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

by Joe McKinney

  I have lost a lot of weight on this stupid island. No McDonald’s in sight, no steak dinners, or delicious French fries. No ice cream, chips, cookies, or cake. I miss regular food so much that some days I stare into space and think about the best meals I have eaten. Once, Ally and I were in San Francisco, and we stopped at this burger joint that had steak fries with this amazing garlic flavor due to gigantic chunks that clung to the potatoes like bugs. We ate so many that we couldn’t finish the burgers. I burped up garlic for days.

  After breakfast, it was time to go check on her and put my plan into action. I wasn’t really looking for a stick, but on the way I found a nice one with a big bleached knot in it. I slung the zombie killer over my shoulder and set off again. The water was lapping at the sandy beach in gentle waves that set my mind at ease. I felt calm at the prospect of killing her. I felt cool and collected.

  When I reached her, I found that she had managed to get herself wrapped around a tree. The length of rope was twisted around her body. She had one leg in the air, like she was trying to climb out of something but instead got it caught in the binding. It was that or she was the worst ballerina in history. I just don’t understand what possessed me to look between her legs while one was in the air.

  One hand was behind her back, and she had a whole swarm of flies around her. I tugged at the rope and got her loose. When she turned to snap at me, I saw that a bunch of bugs had made a nest of her bad eye again.

  The little maggots oozed out of the socket, wiggling and squirming around. It set my freshly full stomach on edge, made me want to turn my head and puke for the rest of the day. I had to look away and think calming thoughts.

  I tripped her—a move at which I’ve had a lot of practice. I stood in front of her and waited until she grabbed at me. Then I took an arm, kicked one foot behind her knees, and sort of swept her off her feet. Not like a romantic thing, you know, just a quick way to put her on her stubborn ass.

  Then I sat on her chest, my knees pinning her arms to the ground. There was a seashell close by, so I picked it up and scooped the little bugs out of her eye and ground them into the dirt. I removed her gag and then dug the bugs out of there as well.

  “Did any of them crawl down your nasty throat?” I asked her.

  Moan, snarl.

  She pretty much has three words in her vocabulary—or zombulary. A moan, I’m pretty sure, is a way to tell me how much she cares about me. A snarl is a show of fierce protection. And, lest I forget, there is the ever-present hoot. A sort of forlorn call for her dead husband … or brains.

  Every once in a while, she lets out a keening moan that is high in pitch and sounds downright sad. She mainly does that when she falls down. I suspect it is either gas or air leaving her lungs.

  Her mouth wasn’t too bad today. I had to lean over and get a stick so I could dig out the little beetle that was making a home in her cheek. Smashed him on the sand. Her breath was terrible. Like rotten meat and garbage left out for weeks. Where is the bottle of Listerine when I need it? With her skills, she would probably just slurp the stuff into her gut. Then I would have to break out the enema bottle. Again.

  Wait, why was I going through all this trouble? I was planning to smash her head in with the big knotted stick. I was going to watch her brains leak out. If it was even wet up there. Or watch the blood flow, if there was any left in her veins. It would probably ooze out like lukewarm Jell-O.

  Who was I fooling? I couldn’t kill her. We had been through too much, seen too much, shared too much. But I had to do something in case the men in the boat came back. I had to put her somewhere. Maybe I could finish up the enclosure I was planning and leave her there. No, I think she needs to be made aware that I won’t tolerate her actions anymore. I will take her into the bushes and tie her to a tree nice and tight and then check on her each day.

  I’ll probably have to make more rope and tie her tighter. Maybe I can figure out a way to get her off the ground so animals don’t start chewing on her feet.

  I was deep in thought when I saw something floating in the water. Something that looked like a plane. Oh my God!

  I jumped up and ran to the water and stared after the piece of wonderful that had just fallen into my lap. It was bobbing up and down like a top. The colors were the same as the plane I had crashed in. I made out more of the shape as it drifted toward the shore. It had to be the tail section.

  I splashed into the water, intent on hauling it to shore. It would make a great start to the new shelter. At last, I will be able to sleep in something and not worry about my girl sneaking in for a love bite at the stroke of midnight.

