Living With the Dead: Year One

by Joshua Guess

  People think they're gross and ugly, but they ain't, not really. Look at 'em. They're strong. They don't seem to worry too much about nothin'. The colder weather might slow 'em down a lick, but they's pretty lively, mostly. They don't smell no worse than the stuff Daddy used to hunt with. And they smell a sight better than my uncle Joe Bob, come to think of it. Some of them act like they's right smart. A lot smarter than a lot of people I know, anyways.

  When we was huntin', Daddy'd hand me a brown bottle. “You spray it all over, Pete,” and the stink of deer piss made me like to gag. I held it in, though, 'cause if I gagged or threw up all that would get me was a beatin'. This zombie stuff stinks way worse, but there ain't no one around to call me a sissy boy or punch me if I gag. I hold it in anyway.

  The zombies ate my daddy. I can't say this really bothered me overmuch. Momma pitched a fit, and Uncle Joe Bob was pretty mad, but it wasn't like the world was gonna miss him much. I know I didn't. I figgered the zombies did me a favor and I owed 'em one. At least I wouldn't get beat no more 'cause I wasn't being man enough for him. I wouldn't have to hear about being a “sissy boy” and sent out to sleep in the barn on account I wasn't fit ta be with “normal” folk.

  At least, that's what I thought when the zombie tore into Daddy's neck and ripped out his throat. I forgot about Uncle Joe Bob.

  After Daddy done got ate, Uncle Joe Bob said we had to get on our knees and thank the Baby Jesus we was still alive. I was grateful and all, but three hours on your knees is a lot of thanking. He listened to the radio and said we were gonna have to move to somewhere safer. Momma said, “We ain't gonna cotton to no folk lessen' they's good God-fearin' people.”

  Uncle Joe Bob said, “Woman, shut yore mouf. It ain't like they's a lot to choose from enymore.” Momma jest clutched her Bible and shut her mouth. Daddy knew how to handle the women-folk and Uncle Joe Bob was no different.

  I didn't much care one way ta' the other, to be honest. Warn't like they was gonna ask for my opinion, anyways. Nobody much listens to a kid, specially a kid like me. Not 'til we got to the compound, and even then, people don't pay much attention to the kid of a buncha hillbillies.

  See? Lookit that one over there. See 'im? He's one of the smart ones. They called them “smarties” at the compound. See how he's herdin' a group of the zombies together? Like he's got a plan. He ain't fallin' apart like a lot of 'em do, neither. And he moves faster than the rest, even in the colder weather. I find that downright innerestin', don't you?

  At first, bein' at the compound was a lot better than jest bein' with Momma and Uncle Joe Bob. The people of the compound had it secure purty good, workin' on a big wall with plenty of supplies an d stuff. You could tell they been workin' hard and pullin' together. I don't mind hard work, it was a sight better than where we was, and a lot safer. There was food and ammo and nice people. Mostly.

  'Cept for that creepy preacher man. He'd be churchin' every Sunday, jest like things were normal-like, and Momma'd drag me along even though I had no taste fer it. I had to listen to hours of how the zombies were God's punishment 'cause we's a sinful folk, and Preacher John would point out people livin' on the compound that were still bein' sinful, living together without God's blessin' and fornicatin', women with more than one man and fornicatin', men with men and fornicatin'. Seemed to me he was worried overmuch with fornicatin'. Momma and Uncle Joe Bob went along with all of it, like I didn't know about their own fornicatin'. I wonder what the preacher woulda thought about that, although he had his own thang goin' on, sure did.

  After the churchin', Uncle Joe Bob would git all worked up, like Daddy used to git. That's when I'd really have to watch kerful. You know, strut around and agree with everythang he said. Pretend I thunk the way he did about the pit of sinfulness we landed in, and how everybody here but us was headed for the Devil's house and taking us with 'em because they's was the cause of the zombies in the first place. Momma'd chime right in. Didn't really much care, to tell you the truth, until Uncle Joe Bob started in on Patrick.

