BEST NEW ZOMBIE TALES.

Volume One.

by James Roy Daley.

Introduction.

JAMES ROY DALEY.

Sleep dissipates and there he is: H. P. f.u.c.king Lovecraft. The old boy is looking down at me with anger and shame stamped across his weird little face in equal portions. I drag my knuckles across my eyes, snug in my bed, hoping to wipe some of the gorp from my lashes, wondering if it's really him. Before I've drawn a conclusion he grabs me by the wrist and hauls me from my sheets. A pillow falls to the floor as I stumble across the bedroom and into the shadows of the hallway. My feet slap against the hardwood, creating sharp echoes that forge through the night as I head towards my kitchen.

Staggering and sleepy, I say, "Hey, man. What's going on?"

H. P. flicks on a light and says, "Don't give me any lip, you obtuse, half-wit, twerp."

In a world that seems far too bright and dynamic, I say, "Twerp?" I don't care much for that. Honestly, I don't care for the 'half-wit' remark either, but what can I say? On the 'obtuse' slur he might be accurate. I don't know. What the h.e.l.l does obtuse mean... rounded at the free end?

I say, "Why am I a twerp?"

"You know why."

"No, really, I don't."

Now we're in the kitchen. He drags me towards a blender, which is sitting on the counter between the sink and the stove. It's plugged into to an outlet and ready for use. I wonder if he planning on making a fruit smoothie but I don't have a chance to ask because H. P. wastes no time saying, "Zombies? Are you kidding me? Is that the best you can do?"

For a moment I'm confused, but then a light bulb inside my head comes to life. I know what this is about: the book. He wants to talk to me about my anthology, Best New Zombie Tales. Sure he does. And I'm willing to talk to him about my little project, too. But I've got a few questions of my own, fusing together the way questions do. The most obvious inquiry, it seems, would revolve around the fact that Mr. Lovecraft has been dead for decades. What is he, back from the grave? That's ridiculous. The walking departed don't exist... right?

Right?

I say, "Listen H. P., zombies are big right now. Real big. Do you know"

He gives my arm a quick yank, cuffing my train of thought. He's livid now; I can see it in his face.

"I gave the world Cthulhu and you're serving up zombies? I created Yog-Sothoth, and all you've got is the living-dead? Is that the best you can do?"

For a moment I just stare, as if I'm waiting for someone else to answer the question for me. When n.o.body does, I reluctantly say, "You don't understand. It's not like I don't know how to be creative... I do. But the horror industry is a funny place right now, you know? The truth of the matter"

H.P. growls like an animal from the jungle. Then he says, "SHUT UP, idiot! On an off day I could s.h.i.t out Shub-Niggurath, Y'golonac, and Azathoth, and the most preeminent idea rattling around your infinitesimal, diminutive, nano-scholastic, brain-nugget is zombies? Are you on crack? What the h.e.l.l is wrong with you? Don't you think this planet has suffered through a sufficient quant.i.ty of zombies?"

He lifts the lid from the blender, switches the dial from 'off' to 'mulch' and rams my hand inside before I realize what's happening.

I scream, while trying to pull away. Doesn't work. H. P. is stronger than he looks and my hand is getting mulched.

Let me repeat My HAND... is getting: M-U-L-C-H-E-D.

This means that my fingersall four, plus the tip of my thumbare getting... MULCHED... off.

Connected to the colossal ambush of pain are my eyes, which mature to enormity. I can't help but watch. Now my knuckles are getting chewed. Now the middle of my hand is taking a beating. Oops... there goes the rest of my thumb. There's blood. Not just inside the blender, but everywhere: splashing the walls, the ceiling, the floor, my chest, my face...

Inside the blender I can see bone fragments spinning around in a circle. A moment ago those fragments were inside my hand, not orbiting it.

It may come as no surprise that I want to tell him to stop, to let me go, to turn off that G.o.dd.a.m.n machine, which, by the way, is very powerful and apparently worth every penny I paidthank you very much 'Home Shopping Channel.' But I don't tell him to stop. Oh no, I can't. All I can do is cry, and scream, and try to pull away.

And fail miserably, I should add. H. P.'s grip is absolute.

A little FYI here: my screaming doesn't bother Mr. Lovecraftwho was kind enough to give us Shub-Niggurath, Y'golonac, and Yog-Sothoth, as he didn't hesitate to point out. No, no. He seems adequately happy with my pain and terror. And oddly enough, he decides to do some screaming of his own.

He unloads: "TELL ME YOU WON'T PUBLISH ANOTHER STUPID ZOMBIE BOOK! TELL ME!"

