Life After Death

Happiness is a Warm Gun: An Interlude with Theo

2011-06-29T19:42:00.001-04:00

Happiness is a Warm Gun: An Interlude with Theo

by Scott Thurlow

Theo looked at his reflection in the house’s dirty mirror. The suit still clung acceptably to him, being only slightly ruffled. His appearance at least remained relatively presentable. Theo felt that even in times such as this, it was no reason to let oneself go. Or perhaps it was the way he had been raised. Though, he was becoming increasingly unsure those values were pertinent, but old habits die hard.

Theo went back to the kitchen and looked at weapon he had left resting on the table that the gruff stranger whose name was Ike (an odd name, but Theo gave it no further thought upon introduction) had given him before tromping upstairs with his "crew"—Dave, Ike's ugly, annoying sidekick who had slugged Theo in the face; and the quiet, brooding Jack who rounded out the trio. Theo was unsure if he should feel regret for allowing the weird little band into his new home, or draw satisfaction in the grim relief at possibly having found salvation in their cartoonish yet effective methods of survival.

“We all deserve an option...” Ike's half-sarcastic suggestion to Theo echoed in his mind.
Theo felt the option Ike meant wasn’t the one he was really looking for. But the words still rang true in a way. He was aware that he couldn’t stay where he was forever. Anyway, he’d be out of alcohol in a few days, especially if he was going to be soon “sharing” some as seemed likely, and sober sulking just would not do for Theo. Instead, he found himself staring at the gun between sips of rum. He had never had to use a firearm before, but he thought himself nothing if not an astute student. Plus, a loaded handgun would be a terrible thing to waste. Even worse than wasting booze or the suit he was currently clad in. Perhaps it was his upbringing speaking again, but in this case he suspected his instincts could be trusted.

Theo thought he heard raised voices from the little tribe shuffling around the upper floor of the house and went back out on the balcony to survey the surrounding scenery. None of the monsters seemed to be in the immediate vicinity at the moment. He thought back to the parade of roof-crossing earlier than had led to his eventual possession of the weapon he was currently contemplating. Theo was ill-equipped for such an endeavor himself; it would have to be the streets when the time came. He returned inside to pour himself another drink, and to hopefully avoid the squabbles of the three armed stooges now intruding upon his little slice of heaven. He wondered if there was anything interesting in the house’s medicine cabinet, and went to check on it, his sense of purpose renewed for the moment.

Inside, treasures abounded. Theo never had much use for medication of this kind, though not to say he hadn’t dabbled in it at certain times. He had just never found much appeal in the process. But what’s the antidote to the apocalypse? Perhaps the answer lied in the small plastic pill bottles lined up like gravestones (Theo inwardly admonished himself for that being his first image connection) in front of him. What did the people who were in need of these kinds of pills do now? What were they doing now? Just because the dead have risen against the living, doesn’t make going cold turkey any easier. In fact, Theo thought the opposite really ought to be the case. His own logic told him that there should be a fairly decent chance someone in the militia-like group that was now occupying the town would be a member of that demographic. Inspired, Theo began to take down a catalog of the items before hastily stashing them away and anyone had noticed.

Volume 6: A Walk in the Park 4

2011-06-04T19:54:00.001-04:00

THE HOST FROM THE SOUTH
A Walk in the Park IV

By J. Ian Manczur

I once had friends who spoke of immortality. Of future, today. We were the chosen. We were the generation to become gods. Hubris before the fall.

I wondered, what had become of these dreamers, these visionaries, these conspirators against God. I prayed they had been spared their wish. We challenged Him and He smote us. He granted us our greatest desire, only for it to become corrupted by our sin. Godhood… Gods indeed. Gods of a wasteland, the hell of our own making.

The fear of death? Laughable. We conquered it. No need to worry about life after death, either, or the wrongdoings that might damn us or even heaven and hell. We were never going to die. And the fruit of our labors? An eternity of strife, hunger and bloodlust. My only fear was abandonment by God. The one chance for salvation in a deity long imagined dead. God, I beg of you, save us sinners.

I reached for the Bible secured in my pack. It was soaked through with blood, but maybe, just maybe, I could find an untainted passage. The action required more energy than I had and the tome slipped out of my fingers. Foolish. Now, I had to move. Just an inch to the side, a simple shift. If only the book wasn’t so heavy…

***

“Come on girl, I need you to stay awake for me. Please, Kat. Please stay awake.” Claire hadn’t left the side of Katrina Ivanova since they had been assigned partners that morning. She wouldn’t have had it any other way. Not only was Kat funny and down-to-earth, but she was one hell of a fighter. All that Claire wanted to, but could never, be. Now, it was her turn to carry Kat and she was grateful for that blessing.

Claire picked up the Bible that Kat had been struggling with. It was ruined, but perhaps Kat still had some sentimentality attached to it. Claire noted, in her little pocket pad, to find Kat another copy at the first opportunity. Flipping it closed, she tucked it in her back pocket.

Kat was unconscious. A deep sleep she may never wake from. No amount of begging, pleading or prayer could save her now. Through all efforts to retain some semblance of dignity, tears formed in Claire’s eyes. Never before had she felt so powerless, her faith so shaken. Of anyone, Claire was sure Kat would make it. Kat, Ike and Dave… so sure in their own strength and each lost to the cruel hand of chance. The dam burst and Claire wept openly.

Their friendship had always had potential, but truly blossomed through the salad days of mid-morning. With a pastoral setting that was filled to the brim with flora, the two young girls, a fleeting description as youth had died with the world, had taken advantage of a few minutes peace to reconcile what had been stolen. Kat and Claire had joked and picked the wildflowers that had reclaimed the land in humanity’s absence and relived a childhood that was only a memory.

Claire had been there when Kat challenged John and Steve for making too much noise. She had supported Kat when she protested Hurley’s callous answer to the mysterious disappearance of the same two noisy boys.

Kat had shielded Claire when the first of the creatures broke through the ranks and Claire even saved her, for once, when the group was being overrun. And Claire had been there when Kat was finally cut down, not by the savages but by a few errant bullets. What Hurley would call friendly fire. Boys and their god damned toys.

Now, in relative safety, Claire would not abandon Kat. If she couldn’t do anything else, she would be a friendly face in Kat’s last few minutes. “I’m here for you, girl. Keep awake for me. Please. Stay awake.” She brushed aside some loose strands of hair from Kat’s face.

Kat shifted, letting out a labored groan. “Thomas. Where is Thomas?”

“I don’t know.” Claire looked around desperately. There were a lot of people, none of whom were Thomas. “I don’t know. I don’t see him.”

“Please. Can you.. find him.. for me?”

Though hesitant to leave her friend‘s side, “I will find him. I promise.” With little time and not much faith in her promise, Claire headed directly for the man who would know where Thomas was.

Claire had no problem picking Hurley out from the line of soldiers. Not only was he a foot taller than the next man, but he was flanked by his ever present lackey, Sgt. Howard. Hurley was busy directing his soldiers and giving orders to Howard… and David Shiner. Other Dave’s presence did not bode well for her search. “Lieutenant, may I have a quick word?”

He was a gaunt figure with grey eyes recessed deeply into his face and a few weeks growth of patchy beard. Lt. Hurley was not a pretty man. If anything, he could best be described as having caught the sickness yet somehow remaining human through sheer willpower alone, damn the ravages on the body. Still, through all his shadowed image, a great strength of personality existed. One that could lead men. It also helped that he had one of those voices. At loudest, cannon fire signaling war. At softest, whiskey and cigarettes. “I’m sort of busy right now, Claire.”

She drew her resolve to ask the question she already knew the answer to, “Have you seen Thomas anywhere?”

His look spoke volumes, “I’m sorry Claire. Father Thomas Sarnowski was killed during the course of the operation.”

Claire stifled back tears. There would be time to cry later. “How did it happen?”

Hurley looked over at his soldiers, as if judging whether he had time to answer her. “Most likely killed by one of the zombies.”

“Most likely?”

“No one actually saw it happen.”

Claire was bewildered. “No one actually saw? So, for all you know, he is still alive? What the hell!”

“Let‘s take a walk, shall we?” Hurley composed himself. “We barely held back the initial wave as it is and more keep coming. There is no way anyone survived outside our little bubble here. What you see around you is what is left of our group. Half of what we started with! So, yes. There may be a chance he is out there somewhere. But God himself would have had to intervene on his behalf.”

Howard adjusted his spectacles, “Well he was a preacher, sir.”

“Howard, you will keep your mouth shut from now on or I will put you on point when we leave this hellhole.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now Claire, what do you need Thomas for? Maybe I can help in some way.”

Normally, she wouldn’t have shared what she did, but Claire was a defeated woman. “It’s Kat, Katrina. She was shot by one of your soldiers.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Whatever. She wants a priest before she… before she dies.”

“Looks like I can’t help after all. I suggest you head back and provide her with as much comfort as possible. And make sure she doesn’t have any bite marks. I don’t want anymore surprises tonight.”

She ignored the remarks. “Oh, one more thing, Hurley.”

“I prefer Sir or Lieutenant, Miss Lombardo.

“Yes, sir.” She added with the most venom she could muster. “I was wondering if I could have a moment of Other Dave’s time.”

“You’d be doing me a favor. Shiner, front and center!” Other Dave waddled to them as quickly as he could move. “Claire would like to have a quick word with you. I expect you back to work immediately after she is done. Got it, soldier?”

“Yes, sir!” Other Dave saluted briskly.

“That a boy. Miss Lombardo, a pleasure.” With a tip of his cap, Hurley resumed his war.

“What’s up Claire?” Other Dave’s shit eating grin was even more pronounced than usual. Claire didn’t want to imagine how, but it seemed Other Dave had grown fatter with the end of the world.

“What the hell, Dave? Since when were you a soldier? And what about Thomas?”

“If today has taught me anything, it is the need for vigilance. Thomas may have believed that God would save us, but I now know that bullets do a heck of a job as well. I’ve been already promoted to sergeant, taking over writing operations reports for Little.”

“Steve’s dead, too? Oh, God.” So many dead today. Then again, so many over the past couple of weeks. What would tomorrow bring?

“Twice over. Killed his zombified corpse myself.”

Claire had heard enough. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” he panted running to her, “I had a point to this conversation.” He tossed her a small pamphlet. “A book of psalms that Thomas gave me. I think you will find something in Psalm 3, for her and all of us.” Other Dave scurried back to his new master.

Claire returned to her charge, thinking that Other Dave wasn’t such a bad of a guy after all, just a little bit skeevy, and how much she missed the real, better Dave. A terribly selfish thought for the circumstance. “Kat, honey, Thomas.. well you’ll be seeing Thomas real soon. But, I’m going to say a blessing in the meantime. I’m sure God will forgive whatever sins you might have done. Is that ok, Kat?”

Kat was in no shape to respond.

“Lord, how many are my foes! How many rise up against me! Many are saying of me, ‘God will not deliver him.’ But you, Lord, are a shield around me, my glory, the one who lifts my head high. I call out to the Lord, and he answers me from his holy mountain. I lie down and sleep; I wake again, because the Lord sustains me. I will not fear though tens of thousands assail me on every side. Arise, Lord! Deliver me, my God! Strike all my enemies on the jaw; break the teeth of the wicked. From the Lord comes deliverance. May your blessing be on your people.”

When she finally looked up, she realized that guests had arrived. Five soldiers had their heads bowed down in prayer, among them Hurley, Howard and Other Dave. Hurley was the first to finish his prayer and stepped forward, grasping Claire by the shoulder. “That was beautiful, Claire. Thank you.” Hollow sympathies.

Dave was the next to approach. “He’s right, Thomas would have been proud.”

“He will be proud.” Claire hastily corrected.

“Right. Speaking of Thomas, he wanted me to tell you something in case… in case of the worst.” Other Dave pulled her away, with the pretext of something that needed to be said out of earshot. Claire was hesitant to follow, she didn’t want to leave Katina alone, but if Other Dave was going to the trouble, it might be worth it. Dying surrounded by strangers and soldiers was as lonely a death as any.

When they were finally away from the others, Claire hastily started, “What does Thomas want me to know?”

Other Dave seemed uncertain, constantly glancing behind him. Claire suddenly felt like an idiot for leaving Katina behind. Something was wrong, she knew it, and her intuition was punctuated as Other Dave grabbed her shoulders, “I’m so sorry.” Claire broke his grasp and ran back only to find Hurley bent over Katina’s body, wiping a bloody knife on a rag.

“You bastard. You rat bastard. I trusted you.” She tried to hurt him, verbally and physically, ineffectual as either were. “Look at what you did! Look, damn you! See what you have done. All the dead who believed your promises: that everything would be ok. They all died for you and you do not give a damn.”

“What do you think I am made of? Stone? I am tortured for every man, woman and child who has died. A thousand times for every one of them that I sent to his death. She was dying. There was nothing any of us could do. I did the only humane thing and put her out of her misery. I’m sorry, I truly am, and if it is heartless so be it, but I cannot waste manpower on the dying when the living still need me. Now, leave me be and find something useful to do.”

Claire drew out her pocket pad and opened to a new page.

To do:
1) Survive the apocalypse.
2) Avenge Kat’s death. Preferably by fucking Hurley, and not in the way he would want.
…
3) Find Dave and Ike. They were her best bet for following through with a malicious plan.

Goals set, Claire gathered her things stealthily. The group of survivors were no longer her own. All her friends were dead or missing. Her thoughts drifted to the two young girls that had helped her with cooking and daily maintenance, but she couldn’t bring them with her. They would be as safe here as anywhere. She knew it was a justification, a lie, but her path was dangerous. It was time for something brave, something reckless. This is what Kat would have done.

Hurley did not even notice Claire’s departure. He fought back a sigh and took one last look at Katina. “Howard, add her to the list: Ivanova KIA.”

Volume 6: A Walk in the Park 3

2011-05-14T10:58:00.005-04:00

THE HOST FROM THE SOUTH

A Walk in the Park III

By J. Ian Manczur

Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. He’s black. John was having a panic attack. He had just found out his soldiering partner for the obviously ill-fated operation was black. As in African American. As in one more reason, among the innumerable others, that today was the day he was going to die. He would have considered this revelation to be the feather that broke the camel’s back, only he was well aware that any camels unfortunate enough to be burdened with his fragile psyche had long since met a violent end, their bones scattered and bleached under the unforgiving sun. An end not dissimilar to the one John expected within the hour.

Breathe. Breathe. Ok. Oh, God. He’s coming over. Oh, God. I am going to die. I am going to die. He’s coming straight for me. For the love of God and all that is holy, don’t tell me your fucking name! Oh, God, he’s going to tell me his name. He’s killing me! Oh, God! I‘m so dead.

“Hiya, I’m Steve Little. A pleasure.” Steve was delightful and outgoing with a firm handshake and a friendship-winning smile. John had never hated anyone as much as he did Steve in that moment. Yet, the knowledge of his imminent death was no excuse for a lack of manners, thus he feebly shook Steve’s hand and muttered his own introduction. Steve accepted and continued with polite, sociable conversation, “I’m surprised we haven’t met before. I thought I met all the other-”

John had stopped listening. Oh, God. Breathe. Ok. We’re already in formation. What to do? What to do? Swap partners! But who? AJ! Don’t see him? Don’t see him. Damn, he’s probably already over the wall. Malcolm? Eh, who else? Eric! He’s partnered with Chris, no breaking that up. Other Dave? Not if my life depended on it, which it does, but…Malcolm it is!

Steve was still talking when John abruptly interrupted with, “I can’t do this. Sorry, but I can’t go into the park with you.”

Steve laughed good naturedly and his smile broadened, “I know, being on the ground sucks. But, I’m sorry to tell you, you can’t stay here. We’re all going to have to go over eventually. Might as well sooner than later.”

“No, no, no. You misunderstand me. I can’t go over with you.”

Steve looked hurt, confused and dejected, “But why?”

“Because you’re black,” John realized what he had said, “I mean, not like that. I’m not racist! It’s just… you’re, you know…black.” Steve looked skeptical. “I swear I’m not racist!” A little.. too loud. “See, there are zombies. And you are…well, you’re you. Zombies plus black people equals disaster for good old John here. You have to understand.”

“Ah.” Steve nodded, clearly not understanding in the least.

“Horror movies.” Simple explanation, he’ll have to understand.

“Horror movies?” Maybe not. “Are you suggesting that because I happen to be black, I’m going to die? I’m like bad luck or something?”

“Exactly, but not like, you are bad luck. And you’re going to die. And you are going to get me killed in your death throes. It’s simple really. And not racist at all. Understand?”

“Oh, I get it: the old horror movie cliché.” Finally. “That’s the stupidest thing I have ever heard. Frankly, I’m surprised you are still alive. And, on top of that, you are racist.” Ouch.

“Little! Morris! Stop flirting, you’re up!” Hurley was standing atop the wall, waving them on. Steve and John scampered up, across the plank and over the park gate. They argued all the way. Steve hit the ground running. John followed after losing a brief battle with gravity.

They resumed bickering immediately, “I‘m not racist!”

“The hell you aren‘t. Name one movie were the black guy dies first.”

Piece of cake. “Gremlins!”

“Another one.”

“Scream 2.”

“That doesn’t count. Parody of horror films.”

“Leprechaun in the Hood?”

“But..”

“And Leprechaun in the Hood 2: Back 2 The Hood.”

“Those are horror films for the African American community.”

“And thus the black guy dies first.” Whoot, whoot! John: 7, Steve: Zilch

“Doesn’t count.”

“And don’t get me started on Tales From The Hood, Bones and Blacula.”

“Please don’t. But I reiterate, none of those count.”

This guy is too much. “What does count then?”

“First off, watch your tone. Second, has to be a mainstream. Meaning white horror films.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to prove to you that the cliché isn’t as prevalent as you think it is. Thus, you’re racist.”

“I’m not racist and don‘t have to prove that. But I’ll play your game. The Edge!”

A girl in her early twenties, armed with a shotgun and baseball bat, turned back and scolded them in an aggressive whisper, “Will you two be quiet. Are you trying to attract them?”

They paused and simultaneously yelled, “Shut up!”

Steve took the initiative, “Edge doesn’t count.”

“Nothing counts with you!”

“It’s not a horror film.”

“It’s not?”

“No, action-adventure.”

“It’s about a fucking killer bear. Counts in my book. Jaws? Cujo? Deep Blue Sea? And the innumerable others both aquatic and terrestrial?”

“Thrillers!”

“Horror’s ginger step-brother. Still related, however embarrassing.”

“Even so, the pilot dies first in the Edge.”

“Oh boy, the nameless pilot dies first. Big whoop!”

“He had a name! Though, I can’t momentarily recall it. I’m just saying, someone cared about that pilot. You can‘t just write him off and then say the black guy dies first.”

“Nobody cares about nameless characters. Like the guy who gets killed in Jurassic Park first.”

“The lawyer?”

“Bam, nope. Point proven. The worker in the beginning gets slashed by a raptor. And quote, ‘Shoot her! Shooot her!’”

“I‘ll agree to that if, and only if, you agree to black guys not dying first. ”

Never. “Never!”

“Name another then.”

Friday the 13th’s? No. Are there even any black people in them? Um, Return of the Living Dead? YES! No, maybe, he might die first, not sure. Nightmare on Elm Street! No. Damn you, Laurence Fishburne!

“Time’s up, you can’t think of one more.”

“Just because I can‘t think of one, doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

“Alright, I’m going to approach this from a different angle.”

Thank God. “I see I’m starting to win you over.”

“Not a chance, but do you know Sheila and Neil?”

“Before my time.”

“Chuck and Rabbit?”

“Ditto.”

“You remember the kids?”

“Yes, and I see where you are going with this. Do you remember their names?”

“I’m ashamed to say I don’t.”

“Exactly, they were kids and nobody knows their names. Who gives a damn? Next.”

“Well, I know you know Ike, Dave and Jack.”

“Did you see the bodies?”

“Do you answer every question with a question?”

“When necessary. Haven’t seen the bodies, not dead yet.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you reminded them of Ike and Dave.”

“Ahem, remind them. Well, they are good friends. I must have taken some of their characteristics, but.. Thank you.”

“All three of you are assholes.”

“An asshole is a charismatic person you happen to disagree with.” Zing.

“We’re getting sidetracked. My point is-”

“Your point is wrong.”

“My point is! Your theory says I’m going to die first.”

“Not my theory, life’s fact.”

“Well, what about Andy Muir!”

“What about him?”

“He died yesterday!”

“Yes, and?”

“He died before me!”

“Well, I really never met Andy.”

“But I did.”

“Look, I’m sure you had a lot of friends before this, but that’s not how it works.” Skepticism again. “All the black guys who died first probably knew many people who died before them. That doesn’t alleviate their dying first. We just met, you are new to the story.”

“You’re delusional.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Even if I never met you, we are still talking about the same group of survivors.”

“I get where you are coming from, but again, that’s not how it works. It would be like saying, oh, I’m moving on to Elm Street because Freddy killed a black kid already. He’s filled his racial quota. Flawed logic. Look, pal, I’m sure you were an important part of someone else’s story, but here, now, you’re zombie fodder.” Wait. Where did everyone go? “Thus spoken, I‘ve damned us all.”

“Oh, fuck.”

“My thoughts exactly. I told you this would happen.” You’re not going to die. Fuck, we are going to die. We’re lost in zombie-land. I’m lost in the park with a black guy. Oh God, fuck my life. I’m going to die.

“How long has it been and why didn’t anyone warn us?”

“I don’t know, I was busy schooling you.”

“Keep quiet! Fuck, I don’t hear anyone. Backtrack?”

“What, are you fucking crazy? That will kill us!”

“Forward then?”

“Hopeless. No matter what we do, we’re going to die.”

“So, to you, no matter what, we’re fucked.”

“Well, you’re fucked. I have a one percent chance.”

“Shush up, that’s gunfire in the distance.”

“Lovely, it’s like that old Far Side comic. Guy’s in hell. One door says damned if you do, the other says damned if you don’t.”

“I always liked the elephant in a trench coat waiting for a guy. Says elephants never forget.. or forgive. So, we should check out the gun fire?” John wielded his rifle. “I’ll take that for a yes.” John nodded. Damned if we do, damned if we don’t. Might as well do. If I’m to die, I’ll die on my terms.

They started off through the trees to the source of the chaos, walking in silent apprehension as the shots grew louder, if still distant echoes. Steve finally broke the quiet. “I was thinking about horror movies.”

“Yea?”

“We actually have a good track record in zombie films.”

“No you don’t.”

“Yes, we do. Night of the Living Dead? 28 Days Later? That was a woman, true. Both Dawns of the Dead?”

“Dies, shot by white guys. Uncertain future. Uncertain future, for the original. Shot by white woman. Uncertain future.”

“Uncertain future?”

“Yup, if they do survive, zombie movies tend to have bleak endings for their characters. The initial safe house ends up destroyed and usually the endings leave the audience uncertain about the character’s chances of survival in the future. Only 28 Days Later had a positive ending, and that was for a black woman. Sorry, pal.”

“So, you are saying I’m either going to survive long enough to be eaten last or get shot by a white person?”

“No, I’m just saying, you should be lucky to be held in such prestige. My people-”

“Your people? White?”

“No, no, no, no. Well, yes, in a way…(not racist) genre-savvy white nerds. We have nowhere near the survivability. Plus, you might…and I say this reluctantly, but you might have a better chance of surviving than me. Backlash of your trope has led to black people not quite surviving, but a better chance. No one cares about nerds.”

“Then who will survive?”

“Claire.”

“Yea, that’s pretty obvious. Pretty, motherly, young-”

“White.”

“White.” They laughed. “You’re not so bad for a racist fucking cracker.”

“Well, I did fuck a racist once. And you’re not so bad for being an ill-omened, black, walking death trap.”

“Haven’t died yet.”

“Yet being the operative word.” John was chilled by Steve’s lack of a retort and more so by the unusual mask of horror, contemplation and grim determination set on his face. Steve’s gun was drawn and pointed directly at John. Oh, fuck, that last statement was one too much. The final straw. He‘s going to kill me. “Look, pal, you are not going to die-”

“Duck, you fool!” The gunshot rang, momentarily deafening John as a body crashed into him from behind. He flailed, throwing the now twice dead off him.

“What? Huh?” John paused for a second. “What?”

“Zombie.” Steve kicked the thing in the head. “To tell the truth, I considered letting it eat you. Just to prove the point that you could die first. But, it was only for a second. So, what do you say, we’ll get out of here together?”

Fucking A. “Well, thank you for deciding on that course of action. Yes, let’s move. Quickly. By the way, I owe you one, truly.” Hope that wins some points.

“You may have the opportunity to pay me back sooner than later.” Damn.

The two adventurers double-timed to the sound of gunfire. Breaking through the thicket, they realized what a mistake they made in trying to find the others. Between them and the next thicket stood a baker’s dozen of undead. The zombies were unaware of their presence, but headed in the same direction.

Guess he was right about the debt. Damned if we do, damned if we don‘t. “Steve, it’s been nice knowing you.”

“I thought you’d agreed that we are getting out of this alive. No more negativity.”

“You misunderstand. I’m about to do something very stupid.” Before Steve could ask what the hell he was talking about, John bonzaied out into the open. “All you fucking zombos! Ring a ding ding, baby, dinner‘s up!” He laid out a few quick shots, made sure they took notice, and booked it. Hell, this may actually work. Cowards always die. Maybe this heroic sacrifice will not actually be very sacrificial. To death, then, as pure and noble as I can fake.

Steve watched dumbfounded as John disappeared over the horizon, his one last piece of advice still reverberating through Steve’s head. Watch out for trigger happy white people. Steve wasn’t about to let John’s sacrifice go to naught. He crept from one hiding spot to the next, making a mad dash across the open field and back into tree cover. About a zombie-free mile onward, Steve saw the best sight he had seen all day: a perimeter of gunmen barricaded behind a gated basketball court. Steve set out with a friendly wave and immediately heard a loud blast. He fell to the ground as his knees gave out, but, fortunately, the pain was fading quickly.

***

“Got one!” Other Dave let out a celebratory cheer.

“Settle down soldier,” Hurley gave him a quick pat on the back, “but that was a hell of a shot.”

“Thank you sir. Pity, I think that was Steve Little. I’m glad I could have put him out of his misery, though.”

