Writer of Horror Fiction

Archive for January, 2011

Review of Tony Schaab’s “The Eagle Has Reanimated”

The Eagle Has Reanimated is a short story that takes a look at the world Romero created with Night of the Living Dead and takes one of history’s most famous moments from that time period and puts them on a crash course. What if zombies had been real back in the late sixties? What if the world was just beginning to fall into the grips of the undead as NASA planned its launch of Apollo 11, putting the first man on the moon?

This is a short story, so I won’t elaborate on the plot too much. I will say that the author did some research here and gives us some interesting tidbits about each of the astronauts and other details surrounding the real elements of Apollo 11, while embellishing things with zombies in a fun and creative way that had me entertained from start to finish of this brief tale. I particularly liked some of added touches, which includes references to two characters from the movie Day of the Dead, as well as how a zombie and a breathing human would actually react to the vacuum of space.

If you are a fan of the classic Romero zombie, and especially his first trilogy of movies, this story fits in perfectly with that world…and beyond!

The Eagle Has Reanimated can be found here: http://www.amazon.com/Eagle-Has-Reanimated-Zombie-ebook/dp/B004KSPX00/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=digital-text&qid=1296487842&sr=1-1

Review of Joe McKinney’s “Apocalypse of the Dead”

Apocalypse of the Dead is technically a sequel to Dead City, Joe McKinney’s story about the initial night of outbreak as the dead take over San Antonio and one police officer must fight to survive his night in hell.  This novel actually takes place two years after Dead City, and the main character in that book is only briefly mentioned as the author of a novel on how he survived that night.  What AotD is all about is the bigger picture-the aftermath of the dead rising up due to a new virus coming into existence after several hurricanes hit the gulf coast of Texas.  Much of that coastline is now walled in by the government and the infected, along with those who survived the initial outbreak, are hidden behind those walls.  The government’s long term response to the outbreak has been to set up the Coast Guard and a new organization (Homeland Security/Border Patrol) to man the walls and the water, and prevent anyone (living or dead) from escaping.  Naturally, it was only a matter of time before some of the desperate scavengers and survivors who have been forced to live inside the wastelands behind the walls found a way to escape, and unfortunately, the boatload of refugees who end up washing ashore in Florida has infection running rampant amongst them.  Thus begins the worldwide spread of the virus that had been contained in a vast swath of coastal Texas for two years prior, and so begins this story, which is told from the perspective of a wide assortment of survivors attempting to make their way up north, where sanctuary is promised by the leader of a church who has led his flock to the Grasslands of North Dakota.
This is a stand alone book for all intents and purposes.  While I enjoyed Dead City and would recommend it, you don’t have to feel the need to read that first, although it does provide a fine introduction as to what has brought us to this point.  Dead City has all the makings of a zombie movie-one night, a police officer trying to survive, and non-stop action along the way.  AotD is more of a long term saga, and it does a good job of explaining everything as needed for the reader who doesn’t choose to pick up Dead City.  The story follows the path of several different groups and individual survivors and of course, their stories all intersect as things progress.  We have survivors all across the south lands: Florida, Mississippi, Texas, and California, all converging as their purposes and desire to find their way through the apocalyptic wasteland converge.  There are plenty of characters that I enjoyed getting to know, gradually, as they revealed more and more about themselves and how they cope with the pressures of this impossible situation.  There are plenty to like and dislike as I got to know them better, and the background environment-how the military, police, and civilians handle this madness, provides a believable atmosphere for the story.  I was fond of more than one of the characters, and I felt that they developed and morphed along the way, often in ways that demonstrated their human vulnerability quite well.  Ed, the retired Marshall, and Billy, the young convict he takes under his wing, were two particular favorites of mine.  Their bond is a reluctant one at first, but grows with time and lends strength to each character’s development.  Of course, there is a sizable volume of characters here, so a few don’t get as much attention as I would have liked to see-some of the female characters in particular didn’t spend as much time in the spotlight as I would have liked: Robin and Kyra in particular were compelling characters with obvious flaws who stood out for me and I would have liked to gotten to know in more detail.  I think that is the challenge of creating a cast of this size for a story-you can never delve deep enough into all of them and keep the story moving aggressively forward.  The author did just that: he moved this 500 page story forward at every step, keeping me focused on it page after page.

As I always try to do, I attempt to point out where I have concerns with a particular story, and I think here my complaints all revolve around Jasper, the head of The Family, which is the church that has set up a safe haven in North Dakota for his flock.  I try to avoid spoilers in my reviews, so this might be a bit vague, but I just felt there were a few things that were “off” about this preacher.  One of which is an amazing ability he displays early on in the story that is left unexplained to the reader there, or anywhere else in the story.  Suffice it to say, it was startling enough to have me raise an eyebrow, and I really want to understand the “why” behind this remarkable ability.  Another aspect of Jasper is more down to earth, and really has more to do with his ability to compel certain people than anything else.  While I certainly can understand the power that someone with charisma and a ironclad belief system have in convincing others to join with them, a particular character who displays a strong sense of independence and unlimited conviction throughout the book seems to dismiss all of that and embraces Jasper’s message without question after a very brief discussion with the preacher.  It’s as if everything about him before was turned upside down within a few minutes by a few well placed turns of phrase.  None of this is outside the realm of possibility, but those two elements and a few other details about Jasper were perhaps the only significant concerns I had about this book.

Overall, this is an excellent read, with a real handle on a practical, functional infection that could cause such mayhem.  These people are not dead, they are infected, and that infection progresses with the story.  I would be interested to see some of the later stages of infection detailed out more in the next book in this series-the stage 3 zombies sound quite chilling with their possibilities and predatory instincts.  AotD has a sense of realism to it (as much as can be expected from a zombie book, naturally) with Mr. McKinney’s knowledge of both police procedure, armed and unarmed combat, and disaster recovery on full display here.  I would rate this one up there with many of the most memorable zombie apocalypse tales I have read.

Apocalypse of the Dead can be found here:  http://www.amazon.com/Apocalypse-Dead-Joe-McKinney/dp/0786023597/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1296420561&sr=1-1

Review of Ian Woodhead’s “Shades of Green”

Shades of Green tells the story of a small town in England, Holburn, where the world has been turned upside down. A flashback to an experience two brothers had in the woods with more than one mysterious creature before the main story begins introduces us to this tale. After that, the sense of normality we see on the page lasts only a short while before we are exposed to people within the town becoming irrationally violent and several seemingly hallucinogenic trips or dreams intervening in the normal experiences of a few of the different key characters. Soon, it becomes clear that these trippy visions are actually the new state of affairs in Holburn, with a strange mix of science and magic boiling out of the ground and causing the populous to change, to morph into new biological creations. They are changing genetically, with strange creatures and demons being the results of the transitions. A few select people, including Damien and his girlfriend Jen, appear to be immune to these changes, or at least transitioning at a slower rate than everyone else, who are either being sacrificed to the evil forces at work or are working for them. The few survivors are the ones that must get to the bottom of this mystery, which unravels rapidly as the story surges toward its conclusion.

I liked the idea behind this story. It was a strange series of events that often left me puzzled, but intrigued enough to forge ahead to see what might happen next and what might happen at the end of the tale. In all honesty, I’m not sure I quite understood the explanations near the end, or what all happened along the way and the reasons behind them, but once again, this is a hallucinogenic, trippy tale that really would defy a simple explanation no matter how well I tried. The story is gore laced, gooey (a word I use because of the biological emphasis put on the reformation of both the human and animal elements of this town), and eerie, to say the least. I don’t want to spoil things for the readers, but I will say that this story shared elements of some of King’s works laced with a healthy dose of Lovecraftian flavor thrown in for good measure.

The issue I had with Shades of Green was with the editing. Now I will state very clearly that I am not a person who gets upset at typos and even a few contextual errors that show up. I expect that to occur with a self-published work. My belief is that if I can understand what the author was trying to say for the most part, I am good with that. With that said, I feel strongly that Shades of Green could have done with another editing run, because some of the errors left me confused as to the intention of the author at certain points in the book. The errors made this a more challenging read for me. Now this isn’t to say that I didn’t figure things out in the end, or throughout the story, but it slowed things down a bit. I will cite one example of the confusion I faced with the story, and it comes from the very first chapter: Damien and his brother Paul appear to be swapped in the first chapter. If this was the author’s intention as part of a dream sequence, it still left me puzzled and believing that after I had read the next few chapters that it was an error on his part: it was Paul who was having the vision from his past, or a dream, and not Damien. Then again, perhaps that was the author’s intention: to confuse the issue, because that would go along with the rest of the trippy nature of the story. Even so, another editing run through this book would serve it tremendously.

Overall, I enjoyed the concept of this book and I think the author has some wild and disturbing ideas. The editing was where it stumbled for me, but given that this is Ian Woodhead’s first book, I think he has a promising future in writing ahead of him.

Shades of Green can be found at:  http://www.amazon.com/Shades-of-Green-ebook/dp/B004E10WCC/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1296155046&sr=8-1

Dark Stories: Ray and Teddy, Part II

Here is the second half of the story of the two teenage boys.  This one is devoted to Teddy’s tale of his first exposure to the undead, and reveals some details about his family.  Not much more of an introduction is needed for this one, so without further ado:


Ray and Teddy, Part II

Teddy’s story was quite a bit different than Ray’s, but he had no interest in sharing it or anything else about his family with the other boy, or anyone else for that matter.  It just didn’t seem necessary.  His life had been altered permanently, like everyone else’s, and just like them he had a sad story to tell.  But it seemed like almost a violation of his privacy to share it with someone.

Teddy was an only child and his parents were much younger than Ray’s, but he had always been surrounded by cousins, aunts, and uncles his entire life.  His father and mother were born and lived in Ellington, Ohio.  Like the rest of his relatives, they stuck close the area, which was a small town not all that far from Manchester, where the RV’s were parked.

Teddy, like his father, had always been short but athletic.  His father was an outdoorsman who loved to hunt and fish and had tried extremely hard to pass that interest along to his son.  As many times as Teddy had been pushed out the door at four AM on cold fall mornings or was dragged along to sit all Saturday in a little boat out on a lake, he never gained much of an interest in either sport.  Instead, he discovered soccer.  His mother decided early on that he should be able to choose for himself what sports he could play and despite the fact that his father said no son of his was going to play a “queer” sport like soccer, his mother, who was usually quite passive, stood her ground.

Joe Schmidts never went to any of Teddy’s soccer games when he was little and even when his boy took up wrestling in the seventh grade, he didn’t think much of the sports his son had chosen.  By that time, Teddy’s parents were divorced and he was only with his father every other weekend.  They shared even less time than that together since all Joe ever wanted to do was go out on his fishing boat and get drunk on the weekends.  Teddy was old enough take care of himself, so he was left behind by his grumbling dad in the rickety shack he’d moved into after the divorce.

It was one of those weekends when things started getting strange.

It was about five PM on Saturday; at least three hours later than Joe usually got back from one of his typical fishing expeditions.  Usually his trips landed him no fish, but a case of empty Bud cans rattling around in the bottom of the ten foot aluminum Crestliner.  The boat was dented and beat up, but was the pride and joy of Ray’s father.  That and his collection of hunting rifles.

When his father finally did stumble into the house, he was drunk as a skunk, as Teddy’s mother used to say, and in a foul mood to boot.

Joe never hit his son, despite what Vicky believed.  He pushed Teddy around a bit to toughen him up, but never abused him.  At least not physically.  Usually he rambled on about Teddy being a wuss and that he should try out for the football team.  He was fast and could be a running back if he bulked up like his daddy.  Joe was all of five foot six himself, but weighed over two hundred pounds.  He claimed it had been all muscle in his day and perhaps that had been true when he had been a star player on the local high school baseball team.  But now his beer gut was the most impressive part of Joe’s physique.

Upon Joe’s return from his latest fishing expedition, he tripped through the door griping and growling, like he normally did.  But that wasn’t the first thing Teddy noticed about his dad.  It was the blood on his shirt sleeve and his sloppily bandaged hand.  It was wrapped with gauze from the first aid kit his father kept on the boat.  All the teen could get out of Joe was that some bastard had bitten him when he pulled his boat to shore.  After that, Joe proceeded to knock the man flat, kicking and punching him until he went down for the count.  After regaling his son with the brief story, Joe threw up and collapsed to the floor.

After checking to make sure he was still breathing, Teddy dragged his father to the couch and with a Herculean effort, got him up on it.  His father didn’t wake up the entire time his son manhandled him.  Teddy then managed to clean up the vomit, which had left a foul trail from the spot where his father fell all the way to the couch.  It bothered the teen that there was blood in his father’s puke, but he didn’t think much of it.  It wasn’t the first time that had happened.

Teddy glanced at the bandages on his father’s hand and dismissed them as well.  The gauze looked gross, but not too bad-the wound underneath had stopped bleeding.  He doubted the validity of the story his father had told, but had heard stories on the television about all sorts of the freaky stuff going on all over the place.  Teddy wasn’t much for TV so he didn’t pay much attention to those stories, figuring it was more of the same over blown crap newscasters were always babbling about.

Regardless, he made no connection between the news and what happened to his dad.  More than likely his father had done something stupid like get one of his fishing lures stuck in the webbing between his fingers where the cut was and in his drunken state ripped it out with some pliers.  Making up a ridiculous excuse about some nut job biting him just went with the territory with pops.

Teddy didn’t bother trying to take the bandages off or even looking too closely at the wound.  His father looked green around the gills and was probably going to throw up a few more times before it even got dark out.  Instead, Teddy grabbed a bucket from under the sink in the kitchen and set it on the floor close to his father’s mouth.

Teddy decided to go for a run to clear his head.  Exercise had always been like that for Teddy; it allowed him to think when all his thoughts seemed to be zooming by at a hundred miles an hour.  None of his friends liked running, even the ones he knew on the soccer and wrestling teams.  So he was typically in far better shape than nearly everyone else at the start of the new seasons of his two chosen sports.  In less than one month, soccer practice would begin and he wanted to make the varsity squad.  He would be the only sophomore if he made it, and his coach told him that he had a great chance this season.  There were enough seniors who had graduated the prior year that there would be room for one sophomore and he was hoping that Teddy would put in the effort to be that one.

Teddy couldn’t imagine not going full bore with every sport he tried.  Despite their differences, he knew that his father and he had persistence in common.  His father was a talented athlete, but said time and again that no one had given him a God damned thing—he worked his ass off for it all.  He claimed he got a scholarship to play baseball in college and did so for one year before he jacked up his knee.  And that, according to Teddy’s mother, was when the drinking started.  He and Vicky were married by then and Teddy came along a year later, but Joe was already on the path to oblivion well before his son was born.

Vicky had spotted Teddy’s natural abilities early on, as well as his endless energy, and got him into the peewee soccer leagues.  Wrestling was discovered later.  He excelled at it as well, but soccer was the boy’s first love.  Teddy dreamed of getting a scholarship like his father and leaving his small hometown for good.  The conditioning he put his body through would insure that he didn’t “jack up his knee” like dad, and maybe someday he would have the chance to play professionally.

So Teddy ran out of his dad’s dingy, broken down house out in the sticks and down his gravel road so he could clear his mind and focus on all his big goals for the future.

The other houses in the neighborhood were as cheap and shitty as his dad’s, and were populated mainly by Joe’s lame ass drinking buddies.  Buddies dad had made after the divorce.  All of them seemed as hateful and bitter as Teddy’s father toward women, and the world in general.  At least he would not have to put up with them tonight, since his father probably wouldn’t be awake to call them over.  Hopefully he would he would stay passed out all damn night and Teddy could head back to mom’s by noon the following day.  It wasn’t like dad wanted him around when he had a hangover anyway.

After about an hour of running, things started to look strange out on the road.  Teddy had followed his typical route of five miles down the road and back again.  He was about a mile from his father’s when he noticed a few people in their overgrown yards stumbling around nearby.

Must be Miller time. It seemed a bit early, but who was he to judge?  His father was already passed out on the couch and Teddy hadn’t seen anyone who lived along this back road that ever met a beer they didn’t like.  Still, it was only six o’clock.  Usually they were just getting started at this point and wouldn’t be fall-on-their-faces drunk until ten if they decided to stay home or a bit later if they headed to the local tavern Joe frequented with many of them.

What was stranger still was the fact that Teddy was seeing at least six or seven people out on their lawns all looking exactly the same-stoned out of their gourds.  His best guess was that someone had a booze picnic-he had to chuckle at the fact that his dad hadn’t been invited.  If he wasn’t passed out, Joe would’ve been pissed at the snub.

Teddy kept his eyes trained on the road, setting one foot in front of another, watching his feet kick up dust on the gravel road.  And yet, he couldn’t help but notice the people stumbling around.

It wasn’t just how they walked.  That would have been enough for Teddy to think it somewhat funny.  But as he glanced even closer he realized they looked messed up.  Really messed up.  Every last one looked like they had thrown up all over themselves, and not just with normal vomit—there was blood and other gunk all over their clothes.

After a few more moments of jogging, Teddy dared to look at one of the drunks head on.  He figured he could divert his eyes just as quickly if need be; if the person saw him staring and took offense.  Teddy learned that keeping his eyes diverted from some of his father’s “friends” was the best thing he could do most of the time.  They wouldn’t necessarily leave you alone because of that, but for the most part it kept them from pushing too hard when they were three sheets to the wind.

When he glanced at Missus Chilton, it was the first time that Teddy suspected that these people weren’t just drunk.

Marge Chilton was a widower who was probably ten years older than Teddy’s father, and Teddy unfortunately also knew from his dad that she was easy, which was grosser than just about anything.  Most of the men in the area had taken a “whack” at ‘ol Marge, and if what dad said was true he had ridden her a time or two as well.  That was far more than what Teddy needed or wanted to know about his father’s sex life, though Joe thought it was hilarious when his uptight son turned beet red and ran out of the room after several graphic descriptions of his conquests.

When Teddy worked up the courage to take a look at Missus Chilton, he stumbled and fell hard to his hands and knees on the gravel.  The pain was intense, though he barely noticed it as his eyes never left the woman stumbling toward him.

Marge Chilton’s left cheek was gone.  Teddy’s eyes were glued to the hole where he saw her jaw working underneath.  It was a bloody mess, with the white of her teeth and pale gums clearly outlined.  Part of the skin that had either been torn or ripped free remained behind and jiggled as she opened her mouth and moaned.  It was like nothing Teddy had ever heard before.  A ball of what looked like phlegm landed with an audible plop in front of her as her jaws split wide.

She was in a house coat, exposing a small and tight fitting nightgown beneath.  In the lunacy of the moment, Teddy could tell it was silk and that his mother had one just like it.  It clung tightly to the middle aged woman’s body.

Missus Chilton had been an attractive, if rather trashy, woman and her forty five year old figure still garnered its share of looks.  Teddy was not sure how trashy she really was, but she had been at his father’s house with all the guys and a few other women on occasion, and was hanging on a different man each time.  She smoked like a chimney and even tried flirting with Teddy once, which had ended with a horrified look on his face and her cackling like some insane witch at how funny she thought she was being.

