Best New Zombie Tales Trilogy (Volume 1, 2 & 3)

  BEST NEW

  ZOMBIE

  TALES

  TRILOGY

  (Volumes 1, 2 & 3)

  Edited By:

  JAMES ROY

  DALEY

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, events, dialog and situations in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  Collection copyright by James Roy Daley 2012

  FIRST EDITION

  Volume two cover art by Terry Callen

  Cover Design by Derek Daley

  Interior Design by James Roy Daley

  BOOKS OF THE DEAD

  CONTENTS

  Introduction ~ JAMES ROY DALEY

  Zombie Love ~ RAY GARTON

  Feeding Frenzy ~ MATT HULTS

  Wings ~ JESSICA BROWN

  The Man Who Breaks The Bad News ~KEALAN PATRICK BURKE

  Immunity ~ JEFF STRAND

  In The Land Of The Blind ~ ROBERT SWARTWOOD

  Nowhere People ~ GARY McMAHON

  Muddy Waters ~ BRIAN KNIGHT

  Darkness Comprehended ~ HARRY SHANNON & GORD ROLLO

  Connections ~ SIMON McCAFFERY

  Sign of the Times ~ JOHN GROVER

  After, Life ~ JEFF PARISH

  Paradise Denied ~ JOHN L. FRENCH

  On The Usefulness Of Old Books ~ KIM PAFFENROTH

  The Revelations of Dr. Maitland ~ CHARLES BLACK

  Pegleg And Paddy Save The World ~ JONATHAN MABERRY

  SKN-3 ~ STEVEN E. WEDEL

  Fishing ~ JASON BRANNON

  Groundwood ~ BEV VINCENT

  Zombie 1

  Introduction 2 ~ JAMES ROY DALEY

  Bury Me Not ~ RIO YOUERS

  Laundry Day ~ STEVEN A. ROMAN

  Provider ~ TIM WAGGONER

  The Truth About Brains ~ NARRELLE M. HARRIS

  Gravedigger ~ NATE KENYON

  Coming Home ~ DAVID NIALL WILSON

  The Third Option ~ DEREK GUNN

  The Worst Is Yet To Come ~ PETE MESLING

  La Sequia ~ T. F. DAVENPORT

  Viva Las Vegas ~ THOMAS ROCHE

  ’Til Decay Do Us Part ~ MYRRYM DAVIS

  We Will Rebuild ~ CODY GOODFELLOW

  Dredging Up The Dead ~ J. W. SCHNARR

  Camille Smiled ~ JOHN EVERSON

  Not With A Bang But A Whimper ~ MONICA J. O’ROURKE

  Reunion ~ JAMES NEWMAN

  Gran’ma’s in the Bathroom (…and she’s not coming out) ~ KEN GOLDMAN

  The Old Man And The Dead ~ MORT CASTLE

  The Finger ~ MATT HULTS

  Introduction 3 ~ JAMES ROY DALEY

  The Lazarus Condition ~ PAUL KANE

  Of Cabbages and Kings ~ NATE SOUTHARD

  Those Below ~ JEREMY C. SHIPP

  The Traumatized Generation ~ MURRAY J.D. LEEDER

  The Cyclist ~ SIMON WOOD

  Family First ~ JG FAHERTY

  The Way of Things in Fly-Over Country ~ AARON POLSON

  The Beach ~ TIM LEBBON

  Fast Eddie’s Big Night Out ~ JOHN L. FRENCH

  Night of the Living Dead Bingo Women ~ SIMON MCCAFFERY

  Worm-sacks and Dirt-backs ~ LEE CLARK ZUMPE

  The Purple Word ~ ERIK T. JOHNSON

  Sabbatical in the Ohio Methlands ~ JOE MCKINNEY

  A Sense of Duty ~ GREGORY MILLER

  The Basement ~ WILLIAM T. VANDEMARK

  Working Man’s Burden ~ DAVID C. PINNT

  The Last Supper (The Anatomy Of Addiction) ~ JOHN CLAUDE SMITH

  Memory Bones ~ MICHAEL STONE

  Going Down ~ NANCY KILPATRICK

  Sweetbread ~ TONIA BROWN

  ZOMBIE 3

  About the Authors

  Copyright Acknowledgements

  Great books from:

  BOOKS of the DEAD

  BEST NEW ZOMBIE TALES (VOL. 1)

