Best New Zombie Tales Trilogy (Volume 1, 2 & 3)

by James Roy Daley

  She pulled the dog out of the bag, lowered her head to its maggot-covered body, and took a bite. As she chewed, worms fell from her lips, pattering to the basement floor like fat, white raindrops. The baby, scenting meat, shrieked, the sound so near to that of a living infant as to bring tears to Robert’s eyes.

  Emily looked at the baby as if she’d never seen it before and couldn’t quite figure out what it was. Then she bit off another hunk of dog and crawled on hands and knees toward little Robbie Jr. Once she reached the baby, she chewed for a moment, then lowered her face to the baby’s and kissed its mouth.

  Back when there had been TV to watch, Robert had seen a documentary on human evolution that claimed kissing began when mothers chewed up food to feed their infants. He wondered if Emily was following a basic maternal instinct so deeply hardwired into her genes that not even death could alter it.

  The sight should’ve sickened him, but it didn’t. Yes, it was an obscene mockery of a mother’s tenderness, but it still touched him. He’d never had the chance to hold his son, not alive at any rate. He knew Bobbie wasn’t a living being, that his movements were due to whatever force––mystic curse or perverted science––animated his dead flesh. But he wished he could touch his boy, just once. Wished he could be a father to Bobbie, a real father, and not just a man who threw down dead animals for him to eat. Food he could provide, no problem. But if his wife and son still had any emotional needs (and didn’t their keening cries always seem to hold a touch of sadness and loneliness mixed in with the hunger?) there was nothing he could do for them.

  He’d tried talking to them on and off over the years, but the sound of his voice always enraged them. They only grew calm when they were fed––or, in Bobbie’s case, on those rare occasions when his mother remembered he existed and touched him, sometimes even cradling him in her arms and stroking the dry, dead flesh of his forehead. Robert had often wondered if he would be able to soothe them with his touch, had even contemplated making the attempt once or twice, but he knew he’d never survive it.

  He’d even considered going down and letting them have him, purposefully allowing himself to become infected. At least that way the three of them would be together. But he knew from his time on the job that if a human body was savaged badly enough by deaders––especially if the heart and brain were damaged, or for that matter, devoured completely––it wouldn’t return to life. He’d thought about opening the basement door and then committing suicide elsewhere in the house, maybe by slitting his wrists so his body would remain intact. But once he changed, how could he be assured that he’d remember his wife and son in the basement––and if he did, that he’d still want to join them? More likely he’d try to get outside and go hunt for live meat. And even if by some miracle he found his way to the basement, there would be no one to bring them food. They wouldn’t starve, but they would remain hungry. Forever.

  No, there was no way they could be together again, not as a family. He could keep Emily and Bobbie trapped in the basement and feed them like animals, but that was all. It would have to do.

  He turned off the flashlight, closed the panel and latched it. There was enough meat on the dog to keep them busy––and quiet––for a while, maybe all the way until morning. That was good. He didn’t think he could stand to listen to their plaintive, lonely keening anymore tonight.

  * * *

  The next morning he biked to the city building to find out whether they were going to send Smoky Joe out again. He hoped Joe was going to stay in the garage; he didn’t feel like dealing with any deaders today. But no such luck. The hunting squads had been especially busy last night, and during their patrol, they’d counted a half dozen more bodies put out by townsfolk for Joe to pick up.

  Kenny was already there, looking a bit more nervous than usual, but Robert was in too much of a funk to care why, so he didn’t ask. They fired Joe up and chugged out of the garage and headed for the first house on the list the hunters had given them. They had an easy morning of it. The first two deaders they stopped for had been killed by whoever put them out––one by a bullet through the brain, another by a brick or a large rock to the head––and they had no problem tossing them into Joe’s furnace.

  The third stop was different. Not because of the deader––she was inanimate, too, and so petite either of them could have carried her one-handed to the truck. No, the problem occurred when Kenny, who had been silent all morning, finally decided to speak.

  “We’re partners, right?”

