I picked up Azazel’s carrier and my backpack and headed into the lot. It saddened me to see so many vehicles there. Although some were stored in the lot by out-of-town residents, who frequently vacationed in New Orleans, most belonged to French Quarter inhabitants. How many of them were still alive — much less in a position to reclaim their vehicles and get the hell out of town?
Twenty steps into the parking lot, I spotted my baby: a 1988 step van that, to most people, probably would’ve looked like a giant, piece-of-shit delivery truck, just a little smaller than the signature brown ones used by UPS drivers. My fellow horror nuts, conversely, would see what Clare and I saw: a zombie-killing survival vehicle.
In its former life, it likely had been a mere delivery truck, but all that had changed when an enterprising George Romero fan — whom Clare and I had met many years before at a comic-con in downtown New Orleans — decided it would make a terrific zombie-mobile. During its impressive transformation, the guy had gone all out to make it as realistic as possible, with reinforced doors, steel bars across the front to serve as an effective battering ram, steel bars on the sides and across all the windows for added protection, and a red-splattered exterior painted to look as though the van had bulldozed through a herd of zombies.
Though hard to tell from the outside, my baby was also a fully-equipped, self-contained recreational vehicle. It had water and sewage tanks, a bathroom with a toilet and shower, a generator, a comfy bed, the works. An ideal setup for two married adults and one ornery cat.
The owner of the van was a native New Orleanian, but by the time we’d met him, he’d been doing the national comic-con circuit for a while. Typically, he would drive into the exhibition hall at a particular event, encircle the van with grotesque zombie mannequins, and charge folks five bucks each to pose for a photo op. Hell, I’d even had my picture taken in front of it — a fact that seemed almost prophetic now.
Shortly after receiving Samir’s flash drive, Clare and I had opted to unload our blue pickup truck in favor of something more ideal for living on the road during a zombie apocalypse. Having recalled the zombie-mobile from the previous year’s comic-con, I’d phoned the guy, explained the situation, and made him an offer. As predicted, he hadn’t believed my story about the imminent apocalypse but humored me anyway, as fellow Romero fans often did.
In truth, he’d been overjoyed to dump the vehicle for the five grand I’d proposed. His wife had recently given birth to their first kid, and he’d decided to trade in his comic-con business for a more stable, less travel-intensive career. Their loss, our gain — a trade he and his wife probably regretted when all the zombie chaos started.
Along with a small arsenal and a ton of other essentials, we finally had a worthy zombie-mobile, ready for the apocalypse... well, almost. It might’ve initially cost us five grand, but thanks to the sale of the pickup truck and Clare’s ring (not to mention all the credit cards I’d never need to pay for), I pooled quite a bunch of money and ended up putting another seven thousand into it. With some engine repairs and a slew of alterations, the van was now prepared for just about anything.
Admittedly, the owner of the parking lot hadn’t been thrilled when I’d replaced my blue pickup with “this monstrosity,” as he’d called it. Heavy and a bit unwieldy, it wasn’t the easiest vehicle to park in that tight lot, and it didn’t get the best gas mileage either, but in my humble opinion, the van was still a beauty. As it came into view, I finally released the overdue breath I’d inadvertently been holding. Thankfully, no one had stolen or vandalized it since the zombies invaded — a reasonable fear I’d kept from Clare.
Immediately, I moved to the front passenger side and unlocked the door. I set my backpack on the floor, placed the carrier on the seat, and buckled it in place so Azazel would be safe on the road. I closed the door and moved toward the back of the van. Since I hadn’t been completely prepared to leave town, I still had a few items to stow and secure before hitting the road.
As I unlocked the door, I heard soft thuds and grunts behind me. Suspecting a zombie had found its way inside the lot, I turned to confront it and found myself staring at two young black punks atop the brick wall separating the property from the one behind it. Before I had a chance to bolt, hide, or defend myself, they had landed on the ground and aimed their handguns at me.
The tall, beefy one was likely in his early twenties, while the short, skinny one looked no older than eighteen.
Chapter 19
“You gotta be fuckinʼ kidding.”
