Zomeone to love

AUTHORS NOTE:-

April is zombie month on The Twisted Quill, ZOMEONE TO LOVE is the second of the five April zombie #Fridayflashes.

* * * * *


Graham instinctively knew something was wrong the moment he walked into the house.

“Honey I'm home... Darling?... Lisa?.... ”

He opened the lounge door and looked inside, Lisa was lying on the couch, she appeared to be sleeping but there was no rise and fall to her chest, no sound of breathing, her face was ashen and drawn, with a sinking heart Graham went to her, kneeling beside her he took her hand in his, it was cold, lifeless, his own blood ran cold with shock when he noticed the teeth marks just above her wrist.

He knew he didn't have much time, Lisa was in the advanced stages of infection, soon she would awake, reanimate, become one of them.

How she had become infected he had no idea, she must have ventured outside and been attacked while he was out, no matter, he would worry about that later, right now he had to act fast.

Graham picked up his darling wife, the woman he met when they were children, the woman he had married seventeen years ago, the one and only love he had ever known, cradling her gently in his arms he carried her carefully upstairs and into the spare bedroom, the room that would have become a nursery if they had been blessed with children.

He laid her gently on the bed, kissed her tenderly on her forehead.

“I'll never leave you my darling, I will always love you... always... ”

He rushed to the garage, returning quickly carrying his small toolbox, working as fast as he could, all the time keeping one eye on Lisa for any sign of movement, he made a hole in the door, several inches square, and at head height, this done, he walked to the bed and gave Lisa a final kiss before leaving the room and sealing the door shut using several long steel screws.

Graham trudged back downstairs and poured himself a very large scotch, he slumped down into the chair, and let the tears come.

He kept hitting the scotch until finally he was all cried out, and he fell into a drunken sleep.

He awoke several hours later feeling nauseous and hung over, and to the sound of small noises coming from upstairs, the sounds of shufflings, and soft thuds.

Standing slowly, Graham walked unsteadily into the hallway and up the stairs, at the landing he turned in the direction of the guest room, but paused just before reaching the door, he couldn't allow Lisa to see him in this wretched state, it would upset her.

He went to the bathroom, showered and shaved, then into the master bedroom and put on fresh clothes.

He quietly walked to the guest room door and looked through the hole, Lisa was standing with her back to the door, arms hanging loose by her sides.

“Lisa my darling.” He whispered.

She slowly turned to face the door, the moan that came from her mouth chilled Graham to the bone.

He took a pace backwards as Lisa shambled to the door, she thrust her snarling face into the hole trying vainly to reach him.

Graham stood there for hours, telling Lisa how much he loved her, reminiscing about happy times they had shared, the holidays they had been on, her favourite films and books, the things that made them laugh, anything positive that came to mind....

This would be how he was to spend most of every day from now on, it would be a long time before Graham would finally accept that Lisa was never coming back to him.


©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Zomband

AUTHORS NOTE:-
In the comments section of my March 4th #fridayflash ZOMBAITING, I happened to remark that I found zombie fiction “quite easy to write”, and so my daughter Louise, a talented writer and published poet, who is also a lover of zombie fiction, challenged me to write only zombie stories during April, so I accepted the challenge, and ZOMBAND is the first of the five April zombie #Fridayflashes.

* * * * *


Gary 'Boulderbelly' Lucas shuffled through the open door of the nightclub, unmindful of his threadbare appearance, the ripped and shredded suit, the torn frilly-fronted shirt and bow tie much blood-stained from the many violent and gluttonous mealtimes. He was also unmindful of the other shuffling, shambling undead as he made his way through the moaning crowd towards the stage.

Boulderbelly's brain flickered with memories of his former life, images of the jazz band he fronted, his musical genius, his drug addiction, he had no understanding of the images, but somewhere deep inside his cortex, a compulsion formed, brewed, fermented, became irresistible.

As he dragged his feet across the boards there came a dull clang as his wingtip shoe sent something brassy-shiny spinning.

“Peeeek uuuuup” Spoke the voice in his dead head.

