1.

“Look,” Kathryn said, “this one has the keys in it.”

“It’s probably out of gas,” Maureen acknowledged, “most of the ones with the keys left in them are out of gas.”

“Well,” Kathryn stripped off her business suit jacket and searched the mercifully empty streets, “we’re gonna have to give it a try.” She climbed behind the wheel and unlocked the passenger door so that Maureen could climb in the other side. (more…)

1

I barely smell the burlap smoke anymore, but I remember that it used to burn my throat and water my eyes. I blow into the tin fume-canister until a little flame leaps up then I slap the top closed and squelch the heat. I want the smoke, not the fire. A thousand or so honeybees swarm around the two hives I’ve placed at the edge of Old Man Orchard. I should camouflage them or put them a little deeper into the woods, but the big white boxes need sunlight if I want the bees to survive the long winters, so it’s a tradeoff I guess. (more…)

Please see Verse 1 of The Minister

The Minster: Verse 2

Against the gentle whump, whump, whump, of the helicopter blades, Paul Jollie listened to the last thirty seconds of the mp3 over and over again. He’d put the earpieces of his ipod underneath the bulky headphones to try and drown out the noise of the ancient Huey he was now sat in. He was studying the photographs of the living room of the old croft where the attack had happened. He tried to visualise the knock at the door, the surprise of the occupants, that final desperate struggle and what had happened after the tape stopped, after the bloody violence ended. He had listened to the MP3 over and over again, studying to every nuance of Joe Wyndhams voice as he described the Minister and that final line, the voice of the Minister himself; that drawn out Scottish brogue dripping with menace. No matter how many times he listened, he couldn’t gather any further information from it and yet every time he listened to the recording the hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention. (more…)

ONE

A zombie lurched across the lawn wearing a red, white and blood letterman’s jacket. Pimples glowed on the pale face of the once living teenage boy.

Jeremy, seventeen years old himself, aimed a revolver out of the upstairs window of the cookie-cutter suburban house he called home.

“All right, you rotter…” (more…)

Dr. Amanda Mackenzie zipped herself into the bulky, blue biosafety suit, slipped on her yellow boots, and stepped through the first airtight steel door. She waited for the buzzing sound that signaled the depressurization of the closet-sized room she stood in and the green light that told her the final “Slammer” door was now unlocked. Stepping aside, she waved goodbye to a coworker, secured the door behind her, and watched through a small window as a chemical spray showered the leaving researcher. Next, she attached an air hose, cranked the little yellow handle which allowed fresh air into her suit, and found her place at the lab table where part of the anomaly squirmed in a Petrie dish. (more…)

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. (more…)

Morris blinked, looked down at his coffee on the table, then back at the restrooms where he’d been. Something had happened. Something big. The whole coffee shop was empty, only wisps of ash floating in the air. The peppy morning music still poured out of the CD player on the shelf above the milk machine.

There were no sirens, no honks from the street, though it appeared there’d been a massive accident, and several cars were pushed out of line. An SUV was actively burning, but no one was doing anything about it. Morris swallowed, took a big sip of his coffee, and put it down. He had to see this. (more…)

“Mr. Hawking,” his physics teacher used to say on an almost daily basis, “yet again, your namesake would be ashamed of your performance in this class.”

Classmates would snicker. Steve would blush and scan the quiz paper for the humiliating red letter scratched across the top.

“Why are you so dumb, Hawking? Hey Hawking, you’re no Einstein!” echoed the schoolyards and yellow buses. (more…)