Best New Zombie Tales Trilogy

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Authors: James Roy Daley

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BOOK: Best New Zombie Tales Trilogy
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BEST NEW

ZOMBIE

TALES

TRILOGY

(Volumes 1, 2 & 3)

 

Edited By:

JAMES ROY

DALEY

 

This book is a work of fiction. All characters, events, dialog and situations in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

 

Collection copyright by James Roy Daley 2012

 

FIRST EDITION

 

Volume two cover art by Terry Callen
Cover Design by Derek Daley
Interior Design by James Roy Daley

 

BOOKS OF THE DEAD

 

CONTENTS

Introduction ~ JAMES ROY DALEY

Zombie Love ~ RAY GARTON

Feeding Frenzy ~ MATT HULTS

Wings ~ JESSICA BROWN

The Man Who Breaks The Bad News ~KEALAN PATRICK BURKE

Immunity ~ JEFF STRAND

In The Land Of The Blind ~ ROBERT SWARTWOOD

Nowhere People ~ GARY McMAHON

Muddy Waters ~ BRIAN KNIGHT

Darkness Comprehended ~ HARRY SHANNON & GORD ROLLO

Connections ~ SIMON McCAFFERY

Sign of the Times ~ JOHN GROVER

After, Life ~ JEFF PARISH

Paradise Denied ~ JOHN L. FRENCH

On The Usefulness Of Old Books ~ KIM PAFFENROTH

The Revelations of Dr. Maitland ~ CHARLES BLACK

Pegleg And Paddy Save The World ~ JONATHAN MABERRY

SKN-3 ~ STEVEN E. WEDEL

Fishing ~ JASON BRANNON

Groundwood ~ BEV VINCENT

Zombie 1

Introduction 2 ~ JAMES ROY DALEY

Bury Me Not ~ RIO YOUERS

Laundry Day ~ STEVEN A. ROMAN

Provider ~ TIM WAGGONER

The Truth About Brains ~ NARRELLE M. HARRIS

Gravedigger ~ NATE KENYON

Coming Home ~ DAVID NIALL WILSON

The Third Option ~ DEREK GUNN

The Worst Is Yet To Come ~ PETE MESLING

La Sequia ~ T. F. DAVENPORT

Viva Las Vegas ~ THOMAS ROCHE


Til Decay Do Us Part ~ MYRRYM DAVIS

We Will Rebuild ~ CODY GOODFELLOW

Dredging Up The Dead ~ J. W. SCHNARR

Camille Smiled ~ JOHN EVERSON

Not With A Bang But A Whimper ~ MONICA J. O’ROURKE

Reunion ~ JAMES NEWMAN

Gran’ma’s in the Bathroom (…and she’s not coming out) ~ KEN GOLDMAN

The Old Man And The Dead ~ MORT CASTLE

The Finger ~ MATT HULTS

Introduction 3 ~ JAMES ROY DALEY

The Lazarus Condition ~ PAUL KANE

Of Cabbages and Kings ~ NATE SOUTHARD

Those Below ~ JEREMY C. SHIPP

The Traumatized Generation ~ MURRAY J.D. LEEDER

The Cyclist ~ SIMON WOOD

Family First ~ JG FAHERTY

The Way of Things in Fly-Over Country ~ AARON POLSON

The Beach ~ TIM LEBBON

Fast Eddie’s Big Night Out ~ JOHN L. FRENCH

Night of the Living Dead Bingo Women ~ SIMON MCCAFFERY

Worm-sacks and Dirt-backs ~ LEE CLARK ZUMPE

The Purple Word ~ ERIK T. JOHNSON

Sabbatical in the Ohio Methlands ~ JOE MCKINNEY

A Sense of Duty ~ GREGORY MILLER

The Basement ~ WILLIAM T. VANDEMARK

Working Man’s Burden ~ DAVID C. PINNT

The Last Supper (The Anatomy Of Addiction) ~ JOHN CLAUDE SMITH

Memory Bones ~ MICHAEL STONE

Going Down ~ NANCY KILPATRICK

Sweetbread ~ TONIA BROWN

ZOMBIE 3

About the Authors

Copyright Acknowledgements

 

 

 

Great books from:

BOOKS of the DEAD

BEST NEW ZOMBIE TALES (VOL. 1)

BEST NEW ZOMBIE TALES (VOL. 2)

BEST NEW ZOMBIE TALES (VOL. 3)

CLASSIC VAMPIRE TALES (VOL.1)

BEST NEW VAMPIRE TALES (VOL. 1)

