The Undead Voodoo

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The Undead Voodoo

The Undead Voodoo

A Zombie Novella

By Luke Shephard

© 2016

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

The Undead Voodoo

Rosetta Travers has recently moved to New Orleans after growing tired of New York City life. She also wants to be close to her brother, Dorian, after their parents’ deaths in a car accident. She also wants to reconnect with her roots and learn more about her family, her history, and their connection to voodoo.

Exploring her new city, she wanders into one of the specialty Voodoo stores downtown. There, she meets the owner, Matthias Beaumont, and the two instantly feel a connection. He tells her of some strange happenings lately, but she chalks it up to being the Halloween season.

However, when she starts meeting the Walking Dead face-to-face, she realizes it is more than a Halloween prank. Somebody has used voodoo to bring the dead back to life.

Will she solve the mystery in time? Or will she become another victim of the Undead Voodoo?

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

1

On her flight into the city three days prior, Rosetta Travers had read an article proclaiming Bangkok the land of a thousand smells. Whoever had written the article had clearly never set foot in New Orleans. Every step down every street offered a new and exciting bouquet of aromas ranging from delicious to intriguing to downright vile. To make things even more complicated, most of these smells seemed to be in a constant power struggle for the attention of Rosetta's nose.

Granted, she hadn't been there long, but she sincerely doubted that she'd ever get used to the smells of week-old dumpster juice and Michelin-star cuisine having a sparring match in her nostrils. And if such a day ever came, it certainly wasn't today, when the unseasonable heat encouraged anything and everything to pay her nose a visit. Rosetta sighed and ran a hand through her thick, brown curls. In spite of the fact that it was October, the humidity was in danger of turning her hair into a full-blown Afro. Her fingers brushed against one of her large, silver hoop earrings: a gift from her mother (to match her gift of untamable hair).

This particular alley, a thoroughly sunbaked side street in a restaurant-heavy neighborhood, was offering up an aromatic buffet so intense that Rosetta elected to breathe through her mouth rather than risk the sensory overload. She licked her dry, cracked lips and did her best to convince herself that she couldn't actually taste the stink of the alley.

She'd overhead plenty of locals discussing the unseasonable hot spell as she'd made her way through the neighborhood, but she still hadn't been prepared for the heat. A pack of stray cats loped up and down the stone-paved street, rummaging in the various trash piles, seemingly undeterred by the day's warm weather. Rosetta envied them. She glanced down at her brown arms. In just a few short days her skin had grown darker than she could ever remember. Evidently the UV rays raining on Louisiana didn't particularly care that it was almost Halloween.

Rosetta was not looking forward to the summer. She silently thanked her mother for the gift of sweet, sweet melanin, which was almost certainly the sole reason her skin wasn't burned to a crisp yet. Evidently her father's Irish heritage had made more of its presence known in her brother: shortly after he'd arrived in the city last summer, Dorian sent her a text with a picture of his medical textbook-worthy sunburn and the phrase Black don't crack, but it DOES apparently burn. Hooray for Louisiana sunburns.

The thought curled her lips into a smile, which quickly bloomed into a full laugh. She wondered if it was preemptive karma for her brother's last prank. While she never caved to her family's accusations of full-blown agoraphobia, Rosetta had to admit that she was never in a particular hurry to leave the house.

She believed that being swallowed by a sea of pedestrians was supposed to be anxiety-provoking, and that it was everyone else who their facts wrong. Her brother had never agreed, and his text message barrage of invitations had begun at approximately the same time as the tires of her flight hit the runway.

She'd finally caved when Dorian lured her out under the pretense of visiting Marie LeVeau's voodoo shop, and the proximity of their addresses meant that it was only a matter of minutes before her brother was dragging Rosetta through a densely packed block of Bourbon Street.

They'd only been walking for ten minutes when a raggedly dressed man shuffled out of a dark side street and cornered them. Rosetta smelled panhandler immediately. A wide grin emerged from behind the man's matted beard. If he'd noticed her discomfort at his significant lack of teeth, it hadn't stopped him from striking up a conversation anyway. She suspected that Dorian was up to something when he'd started encouraging her to make friends with the street-faring gentleman.

She knew he was up to something when he pulled out his phone and began recording the proceedings (a habit of his that bordered on obsessive, even for a filmmaker). Not wanting to take the wind out of her brother's sails, though, Rosetta continued to chat up the homeless man until his gaze fell on her feet and a gleam appeared in his bleary eyes.

Nice shoes ya got there. I'll bet you twenty dollars I can tell ya where ya got them shoes, he said.

Rosetta knew the punch line to this particular joke, but played along for Dorian's benefit.