  They stood behind Joe, watching the petite woman burn. She was so tiny, Robert didn’t think it would take long for her to fall away to ash.

  “We work together, if that’s what you mean,” he replied, not taking his eyes off the flames.

  “Yeah, right, but I mean we look out for each other and stuff. You know, like, you wouldn’t let a deader take a bite out of me, and I wouldn’t let one get at you. Right?”

  Robert nodded, wondering where Kenny was going with this. “Sure.”

  “Well, see, the thing is, I got a problem.”

  Robert glanced sideways at him. Kenny had taken his gloves off and tucked them in the pockets of his coveralls. He had his mask off, too, and beads of sweat had erupted on his forehead, were beginning to trickle down the sides of his face. Maybe the sweat was due to the heat from Joe’s furnace, but Robert didn’t think so. Kenny was trembling all over, but his hands were the worst. They were vibrating so fast they actually blurred a little.

  “You probably heard that my girlfriend Went Bad and I… took care of her.”

  Robert didn’t say anything, but he turned to face Kenny.

  “I had to do it, right? I mean, I know that’s what she would’ve wanted me to do, but afterward…shit, I kept having these dreams, you know? Really fucked-up ones. So I started drinking.” A nervous chuckle. “I mean, I always drank. Who doesn’t, right? But I started in big-time, mostly at night, so I could sleep. If I drink enough, I don’t dream.”

  Kenny fell silent and they watched the flames for a time. Robert decided to let the man continue in his own time.

  “I hate this job. Hate it like fucking poison, but it pays well. Damn well ought to, shit we have to do. I mean, who the hell in their right mind would do this kind of work?” A pause. “No offense.”

  Robert nodded for him to go on.

  “Five ration slips a week is pretty good pay these days. I mean, it’s more than just about anyone else gets, except for the hunters and the doctor at the city building.”

  “But five slips aren’t enough for you anymore, are they?”

  Kenny shook his head. “I guess my body’s soaked up too much alcohol for it to work on me the same way. That, or maybe the shiners aren’t making their stuff as strong as they used to. I use most of my slips for booze, hardly eat much anymore, but I can’t seem to get drunk enough to get to sleep. Even when I do, I hardly ever sleep through the night. Those dreams…”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Robert asked softly.

  Kenny shrugged, a little too nonchalantly, Robert thought.

  “I figure you might be able to help me.” A nervous smile. “I know about your secret. I mean, you don’t have to be a fuckin’ genius to put it together. Your wife and kid never leave the house…half the time you can’t remember how old your boy is…they’re deaders, ain’t they? And you’ve got them stashed in your house somewhere. The garage, maybe, or the basement. Because you’re just like all these poor sons-of-bitches.” He made a sweeping gesture to take in the neighborhood. “You can’t stand to say goodbye to your loved ones either. The only difference is, you’re around deaders all the time, and you ain’t afraid of them. You know how to handle them, so while no one else has the balls to keep their family members once they’ve Gone Bad, you do.”

  Kenny stopped, a smug expression on his face, as if he were proud of his deductive prowess.

  Robert felt a cold twisting in his gut, but he worked to keep his voice level. “So you kno
w. What are you going to do about it?”

  “Nothing, partner. Not as long as you give me three of your ration slips every week. Otherwise, I’ll tell the hunting squad about Emily and little Bobbie, and they’ll be over at your house before you can finish singing the first stanza of ‘Smoky Joe.’”

  Robert said nothing.

  “Look, I know this makes me a real prick, but I can’t help it, man. I need those slips! I gotta get me some sleep!”

  A few more seconds went by before Robert finally said, “All right.”

  “Really? You mean it?” Kenny sounded surprised, as if he hadn’t expected his threat to work.

  “Yes. But make it two slips a week.”

  “Uh-uh, no way.” He sounded emboldened now. “It’s three or bye-bye family.”

  “All right. Three. But I don’t have any on me. You’ll have to wait until we get paid.”

