They Shot Zombies, Didn't They?

By Daniel R. Robichaud

Do we really need another book of zombie stories? They choke the markets and the airwaves already. Hasn't everything that's going to be said about the living dead already been done to death? Well, not quite. Rhysling Award finalist Daniel R. Robichaud envisions unusual worlds involving the living dead.

In these pages you will find five unusual situations, including:

A world where the black collar zombie wage slaves are the subject of moral, spiritual, and political agenda arguments. Drop into the mix with "They Shot Zombies, Didn't They?"

A father who must fight off two "Dead Head" addicts intent on smoking his pacified living dead son's ashes to attain the greatest high.

A seedy bar that has so far managed to hold off the zombie hordes by playing live music around the clock. Although it's true that "RnR Will Never D", maybe everyone else will . . .

A young punker getting a curb stomping is bad enough, but when his recovery is interrupted by the world plummeting into apocalypse, he will learn how far he needs to go to really be "PAF".

A dying mind watching its life pass in several cycles of surreal dream logic. Ever wondered what turning into one of the living dead might be like? "Baptism with Blue Bonets and Sweetbreads" offers a vision to make you think and chill your soul.

So maybe one more book of zombie stories is useful after all. We live in apocalyptic times, and Daniel R. Robichaud's whispers from the other side offer messages both reassuring and horrifying.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Twice Told Tales II
• Release date: Oct 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463028117

Daniel R. Robichaud

Daniel R. Robichaud has lived in southeastern Michigan, central Massachusetts and southern Texas. He is a Rhysling Award nominated poet and the author of over one hundred stories, articles and poems, which have appeared in such markets as Shroud Magazine, Rogue Worlds, Goblin Fruit, Rage of the Behemoth, Green Prints, and WritersWeekly. Daniel holds degrees in both Physics and English, and his career path has reflected these passions. In addition to his numerous writing opportunities, he has been an Igor For Hire (aka a freelance research engineer), a substitute teacher, an automation engineer, and a neurophysiology lab manager. Daniel enjoys entertaining people with his words and stories. If you enjoy a good read, why not try one of his works? You might just love them.

Book preview

They Shot Zombies, Didn't They?

Walking Dead Stories

Daniel R. Robichaud

Dead Head

When the wiry man offered a crisp $100 bill and said, I want to buy your little dead boy, Iggy told him to go to Hell.

Why you have to be that way? The man shuffled his weight from his left leg to his right. Patchy stubble colored his swarthy cheeks and chin, oil and sweat slicked a kinky hair mop, and his latest ash-crash shot his eye whites with blood pink. Iggy knew this guy's type from the nightly news: a junkie looking to score.

Iggy closed the door, but the junkie stuck in his hand at the last minute. He yelped when slamming steel crushed meat against jamb and then bounced open. The junkie did not withdraw his hand, however. Listen, man. You have to sell him to me. He won't hurt none. I mean, he don't feel nothing anyway, why you gonna keep him? Not like he ages good. Not like he's wine or cheese or nothing, he's walking dead. His ass is gonna be vinegar before long.

If you don't get off my porch, Iggy said, I'm going to—

You ain't gonna do jack, man. You fuck with me, and it's all reported. The man cocked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating two dozen cameras on Iggy's street. You pull a 'vengeance is mine', and they'll take him away. Grind him up and no one gets happy. Total waste of good ashes, man. Don't do nothing stupid.

Get off my porch or I'll call the wardens, Iggy said. They'll drop kick your butt into rehab. How's that sound, dead head?

The junkie's face turned a brilliant scarlet. Bugging eyes glistened with need. Lick my shit, man. Still leaning on the jamb, the junkie palmed the c-note and showed his middle finger. Can you read this, asshole? It spells f-u-c-k-y-o-u.

Iggy slammed the door on the junkie's hand again. He yelped and withdrew. Iggy sealed the portal and turned the deadbolt. The junkie howled insults for a few more minutes outside. Iggy rested his head against the wall and tried to ignore them. Each angry word leaked through his ears and into his mind.

The junkie called Iggy's son deadtard and even worse names. He called Iggy a selfish shit sack and a necrophiliac pedophile.

After ten minutes of nonstop belligerence, the junkie moved on, leaving Iggy with a desire to pound something. Physical pain never blocked emotional. This awareness did not quell Iggy's desires to see if this time might be different.

Had Marion been here, he imagined she would have grabbed the junkie by his greasy mop and dragged him onto their lawn for some lessons in pain, cameras be damned. She had been a violent, violent woman.

Iggy missed her.

That strength, which saw them through thin rations and shambling hordes, was the same quality that bred trouble afterward. When the System rebooted, it had little patience for authority challengers. Marion had been removed with prejudice.

Though Iggy's family was broken, their home remained a castle. From the outside it appeared no different than any other split level suburban ranch along Cinnamon Creek. Inside, the architecture held enough fortification and reinforcement to stave off another dozen Dead War years. The boy's room was at the back, unlocked. Timmy sat on his bed, staring at a Kid Covington Adventures poster adorning his wall, while drool collected in his lap.

Iggy paused in the doorway, studying the ten-year-old boy. A red LED blinking under his hairline signaled an active monitor, constant reminder of safety first. No matter what that junkie thought, Timmy was Iggy's son. His presence helped Iggy cope with . . . with everything he had lost. Iggy hugged his boy. At first, Timmy returned the embrace. Then, his limbs went limp.

I love you, Timmy. Mummy and daddy love you.

The drooling boy offered comforting silence.

#

With empty hands, emptier pockets, and emptiest phylactery, the junkie called Momo left Iggy's porch and hiked thirteen city blocks back to his flop.

Jimmy Bones waited. The man's name had been prophecy. He could play human skeleton in any sideshow. Jimmy Bones complexion could pass the paper bag test—Momo's grams would have called him high-yellow.

When he came inside, Momo found Jimmy Bones laid out on the living room floor, battling a bad bout of shakes by firing up the last of their ash. He wasn't so gone as to be rude, offering the hand rolled spliff without being asked.

Tell me the money shot, Momo, Jimmy Bones said. His eyes rolled up to show bloody milk.

Momo said, He didn't go for it.

Jimmy Bones' eyes rolled back down. Impatience made a frowning mouth across his forehead. He didn't go for . . .. A blink said Jimmy Bones didn't buy this. You offered him one hundred, right?

I did. Momo's hit of ash spliff set fire to the backs of his eyelids. Heat scorched his eyeballs and sweat slicked his forehead. Who cared about the fifty degrees Fahrenheit reality of this south Texas January day? Inside his head, Momo was experiencing full on Texas summer. Temperatures rocketed up to a hundred and change. You bet your ass I did.

One, Jimmy Bones repeated, "hundred? Not fifty and asking for change for a hundred?"

"Yes, one goddamn