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WARNING: Stories on this site may contain mature language and situations, and may be inappropriate for readers under the age of 18.

BALLOONS by Tom Hamilton
August 19, 2008  Longer stories   Tags: ,   

Johnny was the one who told me that she was still alive. “But don’t go over there.” He cautioned, turning his back on me as he walked across the room. When he got to the window he told me that he thought they had all the women they needed. He had even seen two teenage girls walking down the street unhindered.

“There aren’t too many women left.” He said. “That’s for sure. Butthere are even less men. Forget about Anneliese man- she’s gone. When things settle down a little bit around here… well you’ll have your pick.”

“You gotta be crazy.” I told him. I would never or could never forget about Anneliese; Her blonde strands scattering across my memory like strips of sunny light streaming through the joined arms of the dead red trees which grew on the despondent landscape of my nightmares. I bluntly asked him to tell me where she was. He pleaded and spoke my name, lowering his arms in a gesture which
represented calm.

“Those women over there are not just as good as dead,” He implored. “I think they are dead.”

“Don’t say…” I began to shout at him before stopping myself in mid-sentence. He sighed and looked at the floor. “I’m sorry Johnny.” I said much lower. “You’re a good friend to me and it’s good of you to tell me. But you know I’m going to have to go over there.”

He shook his head. “It’s been four years a this shit. Weren’t you better off when you thought that she was just dead or gone?” He paused but when I didn’t answer he said, “I’m only against you seeing something that could make it even more terrible.”

I shook my head. “Nothing could be more terrible than this.”

He scoffed and looked out the window. “I doubt that.” He said as I followed his gaze out to the mailbox. One of the balloons- a very small version- floated up to the mailbox. There it birthed a perfectly rectangular slab of tan meat onto the concrete. The patty was smoothly ejected somehow from its silvery surface. Only to land softly on the sidewalk where it sat like a piece of dung on what looked like a plain sheet of tin foil.

“Well,” Johnny said. “Time for lunch. Better get it before the ants do.”

I contemplated this. “Do you think there are any ants left alive.”
I said. “Besides, how do you know what they’re feedin’ ya won’t
kill ya.”

Johnny shrugged. “It’s either that or eat the leaves off the
trees.” He made a move for the front door. “You should try it.” He
said. “With a little water it’s pretty swell.”

“Johnny?” I grabbed his arm. “Where is she?”

I could see these printed lines on his face, as if there were
black ink leaking from his brain and flooding into his blue eyes
until the thought of where she was turned them a dark purple. For
a moment I thought that he was going to tell me that I wasn’t the
only one who’s life had been ruined by all this: That no one had
been left untouched by the balloons: That he couldn’t think of one
person who hadn’t lost everything. I thought that he was going to
tell me that I was acting like a spoiled child. But instead he
only shrugged and said,

“The Municipal Pool.”


As I walked along the barren streets towards downtown, I did not
see any girls or women as Johnny had described. I didn’t see any
men either or persons at all for that matter.

Although all of the shops were closed, they had not been boarded
up nor had their outsides been desecrated. I guess the merchants
hadn’t had enough time to gate the doors and windows properly.
Consequently, the stores looked as if all someone had to do was
spin around the OPEN/CLOSED sign and they would be ready for
business once again. Perfectly edible canned goods still lined the
shelves inside, but these were known to be off limits.

It was probably about a two mile walk down to Hill Street. Then
twenty five blocks over to Kecksburg Lane and perhaps another half
mile to where the Municipal Pool sat on the corner of Flatwoods
and Walton.

The balloons were everywhere and they patrolled the streets
endlessly. Since they were in complete control of the city and had
selected whomever they pleased to do God knows what with, those of
us who were left were allowed to roam the thoroughfares freely, so
long as we were on foot. Anyone bold enough to leap behind the
wheel of a car or truck may as well have had the grim reaper
riding in the passenger seat with them.

No one knew where the Balloons came from or who’s bidding it was
that they had manifested onto the town. Some people said they were
from Russia, Cuba or outer space but, to my knowledge, these tired
cold war theories were never proven or even put to the test. I did
not know of one person who had ever communicated with one of the
orbs in any fashion. They came in a plethora of shapes and sizes
and all the same drab iron gray color. You could not go thirty
feet in any direction without seeing one. It was also not known as
to why they were feeding what was left of the population. ( Most
of the time what they were feeding the population was also a
mystery. )

Not really being able to identify them, everyone just started
referring to them as the balloons. Which I think was mainly
because of the way that they floated around or suspended; A slow
oscillating drift which was similar to the flight of helium
balloon’s. ( Although our balloons could go up, down, sideways
and so on and so forth. ) But I think that what they really were
was some sort of pods. They reminded me of a documentary I had
seen on TV several years earlier. It was a dramatization about a
farmer who had spied several “pods” as he called them, taking
soil samples from his bean field somewhere in Iowa. I myself had
once watched a small balloon absorb a rose into its metallic
skin. Whether or not it was using this as a sample or for any
sort of tests were unclear.

