“What’re you doing out here, Joe?”
The unexpected sound almost flatlined my heartbeat. It took a few seconds to recognize the voice of the crotchety old man who lived in one of the front apartments of my building. He was standing above me, his slippered feet planted on the small stoop to my right. I’d been too distracted by the carnage to notice him.
“For fuck’s sake, Robert,” I said, glancing up at him. “I almost pissed myself.”
Chuckling, he eyed my gore-stained face, clothes, and hands. “Good to see you made it. Since I didn’t hear any noise back there, I thought you might’ve bitten the dust.”
Clare and I had warned as many friends, relatives, and neighbors about the impending zombie apocalypse as we could. Thinking we’d finally seen one too many horror flicks, most of them had stopped speaking to us.
Though Robert wasn’t one of the naysayers, he’d never seemed convinced by Samir’s news. Even after we’d played him the audio file. But his calm demeanor in the wake of the Big Easy bloodbath made me suspect he’d either believed us all along or, despite his usual unwillingness to change, adapted to the new normal quickly.
“Nope, still here.” I glanced toward the partially open door behind him, where a scuffed, disturbingly bloody baseball bat leaned against the jamb. “Where’s Carolina?”
Carolina was Robert’s only obvious companion, an aging greyhound who would more often whimper and trot for cover than bark and stand her ground in the face of danger. Loud trucks, thunderstorms, and fireworks terrified her most of all.
He sighed. “Where else? Cowering under the bed upstairs. Ever since the screaming started, she’s refused to come out.”
“Can’t say I blame her. Azazel’s not too happy either.” And I wasn’t too pleased to realize Azazel and Carolina would be just as tempting to a zombie as I had been. Blinking away the image of dead pets in the street, I shifted my focus toward the other front stoop, a few yards to the right of Robert. “Have you seen Allison?”
Allison was our other neighbor, a bitter, thirtysomething Goth chick who rarely told me and Clare “hello,” much less stopped to chat with us.
He shook his head. “She and her boyfriend went away for Halloween. Wanted to spend the night in the doll room at Myrtles.” He chuckled again. “The Quarter always did attract freaks and weirdos.”
As usual, I refrained from contradicting Robert. No point in admitting Clare and I, self-confessed horror nuts, had long dreamed of staying in the infamously creepy, doll-filled bedroom at Myrtles Plantation, the supposedly haunted mansion in St. Francisville.
Robert nodded toward the woman slithering across the bodies on Burgundy, and I followed his gaze.
“I know that little bitch,” he said sardonically. “She tended bar over at Lafitte’s. Cut me off once. Serves her right.”
I stared at my neighbor of four years. “Really? For that, she deserves to be a zombie?”
He shrugged, as unapologetic as always.
If Robert had lived in a suburban house, with a yard of his own, instead of a French Quarter apartment, he probably would’ve been the quintessential curmudgeon on the block, the sort of old man who’d frequently yell, “Hey, you fucking hoodlums, get off my lawn!” at the top of his alcohol-soaked lungs. At least, most people in the neighborhood had viewed him that way.
Clare and I actually liked the guy. We’d often bring him containers of homemade gumbo and jambalaya, let him wash his clothes in our washer and dryer, and visit with him and Carolina on the way home from checking our mail, dropping off our rent check, or running to one of the nearby grocery stores. In exchange for such limited companionship, Robert would regularly check on our place during the summer months, when we’d typically head to northern Michigan to escape the oppressive heat of southern Louisiana.
Still, Robert had a reputation as one of the most disagreeable neighbors in the Quarter. He’d routinely report homeowners for violating the rules of the Vieux Carré Commission, shout at motorists who littered or played their music too loud, and holler at bicyclists who would go the wrong direction on one-way St. Ann or sail past the stop sign at the Dauphine intersection.
Once, I’d even witnessed him picking up a pile of shit some thoughtless dog owner had failed to bag. Then, before I could question him, he’d impressed me by throwing it twenty yards, pegging said owner in the head. That made Robert more than OK in my book.
Naturally, the fact that I understood and condoned Robert’s behavior disturbed my wife, who worried I would become an even grouchier old man someday. But, what could I say? Robert amused me — and made a lot of sense to boot. I found most humans to be just as selfish and inconsiderate as he did. Probably didn’t help my case that he seemed to prefer us to the rest of the neighbors, too.
Unfortunately, the female zombie Robert and I had observed was eyeballing us with a ravenous expression. Whether she’d heard our voices or smelled our flesh hadn’t made a difference. Obviously, the decaying organs in the road weren’t nearly as tantalizing as the fresh meat standing in front of our building.
“Shit.” He grabbed the baseball bat and held it against his right shoulder. “I think she’s coming over here.”
Fucking fantastic. Just what I need. Another hungry zombie to fend off.
“Listen, Robert, I’m getting outta town. Clare’s already at her mother’s place in Baton Rouge.” I glanced toward the crawling girl, who was making decent progress over the bodies strewn across St. Ann. “I think you should come with me.”
“Nah, I’ve lived in this fucking neighborhood for over forty years.” He gripped his bat with both hands, readying himself for a fight. “Goddamn zombies aren’t gonna chase me off.”
I shook my head, realizing that would likely be the last time I ever saw Robert alive. Sadly, I’d already experienced too many last times — and no doubt, there would be plenty more.
I backed toward the open gateway behind me. “Alright, man. If you’re sure…”
“I’m sure.” He looked down at me and winked. “But thanks.”
“Okay, then, good luck.”
“Same to you and Clare.”
Leaving my neighbor to deal with the stingy zombified bartender, I once again retreated behind my gate. It was well past time to go. I just needed to grab what remained of the stuff we planned to take with us, prod Azazel into her carrier, and try to reach our vehicle with as little violence and mayhem as possible.
