New Toulouse

It seems the zombies got a boost of extra self-confidence during the last hurricane.They have left their restricted area! I see them sneak around really close to where the skeleton is in the pond right next to Swamp Manor.

Perhaps the hurricane killed the little humility they might have had achieved after all these years of shooting at them.

Maybe it is that Jason realizes he needs to come nearer to minimize my fading of interest, since he always poofs when I respond to his bite-cuddle. I noticed he had dressed up a bit tonight.

Yeah … I am on a first-name basis with a zombie.

Silky, the little beautiful kitten that visits me in the bayou, is not too thrilled. She does not like zombies.

But me, I think I’ve got zombie guardians now.

Somehow, though, I hope Miss Petunia the alligator decide to stay at Swamp Manor. I do not trust zombies. Even if I find them rather cute when they cuddle-bite me, I am pretty sure they just want to suck my brain.

Still, a little ghostly girl can dream.

The Ghost of Liza Veliz fell in love with New Toulouse at first sight and established an existence in an old voodoo shack in the bayou. She publishes books, some of which can be found at her reading cafe at the French Market.

Arriving at my house that stormy Saturday morning to sit on the patio and have a cup of mint tea, I found that Miss Nikita had moved my houseguest Eddie to the upper floor.The sky looked ominous, and she was worried about flooding.

I secured a seat next to Eddie on the balcony and sipped my tea, watching the rain come down now at an increased rate. The tin-roofed houses on Shotgun Row were sounding a crescendo of rattling from the torrent of rain. Miss Frannie offered a few sandbags and suggested I place them strategically on the doorstep. When Miss Mirri offered me a water gauge, I quickly nailed it to the side of the building and wondered what I should be anticipating.

I wandered across the street to the shore between the closest two shotgun houses. I saw Mr. Pestana in bright yellow rain gear aboard his tugboat, ferrying a resident to the shore, and he called me to board to see for myself the rising waters. The shoreline where I normally take my walks had disappeared. Buildings and their foundations now were being threatened by water.

Mr. Pestana turned the tug back toward the bayou, focusing his concerns on the whereabouts of his prize hogs. I could not believe my eyes as we passed by shacks with no visible land beneath. At one property two large farm horses stood atop a houseboat in the pelting rain. Mr. Pestana spotted his hogs anxiously trotting on the rail siding some distance from his house. I gripped the rail of the boat tightly as he swung the vessel around to take me back to New Toulouse.

Since the city ferry dock had disappeared underwater, I was deposited on the old wooden steps along the levee. Mr. Pestana then sped away to remedy his hogs’ predicament, shouting as he left that he would be placing them up on the roof of his house and hoped to avoid possible zombie agitation.

I walked quickly through the streets of New Toulouse, anticipating that soon there would be nowhere dry to walk. My day had begun with enthusiasm and the planning of a personal venture. What a turn of events. I arrived home to secure my dairy goats on the upper floors of my house. The goats were cooperative but did not appear to sense my urgency for their relocation to drier ground. My houseguest Eddie assured me that he would stand guard against goat exploration. I decided to get out my pirogue and paddle back to the bayou to see if I could pick up any stray animals or people.

Taking my pirogue to what was left of the steamboat dock, I lowered the dugout into the swirling waters. It was hard to control the boat with my one wooden paddle in the wind-driven current. I was paddling blind, feeling my way across the waterway to the outer canal nearest my launch site. The footbridge that I had passed under with Mr. Pestana much earlier was now closer to the surface of the water, forcing me to pull onto the bank. I dragged my wooden boat up high, distrusting the unpredictable water.

The sounds of the water were unusual, even for the present storm. The wood of the footbridge was slippery. I gripped the rail tightly, and my eyes fell upon an odd sight that froze me in place. It was hard to see with the wind rubbing rain into my eyes. I dared not let go of the handrail. There were long, waving, thick protrusions arising from the water north of the bridge. It looked very unnatural, and I backed up slowly. Stepping off the last board, I purposely slid down the graveled bank on my backside before grabbing the side of the pirogue. Hearing splashing coming closer, I turned to see movement in the dark waters that engulfed the base of the bridge. In one movement I heaved myself into the boat and, using the paddle as both a weapon and means of propulsion, I pushed off from the bank into the choppy water.

When I got back to my launch site beside the steamboat Mama Cree, I noticed that the water flowing in the streets appeared to join in solid formation with the water from the river. I picked up the pirogue, balanced it over my head, and walked with an emphasis on steady footing back to the house.

At home I found a canvas bag sitting on top of the front door’s sandbags. I got inside the house and sat down next to one of my goats to open the bag, which contained a note and a photo of the mayor standing on the footbridge. The real subject of the photo was not the mayor but what appeared behind him—long, dark tentacles snaked about, too numerous to count, coming up out of the swirling waters. The anonymous note stated that the mayor had reassured the citizen that nothing unusual had been encountered in the mayor’s survey of the bayou and the hurricane’s progression. The note did not say whether the mayor had seen the photo. I placed the note and photo back into the waterproof bag, since I was not sure of anything that day, including keeping myself dry and safe.

The safest thing is to stick to home, sip mint tea, read, and wait. I just hope the supplies keep dry and last out this very unusual turn of events.

Nnara Fenstalker lives in New Toulouse, where she operates a dance studio and keeps goats.

The devastation in the city showed how badly we had been affected by the storm. But spare a thought for the people of Bayou. While we paddled around our flooded streets or waded through our damaged homes and businesses, at least our lives were never in any real danger. Bayou folk lost everything. In some places the water had reached as high as the roof of their—in the main—rundown and dilapidated shacks. They had started with nothing, and by the end of the first day of the storm, they had even more of it.