Ya got them shoes on Bourbon Street in N'awlins, honey! The man tipped his head back and clutched his belly, laughing riotously.

Rosetta offered the man a good-humored smile and turned to leave.

Not so fast, there, he said. His eyes squinted into a predatory stare. I know you ain't goin' back on dat bet, he said, before covering the distance between them in three violent steps.

Her brother sensed the danger before she did, and pulled Rosetta back into the flow of foot traffic before the man's leathery hand could clamp down on her arm. It took her brother nearly an hour to coax her out of her room after they'd returned. Dorian had sworn that he'd never seen a scammer get that aggressive before, but his apologies hadn't helped to untie the knot in her stomach. The fact that he'd never stopped giggling didn't help either.

This time, though, she was striking out alone. Sure, it meant running the risk of encountering more scammers. Her stomach knot retied itself every time someone passed by too close, but at least she was free from the threat of her brother's practical jokes and intrusive cell phone camera.

And this time she was damn sure going to see some voodoo shops. On the way to the French Quarter, she'd paid a visit to St. Louis Cemetery to see Marie LeVeau's tomb. The tomb itself was easy enough to find: not far past the weathered front gate, tucked neatly into the corner of the cemetery.

Unfortunately, the voodoo legend's final resting place was barricaded: some vandals had covered the entrance in thick, pink latex paint. Was it a political thing? Some sort of weird artistic statement? Rosetta struggled to understand the vandals' motivation. A makeshift sign proclaimed the historical site closed for repairs.

Still, many of the other visitors continued to add their gifts and offerings to the significant collection surrounding the gravesite. The outpouring of support helped ease her disappointment, and she'd boarded the bus to the Quarter feeling cautiously optimistic. Shortly after disembarking though, she'd managed to get turned around in a labyrinth of narrow streets flanked by old stone buildings that seemed to sag with exhaustion toward one another.

The sweltering humidity and offensive aromas trapped in the alley were currently threatening to rain directly on her parade. And if Rosetta was being honest, it was getting harder and harder to push away the thought of the angry panhandler from the other day. Her pulse quickened at the thought of his face appearing down one of the alleys ahead of her.

Rosetta continued down the narrow street to a tight intersection blissfully bathed in shade. Her relief doubled when she looked down the intersecting alley to see traffic, pedestrians, and other signs of civilization in the gap between buildings. Best of all there were no sketchy-looking con artists in sight.

She turned the corner and paced down the alley at a smooth clip, emerging on the sidewalk of a considerably busy (but considerably less smelly) thoroughfare. Her thick hair bounced as she cast a glance to her left: a Cajun restaurant, souvenir shop, and more than a few antique stores. Swiveling to face the opposite direction, Rosetta's lips spread into a beaming smile. The building closest to her was adorned with a wooden sign that swung gently in the light breeze: Beaumont's Voodoo Practitioner Supplies and Sundries.

Rosetta squinted at the smaller text below the name: Louisiana's Greatest Voodoo Supplier For Over A Century. While she was not yet in a position to confirm or deny this claim, the sheer density of items packing the display window led her to believe that Beaumont's was, at the very least, worthy of a quick peek.

Rosetta wrapped her hand around the front door's heavy brass handle and pushed inward. A bell above the doorframe sang out as the door swung inward, echoing through the empty shop. Rosetta stepped inside, closed her eyes, and drank in the scent of the shop.

After her march through the back alleys, the little voodoo shop was like a slice of deep-fried heaven. If it were up to her, every shop in New Orleans would smell like this: jasmine, lavender, honey, citrus, and an earthy base that may well have been the stone and timber of the building itself. The cozy little building was a modest affair: a long glass display case stretched from one end of the store to the other, doubling as the checkout counter.

Shiny, lacquered beads filled the doorframe behind the counter; Rosetta assumed it led to the apartment upstairs, which was presumably inhabited by Mr. or Mrs. Beaumont. Heavy shelves made of a dark, rough wood lined the opposite wall. Most of them were so thoroughly stuffed with merchandise that they threatened to spill their contents onto the ancient wooden floor. The shop's only light source was an antique chandelier, which barely managed to cast its soft, yellow light into the far corners of the room. Rosetta's hand traced the cool glass counter top as she crossed the room.

The owner had yet to make an appearance, so Rosetta padded lazily through the quiet store, hardwood creaking underfoot. It had been a long time since she'd had anything to do with Voodoo (and even then it was hardly more than a passing interest), but the shop appeared to offer everything a vodouisant could want, in addition to a wealth of items she'd never seen before.

Rosetta took her time browsing the healthy stock of ritual oils, powders, and candles perched on the shelves. Many of them were familiar to her: a vial of van-van oil for luck rituals, a bottle adorned with a picture of Erzulie (almost certainly used for love rituals), and a variety of candles bearing the images of various lesser Voodoo gods. Rosetta squinted at the lineup of loas, searching her memory for their long-forgotten names.

