Zombie Flash Fiction Story: Emcee Mike and Apocalyptic Bingo

    "B27!  Ladies and Gentlemen, B27!"

    The bingo crowd scanned their cards frantically.  But, no one seemed to have it.

    "I need a better number than that Mike!" someone in the crowd yelled out.  

    Mike nodded.  He was a large man who worked as a nursing assistant by day and dressed in a traditional black tuxedo to entertain the seniors as the emcee for Bingo in the early evening.  He spun the handle of the bingo cage vigorously to tumble the balls about until another rolled out of the selector.  Beside him sat Betty--a young lady who served as a nursing home administrator.  She looked nervously out at the crowd.

    "G15!" the emcee called out. "Anyone have G15?"

Photo by Cypher789, CC BY-SA 3.0
<http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/>,
via Wikimedia Commons

    "Bingo!  Bingo!  I have it!" a gray haired old lady exclaimed with excitement.

    "Congrats!  Miss Higgins.  You've one this can of SPAM."

    The crowd looked at Miss Higgins angrily and hungrily.

    "Damn it," one old man cursed under his breath.  "I just needed one more square."

    "Don't worry folks," the emcee said.  "We collected a few more cans on the last run!"

    "We need vegetables, too." a grandma in a mou mou dress complained bitterly.

    "You know this is not the best idea we ever had," the emcee whispered to the nursing home administrator.

    "Mike, I thought they would like it," she whispered shaking her head.

    "Don't fret folks!" the man said loudly into the microphone.                 "We'll go out this week, kill more zombies, and bring back more food."

    "You better," another old lady piped up.  "I'm almost out of Cream of Wheat."

    "What happened to the National Guard?"  Betty whispered.

    "I don't know," Mike replied quietly.  "It's hell out there."

    In the microphone, the emcee announced, "Alright, clear your cards for a new game!"

Zombie Flash Fiction: No Free Lunches

     "Grandpa, how are we going to run this place without you?"
     The old man grimaced.  He was sweating profusely now.  The bites were taking their toll.  He gestured feebly over to the bedroom bookshelves.
     "It's all in there," the old man whispered.
     "What grandpa?" the teen grandson asked.
     "The Constitution, the Declaration of Independence," he gasped.  "All of it."
     "I've got to read all that?" the young man asked.
     "Yes," the old man replied.  "But, next time, change one thing."
     "What grandpa?"
     "Next time . . ."
     "What grandpa?"
     "In these times, make everyone work."
     "OK, grandpa."
     "No free lunches."
     The old man closed his eyes.  The teen placed his hands under this grandfather's nostrils.  There was no breath.  Soon, those eyes would open again soon.  The young man's hands were trembling.  He knew what must be done, but the revolver was heavy.

M1917 .45 Caliber Revolver - photo by Mcumpston (talk)Mike Cumpston / Public domain

Zombie Flash Fiction: Bomber Z

     The year must have been 1981.  The summer was hot and my brother and I were totally bored during our vacation stay with our grandparents.  We found an old zombie movie on my grandparent's 27 channels of that fairly new wonder we call cable television.  We'd just settled down on the couch and the floor.  Grandma was in the kitchen making supper.  We heard our granddad come in thru the backdoor and stamp the garden dirt off one last time for kicking his shoes off in the back hall.  He entered the living room and looked at us in disgust.

     "You kids turn that crap off!"

     "But, granddad, zombies are cool!"

     "I'm paying for this cable and I'm not watching zombies!"

     "OK, granddad, we can watch something else."

     "I don't know why you are so mad.  Zombies aren't real."

     "They aren't real to you.  Put the Braves game on!"

      Granddad had been a pilot during World War II and we did what he said.  I didn't think anything more about it.  But, last week, I saw his old bomber, a B-29, sitting out in front of an Atlanta airbase.

The Tail of a Z Bomber

Front view of the B-29 Bomber "Sweet Heloise"

    

Zombie Dribble: Remembering the Dead

As I sit looking at our graves, I remember when Memorial Day used to be for soldiers, airmen, sailors, and marines.   Now, it is for everyone.  It's for the dead who are buried, the dead we have killed, and the dead who still roam.  We dug the graves.  We remember.

Zombie Complex rising from a grave?

