Two Weeks and Other Periods of Decay

By Jennifer Melzer

Two Weeks and Other Periods of Decay contains seven speculative fiction shorts by author Jennifer Melzer. 

Two Weeks–Two Weeks ago, the hardest decision Andrea Gates had to make was whether to add more butter to her popcorn, or not. When a viral epidemic strikes, she finds herself on the run through a world torn asunder by the walking dead. 

The Memory Eater–Feeding her lover memories to keep him alive, what happens when the only memories she has left to give are the ones she made with him? 

Archangel– A distant descendant of Earth’s humanity finds herself shipwrecked on the dead planet with an alien assassin. Can Lola reach salvation before there’s no turning back from the edge of insanity? 

Ahoy, Matey!–Preparing to reunite with her graduating class for the first time in more than a decade, Sondra finally has the body she’s always desired, a job she loves and a gorgeous husband who will be the envy of her peers. When a ruptured breast implant leaks into her blood, infection nibbles away at her brain, stoking fires of vengeance inside her. 

‘Til Death Do Us Part–Waking up dead in the morgue, Marilyn’s memories are fuzzy. She faintly recalls gasping for life on the floor while a familiar shadow loomed in the doorway, watching her die. 

Treed–What happens when you’re trapped in a tree with nothing but a backpack full of granola and bottled water during the zombie apocalypse? 

The Secret Pages–The world needs to know the truth, no matter what happens. You must tell them everything.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dragon's Gold
• Release date: Jul 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781513070230

Book preview

TWO WEEKS

There was a moment when I thought her glazed and watery stare held recognition, and my father’s handgun trembled in my hand. She was still my mommy. The nurturer who had picked me up fall after fall from the moment I started stumbling through life and set me back on my feet again. Jagged bone tore through the skin where her ankle snapped when she fell down the stairs, and every dragged step toward me was an effort. Driven, determined to reach me, she didn’t recognize me. She was hungry.

I aimed, squeezed my eyes shut and pulled the trigger. Warm bits of bloodied bone and brain matter splattered against my face and arms. She should have fallen backward, but she staggered on unsure footing and fell against me. I had been taller than her since the seventh grade, but she was solid and her weight knocked me backwards. I slammed into the refrigerator and spasms of pain rushed like fire up my spine. The sticky warmth leaked out onto my faded jeans from the hole in her forehead and puddled beside me on the cream and green checked linoleum. She hated that pattern. Said it was too damn hard to keep clean.

The hideous design her insides left across the front of my white T-shirt was a slap of awareness. My vomit mixed with her blood, turning the pool beside me putrid shades of pink and orange. The colors horrified me, reminded me of sickness, infection and death.

I wanted to wash away the contamination, but struggled to push her off of me. If I didn’t wash it off, I’d become infected too. Hot tears slipped down my face and clung like beads to the burgundy strands of my chin-length hair. I struggled underneath her dead weight, whining and grunting until a half-strangled scream of frustration empowered my escape.

My scream signaled a guttural complaint from the living room, and I scanned the floor for the gun. It slid across the kitchen and the barrel lodged under the stove. I stretched through vomit and blood, but couldn’t reach the handle because my mother’s body blocked me. His moaning shadow breeched the doorway and I pushed her over onto her back so I could get around her. Dead eyes stared upward, free from the milky haze of disease. She looked almost human again.

It all reminded me of a movie I watched as a little girl, Old Yeller. When the dog turned rabid, the oldest brother had no choice but to shoot the family pet, but what if it had been his mother or father? What if he’d been forced to put down his little brother? Could he do it, or would he turn the gun on himself?

I scrambled toward the stove and reached the gun. The grip stuck to the sweaty palm of my hand, but I couldn’t let myself think about why. I grabbed for the edge of the countertop and pulled myself to stand, ignoring the fiery pain that wracked my entire body.

I leaned on the counter for support and looked down at the gun in my hand. Would it hurt to die? Would I escape the viral reanimation that took over my infected family and turned them into hideous, nightmare creatures? Then it hit me. Death meant leaving my own corpse behind to nourish the sickly appetite of my loved ones. Vomit lurched into my esophagus again, but I kept it down.

I had no choice. I aimed toward the doorway as his crippled form staggered into the room.

Daddy? My tone rasped with sorrow, and yet I still hoped for some kind of recognition.

Nothing.

A glaze of tears distorted his image. I didn’t close my eyes when I squeezed the trigger, and when the bullet erupted from the barrel, I heard only my own ragged scream ringing in my ears.

*****

Gates?

Radio static wrapped around the sound of my name. Acidic vomit burned the back of my tongue and my empty stomach lurched. I swallowed hard against the lump of reality lodged in my throat and pushed my back against the wall. I scanned my surroundings carefully, guilt-ridden for having dozed off during my watch.

Gates, you copy?

I dug into the deep pocket of my coat and brought out the two way radio. Affirmative, go ahead.

We’re on our way back now, so round them up, Johns said. We’ll be there in fifteen. Over.

Either my voice or the tweet of the two-way stirred the body in the bed by the door. Give us twenty.

Say again?

Twenty minutes, I said. Copy that?

Affirmative, he responded. Time to soldier on.

Soldier on was Johns’ favorite phrase. It was always time to soldier on. When we lost Martinez the week before, he said we’d find a way to soldier on. In the face of our enemies, what more could we do, but soldier on? But we weren’t soldiers. Just lucky survivors in a world gone three steps beyond mad.

Over, Johns added.

Over and out.

My jaw clenched against tension and cold. I pushed off the floor and scanned the dimly lit motel room. With the wooden dresser pushed up against the door, I’d positioned myself across the room just in case I needed to fire. Thick golden-orange curtains cast an eerie hue across the room, like broken daylight.

Midwestern November without heat, and I could see my breath mist out in small puffs. We were headed even further north to Doug Marshall’s family’s cabin in Minnesota. He said we’d be able to stick out the winter there, but I worried heading into brutal winter would be the death of us.

Doug?

He sat up and straightened his glasses, which had gone askew in his sleep.

We’re moving out.

Doug groaned and edged his long legs toward the floor.

You sleep?

I tried not to.

He stood in front of me and less than an inch of space separated us. The closeness meant I had to tilt my face to look up into his eyes. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly left before he brought his hand up to my shoulder. He squeezed and slid his palm down the back of my arm to grip my elbow. You can sleep on the ride.

I didn’t want to sleep on the drive. Every day I woke from the same nightmare, and I never wanted to sleep again. Those dreams burned a hole in my memory and left an aching pit in my stomach. Or maybe it was an ulcer, possibly even malnutrition. None of us had eaten right in more than a week, breeding constant, underlying hunger. I ignored the pangs out of fear that being hungry would somehow lead me down the cannibalistic path the world had taken.

Even in the half-dark light Doug Marshall’s eyes were intense. Behind the lenses of his black-framed glasses, dark steel flecked against cobalt blue—they were amazing in sunlight, but in the dark those eyes were serious. Doug reminded me a