– Palmer, The Thing (1982)
“Don’t fuckin’ move,” the older one said.
I stepped toward the side of my vehicle and slowly raised my hands. “Look, guys, I don’t want any trouble.”
Ignoring my plea, the younger one asked, “Whatcha got in da van, man?”
I couldn’t figure out the smartest way to answer his question, so I not-so-wisely said nothing.
With his gun still pointed at me, the tall one walked toward the back door, my keys still dangling from the lock, and opened it. He pulled back a tarp I’d used to cover the weapons and gear I still needed to put away.
“Holy shit,” he yelled, his gun shifting downward. “This fucker’s armed to the teeth.”
“Tell you what,” I said, lowering my hands, “just take those guns and let me get out of here.”
“Fuck no, man,” the older one said, once again aiming his gun at me. “We takin’ your ride.”
My heart seemed to plummet into my stomach. After everything I’d been through in the past eighteen hours, I couldn’t believe two thieving thugs — not ravenous zombies — were going to stop me. Even though I suspected looters and vandals could be a problem throughout the city, just as they’d been in the wake of many hurricanes, I hadn’t yet witnessed any purposeful theft or destruction. Just wanton damage by the zombies and desperate acts of survival by the humans who remained.
As I stood beside the van, contemplating my options, the tall kid slid one of my shotguns from the pile. He tucked his own gun into his waistband and held out mine like a cocky sheriff from the Old West. When he took the fun too far, attempting to spin the shotgun like the Rifleman himself, he lost control of the weapon, and it clattered onto the pavement. While he scrambled to retrieve the shotgun, and his friend turned away from me to give him shit for being an idiot, I took my chance to slip toward the front of the parking space and behind the Range Rover sitting beside my van.
I knelt behind the front driver’s-side tire, removed the derringer from my pants pocket, and fumbled in the other pocket for a couple bullets. With all the guns I’d stored only a few yards away, I couldn’t believe I had to load the damn derringer again. How did I stand a chance against two automatic weapons and whatever else those two assholes decided to throw at me?
“Where’d you go, man?” the older one yelled. “Shit, you can’t trust nobody.”
“Last chance, guys,” I shouted with more bravado than I felt. “Get the fuck outta here, or it’s your funeral!”
“Fuck you, cocksucker,” the older one replied, his voice coming from the other side of the van. “I’m gonna shoot you with your own damn gun. Gonna shoot you in the head, too, so’s you don’t come back as one of them dead fuckers.”
“Jamal, come on, man,” the younger one chimed in, his voice getting closer to my position. “Why the hell we want this dude’s piece-of-shit van? Probably runs like crap. Let’s just grab some of those guns and get the fuck outta here.”
Bending forward, I peered underneath the SUV. The shorter one moved between the two vehicles, edging closer to the front bumpers, while Jamal seemed to be scoping out the far side of the van. Abruptly, his shoes stopped next to the passenger-side door. Shit. Azazel.
“What’s that?” Jamal asked. “You got a fuckin’ cat in here? What are you, some kind of pussy?”
The other one immediately stopped in his tracks. “Hey, man, fuck you. I gotta cat, too. Leave this dude alone and let’s get out
ta here.”
“Well,” Jamal said, as I heard the passenger-side door open and a small hiss in response, “maybe I’ll just cap the cat first.”
Afraid he’d make good on his threat, I rose to my feet, stooped over in an awkward crouch, and hastened along the side of the Range Rover, toward the rear of the parking spaces. In my peripheral vision, I saw the shorter one turn toward me, but I reached the other side of the van before he could shoot me.
When Jamal spotted me, however, he immediately whirled from Azazel’s carrier, raised the shotgun, and pulled the trigger.
Click.
Nothing happened, not even when he pulled the trigger again.
When he’d threatened to shoot Azazel, my paternal instincts went into overdrive — not because he had my shotgun, but because he had his own piece, and I couldn’t see, from the other side of the Range Rover, which one he’d been holding. If I’d realized he was still clutching the Mossberg, I wouldn’t have worried at all. Cuz the truth was… I hadn’t taken the time to load the shotgun before putting it in the van.