Now rumors were emerging of a new horror lurking in the bayou: a creature so terrifying that people had been driven mad just thinking of it. Bayou folk tend to score rather low on the credibility scale: city-dwellers will wink and tap their heads, and mutter of “moonshine” and “inbreeding.” There was something in this tale, however, that had the ring of truth. Perhaps it was all those hapless refugees with their white faces and staring eyes: zombies in all but name. Perhaps it was because the tales of zombie infestation, dismissed with derision in the saloons and salons of the city, had turned out to be true. Or perhaps it was just a reporter’s nose for news. In any event, this reporter determined to investigate.

The ferry had been out of service since the start of the bad weather, so your intrepid reporter bravely poled her pirogue down to Bayou, not without many glances back at the city, where lights still burned in upper windows. As I steered into the flooded land I reflected that even on the sunniest day, there was something that lurked behind Bayou’s beauty: some strange, dark magic. Today, there was nothing beautiful about my surroundings—bloated animal carcasses floated past my pirogue, colliding with chairs, tables, and other items of cherished furniture, now lost forever. The thing that most struck me was the absence of noise. The swamp is usually alive with the cries of birds, frogs, and crickets, the droning of insects and the barking of dogs. The sounds of jazz and drunken singing drift from every juke joint. Now all was still; even the incessant rain and the howling wind was muffled by the live oaks and spanish moss and the dark, oily water. The splashing of my paddle seemed unnaturally loud, and I dipped it as slowly and quietly as I could.

As I moved deeper into the wilderness, I had a sense of being watched. It was not zombies—however fearsome, they are wholly lacking in subtlety and announce their presence by loud growls. It was something … alien. I took a long gulp of the holy water I had purloined from Our Lady of Bourbon Street and wished I had laced it with something stronger. I had an overwhelming desire to turn around and paddle back to the safety of New Toulouse, but they didn’t call me Fearless Frannie for nothing (NB: they have never called me Fearless Frannie, but I’m hoping this article will change that), so I forged ahead.

I was beginning to think that after all this had been a wasted journey when a vigorous stroke of my paddle propelled my craft into a clearing. A break in the clouds above allowed the dreary moon to illuminate the scene. The sight that met my eyes was too horrible to describe, but I had the presence of mind to grab my camera and take a picture of the … thing. I then knew no more until I woke up in this nice, white bed.

Judge for yourself—if you dare. The camera cannot lie.

Francesca Alva, Girl Reporter

Francesca Alva is the proprietress of the Green-eyed Fairy and strongly refutes any suggestion that she sells watered-down liquor. She is writing this from her padded cell in the New Toulouse Insane Asylum, where she is convalescing.

Darkest of night with the moon shining bright, there was a set going strong: a set of zombies. And they looked hungry.

My original mission was to find the headquarters of a secret society in the bayou, but the road outside the trolley station was thick with ambling death; a change of plan was required. The foul stench of rotting flesh filling my nostrils made that much clear. Nervously, I retreated inside the trolley station to ponder my next move.

Zombies are not uncommon in New Toulouse Bayou, but such a large number of them has not been seen in many years. Zombies, once living people now turned to animated dead, search for live flesh to eat. Anything with a soul is on the menu, so running away from them only delays the inevitable: you have to kill the creatures because they just keep coming.

Now I understood why free shotguns were being distributed at the Mamou trolley station: the city government was responding to the zombie problem. I picked up a shotgun, loaded both barrels, and looked outside.

Shooting was part of my plan that night, but I had expected to be doing it at the secret society’s shooting gallery that offered prizes for high scores. A tip-off had led me to a cleverly concealed note at the Bayou-side ferry dock. But the note didn’t say anything about zombies. No matter, I thought, affirming my resolve to do my civic duty. The city-issued shotgun felt good in my warm, living hands.

Peering past the station door, I saw no zombies, so I took a seat on a wooden bench outside. Now my trap was baited. Soon enough, the dreaded prey shambled out of the darkness and headed straight toward me.

He, or she, never knew what hit ’em.

After that zombie fell motionless to the ground I followed more clues to the secret location of the Shooters and Liars clubhouse, looking over my back for uninvited companions as I searched.

It wasn’t long before I found the lodge and the shooting gallery, and what a beauty it was, built by skilled workers who take pride in what they do. They even give you an official rifle to use, which was quite welcome because I needed my city-issued shotgun for other targets.

Seek and ye shall find, citizen, just as I did. The clues are out there. But beware of zombies still lurking along the clue trail. Good luck.

Habana Jazz is a resident of New Toulouse and calls his mother every week.

Sunday night a large number of zombies rose out of the swamp and attacked the train station before being put down by the constabulary and some heroic armed citizens.

Present and battling the undead horde were Mayor Godenot and Captain Pestana. A woman in a deep blue evening gown also bravely fought the zombies but declined to give her name. An unknown well-dressed man careened into groups of zombies with an automobile before sinking it in the swamp and using a firearm instead. “The police car was just sitting there!” he said.

No accurate count of the shambling dead could be made, but “there was zombie goop all over,” according to an eyewitness. Although some people were injured, luckily no deaths or zombifications occurred.

“The zombies don’t respect law and order,” Captain Pestana told this reporter. Residents are advised to take precautions in case another outbreak occurs. The New Toulouse Citizens Defense League is dispensing free shotguns at the train station.

Gigi Lapin is a resident of New Toulouse Bayou and an aficionado of the finest carrots.