Shit. I paused halfway down the alley, beside Robert’s kitchen window. I’d almost forgotten: there was still one stop I had to make before leaving town, and it was nonnegotiable.
Chapter 6
“Iʼm your number one fan. Thereʼs nothing to worry about. Youʼre going to be just fine. I will take good care of you. Iʼm your number one fan.”
– Annie Wilkes, Misery (1990)
Sighing in aggravation, I continued toward the courtyard. As I emerged into the disheveled, gore-covered space, I surveyed the two smashed zombies, the large gaping hole in our broken fence, and the fidgeting creature still trapped by the vines. The pirate and the businessman were no longer a problem, but I didn’t want the space cowboy — or the busted fence — to become a dilemma for Robert.
Since he’d decided to remain in New Orleans, he would have enough of a challenge staying alive without being attacked by surprise from the rear of the building. If too many zombies wandered into the courtyard and crowded toward the front gate, some of the more determined creatures might climb atop one another and reach the side windows that led into his living room and kitchen. For all I knew about zombies, some of them might even try to slither beneath the raised house and claw their way through the floorboards.
True, it was Robert’s dumbass choice to stay in Zombietown. I’d offered him a chance to leave, and I couldn’t do much more to protect him from himself — or any of the undead left in the Quarter. But I couldn’t, even with my less-than-stellar conscience, leave him so vulnerable either.
Gazing
at the facedown cowboy, I tried to figure out how to neutralize him without getting into chomping range. I could’ve used my trusty axe, but I didn’t want to risk tripping amid the vines and receive a fatal bite for my trouble.
As an alternative, I placed the axe atop the covered dryer and dragged an old two-by-four from beneath the building. Leftover lumber from the previous Halloween, when I’d built an outdoor movie screen in the courtyard and treated me, Clare, and some of our closest friends to a horror flick marathon.
Slowly, I approached the space cowboy. When he finally noticed me, his wriggling became more frenetic. He extended his arms forward and swung them in a frenzied, crisscrossed pattern, obviously trying to grab me.
Given that the two-by-four was nearly six feet long, I could avoid getting too close to his outstretched hands. Standing just shy of his leather gloves, I slammed the plank onto his head. A pained moan rumbled from his throat, and black ooze squirted from his nose, making me gag a little before I hit him again.
Not surprisingly, the Captain Mal lookalike had a hard head. It required seven skull-crushing swings before he finally stopped twitching. Surely, any remaining Firefly fans would forgive the insult, but that space cowboy needed to be put down.
Once he was no longer a threat, I set down the bloody, brain-flecked two-by-four and glanced at the gaping hole in the fence. Luckily, the thumping and groaning noises hadn’t lured any more zombies into the adjacent courtyard. Afraid to press my luck, I didn’t linger for long.
Instead, I stepped over the cowboy and picked up the old box-spring leaning against my side neighbor’s wall. With a sheet pulled tautly across it, the box-spring had served as a decent movie screen for the previous year’s Halloween party. After countless rainstorms had rendered it soggy, rusted, and useless as a screen, it would finally have a newfound purpose as a zombie barrier. Suddenly, I was grateful I hadn’t heeded Clare’s repeated requests to toss it in a nearby dumpster.
I lifted the box-spring over the dead cowboy and set it against the gap in the ragged fence. With some effort, I hefted my heavy grill over the dead pirate and onto the flower box to pin the box-spring in place. Then, I slid the patio table and our giant heating lamp against the grill for some added fortification. Hopefully, the barrier would hold. At least for a little while.
Of course, like the incompetent Army Corps of Engineers who’d merely patched the levee breaches following Hurricane Katrina, only to weaken the rest of the structure, I’d just succeeded in securing the hole, nothing more. The rest of the fence was still woefully inadequate as protection. Wouldn’t take much for a hungry zombie to bust through the weaker slats. I could only hope the large thorny bush beside the pile of junk would deter any flesh-seeking creatures — or at least slow them down a bit.
Chapter 7
“You have created a monster, and it will destroy you.”
– Dr. Waldman, Frankenstein (1931)
Convinced I’d done all I could in the courtyard, I picked up the axe, bypassed the dead pirate and businessman, and trudged up the steps. As I entered the cramped foyer, a crushing wave of sadness hit me. Clare and I had made that one-bedroom apartment our home. For the past four years, we’d spent a lot of time renovating it to take full advantage of every square inch — from building extra storage shelves in the bedroom and bathroom to adding a cat-sized viewing platform next to the lowest glass pane in our door.
True, we’d never sought our landlord’s permission for such alterations — a fact that rankled my rule-abiding wife. But, according to the landlord’s head maintenance man, no tenant had ever received approval for a construction project. Whenever we decided to give up the apartment, we could only hope the wacky, temperamental lawyer who owned our building (and many structures throughout the Quarter) would appreciate the redesign and simply keep our security deposit in lieu of suing us.
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, water, food, alcohol, medicine, and toilet paper would be the primary currencies in this new world. No shit.
You might laugh, but toilet paper would now be as good as gold. How many of you would want to wipe your asses with your hands? Not many, I’ll 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 pleased us both — although I 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, gumbo filé, and other local ingredients wouldn’t last forever. How would I survive in the future without regular doses of 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.
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, 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. Three 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 actually 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 all of our framed sci-fi and horror show posters one last time, I heard a plaintive meow emerge from the adjacent bedroom. My eyes shifted to the wine-red curtain that separated our small bedroom from the living room.
A few seconds later, Azazel slunk beneath the curtain and squinted at m
e 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 have 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, I wanted to tell her, 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 carrier’s 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.
Zombie Chaos Book 1: Bloodbath in the Big Easy Page 3