MATT HULTS - HUSK

MATT HULTS - ANYTHING CAN BE DANGEROUS

JAMES ROY DALEY - TERROR TOWN

JAMES ROY DALEY - 13 DROPS OF BLOOD

JAMES ROY DALEY - INTO HELL

JAMES ROY DALEY - THE DEAD PARADE

JAMES ROY DALEY - ZOMBIE KONG

GARY BRANDNER - THE HOWLING

GARY BRANDNER - THE HOWLING II

GARY BRANDNER - THE HOWLING III

GARY BRANDNER - THE HOWLING TRILOGY

PAUL KANE - PAIN CAGES

TONIA BROWN - BADASS ZOMBIE ROAD TRIP

ZOMBIE KONG ANTHOLOGY

 

 

Introduction

JAMES ROY DALEY

 

Sleep dissipates and there he is: H. P. fucking Lovecraft. The old boy is looking down at me with anger and shame stamped across his weird little face in equal portions. I drag my knuckles across my eyes, snug in my bed, hoping to wipe some of the gorp from my lashes, wondering if it’s really him. Before I’ve drawn a conclusion he grabs me by the wrist and hauls me from my sheets. A pillow falls to the floor as I stumble across the bedroom and into the shadows of the hallway. My feet slap against the hardwood, creating sharp echoes that forge through the night as I head towards my kitchen.

Staggering and sleepy, I say, “Hey, man. What’s going on?”

H. P. flicks on a light and says, “Don’t give me any lip, you obtuse, half-wit, twerp.”

In a world that seems far too bright and dynamic, I say, “Twerp?” I don’t care much for
that.
Honestly, I don’t care for the ‘half-wit’ remark either, but what can I say? On the ‘obtuse’ slur he might be accurate. I don’t know. What the hell does obtuse mean… rounded at the free end?

I say, “Why am I a twerp?”
“You know why.”
“No, really, I don’t.”

Now we’re in the kitchen. He drags me towards a blender, which is sitting on the counter between the sink and the stove. It’s plugged into to an outlet and ready for use. I wonder if he planning on making a fruit smoothie but I don’t have a chance to ask because H. P. wastes no time saying, “Zombies? Are you kidding me? Is that the best you can do?”

For a moment I’m confused, but then a light bulb inside my head comes to life. I know what this is about: the book. He wants to talk to me about my anthology, Best New Zombie Tales. Sure he does. And I’m willing to talk to him about my little project, too. But I’ve got a few questions of my own, fusing together the way questions do. The most obvious inquiry, it seems, would revolve around the fact that Mr. Lovecraft has been dead for decades. What is he, back from the grave? That’s ridiculous. The walking departed don’t exist… right?

Right?

I say, “Listen H. P., zombies are big right now. Real big. Do you know––”

He gives my arm a quick yank, cuffing my train of thought. He’s livid now; I can see it in his face.

“I gave the world
Cthulhu
and you’re serving up
zombies
? I created
Yog-Sothoth
, and all you’ve got is the
living-dead
? Is that the best you can do?”

For a moment I just stare, as if I’m waiting for someone else to answer the question for me. When nobody does, I reluctantly say, “You don’t understand. It’s not like I don’t know how to be creative… I do. But the horror industry is a funny place right now, you know? The truth of the matter––”

H.P. growls like an animal from the jungle. Then he says, “SHUT UP, idiot! On an off day I could shit out
Shub-Niggurath
,
Y’golonac
, and
Azathoth
, and the most preeminent idea rattling around your infinitesimal, diminutive, nano-scholastic, brain-nugget is zombies? Are you on crack? What the hell is wrong with you? Don’t you think this planet has suffered through a sufficient quantity of
zombies
?”

He lifts the lid from the blender, switches the dial from ‘off’ to ‘mulch’ and rams my hand inside before I realize what’s happening.

I scream, while trying to pull away. Doesn’t work. H. P. is stronger than he looks and my hand is getting mulched.
Let me repeat––
My HAND… is getting: M-U-L-C-H-E-D.

This means that my fingers––all four, plus the tip of my thumb––are getting…
MULCHED
… off.

Connected to the colossal ambush of pain are my eyes, which mature to enormity. I can’t help but watch. Now my knuckles are getting chewed. Now the middle of my hand is taking a beating. Oops… there goes the rest of my thumb. There’s blood. Not just inside the blender, but everywhere: splashing the walls, the ceiling, the floor, my chest, my face…

Inside the blender I can see bone fragments spinning around in a circle. A moment ago those fragments were inside my hand, not orbiting it.

It may come as no surprise that I want to tell him to stop, to let me go, to turn off that goddamn machine, which, by the way, is very powerful and apparently worth every penny I paid––thank you very much ‘Home Shopping Channel.’ But I don’t tell him to stop. Oh no, I can’t. All I can do is cry, and scream, and try to pull away.

And fail miserably, I should add. H. P.’s grip is absolute.

A little FYI here: my screaming doesn’t bother Mr. Lovecraft––who was kind enough to give us
Shub-Niggurath
,
Y’golonac
, and
Yog-Sothoth
, as he didn’t hesitate to point out. No, no. He seems adequately happy with my pain and terror. And oddly enough, he decides to do some screaming of his own.

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