Through the Eyes of the Undead

By Robert Essig

Would you like to see what the living dead see? In the book you're holding you will experience the just that! There's more to a zombie than merely shuffling around in search of the next brain, and you will get a chance to have a glimpse into just what the reanimates see when they return after death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Library of the Living Dead Press
• Release date: Nov 30, 2010

Book preview

Through the Eyes of the Undead

Edited by Robert Essig

Published by arrangement with the authors.

Through the Eyes of the Undead

Edited by Robert Essig

All stories in this collection are copyright to the original authors, 2010. All Rights Reserved.

Smashwords edition

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronically, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the proper written permission of both the copyright owner and Library of Horror Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events and situation are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Foreword by Robert Essig

Raising the Dead by John C. Mannone

Knock Once for Yes by Carey Burns

Born Again by Carl Hose

Your Rotted End by Timothy W. Long

Zombies Anonymous by Rob Rosen

Dead Man’s Kiss by Martin Rose

Strand by Michael C. Lea

Thoughts of the Dead by James Roy Daley

Slave in the Flesh by Wesley Gray

The World is their Alter by Deborah Walker

A Z-Mas Tale by Paul A. Freeman

Zombie Has Chills by Cirian and Coal Colby

Black Market Funeral by William Todd Rose

Carpaccio and Coconut by Stephanie Kincaid

In Extremis Veritas by Linda L. Donahue

To Kill a Dead Girl Walking by Harper Hull

The Last Fan by Jesus Morales

Brainwaves by Chris Bartholomew

Professor Gorgon’s Amazing Zombie Influencing Machine by Ruth Imeson

The Hunt by John McCuaig

It’s Okay, He’s Already Dead by Sasha Pearl

Luta’s Last Stand by Quinn Hernandez

Home Is Where the Heart Is by Wayne Goodchild

The Death of Red Anderson by Dylan J. Morgan

I Am Stretched on Your Grave by Edward Morris

Fitful Rest by Jason V. Shayer

The Return of Slade McCall by J. Troy Seate

The Last Call, or, Plan-8.5 From Outer Space by Bruce Barber

Psycho-Analysis by Michael Penncavage

Never Grow Old by Bradd Parton

A Final Death for the Dead by Vince Daemon

FOREWORD

Through the Eyes of the Undead. I think that sums up what you have in your hands quite nicely. A book with tales that share a common bond in that all of them are written through the perspective of the zombie, yet they are all individual, some of them even crossing into genres other than horror. I have agonized over the order in which these stories are presented (though some of you will insist on skipping ahead because of an author you like, or a title that begs to be read), and I think that they will flow very well like a perfectly tracked record, one of those records that has no interruption between songs.

These stories venture into strange depths, a glimpse of what a zombie thinks, how the undead functions as they strive in their undeath and deal with a newfound taste for human flesh, but not all zombies are quite the same. No, that wouldn’t be any fun, now would it? Between these covers you will teeth into—pardon the pun—stories of shambling incoherent husks of human beings, zombies trying desperately to live amongst mortals, zombies dealing with addiction, the undead in the old west, love that death cannot tear apart, and even the disastrous consequences of a sociopath in the wake of the zompocalypse. There’s a little bit of everything.

At any rate, there are two people I would like to thank, without whom I would never have been given the opportunity to collect and edit these fine stories. First, I would like to thank Dr. Pus. As publisher, he took a chance with me and I am grateful for that. I am a bit nervous being that this is my first venture into editing, but without the encouragement and support of Dr. Pus and the Library of the Living Dead none of this would have happened, and that brings me to the other person I would like to thank, Mark M. Johnson. Mark came up with the idea, and it was my overwhelming excitement about it that landed me the opportunity to edit this book. I thank both of you. Cheers.

Without further ado, like a zombie after a fresh brain: dig in!

Robert Essig,Editor

Raising the Dead

John C. Mannone

Prise du morte

Ground thumps with the beat of voodoo

drums, primal surges quivering what’s left

of my body. I feel the sinew of its frame

knit my muscle and bone, tissue growing

from necrotic muck. Liver and heart cold

but surging black blood through my veins.

