Zombie Chaos Book 2 Read online

  CHAPTER

  9

  “You know the part in scary movies when somebody does something really stupid, and everybody hates them for it? This is it.” - Trish, Jeepers Creepers (2001)

  “Dere some folks trapped in da offices on da second floor,” Ray informed me.

  We were lying precariously on a rooftop in downtown Gramercy, using two pairs of Ray’s night-vision binoculars to scope out the Sacred Heart of Jesus Catholic Church on East Main Street. Clare and I weren’t religious by nature; in fact, we were both atheists. Still, that had never stopped us from harboring a fascination for religious history and architecture. As Catholic churches went, though, this one wouldn’t have awed either of us.

  An understated tan brick building, it sported narrow stained-glass windows, a porte-cochère, and a solitary steeple. At the moment, however, its most notable attribute was the fact that it appeared to be filled with and surrounded by zombies. Loads of them.

  Climbing onto our current perch hadn’t been easy, but it would’ve been a lot tougher with hungry zombies in the vicinity. I’d been grateful for the lack of mindless carnivores nearby, but looking through the binoculars, I understood why that had been the case. It seemed as though most of the town’s former residents were trying to cram their way inside the church. Not for solace or salvation, but perhaps out of habit — or more likely because of the tasty morsels on the upper floor.

  Through the binoculars, I could see several people milling about a darkened office — just as Ray had claimed. They weren’t stumbling around the room like zombies but pacing with nervous anticipation. Like humans in trouble.

  “Uma an’ Eunice were working up dere when dis all happened,” Ray explained. “Deir husbands fought deir way into da church, but dey ran outta ammo… an’ been dere ever since. Dey managed to reach me on an old shortwave radio, an’ before you showed up, I was trying to figure out how to get to ‘em.”

  Shifting the binoculars from the office to the parking lot beside the church, I realized the zombie horde was almost as huge as the one I’d faced at the French Quarter party house earlier in the day. Well, to be honest, I hadn’t faced them. I’d fled from them, along with a couple of stoners.

  Now, hours later, my new pal Ray hoped I’d help him bust some of his neighbors out of a zombie-infested church. It was fucking suicidal, and we both knew it. If Ray hadn’t saved my ass, I doubted I would’ve agreed to assist him. As far as I was concerned, putting my life at risk equated to putting Clare’s life at risk, and I refused to fail the love of my life. At least more than I already had.

  But, even though I’d hoped the favor Ray needed was less life-threatening, I certainly couldn’t turn down the man who’d saved my life, my cat, and my ride.

  After Ray had repaired my radiator and mirror, he’d explained that he required my help in rescuing some friends from a nearby church. I’d realized then why a pragmatic guy like him had waited to flee the neighborhood. He had more people to save.

  So, after filling the radiator with toilet tank water, I’d wiped the zombie goop off my shotgun, secured the toolbox in the storage space beneath my sofa bed, and given Azazel some more well-deserved tuna. Then, I’d fueled up with a handful of cashews and dried cherries, thinking that, at this rate, I’d be at my pre-marriage weight in no time, and hauled Ray, Travis, Nicole, and Frankie to a curved driveway that lay at a relatively safe distance from the zombie-infested church.

  I lowered the binoculars and turned my head. “So, what’s the plan?”

  In response, Ray glanced over his shoulder. I figured he was checking on his kids, who stood with Frankie just outside my parked van, several yards behind us. Frankly, I thought he might suggest we take them and the dog back to his house before embarking on our suicide mission, but from his next question, I realized he wasn’t looking at them.

  “What kind of guns you got in dere?”

  Although he’d caught a glimpse of the uncovered weapons when he’d awaited his chance to take out the rednecks, he’d been a bit preoccupied at the time. So, less than a half-hour after he’d asked me about my stash, we had scrambled down from the roof, ventured back to the kids, and laid out the necessary arsenal in the rear of my van: two fully loaded shotguns, a couple of .9mm handguns, two machetes, and plenty of ammo. I had a couple of ARs under the bench, but Ray figured with the low light, we’d be better off with the shotguns.

