I glanced sheepishly at Troy. I didn’t have the cash, and he knew it. But the end of the world had come, and money no longer meant a thing to him. To any of us.
“He’s a friend,” he said, placing the ring inside my cupped hand. “Besides, he gave me a heads-up about the zombies. I owe him at least one for that.”
I slipped the ring into the small coin pocket of my jeans. “Thanks, man.” Then, I scratched my head awkwardly, hesitating to ask the other question on my mind.
Again, he seemed to sense my discomfort. “So, what else did you come for? Food? Water? Booze? Got quite a spread in the dining room.”
I grimaced. Yes, my stomach had grumbled all morning, and my throat was parched as hell. No, two granola bars and two aspirin hadn’t provided enough pain-free energy for a death-defying sprint through the French Quarter. And sure, I could’ve killed someone for a gin and tonic. But at that precise moment, I had only one priority: keeping myself alive long enough to reach Clare, and hopefully for a while into the future.
“Do you, by any chance,” I asked, “have a spare gun I could borrow?” I knew Troy — paranoid fucker that he was — had quite a few firearms in the house, but whether he’d give me a piece was another story. He likely doubted I’d ever be back to return it.
Troy’s brow furrowed. “What the fuck happened to the arsenal you bought?”
Feeling stupid all over again, I gazed down at my sneakers. Now covered in zombie goo. So much for changing my shoes. Or my clothes. Eh, fuck it. Given any luck, I’d have time to clean up later.
With renewed purpose, I met Troy’s eyes, which glimmered with wry amusement. “I packed it all in my rig.” In truth, I thought I’d be safe for a few more days. “Didn’t expect the zombies so soon. All I had left in my apartment were a few steak knives and this axe.” I plucked the weapon from behind my belt.
He shook his head, likely wondering how such an idiot had survived that long. “You’re killing me, kid,” he said, then, with a chuckle, returned to the wardrobe, where he proceeded to rummage through a different drawer. That one full of underwear: for men and women alike.
Eventually, he pulled out a derringer: an antique, double-barreled palm pistol that surely wouldn’t be good for more than two shots at a time. It was no Magnum revolver, but beggars like me certainly couldn’t afford to be choosy. Or ungrateful.
After handing me the gun, he returned to the drawer and dug through an assortment of boxers, bras, panties, and lingerie until he located a box of .38 bullets.
I set my backpack on a small mahogany table featuring yet another tacky, X-rated sculpture, stuffed some of the bullets into the front pockets of my jeans, and packed the rest of the ammo in the bag. I slipped the axe into an easily accessible side pocket and, following a much-needed swig from one of the water bottles in my backpack, carefully loaded the derringer.
“Takes .38 bullets,” I mused. “Thought derringers were all .22 caliber?”
“Nah,” Troy replied. “They even make a .45.”
I zipped up my satchel and resecured it on my back. “Thanks again, man.” I held up the gun with one hand and tapped the coin pocket with the other. “For both.”
He laughed. “Happy to help. I figure, this way, if you manage to make it back to Clare, you won’t have to go through a divorce on top of everything else.”
“Yeah,” Lily piped up from the bed, “cuz if you were my man, and you pawned my diamond ring, I would definitely dump your ass.”
“Even if it was to buy a bunch of guns to protect your ass?” Not sure why I took the bait. Just felt like arguing with someone.
She smiled coquettishly. “Yep. Even then.”
I shrugged. Deep down, I knew Clare would much prefer an arsenal over a diamond ring, even one that had once belonged to her beloved grandmother. Pissed as she might be to learn I’d pawned the ring without telling her, she certainly wouldn’t have divorced me over one well-intended transgression.
Practical as she often was, she’d probably be more likely to leave me for putting my life — and Azazel’s — in mortal peril over a piece of now-worthless jewelry. Yet another reason why I’d rather be married to her, my soulmate, than the big-breasted pain in the ass on the bed.
“From now on, Lily,” Troy warned, “stay outta my shit. Or I might just have to dump your ass on the street.”
Leaving Lily in full-on pout mode, Troy and I exited the suite and retraced our steps down the hallway and staircase.
