Best new zombie tales, vol. 3

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Текст книги "Best new zombie tales, vol. 3"

Автор книги: James Daley

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BEST NEW

ZOMBIE

TALES

Volume Three

– BOOKS of the DEAD -

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.

BEST NEW ZOMBIE TALES Volume Three

Graphic design by Cynthia Gould

Interior design by James Roy Daley

Edited by James Roy Daley

Photography by Danielle Tunstall

Model: Danielle Tunstall

FIRST EDITION

For more information subscribe to:

BOOKS of the DEAD

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For direct sales and inquiries contact: [email protected]

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

*Reprinted by permission of author.

**Used by permission of author.

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

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Introduction ~ 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

Preview – James Roy Daley – Terror Town

Preview – Matt Hults – Husk

Preview – James Roy Daley – Into Hell

Introduction

JAMES ROY DALEY

The release date for Best New Zombie Tales Volume Three has been delayed as long as possible. I've had a folder full of excuses tucked away inside my mental Rolodex for a while now, probably since the day Zombie Tales Two was made available to the general public. I've told people all kinds of things, crazy things: the book wasn't ready, the stories weren't quite right; I'm waiting for my book sales to improve; I'm worried about flooding the market.

Lies.

All lies.

Every word that fumbled over my lips. Lies.

In truth, there's only one reason volume three was put on hold. Only one.

H. P. Lovecraft.

The moment Zombie Tales Three was ready for print I knew he would come to see me, seeking vengeance, seeking retribution. Zombie-Lovecraft chewed the hand from my arm the first time I released a zombie book (see Zombie Tales One), and he sawed the foot from my leg the next (see Zombie Tales Two). Neither incident was enjoyable in any possible way. Both experiences were painful, leaving me scarred mentally, physically, and emotionally.

So why put out a third volume? Why not keep rolling out the excuses until the day I die?

Honestly, I'm not sure that I have an answer for that one. Maybe it's because I grew up with a punk rock attitude, or maybe I'm just too damn stupid to do the intelligent thing. Or maybe, just maybe, I figured I could take the son-of-a-bitch, and give him a piece of what's comin'.

In the months following the release of Zombie Tales Two I spent a lot of time in the hospital. My leg, which was in terrible shape, endured three separate operations. The first was an emergency operation performed hours after my attack. During the second surgery, which was completed a few weeks later, I had part of my leg amputated in preparation for the third operation–a procedure known as osseointegration.

Osseointegration is a new way of attaching an artificial limb to a body. Up until recently the 'stump and socket' method was used, causing significant pain to the amputee. This new 'direct attachment' method works by inserting a titanium bolt into the bone at the end of the stump. Several months after the operation is complete the bone will bond itself with the titanium. Once the bone and the titanium are connected an abutment is fastened to the bolt, which extends from the stump. The artificial limb can then be fastened securely. Some of the benefits of this method include better control of the prosthetic, the ability to wear the prosthetic for an extended period of time, and the ability to do things like drive a car, or in some instances, play a musical instrument.

I had this new procedure done twice: once for my arm and once for my leg.

Afterwards, I healed.

I watched a thousand movies while I was being restored back to health, nothing too dramatic. Comedies mostly.

Comedies, Disney, musicals... Evil Dead 2...

In the movie Evil Dead 2 the main character–a klutz named 'Ash'–attaches a chainsaw to his severed arm.

I decided to do the same thing.

And get my revenge on Lovecraft.

My tool of choice was a Poulan Pro, 42cc, 18-inch, gas-powered chainsaw. The Poulan Pro is a pull-start model with a Duralife engine that comes with a tool-less chain tensioning system, an anti-vibration handle, an air-filter system, an automatic chain-oiler, a carrying case, and a two-year warrantee... all for the low, low price of $239.99. The only problem with the saw is its weight. The Poulan Pro weighs in at 11.8 pounds before gassing-up, and 13.1 pounds after.

The saw wasn't my only expense.

The cost of my two prostheses was just shy of $80,000, but thanks to health care and my insurance company I paid a little less than a thousand bucks. However, with my third prosthetic, an arm that was immediately disassembled and used for parts–and deemed unnecessary by both the government and my insurance company–my cost skyrocketed to nearly $25,000.

For weeks I avoided buying that extra arm; I thought for sure I'd be able to find a way around it. After all, Evil Dead Ash seemed to have no problem sticking a chainsaw onto his arm with nothing more than a roll of duct tape and a screwdriver; he made it look easy. Things were different for me, though. In the end, after weeks of trying, I couldn't get the chainsaw fastened to my limb. After countless hours in my workshop, trying to make the impossible possible, I did what I had to do: I dug deep into my pocket and ordered the extra prosthetic arm from a company called CR Equipments. I then waited eleven days for the equipment to be shipped, and dismantled it a few hours later.