Boulderbelly slowly reached down and curled his fingers around the instrument, straightening, he lifted the mouthpiece to his lips.... and blew....

Pfffffffffffffffffffftttttttttttt

In his zombie mind the tone of the trombone sounded compelling and sweet.

Pfft.. Pfft... Pfft... Pfffft... He launched into the mindless, one-note, walking dead version of “When the saints go marching in”

The other shamblers paused in their aimless shambling, all heads turned toward the stage, eyes wide, mouths agape.

A skinny guy wearing a flowery shirt shuffled forwards, if his brain still worked he would have memories of being called Ronnie 'Flaky-fingers' Bagshaw, he fumbled his way onto the stage and picked up the guitar...

Drraannng.. Drraannng... Drraannng... the three remaining strings made a fine accompaniment to the trombone.

Another found his way up there, a very tall man with a pencil moustache and a high forehead, any jazz fan would have no trouble recognizing his torn features as that of former musician Jimmy 'Quickstick' Williams, he groped his way to the seat, picked up the drumsticks and gave it his all.

Boom..clash... Boom..clash... Boom..clash...

The hundreds of walking corpses began finding their way to seats, their defunct minds somehow telling them that this was getting interesting.

Before long several more rotting bodies had made their way to the stage, and the instruments...

Noah 'Needlearm' Shulky tinkled the ivories and ebonies.

Danny 'Lushlips' Oliver, despite both of his lips having rotted away, still managed to tease a note from the cornet.

The double bass was manned by one-legged Alan 'Hoppy' Hopkins, the only hopping corpse in zombie history.

Big Jimmy “Peepers” Peterson peeped out a soulful monotone on the clarinet.

The band was topped off by ex-sensational vocalist Leo Claine, whose multi-octave moans echoed around the room alongside the cacophony of instrumentalism.

The crowd went wild, those that still had both hands clapped along, those with less than both did the best they could, toes tapped along to the PffftDrranngBoomclashDungdung beat...

Benny Percival looked down from where he was hiding amongst the spotlights and electricals, as a music agent he could see the potential, now all he needed was some signed contracts and a name for the band.


©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

A short detour

The lights of Palm Springs were a distant glow in the rear-view mirror, and dwindling by the minute.

I pressed the accelerator to the floor, the car rocked slightly as it barreled down the deserted road, the sun would be up in a couple of hours, and I wanted to cover as much distance as possible by then.

Just one short detour to make, then eastbound all the way.

Julia was staring out of the window, her head resting on the glass, in the reflection I could see her eyes following the overhead lights as they sped past.

I flicked on the CD player, the smooth voice of Glen Campbell flowed through the speakers...

“By the time I get to Phoenix, she'll be risin'...
She'll find the note I left hangin' on her door...
She'll laugh when she reads the part that says I'm leavin'...
'Cause I've left that girl so many times before...”

She would not be rising by the time I got to Phoenix, and if I had taken the time to write a note, and hung it on her door, I'm absolutely sure that her twinkly blue eyes would not be reading it, or her very sweet kissable mouth laughing at it. And there was no way I would ever write a part that says I'm leaving, I never had any wish to leave her.

“By the time I make Albuquerque, she'll be workin'...
She'll prob'ly stop at lunch and give me a call...
But she'll just hear that phone keep on ringin'...
Off the wall, that's all...”

By the time I make Albuquerque her shift will be almost over, I'm afraid the diner would just have to manage without her sparkling personality today, at least the other waitresses would get the benefit of any tips that would have come her way in recompense for sharing her workload. I'm sure her boss will be disappointed though, he had an extreme interest in her attendance each day.
Her dainty fingers will not be holding any phone handset today either, or her cute little ears listening to any ringing, off the wall or not.

“By the time I make Oklahoma, she'll be sleepin'...
She'll turn softly, and call my name out low...
And she'll cry just to think I'd really leave her...
Tho' time and time I tried to tell her so...
She just didn't know, I would really go..."

By the time I make Oklahoma she will certainly be sleeping.
As for turning softly and calling my name out low, I would be speaking to her about that soon.
I never gave her any reason to cry, I never once threatened to leave her, I couldn't leave her, I loved her, she always knew that.