  Patrick was special. He was always lookin' out fer me, took time to talk to me while I was workin'on the wall and actually paid attention to what I said. I used to like Patrick a lot. Mebbe that's why Uncle Joe Bob was really on his case. “What you hanging around that faggot for, boy?” he'd yell at me. “What's wrong with you? Don'chu you know that's why the zombies are here? Preacher John even says so!”

  “I ain't hangin' around him,” I'd say. “I'm jest workin' like I'm s'posed to.”

  “Well, you watch yerself, boy. I swear, I see a zombie comin' fer me or a queer boy, I'd shoot the queer boy first, no questions axed. Even if'n they was related.” Then he'd squint his eyes at me like I was under one of them fancy microscopes Dr. Evans used. Momma'd stand there and nod her head, eyes bright and hands clutching her everlastin' Bible.

  “'Do you not know that the wicked will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived: Neither male prostitutes nor homosexuals will inherit the kingdom of God',” she cooed, caressing the covers of that danged book. “That's what it says in Corinthians, that's what Preacher John says. These people here are walkin' on dangerous ground, and I ain't aimin' to go to hell or get et by the zombies 'cause they can't control they's urges.”

  I didn't bother to say they was a lot more people in that passage of Corinthians, like idolaters, adulterers and fornicators, not to mention thieves. I warn't gonna point out Uncle Joe Bob and Momma had a little of their own fornicatin' goin' on, neither. And after I saw what went on after churchin' in the preacher's house I jest concentrated on not gaggin' when any of 'em started shootin' off they mouths.

  I almost tole Patrick about it, but I guess I'm glad I didn't, the way things turned out. I thought Patrick liked me too, but he really didn't. He got hisself a girlfriend, and he didn't have much time fer me after that. Yeah, it kinda hurt my feelins. I thought he was different.

  I started spending more time in the clinic, sweeping floors and cleaning up. Miss Juanita and Dr. Evans were nice people. I learned me a lot of stuff, 'specially bout the zombies. I tole Momma and Uncle Joe Bob about the bacteria thang, and Momma threw one o' her hissy fits and wanted me to quit working there.

  “I ain't gonna have my only son tainted and turned into a zombie!” she yelled. “I ain't gonna git et in the night by my own flesh and blood! Sweet Jesus, deliver us!”

  But Uncle Joe Bob talked it over with Preacher John and they tole her to shut it and me to keep my eyes open. I swear, Uncle Joe Bob wouldn't so much as take a dump without Preacher John's say-so.

  It was Preacher John's idear to mark people's houses. You know, the ones fornicatin' and stuff. O'course, when we got caught and that little girl died, I felt awful even if Uncle Joe Bob said it was a sign. Of what, I don't know. Lindsey never did nothin' to nobody as far as I knew. The compound people were pretty mad. They ran ole' Preacher John right outta here and left him nekkid in the cold wilderness. But I knew that ornery ole' cuss'd be back. Them religious folk, they got a way of sticking around.

  Momma and Uncle Joe Bob got a whippin' and had to work extra hard for a bit, but they never did give me up. Hoo doggy, they was madder than a wet hen. Uncle Joe Bob said, “Who do they think they is, enyway? They ain't got no right whippin' people, it warn't our fault that girl got et.” He rubbed his butt, scratched his crotch, and kept on goin', Momma bobbin' her head like it was attached by a string to Uncle Joe Bob's right hand. “Preacher John said that was probably a sign o' her momma and daddy's sinnin', and they had it comin'. We's gittin outta here, Lily Mae.” Momma jest nodded and nodded.

  “But I don't want to leave, Uncle,” I started to say, but he smacked me across the face so hard I tasted blood.

  “Don't you smart off to me, boy! You ain't stayin' here with this bunch of faggots and fornicators! 'Lessen you want to be one of them yerself. Is that what you want?” To my way of thinkin', this bunch of faggots and fornicators were a sight better than what I was dealin' with, but it ain't like I had a c
hoice. “You owe us, boy, don't you never fergit that. You shoulda been whipped right along with the rest of us. I say we go, and yer goin' with us.” He was right, I knowed it.