  BEST NEW ZOMBIE TALES (VOL. 2)

  BEST NEW ZOMBIE TALES (VOL. 3)

  CLASSIC VAMPIRE TALES (VOL.1)

  BEST NEW VAMPIRE TALES (VOL. 1)

  MATT HULTS - HUSK

  MATT HULTS - ANYTHING CAN BE DANGEROUS

  JAMES ROY DALEY - TERROR TOWN

  JAMES ROY DALEY - 13 DROPS OF BLOOD

  JAMES ROY DALEY - INTO HELL

  JAMES ROY DALEY - THE DEAD PARADE

  JAMES ROY DALEY - ZOMBIE KONG

  GARY BRANDNER - THE HOWLING

  GARY BRANDNER - THE HOWLING II

  GARY BRANDNER - THE HOWLING III

  GARY BRANDNER - THE HOWLING TRILOGY

  PAUL KANE - PAIN CAGES

  TONIA BROWN - BADASS ZOMBIE ROAD TRIP

  ZOMBIE KONG ANTHOLOGY

  Introduction

  JAMES ROY DALEY

  Sleep dissipates and there he is: H. P. fucking Lovecraft. The old boy is looking down at me with anger and shame stamped across his weird little face in equal portions. I drag my knuckles across my eyes, snug in my bed, hoping to wipe some of the gorp from my lashes, wondering if it’s really him. Before I’ve drawn a conclusion he grabs me by the wrist and hauls me from my sheets. A pillow falls to the floor as I stumble across the bedroom and into the shadows of the hallway. My feet slap against the hardwood, creating sharp echoes that forge through the night as I head towards my kitchen.

  Staggering and sleepy, I say, “Hey, man. What’s going on?”

  H. P. flicks on a light and says, “Don’t give me any lip, you obtuse, half-wit, twerp.”

  In a world that seems far too bright and dynamic, I say, “Twerp?” I don’t care much for that. Honestly, I don’t care for the ‘half-wit’ remark either, but what can I say? On the ‘obtuse’ slur he might be accurate. I don’t know. What the hell does obtuse mean… rounded at the free end?

  I say, “Why am I a twerp?”

  “You know why.”

  “No, really, I don’t.”

  Now we’re in the kitchen. He drags me towards a blender, which is sitting on the counter between the sink and the stove. It’s plugged into to an outlet and ready for use. I wonder if he planning on making a fruit smoothie but I don’t have a chance to ask because H. P. wastes no time saying, “Zombies? Are you kidding me? Is that the best you can do?”

  For a moment I’m confused, but then a light bulb inside my head comes to life. I know what this is about: the book. He wants to talk to me about my anthology, Best New Zombie Tales. Sure he does. And I’m willing to talk to him about my little project, too. But I’ve got a few questions of my own, fusing together the way questions do. The most obvious inquiry, it seems, would revolve around the fact that Mr. Lovecraft has been dead for decades. What is he, back from the grave? That’s ridiculous. The walking departed don’t exist… right?

  Right?

  I say, “Listen H. P., zombies are big right now. Real big. Do you know––”

  He gives my arm a quick yank, cuffing my train of thought. He’s livid now; I can see it in his face.

  “I gave the world Cthulhu and you’re serving up zombies? I created Yog-Sothoth, and all you’ve got is the living-dead? Is that the best you can do?”

  For a moment I just stare, as if I’m waiting for someone else to answer the question for me. When nobody does, I reluctantly say, “You don’t understand. It’s not like I don’t know how to be creative… I do. But the horror industry is a funny place right now, you know? The truth of the matter––”

  H.P. growls like an animal from the jungle. Then he says, “SHUT UP, idiot! On an off day I could shit out Shub-Niggurath, Y’golonac, and Azathoth, and the most preeminent idea rattling around your infinitesi
mal, diminutive, nano-scholastic, brain-nugget is zombies? Are you on crack? What the hell is wrong with you? Don’t you think this planet has suffered through a sufficient quantity of zombies?”

  He lifts the lid from the blender, switches the dial from ‘off’ to ‘mulch’ and rams my hand inside before I realize what’s happening.

  I scream, while trying to pull away. Doesn’t work. H. P. is stronger than he looks and my hand is getting mulched.

  Let me repeat––

  My HAND… is getting: M-U-L-C-H-E-D.

