Ultimate Undead Collection: The Zombie Apocalypse Best Sellers Boxed Set (10 Books)

by Joe McKinney

  For the first time in a very long time, Juliet felt free.

  #

  Her quiet, insignificant world had been turned upside down. She’d seen hundreds of bodies and hadn’t known why any of them had died. As day turned into night she tried to make contact with her few friends, her neighbours, the local police and pretty much everyone else she could think of in the local vicinity, but she hadn’t reached anyone. Her telephone went unanswered. No one came to any of the doors she knocked on.

  Frightened and bewildered, but also feeling strangely empowered, Juliet sat alone in her bedroom on her teddy-bear strewn single bed. She gave up trying to make sense of what had happened, and so buried herself in another trashy chick-lit novel instead.

  At the end of the first day she moved Mom and Dad into the back room. When she woke up on the second day she dug two deep holes in the garden and buried them both. Dad had always said he wanted them to be buried in the same plot, but she knew Mom wouldn’t have liked that. She’d loved Dad right ’til their unexpected end, but like Juliet, Mom had had enough of him too.

  KAREN CHASE

  ‘What the hell do you call that?’

  I looked at him for a second. Was that a trick question? ‘I call it what you ordered,’ I answered. ‘Full English breakfast: bacon, sausage, scrambled egg, mushrooms, hash browns and baked beans.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like the picture in the menu.’

  He opened the menu up, laid it out flat on the table in front of him and jabbed his finger angrily at the photograph at the top of the breakfast section.

  ‘I know, but that’s only a representation,’ I tried to explain.

  ‘Not good enough,’ he interrupted. ‘I appreciate there will inevitably be differences between a photograph and the actual meal, but what you’ve served up here bears very little resemblance to the food I ordered. The bacon’s undercooked, the sausage overcooked. The mushrooms are cold, the scrambled egg is lumpy. Do I need to go on?’

  ‘So do you want me to—?’

  ‘That was what I ordered,’ he sighed, cutting across me and tapping the photograph with his finger again, ‘and that is what I expect to be served. Now you be a good girl and run along to your kitchen and try again.’

  A genuine complaint I can deal with, but I have a real problem with being patronised. I was so angry I couldn’t move. It was one of those second-long moments which felt like it dragged on forever. Did I try and argue with this pathetic little man, did I tell him what he could do with his bloody breakfast, or did I just swallow my pride, pick up the plate and take it back to the kitchen? Much as I wanted to take either of the first two options, common-sense and nerves got the better of me. I picked up the plate and stormed back to the kitchen.

  ‘Bloody man,’ I shouted as I pushed through the swinging door and threw the plate onto the work surface. Jamie and Keith, the so-called chefs, were playing football with a lettuce. They both just looked at me.

  ‘Who’s rattled your cage?’ Jamie asked.

  ‘Fucking idiot outside. Wants his breakfast to look exactly the same as the picture in the menu.’

  ‘Tell him to fuck off and get a life,’ Keith said as he kicked the lettuce out the back door. I stared at the pair of them, waiting for either one of them to move.

  ‘What do you expect me to do about it?’ said Jamie.

  ‘Make another bloody breakfast,’ I told him. ‘You’re the cook, aren’t you?’

  It was as if I’d asked him to prepare forty meals in four minutes. All I wanted was for him to do his job, what he was being paid for. If he’d done it right first time he wouldn’t have had to do it again.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ he said. He studied the faded photograph on a copy of the menu stuck to the wall, then took the food from the original plate, rearranged it on a clean one, added another sausage and another rasher of bacon, warmed it up in the microwave, then slid it across the work surface towards me.

  ‘And you expect me to take this out to him?’

  ‘Yes,’ he grunted. ‘Looks more like it does on the menu now, doesn’t it?’

  Keith started to snigger from behind a newspaper. There was no point arguing with either of the chimps I was working with, so I picked up the plate. I stood behind the doors for a couple of seconds to compose myself and looked into the restaurant through the small porthole window. I could see my nightmare customer looking at his watch and tapping his fingers on the table impatiently, and I knew that whatever I did wasn’t going to be good enough. If I went back too quickly he’d accuse me of not having had time to prepare his food properly. If I kept him waiting he’d be even more annoyed… I gave it a few seconds longer, took a deep breath, then went back out.

  They might have paid my wages, but customers were the bane of my life. We got all sorts of passing trade at the restaurant, and I tended to get a couple of customers like this one each week. They were usually travelling sales reps stopping in the motel just up the bypass. As a rule they were all badly dressed, loud, rude and ignorant. Maybe that was why they did the job? Perhaps their wives (if anyone was stupid enough to marry them) had kicked them out? Maybe their relationships only survived because they spent so much time apart?

  I put down the plate, then waited next to his table, cringing. ‘That’s better,’ he said, taking me by surprise. I quickly walked away.

  ‘You’re welcome, wanker,’ I said under my breath.

  ‘Just a minute, girl,’ he shouted at me before I’d even reached the kitchen door. The other customers all looked up and watched me walk back to his table.

