Living With the Dead: Year One (Books 1-2, Bonus Material)

by Guess, Joshua; Ribken, Annetta; Ayers, Rachel; Whitwam, Lori

  My hearing was starting to return, so I caught snippets of the news. “Authorities overwhelmed… Wichita in disaster… leave the city… do not approach strangers.” Well, you know what it was like.

  I stood with friends and family gathered in my parents’ living room, listening to the fall of Kansas.

  “We’ll go out to grandma and grandpa’s farm,” I said. “Before dark.”

  “I’ve got to get home and make sure my parents are all right,” Danielle said.

  A murmur of similar comments ran around the room.

  “Wait, wait,” Chris said. “There’s something we need to do first.”

  “What?”

  He tugged me around to face him. “Get married.”

  “Now?” I hesitated. “We should get to safety.”

  “We may never be safe again, Rachel.” (See how he’s always serious when he says my name?) “We may never,” he looked around the room at everyone, “all be together again. So we’re getting married now, while everyone’s here, and we’re dressed. You think I’m gonna get in a tux again after this?” He waved a hand in vague disgust at the rusty red spatters on his shirt.

  Fortunately, my wedding colors were red and white. Also, Danielle said she could photoshop the blood out of the pictures, but I don’t know if she ever got a chance. Things happened pretty quickly after that—the way they do in this world.

  But for a little while, time waited for us. Dad performed the ceremony, Danielle took the pictures, Patrick and Gregory stood guard with guns at the windows, and Mom and Aunt Janet served the cake.

  Chris and I held hands through the ceremony, so tightly I thought we might not come unstuck at the end. Then he kissed me, and that, at least, was perfect.

  And then, of course, we gathered up guns and knives, food and supplies, and drove out to the farm. We didn’t stay there long—after that we were on the move a lot. Eventually we started having more trouble with the surviving humans than we did with the zombies, and finally, as you know, we ended up at the compound with Josh and his crew.

  So that’s my story, the day the world ended. And I’m sorry, but I can’t help it: it was also one of the best days of my life.

  Rachel Ayers lives and writes in Kansas, from whence she hopes to hitch a tornadic ride to adventure in another world. In the meantime, she reads, daydreams, and moderates a fairy tale discussion forum on LiveJournal. She has a Creative Writing degree from Pittsburg State University. Her story "Job Hunting" won First Prize in the 2010 HarperCollins Radiant Prose contest. Her comic, Near and Far, can be found at www.nearandfarcomic.com, and her blog about life and writing is at richlayers.livejournal.com. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in: Isabelle Rose's Twisted Fairy Tale Anthology volumes 1 and 2 (Wicked East Press), A Thousand Faces, Puffin Circus, Ink Bean

  Magazine, and Death Rattle.

  An Arc of Silver

  Joshua Guess

  Tanaka Shigeru settled back into his chair and let his thoughts wander. It was only this time of day, when the clients had all been seen to, the accounting details gone over, that he was able to let himself relax.

  His gaze wandered for only a moment before it settled on the sword displayed with simple reverence on the stand across from his desk. There were two, actually, one sleek and new and one very old but well cared-for. It was the older of the two blades that caught his attention, as it so often did after the rush of the day was over. Though he had only touched the thing infrequently since bringing it here, his hands tingled with memories of the rough texture of the ray-skin hilt.

  Shigeru had brought the old blade with him when he had returned from his father's funeral, all those years ago. It had been the old man's wish that his only son keep the ancient weapon, that he always remember his roots. It had been a bittersweet time for Shigeru, the last weeks of his father's life spent with his son, so different. Apologies and catching up, all in the face of the inevitable.

  Going back to Wakayama prefecture had been one of the hardest things he'd ever done. Though the rift that had formed between he and his father had begun to heal years before, there was always something between them when they spoke. Neither Shigeru nor his father spoke of it, but the night his son had announced his decision to forgo the plans that had long been decided for him had long been a point of contention between them.

  Shigeru shook his head, though he didn't know he was doing it. The irony of it all was that the years of hard training at the hands of his father and the senior students at the dojo were what prepared him for life outside of Wakayama. The discipline he had developed had served him well through business school and the years that followed as he built a complex of companies that were known around the world.