  Before we’d left the Hamiltons’ house, Travis had run back home to fetch a duffle bag filled with guns. He unzipped it now and removed a bolt-action sniper rifle. Apparently, he hadn’t owned it for long, so he was still learning how to handle it. Before I could think of an appropriate response, Ray informed me that it was a Barrett M98B. While the designation meant nothing to me, I had actually heard of the company. I’d spent the last couple of weeks, after all, learning as much about guns as I could.

  “Da boy has a few other rifles, too,” Ray elaborated, “but dey’s not designed for what we gotta do.”

  Admittedly, I was afraid to ask for details. Regardless of the plan, there was a good chance one or all of us wouldn’t survive the night.

  Well, Joe, shit’s definitely about to get real. Just hope I don’t press my luck this time.

  CHAPTER

  10

  “There’s too many of them. I can’t kill the world.” - Reverend Harry Powell, The Night of the Hunter (1955)

  “Seriously, this is bat-shit crazy,” I mumbled as Ray and I pulled away from the abandoned house where we’d left his kids and the dog.

  He’d obviously raised some tough offspring, but when he’d told me that Travis would stay behind with the sniper rifle and little Nicole would “spot” for him, I thought he might’ve overestimated their capabilities. Still, I’d refrained from contradicting him as he and I steadied a ladder against the side of the empty house — a house situated between two trees, with a gently sloping rooftop that offered a clear view of the church and its adjacent parking lot. I’d stayed quiet as Travis and Nicole scurried up the ladder with their weapons, a pair of night-vision binoculars, and a couple of my walkie-talkies. I’d even kept mum as Ray climbed to the rooftop with one hand, hauled Frankie with the other, and then helped me and Travis slide the ladder onto the roof, just above the gutter (where no zombies or marauders could reach it, but the children could still access it in an emergency).

  With the kids serving as a lookout for us, we readied the guns and other weapons we planned to use during the rescue attempt, and I finally took the time to divvy up some of my arsenal between those under the tarp and those in the storage space beneath my sofa bed. Then, perhaps to dispel any unvoiced concerns of mine — and to verify his own assumptions about his children’s skills — Ray surveyed the church with his night-vision goggles and used one of my remaining walkie-talkies to instruct his kids to take out two of the zombies shuffling along the edge of the parking lot. Nicole, gazing through the binoculars, spotted the first one and called it out to her brother, who immediately took the head shot. Peering through Ray’s spare goggles, I saw the zombie fall to the asphalt. When Nicole indicated the second zombie, I watched as it, too, tumbled to the ground, motionless.

  “Wow, he’s good,” I said, shifting my focus toward the rooftop, where Travis and Nicole awaited further instructions, and Frankie calmly sat beside them, either already used to the sound of gunfire or unwilling to abandon his new family. “Not that I had any doubts.”

  Ray grinned. “Sure ya didn’t.”

  “Hell, why don’t we just sit back and let your son pick ’em off one at a time? Less suicidal that way.”

  Ray frowned. Maybe he didn’t think putting all the weight of responsibility on his children’s shoulders was the best approach. Instead, he explained, “Don’t have an unlimited supply of ammo for dat gun, so Travis’ll only shoot when we need him to.”

  I shrugged. Made about as much sense as everything else I’d done that day. And honestly, I didn’t feel like arguing. I’d already wast
ed more time and energy than I’d intended in my effort to get to Clare. In retrospect, I likely would’ve reached Baton Rouge by now, had I not decided to reclaim my wife’s ring, avoid the flaming Mardi Gras Indian, and stop to assist people in need. At the moment, I had just enough reserves left to help Ray, get back on the road, and hopefully reunite with my wife.

  I drove down North Millet Avenue, turned right onto East Second Street, and eased the van down Church Street, which, as the name indicated, led directly to the Sacred Heart of Jesus Catholic Church. Luckily, the church had a small parking lot and a circular driveway that passed beneath the porte-cochère, doubtlessly intended for staff members and parishioners to be deposited right at the door and protected from inclement weather. Unfortunately, it sure wouldn’t safeguard them — or us — from the hungry zombies lumbering in and out of the open doorway.

