Archive for the ‘Zombies’ Category

Zombie Fever: Origins (Volume 1), by B.M. Hodges

Posted: August 26, 2012 by Shaina in Zombies
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Zombie Fever: Origins (Volume 1), by B.M. Hodges

Available at:
Amazon

Description: “A chilling beginning for a zombie series.” -Derrik Spence, Horror & Fear Review

“I could swear someone was creeping outside my window after I read this!” -UbiquitousEarl

Novelette Overview
Tomas decides to spend the summer with his father, who works
as a security guard for Vitura Pharmaceuticals in San Diego.
Soon after his arrival, his father disappears without a trace.
Tomas searches for his father, only to discover Vitura is more than it seems to be.

For those who love zombie horror and can’t get enough of
The Walking Dead, World War Z and The Zombie Survival Guide…
the ZOMBIE FEVER series is a must read!!!

Excerpt

Once Tomas began to calm, the woman slipped away and sat back down.

“Son, my name is Karl Bertrand and this is Dr. Greer. I’m in charge of the San Diego biological research and development division of Vitura Pharmaceuticals and Dr. Greer is our senior scientist in residence.” He took a deep breath, “Let me begin by saying that I knew your father well. I worked with him for years. He was a good man. Courageous. And his death was not in vain.” He swiveled around and tapped out a code on the wall. “However, before we discuss the circumstances of your father’s unfortunate death, I think it’s best to show you his heroism first.”

The room went dark and a screen made from light appeared as though floating above the center of the conference table, suspended in the air between Tomas and the two Vitura representatives, a logo with Vitura Pharma printed underneath turned slowly on the display.

The screen went blank and then there was Andy walking down a hallway, his aviator glasses hanging from his lapel. He was fishing out a cigarette from a crumpled soft pack pulled out of his shirt pocket. At the bottom right of the screen the date and time read yesterday at 3:23 am. He almost made it to the exit when, suddenly, the hallways lights began to flash yellow in an emergency fashion. Andy dropped his cigarettes, turned and ran down the hall shouting silently.

The camera changed to one positioned inside a large antechamber that dipped down towards the center and in the center was a sealed glass laboratory complete with air locks. And inside the glass laboratory, three scientists in powder blue bio-safety positive-pressure suits were milling around a large malfunctioning device that was spraying a fine greenish mist into the air. Andy could be seen bursting through the main doors and leaping down the stairs towards the enclosed laboratory. Inside, the three scientists were fading out of view as the green mist enveloped the clean room. Andy ran to a control panel against one of the walls. He flashed his badge against the panel and punched in a code. The mist began to clear as vents in the clean room floor began to suck out the contaminant. Then there was a flash as the camera overloaded for a second as an explosion of flames began to incinerate everything inside the glass laboratory, including the three scientists. The heat must have been tremendous as Andy had to back away to the far corner of the room and shield his eyes while the interior of the clean room was sanitized by fire. When it was over, there was nothing left in the container but steel tables and instruments, a lumpy mess where the spewing device previously stood, ash and bones.

The screen split in two and Tomas watched as several more guards appeared in the hallway outside the main room locking the thick metal and hardened glass doors. Locking his father inside. They remained behind the door, looking through the windows watching as Andy took stock of what he’d done.

There must have been a ring or a buzz because Andy looked towards the control panel, walked over, picked up a receiver and began speaking to one of the men outside who was holding another receiver pulled from a concealed panel in the wall.

Andy began shouting and cursing into the receiver. He threw it down and ran to a first aid closet against the opposite wall next to a rack of powder blue pressure suits. Tomas watched as Andy pulled out an indecently large syringe from a plastic case and inject himself in the neck. Then he sat down next to the rack of suits, his head falling slack against his chest. He slunk to the ground and lay there unconscious.

The screen vanished the way it had appeared.

Mr. Bertrand and Dr. Greer quietly waited for Tomas to collect himself. Tomas took out a pizza napkin he’d stuffed in there earlier and dabbed at his eyes.

“Your father is a hero,” Dr. Greer said.

“What your father did was stop a potential biological disaster that could have wiped out the entire population of California and the adjoining western states.” Mr. Bertrand added.

Tomas couldn’t understand what they were talking about. The video he witnessed and what they were saying only confused him further. It was if they thought he had prior knowledge that actually wasn’t there. “He killed those men. How does that make him a hero? I don’t understand.”

Mr. Bertrand smiled in sympathy, “Perhaps we need to slow things down a bit.” He pressed an unseen button and Tomas waited while the receptionist came in and served the two of them tea. Bertrand sipped his tea for a moment then said, “What do you know about Vitura Pharmaceuticals?”

Tomas let out a deep breath and after a long pause said, “Nada.”

“But surely your dad talked about his work. Everyone needs to blow off steam after a long day. Surely you discussed Vitura over dinner on occasion?”

“Look, Mister, I came to San Diego two days ago and my father drove me by the front of gate and then dropped me off to go to work. That was the last I heard from him. I looked for a telephone number on the web, saw your global website and watched a couple of clips about genetically modified wheat and a potential cure for malaria. When my father didn’t come home for two days, I took a cab down here to find him. Like I said, I know n-o-t-h-i-n-g.”

Bertrand and Dr. Greer looked at each other and Bertrand murmured, “See, I knew Andy was a company man.” He turned back to Tomas, “Then let me fill you in on some details. It will put your father’s death in perspective. Vitura Pharmaceuticals is a global conglomerate that strives to be on the cutting edge of biological ‘enhancements’, if you will. Our research and development facilities are located in eighteen countries and are second to none in advanced bio-nanotech and genetic research. From heartier strains of wheat, as you saw in our propaganda material to eradication of virulent disease, Vitura strives to make the world a better place through the manipulation of god given hereditary traits that are often taken for granted.” He sipped some more tea, “However, some of our research is…controversial. We therefore strive to maintain a small informational footprint in the media and public at large. This is why you may have not heard of us prior to your arrival in San Diego.

Two nights ago, our technicians were recalibrating an aerosol dispersal unit. What you saw in that laboratory was a malfunctioning canister of a genetically engineered bio-agent developed at Vitura called IHS. IHS is a chimeric virus engineered from the Zaire ebola virus, rabies and influenza and given super powers, if you will. It is highly contagious through human-to-human contact. It has a fatality rate of 100%. There is no treatment or cure. When the contagion is deployed, the aggressive strain infects a host body then seeks other hosts in that it provokes a certain amount of autonomic response in its victims, an urging, if you will, to spread the virus.

Our research of IHS is in the final stages and for the last two months, Vitura San Diego campus has been working day and night to fulfill the order for a military organization that shall go unnamed at this time. IHS is our crown jewel, an achievement twenty-five years ahead of its time. No other genetic research facility has come close to its magnificence.”

A chill crept into his core as he listened to the frank, matter-of-fact way in which this man was speaking about manipulating genetic abominations. To Tomas, this man sounded like a megalomaniacal opportunist sowing the seeds of world destruction. Was he actually boasting about creating a biological weapon that turns people into human dispersal units?

Dr. Greer sensed that Tomas was growing a bit agitated as he listened to Mr. Bertrand. She leaned forward and gently interrupted, turning the conversation back to his father. “IHS, while not an airborne contagion, if released into the general public has the potential to devastate the world’s population. For obvious reasons, we haven’t been able to conduct human trials; our research with primates has given rise to emergency protocols that may seem rather harsh to an outsider. When Andy died, he was following Vitura protocols to the letter. He knew exactly what he was doing in those final minutes. You see, all employees at Vitura are vetted through rigorous background checks, testing, in house education and training, from the CEO to the janitors and security guards. Everyone knows the risks of working at Vitura, as well as the rewards. Your father was no exception. Andy Overstreet’s quick actions saved potentially millions of lives.”

“So what killed him then, was it that syringe he stuck in his neck?” Tomas asked.

Zombie Fever: Origins (Volume 1), by B.M. Hodges

Available at:
Amazon

Apocalyptic horror-thriller, PaxCorpus, on sale!

Posted: July 9, 2012 by Meryl S. Fortney in Post-apocalyptic, Ryan S. Fortney, Science fiction, Thriller and Suspense, Zombies
Tags: , , , , , ,
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Hello everybody!

It’s me again, author Ryan S. Fortney, with a sweet deal happening over at Smashwords (and only Smashwords) for the month of July!

From now (July 8th) and until the end of this month, PaxCorpus (along with many other titles) is 49% off! That’s 1.50 USD. That’s cheaper than a box of bullets!

Check it out here and use the coupon code SSW50 if you happen to be interested.

If you’re unfamiliar with what Smashwords is (for whatever reason), it’s an amazing place for indie authors to post and publish their work and in-turn have their book/s distributed across a myriad of networks. Thanks to SW, Pax is available pretty much everywhere. You know, except for Google Play, which requires a whole bunch of hoop-jumping, but I’m getting there!

And, just to whet your appetite, I’ll be mean and post a snippet from the rough draft of the sequel to the book which I am offering at a discounted price! HAHA

Escape Velocity

ChapterZero:Resurgence

A few weeks earlier

Remember, you’re here for a reason.

“Alright ladies and gentlemen…” A specially designed Kevlar radiation suit dangles loosely from my body as I twist around to gather my unit’s attention, “This is our last trip to Harrisburg.”

Make absolutely sure you find proof that she is dead.

“We’re running low on reserves, so we’ve gotta be sure to find what’s left of the untainted supplies.” The eight-person APV trembles over the debris of Interstate Eight Three — fully armored with amazing suspension.

This is Ed’s dream vehicle, ever since we ditched that shitty cash-truck back on the outskirts of Allentown.

“You’re each equipped with an M4A1. With the flick of your wrist,” my fingers snap over a latch, “you go from semi-automatic to fully-automatic.”

Expecting combat in the middle of an irradiated wasteland?

“I don’t exactly expect to encounter any z-force, but the unlifers and the bastards that still teem from the Rift of Manhattan could be anywhere out there.” I sling my weapon over my shoulder and slide both hands down to a double-holster, switching off the safety of both handguns, each a Colt 1911.

“Dante?” Ed’s haggard voice buzzes over the small comm-speaker from the ceiling of the vehicle, “we’re approaching way-point zero.”

Remember.

Nuhm De’Ara’s body. I know.

I speak to the voice inside of my head. The voice that is not my own.

“Alright, suit up!” Commanding all around as I slide a helmet down over my head and fasten each clasp and zipper that gives protection from the deadly waste outside.

“Sir!” Jacobson, one of my unit turns to me, “how much time do we have, again?”

“Right,” holding a hand in the air, “listen up! We’ve got exactly thirty-minutes. No more, no less. Be here or be left behind.”

Of course, I never made it a habit to leave anyone behind. Circumstances like these, though, with heavy radiation eating away at your clothing, there’s no time for weakness.

Our ride comes to an unnoticeable halt and the back-hatch opens outward to reveal my nostalgia, one more time.

A gust of putrid, warm air bursts in and we pour out onto the pavement. Buildings stand half erect and crumbled. The sky is orange and vomit green. The capitol building, where we had once staged all of our business, now a pale shadow of what it used to be, much like the rest of the city.

And there it is. Turning around, weapon sights ahead of me and through a scope — Harrisburg hospital, where it all came to an end.

As always, thank you for taking the time to read this and/or my work. If you happen to grab a copy of Pax, don’t forget to leave a review once you’ve finished it!

Terra Necro: Tipping Point, by Michael Crockett

Posted: May 11, 2012 by Shaina in Michael Crockett, Zombies
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Terra Necro: Tipping Point, by Michael Crockett

Terra Necro: Tipping Point, by Michael Crockett

Available at:
Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes and Noble

Description: Ian Ward was at a low point in his life. Recently discharged from the Navy as the Shakes Virus went global, he narrowly missed the military’s general order that all military personnel were required to take the controversial vaccine. With little cash and no prospects, he ended up as a dishwasher in a greasy spoon diner, smack in the middle of nowhere.

The only bright spot in his life is a beautiful, kind waitress named Roxanne. She is everything he ever wanted in a woman, but seems determined to keep him at arm’s length.

Then, those who were administered the vaccine suddenly began to get sick and die. Riots swiftly broke out around the globe, many of which turned violent. As aggression rose, so did brutality levels.

Then, the dead began to rise and attack the living. Something is terribly wrong with the vaccine originally meant to save humanity, and all those who took it are dying and becoming zombies.

Now, the world is a nightmarish tragedy of the walking dead, hungering for flesh, and all-too-human monsters, who have realized the only law is survival of the fittest.

And caught in the middle are Ian and Roxanne.

Excerpt

A friend of mine once told me that every great disaster in human history had a tipping point; an exact moment when a series of events combined in such a way that the brink was reached and passed, ultimately sending everything sliding into chaos of change.

I couldn’t fathom what he was talking about at the time, all that has changed now.

Earth’s tipping point – or, more accurately, the tipping point of civilization – was brought on by a combination of natural disasters, a plague, and human error.

There were wars, of course. A never-ending stream of wars somewhere in the world has always been par for the course, so no one was surprised to watch more and more uprisings on the nightly news. What did the most damage, though, were the natural disasters. Heavy snow storms, floods, tornados and hurricanes, while not uncommon, seemed to increase in both frequency and intensity. The most popular theory was that global warming was changing the Earth’s weather patterns, and causing freak storms. Maybe that was true, maybe not. Whatever the cause may have been, the effect was that a lot of people were killed or injured, and countless more were left homeless. Soon, there were refugee camps popping up in just about every country.

