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

by Joe McKinney

  I rowed for all I was worth and landed with my girl in tow. One head popped up, and I heard a little scream. A pair of people came out of the bushes and ran at me at full speed. I almost turned and jumped back on the raft.

  They looked terrible! I thought at first it was more zombies, but I was still holding my oar, so I prepared to beat them to death.

  “We’re rescued!” a man yelled. Was he talking to me? He was dressed in the tatters of a white shirt and tan Bermudas. The woman was in worse shape. She wore the remains of a skirt and a shirt that was tied in the middle. She had no shoes, and her hair reminded me of that chick with snakes on her head.

  The guy's voice sounded familiar. Oh shit, it was the pilot of the plane!

  “Mooney?” He picked me up in a big bear hug and started crying. So did I.

  He had no idea just how fucked we all were.

  The woman was the stewardess, and she had somehow kept her shirt in one piece. Her faded nametag read “Eileen.” She hugged me too. They were both thin and wasted, and they didn’t smell that great. Not that I did. I probably smelled like seaweed and fish.

  “Food? Water?” I croaked. My mouth felt like it was coated in salt.

  It turns out they had a little better luck at hunting that I did, and they had a small supply of jerky from a baby boar that Mooney killed. I ate it and then drank a few sips of water. They had to collect it in whatever they could, because they relied on the rain. No pool of water here. They had to get it all from the sky. The water tasted old, but I didn’t care one bit. It tasted like heaven as far as I was concerned.

  They filled me in on what had happened since the crash. They floated for a day or two on luggage and then swam to the island. Mooney had been a boy scout when he was young, and he remembered how to make fires and set proper snares. They were hungry a lot, but they seemed to be in decent shape, all things considered. I had been on a seafood diet, but they had meat—red meat—and it was just about the best thing I had ever eaten in my life.

  “What about the black box?” I was convinced it was just a matter of time before they found it and us. Planes always have those things on them. It had to be a law!

  “We didn’t have one. They took it out a year ago, because it was broken, but they never replaced it. Different rules on the island and all.”

  I wanted to pick up a rock and bash myself over the head. This was not how I had seen the rescue going. We were supposed to land on a resort or be picked up by a cruise ship or maybe find islanders.

  “What did you bring with you?” Mooney asked as he pointed at the water. I was wondering how I could break the news to them that I had a zombie girl in tow. I guessed now was the time.

  “It's one of the passengers. She’s been living on the island with me. But there’s something wrong with her. You have to let me explain.” It was going to be the mother of all explanations. Yeah, I have a pet zombie. She smells, and she is falling apart. At least with the dress on, they couldn't see all of the damage her body had sustained over the last month.

  I sat down as my knees gave out. I was exhausted. I needed rest more than anything. Eileen put her hand on my shoulder, and I felt like crying at the touch of a live person. Mooney had decided to take matters into his own hands and walked toward the water.

  “Mooney, wait! She isn’t what you think she is!” I tried to say, but he was red in the face.

  “Sick bastard!” he yelled at me. “What the hell did you do to this woman?”

  He had some kind of pocketknife, and he was cutting her loose. I tried to get to my feet but nearly fell down as a dizzy spell hit. I felt like the whole world was crashing in on me. I wanted to pack it in and go back to the first island. I didn't need these people, and they didn't need to mess with my girl!

  “Eileen, help me here!”

  She jumped to her feet and walked into the surf.

  “Don't take the gag off! No matter what!” I yelled, but it was too late. He had her out of the water already and was working at the knot. I heard her moan, and struggled to my feet.

  Eileen stared at me over her shoulder as she stomped away. She looked pretty pissed. I went after them on shaky legs.

  He carried her out of the water. She had her head against his chest, and her dress was tattered around the bottom but still covered up most of her body. He made it to shore and was in the process of setting her down when she looped an arm over his neck and moved her head against his throat like a lover. Then his eyes went wide as blood flew like he’d been stabbed. She had latched onto the side of his neck and torn a piece out. He dropped her on her ass and fell to the ground with his hand over his neck, trying to stop the blood, but it was like a river.

