CBDugger

cbdugger @ 2009-12-17T20:14:00

2009-12-18T02:14:21Z

The third of the Bell, Texas stories.

I and my wife both like this one. It is very vaguely biographical.

The Spirit had inhabited this area for as long as it could remember. The land was plentiful with life sustaining bodies, and had always been. All animals and most plants provided it with that unique form of energy on which it thrived.
The Spirit spent most of its time in trees. They provided the most calm, the most serenity. These two made the being’s long, lonely existence bearable. Different trees for different seasons.
The local Ash Juniper was not a good winter tree. They are the only plants to pollinate in the cold, so winter is very disruptive. Daily, for three months, they are aquiver with anticipation of the cold Northern winds. Then, caressed by the frigid air, they explode in chaos and release. Not to the Spirit’s liking at all.
The few types of evergreen are a particular favorite. Nothing bothers them. They ride the years with very little change. The Spirit feels a camaraderie with these. As if they share a common heritage.
Occasionally, just to be different, the Spirit will feed off of an animal. Not for long, just enough to spice things up for a while. Unlike the trees, the animals always seem to sense the Spirit’s presence, which makes them even more jumpy than normal.
The very few bobcats make the best animal hosts. Laid back, they only become chaotic when hunting. Whether the prey be food or a mate makes no difference. Their energy becomes tainted with chaos. Other times, though, they are the most peaceful of the animals.
Deer and rabbits are tolerable, but only for short periods. They are afraid of too many things. Strangely, thought much larger and certainly better able to defend itself, the deer will bolt before the rabbit. The rabbit is calm enough to know that, if it just sits still, the supposed danger may very well pass. They have an arrogance about them that way. A belief that their strong legs will always allow an easy escape.
The Spirit dislikes squirrels. They seldom stop moving, always jerking, running, and jittering at something. They are almost never calm. The only time a squirrel is a good host is when one is playing with another. Running and jumping through the trees, they have little thought of anything but pleasure. Even with the vigorous activity, they are calm and happy inside.
Birds are the worst. If they are awake, they are unhappy. Something is always in their territory, and they must let the whole world know about it. Bluejays and Grackles are the absolute worst of the worst. Always screaming and fighting. How the trees tolerate them is beyond the Spirit.
Humans? Almost never has the Spirit fed from them. Their life force is as unique as the Spirit’s, and they never last long. Usually, they go mad as a result of the Spirit’s presence, creating such inner chaos that the Spirit is weak for long periods.
The Spirit has learned from them, though. The contact the Spirit has with a creature is very intimate. Thoughts, language, and abstract concepts such as love, have all been absorbed into the Spirit’s being.
For example, the Spirit knows, somehow, that it is female. She doesn’t know how or why, and doesn’t know any other Spirit to whom she can compare, but she knows that she is a she.
This is why the little human boy is interesting to her.
- - -
13 year old Richard Royce and his family had just moved to Bell, coming to the Texas Hill Country from Dallas. After the usual pouting, he made the usual friends. The boys liked to go out to The Woods on the weekends.
The Woods was a Texas forest. In other words, a bunch of trees together in a clump. This clump happened to span several miles in every direction except into town. Broken only by an occasional house or power easement, young boys could have many uninterrupted adventures.
The boys were out climbing trees one day, and Richard was sitting on a branch, leaning back against the trunk, a leg swinging in the air. The Spirit had a new feeling. It was as if she were cradling this little boy in her arms, rocking him to sleep.
She liked the feeling and tried to touch the boy’s energy.
The boy slapped his neck. “Ow! Something stung me! Hey guys, there ants in these trees?”
One of the others answered, “Sometimes. Better get down before you get covered.”
And down he went.
When she had touched him, she learned his name, and that he was seldom calm. Why, then, was she calm in his presence? Intrigued, she hopped tree to tree, following the boys as they played, finally stopping at the edge of the Woods when they returned to the town.
As the days went by, she learned that Richard rode a bicycle to school. At first, she wondered at the contraption, and had to touch him again to learn what it was. It had been many decades since her last contact with a human, and such things were not seen. Guns she knew, but very little else.
She followed him every day to and from school.
- - -
He didn’t understand it. Why would he feel like he was being followed? Every day, on his way to school and on his way home, he felt like a pack of dogs was chasing him. Only, he couldn’t see them. Finally, he gave in and started taking a different way, through town, instead of along the Woods. It seemed to help, as the feeling passed.
When she didn’t see him go to school for a few days, the Spirit became concerned. Where had he gone?
She did something she had never done before. She deliberately went into a town. Tree to tree, sometimes even catching a ride in a passing bird, she went to the school.
Richard was there! But why did he not pass by the Woods? She was confused. Why would he abandon her like this? Hurt, she returned to the Woods, deep inside a Mesquite tree, where the rock hard wood felt like a protection from the world.
- - -
Many years later, while enjoying the sun in a rabbit along the edge of the Woods, a noise she had never heard before grabbed her attention. The rabbit looked down the roadside in the direction of the roar, then fairly leaped into the dark of the Woods. The Spirit went into a tree and watched.
At first, she thought it another bicycle, but it was too big, too loud, and much too fast.
Then, she saw the human on the machine. Richard. Himself much bigger than she remembered.
Quickly, she fled tree to tree, trying to keep up with him as he seemed to fly down the road.
- - -
Coming home after so long, Richard thought he would be happy. He was, but something was nagging at him. Something he should remember, but couldn’t.
Then it came to him. This is the same road he used to take to school, when he felt like he was being followed.
“Silly”, he thought. “Ain’t nothing chasing me. Besides, let it catch me. I’m no little kid now.”
He absently slapped his right arm where it felt like a bug hit him. Bugs felt like gravel on a motorcycle.
- - -
It was Richard! He’s come back!
- - -
“You hear about the Royce boy? No? Well, here he was, come back home after 20 years away, ridin’ that motorcycle of his all over God’s creation, well, they found his bike a mangled up heap over by the Woods. Yeah, musta run head on into that tree. Trouble is, they ain’t found him. No body, no blood, just his bike.”

Bell Dance Hall

2009-12-18T02:07:58Z

This is another story set in the fictional town of Bell, Texas. This, along with "The Sunshine Walker" and "The Spirit in the Woods" are the foundation of what I hope to be a long run of stories.

This is my wife's absolute favorite story.