It was within these camps that the pandemic known as Shakes first appeared in Europe.

Shakes, which was caused by a virus that attacked the central nervous system, was virulent and highly contagious. The onset of the disease was defined by a low-grade fever and flu like symptoms, which were rapidly followed by severe headaches and uncontrollable trembling – hence the name Shakes. The final stage included abnormally high temperatures, delirium and muscle-wrenching convulsions.

It was fatal in ninety percent of the cases.

The UN sent a vast number of medical personnel to various refugee camps, but they ultimately weren’t able to do much more than ease the suffering of those afflicted. By the time Shakes began to rear its ugly head in Asian camps, it quickly became apparent how contagious the virus was, and troops were sent not to treat, but to quarantine. A few early news stories covered protests and several riots in various camps, but the media were quickly forbidden to approach the camps for ‘health reasons’ soon thereafter. A few brazen news teams tried to talk or sneak their way in, but the UN passed a resolution mandating that anyone who came in contact with any of the camps were to be immediately detained and quarantined.  Not long after, there was a total blackout of all camps.

For a brief while, the world’s interest moved on to other things. The usual stories of small wars, natural disasters and celebrity rehab again dominated headlines. Then the rumors started circulating. The word was that the quarantine was failing, and Shakes was spreading outside some of the camps.  As a result, some of the UN troops were deserting. The media jumped on the rumors with a voracious appetite, and for a while there was nothing else on TV. But, when actual proof failed to materialize, the world’s interest turned to a sex scandal involving a global leader.

Six months and five days after it first appeared in a refugee camp, a case of Shakes was diagnosed in a hospital in Omaha, Nebraska.

The Center for Disease Control moved quickly, and the patient was immediately quarantined. Standard press conferences were held, and the population was assured the threat was manageable. The officials in charge stuck to that line right up until there were cases of Shakes reported in major cities on every continent. Only then did Shakes become a ‘major health concern’.

Do you think so? Really?

Shakes wasn’t like SARS, either. A lot of older people told me SARS always seemed to be distant, like it was always happening somewhere else. But pretty soon, everybody knew someone who had Shakes.

It was about this time that things, or more accurately people, started to get really ugly. The general distrust that had been bubbling just under the surface erupted into full blown paranoia.  People regarded strangers with everything from suspicion to open hostility. Masks of all sorts, even gasmasks, were worn everywhere, and going out in public with a runny nose was an invitation for violent attack.

Which, when looking back, probably wasn’t the smartest reaction, since Shakes appeared to be spread by direct physical contact.

Finally, in the U.S. and several other countries, a law was put into effect that made it illegal to be outside your home with any cold, flu or allergy symptoms.  Anyone caught exhibiting these symptoms was swiftly arrested and placed in quarantine. If you had a cold or a bad allergy day and you left the house, you’d be arrested and confined with those who had Shakes.

It was basically a death sentence.

Then, it was announced a vaccine had been developed through a joint venture between a pharmaceutical company and the CDC.  The vaccine was quickly mass produced and shipped around the globe, despite some researchers going on record to say it hadn’t been properly tested, and wasn’t ready for use on the population.

As would be expected, there was a mad rush to get the vaccine.  Since it was always in short supply, there were large riots and thousands of people were hurt or killed. Despite the rocky start though, people began getting inoculated regularly, and it looked like the threat might have been over.

Then, people who received the vaccine started to get sick and die.

Maybe the Shakes Virus mutated, maybe the vaccine wasn’t ready like some of the researchers said, or maybe the virus and the vaccine reacted in the body in an unforeseen way. Whatever the cause, the end result was that people started getting sick once again. The symptoms were much the same as Shakes, and took several weeks to manifest after the vaccine was received. But one thing was for sure; once you got the shot and the symptoms started, you didn’t have long to live.

This time around there was no hope; the mutated virus was one hundred percent fatal.

This caused more protests to erupt, many of them violent, and in a lot of places riot control had to get extreme. Maybe that’s why no one realized what was happening at first. Stories of riots and violence inundated the news, so when it got really bad, perhaps we just weren’t paying attention.

Or, perhaps no one wanted to believe the dead were actually reanimating and attacking the living.

So, where was I during the events leading up to the tipping point? When Shakes first hit the news, I was in Japan finishing my enlistment aboard the destroyer USS Binckle. I had enjoyed my time in the navy, but I wasn’t going to be allowed to reenlist, since all my evaluations stated I had ‘issues with authority’, which was really not the best mentality for a member of an authoritarian organization. It eventually got me on the PTS (Perform to Serve) list, which was a very professional way of saying ‘you’re fired.’

I couldn’t argue though, and had no one to blame but myself. I really didn’t like being told what to do, and couldn’t seem to stop making snide comments or letting my body language show just what I thought of the person issuing the orders. I was discharged just after the Shakes vaccine starting going global, and narrowly missed the military’s mandatory vaccine program. Everyone still in service was ordered to take the vaccine, and those who refused were immediately removed from their position and slapped with a Bad Conduct Discharge.  A few people took that deal and, as it turned out, were the smart ones.

Immediately after returning to the States, I stayed with some friends in San Diego while searching for a job. Unfortunately, there weren’t many places hiring, and those that were had no interest in someone the U.S. Navy didn’t want. After a lot of online searches and phone interviews, I finally managed to land a job as a security guard, halfway across the country, at a packing plant in Bright Water, Kansas. I luckily found a small, one room apartment to lease, and the rent was dirt cheap to boot. But, since the pay for the job was minimum wage, it was all I was going to be able to afford.

Unfortunately for me, when I arrived at the plant to begin my first shift, I was told it had gone bankrupt and had closed its doors.

So, there I was – fired twice in less than a month, stuck in the middle of nowhere, nearly broke, and no prospects in sight. I had enough money for a bus ticket back to California, but I’d either have to live off my friends’ charity or go stay with my mom until I found another job. I was too proud to do either. Besides, I joined the navy to get away from my mom, who was a narcissistic, attention-starved control freak, and I couldn’t stand the thought of living in that Hell again. Also, my mom had recently gone back to the Philippines to take care of her mother, and I definitely didn’t have enough money to get there.

After the plant manager informed me I didn’t have a job, I stopped off at a little diner in town to grab a bite to eat and decide what my next step was. As it turned out, luck was on my side, since there was a ‘Help Wanted’ sign in the window. After sitting down at a table, I immediately asked the waitress about it, and she told me the job was still available. The diner’s owner, a fat guy named Ralph, was there, and he interviewed me on the spot. Ralph informed me that no one else had applied for the job, and I suppose that should have raised some suspicions in my mind, but the position included a free motel room located right behind the diner. And like I said, I was almost broke, and Bright Water wasn’t exactly a booming metropolis – beggars can’t be choosers. During the interview, Ralph asked me several questions that seemed kind of random, and didn’t have much to do with the job; in fact he seemed to be worried that I might be an illegal alien or a cop. My mother is from the Philippines, and I have dark hair and eyes, which means I’m always being mistaken for a Latino, usually Mexican.

Since I was the only applicant, Ralph hired me on the spot as the night shift janitor, dishwasher, and all-around gopher. After working there for a while, I started to get the idea that Ralph was into a lot more than just running the diner. He had a lot of ‘business associates’ who he’d conduct meetings with.  I was never introduced to any of them, but just one look at them was all I needed to know that they were thugs.

The diner was a theme eatery named ‘The Dining Car’, as it was fashioned out of an old train car. A counter ran the length of the car on one side, and some booths along the opposite side. The front door was at one far end of the car, and two small restrooms were at the other. A cinderblock building was attached, which housed the kitchen, freezers, storage, and Ralph’s office.

Since this was a small diner in a small town, there were only two other lucky individuals to share the night shift with. Hack, the Fry Cook, was an old guy with grey hair and leathery skin, who was as talkative as a tree and about as friendly. Hack’s entire vocabulary seemed to consist of three phrases; “Got it.”  “Order up.” And “Clean that.”

Then there was Roxanne, who was the resident waitress and duty manager.  Roxanne was friendly and talkative; she was one of those people who you instantly liked. She was in her late twenties and had beautiful dark eyes, long black hair, and since she was from El Salvador, she spoke the very proper English of someone who had just learned the language. She also had an accent that was, well, sexy, and the first time I saw her I thought, “Stripper Body”. Yeah, I was thinking like a sailor, but in my defense she could have made serious money as an exotic dancer. After I got to know her, I realized how nice she was, and I felt pretty bad about my immature fantasies. We fell into an easy friendship.  Well, she did at least. I, on the other hand, developed a pretty big crush on her, but she didn’t seem to see me as anything more than a friend, or a little brother at best.  Anyway, the Dining Car in Bright Water, Kansas was where I called home when the tipping point was reached, and everything fell apart.

My name is Ian Ward, and I’m a survivor in a world where the dead walk and civilization no longer exists. What follows is my story of survival, loss, and triumph.


Chapter 1

I was at the sink washing plates when Hack staggered through the back door, holding his arm up close to his chest. He was muttering, “Damn wino bit me! Damn wino friggin’ BIT Me!” over and over in a short, breathless voice. I looked up and noticed his hand was clamped over his arm just below his elbow, and blood was oozing from between his fingers.  I quickly grabbed the cleanest towel I could find, and attempted to help stop the bleeding. Roxanne came in from the counter area to see what all the commotion was about.

I sat Hack down in the chair he kept near the grill, where he would sometimes doze when we weren’t busy, and wrapped the towel tightly around the wound. It looked like a chunk had been torn from his arm, and he was bleeding profusely. I glanced up at Hack, and noticed he wasn’t looking so good. To be fair, he didn’t look all that good, even on his best days – he smoked too much, never ate anything that wasn’t fried, and had that sixty-going-on-eighty look. But now he was shaking, his skin had a pale, waxy look to it, and I was fairly certain he was going into shock. I looked at Roxanne, who was hovering behind me wringing her hands, and told her to call an ambulance.

Roxanne hurriedly ran to call 911, and I started talking to Hack. I’d learned in the navy that you were supposed to talk to the injured and wounded in order to keep them from going into shock, so I knelt down next to him and asked what happened.

“He bit me,” Hack replied, staring at nothing.

“Who bit you?” I pressed.

I realized that asking questions about how he got injured probably wasn’t the smartest topic at the moment, but if there was some nut running around biting people, I wanted to know who it was.

“Wino what allus hangs out in the alley,” Hack mumbled. “Somethin’s wrong with him. Just walked up and bit me while I was havin’ a smoke.”

Hack’s smoking was epic. He would chain smoke three cigarettes in the time it would take most smokers to finish one. His real name was Scott, but his continuous coughing, which would sometimes get so bad the customers would complain, is what earned him the dubious honor of his nickname.

I was about to ask Hack what he meant by “something being wrong with the wino who bit him,” when I heard a low moan behind me. I looked over my shoulder, and immediately shot to my feet with a yelp when I saw what was standing at the back door.  It was Ed, a homeless guy who always hung around the alley behind the diner so he could rummage through the dumpster. He was just standing in the doorway, but to my growing horror, I realized that part of his face and one of his eyes was missing, and he was covered in blood. Then, Ed bared his teeth and began shuffling toward me.

Everything seemed to slow down and happen all at once. Hack let out a shrill scream, and stumbled out through the door into the counter area. I heard Roxanne scream, and I found myself grabbing a mop and shoving it against Ed’s chest to keep him away from me. Ed moaned again and tried to grab me, but thankfully the mop was keeping me just out of his reach. What the mop couldn’t keep away from me though, was the smell. Ed stunk like something that had been dead a very, very long time. I began to try and push him back toward the door, but I wasn’t making much progress, since my feet were slipping on the thick film of grease on the floor. It quickly became a back-and-forth contest of Ed trying to get around the mop, and me trying desperately to keep him away. I was also trying to deal with the fact that part of his face was missing, and it looked like his throat had been torn open.  Several of his wounds looked like they had been caused by something biting chunks out of him.  I was beginning to have trouble keeping the mop between us, and was even considering dropping it and taking off running, when a saucepan whizzed past my ear and smacked Ed right in the forehead, knocking him off balance. As Ed stumbled backward clumsily, I took full advantage of the change in fortune and shoved the mop hard against his chest. After several forceful thrusts, I finally pushed him through the back door, which I immediately slammed shut and locked. When I turned and put my back against the door to catch my breath, Roxanne was standing in the middle of the kitchen, eyes wide, lips parted, and breast heaving, with another sauce pan poised and ready to throw.  I’d never seen anyone look more beautiful than she did at that moment.

“I think I love you,” I blurted without stopping to think.

Roxanne dropped the pan, put her hands over her face, and burst into tears. It was the reaction I should have expected, but it was still a little bit of an ego-killer.

I started to go over and put my arms around her, but a loud thump against the back door made me spin back around in surprise. The door was thick, wood sheathed with steel, and had a strong lock, but was shaking a little, and it sounded like Ed was throwing his whole body against it. Despite being unnerving, the door looked like it would hold, and all appearances were that we were safe for the moment. I turned back to Roxanne, who was trying to regain her composure.

“Where’s Hack?” I asked.

“He ran out through the front door,” she said, her voice shaking a little. “He just ran away and did not look back”.

“Oh, son of a mother grabber,” I said, and ran for the door into the counter area.  It had just occurred to me that the front door was unlocked.