Zombie Flash Fiction: Inside The Z Suite

     "So what's our vision?"
     Silence.
     "O.K., Janet, what's our vision?"
     "Well, our vision is to have a flourishing human world with advancing technology and no zombies."
     "Brilliant.  That's very well put."
     "So what's our mission?"
     Silence.
     "Anyone?  How about you Bob?"
     "Sir," Bob said.  "Our mission is to be a self-sufficient human stronghold that sustains itself through agriculture and foraging and that eliminates all zombies in our area of control."
     "Excellent.  I think that is an excellent Mission Statement.  Good job guys.  Good session.  Next time, let's conceptualize our enemy. We'll define zombies."
    Bob looked around the conference room.  He made eye contact with Janet and saw her raise an eyebrow.  He took a deep breath.
    "Sir," Bob said.  "What about weapons, ammunition, food, seeds, and irrigation?"
    "Yes.  Yes.  I guess you'll have to get your people moving on those sorts of minor details and report back to us next week."
    "Any other questions?"
    Silence.
    "Great.  Let's talk about the golf outing!"

Zombie Drabble: The Woman is Strong

     "I don't think I can deal with this," Randy said shaking his head.

     "I know," Mike replied.  "The prospect of being disemboweled makes me shudder."

     "We can't go out there," Randy continued.  "We might die."

     "The dead are so," Mike paused wiping his tears, "grotesque."

     "I'm hot, I'm tired, I'm hungry," Mike continued.  "I'm so thirsty."

     "I'm parched too."

     A slender figure in black emerged from the shadows.  It was Sandra.  She had a shotgun, she racked the slide, and she opened the door.

    "Where are you going?" Randy asked.

    "I’m hungry and I can't wait for you girls forever."

     

Zombie Short Story - The Road Trip - Part 6

[Welcome to my short story serial, "The Road Trip."  In this final installment, things are looking pretty grim for our good folks.  But, if you're new to the series, you'll want to start at the beginning - Part 1.]

     Jeb and the store clerk, Darlene, backed into the El Dorado General Store and slammed the front door behind them.  Jeb's wife, Myra, met them inside with her lever action .30-30 carbine in hand.
     "There's whole mess of them coming," Jeb announced.
     As Darlene locked the front door, the dead launched themselves against the store.  She recoiled as the horde scratched against the metal mesh grid of the door and the burglar bars of the windows.  With each onslaught, the bells hanging from the inner door handle jingled with every onslaught and the moans and clawing of the dead made everyone uneasy.
     "This is an old building folks," Darlene announced in a raspy voice that showed the influence of a lifetime of smoking.  "I hope it will hold up to this."
     "Can we fortify it?" Jeb asked thinking aloud.
     "We can move the ice cream cooler in front of the door," Darlene suggested.
     "O.K.," Myra agreed.  "Good idea."
     Jeb pushed mightily on the cooler and it barely budged.  But, when Myra and Darlene added their muscle, the big cooler slowly moved into place blocking the front door.
     "That there was some girl power," Jeb observed.

     Darlene flexed her bicep victoriously and Myra suggested that Jeb start working out.  Jeb just nodded and reloaded his revolver painstakingly ejecting each spent shell until it was empty and then replacing each shell with another cartridge.
     The moment of levity passed quickly as the first piece of wooden siding on the front of the old store ripped from the building and fell with a clatter.  Additional boards followed in rapid succession.  Then a dead man's arm reached through the wall and started to wave around.  Jeb calmly walked over, grabbed the arm, looked through the small hole in the wall, and gazed into the dark bloodshot eyes of a zombie on the outside. 


      "You stay right there fella," he admonished the dead man.
      Then he cocked the hammer and squeezed the trigger to shoot that dead man right between the eyes.  It was a simple act, but inside the store, the roar of the big magnum was deafening.  Everyone jumped and every conversation was conducted at a yell.
       "Does this place have a back door?" Myra asked.
       "Yes ma'am," Darlene answered.  "And, my Dodge is parked out back!"
        More of the dead were clawing through the front walls of the store and Jeb shot two more.
       "Ladies," he announced as he replaced the spent cartridges.  "It's time for us to leave!"
       Myra grabbed her little cooler of ammunition and sandwiches and the trio made it through the junk food packed aisles of the store and back into the windowless store room.  They reached the  back door just as the dead started to break through the front walls and pour into the front of the establishment.  Flustered, Darlene was trying to find the key to unlock the back door alarm.  But, there were a lot of keys on her key ring.
       "You get the car unlocked Darlene, you take the ones on the right Myra, and I'll take the ones on the left," Jeb yelled.
        When zombies started to squeeze into storeroom, Darlene finally stopped fussing with the store keys and just pushed open the door.  After the gunshots, the siren blast of the exit alarm didn't even phase them.  The group just bounded out and dashed for a ten-year-old Dodge Journey SUV behind the store.  As they moved, Jeb and Myra fired at the nearest zombies.  They each felled one.  As they were older folks trying to run and Myra was still carrying a small lunch cooler, the rest of their shots had little effect.
     Jeb jumped into the front passenger seat, Myra dove in back, and Darlene ran around the front of her boxy SUV.  A zombie reached for her as she climbed into the driver's seat.  Darlene slammed the door on his bloody hand three times before getting it closed.  She started the Dodge and the engine roared to life with her panicked foot on the accelerator.