  It had been decades since he had practiced his skills with the intense drive he'd had as a boy. Oh, there were twice weekly trips to a local dojo where he could lose himself in the movements of body and blade, but he never sparred. Those times were meditation for him, a period when thought could be abandoned and Shigeru could embrace the familiar motions.

  In the end, his father had told his son that he was proud. Shigeru knew that the old man had been telling the truth. What father could feel anything but pride for a son who built an empire from nothing? And yet, he knew that at the last, there was a shred of doubt. Not disappointment that his son had chosen a different path, but fear that perhaps Shigeru had lost something profound and simple when he had done so. The old man spoken of it in class enough times for Shigeru to know that his father feared for his son. For his happiness and contentment.

  Shigeru stood suddenly, striding across the room with his hand held out. Bah! The old man had always seemed so calm and sublime, living so simply in their home tucked away in the country. Father had been a holdover from an earlier time, a man who chose to improve himself and those who wished to learn at the expense of ambition.

  Shigeru could not have been more different. As his hand hovered over the ray-skin hilt of the ancient katana before him, his eyes flickered to the other blade on the stand. It was new and expensive, one of the few modern katana allowed to be made in Japan. It had cost him as much as a small car, yet Shigeru had purchased it without hesitation. It had seemed to him a perfect compliment to him—new and modern, yet created in the spirit of an older, better culture.

  The thing had appealed to his sense of self. Though his father never understood it, Shigeru had not given up the teachings he had been given. He had only used them in a way that worked with the flow of his own life.

  The old man had improved his marital skills and understanding of self, and Shigeru had built an empire.

  For years, that had been enough to sustain him, knowing that the lessons worked into him like oil into fine wood had not been wasted. But lately, halfway through his fifties, something had been missing. Not a sense of accomplishment—he had reached every goal he'd ever set, and done so with honor.

  No, it was a sense of purpose. Not yet fifty-five, Shigeru felt that he had no direction left. No challenge to face. Perhaps his father had been right all along; the only challenge that you can never win is that of understanding and improving self.

  Thoughts swirling, Shigeru's hand shot to his side as his mobile buzzed in his pocket. He thumbed the screen, reading the message that showed there. The words didn't make sense to him. Rioting? Murders all over the streets?

  Shigeru flipped on the television. Every channel was the same—all over the streets, people were rioting, killing in huge numbers. He switched to a local channel for Kyoto, saw the very building he was in in the background of the image. Swarms of bloody people tearing others to shreds, reporters running.

  The door to his office burst open, half a dozen young men and women tumbling in. They spoke in a jumble of terrified shrieks. They were interns, young people who often showed their dedication by working as late as he did. He quieted them, and calmly spoke to one, a young woman that gave him a detailed assessment of the situation outside.

  He listened, face pass
ive though his mind was racing. The world had surely gone mad. The children before him, younger than his own, needed someone to help them. To protect them. They needed a place of safety.

  Fortunately, Shigeru knew of such a place. It was still his, though he hadn't been back since the funeral. Quiet, simple, far away from people. Tucked away where you had to look to find it, surrounded by farmland. The trouble was getting there. How to get there?

  His father's words echoed from the past across his mind.

  “Every journey begins with one step.”

  Shigeru took a step over to the stand, hand falling onto the sheath of the ancient blade. He secured the weapon under his belt, handing the other, expensive blade to one of the interns. They would have to get to a vehicle. They would have to fight.

  One step at a time. Each movement with purpose, working toward the larger goal.

  Shigeru looked at the children, who nodded to him. The girl he had spoken to held his other blade, the familiar stance of one who knows the use of a blade in her posture. He nodded to her, and gave the girl a brief smile.

  He drew the ancient weapon in an arc of silver, and led the way.

  Rollin' in the Deep

  by Annetta Ribken

  I'm watchin' them from the tree stand. They can't climb trees too good, so I think I'm purty safe up here. It's a might chilly when the wind comes a'whippin, though the winter season is still a few weeks off, I reckon. I nicked some of that stuff Dr. Evans was makin' in the clinic, and sprayed it all over my jacket like Daddy taught me when he was trying to make me a man by taking me out huntin'. I'm kerful to stay upwind anyways, and I got a purty good sightline even through the leaves. Only then it was about deer huntin', and now it's about makin' sure the zombies don't get me.

  At least, not 'til I'm ready.

  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.