Best New Zombie Tales (Vol. 2) Read online

  BEST NEW

  ZOMBIE

  TALES

  Volume Two

  - BOOKS of the DEAD -

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, events, dialog and situations in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  BEST NEW ZOMBIE TALES Volume Two

  Collection copyright 2010 by James Roy Daley

  Cover art by Terry Callen

  Graphic design by Cynthia Gould

  Interior design by James Roy Daley

  Edited by James Roy Daley

  Copy edit by Mandy Wells

  FIRST EDITION

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  BOOKS of the DEAD

  For more information subscribe to: booksofthedead.blogspot.com

  For direct sales and inquiries contact: [email protected]

  * * *

  COPYRIGHT ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  “Introduction 2” by James Roy Daley, copyright 2010. Original for this anthology.

  “Bury Me Not” by Rio Youers, copyright 2010. Original for this anthology.

  “Laundry Day” by Steven A. Roman, copyright 2007. First appeared in The Dead Walk Again! by Padwolf Publishing.

  “Provider” by Tim Waggoner, copyright 2003. First appeared in The Book of Final Flesh by Eden Studios.

  “Gravedigger” by Nate Kenyon, copyright 2010. First appeared in the When the Night Comes Down by Dark Arts Books.

  “Coming Home” by David Niall Wilson, copyright 2003. First appeared on the website, Twilight Showcase.

  “The Third Option” by Derek Gunn, copyright 2007. First appeared in History is Dead by Permuted Press.

  “The Truth About Brains” by Narrelle M. Harris, copyright 2010. Original for this anthology.

  “The Worst is yet to Come” by Pete Mesling, copyright 2009. First appeared in Potter’s Field #3 by Sam’s Dot Publishing.

  “La Sequia” by Tristan Davenport, copyright 2008. First appeared online in Postcards from Hell.

  “Viva Las Vegas” by Thomas S. Roche, copyright 1997. First appeared Funeral Party #2 by Shade Rupe Books.

  ‘‘Til Decay to us Part’ by Myrrym Davies, copyright 2008. First appeared in For the Love of Monsters, Best of the Monsters Next Door.

  “We Will Rebuild” by Cody Goodfellow, copyright 2009. First appeared in Zombies, published by Black Dog & Leventhal.

  “Camille Smiled” by John Everson, copyright 2005. First appeared in Cold Flesh by Hellhound Books.

  “Dredging up the Dead” by J. W. Schnarr, copyright 2010. Original for this anthology.

  “Not with a Bang but a Whimper” by Monica J. O’Rourke, copyright 2004. First published by Brutarian Magazine #42.

  “Reunion” by James Newman, copyright 2007. First appeared in Bits of the Dead by Coscom Entertainment.

  “Gran’ma’s in the Bathroom (…and she’s not coming out)” by Ken Goldman, copyright 2009. First appeared Necrography 1 by Necrography.

  “The Old Man and the Dead” by Mort Castle, copyright 1992. First appeared in Still Dead, published by Mark V. Ziesing.

  “The Finger” by Matt Hults, copyright 2007. First appeared in Undead: Skin and Bones by Permuted Press.

  Reprinted by permission of author.

  Used by permission of author.

  * * *

  Great books from:

  BOOKS of the DEAD

  BEST NEW ZOMBIE TALES (VOL. 1)

  BEST NEW ZOMBIE TALES (VOL. 2)

  BEST NEW ZOMBIE TALES (VOL. 3)

  CLASSIC VAMPIRE TALES (VOL.1)

  BEST NEW VAMPIRE TALES (VOL. 1)