Around 7pm the next day everything was set. The chainsaw was modified and fastened to my abutment, which was connected to the titanium bolt, which had been directly fused with my bone.

Everything was perfect.

I wore the chainsaw day and night. Not wanting to be seen in public with this new modification, I had all my food delivered, I never invited company over for a visit, and I never left my home. I wore the tool to bed too, even though it was a bitch to sleep with and it leaked gasoline all over my sheets. In a perfect world I would have worn the saw every last minute, but the world isn't a perfect place, and occasionally, I was forced to take it off.

You see... I couldn't wear it in the shower.

And I was in the shower when Lovecraft came to visit me.

He was pissed.

I heard the loud BANG as the bathroom door was kicked open. The shower curtain was ripped from the rod before I knew it would happen. I stood there, naked, confused, and cursing up a storm with a glorified plastic bag wrapped around my prosthetic leg–a bag that I purchased from CR Equipment for a measly $345.95–and a second glorified bag wrapped around the stump of my arm, which, for the record, cost a few dollars less.

Hiding my manhood with my only hand, I was about to say, "What the hell is going on here?"

But then I saw him.

H. P. Lovecraft.

My chainsaw was sitting on the toilet seat.

And I was in deep trouble.

I looked left. I looked right. I looked at the chainsaw, which suddenly seemed to be very far away and completely useless to me. I thought about pushing my attacker away, I thought about screaming, I thought about begging for my life, but begging didn't do much the last couple of times that I saw the man, so why would it be any different this time?

Lovecraft said, "Another zombie book? You have gotto be kidding me! You've got balls... kid. I'll give you that."

"Wait!" I shouted. "Please... God, just wait!"

"No. There will be no waitingthis time, you injudicious, ill-advised, imprudent, accretion of Homo habilis defecation... you inconsequential, negligible, trifling, paltry, stump of–"

My mouth opened and closed. Arguing with a man that memorized the dictionary is a skill I have not yet mastered.

I said, "But–"

"But nothing!" Lovecraft barked. Then he raised his hand and I saw it:

The axe.

The fucker had an axe with him.

I stepped back, away from the maniac, and slipped on my prosthetic limb bag. My back slammed against the wall and I fell, landing in the tub. At the same time Lovecraft brought the axe down hard.

And missed.

I found myself beneath him, looking up. My arms and legs–or what was left of them–were thrashing about like I had been electrocuted. Panicking, an image came to mind: an overturned turtle, lying on its shell, feet moving uselessly in the air.

Lovecraft raised the axe again.

"Stop it!" I shrieked, still thrashing about. "What's wrong with the second zombie book? There was nothing wrong with it! Zombie Tales Two is good! IT'S GOOOOOOD!"

Holding the axe high, Lovecraft unleashed, "I don't care if it's good! That's not the point! No more zombies!Do something original! Do something better!"

"But I am! I've done a Best New Vampire Tales book and I'm about to release a Best New Werewolf Tales book! Do you know about those?"

Oh my God. I thought he was mad before, but the anger that consumed his pale and oddly shaped face doubled, becoming a 9.9 on the wrath scale. I had never seen anything like it.

"Werewolves?" he mumbled, offended by my words. "Vampires?"

"Yes," I whispered, trembling, knowing I was in worse trouble than before.

"You've missed the point, you despondent and miserably dejected wad of cephalopod tentacle! Do you really think that werewolves and vampires are original?"

"Uh..."

" Do you?"

What could I say? He created Yog-Sothoth and Cthulhu and I created... no, not created... rehashed–he created Cthulhu and I rehashed werewolves, vampires, and zombies... again. I was up shit creek with the words 'yes – I think werewolves and vampires are original' written across one paddle, while my other paddle announced: 'no – I don't think werewolves and vampires are original, but I'm releasing them anyway.'

I rolled the dice. "Yes?'

"Yes?! YES?!You think werewolves and vampires are original?"

"Well... maybe...?"

"No! Not maybe. Oh... you're DEAD!"

Lovecraft brought the axe down hard and caught me in the foot. Not the prosthetic one, the real one.

I screamed.

Blood splashed.

And Lovecraft lifted the axe again.

The second time he hit me the blade landed on my shin.

Something cracked. The lights seemed to dim.

As I started to black out I heard him say, "You going to release a fourth volume, zombie boy?"