“That was a good thing you did, Shiner, hell of a thing to be zombified. But, don’t be too sentimental, it’ll get you killed. Sergeant Howard, Little was KIA. Add him to the list.”

Volume 6: A Walk in the Park 2

2011-03-16T16:15:00.002-04:00

The Host from the South

A Walk in the Park II

By J. Ian Manczur

Albert Joseph woke with a rather nasty kink in the neck. Nix that-- his whole body was sore. The result of a night spent draped over a coffee table. He groaned and swore and swore some more. He cussed with every word he could remember and a few he had forgotten until this passion took him. He cussed with modern slang. He cussed with classics. He cussed archaically. He cussed for generations to come.

He promised, too. A promise to quit drinking. A promise to avoid even a glance at alcohol. A promise to never again wake up on, in, or under any coffee tables, ottomans, hope chests, bathtubs, stairwells, or any variety of the equally uncomfortable sleeping arrangements he regularly decided upon in his many drunken stupors. He promised these on his life, his honor, his mother’s grave, to heaven above, hell below, and any other power that had ever claimed godhood. Finally, he finished as he always did: with a promise that this time, he meant it.

*********************

Outside, John, one of the night watchmen, waited anxiously for the final fifteen minutes of his shift to be over. He looked forward to some sleep, even more so than usual, for later that day his group would be crossing Beuller Park. John wanted to be as pleasantly refreshed as possible before marching to his death.

Thunder clapped loudly and the skies opened for another deluge, the fifth time since his shift began. John hoped it would stick. Heavy rains weren’t a part of the plan. Heavy rains meant reconsideration, delay, maybe even a stay of execution. Hurley would be positively livid if that happened.

John shivered under the barely-protective awning and wrapped his blanket more tightly around himself. Be it rain, sleet, snow, or hail, the night watch must bear through! Ever vigilant: that should have been their motto, or creed. He made a mental note to bring it up at the next meeting. Lightning momentarily illuminated the street and John’s heart sank at the sight. Ever damned was more like the truth. How could they hope to survive against such impossible odds? Against a countless legion? Again an enemy that, intended or not, had successfully laid siege and starved them out? Now they had to travel on the ground again. The park would be death of him and every man, woman, and child who entered it.

Perhaps not, though. Perhaps the rains would dissuade the undead. Or, even better, promote rotting or mold or —the storm suddenly lightened, leaving behind only a faint drizzle— or the rains would clear and he would die.

John glanced at his watch-- six in morning. His shift was over. On cue, AJ rushed through the sliding glass door and vomited over the side of the balcony. Retching—the sweet sound of routine. Of normalcy.

“Yo, Age.” No acknowledgement. “Good morning to you, too.”

With his head still hung over the railing, AJ flipped him the bird.

“Charming. I’m not liking the look of this weather. Think Hurley’ll cancel?”

“Not likely.” AJ wiped his mouth. “Got a smoke?”

John patted empty pockets. “Fresh out. So you don’t think--”

“Hold that thought,” AJ spun and started for indoors. “I’ll be right back.”

John winced as AJ broke the old horror rule. Survival had become his paramount interest and, as everything he had ever been taught no longer applied, he became a slave to his own unhealthy superstitions, fueled by popular culture, old wives’ tales, and paranoia.

*********************

AJ had no such imaginings. His focus was on keeping as close to the former quality of his life as possible. It was with that intention that he crept gingerly between the heaps of sleeping bodies spread out over every inch of the apartment. His ultimate goal was to reach Malcom. More specifically, Malcom’s pack, and even more specifically, Malcom’s cigarettes. It was a daunting task for any soul.

Malcom was an obscenely tall, bespectacled individual with more than a few eccentricities. The quirk most prevalent in AJ’s mind currently was of Malcom’s tendency to sleep sitting straight up in a chair, pack tucked under his feet and ever-present handgun resting in his lap. A warning to thieves. AJ briefly hesitated, heeding the warning only to just as quickly ignore it. However swift to the trigger Malcom may have usually been, his snoring was testament to his current state of sedation. Still, this was a time-sensitive operation. The longer AJ took to find the cigarettes, the more likely Malcom was to wake and do something irrevocably irrational.

AJ reached his hands under the chair, searching for the dark green, medium sized camping backpack. Aside from the main compartment, there were eight additional pouches of various shape and size. Plenty of potential storage spots. The question of which to try first came down to: What sort of smoker was Malcom? Regular, certainly, but rarely on the go. He’d probably keep the side pockets open for more vital items. The cigarettes would be accessible, but not a priority, and somewhere they wouldn’t be crushed…top front pouch.

AJ gripped the flashlight between his teeth and slowly as he thought he could manage lowered the zipper. Damn. Medical supplies. He noticed the snoring had stopped seconds before he felt cold steel pressing against his forehead.

“Chill, Malcom. It’s AJ.”

The hammer drew back.

“Cigarettes. Poker. You owe.”

The gun lifted and a murmur escaped from Malcom’s lips, “Bottom left.”

AJ snatched up a count of six and whispered back, “Thanks, buddy.”

“Fuck off.” Malcom then shifted his weight and fell back asleep. What a crazy bastard.

Next on the morning agenda was to find a light, so AJ headed for the kitchen. Claire was already awake and preparing breakfast, attended by her two inseparable young helpers. Their backs were turned to him as they focused on working. He slipped in quietly.

The kitchen required expert navigation. The linoleum was sticky and peeling. Pots and pans were scattered about. Propane fires were alight. Foodstuffs were stacked haphazardly, and other supplies and garbage littered the floor. John would have had a panic attack.

AJ went straight for the food stock, swiftly and silently obtaining two cans of Paradise Falls Peaches, in heavy syrup. He deposited them in the deep pockets of his coat. Styrofoam cups of coffee lined the formica counter, waiting to be served with the meal. AJ took a cup, sipped it, and placed it back exactly as it had been. The coffee itself was terrible. Watery, probably instant, and now, somebody else’s problem. He lowered a cigarette to one of the fires tasked with boiling water and took two puffs.

List complete, AJ began his retreat. He was proud of his accomplishments, especially that of leaving the girls none the wiser. He carefully opened the door. Almost home free…Almost.

“Albert Joseph!”

AJ whirled, hiding the still-burning cigarette behind his back. “Morning, my love.”

“Don’t you ‘my love’ me! What have I told you about smoking in my kitchen?”

Claire was just out of her teens, but already she was well established as the matron of their clan. She had recognized her own influence early on and promptly dismissed it as a natural product of her faith and unbending loyalty to Thomas, who had become both her religious advisor and surrogate father figure. AJ though, felt that the opposite was true; whatever power Thomas held was actually a result of Claire’s deference to him.

“I don’t--” AJ started his excuse before he was abruptly interrupted by Claire snatching away his cigarette.

She arched her eyebrow. “You were saying?”

He changed the subject. “Hi, girls.”

The older, probably ten or eleven, paused from her whisking. “Hello, Mr. Perry.”

The younger, not much more than a babe, clung to Claire’s dress, hiding her face in its folds.

“Alright, I’ll leave you to your thing, then,” AJ gave a quick wave and turned to go.

“Not so fast, mister.”

“Now, Claire, time is of the essence. I’ve got work to be getting to.”

“John can wait. Empty your pockets.”

“But…”

“Now!” Claire rose to her full height of four feet, eleven inches and stomped her foot. End of discussion. AJ removed the two cans of peaches and placed them on the counter.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” She studied both the purloined peaches and his eyes, then made her decision. “You can have one.”

“But the other was for John,” he lied.

“How thoughtful! Tell him, if he wants some, he can come here himself. Otherwise you two are going to have to share. And by the way, take the coffee. Honestly, putting it back? Where are your manners? Now, get going before John has another panic attack. Girls?”

“Bye, Mr. Perry!” both chimed in unison.

AJ quickly departed the scene before Claire could remember anything else that she could berate him about.

*********************

The apartment was a little less crowded by then, as the early risers had risen early. AJ was not harassed as he crossed the rooms to properly start his shift outside. John was still in the same spot as before, lost in thought and melancholy. He let out a heavy sigh as AJ approached, and muttered, “It’s an ill omen.”

With John, life was filled with ill omens. AJ decided to humor him for the moment.

“What is?” he asked, offering John the coffee, and, upon rejection, tossing it off the balcony.

“A crow.” John let out another sigh for emphasis.

AJ could not have cared less, so instead he asked John for a light. The inquiry immediately precipitated a hostile negotiation. John demanded payment on a total of seventeen cigarettes owed through poker and loans. AJ, with skills honed by years and practice, strongly argued his frivolous points.

They reached a settlement, agreeing to an even split of what AJ had just acquired. Two for himself, two for John, and a further two for himself that John didn’t need to know about. They were both satisfied. AJ, bitter at having to part with any at all, was thankful that at least he avoided having to hear more about the crow.

Or so he thought.

“You didn’t even react to my mention of a crow.”

AJ exhaled his smoke. “It’s just a bird.”

“Just a bird?” John looked incredulously at him. “Just a bird, he says. Crows have long been symbols of death, prophets of evil, bearers of unwelcome tidings, portents of doom! Just a bird!”

“John, I’m thirty-two. I’ve seen probably thousands of crows in my time. The devil willing, I’ll see thousands more. Not one has ever prophesied evil, and most certainly none have ever portended doom.”

John sat back against the wall. “The world did end.”

He had a point.

“Alright, what happened with ol’ Nevermore?”

“That was a raven, not a crow, but it doesn’t matter right now. As soon as you left, a crow landed on the railing. Right in front of me. A big, fat, nasty one. It wouldn’t stop staring at me. I couldn’t look at it. And then I did. I gazed right in its eyes and I saw my death.”

“How did you die?” AJ had to admit that he was intrigued.

“Well, I didn’t literally see my death. It was more like…a knowledge of my destiny.”

“Oh.” Asshole. “Where’d the little soothsayer go then?”

“Flew off as soon as you came out.”

“At least there’s some good news, I’m not cursed. Sorry, buddy.” AJ patted John on the back. “Cremation, or burial?”

“How can you joke like that! We’ll be walking into hell in a few hours and a fucking crow lands right there-- Right there! And you have the gall to joke about it? Fuck you!”

“Relax. And watch your mouth. Listen to me, nothing is going to go wrong. The park’s gated. We’ll be in, they’ll be out.” AJ smiled at his own wit. “It’ll be a walk in the park.”

John didn’t seem to enjoy the play of phrase. In fact, it seemed to take him as far from mirth as AJ had ever seen. His eyes smoldered with rage and his brow furrowed with dread, making his overall countenance one of tragic somberness coupled with a grim acceptance of his perceived fell fate. John threw his cigarette to the ground and left to go to bed. AJ let him by without comment. It was better to let John’s tantrums run their own course.

John paused just before the door, “Language evolves, you know.” Always a smug bastard.

“What of it?”

“I guarantee, after today, no one will ever speak lightly of parks again.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it.

“Only time will tell.”

John disappeared inside, with nothing more to say. He had already accepted death.

Back from the Dead

2011-03-16T09:17:00.002-04:00

After an extended break, we are proud to announce that new stories will be forthcoming, as well as a compilation of everything so far which will be collected into a single compendium, to be released in the not-too-distant future. Stay vigilant, for the dead never rest.

LAD on Brief Hiatus

2010-12-04T09:58:00.005-05:00

As you may have noticed, there has been a sizable gab between stories as of late. Some personal issues have recently arisen which have been slowing down production. At this point, we need to take a (hopefully) brief hiatus in order to re-engineer this project a bit. Sorry for the inconvenience and I hope you'll all keep reading when we come back! Watch Facebook for updates.

Volume 6: A Walk in the Park 1

2010-11-29T16:39:00.001-05:00

THE HOST FROM THE SOUTH

A Walk in the Park I

by J. Ian Manczur

My dearest Felecia,

I thought I had the words to write this. They are failing me. So, I may as well fall on blunt truth. When you awake, I will be gone. You cannot come with me.

It must feel so tragic and so cruel. An unfair gesture in an unfair world. I wish I could explain to you in full, but even now as I write, I am being hurried. I guess time was always against us, perhaps we started out of time. Far from hyperbole though, I cannot muster the truth that you deserve.

There are certain expectations of me as a leader. Although, in many ways, the old rules no longer apply, I need to hold myself to their standards. I have built myself on a foundation of the old world and, with that, I have damned us.

Promising you anything was a mistake. It would cause a rift with my people that would never resolve. I do not want forgiveness, you have every right to hate me. I don’t even expect you to understand why. These are the sacrifices we must make. Perhaps, when the world grows a little saner, we will meet again. Until that time, stay safe, Felecia. I am truly sorry.

With all my heart,
Thomas Sarnowski

Volume 6: Dead Dogwood Avenue Blues: Nathaniel's Journeys Part 2

2010-11-11T13:21:00.001-05:00

Dead Dogwood Avenue Blues: Nathaniel’s Journeys Part 2
by Scott Thurlow

Nathaniel was entering another abandoned suburb. He could tell by the silence as he approached it. It was a natural type, just quiet enough. No trouble should be around to impede his usual search and scavenge methods. He went about to the normal spots, where people most often left goods unused in their homes, or fled without taking them. Nathaniel found a few remaining intact and usable items (batteries and duct tape being some of the more prized of such) which he packed neatly away in his bag before continuing his ransack of the dead town.

As he went on to the next house, he almost tripped over something. Lying by the side of a shallow ditch was a dead dog. Its eyes had been picked out by carrion-feeders of one kind or the other. Its tongue lolled out from the side of its mouth. Blood or bile matted its tattered greasy black fur, slicking it down in ratty clumps. Nathaniel glanced up at the street sign on the corner without really knowing why. It proclaimed the street he was on: Dogwood Avenue. Nathaniel didn’t see many dogwood trees around the neighborhood, but that sign, named such, and the dog itself, was bringing another memory rushing back to him.

It was the time Nathaniel found himself being chased by a wild pack of formerly family dogs. There were four of them. In the wake of the structural breakdown caused by the human infection, household pets were rediscovering their ancient instincts. Foremost, that they didn’t really need humans to keep them fed after all. At least, not with dog food. Friendly Fido furiously and fearsomely went ferociously feral. Nathaniel stumbled into this new reality as he was searching for useable utilities, performing the same task he currently was. It seemed things in life were constantly trying to eat Nathaniel. Then, as now, he often wondered if it would ever end.

The town Nathaniel found himself in at the time was a nondescript, generic, mediocre America type of place. He remembered then how closely it resembled his hometown much in a way. Nathaniel had never really noticed how alike all of them were, until he had to go from each to the next. “Americana”--approximations of the cherished idea of The American Dream. All packaged and produced wholesale across the country. (Even the dogs were mostly indistinguishable from each other.) Then abandoned en masse when the dream roller-coasted away into a nightmare, one also shared by the entire world.

Nathaniel had been salvaging what he could from the wreckage of that crushed, destroyed dream, to continue living to mourn its demise. He remembered sifting through scraps of anything useful left by those swallowed up by its death-rattle, when had just enough time to look up at the noise (a noise which didn’t sound like the infected, but was nevertheless alarming) and see the surprisingly speedy pace by which the pack was advancing on him. It was all strangely familiar to him at the time. Déjà vu of impending doom, but this time via rabid canines.

He had left his car too far away to easily retreat to, so he ran in the other direction, back across the lawn and around to the other side of the nearest house. In its backyard was an above-ground pool and patio set. As generically manufactured as the rest of the town itself. Nathaniel ran towards it without a second thought. He had to hastily avoid tripping over a faded white plastic lawn chair that was in his path. The lead dog followed at his heels as his momentum brought him to the edge of the pool, then up, over, and into it. Nathaniel flopped into the water with a splash as the dog made its own remarkably timed leap and followed him in.

There was a half-deflated polka-dotted plastic seahorse in the pool that Nathaniel tried pathetically using to fight the hound at first. When it bit through the float toy in half, ripping it from Nathaniel’s grip, he found himself grappling barehanded with the beast. He managed to quickly wrap his hands around its neck and halt it before its jaws could close in on him. A flash vision of Anna flew in front of his eyes, before his attention was snapped back to the fierce animal.

With no other options in sight, and feeling the instinct rise up in him, Nathaniel plunged the dog’s head under as forcefully as he could manage, submerging it under the grimy water. He wasn’t sure exactly how long, but it didn’t seem like much more than a minute or two before the dog ceased its rage and bobbed lifelessly beside him, like the sadly shredded seahorse, in the water. The other three still surrounded the pool yipping and snarling incessantly. Nathaniel had no time to cry over a dead dog. He looked around and spotted an elaborate children’s playset in the next backyard, beyond the short picket fence that separated the two homes. With the now depleted pack watching and hungrily tracking his every move, Nathaniel balanced up on the edge of the pool and readied himself to jump. His clothes dripped scummy water and he shook himself off as best he could before having to make his next move.

He was able to just clear the fence as the dogs came howling behind him. Nathaniel headed towards the red slide of the playset. He didn’t see at first the number of other dead and half-eaten smaller animals scattered in this yard. Squirrels, rabbits, what looked like a calico cat, all reduced to bloody leftovers and gnawed bones. Nathaniel skirted around them to the playset and ran to the slide, shimmying upwards while grabbing its edges for balance. When Nathaniel made it to the top, the dogs jumped and slid down it in vain a couple of tries (luckily his damp clothes had slicked the slide, making the dogs’ task more difficult) before settling on pacing and snapping impatiently around the perimeter of the playset itself. He looked then to the screen door at the back of the house he was at. It stood ever so slightly ajar. He couldn’t make out much more of the view inside. Nathaniel felt it was his best hope though, far better than being trapped outside on top of the playset. He gauged the quickest way off the slide and through the door and into what would hopefully be a safer place.

Nathaniel wasn’t quite fast enough to slam the door shut completely behind him. A single member of the pack had made it through inside with him. Nathaniel dove to the side of the first piece of furniture he saw, a bland cream colored couch. The dog wasn’t prepared for this and carried a bit past the couch, skidded across the tile floor as it tried to halt itself, before finally bouncing off a kitchen cabinet. It let out a wounded yelp. Nathaniel decided to act while the mutt was still stunned. He ran towards what he figured was the hallway leading to the front door of the house. The dog recovered itself and rapidly resumed its course, but Nathaniel had reached the exit ahead of it with seconds to spare. Shutting the lock into place behind him, he slammed the door and found himself back outside, on the front steps of the home.

The remaining two dogs had apparently plotted his course and were not interested in giving up the chase any time soon. They were waiting for him just outside. Nathaniel decided the house trick had worked once and still seemed the safest option. He ran in a beeline to the backyard of the neighboring house to see if it or any others had also been left open.

It took him a few more houses before he spied another open back door. Nathaniel zig-zagged this time across the yard, hoping to confuse the dogs, or at least tire them out, as he himself was expending much more energy than he was originally expecting to on this excursion. For this attempt, he tried to purposefully lead the dog through the door with him, hoping to be better prepared for his next action. What he was not prepared for was the sight inside.

Nathaniel had indeed managed to successfully trap himself in with yet another dog. Inside this second house however was a circus of another kind. If when it rains, it pours, then today it seemed to be a hurricane of canines and felines. Dozens of cats wandered the house, or lounged on pieces of furniture. Some mewed but most milled about or looked lazily up from their resting perches. That is, before they got wind of the hungry hound that had entered their domain. The interior erupted into chaos, the cats scattered in all directions as the dog tried to decide which one it most wanted to chase, abandoning Nathaniel as intensely as it had started hunting him. Nathaniel locked this dog alone in the house with the army of cats. It might have been a fair fight. Either way, he was left with just one canine assailant on his trail now.

With the faint sounds of the animal orgy he had just created and left emanating from the house, Nathan saw that the last dog awaited him patiently in the street. It stalked back and forth, no longer rushing blindly at him, having had time to recover itself. Now, it was intensely focused on Nathaniel, despite its successive loss of pack mates. Perhaps it had decided to see this battle to the bitter end out of a sense of revenge, so bent did the animal seem to be on finishing the pursuit. It glared and growled menacingly at him from a short distance away. Nathaniel knew it would soon spring and frantically surveyed his surroundings for an escape.

A few yards away, he could make out a shed of some kind. It appeared quite sturdy. Another staple of middle class home owning. The metal door swung open and shut a few times, banging in the breeze, then settled. He headed towards it. The dog sensed his intentions and was on his trail in seconds.

In a turn of maneuvers that worked out again in his favor, Nathaniel reached the door and grabbed its edge, slamming it shut behind him in one smooth series of motions. He heard it click into place. He was safe, for the moment. Protected by what appeared to be a well-stocked gardening enthusiast’s or construction worker’s supply shed. Shovels, rakes, and a variety of other implements of all shapes and sizes hung adorning its walls and shelves. Two chainsaws, one larger and the other smaller, leaned side by side in a corner. A number of two-by-fours and a table saw lay across a wooden workbench. Outside the shed, the last dog was wildly jumping and pounding against the door, barking nonstop and producing a raucous riot of noise.

Nathaniel looked around at the items contained in the shed and thought for a minute. He then selected a medium sized hammer and a small pair of recently sharpened hedge shears. He crept to the door, slowly unlocked it and kicked it open with more force than he thought he had in him. There was nothing there. A split second later, the last feral canine pounced on him, barreling in unseen from the side. Nathaniel dropped the hammer as he was knocked off balance by the force of the dog crashing into him. He fell and rolled, tumbling across the ground with it, attempting to grapple it in the same way as the one in the pool; but finding the circumstances and field of battle much more to his disadvantage this time.

The tangle of Nathaniel and dog came undone a few feet away from the shed. Nathaniel realized in an instant that he still gripped the shears in his other hand. He had just enough time to glance up as the dog came snapping back at him. He lashed out and slashed at its snout. As a splatter of its blood hit his face, Nathaniel saw that his wild swipe had caught the thing low across the throat with the shears, and mercifully ended its life. Nathaniel flopped back as the dog’s dead weight fell on top of him. He coughed, then rolled aside and pushed the carcass off.

Nathaniel sat up. He was panting like a dog himself with exertion, and finally starting to feel the chill seep into him from his wet clothes. But all seemed quiet again. He glanced about. Nothing new appeared to be menacing him just then. Nathaniel got up to check himself. He had had suffered some cuts and bruises in the struggles, but was otherwise unhurt. His travel pack was sealed and no supplies seemed to be ruined. He had survived the bizarre battle.

Nathaniel looked over again to the dog whose throat he was forced to slice open moments ago. He leaned over to inspect its collar and attached tag. At first he thought it read: Rex but upon closer examination, he could make out it was actually: Max.

“Sorry Max, old boy, but it was going to be either you or me,” Nathaniel quietly mumbled as an apology to the slain canine lying beside him. He realized he was actually (albeit a bit guiltily) relieved that everything had turned out the way it did, versus some of the many alternatives.

Nathaniel wondered at the time if anyone else had ever had to dispose of attacking animals in any such manners. He supposed it was possible, but as far as he knew, he was probably the only person in the world who could make the claim. It wasn’t exactly the most comforting feeling in the world, but it seemed like something to Nathaniel. He would see many more things beyond duels with wild dogs, and ponder the same type of question many times. But for that day, he had escaped the animals and had to concern himself with the next unforeseen peril. He gathered himself up and prepared to finally exit the dead town, which was now populated with four more canine carcasses.

Before he left, Nathaniel reached back over to the one lying by the shed and carefully removed its collar. “Sorry again, Max,” he said as he patted its unmoving body. He put the tag in his pocket, perhaps for luck, or so he told himself then. He decided that he would take the shears with him as well. He stashed them in his pack and headed back.

As he trudged cautiously to his car, after checking all the way for hidden attackers of any species, Nathaniel found himself wondering also how many other freshly formed wild packs of previously tame dogs had come running through how many other neighborhood yards. He also wondered whom they had belonged to, and what their former owners might make of the fate their pets had met at his unwitting hands. Most likely they would’ve behaved in the same manner as the dogs themselves, or worse.

Nathaniel looked down again at the dead dog presently lying in the ditch of Dogwood Avenue and reached in his left pocket. He pulled out Max’s tag, though the name had become barely legible on the cheap metal’s dull surface. It served as a reminder that unexpected danger was always lurking. It was not something he reflected particularly fondly upon, but it still taught him valuable lessons about the new state of the world. He dug out his watch from his pack and glanced at it. He did not have any more time to think further about dogs or dogwood, or the lack thereof either. There were no more dogs, dead or otherwise, to be seen this day, in this faceless town, on the wayside of Dogwood Avenue. Nathaniel thew the tag down alongside the dog’s rotted body. Then, he departed the town, like he had from so many others, all so much alike. He knew fully well that, in some way, every dog has its day.

Volume 6: On the Trail of the Road Agents: The Gravestone of J. Allen Ducock, Sr., Beloved, (Catfucker)

2010-11-08T17:08:00.004-05:00

On the Trail of the Road Agents: The Gravestone Of J. Allen Ducock, Sr., Beloved, (Catfucker)
by Scott Thurlow

Dead and mutilated bodies were scattered across the field in front of them. Humans, chickens, pigs, a cow or two in their best judgement. It looked like they had all been there a while. Most were dried up; appearing baked. Shriveled in the long days of the sun and other elements they’d been exposed to.

"Think that's a goat there, too," said Agent Toporidel.

"Hrm. Yes. If you say so,” responded Captain Planck.

Ahead, they came to farmhouse. It was a single bedroom that was best ascribed the dimensions of a shanty placed at what they determined to be the northern most edge of the property. It overlooked from the tiny kitchen window a single dirt road that stretched away into the wilderness beyond. A rising hill was visible to the west.

“This isn’t much of a defensible position. Not sure what else is close.”

“Hrm. We could pile the bodies into a wall. It might take a while though.”

It took a while, but not as long as being dead would be. It was an acceptable ratio of work to survivability. When it was done, the shanty-farmhouse was surrounded on three of its sides by a roughly two-body/body- part layer, reinforced with decaying wooden planks. The planks were from a pile they had found in the field and mistook for some of the carcasses at first.

For the door, they had removed its handle, since they decided it wasn’t going to be much use anyway, and no reason to give targets an open invitation. In its place they set two of the most intact planks across with their travel hammer and can of nails.

One knocked on it, and nodded approvingly at the resounding tone. “Seems good enough. Time to eat?” asked Agent Toporidel.

“Hrm. Yes,” replied Captain Planck.

