It's a Wonderful Undead Life

By M.J. Reed

In its retelling of nine classic Christmas tales, IT'S A WONDERFUL UNDEAD LIFE endeavors to prove that most any story can be enhanced by simply adding zombies. In addition to the title story, the collection includes; Home and Almost Alone, Frosty the Undead Snowman, Bloodthirsty Zombie Rampage on 34th Street, and... well, you get the idea. If you love zombies and you love Christmas, then you’re sure to love (or like quite a bit) IT'S A WONDERFUL UNDEAD LIFE, a book dedicated to the simple proposition that zombie + story = BETTER STORY! It’s all about the math...

• Language: English
• Publisher: M.J. Reed
• Release date: Nov 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311115089

M.J. Reed

M.J. Reed lives in semi-seclusion in a bunker on the New Hampshire Seacoast. In 1995 the author was diagnosed with hysterical tinnitus, a particularly cruel form of the disease in which he does not hear the characteristic ringing, but rather the 70's pop tune Muskrat Love playing endlessly in his head. He spends his days in self-imposed isolation, watching Seinfeld reruns and preparing for the zombie apocalypse. He has no favorite color, if he were a plant he'd be a sycamore fig, and as for his politics, he doesn't like cats.

Book preview

It’s a Wonderful Undead Life

and Other Yuletide Tales

By M. J. Reed

Copyright © 2012 by M. J. Reed

Smashwords Edition

All Rights Reserved

Table of Contents

It’s A Zombie Christmas…

It’s a Wonderful Undead Life

How a Zombie and his Undead Dog Stole Christmas

X-Mas Story

Bloodthirsty Zombie Rampage on 34th Street

Home and Almost Alone

Frosty the Undead Snowman

Zombie Apocalypse, Now

A Christmas Carol A Zombie Story of Christmas

___________________________________

It’s a Zombie Christmas…

His head was round, perfectly unnaturally round. Then again, all their heads were round. That was the gimmick, like having three fingers, or being two-dimensional—all part of the hand drawn package. It had been that way for as long as he could remember, and even with the stark contrasts in color and the sharp black outlines that defined his world, there was a certain intractable blandness to it. From his blanket toting friend to his sister’s pianist paramour they all led strikingly dull lives, dominated by little league ballgames and school plays and trips to the principal’s office. Their universe, at once exceedingly monotonous and oppressively safe, was always and forever the same.

And then it wasn’t.

In the time it took to get a nip in the butt from an anthropomorphic beagle, their world went from muted yellows, browns, and blues, to a landscape dominated by a single startling color: red.

Christmas time is here

Happiness and cheer…

It started when he nabbed a string of lights off his dog’s elaborately decorated house. As the boy struggled to wrap the pilfered bulbs around a pathetic four foot balsam he’d designated his Christmas tree, the dog trundled out of his home and bit him in the behind. The round-headed boy reached back to inspect the damage. In his short life he’d suffered an occasional bump on the head or skinned elbow, but puncture wounds from an infected hound—this was new territory. Through the tear in his pants he felt a warm rush of fluid, and before he could comment on his misfortune with a poignant ‘drats’, his body seized and his mind faded to a feral, hungry black.

The dog turned and stalked back to his house and the boy, arms held in front of him like a sleepwalker, followed. Sensing danger, the dog slipped through the door and cowered in the back of his one room shelter. The house was cold, had an unpleasant odor, and a fly blown blanket on a dirt floor, which was why the dog spent more time on top of the house than in it. The boy knelt next to the door and thrust his hands through, swiping and grasping, his fingers inches from the terrified pup. The boy groaned and the dog crushed itself against the back wall, and after a few futile seconds, the boy abandoned his efforts and went off in search of other prey.

Fun for all that children call

Their favorite time of year…

Don’t worry, he’ll be here. It was his friend, the thumbsucker, who said it. They were in the school auditorium rehearsing for a play, and he was trying to quell a developing mutiny among his animated peers.

He’s supposed to bring the tree, said the thumbsucker’s dark-haired sister, never a fan of the round-headed boy, least of all at this moment. "How are we supposed to have a Christmas pageant without a Christmas tree?"

The thumbsucker didn’t answer the question, assuming it was one of those rhetorical ones his sister was always asking. Instead he walked center stage. The true meaning of Christmas, he said, as the houselights dimmed and a spotlight shined down on him, Behold the manger…

Knock it off, shouted his sister. There was a snap and the houselights came back up. Nobody wants to hear that again.

I want to hear it, said a little blond girl with an oversize bow in her hair. She stared moon eyed at the thumbsucker as little hearts formed around her head and floated away. I want to hear it again and again.

On stage left, an ersatz beatnik hunched over his piano and began to play. Instead of the usual pseudo-jazz fare that got them hopping like mice in a frying pan, he chose a somber, classical arrangement. He was pounding the keys in a heavy chord progression when the boy appeared.

The dark haired girl spotted him first. Where’s the tree? she demanded.

Ahh, said the boy, eyes wide as he stumbled toward the stage.

The thumbsucker stepped back. Something’s wrong, he said, taking his blanket off his shoulder and holding in front of himself like a bullfighter.

Ahh, said the boy. He was on the stage and approaching the pianist who was lost in a musical riff. There was a horrible clanking of keys and then a scream.

Zombie! cried the little blond girl.

The round headed boy, jaw locked on the piano player’s neck, drove the victim off his stool and on top of the miniature Steinway. Blood jetted across the white lid, and gore leaked down over the keys. The round headed boy tore and bit with more ferocity than seemed possible, his face now buried in the dead boy’s belly.

Hey! The dark haired girl put her fingers in her mouth and whistled. Over here.

The boy stopped his maniacal feasting and looked up, his face a mask of blood and gristle. The girl was holding something up for him to see, something he could no longer name, something that called out to a deeper part of him, deeper even than his blind desire to feed. The boy stood spellbound as she approached, holding the thing out in front of her as she walked.

That’s right, she said, voice calm as she knelt next to the piano. The other kids on the stage gathered around, watching as the girl set the thing she’d been holding on the ground. It was a football. She held it in place, the tip of her finger on one end, and turned the laces to face the boy.

Ugh, said the boy, eyes locked on the ball.

Go ahead, said the girl.

The boy took an awkward step forward and swung his foot at the ball. His kick missed, his legs shot out from under him, and he landed on his back, head just beneath one end of the piano.

Hi-YA! said the girl, kicking a leg out from under the Steinway and sending it crashing down on the boy’s skull.

Snowflakes in the air

Carols everywhere…

The thumbsucker loomed over his dead undead friend, thumb firmly in his mouth, blanket over his shoulder. What do you suppose happened?

The dark haired girl rolled the boy over and discovered the tear in his pants. She ripped at the cloth, enlarging the hole