Staring down at the cold, stone floor, James shuffled around, dancing with nobody.
His right hand around the waist of a memory, softly holding nothing with his deformed left, he danced as they had that night some sixty-odd years ago.
The music was in his mind, though not in his ear, and had only slightly less substance than the ruined building. A few had survived the fire. James was one. Shirley was not.
Shirley.
Twenty and happy.
As happy with life and James as he was with life and her. Three years together and a lifetime planned, they went to the Bell Dance Hall. Quite rebellious, considering their parents and strict Bible-belt upbringing.
Bell, Texas, in the time before World War II, was not the center of sociological advance. With only 2,042 souls officially, the community was especially close. Primarily Baptist and Methodist, although the Presbyterians were becoming a sizeable faction themselves.
Since the town’s inception, the twin demons of drink and dance, both of which were believed to lead to improper horizontal activities, had remained entrenched outside a wall of prayer and faith much like a siege-bent army. That is, until 1935, when Ben Filtin built a barn with a floor of mortared river stones.
It was actually only supposed to be a barn with floors that could be washed instead of raked. Then one day Tad Grear was out visiting. Walking into the barn, he stopped and thumped his foot down on the stone floor.
“Hey, Ben, ‘dju notice how sound carries in here? Sounds pretty good. You mind if me ‘n the boys come out here to play? You know how Maggie hates it when we get together over at my place.”
Ben looked around. “Don’t see why not. Gonna be a few weeks ‘fore I get the stalls in anyway.”
And so Tad and Rick Steeks, each with a guitar, Tad’s son Denny with fiddle, and Dave Brewster with bass fiddle, came to the barn two nights later. While they were playing, Ben and his wife, Julie, were listening. They started dancing around the barn, enjoying the music.
Tad and his group liked the way the stone floor affected the sound of their music, making it much more crisp and clear than they had heard it before. So, they asked if they could come back the next night, Friday.
“Well, of course.”, said Julie. “Bring everyone and we’ll just have a potluck.”
In small Texas towns, word travels faster than a chaparral after a horned toad. Friday night, there were ten families in the barn dancing, singing, and eating. Your basic good time had by all.
Now, of the ten families, four were Baptist, four were Methodist, and one was Presbyterian. Ben and his family did not hold much to any one faith.
The Baptists were at Church the following Sunday visiting and reminiscing about Friday night before services.
So were the Methodists and Presbyterians.
All were overheard to admit to dancing. To music. And not always with their own spouse.
Monday, all ten men, whose families were at Ben’s house Friday, received a visit from an Elder of his respective Church. There was much page turning and hand waving by the Elders and a little cursing, although not by the Elders, and by the end of the day, the Baptist and Methodist congregations were reduced in number by four families each. The Presbyterians actually lost two families.
Friday night, the barn was full. So full in fact, that some were dancing outside, though the music did not sound as good without the stone floor. Julie Filtin had Ben and their son, Jonathan, move her upright piano out to the barn and set it up where the band, as Tad’s group was now called, usually sat.
Within a few weeks, the Filtin’s barn became the weekly gathering place for a rather large number of the town’s inhabitants. Not all came to dance. Some came to play music. Most just came to be there. Sometimes people just want to be around other people, and Ben’s new barn provided a location.
The Presbyterians had decided that there was no threat in people getting together. Besides, the music did sound pretty darned good on that stone floor.
The Baptist and the Methodist Elders, though, had several meetings with each other. That they even agreed to meet over a perceived, mutual Spiritual threat gave some indication as to how severe the problem was thought to be. From the pulpit there was great denouncement of the activities in the Filtin’s barn, although none would admit having actually witnessed any of these activities. Members were encouraged to have nothing to do with those who wallowed in the sin and depravity that Ben Filtin had brought into Bell with his Dance Hall, as the Baptist circuit preacher called it.
Some people took offence at how the Filtin’s were being portrayed. Ben thought is was funny.
As time went on, proud patrons took the Baptist preacher’s words as their own and started calling it the Bell Dance Hall. The regulars kept coming, the ones who never came never did, and Bell went on with its life.
Nineteen year old James Halverstead had never met 17 year old Shirley Johnson, though they both lived in Bell. Both were children of Church Elders, he Baptist and she Methodist. They met one night when their fathers were meeting about the Dance Hall. Though they knew that their parents would discourage it, they decided to see each other again.
And, finding that they rather enjoyed the experience, they met a third time.
With a pattern firmly established, James went over to the Johnson household and made known his desire to court young Shirley. There was much page turning and hand waving, though no cursing.
Having acquired the blessing of Mr. Johnson, James and Shirley then walked hand-in-hand to the Halverstead’s. After even more page turning and hand waving, James walked Shirley home. They both smiled the whole way.
The couple’s lives went on with the rest of Bell for a couple of years. The town grew larger. James and Shirley grew closer. Their families began to meet without the necessity of a spiritual emergency. The Bell Dance Hall continued to be the place to get together.
Halm Halverstead and Elias Johnson had surprisingly little difficulty with their children’s choice of having the County Justice of the Peace perform the wedding. Halm was his son’s best man, and Elias was proud to give his daughter away. No mention was made that the Justice was also a prominent Presbyterian, and there was no page turning or hand waving.
James got a job with the county, Shirley made a house a home. They attended both the Baptist and Methodist services, alternating Sundays.
The Friday after their first wedding anniversary, James was working on the county road in front of the Filtin’s house. At the end of the day, Julie Filtin came out with lemonade for the five man crew. As they thanked her for the drink and started for the crew truck, she invited them out to the barn.
All five men, being good, faithful Church-goers, politely declined.
Over dinner that evening, James looked up at Shirley. “Mrs. Filtin invited us out to the barn tonight.”
Shirley looked surprised. “You can’t be thinking about going out there, can you?”
“Well, I don’t see why not.”
“Why not? It’s called the Dance Hall for a reason, James. All they do out there is grab and grope. ‘Dancing is a nothing more than a vertical expression of a horizontal desire.’”
James smiled. “And if a man and wife are dancing together, what exactly is wrong with that desire? Besides, who said anything about dancing? There’s food, music, friends. It’s not like we have to sneak around. We already know most of the people there.”
They arrived around 8:30.
At first, they just walked around, visiting, eating, laughing, having a family reunion kind of good time. Later, they split up. James went over beside the barn with the men, most of whom smoked. That side of the barn was on the downslope and the wall stopped three inches from the stone floor, so wash water would flow out. Shirley started helping out with the women over at the food-laden tables. The music was being tapped out by Denny Grear and five friends.
After a while, James waved at Shirley to meet him inside the barn, where neither of them had yet gone. The barn was unremarkable inside and out, except for the stone floor. They had often heard how music was more clear, more ‘easy to hear’, but they had not really believed.
Even filled with people dancing, people talking and people laughing, the music was just as clean as if played in someone’s living room. It seemed to come right up out of the stone floor, but did not compete with conversation. It felt as if Ben Filtin had nailed the boards together with notes and mortared the stones with harmony.
James and Shirley migrated to the middle of the barn, surrounded by the dancing people of Bell. Laughing, and with a slightly rebellious twinkle in their eyes, they decided to dance. James curled his right hand around his wife’s waist and took her right hand in his left.
Just as he took his first step in his first dance with his first love, James stopped. The sound had taken on an additional instrument. He couldn’t place it, but sounded like someone was playing the spoons. He looked over at Denny and his friends, but nobody had joined them.
“Hold on a minute. I want to find out what that is. Don’t you move, I’ll be right back.” He bent over and kissed Shirley lightly on the lips.
She smiled and held onto his hand until her arm would stretch no further.
He stepped outside and immediately smelled smoke, but thought it was just some inattentive cook. As he looked over toward the food, he realized that the smell was coming from the opposite side of the barn.
Where the men stand and smoke.
He ran around the barn to find three teenaged boys stamping around on a small ground fire. That was not the most important thing he saw. What he saw, that the boys missed, was the flames licking up the side of the barn and dancing on the roof.
His feet went out from under him when he tried to stop and return to the front. When he fell, his head hit the stone floor where it protruded under the three inch wash water gap.
Now, a much older James shuffles around the stone floor, shuffles in an interrupted dance. He remembers waking with a bandaged hand, which had fallen in the small ground fire. He does not remember being dragged to safety by the three teenaged boys. He never heard the barn collapse.
He never saw Shirley again. At least, not outside his own head.
The cold stone floor continues, as does his memory. Some day, maybe someone will tear up the Bell Dance Hall floor. One day, his end will be his memory’s.
But tonight, he dances.

The Sunshine Walker

2009-12-18T02:05:17Z

My first story. First written, first submitted, first accepted, first recognized.

This story was a 2002 Writer's Journal Short Story Contest Honorable Mention.

My Dad picked me up from school the day I turned 18. I was a little disappointed at that, but he promised me I could see my friends that evening.
On the way home, he told me that Mom had planned a “just family” birthday party for me. When it was over, I was free to go.
“But before the party,” he said, “I have something very important to discuss with you.”
Despite my probing, he would not say any more about it.
When we got home, he had me sit in one of the chairs he and Mom kept on the front porch while he went inside. When he returned, he had two glasses of ice cold tea. He set them on the round table between the chairs and sat down himself.
"For twenty years," Dad started, "Mrs. Adelson has lived across the street there." He pointed to the small, one story house directly across from ours. The white paint and blue trim looked as if it had just been painted. It might have been. I really didn't pay much attention to the old woman or her house.
"And," Dad went on, "for twenty years, she has gone for a walk at six o’clock every morning."
Again, I was a little disappointed. This was no great revelation. When you live in a town of only 21,000 people, everybody knows pretty much what goes on in everybody else’s lives.
"Dad, what's so important about that?" I asked. "Old lady Addlebrain..."
"Don't ever call her that again!" Dad snapped. "She may be strange, but she could very
well be one of the most important, most special, people in the entire world."
Now I was on guard. My Dad was known as an accomplished practical joker. Knowing that he was setting me up for one of his not-so-famous one-liners, I deliberately played into his hand. "Now wait a minute, Dad. How could Mrs. Addlebr.. uh, Adelson be that important?"
"This was before your time. Twenty years ago, the whole region was locked in the middle of one of the worst floods in history. It had been raining for a week and a half, with an average of six and a half inches a day.
"Crops in seven counties were washed away, all the roads but three were impassable, and you couldn't think because of the constant roar. The town survived as well as it did only because it’s the highest point in the county.
"The day Mrs. Adelson moved in was one of the worst. By ten that morning, it had already rained four inches and didn’t show any signs of letting up. The moving van pulled up and unloaded her in record time. I was off that day, so your mom and I went over to welcome her into the neighborhood.
"After the soaked introductions, she told us that she was recently widowed, and had
decided to go where the weather was nice all the time. We laughed at that, but she just looked at
us and said 'Oh, don't you worry about that. It'll straighten up, just you wait.'”
"The next morning at six, I went out to get the paper and saw her coming out of the house, dressed for summertime. It had let up a little bit, I could actually hear her say hello from
across the street. I said hello back and she said what a beautiful day it was and that I should dress comfortably. I just smiled, said okay, and went in for breakfast.
"I was two steps inside the door when the rain stopped. The silence was deafening after a week of rain pounding the roof. Rushing back outside, I saw the sun break through the clouds.
"I really didn't think much of it at the time. After all, she probably had just looked out of her bedroom window before going out, and saw the clouds breaking up.
"At least, that's what I thought back then. Now I know better."
Thoroughly confused, I asked, "Wait a minute. Are you saying that she made the rain stop?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying. Somehow, her early morning walks made the weather perfect. For twenty years, with two exceptions, we have had just the right temperature, precisely the needed rainfall. No more, no less."
Still waiting for a punch line I said, "But, Dad, that's not possible."
"Last month," he continued, "I went to City Hall and got copies of the weather reports for the last twenty years, starting with the month she moved in. When I went up to Dallas on business, I took them to the University and sat down with one of the meteorologists there and we went over them. Would you like to know what he said?"
This is it, I thought, here comes the joke. "What?"
"'That's not possible.' He told me that absolutely perfect weather just does not occur on that scale. Maybe one or two days a month, maybe even a couple of weeks at a time, but
absolutely not for twenty years straight. He said that '...storms storm, floods flood, lightning
strikes, death and taxes. They all happen and you just can't avoid any of them for long.'"
By now, I was beginning to think that Dad wasn't heading for a laugh, but an asylum.
I was sure I had found the flaw in his tale. "You said that the weather was perfect with two exceptions. What about those? If she was keeping tabs on it, how did it foul up?"
"The first thing that made me notice her effect on nature was also the first time that nature went screwy. It happened when you were about six or seven.
"In the middle of May that year, Mrs. Adelson was returning from one of her walks. As she was going up the walkway to her porch, she startled a cat that was digging in her garden. The cat dashed across her porch, right under her foot. In avoiding the cat she slipped and fell, breaking an ankle.
"I was just getting into the car on my way to work when I saw it happen. I got her in my car and rushed her to the hospital, where they decided to keep her overnight. She adamantly wanted to go home, but the doctors and I managed to convince her to stay.
“As I left, she said, 'I'll stay, but you take an umbrella to work tomorrow, Benjamin.' Promising her that I would, I went on to work.
"The next day, at 6 A.M., I went out to get the paper as usual. In the time it took me to walk the ten steps from the door to the box on the curb, the sky went from absolutely clear to totally overcast. By the time I got back inside the house, I was soaked. I have never seen rain fall so hard with absolutely no warning.
"Mrs. Adelson came home about three that afternoon. By that time, we had received ten and a half inches of rain. At six the next morning, when she came out for her walk, I was standing at the window, watching. It was still pouring down.
"She was dressed just like she always does on a nice day. She had on a pair of mauve sweat pants and a light blue T-shirt. On her broken ankle she had a cast, wrapped in a little plastic bag. No umbrella, no rain coat, just a cane to help her walk.
“As she set foot off her porch onto the sidewalk, the rain stopped. One second, raindrops the size of marbles. The next, nothing. Just like that," he snapped his fingers, "it all stopped.
"By the time she reached the street, all of the clouds were gone, swept away by some irresistible force."
Thinking that my father, one Benjamin Filtin of Bell, Texas, was going to be taken away forever by those men with the custom-made jackets, I had to speak up. "Dad, you're crazy! Mrs. Adelson spending one night, or every night, in the hospital isn't going to make it rain. She's just a senile old lady that likes to walk and dig in her garden, that's all."
My Dad shushed me and looked quickly over at Mrs. Adelson's house. She was, as usual for this time of day, kneeling in her garden, digging in the soil and pulling weeds. She looked for all the world like a harmless old widow. Frail, always smiling and talking to herself.
"Mike, do you remember the tornadoes we had three years ago?" my Dad asked.
"Sure," I replied. Like I would ever forget. "Seven tornadoes hit in two days. Tore up half the county. That was right after that guy...hey! Your not going to say..."
"All I'm saying is that when that drunk kid jumped the curb and hit Mrs. Adelson with his
car, she went back to the hospital. I was at the window at six the next morning, and saw the
funnels start coming down. By ten after, two had reached half-way to the ground. After that, I was too busy keeping you and your mother safe."
His eyes were lost in the past. Tears welled as he went on. "I lost three of my best friends those two days. I thought for a while that I was going to lose the house, along with you and your mom.
"How she managed to convince the doctors to release her in two days, I’ll never know. With four broken ribs, a broken leg, broken collarbone, and a dislocated shoulder, she should have been there six months. But she came home, with a nurse and a wheelchair."
"At 6 A.M. the next day, she had the nurse push her out the door. They stayed there arguing for at least ten minutes before the nurse finally gave up and started pushing Mrs. Adelson on her daily route. They hadn't gone 30 feet when the tornadoes sucked themselves back up into the sky. Five minutes later, the sun came out and the repairs, the healing, could begin."
He looked at me, stood up, and leaned against one of the porch posts. Lighting a cigarette, he said, "I don't expect you to believe all of this. Hell, I don't believe that I’m believing it. I just thought that you are old enough, now, to at least consider the impossible."
"Now, if I'm not mistaken, your mom has a cake in the fridge with your name on it," he said as he opened the front door with a bow, as if to a prince.
-
That was twelve years ago. I grew up, pushed Dad's crazy theories to the back of my
mind, got married, and had a son, Michael, Jr.
Dad died five years ago of a heart attack. After the funeral, Lynn, Junior, and I moved in with Mom. Life has been fine.
That is, until I saw the Ambulance pull up in front of Mrs. Adelson's house this morning at ten-thirty.
When I walked across the street and asked what was going on, the paramedic told me that Mrs. Adelson and a friend had been having brunch. That friend called 911 when Mrs. Adelson collapsed.
"So what happened?" I asked.
Mrs. Adelson had died of a stroke.
I walked back to the house and told Mom. She turned white as a sheet. She started to tell me what Dad had believed, but I cut her off. I remembered that conversation in a flash, but I still didn't believe all the stuff Dad had said.
And yet...
-
It's five fifty-five in the morning. Mrs. Adelson died yesterday, so she won't be walking today. I stand at the window, like Dad did so long ago.
Wondering how many friends I will lose in the next few days.
Wondering if I'll ever see the sun again.
Waiting...