They did not resemble any drawings or illustrations that I had
ever seen of UFOs or flying saucers. Although, as objects, they
would certainly have to be classified as unidentified. And, if
they had not been identified by now, I didn’t see how they ever
would be. There were no little green men, grays, or humanoid
figures of any type anywhere. At least not that I had ever seen or
heard of. Actually, it was only an assumption that they had any
connection with or to outer space at all. You could not hear any
engines running when they moved nor did they give off any light in
the extreme darkness of the neon deprived night. Again, the best
way I can think of to describe them is just to say that they
looked exactly like balloons.
Two blocks from Hill Street I came along to the powder blue body of
a dead man propped up against a fire hydrant. It was said that
somehow the balloons could manipulate the life force of a human
being, and since I never really understood or figured out what that
meant, that’s about as simple as I can put it.

I can tell you this much; It was cleaner and quicker than a heart
attack. People simply dropped dead at the will of the balloons.
And for this reason, the gun metal grey anomalies  occupied the
metropolitan area without a shot ever being fired.

All law enforcement officials had been crossed out by the
balloons. Although it would have been difficult to confirm whether
or not they had been targeted specifically. Since you could use
any occupation as an example; A doctor or a lawyer say, and you
would be hard pressed to find any of these people alive. In other
words, so many human beings were dead that it could have just been
random. Although the lack of police presence was not a problem per
se. Since anyone noticed causing even the slightest disturbance
was summarily executed by the balloons. And, since you could not
go outside ( Or in some instances even inside, ) without seeing
one of the orbs, crime rates dropped to an all time low right
along side the population.

As I turned onto Hill Street, on of the bigger balloons was
floating down the avenue about three stories up. Another smaller
one was following close behind. It was like a nightmarish farce of
the Macy’s day parade. On some of the larger balloons, long
spindly sticks jutted out from their sides like the thin legs of
arachnids. These legs appeared to push the balloons away from the
buildings, thereby preventing them from scraping against the
bricks or hard corners. Whether or not there were any beings
inside the big balloons, or whether they were some type of
creatures themselves, was also unclear.

A horrid gray rain began to cascade down from the metallic clouds,
loaning a sheen to the excessive number of balloons Which filled
the shallow sky. The streets were slick, but there was no longer
any rush hour or worry of automobile accidents to contend with.
Wet garbage clogged the curbs and drains. A traffic light which
was stuck on red, or rather, stuck on stop, blinked like a winking
crimson eye squinting from the drizzle.

As I came to Kecksburg Lane I picked up on a flash of motion and
color on the other side of the intersection. In a never ending
wall of blackish glass, which had once been the window of the
Oldsmobile showroom, I saw the reflection of a disheveled and
bedraggled girl. Before her actual figure came into view from
behind the decaying frame of a furniture truck. She was wearing a
long, furry brown coat over a stained and dingy party dress. She
looked like she’d been living outside for weeks.

When she saw me, she immediately began walking towards me, and
that’s when I noticed that there were three little balloons
following behind here like puppy dogs on an invisible  leash.

“Hey Sir!?” She said, hair in tatters, wild as an unkept field.
“Hey Sir?! Do you have any food?” When she stopped, her balloons
stopped. I shook my head no.

She lowered the coat down off of her shoulders and began
unbuttoning the dress. I raised my hand to object but this did not
stop her. Soon she was showing me her red chest, which was  housed
in a slash of black bra. “Now do you have any food?” She said,
swaying seductively. I looked at her coldly and then glanced down
at the ominous balloons. “OH don’t mind them.” She said. “They
like to watch.”

I told her that, if I had any food, I would readily give it to her
and ask nothing in return. “Besides.” I wondered aloud. I couldn’t
understand why she needed food since the balloons were supplying
it to everyone. ( Although their motive for this was murky at

“Maybe I don’t like the cuisine.” She quipped, pulling the coat
back up onto her shoulders and sticking her nose in the air. With
that she walked away, the balloons bobbing behind her like a
banner being pulled by a plane.