I smell the grave dirt and perfume

of chanted prayers above the ground. Odors,

pungent, flesh replaced with jimson weed

and sulfur, acrid taste rushing in

my buried mouth; skull teeth shoveling earth.

I inch through soil as a worm with hooks.

Fingers claw through clay, upheave the moon-

silvered turf grass. I struggle to stand,

shuffle with unsure balance toward the rattling

of bones on dimba djembes, the snare of wood

crackling in flames, the warm haunting of night.

I see my love, who called me from the grave,

dancing to the fever of drums growing louder.

Snakes coiling arms, drape around her neck,

her breasts in silhouette of fire. My demons

are restless, Who is it that I must kill tonight?

Djembe (pronounced JEM-bay) is an African drum made from Dimba or the Devil Wood tree.

Knock Once For Yes

Carey Burns

It was well after curfew when Paul Wilson crept from his bedroom window out onto the roof and peered through the leaves of the oak tree for any sight of the militia. With the coast clear, he shimmied his lower half over the edge and nestled his feet onto the rungs of the rose trellis. Little by little he made his way to the ground, quiet as a mouse sneeze in a room full of cats. He looked up and down the street and smiled, breaking into a dead run toward Tyler’s house.

Tyler Strong lived five houses down and was Paul’s best friend. Earlier that day they were playing Truth or Dare with Tyler’s little sister, Alice, and Paul agreed to sneak down to their house, sing ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb,’ and then run back home. It was either that or tell the truth about his secret crush, and Paul wasn’t about to do that. Even though the militia enforced a strict curfew, Paul thought getting caught and returned to his mother would have been better than telling Tyler that he was in love with his sister.

He stood below Tyler’s window and caught his breath, hoping to make the song quick so he could get home. Paul picked up a rock and tossed it at Tyler’s window, his nerves shivering down his back.

Tyler opened his window and leaned out. You did it! You really did it! He whispered, in awe of his friend’s bravery.

Paul bowed and cleared his throat, ready to sing. Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little— A zombie lunged out from behind a lilac bush next to the Strongs’ house, sinking its teeth into Paul’s arm as he staggered back, eyes wide and blood spraying his cheek. He could hear Tyler screaming but was so scared he couldn’t make out what he said.

Paul struggled to push at the zombie’s forehead to make it loosen its grip so he could try to run away, but its skin was slick with mold and pus and his hand slipped. He closed his eyes, ready to accept his fate as zombie food when he heard Tyler’s father’s deep voice.

Hold still, son, lean back as far as you can from it. The zombie didn’t even notice Mr. Strong because it was greedily gnawing on Paul’s arm. He took aim and squeezed the trigger, his bullet hitting the creature’s skull dead center, spattering blood and gore all over Paul and the side of the neighbor’s house.

The zombie fell dead at Paul’s feet and Paul sobbed and shrieked, cradling his wounded arm while Mr. Strong hurried to get him inside where it was safe.

As they came through the front door, Paul saw Tyler waiting in the hallway, eyes downcast, unable to look at him. Paul wanted to say something so Tyler knew it wasn’t his fault but his vision faded to black and something that sounded like hundreds of angry bees filled his ears. His limbs went slack and Paul slowly slid toward the floor, Mr. Strong was the only thing holding him up.

Paul blinked his eyes slowly, his cloudy vision making out Mrs. Strong hovering above him. After a few seconds he realized he was still alive and laying on the Strongs’ couch. He grimaced from the pain in his arm and opened his mouth to speak but Mrs. Strong shushed him.

Mr. Strong stood across the room, the telephone pressed against his ear as he stared at Paul. I need to report an exterminated potentially dangerous individual at 314 Locust. He closed his eyes, turning away from his son’s best friend, tears in his eyes. Yes ma’am, I heard a rustling in our bushes on the side of our house so I went to check it out. A PDI lunged at me so I shot it in the head and it’s dead, ma’am. Could you send a cleanup crew? I’ve got kids and I’d like it to be gone so they don’t see it in the morning. He wiped the tears from his cheeks and took a breath.