The song came to an end as I took the exit ramp, a couple of miles later I turned onto a narrow track and then into an abandoned farmyard.

Julia struggled ferociously as I dragged her out of the passenger door, thrashing against the ropes around her wrists and ankles, trying to scream through the duct tape over her mouth.

Her eyes were shiny with fear and hate, sweat beaded on her brow, her hair, usually so perfect, a tousled mess.

By the time I had managed to get her over to the old well I was breathing heavily, you wouldn't believe the amount of strength that such a petite pretty little thing could have.

I held her against the low wall of the well, and pulled the .38 from my waistband...

“When you turn softly and call a name out low, it's not a good idea if it just happens to be your boss's name, you cheating bitch.”

I shot her straight between the eyes, threw her body over the wall, then made my way back to the car.

As I pulled out of the farmyard, and set off towards the freeway, the sweet tones of Olivia Newton John drifted from the speakers.

“Almost heaven... West Virginia...”

When I reached the main drag I floored the pedal again, I had a long journey ahead of me.

It was seventeen years since I'd walked those Blue Ridge Mountains, or seen my brother, boy was he in for a surprise, see you soon bro... I'm comin' home.

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.


Author's note:

Although the story "A short detour" is my own creation I give thanks and credit to Jimmy Webb, the original composer and performer of the song "By the time I get to Phoenix"


The version I am more familiar with, and the version I had in mind when writing this story was performed by Glen Campbell.

I extend my thanks and credit to both of these great artistes, for the lyrics, and for the inspiration.

Awakening (Part 2)

Bulmer and his team worked in the locked-down government building sub-basement, collating all the facts from the events over the last two weeks.

The reports, backed up by eyewitness accounts and CCTV footage were coming in from every Megacity in the civilised world. Contact with the Megaslums of the third world had been lost eleven days ago.

No-one knew where these things had come from, just that they were here... now.

The facts:-

They were strong:- They had been seen to flip vehicles over, and rip doors completely from their frames. They were also very adept at ripping people limb from limb.

They were fast:- There are reports of them running alongside trains and cars travelling in excess of forty miles per hour.

They were nimble:- They could scale buildings and high walls with unnerving speed, and leap wide distances between structures.

They were virtually bulletproof:- There were hundreds of accounts of small arms fire just bouncing off their scaly skin leaving no apparent damage.

They were organised:- Many massacres involved dozens of them working in unison rounding up the human victims.

They were smart:- Their learning curve was disturbingly steep. They had learnt to utilise lift keypads and the like, and they were learning more, rapidly.

They were cunning:- They were masters of concealment and ambush, they seemingly appeared and disappeared at will.

They were carnivorous:- They ate anything in the food chain, including humans... especially humans. And they had voracious appetites.

They bred fast:- Only two weeks after the first sightings, infants were seen on the streets joining in the hunt.

They were numerous.

The phone rang, Bulmer picked it up and curtly said “Yes?”

“Mister Bulmer, this is the president, what do you have for us?”

“Well, Mr President Sir, after assessing the massive amount of data we have collected, and collating all the facts at our disposal, studying thousands of hours of CCTV footage, speaking online to many hundreds of eyewitnesses, and bouncing dozens of hypothetical ideas around the think-tank, my team and I have run several possible computer scenarios, and in the final analysis, and after much deliberation, our considered opinion is....”

“Just give me the bottom line, will ya?”

“Well sir, we believe that the human race is very soon going to be in a world of shit!”

- - - - - - - - - -

Awakening (Part 1)

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Awakening (Part 1)

The eggs had lain dormant in the underground cavern for thousands of years, awakened now by a slight shift in the earth's core temperature, there was movement.

Eggshells cracked...

Snouts emerged, sniffing, tasting, sensing.

Claws slowly extended and retracted....

Jaws yawned....

Fangs bared....

Muscles stretched....

Scales rippled....

Tails twitched....

Stomachs cramped....

Hunger burned....

Mouths salivated....