As I negotiated the final blocks I felt like my stomach was full
of salt water and the muscles in my legs began to harden and
spasm. I hadn’t been getting very much exercise lately; lying in
bed under waves of blankets, watching the incessant shadows of
circles on the wall. The scent of Anneliese’s skin cream on the
deserted sheets. The stolen specter of feminine powders and
perfumes saturating the pillow cases. Sinking under the waterline
into a paranoid sleep. Balloons in the room, bouncing off the
ceiling, trying to escape as if they really were trapped or full
of helium. But they would never just drift away in the sky…
drift away in the sky.

My knees were heated like half coconut shells baking on a tropical
island and my buttocks felt equally as greasy as I came to my
destination. The Municipal Pool came into view looking as ordinary
as any YWCA. As I got closer the frame of a young man who was
standing at the front door came into focus. He was clean cut,
shaven, well nourished, privileged. He was holding what looked
like a long stick in his hand and, as I got closer, I could see
that it was a shotgun. He barley acknowledged me.

“I’m looking for a woman.” I queried. “I think you may have her
inside there?”

He looked me up and down, the shotgun pointed at the sky. “Yeah,”
He began. “We got lots a women in there. Ya got any money?”

I looked down at the concrete and shook my head. “Let me ask you a
question.” I said pointedly. “What good does money do you or
anybody else now?” Even as I said this, I realized that I still
had a whole wallet full of twenties that I just could not bring
myself to throw away.

He whistled a sigh, his patience seemed to be evaporating. “Do you
have any money or not?!”

“YEAH.!” I growled. “I got money.”

“Go through there,” He began a little nicer, like he just wanted
to get rid of me and an argument would only prolong my standing
there. “Talk to the guy behind the desk.”

I walked through the clear glass doors, then through a brief
breezeway, before quickly locating the ‘desk’ which was really
just a white card table. The fellow who was sitting behind it must
have thought that he was some sort of art type, for he was wearing
an impeccably shaved goatee and a tam. There was a metal strong
box sitting in front of him. A row of plastic slats rose from
inside it to support a bevy of assorted bills.

“Hi.” He said with surprising friendliness.

I nodded.

“Have you been here before?” He asked through the beard.

I shook my head no.

“For five dollars admission; You can select any girl from the pool
area for one on one time in a private enclave, one dollar per
minute with a minimum of twenty minutes. Got it?”

I indicated that I did before pulling the rumpled notes out of my
disintegrating billfold. Past my permanently expired driver’s
license, credit cards, social security. I had hundreds of dollars
in there. I hadn’t spent a penny in over a year. I handed over a
twenty and a rumpled Lincoln which, I guess, were not so worthless
after all. He put it in the strong box. “Have a good time.” He

I had been swimming here on one occasion many years ago. But the
pool area was now drastically different then it had been at that
time. No one had bothered to mop in a while and, what looked like,
black drag marks intersected on various points of the tile floor.
All the deck chairs and lawn furniture had been removed save for
one crooked umbrella shading a plain grey folding chair. Where a
second man, also wielding a shotgun, sat grimly. The setting sun,
its light the hue of a black rose, tried to strain past some
sinking clouds to peer through the high rectangular windows.

I could not imagine why these men figured that they needed
shotguns? Weapons certainly were not required to control the
remaining population. The balloons had already established that
dominance without so much as a shot ever being fired. Or, if these
men were against the balloons, which it was obvious from their
actions that they were not, their guns would have been totally
useless against such a powerful and enigmatic force as the orbs

One of the biggest balloons I had ever seen was either attached to
or scraping against the high ceiling. It was rotating slowly, like
the hand which measures seconds on a clock. Dozens of spindly legs
sprouted out from it at various angles and degrees like the limbs
of some mystery arachnid. These apparatuses curved and dropped
down from the body like long steam hoses. There, they were somehow
fashioned to the backs of scores of women. The females milled
through the waist deep septic water. The pool had been partially
drained and what was left of the aqua was browned and rancid. Most
of them were stripped naked with their pale breasts sagging. Their
eyes were the eyes of taxidermy animals, as if their gaze had been
laminated, covered over by a coat of plastic. They shuffled around
slowly in an uninspired circle, goaded along by the tentacles of
the pod, mechanical as carousel ponies.

