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

by Martone, D. L.

  I would’ve sidestepped her, as with other zombies I’d passed, but she seemed more determined than most. Once she’d gotten a whiff of me and Azazel, she had no intention of letting us go. So, as she continued toward me, I aimed the derringer, pulled the trigger… and completely fucking missed her.

  On some psychological level, I could’ve missed on purpose: I had yet to kill a woman, and even after the bloodbath I’d just witnessed, I still found it hard to do so.

  Again, I hadn’t had time to think when I’d dealt with the four zombies in the courtyard. I’d merely reacted on instinct.

  But, just the day before, that girl could’ve been hanging out with her friends or shopping for a holiday dress in one of the French Quarter’s swanky clothing stores. Now, she was a fucking mindless zombie, with some asswipe pointing a gun at her head.

  It was also highly probable I was simply a lousy shot. Though I’d driven to a shooting range in Gretna, a suburb on the West Bank of the river, almost every day since receiving Samir’s tell-all flash drive, I was far from a skilled sniper. In fact, I still sucked at shooting – just not as much as I had a couple weeks earlier.

  In either case, chivalry or incompetence seemed like poor reasons to miss a target at less than ten feet away. So, before the once-sexy schoolgirl could get five feet from me, I pulled the trigger again, and she promptly fell to the ground, with a .38-sized hole in her forehead.

  And joy of joys, the gunshots had alerted other zombies. In retrospect, I should’ve used the axe; compared to the derringer, it offered a much less conspicuous way to kill. I knew better than to call unnecessary attention to myself, something I’d even warned Peter and Marci not to do. But, despite my success with putting down the male half of the T-1000, I’d been worried about getting the axe stuck in another zombie skull and making myself even more of a target.

  Essentially, though, pulling a trigger equated to ringing the dinner bell. From both ends of Dauphine, various buildings in the vicinity, and farther down Ursulines, toward the former party house, hundreds of zombies came trotting and stumbling toward me. Hell, I didn’t wait to count them all; there could’ve been thousands. By the time I’d sprinted toward the next street, Burgundy, I had put some distance between myself and the hordes of zombies flowing through the Quarter.

  Unfortunately, there were now half a dozen zombified creatures trudging toward me from the direction of Rampart. I slowed my pace, set Azazel’s carrier onto the cab of a pickup truck, and reloaded the derringer. Two chambers made it a less-than-ideal pistol for shooting the undead. But how could I have asked Troy for a better piece when I’d felt lucky he’d given me anything at all?

  As soon as I loaded the stupid gun, the six zombies had closed the remaining distance, forcing me to play some ring-around-the-rosie, Benny Hill-style bullshit just to keep the truck between me and them. Initially, they all tried to pursue me in the same direction, so I maintained a safe distance as I shot the first two in their temples. Two lucky shots that cut the number of my would-be murderers by a third.

  In a rather unlucky turn of events, however, the remaining four zombies split up. Not consciously, it seemed. More like they inadvertently tripped over the corpses of their two cohorts and pinballed into one another… until one pair headed toward the hood of the truck and the other pair circled toward the tailgate. I glanced toward the intersection of Burgundy and Ursulines, realized I only had a couple minutes before the hordes had caught up with me and Azazel, and noted I had mere seconds before the four nearest zombies collided with me on the sidewalk.

  Impulsively, I stepped onto the front passenger-side wheel, jumped onto the hood of the truck, and scrambled onto the cab beside my cat. From there, I aimed carefully and shot two of the nearest creatures in their foreheads: a formerly cute, bare-breasted woman painted to resemble a giant daisy and wearing about two dozen sets of Mardi Gras beads (which numerous ogling guys had surely given her before the shit had hit the fan), and a sixtysomething man dressed as an outrageous pimp.

  Shooting the pretty daisy girl was no fun, even if one of her perky breasts now hung grotesquely from her sternum. The pimp, however, looked like the kind of dirty old man who’d chuckle innocently as he attempted to grab the daisy’s ass: a thought that went through my head, making it much easier to put a bullet in his.

