First Time Dead 2

By TW Brown

The legions of the undead continue to grow.
First Time Dead proudly presents a host of brand new names to the genre pantheon. Each writer contained herein might be the next “it” writer on the rise...the one to watch for. You never know where the next Romero, Kirkman, Brooks, Keene, or Wellington may emerge to scare and entertain the masses.

• Language: English
• Publisher: May December Publications
• Release date: Feb 12, 2011
• ISBN: 9781936730247

Book preview

Preface

Welcome to something very special. What you hold in your hands represents a dream come true for some. I can attest to the thrill of seeing your name in print that first time. My first zombie story appeared in a Living Dead Press anthology. I still remember the day I received my copy. I flipped to my story and just stared at it.

When my wife suggested that we throw our hat in the ring, I was hesitant. For the first year, she was going to have to shoulder a huge burden. Still, as the editor and only permanent member of our story review team, I didn’t lack my own workload.

Our first anthology was a real learning experience. However, I believe it matches up with anybody else’s. What makes ours special? One word: anonymity. I have no idea whose story I’m reading until the two other readers on the review team and I have finished and scored it. It keeps me from having a prejudice for names I am familiar with. This business can get ugly with cliques. I don’t think that a person should be accepted to an anthology because the publisher is their buddy. I’m funny that way.

The idea for First Time Dead came because I knew there was some talent out there just waiting to be discovered. But maybe they’d been rejected a few times. Then, they buy the anthology that shot them down and read it. And maybe, at some point, they said, Are you kidding me? Probably after reading a story that they are certain is not even as close to as good as theirs. Don’t we all feel that way sometimes? Well…now all of these people have broken the cellophane ceiling. Some of them might hang their hats on this one offering. Others may be the next BIG NAME. And you read them when they were just getting started.

So, I hope you enjoy sharing this moment with these no-longer-newbies. And if something really strikes your fancy…drop the writer an email. You might be surprised at how awesome you can make a writer’s day by telling them you liked their story.

As is our custom at May December Publications, I have honored the spelling differences that exist between my American authors and those from abroad.

Have we met?

TW Brown

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This book is dedicated to everyone who has ever dreamed of writing and seeing their name in print

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Contents

InThis House I Dwell

Zombie Bites: The Old Dead

Ooky

Once More Without Feelings

Snow Days

Zombies in Puerto Rico: Island of the Dead

The Last Legacy

The Mission

The Hungriest Zombie

Rude Awakening

Zombie by Night

What the Cat Dragged In

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In This House I Dwell

By Ron Harris

May

When all this zombie shit started, people were calling it ‘Hell on earth.’ Little did they know how right that would turn out to be.

For about the first two weeks or so, the virus—or whatever was causing the dead to walk and feed on the living—was fairly straightforward. It was a fucked-up situation, but we could deal with it. The zombies were stupid, not remotely able to solve problems. Shambling, mindless, and singular of purpose: to feed on living human flesh. The military, law enforcement, and the self-declared Living Militia—made up of any citizen with a gun—was doing a bang-up job of popping caps in zombie heads and putting them down for good. It was still going to take a while to finish off the mass-extermination project and clean the mess up, but we were well on the way. Then everything changed.

I saw it in some of their eyes—a glimmer of intelligence. Not much, but you knew it was there. They weren’t just seeing you. They were looking right at you. Before that, if a zombie had ever looked me in the eye it had been purely by accident, and the gaze never lingered. Now it sure did.

I still remember that first time. I was looking out the window of what had been my home office for almost ten years before the plague hit, down at a pack of four of them staggering down my street about to pass my house. One of them was fresh, probably no more than a couple days dead. The hollowed-out areas of his bare torso and face that had been eaten were still raw and reddish. Soon, the wounds would turn brown and later an ashen grey. Flies were buzzing around them in a delirious frenzy, feeding and finding warm homes for their larvae to hatch in. The zombie was wearing only a pair of soiled cargo shorts—must have shit himself at the moment of death, like most of us do. The lights were out in my office, and the sun was flooding in from the other window that faced west. It was about six o’clock. What I’m trying to say is that I stood in shadows. Nobody from the street should have been able to see me without some night-vision goggles. But this zombie, he stopped in his tracks while the others marched on and he looked up at my window. No, not just that. He looked up at me. I didn’t have my glasses on, but I swore for a second I saw him smirk. Something definitely moved on his face, some expression—and these things had no more facial expressions.

