Granted, New Orleanians staged second lines to celebrate pretty much anything, from weddings to graduations. Once, I’d witnessed a dude celebrating his forty-third birthday with a second line in the French Quarter. A small brass band had led him and his plastered buddies down Bourbon Street, other people joining in the fun as they’d passed.
Only in New Orleans could you — for a few hundred bucks — buy a permit to throw yourself a parade. For no reason at all. Sure am gonna miss that.
I’d miss seeing the Mardi Gras Indians, too. What a sight they’d been to behold.
Tough to pinpoint their exact origin. Frankly, the stories of how the tribes had formed always seemed like the stuff of myth and legend to me, but most New Orleanians had traced them back to the time when American Indians would often shield runaway slaves. The Mardi Gras Indians had become the local African-American community’s way of paying tribute to such strength, sacrifice, and cultural pride.
By the time of the zombie apocalypse, the city had boasted around forty tribes, typically composed of black men and boys from the poorest neighborhoods. With names like Creole Wild West, Yellow Pocahontas, and Wild Magnolias — all mentioned in the traditional song “Indian Red” I’d just heard playing at the zombie party — those tribes were colorful and mysterious. Their members wore impressive, handmade costumes made of beads, feathers, and other vibrant materials, reminiscent of American Indian attire, and customarily matching or at least blending with the colors of each distinctive tribe.
Each tribe had various positions (like the flag boy referenced in the song “Iko Iko”), but the leader was the Big Chief. You’d have known him by his enormous feathered outfit, weighing as much as eighty pounds, as he led his braves through the streets of New Orleans — to do “battle” with other tribes. When two different tribes would encounter each other, they would “fight” by chanting, dancing, and claiming to have the prettiest Big Chief.
It might sound weird, but it is… I mean, it was an awesome sight. I’d never been sure how the “warring” tribes determined the best Big Chief. Maybe he’d simply been the loudest and the boldest — or they’d just taken turns stepping up and backing down. Regardless, though, the energy, passion, and resolve of the Mardi Gras Indians had been contagious — and a terrific way to celebrate special occasions like Mardi Gras and St. Joseph’s Day.
So, it came as no surprise when I spied one last Mardi Gras Indian on my way out of town. An enormous headdress of yellow feathers framed his face, and he still clung to a yellow feathered staff. In its heyday, the outfit must have been gorgeous — and made him one proud Big Chief. But that was no longer the heyday — for the costume or the chief.
Presently, he stumbled down the center of the two-way street, the staff gripped in one hand (perhaps out of mindless habit), his other hand dangling by mere tendons from his wrist. Nearing him, I could see long red gashes across his midsection, as though a zombie had clawed through his costume to reach the flesh beneath. He tripped into the path of my vehicle, and I caught a glimpse of his eyes — surely once dignified and defiant, now revealing the hollow glaze of the undead. And to boot, he was on fire, flames licking at the feathers, turning the vibrant yellow into charcoal.
Yep, I had a fucking, flaming Big Bird zombie headed directly for me. And nope, I didn’t have the heart to run over him. Plus, I had no desire to collide with something on fire. So, I swung the steering wheel to the right and pulled onto someone’s yard to veer around him.
I then learned my first major lesson of the day: sentimentality had no place in this new dead world.
In my effort to avoid the blazing Big Bird, I hadn’t noticed a rusted iron post in the yard. At one time, it had likely held a light of some kind, but it had since become a mere lawsuit waiting to happen. Jagged and broken, ideal for a horror-movie impaling and just high enough to clip the lower part of my radiator. As soon as I heard a thunk and a hiss, I knew I’d done some real damage.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!”
Even on a cool fall day in southern Louisiana, a heavy van wouldn’t last long without a working radiator. Hopping off the curb and continuing toward North Broad Street, I watched the temperature gauge steadily rise — my suspicions about the busted radiator now confirmed.
Immediately, I flipped on the vehicle’s heat and cranked the blower as high as it would go. A trick that had once extended the life of an old Chevy Cavalier station wagon — by about three months.