2010 Dodge Journey - photo by SsmIntrigue / CC BY-SA (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)

        Seconds later they were bouncing down the dirt road that led from the back of the store up to the Omega Road.  The monstrous horde dutifully started to trail behind them.  Jeb said take a right, let's get my truck, and then we'll head to our place.  With the dead strung out across the fields, dirt road, and underbrush behind the store, Darlene just floored it, whipped up onto the Omega Road, and around the block to the ruined store front.  Jeb jumped out and ran for his classic Chevy.  A dead man in a farmer's overalls rounded the building and shuffled for Jeb at a surprising fast place.  Jeb pulled the hammer back, aimed for the head shot and squeezed the trigger.  Click.  Empty.  Jeb's heart sank as he realized he had already fired six shots in the previous mayhem.  
    A race for the truck ensued.  Fortunately a living retired farmer was just a bit faster than a dead farmer.  Jeb scrambled into truck and got it started just as the dead man grabbed his door.  Jeb popped the clutch with plenty of panic-stricken revs, and squeeled out of the parking lot with his back tires spun kicking up sand and gravel in the parking lot.  The zombie held on but lost his grip as Jeb spun the truck around to head south.  The dead farmer rolled across the pavement of the two lane highway and came to rest against a chain-link fence.  With Myra and Darlene in the lead, the survivors raced back down 41 in both vehicles.  
     Jeb and Myra's trip home was much faster than any of them had thought possible.  As soon as they got inside their home, the couple ever so faintly heard their phone ringing inside.  Jeb dashed in and picked up the receiver.  
       "Hello," he yelled.  "Hello!"
       It was Jeb and Myra's daughter Betty.
       "Daddy," Betty said frantically.  "We're trapped up here just outside of Atlanta!"

[Thanks for reading! If you're interested in reading more of my stories or my novel Zombie Complex, I invite you to visit my Amazon Author page here on Amazon.]

Photo credit:  Ruger Super Blackhawk photo adapted from photo by Everett Walker / CC BY-SA (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0) 

Zombie Short Story - The Road Trip - Part 5

[Welcome to my short story serial, "The Road Trip."  In this installment, there's fixing to be a brouhaha in a place called El Dorado.  But, if you're new to the series, you'll want to start at the beginning - Part 1.]

     Standing in the doorway of the El Dorado General Store, Jeb looked in the eyes of the zombie he called Flapjack. The dead man looked right back, moaned, and started shuffling towards the big farmer and the store.  In response, Jeb drew his big single-action revolver with his right hand in one smooth fluid motion.  As he brought it to bear, he cocked the hammer back with his thumb.  He turned slightly, brought his left hand up for extra support on the wooden grips of the big iron, formed a perfect isosceles triangle with his stance, caught a brief glimpse of the front sight, and squeezed the trigger.  The whole world exploded with the blast of  the .357 Magnum.  So did Flapjack's head.

Ruger Black Hawk photo by Mika Järvinen from Finland / CC BY (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)

     Ordinarily Myra wasn't the kind of woman who could be told what to do or where to be.  She was planning to dash by Jeb and get her rifle from the truck.  But, when that big magnum went off, she appeared to levitate about four inches of the ground, did a pirouette worthy of the Atlanta ballet, and ran right back into the store.
     It was a good thing because Jeb had to turn back to his right and deal with dead homeless lady.  If you think life comes at you fast, Jeb would tell you that death can come at you pretty damn quick.  The homeless lady had about four feet to go when the big Black Hawk spoke its gospel once again.  Jeb hoped she'd find a home with Jesus.
     Next a zombie clambered up on the hood of truck, Jeb wasn't having that so he got a quick shot off that hit the zombie in the chest and sent him tumbling backwards to the other side of the vehicle.  Zombies came around the front and back of the truck and from around the two gas pump island further out in the parking lot.  Six gun math was starting to look grim for Jeb as a dozen zombies were converging on the store.
     He was surprised to see Myra dart past him and jumped into the front of the truck.  As he dispatched the closest zombies on his left and right, she ran back into the store with her rifle and the lunch cooler.  As Jeb backed towards the store, he was surprised by a couple of shotgun blasts nearly right over his shoulder.  The store clerk, Darlene, was standing in the doorway with a double-barreled coach gun.
     "You don't expect me to sit out here in the middle of nowhere alone do you?" she asked the temporarily deafened old farmer.  
      Together they retreated back into the store as the dead gathered for a bigger fight.