Mr. Strong stood with the phone against his ear for a second then hung up, returning his focus on Paul. We need to hide him. They’re sending a cleanup crew and if they see him they’ll exterminate him.

Paul wept, trying to wrap his mind around what was happening to him. He was infected and would turn into one of those creatures, then before long they would exterminate him too.

He pressed his face against Mr. Strong’s chest; Paul’s body rocked from sobs as he bundled him up in an afghan and hefted him in his arms. Mr. Strong hurried upstairs toward the master bedroom and when he reached the top of the stairs Paul heard Alice’s voice on his left.

He peeked at her, angelic in a pink nightgown, and fresh tears filled his eyes.

Paul? No! She rushed forward and brushed his cheek with her hand but Mr. Strong pushed her back

I’m sorry, Sweetie. Go back to your room and I’ll come talk to you in a minute. He plodded down the hall, tightening his grip on Paul. Once inside the bedroom he laid him on the bed then pushed it away from the wall so he could get behind the headboard. He crouched down and removed a waist high, hidden panel and turned back to Paul. Can you stand up?

Paul nodded. Yes. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Mr. Strong?

Hmm? He studied the dark red stain of blood oozing through the bandage on Paul’s arm.

Thank you. He struggled for words, a growing fever muddying his thoughts. I’m infected, sir. You might as well just kill me now so nothing bad happens to you or your family. Especially Alice, he thought.

Mr. Strong clenched his jaw. No. They’re close to a cure, Paul and I won’t let anyone hurt you as long as there’s hope, do you understand me?

Paul stared at the man who had shot a zombie in the head just moments ago. But, I’m no better than the thing that bit me and you didn’t think twice to kill it.

You haven’t changed into one of those things yet. You haven’t fed on human flesh and that is what makes you different. They say if a PDI hasn’t fed, it isn’t as dangerous; it’ll just be a docile being that can’t talk and has trouble moving. If I can just keep you safe until they find a cure...

Paul stood on shaky legs, feeling faint again. But...what if there is no cure? Please, won’t you just end it so I can die as a human and not one of those things?

Mr. Strong stared into Paul’s eyes. I’m sorry, Paul, but I have to try. He ushered the reluctant dying boy into the storage area that ran the length of the house, what they referred to as ‘dead space.’

I need you to be quiet, as quiet as you can be, do you understand? He peered into the gloomy opening and waited on Paul’s nod of agreement. I’ll bring you food if you need it, but from what I’ve heard you probably won’t eat it anyway. Remember, keep quiet.

Mr. Strong replaced the panel then heaved the bed back into place and Paul sat in darkness. He was burning up from fever but cold at the same time, and he shivered, wishing he’d never taken that stupid dare. Now he could never tell Alice how much he loved her.

His eyes adjusted after a few moments and he looked around, feeling small and alone in the cramped space. Paul spied a stack of boxes on the far end of the storage area and crawled toward them, hoping to find something to use as a pillow or to cover up with until his fever broke. He opened the top box and found some of Alice’s old stuffed animals, smiling at a ragged teddy bear before tucking it under his arm. As he looked through the boxes he heard something on the other side of the wall.

Paul scooted close to the wall and pressed his ear against it, listening for the odd sound. In a moment, he heard the sounds of Alice crying as her father’s voice carried through the wall.

You can’t open the panel, whatever you do. And don’t tell a soul that he’s here, do you understand?

He sat with his back against the wall while he held the bear tight, wishing he could see her and tell her how he felt before he turned into something hideous. In despair, he thunked his head against the wall.

Seconds later he heard Alice through the wall. Is that you? Are you okay?

His heart quivered and he bit his lip, afraid to tell her. Yeah, I’m okay for now. I’m just cold.

I feel so awful, Paul. This is our fault you’re infected. Please don’t hate me. Her sobs drowned out her voice.

I could never hate you Alice... Try as he might he couldn’t get himself to say it.

