Holiday of the Dead (27 page)

Tropical storm has passed over Florida, but now diminishing …

Then, he went to bed.

Next morning, Michael woke early. Partly because of jet-lag, but mainly because of the noise outside. He looked out of the window. Canal Street was blocked with stationary traffic, engines idling and the occasional blast of a horn.

He switched on the TV. The newsreader sat in front of a satellite image of the south-eastern United States, with a cloud mass over the Gulf of Mexico. Michael recognised the significance of the telltale hollow centre before the newsreader mentioned the word ‘hurricane’. Named Katrina, it was heading towards landfall on Louisiana and was gaining strength after apparently dying down over the Florida panhandle.

‘Many citizens have taken it upon themselves to evacuate or stormproof their homes,’ said the newsreader, a glossy blonde woman. ‘At this stage no evacuation has been ordered, although the surge from Lake Pontchartrain threatens to overwhelm the levees.’

Michael looked out of the window again, overwhelmed with indecision. He packed his suitcase as the newswoman talked on in her breathy over-enunciated voice. Then he emptied the suitcase on the bed and pulled out a rucksack. He stuffed it with a change of clothes including a waterproof jacket and trousers, and wrapped his laptop in thick plastic duty-free carrier bags, placing it at the back of the rucksack. He had a meeting planned that evening, and somehow he thought that the doors of the Rising Sun would not be closed by a hurricane and that Blind Willie would be sitting at the bar again that night.

He put his passport and money in a pouch, slung around his neck inside his shirt. As an afterthought, he tore a street map page from the guide book and shoved it in his pocket. He packed the rest of the clothes back in the suitcase and locked it in the wardrobe. Then he went downstairs to the lobby. The lift doors bore a hand-lettered sign reading ‘lifts shut down as precaution.’ Other guests were gathered in the lobby, some with bags packed, trying to arrange taxis. Michael approached a harassed looking manager.

‘No sir,’ the man said, ‘we’re not closing the hotel yet, unless there is a general evacuation order. I think they’ll use the Superdome as a refugee shelter. But we’ve lost some staff members already and we may not be able to offer anything beyond a room and bed.’

Michael grabbed a coffee from the self-service machine in the hotel bar and sat down with a few dozen others to watch the unfolding news. He felt jittery after downing the coffee and ordered a gin and tonic at the bar. The barman, unmistakably gay with cropped blond hair and a diamond earring, grinned. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere, at least not until after Decadence next week’ he said. ‘And who wants to give up a ringside seat at a show like this?’ He passed over a couple of half-litre bottles of water to Michael. ‘On the house. You might want to put these in your backpack.’

The breakfast buffet was overwhelmed by hungry patrons, but Michael managed to grab a plate of cold meat, boiled eggs and bread. Fortified by his gin and tonic, he decided to venture outside. He took plenty of digital photographs of the queuing traffic, the people dragging suitcases and the residents and owners sandbagging their properties.

The Rising Sun was open for business. The door had been half-sandbagged, reinforced by sheets of plywood and two small stepladders were propped up on either side. The same tall man stood outside as the previous day.

Blind Willie was sitting on the same stool as the previous evening. ‘I don’t normally take a drink durin’ the day,’ he growled, ‘but this is a special occasion. Storm comin’ down.’

The barman popped the cap off a beer and passed it to Michael. ‘On the house. One less for the looters to take.’ He placed an oil-shined pump shotgun on the bar. ‘If they want to try, that is.’ He dragged a TV on top of the bar and fiddled with the cable at the back. ‘Might as well see what’s comin’ down.’

They followed the path of the storm on the TV, drinking all afternoon. The number of patrons grew in number as the storm progressed and rain battered down outside. Michael was the only white man in the bar, but he didn’t feel particularly conscious of the fact, as he seemed to be accepted as a friend of Willie’s.

‘Man’s declared an evacuation,’ shouted one of the drinkers as he watched the mayor speak at a podium.