The silk nightgown was covered in a brown fluid that Teddy guessed was a mixture of blood and something else he didn’t want to know anything about.  More importantly, she was shambling toward him across her small front yard.

“Missus Chilton?  Are you okay?”  Teddy winced as he tried to get back up and pushed up on hands that had a thousand shards of gravel jammed into them.  There were no cuts, at least.

She responded with another moan and if anything, it seemed even higher pitched than the one before, as if his voice excited her.  Teddy’s gut clenched as he got to his feet and inched backward.  He was afraid he was going to throw up as he imagined this horny old bag wanting to screw him, ripped up cheek and all, right here on the gravel road that ran in front of her house.  It was insane, but no more so than any of the other thoughts running through the boy’s mind at the moment.

As he continued to move backward and repeated “Missus Chilton?” one more time, Teddy spied something out of the corner of his eye.

There were several other people moving toward him.  The same ones who’d been stumbling around their yards like Missus Chilton.

They were walking just as slowly as the woman who was now only about ten feet from where the teenager stood.  As Teddy looked a bit closer at the one nearest, two houses down, he recognized Phil Gomez.  Phil was one of the few people who Teddy liked in his father’s neighborhood.  He drank like all the rest, and yet never acted drunk.  While he hung out with the other folks when they got together, he seemed to be the only one with a level head.  He always had something nice to say to the boy and didn’t mock him for playing soccer like his father encouraged everyone to do.

Phil looked just as screwed up as Marge.  Even more so.  There was a big chunk of meat missing from his right arm and a great deal of dried blood around the wound.  Teddy couldn’t see Phil’s eyes all that well but he thought they looked more cloudy than usual.  But what really stood out about the man was the fact that his midsection was a ragged mess.

Phil’s t-shirt was shredded, as if someone had tried to tear it off him like he was some sort of rock star.  The collar and sleeves were still intact, but the lower half was completely gone.  So were most of his internal organs below the rib cage.  Bits of gristle and whatever dark tubing that was supposed to be inside him were dangling down to his jeans.  Thankfully the denim was holding up, along with his spine.

When he moaned like the woman closing in on Teddy, the boy nearly fell again.  He felt woozy, but managed to stay on his feet.  His knees were weak, though the pain from where he’d fallen on them was already forgotten.  Behind Phil were at least three other people who looked as messed up as him.

Marge was getting closer.

Teddy panicked, not sure what to do.  He turned to face the direction he had been running, figuring he was faster than any of these people even when they had been … been what?  Normal?  What the hell is wrong with these people? What did this to them?

It still didn’t occur to Teddy that the things he heard on the television were somehow correlated to this.  That was the kind of crap you saw in the one of those sensational magazines his mother got a kick out of at the checkout stands in supermarkets.  This was real. It was here and now.  This was happening to people he knew.

When he turned back to the road, Teddy realized what a predicament he was in.  There were even more of them coming.

He didn’t bother counting.  There was more than he could slumping toward him.  If he didn’t move soon, he would be surrounded.

The teen took off running.

He didn’t remember the rest of the roughly three quarters of a mile to his father’s house, except when dodging a few grasping hands.  Teddy thought he had felt some fingers swipe the back of his shirt, but wasn’t quite sure.  He didn’t bother trying to speak to anyone after Missus Chilton, although he thought he saw Rodney Williams, the African American guy who lived two doors down from his dad.  Teddy always remembered that Rodney seemed blacker than black, his skin almost charcoal in color.  All his father could think to say about the man was something nonsensical like “he sure as hell ain’t high yella,” before laughing like a loon.  Teddy had no idea what it meant, but was sure it was offensive.

Rodney was the only black man in the area and some of the other neighbors didn’t seem to like him all that much for that reason, but Joe Schmidts had no issues with anyone as long as they brought beer with them when they visited, and Rodney always did.  He was as much of a lush as the rest of them.

Teddy got to the door without a scratch, although he was drenched in sweat and panting.  He opened the front door and slammed it shut behind him, locking it.

Teddy saw that the couch situated next to the front door was empty before he even got the door locked.  Screaming for his father, Teddy’s heart nearly exploded when Joe stumbled out of the kitchen.

He didn’t look as bad as the others outside, but it was clear that whatever had gotten a hold of them had gotten to him as well.  Joe’s skin had a grayish hue to it, and his eyes looked strange in the thin slivers of light trickling through the broken blinds on the front window.  But it was the sound emanating from Joe’s mouth that confirmed it for Teddy.  It was the same haunted, keening noise that he’d heard outside; as if some great sadness had gripped his father.

“Dad?” was all that Teddy managed to ask before Joe lunged at him.  Perhaps it was the adrenaline, or the realization that it was pointless trying to break through whatever fever had a hold of his father’s mind, but Teddy managed to dodge the sloppy attack and make a run for the bedroom before Joe could do much more than growl in frustration.

Teddy rushed into his father’s bedroom and locked the door.  It didn’t take long for him to hear banging on the front door over the sound of his own heavy breathing.  But it wasn’t until his father’s fists slammed into the bedroom door that a startled yelp burst from Teddy’s lips.

Looking around the room, Teddy moved to the small window that faced the backside of the house.  He could see several people moving toward the house across the acre-sized back lawn.  It took only a moment to confirm that they were in the same shape as the others.  Tugging on the pull cord, Teddy let the blinds drop across the window so they wouldn’t spot him.

Hearing glass shatter from across the house, Teddy knew that it was the back door being broken into.  The pounding on the front door continued, but he could already hear footsteps moving through the kitchen.  It didn’t take much to deduce that whichever neighbors were inside the house would be joining his father at the bedroom door within seconds.

Teddy rushed to the beat up dresser near the door and pushed against it.  It didn’t budge at first, but as he let out a grunt of frustration, he felt it slide an inch or two across the ratty carpet.  The sound of the effort acted as an incentive to his father, who increased his pounding on the door.  The cheap wood of the door wouldn’t hold up long and that was all the motivation Teddy needed to continue straining until he managed to slide the dresser in front of it.  The frame continued to rattle, but the heavy piece of furniture would at least give him a few minutes to think of an escape plan.

Scanning the sparsely decorated room, Teddy stepped to his father’s closet.  That was where the rifles were kept.  When Joe and Vicky were still married, he had a nice display case in the basement for all his weapons.  It was locked, but had a glass front.  All the rifles had trigger locks as well, which was something Teddy’s mom had insisted on.  Since he’d moved, Joe was forced to sell the display case to a friend and had taken each rifle and blasted the trigger locks to pieces.  Teddy supposed it was his father’s way of getting back at his mother for everything she had ever done to him.

Now the few rifles that remained in his collection were buried on the bottom of the closet.  The only admonishment that Joe ever gave his son anymore was “don’t touch them or I’ll break your neck.”  Teddy never had, until now.  He sifted through the pile of dirty clothes on the floor and grabbed the Springfield Model 70.  It was his father’s favorite.  He had been forced to sell most of the others to pay child support and alimony.  He couldn’t find steady work in construction so the collection, which had originally consisted of upwards of thirty different weapons, had diminished to about five rifles.  He’d handed over the shotguns and other rifles to some dealers and collectors, but held on to the old Springfield, even though it was probably was worth more than any of the other weapons he had.  It was Joe’s baby and when he’d bought it at a gun auction ten years before he swore up and down he would never part with it.  His father, Teddy’s grandfather, had one just like it and Joe grew up using it.

Teddy held the rifle awkwardly.  He had never fired it and had never really wanted to.  Guns held no fascination for him.

He grabbed a box of .30 caliber rounds and noticed that several other boxes said 7.62mm on them and knew that he could grab them as well—his father had taught him that much, at least.  He loaded the rifle as he had seen his dad do and poured as many bullets as he could into his pockets without feeling weighed down.  Moving out of the closet, Teddy glanced over at the dresser and opened one of the drawers.  He grabbed a pair of balled up socks and poured more of the stray cartridges into one of them.  He wasn’t quite sure what he was doing, but filled it about half way up and then tied the opening of the sock off into a thick knot.  Swinging it around a couple of times to test its weight, he hoped it would do the job of knocking someone silly if they got too close.

Staring at the dresser, Teddy watched it vibrate as several fists pounded on the door behind it.  There were at least three people out there with his father now, and he was sure more would be joining them.

What the hell is wrong with everyone? It was the thought racing through Teddy’s mind as he stood, stunned and panting inside his father’s bedroom.  They were in varied states of messed up, with his own father the least so.  He remembered his father saying that someone had bitten him and that was starting to make more sense.  Perhaps that was what caused this.  Someone with rabies or hepatitis was out there attacking everyone, turning them into homicidal maniacs.

The more his mind raced, the stranger Teddy thought it was that no one out there appeared to be attacking anyone else.  They were all bloodied and messed up from some type of assault, but they were all after him, not one another.  Watching the door, Teddy held the rifle in front of him as he glanced furtively over to the window.  No one had attacked his dad-he couldn’t hear any brawling going on outside the bedroom door, and yet they all wanted to get at him.  Why?

Taking one last look around the room, Teddy cursed.  No phone.  His father had one phone and it was next to the couch.  The man refused to get a cell phone and it damn near took a court order to get him to buy an answering machine.  There weren’t too many people that Joe was interested in talking to anyway, and that left Teddy in a bind.  What the hell was he going to do?  In answer to his silent query, the sound of the bedroom door cracking made Teddy take a step back deeper into the room.

The truck!  His father’s truck was parked next to the house.  The beat up old shack didn’t have a garage.  Just a cheap sheet metal cover that counted as a car port.  The old beat up Chevy S-10 was underneath it with the boat attached behind.  Teddy had always shaken his head at the amazing luck his father displayed in driving back from the small lake where he fished.  They were out in the country, so he was almost always able to avoid the cops on his drunken returns home.  He was not quite as good with trees and fence posts though.  The truck had suffered some pretty nice dings and dents and Joe spent some plenty of his free time fixing a few neighbor’s split rail fences.  Fortunately for him, they were as apt to get ripped and do the exact same thing, so they were more or less forgiving of his indiscretions.

But where were the keys?

He thought back to his father’s return.  The old man didn’t carry the damn things in his pocket like a normal person.  If Joe remembered to get them out of the truck, he would usually toss them on a counter somewhere or underneath a pile of trash he had not cleaned up in months.  “My cleaning lady will get to it, but this is her year off.”  Some lame joke like that was always his excuse.  When Teddy tried to clean up once, his father told him to leave it.  He’d left the boy’s mother so he could get away from dealing with crap like that.

As the bedroom door splintered and the dresser shuttered, Teddy thought hard.  He couldn’t remember his father doing much more than throwing up and passing out when he got home.  That and talking about getting bitten.  No keys.  Were they still in the truck?

The question was rendered moot as the dresser moved and the door behind it gave way.  The moaning outside grew louder and it sounded like a lot more fists were pounding on the front door as well.

Teddy moved to the window and peaked through the blinds outside.  Nothing.  Just the weedy back yard that seemed to stretch for a mile.  No more shambling forms.  Anyone moving toward the house were probably already inside and trying to get at him through the bedroom door.

The window was fairly small and was at chest height.  Outside of the dresser and the bed there was not much to climb on in the room.  It would take too long to move the bed underneath the window.  Being short sometimes was a real disadvantage.  Teddy couldn’t remember how he managed, but he was able to slide the window open and pull himself up just as the dresser toppled over and crashed to the floor.  He tossed the rifle outside as the sock full of cartridges swung like a pendulum from where he had tied it to his sweatpants.

Before sliding through the window, Teddy took one last glance back into the room, which was a big mistake.  He froze halfway out the window as he stared into his father’s eyes.

The man was dead.  Looking at Marge Chilton had not convinced Teddy of that, nor had seeing Phil, even with his guts ripped out.  But looking into his father’s eyes as the man climbed over the toppled dresser made Teddy realize they were dead.  Every last one of them.

Teddy almost died alongside them right then and there.  He continued staring at his father, stunned by his revelation.  His father was dead, but somehow moving toward him.  The teen was frozen in place as his father crept closer, just a couple of feet away.  Joe would grab him by the legs and pull his son back inside where everyone in the neighborhood would do unspeakable things to him.  Then he would become one of them.

That was when Teddy felt the hand yanking him out the window.

He screamed as he fell to the ground, knocking down whoever had pulled him outside.  His legs had been scrapped up in the fall and the bag of bullets had landed on his back, knocking the air out of him and leaving some nice gouges there as well.

Teddy rolled away, trying hard to catch his breath as the other person climbed to their feet.  He rolled to his back so he could see what was going on.  As he looked up, he discovered that his savior was one of them.

He didn’t recognize this person.  It was man dressed in denim overalls with one of the straps missing.  So was the man’s right arm.

Teddy gaped at the man and once again felt as if he couldn’t move.  The rifle was behind the ghoul, out of the reach.  Not that he could manage his first shot with the weapon anyway.  There was no way in hell.  The only thing he could do was run.

Teddy tried to scoot backwards, but the man was moving faster than he could scoot.  When he did scoot, he heard the bag of bullets making noise as the cartridges clicked together in the sock.  He reached and tugged at it.  He had tied it to the pull string of his sweats and it had tried to break loose when he fell, but remained where he’d put it.  Teddy had tied it tight, wanting it to remain snug to his body.  Now he cursed as he struggled to get it loose.

The memory of how long it took to fumble the sock free played over and over in Teddy’s dreams for days.  In reality, it took less than a couple of seconds and then he was able to launch the makeshift sling at the man well before he could lunge for him.  But in his dreams, it was always one second too late …

Teddy watched as the weighted sock traveled upward and smacked the stiffening corpse in the nose.  It caused the man to stumble.  After a moment the monster regained control of his erstwhile feet and moved toward Teddy again.  By then the boy had snapped out of his trance and was on his feet, slipping backwards, away from the man.  The truck was on the side of the house, past the pus bag in front of him.  But that wasn’t the only problem: someone was stepping out the back door of his dad’s house and others were following.

A voice inside Teddy’s head managed to cut through all the static and noise racing around in there.  It whispered that he already knew that he was faster than any of these people.  All he had to do was move, and move quickly and there was no way in hell they could catch him.

He took the voice at its word and decided to run straight at the man.  This seemed to take the slug off guard a bit and it nearly toppled over.  Teddy feigned another move and the klutz did fall over this time.  Moving past the wriggling form, he snatched up his father’s rifle and then darted around the other dead figures pouring from the house as he ran to the truck.

The keys weren’t in the ignition.

Teddy slammed his fist against the window and was tempted to shoot the damn thing out of frustration.  That was when he saw the keys.  They were on the floorboards beside a discarded fast food bag.  Yelping with glee, Teddy tugged on the door handle and got into the truck.  He crammed the key in the ignition and tried to start it.  The engine wouldn’t turn over.

The wretched thing was fifteen years old and holding on for dear life.  It had some hard miles on it and had been a good truck for many years, but it was well past its expiration date.  Teddy, who had never driven before, was winging it.  Thankfully it was not a standard transmission or he would have been forced to run instead.  He was reasonably sure he could handle an automatic.

When the first fist slammed against the glass, Teddy nearly wet himself.  He stomped on the gas pedal and twisted the key again.  Nothing.  He remembered his father cursing the old beast a time or two and bitching about having flooded it.  About how temperamental she was, almost as bad as his mother.  Teddy cursed himself and brought the rifle up.  There were more monsters coming.

He saw the first one moving its fist down toward the door handle and he locked it, wondering in amazement why he hadn’t done that in the first place.  After another few moments of staring at the man close up, he blinked and leaned over to click the passenger side lock down as well.

For the next few minutes, Teddy Schmidts felt like he had been condemned to hell as punishment for not playing football as his father wished.  Joe Schmidts became a drunken loser because his son was a great disappointment, but that wasn’t punishment enough for Teddy.  No, he was going to be surrounded by his father’s disgusting neighbors so they could drag him down to the fiery pits, kicking and screaming.

That was when Teddy saw his father again.  The old man came through the back door after somehow managing to realize he couldn’t follow his son through the window.  The other neighbors in the room had followed and were out on the lawn coming toward the truck.  There were at least ten of them and Teddy was certain he recognized at least half of them.

Teddy spent a great deal of time later wondering about the seemingly endless time he spent behind the wheel of the idle truck.  Perhaps he should have died then.  Maybe it would have been easier.  He considered putting the rifle in his mouth and pulling the trigger.  Contemplated it, but never took the idea seriously.  It was no more a viable option to his way of thinking than shooting out the window and trying to blow away all those dead people.  Maybe shooting one would scare the others off, but Teddy had a sneaking suspicion they wouldn’t be bothered by such an effort.  Half already looked like they had been mauled by wild dogs or worse.  A little old rifle blast would probably just get them more excited.

After forcing himself to wait the necessary amount of time (based on the amount of his father’s curses when he dealt with the flooded engine), Teddy was able to get the engine to turn over.  When it started up, the rotters got even more agitated and slapped their fists into the truck even harder.  Teddy flipped it into drive and lurched out of the car port.  The boat tagged along for the ride, at least until he turned his first corner and it flipped off its carrier.  Apparently his father hadn’t done a good job of securing it on his return trip from the lake, so the ten foot long fishing boat ended up in a ditch.

Teddy, who had been bound and determined to make it home to his mother’s after fleeing his father’s place, ended up crashing into a tree a couple of miles down the road when he attempted to avoid hitting an elderly man who he recognized from town.  The old codger had been infected like all the rest.  Fortunately, Teddy was able to escape the truck before Russell Torrance could attack him.  Russell was the oldest citizen in Ellington and had a gold plated plaque to prove it.  It had even been signed by the Mayor.  Now he was just the oldest ghoul in town.

Teddy spent the entire night trying to find a way past the infected so he could get to his mother’s, but had no luck.  After a sleepless night hiding out in woods near town, he realized he had to leave Ellington.  The area was swarming with those bastards.  There had to be someone, somewhere, who would know what to do.  Teddy hoped that his mom had escaped, but it was hard to believe that she had gotten out past the mess their town had become.  She lived near the center of town and the entire area was toast.  Several fires had been started, and he could hear gunfire and sirens off in the distance.  He prayed for her, but was already beginning to accept that she was gone for good.

The next few days were a nightmare of hiding and hoping.  When he was finally discovered by Michael’s group, Teddy had traveled nearly twenty miles away from Ellington and had only vague recollections of what he had ate and drank to stay alive.


Teddy glanced over at Ray.  He was his only friend now.  His father was dead and so was his mother.  Of that he was certain.  Unlike George, he’d seen the devastation wrought upon his hometown and knew there was no chance she had made it out alive.  He spoke to her on the phone just a couple of hours before his father got back to the house on that fateful Saturday and she told him she was going to stay inside the rest of the day.  There were strange reports on the news that were freaking her out.  It probably no big deal, but she asked him to be careful and not do anything foolish, at which Teddy had rolled his eyes.  Like what mom?  Get drunk with dad? He didn’t say it, but felt mild contempt for her concern, like any teenager would.