Clearly frustrated, he tried shooting me yet again as I closed the distance between us.
“Should’ve used your own gun,” I said as I raised the derringer level with his head.
“Fuck,” he replied, likely knowing what was coming next.
With only a second of hesitation, I pulled the trigger. It wasn’t a head shot, but I’d nabbed him in the neck. With a shriek, he dropped the shotgun and covered the wound, blood spurting between his fingers. I doubted he’d be any more trouble.
The other one, unfortunately, was another story. He’d dashed around the front of my vehicle before I had a chance to react. “You killed Jamal,” he spluttered.
I glanced toward the ground, where Jamal writhed in pain. “He’s not dead yet.”
Despite my confident facade, I had mixed feelings about what had just happened. I’d always considered myself a strong man, willing to sacrifice myself for those I loved: namely, my wife, my cat, my brothers, and my parents. But while I’d always believed myself capable of killing someone who threatened me or any of my loved ones, I’d never actually shot a living person before.
Zombies, yes. People, no.
I pointed my gun at Jamal’s friend — the one I hadn’t shot yet — just as he aimed his gun at me. Neither of us pulled the trigger.
“What kinda gun is that?” He crinkled his nose. “Looks old. Can’t have many shots.”
“It’s a derringer. And two is all it needs to have.” I sighed, knowing I had no desire to shoot the kid. “Look, my name’s Joe. What’s yours?”
“Samson,” he replied. “Like in the Bible.”
I squinted, my eyes tracing his short stature, then arched an eyebrow.
Before I could say anything, he explained, “My mama had a strange sense of humor.”
Movement behind him caught my eye, and I realized we had visitors. Apparently, some of the zombies had heard either our voices or the gunshot and, eager to investigate the potential meal, pushed their way between the giant doors. Samson and I had run out of time.
“Seems we have company,” I said.
“Zombies?” he asked without shifting his eyes — or his gun — from me.
“Listen, Samson, I don’t want to shoot you, and I don’t think you want to shoot me.” At least I hoped he didn’t.
“Naw, man,” he said, glancing from me to his dying friend to the zombies heading our way. “I never wanted to do this bullshit. Just trying to survive.”
“Why don’t you go find your mama?” I asked. “And get her outta the city?”
Sighing wearily, he nodded and lowered his gun.
I lowered my pistol as well.
“Good luck, mister.”
“You too, Samson,” I said, bending down to retrieve the shotgun.
I looked up in time to see him bolt past me and leap for the upper ledge of the brick wall. Some of the zombies were only a few yards away and rapidly closing on my position, so I sprinted toward the passenger door of the van and slammed it shut. As I dashed to the open rear doors, I caught a glimpse of Samson disappearing over the wall. A part of me hoped he’d make it.
Hastily, I grabbed my keys, climbed into the back of the van, shut the doors, and scrambled toward the driver’s seat. I’d just buckled my seatbelt and started the rumbling engine when the first zombies reached us. Ignoring me and Azazel, they made a beeline for Jamal. Probably lured by the smell of fresh blood. And his groans.
Several zombies disappeared from view as Jamal screamed. I could only assume they were tearing him apart, devouring everything in sight. His bloodcurdling shrieks were almost too much to bear.
Eh, fuck him. He’d tried to rob me — and kill me — and ultimately gotten what he deserved.
Chuckling, I realized Robert would’ve been proud of my “eye for an eye” attitude. Even if Clare would’ve disapproved.
Carefully, I pulled out of the parking space and headed for the giant doors. The gap was much wider now, but still not wide enough for my vehicle to pass. The high volume of zombies presently flooding into the lot would make it impossible for me to stop the van, climb from the driver’s seat, and manually open the doors as I’d planned.
Only one way to go.
“Sorry, baby,” I whispered as I gunned the van and rammed through the doors.
The wood splintered with a deafening roar, but we made it onto Rampart Street, dismembering zombies, scraping the sides of my vehicle, and whacking the passenger-side mirror in the process. The makeshift battering ram had done its job, and the van now had real damage — and real blood — to match its fake patina.