  With little time to waste, I pocketed the gun, grabbed Azazel’s carrier, and stepped onto the hood of the pickup truck. As I leapt to the sidewalk and bowled the two remaining zombies aside, a bit of zombie goo landed on the back of the carrier, threatening to drip between the slits.

  “Don’t lick that,” I warned Azazel as I sprinted toward Rampart. “You’ll turn into a zombie cat, and your mama will never forgive me.”

  I awkwardly wiped the carrier with my T-shirt – not a simple feat for an overweight guy on the run – but honestly, the smell seemed to have repulsed her anyway. Twitching her nose, she scooted toward the front gate of the carrier. She’d always been a damn smart cat, a consistent groomer, and a rather fickle eater, so I wasn’t terribly surprised by her behavior. Now, if she’d been a dog, I had no doubt she’d have been lapping up that nasty shit in a heartbeat.

  I rounded the corner, slowed my pace, and continued toward the familiar swinging doors of our parking lot. Although there were numerous undead creatures in both directions on Rampart, I trusted my steps were quiet enough to evade notice.

  Presently out of sight of the zombies doggedly pursuing me on Ursulines, I could only hope it would take them a few minutes to figure out where their meal had gone.

  Chapter

  18

  “You’ll be sorry I ever opened the gate.” – Mr. Dudley, The Haunting (1963)

  When I arrived in front of the giant swinging doors, I made sure I was relatively alone before placing Azazel’s carrier on the sidewalk and reaching for the garage door opener in the middle pocket of my backpack. I worried it might’ve been crushed or damaged during my varied tussles with the undead, but luckily, it appeared to be intact.

  Of course, it didn’t matter – since after I pressed the button, nothing happened. As expected.

  The “swinging” doors couldn’t swing manually – at least not from the sidewalk. They were meant to stay shut most of the time – to protect the cars, vans, trucks, and motorcycles inside from vandalism and outright theft. Tenants were only supposed to enter the lot by using the garage door opener, which, when pressed, would activate the motor attached to the doors and cause them to pivot slowly inward.

  A couple minutes later – once you’d had enough time to walk or drive into the lot – the doors would automatically close. When you were ready to leave, you’d simply press the opener again.

  Unfortunately, though, the power outage must’ve affected the whole French Quarter – if not the entire city – so the only people with electricity were those, like Troy, who’d purchased generators and gasoline in preparation for a hurricane (if not a zombie apocalypse). Without electricity powering the motor in the parking lot, the giant swinging doors weren’t swinging anywhere – essentially separating me and Azazel from our much-needed transportation.

  Such a situation had definitely been one of my biggest concerns regarding our inevitable trek from New Orleans. Because, yes, the doors had malfunctioned several times in the past. Not due to an end-of-the-world event, but thanks to the asshole who owned the lot and never maintained the motor properly. In the four years I’d rented a space from him, it had crapped out over a dozen times.

  As I’d done on various occasions, I would have to force my way between the old wooden doors. Luckily, after years of being pushed apart in that way, they had a little give, even for an overweight guy like me.

  Being overloaded with gear and a cat, however, made it more challenging than usual. The zombie situation also made it more time-sensitive. So, after a hasty look around to ensure no unwanted visitors had edged closer, I began pushing and pulling the doors in opposite directions. Eventually, I managed to c
reate an opening that allowed me to squeeze the carrier and my backpack across the threshold, followed by my fat ass.

  Quickly, I closed the gap – to discourage any trailing zombies or looters. Leaving the lot would be more problematic, as I’d somehow have to disengage the mechanism controlling the doors and force them to open manually. I hadn’t quite figured out how to do that yet, especially since the doors themselves were twelve feet high, but I hoped inspiration would strike on my way out.

  I picked up Azazel’s carrier and my backpack and headed into the lot. It saddened me to see so many vehicles there. Although some were stored in the lot by out-of-town residents, who frequently vacationed in New Orleans, most belonged to French Quarter inhabitants. How many of them were still alive – much less in a position to reclaim their vehicles and get the hell out of town?

