DEAD SOULS

Eric Beebe, ed.

Post Mortem Press

Copyright © 2011 Post Mortem Press

All rights reserved

All works copyright 2011 by their respective authors.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

They Came Back

Gracie

The elevator

Powerless

Only Clowns Come Back

Old zombie, new tricks

Skeletons in the Basement

George and Sam

Push Button, Get Bacon

A New Breed

Zombie Night

Master Marvel’s Menagerie

Beautiful Things

The Real Thing

A Day in the Death Of

Dinner With Andy and Meg

They Still Live On

Juiced

gone but not forgotten

Post Mortem Press Classic Anthologies

They Came Back

An Introduction

by Jonathan Maberry

They died.

They came back.

They hunger for us.

We have always had monster stories. It’s part of who we are as human beings. We are blessed and cursed with imagination. We look into the empty night time shadows and imagine that they are filled with all manner of creeping horrors. We stare into the night sky and imagine gods and demons. We walk past a graveyard and even the most jaded of us do not believe that there is nothing there but dirt and stone and old bones.

In many ways monsters have become our friends. We’ve humanized them into toys and loveable TV characters. We put them on cereal boxes and turn them into puppets who teach little children how to count. We dress our kids up as vampires and werewolves and send them out on Halloween. Monsters are fun. For the most part monsters aren’t even scary anymore.

Except when they are.

The living dead are.

Sure, there are funny zombies in Shaun of the Dead and Zombieland. Zoms are played for laughs in the Marvel Zombies comics; and even used to sell products in commercials. We can laugh at zombies.

But not always. Zombies are one of the very few monsters who continue to be frightening when the laughter stops. Vampires have been largely defanged and shackled with teenage angst. Ghosts are hunted on reality TV (and are almost always disappointing no-shows). Werewolves have become beefcake for the tween set.

Zombies, though… damn if they aren’t still scary.

Why?

What is it about zombies that frighten us? What is it about zombie movies and books that have the power to disturb us—truly and deeply?

It’s all about fear.

Well…fear and loss. Loss is big.

That’s the core of the most frightening horror. In horrific situations we think about what we stand to lose. Our health, our lives, our freedom, our sanity. Our loved ones.

For most people, that last one is a real killer.

And it’s what makes zombie films so powerful.

In zombie films there are layers upon layers of loss, and all of it is horrifying. Think about it. On the surface of things, the zombie apocalypse is about a life-threatening disaster which could take the lives of our friends and family. As the disaster spreads, we not only see the body count rise, we see the protective infrastructure crumble. Those institutions whose sole purpose is to protect the civilian population suddenly crack and fall to pieces, leaving the population even more vulnerable, thus increasing the risk and upping the body count.

That’s scary in a whole new way. The more we need help to protect those we love, the less help is available. Which in turn increases our need. And our desperation. And our fear.

As a catastrophe of this kind spreads, it begins to affect everyone, impacting every life. No matter how isolated or well-protected a family or community is, there is really no way to guarantee everyone’s safety. Ultimately, loved ones will die.

In a hurricane or tsunami this is terrible enough, especially if the body is lost. There is no real closure, no line to cross from grief to recovery. In a zombie apocalypse we have the true worst-case scenario, because those taken from us aren’t bodies to be searched for, or buried, or mourned. They rise to become actual vectors of the threat.

That’s when it all truly goes to hell.

Imagine that. Imagine the unrelenting horror of having a loved one taken away by a disaster—with all of the soul-crushing pain that will cause—and then imagine them coming back. Not as a ghost, not even as a vampire who can still communicate and who is, on some level, still the same person. But as a zombie. These monsters are shells. Empty, unable to communicate. Mindless. Without memory. But they still look like wives and husbands, sons and daughters, parents. Or friends and neighbors. The fact that these monsters wear the disguise of those we love is the ultimate insult to all hope. It’s a lie, but because we are in no way conditioned or prepared for such an event, and because our emotions are not conveniently disconnected even in a disaster, we accept the lie. And, by accepting it, we are consumed.

How dreadful.

This is what zombie stories do to us. They take what we fear and give it shape, give it urgency, and then send it lurching toward us. Romero kicked all that off with NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD, layering what could have been a disposable low-budget horror flick with subtext. The faceless masses of the dead were not merely monsters, they were metaphors that took bites out of us. NIGHT told a story about racism, isolationism, Cold War paranoia and intolerance. DAWN OF THE DEAD used zoms to showcase the culturally destructive consumerism that was eroding America. DAY OF THE DEAD spoke to the frightening and impersonal build-up of the military industrial complex.

If it was only Romero who used these monsters for telling a broader and deeper story then we could view his zombies as a fluke; but we know that’s not the case. Max Brooks used his bestselling zombie novel, WORLD WAR Z, to give one of the most biting insights into the real possibility of a global pandemic by shining a spotlight on the failure of governments to cooperate and communicate. Joe McKinney slammed the red-tape nightmare that is FEMA in DEAD CITY and its sequels. I played with it myself, using zombies as metaphors for terrorist bio-weapons in PATIENT ZERO and as an exploration of the frequent misuse of weapons of mass destruction in DEAD OF NIGHT.

In every story – Romero’s, Max Brooks’, McKinney’s, mine, and the hundreds of other writers of screenplays, novels, short stories, and comics—zombies have always meant something more. Something important.

It’s all about loss.

The social and political losses are bad enough. The personal losses…they are far worse.

The genre has always encouraged writers to dig deep, to look closer, to tear the scab off the wound. Sometimes to pour salt in the wound.

Why?

It’s not about a need to indulge in sadistic fantasies or to exploit masochistic tendencies in the fan-base. Well, not entirely. Not even mostly.

The best writers in the genre—and there is a surprisingly high percentage of them—seem to want to share their own fears, their own dreads about the nature of loss. It’s something we all share. We all have someone we love. Even the most anti-social and hardened of us love someone. Or trust someone. Or have at least one truly meaningful friendship. Which means that every one of us has a bull’s-eye painted on our hearts. We can all be felled by the same kind of arrow.

Loss.

Because this is a shared experience, and because it is so fundamental to the human experience, the fear of loss in all of its many forms creates incredible fertile ground for storytelling. It allows us to tell a tale in a language everyone understands.

Which brings us to DEAD SOULS.

This anthology collects together stories about loss. Set against the backdrop of a zombie apocalypse, and painted in colors of blood red and nightmare black, these stories show us that which we fear. Sometimes in overt ways that demand the kind of unflinching attention only true shock can expect; and sometimes in subtler ways that whisper rather than shout. In either case, the truth is the truth. We all fear loss. It is the most horrible monster we could possibly face. And because in our real lives we actually must face loss at some point, the metaphor of the zombie becomes that much more horrible. After all, we’re mortals and we all have to die. We will lose those we love, and we will become the lost person others will grieve over. We will become part of that mass of lifelessness, that inexorable invading horde of the dead.

Zombies are a metaphor, sure. But the metaphor is closer to our reality than we like to think.

And that, my friend, is scary as all hell.

So, brace yourself. Turn the page and let the cold and hungry dead whisper their secrets. These are stories about the ones we loved who were taken from us too soon and in ugly ways…and who have come back to lead us into the land of the dead.

These DEAD SOULS all died.

Then they came back.

And they hunger for us.

Jonathan Maberry is a NY Times bestselling author, multiple Bram Stoker Award winner, and Marvel Comics writer. His works include Ghost Road Blues, Patient Zero, The King of Plagues, Rot & Ruin, Dust & Decay, The Wolfman, Dead of Night, Zombie CSU, Wanted Undead of Alive, Marvel Zombies Return, Marvel Universe vs the Wolverine, Captain America: Hail Hydra and others. He founded of the Writers Coffeehouse and co-founded The Liars Club; and is a frequent keynote speaker and guest of honor at conferences including BackSpace, Dragon*Con, ZombCon, PennWriters, The Write Stuff, Central Coast Writers, Necon, Killer Con, Liberty States, and others. His blog/website is http://www.jonathanmaberry.com.

Gracie

Matthew Ashcraft

As we turned into the cemetery, I was surprised to see that it was deserted. It wasn't quite in the middle of nowhere, though it was at least a mile to the nearest house; besides the one in which the graveyard caretakers lived in of course. That house sat to the right of the drive, immediately past the heavy iron gates. As soon as we were past those gates, I hit the brakes, and slid the shifter into park.

“What are you doing?” Jen asked me.

“Hold tight.” I said to my wife, as I opened my door and got out. I left the door hanging wide and made my way to the gate. I paused at the mouth of the driveway and looked over to the two-story house. Not one light shone in any window. There was no sign of life. There weren't many signs of life anywhere anymore. I hurriedly shut both sides of the gate and slid the little bar to the locked position. Normally, I assumed, they would padlock the gate as well. While I would prefer the added security, they didn't leave the lock hanging on when the gates were last opened. Even if they had, I wouldn’t have the key. I returned to my Ford Explorer, slid behind the wheel and pulled the door shut.

“Look.” Jen pointed out of the windshield to the right as the SUV began to move forward. A headstone lay face first on the ground before upturned earth. There was a hole amid the disturbed dirt, big enough for a man to crawl through. “Do you think she...?” Jen trailed off, and I shrugged my shoulders.

“I don't know.” I continued driving at a slow pace. The paved drive that cut winding through the graveyard began to rise. I made my way up the hill, past a few more unearthed graves. Still, we saw none of the undead themselves. I held my breath as we neared the hilltop. Gracie's grave was at the bottom of the other side of the hill, two rows back and to the left. Every time I'm in the cemetery my eyes are automatically drawn to her plot. This time was no exception. The Explorer crest the hill, traveling forward a few feet on level ground before the headlights swung down with the rest of the SUV.  I saw my daughter's grave. It was undisturbed. Beside me, Jen let out the breath she was probably unaware she was holding. As we headed down the hill, I reached for my wife’s hand with my own. At the bottom of the decline the drive turned right, but I continued forward slowly, into the grass. I maneuvered past the first row of headstones and cut the wheel to the left, turning towards Gracie's headstone. I stopped ten feet away from her grave and put the Explorer in park.

Jen and I sat in silence, both of us staring out of the windshield at our daughter’s headstone. It was bright white marble, bathed in the unearthly yellow of the headlights. It read:

Grace Elizabeth Jacobs

Beloved Daughter,

His Angel Returned Too Soon

September 22 2004

December 19 2011

Grace had been gone for a little more than a month when the dead began coming back to life. Three days ago, an eerie green glow had come from the Heavens, and washed across the Earth. After that, the news reports came streaming in from around the globe. Morgues had been over run. There was cell phone footage on of a victim of a car crash behind the wheel sinking his teeth into the arm of the paramedic who was half heartedly taking his pulse.

“Okay.“ I spoke first, opening my door as and looking over to Jen. She met my gaze and nodded. We walked to the back of the Explorer and I opened the rear hatch. Jen turned away from me; her eyes scanning back the way we had come.

“Why aren't they here?” Jen asked.

“I don't know. Luck, I guess.”

“Nothing to eat.” Jen said. I had no reply as I pulled a shovel out of the SUV and shut the hatch.

“I’ll dig first.” I said. “Climb up on top of the car and keep watch.” We moved to the front of the vehicle and I helped Jen up onto the hood, and watched as she scrambled up the windshield and to the roof, where she sat Indian style, turned away from me. I turned towards Gracie's grave and made my way past the first row until I stood in front of my daughter’s headstone. I wondered if beneath my feet she moved. I closed my eyes as stinging tears slipped from them like condensation running down a cool glass in summer heat. I opened my eyes and wiped them with the sleeve of my jacket and stole a look back at Jen. She was turned back to me, watching. Neither of us spoke as I lifted the shovel and then shoved it downward, the flat head slicing through chilled dirt. I looked back at Jen but she was turned away, once more looking up the road of the way we had come. I dumped a small pile of dirt off to the side and lifted the shovel again.

Jen turned around when she failed to hear the shovelhead impact the ground again. I was frozen, the tool lifted in my hands. “What's wrong?” Jen called to me.

“This isn't the right thing.” I answered.

“Damn it, Chris, not this again.”  She slid down the windshield and dropped off the hood. “We've gone through this and through this.”

“Jen, She's going to be like every other one of these things.”

“Our daughter is not a thing!” Jen's voice was raised, and it cut through the nighttime silence like a dull knife through skin. It left ragged echoes around us.

“I know.” I said, raising my hands as Jen walked towards me. She reached for the shovel, but I pulled it from her grasp.

“Give it to me!” Jen said, reaching for the shovel again.

“Is this the best thing?” I asked. I had been torn since Jen had first brought up her idea to me two nights ago. Of course I wanted to see my daughter back, but did I want to see her like this?

“Yes. Yes it is, you asshole. She's my little girl!”

“She might not be anymore.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Jen stepped forward a half step and slapped me across my face. “Gracie will always be my little girl!” She screamed, and I felt spittle land on my lower jaw and neck. Birds rocketed from nearby trees. Large crows disturbed from slumber, shrieking as they went. Jen was still in my face, her breaths were short, as they sprayed hot against my lips. From behind the Explorer, we heard a moan. Jen’s eyes went wide and I stepped back from her, looking past the SUV and to the road. At the top of the hill, shuffling along the paved path, was one of the walking dead. I gripped the shovel, holding it across my body in a defensive stature, and started forward to meet the creature.

“Chris.” Jen called, and I replied over my shoulder.

“Get into the car.” I didn't look back, but I heard my wife’s quick footsteps to the Explorer, and the door open and close. I reached the road and stood right where it leveled and began to turn. The creature saw me in its good eye; its bad eye being so bad that it was nowhere to be found in the creature’s face. It quickened its pace, teetering dangerously in an awkward gait with Its arms outstretched, grimy fingers curling. The thing had once been a tall man in his fifties; its hair was dark and peppered with distinguishing flecks of gray. Currently, it was also flecked with brownish and sticky looking gristle and blood.

I let my breath out in long, slow pulses as I waited for the monster. It lumbered along, its one eye never leaving me. The zombie was halfway down the hill when it stumbled and fell forward, pitching directly onto its face. My legs tensed as I considered sprinting up the thirty feet of pavement that separated us while rhe creature was down. Before I had decided, the creature was already pushing itself back to its feet. Its face was practically shredded from its fall, the skin scraped away in jagged pieces, but there was hardly any blood. In place, thick globs of brownish red seeped from the edges of the wound and fell spiraling to the ground, slapping onto the pavement with a sickening sound. When the creature was close enough for me to smell I gagged, vomiting a little and turning my head to spit on the ground.

When it was within five feet the creature let out a moan, its shoes scraping along on the ground as it leveled out. I lifted the shovel high above my head and took a step forward, bringing it down with all of my might. I used the curved bottom of the shovelhead, and it cracked against the zombie’s cranium. The head caved slightly. I lifted the shovel again and brought it down with better results. The ghoul’s head completely caved, its remaining eye popped out of its socket and hung on the optical nerve. The body fell to the pavement, and I brought the shovel up and down on it again. And again. And again. I heard the Explorer’s door open and close, but still I didn't quit swinging the shovel.

“Chris.”

I swung still, the shovelhead crashing into different parts of the body. The face was unrecognizable, the chest was curved inward, broken ribs jutting out of the skin.

“Chris.” Jen spoke again. Softly. She sounded far away with the blood pumping in my ears, my temples throbbing. Tears streamed down my face. I stopped swinging the shovel and felt Jen's hand on my back. We stood there for a moment while I caught my breath. I turned towards Jen without a word and held the shovel to her. She grabbed it and I stepped past her and made my way to the explorer and up on its roof. Jen stood and watched me for a moment, but I looked past her, up the drive to the top of the hill. I saw her walk past the SUV and back to the grave out of the corner of my eye. I kept my eyes trained on the top of the hill. I heard Jen grunt as she lifted the shovel and drove it into the earth.

Jen dug for about twenty minutes before I turned towards her. It hardly looked like she had made progress, but she was covered in a sheen of sweat that caught the light from the low gray moon. I slid down the front of the SUV, and Jen stopped digging when she saw the light from the headlights flicker. She turned, the shovel half raised, anticipating an attack.

“It's just me.” I said, making my way towards her.

“This is hard.” She panted.

“I'll do it.” I said, and took the shovel from her. I looked up to the moon. “Turn the headlights off. I think I’ll be able to see.” Jen nodded and made her way to the Explorer, and soon the light was extinguished. I stood still for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. I heard Jen reclaim her seat atop the Explorer. Slowly she and the car came into focus. I turned and began to dig.

It was not long before I was drenched in sweat as well. The work was monotonous and hard. I let my mind wander while I dug. I thought of Grace. Her beautiful face. Her brown hair curled and tangled in the mornings. Her button nose running while we played outside the day after a snowstorm. She made such little snowballs, the kind that were hardly packed and fell apart in the air long before they ever found their target. She was gone now, and my mind quickly turned to the topic it had every day and night since she had been taken from us. Death. It was inescapable, especially these days. Everywhere you looked in the last few days you saw it, but I had felt it for a little over a month now. I dug, and I thought about dying; what it meant. It meant I would never see my daughter again. Or at least, I had thought that's what it had meant. Now the dead were walking the Earth. I wondered if Gracie was one of them now. Jen seemed to be convinced that we would open the coffin and she'd be some sort of exception; alive but not monstrous. Our little girl again. I didn't have much faith in that idea. But I confess I was eager to see my daughter again, no matter what the state.

Where do we go when we die? That thought slipped into my head next. Muscles in my arms ached. My back screamed bloody murder with each shovelful of dirt. I had no idea how long I'd been digging, but it must have been a while, I figured I was about half way to my daughter’s casket.

Was there an afterlife? I had been skeptical most of my life. I had been raised Catholic, which had certainly helped drive me to an agnostic lifestyle. I wasn't sure if there was a God or not, but I believed Man hadn't gotten it right yet. I had always had a hard time believing in souls.

I continued digging. My hands began to sting and I was sure I'd have blisters before the night was over. I scooped the earth away, lifting it and flinging it over my back onto a pile that was rising above my head. I was up to my waist in the hole.

How could we move on to Heaven? How could we live forever there? Forever was a long time. It was mind-boggling. Was that where my daughter was? Somewhere, up there, forever? Or was she just under my feet, stirring in a heavy oak box, waiting to sink her teeth into the flesh of the living? Or maybe Jen was right? Was Grace down below me, alive and well? The same old Gracie? I had to quit digging for a bit.

When I climbed out of the hole, Jen slid down the front of the Explorer.

“You look disgusting,” she said. I laughed.

“Thanks.” I jammed the shovel into the ground next to the grave and moved to the hood of the Explorer, pulling myself into a sitting positing on top of it. Jen leaned against it next to me.

“I was thinking about when Gracie got chicken pox.” She said. I looked to her, breaking out in a grin.

“She called them picken' pox.”

“Yeah.”

We were both silent for a moment. The wind rustled gently among the leaves, moving them with its winter chill.

“I miss her.” Jen said.

“I know. Me too.”

“I should dig.”

“No.” I said, putting my aching hand on her shoulder. “I'll get back to it in a minute.” Jen nodded and I let my hand fall away.

“We should have brought Emily.” Jen said. Emily was Grace's favorite doll. “She would have liked to have seen her.” I didn't say anything. “You think?” Jen asked after a while.

“Yeah.” I nodded. “Yeah.”

“Well, she’s back at home at least.”

“Yeah.” I didn't mention that our home had become overrun with zombies as we had made our escape. It had been a close call, and I had been forced to put my first creature down in our garage as Jen got the Explorer started. More were coming into the garage from the kitchen as we sped away. “All right.” I said, sliding off of the hood. I made my way to the grave and grabbed the shovel, dropping back into the hole I had dug. Jen remained leaning against the SUV. I dug and dug, at one point stopping to take my jacket off despite the chill in the air. I sweated even as my breath took visible flight before me.

I thought about the zombies this time. It was weird to say that word. How many movies had I seen where corpses came to life to munch on the living? Some poor suckers in a mall or a small farmhouse. And now, it was my life. It was everyone’s life, in one way or another. I had been at work, my third day back since Grace had died when the green light appeared. It had just bathed our planet, washing over everything. Then it was gone. But somehow it lingered, because even now, anyone killed gets up again. I forced myself to think about Grace again.

Grace had been such a loving little girl. She had needed two hugs each night before bed, and two kisses. One before she went into her room, and she called for her mother and I to come back in after we had tucked her in for another round of hugs and kisses. My mind tried to turn to the day Grace died, but I wouldn't let it. It was too fresh, too raw, and I struggled to push it from my mind. I wanted to remember her life, not dwell on her death, even as I dug up her grave.

My hands were rubbed raw and my back was tight with pain, but still I dug. I moved back and forth, keeping the depth even as I removed the dirt from her plot. My shoulders cramped and seemingly threatened to give out with every thrust of the shovel. Hours passed and I worked. I looked up to check on Jen and was surprised to see nothing but dirt. The hole was so deep I couldn't see out of it. I dropped the shovel and moved to the side, curling fingers into the grass and pulling myself up and out of the hole. Jen was asleep on the hood of the SUV. I didn't wake her. I lay on the grass for half an hour at least, and then dropped back into the hole. Within ten minutes, the blade of my shovel struck something. A "thunk" was amplified by the dirt and rebounded out of the grave. It woke Jen and she was at the lip of the hole in seconds.

“You did it!” She was grinning down at me.

“Yeah.” I used the shoved to slide the dirt off of the casket. I stood on the coffin and dug a small trench next to it for me to stand on. I reached up and handed the shovel to Jen. She took it and set it aside before jumping down into the grave with me.

“Open it.” She said.

“Hold on.” I replied. I was scared. I couldn't open this. I bent down, pressing my ear to the lid of the heavy wooden casket. I couldn't hear a thing.

“Open it.” Jen pleaded. Her voice wavered with anticipation.

“Jen.” I began, but my wife cut me off.

“No. God dammit. You will not start this.” Jen pushed past me and reached down, she strained to lift the lid. “Help me.”

I bent my knees next to my wife and let my fingers find purchase on the edge of the lid. We took a deep breath and Jen counted to three. We pulled. The lid swung up. Our daughter was sitting up in a flash, her hands groping for my wife’s leg.

“Gracie.” My wife was breathless, our daughter’s name barely heard on her lips. Jen bent and scooped Grace up in her arms. I took a step back. I saw Gracie's face over Jen's shoulder. It was gray, the cheeks and eyes sunken.

“Jen.” I said.

“My baby.” Jen said. They were the last words I would ever hear my wife speak. Grace leaned back in Jen's arms and then her head shot forward. Her teeth found their mark in my wife’s throat, and with a sickening snap of flesh, Gracie jerked her head back. A red spray of blood spurt through the air from the wound in Jen's neck, and she fell backwards, Grace on top of her. I turned and grabbed the grass once more, pulling myself back out of the grave. I slid forward on my belly until my legs were clear of the hole. I rolled onto my back as my daughter began to eat my wife. I pulled myself up into a sitting position and peered into the grave. Grace was kneeling next to Jen's body, her face and hands bloody. She held a hunk of flesh to her mouth and chewed on it. I scrambled away from the grave and threw up.

“Oh no.” I spoke softly, to no one but myself. I shakily rose to my feet. What was I going to do? I walked to the Explorer, pulling the keys from my pocket. I unlocked the doors and climbed behind the wheel. I slid the keys into the ignition, but I didn't start the car. I couldn't leave my daughter. I thought for a moment before grabbing the keys from the ignition and sliding out of the car.  Openning the back door behind the driver’s seat, I moved to the back of the Explorer and popped the hatch. I pulled out a big blanket Jen and I had used when we gave out candy the weekend before Halloween at Stone Lick Lake. They always had trick-or-treating a week or so before Halloween at the campground, and my mother took Grace around to get candy.

I unfolded the blanket and made my way back to the grave. I set the blanket on the ground and slid my jacket back on. I grabbed the blanket again and peered into the grave. Grace was still feeding. She was covered in blood, and she was holding what looked like Jen's liver. I dropped into the grave, holding the blanket out in front of me. Grace looked up and a guttural growl escaped past her blood-covered lips. She climbed to her little feet and stepped forward, standing briefly in Jen's open stomach. I rushed forward while Gracie was a bit off balance and wrapped the blanket completely around her. I stepped back towards the wall of dirt and practically threw the blanket and my daughter up and out of the grave. I jumped up and pulled myself out after her.

The blanket was coming undone; I saw an arm and half of my daughter’s face as she struggled to free herself. I dove forward, grabbing the edge of the blanket and pulling it tight around Grace again. I scooped up her tiny frame and the blanket in my arms and ran to the Explorer. I moved to the open back door and shoved her into the seat, still covered in the blanket. I reached past her and grabbed the seat belt, clicking it tight across her body. Grace groaned and thrashed her head back and forth. I pulled the blanket down off of her head and looked in my daughter’s eyes. [ESB1]

“Grace.” I said. Grace stopped rocking her head and stared at me. My wife's blood shone brightly, coating Gracie's mouth and nose. “Please, honey, please stop this.” I knew there wasn't a thing I could say to change what Grace had become. I stepped back and sat on the ground, looking up at my little girl. She leaned to the side, pulling at the belt, trying to get to me. “I miss you so much.” I began to cry. “I missed you. I'm glad I got you out. This life is better than no life, isn't it? There is no Heaven, is there? It's better to be like this, than to not exist.” I was pleading, with her, with a God I didn't think was there, with myself. Trying to justify what I had done, trying to justify Jen's death. I got to my feet and moved to the grave. Jen was lying in the ditch next to the casket, dead but moving. Her lips parted as her mouth opened and closed when she saw me. Her middle was an empty cavity, but still she sat up.

“I'm sorry,” I said to my wife. There was no way I could get her out of the grave and bring her with us. I stepped back and returned to the car. I shut the back door and got behind the wheel. Driving back to the home I had shared with my wife and daughter was almost unbearable. The sounds coming from what used to be my daughter were ghastly. Groans and moans, grunts and gnashing teeth.

I pulled into a gas station lot before I got back to town. I had half a tank, but needed a full one. Power had gone out in my town right before Jen and I had left our home to come to the graveyard, and at first I thought that was the case here at the gas station, but I saw a dim light on in the convenience store and knew that wasn't the case. I parked in front of a pump and turned the engine off. I opened the door and listened. I heard no sounds. No bugs, no birds. No creatures. I popped the door to the gas tank and got out. I moved around the Explorer to the tank and the pump. The pump still had juice to it.

PLEASE SLIDE CARD OR PREPAY CASHIER

I hesitated for a moment and then pulled my wallet out and slid my card.

INSERT PUMP AND SELECT GRADE

It felt absurd doing something so mundane and normal. Heard a soft chime and it took me a second to realize it was the door to the convenience store. I moved to the left, looking around the back of the SUV. A creature was making its way towards me. He wore a blue polyester shirt and a nametag. He must have been on shift when the green light hit. He had never gotten off this last shift. [ESB2]His skin was gray and waxy. Half of his neck was gone causing his head to tilt towards one side. I hoped I had enough gas and threw the pump to the ground, running back around and diving in behind the wheel. Grace was going crazy. She had seen the other zombie and she was practically screaming. My tires squealed leaving melted rubber in tracks on the pavement as I sped back onto the road.

Less than twenty-four hours ago my neighborhood had been crawling with the undead. Now, I saw few. I turned down my street, and into my driveway. The headlights swung around, illuminating the open garage. There was the body of the zombie I had killed. The door to the kitchen was open, but no ghouls were in the garage. I pulled into the garage, two of the tires crunching over the corpse inside. I left the engine going and hopped out of the Explorer, running back to the garage door and reaching up to pull it  closed. Outside, the sky was beginning to turn light. I pulled down quickly, shutting the new sun out. I moved to the kitchen door and shut it as quietly as I could, unsure of what was in my house beyond. I got back behind the wheel. I shut the door and rolled all of the windows down. I kept the engine running.

“I can't make you into the daughter I remember.” I spoke out loud to Gracie in the back seat. “You can't come back, more than you already have.” I started to cry again. “But I can join you.” I closed my eyes. “I love you, Gracie.” My head was starting to swim; the fumes were heavy in the air. I kept my eyes closed as I fell into a sleep I knew I would never wake from.

- P -

Matthew Ashcraft was encouraged to write by his 7th grade English teacher. That same year, he was awarded most talented child by his mother. (Matthew Ashcraft is an only child.) Having always lived close enough to Cincinnati to simply consider himself a Cincinnatian, Matthew currently lives in Fairfield, Ohio (or you know, Cincinnati) with his girlfriend and son, where he's a part time adult.

The elevator

Joseph Williams

Tyler stood in the open doorway and willed his heart to start beating again.  One, two.  One, two.

His wife had broken loose and if he didn’t pull himself together quickly and find her, all would be lost.  There’d be no hope for the baby and no hope for him.

All she’d left behind was her left hand and right foot.  He could see from the blood and sweat and waste soaking into the carpet that it must have been a harrowing ordeal for her, and he was momentarily ashamed for forcing her to go to such extreme lengths under the banners of Freedom and Hunger.  He knew he shouldn’t have deprived her of food, because hungry people never stayed hungry for long, one way or the other.  They either became dead or desperate.

“I couldn’t have done anything else to keep her in,” he assured himself.  He’d gotten in the habit of voicing his thoughts because, otherwise, the world was silent.

“Nothing I could do,” he added.

And it was mostly true.  He’d run out of food for her.  He couldn’t feed her lettuce or fish or birds or tomatoes or pork and beans (which had comprised his diet for the better part of a year), and he couldn’t feed their daughter anything until her teeth came in.  His wife, Lilley, had to do the feeding for their daughter.  It had become increasingly difficult since Lilley’s diet had changed so drastically.

“Lilley!” he called out.

There was no answer apart from the echo of his own voice through the elevator shaft.  It have him a chill.

“What do you expect to hear?” he asked himself.  “She hasn’t spoken in months.  And no way would she start up now that she’s escaped.”

He frowned.

“She might come back.”

But of course she wouldn’t, even if a small part of her wanted to.  She didn’t have the capacity to return anymore unless it was by accident.

“She’ll come with the others.  She’ll have to.  There’s not enough food.”

It was only slightly more than a fool’s hope.  If she came with the others, it would be hard for him to take her away and lock her up again.  This time, if at all, it would be somewhere more secure than the elevator (assuming such a place existed).

The baby was crying.  Tyler’s heart beat back into a normal rhythm.  The baby always cried.  It was the one thing he could still count on for stability now that everything else had wasted away.

He didn’t go to her because he knew she’d be hungry and he didn’t have any food to give her yet.  Not until he found her mother.

“Lilley,” he whispered, staring at the lumps of gore and clothing she’d shed in her escape.  The sight made his stomach break and his heart growl.

“Why would you go?  Why would you abandon her?” he implored her leavings, biting back tears and forcing strength he didn’t have to keep his knees from collapsing.

The baby’s cries grew louder.

He heard a crash somewhere on the first floor and wondered whether it was a door slam. 

Without a moment of consideration, he sprinted through the lobby toward the noise, totally unprepared for anything that might have been waiting for him around the corner if it wasn’t Lilley.  He was desperate to find her.

“Lilley!” he yelled.

It was no use.  She couldn’t answer.  Wouldn’t.

He could see the revolving door still swinging and wondered if he’d mistaken the sound of the wind through it as a door slamming.

But then, he saw her.

She was staggering down the city street on her one good foot, about to make a right toward Cobo Arena where they’d once held the North American International Auto Show, Detroit Pistons games, concerts, and even roller derby.  It now lay dormant like a melancholic monster.  The Detroit River was only a few hundred feet further on from there.

“What if she’s going to drown herself?” he worried aloud.

He was through the door and out on the street himself in another moment.

“Lilley!” he cried out.

She didn’t turn, but he could see that her slack, raw muscles were stiffening as much as they could manage, attempting to pivot in spite of the incline that threatened to fell her.

“Wait, honey!  I’m coming!”

As though the words were any consolation to her.  If she’d wanted to stick around, she wouldn’t have broken loose in the first place.

He wondered whether she would turn to face him or not.  He hoped she wouldn’t.  It wouldn’t do him any good to see her beautiful face ravaged into such a blank, listless stare.  He almost would have preferred to have her start running even with her bad foot.  At least that would show there was some life left in her.  Some instincts.  Some discernment.

“The baby needs food!” he tried to reason with her, but she wasn’t biting.  She was far beyond the point of caring.

There was a crash behind him.  Tyler turned around just in time to see a thug entering the hotel lobby where his own child lay defenseless and crying, wanting a bottle and some matronly affection.  Tyler could provide neither.  He needed Lilley.

But he couldn’t let the thug get to his daughter.  Then it would be a moot point.

“Lilley please!  For the love of God!”

She turned slowly, but he was already backtracking.  If she followed, she followed.  He had to go back and save their daughter.

The thug had no trouble figuring out the revolving door and neither had Lilley.  Tyler made a mental note to come up with a better barricade once he’d taken care of the intruder.  He could only back them off for so long before they caught him unawares, maybe snuck their way in while he was down at the river and waited until he came back to ambush him.  It had always been the same way in Detroit, where the weak were killed and eaten.  Only recently had that saying taken a literal form.

“Hey!” he yelled after the thug.  “Hey!  Get outta there!  Hey!”

The thug didn’t turn around, just like Lilley hadn’t.  Tyler was beginning to wonder if he’d been in silence so long that he’d become mute.  They were supposed to be attracted to noise.

He crashed through the door and was directly behind the thing in a heartbeat.  Only then did he realize he was unarmed and not half as big or muscular as the monster before him.

Tyler’s pulse pounded in his neck.  He swallowed and froze a few steps behind the intruder.  The baby was crying.  He was torn between swift action and calculated attack.  The thug seemed to only have eyes for the baby.

Tyler looked around the hotel lobby.  There were chairs by the fireplace, a couple of tables, some pens, a few dead bodies, a backpack, and the elevator.  None of them were close enough or lethal enough to be of any use.

“But the glass…” he thought, unaware he’d spoken aloud.

How could he have forgotten the glass?

His muscles relaxed.  His pulse slowed.  The sweat cooled in his palms and on his brow.  Glass.  Simple enough.  One swipe and that would be all.  It would be over quickly.

The baby gargled her own screams.  The thug, likewise, drooled.

With one clumsy stoop, Tyler gripped a large piece of glass from one of the shattered lobby tables and brought it up to the wandering thug’s throat.

“Get the fuck away from my daughter,” he growled through clenched teeth.

In her crib near the hotel bar, the baby’s tears slowed and she cooed at the familiar sound of her father’s voice, but then another one of the wandering thugs banged against the window and the loud noise made the baby instantly disagreeable.

“Damn it!” Tyler yelled, and sliced through the jugular of the figure before him.

The thug turned and grunted, staring with bloodshot marbles at his final killer, and then he collapsed to the floor with puss and blood gurgling out of his open throat.

“Ugh!” Tyler winced.

He wasn’t fond of killing the thugs at close range.  The city was overrun with them.  They’d been some of the only people who’d stayed after the evacuation, never able to pass up the opportunity to prey on the weak and destitute.  But every day, there were less of them.  He liked to think he’d played a big part in that blessing, but many of them were dying off on their own.  There just wasn’t enough food left to go around anymore.  Just Tyler and his daughter.

The other thug hadn’t figured out the door yet, so Tyler ignored him and moved his daughter into the mop closet while his victim bled out on the marble floor.

“I’m so sorry, sweetie,” he hushed his hysterical daughter.  “I’ll go get Mommy and you’ll get some food, okay?”

It only made her cry harder.

He ran back into the lobby and pushed a table into the revolving door so it would be too heavy for one of them to open, cursing himself the whole way for his indiscretion.

“Jesus, I nap once without her locked away and Lilley breaks out.  Thank God she didn’t realize the baby was so close.  She could have killer her.”

He didn’t need to question whether it was true or not.  For the past month, he’d had to chain Lilley back by the throat and hold her arms and legs while their daughter suckled on the milk Lilley, though dead, still produced in her otherwise depleted glands.  The shock of turning while in her final trimester had, thankfully, locked her body into some of her post-natal functions.  In that one awful way, she could still be a mother. 

And it was awful.

Her breasts were gray and scarred from her own careless nails and wandering teeth.  Her skin was yellow and infected.  Blood and bile trickled down from her throat-wound and Tyler had to cover their daughter’s head each time it fed to make sure the blood didn’t come in contact with the baby, even her fuzzy scalp.  His wife had become a sickening thing.  If it hadn’t been a necessity, Tyler never would have risked exposing his newborn to tainted milk.  But what choice did he have?  There were no grocery stores with Gerber.  Even if he found a cow, he didn’t know the first thing about milking them.  He couldn’t really cook at all.

He didn’t know what he’d do without Lilley’s breast milk to sustain their daughter.

The sun was beginning to set.  Tyler went out one of the side doors and made his way down toward Joe Louis Arena and Cobo where he’d last seen Lilley wandering, hoping she wasn’t in the river already.

There were very few of them left.  Tyler had killed off the few survivors of the living himself to feed his wife so that she, in turn, could feed their daughter.  The rest had all starved as one, more or less.

The streets had been washed clean by rain in the months since the city had been abandoned.  There was mold growing inside every grocery store, there were weeds in every pothole on Jefferson.  The bricked walkway on Trumbull just outside where the old Tiger Stadium once stood had been beaten and weathered worse by military vehicles passing over it since the disaster than the millions of feet that had crossed it on yesterday’s summer evenings. 

The skyscrapers were even more proud and menacing than ever before because they hadn’t yet succumbed to the death on the streets and in the alleyways.  And because, if they were guarded right, the dead couldn’t reach the upper floors.  Tyler would have holed up at the top of the Renaissance Center or any of the other tall buildings, but eventually he knew he’d have to come down.  He couldn’t hoard food up there very well and eventually he’d feel the inalienable urge to go out for a walk on the riverfront or swim out to Belle Isle (which he still hadn’t been bold enough to try because he’d worried over the infamous undertow his parents had warned him of as a child). 

Some days, he’d go and walk out on the melting ice of Joe Louis Arena and remember what it had been like when Yzerman and Fedorov and Lidstrom and Datsyuk and Zetterberg had made it their own private kingdom.

He still loved the city.  Lilley had, too.

“Lilley!” he called again.

The best he could hope for was that she’d get confused and stop to listen long enough that he could find her.

“Our girl needs you!”

He started to run toward the water.

“Lilley!”

He took a right when he reached Cobo Hall and continued down toward Joe Louis.  He could smell her trail.  It didn’t take much skill in tracking.  She’d rotted away to the point that all of her organs were visibly graying and spoiled.  Miracle or no, it wouldn’t be long before her milk went bad, too, but that was a worry for another time.

“Please, Lilley!” he called.  “We’ll both die without you!”

He passed the steep incline of steps outside of Joe Louis and paused for a moment beneath the overpass.  Here, it was harder to get a feel for where she’d gone.  The foamy belches of water were poignant at the riverfront, making it increasingly difficult to place her smell.  And there were the sewers to deal with, too.  The million fewer gallons of urine and feces they had been spared since the evacuation hadn’t rid them of their character.  It was stagnant now.

He stood completely still with his head cocked to the side.  He heard a limping plop off to his left and it immediately sent him running toward the river.  There was no guarantee that it was her, but there weren’t many left in the city and she couldn’t have gotten much further than that, anyway.  As it turned out, the dead didn’t travel very fast at all, no matter what Bram Stoker would have Tyler believe.

She’d always loved walks on the river.  She’d point at Windsor, the foreign city across the way, and comment on how strange it was that everything could be so distant and alien across such a short expanse of water.  Tyler, a dual citizen, would assure her it wasn’t that different, just cleaner.  They’d laugh and walk until their feet hurt.

Her foot must have hurt like all Hell now, seeing as she only had one of them left.  She must have done a bang-up job keeping her nub off of the ground at first, because the trail of blood only began once he was within shouting distance of her.

But once it started, there was plenty of it.

His eyes made more progress on the trail than his feet.  He spotted her sliding along the street toward the railing and knew the smell must have drawn her.  She acted so strange sometimes.  One day, she’d amble off toward the grocery store because she smelled the rotten cabbage, the next she’d head for the pile of corpses down between Comerica Park and Ford Field, another day she would seek out their daughter and try to bite through the bars of her crib (a dog cage Tyler had found in an abandoned house on Eight Mile during one of his longer forays into the neighborhoods).

Some days, like this one, she liked to go to the Detroit River and try to throw herself in like a lemming.  Tyler had no idea what compelled her to attempt suicide, or whether she was even aware that’s what she was doing.  He liked to think it was the last shred of dignified humanity in her, refusing to accept herself in such a state.

Ever since her first attempt, Tyler had been leashing her on their walks together.

“Wait!” he called down to her.

She didn’t flinch, not unless you count her constant seizures as flinching.

Her dress was torn in the back and her underwear had chafed away.  The sight of her naked body would have been funny under different circumstances, arousing in a past life he’d completely lost connection with.  Now, it was only sad and shameful.  Her skin was puffed, purple, and yellow, veined in a disgusting tangle of thorn-bushes along her thighs.

Tyler jogged down to her with tears in his eyes.  He remembered a girl he’d led down to the beaches of Lake Huron when they were nineteen and how he’d protected her from the sand spiders that came out at night.  How they’d made her scream…

“Lilley, please don’t,” he said.  “I love you.”

He placed his hand on her shoulder, where naught but bone and tendon clung together.

“We need you here.”

She turned and stared back at him with drooping, bloodshot eyes.  Drool shoe-stringed from her mouth.  There was blood on her lips and chin, probably form a stray cat or mouse.  As far as Tyler knew, he was the only human left in the city besides his daughter.

“Honey…”

She moaned and raised her hands to embrace him, stumbled on her recently evicted foot, and caught herself on his hips.  Tyler helped break her fall and held her back all at once.  He was almost too late.  She hadn’t even gotten her balance when her teeth snapped out at him, a blow that might have separated his genitals from his pubic bone if it had connected.

“Stop,” he told her calmly, like he would a pet.

She groaned in response.

“The baby’s hungry.  Come on.”

He dragged her to her feet, trying in vain not to dwell on their nameless daughter.  They hadn’t had a chance to pick a name for her.  It was a miracle she’d been born at all, with Lilley so close to turning, and by the time the girl was delivered and Tyler had thought to ask about it, Lilley was one of the hungry dead.  He didn’t have the heart to come up with a name for their only child on his own.

She put up a weak resistance as Tyler dragged her back up the street towards the hotel.  Her blood gurgled out from her wrist and ankle where a hand and foot had been attached before.  It smeared all over his blue jeans.  He almost raised his voice at her then because it was his only pair left and he didn’t feel like going down to the river to wash them.  But he held back, resigned to the extra labor.  It wouldn’t be any good to walk around with his wife’s blood on him.  He supposed it was that idea more than practicality that kept him from ending his wife’s miserable existence.

He was trained to her protests so it didn’t take him too long to get her back safely inside of the hotel and locked to the rail by the arms, neck, shoulders, and good wrist.  Her foot would have to be its own until he found another rope.

“There,” he said.  “Now don’t make me come after you again, Lil.  I’m getting damned sick of it.”

Lilley’s eyes rolled to the whites in response.  Tyler went and got the baby from the mop closet, ripped Lilley’s shirt to the bare breast, and held his wife down while his daughter fed on the sour, rotten milk that somehow sustained her.  The whole thing made him want to vomit.  It didn’t get any easier.

When the act was done, he closed the elevator door with great effort (making him wonder how Lilley had gotten out now that the buttons didn’t work), and set to work burping the baby before her nap.  It was another parental duty made grotesque by Lilley’s condition.  When the baby spat up on his chest, he vomited himself knowing that it was liquid from inside his monster of a wife.  It was just as bad cleaning up her shits.  But the burping soothed the baby, and he took her off to a room on the first floor to nap so he could do the same.

“I love you, little girl,” he told the child as he laid her in the bed next to his.  “We’ll figure something out soon.  I promise.  We’ll move on.”

The baby, who looked so much like her mother, was already fast asleep.  Ten minutes later, so was Tyler.

He woke in the dark to the baby crying and shot up in bed, the fog of sleep still heavy on his shoulders and eyes.

“It’s okay,” he soothed instinctively.

The baby screamed.

It was pitch-black but he could tell by the creak of the bed next to him that someone else, someone bigger than the child, was in the room.

“Shit!” he yelled, throwing off the sheets and diving blindly at the intruder.

There was blood all over the bed.  It touched his hands and arms and face when he hit the sheets.  He rolled over and a body was underneath him.  Not the baby.  A big body.  An adult.  He groped in the darkness for its cold neck and for the knives he kept under both beds and beside the nightstand.  It was easy enough to find one.  He hurled it down into the attacker’s face, neck, and stomach at least a dozen times before he knew for sure it was dead.  Real dead.  And before he could even turn on the light to inspect his work, he knew exactly who it was on the floor beside him.

She was missing a hand, and even in death he could map the geography of her body.  The baby’s cries ceased at the same instant, fading off into oblivion where she could be reunited with her mother.

He knelt beside the bed and surrounded himself with the smell of them.  How had she come in?  The door itself wasn’t barricaded, but it was a virtual obstacle course outside in the hallway.  Why had she passed by his bed, the fresher and more sustaining food, and gone straight for their daughter?  How had he not been wakened?

Tears had been seeping out of him so gradually since the moment Lilley had been infected that he no longer had any to spare.  He wasn’t surprised.  He was somewhere in between relief and despair.

He decided not to turn the light on.  He slept in the elevator that night instead, dreaming wild fantasies in which his family grew old together and he died a lonelier death in a nursing home that was still somehow more fulfilling than a million lifetimes in this new world.

The next morning, he swam out to Belle Isle.  Not even the undertow could stop him.

- P -

Joseph Williams graduated from Wayne State University with a degree in English and is currently working on a Master's degree in Creative Writing. His short story collection, Detroit Macabre, was published in the summer of 2011 by Post Mortem Press. Other stories appear in The Road to Hell, The Wayne State University Literary Review, Bewildering Stories, A Fly in Amber Fiction, and The Western Online. He also works as a freelance journalist for Real Detroit Weekly, where he has interviewed artists ranging from American Book Award-winners to Grammy Award-winners. He lives with his wife in southeast Michigan

Powerless

Paul Anderson

S

heriff Albert Gaines's hand went slack and the bloody

frying pan fell, clanging off the faded lino next to Robby's head.