They shared a cold meal of beans and bread.

“What now?”

“Hrm. Now we rest, and watch. As usual.”

“Alright. First guard?”

“Hrm. Yes. After you.”

Nothing came in the night but they had both already decided to leave the farm by afternoon of the next day.

They left the bodies and wood in place as they packed up again, then set fire to it. Some bodies seemed to burn better than others, but most burned more or less at the same rate, after a while. They enjoyed watching the conflagration before finally departing. They followed the dirt road out away from the main plot of land and did not look back.

As they came trudging up the hill they had spied earlier, they stumbled upon a sign lying next to a lump in the withered ground.

Agent Toporidel approached and read aloud the inscription that was on it.

It was thus:

Here lies:
J. Allen Ducock, Sr.
Beloved resident
Who, sadly, succumbed to a disease of insanity in nature,
And was subsequently devoured by his (beloved to all) cats.
And his body, being in a state of recoverability somewhere between therein by:
eaten and half-eaten
by his who are remembered here by the names of: Bella, Samus, Grue, Waldo, Zelda Fitzgerald, Princess Muffykins (mother of) Mewtwocute, King Richard III, Jezebel, and also of course, Lord Whiskers, who was the sire of…
(About a dozen more cat names followed)
Who, upon found having devoured dearly departed Mr. Ducock, Sr.,
were duly and faithfully buried next to their loving owner, in life.

The date underneath was rendered illegible.

They both agreed the obvious humor of the last name lacked the need for an accompanying remark.

Captain Planck said, “Hrm. Shouldn’t it say ‘unrecovered.’ As in, it wasn’t recovered. The other kind of implies…”

Agent Toporidel, retorted, “That is what it implies. Also, uncertain that’s a word. Perhaps they just refused to let a gravestone lie.”

“What, unrecovered? I don’t think this really qualifies as much of a gravestone. Though if it did, you should most definitely, without a doubt, let it lie.”

“Yes, unrecovered. Well, what would you like to call it? What, is it lying about?”

“It’s almost more of a cairn. Nothing.”

“Not really. No rocks involved.”

“Hrm.”

After a few short seconds, Agent Toporidel pronounced, “Such an insipid, unnecessary grave.”

“Hrm. Yes,” agreed Planck. “Let us spit on it.”

They spit upon the grave.

Toporidel continued, “Why so many cats? And why name and title them all, on the grave. Or whatever it may be. Jesus Christ, that is a biblical lineage of cats. Who would have that many cats, and why? Further, why name them all such inane names? To hell with this dead moron and his cats. Rest in peace, you old codger…catfucker.”

“Hrm. Well-said,” Planck offered to his compatriot’s rant.

The setting sun was now going down over the hill where they discovered the sign at the spot that marked the final resting place of one J. Allen. Ducock, Sr. whom, so clearly, was quite the crazed fornicator of cats. And also of all of his great magnitude of litters and royal guard of said cats. The matching body, they agreed, was, if not unrecovered or unrecoverable, (and it could be both, they decided) then definitely not in any kind of state that would warrant itself worthy to being “properly” buried in such a manner. Nor, of course, were all the cats.

They spit upon the grave a second time. Then they discussed the last name before this on the list. The only thing they remembered being recoverable about him, was his head.

Agent Toporidel asked, “Wonder where he was headed? Looks like nowhere now. If it was even the same guy. Catfucker’s head found in burned down shed. We should move on to the next.”

“Hrm. Yes.” Captain Planck agreed again.

They also agreed that “catfucker” was henceforth to be a newly incorporated term of theirs. But, to be used, that is, sparingly, with restraint, and only where most appropriate and/or hilarious.

They cut up the grave sign and used it to start a small but serviceable campfire. They shared another meager meal of canned beans and bread, but this time at least roasted. Captain Planck handed Agent Toporidel his gun. He watched while Planck ate or slept. Then they switched. This was the plan all night.

In the morning, Agent Toporidel went back and took a last look at the spot on the hill. Captain Planck joined shortly thereafter.

Agent Toporidel gave a short eulogy, “Godspeed, Ducock, Sr., Catfucker.” Both agreed it was the most appropriate, and fitting moment to say such.

“Let us now depart the premises of this fucker of cats grave, and leave it at once.

“Hrm. One last thing,” added Captain Planck.

They both spit a third and final time upon the grave and left it at once. Away with the deceased Ducock, and his cat fornicating ways as well. They packed up their supplies and headed away from the hill. Past the spot and over the rise, to another tract of low lying farmland.

Agent Toporidel asked, "Who does the list say?"

Captain Planck pulled out the carefully preserved page from their pack and answered, "Hrm. Seems the winner is Samantha Klostierman. From Rhubarb, Ilinois."

"That's still rather north a ways."

"Hrm. Yes, so it would appear. And a bit east, too. Is there a different way you'd like to go?"

"I suppose not. There's no one closer, right?"

"Hrm. If there was, wouldn't you think I would've said at the outset of this venture?"

“I was just checking that all the facts were in place."

"Hrm. Why wouldn’t they be?"

"Just checking, is all."

Silence stood between them again, but not an antagonistic kind. They let it permeate the walk for a while.

The next place they came to had less of a farm to it and more of a house. It didn't appear too badly dilapidated. Nor were there any dead bodies to inspect, human or otherwise. They performed a systematic check of the interior, as per usual routine. It had more of an acceptably defensible design, requiring few modifications. They ransacked the house for anything left or discarded that could aid them. Most of the leftover food was spoiled but the previous occupants had neglected to take a couple of cans with them into oblivion.

Toporidel contributed, “More beans. Can always use them."

Planck nodded assent. "Hrm. Yes indeed. Breakfast of champions."

They found a few items of note to add to their collection. Mostly kitchen household appliances and utensils that could be used to augment what they had already accrued.

They decided to spend a few days. Samantha Klostierman, from Rhubarb, Illinois, would have her time. And they theirs.

They stayed in the house for four days until such time upon when it was decided and agreed upon to leave once again.

In two more days they were no longer following dirt or local roads, instead having come to a major highway after emerging from the woods and crossing over to it. Cars were abandoned at various spots. The highway had more bodies scattered intermittently along it. They whittled the time by keeping count until they passed a road sign overhead that announced they were 74 miles from Rhubarb.

"Should be there before the week ends."

"Hrm. Yes. So it seems. Then what?"

"Then, we hope things go better there, or I swear by old Mr. Ducock, god rest his crazy cat fucking soul, we, and by extension, Ms. Klostierman herself, are all going to be rather unhappy. Again."

“Hrm. Yes. Excellent use, as well.”

“Agreed.”

There was nothing else to be said about the matter at the moment, so they journeyed some more before selecting a car to use as a hut for the night. They would have driven, but both knew cars could attract attention these days, of the usually unwanted kind.

Days passed as they moved from car to car like silent bees, draining them of anything useful, before methodically moving on to the next.

Fifty miles later, another road sign informed them it was now exactly 14 miles to Rhubarb. Precisely on schedule for their purposes.

Fourteen miles after that, Captain Planck checked that they had the correct address as they entered the town of Rhubarb.

Agent Toporidel declared that here in the town, could be finally what they were looking for.

Planck replied with a standard rejoinder, “Hrm. We’ll see.”

They saw. It wasn’t much. The town had clearly been overrun in a rush and left behind. Now almost nothing remained. No signs of any stragglers left behind to scavenge and pick its bones clean. Great piles of dead leaves blew through the streets constantly, forcing them both to shield their eyes from the drifting debris.

Samantha Klostierman’s house was in the middle of a row of fairly similar ones. She didn’t answer the door, which they took to be an ominous sign. It opened easily and they peered into a darkened hallway that led to a living room. The kitchen was adjacent. A staircase in the foyer led up.

Agent Toporidel inquired, “Upstairs first?”

Captain Planck was firm, “Hrm. No. Ground floor.”

The living room contained nothing special. It had long been plundered of anything useful. The kitchen was mostly the same. In any case, they agreed that they weren’t going to take anything.

“Upstairs it is then.”

“Hrm. Yes. Let us go.”

They guessed they had found Samantha Klostierman’s room because it was the only room upstairs aside from a bathroom that was pathetic in its bareness. An odd design for a house, but the fact was no help to them.

Of little Miss Samantha herself, there were not many signs. They combed through the dressers and closet and uncovered some dregs of dresses with tacky designs and twenty pairs of shoes, but found nothing that could provide any further direction.

Toporidel stated grimly, “Looks like we’re going to be unhappy.”

“Hrm. Didn’t we check everything?”

“Let us check again, just in case.”

They checked again. Upon the second search, they stumbled on a hastily scribbled note half-wedged and hidden under the corner of a dresser. They deciphered its brief message:

Went to West Freemantua!! Meet me please, pLEASE!!
-Sam k.

“That’s helpful. It’s something, anyway.”

“Hrm. Yes. Yes, it is.”

The city mentioned was another hundred or so miles south, but still roughly east.

“Looks like we’re going on the road, again.”

“Hrm. Yes. Here we go. It’s going to be for a while.”

Thus they went. On the road. Again. It was a while.

Volume 6: Precipice

2010-11-05T13:56:00.003-04:00

Precipice
by Steven Ormosi

AJ walked out of Mayor Jenkins’ office with a newfound sense of importance. He was going to be instrumental in developing the cure. He was going to be the one who determined if it was safe to go outside the walls. He was going to be a hero. The mayor had told him as much.

He had been going stir crazy in the lab lately. Nothing ever seemed to bother Dr. Harvey. She could always maintain her veneer of scientific detachment. AJ on the other hand felt constantly claustrophobic. Even though he knew he was doing important work with the infected and helping to ensure a future, he had begun to lose his cool. A blessing, that’s what this trip was. He strolled back towards Dr. Harvey’s lab with purpose.

Upon entering the lab, AJ could immediately tell that something was wrong. It was too quiet. Where were the infected banging on their cages? Paralyzing fear came over him then. How could they have gotten free?

“Dr. Harvey?” He shouted into the silence. “What’s going on?”

No answer. This was not good. He took the shotgun they kept near the entrance and walked towards the back hesitantly. There was still no sound. How could they have all escaped? He slowly opened the door.

Nothing. They were all gone. There was no blood, no sign of anything. He heard a footstep behind him and whirled, bringing the shotgun up.

Dr. Harvey screamed, “AJ, no!”

AJ managed to stop himself from pulling the trigger even though he was shaking like a leaf in the wind. “What the hell is going on, Dr. Harvey?”

“Oh, Jesus,” she managed looking out from behind her hands, which she had put up for defense. “I didn’t know you were going to be here this afternoon, I thought you had a meeting with the mayor. And will you put that thing down!”

AJ lowered the gun, “Sorry, I was just terrified that they’d escaped. The meeting with the mayor is over, I was coming to tell you about it when…well, this happened. Where are they all?”

“I’m changing labs, AJ, we’ve got a more secure location about two blocks away. I was going to tell you tomorrow when I saw you.”

AJ breathed a sigh of relief, “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I didn’t think it was going to happen so quickly. We got the resources we needed for the move and we got it underway. I didn’t want to wait.”

“I should’ve been here to help. How did you move them?”

“Oh, it wasn’t a problem, just tranqed the hell out of them and loaded them into a covered truck. It went pretty quickly. Permission to use the truck was what I’d been waiting for, so as soon as I got it, I started packing everything up. There was one unfortunate accident. One of the orderlies was bitten.” Dr. Harvey’s mood went sour. “It was…unpleasant.”

AJ was horrified, “Who?”

“Caleb. I liked him. But now you know why we have to be as careful as we can, one mistake and you’re a goner.”

“Is he—“

“He’s in a quarantine cage right now, just waiting. It’s awful. I keep trying to distance myself, tell myself that I have to look at him scientifically now, but the only thing I can see are his eyes, pleading for me to put him out of his misery. I wish I could.”

“Dr. Harvey, we should help him.”

“Oh, AJ, we couldn’t even if we wanted to, he’s under lock and key now in the quarantine zone. They won’t bring him to the lab until later.”

“We have access to those areas. We could figure something out. He worked for you, Dr. Harvey, you can’t just let him change into a monster. Look, I have nothing but respect for you as a scientist, but if you let Caleb go through that, I’m not sure I can respect you as a person anymore. What if it was me?”

“We all make our own choices, AJ. Caleb knew there were risks when he agreed to help us with our research, just like you do. Should we kill all of the specimens just because they used to be human? Hell, some of them still are. We can’t just ignore the established protocol because someone who’s been bitten is our colleague.”

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”

“I’m sorry, AJ, it’s the way things are.”

“Save it, doctor.” AJ spat as he stormed out.

************************************************************

Later that night, AJ showed up to the quarantine cages with a handgun tucked into his pants. There was extra security. The guards at the front stopped him, “Sorry, sir. No more traffic through the cages tonight.”

AJ was crushed; she must have told them he was coming. He didn’t think Dr. Harvey would have given him up. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

“We really aren’t supposed to say anything about it.”

“I need that information,” AJ pulled out his credentials, “I work in the city lab, those are our specimens.”

“Alright, alright. Some bum came in here earlier and just started popping all the null skulls. He got six of them before we could stop him. They’re cleaning up inside right now.”

AJ was confused, “How did he even get in?”

“He had an ID, must’ve stolen it from someone. Anyway, I guess one of the guards didn’t check it thoroughly enough because they let him through.”

“What’d you do to the guy?”

“We had to take him out. Larry over here popped him,” he motioned at the man standing near the door, “Dumb bastard just wouldn’t stop firing. He kept yelling, ‘Give me my family back!’ It was unreal.”

“Wow…do you have a list of which ones were killed?” AJ asked.

“It’s classified for everyone except the mayor and Dr. Harvey. Sorry about that.”

Something wasn’t adding up, who would be careless enough to let a streety steal their papers? “Ok, thank you…”

“Stan.”

“Thanks, Stan”

Stan said, “Sure thing, sir. Now clear outta here before you get us in trouble.”

Larry grunted.

AJ turned around and walked to Dr. Harvey’s house.

*************************************************************

When he got there, AJ knocked on the door. A few moments later, Dr. Harvey appeared wearing a robe.

“Hello, Dr. Harvey.” AJ said, “Did you hear about the quarantine cages?”

“Yes, yes, it’s a terrible tragedy.” She didn’t look too broken up about it.

“Was Caleb one of the occupants that were killed?”

“I’m really not allowed to say. Mayor Jenkins classified the information immediately.”

“Classified, right. Did you do get that man to do that?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about AJ and it is unwise to level accusations at your superiors without proof. See you in the lab tomorrow. Goodnight.”

Dr. Harvey closed the door.

*************************************************************

The day before he was to leave, there was a transfer of infected. There were only two. Caleb was not in the group. AJ was relieved.

Dr. Harvey was busy checking them in, and making sure all the proper forms were filed and approved. He walked over to her. “Looks like Caleb didn’t make it that night,” he said.

“Looks that way,” she responded curtly.

“Dr. Harvey, I’m leaving tomorrow and I just want to say, I know it was you that got the man in. No one is careless enough to leave those kinds of credentials just lying around where anyone could find them.”

Dr. Harvey stopped writing and looked at him, “I told you the other night, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

AJ continued, “I went there that night with a gun. I was going to do it myself. You saved my life.”

“Well I’m glad that someone else could take the bullet for you.”

“I feel really badly about that.”

“Look, AJ. If someone had to die that night, I’m glad it wasn’t you. But you really need to reconsider the work you’re doing if you can’t separate yourself from it.”

“But you couldn’t either. You couldn’t let me go and get myself killed.”

“You give me too much credit, AJ. I told you, I didn’t do anything and you’ll never hear me say otherwise so just stop trying to get me to admit something and get back to work or I’ll kill you myself and then that man at the cages died for nothing. Have you made all the preparations for Exploration One?”

“Yes, I’ve got a zombo protection suit and a sawed off. We’ll also be—“

“Wait. Zombo protection suit?”

“Yeah, that’s what the scavengers who collect the materials for the suits call them.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Hey, I just go by what they tell me. We’ll also be carrying several sterilized collection jars. I have a full biology kit, five notebooks, twenty pencils and a razor to sharpen them with. If I realize I don’t have something that I need, we’ll bring it the next time out.”

“Ok, if you meet anyone else out there, be sure to question them, but be careful, they could be carriers.”

“I know, I know. I’ve got it all.”

“AJ, as long as your heart is in it, we need you here, so get out of the waste in one piece, alright? Watch your back.”

“I will Dr. Harvey. Thank you. For everything. See you on the other side.”

Volume 6: Constituent Parts

2010-11-04T16:21:00.003-04:00

Constituent Parts
by Steven Ormosi

“I want that motherfucker found,” Kelly shouted, “Alive or dead, I don’t give a damn anymore. After what he did to Jonah, he doesn’t deserve that distinction.”

Perry, her right hand man, nodded, “We’re working on it, Kel. He’s just not going to be that easy to find. Unfortunately, we don’t have too much manpower for searching. We have, what, ten people to cover an entire city? All we can do is canvass the neighborhoods and you said yourself you don’t want innocents getting hurt. Well people are scared of Billy and scared people aren’t always the most forthcoming unless they’re more scared of something else. We’ll let you know as soon as we’ve got something.”

Kelly and Perry were sitting in the bar. She had called him here to discuss hunting down Billy the Kid. So far they hadn’t found shit, but that couldn’t be helped. The little fucker was slippery as an eel and a lot more dangerous. Kelly was not keen on losing any more of her friends or associates to that scumbag, so they had to be careful.

She was still mourning Jonah, who it had turned out wasn’t killed that day on the Wall as everyone had been told, but had been kidnapped by Billy’s underlings to try and swing the vote towards Donovan. When he had dissented, they killed him. Not only did they kill him, but they did it in the most horrific and undignified way possible. Jenkins’ men had found him in a quarantine cage, changed into a null skull as they called them on the Wall. Jenkins had to have him put down. Like a fucking dog. When she found out, Kelly had vowed that Billy and Max Donovan would be put down too.

She missed Jonah, missed talking to him at nights, missed drinking with him. She even missed saying goodnight to him. Cute little Jonah, always half asleep over a book, waiting up to say goodnight because he wanted to make sure she’d made it upstairs alright. She always told him that she could take care of herself and he would say, “I know. This is for me, not you.” And she would say, “Thanks, but go to sleep you sound like a fucking high school kid with a crush.” And he would say, “Oh, fuck you, sorry for caring.” But he meant, “Sleep tight, I’ll be here for you if you need me.”

But that was a lie. Because she needed him now.

She shook off the daydream and got back to the task at hand. “Well make sure everyone is on this. It is the most important thing right now. Priority one.”

“Got it. What else do we have going?” Perry asked.

“We’re sending a mechanic on the trip outside. I told Ed I’d get him a good one. Find someone we can trust, I don’t want any screw ups out there. We’re going to need to be able to salvage what we can in order to keep the wheels here oiled. Eventually we need to be able to bring more gas in here, siphoning it from the abandoned cars in the city is only going to go so far. We’re going to be waiting on citywide electric for a while. Ed’s got people working on converting the power plant inside the walls to wind and solar, since we don’t have nearly the amount of coal we need to run it anymore, but who knows how long that could take. I mean, we really just don’t have the tools for it yet. I try to stay away from that stuff for the most part, let the scientists and politicians worry about it, but it is something we’ll hopefully have within a year or two. Meantime, we need to keep our gennys running.”

Kelly continued, “I could use more liquor too, people seem to be shying away from the moonshine, don’t ask me why.“

“Well it tastes like acid mixed with shit, for one,” Perry interrupted.

“Whatever, you’d think people would be happy for anything that makes them forget at this point. Anyway, if you could rustle me up a few bottles from the market, I’d really appreciate it.”

“Ok, I think some scouts may have found some in no man’s land between the walls. I’ll see what I can do.”

“And can you tell Al to take it easy with the bar fights? We’re trying to get on people’s good sides here. We need to rally people around us, not tear them limb from limb.”

“I’ll tell him, Kel. Anything else?”

Kelly walked behind the bar and poured two shots, “Yeah, get some sleep, maybe get laid. You look like shit.”

“That sounds nice.”

“But do all that other stuff I told you first. Here, drink this,” she said, handing him a shot of moonshine.

*************************************************************

After Perry had gone, Kelly took a walk over to City Hall. She had to talk to Ed Jenkins. Luckily she had enough on her plate to keep her mind from drifting to Jonah too often. When she arrived she walked straight into his office.

“You know Ed,” she said, “Security here is for shit, I wish you’d let me post someone to watch your ass. You are aware that you have enemies, right?”

“You worry too much. The only reason you got in here is because my guards know who you are. I want to maintain the appearance of being fully accessible to everyone, not have a brute squad outside my door.”

“I’m just saying, someone strapping the right mix of cleaning supplies could turn you into an ugly stain on your wall.”

“At least then humanity’s fate would be in someone else’s hands.”

“Oh shut up you big cry baby.”

“How’s the mechanic search going?” Ed said, pouring himself a glass of water from a pitcher on his desk.

“It’s going. I’ve got Perry on it right now, actually. We’ll have one by next week. No worries.”

“Good,” Ed said, taking a gulp of water. “It’s amazing. The things we have to worry about now. This water I’m drinking. Know where it comes from?”

“No idea.”

“Filtered rain water. No shit. We collect the rain water, then filter the hell out of it. It’s probably still horrible for you, but that’s about the best we can do. We still have a small store of bottled water for long drought contingencies, but most of the water we have available literally falls from the sky like manna. Since we don’t really have access to any good water supplies here, we have to collect it, we have dozens of rooftop containers that do the job. The point is, I’m worried that we have so much to pay attention to, just to survive, that we’re going to miss something. And if we miss something, that’s curtains for us. Maybe as a species. Why am I responsible for that?”

“Because you were the best person available for the job.”

“Just because I’m better than what we had doesn’t mean I’m the best. I don’t know. I feel like the world is expected of me. How am I supposed to live up to that?”

“Look, Mr. Mayor, I’m not the kind of person that goes in for trying to make someone feel better about themselves. I’m here to get things done. You wanna wallow, do it after I leave, but for Christ’s sake, do it privately. We don’t need the population thinking you’re some whiney pussy right now, or ever.”

Jenkins looked her in the eye, “You think I don’t know that? Why do you think I’m trying to talk to you about it? You’re the one person I can trust to know that this isn’t a sign of weakness. I’m just working through everything that’s going on. Listen, Kelly, you have nothing to worry about with me.”

“Good.”

Jenkins shook off his malaise, “I’ve got some information that will interest you. We think we have the whereabouts of Billy. You know that after his weapons depot mysteriously exploded, he went into hiding. He’s had his head down for weeks, but we got a tip yesterday that he was seen on the east side of town, about two blocks in from the Wall over there. It appears that he has a place on Williams St. So, use that information as you will. I’m going to have some people start combing the area three days from now. It would be a damn shame if he were already dead.”

“I’m sure the public would be outraged,” said Kelly.

“Alright,” said Jenkins, “I’ve got a meeting I need to be at, so we’ll leave it at that today. It’s been a pleasure as always.”

“The pleasure was all mine, sir,” Kelly said, extending her hand to shake.

Jenkins grabbed it and smiled, “Keep doing what you do, Kelly. You’re making this a better town for all of us.”

“You too, Mr. Mayor. Come grab a drink sometime.”

“I will, I will. See you soon.”

*************************************************************
Kelly found herself at the makeshift graveyard near the center of town. It was full. She didn’t like coming here, there were always too many people grieving for their lost loved ones, she felt like she was at a social gathering, not a cemetery. Kelly walked up to Jonah’s grave and took out a copy of The Odyssey and a bottle. She placed his favorite book against his marker and poured two shots of moonshine.

“To liver explosions and brain aneurisms,” she said pouring the shot over his grave and then tipping back her own. “Who dies, you pussy?”

Volume 6 release

2010-11-03T12:02:00.000-04:00

Volume 6 of Life After Death will be released tomorrow. Though we usually strive for the first of the month with our releases, we decided to delay a little for our Halloween specials.

Constituent Parts by Steven Ormosi

-In which Kelly tries to ignore her demons.

Precipice by Steven Ormosi
-In which a man's faith in humanity and faith in science are pitted against each other.

Dogwood Ave. Blues by Scott Thurlow

-In which dogs are no longer a man's best friend.

Road Agents by Scott Thurlow

-In which the romantic interests of a deceased man are questioned.

A Walk in the Park by J. Ian Manczur

-In which an idiom takes on a dangerous new meaning

Halloween Special: The Ghoul Gambit

2010-10-31T18:31:00.004-04:00

The Ghoul Gambit
by Scott Thurlow

Now...

"This'll never work. I keep telling you."

"And I keep telling you-- we don't know until we try. It worked in movies before. And in that one book."

"I know, I know, you said that! But this is real life...and with real zombies!"

"Exactly! And how else can we know what'll work or not unless we try?"

"I...uh...don't...know, alright. I just don't think this is going to work."

"Yeah, that's right. You don't know. You don't know shit. Maybe I don't either. But I can't take this anymore--sitting here, waiting for something to go wrong. Or for them to get in. No one's coming to save us, you know that right? I told you we're on our own. So you can stay here if you want, but this is it. I'm doing it. With or without you."

"But what if it doesn't work?"

"Then I guess we're dead, right? Just like everyone else. Or undead. Whatever. Did we ever decide on that? Not like it'll really matter. Besides, what if it does work? We'll be the first to figure something like this out. We'll be free. Safe. Safer, anyway."

"Alright, alright! I guess there's a first time for everything. Fine. Fuck it. Help me get mine on."

A few days earlier...

"Look-- we can disguise ourselves like them."

"What? How?"

"How? Man, look around us. We're in a goddamn Halloween superstore! There's all kinds of stuff we can use."

"Yeah? What about a gorilla suit? That might confuse the hell out of them."

"You going to try to run in that thing?

"I...uh...guess not."

"I'm serious though. Maybe if we look and act like them, they'll leave us alone. It's worked in movies before. And it worked in that one book."

"It'll never work."

"Got any better ideas?"

Now...

Simon and Nick donned the masks and matching costumes (complete with a concoction of "zombie blood") they had assembled and cobbled together from various outfits and paraphernalia in the store. As fate had it, the place they were hunkered down in was a Halloween chain outlet. Or used to be. They had found it abandoned, though mostly intact, and had been using it as their shelter since stumbling upon it. The nature of the store being the impetus for the "plan" Simon had come up with that they were now about to enact, despite some reluctance and skepticism over its overall possible effectiveness and merits (or lack thereof) on Nick's part.