Coach Gun - Short double-barreled Shotgun - photo by Marcus Burns / CC BY (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0)

[Thanks for reading.  For the exciting conclusion of our story, read Part 6!]
    

Zombie Short Story: The Road Trip - Part 4

[Welcome to my short story serial, "The Road Trip."  In this installment, Jeb and Myra think they may be able to trade some vegetables for merchandise.  But, they meet some customers who might have other ideas.  Of course, if you're new to the series, you might want to start at the beginning - Part 1.]

     Leaving the dead man dead in the road behind them, Jeb and Myra continued north on highway 41.  The cab of the old truck was silent and somber save for the clicking of Chevy's six-cylinder engine and the rustling of the wind in the windows.  After a few minutes, the couple began to see more houses, mobile homes,  small industrial buildings, a church, and a general store.  According to legend, El Dorado, is some kind of lost city of gold down in South America.  But, in the southern part of America, it's just an unincorporated rural community in Georgia.  If there was gold in our El Dorado, it's been gone for a long time.  For most visitors, it's a place for desperate folks to get off the highway, use the restroom,  gas up, and grab some sort of snack.

     Jeb also knew El Dorado was a place plenty of hard working folks called home.  He saw the aging El Dorado General Store on his left and pulled across the road into their sand and gravel parking lot.
     
     "Lotto, Food, Beer, and Wine," Jeb announced.  "I wonder if they'll want to trade for some fresh vegetables."
     "I wonder if they'll shoot you dead for walking into a convenience store with a gun?"  Myra replied smartly.
     "I think I'll be alright," Jeb said.  "They know me here."
     "I don't see any of those monsters so I better leave the rifle here in the truck."
     "Well, let's go in and see how they're doing."
     As Jeb opened the heavy steel and glass door, a string of jingle bells did their thing to announce his presence.  Jeb just poked his head in, and looked around.
      "How y'all doing?" he asked in a rather booming voice.
      A skinny older lady with salt and pepper hair and a million wrinkles peeked from around the register.  A long southern conversation ensued.  Her name was Darlene and it turned out that she once went to the same church as Jeb and Myra.  While they talked about zombies, they also covered every other possible topic.  It turned out that Darlene had a son in rehab for drug addiction.  Jeb and Myra would pray for his recovery.  Another of her sons was selling tractors down in Valdosta.  Her daughter was away at Agriculture school, but decided to join the Army and is over in Germany.  Her grandchildren were supposed to come for a few weeks in the summer.  Myra hoped they could come to vacation bible school.  They must have talked on and on for an hour.
     In ordinary circumstances, such a conversation would drive big city folks crazy.  But, in these times of crisis, the conversation merely provided time for lots and lots of big city zombies to walk right into the tiny Georgia settlement known as El Dorado.  In fact, when Jeb walked out to get the bushel of butter beans that he sold after all that conversation, he found he had plenty of company in the parking lot.  The state fair portalet and death smell alone would knocked most men over.
     To his left and about thirty feet away was the ghostly pale shell of a used car salesman from Warner-Robins.  Well groomed and athletic in life, his appearance in death was marred by deep cut across his face that exposed his skeletal jaw and left his cheek flapping across his car dealer polo shirt.  To his right, a very dead homeless woman in an overcoat was wandering around the periphery of the gas station lot.  Jeb could see the silhouettes of at least a dozen other zombies partially obscured by this truck.
      As Myra edged out the door behind him, Jeb motioned her back and said, "You better go inside."
      He unsnapped the holster top strap that secured his Ruger Blackhawk .357 Magnum.  It was an old school single-action revolver.  Whatever was going to happen next was going to happen just the way John Wayne would have done it.  Jeb decided Flapjack would be target number one.

[Thanks for reading!  Read on to see if Jeb can flip a flapjack!  Check out The Road Trip - Part 5]

Zombie Short Story: The Road Trip - Part 3

[Welcome to my short story serial, "The Road Trip."  In this installment, Jeb is in quite a pickle.  But, if you're new to the series, you might want to start at the beginning - Part 1.]

     "Oh Lord," Jeb prayed aloud.  "Let me start this truck!"
     The old farmer pumped the gas twice, pulled the oversized steering-column-mounted shift lever back and up into first gear, depressed the clutch, and turned the key.  As the old straight-six turned over, he heard the dead man's hand slap the side of the truck.  As the engine roared to life, a gnarled claw-like hand reached in through the open window. 