Mirroring their bitter sleepwalk I shuffled to the edge of the
pool and stared in at them in disbelief. Of all the many
unfortunate ladies sifting through this cesspool broth, I did not
see Anneliese anywhere among them.

“See anything ya like?”

The man with the shotgun had gotten up from the plain grey folding
chair to stand with me by the side of the pool. He was very
muscular and his head looked like a concrete block with black
sideburns. The rifle was down at his side like he was about to run
through a ‘taps’ routine. I resisted an overpowering impulse to
try and drive my fist through his nose. Because I knew that if I
did that, I would either be killed, which I didn’t really have any
aversion to, or that I would never see Anneliese again, which I
could not bear the thought of.

“Um,” I tried to play ball. “I have a favorite you see, a blonde
girl about five foot five, five foot six she…”

“Look friend,” He interrupted me. “They all look the same to me.”

Hurt and confused, I babbled on. “Yeah well, is this everyone? I
mean, are there more? Are they all here?”

His brow zigzagged. He was starting to get annoyed with my
questions. “A few of the girls are tied up right now,” He gestured
with his hand towards nowhere. “But you can’t stay in here. Why
don’t you just pick another one out for today?”

My eyebrows arched. I could feel the sadness collapsing in my mind
like a flash flood sweeping towards a rickety dam. Near tears, I
shook my head. “No,” I pleaded. “I really can’t see anyone else
but her.”

Noticing the hint of spray in my eyes must have alerted him to my
true mission. For he raised the rifle to his chest like a karate
pole and pushed it towards me. “Move out asshole!” He said meanly.

I put up my hands. Not really resisting, yet not really
retreating. “I said MOVE OUT!” He looked like he was about to
swing the butt at my jaw until a new man stopped him by putting
his hand on the barrel.

“It’s o.k. Eric,” The new man said. “Go have a smoke, I’ll sort
this out.” Eric smiled at the second man. Gave me a final dire
stare then walked out of the pool area.

The second man was very young and unusually handsome. He was tall
with blonde streaks through his long rocker’s hairdo and tan like
a surfer dude. Though I doubt that he or anyone else had been
riding the waves lately.

“What do you want?” He said harshly, but his eyes were kinder.

“I want a girl,” I said. “What else?”

“Cut the crap.” He barked back. “I should have let Eric waste you.
Why don’t you get the hell out of here?”

“I paid my money.” I claimed. “Just like everybody else.”

“Look man,” His voice dropped down and lost its curtness. “I’m
just trying to tell you for your own good. If you’ve got an old
lady or a daughter or somethin’ in here… just let it go man.
This place is a bad scene.”

“Thanks for the advice.” I quipped rudely. “But if it’s such a bad
scene what are all you assholes doin’ in here? I mean how the hell
can you be sucking the ass a these monsters just for clean clothes
and a haircut?”

He bit his lip and shook his head. “O.K. asshole,” He began. ‘You
think you know about everything there is to know huh? Why don’t
you come with me?” He walked across the browned tiles and I
followed. He ushered me into a side room lounge where a drab and
faded plaid couch was flanked by two loud orange chairs. “Sit
right here.” He said. “The rest of the girls will be rinsing off
any time now.” With that he ducked out of the lounge. As I sat
down on the couch, a musty moth born stink  bubbled out from the
dusty cushions. As if the furniture had been sitting in an
abandoned lot or a junk covered field. When I was sure he was
gone, I put my face in my hands and began to weep.

After about a minute of miserable heaving I un-tucked my T-shirt
and dried my eyes with it. After that I just stared blankly at the
block wall until the blonde fellow came back in. His kinder side
had won out. “Look,” He began. “Why don’t you just go on home man?
Even if you have someone here… I can promise you that they’re no
longer anyone you want to see.”

I looked at him frankly, my lips trembling. But before I could
even say anything yet another unseen voice from behind the door
said, “What are you a fuckin’ guidance councilor? If the asshole
wants to see some bitch let him see here.” It was the horridly
scratchy voice of a wretchedly thin and wrinkled woman. Her nose
hooked through the doorway, curious and vicious like some predator
bird. She stood in the open threshold with her hands on her hips
and tapped her foot at the young man like an impatient girlfriend
trying to extract a boozing fiancee from a bar. The blonde boy
looked at me almost sadly and said, “All the girls are back now,
if you’d like to go have a look? If you don’t see your favorite in
there now, I don’t know what to tell you.” Acting like he’d washed
his hands of the situation the aryan haired boy walked out. I
followed him and the evil woman out into the pool area. Somewhere
outside, the sound of a train snaked through the comatose city and
I couldn’t imagine who might be driving it or why?