Thinking back on that conversation, Teddy was filled with tremendous guilt at the disdain he had for his mother.  She told him she loved him and he’d mumbled a response, like he always did, before hanging up.  That was the last time he ever spoke to her; ignoring her warnings and grunting at her like some sort of animal.  I’m so sorry mom.  I DO love you and I should have listened … not only then, but every time you tried to tell me something.

It took some time, but Teddy also realized soon enough that he loved his father too.  Despite the man’s flaws and contempt he showed for his son’s choice of sports, it was clear that his father cared for him.

Joe had revealed himself on occasion, when he was sober, as a man who actually cared about his boy.  It was clear to Teddy that his father was embarrassed about his failings and what his life had become-not that he would ever admit it.  Joe might not be the greatest dad in the world, but he didn’t deserve what had happened to him.

None of them did.


Dark Stories: Ray and Teddy, Part I

This is essentially a flashback for Ray and Teddy that I had originally put in Into The Dark as they waited for Jeff and George outside the convenience store.  Naturally, after realizing how big of a departure it was from the main story, I had to remove it, even thought it allowed these two characters, which up to that point had been extremely minor, to have more of a sense of existence to the reader.  I’ve broken it into two parts, and this one primarily deals with Ray, but also provides some more details on Teddy as well.  The second part focuses on Teddy and is a bit longer, and I plan on posting that in the next few days as well.

As always, I do my best to catch the glitches in editing, but I am sure there are some left behind here.


Ray and Teddy, Part I

The two boys took a little time making a connection after they met.  Certainly, there were some significant differences between them, but after a while, they took comfort in having each other to lean on.  Ray was a year older than Teddy, but given the fact that the other children in the group were significantly younger and the rest of the survivors were made up of adults, a minor difference in age and their distinctly different personalities didn’t seem to matter all that much to Ray and Teddy.

They were excited when Jason showed up, though the younger boy seemed to take more of a liking to Michael than them.  It only served to reinforce their belief that they were a team and they weren’t going to let anyone get in their way.

Ray was a self proclaimed computer nerd and was very proud of that fact.  His claims were, of course, untested since computers, like so many other things these days, were historical artifacts.  He jokingly introduced himself to Teddy as a “Nerd without a cause”.  Ray had been into video games and blogging, which was something that he had to explain to more than one person in their group.  He shook his head in amazement at the lack of awareness some people had of the wonders of the internet world.

He had felt strange and totally out of place within the group of survivors until Teddy showed up.  Even then, it took them a while to understand one another.  Ray wanted to talk about all the video games he missed and the website he had been creating with some online friends dedicated to Mystery Science Theater 3000, a show that had been off the air for years but lived on thanks to You Tube and Netflix.  Teddy, sadly, had never even heard of the show and sadder still, according to Ray, didn’t really care.  When Ray tried to explain the wonder of it all, Teddy interrupted him almost immediately with “It doesn’t really matter anymore, does it?”

From that moment forward Ray decided he would never speak of the show or any other useless hobbies he had ever again.  He never told Teddy how much the deadpan comment hurt, and that was partially because he had to admit that what the other boy had said was true: none of that stuff did matter anymore.  Not in the world they lived in.  He tried to get angry about that fact, but failed.  Everyone Ray had known who loved MST3K was dead, and so were all the other geeks he linked up with on Xbox Live to play Halo.  His world of computer screens and game controllers was officially dead and buried.

Even with Teddy’s brush off, the two boys worked hard to find common ground, in particular after they witnessed the deaths of several members of the group and even more so when they had to flee the factory.  Teddy was somewhat reserved and aloof with Ray at first, but with nothing much else to do when the survivors weren’t running or hiding, he began sharing more and more about himself with Ray.

Teddy Schmidts was a small kid, a few inches above five foot tall and weighing in at 100 pounds.  He was a freshman in high school and remarkably, at least to Ray, he had been quite popular with his classmates despite his diminutive stature.  Teddy didn’t speak of his popularity as if he was bragging.  Like everything he said, the words sounded genuine and honest.  There was no embellishment in anything Teddy stated or did.  He played soccer and wrestled and was good at both.  Despite not having the size to play football or basketball, he was strong and fast, which landed him on the varsity wrestling squad.  He had a good chance to make varsity in soccer as well by his sophomore year, according to his coach, if he stayed focused and kept improving his footwork.

Teddy had energy to burn, but athletics calmed him down.  He told Ray that when he was little, doctors advised his parents to get him into sports year round to help with his focus and concentration.  He had been diagnosed hyperactive, but did well with a lot of exercise.  As he got older, the hyperactivity dissipated and his grades improved.  Ray had wondered why Teddy felt the need to run around all the time and do pushups and sit ups like his life depended on it.  He still didn’t understand after Teddy’s explanation, since Ray loathed physical activity, but shrugged it off.  If it made his newfound friend happy, it was cool with him.

When Ray had asked about the Springfield rifle that Teddy had with him when they first met, Teddy stated that his father had been a hunter, though he refused to say much else about either of his parents beyond that.  He did let it slip that this particular weapon had been his father’s favorite, and Ray suspected that was a pretty important detail about Teddy’s life, and a good reason why he wasn’t so chatty about his family.  No one had any pleasant stories to tell about what had happened to their loved ones, so if someone didn’t want to talk about them, they were left alone.

Ray, on the other hand, didn’t mind speaking about such things and Teddy was good enough to listen.

He was the youngest of three, and as his mother described it, he had been a happy “accident” when he had come along in her early forties.  Ray’s older sisters were well into their twenties and he didn’t see them all that often anymore-he had no idea what had happened to them when the world had fallen apart.  They both lived in other parts of the country.

His father was an electrical engineer and his mother a librarian.  “Thus, I got my card as a charter member of the nerd society while still in the womb.”  They raised him to be proficient on the computer and a voracious reader, but had not graced him with many social skills.  Outside of an almost obsessive focus on his grades, Herman and Bess Jordan had little interest in their son’s social development.

When the first reports came on the air about the dead beginning to walk, Ray’s parents, like so many other people, dismissed it as mass hysteria.  It was only when local reports about riots and attacks in the streets of Cincinnati started showing up on the TV that they showed even the most remote interest.  It still took them a couple days before they came to the conclusion that they should do more than quibble with each other and take some action.  They piled into their car with the idea of driving out to a campground they had spent a single weekend at several years earlier.  The idea of heading to one of the National Guard shelters or remaining at their house seemed foolish.  From the campground, they would figure out where they could best sit tight to wait out this whole ridiculous mess.

They did not even get five miles from their house.

Caught in one of the many never ending traffic jams on the interstate, they sat waiting, like everyone else.  About an hour after getting stuck and watching other motorists leave their cars, Ray’s parents bickered and debated yet again about what they should do.  Since Ray’s mother had severe rheumatoid arthritis and his father was not in tip top shape either, it didn’t seem like such a good idea for them to grab what they could and hoof it.  The mini-debate was settled twenty minutes later when they saw people running and screaming in both directions along the median and breakdown lanes of the highway.

Ray, who was a nervous wreck at that point, watched as his father got out of the car despite the fact that his mother was pleading for him not to.  He told them to wait for him, and that he would be right back.  Herman moved off from them and for the next five minutes the two people he had deserted in the Volvo Station Wagon sat and wept.  Ray tried to comfort his mother by putting his hand on her shoulder, but she swatted it away, crying and screaming unintelligibly at him.  After that he balled up in the back seat and whimpered, imagining what was happening to his father and wondering what he should be doing.  His mother was hysterical, which was something entirely new to Ray.  It felt like his world had collapsed.

Things got worse from there.  His father finally came back to the car and opened his door.  Bess Jordan pled with him to get in and lock the doors.  After nearly thirty seconds of screaming, her voice elevating higher and higher with panic, Herman pushed her frantic hands away, hard.  He leaned into the car and the look on his face was one Ray would never forget.

It must have had the same impact on his mother because she went silent.  The last words Ray recalled his father saying were so quiet he was not quite sure he heard them correctly, but what he believed they were remained etched in his mind.

“We have to leave.  If we stay here, we’ll die.”

His father grabbed his mother by the arm and pulled her out of the car.  She resisted at first, most likely thinking Herman mad.  The look on his face was like nothing Ray had ever seen before.  His father had always been steady, composed, and dispassionate.  Ray found it nearly impossible to describe what had become of his dad to Teddy, except to say it looked like someone had scraped all the color out of his skin and replaced it with the same texture and color as milk.  It was as if his father’s blood flow had stopped.  His eyes were wide and bulging and he looked like some sort of side show freak as he gaped at Ray and his mother.

It took a couple of minutes for Herman to finally pry Bess free of the car.  As Ray opened his door and stepped out, he tried asking his father if they should take anything with them.  His inquiry was ignored for the most part as his father dragged his mother down the road.

Less than a minute later Ray understood what had caused his father to act as he did.

Their car had been stuck on the inside lane of the highway.  The cars had been moving at first, slowly inching forward, but then came to a halt.  Besides having bumper to bumper traffic, the median was clogged with more cars trying to sneak past everyone.  Overpasses with huge cement pylons had served as blockades to traffic along the grassy center strip every few miles or so.

The Jordan’s ran forward, limping along with the scattered crowds of other desperate people.  The obstacle course of cars required them to adjust their path continuously as other people plowed past them, bumping and shoving them with an equal amount of desperation.

Ray remembered hearing a noise behind him mixed in with the screams.  At first it sounded like a swarm of locusts and he remembered that being odd because he recalled locust only came out once every few years.  Maybe cicadas?  He had no idea if there was any difference between cicadas and locusts and dismissed the line of thought as useless.

Only in hindsight did the sound have any real meaning.

The Jordan family were buffeted and pushed around by most everyone rushing past faster than Ray’s parents were capable of moving.  As hundreds of people streamed by, Ray spared a moment to look back in the direction they had come from.  They were on a straight ribbon of highway that stretched for several miles off into the distance, and he could see everything behind them very clearly.

What Ray saw, and later told Teddy about, confirmed everything the news reports had been saying that his parents had found so hard to believe.  The dead had come back to life and were attacking the living.  Ray had remembered all the postings on the net spewing out rumor after rumor, and dissecting every sordid detail being reported from around the globe.  Some were absolutely ridiculous while others, especially the ones displaying extremely graphic photographs or grainy cell phone videos, were hard to dismiss.  Now he was bearing witness to everything he’d laughed about as the random ravings of internet sensationalists just a day or two earlier.  Nothing even the most artful fear monger on the web had tried to relay to the rest of the world could compare to what Ray was seeing with his own eyes.

People were being pulled out of their cars by other human beings who weren’t even waiting for them to clear the shattered windows and windshields before tearing into exposed flesh.  Some ganged up on the people in particular vehicles while others stood alone, smashing their bloody fists against windshields.  It all looked like some slow motion movie being played out frame by bloody frame.

Ray stopped running and watched the unholy scene unfolding off in the distance.

It wasn’t just those stuck in their cars being attacked.  Everyone on the road was fair game.  The slowest and weakest were being dragged to the ground, along with anyone who had the misfortune of being trampled in the mad rush to escape the claws of the rotting army marching toward them.  The old, the infirm, and those carrying small children were the easiest for the horde to overwhelm, while a brave few who chose to fight wielding an assortment of weapons such as golf clubs and hand guns were obliterated just as quickly as the horde of maddened cannibals poured in around them.

Ray gauged the distance to the closest fighting at about a half a mile.  There the feeders were still sparse, a recon force leading the way for a much larger mass of infected out beyond the horizon.  Ray’s eyes scanned further back and saw that their numbers were endless; they were a great consuming machine destroying everything within their reach.

Ray had looked up at Teddy at that point in his story and gave him a meek smile.

“I remember sitting on my porch when I was a little kid, watching an ant hill off in the dirt in my front yard.  I was always fascinated by the worker ants, when they carried all those little pebbles of dirt and bits of leaves down into their underground bunker.  I must have watched that ant hill for thirty minutes one day,” he laughed as his eyes grew distant.

“But then something happened.  Another ant, obviously not from that colony, because it was larger and red, wandered by and was attacked by all those smaller black ants.  It didn’t have a prayer.  It must have taken just a few seconds for it to be swarmed over.  The black ant army came in huge numbers and annihilated their enemy, dragging its carcass off down that same hole they used to carry all those pebbles and leaves.  I’m not sure if they ate it, and I really didn’t want to know, but that’s what those dead people reminded me of: those black ants, climbing all over their enemies and tearing them to pieces within seconds.”

Ray swallowed hard and paused before continuing his story.

Like the ants, the undead attacked as a unit, swarming over their victims mercilessly.  Ray remembered that all the black ants looked just like the bigger red ant except for the color and size, but the black ants sure had recognized the difference in species.

He watched the ghouls attacking the living with that same sense of fascinated dread as he’d had watching that insignificant skirmish on his front lawn years earlier.

The tide of the undead plodded along, excited yet systematic in their assault.  Some would stop and focus on a car where they thought someone was hiding, while the rest forged ahead, pursing the huge crowd of the living that had gone mad with fear.  A great sea of humanity was being pushed and prodded toward where Ray stood.

He realized he’d seen enough and turned to follow his parents.  It was only then that he realized that they were already gone.  They had not waited for their son to figure out what was happening and had left him behind.  Ray ran forward a few car lengths and then reversed his course and went back to his family’s car to glance inside; irrationally believing his parents might have returned to wait for him there.  He climbed on the hood and screamed for them, scanning the highway to the south, away from the slowly encroaching doom.  He couldn’t pick them out amongst the hundreds, if not thousands, of people surging away from his position.

Ray screamed for his parents once again, although his voice was drowned out by the screams and the sound of locusts he’d heard before.

Much like what George had discovered a few days later when he fled the high school gymnasium with Jason, it dawned on Ray that it was the song of the dead he was hearing, not some harmless insects.  They were crying out to him and the desperate refugees trying to flee from their inevitable grasp.  From his vantage point he could see thousands of the dead marching forward.  Those not busy biting or tearing into those frantic souls in their path were moaning.  They were moaning and as the sound emanating from their ragged, rotten vocal chords joined together, it sounded like some sort of deranged chorus.  It was so loud that it vibrated the car roof beneath his feet.

Ray could feel his grip on reality slipping away, but was coherent enough to realize that the screams of the living weren’t just coming from behind the car.  He turned around again and made one last futile attempt at a search for his parents.  There were people being trampled everywhere and he feared that given their physical condition, his mother and father might be injured.  As he looked further in that direction, thoughts and concerns for his parents evaporated.

The dead were coming from the other end of the highway as well.

They were further off in the distance, but still surging toward the living caught in the middle of the two groups of surging corpses.  They moved with a purpose, opening their arms and mouths to the crowd that appeared oblivious to their existence as they ran from the threat coming at them from the opposite direction.

Ray glanced around the immediate area and noticed that while most people were following the path of the highway in some blind attempt at escape, more people were taking off toward the trees surrounding the areas on both sides of the road.  There were sound barriers off in the distance that helped shield the neighborhoods abutting the interstate from excessive noise, but in the immediate area, the woods provided a natural barricade, and a fortunate exit route for those stuck on the highway.

There was no hint that any ghouls were hiding in those woods, but it was almost impossible to tell from Ray’s current vantage point.

He stayed on top of the car for a few more moments and screamed as he did.  This time, it wasn’t for his parents, but for anyone who would be willing to help him, to tell him what to do, or to take him away from this place.  He shouted at the people running by, warning them of what was up ahead, but either they couldn’t hear him or more likely, chose to ignore the pimply faced kid raving like a lunatic from on top of the Volvo.

Even in his state of growing hysteria, Ray knew what he was doing was pointless.  Everyone around him was already dead.  They just didn’t realize it yet.

He wasn’t ashamed to admit to Teddy it was at that point where he broke down crying.  It was easy to tell the other boy because Teddy had wept openly more than once during their escape from the factory.  It was a heck of a lot easier to admit you cried these days and only Frank and Marcus seemed to get upset if you did.

Teddy listened, fascinated as Ray completed his tale.  After another bout of crippling fear, Ray was able to give up on the idea of ever finding his parents again.  There was poorly hidden guilt on his face as he talked about sliding off the roof of the Volvo and making for the woods to the east of the highway.  When Teddy patted Ray on the back and smiled at him, the older boy felt a tremendous relief, as if a great burden had been lifted from his soul by revealing what was his darkest secret.

Not long after that, Ray managed to make his way to where Michael and his band of survivors were hiding out.  It had been a harrowing adventure for him, but most of it had consisted of hiding in dark corners and staying as still as he possibly could as the song of the dead haunted his every waking moment for the next few days.

After his story was finished, Ray never brought up the subject of his parents again.  Teddy was smart enough not to ask anything further, knowing that the guilt his friend felt was probably mixed in with a sense of betrayal and confusion at what they had done to him.  They had left him behind and that was almost impossible for Teddy to imagine being forced to cope with.


Comes The Dark up for a Predators and Editors Award!

Predators and Editors has a readers poll for Print/Electronic Horror Novel Published in 2010, and Comes The Dark is one of the books on this list.  I was thrilled to find that I was a part of the list, and there are some pretty impressive names up there, many of which are friends of mine.  So I would ask you if you would be so kind as to vote on this readers poll.  If not for Comes The Dark, for one of the many fine offerings listed.  The voting for Predators and Editors is kind of unique.  You go to this link:  http://www.critters.org/predpoll/novelh.shtml, then click on your choice from a very extensive list of books, then scroll to the bottom of the screen.  There it asks you for your full name, email address, and then has you fill out a small box to prove you aren’t a robot.

I will ask for you to consider voting for Comes The Dark, but again, please vote for one of the many great books listed there.  I know this sounds trite, but it is indeed an honor to be nominated for this award at all, and I am flattered to be in such great company.


HorrorNews.net reviews Comes The Dark

Horrornews.net posted their review of Comes The Dark, and my hope is that they will be reviewing Into The Dark fairly soon as well.  This one is a fairly detailed review, giving some insight into the storyline without presenting any spoilers, which is terrific.  Check it out here:  http://horrornews.net/28367/book-revew-comes-the-dark-author-patrick-d%E2%80%99orazio/.

Dark Stories: Michael and Cindy, Part II

This is the last of the Michael and Cindy Dark Stories, and this one takes place immediately after the argument that takes place between Michael, Jeff, and George about Jason leaving with them to go to Manchester to collect supplies.  I thought this one would give you one last look into the twisted relationship these two have, as well as Michael’s paranoia about those around him.

There are a few more stories to tell, including one about Ben, the teens, and even Sadie, the little girl in the camp.  So stay tuned for those.