She sighed and he could hear her sit down on the other side of the wall. Are you in pain? What is it like?

He studied his arm and realized that he hadn’t felt anything but the cold since the fever hit. I can’t feel the bite anymore, it’s weird, it just doesn’t hurt like you’d think it would. I just feel...I don’t know. Numb.

That’s a blessing, at least. Her voice was low. How long do you think it’ll take before, you know, you turn into one of those PDIs?

I don’t know. Promise me something though, would you?Anything.

He smiled, hoping she was smiling too. Promise that you’ll talk to me like this even if I turn into some kind of monster?

Always. Good night Paul. He heard her stand up and pad across the room then listened to the springs of her mattress creak as she lay down to rest.

He sat there clutching the bear wishing he could close his eyes and let sleep take him but he was wide-awake. Into the wee hours of the morning he sat, listening close for her steady breathing. He closed his eyes, imagining her dark brown hair spilled over the pillow as she slept and how tender her flesh must taste.

Days passed and his fever subsided but the dark hunger grew stronger and he fought to keep it at bay. I’m not one of them! he would whisper through gritted teeth, trying to hold onto his last glimmers of humanity. Mr. Strong brought him raw steaks but the smell disgusted him and he would not eat. Only one thing could satisfy him and his body ached for it.

Alice remained true to her word and talked with him every morning before school and every evening before bedtime. Her voice soothed him but ignited the hunger so that he could barely speak. Over time, he stopped speaking as the beast took over the last of his faculties.

What if we had a secret code? She asked one evening. You could knock once for yes and twice for no. Let’s try it. Is your name Paul Wilson?

He recognized his name and an image of Alice laughing flashed through his brain. Paul raised his clenched fist and thumped it against the wall once.

Good! Now, are you cold?

He pounded his fist twice.

Are you hungry?

He paused, drool streaming down his dry lips. He tapped the wall, his knuckle grazing a board and tearing off a strip of flesh. Mesmerized, Paul watched it hang then peeled it back more, reveling leathery muscle and sinew.

I don’t have anything to feed you and Dad says you aren’t eating. You want people, don’t you? Her voice was just above a whisper.

He could smell her through the wall and wanted to sink his teeth into her throat and rip out her voice box to make her stop talking but fought the urge. He knocked his skinless knuckle against the wall.

She tried to disguise her sobs but he heard them. Goodnight, Paul.

Weeks later after Alice had left for school one day, Paul heard the sounds of glass breaking and Mrs. Strong’s screaming. He scooted closer to the panel as he smelled the musky scent of men and licked his parched lips, weak from hunger. While the men ransacked the house and searched through the bedrooms he listened to them threaten Mr. and Mrs. Strong. All they had to do was find the panel and he’d be waiting for them.

You realize that harboring a PDI is punishable by revoking your Clean Papers and relocation to a quarantine unit, don’t you? His voice sounded bullying. They’ll take away your kids; you’ll never see them again.

A memory flashed in Paul’s mind of his mother taking him to the clinic for blood tests and getting his Clean Papers. He patted his pocket and felt the laminated card through the filth-stiffened fabric of his pants.

Mr. Strong’s voice was clear and even. If you continue to threaten my wife, I’ll have you brought up on charges. You’ve checked the house, we have nothing to hide.

We’ll be back. You can count on it.

Mrs. Strong’s sobs filled his ears as he crawled back toward Alice’s bedroom wall to wait until she returned.

The men kept their promise and came back twice over the next three months and Paul waited for them at the panel but they never moved the bed. He was nothing but a skeleton covered by skin by this time and while he was hungry, it was just a dull pang.

Before bed, Alice told Paul all about his old friends and how Tyler was dating a new girl named Cindy. Do you think, I mean, if you hadn’t been bitten, that you would ever maybe love a girl like me?

A flash of a memory of how pretty she was and how he loved her filled his mind and Paul lifted his fist, thumping it once against the wall.

She choked back tears. I love you, Paul. I don’t care if you’re infected, you’re still the same sweet guy I’ve always known. Her nails clicked against the wall. You can be my secret boyfriend.