  I couldn’t help it. I rolled my eyes.

  Rookie.

  I caught up with them and saw that the damage was really bad.

  “Gah Gah Gah,” he tried to say, sounding like a bird. He shook his hands around but didn’t take flight. Instead, he pitched forward and flopped around on the ground. I wanted to help him attach a bandage, but all I had on me was a wet shirt and even wetter pants. I stood over him as the sand turned red, but I did back up when the blood got close to me.

  Eileen stared at him in horror and let loose a little scream. It wasn't so bad, but she was just getting warmed up. The second scream almost knocked me over.

  Eileen went nuts. She started hitting me like I had bitten him. I tried to hold her back, but she was throwing her hands at me so fast I had to turn and run. I got about fifteen feet away when she stopped and went back to Mooney’s side.

  His legs bumped up and down against the sand like he was having a slow-motion seizure. I shook my head because I couldn’t believe what was happening. I wanted to get back on my damn raft and row for the middle of the ocean so I could drown myself. Leave them alone and let them sort it out. I was sick to death of all the zombies, the hunger, the thirst. I was sick of being alone, and I was sick of missing Ally.

  I stomped the ground in frustration, then turned and went back for them. The stewardess had pushed my little zombie off of Mooney, and my girl was rolling around in the surf. She had blood on her face and a huge stain that ran down her throat and onto her dress. Her hands held a hunk of meat to her mouth. The thing was stringy with sinew. Now, I am no expert on ripped-out throats, but she seemed to have done a very thorough job.

  I gagged for the hundredth time this week and staggered as the soft sand turned my weak legs against me. I fell down, and the breath was driven from my body. I got to all fours, yelling a warning.

  “Stay away from her! She's a zombie!”

  “Are you fucking stupid?” the woman yelled back.

  Um.

  I got to my feet and moved toward them again. I bet I looked like a zombie myself. The woman turned and walked backwards until she hit a rock and fell on her butt. Her hands flew back to stop the fall, but she still must have come down pretty hard, because I heard an “Umph.”

  The man—the dead man—had stopped twitching, and my girl was dragging herself across the sand toward him. She had her eye set on the bloody gash that used to be his throat.

  I felt weak as a newborn, but I had to make sure she didn’t get too much of him. I would have to drag her away.

  Then I realized that wasn’t such a big problem. It was, in fact, among the least of my worries.

  I think I said the F word about twenty times as I grabbed a rock—a big sucker—and lifted it over my head. In the surf, just ahead of me, dead Mooney was struggling to sit up, and he didn’t look happy. He looked fucking dead.

  I came up behind the zombified airplane pilot and threw the rock like a basketball player aiming for a teammate.

  From a foot away, I missed.

  He turned and fixed his eyes on me, then reached for my feet. I tried to step back, but he hit my ankle pretty hard. Now it was my turn to fall down. He slithered over the sand and, in my weak condition, it was all I could do to push him away. I backtracked, moving like a crab with my
butt on the sand until I was a few feet away. He came to his hands and knees and tried to stand. I heard the stewardess scream behind me.

  I got up and kicked him in the head, which was like kicking a tree. It hurt! The man fell to his side and then started to get up again. Christ, there was about to be a whole island of zombies, and wouldn’t that be a shame?

  I kicked him again, right in the noggin, a big old soccer kick like you see the guys do in the World Cup. His head popped up, and then he went down flat, but his hands were moving again. I was too weak to wrestle a gag on him. He was a big fresh zombie, and even if I’d had the strength I possessed a few weeks ago, I doubt I could’ve managed to tie him to anything.

  This time, I didn’t mess around. I grabbed the rock and swung it into the back of his head. He slumped to the sand, so I lifted it high and used gravity to help propel his forehead deep into the surf. The noise was horrendous. Instead of turning to throw up, I lifted the bloody rock again and smashed his pulped head one more time.