The word "no" escaped my mouth in a squeak, but the truth of the matter was this: the fourth volume was almost complete.

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've read the first two volumes you know what I'm doing here. I'm putting together the best zombie tales I can get my hands on. If you haven't read the first two volumes I figure you're missing out. The first two volumes are loaded with great stories by some of the best writers in the biz, writers like: Gary McMahon, Kim Paffenroth, Jonathan Mayberry, Jeff Strand, Rio Youers, Mort Castle, Tim Waggoner, Matt Hults, Ray Garton, Gord Rollo, John Everson, Nate Kenyon... the list goes on and on. What I'm trying to build here, inside this little series of mine, is the definitive collection of zombie stories. I'm hoping that in the years to come– when the next generation of zombie enthusiasts start looking for zombie fiction–people will point them towards the Best New Zombie Tales Series. After all, the first two anthologies were excellent and volume three, which you're reading now, might just be the best of the bunch.

So get comfy.

Get ready.

Get reading.

First up, a novella by an award winning master, Paul Kane...

The Lazarus Condition

PAUL KANE

Prologue

' And he that was dead came forth, bound hand and foot with graveclothes: and his face was bound about with a napkin. Jesus saith unto them, Loose him, and let him go... '

John 11.44

No one paid any attention as the dead man walked down the street.

A familiar street to him, with children playing football on the grass verge, wives gossiping on the corner next to the shop. He took in all the streetlamps, never having noticed them, reallynoticed them before. Now he was scrutinizing everything, from the pebble-dashing of the council houses to the rickety nature of the peeling fences–which could so easily have been resurrected with a lick of paint.

Given new life.

He paused to look up at the sky, seeing the birds there catching the mild breeze, returned from their winter migration now that spring was here. They'd been drawn to sunnier climes, just as he was being drawn to this place, pulled as surely as if he was made of metal and someone was holding a gigantic magnet. He continued up the street, passing more people as he went: a man walking with a stick, newspaper jammed under his arm; a young woman pushing a buggy with a screaming kid in the seat; a postman making deliveries to each of the houses. None of them looked closely enough to trulysee him. None of them ever looked too closely at anything, they just went about the business of their mundane lives, worrying about bills–the same ones the postman was shoving through letterboxes that very morning–about the weather, about their families.

He was almost there. The house he was looking for was just across the road. He stared at the overgrown hedge and front garden: once neat and trim with a pond in the middle and gnomes fishing with tiny rods. What had happened to those? He couldn't remember. In the great scheme of things did it really matter? Things came, things went. It was how it was.

He made to cross over the road, almost stepping into the path of an oncoming car. He pulled back just as the driver blared his horn, shouting through the open window: "What the hell's wrong with you? You tryin' to get yourself killed?"

The dead man watched him drive to the end of the road and follow the curve around. Those words went around and around in his mind: "Get yourself killed... Get yourself killed..." He closed his eyes, images flashing across his field of vision below the lids:

A flash of red, of light. Hands clutching at something, tight, white knuckles and a ring on the third finger of the left hand. A pair of eyes, dulled but open in shock. A–

He snapped hiseyes open, flinching when he felt the hand on his arm. "Are... are you all right?" asked an Indian woman standing beside him. He searched her features but found nothing recognizable. Again he just stared, not saying a thing. In the end the woman let him be, not knowing what else to do. As she walked on up the street, she looked over her shoulder just once.

Turning, he checked for traffic this time, and crossed the road to the house.

He studied the small semi, the windows gaping back at him in disbelief. He put a hand out for the gate, which was hanging off by the hinges. It creaked heavily as he moved it aside, the latch long-since vanished. The path was overgrown too, each carefully laid slab now raised slightly at the side by the sheer amount of weeds pushing up from beneath, like a healthy tooth dislodged by its crooked neighbor. He trod the path slowly, dead flowers on either side, leading him to the front door, its mottled glass set inside a faded varnished frame.

Raising a hand he prepared to knock on the door. He hesitated. Why, he had no idea. This was what he was meant to do, he felt sure of it. And yet...

He shook his head and rapped twice on the wood. The wait was excruciating. He gave it a few minutes, then knocked again, cocking his ear at the same time. He heard movement from within, a voice calling, "All right, all right. I'm coming."

The door opened a crack and someone peered out. It was difficult to see clearly as it was dark inside the hall, but then the door opened more fully. It wasn't because the gray haired woman standing there was willingly allowing him entrance; it was more that she was in a state of severe shock.