A chill went through me as something passed between us…an awareness. I could almost feel him saying, yeah, I see you up there. And just as quickly, thank God, the moment passed. He turned his head back to the road in front of him and went on his way. I thought about telling Diane, but how did I know I wasn’t imagining things? Staying sane even then was a struggle.

June

We had TV and internet for almost another week after that day, and that’s where I saw the first talking zombie. The name of the YouTube clip was Cursing Zombie gives the finger, and it was already up to almost a million hits when I clicked on it. At first I thought I was watching a very well executed prank, someone made up to look like a zombie spewing all this vile language at whoever was holding the camera (or iPhone, more likely) through a chain link fence. The voice was too deep and hoarse to match the slightly built young man, but that’s easy to fake with a little editing. It shook the fence back and forth with manic energy, which we knew zombies simply didn’t do. They weren’t necessarily weak, but they never seemed to ever move very fast. They sure didn’t communicate in anything more than grunts and moans. This one was swearing up a storm, called the cameraman by name (Joe, apparently), insinuating that he had relations with his mother, children, men, and animals. When Joe said his only line in the clip, telling the profane zombie to shut the fuck up, its face twisted into a mask of rage just before it bit off its index finger at the second joint and spit it through a space between the chain links, nailing the camera or phone directly in the lens. Impressive marksmanship, to say the least. It had to be a good six or eight feet.

Diane heard it and I wound up replaying it for her. Over to the right in ‘related videos,’ similar clips of intelligent zombies had just been posted. The most disturbing of which showed a group babbling back and forth as they devoured the carcasses of two small children on a sidewalk, like some unholy dinner party conversation. You couldn’t make out anything they were saying. The camera was clearly a good distance away and zoomed in on the atrocity. Then, an obese female zombie with hair that was as limp and stringy as seaweed broke away from the group and started limping toward the camera. She was missing a foot, but carried a child’s plump foot and calf she was gnawing on. I had no idea where the camera was. It looked like it might have been peeking out of a basement window, because you could see overgrown lawn grass at the bottom of the frame through a filthy window. If that was correct, there was no way the zombie should have noticed it, just as the one in cargo shorts couldn’t have seen me. It looked directly into the camera from across the lawn and screeched, This is my little girl! I’m eating my own young! it then chomped down hard on the foot, the blood running down its chin like juice.

It spoke one last time, She’s delicious! before cackling and starting to choke. It didn’t stop laughing. It sure couldn’t choke to death.

Whoever was holding the camera backed away fast from the window and stopped recording, probably before throwing up or passing out. If it were me, I would have been trying to put as much distance between me and that abomination as possible.

Our attempts to make sense of what we had seen followed.

Are they getting some of their thinking abilities back now, is that it? Diane asked. They remember who they are?

Don’t know, I replied. Now I’m not even sure they’re really dead. I mean, they’re rotting like they’re dead… I trailed off. None of this made any sense, and it was getting more bizarre by the minute. My mind kept coming back to the fact that I only owned one gun, my Beretta nine millimeter, and I had exactly thirty rounds. There was one full fifteen-round magazine in it, and a fully loaded spare. Back when the gun was merely an insurance policy in case of a home invasion, that had seemed to be more than I would ever need. Now it seemed like a joke. There were probably thirty zombies just wandering around my neighborhood at any moment. Assuming I was lucky enough to land a head shot with each round, that wouldn’t even be good enough to get me to the center of town on foot. Not that we were planning on going anywhere. Where would we go? All the reports indicated that this was a worldwide infestation.

It’s worse if they’re smart though, isn’t it? she asked.

Sure couldn’t be better, I said.

July

I doubt I was the first person to figure it out. Since we had lost communication with everybody else—no TV, no internet, not even cell phones—there was no way to know how much others knew or had discovered. And I really can’t take credit for it. This one told me what he really was. Diane was asleep when he knocked on the door. She could sleep in just about any circumstance—especially well in cars or on planes. I was still tossing and turning.

We hadn’t completely lost power yet, but it came and went. Right now, at nearly midnight, it had been out all day and wouldn’t be back on until the morning. That meant no air conditioning, not even a fan to generate a little breeze in the fetid summer night. It had to be about eighty degrees out, and the upstairs bedroom was always the hottest room in the house. I would have slept on the sofa in the basement where it was much cooler, but my bed was so much more comfortable.

