Zombie Chaos Book 1: Bloodbath in the Big Easy Read online

  Understandably, there were even more corpses on Bourbon Street than I’d observed on St. Ann and Dauphine. Most partyers must have congregated there before the first zombies arrived.

  Having to leap over bodies made my journey tougher, but I still did my best to jog down the middle of the narrow street. If I encountered any zombies, I figured it would be easier to dodge to one side or the other — and avoid getting trapped between cars and buildings.

  I lifted the cat carrier and checked on Azazel: now that we were keeping our distance from the flames, she seemed ready to go to sleep again. Ah, to be a cat. She’d even rolled onto her side (or maybe all my jiggling had knocked her over), and I could see the pronounced leopard spots covering her belly. They’d always made her look like one badass kitty.

  Letting my mind wander a bit too long, I managed to run smack into another zombified businessman, which sent both Azazel and I to the ground. I landed hard on my ass, forcing my jaws to clamp shut and unleashing a jolt of pain through my torso that rivaled the headache. The axe promptly dropped from my hand, jabbing me in the crotch. At least I hadn’t sliced my own balls off. The cat carrier, meanwhile, flew from my hands and tumbled end over end toward the gutter.

  But, as luck would have it, the zombie dude had caught his suit jacket on the side-view mirror of somebody’s piece-of-shit Toyota. So, I wasted no time getting to my feet, picking up poor Azazel’s overturned carrier, and ensuring she was unharmed (if a tad bit disoriented and disgruntled) before quickly continuing down the street.

  By the end of the block, though, I knew my cat and I were in serious trouble. I stood frozen at the intersection of Ursulines Avenue and Bourbon Street, not sure which way to go. In all four directions, I could see burning cars and buildings. Even worse, I spotted hundreds of zombies, shambling toward me from every direction, about to converge exactly where I now stood.

  I’d barely survived the first morning of the zombie apocalypse. I’d failed to escape the bloody, burning French Quarter. I’d let my wife down. I was about to be devoured right there — and if not, Clare would likely kill me herself for endangering Azazel.

  Chapter 10

  “If we hole up, I wanna be somewhere familiar, I wanna know where the exits are, and I wanna be allowed to smoke.”

  – Ed, Shaun of the Dead (2004)

  “You crazy, boy?”

  My head swiveled as I searched for the woman presumably talking to me. I recognized her as soon as my eyes landed on the dingy launderette on the northern corner of Ursulines and Bourbon. Myriam Beauvoir, a rotund black woman in her early sixties, stood in the wide open doorway, beckoning me inside. Somehow, it didn’t surprise me to see the joint was still intact and untouched by the nearby fires… although, as with every other building in the tightly packed Quarter, its preservation might not last long.

  With a glance at the converging hordes, I calculated my shitty odds of survival and bolted through her front entrance. Once Azazel and I were safely inside the dimly lit washateria, Myriam closed and locked the glass door behind me — though a bit slower than I might’ve preferred.

  I cautiously gazed around the place. Blinds covered all the windows. A musky, ginger-scented incense wafted through the air. Spaced across several old washers and dryers, half a dozen candles burned, which, beyond the sunshine spilling through the glass door, offered just enough light to make out most of the room.

  As I focused my attention on the first zombies approaching the building, Myriam remained near the door, wordlessly removing a cigar from her shirt pocket, snipping off the end, and igniting it with a slender lighter. Years earlier, the local government had banned smoking in public places, but now that the zombie apocalypse had arrived, Myriam no longer had to slip outside for her daily cigar fix. Comforting to know a few silver linings had resulted from the end of the world.

  She took a puff and exhaled a heady stream of smoke. “Idiot boy, why you runnin’ ‘round out dere?”

  Wishing I hadn’t packed all my own cigars in the van, I ignored her question and simply said, “You should get away from the door, Miss Myriam, or the zombies will see you.”

  She casually glanced over her shoulder, through the door, and pointed with her chin. “Da rosemary’ll keep ‘em away.”