The sound broke Gaines's locked stare at the back of Robby's bashed-in skull and he gasped like a man breaking the ocean's surface. His broad back stiffened and he shook his head, thinking, Shot him. Could've shot him--

Gaines's round face crimped. Shot him? But he didn't shoot Robby. He--

Gaines's eyes moved from the limp body of his sixteen-year-old son to the bloody frying pan. Distant in the pre-dawn morning, he heard someone scream, too high and too piercing to distinguish gender, then abruptly cut off.

He could feel his thoughts trying to fray and he squeezed his eyes shut, a big man with graying hair and the body of a linebacker going to seed. "C'mon, c'mon."

He'd been getting ready for work. The power had been out--God and Allegheny Power may have known why, but Sheriff Gaines hadn't. They'd been having a lot of brown and blackouts lately.

Then the thud from upstairs as Gaines cooked his breakfast. "Robby?" he'd called. "You up?"

Hearing Robby shamble--that's the word; shamble--down the steps, then in the front hall.

Leaning around the stove with the battery-powered lantern.

Robby looking up, his blank cataract eyes reflecting the light, the pupils rolled up and away. Blood from Robby's nose had dried around his mouth like a grisly goatee. More dried blood coated his ears. His skin had lost all color and Gaines had seen the boy's blue, dead veins.

Robby, dead and walking.

And Gaines...Gaines had...his own son...

Gaines looked down at Robby's sprawled body. A thought shot across his mind: I could've shot him.

Outside, someone screamed, but Gaines didn't hear.

He'd begun screaming himself.

* * *

Jeff Roswell's alarm clock was an old windup Westclox, so it went off at its usual five-forty-five time in spite of the fact that all of Mountain Ridge didn't have power. Roswell didn't know that, anymore than he knew that neither did Pennsylvania, or the Eastern Seaboard, or, as of five-oh-five, Eastern Standard Time, the rest of the world.

He rubbed the heel of his hand against his eye. "Jesus Christ."

He kicked the sheets off his feet and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He pawed for his cigarettes and clicked on the side lamp.

The side lamp remained dark.

Roswell clicked the little button three more times, a crease forming across his brow.

Power out again. Christ.

He shook out a smoke and lit up. The cherry on the cigarette flared as he inhaled, momentarily lighting his thin, hairy knees. Today...Today he and that idiot Bachman were riding Roach up to Mercer. Why in God's name did Gaines have to weigh him down with Bachman? Who gave a shit if Roswell might've belted Roach once or twice? Cock-Roach was lucky to only be getting five-to-seven. Roswell knew plenty who would've been happy to see him hanging by his Good-n-Plentys for what he'd done to Debbie Jenkins.

But the County nearly lost the case when the Defense hollered holy hell about prisoner abuse. If Alice Rosenthal on Council didn't think you just about walked on goddam water, Gaines had said, I'd shitcan you.

"Shitcan this, you prick," Roswell muttered, stabbing out his smoke in the ashtray. He stood and stretched, listening to his spine crackle. Too old for this shit.

He eyeballed the dead lamp. "You bitch," he said tonelessly, then backhanded the lamp into the side of his bedpost. The shade crumpled and the bulb shattered.

He knew it was going to be a piss-poor day.

* * *

The sun had risen an hour ago and screams--along with the popping-paper-bag sound of gunfire--had risen with it, but Gaines couldn't leave his kitchen. He sat in a chair, staring at his dead son.

He'd tried the phones, both the landline and his personal cell, then his work cell. All as dead as the power, although how phones--cell phones, even--could be out, too, was a mystery. 

Robby's blood had become tacky on the lino, but he hadn't moved the boy's body, or the pan. Training refused it.

"He attacked me," he said, barely above a whisper. His mind was like a skittish kitten, backing away from what was before him. He'd screamed himself hoarse and had felt a little better afterwards, but the urge to just let go, stop thinking, was still strong.

In his head, over and over, he heard the stomach-clenching give of Robby's head caving in.

What had happened to his son? Robby had been complaining about headaches, real migraines, and Gaines had dismissively said to stop spending so much time on the computer. What with that computer virus he'd heard about on the news, slapping the entire world upside its head, the less Robby was on the computer, the better.

Gaines stared at his son. He felt his vision begin to double and he fought it back.

"Goddammit!" he yelled and brought his fist down on the table. The salt-n-pepper shakers jumped.

Robby didn't jump at all.

The muscles in Gaines's face loosened.

He put his head down and cried.

* * *

Roswell didn't see George Allgood at first--his eyes were full of his street.

He'd heard the screams and gunfire as he'd gotten dressed, but not any sirens. The lack of sirens had bothered him more, sent a rigid ripple of gooseflesh down his back. It'd made him get ready quicker than usual.

When he stepped outside, the smell hit him first--a noxious brew of burning, garbage, decay, and an undercurrent that made him think of burnt fuses.

Then he saw the cars, only three or four on his section of Sycamore Street, abandoned, some with their doors hanging open. A Honda Accord had slammed into the back of a Buick Century and, through the splattered blood on the passenger window, Roswell could see a slumped human form.

People shuffled here and there, their bloody faces shining in the morning light, groaning at nothing. They passed by the townhouses across the street, their doors open and burglar-friendly.

"Jesus," Roswell breathed. He'd seen zombie movies--everything from Dawn of the Dead to Resident Evil. His eyes knew what he saw, but his brain was a little slow at taking it in.

A groan to his right startled him and there stood George Allgood, his yellow argyle sweater dirty and blood-soaked, the short bristles of his white-and-grey buzzcut blending in with the dead pallor of his round head. 

Roswell mouth twisted. Allgood, the friendly neighborhood faggot, now Romero-fied. Great.

Allgood stepped onto Roswell's front walk, shoes dragging, dead eyes locked on Roswell.

Roswell pulled his Police Issue 9mm and aimed at Allgood's head. "I don't have time for this."

He fired, the shot rolling away into the sky. Allgood went flying, a dime-sized hole just above the right eyebrow. 

Roswell stepped off his front stoop, studying the corpse. The movies were right on one thing--head shot.

He walked to his ancient unmarked Crown Vic on the curb, pistol at his side. Watching the dead begin to make their slow way towards him, the compact weight of the weapon felt right in his hand.

* * *

The Cobb County Municipal Building was shaped like a capital E, with the Sheriff's Office in the center. It took Gaines thirty minutes of weaving around stalled cars and the walking dead to cover the half-mile between his house and the back parking lot. He pulled his 1966 Corvair--his new county cruiser had refused to start--into his spot, shut off the engine, then closed his eyes.

He'd left Robby like a crime scene victim waiting for the coroner. How could he do that? How--

I'm the Sheriff, he thought. How many other people need my help? Living people? I...I can't do anything for Robby. He's--he's--

His hands squeezed the steering wheel until the rubber squeaked. Duty had made him drive into town, but it was the father in him that distracted him, guilted him. He'd made a promise to come back, but, oh God, that felt like a lie.  

I'm Sheriff, he thought again. There are people that need me, need the police. This could be happening elsewhere, but "elsewhere" might be on the moon for all the good it can do us. No cavalry. Just me and the police.

He spotted Dan Bachman's antique Chevy Nova, Marcus Sheaver's H3, and Sheila Messing's lime-green Prius and relief swept him. He'd seen living people, peering out of upstairs windows, mostly, but hadn't been able to stop. Alone, he was only Al Gaines, who just happened to be Sheriff of Cobb County.

He killed the engine just as Jeff Roswell's unmarked pulled in. Distaste wormed through him. Roswell had already been Deputy Sheriff when Gaines had been elected, and no matter what Roswell did, Sheriff couldn't get his termination past Alice Rosenthal.

Roswell got out. "Sheriff."

Gaines nodded. "You see anyone alive?"

Roswell opened his mouth but a coughing roar filled the air and the ground trembled. They spun and saw a fireball come up beyond the Sheriff's Office, maybe two blocks away.

"Oh Jesus," Roswell whispered.

"That was the Sunoco on Walnut," Gaines said. "C'mon--let's get inside and see if we can make any sense of this."

They hurried for the steel door leading to the Sheriff's Office, smelling fresh smoke and burning gasoline. Halfway across the lot, the door slammed open and Dan Bachman, the front of his uniform covered in blood, stumbled out.

Gaines and Roswell recoiled, Roswell yanking his 9mm.

Dan came on a run, arms pumping but legs uncoordinated. He wasn't yelling, but uttering a high Eeeeee-sound, like a tea kettle reaching a boil.

Gaines saw Roswell aiming his 9mm and shoved his elbow under Roswell's arm. "Jeff--"

Roswell's gun went off, the shot going wild over Dan's head. Dan skidded to a stop.

Gaines shoved Roswell. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Roswell's eyes were wide and confused. "But, Dan's--"

Gaines resisted shoving him again. "Does he look dead?" he said, jabbing a finger at Dan.

Roswell's mouth moved, but nothing came out.

Gaines turned to Dan. The younger man shivered where he stood, shoulders hunched, eyes wide. "You all right, Dan?"

Dan put his hands on his knees. "Jesus," he panted. "Jesus Christ."

"What happened?"

Dan swallowed, catching his breath. "Mark--Marcus." He began retching, spitting out ropes of thick saliva. Gaines glanced at Roswell.

Roswell had regained himself, and he gazed at Dan coldly, an expression that set Gaines teeth on edge.

Dan took a deep, shuddery breath. "Can't blame Jeff for taking a shot. I look like hell. Christ--"

"What happened?" Gaines asked.

Dan swallowed. "It--It's Marcus, Al. He--well, y'know in zombie movies--"

Gaines nodded. "What did he do?"

"Tore Sheila apart--bullpen's a slaughterhouse and--"

"You got 'im?" Roswell asked.

"'Bout emptied my gun in his face." He shook his head. "Marcus Sheaver. I went to school with him--"

Gaines put a hand on Dan's shoulder. "Is Sheila--up?"

"Not enough to get up." He winced. "Sorry."

"What about Roach?" Gaines asked.

"Hollerin about the power."

Gaines looked around. They were drawing a crowd. "Let's get inside before this becomes a party."

* * *

Bachman yanked the steel door closed behind them and Roswell pulled his flashlight from his belt, clicking it on. Gaines followed suit and Roswell smirked when Gaines, the big tough Sheriff, also pulled his 9mm.

The three made their way down the basement hallway, breathing in the damp cool air, listening to their footfalls rebound off the cinderblock walls. This hallway paralleled the upstairs, with three doors at the end--stairwell in the center, with storage on the left and cells to the right. The darkness pressed in on them.

The hallway echoed with sudden, thundering booms and Bachman--the pussy--cried out. Roswell swung around. The door shook against the hammering of the zombies outside.

Roswell glanced at Bachman, panting and pale in the cold light. "They can't get in, moron."

"Knock it off," Gaines said and kept moving.

They reached the end, but instead of heading for the stairs, Gaines went right and opened the door. He leaned in. "Roach!" His voice echoed.

The creak of a bedspring. "Who's that? Sheriff?"

"Are you all right?"

"Shit no! I'm stuck in the dark! You think I'm all right?"

"We'll get you out in a minute. We gotta a situation upstairs--"

"We got a situation down here!" A hollow metal clang. "Prisoner abuse! This ain't Gitmo! You can't lock me in the dark! Lemme out now!"

Gaines closed the door and made for the stairwell. Roswell thought of firing a shot into the cell area--let Cock-Roach complain after a round chased him around--but Gaines would probably grab for his gun.

He tightened his grip on his weapon.

The bullpen was a large open area that faced shop-lined Gaines Street Hill--named after the Sheriff's grandfather and Roswell knew that had won him the election. Behind a wood-and-glass partition to the left was dispatch. To the right was the Sheriff's office.

In the gloom, the blood puddled on the floor looked like black ink. The pebbled glass panel of the Sheriff's door had been broken. Blood dribbled down the front like wet icing. A vaguely humanoid lump of meat lay in the doorway of dispatch, with a woman's hand stretching outward.

"That's Sheila," Bachman said, swallowing. He looked away, pointing down the hall. "Marcus is down there."

A scream erupted outside, muffled by the reinforced glass of the front doors. All three men froze and spun.

A young woman lurched down Twelfth, crossing Gaines Street Hill, her eyes big and wide and completely gone, holding a baseball bat like a carbine. Roswell could see the purple flesh of her swollen right ankle. A dead mechanic in blood-streaked overalls shambled after her, gaining.

"Mother Mary a'God," Bachman breathed.

Roswell glanced at the idiot and the fatass. Their eyes were full of the chase, but they might as well have been statues. Figures.

He stepped outside.

That woke Gaines up. "Roswell! Get in here!"

Roswell ignored him, stepping to the top step and aiming. "Hey, numbnuts!"

The zombie turned.  The woman put her weight on her bad ankle and her scream twisted into a pained squawk as she fell, her bat rolling away with a clatter. The zombie ignored her and shambled in Roswell's direction.

Roswell fired. He grinned when he heard the splat of its ruined head hitting the pavement.

A heavy hand dropped onto Roswell's shoulder, making him stagger, and spun him around. Gaines's flushed face hovered inches from his own, eyes blazing.

He's just jealous he didn't do it! a petulant voice cried in his head.

"You asshole!" Gaines shoved him like a disliked toy, forcing him to look at the woman.

Three of the walking dead off of Gaines Street surrounded her--Roswell hadn't noticed them before. Her screams became a piercing high-C note.

"All you did was get her killed," Gaines hissed when Roswell turned away. "And get us noticed by these things."

Gaines gestured towards the street with his gun and Roswell saw the zombies up the hill begin to make a slow descent towards them. 

His face rigid, Gaines raised the gun and aimed over Roswell's shoulder, where the woman had fallen. He fired four times, each shot a hard boxing glove in Roswell's ear, making his hearing crackle.

Gaines turned towards Bachman. "Inside. Lock the door. We don't want em breathing down our necks."

Bachman opened the door, but Gaines hung back a second, turning his flinty eyes towards Roswell. He stepped inside and, after the briefest hesitation, Roswell followed.

* * *

They retreated to Gaines's office, Gaines behind his desk, Dan sitting in front, and Roswell leaning against the doorframe and looking like nothing had happened. Gaines held himself back from cleaning Roswell's clock through sheer force of will. That's all we'd need today.

On the corner of his desk was a framed school photo of Robby, taken last year. He refused to look at it.

"What're we gonna do, Al?" Dan asked.

Gaines looked outside. He counted five dozen dead and growing. "I have no idea. There have to be more living people. Us, that woman--" He pinned Roswell with a hard stare, making the Deputy stiffen. "It stands to reason that not everyone in town is dead. Our job now is to help them." He trailed off as he looked at Robby's school photo.

Dan seemed to read his mind. "Al...where's Robby?"

Their eyes locked for an instant before Gaines turned towards the window.

After a beat, he said, "If we could just get to em." He looked over Dan's shoulder, at the town map pinned to the wall. "But we don't know where they are or where to take em."

"I'm goin back outside," Roswell said, pulling his weapon. "Even the odds a little until we decide what to do."

Gaines stood up so fast his chair rebounded off the wall. "The hell you are."

Roswell grimaced. "What's the problem?"

He could feel his pulse thicken in his temple. "The problem, Jeff," Gaines said, "is noise attracts em. If you get injured, I'm down a man."

"I'm a good shot, Sheriff," Roswell said. "The less them means a better chance for us."

He stepped out into the lobby and Gaines grabbed his wrist. Roswell spun into the grab and Gaines registered that the Deputy had punched him only after white flashed in front of his eyes.

"Let me GO!" Roswell barked.

Gaines snarled and his focus narrowed to Roswell and nothing else. His other hand locked on Roswell's throat and he spun him, slamming the Deputy Sheriff into the wall beside his office door.

"Al!" Dan yelled.

"You're a piss poor cop," Gaines breathed. "I should've fired you years ago, and tried harder when I did fire you to get it through Council."

Roswell's eyes bulged, his face reddening, and Gaines felt a burst of pure animal joy.

"Al!" Dan called.

"But right now, Deputy," Gaines went on, "I'm in a severe need of men. I don't need you messing around. You will do what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it. Understood?" He shook Roswell. "Understood?"

Roswell managed a strangled gag. Gaines saw stark fear in his eyes and--like that--his rage was gone. He let go and Roswell collapsed, hacking, his face dark purple. 

I almost killed this man, he thought, reeling. Oh sweet Christ--what's happening to me?

"Sheriff!" Dan yelled.

Gaines turned towards him and saw Dan pointing at the door. Gaines looked and saw an old man in a bloody button-down and khakis, his tie askew, his white hair standing up as if electrified. He wielded a Louisville Slugger.

"Matt Hilburn?" Gaines said, confusion rocking him.

"If you're done fighting, Albert," Matt said, "I'd really like to come in."

* * *

Roswell heard the old bastard talking after Gaines let him in, but didn't bother paying attention. He massaged his throat. It felt like it had been covered with sandpaper. Each breath was a striking match against it. Gaines would pay for that, oh yes, indeedy.

"I thought coming to the police station would be the best choice," the old bastard said in Gaines's office. "But seeing you two, I was reconsidering my options. Very unbecoming of a Sheriff, Albert."

Gaines sounded embarrassed. "I..." He sighed. "I...I know, Matt. It...This...It's been a tough day."

Roswell stood, using the wall as vertigo rocked him. He stepped into the doorway and all three glanced at him--Gaines at his desk, Bachman leaning against it, and Hilburn sitting in a chair. Gaines looked like he might blush. Asshole.

"How'd you get this far into town, Mr. Hilburn?" Bachman asked.

"Luck," Hilburn said. "I was walking to the high school, like always. I always get to the school by five, when the janitors open the doors." Hilburn's face hardened. "I found the bat in someone's front yard when everything happened."

"Did you see anyone else alive?" Gaines asked.

"Theoretically, everyone outside is alive." He shook his head. "Pardon me. Obfuscating is a defensive tic. Put me into a stressful situation and I'll debate how many angels can dance on the head of a pin for hours." He sighed. "I might've, Albert. I don't really know."

Gaines rubbed his eyes. "Shit."

Hilburn cocked one bushy eyebrow. "Thinking of rescuing?"

"Like to. Have to. But we don't even know what the hell is going on."

"I have my theories and, if I'm right, you won't be able to save many. You remember those worldwide computer viruses that swept through a few weeks back?"

Bachman nodded. "I remember."

Gaines shook his head. "Vaguely. My son's the one up on all the techno-crap." His eyes clouded over.

"When the viruses hit, a good chunk of the population suffered migraines, nose and ear bleeds, and strokes."

"I don't see how that's possible," Gaines said.

"No one did," Hilburn replied. "The virus hit everything from cell phones to powergrids and smacked around the more...technologically-advanced people. I think another virus hit, but this time, it was like an EMP and crashed everything even remotely electric, including these techno-people. Remember--the brain is composed of electrical impulses." He shook his head. "So, what we have are the walking dead, nothing remotely electronic working, like modern cars, and a weird smell in the air."

"You smelled that?" Roswell croaked.

"Like ozone? A parting gift from the virus, I think. Which means that the machines will stay dead and the people...well...won't. If I'm right, a town like Mountain Ridge, with an average population of thirty-five-thousand, will only have a thousand or so survivors and, of that number, very few. The living dead are...aggressive."

Gaines shook his head. "Whatever the number, we need to get them somewhere safe."

"Fullman Memorial Library," Hilburn said.

"Why?" Bachman asked.

"Because it's been a Civil Defense station since I was a child. They store provisions there. Food, medicine, first aid--basic requirements for survival. Probably a generator and gasoline."

"And the government's been keeping it up since September Eleventh," Gaines said, his face brightening. "The library can hold three hundred and it's a solid son of a bitch."

"How're we getting people there?" Bachman asked. "We can only fit a half dozen into our cars."

"County buses would work, if made before, say, 1990," Hilburn said. "No onboard computers."

Gaines stood. "Let's figure this out and get going."

#

A solution--finally, a solution. And Gaines had an elderly social studies teacher to thank.

He, Dan, and Matt studied the town map. Dan traced a route from the municipal building to the depot. "Getting there's gonna be a bitch, but we should be home-free afterwards."

From behind them, Roswell croaked, "You're forgettin something."

All three turned, and Gaines felt his temper flare. Don't ruin this, you bastard. "What's that, Jeff?" he asked.

Roswell inclined his head to the stairwell. "Trevor Roach, unless you wanna take him with us and, on top of an unarmed man, that's a hassle. Besides, what if more people try comin here, before we get the bus and no one's waiting? Bat or no bat, Mr. Hilburn here woulda been ground chuck if we hadn't been here."

"Shit," Dan muttered.

Gaines frowned. Something about the whole thing smelled wrong, felt wrong. It's Roswell, he thought. Anything he says comes out with a thin coating of slime.

He turned to the other two, sighing. "He's right. Dan, take Matt and get the bus. Jeff and I will hold down the fort." With me keeping Roswell on a short leash.

He pulled his key ring from his belt and thumbed through the selection. He pulled the depot key off and handled it to Dan. "Do not stop unless you absolutely have to. I don't need either of you injured. Got it?"

Dan pocketed the key. "Of course, Sheriff." He turned to Matt. "Ready, Mr. Hilburn? You're driving."

Matt sighed. "As I'll ever be."

Roswell moved to let them pass as they headed for the stairwell. Gaines caught a ghost of a contemptuous smile flicker across Roswell's thin lips and his face hardened.

He thought of Robby and despair swept through him like an autumn breeze. What am I doing here? I need to be with my son, not guarding this idiot.

* * *

Silence descended after the idiot and the old bastard left. Roswell glanced at Gaines from his place at the lobby doors. The Sheriff sat at his desk, staring out the windows, a line creasing his brow.

He thought of Gaines strangling him, calling him a piss-poor cop, and his jaw tightened. He'd get Gaines back. Gaines was going to discover the punishment for screwing with Jeff Roswell.

Zombies clogged the streets. Some bumped into each other and then fell to the asphalt, tearing and clawing. A mousy man bit into the cheek of a middle-aged waitress as she shoved her arm through his gored stomach.

"That's not like the movies," he muttered.

"We're not in a movie," Gaines said.

Roswell's eyes narrowed, but he didn't turn. "What're we gonna do about Roach?"

"Bring em with us," Gaines said.

This time, Roswell did turn. "So we can turn a supply closet into a cell?"

Gaines looked at Roswell, his eyes hard. "What do you suggest?"

"He's dead weight," he said, putting a hand on his holstered 9mm. "Considering the circumstances, a little western justice would be doing the scumbag a favor."

Gaines laced his fingers together over his stomach. "Good thing I don't give a shit what you think."

"Are you trying to piss me off?" Roswell asked, taking a step forward.

"Have you been trying to get us killed?" Gaines replied easily. "You've already succeeded with a citizen."

"Listen--"

Gaines was out of his chair before Roswell could blink. "No, you listen, you dumb bastard. I don't give a damn what you want to do, or why you want to do it. If I didn't need the manpower, you'd be without your gun. If I wasn't a decent human being, I would've thrown you outside."

Roswell backed away, sputtering, and Gaines followed.

"You nearly cost us the Roach case. You should thank the stars our prosecutor's as good at his job as you're terrible at yours. How many complaints have we received about you? Breaking traffic laws, harassing citizens, abusing suspects? And you hid behind your Council member. Today, you cost a woman her life. If you wanted to save her, why didn't you grab her? You're young and fit. You could've."

"You didn't do a goddamn thing!" Roswell exploded. Gaines grinned widely, but there was zero humor in it. The sight made Roswell's internal temperature plummet ten degrees and he hated himself for it. Roswell backed into the lobby doors and Gaines bore down. "Yes. Blame me for not doing something. Blame the woman for not looking where she was going. But don't blame yourself. Never that." He leaned forward. "Here's the deal, Deputy. I'm babysitting you. As long as you're in my sights, you can't screw up--you screw up now, someone gets killed. Do you understand, Deputy?"

Roswell wanted to scream. He wanted to destroy everything, then run outside and kill as many zombies as possible, not because they were a danger, but because his anger needed an outlet before he exploded. He felt a headache building behind his eyes, turning his thoughts into a cyclone, making it impossible to focus. 

He forced himself to straighten. His body felt miles away. His hand went to his weapon, and Gaines went to his. "Uh-uh, Jeff. Take a breath and think if that's what you really want to do."

Roswell heard the groaning of the dead, the scraping-shuffles. "I'm going outside," he said and turned to the lobby doors, twisting the thumb bolt. It unlocked with a metallic thok.

"No, you're not--" Gaines began but Roswell skirted outside.

#

He's lost his goddamn mind, Gaines thought as Roswell drew down on the three dead on the top step, the force of his shots knocking them into the growing crowd.

His hand clenched on his weapon. He's lost his mind--

(haven't we all? something whispered in his head.)

--and he's going to get us killed.

He felt the rage blossoming. For the first time all day, Robby wasn't on his mind. "Roswell!"

* * *

Roswell heard Gaines and didn't hear him. Inside he raged and screamed. His ears rang. Roswell disengaged the 9mm's clip as he pulled another from his belt. The only things he could focus on were his gun and the swelling dead. His mind caterwauled.

Kill em all, gotta--

He strangled me, tried to kill me!--

Their shots barely made a dent; the dead kept coming, drawn by the sounds, heading for him.

"Jeffrey!" Gaines bellowed as Roswell fired into the face of an elderly man. The man fell against a young teenage girl, pinning her down. The girl began clawing at his head.

"Goddammit, Roswell!"

We're never gonna get em all--

Tried to kill me!--

Gaines yelled and grabbed his upper arm. Roswell cried out, spinning away and raising his weapon.

* * *

The Deputy Sheriff's face was stony, but his eyes were wide, barely there, as he raised his pistol at Gaines. Gaines recoiled, fear rippling through him, but not as much as he'd thought. After nearly a day of terror, rage, grief, and confusion, Gaines was tapped out.

"Ros--" Gaines said.

Roswell shot him three times in the stomach. It felt like sacks of bricks slamming into his torso. No pain--just a paralyzing cold.

He saw the shock register on Roswell's face, his eyes focusing, but Gaines noted this clinically. His stomach was moving from frigid cold to unpleasant heat. He looked down and saw blood flowing. His shirt was soaked.

Shot me, he thought. Actually shot me.

He thought of Robby, lying dead back home, and his earlier promise to come back. He'd felt like he'd been lying but, in a way, he hadn't been.

I'm coming to you soon.

"Sheriff--" Roswell started to say.

The sound of his voice grated through his head and, one last time, the rage surged, obliterating Robby. I'll kill the bastard.

* * *

Firing on Gaines had been like a bucket of cold water, sharpening him. Now, looking into the Sheriff's blazing eyes, his blood turned icy.

Gaines snarled and raised his gun. "You son of a bitch--"

Roswell's training kicked in. He raised his own weapon and fired.

The last shot seemed louder than the others. It took Gaines high above his left eye. Blood splattered the door.

Roswell stared at the Sheriff's body. His mind threatened to disconnect again.

Groans reminded him where he was. He went to Gaines, pulling at the keyring attached to the belt. He felt something grab his shoulder and he raised his gun, firing blindly. Blood splashed his back and he was let go.

Roswell forced his shaking hand to unclip the keyring.

He retreated inside, stepping over Gaines's foot and pushing it out of the way to close the door. Roswell shot the thumb bolt home, then backed away until his ass hit the side of a desk. He screamed.

The dead filled the stoop, hiding Gaines's body from view, their hands pawing at the glass. He forced himself to turn away, heading into Gaines's office and dropping himself into the chair. His heart knocked out a staccato beat. He kept breathing, but couldn't seem to get enough air.

Gaines was dead. He had shot him. Simple facts, but Roswell struggled to get his head around them.

Bachman and that old bastard, Hilburn, would be returning soon. What would they see? Roswell alive, Gaines dead. Bachman would suspect, yes indeedy, and it'd be true, of course it'd be true, he'd--

Wait.

Wait. Think this out.

He planted his elbows on the desk and shoved his hands through his hair. They'd gone outside to shoot the dead--no, no, they'd seen someone out there, trying to get to safety, and he and Gaines had gone, but there'd been too many, and Roswell had just barely gotten back inside alive after Gaines had been taken down.

Roswell raised his head. It could work. It would work. Unless that idiot or the old bastard wanted to check Gaines's body outside and he somehow doubted that.

A grin slowly spread across his thin lips.

Gaines had been the Sheriff, the boss. Roswell had been Deputy Sheriff. With Gaines gone, he was the boss. The Sheriff was gone, but the Deputy Sheriff was still kickin' ass.

He looked down at the keyring on the desk blotter and his grin widened. His heart slowed, his breathing grew regular. Roswell stood and looked down at his hands.

Not even a pinky shaking.

He spotted the picture of Gaines's kid on the corner, grinning like a doofus, and he turned it down as he picked up the keyring.

They'd need weaponry for this little town-wide tour of hell. Might as well haul what he could downstairs now.

He started for the weapons cabinet when a thought occurred to him. He turned and looked at the stairwell door. Western justice, he'd called it.

He clipped the keys to his belt and picked his 9mm off the desk. He pulled the last clip from his belt and reloaded. Before moving any weapons downstairs, he had one other matter to attend to.

Bachman and Hilburn wouldn't remember Roach--not with everything going on; they'd already forgotten him once--but if they did, so what?

"I'm the Sheriff now," Roswell said, opening the stairwell door and unclipping his flashlight.

His laughter echoed through the stairwell as he made his way down.

- P -

Paul Anderson's stories has appeared in such publications as Post Mortem Press’ A Means to an End, Title Goes Here, The New Bedlam Project, Black Ink Horror, Strange, Weird, and Wonderful Magazine, and Their Dark Masters anthology by Red Skies Press. He lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, with his wife and daughter.

Only Clowns Come Back

M. Shaw

Why, you ask? Hell, why does anyone come back?

Why not clowns?

I had a clown for an uncle once. Or an uncle for a clown, which is how I think of it. When I was a kid I fucking loved clowns. Uncle Pete was like my own personal clown, my ceaseless entertainment and gratification machine wrapped into one. “Carla,” he used to say, “you'll make a great clown. The world needs more lady clowns.” And I, little eight-year-old Carla or however old I was each time he said it would think, oh my gosh, I'm a lady.

And you know what? Here he comes. Again.

I've been renting this room. More of a shed, really, but a finished shed behind Nate the landlord's house. Sits on this wide-open plot in Flora, and with the great big Illinois sky I can look outside and see for miles in any direction. I step out the door this morning and here comes Uncle Pete across Matt Newman's soybean field. Thank God Nate's at work. Couldn't bear it if I had to make another landlord deal with this shit.

Crazy thing is that we buried Uncle Pete in a nice suit. At the wake I hardly recognized him. Can you imagine taking a kid who just got her first period to see a dead clown in a suit? Sorry, I'm just saying, you know, it messed with me. And here he comes, and he's dressed like a clown again. Paint-stained overalls, colorful shirt, tore-up boots and bright makeup all over his big, dead face. One of the shirt's sleeves is torn off at the shoulder where someone tried to take him down with an axe or something. Poor bastards just never get it. Or maybe they just mistook him for another clown, their clown. Gotta imagine there's some of that person's blood mixed in with the paint and makeup. But he's my clown, and only I can be the one to put him down for good.

That's just how it works. You can only kill a zombie for good if he's your clown. They don't stay down otherwise.

At the wake I kept looking to see if I could find the hole in his chest from the bull's horn, but the suit covered it up. Uncle Pete was a rodeo clown, the kind where most of his acts involved him getting hit in the dangly bits—he showed me his protective gear once, thing looked heavy. You can't miss with ball-crusher jokes. Crowds loved him. And a bull fucking killed him, just like that, and at the wake they had him in a nice suit that covered up the hole.

He's coming closer, with the shoulder of his shirt torn off, and there's the hole, clear as day, all surrounded by black crust. Necrosis, or whatever the hell they call it. Almost like he's here to give me closure, like he's out there saying, “See, lady, it was really me in that casket and it all happened like they said it did.” My old clown. I kinda want to run out there and knee him the nuts for old time's sake. But if I face him, it'll take more than that.

None of my family has even heard of Flora, Illinois. I doubt that anything east of the Rockies is even real to most of them. They understood when I went North to live in Olympia, but when I called last they kept saying, “Illinois? What the hell do you wanna go there for?” I didn't tell them about Uncle Pete and they didn't ask. I settled in Flora and started waitressing at a Perkins. It's a shit life, living in this shack and going to that job, and I hoped to high heaven that Uncle Pete would leave me alone.

I mean, can you imagine? The dead bastard walked all the way here from the West Coast! All that way because he used to pick me up and give me Eskimo kisses with his big, red nose and now he thinks my flesh would be tasty. I wonder how he did it, but then I think of what he must have had to do to dig up those clown clothes, and I just know he must be one resourceful old asshole. After all the time it's been since they came out of the ground, he must be one of the last.

One of the last zombies, one of the last clowns. I mean, we can't go having live clowns anymore if they're just going to die and come back like this later, now, can we?

So here he comes, and there's a rifle hanging in Nate's cabinet in the house, and there's an axe by the wood pile around back. Once more I deal with the ramifications of having something like him in the world, this greedy, hungry thing that eats anyone who messes with him. Just like I did in Olympia, and in Benicia before that.

And I can't. I still can't fucking do it. All those people who killed their clowns, I don't know what went through their heads. Because I still love clowns and there's too fucking few anymore, and I still love my Uncle Pete. After all that's happened, how can I not want to be his little lady again?

I pack up. It's easy: most of my stuff still lives in my suitcase anyway, so all I have to do is close it and hustle out to the old VW Golf that still runs somehow. That's it. I just go. If I think of it I'll send Nate a postcard from wherever I end up. Another country, if I can swing it. I'll drive to Texas, give myself enough time to apply for a passport.

And  here comes Uncle Pete, stumbling vainly after me in the rearview, looking confused without changing his facial expression, the way only a cat or a zombie can. Can't tell if it's because he wants to eat me or just because he wants me to kill him. That would sure make it easier, wouldn't it? Maybe I could do it if I knew that was how it was.

And that's it. Here he comes and there I go. Maybe, when I settle in the next town, I'll get a cat and name it Pete. I'll feel better because the cat is alive, and I know cats and zombies are similar in at least one way, so if I look at it right it'll be kinda like having him back. I don't know. Right now, all I can do is drive and hope. Hope maybe he'll stay away. Maybe this time.

- P -

M. Shaw is a cardboard box with arms and legs, containing a selection Renaissance-era firearms. Someone drew a face on the box but it doesn't do anything; it's just for decoration.

Old zombie, new tricks

Kenneth W. Cain

R

eaching the end of the gravel road, Wilbur shifted into neutral, letting the truck drift down the driveway. It was a necessary evil for this old truck unfortunately; the brakes tired and worn needed replacement—a task he had been avoiding for far too long. About halfway down the drive, the crunch beneath the tires changed as the rocks changed in size becoming larger. This was an indication to apply some pressure to the brakes.

A loud squeal escaped the wheels, announcing his return and reinforcing the fact that the brakes had lived well beyond their intended life. The truck eased forward, rolling to a halt just in front of the cabin, in the place he always parked.

He reached over to the passenger seat; taking up the wildflowers he had picked up on the way home. It hadn’t been an easy task coming to a stop on that knoll, let alone for a man of his age to traverse the hillside gathering flowers. He cherished his beautiful wife of more than twenty years enough to accomplish that mission. Besides, living on the mountainside was much different than the city. Life wasn’t as busy.

The cabin was located in a relatively remote area, with only a few neighbors that he knew of. With Suzanne being a teacher, they were able to escape the madness of everyday life by retreating to this cabin every summer. Here, Wilbur could work on his next novel. He wasn’t a big name author—not that he knew of at least. But people bought his books all the same—and it had produced enough cash flow so far to afford this small amenity if nothing else.

Wilbur made his way around the back of the truck. He tucked the flowers under his armpit, being careful not to ruin them, and reached inside the truck bed. He lifted the paper bag full of groceries and made his way back around to the driver’s side door, enjoying the afternoon sun and wildlife as he did.

"Suzanne? I'm home," he yelled as he bumped the truck door closed with his behind. The door complained with a rusty crunch as it slammed shut. He didn’t find it odd that the front door at the end of the moss walkway stood open, but the screen remaining a good six inches from being closed did surprise him. The thin-framed wooden screen door wavered ever so slightly in a light breeze, as if demanding attention to that fact.

Wilbur considered this, standing on the porch and wondering if he might have accidently left it open. He edged through the opening, and into the front room. With some difficulty he managed to reach back with one hand to close the screen door.

Wilbur expected to hear Buck barking as he pulled into the drive. That dog hated the way Wilbur’s truck hissed and screeched. But Buck hadn't barked, and the tired old dog hadn’t even come to greet him upon entering. Wilbur wondered if Suzanne might have put the dog in his pen—perhaps punishing him for some transgression. Or maybe she just needed some alone time. Either way he found it odd.

Even then it shocked him that Buck hadn't howled, growled, or even made the telltale ruckus of a dog jumping up against the fencing of his pen. Wilbur listened for the light clacking sound dog tags made when they rattled together, but still he only found silence. It made him wonder if Buck had become sick, or maybe even passed away—a thought that had concerned Wilbur over the last few months. After all, Buck was in many ways like the truck, having lived well past his years.

"Suzanne? Where you at, hon?" Behind him, the screen door blew open, slamming against the wood siding. It bounced back, striking Wilbur, forcing a startled jump from him. Realizing what it had been after the fact, Wilbur turned to close the door again, being careful not to damage the flowers. In doing so, one bud was accidentally lopped off, falling to the ground just outside. Wilbur sighed at the sight of the beheaded flower.

Noticing a catch as he closed the screen this time, he found a dislodged hinge which explained why the door no longer functioned properly. "For Christ's sake!" he said, thinking how Suzanne always had a way of being too rough with furniture. It was likely she had slammed the door shut too hard—stripping the screws out of one hinge in the process.

He looked down at the flowers, found the single empty stem. It sort of served her right in a way for breaking the door. Still, he thumbed it down deep into the arrangement, making sure it was well hidden. There, good as new.

In the kitchen, he set their humble groceries down on the countertop—milk, eggs, and bacon. Wilbur flicked the switch, wanting some light in a room made dark by the dense forest surrounding the cabin. It slid into position with a firm clicking noise, but no light came in response. Wilbur wasn’t sure why, but he flicked the switch off, then on, then off and on again to make sure. No power.

If he couldn’t get the power back on, then they would need to store the groceries in a cooler until he was able to get an electrician to come out their way. But not right now. All he wanted now was to find Suzanne, his love. She would appreciate his efforts, and that alone was the thing he lived for.

Crossing to the mudroom, Wilbur found the back door open as well. He approached it wondering if maybe Suzanne had been hurt, and not the dog—or maybe both God forbid. She wasn't the kind to go around leaving doors wafting open. In fact, he thought she was a bit anal about such things. After being married for such a long time, you sort of got a good feel for what bothered a person. No, she would never leave a door open—let alone two. One might be a mistake, but never two. Would she?

This door swung open the rest of the way without a single complaint from its hardware. This brought a second of delight to Wilbur, knowing he had only recently fixed the door. This was now the only thing he owned that didn’t make noise when it was in use, including himself. This door was reliable.

Stepping onto the back porch with this joy temporarily in his thoughts, Wilbur froze as the horrid scene came into view. Numb fingers released the flowers, almost without knowing it. Buck laid splayed open upon the floor of his dog pen. Small strips of flesh hung in thin strands from the top of his cage, as if the dog had either exploded or been torn apart with great anger. Who could do such a thing?

Wilbur considered each of their neighbors, thinking about how he might have crossed any of them. He couldn’t contemplate a single incident that might have even been misconstrued. It saddened him to find his dog this way—even if he had been beyond his years. Kneeling beside the dog was Suzanne. She appeared to be crying as she hovered over Buck’s carcass.

"Suzanne? Are you okay dear? Do you know who did this?" Wilbur cautiously scanned the yard, hoping whoever had been the cause of such an evil deed was gone. A terrifying thought occurred to Wilbur. Had that been Buck's guts hanging from the top of the dog pen? His eyes darted back to the dog pen, heat flashing across his face as he studied his wife. He wanted her to move, suddenly feeling unable to do so himself in order to make sure she was okay. She did— finally turning to greet him.

Blood trickled down the curves of her chin. Her lips, so red, appeared almost like thick lipstick, applied without care to the lines of her mouth. Streaks of blood ran down the nape of her thin neck to her dress, where a large stain formed a wet red bib. It was already turning that brownish color blood does as it dries. She regarded him with a dull expression. He thought she might be dead. Only she wasn't—not anymore. She’d come back.

"Jesus Christ!"

Suzanne paid little attention to his loud protest, returning her attention back to the task at hand—how to get inside the dogs head. All the good stuff in the midsection of the pup had already been taken care of.

She sneered, baring her teeth in an irregular manner, and thrust her face down at the dog. She gnawed at a portion of the skull right above the dog’s ear. Tufts of fur scraped away with each attempt, leaving hairs stuck between her teeth and the torn lips that pulled back around them. Wilbur heard the noise teeth made when it met bone, grinding over and over, and then a brief pause before a dull crack—showing some progress had been made.

"Oh, Jesus Christ! Suzanne, no!" he said, unable to think of another explicative to use in place of the Lord’s name.

What does a man do when his true love becomes a zombie? Wilbur wasn't sure. He didn't even want to think about it right now. He couldn't. All he could think of was that scraping noise of tooth on bone—the cracking sound that soon followed. He knew he would need to do something eventually though. His instinct told him that once Suzanne was done with old Buck, she might come looking for Wilbur—a notion he wasn’t too fond of.

For a moment he stared at the gate of the pen—it too remaining half-open. Even though Suzanne had been such a stickler for closing doors in life, apparently the zombie form of her didn't mind so much. He wondered if she had been able to open the latch herself, or if some other zombie had done it for her—maybe the one that had bitten her.

His eyes widened, scanning the grounds once more. Paranoia told him that zombie might still be around. Then he considered that it might not have been another zombie that turned her. It might have been a chemical thing, and maybe she hadn’t been all zombie by the time she reached the pen. Now wasn't the time to deduce such things though. He bravely leaned forward and tugged the gate shut.

It hung on one of Buck's legs, dragging the dog several inches. Suzanne shifted her head in unison with the corpse, not willing to give up on the tasty treat that remained locked away inside of the dog’s skull. 

Wilbur took a bold step forward, kicking at the dog's leg with the tippy-toes of his foot. He leaned back far as he did this, making sure as little of his own self was in the pen as possible.

Once the dog was out of the way, he proceeded to close the gate. It slammed shut with a clang of metal, and Wilbur quickly pulled the latch down to lock the gate into position. Suzanne ignored the noise, focusing on a different sound—a crack, which signaled the dog's brain had finally been freed.

Wilbur ran inside the house, finding a length of chain he’d used to tie Buck out prior to buying the pen. In a kitchen drawer, he found the padlock with a worn key sticking in its rear. This was the lock they kept on the front door of the house when they weren't in town.

By the time he returned to the outside, Suzanne was already to her feet. Finished with whatever sustenance the dog's vitals provided, he thought she might shift her interest to Wilbur. He hoped not, but he couldn't be sure either.

Wilbur stepped forward, poking the rusty chain through one link of the gate. He fingered it across the back with haste and through another link in the fencing by the gate. He pulled it back through, securing the two ends with the padlock. It was a sad realization, but now his wife had become his prisoner.

Falling to his knees, Wilbur found the wildflowers on the ground. His eyes found the bruising sky—made darker by the shadows of the trees, and sobbed. His wife watched with a look of complete disconnect showing on her face. Of course, she would no longer be able to understand what he was feeling. How could she? She was dead now. Or was she?

Suzanne walked to the side of the pen, bouncing off of the fencing as she approached Wilbur. It hadn’t been enough to keep her from trying again. Then, she tried a third, and a fourth—each time unsuccessful at escaping the cage. All the while her eyes remained focused on Wilbur—a dumb look sagging on what had once been a beautiful face. As she approached the gate for a fifth time, it became too much for Wilbur to witness.

He ran for the comfort of their bedroom, locking the door behind him. With the electricity out and the evening sky darkening, he didn't bother to light a candle. Anything like that might draw attention to his presence.

Although he knew he wouldn't get much sleep that night, he needed to keep on his guard. This was as safe a place as any up in these woods. Here at least he could think without distraction. Maybe then he would know what to do.

* * *

As morning broke, Wilbur found himself having to peel his face away from the desk he typically wrote at. His cheek was left with a rubbery sensation as he tried to slap the life back into it. A stain remained laying in front of the typewriter, a dried pool of tears and saliva that told a story in its entirety. At least for Wilbur it did. But this was no ordinary story, and for Wilbur, it wasn’t going to get any easier. After all, this was the day after. This was the day he would need to decide how to handle his wife. He hoped he could find the strength to do the right thing.

Outside, Wilbur heard a rustle of leaves. He rushed across the room to the window, looking out and expecting to find an untouched Suzanne working in the yard as she had for years. Was it possible this had all been some sort of nightmare—perhaps conjured up by the very tale he spun out on a piece of paper? But it wasn't Suzanne. The realization that she was now far from anything he had known her as persisted.

Instead, Wilbur found two others outside the window. One wore a bright orange vest, and the other was dressed in heavy khakis. Hunters, Wilbur thought. Then he saw that these weren’t just ordinary hunters. They were zombified hunters, and not very good ones at that. 

Each walked aimlessly with their rifles dragging behind them—their dead hand’s unwilling to relinquish their grasp on the weapon. Wilbur didn't think they knew how to use the guns except perhaps to crack someone’s skull open. Even then, he held serious doubts they would be coordinated enough to do so.

Wilbur rushed across the room and found the bedroom door. He threw it open, once again thinking he might find Suzanne. She of course was not at the door. She was still in the pen waiting for him, right? Oh yes, still locked away—Wilbur's little zombie wife prisoner. It was a disheartening thought.

He didn't own a gun, and so Wilbur wasn't going to be able to fire away at these monsters until they died—or rather died again. But those hunters had guns. Wilbur thought if he was able to one of those weapons he would be in business. That would do until help arrived—if it ever did. Scenes from various movies rushed through his thoughts. Help never really arrived, had it?

He wondered what might cause an outbreak like this—and so far up in the mountains too. Was it some breakdown of the moon, or of the atmosphere? That would be an event of cataclysmic proportions. Or maybe it had been some sort of chemical reaction or one of those damn government viral concoctions they were always tooling around with, trying to discover the perfect weapon—one that did their job for them. Did it even matter though? Not to Wilbur. No matter what the cause, the infection had found his wife.

