Mastication Nation: Stories from the Zombie Apocalypse

By Mark Lowther

The book is one big story, the story of how humanity fares in the zombie apocalypse. In such a catastrophe, there are as many stories as there are people, and this book tells only a few. There is a clear beginning and a clear ending to mankinds final story. It is designed so that other authors can write more of these stories. Perhaps a follow-up book with these other stories may be in the future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 11, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503591417

Mark Lowther

I am a self-proclaimed military brat, and I have lived all over this great world of Oura. I am an ex-soldier, father of two, and grandfather of three lovely young ladies. I love the written Word and am an avid book collector. I am drawn to the horror/sci-fi genre and read everything from Ray Bradbury to Stephen King. Though, I must confess, Neil Gaiman is my favorite. For fun, my wife and I go to autograph conventions and meet our favorite celebrities.

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Copyright © 2015 by Mark Lowther.

ISBN:      Softcover      978-1-5035-9142-4

                 eBook           978-1-5035-9141-7

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 08/24/2015

Xlibris

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CONTENTS

Introduction

Part One: Revenge

Part Two: Concert Bound

Part Three: Creepy Dead Kids

Part Four: Eat Me

Part Five: Lab Rats

Part Six: Dead Reckoning

Part Seven: What Happened One Night at the ‘King’s Ransom’

Part Eight: Meals Ready to Eat

Part Nine: Sweet Sorrow

Part Ten: My Baby Sister is a Pain in the…

Part Eleven: Night of the Living Dead Vegetarian

Part Twelve: My Girlfriend

Part Thirteen: Apt 304

Part Fourteen: Where Were You When the World Ended?

Afterward

This book is dedicated to my family.

First, to my wife Cynthia

She’s always there with a kind word and good deed

Next, to My Parents

Norman and Sharon Lowther

Thanks for everything!

And My Brother

Michael Lowther

Love you, Bro!

Then, to my children

Jessica and Kyle

I love you both so much

Then, to my grandchildren

Aymee, Marijane and Krista

No, you may not read this book for many years to come.

INTRODUCTION

I think Alice Cooper said it best when he sang, I love the dead. Only that’s not quite right. I love the un-dead, is closer, but you’d have to take out the vampires, ghosts, etc.

I love zombies! There, I said it and it feels great to get that off my chest. Hi, my name is Mark and I’m a zombie-holic.

I remember walking up to Judith O’Dea, star of the immortal Night of the Living Dead, and saying in my best creepy voice, ‘I’m coming to see you Barbara…" She laughed politely and signed my autograph anyway. She’s is an awesome lady, should you ever get the chance to meet her.

At one of the conventions I go to, I had the great fortune of meeting the cast from my favorite zombie film Return of the Living Dead. They were all gracious and fun to talk to, but the awesome Beverly Randolph, who played Tina (Oh, fudge) actually allows her fans into her world and befriends them on social media.

Is that cool, or what?

So, where was I. Oh, yeah, Zombies! I love the movies (even the bad ones). I’ve read the books, I’ve read the comics… If it’s zombie, I devour it. No pun intended.

So I decided to write this book.

I remember the tagline of an old police drama on tv that said, There are eight million stories in the naked city. This has been one of them. So I thought about the other people, the ones whose stories weren’t told. In the zombie movies and books we get to meet a few people but in the zombie apocalypse there are many, many more stories. The ordinary people who have their own problems. These are their stories.

I tell each story with a different voice and from a different perspective. You’ll hear from the survivors and from those who don’t make it. You’ll hear from the zombies as well. Do they think? Can they talk? Some of them do. What would they like to say?

I tell the stories from the first person, from the second person and one is even written like a screenplay. It wasn’t planned, It just came out that way.

I invite other authors to write stories in this universe. Remember, there are 7 billion stories in the zombie apocalypse. Write yours!