1953 Chevy 3100 Pickup Truck

     This time Jeb had the presence of mind to ease the clutch up nice and slow while pressing on the gas.  The '53 Chevy truck accelerated away leaving the the zombie behind.
     "That was close," Jeb turned and said to wife.  "Myra!?"
     Myra's side of the bench was empty and the door was slightly ajar.  He was shocked.  Then he looked in the rear-view mirror in time to see his wife of forty years confronting the dead man eyeball-to-eyeball.
     As for Myra, from a distance of about fifteen feet she looked directly into the eyes of the dead man and the dead man looked right back at her for a moment.  It seemed like an eternity.  Myra wondered if she saw any hint of humanity in the dead man.  But, the dead man just moaned and took a step towards her.  It was his last step.
     Myra had her .30-30 carbine at the ready, brought it to her shoulder, focused only for a moment on the front sight, and squeezed the trigger.  In a bloody instant the dead man dropped to the ground.  Myra turned away from the ghastly sight and backed off the road.  When she looked up, the old Chevy 3100 was between her and the body.
     "Honey, are you okay?" Jeb asked.
      Myra was shaking and pale.  Jeb's voice was muffled to her as adrenaline raced through her body.
      "Myra baby," he asked again. "Are you going to be okay?"
      Jeb sat for a moment and said, "I was wondering where you went?"
     Myra took a deep breath, opened the door, and unsteadily guided the Marlin back into the gun rack.  Grabbing Jeb's outstretched hand, she climbed back into the truck.


     "I wasn't sure you'd get it into gear," Myra said. "I figured I better keep him from hitching a ride."
     "That three-on-a-tree manual is gonna be the death of me!"
     "The death of me too!"
     "Do you think we should stop and bury him?" Myra asked as they started back down the road.
     "No.  It's too dangerous," Jeb replied.  "There might be more like him out there."
     "Then let's say a prayer for that poor man's soul."
     Jeb pulled the truck over into the median and the couple bowed their heads. Jeb said a few somber words that were barely audible over the engine.  When their prayer was over, they got back on the two lane road that was Highway 41.
     "I think we'll definitely be making a pit stop in El Dorado," he said.
     "Yes," Myra replied. "I think we're both going to have to tinkle."
   
[Thanks for reading this zombie story.  You can continue on to read the next installment here:  The Road Trip (Part 4)]

Zombie Short Story: The Road Trip - Part 2

[This is the second part of my serialized series of short stories.  To start at the beginning of this series, read "The Road Trip-Part 1."]

    With a full load of vegetables and canned preserves, Jeb and Myra pulled out of their drive and started their journey to the north in their old Chevy pickup truck. 

   "How should we go?" Jeb asked.

   "If we take the highway," Myra replied.  "We'll get their faster."

   "If we take 41," Jeb said.  "We'll have more options if something happens and we can stop in some of the little general stores on the way up."
   "Then 41 is definitely the way to go."
   Driving gently, Jeb piloted the '53 Chevy across the nearby interstate overpass and hung a left to head north on Highway 41.  In this part of Georgia, it was merely a well-maintained and striped two-lane road.  Soon the truck was clicking along at a steady fifty miles per hour through rural Georgia on its trek to market.  Farm fields, an occasional house, and small stands of pines broke the monotony. It wouldn't be a long trip and it was a familiar route, but Myra sat mesmerized looking at the arrow straight road and the endless ribbon of railroad tracks to their right.

US Highway 41 in South Georgia (courtesy of Google Maps)

After a few minutes, Jeb started squinting and looking far down the blacktop.  A little ways ahead, a bearded man in an open blue denim shirt and jeans stood in the middle of the road.
    "Is that...what is that guy doing in the road?" he asked as he started to slow the truck.
    "I don't know," Myra replied.  "Do you think he needs help?"
    "I reckon we'll see what he wants," said as he pushed in the clutch and brought the truck to a stop alongside the man who stood alone in the opposite traffic lane.
     "Hey fella," Jeb hollered in a friendly but booming voice. "Do ya need any help?"
     The man turned revealing a two gaping chest wounds and a bloodly torn up ear.  A streak of dried reddish-brown blood soaked his denim work shirt, the tee shirt he wore underneath, and his pants all the way to the ground.  Jeb recoiled and practically jumped to the middle of the bench seat.  Even the old truck jumped as the Jeb inadvertently popped the clutch.  In its top gear, third, the old truck lurched ahead about 30-feet and completely stalled.
     As Jeb regained his seat, he could hear the dead man moan and see him growing larger in the rear view mirror.  His revolver was pinned awkwardly to his hip by the lap belt his kids had lovingly had installed.  His only choice was to start the truck.