Tit for Tat

2009-12-18T01:58:22Z

This flash piece is one of my favorites. I like it just the way it is. If I submit this, it's gotta be accepted as is.

“Cassandra!” Cassidy yelled out.
The vampire, dressed all in red, turned on the dance floor. The music had just ended, and she was walking off with the man with whom she had just danced. The other patrons of the club did not notice the exchange.
“Cassidy! You’ve been after me for so long. I was wondering if you would follow me here.”
“Just thought I would show them all what you are.”
Cassandra just smiled at the human before her. “You cannot stop us.”
With her right hand, Cassidy pointed her small crossbow at the vampire. "I'm not trying to stop all of you. I just want to stop you.”
Someone in the crowd noticed the weapon, and screamed. Most tried to get away, some stood by the dance floor, entranced.
Cassidy pulled the trigger. The solid pine bolt zipped across the space between them, only to stop cold in Cassandra's hand.
“You see? We are faster, stronger. You have no chance.” She snapped the wood in two. In an instant she was at Cassidy, her cold hand clasped on the Hunter's throat. “I could snap your neck, but I believe that you would make a good vampire.”
As she opened her mouth, baring her fangs, Cassidy tried to speak. All she could make were inarticulate sounds.
Cassandra loosened her grasp. “A few last words, my beauty?”
Cassidy’s voice was scratchy. “Yeah. You may be faster and stronger, but I'm smarter.” With that she plunged the stake, which she held behind her back in her left hand, deep into Cassandra's chest.
To the innocent bystanders, it was an interesting scene. One beautiful woman stabbing a mirror image of herself.
“I was always the smarter one, Cassie. That's why I turned Rupert down.”
Cassandra stepped back, pain in her eyes, but a smile on her face. “You always were jealous that Rupert picked me first. You couldn't live in my shadow.”
She fell to her knees. Black ooze flowed out of her mouth now. Her skin was starting to darken to grey. Her hair was falling out. “Rupert will avenge me, dear Cass.”
Cassandra collapsed onto her back, coughing black ichor into the air. It splashed back onto her decaying features. Her eyes rolled toward her sister, her killer.
Cassidy looked into Cassandra's eyes. “Oh, Cassie. I'm sorry, but I took Rupert out last night.”
She bent down so she could whisper into what was left of the vampire's ear. “Of course, I took him the night before you did, so long ago. You weren’t first, I was. So, you see, I wasn't jealous of you, I was just done with him.”
Cassandra's remaining eye went wide, then blank. Her head lolled over to one side. The skin evaporated, leaving only a grey skull. The long red dress no longer covered a beautiful figure. It only draped over bones.
Cassidy stood and removed the stake from the skeletal remains. “Don't want to lose this. It's still good.”

Killer Clown

2009-12-18T01:55:34Z

Another "flash" piece. I haven't submitted this yet, but it is destined for Pseudopod.

I'm working on a new title. Ideas?

Also, gotta fix the ending before I submit it. Upon reading it, the end sucks. Yeah, I know. I'm working on it.

"You understand that this is difficult." Greg Strateman said.
"Yes, of course it is. Just tell us what happened." Officer Petersen replied.
"Well, like, you know, Carleton just snapped that day. He came in with that survival knife.
"Linda confronted him about it. He motioned as if to shoo her away, only he cut her throat . You know, all in one motion. I was on camera one at the time, so I turned the camera to him."
Officer Petersen broke in. "And why did you do that?"
Greg shook his head. "I guess it was habit from before, when I was with the crime reporter for Channel Eight. Either way, she dropped, clutching her throat. Blood oozing between her fingers. People started running and screaming. I've seen worse, so I just kept the camera on him. He laughed that silly laugh he does in the show, you’ve heard it. I can’t do it, kinda like heeheeheeeehee. You know.
"Anyway, he did that like he was just tickled. He bent straight over at the waist and hacked at her neck with that god-awful knife. She stopped twitching after a couple hits. When he was done, he stood up. He held her head by her hair. He hadn't cut all the way through her neck, though. Some skin still held on. He just gave a yank and it ripped free.
"That's when it got to me. I stepped away from the camera and, you know, puked. God, it felt like every meal for the last year came up.
"After that, I was fixing to bail, but he saw me. His stare held me like, I don't know what, but I couldn't move. He pointed at me with his left hand, the one holding Linda's head. He didn't let her go, he just wagged his finger back and forth, telling me 'no'. Her head wobbled like it was on a string.
"He said 'Uh,uh, uuh.' and pointed to the camera. The son of a...he wanted me to film him.
"Just as I got back to the camera, the Security Guard ran up. He shouted something at Chummy, uh, Carleton, and pointed his gun at him.
"He, uh, I mean Carleton, not the Security Guard, raised his eyebrows twice real quick like at the camera as if to say 'Watch this!'. Then, well, he spun. Like some ballerina or something. Linda's head was spraying all kinds of blood all over. It got me and the camera.
"He let Linda's head go and it flew and hit the barrel of the Security Guard's gun, just as the gun went off.
"The head, it, like, just exploded! Man, it just went everywhere. It got all over the Security Guard. He just dropped. I thought he was dead, but found out later that he just passed out.
"Can't blame him. So did I. Next thing I know, you guys are shaking me and asking questions."
"Well, Mr. Strateman, you can go ahead and go home. We think he'll go into hiding for awhile. We'll find him."

Curiosity

2009-12-18T01:50:22Z

This was a "flash" fiction piece submitted to Psuedopod. They rejected it, indicating that it should be expanded, that it ended just when it was starting.

That was actually my point with the ending. Stop it right there, let the reader continue the story in their own mind, their own way.

Below this text, you will see the edited, expanded version. I don't like it near as much. Which means that, either I need to work on it a lot more, or just leave it like it was.

Also, I am still learning the format thingys here, so the two stories may look different. I'm working on it.