Thousands of claws began burrowing feverishly upwards.

Above, the city of Megapol was awakening to another hot August day.

- - - - - - - - - -

Awakening (Part 2)

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Zombaiting

On the outskirts of town was a weather-worn sign.

JAGERVILLE...POPULATION 7,242

Right next to it stood a relatively new sign declaring in bright red paint....

FRANKSVILLE...POPULATION

LIVING...1

WALKING DEAD...5,117

REALLY DEAD....2,124

The numbers were of the 'slide in-slide out' type, this was to make life easier for Frank because he updated the board just before sundown each day.

Frank was a martial arts teacher before the infestation snatched all of his fee-paying students, thus taking away his livelihood and his beloved sport in one fell swoop, but now he had a new sport to play.

Frank was the sole survivor, custodian, and (in his eyes) owner, of the freshly re-named Franksville, and he was systematically clearing out the town, and immensely enjoying his new sport at the same time. He had set up a well-equipped gym in one of the rooms of his penthouse fortress, and worked out daily with weights and hand weapons, he prided himself on never using or carrying firearms, he didn't need them, he was strong, tough, and very very fast.
In a sheath at his side hung Macca, a fourteen inch machete, and strapped to his back, a beautifully crafted samurai sword, oh, he loved taking the Zacks out with the nunchakas or stars, but for serious Zombaiting you couldn't beat Sammy the sword, he was a little worried at the fact that he had given the weapons names, but reflected that maybe it wasn't so strange after all, as they were the only friends he had now.

Zombaiting was Frank's new sport, and he was the world champion, because as far as he knew, he was the world's only player too. It consisted of teasing the Zacks, dancing in and out of reach, and occasionally lopping bits off them until they were just a crawling lump, and it was time to administer the coup-de-grace.

The game was much more fun, and required much more skill, when facing several Zacks at once, but right now he had a lone shambler, in full working order, and it was almost sunset, so Frank decided to have one last dance before adding the day's tally to the pop-sign, and retiring to his suite before nightfall.

Frank turned up the volume in his earphones, the classic sounds of 'Ode to joy' pulsed through his ears, “Okay, let's dance.” He said,and pirouetted towards the walking corpse.

As the Zack reached for him Frank moon-walked backwards keeping a mere inch from the grasping fingers, he swivelled lightly on one leg, swinging Sammy in a wide arc, and lopped one arm off at the elbow, continuing the movement he ducked under the other arm, then danced full circle around the zombie, flickering Sammy out again to take the other off at the wrist, he waltzed around twice more before doing a double spin, culminating in a low slash that took both legs off at the knees.

The rain began just as Frank was raising Sammy to give the final blow, “Okay,” thought Frank, “game over, time to get going.” He sliced off the head in a single blow, then picked it up from the street. Holding the head by the hair he hoisted it high, tilted his head back, and laughed his triumph to the sky, as the rain fell onto his face, the single drop of virus-filled liquid that dripped from the zombie's lip went unnoticed as it landed on the side of his nose, and was washed by the raindrops into his open laughing mouth....

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

No longer

“We no longer hunt in the forests... For the forests are no longer here.

We no longer fish in the seas... For the seas are no longer here.

We no longer gaze at the clouds... For the clouds are no longer here.

We no longer look to the future... For we no longer have one.”

The words were carved deep into the cliff face, an epitaph to a species no longer here.


The scorching breeze seemed to sigh with sadness as it swirled across the barren landscape, sadness for the loss of the beautiful world it once knew.

The three beings stared up at the strange symbols, uncomprehending, uncaring.

The taller of three turned and took a long, sweeping look at the cracked, baked ground, and the swirling sand devils.

It took a slow, deep, satisfying breath of the carbon monoxide rich atmosphere.

“The planet is perfect for habitation, start shipping the colonists.”

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Plagiarism ?

“Hey, one of my stories has been picked up by a book company, they're gonna publish it, and they've sent me a cheque for two thousand smackarooneys, how does it feel to have a published author for a brother then?”

“Hey bro, that's great, which story is it?”

I flicked the keys and brought the story up onto the screen.

