The big hunter let out a grunt of pain. The zombie had grabbed his calf with its supernaturally strong fingers--the same leg he had twisted chasing the voodoo priestess across the cemetery earlier that day. He drew his suppressed 9mm from the long shoulder holster and placed the muzzle against the forehead of the snarling beast. Thumbing off the safety, he moved his trigger finger less than half an inch. The report of the 147 grain hollowpoint was a loud “clack,” sounding more like a small firecracker than the handgun itself. The contents of the creature’s skull exploded out the back, scattering fluids and rotting brains down the back of the creature. It slumped to the ground, dead once again.
Pete McCarthy stood and looked across the vacant lot toward the bustling French Quarter, making sure that his fight with the creature had gone unnoticed. It was the middle of February in New Orleans, two days before Fat Tuesday, and the Mardi gras festivities were in full swing. With the noise of the fireworks, parties, and raucous music, there was no chance his shot was heard even a couple hundred yards away. He scanned in all around him, first to Henriette Delille St, then at the houses to the southwest. The big hunter turned back north, toward Treme St, and spotted the waiting panel van. He watched as David threw open the sliding panel on the side and hop out onto the sidewalk. The smaller hunter started across the lot, looking around to make sure they weren’t discovered. Pete nodded at his mentor and turned to the church to the northeast, and the gaping doorway to the basement.
Written by Bryan Donihue, Published 07/18/2017