  Twenty steps into the parking lot, I spotted my baby: a 1988 step van that, to most people, probably would’ve looked like a giant, piece-of-shit delivery truck, just a little smaller than the signature brown ones used by UPS drivers. My fellow horror nuts, conversely, would see what Clare and I saw: a zombie-killing survival vehicle.

  In its former life, it likely had been a mere delivery truck, but all that had changed when an enterprising George Romero fan – whom Clare and I had met many years before at a comic-con in downtown New Orleans – decided it would make a terrific zombie-mobile. During its impressive transformation, the guy had gone all out to craft as realistic a post-apoc vehicle as possible, with reinforced doors, steel bars across the front to serve as an effective battering ram, steel bars on the sides and across all the windows for added protection, and a red-splattered exterior painted to look as though the van had bulldozed through a herd of zombies.

  Though hard to tell from the outside, my baby was also a fully equipped, self-contained recreational vehicle. It had water and sewage tanks, a bathroom with a toilet and shower, a generator, a comfy bed, the works. An ideal setup for two married adults and one ornery cat.

  The owner of the van was a native New Orleanian, but by the time we met him, he’d been doing the national comic-con circuit for a while. Typically, he would drive into the exhibition hall at a particular event, encircle the van with grotesque zombie mannequins, and charge folks five bucks each to pose for a photo op. Hell, I’d even had my picture taken in front of it – a fact that seemed almost prophetic now.

  Shortly after receiving Samir’s flash drive, Clare and I had opted to unload our blue pickup truck in favor of something more ideal for living on the road during a zombie apocalypse. Having recalled the zombie-mobile from previous comic-cons, I’d phoned the guy, explained the situation, and made him an offer. Predictably, he hadn’t believed my story about the imminent apocalypse but humored me anyway, as fellow Romero fans often did.

  In truth, he’d been overjoyed to dump the vehicle for the five grand I’d proposed. His wife had recently given birth to their first kid, and he’d decided to trade in his comic-con business for a more stable, less travel-intensive career. Their loss, our gain – a trade he and his wife probably regretted when all the zombie chaos started.

  Along with a small arsenal and a ton of other essentials, we finally had a worthy zombie-mobile, ready for the apocalypse… well, almost. It might’ve initially cost us five grand, but thanks to the sale of the pickup truck and Clare’s ring (not to mention all the credit cards I’d never need to pay back), I’d pooled quite a bunch of money and ended up putting another seven thousand into it. With some engine repairs and a slew of alterations, the old van was now prepared for just about anything.

  Admittedly, the owner of the parking lot hadn’t been thrilled when I’d replaced my blue pickup with “this monstrosity,” as he’d called it. Heavy and a bit unwieldy, it wasn’t the easiest vehicle to park in that tight lot, and it didn’t get the best gas mileage either, but in my humble opinion, the van was still a beauty. As it came into view, I finally released the overdue breath I’d inadvertently been holding. Thankfully, no one had stolen or vandalized it since the zombies invaded – a reasonable fear I’d kept from Clare.

  Immediately, I moved to the front passenger side and unlocked the door. I set my backpack on the floor, placed the carrier on the seat, and buckled it in place so Azazel would be safe on the road. I closed the door and moved toward the back of the van. Since I hadn’t been completely prepared to leave town, I still had a few items to stow and secure before hitting the road.

  As I unlocked the door, I heard soft thuds and grunts behind me. Suspecting a zombie had found its way inside the lot, I turned to confront it and found myself staring at two young black punks atop the brick wall separating the property from the one behind it. Before I had a chance to bolt, hide, or defend myself, they had landed on the ground and aimed their handguns at me.

  The tall, beefy one was likely in his early twenties, while the short, skinny one looked no older than eighteen. No doubt, their speed and stamina would rival mine – not to mention the fact that their handguns were surely loaded. Unlike my stupid derringer.

  Just my goddamn luck.

  Chapter

  19

  “You gotta be fuckin’ kidding.” – Palmer, The Thing (1982)

  “Don’t fuckin’ move,” the older one said.