Before they prepared to leave, they made sure their masks were on straight and the "blood" was properly applied.

"Looks good. Ready?"

"I guess so. Ready as I'll ever be. Let's go before I change my mind."

They exited the store as they began attempting to imitate the noises they had grown so accustomed to during their brief stay, mimicking the gurgling to keep up the charade as best they could. They made it a few yards out unmolested when, overcome by the initial "success" of his plan, Simon called to Nick, "It worked! It actually worked! Ha! I told you! Now hurry up--"

His jubilant statement was never finished, as Nick turned in time to see that the real creatures had sensed their ruse and were rapidly heading towards them.

"Fuck you! I told you this would never work! Why the hell did I listen to you, you son of a--" Nick's final words were also cut off, as the horde caught up. The costumes had been well-designed, though. The difference between both Simon and Nick's appearances before, and after, being consumed was nearly indistinguishable.

Halloween Special: City Kids

2010-10-31T13:39:00.004-04:00

City Kids

By Steven Ormosi

Billy walked into the abandoned post office. It had been decorated with all manner of repurposed trash. On the tables were tin cans painted as jack o’lanterns. Old undelivered letters were cut into various shapes such as witches and ghosts. An old mail bag had been labeled “Zombee Guts” and was hanging from a hook.

Billy’s school friends were milling around talking to each other, each wearing a patchwork costume. Mostly they were dressed as characters from shows that had been popular before the end. Billy walked over to Erika who was a pirate, complete with a real hook of some kind and a fake parrot she had poorly sewn to her shirt.

“Hey, sorry I’m late.”

“No problem,” she said, “the party’s just getting started.” She handed him a bottle which he proceeded to swig.

Billy made a face, but managed to keep the vile stuff in his stomach, “What is it?”

“I dunno, I swiped it from my folks, and it’s got no label. Gets you really drunk, though.”

“I bet, how’s the party going so far?” Billy asked.

“It’s goin. It doesn’t feel like Halloween, but nothing feels the same since…you know.”

“I know. Last year we were trick or treating. This year we’re sneaking away from our parents and drinking alcohol we stole from them. Whatever, this is our last year of school. We get to celebrate, right?”

Erika stiffened, “Maybe it’s your last year, I’m going to high school and college when everything goes back how it was. That’s what my parents wanted.”

Billy didn’t have the heart to argue with her again over whether the world was coming back or not, “Well it’s my last year anyway. And my parents don’t care.”

Billy wandered away from Erika and found Silas who was dressed as Freddy Krueger. “What’s up, man?” He asked as he strolled up.

“Not much,” Silas said turning away from the bag he was packing, “Just setting up a little mischief night fun, want to come?”

Billy peeked over Silas’ shoulder and saw the firecrackers in his bag. “Naw man,” he said, “You get caught doing that stuff, they’ll toss your butt into quarantine with the zombies.”

“Oh come on, you puss, adults just say that stuff to scare you.”

A crash at the door ripped Billy’s attention away from Silas. A disheveled man stumbled into the party with an equally disheveled woman, they smelled bad. “Listen baby, this place is safe…The hell are you kids doing here?” he shouted.

“Shut up, you old bum,” someone squeeked back at him.

The bum took a knife out of his pocket and opened it, “You want to say that again, you little shit?”

Billy followed the stream of kids out the door. He idly hoped that being assaulted by vagrants wasn’t a new Halloween tradition as he ran.

When he stopped running he found himself standing by Silas, “Still got those firecrackers?”

“You know it, Billy Goat.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

LAD Website Original: Sally Sanders' Summer Supper

2010-10-12T08:24:00.002-04:00

Sally Sanders' Summer Supper

By Scott Thurlow

Sally Sanders' family had gone on a vacation recently. To someplace secluded in Asia; "The Orient." They wanted to see an exotic locale before they lost their chance (as her parents claimed.) Sally couldn't remember the name of the tiny island they gone to, nor did she much care; she had stayed behind at home. Sally had no real interest in going off to some dirty, third world place with her entire family. No friends, and nothing to do once she got there. For a whole week. Besides, Sally Sanders was fifteen, going on sixteen. Old enough to be on her own, and to take care of herself. Her parents trusted her enough that, while she might cause a little harmless trouble with her girlfriends, they didn't expect her to burn down the house while they were away. Sally didn't. She instead spent a lovely quiet week all to herself. Reading in her room, listening to her mixes, gossiping with her neighborhood friends, and preparing for the upcoming school year. She didn't even really miss her family that much while they were away. But she was still glad to see them all when they returned the following week. (Though she wouldn't admit it too much.)

It was mid-summer and life was proceeding as it always had. Sally Sanders was enjoying as much of it as possible, preparing for another year in school (just two more left before college!) with all the new classes, boys, and social struggles that would come with it. Everything was back to normal for her. For about two days. On the third day after her family had come back from their first and only trip abroad, Sally Sanders' mother changed.

Sally was hanging out at her friend Bridget's house when she decided she wanted a bite to eat. It was still hot out (despite it rapidly becoming evening) and a cold tuna sandwich with a glass of her mother's lemonade was calling to her. Sally went home for supper, intending to eat quickly and return to lounging around with Bridget for the night.

When she walked inside her house, Sally thought she could hear her mother snoring from her parents room. Probably taking a nap in the dwindling day.

"Mom?" Sally called out as she went in. "You here? You awake? I'm hungry! What's for dinner? I wanted--"

It was at that moment that Sally Sanders' mother appeared. She came crashing out of the bedroom and through the living room, tripping over the loveseat, while she lunged for Sally with gnarled, outstretched hands. Sally instinctively backed up few steps and stared at her enraged mother, entirely confused.

"Mom...are you mad at me, or something? What's wrong?"

Her mother's only reply was an odd noise that sounded something like a mix between coughing and choking. An unhealthy wheezing. Her mother got to her feet with far more energy and swiftness than Sally had seen her use in years. Her mother had never been much of an exerciser, but now she advanced on Sally without hesitation, reaching for her with every ounce of strength. Sally still was unsure what was wrong with her mother, but she could see it was bad. Very bad. Sally didn't know what to do, so she turned and ran out the door. Her mother followed on her heels.

"Please, Mom! Stop!" Sally pleaded just outside, but her mother took no notice as she bore down on Sally. As her mother's teeth sank deeply into her cheek, Sally collapsed. (It would be one of the very first times such a thing happened in a small town like Sally's, and to a girl like her. But not by any means the last.) When she got back up, Sally Sanders no longer had any concerns about school, dating, gossip, or anything else. She had only one thought left. Sally Sanders was hungry. Incredibly hungry.

Volume 5: Infinite Playlist Part 3

2010-10-06T09:22:00.001-04:00

THE HOST FROM THE SOUTH

Ike and Dave’s Infinite Playlist of Music to be Murdered By (Part 3)

by J. Ian Manczur

(Part 2)

Now…

“Ike! Ike! It jammed.” Dave stood pulling on his trigger in hysteria, forgetting every lesson Ike had taught him. He had fired two rounds: one missed, the other simply grazed the zombie. Then, the gun jammed and both it, and Dave, were useless.

Ike tore off his headphones. The zombie slowly rose to face them and Ike braced for the inevitable drench of blood to come from his friend Dave. The zombie didn’t budge an inch. Ike’s move.

Ike shoved Dave out of the way and put himself in the way of the beast, woman. The girl. Blonde. Young. Pretty. Wore the tattered remains of a summer dress. Carved up breast dangled from one of the tears. Intestines swaying out of her eviscerated stomach. Why didn’t she go for the kill? It’s..her eyes. The poor girl had torn out her own eyes while being eaten.

Ike aimed. She howled as loudly as she could. Ike flinched. She charged. Ike fired upon her second step. Headshot. She collapsed. Ike took charge, “We need to move, now!”

Crashes from the outside. She had signaled her brethren. She had sacrificed herself for her fellow zombies. Stairwell. Good, a chokepoint. No, she hadn’t. Bad thoughts. They aren’t that smart. Upstairs clear.

“Dave, Jack, stairwell. Two man hustle, be right back.” Ike ran off.

Jack watched Ike turn into the nearest room and then directed a question at Dave, “Two man hustle?”

Dave took position at the top of the stairs, peering down it with his shotgun. “Yea, I fire, you don’t. I’ll raise my hand like this, I need to reload, you take over. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Ike ran to the nearest bedroom. Armoire? Too heavy. Closet doors. Easy. He heard the first shotgun blast. Door off the slide. He hurried with it to the defensive point and hefted it down the stairs. Perfect landing. Took three off their feet. Settled flat on the stairs. More difficult to climb. Time.

He ran back in the room for the other closet door. Hefted it off the slide. Shotgun blasts turned to handgun blasts. He moved into the hallway. Slid door sideways across entrance to the upstairs. Fit snuggly in between the banisters. Perfect blockade. More time. “We good?”

Dave thumbed up and returned to firing.

With time bought, Ike unzipped his gun bag and started taking out parts. Jack turned his attention to Ike, “What are you building?”

“It’s a prototype carbine manufactured in Germany. The US military is looking to fade out the M4..look, we survive this I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Whew, you carry that thing in your duffle bag?”

“How else would I carry it?”

Jack peered into the bag. “How do you fit so many guns into one bag?”

“Jack, this isn‘t the most appropriate time for banter.”

Dave quipped, “To quote Venture Brothers: It‘s his magic murder bag.”

“Ladies, I appreciate a good gossip as much as the next gal, but we’re on the losing end of this shit stick. Dave, eye on the game, I‘m going to need you as my secondary. Jack, find us an exit.”

Jack hurried and Ike proceeded to unload in controlled bursts on the man in pajamas, the elderly fellow whose glasses still clung to his face, the mother and child he saw earlier, and plenty of others that were once human. Empty. Dave hurried to his place.

Ike reached into his cargo pants and pulled out an extra clip. Dave raced forward and held back the horde while Ike deftly ejected the old clip and reloaded. Just as he heard Dave yell “Out,” Ike was back on the offensive. “Dave, where are we on an exit?”

A few seconds passed. “Jack’s found an attic, or maybe a roof storage.. thing. I don’t know. What do you call it when they have pull down stairs?”

“I think it’s still an attic.”

“Well, Jack is heading up now, I’m following and when I reach the top, I’ll cover you.”

The zombies seemed to be lessening, which promised at least one smooth adventure. Then came the yelling, the tumbling, the shot gun blast, and the ever familiar spray of warmth that could be nothing but blood. “Kid. Kid! What the fuck just happened!”

“I shot him!”

“Who?”

“Jack.”

“Why the fuck did you shoot Jack?”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“No fucking shit.”

“He fell.”

“Is he still alive?”

Dave didn’t have any time to answer. A zombie hopped the barricade in Ike’s distraction. He turned just in time to fire. The zombie’s body flew in multiple directions. Two more had already crossed. They had lost this battle.

“Dave, shotgun, load.” He opened fire, praying they had time. “Dave?”

“Two more.”

Ike unloaded the rest of his bullets. “Toss.” He dropped the gun with a solemn promise to come back for her. Midair, he grabbed the shotgun and let loose on the first zombie. “Grab Jack!”

“Halfway there!”

Six shots left. Five. Four.

“Almost.”

Three. Two.

“There!” Ike turned to the stairs. He tossed the shotgun up before him and dashed up. He felt a hand grab his foot. Pressure on his leg. The zombie tried to bite him. His leather boots stopped the puncture. Ike flailed his leg back, making contact. He hurried up the stairs and dove to the ground. Two were following, but Dave’s shotgun blast sent them down. They pulled up the stairs and were safe for the moment.

Jack laid in a bloody heap on the ground. Ike turned to Dave in fury, “What did he do? Fall onto your gun?”

“No.. actually, yes, that’s a pretty good way to describe it.”

Jack shouted from his collapsed state, “HE FUCKING SHOT ME!”

“That’s been established, Jack. Let’s move on.”

“FUCK YOU TOO, IKE!”

Ike turned to Dave to look for some explanation, when he remembered that he had left his gun bag with the zombies. A realization he quickly shared with Dave accompanied by a string of expletives.

Dave chuckled at Ike‘s outburst. “Don’t worry about it. Brought it up with Jack.”

Ike sighed in relief and followed with earnest praise. After he settled down, Ike produced his smokes, and lit a Jackal up. Dave didn’t bother arguing.

Their attention turned back to Jack, who was quietly slumped in the corner. Ike assumed he was dead, but went to check anyway. Uneven, hoarse breathing indicated that he was still alive. Ike sat down next to him. “Man cannot be killed. Never seen anything like it.”

“He isn’t resilient. He’s a fucking liability.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You said it yourself: Jack is unlucky and will get us killed.”

“I did say that.”

Jack cautiously drew his gun and took aim at Dave while the two were busy talking. His first shot missed, sending Ike and Dave into a bewildered panic. Jack shuffled on the ground trying to keep aligned with Dave, all the while delivering a labored promise of murdering him. Ike found his senses and wrestled the gun away. Exhaustion finally caught up with Jack, knocking him out.

Dave grabbed Ike by the shoulder. “Now he’s trying to murder us.”

“You. He’s trying to murder you. After all, you did shoot him.”

“HE FELL ON MY GUN!”

“Quiet, you’ll wake him.”

Dave led Ike into the other corner of the attic and dropped to a whisper. “Don‘t defend him. He’s a selfish prick.”

“Elaborate.”

“Imagine you were in Jack’s shoes.”

“Ok.”

“Now what would you do?”

“Probably take a lot of morphine.”

“No! You wouldn’t try to blame your problems on others. You wouldn’t try to wrongfully kill the men who tried to save you. You would do the heroic thing and sacrifice your life to save ours.”

“You’re right, I would do something that noble.”

“I would, too. So, why hasn’t he?”

“That is a very good question. What a selfish prick.”

“I know.”

“I for one, vote that Jack do the heroic thing and sacrifice his life to save ours.”

“I agree, but..”

“There’s always a but with you!”

“Ssshh! One, how do we convince him to do the heroic thing and sacrifice his life for ours? Two, how will him sacrificing himself help us?”

“This was your idea, haven’t you thought it out?”

“Well, it was more the beginnings of an idea. I was hoping you would flesh it out.”

“Ok, then, One, we will sacrifice his life for him. It would be what he would do for us if he were we and we were him.”

“How?”

“By pushing him down the stairs, but to some good tunes; we aren’t monsters, after all.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Two…I really don’t know how pushing him down the stairs will help us, I mean we will still be stuck in this attic and that’s not going to solve our zombie problem.

“True..”

“But it sure sounds like a swell idea.”

“He was always kind of a douche.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Well, sir, after you.”

“I insist, my dear friend, after you.” They turned to Jack, but Ike grabbed Dave’s shoulder, “Re-huddle.”

“What’s up?”

“I thought you wanted to save Jack. You were all about how he was such a swell gent?”

“That was before he fell on my gun.”

“Alright, let’s do it.”

They once again turned towards Jack, but this time Dave instantiated the re-huddle. “Wait, what did you mean by playing him music?”

“We’re going to send him off with some groovy tunes, I’m thinking Supertramp.”

“Good music to die to, but I’m not giving up my Ipod.”

“You’re a true humanitarian, kid. After you shot him and all.”

“He fell on my gun.”

“Regardless, no one’s going to have to give up anything.” Ike pulled an Ipod adorned with a gold bow on it from his back pocket.

“You got him an Ipod?”

“Yea, a sort of welcome to the group present. They are a dime a dozen amongst the ruins of our civilization.”

“I thought you hated Jack.”

“Meh, mostly bluster. Guy was starting to warm on me.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Hey, I didn’t shoot him.”

“Neither did I.”

“Yeah, yeah. He shot himself. Well, after you.”

“No, I insist, after you.”

Ike and Dave moved over to Jack’s body and leaned him up against the wall. Jack awoke and began to protest, but all he could hear was a muffled yelp where his voice should have been. Ike clasped his hands over Jack’s head and Jack felt something enter his ears. Ike moved out of Jack’s vision to fiddle with something at his side. Dave was left standing there, eyeing Jack warily. Jack tried to scowl at him, but couldn’t tell if his face contorted the right way. Dave smiled and punched Jack’s shoulder in a sign of friendship. It hurt like a bitch.

A synthesizer blared loudly, but only in his left ear. He could feel some sort of vibration in his right, but it didn’t have any meaning.

It was early morning yesterday, I was up before the dawn.
Ike moved back into Jack’s view and whispered something to Dave.
And I really have enjoyed my stay, but I must be moving on.
They were speaking to him, but he couldn’t hear their words over the insistent music.
Like a king without a castle, like a queen without a throne,
He tried tearing off the headphones, but his right arm was in unbearable pain.
I’m an early morning lover and I must be moving on.
He tried telling them he couldn’t understand. All that came forth was red and yellow.

Now I believe in what you say is the undisputed truth,
Jack tasted blood and bile.
But I have to have things my own way to keep me in my youth.
Ike and Dave had finished talking and moved to his side.
Like a ship without an anchor, like a slave without a chain,
Jack felt himself being lifted up, with disregard for either his comfort and pain.
Just the thought of those sweet ladies, sends a shiver through my veins,
What the fuck were they doing? What the fuck was he listening to?
And I will go on shining, shining like brand new.
Jack felt himself placed down again, but he could not establish his bearings.
I’ll never look behind me, my troubles will be few.
Up again, this time followed by a plunge downwards.

Goodbye stranger, it’s been nice,
Jack crashed face first. The carpet did little to cushion the landing.
Hope you find your paradise.
He rolled on his back and tried looking around, but his neck refused to budge.
Tried to see your point of view,
He was forced to look upwards at the ceiling, at the already closed stairs.
Hope your dreams will all come true.
Jack reached for his gun. It was missing.
Goodbye Mary, goodbye Jane,
It didn’t matter, they were already upon him.
Will we ever meet again?
He tried one last attempt at survival in the form of an impotent slap.
Feel no sorrow, feel no shame,
His last sight was a slowly swinging drawstring.
Come tomorrow, feel no pain.
Jack died.

Sweet devotion, it’s not for me.
Just give me motion and set me free,
And land and the ocean, far away,
The life I’ve chosen, every day.
So goodbye, Mary, goodbye Jane.
Will We ever meet again?

Volume 5: Infinite Playlist Part 2

2010-10-04T17:08:00.002-04:00

THE HOST FROM THE SOUTH

Ike and Dave’s Infinite Playlist of Music to be Murdered By (Part 2)

by J. Ian Manczur

(Part 1)

Earlier that day…

A gaggle of zombies. He flipped the coin. It disagreed with his choice of words.

A mother and son.

A congress of zombies. He flipped the coin. Agreed, but that gave them too much credit.

Flesh eating monsters not worthy of a second thought.

A plague of zombies. Yea, that was perfect. Coin disagreed.

Had to be a mother and son. They were dressed in a similar style of wealth. Probably died in church. Only bars and churches were open at the end.

A horde of zombies. Classic. Nixed by the coin. No reason given, but he trusted its opinion.

Maybe not. Feasting on the flesh of a child. Zombie adoption. Or maybe child on woman. A zombie family unit. Stop. Dangerous thinking.

An anarchy of zombies. Coin liked it. He did, too. He scribbled it down in his notepad.

He heard a tap on the glass of the sliding door. Dave poked his head out with a smile, waiting for permission to interrupt. Ike waved him through. Dave approached with a cautious, yet undeniably cheerful step, “Hey buddy, what are you thinking about?”

The answer was simple and concise. A mixture of what the best collective noun would be for zombies and a deeper philosophical.. theory on how best to view the creatures. Just say it, damn it. “Nothing, really.”

“Sure looks like you’re thinking about something.”

“You know what a collective noun is?”

Dave thought for exactly one second, “Nope.”

“Never mind then.”

“I’m interested,” Dave prodded, earnestly.

“It’s really not that important, just thinking of some of the grander questions in life.. and a number of less important things.”

“Come up with anything?”

Ike flipped the coin one last time. He stared at the result. Dave moved closer to see what the outcome was, even though he didn’t know the question. Ike had already closed his hand. With a sigh of resignation, Ike turned to Dave, “Not really.”

Dave pulled a chair to sit next to his comrade. They sat in silence for awhile, until Ike stubbed out his cigarette and pulled out his pack. He offered one to Dave, who politely rejected.

“Sorry, old habits.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Mind if I have one?” Ike spat through gritted, teeth as he lit another.

Dave nodded in acceptance. Again they fell quiet, Ike lost somewhere and Dave not knowing how to reach him. “Everything’s almost ready. And I made a pre-travel snack.”

Ike didn’t answer, so Dave repeated. Ike responded with a distracted, “Heard you, kid.”

“What’s eating you?”

“Poor choice of words.”

“Fair enough. Ok, you are obviously bothered by what you are thinking about, so…” Dave gestured with his hand, signaling Ike to complete his thought.

“Alright. I’m worried about how we view zombies. I mean, we all have our preconceived notions about what we’re facing, but what do we really know?”

Dave shrugged in response.

“Exactly. Hear me out. We are running around killing humans--people, or are we? How do we view them? How should we? Do we see them as monsters or who they used to be? Which one is better?”

“I’m not following.”

“Ok, come over here. Those two by the stop sign, see them?” Dave nodded. “What are they?”

“Zombies.”

“Yes, but.. describe them to me.”

“Ummmmm, zombies.”

“A little more,” Ike added with a hint of aggravation.

“Creatures that hunt for my flesh? I don’t know. One used to be female, the other was just a kid.”

“So you view them as monsters, first and foremost?”

Dave shrugged in agreement. “How do you view them?”

“I’ll get to that in a second. Part two, have you ever had to kill a zombie that used to mean something to you?”

“Like a family member?”

“Yea, or a friend, teacher, any person you had an emotional attachment to.”

“Not really. Killed a guy who used to run a shop that I used to go to, but beyond that, they’ve all been strangers.”

“Now, what happens if you run across someone you care about?”

“Kill them?”

“You’d have to, but would you hesitate.”

“I don’t know.. maybe.”

“You may, you may not, but what if you do? Heat of battle, zombies swarming, can’t afford to hesitate. Therein lies the dilemma. Now, how do you solve the emotional problem?”

“I‘m beginning to regret asking..”

“I don’t know, either.” Ike stood and started rounding Dave’s chair, cigarette firmly grasped between fingers. “This is what I’ve been debating. Now, I’ve never studied the psychology of war.”

“You‘re not the only one.”

“But, I’ve been thinking. It’s sort of like a civil war within our species. Do you get my meaning?”

“Go on.”

“It’s brother against brother. I think, in order to survive day to day, I need to remember that. I need to see each zombie as what they were and are. The friend, the lover, the family member, the brother I never had but could have had, if the world remained sane. It is easier to forget, to see them as monsters. But, what happens when we get that one remembrance of what they are, what they were? If I make it harder for me, if I numb myself, then I can kill those who were because I am so used to killing those who might have been.”

Dave didn‘t know what to say in response, so instead he just offered, “Well, I’m depressed.”

“Sorry for that, kid.”

“Ah, it’s nothing. It‘s important to think these things. Just, they’re beyond me.”

“Yea.” Ike said dejectedly, as he fell back down in his seat. He stared off into the anarchy, finishing his cigarette while Dave watched.

“So, you ready to leave after lunch?”

“Yup. Jack ready?”

“He is.”

“Ipods up and running?”

“Fully charged.”

“Well then, let’s eat.”

They hoisted themselves out of the chair and moved back in the house, Dave first and Ike trailing behind. Dave stopped short and Ike almost crashed into him. He twirled to face Ike, “Go back outside for a second. I totally forgot I have a surprise for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Let me get it.” Dave ran inside, leaving Ike out on the porch. Ike returned to his seat and fished out another smoke. “Take a look at this.” Dave produced a handgun from behind his back.

“Now, where did you find this?”

“House next door while I was scouting yesterday.”

“Let me take a look at it.”

“Oh, no, no, no and no.”

“What?”

“Every time I find a gun, you take a look at it and end up keeping it. I want a gun of my own.”

“I have more experience handling firearms.”

“Yea, and you’ve taught me. I got it.”

“But..”

“I’m going to keep this one. I‘ve checked it out like you showed me and everything works fine.” Dave was firm on his stance.

Ike paused to contemplate. “Alright, you’ve showed enough competence to make me believe you got this one. Just please, one favor, don’t make me live to regret this.”

“Don’t worry, you won’t live to regret this.”

“Also, one of my fears.”

“Trust me.” Dave shoved the gun into the front of his belt.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! What the fuck do you think you’re doing!”

“Don’t worry, it’s not loaded.”

“What‘s the first rule?”

“Never point a gun at something you don’t intend to shoot.”

“That includes yourself, kid, especially your baby-makers. Devil likes to load empty guns. I have a holster inside, should fit it.” Ike stopped at the threshold, “You made sure it works?”

“Yes, Ike.”

“You should really let me take a look.”

“Trust me.”

“Alright, I trust you, kid.” Ike sighed. “Shall we?”

TO BE CONCLUDED…

Volume 5: Moral Dissonance

2010-10-03T11:57:00.000-04:00

Moral Dissonance
by Steven Ormosi

The street seemed very quiet these days. It had been two months since Abe had died. Julia was in mourning, refusing to come outside and Jacob just sat at home for long stretches without doing anything but thinking. He was the keeper of all the secrets now. He was the guardian of Abe’s reputation and not only that, he knew things that could break this city down. Jake and Abe, Abe and Jake, they’d always been a team. Now, one stupid mistake and the entire weight of it was heaped onto Jacob's shoulders. He had to stop thinking about this before he went crazy.

Jacob walked to Abe’s old place to check on Julia. She hadn’t been eating. He opened a can of tuna with his knife and made her eat with him. She was silent the whole time.

After dinner he tried to make small talk with her. “You should get outside, Jules. It would do you good.”

“I’d rather stay in,” she said.

“Well at least try doing something. You need to get your mind off of everything that’s happened.”

“I’m fine.” She said wearily.

Jacob sighed, “Alright, well I guess I should be getting back. Are you ok here?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” she said.

He made his way towards the door, “Jake,” Julia stopped him.

“Yeah, Jules?”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Jules. See you tomorrow.”

