Hell Hath No Fury

“Cheating bastard!” I fumed and waited for Donald to come home.

I found out about the affair six months ago and spent the last two preparing my goodbye. I waited calmly, just beyond the perimeter of my hastily scrawled handiwork. I heard the key turning in the lock.

Donald stepped inside and smiled at me. “Hi, honey! I’m home.”

His last words echoed shock and pain as he was suddenly consumed by the bright, hot flames which erupted and descended back into the pentagram scratched upon the floor where Donald had once stood.

“No,” I laughed madly. “Now you’re home.”

The Lust, The Flesh (an excerpt from Zombie Nation: St. Pete)

This week I'm sharing with you an excerpt of my story "The Lust, The Flesh" which appears in the local zombie anthology, "Zombie Nation: St. Pete." You can purchase the anthology here: Zombie Nation Publishing. I'll be having a contest in the future to give away a couple of copies of the book. I'm open for suggestions about how to do the contest and have received some wonderful ideas already. Please feel free to post your suggestion here: Contest Ideas.

I looked for Hollis among the animated corpses. He was near the end, munching on somebody's big toe. 

I repressed a gag and called his name.

He turned a wound-covered, pepperoni-pizza face to me. His eyes were still clear blue; they hadn't yet taken on that milky glaze of the undead.

"Christine! Will you join us? We're taking over!" 

"No, Hollis." 

Pink-tinged tears fell from his eyes, and were absorbed into the rotting flesh beneath. I walked alongside Hollis, keeping pace with the marchers, but keeping my distance as well. There was a man in a black suit on the other side of Hollis. He was mumbling to himself. 

I looked at Hollis. He was definitely crying. What the fuck? 

"...the wages of sin is death," murmured the Man in Black. He sneezed, spraying bloody snot all over the back of the zombie in front of him. The newly painted Jackson-Pollock-canvas didn't even flinch. 

"I love you, Christine! I want to marry you."

Highlight of my life. A proposal from a zombie. 

"You're a zombie, Hollis. You don't love anything except flesh and brains," I said.

The Man in Black lurched, as if my words caused him pain.

"The lust! The flesh!" he shouted.

"What's his dealio?" I asked. 

"He was a preacher,” Hollis said. “Practicing for Sunday's sermon when we busted into his church. He's still trying to preach, I guess."

I nodded. A fresh one. It seemed the newer the zombie, the more they held onto to their former selves. It was the passage of time that rotted the zombies’ grey matter. Hollis had only been reanimated a few days ago. Still, he seemed more lucid than the preacher.

"Hollis, what started this?"

Hollis shook his head. His eyes glazed over—I thought for a moment I was losing him—but they cleared, baby-blue again and he seemed okay. 

"Remember that festival awhile back? Zombie Fest? Well, there was a real zombie from California here and he infected someone."

California. That figures. Damn tourists always causing trouble.  

"A real zombie, Christine!" Hollis looked like an excited kid on Christmas; an undead kid with putrid, maggot-infested flesh.  

#

We were headed towards downtown. A crowd gathered, lining both sides of the street. If there were cars ahead of us, they quickly got out of the way, even on U.S. 19, where traffic stopped for no man.

The spectators began to jeer and throw things. Not a smart thing to do, in my opinion. "Go back where you came, you undead bastards!" a male voice yelled. 

And just where might that be? None of them had been buried, so the only thing they could return to would be their normal, living state—and that sure as hell wasn't going to happen. Here were people bitten and infected with a plague. From California. I laughed. Eighty percent of the population there are brain-dead anyway.

A zombie a few rows ahead of us dashed out of his line and grabbed the man from the sidewalk. The man struggled, but it was no use. The plague caused those stricken to have superhuman strength; especially when they were pissed off.  

The crowd screamed as the zombie bit into the struggling man's neck, severing his carotid. Blood spewed from the open wound. The man jerked twice…and then was still. I turned away just as the zombie lowered his head and began to feed. Hollis craned his head to watch, which disturbed me greatly. 

"Where are we going, Hollis?"

"We're goin' straight to hell, where old serpent Satan flaps his wings, to fan the flames of our destruction!"

"Cool it, padre," I said. "It'll be okay," He looked over and rolled his eyes at me as if to say 'Don't bullshit me, sister.'

A woman's voice rose amongst the spectators.  "I hope they kill every stinkin' one of you, zombie freaks!" Some of them held hastily crafted cardboards signs. One in particular read: "Leeve Our Branes Alone!" That one made me grimace. 

