better to lumber along like they do and blend into the background. Of course, if any of them do sniff you out, be prepared to bolt as fast as you can.”

  They both nodded slowly.

  I set down Azazel’s carrier, removed my backpack, and unzipped the largest compartment. Carefully, I located two of my kitchen knives and handed them to Peter. “You both need something to protect you. These aren’t much, but they’re better than nothing.”

  “So, what do we do?” He smirked. “Go for the brain, like you see in the movies?”

  I nodded. “Pretty much. Seems to be the only way to put them down for good. You hit ’em anywhere else, and they’ll just keep coming for you… till they get what they want.”

  Marci gulped. “And what’s that?”

  Seriously? Haven’t we been down this road already? Haven’t you seen enough to answer your own question?

  Grimacing, I tucked the axe in the side pouch, resecured my backpack, and picked up Azazel’s carrier. “What do you think?”

  She surely knew the answer but simply didn’t want to vocalize it. I couldn’t really blame her. I’d witnessed the zombies in action, and even I didn’t want to admit the truth.

  With a deep breath, I pulled the derringer from my pocket and unlocked the gate. “Remember,” I said, looking at each of them, “don’t run if you can help it, and whatever you do, try not to scream. That’s a dead giveaway you’re not one of them.” I sighed. “Ready?”

  They both held their knives aloft and nodded.

  “Stay back for a sec. While I check to see if the coast is clear.”

  Again, they both nodded in compliance.

  I opened the gate slowly, trying to minimize any creaking, and cautiously peeked into the hazy street. To the right, the intersection was still packed with zombies and their victims’ remains, but to the left, only a few creatures meandered beside the line of parked cars. The herds had obviously converged on the smorgasbord of stoners inside and just outside the house on the corner.

  Luck
y for us, unlucky for them.

  I turned back to my new friends and nodded, then together, we lumbered up the block toward Bourbon Street, sidestepping zombies and trying not to draw unnecessary attention to ourselves. Although I’d had my doubts about the naive couple, Peter and Marci managed to follow my instructions. Their faces reflected the fear and disgust they likely felt, but they remained calm and stalwart all the way to Bourbon.

  Between the bloody Quartermaster and Myriam’s quiet launderette, I paused and, after ensuring no zombies were in the vicinity, asked, “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?”

  Peter nodded.

  “OK, then,” I whispered. “Good luck to you both. I hope you make it.”

  “You, too,” Marci replied.

  With their knives at the ready, the two of them headed northeast on Bourbon. I watched them for a moment, hoping they’d survive the day, then I continued northwest on Ursulines, past Myriam’s launderette, and prayed the last three blocks of my journey would be the easiest yet.

  Chapter

  17

  “Sometimes, the world of the living gets mixed up with the world of the dead.” – Mrs. Bertha Mills, The Others (2001)

  I covered the first block, between Bourbon and Dauphine, with little trouble. Less than two blocks from Rampart Street, however, I was forced to fire the derringer for the first time. Actually, I missed the initial shot, so I ended up using both chambers.

  I’d just crossed Dauphine when a girl wearing a blood-spattered school uniform stumbled from an open alley. Thanks to the gore, it was hard to pinpoint her age. She could’ve been a senior in high school, a well-developed freshman, or a twentysomething woman dressed up as a slutty parochial student. Living in New Orleans, particularly during Mardi Gras, Halloween, or pretty much any weekend, I’d always found it best not to judge.