But this time, and almost as soon as I walked through the door, I
could see Anneliese’s luminous and original blonde hair sticking
out among the crowd like a golden coin in a pile of grimy pennies.

“That one,” I said, finally as cold as them. “The blonde.”

Neither of my hosts answered, but almost as soon as the words left
my mouth, the spindly silver appendage pulled Anneliese’s naked
body from the putrid water. Her hairy legs, which had not been
shaved in weeks, shined and dripped the brownish liquid. Her head
lolled groggily and rolled on her shoulders to one side. Just from
that fleeting glance it looked as if she’d gained a little weight.
Then she was out of view, pulled by the pod’s tentacle over a
block wall and into a separate room. Evidently, the top rows of
the blocks had been removed to accommodate the awe inspiring pod.

“Go through there.” The horrid woman said. I quickly obliged,
almost slipping on the slimy tiles. As I hurried past the pool a
second girl was troweled out. Her dark skin looking almost purple
in the dusky light which continued, duller now, to streak through
the high windows. Thick varicose veins were noticeable on her legs
as she also went over the wall.

The door to this new room had been removed and upon entering I
spied a sentry; An aging man with graying sideburns sitting on a
bar stool around a high table. Blurry tattoos of a long defeated
and disbanded navy were sketched onto his forearms. The shotgun
was lying across that stand next to a half empty pint of Jim Beam.
Thick cigar smoke was slowly escaping from the doorway. He looked
at me without much interest, exhaled a smoky mouthful of his
pungent cuban, nodded and said,

“Fourth stall.”

I looked to my right down a long hallway. Where freckles of light
sprinkled onto the partially busted tiles. Evidently this was
where the shower or changing room had once been located. As I got
to the first stall, I could now see that a spotted and stained
mattress had been dumped over the shower’s drain. A naked girl was
laying on top of it, her eyes looked empty, as if she had a bullet
lodged in her brain. A second girl, who was fully clothed in a
long over coat, lay on the mattress with her, hugging her, tears
streaming from both their eyes. She looked enough like the naked
girl to be her sister. I paused momentarily, lifting my hand as if
to help them or say something. But before I could, I felt the butt
of the rifle in the small of my back. It was the grizzled guard
ushering me along. “Fourth stall.” He said, his casual tone and
countenance replaced by a meaner demeanor.

The second stall was empty, with only a blackened mattress laying
sideways under a torn shower curtain.

The third stall had no shower curtain and I could see the wide
back of a rotund man. Thick doodles of dark hair were scribbled
all over his shoulder blades. He was bent over the woman from the
pool, the one with the varicose veins. He looked up as I past, a
beard which had similar circular whiskers as the ones growing from
his back covered his puffy face. Spit flew from his mouth as he
addressed me.

“She used to be a stuck up bitch.” He rationalized. “I used to see
her every day at First National… She wouldn’t even say hi to
me.” I said nothing as I walked past. A dried condom was splotched
onto the wall.

Anneliese was in the fourth stall, laying half in and half out of
the shower. They must have ran out of mattresses, since her legs
were curled under her limp body and her blonde hair lolled wet
against the raised step at the entrance to the stall. I slowly got
around behind her and cradled her head in my lap. The strands of
her locks felt waxy or coated over, like sludge or seaweed. Her
mindless eyes had thick purple crescents  underneath them and her
lips were slit with miniscule cuts and small pin head sized cold
sores. She was still soaked and the septic water from the pool
seeped onto my pants and shirt. These girls and woman had been
conditioned somehow and she could not talk. A sizzle of slobber
ran from the slack corner of her mouth.

I closed my eyes and tried to take in her scent. But I could not
overcome the fecal reek of the Municipal Pool. A white fire like
loud static spread across my brain like windy flames across dry
grass. My mind nearly exploded from the sadness and I prayed that
I would go mad so I could abandon all rational thought. In my
grief my eyes ran down over Anneliese’s violated body. That’s when
I noticed just a hint of mint green branching out from underneath
her arm pits. Her nipples were… crooked almost, one higher than
the other, like a shirt which had been put on inside out. Her
fingers were thicker, not as dainty as I remembered. The toes on
her feet were more rectangular, her biceps more muscular. Her legs
were obviously shorter then I recalled and that’s when I realized;
It was Anneliese’s head and face but it was not her body.