She was so close to him that he could smell her perfume through the wall and all he wanted to do was break through and eat her heart, infect her so they could be together forever.

Alice! What are you doing? Mrs. Strong shrieked, startling Paul. He could hear them struggling on the other side and he pressed what used to be his ear against the wall.

Mom, stop! I love him! She sobbed as her mother’s hand slapped her cheek.

"No! That isn’t Paul anymore, no matter what you think. That...thing isn’t Paul."

Yes he is! He talks to me and understands me and he said that he loves me! Her voice was tinged with acid as she spat out the words.

That’s it. You’re moving downstairs to Tyler’s room and he’s staying up here from now on. Stay away from him, Alice, I’m warning you.

Paul listened as she left and Alice’s sobs grew louder. He scratched at the wall, his fingertips crumbling with each swipe. He wanted to take her and turn her and make her his own, but within minutes he heard her parents return and lead her from the room. Heavy footsteps entered Alice’s room and Paul listened, knowing it was Mr. Strong.

You can’t have her, Paul. You need to stay in there and you need to be quiet. I hear they’ve come up with a cure and that it won’t be long until it will be released for use. Just be patient.

Paul stared at the stain on the wall from where he’d knocked his hand over and over and his school photo flashed through his mind. He was young and handsome and fit. Now he was a walking corpse, missing bits of flesh. He listened as Mr. Strong left the room before crawling down the storage area toward the panel.

Without Alice’s talk sessions Paul had no idea if it was day or night or if he had been waiting weeks or months in the dark crawlspace. The men searched the house once again but still didn’t find him. His hunger was maddening and he just wanted to break through the wall but he was too weak to do anything but sit.

Sometime after they left, Alice crept into the master bedroom and sat on the bed. My parents let me come up. It’s your birthday, Paul. You’re seventeen today. I made you a cake but Dad says zombies don’t eat cake, so I didn’t bring it to you. She paused, taking a deep breath. I miss you. And...I love you. God, that’s so weird, but I do. Happy birthday. The bedsprings creaked as she stood and Alice trudged across the room and down the hall.

No memories surfaced, just hunger.

The men returned and Paul sat at the panel, waiting for them to finally find him. If he could just get one taste of flesh he could die and be at ease. He just wanted the hunger to go away. He listened to Alice scream, her words garbled through the floorboards. Room by room they sawed through walls, broke through doors, and ripped up floors. Anticipation was worse, more painful than the hunger as he waited for them to reach him.

Mr. Strong argued with the men and a single shot was fired followed by the wails and cries of Mrs. Strong and Alice. Paul knew he was dead. His defender, his captor, his protector was dead.

Paul shook from hunger as footsteps fell on the stair treads. He smelled them, sweaty and dirty from their demolition, and they smelled delicious. They cut open the mattress and box spring, overturned dressers and kicked open the closet. Finally, one of them had the brains to move the bed.

Son of a bitch! He yelled. I need two men here. On my count...three...two...one! He pulled back the panel and stared at the thing that was Paul Wilson.

Paul reached up toward him, baring his rotten teeth as he struggled to crawl forward.

Jesus Christ! He aimed his rifle at Paul’s forehead and squeezed the trigger.

Born Again

Carl Hose

He’d risen from the cold, dank earth, shaking off maggots like rainwater as he made his way through the cemetery. Others were rising too, but he didn’t care about them. He cared only about the home and family he’d left behind. He was sure they needed him. He could hardly wait to see the joy on their faces when he returned.

Surely there would be joy.

There were others wandering the streets. So many lost souls. He kept moving. He had a purpose. He had somewhere he needed to be.

There were noises. Gunshots. He remembered the sound. He remembered so many things. Being dead hadn’t changed any of that.

Dead things falling around him, dying again.

Not him. He kept on moving, minding his own business. If he didn’t wander, no one would realize he was one of those who’d been born again. As best as he could tell, he was still in pretty good shape. The rotting flesh still covered most of his bones; his organs were mostly intact.