Digging through the closet, he withdrew the only weapon he had—an axe for chopping wood. Wilbur backed out, axe in hand, and took a few short practice swings. An awkward rotation of the axe head followed each swing, causing concern for Wilbur that he might not be able to kill any zombies with it. Hell, he hadn’t even used it to chop wood. Swinging an axe to kill was difficult enough, let alone to chop off someone's head. If he couldn’t swing straight though, he wouldn’t be successful in trying.

Letting the axe fall to his side, Wilbur sprinted to the front door. Finding the screen door half-open he wondered why he hadn't closed up the house the night before. Then he remembered that he had just found out his wife was a zombie. His mind had been more like scrambled eggs than a thinking, processing machine.

The room was silent. All time stopped as his eyes shifted in and out of the shadows, tracing the contours of the dimly lit room. Nothing moved. No dull expressions hid in the landscape of the furniture. Thankfully, he was alone. Whatever opened the door—if anything had—either left or hadn’t bothered coming inside. Heck, that damn old door might have just opened on its own again.

Again, Wilbur took a practice swing—once again failing at a true chop. Regardless of that, he took off in full stride, racing around to the side of the house the bedroom was on. This wasn't an easy task either. Fifty-year-old legs didn't move like the ones he remembered back when he was eighteen.

Coming around the back corner of the house, he took the time to look down. He wanted to make sure he had a firm grip on the axe, but something impeded his progress. It stopped him dead in his tracks, his face crashing into it.

The sensation of ice-cold flesh awoke him from his stunned daze. Only it didn't exactly feel like flesh. It was more like rubber—having a cool, spongy elasticity. Wilbur's eyes rose to meet one of the hunters, already clawing for a good hold on Wilbur. Wilbur pushed himself away from the hunter, and the zombie stumbled backward as a result. He could see that it was Ted Johnson.

The boisterous man lived in one of the nearby cabins, but only came up from the city when he got the manly urge to kill a deer. Wilbur didn't recognize the other man, obviously a friend that had made the trip with Ted. It was either that or a fellow zombie that had joined Ted to hunt together.

Ted shambled forward, his numb legs carrying him to this new treat. Upon seeing Wilbur, Ted’s friend followed. Both kept the guns to their side, unsure of how to even raise them in a club-like manner. Apparently zombies weren’t as smart as the movies made them out to be.

Throwing the axe over his shoulder, remorse fell over Wilbur for what he was about to do. Sure, Ted was a zombie, but his eyes revealed a hint of the man he had been. Wilbur thought he had been a pretty decent guy—never causing too much trouble, and kind enough. Now his head was but an empty shell holding a pair of insatiable jaws in place. That mouth had a hunger that wasn’t only abnormal—it went against any laws written by God or mankind.

His axe swung in a perfect sideways arc. Wilbur could even imagine the silent noise it might have made, as it cut through the air in such a smooth motion. It struck Ted in the chest, sticking there with a dull thud.

Expecting a rush of blood spurting out at him, Wilbur covered his eyes. No dousing came, and he was thankful for that. Instead, a thick ooze of browning blood seeped out from around the place axe had landed, resembling a thick grease.

Wilbur tugged at the handle of the axe in an attempt to dislodge it, but before he was able to free it Ted's hand was holding it to his wounded chest. It further surprised Wilbur when Ted twisted his body away from him, pulling the axe free of Wilbur's grip.

As he turned, Ted's friend rushed forward, through the axe handle that now hung in his path. That didn't slow him down though. Instead, he pushed through causing the axe to break free, falling to the ground between the two zombies. Neither regarded the weapon, keeping their focus on Wilbur.

"Mowwwwwwnnnnn," Ted's new friend said, moaning an incoherent statement. Ted didn't respond. Together, they lifted their arms, extending them out towards Wilbur as far as they would reach. They wanted to secure him into those arms—to feed upon Wilbur’s organs.

Wilbur didn't bother waiting to see what happened next. He became aware that he had broken off hard to the left, towards the dog pen. He stopped to look behind him, found Ted and his friend changing their path to follow him. Panting, he bent over and leaned on his knees, searching his mind for the memory of an alternate weapon.

"Uhhh," came another voice, but this one was softer. Wilbur shot up, for a second fearing another zombie he hadn’t seen. It was only Suzanne.

She leaned against the front of the dog pen, with Wilbur thinking she was looking at him. His eyes traced her body, from head to toe, and that was when he found it. Directly below his wife, a shovel leaned precariously against the fencing of the dog pen. It was the shovel they used to keep the floor of the cage tidy. A tool like this would be pointless against the mess that now resided inside of the pen. Ah yes, the pooper-scooper. Wilbur shot her a wink, picking up the small shovel, and wielding it like a sword.

For a moment longer, his thoughts dwelled on his zombie wife. He wondered if she had somehow helped him? Or had that shovel been there all along and he just hadn’t noticed? He couldn't remember if it had—and to some degree he wasn't even sure he really wanted to know that answer.

Ted was the first to stumble forward; tripping over one of the small steps that led up towards the landscaped porch the pen was on. Upon feeling the step, he corrected his step without looking, intent on reaching Wilbur. Almost instinctively, his friend did the same. They were upon Wilbur faster than he had imagined a zombie would have been.

Wilbur hoisted the shovel back, with the blade of the flat-ended scoop pointing at Ted. He thrust it forward like a spear, letting his lead arm fall free as the other drove the shovel forward on its path. The shovel found Ted’s neck, sinking deep into the meat of it. That same thick maple syrup like blood oozed from this new wound. Ted’s head was sliced nearly two-thirds of the way off, and yet still he came—relentless to the end.

With a little extra weight, Wilbur leaned against the shovel severing Ted's head from his body. It fell to the side with a light thump, bouncing down the small set of stairs. Ted's body remained standing for a moment, possibly not knowing it had lost its head yet. Then, as if suddenly given up, it slid to the ground with a large thud. The body rolled down the small stairs and into his friend's leg.

Ted's friend forced himself through the limp body at his feet, again without looking down. He didn't step over, but kept pushing until Ted's body gave enough for him to pass. That had allowed enough time for Wilbur to ready the shovel. This time though, he was able to behead Ted's zombie friend with one quick thrust.

This head also rolled down the stairs, coming to a stop beside Ted's body. Interestingly, this body also appeared confused before the recognition actually came that it was indeed deceased. It fell limply across Ted's body.

Wilbur sighed, finding his wife still at the side of the dog pen watching him. But there was something else about her just then that surprised him. He could have sworn she had been smiling. A smiling zombie? Then an old thought returned. Maybe she wasn't all zombie—not infected all the way through. Maybe his wife was still in there somewhere; maybe she could even be saved. Until he could find out for sure, he would need to keep her safe.

He fell to his knees at the place the shovel had been, Suzanne standing nearby. She no longer appeared interested in him—not really. He was grateful she had at least stopped continually running into the gate without making any progress. It was not only hopeless, but made him feel outright creepy. Now she almost looked content with being captive.

In one day, Wilbur's life had turned gray. The trees around him were gray—their leaves and bark fading. The grass too-and even the old wooden siding of this house. But most of all his wife's flesh. Oh yes, her flesh had gone an ugly sort of gray—the way a zombie’s flesh did. And if he did kill her, wouldn't his heart become gray as well? Oh no, it would become as black as the coldest night for killing the woman he loved.

Crying, Wilbur rested his hand on the fence to steady his faltering body. This simple act was all that kept him from falling to his side in a fit of whimpering. Then, as if he had accidently touched a hot stove, cool flesh grazed his fingertips. It shocked him, forcing him to his feet. He found himself face to face with Suzanne.

With his overtired mind causing that mistake, he was aware that she could have easily bitten his fingers off. But she hadn't. What had she been try to do? Was she tried to hold his hand? Or was she merely attempting to get a solid hold on his meaty fingers? Wilbur stared at the core of her whitening eyes, wanting to question her intent. She stared back without expression. Had she meant to do him harm?

"Oh Suzanne," he said, noticing yellow patches in the iris of her eyes. Her eyes had been blue. These were no longer her eyes though. But when he looked into them—deep into them—he saw her original blue irises peering back at him. Couldn't it be that she was in there somewhere? Wilbur considered this, but thought it might be too risky to even think about such a thing. He spun away from her, taking heavy trodden steps towards the back door.

"Munnnnnhhhh," Suzanne said, but Wilbur didn't bother to respond to this. Anything he did to that accord would only serve to reinforce this doubtful possibility. She couldn't be in there. She was dead. She was a zombie. Without a second look, Wilbur threw open the door, disappearing inside.

Setting the shovel down just inside the door, he remembered the axe and guns. He’d left the very weapons he had been after outside. He considered retrieving them, but that would require him going past Suzanne’s cage. He thought it better to wait until later—when his head was straight. Right now, he needed to sit—and to eat.

The hunger he felt was at least a natural one. As he fed himself, an occasional grunt or moan came from Suzanne, beyond the door. It was almost like she was calling for him. He wished this were true, but he thought it more likely if she was calling anyone, it would be another zombie.

As he thought about her, who she had been, he began to cry again. The loss of sleep from the night before had finally caught up to him. Now he found himself drifting asleep at the kitchen table. Oh how he missed her. And with this last thought, Wilbur allowed himself to sleep without further care to his surroundings.

* * *

She wore a yellow sundress—like the one she wore upon their first encounter. They sat on the hillside, under the flowering crabapple tree. It was late in the spring, and the pink flowers had just started to shower the nearby grassy embankment. Suzanne marveled at the tiny stream that trickled along as they sipped their wine from long-stemmed glasses. In that moment, she was truly beautiful.

Then, as suddenly as one might find a smile, Suzanne’s face melted. The flesh boiled and blistered—her cheeks, neck and forehead becoming unrecognizable. She was turning into something else—a zombie.

Her arms rose to receive Wilbur. He found himself not in awe of this transformation, but accepting it with a half-full glass of wine still in hand. It slipped through his fingers, spilling onto the white blanket they sat on. He couldn't keep his eyes from going to that spill. Only, he didn't find wine there. It was blood. They’d been drinking blood.

This realization should have shaken Wilbur out of his daze, but it didn’t. His eyes searched until they found the bottle, still sealed in the basket—an untapped resource that he much rather preferred to that of blood. No, Suzanne had drawn the blood from Wilbur’s wrist, a tangle of veins she was currently gnawing upon. She had evidentially abandoned the idea of a glass several minutes earlier.

Wilbur watched as an incredible itching sensation throbbed in his arm. It was like a large mosquito bite, festering deep within the meat and growing. He longed to scratch it. It was a need unlike anything he had ever felt before.

The skin on his arm first bruised in response to this intrusion, and then faded to a grayish hue. Around him, the pink blossoms wilted to a browning residue as they fell to ground. The grass curled and twisted in response to this, turning yellow as if it had been scorched by hell itself. The tree itself then bent, splintering at its base, and looking as if it had been struck by lightning.

Suzanne was laughing. Her smile was delightful, as she continued to feed from Wilbur’s arm. But blood was no longer the treat. A stringy coil of veins dangled from her gnarly teeth, as she tugged to unravel more. It was like rotting blue spaghetti hanging from her dead mouth. She slurped at the loose noodle-like veins, drawing them into her mouth where she could chew.

"Ummmmmm," Suzanne said. Only it hadn't sounded like the moan a zombie makes. It was the noise one offered in approval of a fine meal. She was enjoying the feast.

The thing that disturbed Wilbur the most though, was that he didn't mind her feeding on his arm. After all, she needed to be fed, didn't she? Wilbur was surprised to find that he was smiling in approval of the meal choice. He could feel the dumb expression swelling upon his numb cheeks—his graying dead cheeks turning up into a zombie smile. See, zombies really could smile after all.

"She needs to eat," his neighbor Ted said from behind them. He twirled his old rifle in his hands, overseeing the feast. Behind Ted, his friend leapt into the air with cheerful glee. The menu at this picnic apparently worked for everyone. Oh yes, it was some shindig all right.

Wilbur met his eyes as Ted knelt, using the rifle as a sort of crutch. When he got down to Wilbur's level he asked, "You mind? After all, we all need to eat, Wilbur." He laughed as Ted's friend moved to the other side of Suzanne, where Ted was, kneeling as well. Even there he anxiously hopped in anticipation of the meal. "So do ya?" Ted motioned towards Wilbur's other arm.

He wanted to say no—or rather hell no—but it didn't come out that way. It came out as, "Mooowwnnnn."

"Well boy howdy, thank ya kind sir," Ted said. But Ted was no longer the Ted that Wilbur remembered him as. Both he and his friend were zombies too now. They bent down in unison, a frenzy at Wilbur’s other arm. The numb tugging of veins being torn out now came to both arms. That incredible itch growing and spreading throughout his entire body. A horrible numbing sensation followed it. It was then that Wilbur realized that he needed to feed as well.

Their eyes met, Suzanne moaning something incomprehensible. "Eat," was what he heard. She offered him his own arm with a nod towards it. Wilbur stared at it stupefied by the offer, yet with a strange hunger overwhelming him he bent over towards it—the urge to feed growing, the numbness spreading.

As his face met the cold rubbery flesh of his arm in a wet splash, he awoke with a jolt. The spasm caused him to knock over a near-empty glass of milk across the surface of the table. It spread quickly, but he hadn’t noticed—or rather hadn’t cared. Instead, he was looking out of the nearby window at a deer, twitching its ears in a cautionary listening pattern as it grazed.

Wilbur opened the door—the one that didn’t make noises, and moved as quietly as he could. He slid outside, tiptoeing with careful thought at each step. He bent for one of the guns, noticing that Suzanne was watching—that stupid expression still on her face.

Wilbur checked the safety on the gun. It was off. Leveling the barrel of the shotgun, he found the deer in its sights. It flinched, ears trying to interpret a strange sound, but it had yet to see Wilbur. Still, it continued to search for a danger that was felt, rather than heard.

The deer took a cautious step away, turning its head towards Wilbur. Suzanne moaned in response to this, as if pleading for the kill. Thunder rang from the gun a second later, echoing across the span of the hillside—disappearing far into the valley. The deer took three quick steps, stumbled, and then fell hard to the ground. Suzanne moaned again, this time in obvious approval of the kill.

Wilbur sprinted forward without remembering what had transpired over the last twenty-four hours. He paused, scanned the area for zombies. He found one, but he was beginning to think she wasn't a whole zombie—not all the way at least. She was his wife.

He knelt beside the deer, examining the wound. It was a clean kill through the neck. Wilbur laid the gun down, taking both of the back feet in one hand and the front ones in the other. A half-dozen or so ticks crept up his hand meeting the gooseflesh that grew in anticipation of what he was about to do. He shook most of them off and of those he couldn't, he tried to blow them off with a puff of air from his mouth. A pesky critter, some were able to cling on even then.

The deer was heavier than he had expected, but he was able to drag it back to the dog pen with little trouble. There, he pulled the key out of his pocket and eased the chain loose while Suzanne watched. She didn't move and that was a good thing. He didn't want her to. She needed to eat. All zombies needed to eat. He thought that might keep her hunger from being focused on Wilbur.

Once the chain was loose, Wilbur worked it through the fence, finishing by lifting the latch. Suzanne wavered only slightly, appearing more anxious for what he was offering. As he entered, the rotting smell of dead flesh wafted up to Wilbur’s nose. Both flies and their maggot young had already started to feast upon whatever was available in the pen, including Wilbur’s wife.

With the door opened, Wilbur didn't take his eyes off of Suzanne. He watched her good, still not fully trusting her. As quickly as he could, he maneuvered the dead deer into the pen and closed the gate with haste. Suzanne waited, as if making sure it was all right, and then moved in on the dead deer carcass.

Wilbur supposed he shouldn't have been shocked. After all, he had seen the aftermath of the dog. But viewing this first hand was an entirely different matter. Her soft hands—the gentle hands he had loved—tore away at flesh as if it were paper. Her nails dug into the hide like fierce claws, and she tore strips away with her teeth, throwing them about the pen with reckless abandon.

Once enough of the innards were exposed, her head sank deep into the deer's belly. Sucking and slurping filled the air, and for a moment Wilbur thought he might throw up his most recent meal. Ticks fell from the deer in droves, no longer interested in dying flesh. It no longer had the blood flow needed to sustain their simple life.

Not entirely done with the guts of the deer, Suzanne rushed to the head. Again, the sound of teeth grinding against bone filled his ears—haunting his thoughts. Light browns hairs stuck out of her bloodied mouth so much that it resembled a cheap costume beard. Wilbur decided not to remain for this part.

He grabbed the other gun and went inside. It hadn't been fast enough to avoid hearing that first crack, as she finally found her way into the deer’s skull. He heard slurping and a light moan of approval as she fed on the really good stuff. He pulled the door shut behind him and sat at the table to consider what had happened.

* * *

When he opened the door again, he was perplexed. Not only did he feel the weight of the world upon him, but also that of the unknown. Had some horrible affliction passed over this part of the woods alone? Or had it been the entire world? Why had he somehow been spared, and his wife not? He had so many unanswered questions right now.

What he did know was that like it or not, that was his wife in the dog pen. She immediately caught his eyes when he walked out. No expression crossed her face. Wilbur wasn't even sure if a zombie could make any face other than that droll one they often wore. But there was more to her without doubt.

"Unnnnnhhhh," she said, as if greeting him.

Yes, he thought she had actually greeted him. Maybe this wasn't as bad as it appeared. There was more of Suzanne inside this monster than—than what? Than a zombie? He wondered if that were even possible. Could it be that whatever strain infected her hadn’t been as bad? Or maybe she hadn't received the entire infection. Wilbur couldn't be sure either way.

He walked to the edge of the pen, realizing he had forgotten to replace the chain on the door. It lay loose and unlocked to the side, yet the door was still latched—his zombie wife still shut inside. She hadn't even tried to escape that he could tell. Or maybe she didn't feel she needed to anymore—as long as she was being fed fresh deer that is. Oh yes, that would tame her. But he didn't think zombies could discriminate when it came to fresh meat.

"Suzanne? Are you in there?" She didn't answer, staring at him with that dumbfounded look. Her dead flesh had begun to peel away in some areas, around wounds that might have been self-inflicted in the process of feeding. That dark-brown oozing blood filled those wounds, dripping down her face.

Wilbur imagined she smiled again. He thought he could see all too clear now. So well that he believed it true. He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. Of course she hadn't smiled. He wasn't seeing that dead expressionless face of hers that said she was hungry for human flesh. No, he was seeing the Suzanne that he knew all too well—the one from the hillside, years ago.

He dropped to his knees, no longer able to support himself. He threw out his hands trying to break his fall. One caught on the edge of the dog pen. And before his knees even touched the ground, he felt the cold sting of her rubbery dead flesh upon his. She would eat him.

His eyes darted wildly up to meet hers, and then to his hand. No, she wouldn't eat him. Her dead hand remained upon his, perhaps by accident or mere coincidence, but yes, it was touching his hand in a non-invasive manner. He thought Suzanne loved him even still, and that somehow gave him the ability to see her in a much different light.

Shuffling over to the door, he let his hand fall from hers. He knelt before the gate, in complete defiance against everything he knew to be true. Wilbur unlatched the gate, throwing the door inward and open wide. There he sat for a moment staring at her, and her at him. He was positive her love persisted—even in death, for love conquers all.

She smiled again—him seeing the Suzanne from the hillside. He thought he heard her say something, but in reality it had only been the moan of a hungry zombie. Hot tears stung at his cheeks as he crawled in on his knees with his arms extended out to her.

"Suzanne, I love you," he said.

Suzanne approached, her own arms extended towards Wilbur. When they met, she bent and embraced him, and he sank into her chest. Gnarly yellow teeth bore behind dark purple lips parting in what he imagined as a smile. Suzanne pulled Wilbur tight into her arms. And then, once they were in full embrace she fed. And even through the screams of terror, all the while, Wilbur saw Suzanne for the woman she had been—his true love. After all, zombies need to feed.

- P -

Kenneth W. Cain is an author of dark speculative fiction with several stories published in various media. He released his first novel in 2011, entitled These Trespasses. It is anticipated that the sequel will follow towards the end of the same year. He resides in the deepest recesses of his mind, where his wife and children tend to his needs from time to time. http://kennethwcain.com.

Skeletons in the Basement

Robert Essig

S

lap!  A bloody hand hit the window leaving a trail of

rotten matter as it slid down in an agonizing gesture. Moaning and groaning, their weak gangrenous carcasses swung limbs at the walls and windows and doors for a weak pane or piece of wood, hopeful to gain them entrance. They could smell the living inside.

“They’re here,” said Julia. She was only thirteen, but dealing with the pandemic rather effortlessly. Since her mother left, life had been shadowed in darkness anyway. The concept that the dead could rise and seek out the living for some kind of blasphemous feast seemed absolutely plausible in her fragile world. If mom could leave me, anything can happen. And so when her father Mike lost his shit, she remained calm.

“Damn-it,” whispered Julia’s father. He had become frantic when the initial stories about the dead returning to life hit the news, and even more so when the head of Homeland Security was plastered on all 300 television channels and every radio frequency pleading to the American people to remain calm and stay indoors. He’d never seen anything bad enough to constitute such a domination of the airwaves. And then it seemed like every city in the Union was being quarantined, which meant the USA was in a state of terror, only this time it was at the hands of the walking dead rather than hijacked airplanes.

Outside, the undead clamored amongst one another to get a glimpse at the humans in the house, as if the smell of Mike and Julia’s brains emanated from their ears like steamy tendrils from a fresh baked pie. They were weak, but en mass they would take the house and devour Mike and Julia like trapped prey before moving on to the next one.

Mike nervously glanced at the door of the unfinished basement, sweat beading on his brow. He looked aged. Never before had Julia noticed her father’s age. Since her mother left she looked up to him as her savior, as a strong man who would be there for her no matter what. But something was off about him now. The profuse sweating, the nervous glances, the general panic that radiated from his being. It wasn’t quite the man she had looked up to, and so she decided that she would have to remain calm. She was older now and they were in this together. If he couldn’t handle himself in the wake of something as frightening and horrid as the dead rising, she would have to be there for him, if for nothing more than to ground him.

Fists pounded windows leaving bloody smears of gore. Cacophonic roars of hunger surrounded the house. Such a horde of mindless beings would no doubt collapse the house like an undead bulldozer with the numbers that were gathering. They had nothing to lose and mush for brains. The fact that they instinctually yearned for living flesh was astonishing enough, and perhaps the most frightening affliction of their reanimated state.

“We can’t get out,” said Julia. “What do we do?”

Mike’s eyes kept darting nervously to the basement door.

“Should we go in the basement?” asked Julia, noting not only the concern in her father’s eyes, but his incessant glances toward the basement door. She was reluctant to take the lead, but would do so if it came to that.

“No!” Mike spat the word out as if his daughter had suggested something egregious.

Julia saw something beyond mere fear within her father’s eyes.

“We’ll go into the attic,” Mike said.

“But I don’t know if the attic is safe--”

“Safer than the basement.”

But before they could make it to the attic there was a noise from behind the basement door. It was but a mere scratching, as if there was an animal down there alerting Mike and Julia of its presence.

“What was that?” asked Julia, panicked. She had been trying to remain cool, but things were escalating.

“Nothing. Let’s go up into the attic. It’s safe up there.”

The windows were taking a beating as the zombie hoards pounded a monotonous rhythm with rotten fists, something preternatural driving them forth.

“But there’s something in there.” Julia walked to the basement door using extreme caution as if the door would burst open revealing something hideous.

“No,” pleaded her father. “Not the basement!”

He ran after her, ready to pull her away from the door, but youthful ignorance opened it. Julia gasped taking a step back, hands over her mouth in attempt to stifle a scream that threw the zombies into frenzy.

She looked to her father in horror. Though the animated corpse standing at the threshold was indistinguishably decomposed--the flesh jellied and slimy, caked with dirt--she recognized the tattered dress. It was her mother’s dress, the dress she was wearing the last time Julia had seen her.

She looked at the zombie again, her eyes averting to the basement beyond, the unfinished floor of dirt disrupted after her mother’s escape from an early grave.

“You...” was all Julia could say through hyperventilation as she now understood that her father had killed her mother. It was all a lie. His story about her mother leaving was a lie. The stories about her infidelity, a lie. Lie. Lie. LIE!

As Julia ran into the kitchen Mike tried to grab her, pleading with her as if murder could be excused. She had thought he was the strong one. She had thought that he lived in a world of hurt and sorrow, shielding his emotions for her sake.

All bullshit.

Julia grabbed a large knife from the butcher’s block on the kitchen counter. She turned facing her father, eyes ablaze. She was panicked, adrenalin coursing through her body in waves.

“Whoa!” Mike put his hands out in surrender. “Think about what you’re doing.”

“Think about what I’m doing? What about you!”

The sound of one of the windows cracking issued just before it shattered, causing Julia to yelp. They would be inside in no time, but Julia found herself betrayed and doomed. Her yelp was a functionary reaction to the glass breaking rather than fear of the undead. At this point they seemed like a blessing.

“Just give me the knife, Julia.”

“What, so you can murder me too?”

“Julia, just--“

The scream was horrendous as Julia drew the knife across her own throat, blood soaking her clothes in a rush of crimson, her body falling to the floor as death stole over her. It was extreme, especially in the presence of her father, but, in that moment, she wanted it that way. She wanted him to lose everything for what he had done, to suffer in the wake of her demise, for she knew that he loved her, no matter what kind of monster he was.

Mike was left shocked by his daughter’s abrupt suicide. The constant sounds remained of the dead trying to gain entrance, and... There was a sound from within the house.

Mike had forgotten about his wife.

She’s loose in the house!

Cold hands grabbed the back of his neck. He struggled with her, but she was impervious to pain. During the struggle he saw his daughter’s eyes open through the deathly calm her body had been overcome with.

Mike’s putrid wife and blood-drenched daughter were on him. He couldn’t break free as they sank their teeth into his head, liberating chunks of his skull before devouring his brain.

The hordes finally gained entrance and feasted on what was left of Mike’s remains before heading into the night en mass, stronger by two.

- P -

Robert Essig lives in southern California with his wife, son, and dog. He spends his idle time feeding his muse after which he picks the fruits of his wild imagination.  His short fiction has been featured in over 30 publications.  His debut novel People of the Ethereal Realm is forthcoming from Twisted Library Press. Visit him on the web at http:// robertessig.blogspot.com.

George and Sam

Andrew Risch

September 17th

It seems the fall air is finally starting to cool things off. It’s been so blasted hot this summer, I had myself convinced that I had died and gone to Hell.

It has been about three months since the planet went to shit. The media had all sorts of names and theories for what was going on. Some called it “The Lazarus Virus”, others “Romero’s Revenge.” Some even tried to link it to Al Qaeda saying it was a retaliation attack for whacking Osama Bin Laden. My favorite? The Bible thumpers tried to say it was The Rapture.

Whatever you call it and whatever you believe one thing’s for certain: The dead are walking, they’re hungry, and we’re on the menu.

My name’s George Stevens. I’ve been a man without a home for almost as long as I can remember. I never did very well with school and was laid off from my job at the local factory. So of course, my wife up and leaves me the next damn day. After that I spent too many late nights alongside the whiskey bottle and soon enough, I was out on my ass and on the streets.

I’ll tell ya one thing though. With all these dead folk trying to get a piece of me, it’s been the most successful intervention anyone could have asked for. Haven’t had a drop of alcohol since this shit began.

I found this notebook along with a couple of pens in the last house I looted. Wasn’t much for food ‘cept a few cans of corn and some rotten veggies. So I thought I’d pick this notebook up to help ease the boredom. Seems those bastards can’t see so well in the dark.  So, I spend my days sleeping and hiding out waiting for the sun to go down.

Maybe this here notebook will be found by someone else and if you’re reading this, I wish you the best my friend.

September 18th

Now, I never did see myself as a clever man, but I’m a survivor. The world may have died, but I ain’t ready to go yet. You see, I found this apartment a couple of weeks after those bastards started coming back from being dead and looking for a snack. And since they are pretty damn stupid and slow, I made for damn sure I got me an apartment on the second floor. Just high enough to keep the bastards out and low enough I can make an escape out the window in case things get crazy.

Being a man living on the streets for as long as I have, I’m pretty much a master at scrounging up some grub and I always keep my belongings with me, ready to leave at a moment’s notice. Guess that’s why I’ve been able to survive for as long as I have.

Maybe that’s why a lot of regular folk didn’t last so long. It’s a world they never intended to live in.

A couple of days ago, I saw some Yuppie SOB trying to get money out of an ATM, only to have those bastards tear him apart. They must have spent the entire afternoon ripping into him and gorging themselves.

Well look at that.  The Sun is starting to set and in a few minutes, I’ll have some cover. I need to go on a supply run.  Getting damn tired of corn and beans.  I’d kill for a cheeseburger.

September 19th

Man oh Man! What a day. What a day! Where to begin? I guess if you’ve managed to stay around for this long, I’ll share a tip with you that should help you out mighty fine.

There was a big ol’ thunderstorm today. It was coming down something fierce. Rain was coming down with a vengeance, along with lighting scraping across the sky combined with some monstrous thunderclaps.

Now, back before the world up and died, a thunderstorm may have ruined your day. But in today’s world, it’s the best thing ever. For one, when the sun refuses to shine you got yourself more cover. For two, the rain hides your smell.  For some reason those bastards can’t see so well, but they can sniff you out. And finally, and this may be my favorite, them walking puss bags are enthralled by rain and lighting. They will just stand with their necks craned to the sky during a good thunderstorm. You can just waltz on by a horde of them. Dumbasses. So anytime you get yourself a raging thunderstorm, you get yourself a sack and get all the damn supplies you can carry.

Anyway, I found the mother load today. I found me this house that seemed to be untouched by anyone else. Usually, when I stumble upon a place nowadays, I might be lucky to get myself a can of creamed corn or some lousy lima beans. But today? This place had tons of cereal, ramen noodles, cans of Spaghetti O’s and a shit ton of candy! I couldn’t believe my eyes. I tell you I’m a pretty happy son of a bitch with my find. I also came up with something totally unexpected during this trip.

A damn kid.

Yup. You read that right.

In the house that had the mother load, it also came with a kid. Guess it kinda makes sense considering all the different types of food I had found in there. He must have heard me rummaging through the cabinets and thought I was one of those dead bastards. He crept up behind me and clobbered me in the back of the head with a Louisville Slugger. Now, I had no idea what in the world may have hit me and the last thing I expected to see was this small boy.

The kid was terrified and it took me some time to convince him I wasn’t one of those bastards.

His name is Sam. He is six years old but I’d say this tough new world that we find ourselves in has aged him a few more years. He’s got bright blue eyes and shaggy dirty blonde hair. He is also capable of talking a mile a minute and sometimes I don’t think he’s able to shut his trap.  Poor kid must have been cooped up all alone for sometime now. Didn’t ask what happened to his folks. Don’t think he wanted to tell that story. Don’t think I wanna know.

I convinced Sam to come and stay with me. My place is safer and I can’t leave the little shit alone by himself. He grabbed a couple toys and a photo of his folks and we were on our way. Gotta admit, it’s nice to have someone to talk to.  Never had a kid of my own and I ain’t got much experience with ‘em but I gotta protect him. Keep him safe.

I finally got him to sleep about an hour ago. Hadda tell him he couldn’t keep a candle by his bed. He told me that his Mom told him that light from the candle keeps monsters away. I assured him that my trusty friend, Mr. 44, that I carry in my pocket can do a hell of a job keeping monsters away. I think his was satisfied with that.

Good night kid.

September 20th

I gotta admit, I had more fun today than I’ve had in years. Sam woke up early today and we had ourselves some breakfast. Sure, we didn’t have any milk for our cereal but dry cereal beats corn and beans any damn day. After that the boy asks me if I had any video games to play. I had to tell he poor kid that there aren’t any video games no more. Damn things ain’t gonna work without no electricity.

Luckily for the kid, the folks that used to live here had a ton of old board games stashed away in one of their old closets. Sam, you see, is used to the modern world of cell phones, internets and video games. I don’t think he ever played an old fashioned board game in his entire life.

So, we spent most of the day playing checkers, Stratego and Sorry. Damn kid is getting pretty good too. He’s already bested me at Sorry. Twice. The games were a lot of fun. Before we knew it the sun was starting to set.

Before Sam drifted off to sleep tonight, he asked if I still had Mr. 44 with me. I nodded and told him that I did. He asked if he could see him. I told him that Mr. 44 is very dangerous and not for children. I hope he understands.

Sweet dreams Sam.

September 21st

I did something today that I never would have guessed possible. Me and Sam actually finished a game of Monopoly! Can you believe it? And for a first timer Sam took me to the cleaners! He had control of the Railroads and a shit ton of those damn hotels. He beat me good! I was the racecar and Sam was the dog.

Sam told me the dog reminded him of this old pet German Sheppard, Roger. Sam then tells me this story of how Roger gave his life protecting him from those blasted things. That story damn near broke my heart.

September 23rd

I hope that you can still read my writing. Me and Sam got into some trouble. A couple of nights ago, we saw some sort of explosion that left a bright orange fireball in the sky. Not sure if it was a car, a gas main or some sort of bomb. What I do know for sure is that the explosion stirred up those damn bastards.

We saw people running down the streets being terrorized by those things. Guess me and Sam weren’t so alone after all. It was a goddamn massacre. People were getting ripped apart and eaten. Saw some lady just stop running and sit on the street and let those bastards tear into her. With God as my witness, the woman looked relieved as she was getting torn apart.

Somehow the bastards knew me and Sam were hiding out here. And somehow they managed to drag themselves up to our front door. I can hear those bastards now. Clawing at the door, moaning and stinking something fierce.

I told Sam to run to the back bedroom and hide under the bed until I told him everything was clear. I started double checking the windows and made sure everything was boarded up nice and tight.

As I was doing this, one of the bastards managed to break through a window and grab me by the shoulder.  Just as I was about to break free, another one sank his nasty chompers into my right forearm taking a mouthful of flesh. I instinctively pulled away and shot his maggot filled ass to hell with Mr. 44.

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

I might as well have just rang the dinner bell and told the bastards, “Soup’s on!”  I was able to patch up the window, even though I had the bastards all riled up, hungry and angry.  I stayed by that door all night and kept guard to make sure Sam was safe. 

September 24th

Fever is starting to set in. Not sure how much time I have. Some people turn in a few hours, some in a few days.  There are rumors that some people are immune.  That’s horseshit. Been keeping the bite a secret from Sam. Can’t worry the kid none.

There are less of those bastards today. They eventually start to lose interest or find something else. One of them sees something and usually the rest will follow. Me and Sam have been keeping quiet. Can’t play no games today.

September 25th

My head is pounding like some kind of jungle folk war drum. I went to clean my wound earlier today and noticed all the skin around the bite is turning a grayish green color and is cold to the touch. I ain’t got much time left.

Sam’s too young to take care of himself. Then again, he managed to survive this long. Maybe he can. There’s enough food to last him here for a good month or two. But would that be fair to leave him on his own again? I wonder if it would be okay with the Man upstairs if I released the kid from this hell while he slept?

September 26th

Fever is doing a number on me. Getting weaker. Sam asked me if something was wrong with me. I lied and told him that it was just my allergies.

There is still about half a dozen bastards out there. Please let me hang on for a couple more days.

September 27th

I’m not sure if I’m getting used to smelling them damn bastards or if the fever is causing me to hallucinate. But right now, all I can smell is MEAT. It smells like a 4th of July picnic in this apartment.

And I’m hungry.

September 28th

Fever is gone. Only cold now. Can’t think straight. Can hear Sam’s heartbeat. Sam smells like meat. Can’t eat Sam. Sam best friend. Have to show Sam how to use Mr.44. Sam smart. Sam will live. Sam shoot George.

Goodnight Sam.

- P -

Andrew Risch grew up on a steady diet of comics, video games, and horror movies. He currently resides in Erlanger, KY, with his lovely girlfriend and crazy cat, where they are currently awaiting the zombie apocalypse.

Push Button, Get Bacon

KT Jayne

T

he sun was starting to go down toward the early part of the late afternoon and I scanned the horizon looking for any breaks in the monotony of endless sand. Nothing. Except the path of the train tracks I’d been following. Pulling the thick leather strap of my messenger bag over my head, I squatted, depositing it on the ground beside me. Flipping open the lid of my water bottle and taking a swig, I grimaced as the hot liquid rushed down my throat. One thing about the end of the world: I truly missed ice.

I unfastened the two buckles on the front of the bag and peered inside. This was what was left of all my worldly possessions. A small velvet bag with a few pieces of my mother’s jewelry, a small photo book, a baggie full of essential makeup, a hairbrush with hair ties wrapped around the handle, a plastic case of baby wipes, my tablet, a sketchbook, a few mechanical pencils and some pens, a Sharpie, a bottle of aspirin, a tube of sun block, a small first aid kit, a flashlight and some maps.

I noticed that my fair skin was starting to have a slightly red glow, so I pulled out the sun block and rubbed it in. I had been following this particular set of train tracks for two days and I was hoping that I would find an actual town soon. So far I had been through two stations, but the towns had long since disappeared into history.

I knew I was close to a station. Tracks always lead to stations. I had passed a sign in the early morning that had proclaimed “Garmen 15 miles” so I figured I would reach it in a few more hours.

I grabbed a well-worn map that had belonged to Kaleb, my older brother. He was autistic and had a weird obsession with trains. He’d always collected train maps. He memorized train schedules and collected toy trains. I don’t think he ever thought about anything but trains. 

That was before the sickness had gotten him and turned him into one of the walking dead. It had been 6 months since then and these days I was the one with the obsession for trains. I methodically followed him along tracks hoping that there would be some trace of him left that maybe I could save. The few times I had managed to catch up to him, there was only a few remnants left that told me he’d been there. I always found his marks. So, I kept walking the tracks because I had made up my mind that this is what Kaleb’s brain would lead his body to do when he couldn’t cope with anything else. 

My eyes scanned the horizon once more and this time I thought that there was a speck in the distance. Reaching up, I twisted the optix on my goggles, zooming in on the speck. It was a small building, possibly a station. I unfolded the map carefully and found the mark that I had made when I had last checked it. That was yesterday. I looked around for something to tell me where I was, but found nothing. This part of the tracks had veered gently away from the highway and I hadn’t seen a marker for awhile. The last one had said 115. I found that point on my map and looked ahead. I decided it would be another three hours before I reached the speck. If it was a station it should be Garmen.

Kaleb had bored our family to death with many stops at train stations over the years, but we’d never managed to make it to Garmen. I searched my brain for what Kaleb had said about it but all that I could come up with was that Garmen meant “gates of hell” or something close to that. Kaleb had a very strange sense of humor sometimes.

Tenderly folding the map and returning it to my bag, I pulled my goggles off, reaching back to untangle the strap from the long red hair of my ponytail. The heat was stifling and I felt as if I were melting from the inside out. Opening the plastic case with the baby wipes and prying it open, I plucked out a wipe and shook it. I swiped my face, feeling just a little refreshed from the wetness even though it was warm. It was a silly piece of my old life, but a useful one. It was amazing what such a small piece of civilization could do for you.

I sat down flat on my bottom and stretched my legs out in front of me, twisting my ankles this way and that in my boots. I desperately wanted to take my boots off and walk in a cool stream, but that wasn’t about to happen. Looking up at the sun, I saw that it had started its descent into late afternoon. I took another drink and replaced my goggles. It was time to get back on the move.

Two and a half hours later, I was about a mile from a small building that sat right next to the tracks. A faded sign clung in desperation to the side of the building. Adjusting my goggle optix once again, I could make out G-A-R in fancy stenciled letters. The station had been abandoned for some time and only a handful of gray splotches clung to the wood betraying that it had once been new. The station sat atop a hill, so it was difficult to discern if a town lay below it.

I approached cautiously. The walking dead creatures sometimes congregated in places where they had gone in life. Just because the landscape appeared devoid of the monsters, didn’t mean they wouldn’t pop out at the first opportunity. I saw no trace of movement at all, but I still felt unsettled. It was almost too quiet.

I walked slowly toward the building. Reaching over my shoulder, I felt for the baseball bat that I had strapped there. The metal was hot against my palm and I slid my fingers down until I felt the wrapped handle and grabbed it firmly. No walking dead freak was going to surprise me.

I decided to circle around the station just to make sure that nothing unusual was hanging out there. The station sat squarely staring at me with windows empty of glass. The light was slowly fading and the station was dark. There was still no hint of movement, but I could not shake the feeling that something was not right.

I listened hard, but only heard the distant sound of buzzing flies. Rounding the corner of the station that was closest to the steps of the entrance, I heard a rustling sound. I pulled the baseball bat up and over my shoulder, I crouched at the corner and waited. Listening. After I few minutes, I stood again, holding the bat out in front of me readying it. After each step, I stopped. Waiting, listening, watching, and then stepping again.

This part of the station was elevated from the ground on stilts and the space below was hidden by several pieces of lattice. There were a few places close to the ground where the lattice had broken through, just large enough for something small to pass. The rustling sound came again and this time I looked through the lattice to see a shadow of movement underneath. A scrabbling sound carried out to me. The buzzing of the flies was louder here. 

Sliding my hand under the flap of my messenger bag, I felt around until I felt the plastic handle of my flashlight. I pulled it out and tested it, the LED lights shone brightly through the dimness under the station. A few feet away, a cloud of insects hovered over the ground where I thought the scrabbling was coming from. A tangle of small branches jumped toward me with its fly escort. I kept the light trained on it as it moved forward.

A bloody and ragged ear found its way past the miniature tumbleweed as rabbit paws kicked it out of the way. I saw the glazed eyes that were so typical of the human walking dead and jumped backward, dropping my flashlight. I had seen some dogs and cats that had contracted the sickness, but never any other animals. 

I reached down to retrieve my light and quickly made my way up the steps that led to the main entrance of the station. Looking down and shining the flashlight over the edge, I saw that the little undead creature was disappearing back into the darkness that he had jumped out of.

I turned my attention to the station itself. It was plain with only three windows on each side of the door. The door was wider than a house door and the six small panes of glass that should have been in the window gaped emptily at me. Walking to one of the windows, I looked inside.  Shining my light inside, I saw no hint of movement or light. A sign opposite me welcomed me to Garmen. Moving back to the door, I reached out and put my hand on the knob. As I pushed the door in, it stuck a little, causing me to have to push with all 110 pounds of me.

The door was open just wide enough for me to slip in. Once again, I aimed the beam of my flashlight inside and did a quick sweep of the lobby of the station. There was some light coming in through the windows and the light only served to illuminate what was in the corners not touched by the natural lighting. It looked safe enough. I was beginning to think of sleeping here for the night. A few rows of chairs, grouped together in threes or fours, were bolted together and sat intermittently around the room. The ticket window grinned at me. There was still some glass intact in front of the counter, but as I stepped closer, I heard the flies buzzing again. 

I flipped the flashlight off and stood silently exactly where I was. Scrabble scrabble came from behind the ticket counter. It sounded small, so I imagined it was another creature such as a raccoon or maybe even a cat. I approached the counter and used the flashlight to try and illuminate the area. As I inched closer, I noticed that there were bloody hand prints and smears on what was left of the glass.

Once again I lifted the baseball bat in front of me. It was more for my own sense of safety at this point, but I knew I could swing it quickly and with some force if I needed to. The rustling scrabbling sound came again. Crouching down I made my way to the side of the counter and found a door. It was metal with one window mounted in the middle. I tried the handle and discovered it was locked. Using the end of the bat to poke at the remnants of glass, I then snaked my hand through the hole and turned the lock mounted on the knob. The door swung out toward me.

Cautiously, I opened the door inch by inch until I thought that I could use the light to see inside.  I was not prepared for what I saw. The small room was bathed in blood. Of course it was dried up, but still the scent of iron filled my nostrils. In the corner of the room was a pile of what I thought was gray shop rags. I walked over to it and nudged it with my foot. The pile shifted and an oblong object covered in blood and hair rolled next to my foot. Looking down with the flashlight, a skull grinned at me, with the remnants of a person still clinging to it. I jumped backward with a start and turned quickly to run out through the lobby. I swung the flashlight around until I saw a sign reading restrooms pointing down a hallway.

My stomach was heaving and I pushed open the first door I came to. In the glow of my flashlight, I saw a sink and dropping the bat on the floor, I grabbed it and vomited into it. After a few minutes of alternately vomiting and dry heaving, I leaned against the wall and picked my flashlight up off the floor. 

Looking around I realized that I was in the men’s room. Across from me was a urinal firmly bolted to the wall. On the floor below it was a pile of pieces and plumbing that I assumed could only be another urinal. Next to me was the metal bulk of an automatic hand dryer. I spun around so that I was facing it. Bringing up my flashlight, I examined the top of it. There it was. Kaleb’s mark. The familiar sticker was on top. The first part of the sticker showed a hand with a pointed finger pushing a button. Above it in black sharpie and Kaleb’s cramped script was written “push button”. The second half of the sticker showed the hands flat below 3 wavy red lines that were supposed to indicate heat.  To the right of that in Kaleb’s same cramped sharpie was written “get bacon”.

I smiled to myself, imagining Kaleb giggling maniacally while writing this. I reached into my messenger bag and used a wipe on my face then took a swig of water to rinse the acrid taste of vomit from my mouth. I also found my sketchbook and opened it to a page with dates and times of when I had seen signs of Kaleb. I had his old watch attached to the inside of my bag and it provided me with the information that I needed to complete the current entry.

Retrieving my bat and making my way back out to the lobby, blocks of orange came in through the many windows around the station giving the illusion that it was completely on fire. Looking out the window confirmed that the sun was just setting. Against a far wall was a bench that I decided would serve well enough as a bed for a few hours.

Next to the bench in the corner a vending machine stood. I went to it and looked inside. Rows of snacks stared back at me from behind intact glass. I found my bat, stood off to the side, closed my eyes, and swung hard. My arms tingled from the impact of the bat. Glass fell down into the machine and flew out toward the lobby. I grabbed a bag of chips and a candy bar and went to the bench to devour my prizes.

Opening the bag of chips and reaching in, I shoveled some into my mouth and then sat down, looking at the room. I crunched thoughtfully. The ticket counter was to my right and the hallway leading to the restrooms to my left. The room was quiet except for the soft buzzing of flies.

I put my bag down next to me on the bench and pushed it against the wall at one end. Brushing my hands against each other and then wiping them on my jeans, I loosened the hoodie that was tied around my waist and wadded it up, finally putting it on top of the bag. That was as good a pillow as I got these days. I leaned back and got as comfortable as I could. The last thing I did before closing my eyes was tuck the metal baseball bat under me between my body and the bench. Then I was immediately overtaken by exhaustion.