I ran out into the dining area, vaulted the counter, and twisted door’s lock so hard I bruised my fingers. Then, for reasons I still don’t understand, I reach over to the nearby window and flipped the sign around to ‘Closed.’ I suddenly realized the front door was mostly glass, so I unlocked it, pulled the security shutter down, bolted it into place, and then turned the lock once again. As I turned around, I realized there were two customers sitting at the counter; an elderly couple who had driven up in an RV about an hour earlier. They were about halfway through their meal, but they had stopped eating and were staring at me apprehensively. I couldn’t really blame them.

“We gonna be allowed to leave when we’re ready, boy?” the old guy asked, frowning at me. He was a tough looking man who had obviously stayed in shape as he aged.

I normally don’t take it well when someone calls me ‘boy’, but I had a few more important things to worry about at that moment.

“Bill!” scolded the old lady, a pleasant looking woman whose gray hair made her look grandmotherly.

“Quiet, Edna”, said Bill, still looking at me. “Well, boy, you gonna answer me?”

“Oh, uh, yes sir,” I stammered. “We just had a little problem with a homeless guy out back, so I’m keeping the door locked until the police arrive.”

Bill and Edna looked at each other, then back at me with worried expressions.

“Did that fella who just ran outta here get bit by any chance?” asked Bill.

I glanced at Roxanne, who had followed me out of the kitchen, and nodded.

Bill and Edna looked at each other again, and I could see fear in Edna’s eyes.

“If you know something, please tell us,” said Roxanne.

“Well, I can tell ya it ain’t good,” said Bill, pushing his plate away. “We’re comin’ back from a trip back east, and the last few days we kept meeting other people that that was travelin’ in different directions, all who seemed to have the same story. Seems folks that got the new shot for the Shakes go all crazy and start biting, and even eating, other people.” Bill shook his head, and the lines on his face deepened as he frowned. “We didn’t believe it at first, but then we saw it happen at a rest stop the other night. There was these folks that came in, all crammed into a car, and one of them was pretty sick. He was just a kid, maybe ten or eleven. They was going around asking for any medicine or bandages that anyone could spare, and said some crazy guy had bit the kid a day or so before.  ’Course, I wandered over to have a look, since I was a medic in the war, and thought maybe I might could do somethin’.  Problem was, when I got there, I see this kid laying in the back seat of this car and, I gotta tell ya, there was no helpin’ him. I been in combat, an’ I’ve seen lotsa dead people, and I got to where I could just look and tell when someone was dead. And this kid? He was dead.”

Bill looked over at Edna again, and then turned to face us. He looked grim, and Edna looked pale.

“Only thing is, before I could say anything, this kid, this dead kid, he sits up and he’s got these dead milky lookin’ eyes.” Bill shuddered and took a sip from his water glass.

“So he wasn’t dead?” I asked confused.

“You ain’t listenin’, boy. He was dead. I know when folks is dead; it’s like there’s a light’s gone out in ‘em, and this kid looked just like that. But then he opened his eyes, and the light was still gone, but there was somethin’ else there.”

“What do you mean something else?”

“I dunno, never seen the like before. Wasn’t right though.”

“So then what happened?” I asked.

Bill looked me straight in the eye, and I felt a chill run down my spine.

“That boy turned to his Ma and took a bite right out of the side of her neck,” he said, “and he chewed that chunk of his Ma up and swallowed it, and then he went to take another bite, and all the time she’s screaming and his family is all grabbin’ him and trying to pull him off his Ma.”

“What did you do?” asked Roxanne in a hushed voice.

“I got Edna into the RV, and we got the hell outta there,” Bill replied, “and it looks like we ought to be gettin’ outta here too.”

“We need gas, Bill,” said Edna. “The tank ain’t but half full.”

“We can get gas down the road. We got to stay ahead of this.” Bill looked at Roxanne, “What do we owe you?”

While Bill paid the check, I went over to the window and looked out toward the parking lot, and further out to the road. The diner was a few hundred yards from the bottom of the freeway off-ramp, and I noticed a few cars on the elevated portion, but not one on the exit or feeder roads. I could see a few people up the road, but they seemed to just be milling around aimlessly. I could also hear some sirens in the distance, and twice, what sounded like gunshots, though I wasn’t sure. That thought reminded me Roxanne had dialed 911 some time ago, and still no one had shown up. I went to the phone and dialed 911, but all I got was a recorded message telling me to stay on the line and, ‘My call would be answered by the first available operator’.

I noticed Bill and Edna were heading for the door, so I hung up the phone and went over to unlock it.  As I turned the lock, Bill darted a glance at Roxanne, and then turned to me.

“You two might want to think about getting out, too,” he said. “This is gonna get worse before it gets better. You might want to come with us.”

I glanced at Roxanne, but she shook her head.

“I think we’ll wait here,” I said. “Somebody will come and straighten this out.” I hope, I added mentally.

“Suit yourself then,” Bill replied. “I wish you both luck.”

I raised the security shutter, and Bill and Edna walked out of the diner, down the steps, and into the parking lot. Unsure what could possibly happen next, I quickly closed the shutter and locked the door. As I turned back to Roxanne, I heard a shrill scream come from the parking lot.  I ran over to the nearest window and looked out. Bill was on the ground struggling with someone, and Edna was standing over them both, pulling with all her might against Bill’s attacker.

The attacker was Ed.

From the look of things, Bill and Edna almost made it to their RV when Ed, who was apparently on the other side of the RV, had come around the vehicle and attacked Bill. Then, I noticed several other figures converging on Bill and Edna. My first thought was that they were coming to help, but when the first of the group reached the struggling trio, they either grabbed Edna, or simply fell onto the clashing forms of Bill and Ed. I heard Edna give a long wail of agony, and saw blood spray into the air as she was born to the ground by her attackers.

I started toward the door with every intention of going out to help, but Roxanne grabbed my arm.

“Ian, No!  You cannot help them, and you will be killed too,” she whispered.

“I can’t just leave them out there!” I said, pulling away from her.

“Ian, please do not go. There are too many of those things, and you cannot help them,” Roxanne pleaded.

I dared to look out the window again, and almost vomited. Roxanne was right; there were now about thirty of those creatures, and they were all over Bill and Edna. Bill was completely hidden by his attackers, who seemed to be tearing at him with their bare hands and teeth. I could see that he wasn’t moving, and I was sure he was dead, but Edna was not. Several of the attackers had her pinned down on her left side. I could see her legs sticking out of the pile, and they were kicking, almost as if she was trying to run.  As I watched, unable to look away, her legs slowed, and then mercifully stopped.

I turned away from the window and found Roxanne standing behind me with her hand to her mouth, tears running down her face.  I put my arms around her, felt her tense up and then relax, and I gently led her away from the window. As we reached the counter, she started to sob quietly.  I sat Roxanne down on one of the stools, and was just about to sit next to her, when it occurred to me that several people were, at that very moment, attacking and quite possibly eating, two people right outside, and we were in full view. All that needed to happen was for one of them to look in our direction.

I jumped up, turned off the lights, closed all the window blinds, and started thinking in terms of how safe we were.  The diner itself was a converted train car, so it was made of metal, and had windows high enough that they couldn’t be reached easily from the ground. The kitchen was cinder block, with only two windows, which were also set high up in the walls. No one was going to reach those from the outside without a ladder.  The back door was wood, sheathed in metal, and the front sported a strong security shutter that could only be opened from the inside, so I thought we were reasonably safe.

Now, all we had to was wait until help arrived.

I went over and sat down next to Roxanne, who had stopped crying, but was now staring blankly at the coffee maker behind the counter.

“Roxanne, are you ok?” I asked and then tried to ignore the part of my mind that said, AAANNNDD the Stupid Question of the Year Award goes to…

“Who are they, Ian? What are they, and why are they doing this?”

“I don’t know. Bill mentioned that people who got the vaccine for Shakes went crazy. Maybe it creates some kind of toxin in the body and affects the brain; makes them go crazy.”

“Do you really think that is it?”

“It must be something like that. What else could it be?” I asked. I was haunted by of the images of Ed, and the wounds in his neck. Could someone take that kind of damage and still live?

Roxanne shivered. “Bill said the boy he saw was dead, and then he started moving again.”

“Roxanne, that’s crazy. How could that be happening? Dead people don’t just get up and walk around like that,” I said, but I was getting a bad feeling.

“There were some stories on the news about this in other places too,” Roxanne stated. “Did you see them?”

“No, my room doesn’t have a TV, so I haven’t been able to keep up on what’s happening,” I said. And Ralph has the hots for you, so of course you get a TV in your room, I added mentally.

“Well, there were reports of attacks and cannibalism in a lot of different countries, and they said it was the ones who took the Shakes vaccine that were getting sick, and then going crazy.”

“Ok, whatever the reason, those people out there are dangerous, and we have to figure out what we’re going to do.” I looked around the room. “This place is pretty safe, so maybe we should stay here and see if the police can get the situation under control.”

“But, what if they cannot, Ian?” asked Roxanne. “We do not have a very big police force.”

“Well, then the National Guard and the Military will move in and…” my voice trailed off as a horrible realization hit me.

“What is it Ian?”

I took a deep breath and tried to fight down the rising dread.

“Ian!  Answer me!” Roxanne demanded, leaning toward me.

“Roxanne, right after I got out of the Navy, all military personnel were ordered to take the Shakes vaccine. No one had a choice, and I’m pretty sure the National Guard units were among the first, since they would be the primary units called up in case of an emergency.”

“But that means…the whole military could be sick.” Roxanne put her hand to her mouth.

“And that means, not only is it likely we don’t have a large force of well-organized, heavily armed people to help us, we might have to deal with a large number of sick people out there,” I added.

Things were not looking good.

Terra Necro: Tipping Point, by Michael Crockett

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I Zombie I, by Jack Wallen

Posted: February 19, 2012 by Shaina in Jack Wallen, Zombies
Tags: , , , ,
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I Zombie I, by Jack Wallen

I Zombie I, by Jack Wallen

I Zombie I, by Jack Wallen
Available at: 
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Description: In a moment of pure chaos, the majority of the Earth’s population became the walking dead. One man promises to unveil the truth.

When journalist Jacob Plummer is bitten by one of the undead he turns to the written word not only to ease the pain of change, but to reveal a truth that could spare the world from extinction.

As Jacob attempts to reveal the conspiracy behind the virus he fights off the undead masses to save the planet from a collision with entropy.

Excerpt:

Chapter 7: Dangerous travels

The ash was still falling, covering the landscape with the gray pallor of death. Random sounds could be heard from every direction, bringing to mind a feeling of well-earned paranoia. The march to Susan’s father was slow going, like slogging through a warm, dry snow.

“So what exactly does your father do?” I thought maybe some idle chit-chat would ease the tension a bit.

“He’s a molecular physicist focusing on renewable energy sources. He’s won every possible award in his field and has been published in every possible publication.”

I was surprised that this man’s young daughter could rattle off a PR-ready bio as easily as she could the lyrics to her favorite song. It was almost as if the response had been programmed from birth, like she was daddy’s little adorable sound bite.

“And that’s all he does.” Susan added as she kicked an empty soda can with the power and accuracy of a professional soccer player.

Finally we got to the truth, an emotional core underlying what, on the surface, would appear to be the American dream. Husband, Daddy, Scientist ready to save the world…but does Daddy’s profession preclude him from giving his own child what she needs the most? A father. And did Daddy overlooking his sweet, innocent child during this apocalypse lead to her ultimate demise? Negligence of epic proportions.

“Take a right at the next intersection.” Susan’s voice yanked me from my inner monologue. “From there it’s a half-mile or so, and then a left turn.”

We turned the corner and found ourselves looking at a scene I might never be able to forget. Lying at the feet of a moaner was a woman whose head had been cracked open and hollowed out. Blood covered and veiled the woman’s face; it was splattered on the ground surrounding her head and neck, making it look like her brain had simply exploded. What was probably the same moaner that had defiled and skull-juiced the mother was standing at the scene of the crime, holding an infant in his hands. The baby was screaming as the moaner brought its tiny head to his mouth and bit down. The fragile skull caved in, and the moaner devoured the brain matter.

Rage and hate poured out of me as, without hesitation, I pulled the gun out and fired. Unlike my last attempt at shooting, this go around my aim was spot-on the first time as the moaner went down with the same third eye in his head as the previous victim. But I wasn’t done. No. I insisted on draining a few more shots into the sick fuck’s head. The bullets from the pistol continued desecrating the moaner’s face until there was no face left to target. The echoes from the gunfire slowly dissipated into a silence that was only broken by my heavy breathing.

I couldn’t pull my eyes from the train wreck at my feet. I was overcome with the desperate need to scream out in anger, hatred, and loss, and a desire to drop to my knees and weep. But before I could even manage a single inhalation, I heard Susan screech as I was knocked to the ground by another monster. This second beast was a female, and she went directly for my head. Between her moans and her cold fingers wrapped around my skull, it took every bit of concentration I had to get the barrel of the gun up and pointing at her temple. But before I could get off the first shot the bitch started to bite down on my arm. Her mouth opened wide, but before she could chomp down, she pulled away as if she had thought twice about it.

I was finally able to wrestle the moaner’s head back from my arm and get point-blank aim at the whore’s forehead. The moaner gave my head another pound, which sent sparks flying about my vision and made me lose my aim.

Susan let out a hair-raising shriek that caused the beast to release her grip on my head and dive for the young girl. Susan dodged it with cat-like grace as I hoisted the pistol back up, took aim, and fired. This time, the bullet tore through the neck of the monster. The moaner didn’t go down, though, nor did any blood gush out.