On the lower level, he turned to me, an unusually worried look in his eyes. “So, what’s it like out there? I’ve seen some of the carnage from the galleries, and heard the yelling, but is it as insane as it seems?”
“Worse. There are dead bodies everywhere. And real people still fighting. And screaming. And dying.” I swallowed, struggling to forget some of the awful shit I’d seen. “If I were you, I wouldn’t stay here long.”
“Why?” He gazed around the adult playground he’d created for himself, then looked back at me, a weary expression on his face. “Got everything I need here.”
“Maybe so. But, Troy, your supplies won’t last forever. Neither will the plumbing. And honestly, there are several fires raging through the Quarter. Your block might be okay for now, but if no one’s around to stop them, it’ll just take one good breeze… and the flames’ll be hopping from street to street.”
His expression turned pensive, but he didn’t say anything.
“Besides,” I continued, “as wonderful as it might seem to have a bunch of sexy babes around, you might’ve done better by hiring some armed guards. And building a few more booby traps. The zombies might eventually find a way inside, you know, and if not them, you’ll still have to worry about looters.”
He nodded sagely. “All good points.” He smirked. “Even with your warning, I admit the whole zombie thing took me by surprise… but I certainly won’t go down without a fight.”
I grinned. “I’m sure you won’t.”
“So, what’re you gonna do?”
“Well, Clare’s in Baton Rouge. At her mom’s place. So, I’m gonna drive there, grab the two of them, and follow through with the plan.”
His brow furrowed. Again. “Joe, I’ve been listening to the shortwave. This is happening all over the country. Really think you can make it all the way up to Michigan?”
I shrugged. “Don’t know, but I gotta at least try.”
“How can you even be sure the roads’ll be clear? They’re probably more jammed up than during a hurricane evacuation.”
“What evacuation? I don’t remember an official warning on the news. The whole thing just spread like wildfire through the neighborhood. Probably the city, too. In one night. How many people you think made it out?”
Troy sighed. Holed up in his sex palace, listening to the shortwave, he likely had fewer answers than I did.
By the time I’d made a pit stop in one of his gold-trimmed bathrooms, retrieved Azazel’s carrier, and followed my friend to the front door facing Chartres Street, I had seen at least another half-dozen girls. I took back my original assessment: Larry Flynt would’ve looked up to the guy.
Troy smiled sheepishly as yet another hot, scantily-clad chick sauntered across the spacious foyer. “Sure you don’t wanna stay?”
If I confessed it actually crossed my mind, even for a second, I’d be a giant dick, but honestly, the thought never even occurred to me. I needed Clare more than ever before, and nothing would stop me from getting to her.
With his Magnum revolver at the ready, Troy carefully opened the front door, unlatched the shutter, and peered out into the smoky street. When he seemed sure it was clear of the undead, he retreated from the doorway. “Good luck, kid.”
“Same to you,” I whispered as I stepped onto the sidewalk.
I heard the shutter softly close behind me. Then, following a quick glance in both directions, I headed southwest on Chartres — away from the zombies that might still be lingering by Troy’s side door — and
left my friend’s ill-fated house of pleasure behind.
Chapter 14
“In a world where the dead are returning to life, the word ʻtroubleʼ loses much of its meaning.”
– Kaufman, Land of the Dead (2005)
That stretch of Chartres was usually quiet and less traveled than Bourbon at night, but the prior day was Halloween, one of the French Quarter’s most crowded days of the year. So, it didn’t surprise me to see bodies — and unsightly pieces of bodies — strewn across the bloody asphalt. As usual, I had to play a horror-show version of hopscotch to traverse the block, all while awkwardly toting a backpack and a cat carrier and bypassing any solitary zombies meandering through the haze.
If not for that, though, and the pervasive scent of smoke mixed with the rancid odor of rotting flesh, it would’ve been an ideal autumn day for a walk through the neighborhood. Sunny, cool, with refreshing breezes drifting from the Mississippi River, which lay a couple blocks to my left. I’d often traveled along that particular stretch, between the well-maintained Beauregard-Keyes House and the Old Ursuline Convent, on my daily walks — and as with everything else in the Quarter, I sure would miss it.
