Naturally, he hadn’t believed me when I’d told him about the imminent zombie apocalypse, but ultimately, he hadn’t really given a fuck about the specific reason for Armageddon. Whether solar flares, volcanoes, comets, or other unstoppable disasters came to pass, Troy — that resourceful, morally challenged bastard — would be prepared for the end of life as we knew it.
I’d almost reached the side door of Troy’s complex when I noticed a man careening around the corner, from the front of the property on Chartres. Dressed like a doctor for Halloween, he looked as though he’d seen much better days, and I suspected it wasn’t expert make-up that had resulted in his horrific appearance.
Huge gashes marred his face, so deep I could see his teeth through his cheeks. One eye hung from its socket, and a broomstick protruded from his chest. Yep, someone had jammed a broken broom handle deep into his ribcage. It apparently hadn’t slowed him down, but I figured it would offer me a bit of leverage.
Moaning loudly, he lunged toward me. In an effort to prevent an untimely impaling, I dropped my axe and poor Azazel’s carrier and pushed against the handle. The far end must have been lodged against his spine because it stayed firmly in place, which helped me to keep the zombie at bay.
Azazel, meanwhile, caterwauled from somewhere behind me. No matter where or how her carrier had landed, she was understandably one unhappy feline. I felt bad for her, of course, but while tussling with the latest threat, I didn’t have time to soothe her.
Even with the handle jutting awkwardly from his body, the zombified doctor managed to tackle me to the ground, the contents of my go-bag jabbing me in the back. Although his weight almost knocked the wind from me, he’d fortunately landed on his side, so the broomstick failed to impale me. Before his teeth had reached my exposed neck — or I’d passed out from the rotten smell emanating from him — I pushed the handle upward, turning him away in the process, and scurried from beneath him.
After scrambling to my feet and retrieving my axe, I thought about chopping into the zombie’s head, but I knew I’d be in trouble if the weapon got stuck in his skull. Particularly since I’d spotted a trio of zombified teenagers headed my way, from farther down Governor Nicholls.
By the time I’d picked up Azazel’s carrier — which had, once again, landed upside-down — the zombie doctor had risen to his feet. As his white coat fell open, I noticed an enormous hole in his stomach, from which poured a green-tinged black goo — the likely source of the awful smell that almost overpowered the ever-present burning odor in the air.
With my back facing Troy’s complex, I surveyed the immediate area and retreated toward the side entrance. Four zombies were converging on my position, so while I kept an eye on them, I used my axe-wielding hand to ring the doorbell and rattle the outer gate. Luckily, the zombified doctor slipped in his own gore, and landed on his ass.
At that moment, I heard a hearty bellow from above me. Looking up, I noticed Troy on his second-floor balcony. Framed by the vibrant foliage hanging from the ceiling and along the iron railing, the large black man was, not surprisingly, wearing his uniform of choice: a red and black smoking jacket that made him look like an overweight, dark-skinned Hugh Hefner. He was also staring directly at me, grinning like a hyena.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t my old pal Joe Daniels. The man who predicted this whole mess.” He chuckled. “Good to see you’re alive and well, my friend.”
I glanced at the struggling doctor and the three approaching teens, then back at Troy. “Yeah, well, if you don’t open this fucking door, I might not last much longer.”
Chapter 12
“You play a good game, boy... but the game is finished. Now you die.”
– The Tall Man, Phantasm (1979)
Troy chuckled again. “Looks like you’re in quite a pickle.” Some distant movement must have caught his eye because his gaze shifted beyond me, and his shit-eating grin quickly faded.
I turned to trace his worried glance and spotted a sizable group of zombies ambling amid the smoky haze between the LaLaurie Mansion and Troy’s ostentatious home.
Snapping my head back to the gallery, I shouted, “Enough bullshit! Just get down here and open the fucking door.”
“Down in a sec.” He turned and vanished around the corner, presumably headed back to an open doorway along the front gallery.
While I waited for my questionable savior, I refocused on my present dilemma. With every passing minute, the two converging groups of zombies were getting closer, but the doctor still posed the most immediate threat. He’d finally managed to regain his footing and bypass his innards without slipping onto his ass again.
