The redheaded girl wore a horrified, shameful expression on her face, but the unfortunate accident had probably saved our lives. After all, the zombies who’d converged on his body had now wedged themselves on the staircase, temporarily blocking the path from other marauding creatures.
“We have to go up,” the jester said, grabbing the stunned redhead’s hand and dragging her toward the rear hallway.
Without hesitation, I followed the two of them to a narrow staircase I hadn’t noticed before. Rapidly, we leapt up the wooden steps. Glancing backward, I noted several of their friends had begun to follow us. But the zombies had either cleared the main staircase or found a way up the ramp created by the collapsed gallery because, as soon as the unfortunate people reached the foot of the stairs, they were tackled from behind.
At the top of the staircase, I set Azazel’s carrier on the floor and signaled for the jester to help me push a large wardrobe from the wall and pivot it onto its side to block the stairs. We managed to shove it in place just as the first undead creature reached it. With just one of them pushing against the cabinet, it held long enough for the three of us to make our next move.
I felt a tug on my elbow and turned to see Ariel pointing toward an open doorway, where the jester was waiting for me.
Quickly, I picked up the carrier and followed the two of them onto a back deck. From there, we had a hazy view of Ursulines Avenue and the zombie hordes still being lured by the music, which, sadly, no one had thought to shut off yet. I wasn’t sure what my new pals had in mind, but the only exit appeared to be a multistory staircase leading to the gated driveway below.
I shut the door behind me. “Now, what?”
The jester pointed to a side gate in the wall lining the driveway. “That leads to a narrow alley behind the empty house next door. We can use it to get out — and then run like hell to Bourbon.”
I shrugged. Looked like, regardless of what choice I made, I was going to die: either there in the house of death or down in the zombie-filled streets three stories below. The worst aspect of that realization, though, wasn’t so much my impending death — or even Azazel’s. I shuddered instead to think of what it would mean for Clare: she’d never learn what happened to us, and without me by her side, she might not last long either.
It tore me up inside to let her down, but at the moment, I had limited options. Might as well go down swinging.
By the time the three of us reached the driveway, we heard a crash above us and spotted at least two zombies milling about the third-floor deck. Luckily, they hadn’t noticed us yet. Unfortunately, though, a lot of the screaming had faded, meaning the zombies had nearly finished brunch and would soon be searching for their next meal.
Cautiously, we opened the gate at the far end of the driveway, crept along the narrow alley behind the adjacent house, and turned onto an even narrower lane on the other side of the vacant structure. At the gate facing Ursulines, we peered through the metal bars and watched a few more zombies trickle past, en route to the pulsating buffet on the corner.
I extended my hand to the dark-haired jester. “By the way, I’m Joe.”
He shook my hand and grinned. “I’m Peter.” He cocked his head toward the redhead. “That’s Marci.”
I turned to her. “Thought your name was Ariel?”
She smiled bashfully. “Oh, that’s just my middle name.” She glanced down at the carrier. “Sorry for freaking Azazel out. I’ve always had a thing for kitties.”
I shrugged. “Hey, no harm done. I figure if you hadn’t been curious about my cat, she and I would’ve died back there.”
“Along with all our friends,” Marci whispered.
“I’m sorry you had to witness that,” I said. “The world has turned insane overnight.”
“Well, it took a little longer than that,” she said, still wearing a shocked expression.
“Yeah,” I replied. “Guess it’s been going insane for a while now.”
“No kidding,” Peter agreed. “But I’ll say this, if you hadn’t been there, we’d probably be dead, too.”
“Yeah,” Marci added. “Thanks for pulling us off the gallery in time.”
For two people who’d seemed fairly stoned ten minutes before, they were both pretty damn sober now.
“Listen,” I asked, “where are you two going?”
“Marci’s parents have a place Uptown,” Peter replied. “Think we’ll try to make it up there.”
“But you don’t even have weapons,” I noted. “Look, I’m headed to my van right now. I can take you out of the city if you want?”
Marci shook her head. “I need to see if my parents are alive. I only came over to Peter’s place for the party and stayed because… well, because.”
Obviously, Peter and Marci were a couple, so it made perfect sense she’d want to be with her boyfriend as the world ended. Even if they’d been too stoned to accept the reality. They’d likely figured the best way to face — or ignore — the apocalypse was to host a balls-out bash with all their pals. The ultimate hurricane party for the storm of the century — not in the hope of ignoring the typical wind, rain, and flooding outside, but a once-in-a-lifetime cyclone of the walking dead.