‘Too fuckin’ late for us,’ roared another man. ‘Not that they gives a shit anyway.’

Not long afterwards, the power went off. ‘Shut that door, Marvin,’ yelled the barman, who Michael had found out was in fact the owner, named Louis.

The door was closed and bolted. It was solid with no windows and little enough light penetrated the small windows on the street front. Marvin dragged sandbags to the other side of the door.

‘Now listen up,’ called Louis. ‘This bar is all I have. No insurance or nuthin’. Drinks are on the house as long as you boys stay here to keep it safe. Don’t think that Bourbon Street will flood much, but it’s people that worry me. Half the cops will have run away and none of them ever gave a shit anyway. Got food and water in the storeroom and four solid walls, all that we need.’

One of the patrons wandered around with candles stuck into bottles, placing them on tables where they cast flickering light. A man sat on the stage and plucked a guitar, strumming blues chords. ‘Woke up this mornin’ … storm was a-comin’ …’ Some others began to clap and stamp their feet, and a short fat man pulled a harmonica from his pocket.

Michael smiled through a hazy beer glow. This was New Orleans proper. And he’d completely forgotten about cemeteries or graveyards.

He was woken by noise. He had no idea of how long he’d slept, and had a pounding hangover headache. He had fallen asleep on the floor, using his rucksack as a pillow. Others were sprawled around and some were still drinking.

Louis was listening to a portable radio. Some of the noise was from the radio; the rest was from screaming and shouting from outside. Firelight flickered outside, glinting in the windows. Some water had trickled in through the sandbags, forming a pool near the door.

‘Situation’s bad, fellers,’ he called out to a hushed bar-room. ‘Plenty flooding and the roof’s nearly off the sports dome. It’s full of people and they’re all fighting and stealing. Mayor’s declared a state of emergency. We need to wait on the National Guard comin’ in, to clear away the looters.’

Marvin threw back the bolts on the door. Bat in one hand, he kicked the sandbags away and pulled open the door. He clambered onto the sandbag revetment and looked around the corner.

Then, he vanished, torn from sight by unseen hands. And the screaming started, shrill agony beyond hope of saving or healing.

‘Holy shit,’ yelled Louis. He jumped onto the sandbags, looking over the shotgun barrel. He pulled the trigger and worked the slide, but he was dragged outside as well, and joined in the chorus of screams.

Then they came through the doorway. Shambling corpses, stinking of the grave and the floodwater, with ravenous hunger in their hollow eyes.

Although the hurricane had passed the city by, the storm surge from Lake Pontchartrain had overwhelmed the inadequate levees, causing enormous flooding. Some areas were completely under water and, at that moment, householders were trapped in attics and resorting to hacking their way through roofs with axes and hammers. If they had known what was on the outside, they would have preferred to risk drowning.

The floodwater had reached the French Quarter, including the cemeteries of St Louis. The waters had flooded through the stone and brick tombs, loosening masonry and slabs, floating corpses and coffins. Unseen by living eyes, a skeletal form had crawled from an unmarked tomb, loosened from its rope-like bindings, clawing through soaking rotted wood, pushing through brickwork aged by time and soaked by water. It had slithered through water, mud and the fetid remains of other corpses. As it touched them, they too began to writhe. Possessed by blood hunger, they staggered onto their rotting limbs, and shambled off in search of sustenance.

The walking dead fell upon the living with ravenous hunger, tearing throats and jaw-bones, closing vicelike on fleshy arms and legs, gulping down blood. They grew in numbers as the slain found themselves dragged back to the realm of the living, driven by agonising hunger.

Michael watched Blind Willie as he slumped on his bar stool. ‘He’s out.’

‘What can we do?’ yelled Michael. Behind him, patrons were fighting with the undead. The occasional crack of a gunshot drowned out the meaty smacks of cleavers, knives and pool cues, as well as the throaty gurgle of fallen victims.