Jacob made his way towards the bazaar to trade for some food and supplies. He really needed a few patches for his shirts. When he arrived, there was a commotion at one of the stalls. It looked like a few government officials were up front.

“What’s going on?” He asked a woman standing nearby.

“They’re having a sign up for some damn fool scheme to go and explore what’s outside the walls.”

Jacob thanked her and pushed his way to the front. There was a man in a suit speaking.

“…could be one of the most important explorations in the history of the world. Whoever signs up will be joining the ranks of Christopher Columbus, Magellan, Sir Francis Drake. We need volunteers with the skills to survive and the bravery to combat the unknown!”

There were protestors everywhere.

“You’ll lead them back in here!”

“You’re sending our citizens to a certain death!”

“The Zeds will be on them in no time, it’s a suicide mission!”

Jacob walked up to the booth. “Where do I sign?”

For Jacob, it was a win-win situation. He needed to get away for a bit. To worry about something other than how he’d put a bullet in his best friend’s head. If he lived, he’d be a hero to the people. If he died, all his secrets died with him and then he didn’t have to shoulder their burden any more. The only drawback was Julia, but he couldn’t look out for her forever, and the trips to see her had become increasingly frustrating of late. She was slipping away and he was afraid he’d spiral out of control with her. He’d have someone make sure she was eating while he was gone and hopefully, without him there, she’d be forced to come to grips with the situation she was in. It was selfish of him, but he couldn’t stand the silence anymore.

He told her the next day. He had expected her to be unaffected, but she was actually angry. She showed real emotion for the first time since Abe had died.

“How can you do this to me, Jake? I depend on you. You’re the only good thing in my life.”

“They need people to help, Jules. And to be honest, I didn’t think you ever cared whether I was here or not. I’m going crazy here, thinking about…what happened. Over and over and over again. I need something different or I’m going to go nuts.”

“What about me, Jake? I’m already nuts. I know it. You think I don’t realize what a lunatic I’ve become?
The realization is the worst part. I’m a crazy old shut in lady who has one thing in life to cling to, and now that’s leaving me too.”

“I’m not leaving you. Think of it as a business trip. I’ll be back to bug you in no time. It’s just going to be a couple weeks.”

“When are you leaving?” Julia asked.

“Not for ten more days.” Jacob responded. “I’ve actually got to start making preparations for the trip.” He got up to go.

“Not today, Jake. Please, just stay here with me today.”

He walked over and put his arm around her, “Ok, I’ll stay for a while, Jules.”

The next day, Jacob returned home to find someone waiting at his door. It was a man, tallish and stately. He looked a little nervous.

“Can I help you?” Jacob asked.

“Are you Jacob?”

“I am. And you are?”

“I’m uh…the mayor actually, Ed Jenkins. I’m visiting to talk to you about what you’ve volunteered to do when you signed that paper yesterday.”

“Mr. Mayor, I’m sorry for being rude. Please come in,” Jacob said, opening the door.

“Thank you.”

Once inside, Mayor Jenkins began, “I’ll make this brief, I’m sure you are preparing to leave. I looked into your history, or whatever I could find of it. What I found out was that you led twenty people here from a nearby town including your neighbor, Abe and his wife. I’m sorry about your friend.”

“Thank you.”

“I need someone who can be a leader for this group we’re sending out. It seems you are the most qualified for the position. I need you to keep everyone together. There will be six of you out there. You will meet your team later, but before we send you out, I want to make the situation very clear. We will not be sending anyone out after you if you get into trouble. There is no cavalry. You will be on your own. You’re going to have to think on your feet. You’re going to have to make sure your squad is self sufficient. I know it’s unforgiving out there, and you’ll have to take that into account as well. Any humans you find are to be inspected for infection, then if they are found to be clean, they are to be given safe transport back here. Any infected are to be either avoided, or if that is impossible, put down quickly and quietly. Be sure you do not bring more of them back here to our walls. We have enough already. There will be a scientist with you. His objective will be to observe any living or dead specimens in the wild and also to take note of the state of wildlife and the world outside the city. This will absolutely not, in any way, be allowed to affect the safety of the team. You are to make sure of it. Listen, if you want out, now’s the time, after this, you are bound by law and your word to go and lead this team. Are you up to it?”

“Yes, sir, I believe I am.”

“Good, and if it means anything, I believe you are too. I will give you a more thorough briefing the day before you leave. Thank you for your time, Jacob.”

“You’re welcome Mr. Mayor. I’ll see you soon.”

“That you will.”

Jacob, let his new responsibilities sink in for a moment. He was leading the team now. He was responsible for the lives of five other people. He took a walk.

When he arrived back, he was surprised to find himself not at his own house, but at Julia’s. He opened the door and went inside.

“Hey, Jules,” he said into the silence.

She ran out of her room and hugged him. It was the most excited he’d seen her since Abe had died. “Hey Jake, I was hoping I’d see you tonight.”

“Why’s that?” He asked.

“I don’t know, we just don’t have much time left.”

“You’re acting like I’m marching off to my death.”

“You’re acting like it’s a walk in the park. The non-zombie-infested park. Jake, what you’re doing is dangerous. I’m scared that once you leave, I won’t ever see you again. Or if I do, you’ll be one of them.”

She shuddered.

“I’ll be fine, Julia. I have to come back here.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because if I didn’t, whoever Ed Jenkins has keeping an eye on you will go crazy, and I can’t have that on my conscience.”

Julia took a step towards Jacob, reached up and caressed his cheek. She grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled his lips down to hers.

Jacob snapped back, startled. “Jules, we can’t. Abe...”

“Shut up,” she said, “I don’t want any regrets,” and pulled him back in. He didn’t struggle again.

Volume 5: The Haggard Hazards of Haggling

2010-10-02T18:39:00.001-04:00

The Haggard Hazards of Haggling for Renders, Jackals, and Whores Named Amber

Or: Letting Off Some Zombo Steam

by Scott Thurlow

Some fucker recently had the balls to say to me, he found the zombos' horking, "tolerable." Almost as if they were calling back, perhaps even--singing, in some way. I had to laugh immediately in his fucking face. My immediate inquiry was-how the fuck he thought his dead grandmother had pulled a pseudo-Lazarus trick? And, further-- what had she "come back" to "tell him?" That she's going to fucking murder him? I went on to inform him that, if he ever felt like talking, or singing, back to them, that, just keep in mind, they're zombo-sirens. They aren't really “singing” for you, or to you, are they? Finally, "Fuck off," I said to him.

Their horking still had not ceased to remind me of that guy from work. And right now that made me upset. Usually it made me chuckle about how so very fucking dead and/or fucked he probably was, but I was becoming increasingly perturbed with these fucking council shenanigans. As I predicted, more and more assignments had come through, and hardly ever anything exciting.

The monotonous menial work mounted up. Each job we got was exponentially more mindless than the one that came before. And all the while, we were supposed to be fucking marching cheerfully back and forth through these Sisyphean series of assignments. I did find a few miscellaneous articles here and there on some of the missions, but not much of note. It was enough to get by though, so I suppose that was enough. Enough is enough, right?

I was still hoarding the booze. I had one Ripps bottle and a quarter of the Hydra left. I’d been saving the Ripps for either another special occasion or a truly stupendous trade offer, and dipping into the Hydra on my free time. While that was all fucking well and good, it allowed me to let off a little bit of steam, just not enough. A fucking teapot whistle, comparatively. There was another kind of steam I was looking to let off that I hadn’t quite been able to yet. It was a debate upon which I had been considering greatly. So greatly, in fact, that I was actually also considering asking Jimbo’s opinion on the matter. So I fucking did.

“Do you think that it would be more worthwhile to trade the booze for the bullets, or her?”

Jimbo’s obvious reply: “Hrm…bullets, booze, or whore?”

“Kindly. Fuck. Off. I would not like to hear it, at the moment.”

“Why not both?”

“It might cost all my booze, to get as many bullets, of the type which I want.”

“So go with a cheaper whore, or cheaper bullets, what’s the problem?”

“The fucking problem is, I do not wish to go with a cheaper either. Fucking quality only, around here, buddy. I am attempting to live comfortably in an ivory tower above the ZOMBPOC, but must account for the tide of shit that constantly laps at its walls.”

“What’s the difference, man? Or should I say to you: Wherein lies the difference upon which this matter is ‘clear’ or not, to you, dickwad?

“Because I insist upon quality living in the ZOMBPOC. If I must suffer, I will do it in fucking style.”

“Are you still using that ZOMBPOC thing? What about that busted phone that you found in the car after that fight?”

“Of which fucking phone are you speaking--ooohh….Oh shit!”

Jimbo grinned his Jimbo grin at me again and shook his head. Mother. Fucker.

Thanks to my good pal’s good-natured prodding, I stomped back to my room to find that exact fucking phone of which he reminded me. No longer would I be forced to decide upon such a ridiculous choice, and phrase. Instead my options now were of where and how to acquire enough rounds of some quality ammo, and the roughly equivalent hooker [one: Amber Shanahan] as well. While searching, I noticed that I seemed to be running a bit low on Jackals. Where the fuck was that phone? Ah, there it was, in my spare shoe pile, in the corner. I had stashed it quickly away that time, and forgotten it in all this drudgery. But now, it seemed my problems were about to be solved. Armed with the phone, and the bottle, another trip to the market was called for. I rushed out to it.

First, it was finally Larry-time. Time to pay the leering piper. Exchange a bone or two with him.

Get rid of this fucking phone. I don’t particularly need or want it, but this guy definitely would. It was all favors for favors. Exchanges involving money had become “bad news.” Bones, or credit, something you agree upon to do for some other fucker [rendered at an acceptable time/occasion] were the current currency. Larry of course probably didn’t have any bullets himself, but he was likely owed by another who did [at least I was fucking hoping.] Please let this geezer keep to a minimum of squawking. Just tell me what I need to know, old man. I sought out his stall and after explaining what I wanted, I implored him, with the absolute utmost of urgency, “Listen Larry, just tell me who the fucking guy is, and where to find him, please. Thank you very fucking much.” Yes, thanks, asshole. Saying “thank you” to people in the ZOMBPOC [my newest revision] isn’t the same as saying you trusted them. Still, I always made it a point to thank the fuckers whom I thought were completely, well…as I said. I thanked everyone, actually. My point, however, remains.

I found the fucker’s stall Larry had directed me to and explained the deal. I cashed in Larry’s owed favor for a three-quarters box of top-tier Renders rounds. Where this Mr. Box O’ Bullets had got these babies from and how he had managed to keep them so far (he must’ve owed Larry a big fucking bone) I had no fucking clue, but when I thanked him, I meant it more sincerely than I had throughout the day so far. With that complete, I set about seeing if I could gobble up some more Jacks from someone or somewhere before moving onto the next stage of byzantine bone bartering.

A stop by Strizzy’s was pretty much obligatory. I considered trading the booze back to him, that’d be fucking hilarious, but actually he had a better idea. This was one major reason I kept up my dealings with this fucker; it usually paid off. The count of times I had to inform him what a serious fucking caffeine fiend he is was probably as innumerable now as my zombo no-shit reminders. Over another cup of what I had to admit, was damn fine coffee he had here in the ZOMBPOC, Strizzy laid out the plan. The election was rapidly approaching ahead, and some of Kelly’s underlings were asking quite politely for citizens to support this certain Jenkins fucker. Since a bullet was as good as gun to me, now that I had both, I quickly agreed. Get on with the fucking show.

Next step was to get the most bones worth out of the Ripps. Strizzy again had the answer, and it involved dealings with Kelly and co. Since one of their “establishments” was a hotbed for local activity, it would be fucking beneficial to all to share the wealth, for once. Sunny, Al , and his crew of cohorts had their system precisely defined and refined so they could most efficiently track your bones, and time on the girls. With my record, and since Capt. Ripps was in fact, as I have noted earlier, well-known for being fucking good shit, [and Strizzy being the superbly slimy salesman he is] Al and co. had agreed that it was worth a solid uninterrupted hour’s worth of “my girl’s” time. Plus twenty bones worth of credit to start. More than fucking fair. So I acquiesced, for once.

With everything in its right place and all transactions accounted for, I could now head into the main event-- Al’s All Singing-All Dancing (And Gaming) Playhouse. It was a converted old church hall, the perfect place to restore the saloon-style resort of yore. Just inside the doors there was a sign that read:

Registered Whores and Gambling Gentlemen, Only

See Al or doorman

Beyond this point: there is no: Zombs, fighting, dying, or killing, etc.!

This means you!!! Take it outside, asshole!

A guy named C. Dog happened to the working door tonight. He also fulfilled the role of bouncer and maître d’. I believe he was another known “cousin” of Al’s. He wrote up the bone note for me and sat me at one of the dusty, musty, felt tables. I started with a wager of five and rolled the shells. Come on you bastard…fuck! All zomboheads. A fucking fail. I placed ten on a second try and rolled again. This time—victory! Humans rule! And this one wins! Zombos can suck it! I began to order drinks. One complimentary, spiked with some of my own former rum [tasting richly of irony] while I tossed the shells and won and lost bones back and forth for a bit, in the miniature battle game version of Us. Vs. Them. I was still trying to somehow convince Al and the rest to call it “Humans Rule!” but they wouldn’t. They did however, let me yell it out fairly fucking frequently, or whenever I won. After a bit, I had had enough of rolling for Us Against Them, [haven’t we all, though, at some point?] and was ready to see Amber-fucking-Shanahan. She was surely ready for fucking me.

Upstairs, in her room, my last brew was rapidly un-cooling while a half-smoked Jackal slowly burned itself out from an ashtray resting on her candlelit bedside stool. But I didn’t really mind all that much, as Amber’s tits more than made up for that. Her ass too. What a fucking ass. This girl, was definitely top fucking class. Double barrel. Double kill. The guns and the bullets, buddy. Best of both worlds. Fully loaded six-shooter in your fucking face, with fucking fireworks.

She lay mostly naked next to me now. I feasted my sight upon her gorgeous, glossy, gleaming auburn hair, and pale, supple skin. Hidden in her body’s nooks and crannies, like Easter eggs, were the most adorable fucking freckles. She tasted and smelled ever so slightly of a sickly sweet flavor of vanilla. Amber was oddly nuts about bed-biting too, often leaving bunches of bruises on my arms. Her eyes sparkled and glimmered hazily between shades of aquamarine and emerald-green, that I could never quite remember which they really were afterwards. When they looked into me, they said, “Hunt…? I’m gonne fucken eat ye’ alive…” It was infinitely better than the zombo alternative.

Yes, Amber was a truly magnificent bitch. Whatever it was that we may [or may not] have shared together during these times, it kept me going. And definitely this fucking time. If the zombos got me, my last thought would be of her. Or fucking her. Possibly they would just be, “Fffuuuuccckkk mmmeeeeeeee…” Only one way to find out. But here and now, I was lending my ears towards her lilting voice, and burying myself in her bosom, praising it, as her words floated out from her delightfully dimpled mouth. I could never really tell for sure if her accent was real. She once “secretly” told me her actual surname was “Winters,” but, that she was truly Irish. Either way, I fucking liked it. It was soothing in a hauntingly melodic and familiar way. Quite the opposite of the zombos’ horking hit single. How I hated their “song.” But conversely, how now I loved Amber’s tight little thong [the pair decorated with dancing, yes, unicorns. Whom, as I told her it appeared to me, were not riding on top of, but rather, shitting out, rainbows.] At least the zombos still had that going for them. The color of her underwear perfectly complimented that of her ever-shifting irises. Green, or blue? Goddamn!

Indeed, all of Amber Shanahan’s [or Winters’] womanly ways and many sensuous charms were well worth the parting with of my beloved booze [Farewell, Capt. Ripps! Bon voyage, sir! I hope he understands.] And the cost of tossing shells [also, I suppose my pledged support to Strizzy and his minions for…who the fuck was it again? Jenkins! Right?] Though women may be the fucking rake in a place like this; [all the other girls fucked more or less the same. Imagine being asked to describe your favorite flavor of sprinkle, what’s the fucking difference?] a certain Ms. Shanahan-Winters could rake the fuck out of me, any day. Sometimes, she did.

The hour went fast. Just fucking fast enough. Enough fucking, was eventually, enough. Amber was fan-fucking-tastic though, make no mistake. Mark my words, and rest fully assured, of that. We shared a few more of the Jackals I had managed to snatch earlier, throughout. She was one person in the ZOMBPOC that could convince me to willingly part with them. Not many people could get away with that. But as always, sooner rather than later, we had to sweetly and sorrowfully part ways, Amber Shanahan [Winters] and I.

“Time te’ go, love-y. Off with ye’ now,” she said with her signature wink and crazy kitten smile, as she rolled out of bed to scurry me out of her room. She could be so very fucking cute in her casual callousness, as well. Like all great whores, she was deceitful, manipulative, and heartless-- possessing an astoundingly cruel beauty. It was why I may have fucking loved her. At the very least, it was definitely why I loved fucking her. Time for me to go, Love-y. But I shall return, at a point in the very near fucking future. Have no doubt of that. At the end of the day, the unavoidable fact remained that we all had jobs to do. Additional remaining facts: Zombos don’t shit. And They have not got me yet. There is truly no fucking peace for the wicked.

I trudged back downstairs and traded back five of the remaining bones on my note for a final drink. I happened to run into a Watch guy on the way out. I traded whatever else I had left to him and told him keep me in mind. He mumbled something about Jenkins and I hastily nodded, promptly thanked him for the reminder. I’d heard through the [Strizzy] grapevine that there was an open tower spot via some very bad fucking shit going down. I never had anything against the guy who gave it up, I’m guessing unwillingly. But I still had high hopes for eventual life in the ZOMPOC, and I thought it best to keep my options open.

After departing Al’s Playhouse for the night, almost all of my personal interest tasks were crossed off the list. The plot was close to being concisely wrapped up into a pretty little package. My destination had moved to the final planned stop for this night. Along the way, I paused to add a few variations of phrases that Amber and I had thought up to the wall art. It was another pastime of ours, during breaks, as she might say, “from ‘tweens’t th’ fucken’ sheeets.” I quickly scribbled: You can't give a blowjob to a dickless zombo! [Mine.] And added: What about handjobs to (H)armless! [Hers.] My personal top pick however: Go lick a zombo’s ass! At least it won’t taste like shit! But I digress. This was mere distraction. There was one last thing to do.

Sneaking over to the spot of my faithful and trusty “Fuck You” sign, [true friend] I thanked it for being there still. I then lit up one more Jackal. Had to fucking smoke, right fucking now. I peered out over the gap and listened. That noise. That fucking noise. It has to stop. But it cannot, will it? It will never fucking stop. Fat fucking chance. Not fucking likely. That'll be the goddamned day. Not a fucking chance in ZOMBPOC hell, will that noise, ever stop.

Same with the council. First that older guy, now this Jenkins fool [even though Strizzy said he was solid, so maybe he’s not such a scumbag after all. It remains to be seen] I just wanted to get some fucking peace and quiet. But both they and the zombos kept saying, “NOOOOOOO.” [Well, not the zombos verbatim, but…] They would not, in fact, could not, ever fucking relent. They were incapable of it. Did not know the fucking meaning of. I would have said, “Fuck ‘em all! Let God sort ‘em out! Because I can’t take this shit anymore!” But, it seems, in the ZOMBPOC, neither could God. Either he quit, or he got fucking fired for being incompetent. Goddamn zombos ran ‘Em right ‘outta business. Whichever, seems now it’s fallen on me do the job at hand.

I steadied my rifle, with its freshly inserted Renders, and held it at the ready. Exhaled some smoke then tossed the Jackal. In that moment, I focused all my annoyance at the recent drudgery. How none of it approached what could be considered even close to any kind of fucking fun, at all. And in that second, I decided that: I have had it up to fucking here, with all this shit! Never, ever, is this shit going to fucking fly! Not on my time, buddy! Not in my fucking ZOMBPOC!

I fired the shot off. A split-second later, I was satisfied as all hell to see it score a direct headshot. The round sprayed the zombo’s brains and bloodshit all over the side of a far part of the outer wall. POW, motherfucker. Gained the lead. Practice makes fucking perfect, it would appear. Now, for real, that’s enough. The steam has been let off, in every possible way. All out of steam, for now. Time to head back to base for bed [and maybe a shot of the dwindling Hydra.] So long, and thanks to the ZOMBPOC for all the fucking zombos, for headshots with Renders, and last but definitely not least, for girls like fucking-Amber-Winters/Shanahan.

Volume 5: A Midday Connoiter

2010-10-01T03:21:00.000-04:00

A Midday Connoiter
by Steven Ormosi

That’s mighty kind of you gentlemen, mighty kind. Since you’re walking me out of this rat trap, I might as well tell you the story of the time I rode a Killer Whale from California to Hawaii.

What? Sick of my bullshit stories? Well that’s just plain rude is what it is. First off, not a single story I’ve ever told is bullshit. There may be a little embellishment, sure, but they’re always rooted in the surreal and sad reality we’ve all faced and if you don’t believe that, well you’re no better than the gloomy ostrich stickin’ its head in the sand. Luckily my brother ain’t as judgmental as you two or I’d surely be dead by now. You know, I was told he’s sending me out on an expedition into the wilderness. Most likely I’ll be seeing more whacked out scenes than I bargained for out there. I tell you what, when I get back, I’ll regale you guys with all new stories of the great unknown. Maybe you’ll learn to appreciate people that have seen more than you.

You’re right, probably not. But I’ve never given up on anyone yet, and I never will. People need to hear these things. The news needs to spread somehow. No internet anymore, hell we don’t even have a telegraph. It’s word of mouth again, the simplest answer. That Occam fella knew what he was talking about.

Anyway, it looks like this is where I get off. Thanks again, it’s been a real pleasure talking to you. I hope you don’t hold a grudge for me saying this, and it’s no offense meant to you, but I’ll be glad if this is the last time I ever see this place. Now it’s off to connoiter with my kin. I do believe he’s asked to see me personally.

Oh, don’t give me that shit. It is most certainly a word. If it wasn’t, how would one ever reconnoiter? Honestly. Goodbye.

---------------------------------------------------------

Brother, so good to meet you at last. I’m sure you have questions, but let’s stow those for a while. I’ve got much I need to tell you.

First and foremost, I’d like to thank you for saving me from a fate worse than death, the pomp and circumstance of an execution. As much as I love being the guest of honor, I hate somber parties and if I had to make a walk while everyone was giving me their serious, angry face I would have flat out freaked. I’ll tell you right now that I didn’t kill those children. I never would. Children are our future. You don’t have to believe me yet, though. I know we’ve only just met. So, let me tell you a little about myself.

I was raised by our father in Massachusetts. It was a normal childhood for the most part. He remarried and didn’t have much time for me, so I spent most of my early years exploring the town we lived in. I think that’s where I picked up my penchant for vagabonding. There were so many secret places that I knew. I befriended a small group of the town kids and we would just scoot around town all day long playing games, tag, hide and seek, and so on. Naturally, because of my afore mentioned surveying, I always won. I actually spent a day and a half stuck in a small tunnel, hiding from the seeker, a red haired boy named…oh what the devil was his name? It doesn’t matter, we all called him Red, anyway.

Later, in high school, all of my exploration afforded me the prime hideouts for drinking and smoking a little reefer as everyone knows is a beloved past time of all high schoolers. We would sit for hours in a deserted section of the town park, just getting high and talking about what we would do when we grew up. Once, we were on a water tower and a good friend of mine fell off and hit his head. He didn’t die, but he was never the same. He would just mutter for hours, always the same thing. “I’m Peter Pan, I’m Peter Pan.”

Please, brother, Ed, don’t interrupt. I know you’re the mayor now, but I’ve been thinking about what I’d say to you for a long time and I just want to get this all off of my chest. Where was I? Oh yes.

Then we grew up. People went to college. Others got jobs. Some of them got married and had little kiddos of their own. That wasn’t for me. I left.

Dad died a year later. I was in London, barely surviving and couldn’t even afford the trip back. I’m told it was a nice, small funeral. I spent years, puttering about Europe and Asia. Never knowing what I was looking for. Maybe I wanted to be Peter Pan, too. Maybe I just wanted to go to Neverland. Not Jacko’s though. That guy was a few pages short of a novel, if you know what I mean. Anyway, I saw lots of things. Things most people wouldn’t believe. In fact I was being told I’m a bullshitter just before I came in here. I’m not a bullshitter though Ed, people just don’t want to believe what doesn’t fit into their worldview. They’ll believe that a man can walk on the moon, but not that a man can move things with his mind. Short sighted, is what it is. Everything evolves, Ed, everything.

I came here to look for more answers. I’m sure you heard the report from the sheriff or whoever that was that took my statement. You saved my life. You were my god from the machine. I thank you for that, from the bottom of my heart. And I’m more than willing to go out there, into the untamed wilds to see what I can see for you, because you’re my brother and that’s what brothers do. They help each other.

When I was in Australia, there was a man who came back to life after being dead for nearly a day. It was hailed as a miracle. When he woke up, he said that he’d been given visions of a plague that would destroy the world. The doctors just attributed it to brain damage, but I believed him. I believed him because after experiencing something impossible, one has earned the right to speak one’s mind. Don’t you think? Anyway, it looks like he was right. I wonder if he’s still alive. Probably not, most people only get one miracle. The sad thing is, the vast majority of us don’t even notice it when it happens.

Anyway, I went and spoke with him afterwards and he told me that he knew there would be one final bastion of humanity, where we made a stand. He told me to seek my kin. I thought he just meant fellow human beings at the time, you know, a vague reference to the brotherhood of mankind or similar drivel, but now I know that he meant you. And thank god for that.

I had some dark thoughts while I was rotting in that cage, Ed. Contemplating your own mortality will do that, I guess. But listen, the one thing that got me through was that I knew you’d save me from the pain. I knew you were here and you wouldn’t let me go down for something that I didn’t do. I won’t sugar coat it, I have done some bad things in my life. I killed a man once, for money. I shot him right between the eyes because he was cheating on his wife and she offered me twenty grand to do it. I’m not that guy anymore, though. I never took pleasure in doing those things, but I did what was necessary to survive. Like we all did when the end came. Only difference is, I needed to survive earlier than that.

So, brother mine, I will go and face down the beasts for you. I will help make this world safe again in whatever way I can, because now we’re fighting for everyone’s survival, not just our own. That’s something that makes a man humble. It’s something that I can get behind.