“Ohhh Ohhh,” I said and stared high up at the block walls, salty
tears stunning my lips. I reached into the side pocket of my pants
and pulled out the knife. The Confederate Generals stared at me
from its commemorative handle. Without thinking another thought I
plunged the blade into the chest of whoever’s body that it was.
Anneliese’s face groaned weakly and, for a diced instant, I
thought that I could see a gleam. A glimpse of some recognition
either of or by her: The real Anneliese. Then the eyes waxed over
again and half closed while all the air escaped through the hole I
had made in her transplanted chest. Like all of the air scuttling
out from the inside of a balloon.


Tom Hamilton is an Irish Traveler. He currently lives with the clan
known as the Mississippi Travelers. His work has appeared in over one
hundred publications around the world. Including the Rockford Review,
Red Wheelbarrow Literary Journal and Sinister City among many others.
He has two poetry chapbooks published. ‘The Rain Draw Bridge’ from
‘Alpha Beat Press’ and ‘The Last Days of My Teeth’ from ‘Budget Press’
His short story ‘The Spider’ is available as an E-book from ‘Curious
Volumes Publishing’ Along with his wife Mary Theresa and their three
small daughters, Tiffany, Hope and Catalina, he lives in Rockford IL


  1. Ok, thats it. I think I’ve had my fill of these so called “zombie” stories.

    Comment by Zergonapal on August 20, 2008 @ 10:47 am

  2. It was an interesting story but I’m not sure what it’s doing on this site.

    Comment by Joe from Philly on August 20, 2008 @ 2:00 pm

  3. Uhm methinks this should have been posted at a suspense stories site. No “zombie” I’m familiar with in this story

    Comment by rex montalban on August 21, 2008 @ 1:47 am

  4. Yeah, where’s the zombies?

    Comment by Zoe on August 21, 2008 @ 12:00 pm

  5. I think that this was more of an “invasion of the body snatchers” thing – I agree it was not so much zombie-centric, but definitely had a pleasantly disturbing tinge to it.

    Comment by Noel on August 21, 2008 @ 3:23 pm

  6. Balloons??? Who is number 1?? You are number 6

    Comment by Kent on August 27, 2008 @ 8:05 pm

  7. Fail, This was the most Anti-climactic story i have ever read.

    Comment by Serum Senyx on September 9, 2008 @ 11:57 am

  8. really? … how about you travel maybe to … oh i don’t know? … a liberal arts college and receive a degree in creative writing?

    Comment by doug on October 8, 2008 @ 4:40 pm

  9. I thought this was a pretty good story. yes I agree it had nothing whatsoever to do with world war z but I’m glad I got to read it. I find it interesting that an Irish traveler is also an aspiring writer. I was always told they were grifters and rip off artists.

    Comment by liz w on July 19, 2009 @ 10:42 am

  10. This was a waste of time, if i read anymore then the frst paragraph my mind would have packed up and left.

    Comment by DamnTurk on July 30, 2009 @ 7:45 pm

  11. This reminded me of the British TV series, The Prisoner. I guess the zombie were the whores?

    Comment by Arthur C on November 9, 2009 @ 1:23 am

  12. I personally like all different kinds of zombie stories, from Romero’s zombies to voodoo zombies, fast moving zombies, slow moving zombies, talking zombies, smart zombies, zombies with residual memory, zombies that can swim, alien body snatcher zombies, body invading slug zombies, flesh-eating zombies, brain eating zombies…whatever, but they have to be trying to eat the living or at least give a more developed description of their zombification so that we can identify them as ZOMBIES. Your story was quite engaging, but you simply dropped the ball. I’d love to see this story completed. The Big Brother creepiness is very cool but please expound upon their genesis. You leave way too much hanging and unexplained. Whose body was it, anyway? Your description reminded me of a line from the song “Soul Food” by Goodie Mobb, “…started to look good wit’ dem hairy legs, want to cut her up but stomach comes before sex, a house full of ‘ho’s, what’s the ingredients, spaghetti plus her monthly flow” Anyway, I’m wondereing if this was like the movie “Soylent Green?” Were those patties really made the bodies of the women and other people who were killed? I can just picture dude running back to Johnny, screaming “THE PATTIES ARE PEOPLE! WE”VE GOT TO STOP THEM SOMEHOW!”

    Comment by Cherry Darling on November 27, 2009 @ 3:33 pm

  13. It was a grat story, horidly vivid. but it doesnt beong on this site

    Comment by Owen on April 12, 2010 @ 3:36 pm

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