Kendall Jackson shook his head. It did not make any sense, but facts were facts. He could not ignore what the tests were telling him.
The brain on the table in front of him still exhibited electrical activity.
The brain had once been that of a very charismatic man. This man had somehow been able to convince people to do virtually anything he wished. He was wealthy, popular, and very powerful.
The brain had also been out of the man’s body for three days, preserved in a jar.
The donor’s will had specified that his body be donated to the Medical School where Kendall was a third year student. Kendall had been present when they removed the organ.
Kendall had always been fascinated by abilities which were scoffed at by conventional science. Those things that people did with their minds in movies and books. Lighting fires, moving objects, reading minds. He had come to medical school in order to be able to study the human brain in an attempt to unlock these secrets.
He knew from experience to keep his interests and studies secret. He had almost been forced to leave school during his first year because he asked publicly about such paranormal activities.
Stealing the brain had been an impulse. If he could unlock the man’s ability to persuade others, maybe it would lead to other breakthroughs.
He had brought the brain home, and using some home-designed equipment, began to study the minute electrical fields surrounding the brain. It was a futile test, seeing as the brain had been chemically preserved for so long.
The test, however, registered a weak, but very present, electrical field surrounding the cerebellum, located at the back of the head, behind the brain stem. Without any reason, Kendall assumed that this had to be the donor’s secret to manipulating people. He wondered if there was a way to duplicate the field.
Over two days, he experimented with inducing such a field in the only human brain present, his own.
The first attempt merely caused some singeing of hair and a few painful blisters. Not enough trouble to stop him.
After his second attack of unconsciousness, however, he abandoned the idea of artificially inducing paranormal abilities.
Frustrated at his failure, he roughly picked up the brain and threw it into the storage jar, splashing preserving liquids on the table. Looking at his hand, he realized that he had gripped the brain too hard, digging his fingers through the sulci and gyri of the cerebral cortex into the grey matter. His fingers were covered in a grey slime.
Without thinking, he stuck his index finger in his mouth. At the moment he realized just what he was doing, he also discovered something unexpected.
Brains tasted good.
A shiver went through him as he contemplated the unthinkable. What would happen if he absorbed the electrically charged portions of the brain through his digestive tract?
Excited, he turned to his stove. He intended to find out.

Curiosity and Satisfaction

Kendall Jackson shook his head. It did not make any sense, but facts were facts. He could not ignore what the tests were telling him. The brain on the table in front of him still exhibited electrical activity.
The brain had once been that of a very charismatic man. This man had somehow been able to convince people to do virtually anything he wished. He was wealthy, popular, and very powerful.
The brain had also been out of the man’s body for three days, preserved. Set aside for study.
The donor’s will had specified that his body be donated to the Medical School where Kendall was a third year student. Kendall had been present when they removed the organ.
Kendall had always been fascinated by abilities which were scoffed at by conventional science. Those things that people did with their minds in movies and books. Lighting fires, moving objects, reading minds. He had come to medical school in order to be able to study the human brain in an attempt to unlock these secrets.
He knew from experience to keep his interests and studies secret. He had almost been forced to leave school during his first year because he asked publicly about such paranormal activities.
Since that incident, he had conducted his research much more secretly.
Stealing the brain had been nothing more than an impulse. If he could find something to help him unlock the man’s ability to persuade others, that may lead to other breakthroughs.
He had brought the brain home, and using some home-designed equipment, began to study the minute electrical fields surrounding the brain. He knew it to be futile, seeing as the brain had been chemically preserved for so long.
The test, however, registered a weak, but very present, electrical field surrounding the cerebellum, located at the back of the brain, behind the brain stem. Without any reason, Kendall assumed that this had to be the donor’s secret to manipulating people. He wondered if there was a way to duplicate the field.
Over two days, he experimented with inducing such a field in the only human brain present.
The first attempt merely caused some singeing of hair and a few painful blisters. Not enough trouble to stop him.
After his second attack of unconsciousness, however, he abandoned the idea of artificially inducing paranormal abilities.
He went over his notes repeatedly. He could find nothing that helped. Frustrated at his failure, he roughly picked up the brain and threw it into the storage jar, splashing preserving liquids on the table.
Looking at his hand, he realized that he had gripped the brain too hard, digging his fingers through the sulci and gyri of the cerebral cortex and into the grey matter. His fingers were covered in a grey slime.
Without thinking, he stuck his index finger in his mouth. At the moment he realized just what he was doing, he also discovered something very unexpected.
Brains tasted good!
A shiver went through him as he contemplated the unthinkable. What the worst that could happen?
It was insane. There was no way it was possible. People did not gain an animal’s abilities by simply consuming the flesh.
And, yet…
Retrieving the brain from its chemical storage, he rinsed it off at the kitchen sink. The preserving fluids were definitely not healthy.
Turning from the sink, he paused. Should he cook it? If so, how?
He rejected the idea of cooking the brain in any way. Excessive heat would destroy some of the tissue. Of course, digestion would break the tissue down, but that tissue would then be absorbed into his body.
He put the brain on a plate and set it on the little table. He added tall glass of ice water and utensils. Then he was ready.
Later, he reclined on his small couch, achingly full. He had not taken into account just how much three and half pounds of food actually was.
He had experienced a very brief bout with nausea right after he had started eating. The realization hit him of just what he was doing.
It had passed.
Eventually, he slept.
His dreams were stark, extremely detailed. He saw himself stalking down dark alleys, swinging an aluminum bat at the sleeping homeless. Cracking skulls open so he could dig out the contents with a soup spoon.
He awoke to knocking at his door. Blearily, he opened it.
Standing there was his Gross Anatomy instructor, Mr. Blevins.
“Mr. Jackson! I am so pleased to see you alright. You have missed several days of school.”
Kendall was still not fully awake.
“Um,” he rubbed his eyes. “Um, what? I haven’t missed. It’s only Saturday.”
“My I come in, Mr. Jackson? I have something of import to discuss with you.”
“Yeah, sure.” Kendall stepped aside.
Mr. Blevins walked in, noting the preservation jar on the kitchen counter across the small apartment. He indicated it.
“Ah, well, yes. That rather answers my question.”
He turned on Kendall. “You do realize that the theft of that specimen will result in your expulsion, Mr. Jackson.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Oh, um, look, I can, I can…”
“You can explain? I would be fascinated to hear just why you stole a preserved brain and brought it to your apartment. I would also like to hear just where it is, since it is isn’t in the preservation jar.” Mr. Blevins was very agitated. His voice was starting to rise in pitch and volume.
Kendall’s head started to clear. He began to feel something in his head. His brain seemed to be vibrating. Slightly, but distinctly.
He very intensely wished that Mr. Blevins would just be quiet and drop the whole thing.
“Mr. Blevins, won’t you please sit down?” He motioned to his couch.
Mr. Blevins instantly calmed down. “Yes, of course.”
He took one step and sat down on the couch.
Kendall was, to say the least, surprised. “Look, Mr. Blevins, about that brain…”
The instructor waved hands in the air. “Oh, that! You said you could explain, and I am sure you have a perfectly acceptable reason. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“Well, then,” Kendall said. “I’m so glad you came by to check on me. What day did you say it was?”
Standing and shaking Kendall’s hand, Mr. Blevins replied “It’s Wednesday, but don’t worry about it. Missing a couple days won’t hurt you that much.”
Which is just what I was thinking, Kendall said to himself.
The buzzing in his brain was getting more intense.
“Sorry you came all the way down here, Mr. Blevins. But, if you’ll just say you didn’t get hold of me, I think we can forget this whole thing. Be careful going home, now.”
“Yes, yes, too bad about that.” And Mr. Blevins left.
Kendall closed the door behind the older man. He leaned his forehead against the door.
“It worked.” He said out loud. “It worked!”
The buzz in his head started to lessen. As it did so, a longing started to grow. A yearning.
“More. I need another.” Kendall said, almost to himself.
He open his door and stepped across the breezeway. He knocked on Julie’s door.
Julie was a failed student who worked as a late night waitress. She should be sleeping right now. She opened the door, still groggy from sleep.
“Ken? What’s wrong?”
He spoke to her, and she turned and walked to here tiny kitchen.
An hour later, as he washed up at her sink, he wondered.
How long will this one last?

Memoriez

2009-12-18T01:41:39Z

OK, yet another Zombie story, also submitted to http://talesofworldwarz.com/.
Didn't like the way the Rich Text post went for "Trapped", so I will be avoiding that when I can.