  I traced her gaze to the two large, potted plants bookending the outer entrance. “The rosemary?” I stared at her as if she had lobster — or, more appropriately, crawfish — scrambling from her ears. “Rosemary, as in the herb?” I backed farther into the room, away from the easily breakable glass door.

  She chuckled, shaking her head. “I told dat pretty wife of yours you were no good.” She took another satisfying puff on her cigar. “She shoulda listened to me.”

  Yes, it was true: like my mother-in-law, Myriam had never approved of me — even though Clare and I had once been two of her most frequent customers. For nearly a decade, we had used her launderette at least twice weekly, and while she had legitimately liked Clare and merely tolerated my presence, she’d eventually banned me (and, by extension, my poor wife) from the premises.

  Even now, I couldn’t attribute the expulsion to one particular reason. Perhaps she’d grown weary of my repeated complaints about the dirty, unreliable condition of her machines. Maybe she didn’t find my outlandish stories and controversial opinions as amusing as Clare did. Maybe, just maybe, she was still pissed about the time I’d snorted loudly after overhearing her conversation with a distraught woman — during which she’d revealed the fact that, as a voodoo priestess, she could easily remedy the woman’s troubles with the no-good men of New Orleans.

  OK, yeah, that was probably the moment she started hating me.

  Regardless, I was no longer welcome in the launderette, which had ultimately led to our decision to install a small washer and dryer in our courtyard. Although Clare had grown to appreciate the convenient laundry setup, the situation hadn’t initially pleased her. Never superstitious — or even religious, for that matter — she’d still considered it unwise to piss off the voodoo priestess who ran the only convenient washateria in the French Quarter. Used washers and dryers such as ours, bought from Tulane college kids, could break, after all.

  Given what had happened between me and Myriam, I was just grateful she’d offered me sanctuary from the ravenous zombies outside. I couldn’t kid myself, though. While she’d often been a generous soul to the ladies of the neighborhood, she likely wouldn’t have come to my rescue if I hadn’t been toting Azazel’s carrier. Even she knew how much Clare adored the temperamental tabby — who, even after her recent tumble in the street, had fallen asleep yet again.

  I glanced from the carrier, still gripped in my left hand, to the glass door. The zombies outside had almost reached the entrance when the trio in front staggered to a halt, causing an almost comical traffic jam behind them. The three creatures gazed around the area in confusion and, bizarre as it might sound, lifted their noses in the air, as if sniffing something suspicious.

  With their blood-stained faces, missing teeth, and swollen cheeks, eyes, and mouths, the three guys looked as if they’d endured a fifteen-round fight with an ogre, so it wasn’t easy to discern subtle changes in their features. Still, their noses appeared to crinkle, as though they’d gotten a strong whiff of an intolerably foul smell, and the zombies behind them reacted in a similarly disgusted way. Seconds later, the crowd retreated from the launderette and lumbered elsewhere, likely searching for a more appetizing meal.

  “Still doubt me?” Wearing an annoyingly smug expression, Myriam continued to puff on her cigar. “You see with your own eyes.”

  “Holy crap.”

  Although I couldn’t really tell if the zombies had ultimately linked the bad smell to the rosemary plants, I still wanted to ask Myriam how she knew the herb would serve as such an effective undead repellent. But instead, I merely watched in amazement as the horde dispersed from the intersection.

  With her demonstration done, Myriam ambled away from the door. “So, w
here’s Clare?”

  “Baton Rouge,” I said, my focus drifting toward the Employees Only door near the cash register.

  I wondered if the back area — which I knew doubled as a storage room and Myriam’s tiny apartment — led to a side alley. All the times we’d come there, I’d never noticed a pathway beside the building, but I figured it might be less conspicuous than waltzing out the front door. Especially if the zombies weren’t as deterred as they’d seemed.

  “At her mama’s?”

  “Yep.” I turned toward her voice and noticed her rummaging through a satchel atop one of the dryers, the cigar resting in a small ashtray. “Say, Miss Myriam, does this place have a back door? I need to get to Governor Nicholls.”

  “No way out da back,” she said, nodding toward the front entrance, “but it’s almost clear enough out dere.” Her point made, she returned to her feverish search.