Susan ducked behind me, and the moaner turned to face us again. I couldn’t believe how quickly the thing made its next move. In the space between two heartbeats, the moaner had moved from where she was to where I was. We were nose to nose. The foul stench of the thing’s breath burned the hair in my nostrils. She was sniffing me. She snorted in lungful after lungful of the air that occupied the space around me. The moaner didn’t, however, make any attempt to snack on my cerebral matter. The thing just stood there… sniffing.

I was beginning to think the moaner’s only working senses were sound and smell. The eyes looked useless, as if they had been coated with a few too many layers of wood glue. The milky orbs looked as if I could peel them, layer by layer, like a rotten onion. And when I reached the core of that foul, rotten onion, I might have very well found the essence of the moaner’s bad breath. The last time I had a smell so foul assault my olfactory nerves involved a vomitous drinking party between myself and a few of Chicago’s finest homeless men. That putrescence was a mixture of fetid meat, wine-induced vomit, urine, and body odor. And here was that smell’s rival, huffing and puffing in my face―but nothing more. It was like I wasn’t even there. The moaner just stared blankly in my direction. It wasn’t until Susan’s voice broke the void of silence that the beast made a lunge around me to get to Susan. The whole scene seemed to freeze. I couldn’t quite wrap my brain around what was happening. This thing, inches from my face, seemed to not even take notice of me. Yet Susan made the slightest of moves and the beast went ballistic.

Susan’s screeching voice demanded I retreat from my personal void. The moaner had her pinned to the ground, and her gnashing teeth were snapping for her flesh. I grabbed a two-foot piece of rebar from a collection of construction debris and heaved for a homerun. The rebar connected with the moaner’s skull which instantly gave in to the strength of the steel. Rancid gore splashed out onto the sidewalk, a horrid tribute to Jackson Pollack.

Susan kicked up hard, and the moaner fell back, its head splitting the rest of the way open to allow the remainder of the sweet meats to spill onto the ground. Susan remained down, breathing hard, with Oreo-sized eyes staring up to the heavens.

“Batter up?” I smiled as I held out my hand. Susan took it, letting me pull her up. The shock registering on her face let me in on the secret that she wasn’t currently capable of taking this all in with the same humor I used to keep myself sane.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to―”

A tidal wave of pain took my attention as it washed through my head. It was quick and brutal. Brilliant flashes of light blinded me, and a loud, high-pitched whine took over my hearing. Susan was speaking, but I couldn’t hear her words.

As quickly as the feeling came, it made its exit out of the building of my skull.

“Jacob, what’s wrong?” I finally heard Susan’s concerned voice. “Are you okay?”

“My head,” was all I could manage to get out.

“Did you get hit by something?”

“No, I don’t know. I’m not sure what happened.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Susan had her hands on my arms in an attempt to comfort me.

“I’m―I think it’s passing.”

“What was that?”

“Headache, I guess.”

“I’ve never seen a headache drop someone to their knees like that.”

“It’s over. I’m fine.”

I didn’t want to tell Susan what I was really feeling. It was like my head had been pumped full of air until I could hear the joints in my skull creaking together. I hadn’t felt pain like that―ever. And the sound was as if someone had sneaked hearing aids into my ears and turned them up full-pitch. It was deafening.

Susan didn’t need to know how excruciating the pain was and how frightened I was that something was really wrong. All she needed to know was that, for the moment, I was fine.

“Shall we?” I gestured forward.

“Do we have a choice?” Susan smirked.

“I suppose we could return to the hotel.” I out-smirked her.

Unfortunately all of the shrieking that spilled out of Susan’s mouth did nothing to keep an entire block of moaners from finding us.

“J-Jacob…”

“Wha―”

“We’re surrounded.”

“Shit! Run, Susan!”

From out of nowhere, what seemed like a gang of moaners began to surround us. I had no idea how agile some of those fuckers were, but I decided we had to take a chance. I grabbed Susan by the arm and pulled her straight toward the circle of undead. Luckily, momentum was on our side, and we managed to plow through them without so much as a single one of them laying a hand on us.

We slipped into a building and pulled the door shut behind us. There was no way of knowing if the things had enough intelligence to know where we had gone, or even if they knew how to open doors. I hoped like hell the early Romero movies were right, and the damned things were as stupid as a bag of hammers.

“What do we do now, Jacob?” Susan asked breathlessly.

“We wait.” I answered in kind.

“We have to get to my dad!”

“Susan, if you want to make it to your dad alive, you have to be quiet and wait.”

“But if we ran past them once.” She insisted.

“Susan, just trust me. Please.”

I would never understand the disconnection between young adults and logic. They could stare into the eyes of truth and reality and still be completely clueless.

I cracked open the door and peeked out. Our circle of friends was gone, probably ambled off in search of fresher, more immediate meat. I motioned for Susan to wait inside so I could check to make sure everything was as clear as it seemed.

I walked out about ten yards and, with no apparent signs of danger, I turned to fetch my ward―who was standing right behind me, waiting for me to stumble over her, sending us both crashing to the ground.

Susan let out the tiniest of giggles. I had to admit it was humorous, and just what we needed to lighten a mood that was deadly serious. Susan grabbed me by the arms and spun me around to face the direction we needed to go.

I had been given my marching orders. I took them. We proceeded.

I Zombie I, by Jack Wallen
Available at: 
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The Other Side of Eden, by Ethan Cobb

Posted: January 24, 2012 by Shaina in Dystopian, Ethan Cobb, Zombies
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The Other Side of Eden, by Ethan Cobb

The Other Side of Eden, by Ethan Cobb

The Other Side of Eden, by Ethan Cobb
 Available at:
 Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & Noble

Description:  When Carrie failed to escape the city in time, she got trapped in quarantine. Civilization had abandoned her. However, she’s not alone. Others are with her—people infected and controlled by the single emotion they had when infected: Curiosity, Fear…Anger. She must avoid the contaminated and escape, or she too will be another victim.

Excerpt:

One foot punched the gas pedal, revving the engine.  Warm tears dripped off her face.   Carrie gripped the gearshift.  The engine belched throaty power, and then fell silent as she wrenched the keys from the ignition. She screamed at herself.  “Drive already, God Da-”She managed to stop.  Cursing God would only make it worse.  She was the one damned, and He was right in doing so.  Each day stuck on the island was a testament of her sins. Buster barked from the passenger seat.  The Dalmatian flicked his tail.  “You’re right, it was a good try,” she said, patting randomly.  Day ten of trying and she still hadn’t driven an entire block.  Mangled wreckage of twisted mailboxes, splintered fence timbers, and bicycle parts were scattered along the street.  At least no one was on the mountain bike when the car she was driving smashed into the frame and bounced over each wheel, leaving the bicycle destroyed. Then again, there was no one.  That wasn’t true, there were people, but she didn’t want to think of the others.  Those left behind were hardly human any longer. The rearview mirror tilted to one side, and she moved to adjust the angle.  At the end of the street, a shape moved around the corner and was lost among thorn bushes.  Carrie kicked at the door and bolted.  Squeaks from the metal brace attached to her left leg squealed with each step.  Eventually the figure at the corner would realize she could only move with the speed of an injured lamb. “Buster, to me,” Carrie said.  The dog bounded to her side. “Watch,” Carrie said.  Hackles raised, the dog turned to look at the yard.  Carrie wrenched at the front door handle and stumbled inside.  Buster leapt over her and she slammed the door shut.  Three locks turned close before she began to breathe normal again. She parted the blinds, expecting to see someone.  The road was vacant.  There was no movement except for the sway of long grass in the front yard from the breeze.  The bramble of her corner neighbor’s yard grew into the border of lawn.  They had kept the bushes trimmed, when they had been around.  But that was over two months ago.  She glanced back the other way.  The street remained empty.  Each of the yards seemed to imitate the next with a mosaic of trash entangled in the long hands of the grass.  Tall weeds towered across each green stretch. She breathed deeply and steadied her pounding heart.  Really, the movement could have been anything.  Another dog or cat left behind or even her mind playing tricks.  She wanted to shrug it off, but her eyes stayed riveted on the area just to be certain.  For over a month, she had not seen anyone on her street.  She acknowledged she was be getting careless, and needed to be certain of her surroundings before making so much noise with the car. Carrie looked at her yard, which looked the same as the rest on the block.  Part of her wished she could bring the mower out, but the clipped lawn would have made it obvious there was a survivor living in the house.  She turned back to the living room. Buster barked. “I know.  We can try the car again tomorrow.  Remember what happened when I went before I was ready last time?  We don’t want to have to find another car.” Buster barked. “Okay, okay.  Sure it was easy.  If I can find the keys the car is mine, but it means I have to go into houses.  Only one mistake is all it takes.” Buster barked again.  On automatic, Carrie reached for the bag and poured.  Brown pebbles dispensed for a second and were covered by crumbs and dust.  She sighed, took the food sack, looked at the full trash, and threw the bag into the front yard through a slit in the window.  The wind would drive the paper away. She looked at the bare cupboards and wished the breeze would return something edible.  Her reflection caught on the toaster.  She stared at the blue eyes and black pupils.  Part of her worried that one day she would look at a mirror and the eyes would be different, instead finding purple had replaced the blue iris. “We need to go shopping, Buster,” said Carrie.  The dog whimpered and lowered his tail. “You’re right,” said Carrie thinking of the blur she had seen.  “Wait until it’s dark.  At least then maybe no one will see us.” *** Moonlight littered each deserted home.  Block after block Carrie moved through the silence.  Thick towels wrapped around the metal brace muffled the sound of her movement.  Perhaps she was overly cautious, but better paranoid than dead.  Buster crouched low and moved forward.  He turned his head back and Carrie followed.  Times like these made Carrie appreciate she only had five feet of height to hide instead of the bulky frame of her dad. She wondered if her family was still alive.  Did they pass the barrier before the bridge was destroyed?  She was almost positive her mother was caught up in one of the last groups across the bridge, but she was uncertain about her dad.  She tried to ignore the thoughts.  There was a way to find out.  If their cold bodies lay on the pavement, she would know they died because of her. A group of five stood below a street lamp three houses down.  Each of the rust colored faces stared up at the florescent glow.  Deep gashes stretched down the face and neck of a young girl and an old man.  Carrie shuddered.  Those who could not run were caught first.  But even the old man had managed to escape; which meant there was some hope she might get away, if surrounded. She yanked the black beanie tight over her hair.  Her long strands of blond were a gleaming halo at night.  Her pale skin did not help and she covered herself in a dark sweater despite the heat.  Even her backpack, once bright purple and gold of the school colors, was now covered in a thick midnight shade of spray paint.   The bag had been her favorite, but blending into the shadows remained top priority. She squeezed past a broken fence post, moving away from the group.  Purple eyes and dirt encrusted fingers haunted her dreams.  She did not need reminders, and there was no way to predict if or when one would snap. The grocery store lights glowed through large windows onto the vacant parking lot.  Carrie stepped forward.  Buster growled, and Carrie jumped back into shadow.  A lone figure, almost blending with the night, stood under a parking light, staring. “We have to sneak around back,” she whispered.  Buster moved backward.  From the opposite edge of the lot, another figure burst out, running straight for the lone man under the lamp.  Carrie turned her head.  Buster’s growl deepened. “Shh,” Carrie whispered.  “There’s nothing I can do.” Sounds of metal carts crashing on the asphalt and banging against poles reverberated, but no screams.  There were never screams, which made witnessing the brutality worse.  Carrie kept her eyes forward, but movements on her periphery still assaulted her.  Bile clung in her throat.  The person under the street lamp would be dead by morning, or if not he would stare at his wounds in amazement for hours. The keys jangled as she rammed them into the lock and jumped inside the store.  She slammed the lock back home and sighed. A voice yelled in one of the aisles.  “Keep back as ravens eat the cream puffs!  I’m warning you!  Don’t make the shrimp jump into limburger cheese!” “Hey Herbert,” said Carrie. Herbert screamed again and the sound of cans crashing on the linoleum echoed as he scampered away. “Nice to see you too,” said Carrie. In a twisted sort of way, Carrie enjoyed seeing Herbert.  The man had been the grocery owner since before she was born, and it seemed only right to pick up supplies under his watch.  He was one of the few who offered any conversation, even if it was gibberish. “Get over your fear yet?” One of the freezer doors thumped shut on the far side of the store.  Most likely, others outside were infected with fear as well, but Herbert was the only she could identify with those symptoms.  The others probably hid in their cellars.  She wondered what emotions others might have, but the Curious and Angry seemed the most prevalent. She felt fairly certain of her theory.  Everyone seemed to be controlled by a single emotion, and most were curious or angry.  She figured when the evacuation occurred and people began to change most had been bewildered or frustrated and were now stuck with that emotion.  She had had those emotions as well as being scared and tired.  But she still had no idea what was going on.  She still didn’t understand how they lived.  Did they eat?  What was sustaining them? “At least you weren’t stuck with curiosity, like the guy outside,” she muttered.  “Or worse, anger.”  The dog chow bag resisted her pull to open it, and eventually she rammed the sack against a shelf edge.  Pellets sprouted and poured from the hole.  She took a list from her pocket as Buster crunched. “Don’t worry Herbert,” she said.  “I am keeping a tally and when humanity returns to this hell hole I am sure my family will pay you back.”  She reached in above Herbert, who was trying his best to hide on the bottom row, and plucked up a package of frozen burritos.  His purple eyes glanced from between his fingers for a moment and his body constricted tighter.

