Once we’d scouted and secured all six places, we returned to the Pet Mart, headed to the catwalk, and ventured toward the roof. No doubt Jenny’s grandparents had heard all the gunshots and were still anxiously waiting for their granddaughter’s safe return.
Chapter
29
“Don’t ask me why I can’t leave without my wife, and I won’t ask you why you can.” – David Dutton, The Crazies (2010)
When Jenny and I emerged from the dark stairwell into the afternoon sunlight, we had to give our eyes several seconds to adjust to the brightness. Sure enough, Alvin and Ellen were waiting on the opposite roof. As soon as they spotted their granddaughter, the tension visibly drained from their faces.
Several bulging plastic bags surrounded the old couple’s feet. Apparently, while Jenny and I had been on our zombie-killing mission, her grandparents had ventured downstairs to gather some requisite cleaning supplies and water bottles for our next task: clean-up and sanitation.
Although eager to reach my wife, I didn’t want to abandon the Summers clan just yet. So, after coaxing Ellen across the makeshift bridge, I left her with Jenny on the roof of the Pet Mart and assisted Alvin in lugging the supplies between buildings. Luckily, our recent ruckus had lured most of the zombies to the front of the pet store, dramatically reducing the size of our ravenous audience in the access road. Crossing the bridge was now significantly less distracting.
Once all four of us had safely reached the roof of the Pet Mart, we ventured downstairs to make the stores and restaurants more livable. While I didn’t have time to help them tidy and sanitize every nook and cranny, I did lend a hand with two major tasks: clearing out a supply closet and hauling the corpses and body parts (even that of poor Francis) there for temporary storage.
By then, it was time for me to hit the road again. So, the four of us crawled back across the bridge. Even Jenny made it without incident. Perhaps she was simply too exhausted to be scared.
Taking her earlier advice, I crept back into the van for some toiletries and a change of clothes and shoes, then tried to make myself presentable in the men’s bathroom of Home Depot. Not easy without running water, but hand sanitizer, dry shampoo, deodorant, and mouthwash worked a bit of magic. I stuffed all my filthy items into a garbage bag and lugged it back to the contractor entrance, where the Summers family patiently awaited me.
Although Alvin seemed to have a solid plan for making use of the adjacent buildings and organizing the supplies we’d found during our clean-up duties, he needed just one more favor from me. So, after helping him with some necessary preparations, I was finally ready to leave.
Back in the van, I stowed my shotgun, bloody clothes, and supplies (including a couple ponchos I’d found on the floor of Home Depot). Then, I sprayed any areas I’d touched with either 409 or Febreze and hung the pine-scented air fresheners on the heating vents.
Near the contractor entrance, I gave the Summers clan some extra ammo and told them to keep the Beretta, derringer, extra shotgun, and flashlight. Yeah, I could’ve given them even more weapons, but frankly, I wanted to make sure Clare and I were well protected on our dangerous trek northward.
Luckily, the Summers family seemed to appreciate the guns – and all the assistance I’d offered them. So much so, in fact, they ended up parting with a couple rolls of duct tape from the cache of supplies they’d managed to assemble prior to the mass looting.
“I know you don’t have time to fix your radiator yet,” Alvin said, “but maybe this will help when you get where you’re going.”
I accepted the tape and heartily shook his hand. “Thanks, Al. I hope everything works out for you and your girls.”
“No, thank you, Joe,” Ellen said as she leaned forward to kiss my gore-free cheek. “We couldn’t have done all that without you.”
“Yes,” Jenny agreed, pecking me on the opposite cheek. “Thanks for everything. Especially helping to save the animals.”
In spite of my cantankerous ways, I was pleased to have aided the family. Frankly, part of me wanted to stay with the Summers clan a while longer. My headache had returned with a vengeance, and I could’ve used some sleep.
But my Home Depot stop had already delayed me longer than necessary – and I was no closer to repairing my busted radiator (or my dangling side-view mirror). Besides, I needed to do one last favor for Alvin – while he still had enough natural light to accomplish his task.