I had strange and disconnected dreams in those hours. They started with memories of me and Kaleb as children and ended with him jumping on the train tracks. As my brain latched onto that metallic tapping that I was watching Kaleb make with my bat on the tracks in the dream, I realized that the sound was actually happening.

I kept my eyes closed and slowly inched my hand across my body until I touched the bat. I gripped it firmly and pulled it back over me. As my senses started to become alert again, I tried to pinpoint where that tapping was coming from. It seemed far away and then again it seemed to be right in the station with me. I waited and listened, realizing that not only was I hearing tapping, but another sound that I couldn’t quite place. It was a dry raspy sound.

I slowly sat up, holding the bat on my lap and scooting forward so that my feet touched the wood floor of the station. I once again silently said a thank you to the stars for the foresight I used when I chose my boots. They were black leather, but with rubber soles. I had thought hard about the sort of terrain that I might encounter on my journey to find Kaleb and these boots seemed the most sensible choice. I was especially happy because my boots would make no noise on the floor.

Standing up, I decided to return to the ticket counter. I stood on tiptoe and looked over the counter with my flashlight. The area still looked exactly the same as it had the previous day. Awash in blood and the only occupant the pile of rags and the skull. I entered the little office once again and had a good look around.  Nothing seemed to have moved in months, maybe years. There was nothing of use and there were no sounds coming from here.

Turning around, I returned to the corridor that led to the bathrooms. As I made my way down the hall, the tapping increased in volume. I flattened myself against the wall and craned my head so that I could see into the bathroom where I’d vomited the previous night. There wasn’t much to see from that angle so I tiptoed back into the lobby and pulled my compact out of my bag.

Once again I stood flattened against the wall, compact poised in front of me pointing into the bathroom. This time I could see a shadow moving. I moved the mirror a little higher, hoping to see what was in there. I took a deep breath and closed the mirror. I turned my body so that I was facing the wall. Grabbing the door frame, I cautiously poked my head around until I could see the urinals. The tapping was on my left, but I couldn’t see without going completely into the little washroom.

The tapping never ceased. It was monotonous. And familiar. I stopped when this thought went across my brain. I listened closely, trying to tune into the raspy sound. The more I listened, the more I thought that the raspy sounds were actually words. Not just any words, either. The same words repeated over and over, “Push button, get bacon”.

I swallowed hard and held my breath for a moment. I listened again, shaking my head and trying to convince myself that I was not hearing those words. Several minutes passed, and still the words came with the tapping, “Push button, get bacon”.

I could stand it no longer. I stepped in front of the door of the bathroom and in the smallest, shakiest voice that I had ever heard come out of my mouth; I half whispered his name, “Kaleb?”

Everything stopped. I waited. The tapping resumed. The raspy words did too. I stepped into the bathroom and turned to look at the place where the tapping was emanating. A figure was standing in front of the hand dryer. It was hitting the button with its palm and after each hit repeated the words. 

I stepped behind the figure, close enough that I could have reached out and touched its back with my hand. I could not bring myself to do that, though. Instead, I just stood looking at the figure that seemed so familiar.

“Kaleb?”

It turned and looked at me. I was overtaken with emotion when I realized that this was my brother standing in front of me. At least it reminded me of him.

It took a step toward me and I instinctively took one backward in a sort of negative reaction. The figure stood in front of me and lifted one arm up, palm pointed toward the ceiling, in a gesture that seemed almost beckoning. I had to stop myself from fitting my hand into his as I had so many times over the years of my life.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” I looked over him, trying to determine how far along in the sickness he was. I knew the signs. The first sign was the intense cramping in the intestinal area which was followed by flu-like symptoms of intense vomiting and diarrhea. I had heard others describe sufferers as smelling like rotting meat. I sniffed. The bathroom was already fairly rank and with the smell of old urine and vomit that I thought might even had been there when the room was brand new, I couldn’t distinguish if Kaleb’s smell was the same or different. I suspected that my own smell after days of following railroad tracks was not so pleasant.

I watched him closely. He looked down at me and I could see his deep gold-flecked hazel eyes from behind the mass of dirty blond curls. They seemed to be working to recognize me. I thought that I saw a glimmer of recognition in there.

“Kaleb, I’ve been looking for you for awhile. I thought I’d find you in a train station.” I smiled.

“Garmen.” It was flat and raspy. Almost Kaleb’s natural voice, just deeper and drier.

“That’s right, this is Garmen.”

“Gate.”

“I was trying to remember what was so special about Garmen. Now, I remember that Garmen means gate to hell, doesn’t it?”

I looked at him again. Even before the sickness, Kaleb had been difficult to hold conversations with. He had trouble making eye contact and he couldn’t read body language well. He had immense difficulty trying to follow the normal rules of conversation unless it was something he was interested in. Then he could go on for hours. I’d even walked away from him and come back to find him still talking. Unaware that I had gone.

“Kaleb, I need to know how sick you are.”

“Sick.”

“Have you been throwing up?”

“Sick.”

This was going to be harder than I imagined.

“Maybe we should go sit down.”

I turned and started to head back to the lobby. I looked over my shoulder to see him still standing in place.

“Come on, Kaleb.” I returned to him and started to take his hand. Instead, I grasped what was left of his jacket and pulled him toward the door and the bench where I had slept just a little while ago. He shuffled slowly behind me.

We arrived at the bench and I sat down, looking up at my sibling. As we had gotten older, we had less in common. Kaleb got more solitary and his interests narrowed so much that it seemed as if he only wanted to stay inside with his computer and research the things that he was interested in. He often told us that he loved his computer because all of his friends lived in there.

He stood there rocking on his feet. I pulled my feet up so that I could hug my legs and I watched him for a little while.

“When we were kids, it always seemed like you were the younger brother, not the older one. It took me a long time to understand that you were the older sibling.”

He looked at me with the familiar blank stare that I had come to know was his way of processing his surroundings.

“When we got older, it became easier to tell people that you were the younger one, just so they would understand and not think that you were retarded.”

“Not stupid.”

“No, you’re not stupid at all. That’s the hardest part for people to understand. You’re not stupid. Information just gets in and out of your brain differently than other people’s.”

“Autistic.”

“People don’t understand autism.”

“Hard.”

I looked at him again and smiled. It was hard. For everyone.

“I was mad at you when we were growing up. Mom and Dad always made me take care of you. I had to always watch out for you. That made me get picked on sometimes.”

“Mad.”

“Yeah, mad. You would get stuck on stuff and couldn’t let it go for anything.”

“Stuck.”

It suddenly all sounded very silly. Kaleb was all that was left of my family. My parents had both succumbed to the walking dead sickness and died. Kaleb had started walking before then. We had actually forgotten about him in all the confusion.

I looked at my older brother and felt tenderly toward him. There was no longer any distance between us. We were just two people with a common past trying to figure out how to put it back together. Except that my brother was not really alive. He wasn’t dead either. Unless you asked the flies. I noticed that the flies were drawn to him. They crawled over him without disruption. He didn’t attempt to swat them away at all. This was not the Kaleb I knew. He was so sensitive that flies crawling over him was almost painful.

Today, there was no recognition of this pain either real or imagined at all. I wondered how this felt for his oversensitive nature.

“Does it hurt, Kaleb?”

“No hurt.”

I shook my head, not really knowing what to think. I knew it was only a matter of time until the sickness disabled all of his logical thinking patterns and he became a mindless brain seeker and eater. I wondered for the millionth time if this was the fate of all humankind.

“Better.”

This was the first time he had said something that wasn’t in reply to something I had said. It took me by surprise, “What?”

“Better.”

“Better than what?”

“No hurt.”

“It’s better than not hurting?” I shook my head in frustration trying to understand what he was saying.

“Better.”

“Kaleb, I don’t know what you are saying. This isn’t better than anything.”

“No hurt.” He was starting to look frustrated. So I just nodded and smiled. 

He stepped toward me and again his hand came out to me and touched my hair. I looked up to him and found that there were tears running down my face.

“I don’t think you have very much longer until you are completely changed, Kaleb.”

“No time.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I should have spent more time with you when we had it. I wish we had it now. We should have spent our time more wisely.”

“Okay.”

“I know. It is okay. Should I be doing something for you?”

I was formulating images in my brain where I was going to have to hit my brother in the head with the baseball bat, and I just wasn’t sure that I had the heart for it.

“No hurt, now. Better.”

I sat and watched him for a very long time. My mother’s words were swimming around in my brain and I was trying to imagine how this might be better for Kaleb.

“When I was little, Mom used to tell me that you were special because you were supersensitive to everything in our world. She told me you were so sensitive that people looking at you hurt. That smells and lights and sounds could hurt you without meaning to because of your sensitivity.”

“Sensitive.”

I stopped and wiped my eyes because now that I was thinking about growing up with Kaleb and how my parents had to work to make it seem okay, I was really missing them.

“I guess it was good that Mom and Dad made it feel so normal that you wore headphones and hung out naked in your room and only ate the same six things that I didn’t realize until I went to friend’s houses and saw that their brothers didn’t act like that. It seemed normal until then. Suddenly I knew that something was very different about you. That was scary.”

“Different.”

“So, I guess I just want to know that you aren’t hurting.”

“No hurt. No sensitive. Better.”

“Okay.” I wanted to sit here like this with him for awhile, but was worried that the violent change would come quickly and he would forget that I was his sister.

“Go.”

He seemed suddenly aware of my quandary.

“I know. I’m going. I love you, Kaleb. I always have. I just was sad that you weren’t the kind of big brother that I could look up to and admire. You were so different than other big brothers. I wanted a normal big brother and I got you. So, I’m sorry that I wasn’t a better sister because of that.”

“Good sister.”

I stood up and turned my back to him pretending to be very interested in my messenger bag while I decided where I might go. There was no reason to go back the way that I came. There was no reason to go on.

“Others.”

“What?”

“Others okay.” I thought this over for a moment and decided that Kaleb had seen others.

“Where?” He shuffled to the window and looked out, pointing in the distance. I turned and followed him. Looking past him, I saw that in the distance at the bottom of a valley were some houses.

“Garmen.”

“That’s a town. Are there other survivors there?”

“Others okay.”

“Alright I’m going. Are you coming with me?”

“Go alone.”

“Are you scared?”

“No scared.”

I nodded. I wanted to hug him, but suddenly, I did smell that rotting smell that I knew the flies were attracted to. I went back to the bench and pulled the strap of my bag over my head. I stood for a moment taking a mental inventory and noticed that my bat was missing. I looked around and found it on the floor next to the bench. Reaching down, I picked it up and examined it. It was the same as always. I lifted it over my shoulder and found the loop on my bag that actually held it into place.

“I’m going down to Garmen, Kaleb. You go the opposite way in case they aren’t friendly. Stick to the tracks and I’ll maybe find you again one day.”

I went to the station door and opened it by pulling on the handle hard. I walked out into the sunlight and blinked at the brightness. Looking back, I saw my brother standing behind the window. I thought for a moment that he had a slight smile on his face. He hadn’t done this much before he got ill, though, so I decided that it was really more in my head than anything he’d actually done.

Walking down the steps to the sand below, I turned once more and gave a little wave that I knew would not be returned. I was thinking about my brother during my walk down to the town. I finally decided that he was probably not hurting at all anymore. He must be feeling like he is in heaven. He was no longer so over-sensitized that he had to worry about all the sensory input. It was suddenly gone. I was starting to think that maybe Kaleb was actually exactly where he should be in his life. Or is that his not life?

- P -

KT Jayne lives in a small town in Indiana with her husband and her obsession with zombies that she affectionately calls the land of the not quite right. She has Asperger’s and works with small children on the autism spectrum.

A New Breed

Suzanne Robb

D

octor Brian Jenkins stood horrified at what lay before him.  The Z-137 Virus outbreak happened almost sixteen weeks ago.  During which time, over seventy-five percent of the world’s population had been infected.  He thought they were safe out here in the middle of nowhere. 

The smart ones moved out of the cities as fast as possible.  Loading few items, and stocking up on weapons and food.  Eventually, survivors met with other survivors and built small camps like this one.

In metropolitan areas, the zombies had a field day.  The living handed them keys to the city in a way.  Most people thought zombies were slow and decaying, while others imagined they ran and spit up blood.  They were all wrong.  Almost everything they created in their minds had been childish and misguided.  Infection through a bite or bodily contact with infected fluids remained the only truth. 

Zombies had a thought process, albeit a minimal one.  They were stronger than a normal man when first turned and able to run with average speed.  Successful manipulation of everyday things like keys, door handles, and heavy objects another unpleasant surprise. 

People took books and movies too seriously.  Real zombies were far scarier than anything conjured up by the most twisted of imaginations.

* * *

Doctor Jenkins, Doc to those in the small community, sat in his hut, a temporary set-up for medical needs until they knew they were safe or dead.  He wasn’t a pessimist; more of a realist.  Being a doctor he saw a lot of things.  Working out of a small tent in a survivor camp, he thought he’d seen it all

He hadn’t.

In front of him now, strapped to a cot was a woman who had been infected with the Z-137 Virus an hour ago.  He’d been seeing Brenda Skye on a regular basis for the last month to keep an eye on her pregnancy.  Brenda twitched and screamed.  Doc watched in horror as her eyes changed color. 

“What happened? How’d she get infected?” Doc asked John Skye, her husband.

“Damn zombie snuck up on us by the river, I took care of it.  Get the baby out!” The man’s voice dripped hostility.

Doc stood horrified.  Take out the baby? Didn’t he know it was infected, or at least ran the risk of being infected?  Not only that, but pulling out a baby covered in blood would put the entire camp at risk of contamination.

Something cold on the side of his head brought Doc out of his thoughts.  He turned ever so slightly and saw John holding a gun. 

“You get my baby out of there now.  I’m not asking.” John said.

Doc went to the small basin and washed his hands.  He didn’t know what to do.  Neither did the woman acting as a nurse.  He needed to figure out a way to remove the baby and minimize the amount of fluids released.  Lowering the risk of contamination his priority – for now. 

In a hospital, a Caesarean-section with the correct items it would have been easy.  Safely performing a procedure like that here, with a lack of proper tools and increased chances of infection by the exposure to bodily fluids, became near impossible. 

The cold pressed against his head harder.

“I told you, I’m not asking, Doc.  I’ll do whatever it takes to get our baby.”

Doc heard the desperation in John’s voice, and knew he had no choice but to do as the man demanded.

“Brenda, forgive me,” he whispered.

Doc grabbed his medical bag.  He slipped on a pair of surgical gloves, then a pair of thicker waterproof workmen’s gloves.  The nurse, Abby Nolan, did the same.  He prepared a syringe full of sedatives, hoping the combination might calm Brenda down.  He doubted it would work for long, if at all.  She hadn’t fully changed, but when she did, all bets were off.  He administered the shot and waited.

A few seconds later, Brenda seemed calmer.  Doc, already wearing his gown and leather smock, as did Abby, took a moment to pray to whoever might be listening.  Then he braced himself to do the unthinkable.

“Abby, we need to cut the baby out.” Doc tried to sound calm, but internally he was a mess.

She looked at him with a shocked expression, “but Doc, that would mean-”

“Now, Abby.  We don’t have time to debate this.”

Abby grabbed plastic tarps and laid them out, while the doctor gathered necessary tools.  He could see John losing patience.  Standing next to Brenda, he noticed she watched John’s every move.  Her eyes reached the full milky color, indicating change was imminent.

Grabbing a scalpel, Doc made an incision along the lower part of her abdomen.  Blood oozed out liberally and John took a step back.  Abby handed the retractors to Doc to keep the incision open.  Then she passed him the clamps to slow some of the bleeding.  None of this would save Brenda, but it would limit their own exposure to infected fluids.

Doc reached into Brenda’s open stomach and tore the amniotic sack open.  Her body arched as she screamed.  He grabbed hold of the child, and Abby used scissors to cut the umbilical cord as soon as possible.  The quicker the connection was severed, the better.

He held the baby upside down, cleared the airways, and checked for vitals.  They were minimal.  The baby moved a little, let out a small mewling noise then went silent.  A moment later it moved no more.  The open eyes were milky. 

“How is it? How’s my baby?” John moved in trying to get a closer look.

“John, you need to stay back.”

Doc placed the baby on the tarp in an area with no blood on it.  He performed soft chest compressions, and Abby used the resuscitation bag to force air into little lungs. 

“What happened?  I saw it moving.  I heard it.” John’s voice grew edgy as he paced behind Doc.

Moments later, Doc stopped his efforts, motioning for Abby to do the same.  He stood up and looked at John.  “I’m sorry.  The infection spread too fast.  There was nothing I could do.”

Doc watched as John brushed past him, and went to his baby.  He knelt next to the unmoving body and started breathing for his baby.

“John, you’re risking contamination,” Doc yelled, “you have to stop.”

John didn’t listen.  He started soft chest compressions.  “He’s all I have, Doc.  He has to live.”

John repeated his actions for several minutes.  Then, all of a sudden, movement.  Minimal, but better than nothing.  No cry emanated from the little body which everyone associated with a joyous new birth. 

“A boy.  Brenda wanted a boy.” John reached out to pick up his son, but Doc cautioned him away.

“John, you need to let me run some tests and make sure everything’s okay.”

John didn’t take his eyes off his son.  “Look at him, he’s fine.”

“John, he isn’t breathing well, barely detectable heartbeat, and his reflexes aren’t as strong as they should be.  For God’s sake, he was dead for eight minutes.  What if he’s infected?”

John smiled serenely at Doc.

“Look at what he just went through.  I think it’s understandable for him to be in shock right now.  He isn’t infected, trust me.”

The baby boy let out the smallest of cries, and looked at his father.  Abby held out an old, but clean blanket.  John picked up his son and took him over to the basin rinsing the boy off as best he could.  Then he took the blanket from Abby, and bundled him up. 

* * *

John took his son and moved closer to Brenda as he dare.

The change finally finished.  She snapped her teeth at him and the baby as she tried to get loose.

“Brenda, baby, I know you’re still in there.  We got a boy, just like you wanted.” Then, in a move so fast the Doc wasn’t even sure it happened, John shot Brenda between the eyes. 

Splatter.  Gore.  Mess.

“Dammit John, look what you did.” Doc stammered.

“I promised I would do that for her if it ever came to this.” John put the gun in the waistband of his pants, and walked out of the tent with his new baby boy.

* * *

“Doc, we can’t let him just leave with the baby.  This has never happened before.  We have no idea what it is.”

“Abby, if we try and tell John his baby is anything but a healthy little boy, he’ll shoot us.  The best we can do is keep an eye on things and warn the others.  Only time will tell if we’ve just damned us all.”

“Maybe he should leave,” Abby said.  “No one’s going to want that thing near them.”

“Perhaps, but it isn’t our decision to make.” Doc sighed.

* * *

The baby, Dylan, seemed harmless enough at first glance.  However, noticeable differences existed.  Dylan had an incredibly slow heart rate and his breathing was almost non-existent.  His skin had a waxy pale quality to it and dark splotches covered his body.

Doc checked on him as often as John allowed.  He took blood samples, which was difficult since Dylan’s heart didn’t pump blood like others.  The slow rate caused blood to pool or congeal in areas of his body while he slept.  Doc had to make an incision then dig around with a cotton swab to collect the dark syrupy blood.

John could never watch, but Dylan didn’t cry.  After six months, John stopped all blood tests.  Dylan didn’t heal well, if at all.  He hated that, at such a young age, his son already had staples and stitches keeping him together like some sort of rag doll.  And they might be there for the rest of his son’s life.

As Dylan grew, more differences appeared.  Most noticeably in his diet.  He rejected all food except raw meat, a fact John kept to himself.  He would hunt small animals like rabbits and squirrels, hand feeding Dylan as a baby then letting Dylan feed himself as he got older. 

This ritual feeding had to be done out of the range of prying eyes.  If the other members of the camp knew Dylan needed fresh meat to survive, John knew they would kill his son.  He hoped the need to protect his son from the camp would never arise.

* * *

Dylan perched in the oak tree.  He sat in the upper part with a view of all entry points, as well as the entire central camp.  He’d lived here for the past seventeen years.

He grew to be strong and tall with short blond hair.  His eyes a whitish blue much like the zombies, and no amount of sunlight would darken his pale skin.  He’d tried. 

Dylan wanted to fit in.  Being the camp outcast took a toll on both him and his father.   

He didn’t move much, instead choosing to stay in one place for hours at a time watching the others.  They didn’t care or even notice his absence.

He knew the majority of people in the camp found his actions creepy.  A few managed to ignore him entirely.  Others made snide comments about him until he left.  As a result he learned to hone his observation skills over the years.  He absorbed every word they said, watched their movements, and mimicked basic skills. 

Almost everything he knew, aside from what his father taught him, came from observation.  Dylan could read body language, anticipate gestures, and, one skill he wished he didn’t have, smell fear.  From an early age, he knew people were terrified when he was around.   

He could understand why in a way.  He wasn’t normal.  He knew since the day he’d been born.  Then, one day, a group of zombies showed up, Dylan, only ten at the time, sprang into action.  His lithe, agile body knew instinctually what to do to stop the invaders. 

Dylan simply tore the head off the first zombie.  He ignored the blood and gore that sprayed onto him and picked up a rock, throwing it with so much force it embedded itself in the back of one of the zombies.  The skull caved in just before the zombie attacked a camp member.  He ran with such speed towards another zombie he literally caused it to fall apart on impact.

Dylan appeared unstoppable when it came to fighting them off.  And he wasn’t affected by the virus.  He had no need to hold back or be careful when he fought.  The camp members watched in amazement as he moved with a speed they’d never seen and fought with deadly accuracy.  None noticed the zombies didn’t chase after Dylan, except his father.

Seven years ago, he gained the right to stay and protect the camp members, but not much else.  They realized he was the best weapon they had to fight off the zombies so they tolerated him.  Respect was not love, nor friendship -- things Dylan missed out on.

Dylan learned to live with no friends except his father and Doc.  He also realized no one would ever love him except his father.  He would never grow old with someone, have kids, or anything normal people took for granted.  As far as the others were concerned, Dylan was a new breed of zombie.  One they wished would go away until they needed saving.

Dylan never spoke and knew Doc got frustrated at his inability to find a physical cause as to why.  Dylan would sit outside the tent and listen as his father and Doc talked about him.  His father would mention time and again that Dylan barely cried as a baby.  He would argue it was due to his slower breathing rate, he just didn’t get enough air to form words.  Doc argued his concerns were developmental issues and wanted to run I.Q. tests.  His father never allowed them. 

Dylan looked over the camp and watched as a couple of kids played together.  He wondered what it would be like to have a friend.  Doc liked him well enough, but saw him as a medical mystery.  The other kids got to play and have birthday parties.  The concept of friendship eluded Dylan because he terrified every person in camp.  Any new members either warned off or scared away by one look at him.

He never had a chance, considering the circumstances of his birth.  Dylan remembered when he tried playing with the other kids.  Mothers and fathers came running out, yelling at Dylan, calling him a devil, an abomination, accusing him of trying to infect their children.  Eventually, his father would come to the rescue and take Dylan back to their tent, telling him not to listen to other people.  They didn’t understand how special Dylan really was. 

When Dylan got older, he’d hoped people changed, or at least willing to try and accept him since he could protect them.  He remembered the day he went to sit at a table where other people ate dinner.  In unison they all stood up and left, food uneaten.  Dylan knew then he would never be accepted by the camp.  He was twelve years old. 

From his perch in the tree, Dylan made an angry face at the memory.  They thought nothing could hurt him, but they were wrong.  Every action done in order to avoid being near him or touching him hurt.  Every time someone gave him a dirty look, made a comment about how disgusting he looked, or how he was an aberration hurt.  Dylan let his head fall back tired of hurting.   

Dylan thought back to the first attack he’d helped them fight.  Afterwards he sat in the medical tent and listened to Doc tell him stories as he stapled his wounds.

He heard about the day the virus was released and turned the world upside down.  A small explosion in a research facility and a storm over head with massive winds almost destroyed mankind.

Dylan listened as Doc talked of the dead rising and eating human flesh.  He spoke of people fleeing from cities long forgotten and now dominated by the dead.  “No hiding from them.  They could smell you,” Doc had said.  If people wanted to survive, leaving was their only option.  Groups of survivors headed into the mountains, and hoped every day they would not be found. 

Dylan thought about it, and it made sense to him.  Coming all the way out into the mountains or countryside for meat didn’t seem logical.  Though he knew the zombies would run out of food in the cities in time.  He knew they would come.  Eventually.

“All right son, you’re fixed up for now.  Keep the bandages on the wounds until they stop oozing, and, I’ll be back in a couple of days to check on everything okay?” Doc said in a bright voice.

Dylan nodded, thinking about the day the zombies would come, and what he would do.

In his perch Dylan closed his eyes and thought back to the first time his father explained how he was different.  At three years old Dylan fell down.  A simple scraped knee, but his father cleaned it out cautiously.  He made sure to place anything bloodied in a metal basin.

Dylan tapped his father on the shoulder and tilted his head, his way of communicating a question.

“Hey son, it’s just a scratch you’ll be fine.  Just keep these bandages on, okay?”

Dylan nodded, but tilted his head again.  He pointed to the basin and other things his father brought out -- disinfectant spray, bleach, antibacterial wash. 

With a sigh his father looked down.  “Dylan, you’re not like other kids.  You’re special, but there’s something in your blood that’s dangerous.  We need to be careful okay?”

Dylan pointed to several sets of sutures on his arm and thigh.  He tilted his head again.

“You’re in an inquisitive mood today, aren’t you? That’s a good thing.  Those sutures are from when you hurt yourself.  Your body doesn’t heal itself like other people.  Doc needs to staple, or sew you up.  Nothing to be scared of.  Okay?”

Dylan nodded and went outside to hide in the bushes behind their tent.  He heard Doc approaching, and didn’t want to be poked and prodded anymore today.

Dylan got into position so he could listen to his father talk with Doc.  He heard his father mention how he worried Dylan healed slowly. 

Doc interrupted saying other more important things existed to worry about, like the danger to the rest of the camp members.  If so much as a single drop of fluid fell from one of Dylan’s wounds, it would infect anyone who came into contact with it. 

Dylan listened to Doc explain the reason he couldn’t heal was because of the virus in his body.  The virus meant to suffocate living cells and affect all organs except the cerebellum.  Zombies could maintain their basic motor skills but have no viable thought process.

“Doc, that’s great and all, but you tell me that under the microscope Dylan’s tissue is necrotic, as in dead, or at least ninety percent of it is.  If that’s true, then how does he grow?” John asked impatiently.

Doc took his time to answer. 

“I think it has to do with his diet,” he said carefully, “I know he has to eat flesh to survive.”

Dylan heard furniture being knocked over.  “What the hell are you talking about?”

Doc maintained a soothing voice.  “No need to get upset John.  I haven’t told anyone.  When you first took Dylan home, I thought perhaps he died and you couldn’t let go.  That was the only reason I could come up with as to why you didn’t get formula for him.” Doc sighed.  “Then, as he started to grow and develop more physical reactions, it occurred to me he had to be eating something.  I saw you go out one night and come back later with a small animal.  I knew then.”

“Doc, if the others knew…,” John’s voice pleaded, Dylan didn’t know how to describe how he felt hearing his father like that.

“I have no intention of telling them, but I think that’s the reason he’s able to grow.  Most of his internal functions are shut down, but his body still allocates nutrients where they need to go.  I’ve never studied a live zombie, let alone a hybrid of some sort.  This might be normal, or it might just be how Dylan is.  Either way he should continue to grow like any normal child.”

“Thanks, Doc.  I just worry.” Dylan heard relief flood through his father’s voice.

“No problem, just make sure you keep me in the loop.  I’m trying to help you.  I’m not the enemy,” Doc had said.

Dylan sat there a long time.  He thought about his tissue, skin, whatever encased his body.  Doc had said ninety percent dead or necrotic.  He thought more about what he knew.  His heart beat less than five times a minute and he took an average of three breaths during that time.  His lack of color made him look like a walking corpse.  He could pass for dead.  No wonder the camp feared him. 

He shouldn’t be alive, but somehow he was.  His father told him the love he and his mother had for him kept him alive.  Dylan thought it made a nice story, but didn’t believe it.  His father’s version was much better than the ugly, freakish truth behind his birth.  

He didn’t have an active immune system, but it didn’t matter.  Dead things didn’t get sick.  Dylan knew by all counts he should be classified as a zombie, except for the fact he had brain function.  Not just his cerebellum, but the right and left lobes as well as his frontal. 

He had the ability to learn and understand, and could control basic urges with the help of his father.  More importantly, Dylan displayed empathy.  He had emotions.  Something the zombies seemed incapable of or so he’d been told.

Growing up Dylan got hugs and kisses from his father.  He acted as if Dylan was like any other kid in camp.  Because of his father Dylan developed a sense of empathy.  Dylan hadn’t turned into a monster because of his father’s love and compassion. 

Deep down, he knew a monster hid inside of him.  He kept it at bay with the help of his father, and his own self-control.  He had to.  What happened when he was younger was unacceptable. 

Dylan thought back to the day an urge took him over.  He needed flesh so badly he went to bite his father.

Perhaps on some level, his father expected it.  John reacted faster than Dylan thought possible, and he knew his father had prepared for this day.  In three seconds Dylan was on his back.  A very angry father looked down at him.

Dylan would never forget the conversation that day.  His father tied him up and left the tent.  He returned an hour or so later with a rabbit.  Dylan drooled at the site of the tiny bloody corpse.  His father cut the animal into small bite size pieces and fed them to his son as he spoke.

“Dylan, I love you.  I’ll do everything I can to protect you, but you can’t go around letting yourself get hungry.  You risk attacking someone in the camp.  I’ve been hunting for you since you were a baby.” He took a deep breath as he fed Dylan the remains of the rabbit.  “It’s time you learn to hunt on your own.  That way you won’t have another incident like today.”

Dylan nodded, his control returned as his body absorbed the fresh meat.  His father took him hunting for the first time the next day.  He smiled at the memory.  Since then he’d been able to catch food, and eat whenever he felt the urge seize him.  Since then, there had been no incidents.

Night settled on the camp and Dylan thought of his father.  A loner, an outcast, and friendless.  Like him.  John supported his son, and endured the isolation Dylan’s existence caused.         

His father worried about him.  Dylan heard him pacing the tent at night or yelling out in his sleep for people to stay away.  During the day, his father acted as if nothing were wrong, like he and Dylan led a normal life. 

As a child, Dylan played catch, baseball, even football with his father, but he knew the protective gear he wore was not to avoid injury.  He had to wear it so none of his bodily fluids could contaminate anyone.  Those reminders took the fun out of it.

Dylan preferred the time they spent fishing, hunting, or just sitting around doing nothing.  During those times his differences were less obvious and he really did feel normal.   

The best times happened when his father would talk about his mom, though they were few and far between.  Dylan only knew she made his father promise to bring their baby into the world no matter what.  Their baby would be special she had said.  His father had kept his promise, fulfilling her last request. 

When his father spoke about the world before the virus outbreak, Dylan felt guilty.  He saw himself as a constant reminder.  Not just of what his father lost, but also of his life in a world without zombies. 

Dylan opened his eyes when he heard movement in the brush below him.  He looked down and saw his father heading into the forest.  He glanced towards the center of the camp where several people sat to eat. 

They spoke freely, having fun amongst themselves.  Dylan laughed to himself.  They thought they knew everything.  The whole camp assumed he didn’t speak because he wasn’t smart enough to.  They were wrong of course, though he didn’t waste his time trying to correct them. 

He spoke when he was alone in the forest, but the sounds came out garbled and strange.  He’d been trying for years to speak properly, but mastered only a few basic words.  His embarrassment over how he sounded prevented him from talking, even to his father.  Camp people already had so many things to use against him.  He didn’t want to give them anything more to criticize.

Unfortunately, as a result of his refusal to speak, the others thought of Dylan as slow and incapable of understanding human speech.  They discussed him as if he weren’t there, as if he was simply some invisible thing they had to live with because he could protect them. 

Dylan heard it all.  He might be a great weapon, but they worried about the day he would turn on them.  They had no idea he understood everything.  They had no idea he’d been aware, and alert since the moment he felt Doc rip him out of his mother’s stomach. 

They had no idea how much their words hurt him.  He constantly heard about how gross his wounds were, or how someone had come across something that might be ooze, and John should really do something about that, or people could get infected.  He looked at the camp.  This place supposed to be his home, and he hated it.

He questioned where he belonged, but he didn’t belong anywhere.  He wasn’t supposed to exist.  His birth had been a total anomaly, a baby forced into existence by his father to fulfill a dying woman’s wish.  He wasn’t meant to be.  He should be dead. 

Dylan thought about leaving the camp, about taking off in the middle of the night and never coming back.  He couldn’t do it to his father though.  If an attack happened and something happened to him because he wasn’t there, he’d never be able to live with the guilt.  Dylan tried to come up with some sort of solution, but always seemed to hit a wall. 

More movement, and he saw his father return.  Dylan climbed down the tree and went into the tent.  He laid down on the cot and waited, smelling the fresh meat.  His mouth watered.

“Dylan, dinner’s ready.” His father walked into their small hut and with a triumphant look on his face held up a rabbit.

Dylan sat up and took the rabbit with a nod of appreciation.  He sank his teeth into its neck.  Eyes rolled back in satisfaction as warm blood flowed down his throat.  His father walked over to a small sterno kit and made himself a bowl of soup. 

Dylan finished then watched his father.  He wanted to be able to sit at the table with him and have a normal family meal.  He wanted to be a normal son, not some zombie thing that oozed and leaked all over the place.  Most of all, he wanted his father to be proud of him.  He didn’t want all the sacrifices and name calling his father suffered through to be for nothing.

Screams and gunshots snatched Dylan out of his musings.  He ran out of the tent, his father close on his heels.  People covered in blood ran around screaming.  A woman clutching a gaping hole on her neck squirting blood ran past Dylan.  The camp was under attack.  From the looks of it, they were in trouble.  Dylan saw at least two dozen zombies.  He had no idea where they all came from, but knew they needed to die.

A scream to his left caught his attention; it was Abby the aide who helped deliver him.

“Oh God, he’s become one of them.  He’s finally turned.” she pointed at him.

Dylan looked around then felt a drop of blood hit his chest.  He looked at his father and shook his head.  He tried to say something.

“Nuh!”

His father looked at him in shock, as did Abby.

His father came to his defense.  “Abby, it’s not what you think.  He isn’t one of them I swear.”

Too late.  In the chaos, people turned on Dylan.  “He led the zombies here,” yelled one. “He brought death to our door,” hollered another. 

John tried to grab him and run, but Dylan refused.

“Need ma hulp.” Dylan saw the shock in his father’s face from hearing him speak. 

“You know they think you’re against them now? You’re going to have to watch your back.  I’ll try as best I can, but you need to be careful.  If something happens to me, you run.  You get out of here.  Those zombies will leave you alone.” His father looked at him with such love. 

He saw a son, not a thing.

“Kay.” Dylan hugged his father then turned into the fray.

Dylan fought the zombies while dodging attacks from the occasional camp member.  He tore off heads, ripped zombies limb from limb, and threw bodies so hard he impaled them on branches.  He moved with reflexes no one had seen before.  The fight long and hard, but the small camp tasted victory in the end.

Dylan stopped moving when the last zombie had been killed.  In the fight he lost track of his father.  He scanned the camp and found him close to their little tent -- bitten.  He sat next to him and watched the twitching begin.  He felt something inside of him hurting.  His heart. 

“Mm soreee.” His father was about to turn, Dylan could sense it. 

He reached out, took his father’s gun, and shot him in the head.

Dylan looked around the camp.  Others were busy checking each other over for signs of bites or contamination.  Doc stood in the middle of it all, treating those who’d been injured.  Looking down at his father, Dylan knew it was time to go.  The others would turn on him as soon as things calmed down. 

Fear outweighed their need.  They would rather risk annihilation in the next attack then tolerate Dylan for one more day.  With his father no longer there, Dylan had no reason to stay. 

They thought he was one of them, one of the zombies.  They thought he was death personified.  He looked at the body of his father, wondering if they might be right.  His mother died bringing him into this world.  His father lay dead in front of him because Dylan failed to save him.

He stood slowly and left the camp.  He had no idea where he would go.  Perhaps he would stay nearby and keep watch over them, but realized they didn’t deserve it.  He thought about moving around, looking for other survivors to help.     

Then he considered the cities taken over by the dead and wondered if there might be others like him.  He decided it was worth a shot.  There had to be a place that would accept him, somewhere he would fit in. 

In a city of the dead, he would no longer be an outcast.  His father taught him about humanity.  The time came for him to learn about the other part of his lineage.  It was time to learn about zombies. 

- P -

Suzanne Robb has stories in current and upcoming anthologies with Coscom Entertainment, Pill Hill Press, Wicked East Press, Rhymefire, eBooks, Static Movement, Library of the Living Dead Press, Living Dead Press, Library of Fantasy, Norgus Press, Panic Press, and hidden Thoughts Press.  In her free time she reads, watches movies, plays with her dog, and enjoys chocolate and Legos. For more check out Ramblings of an Anxiety Ridden Mind.

Zombie Night

A Heartwarming Tale of Family and Food

R.J. Reising

A

lright, I’ll admit it. Before the events of 7/16, as they call it now, I absolutely loved zombies. After all, they were the last of the unbastardized monsters. Yeah, there was a time when vampires were pretty badass. That was before Interview with a Vampire turned them into the sexual fantasies of middle aged housewives. Now, look at the poor bastards on True Blood.

Werewolves have it almost as bad. Not long ago, there was a certain allure to having that thin veil between a man and his inner animalistic instincts. Now, they’re eye candy for pumas.  They’re Native American teenagers with impossibly chiseled abs.

But you never had to deal with this crap with zombies, because they were what a monster was supposed to be – mindless killers with a hunger for human flesh. No dark histories or tortured existences. No emo kids with perfect hair. No kinky sex. No pedophilia, and yes I’m looking at you, Anne Rice. No synthetic blood and white trash accents. And absolutely no sparkling.

And that’s why I loved them. I read the books and watched the movies. I loved The Walking Dead, both the series of graphic novels and the TV show. Sure I loved the Romero movies, but who doesn’t. But better yet, I read and watched the shit that nobody had even heard of – books like We Will Bury You and movies like The Zombie Diaries.

And as I’d devour these books and movies, I’d fantasize about what would be the perfect place to be during a real zombie apocalypse. I used to think a whore house would be it. True, I don’t actually know where to find a whore house, so the whole hypothetical situation is beyond ridiculous. And besides, let’s say you survive the apocalypse. It’s going to be pretty awkward telling people where you were after the fact. And for that same reason, I eliminated strip clubs as well.

My second thought was always the gym. Yeah, I mean, I don’t actually go to the gym because I can see the bigger guys judging me when I get tired out after four repetitions of forty pound weights. But, still, there probably wouldn’t be a better place to be, with all of those guys sporting six packs and biceps the size of my Honda Fit. And, I mean that totally from a safety standpoint, since I’m not into dudes. But judging from the commercials I see on TV, those dudes all look like they stepped out of a DC Comic book, so my guess is that they could kill the walking dead with their bare hands.

But my ultimate fantasy would be a movie theater. There is no place on earth better than local Cineplex. As long as the electric grid stays up, you could watch back-to-back-to-back features, eating your weight in buttered popcorn and Swedish Fish. And there surely would be some weepy romance that would have all the women in a fluster, looking for someone with which to have some “last night on earth” sex. Nicholas Sparks was crapping out one of those movies every other month it seemed, so odds were in my favor.

But no, when that moment actually came, I was at my great-aunt’s wake. Oh, you don’t see the big deal in that?  Then let me set the scene for you. Whatever happened that night, whether it was a comet, voodoo spell, or something from God himself, we all can pretty much agree on some major details. At sunset on July 16, every corpse in decent shape crawled, slid, or walked out its resting place and unleashed a total shitstorm on society. With that in mind, what could be more awful than spending the night in a building that contained no fewer than three fresh, spry corpses, including my great-aunt?  How about spending the night in a building containing three corpses, located adjacent to the largest cemetery on the west side?  Now, add into that the fact that you are surrounded by family, who you know can make a turd sandwich out of just about anything.

I didn’t really want to be there, obviously. I mean, who really does. But, even worse, I can’t say I really knew the deceased. But this is what the Da Luca family does. My grandfather was the youngest of, like, forty-eight kids. Yeah, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but not by much. Safe to say, there were a shit ton of them. I mean, the guy had at least two dozen nephews and nieces who were older than him.  I’m sure it was a lot of fun for him back then to have a large family, that wasn’t the case now. Now, it just means that we’re part of the frequent shopper program at the local funeral home.

It started about ten years back with maybe one funeral per season. By five years ago, we were up to one every other month. But these past two years have been absolutely ridiculous. I’ve given up on having a social life since at least every few weeks, my plans are preempted by another heart attack or cancer. And, you know, I keep telling myself to start skipping them. Maybe I’ll set some kind of ground rule. If I can’t name at least thirty percent of their children or spouse, then I shouldn’t have to go. But my mother can lay down a guilt trip like no other. Soon as I skip one, I know I’m going to get the call, “Where were you the other night?  Uncle Jack was asking about you. I didn’t know what to tell him. I mean, everyone else was there. It was kind of embarrassing, to tell you the truth.”  Yeah, it totally wasn’t worth it.

I came straight over after work. In theory, early arrivals translated into early departures. In practice, unfortunately, it never quite worked out that way. There were only a few dozen or so people when I got there. My mother, some uncles and aunts, a few cousins, several times removed. The place wouldn’t get crowded, usually, until at least 8pm. Then, by 10pm, we’d be racking up the fire code violations.

I bowed my head and feigned my respect for the deceased before heading over to the buffet line. Yeah, I know, it probably seems weird to have food at a funeral home, but you have to remember that we don’t celebrate the normal holidays like Christmas or Thanksgiving. After eight or ten funerals before the holiday season, it was hard to associate these people with anything festive, so we just quit celebrating family holidays altogether. And to make up for that, we just started having pot-luck dinners at the funeral, and eventually everyone just sort of took it for granted.

I took my place in back of my mother, who said in her thick New Jersey accent, “Marco, you’re certainly here early.”

“Yeah, I thought I’d come early and make sure I saw everyone.”

“That’s so very thoughtful of you.”

I quickly scanned the table, looking for the telltale red-colored spoon. There it was, sitting in the untouched pan of lasagna. With cheese oozing between chunks of ripe tomatoes, and the sweet smell of garlic overcoming everything around it, this was truly the siren’s song of pasta dishes. For underneath the layers of cheese and sauce, lied a culinary landmine of botulism and dysentery.  Despite the fact that everything in this dish was designed to lure you in, every family member knew to beware the product of Typhoid Marie’s kitchen.

You see, my Aunt Marie was possibly the most disgusting woman on earth. A quick cotton swab of her kitchen counter could find samples of E. Coli, Salmonella, at least a half dozen known stomach parasites, and one parasite thought previously to be extinct. Over time, Marie’s body had become tolerant to most pathogens, and therefore remained unaffected by her own dinner. Two of my late uncles unfortunately did not. But none of us had the heart to tell her, so we continued with the charade. My mother would mark Aunt Marie’s dish with the special red spoon, and the rest of us would know to avoid it. Some of the braver souls would take the ruse one step further by taking a portion and discreetly throwing it away at first opportunity. But most of us would avoid, so as not to risk contaminating our other foods.

I finished loading my plate and tried to find a quiet, solitary place to eat. Before I could do so, however, I heard my Uncle Ricky’s voice, “Marco, what have you been up to?”

I’m not sure if it was seeing too many Perry Mason episodes when he was younger or if it was being unemployed for the duration of the O.J. Simpson trial, but Uncle Ricky was the closest this family had to attorney. Every conversation with him quickly took a downward spiral towards cross-examination, but with no judge to stop him from leading, badgering or pretty much everything else people object to in court.

Today, he looked in a foul mood, even for him, so I immediately began looking for an exit. But evidently it was the perfect location for an ambush, as a plant, the buffet line, and my uncle’s increasingly fat body sealed off all potential evacuation routes. So, I turned and faced my fate like a man.  “Not much, Uncle Ricky. How about you?”

It was a feeble attempt at landing a counterpunch; one that he quickly blocked. He only asked questions, and ignored questions posed by others. For when it came to dialogue, Uncle Ricky was a prize fighter. All you could hope for is to stand upright and pray for the bell.

“I find it hard to believe you’ve been up to ‘not much,’” he said, with just a tinge of mockery in those last two words.

“Well, just work and hanging out,” I guess.

“’Just work,’ you say. Not sounding too excited about it, are you?”

“No, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“So, you still love your job, then?”

“No, I don’t love my job, obviously. I mean, work is tolerable, I guess. But it’s still work.”

“What would you rather do?”

“I don’t know. Travel overseas or something. Hell, I don’t know.”  I was now just blurting out words. I was against the ropes, and it was my only defense against his subtle jabs to the body. And he knew it. He smelled blood in the water, and it was only a matter of time before he let go of the big haymaker and knocked me out cold.

“So, Marco has the travel bug. What is it about this country you don’t like?”

“I’m not saying I don’t like this country.”

“Well, you said you want to travel overseas, right.”

“Yeah,” I said, hoping brevity would help keep me upright.

“And did you have any specific place in mind?”

“No.”

“So, you want to leave, but you don’t have any clue where you’re going?  Sounds to me that you’re saying you want to go anywhere but here.”

“No. Yeah. Maybe?”

Eight…nine…ten, and he’s out. Marco has gone down to defeat by TKO in just a matter of seconds. What an ugly fight, ladies and gentlemen.

As I picked myself off the mat, there were several more dozen family members doing the usual meet and greet. There was Tommy and his three young hellions, the oldest of which was looking more and more like Tommy’s Best Man every day.   My cousin Gina was there with her “friend,” Linda.  The two had been inseparable for almost a decade, yet nobody in the family acknowledged that they might be a couple. Instead, Gina’s mother would continually try to set her up on dates with the “nice young men” who would occasionally stop by library where she worked.

The funeral director was nervously surveying the growing crowd and looking at his watch, realizing that it would be at least another six hours before he could lock up, vacuum manicotti off the carpet as best he could, and head home before the same scene would be repeated next month. He then started staring at my ninety-six-year-old great uncle, and I imagined that he was guessing as to who the next centerpiece would be for this regular meeting.