The Other Side of Eden, by Ethan Cobb
 Available at:
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Hungry For You, by A.M. Harte

Posted: November 8, 2011 by Shaina in A.M. Harte, Zombies
1
Hungry For You, by A.M. Harte

Hungry For You, by A.M. Harte

Hungry For You, by A.M. Harte
Available at:
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Description:

“There is no greater drug than relationships; there is no sweeter death than love.”

Love is horrible. It’s ruthless, messy, mind-altering, and raw. It takes no prisoners. It chews you up and spits you out and leaves you for dead. Love is, you could say, very much like a zombie.

In this haunting short story collection, anything is possible—a dying musician turns to tea for inspiration; a police sergeant struggles with a very unusual victim; a young wife is trapped in a house hiding unimaginable evil….

With “Hungry For You”, A.M. Harte explores the disturbing and delightful in an anthology that unearths the thin boundary between love and death.

Excerpt:

The girls lined the street corners in tattered skirts and dusty high heels, midriffs showing, legs cocked jauntily to lure the passing man. Condoms choked the gutter and the sickly sweetness of rot was heavy in the air but still the girls stood there, silent, waiting, hungry.

When the zombie apocalypse began, Sergeant Retta hadn’t expected it to end like this. The stench, the decaying bodies, the shambling gait and inability to speak—that, she had expected. It was the zombies’ hunger for sins of the flesh rather than flesh itself which had come as a surprise.

The girls were pretty, in a half-dead way, their eyes dark and their skin pale. The uglies and the males had long since died of malnutrition. Those that remained were the elite: slim, flexible, with four limbs and an almost-complete set of fingers and toes. They were well-fed enough to have never progressed past Stage 1 of decay, and now—with their brothers and sisters long buried and the virus easily prevented—these girls lingered on the edges of the city, arms outstretched to welcome their next meal.

Retta eyed the girls with a mixture of revulsion and pity as she drove past. The girls stared back, not at her but at Detective Mortimer, their noses sensitive enough to smell his maleness from miles away. They tracked the car’s progress like sunflowers, faces upturned and yearning, all broken bones and gangrene smiles. But however much they strained forward, the thick chains around their ankles held them in place. These girls were going nowhere.

Retta forced herself to keep looking. These were the girls she had failed, the ones she hadn’t protected when it’d been her job to stand between them and the plague. It made bittersweet sense that now she was the only one watching out for them. The rest of the force didn’t care. Certainly Mort beside her had the surly expression of a post-tantrum child.

“You’re only killing them, you know,” he said, through mouthfuls of his burger. The baconator, it was called; just looking at it made Retta feel sick. Where other men compensated with sleek cars and large motorbikes, Mort used food. “A man sees us cruise by, he ain’t gonna stop for the zoobs. And with no business, these girls—” he paused to swallow, drew a line across his neck “—dead. Well, deader than they already are.”

“They never died,” she retorted, scowling, but he had a point. That the government turned a blind eye to zombie prostitution didn’t make it legal. Retta took a left at the next intersection and began heading back towards the inner city.

She was just on the edge of Dead District, idling at a red traffic light, when she noticed it. A closed door. Anywhere else the sight would have been commonplace—expected, even. But here where only zombies wandered, with no privacy nor home, a closed door was an anomaly. ZombieAid had even run a campaign to remove all doors from the area after several zombies were found trapped inside, starved to death.

“Green,” Mort grunted, balling up the wrapper of his burger and throwing it into the backseat.

It took Retta a moment to realise he was talking about the traffic light. She put her foot on the gas, then stopped and looked at the door again. It was probably nothing.

“Green,” Mort repeated, jabbing a finger against the window shield for emphasis.

Retta bit her lip, then parked on the hard shoulder. Before Mort had a chance to ask her what she was doing, she’d unbuckled her seat belt and gotten out the car. She looked at him over her shoulder. “I’m going to check something. It won’t take long.” He grumbled his protest, settling more firmly into his seat.

Retta closed the car door and scanned the perimeter, one hand on the gun strapped to her waist. At the end of the road was a solitary zombie, arms stretched out towards the car, the chain around her ankles pulled tight. The rest of the street was quiet, abandoned, no zombies in sight. Maybe that was why the door had been left closed, maybe ZombieAid had skipped this street in their campaign because it did not house the undead. Mort might have been satisfied with that explanation, but Retta was not the type to rely on assumptions.

She walked forward slowly. The garden was a forest of weeds, tendrils crawling over the stone walkway as Nature reclaimed her space. The house was battle-weary: the porch was slanted and the window panes were fringed with fractured glass, like dark mouthfuls of teeth. The paint was peeled and cracked. Yet the door was closed. Had the wind blown it shut? Her cop instincts told her it was something else.

The porch creaked heavily under her weight. Retta walked over to the front door and tested the handle. It turned easily: the door was in use, then. She put her shoulder against the door frame and pushed the door open with one hand. Silence. Retta peered around the frame, looked into the ruins of a hallway. On the walls were large square patches where pictures had once hung, the paint just that bit brighter. There was no furniture, just a scrap of cloth close to the door. Retta stepped inside and picked it up. It was a sock. A dusty one.

She was about to throw the sock back down on the floor when she noticed the logo on the underside of the sole. The cursive black script was familiar. Could it really—? Retta shook off the dust and studied the sock more closely. Yes, it was an original Caligula design, the most elite pheromone-masking clothes brand in existence. Wearing head-to-toe Caligula guaranteed your safety from hungry zombies, if you had the money for it. Of course, the drug lords were using the brand’s new technology for entirely different purposes.

Retta pocketed the sock, edged a little further into the house. No drafts, she noticed, yet despite the closed front door the air smelled fairly fresh. Another sign that the house was in frequent use. Was it a drug den? Maybe, but there was no point calling in the DK9 unit until she was sure.

She looked over her shoulder and beckoned Mort over. He took his time getting out of the car, moving sulkily, glancing over at the zombie at the end of the road with evident disdain. But when he was close enough to see her serious expression, he ditched the attitude and put a hand on his gun. He lifted an eyebrow. Retta put a finger against her lips, tilted her head towards the house. Together, they moved inside, alert for trouble.

The house must have belonged to a wealthy family before the apocalypse. The marble floor was well-polished, and the curved staircase on the left had a hand-carved banister. The banister was covered in a fine, even sheen of dust which had not been disturbed. Not upstairs, then. When Mort looked at the stairs quizzically, Retta shook her head and indicated further down the hall to a curved archway on the right.

They kept their backs to the wall as they walked further down the hallway. Retta held up a hand when they reached the archway, lined up her shoulder with the edge of the wall. She nodded at Mort and then leaned slowly to the right to evaluate the situation.

The archway opened onto a large, rectangular room with floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall and real hardwood flooring. The walls were painted a rich, earthy brown and on one side of the room was a red brick fireplace. There was no furniture save for a double bed in the very centre. Lying on that bed, tied up by his ankles and wrists, was a zombie.

Retta scoped the rest of the room but there was no one else there. She looked at the zombie again and hesitated. He would have caught her scent by now, yet he wasn’t trying to move towards her. Either he was tied down extremely tightly, or he was dead. She took a deep breath and walked into the room, feeling uneasy.

Mort followed her in. He cursed. “Dead?”

Retta holstered her gun and moved towards the bed. The zombie was naked, his body dark brown and leathery but lean and fit, and stiff—everywhere. She averted her eyes. “I can’t tell. He’s not moving.” A small, guilty part of her hoped he was. She had no desire to become a zombie’s dinner, however pleasurable the experience was supposed to be.

“Well I ain’t touching it.”

Retta sighed, moved closer to examine the dark green rope tying the zombie’s wrist to the bed frame. It was thin but sturdy, the kind of rope her boyfriend had used when he’d gone rock-climbing. The memory brought with it a twinge of grief, still sharp after all that time. Retta counted backwards from five and pushed the grief away. She had a job to do.

That was when she felt the curious prickling sensation of being watched. Retta lifted her gaze to find the zombie staring directly at her. She backed away from the bed, mouth dry. “You’re going to have to touch him. He’s alive and needs untying.”

Hungry For You, by A.M. Harte
Available at:
Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes and Noble 

The Harvest, by Scott Nicholson

Posted: October 24, 2011 by Shaina in Dark fantasy, Science fiction, Scott Nicholson, Thriller and Suspense, Zombies
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The Harvest, by Scott Nicholson

The Harvest, by Scott Nicholson

The Harvest, by Scott Nicholson
Available at:
Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & Noble

Description:   For fans of Stephen King, Dean Koontz, and Scott Sigler, from a #1 bestselling Kindle author.

An infection that consumes and changes people…

When an alien entity lands in the remote Appalachian Mountains, a clairvoyant psychology professor, a drunken dirt farmer, and a disillusioned tycoon must team up to stop it before the infection spreads.

But with Windshake’s annual spring festival coming, the town is full of visitors, unaware of the unnatural menace creeping toward them from the woods, or that the shambling people with the green, glowing eyes are aching to make contact…

Excerpt:

Sylvester Mull cradled his .30-06 in the crook of his left elbow, his trigger hand gripping the wooden stock. He ducked under a low pine branch, one of the few scraps of greenery in the mountains this time of year. He was hunting out of season and wore brown camouflage coveralls, but still felt as exposed as a peacock in a turkey pen. The damned deer seemed to be getting smarter and smarter, or maybe he was just getting dumber.

Last year, he’d only bagged a couple of bucks, a four-pointer and a six-pointer. Not even worth hanging those scraggly-assed sets of horns on the wall down at the Moose Lodge. But he didn’t hunt for the glory of it, like a lot of those beer-bellied Moosers did. He liked to put meat on the table cheap, or free if possible. Of course, they weren’t exactly giving away ammunition these days, what with them damn liberals putting the pressure on the gun industry.

But hunting was only half the reason he lurked in the woods. The joy was in getting away out here on the back side of Bear Claw, where the car exhaust didn’t burn your eyes and the only noise was the northwest wind tangling with the treetops.

Blow on, wind. Just push the ass end of winter right on out of these parts.

The last snows had been late and deep. It might only be his imagination, but he couldn’t remember the weather ever being so bad. Seemed to have gotten worse over the last few years. And them damned geniuses on the news kept on about global warming when any fool could plainly tell it was getting colder.

Used to be, by this time of the year, red buds would be hanging on the tips of the oak and hickory trees and the briars would have little sprigs of bright green leaves up and down their spines. But today, everything was the color of mud and barn stalls, dreary from the rainstorm that had hit the mountains last night. The wind had pushed the storm away, though another sprinkle had started around noon. The first stubborn flowers had poked through the dead leaves, bloodroot, trout lilies, and slim, pale stalks of chickweed. In the protected hollows, mist hung like gun smoke over a battlefield. The mist was easy to hide in, and maybe, if he was lucky, a buck or doe might just pass right under his nose.

Sylvester had built this stand last fall, when the hunting season had about petered out. Dead pine branches stacked against each other, a few logs strung together with twine to hold the mess up, and a little leaf-covered tarp tied overhead to keep him dry. With his brown clothes and hair, he blended with the environment. And he ought to, as many years as he’d hoofed through these woods trying to rustle up some meat. He didn’t wear one of those flaming orange hats that they sold in the sporting goods section down at the Kmart.

That was one of the dumbest things Sylvester had ever heard of. Might as well carry a neon sign that said, Hey, deer, come over here and get blown to hell. Prevented accidents, they said. Well, if a fellow couldn’t tell a man from an animal, he had no business in the woods with a gun anyway.

Sylvester crouched in the stand, his feet hot in his boots, and listened to the forest. Nothing but wind and the soft splash of the rain, but that was okay. Plenty of time to think. Because hunting was timeless, the past pretty much like the present, whether in season or out. He could just as easily have been a brainless caveman waiting to spear a hairy elephant or a space alien with a zapper ray-gun, like in the movies. The hunter and the hunted, that’s what it all came down to.

A bad day of hunting beat the hell out of the best day of work. He’d called in sick down at Bryson’s Feed where he drove a delivery truck, and it wasn’t the first time he’d skipped to go after deer or pheasant or squirrels.

Hell, he had been sick, in a way. Sick of that yackitty-assed wife of his, Peggy, and those snot-nosed brats she’d laid on him, who sat on their sorry asses all day staring bug eyed at them video games. All crowded in the nasty trailer that Peggy was too lazy to clean. Who wouldn’t want to escape from that?

He didn’t escape in beer the way most of his fellow Moosers did, even though the thought was mighty tempting. He only had to look around on a Friday night at those sad-eyed middle-aged losers to remind himself how fast it all went away. Their last good years were draining through their livers, the alcohol fogging their fat heads and blurring their eyesight. He wasn’t even sure why he had joined the Lodge. Probably because you had to own a necktie to get into the Lion’s Club.

Most of his friends belonged to the Lodge. Billy Ray Silas, for one. They’d gone hunting and fishing together for the last twenty years, and once every six months they packed up and headed to the top of Blackstone Mountain for a week-long camping trip. Of course, they spent three days of pump’n’pay at a whorehouse in Titusville before they even unloaded the truck. But Sylvester always brought something back, a good twenty-inch rainbow trout or a ten-point buck, and, once, a black bear.

And when he returned, his lips chapped from the wind, Peggy would be all lovey-dovey and they’d actually get along for a few weeks, doing the horizontal hoedown at least every other night. But that was before he’d found out about Jimmy Morris, his loyal Lodge brother.

Seems Jimmy had been wearing out his sheets whenever Sylvester was gone, riding his wife before Sylvester’s truck exhaust had even dissolved over the driveway. And Peggy must have felt guilty, because after his camping trips, she had been doing all kinds of imaginative bedroom sports. Or maybe Jimmy had just taught an old dog some new tricks.

