Books are like mile-markers in my history. I departed for Navy bootcamp reading Dante’s Inferno (“Abandon hope, all who enter here”–coincidence?). I discovered Lovecraft at the base library in Naples, Italy. Hemingway’s short stories in one volume bridged me back to civilian life after eight years of wearing the crackerjacks. And during my first and only October as a headset-wearing message-relayer with National Communications, I was in the middle of The Phantom of the Opera.
WARNING: Stories on this site may contain mature language and situations, and may be inappropriate for readers under the age of 18.
“Do you think that they’re intelligent?” Whispered, in the darkness.
“Zombies are practically by definition unintelligent. They’re human beings minus intelligence. People reduced to their appetites and passions.”
“No. Not passions. They’re entirely devoid of passion. That’s part of why we’re so afraid of them. That and the fact that they want to eat our brains.”
“This isn’t Plants vs. Zombies. The whole ‘brains’ thing is just a cheesy stereotype. They’re cannibals but they’ll probably take your arm just as happily as your frontal lobe.”
Clyde Thompson had been working as an orderly for only a month and a half when the outbreak burned through the hospital’s corridors like a fire made of flesh and teeth.
“What’s going on?” Mr. Perkins kept asking him.
“I told you I don’t know.”
“Well, God damn it, get me out of here!”
Mr. Perkins’ demand went without reply as Clyde was too distracted by the hellish scenes occurring through the open doorways of the rooms that flew by.
Alex clasped his hands together and splashed the cool water over his face, pausing to let the beads of water drip off. The refreshing water was much needed after yet another uncomfortable rest. His back ached, his neck ached, his legs were still spent from the constant traveling. Another splash to his face was enough as he traveled a few yards away from the river to where Beans was rummaging through one of their ruck sacks. The expression on her face was all that was needed to put Alex’s stomach into knots. He knew what she was thinking. As he walked through the green grass Beans looked up, and it broke Alex’s heart.
Dying makes you stupid.
It has to, right? I mean, there’s no denying it.
That’s the only thought running through my head as I watch it fumble with the door handle with all the dexterity and grace of a mop. I should be screaming for my life, but I am just so shocked that I am still alive, at least for now, that I can’t help marveling at its incredible inefficiency. Its stiff, lumbering limbs. All it wants to do is eat me. And all that’s standing in its way is a single turn of the key I left dangling from the door of this hatchback in my desperate struggle to get inside alive.
“Now, what kind of ceremony did you have in mind? Did you want a traditional burial or a reawakening?”
The two women, mother and daughter, exchanged a look. “We’re very traditional people,” the mother, Elizabeth Reed, said. “I think we’ll just go with a burial.”
I nodded. “I understand,” I said, keeping my voice soft and even, trying not to show how desperately I needed this to work out. The rising of the dead had not been easy on my business. After the cemeteries had opened, sending the dead staggering out onto our grounds, destroying the property, most of the family had left. Once, we’d been Walters, Gambol, and Sons. Now, it was just me, Rebecca Gambol, not even one of the sons. It figured.
It was Valentine’s Day, and Yuri was returning the engagement ring he’d given his girlfriend three months ago. In a show of discontent with his late nights away from home, she’d stopped wearing it. He’d thought she’d been impulsive, but almost a month removed from her having taken off the ring, she still hadn’t softened. If money didn’t matter, he would’ve held onto it, waited for his girlfriend to relent, but he had Mayor Hernandez coming aboard the Blue Line, and cash mattered.
and have some breathing room, I would like to take a moment and let you all know that I am the new Editor for Tales of World War Z. I have been given access to all the wonderful stories that have been submitted and I am working my way through them. So please be patience a little longer. As I work my way through all of the stories that we currently have, I will contact you and let you know that (with a link) your story has been published.
Also, please keep the stories coming. Having been a fan of this site for years because of all the great writers I have seen here, I hope with your help, to continue the great work that has always made this site wonderful.
Hello zombie slayers,
So we’re aware that the site has lain fallow for quite some time. Neither Ryan nor Pete have the time available to edit and review submissions. That being said, we’d like to put out the call to interested parties who might want to assume the mantle.
We can’t really pay anything (our ad revenue doesn’t even cover the cost of hosting the site), but you’d have the eternal gratitude of our readership.
Interested? Shoot us an email at email@example.com and we’ll talk.
Chester grabbed the feet of the first body in the pile while Will grabbed it just under the armpit. Chester had on a pair of HazMat gloves, reaching up above his brown elbow. Will was an older white man, in his forties with a gray and brown beard that covered most of his neck. The man was twice as broad as Chester, easily. (more…)
Hetch was sometimes a pain in the ass, but he was one of the living, and one who wasn’t hell bent on feeding me to his dead wife, or raping a pretty biter, or blinded by an overzealous preacher-man. He was normal, for what that was worth. Normal was relative in the old world. It was unheard of in the dead one.
We’re all just a little messed up in some way or other. We’ve all seen things…done things… (more…)