I had to give him kudos: he was one determined fucker. He lunged toward me, but even with the cat carrier in one hand and the axe in the other, I was still able to push him backward, using the broken handle as a lever.
After repeating the same tiresome dance a few times, I finally squeezed the axe behind my belt and clutched the broomstick. The zombie tried to swipe at me, but luckily, the splintered handle was longer than his reach.
Naturally, the insanity couldn’t last forever. Soon, at least a dozen zombies would have me and Azazel pinned against Troy’s courtyard wall — with no exit in sight. With mere seconds to spare, I calculated the odds of my evading the undead — abandoning Clare’s ring in the process — before I became hopelessly trapped.
My cat seemed to sense our impending demise, too, as she’d begun hissing at the approaching zombies — and probably wondering why the hell her papa had endangered her in such a ridiculous way. In fact, her furry face had just turned to hiss at me when I heard several locks click and the wooden door creak open behind me, followed by the gate.
Suddenly, I felt a meaty hand grab my shirt and yank me backward, almost making me lose my grip on the carrier. If I dropped Azazel in a mess of zombies, I might as well let them take me, too — because Clare would never forgive me.
“Get your ass in here,” Troy growled.
I shoved the broomstick as hard as I could, propelling the zombified doctor into the trio of undead teenagers. All four creatures toppled to the sidewalk as I stumbled backward into the well-lit foyer. As the working doorbell had already indicated, Troy definitely had electricity, no doubt powered by the various concealed generators on his property.
While I steadied myself and tried to soothe Azazel with a few choice words, Troy slammed the gate, closed the door, and engaged the assorted locks and bolts. Then, he whipped around, raised a rather menacing .44 Magnum revolver, and pointed the barrel at my head. My heart rate, which had quickened outside at the thought of my imminent death by zombies, sped up even more.
Instinctively, I stepped backward and shifted Azazel’s carrier behind me, which didn’t prevent her from hissing and growling with disapproval. Hopefully on my behalf.
I stared coldly at Troy, wondering how a supposed friend could turn on me — especially during a zombie apocalypse. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Troy’s eyes traced my frame — certainly a bloody, goopy mess — but the sad truth was none of the blood belonged to me.
“Have you been bitten?” he asked, his tone both fretful and reluctant.
Ah, of course. I’d seen enough zombie flicks to know he was concerned about the infection spreading inside his sanctuary.
“No, man, I’m clean. None of this blood is mine.” I cocked my head, listening to Azazel’s subdued growl. “Would you please lower the gun? You’re freakin’ my cat out.”
He hesitated for only a moment, then dropped the gun-wielding hand to his side. “Sorry, kid. Had to be sure.” Troy called everyone “kid” — and even though he only had five years on me, he’d always seemed much older — like a black version of Marlon Brando from the first Godfather.
My heart rate began to normalize, and I shifted Azazel’s carrier back to my side. As stressful as it was to have a loaded gun aimed at you — something I’d unfortunately experienced a few times in crime-ridden New
Orleans — I suppose I should’ve felt lucky. Troy could’ve chosen to test me outside, with a dozen zombies closing in for the kill. Quite neighborly of him to invite me indoors before threatening to shoot me.
Sensing movement to my right, I turned and noticed a handful of gorgeous twentysomething women, lounging around the plush, red-hued living room, all in various states of undress. The entire world’s ending out there, and this guy decides to host a goddamn orgy.
Troy himself would’ve won no beauty prizes. A balding, fifty-year-old lush, he had to weigh more than three hundred pounds. The babes presently relaxing in his living room — and probably elsewhere in the sprawling mansion — were there because they believed Troy could protect them. Plain and simple.
A voluptuous brunette, wearing a thin lacy number, winked at me, and I turned back to my friend. “Having a party?”
A slender redhead, sporting high-heeled sandals and a white string bikini, rose from one of the brocade sofas and sauntered across the foyer. As she passed Troy, he smacked her ass, eliciting a girlish giggle.