“The stupid always survive,” I grumbled. 

Hollis hadn't heard a word I'd said. He was drooling, still trying to watch the zombie buffet. I tugged his bloody shirt sleeve, and his head snapped back; he looked at me with an eerie calm. I shivered and hoped he didn't notice.

"I asked you where we're going."

"Uh, I dunno...hang on." 

Hollis tapped the shoulder of a female zombie in front of him. She was missing an ear and her nose was decayed to a pulpy mass. 

"Do you know where we're going?"  

"Coast Guard.” 

"Why are you going to the Coast Guard?" I asked, but I had an awful feeling I knew. 

Hollis again reached to tap No-Ear Woman. I pulled him back. 

"Never mind." 

Scanning the horde, I wondered who the mastermind might be, if there was such a being. I thought about asking Hollis, but he didn't seem to know much about the plans of his brethren, if there were any. 

I guess I knew then that I couldn't save Hollis. There was no cure for this plague, and by the time the government got around to doing anything, the whole state, from Key West to Tallahassee, would either be dead or undead. The thought brought tears to my eyes.  I had loved what used to be the man walking next to me. But I also knew I couldn't let him, or the others, transform me. I wasn't ready to put brains on my list of gourmet delicacies, so I had to take care not to get bitten. I still don’t know where the disease came from. Maybe some shit-head scientist fresh out of UC-Berkeley woke up one day and thought, "Geez, I'm bored...I think I'll create a zombie virus. Yeah, that would be cool!"

A shout from the crowd cut through my daydreaming. It was aimed at me.

"Whatcha doin' with them monsters, girl? You a zombie lover!!!" He was big, like an eighteen-wheeler with legs. He stuck a middle finger up in our direction. 

"Shut the fuck up, man!" Hollis shouted. 

"Make me, you friggin' corpse!" 

I couldn’t understand why these people came out to taunt an army of zombies. Hollis tried to get past me and lunge for Mack-Truck, but I pulled him back. Another zombie broke from the crowd and went for him, but he wasn’t alone. Two men were with him, and all three were armed: Mack-Truck had a tire iron; the other two had Louisville Sluggers. Mack swung the tire iron, and it connected with a loud crack. The zombie went down. It was dead, but the men continued to beat it into a lumpy, fleshy mass oozing on the concrete, not hard considering the fact that this zombie was already rapidly decaying. 

We continued the march. As we neared the police station, I became anxious. There were police cars parked at the station, but I couldn’t see any officers in the crowd. 

A shadow appeared at my side. I glanced up into another pair of living eyes. 

It was Kevin. 

Kevin worked in the same office I did. He was extremely shy and extremely unpopular. No one talked to Kevin unless they had to and Kevin, likewise, spoke only when spoken to. He was an efficient, hard worker. Therefore, the other employees were continually seeking ways to get him fired. I never understood why it was that slackers always wanted to see the people doing the work get fired. Hell, it was because of them that they got to slack off. 

"Hello, Christine," Kevin said, smiling. I had never notice that he had such a nice smile; probably because I'd never seen him smile before. 

I had also never seen him outside of the office. His casual attire was very different than the business suits he wore to work. He was dressed in blue jeans, a faded Lightning shirt and a black, leather motorcycle jacket, which set off his wavy brown hair and blue eyes. 

Damn! Kevin was hot!

"Um...Hi." 

"Sorry about your boyfriend," he said.

"Thanks." 

I was suddenly aware of Hollis stiffening at my side. My jealous zombie boyfriend. 

"Er...Hollis? This is Kevin. He works with me."

Hollis glared. 

"Idle hands are the tools of the devil!" Preacher barked. 

Kevin shrugged. "I think it's horrible what they're doing."

This seemed to satisfy Hollis, but not me. I looked at Kevin. He read the question in my eyes.

Kevin leaned over. 

"When we get to the fences, veer off with me and prepare to haul ass," he whispered.

"Why?" I asked. 

He looked wary. "Just be prepared.”

“Do you know why they want to get to the Coast Guard?”

"Well, they just can't go shambling into Tampa International Airport now, can they?" 

He had a point.

In print...finally...

Yesterday I went to the mailbox and was delighted to find that my copy of "Oh, the Horror!" by Static Movement had arrived.

This anthology of short horror tales is the first printed book where my work appears that is sold by distributors (Pill Hill Press for now, eventually Amazon).

I can't begin to express in words how giddy I was when I opened the book and saw my two flash stories, "Out of the Box," and "Telescope Moment" listed on the Table of Contents page as being on pages 78 and 82 respectively.