  I paused near the edge of the parking lot, the night-vision goggles displaying the horde of zombies along the circular driveway and up to the building. The way they were milling about like lost lambs drawn to a familiar place (much like those wandering in and out of the Whole Foods Market back in New Orleans) would’ve been laughable, had it not been so terrifying.

  My gaze shifted to the office windows, where, via the goggles, I could see several men and women peering down toward my vehicle, which they could likely hear but not see very well. All the nearby street lights were out, and I’d purposely refrained from flipping on my headlights to keep from drawing too much undead attention to myself. Unfortunately, though, my rumbling engine already had that covered. While the bulk of the zombies were either inside the church or peppered along the driveway, several of those in the parking lot had shifted in our direction and headed toward the van.

  It’s now or never.

  I took a few fortifying swigs of diet soda, turned in the driver’s seat, and spotted Ray standing a few feet behind me, holding a couple of bungee cords. “Are you sure about this?” I asked him.

  With a wink, he simply said, “We got dis,” then moved toward the rear of my van and opened both doors.

  While Ray hopped onto the asphalt and quickly linked the bungee cords from the back wheel wells to the rear doors, to keep them from closing during the mayhem, I glanced toward the front passenger seat, where Azazel still lay curled and safe inside her carrier. Though tempted to cover it with a towel, as I’d done before chasing the yuppies from my van with the tear gas canister, I was afraid she’d be even more frightened if she could hear the gunshots and moans, but not observe what was happening.

  As if proving my point, I heard the report of two rifle shots, in speedy succession, and turned my head just as a pair of zombies fell right in front of my van. Travis and Nicole were clearly keeping an eye on the situation and trying to prevent the undead from reaching us. Suddenly, I felt grateful for leaving them behind on the rooftop.

  Once Ray had braced himself at the rear of my van and gave me the green light to proceed with Operation Bat-Shit Crazy (my words, not his), I stepped on the gas pedal and headed toward the enormous group of undead in and around the main entrance of the church. Rolling along the circular driveway and honking my loud-ass horn, I collided with a tall male zombie sporting a bloody, gooey stump where his right arm had once been, presumably before another zombie had gnawed it off. I drove too slowly for the impact to destroy him, but as he fell, my wheels crushed his legs, so I knew he wouldn’t be going anywhere, at least with any speed.

  On my first pass beneath the porte-cochère, he was the only zombie I managed to snag. To be fair, I wasn’t actually trying to hit any of them. Ray’s plan merely required me to drive past the horde and lure the undead away from the church entrance. Hence, the honking horn.

  Even before I turned around on Church Street and circled back through the narrow driveway, we had accumulated a trail of eager zombies. Ray started letting loose with his shotgun, blowing through undead heads with the extreme efficiency you’d expect from a badass Marine. Once the first shotgun was empty, he picked up the second one and continued shooting.

  By the time we’d made our sixth pass around the circular driveway, he and his sniper son had put down nearly forty zombies, and I’d crushed a few more beneath my wheels. Sadly, though, we’d barely made a dent in the undead population, and between the horn and the gunshots, we had only enticed more zombies from the surrounding neighborhood.

  A much bigger problem, however, was that our little merry-go-round, shoot-’em-in-the-head scheme had gotten far less productive. While I crept along at fifteen miles per hour around the driveway, plenty of zombies had continued to follow the van, but many more had either ignored us on their way inside the church or spread across the driveway and the nearby parking areas.

  Inconveniently, we’d also created several piles of gore, and on more than one occasion, my wheels had slipped and lost traction amid the bloody body parts left in the wake of our shooting and driving. By the time I hit a large bump (which could’ve been a torso, a couple of skulls, or something worse) and Ray had lost his balance and toppled over backwards in the van, we both figured it was time to start Operation Bat-Shit Crazy, Part Two.

  CHAPTER

  11

  “If you say, ‘I told you so,’ I’ll shoot you.” - Detective Jim Lipton, Dead Silence (2007)

  Ray regained his footing in the rear of my van as I rolled forward, straddled Church Street, and hit the brakes. We only had a few moments before the undead would engulf us from all sides. I watched over my shoulder as my current partner in crime set down his shotgun and plucked two grenades from his backpack. Then, I shifted the van into reverse, backed up toward the entrance, and stopped several yards away.