She put a quivering hand to her mouth, eyes wide and filling with moisture. "Matt... Matthew?" The old woman made to take a step towards him, but her already unstable legs gave out. "No... no it can't be." He covered the distance between them in an instant, hands there to catch her as she fell back into the house. Her eyes rolled up into her head and she began gasping for air.

"It's okay, I've got you," he said, experimentally talking again. He half-carried her into the house, then closed the door on the outside world. He tapped her face gently with his fingers. "It's me, Mum," he told her. "It's really me."

But she fainted again–the result of seeing her dead son standing on the doorstep after seven long years.

Chapter One

Mrs. Irene Daley woke from her nightmare to find herself on the couch.

She'd had the most awful dream. In it she'd been watching the television, The Breakfast Showhad just finished and she was about to turn off a report on the troubles abroad–the commentator stating that they were on the verge of yet another 'conflict.' Then there had been a knock at the door. She hadn't heard it at first due to the explosions on the TV, but when the knock came again she'd switched off the set with the remote then got up to answer it, her back aching as she lifted herself out of the high seat chair.

Whoever it was they were persistent. Might be the postman?she'd mused as she turned into the hallway. But why would he knock? No one ever sent her any packages, not even her own family. She was lucky if she got any mail at all that wasn't simply junk. She'd called out that she was coming, and she could see the shadowy shape through the misted glass at the door. Irene even considered putting on the chain, but it was the middle of the morning not ten o'clock at night. Nobody would be trying to break into her home this early on in the day, surely. She decided to meet the potential threat half way, only open the door a tiny bit. That way she could shut it again quickly if need be, but she could also see who was so eager to get her attention.

When she opened the door she thought her eyes were playing tricks. Through the gap she looked out at a face she hadn't seen in over half a decade. A face she'd adored more than anything in this world, last seen under a very different set of circumstances. Her boy; herMatthew...

But that couldn't be. It only happened in dreams, in nightmares. So when she'd collapsed in the hall and everything had gone black, it only lent more weight to the argument that it was all in her head. That she'd made it all up because yes, even after this length of time, she still missed him so, so much.

She'd heard him say something, but by that time darkness already had her. And now that she was rising from that deep pit of despair and pain she was even more convinced the events that put her there were a product of her imagination.

Irene resolved to open her eyes, get up, and pop the kettle on–to try and put this whole episode out of her mind. But that was going to be incredibly difficult, because as she turned her head and looked at the chair facing the couch, she saw him again. He was sitting there with his hands clasped, staring at her. No, that wasn't strictly true; his eyes weren't so much staring as burrowing into her. She turned away again, quickly, not able to meet his gaze, nor accept what must be the truth. That Matthew was in the room with her, right now. Unless she was still dreaming? Could that be it? Irene pinched the loose skin on the back of her hand, nipping it tightly and hoping the pain would deliver her back to the world she knew. Back to sanity.

She didn't fully turn, but caught him still sitting there in the periphery of her vision.

Seconds passed like hours, until finally she knew she had to speak. "Who... who are you?" Irene asked. "What do you want?"

"I..." he began, and she felt compelled to look at him now as he shook his head. "I'm your son." The man said it so certainly that for a moment she almost believed him. For one thing he was saying the words in her son's voice.

"No... no you're not. You can't be."

He nodded. "But I am."

Irene sat up against the cushions, where he'd placed her, and brought her legs around with a slight crack of the bones. "You look like him–"

"I amhim," he interrupted.

"You have his face, but..."

Oh sweet Lord did he have her son's face. It was exactly the same, every line, the dimple in his chin, the crowsfeet that were beginning at the corners of his eyes even though he was barely into his thirties. Those hazel eyes were the same too, and the way his hair made him look like he'd just got out of bed in spite of trying to brush it flat. All the same, all the same. And those clothes... were the shirt and trousers part of the suit they'd buried him in, or just very, very similar?

"Why won't you believe me?" It was a simple enough question and yet staggeringly complex. "You know, deep down, that I'm telling the truth."

Irene could feel tears starting to form in her eyes. "You're..." she managed before she began to cry. The tiny beads of water crawled down her cheeks, running into the rivulets created by her wrinkles and breaking up. "You're... you're..." She couldn't get the word out, and when it did eventually slip free it came only as a whisper. "Dead."

He frowned, saying nothing. What could he say? If he was her son, as he so vehemently claimed, how could he deny that? Yet here he was, in the 'flesh,' in her living room–that was a good one, livingroom–sitting in the armchair he always used to occupy when he visited. "I can't explain it," he finally offered. "But I know who I am, and I know that I love you, Mu–"

Irene held up her hand. "Don't. Please don't."