  I'm still watchin' that smartie, watchin' what he's doin'. He's got a group of zombies gathered over there, see 'em? They's jest standing there, I know they don't talk. At least, I don't think they do, but that smartie's got something going on. I wonder what he's doin' with 'em. He's walkin' 'round in a circle, 'round and 'round. Every once in a while he reaches out and touches one and they shudder. I wonder if it has somethin' to do with that bacteria thang Dr. Evans was talkin' 'bout. The wind's changin', I kin hear the leaves rustlin' and the smell is purty rank, but I think I'm still okay up here.

  Anyways, I was right about Preacher John. It warn't too long before he was back. Tole you he was ornery. Even the zombies didn't want to et him, and I don't blame 'em. He and Uncle Joe Bob huddled together for a coupla days, whisperin' and I jest knew they was up to no good. I tried to warn Patrick, but he didn't have no time fer me no more, and it wasn't like I had friends to tell. They's nice people at the compound, don't git me wrong, but livin' with Uncle Joe Bob and Momma didn't make me very popular. It's like nobody wanted nothin' to do with me.

  Any chance I had of gittin' along without Uncle Joe Bob and Momma was killed right along with Preacher John when he held up that little kid in front of him when we was tryin' to git some stuff from the armory. Somebody had the guts to take the shot, and down ole' Preacher went. The compound people were danged mad about the whole thang, but what can you 'spect from a man like Preacher John?

  There was a lotta harsh words thrown 'round, sure was. Oh, Uncle Joe Bob blamed it all on the preacher, but he was hell-bent on gittin' outta here. He was locked up for a spell when we tried to git some vittles from the storage, and I guess the people from the compound decided we all should git on with the goin' if we wanted to so bad. I didn't want to leave, and I'm thinking none of the other kids did neither, but we warn't never gonna be one of them and we all knew it. So even though they gave us a choice, it warn't much of one.

  That smartie is still circling around his buddies. He stops for a time at the ones he's touched and I could swear they's talking. One by one the rest kinda just wander off. I guess they ain't innerested in what he's sayin'. Dr. Evans said somethin' once about how they's changin', gitting smarter and passin' that along to the others. I guess they ain't all cut out fer it. Makes me wonder.

  Leaving the compound was hard, but it warn't nothing compared to what I had to deal with once we was outta there. Uncle Joe Bob ain't dumb when it comes to survivin', that's fer sure, but he leaves a heap ta be desired when it comes ta people skills. They's all holed up about five miles from here, but after a couple of weeks of getting' beat fer no reason and watchin' him have his way with all the women-folk whether they wanted it or not (and most of 'em didn't) I'd had enough.

  That's why I'm in this tree stand and watchin'. There's no way I can take on Uncle Joe Bob by myself. I'm jest a kid. But look at them thar zombies. They's strong, and they never give up. I ain't stupid. I bet I could be a smartie. And a smartie zombie's a sight smarter than Uncle Joe Bob.

  Annetta Ribken writes web copy by day, but by night she is deep in the bowels of her fiction addiction. Not only does she write her own words, she is an accomplished editor (she prefers the term “story doctor”) and works with other people's words, with permission, of course. She has been writing and reading since a tender young age, when words were chiseled on stone tablets, although she is nineteen in her head and can pass for twice that on a good day and with some help from Miss Clairol.

  A flash fiction aficionado, Annetta has recently released her first collection of flash titled, Not Nice and Other Understatements, on sale at Amazon.com both in a Kindle edition and in print. This fine volume, which has been likened to a “jalepeno-laced jelly doughnut”, is also available in a variety of e-formats on Smashwords including a format for mobile devices and can be found for the Nook or in print on the Barnes and Noble website here . She is currently at work on Athena's Promise, an urban fantasy about a hotel run by a demi-goddess and a Gorgon on the edge of Zombie Town. You can keep up with her antics on her blog, www.wordwebbing.com, her author page at Amazon here or her Facebook fan page http://www.facebook.com/Annetta.Ribken .