Hell, if I had a choice, I would’ve spent last night with Clare. Preferably well beyond New Orleans.
Gazing between the bars of the gate, I noted more passing zombies. “Look,” I whispered, “you two haven’t been out there yet, so you don’t know how it is. You’re gonna be scared, and that’s OK, but try not to run. Better to lumber along like they do and blend into the background. Of course, if any of them do sniff you out, be prepared to bolt as fast as you can.”
They both nodded slowly.
I set down Azazel’s carrier, removed my backpack, and unzipped the largest compartment. Carefully, I located two of my kitchen knives and handed them to Peter. “You both need something to protect you. These aren’t much, but they’re better than nothing.”
“So, what do we do?” He smirked. “Go for the brain, like you see in the movies?”
I nodded. “Pretty much. Seems to be the only way to put them down for good. You hit ‘em anywhere else, and they’ll just keep coming for you… till they get what they want.”
Marci gulped. “And what’s that?”
Seriously? Hadn’t we been down that road already? Hadn’t she seen enough to answer her own question?
Grimacing, I tucked the axe in the side pouch, resecured my backpack, and picked up Azazel’s carrier. “What do you think?”
She surely knew the answer but simply didn’t want to vocalize it. I couldn’t really blame her. I’d witnessed the zombies in action, and even I didn’t want to admit the truth.
With a deep breath, I pulled the derringer from my pocket and unlocked the gate. “Remember,” I said, looking at each of them, “don’t run if you can help it, and whatever you do, try not to scream. That’s a dead giveaway you’re not one of them.” I sighed. “Ready?”
They both held their knives aloft and nodded.
“Stay back for a sec. While I check to see if the coast is clear.”
Again, they both nodded in compliance.
I opened the gate slowly, trying to minimize any creaking, and cautiously peeked into the hazy street. To the right, the intersection was still packed with zombies and their victims’ remains, but to the left, only a few creatures meandered beside the line of parked cars. The herds had obviously converged on the smorgasbord of stoners inside and just outside the house on the corner.
Lucky for us, unlucky for them.
I turned back to my new friends and nodded, then together, we lumbered up the block toward Bourbon Street, sidestepping zombies and trying not to draw unnecessary attention to ourselves. Although I’d had my doubts about the naive couple, Peter and Marci managed to follow my instructions. Their faces reflected the fear and disgust they likely felt, but they remained calm and stalwart all the way to Bourbon.
Between the bloody Quartermaste
r and Myriam’s quiet launderette, I paused and, after ensuring no zombies were in the vicinity, asked, “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?”
Peter nodded.
“Okay, then,” I whispered. “Good luck to you both. I hope you make it.”
“You, too,” Marci replied.
With their knives at the ready, the two of them headed northeast on Bourbon. I watched them for a moment, hoping they’d survive the day, then I continued northwest on Ursulines, past Myriam’s launderette, and hoped the last three blocks of my journey would be the easiest yet.
Chapter 17
“Sometimes, the world of the living gets mixed up with the world of the dead.”
– Mrs. Bertha Mills, The Others (2001)
I covered the first block, between Bourbon and Dauphine, with little trouble. Less than two blocks from Rampart Street, however, I was forced to fire the derringer for the first time. Actually, I missed the initial shot, so I ended up using both chambers.
I’d just crossed Dauphine when a girl wearing a blood-spattered school uniform stumbled from an open alley. Thanks to the gore, it was hard to pinpoint her age. She could’ve been a senior in high school, a well-developed freshman, or a twentysomething woman dressed up as a slutty parochial student. Living in New Orleans, particularly during Mardi Gras, Halloween, or pretty much any weekend, I’d always found it best not to judge.
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 or 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 three zombies in the courtyard; I’d simply 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 ass-wipe pointing a gun at her head.
It was also highly probable I was simply a lousy shot. Though far from a skilled sniper, 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. Not surprisingly, 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. By the time the once-sexy schoolgirl was five feet from me, though, she was lying on her back, 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, even given what had happened with 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’d loaded the stupid gun, the six zombies had closed the distance between us, 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’s 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 tried 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. Finally 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
“Youʼll 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’d 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 have 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 create 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.
Zombie Chaos Book 1: Bloodbath in the Big Easy Page 9