Janie is seven. Santa just gave her her very first kitty. Mommy and Daddy said that she would have to learn how to feed it and clean its litterbox. She knows that those are stinky and yucky because her friend Annie has three cats, but they aren’t kittens. They are all grown up cats. Janie thinks she can get Daddy to clean the box, because he always does the yucky things instead of making Mommy or her do them.
The kitty is golden orange with really long fur. It’s little mouth opens with a silent meow.
Janie decides to call it “Poofy” because it looks just like a little poof-ball.
As she holds it and pets it, it’s hair turns ragged and tangled. It’s little nose turns gray. Poofy bites her hard on her hand.
---
Jane is sitting at the dining room table, a decorated white cake in front of her. There are two lit candles on the cake, a ‘one’ and a ‘seven’.
“Make a wish!” Momma says.
Jane closes her eyes and inhales deeply, dramatically overdoing it. Her cheeks puff out as she blows hard on the two candles.
A camera flashes.
“Ah, crap.” Dad says. “These damned digital cameras! Why can’t they take the picture when you push the button? I missed it!”
“Well, I’m not doing it again.” Jane says. They all laugh.
Momma is visibly excited. She never could keep a secret.
“Give it to her, Steven.”
Giving Momma a ‘don’t get your panties in a bunch’ look, Dad places a small box in front of Jane.
“Here you go, my little, well, not so little anymore, girl. Happy Birthday.”
Jane tears open the package. She’s just like her Momma like that. Don’t wait around, don’t be neat. Tear off that paper and see what it is.
It’s a key, on a keyring attached to a small remote.
“Go ahead,” Momma says. “Push the button.”
Jane almost knocks her chair over, she stands up so fast. Poofy, her cat, has been laying on her feet, as is his long time habit. Startled, he scampers out of the kitchen.
Quickly she pushes the largest button on the small remote.
In the garage, a ‘beepbeep’ sounds.
Not able to suppress a squeal, Jane bounds to the door that leads to the garage. Her Momma almost runs into her as she stops to unlock the door before opening it. The older of the two women is probably more excited that Jane is.
She opens the door to behold her new expression of independence, of adulthood. And, from the looks of it, her newfound level of ‘coolness’.
The little two door car is light blue, but not in a little girl way. More of a look-at-me-I’m-flying way.
She opens the driver’s door, but turns when she hears a moan behind her. Her parents have changed. They are standing, but limply. Their skin is all gray and their hair is filthy.
They reach for her. As she jerks back, she the door of her new coolness closes on her hand.
She screams.
---
Jane is standing, facing the man she loves. He is repeating after another man.
Henry is tall. And dark. And handsome. She calls him her “own little cliché”.
As Henry speaks, she looks out at the crowd of people watching. In the front row are her parents, both crying through smiles.
There seems to be an awful lot of people standing in the foyer of the church. They are looking in through the small windows in the doors. They sway side to side, and appear to be pawing at the door, trying to get in.
Their skin is gray.
A sharp pain in her hand snaps her attention to Henry.
Instead of placing a ring on her finger, he is biting her hand.
His skin is gray, too.
---
“Push, Janie, push!” Henry encourages.
“Just a little more, Jane, one more and we’re there.” The doctor says.
Pain, oh, pain. But so worth it. This baby wasn’t supposed to be, couldn’t happen.
Yet, here we are, she thinks.
The doctor interrupts her thoughts. “And, here we go! Congratulations! It’s a girl! Ten fingers and ten toes, a beautiful girl!”
Henry is crying, just like Jane. “Oh, sweetheart! She’s so beautiful! I’m so proud of you!”
Crying, Jane holds out her hands and receives a tiny, blanket wrapped package. The baby isn’t crying, but moaning slightly, even growling.
Pulling the folds away from the baby’s face, she sees a blank stare, peering black eyes, and slate gray skin.
She looks up at Henry. He is beaming, making little cooing noises.
Suddenly, pain sears in her hand. The baby has gray-black teeth and it busily chewing.
---
Jane never got to enjoy her new home. The Zombies had overrun the city, if not the state.
She and Henry hadn’t even been able to unpack the boxes.
Henry was lying on the couch, asleep and feverish. Zoe was missing. And the Army was driving up and down the street declaring quarantine.
They were blaring instructions from megaphones as they drove.
“If anyone in your house is sick, leave them there. If you are not sick, come out and you will be taken to a Federal Safe Refuge. Only healthy individuals will be taken. All others should stay indoors and wait for a doctor to determine their condition.”
The message repeats.
Jane did not know what to do. Henry was sick, but she couldn’t leave him. What if he woke up and she was gone? And what about Zoe? She had to find Zoe!
She stands, unable to think or move.
A pounding at the door. “Is anyone in there? We are going to break the door down. Stand back!”
And the door virtually exploded inward, the knob punching into the sheetrock as it slammed into the wall.
Soldiers poured in.
“Are you sick, ma’am? Have you been bitten by anything or anybody? Is this your husband? Has he been bitten?” Hands examined her, checked her.
Another yelled, “We got a bite here!” He pulled Henry’s pants leg up, revealing a very tiny bite mark.
“She appears fine. No fever, normal temp. She’s good, get her outta here! Robinson, take care of the man when we leave!”
She is pushed out of the house.
A shot.
A single person comes out of the house. Alone.
There is a shout from the side of the house.
“Oh, crap! We got one! Oh, my God! It’s a baby!”
Zoe.
Another shot.
She screams and breaks free. Running to the side of the house she yells. “You bastards! She’s my baby! What have you done to my baby!”
She rounds the corner of the house and sees Zoe. Dressed in her little pink sleeper. Her beautiful two year old little girl is just laying on the ground.
Her head is gone.
She is tackled from behind. She struggles, but cannot break free.
She hears growls and moans.
Managing to turn over, she looks into the eyes of a Zombie dressed in fatigues.
She punches the abomination in the face, but it latches onto her hand with it’s teeth, gray lips sucking greedily.
Screaming, she sees her arm start to turn gray.
---
She awakens to the alarm. This one is the one that indicates the perimeter has been breached. This means only one thing.
The Zombies are here.
As she works a split breakfast/dinner shift in the Refuge’s cafeteria, she is alone in her Single Women’s Dormitory. Most are at the cafeteria, working or eating.
Ironic, she thinks. The Zombies come to eat us when we ourselves are eating.
She stays inside the building, figuring she is safer on the second floor than out on the grounds running around. She watches from a window.
People run. People scream. People fight.
Zombies eat.
Paying such rapt attention to the goings on outside, she failed to hear the door open at the far end of the dormitory.
She only became aware of her company when she heard a moan.
The Zombie was missing his entire right arm. Some of that thick black blood of theirs had run onto his light blue shirt in the seconds it took to coagulate, sealing the wound.
He was already on her. He grabbed her blouse with his hand, pulling her to him.
She struggles and tears out of the blouse. Squirming away, she is yanked back. The Zombie has grabbed her wrist.
He bites a large chunk out of her hand. Her entire arm is already gray.
---
Jane is hot.
Jane is tired.
Jane is sleeping.
Then, Jane is hungry.

Trapped

2009-12-18T01:35:29Z

Here is another Zombie story. This one was submitted to http://talesofworldwarz.com/ as well. Until I hear from them, it is not available for submitting.

"Trapped" is an experiment in psychological "horror". Not necessarily a scary story, just trying to be unsettling.

The bold, italics, and capital letters are an attempt to differentiate voices visually, but in an unconventional way.

The format may seem a little off, but I am posting with Rich Text. That way, it's easier for me to post quickly. Unfortunately, it kill the LJ Cut feature. On stories that don't feature a lot of emphasis, I'll still do the cut style post.

EDIT: I made one small change on this version. The last line is in italics now. It was supposed to be that way in the original.

Trapped

Wha…where am I?

Wait, who am I?

Oh, right. Tim Wright.

Now, why couldn’t I remember that?

And, why can’t I see? Am I blind? No, I remember being able to see.

I’m starting to remember everything.

Oh, shit! I’ve been bitten! I’ve been bitten by a Zombie! I…I’ve got to find help.

I can’t move! I’m paralyzed!

There. My eyes are finally opening. Must have been stuck or something.

Wait. What’s happening? I’m moving, but I’m not doing it.

I’m standing. Walking.

Help.

That sounded like my voice, but it wasn’t in my ears. Disembodied. Like a ghost’s.

Help. Again a ghost of my own voice.

Help? This one was someone else’s voice. Distant. Ghostly, also.

Help.

Come.

Who’s talking? I’m walking faster. My head is turning, looking around.

Smell. I smell something. It smells like, like, comfort. Like home. My head is turning to the smell.

I see somebody. Lots of somebodies. A group of people.

No.

A group of Zombies.

Food? My voice haunts again.

Come. Food.

Are they…talking to each other? I don’t hear them with my ears. Their lips aren’t moving.

Oh, God, they talk! They talk!

This group, they are just walking. But, where? Where are we going? Why can’t I control myself?

Is, is this the way it is with everyone? Oh, my God, are all the Zombies this way?

CAN YOU HEAR ME? ARE YOU THERE? I call out.

WHOAREYOUWHEREAREYOUWHAT’SHAPPENINGWHERE’SMYBABY?

All the other voices come to me in a jumble. This whole group is talking to me.

EVERYBODY, BE QUIET! I CAN’T HEAR YOU ALL AT THE SAME TIME. JUST ANSWER YES OR NO. CAN YOU ALL SEE AND HEAR LIKE I CAN? THROUGH YOUR OLD BODY?

Again, the cacophony. But, through it all, most of them are saying “yes”.

God, it’s true. We are all still here! Still alive!

QUIET! I’M WALKING BEHIND A WOMAN WITH A WHITE DRESS WITH FLOWERS. LADY, CAN YOU HEAR ME?

YES. I’M SO SCARED. I CAN’T STOP WHAT I’M DOING! WE WALK AND WE KILL AND WE EAT AND I CAN’T STOP IT! I KILLED MY MOTHER AND ATE HER! CAN YOU KILL ME? PLEASE? I DON’T WANT TO BE THIS ANYMORE!

We are interrupted by our Zombie bodies.

Food! We all say in our ghost voices.

The Zombies start moving faster. I see a house ahead. A lone child is running to the door. Slamming it shut.

The Zombies approach the house, going for the windows and doors. They try to turn knobs and lift panes. Everything is locked.

They keep trying.

Food!

Shots ring out. The woman I was talking to falls, her most of her neck gone.

AT LAST. I CAN FEEL IT. IT’S DYING. I’M SO SORRY, MOMMA! I DIDN’T MEAN TO, I COULDN’T STOP IT. I’M SO SOR…

I hear her die. Well, the Zombie, at least. It just ends. It was there, then not. Strange. Kinda pitiful, actually.

Others fall, but I hear one lone ghostly voice.

Help. Food!

Food! I reply. Well, not me, but the Zombie my body has become.

As one, the remaining Zombies flock to the call.

One of the Zombies has grabbed a man who was leaning out of a window to shoot. The Zombie has dragged the man out and has started eating. The man is struggling, but weakly.

OH, GOD. STOP ME! I DON’T WANT TO DO THIS! I CAN TASTE IT! I CAN TASTE THE MAN! SOMEBODY SHOOT ME, I DON’T WANT THIS!