To hell with them both.

Sylvester felt the comforting weight of the .30-06 across his arm. A good gun was all a body needed, a long, true blue barrel and a worn woodstock. And some deep forest, which was getting harder to find since all the old local families had started selling off their land. Even his old man had peddled off pieces of the Mull birthright. The old farmstead had gone to seed, and if Sylvester ever did inherit a chunk of acreage, it would take years of work to get it yielding again.

Besides, Chester was never going to die at this rate. All that damned moonshine must have mummified the bastard, because he didn’t seem to be slowing down any. Chester didn’t lift a finger around the farm, but he still managed to get down to the Save-a-Ton and load up on TV dinners and chewing tobacco.

The last time Sylvester had visited him, a few weeks back when a late winter snowstorm had melted down enough for the farm road to be passable, the old man had been curled up under a blanket, his dog at his feet, and a jar of rotgut at his elbow, as happy as a rooster in a henhouse.

A twig snapped in the distance, jerking Sylvester out of his reverie. His senses sharpened as if his ears had telescoped out and were swiveling back and forth like secret-agent radar dishes. Leaves shuffled somewhere to his left, about a hundred yards away, just over a ridge.

Must be a big son of a bitch, judging from the racket.

Sylvester peered at the edges of a laurel thicket. A deer couldn’t get through there, the branches were too knotted together. And the top end of the ridge was too steep. Even a mountain buck couldn’t climb those granite boulders that jutted from the earth like gray teeth, especially with rain still soaking the loam beneath the leaves.

So it would have to come around the lower end of the laurel thicket, and Sylvester had a clear line of sight to the spot where it would most likely emerge. Now it was an enemy, as surely as the Japs or Injuns were in a John Wayne movie. It wanted to keep its meat attached to the bones, but Sylvester wanted to field dress it and slice it into steaks. It would die before it even knew it was hunted.

The back of Sylvester’s neck tingled and sweat popped out around his scalp line. It wasn’t a nervous sweat. Sylvester was locked in. This was his reason to roll out of bed in the morning, his dope, his religion. He had something to kill.

Sylvester wasn’t complicated enough to try to understand why he gained so much pleasure from hunting. An anthropologist might have chalked it up to some primordial survival instinct still swirling in the genes at the base of the human backbone even after all these millennia. A psychologist might have decreed that Sylvester was still trying to measure up against the judgments of a harsh father-figure. A Mooser would have said that killing was more fun than a fart in an elevator.

But Sylvester was untroubled by the many facets of the equation. Because the equation was simple: the hunter versus the hunted.

He pressed the gunstock against his cheek and pulled back the safety. It slid smoothly and easily, loose from years of being lovingly oiled. Sylvester aimed down the barrel to the tiny wingtip of the sight and lined the gun up with the spot where the footfalls were headed. He breathed shallowly to hush the roar of his own blood in his ears and to steady his hands.

He saw movement through the drizzle, a quiver of laurel branch, and his finger grew taut on the trigger. He knew the exact degree of pressure he could apply before the hammer fell, and he was halfway there. Then his eyes saw a spot of brown, a more reddish brown than the surrounding dead leaves and tree trunks. His finger notched to about three-quarters.

Another step, just show me the white fur target on your chest, and I’ll park your ass in the deep freezer back home.

And suddenly the animal stepped into the clearing, and Sylvester’s finger was squeezing out the last millimeters of the trigger’s resistance when he saw that it wasn’t a buck that had lurched between the trees.

In that same micro-second, although it seemed to stretch out so long it felt like minutes, Sylvester pushed up with his left hand as the roar of the igniting charge filled his ears. Sylvester’s mind collected several observations in that slow-motion instant: the smell of the gunpowder, harsh and cloying; the slight kick of the gun butt against his shoulder, like that of a baby jackass; the mist lifting as if someone had sucked it up with a king-sized vacuum cleaner; and the sound of the bullet whistling through the treetops overhead, carving a slice in the sky before digging into the mountainside somewhere hundreds of yards away.

The sweat was back on his scalp line, and this time it was nervous sweat. He’d almost shot somebody.

He leaned his rifle against the stand and looked at the figure that stumbled between the trees. Whoever it was didn’t seem to have heard the shot. Sylvester’s hands trembled. He looked down at them as if they were someone else’s.

He stepped from the stand and looked down the ridge. The figure staggered and fell.

Sweet holy hell. I didn’t shoot the son of a bitch, did I?

Tears of panic tried to collect in the corners of his eyes, but he blinked them away. He ran toward the fallen heap of flesh, hopping down the ridge, slipping on the rotten rug of leaves. They’d lock him up, sure as hell. Never give him another hunting license. Kick him out of the Lodge, maybe.

The huddled form was rising, wobbly but still alive. “Praise to Thee,” Sylvester muttered to the wet gray sky, not really giving a good goddamn whether or not anybody was up there to hear him.

He saw that it was a man he’d almost shot, a short man whose dark hair hung in wet mop strings. His back was to Sylvester, but he looked familiar. Those square ears jutting out from under a red ball cap gave him away as surely as if he’d handed Sylvester a picture ID.

“Ralph,” Sylvester hollered, reaching to touch the man on the shoulder.

Ralph Bumgarner was as dumb as a hitching post, but even he knew better than to stagger around in the woods in a deerskin jacket. With a white wool collar to boot. Must be drunker than a Republican judge.

“I almost shot you, you crazy fool,” Sylvester said, and his words almost flew back down his throat.

Because Ralph had turned.

Because Ralph’s eyes were glowing green, the color of lime Jell-O, but shiny, as if a Coleman lantern was burning inside the cavity of his skull.

Because Ralph’s face was ashen, pale, and dead, his flesh bulging against his skin like white mud in a Ziplock baggie.

Because Ralph planted his hands on Sylvester’s shoulders and pulled him closer, and Sylvester’s bones felt as if they had turned to Jell-O themselves, because he couldn’t run.

Because Ralph opened his mouth as if he were going to plant a big soul kiss, and Sylvester got the feeling that there was a lot more to it than homosexual attraction.

Because Ralph’s breath was maggoty and putrid, blowing from the black swamp of his gums, promising a French that was a hundred times ranker than the ones he’d gotten from the Titusville whores.

Because Ralph’s tongue was in his mouth, slick as a slug but with the scaly texture of a dead trout, and a flood of cold slime gushed into Sylvester’s throat.

Because the slime was changing him, joining and separating his cells, breaking him down, altering his metabolism.

Because Sylvester felt himself dying but had a feeling that simply dying and getting it over with would have been the best thing that ever happened.

Because now he was dead.

And ready to hunt.

The Harvest, by Scott Nicholson
Available at:
Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & Noble

Cold Faith and Zombies, by Sean Thomas Fisher

Posted: October 19, 2011 by Shaina in Sean Thomas Fisher, Zombies
Tags: ,
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Cold Faith and Zombies, by Sean Thomas Fisher

Cold Faith and Zombies, by Sean Thomas Fisher

Cold Faith and Zombies, by Sean Thomas Fisher
Available at:
Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & Noble

Description:   Bump in the Night Publishing is proud to present Sean Thomas Fisher’s latest novel, COLD FAITH AND ZOMBIES (76,000 words).

The scripture warns that in “the last days” the love of the great body of believers will grow cold and maybe that’s why people who aren’t people anymore began pounding on Paul’s front door. With his zombie movie and gaming experience, his wife, Sophia, and trusty friend, Dan, know they have an edge against extinction. Paul quickly gets them guns, a siphon-kit and a plan to head south, because if the walking stiffs don’t get them, the freezing Iowa temps will.

Overnight, Paul goes from the unemployment line to the front line in a battle against evil, where he finally finds his calling as a leader. However, his swelling confidence quickly propels them towards tragedy, putting his faith to the ultimate test while the fate of others hangs in the balance.

This book will bring ravenous zombies into your home without the use of strong language and graphic violence.

Excerpt:

Chapter Thirteen

“Looks pretty quiet,” Paul said, squinting out the front window of the cop car.

Dan tried to block the sunlight by using his hand as a visor. “Doors aren’t broken out at least.”

A spattering of abandoned vehicles littered the vast Kohl’s parking lot. It felt weird to be looking at something that had been such a large part of everyday life before the spread. Something that had been so normaland so taken for granted, now looked so haunted and poisonous. Even the bright sunshine couldn’t wipe away the unimaginable horrors lurking in there.

Paul took a deep breath and released it. “Well, no time like the present,” he said, dropping the squad car into gear and pulling up to the glass front doors.

They had already rolled past the back doors and, as expected, they were all locked from the inside, rendering the bolt-cutters as useless as almost everything else was now. He put it in park and the four stepped out into the early morning sun, cautiously surveying their surroundings. It was another beautiful day outside.

The shot from Paul’s handgun shattered the glass door and echoed loudly throughout the eerie quiet. When it faded, they looked at each other and stepped through to the next set of glass doors. This time they plugged their ears, knowing the shot would ring out even louder in the entryway. It did. Paul led the way inside.

“We didn’t check to see if they were locked,” Dan whispered, following the others.

“Oops,” Paul said.

The Kohl’s store was even quieter inside than it was outside. There was no light music floating down from the store’s recessed speakers in the ceiling, no humming from the heavy duty furnace, no carts on the move with a squeaky wheel and no chorus of blended conversations filling the stale air. They stood and listened. It looked like they were the first ones to step foot inside the store since the manager had shut the lights out, locked the doors and gone home with a persistent cough to get some much needed rest, never to return again.

Despite being chilly, Paul discarded his bulky coat onto the floor. “Say goodbye to this thing.”

The others quickly followed suit, shedding their thick coats for the last time.

Sophia grabbed a plastic beige shopping cart. “We’ll be right over here,” she said, pointing to the women’s section across from the men’s department.

“Make sure you stay where we can see you,” Paul said, pointing two fingers at his eyes then rotating them around to hers.

She smiled. “We will.”

“You know with those two, we’re not going to be able to fit back in the car,” Dan whispered, entering the men’s section and admiring a rack of leather bomber jackets.

“Tell me about it,” Paul replied, flipping through a bunch of bubble vests. “They’ll probably need another cart.”

Sophia inhaled sharply. “This is so cute!”

“Ooh, that is nice,” Wendy said, staring at the red pleather jacket Sophia was holding up by a hanger.

“I have to have this.”

Wendy grabbed a medium leather motorcycle jacket off a hanger and tried it on.

“That is awesome,” Sophia said, studying Wendy with a trained eye for fashion.

“Fits too!”

Sophia put the red coat on and turned for a better look in the three-way mirror outside the dressing rooms. “This is definitely a keeper!”

Both women yanked the tags off, kept the coats on and continued shopping.

Paul smiled watching Sophia from across the way. It was good to see her forgetting about their troubles long enough to have some fun again. A few days ago, he thought they would never have fun again. She deserved that. They all did.

“What do you think?” Dan asked, modeling a brown bomber jacket for him.

“Don’t you want something that’s waterproof?”

“I think I can afford both, let me check my wallet.”

Paul found a light weight waterproof jacket that fit perfectly. He threw a black bubble vest on over it and kept moving .

“This fleece is alright,” Wendy said, admiring it in the mirror.

“Throw it in the cart!” Sophia said, laughing and tossing a black pleather coat into the plastic cart.

“How much fun is this?” Wendy asked, taking the coat off and dropping it in with the others.

“Pretty fun,” Sophia said, too busy holding up a purple sweater to notice the lady standing just inside the entrance to the dressing rooms.

“Better grab some of these lighter gloves too,” Dan said, flipping through a rack filled with gloves and hats.

“That’s a good idea. It’s still going to be cold in the morning and at night,” Paul replied, coming over to join him.

“Oh yeah, these will work,” Dan said, trying on some tight leather gloves and holding them up for a better look.

“Let’s go check out some shoes!” Paul heard Sophia say in the women’s department.

“Oh brother, make way for the shoes,” he whispered to Dan.

“I told ya we’re not going to fit in the car.”

“I need some new jeans and underwear too,” Wendy said, looking around.

“I think we passed them over there,” Sophia said, carefully placing a running jacket into the cart.

The lady watched them with quiet eyes.

“Socks, don’t let me forget socks,” Wendy said.

“Oh trust me, I won’t.”

“We’re not going to be able to fit in the…” she trailed off, seeing the lady by the shadowy dressing rooms.

“The car?” Sophia said, laughing. “I know, we’ve got way too much stuff already and we’re just getting started.”

Wendy screamed and Sophia jumped.

Dan dropped the coats and gloves he was carrying and started running.

Drool oozed out the corner of the thing’s mouth. Its hollowed out eyes focused intently on Wendy, who swallowed and drew her gun from its holster. The thing noiselessly began shambling towards her. A Kohl’s name tag told Janet’s story. Under her name, it said manager.

With trembling hands, Wendy pointed the gun at its decaying face and it didn’t care, knocking a rack of trench coats to the ground as trudged closer. “Please stop,” Wendy moaned.

Paul and Dan came running up from behind the girls as the gunshot sent the thing flying backwards into a three-sided mirror. Shards of broken glass rained down upon the corpse, crumpled on the carpeted floor with a blood trail leaking from a small hole in its forehead.

Wendy stared hard at it with tears sliding down her cheeks, her gun still pointed. “I couldn’t do it.”

“It’s okay, sweetie,” Sophia said, holstering her still smoking weapon and coming to Wendy’s side.

“I couldn’t pull the trigger!”