“Well, guys,” I said, edging toward the glass doors, “I should hit the road. Good luck to the three of you.”
“You, too,” Jenny said. “I hope you find Clare.”
“I will,” I assured her. “That’s not even a question.”
She smiled sadly, and I turned away to avoid contemplating her expression.
After prying open the entrance one last time, I did a brief zombie check, unlocked the passenger-side door, and climbed past Azazel. I almost introduced her to the Summers family, but she’d already been rattled enough. Even though Alvin, Ellen, and Jenny adored animals, my cat had never been particularly friendly to strangers on a good day – much less a day where she’d endured multiple rollovers and innumerable zombie threats.
I set the crowbar and duct tape on the floor, not far from the Mossberg and my go-bag. Out of sheer habit, I made sure I’d slipped my wallet in the back pocket of my fresh jeans – not that credit cards and IDs mattered anymore. Then, I chased down a couple aspirin with a swig of warm soda, waved goodbye to the Summers clan, and watched them temporarily close the glass doors before shutting and locking my own door.
After buckling my seatbelt and starting the rumbling engine, which alerted quite a few zombies near Whole Foods, I blasted the heater and slowly drove away from Home Depot. As I plowed through any and all zombies in my diagonal path across the parking lot, I started blowing my loud-ass horn.
Part of my final favor to Alvin, the horn-blowing did exactly as expected: lured all the zombies away from the stores and restaurants. Of course, the hordes of undead were now following my van, as if it were some demented Pied Piper of New Orleans. Maybe it wasn’t the safest plan, but I drove just fast enough to stay ahead of the stumbling creatures and avoid any other undead obstacles converging from elsewhere in the parking lot.
By the time I reached the street, it looked as though Azazel and I were leading a parade of costumed zombies in the Intergalactic Krewe of Chewbacchus. Only, the flesh-eaters behind my van were the real deal.
Carefully, I pulled onto Tulane Avenue, and instead of driving west as I’d originally planned, I turned right and headed back toward Broad. It would allow me a lengthier stretch to lure away the undead and check on my new friends’ progress. With nearly all the zombies in the vicinity trailing my grotesque honking van, I suspected Jenny and her grandparents were temporarily in the clear.
Through my passenger-side window, I could see Jenny and Ellen prying open the doors with some tools of their own, then I watched as Alvin drove a forklift we’d found in the lumber section through the entrance. While the ladies kept watch, he haphazardly veered toward the propane tanks, lowered the lift, and scooped up an entire bank. After dumping his load inside, he returned for another bank of propane tanks.
When it was finally time for me to pick up speed and ditch the zombies, several of which had gotten dangerously close to my van, I realized the spry old man had made three back-to-back loading trips and managed to haul nearly a hundred propane tanks, plus one large refilling tank, into the store. Enough fuel to last the small family quite a long time.
With their task complete, Alvin, Ellen, and Jenny closed the doors and waved at me through the glass. Waving in return, I stepped on the gas and left the zombie horde in a cloud of exhaust. As I headed down Tulane, I glanced at Azazel’s carrier and noticed her green eyes watching me through the slits.
“Well, those were some nice folks back there,” I said, my focus on the road again. “But it’s a good thing they decided to stay behind. I don’t think we coul
d’ve fit the three of them, your mama, her mama, and all those animals in here after all.”
Besides, Azazel never would’ve tolerated it. As far as she was concerned, there was only enough room for one furbaby. Believe me, Clare and I knew who called the shots in our own small family.
Chapter
30
“Plans are pointless. Staying alive is as good as it gets.” – Selena, 28 Days Later… (2002)
At the intersection of Tulane and South Broad, I turned right and headed southwest. A few blocks later, Broad passed under the I-10, the highway I’d almost gotten stuck on. Gazing upward, I felt grateful I hadn’t continued to push my way along that route, which had literally become a parking lot.