“This one,” I said, swivelling the laptop around so he could read it, “It's called 'Bound homeward'.”

I watched in nervous anticipation as he began to read the fruits of my imagination, in my mind I could already hear the gushing praise that was soon to come.

He turned towards me, a vicious snarl spreading a cross his face....

“YOUR STORY?... This ain't YOUR story, this is MY story, you stole it from my computer didn't you?”

“No I didn't, your stories are full of crap, who the hell would publish any of YOUR drivel?”

He pressed a few keys, then turned his own laptop so I could view the screen.

“Here, read this then you thieving asshole.”

I skim-read through several pages...

“Well, there ARE certain similarities......”

“Similarities? Similarities?... The only similarity is the title, mine's called 'Homeward bound' apart from THAT little similarity the story is a word for word replica, right down to the last capital letter, comma, and full stop. I'm gonna split you in two, you... you... PLAGIARIST you!”

“Look, this isn't helping either one of us, tell you what, I'll split the money with you eh? A grand apiece, eh? How does that sound?”

“I should get BOTH grands... It's MY story.”

“It is NOT your story, I wrote it MYSELF.....”

“Oh yeah? And you expect me to believe that? You really expect me to believe that we both wrote exactly the same story as each other?”

“Well, given what we are, is it really so hard for you to believe that it could happen? Anyway, this is getting us nowhere, do you want half of the money or not?”

He dithered for a few moments, then his face softened as he made his decision.

“Okay, we usually end up sharing everything anyway, sorry I got mad at you.”

“And I'm sorry that you think I stole your story. Pals again?”

“Pals again.”

He went into the kitchen and returned carrying two bottles of beer, handing one to me as he sat back down.

“A toast... Here's to an endless list of best-sellers, and the rewards they will bring bro.” We both said in unison, clinking the bottles together.

My identical twin and I opened our beers, took a long, slow slug, sighed, then leaned back into our chairs, all in perfect synchronisation.

I pondered the fact at how impossibly identical we were in every possible way.

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Kindred spirits

She had come for me, I knew she would. I held her to me, I held her as tight as I could, crushing my cheek to hers, our tears mingling, I would never let her go again, the love we shared was too deep to be denied, the barrier did not exist that could keep us apart forever.

She was cold.... so cold, the heat flowed from my body to hers, sharing what warmth we possessed between us, balancing the difference, whatever we had, we would share.

I couldn't stop crying, the guilt, the pain, the memories, all washed over me like surf over shingle.

The last time we spoke was a year ago, almost to the minute.

“Please John, we'll get a cab, we can come back for the car tomorrow.”

“S'okay darling, s'only two miles, we'll be fine, I've only had a few glasses of wine, gerrin' the car honey, y'know I would rather cut my own legs off than let you come to any harm.”

I watched it all happen again, The bend, the skid, the tree.

Eventually the flickering lights, and the voices....

“She's gone.... he's pretty smashed up, but he'll most likely make it.”

Countless times over the last twelve months I had thought about taking my own life, I ached to be with her, my true love, my soul mate, my kindred spirit, but I waited for her, as I knew I must.

And now she was here...

The tears flowed even more freely.

“Oh.... oh honey, I'm sorry... I'm so sorry darling......”

“Shhh John, it's okay darling, we're together again now.”

I gripped her even more tightly...

We kissed tenderly as we began to drift upwards towards the shimmering light....

It felt good to lose the wheelchair.

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

High rollers

Well, I can tell you, you win some, you lose some.

Some lose more than others.

I did okay, I had more money than I needed, and I wasn't limping yet, unlike most of the guys in this game.

At a knuckle and ten grand per roll, the night would bring consequences.

I looked at him long and hard....

“Did you ever roll against McJaidy?”

“Yeah, I lost a finger and two toes in that game... less than McJaidy did though.”

I looked at his hands, a thumb and a pinky on the right, the index and middle on the left.

I kept my empty hand below the table, and pushed my money forwards with my full right.

“Yeah, you look like a lucky guy, so... roll the dice, huh?”


©2011 Stephen. J. Green.