by Anthology
I don't know how I got away. I raced through the jungle like a madman until I blacked out. I don't know how I got back to the city.
* * * *
Since that horrible night in Haiti, my cheeks have dripped pus continuously. Modern medicines can't stop the flow.
Many shamans have exorcised me. I've sacrificed countless chickens to voodoo gods. I've consumed putrid, hoodoo potions. But nothing heals my wounds, or stops Harlow and Mulu from invading my dreams and feasting while I sleep.
Yesterday, I woke up hemorrhaging. My entire right arm was gone!
I don't wanna die. Please help me. I'll pay anything.
Earth A. Z. (After Zombie)
By Brian Rosenberger
Come forth
thundered heaven
the summons heard
they did
what better way
to plague man
than with man
neither locust nor flies
nor darkness would suffice
some called it
the Year of the Toad
as certain amphibians
lie dormant during
dry seasons returning
with the rains just as
they returned casting
off their shrouds of Earth
no longer captives
to the ground
others, less poetic,
named it
the Year Without End
they came
some crawling
some on rotted stumps
shambling mounds of decayed flesh
skeletons of their former selves
they saw
at least the ones still in possession
of theirs eyes did
others, victim to the worm and time,
made their way on instinct
even a blind predator
will find prey
they digested
as much as toothless jaws
jawless faces and
bloodless organs would allow
It was a resurrection parade
like no other
recycled citizens emptying from
their necropolitic cities to
make room for new occupants
the unliving embodiment
of consumerism with the
emphasis on consume
and they did
The meek lost
their inheritance
now sole property
of the dead
SHOP 'TIL YOU DROP
By Brian Rosenberger
Screams wake Rose from her slumber. She sits up, disoriented, looks at the clock. 9 o'clock. Jumping Jesus. She overslept. The noise again, like a cheese grater on her ears. Not screams at all, just the neighbor's dogs. Shut up, she bellows. A hush falls over the neighborhood. The dogs, twin Dobermans with a taste for stray squirrels, cats and small fingers, now cowered, return to beneath the porch, tails tucked, eyes watchful for the source of the roar.
Rose yawns, no time to screw around. She's already late. Rose works as a housekeeping supervisor assistant at a local hospital. She rarely gets a Sunday off and aims to make the most of this one. She steps out of her cloths and into the shower in one smooth motion, the toothbrush in one hand, the other reaching for the soap.
The bathroom is still steamy by the time Rose is fully dressed save for her shoes. She dashes to the kitchen, two slices of bread in the toaster and a tall glass of chocolate milk to wash it down. She's already wolfed down a banana before the toast is ready. Strawberry jam applied to the toast, she gives it a glance. Almost artistic. One bite and the masterpiece is half gone. Between mouthfuls, she retrieves the paper from the lawn, one eye watchful for disobedient hounds. Rose leafs through the paper, ignoring the boldfaced headlines proclaiming National Emergency. "Just some other reason to raise taxes," she reasons, annoyed. She bypasses the employment section, sports, business, and the classifieds.
She pulls out the TV listing for later perusal, then finally grasps her own personal Holy Grail, the ads. Rose devours the ads like a fat man at a Chinese buffet. Nothing escapes her notice. All 2-for-1 deals are filed in the folds of her brain. She scans the recesses of her memory for coupons already clipped. She is preparing for the forthcoming battle and she will not be denied. She finishes her milk, a chocolate mustache disappearing with one swipe of her forearm. My shoes, Rose thinks. Where are my shoes?
She emerges from the bedroom, purse in hand and fully sneakered. She yells goodbye to her husband Duane, already slouched in his chair in front of the TV, waiting for today's football games to begin. She's out the door before Duane can reply.
Rose squeezes into the rusty Toyota pickup. The truck groans. Rose is fat. She knows it. She doesn't need a scale; every movement reminds her. But she's used to it. As she grew into adulthood, her weight grew with her. The family doctor encourages exercise. Rose complies, walking to The Ice Cream Castle at least twice a week, six full blocks from her house. She rewards herself with a jumbo vanilla shake, forgoing the whipped cream; it gives her gas.