For the first time, I was grateful Clare was elsewhere. As an adult, my poor wife had always had an extreme sensitivity to heat, and with the vents blowing full blasts of hot air, the zombie-mobile would get uncomfortable quickly. Even Azazel, who usually appreciated warmth and would willingly lie in a beam of blazing sunlight, didn’t look pleased by the change in atmosphere.
“Sorry, girl,” I said to the squinting eyes between the carrier slits. “Blame it on Big Bird back there.”
I checked the temperature gauge. The indicator had almost reached the overheating point, the red line that says you’re fucked — or, in this case, more than fucked. In fact, you and your cat are dead.
Luckily, the vents continued to kick out blasts of heat, which eventually stabilized the temperature. The trick wouldn’t sustain itself for three months. I just needed it to work long enough for me to get the hell out of that problematic city — and on to someplace where I could repair the damn radiator.
Chapter 23
“Theyʼre after the place. They donʼt know why; they just remember. Remember that they want to be in here.”
– Peter, Dawn of the Dead (1978)
At North Broad, I took a left, headed southwest, and silently prayed to the gods of Detroit the van would hold out long enough for me to make it somewhere safe. I’d already endured too much bullshit to fail because of one flaming Mardi Gras Indian.
Unfortunately, I had to dodge just as many cars, bodies, and zombies on Broad as I’d encountered on Rampart. The big difference, though, was I’d noticed more of the living. Good for them, bad for me. The frequency of gunshots and proximity of fresh meat appeared to whip the undead into a greater frenzy than usual.
Everywhere I looked, battles were underway. From the open doors and windows of non-burning houses, people aimed their pistols and rifles into groups of ravenous zombies. I couldn’t understand why the residents hadn’t left town already — or at least barricaded themselves inside their homes.
I’d always respected New Orleanians for their stubborn tenacity and impressive resilience — often staying through hurricanes and other disasters to fight for what little they possessed — but without a bunch of shooters, and an even larger bunch of guns, the war was a losing proposition. The undead presently outnumbered the living — and were way more relentless.
Up ahead, I spotted an elderly black man, perched on a rickety porch, pointing a shotgun into a huddle of zombies on his front lawn. I wanted to slam on the brakes and yell at him to get his ass inside, but he was too far away to understand me — and I’d only end up distracting him. Perhaps fatally.
As I neared his house, he managed to take down two of the creatures with one skillful headshot, but before he could shoot any of the others, a particularly daring predator grasped his ankle and yanked him down the steps. With a strangled cry, he vanished beneath the triumphant zombies.
So much for trying not to distract him.
A few seconds later, an old black woman bolted through the front door, hollering and brandishing a frying pan. She managed to whack a few of the zombies presumably munching on her husband, but to no avail. Inevitably, they pulled her from the porch, too.
“Fucking idiots,” I hissed.
Every time someone let the zombies win, he risked becoming yet another brainless killer on the already crowded streets of my soon-to-be-former city. I felt like I was driving through some twisted nightmare ride at Disneyland where the animatronic critters killed and ate the tourists. What a gruesome drive as person after person got taken down
and torn apart.
I sure hoped others who’d chosen to stay — like Robert, Myriam, and Troy — would fare better than those poor souls.
Soon afterward, I took a right onto Tulane Avenue, which would pass through Mid-City and eventually morph into Airline Highway. As I traveled from a residential area into a more industrial one, taking note of the abandoned cars, meandering zombies, and nonworking traffic lights, I had a sudden idea.
The year before, a developer had erected an enormous shopping complex on Tulane, adjacent to a relatively new outpost of The Home Depot. If I could park the van in an inconspicuous spot and safely get into the store, I might be able to find a quick fix for my busted radiator.
When I pulled into the spacious parking lot, I noticed only a handful of zombies milling about the two entrances of Home Depot. The buildings on either side of the Depot’s rear access lanes were a totally different story.