There is nothing I can do. My Zombie body walks by as there are already several Zombies feasting on the now still figure. Those people, that used to be, are crying out to be killed, to stop this.

My body goes inside with what is left of the group. There are only a woman and an adolescent boy.

They kill two more of the group, but don’t last long.

The others were right. I can smell the people. I can feel the skin tear, the muscle rip. I can taste the blood, the tissue. Feel it go down my throat.

If I could, I would puke. If I could, I would die. I would take the boy’s gun and blow my own fucking brains out.

But, they smell so good. They taste so good.

I want to die even more now. How could I ever think that?

It’s got to be the Zombie. He’s enjoying this, and I am stuck inside him.

I was never a believer, but now…

It goes on. Zombies don’t sleep, so neither do we.

We learn to recognize each other. We learn to communicate. We don’t learn to cope.

Except one of us.

He is an escaped prisoner. A murderer. The worst kind.

He is the only one to encourage us to embrace the Zombie. Embrace the feeding.

He is the only person I have ever wanted to kill.

We call him Mr. Cannibal.

We each have names, but we don’t use our old ones. We don’t want to find a friend, a loved one, in the group.

I am called Captain, because I got us to talk.

We call our bodies “My Zombie”. We deliberately avoid matching a voice with a body, but sometimes it can’t be helped.

When the Zombies are pursuing people, we call that The Hunt.

We have one other term. The Feasting.

I know that most of us are actually insane by now, but we still talk. We still have that contact. It helps.

There are no private talks, everybody is on the same, well, frequency. One big damn party line.

We get used to that. We even learn to tune out things.

Like Mr. Happy. We started calling him that when he began giggling.

He just never stopped. So, we learned to ignore him.

We have Preacher. You can guess why. He even managed to get a few converts. At least he and his flock know when to shut up.

There is Psycho. As a boy, he was abused by his father. His mother did nothing to stop it. The only times we hear him is during The Feasting.

Everybody his Zombie kills and eats is either his father, his mother, or himself, depending on the sex and age of his victim. He rages at his past, killing it.

Unless it’s a young girl. Then he cries for his dead sister.

One day, Mr. Cannibal is being particularly vocal. He is shouting in our heads. He won’t let us talk, and talking is the only way we can get through the day. We really hate it when he does that.

My Zombie turns it head. I see Mr. Cannibal’s Zombie walking next to me. My Zombie reaches out a hand a slaps Mr. Cannibal’s Zombie across the head.

HEY, WHAT HAPPENED? He asks. SOMETHING HIT ME! IS SOMEONE ATTACKING US?

Did I do that? I laugh to myself with a memory of an old TV show. I was thinking how much I hated that son of a bitch, and my Zombie hit him!

Can I do it again? Yes, I can.

HEY! WHAT THE FUCK’S GOING ON? He yells.

Everybody tells him to stuff it, and they hope he’s getting shot.

As we walk, I experiment. It gets easier and easier to control my Zombie. Soon, I am walking with the group simply because I want to.

Then, we smell people. I lose most of my control as my Zombie starts to trot.

We come up on what used to be a wilderness camp. They have armed guards.

I manage to hold my Zombie back. Stop him, actually.

The others attack. Some of them go down, but most get through. The guards go down first.

Psycho and Mr. Cannibal are going for it, but the others are silent. We learned that, too.

As the guards are finished off, the Zombies go on, looking for more food. I walk my Zombie to the remains of the guards.

And pick up one of the pistols.

The gun is empty soon. I haven’t hit anything, but I can make my Zombie shoot it. I figure if I get close enough, I can hit a target as small as a head.

I know I won’t be able to reload a gun, so I drop the one I have and pick up the gun from the other dead guard.

By now, the group is finished eating. The normal Help! is going out from the Zombies to guide them back into a group.

Come. I say. They regroup around me and we start walking again.

The only Zombie that I really know by sight is Mr. Cannibal. I stay away from him, making my way to the back of the pack.

One by one, until the gun is empty, I shoot Zombies in the back of the head. I manage to save six people. I don’t know which ones, but I suspect that one of them was Preacher, as he was talking to his flock, then went silent.

PREACHER? WHAT HAPPENED? WHERE ARE YOU? His followers call out.

I say nothing.

After two more Feastings, I have saved everyone except Psycho, Mr. Cannibal, and myself. They have noticed that the group is smaller, but not that I am responsible.

We walk away from the Feasting. I haven’t eaten.

As we walk away, I call out PSYCHO, CAN YOU HEAR ME? I CAN SAVE YOU. DO YOU WANT TO DIE? OR STAY LIKE THIS? PLEASE, TALK TO ME.

I DIE EVERY TIME. I KILL THEM AND I KILL MYSELF AND I KILL HER EVERYTIME. I AM DEAD. I CANNOT BE SAVED.

A shot. He falls.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU CAN SAVE HIM? DON’T TELL ME YOU JOINED PREACHER? Mr. Cannibal laughs. He didn’t see Psycho fall. He doesn’t know I am behind him.

He also doesn’t know I have a revolver. It was fully loaded when I took it. The man had just loaded it when Psycho took him down. I saw, I watched. I know.

That gives me four bullets for Mr. Cannibal.

The first one goes into his right knee. He falls.

THE FUCK? WHY DID I FALL? DID SOMEONE SHOOT ME?

YES. I DID.

NO, YOU DIDN’T. YOU’RE A FUCKING ZOMBIE. YOU CAN’T SHOOT ANYONE.

OH, BUT I CAN. LOOK. And I shoot him in the other knee as his Zombie begins standing again. I know he can’t feel it, but he can see that he has fallen and is not getting up.

FUCK! YOU CAN’T DO THAT! YOU’RE JUST LIKE ME!

NO, NOT LIKE YOU. I’M A ZOMBIE, YES, BUT NOT A MONSTER. That distinction is clear to me now.

I bend at the waist and shoot him in both shoulders, destroying bone and muscle. His Zombie cannot stand, cannot drag itself. It can only lie there.

NOW YOU CAN’T HURT ANYONE ELSE, YOU FUCK. I say.

There is one more bullet in the gun.

AND, NOW, NEITHER CAN I.

Sides

2009-12-16T03:06:12Z

What we have here is my first Zombie story. I am trying to come up with a good name for my version of the Zombie Apocalypse, but haven't been successful just yet.

"Sides" has been submitted to an online publication, so is not currently available for other publication. When I receive word from http://talesofworldwarz.com, I will decide if I am going to look for other avenues.

NOW
“...ster Stanley? Can you hear me?”
The woman’s voice intrudes on my fog. I’m enjoying my fog, it’s peaceful. It was quiet.
“Miisster Stanley?” She stretches it out. “Carl?”
“Yeah, I hear you. Now go away.” I go to turn over and find myself restrained. Ankles, wrists, chest, and head. All strapped down. Tight.
“Hey! What the…”
“Please be calm, Mr. Stanley. The restraints are for your safety as well as ours.”
“What? Safety? How is strapping me to a table making me safe?”
The Voice, as I begin to think of it, says, “Well, you wouldn’t want to get shot, now would you?”
I had to agree. I’ve been shot. No end to the trouble it causes. “OK, but couldn’t you just lock the door?”
“Oh, we did that, too.” The Voice sounds as if she is smiling.
I lay still, as if I have any choice in the matter. I really want to move. Movement helps me relax. Funny as it sounds, I get jittery when I can’t move. Which, of course, makes me want to move even more.
In the brief moment before she answers, I start trying to inventory myself. I don’t feel clothing on my arms or feet, but it feels as if the rest of me is covered in a sheet. I assume this is a hospital gown.
The crook of my right arm feels like it’s bandaged. Like I’ve had blood taken.
As I cannot move my head, I cannot see anything but the ceiling. I see a small round grill mounted there. The Voice seems to be coming from that grill.
“Alright.” She says. “I will have someone release you. However, if you attempt to escape or injure anyone, you’ll be shot immediately. Do you understand?”
“Shot. Right. Got it.” I roll my eyes. It’s the only thing I can do besides make rude gestures with my hands. I do that, too. Several different ones. There is no comment, so I assume that I am not on camera. Either that or they just don’t care.
After a full minute, I hear a bolt throw and a door open. A man dressed in military fatigues comes into my field of vision. He puts something hard against the top of my head.
He says to me, “Move. Please. I’m tired of fighting you people.”
Another military type comes into view and yanks on the straps around my right wrist, then leaves.
The rude man holding that hard something to my head says “Count to 60 out loud, slowly. Then you can undo the rest of the straps. If you start before 60, even on 59, I’ll be back.” He taps me hard on the head and adds, “With my friend here.”
The hard thing, I’m assuming it’s a gun, leaves my head. I hear the door close and the bolt throw.
I start counting. I count to 65 just to be sure, adding a nice seven letter expletive beginning with “F” in between the “60” and the one, two, three, four, and five.
The Voice comes back. “Now, Mr. Stanley. There is no need for sarcasm.”
I laugh as I undo the straps. “Oh, no. No need for that at all.”
Finally standing, I see a room no more that ten feet on a side. Grey. One door. One gurney. I am dressed in a hospital gown as I suspected. I start to pace around the room.
Ahhh. That feels much better.
“Can I have some clothes?”
“I’m sorry, but that would put our people in unnecessary danger. Nobody is to be in your presence unless you are restrained.”
“Ah.” I nod my head. “I see. So, I’m just gonna starve in here, then?”
“Are…you hungry?” The Voice asks slowly. Almost with apprehension.
“Actually, yes. I’m sure you’ve done your research. I like red meat, very…rare. After all, that is why you grabbed me, isn’t it? Because I’m a Zombie?”