He minded his business and kept moving.

A truck roared past him. There were more gunshots. A bunch of yokels in back, throwing flaming bottles at a group of the newly risen dead.

He kept his head down and forced himself to walk.

Not shamble, walk.

The dead things (funny, he couldn’t quite include himself in the group) had a way of shambling. That was a funny word when you got right down to it. Say it. Listen to it roll off your tongue...shambling.

If he could force himself to walk instead of shamble just maybe no one would notice his clothes were moldering and the maggots clung to him no matter how hard he tried to shake them off.

He could only think about his family. He had to get home again. He had to see the wife and daughter he’d left behind.

Goddamn maggot-infested fucks, a voice came over the chaos that was beginning to break out everywhere he turned.

More gunshots, an explosion somewhere in the distance, and the sound of tires squealing on pavement. He knew all of these sounds. He could remember it all so clearly, but something was still lost to him.

His name.

He couldn’t remember his name.

He couldn’t even remember how he’d died.

His wife would tell him. He remembered her name. Claire. His wife was Claire and his daughter, who was just nine, was named Jenny. They would be happy to see him, and then Claire could tell him how he died.

He was close now. So close he could almost feel Claire in his arms. He’d have to clean up some, of course, but then he could hold her. She’d be happy to be held by him, wouldn’t she?

He changed directions, away from the chaotic streets of the plaza. He’d always laughed at that. This was a small town, with a population of just over 1500, and this little section of town was the plaza. What small town needed plaza anyway?

Now it was a war zone.

He heard explosions and screams even as he disappeared into the dark, moving away from the chaos.

Someone bumped into him. Came right out of the dark. It was another one just like him, only in worse shape. This one was missing an arm and at least half of his back. Something long and slimy trailed along behind him.

Jesus, he could smell it.

Or maybe it was his own stench.

He crossed through a section of the park and onto a deserted street. His mind was confused. He looked both ways.

A dog barked somewhere in the distance.

He decided to go left. No reason in particular, except it felt right to him. He stayed on the sidewalk and kept moving.

The dog barked again, closer this time.

He looked over his shoulder. It was coming after him, running full tilt. He felt the urge to run, but his legs were weak. He still wasn’t used to being dead, then born again, but still technically dead. Could you get used to a thing like that?

He pushed on, but the dog was almost on him. He looked one more time and saw that the front of its chest was mangled and raw. One eye was hanging limply from its socket.

The dog was born again too.

He stopped and turned just as the mutt was snapping at his ankles. He concentrated and managed to kick. His foot connected with the dog’s head and the dog yelped as it went sideways.

The dog gathered its senses and came back for another attack.

A gunshot erupted.

The dog’s head exploded in a shower of bone fragment and jellied blood.

Goddamn dead things, a voice came from one of the houses.

He didn’t wait around to see who had shot the dog. He knew he’d be next. He crossed the street as quickly as his dead legs would take him, then took a shortcut between two darkened houses, hoping the bearer of the gun didn’t take it upon himself to follow.

The next street he came to was well lit. He recognized it. There was a meat market on the corner.

He salivated at the thought. Raw meat. Bloody meat.

He pointed himself in the direction of the market. Maybe he would be able to break the glass. He couldn’t feel anything in his stomach to signify hunger, but it was there nonetheless.

Hunger for meat.

There were others when he got there. They were inside the market and out, feasting on raw meat, shoving it into their mouths by the handfuls. A couple of them were fighting over choice bloody chunks.

He turned away and headed the opposite direction. He had more dignity than to get involved in a mess like that. His wife and child would feed him. They would be happy to see him and they would give him meat.

There were more gunshots.

Distant gunshots and more screaming.

He stopped under the yellow light of a street lamp and stood next to a car. He could see himself in its side window. The shock of it caught him by surprise. He wasn’t in as good a shape as he’d thought. Half of his face was missing. Half of his goddamn face was just gone.

He hadn’t died naturally.

He couldn’t remember how he’d come to be in that dark, damp, dirty grave, but now he