On the left side, there stood a Whole Foods Market. The automatic doors appeared to be closed, but looters, zombies, or both had obviously busted out all the glass, leaving little more than metal frames and several gaping holes, large enough for undead “shoppers” to keep wandering in and out. I doubted any living people were still inside.
Was it ironic — or somehow fitting — that urban Southerners in a relatively poor area had destroyed a pricey upscale grocery and not the home improvement store next door?
Meanwhile, on the right side of Home Depot — just opposite the outdoor garden center — lay a huge Pet Mart. The rest of the complex included several small boutiques and three restaurants. I remembered when the Vietnamese restaurant opened next to the pet store; numerous people joked its daily specials would feature dogs that hadn’t been adopted the day before.
I couldn’t help but wonder if any animals had been trapped inside the Pet Mart, particularly since hundreds of zombies currently surrounded the building as well as the stores and restaurants nearby. Perhaps many people would disagree, but the idea of the cats and dogs starving to death upset me more than the dead humans I’d already seen.
I know, you probably hate me right now, but face it, most animals are completely innocent. In general, they don’t rob and rape each other like humans are known to do.
OK, true, Clare and I had once witnessed a horrible hamster gang rape at a country hardware store outside San Diego. Perhaps thirty hamsters had dwelt in the same terrarium. Big no-no. The dominant hamsters had cornered the smaller ones, making them squeal terribly — and given that all of them were males, it wasn’t as though they’d been mating, but I digress…
Suffice it to say, I’ve always hated to see innocent animals suffer. Although, really, fuck those rapey hamsters. Even after all the gross shit I’ve observed, that awful scene was still seared into my brain.
I stopped the van at the far end of the parking lot to prepare my gear. Surveying my small arsenal, I opted for the Mossberg shotgun and a handy snub-nosed Smith & Wesson .38. While I’d stowed plenty of weapons in my vehicle, the .38 was the last one I’d shot at the range, so its feel was still fresh in my mind. Familiarity could help if I ended up in a tight spot.
After loading both guns, I put some shells and spare bullets into one of my shirt pockets, then strapped on a hip holster for the handgun. For good measure, I also stuck Troy’s derringer in my front jeans pocket. Having an extra piece couldn’t hurt, and unlikely as it seemed, the derringer had already saved my life several times.
Once armed, I peered out the back windows of my van and assessed the situation. The contractor entrance beneath the awning would probably work best: the glass doors appeared to be intact, and I could likely reach them without having to shoot any zombies. Good thing, since gunshots always seemed to excite the undead.
I returned to the driver’s seat, put my vehicle in gear, and drove at a decent clip toward the overhang. Several meandering zombies turned at the sound of my rumbling step van, but I was more concerned about the three denim-clad creatures — perhaps former contractors — approaching the glass doors. I pressed the gas pedal to the floor and plowed right through them, only slamming on my breaks once the van was even with the doors.
One of the zombies had bounced off my bumper and smacked into a giant concrete column. His head collided with the column first, leaving a giant red-and-black splotch behind as he fell motionless to the ground. The other two zombies were probably still twitching on the pavement, but I couldn’t be sure, since I’d squashed them beneath my front tires with a sickening crunch.
Good news: I’d stopped the van so close to the doors no zombie would be able to squeeze between the gap. Bad news: I wouldn’t be able to step outside until I’d pried open the store entrance.
Following my noisy arrival, I’d unfortunately attracted a few zombies toward my van. Quickly, before they reached me, I pocketed the keys, grabbed a crowbar from my toolbox, and opened the passenger-side door beside Azazel’s carrier. Then, with some difficulty, I managed to jam the crowbar between the glass doors and push open one side, just enough for me to squeeze into the store entranceway.
Although I wasn’t eager to leave the vehicle — and Azazel — behind, the constant heat from the open vents had made me feel lightheaded and anxious for a break. Besides, I really needed to repair the radiator, if at all possible.
Azazel looked at me through the slits of her carrier.