Her husband is no picture of health either, unless it's the typical "before" picture. 300 pounds if an ounce and most of it in his gut, Duane's only exercise today will be lumbering from his chair to the fridge, to refill on beer and snacks. If he's feeling really energetic, he'll waddle to the door for pizza, Chinese, Mexican, or whatever nationality he's craving for delivery.
A news broadcast crackles from the dashboard speaker as Rose turns the ignition key.
"that the dead may be..."
She twists the dial. Highway to Hell. Now, that's more like it.
"Maybe I have time to stop for doughnuts," she thinks to herself. That might be cutting it a little close. She'll have at least an hour of driving ahead of her, traffic notwithstanding. "Damn churchgoers," mumbling to herself, "Why can't they worship in front of the TV. Like Duane." She snorts laughter at her own joke.
As she zooms past the doughnut shop exit, the nearly forgotten fragments of a dream derail her train of thought. Muffins. She had been dreaming about muffins: all types of muffins: blueberry muffins, chocolate muffins, muffins filled with fruits, spices, nuts, and liqueurs. Their only commonality, they're all delicious.
But the muffins were chasing her, on tiny muffin legs. The muffins had teeth, much too large for their muffin bodies. She remembers kicking one; it bled cream. The pastries were fast. In her dream, she manages to barricade herself behind a door. The muffins whisper, "We won't hurt you. We're yummy. We think you're yummy too. Let us in and we can be yummy together." The muffins squeeze through the slit of the keyhole, through the cracks. They smell so good.
She doesn't remember the rest of the dream thanks to those damn dogs. Just as well. Her stomach grumbles.
Minutes and miles pass in smooth cadence to Rose's thoughts, which ping pong between the fantasy of a soap opera hunk (who looks curiously like Dr. Rex up on the fifth floor), his stomach smooth and smelling like peppermints, and sweaty anticipation of the multitude of bargains that await. The intoxication of Red Tag stickers, clearance items, and the all-important End-of- Summer sale sends her head reeling. She grips the wheel, knuckles cracking, and begins to hum. Restless, she spins the radio dial, finding mostly static. Finally, a voice, breaking, cracking, almost in tears, "... the end is here, brothers and sisters, the end is..." "The end is here...for you." Rose thinks to herself, smiling as she snaps the radio off, better to drive in silence than listen to that ear pollution.
She surveys the landscape, still hardly any traffic. A WGON news van speeds past her in the passing lane. Men armed with guns and beer cans form a single file parade in a field; squirrels, rabbits, and street signs beware. Probably members of the National Guard playing soldier. Men and their war games. Off to the left is the meat-processing plant. Funny, for years it was just a slaughterhouse. Now with all the new development, it has a name change. Too bad they can't change the smell. Protestors usually gather outside the
gates. They harass the passing motorists with signs, coupled with moronic, but energetic paroxysms of chanting, but today only their signs are present, leaning against the chain-link fence, useless like their owners.
"Too lazy to even take their crap home," Rose muses to herself as she pulls at a stray strand of hair. "Either that or the plant is giving out free breakfast samples and the veg heads are all in line. Processed chicken parts equals Genocide my ample ass. Wait till they find out tofu causes cancer and impotence. That will really give them something to protest." Rose winks at the reflection of herself in the mirror.
The mall dominates the horizon. Whoever invented shopping malls deserves to be on a stamp. Hell, maybe even their own national holiday. Rose takes a hard right, just clipping the curb. The truck wobbles. She has arrived, in nearly record time too. The promised land awaits.
"Everyone must still be sleeping; the lot is nearly empty, save for a dozen or so cars." Rose compliments herself for her foresight, brilliant planning, and excellent driving ability allowing for her arrival at the stores before all the other mall-oholics show up.