<It looks like Jeb better get it gear or he's gonna be drooling and shuffling.  Read on in the next installment - Part 3!>

Zombie Short Story: The Road Trip - Part 1

     Jeb was sweating a bit as he loaded a box of preserves into his old Chevy truck.  Bushel baskets and wooden boxes filled with fresh cucumbers, pole beans, butter beans, onions, and even peaches made for a complete load.  It had been a lot for an old man to plant and a lot for him to harvest, but as he pushed the box of preserves across the bed of the truck he was proud.

A 1953 Chevrolet 3100 Pickup

     "Not bad for a retired farmer," he thought to himself.  But his thought was interrupted when the side door to the garage door jerked open and his wife stormed in.
     "Jebediah Ruben Simmons, you stubborn old mule," Myra Simmons said indignantly. "You need to listen to me!"
     "Woman," the old farmer replied. "I hear you."
     "You don't need to go into town.  You can stay right here on this farm."
     "Myra, if I don't go into town, people in town don't get to eat."
     "If you believe the news, you know the people in town are doing a pretty good job of eating each other."
     "You know that's just the worst video they can find.  There's good people in town, there's families,  there's refugees, and they need food."
     "Jeb," his wife said pointing at the classic Mustang sitting next to his truck.  "You know exactly what kind of people have come down here from Atlanta."
     "Darling, you know I can deal with any trouble that comes my way."
     "I don't know that and you don't know that.  You're too damn old for this stuff."
     "I'm going," Jeb replied.  "My grandfather told stories of using corncobs for toilet paper and I'm not fixing to start down that path.  We need stuff too."
     "It's too dangerous!"
     "It's not too dangerous," Jeb answered. "I'm only going up to Tifton!"
     "Good, then I'm coming with you!" Myra retorted before storming out.  Speechless, the old farmer knew he had been outmaneuvered.
     "Damn it," Jeb muttered as he pulled on his Bulldog cap.
     Next, he strapped on his revolver, hopped in his truck, took a deep breath, and hit the garage door opener.  The '53 Chevy started right up and he eased her slowly out of the garage.  Jeb remembered when his kids had "stolen" his old truck, fixed it up a bit, and had it painted.  The deep eggplant color still looked good.  It still had the original 216-cubic-inch straight six, but that was all Jeb needed.  The truck rejuvenation had been the best birthday gift ever and it meant a lot.  He hoped his daughter Betty and her kids were alright out there.
     As Myra came out looking as beautiful as ever.  She had a small cooler in one hand and carried her .30-30 Marlin in the other.  She opened the passenger door, slid the rifle into the gun rack, and slid up onto the bench seat.
     "What's for lunch," Jeb asked.
     "Two sandwiches, potato salad, two Coca-Colas, and two boxes of ammunition."
     "That sounds good to me."

[To hit the road with Jeb and Myra, read the next installment "The Road Trip - Part 2." If you'd like to read a previous Chronicle of Jeb, check out my short story "Something You Oughta Know."]

Zombie Flash Fiction: Forever Walking

Sleepless.  Tired.  Wired.  Hungry. Parched.  We pressed onward. Just climb the ridge. Just follow the road.  Walking west forever. My shoes were almost worn out.  I hadn’t showered.  I didn’t care.  I didn’t even want to remember eating.  My thoughts were a jumble of memories of the world that used to be.  The news reports of the spreading virus were a fading blur.  Ahead was the army. Soldiers.  Relief.  Shock!  Why shoot at us?

Photo by Rodrigo Fernández / CC BY-SA (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)

Zombie Flash Fiction - Black Friday Z

River kicked back in his tent.  On this Black Friday, he occupied the third spot from the door.  He would be the third person through the door at Big Box Electronics.  The security guard had already given him a certificate that guaranteed he would get 75% off the price of the newest PlayBox gaming system.  It would be sweet.  All he had to do was make it through the night.  He felt the cold hard sidewalk through the floor of the tent.  A shiver went through River's whole body.

Photo by Paul Budd [CC BY-SA 3.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], from Wikimedia Commons

Beating the cold was just a matter of mind over matter.  He had a whole thermos of his mom's hot chocolate.  At 16, River didn't need his mom to make him hot chocolate.  But, tonight, he was really glad that she did.  His mom and stepdad, Phil, were being really cool about Black Friday.  He just snugged down as far as possible in his cold weather sleeping bag and pulled the zipper all the way up.  Then he gingerly extended his arms out so he could rest his arms on the pillow.  He was in his fighting position.  Tablet on.  Game on.  Bluetooth synched.  He unwrapped a chocolate energy bar and placed it within easy reach.  Then River carefully placed his noise cancelling headphones on.  Every ear was encapsulated and warm.  He rotated the microphone down into position and dove into the game.  His whole squad was online and ready to rock.

