Best New Zombie Tales Trilogy
Read Best New Zombie Tales Trilogy Online
Authors: James Roy Daley
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Anthologies & Literary Collections, #General, #Genre Fiction, #Horror, #Anthologies, #Short Stories
BEST NEW
ZOMBIE
TALES
TRILOGY
(Volumes 1, 2 & 3)
Edited By:
JAMES ROY
DALEY
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. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
Collection copyright by James Roy Daley 2012
FIRST EDITION
Volume two cover art by Terry Callen
Cover Design by Derek Daley
Interior Design by James Roy Daley
CONTENTS
Introduction ~ JAMES ROY DALEY
The Man Who Breaks The Bad News ~KEALAN PATRICK BURKE
In The Land Of The Blind ~ ROBERT SWARTWOOD
Darkness Comprehended ~ HARRY SHANNON & GORD ROLLO
Sign of the Times ~ JOHN GROVER
Paradise Denied ~ JOHN L. FRENCH
On The Usefulness Of Old Books ~ KIM PAFFENROTH
The Revelations of Dr. Maitland ~ CHARLES BLACK
Pegleg And Paddy Save The World ~ JONATHAN MABERRY
Introduction 2 ~ JAMES ROY DALEY
The Truth About Brains ~ NARRELLE M. HARRIS
Coming Home ~ DAVID NIALL WILSON
The Worst Is Yet To Come ~ PETE MESLING
’
Til Decay Do Us Part ~ MYRRYM DAVIS
We Will Rebuild ~ CODY GOODFELLOW
Dredging Up The Dead ~ J. W. SCHNARR
Not With A Bang But A Whimper ~ MONICA J. O’ROURKE
Gran’ma’s in the Bathroom (…and she’s not coming out) ~ KEN GOLDMAN
The Old Man And The Dead ~ MORT CASTLE
Introduction 3 ~ JAMES ROY DALEY
The Lazarus Condition ~ PAUL KANE
Of Cabbages and Kings ~ NATE SOUTHARD
The Traumatized Generation ~ MURRAY J.D. LEEDER
The Way of Things in Fly-Over Country ~ AARON POLSON
Fast Eddie’s Big Night Out ~ JOHN L. FRENCH
Night of the Living Dead Bingo Women ~ SIMON MCCAFFERY
Worm-sacks and Dirt-backs ~ LEE CLARK ZUMPE
The Purple Word ~ ERIK T. JOHNSON
Sabbatical in the Ohio Methlands ~ JOE MCKINNEY
A Sense of Duty ~ GREGORY MILLER
The Basement ~ WILLIAM T. VANDEMARK
Working Man’s Burden ~ DAVID C. PINNT
The Last Supper (The Anatomy Of Addiction) ~ JOHN CLAUDE SMITH
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)
BEST NEW VAMPIRE TALES (VOL. 1)
MATT HULTS - ANYTHING CAN BE DANGEROUS
JAMES ROY DALEY - 13 DROPS OF BLOOD
JAMES ROY DALEY - THE DEAD PARADE
GARY BRANDNER - THE HOWLING II
GARY BRANDNER - THE HOWLING III
GARY BRANDNER - THE HOWLING TRILOGY
TONIA BROWN - BADASS ZOMBIE ROAD TRIP
Introduction
JAMES ROY DALEY
Sleep dissipates and there he is: H. P. fucking Lovecraft. The old boy is looking down at me with anger and shame stamped across his weird little face in equal portions. I drag my knuckles across my eyes, snug in my bed, hoping to wipe some of the gorp from my lashes, wondering if it’s really him. Before I’ve drawn a conclusion he grabs me by the wrist and hauls me from my sheets. A pillow falls to the floor as I stumble across the bedroom and into the shadows of the hallway. My feet slap against the hardwood, creating sharp echoes that forge through the night as I head towards my kitchen.
Staggering and sleepy, I say, “Hey, man. What’s going on?”
H. P. flicks on a light and says, “Don’t give me any lip, you obtuse, half-wit, twerp.”
In a world that seems far too bright and dynamic, I say, “Twerp?” I don’t care much for
that.
Honestly, I don’t care for the ‘half-wit’ remark either, but what can I say? On the ‘obtuse’ slur he might be accurate. I don’t know. What the hell does obtuse mean… rounded at the free end?
I say, “Why am I a twerp?”
“You know why.”
“No, really, I don’t.”
Now we’re in the kitchen. He drags me towards a blender, which is sitting on the counter between the sink and the stove. It’s plugged into to an outlet and ready for use. I wonder if he planning on making a fruit smoothie but I don’t have a chance to ask because H. P. wastes no time saying, “Zombies? Are you kidding me? Is that the best you can do?”
For a moment I’m confused, but then a light bulb inside my head comes to life. I know what this is about: the book. He wants to talk to me about my anthology, Best New Zombie Tales. Sure he does. And I’m willing to talk to him about my little project, too. But I’ve got a few questions of my own, fusing together the way questions do. The most obvious inquiry, it seems, would revolve around the fact that Mr. Lovecraft has been dead for decades. What is he, back from the grave? That’s ridiculous. The walking departed don’t exist… right?
Right?
I say, “Listen H. P., zombies are big right now. Real big. Do you know––”
He gives my arm a quick yank, cuffing my train of thought. He’s livid now; I can see it in his face.
“I gave the world
Cthulhu
and you’re serving up
zombies
? I created
Yog-Sothoth
, and all you’ve got is the
living-dead
? Is that the best you can do?”
For a moment I just stare, as if I’m waiting for someone else to answer the question for me. When nobody does, I reluctantly say, “You don’t understand. It’s not like I don’t know how to be creative… I do. But the horror industry is a funny place right now, you know? The truth of the matter––”
H.P. growls like an animal from the jungle. Then he says, “SHUT UP, idiot! On an off day I could shit out
Shub-Niggurath
,
Y’golonac
, and
Azathoth
, and the most preeminent idea rattling around your infinitesimal, diminutive, nano-scholastic, brain-nugget is zombies? Are you on crack? What the hell is wrong with you? Don’t you think this planet has suffered through a sufficient quantity of
zombies
?”
He lifts the lid from the blender, switches the dial from ‘off’ to ‘mulch’ and rams my hand inside before I realize what’s happening.
I scream, while trying to pull away. Doesn’t work. H. P. is stronger than he looks and my hand is getting mulched.
Let me repeat––
My HAND… is getting: M-U-L-C-H-E-D.
This means that my fingers––all four, plus the tip of my thumb––are getting…
MULCHED
… off.
Connected to the colossal ambush of pain are my eyes, which mature to enormity. I can’t help but watch. Now my knuckles are getting chewed. Now the middle of my hand is taking a beating. Oops… there goes the rest of my thumb. There’s blood. Not just inside the blender, but everywhere: splashing the walls, the ceiling, the floor, my chest, my face…
Inside the blender I can see bone fragments spinning around in a circle. A moment ago those fragments were inside my hand, not orbiting it.
It may come as no surprise that I want to tell him to stop, to let me go, to turn off that goddamn machine, which, by the way, is very powerful and apparently worth every penny I paid––thank you very much ‘Home Shopping Channel.’ But I don’t tell him to stop. Oh no, I can’t. All I can do is cry, and scream, and try to pull away.
And fail miserably, I should add. H. P.’s grip is absolute.
A little FYI here: my screaming doesn’t bother Mr. Lovecraft––who was kind enough to give us
Shub-Niggurath
,
Y’golonac
, and
Yog-Sothoth
, as he didn’t hesitate to point out. No, no. He seems adequately happy with my pain and terror. And oddly enough, he decides to do some screaming of his own.