Just after 10 A.M., she feels that she owns the place. Squeezing out of the truck (again groans), Rose walks the 30 yards to the glass-paneled doorway, panting after yard #15. She notices some teenagers squatting near the corner building. Hungover probably, she thinks. Dope fiends, strung out on that new drug. What was it. Oh yeah. Liquid Funeral. It sounds more like a perfume those emanciated goth bitches would wear. WGON had a big expose all about it. In her day, cheap wine was all you needed to get high, not eating glue or snorting chemicals. Kids these days. Goddamn idiots. Rose pushes on the metal bar and enters the shimmering cathedral of consumerism, greeted by soothing electronic music. It makes her feel like she's on hold. The plaza rings hollow in response to the sugary refrains, the only sound except the squeak of her tennis shoes upon the hard concrete floor.
She walks past the Eyeglass Shack, past Underwear Unlimited, past the Piercing Pagoda. Some of the stores had yet to open; their gates were still shuttered. The mall was unusually empty today; a few early risers, the usual assortment of geriatric mall walkers judging by their stumbling gait but none of the hardcore shoppers she usually encountered. Not that Rose was complaining. The playing field was wide open and Rose considers herself the home team.
Having already exceeded her normal exercise routine which consisted mainly of household labor and unregimented snacking, Rose was still hungry. Burger City lay just around the corner. As she approached, she noticed a crowd formed just outside the entrance.
"Does the line start here?" she queries a haggard-looking gentleman standing near the end. Receiving no audible reply, she takes her place behind Mr. I-Forgot-To Wash. Looking down, she notices the man's suit is slit down the backside, both the pants and jacket.
"Fashion." But looking at his shoes, what she took for grey socks was in fact pale, grey flesh. The hygiene of some people. She was hesitant, weighing her options: to stand in line behind this stinking homeless person, or to make tracks for the Doughnut Hole at the other end of the mall, when her decision was made for her. The bum slowly turned around, revealing a face that belonged in the grave. The rot and the stench were bad enough but this poor bastard must have been in some type of horrible industrial accident as part of his face was missing. Flies and other insects were having a picnic with the surviving scraps. What looked like bone peeked through like an unexpected guest. The guy needs a closed casket funeral, not a cheeseburger with fries on the side. Better make that a formaldehyde shake with extra preservative. Supersize.
Rose turns to leave, sensing that Graveyard Face was surely getting ready to hit her up for change. She moves every bit as fast as her plus-sized figure would allow, avoiding the bum's grimy reach. The Doughnut Hole it would have to be. An even dozen just to put that poor bastard's face out of her mind.
She passes the electronics store where most of the TV's are broadcasting snow, save one. That set, bargain-priced at $179.00, framed the face of the midday anchor at WGON. Rose thought of her as Barbie Bitch because of her resemblance to the doll and her constant complaints. The regular news people must be on special assignment. Barbie was rattling on, something about "... every dead body that is not exterminated becomes one of them." Must be some type of new pest control problem. Rose made a note to have Duane fumigate. She did not tolerate roaches.
Out of the corner of her eye, Rose sees two things. The first is that she has made a new friend as the bum from Burger City is shambling slowly towards her. The curse of having a friendly face and a Rubenesque figure. The other item, much higher on Rose's scale of importance, a table staffed by two small girls, girls in uniform. Light bulbs of recognition firework within Rose's head. Girl Scouts, and by implication, Girl Scout cookies. Rose loves Girl Scout Cookies. Thin Mints are a particular weakness. She beelines for the table, with Graveyard Face all but forgotten.
Rose steps to the table, summons a smile, when she is struck by the immediate realization that something is wrong. She forgot to stop at the bank; she doesn't have any cash with her. A check it will have to be. She digs into the abyss of her purse, extricating both her checkbook and a pen.
"8 boxes of thin mints please and who should I make the check out to?"
The girls could do with some sun. Pale as chalk, Rose notes. They stare at her with empty, bored eyes. Rose, one eye on the girls, the other on the cookies, is taken completely off guard as the nearest girl lunges forward, sinking her teeth into Rose's checkbook. What the hell? The other girl grabs at Rose's free hand but Rose is used to the pleading clasp of hospital invalids. She avoids the girl and jiggles backward when her movement is halted. She spins, her nostrils recognizing her barrier before her eyes. Graveyard Face is back. This time Rose has no time for politeness. She's been at the mall for approximately twenty minutes and has yet to purchase anything.