But there are some rules to writing in this universe: 1) The zombies all have yellow eyes. Why? Read stories one and five. 2) Some zombies still think and can even speak for a while. 3) Those that can think, can influence and control those that don’t (at least for a while. See stories 5 and 9) and 4) Anything else goes.

Have fun, kids. Let your inner zombie out and create a story. Read the books and see the movies (some only available on VHS). Go to conventions and meet the actors. For some, you may have to make road trips and stand in lines but I believe that the time will be well spent.

If you happen to live around Pennsylvania, (you lucky dog!) visit the mall in Monroeville where they filmed the classic Dawn of the Dead. There is even a museum in the mall dedicated to the zombie genre.

Anyway, it’s time to go. I could go on and on but I won’t. Have fun with these stories and, should the muse strike you, WRITE!

Mark Lowther

Bear, Delaware

AB INITIO

PART ONE

REVENGE

Birmingham, Alabama

I woke up in the dark.

I was confined in a box about the shape of my body. I could feel the satin finish with my hands and knew exactly where I was.

I was in a coffin.

I felt myself start to panic but, oddly, the familiar flushed feeling, hurried heartbeat and shortness of breath were all absent.

In fact I didn’t seem to be breathing at all.

A scream started in my throat but that was as far as it got. I couldn’t open my mouth and when I reached my hands up I felt the thread that had sewn my lips shut. I tore at them but couldn’t tear through them.

I started to tear at the lid with my nails and was rewarded with bits of padding and satin that fell on my face. Dig! Something in my head told me. Dig!

So I did.

Through the wood of the coffin and into the dirt above, like a swimmer against a rough tide, I swam. My nails cracked and fell out but there was no pain. Just the urgency to escape my grave. Pulling myself up and up, my hands finally broke free and I pulled myself out of the dark and into the night air.

The moon was heavy and bright and I could easily see the sweeping grounds of the cemetery I was in. I stood in the dirt facing my head stone. The stone that marked my grave was simple. Just my name; Patrick Sullivan, and the date of my birth thirty-two years ago. Nothing else.

The bastards couldn’t even give me a better stone!

Then I wondered whom I was thinking about as no one came to mind. In fact, I couldn’t remember much of anything.

Then I thought, what’s going on? Surely, I’m not dead. Someone was fucking with me in a big way and they were sure going to pay for this!

As soon as I figured out whom ‘they’ were. Nobody messes with me and gets away with it. Nobody!

What took you so long? I’ve been waiting here for hours.

I turned, half out of my grave to see an old black man with white hair sitting Indian style on the damp ground. He was wearing one of those robe things that those islanders wear.

Colorful in stripes and patterns. On his head was a matching round hat with no brim.

Tahiti or Bermuda or some such place. He had sandals on his feet and beads around his neck. I didn’t know who he was but I knew he had something to do with this so I wanted to wring that scrawny neck.

I tried to climb out of my grave but found that I couldn’t move.

Relax Mister Sullivan. He said, his voice rough and gravelly. You are under my control. You cannot move unless I tell you to. Do you understand?

I tried to move to show him how I would kick his old ass but my body would not obey my commands.

I was a statue.

Then I started to remember.

I hadn’t felt this helpless since I was a kid growing up in the Kitchen, the Irish slum where you either died or survived and I was a survivor!

I had my first gang when I was twelve and did my first hard time at fifteen. I was scared of nothing. And the ladies? They loved me! I treated them like movie stars and they loved me! I had money, and I had fame. At least until it went sour.

Sure, I had to leave the big city to hide out here in the sticks, but this was only temporary.

I was the toughest bastard this side of the river and if this old coot thought I was going to stand for this he had another thing coming.

Only, I was standing fast. I couldn’t move a finger if my life depended on it.

Do you like your headstone? I had it made special just for the occasion. Now, there is no sense in getting angry. There’s nothing you can do except obey my every command. I own you. You are mine. He glared at me and I could almost feel the hate coming off of him. Christ, I didn’t even know this old man!

