Reanimated Readz

By Rusty Fischer

Just when you thought it was safe to read again...the zombies are back! And in greater number too!

In Reanimated Readz, you’ll find five young adult zombie tales from Rusty Fischer’s popular “Reanimated Readz” series of living dead short stories. From brotherly love to zombie politics, from zombie private detectives to loving the undead, the five tales are sure to give you your fill of zombie reading – and then some.

Project Z
Zombie, Interrupted
Private Eyez
The Zombie Vote
My Brother, My Zombie

• Language: English
• Publisher: Decadent Publishing
• Release date: Jan 24, 2015
• ISBN: 9781613337998

Rusty Fischer

Rusty Fischer is a full-time freelance writer, multi-published ghostwriter and the author of dozens of published books across a variety of genres, from nonfiction to fiction, including his popular A Living Dead Love Story series from Medallion Press. Visit him at www.rustyfischer.com to read more!

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Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in, or encourage, the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

This book is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Reanimated Readz

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2015 by Rusty Fischer

ISBN: 978-1-61333-799-8

Cover art by Tibbs Designs

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC

Look for us online at:

www.decadentpublishing.com

Reanimated Readz

By

Rusty Fischer

Includes:

Zombie, Interrupted

Project Z

Private EyeZ

The Zombie Vote

My Brother, My Zombie

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Zombie Interrupted

by

Rusty Fischer

~DEDICATION~

To my wife, Martha; the best reporter I know!!

She picks a coffee shop even after I tell her the smells will be overwhelming for me.

I can smell the fresh-ground beans from a block away and kind of slow my roll to get used to it before I even step in the door.

Well, I tend to walk pretty slowly anyway.

I get there a little early, but only because she’s so late.

It’s a few days after Halloween and the specials board is already crammed with festive holiday treats: pumpkin scones, harvest blend coffee, pecan tarts, moose berry mocha.

I get something sweet and cold and squishy—a cinnamon and hazelnut whip-a-chino—and wait for it awkwardly, aware that most of the eyes in the room are on me, as usual.

The counter girl is pretty with flawless skin and looks like your typical college freshman. She has a tattoo of a butterfly on her neck just above her green barista collar and another in the web of skin between her thumb and forefinger.

When she’s done, she puts the frozen coffee drink on the counter and backs away cautiously. I shrug and take my drink, tempted to lunge just to watch butterfly girl flinch. Bet she wouldn’t look so flawless then.

I sit in a corner booth, near a window but away from the few hipster couples pretending to stare at their cell phones instead of me.

Even though I have Public Zone clearance and it’s against the law to discriminate against the undead, that doesn’t stop lots of folks from being nasty to my kind.

Whatever. It’s fine. I’m used to it by now.

Soft jazz music plays overhead, something instrumental and old with guitars, but still vaguely cool. I watch the front door until she arrives.

She’s in full-in reporter mode, right down to the distressed leather handbag and beret. Yeah, you heard right: a beret. She has one of those sleek little voice recorder things in her hands even as she stands in line. It’s white, and she wields it proudly as if to say, Look at me, I’m gonna record something in a minute.

She ignores me, completely, while butterfly girl behind the counter smiles and gushes and says, I kid you not, "I love your beret."

Well, Julia’s always had that effect on people.

They talk a little more, like a couple of Cheer Club spazzes, until butterfly girl hands over her coffee and Julia finally casts her eyes on me. They’re brown and cruel, and she doesn’t smile.

She looks at my booth as if to say it’s not big enough, but she can’t complain since a) she picked the place and b) all the seats are pretty much tables for two.

Hi, Julia, I say, watching her flinch to hear the way my new voice grinds out her name. What took you so long?

Huh? she asks, annoyed that I’d call her on it, like my time is any less valuable than hers. Oh, the bus ran late.

I scoff. Julia? On a bus? Not hardly.

She sits just inside the booth, one thigh off the cushion and foot pointed toward the door. My back is against the window, arm tossed lazily over the top of the booth, fingers pale at the end of my turtleneck sweater sleeve.

She takes her time pulling a notebook out of the leather bag, clicking and un-clicking a big purple pen and rolling a breath mint around her tongue.

I roll my eyes and move my hand, as if to get up and storm out. You know, Julia, I’m doing you the favor here, right? Not the other way around?

Her eyes get big but she doesn’t budge, at least not until I shift my foot and start to inch out of the booth for real.

She nods and says, Okay, okay, I’m ready. Just…let me push this button here and…go.

She points the sleek white recorder in my direction and stares at me.

Would you like to ask me a question first? I grunt. "Or should I just do all the work for you?"

She looks down at her notebook and nods again. What’s your name, for the record?

I snort and say, Reginald Archer Addison.

She rolls her eyes dismissively. I meant your zombie name.

I grit my teeth a little; she already knows all this. Reggie 4.

What’s the four stand for?

It means I’m the fourth zombie named ‘Reggie’ in Calumet County, is what it means.

Is there a Reggie 5?

Not yet. I sigh, peering out the window.

It’s late afternoon, but this time of year, that’s close to early evening. Traffic is light in this neighborhood. She chose the café across town so nobody would see us sitting together.

Across the tree-lined street, there is a yoga studio, a pita place, and a cupcake bakery called Mama’s Muffins. There are random cars parked at meters up and down Blythe Boulevard, and one black van.

Reggie? she asks, waving the white voice recorder in my face. Come back to earth.

There is an urgency in her voice that grates, as if she can’t stand me looking anywhere but at her.

It was the same way when we were dating, once upon a time. We had to stop going to movies because she got tweaked if I, you know, wanted to see what Jason Bourne or Iron Man or Captain America were actually doing.

I sigh and turn back to her, not sure why I agreed to all this.

Well, ask better questions, I blurt. You could have gotten all this crap off the Reanimation Relocation website, Julia.

She makes that fake smile of hers and says, "Yeah, but this way I