Michael and Cindy Part II

“What a bunch of pathetic wussies.  They make me sick.”

“Tsk, tsk dear.  Such harsh language.”

Cindy shifted her gaze from the curtain and focused on Michael as he sat at the table reassembling the M16 he’d decided to clean yet again before going on the hunt.

“Ya know, you keep rubbing that gun like that and you’ll go blind.”  She slinked over to him, her body lithe and sinewy.  She was a predator, a jungle cat on the prowl.  She treated most men, including Michael, like prey.  They were either food or sex, nothing more.  That was why when most men caught Cindy’s attention they usually did their best to divert their eyes and look away.  They seemed to know that to her they were just meat, pure and simple.

“And if you keep wishing such ill will on others you won’t get into heaven.”

Cindy almost laughed, but instead continued creeping up on her boyfriend.  Michael was definitely sex to her, but also food.  She craved him like meat, like a meal that could never completely sate her hunger, so she had to continue to hunt and devour him, over and over again.  She slithered to the floor and moved her hand over his combat boot, sliding it underneath his camouflaged pants.  Blocked at the bend in the knee, her hand hovered just below it scratching at his calf with her ragged fingernails.

Michael ignored Cindy as he finished reassembling the weapon.  After a second he admired his work and nodded in satisfaction.  He was getting more proficient at taking care of the rifle.  He’d searched around and managed to find a manual covering the how-to’s of field stripping and maintaining it in a bookstore he’d come across during the group’s travels.

As much as he had every intention of keeping it operational, the fact that he’d acquired only two thirty round clips with it, one of which was only partially full, meant that he had very little desire to use the M16.  It was more a symbol of his authority than anything.

He’d squeezed off a few rounds in automatic mode a while back, just to convince himself that it did indeed work and when the time came he could put it to use.  Other than that all he did was keep it clean and ready to go.  There would be time to acquire more rounds.  After all, there had to be tons of munitions floating around these days, it was just a matter of venturing into an area where soldiers had been stationed that wasn’t currently overrun by the undead.  Until then, the rifle would continue to serve its purpose as his staff of office.

He grinned as he flashed back to how he had acquired it.  It had been a shame, a real shame, that the soldier had been unwilling to surrender the weapon.  The boy had been brave, but he was injured, and in a bit of a jam.  He had required a bit of extreme persuasion, as Michael liked to think of it, to finally relinquish his rifle and sidearm.  Desperate times called for desperate measures …

Michael’s daydream was shattered by the sensation of sharp fingernails digging into his lower leg and a warm trickle of blood running down his calf.

Cindy was looking up at him, her head leaning against his leg.  Michael glanced at her, but despite the pain she was inflicting, he continued smiling at the M16.  Yes, it had taken quite a bit to get the damn thing, but it had been worth it.

“If you don’t ravage me soon, I am going to take that thing away from you and use it to get off.”

“Well that would be something to see.  It’d be even better if you let me pull the trigger while you did it.”

Michael caught Cindy’s fist before it could connect with his crotch.  He had no doubt that she would have hit him so hard he wouldn’t be able to stand up straight for a week.  He twisted her wrist until she gasped in pain.  As usual, it sounded more like a moan of pleasure coming from her lips.

He gritted his teeth as she dug the nails even deeper into the meat of his lower leg.  Michael knew no matter how much he twisted Cindy’s wrist, she would keep digging, even if he went so far as to snap the slender bones in her arm.  It was a tempting proposition, but with no doctors around he couldn’t take things that that far.  Still, the idea of putting the certifiably insane girl out of commission for a while was tempting.

Standing up abruptly, Michael flung her arm away with a sharp kick of his leg.  Before she could react he brought his knee up and slammed it against Cindy’s chest, forcing her to the ground.

Gasping for air, her eyes widened in surprise.  When she was able to breathe again, a knowing smiled appeared on Cindy’s lips.

“Maybe now I’ll finally get some attention.”

Michael glared down at her, angry again.  After what had happened outside with George and Jeff, he needed an outlet for the rage building up inside of him.  How convenient for him that Cindy was always available, willing to scratch any itch he might have.


Perhaps what had happened outside should be considered a moral victory.  At least on the surface, it appeared that way.  Everyone had been watching as Jeff had gotten flustered when he couldn’t persuade Michael to let Jason stay in the camp.  He’d been forced to demand that the boy be left behind when they went into town, which would have ended very badly for Jeff if he had remained obstinate.  That is, if George hadn’t butted in.

The final result, though unexpected, was a pleasant surprise.  George had committed to staying with them, which wasn’t what Michael had expected to get out of him.  Not in a million years, and certainly not voluntarily.  The deal George offered was one Michael was more than willing to make.

The plan had been to dress down Jeff, make him sweat a bit, and make it abundantly clear who was in charge so there wouldn’t be any more opportunities for them to butt heads.  Jeff would know his place and would be content from then on in following orders.  Backing him into a corner should have been easy, with just a little bit of help from his friends.  Megan was never going to allow Jason to leave the camp and it was Jeff’s duty to enforce her wishes.  In the end, Jeff was backed into a corner, but George’s little outburst had pulled his bacon out of the fire.

Looking back on the spat was amusing.  Michael could care less about whether or not Jason went with them.  When the conversation first started even Frank seemed to question the value of having a twelve year old going out with them, but even someone as dense as that fat hick was able to pick up on what Michael was trying to do after a few minutes and kept his big yap shut, except to tease George and Megan.

Jason was just another pawn to Michael.  It appeared that Jeff was really the only other person who picked up on that little detail.  Perhaps George and Megan had suspected, but they let their emotions get in the way, which was exactly what Michael had hoped for.  The kid liked Michael, and that made him pretty damn easy to manipulate.  Since none of the adult newcomers seemed to have much fondness for the camp’s leader, resorting to using the kid was the natural choice for sorting things out and clearing the air as to who was in charge.

Jason would be useful again later on.  He was probably mad at everyone at the moment, including Michael, but he would get over it.  Kids were resilient like that.  All it would take would be a few more gentle reminders that he had to stand on his own two feet and needed to act like a man.  He couldn’t allow the adults in the group to coddle him like a little baby anymore.  With a few well placed words, Jason would ditch the others entirely and be as loyal to Michael as Frank and Marcus.

Jason’s destiny was to drive a wedge between Megan and the two other men.  The subject of the boy would be a hot topic amongst them from now on and sooner or later they would not see eye to eye on how to deal with the rebellious preteen.  As they argued, it would be easy to chip away at their loyalty to one another.  In time, one of them would decide they were better off offering up their loyalties to Michael, who was the one providing them with shelter and food, rather than the other two troublemakers, who were just stirring up shit and doing little else that was productive.  It was just a matter of letting them fall apart on their own, with a few well placed nudges, of course.

It would all work out, but there was still something that bothered Michael.  Something about what had happened outside that tasted foul on his tongue—like fruit that had started to ferment a little too quickly.  Something was not right.

George had shown some backbone, which was far more than Michael thought the dumb bastard was capable of.  George was supposed to be some miserable wimp pining away for his family, so it came as a big surprise when he agreed to stay at the camp to avoid putting Jason in any sort of danger.  Even more surprising were the threats he’d uttered.  Michael had to admit that it had unnerved him—not because George was so big and scary.  Michael had taken down bigger foes in the past.  Instead, it was what he had seen in the big man’s eyes: there was no bluffing there.  George had every intention of killing Michael if he continued pushing him.

Despite that, there was a simple answer to the George dilemma: he would have to be watched and watched carefully.  The old man would fly the coup if he was certain the boy was safe and secure here and the opportunity to escape presented itself.  But more important than making sure he stayed put was getting him to behave.  That might require poking and prodding him into a fight.  It would give Michael a chance to break the old man down and sap his will to rebel just a little bit.  And if that did not work, more drastic measures might be in order …

But as much as George might end up being a headache, he would be easy to deal with—he was a minor nuisance at most.  George was not the one bothering him.  Jeff was.

Michael had seen his type before: the reluctant leader.  Jeff did not crave power, at least not in the form of authority over others.  He was the type that preferred staying behind the scenes, doing his own thing, and would only step up when he was forced to.  He wasn’t fearless, but like so many other people, he had probably lost everything and figured he didn’t have any real reasons left to be afraid anymore.

So the trick, as Michael saw it, was to give Jeff a few reasons to be afraid once again.

Jason had told Michael a bit about the group.  About how he and George had spent most of their time stuck in some church, and then all the excitement that had occurred over the past couple of days, ever since Jeff and Megan had shown up in their minivan.  Michael had gotten a few juicy tidbits from the stories the boy had told, enough to use against Jeff and George when they’d argued earlier, but he needed more information on the newcomers.  Lydia was the one who’d spent the most amount of time with Megan and Jeff since they’d gotten here.  Michael would need to have a long discussion with her about what they’d shared with her after they returned from the supply run.  If anyone in the camp was non-threatening enough to open up to, it was Lydia.  She was good at keeping secrets, but with a little sweet talk there was no doubt she would reveal things to Michael about her new friends.

Getting to know Jeff better would allow Michael to know what made him tick.  There was no doubt he’d lost his family over the past few weeks.  The thousand-yard stare confirmed that much.  And when he’d stood up for himself outside, and given the ultimatum about Jason staying inside the camp … well, that had been a bit of surprise.

He would have never thought the other man had it in him.  Jeff was soft, not a brawler of any sort.  Unless he was hiding some sort of ex-military commando existence behind his bland exterior, Michael knew he could easily take Jeff down in a fight.  More importantly, Jeff knew that as well.  People like him avoided physical confrontations like the plague.  Jeff was just an average dude who had been a family man once upon a time.  Michael did his best to try to understand it.  Jeff had to know that Michael was younger, faster, and stronger than him, plus he had all the weapons.  So why risk getting his nuts squashed?  The whole idea went against the grain.  Jeff had probably lived his whole existence going with the flow, not rocking the boat.  He lived a dull, unexceptional life, kept his nose clean, and obeyed all the laws … just like 99.9% of the other slobs out there.

As Michael continued to mull Jeff over, another possibility occurred to him.  Maybe Jeff was willing to get a few teeth knocked in, just to show everyone he wasn’t a coward, and that Michael needed brute force to maintain control over the camp.  Jeff would have been beaten, but Michael would have lost the respect of some of the camp members.

Oh you son of a bitch.  You sly, sly son of a bitch.  You almost had me, you cock sucker.

There was a small sense of satisfaction at having rooted out the trickster’s plan, but it was surrounded by doubt.  Was that really Jeff’s intention?  Was he willing to get bloodied to prove a point?  George had stepped in and changed things with his declaration, which left Jeff’s real intention a mystery.  All Michael knew was that there was no way that motherfucker was going to undermine his authority.  No way in hell.  Others had tried before and he had dealt with them—it was one of those ugly responsibilities that came with the burden of leadership.  His father had taught him that.  “Make a good enough example out of a troublemaker and the others will think twice before they cross you.”

Jeff was just another liability that would be dealt with soon enough.  Michael just needed to get a better fix on him, so he could find out the best way to make him behave.


Perhaps if Michael had bothered looking out the window of the Winnebago at that moment, he would have seen Jeff and Megan consoling one another, which might have given him some ideas of how he could keep Jeff in line.  Instead, his thoughts shifted back to Cindy as he stared down at her, his knee still on her chest.  In that moment he felt the closest thing to love for her that he could possibly could.  She had allowed him to see things in ways he had never seen them before.  Everything was … easier now.

Without her he was a good leader, but with her he was a leader that understood that he always needed to be consolidating his power and eliminating elements that would seek to undermine him.  He knew the sensation he felt was not really love; it was more like gratitude.  An appreciation for the woman who had unearthed in him the feelings and passion that drove him.  He grew more excited as he continued gazing at her.

The resentment and regret that always seemed to creep up on him when he thought too much about her had dissipated, as it always did.  It seemed foolish not to embrace the power he felt because of what Cindy had done for him, what she had shown him.

He slapped her across her jaw as a grin surfaced on his face.  He watched as the side of his girlfriend’s face slammed into the carpeted floor of the RV.

Cindy felt dazed, but knew once again that Michael was just getting warmed up.  It made her shiver with excitement.  He was getting closer to losing control with the others like he did with her.  He’d nearly gotten into a fight with both George and Jeff instead of trying to be diplomatic, which was how he used to handle things like that.  Not anymore.  He’d used that brat Jason to get his way, and it had stirred up shit with that bitch Megan, as well Jeff and George.  What had happened outside was a tantalizing tease and there was a good chance that Michael would come to blows with one or both of the new men in the next couple of days.

The idea of it nearly sent Cindy over the edge with excitement.  She loved seeing the hate boil up behind her man’s eyes.  It wouldn’t be long before he stopped trying to restrain himself and let go.  It would be a beautiful sight to see when he did.

She licked at the small trickle of blood that came from her split lip and returned Michael’s smile.


Review of AP Fuchs “Possession of the Dead”

Possession of the Dead is the second book in the Undead World Trilogy. Blood of the Dead, the first book, started out as a fairly traditional zombie apocalypse tale, with four main characters coping with the fact that they live in an Undead world.  A gray rain came down and turned the living into zombies, with few being immune, and along with them, those who stayed inside avoiding whatever it was that caused this to happen.  Animals too were affected, and for the majority of the first story, we see the main characters struggle to survive as the primary objective.  Then, toward the end of that story, an intervention by an angel, a journey through time, and an alternate world (or so it seems) opens up to the characters and in it, there are giant sized zombies that are fifteen stories tall, demons, and of course, as mentioned before, angels.  Possession of the Dead goes a long way toward explaining this rather stunning change of scenery at the very end of the first book.  Without attempting to spoil anything, the reader discovers that some of the living are actually able to turn into zombies at will, this is a battle for the remaining souls of humanity, and our main characters, because of what they have witnessed, are primary targets of the underworld.
This book changes things up, but is still a zombie novel at heart.  I was somewhat reminded of both Brian Keene’s The Rising/City of the Dead and Ben Roger’s Faith and Undead in the fact that the zombies here are used as a tool of the demons of the underworld and the devil himself in an effort to usurp God’s power, or better yet, to bring him to his knees.  Still, this tale has some unique elements, including the transformational power of some of the zombies, as well as the giant zombies that roam the city streets and scoop up the living by the handful.  We still get a lot of straight up zombie action as the undead chase the main characters from start to finish.
The action is nonstop and between this book and the last, I’ve grown attached to the characters, and like the new ones introduced in this book.  The author once again leaves us hanging at the end of the book, but not as dramatically and shockingly as he did after the first.  There are still plenty of questions to answer with the finale, and I will be very interested to find out what happens to characters like Joe, April, and the world as a whole when the end comes.  Naturally, the biggest battle is yet to take place, and hopefully more of an explanation of our character’s part in all of it will be revealed.
The story keeps the tempo moving at a fast clip and the action is good.  I am still a little bit confused by the giant zombies, since there was a minimal explanation as to their existence here, but they do make for an interesting part of the story as the characters are challenged to avoid them.  I will be interested to see if there is more discussion of their particular nature in the third book, as well as the animal undead, which are not mentioned too often, but are clearly a part of this world.  Even with these minor critiques of mine, I did enjoy this book and it certainly will keep me waiting anxiously for the third book.  This is a fun and unique look at the zombie apocalypse, and I am sure AP Fuchs has a few more surprises up his sleeve for the end of his trilogy.

Possession of the Dead can be found here:  http://www.amazon.com/Possession-Dead-Zombie-Undead-Trilogy/dp/1926712536/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1295284411&sr=8-1

Dark Stories: Michael and Cindy, Part I

This little vignette, which takes place in Michael and Cindy’s RV on the first night after Jeff and company’s arrival in the camp, mainly takes place in the minds of the two characters, though there is some dialog surrounding it.  I discarded this mainly because the story was able to move forward without knowing these two and their hidden agendas, but of course, this serves as a way to better know about the twisted relationship between these two.  Once again, Michael didn’t seem the type that would willingly fall in with a girl like Cindy, despite the lack of other women his age surrounding him.  This, and the next story I will post should provide more depth to their relationship, and how screwed up they really are.  Again, for those of you who haven’t read Into The Dark, this might not make much sense, so you might save checking this out until after you’ve had the chance to read that.

Again, as always, this is a rough cut, with my own meager editing efforts.  So forgive me the typos and other errors as you read.  Thanks.


Michael and Cindy

He grabbed her coarse blond hair and pulled her head back.  Biting at her neck, he listened as she moaned in pleasure.

“You like it rough, don’t you, bitch?”  It was a harsh whisper as his lips traveled up her neck and towards her earlobe.

“You know it baby.”  The voice was unstable, shaky.  If you didn’t know her you might think she was afraid.  But for the few who truly knew Cindy, of which Michael was the only one still alive, it was obvious there was no fear in the woman.  She was pure adrenaline and rage bottled up in a healthy young female package.  At twenty three she was already savvy enough to understand how things worked in the world (even this particular variation of it) and vicious enough to achieve any objective that she set her mind to.

The tattoos on her neck covered up the hickeys and bite marks that Michael gave her.  The scabs might be noticed, but no one would say anything.  It was odd enough that Michael, a graduate of the Michigan School of Business and the son of extremely wealthy and prestigious parents, was shacked up with her in the first place.  The additional ‘wounds’ that adorned her seemed to stretch comprehension levels to the breaking point.  Who would ever believe that the prototypical ‘boy next door’ was the culprit responsible for those?

When Cindy had wandered into his little clan, it was clear to her that since Michael was in charge, he was the only person for her.  He was far from her type, but her type was all dead, and that was just fine with her.  He bit and scratched in bed, but only because she had taught him so well.  She had unleashed his kinky side.  Michael in turn had shown her that all men have one, it just took a strong and harsh enough woman to pull it out of them, kicking and screaming if need be.

Michael was all the power in the universe now.  It was the only drug left to her after the last hit of ecstasy was gone well over a month ago.  Cindy had been an addict at one point or another in her illustrious career to nearly every drug and intoxicating substance known to mankind.  In essence, she was addicted to addiction.

Michael was just as addicting to her as anything she had sniffed, drank, or injected into her veins in the past.  He was a royal prick under his nice guy persona and it tripped her trigger that she knew it and had known it from the moment she laid eyes on him.  At first, she had repulsed him.  It made no difference to her and in no time she was able wear him down.  After all, geography might be the only thing they had in common in their relationship, but that was all she needed.

But some bony bitch had arrived in the camp and threatened to change the landscape drastically.  She was sweet, she was demure, and she was everything that Michael would have found appealing in the past, before Cindy had corrupted him.      Certainly the woman had the whole anorexia theme going, but beyond that she was perfectly “normal.”  Attractive even.  The jealously Cindy felt didn’t extend to any desire to be like that woman at all.  It was strictly raw rage at a potential threat to her existence as the Queen Bee.