  Day 18

  My Girlfriend has a Drinking Problem

  Yesterday was the best day on the island!

  Was planning to kill her, do her in—I had the bat ready and everything. Well, not a bat but a big branch of bleached wood with a knot in it. I had it all set. Break her skull and bury the remains. That’s how you take care of zombies, right? You hit them in the head—or shoot them, except I didn’t have a gun, and the spear would be too messy or more than likely miss. If it got stuck up in her noggin, it would be a bitch to guide her around with that stick hanging out.

  I had the tool ready, but I saw part of the airplane drifting in the water. It was bobbing up and down like a big-ass top. I ran to the edge of the shore and stared at it where it floated about twenty feet away. I was concerned about the tide carrying it away or the current taking it deep underwater, so I risked it and dove into the surf. The waves weren’t too high, but my flip-flops tugged at the bottom of the sandy reef as I struggled to walk. When I was barely touching the bottom and my head was just above water, I broke into a swim, stretching out with long limbs in a gold-medalist breaststroke.

  Who the hell was I kidding? I can’t swim worth a damn! Never could. I was lucky to do a half dog paddle I probably looked like one, too, with my head barely above the water as it splashed in my face. So goddamn sick of seawater. The stuff makes me want to gag. Reminds me of when I was a kid and had a sore throat. Mom used to make me gargle salt water.

  I reached the plane in a few minutes and grabbed hold. I thought that if I latched onto it and floated, I would be able to catch my breath. When I tried to do that, it started to sink.

  I took hold of a piece of wire hanging out of a hole and started paddling back toward the shore. It was slow going. When I got tired, I flipped onto my back and floated. I tried kicking from that position, but I couldn’t tell if I was still pointed at the beach or not. I had to keep flopping over and getting a fix on the tail, then looking at the beach and deciding I wasn't about to sink.

  I was getting really tired, so I made one last-ditch effort at hauling the tail section in. I flipped over on my chest, but I was still pretty far out. In fact, it didn’t look like I had moved at all. I took a chance, set my feet down, and was greeted with the ocean bottom. I tugged on the wire with both hands as I struggled to get to shore.

  I hauled, pulled, dragged and finally made it onto the beach. The cable was biting into my hand, so I let go. It was some sort of electric wire from inside the tail of the craft. I pulled the piece of plane up as far as I could onto the beach and collapsed on the sand. I lay there as the sun beat down on me, but I smiled at my success.

  It’s hard to explain just how important the piece was. It was something from the crash. Something that I could latch onto. I sighed as I lay there knowing I would be able to use the big hunk of airplane to build up a new place. Maybe a place to keep her.

  Oh shit!

  I shot to my feet and looked around, but she was nowhere in sight. Now where the hell was she?

  At least she wasn’t close, so I felt free to work at the tail. I pulled it up the rest of the way, huffing and puffing as it bit into the sand. I rolled it over when it dug too deep of a furrow, pulling it up higher.

  It was so heavy that I could barely move it. Maybe it was just full of metal struts and stuff they put in places for stability. I bet I w
ould be able to take it apart and use the parts for all kinds of things.

  Water spilled out of the back end as I got it onto the shore. It ran and ran until there was hardly any left. Then it was easier to move—but not much.

  The tail section was missing the wings on the back, or most of them. I tugged it around so I could see the inside, and gasped. It was filled with bags! I started hauling stuff out, luggage, packs, and a duffel bag. All were waterlogged. I opened them up and found a lot of clothes. I did find a box of chocolates, still wrapped. Chocolate-covered macadamia nuts to be exact. I tore the wrapper off with shaking fingers and ate every single one like it was nirvana. I was going to eat a couple and leave the rest for later, but it was useless. Might as well have put a juicy pork chop in front of me and asked me to hold off on eating the entire thing.

  I found some sandals, which were too big, but I put them on anyway. My old flip-flops were falling apart. Last time I buy three-dollar shoes at Walmart on my way to a tropical vacation. I found some shorts that were too small and set them aside. Everything was soaked with seawater, so I would have to wash them in the stream and dry them out later.