THEN
I’m not really a Zombie. I’m just, well, part Zombie. No, I don’t mean my mother was a Zombie and my Dad was a baker or anything.
I’m just immune to whatever virus created the Zombies.
What really pisses me off is that is was a nine year old girl who bit me. Tried to eat my face. I shoulda shot the little twerp when I first saw her.
I and some other people were trying to get to Goodfellow Air Force Base in San Angelo, the only Federal Safe Refuge in our immediate area.
The FSR’s had been set up all over. The Feds had selected some defensible locations and armed the snot out of them. Any live human, and the distinction was now very real, could come to any FSR. If there was room, they would be allowed inside.
If the FSR was full, the best you could hope for was to stay close to the barrier. The troops did all they could to keep the Zombies at bay, and you might get lucky.
Of course, you could get shot or blown up, too.
It was a chance you took gladly.
We were ten or fifteen miles from the Goodfellow FSR, coming in from the East on some Farm-to-Market Road. Look it up. It’s the Middle of Freaking Nowhere. We were cruisin’ right along in a beat up old Ford pick-up. A couple with their son rode in the cab. I and two other guys rode in the back.
We topped a rise and there they were. A bunch of Zombies, I don’t know how many, but a lot. Just walking up the road, heading the way we had come.
The guy driving did the only thing you can. He punched it. When he hit the group, bodies flew everywhere. He musta taken down half of them. Maybe even killed a few.
But, he also almost took us out, too. He lost control of the truck and we went sliding sideways down the road. God, or luck, or something, kept the wheels on the asphalt and we didn’t get tossed out on our heads.
The truck stopped when the two leading tires blew. It leaned up horribly, but settled back down. Steam billowed from under the hood. The radiator had been damaged. The truck wasn’t going anywhere.
The remaining Zombies had already turned and started toward us. They were moaning and growling hungrily.
We hadn’t slid very far, so we had just enough time to jump down and start shooting. The couple in the cab joined us, locking their young son inside.
“Way to go, Bob.” I told the driver. “Good job”.
His response was rather blue, if you know what I mean.
We were all armed. Shotguns mainly, but I had a pistol. Big ol’ .45 with six or seven clips.
We chewed through the front Zombies real quick, but the rest just kept coming. That little girl I mentioned came to the lead, and started running right at me, growling.
“Shoot her!” the guy next to me said. George? Jim? Something like that. He turned his gun on her, but just like in the movies, the damned thing just went ‘click’.
“She’s just a kid! I’m not shooting a kid!” I yelled.
By this time, the point was moot. She was on me. Jumped right at my face. I threw my right arm up and she chomped down.
I screamed like, well, like a little girl, and put the pistol to her forehead. Then, she was falling to the ground, that horrid, black, smelly crap they have for blood spraying all over me and George. Or Jim. Whichever, he got covered in it, too.
That was it for me. I turned and exercised the better part of valor. I booked it. Didn’t even bother to see what happened to the others. I knew that if they survived, I wouldn’t. They’d take me out just like they did the Zombies.
And if they didn’t survive, the Zombies would just add me to the menu.
I ran until I couldn’t breathe. Wasn’t far, I never was an athlete. Put me at a computer and I’m good. Running? Not so much.
When I had to slow to a walk, I was burning up. I figured it was that Zombie virus, and that I was going to join the “Hordes of the Walking Dead”.
I had dropped the pistol in my flight, so I couldn’t even do myself in.
I eventually fell and couldn’t rise. My arm was bleeding and hurt like hell. I was covered in stinky, black Zombie blood.
I was so hot, so tired. I just laid down and went to sleep, cradling my arm.
I woke up a few hours later, according to my watch. My arm wasn’t bleeding or hurting anymore. I was hungry as all get out, but not burning up.
And, I wasn’t a Zombie, either. I reckon that if I could tell I wasn’t, I wasn’t.
So, there I lay, in the middle of Texas somewhere near San Angelo, alive, hungry, and…twitching. That was new. Felt like I needed to get up and just move. So I did. Got up and started walking. The movement made be feel a lot better.
There appeared to be a farm or something like that a couple miles off. I could just see the house. As I started that way, I heard footsteps behind me.
Yep, you guessed it. I turned to find Zombies. Five of them, walking right at me.
Well, I turned tail and took off.. For about two steps. My twitchy legs betrayed me and I went down. Did a face plant right into some dumb little bush.
About the time I managed to frantically untangle myself, the Zombies had walked right past me.
Seriously. Went by like I wasn’t even there.
Except the last one. He must have been around 40 when he turned, but was all grey like they get. Vacant stare. You’ve seen them.
He stopped and look down at me.
And spoke.

NOW
The Voice replies. “No, Mr. Stanley. We don’t think you’re a Zombie. We’re actually interested in why you aren’t.”
“Well, I’m immune, aren’t I?”
“And we want to find out why.” She says.
“From the bandage on my arm, I assume you’ve got enough blood to tell you plenty. You don’t need me any more, do you?”
“Oh, we’ve studied your blood. I would like to discuss the results with you.”
After just this few minutes of pacing, I feel much better. I hop up on the gurney. “So, what, I’m a doctor now? I don’t know anything about blood.”
“We found some similarities between your blood and that of a Zombie. We would like to know what behavior you have been exhibiting that could be considered, um, Zombie-like.”
I smile. If only she knew. Sarcastically, I say, “I prefer ‘Zombie-ish’. It’s more friendly.”
The Voice laughs. “OK, Mr. Stanley. Zombie-ish.”
“And, by ‘similarities’, I assume you mean those black streaks in my blood? And that god-awful stink?”
“Yes. But we’re having trouble isolating the immunity factor. If it’s in your blood, we can’t find it. We are having some problems with the methemoglobin. It’s interfering with our research.”
I make a face. “The whatsits?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Stanley. Methemoglobin is similar to hemoglobin, but is receptive to iron, not oxygen like hemoglobin. In normal humans, methemoglobin is found only in very small amounts, while hemoglobin carries oxygen to all the body. In Zombies, the two are reversed. They have almost no hemoglobin. Your blood, though, carries an equal amount of both. And, it appears to be, um, magnetic.”
“I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “Did you just say magnetic?”
“Yes. It appears to be a side effect of the high amounts of bio-electricity present in the bodies of Zombies, and somewhat present in your body. That is making it almost impossible to study your blood. I’m afraid that we are going to require, well, other samples from you.”
Well, this just day just keeps getting better, doesn’t it?

THEN
Zombies don’t speak with their mouths. They think at each other. And, let me tell you, they ain’t great conversationalists.
The man who spoke to me simply said, “There food?”
My ears heard a slight growl, but the words were in my brain. My jaw dropped. All I could do was shake my head.
He must have retained enough brains to know what that meant. That, or the fact that my own brain had just gone completely blank did the trick. Either way, it was enough. He turned and resumed following the others.
Now, I’m not the most inquisitive guy, but, you gotta admit, this was weird enough to check out. So, believe it or not, I followed along, too. At a distance.
Zombies don’t normally move as fast as regular folks, but they do get along. It didn’t take us as long as you might think to get to the house. I stayed back quite a ways, figuring the Zombies would be cut down if there was anybody home.
I was right.
The first Zombie’s head exploded, the bullet going right on through and into the chest of the second Zombie in line. She flew back and didn’t get up.
Contrary to popular belief, you can take a Zombie down without a head shot. It’s just more difficult. Her spine must have been severed, because she twitched for a couple seconds, then lay still.
I heard her die. In my head, I heard her die.
There wasn’t any coherent thought, just a general feeling of, well, the only way to describe it is a feeling of ending. I know that doesn’t make much sense, but there it is.
The other three looked down at her, then at each other.
The same thought ran through all three not-quite-dead brains. I heard it plain as day, though not with my ears.
“Food!”
Seems they know that anyone who can shoot a gun can provide a little sustenance. They all three turned and started running toward the house. Even as far away as I was, I could hear the howls and growls they always make when close to meat.
They didn’t make it to the house, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. The last one to fall was just a few yards from the front door.
Oh, yeah, that’s something else. Zombies know about doors and windows. When’s the last time you saw one not try a door or window? They do remember things, know things. Not much, and not on any kind of intellectual level, but they know. They know.
I thought about approaching the house, but took off when they started taking shots at me. I guess traveling with Zombies while being covered in black Zombie blood isn’t the best way to win friends and influence people.
It took a while, but I finally found another house. I had managed to clean up somewhat. I convinced them I was alright, that the bite on my arm wasn’t from a Zombie, but from a pissed off girlfriend. I guess the fact that I could actually tell them that worked in my favor.
They gave me something to eat, but it almost made me sick. The vegetables smelled rancid to me, and the meat seemed burned to a crisp. I got it down to be polite, but only just.
They put me up in the living room. Late that night, I snuck over to the kitchen and found some thawed hamburger meat. Raw.
Man, was that good.
I had gone from meat-and-potatoes to steak tartar. I knew the bite had done it, but didn’t know why I hadn’t changed completely. As I ate, I found myself pacing around their living room.
It was late at night, or early morning, whichever you prefer. I hadn’t slept since waking up in the grass, and I wasn’t tired. Believe me, I shoulda been beat, the day I had.
I mean, gunning down Zombies, running for my life while bleeding, then walking no telling how far. Not to mention the fact that Zombies now talked to me! I should have been exhausted.
Nope. Just walking around somebody’s living room.
I walked, and thought, the rest of the night.
I didn’t remember ever seeing a Zombie stop moving, unless it was ‘killed’. And that meant they didn’t sleep.
The best I could figure was that I was almost a Zombie.
Great. Just what I needed.