  I stepped toward her, curious about the hunt capturing her awareness.

  Suddenly, her brown eyes brightened, and a satisfied smile spread across her round face. “Aha!” She pulled out three small baggies, each of which contained a fine grayish powder, though the candlelight made it hard to pinpoint the exact color. After turning toward me, she stepped closer, slid the baggies into the pocket of my long-sleeved shirt, and buttoned the flap.

  I arched an eyebrow, suspicious of her intentions. “Probably not the best time to get high.”

  She shot me an aggravated look. “Not for putting up your nose, stupid. Dis dried frog powder.” Perhaps reading my confused expression, she continued to explain, “Blow it onto a zombie, and it can kill ‘em. Might even take out more dan one. Even if you don’t get it right in deir faces, it could at least hurt ‘em. Give you time to get away.”

  “Frog powder, huh?”

  OK, she might’ve been my savior, but she was still an eccentric old woman. Even after living in New Orleans for more than a decade, I had yet to meet a voodoo practitioner who’d convinced me of her powers.

  Still, she’d been right about the zombies. They apparently hadn’t approved of the rosemary plants, which, frankly, made me wish I had some of the miraculous herb to hang around the exterior of our step van. I considered asking Myriam for a few sprigs, but I didn’t want to push my luck. She’d already been more generous than I had a right to expect, given our tumultuous history.

  I turned toward the glass door. Even through the haze from the fires, the intersection seemed clear. Though wary to venture the three lengthy blocks that lay between Myriam’s place and Troy Blanville’s home, I couldn’t waste any more time.

  As if reading my thoughts, the voodoo priestess meandered to the door and threw the bolt.

  “What about you, Miss Myriam? What’s your plan?” I stepped closer to the entrance. “Maybe you should come with us.”

  She shook her head vehemently, her gray-tinged brown curls bouncing against her full cheeks. “Dis my home. No damn zombies gonna chase me off.”

  Just as stubborn as my neighbor Robert. Unwilling to let a thousand or more marauding zombies chase her away. Admirable, perhaps, but the spreading flames would likely kill her before the undead could take their chance. Rosemary had a variety of uses, but as far as I knew, it wasn’t known for extinguishing fire.

  “You sure?”

  She nodded. “I’m sure.” She unleashed a toothy grin. “But I ‘preciate da offer.”

  “Not a problem.” I winked. “Bet Clare and I could use some voodoo mojo on the road.”

  She chuckled, her whole body trembling with mirth. “Bet you could, too.”

  As she opened the door, I stepped cautiously across the threshold, still gripping Azazel’s carrier in one hand and my handy axe in the other. Glancing over my shoulder, I smiled at her.

  “Thanks for helping me, Miss Myriam.”

  She shooed me away. “Just take care of dat wife of yours. She a keeper.”

  I smiled. “That she is.” I hesitated, then said, “Good luck.”

  “You, too.”

  I took a few steps to the corner and surveyed both ends of Bourbon and Ursulines. Unfortunately, even through the smoky haze, I could see a massive amount of zombies still packed in three of the four directions — luckily, just not the one I needed.

  Taking one last look at Myriam, I noticed she had stepped outside to survey her part of the neighborhood. After apparently noting the three hordes of undead soon to converge at the intersection, she shifted her eyes to the corner, where I still stood like a catatonic platter of raw meat.

  “Run, dummy,” she said as she retreated inside and bolted the door.

  Chapter 11

  “No, please donʼt kill me, Mr. Ghostface. I wanna be in the sequel!”

  – Tatum Riley, Scream (1996)

  Taking Myriam’s advice, I bolted past the twenty-four-hour deli on the opposite corner. Known as the Quartermaster, it had long been my favorite spot for late-night munchies. Though one of the dirtiest joints in the neighborhood — where spotting roaches and rats scurrying along the baseboards wasn’t uncommon — it had never looked so horrendous.

  The weathered, glass-paneled doors barely hung from the hinges, and as I hurried past, I caught a glimpse of the decimated interior, with broken bottles, blood, brain matter, and intestines strewn across the dingy tiled floor and adorning the tightly packed shelves. That particular Halloween was probably one night the employees had wanted to close and lock their always-open doors.