I casually looked back and forth for a few minutes, enjoying my last couple meatballs, before settling on my cousin, Topher. He was six-months my younger, and our close proximity in age formed the cornerstone of a great friendship when we were younger. However, as life would have it, we suddenly woke up at eighteen or twenty, and figured out that our age was about the last thing that we shared in common. Since then, as I understood, Topher had primarily worked fast food jobs, earning just enough money to pay for pot, a couple of music festivals per year, and a week’s worth of camping in the woods.

He was trapped in the front between two flower bouquets, my dead great-aunt, and Uncle Ricky, who was obviously grilling him over some random piece of minutiae. From across the room, I could see the desperation on Topher’s face. He pleaded to a cavalry that would never come.  Topher knew he had two options – stand and fight or flee. He chose the latter. With an evade and run technique worthy of a Viet Cong guerilla, Topher shot a final reply over his left shoulder while ducking between a wicker basket and an oversized “Great-Grandma” wreath, and sprinted for the nearest bathroom, not caring to look to confirm whether it was the men’s or women’s.

Uncle Ricky stood there for a minute, biting his lip, and scanning the room for his next victim. Like a hungry cheetah, Uncle Ricky looked for the obvious prey – a youth with weak constitution, or perhaps a loner separated from the pack. However, the predator would never make his attack. As the visitation ended its second hour, all of us, including Uncle Ricky, had never imagined what would come next.

For the rest of our lives, we will talk about what we remember about the moment the last sliver of sun disappeared over the horizon. Some talk about a strange light coming from above. Others remember hearing a strange unearthly scream rising from the ground.  But not the Da Luca family. Our lasting memory will always be the surreal sight of our late Great-Aunt Camille DeStefano bounding out of her coffin in one leap, unhinging her jaw, and clamping down on Uncle Ricky’s right shoulder.

Reflexes took over from there, as Uncle Ricky doubled over and swung his aunt over his shoulder to the floor in front of him. Having her dentures still imbedded in Uncle Ricky’s shoulder,  Camille’s gums snapped at him and he held her off with the wreath’s easel. As half of us stared at the scene in front of us, the other half stared at the funeral director, pleading for explanation. “Fuck me,” he said. “I know that bitch is dead.”

Topher was the first to speak. “Is she like a zombie or something?”

The choir of relatives answered him. “Be serious, Topher.” “There’s no such thing.”  “Are you high?”

“Well, she seems awful bitey.”

“She’s probably hungry. She hasn’t eaten in days.”

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh, Blaghhhhhh,” Camille offered.

As the closest person to his age, Topher looked to me for support. I immediately took the cue, “I’m siding with Topher on this one. That definitely looks like a zombie.”

“But how do we know for sure?” asked my mother.

Immediately, her answer came in the form of a scream as two more corpses entered behind us, grabbed the parish priest, and dragged him back to the private room from which they evidently came.

“I know that tall asshole was dead,” yelled the funeral director. “Dude slipped and fell in front of an oncoming bulldozer, up at the new Target they’re building.”

“Should we save the priest?” asked my mother.

“Nah,” her sister answered. “He was under investigation, anyway.”  To this, everyone shrugged their shoulders while two family members dragged a couch over in front of the door to prevent their reentry.

“What is happening here?” my mother asked.

“Like Topher said, it looks like we have a zombie situation here.”

“But, there are no such things, are there?”

“Well, I wouldn’t think so. But there are three dead people in here, trying to eat us. I think we can say with pretty good authority, that zombies are real. I know that none of us actually believe in zombies, but these are obviously mother fucking zombies.”

“Guys, I’m not feeling too well,” Uncle Ricky yelled out. “Can someone give me a hand here?”

The easel was quickly grabbed by my Gina and Linda. Camille’s ninety pound frame was no match for the lesbian tag team.

A sweaty, pale Uncle Ricky took a seat and tried to regain his energy. He still had not removed my great-aunt’s dentures from his shoulder. Everyone one else was in a panic, trying to decide whether to flee and let the three zombies have their run of the place or to take responsibility for the matter and extinguish the threat. Someone needed to take charge, that part was obvious. And since I was the resident zombie pop culture expert, I guessed that I was probably the most qualified to do so.

With Camille growling in the background, I addressed my family, “Alright everyone, the first thing we have to do is see if this is wide-spread or isolated to just this building.”

“I have a radio in the back,” the funeral director offered.

“Back where the priest is being devoured by two dead guys, right?”

“Shit, that’s not going to work, is it.”

“Alright, everyone check their phones.”

The combination of bad phones, thick walls, and geriatric users, resulted in only a mass of people either staring in bewilderment at their mobile phones or holding them up to the heavens hoping to catch some sense of a signal.

“Okay, how about this?  Topher, open the door and tell me what you see.”

Topher carefully opened the door and stuck his head outside. From the other side, all we heard were unearthly screeches and moans. He quickly slammed the door and locked it.

“Nope, not just us.” He said, casually.

“How many were there?”

“I don’t know, twenty-five or fifty.”

“That’s a huge disparity.”

“I didn’t have time to count, you know.”

“But, fifty is twice as many as twenty-five. I mean, by quick glance, you should be able to get a little more accurate than that.”

“Well, sorry, dude.”

“Okay, so we have twenty-five or fifty zombies outside, three inside, and Uncle Ricky possibly turning into one any minute.”

“I’m not a zombie,” Uncle Ricky said in a high pitched voice.

“You were bit by a zombie and now you look like shit. It’s following the pattern.”

The crowd started talking at once. “What’s he talking about?”  “Who’s a zombie?”  “Can you speak up?”

“Who here has watched Dawn of the Dead?”  Nobody raised their hand.

“28 Days Later?”  Still no response.

“Shaun of the Dead, Walking Dead, any of these sound familiar?”

Uncle Tom responded, “I have Walking Dead on my DVR.”

“Did you watch it?”

“No, but I plan to.”

“Everyone has Walking Dead on their DVR, but nobody has watched it yet. That’s why it got screwed over at the Emmys.”

I searched my mind for any reference they might understand. Finally it hit me. “How about Zombieland?” I asked.

“Yeah, that has Woody Harrelson and the kid from Juno,” Topher offered.

“No, that’s Michael Cera. Zombieland has the kid from the Facebook movie.”

“I think that’s the same kid. He must be a pretty good actor, because he looks completely different in those two movies.”

“That’s because it’s two different actors.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, very sure.”  I said, hoping to end the interruption. I continued, “Anyway, traditionally, zombies bite normal people, who then get extremely sick, end up dying, and then rise up as zombies themselves.”

Uncle Ricky immediately ran into the bathroom. From outside the door, we could hear the sound of projectile vomiting.

“So, how you get rid of a zombie?” my mother asked.

“In some mythologies, you do it with a blunt blow to the head or by removing the heart. One of the most common methods is to cut the head completely off.”

From behind me, I heard a thud and the sudden stop of Camille’s growls. As I turned around, all I saw was Gina standing there with an ax I assumed she had pried from the emergency fire box on the wall. Next to her was Camille’s headless body. “Looks to be the case here as well,” I said.

“Should we kill Uncle Ricky, too?” Topher asked.

“I don’t know. If this is a traditional zombie case, we should go ahead and take care of him before he turns. But it could be something like, Night of the Comet, and then zombie-ism isn’t contagious.”

“How do we know which it is?”

“It’s hard to say. Obviously, nothing bit Aunt Camille to turn her, but Uncle Ricky looks like he’s going to die any moment and he just had a small bite.”

“I can still hear you,” Uncle Ricky yelled between pukes.

“Come out here and let’s take a look at you.”

Uncle Ricky returned from the bathroom, white as a ghost. Sweat dropped off his nose while a bit of vomit rolled down his chin.

“Alright, do we have any doctors here?”  The faces were blank.

“How about a nurse?”   Nothing.

“An orderly, a paramedic, dental hygienist, anything?  My God, does anyone in this family have any ambition whatsoever?”  Everyone shrugged their shoulders.

“Okay, forget medical diagnosis.” I surrendered. “How about rope?  Does anyone have anything to tie up Uncle Ricky while we try to decide what to do with him?”

The funeral director soon produced a thick rope from a closet. Along with Gina, they quickly tied a frantic Uncle Ricky to a chair.

“What causes zombies?” Topher asked.

“It’s hard to say. Usually a virus or something. They usually don’t go into it too much, because it’d be kind of boring and hard to fit in a two hour movie.”

“And what finally gets rid of them all?”

“It’s usually just some deus ex machina. The heroes of the story make tough moral decisions, fight some zombies, and when all is lost, something comes in and saves them all. It’s kind of lame, but how else are you going to save a small group of protagonists from a zombie apocalypse.”

“Alright, let’s take a vote. Whoever’s in favor of killing Uncle Ricky, raise your hand.”  A little more than half of the room raised their hands.

“Objection,” Uncle Ricky yelled.

“On what grounds?”

“On the grounds that this shouldn’t be a simple majority,” he explained. “If this was a real trial, we’d have to reach a unanimous decision.”

“There are a hundred people here. We’re not going to do unanimous.”

“How about two-thirds?”

“Okay, we’ll do two-thirds.”

“Who here favors killing Uncle Ricky before he turns into a zombie?”  After what I assume was the reassurance of knowing that others would share in their guilt, at least a dozen more family members, including my mother, voted in favor of execution. The vote was too close to call, so we took to counting hands.

“Hold on one second,” Gina interrupted. “This is Uncle Ricky, after all. Even if he wasn’t bit by a zombie, many in this room would be voting in favor of his death.”

“Okay, people, be honest here,” I said, facing the family. “Who here wants to kill Ricky just because he’s kind of an asshole.”  Almost the same number of hands went up again.

“Let’s compromise,” Gina reasoned. “Let’s just keep an eye on him. If he turns, then we can kill him.”

“But what if he bites us first?” someone yelled from the back.

“I think Gina’s right,” I replied. “No one really knows if people can be turned into zombies by being bitten. Maybe you just get a bad flu or something.”

“That’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard,” I heard someone say.

“Seriously, we’re kind of in uncharted territory right now. When you accept the fact that there are zombies out there right now, I think flu-giving zombies are not that far of a leap.”

“Guys, I need to go to the bathroom, again,” Ricky yelled.

“Puke or poop?” I asked.

“Not sure, probably both.”

“Alright, Gina, untie him, but keep an eye on him.”

Gina did as asked, and Ricky immediately ran quickly to the can. As we heard him puke and cough in the bathroom, I started thinking of an exit plan.

“Alright, has anyone called for help, yet?” I asked the group.

“I tried,” my mother answered, “but the line was busy.”

“Must be overloaded with other callers; this thing must be widespread.”

“Should someone run for help?” one cousin asked.

“It could be a suicide mission, depending on how many are out there.”

The funeral director spoke up. “I think it can be done.”

“How do you figure?” I asked.

“There are only two cemeteries within a three mile radius. Of the two thousand graves, probably only a few dozen  corpses haven’t completely deteriorated away by now. So, those are the ones you actually have to worry about. If you head due east, you can make it to the Jewish cemetery. They don’t embalm their dead, so you shouldn’t get much resistance there. From that point, it’s only a half mile run to the police station.”

“Sounds good,” I replied. “Since you know this area better than anyone, do you want to make the run?”

“No, I mean, this is my place, so I really should be here to keep an eye on it,” he said nervously. “You look healthy. Maybe you should go.”

“I was thinking that, but I’m afraid this group will go to hell in a handbasket if I’m not here to keep the calm.”

We both looked in the direction of Topher, and he immediately offered, “We could have Uncle Ricky go. He sounds good as dead anyway.”

“No, he might be one of them,” my mother countered. “We don’t need to add to their ranks.”

“Well, maybe we should maim him. Perhaps break a leg, so that he’s easier to beat if he comes back to kill us,” reasoned Topher.

“How’s he supposed to get past the zombies with a broken leg, Topher?”

“Shit, I didn’t think about that.”

Uncle Ricky staggered out of the bathroom and back to his chair. We all studied his face, looking for any sign that the transformation had taken place. However, once we noticed the string of vomit on his suit coat, we all started looking in other directions.

“I heard you talking, and I want to be the person that gets help,” he said, sitting back down in his chair.

“Are you sure?” my mother asked.

“Yes, I don’t have much time left. It hurts so bad, I think I’d rather die, actually.”

The funeral director recounted the directions and Ricky seemed to understand.  As he stood up, he addressed those around him. “Guys, I just wanted to get a few things off my chest. First off, I’m sorry I’ve always been a prick to most everyone in the room.”

He looked around the room as if he wanted someone to contradict him on this point. Such reassurance never came.

“Anyway, I’m sorry for the arguments I’ve caused. Teresa, I know you had trouble losing the baby weight after your third kid, but I never should have said that was the reason Mickey probably left you. And Gene, I never should have said that you were a bad father because your daughter got herself knocked up when she was sixteen. And, while I’m on the subject, what business of mine was it when it came to how many abortions you’ve had, Lucy. And, Frankie, I’m very sorry about that telling that IRS agent about all that construction work you were doing on the weekends. I know it made my audit go a lot easier, but it nonetheless wrong of me. And, Gina, what you and Linda do in the privacy of your own bedroom is pretty weird and everything, but if you want to go against God and nature, I shouldn’t object to it.”

“That was an apology?” interrupted Gina.

“Well, yes, in a way, it was.”

“And you do realize you outed me to my entire family, right?”

“As if anyone with two eyes and a brain thought that you two were anything but carpet-munching dykes.”

“On second thought, maybe we should go ahead and kill him,” Gina offered. “Can’t be too careful, you know.”

I saw no fewer than three people crying as Uncle Ricky approached the door. He took a deep breath and turned the knob.

Topher, however, stopped him with a yell. “Hold on, maybe we should distract them and give Uncle Ricky a head start.”

“Good idea,” I replied. “What do you have in mind?”

“Maybe they’re hungry. We can throw out some of the food and when they bend down to pick it up, Uncle Ricky slips out the back like a dry-heaving, puking ninja.”

“They’re zombies, not puppies.”

“At least give it a try,” Uncle Ricky said, balancing himself against a door frame. “But make it quick, because I think I’m slipping.”

And so we did. Several family members took turns dumping the dishes out the window around the corner from the door Ricky planned to use. We stood there and waited, hearing only the monotonous sound of the zombies’ moans. Then, suddenly, the sound changed and the moaning shifted to what I could only describe as an excited growl.

“Can anyone see what’s happening?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Topher said, his face up against the window. “They’re going apeshit over the food.”

“They are?” I asked, surprised. “They’re eating everything?”

“Well, no, not Typhoid Marie’s lasagna. Even they won’t touch that shit,” he said, laughing. Then he grew somber and said, “No offense, Aunt Marie.”

“Marie made the green bean casserole, didn’t she?” Uncle Ricky asked.

“No, mom stuck the red spoon in the lasagna, just like she always does,” I answered.

“Since when has it been the red spoon? I could have sworn that it’s always the blue one.”

“It’s never been blue. ‘Red’ means ‘stop,’ remember?  We had a goddamn family meeting to discuss this.”

“So, I ate Typhoid Marie’s lasagna.”

“Yeah.”

“God damn, I’m not turning into a zombie, guys. I just have food poisoning, and perhaps a parasite.”

“Good, then, you should have no problem making it to town, then.”

“Screw you guys, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Why not?”

“Two-thirds of you guys were wanting to kill me a half hour ago.”

“But what about all the apologies. Don’t you want to make amends?”

“Kiss my ass, I only said those things because I thought I was dying. Had I known it was just routine botulism, I’d tell you where you could stick your suicide mission.”

The argument immediately halted with the sound of breaking glass and the emergence of a pale arm peeking through the window. My mother immediately grabbed a chair and began to beat it back. From the other side of the room, another window crashed followed by the emergence of dead man’s head. There were multiple screams, as we realized that the food had not only been effective as a means of distracting the zombies, but unfortunately had the side effect of drawing the zombies to our hiding place, as they were in search of the food’s source.

But then, amid the cries, screams, and prayers, a certain familiar sound began. It was difficult to place at first, as it was such a common sound to be heard during an uncommon night. It was the sound of barking dogs and screaming cats, multiplied by at least a hundred. The arms and heads disappeared from the windows and the barking became uncontrollable.

We immediately ran to the windows to see what was the matter. And there it was – Dobermans, German Shepherds, Siamese, and every other breed of dog and cat ripping the zombies piece by piece.

You see, we don’t like to think about it very much, but with the exception of those who choose a hamster, a parakeet, or some boring pet like that, most pet owners willingly share their house with vicious carnivores every day. Left to their own devices, a common housecat will kill for sport. Dogs will eat their own kind. But still we let them lie at the foot of our beds without a second’s thought.

And the reason for this is because dogs and cats are smart enough to know they can’t take us. Yeah, they may be faster, stronger, and have razor sharp teeth, but they know we’re smarter and have enough dexterity to operate tools. But strip that away from us, and we just become what we’ve always been to them in the back of their minds: two-hundred pound T-bone steaks on two legs.

And that is what happened that night. Once the first Doberman figured out that underneath all of this drooling and grunting was the most tender meat it could ever ask for, the zombie apocalypse was pretty much over before it ever really began. I read the stories of how it ended in other towns. In Boston, police in riot gear pinned them against the harbor before opening fire. In Cleveland, the National Guard parachuted in and saved the day. In Montana, it was three brothers and a rifle that saved the city of Butte. But here, the cavalry came in the form of an unlocked gate at the next door kennel.

We were free to leave after about a half hour. The police came later and finished off to two trapped in the back room. A new parish priest was assigned the following week. We all walked to our cars, and headed for the nearest shelter as patrols finished their sweeps. Soon, life was back to normal. Republicans and Democrats blamed each other for the occurrences of that night, while Bono hosted a benefit concert at Rockefeller Center. By the holiday season, the sweet smell of commerce had pushed zombies to the third page in the paper.

It’s been six months and five funerals since the events of that night, and all that remains are the theories and memories. After two days of bed rest, Uncle Ricky made a full recovery. He vows that he will never eat another lasagna. I’d like to say that the entire experience made him into a better person, but unfortunately he’s still a middle-aged prick. Out of fear of another outbreak, Topher quit smoking pot as a first step to transforming himself into what he calls a “zombie fighting ninja.”  And despite her outing at the hands of her uncle, Gina still dodges the occasional set-up by her reality-denying mother.

And I myself have completely sworn off all zombie literature – graphic novels, movies, television shows. I can’t even bring myself to watch the video for Thriller on VH1 Classic. When Walking Dead comes back on television, I’ll probably DVR it, but I’m not sure when I might get around to watching it. For I can’t seem to differentiate the fiction from the reality. I tried watching a bit of Shaun of the Dead a week ago, but every time I closed my eyes, all I’d see were a food poisoned uncle, a dead priest, and a Chihuahua with a diamond-studded collar dragging around a disembodied hand.

I tell you this so you do not judge me harshly. For it is my fragile emotional state that has led me to this sad moment in my life. Like a heroin addict in line at the methadone clinic, I have a certain void to inadequately fill. So, I pray that you do not ridicule me when I say to the nice young girl at Barnes & Noble the following words: “Where can I find Stephanie Meyer books – young adult or sci-fi/fantasy?”

- P -

R.J. Reising is an unpublished novelist with a small, but loyal cult following, consisting of his wife and one cousin, twice removed.  Residing in Cincinnati, he spends his days watching bad television, reading good books, and making snarky comments about everything around him.

Master Marvel’s Menagerie

Jessica McHugh

“L

ook alive, Margie. We have customers.”

She snorted awake: a rough, piggish snort that would've embarrassed her if anyone but Tommy heard it. They never knew when the customers would come, so he was used to rousing her suddenly, as well as what followed naturally, whether snort, yawn, or backwards tumble from a chair. He chuckled, but it wasn’t cruel. In fact, Margie was glad they could still chuckle after so many years in their profession. She sighed as she leaned against the counter and watched the two young men bounding through the parking lot, pushing and punching and laughing to each other. They were just like everyone else: always laughing on the way in.

The boys in varsity jackets rode in on their guffaws like conquering chargers, but Margie didn’t find the entrance offensive. Rather, she had grown to enjoy the misguided sense of adventure that lured in her customers. As different as they were on the whole, each patron shared one characteristic: morbid curiosity. It wasn’t an attribute that many could live upon, but it was her and Tommy’s lifeblood, or “toast and jam” as Tommy called it because “bread and butter” was too boring a term to describe their business. The boys looked clean-cut enough, the kind that might be in a fraternity---or the kind that might claim to be in a fraternity for the opportunity to venture down other unseen avenues. Margie had come to realize that about appearances: often, the cleaner the cut, the more fiendish the filling. But jumping to conclusions wasn’t her job, no matter how entertaining the leap. It didn’t matter what kind of men they were. They were in the shop, and the sign that boasted “Master Marvel’s Menagerie” had arrested their interest even from outside. They didn't go right for it, nor to the counter to inquire about it. Margie wasn't at all surprised. She'd seen it hundreds of times; no matter the curiosity, some people just couldn't be direct about their desires. They milled around the shop just as the varsity boys did, constantly glancing up at the sign and at the clerks that guarded the purple curtain beneath it. They made a full tour of the shop, pausing only at the animal action figures to make a monkey fight a lion. After a few growls and slams and giggling whispers, they called it a draw. They approached the counter with caution worn as a pompous cloak; it was the kind of fear that makes men act tougher than they are, like the clerks could never appease them but they might as well give it a shot. Margie and Tommy knew the attitude well, but they were well armed with their own.

“This is the place, isn’t it? It has to be the place. This is the only stop for a hundred miles,” said the boy with “Jack” stitched into his jacket.

“Been driving for quite a while, haven’t you?” Margie asked.

“It seems like forever. This is the place though, right? The Zombie Zoo?”

“We don’t use the Z-word around here, fellas,” Tommy said as he stacked disposable cameras onto the shelf.

“What: zoo?” Jack chuckled. “You do know that everyone calls this place the ‘Zombie Zoo’, don’t you?”

“What everyone else does is none of our business, and our business is none of there’s,” Margie replied.

“That’s not a great outlook for making money,” commented the boy in the “Sam” jacket.

“It hasn’t seemed to hurt us.”

“How much is a ticket anyway?”

“How much do you have?” Margie asked.

“Look, Lady, I don’t know what kind of hillbilly rubes you’re used to dealing with, but Jack and I ain’t idiots.”

“You aren’t idiots,” she corrected.

“Well, I’m glad we agree. Now, what’s the price? It better be a fair one cuz I’m not in the mood to chuck out a heap of cash to see someone in a rubber suit.”

“I assure you gentlemen that everything you see in Master Marvel’s Menagerie is 100% real. To use your crude expression, it is a Zombie Zoo through and through.”

“How does it work? The zombies, I mean. How are they alive?”

“They’re not alive, son. They're animate.”

“Okay, so how did they become animate?”

“You pay for tickets, not secrets.”

“We haven’t paid at all. You never gave us a price.”

“Of course, how silly of me. I reckon I was distracted by those fancy jackets of yours. You boys play football?”

“We don’t as much play it as we rock it,” Jack said, sharing a high five with his buddy.

“Delightful. I tell you what, boys: I’ll cut you a deal. Just slide me a twenty for the both of you and buy a disposable camera and the menagerie is all yours. There is free film processing inside the park.”

“That sounds fair,” Sam said and slid over the cash.

Tommy unhooked the rope that separated the customers from the clerks and drew back the purple curtain. The sign above the door was instantly illuminated, and following a few abrasive crackles, a voice oozed out of the speakers.

“Welcome to Master Marvel’s Menagerie, a wondrous world filled with animals as you’ve never seen before and will likely never see again. Enchantment and horror await you, if you dare delve into the domain of the undead.”

“If we dare delve? We already paid. We’d better be delving,” Sam scoffed.

“The members of the menagerie can get quite ornery,” the voice continued, “so please stay behind the gates at all times, and whatever you do, please do not feed the animals.”

“Brains!” Jack growled and snapped his jaws at Sam, who promptly punched his arm.

There will be none of that nonsense once you’re inside, do you understand?” Tommy said and the footballers pouted their lips cartoonishly as they nodded.

He opened the door and it creaked eerily, sending such shivers up the boys’ spines that they didn’t realize the creak came from the speakers rather than the hinges. There was little to see at first. From the door stretched a path, and along the path stretched the trees. Beyond that, they couldn’t tell what was in store, and the lilting voice that sang “Entrez!” didn't do much to settle their anxiety.

“Not nervous, are you?” Tommy asked as they peered down the path.

“I don’t see any cages or anything,” Sam said.

“You will.”

“But how can this be behind your shop? I didn’t see anything that looked like this when we drove up,” Jack said.

“You didn’t see any of the resurrected either, but you still walked through the front door,” Margie replied and they looked at her blankly until she clarified. “Resurrected means zombies.”

“Oh,” they hummed.

“What did that voice say before? Andre?”

“Entrez. On-Tray. It means ‘enter’.”

“Or dinner,” Tommy added with a smirk.

“Oh, I get it,” Jack said.

Clearly, he did not get it.

“Have you ever been inside?” Sam asked and Margie shook her head.

“Not really my cup of tea.”

“But you run the shop?”

“You know I do, son.”

“What about you?” he asked Tommy.

“We’re clerks, kid, not zookeepers. I wouldn’t even know how to deal with those things.”

“But you’ve never even gone in? Aren’t you curious?”

“Not at all. Master Marvel has satisfied every curiosity.”

“Is Master Marvel going to be there? As a tour guide or lion tamer or something?”

“I suppose you’ll have to take a step or two to find out.”

“Oh, and don’t forget your camera!” Margie exclaimed and tossed it to them. “I know you’d never forgive yourselves if you didn’t take pictures. What you’re about to see is something very few have dared to see.”

“How would you know if you’ve never been inside?”

“The pictures tell me, of course. Master Marvel always makes copies for my album,” she replied, patting the thick book on the counter.

“Here, let me take the first one for you. Stand together. Now smile!” Tommy said and the boys plastered on their cheesiest grins. “There you go. We’ll call that the ‘Before Picture’.”

“I think I blinked,” Jack grumbled.

“The Menagerie awaits, gentlemen,” Margie said and when she raised her eyebrows, Sam and Jack jumped forward as if the expression was a dare.

“Have fun!” Tommy called after the boys, but by the time they turned, the door was already closed.

On the other side there was no knob, no lock, no peephole. Jack took a picture for good measure, just in case those “weirdos try to screw us”. It only took a moment to realize that they were still indoors, but the ceiling was the only evidence of it. The flanking trees seemed to stretch on for miles, and a light breeze tricked them into forgetting the ceiling entirely. After only a few minutes on the path, they started to hear a choir of animals. They sounded no different from normal animals, however, and Sam and Jack's doubt increased, especially when they passed several empty cages.

“I knew it was too good to be true,” Sam moaned.

The monkey house was the first occupied building on the path, and they trudge inside expecting naught but normalcy. Having been to zoos previously, they knew it would smell ghastly, but the odor was so pungent that they shut the door only seconds after opening it.

“Jesus, what do they feed those things?”

“Brains!” Jack growled again.

Sam opened the door and pushed his friend so forcefully that he tripped over his feet and crashed to the monkey house floor.

“Gross! I think I fell in shit!” Jack whined as he wiped his hands on his pants.

The interior was dim, but once Jack and Sam were front and center, a row of flood lights ignited the massive cage filled with what looked like a jungle playset.

“Jeez, what did you fall in?” Sam asked, seeing the slimy crimson stains on his friend’s pants.

All of a sudden, a fanfare blasted from the speakers and a legion of monkeys emerged from hiding. They leapt from their burrows and swung from the branches. They screeched as they scaled the sides of the cage and shimmied down twisted vines. In equal terror and wonder, Sam snapped a picture and he and Jack leaned against the gate. There wasn’t a single monkey without ratty fur. It dropped from their skin as easily as they dropped from the trees, but while some of the fur drifted down in tufts, the rest fell in sloppy chunks, weighed down by rotten flesh. The breeds were lumped together despite the fact that they obviously didn’t care for the company. The baboon chased the capuchin over the face of the cage until it finally caught its tail. It ripped the capuchin from the bars and retreated to a treetop. The boys watched in horror as it tore the monkey’s tail from its body. It gnashed its broken fangs and howled as it beat the capuchin against the  trunk. The small black arm the baboon was holding ripped free at the shoulder and the body crashed to the bottom of the cage where the capuchin screamed and spat up frothy blood. The baboon had eaten half of the tail when a macaque flew past with its claws extended and slashed the baboon’s chest open. Its black heart fell like a rotten apple to the floor, but it paid the loss no mind; it still had tail left to chew. The macaque perched on a bloodstained rock and hissed at Jack and Sam.

“Look out! It's gonna throw shit at us!” Sam screamed.

“I don't think so,” Jack replied as the monkey dug its claws into the sides of its head.

The sound of its face tearing free of the fascia was one that knocked out the boys’ knees with a violent cringe. The face hung heavy in the monkey’s paw while the moldering muscle still twisted its expression. It heaved the sloppy mass at the bars, and though a good deal was caught by the cage, several bits broke through and spattered the boys in grey and red gore.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Sam said, but Jack didn’t have time to say anything.

His stomach emptied over the monkey house floor, realizing only then what he’d fallen into earlier. Vomit, blood, chunks of flesh and fur, and even a few eyeballs decorated the concrete. He gasped and slipped on his own sick, but Sam was quick to catch him.

“Can we get the hell out of here now?”

“You don’t have to ask me twice,” Sam said and helped his friend out the door.

“Dude...”

“Yeah, that was rough. Then again, what were we expecting?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know. Whose idea was this anyway?”

“Yours?”

“It wasn’t my idea.”

“Well, it wasn’t mine. You’re the one who said people always call it the Zombie Zoo. I’d never even heard of it.”

“I think I’ve heard people talk about it. I don’t know who, but I thought I heard someone mention it recently. Either way, I don’t think I can take much more,” Jack said.

“The ones up ahead look like they're just cages. Maybe it won’t be so bad in the fresh air. Besides, we can’t go back through the shop, and we have the picture to prove it.”

“Okay, just don’t tell the team I threw up.”

“Dude, once they see the pictures of those things, they’re gonna puke all over themselves. Especially Mackie, that puss,” Sam chuckled.

“He wouldn’t have been able to stay inside for a second.”

The next few cages were empty. Sam continued taking pictures until Jack told him to save the shots for the “good stuff...bad stuff...other stuff”. At last they came upon a cage that wasn't empty. There were several large flat stones in the cage, but it was hard to pay attention to anything save the massive lion laying at the center. Its back was facing them, but its size was evident, stretching over fifteen feet from crown to tail. When the lionesses came out of their cave, the fanfare began again. Minimal tufts of fur remained on their bodies and their lips were receded, but they weren’t nearly as horrifying as the monkeys. They moved slowly over the rocks like the Dead Sea lapping shore, and when they encircled their king, the lion finally raised his head. He lifted his hulking body, leaving a slimy shadow behind, and turned to the boys. Sam was looking through the camera’s viewfinder and didn’t see the detail until after the picture was taken. When he lowered the camera, his sickened gasp rivaled the one still pouring out of Jack. The lion had thousands of eyes upon his face, but none were his. They belonged to the maggots that filled the pits in which his eyes used to live. Several maggots fell out as he stood, but they didn’t last long with the lionesses’ decayed tongues plucking them from the floor. It wasn’t the last Jack and Sam saw of the maggots though. They hadn’t seen the gaping lesions in the lionesses’ sides at first, but after being swallowed, the maggots tumbled right back out.

They passed another group of empty cages before coming upon the zebra paddock, but it actually took them a few minutes to recognize the animals as zebra. Their bodies were so putrid that the white stripes were gone. For all the boys knew, the creatures were black donkeys with frayed mohawks. It wasn’t until they saw the “zebra” sign behind the overgrown grass that they realized their mistake. The bird house was next, but after the horrors of the monkey house, Sam and Jack opted for skipping the interior. The side window was coated in a vermilion crust, but they could make out a fuzzy view of the inside. As Jack stuck the camera in through the door and snapped a shot of the scene, the flash ignited the details for Sam. It was only a second of light, but it burned the brutality into his brain. From rotten eggs, half-developed birds pecked sustenance from their mothers’ spilling innards. Their greedy chirps were garbled by chunks of gizzard, and when the boys heard isolated cracks beneath the squawks, they couldn’t be sure if the sounds came from breaking shell or bone.

“I gotta say, I’m pretty glad we didn’t go in.”

“Me too. I can’t wait to see the picture though,” Sam said and Jack shoved him with a snort.

“You’re such a freak.”

“You’re the freak!”

“No, I’m drunk!” Jack exclaimed and froze, starting again slowly. “No, I’m not. I don’t know why I said that.”

“Are you?”

“No. I don’t think so. I had a couple of drinks, I think, but you did too. Didn’t you?”

“Oh yeah. I did,” Sam said, remembering then how surprised he was that the last sweaty beer at the bottom of the cooler was still cold, especially after driving for so long.

The next exhibit was a paddock spotted with bogs, veiled by a cloud of all manner of insects. Leaning against the gate, they took pictures of the ears wiggling above the water. When the hippos surfaced, they were grey, wrinkled masses that bobbed in the water like moldy sponge cake. With their backs exposed, the hippos became perches for hammerhead storks that curled their splintered talons into the mushy flesh. Under normal circumstances, the birds would have been on a mission for an insect supper, but they ignored the curtain of bugs around the bogs. Instead, their beaks combed the hippos for loose skin, tearing off large panels at a time. One of the storks pecked a little too hard and its beak became stuck in its host’s spongy rump. Whether it was because of the bird’s greediness or lack of eyes, Sam and Jack couldn’t know, but they made sure to let the camera document the stork’s struggle. It ripped the hippo’s flesh at it whipped its head back and forth, trying to free its beak, and the hippo made the most appalling sound: half scream, half death-rattle. But it was the subsequent wet snap that flipped the boys’ stomachs. The hammerhead stork stopped struggling, frozen and gargling in shock.  Slowly, it drew its head back but left its beak behind, embedded in the hippo's back.  There was still a sliver of mandible protruding from the bird's head, but the maxilla had been ripped clean out of its face.

“Dude, I am so done with this,” Jack moaned, followed by a bile-laced belch.

“It's all good, man. Let's just get out of here. There are better places, better drinks, better chicks.”

“That's what you said before.”

“What? When?”

“I don't know. We were...God, we were at someone's house. Rachel's? No, Winger's,” Jack said.

“Dude, I haven't talked to Winger in months.”

“I might be wrong. I had a lot to drink.”

“I thought you said you had a couple of drinks.”

“I don't remember.”

“That's usually a sign of having more than a couple of drinks, broseph,” Sam said.

“You're one to talk. You did all of those beer bongs to impress Kasey,” he replied and punched Sam's arm.

“Oh yeah, I forgot! She totally loved it though.”

“She loves everything. And everyone.”

Jack pushed Sam off the path and when he took off running, Jack chased after, shrieking with laughter.

“Faster, Jack! Go faster!” Sam exclaimed over his shoulder and with a grin, Jack said,

“Alright, let's see what this baby can really do.”

Jack and Sam's speed increased significantly. They ran faster and faster until they no longer felt their toes on the path and the scenery was no more than a mottled blur. The disorientation twisted their stomachs until they felt like they were going to vomit, but they couldn't stop laughing no matter how sick they felt. Everything to the side was bleary, as was the object that lay in front---at first. Gradually, their target sharpened until the massive tree was all they could see. They screamed, knowing that the impact was imminent, but just before the crash, the world stopped racing. In an instant, they were standing still. They weren't screaming or laughing; not even panting. Their minds, recently so muddled, were as clear as the statuesque man looking down on them.

Magnus Marvel was unusually spindly. A lamppost of a man, he was tall and cloaked in dark attire, but his face shone; it wasn't quite a heavenly light, but it was brighter than the rest of the zoo. His eyes were widely set and bulged from his skull like glycerol through a sieve. He opened his hand as if beckoning the boys to either embrace or strike, and though he was warm in his welcome, pieces of him moved stiffly as if he hadn't fully thawed.

“Did you buy a camera?” Marvel asked.

“Oh. Yeah. But we can get it developed ourselves. It's no big deal,” Jack said.

“It's no trouble for me either. It's expected.”

“Are you Master Marvel?”

“I am,” he said with a bow, and while the boys were caught up in the dance of Marvel's coattails, he coaxed the camera from Sam's hand.

“You didn't waste a single shot,” he mused as he inspected it.

“Really? We skipped over a bunch of cages near the end.”

“Nope. Not one frame neglected,” Marvel replied and beckoned the boys into a nearby building shaped like a canister of film.

“So you run the photo booth?” Sam asked skeptically.

“Yes.”

He dropped the camera into a bizarre machine that whirred and popped as Marvel looked through the eyepiece and grinned.

“Ah yes, you have quite the collection here. Quite the collection indeed,” he hummed. “Who took these photos?”

“We both did.”

“Well, they're just wonderful. The composition, the depth of field...you both have a great talent. It's a pity...”

Master Marvel chuckled and pointed at the printed picture that flopped onto the tray.

“That's a great one. You really captured the giraffe's playful nature, Sam.”

“I didn't take a picture of any giraffes. I didn't even seen any giraffes,” Sam replied.

“Are you sure you didn't take this? It's the same style as the lemur shots. And the zebras.”

“Lemurs? We didn't see lemurs,” Jack said.

“What about the polar bears? You got some really great shots of them, Jack.”

“No, we didn't see any of that!” he roared and Master Marvel cocked his head in curiosity.

“Have you been drinking, Jack?”

“What the hell did you just ask me?”

He stomped toward him and Sam pulled him back, but Marvel didn't move a muscle.

“You boys want to see your pictures, don't you?”

“Fuck the pictures. We're outta here,” Sam said as he and Jack pushed past Marvel.

They headed for the exit, but it was no more than a framed patch of wall. There was no knob, no lock, no peephole, no way out.

“I assure you the pictures are quite lovely,” Master Marvel said as he gathered the photos.

He held out the stack and Jack took them with a grunt. He began flipping through them, but he didn't get past ten before flipping back and starting again. He shook his head in shock and continued to do so even when Sam snatched the stack.

“They're alive. The animals are alive. They look normal,” Sam gasped and Master Marvel smirked as if to say “I'm glad you like my work.”

“What the hell is going on? We didn't see anything like that. We saw dead things. Undead things. The lions we saw were crawling with maggots and these lions look like they're smiling!”

“They do, don't they?” Magnus marveled.

“But they didn't look like that. They were rotting, not smiling!”

“Well, that doesn't sound like the sort of zoo I'd like to visit. Would you want to see a place like that?” he asked.

“This is all some kind of fucked up dream.”

“No, it's Master Marvel's Menagerie.”

“Some menagerie. I don't even remember seeing half of these animals, and most of the cages we passed were empty. This whole place is bullshit.”

The last picture popped onto the tray and Master Marvel gazed at it with a sigh.

“Oh, boys, it's the most beautiful one of all. It's too bad you blinked, Jack.”

Jack pulled the photo out of the tray with shaking fingers. After a glimpse and a gulp, he passed it to Sam who glanced and dropped it to the floor. From there, it still stared back at them: a macabre mockery in varsity jackets and cheesy grins. That's when they gave the other photos a second look. The animals were starkly normal, but the empty cages in the background, the cages they'd blown right past, weren't so empty on film. Like uncooked sausages left to rot in a sun-drenched prison, the occupants of the empty cages reached out in futility. The floors of the cages were mires of flesh that reached their bony ankles. The boys could nearly feel it, cold and chunky: an undead stew on display. Their faces had gone the way of their futures: wasted, but still sloughing away, and they looked no different from Sam and Jack in their first photograph, their “Before Picture”. The sallow skin, the bleeding eyes, the chests that looked like they'd caved in under the weight of a crumpled car. Jack and Sam had walked in already members of the Menagerie.

“You were too reckless. You drove too fast,” Magnus Marvel said as the memory careened back to the boys. “You were brought here, like so many others who perished on the roads, like those you see in the pictures, trapped in empty cages.”

“No, I would remember,” Sam said, and Jack whispered shakily,

“I remember.”

“And you will forever,” Master Marvel replied and plucked the photo from the floor. “Yes, it really is a beautiful shot.”

Not long after the boys were in their cage, their varsity jackets were ripped to shreds, but the nails and teeth of the veteran resurrected wouldn't stay that shallow for long. Half of their photos were locked away along with their resurrected subjects. The other half made the usual journey through the pipes. Margie swiped the glue stick across the back of the “Before Picture” and pressed it into the album with her thumb. The last page. She would have to get a new book soon.

“Look alive,” Tommy said when he saw the car pull into the parking lot.

The couple skipped toward the shop, laughing giddily as large patches of their charred skin flaked away.

“Tell that to them,” she replied, and with a camera already sitting at the ready, she closed the book.

- P -

Jessica McHugh is an author of speculative fiction that spans the genre from horror and alternate history to epic fantasy. A prolific writer, she has devoted herself to novels, short stories, novellas, and even playwriting. She has had eight books published in three years, including "The Sky: The World", "Rabbits in the Garden" and the first two installments in her "Tales of Dominhydor" series.

Beautiful Things

Anton Cancre

For Laura and the beautiful things we can’t hold onto any longer.

Why the hell are you doing this, Frank?” Tim asked. Five minutes outside and the sweat was already running rivers down his face, filling in the crevices and cracks that line his eyes and mouth. If anyone thought to ask, he’d have given just about anything to get back into the house where there was at least some shade.  Anything but this. “You know he’s gone. Been this long… one way or another, he’s out of your reach. You know that.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, Timmy, old boy,” Frank said, with a smile that didn’t completely touch his lips, let alone reach his eyes. Unable to meet his old friend’s gaze, he focused on his fifth cataloging of items in his backpack. “I’m just going to do some reconnaissance, see how far out I can get from here before running into too many of the bastards. Pick up some extra supplies if possible. Maybe meet up with another group like ourselves. “

“Don’t ‘Timmy Old Boy’ me and don’t for a second think I’m falling for your bullshit.  He did a damn fool thing and now you want to feed yourself to whatever stinking, shambling piece of shit happens to stumble across you out there because of it? I’m telling you, let him go.”

“I can’t,” Frank said, “He’s my son, dammit. The only job I have, the only one that ever mattered, is to look after him and I failed. I failed him, I failed whatever is left of the memory of his mother and I failed the most basic functions of nature. I fucking failed,” Frank’s voice finally cracking, eyes filled with more water than it seemed possible. Great gleaming lakes teeming with anger, guilt and fear threatened to break and drown the world.

Tim didn’t bother responding. Instead, he relaxed, waiting for the silence to fill itself in. Sometimes you had to let a man have his say, get it out of his system, and then hope he would listen to reason.

“Did I ever tell you about the night I finally decided to leave the house?”

“Yep. Wife dead, then not. Growl. Moan. Bite. Screams, crying and eventually a crushed skull later convincing you that it was time to take the kid for a road trip. I don’t want to sound calloused, but we’ve all told our tales enough that I could recite everyone’s verbatim.”

“I didn’t tell you everything.”

The only thing Frank could feel was a numb throbbing in his foot. Everything had taken on a cloudy haze, like he was living in a Lifetime movie of the week. His heart was beating far too fast. His head was pounding. The house was dead quiet but there was too much internal noise for him to focus. A muffled thump at his right caught his attention and, after what seemed like a Herculean struggle against the independent will of the muscles controlling his eyes and neck, he noticed a malformed lump shining dimly in the scant light.

Whatever it was, it was squat, lumpy and of a shape that vaguely suggested some long lost intention of roundness. The irregular turquoise gloss, bare clay randomly showing through like bits of exposed bone, caught the light filtering in through the slats in the boarded up window.

Finally, something his mind could wrap itself around: a present from Johnny, a school project from earlier this year when the schools were still open. But he didn’t remember the bottom of it being so dark, almost black. Mind still too fuzzy, too empty to be sure.

He could remember the first time he had seen it: a mutated aberration as heavy as a Volvo and just about as ugly. Then there was Johnny’s face, twisted up in a mixture of anger and shame bespeaking the end of all that is good and pure in existence. The boy had wanted to destroy it on the sidewalk right there, though Frank was pretty sure it would have done more damage to the concrete than vice versa. In swooped Eileen, stern face carved in granite, sharply demanding that he do no such thing before settling into a dissertation on abstract art and the importance of imperfection as the highest form of beauty. Any mother could placate a sad child with smothering hugs and sloppy kisses but nobody could commit to a line of bullshit like she could and Johnny fell for it whole-heartedly.

On her next birthday, it held a place of honor in the middle of the dining room table.

Now that table was in pieces around the room and as much as he needed to get up off the floor, he couldn’t. Couldn’t pick himself up. Couldn’t move. What good would it do? Everything was falling apart out there. The repeated assurances that, as long as everyone remained in their homes, the authorities would sort it all out weren’t worth the gas they were propelled on. He’d always laughed at the unwashed, dreadlocked buffoons that constantly circled the Plant screaming about the end of humanity’s reign on earth, but it looks like they were right all along.

When he had come down to investigate the moans, he was struck by the raw, gamey stench that rolled in waves from the dining room/ kitchen combo at the back of the house. None of them had bathed for far too long, but only an idiot and a dead man could mistake sweat and dirt for the slaughterhouse reek of fresh spilled blood. Running into the room, he almost slipped ass over teakettle in the thick crimson pool on linoleum that had always been a bitch to keep white and never would be so again. His immediate thought was that one of them had broken in, that the boards and scrap wood scavenged from furniture had been no match for the patience of something with nothing else to lose. He had to get Eileen and Johnny the hell out of there before more caught on and their sanctuary became a sepulcher.

Then he noticed the writing on the wall.

These things were sloppy eaters, there was no arguing that, but he had never known one to take the time to write ‘sorry for the mess’ in blood before. He recognized the ragged haircut on the groaning monstrosity that had started shuffling toward him, even though the hair was the wrong color, no longer the shining gold that always caught the morning sun in its own gleaming furnace. Just yesterday, he had managed to convince her to get rid of those long, flowing locks that hadn’t seen a pair of scissors since she was a little girl. She finally agreed that it made far too easy of a hand-hold and they had all seen too many times what happened once one of them got grabbed you.

With the thought of that deadly grip in his mind and time compressing around him as if the world was suddenly trapped in drying amber, he noticed that its hands and fingers hung loosely on its wrists. Old Universal Mummy limpness, instead of the usual rigid claws, drawing attention to the torn flesh running from the inside of the wrists up to the elbows of both arms. Even though nothing had managed to breach their defenses, death had wormed its way into the house.