  This means that my fingers––all four, plus the tip of my thumb––are getting… MULCHED… off.

  Connected to the colossal ambush of pain are my eyes, which mature to enormity. I can’t help but watch. Now my knuckles are getting chewed. Now the middle of my hand is taking a beating. Oops… there goes the rest of my thumb. There’s blood. Not just inside the blender, but everywhere: splashing the walls, the ceiling, the floor, my chest, my face…

  Inside the blender I can see bone fragments spinning around in a circle. A moment ago those fragments were inside my hand, not orbiting it.

  It may come as no surprise that I want to tell him to stop, to let me go, to turn off that goddamn machine, which, by the way, is very powerful and apparently worth every penny I paid––thank you very much ‘Home Shopping Channel.’ But I don’t tell him to stop. Oh no, I can’t. All I can do is cry, and scream, and try to pull away.

  And fail miserably, I should add. H. P.’s grip is absolute.

  A little FYI here: my screaming doesn’t bother Mr. Lovecraft––who was kind enough to give us Shub-Niggurath, Y’golonac, and Yog-Sothoth, as he didn’t hesitate to point out. No, no. He seems adequately happy with my pain and terror. And oddly enough, he decides to do some screaming of his own.

  He unloads: “TELL ME YOU WON’T PUBLISH ANOTHER STUPID ZOMBIE BOOK! TELL ME!”

  I should be saying: No problem, Mr. Lovecraft. You want me to scrap the book idea? Consider it done. Anything else you need? A backrub? The keys to my car? A thousand dollars? A night with my girlfriend… no questions asked––? Whatever you need, H. P., just name it and it’s yours! Oh boy!

  Instead, what comes out of my mouth is, “Ahhhhh… I have to release the zombie book!”

  Lovecraft is pissed. He changes the dial from ‘mulch’ to ‘mince.’ Then from ‘mince’ to ‘liquefy.’

  I didn’t even know my blender had ‘liquefy.’

  I scream more.

  But he screams louder: “NO MORE ZOMBIES! DON’T YOU HEAR WHAT I’M TELLING YOU! ZOMBIES ARE PLAYED OUT! TEDIOUS! OVERDONE! ZOMBIES ARE BORING!!!”

  I’m crying now. Crying. Full on. Tears streaming. My hand is gone. My wrist is gone. In another fifteen seconds my elbow will be turned into bone stew. Liquefied. My eyes are burning as snot runs from my nose. Panicking. Terrified. I’m not sure where I find the strength to argue, but I do. “Everybody loves zombies!”

  He kicks me in the shin.

  It’s almost funny, really. The kick. It doesn’t do much. I don’t even feel it, truth be told. Not while my arm is getting shredded. But I see him do it and I understand––he wants to hurt me more, somehow. But he’s grasping at straws now. Obviously. It’s hard to elevate a situation when you’ve started negotiations by destroying a hand. He’s left himself no room to maneuver, so he says, “Nobody loves zombies.”

  Oh, but he’s wrong. And I know he’s wrong.

  I say, “Yes they do!”

  “The market is saturated! Do something good… something original!”

  “My book will be good!”

  ‘DO. SOMETHING. ORIGINAL!”

  An unexpected change of heart comes like an adjustment in the wind. He turns the blender off and releases me. Thank heaven. It’s quiet now. The silence is a gift but my ears are ringing and my stump is throbbing. I pull my arm out to appraise the damage.

  Wait. Let me try that again: I pull what’s left of my arm out to appraise the damage. What I see looks like a cross between Cthulhu’s tentacle-beard and a ketchup sundae.

  Lovecraft leans in. In a gentle voice, he asks, “Are you going to publish zombies?”

  I’m not sure why, but I stick to my guns. With a tremble in my voice, I say, “Yeah. I guess so.”

  “You sure?”

  Nodding my head now. “Yes. It’s the right thing to do.”

  “Then make sure your zombie book is amazing… you get me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Say it.”

  “Yes, yes. I get you. My zombie book will be amazing.”

  Lovecraft spits on the floor. “I played gentle this time, fucker,” he says with a smirk. “If I have to come back here, don’t count on getting off so easy. Next time I won’t have a blender. I’ll have a chainsaw. I’ll saw your empty head off.”

  * * *

  Ahem.