He winked at me, tucking the Magnum in a side pocket of his smoking jacket. “If the world’s gotta end, might as well go out in style. Or at least getting a great piece of tail.”
“Well put,” I said.
Just then, I sensed a throbbing pain in my left wrist and realized I’d been lugging Azazel for a while. At thirteen pounds, she might’ve been a reasonable size for a cat, but still, she was heavier than the average bowling ball — and my arm likely would’ve hurt if I’d been running around the neighborhood with one of those in tow, too.
I set her carrier on the marble floor. As soon as I did, a few of the girls rushed toward the carrier to coo over the cute tabby. After giving them the requisite warning Azazel could be more vicious — or at least less sociable — than she seemed, I faced Troy again. It was time to get what I’d come for.
Beating me to the punch, he said, “So, what are you doing here, kid? Figured you’d be halfway to Michigan by now.”
“I need to get it back,” I replied, more sheepishly than I’d intended.
His brow furrowed, as if he needed to process what “it” was. Then, his eyes widened, and he expelled a guffaw. “Are you fucking kidding me? You fought your way across this bloody nightmare, just to get a goddamn ring?!”
Yeah, I felt pretty stupid for risking my life — and Azazel’s — over a now-worthless trinket, but I wanted to make sure Clare had her grandmother’s ring. Cuz, no matter what happened out there on the road, I doubted we’d return to New Orleans anytime soon. In short, when it came to securing the ring or any other memorabilia, it was now or never.
Troy didn’t really require an explanation — he was simply curious — so in answer to his question, I merely said, “Yep.”
He just stared at me for a few seconds, then shook his head in disbelief. For once, words seemed to have failed him. In fact, it wasn’t until a topless blonde asked him for some more blow that he finally snapped out of his temporary fugue.
Turning to me, he said, “To be honest, I often wish I had one of those tear gas grenades you bought.” He sighed, sounding rather tired of his high-maintenance playmates. “Just clear them all out.”
I shrugged. “Yeah, but the gas is kind of a waste. Won’t be much good against zombies.”
“Maybe not,” he agreed. “But I sure could use some peace and quiet.” Keeping his eyes on me, he gently pushed the girl aside. “As for the ring… I been storing it in my bedroom.”
Without waiting for a response, he headed toward the nearest staircase and signaled for me to follow him. At the bottom of the stairs, he hesitated. “Just don’t touch anything, OK? That shit all over your clothes might be contagious.”
Reluctantly, I left Azazel downstairs. Clare would’ve scolded me for leaving her alone with a bunch of strangers, but I trusted my ferocious tiger could handle herself. Besides, Azazel would surely appreciate sitting still for a little while — and my sore arm definitely needed a break. Before walking away, I urged her to refrain from biting the three nearly naked women kneeling around her carrier, arguing over who should be able to pet her first.
Maybe they’ll leave her alone after she bites the first one who sticks her hand in the carrier, I thought as I trailed Troy upstairs.
Chapter 13
“Youʼll forgive me if I donʼt stay around to watch. I just canʼt cope with the freaky stuff.”
– Barry Convex, Videodrome (1983)
Troy had purchased the former Soniat House for more than twelve million dollars, and though the buildings that made up his complex were roughly two hundred years old, he’d opted for a less traditional decor. In the end, he’d created a tacky, outlandish oasis Larry Flynt might’ve been proud to call home.
Inviting sofas and lounges peppered every room, even the kitchen. Every bedroom boasted a stripper pole, sex swing, or other X-rated enhancement, not to mention the requisite dildos and assorted adult toys. The walls, curtains, and furniture primarily came in varied shades of red and purple, such as the violet-hued velvet wallpaper lining the grand staircase.
Sensual photographs, paintings, sculptures, and sconces covered nearly every mantle, shelf, table, and surface in sight — and the scenes didn’t just depict tasteful nudes. They showcased people fucking in every way imaginable.
Overall, the place reminded me of the House of the Rising Sun, the former brothel that now occupied the upper floors of my landlord’s property management office on St. Louis Street. Only, the brothel was infinitely classier.
“Think you might’ve overdone the decor, Troy?”