At the corner, I turned right onto Ursulines, and my brief lucky streak ended. I had to cross five more blocks to reach the parking lot where I’d stored the van, and based on the number of zombies in the area, it wouldn’t be an easy feat.
True, the streets weren’t teeming with as many undead creatures as I’d expected. While preparing for this disaster, I’d imagined the roadways of New Orleans resembling a carnivalesque crowd of wall-to-wall zombies, and though I’d already observed a ton of them, some even traveling in large packs, there were nowhere near the numbers I’d anticipated. Perhaps I’d failed to account for all the devoured people lying in the streets.
Farther down Ursulines, toward the river, I’d spotted a group of undead revelers. Unfortunately, a few of them had spotted me, too, but as they stumbled beneath the overhanging galleries, I realized they were too far behind to promise much trouble. At least for me and Azazel.
The problem for us lay ahead: varied packs of zombies wandering through the nebulous atmosphere, exactly in the direction I was headed.
Still moving forward, I lifted the carrier and eyed my cat. “Alright, Azazel, get ready for a bumpy ride.”
Once again, she didn’t seem pleased. In fact, she was still growling. I tried blinking tenderly at her, which usually soothed her, but the calm, sleepy demeanor from earlier in the day had vanished. Chased away by her sickening tumbles, the broomstick-wielding zombie, and everything else she’d endured in the last few hours.
Like me, she probably just wanted to get the fuck out of there. Like me, she probably longed to see Clare again.
I lowered the carrier and glanced up and down the block. The zombies behind me were still headed my way, so I picked up the pace. Although survival was uppermost on my mind, I couldn’t help but notice the familiar landmarks as I hurried past them: the kumquat trees Clare and I had often raided, the patisserie where we’d spent many tranquil, high-calorie mornings, and all the historic homes and inns that made the Quarter so unique.
During the decade or so I’d called the Big Easy home, each one of those structures had left a permanent mark on my brain. Almost every day, even during rainstorms, I would walk through the Quarter and the hipper, artsier Marigny, and I’d often note the medley of curious architecture that made up New Orleans, from Caribbean-style bungalows and double-shotgun homes to ornate, multistory European townhouses. I especially favored the gorgeous, Spanish-style wrought-iron railings that bordered many of the balconies and galleries in the Quarter, many of which supported a cornucopia of hanging vines, plants, and flowers.
Admittedly, as beautiful and sweet-smelling as they were, I’d often cursed those very same plants on my daily walks. Mainly because the tenants and homeowners always seemed to pick the most inopportune moments to water the foliage, frequently showering me with cold water as I trekked below.
Damn it. The momentary daydream lifted as I realized I was once again being sprinkled from above. Glancing upward, in search of rain or dripping flowers, I acknowledged the sickening truth: it wasn’t water, but blood, raining down on me from a second-floor balcony, where a female zombie was devouring the innards of her soon-to-be zombie mate. Way to kill the fond memory.
After ensuring no infected blood had landed on Azazel’s carrier, I continued toward the intersection of Ursulines and Royal, where a private walled compound sat on one corner, a cleverly disguised parking garage on another, and a vintage pharmacy on the third. From the fourth, I suddenly heard a familiar blues riff, cranked up louder than it should’ve been. The three-story brick home on the western corner of the intersection had long been one of my favorites in the Quarter, complete with gas lamps, hanging greenery, iron grillwork, and a set of double doors on the lower level painted an eye-popping shade of red.
Until a few years before, the impressive, 19th-century home had only had two floors, but following an extensive renovation amazingly approved by the hard-ass Vieux Carré Commission, it now boasted three levels.
A beer bottle crashed to the asphalt in front of me, and I gazed at the wraparound gallery on the second floor, filled to capacity with young, drunken revelers, all dancing, hollering, and basically being typical New Orleanians. Yep, they were partying during a zombie apocalypse. Well, it is New Orleans.
Glancing up Royal Street, I noticed a herd of perhaps a hundred zombies stumbling toward me — or, rather, the music. In the other direction, I could see a group twice that size headed my way. Behind me, the number of zombie followers had grown, and just ahead, my route toward the parking lot also appeared to be blocked. While the normally soothing sounds of Tab Benoit’s “Medicine” vibrated the floorboards overhead, countless zombies continued to surround me and Azazel, leaving no clear route to our destination.