  The horde of zombies still looked to be at least ten bodies deep outside, pressed against those already inside the church, like drunken Bourbon Street revelers on Mardi Gras Day.

  Except, you know, more likely to tear your face off than simply vomit all over you.

  Ray pulled the pins from both grenades and tossed them toward the open doorway. I promptly hit the gas and pulled forward, just as a few zombies bumped into the sides of my van. A few seconds later, two ear-splitting explosions blew a ragged, bloody passage through the undead blockade, shook the entire edifice, and crumbled part of the foyer. I’d seen grenades go off before, but never quite like that. These detonations were massive, accompanied by enormous fireballs.

  Where the hell did he get those fucking grenades? I knew Ray had been a Marine, but holy shit, I sure could’ve used a few of those things in my own zombie-killing arsenal. The closest I came was following an online video on making your own pipe bomb.

  Before the flames and smoke had a chance to dissipate, gunshots echoed across the parking lot. Travis had opened fire at the entrance, taking down as many zombies as humanly possible, many of which were still inside the church.

  “Go. Go. Go,” Ray yelled as he started to reload the shotguns.

  Taking my cue, I slammed the van into reverse and headed toward what remained of the church entrance. As the vehicle rolled over an assortment of nasty, undead body parts amid the rubble, my usually ironclad stomach churned a bit at the nauseating sound of thunks, cracks, and squishes beneath my wheels.

  Travis, meanwhile, kept shooting any and all zombies he and his sister could spot inside and just outside the church, only pausing to reload. Fortunately, he stopped altogether once I’d pressed the rear of my van against the doorway. After all I’d survived in the last fourteen hours, it would’ve been a shame to die from friendly fire.

  I unbuckled my seatbelt and got to my feet. With the goggles, I could only see about half a dozen zombies still in the partially destroyed foyer. I’d parked us so close to the gaping doors that none of the undead creatures in the parking lot would be able to squeeze inside. Good thing, too, since we had no idea how many zombies were waiting for us throughout the rest of the church.

  Azazel chirped, and I gazed down at her through the slits of her carrier.

  “Yo
u’re staying here, little one. I’ll be back in a few.”

  Then, before second-guessing myself, I draped a towel over her carrier. Although I hated to leave her alone in the dark, I really didn’t want her to witness the chaos outside the van. Although many people would’ve disagreed with us, Clare and I had never viewed Azazel as just a cat. To us, she was our little girl, and we were often very selective about what she saw, heard, and experienced. If we weren’t comfortable having sex when she was in the bedroom with us, then we sure as shit didn’t want her watching zombie brains and guts spurting all over the place.

  As I approached the rear of the van, Ray tossed me my Mossberg, hopped down to the ground, and ventured into the church. By the time I’d joined him, he’d already finished off three of the nearest zombies.

  “Get dat one,” he said, nodding to his right. “’Member, only head shots count.”

  I almost spewed a smart-ass quip like, “No shit, Sherlock. Tell me something I don’t know,” but I refrained.

  Instead, my eyes followed his gaze toward the wall, where I spotted a small table filled with flickering votive candles. It seemed odd to see such a peaceful tableau amid all the chaos, but obviously, the folks trapped in the church hadn’t had a chance to blow them out yet. They’d no doubt had other priorities — like surviving.

  I aimed at the back of a teenage boy, dressed in a baseball uniform so caked with blood and zombie goo that I could barely discern the team sponsor who’d provided his jersey. The logo of Don’s Bail Bonds received a full-on blast as my shotgun sprayed out, propelling the boy against the side table.

  “Shit.”

  Given my ongoing hunger, fatigue, and headache, I wasn’t terribly surprised when the shot didn’t finish off the zombified kid, but I was still embarrassed in the wake of Ray’s advice about head shots. Before I could correct my mistake, however, some of the candles tumbled onto the boy, and he caught fire. Typical of my ongoing bad luck, he scrambled to his feet, whirled around, and stumbled toward me.