  Without stopping to see if I recognized any of the victims, I continued down Ursulines, toward the Mississippi River. I had to zigzag between the mutilated corpses and body parts on the asphalt — the cat carrier and go-bag banging against me as usual — but I covered the hazy, eerily quiet block in less than twenty seconds.

  At Royal Street, I surveyed both directions, straining to see any movement through the smoke. Though I could still hear screams, gunshots, and other sounds of pandemonium all around me, I didn’t see any zombies in the immediate vicinity.

  It made me sad to think of all the cool historic homes, quaint inns, clever art galleries, and cluttered antique shops that lined Royal — and know they would either burn to the ground or become infested with the undead. There was nothing I could do to remedy the sad state of my old neighborhood, so I squelched the dismay, turned left, and headed toward Governor Nicholls Street.

  As before, I jogged down the middle of the road, afraid of getting myself trapped against the buildings or between the parked cars, and as before, I did my best not to trip on the previous night’s ill-fated revelers. If I were Robert or Myriam, I wouldn’t have remained in the Quarter for lots of reasons — not the least of which was that, even if those who stayed managed to subdue the zombies and put out the fires, they would still need to remove all the carnage from the structures and the streets — or else, the neighborhood would smell like death for years to come.

  I reached the corner of Royal and Governor Nicholls, where a three-story, dark gray structure towered over the intersection. Known by tourists and residents alike as the LaLaurie Mansion, it was an infamous, supposedly haunted home once owned by Nicolas Cage and frequently mentioned on the walking ghost tours that happened nightly.

  Glancing at the bodies around me, I could tell at least three tour groups had been present when the zombie commotion had begun. Among the tattered, blood-stained costumes, I could still see some of the stickers the competing tour companies typically distributed to their paying customers. What a terrible way for a cheesy ghost tour to end.

  Turning right, I breathed a little more easily. So far, I hadn’t encountered any undead, and I only had one block left to go.

  Troy Blanville, my infrequent drinking buddy and the owner of several pawn shops, tacky souvenir emporiums, and strip clubs throughout the city, lived in one of several historic, multimillion-dollar homes in the Quarter. Actually, being the sleazy, over-the-top guy he was, he wouldn’t have been satisfied with the usual fancy domicile, like the kind Brad Pitt and Angelina J
olie had famously owned many years before.

  No, Troy had to possess one of the finest properties in the neighborhood and, as a bonus, piss off the wealthy New Orleans elite: the hoity-toity businessmen, philanthropists, society wives, professors, politicians, museum directors, and local celebrities who would never have welcomed him into their high-brow soirees. So, when the former owners of the Soniat House — three well-appointed townhouses built by a French sugar plantation owner in the 1830s — decided to sell their business, Troy swooped in with the highest offer.

  Situated at the eastern corner of Chartres and Governor Nicholls Streets, the former hotel included a couple adjacent buildings and two shady courtyards. In its heyday, it had been lauded as one of the most elegant hotels in New Orleans, boasting modern conveniences, gorgeous European fabrics and antiques, and all the classic architectural touches, from hanging gas lamps to wrought-iron grillwork on the galleries.

  When Troy had gotten his hands on it, however, the place had undergone massive renovations. Eventually, it had reverted back to being a private home, complete with a sumptuous outdoor pool and an interior decorating design that could only be described as bordello chic.

  As soon as I neared the peach-colored property on the corner, I suspected Troy was still alive. Normally, all the windows and doors on the multiple levels of the adjacent townhouses were exposed, but on that day, green shutters concealed almost all those facing Governor Nicholls, making them much harder for zombies and looters to breach. Topped with wrought-iron spikes, the concrete wall that protected the sides and rear of the property would also prove to be a challenging obstacle.

  Though hard to tell with the shutters closed, it wouldn’t have surprised me if his house still had power. He and I had discussed prepping on numerous occasions — even before I knew civilization was coming to an end. In fact, shortly after embarking on my doomsday prepping, I’d received plenty of solid advice from him.