“It’s over now,” Sophia said, gently taking Wendy’s arm and lowering the loaded gun.

“Holy crap!” Dan bellowed, seeing the mess on the floor.

“Are you okay?” Paul asked, looking at Sophia first, then to Wendy.

“We’re fine,” she said, still holding Wendy, who trembled in her arms.

“I couldn’t do it!” Wendy said again, dropping the gun to her side.

“It’s okay. Put the gun away,” Sophia said softly, helping Wendy carefully slide her gun back into its holster.

A high-pitched scream from behind made all of them flinch. The young girl was chubby and fast. She shrieked as she charged them. Dried blood surrounded her gaping mouth, displaying splintered teeth. She was fast and angry. With no time to draw his gun, Dan tried to kick her in the mouth, but didn’t catch her squarely. She grabbed him around his waist, snarling and snapping. Dan screamed and pushed on her forehead to keep her snapping bite away from him.

“Get it off me!” he bellowed, gritting his teeth and struggling with the growling child.

Paul yanked on the thing’s coat collar but it sunk its meat hooks even deeper into Dan. He squealed to the rafters, his eyes big enough to drive a bus through.

“Shoot her!” he roared.

Sophia came over and joined Paul in the tug of war. They jerked and pulled as Dan pushed and screamed. The tween’s broken teeth clamped down onto Dan’s new coat, ripping away a patch of leather.

“She’s eating the coat!” he wailed.

Paul gave one final tug, hurling the thing to the floor, where it rolled and jumped back up like a professional acrobat. It sneered and charged again. Paul kicked the mini-thing in the chest, like a cop would a locked door with a desperate fugitive hiding behind it. The former little girl flew backwards onto her butt and Sophia popped three shots into her. It didn’t get back up.

The four stood rigid, panting. Dan still had his gun pointed at the bloody little ZIP.

The thunderstruck silence amplified the ringing in Paul’s ears as his chest rose and fell.

Dan tiredly dropped the weapon to his side. “Man, it’s always something,” he said, examining his shredded coat. He looked back up to the others, the color draining in his face. “Am I bleeding? Did she get me?”

Chapter Fourteen

The security room upstairs in Kohl’s was much smaller than Paul imagined, lit up by a single computer monitor on a diminutive desk. He glanced down at his new black Adidas, and then turned to Sophia and Wendy. Both sat in plastic office chairs against a white wall, modeling vacuous looks with folded arms and crossed legs. Then Paul noticed his holster and gun were gone. His heart jumped. He twirled and started patting himself down like he was on fire, wildly looking all around the room, naked without them.

“Here it is!” Dan said, bent over the tiny desk, his face cloaked in an eerie glow from the computer screen. “Come check this out!”

“My gun’s gone!” Paul cried, looking back to Sophia and Wendy, both of whom seemed disinterested.

“Forget about that, you have got to see this!” he said, not taking his eyes from the monitor.

Stupefied, Paul looked from his waist to Dan and slowly traipsed over to the desk. His legs were still heavy despite his much lighter new shoes. In the screen’s glare, Dan’s face was as serious as he’d ever seen it before.

“This is so crazy! Sit down,” he said, still leaning on the desk and not taking his eyes off the monitor.

Paul’s face twisted. “How is this even on? There’s no power.”

“Must be running on some kind of backup generator or something, but you are not going to believe this. As if we didn’t have enough problems to deal with already, check this out!”

Paul regarded Dan with antsy eyes and a gaping jaw. “What?”

“Sit.”

Paul pulled out the wooden desk chair and frowned. “I can’t sit here,” he said, looking at the crusty metal desk, which reminded him of the ones in his old elementary school. “It’s too small.”

Dan looked annoyed. “Trust me, dude, you’re going to want to be sitting down for this.”

Warily, Paul folded himself into the tiny chair and slid it forward, producing a horrible screech that echoed loudly in the square room. His knees scraped the underside of the workspace and mold colored paint flaked off onto the new jeans he had just slipped into downstairs. Sophia and Wendy didn’t notice, apparently still consumed by the gruesome ZIP team they had just wasted.

“Look, here we are coming into the store,” Dan said, anxiously pointing to the black and white security video.

Paul looked at the screen, where the four of them stood like grainy statues just inside the entrance, listening as the sun cast their dark shadows onto the bright tiled floor ahead of them. Paul remembered it all perfectly.

“Yeah so?”

“Just watch!” Dan said, becoming more agitated with him by the second and hitting the play button on a black box next to the monitor.

Paul looked from the box to the black and white video, where they tensely appraised the store’s situation. Then Sophia’s shadow moved, but she hadn’t.

Paul’s eyes dilated and his heart skipped a beat. He leaned in closer to the screen and squinted. His brow furrowed and his heart rate quickened. “What the…”

“Just watch!”

The shadow smoothly slid across the white tiles in front of them on the screen, while Sophia stood there scanning the seemingly empty store. Paul’s breathing became rapid as he watched her shadow reach up and grab a long skinny shadow of an electrical cord dropping down from the ceiling. Or was it a rope? Paul gasped. On the video, other than slightly shifting in her stance, Sophia still hadn’t moved. Her shadow grabbed a looped end of the shaded cord and stuck its head inside. Things went into slow motion inside Paul’s head. He couldn’t catch his breath. The shadow cinched the loop around its neck and hanged itself, listlessly swinging back and forth across the white tiled floor as the girls went off into the women’s department and Dan and Paul headed into the men’s.

Paul’s mouth hung open, frozen. He could hear his heart pumping in his ears and his palms became slicked with a greasy sweat. “How… how is that possible?” he sputtered, incredulously staring at the monitor with a face lit up in gray horror. “How is this possible?” he asked again, turning to Dan. But Dan was gone. Paul looked over to Sophia and Wendy sitting against the wall. They were gone too. His breath clutched. He jumped back in the tiny chair and knocked over the desk. The computer smashed to the ground with a deafening echo. A decaying dentist burst through the security room’s door. His white smock had small, bloody handprints across it and there was a stainless steel pick in his peeling hand. Paul screamed.

“Man!” Dan said, jumping. “You okay?” he asked, staring at Paul through a new pair of brown sunglasses.

Paul squinted and held a hand out to block the sun. A sheen of perspiration glistened across his forehead.

Sophia leaned up to the cage from the back seat. “What’s wrong, Paul?”

He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and let out a deep breath. “I just had the craziest nightmare.”

“Must’ve been some dream, you scared the hell out of us,” Wendy said, next to Sophia in the backseat.

“What was the dream about?” Dan asked, returning his attention back to the desolate road. “Was Michael Jackson still releasing albums or something?”

Wendy laughed in the back seat. “Now that would be scary!”

Paul looked down to his new black Adidas then turned to Sophia. She flashed him a wide smile in her new red jacket. Suddenly, he wanted to hold her and make sure she was okay. “Where are we?” he asked, shivering and turning up the heater.

Cold Faith and Zombies, by Sean Thomas Fisher
Available at:
Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & Noble

Dead of Winter, by Brian Moreland

Posted: September 14, 2011 by Shaina in Brian Moreland, Occult, Western, Zombies
Tags: , , , ,
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Dead of Winter, by Bryan Moreland

Dead of Winter, by Bryan Moreland

Dead of Winter, by Brian Moreland
Available at Amazon 

 Description:

A predator stalks the frozen woods.

At a fort deep in the Ontario wilderness in 1870, a ghastly predator is attacking colonists and spreading a gruesome plague—his victims turn into ravenous cannibals with an unending hunger for human flesh. Inspector Tom Hatcher has faced a madman before, when he tracked down Montreal’s infamous Cannery Cannibal. But can even he stop the slaughter this time?

In Montreal exorcist Father Xavier visits an asylum where the Cannery Cannibal is imprisoned. But the killer who murdered thirteen women is more than just a madman who craves human meat. He is possessed by a shape-shifting demon. Inspector Hatcher and Father Xavier must unravel a mystery that has spanned centuries and confront a predator that has turned the frozen woods into a killing ground where evil has come to feed.

Excerpt:

Part One

Predators and Prey

December 15, 1870

Manitou Outpost

Ontario, Canada

It was the endless snowstorms that ushered in their doom. Each day and night the white tempests whirled around the fort, harrowing the log houses with winter lashings. At the center of the compound, the three-story lodge house creaked and moaned. Father Jacques Baptiste chanted in Latin and threw holy water on the barricaded front door. Above the threshold, a crucifix hung upside down. No matter how much the Jesuit priest prayed, the Devil would not release its grip on this godforsaken fort.

Something scraped against the wood outside. Father Jacques peered through the slats of a boarded window. Tree branches clawed violently at the stockade walls. The front gate stood open, exposing them to the savage wilderness. It also provided the only path of escape. If by chance they made it out the gate, which way would they go?

The priest considered their options. Beyond the fort’s perimeter, the dark waters of Makade Lake knocked plates of ice against the shore. Crossing the frozen lake would be a dead man’s walk. Last week, two of the trappers fell through the ice. The only way out was through the woods.

Father Jacques shuddered at the thought of leaving the fort. The trappers had fortified the outpost to keep the evil out. They hadn’t counted on the savagery attacking them from within. He prayed for the souls of the men, women, and children lost in the past few weeks. Last autumn, the French-speaking colony had been twenty strong. Now, in midwinter, they were down to four survivors and not a crumb of food to split among them. How much longer before the beasts within completely took them over?

“Forgive us, oh Lord, for our fall from grace.” Father Jacques sipped the holy water. It burned his throat and stomach like whiskey. “Cast out these evils that prey upon us.”

Behind him, the sound of boots approached from the darkness. The priest spun with his lantern, lighting up the gaunt face of a bearded man. Master Pierre Lamothe, the fort’s chief factor, wore a deerskin parka with a bushy fur hood. His eyes were bloodshot. He wheezed.

The priest took a step back. “Are you still with us, Pierre?”

The sick man nodded. “Just dizzy, Father. I’m so damned hungry.”

Father Jacques knew the pains of hunger. Each passing day it pulled his flesh tighter against his ribcage. “We’ll find something to eat soon, I promise. Here, take another sip.” He offered the bottle of holy water.

Pierre took a swig and winced. Seconds later he stumbled back, rubbing his eyes.

“The burning will pass.” Father Jacques grabbed his wrist. “Remember our plan?”

“Yes… check on the horses.”

“We must hurry. Now may be our only chance.” They removed the barricade from the door. A long staircase led down from the second floor to the snow-covered ground. “Bless me, Father.” Pierre raised his shotgun and stepped out into the blizzard. He all but disappeared in the white squall. The only parts visible were his hood and the outline of his shoulders. Father Jacques nervously watched the fort grounds. At the surrounding cabins, wind howled through shattered windows and broken doors. When Pierre reappeared at the stables, the priest released his breath.

Please let the horses still be alive.

The chief factor pulled a horse out. The poor animal was so thin its hide sunk into its ribs. As Pierre threw a saddle on its back, he raised two fingers, signaling that a second horse was still inside the stable.

Father Jacques closed the door and clasped his hands. “Thank you, oh Lord.”

Someone tugged at his cassock. He looked down to see a small, French-Indian girl. Pierre’s daughter Zoé had tousled black hair and large brown eyes that had kept their innocence despite the horrors they’d witnessed these past few weeks. The girl held a tattered Indian doll to her chest. “I’m afraid, Père.”

Father Jacques touched her head and gave the most comforting smile he could conjure. “Don’t worry, Zoé, the angels will protect us. Here, you need to bundle up.” He fastened her fur parka, pulled the hood over her head.

“I want Mama to go with us.”

“I’m sorry, Zoé, but she’s too sick. She would die out there. You, your papa, and I are going to ride out to the nearest fort. Then we’ll send help back for your mother.”

The girl frowned. “Noël says you’re lying!”

Father Jacques glanced down at the Indian doll. One green eye stared back. The other eye was a ragged hole. Since Zoé had stopped eating two weeks ago, she suffered from dementia. She spent most of her days whispering to her doll. Father Jacques wanted to rip its head off. He squeezed his fist. “Noël is just afraid like the rest of us. Now, pray for forgiveness for speaking to me in that manner.”

“Sorry, Père.” Zoé crossed herself and bowed.

“Now, drink.” He gave the girl the last of the holy water. She drank it and winced as if it were castor oil.

Outside, the horses whinnied. A shotgun fired.

Father Jacques dashed to the window. He searched the fort grounds. A saddled horse ran in circles. Where was Pierre?

Behind the wall of whirling snow, more shots were fired. Then came a scream. Pierre stumbled out of the mist. Blood spouted from the stump of his shoulder. He was missing an arm.

Peering out the boarded window, Father Jacques screamed at the sight of blood gushing from Pierre’s shoulder. As the wounded man stumbled up the front steps to the lodge house, the white mist rolled in from behind and swallowed Pierre. His scream was cut short.

“Papa!” Zoé ran toward the barricaded door. “Let Papa in!”

“No, move away from the door.” Father Jacques grabbed her hand and backed away.

Outside, the storm wailed. Snow blew in through the cracks of the boarded windows. Footfalls charged up the staircase like thundering hooves. Something rammed against the front door. The hinges buckled.

Zoé shrieked.

“Back to the cellar!” The priest pulled the girl through the dark corridors of the lodge house. Behind them, the front door crashed open. Terror stabbed Father Jacques’ chest with icy pinpricks at the shattering of windows and splintering of wood. Growls echoed throughout the lodge.

They’re inside!

Zoé released a high-pitched shriek.