Rather inconveniently, several zombies spotted me from the twenty-foot-high overpass and impulsively decided to belly-flop onto the van, just as I drove beneath them. Luckily, they all splatted on the pavement behind me, and though I doubted any of them had survived the fall, I certainly wasn’t planning to stop and make sure. Besides, even if their skulls hadn’t split open on the asphalt, their broken limbs would likely guarantee they wouldn’t be able to chase me anytime soon.
Feeling pretty pleased with myself, I turned right onto Earhart Boulevard and immediately ran into a small traffic jam.
Shit. So much for my grand plan.
Apparently, numerous residents were still alive and attempting to flee the city. To make the situation worse, plenty of zombies wandered between the vehicles, slowing down our progress even more.
I glanced at the temperature gauge on my dashboard and grimaced. While the stop at Home Depot had taken much longer than intended, it had also allowed my radiator to cool down a little. Naturally, I still had to run the heater to keep the temperature in check, and though that little trick had worked since leaving the Summers clan, it definitely wasn’t foolproof.
As I came to a screeching halt behind a line of cars and trucks and watched the temperature gauge steadily rise, I realized the van would still overheat if I didn’t keep moving. Hell, if the motorists in front of me didn’t move their asses, we’d likely all be eaten anyway.
When I could, I turned off Earhart and weaved my way through the pothole-riddled streets of a decimated industrial neighborhood. Since few motorists had opted for a similar detour, I only had to contend with an occasional pack of the undead.
I made several turns and seemed to get nowhere fast. Figuring we’d gone far enough to bypass the traffic jam, I decided to head back toward Earhart.
Not far from Xavier University, a predominantly black college, I passed a mob of about ten zombified students. Soon afterward, I spotted a group of white middle-class men and women huddled inside an open garage, dressed in business casual clothing and carrying suitcases. When they saw my vehicle, they darted toward the street, waving their arms and shouting.
“Please give us a ride,” a blonde lady in her mid-thirties pleaded.
“We need to get out of here,” a tall, dark-haired man in his early forties added.
While driving past them, I realized not a single one of them carried a weapon. Not a gun or a blade between them. Hell, none of those idiots even had a bat or a fucking golf club.
Glancing in the side-view mirror on my left, I watched the pack of zombies take notice of the fresh meat. I really didn’t need to see another group of undead devour another bunch of desperate humans, like the ones outside Louis Armstrong Park. Darwin might’ve been right – evolution was all about survival of the fittest – but still, I wasn’t a completely heartless asshole. Or at least I tried not to be.
“Fuck.” I slammed on the brakes, unbuckled my seatbelt, and bolted to the back of the van. After securing the tarp over my arsenal, I opened the rear doors and beckoned toward the six people. “Get in,” I ordered. “Quick!”
Still gripping their expensive-looking suitcases like their lives depended on it, the half-dozen idiots – three men and three women – jogged toward my van and clambered inside. When the last of them had tossed his luggage onto the floor and scrambled after it, I shut and locked the doors, just as the group of zombies reached us. Thumps resounded around the vehicle as the undead bodies tossed themselves against the back and side doors.
As the thuds and groans loudened, I hastened between my six new passengers, some of whom had already made themselves comfortable on the sofa or at our dining table. Quickly, I reclaimed the driver’s seat, stepped on the gas pedal, and sped down the street.
“Thank you, mister,” a woman said.
“Yes, thank you,” a few others echoed.
I had just turned onto Calliope Street, planning to use South Jefferson Davis Parkway as a shortcut back to Earhart, when the tall, dark-haired man stepped between the front seats, gazed at Azazel’s carrier, and grasped the seatbelt. Before he could unbuckle her, she hissed at him.
“No,” I said, “the carrier stays there. She’s all strapped in and sleeping.”
Azazel hissed at him again, both to underscore and undermine my point.
The man shot me a disgruntled look but released the seatbelt. His displeasure only deepened when I hit a particularly large pothole and he nearly lost his grip on the seat.
