"What are you talking about, Janey?" Fernandez asked.

"New Year's Eve, 1980."

The miniskirted zombie had pulled the arm off the one in the gaucho pants and was beating him with it. "c.o.ke, c.o.ke," she repeated, as she drove the other one to the ground.

"Some local talent built a club down here, inspired by Donna Summer, Studio 54, you know, all that," Corso said.

Holmes stopped pacing. "There used to be a disco here?"

"Yeah. It was called, and this would prove to be ironic, the Disco Inferno. From what I understand, it was a popular place from 1976, when it started, to the night it burned down."

"The Bicentennial till the death of disco," Holmes gasped. Not a religious sort, he nonetheless sent a prayer up that the sky would rain gas and the Lord would then add a few lightning bolts to set the zombies ablaze.

Fernandez said, "You must have been a kid then."

"She was old enough," Holmes grinned wanly, grabbing some foliage to light with the recovered Zippo. He had to save his score.

"I'd already run off, wound up in L.A. Got involved with a creep that strung me out and pimped me out to this p.o.r.n f.u.c.k. Even better that I was underage." Despite the humidity, she wrapped her arms around herself. "That's when I met Spree. The man in the white Charger-with a four on the floor."

Holmes gazed at her through the small fire he'd started with his crummy torch. "It was your a.s.s that mesmerized me." With that, he ran into the thatch of zombies, but they were fevered and ignored his pathetic flame as they tore and ate into each other. He found McMillan on the ground, shivering.

"Aghhh," he grimaced when Holmes tugged on him. "f.u.c.king freaks broke my arm." He got up, staring. "We're f.u.c.ked."

The zombie in the thigh-high boots had jumped on the back of another who wore a torn gold-lame cape. The cape man had gotten ahold of one of the bricks, or what had been the brick. He dipped his face into the powder, snorting madly like Pacino in Scarface Scarface. Thigh-high ripped the top of his head off and bit into his pulsing brain. She gobbled up pieces of the matter. The two stumbled about in stoned nirvana.

Holmes's flame petered out. "This ain't right," he lamented. "We gotta save our s.h.i.t."

"Forget it, Spree," Corso advised, joining him. "These monsters will tear you apart if you get between them and their c.o.ke."

"It's not theirs!" he cried.

"It is now," Corso declared.

"'Fraid she's right," McMillan agreed, holding his busted arm. "Crider's spell or mojo or whatever the h.e.l.l it was has us whupped good."

One of the zombies teetered on its feet, snow powdering its decomposed face. It ran into a tree and started to bang its head against the trunk so fiercely that it broke its face open. It continued hitting its head against the tree, smearing gore over the bark.

"s.h.i.t," Holmes swore. "s.h.i.t." He stomped about in frustration.

The zombies fought and scratched and snorted and mutilated each other until body parts were littered among the overgrown gra.s.s. Even legless zombies crawled their torsos over to any patch of flake on the ground to snort. The moon shone pregnant and brilliantly yellow against the warm night air.

Watching this, the four were soon witness to the actions of the last two zombies left standing. One was the creature with the nasty Afro and the other the ghastly one in the miniskirt. They each pulled on the end of a piece of plastic-a clump of the white stuff clung to the material. They stood among the battered and deformed heads, smashed eyeb.a.l.l.s, torn-out tongues, broken teeth, severed fingers, cracked mood rings, ankh and cross ornaments, and knit caps of the walking disco dead.

Several of the disconnected heads mumbled, "c.o.ke, c.o.ke," over and over again, as a few of the mutilated hands crept across the ground in search of any fine white crystals left.

Meanwhile, miniskirt had an arm around Afro zombie's neck and was gnawing on his ear as he ignored her and snorted his treasure of blow. He then turned and bit into her face and the two bearhugged each other and rolled down the opposite side of the hill to a tributary of the river. Their bodies broke against a cropping of rocks, yet they continued to claw and rend each other.

Holmes wanted to cry. Corso consoled him as the four trudged back to the house. Each step along the way, all except Holmes grew slowly elated and pumped, having survived a vicious zombie attack.

"Come on, baby," Corso told a brooding Holmes back at the house. "I got something that will make you forget all about those funky zombies." And they made loud, rough love that left them both satisfied and weak, as was the same for McMillan and Fernandez. Fortunately for McMillan, his arm was merely wrenched, and he was able to use both hands to further explore the woman's body.