That was not all of it.  Not by a long shot.  None of it would have bothered her (or so she had herself convinced) except that it was very clear that Michael had been eyeing the other woman.  Within the first five seconds the battle lines were drawn in Cindy’s mind.   She knew her man well enough to know that when he fixated on something, it would not be long before he went after it.  Michael was not one to take no for an answer.  He had little inclination to deny his own base needs either.  So far he had been satisfying them with Cindy, but now that Megan was here, she would be the new candy for him.

It was obvious.  He did not hide it very well.  She knew that sooner or later he would go after Megan and kick Cindy’s skanky ass to the curb.  Even if that other bitch did not return his interest, it would make no difference to him.  He would dump Cindy just to prove himself worthy of Megan.  What a lousy piece of shit name: Megan. Everything about the other woman was something to despise.

Cindy had felt hatred from the moment she saw her.  That was nothing big, she hated Lydia too.  Most men pissed her off pretty fiercely as well.  The teenagers had looked at her with lust in their eyes at first and that was amusing.  She had joked with Michael how she was going to break Ray and Teddy’s cherries at the same time.  She asked him if he wanted to watch while she did it.  In response, Michael had smacked her in the jaw so hard that she had been knocked unconscious.  When she came to, he was wringing his hands over her, in a panic, worried that he had killed her.  When she smiled up at him and licked at the trickle of blood on her chin demurely, he nearly fainted.  Then, when she insisted they have sex right then and there he almost had a nervous breakdown.  Still, he complied and it gave her a sense of power over Michael that nothing else could.  She owned him.  That bitch Megan could never have that sort of a control over a man.  Never.

The sex was interesting and Michael was willing to experiment, though he was amazed at how depraved Cindy’s mind could become.  It was all boring to her though.  She gave thought to cheating on him with that filthy scumbag Frank.  Or maybe Frank and Marcus together.  They were disgusting and they leered at her when they did not think she was looking.  She knew it would be a hell of a challenge to get them into bed though.  They were scared shitless of Michael and the idea of crossing him like that was probably the equivalent of committing suicide to their pea brains.  That turned her on even more.  Imagining having Michael walk in on something like that was delicious to think about.  He would beat the living shit out of her but he would kill them, just as they feared.  She knew she could get him to do it, especially if the look on her face when he burst in was of pure ecstasy.  Those two slime buckets couldn’t turn her on if they slapped an electric motor to her ass, but she would play it up for all it was worth if it did a number on Michael.

Later, as they lay side by side, panting, with their sweat soaking through the sheets, Cindy jumped on top of Michael, knocking the air out of him.  Anything that made him feel uncomfortable was a good thing.

“So what are you going to do about those new people?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

Michael looked up at her in disgust.  “Bah, screw you tramp.  I do know what you mean.  You’re asking about Megan.”

A wicked grin creased her face.  In the darkness and shadows it was disconcerting, but Michael knew it was no better in daylight and was grateful that he could only see part of it now.

“Of course I am.”

The smile disappeared as she moved her hand up his hairless, muscular chest and grabbed at his nipple, squeezing it.  She moved her face directly in front of his, less than an inch away, and pinched his nipple as hard as she could as she hissed at him.

“So are you going to screw that whore?”

Cindy went flying, hitting the wall opposite the bed where she slumped to the floor.

“Bitch!  You might be into fucking pain but I’m not!”  Michael screamed as he stood before her.  She stared up at him, her eyes gliding down his naked torso.  She smiled.

She reached up and grabbed at him as he swatted her hand away.  Grabbing a hold of her other wrist, he wrestled her up on the bed again, jumping on top of her and holding her down.

Cindy purred like a kitten and Michael stared down at her, exasperated, but unable to deny that she had him aroused once again.

Michael hated Cindy.

But as much as he hated her he hated himself even more for ever having hooked up with the psycho bitch in the first place.  She was a piece of trash, pure and simple.  Somehow, as much as she appalled him, her trashiness was the root of everything that turned him on about her.  There was absolutely nothing he couldn’t do to her.  He could beat her to within an inch of her life and she would come crawling back for more.  When she had first provoked him he had resisted the temptation to smack her, but she cried out for it.  She dared him, taunted him, and did her best to humiliate him.

Michael had not been that violent of a man before he met her.  He’d never laid a finger on a woman in his entire life, and thought anyone who did was scum.  He’d beaten the crap out of a few losers, true enough.  A drunken brawl back at college had sent a guy to the hospital, but Michael’s father, with his many connections, was insurance that a little problem like that never became a big problem.

Michael had taken martial arts training to teach him balance and patience, but all it had done was allow him to bury the anger he felt a little deeper.  It didn’t rear its ugly head as much.  Still, he could be cool and calm one moment and explode violently the next, as it suited his needs.

His temper had all been well under control.  There was some rage inside of him, but that was fairly normal for most red-blooded American guys, wasn’t it?  Except these days there were plenty of excuses for rage to shine through and no one to question it anymore.  In fact, rage was an excellent motivator.  It drove Michael in his quest to survive and thrive in these dark times.  He had refused to yield to the undead, refused to believe that everything was over and done with just because some virus had torn the human race to shreds.  This was a new beginning.  Whoever was strong enough to stay alive and adapt would reap the rewards.

Cindy had just … amped things a little bit.  It was okay to unleash all that pent up rage in front of her, around her, and upon her.  Every impetuous desire he had been repressing his entire life could see the light of day.  In fact, he could use those impulses to help his followers to survive and prosper.

It frustrated him that Cindy had been the only piece of ass in his age range for miles around, possibly anywhere anymore.  So her aggressive tactics when they first met wasn’t a total turnoff.  What other options did he have, anyway?

Cindy was a tattooed and pierced freak that he would not have given the time of day to when he’d been wearing his Canali business suits and was climbing the corporate ladder.  The bleach in her hair was erratic and left her hair a mess of black and white scattered across her head.  It had originally been shaved on one side and spiky on the other, but as time went on she let it grow out and got rid of the dye.  Not that she had much of a choice.  Supplies they had collected did not include much in the way of hair care products outside of shampoo.

They made an odd pair and everyone knew it.  He made it clear from the moment they fell in bed together that he would tolerate no crass acts from her in front of the others.  Whatever she wanted to do with him, or more specifically to him, was to be limited to when they were in private … at the factory at first, and then in his RV when they had set up the camp in the woods.

Soon after they had gotten together she began provoking him.  At first it was simple taunting, but it turned into getting rough in bed.  Punching, kicking, and biting.  Part of him wanted to kick her to the curb right away.  But every time she would do something to him, she would pretend to be sorry.  She would promise him she would never do it again if he would forgive her.  Then she would blow his mind in the sack and he would be left trying to convince himself that the pain was worth it.

But finally, after a while, something happened.  In a fit of anger after one of her mocking abuse sessions, he hit her.  It was a slap, hard, across her face.  A little trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth was the result, plus a welt that would be hard to imagine makeup hiding like it did the hickeys he’d already given her.  After realizing what he had done, he lost his mind.  He begged forgiveness and apologized profusely, swearing he would never do something like that again.  For all the minor abuse she had heaped on him, hitting her had never crossed his mind.  But when she grinned and asked him to do it again, he was speechless.  He refused, so instead she jumped on him and practically raped him, which only served to confuse Michael even more.

But not for long.

The hit that knocked her unconscious was next.  From there it became easier for him to do whatever Cindy wanted.  The guilt was fading into the background he let the rage inside of him come to the surface.  After that, they learned to keep the bruised and welts hidden to avoid any questions from the others.

Over time, Michael began to dread the encounters he had with Cindy.  But it was dread drenched in an undeniable craving for what she offered.  Because she had unleashed a part of him that he didn’t know existed, a part that wanted to cause pain.  Specifically, pain to Cindy, which he could rationalize as okay—she wanted it, so he gave it to her.  But it was how that desire to administer pain was spilling over to everything else he did that was disturbing him.

And now, as he sat above her in what was supposed to be a position of complete control, she was the one in charge and deep down, Michael knew it.

Cindy’s purring stopped.  “So, you gonna screw the whore or am I going to slit the bitches’ throat?”  She smiled up at Michael, taunting him, prodding him onward.

The fist crashed down on her stomach.  Cindy gasped in surprise as the air whooshed out of her.  Her vision blurred and a thousand stars appeared before her eyes.  When her eyes were able to focus again, Michael was already laying next to her, pretending not to care about how badly he had hurt her this time.  She had taught him well.

Cindy was a masochist and enjoyed the pain, partly because after years of abusing her body with drugs and anything else she could get her hands on, her nerve endings had dulled to the point where excruciating pain was about the only thing she could feel anymore.  But even that was a fleeting sensation.

As the pain faded, her mind fixated on Megan once again.  So what does he see in that bitch anyway?

Megan looked pretty hideous to Cindy.  Although run down and so thin she was almost transparent, there was an aura of confidence and toughness about her.  She was ‘normal’ on top of that.  That more than anything drove Cindy bat shit crazy.  Megan was someone Michael could be seen with by the others and not be embarrassed.  She was the antithesis of everything that Cindy was or believed in.

And there were the others that had come into the camp with Megan.  Two men and a black kid.  The kid was nothing, just like those other little brats that Lydia dealt with.  The bigger man looked like some sort of whiney wimp.  That was obvious to Cindy almost immediately.  He moped around like he was already dead and in general irritated her.

The other, Jeff, was more interesting.  He appeared to be with the woman.  Not that it would stop Michael.  If he wanted Megan, not much would stand in his way.  In a twisted way that was yet another thing that turned Cindy on about him.  Society may have dulled that caveman edge out of him, but society was dead and Michael was the one making the rules these days, so he could take what he wanted.

Cindy didn’t so much care if he got his rocks off with the bitch once or twice, as long as that was all there was to it.  Hell, she would hold Megan down and get off watching him rape her if that was something that could be arranged.  Screwing meant nothing to Cindy.  It was all about control.  Being controlled and controlling the other person.

No one else seemed to understand the level of control you had over another person when you forced them to willfully inflict pain on you.  Michael beat her because she willed him to do it.  He did not want to, but she did.  Now, only after a few weeks, he couldn’t stop himself.  And because of all the guilt and trauma that it caused inside his head, she was able to manipulate him in other ways.  Michael was a good little puppet.

But that weasel, Marcus, had mentioned how Megan had slapped Michael when they first met.  That was something she could not tolerate.  Cindy knew the stupid bitch had no idea what a slap meant to Michael, the meaning attached to such a violent physical act, but she bet that if Megan had been looking deep into his eyes at the time her hand crossed his face she would have realized what it had done to him.  The fact that he had to let off some steam by putting a knife to Frank’s throat right after that confirmed how excited Megan had made him.  Cindy had corrupted Michael enough that the violence was the only thing that really turned him on any more.

There was no doubt in Cindy’s mind that her boyfriend was already fantasizing about that pathetic tramp.  But tackling that subject head on wasn’t going to give her any answers she wanted, so instead, Cindy knew to come at it sideways.

“Okay, so forget about Megan.  What are you going to do to put these newcomers in their place?”

Michael rolled over to face Cindy.  There was weakly hidden guilt tracing his features from the latest assault he had perpetrated on her.  It was always there, no matter how well he tried to hide it.  It made Cindy smile inside, though she was careful not to show it.  The guilt was a tease.  Everything forbidden had guilt associated with it.  Guilt was one of the strongest stimulants there was in the world.  As long as it kept showing up on his face, that meant whatever caused that guilt was still tantalizing and forbidden.  It was simply too much to for him to resist.

“What do you mean?”

He was tired and past getting angry or aroused anymore that night.  In other words, he was getting boring.  But it also meant that his defenses were down and she could easily get him to divulge the truth and perhaps even agree to do something she really wanted just to get her off his back.

“I mean, you dragged them in here and treated them like your best buddies.  Then you brought Jeff in the RV and had a nice little chat with him.  Now I hear that you and the rest of the guys are going into town tomorrow on some sort of supply run.  What the hell is the point of that?”

Michael closed his eyes and put his hand over them in hopes of blotting out all traces of light trickling through their window.

“So you’re asking what the hell I have planned.”  He paused.  She did not respond and he sighed heavily.  “Well my dear, that is very simple.  I am going to test their loyalty to me and see if they can obey orders like good little soldiers.”

“Loyalty?  From people you kidnapped off the fucking road?  Are you nuts?”

Michael opened his eyes and glared at Cindy.  “I must be if I’m with your psycho ass.”  She gave him a finger and he ignored it.  He propped a pillow up beneath him and put his hands behind his head.  “It shouldn’t be too difficult, actually.  The only one that will be a problem is Jeff.  He is too damn smart for his own good.”

“What about George?  Doesn’t he miss his ‘widdle famawy’?  He looks like he could tear your head off if he was motivated enough.  If you make him stay here against his will sooner or later he is going to try.”

Michael smiled at his girlfriend.  “Quite the contrary.  He is going to be a good little boy and do just as I tell him to.”

“How do you propose getting that to happen?”

“Nothing too technical.  I’ll just hold Megan and Jason hostage.  Once Jeff messes up and I have to ‘deal’ with him, George will realize that he is the only one that can protect them.  A few well placed words here and there along with a few delicate hints and he will decide for himself that staying is the best possible idea.  Momma and the kiddies are dead already and sooner or later he will realize that.  And then, he will come to love it here with us.  He’ll be just another big, dumb, malleable grunt like Ben.”

“If Ben heard you say that he would twist you into a pretzel.”

“Indeed.  He might just do that.  If he knew I said it.  But that is how things work around here.  The pawns do not realize what they are.  I am the king and I control the board.  They are expendable pieces, but valuable.  I move them into harm’s way as I see fit.  If there is a rogue piece, I simply get rid of it, sacrifice it to my opponent, and keep on moving.”

Cindy looked over at her man and saw a look on his face that was reminiscent of the cat after eating the canary.  He was just too damn self-satisfied.  But she decided to let it go.  He had his little plans and she had hers.  She knew a little bit about chess as well and while the King was the piece that ruled the board, the queen was the one who took care of business.

That Jason brat should be enough leverage to keep George in line.  He doesn’t need Megan as well.

With their conversation finished, Michael drifted off to sleep.  Cindy stayed awake a while longer, shaping and reshaping her own plans so that they merged and fit with her lover’s.  She smiled down at him as she did so.  He was a beautiful man, nearly perfect on the outside.  But it was his insides, his guts, which were getting black and ugly.  She had initiated the process, but it had taken hold and was flourishing without constant nurturing anymore.

She laid her finger on his jugular vein and felt it pulse.  She moved her mouth close and gently flicked her tongue out at it, like a snake.  It would be so easy. She grazed her teeth against it and Michael stirred, but sleep already had him in its grasp.  It was tantalizing: the idea of wrecking everything with one simple effort.  She could tear out his throat and even slip out the window with very little fuss and muss.  All they would discover was his bloodied carcass and the signs that she was responsible for his death all over the bed.  But they would never find her.

As tempting as it was, she knew that Michael was far more exciting alive than dead; powerful and yet powerless at the same time.  She had weakened him.  Before they met he was probably a good man with a penchant for anger now and again.  He could hide it then and he still could now, but that façade was chip away.  The violence was bubbling to the surface more often and more readily.  It was wondrous to behold.

She shivered in the bed next to him.  Whether in excitement or fear, it was hard to tell.  She laid back and planned the death of Megan LeValley.  It would be a simple thing, not too complicated.  It couldn’t be blatant though.  The others could never know what really happened.  She imagined the pain and agony Megan would experience when she did it.  But what would be the kicker was when Cindy got to tell Michael what she had done and the supreme pleasure she would get out of watching him react.

A few minutes later, Cindy wrapped her arms and legs around her man like a spider and fell asleep, content in knowing how things were going to play out over the next few days.


Some updates on the trilogy, meandering thoughts and whatnot

It’s been a while since I posted just some random thoughts, or even some updates on my experiences in writing.  Most of my blog posts have been book reviews and updates on stuff being released, Dark Stories, etc.  So I thought I would post some comments based on how things are looking these days.  It’s been around six months now since Comes The Dark came out, and this whole process of writing, promoting, editing, and all that wonderful stuff has changed for me since the book’s release.  It used to be that I was always preparing for something to happen, and it seemed like a distant dream.  For several years, when I meandered down the path of writing the manuscript that became my trilogy, it almost seemed theoretical that it would ever be published and that this whole effort was being done for nothing more than a “see, I told you I could do it!” perspective.  But then it became real, and the first book was released.

Things went great with that, and have been great, no doubt about it.  Sure, there have been a few negative reviews, which are almost like a badge of honor for a writer.  Having someone tell you that you suck and please stop writing is sort of a tough one to handle at first blush, but you can either ignore it, or try to extract something from that which motivates you to do better.  You can’t respond in kind, by lashing out, because it does no one any good, especially me.  Even trying to explain why you did something in your book that someone really didn’t like is pointless, because the inevitable truth that you have to embrace as a writer (especially of genre stuff, and in particular, sub-genre stuff as this zombie stuff has been called) is that there will always be people for who your work does not resonate, and in fact, they do truly hate it, because something you said, did, or didn’t do really rubs them the wrong way.  And if you try to absorb all that criticism and validate it in your mind, it will drive you crazy.  You will have one person who sights that you poured on the emotions far too heavily in one scene, and then someone else will come along and point out that your characters seemed emotionally withdrawn in that exact same scene.  I would never say that you can’t extract something out of the critiques you get, but you have to be true to yourself in the end, and let the chips fall where they may.  And trying to get everyone to like your stuff is a tough way to go through life, and there will be a LOT of disappointments along the way.  I want people to enjoy my work…otherwise, I wouldn’t have tried to get any of it published.  But knowing that you have done your best, no matter what, has to stand for something.

I will be the first one to admit that I have a lot to learn about writing, and a lot to learn about the editing process.  I know that there is always room for improvement, but at the same time, sooner or later, you have to step back and tell yourself that all that can be done has been done.  I’m not sure when that point is, but I think sooner or later I will find it.  It probably has something to do with being a bit OCD now and then, and not having the ability to walk away from a story and just leave it be, knowing that I’ve done all I can with it.

With all that said, I am taking another swipe at having some edits done to my trilogy.  The third book, Beyond The Dark, is complete and I am satisfied that it is the best it can be, with no further tampering from me.  I have had several edits done to it, and I know well enough to leave it be after that, because better editing minds than mine have worked it over and slapped it on the grill.  If it keeps cooking it will be overcooked and no one wants that.  But in conjunction with the edits being completed on that book, I have had an editor have another go at Comes The Dark and Into The Dark, and those edits will be implemented with the paperback and electronic versions of the book that are sold after the release of Beyond The Dark.   In fact, there will be several releases in March  for the grand finale of the trilogy.  Here they are, briefly:

Beyond The Dark is being released as a paperback and on Smashwords, naturally.  The edits, as I mentioned, are complete, and I am very happy with them.  I honestly think that this is the most compelling of the three books, for many reasons I won’t divulge here.