The battle was intense.  He heard screams throughout the night.  The explosions were so real and so vivid that River thought he could feel the concussion of each grenade detonation.  The hours rolled by and the kills accumulated.  River and his crew were kicking ass.  They were unstoppable.  Then, he caught the flashing of his smart watch in the periphery of his vision.  It was 4:50 a.m.  It was almost go time.  He quickly said his "goodbyes," shut down the game, and stowed his tablet.

According to plan, his mom would be there to secure his tent shortly after the store opened.  He would be through the door, dash back to video games, get his PlayBox, and then he would pick up some accessories on the way out.  His gift cards were charged and he was ready to go.  As he pulled off his headphones, he could hear movement outside.  The crowd was rattling the steel grate that protected the BBE front door.

"That's bullcrap," River muttered under his breath.  "I'm number three!  That PlayBox is mine."

He slithered out of his thick sleeping back and maneuvered to get his jeans.  He tugged on them and met resistance.  Someone outside was standing on the tent and his pants.  River was angry.  Dad had paid a lot for this tent.

"Hey jerkwad," he yelled.  "Get off of my tent!"

He snatched his pants and pulled them on.  He heard the tent fabric ripping.  He was mad as hell now.  But, he stifled the emotion.  His mom and dad had told him that he didn't know anything about the people he was camping with.  Some of them were poor and desperate they had said.  Don't piss them off and don't show them any of your gear they had reminded him over and over.

"Hey Bro.  It's cool.  We're chill," he said as he unzipped the tent.

He hopped out to see that the whole front of the store was mobbed.  His mom and dad had been right.  There were a lot of poor people.  Many of them had torn parkas and coats.  Of course, there wasn't a police officer or security guard in sight.  Still, he was number three and he was going to get his PlayBox.  He had a certificate.  His spot in line was guaranteed.

River heard a menacing snarl behind him.  He shouldered his pack full of gear and whirled.  It was the jerk who stomped on his tent.

"Hey man," River said.  "It was pretty uncool to . . ."

River stopped talking as the man on the tent looked up at him.  The man's eyes were black as coal.  The black-eyed man charged at River and pinned him up against the hard brick wall of the store.  The man's hands grabbed solidly onto his jacket.  There was no life in the man's eyes and he snarled savagely as he leaned in for a bite.

"No," River yelled. "Get off of me you freak!"

River blocked upward with both arms to knock his assailants hands off of his neck momentarily and ducked under his assailant.  The man grabbed River's hood and pulled him backward.  The teen responded by smacking his assailant across the face with the bag of electronics.  His assailant paused, but was unphased.  He had no reaction at all to pain.  River kicked the man in the nuts and it didn't even phase him.  It didn't phase him at all.  River grabbed his assailant's arms, swung him around, and threw him to the ground. 

The crowd turned and looked at River for a moment.  River realized that none of them were concerned with the discounts that they would receive on big screen televisions.  They all shared the same dead black eyes of his assailant.  They also all started to move in his direction.  River turned and ran as fast as he could away from the store.  As he neared the edge of the parking lot, he saw his mom and stepfather driving towards him.

He had never been happier to see their metallic blue Chrysler Town & Country Mini Van in his life.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays Zombie Fans!

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As a special offer for all readers of Zombie fiction, I've reduced the price of Zombie Complex to $1.59 through New Years Day 2019!

Celebrating DragonCon with a Free Short Story

Labor Day is a big weekend in Atlanta.  There's a lot going on.  The city is hosting the premiere east coast gaming convention DragonCon.  In celebration of DragonCon and all the other events in the city, my horror short story Zombie Cage will be free on Saturday (9/1/2018) and Sunday (9/2/2018).  This is also the last weekend to get my must read zombie apocalypse novel, Zombie Complex, for only 99 cents on Kindle.

Whether you are here in Atlanta for DragonCon, the Chick-fil-A College Football Kick-Off (Auburn vs. Washington), or for the Black Gay Pride Festival, I hope you take advantage of these special offers, enjoy some good zombie apocalypse reading, and have a wonderful time in Atlanta.

Read Zombie Cage for Free!