  I was gasping for breath. Out of my mind. I had spent three or four days on the ocean, lost, hungry, thirsty and confused, only to end up in this new version of the tropical vacation from hell. The stewardess yelled one more time but waved my hand in the air in the universal “I got this” gesture.

  Leaning forward, I took in big deep breaths. I wanted to sleep for about a week, wake up and sleep some more.

  After a moment, I got up but wondered where my girlfriend was. It would be just like her to go back to the fresh dead body and chow down, but that wasn’t the case. I turned to look for her and nearly choked on my own gasp. She had her face buried in the neck of the stewardess and was slurping like a baby. I screamed for her to stop and ran to the women even though I could tell it was too late. I dragged her off and back a few feet, but she slithered toward the body again. It was only when the woman started moving that my girl backed off and set her eyes on me. I didn’t have the energy left today, so I pointed her at the pilot, slapped her ass and pushed her away.

  The stewardess was missing most of her throat, just like the pilot. Blood was everywhere. Her eyes were staring at the sky, but they both swiveled like marbles in Jell-O to meet mine.

  This was just great. I have always wanted a ménage à trois, but this is fucking ridiculous.

  Now I had two zombies.

  I wondered if there was a cliff on this stupid island I could jump off.

  It was too much to deal with, so I dragged the stewardess to the pilot and left the girls to eat their fill.

  I walked along the beach and contemplated my next move. Should I just kill myself? Kill the girls? Kill the girls and then kill myself? I’m not really the killing type. Never have been, even though I have killed two zombies in the last month—which doesn’t count. If they haul me in front of a court, I can always argue that they weren’t alive in the first place.

  Zombie Slayer. When I get back to civilization, I will get a t-shirt made up and wear it with pride.

  I spent the rest of the day pilfering the survivors’ supplies. They had dried jerky and water. I drank and ate until I felt like I was going to explode.

  Later I sat on a tree branch and watched the girls as they ate the pilot. They nuzzled the meat, tore off chunks and feasted like there was no tomorrow.

  They ignored me when I went to the raft and undid some of the rope. I had my next course of action, but the sun was setting. I knew I would run out of time, so tomorrow would work out just fine. I picked up the ropes and items I had used to float my girl behind the raft and took them to camp.

  I went for her first. It was just like old times. I looped a gag over her mouth and dragged her by her ankle to a tree. The rope was waiting, so I secured her and then hooked a log over her lap so she wouldn't get away.

  Eileen wasn't as easy. She was a fresh zombie and rather spry. I went to throw the cloth over her head, but she backed up into me. Her head whipped around, and she snapped her blood-covered teeth less than an inch from my hand. I jerked it back and pushed her. She fell on her side, and I dropped on her. The gag took a few tries to get over her mouth, and I had to be really careful not to let those cracking snappers take a piece of me.

  I dragged her to the tree as well and tied her up. She was livid, eyes glaring at me like she was genuinely mad. Stupid zombie girl. Girls.

  I laid rope next to each one, right under a nice long tree branch. Tomorrow, they were going over it. I tossed the rest of the items near them. Good thing I remembered to pack the Vaseline. The enema bag and hose went into the pile as well.

  I hope when someone finds us, they don’t find three zombies. I’ll probably get used to having them around, and one day I’ll slip up. Then it’ll all be over. We will be a happy family of undead lovers.

  At least they have simmered down and look sort of sleepy from their meal. They managed to face each other and have been in a staring contest ever since.

  Well, Diary, I have run out of room in this stupid book. My hand is sore, and every inch of my body hurts. I hope to get a fire going behind some cover so they don’t freak out. In the morning, I will get them all cleaned up and then figure out how in the world I will survive with my two Zombie-Wilsons.

  Day Whatever

  A new beginning?