  Options

  Joshua Guess

  Blood trailed behind her as she struggled to get the kids into the bathroom. There was only one window in there, small and high up on the wall. Whatever those things were, they wouldn't be able to get in that way. The door was one of the originals, too, not a flimsy replacement like the others she'd bought when she fixed up the old house. It was solid. Strong. It would hold them off.

  It had to. Didn't it?

  She pulled them past the narrow table in the hallway, the one that her husband kept telling her he'd fix. Year after year he'd said it, even on the day when he had gone our for a beer and never come back. She dragged them by their arms, her grip so tight they cried. Seven and four were too young to understand the danger. All they knew was that mommy was hurting them, and they wailed with the pain of it, and the betrayal.

  Past the table, rocking on its uneven legs as they brushed against it. The sound of shattering glass followed them down the hall. She slipped on a blanket covered with giant cartoon bees, her blood spraying across their smiling, woven faces as she righted herself.

  Finally, the bathroom. She pushed the children in and turned to close the door, free hand whipping to the waist of her pants to pull out the revolver her husband had left behind.

  There was one of them, right in front of her.

  Her mind was all rage as she raised the weapon and fired. The bullet hit the thing in the right cheek, tearing away a quarter of its face and dropping it instantly. There was another right behind it, and she raised her free hand to the butt of the gun to steady her aim. A second deafening blast of sound, and another blood-soaked creature was down.

  Four bullets left. There were at least a half dozen more coming down the hall. She pulled the door shut and threw the old-fashioned bolt that locked it. Seconds later, the door began to rattle against the frame as the relentless attackers tried to get in. She could hear the wood crack.

  Ignoring the stench of burned gunpowder and the confused cries of her children, she scrambled over them to look out the tiny window. Not large enough for her to go through, it might be just big enough for the kids...

  The yard beyond was littered with wild-eyed men and women, faces and chests drenched with scarlet. Right next to the house, not five feet from her, was a little boy holding a his teddy bear, still chewing on something that squirted crimson down his chin. Her eyes met the child's and in them she saw naked hunger. Almost lust.

  She sank down into the tub, arms resting loosely on her knees. The pounding on the door intensified, but she didn't react. She was trying to come up with a solution.

  With a sudden crack, the door slammed open. Her reaction was swift—two shots, two more of the attackers down. The ringing in her ears mingled with the screams of terror boiling from the throats of her children.

  More of them were scrambling over the bodies of their fallen brothers. Too many, too much to handle. The missing piece of her leg throbbed with agony, and her mind went to the news reports. Avoid bites. The bites are dangerous.

  Seconds left before they reached her. Before they reached the children, who were backing toward the tub, bottoms scooting across the floor. The first one crossed the doorway, and the weight of the gun in her hand seemed infinite.

  She lifted it anyway.

  She aimed, tears rolling down her cheeks, and spoke.

  “I love you both.”

  Monsters Unmasked: A Living With the Dead Novella

  By Lori Whitwam

  “If what you are is what you do when crisis comes, then they were monsters, worse than the shambling dead that surround us at all times.” –Joshua Guess, March 28, 2010

&
nbsp; It should be easy to tell who the monsters are in the middle of a global zombie pandemic. The blank-eyed swarms of animated corpses who want to gnaw on your flesh are the obvious choice. The reality, though, is it’s not always that simple.

  I learned that less than a week after the outbreak started, and it was like getting hit in the head. In this case, literally. I was a graduate student at Kentucky State University, studying for my degree in Library Science. I wasn’t a tough girl. In fact, I was a real Pollyanna. Life was wonderful, the future was bright, and there was never anything with fangs under the bed. I lived off-campus with my older brother, Matt, who managed a wholesale buyer’s club off of I-64. At first, he didn’t like having his little sister underfoot, but I was quiet by nature, and between classes and working part-time in the University library, he barely knew I was there.

  A couple of days after the “riots” were reported in Cincinnati, we knew something terrible was happening. I don’t remember which of us said the z-word first. It felt ridiculous, and I almost laughed, but soon it was all too real. Our parents lived in Cheviot, on the west side of Downtown Cincinnati. We heard from them once, the day it started, and they were planning to wait it out. I guess that didn’t go well, since we were unable to reach them again.