Future versions of the paperback and smashwords versions of Comes The Dark and Into The Dark will be the revised versions, though we won’t be advertising that.  The new copies sold will just have some new editing touches that won’t change anything with the stories, but will do a bit to get rid of some of the typos and grammatical errors that were in the original releases.

The Dark Trilogy, Revised, Expanded, and with Additional Stories will be released for both the Kindle and smashwords.  As I mention here: https://patrickdorazio.com/2010/11/22/announcement-about-the-kindle-version-of-comes-the-dark/, there was a snafu with the kindle release of Comes The Dark.  It was the raw, unedited version of the entire manuscript for the trilogy.  We pulled that version off the market, but not before a substantial number had been sold, and as you can guess, many of those kindle readers assumed that Into The Dark would end up being an entirely new story, not one that had appeared already in the version they had (mind you, there were some new chapters added and it was edited, which the raw manuscript was not), so we did not release Into The Dark on the kindle, nor are we releasing Beyond The Dark as a stand alone on the kindle either. Instead, we are releasing, as the title describes it, the entire trilogy, plus all the stories that appear here, on my blog, under the page heading “Dark Stories”.  It will be around 250,000 words and include a lot of stuff that didn’t show up in that raw and unedited kindle version that went out.


Maybe that will allow my OCD to relinquish control of me and let this trilogy rest for a bit after all that is said and done in March.  And that is the key, I think.  I need to focus 100% of my efforts on new stuff, and not on revising, editing, messing with, or otherwise tweaking stuff I have already done.  Granted, I have written my fair share of short stories and have outlined and even started writing new novels over the past few months, but the focus has been splintered with a LOT of it devoted to the trilogy.  I will continue to promote the Dark trilogy via the net and in other places, but it has been crazy for the past year, with so much effort put into something I had already written, and re-written, several times.  But that is what it takes to get a novel out there, and ready to go for public consumption.  I will even mention that another publisher came along and chatted about buying the rights to the trilogy and doing a re-release, which was very flattering, but a very daunting prospect.  The idea of once again diving into this trilogy of books, which has consumed so much of my time, effort, and energy over the past few years, was terrifying.  I just couldn’t do that.  I love these books-they will always hold a special place in my heart, and I love talking about them, promoting them, and doing whatever is needed to make them appear more polished and professional, etc.  but as far as writing, editing, etc…that all needs to be in the rear view mirror for me.  I need to focus on other projects and throw myself into them like I did this one.

With that in mind, I though I might give some vague ideas of what the future holds.  Because regardless of the guy on Amazon who pleaded with me to stop writing, I plan on doing some more…and I hope to get better at it-perhaps enough, someday, that he might change his mind, or might be able to brag to his friends that his comments were the ones that motivated me to get better and I actually did!  I guess there are crazier dreams out there.

I will finish off the Dark Stories.  I still have a handful of these stories to offer up to you, and I intend on finishing them before the release of Beyond The Dark.

There are about 15 submission calls for short stories that I would love to tackle.  Realistically, I will probably go after no more than 5-10 of them, but I will give it my best shot.  Another stab at keeping my writing diverse and not just tackling zombies, but other horror stories, sci fi, fantasy, and other genres as well.

I have two novels outlined, and I will admit that one is a fourth book in the same universe that the Dark Trilogy takes place in.  In all, the plan would be for five books total, with the fifth book being the final chapter in the tale.  The other novel is another horror tale that includes both our dear friends, the zombies, as well as their arch nemesis (well, at least I think so), the vampires.  And no, neither side are made to look like the good guys.  This one will hopefully be a very dark, very grim tale.

I have at least two or three other novels floating around in my head, including an overhaul of a book I wrote back in college.  High fantasy, as it was originally written.  Granted, the book was bad, really, really, bad.  But my new slant would be to do an overhaul with a few winks, a nudge here and there, and not try to take it so seriously.  Would it be outright comedy?  That remains to be seen, but I think I would like to take a swipe at doing my best to overhaul this sucker.  Another would be a YA adventure story, which is one that got into my head over the past few months and I really want to run with it.  It would be something very personal because of the elements of the story and the main characters, but unfortunately, I really don’t want to divulge much else because again, I haven’t done much with it yet.  But one of my longterm goals is to write YA fiction, and this would be my first step into that arena, perhaps beyond a few short stories I plan on doing before the novel would get done.  The final book floating around in my mind, and that I have created a description that would fit nicely on the back cover of the book, would be a futuristic novel.  It would actually have noir elements, would be at its heart a mystery, and takes place a decade after the zombie apocalypse has come and went-the humans won, and the zombies were wiped out…but someone out there knows the secret to creating zombies, and wants to bring them back…the main character’s job would be to stop them, and discover why they want to do such a crazy thing.

Again, this is all just ideas floating around in my head.  It is always fun to come up with ideas that you believe can be turned into novels, and then doing your best to putting them down on paper and get rolling with them.  They don’t always continue to speak to you after you start the writing process, and you realize that a good idea was actually only that-an idea.  But the ideas can morph and change into something completely different, which is also part of the fun.  You have the opportunity to change a story mid-stride and make it into something you never expected, but really gives you the juice to go the distance with it.

I guess that is it for now.  Sorry for the long explanation of things, but a lot on my mind lately, and a lot of things going on.  And for better or worse, I wanted to share it all with you. 😉

Review of Zombie Zak’s “Chaptered and Versed, Poetic and Cursed”

Zombie Zak is the crown prince of gore, goofiness, and grim verse.  I’m not sure I can come up with a different way to describe what he does and who he is.  I have seen his poems created on the spur of the moment on a forum or just somewhere on the web-he is a well known entity throughout the horror and zombie genre community as the poet of the apocalypse.  Collected here are some of his more involved and intriguing poems.
Yes, much of his verse is zombie-centric, and I thoroughly enjoyed the various incarnations of One Lone Zombie, but there are other delights to be found between the pages here.  I was blown away by Zak’s interpretation of the four horsemen of the apocalypse, done up with each of their own poems.  Even with that said, Zak slips in humor and a presentation that gives you reason to smile now and then.  I particularly enjoyed ‘Be Brightness’, which, if you read the back cover of this book, is a cornerstone of this cookie-loving zombie madman.
I am no poetry expert.  I have read my share and can be touched and moved by it, most certainly, but it is not a staple of my existence.  So take that as a measure of my ability to judge a book filled with horror poetry, but I did enjoy this too brief book immensely for its rapid pace, quick wit, and inspired verse.  Zak has talent, could easily grow broodingly philosophical with his words, but he lightens it up with the occasional burst of lunacy and zombie chickens.  Yes, I said zombie chickens.
I will leave this review with the zombie’s own words:  Above all else, whatever you do, be true, be Brightness, be happy!

Chaptered and Versed, Poetic and Cursed can be found here:  http://www.amazon.com/Chaptered-Versed-Poetic-Zombie-Zak/dp/1453695672/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1294886051&sr=1-1

Review of Patrick Rutigliano’s “Black Corners Of A Blood-Red Room”

Black Corners of a Blood-Red Room is a series of brief vignettes, or nightmares, if you will.  Each is like a taste of a bitter drink that first warms, then burns, as it travels down your throat, and then is gone, though you can still feel it there, itching in your gut, well after you have finished it.  None of these slightly less than fifty tales is more than ten pages long, and most are quite a bit less than that.  That the author is able to do much like the creature that adorns the cover and grab you by the throat with the stories that appear here speaks highly of his writing talent.  Short fiction can be tricky, and admittedly, not every single story here resonated with me, but again, with a selection as wide as Mr. Rutigliano has offered up here, his hit rate is quite impressive.
The stories on these pages are broken up into five different themes, though the author’s flights of fancy don’t really provide enough restraint that all of these stories can be easily categorized, though they are all horror, and there is a tremendous amount of diversity at work here.  Not often do you see a writer willing to plunge into such diverse territory.  We travel through history, alternate universes, and surreal environments.  This is definitely a dreamscape, and a wide ranging one at that.
I would like to see some longer tales from this author, but my guess is that he often gets the itch to create something short and abrupt, and finds it hard to spend time on larger works.  Again, he has done a great job at creating short, strong splashes of imagery that pulls you in and then drop kicks you rather rapidly when the tale is done.  So if you have a penchant for short horror fiction that tends to run into the fantastical, you should check out this book.  It is well worth the price of admission.

Black Corners of a Blood-Red Room can be found here:  http://www.amazon.com/Black-Corners-Blood-Red-Patrick-Rutigliano/dp/1453756531/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1294715754&sr=1-1

Living Dead Media’s review of Into The Dark

Living Dead Media’s review of Into The Dark has been posted and once again, I am pretty happy at the reception the second book in my trilogy has been receiving.  My biggest concern was how all the new characters that I introduce in this book would be received.  Thus far, most of the comments at the introduction of a bigger community of people that have given Jeff, Megan, George, and Jason new challenges to face has been positive, which I am thrilled with.

Check out the review here:  http://www.livingdeadmedia.com/zombie-books-and-fiction/208-dark2.html and keep looking for more of my Dark Stories that I will continue to post here on my blog-the new characters found in Into The Dark are now the focus of what will be posted from now on.  So check out the book, and then my Dark Stories page of this blog for more details on characters like Michael, Cindy, Frank, Ben, and the others.

Dollar Bin Horror reviews “Into The Dark”

The reviews are starting to really roll in for Into The Dark and I am happy to add Rhonny Reaper’s to the list.   When someone says ‘the second book of the Dark trilogy is even better than its predecessor in both content and pacing’ I think I can safely say I am pretty pleased and flattered by this review.  Check out the whole review here:   http://dollarbinhorror.blogspot.com/2011/01/dollar-bin-horror-spotlight-into-dark.html.  And of course, go ahead and check out Into the Dark!


Dark Stories: Michael, Frank, and Cindy

This is the first of the stories I originally wrote that would have appeared in Into The Dark had they made the cut.  Of course, I have revised this one a bit due to the fact that it is no longer integrated into the actual book.  This particular story is primarily flashback, with Michael being the main focus, but it also provides an introduction to both Frank as well as Cindy, explaining how he got mixed up with both of them.  Michael was always someone who was different than the people who were closest to him in the story, and this brief vignette hopefully explains why he was with them.

While this is primarily a flashback, it is mainly a story about Michael’s reflections on why and how he ended up with Cindy, and it is while he is sitting down at one of the tables in the RV camp on the morning after Jeff, Megan, George, and Jason have joined his group.

If you haven’t read Into The Dark as of yet, I won’t suggest that you don’t read this, but it might not make as much sense until you do have the chance to check it out.  The same applies to the rest of the stories that I will be posting from here on out.  I will do my best to avoid revealing anything that may come as a major surprise to anyone who hasn’t read further than Comes The Dark, but since none of these characters are even introduced until the second book in the trilogy, all of this is probably a surprise anyway.

As always, I must state that I have tried my best to catch all the typos and glitches that are in this story, but I am sure there are some still in there.  So forgive me for that.

Michael, Frank, and Cindy

He knew being with her was all wrong.  It wasn’t supposed to be like this.  Everything up to this point in his life had been regimented and controlled, structured to allow for the greatest amount of success.  Even when civilization crumbled, he had adapted and maintained control over the situation.  Now he was the leader of a small, but growing tribe of people.  The bloody lines on the map he looked at every day spoke of his triumphs: where he had come from (where they all had come from) and where they were heading.  They would continue heading east, away from large population centers, and find even more people to join them.  His power would grow as more people relied on him and trusted his leadership.  It was all working out as planned.

But all those visions, all those dreams, had been disrupted.  He still wanted the power, but there were other, darker things crossing his mind these days.  They hadn’t been there before.  They had been planted there recently.

Perhaps that was an excuse.  Maybe they had always been there, and it took the right, or more accurately, the wrong person to trudge them up.  So maybe if that person was out of the picture, maybe all those dark, hideous desires inside his head would disappear along with her.

Either way, he was sure that Cindy had to go.


Michael had been groomed for greatness by his parents from early on in life.  Private boarding schools, Princeton, and then Michigan for his MBA.  Business first, then politics.    There had been a stint in a corporate training program for Proctor and Gamble.  That was after they had wooed him and offered him the best compensation package amongst a slew of elite employers.  There were several rapid promotions leading to the executive level.  He was the youngest Vice President in the company and was expected to go much further with them … if he chose to stay.  The plan was to build relationships with various lobbyists, business leaders, and politicians, working those connections to his advantage.  His father was highly respected not only in Connecticut, where Michael had grown up, but had politicians in his back pocket from all across the country.  Between his own burgeoning relationships and those of his father, Michael would be ready to run for office either in Connecticut or Ohio shortly after turning thirty.  From there the sky was the limit.

He was to marry first, of course.  There had been a few respectable girls in Cincinnati he’d dated, but they were of the disposable variety.  Most were young and attractive, but interspersed with them were a few women of more … experience, who had helped him along his career path at P&G and with his political desires.  But he was from old money and the expectations were that he would marry old money.  There just was not enough of it in Cincinnati for his or his father’s liking.  So he had been shuttling back and forth between Cincinnati and New York on weekends for the past few months so he could court Ms. Penelope Warden.  Her father was a business associate of Michael’s father.  More importantly, Penelope’s family had political connections that ran up and down the east coast and it certainly didn’t hurt that as an only child, she was due to inherit substantial holdings in several Fortune 500 companies when dear old dad kicked the bucket.

That was about the time when things went haywire and the blasted virus came into play.  At first Michael reacted like everyone else, in a complete panic.  His world came crashing down around him.  His downtown Cincinnati condo was in jeopardy almost immediately and he found himself barricaded inside it as the city tore itself apart thirty stories below.  He tried to contact his parents and younger brother, but they were out of the country, somewhere in the Mediterranean on the family yacht.  When he couldn’t get a hold of anyone else back home or even any of the other P & G executives to see if he could snag a ride out of town on one of the corporate jets, he realized he was on his own.  He didn’t bother trying to contact Penelope.  Despite claims of undying love for him, she wasn’t going to be much help from over six hundred miles away.  In a way, it was a relief.  She was an insufferable bore and a hypochondriac that complained incessantly.  Michael could tolerate a lot to achieve his objectives in life, but having her at his side during the apocalypse terrified him.

As the world crumbled around him and he was certain his demise was eminent, Michael recalled something his father had said to him repeatedly as a young boy.  “Life is what you make of it.  When things go bad and you get knocked down, dust yourself off and get back up.  You were born with my blood running through your veins and I’ve never been a quitter.  So don’t bother with the excuses, because I’m not interested in them.”

Thinking back on it those words, they seemed trite and unimaginative to Michael as an adult.  But to a child of ten, they sounded far more impressive and scary.  It really was not the words anyway – it was how his father had backed them up.  He pushed Michael into every activity the private schools he’d attended had to offer.  Every sport, every extra-curricular activity.  He was never allowed to quit or perform at a subpar or average level.  He was expected to have stellar grades, leadership roles, and top notch girlfriends from well to do families.  Of course, nothing was ever good enough for dear old dad, and Michael spent much of his early life sniffing at his father’s feet for any sort of praise he could get.

There was no sob story attached to his upbringing.  Michael did not freak out, rebel, or ever climb onto a therapist’s couch.  Sure, dad had his mistresses and because of that, mom was a functional alcoholic and pill popper, but none of that ever played out in public or really caused any uproar.  It was simply par for the course for a well to do family.

Instead, he grew up knowing he was better and stronger than everyone else.  If for no other reason, because of all the sweat he had to pour into all he did.  His childhood had been hard, but he knew anything worth having in life was hard.  His father’s philosophy had carried him this far and he knew it would carry him further still.

The sense of helplessness he felt while watching the city burn evaporated as he concocted a plan.  Once the fear left him, things became clear.  He grabbed the camouflage outfit he’d bought for some retreat he’d gone on with other executives at P&G.  For three days Michael had played paintball, got drunk out in the woods, and howled at the moon.  It had been an absolutely worthless experience, but at least he got some useful duds out of it.  He also grabbed the rather large knife he’d bought out of a catalog after training with edged weapons in his martial arts classes.  Tai Kwan Do had been studied more for keeping in shape than for self-defense, but now it appeared that he would have the chance to put that training and the knife to good use.

For one last time he scanned his place; all the expensive decorating touches he had spent top dollar for.  He glanced over at his wine collection and the few pieces of artwork he’d bought at auction.  The accoutrements of wealth and success.  It was all kindling for the bonfire that humanity was being tossed into now, nothing more.

Being able to accept that was what made Michael stronger than his peers, and he knew it.  So many of them would be desperate to save the trappings of their prior lives, believing that somehow that would make a difference.  They would all die clutching at scraps of that old world.  He could relinquish it all – the wealth, the prestige, the potential power … and recognize that in this new world there would be other types of power which would allow only few to stand out from the crowd.  And that power would not come from possessions or connections, but from the strength of one’s determination and ability to adapt.  Michael vowed to embrace this new world order and show his father and every other ghost living inside his head that he was up to the challenge.

The next couple of days were a blur of furious movement and hiding in any hole he could find.  He managed to escape the tower he lived in with a couple of other tenants, though neither of them made it too far.  They were convinced the police or military would save them, or that they would find a safe haven within the city.  Michael didn’t spare much regret when they were torn to pieces within blocks of their former home.

The running seemed endless, as did the uncomfortable and cramped spaces he found himself in to avoid detection.  He slept in a broom closet in the bowels of an office building at one point, with the mop bucket and several large containers of cleaning solution pushed up against the door.  He swiped bottles of water and smashed in vending machines to get food.  He avoided confrontations with both the living and the undead while moving steadily in the direction that appeared to be the safest: east.

The city was not only in flames, it a war zone.  The trick, Michael learned, was to be counterintuitive.  Other refugees migrated toward the shelters and where the National Guard was located.  They headed to the hospitals, police, and fire stations.  They were idiots.  Because not only were the living moving in that direction, so were the dead.

Michael listened to a portable radio he had taken with him from his condo, and every report about a shelter that had been set up in the city told him exactly where not to go.  And when the reports stopped, he continued listening for gunfire, and steered clear of that as well.  He slipped into areas that had already been overrun by the dead, because the stiffs had a pack mentality and followed their prey where ever they could sense them.  That meant that only the stragglers and those too feeble to walk were usually left behind once all the living had fled or been devoured.  Those few ghouls were far easier to manage than the large hordes attacking the National Guard troops and the frightened sheep the general population had become.

By the time Michael met Frank, the endless hiding and running had taken its toll on him.  He was wearing down and feeling dispirited, questioning whether his brilliant plans for the future were all just a bunch of crap he’d made up to keep him motivated to stay alive when there wasn’t much sense in doing so.

Michael almost killed the other man by accident, thinking Frank was a rotter.  He was beating the brains in of a woman with his bare hands out on the street, and it was hard to tell which of the two was alive.