In the morning they ate well and Holmes and McMillan talked over other sources for some blow, given they still had their cash. Corso had declined any money.

"I'll call you."

"Liar."

"No," Holmes said, as they stood outside her house in the morning. "We connected again."

She kissed him.

Holmes and McMillan had started for their car when they spotted Wild Willie shambling from around a corner of the house. That he was dead was obvious from the hyperextended eyes, gray flesh, and festering leg with flies buzzing around it.

He sprayed bullets from his AK, all the while grunting, "c.o.ke,c.o.ke, give me my c.o.ke back," as the Tramps could be heard singing, "Burn that m.u.t.h.a down," from their song, "Disco Inferno."

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BROOKLYN NOIR edited by Tim McLoughlin 350 pages, a trade paperback original, $15.95, ISBN: 1-888451-58-0Twenty brand new crime stories from New York's punchiest borough. Contributors include: Pete Hamill, Arthur Nersesian, Maggie Estep, Nelson George, Neal Pollack, Sidney Offit, Ken Bruen, and others."Brooklyn Noiris such a stunningly perfect combination that you can't believe you haven't read an anthology like this before. But trust me-you haven't. Story after story is a revelation, filled with the requisite sense of place, but also the perfect twists that crime stories demand. The writing is flat-out superb, filled with lines that will sing in your head for a long time to come."-Laura Lippman, winner of the Edgar, Agatha, and Shamus awards

SOUTHLANDby Nina Revoyr 348 pages, a trade paperback original, $15.95, ISBN: 1-888451-41-6 *Winner of a LAMBDA LITERARY A AWARD *EDGAR A AWARD finalist finalist"If Oprah still had her book club, this novel likely would be at the top of her list ... With prose that is beautiful, precise, but never pretentious ..."

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HIGH LIFE by Matthew Stokoe by Matthew Stokoe 330 pages, a trade paperback original, $16.95, ISBN: 1-888451-32-7"... an elaborately drawn, surgically accurate Hollywood dystopia."

-Ellen Miller, author of Like Being Killed Like Being Killed "Stokoe's in-your-face prose and raw, unnerving scenes give way to a skillfully plotted tale that will keep readers glued to the page ... Stokoe's protagonist is as gritty and brutal as they come, which will frighten away the chaste crowd, but the author's target Bret Easton Ellis audience could turn this one into a word-of-mouth success."

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HAIRSTYLES OF THE d.a.m.nED.

by Joe Meno290 pages, a trade paperback original, $13.95, ISBN: 1-888451-70-X *A Barnes & n.o.ble Discover Great New Writers selection"Joe Meno writes with the energy, honesty, and emotional impact of the best punk rock. From the opening sentence to the very last word, Hairstyles of the d.a.m.ned Hairstyles of the d.a.m.nedheld me in his grip."

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SUICIDE CASANOVAby Arthur Nersesian 368 pages, trade paperback, $15.95, ISBN: 1-888451-66-1 *From the author of the cult-cla.s.sic The f.u.c.k-Up The f.u.c.k-Up"Sick, depraved, and heartbreaking-in other words, a great read, a great book. Suicide Casanova Suicide Casanovais erotic noir and Nersesian's hard-boiled prose comes at you like a jailhouse confession."

-Jonathan Ames, author of The Extra Man The Extra Man "Nersesian has written a scathingly original page-turner, hilarious, tragic, and shocking-this may be his most brilliant novel yet."

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ADIOS MUCHACHOS by Daniel Chavarria by Daniel Chavarria 245 pages, a trade paperback original, $13.95, ISBN: 1-888451-16-5 *Winner of the EDGAR A AWARD"Out of the mystery wrapped in an enigma that, over the last forty years, has been Cuba for the U.S., comes a Uruguayan voice so cheerful, a face so laughing, and a mind so deviously optimistic that we can only hope this is but the beginning of a flood of Latin America's indomitable novelists, playwrights, storytellers. Welcome, Daniel Chavarria."

-Donald Westlake, author of Trust Me on This Trust Me on This These books are available at local bookstores.

They can also be purchased with a credit card online through www.akashicbooks.com.

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