‘Nuthin’ much we can do.’ Willie pulled out a silver derringer and raised it to his head.

‘Wait!’ Michael grabbed his arm, jerking it. The pistol shot echoed around the bar-room but no-one looked up. ‘There must be something we can do!’

Michael grabbed a bar-stool as a battering-ram and entered the fray, Willie clutching the back of his belt. He pushed with all his effort, forcing the corpses back. One of them, a slough-faced skull with empty eye-sockets, swung at him with its crab-clawed talons, but he dodged easily and the blow passed by his face, leaving only the fetid stench of decay in its wake. They were slow creatures. He thrust the stool forward, momentum with him, but his feet slipped on the slimy floor. He didn’t want to look down and see, or smell, the mess of blood and putrescent slime beneath him. But hands grabbed his back, and forced him forward as others joined in behind him. They pushed the corpses backwards through the door, and spilled out onto the street.

‘Get to the cemetery,’ hissed Willie, in his ear. ‘The whip. The bone whip. It might be there.’

They ducked round the corner, into an alleyway, and Michael pulled out the map he had torn out of the guidebook. The St Louis cemetery wasn’t far, just three blocks away. The trouble was that he was knee-deep in floodwater, surrounded by the living dead which were intent on tearing the flesh from every last living person, until they too rose as walking corpses. And he had to escort a blind man, although Willie held the handle of his cane in a menacing grasp.

The walking dead seemed to be intent on attacking the largest groups of the living, including the former patrons of the Rising Sun, who had run into more of the creatures in the main street. Michael slipped past them, leading Willie, ignoring the complaining shouts. ‘Chicken-shit motherfucker,’ they called in his wake. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw one of the patrons hack the maggot-ridden arm off a corpse with a cleaver, before he was dragged down by two others. The creatures bit into his face and throat, which disappeared in a red spray.

They splashed up Dumaine Street, towards the Louis Armstrong Park. The fetid oil-slicked water soaked their legs, and Michael dodged floating branches, toys, drink cartons, polystyrene boxes and other debris. A scum-covered body floated past, and he gave it a wide berth. It did not move as it glided past serenely, face-up, but something snagged his ankle and he screamed. Another body had slid past behind him, face-down in the water, arms trailing in its wake.

The elegant buildings, arches and trees of the park were all lapped by water, but deserted of living or dead humans. Flames lapped in the distance, reflected on the underside of dark gray clouds. Michael was not sure if it was day or night. Most of the noise and activity seemed to be to the south, near the Superdome and Warehouse District. He checked his map.

The cemetery was next to a deserted red-brick housing project, and south of the raised St Claiborne Avenue Expressway. Bedraggled refugees trudged wearily southwards along this, presumably towards the Superdome, escorted by National Guardsmen. The cemetery gates were wide open and Michael passed between the white stone pillars, leading Willie into the twisting avenues of the raised memorials and tombs.

‘I don’t know where to start, Willie,’ said Michael. ‘It’s all under water.’

The blind man sighed. ‘It’s halfway down Alley Number Two. Name of Louviere. Most of the tombs are brick and stucco.’

‘I think we’re in Center Alley,’ said Michael, squinting at the map. Ahead was a meandering path through the looming monoliths. ‘Alley Number Two is one of these offshoots.’ Willie splashed after him, and they paused as Michael looked nervously at the dark passage to his left, overshadowed by the tombs, in darkness because of the power cuts. He took a deep breath and turned down the alley.

Michael placed one foot gently after the other, frightened of stumbling and being pounced upon by the undead. Hairs crackled on the back of the neck as he edged past the cracked-open vaults and tombs, which stared menacingly at him like eye-sockets in a row of skulls. He tried not to gag on the sweetly-fetid air which wafted from the abandoned sepulchres. Willie breathed heavily behind him, muttering what sounded like prayers to some distant god.