Suddenly as a tiger pouncing from among the high sugar cane, the flow of time returned to normal and the luxury of rational thought was beyond him. Running on instinct alone, he grabbed the nearest sturdy object and began pounding. Untrained, undisciplined, no style or form whatsoever. A flurry of fear and rage over before he truly understood what was happening.

That had to have been hours ago; long enough for the sun to start its morning crawl over a lost world. Half the night spent standing in the same spot, staring emptily at anything except the mess on the floor directly beneath him. He wasn’t sure if he’d been crying or if it was just blood drying on his face but he knew there was a choice being made here. Perhaps it already had been. He took one last look down at the piece of avant garde and went to get his son.

It was time to get the fuck out of Dodge.

“I know it’s a cliché, but then let it be a fucking cliché. He was the only reason I bothered to move from that spot,” Frank said. “She had been unfailingly upbeat, constantly telling us it would all be over soon and we’d be able to move on with our lives, but she just couldn’t fool herself anymore. That was what cut it for me, what tore the survival instinct right out of my heart: if the queen bullshitter couldn’t believe her own line anymore then there really wasn’t any hope left. Better to sit there and starve, or even be eaten, than waste yourself fighting what couldn’t be fought. I was done.

“But that ugly ass hunk of clay reminded me that I wasn’t alone in this. I may not have seen any reason to continue, but I didn’t have the right to make that decision for him. I had to at least try to keep him alive long enough for him to decide his own fate and that‘s the only reason I’m here today. I owe him my life.”

“There are people here that need you, too,” Tim said. “Just as much as he did then.”

“My ass they do. Never would’ve made it here in the first place if they didn’t know how to take care of themselves. They’ll be fine.”

“OK. We both know better than this stupidity, but there’s no convincing a fool when he’s determined. You understand that the only way we’re likely to see you again is limping, moaning and smelling like year old Limburger left to ripen in the back of a Pacer in August, right?”

“Yep.”

“Then I won’t stand in your way. But you’re going to wait an extra day and I won’t hear any arguing against it. There’s no way in hell I’m going to let you leave me alone with those whippersnappers.”

#

They were working their way down the freeway when they heard the first one moaning. Pretty pathetic display, even for a dead man, but it was enough to put them on guard. With no sightings, Tim and Frank became more paranoid each day. In some ways, they were a bit relieved to hear one simply because the sound let them know where it was.

They held back and waited on top of what once may have been a lime green Ford Escape. Neither of them quite liked being so exposed but at least the highway offered plenty of obstacles to slow down any attackers. Guard rails on the sides would have to be clambered over and the cars piled into and over each other every foot or so provided few paths and set up marvelous choke points. As long as they didn’t run into any large hoards, it was workable.

A hundred yards off, he saw them coming. Five. Mobile in their own way, but pretty far gone: not a single hair to split between them, flesh sloughing off in greasy chunks as they squeezed between rusting, jutting pieces of metal. One that Frank certainly hoped had been a woman back when it mattered still wore a moldering, yet screaming red vinyl skirt that cut into the meat of her stomach and legs as she slouched along.

“Would you look at that,” Tim exclaimed, pointing out an enormous hulk of a former human being. “I do believe he has a good bit of his large intestine hanging out of his ass. Gonna need himself a hemorrhoid donut.”

Worrying about silence once those things started calling out was pointless. Once some started in, any others within range to hear it would follow. At that point, being quiet was just an exercise in stubbornness.

Frank didn’t say anything.

Both of them unshouldered a bludgeon. Tim slowly swinging the Morningstar they’d found in an abandoned storefront and Frank’s simple, but reliable crowbar hanging lazily by his side.

And they waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Until the first one, the one with a ragged stump of shit-snake hanging out of its ample ass, finally waddled into range.

“I guess it’ll be age before beauty,” Tim said, dramatically gesturing toward the maggot meals-on-wheels tank.

Swinging in a wide arc, he landed a well-practiced hit into its temple and the results went well beyond his expectations. The grapefruit sized ball hit with enough force to cave in half of the thing’s skull and the spikes slid in like butter. The beast slumped to the ground.

Frank, impressed as he was with Tim’s skull-o-matic, opted for the straight-forward approach with the tart in red vinyl. As she began to claw and scrape at the side of the vehicle, bits of bone and flesh tumbling beneath her, he shoved the point of Ol’ Reliable into her eye socket. With a squelch and a pop, it broke through the thin bone behind the eye cavity and punctured the brain, taking the little light that remained out of her other eye.

When someone has done the same thing enough times, their muscles begin to know what to do before they have the opportunity to consciously think about it. The body acts on its own, doing as it has been trained and too much interference from the brain only gets in the way. One good side effect is that this allows the mind to wander off to ponder any subject it wished. A negative side effect is that the mind tends to enjoy focusing on the things that do the most damage.

“Take a deep breath...Line up your shot. Breathe out slowly and fire,” Frank said, shaking much more than Johnny was.

He couldn’t help being nervous dragging his son out here among the lost. The roof was clear and the building was long enough to make it highly unlikely that any of them would crowd the back fire escape. As long as they moved quickly once the swarming started, they should be able to miss out on any serious concentration. He’d taken worse risks with Tim and even some of the other youngsters out on scavenging raids without the slightest worry but he couldn’t get past the fact that this was his son and he was putting him in danger. If something went wrong, if they had misjudged anything at all and Johnny died out here today, he would have no one to blame but himself.

At the same time, he knew that this was necessary. The days where a man could coddle and spoil his child were long gone. Living forever had never been an option and his chances of making it back seemed to get slimmer each time he left the two-floor, one acre compound they called home. Taking him out into this might possibly kill him, but hiding him behind those walls would definitely do it just as surely as if he had ripped his son’s steaming guts out himself. The boy needed to know how to survive on his own out here and training on a dummy could only take him so far. Frank knew well enough the difference between shooting paper targets and taking aim at a wailing, flailing, biting mass of rotted flesh that was once a regular human being. Worse was feeling the throbbing pain pulse up to your shoulder and the wet splatter of old blood and congealed putrescence across your face as you smash a brainpan up close.

“Holy fuck!” Johnny shouted after nailing one directly between the eyes. “Did you see that? I swear that splatter looks just like a butterfly’s wing.” He giggled just a little before lining up the next one.

Frank was a little surprised by how quickly and easily Johnny was taking to his work. He didn’t flinch at the violence or hesitate with any of the worry about the monster’s former humanity that had so plagued Frank early on. He also didn’t seem to possess any of the malice or hatred that often arose as a way to combat the inevitable guilt. They were just things that needed to be destroyed.

He almost envied his son for having grown up in this world. The boy would never get to see a game at The Great American Ballpark or marvel at how tiny everything looked from the window of an airplane. He wouldn’t have the opportunity to know the feeling of true and complete safety. He wouldn’t even get to endure the embarrassment of dancing with his mother at his wedding. But he would never be held back from doing what survival dictated by memories of the way the world once was.

“Lori keeps going on and on about Jackson Pollock paintings,” Johnny said while reloading, now having to shout over the growing din of the moaning multitudes below. ”I wonder what she’d think of the patterns I’m making.”

Watching his son perfectly comfortable in his work, Frank felt a level of pride that disturbed and calmed him. He knew that his time as mentor, coach and father was nearing an end. He also knew his son would be fine.

#

“Shit, Frank,” Tim said, trying his best to keep from meeting his friend’s blank stare. “I don’t know what the hell to say. I told you this was a damn fool thing to do.”

Frank didn’t bother to respond. Wasn’t sure he could even if he wanted to. Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think straight from the shock. He had finally come to his own personal Armageddon.

They’d been following the signs for about two weeks since their first sighting on the highway. A simple name, destination and date spray-painted directly on the asphalt every mile or so. It was something they had worked out for scavenging runs, a demand drilled into everyone's skulls. The idea was to allow for the possibility of rescue in case of injury or becoming surrounded, giving a search party a regular update on location and travel time. Seeing Johnny’s name was a two-fold relief to Frank, not only reassuring him that his son had at least made it this far but also that he was still thinking, despite his temper tantrum. Maybe it meant that he actually wanted his father to come after him. He wanted to come home and stop acting like a jackass.

For some idiot reason, Johnny had gone into the city, the first place everyone with any sense left. A high population crammed into close quarters meant a quick and easy spread, like ripples through a lake. Even if the local hoards had migrated to somewhere else in search of food, there were still the blockades to deal with. Worthless walls, thrown together during the early stages to block off the street, made of whatever crap could be found in the nearby buildings: old mattresses and bed frames, bookshelves, ovens, washing machines, tables, etc. Not only was there no way in hell such a slapdash job could work, but now the materials were mostly rotten or rusted and they posed nearly as much of a risk as the occasional creepy crawly still trapped within.

After squeezing their way through one of these death traps, Frank and Tim had noticed a pulped mass of putrid flesh on the concrete. What they could only guess had once been a human had been utterly destroyed. Bones hadn’t just been shattered, but pulverized and what meat remained had been beaten into a thick soup. This wasn’t the typical M.O. for a flesh-hungry beast, only your garden variety human was capable of this kind of savagery.

That was when they saw him.

The hair was what clinched it. Who else would wear the long, tightly bound braid of a Chinese monk from the cheesy kung-fu flicks they had watched together so often? Certainly no one else with the delicate blond he somehow managed to get from his mother, glimmers of gold shining through the dirt and grime it had amassed.

Not having sensed their presence yet, he simply stood there. Still, relaxed, probably the calmest Frank had ever seen him. He looked malnourished. Bones jutted at every angle under pallid skin. He was missing his right hand from the wrist down. Jagged threads of skin and sinew dangled like tinsel from the nubs of bone.

Tim knew what had to be done. No father should have to do this shit, even though they all had. He unslung a dented and crusted aluminum baseball bat, the Morningstar having proved a tad too unwieldy to be practical, and walked towards it.

Until he felt a grip as solid as granite on his shoulder.

“I can't let you do that, Tim,” Frank said to him as he turned around, locking his gaze with eyes that practically blazed with regret and resolution. He should have known it was going to go this way.

Frank had been on his way to relieve Johnny of the much despised night watch a couple hours early. He couldn't sleep and, after the fight that afternoon, he hoped maybe it would calm the boy down a bit. Besides, they hadn't heard a single moan or scrape for months so it wasn't going to be a particularly stressful watch.

This lack of recent contact was precisely what had started the argument earlier in the day. Johnny was certain that any real threat was over and that it was time to start long-range scouting expeditions in hope of finding other survivors. He wasn't the only one, but everyone else had agreed to wait through the next winter freeze and spring thaw since those processes would speed up decomposition of any remainders out there. Their compound was completely self sufficient thanks to the supreme luck of a working well and a garden fertilized by their new waste disposal techniques. There was no reason to push their luck and risk any more than they had to. But Johnny wouldn't hear it. If they continued to wait, they could be damning another group of holdouts to starvation. They were being selfish.

Frank immediately saw this for the con it was. Johnny felt cooped up. He wanted to get out and meet new people. Mostly, he was horny. He seemed to honestly believe that he would ride into another compound on a glittering white horse to thunderous applause and accolades from women simply dying to get a hold of his cock.

So there had been a fight, with all of the petulance and anger that accompanies any argument with a teenager. Where logic and reason had failed, demands had been laid out in the face of grumbling and pouting and you-don't-understands. He had spent the night locked in his room but had at least gone out on watch peaceably enough.

As Frank began a perimeter walk along the wall, he heard the earnest whispers that could only mean another argument. It came as no surprise to anyone that the teens were the first ones to adapt a form of whisper that conveyed the tone and intent of top-of-the lungs, throat shredding screams. Determined to keep his distance, he stuck to the shadows as he checked out the situation.

As it turned out, Johnny was in a bit of a spat with Lori, the only girl in the compound near his age. When they hit puberty, there had been plenty of speculation about the possibility of a relationship between them, but nothing developed.

“Come on Lori,” Johnny insisted, “I just want a kiss. Just for good luck.”

“You’re so full of shit, J,” Lori spit back. “We both know you wouldn’t want to stop there. I’ve told you over and over again: I. AM. NOT. INTERESTED. So keep your dick in your pants.”

There was no question in Frank’s head about what was going on here, but he didn’t step in. Sometimes a boy needed to be shot down. What he didn’t need was to know that he was being shot down right in front of his old man. Still, boys have been known to do stupid things in these moments, so he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Why do you have to be such a bitch about this?” Johnny said, pressing in on Lori’s personal space. She was obviously uncomfortable, but holding her ground. There was no room left for any damsels in distress in the world and she had earned her bad-ass wings out there just like everyone else. “I’m the one who always risked his ass while you got to jaunt around on your little shopping sprees. Don’t you think you owe me a little?”

That was when he decided to pounce, pushing her to the ground and throwing himself on top of her. Frank couldn’t believe that Johnny was actually stupid enough, asshole enough to try something like this. He couldn’t let this continue.

But before he could do anything, Lori slammed her elbow into Johnny’s nose, breaking it. Taking advantage of his momentary pain and confusion, she pushed herself out from under him and stood up.

“I don’t owe you a damn thing,” she growled. “I’ve done my fair share, just like everyone else. Hell, I’ve killed more of them close up than you have from the safety of your little rooftops. If you ever touch me again, I’ll use your nuts to flavor our next soup.” After kicking him in the side twice to hammer the point in, she stomped off back toward the house.

Frank didn’t know what to do or how to deal with the situation. Behavior like this couldn’t stand but now didn’t seem like the time to address it. For the moment, Johnny wasn’t going to be doing anything and a lecture wouldn’t leave nearly the impact of that broken nose. He decided to slink his way back to the house and spend the night considering what to do in the morning. Maybe, given time to think about it, Johnny would realize what he had done and apologize on his own. In the mean time, Frank would leave his son with whatever little dignity he retained.

By morning, Johnny was nowhere to be found. The house was alive with the groaning and mumbling of its residents. He had left no note, no explanation and not much food. The shit had taken about a quarter of it with him on his temper tantrum and he didn’t bother to close the damn gate on his way out.

It was time to go through the whole hackneyed bit. Wasting time they didn't have, explaining something both of them already knew. It was pure fucking stupidity, but Tim went ahead with it anyways. What else were friends for?

“Frank, he's not your boy anymore.”

“Tim,” Frank responded, the fury in his eyes dying down to the rough glaze of poorly fired pottery, “he hasn't been my boy for a long time.”

The reassuring weight of Ol’ Reliable firmly in hand, Frank walked over to meet his son.

- P -

Anton Cancre is one of those rotting, pus-filled thingies on the underside of humanity that your mother always warned you about. He has oozed symbolic word-farms for over a decade and continues to vomit his oh-so-astute and quite self righteous literary opinions, random thoughts and nonsense at http://www.antoncancre.blogspot.com. No, he will not babysit your pet shoggoth, so stop asking.

The Real Thing

Ginny Gilroy

B

etty got her first clue that morning that something was going seriously wrong . On his way out to work her husband, Roland, nodded his head in approval at her storage room. Usually he pursed his lips and shook his head at the overflowing shelves that lined the long skinny room behind the kitchen.

But that morning he had been standing in the passageway between the kitchen and the storage room in his gray state trooper uniform, straightening his black tie, when he smiled a mournful little smile and nodded his head. He didn’t even look back at Betty to see if she noticed. She did, but before she could ask him about it the baby banged on her tray for more Cheerios, and Roland was out the back door.

The storage room used to be the mud room in their old farm house. Roland usually walked through it on his way out, purposefully ignoring the mess of groceries that lined the shelves: stacks of canned goods, boxes of dried goods, jars of all manner of stuff, and containers of laundry detergent packing the shelving units that Betty bought specifically for that purpose. When he wasn’t ignoring the mess of grocery items, he would shake his head indulgently at Betty before teasing her that she was a hoarder. To which Betty would respond that she had it “under control,” that she could “stop anytime.” But they both knew it wasn’t true, because Betty could never pass up a good buy-one-get-one-free sale.

Betty’s second clue that things were going seriously awry was that night when Roland came home carrying two grow lights the police department must have confiscated from an indoor pot garden. Roland was true blue; he would never raid the evidence room. He put them down on the kitchen table with no word of explanation.

“Will you please tell me what the hell is going on?”

He answered, barely glancing at her, “Sure, just help me out for a minute in the car.”

Because she didn’t know what else to do, Betty followed him out to his patrol car.  When he opened the door the dome light came on illuminating the white burlap sacks—50 lb sacks of brown rice.

The trembling started in Betty’s knees and spread through her whole body until she couldn’t even speak. She looked at Roland.

“And one more thing for you, Annie,” which was his pet name for her. Betty had grown up with an infatuation with Annie Oakley. When she was a kid, she had discovered the story of Annie Oakley, and her grandfather’s old shotgun both at the same time. Unbeknownst to her parents, she had spent the summer here on the farm with Grandma Emily letting her target shoot in the backyard. She and Roland had met at the firing range, where he had admired her form. Now 10 years later, he popped the trunk and showed her the stacks of ammunition for her guns.

“What the hell is going on?” she whispered to Roland as if the children could hear, though they were upstairs in their beds, sleeping by seven.

“I don’t know,” he answered, his brow wrinkling with worry. “Cops are responding to calls from hospitals and,” he shook his head and looked down as if he were ashamed to admit the police were vulnerable, but then continued, “getting bit, and dying, and then—” Roland shook his head unable to finish the sentence. It was hard for him to believe fellow officers were turning into zombies, but Roland was pragmatic above all else. “We have to prepare. I would rather look stupid if nothing’s wrong than be caught with my dick in my hand if something really is wrong.”

“What something?” Betty asked, unwilling to fill in the blanks.

He stared her straight in the eye and answered, a little louder then he meant to, “Zombies.”

The word entered her consciousness then bounced off a wall of reason. She glanced through the darkness that had come too soon to their big backyard in central Pennsylvania. Instinctively, her eyes sought out the light of reason, but found only the light that shown out from Carly’s trailer, brooding at the edge of the backyard just inside the woods. Betty knew that monsters were real; she had one living in her backyard. But zombies—that was not possible.

Out of respect for him, she helped Roland carry the supplies into the house. It took them over an hour to unload the car. They brought the grow lights down into the root cellar and stacked the ammunition down there too, right beside the big gun safe. When they were done they locked the high locks on the cellar door, the ones their four-year-old daughter, Julia, was too short to reach.

Roland had maxed out his credit card buying ammunition, and asked Betty to do the same buying household supplies. Betty did it only because Roland asked her to, not because she actually believed in zombies.

Pushing her carriage through the brightly lit isles at Target, she tried to stretch her mind around what her family might need in the event of a zombie invasion, but was completely unable to imagine it. She wandered through the store in a mist of impossibility that separated her from her reality. The people who came into her field of vision seemed far away and unreachable.

Betty knew she had to rouse herself and she did by pretending she was preparing for a blizzard. She stocked up on batteries, toilet paper, tampons. Betty knew they would be a luxury, but she indulged. She bought extra blankets, and little toys for the kids.

Betty tried to figure out if she should warn people. Whenever she imagined what she would say, there was no way she would have sounded anything but crazy. In the end she kept her mouth shut, laid down her American Express card and wheeled her two overflowing carriages out to the car.

When she and Roland were done tucking away the supplies as discreetly as they could because they didn’t want little Julia to know anything was awry, they sat down at the kitchen table. Betty knew a difficult conversation was brewing by the way Roland kept rubbing his chin. She got the two cups of coffee and joined him at the table.

“I think we’re as ready as we can be,” Betty offered.

He nodded knowing they were uniquely positioned to survive. They lived in an old farm house that had been self-sufficient in the past and could be again. There was even had a hand pump from an underground well inside the kitchen. They were well supplied and could defend themselves. Both Betty and Roland were crack shots. Roland was an ex-marine and tough as nails. For a brief moment Betty felt secure in the knowledge that they were as prepared as two humans could be. And then Roland asked the big question, “Who do we invite?”

Betty’s heart stopped with the realization that they were prepared to survive and therefore had a responsibility to decide who, if anyone would join them in their sanctuary. The responsibility tipped her sanity, and she experienced vertigo so strongly when she stood that she nearly fell over, but she managed to stumble out the door to vomit in the bushes.

Roland picked her up and shook her, just enough for her to know he meant business. He yelled in her face, his the old Marine Corps training coming out, “No fucking way, Betty. You are not punking out on me. You are not leaving me alone with this decision. Get your shit together.” Betty grasped onto him as if she were drowning. Knowing he was right, she caught her breath and steadied herself. If it was true, Betty had to pull her own weight. It would be a long road, and they would travel it together, partners, like they had promised each other on their wedding day.

They decided to “talk” outside knowing the discussion would get heated and not wanting to wake the kids. They sat in the little pool of light off the back porch. Betty pulled her wool cardigan tight around her to keep warm against the autumn chill. Roland issued the opening salvo, “I don’t want him here,” he said.

“Neither do I, but he’s my sister’s husband and they’re right there,” Betty motioned to the trailer, where Carly, and her husband, Bruce, lived.

In her trailer, Carly had been looking out the window over the sink when Roland stormed out of the house after Betty. She assumed he would pick her up and slap her. She had looked away; she couldn’t worry about that.

She had to do the dishes. The water ran hot over her already chapped hands as she scraped every last spec of dried egg from the white plate. She tried to scratch at it with her thumb, but all her nails had all been bitten down to the quick. It was a nervous habit. She prayed to Jesus that she would get all her housework done before Bruce came home. He liked the trailer clean. He said that just because they were poor they didn’t need to be pigs. He was right about that.  The little piece of yellow was finally dislodged and the plate was sparkling clean. She put it in the rusting dish drainer with the rest of them.

When Carly looked out the window again her sister was arguing with her husband. She could almost hear them shouting at each other. Betty was shaking her head and yelling at Roland. He yelled back. It was strange because Betty and Roland never argued. That was the only clue Carly had that the natural order of things was about to turn completely upside down.

Carly caught herself woolgathering and quickly refocused. It wasn’t good to let her mind wander, because it always wandered to worrying. Would Bruce drink up the grocery money again? Would he find something wrong with the trailer? Would his supper be ready when he came home? Would he be kind to her tonight with lovin’ or rough, where Carly would have to bite her lip to keep from crying out. Her lip was still sore from biting last night, or was that because he hit her in the mouth? She couldn’t remember; things were getting blurry. Bruce was right; she was stupid. Carly realized that her shoulders were up around her ears and she tried to relax by drying the dishes.

Carly was too busy worrying to see Roland dart up and go for the police radio in his patrol car. Official reports were coming in now. The plague had started in New York City, spreading chaos even faster then the virus. Those at leading edge of the epidemic, sped out of the city in their cars, bashing through tolls and breaking the speed limit. They were the ones who got out before the crashes jammed the roads. They sped out across the country, as far away from New York as they could get, blind with panic and just needing to get out. The plague going along for the ride.

One of them ended up in the parking lot of the Old Town Tavern where Carly’s husband, Bruce, was finishing off the last of the grocery money with a shot of Wild Turkey. He knew that bitch, Betty, would feed them with all that food she had tucked away. She wouldn’t let her baby sister starve to death because of the big bad wolf.

Bruce laughed, relishing his power over Carly. She was always looking to him wide eyed, begging for approval. If he didn’t give it to her, she fawned all over him until he did. Sometimes it annoyed him, and he lashed out. Other times he tested the limits she would go to please him. All it took for him to maintain control was to be nice to her once in a while. That’s all it took. He could do whatever he wanted as long as he said, “I’m sorry,” and bought her some flowers from the supermarket.

The extra added bonus to Bruce was the way it made that self-satisfied sister of Carly’s so angry. Bruce liked to see Betty squirm because she couldn’t do a damn thing about the way he ordered Carly around like a servant. Carly liked it. She was, Bruce started rocking to that song, “Under My Thumb.” He was humming the Rolling Stones tune as he threw down the last of his money and walked out of the bar.

Parked next to his pickup was a Gray BMW with New York plates, not the kind of car that was usually parked at the Old Town. He went closer and peaked inside. In the orange sodium light of the parking lot he could make out a woman slumped over the steering wheel of her fancy car. One of those skinny city girls with long blonde hair covering her face. Bruce thought she must have drunk herself into a stupor before she even got to the Old Town for her nightcap.

He smiled, his mouth watering. This opportunity was too good to pass up. Fucking a passed out woman was a treat, and this one was already drunk, which would save him a lot of time and money. Bruce almost chortled at his good luck.

Smiling, he gently knocked on the window, “Hey lady,” he said using his most charming voice. When she didn’t move he tried the door. It was unlocked. Payday!

When he opened the door the light went on and he could see how shiny her hair was. The passed out woman stirred, moaned. Oh, she was drunk all right. Bruce felt himself harden. He grasped her shoulder and pulled her back to get a look at her. The dead gray skin on her face was such a contrast to the shiny blond hair, and neat clothes that Bruce thought it must be some kind of makeup. He chuckled, “Alittle early for Halloween.” She moaned again and opened her eyes, grabbed his hand, and bit down hard on his palm. Screaming Bruce pulled his hand away. She lunged out after him, but he got the car door between him and her and slammed it shut.

“Fucking, fucked-up bitch.” He screamed, kicking the car. His hand was bleeding from the teeth marks in his palm. That bitch had bitten him good and hard, and he hadn’t even done anything yet.

He looked back at her wanting to go in for a parting shot. That was no makeup. In the orange sodium light of the parking lot he saw the dead gray face pressed against the window, wriggling as if trying to get out. The grayish, already decaying skin working up and down because the mouth was still snapping, still trying to bite him. Her blue eyes were clear and bright, but staring like a doll’s eyes. When the woman thing in the car realized there was a barrier between it and him she pulled back and then slammed her head against the window so hard the glass cracked. It moaned and pulled back to take another try.

Bruce ran. He got into his truck and peeled out, the virus racing through his system killing him as it spread.

When Carly heard him at the door she felt that familiar mix of dread and excitement she always felt when he came home. She went forward to greet him then feinted back, wary like a stray cat who wasn’t sure if you were going to pet it or kick it. With Bruce it could go either way, fuck or fight. It was sinful but she liked the fucking and it was all right because they were married. He was such a handsome man, all the girls thought so, and he was hers.

“Carly,” he called out. It was his fighting voice but raspier. For just a split second she thought of running but quickly shooed the thought away. He had promised he would never let her go alive.

“Caahly,” he shouted again but couldn’t quite say her name clearly. He was pulling at the door probably too drunk to open it himself.

“Caahly.”

She brightened up. He needed her. It would be all right. He needed her.

“Hi Babe,” she said in her sweetest, most placating voice opening the door for him.

He staggered in and collapsed onto the tweed couch, his face scrunched up in pain, sweat beading on his forehead. He looked so miserable and vulnerable. Carly rushed over to him, and pressed her hand against his temple. It was hot with fever.

“We should go to the hospital,” she said knowing a high temperature could cause brain damage.

“Fuck. Geh me some water. Help me bed.”

Doing as she was told, Carly helped him up. He leaned his 6’ 2” body, toned by hours in the gym, on her petite frame. She nearly stumbled but she held. She was afraid not to. She couldn’t imagine what he would do to her if she let him fall onto the floor. She managed to get him down the hall to the bedroom, and let him down gently on the bed.

“I ol you ge me waer!” He yelled at her, having trouble forming the words.

“Ok, Ok, I’m sorry.”

Carly scattered off into the kitchen and ran some water from the tap into a glass. He must really be sick because he hadn’t asked for beer. That was good, she told herself. He wasn’t still drinking. He had had enough. After a few hours of sleep he would be sober. Maybe this was a turning point. Maybe he was going to quit drinking like he promised.

When she returned to the bedroom he was sitting on the edge of the bed. He was pale but there was a weird blue cast to his skin. She could see dark lines where his veins were. His eyes wandered through the room as if he couldn’t focus on anything. Carly thought he must have started drinking earlier then usual, which would mean more of the money was gone.

“Babe?” she said, holding out the glass of water.

His eyes finally wandered around to where she was standing. He fixed his brown eyes on her, and moved as if to get up, but couldn’t rise. He just grunted at her, his head dropping down onto his chest.

That was when the cold fear ran down her back. The pale grayness was spreading down his neck. She cocked her head as if looking at him askance would give her a better view of what was really happening. Bruce was sitting still, perfectly still, too still. His chest wasn’t rising and falling. He wasn’t breathing, but he was still sitting there. She was afraid to go forward to touch him. She knew if she did he would fall over, dead. She backed up further until she was standing just outside the door.

A sound grumbled from low in his chest. It was a phlegmy moan as if he were testing out his lungs. It grew stronger as he got more air into it. The moan, roared past his vocal cords like nothing Carly had ever heard before. It was pure human instinct for survival that saved her. She dropped the glass, pulled the door shut and threw the locks, just as he lunged for her.

Bruce had put the locks on the outside the bedroom door for when he needed them. When she got uppity, he had to teach her a lesson and keep her in that room until she learned. There was going to be hell to pay for her locking him in, but something told her that she had to. He had completely lost control, even more so then when she had to go to the hospital.

She knew by the staring eyes that blazed with hellfire, and the fact that he was so angry he could only moan, that he was completely out of control. When he was like that things could happen that wouldn’t be good for either one of them. Carly knew that if she ended up in the hospital again Bruce would end up in jail.

She sat against the wall in the small passageway of the trailer watching the door shake, as he tried to pull it open. She knew the locks would hold. She had tried many times to pull that door open. Sometimes she got really hungry inside that room for all those days.

Eventually the rattling grew weaker, but he still moaned on the other side of the door. Carly knew that eventually he would pass out. When that happened she would put him into bed and he would never know that she had locked him in. She fell asleep outside the bedroom door listening to him moan, wondering when he would finally stop.

In the morning Betty held Roland tight in her arms willing herself not to cry, and doing a passable job at it. She didn’t sob; the tears just dripped silently down her cheeks. It had officially started. What had happened in New York had spread.

Roland comforted her, stroking her hair, “We can contain it. Sergeant Daniels said it was just like in the movie if you shoot them in the head they die. We have to take them out before they over run us.”

“But—” Betty didn’t have any logical argument. She had married a cop. This was the deal. She reluctantly let go of her husband.

“We all need to be vigilant,” Betty’s father, George, said.

Knowing it was time for her to be strong, to pull her own weight and watch out for her family, Betty nodded her head, and let go of Roland.

“Remember babe, one shot one kill,” he said to her getting into his patrol car.

She waved to him as he drove away.

In the night Betty and Roland had decided to invite both sets of parents to stay with them. They had their reasons. Roland’s parents were both resourceful and patient. They would be a big help around the farm. Bill Kirkland, Roland’s father was also an ex-cop and a good shot. On the other hand, Betty’s parents were so good with the children. It had also been their farm. They had given it to Betty and Roland when Julia was born. Besides, they were their parents. They couldn’t leave mom and dad out there with them. In the end they both agreed that they had made the best decision they could; it would never be the right decision, it was only the best they could make.

George said, “Come on and keep watch for me and Bill, while we finishing boarding up these windows.” 

“Okay Dad,” Betty said, and she took up her favorite rifle. It was an old 12 gauge single barrel Winchester with a walnut grip. It was a good long-distance rifle with enough fire power to get the job done. If she needed more than one shot, she had the Colt six-shot revolver in the holster at her hip. Betty didn’t like automatic weapons, but knew how to use them.

She walked with the rifle cradled in the crook of her elbow, knowing she could kill a zombie if it threatened her family, but she didn’t know what it would do to her, to pull that trigger and hit what looked like a human being. There was knowing and then there was believing. She knew they were zombies and already dead, but would she believe in her heart that she had not killed a human being? She didn’t know, but dreaded finding out.

Betty stopped a minute to pet Bear. The big black Newfoundland was a beloved family pet. When Julia had first seen the puppy she pointed at it and said, “Bear,” because he looked just like a black bear with his blunt muzzle and big brown eyes. Roland was so proud of Julia for knowing her words that the name stuck. Attentive and affectionate, Bear was the gentlest dog Betty had ever known, endlessly indulging the kids when they climbed all over him.

When Roland had snapped the leash on him last night, Bear was confused. They never leashed him unless he was going to the vet. He had wandered around testing the limits of the rope and then had settled in his doghouse, good naturedly indulging the whims of his owners. Now, the dog stared intensely toward Carly’s trailer, barely acknowledging Betty when she patted his head.

“Mom, could you come out here.”

Betty’s mom, Milly, was in the kitchen organizing all of the supplies they had brought. They had been in charge of supplying the medicine cabinet with aspirin, Pepto Bismol, Band-Aids, toothpaste, peroxide, etc. Roland’s parents had brought the fuel, cans of gasoline, propane, and a generator.

When Milly came to the porch she noticed Betty looking at the trailer. She said to her, “Roland is right about Bruce. He shouldn’t be in the house with the rest of us.”

“I know, but Carly—”

“I don’t know what we did wrong, why won’t she leave him! We’ve done everything to, to…” Milly burst out in tears. Betty put her arm around her mom. It had been an emotional 24 hours and everybody was on edge, but this thing with Carly was non-negotiable. Everybody agreed that Bruce was not fit to be in the house with the rest of them.

Betty felt sorry for Carly, which was why she allowed them to park their trailer in her backyard. Something had happened to break Carly. She never said what it was, but it must have been bad. Roland had seen it between prostitutes and pimps. The problem was that Carly had met Bruce when she was young, and in Nevada far from their Pennsylvania home. Carly should never have been on her own, she was too innocent, too nice; somehow Bruce had taken advantage of that. Even after they had come back from Nevada Carly was never the same. The spark was gone out of her.

“Mom, please look out for Daddy and Bill, I’m just going to check on her.”

Her mother agreed and went for the extra 9mm Roland had assigned her. When she returned, Betty started out across the back yard. The further she got from the house the more Bear fussed. First he started barking, that low rolling, rrruf, rrruf, that big dogs have. She turned around to wave him quiet, and saw that he was straining at his rope. “Bear, down,” she said, but the dog didn’t know commands. He was normally so well behaved they hadn’t bothered with obedience training. That was when Betty realized something must be nearby. She let the fear pass through her knowing her courage would follow as long as she let go of the fear.

She hefted the rifle to her shoulder, and scanned the area. Behind her Betty could hear her mother scream as Bear broke his rope and came charging across the yard after her. She offered a quick prayer to whatever God was listening, “Please don’t let the dog get hurt.” Her daughter and husband would be crushed if anything happened to that stupid dog.

Bear bolted straight past her at the trailer. He stopped short, and staring like a pointer, growled.

“Oh shit,” Betty gasped. She heard the echo of Roland’s voice, “Do not loose your shit,” and she wouldn’t. This was it, It was starting. The last of the fear was draining away and the courage was filling its space. Betty was up to it; whatever would come, Betty could handle it. She had to, and she would.

She walked past Bear to the trailer. There was a little set of concrete steps leading up to the door. She ascended and tried to open the door, a thing she had never done before because even though the trailer was in her yard, she had never been invited in. The door was locked. She banged on the door and stepped down.

“Carly,” she shouted. She had to see her sister up close to know for absolute certain that she had turned, or she couldn’t shoot.

“Betty!” George called from behind her but Betty was in the zone. Carly opened the door.

“What the hell.”

“Step out,” Betty ordered her. Through the crosshairs, she could see that her sister was confused and scared, but Betty was firm when she again ordered her, “Out.”

Carly did as she was told. She came down the steps. The dog lunged. Bear knocked Carly over but then caught himself and backed off. Betty took a breath. Bear feinted back, barking furiously at the open maw of the trailer. Carly was okay. It wasn’t her. It must be Bruce.

Betty trained the gun on the trailer door, expecting the monster to come out, but it didn’t. She lowered the rifle and went to Carly.

“Where’s Bruce?”

“He’s asleep.”

“Haven’t you seen the news?” Betty said trying to maintain her cool.

Carly shrugged, “Bruce doesn’t like me watching TV alone.”

Normally that would rankle Betty beyond belief but she let it go. “There is a plague, Carly. Bruce probably has it.”

“Plague. Oh my god, I knew he was sick. We should get him to the hospital.”

Carly moved to go back into the trailer, but Betty stepped in front of her. Past Carly, Betty saw her Dad, and Bill running toward them.

“He’s dead, Carly.”

“No, he’s not. He’s just sick with the plague.”

“He’s a monster.”

“Stop calling him that! You’re always calling him that!”

It was true. Bruce was a monster and Betty had called him that to Carly’s face. How could she now explain to her sister that now it was really and truly true. It wasn’t a metaphor anymore.

Carly turned when she heard the two older men running toward them. Her defenses went up, and she said, “So now you’re all going to gang up on me. Thanks, Dad!”

Carly made another run for the trailer, up the steps, and pulled open the door. George grabbed her from behind, and wrestled her out of the trailer. He held onto her and tried to reason with her. The same old arguments that they had always used:  “Can’t you see what he is, he’s dangerous, he’ll kill you.”  Blah, blah, blah, Betty was tired of hearing it, and Carly still wouldn’t believe it.

“I’ll go.” Bill said, but Betty was closer, and before they could argue she was up the steps and inside the trailer slamming the door behind her. Bear threw himself against the door wanting to with his mistress.

Inside the trailer wasn’t the dingy place she envisioned it would be. There was a nice beige throw rug on the floor in the living room, and some pretty lacy curtains on the windows. The tweed furniture was slightly frayed but clean. It was a nice, normal place. It just happened to have a monster living inside it. Betty could hear it moaning.

There was only one way to go and Betty went carefully through the living/kitchen/dining area, toward the back bedroom. The bedroom door was at the end of the hall. In the dimness of the hall she saw three steel sliding bolts glistening on the bedroom door.

She almost gagged with disgust. He had locked her sister inside that room, kept her prisoner. A black wave of guilt washed over Betty. This had happened in her own backyard. She had allowed Bruce to keep her sister prisoner in her own backyard.

“Fuck you,” she shouted. In response the thing moaned louder and threw itself against the door, but it was locked in. The door rattled but held. 

“How do you like it you son of a bitch,” Betty whispered to the door, afraid that Carly might hear her.

Betty fingered the locks. At some point he had opened them. Betty turned and could see through the window over the kitchen sink, her own house right through the yard. All Carly had to do was walk over, and instead of begging for food, ask for help. Roland would have arrested Bruce in a heartbeat, thrown him in jail. Betty couldn’t help but think it was partly Carly’s fault. All she had to do was tell someone, anyone. The longer Betty thought about it the angrier she became. Carly could have helped herself, and let them help her at any moment and, yet, every day she chose not to.

She stormed out of the trailer to confront Carly, to give her one last chance.

“Where is it?” Bill Kirkland asked.

“She knows where it is, don’t you?” Betty asked her sister.

“Stop calling him it.”

“What’s going on?” George asked Betty.

“It’s trapped in there. Locked in. There are locks, sliding bolts on the outside of the bedroom door. He locked you in, didn’t he?”

“Oh my God.” George said. He crinkled up like a used piece of paper, undone, ashamed of Carly and of himself for letting this happen. He dropped her arm, and walked over to Bear. He took the dog by the collar as if he needed something to look out for.

Betty was now even angrier at her for making their father feel so ineffective. She wanted desperately to get Carly to take some responsibility for what had happened. “You let him do it,” she accused Carly.

“It was just for a little while. Just when I got uppity.”

Betty almost hit her, but she wanted to know. She wanted everyone to confront it, “Why did you let him do it?”

“I love him.”

“That’s just great, but you know what, he’s a real monster now.”

“Stop it,” Carly cried.

Betty looked at her and saw that maybe there was a shadow of a doubt in Carly’s eyes.

Betty continued, “You knew there was something wrong. That’s why you locked him in the bedroom, because you knew.”

Carly just shook her head trying to maintain her crumbling denial. Betty saw a slim opening and took a chance.

“Bill, give her your gun.”

Carly shook her head, uncomfortable with the idea of managing her own power.

“Just take it,” Betty coaxed her, “you don’t have to use it if you don’t want to, but if you need it, you’ll have it. Just go in and talk to him.” Betty said, hoping with all her might that Carly would finally see the truth. That she would finally see Bruce for what he was—a monster.

“I don’t know about this Betty,” Bill said.

“It’s all right.”

Betty did her best to be reassuring to everyone, and that was when she finally saw it. She had always been looking out for Carly. They all had. Maybe Carly should have learned how to look out for herself. The guilt was back but Betty pushed it away.

“Give it to her,” Betty said gently to Bill, but her eyes were hard and uncompromising as she stared him down. He offered Carly his revolver, butt first.

Betty coaxed her, “Go ahead take it.”

“Just let me handle it,” Carly said taking the gun.

“Okay.” Betty said, and put her rifle down on the ground, then held out her hands as a gesture of good will. Carly started toward the trailer.

Betty glanced at Bill Kirkland. He knew what was going on. He said quietly in her ear, “I’ll do it.”

Betty shook her head, “I’ll do it.” She said it out loud. It was her confession. “I want to do it.” Even as Betty admitted it, she held out hope that Carly would have a revelation, that she would finally see with some clarity and do what needed to be done. Drawing her revolver Betty counted a quick 30 and then followed, passing Bear as the dog struggled in George’s grip, pulling to get away.

Inside the trailer Betty watched as Carly unbolted the bedroom door and pushed it open. The zombie moved as if it were spring loaded, launching itself through the door into the hall, and onto Carly. She never even lifted the gun, and she didn’t flinch. It went in as if for a kiss and bit into her shoulder. Carly didn’t scream, though Betty could see the blood dripping down her arm as Carly dropped the gun. Betty shook her head and then sighted just as it went in for a softer bit of flesh at Carly’s neck. She had a clean shot at Bruce’s head, and pulled the trigger.  It fell back with a thump, no blood spatter. That was when Carly screamed. Covered in her own blood, she scrambled for the gun and raised it at Betty. Betty used a second shot.

- P -

Ginny Gilroy lives in Astoria, Queens, New York with a beautiful view of Manhattan. Her first novel, Dellwood, was published in summer of 2011 by Post Mortem Press. For more information please visit hew website at http://www.GinnyGilroy.com.

A Day in the Death Of

Jackie Gamber

C

arl was having a hard time making himself get out of

the van. Again.

He jabbed the button to kill “Dead Can Dance” off the vehicle’s CD player and sat with his coffee mug resting on his thigh, staring through a windshield speckled with drizzle. Beyond, detectives Hanson and Gruber hunched behind drooped police tape, squinting at each other through the morning spit, and pointing and nodding toward a body Carl couldn’t see over the dashboard.

Gruber spotted him, and lifted his thick chin. Then he elbowed Hanson, who waved him over.

“A day in the life of,” Carl muttered. He slid his coffee into his cup holder and grabbed at his equipment bag, and then stepped out into the wet dawn.

“What have we got?” he asked as he approached the cops, wrestling to hold his bag and slide his arms into his Animate Response Team-emblazoned rain poncho.

“She’s fresh,” said Gruber. He waved away a police photographer. “No sign she’s been up and at ‘em already.”

“Old guy found her, walking his dog,” said Hanson. He scratched at his paunch. “Or, the dog did, anyway. No I.D. But she’s wearing a designer label blouse, what’s left of it. We think she’s not far from home.”

Carl peered across the copse of flowering trees that was Ingall Park, and toward the Spanish Colonial Revival homes of the affluent neighborhood. “And nobody heard anything?” he asked.

“It’s not the scene,” said Gruber. “She was dumped here after.”

“Still,” said Carl, shaking his head. He knelt to peel back the plastic sheet over the body.

It moved.

He startled, and shot to his feet. Even after all this time, it still got him.

Gruber laughed. “There she goes.”

Hanson peeled back the plastic for Carl, exposing the victim’s bloodied mass of hair, her flaccid mouth, her glazed eyes. Her head flopped sideways, and she jerked spasmodically.

“Gentlemen, we have us a zombie.”

“Animate,” corrected Carl, fumbling in his bag for his microchip scanner. “Could you guys hold her still?”

“We already scanned her,” said Gruber. “I told you, no I.D.”

Didn’t matter, it was regulation. But he didn’t explain, he just pushed at the girl’s shoulders to roll her over. He only had moments before she would try to stand, and once she did that, she would be hard to manage. She was already twisting, and groans bubbled at the back of her throat.

He quickly passed the scanner down her spine, but didn’t get a hit until he hovered it near her right thigh. “Got her.”

“Shit,” said Gruber. “I swear we checked.”

Designer label, designer microchip. No rich person wanted to be treated like a nameless zombie, even if they were so dead they wouldn’t know the difference. “Ashley Perkins, age 21,” Carl read from his scanner. “You’re right. She’s not far from home.”

Ashley flopped to her stomach, and then scratched at the ground, trying to leverage. Her shredded and filthied blouse landed on the ground beneath her face. Her torn skirt bunched around her hips. “I hope you guys got all you need.”

“We got it,” said Hanson, scratching again at his paunch. “This ain’t our first rodeo.”

“All right, then. See you in about three hours.”

Three hours to get back to the clinic, process Ashley’s information, notify the family, and get her cleaned up for the family’s retrieval, if they wanted her.

Some families took their animate loved ones home. Some didn’t. But rich folks, they were the hardest to predict.

* * *

“Hey, George,” said Carl, their resident floor-sweeper, who had reached his 25th day of decomp in the clinic, but could still manage to hold a broom. George—who was called George because “John Doe” wasn’t interesting enough—grunted.

Carl’s co-worker, Maura, entered the hallway with a metal tray. She drew up short when she spotted Carl and his sheet-wrapped guest. “Oh, hey, you used the back door?”

“Yeah, those Pro-Deathers are waving signs out front.”

“They’ve been at it since dawn. They got nothing better to do than to harass underpaid government peons just doing their jobs? Like we’ve got anything to say about what happens to these corpses.” Maura tipped her head toward the newcomer. “Is that the call from Ingall Park?”

“Ashley Perkins,” said Carl, and he untwisted the tangle of odor-proof sheeting from her face and shoulders.

“Geez. She’s just a kid.”

“Her chip says she’s 21, but yeah. Under all the blood, she’s just a kid.”

“Well,” said Maura, leaning in to peer at their newest resident, “At least her boobs will be the last to go. Looks like she paid good money for them.”

Carl frowned, and modestly readjusted the sheeting.

Maura lifted the tray of tubing and formaldehyde-infused saltwater bags. “I’ve got to finish irrigating Number 12, his left arm’s down to a stump and it’s not smelling any better. But if you want to stick Number 14--”

“Ashley,” said Carl.