  I found some jewelry. Gaudy stuff like big jade-looking medallions that were clearly made of glass. Some big pearl earrings and a couple of tennis bracelets. The stuff looked cheap, like the jewelry my Aunt Mildred used to wear.

  Another bag turned up a couple of waterlogged magazines. Porn! The kind I like: with women. Yeah, yeah, I have my zombie “babe,” but she is about as useful as tits on a bull. Although she does—or did—have a great pair herself.

  Another suitcase turned up more clothes, a toothbrush, an electric shaver and some cheap suits like you used to see the guys wear in the ‘70s. On closer inspection, I realized one was a tux. Hey, maybe someone was off to get married. I flipped the button up and down on the razor, but it didn’t buzz even a little. Stupid waterlogged thing. I ran my hand over my shaggy chin. I used to shave daily. Ally likes it, says it makes me look young.

  I set the razor aside. Maybe I could bust the battery out later and do something with it. Like build a generator and charge it. Then I could use the battery to power a boat across the ocean.

  In the bottom of that bag, I found the best thing yet. A bottle of Patrón tequila. Big full bottle with the plastic still fixed to the cork. I cried like a baby.

  The top was on nice and tight, so I broke the plastic seal, removed it, and took a cautious sniff. It smelled good. I tilted the bottle a bit and let a splash touch my tongue. It was pure, and there wasn’t a hint of seawater. I found a bottle of rum as well, not a brand I knew, but it was flavored with coconut. Oh, great! If I never taste coconut again, I can probably go to my grave with a smile on my face.

  I carried my treasures to the campsite and hung up as many clothes as possible. I was surprised to see her lying on her back, staring at the sky. She has gotten pretty good at getting up when she falls over. I mean, the first few days, I had to help her up all the time, but now she can roll on her side, crawl to her hands and knees, then stand up. It isn’t the quickest or the prettiest process, since she frequently has her ass facing me. All this time, I was worried, wondering where she was, and it turns out she is chilling in the shade. Stupid zombie chick. I should really kill her. Instead, I watched her as she stared up with some sort of green gunk coming out of her mouth. I think it was stuff oozing out of her gums.

  I know she’s a hottie—or was, in her day. For the most part, I would love to stare at her with her clothes off, but the zombified look is NOT hot. The gray skin, the red-rimmed dried-out eye that always seems to stare past me. She has scratches on her body that don’t heal, and her girly parts don’t work anymore. Yuck.

  I was walking around with the tequila, taking sips and gasping each time. Not much food to buffer the stuff in my stomach meant a speedy buzz. I sat next to her and started to untangle her leg from the rope she had gotten wrapped up in. Probably came back to her home and got stuck. Poor thing. I ran my hands along her cold leg, which was still smooth. I brushed off bits of sand. I stopped at her thighs and didn’t dare go farther. She rolled left and right, but that hooked leg had her stuck good. I was thinking that I would get drunk and then smash her face in with the branch. I could do it. I just needed some liquid encouragement.

  I took off her gag, helped her sit up a bit, put her head in my lap, and held her chin so she wouldn't turn and bite me in the junk. Then poured some booze in her mouth. She didn’t really react, so I gave her more. I was getting nicely buzzed, even though it looked like I had barely touched the bottle. Each drink burned like fire down my throat. I wondered if she felt it.

  One sip for me, one sip for her. She should at least die happy. I bet she was a tequila girl when she was alive. She looks like the party type—or she did. Now she looks like a party zombie in a hula skirt.

  I stood up and nearly fell over when the liquor hit my head like a branch—the same branch I was going to use on her. Well, not really. Metaphorically speaking. I staggered in a circle before wandering to where I had placed all the stuff I got off the plane. I picked up the costume jewelry, went back to her, and put it all on. She wore two necklaces and a pair of blue earrings that dangled almost to her shoulders. Her ears weren’t pierced, but that was okay. I just shoved them right on through her earlobes. She didn’t even flinch. I added a couple of bracelets. I even put one on her slim ankle, and it looked pretty good there.