  MATT HULTS - HUSK

  MATT HULTS - ANYTHING CAN BE DANGEROUS

  JAMES ROY DALEY - TERROR TOWN

  JAMES ROY DALEY - 13 DROPS OF BLOOD

  JAMES ROY DALEY - INTO HELL

  JAMES ROY DALEY - THE DEAD PARADE

  GARY BRANDNER - THE HOWLING

  GARY BRANDNER - THE HOWLING II

  GARY BRANDNER - THE HOWLING III

  PAUL KANE - PAIN CAGES

  * * *

  Best New Zombie Tales

  CONTENTS

  Introduction 2 ~ JAMES ROY DALEY

  Bury Me Not ~ RIO YOUERS

  Laundry Day ~ STEVEN A. ROMAN

  Provider ~ TIM WAGGONER

  The Truth About Brains ~ NARRELLE M. HARRIS

  Gravedigger ~ NATE KENYON

  Coming Home ~ DAVID NIALL WILSON

  The Third Option ~ DEREK GUNN

  The Worst Is Yet To Come ~ PETE MESLING

  La Sequia ~ T. F. DAVENPORT

  Viva Las Vegas ~ THOMAS ROCHE

  ’Til Decay Do Us Part ~ MYRRYM DAVIS

  We Will Rebuild ~ CODY GOODFELLOW

  Dredging Up The Dead ~ J. W. SCHNARR

  Camille Smiled ~ JOHN EVERSON

  Not With A Bang But A Whimper ~ MONICA J. O’ROURKE

  Reunion ~ JAMES NEWMAN

  Gran’ma’s in the Bathroom (…and she’s not coming out) ~ KEN GOLDMAN

  The Old Man And The Dead ~ MORT CASTLE

  The Finger ~ MATT HULTS

  About the Authors

  Zombie 2

  Preview: Gary Brandner’s - The Howling

  Preview: Gary Brandner’s - The Howling II

  Preview: Gary Brandner’s - The Howling III

  Preview: James Roy Daley’s - Terror Town

  Preview: Matt Hults’ - Husk

  Preview: James Roy Daley’s - Into Hell

  Preview: Paul Kane’s - Pain Cages

  * * *

  Introduction 2

  JAMES ROY DALEY

  When I heard the loud and mechanical roar, as obnoxious and disquieting as it was, I thought nothing of it. Why would I? My small neighborhood may sit a fair distance away from industrious sounds of the big city but the sound of chain and steel wasn’t completely unheard of. People had trees to trim and fireplaces in need of wood for those oh-so-cold winter nights. A few of my neighbors even had a fire pit behind their homes, giving them every right and reason to use a chainsaw. I didn’t contemplate the grinding racket as it became louder and more obvious––not until the noise was clearly coming from my front porch. Then I thought, What the hell is going on here? Why is someone running a chainsaw near my house?

  I had been sitting on my couch at the time, watching television and eating ice cream; my knees were apart and a bowl was sitting on my lap. Cautiously, almost nervously, I licked my lips, placed the bowl on the coffee table, and stood up. The saw was louder than ever, insulting the very essence of what a quiet borough was all about. The door was approached with forced footsteps and my hand was placed on the knob with an equal amount of concern. Before I had a chance to turn my wrist, the noise doubled in volume and the door started shaking. The knob began rattling. The pictures hanging on the wall next to me began bopping around like they were in a dance competition. I stepped back with my mouth flopping open. A moment passed and my knees began shaking. I yelled something, but Lord only knows what that something may have been. And just as the blade began making its way through the door––tearing apart the doorknob, the lock, and everything that was around it––the truth of the situation collided with my limited intelligence like a medicine ball in the stomach.

  H. P. Lovecraft was here. He came back to finish what he started.

  I guess this is a good time to point out that I already had one run-in w
ith H. P., and I don’t mind telling you that I didn’t enjoy the experience at all. He mulched my hand apart with a blender, and he warned me that he’d return if…if…

  If what?

  I couldn’t remember.

  While my mind tried to unravel the mystery of what he said, the door swung open in a cloud of sawdust and wood splinters. I saw the chainsaw and I stepped back with my arms held out like a man balancing himself on a log. ‘Arms,’ of course, being a loose term, what with one of my arms ending at the elbow thanks to my last encounter with Mr. Lovecraft.

  I heard his voice mingled within the sounds of the machinery before I saw his face.

  “Zombies!” he screamed. “More goddamn zombies!”

  I tripped. If it happened in a movie I would’ve been thinking, Yeah right! As if!