“Yeah. If you want to stick her in nine, I can clean her up when I’m done.”

“Okay.” He always felt weird about hosing down the fresh females. They were dead-ish, yeah, but still.

He walked Ashley toward cubicle nine, the refrigerated cell that would hold her until her family showed. She was doing really well for being just a one-hour, managing a shuffling gait and staring around herself as though she was actually paying attention. When they passed cubicle seven, four-dayer Stanley clawed at the slot in his door and howled.

Ashley darted toward him, breaking Carl’s grip on her arm, and she reached through the slot to touch him. His disintegrating hands ripped at her sheet, pawed at her exposed breasts. Carl could swear they were trying to kiss through that slot. Or eat each others’ faces.

“All right, all right.” He put his arm between them and yanked at Ashley to separate them. “We aren’t a dating service.”

“I’m telling you,” said Maura behind him. “Number 3 must have been some ladies’ man. Not a dead woman in the joint can resist him.”

“It’s like they know each other or something,” said Carl, squeezing his eyes shut against the smacking and clawing of two sets of sloppy, undead hands. “Little help here?”

The commotion startled George, who began banging his broom against the wall. In the next cubicle, Marge, a 10-dayer, rattled at her door, ripped at her bloated intestines, and threw the putrefied chunks at Ashley. Then Number 12, who looked a lot like James Dean, emerged from behind his unlocked door. He emitted a piercing, grief-stricken wail, and slapped his arm stump against the concrete walls in wet, red-black prints.

“Zombies don’t know each other!” Maura raised her voice above the din as she pried Ashley’s fingers from Stanley’s door slot.

Carl threw himself against the slot, blocking it, and Ashley immediately withdrew into a glossy stare. Her head tipped forward. She drooled.

“Animates,” Carl corrected, while Stanley pounded bloodied knuckles against his spine.

Those stains were never going to come out. He was going to have to start buying scrubs already pink, just to keep from spending half his lousy paycheck on clean uniforms.

“Animates. Zombies. Death-challenged,” said Maura, pulling Ashley toward cubicle nine. “Whatever you call them, they still stink and whine, and got no business shuffling around past their expiration date.”

“You won’t last around here with that attitude,” Carl called when the two disappeared behind a door.

Who was he kidding? No one lasted around here.

* * *

“Is she suffering?”

Ashley’s twin sister, Andrea, regarded her drooling sibling in the clinic’s visitation room, flanked on either side by Detectives Hanson and Gruber. Behind them stood Hannah Jordan, the Santa Leanna Times social reporter, holding out a pocket recorder.

“We only just chipped ourselves last week,” said Andrea. “It was a kind of joke.” She chewed at her bottom lip, and affectionately pushed a strand of hair from Ashley’s cheek.

“Had she been seeing anyone?” asked Detective Gruber. “Been having any relational issues?”

Andrea turned to the cop, her brow tight. “You think someone she knew did this?”

“Her death didn’t occur at the place she was found. She was laid there, carefully, in her own neighborhood, so she would be discovered.”

She looked back to Ashley, who had her willowy fingers pressed to her throat.

“God, does she remember what happened?” asked Hannah.

“I don’t think so,” said Carl. “Animates seem to retain some of their personality traits, something of a cell memory, but--”

“In all our investigations like this,” said Gruber, “the victim never adds any help to their own murder case. She doesn’t remember.”

“But you can’t be sure,” said Andrea. “I mean, look. I think she knows me.”

Ashley was patting Andrea’s cheek, and giving a sort of soggy purr.

“That’s the point, right?” asked Hannah, pushing her way through the others to stand before Ashley. “You can’t be sure how much of a person is retained, and how much is gone. Death isn’t really death anymore, is it?”

Carl looked from face to face. “Well…the body dies. It continues to die.”

“It continues to decay,” said Hannah. “But that’s a wasting disease, like HIV or Muscular Dystrophy. You don’t put a bullet through the heads of HIV patients just to ease their transition.”

Andrea gasped. “Is that what’s going to happen to her?”

Carl waved both his hands. “We don’t do that here. We’re a care clinic—”

“That houses animates until they’re shipped off to facilities that dispose of them.” Hannah held her tape recorder toward Carl’s face. “When they’re not claimed by family, they’re finished off in a government facility, isn’t that right?”

“I don’t have anything to do--”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s not your job to know.” Hannah lowered her tape recorder. “Except what if the government doesn’t finish them off? What if they’re kept as trained monkeys, used in radiation and safety experiments?”

Andrea gasped again.

“That’s ridiculous!” said Carl. “They wouldn’t be any kind of help. The government would need to know those sorts of affects on live people, not dead ones.”

“But Ashley isn’t dead,” said Andrea, tears welling in her eyes. “Look at her. She’s…she’s staring at me. She remembers me.”

“I assure you,” said Gruber, “your sister is dead. She was battered in the head by a sharp instrument and her life left her.”

Andrea openly wept.

“See here,” said Detective Hanson, scowling at Gruber. “All this is a little tough to take, we know.” He patted Andrea’s shoulder. “Why don’t we leave your sister with Carl, and we’ll step into the coffee shop next door to ask you some more questions.”

“She’ll be all right?” Andrea asked, lifting her tear-stained face.

“Well, yes,” Carl said, “But if you’re going to take her home, there’s an awful lot of paperwork to get started.”

“Home?” Andrea looked between the detectives, and then to her sister. “I…I mean, our parents won’t return from Barbados until next week. And she’ll need care, won’t she? I don’t think I ought to make that kind of decision by myself.”

“Of course not,” said Hannah, grasping Andrea’s hand and offering it to Detective Hanson. “You go on with the officers here, and I’ll be along to join you.”

Andrea gave a forlorn look to her stupefied sister, and then obediently followed the policemen toward the back door.

“Look,” said Carl, taking Hannah by the elbow after they’d gone. “Whatever story you’re digging for here, you’re not going to find it. This clinic cleans them up and sends them on. That’s all.”

“Are you kidding?” Hannah lowered her voice. “Do you know who Ashley Perkins is? All those Pro-Deathers marching on Washington, getting celebrity funds and marathon sponsors, killing off innocent animates who didn’t ask for their fate--”

“You can’t kill something that’s already dead,” said Carl.

“…and then Ashley Perkins shows up, murdered and rich and ready for the ‘Animates are people too’ campaign posters with her pouty lips and zombified cleavage! They couldn’t have a better spokesmodel!”

Carl gently guided Ashley toward the double doors of the housing area. “I’m sure she’s glad to have made your day. I have work to do.”

“Come on, Carl. Don’t tell me you don’t sympathize.” Hannah followed him, her tape recorder stuck out toward his cheek. “Why else would you still work here, after all this time?”

He paused. “It’s a job. Most people need one of those.”

Hannah smiled. “Most people couldn’t do this kind of job.” She lowered her recorder again. “You do this because you know, whatever else is going on in with those animates, they are still people inside.”

Carl made a sound at the back of his throat, and guided Ashley through the double doors. The cold metal flaps swung back, and Hannah dodged to follow. “I just want to hear it from you, Carl. From someone on the inside. Someone who knows they are more than just mindless freaks of nature.”

Carl spun to face her, then. “But I don’t know!”

At his shout, Stanley roused. He threw himself against the door of his hold, shrieking. Ashley broke from Carl’s grasp, and returned Stanley’s hollow cry as she darted across the hallway to thud herself against Stanley’s door. They pawed and clamored at each other through the slot.

James Dean emerged from his unlocked hold, gimping into the hallway. He flailed his arm stump against the wall, and barraged a pattern of gangrenous, oily sludge.

Marge joined in, clattering her door nearly off its hinges. She scratched at her mouth, pulled teeth and rotten tongue with her bony fingers, and threw the handfuls through her iron bars.

The hail pattered against Ashley, who had pulled off her paper gown. Ashley was bent forward, howling, her backside pressed against Stanley’s door, while the door bang-bang-banged from Stanley’s violent attempts at dry-humping.

Carl felt a hand on his arm. He looked at Hannah, who had gone pale and quiet. She inched toward Carl until their hips bumped. Her lips parted, and she might have said something, but he couldn’t be sure, with all the ear-piercing noise.

“You were saying something about people?” Carl shouted.

Hannah’s brow twitched, and she pointed a finger toward his face, inhaling sharply to chastise him. But at that moment, a wedge of Marge-flesh slapped to her wrist. She froze, staring, her eyes going hazy.

Two black-skinned nubs of fingers pinched the blob from Hannah’s wrist and dropped it to the floor.

“Hey, George,” said Carl.

George grunted. Then he turned, and, with his push broom, quietly swept it away.

The color in Hannah’s face evaporated.

“Here,” said Carl, bracing her. “Come sit in the office while I get them under control. Then maybe we can talk more.”

She nodded. “Talk more about what it’s really like on the inside,” she said, her voice faint. She shuffled, her gait awkward and sloppy, and she leaned a little too hard to her left.

Carl led her along just fine. He was pretty good at that sort of thing.

* * *

Days later, he sat in the Animate Response Van, watching a foggy rain through the windshield. “Dead Can Dance” quietly chanted from the CD player. He sipped at his lukewarm coffee, and then rested it on his thigh. “Having a hard time getting out of the vehicle?” he asked.

Beside him, Hannah Jordan pushed the button on her mini recorder. “A little,” she said.

“First time’s the worst,” he said. “But don’t worry. After that, it doesn’t get any easier.” He smiled.

She smiled too. Then she sobered. She cleared her throat. And then she spoke into her recorder. “Day One of my assignment in the ART. This is Hannah Jordan, with Carl Weedham, and ‘A Day in the Death Of.’”

As co-founder and Executive Editor of Meadowhawk Press, a speculative fiction publisher based in Memphis, Jackie edited and published David Walton’s Terminal Mind, which garnered the Philip K. Dick Memorial Award in 2009. Jackie also edited the award-winning benefit anthology Touched by Wonder, and has been guest editor the acclaimed dark fiction magazine Shroud. 

An award-winning author in her own right, Jackie writes stories ranging from ultra-short to novel-length, varieties of which have appeared in anthologies such as Tales of Fantasy and Old School, as well as numerous periodical publications, including Orson Scott Card’s Intergalactic Medicine Show, The Binnacle, Rosebud Magazine, ParABnormal Digest, and  Necrotic Tissue. She is the author of the fantasy novel Redheart, re-released by Seventh Star Press. Jackie is a member of the professional organizations Science Fiction Writers of America and Horror Writers Association, and is the winner of the 2009 Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley Award for Imaginative Fiction.

Dinner With Andy and Meg

Thomas M. Malafarina

T

he young woman’s heart pounded like a jackhammer in

the center of her chest. Her blood thumped with a deafening roar inside her skull sounding like ocean waves crashing against the shore as she fled frantically down the dark alley on the hot and humid August night. Perspiration flowed from every pore as her clothing clung tightly to her sweat soaked body. Her feet felt like lead weights, her footfalls resounding like claps of thunder inside her panic stricken mind. The steamy air surrounding her reeked with the stench of decay. She was using up virtually every last ounce of energy she could muster trying desperately to escape. She was unaware that as she fled she was screaming at the top of her lungs.

She fought back the tears, which seemed to be pressing on the backs of her eyes, which bulged wide with fear. But she knew if she gave in to such an urge and allowed the tears of terror to flow freely, she might very well lose her concentration, might falter and then it would certainly be all over. Behind her an ever-increasing mob of vile rotting living-dead creatures lumbered clumsily along with arms outstretched, growling, moaning that horrible sound they all seemed to make, clawing at the air with long yellowed gnarled fingernails. 

She had outrun such creatures countless times before with little difficulty as they were all so slow and awkward, stumbling about in what might be considered an almost a comic fashion, had they not been so disgusting and so incredibly deadly. But tonight, something had gone very wrong; tonight she had inadvertently found her way into an unfamiliar section of a city with numerous connecting side streets and alleys, each of which appeared to be vomiting dozens of the deadly zombies.

The creatures' tattered clothing hung on decaying skeleton-exposed bodies as rags and remnants of what they had once been; mimicking the same hideous manner in which their own flesh tended to hang and slough off of their bones as they gradually rotted away. She supposed some day if she only could stay alive long enough to see it, they would all simply decay and disappear. As she ran for her life, she started to wonder if staying alive was going to be possible for her for very much longer.

Bonnie well knew and understood the rules for surviving in this post-apocalyptic world and the number one rule was to never let them out-number you, corner you or trap you. Even a small child might be able to outrun two or three of the mindless beasts; but when they overpowered you with sheer force of numbers the chances of survival quickly dwindled away to nothing. And that was exactly where Bonnie now found herself; surrounded by an ever-growing number of the walking dead creatures, too many to allow for any sort of successful getaway.

She looked around for a possible avenue of escape, but found none. She could smell the stench of decay getting ever nearer as the creatures began surrounding her. She could hear their mechanical guttural growling getting ever closer behind her. Just when she thought she would have to accept her fate and would surely be eaten alive, she heard the honking of a car horn and saw the silhouette of what appeared to be a dark van or panel truck speeding down the alley in her direction knocking down zombies, literally smashing them to pieces as body parts flew in all directions. 

When the van was about ten feet in front of her, the driver slammed on its breaks, skidded sideways and brought the van to a stop with the side door facing Bonnie. A moment later the door slid open and Bonnie saw an arm wave frantically, beckoning for her to come inside, as she heard a man’s voce shouting, “Hurry! Jump in quickly, before it’s too late!”

Without hesitation, she pushed aside two disgusting female zombies who had momentarily turned away from her and had begun focusing their attention on the newly arrived van. She quickly sprinted toward the open door and literally threw herself inside. A moment later the door slammed shut and she was plunged into darkness. She seemed to land on a dank musty smelling rug of some sort and thought she could smell an oily, industrial odor inside the van. She heard several zombies thumping against the outside of the door. The man who had just saved her life, seen only in silhouette was working his way back into the driver’s seat.

“Come on!” The shadowy man said, “Hurry! Up front! Get in the passenger’s seat! It's the only chance we have of getting out of here alive!”

Bonnie did as the mysterious man instructed, quickly climbing into the passenger’s seat and securing herself with her safety belt with shoulder harness. She looked over at the man in the driver’s seat and was surprised to find he was a young, handsome man, just a few years older than she was. He had longish dark hair, was well built and seemed surprisingly clean considering the deplorable condition of the world they lived in.

He was busy flipping switches like a pilot about to take off in an airplane. It was then Bonnie noticed the strange array of dials and knobs crudely retrofitted to a box mounted to the van’s dashboard.

Outside, the zombies had begun to crowd all around the van, scraping, clawing and banging on the outside, trying to find a way to get in, to get to the two delicious morsels, just waiting to be devoured. Bonnie surprised herself by strangely thinking of the phrase, "meals on wheels" then experienced an uncontrollable shiver at the thought.

“Look down by your feet!” The man shouted, “See that black rubber square on the floor? Put your feet solidly on that square and put your hands in you lap.”

“But… but…” Bonnie attempted to say.

“Do you want to live or die?” The man scolded. “Now do what I told you! Put your feet on that square and put your hands in your lap! Do not… I repeat… do not touch any of the doors or any metal in here! Do you understand?”

Bonnie, quickly nodded her understanding and immediately did as she was told, assuming the position the man described with her feet planted firmly on the soft thick rubber mat. To her right, at the passenger’s side window, a particularly hideous creature had its rotting face pressed tightly against the glass, its eyes roaming about wildly; its wretched tongue licking the surface of the window like some sort of mentally deficient animal, which in essence, it was. Bonnie cringed and held back an almost uncontrollable urge to vomit at the horrible sight.

Then most of the other creatures had begun pounding wildly against the outside of the van as the young man fiddled with knobs and dials on whatever the contraption was which was mounted to the dashboard. “Here we go.” He said, as if Bonnie was supposed to know what he was about to do, which of course, she did not.

Suddenly, the air around her seemed to hum and she began to feel the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stand on end. Then the humming became louder and she noticed that the hideous creature, which had attached itself to her window, was suddenly beginning to twitch and spasm. All around the van every one of the undead beasts was thrashing and convulsing uncontrollably. Then Bonnie finally realized what was happening and why the man had asked her to keep her feet on the rubber mat and not touch any metal. He was somehow sending a high-voltage electric current of some sort throughout the outside of the van and was electrocuting any of the decomposing creatures that had come in contact with the metal exterior, as well as any of the things which were in turn touching the ones hanging on to the van.

The particular creature, which had attached itself to her window, convulsed worse than ever, his body twitched spasmodically, his grey-filmed eyes rolled back in their sockets as he began to uncontrollably spew a greenish-yellow liquid all over the window. The wretched creature’s hair began to first smoke, then smolder and then was finally set ablaze as the mindless thing stared helplessly in through the window at Bonnie.

For the briefest of moments she almost began to feel pity for the beast as smoke began pouring from the corners of its undead eyes, its flaring nostrils and then finally from its slack-jawed mouth. The entire process seemed to go on for hours but in reality took but a few seconds. Then all of the zombies surrounding the van began to drop one by one onto the street, now reduced to smoldering heaps of burning shuddering flesh. The air was filled with the foul odor of rotten burning human hair and flesh.

Without a moment’s hesitation, the man flipped a few more switches then put the van into gear and raced down the alley, driving bumpily over top of the twitching, burning corpses. When they were a safe distance from the alley the man turned to Bonnie and said. “You can relax and take your feet of the rubber pad if you like. I turned off the juice.”

“Who… what… how… who are you?” Bonnie stammered.

The man offered his right hand in a friendly handshake gesture and said pleasantly, “My name is Andrew but you can call me Andy.”

At first, Bonnie was reluctant to shake his hand after what she had just witnessed, as if somehow his hand held another electrical charge, which would fry her the way it had fried the creatures in the alley. Eventually she took his hand, “My... my name is Bonnie… say… what was that you just did back there.”

“Oh that. Well, that was nothing. I just gave those dead heads a taste of good old-fashioned e-lec-tricity; courtesy of a series of industrial strength batteries I have rigged up in the back of the van.”

Bonnie asked, “But how did you… I mean… how do you know how to do all that?”

Andy replied. “Well, back in the good old days, before the world went down the crapper, I was an electrical engineer. I know all kinds of stuff like that. Most of it is useless in the stone-knives-and-bear-skins world we now live in, but some of it comes in handy from time to time… like tonight for example.”

“Well I certainly appreciate it.” Bonnie replied, “I usually have no trouble outrunning those things but tonight something went wrong and I got turned around somehow and they managed to ambush me.”

She sat quietly for a few minutes then self-consciously began to notice her own fetid odor; the stink of sweat, fear, caked on filth and an unwashed body. She reached over and rolled down the passenger window about half way.

“I’m sorry about my smell.” Bonnie said, “I know I must really stink. Needless to say it’s been a long time since I’ve been able to wash.”

Andy replied, “Not a problem. Baths are few and far between theses days, and compared to that crowd we just left, you smell just fine. Besides, you can take care of getting a bath and a clean set of clothing when we get where we are going.” Bonnie was suddenly thrilled at the prospect of being able to wash once again.

The van navigated from street to street driving around the city. She believed Andy was taking a circuitous route which would keep him as far away from zombies as possible, but she had absolutely no idea where they were going. After a while she realized they were leaving the city and heading out into the suburbs.

“Where are we going?” Bonnie asked with a bit more uncertainty in her voice than she had wanted. She understood there were many dangers to fear in this new world and not all of them were zombie in nature. Bonnie often found she had as much to fear from her fellow man as she did from the walking dead. She unconsciously reached into her right pants pocket to make sure she still had her switchblade handy.

“Well.” Andy said, “I figured the best thing to do under the circumstances was to get as far away from danger as possible. We have a place out in the country which is safe and where we hardly ever see any of those ungodly creatures.”

“We?” Bonnie asked curiously. She had heard of pockets of survivors who formed small communities. She had been searching for such a group and hoped she had finally found one.

“Oh yes. Sorry.” Andy explained, “I have a place out in the country where I live with my wife Meg. I only come into the city when I absolutely have to; to get those things I can’t seem to find at home. I was returning home when I heard you screaming.”

Bonnie sat surprised for a second. Had she screamed? She could not recall, but supposed in her terror she most likely had done so. Now that she had given it some thought it was probably a good thing she had screamed, or else Andy might not have ever found her.

“Do you and Meg have and kids?” Bonnie asked off handedly then suddenly thought better of it. Many couples had lost children to the insatiable appetites of the hell-born creatures. What if that had happened to Andy and Meg? Now that the words had left her lips she wished she hadn’t said them.

“No. Meg and I never got around to having any kids.” Andy explained, “I suppose that was fortunate, considering how everything turned out.” Bonnie let out an inaudible sigh of relief. Then Andy asked her, “Do you live in the city somewhere or are you just passing through?”

Bonnie hesitated for a moment then said, “No. Not really. I suppose I was just sort of passing though, looking for food, maybe hoping to find some survivors; whatever. I don’t really have any firm plans these days.”

“Yeah. I know what you mean. Well, it looks like tonight was your lucky night.” Andy said, “You have found a survivor and we have plenty of food. When we get to my place I promise I will fix you up a good late night meal. How long has it been since you’ve eaten real food? You look a bit on the scrawny side, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

Bonnie looked down at her pathetically thin condition and said, “I suppose you are right. I really can’t remember when I ate last. It’s hard to keep track; days maybe. I think I may have had a bag of pretzels a few days ago, but I can’t recall… that might have been a week ago. The days all seem to run together.”

Andy reached down into a brown sack next to his seat, took out a large bright red apple and handed it to her. He said, “Here, try this. It should hold you over until we get home. Bonnie took the fruit and began to hungrily gnaw on it, allowing the juices to run shamelessly down her chin.

“I think you’ll be quite happy with the dinner you’ll have at our place,” he said, “and I can’t wait to introduce you to my wife Meg. I’m sure you’ll both get along great.”

Very little else was said for the remainder of the trip. After they had traveled for about a half hour or so along an dark and quiet country road, Andy slowed the van and made a sharp right turn onto what appeared to be a gravel driveway which ended at a set of large metal gates. Bonnie soon learned Andy’s house was located at the end of the roadway. To gain access, Andy had to leave the van and unlock a padlock securing the gates, which were equipped with razor wire across the top. When he returned to the van he explained the fence was just one of the many precautions he had to take to keep the creatures from getting onto his property. “Every so often one or two of them find there way to the fence.” Andy said. “When they do, I simply wheel down a few of the batteries, hook up the cables, turn on the electricity and fry ‘em.”

Bonnie was a bit leery about being locked inside of the property, which was more like some sort of compound, trapped behind an eight foot razor-wire fence that could be quickly charged with enough electricity to kill an elephant. But she believed she would be much safer on the inside of the fence than she would be on the outside. Plus she had survived this long and was certain she could still take care of herself if the need arose. And she did not believe she would have any problems since her new companion, Andy seemed ok; especially considering the risk he had taken to save her life. Once they had passed through the gates, Andy locked them again, before returning to the van and driving slowly and cautiously up the dirt driveway to the house at the end.

When the pair approached the house, Bonnie could see candlelight reflecting in some of the windows. She must have looked a bit taken aback because Andy quickly explained, “Yep, candles. Keep in mind, just because I'm an electrical engineer doesn’t mean I can produce juice from thin air. The local electrical grid has been down for months. I have a few gas-powered generators for real emergencies and some rechargeable batteries like the ones in the van but for the most part we have to get buy with candles, just like everyone else.”

Bonnie nodded her head in understanding without speaking. It was weird how Andy had been able to read her thoughts as if they were not strangers but actually a couple. She wondered if her face was such an open book or if he was simply able to read and intuit all people well. Then with a degree of jealousy she thought “Too bad this one’s married. We might make a good team.” She immediately derailed that train of thought worrying if he might be able to once again know what she was thinking. She suddenly was hit with a feeling of melancholy realizing just how lonely and in need of human companionship she had become. 

Andy opened the front door of the large farmhouse with a key and the pair passed into a downstairs foyer. It was a grand place with a high ceiling from which hung a huge and unusable crystal chandelier.              

Bonnie looked around; awestruck then said "This place is amazing! Did you live here before... you know... before... everything... or did you find the place afterward?" With no government, no laws, no police, all formalities of a civilized society had long since broken down. People roamed aimlessly from place to place barely clinging to survival, living wherever they could. If someone found a house they liked, which appeared to be safe from the living dead, they simply would move in. She knew some lower and less civilized types would not be above killing the current residents to gain ownership. It truly had become a survival of the fittest type of world.

"We could have never afforded a place like this in the old days." Andy said, "We stumbled upon it, abandoned, shortly after everything went south and have been living here ever since. Everything was pretty much as you see it now including the wire fence. The original owners must have either been survivalists or simply paranoid. But I figured whatever... it suited our needs perfectly. Whoever the owners may have been then never returned, alive or otherwise."

Bonnie suddenly remember Andy's wife, Meg and asked, "Where do you suppose your wife is?” For a moment her uncertainty returned. No matter how appealing this man seemed and not matter what he had done to help her, he was still an unknown commodity.

For all she knew the stranger might not even have a wife. This whole thing could be a ruse to get her into this farmhouse where he and perhaps some of his friends might subdue her; rape, torture and kill her. But so far, her mysterious host had made no hostile moves against her and for all intent and purpose he appeared to be acting in a manner that was just the opposite, paying little attention to her as they walked through the dimly lit living room toward what she believed was the kitchen. Once again she reached into her pants pocket to feel the security of her concealed switchblade.

“She is probably still resting.” Andy replied, “We try to sleep whenever we can, because when we are awake it seems we are always working or foraging for food and supplies. I used to think my engineering job was a pain in the butt, but this whole survival thing is a much, much worse.”

The pair made their way out to the large country kitchen and as he lit a few more candles, Andy said, “Don’t worry. I’m certain when Meg smells the food we make she will be up here shortly.”

“Up here?” Bonnie asked. “You mean she’s down in the basement?”

“Yeah. We moved our bedroom downstairs when the weather got hot.” Andy explained. “There’s obviously no more air conditioning and we have to stay cool any way we can.”

Bonnie thought how nice it must be for Meg to have a man like Andy, who seemed so preoccupied with tending to their needs that he thought little of the fact he had been alone with another woman. Granted, she might be a bit gaunt as well as sweaty and unclean, but she was still an attractive worm that had what it took to seduce a man.

If Andy had been a different sort of man, he could have easily tried to attack her when they left the city. He could have raped and killed her and left her body by the side of the road and no one would have had any idea what had happened to her. She would have just been another dead body rotting along the side of the road in a world full of rotting dead bodies. She was alone in the world and had no one to care about her, so she was extremely vulnerable.

He reached into a plastic thermal cooler and extracted what appeared to be several eggs and some bacon. Bonnie stared at the sight, scarcely able to keep herself from drooling.

“Are... are... those... real eggs? And... and is that... real bacon?” she asked unbelievingly.

“Yes they most certainly are.” Andy said. “You probably couldn’t tell when we drove up, because it was so dark, but this property is actually a small farm. I have a barn around back with several chickens, two cows and a few small pigs. We are fairly self sufficient around here. It keeps me from having to go into the city very often except when I need only the most essential supplies; the things I can't get here.”

Bonnie looked at him with surprise, “But how do you keep things cold and fresh without electricity or refrigeration?”

Andy explained, “Below the barn is a cold storage root cellar. It doesn’t keep things frozen like a freezer, but it does a pretty good job of keeping food fresh for a while. I also dry some fruits from our trees and salt and dry meats. That reminds me, I should warn you that the woods out behind the farm are full of a variety of traps. I catch small animals like squirrels, rabbits and such, not to mention the occasional zombie that might somehow get past the perimeter fence. I also have a large vegetable garden out back as well. Like I said... we are pretty self-sufficient. Most of what we need we can get right here.”

He reached into a cabinet and brought out a large cast-iron frying pan, placing it on the top of a stove. He looked again at Bonnie and said, “No gas, no electricity, no microwave or convection ovens anymore, but this old wood stove does a good job of cooking whatever we need to cook.” He placed the strips of bacon into the frying pan and after a few minutes cracked and added the eggs, allowing them to cook in the bacon grease. The smells, which permeated the kitchen, were so luscious; Bonnie thought she would lose her mind from simply soaking in the pleasurable aromas.

Andy turned and said, “This will be ready in a minute. Why don’t you go to that cooler over there and grab yourself a soda or fruit drink. Or if you like I can rustle up a glass of fresh milk.”

Bonnie thought she had died and gone to heaven. She said with genuine appreciation, “Th... thanks... soda will be fine.” She walked over to the cooler and grabbed a can of cola. She could not believe she was about to eat a real meal; the first in only God knew how long. She popped the cap on the soda and listened to the glorious sound of the escaping carbonation. 

By the time she returned to the table, a large plate of bacon and eggs was waiting and looked to Bonnie, like the most incredible meal she had ever seen. She sat down and without even taking time to pick up a fork or knife she began to devour the food using her fingers. After a few moments when the initial hunger frenzy was satisfied, she became slightly embarrassed by her actions, wiped her greasy hands on her filthy shorts then picked up the fork and slowed her pace, trying to eat in a more civilized fashion.

Andy who was watching her the entire time, smiled and said, “Don’t worry about it Bonnie. I was the same way when Meg and I found this place and were able to eat real food once again. It’s ok. Once the initial hunger passes your body will naturally allow you to slow down and you’ll be able to better enjoy what you are eating. Speaking of which, how do you like the food?”

“It’s incredible!” Bonnie said with grease dripping down her chin, “It is beyond incredible! I honestly didn’t think I would ever eat another hot, cooked meal again. It is beyond my wildest dreams.”

While Bonnie continued with her feast they both heard a thumping noise coming from the basement. Andy glanced over toward the basement door, with a momentary look of apprehension present on his face. Then he quickly recovered and once again his expression took on that of the congenial host. Bonnie did not miss the momentary change in demeanor and although she was suddenly alert and concerned, she did her best to conceal her uneasy feelings.

“It sounds like Meg is awake.” Andy said indicating everything was fine. “I’d better go down and tell her we have a guest for dinner. I’m sure she will be very happy.”

Andy opened the basement door and ducked through it quickly closing it behind him. Bonnie could hear him running rapidly down the stairs, his footsteps echoing loudly on the old wooden treads. For a moment she thought she smelled a foul odor wafting up from the basement through the briefly opened door, but it had closed so quickly she could not be certain, especially since the kitchen was filled with the pleasant smells of food cooking. She looked down at her plate, no longer starving and suddenly unsure if she was even still hungry. She started to feel a growing sense of uneasiness in the pit of her now full stomach. She began to feel that something strange might be going on behind the scenes in this otherwise unthreatening household. She could tell something was definitely wrong.

She heard Andy calling from the basement below, “Bonnie? ...Hey Bonnie? ...Come on down. Meg can’t wait to meet you.”

Bonnie stood uncertainly and walked very slowly toward the basement door. It felt as if she were moving in a dream, as if in slow motion. The door stood ominously with its off-white, slightly yellowed and flaking paint and its old-fashioned crystal glass door knob. She placed her left hand cautiously on the knob, once again feeling through her jeans for her switchblade and gaining comfort knowing it was there. She turned the knob slowly, then opened the door and could see the old wooden cellar steps illuminated in a wash of candlelight from below. A stone wall occupied the right side of the stairs and the left side appeared opened to the basement behind a rickety hand railing. As she descended the squeaking stairs, she again smelled the foul stench of decay growing stronger, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as a cold chill ran down her spine.

Part of her, the natural fight or flight instinct, was screaming for her to turn and run, but another part, the more logical part of her mind was trying to convince her to go on. It was telling her she had been allowing her uncertainty to get the better of her. So she ignored the urge to flee and continued walking down the stairs.

When she reached the concrete floor at the bottom, she looked to the left and saw Andy standing in the flickering candlelight in front of what appeared to be a tall canopy bed surrounded by a thick velvet curtain. He wore a strange, almost detached smile on his face. She walked slowly toward him.

“Meg is so happy you have come by to visit. We don’t get many visitors out this way.” Andy explained. “She sometimes gets upset when I have to leave her behind to go to the city to get those things she needs but we simply can’t find out here.”

Bonnie was feeling worse about the entire situation by the minute, and was about to give in to her impulse, turn and run back up the stairs, when Andy quickly reached out and firmly grasped her by her left wrist. “Don’t worry.” He said, “Everything is going to be fine. I just want you to meet my beautiful wife.”

With his other hand, Andy quickly pulled back the heavy black bed curtain and revealed a sight for which Bonnie had not been prepared, a sight she could not have imagined in her worst nightmares.

Seated on the bed was a female zombie, secured to the bed by a heavy iron chain attached on one end to an anchor cemented into the wall and on the other end to a sturdy leather collar encircling her neck. The creature's face was a mass of festering sores and rotting, pealing chunks of flesh. Her one eye was covered with a grey film of death while the other was completely gone, leaving a dark black gaping hole from which a long worm hung precariously, attempting to burrow into an open wound on her cheek. Suppressing the urge to vomit, Bonnie could not think of the thing looming before her as a woman but as some sort of sexless hell-born creature, despite its still feminine anatomy. It wore a sheer teddy-style nightgown, which revealed shriveled, sagging breasts, likewise covered with grey, decomposing flesh.

Andy spoke, “You see, when we escaped from the city and found this place, Meg had taken ill. I had tried everything I could to make her better but we just didn’t have the right medicine to help her and eventually she... well... she just... died. At least I thought she had died, but then, miraculously she came back to me and we had another chance to rebuild our life together.”

“But... but... she’s one of them now.” Bonnie said stuttering, “She’s a freaking zombie! Can’t you see that?”

Andy said angrily, “How dare you speak of Meg in that way. She is not like one of those horrible creatures; she is different, she is special. She is still my wife, my Meg, and I still love her. And as such it is my job to do whatever I can do to make her happy. So sometimes I have to go into the city and get her those things she needs; those things we just don’t have out here.” Then he gripped more tightly on Bonnie’s wrist and said “Such as fresh living human flesh; like yours.”

Andy tugged hard on Bonnie’s arm, temporarily putting her off balance, trying to pull her toward the bed where the creature strained out to the furthest extent of its chain, arms outstretched, struggling to reach out and catch hold of Bonnie. Bonnie screamed in pain as a small lock of her hair was pulled from her head when the creature’s reaching fingers must have managed to grasp and pull out a small clump.

While Bonnie fought desperately to keep her distance from the savage thing, Andy tried to force her close,r to allow his living-dead wife to get a solid grip on her. Then Meg suddenly remembered the switchblade. She reached her right hand down into her pocket and quickly withdrew the knife. In one swift and continuous motion, she snapped open the blade, brought her arm around in an arc and slashed wildly at Andy.

Although she did not produce a mortal blow, she had managed to create a gaping gash, which ran across the bridge of his nose, and his right cheek, just under his eye. As is common with many facial wounds, the cut immediately began to bleed profusely. The attack caught Andy by surprise and he lost his grip of Bonnie’s wrist, as he also lost his own balance, teetering backward, landing in a sitting position at the bottom of the mattress, his hands pressed tightly against his face, blood flowing freely between his fingers. He screamed a string of obscenities brought on by a mix of anger and pain.

Smelling the scent of fresh blood the Meg-creature reached out and grabbed tightly onto Andy’s shoulders, pulling him down backward as she sunk her teeth deep into the left side of his neck, tearing out a large chunk of flesh and severing his carotid artery. A fountain of blood shot freely from the wound pumping in cadence with his now failing heartbeat.

Bonnie understood Andy’s fate was sealed and took the opportunity to escape, turning and sprinting for the stairs. She reached the kitchen and saw the keys to the van sitting on the center of the kitchen table where Andy must have left them. Amid the cacophony of Andy’s death screams and Meg’s savage growls streaming up through the open cellar door, Bonnie hurried across the kitchen, out the door toward the waiting van and freedom. She did not know where she would go or what dangers she might face in the next town but she understood she had to keep moving, keep trying and keep surviving.

- P -

Thomas M. Malafarina is a horror writer from Berks County, PA. He has two novels, Ninety-Nine Souls and Burn Phone as well as a two short story collections, Thirteen Nasty Endings and Gallery of Horror, published through Sunbury Press Inc., of Camp Hill, PA. Thomas lives in South Heidelberg Township, PA with his wife JoAnne. They have three grown children and three grandchildren.

They Still Live On

C. Bryan Brown

R

ay sat in his favorite recliner—the leather cracked and faded, seat molded perfectly to the indent of buttocks and back—and stared at the snow on the television screen. Michelle gave him the chair fifteen years ago as a gift; it was the same year David had been born. A smile graced his craggy features, softened them into something pleasant. That had been a good year.

A glass of scotch sweated on an end table next to the chair, the amber liquid topped with a layer of water from the melting ice. Ray dipped a finger in the drink and swirled the liquids together. He drained the glass in a single gulp amidst a fresh round of banging and screaming from the kitchen behind him. The few remaining cubes clinked against the glass with a musical sound that might have been beautiful once. But for something to beautiful, it had to be appreciated. It was just noise to Ray.

He smacked his lips and smirked. Some things, he thought, just weren’t meant to be. Like the human race. The smirk turned foul and he laughed, though it was more snort than chuckle. He rose and went to the bar in the corner, refilling his empty glass. There was another crash and the wall behind the bar shook.

Fridge, Ray thought and looked at the kitchen door, which he’d barred with several 2x4’s, nailing them straight into the plaster next to the frame. They’d get in, he knew, but not by breaking the wood. The door itself would cave first and they’d just crawl around the bars. And then they’d consume him.

He drained his drink and fixed another.

The world had survived the supposed Judgment Day on May 21st, 2011 and the ensuing October 21st rain date. He remembered being at the zoo in May; a fantastic day with the kids. He’d spent the day in October at work, like most other Fridays. December 21st, 2012 found him traveling out of state to visit his in-laws for the holidays. The weather had sucked: heavy snow and ice with gusting winds that shifted their mini-van from one lane to another like it was a toy. But the sun set and rose the next day; the world moved on and didn’t end. It seemed the Mayans were no more omniscient than God and humanity was as foolish as ever. Ray couldn’t count how many news stories he’d seen on people giving away fortunes or drinking spiked lemonade in anticipation of beating the crowds to the afterlife.

But three days ago, on August 25th, 2014, the end arrived. It was subtle, cute in its deviousness, like the toddler caught stealing a cookie and insisting, when punished, they were getting it just for you.

August 25th. His birthday. He’d been having sex with his wife, bucking like a madman when the end knocked on the door at 2640 Gay Street.

“What was that?” Michelle said, slapping him on the shoulder.

He muttered a non-response from the fragrant cocoon of her hair and didn’t stop thrusting. She slapped him harder and moved enough to interrupt his rhythm and bring their lovemaking to an end.

“I heard a bang, Ray,” she said. “From David’s room.”

Ray pushed up. “It’s just after midnight. The kid’s fifteen. I’m sure he’s just messing around.” He nuzzled the crook of shoulder and neck.

She pushed his head away. “Go check.”

He looked down at his wife, saw the look in her eyes, and sighed. Ray got up and slipped on his pajama pants before making his way to David’s bedroom. Light spilled under the door. The kid was probably on his computer playing Warcraft and the loud bang a typical teenage reaction to the death of a character in the middle of a dungeon. He threw a mental apology to his libido and tapped on David’s door.

No answer.

Ray tapped again, whispered, “David?”

The silence didn’t grow, it exploded; it was like those times when David was little and he grew so quiet Ray knew he was up to no good drinking Drano or reaching for the knife in the dish strainer. Instinct told him this was much worse. Ray’s face paled, his skin moistened. He opened the door, calling for his son.

Light from the computer showed him a room in disarray. It didn’t reveal David; the bed and dresser were in the right place and both menaced him as he struggled between them toward the desk. David lay unconscious on the other side of the bed, legs tangled about the overturned desk chair. His fingers were hooked, frozen into claw-like shapes and white froth poured from the corners of his mouth.

Ray screamed for Michelle.

He set his glass down on the bar and stifled a small belch. The kitchen door rattled in its frame as they attacked it, trying to get through. They gave up after a few moments and the house fell silent. He mixed his fourth drink and went back to his chair. Despite the events since, the moment he found David next to the bed was the scariest of his life. He thought his son was dying.

Michelle had accompanied David to the hospital with the paramedics while Ray stayed with their daughter, Willow, who’d woken to the ambulance siren. She’d slept through his yelling and Michelle’s frantic 911 call. When they carried David out on a stretcher, his pulse weak but still there, she started crying.

After getting Willow back to bed, Ray settled in his chair with the television turned to the news. He didn’t pay much attention to the screen, his thoughts lasered on what was wrong with his son. Food poisoning? But why wasn’t the whole family sick? They’d all had the same things to eat the last few days. Poison! No, that was just stupid. Who’d poison David and no one else? Drugs, then. Ray would’ve never thought David the type, but you never could tell about kids. Ray’s mother was shocked when she found out he’d smoked pot through high school and most of college. He was the youngest and should have learned by example from his brothers, especially Brent, the oldest. He was a fucking saint. She thought.

The slam of a door woke him and he sat up with a start; the sun streamed in the window and lit the room with a golden, almost holy hue. The clock read a little after nine in the morning. Michelle stood in the foyer with David. She tossed her keys on the table by the door.

“How you feel, buddy?” he asked David, forcing himself out of the chair. His back and legs grunted in pained protest.

David grunted a reply and started coughing.

“Go on to bed,” Michelle said to David. “I’ll be up in a bit.”

David nodded and shuffled toward the stairs, raising a hand in greeting to Ray. Ray watched his son’s listless movements and frowned. When he was gone, Ray turned back to Michelle, expectant. “Well?” he demanded.

“They don’t know what happened,” she said with a shrug.

“That’s bullshit. How can they not know?”

Michelle sighed and glared at him. “I don’t know, Ray. I’m not a fucking doctor. All I can tell you is what they told me, which is they have no rational explanation for his fainting and he seems fine now. Flu-like symptoms. Rest and fluids.”

“But what about the mouth froth? Is he on drugs?”

“Not that the doctor said,” she replied. “But they had their hands full. When we left, there were hundreds of people there, Ray. Hundreds. Wives with husbands; husbands with daughters; children with their mother or father. It was chaos. I’ve never seen the hospital so busy.”

He moved and rubbed her shoulders, kissed the back of her head. “Get some sleep. I’ll call the office and tell them I’m not going to make it today. Hold down the fort and all that.”

Michelle nodded. “You’ve got a deal.” She started up the stairs and then stopped, half-turned. “Do you know what was really odd?”

Ray shook his head. “What?”

“Everyone had the same symptoms as David,” she said. Her voice lowered and he could barely hear her. “I’m scared to death, Ray. Something isn’t right.” She gave him a small smile before trudging away.

Ray went to the kitchen and poured a glass of orange juice, thinking about the odds of everyone really having the same symptoms as David. Mass hysteria or hypnosis, maybe? Something sent through radio signals—

The house phone rang, cutting off his mental deliberations, and he answered: “Hello... Mom? Calm down. What’s wrong with Brent? Last night? Which hospital? I’ll try, Mom. No, David is sick, too. He went to the hospital and they sent him home. I will. I love you, too.”

He stared at the phone as if it were a pet that had just bitten him. The earpiece had fangs and the cord was a constrictor that wanted nothing more than to wrap around his neck and choke the life from him. Malevolence radiated from it. He wasn’t a child; it was just a phone, a tool, but he feared it and he knew—at some point—everyone did. There were times when it rang and you knew it was Death on the other end. He replaced the phone in its cradle, certain he hadn’t just spoken to his mother, but Death, and his brother was doomed.

Ray called the office and spoke to his secretary; she informed him that over half the employees had called off. Some were sick, others were taking care of sick family, and the rest were just scared after watching the morning news.

“The news?” Ray said.

“The whole country is sick.”

This time he slammed the phone down and scowled. I hate you, he thought. How about telling me I won the lottery or why 42 is the secret to everything. Ray was still glaring at the phone when Willow came into the kitchen.

“Daddy? What’s wrong with David?”

“He’s just sick, honey, that’s all. He’ll be okay in a few days.”

“Are you sure? He sounded like he was barfing; it was really gross. Can I have breakfast?”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Ray said, distracted, and left her there. He took the steps two at a time and found David on his bed, curled up into a tight ball. His son’s body shook with mild retches but what frightened him the most was the heat radiating from David’s skin. Ray felt like he was putting his hand in an oven each time he got close.

Ray moved around the side of the bed and knelt down, wanting to talk, to see David’s face, which was buried in the crook of his elbows. Forcing himself to bear the heat, he grabbed David’s wrists and pulled. There was resistance, though Ray didn’t think it was David; his arms felt like steel, like a protective exoskeleton that’d been riveted in place. Ray’s hands dampened and burned, threatening to slide off with each yank, but he didn’t stop, and with each pull he repeated David’s name over and over again like it was verbal WD-40. The arms moved by fractions and revealed David’s face in sections: hairline, forehead, eyebrows. The flesh was pale, veiny but it was David’s eyes that made Ray flee the room.

Willow sat at the kitchen table with a package of Pop-Tarts. Ray sat next to her, tore off a piece, and took a bite. He chewed mechanically, staring at the cabinets, seeing David’s wide eyes, the lids lumpy and high, like melted chocolate. Worse still, was the absence of pigment; they were stark white other than his pupils, which had contracted into dark little black holes. Something was wrong with David—very wrong—and it wasn’t the fucking flu. He took another piece of Willow’s Pop-Tart, oblivious to her arm slap, and left the kitchen.

The television, tuned to the morning news, stopped him; the camera showed the reporter in front of Knox County Community Hospital and people had pulled their cars into the grass, set up tents and grills, but the most common sight were the sick people lying on the grass, the hoods of cars, or air mattresses. Ray found the remote and turned the volume up.

“...here in Knox County. We’re told that the number of sick is in the thousands. The hospital is over capacity, which is why there are people behind me on the lawn and in the parking areas. There’s just not enough room inside for everyone. They’ve also reported that several of the elderly inflicted with this strange sickness have recently passed away...”

Ray dropped the remote and hurried to his bedroom. He stared at Michelle, watching her sleep. His heart pounded, made his chest feel like the track to the Kentucky Derby. How could he explain to her that he thought their son was dying, that medical help was needed but unavailable? Ray harbored no illusions that going to the hospital now would be less productive than last night and was likely detrimental. His hand shook as he rubbed a stubbly cheek. No ideal options presented themselves and he cursed. He knew helplessness led to the undeniable feeling of hopelessness. Michelle’s face, serene in sleep, was his anchor; the simple lines of her jaw and the curve of her lips soothed his tumultuous mind and when he leaned over to shake her awake, he smelled her shampoo. It smelled like home and he felt things would be all right in the end. Her eyes opened as soon as his hand touched her shoulder and he suspected she hadn’t been asleep but lying there worried.

