New Toulouse

When I came back to New Toulouse, I began looking around to reacquaint myself with the area. I was not surprised to see so many changes. Seems like things are always changing in this world. And given the fact that I travel to many regions during different time periods, I have gotten accustomed to change. But that’s another story.

While hiking around town, I came upon the ferry that crosses over to the bayou. Hopping on board, I made my way across the river, thinking about life in New Toulouse several years ago, before I’d left on my last journey.
As I departed the ferry, I found myself still reminiscing of times past, so I perched on a bench to take in some evening air and ponder. My fingers brushed a piece of paper tacked onto the bench. It read, “We said we’d tell you where to find the clubhouse, but we never said it would be easy. Look in the train station for more instructions.” Well, that was enough pondering for me. I had to find out what this was all about.

Now, I could tell you more about this find, but that would ruin all the fun. There’s just nothing like a peaceful day’s stroll on the bayou. Oh, did I say peaceful? Be sure to grab one of those sawed-off shotguns available in the train station. You’re gonna need it.

Shantz Hawker is an Acadian lone wolf who returned to New Toulouse after a long, hard journey through his ancestral heritage. He has settled here once again to open an apothecary in the French Market.

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.