  I stepped toward the side of my vehicle and slowly raised my hands. “Look, guys, I don’t want any trouble.”

  Ignoring my plea, the younger one asked, “Whatcha got in da van, man?”

  I couldn’t figure out the smartest way to answer his question, so I not-so-wisely said nothing.

  With his gun still pointed at me, the tall one walked toward the back door, my keys still dangling from the lock, and opened it. He pulled back a tarp I’d used to cover the weapons and gear I still needed to put away.

  “Holy shit,” he yelled, his gun shifting downward. “This fucker’s armed to the teeth.”

  “Tell you what,” I said, lowering my hands, “just take those guns and let me get out of here.”

  “Fuck no, man,” the older one said, once again aiming his gun at me. “We takin’ your ride.”

  My heart seemed to plummet into my stomach. After everything I’d been through in the past sixteen hours, I couldn’t believe two thieving thugs – not ravenous zombies – were going to stop me. Even though I suspected looters and vandals could be a problem throughout the city, just as they’d been in the wake of many hurricanes, I hadn’t yet witnessed any purposeful theft or destruction. Just wanton damage by the zombies and desperate acts of survival by the humans who remained.

  As I stood beside the van, contemplating my options, the tall kid slid one of my shotguns from the pile. He tucked his own gun into his waistband and held out mine like a cocky sheriff from the Old West. When he took the fun too far, attempting to spin the shotgun like the Rifleman himself, he lost control of the weapon, and it clattered onto the pavement. While he scrambled to retrieve the shotgun – and his friend turned away from me to give him shit for being an idiot – I took my chance to slip toward the front of the parking space and behind the Range Rover sitting beside my van.

  I knelt behind the front driver’s-side tire, removed the derringer from my pants pocket, and fumbled in the other pocket for a couple bullets. With all the guns I’d stored only a few yards away, I couldn’t believe I had to load the damn derringer again. How did I stand a chance against two automatic weapons and whatever else those two assholes decided to throw at me?

  “Where’d you go, man?” the older one yelled. “Shit, you can’t trust nobody.”

  “Last chance, guys,” I shouted with more bravado than I felt. “Get the fuck outta here, or it’s your funeral!”

  “Fuck you, cocksucker,” the older one replied, his voice coming from the other side of the van. “I’m gonna shoot you with your own damn gun. Gonna shoot you in the head, too, so’s you don’t come back as one of them dead fuckers.”

  “Jamal, come on, man,” the younger one chimed in, his voice getting closer to
my position. “Why da hell we want dis dude’s piece-of-shit van? Probably runs like crap. Let’s just grab some uh dose guns an’ get da fuck outta here.”

  Bending forward, I peered underneath the SUV. The shorter one moved between the two vehicles, edging closer to the front bumpers, while Jamal seemed to be scoping out the far side of the van. Abruptly, his shoes stopped next to the passenger-side door.

  Shit. Azazel.

  “What’s that?” Jamal asked. “You got a fuckin’ cat in here? What are you, some kind of pussy?”

  The other one immediately stopped in his tracks. “Hey, man, fuck you. I gotta cat, too. Leave dis dude alone an’ let’s get outta here.”

  “Well,” Jamal said, as I heard the passenger-side door open and a small hiss in response, “maybe I’ll just cap the cat first.”

  Afraid he’d make good on his threat, I rose to my feet, stooped over in an awkward crouch, and hastened along the side of the Range Rover, toward the rear of the parking spaces. In my peripheral vision, I saw the shorter one turn toward me, but I reached the other side of the van before he could shoot me.

  When Jamal spotted me, however, he immediately whirled from Azazel’s carrier, raised the shotgun, and pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  Nothing happened, not even when he pulled the trigger again.

  When he’d threatened to shoot Azazel, my paternal instincts went into overdrive – not because he had my shotgun, but because he had his own piece, and I couldn’t see, from the other side of the Range Rover, which one he’d been holding. If I’d realized he was still clutching the Mossberg, I wouldn’t have worried at all. Cuz the truth was… I hadn’t taken the time to load the shotgun before putting it in the van.