  Then I put the gag back on her and helped her up. We both staggered—me from the drinking, her from the zombifying. I didn’t think she could get drunk, but I bet that stuff will clean out her gut.

  I guess tomorrow I can pump some more water in her stomach and hang her upside down. Maybe it will cut back on the death breath.

  I tied her to the tree and went to fetch my new porn magazines. I passed out with my pants around my ankles. I’m not sure what was more embarrassing—the fact that I passed out like that or the fact that I knew I had an audience and it just made it better.

  Day 19

  My Girlfriend’s Husband is a Jerk

  Fucking hangover.

  I haven’t had one of those in a long time. At least since my first miserable day on this miserable island, if you can call that a hangover. More like a crash-over. I will never forget waking up on this stupid island all disoriented and hurting everywhere. Was that just a few weeks ago? Seems like a few months. Years. Seems like a lifetime.

  I rolled over. Felt like I had a mouth full of sand. Then I brushed at my mouth and discovered I did. I guess I passed out on the ground and sucked in a few teaspoons of the stuff. I tried to spit, found out I didn’t have any saliva, so I attempted to wipe it out.

  The bottle of tequila was right next to me. I actually considered taking a swig to wash the stuff out. But then I retched at the thought of that crap anywhere near my mouth. I stumbled to my feet, thanks to my pants hanging around my ankles. Jesus …

  I patted her on the ass as I went by. Thump thump thump. It’s starting to feel like a sandbag. She had fallen over a log and lay bent over all night. God, I hope I didn’t try to do anything stupid last night while she had her ass in the air.

  I walked to the stream, then collapsed next to it. I splashed water into my mouth, spit out silt, and then drank so much that I thought I was going to explode. It was warm, like usual, but I didn’t care. It was just about the best stuff I ever had in my mouth.

  I wished I had a bottle of Motrin to stop the pounding in my head.

  I was still nauseous, but I made it back to camp and collapsed in a heap. I lay on the palm mat and sweated out a half-gallon as the sun came out in full force. She kept moving around, scratching at the ground and kicking her legs around as she tried to figure out how to get off the log. Every once in a while, she moaned.

  I dragged myself to my feet. With my hand shading my eyes from the cursed sun, I took a little stroll behind her. I kept my eyes everywhere but on her backside. Took a deep breath and prepared for the wor
st. I parted the dried grass skirt and studied the view. A couple of nasty-looking beetles had taken up residence in her nether regions.

  I turned away and threw up for about an hour. Then I stumbled back to “bed.”

  That would’ve been a good time to kill her. There was a large rock by her hands. It was about the size of a football. I could pick it up and smash the back of her head in. It would take all of about ten seconds. There was one problem with that plan. It would require moving, and I was content to lie on the mattress and think about dying.

  I sighed the sigh of one content to pass the day in misery. But I had things to do. I had to get my hung-over ass up and go hunt for food. Check my crappy traps that don’t catch anything. Useless snares that couldn’t latch onto a wild elephant if it walked over one in slow motion.

  I needed to eat. I needed to get up and get motivated. I considered cooking the shit out of the beetles, but that thought almost made me throw up again. I should try to spear fish. I haven't had much luck, but it did work once. Nice quiet work where I can stand in the cool ocean and just toss my crappy sharpened stick in the water. And get my arms and neck scorched from the sun.

  She flopped around again, tried to stand, but it looked like her leg was hooked under another branch. Sucks not to have any motor skills, doesn’t it? She kept throwing her hand forward like she could get a grip on something and pull herself up, but the only thing at her fingertips was sand.

  Time to get at it.

  I hauled myself up and walked to the water. It was coming in at a brisk pace today, little waves splashing on the sandy shore. The large white airplane section was right where I had left it. I was happy that I pulled it so far up on shore. Otherwise it might be floating away again. Big piece of plane like that, I can build something with it. Of course, the best idea would be to just leave it there so any potential rescue craft can spot it.