He chuckled. “No offense, but I’m not gonna take decorating advice from a sentimental dummy who just fought through herds of zombies for a lousy diamond ring.” Pausing at the top of the staircase, he glanced at a four-foot-tall marble statue of a nude woman squatting over a naked man, apparently peeing on his chest. “OK, yeah. I see your point.”
We shared a momentary chuckle — a welcome break from the stress and fear that had been coursing through my veins. As the laughter faded, we continued down the seductively lit hallway, past open doors revealing other tempting young ladies.
Troy certainly didn’t discriminate: he liked women of all shapes, sizes, and ethnicities. From petite and skinny to tall and enormous, most women were gorgeous in his eyes, and he’d always claimed any lady could be fun in bed — especially if her partner knew what he was doing.
Eventually, we entered the master bedroom suite. Right away, I spotted a completely naked, large-breasted brunette lying across — I kid you not — a round, ten-foot-wide bed, like the kind you used to see in those old porn films. Clearly comfortable with her nude body, the woman barely glanced at us as we made a beeline for the antique mahogany wardrobe in one corner of the bedroom.
Without even acknowledging the naked chick, Troy opened the ornate doors of the wardrobe, slid out a bottom drawer, and peered inside. After shuffling through some silk shirts, he sighed heavily and finally glanced toward the bed. “Lily, where’s all the jewelry I had in here?”
Pointedly ignoring him, the so-called Lily (an innocent name for a not-so-innocent girl) picked up a bottle of dark red nail polish from the nightstand and started nonchalantly painting the fingernails of her left hand.
Troy slammed the drawer shut and stomped toward the bed. “I said… where the fuck is all the jewelry I kept in that drawer?”
She concentrated on glossing her left thumbnail. “The girls are wearing most of it.”
Troy grunted in disgust. “I told y’all to stay outta my wardrobe!”
With a petulant sigh, she finally stopped polishing her nails and shot him an exasperated look. “We were bored,” she whined. “Thought a treasure hunt would cheer us up.”
A sudden sparkle made me examine her left hand more closely. Fuck. This chick is actually wearing Clare’s ring.
I moved closer to the bed. “Hey, where’d you get that?”
“What, t
his?” Biting her lip, she held out her left hand and glanced at the twinkling diamond. “Found it.” She gazed at me with her heavily shaded bedroom eyes. “You like?”
Troy shook his head, understandably annoyed at his sexy playmate. “Jesus, Lily. Give it to me.”
She pulled herself into a sitting position, yanked the red silk sheet over her body, crossed her arms, and pouted. Even mostly covered, the girl was stunning. Troy might have to endure some immature bullshit from his slutty house guests, but he’d still die a happy man.
“Hand it over,” he said, stepping toward her and holding out his palm. “Now.”
“Why should I?” she asked defiantly.
He snapped his fingers and extended his palm again. “Cuz this guy…” he said, gesturing toward me with his other hand, “…had to walk through a whole lotta zombie guts to come all the way here and get that goddamn ring. It belonged to his wife’s grandmother, for fuck’s sake.”
She gazed at my stained clothes and crinkled her pert nose — apparently noting the blood and other nasty fluids she’d ignored before that moment. Then, she unfurled her left hand and appraised the ring in question: a sizable two-carat diamond, encircled by tiny garnets.
Clare, who typically wore less expensive jewelry, had only donned the flashy ring whenever we attended a garish holiday event, outrageous Mardi Gras ball, or fancy Halloween party, where dressing to the nines was required. She loved the ring not for its monetary value, but because it had belonged to a grandmother she’d been very close to.
A precious heirloom presently twirling around the finger of a big-breasted stripper. Despite my wife’s raunchy sense of humor, that particular scene would not have amused her. And I couldn’t really blame her.
With a melodramatic sigh, Lily reluctantly removed the ring from her slender finger and dropped it onto Troy’s open hand, letting the sheet fall, exposing her rather remarkable breasts — a manipulative move she’d probably used to her advantage in whichever strip joint she’d worked. “Did he at least pay you what he owes you?”
Zombie Chaos Book 1: Bloodbath in the Big Easy Page 6