“Hey, dude, what the hell you doin’ down there?” a scraggly-haired kid in his twenties shouted from the balcony.
Before I could answer, a young, red-haired woman, wearing a kaleidoscopic gown fit for a Mardi Gras ball, leaned over the railing and eyed me warily. “Whatcha got in the carrier?”
“My cat,” I replied as I glanced in each direction, still hoping to conjure up a doable exit plan.
“Aww…” she cooed. “Can I see him?”
Realizing the only viable escape route would involve entering one of the nearby buildings, I looked up at the girl and shouted, “If you let me in, I would be happy to show her to you!”
She promptly disappeared into the dancing crowd, and I stepped closer to the corner, trusting her vanishing act meant she’d headed downstairs to let me in. I turned my back toward the double front doors and surveyed all four directions, just as the first zombie stepped within shooting distance. Actually, it was two zombies, connected at the torso.
“Holy crap,” I said to no one in particular. “That’s an awesome costume.”
Before an inconvenient apocalypse had crashed the city’s annual Halloween celebration, the couple had obviously taken a lot of care with the joint outfit. Both painted in silver from head to toe and featuring a medley of faces and limbs, the man and woman resembled the T-1000 from Terminator 2 (a kickass movie from the early 1990s). Specifically, they looked like the melting version at the climax of the film — when the cleaved, metallic villain tumbles into a pit of molten steel and morphs into all the bodies it’s previously copied.
The two revelers had assembled one of the coolest creations I’d ever seen — and the blood and gore only added to the chilling effect. Honestly, even though someone had bitten off the lady’s nose, and the guy was missing an entire arm, they still could’ve won the top prize at a Halloween costume contest.
Of course, their killer costume presented an added benefit: even after the turmoil of being eaten by and turned into zombies, they were still sewn together via their silver bodysuits, which made it easier for me to swing them
around and off balance.
“Woah,” someone shouted from above. “What a cool fucking costume!”
Shit. The peanut gallery had spotted the couple. Worse, all the stoned, drunk, ridiculous partyers cared more about how amazing the zombies looked than the fact that they were fucking zombies — and Azazel and I were once again in danger. Remember how I said most of humanity sucked?
Just then, in an explicable feat of coordination (or muscle memory), the linked zombies righted themselves and headed directly for me. At that moment, I made the decision to pocket the untested derringer and retrieve my trusty axe from the mesh side pouch on my backpack. Even as I sidestepped the three zombie arms grasping for me, the partygoers above started booing me, as if finally comprehending how I intended to use the weapon gripped in my right hand.
“Leave ‘em alone,” some idiot yelled. “They never hurt nobody!”
“Please don’t kill ‘em, mister,” another moron hollered.
“I think they’re already dead,” I shouted in response.
“You don’t have to be so negative, dude,” yet another voice piped up.
“Jesus, give it a rest,” I grumbled.
While it did seem a bit sacrilegious to slay the poor unfortunate undead to the remarkable sounds of one of my favorite blues guitarists, I felt certain Tab — if he were still alive — would understand. Survival, in the end, trumped artistic respect.
Taking an overdue peek at the streets around me, I figured the T2 couple wasn’t my only problem. The zombie hordes were closing in quickly, the front doors of the party house remained closed, and I had run out of time. Suddenly, camping out at Troy’s palace of pleasure didn’t seem so intolerable after all.
I spun the T2 couple around again. Just as before, the zombies couldn’t keep their balance, but when the guy stumbled to his knees, yanking his noseless counterpart with him, I took the opportunity to bring my axe down onto the guy’s skull. Not sure what to blame — my anger at the inebriated idiots above me, the renewed energy Tab Benoit’s rocking blues always gave me, or the couple’s accelerated decomposition due to the zombie virus — but my decorative axe split the man’s head open like a rotten cantaloupe, almost to the bridge of his nose. His morphing days were over.
Zombie Chaos Book 1: Bloodbath in the Big Easy Page 7