  Good Morning, Diary

  Fuck you six ways from Sunday.

  My one last link to my old life, and all I can think about is how much I want to burn you. Burning you in the six pits of hell might be appropriate. How do you like the sound of that, ol’ Diary? Wanna meet a fiery end? I could roast a crab over your pages and then piss on the ashes. Then I could grind them into the sand like a …

  But I can’t do such a thing. You are worth so much more to me. So much in fact that I am going to keep writing in you. But I’m going to write in you upside down, the ultimate play on words. It sort of gives “read between the lines” a new meaning.

  Now that I have told you off, I would like to offer a special letter to my dearly dead companion.

  Dear … whatever the hell your name is,

  Sometimes I hate you. Sometimes I want to pick up a rock and bash in your head. Back when we first started this mad adventure together, you were young and hot. You were spry and nubile. You could rock a coconut bra like no one else’s business.

  Now you are dead and rotting. You smell, baby, there is no other way to put it.

  Back on our first island, our lovers’ paradise, where I took care of you, let you eat part of your dead husband, let you run around without a care in the world, we had something special. Now don’t get me wrong. I know nothing could ever happen between us. Let’s be honest here, baby: You’re about as lively as a rock. I have seen stuffed animals with more life than you.

  But sometimes I do care about you. That should be clear by now. I saved you from that stupid zombie shark after it ate your foot. Do you remember that? I saved you from drowning a few times. Like that third or fourth day we were on the island. I was trying to fish, and you were trying to mermaid you self over to me like I was a fresh can of spam. I had to pull you out of the water. Now the jury is still out on whether or not you can even drown to death, er, undeath, I mean double death, or whatever form of afterlife you seem destined for.

  Remember how I figured out a way to clean out your disgusting rotted meat stomach with seawater and a little leverage? Those were the days. You were still sort of fresh and looked pretty good in the coconut bra and grass skirt. Now your clothing is hanging in strips. You look like hell, baby. I wish you would take better care of yourself.

  Remember when I was going to leave you on the island and sail off? Plans changed, sure. I let you bob along like a little top. And when we got to our new island paradise, I had to beat yet another guy to death to protect you. Why, if someone ever gets the real story here, they may just start asking questions. For instance: Why do I always kill the men around here? But it’s not like that, baby. It’s not like that at all.

  And now our happy family inc
ludes Eileen. She isn’t too happy about being a zombie. I can see that in her eyes. I would hazard a guess that she hates it. She is always staring at me with that same look—the one that says, “Hey, look at the walking Happy Meal.”

  So here we are, the three of us on our island paradise. Our lovely home in the sun. Just you, me, another dead chick, and the ocean.

  After I burn the diary, I think I should burn you. But that would look bad, eh, my lovely lady? Burning you and scattering the ashes. What will I tell the nice men in white coats who want to talk to me about my feelings when I am at the mental institution, as surely I must end up? Will I tell them I kept a dead girl as a zombie companion? They will ask questions, and they will wonder just how lonely I got.

  Not THAT lonely.

  So someday, long from now, when we are back in civilization and you are restored to life, I hope you read this letter and understand that I did my best to take care of you. Really.

  Sorry about the enema tube down your gut.

  With love and desperation.

  Me.

  I’m glad I got that out of my system. I may be on a new island with a new zombie girl, but something about all this is familiar. Maybe because I just spent a month in the same situation? At any rate, it is really good to be back on dry land after spending days and days on the water with my zombie top floating along behind me.

  She didn’t even get prune skin. Some little critters did pick at her leg, though, the one missing the foot. I had to bandage it up with some cloth and then jam it back into the metal strut. There is also something reassuring about her pad-and-clomp zombie walk.

  It’s late, and I found some coconuts. Wow, shocker. Fucking coconuts. I thought about tossing them in the ocean, but in the end I cracked one open and ate my fill. I can’t wait to get up in the middle of the night with the runs—again.

  God, I hate coconuts.