I should be saying: No problem, Mr. Lovecraft. You want me to sc.r.a.p the book idea? Consider it done. Anything else you need? A backrub? The keys to my car? A thousand dollars? A night with my girlfriend... no questions asked? Whatever you need, H. P., just name it and it's yours! Oh boy!

Instead, what comes out of my mouth is, "Ahhhhh... I have to release the zombie book!"

Lovecraft is p.i.s.sed. He changes the dial from 'mulch' to 'mince.' Then from 'mince' to 'liquefy.'

I didn't even know my blender had 'liquefy.'

I scream more.

But he screams louder: "NO MORE ZOMBIES! DON'T YOU HEAR WHAT I'M TELLING YOU! ZOMBIES ARE PLAYED OUT! TEDIOUS! OVERDONE! ZOMBIES ARE BORING!!!"

I'm crying now. Crying. Full on. Tears streaming. My hand is gone. My wrist is gone. In another fifteen seconds my elbow will be turned into bone stew. Liquefied. My eyes are burning as snot runs from my nose. Panicking. Terrified. I'm not sure where I find the strength to argue, but I do. "Everybody loves zombies!"

He kicks me in the shin.

It's almost funny, really. The kick. It doesn't do much. I don't even feel it, truth be told. Not while my arm is getting shredded. But I see him do it and I understandhe wants to hurt me more, somehow. But he's grasping at straws now. Obviously. It's hard to elevate a situation when you've started negotiations by destroying a hand. He's left himself no room to maneuver, so he says, "n.o.body loves zombies."

Oh, but he's wrong. And I know he's wrong.

I say, "Yes they do!"

"The market is saturated! Do something good... something original!"

"My book will be good!"

'DO. SOMETHING. ORIGINAL!"

An unexpected change of heart comes like an adjustment in the wind. He turns the blender off and releases me. Thank heaven. It's quiet now. The silence is a gift but my ears are ringing and my stump is throbbing. I pull my arm out to appraise the damage.

Wait. Let me try that again: I pull what's left of my arm out to appraise the damage. What I see looks like a cross between Cthulhu's tentacle-beard and a ketchup sundae.

Lovecraft leans in. In a gentle voice, he asks, "Are you going to publish zombies?"

I'm not sure why, but I stick to my guns. With a tremble in my voice, I say, "Yeah. I guess so."

"You sure?"

Nodding my head now. "Yes. It's the right thing to do."

"Then make sure your zombie book is amazing... you get me?"

"Yeah."

"Say it."

"Yes, yes. I get you. My zombie book will be amazing."

Lovecraft spits on the floor. "I played gentle this time, f.u.c.ker," he says with a smirk. "If I have to come back here, don't count on getting off so easy. Next time I won't have a blender. I'll have a chainsaw. I'll saw your empty head off."

Ahem.

Let me clear my throat.

Dear literate zombie fans; my name is James Roy Daley. What you're looking at is a little idea of mine, brought to life by the power of hard work. If you're a zombie purist this compilation will probably p.i.s.s you off a bunch 'cause I've put together stories that are not afraid to break traditional rules. Question: if you chop a zombie in half and both sections attack, are you fighting two zombies now? What if you chop the sucker into a hundred pieces? What if you're attacked by hair and skin? Are zombies allowed to run? Do they think? Can they talk? Can they use tools? Do they experience emotions? Can they team up? Drive a car? Have s.e.x?

Ah, the questions are endless. And with each comes a plethora of unverified answers. The debate never ends.

Like I said, some of these stories will p.i.s.s off the traditionalists, no doubt. But if you're a collector of zombie goodness this book will add some brilliant tales to your collection, tales you do not have.

I went digging.

And found stories inside anthologies you can't buy, and compilations you've never heard of. I've got stories from websites that no longer exist and magazines that haven't put out an issue in ages. I went digging, brothers and sisters. Digging. And yeah, some of the tales are easy to get. Some. Not many.

This book contains funny tales and nightmares, artsy pieces and screamers, big stories and small. I tried to hit different emotions. Straight up, I pulled together the best work I could get my hands onI don't want the horror G.o.ds to kick my a.s.s, don't you know. My goal, a simple one: to put together the best zombie tales ever written. Don't care what year the story was written. Don't care who wrote it. Don't care if the story follows Romero's un-written rules of what a zombie is supposed to do. Don't care if it's offensive, or filled with naughty language. All I care about is High Quality Fiction. Simple.

And with that, my rant has ended. I did my part. Now it's your turn.

Get comfy.

Get ready.

Get reading.

First up, a Ray Garton masterpiece...

Zombie Love.

RAY GARTON.