  “That’s only a couple more days. I can wait. But if you stiff me, you’ll regret it.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll pay. Now let’s get back to work. We have at least two more stops to make today, and if we don’t keep burning deaders, neither one of us is going to get paid.”

  Kenny smirked. His expression was easy for Robert to read: he figured he had his partner by the balls now, and he was no longer low man on this team. “What do you mean, we? I’ll ride along, but I ain’t getting out. I’m never gonna touch another fuckin’ deader as long as I live. You do the burnin’ from now on, got it?”

  Got it. Now let’s go.”

  Another smirk, and Kenny turned and started heading for Joe’s cab––and that’s when Robert punched him in the back of the neck. Kenny collapsed like a marionette whose strings had been severed, and once he was down, it was an easy matter for Robert to keep him there. He was, after all, thin and weak from malnutrition. Robert clamped his hands around Kenny’s neck and squeezed. Kenny kicked his feet and slapped his hands on the asphalt, but Robert kept squeezing until his partner’s struggles lessened and finally stopped altogether.

  When it was finished, he climbed off Kenny’s corpse and stood looking down at it.

  Robert wasn’t worried that any of the residents of this neighborhood had seen, and even if they had, who would they report it to? There were no police anymore. Just the hunting squads––and pick-up men like him. Of course, he’d have to make up a story for his bosses at the city building. He supposed he could always tell them Kenny had said he’d had enough of the job and quit in the middle of today’s route, but if no one ever saw him again, they might get suspicious. No, better to say that Kenny got careless, let a deader bite him, and had to be put down. He wouldn’t be the first pick-up man that had ended up that way. That decided, the only thing left to do was feed Kenny’s body to Joe.

  Robert bent down, intending to do just that, but as he reached toward Kenny, he hesitated. It seemed an awful waste to just toss him into the fire. He could still be…useful.

  * * *

  Robert walked into the kitchen, a heavy plastic bag clutched in his hand. Their keening was especially loud today; it had been almost a week since he had last fed them.

  “Hold on, it’s coming.”

  He got the flashlight and opened the basement door panel, taking his usual step back and waiting a moment before stepping forward again and shining the light inside. There was Emily, hands clawing the air, and little Bobbie, wailing and writhing on the floor behind her. But now there was a third one in the basement, much fresher than the other two and wearing a pair of coveralls. He stared up at the light with a blank, unseeing gaze, his mouth opening and closing hungrily.

  Robert smiled. “I really appreciate you helping me out like this, partner. It means a lot to me.”

  The male moaned, as if in response to Robert’s words, but he knew the thing was just hungry. He lifted his find––a possum that he’d managed to hit while out in Joe earlier that day––and stuffed it through the opening. The possum struck the floor, and Emily and Kenny fell on it like starving dogs.

  Bobbie screamed for his share, and this time it was Kenny who took a mouthful over to the baby, feeding the boy with a gentle kiss.

  Robert felt no jealousy. Not only had he provided food for his wife and child, he’d found a way to be down there with them, if only through a surrogate. Still, they were truly a family again, in every way, and that was all that mattered.

  Robert watched them for a while longer, then he closed the panel and put the flashlight away. Time for bed; he had to get up early for work tomorrow. Not only did he have a new partner to break in, he had a family to feed.

  The Truth About Brains

  NARRELLE M. HARRIS

  My little brother Dylan is dead, but that doesn’t stop him from being a pest. He still follows me everywhere, and Mum still makes me take him with me when I go to the shops.

  It wouldn’t be so bad, except he’s always trying to bite people. He tried to bite me the first few days, but I hit him across the nose with a rolled up newspaper and he gave it up.

  I had to take him with me to the movies today. That was rank. Dylan mumbled all the way through the film, then he tried to bite the kid in the row in front. The rest of the time he was kind of farty, with a swampy, decayed stink that put me off my popcorn. We did get a row to ourselves, so I guess it’s true that there’s always a bright side.