  ‘Yes?’ I answered through gritted teeth, doing my damnedest to stay calm and not empty his coffee into his lap.

  ‘This is virtually raw,’ he said, skewering his extra sausage. He sniffed it, then dropped it back onto his plate in disgust, sending little balls of dried-up scrambled egg shooting across the table.

  ‘Is it really?’ I said, and the sarcasm and mock concern in my voice was obvious.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ he shouted. ‘Now you listen to me, dear. You scuttle back to your little kitchen right now and fetch me a fresh and properly cooked breakfast. And while you’re there, send the manager out to see me. This really isn’t good enough.’

  His complaint may well have been justified, but the way he spoke to me was completely out of order. I wasn’t paid enough to be patronised and belittled. It wasn’t my fault.

  ‘Are you going to stand there looking stupid all day,’ he sneered, ‘or are you going to go somewhere else and look stupid instead?’

  That was it. The customer is always right, they say, but there are limits. Here at the Monkton View Eater, it seemed, the customer was always an asshole.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry if the food isn’t up to the standard you were expecting,’ I began, somehow managing to still sound calm, even if I didn’t feel it, ‘I’ll get that sorted out. But there’s no need to be rude. I’ll go and get you the—’

  ‘Listen,’ he said, his tired tone making it clear it was a real effort to have to lower himself to speak to me, ‘I’m really not interested in anything more you have to say. Be a good girl and fetch me my food and the manager. You are a waitress. You are here to serve me. And if I want to be rude to you then I’ll be as rude as I fucking well please. You’re paid to take it.’

  ‘No, you listen,’ I pointlessly protested. ‘I’m not—’

  ‘Get the manager,’ he interrupted with a tone of infuriating superiority and a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘I don’t need to speak to you any longer.’

  It was another one of those moments which seemed to last forever. I was so full of anger that, again, I was too wound up to move. Compounding my awkwardness was the fact that all the other customers had also stopped eating and were waiting to see what I’d do next. I looked back over my shoulder and saw the Neanderthals in the kitchen peering out through the portholes, grinning like idiots.

  ‘Well?’ my shit of a customer sighed. I turned and walked, pushing through the
swinging doors, knocking Jamie flying.

  ‘Where’s Trevor?’

  ‘Fag break,’ Keith replied.

  I stormed out through the back door. Trevor was leaning up the rubbish bins, smoking a cigarette and reading Keith’s newspaper.

  ‘What?’ he grunted, annoyed that he’d been interrupted.

  ‘I’ve got a problem with a customer. He says he wants to speak to the manager.’

  ‘Tell him you’re the manager.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Tell him I’ve gone to a meeting.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tell him I’ve got Health and Safety coming to check the place over.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ he groaned, finally looking up from the paper, ‘just deal with it will you. What the hell do I pay you for? Dealing with customers is your responsibility.’

  ‘And looking after staff is yours.’

  ‘Oh give it a rest.’

  ‘He swore at me! I’m not prepared to speak to a customer who’s going to swear at me. Do you know how bloody insulting he was when—’

  ‘Now you’re swearing at me. You can’t have it both ways, love!’

  That was it. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I ripped off the bloody stupid pinafore they made me wear and threw it at Trevor, along with my order pad and pen.

  ‘I’ve had enough! Stick your bloody job!’

  I couldn’t afford to do what I was doing, but I couldn’t take anymore abuse. It wasn’t the first time something like that had happened, and I knew it wouldn’t be the last. I grabbed my coat from the kitchen, then marched out through the restaurant.

  ‘Is the manager on his way?’ the odious customer shouted at the top of his voice as I stormed past. I couldn’t help myself. I turned back and walked towards him. His food couldn’t have been too bad because he’d managed to eat half of it.

  ‘No, he isn’t on his way,’ I told him. ‘The manager can’t be bothered to come and speak to you, and I can’t be bothered to waste my time dealing with pathetic little fuckers like you either. You can stick your meal and your attitude and your complaint up your arse, and I hope you fucking choke on your food!’

  And he did.

  Still chewing a mouthful of breakfast, the smug grin of superiority which had been plastered across his face slowly disappeared. He stopped eating. His eyes became wide and the veins in his neck began to bulge. He spat out his food.

  ‘Water,’ he croaked, clawing at his neck, ‘get me some water…’

  A noise from behind made me turn around. Two other customers in the far corner of the restaurant were choking too. A middle-aged couple were both in as bad a state as the little shit who’d caused me so much trouble. I turned back to look at him again. He looked like he was suffocating. As much as I’d wished all kinds of suffering on him a couple of minutes earlier, now I just wanted it to stop. I ran back to the kitchen to get his water.

  ‘Call an ambulance,’ I yelled to anyone listening. ‘There’s a customer who…’

  I stopped when I saw Jamie on his knees in the corner of the kitchen, coughing up blood. Keith was on his back in the storeroom, rolling around in agony like all the others. Outside, Trevor had already lost consciousness, his fat body wedged half-in and half-out of the back door.