He got up, putting his hands in his pockets. Walking over to the window, he pulled aside the net curtains and peered out. Then he looked down at the photo in the frame on the windowsill. He lifted it up.

"Put that down," said Irene.

He held it out instead to illustrate his point. It was a photo taken at least ten years ago, of Matthew with his arm around his mother. "Look," he said. "This is me... this is me here with you."

"No," said Irene again. She was crying freely now.

There was a noise at the back door and they both turned. A shadow appeared in the hallway, small and dark, followed by another: this one very much alive. The jet-black cat froze when it reached the doorway, the swinging and creaking of the cat-flap still carrying into the living room.

Irene was half standing, looking from the cat to the man holding the picture.

"Tolly?" he said.

The cat had something in its mouth. It looked like a toy at first, but when the animal dropped it onto the hall carpet they could both see it was a sparrow the cat had stalked and caught, just like it always loved to do. The feline–named after Tolstoy, because of its long tail–was now locked in a battle of gazes with him. He took a step towards the creature and its fur stood on end, hackles rising. On some level it could sense there was something wrong. Was this really the man it used to curl up to, making itself comfortable in his lap while pressing its feet into his thighs as if making a nest?

One more step and the cat hissed, spinning around and shooting off in the direction it had come, leaving its prey behind. The man stood and looked across at Irene. She knew exactly how the cat felt–didn't want him coming anywhere near her.

"Mum," he said.

"Don't call me that!"

"It's who you are," he insisted. "You're my mother."

"I was Matthew's mother. I... I don't even know whatyou are."

He looked wounded.

Perhaps she was losing her mind. Was that it? Were these the first signs of Alzheimer's? Or a brain aneurysm? Was she conjuring up this whole scene because she wanted to see Matthew so badly, at this time of year especially? Was this all her doing? Irene shook her head. No, this was real; the man in front of her was real. And she had to figure out some way of dealing with it before she really did go insane.

"I'm Matthew. I'm not an hallucination," he told her, seemingly reading her mind.

"I don't believe in ghosts," Irene said.

"I'm not a ghost either," was his reply. "I'm solid, as solid as I was in this photograph. See?" He reached over and grabbed her arm and she nearly fell back onto the couch in an effort to escape him. But there was no force in that grip; it was merely to illustrate his point. "I carried you back in here, remember?"

Her eyes were wide and white as dinner plates. He let go of her, slowly, and Irene was profoundly aware that she was trembling.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. It's just, well, I don't know how else to convince you."

"T-Tea," said Irene, her mouth a straight line. "A cup of tea..."

The man smiled. "Of course, tea. The cup that cures." He said it like he knew that was her mantra. Like he knew that all the problems there had ever been in this house had been solved over a cup of hot, steaming tea. "I'll go and put the kettle on."

Irene almost laughed then, a nervous laugh. Her dead son, or at least someone who purported to be so, was now offering to go and brew up. She nodded and watched as he put the picture down on the coffee table and left the room. From the kitchen she heard cupboards being opened, the tinkling of china–he knew exactly where to look. Then the sound of the kettle being filled with water.

Irene snapped out of her daze. She picked up the cordless telephone she always kept down the side of the couch when it wasn't charging. And, with one last glance at the photo, she stabbed the buttons with her finger.

Chapter Two

"I remember there used to be a poster here when I was growing up, some band," the person claiming to be Matthew Daley said, examining the wall of what had once been 'his' bedroom.

The request had come after he'd brought back the tea on a tray, along with a plate of biscuits, taken from the jar Irene always kept on the counter next to the bread bin. He wanted to see his old room, asked her politely and with that same lilt Matthew once had in his voice. Irene simply agreed, not knowing what else to say. She led the way up the rickety stairs, checking behind her all the time to see if he was still there. He was, and he followed her to the room where her son had spent much of the first twenty-two years of his life.

"The TV was there, the stereo over... there." He pointed to a sideboard. "I bought it with my first month's wages from the plant. You used to keep telling me to turn down the racket, you remember?"

Another nod.

"It's not there anymore, is it?"

For a second she thought he was still talking about the stereo, but then she realized he meant the place where he'd worked since he was in his late teens. "They... they shut it down a few years ago," she managed.

He nodded and walked over to the wardrobe, a cheap flat-pack one that was still–remarkably–standing, after many years of service. He opened the door nearest to him, taking out a jumper on a hangar. It was navy with pink zigzag lines running across the middle. "I can't believe this is still here. You gave me this one Christmas when I was about fifteen. I didn't like it, but I wore it anyway because I knew you did."

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