Before she could make any progress, though, her focus was interrupted by the clomping of feet down the stairs and the clacking of wooden beads as a young man pushed through the doorway behind the counter. Rosetta couldn't tell whether the expression of distress on his face was from her presence in the store or from the shuffling she'd heard upstairs, but whatever the case, he appeared more than a little flummoxed.

He leaned over the counter and sighed. Sorry about that, he said, voice tinged in sincere apology. My mom's laid up in the apartment upstairs, so I'm doing a lot of up and down today. You looking for anything in particular?

He cocked his head ever so slightly to one side as he asked, and Rosetta was immediately struck by how thoroughly his appearance contradicted that of a typical Voodoo practitioner. His dirty-blond mop was tied into a short ponytail, but a rogue strand of wavy hair dangled over one side of his face.

He absentmindedly tucked the lock behind his ear and smiled at Rosetta. His five o'clock shadow didn't seem to mind that it was only noon, and neither did Rosetta. His eyebrows rose away from his green eyes in an expectant expression, and Rosetta realized that she'd been staring at him longer than most social norms deemed appropriate.

Everything okay? he asked. His voice was soft and reassuring, but his smile indicated that he found the situation more than a little amusing.

Sorry, said Rosetta. I just wasn't expecting someone so...

Cajun? he offered.

Rosetta nodded.

Yeah, we get that a lot. Most folks come in here expecting a wild-haired Haitian lady drinking goat blood out of a skull, so their faces tend to look a lot like yours when they see a scrappy white guy instead. So what brings you in?

Rosetta's mouth burst into an involuntary smile. I was just poking around the neighborhood and I thought I'd pop by. I was supposed to check out Marie Leveau's shop the other day, but things kinda fell through.

You from out of town? he asked.

I guess I am, technically. Just moved here from New York. What tipped you off?

The young man shrugged. We only get two kinds of visitors in here: die-hard regulars and one-time souvenir shoppers. Most of our regulars don't look quite so, um...

Touristy? she finished. The man smiled again.

I was going to say 'bohemian,' but 'touristy' works in a pinch. You liking New Orleans so far? he asked.

Honestly? I haven't really done much exploring yet. My first impression was courtesy of a very pushy con artist on Bourbon Street.

The man pressed his lips together into a tight line and nodded. One of the shoe guys got to you, huh?

Rosetta laughed. Yeah, that's the one. Guess they've got a reputation.

He whistled curtly. That's an understatement. They've basically cornered the douche bag market from here to the Gulf. The shoe con is almost as old as the city. Maybe older. Definitely makes for a lousy first impression, though.

Rosetta nodded.

Whaddaya say we give you a do-over?

A do-over? she asked.

"Yeah, a do-over. We're gonna pretend I'm the first face you've seen in New Orleans. And—action!" The young shopkeeper snapped his fingers.

Rosetta suppressed a giggle and played along. Uh... hi?

Her tentative greeting was decimated by the enthusiasm in the shopkeeper's response. Why hello there madam! he boomed, waving an open palm at her with comically exaggerated panache. Welcome to Beaufort's Voodoo Practitioner Supplies and Sundries, greatest shop in the fine city of New Orleans.

Rosetta's giggle had passed the point of suppression now, and her laugh only encouraged the young man further.

My name is Matthias Beaumont, co-owner and proprietor of this fine establishment, and on behalf of the great state of Louisiana, I humbly welcome you to the greatest city on Earth. He extended a hand across the counter, which Rosetta cupped in a polite handshake.

Rosetta Travers, she said. Lovely to meet you.

"Aaand—scene! Matthias slapped his hands together in an approximation of a clapperboard. He pursed his lips and nodded. Not bad. Whaddaya say, Miss Travers? Beats getting shaken down for money by a seedy drifter, right?"

Rosetta laughed. And then some. Are you always this enthusiastic with your customers, or should I consider myself lucky?

He shrugged. Let's just say the spirit of customer service is alive and well here in the French Quarter. It doesn't hurt that you're an excellent conversationalist. So what brought you all the way down here from New York? he asked.

Rosetta's smile faltered, but she managed to regain her composure without arousing Matthias's suspicion. I came here to be closer to my brother. He moved down here last year.

Oh yeah? Your folks live in New Orleans too, or is it just your brother? he asked.

Rosetta shook her head. Just my brother. My parents... she hated herself for hesitating. My parents aren't around anymore.

Matthias's enthusiasm ratcheted down a notch. Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't—

Rosetta raised a hand to stop him. "It's fine. How were