“Oh, well,” I said, glancing at the dangling side-view mirror. “Every car has to have its first scratch.”
Driving northeast on Rampart, headed for the nearest I-10 entrance ramp, I could finally breathe a little easier. True, I still had to swerve around busted cars, hapless survivors, and zombie herds on the roadways. Hunger, thirst, and fatigue had almost derailed me a few times, my headache had returned with a vengeance, and I couldn’t shake the terrible memories of being chased by zombies, seeing countless bodies in the streets, and watching dumbass stoners be ripped to shreds.
Yes, I hated leaving neighbors behind and knowing I might never again see the people and places that had made New Orleans home. And indeed, I realized more than eighty miles still lay between me and Baton Rouge.
But despite quite a few obstacles — and several close calls — Azazel and I had miraculously survived. Finally, we were headed to the highway. On our way to Clare. As we should’ve been hours earlier.
I patted the coin pocket of my jeans. Luckily, I could still feel the outline of Clare’s diamond ring through the denim. How futile that nearly-fatal trek would’ve been if I’d lost the damn thing between Troy’s place and the parking lot.
Glancing through the slits of the carrier, I noticed my poor cat was stretched out like a tiny manatee, snoring gently. I’d assumed that, by the time we reached the van, she’d have started clamoring for food, treats, water, or her litter box, but she seemed beyond pooped. She’d been through a lot, too — and deserved as much peace and luck as I did. But, since everything good in life seemed to come at a price, I couldn’t help but wonder what additional horrors we’d have to face before making it to Clare.
Chapter 20
“The world we know is gone, but the will to live never dies. Not for us... and not for them.”
– Mattie Webber, Pulse (2006)
Naturally, getting the hell out of Dodge — or, in reality, New Orleans — wouldn’t be as easy as I’d hoped. Hard enough to navigate a heavy, oversized, extensively modified delivery truck — a real beast of a vehicle — around numerous dead bodies and abandoned cars (some of which were charred, smoldering, or outright burning). But the real trick to maneuvering on the narrow, pothole-filled surface streets of a post-apocalyptic Crescent City was to avoid the small — and not-so-small — herds of zomb
ies that were seemingly everywhere.
While driving northeast on Rampart Street, I encountered a slew of undead obstacles — more than I’d observed when first squeezing my fat ass into the parking lot near Ursulines. The unavoidable gunshot that had incapacitated my would-be murderer had also lured quite a few of the walking pus-sacks from nearby buildings and adjacent side streets. Now, a bunch of mangled motherfuckers had crept across Rampart and unfortunately blocked the closest turnaround.
“What am I thinking?” I muttered to myself — and perhaps to Azazel, if she’d still been awake. No need to wait for a proper turnaround — not today.
Abruptly, I turned the steering wheel hard to the left, and the front, all-terrain tires responded by hopping the curb and rumbling across the neutral ground — or, as the rest of the country had always called it, the median.
In pre-zombie days, an illegal maneuver like that would’ve garnered me, at best, a pricey ticket or, at worst, a painful beating by an overzealous NOPD officer. But these were different times. Since waking up in the courtyard with the axed pirate zombie, I had yet to see a living cop — just a few dead or undead ones — and traffic laws no longer existed. In fact, all municipal laws seemed to have been suspended. Indefinitely.
Frankly, I wasn’t worried about getting in trouble for driving across the neutral ground. As a creature of habit, I’d simply needed a minute to realize official turnarounds and one-way streets no longer meant anything.
No, what troubled me most about taking the unorthodox route was that, beyond typical hurdles like palm trees and streetcar tracks, the neutral ground now boasted piles of dead people. Dead, as in ravaged bodies… and dead, as in the zombies still munching on them.
The heinous scene resembled a twisted version of a traditional crawfish boil, but instead of hovering over a steaming heap of cooked crustaceans, peeling out the tails, sucking the heads, and discarding the shells onto a refuse pile, the zombies on the so-called neutral ground were pigging out on various twitching parts or fresh kills, slurping up human brains, and tossing the unwanted bones and rotting flesh aside. One seriously fucked-up feast I currently plowed my way through.
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