Michael tried avoiding situations where things might get out of control on him.  He had no interest in playing the hero or drawing a crowd, but this was in a quiet residential neighborhood that he was walking through – there was no one in sight beside the two people a dozen yards in front of him.  It was, in fact, one of the first streets he’d been on that didn’t have at least a half dozen stiffs wandering aimlessly on it.

He’d come down this road because he saw several cars and even a work van that appeared to be in working condition out in plain sight.  Looking for a vehicle he could drive out of the area had preoccupied Michael’s mind during much of his journey.  Walking was getting old, and being out in the open and vulnerable was making him a nervous wreck.

As he came up on the two struggling figures, Michael wondered if the man, or maybe the woman he was beating on, might have a set of keys to one of the vehicles nearby.  Looking around, he spotted a heavy tree branch that had snapped and fallen to the ground.  There was, in fact, plenty of debris all over the street to choose from.  Shattered door frames, discarded house wares, and even a few broken road signs.  The area, an old, rundown neighborhood filled with dilapidated row houses, looked like a tornado had hit it.  The two people doing battle appeared to be the last remnants of whatever madness had passed through the area.

Michael crept up behind the man and raised his weapon, ready to strike.  Frank chose that moment to turn his head, perhaps having spied Michael’s shadow from the corner of his eye.  That probably ended up saving his life.  He turned white as a sheet and raised an arm to ward off the blow as he scrambled backwards.  He stumbled over the woman he’d been pummeling and fell on his ass beside her.

The woman, no longer pinned to the ground, turned over in an effort to reach Frank, who scrabbled away from her.  Her face was an open wound.  A flap of skin that contained most of her facial features slapped at her skull with every jarring movement she made.  She was a heavy set, matronly woman with thick arms and legs.  She was trying to hiss out something through her lips, though nothing intelligible.  With it, there was a shower of spittle and blood that came from the depths of her throat.

Frank was babbling as well as he pressed up against one of the cars parked at the curb.  Reaching behind his back, he made an effort to hook his hand onto the bumper to help elevate his corpulent frame to a standing position.

Michael slammed his booted foot down on the small of the woman’s back and drove her chest toward the pavement.  One of the hands she had used to elevate her body skidded out from underneath her, leaving most of the skin from her palm on the asphalt.  Her other arm snapped, braking below the elbow, which caused her to collapse.  Swinging the tree branch, Michael landed several blows as the ghoul struggled to get back up.  A scattering of teeth sprayed from her mouth as the abuse rained down on the back of her skull.  After a minute or so, the matronly woman’s movements stilled.

Michael studied the corpse for a moment before looking back at Frank.  The expression on the filthy man’s face would have been amusing, if it weren’t so pathetic.  Frank looked about as terrified of Michael as the monster he’d been brawling with.

The fear turned into nervous appreciation as the two men traded introductions.  After that, Frank’s story came out in a tumble, as if he was relieved to have the chance to speak to a live human being.  He’d been stuck in his basement for several days, and had been forced to “deal” with his wife, who’d been bitten early on.  They had no children, so he had been all alone ever since.  After a while, the itch to see what was going on outside as well as a chance to grab something beside the pork n’ beans he’d been living on caused him to climb the stairs, pry open the door he’d nailed shut, and take a look around.  Most of the stiffs out of the street had migrated elsewhere by then, since a lot of Frank’s neighbors fled in the first couple of days of the madness that had gripped the city.  So he went on the hunt for food in his neighbor’s houses.  That was when he happened upon Lila, the woman he’d been attacking when Michael wandered by.  She lived a couple doors down from Frank.  He had entered her home and found her in the kitchen, snacking on Stanley, her husband.  “I guess she wanted fresher meat, ‘cause ol’ Stan smelled a mite sour, so she went after me,” Frank said with a crooked grin.

He rushed to leave the house, but Lila followed, smashing through the front door he’d slammed shut behind him, forcing him to deal with her out on the street.

“I never liked that bitch much anyway,” Frank said with a nervous chuckle as his story came to an end.

Michael patiently listened to the sweaty, smelly man’s tale and tried to ignore the fact that Frank looked like the type of person he wouldn’t have spoken to on a bet just a week prior, unless it was to pay him to do plumbing work or some other menial task … not that someone in Frank’s condition (even if he had showered and had on clean clothes) would have ever made it past the doorman of Michael’s building.  But things had changed, and the need to adapt to this new environment, and to the people who remained in it, was imperative.  There would be a need for men like Frank, like there always had been.  He was the type who took orders and was willing to get his hands dirty … very dirty, if necessary.

Nodding politely, Michael did his best to seem interested in what Frank had to say as his eyes kept gravitating to the work truck sitting in the driveway nearby.

Frank invited Michael into his house and they shared a sparse meal of the beans remaining in Frank’s stash and a few of the candy bars Michael was carrying.  He did his best not to cringe at the smell of the decrepit house, noticing all the while that Frank didn’t seem to mind the foul odor emanating from his basement.  Michael’s guess was that Frank’s wife was still down there, and his new acquaintance had grown used to the smell of her rotten corpse.

It didn’t take more than an hour with Frank for Michael to make up his mind.  Frank wasn’t too sharp, but he was malleable and appeared willing to do just about anything to get out of the stink trap he’d been living in for the past week.  The idle promise of some booze and the assurance that together they could forge a new existence for themselves and anyone else they found sounded pretty good to Frank.  He was a pig, but Michael knew he would be a loyal pig, as long as he was given some mud to root around in on occasion.

Before the day was over, they were on the road in the truck, which happened to be Frank’s, maneuvering past the most of the wrecks and areas crawling with mobile corpses as they headed east, away from the city.

Frank was just another piece of the puzzle Michael had been working on in his head.  Getting used to the filthy, disgusting man would be easy, since he was willing to follow orders and grew excited at the prospects of a lawless world that would need men like them to set things straight.  They might have to do a few questionable things along the way, but that would be okay – in the end, those living under their protection would thank them for what the two men were willing to do for them, with no questions asked.

As they avoided the hordes of undead and the few clots of National Guardsmen still alive and still willing to fight, they passed their time capturing a few of the individual ghouls they came across.  Michael felt it was important to understand the enemy, to see if anything could be done to salvage these inhuman wrecks.  He tried to see if they would respond to any stimulus besides warm flesh, and if, given enough time, they could be turned into some sort of slave labor or mindless work force.

They would lure a single stiff into the back of the van.  A dead dog or cat carcass was usually enough to get them moving in the right direction.  The truck had a wire-reinforced barrier between the driver’s area and the back, which made it easy to collect specimens without fear of getting bit.  A couple of hockey sticks, a fishing net, and some padded gloves acquired from an abandoned sporting goods store were the only equipment they needed to manage the task, along with some stout rope.

When every experiment Michael did failed, he turned the monsters over to Frank, who enjoyed torturing the creatures.  Michael suspected it wasn’t because of some twisted desire for revenge that the small-minded man had, but because Frank got his rocks off that way.  Michael tolerated the behavior, though it repulsed him, because it gave his partner a little bit of joy in an otherwise dreary existence.

Over the next few days, they had run-ins with both the living and the dead, and managed to come out on top in each situation, adding to their level of confidence as well as their arsenal.  Frank laid claim to a double barreled shotgun while Michael got an M16 and 9mm pistol from some stubborn soldier who took a little bit of prodding before he gave them up.  Not long after that, they were also gathering people; stragglers more than happy to let Michael take the lead in their efforts to survive.  They ditched the van as their contingent grew in size, finding a small plastics factory that they could fortify until they could find more adequate transportation.

The battle to survive was a daily grind.  The group spent their time foraging for food, water, and other supplies that would help them make a go of it.  Everyone who joined Michael’s group was thrilled to be with other survivors and asked few questions about his methods, which was just how he liked things.  He doled out the responsibilities and Frank made sure everyone did as they were told.  It seemed that everyone was more than happy to be following orders – it gave their existence meaning and the confidence Michael exuded gave them hope.

Then Cindy came along.

Michael couldn’t say that she ruined everything.  To say that she had even changed his plans would be an exaggeration and a lie.  He knew Cindy didn’t change one single thing about his vision for the future.  They would still find a permanent home for the living that Michael preached about, and he would continue shaping everyone’s vision of the future.  Each step they took as a group was still as he dictated.

It wasn’t his vision that had changed with Cindy.  It was him who had changed.  After spending just a little time with her, he knew what she was.  She was a succubus, taking great pleasure sucking the life force out of him bit by bit.  But that wasn’t all.  She was not so indifferent to his suffering that she wanted to take everything away until he withered and died.  Instead, for every bit of him she took, she gave back piece of herself.  It was her gift.  For every rational thought, for every piece of compassion he tried to maintain a grip on but lost, there was something new put in its place.  Something that was dark and squirmed beneath his skin.  It burned in his gut and made it feel like his bones were turning to ash.

Cindy’s gift to Michael was her pure and unadulterated hatred for everyone and everything in the world.  And as much as he wanted to deny it, he had to admit that a part of him liked the gift she had given him.

Cindy had stumbled into the factory a couple of days after they’d set up camp and told a muddled story about a boyfriend who she’d shared a camper with until he was bitten.  The story was vague, but it didn’t bother Cindy that no one seemed to buy it – she stumbled over what her boyfriend’s name was and she was even vaguer about her existence before the virus had hit.  It was easy for Michael to dismiss; several of the people with them found it hard to talk about their past.  What was clear to him was that Cindy enjoyed the rough, harsh existence brought on by the plague, and didn’t have any problem killing infected.  She was good at it.  She was a strong, remorseless killer, and that appealed to him.  Most of the people he was surrounded by had an almost crippling fear of the undead, but not Cindy.

Almost immediately after being welcomed into the group, Cindy began the process of insinuating herself into Michael’s life.

Despite her outward appearance as a tattooed, rebellious free-spirit, Cindy was, in her own way, even more power hungry than Michael.  She recognized him as the person in charge and did everything she could to learn what made him tick.  Michael, who had rubbed elbows with politicians and the well to do his entire life, realized too late that he had no built in defense mechanisms to hold off the advances of someone so … raw, for lack of a better term.  Cindy had no fears, no boundaries, and a depraved, lusty nature that attracted Michael like a moth to the flame.

She was his girlfriend before he even realized it.  And from the first moment he did realize it, he understood that he needed to figure out a way to be free of her clutches.

Cindy scared Michael.  She could see right through him and knew from the get go that there was a repressed knot of rage buried deep inside that he rarely displayed.  She massaged that rage to the surface, prodding him into directing his anger toward her.  What scared Michael the most was that Cindy enjoyed it when he was mad at her.  She didn’t stop there, and pushed him into getting violent with her when no one else was around.  It was a sick trip, but the desire that burned in her eyes when she provoked him made it all the more frightening and appealing.  When he tried to restrain himself, she would push harder.  Lacing the violence with sex made it all the more confusing.  It was exhilarating and terrifying, and felt like they were in some sort of sick, symbiotic relationship; Cindy fed on his anger while at the same time encouraging more of it to grow inside of him so the supply she craved would be never ending.

The urge to resist Cindy weakened in time, though never disappeared.  There were far too many other things going on for Michael to worry about their relationship and what it was becoming.  About a week and a half after they claimed the factory as their own, it was overrun and several members of the group died as they escaped.

Michael’s group was once again out in the open and that was when the idea of getting a hold of an RV or two popped into his head.  Ben, one of the newcomers and a massive giant of a man, suggested they get more than just a couple, and set out to find a place they could bring them which would keep the group hidden away from danger.  He alluded at the fact that getting diesel to fuel those beasts would be tough, and become next to impossible in the upcoming months, but they would be incredibly useful even if they weren’t able to go that far.  They needed to find a place to hunker down that was defensible, and if they had enough RVs, they could create a barrier that would be difficult for the undead to penetrate.

It took several days, but they found an RV dealership not too far away while Ben found an ideal place to move the motor homes to near a small town called Manchester.  Things got messy and a few more members of the group perished during the process of moving and transplanting the RVs, but afterwards they were safe again, hidden behind massive metal walls and buried in a wooded area that would keep prying eyes, both living and dead, from seeing their new home.

As things settled down, Michael found himself with more free time, and more time to reflect on his existence than he’d had since he left his condo in downtown Cincinnati.  Marcus, who’d joined the group after they fled the factory, became Frank’s drinking buddy, which kept the lout preoccupied most of the time.  Ben volunteered to collect the supplies they needed and spent much of his time beyond the walls of the RV fortress hunting and scavenging around Manchester.  Lydia, one of the more recent additions to the group, was more than willing to take responsibility of managing the food and water and tending to the children.  All of this meant that Michael had more time to spend thinking … thinking about the future of the little civilization he was trying to create … and about how imperative it had become that he sever his ties with Cindy.

It couldn’t happen yet, not with the batch of newcomers that had just arrived, but soon enough.  No reason to give any of them any doubts about the stability of the pecking order in the camp.  Even if he did find Megan intriguing.

She wasn’t attractive … at least not at first glance.  She was physically weak and sickly looking, with dark circles beneath sunken eyes and pallor that was the norm for those who had spent the past few weeks either hiding or running in fear.  And yet, there was a sparkle in her eyes which was hard not to notice and traces of what she might have looked like before her world had been shattered haunted her face.  There was beauty hidden there, and given time and nurturing, it would return.  And for Michael, more important than any physical potential she possessed, she was a normal human being.  Megan was feisty, no doubt about it, but she wasn’t a sociopath, which elevated her status dramatically in his eyes.  She was a suitable match for him, and he doubted that anyone except Cindy would disagree with that.

But that could wait.  He could woo Megan after she, Jeff, and George understood their place in his little world.  It wouldn’t take long for them to realize they were better off doing things his way, rather than resisting the inevitable, or they would suffer the consequences.

Given enough time, Megan would regain the weight she’d lost and a healthy glow would return to her skin.  She would also come to her senses.  Life was a struggle, but it would be much easier with Michael at her side.  No amount of animosity she felt for him now would keep her from seeing the truth in the coming weeks.

The only thing standing in the way of that vision was Cindy.  She would have to be dealt with.  It had to happen soon.  Their relationship had grown more and more twisted with every day and night they spent together.

Michael knew that “dealing” with her wouldn’t just be a matter of kicking her out of the RV they shared or telling her it was over between them.  No.  It would require something a bit more drastic than that.

Perhaps a trip beyond the walls of their little fortress for just the two of them might be in order.  A trip she wouldn’t return from.  It wasn’t as if anyone would miss her anyway.

As he ran his finger along the razor sharp edge of the knife he kept strapped to his wrist, a nervous smile twitched at his lips.  He could deal with her.  He just had to work up the courage.

Then everything would return to normal inside of Michael’s head.  All the sinister urges Cindy had put in there would evaporate, disappear.  The dark cravings would be gone, and he would become the leader he had always wanted to be; the one everyone admired and respected, and not just feared.  All he had to do was get rid of her vile influence on him and everything would be just fine.

Soon.  He would do it soon.

Revised cover for Strange Tales of Horror Anthology

One of the anthologies that I am in, which is being released shortly, is Strange Tales of Horror from Norgus Press.  It is their first anthology and I am thrilled to have my story, “VRZ” in it.  It should be released fairly soon, and the table of contents promises a pretty diverse range of stories.  Be sure to check it out, and of course, once it hits the shelves, I will be posting a link for where to get it.

They have changed the cover, and I think this one is pretty wild looking and I like it quite a bit.  So check it out!

Dark Stories: Fred and Bobby

Well, I have come to the point where the main characters from Come The Dark have been all detailed out via the Dark Stories I’ve posted thus far.  As I mentioned in the past, I wanted to continue this trek, and shed some light on some of the other characters that are introduced in Into The Dark.  But before I do that, I decided that I would post this little tidbit.

I realize that this isn’t much of a short story, really.  It is more of an information dump on two characters that show up briefly in Comes The Dark, but have a profound impact on the four survivors in the story.  Fred, the father who ambushes Jeff and Megan at the farmhouse, and his son Bobby.  I had originally written this bit as an extensive explanation of who they were in my manuscript, but for what seems like obvious reasons now, it seemed unnecessary to the main story as I started doing edits.

I will freely admit that this brief overview of these two may not resonate that much with any of you.  More or less, it is information on two peripheral characters to make them hopefully feel more human to you, given the circumstances with which they are introduced in story.  I guess my objective was to make sure that everyone had a reason to exist that I introduced.  I wanted everyone, even these two guys who are in the story for all of a chapter, to have a real existence and real lives.

I guess it is up to you to see if I achieved that or not with this brief introduction to Fred and Bobby.

As always, I would like to point out that I did my best to make sure I edited this piece properly, but I am sure there will be a few typos here and there.  So forgive me those.  I hope you enjoy:


Fred and Bobby

Fred had spent his career as a mailman in Lawrence Park, where he and his wife Carol had lived for several years.  It was located near Milfield, but closer to the city.  Considered a more upscale address than most of the outlying suburbs, several recognizable local celebrities called it home.  Old, trendy neighborhoods with half a million dollar plus homes were the norm, and the Harrington’s liked the status they gained when they moved into the area.   While Fred’s salary wasn’t impressive, Carol was a marketing executive for a large downtown Cincinnati Fortune 500 company, which afforded them a pretty decent lifestyle.

Despite the ease with which Fred handled the expensive hunting rifle he was carrying when he ambushed Jeff and Megan, the first time he had handled the weapon had been only three weeks earlier.  In fact, he had never touched any sort of firearm until he met Carol.  Carol might have enjoyed her urban, yuppie existence, but she was still a country girl at heart with a family that loved to hunt and fish.  Fred’s boys, Bobby and Charlie, had gone out with Carol’s brother Teddy on many occasions.  He took them hunting near his place near Hillsboro, which was about forty five miles east of Cincinnati.  He was the one, with Carol’s permission, who had bought the boys their rifles a few years earlier for Christmas.  Fred had been hesitant about the idea at first, but Carol had convinced him that Teddy would teach them all about gun safety before they ever got to use them.  He had agreed, reluctantly.

The rifle Fred was carrying had been Charlie’s.  After his older son had died, Bobby managed to teach his father how to use it.  That knowledge had helped him and his son out of several tough jams with the undead.

Up until coming across Jeff and Megan, Fred had handled the rifle fairly well.  He’d been willing to pull the trigger when his wife had been bitten by several of the infected.  When her eyes opened back up after her heart had stopped, he had taken aim and put her out of her misery, despite the sensation that the world was caving in on him as he did it.

Fred had managed twenty headshots on the undead at long range with Charlie’s rifle.  Bobby had shot even more of the stiffs during their travels.  Still, it was Fred, the novice, who came into his own during the apocalypse.  He had become a survivor, able to deal with anything that came his way, or so he presumed.  That rifle had given him a sense of confidence he’d never had before in life.