“What is it?” she whispered. “David okay?”

“I don’t think so,” he said. He restrained her when she tried to get up. “I’m going to turn on the news; don’t freak, all right? We’ll figure it out.”

Michelle’s face called bullshit on his assurance, but she nodded. He turned on the television, stopped at the first news station he found. The scene was the same as before though the hospital and newsperson were different. Ray recognized the half-circle entrance of St. Ann’s; he remembered bringing Willow out those very doors eight years ago. He turned the volume up:

“...confirmed this is a global phenomenon. People across the world, in every country, are sick with the same disease...”

Ray flipped to CNN.

“...the World Health Organization states that social structures are deteriorating rapidly in most third world countries that lack a stable health infrastructure. The United Nations has mobilized a joint military task force whose job...”

He changed channels again.

“...has been acknowledged by the CDC. They’re calling it the world’s first superbug; it literally destroys any antibodies used to stop it. Some have questioned this superbug designation due to its lack of communicability, but one CDC official, who opted not to be on camera, stated that just because they don’t know how the disease travels didn’t mean it can’t. Now, Steve, it’s also interesting to note that some people are calling this Judgment Day...”

Michelle took the remote and muted the sound. She looked at Ray. He sighed. “Before I came up, they said that the elderly were already dying. So it’s a killer, Michelle, and they can’t cure it.”

Michelle sobbed and he wrapped his arms around her.

“It’ll be okay,” he said, talking to himself now just as he was then.

Michelle never believed things would be okay and she’d been right. The pounding from the kitchen had increased in the last hour and forced him to turn his chair in that direction. He didn’t want them coming through the door without knowing about it. He’d also moved his table and drink. As he sipped, the door to the kitchen bowed and Ray thought he heard the first sharp, protesting bleat of cracking wood. It wouldn’t be long now. He picked up his glass and rolled it between his palms.

Willow’s scream brought them out of their embrace and Ray rushed downstairs while Michelle went to David’s room.

He found her still at the kitchen table, pointing at the back door, which was the only other entrance into the room except for the door that led to the basement. Ray followed her finger.

“Holy shit,” he muttered. “Willow, get upstairs with your mother. Now!”

The lower part of the back door was wood; the top portion was beveled glass panes set into a quartered wood frame. Staring at him through those panes was his neighbor, George, and the man was very clearly dead. Ray wasn’t sure if it was the translucent skin, the veins that ran from the corners of his lips and down his cheeks, or the blood caked teeth that scraped against the door. What convinced Ray that George was dead were his eyes, just like David’s and there was no life in eyes like that. George broke a pane of glass and thrust his arm into the kitchen. The jagged edge raked an inch-deep canyon in flesh that didn’t bleed.

The sight startled Ray into action. He grabbed a butcher knife out of the block on the counter. He’d seen the movies, read the books, and played the survival games on Facebook. He didn’t suffer from anxiety or disbelief; he knew what George was and what to do: destroy the brain, don’t get bit. Utility and versatility in weapons and tools. He grabbed George’s seeking hand, pulled and bent it down, trapping the dead face against the glass. Ray took a second to break another pane of glass and jammed the knife into George’s head; the blade split the flesh and slid into the brain.

The kitchen door broke, the hole quite similar in size and shape to the one he’d put in George’s head with the knife, and Ray smiled.

The crevice was near the bottom between the second and third 2x4’s. It wasn’t big, not yet, but it was the beginning of the end. Knowing this didn’t change things. In Ray’s experience, knowing the outcome of things only accelerated events to their inevitable end, regardless of any preventative actions. He rattled the ice in his empty cup and sucked a malformed and melted cube into his mouth. The door shook again, the crack widened and so did Ray’s smile.

“I just killed George,” Ray told Michelle once he was back upstairs and he’d sent Willow to her room. “He tried to come in the back door and his eyes were... just like...”

The bile rushed through his body and ejaculated from his mouth onto the floor in a great gout. The force of it put him on his knees. His entire digestive tract burned and pulsated. He gagged and dry heaved for several minutes until his throat was raw and flecks of blood stained the beige carpet. Michelle helped him to the bed and cleaned up his mess while he rested with a wet washcloth over his eyes.

He’d never killed anyone before, though he wasn’t sure if George counted, considering the man was already dead. What Ray didn’t understand was why did he throw up now? He’d pulled the knife out, opened the door, and moved the corpse into the lawn. Through the entire process he’d been fine. Even now, analyzing his actions, there was no remorse or disgust at the revolting state George’s body was in. And the smell—like piles of dog shit left too long in the summer heat.

Ray sat up as a paroxysm flitted through his chest. He massaged the spot just above his heart, though he didn’t worry about that muscle seizing up on him. The constriction wasn’t due to any impending artery clogging, at least not from cholesterol, but rather the knowledge that he’d have to shove a knife—or some other sharp object—through David’s head. He wasn’t sure he was capable.

“You need to lie down,” Michelle said, touching him lightly on the knee.

“I can’t.” And he told her why.

Her scream was like splintering wood; they’d put a dollar bill sized hole in the kitchen door.

Like any predator, they sensed a crack in the defenses and worked diligently to exploit it. Ray watched as plump fingers, the color of uncooked sausages, explored the gap. They’d grab and flex, pull. Sometimes the wood came off in small chunks, other times it resisted. At one point he thought he saw the blanched white of a peering eye, but he was slightly drunk and couldn’t be sure.

Bigger fingers protruded from the hole and yanked; wood cracked and the aperture widened further. Ray sat up, interested, wondering who this was. The same fingers showed themselves again, ripped away another piece and another. Now the entire hand came through, digits wiggling and tasting the air, like a hydra’s multiple tongues. Ray stood up and moved toward the door. He had to.

He just had to.

“We have to,” he said. “What choice do we have?”

“We can leave,” Michelle said. “Go somewhere.” Her initial reaction had been to slap him and his cheek still held the red impression of her hand.

Ray snorted. “Where? Global, remember? And it doesn’t matter; they can’t cure him and eventually he’ll die and... and... be like George. Just like the ones on the news.”

“I don’t care,” she said, her voice controlled and venomous. “He’s my son and I will not let you kill him.”

“He’s my son, too! And he’s already dead,” Ray yelled. “I know you understand that. You’re not stupid! And if we don’t kill him, he will try to kill us. Better to do it now while it’s safer. We have to think about Willow, too. Not just David.”

Michelle shook her head. “I can’t believe you’re trying to convince me—”

“I’m not trying to convince you, Michelle,” Ray said as he got off the bed. “I’m telling you. My priority right now is to keep us—me, you, and Willow—alive. I can’t ensure our safety while David is...”

“Get out!” she screamed and flew at him. She uncoiled and came at him. “Just get out, you heartless sonofabitch!”

Ray retreated from the room, Michelle still screaming profanities at him, his face flushed, chest heaving. She risked them all for David, her favorite. She slammed the door in his face and the lock engaged with an ominous click.

David was in the same fetal position as before. Ray examined the curve of the body and wondered the best way to go about killing his son. He looked at David’s aluminum bat, envisioned himself standing over the boy’s body, swinging, swinging, swinging... how many strikes would it take? What did it matter? If it wasn’t one and done, Ray couldn’t handle it. A knife would work but he’d have to be close to use it. Too close. He’d be able to smell the child he loved, look at the hair whorls.

I can’t believe I’m deciding the best way to murder my child, he thought. And until David died and came back, it was murder, at least by any standard he used to judge. Ray tried to convince himself it was necessary murder, like those committed during wartime. Maybe Michelle was right; maybe he was heartless and this was wrong. He should hold out hope that David would pull through. That’s what a real father would do. He just couldn’t; he knew better. And would a real father really risk his entire family for one? Where does a father draw the line in a case like this?

His dad always told him: “If it looks like shit and smells like shit, it’s shit, Ray, not a rose.”

This certainly wasn’t a fucking rose and it never would be.

The solution was simple and Ray flew down the stairs two at a time—not wanting to lose his nerve—and went through the living room, the kitchen, and out the back door. He avoided looking at George’s body.

Ray opened the garage door, muttering at both its slow climb and ratchety noise. Inside the dank coolness, he moved to the back wall and the pegs that held his tools. The pickaxe was where it should be. It felt heavier than usual; he had trouble holding it up and the head chipped the concrete floor as it clunked down. Sighing, Ray stood for a moment in the relative darkness of the garage, just breathing. He was about to go drive this pickaxe through his son’s head in the hopes that whatever sickness raged through his body didn’t bring him back to life.

Like most people, Ray’d grown up with the contradiction that fighting was wrong, but defending yourself wasn’t; that the murder of an individual for personal gain was immoral, but war disguised as self-defense in regards to country, religion, or politics was righteous. Not long after growing a brain—which according to his dad wasn’t until his late twenties—he’d bid farewell to organized religion and politics with a finger-wave and a twelve pack. He realized a universal law that drunken night, which was that even if there was a God in heaven, He didn’t give a shit about the daily milieu of the people on this planet He created. In His infinite wisdom, He gave us the desire to govern ourselves and since there are as many systems of government on the planet as there are verses in His good book, Ray didn’t see the need for God or the government. He didn’t need them to know you didn’t go around killing people for shits and giggles.

Nor did he need either of those two entities to instruct him in the fine arts of love and protection. Ray loved his family—every member—and it was generally his thankless job as father to dole out punishments. This killing didn’t seem much different to him. David was sick, dying, and would come back like George. A good father set an example, curbed bad behavior before it started and so it was best to put a stop David now, before things got out of hand.

Sound drew his attention and a haloed shadow shuffled into the garage. Ray shifted the pickaxe noticing the weight had diminished. The form came further into the dark, away from the sun, the facial features materializing as if from smoke. It was George’s wife, Carol, and her eyes, usually dressed with wire frames were naked, wide, and white. Her feet never left the ground as they propelled her forward. Her arms rose in degrees, ready to grab. Ray took a deep breath and pulled the pickaxe up. He put his back into the swing.

The hole in the kitchen door was bigger.

Ray was surprised at the speed with which it grew. He counted four sets of hands digging, widening, clawing toward him. His glass was empty but he didn’t refill it this time. His mind was fuggy with the scotch and he preferred it this way; he didn’t want to be stone cold drunk when they came through but he wasn’t sure he could be completely sober, either. The task ahead was daunting and he laughed.

Doors were such shitty barricades.

“Michelle!” he screamed. “What the hell!”

She’d locked the back door while he was in the garage. She’d left him outside with these fucking things! Disappointment and fear mixed, blossomed into rage. “Michelle!”

He rattled the knob and cursed. He looked at the broken pane and thought to stick his hand through to unlock the door but the grayed bits of George’s flesh that clung to the glass changed his mind.

Ray stepped back and used the pickaxe to break the rest of the glass and clear the upper part of the door. He disengaged the lock, stormed into the kitchen. The door to the living room was shut; Ray pushed it open and charged in. Pain flared in his shoulder and he screamed, fell forward, biting at the carpet.

Fire seared his lower back as he was hit again and he scrambled forward, slowed by the pickaxe. He refused to let it go; Ray reached the couch and dragged himself up, turned in time to catch the next blow on his forearm. Whimpering, he stumbled away.

“Come back here!” Michelle screamed as she came after him. She held David’s bat and wielded it like a sword. “I will not let you kill my son!”

On his feet, Ray was able to defend himself, blocking her next few swings until they were both winded. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. He’d been married to her long enough to know the set look in hers, the iron bands of grey that streaked the blue. Her mind was made up but he had to try.

“What are you doing?” he sobbed. “It’s me. Ray. Your husband.”

She shook her head. “No. Ray would never talk about killing David. Never. You’re the sick one here, not David.”

“It’s not David, Michelle. Not anymore. And if you don’t let me do this he will try to kill us all.”

“You don’t know that! You can’t know that. Not for sure,” she screeched.

“Yes, I do. I’ve seen them, Michelle. I just killed Carol in the garage.” A thought occurred to him. “Where’s Willow?”

“She’s upstairs, keeping an eye on David.”

It was his turn to screech. “What? You left her with him?”

“Someone needed to keep an eye on him while I dealt with you!” She lunged.

Ray knocked the bat aside and grabbed Michelle around the waist; he spun them and tossed her over the couch. She tumbled over the back and he didn’t wait to see how she landed. He ran up the stairs—screaming for Willow—and into David’s room. His breath hitched as her name rose in his chest; he gagged as it caught in the middle of his throat. The pickaxe fell from nerveless fingers, thudded on the floor, and he followed, landing on his knees. He cried freely, unrestrained by decorum or manhood.

Michelle came in and screamed.

David, sitting astride the stringy mess that used to be his sister, looked up. His mouth yawned wide and Willow’s blood dripped off his chin. The boy stood on the bed and moaned.

“David,” Michelle sobbed. “What did you do? What did you do? That’s your sister!” She stalked toward the bed.

“Michelle, don’t!” Ray shouted.

Michelle raised a finger to admonish him and David leapt, his weight driving her backward into the wall. Her head smacked the wall with a crunch and her sobs turned to shrieks. Ray stood as the tangled flesh of his son and wife slid to the floor. David struck like a snake and his teeth sunk into the thick of his mother’s shoulder. With a single twitch of his neck he tore away skin and muscle.

“David! Please! David! You’re killing me!” Michelle wailed. “Stop! Please, oh, God, stop! Ray. Help me!” Her hands beat on David’s face and chest but he continued to dive down upon the buffet that was his mother’s body, sampling cheek and chin, breast and neck. Michelle’s arm stretched for him, fingers twitching in anticipation of his own.

Ray watched, still crying, and the earlier feeling of helplessness teetering on the edge for a moment before sliding over. His hand found the handle to the pickaxe. With his shoulder against the wall, he forced himself up. He looked at David and Michelle, choked back the rising desire to lie down there with them. This was the fate of his family, the end of them all, who was he to deny that?

He grunted as he brought the pickaxe down on the back of David’s head. The spike sunk into the bone and brain, pushed forward and through, ending in Michelle’s chest. Her eyes widened for a shocked second, whether at the pain or something else, Ray didn’t know. But her arm, the one expecting help, lowered in slow motion until it rested, unmoving, on the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, though there was no one left to hear him. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Ray stood as they finally ripped away the lower half of the kitchen door. The first of them slithered between the wood slats that barred the way. It was a boy from down the street. David used to play catch with him after school in the spring and summer. The kid’s mouth opened wide and Ray saw black holes where teeth had fallen out or broken off. He wasn’t sure which and he didn’t care. Ray had cried his last tear two days ago in an upstairs bedroom. It’d taken them long enough to get to him. He’d had plenty of time to think.

Ray did as his father taught and stepped into his swing. David’s bat caught the boy on the side of his head. The resounding thwok was enough to make Ray raise his arms in triumph.

“That one’s outta the park,” he yelled.

He clubbed the next one before it was through the hole and left it there. He figured the bastards could work for their meal. A third one climbed over the corpse—could you really call it a corpse, though?—in the door and Ray wasted no time in making sure it was good and dead. He threw the bat on the floor and grabbed the pickaxe.

Blood flew and he wiped it out of his eyes before taking the pickaxe out of Michelle’s head.

He wasn’t sure if she’d come back or not, but all the movies and television shows said that if you were bitten by a zombie, you’d die and come back as one. Ray wasn’t taking any chances.

He left David and Michelle on the floor and looked down at Willow. David had turned her midsection into a meal; her internal organs were vegetables bobbing in a beef stew and he had to close his eyes. No man should see their babies in such a state.

The only problem, he soon found, was that the back of his eyelids acted as dual movie screens and the double feature on today’s marquee was the killing of his wife and son. Every drop of blood, every moan and scream, was brought back to him in high definition 3-D.

Ray made himself watch each movie over and over until the sound of running water, something not present in them before, interrupted the reels. He opened his eyes, knowing something was wrong.

Willow had sat up on the bed. In another world and time, he would have been surprised, shocked even. Not today. As she rolled toward him, he heard that wet noise again; she rose and her stomach turned into a waterfall as the pooled blood cascaded off her reanimated body. Ray clenched his teeth and put his daughter to bed for the final time.

Ray left them and stumbled down the stairs in a daze. Ray dropped the pickaxe on the floor and opened the scotch. He drank straight from the bottle until the liquid scorched him from gullet to grin.

“Goddammnit!” he screamed. He plucked a glass from the bar and hurled it at the far wall. It shattered and the sound fueled him. He threw another and another and another in a rage induced frenzy. Bottles soon followed until the acrid odor of liquor stained the air and needled his eyes, making him stop. Winded, he started crying, forcing the tears and the pain up, to the surface, and out. But it wasn’t enough.

Ray used the bat, swinging it at the keepsakes shelved around the living room. He broke porcelain, cracked wood, dented metal. He paid particular care to the resin casts of Willow and David’s hands that resided on the mantle over the fireplace. Such tiny things, those hands. Hands that would never again feel a dog’s fur, or the rough scratch of a cat’s tongue. Hands that would never feel the loving touch of another human being, or wear a wedding ring. They were hands that he’d never get to hold, or shake with a father’s pride.

He discarded the bat and took up the pickaxe. One by one, he drove the point through the pictures of his family on the walls. Each time he did so, he spoke their name: Michelle. David. Willow. Willow. Michelle. David. With every utterance his memory of them flared.

Maybe it would be enough. Maybe. He’d soon find out.

There were some old 2x4’s in the garage from when they’d laid concrete for a new patio. Nails. Hammer. There were canned goods in the kitchen. A bathroom down the hall. Running water. He could survive. They could live on.

He’d try.

The rest of the kitchen door came apart like tissue and the mass of undead strained against the tri-support of the 2x4’s. They already showed hairline cracks and wouldn’t last much longer. Ray didn’t count as he killed them, driving the pickaxe into skull after skull. The numbers were irrelevant, only their death mattered. He screamed his fury, his love, and with each one he remembered.

- P -

C. Bryan Brown doesn’t believe in traditional bios; he knows you don’t care where he was born or how many kids he has. If you liked what you read (and he hopes you did), then maybe you’ll want to read more. Links to all of his published work can all be found at his website, http://www.cbryanbrown.com

Juiced

Jason Downes

H

is illness had come on so fast, the tumor unknown about until too late. By the time the tumor had been diagnosed the damage to Lenny had reached a point of no return. “What can we do?” She had asked the doctors. “There must be something we can do?”

“Pray,” was what his primary physician had told her. So pray she had. Every day. And every day when Lenny got worse, she prayed a little harder. Eventually it had become too much. The tumor creating constant pain, the drugs, his eyesight phasing in and out, the cancer killing him fast, yet perhaps, in hindsight with mercy in mind, not fast enough.

Finally her desperation reached the point where she tried other avenues. She took the train from her home in New Jersey to New York and looked up the address she had found on the internet. She wasn’t completely crazy, she had made the trip during the day. The address was of an occult store located on a small dingy side street just off Alphabet City. To find it, you had to know it, or know of it. Martina had heard of it through a janitor at work. A Haitian named Philippe. She had gotten to know him over the last number of years at work. As she came to work each day and spoke of the ever deteriorating condition of the health of her brother, and her distress became increasingly noticeable, Philippe had reluctantly given her the slip of paper with the web address on it.

“You may want to try this,” he said.

“What is it?”

“Something that might help. Be careful though Tina, I am not sure if giving you this is right, it may cause more harm than good. Your distress though, it is not something I can idly watch. This place however, may have something which could give you and your brother some comfort. It will not cure him but it may….take the finality away from what awaits him. Just be careful.”

“Do you know these people? Can’t you just take me there?” Philippe shook his head and placed his hand on her shoulder. “I can’t. If you will go, you must go alone. Look up the information if you will but tell no one of your intentions. When asked how you found out about this place if and when you go, tell them a receiver sent you. They will understand and guide you in what you will need.”

The day she went to the store was a bright sunny mid-summer day. She arrived late morning as the day began to feel the heat climb with an oppressive humidity clinging to its back. Martina wanted to be back home by early afternoon and sitting in the comfort of her A/C.

The store located at the address she had looked nothing like a store. More like a shifty downtown bar where blood was expected to flow as fast as the beer. It had no windows outside and the door was locked. At eye level was a square cut out which was also blocked. She knocked strongly on the door, making it sound braver than she felt. After a minute, just before she readied to knock again, the square cut out slid open and two dark eyes peered out toward her. “What do you want?”

Martina gasped in surprise but quickly gathered herself as she thought of Lenny, Lenny who at that moment was probably sitting in his own piss and doubled over for not having the strength to get to the bathroom.

“Help.”

“For what?”

“My brother, he’s dying,” the last word caught on her breath, coming out as a whisper. “How did you find this place?” Martina thought of Philippe, what had he said? “A, a receiver. A receiver sent me.”

The square slid shut and was then followed by the sound of a lock being drawn. Then the door opened slowly inward revealing a dark and wary hallway. The man stepped from behind the door and motioned his head toward the hallway. “Then come in. You are welcome.”

- 2 -

Martina followed the man down the dark hallway. The light was so dim his body became nothing but a black shadow moving through the passage. He was tall, black and muscular. His voice contained a slight accent similar to Philippe. He finally stopped in front of another door and opened it inward. Beyond was another room, yet this one was the polar opposite of where she stood at that moment.

Inside the room was lit by warm soft lights, the room was relaxing. The walls lined with shelves which were laden with heavy books, and boxes. Behind the counter which stood in the far corner of the room, more shelves were mounted and lined with glass jars. Their contents unseen, the glass dark browns and greens. A sweet smelling incense burned upon the counter, a mix of a sage and lavender aroma. Whatever she had been expecting to see upon arriving where ever this man was taking her, this had not been it.

“It’s nice in here,” she said, not really knowing why. The man looked at her his face unmoving, betraying no emotion or feeling. He walked to the counter and set his palms upon it, placing his weight on them. His triceps tightening in his t-shirt as he did so. Somewhere in her mind she thought it a display intended to intimidate, however she felt only hope. Hope that somehow this stranger could help her to help Lenny.

“So what is it you want?”

“To help my brother. He’s dy..”

“Dying,” the man interrupted before she could finish. “Many people are dying pretty lady, yet they do not come to my door.”

“Well, many people don’t know you exist.” The man laughed.

“Why do you think I can help?”

“Because I have to believe you can.”

“And if not? What if your brother dies? Why is that so bad? There are some things worse than dying.”

“He’s all I have.”

“Then maybe you should begin to fill your life with more meaning. You are afraid of death?”

“Maybe. I’m more afraid of his death and being alone.”

He looked at her in silence for a moment. “Why? You have no man? You’re attractive, surely you could find yourself someone?”

Martina shook her head, embarrassed, exasperated, she had not come to be interrogated about her lifestyle. “Can you help me or not? I don’t see how my love life or lack of it affect this situation.”

“The consequences of what you may do upon leaving here are the reason. If you are all that will know about it then it will be better. If you share your life with someone, it changes the dynamic of what you seek to do.It will not just be you and your brother that will be affected. Whomever else you share this with will carry a burden. Is that fair?”

Martina wasn’t quite sure what this man was getting at but to her it mattered little, it was only her brother and her now. “There’s no one else. Rest assured, this burden falls to me alone.” The man shook his head and stared directly into her eyes, “No. Not true, it is mine as well.”

- 3 -

After a few moments of silence, the only sound being the slight hum from something electrical in the room the man spoke again, “Very well. I may be able to help. Know this though, the instructions I give you must be adhered to exactly.  Do not deviate from any of them in any way.”

“I won’t.”

“You mustn’t! The results will of doing so will, not can, will be more than you could ever imagine.” Martina said nothing, she just stood and looked at the man. She didn’t care for the warning, she was slightly irritated. Of course she would follow his instructions she wanted Lenny alive not dead. “I promise,” she said, standing as tall as she could, forcing her shoulders back slightly in an effort to somehow project a strong and honorable aura.

“Be sure that you do, for once done, what you do cannot be undone unless you are willing to do the most difficult of tasks.”

“What is that?”

“If you do this wrong, you will have to kill your brother.”

“This bottle contains a number of plant juices and herbs. It has the power to alter the bodies deteriorating weakness in times of sickness. It does in fact stop it. It will not cure him but it will prevent his death from the disease that plagues him. This bottle has two ounces, you must give him no more than one and a half. If you give him the full two, he is as good as dead, not because he will die, because you then, you will have to kill him.”

Martina shook her head and scoffed. “You’re telling me an overdose of this stuff by a half ounce is bad enough for me to have to…kill him?”

“If you give him the full two, either he must die, or you will.” Martina stepped back, uncertainty now clouding her thoughts. It suddenly struck her, right then as she stood there, that perhaps she should be at home with Lenny, easing him into his last few weeks or days in this world instead of being here in this sketchy shop, if it could be called that.

“Please know, I do not wish to frighten you, only warn you of the consequences should you not heed my directions.” He looked at her now, pity and empathy evident in his eyes. “Just do as I say, and it should be better.”

That had been a week ago, she had taken the two ounce bottle and paid the money. Once she was home she had put it away and thought no more about it. Somehow forcing it to the back of her mind until that last night, the night Lenny died.

That evening had been unbearable, the pain Lenny was in so great she almost wished him dead to stop his suffering. Then she remembered the bottle. She sat in a chair by the bed, rocking herself back and forth, her fingernails in her mouth chewed down to the quick, stinging slightly and bleeding a little. Every time Lenny cried out in pain she cringed and cried out herself. Her eyes were now a constant blur, tears never ending streaming out from them. Finally she stood, she bent over and kissed Lenny on the forehead and whispered to him, “I don’t know if I should do this but I can’t sit here and watch you die like this, so fuck it. What harm can it do?

As she now sat in the living room looking at the picture her thoughts returned again to that night. How she had wrestled with her doubts as to whether use the small bottle of juice the man had given her. Finally she had stood and retrieved it. She had administered the ounce and a half as directed. After two hours nothing much had changed, although Lenny’s pain had been severe she felt something should have happened by then so in desperation she had given him the last half ounce.

He died an hour later. “Well,” she had said to the empty room after returning from the hospital, “He said if I gave him the whole bottle I’d have to kill him. Looks like I did.” She then sat down and cried on the floor, her legs splayed out before her and her head hanging down into her chest.

Now, a week later she crossed by the same spot and turned off the living room light and headed up to bed. Two miles away in the town cemetery, her actions on the night Lenny died were beginning to have consequence.

- 4 -

Beneath the warm summer night sky everything was still. Stars twinkled in the inky black night and the moon was full, turning the tides and raising the lunatic factor. In the town Martina Gionta lived in, something else was raising.

The grave yard was, for want of a better word, deathly quiet. Nothing but the faint sound of the nocturnal animals scurrying about could be heard. At the grave of Lenny Gionta a small mound of earth rose, if someone were to have seen it, it would have resembled a mole about to break through the earth, except this was no mole. A few seconds later a grey and emaciated hand burst through the soil. It fingers clawing at the night air as if vying for seizure of the dark so as to haul the rest of what lay behind it out from underneath. And then the whole graveside burst open as the corpse of Lenny Gionta returned to the world, fuelled by the juice given to him by his sister.

It stood for a few moments looking, its jaw slack emitting a string of sticky green drool which began to pool upon the chest. A low guttural sound escaped from its mouth. Its eyes were wide open and becoming more attuned and alert to the darkness.  It tried to walk but shuffled in that ungainly way zombies from the movies moved, in time with enough steps taken this would cease but for now that was as it was, it looked like a caricature of itself, not that it knew or cared. Its instincts were beginning to take over and the one overriding all others was for food. It moved again and staggered into the night with its sharp, jarring steps, dropping loose dirt and maggots with each one taken.

“Where the hell am I going?” Asked the voice inside. Inside the zombie shell that moved ever more easily now through the shadows there was a mind, alert and knowing. Lenny Gionta knew something was wrong, very wrong indeed. He had no control over his body. In fact he could not move a thing. If he tried to raise his hand nothing happened yet he quite obviously was not paralyzed for he was moving. Yet his body seemed wrong, his hands, they looked like the hands of a corpse. What was going on? His memory went back no further than his sister giving him some foul tasting liquid and rubbing his head telling him all would be well soon. The hell it was, what had happened? Had he really just crawled out from a grave? Was he dead? He had no answer, he felt like he was strapped into a runaway car, it was going and he didn’t know when it would stop.

His body seemed to be not his own anymore, yet somehow his mind was still in there, trapped.  Lenny could think and remember but he knew there was something else in here, something that was now stronger than him and controlling the moves. He saw that he was now watching a young man walk alone along a pathway toward him. As he came level, Lenny saw his own arms reach out, felt them grab the man, and pull him into the tree lined grove he stood in.

In abject horror, he watched as the left hand held down this man with more strength than he had ever had, and looking into the man’s eyes he knew his right hand was raised and coming down toward the young man’s head with a large rock. He screamed as he saw the rock impact with such force it split the man’s skull in two. Opening it up like eggshell. The young man was dead instantly.

And then, if Lenny had had control over his body he would surely have thrown up. For what he saw next sickened his mind to a level he had never known. His hands pulled apart the skull and lifted wet and bloody brain matter up to his mouth and he then began to eat. His body gorged on the meat. The head emptied of brain it was then on to the eyes and once they were eaten, he watched on as his arms tore the head off and his right hand punched a hole in the chest of the man and pulled out the heart.  Again it was lifted and plunged into the mouth. Lenny wished he could look away but he couldn’t, he saw it all. He was no longer in control and then something which to him felt even more unholy happened, he began to feel full and satisfied, just like after Thanksgiving dinner. The screaming he heard was his own, it was him screaming inside himself.

The zombie body of Lenny stood and straightened out. Its slack jaw now tight with a smile. It felt good, Lenny no matter how he tried to deny it, felt good and it was time to move on.

- 5 -

When the morning light began to break Lenny realized his body was withdrawing into sparsely populated areas. How did it know? How did it know these places would be void of people for the most part? It knew because he knew.

Another horrible aspect of his new condition became apparent to him. He knew the place he was walking to up into the foothills of the mountain range in Ramapo New Jersey. It would be quiet here, he knew because he had often come here to photograph the scenery. He began to think that whatever it was that now controlled his body was also tapping into his knowledge of things. He tried to think of a specific place he liked which he knew would be quiet. A small lake, not favored by many. Within in minutes he was there looking at it. As his body moved forward and stopped short of the water, he finally got a view of what had become of him as his reflection was mirrored in the lake water.

He looked upon the image, terrified. His face was there but now corrupted by something unspeakable, an evil within that seemed to be within touching distance in this mind he now was in. At times his vision was surrounded by a darkness at the edges and he knew this was what now owned his body coming to take a look in his mind.

His thoughts turned to Martina, his little sister. She had tried so hard to take care of him. What was it she had given him before it all went dark? It had tasted so bad. Perhaps it was this that had caused his current state. If so Martina must have believed it would help, she most probably couldn’t have foreseen this outcome.

He felt his body shake with low laughter. Then he knew why, he had let the thing in charge know, he had put her in danger. His body lay down and closed its eyes. Lenny being now no more than thoughts and memories became suspended in darkness. If insanity had a feeling, then he was pretty sure, this was it.

The shadows were gone, night was back and Lenny was up and moving. Hungry again, inside Lenny wished with every part of him that this zombie body would stop and drop but the strength and power that it channeled told him otherwise. It stopped two blocks from his home, looking at the street ahead, sheltered by trees and night. Lenny could feel the hunger in the stomach of the monster he was trapped inside. He knew what was coming and when he saw the two teenage girls approaching, he screamed within his mind again, knowing he could do nothing to stop what would happen next.

The girls had passed by and were about six foot away, Lenny saw everything rush by him, he had never moved this fast in his life. Before they could even scream, his body had knocked their heads together and dragged them by the hair back into the trees. “Just like a fucking caveman,” Lenny thought.

The two girls, aged about 19, were dropped onto the ground, their bodies hitting the dirt hard. Small groans escaped from them. He saw his body bend down to the first, his strong dead man’s hands pulled the girls shirt apart, her bra ripped off as if it were nothing but floss. Yet he knew this monster Lenny felt no sexual arousal, no, getting off for this thing was the tasting of the meat.

It tore off the rest of her clothes and pressed the soft flesh, like a baker pinching his bread for freshness. Then it put its left hand under the top of her left thigh and its right hand under her neck, it raised her body up and bit down into the flesh of her stomach. It tore away a lump of warm, soft flesh and reveled in the warmth of the blood and taste of the meat in its mouth. Lenny could feel the euphoria rushing through him, he felt it only because of his connection to the monster, he himself felt such a revulsion he felt like the devil himself had taken his body to torture him.

He watched as fingers, the fingers he used to control slid inside the cavity and picked at the pulp inside, they pushed further in, probing deeper for something it may have considered a delicacy. Then suddenly it stopped, he felt his whole body stop, it froze with its hand deep inside her stomach, blood and gore oozing from the wound, an image flashed before his eye and Lenny spun like a top within this monster. A baby.

Finally this seemed to be the trigger for him, he once again went black. He came back as the monster that controlled his body had it stand again. Lenny saw the scene before him, the small mercy of not witnessing the carnage the only saving grace.

Both girls lay on the ground, the pregnant one missing fingers and her nose along with the hole in her side, apart from that she was looking like a prom queen compared to her friend. She lay in pieces, her arms and legs lying to the bottom of her torso, hands and feet missing. Her face had been chewed through and her torso opened up and gorged on. Every organ inside had been devoured and once again Lenny felt that sickening satiated feeling. The splashing sound it made as it moved around was from the puddles of blood it stood in. The coppery smell was everywhere, Lenny’s head looked down and he saw his body was covered in blood. It laughed and moved away from the girls, a low moan escaped from the pregnant girl, Lenny’s body stopped and looked back, “Unnnhhh.” It was fear, something about the pregnant girl had stopped him from killing her and eating her body. It moved off and Lenny watched in horror as it made its way to the end of his street.

It looked at the house which lay in darkness, his sister would be sleeping most probably, if she were home. Where else would she be? She never stayed out late. Her car was there but that meant nothing. However who was to say that hadn’t changed since…since what? He didn’t actually know. He was still very confused.

Dawn was beginning to break, the thing needed to shelter and it knew where to go, the garage, Martina never used it. And armed with the memories Lenny possessed it knew how to get in quietly. Within minutes it was lying down and thrusting Lenny into another waking sleep, where this time all he could think of was getting Martina away from this thing that now controlled his body.

- 6 -

Martina woke and stared at the ceiling. Just over a week had passed since Lenny died and she had not ventured outside for anything. She hadn’t watched much t.v. or gone online for anything other than to check email. She had just switched off from the world. She had taken few calls, most of what went on outside her home had not registered, apart from the sirens screaming through the neighborhood just before dawn the last two nights, that had been odd enough to get her attention.

She ate a light supper of cereal, it would be the last thing she would eat until morning. She had been sleeping a lot during the day now and sitting up at night. Her phone buzzed as it lay on the counter, it was Philippe. She slid her bowl away and picked up the phone.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hello Tina. It’s Philippe. I’m sorry to hear of your brother. I would have called sooner but I wanted to give you some time. The juice did not work I take it?”

Martina sighed inside and looked at the picture of Lenny again before answering. “No. No it didn’t.”

“Sometimes things are just too far gone or not to be,” said Philippe. “The instructions are easy to follow but there is no guarantee. What did you do with the last half ounce?” Martina laughed, holding back tears as she did. She remembered the night and the dire warning she had received about giving Lenny the full vial of juice, she recalled her desperation as no visible improvement came over Lenny after an ounce and a half.

“The last half ounce? I gave it to him, for all the good it did.”

The silence on the other end of the phone was like sealed blackness, the first thing she heard before Philippe spoke again were his fingers readjusting his grip on his phone. “Tina, you must leave, now!”

“What?”

“Why? Why did you do that? The instructions were quite clear, explicit!”

“What is the problem? Lenny was dying, I was desperate! I wanted to save him. Why all this crazy paranoia…Lenny’s dead, it doesn’t matter Philippe!”

“No! No! You don’t understand you can’t. You have to get out, you have to go.”

“What is wrong Philippe? Why does that last half ounce matter? It didn’t work! Lenny died and I’m alone. Can’t you understa…”

“He’s not dead Tina, you just turned him into a walking devil. One that is coming for you. Get out, before dark, get the fuck out!!”

The line went dead. Tina looked at the phone in her hand and tried to understand the conversation, she couldn’t. Philippe seemed to have lost his mind and she didn’t know why. Then she heard the cry of the backdoor hinge as it swung open and was followed by the sounds of heavy footsteps on the kitchen floor.

- 7-

She stopped in the doorway and took in the monster before her. She wanted to scream but the sound had caught and frozen in her throat, a barely audible wheeze was all that escaped. She felt the warmth of her urine as it ran down the inside of her right thigh and soaked into her sock at the ankle.

Her left hand held her throat as her right gripped tightly the t-shirt she wore between her breasts. Her mouth was open, her eyes bulging in fear. Looking at the thing before her, she had instantly recognized her brother but also knew it was not him, it was a corrupt and degenerate shadow of his physical appearance.

The thing looked at her, its skin a dirty grey, mouth open to reveal blackened gums and brown teeth. Skin flaked on the face and the eyes were black like shadows within a cave. The hands were bloodstained along with the rags it now wore barely resembling the outfit Lenny had been buried in. Its tongue moved and ran around the dirty, broken lips. Its mouth moved and a sound like someone chewing tobacco emerged. Green bile ran from the corners of the mouth and it then stepped closer. Martina stumbled backward, unable and afraid to take her eyes off the creature before her.

She backed into the living room and put her hands behind her in an attempt to guide herself. “Aaaagggghhhhhhh,” came the sound from the beast before her. It followed her, moving its head from side to side as if limbering up for something.  Martina realized she was moving away from the exit, the front door. She made to run and then the creature was there, with speed so quick it was a blur. It stood before her way out, grinning now. It knew, it knew what it was doing. Toying with her, having its fun before it did whatever it had come to do. All the while Martina thought one thing, “This is my fault, I did this. I turned Lenny into a monster.”

- 8 -

He saw the wretched terror and primal fear in his sisters’ eyes. He had never felt so helpless. Lenny screamed at her to run, a vain effort, she would never hear him. He did not know how this beast that controlled his body would kill her if she didn’t get out, he just knew it would and he would be forced to watch. She made for the stairs and he despaired, wrong move. Up there would lead to capture and who knew what type of slaughter. Lenny felt a burning, now that he was reduced to images alone this feeling was an unwelcome addition, then he saw the face of the thing that now controlled the zombie Lenny and the message it had for him as to what it intended to do to Martina. “Leave her alone!!” Lenny cried out inside his ethereal prison. The zombie body laughed at his anguish and shed its clothes as it began to follow Martina up the stairs.

Martina locked her bathroom door. Just outside the window was the roof to the study downstairs. She had already planned to climb out and take a chance on the 10ft jump to the ground in an effort to escape. As she closed the door and locked it shut, she heard the zombie Lenny race up the stairs. She rushed to the window and began to unlock the catch.

Philippe had hung up and flung the phone aside, before it hit the floor he was in the closet under the stairs and pulling out his father’s chest. Inside it contained all of his WW2 mementos. He reached into the bottom and pulled out the most treasured of his father’s collection, a Japanese Samurai sword, authentic and fashioned in the traditional art, the sword was 80 years old but the blade had never dulled. It would cut through a body with ease, just what he needed for what he had to do. He ran out of his house and stopped on his porch once the door was closed, he looked up into the front bedroom, a soft glow emitted from a night light. He shook his head clear and left for Martina’s home.

Under normal circumstances opening her bathroom window would have been no more difficult than blinking. Unfortunately, at that point normal was far from where she was at. Her fingers snapped and slipped from the catch every time she touched it. Panic overriding every other sense in her body. Tears of fear fell freely from her eyes causing her vision to blur and only adding to her troubles.

The thump that came from the bathroom door caused her to scream and lose her concentration, it was quickly followed by another and another. She saw the door shake, “Its fucking with me, its teasing me, it could smash it down, it could I know it.” She turned back to the window and fumbled with the catch again. In the instant she heard it click a euphoria and hope ran through her, she threw up the sash, and for some ridiculous reason she thought of The Night before Christmas when the guy does the same thing. She leaned out and began to climb. The crash of the door smashing caused her to slip, quickly regaining her grip she plunged head first out, she was out, free. She landed on the roof, her wind knocked from her but she began to crawl toward the edge.

The speed with which she was yanked back by the ankle and flung into the bathroom again was startling. She landed on the cold tile floor. Her head connecting hard with it. Dizziness swam in her head and she threw up. She passed out sick and drool smearing her chin.

The creature picked Martina’s head up from the floor by the hair and dragged her to Lenny’s old room. It would wait until she came too. It threw her on the bed and stripped her. Then it stood and waited. Inside Lenny was whirling, the torture of what he was witness to unbearable and knowing what was to come stretched his floating sanity to breaking point.

As he drove to Martina’s house Philippe punched in the number, he had not called it in three years. The man answered. “It went wrong, she gave him too much,” said Philippe. There was silence for a moment before a reply. “Then either you or she must end it. I told her what she would have to do. Do what you must and never contact me again. Ever.” The line went dead and Philippe threw down his phone. He saw Martina’s street coming up. He parked outside and grabbed the sword, from outside everything seemed normal. He knew though that normal had left the building.

Martina emerged from her unconsciousness and saw the white of the ceiling in Lenny’s room. Before she felt him, she smelled him and before she could scream a dead like hand pressed over mouth.

It watched her come awake again, blocking off her scream it forced her legs apart and pinned them down with its knees. It set itself up to go inside of her and then came the shout, downstairs. She heard it too and began to buck with a renewed vigor. It backhanded her across the face, knocking out two of her teeth and spraying blood after them. She fell back again dazed and it stood to deal with the intrusion.

Lenny felt stretched like elastic, having no physical control emotional pain became extreme. He watched as his old body prepared to mount and rape his sister. He watched akin to a man with no strength forced to watch his family die. Then came the shout and in an instant he felt hope.

Philippe stood in the living room, he ran to the kitchen were a light was on. He turned to walk back the way he came and look upstairs and then he saw it. Just briefly, as soon as he took it in it was on him and it bit into his shoulder, crunching on bone and sinew. The pain was intense. He screamed and dropped the sword. The monster came up with a chunk of flesh and bone and spat it into Philippe’s eyes, blurring his vision. It threw him into the drywall so hard he went through it and landed in the dining room. It followed him in preparing to finish him, when she spoke.

Martina took some time to get her head straight enough to move. She had heard Philippe, he was downstairs. She slowly got up from the bed and stumbled toward the doorway and stairs. She felt the cool air from the A/C on her naked body, goose bumps rippled across her skin and her nipples stood erect. She didn’t care she was naked, she just wanted to live.

Lenny saw Martina stand before him and the monster he was trapped in. She had what looked like a Samurai sword in her hands. The beast grunted and then laughed. She looked at him, tears streaking her cheeks. He saw her there, naked and vulnerable. Her mouth drooped at the sides before she spoke.

“Lenny, I’m sorry.”

With all the will he had ever possessed he made to speak through the thing he was in, “Do it,” he said.

Martina heard the voice. Lenny. It was Lenny, somewhere in there he was trapped with this thing. “I love you,” she said. Philippe stirred and made to stand, the beast turned slightly and Martina took her chance. She swung the sword at the neck of the monster and felt the blade slide cleanly through it as it cut muscle, tendon and bone. The head flopped to the side and fell to the floor. For a moment the body stood and then it followed. Blood pooled on the floor and maggots began to push through the meat. Martina dropped the sword, her whole body shaking. Philippe came over and held her, he took her away from the scene and found a blanket. He wrapped her up and hugged her. She looked up at him, “What happened?’ She asked, and he told her.

- 9 -

An ounce and a half, just enough to stave off death and keep the victim in a vegetative coma, a living zombie. Two ounces, kicked in and shut down the nervous system and overloaded the body, killing the person, only for it to reboot several days later and turn it into a zombie of immense strength, whilst down the body became an open house for the evil demons that sought a physical refuge. Just two ounces of obscure plant juices.

Philippe had used the correct amount for his wife and she lay upstairs in his house and would until someone killed her. The cruelty of holding on to someone never more apparent. Philippe had gone home after helping Martina clean up and ended his wife’s misery.

As she poured the gas from the canister on the floor she shook her head at the obscurity of it all. Plant juice, there was so much the world did not know. She stepped out of the door onto the New York side street. “Why are you here?” asked the man. She half expected to be found. “To end it. What you do has no place in the world.” She dropped a match and stood back, the petrol made a whump sound as it lit. He looked at her, amazed. Then laughed, “We have already moved from here. Your inability to follow simple instructions saw to it.”

“Why come back then?” A window from above exploded and a body slammed to the street twitching. “Our mother,” he said and walked away. Martina watched the burning body of the living zombie and felt Philippe come behind her. “Feel better?” He asked.

“Yes.” Then they left, leaving the burning empire of living dead behind.

- P -

Jason Downes was born in Dublin Ireland, where he spent 10 years with Irish Rail before moving to America in 2006. He currently lives in Allendale New Jersey with his wife and daughters, and works as a conductor for Amtrak. His novel, Pony Fleming is available from Post Mortem Press.

gone but not forgotten

Post Mortem Press

2010-2020

Post Mortem Press Classic Anthologies

Celebrating Emerging Authors with a few surprises too

AVAILABLE via KINDLE UNLIMITED

Uncanny Allegories

Thirteen Blood Curdling Tales

Shadowplay

Some Things Should Remain in the Shadows

Isolation

The TERROR of Being Alone

A Means to an End

Death is Inevitable

Road to Hell

Paved with Good Intentions

Mon Coeur Mort

My Dead Heart

New Dawn Fades

20 Intense ZOMBIE Tales of the Aftermath of the Apocalypse
Introduction by Joe Schrieber

The Ghost IS the Machine

An Anthology of STEAMPUNK Inspired Ghost Stories of the Past, Present, and Future
Features a story by NYTime Bestselling Author Joe Hill

Torn Realities

19 LOVECRAFT Inspired Short Stories
Features a classic novella by NYTime Bestselling Author Clive Barker

Fear the Abyss

We stare into the abyss, hoping to learn, to understand.
But the abyssis cold and uncaring.
Features award-winning genre classics from Harlan Ellison and Jack Ketchum