  He’s only been like this for a few days. I thought it would be cool, having a zombie for a brother, but it’s not. The fact is that it stinks. Literally. And it’s getting worse every day. Maybe it’s okay in Europe or wherever, but Australian summers are bad news. Nothing’s fallen off him yet, but it’s only a matter of time. I hate to think what’s going to happen when school starts again in February. I don’t think Mr. Browning is going to let Dylan on the school footy team this year.

  It stinks metaphorically as well. It turns out that I do like Dylan after all, even though he’s a brat. Zombie Dylan doesn’t steal my stuff, or whine about whose turn it is to do the dishes, or race me home, or anything. He just sits there. Dylan is no fun when he’s not being a pest.

  It’s partly my fault this happened to Dylan. It’s kind of his own fault too, but he’s just a kid, so that’s not fair. Mostly, it’s Ryan and Carrie’s fault.

  Four days ago, summer was doing its usual summer thing. It was hot and sticky and buzzy with flies. I wanted to go swimming and I didn’t want to have to take Dylan with me so I snuck out through the back yard with my bag. I climbed the fence and ran for the tram, making it just in time. Looking back, there was Dylan the Dill, standing by the side of the road. He had an evil look in his eye, and I figured he was going to dob me in to Mum for taking off without him. I sort of miss that look now.

  I met Jase, Ant, Kyle and the gang at the pool and we swam a bit. Ant was showing off her new bikini, or rather, her new boobs which had suddenly appeared this summer to fill out her bikini, and the guys were all slack-jawed about it, except Adam and Jase, who have a pash for each other. Adam and I were getting Jase to time us, to see who could stay under water the longest, when Kyle started shouting for me.

  “Amy! Amy!”

  Springing out of the water like a dolphin, I spat a fountain of water at him. Adam laughed and scooped a splash of water at Kyle as well.

  “Don’t! Piss off!” Kyle can be really whiny, so we splashed him again, “Shit, Amy, seriously. Don’t. Ryan says your kid brother’s been hurt.”

  “Bull. Dylan’s not even here.”

  “Not here. You know that old place down the road? Looks like an old hotel or something?”

  The old pub had been boarded up for a few years now. Mum reckoned there was some legal problem with the developers, and while the parties of the second part or what-ever were having their battle in court, the pub just got older and crumblier. Parts of the fence had been torn away and sometimes kids snuck inside to drink and dare each other to climb the rotten staircase.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Dunno. Ryan said Dyl
an fell and that you should come.”

  Damn. Damn-damn-damn. If Dylan busted a limb I was going to be in so much trouble. I hauled myself out of the pool, tried to dry myself and gave up. I dragged on my t-shirt, wrapped my towel round my waist, shoved my feet into my thongs and took off.

  It’s hard to run in thongs. When you’re mucking about, the slipperiness and the slap-slap-slap-slap and the way it flicks water and grit up the back of your legs is part of the fun. When you think your kid brother has broken a limb it’s irritating.

  Squeezing through the fence at the old pub was not fun either. I scraped my arms on the bent wire and my shins on the old wood before I got through.

  “Ryan?!”

  A squeak of surprise greeted my call, then swearing in Ryan’s voice. Then some wicked laughter. That would be Carrie. Carrie was Ryan’s constant companion and inciter of minor riots. I don’t know if Ryan was besotted by her or just liked that she gave him an excuse to behave like a dick. Some people are like that.

  “That you Amy?”

  “Yeah. Where’s Dylan?”

  “Um. Here. Um. Maybe you’d better…”

  And Carrie laughed again. More of a cackle, like she was terrified, but enjoying it too. “Come on, Amy.” She sounded a bit hysterical and that scared me.

  I scraped myself some more climbing past the door that had fallen off its hinges, around a pile of rotten boxes and into the pub. Light was angling through cracks in the walls like cartoon torch beams. The beams were filled with motes of dust, which looked like slices of life inside a snowdome, with stripes of dark and light. I blinked, sneezed, and stirred up more dust. After blinking a few more times my eyes adjusted and I saw Ryan. His face was white. I don’t know if it was white as a sheet, but it was pretty bloody white. Carrie had an awful grin on her face, and she was even paler.