Then I went to those pages in the book and stared at them for a good, long while, trying to fathom my feelings about seeing my work in a book.

Don't anybody pinch me.

I might wake up.

A post about upcoming posts...

It's been awhile since I posted any news on my blogs.

It's not that juicy news hasn't been happening, it's just that I've been buried up to my eyeballs in schoolwork and this is a scenario that is not likely to change anytime soon.

I have a couple of items I want to post about concerning upcoming stories of mine that are being published (think zombies, ghosts and a meteor strike).

The biggest news is my story 'The Lust, The Flesh' has been accepted for publication in the upcoming local anthology 'Zombie Nation: St. Pete.' I am working on a post with various news items and links about this project that could be a big step forward in my writing career.

I have other publication news to share also in that upcoming post. I'm working furiously between school studies trying to put together this post and another one, about a special memorial service that my husband's family had for him in Massachusetts last month.

About my college career. I attended an orientation meeting Monday afternoon for the Phi Theta Kappa International Honor Society. I signed up to be a new member. Looking forward to the academic benefits of being a member of that organization.

These last couple days has been all about me joining organizations. Last Thursday, I became a two-year member of the Florida Writers Association, another group that is sure to benefit me greatly.

The future is looking very bright.

Out of the Box

This story is rated R for language and the disturbing element of annihilating happy childhood memories. Enjoy. UPDATE: Published 9/27/10 in Oh! The Horror anthology

He woke up in the dark, tried to scream and couldn't. 

He was standing, that much he knew because his legs were sore. He was in a tiny closet. No, that wasn't right. He was encased: tomb-like, in a wooden crate like a coffin, but with the lid at the top over his head. 

Someone had put him in here while he had been passed out from the party. And how long ago had that been? A couple of hours? More? He did not know. He felt something hot and wet trickling down his face. He wriggled his arm up in the small space and tentatively touched the spot that was sore. His nose. It was bleeding. Did someone hit him in the face? He couldn't remember. He hoped it wasn't broken. 

He heard a scritching sound. In the faint light that entered the box through small cracks where the boards were nailed, he could see something small moving in the box with him. He hoped to God whatever it was, it wasn't poisonous and that it would not crawl up his leg. He tried to move his feet away from the thing, and found they would not budge. Maybe the soles of his shoes were nailed or superglued to the bottom of the box. Or maybe the psycho who put him here nailed his feet down. He was so numb from standing he didn't think he'd be able to tell. 

His head ached. His stomach felt empty and raw, like he might have thrown up earlier. Hungover, maybe. He couldn't remember anything.

The scratching noise ceased and, looking down, he saw the other occupant of the box perched on his shoe. It looked like a large, furry cockroach.  

It was then he started to cry. 

He lifted his hand again and pushed against the lid at the top of the box. No give, but he thought he heard a sound like the ping of a tightly coiled spring. Maybe the lid was hinged?

He was starting to feel for hinges around the edge of the lid when the voice spoke. 

"Boy?" it said. 

He gasped. He KNEW that voice! 

"Let me out," he pleaded. "Please!"

"You lied to me. You ran away again."

"I'm sorry. Please...let me out of here." He looked down again and thought he could see the hairy roach (OR WAS IT A SPIDER?) climbing up his pants leg. "There's something in here with me!"

The voice outside the box chuckled. It sounded coarse and evil. "You've met the little friend I put in with you, then."

"PLEASE!" he yelled. 

"Relax, boy. I'll let you out...eventually. But first, you must sing." The voice sounded close now, like it's owner was standing right next to the box. 

"Sing?" The boy in the box shuddered. It was then he knew the man who had once loved him had gone mad. 

"Yes. Sing,. And make it good. Something peculiar to your situation, perhaps."

Something peculiar to his situation? Well, his situation was pretty much fucked. He shut his eyes and tried to remember some of the music he'd heard at the party with the older kids.

"Come on!" shouted the man on the outside of the box. "SING! SING OR DIE, DAMN YOU!" 

Then there was a loud BANG and the box tilted slightly, causing his head to crash painfully into one of the corners. He winced and felt fresh blood trickling down his temple. He looked down and saw that the hairy roach/spider/thing had crawled up to the crotch of his pants. He looked away quickly, praying that he wouldn't piss himself. Or worse. Then he remembered a song he'd heard and threw back his head in both defiance and fear and sobbed out the first verse of "Man in the Box" by Alice in Chains. 

The voice laughed. "You're no man...but you will be buried in shit. That's for sure." 