Speaking in confidence, which I think I can do with you, I’m not sure we’ll be very successful on this mission. What is there out there for us anymore? I think we’ll be met with fire and brimstone. Hell on Earth is all that waits outside the gates of our humble paradise. But we must be optimistic, right? It’ll be a cold day in Texas when I don’t wake up with a smile on my head just because I’m alive. Optimistic realism, that’s what that is. The optimists die for lack of preparedness and the realists die for lack of hope. Combine them both and you’ve got me. I toe the line, I sit on the fence, and I realize that it’s the only way to survive. Now, what were you going to say, Ed?

Volume 5 release

2010-09-30T18:44:00.004-04:00

Hey everyone,

Tomorrow is the 1st of the month, marking the release of Volume 5 of Life After Death. There will be five stories: two from Steven Ormosi, one from Scott Thurlow, and a two-parter from J. Ian Manczur.

A Midday Connoiter by Steven Ormosi
-In which brothers meet and the shit is shot

The Haggard Hazards of Haggling (Zombos Pt.3) by Scott Thurlow
-In which our hero braves the trials and tribulations of post-apocalyptic bartering

Moral Dissonance by Steven Ormosi
-In which lines are made in the sand..and crossed.

Ike and Dave's Infinite Playlist of Music to Be Murdered By (Pt. 2) by J. Ian Manczur
-In which Ike and Dave philosophize guns and zombies

Ike and Dave's Infinite Playlist of Music to Be Murdered By (final) by J. Ian Manczur
-In which our heroes finally headshot some zombies while listening to groovy tunes

LAD Website Shorts: Just Another Dead

2010-09-29T16:37:00.006-04:00

Just Another Dead

by J. Ian Manczur

“Where do we go from here,” she begged, “where do we go from here?”

Do I lie to her again? Do I say everything will be ok? Do I smile sweetly? Hope that she believes me?

I smiled sweetly. “Everything will be ok,” I lied. Again. She believed me.

She cried into my chest. Soft heaves. I put the gun to her head. She didn’t feel a thing.

It was over. I took off the bookcase, it fell to the floor. I ripped off the planks, one, two. I unlatched the deadbolt. Removed the chain lock. Flipped the handle’s lock. Opened the door.

I walked out in tears, firing at ever increasing silhouettes. Five. Four. Three. Two. I turned the gun on myself. One.

Who was I? Does it matter? Just another dead. Who was anyone? That girl? Someone I met. Strangers two days before. Another I lied to. That I told that everything would be ok. That I smiled sweetly for, hoping that she believed me. Just another dead.

LAD Website Shorts: Zombies 101

2010-09-28T14:32:00.001-04:00

Zombies 101
by Steven Ormosi

“They’re not zombies, how many times do I have to tell you that?”

“Well then what are they, Val?”

“I have no idea, but they’re not zombies. Zombies are dead slaves of Voodoo priests and priestesses, dude. These things obviously don’t serve anyone, they just eat people. Also, zombies can’t turn others into zombies, only the living can create a zombie.”

Zip rolled his eyes, “Listen, I’ve watched like a hundred zombie flicks. These things are straight out of 28 Days Later.”

Val rubbed her temples, “How can I explain this to you any more clearly? Those were not zombies, these are not zombies. Romero stole the word and made it mean something completely different than was originally intended. Didn’t you ever see White Zombie?”

“No,” Zip admitted.

“I thought you were some big horror film fan. Well, it’s a movie from the 30’s. It’s about real zombies. The ones made from crazy rituals.”

“So…that still doesn’t answer my question. What are these things?”

“I don’t know, but they’re a lot closer to vampires than zombies. They feast on human flesh. They transform anyone they bite. The only difference is that they seem to be dumber than a bag of hammers and they don’t have the usual weaknesses. But those always seemed made up anyway. I mean, vamps are allergic to sunlight, garlic, can’t see themselves in mirrors? That’s retarded. It’s like someone said, ‘Damn, these things are way too badass, I’ve got to lame them up a little bit.’”

“Ok, so they’re basically unstoppable, dumb shit vampires. How does that help us get out of this hole?”

Val paused for a moment, then sighed, “It doesn’t at all. We’re fucked. We’re going to die down here. But at least you won’t die ignorant.”

“I’m not dying down here,” Zip said, crawling toward the exit, “Come on you vampire bastards! Let’s see what you got!”

Seconds later there was a scream and then a sickening snap. A trickle of blood seeped into the entrance and Val heard a low pitched gurgling. She shifted her body back as far as she could into the blackness as the thing approached. She tried to keep her breathing steady, but the fear and anticipation turned it quick and ragged. A tear rolled down her face as she braced for her next life.

Poetry: Not 'Til Now

2010-09-27T10:16:00.000-04:00

Not ‘Til Now

by Steven Ormosi

You were just a monster ‘til now

Now you don’t drink all the time

Now you don’t hit me

Now you don’t hit mommy

Now you don’t get angry

Now you just get hungry

Now people protect us from you

Now we have a fence to guard us

Now the neighbors come over to make sure we’re ok

Now I don’t have to lie to them

Now I can sleep at night

Now I can remember your good parts

Now I can love you.

Poetry: Bad Sun on the Rise

2010-09-27T10:11:00.000-04:00

Bad Sun on the Rise

by Steve Ormosi

After the sun breaks the horizon

Is when it really sets in

No more hope in a new day

No more excitement that the light brings

(Brought)

And I can’t help but wonder

Where our history went

The people we knew

The chances we took on them

Gone, now.

There is only me left

Solop-static and teary eyed

All that’s left now

Are my dreams of that grave future,

Are my nights before the dawn.

Poetry: Before We Came to This Place

2010-09-20T09:55:00.002-04:00

Before We Came to This Place

by Kathryn Ormosi

Y’know,

I can almost pretend that things are just the way they should be

When I wake up in the morning

I still revel in the last, dreamy bits

of sleep

in that euphoric moment

when the world is fresh

and waiting to be explored again.

Sometimes, I can even make it through breakfast

as the first swallow of coffee

hot and sweet

makes me glad to be alive.

Somewhere around the fifth spoonful of oatmeal

I realize

it tastes like a mouthful of glue.

and that is when

I start to remember.

There will be no exploring, no driving for hours

to find the finest ocean beach

the hidden mountain creek

the tiny yellow flowers in that meadow down south.

I am here.

Captive.

Unless of course, I run the gauntlet

of creatures.

Creatures who, formerly, ate oatmeal

and swallowed great satisfying mouthfuls

of hot coffee and juice and pancakes

around my table.

Creatures who, formerly, smiled

at my indignant reaction

to stories in the newspaper.

Creatures who, formerly, leaned over my kitchen sink

to wash dishes from the last night’s supper.

Of course, then, their eyes were alive with feeling,

for me.

Now they wait outside.

Just watching

for me.

I can’t let them in.

I can’t think about them.

I can’t wish it back.

I can only dream in nightmare worlds

over and over,

of the sweetness

of life

before.

Poetry: The Porch

2010-09-20T09:46:00.001-04:00

The Porch

by Kathryn Ormosi

I’ve wiped up the blood

as best I can

I’m afraid some

seeped

through the cracks

And no matter how hard I try

I can’t seem to get it all.

I know it’s there

darkening

as time goes on

but it never quite goes away.

I can’t believe

how much there was.

How it pooled

around your head

I couldn’t stop it

from coming out

You couldn’t move, I know.

But your eyes followed me

silently,

fading

with each pump of your

heart.

The gunshot took me by surprise.

I knew about the gun.

I didn’t know you were sitting out there,

each night

watching for the intruders.

I didn’t think the trigger

would be so easy to pull.

I didn’t know

how much blood

there would be.

And how

you never

quite

away.

Poetry: Legacy

2010-09-20T09:37:00.002-04:00

Legacy

by Steven Ormosi

These infected have left us undone

Expectantly waiting behind a shotgun

We’re racing and racing and racing the clock

And pacing, and thinking and acting half cocked

But before the day that they take our last

We’ll bury our dead and honor the past

One final stand will have to be made

They’ll bring their teeth, we’ll bring our blades

Though try as we will to win in this fight

They’re tirelessly working to prove might makes right

So now it’s our time to ride at the sun

And our unholy children will snatch up the crumbs.

If You Want Something Done Right: Interview Transciption

2010-09-08T13:01:00.006-04:00

J. Ian Manczur: Hi guys. Steve Ormosi.

Steven Ormosi: (waves) How are ya?

Ian: And Scott Thurlow.

Scott Thurlow: (nods) How you doing?

Ian: Alright, this is the first interview for Life After Death. Steve, you had conceptualized Life After Death. Can you explain to us the process of creating it?

Steve: Well, I had the initial idea, a long time ago, a long time ago. I mean, you know, maybe not that long , in comparison. Two or three years ago. I wanted to do a novel about zombies, but I wasn’t really ready to take on a project like that yet. Life After Death was more of a thing that I could look into all the different tropes that encompass zombie movies or post-apocalyptic movies. I could explore them all, in their own separate stories. So, I basically told you guys about it. You were both really excited about it and that’s how it kind of got started, doing this.

Scott: I just want to interject. Because we love zombies and also like to write.

Steve: Pretty much, yeah. So, we started writing the stories and the plotlines, storylines, came up out of that, out of the first ones that we did. All of our original concepts and ideas were a lot different than what we eventually came out with. I think it turned out really well. It has definitely helped, at least my writing has gotten better because of it, which I’m happy about. And hopefully it continues to get better, as we get deeper into the stories and plotlines that are developing for LAD.

Ian: Alright, Scott. How did you get involved in Life After Death?

Scott: Well, you just heard the first half of it. As Steve said, we all were kind of a little writing circle, group, if you will. We were interested in the same kind of things, in terms of literature, in terms of genres. IE: zombies, horror(general), of course, post apocalyptia. So, being that we are trying to improve ourselves, as artists and as writers, I thought it was an awesome way to start up. See where it took us. It was a pretty bumpy ride, but we saw it through.

I think, the greatest thing, as Steve said, it just helped us become better writers. We’re becoming ones, now, as we continue to work on it. And seeing, as it develops, where it takes, where we go, with characters, storylines, and settings. See how we can improve ourselves. Also, get ourselves out there as a brand. As LAD Publishing, perhaps, and we can branch out to other things. Of course, this is our main project and we are focusing on it. A lot of time and effort and research into it. See where it goes, where it takes us, and in what way.

Ian: Alright, what separates your work from the mass quantity of other zombie related material? Why should we read Life After Death over any of the others?

Steve: Well, I think a big thing is that it’s not solely a zombie book, not solely zombie stories. It’s more about the people after the zombies have already massacred and destroyed the world. So, when you see a zombie movie, a lot of times, it’s about people running away and being scared for their lives. Most people don’t stop and think: what happens to those people afterwards, they are still equally screwed. That’s kind of what we are trying to deal with. The putting back together of society, after..

Scott: The rebuilding.

Steve: Yeah. Exactly. After it’s destruction, pretty much. Seeing how people deal with that destruction, not only on their own personal level but on a societal level, as well.

Ian: Anything to add, Scott?

Scott: No, pretty much.. Actually, I think one of the lines, from one of Steve’s story, goes as such, I believe, correct me if I am wrong: “Once the apocalypse becomes mundane, world peace goes out the window.”(1) Which, I think, pretty much sums up what we are trying to explore. As he said, most of the other genres, or the other things in the genre, that you will see, read, hear about, is about people struggling, running away, it’s all just action. It doesn’t really explore how it would be like to live and try to regain humanity, itself, as a species, now that they’re fighting this threat that they never had to face before. How do you fight something like that? What’s it like to live through something like that?

I think that’s what makes LAD stand out or a little bit different from all the other zombie related things and apocalyptic related things out there. It’s that we are exploring our characters, not just fighting, well they are fighting zombies. That’s, sort of, only a little part of it. It’s not the entire thing. Not the be all, end all. So, that’s something we are trying to do, to inject our setting, our world, with a little bit of a different spin. See how that goes, and then explore our themes within that.

Ian: You mentioned characters, and how it is a character driven story. Either among your own writing, or your fellow writers writing, redundant, what are some of your favorite characters from Life After Death?

Scott: Well, I’ll go first. I am a big fan of the man behind the camera right now. He has a character named Theo, which he introduces him in the first story of issue one.(2) I think we discussed this, but it was interesting because, you as a writer did not like this character. But me as a writer, myself that is, reading the story, I sort of identified with him. So, that little interesting aside. Theo stood out, initially, as a character that I liked.

I obviously like my character, unnamed of course, from the first story.(3) The readers will get his name later on. Of course, being that it was my first character, the one I put probably the most time developing, getting a feel for, obviously I have an affinity for him, as a character.

I don’t know. I think we have more characters to come that we haven’t even seen yet, so we may surprise ourselves with what comes out.

Steve: For me, I’m always kind of self-conscious, or self-degrading, about my own stuff. So it’s tough to pick one of my characters. In terms of your guys characters, I love the Drunk.(4) He’s great. Always good for a laugh. You know, laughs are important, especially after the end of the world.

For Scott, actually, I think my favorite characters of yours, so far, is one that was introduced before, but just got his first actual story.(5) It’s Strizzy and his stall.

Scott: Oh, yes.

Steve: I like that story, I like his mindset.

Scott: Thank you, buddy.

Steve: I guess, my favorite character that I’ve written, so far, is Bruce Jenkins,(6) who is supposedly the..

Scott: He’s a good character.

Steve: ..the mayor’s brother. I don’t want to give anything away, but..

Scott: Spoiler alert!

Steve: ..that’s not necessarily confirmed.

Ian: Don’t worry, no one’s watching.

Steve: That’s not necessarily confirmed yet. A lot more stuff to come from him in the future, which should be good.

Scott: Who’s your favorite character, Ian, J. Ian Manczur?

Ian: Well, I’m not self-conscious. I love my own writing. So, I love everything I ever created.

Scott: But who’s your favorite character or a character you like?

Ian: I particularly agree with Steve, that the Drunk is perhaps one of my most brilliant creations… in all modesty.

Scott: Can you tell our no fans what the Drunk’s actual name is?

Ian: Mike Allen. Which I don’t think I… aside from my own personal commentary on my website,(7) I don’t think I’ve ever actually mentioned his full name. In fact, that might confuse people because I do mention him as Mike in this coming week’s volume 4.

Steve: I think you might have said his name. (grabs Volume 1)

Ian: I didn’t say his name in ‘The Drunk’ originally.(8)

Steve: No?

Ian: Speaking of which, you’re grabbing right now(in reference to Steve holding the magazine), not you Scott(in reference to Scott’s hands on his crotch, which he moves away with resignation), Steevo. (laughter) What are you holding right now?

Steve: This is the first volume that we..

Scott: Of Life After Death.

Steve: Right, of Life After Death, the magazine. The first two we actually put out in physical form. We have since gone to putting them up on the internet on the blog that we have. We are going to be moving websites soon, though, so look out for that. This is just the first issue. This is what I am going to be reading from today.(9)

Scott: We will all be reading excerpts from issue 1.

Steve: Right.

Ian: Is there any future… Now you mentioned that you are going from.. went from a physical magazine to an online publication. Is there any future plans to return to a physical representation of Life After Death?

Steve: Yes. In fact, I think after the sixth or possibly seventh issue, we are going to do a collected edition in kind of a novel format.

Scott: It would be more of an anthology. We were talking about rearranging the order of them a little bit. We’ll see how it goes.

Steve: Right. We’ll have to look at all that stuff when the time comes.

Scott: We are planning to put out another physical product.

Steve: We should have that. That will contain all the stories, the short stories that we have up on the website now, and the poems that we have up there as well. And I guess we are going to try to put any art that we have, which isn’t much at this point.

Scott: Ask us about art.

Steve: I don’t want to talk about art.

Ian: I don’t want to talk about art either. Any artists watching this: you suck. Just kidding, please send us stuff.

Scott: If you think you can actually do something, work with us. Let us know.

Ian: What has been the greatest difficulty in creating the magazine, speaking of art.

Scott: That. Art. Art is the greatest difficulty. I will look directly at the camera and tell you, as we all know. It was hard because it isn’t our forte, so we had to sort of wing it. We got some good results, but it took a lot of time and effort and, again, we can’t do everything, all of us at once. So, we sort of had to cut our losses. It was a good experience and I’m glad we put out two issues. They looked great. In the end, it was an amazing time, but just trying to get everything to come together, as well as being on top of the writing, editing, and everything else we were trying to do. Because, we mentioned the blog, we were still trying to set up things with that. We were trying to push it out in other ways, too. It just became more convenient to.. get it out.

Steve: Deadlines for artists have been, in my experience, kind of tough to maintain. Not only that, but doing the layout of the book. I had never done anything like that before. That was kind of a learning experience. I think it could have come out better, but at the same time it didn’t come out too badly. It’s a lot easier now that I’m not spending seven or eight hours doing that the day before I wanted it to come out.

Ian: Anything else that I, that you would like to mention?

Scott: Check out our site.

Steve: Yea, just go to the site. www.lifeafterdeath-comp.blogspot.com

Scott: Gotta remember it, but we have other ways of checking us out.

Steve: Or check us out on Facebook.(10)

Ian: Which is Life After Death, no need for a - or a comp.

Steve: Just throw in Life After Death.

Scott: Straight up Life After Death. You’ll probably see a picture of this(points to Volume 2 cover). So, you can check us out in other ways on the various internets.

Steve: All seven of them.

Scott: We also have business cards.

Ian: Hmm, yes. Well, gentlemen, thank you for your time.

Scott: Thank you, J. Ian Manczur.(nods)

Steve: Thank you.(waves)

Ian: And those of you watching us, read our shit.

Scott: Thanks for reading.

_____________________________________________________
1 Our World
2 Theo’s Story
3 All You Fucking Zombos
4 The Drunk: A Prelude of Ed’s & The Drunk’s Christmas Special
5 Fresh Grinds From Strizzy’s(Reluctantly Added, "Scummy") Stall
6 The Big “It”
7 www.smoothedcube.blogspot.com
8 I did.
9 We recorded partial audio readings of our stories from Volume 1. They will be available sometime in the future.

10 Facebook link

If You Want Something Done Right: An Interview with the Creators of Life After Death

2010-09-08T12:51:00.003-04:00

Welcome to the first ever Life After Death video feature. Do you like brain munching zombies? Yea, how about headshots? Or even better, thousands of zombies being killed in rather implausible but badass ways? Me too. That is why I am apologizing.

This is an interview. Hosted by me, J. Ian Manczur, interviewing Scott and Steve. It will be giving a little insight into the creation of Life After Death. Nothing too fancy, but if you are fans, maybe it will be something you would like to see.

WARNING: The audio is a little low, I apologize, but it is my first production.

A few solutions:
*Change the video resolution to the highest quality, maybe that will help.
* Read along with the transcript provided here.
* Turn our video into a game of mad libs and imagine what we are saying. Then, write us nasty letters about all the terrible things we said of you and question how we knew the dark secrets harbored in your subconscious.

Without further ado, Zombiepiece Theater:

Volume 4: Upon The Pondering of Arms: Nathaniel's Journeys Part 1

2010-09-06T01:55:00.001-04:00

Upon The Pondering Of Arms: Nathaniel’s Journeys Part 1
by Scott Thurlow

The first throat that Nathaniel cut did not bleed. Not that it was really blood anymore, but almost none of the stuff that usually came out, did this time. The rest of the head came off cleanly after a second slice with his short, serrated hunting knife. It glinted faintly beneath the moonlit road as he worked quietly. The dead thing he was kneeling over had lost both its arms and must’ve slowly leaked most of its bile out at some indeterminate prior point; stumbling about whatever its existence had been like before it was ended just now by Nathaniel. He briefly wondered at the circumstances that had led to its armless condition. It was helpful that it had been much easier to take down in this case. Nathaniel also wondered how this one survived for so long without the use of its limbs to prey on the living. He certainly hadn’t seen anything like it, until now. He wasn’t particularly surprised by it though.

Nathaniel wiped his knife off habitually and checked his victim’s pockets for anything of value. Empty. When he was done he stared down at the severed head. The eyes returned the look darkly, remaining unblinking and unforgiving detached from the body, as always. That was fine by him. He didn’t really forgive them either. Nathaniel stood and kicked the head away from his path before moving the stumpy corpse to the edge of the woods he had come through and continuing cautiously on the causeway.

Further up, Nathaniel guessed about a mile or two at most, he came across a couple more of the things shuffling on the side of the road and honking in short bursts to each other. Both had all their limbs intact, which was going to make his task slightly more challenging than the last encounter. He looked around for anything in the immediate environment that could possibly aid him, or trip him up if he didn’t see it before engaging the fight.

Squatting down to the side of the road behind some thick but sickly-looking scrub growth that appeared to be enjoying a stranglehold on the shallow bank, Nathaniel uncoiled a length of rope from his pack. He snipped off what he figured would be about the right length and edged closer to the two snuffling monsters. He didn’t recognize either. Not that he was expecting to, but sometimes he just never knew. It did make it that much easier to focus on the next part however.

He crawled as silently as he could towards the nearest one that had its back turned to him. The other one still honked on, but now it seemed to be hunched over something on the opposite side of the road. Nathaniel figured this was the best chance he was going to get, and sprang to action. He lunged forward and wrapped the rope around the first one’s feet, quickly tying it off before yanking on its legs. It went down with a muffled honk, slamming face first into the ground. His knife was out as he scrambled to run it cleanly and deeply enough across the back of its neck, which did ooze black filth profusely, though Nathaniel didn’t have time to watch.

The second one was now rounding to see what the commotion was and presumably why its “friend” had stopped communicating. Nathaniel braced himself for its charge. As it came at him, he stepped aside and tripped it, sending it sprawling in the ground, with a noise very much like the first had made. That was the key, he had found. Get them to the ground, remove their mobility. He grabbed a decent sized rock he had spotted earlier and moved to methodically bash it against this one’s head before it could get back to its feet. The geyser of gore that spewed forth mostly made up for the earlier missed sightings, though as always, Nathaniel tried to avoid getting too much on him.

Afterwards, he wiped himself down and glanced around, making sure it was safe to pull out his flashlight and recover his tools from the fight. Another lesson learned long ago: be thorough. He gathered the rope back up and set about checking the pockets of these two. One had a half pack of gum that was as hard as stone. The other had what appeared to be a faded, losing lottery ticket. Aside from those, neither had anything useful for Nathaniel. More junk. He sighed and set about the second part of his ritual. Nathaniel figured the ditch was as good a place as any for their true graves, as he dragged both bodies into it.

With the “burial” complete, he moved to the side of the road where he had seen the second thing crouched before the fight. Examining the patch of earth closely with his flashlight, he could now clearly see the object it had been so intensely craned over earlier. A mangled and gnawed arm lay there, decorated with some kind of tattoo that Nathaniel was unable to fully make out due to its state of extreme decay.

There was still a lot of road and night to go, and although it seemed to be fairly smooth sailing for now, Nathaniel was acutely aware that he could never know exactly when a storm might rise up out of the sea and swallow him up. He didn’t like the looks of that arm, the sight of it lying there, discarded like a used baby’s bottle, which it might as well have been. It made him uneasy, unlike anything else he had done and seen so far this night. Gazing at it was making him think back on another arm he once knew. Anna’s.

It happened roughly a week after television stopped making sense, and the day after Anna had taken a turn for the worse over the previous night. By then there were hardly any more rumors and garbled government warnings and instructions coming out. Most of the people left in their town had boarded up their homes into miniature, picketed fenced fortresses, lined like sentinels up and down the street. Nathaniel and Anna had been no exception. Before that, they had heatedly talked about whether or not they should leave, evacuate, like it was at first being advised to do, or stay and hold out against whatever might be coming their way. Nathaniel and Anna were as uncertain as everyone else in town on the issue.

“But where to?” Nathaniel had said, over their seemingly endless debates before the day.

“I know we’ve heard they’re quarantining, or trying to I guess, somewhere, but we haven’t heard much of anything else. The closest one is supposedly a hundred miles away, and there’s no telling what they’re really going to do to us. Or be like. And besides…” On and on. While Anna would constantly respond that, “surely someone was doing something about ‘all this’.” They went back and forth like this each day before going to bed, restless but thankful for each other.

It was about nine-thirty in the morning that day, when they suddenly heard a crashing of garbage cans and muffled voices outside their lovely light lavender home. Nathaniel looked over, not expecting to see Anna out of bed yet. The night before she was tossing and turning for hours before finally settling down. She didn’t look too well still, but he thought that her being on her feet was perhaps an encouraging sign.

“Sounds like something’s… going on…down the street,” she slurred. “Maybe help…or some news about …anything…finally…” She stumbled over to the door as Nathaniel nervously followed and embraced her in the doorway, halting her.

“Hey. Wait. Just be careful. Take it easy, Ann. Maybe you should have some water or something first. You don’t look so well. We don’t know even what’s going on, we probably should wait…” She shrugged limply out of his arms without a word and opened the door to step out, heading towards the sounds of the commotion. Nathaniel followed suit behind as Anna led him partly into the street in the direction of the disturbance. No amount of news coverage description or any other kind of second-hand account or wild imaginings could have prepared him for what he was about to witness.

The first group of people he recognized were their neighbors, the Hardy family, from two houses down. They were a slightly older married couple named John and Amy, joined by their older son, Charlie. All three chased the younger Hardy boy, Jason, across their yard and into the street in something akin to a ludicrously aggressive, reverse game of tag. Upon catching Jason, John, Amy and Charlie Hardy began to greedily consume him. Nathaniel yelled unintelligibly, and very loudly, a reflex, just then at the horribly surreal scene that was now playing out before them. Which was to be the beginning of the end.

As soon as they finished chewing on poor Jason, they rose up and began advancing on Nathaniel and Anna, who herself was now faltering and stumbling quite a bit with every step. The three Hardys however, happily united as a family in their gruesome game, were eager for another round. Nathaniel was yet composed enough to grab Anna’s hand and start pulling her as rapidly as he could back across the street towards their driveway, supporting what now felt like her full weight. The Hardys hurriedly followed in their footsteps.