  Let me clear my throat.

  Dear literate zombie fans; my name is James Roy Daley. What you’re looking at is a little idea of mine, brought to life by the power of hard work. If you’re a zombie purist this compilation will probably piss you off a bunch ‘cause I’ve put together stories that are not afraid to break traditional rules. Question: if you chop a zombie in half and both sections attack, are you fighting two zombies now? What if you chop the sucker into a hundred pieces? What if you’re attacked by hair and skin? Are zombies allowed to run? Do they think? Can they talk? Can they use tools? Do they experience emotions? Can they team up? Drive a car? Have sex?

  Ah, the questions are endless. And with each comes a plethora of unverified answers. The debate never ends.

  Like I said, some of these stories will piss off the traditionalists, no doubt. But if you’re a collector of zombie goodness this book will add some brilliant tales to your collection, tales you do not have.

  I went digging.

  And found stories inside anthologies you can’t buy, and compilations you’ve never heard of. I’ve got stories from websites that no longer exist and magazines that haven’t put out an issue in ages. I went digging, brothers and sisters. Digging. And yeah, some of the tales are easy to get. Some. Not many.

  This book contains funny tales and nightmares, artsy pieces and screamers, big stories and small. I tried to hit different emotions. Straight up, I pulled together the best work I could get my hands on––I don’t want the horror gods to kick my ass, don’t you know. My goal, a simple one: to put together the best zombie tales ever written. Don’t care what year the story was written. Don’t care who wrote it. Don’t care if the story follows Romero’s un-written rules of what a zombie is supposed to do. Don’t care if it’s offensive, or filled with naughty language. All I care about is High Quality Fiction. Simple.

  And with that, my rant has ended. I did my part. Now it’s your turn.

  Get comfy.

  Get ready.

  Get reading.

  First up, a Ray Garton masterpiece…

  Zombie Love

  RAY GARTON

  -ONE-

  1.

  A cold, gusty December wind blew the falling rain through the night. Just outside the small northern California town of Anderson, atop what the local children called Witch’s Hill, and near the dead-end of narrow seldom-used Hilltop Road, Mrs. Kobylka’s little house stood blanketed with ivy. The house was so covered by the white-speckled green leaves it seemed to have grown up out of the earth with the vines. Wisps of smoke were swept away by the wind as they rose out of the small chimney on the right side of the house. Four cracked concrete steps led up through an ivy-coated arch onto a small enclosed porch. The porch was flanked by windows––the one on the left was dark, while a soft glow shone through the drapes on the other. An enormous weeping willow, its branches swaying in the wind, stood in the small yard, which was overrun by weeds. The pickets of a once-white fence surrounding the yard were dark and broken, like old neglected teeth. An old blue pickup truck that had seen better days a long time ago was parked in front of the house.

&n
bsp; Three young people sat in a silver Ford Focus Sedan SE parked across the pot-holed road from the house. The rain was loud inside the car as they stared silently at the house––Randy Satifoy at the wheel, his girlfriend Liz Poole in the passenger seat, and Kirk Mundy behind her. Kirk was stretched over the backseat, his nose to the glass on the other side. They were each 17 years old. They had grown up there in Anderson, and since they were small children, they had heard stories about creepy old Mrs. Kobylka, that she was a witch who had lived in that run-down house for over a hundred years.

  When they were kids, it had been customary to see who was brave enough to egg Mrs. Kobylka’s house each Halloween and risk falling under her evil spell. The old woman had been there when Kirk’s dad was a boy, and kids had told the same stories about her back then. One story in particular had stood out, a story about a dead dog. It was passed down from generation to generation of children who rode their bikes up the hill to see the run-down old house, who dared each other to go up and knock on the door. Sometimes they spotted her coming out to get her mail from the rusted old box on the crooked post in front of her house. They watched from hidden vantage points as she shuffled through the weeds that grew up between the cracks in the concrete walk that led to the gate––a plump, slightly hunched old woman with a wild tangle of white hair, always in a simple housedress with a shawl across her shoulders. Sometimes she drove into town in her old pickup truck and was seen at the post office or drugstore, and the whispering children kept a healthy distance from her as she went about her business.

  Kirk’s dad had told him more than once to stay away from Mrs. Kobylka’s place. He’d said she was a crazy old woman and she shouldn’t be bothered. It had done no good, of course.