  Truth may be stranger than fiction some of the time, but life can be filled with enough clichés to make the worst Hollywood writer cringe in disgust. I tripped. Tripped over a fake plastic plant that had been collecting dust in the same spot for the past ten years. I won’t say that I felt stupid; it’s only now that I feel like an idiot for falling down. At the time my feelings were not traveling the embarrassment highway; the terror growing inside my mind was coming together in a way that blocked out all other emotions. H. P. Lovecraft had returned!

  But why?

  That was the question in need of answering.

  He said he’d come back if…

  If…

  It hit me. He said, Make sure your zombie book is amazing. That’s what he said. He said, Make sure the book is amazing or he’d saw my empty head off!

  Oh shit!

  Wasn’t the first volume good? I thought it was good! It got great reviews…the writers are incredible…everyone tells me that the book looks beautiful… So why the hell is he back? What did I do wrong?

  He stepped into my home and lowered the saw. His suit was clean and his tie was thin. I saw his face––his skinny, pale as a ghost, face. His eyes were darker than most and sat deep within their sockets. His slender nose was crinkled in a way that suggested that he was disgusted with me. The grin that haunted his lips evinced the emotion of hate.

  I was in trouble, very serious trouble.

  I said, “Hello Howard. What brings you here?”

  Before the question tumbled across my trembling lips he was standing above me, revving the saw’s engine. His pupils narrowed into pinpricks.

  “How could you?!” he shouted. “Did I not teach you anything? Are your thoughts utterly illogical, asinine, and incongruous? Are you completely moronic? You imperceptive, dimwitted, Neanderthal! You absurd, idiotic, pre-Gravettian, Blytt-Sernander, cavern-dweller!”

  Drowning in my fear, I had no idea what half of those words meant. Did he make up a new language every time he spoke? Thinking about his fiction, it seemed very likely.

  “I warned you,” he said. “I warned you and now I’m going to eradicate you!”

  “Wait!”

  “Why should I?”

  “Just wait––what did I do wrong? The book is good, right? Everyone agrees that I did a great job! So what’s the problem?”

  H. P. rolled his dark and narrow eyes. “You’re doing a second volume?”

  “Huh?”

  “You heard me! Your releasing a second zombie book; isn’t that right?”

  “Of course I am! You can’t put out a volume one without a volume two! Did you really think I was going to release a volume one without a volume two?” He revved the engine and I screamed: “Don’t kill me! You should have known it was coming!”

  For a moment he looked stumped. I can only assume that conflicting thoughts swirled inside his mind. Later I would come to the conclusion that my logic had saved my life. Not that it kept me safe. Or in one piece.

  “Pick one,” he said.

  And of course I had no idea what he was talking about. “What?”

  “Pick one!” he repeated.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  H. P. spat on me. The last time I saw him he spat on the floor; this time the wad of mucus hit me in the face, just below my left eye.

  Chuckling, he said, “Leg it is.”

  He moved faster than a shark, and the saw came screaming towards me. Before I knew it would happen, my ankle was being chewed apart and blood was splashing the walls in generous amounts. My single hand pounded against the floor as pain washed over me like an electrical current. I heard the bone grind and I felt my muscles tear. When I pulled my leg away from the blade my foot didn’t come with it. It just sat on the floor, bleeding like a stuck pig. The last thing I remember is that crazy son-of-a-bitch whispering something in my ear. I wish like hell I could remember what he said. I have a feeling it was important.

  * * *

  Ahem.

  Let me clear my throat.

  Dear literate zombie fans; my name is James Roy Daley. What you’re looking at is a little idea of mine, brought to life by the power of hard work. If you’ve read the first volume you know what I’m doing here. I’m putting together the best zombie tales I can get my hands on. If you haven’t read the first volume, I figure you’re missing out. Volume one has some great stories. Ray Garton’s Zombie Love is a real treat, Matt Hult’s Feeding Frenzy is probably the strangest zombie story ever written, and John L. French wrote a tale called Paradise Denied that is so far removed from anything conventional that it belongs in a genre of its own. Plunking those with writers such as Kealan Patrick Burke, Jonathan Mayberry, Jeff Strand, Bev Vincent, Kim Paffenroth, and…well…you get the point. Great writers tend to make great books. And the book you’re currently reading is loaded with great writers.