Someone was banging on my front door. Was it a neighbor? Anyone still alive was holed up like fugitives, just like us. The only living people I had seen out and about were zombie hunting parties in Humvees and pick-up trucks, a couple of which had big old machine- guns mounted in the back like warlords in Mogadishu.

I have yet to hear a machinegun fire. I supposed that, unless one was dealing with a horde of the creatures closing in fast, that would be a pure waste of bullets. Even the full-auto jobs like the M-16s and AKs—that I knew were being used around here—were set on single-round to conserve ammo. With literally millions of zombies to dispatch, and no guarantees that more bullets would ever be produced, it made sense to do your best to make each round count. I knew that if it came down to it, I sure as hell would have to.

Diane wasn’t stirring, and the knock came again, more forceful. I slipped out of bed wearing only my underwear (having no intentions of opening my door), grabbed my pistol off the top of my dresser, and tiptoed down the stairs as silently as possible. I did not want the visitor or visitors to have any inkling that this house was inhabited, even though the boarded-up windows pretty much gave that away.

Zombies weren’t the only problem these days. There were those who had taken advantage of the lack of law enforcement to rape, plunder, and pillage at will. Luckily the same void in police presence that facilitated their criminal rampage also allowed their intended prey to strike back with deadly force without fear of arrest and incarceration. Anybody or anything that walked into my home without being invited was getting a bullet square in the forehead at close range.

I gingerly approached my door and put my right eye to the peephole, which was one-way. What I saw nearly made me drop my gun.

As dark as it was, there was no denying that this was a zombie. The decomposition was fairly advanced, and I could actually smell him through the door. His eyes were milky and dull, but there was life in there, and awareness. This was one of the smart ones I had seen on YouTube, and I knew this was no hoax. The leathery skin was drawn close to the bones of the face, and the lips had already started to retreat away from the teeth, fixing this thing with a perpetual grin.

It didn’t knock again. It didn’t need to, because it knew I was there on the other side. I could sense that, and I felt it probing me as well. Something was trying to invade my mind and body. There was a sensation like long, cold fingers brushing across the back of my neck. It was far more unsettling than the mindless animal hunger we had all come to expect from the zombies.

Mr. Heath, it said in a hoarse croak, and I felt my adrenaline race at hearing it utter my name, have you heard the good word about The Kingdom? I noted that my breathing was coming faster and tried to slow it down, even though it clearly knew I was there. All who willingly give themselves over to The Kingdom shall be rewarded and protected. No harm will come to you or your wife, and you will be free to go where you wish. We control the earth now, you see. These shells make for excellent hosts, and soon we will occupy them all. Should you refuse our generous offer, I fear your suffering shall know no limits. Your world is ending, and there is no paradise waiting for you when you die. You can be part of The Kingdom, or endure our cruelty forever. Make your choice soon.

And with that, it turned and staggered down my walkway to the sidewalk, where, to my amazement, a car was at the curb, waiting. It got into the passenger seat. All I could see of the driver was a silhouette, but I had no doubt it was another one.

Diane was awake and propped up on an elbow when I got back to the room, trying hard to stop my hand from shaking as I set the gun back where it belonged. I had to keep my composure so I didn’t scare her.

Who was that, babe? she asked, still half-asleep. Good guy or a bad guy?

Bad guy, I answered. But I let him know what would happen if he didn’t fuck off, and fast.

That’s my hero, she yawned, and that was that.

August

Two things. One, shooting the possessed ones in the head doesn’t do shit. About a week after my visit from the late-night Satan’s Witness, I had to leave the house to make a food run. We still had some canned stuff and a few granola bars, but that wasn’t going to last us long. What we really needed were any type of beverages. The town water had finally stopped flowing and we sure couldn’t count on rain.

There was a Stop and Shop less than a mile away, and hopefully they still had some stock on the shelves. If not, there was a 99 Cent store diagonally across the street, and another supermarket less than a mile north on Washington Street. There had to be something to eat and drink somewhere.

Diane wanted to come with me, but that was not happening. Women can’t shop fast like men can, and this operation had to be carried out in a hurry.

Thank God I had a remote starter and had religiously fired up my Explorer’s engine