You cannot speak. Your mouth is filled with salt and I have sewn it shut. It is part of the ritual but you do not yet understand, he said rising to his feet. He circled me and I never wanted to hurt someone as bad as I wanted to hurt him.

He chuckled and clucked his tongue.

Mr. Sullivan. You have no idea what I have in mind for you. Now, get out of your hole and follow me.

And I did. I had no choice. My legs moved on their own as I followed him through the cemetery. I followed him like a Goddamn puppet.

I am Mr. Ghislain, he said. "I am from St. Croix. Have you heard of it? No matter. Where I’m from is not as important as what I am. Understand?"

Of course I don’t understand, asshole, I thought. What the hell does this have to do with me?

We stopped at another grave.

Do you recognize her, Mr. Sullivan? He pointed at the stone and I read the name there.

Sarah Ruth Chislan

1987-2011

Taken Too Soon

My mind started to buzz with recognition. The name was familiar but I wasn’t quite sure why and then it hit me.

So you do remember, he said studying my face. My eyes were the only way I could express myself and he read the recognition there.

Sarah was one of my throwaways. I meet them in bars and at the tables and keep them around for a week or two before I discarded them. Dark hair and exotic looks. Yes, I remembered her. I remembered having a lot of fun with her.

She was dark, but not too dark, with a body that I just had to possess so I did. At least until the next great thing came along. As was my custom I had set her up in an apartment where I could see her whenever I wanted but she ended up getting too needy so I kicked her out and moved someone else in. Carley. Beautiful and bouncy Carley.

Sarah was just another good time. Why couldn’t she have just been happy with that?

But no. They never were.

Christ, I didn’t know she was dead, though. This was kinda creepy standing by her grave like this. Surely this old coot didn’t think that I had anything to do with her death.

He sat on the grass by her headstone.

Oh, how she cried when you threw her out. My daughter came to me for help but I was too proud. I thought it appropriate that she should learn from her mistakes so I turned her away. I saw a tear escape from his eyes. From inside his robe he withdrew a small cloth bag. He continued.

I am a Houngan, Mr. Sullivan. An obeah man. I am a priest and I have learned many things in my days. Yes, many things…

He untied the leather thong that was keeping the bag closed and withdrew something that was wrapped in a dark cloth.

Did you know she was pregnant with your child? he asked me.

Of course I didn’t. Not that it would have mattered. I probably had bastards all over the place. I could care less. I had people who took care of these kinds of things.

It was a simple matter to find you, he continued. You are quite known in this city. Birmingham has been very good to you. My daughter…my beautiful daughter took her own life. Something else you probably didn’t know.

Of course not, you old fuck, I thought. This has nothing to do with me.

Easy to find you… he said softly, almost to himself. Easy…I have many followers in this city. I bet you didn’t that that either. For someone who prides himself on knowing everything in his little world you really are quite dumb, aren’t you Mr. Sullivan?

My mind screamed at him. I know what I need to know little man. These trivial things are not important. When I get loose I am going to hurt you! Hurt you a lot!

Have you heard of the Medusa spider, Mr. Sullivan? he continued. Its bite paralyzes to the point where it mimics death. It was quite easy slipping one into your shaving bag. It appeared to be a heart attack. People think you are dead but we know better, don’t we? He removed a single red rose from his bag and placed it on her tombstone. It was a little bent and he smoothed it out before setting it down. Then he spoke, but I found it hard to take my eyes off of that rose.

Your heart beats only once every few minutes. Your breathing is so shallow it’s unnoticeable. Through my ministrations, my magic’s if you will, you are now my slave, Mr. Sullivan. My… And here he chuckled, a dry raspy laugh. Zombii.

What was he talking about? I’m Patrick Sullivan! I screamed again. I own people, they do not own me!

As if hearing my internal struggle he laughed.

You can do nothing without my instruction. I have placed the salts on your tongue. I have made the appropriate sacrifices. You are mine, Mr. Sullivan. You are my MINE!