He didn't want to die in here, not like this, with some foul thing crawling slowly toward his head. He looked down. It was on his stomach now. It no longer looked like a cockroach, but he wasn't sure what the hell it might be. It was big. He closed his eyes and shivered. 

"Please. Let me out. I promise I'll be good." The pain in the center of his face flared up briefly.  

"No, you little liar! Not until you sing the right song!" 

The boy felt a tingling on his hand and did not dare to look at it. He knew the bug thing was now climbing onto his hand. 

He ran through every prison song he could think of, from Folsom Prison Blues to He's in the Jailhouse, Now. Every song that had to do with being caught, captured, locked up. After each one, the voice only laughed. He was on the fifth chapter of R. Kelly's Trapped in the Closet when:

"ENOUGH!" The voice of the man who once had loved him bellowed. "Stop trying to buy time. You're going to die in there if you don't hurry it up, boy." 

Cheee-reep! The sound was sudden and close, startling him.

He flinched and looked down at his hand. What the—?

On his hand sat the world's ugliest mole cricket: huge, brown, and hairy, with one of it's wings torn off. The boy flinched and tried to move his feet again and felt a stabbing pain through the soles. Looking down, he saw that he was indeed nailed. Blood pooled at the bottom of the box. Whenever he moved his feet there came the sound of metallic pinging, like his feet were attached to coils...? The light switched on in his mind. 

Suddenly he knew what his father wanted to hear...he closed his eyes, trying to remember the words. He sang:

"All around the mulberry bush 

The monkey chased the weasel..."

On the other side of the box, Geppetto turned the crank. 

Telescope Moment

This story is rated PG-13 by my standards, for sexual references and the suggestion of violence.

Breathe. Turn and adjust focus. Nothing. 

Breathe. Pan across. Ah, there! The blond with her kid at the kitchen table. Doing homework. 

A worthless pursuit, watching them. A tall chest of drawers sat by the side of the entrance, obscuring from view the bottom two-thirds of the door. Who places a wardrobe next to the front door? Nothing worthwhile to see here. If she were to move the wardrobe, however—but he thought of the child and shook his head. No. Kids complicated things.

Breathe. Pan down. First floor. The slats of his blinds rustled as he panned the scope across the windows of the first floor apartments of the building opposite his. 

His hands trembled and his breath caught in his throat. 

That one. 

The careless brunette was getting ready for work. He could see in through her open bedroom window, her curtains parted just enough for the view. Her hair was sopping wet (fresh from the shower). Her naked back was turned to him. He felt a warmth begin in his stomach and spread to his groin. 

Breathe. He struggled to get his breathing back to normal as he watched her dress. She turned slightly when she put on her bra and he caught a glimpse of her breasts. He shuddered. He grunted angrily when she moved away from the window. He wanted to see if she would turn around when she put on her panties. So far, he'd yet to have a glimpse of that treasure. 

His frustration was made complete when she stepped back in viewing range a short while later, fully dressed. His erection subsided. He sighed, and contemplated how much she looked like that other one, the girl from that complex he'd lived in across town...he couldn't remember the name, that was so long ago and he moved around a lot. The frequent moves were necessary, of course. He couldn't take a chance on being caught. He'd nearly screwed up with that nurse who had worked at the hospital. But she'd been a lowly candy-striper. Far below the notice of a top-gun surgeon. He was one of few people the police never bothered to question. He'd been very lucky that time.

His excitement increased again as she disappeared in the direction of the living room. Trembling, he panned the telescope in that direction, following her movements to the door. She opened the door and began to exit, then stopped, locking the door from inside before closing it

He cursed under his breath and turned away from the telescope. He thought for sure she was going to slip again.

She'd been careless once before and he'd not caught it. He'd caught her reaction, though, coming from her bedroom one morning to discover she hadn't even chained the door, let alone locked it. He cursed himself time and again for not being more observant with that one. He could have completed his work and moved on. 

Still, she'd been careless once. She might be again. And so he watched. And waited. He kept a small bag of tools ready: rolls of duct tape, several pairs of latex gloves, a sharp knife, a sharper scalpel, a syringe, and a bottle of a certain tranquilizer to knock out and, eventually...after an indeterminate amount of fun...to kill. If only she would make the same mistake twice. Until then, he would bide his time. He had become very good at that over the years. 

Yes, the brunette from 610 might very well be The One, thought the man sitting in front of his window in unit 524. 

He turned his attention back to the telescope. 

If not her, then—

Breathe. Pan across. Adjust focus.