He made it back just to the edge of their driveway before the herd of hunting Hardys caught up and pounced on Anna, ripping her from Nathaniel’s grip as she shrieked. They dragged her down by the back of her pretty flower-patterned green dress and throttled her gurgled scream as they tore her into her like dogs would a raw bloody steak. Disturbingly, it resembled almost exactly the manner that had befallen Jason. Horrifyingly hypnotizing; morbidly mesmerizing in its brutal efficiency. Charlie seemed to be especially enjoying the feast, munching gluttonously on Anna’s left arm. Munch. Munch. Munching. Crunching and chomping away at it like it was his favorite, most delicious snack in the whole world. That was the thing that paralyzed Nathaniel with absolute unspeakable dread, utterly freezing him and rendering him unable to move or think as he saw it happening. Incapable of deciding in favor of either fight or flight, he could only simply watch in numbing fright. Then in a flash, that part inside him realized that he had only those two choices: start moving again or succumb to the same fate in seconds. He chose.

Other events had been unfolding out in the streets and yards of their (no longer) quiet town during this short time. More people, neighbors, workers from local stores, school teachers, were coming out of their houses. They were being followed or led by one another in what would have been a comically fast paced chase of circles, were it not for the excessive violence involved when one caught up to another and put a grisly end to it.

Tears were streaming uncontrollably down Nathaniel’s face as he dashed the final feet to the car as fast as he could. He could hear the Hardys getting up again to start their abhorrent chase, with him now their target, and let out another animal yelp. As if in gross response, they too all started to make noise. He wasn’t sure if it was at him, or each other, or both, and he did not want to know. But the noise went on, got louder, as they all joined in and got closer. It was the most horrible sound Nathaniel had ever heard in his entire life.

He fumbled with the keys but managed to get them out and slam the door behind him as he fell into the relative safety of the driver’s seat. He found himself besieged then by the various people he knew throughout his life, singly focused on the idea of devouring him and probably everyone else left alive in the neighborhood for breakfast. Foremost amongst them were the recently revenant Hardys (from two houses down) and Anna. Sweet, adorable Anna. His Anna. Their grating voices croaking outside the car window jolted Nathaniel to action as he thrust the keys in and started up the engine. He backed recklessly out of the driveway, hitting one of them on the way, Amy it looked like, which made him start crying even harder.

Before Nathaniel had a chance to pull away down the street, he looked out to the last vision he would ever have of his town, and of Anna. The front of her dress was stained darkly from the bites at her neck while her mauled arm appeared as if it had been dipped in tar or grease. She was at the head of the small crowd that was converging on his car, joining those who had suffered the fate of the Hardys, and billions of others now throughout the world.

She looked out at him distantly with cold, cold, eyes, which were also still so very, very, blue, and now hopelessly gone. They would never again be the shining stars Nathaniel had always told Anna they were to him. He forced himself to turn away and jammed on the gas pedal while frantically wiping the tears from his own (very much alive) eyes. Then, with no room for other thoughts, he sped off and kept driving far, far away, for a long, long time, finally stopping to bawl some more before collapsing into a fretful sleep. He had locked himself in his car on the side of what he fearfully hoped was a safe enough section of whichever road he was on. He could not think of or bring himself to do anything else at the time.

After that Nathaniel drove in a daze for miles and days on end. Stopping surreptitiously to check stores and gas stations, any place nearby on the road that seemed like it might offer shelter or supplies. He also found a few nightmarish surprises. He would sleep always locked away, silent and hidden, under the layers of blankets in the back seat of his car. Then it was back to driving. Nathaniel decided to only drive in one direction, east, away, ever away. Away from his former life in his former small town and former neighbors, the Hardys, and former girlfriend, Anna (thinking about her was like running a razor across his brain, so he tried not to do it often. Though it was difficult at times.) All of whom had eaten and made a wreck of everything he knew. He cried profusely along the way, alternating it with bouts of furious, blinding rage (spent punching the seats until his fists hurt too much or he got too tired to continue) that he had previously not thought himself capable of.

A multitude of other events had transpired during and since that time of endless driving, but they were far too many for Nathaniel to think about or remember as clearly as the one that had just come to him in that moment, staring down at the arm in the dead of night. He decided he was no longer going to look at it or dwell on it, or any other arms, and what they did or did not mean, or might or might not have meant. Instead, he walked away and despite the night’s activities was slightly less wearied. It wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been, all in all.

Sometime recently the city he heard about was where he decided he’d head next, and though Nathaniel knew it was still a ways to go, at the present moment it was as if he were being carried to it on the invisible tide. Nathaniel found himself sensing that, just as it was impossible to tell when the gale storms would begin to batter, likewise sometimes a perfect calm will arise out of nowhere and settle. He sailed serenely onwards, always watchful. He kept a pace that allowed the rest of this night’s journey to seem to at once take forever, and no time at all.

Volume 4: The Drunk's Christmas Special

2010-09-05T00:26:00.002-04:00

THE DRUNK'S CHRISTMAS SPECIAL

The Adventures of Schmoopy and Other Tales from the 23rd Floor

By J. Ian Manczur

“And that, kiddos, is how I killed zombified Santa Claus and took over as the new Santa.” Mike turned to his assemblage, a baker’s dozen of ten year olds. “Yes, what do you want?”

“Doesn’t Santa Claus wear red?”

“Red was the color of the old regime, besides red is a communist color. Do you know what communism is, kiddos? No, well it doesn’t really matter anymore. I had all the elves vote and we chose Hawaiian shirts. Why? Because I firmly believe in the wondrous tenets of democracy, through a federal constitutional republic, and you should too. Those tenets chose, or dare I say demanded, that Hawaiian style shirts be worn. I guess it’s not really Christmas-y per se, but I do have the big bushy beard. And presents! Snickers, Butterfingers, Baby Ruth, Charleston Chew…I‘m keeping that for myself. Here, kid, have this Hershey kiss instead. Alright, glasses, what do you want?”

“Mom told me Santa Claus wasn’t real.”

“Santa? Not real? I’m right here.” Mike backhanded the kid across the face. “That real enough for you, you little shit? Give me that candy bar back and get the fuck outta here. Here, tubby, you look like you would enjoy this. You, the ugly one.”

“I..”

“No, not you, the ugly, fat girl next to you.” Tears welled in the girl’s eyes and she ran away crying. Mike turned to the original responder. “Fine, what were you going to say, Scrappy Doo.”

“My name’s Billy.”

“From here on out, it’s Scrappy Doo, got that children? Santa deems it so.”

“Will you finish the story that you started last night?”

“And that is why you are Scrappy Doo, because you are an ungrateful little monstrosity of a child. You’ll just have to wait for Uncle Ike’s big birthday bash tonight to find out what happens to him, Uncle Dave and Jack. But, I will let you in on a secret, one of the three dies.”

A group of adults rounded the corner. “Hey Mike, keeping the children entertained?”

“You know it. All set up for the bonfire tonight?”

“Oh yea, almost time to get blitzed. See you later, Mike.”

“Catch you later, Dave. So where was I?”

Scrappy Doo spoke up. “You were telling us why you weren’t telling us the story.”

“No, no, I finished with that. You, glasses, wait, I‘m naming you Sherman, you pasty ginger asshole. Now, what is it?”

“Mom told me that we shouldn’t listen to any of your stories. That you lacked morals and smelled like a hobo.”

“And who is your mother, Sherman?”

“Caitlyn.”

“Caitlyn…” Mike laughed. “Well, she may have the right to criticize my hygiene, but MORALS? Bah, I’ll talk to her about morals the next time I catch her on her knees out back of Ed’s.”

One of the girls rose her hand. “What does ’on her knees’ mean?”

“Well, darling, that means Sherman’s mother is a dirty prostitute. Anyway, if she thinks my stories have no morals, I’ll give her one with plenty of morals. This is a story of what it means to be an American. This story is about freedom, self-determination, and gratuitous nudity. This is the story of Simon.”

It was a wonderful time to be alive. Everyone else was dead, all the people that had pissed him off and what a list that was. Simon had the amazing ability of immediately finding a damning flaw in almost every person he had ever met. Those who escaped his keen eye for wickedness usually proved themselves equally worthy of demise within five minutes of conversation.

Yet, even in his revelry that the entire rest of humanity was gone, Simon knew that it was mostly speculative. The only death he was entirely sure of was that of the ugly Ms. Aberdash’s prized dog Schmoopy. Simon didn’t know the breed of dog Schmoopy belonged to, but he did know it was small, loud and had the penchant to poop in his doorway. He hated that dog and when he realized that Ms. Aberdash was most likely dead, he took his revenge. Kicking in her apartment door, which was next to his, he found Schmoopy lying in her bed. Probably knowing his intent, and with equal hostility, Schmoopy went for the ankles. It was a daring attack, but the dog soon found itself launched off the 23rd story balcony to the streets below.

In celebration of his victory, Simon threw all of his own clothes off the balcony. He had long before decided that nudity was natural and that should the opportunity arise to live naked for the rest of his life, he would take it. It seemed to Simon that the time had come. He had only been clothed in order to appease those who had demanded he wear clothes. They were dead now, so their rules, their laws, no longer applied.

Before, he had to be careful about his public nudity. Yes, there were the occasional opportunities at the nude beach, but it was a long drive away. Simon’s public nudity had been mostly regulated to the locker room of the local gym after his biweekly swimming sessions. No more, though, his buttocks was for the world to see. Simon was the only person left alive. It was now his place to make the rules. The new rule, the new law, would be everyone had to be naked.

He decided to announce his decision from the balcony. After all, weren’t all great moments of history shouted from balconies? With furious declaration, Simon shouted to the world, “I’m naked!” The zombies had no opinion on the matter.

A distant “SHUT UP” echoed through the streets. Damn, someone else survived.

It didn’t matter, though, they, and a likely clothed they, were probably on a lower floor than he. Simon had the height, Simon had the higher balcony, Simon had the rule of law. They would have to listen to him and be naked too. Then, Simon came to a realization. There were a number of other high-rises in the area. If they were even on the 24th floor of another apartment block, then Simon would have to be clothed once again. That wasn’t going to happen, he needed to be proactive.

Gathering what goods he cared to keep, which were few, Simon climbed the stairs to the top floor of his apartment building, the 25th floor. The likelihood of any other survivor having a higher floor than the 25th was nigh impossible.

Upon reaching the pinnacle of his lawmaking career, Simon had a very difficult choice to make. There were two apartments on the 25th floor. Although he had already decided on occupying the whole floor, for how could he risk having another live on the same level, he still needed to choose between his living quarters and his office as president of the world.

He sat in the hallway between the two, deciding with the grave importance of a man whose job it was now to make grand decisions on things, whether to live in the apartment that sat opposite or the same as the one he had until ten minutes ago lived in. The deciding factor ended up being the view from his apartment, one that he would sorely miss. At first, it seemed obvious that he would choose the apartment on the same side that his old apartment was on, which he had lived in not thirty minutes ago. Then, came the realization that he would be spending the majority of his days legislating and proclaiming his will; so let it be written, so let it be done. Only nights would be spent in his living quarters. Thus, it was finally decided to take the apartment that sat opposite the building of the apartment that he had lived in previously, fifty-six minutes ago.

What a choice it was, too, the apartment was unlocked for him. Upon entering, Simon was surprised to find five men who all looked surprisingly similar staring at him. He couldn’t quite comprehend why the five men were sitting in his apartment, but he was too worried about the ramifications to say anything meaningful. Meanwhile, the men were also dumbfounded by the sudden appearance of a rather naked man in their threshold.

After a rather long and rather awkward pause, one of the men asked, “Why are you naked?”

“Why aren’t you naked? It’s the law!” Simon quickly fled. He had debated fighting them for the right of presidency, but he had only one gun, which was downstairs, while three of the men had already pulled guns while the other two went for theirs. He could no longer stay in his apartment building. It wouldn’t be long before the men demanded Simon wear clothes and he could have sworn that they owned a cat, and he hated cats more than he hated ugly Ms. Aberdash’s stupid dog Schmoopy. People who own cats could not be trusted.

His next law was going to outlaw pets of all kinds, except birds. The only place he could think to go was the hospital. It was the tallest building in New Shroudsburg and Simon doubted anyone would be living in the hospital. From there, no one could challenge his rule. His only stop on his way out was to pick up his trusty cat-killing rifle and a rather large stick that had caught his fancy one day. Simon left his apartment, his sanctuary on the 23rd floor, to brave the new world, naked.

“And what do you think of that, kiddos?” The chaos of children in front of him sat still, unsure of what to make of Mike’s story. “Fine then, but you must admit there are at least two, probably more, morals to that story.”

“I‘m confused.”

“Sherman! Jesus Chris..topher Columbus. Not another word, NOT ANOTHER WORD! Fine, if I must spell out everything for you, this was a tale about individuality, about carving your own path in life. Your life is your own, never let anyone else stop you from being you. Yadda, yadda, yadda. But, in reality, in times such as now, we need the enterprise of every single person still alive. There are still men who will be dishonest, men who will lead you astray, men who will try to take advantage of you. The only real defense you have against them is to be true to yourself. Remember my wise words.”

“What happened the naked man, Santa?”

“Oh, well little girl, he died. I mean, he was naked. And crazy; really crazy… So, I guess that makes my point moot. Instead of this being a tale of morality or a parable, let’s make this a cautionary tale. Individuality is bad, trying to make your own way in the world will just lead you to your deaths. So, remember kiddos, conformity is the key to success. Do what your elders tell you and always agree with the majority. Yeah. That’s the American way. Now, who wants cookies?”

Volume 4: Ike and Dave's Infinite Playlist of Music to be Murdered By

2010-09-04T00:52:00.006-04:00

THE HOST FROM THE SOUTH

Ike & Dave’s Infinite Playlist of Music to be Murdered By

by J. Ian Manczur

Ike leveled his rifle. He had been casually surveying the horde, seeing what there was to see and risking the off chance that a ghost from his past would choose to appear. In previous efforts, he had been lucky enough to find nothing but strangers. Today, in what was an inevitability, an old acquaintance shuffled amongst the dead. The man had no name, no history. Whoever he might have once been was lost with his life. The only thing Ike knew was that the man had saved him. Ike had planned to meet the man, to introduce himself and thank him for his life. The chance never came; now, the man was dead and Ike had failed him. With a pull of the trigger, the man turned to chunks and mist. It was the least he could do.

He put down the gun and settled back in his chair. Theo snickered next to him, wearing a sneer that seemed to be forever imbedded in his face. It wasn’t a pleasant look, aging Theo at least ten years. “What was that all about?”

Ike thought carefully on how to respond and decided to ignore the question altogether. Instead, he emptied and cleaned his rifle in ritualistic fashion.

“Being secretive, are we? Let me guess, settling an old debt?”

“More or less.”

Theo only accompanied Ike in Dave’s absence. Otherwise, he would be skulking downstairs doing who knows what. It didn’t take long for Ike to find out that Theo had little, if anything, interesting to say. Mostly he talked about his past, his father and his regret of not joining them at the island retreat. Ike doubted that a paradise haven for the wealthy existed and decided that anything Theo said was probably a lie. Yet, bad company was better than no company at all, especially if the bad company provided beverages.

Ike sat back, drinking Theo’s beer and nodding along to the stories he only half listened to. After paying the appropriate amount of attention listening to someone who had given him free alcohol, Ike departed, citing the lie that he was concerned about Jack’s well being. Ike proceeded to trade up to a more silent, if unconscious, companion. He returned indoors to find the bundle of blood-washed bandages and fever stained sheets that compromised the being that was once Jack. He wasn’t a pretty sight.

Most that decry their ill fortunes fail to see their own responsibility. In Jack, though, Ike saw a man more than just afflicted by self-made destruction; here was a man that was a victim of circumstance. Of all the conceivable and many inconceivable maladies that crossed Jack’s path like a parade of black cats, the fact that he was still alive only added to the improbable nature of his luck.

And thus in the style of his life, any impressive actions he had taken towards the larger good were bogged down and overshadowed by his reputation for ill fortune. Ike found himself tempted towards the negative, even with his many positive remembrances and his self proclaimed immunity towards the swaying opinions of lesser men. Perhaps, he too was swept up in a conspiracy of fortune against Jack.

With the last of his thoughts pondered, Ike returned out to the unexpectedly empty porch. Theo had made a hasty retreat coinciding with a racket coming from the nearby window. The sound meant that either Dave was returning home or a zombie was breaking in, each being enough of a reason for Theo to not want to be around.

Gun drawn for the unlikely latter reason, Ike was happy to find Dave attempting to squeeze through the bedroom window. Ike pulled the chair from under Dave’s entrance and sat across the room to observe his friend’s troubles. And what troubles they were. Dave found himself wedged face down and out, his shirt caught on jagged metal, and his body parallel to both the wooden floor and the alley two stories below. He frantically waved his feet to reach the chair he had placed for easy access back in the room; the same chair that Ike now occupied. With a good dose of jiggling and wiggling, contorting and exhorting, and tearing and swearing, Dave finally made it in the room. As he dusted himself off, Dave noticed Ike sitting in the room. “Thanks for the help.”

“You’re welcome. So, what’s up?”

“I have good news and bad news.”

“What’s the bad news?”

“Really? Ok, well, the roof next door is too high. We could probably make it, but Jack can’t.”

“So we leave Jack then. Done and done.”

“No!”

“No?”

“I can‘t believe you are so casually suggesting we kill him.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Ease off the gas. No one said anything about killing.”

“Leaving him is basically the same thing.”

“If anything, we’re doing him a favor. The grenade, the Molotov, the rusty nail: all Jack, all to himself.”

“But…”

“Kid, he ran over Captain Ripps with a school bus.”

“While saving those kids.”

“Fuck them. He. Ran. Over. Captain Ripps.”

“I do miss that dog.”

“You didn’t have to scrape him off the tires.”

“He didn’t mean to.”

“I know.”

“What’s your point?”

“He’s just unlucky.”

Dave shrugged. “I can‘t argue with that.”

“Sooner, rather than later, he’s going to die. He can only take so much punishment.”

“Not necessarily.”

“The man lit himself on fire!”

“That doesn’t mean we should leave him alone to die.”

“Not alone, he’ll have Theo.”

“That’s worse.”

“Maybe we’re meant to, you know, maybe it’s his fate.”

“I don’t think it works like that.”

“It does.”

“What do you want me to say, Ike?”

“That you trust my judgment and will leave Jack behind.”

“I’m not going to leave him. If you want to go, you have my blessing.”

“Blessing? Anyway, I’m not going to go without you.”

“Then it’s settled.”

“You’re really not going to back down, are you? Fine. So, what was the good news?”

“There’s this nice little garden back yard thingy. We should be able to cut through, almost all the way down the block, pretty easily. Even better: zombie free.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so? Jack can totally stay with us.”

“After all that?”

“You should have started with the good news.”

The two split, each off to their own tasks to prepare for the next day.

As night settled in, Ike and Dave were joined by a more conscious and more upbeat Jack. Ike couldn’t decide if this turn was due to Jack’s tenacious will or the copious amounts of painkiller that Jack had ingested. Either way, he played a mean game of three man Hearts for a person that had suffered enough to kill a luckier man.

Ike reshuffled the deck. “You know, Hearts is much better with a fourth. I’m just saying, Theo might be..”

Dave cut him off, “No.”

“I don’t really understand what you have against him.”

“He almost got us killed!”

“So did Bob Hurley, but you still have a fucking hard-on for the man.”

“Fuck you, Ike.”

“I’m just saying, if he ordered you to go down on him, you’d be down there.”

Jack advised Dave to ignore the taunts.

“Stay out of this Bandages. Dave, all I want to hear you say is, ‘I don’t have a secret crush on Bob Hurley.’”

“You know, the term ‘secret crush’ is a little gay.”

“This isn’t about me, Dave my boy, this is about you.”

“Fine, I don’t have a secret crush on Bob Hurley.”

“Didn’t believe that for a second. What about you, Bandages?”

Jack interrupted the pointless exchange. “Gentlemen, if I may be serious for a moment.”

Dave sighed from relief, “Please.”

Jack adjusted himself to a more presentable position. Dave hurried over to help him, but Jack shot an aggravated look. “Don’t do that. I don’t need to be treated like a child.” Jack lifted himself up to turn to Ike. “And I don’t like you and I’m sure you don’t like me.” Ike didn’t disagree. “I just want to say that I can take care of myself.”

Ike scoffed. “Obviously.”

“Ike!”

Jack hushed Dave‘s protests with a wave. “I know that there’s no love lost between us, but for better or worse, we’re stuck together, we‘re all stuck together. I know I must look a fright, but it’s really not that bad. As the knight said: tis’ but a flesh wound.” Jack stood to make his point. “My point is, if we’re going to make it, we need to trust each other, we need to know that we will be there for each other, so, I’m making a peace offering.” Jack reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a smaller zip-lock bag. Ike and Dave stared at the contents in impressed silence.

Ike laughed, “You’ve been holding out on us, Cheech?”

“That.. is a lot of ganja.”

Jack rolled a fat joint. “I should warn you, gentlemen, that this is for medicinal purposes only.”

“Yea, it’ll cure you being a constant pain in my ass.”

“Lovely.” Jack sparked the joint.

The three played a few more rounds of cards before settling down to chat. The smoke helped ease the tension between the group. They reminisced of times before and of times together and reminded each other of how they had survived as long as they had. After their tales of bravado and their one-up-manship of the most ridiculous things seen so far, Jack brought it back to a more personal level. “So, guys, if you knew that the world was going to end the way it did, what would you have done differently?”

Dave was the first to answer. “Well, I’ve been actually thinking about this a lot.” He fished out his wallet, which Ike thought was strange that he still carried, and pulled out his debit card. “I have fifty thousand dollars that I had been saving up for awhile. I had planned to take some time off, travel and do the things that I missed out on when I was younger. I mean, I’m still young, but time has a way of sneaking up on you. I got my adventure, that’s true, but I went without for so long and now it means nothing. I would have spent every last penny. Ike?”

Ike didn’t even bother to think about it. His answer was only delayed to exhale, “Nothing.”

Dave didn’t believe him, “Nothing?”

“I really enjoy who I am.” Ike shrugged, “If I changed anything, I wouldn’t be the same.”

“How about you, Jack, what would you change?”

“When I was a kid, back in high school, I was a wild guy. My nickname was Mad Jack and boy did I deserve it. Football, booze, parties, women; it was the fucking life. I passed up many opportunities to go to college for football, I wanted my legacy to be more than just how good I was with a ball. So, I hunkered down and worked, I wanted to be an architect…” Ike passed out.

Ike woke to Dave standing over him. “You missed a great story last night. Jack’s such a fascinating guy. He went on about how his wife had cancer, and how she died in his arms. His daughter who he hadn’t spoken to in years. It was really tragic, but very inspiring.”

“Yea, sounds it. I’m sure I’ll have plenty of other opportunities to hear it again.”

“Not if your predictions come true.”

“Just as good, I really didn’t care to hear it.”

Dave rolled his eyes and exaggeratedly sighed in his Dave-ish way.

They headed down, Theo was once again nowhere to be found. Ike briefly wondered where he had gone, but his attention was soon drawn by Jack, who looked quite energetic for a dead man. “You guys ready to go?”

Ike hushed him with a wave of his finger. “One sec, we have a pre-battle tradition.” Dave took two items out of his bag and passed one to Ike. They were Ipods with headphones attached.

“I’m afraid to ask, how do you keep them charged?”

Dave tapped his bag. “Easy, car chargers. You know, abandoned cars are plentiful, especially in garages attached to houses. Like this one had a really nice Cadillac. If there’s a car, you can usually find the keys somewhere. And voila, perfectly charged Ipods.”

Ike added, “Besides, what’s the point of fighting in the post-apocalypse without a sweet soundtrack? Plus, it‘s good for teamwork. Helps with rhythm.”

Dave thumbed through his selection. “So what are we listening to today, 80s?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Karma Chameleon?”

“Red, gold and green.”

“So, we’re agreed.”

“Hmmm, I don’t know, it just doesn’t feel right for this situation.”

“And what situation would it be right for?”

Ike pondered for a moment. “Chainsaws!”

“Now that you said it, it does seems pretty obvious.”

“I’ve got it. Wake Me Up Before You Go Go.”

“Ooooooooh, that is good.”

“I know. I suggested it.”

“But..”

“What now Dave?”

“There is no disagreement that it is truly a wonderful song to kill things to, but I feel it doesn’t quite work in this context.”

“Not the right weapons?”

“Not the right scale. Wake Me Up needs to be played when we are fighting at least several hundred enemies. It’s a song you die to.”

“It’s a song you play as you are charging to your death.”

“Now you’re getting the point.”

“Such a miniscule event as this would be a waste of their talent!”

“And that wouldn’t be right!”

“Blasphemy is what that is!”

“Jack! Any suggestions?” Jack simply shook his head in disgrace. “Right-oh. Thriller?”

“Too corny.”

“Prince?”

“When Doves Cry?”

“Hell yea.”

“How can you just leave me standing?”

“Alone in a world that’s so cold.”

“So cold!”

“Maybe I’m just too demanding?”

“Maybe I’m just like my father, too bold?”

Jack turned to walk outside. “You know, I was just starting to like you guys.”

“Jack! Why do we scream at each other?”

Dave cast his eyes down mournfully, “So this is what it sounds like when doves cry.”

“I hate you both so much.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Volume 4: A Call to Action by Ed Jenkins

2010-09-03T00:29:00.001-04:00

A Call to Action by Ed Jenkins
by Steven Ormosi

I see you all here today and I allow myself to be hopeful for the future. Not only our future, but the future of our children, and our childrens' children. We have lived through the greatest tragedy ever visited upon this Earth and yet we survive. But I think it is time to do more than survive. I think it is time to thrive. And once we have unleashed our potential here, we will spread out again and retake what is ours. Manifest Destiny was a term once used to cut a swath clear across what used to be this great country of ours. It is no longer an American idea. Now it is a human one. We are responsible not only for keeping ourselves or our city or even our country alive. We are accountable for the survival of the entire human race.

A large part of that is due to the courage of a man who sacrificed everything to make sure that the wrong people did not take power. I know you have all heard this story by now, but it is one that should never be forgotten throughout the rest of human history. One we will pass on from generation to generation. Jonah Smith made the ultimate sacrifice earlier this week. He gave up his own life to make sure that there was a better and brighter future for us all. Even upon threat of death, he did all that was necessary to make sure that kidnappers and murderers do not take control of this city through deception and lies.