  By the time I’d picked up the phone to call for an ambulance, everyone in the restaurant was dead.

  PHILIP EVANS

  Part i

  Mom’s not well.

  She’s suffered with her health for years and she’s been practically bed-ridden since last December, but she’s really taken a turn for the worst this morning. I’ll have to get the doctor out to see her if she doesn’t pick up soon.

  I don’t know what I’d do without my mom. I know I should think about it, mind, ’cause I know she’s not going to be around forever. We’re very close, Mom and me. Dad died when I was little and there’s just been the two of us since then. I don’t work ’cause I look after her, so we don’t get out much. We pretty much live out on our own here. There’s our cottage and one other on either side and that’s about all. The village is five minutes down the road by bike. We’ve never bothered with a car. Never seen the point. We can get a bus into town if we really need to, but there ain’t much we need that we can’t find in the village.

  She’s calling again. I’ll make some tea and take it up with her tablets. I don’t like this. This isn’t like her. She always says she doesn’t like making a fuss. She tells the doctor that, and the health visitor, and the District Nurse, and the priest.

  It’s just her way.

  #

  I need to go and get help but I can’t leave the house. I can’t leave Mom on her own.

  Oh, God, I don’t know what to do. I was up there with her when it happened. I was trying to get her onto the toilet when it started. Usually when she has one of her turns she’ll let me know it’s coming, but she didn’t just now. This came out of the blue. It took her by surprise as much as me.

  She started to choke. Mom’s chest has been bad for a long time and it’s been getting worse, but nothing like this. It was like she’d got something stuck in her throat, but she turned her nose up at breakfast this morning and she hadn’t eaten anything else, so that was impossible. Anyway, before I knew what was happening she was coughing and retching and her whole body was shaking. I got her on the bed and tried to get her to calm down and breathe slow and not panic, but she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t swallow, couldn’t talk. I didn’t even know if she could hear me. Her eyes were bulging wide and I knew she wasn’t getting any air but there wasn’t anything I could do. I tried to tip her head back to open up her windpipe like the nurse showed me once but she wouldn’t lie still. She kept fighting. She was thrashing her arms around and coughing and spluttering, making these horrible noises. She didn’t sound like Mom anymore. It was like something out of one of them horror films. She was making this croaking, gargling noise and I thought there was phlegm or something stuck or she was choking on her tongue (the nurse told me about that once too) so I put my fingers in her mouth to make sure it was clear. When I pulled them out again they were covered in blood. Then she stopped moving. As suddenly as the fit had started, it stopped.

  I knew there was nothing I could do. I sat down on the carpet next to her and held her hand until I was certain she’d gone.

  I could still hear that horrible choking sound she was making in my head, long after Mom stopped fighting. I could hear it ringing in my ears when everything else went quiet.

  It’s been quiet like this for hours now.

  #

  Mom’s dead.

  I can’t just sit here and do nothing. I know I can’t help her, but I can’t just leave her lying here either. The doctor will have to come around and check her, then someone else will come to take her away and then… and then I don’t know what I’ll do. I’ve always had my mom.

  About half an hour ago I moved her. I couldn’t leave her lying on the floor in the middle of the landing like that, that just wouldn’t have been right. She was twice as heavy as when she was alive. I put my hands under her arms and dragged her into the bedroom, then lifted her onto the bed. I wiped the blood off her face and tried to close her eyes to make it look like she was just sleeping like they do in the films. I got one eye shut but the other one stayed open, staring at me. It was like she was still watching me, like one of those paintings of faces where the eyes follow you around the room. It was freaky, but in a way it made me feel a little better. Even though she’s gone it’s like she hasn’t stopped looking out for me.

  I tried phoning the doctor but I couldn’t get an answer. Someone should have been at the surgery (it’s open until late on Tuesdays) so I guessed it was our telephone that wasn’t working. The lines often go down in winter because we’re so isolated out here. But it isn’t winter. It’s early September and the weather’s been fine for weeks.

  I did
n’t want to leave her but I didn’t have any choice. I shut the bedroom door, locked up the house and got my bike out of the shed. It didn’t take long to get into the village. Mom never liked me riding on the road (she said it was the other people she didn’t trust, not me) but it didn’t matter this morning because there wasn’t any traffic about. The village ain’t the busiest of places, but there’s usually always something happening. This morning it was so quiet that all I could hear was the sound of my bike. And as I went further into the village, it got much worse. So much worse that I nearly turned around and came back home, but thinking about Mom made me keep going forward.

  I was cycling down past Jack Halshaw’s house when I saw his front door was open. That was odd because Jack’s always been careful about things like that. He used to be a friend of my dad’s and I’ve known him all my life, so I stopped the bike because I thought I should tell him about Mom and I thought he might help me get things sorted out. I went down the path and leant into the house and shouted to him but he didn’t answer. I checked to see if he was in his back garden, and that was where I found him. He was lying flat on his back and I could tell just by looking at him he was dead. There was a pool of blood all round his mouth and it looked like he’d died the same way Mom had, even though that didn’t make no sense.