I touched her nose with my forefinger. “Hate to leave you, girl, but I should be right back.”
Glancing through the windshield and the driver’s-side window, I noticed the zombies congregating around the van. While they couldn’t squeeze between my vehicle and the store entrance, they could possibly slither beneath the undercarriage and reach me, Azazel, or the store that way. So, after rubbing Azazel’s furry head through the top of her carrier, I grabbed the Mossberg from the van floor, shut and locked the passenger-side door, and closed the entrance of Home Depot.
As I slid the crowbar through one of my belt loops and raised the shotgun, I found myself wishing, for the first time in my life, I was an auto mechanic — or at least the kind of guy who could’ve run down a Mardi Gras Indian and spared his goddamn radiator.
Chapter 24
“See. According to this, youʼre already dead.”
– Elsa, Jacobʼs Ladder (1990)
While prying open the doors to Home Depot, I’d half-expected a bunch of zombified employees in those iconic orange vests to rush me as soon as I entered the building. But, thankfully, nothing like that occurred.
Turning from the entrance, with the shotgun held high, I realized I could only see about ten yards ahead of me, where the natural light from outside spilled across the blood-stained entryway. Every time I’d visited Home Depot in the past, I’d encountered a gigantic, brightly lit, refreshingly cool warehouse, bustling with knowledgeable employees and purposeful customers.
As I took a couple tentative steps forward, though, I realized it was the darkest, stuffiest, quietest home improvement store I’d ever faced — and stupidly, I’d forgotten to grab a flashlight before leaving the van. Extreme hunger, pure exhaustion, and a constant headache made it tough to remember every necessary detail — a fact that could get me killed at some point.
Luckily, the light from the entrance windows illuminated a few nearly empty shelves off to the side, where I spotted a solitary multitool kit. I set down the shotgun, tore open the box, and discovered a drill, a circular saw, a reciprocating saw, and a pivoting flashlight, each of which could be powered by one of the two enclosed eighteen-volt batteries. Since the rechargeable batteries usually had a bit of juice, even after being in the package for a while, I attached one to the flashlight and hoped for the best.
When I flicked the switch, a strong beam of light rewarded my efforts. I retrieved my shotgun, plucked a couple plastic bags from the floor, and, holding the flashlight before me, scanned the closest aisles. It didn’t take long to see the store was in shambles. Except for one bloody trail leading to the rear storage area, i
t wasn’t the kind of gory mess indicating zombies had been everywhere, but the sort of disarray that told me looters had already ransacked the place.
Frankly, I couldn’t blame the locals for hitting up Home Depot for supplies. Hell, it would’ve been my first choice, too. If the joint had sold food, beer, electronics, and sporting goods, I might’ve never gone anywhere else.
Once I’d stepped over and around the debris and reached the small automotive section, the truth had become apparent: I probably wouldn’t find any useful tools or supplies to mend the radiator. Pretty much everything of value or relevance was gone.
I did, however, grab a bottle of hand sanitizer and a few tree-shaped, pine-scented air fresheners. Since I was covered in zombie gore, I assumed the van smelled awful — and it would only get worse if I had to blast the heat for a while. Obviously, I’d gone nose-blind to my vehicle’s interior, my sense of smell having adjusted to the foulness, but I didn’t want Clare to have to endure that odor all the way up to northern Michigan. No doubt she and her mom had already endured enough.
I moved toward the aisle normally featuring countless varieties of tape, from packaging to electrical to duct, but looters had gutted that section, too. On one of my previous supply runs, I’d purchased several packages of gorilla tape to store in the van, but I’d accidentally left all the rolls at the store.
A self-reliant curmudgeon at heart, I’d long been a fan of self-checkout lanes. They did, however, have one major drawback: nobody to blame but myself for scanning the tape, shifting it over to make room for more merchandise in the bagging area, and then forgetting to put that particular bag in the cart before leaving the store.
“Shit. Shit. Shit.”
Zombie Chaos Book 1: Bloodbath in the Big Easy Page 12