In a huff he pulled open the black cloth and produced a large knife. It looked old, it wooden handle marked with carved circles. The edge of the blade shining in the moonlight.

I have used this knife for many years, Mr. Sullivan. It is dark with the blood of many sacrifices. It has been good to me and it is very sharp, he grinned.

Now if you would be so good as to sit and remove your socks.

I immediately complied. I hadn’t any shoes but I supposed I hadn’t needed any when they buried me. Wasn’t that how it was done?

No matter. I was soon sitting with my bare feet on the damp grass.

I sat rigid as a board while he leaned lazily against her gravestone. He seemed to be breathing harder and he closed his eyes, resting a little.

I could do nothing but watch him.

Finally he opened his bloodshot eyes and looked at me.

You know, you are not the monster I thought you would be but in the end we are all just flesh, n’est pas? There is no monster that time cannot bring down. He gazed past me, his eyes somewhere else for a moment but then the reverie was broken and he brought his attention back to me.

I had a lot of time to plan this revenge Mr. Sullivan. A lot of time. I thought about how you destroyed my daughter little by little; how she suffered day after day for what you did to her so I decided you shall go the same way. A little at a time.

He tossed the knife at my feet.

Actually, I’m doing you a favor this way. If I let you continue on like you are you would go mad, your mind mush in a couple of days. This way, you will go quickly though you will keep your mind to the end. You will know every moment what you are doing and you will feel every pain, he chuckled.

I’m going to have you eat yourself. One little piece at a time!

Surely, I hadn’t heard him correctly. I was going to do what?

Pick up the knife Mr. Sullivan. Pick it up and slice through the thread keeping your mouth shut. Do it NOW! He screamed the last word and I could swear that I saw spit flying from his mouth as he cursed at me. What did I do?

I picked up the knife, of course, and complied.

I drew the blade across my mouth and screamed into the night.

Or tried to, for no sound escaped my throat.

You will not speak nor utter any sound. I want you silent. I want you to suffer the anguish and pain in complete silence! Do you understand me?

I found I was able to nod though I had no intention of doing so.

Good. Now listen closely. He closed his eyes and lifted his head to the skies. I could see the vein in his neck throbbing as he mumbled. I call the loa Conga Savannah! I call you and offer this sacrifice to you! I offer you this man and offer you his blood and his flesh! I call to you and offer you this vessel and ask that you take him and use him as you deem fit!

Then he mumbled something I couldn’t understand and I just sat there watching him. I then realized how still it had gotten. No breeze was blowing the leaves around the tombstones, no crickets were chirping in the night. There was nothing but the man and his mumbling and it was then that I realized what he was doing

He was praying.

He stopped and looked at me and I saw that his eyes had gone completely white!

The loa I called for you is a nasty spirit, Mr. Sullivan. Few dare call on him because he wants nothing but to eat the flesh, you know?

He cocked his head as if listening for something. Then he smiled.

Do you hear him Mr. Sullivan? He comes for you!

At first I heard nothing. Then I heard…something. I wasn’t like any sound I had ever heard and then I realized it for what it was. It wasn’t sound as much as it was the lack of sound. It was as a vacuum had displaced all the sound in the area. I could see the old man’s lips moving but couldn’t hear anything.

My ears built up with pressure and then I heard it, as the vacuum was lifted and the sound of wind rushed into my ears and into me! It lifted me off the ground as it filled my mouth and esophagus and then into my lungs. I hung in the air as it filled me and then, I simply fell to the ground.

I heard the old man laugh. I want you to feel hunger, Mr. Sullivan. Hunger that only the taste of human flesh can satisfy. Are you there, Mr. Sullivan? Do you crave the flesh?

I did. I felt the loa roll in me and it felt like a giant slithering eel in my gut and up and down my spine. Then the slithering stopped as the thing settled into me and I felt hunger.

It was a need in my gut like I have never felt before. I had been hungry in my life and I knew what it was like to go to bed with nothing in your belly but want, but that was nothing compared to what I was feeling now.

This was an