I kept one hand on the steering wheel as I buckled my own seatbelt. “Hey, why don’t you sit back there? Could get too bumpy to stand.”
Balancing himself against the seat, he shot me one more nasty look before taking my advice and returning to his friends.
As I turned right onto Jefferson Davis, I slowed down and glanced over my shoulder at the expectant faces staring at me. “My name is Joe.”
Most of them nodded or said “hello,” but none of them introduced themselves.
Checking the road ahead, I asked, “Why don’t you all have any weapons?” I glanced back at my inconvenient passengers. “Don’t you know what’s going on?”
“We were supposed to be picked up by the National Guard, but they never showed up,” a balding red-haired man explained in a nasally voice.
I shot him a so-fucking-what look, then faced forward again. “You should all still have weapons. Just in case.”
“I don’t own a gun,” one of the women said. “None of us do.”
“Doesn’t have to be guns,” I replied. “Even a crowbar would be helpful against a hungry zombie.”
While I’d initially thought each of my new passengers had a profound death wish, I realized the truth was much simpler: They were just clueless. Well-to-do types, either residents from a fancy Uptown neighborhood or executives in town for a convention. Either way, they were probably the least prepared – or least resourceful – people I’d encountered so far, and I wondered how the hell they’d survived for so long.
“Well, listen,” I said, turning onto Earhart, “I’m heading to Baton Rouge. I can take you all as far as that.”
An uncomfortable silence greeted my offer. Glancing over my shoulder, I noticed a few of them exchanging frowns and arched eyebrows.
Now, what?
Before I lost my patience, I decided to ignore them for a while and just continue driving down Earhart, swerving around bodies, zombies, and stalled cars whenever necessary. Eventually, I planned to merge onto South Clearview Parkway and turn onto Airline Drive, which would ultimately become Airline Highway and hopefully guide me all the way to Baton Rouge – and to Clare.
Chapter
31
“Good. Bad. I’m the guy with the gun.” – Ash, Army of Darkness (1992)
A few minutes later, I heard murmurs behind me. My passengers had begun talking amongst themselves, quietly enough that, with my compromised hearing, I couldn’t understand their words. Clearly, they didn’t want me to understand.
I gazed down at my hip holster. Wisely, I’d checked the .38 before leaving Home Depot – just to ensure it was fully loaded. Since my passengers weren’t likewise armed, I wasn’t exactly worried. Just annoyed.
“Jesus,” one of the women suddenly said. “Why’s it so hot in here? Do you h
ave the heater on?”
“I’m having radiator problems,” I explained without turning around. “The heat helps to keep the temps down.”
“Well, can you turn it off?” one of the guys asked. “Maybe turn the A/C on instead?”
“I said,” I insisted, “the radiator is having some trouble. The heat needs to stay on. Sorry.”
Can’t believe I just apologized to these asshats.
“Listen,” another guy interjected, “maybe we need to talk about where we’re headed.”
“What?” Had I heard him right?
“Yeah,” one of the women added, “maybe we should vote on where we should go.”
“I’m going to Baton Rouge,” I repeated.
My van. My decision. Piss off if you don’t like it.
“That’s not right,” another woman protested. “There are seven of us in here. We should all have a say.”
What the holy fuck is going on? What’s wrong with these people?
I had kindly welcomed them into my van, just moments before they would’ve become zombie food, and that was how they repaid me: by staging a mutiny?
As far as I was concerned, even Azazel’s opinion counted more than whatever those pricks wanted – and I was positive that, if she could’ve spoken English, she would’ve ordered me to keep heading toward the state capital. Where her beloved mama was.
“Yeah, we should turn around and head east,” the whiny redhead stated. “We heard Baton Rouge was almost as bad as New Orleans.”
“Look,” I said through gritted teeth, “I’m going to get my wife in Baton Rouge. You can either ride there with me, or I can let you out now.”
Zombie Chaos (Book 1): Escape from the Big Easy Page 16