Back when everything started, when the first reports of the virus showing up in Ohio had hit the air, Fred didn’t have much of an assertive personality.  Carol had been the one who ruled the roost in the Harrington household, which had been just fine with Fred.  When the soldiers with bullhorns had rolled down their street urging everyone to head to the local community center where a shelter had been set up, it was her who had announced that they would be hunkering down in the house and not bothering with such a place.  She believed that all of this nonsense would blow over within a few days.  Fred didn’t have much to say about that, despite his unvoiced concerns.

And when everything continued to go downhill, and it was too late to do much except sit and watch as the amount of infected in Lawrence Park grew exponentially, it was Carol who decided it was time for the Harrington’s to make a run for it.

Up until that point, the boys hadn’t the need to fire their rifles in defense of the house.  They’d learned by watching some of the neighbors as their houses were turned into something like the Alamo that just about any loud noise could set off the rotters.  They would swarm and within minutes, there was typically nothing left of the people hiding behind their locked doors.  But as long as things were quiet, the stiffs seemed willing to leave things well enough alone.

Their food and water supply had shrunk to a dangerously low level by the time Carol suggested to Fred that they get in the Acura SUV parked in the garage and head out to Teddy’s place.  Fred, as he typically did, deferred to his wife’s judgment, which pleased the boys tremendously.  Before their parents could say anything else, they were rushing around the house, collecting up everything they wanted to take to their favorite uncle’s ranch.

Later on, Fred could never quite recall what it was that had set the stiffs off.  Perhaps it had been the suitcase Bobby had dropped down the steps, or the vase Charlie knocked over in the front hallway.  It might have just been the fact that everyone seemed to have forgotten where they were and let their voices rise with excitement at their eminent departure.  All he knew for sure was that one minute they were talking about what route they should take to get to Uncle Teddy’s, and the next the doors and windows were being bashed on by several of their undead neighbors.  Within moments, the sounds of smashing fists had increased tenfold and there was a huge crowd surrounding the house.  It sounded something like a hailstorm going on outside.

The Harrington’s had attempted to grab what seemed like all their worldly possessions for their departure, and only in hindsight did Fred realize how incredibly foolish that had been.  Besides their weapons and the food and water they could carry, grabbing anything else hadn’t made much sense.  Still, it seemed like the logical thing to do at the time.  That, Fred decided, was the real culprit for what happened next.

As the front door threatened to collapse under the strain of a dozen bodies, Fred commandeered Charlie to help him drag more furniture in front of the door while Bobby and Carol scrambled to collect the suitcases and bags of clothing that had been tossed into the kitchen so they could move them to the SUV.  Before they could get very far, the large picture window at the front of the house shattered and the feeble plywood sheet covering it was threatening to snap into kindling.  Foolishly, everyone chose to rush to the window in an effort to hold off the onslaught, but it seemed like a hundred arms were already grabbing and pawing at them through the growing gaps in the barricade.

A stray arm clutched at Charlie’s neck, and before he could even cry out, he was being pulled through the rapidly increasing gap in their defenses, head first.  It was just that quick. There was no slow, dreadful struggle, no failed tug of war between his family and the undead.  It happened so fast, Fred didn’t even realize Charlie had been attacked until Carole screamed out a few seconds later.  By then, it was too late.  Charlie’s body didn’t even have much of a chance to twitch in its death throws as it was dragged ruthlessly out the hole.  The instant his head had been yanked out the window, several ghouls had torn into his face and neck, killing him almost instantly.

The moments following Charlie’s death were a blur.  Fred might not have believed in miracles before then, but he did after he somehow managed to drag his wife and other son to the garage as the rotting horde on their front lawn poured into the house.  Bobby and Carol both fought him every step of the way, believing in their stunned state that Charlie was somehow still alive and they needed to save him.

Something snapped in Fred after Charlie’s death.  His voice, always quiet and unassuming, thundered as he exhorted his family to get to the SUV.  And for some reason he couldn’t quite comprehend, they listened to him.  They managed to grab their weapons, but little else, before they climbed into the vehicle.

The back end of the Acura took a beating as it plowed through the garage door and several stiffs that had been in the Harrington’s driveway.  Their race through the neighborhood was a chaotic obstacle course that forced Fred to navigate through several of their neighbor’s yards in an attempt to escape the horde.  Tucked away inside their house, it had been hard for Fred to believe that most of the people in the world had turned into savage monsters, but the moment he saw how many of foul, rotting monsters were shambling around outside, all his doubts about the magnitude of the plague evaporated.

The sounds of Bobby’s howled curses was barely audible over the caterwauls of the deceased as Carol wept silent tears next to Fred.  Despite the din, all Fred could hear was the pounding of his heart as he was forced to slalom around another clot of bodies in front of him.

The Acura suffered a few more dents and dings before Fred managed to plow through the twelve foot tall hedges lining the edge of their subdivision.  As a mailman, he was familiar with most of the back roads in the area, and was able to navigate the SUV to an area not clogged with the wrecks choking the major roadways.  Despite his desire to head straight for Hillsboro and Teddy’s place, he knew that wasn’t feasible.  His knowledge of the local area gave Fred only a bit of an edge, which diminished as they left Lawrence Park.  The GPS in the Acura was on the fritz, so their path became more convoluted the further away from home they got.  Fred waited patiently for Carol to say something to him, to offer him some sort of guidance, but she sat in stony silence on the trip, leaving the decision making up to him.

After an hour or so, thoughts of getting to Teddy’s place took a back seat to survival.  The world had been wrecked, and Fred was beginning to doubt that getting to Hillsboro was going to be something they would be able to do very easily, or perhaps at all.

The journey that first day consisted of a series of misguided attempts to stop and collect food and water, along with a failed attempt at seeing if there was any gas left in the pumps at a convenience store several miles from their house.  The undead were everywhere, and every time they stopped the Acura and stepped outside, it never took more than ten minutes before the surviving members of the Harrington family were forced to rush back to the SUV before getting surrounded and overwhelmed.

Originally, Fred had believed the news reports that stated that most of the infected were confined to certain areas of the city, while outlying suburbs and rural areas were relatively safe.  No such luck.  There were deaders as far as the eye could see, in every direction.  Many hadn’t stirred since the last of the living had departed or died days and weeks earlier, but when the sound of the Acura’s engine roared through the area they woke out of whatever stupor they were in and swarmed the vehicle.  It made for some messy getaways.

They somehow managed to find a place to hide outside of Gallatin, deep into the night.  They sat in the SUV, buried in a stand of trees for several hours with the engine turned off.  They had been forced to leave the Acura where it was parked as they hoofed it to a house a hundred yards away that had been abandoned.  They spent the next day silently fortifying the house the best they could, dismantling furniture and using it to barricade the doors and windows.  The only door that wasn’t blocked off was the one off the back porch, which Fred and Bobby used to sneak out to go hunting over the course of the following week.

That was when Bobby taught his father how to use Charlie’s rifle.  Hunting was a challenge, but they managed to scare up some game.  It seemed that most of the wild animals were still plentiful despite the fact domesticated animals had been slaughtered just like the human population.  They saw more than one dead cow, its bones picked clean by the combination of the ravenous undead and the scavengers that made sure whatever they left behind was devoured.

Unfortunately, with every shot of the rifles, the infected became aware of their position and tracked the father and son to their location within minutes.  It forced them to travel further afield on each trip, away from the house they had commandeered, to insure they didn’t bring any stiffs back home with them.  Even with a thorough effort to insure that the surrounding area was corpse-free, it was only a matter of minutes before the first trickle of rotters would appear off in the distance after a trigger was pulled.  It was even worse when they got a kill.  The scent of fresh blood was like a magnet that pulled and compelled the monsters.

Despite all their precautions, it was after one of their failed hunting trips that they returned to the house to find the windows smashed in and the back door wide open.  Rushing inside, they discovered Carol had killed eleven ghouls with her small handgun.  It had taken sixteen shots to take them down, which meant she had been forced to reload the semi-automatic in the middle of the fight.  During the battle, she had been bitten, but even after getting her arm gnawed on, she managed to continue fighting the rest of the pack off.  She let the one that had latched onto her arm clamp down tight while she fired the gun with her other hand, shooting the three other stiffs surrounding her.  Even then, she didn’t shoot the one on her arm.  Instead, she slammed the butt of the handgun down onto its skull until she heard the bone cracked, firing at several other stiffs between each downward strike.  Finally, when she was out of immediate danger and the one that had bitten her was twitching on the floor, she put a bullet in its head.

Carol Harrington was a tough woman.  Her husband would be the first to tell anyone that.  It was forty hours of labor with no painkillers for the birth of Charlie and then a c-section with Bobby.  Never a complaint in either instance and she was up and moving around the next day like nothing had happened.  Any pain she had was suffered through in silence.  This time was no exception.  After all the ghouls were dead, she wrapped her arm in a bed sheet and waited for her son and husband to return to the house.  Once they did, she was the one who insisted they leave right away, without any time for her to rest from the assault.  Carol was nothing if not practical.  They had to find another hiding place before more of the infected found them.

“Get off your asses, quit whining about me, and head for the Acura!”  It was as simple as that.  She made the pronouncement and there was no questioning her on it.

They drove the SUV until it ran out of gas, which unfortunately didn’t take long.  After that, they walked for two hours, moving with as much stealth as they could manage.  Carol, who refused any assistance, stood tall and kept walking until they found the old farm house with the grain silo next to it.  It was surrounded by several large, barren fields and much like their previous hiding place, it had been abandoned weeks before.  Given their ability to see what was coming at them for nearly a mile in every direction, they knew it was their safest bet.

Carol died a day later.  She was strong, but like every other human being that had been bitten and infected with the virus, she couldn’t resist its deadly pull.

Less than thirty minutes after her demise, she sat up in the bed that Fred and Bobby had laid her down on in the farmhouse.  The first thing she did after opening her rheumy eyes was to hiss at her husband.  Fred, who had wrapped the rifle in a towel to muffle the sound, waited until the very last second before putting a bullet through Carol’s head.

They buried her an hour later, putting up a makeshift cross to mark her grave.

Fred and Bobby spent the next week or so at the farmhouse, living in silence, rarely speaking to one another.  They saw more and more of the dead creeping around off in the distance, but none ventured too close.  Even so, it was getting worse every day.  There would be long stretches of time where they would see nothing, but then would spot a pack of twenty or thirty of the diseased vermin roaming near the property.  At the same time, their ammunition was running low and they wanted to preserve it for hunting, so they had to continue keeping their heads down.  Bobby found a bike out in the shed, but didn’t bother riding it anywhere.  It was too dangerous a risk.

It was on one of those drab, muggy summer days that seemed endless when they heard a sound that was almost alien to them anymore.  The sound of a car engine rolling down the road that ran next to the property.  Even off in the distance, the engine was clear as a bell.  There were no other sounds to interfere with it: no other cars, no people, no machines … nothing.  There hadn’t been anything but the moans of the dead and chirping of birds for as long as they could remember.

The two of them watched as the blue Honda stopped in front of the huge property.  At that point it was just some far away dot.  It wasn’t until it turned up the road, moving closer, that Fred came up with a hastily outlined plan that would help him and Bobby escape the farmhouse and make one last attempt to get to Hillsboro and Teddy, if he were still alive.

Bobby had been hesitant about trying to hijack the van and wanted to see if they could just talk to the people to see if they might be able to hitch a ride with them.  Fred steamrolled that idea without a moment’s hesitation.  He was a changed man, no longer afraid to assert himself.  The death of his older boy and wife of twenty three years had done that to him.

He reminded Bobby that the few people they’d seen since the escaped from their house in Lawrence Park had been none too friendly to them.  If his family hadn’t been armed, Fred knew that there was no way they would have made it this far.  They would be dead on the side of some road, left as bait for the rotters as their fellow survivors picked over their meager belongings.  People were desperate, crazed, and none seemed to be in the mood for small talk or hospitality these days.

After a few seconds of heated discussion with his father, Bobby gave in and reluctantly nodded his agreement to the plan.  Fred moved into position behind the shed and told Bobby to wait at the door.  They would be ready for the people in the van, no matter how dangerous they were and how well armed they might be.

Despite the argument, and despite the lack of communication between the father and son, the two had grown much closer after Carol’s death.  Before, their relationship had been okay-as best as could be expected between a rebellious teenager and his dad, but their level of trust and appreciation for one another had grown dramatically in the past few days.  Despite the cloud of despair hanging over them, they knew they could count one another for anything.

Charlie had been a great older brother.  He liked to heap abuse on his kid brother when they were younger, with wedgies and Indian burns being his favorite form of torture.  But as they got older, they had learned to watch out for one another, to watch each other’s backs.  Somehow, after Charlie died, Bobby managed to stay strong, despite losing his best friend.  He had clung to his mother, knowing deep down that he had been her favorite, whereas dad had favored Charlie.  So when she died, it had felt like his guts had been ripped out.

It had been the same for Fred.  Somehow, out of their combined pain and anguish, they were able to form a new bond.  Part of it had come from the last conversation Bobby had with his mother before she passed.   When they had arrived at the farmhouse, Carol had sat her son down next to her.  She had looked him straight in the eye and told him that it was his job to watch out for his father now.  They were each other’s responsibility and no one else was going to take care of them if they didn’t take care of each other.  The entire world was out to get them and they had to stick together if they were going to make it out of this alive.  She made him swear to her that he would.  Bobby had, and when he did, he meant every word of it.

Bobby didn’t realize it, but moments after he said his last goodbye to his mother and rushed from the room to weep silently in the shed, and before she took her final breath, Carol had the same conversation with her husband.  And Fred had made the same promise to her that his son had.

They would stick together until the bitter end.


Review of Craig DiLouie’s “Tooth and Nail”

Tooth and Nail is blistering fast military-focused thrill ride into the apocalypse.  I scanned some of the other reviews and a comment that comes up with some frequency is that the nemesis here are not technically zombies.  From a purist perspective, that is certainly true.  The Hong Kong Lyssa Virus does not kill its victims…the ones that go “Mad Dog”, as they are called, have symptoms similar to someone infected with rabies…along the lines what we saw with 28 Days Later and Rec, as far as movies are concerned.  They are fast, they are lethal, and their desire is to spread the virus rather than devour the living, although they are not above tearing someone apart that gets in their way.  The effect of this is that the author went to some pretty good lengths to detail out this virus and its effect, giving it a realistic edge where the science felt pretty solid.
That is not where the realism in this tale stops.  The story focuses on Charlie Company, who are stationed in Manhattan, guarding one of the hospital where Lyssa patients are being attended to.  As the story starts, the city is already on lock down.  The U.S. troops have been recalled from all across the globe to deal with the growing threat in America and we are just getting a small taste of what these Mad Dogs are capable of.  The Lyssa Virus itself is just like any other flu, or so it seems, but with a small percentage of those getting sick turning into rabid killers.  But that number is increasing as it is discovered that this isn’t just an airborne virus and the Mad Dogs are growing as a part of the sick population at an exponential rate.  At the same time we are seeing what Charlie Company is up against, we are also introduced to a research facility in Manhattan, where a Russian Doctor is discovering the truth about the virus and more specifically, the Mad Dogs, and trying desperately to come up with a vaccine or cure.
Craig DiLouie has created a very tightly knit story here with a great deal of depth of detail when it comes to military protocol and actions.  Since I haven’t served in the military, I can’t attest to the specific accuracy of everything, but clearly, the author knows his stuff.  There is no one single main character here, instead, the cast is more like an ensemble and the story reminded me, in parts, of the movie “Black Hawk Down”, where it seems at every turn things are getting worse and worse and the local population is turning more savage by the minute as the military tries to complete their mission.  Despite the lack of a main character, the author did a great job of providing the reader with some fully fleshed out characters that were easy to grow attached to for me.  Their interactions felt real and natural given the circumstances, not awkward or forced.  If I had a complaint about this story, it was with the tense change that occurred at a few points of the story.  I can understand the merits of going present tense with a book that moves at the hectic pace of this one, but there are some parts of the book that are in past tense and others in present, which is a shift that isn’t always easy to adapt to as a reader.  Despite this minor quibble, the book is solidly written and the story well paced.  I do hope to see a sequel to this book, but it certainly can stand on its own as a excellent entry into the infected/zombie apocalypse genre.

Tooth and Nail can be found at: http://www.amazon.com/Tooth-Nail-Craig-Dilouie/dp/1930486987/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1294151082&sr=8-1

Check out my interview with Heather over at Doubleshot Reviews.

Heather over at Doubleshot Reviews was kind enough to interview me after reviewing Comes The Dark recently.  So give it a looksee here:  http://doubleshotreviews.com/2011/01/03/interview-with-patrick-dorazio/

Review of Todd Brown’s “Zomblog II”

Zomblog II slides the reader into the story started with Zomblog with ease, with a second character having taken up the challenge to provide a journal about the ongoing zombie apocalypse.  Meredith, who actually became the narrator perhaps halfway through the first book, continues to tell of her experiences as she moves from place to place and meets new survivors along the way, while trying her best to keep those she cares about alive.  I thought the way the author shifted perspectives was quite creative and surprising in the first book.  I won’t ruin the surprise here by giving away what happens in the second book, as I tend to prefer not to give away the overall plot.  So if you are expecting the same type of shakeup here, you will have to read the book for yourself to find out what happens to the main character and if they make it through to the end.
Zomblog II moves at the same breakneck pace as Zomblog did, but Todd Brown has upped the ante with even greater challenges and darker realities for the narrator of this tale to face as the initial days of the zombie apocalypse fade into the distance. The most compelling aspect of this book is the author’s willingness to show both the absolute best and worst aspects of humanity and keeping you glued to every page as the story unfolds.  Make no mistake, this is a gritty, raw tale that expects the reader to accept how depraved mankind can get when things go bad.  Certainly, there are those who retain elements of their humanity, but while living in barbaric, ugly times, the bad seems to shine through, and those that are willing to do anything are the ones who tend to survive.  Not that there aren’t good people still around, but even those people are forced to do questionable, brutal things, including the main character.  Perhaps the dark, dim nature of this tale might be too grim for some, and fair warning if you like coming out of a tale like this with a strong sense of hope.  There is perhaps some, but nothing that will reaffirm your faith in mankind, that is for sure.
Despite the fact that this is a diary approach to writing and there really isn’t dialog because of that, we are able to get to know Meredith and some of the key characters that surround her quite well and what drives and motivates them through her words and the emotions that resonate off her journal pages.  Meredith is a fleshed out, hard nosed character that keeps the story moving forward every step of the way.  This book kept my interest from start to finish, and I look forward to checking out how the story continues with the next Zomblog journal entry.

Zomblog II can be found at http://www.amazon.com/Zomblog-II-T-W-Brown/dp/0984537252/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1294071777&sr=1-1

Review of “Into The Dark” from Buy Zombie

Buy Zombie posted their review of Into The Dark today.  While the reviewer had some issues with parts of the story, overall, I think this was a positive review.  I appreciated the opportunity to have them read it and hope you will do the same.  Check out the review at:  http://www.buyzombie.com/2011/01/03/reviews-of-zombie-related-things/into-the-dark-review/.