“Stay quiet, girl.” The priest led her down the cellar stairs. The swinging lantern slashed the darkness with a pendulum blade of light. Scratches and streaks of crystallized blood glistened on the steps and walls like a gallery of agonies marking the descent to hell.

They ran into the dark cellar. Father Jacques brought down an iron bar across the door and shoved crates against it. He took the child’s face in his hands. “Hide, quick.”

The girl crawled inside a nook stuffed with fur pelts. She hugged her doll to her chest. Father Jacques pulled a deerskin blanket down over the nook so Zoé was fully hidden. “Don’t come out no matter what you hear.”

A raspy voice whispered, “Father…”

The priest aimed his lantern at a row of beds. The storage cellar had been converted into a makeshift hospital. In three beds lay twisted corpses. In the closest bed, an Ojibwa woman was lying beneath the quilts. Wenonah Lamothe, Pierre’s native wife. She was too delirious to know that her husband was dead. Her skeletal head rolled back and forth on the pillow. Teeth chattering, she coughed clouds of frosty air. Her long, black hair now had streaks of white. Her skin, normally reddish brown, had turned fish-belly pale, with white scabs and ghastly blue veins. She looked to the priest, her bloodshot eyes pleading him. “Help me, Father.”

“I’m sorry, Wenonah.” God had failed her. Failed them all.

The Jesuit picked up a silver cross with a daggered tip. “I cast out all spirits of Satan.”

The woman tied to the bedposts growled like a wolfhound.

Father Jacques stood at the foot of Wenonah’s bed. Her thrashing body smacked the headboard against the wall. She laughed and moaned, blue tongue licking her lips. She kicked off her quilts, thrusting her hips upward, spreading her bony legs for him. Remaining steadfast in his prayers, the priest raised the holy dagger over the Ojibwa woman’s chest.

Wenonah glared with fiery eyes.

Zoé yelled, “Mama!”

“Stay hidden, child.” Father Jacques stumbled back as a wave of emotions coursed through him. Anger. Fury. Rage.

Hunger.

His stomach ached for something meaty. Raw and bloody. He sniffed the air, his keen sense homing in on the nook where the girl was hidden. Beyond the scent of animal furs, Father Jacques inhaled the salty aroma of blood pumping through a heart.

Eat the girl! growled a voice inside the Jesuit’s head. Eat the lamb’s sweet meat.

“No. No. No.” He slammed the cross-dagger into a post. “I am a disciple of God. He gives me strength! Lead me not into temptation, oh Lord.” The wave of hunger passed. He chanted faster.

Shrieks echoed from beyond the cellar door. Feet stomped down the stairs. The doorknob rattled. Nails scraped the door, clawing to get in.

Father Jacques backed away, praying the barricade would hold. Even if it did, without food and water they couldn’t last another day in the cellar. We have to escape.

He went to the back wall, climbed up a stack of crates. With a crowbar, he tore planks off a tiny window. Snow blew inward, stinging his face. The mist had cleared. He could see the stables and the open front gate. The square portal was too small for Father Jacques, but not the girl. Tears welled in the priest’s eyes as he realized his last hope had come down to the fate of a nine-year-old girl. “Come, child, now!”

She climbed out from her hiding place, hugging the doll to her chest.

The priest kneeled, taking Zoé’s hands. “There’s still a horse in the stables. I need you to ride out to Fort Pendleton.” He pulled a small diary from his coat pocket. “Give this to Brother Andre.” He stuffed the journal into a trapper’s fur-skinned pack along with her doll.

“No, I’m not leaving…” She started to cry.

“You must, Zoé! We won’t survive down here another day.” He pulled the pack onto her back, fastening the straps around her waist.

“But what about you, Père?”

“You’ll have to go on your own.”

From the bed Wenonah rasped, “Zoé, wait…” Her wrist stretched one of the ropes. “Come here, my child.”

“Mama.”

“No, Zoé!” Father Jacques grabbed the girl just short of her mother’s gnarled fingernails. “Don’t touch her.” He carried Zoé to the back wall. She sobbed and jerked in his arms, reaching for her mother.

He stood her on a crate and shook her. “Listen, child! We need you to be strong. Go now, or you’ll never see your mother again.”

“But I’m afraid to go out there.”

“Remember the story about the lost children who came upon an angel?”

She nodded, sniffling.

“There are angels in the woods, and they will protect you, but they are leaving now, so you must hurry.”

The beasts wailed inside the cellar’s stairwell. An axe blade chopped through the door, cracking it.

The girl screamed and ran up the crates.

Father Jacques helped her out the window. She dropped down to the snowy ground.

“Hurry, Zoé!” He watched her run across the snowfield.

The axe blade smashed through the door. Dozens of white fingers tore at the hole. The priest held up a cross. “God is my savior!”

Another growl issued, this one from inside the cellar. He circled, searching the shadows until he spotted broken ropes at Wenonah’s bed. She now moved in the darkness just beyond the lantern glow. Her bones made popping sounds. The last stage of the change.

The priest stepped toward the row of beds. He barely made out the woman’s spindly shape hunched over, feeding off the flesh of a dead man. The crunching and tearing sickened Father Jacques and at the same time beckoned him to join Wenonah in the feast.

No, stay righteous! The Jesuit coughed. He stumbled to his altar and opened his holy book. The words blurred. His vision spiraled. Inside his stomach, the hunger grew, cold and burning, clinging his flesh to bone, filling him with a hollow emptiness, then turning—Yes!—spreading through him with a sweet rapture known only to saints and angels. “I am a shepherd of death…”

The cellar door crashed open.

Father Jacques raised his arms and smiled as he turned to face the ravenous horde.

 Dead of Winter, by Brian Moreland
Available at Amazon 

Fleshbags, by Gerald Dean Rice

Posted: September 1, 2011 by Shaina in Gerald Rice, Occult, Zombies
0
Fleshbags, by Gerald Dean Rice

Fleshbags, by Gerald Dean Rice

Fleshbags, by Gerald Dean Rice
Available at:
Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & Noble

Description: Even before the explosion in the industrial area on the south side of the city they started showing up. There was something wrong with them. Anybody could see it. They leaked from every orifice and their stomachs were translucent bags showing rotting internal organs. But the ones the police had shot and killed were worse. Aggressive, fast, cannibalistic. The people still trapped in the south side of the city will fight, run, hide, and many will die. Can a young father get to his daughter? Can a husband and wife save a neighbor? Can a nurse make it home? Can an ex-con get out of the city? Can a cop keep control?

Includes the short story “The Dead Child”.

Excerpt:

Sentinel needed to get out of this town. He’d gotten roped in by his sister to come see their mother and like a dummy he’d let them guilt him into staying. Moms had been dying—dead now—and one look from her and he knew he was stuck. She’d lasted seven months, but once he was free it wasn’t easy to escape.

He’d had to give up his job in California and was barely able to make ends meet with the piece of job he’d gotten at Walt’s Electronics. Sent had quickly grown to hate Walt almost as much as his mother.

He flushed the toilet and went to flush his hands, examining his face in the mirror. His eyes were two lumps of charcoal in a dark bronze face. The slash through his eyebrow was the only distinguishing mark in an otherwise forgettable face. A couple new grays in his goatee, but he could feel the bags under his eyes shrinking by the second. He’d gotten another job in California and as soon as his ride was ready he’d hit the road.

This time he wouldn’t be back. Even if all of them were dying.

Sent preferred not to think of the years of abuse he’d suffered at the hands of his mother (and his part-time, heroine-addict father when he decided to hang around) and chose not to now. He supposed as a direct result of his own childhood was why he hadn’t elected to have children of his own in his twenty-eight years. California was the cure for what ailed him.

He grabbed a couple paper towels and wiped and patted until his hands were mostly dry. He stepped out of the restroom and went up front. The old guy behind the computer was gone. Hopefully, he was checking with the mechanics to see how much longer it would take. Sent took a seat in the waiting area in front of one of the computer terminals. Maybe he’d check his email again or something to kill some time.

When Internet Explorer came up blank for the third time he stood and started roaming around. The door leading to where the mechanics were was to his left and he walked over to take a peek through the little window.

“What the—”

He stared at several bodies all across the shop floor. One of them had been pinned beneath a car still on the hydraulic lift and it looked like the woman just a few feet away from the door had been hollowed out with a giant ice cream scoop. The old man was face down against a big toolbox on the wall.

Sent whipped out his cell and dialed 9-1-1. The phone gave a weird beeping sound and disconnected. He looked at it and in place of signal bars was the red circle with a diagonal slash. He was outtie. Somebody cruised through with a machete or something and he wasn’t waiting around to shake his hand.

Before he could get to the front door he heard a loud bump coming from that direction. Sent froze. Could whoever it was be back to mop up? The only two ways out that he’d seen were the front door and the bay doors to the shop. He turned around and quickly headed back.

The door creaked open and he stepped through. It smelled awful in here. Like medicine and… and… he didn’t know what. Sent gently closed the door, looking all around for would-be attackers. There was a row of buttons by the bay doors that must have raised and closed them. He tiptoed over, but thought twice before pushing any of them.

What if they were waiting outside?

He needed something to defend himself.

There was a giant wrench propped up on the wall next to the body of the woman who’d been eviscerated. She had a huge gash along the side of her head, but instead of blood there was only clear stuff going down her neck, matting down her hair on the side. Sent stalked over and grabbed it with both hands.

And she grabbed his wrist.

Sent leapt back with a high-pitched girlscream, the wrench plunking to the floor. She opened her eyes and looked at him, putting her hands beneath herself to stand. He realized now would have been the perfect time to have that wrench.

She came toward him and he backed up.

“Listen, lady, let me call 9-1-1 for you. You need to just sit down, okay?”

She didn’t. In fact, she held out her arms, reaching for him. Sent saw a table of tools out of the corner of his eye and reached over and grabbed something. The pouch-like thing in his hand read ‘air wedge’. He threw it at her and it flopped harmlessly against her head.

The woman bared her grayish teeth and water-thin drool poured out. Sentinel almost tripped over a bar of some kind. He got his feet under him and scooped up the bar.

“Look, ma’am. Ma’am! I don’t wanna do this. Please don’t make me do this!” But she didn’t stop. He took a swing at her arm and she almost ripped the bar out of his hands. “Ma’am, I’m for real this time. Don’t make me do it!”

He realized she was about to call his bluff. Sent half-heartedly swung and clanged the bar off the side of her head. She canted to the side, but turned to him and started coming on again. She was wearing a button up sweater. Probably somebody’s mom. This wasn’t right.

“Ma’am,” Sent said, figuratively and literally backed up against a wall. He squared up like he was waiting on a pitch and when she was in the right spot turned his hips into the swing, the tip of the bar clanging off her jaw. Her head almost spun completely around and she hit the floor.

Sent stood over her a moment, waiting for her to move again, praying she didn’t. When he realized she was down for good he let the bar slip from his hands, clanging onto the floor. He made fists to keep his hands from shaking, but realized it was his whole body quivering.

It had been in her eyes. Despite her standing up and coming at him, despite the teeth, despite the big ass hole where her guts should have been he could tell she hadn’t wanted to do what she was doing. She’d been afraid, confused, lost. The word ‘horrified’ came to mind and just as he realized he’d never seen that particular look on anyone’s face before, he was certain that was exactly what the host of emotions in her eyes melded into. And Sentinel had had to put her down.

If he could avoid it, he wouldn’t do it again. Maybe she was a lone crazy. He looked at the bar next to her body. Better to not need it. Sent picked it up once his hands had steadied. And spotted someone standing ten feet away out of the corner of his eye.

He jumped and brought the bar up in front of him, looking at a man in navy overalls. His nametag read ‘Brad’. That same clear fluid ran down his chin like he had a mouth full of it, but it streamed from his nose and the corners of his eyes. He was tall and sinewy, but looked like he had a beer gut.

He was just standing there with a look on his face like he just woke up. Sent didn’t want to do it. But he couldn’t risk trying to get outside and another one waiting for him. He hefted the bar and caught movement from the corner of his eye.

The old man from behind the counter was getting up. Another guy in blue overalls was standing next to him. His nametag read ‘Chad’. The clear fluid poured from his mouth, nose, ears and eyes. Chad was heavy, but he looked like he was eight months pregnant.

Brad was still just looking at him. The old man (who had a little pooch he hadn’t had before) looked confused as well. But Chad had that look in his eyes. The same as the woman on the floor had. He started forward.

Sentinel backed away. Maybe he could beat the three of them with this wrench, maybe he couldn’t. The fact something had happened in here and then weirdo potbelly people (and one belly-less woman) who oozed out of every hole were suddenly walking around meant there was a lot more going on than he cared to find out about.

He ran for the bay doors.

Chad followed him around a hydraulic lift and Brad followed. Sent leapt over the rising body of another man in blue coveralls and hit a button between the doors. They started to lift, but he could tell if it wasn’t going to be fast enough. Sentinel kicked the man down who was trying to stand, grabbed a rolling toolbox, and shoved it into Chad. There was a thick popping sound and a second later it was like a faucet turned on in his pants. Chad looked stunned and Sentinel rammed him with the toolbox again, knocking him over.

He thought about doing the same to Brad, but the door was high enough to slip under. He kicked the one on the floor down again and dived for the rising door. Two naked middle-aged people were at the front door. They turned his way and raised their arms in unison. Their stomachs were gone, but the woman had a loop of black entrail still twined up to something inside her and dragging on the ground between her legs.

Sentinel ran the other way.

Fleshbags, by Gerald Dean Rice
Available at:
Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & Noble

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