My opponent in this race, Max Donovan, had agents capture Jonah and attempt to force him to lie to all of you about the nature of my campaign. If he had come forward with what they wanted him to tell you, I believe that our cause would have been lost and our city torn asunder. Instead, he was able to relay a message via an intrepid reporter. One who he was only allowed access to if he agreed to tell her lies that would have falsely inflated the validity of Mr. Donovan’s campaign and demeaned all of the tireless and good, hard working people helping with mine. Jonah knew in his heart that he could not do that and was able to slip the reporter a note detailing his capture and subsequent torture. We believe that Jonah’s death in the quarantine cages was no mistake, but the work of Donovan himself. We are now collecting evidence to corroborate that. Those responsible will be punished.

In the meantime though, Donovan is still out there, trying to tear down that which we strive to build. He is battling us at every turn and though he may think that he is doing right, I know that his obstinate meddling, even after he has lost the election, is something that could destroy us in this delicate time. Can we allow that?

No, you are absolutely right. We cannot allow it. Again, I say, we must all band together now or know that we will all be torn apart.

We are few, but we are strong. We will survive this. I am, in fact, assembling a small search party now. It will be their job to go out into the world outside our walls and see what is left. What is usable. To find out if there are any survivors. And to find out how intense the threat on the outside still is. I know stepping beyond the walls still makes some of you apprehensive. Believe me, I share your concerns. But we cannot be controlled by our fear. We cannot let it keep us in. We are prisoners. This world is not ours right now. We must take it back. This excursion is the first small step towards doing that. The members will be announced within the week.

I also want to address some concerns voiced that we will shut down the bazaar. These are perpetuated by Max Donovan’s camp and could not be further from the truth. Our marketplace is the cornerstone of what drives us. Yes, there will be regulations at some point, but I think that will only make the market stronger. For now, you need to know that your stands are safe. As many of you know, I often walk through for dinner or a coffee. Believe me when I say that without the bazaar we would have torn each other to pieces by now and I have no intention of letting that happen.

So we have to keep on growing and creating. We have to do the things that make us human without fear or equivocation. We have to prove that we are better and stronger than those things outside. When they hungrily call for our blood, we will answer with theirs. This is not only a call to arms. This is a call to strength, to humanity. The next coming months will be the new baptism of civilization. One by fire, no doubt. All we can do is make ready our hearts and steel our nerves. It will not be an easy task, but it will be a rewarding one. Our world, back in our hands.

The only obstacle is our own fear. We must together make a stand and if those who used to be part of our race will not understand what is ours, then we will show them! We will be a united front against the horrors. We will no longer cower from that which goes bump in the night. They will not break our walls! They will not enter this sacred city, not today, not tomorrow, not ever! All the hordes of the world will not, by force, drink a drop of our blood, or set a scratch at the nape of a single one of our necks, inside this place. The only enemy we have to fear is that which sows destruction amongst our own ranks. If destruction is our lot, then we must be its author and finisher. As a city, no, as a nation, of free men, we will live forever, or die by suicide.

Heed me. We must rebuild the pillars of our society. We must become the beacon that humanity uses to find its way back from the brink. And we must gain the freedom that our forefathers preached about. Not from tyranny this time, but from ultimate destruction itself. We will join our voices together and shout: The legions of Hell will not prevail against us.

Thank you, and God Bless America.

Volume 4: Bitter Truths

2010-09-02T00:56:00.002-04:00

Bitter Truths

by Steven Ormosi

Jonah fired down the ladder at the lone creature climbing up. It fell away and crumpled upon hitting the ground. He held the gun cocked, and kept it focused at the ground below as he scanned for more of them. It took a moment for him to realize that only one had made it inside and they weren’t pouring through a crack like water through a broken dam. A short while later, Ben came running towards him from the direction of another entrance into no man’s land. He was armed with a shotgun and had protective pads on. He looked, to Jonah, like a man about to face down a pack of wild dogs.

“Took you long enough,” Jonah yelled down to him.

“So where are they?” Ben shouted back indignantly.

“There was only one, I saw him running around so I cranked the siren. He started coming up the ladder. I shot him.” Jonah pointed at the ground where the creature was laying.

Ben went up and fired a shot into its head. “Well that’s lucky. C’mon down and help me search the wall for the leak.”

Ben had brought the emergency radio in and gave the folks inside the all clear before they commenced the search.

“This is weird shit, Ben. I don’t see any others and I didn’t notice any cracks on my walk through yesterday. Where the hell did it come from?”

“Beats me, man,” said Ben as he stepped behind Jonah, brought up his gun handle and smashed it down on the back of Jonah’s head.

Jonah fell in a heap to the ground and immediately grabbed at his head, unaware of what had happened. He turned over just in time to see the second blow with the butt of the gun crash into his face, and then everything went dark.

Jonah awoke with a monstrous headache, he was tied to a chair. There was a table in front of him. Ben and another man who Jonah didn’t recognize were standing across the table from him. Ben spoke.

“Hey buddy, I’m real sorry about bashing you in the head like that. I didn’t really have time to convince you to come along. I know you’re a little groggy right now and probably don’t really know what’s going on. Being as you’d put it all together in a few minutes anyway, I’ll just help you out. You rang the siren earlier because you saw a null skull. You then killed that nullie. I came in and knocked you out and dragged you away. I had a few friends help me cover up said situation. And no, you don’t get to know who they are. Anyway, the whole point of this little smash and grab was to make it look like you were killed in the line of duty. Now everyone wanted to just kill you for real, but we’re pals and I convinced them that you were more important alive. I’m gonna let this stuff sink in for a bit. We’re gonna have someone come by and take a look at your melon. Then I’ll let you know the rest of the plan.”

Jonah’s head lolled on his neck as he struggled to spit on Ben but only ended up getting it on the front of his own shirt.

Some time later, a man came into the room. He was alone. He shone a light in Jonah’s eyes. He checked the bump on Jonah’s head. Jonah flinched away when he touched it. Then the man walked out. Ben strolled in a couple of minutes later.

“Looks like you’re going to be just fine, Jonah. A clean bill of health.”

“Fuck you, Ben. Tell me what’s going on.”

“What’s going on is that Kelly, is a megalomaniacal monster who is going to destroy this city if Jenkins is elected. She’s got her hand in so many pies around here that she makes the Free Masons look like amateurs. I know you don’t know too much about what she really does, but she’s dangerous to this place and to our survival. Max Donovan has to win that election.”

“And what do I have to do with that?”

“You, my friend, are in the perfect position to help us out. Look, nobody wants a war, but that’s exactly what this city is headed for if we don’t get ourselves straight. We can’t tolerate Kelly running this town, she’s a mobster, a terrorist. We’re going to try to do this without causing the people of the city to break apart, but if Max Donovan doesn’t win, everyone is going to find out exactly the same information that I’m about to share with you.”

Jonah swung his head up to look into Ben’s eyes. “So you’re saying that you are going to show me something, or tell me something that will make me turn on one of my closest friends. That is, after you’ve already knocked me out, dragged me to some dungeon and tied me to a chair. Sorry if I’m a little skeptical.”

Ben took a folder from a bag he had on the floor, opened it and took out several photos, “These are pictures of Kelly’s father. His name was Patrick Finnegan. He ran almost all organized crime in the city before the collapse. We have evidence that Kelly is following in her old man’s footsteps. She has a crew of lieutenants who work under her.” He took out more photos and spread them out in front of Jonah. “You probably recognize them. These men have been discretely terrorizing key figures in the city telling them that if Ed Jenkins doesn’t win this election, certain bad things are going to happen to them and the people they care about. These men are known criminals, killers.”

Jonah laughed, “You can’t be serious. Yeah, I recognize them. I play cards with them every week, they’re a little bit rough, but they’re not killers.”

“Don’t be naïve, Jonah.” Ben pulled out several more pictures from the folder, Polaroids this time. “These people were all killed by Kelly’s crew. These have been taken within the last two weeks.” He pointed at one. “This one shows her top lieutenant, Perry in the act of executing a man who went against her requests.”

Jonah stared at the likeness of the man he knew as a bad bluffer holding a gun to the head of another man who was on his knees, crying. “This can’t be real.”

“Well it’s not like there’s Photoshop anymore, buddy. We’re lighting our houses with candles, remember? Trust me, that’s the real McCoy.”

“Kelly wouldn’t…”

“She would and has. Listen, I wish that I had some way to make this easier for you, but the truth is that she’s a killer who’s trying to become a fascist dictator through Ed Jenkins. We can’t let that happen. Look at this.” He pointed to another picture. “She gave the order that started this fire. Twenty people were killed in this building. She’s a monster, Jonah. Worse than those things outside the wall. At least they’re not aware of what they’re doing.”

“Ben, I don’t know. I don’t know how to get my head around this.”

“I know it’s tough. I’ll give you some time alone, but we can’t afford much. You need to work this out, soon, if Jenkins wins this election, it could be the end of mankind as we know it.“

Ben picked up the photos and his bag and left the room.

Jonah called out for Ben.

“Yeah, Jonah,” Ben said as he entered the doorway.

“What are you proposing?”

Ben said, “I have to know you’re with us, Jonah. That you won’t betray us. You have the chance to be the most important person in the history of the human race right now. Your choice could ultimately decide whether we survive as a species or are torn apart from within. You’ve got to pledge your allegiance.”

Jonah sighed, “I don’t think I really have a choice, but you’re right, Ben, those photos you showed me. Things like that can’t happen for no reason. Things like that are unforgivable. I pledge my allegiance to your cause.”

“Ok,” Ben said, “Here’s the plan. We’re going to bring you back and say that Max sent out a search party to find you. We’re going to tell everyone that we saved your life. You are then going to implicate Ed Jenkins for the breach of the wall. You’re going to have to ride out a week in quarantine. We’ll make sure you get your own cage. But before that happens, we’ll have a reporter come and take a statement from you. You’re going to tell how Ed Jenkins’ campaign manager, Kelly let those creatures through. She was seen by several people near the wall when the siren was going off. It won’t be hard to pin her for the breach with your testimony. That should be plenty to convince people that Jenkins doesn’t have the people at heart.”

“Well, let’s get this over with.”

As they pulled him up and untied him, Jonah’s head swirled with the consequences of what he was about to do. Ben was right, this was a huge decision, one that shouldn’t be taken lightly. The right words, the right tone. Everything needed to be perfect. Hell this might be the last important thing he’d ever do. He didn’t want to screw it all up now.

They led him through a series of houses near the wall, he assumed so that no one saw him as he approached the quarantine cages. They led him inside. He sat down.

A reporter came into the room and sat down in front of him. The metal mesh between them reminded Jonah of Confession, back in the days when absolved sin meant anything.

One day I’ll break, thought Jonah, but not today.

Volume 4: Fresh Grinds From Strizzy’s (Reluctantly added, “Scummy”) Stall

2010-09-01T00:26:00.000-04:00

Fresh Grinds From Strizzy’s (Reluctantly added, “Scummy”) Stall
by Scott Thurlow

You open your mouth and your teeth smell like they took a shit
scrawled underneath:
at leas the zombos don’t! shit, that is!

Huge fuckin hail, man!!

(a peace sign in faded green)
across in recent red:
NO FOR THE WICKED

Bitches all have their own agenda
Give ‘em a boxpunch to the curb!
(As an added suggestion): curbstomp the whore
So long slut!

BULLEts!! GUNs!! DECICDE NOWWW
Do It For The Troops

Connect the dots, dillhole
Are we not already connected on all possible levels, thereof, otherwise?

The Time-Being is eating my time, AGAIN.
what a catfucker!
Zombosniffer!
(added to that):
Feed him some minutes/seconds then, asshole!!
(under that):
It’s Cool Bro-- Just Eatin My Time…

GO FUCK YOUR (ZOMBIE!) GRANDMOTHER

And so on, so forth.

A mix of graffiti from before and after. The writing on the wall, as it were, if you will. An assorted array of much other such whimsical nonsense gibberish that was good for a chuckle or two as one passed the time or by. They were rendered in vibrant colors that were pleasing to the eye-- luscious hues of reds, yellows, and blues, a whole prism too. Sometimes with alternatingly elaborate and badassly basic designs to accompany each phrase interpretation. Free art. Many had the “zombos” incorporated into them in some humorous or grotesque way as well, some freethinking artists adding their own touches along the way. Myself being no exception. They were sprawled everywhere like a kaleidoscope of glorious guttural salutes to the absurdly dark, ridiculous humor, that was rapidly becoming the norm for these times of ours.

The times of the “ZomboApoc,” as one of my associates with that rusty rifle, called it. He told me his name was H. Hunting, III. , “Esquire.” Quotations emphasized. And that his little saying “ZomboApoc” was still copyrighted. Whatever good that might do. Still, it seemed to make him feel better, so I let it be for the time being. I helped him along just recently with some harebrained scheme to sell what amounted to nothing more than one of those faux poetic graffiti slogans itself to one of the mayoral candidates. The last time he stopped by, before I asked him how that “adorable little whore” of his was, I had to remind him again, that, if he did not politely ask me to, “put my fucking disgusting coffee down,” that next time I heard him say such to me, I would personally feed him to the “zombos” of the “ZompoApoc” (copyright) myself. Or sue him for infringement. This is how H. Hunting III, “Esq.” and I went about our business, whenever he came in search of something from me. Or if I were able to articulate a more profitable plan unto him; the Jenkins deal being such an example.

Ah, you may be asking who I am. What is my role here in these days of olden times that have returned upon us all? Simple. I am merely a humble craftsman. One who knows how to barter certain things, in various ways, usually with lucrative returns, for all involved. Nothing more complicated than that, really, so on the subject I shall say no more. It should hopefully be immediately apparent though, friends, that the market of yore that we find ourselves in, is itself wondrous rich in treasures and tales. Allow me to regale you with some choice ones:

I once hadn’t done any laundry in some time, since it was often hard to find good help these days, in the ZomboApoc. (Henceforth I will call it such, as agreed upon in a previous matter. Let it be noted here that I make any and all attempts to uphold a bargain and keep my word in these times, while many others might not.) There was another acquaintance of mine who offered to me some small advice upon my inquiring of him what his actions and decisions were, when he was faced with a laundry quandary of his own. When asked what I should do about this confounding quandary of the laundry kind of mine, he replied that, “One thing he knew, was not to go to William the Q.” That is, William the Un-Clean. Because William will “totally un-clean your shit.” So, from William Q., I did not find myself seeking cleaning or laundering services to be rendered for any time soon.

Later, I learned the real story. It was not really William the Q’s fault. He had gone quite mad early into the chaos (that is, of the ZomboApoc, and events leading up to it) but somehow survived. He spent most of his days endlessly scrubbing and re-scrubbing scraps of otherwise useless discarded cloth. Scrubbing so madly, so furiously intently, that he often rubbed his hands and fingers raw. Smearing blood over ruined rags and shredded shirts (some of Mag Mike’s early designs likely among them) but still William the Q. scrubbed on. His son, Q. The Younger, was still attempting to salvage his father’s failing business in the wake of the ZomboApoc. Sometimes, it was unavoidable though that someone’s wash got lost along the way to the elder William’s demented relentless cleaning.

Patron: What the fuck do you think you’re trying to do me here, anyway, huh? You won’t pull the wool over my eyes, buddy. Whose fucking eyes, who the fuck’s eyes do you think you’re trying to pull the wool over on? Huh? NOT ME BUDDY. NOT TODAY.

Young Q: “Don’t get your fucking panties in a bunch, pal. Relax. We can work something out.”

Patron: Hey, YOU don't get YOURS. AND EVERYONE! HEAR ME! HEED MY WARNING! DON’T TAKE YOUR WASH TO WILLIAM THE Q. OR HIS IDIOT SON. THEY WILL UN-CLEAN YOUR SHIT! WILLIAM THE UNCLEAN, Q. THE UNCLEAN, THE UNCLEANER OF THE Q.’s! RIGHT HERE!”

Such was the scene in the market, from time to time. But yet, Q. The Unclean he remained known henceforth and thereafter that particular instance, and thus my reason for not bringing my soiled undergarments to him (vis-à-vis the story as related to me) or his Young son for laundering services.

Mag Mike, I mentioned him just now, is a fine fellow. One of my favorites in fact. The fact that he also carries around a pristine magnum pistol, dissuades in no small way. He tells me he ran a shirt printing press or some such of that nature, before the ZA (I will shorten ZompoApoc to ZA, from now on, for brevity’s sake.) In a type of business, in his own words, that was “Run directly, out of the home.” Novelty shirts had lost much of their appeal as clothing since then, but can still be useful in terms of raw material, so he traded what he could get for them after it was clear there was not going to be much further demand for clever apparel.

Mag Mike's real passion in life is gambling. Games of chance and fortune. He and a couple of other enterprising entrepreneurs have assembled in their spare moments (and with the help of some of Kelly's goons/associates) a small-time gambling ring that is increasingly encroaching in its radius. They plan to set up/build a full-scale casino, eventually. I wish them only the best of luck (and also help them along, where and when I might be able to.)

Another:

Overseen/heard in Brothel Alley
(Storyteller’s Note: This is somewhat of an urban legend in our time. I learned a great deal of it piecemeal, but as best can be recounted and reconstructed, I shall try my utmost. Dependent upon whom you ask, and for reasons known only to themselves and now lost, the two young gentlemen of the ZA who feature in this next tale usually have supposedly decided on Roman-ized and bastardized versions of their names. It was said to be a popular passing fad of some sorts. Much like this ZA nonsense, that I would like to remind, I am yet continuing to mention, as per previously arranged terms.)

“E. Pluribus Stevie”: “Render unto us an answer, bitch. Which of us, if either, are you going to fuck, today?”

“B. Barnibus Bradley”: “And why?”

“Shut the fuck up Barnibus. So again, I ask, him or me?”

“Yes, bullets or gun, baby? Let one of us have some fun.”

“Will you please stop saying that. You know how teeth-grinding-ly annoying it is, to me.”

“Fuck you, I’m fond of it.”

“Fine, I but will say to you this: If you. Do not. Stop. Fucking saying. That stupid shit. It is going to be You. Versus. Me. Right next to the wall. And you will be receiving a fucking one-way ticket. From me. To you. For a ride. From which. You will never. Be fucking returning. Ever. It will be the last hurrah and final bon voyage, for you, zombofucker.”

“Fine, I shall stop. For now.”

“Thank you. Now, let us return to the topic. [To a girl, “Lily”]: So, is it in fact, going to be me, or Barnibus?”

“Lily”: “Oh, I dunno…I like you both, you know…”

“Yes, we know. Now decide, please, whore, if you will.”

“We haven’t got all day, baby.”

The girl’s supposed suggestion to solve the situation at hand was as follows: “Can’t we work something else out? What if you guys fight…each other…for me…?”

(Storyteller’s Note 2: I pause and beg another moment to impose myself directly at this point. A customer of mine who shall remain nameless, once rather wittily himself interjected at this point in the story. And, borrowing a phrase from the wall, he commented that one of the two “soldiers” should have responded thusly: “Bitches indeed seem to all have their own agendas.” I felt this augmentation lends a certain panache to the spirit of the original legend. I include it here for appreciation or discarding, as you see fit. I shall return now to the scene at hand.)

The Roman bastards looked at each other. Not a bad idea, “from this cunt,” they agreed.

E. Pluribus Stevie and B. Barnibus Bradley both agreed upon the terms of the duel. It was to be to the death. They shook hands, then. It was the honorable thing to do, it was said.

E. Pluribus then taunted his companion, “If I win, I shall come in, or on, or some combination thereof, her face.”

“Over my fucking grave.”

“See you in hell. And OMFG to you, too.”

The duel then began. E. Pluribus Stevie slipped out a garrote and walked ten paces while B. Barnibus Bradley drew a banged up katana in one hand and a rusted army knife in the other. He tromped off in the same manner as his counterpart, going the opposite direction. Lily herself sat and watched distractedly. In a turn of events in her favor, the duel was said to be brief, and mercilessly short.

E. Pluribus then stood over B. Barnibus’ strangled body, and proclaimed, “Over your. Fucking. Grave, it is, Zombofucker. Fuck your bullets, and your guns.”

Finally, to Lily, “It appears as if the choice has been made for you, slut. So, let’s dance, shall we?”

Thus was the sordid tale of how E. Pluribus Stevie, slew his former brother-in-arms, B. Barnibus Bradley on the streets of Brothel Alley (according to some witnesses who may or have not have been there, I cannot vouch for all. However most agree the drama unfolded in a manner that reasonably resembled the above, with only moderate embellishments and exaggerations added) and, it may be presumed, fornicated with Lily the working girl, and came in, or on, or some conjunction of either, upon her face.

In any case, they had been spared the trouble of being “escorted” outside the wall and city itself. An event that was likely to have shortly occurred, were the incident described above not to have taken place, more or less as I have heard it told, and recanted for you just now.

So you see, this is life in my market, the city, and during the ZA in general. Filled with colorful characters and dastardly deeds. The personifications of the wall phrases acting out their odd parts and various eccentricities upon the stage. Welcome to the jungle/madhouse, friends. May I get you a cup of coffee? Perhaps you’d be interested in making a deal. What have you to offer? Let us see what I can arrange.

Volume 4 release tomorrow

2010-08-31T17:16:00.000-04:00

Hello everyone. Tomorrow is the 1st and that means another volume of Life After Death is ready to be released. There will be six stories this time, two from each of the authors. The same format will be used, with a story per day until they are all posted.

Some future news:
Now that we have a sizable amount of content and have proven to ourselves that Life After Death is going to be more than a simple side project to be forgotten, we are planning to upgrade to an actual website soon. It will probably take a little while, so keep on checking out the blog for updates.

The LAD Team

Works by Kathryn Ormosi

2010-08-30T09:58:00.001-04:00

These are the collected LAD works of Kathryn Ormosi for quick reference:

On the Night Street & In the Garden of Mrs. MacRae

The Porch

Before We Came to This Place

LAD Website Original: Carl's Story

2010-08-19T18:41:00.003-04:00

Carl's Story

by Steven Ormosi

Carl opened the back door and looked around. Wordlessly he motioned his team into position. They had four minutes to destroy the cache and get out. He saw one of his men eyeing a semi-automatic weapon and grabbed him. Carl shook his head “no” and pointed to the corner of the room holding up one, then two, then three fingers. Start counting.

The plan had been worked out beforehand. There was a strict code of silence to be observed while they were on task. Four people: one to take stock of what was being destroyed, one to douse the place and light it, one for lookout and Carl was there to oversee everyone and make sure nothing went wrong. He trusted his crew, but they weren’t the smartest tools in the shed and this needed to be done right.

The cache as it turned out was located on the bottom floor of a two story house that had been abandoned, then repopulated by Billy the Kid’s customers and trusted associates. He specialized in money lending and did a little drug running on the side. They had dispatched the outside guards quietly and right now, they were fixing to burn this mother down not ten feet below a glorified opium den where several of Billy’s clients no doubt festered.

Carl looked around. This was going to be important and crippling to Billy, just like Kelly needed. The place was littered with hardware and taking a few guns was tempting, but they didn’t want to give any obvious reason for retaliation. Walking around town with guns stolen just before a fire wiped out the building, along with whoever was upstairs, certainly qualified as a reason to retaliate.

Carl was hoping that they’d catch Billy himself upstairs and squash the whole feud tonight, but their intelligence had let them know he was at another house, and the security around him would’ve made the operation a logistical nightmare anyway. Just as the count was being wrapped up, the lookout signaled an interloper approaching. Carl stood near the door and waited as the stairs creaked. Everyone held their breath. A man’s voice came wafting through the door, he was singing.

“Myyyyyy body lies over the ocean, my body lies over the s—“

Carl grabbed the man’s head as he walked through the entrance and jerked it to the left until he heard it snap. “Bonnie,” he whispered in disgust.

Everyone winced.

Carl put up one finger and twirled it in a circular motion, everyone knew what it meant, "let’s get this show on the road." The crew finished dousing the room and threw a Zippo in as they were leaving through the same door as they had entered.

The fire was lovely. Carl watched from a distance and smiled. Nothing like getting the job done right, he thought, the adrenaline rush slowly ebbing. Kelly would approve.

LAD Website Original: Time to Die (No One Here’s Getting Out Alive)

2010-08-16T13:56:00.002-04:00

Time to Die (No One Here’s Getting Out Alive)

by Scott Thurlow

The West Coast
5.2 miles outside of Los Angeles, California, USA

We were fucked. Totally fucked. I knew it, but I’m not sure everyone else did yet. They would soon. We had no idea what we were doing, and neither did anyone in charge by now. If there was anyone left at all. Even if someone up in the chain did order us to stand down or retreat, there was nowhere and nothing left to rendezvous at.

Just a year or so ago we were fighting dudes in deserts, crawling through caves and mountains, searching for people in them. Now, people were everywhere. We didn't need to look for them at all anymore, anywhere, because they’d come looking for us. At least, they used to be people. I’ll say the enemy instead. And they were about to overrun us. It was a real No Quarter situation. All kinds of FUBAR’ed. Us or Them. Victory or Death. And it dawned on me which one it was going to be for our side.

How do you fight these things when they won’t ever give up? They won’t retreat. Killing more of them never lowered their morale. They didn't care how many of them we shredded to bits. They were just going to keep on coming until we couldn't keep up. We were all fucking Fucked, with a capital “F.”

How could it come to this? We were the best goddamned army in the world. We never lose, right? It’s funny how I always thought that, but the thing about being fully aware of your fucked-ness is, there’s a moment right after you realize that you are in fact completely and in all ways possible, absolutely fucked, that this strange feeling of freedom hits you. It’s hard to notice at first, since it’s buried under the full-on fear. But when you know, finally know, that you’re going to die, somehow awfully, sometime very soon (and there’s shit all that you, or anyone, can do about it) you just kind of go with it. I just didn't give a fuck, anymore.

I decided I would go out the way they taught us. I centered myself and aimed at the enemy. Then I started emptying my clip into them. Shouting the old training chants from back in basic. Trying to catch as many as possible before they got to me. When the freshest batch was about 20 or 30 yards away, I dropped the standard issue and pulled out my sidearm.

“Semper Fi!” I yelled as I brought my Beretta up under my chin. Just before I pulled the trigger, I flipped the enemy off. Do or die, fuckers.