  First up, an amazing story by a very good friend of mine: Rio Youers.

  Enjoy...

  Bury Me Not

  RIO YOUERS

  She had known this day would come—had been prepared for it, every time she opened the front door for the last two and a half years: a perfect stillness, as if this iota of the world had ceased to be, and was suspended in its own time and place; a chill feeling, unmistakably the discontinuance of something that once was (an endness, she thought, and that peculiar word––endness—fell through her mind and shattered against her soul); and, of course, the smell. It stained the air. Abused goodness. Nothing natural.

  He’s gone, she thought.

  Michelle Weston braced herself and stepped into the hallway. She covered her mouth against the smell, took two trembling steps, and jumped when the wind caught the front door and slammed it with an angry sound.

  “Hello…Mr. Vandenhoff?”

  She didn’t expect a reply. She didn’t get one.

  The hallway was gloomy, with faded walls, an old-fashioned dial phone on a small table in the corner, and Mr. Vandenhoff’s brown leather shoes on the floor—shoes he would never wear again (unless the undertaker chose to bury him in them). The dining room was on the right. Nothing in there but an empty table and a cabinet that housed Mr. Vandenhoff’s many humanitarian awards, along with several photographs of him and various luminaries, although the only faces she recognized were those of Nelson Mandela and the Princess of Wales. The kitchen was ahead, on the left, with the living room on the right. Judging from the smell, Michelle knew that she would find him in one of these rooms. Maybe he had died waiting for the toast to pop up, and was sprawled on the kitchen floor, as putrid as spoiled fruit. Or he was in the living room, sitting in his armchair in the exact position in which he had died, with Monday’s edition of the Wall Street Journal in his hands, open at the editorials.

  This latter was almost the case; Mr. Vandenhoff was indeed sitting in his armchair, but he didn’t have the Wall Street Journal in his hands. He was actually holding the remote control for the TV, and appeared to be aiming the device at the screen. His thumb was poised over the power button. He had died before he could switch it on.

  “Oh,” Michelle said. She had been expecting it—of course she had, but it hit her hard, all the sa
me. Her legs weakened and she needed the support of the wall for a moment. Her instinct was to take several deep breaths, but the air was so foul that her throat contracted. She covered her mouth and gagged again.

  Outside, she thought. Fresh air.

  She crossed the kitchen and yanked on the sliding door that opened onto the back garden. Locked. Of course. She fumbled with the catch, coughing again, and ripped open the door. Fresh air—massive, invigorating lungfuls. She all but threw herself into the sky, like a man on fire diving into a pool of water.

  Thank God. Oh my goodness. Her head span; the air was a drug and she hit it again, nostrils flaring. Oh my…

  She dropped into one of the garden chairs and waited for composure, which took longer than expected, given that she had seen dead bodies before: two grandparents, an aunt, and a friend who died of leukemia. But they had all been in their coffins, dressed splendidly, their faces adorned with cosmetics. They looked unreal, like waxworks. It was hard to imagine that the hearts inside those soulless bodies had ever been beating. Mr. Vandenhoff, however…he looked very real. Very dead.

  Deep breaths.

  Michelle blinked. Better. Not great. She wasn’t ready to sing “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah,” by any stretch of the imagination, but she at least felt ready to do what needed to be done next: call Mr. Vandenhoff’s doctor. He would confirm what she already knew, and then contact the funeral home. Mr. Vandenhoff’s family in Holland would be notified, and he would be buried according to his wishes. The end.

  She nodded and took a few more measured breaths. The world balanced. She could hear a dog barking, a lawnmower purring, a jet plane cutting through the clouds. The houses in Mr. Vandenhoff’s neighborhood continued as normal. They ate their meals and showered. They watched American Idol and surfed the Internet…all completely unaware of the dead man in the little yellow house on the corner. This neighborhood—microcosm of the western world—epitomized the dichotomy between life and death. Although for Michelle, this division was about to become indistinct.