NOW
“Now,” I say, regaining my feet. “When you say ‘other’ samples, I’m hoping you just mean more blood. Right?”
The Voice hesitates. “Well, no. We are going to need several different samples. The easy ones are urine, semen, and stool. The others are a little more, um, invasive.”
Holding my hands up in front of me, I say, “Hey, I’m all for scientific advance and defeating the ‘Zombie Menace’, but I got my limits. I’ll pee in a cup for you, and you can go mining in the toilet as much as you want, but that’s about it. I ain’t looking for a good time, and I ain’t really geared up for no surgeries.”
“We will be as careful as we can. We have a fully functional surgery here, so you should suffer no adverse affects. We aren’t taking any samples that aren’t taken from normal people. Just cell samples from most of your organs, some muscle cells, and bone marrow. That’s it.”
“Oh! ‘That’s it’?” I am very agitated. Hmm. Wonder why? “Not much, is it? Just samples of everything! Ya know, the freaking Zombies don’t treat people this way.”
The Zombies never imprisoned me. Never threatened me, at least not after that little girl bit me. Sometimes they are more humane than people. They don’t treat their own like this.
I don’t say this out loud.
She goes on as if I hadn’t said anything. “As you know, Zombies don’t decay while they, uh, live. Even though they are technically dead, their bodies don’t ever break down, don’t seem to age. Our tests of your tissues indicates the same kind of activity. That’s one of the things we want to investigate, and that requires tissue samples.”
“First of all, stop trying to sell me on this. It ain’t gonna happen. And, second, are you saying that I’m not gonna die unless somebody kills me?”
I can almost hear The Voice shake her head. “No, but you probably won’t age at the same rate as normal people. You could be a walking fountain of youth, as well as the way to end this war.”
Hmmm. Interesting.
The Voice comes from the grill again. “You said you like rare meat. Did you before the bite?”
”Hell, no. I’m a, well, was a well-done kinda guy. Didn’t want no E. Coli, ya know? Go figure.”
“But no cravings for humans?” The Voice asks.
I lie. “No. I ain’t no Zombie. I haven’t gone over to their side yet.”
The Voice is anxious. “Yet? Have you considered it? Are you saying you actually want to be a Zombie?”
Once more, I stop my continuous trip around the room. “I am not one of the walking dead! I am still me. Not that you care. If you thought I was human, I wouldn’t be here, would I?”
“We’ve investigated you thoroughly, Mr. Stanley. We have talked to everyone involved in the shooting incident at Goodfellow. We know of your preference for rare meat, your constant need to be in motion. We even understand how all of that works. What we want to learn about is how the Zombies seem to treat you like one of their own. If we could duplicate that, we could stop every future attack. It would give us an enormous advantage in our war against these unfortunate creatures.”
“I wasn’t aware,” I say. “that my getting shot was common knowledge.”
I took one in the leg. Some dumb guy thought I was a Zombie. I shoulda known not to be out walking the streets at three in the morning. Goodfellow’s a big place. Figured I’d just take a little walk.
The Voice seems to be smiling again. “Some things need to said to be understood. We know everything.”
Well, not quite, I say to myself. And smile.
“If you help us, we can end this problem and start returning to normal. These samples will allow us to do that.”
Suspicion creeps into my mind. “Are you are trying to end this, or control it?”
No response.
“So you are planning on using this immunity of mine for something else. How does that old saying go? ‘He who is silent is said to agree?’ Something like that?”
“I’m sure you appreciate our position in this, Mr. Stanley. Zombies are overrunning the world. Only in the United States and a very few European countries have we been able to reach a stalemate. We need something to turn the tide. Quite honestly, if we don’t get it, we’re going to lose. The Zombies are becoming more numerous. The only weapons which will kill enough of them would also kill too many of us. That leaves us with face-to-face fighting, and there are just too many of them. You could save all of us.”
I sigh. “I notice you still haven’t answered my question.”
“And I won’t. Decisions like the one you are asking about are not the ones I make. I just do what I am told.”
“Like a good little Nazi, huh? Isn’t that what they said at Nuremburg?”
The Voice is very upset now. “Mr. Stanely! How dare you compare me to a Nazi! I am trying to save lives!”
“Yeah.” I spit out. “And then, you just happen to have the means to make some unstoppable army. Zombies don’t feel pain. They don’t fear. Perfect army material. But, they also don’t use each other. They actually work together.”
An intake of breath from The Voice. “Are you saying that they are a cooperative force? That they organize?”
Oops. Almost let a cat out of the bag. “Of course not. I’m just saying that they don’t fight against each other. They don’t stab each other in the back. They are more like animals than people.”
“Yes, well, these animals just happen to want to eat us, so we would appreciate your help.” She’s a little snippy. Just like my ex-wife.
Whew. If they think the Zombies can be organized, and that I am the one that can do it, I’m either dead or, well, I’m just dead. Zombie-dom is looking better all the time.
“Look, I’m just not keen on giving you the means to take over the world, just to save the world from being taken over. Um, well, you know what I mean.”
“Are you saying that you aren’t going to cooperate with us?”
“I am saying that I won’t be a guinea pig. I am willing to prove my loyalty, but not by letting you dissect me. If you can’t use the samples you have, you’re just S.O.L.”
“We could force you to cooperate.”
“You can force me to choose sides, and I don’t really want to side with the living dead! Not much of a future there, huh? We help each other, we can both be happy. I don’t want to live in a world of Zombies, I can tell you that.”
Well…
Silence for a moment. Then, “If we have to compromise with you, we will, but we will have your help, Mr. Stanley. You owe this to your country.”
“Right.”

THEN
The next morning, I learned that humans smell really good.
When the family came downstairs, I found myself almost salivating. Take the best food smell you can think of and imagine yourself starving, but not being able to eat. It’s that good. Or bad, depending on your point of view.
I thanked them for their hospitality, and asked for directions to Goodfellow.
As I walked, I thought some more about Zombies. Didn’t have much choice, I kept coming up on small groups. They would just look at me, ask “Food?”, then go on.
I noticed two things.
The first one is something we all should have noticed earlier. Zombies never travel in packs of less than three. Ever. If a pack gets diminished, they stop hunting for food and start hunting for other Zombies to travel with. They search mentally, sending out a kind of ‘help’ message. The closest group not eating will come to them, meet them half-way. The new, larger group will then start off looking for food.
The second thing I noticed is that they have a very distinctive smell. Animals must be able to pick it up. That’s why you don’t see many animals getting eaten. At least, not animals free to run.
I could smell them a long way off, and apparently they could smell me, too. Every time I picked up the scent, I got the “Food?” thought. Usually long before I actually saw them. Wind definitely affected the range of the smell, but I guess that’s normal.
When I got to the FSR, they let me in, but only after some serious questions about the bite.
Then, it almost went south. Inside the FSR was George. Or Jim. Whatever. He had survived and made it. Probably had told the story of how I had been bitten and run off to change.
He pulled me aside. Started threatening to turn me in as a Zombie if I didn’t tell him the cure I had found.
I had been wondering what would happen if I bit someone. Would they become a full Zombie? Or just almost, like me?
I found out.

NOW
So, I think they are going to take me apart to find out what makes me not a Zombie. Then, use that to make controllable Zombies. Or Zombie warriors. Or whatever.
Not this boy.
The Voice seems a little too eager to find out about me. That’s why I ain’t gonna tell her that I can talk to the Zombies.
“So, Mr. Stanley, you apparently don’t sleep anymore. Is that true?”
I nod my head.
“Mr. Stanley?”
“Yes, that’s true.” Good. No camera.
“Other than the appetite, the need to constantly move, and not sleeping, are there any other Zombie-li…uh…ish behaviors you’ve exhibited?”
Shaking my head, I say “No, that’s pretty much it.”
Except, I add inside to myself, that I can call for help, too.
You see, I think I’ve found a way out of here.
And, with that very thought, an alarm starts blaring.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Um,” The Voice hesitates. “It appears that a rather large force of Zombies is attacking the facility.”
Trying to keep the smile out of my voice, I ask “Are you going to be able to hold them off?”
“We don’t know. This isn’t a large building, and we don’t have many troops. And there are a lot of Zombies.”
“Well, for crying out loud, let me outta here! I can fight them better than anybody else. And, if they eat all you guys up, I’ll starve in here! Let me out! I can help!”
The Voice is quiet for a moment. “Alright. We’ll let you out. Lord knows we need every able body we can get.”
“And clothes. I ain’t fighting Zombies in the buff!”
There is no response, but the bolt throws on the door in a minute or so. The door opens and a rather attractive woman enters. When she speaks, I recognize her.
The Voice.
Handing me a duffel, she says, “Here are your clothes. I’ll be waiting outside. When you are dressed, I’ll take you to the Lieutenant. He’ll put you to use.”
She backed out and closed the door. It didn’t lock.
Ah! I hear that Jeff is leading the pack. Turned out his name wasn’t George. Or Jim. He tells me they will take the building soon.
I dress quickly, then open the door. There is a soldier standing with her.
“Uh, ma’am, could I speak to you? Private?”
“Certainly, Mr. Stanley.” She enters and closes the door.
She smells so good.
And, the meat is very rare.

FORMAT CHANGE

2009-12-16T02:43:31Z

If you are reading this, you are:

One of the friends who has been on here since it started in 07.

or

Someone I have sent here to read something.

I am changing this to my writing/reading journal. Since I am back into writing, I'll be posting some or all of my stories here. I will tell you about them, then you can read them or not, as you like.

I will also be posting thoughts and story ideas. This is so I don't have to try and remember all the crap that flows through my brain on any given day.

DISCLAIMER:
Stories here may be of any "rating". Do not be offended by anything you read. Or, if you are, well, you were warned, weren't you? I am currently writing Zombie stories, and, well, they are freaking ZOMBIE STORIES!!! You should be able to figure out some of the content in advance!

Had a thought...

2007-09-18T02:04:02Z

the other day.

God has no red shift.

Ask an astronomer.

Why is it that...

2007-03-24T03:40:39Z

the 'easy' way is the wrong way?

"You always want to do things the easy way" is usually used as an insult. I take it as a compliment.

Why would I wish to do things the hard way? Isn't it more efficient if it's easier? Isn't it faster?

Next time someone tells you that the easy way is wrong, ask him if he drives a car. Why not walk?