My new horror short story, Zombie Cage, is out now.  It will drop you right into the center of a zombie horde with scientists and security personnel on a mission to collect zombie blood, zombie DNA, and even attach radio transmitters to track the movements of zombies.  The team will be protected only with their firearms and the bars of a steel cage.  If you like shark week, you'll love this short read.  It's normally free for readers who subscribe to Kindle Unlimited and 99 cents for everyone else reading with Kindle.  However, from August 1st through August 3rd, my short story will be free on Amazon to everyone!  My only request is that you leave a review on Amazon.  I'd love to know what you think of the story!

Zombie Flash Fiction - Rhonda's Ride

     Rhonda loved her new car.  It had everything she ever wanted in a car:  leather seats, a kickin' stereo, a back up camera, phone connectivity, internet radio, and all kinds of safety features.  The car could practically drive itself.  It was smart!  But, today, Rhonda was getting a little worried about the news.  S*&t was getting real!  People got some freaky ass disease and were running around biting people.  Today, Rhonda just wanted to drive straight home.  Of course, she had to go through the old Cumberland Village to get there.  Bumper-to-Bumper:  as always!

Photo By Niels de Wit from Lunteren, The Netherlands [CC BY 2.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

      Last week, the sorry ass DJ's on the car radio were laughing it up.
     "There's no such thing as zombies!" they said.
     "Watch out for Frankenstein," they laughed.
 
      They were saying something different today.  Their asses were on the radio beggin' for someone to please bring them some food.
     "Oh, I have food," Rhonda yelled at the radio.  "I have food for my children!"
     "I just have to get it home," she muttered to herself.

     Rhonda looked to her right and some dude was biting an old lady in the neck.  She looked to her left, at the oncoming traffic, just in time to see a redneck dude plow his pickup right into the back of a stopped car--kaabam!  Airbag deployment and everything.  Everybody was looking at the carnage surrounding them.  Everybody was in shock.  But, Rhonda didn't have time for that kind of mess.  She had to get the groceries home and lock up tight.  The kids weren't going anywhere!

     The noise of the collision seemed to bring all the crazy biter bastards out.  They were everywhere.  The car in front of her hit the gas and opened up a gap in the traffic.  But, the biters just walked right into the road and filled the gap in.  There were dozens of them.  Rhonda had to get through zombies or no zombies.  She saw a spot on the sidewalk and punched the accelerator.  If the biters wouldn't get out of the way, she would just run their asses down.

     Suddenly, a big red light lit up on her dashboard and the car came to a halt just six inches from a couple of the monstrous pedestrians.  She punched the gas and car wouldn't move.  She slammed it into reverse, the backup camera came on revealing more dead pedestrians.  The car lurched backwards and came to a half after moving all of two feet.  The red light on the dash warned her again.  The car revved and went no where.  The car would not be used as a weapon.  It would not run down pedestrians.

     "Oh no," Rhonda cried.  "This ride is too damn smart!"

Free Zombie Short Story: Dog Walk of the Apocalypse

My Zombie short story "Dog Walk of the Apocalypse" is free for Kindle through Wednesday, March 14, 2018.  You can get it for Amazon Kindle.  Today, it hit Number 1 for free Science Fiction and Fantasy Short Reads.  It also hit #6 for free Literature and Fiction short reads.

It's just a short story and will only take about fifteen minutes to read, but I hope you enjoy it.  When the promotional period is over the story will continue to be available for 99 cents on Kindle or for Free on Kindle Unlimited!

Zombie Flash Fiction - Waiting

Waiting

Jeb decided that the world was going to need more butter beans.  That's why he spent all morning putting up extra poles, stringing lines between them, and laying out a half-dozen rows for planting them.  He had a bucket full of pole beans ready to plant.  But, it was hot and Jeb was an old man.  He needed to sit for a spell.  That's why his house had a front porch with built in ceiling fans.

Myra had made him some lemonade.  She was a good woman, but she was nervous wreck.  It was a good thing she had plenty of preserves to put away.  It kept her busy and stopped her from speculating about the news out of Atlanta.  The latest news from up there just didn't make any sense.

Earlier in the week, all the government officials and medical experts were confident that they could simply round up and treat all the crazy people.  It was a disease they said.  They were telling folks not to shoot the afflicted.  But, Betty had said the afflicted were out trying to bite people.

"Y'all just need to get in your van and come on down to the homeplace," Jeb remembered telling her on the phone.  "Just round up Robert and the kids and you drive on down here as fast as you can."

Jeb didn't really take to Robert.  He was a trifling husband who needed a haircut and a real job.  But, Betty said they were coming.  Now, there was nothing to do but sit on the front porch swing, look down the road, and wait.  Jeb wiped the sweat from his brow and had a sip of lemonade--a nervous sip.

[For the next Chronicle of Jeb story, read "Something You Oughta Know."