-ONE-.

A cold, gusty December wind blew the falling rain through the night. Just outside the small northern California town of Anderson, atop what the local children called Witch's Hill, and near the dead-end of narrow seldom-used Hilltop Road, Mrs. Kobylka's little house stood blanketed with ivy. The house was so covered by the white-speckled green leaves it seemed to have grown up out of the earth with the vines. Wisps of smoke were swept away by the wind as they rose out of the small chimney on the right side of the house. Four cracked concrete steps led up through an ivy-coated arch onto a small enclosed porch. The porch was flanked by windowsthe one on the left was dark, while a soft glow shone through the drapes on the other. An enormous weeping willow, its branches swaying in the wind, stood in the small yard, which was overrun by weeds. The pickets of a once-white fence surrounding the yard were dark and broken, like old neglected teeth. An old blue pickup truck that had seen better days a long time ago was parked in front of the house.

Three young people sat in a silver Ford Focus Sedan SE parked across the pot-holed road from the house. The rain was loud inside the car as they stared silently at the houseRandy Satifoy at the wheel, his girlfriend Liz Poole in the pa.s.senger seat, and Kirk Mundy behind her. Kirk was stretched over the backseat, his nose to the gla.s.s on the other side. They were each 17 years old. They had grown up there in Anderson, and since they were small children, they had heard stories about creepy old Mrs. Kobylka, that she was a witch who had lived in that run-down house for over a hundred years.

When they were kids, it had been customary to see who was brave enough to egg Mrs. Kobylka's house each Halloween and risk falling under her evil spell. The old woman had been there when Kirk's dad was a boy, and kids had told the same stories about her back then. One story in particular had stood out, a story about a dead dog. It was pa.s.sed down from generation to generation of children who rode their bikes up the hill to see the run-down old house, who dared each other to go up and knock on the door. Sometimes they spotted her coming out to get her mail from the rusted old box on the crooked post in front of her house. They watched from hidden vantage points as she shuffled through the weeds that grew up between the cracks in the concrete walk that led to the gatea plump, slightly hunched old woman with a wild tangle of white hair, always in a simple housedress with a shawl across her shoulders. Sometimes she drove into town in her old pickup truck and was seen at the post office or drugstore, and the whispering children kept a healthy distance from her as she went about her business.

Kirk's dad had told him more than once to stay away from Mrs. Kobylka's place. He'd said she was a crazy old woman and she shouldn't be bothered. It had done no good, of course.

In the Focus, Randy spoke just loud enough to be heard above the sound of the rain: "Are you sure you want to do this, Kirk?"

"Yes." There was no hesitation in his response.

Liz said, "You guys do what you want, but I'm staying here." She ran a brush through her short strawberry-blonde hair. She was a pretty girl with a small round face, tense now as she looked at Randy. She'd been crying earlier, after the news about Natalie, and her blue eyes were puffy. "There's no f.u.c.kin' way I'm going in there."

"I'll go alone, I don't care," Kirk said. He sat up in the backseat and opened the door.

"Wait," Randy said, "don't you want me to go with you?"

"If you want. You don't have to. But I've got to do it now, before I lose my nerve." He got out of the car and closed the door.

"All right, I'm coming, I'm coming," Randy said as he got out.

"Leave the keys," Liz said. "If you don't come out in ten or fifteen minutes, I'm getting the h.e.l.l out of here."

"They're in the ignition," Randy said as turned up the collar of his denim jacket. "But don't leave, we'll be right back."

"I'm glad you're so sure," she said.

Randy closed the door as Kirk came around the rear of the car and started across the road, hands in the pockets of his down jacket, head down and shoulders hunched against the rain. Randy hurried to catch up.

Kirk was handsome in a sad wayeverything about him was sad latelytall and slender and subtly muscled, an avid swimmer, with short dark brown hair. But he seemed to have shrunk somehow since the accident. He was pale and drawn from lack of sleep. He limped slightlyhis only injury from the accident had been a badly bruised knee. Randy was a little shorter, stockier, with a mop of blond hair, a round face, and wire-framed gla.s.ses. They were quickly soaked by the rain as they crossed the road.

"Do you know what you're gonna say to her?" Randy asked as they hurried through the gate, which stood open crookedly, one hinge broken.

"Not really," Kirk said. "I guess I'll just tell her what I want. She'll either help me or she won't."

They went up the walk and paused at the bottom of the porch steps.

"It's about ten-thirty," Randy said. "What if she's asleep?"

"We'll wake her," Kirk said.

"What if everything we've heard about her is bulls.h.i.t?"

"Then I'll apologize and we'll go."