Rose drops her purse from the crook of her arm into her hand. Given its contents of various bottles of perfume, a hammer in case of emergency, candies of various sizes and tastes, and just under eleven bucks in small change, the purse is a most formidable accessory. Much like Mjölnir, the fabled hammer of Thor, the Norse God of Thunder, only those worthy are capable of hefting Rose's purse. Assuming the coiled stance of a major league hitter pursuing a homerun, Rose smacks Graveyard Face right in the not-so-sweet spot. Bugs and flesh fly. Rose winds up on the advancing scouts, smashing each in turn, lawsuits be damned. The girls drop like rocks. A double for the home team.
All this commotion has gathered a crowd. Rose suddenly realizes the mall walkers have worse problems than arthritis or weak bladders. It's like a Leper convention, grinning skulls, jigsaw puzzles of skin, faces as green as a b/w film re-colored. It's a veritable pukefest.
Rose straight-arms the nearest shopper, acquiring momentum, as she zigzags through the festering crowd. Rose bulldozes through them like a fullback with diarrhea headed for the nearest bathroom. They rise unblinking and unfeeling, like store mannequins. She clotheslines a security guard, his face already rouged with rot, knocking both his shoes and feet off. Rose is too busy to notice. Fuck shopping; she just wants out of here and perhaps some dessert.
Outside the mall, she finally reaches her car and is confronted by a trio of Gucci girls turned ghastly. Either due to some buried primal group memory or just out of habit, the girls giggle at the fat woman fumbling with her keys. Sounding like someone with throat cancer or choking on wet bread, the girls continue to hack and titter, giving Rose ample time to secure herself into the driver's seat. She forces the pickup into gear. When the irresistible force (Rose's truck) meets the rotting object (Gucci girls), the result equals splat. The girls, no longer slaves to fashion, makeup or popular opinion, only diet, writhe on the pavement like spiders with limbs removed.
She wheels past a security guard, who curiously resembles Keith Richards. The truck backfires putting an exclamation point to her thoughts.
"What the fuck was that all about?"
/>
The needle burns on 65 all the way home, the highest speed the Toyota will allow before having convulsions.
She arrives in the driveway just as a pizza delivery driver pulls up two doors down. Dumbfounded, she watches as the driver plows into the front of a Volkswagon Bus. Boy, those hippies are going to be pissed. The driver gets out the car, one hand holding the pizza like some underpaid Statue of Liberty. The other hand still grips the steering wheel. The driver looks at Rose, motions to wave but seems to realize he's missing a key ingredient in the gesturing process.
Rose opens the door. Home Sweet Home. Duane manages a grumble. She plops on the couch. She stares at her husband, already three days dead, slowly becoming one with his chair. Rose grabs the remote from his swollen hand.
"And give me some of those chips too."
Rose makes herself comfortable, realizing the more things change, the more they stay the same.
FOOD CHAIN
G. W. Thomas
The dim mist settled beneath the windowsill, the minute crack no longer plugged with white paint. The smoke solidified into a twisted and grotesque being. Its skin was deathly pale, hair-less, cold. The eyes, piercing red. The ears, large and swept back in place of hair. The body was uncovered, naked for all to see, though none would have wished to look on such a ghoulish physique. And the fingers, tiny spears, each tipped with a saber-like nail. All in all, the nosferat was a hideous thing.
Its name was long forgotten. Dead, like its soul. But in those odd circumstances when it must appear, only by night, to be one of the living, it called itself Borque.
Borque floated across the parlor floor. It was heading up the long staircase to the bedrooms above. There it knew it would find Kathrina sleeping. It hungered for that which was not rightly its to take. It would suck her blood. It would spew cold sperm into her womb. It would take and take and take ...
