The man was big; they called him ‘Bear’ or ‘Papa Bear’. Stan thought about male bears and hoped that he was a papa wolf, instead… in the Zombie Apocalypse, such a big guy had done better than most, bashing in undead skulls and keeping beyond their cold hands with the reach of the tree limb pruning-hook that he was carrying. It looked like serious hurt. (more…)

It was utterly ridiculous that Jimmy sang to Rebecca every night. She probably didn’t know he existed. Hell, he didn’t even know if she existed anymore.

Those monsters roaming and moaning around the base of the lighthouse, they seemed to have gotten to everyone. Billy, the redneck kid who used to punch Jimmy on the school bus. Jimmy was sure Billy was down there, wearing a Metallica t-shirt that was threadbare even before Billy became a decaying disease machine. Zombification hadn’t changed Billy much. (more…)

My name was John Folger, and no, no relation to the coffee. That’s always the first thing people ask when I meet them, and my response is automatic. It’s possible that by now there isn’t even an empty can of Folgers left, so maybe that reference doesn’t make any sense to you, but all I know about is the past and the right now. I guess my writing this down shows that I still believe in a future, but I have no more illusions that I’ll be in it. I hope my story can help you, even if it’s just to fill in the blanks of a moment in history. I warn you, I have no answers, only observations and a few confessions. (more…)

How long had it been? He could not wrap his chemically-preserved synapses around the concept, overhearing seals being opened to this special storage pod before cold gasses dissipated around him. There was a hissing as the pod’s front lid raised upward and away, the sleeper’s eyes usually closed when stored here and seeing no reason for opening them yet until addressed by his commanding Lieutenant General Ross Haggard or one of the various Central Intelligence Agency handlers he had come to know while involved as an assassin in the shadowy world of national security.

I remember the last mission, killing that fanatic to save the king of a small Arab nation vital for our operations in the Middle East, just not every detail now. (more…)

This is the third story of a series that began with 1ST OHIO VOLUNTEERS.

1.

A wet, frigid wind tore at the long column of ragged men as they continued their march along a snow covered highway flanked on both sides by large white hills. The tops of those hills however were invisible in the grey haze of the miserably wet and cold weather. Their heads were bowed against the harsh bite of the wind and barely a word was spoken among them. Large flakes of wet snow whipped into them, liquefied, and ran down the seams of their combat fatigues. Icicles clung to the rims of their Kevlar helmets.

Their shoulders sported the screaming eagle of the 101st Airborne division and this detachment was composed of a platoon of light infantry. In total they numbered around 40 men and they trudged through the snow with the grim determination that only soldiers can muster. (more…)

A deadly unstoppable tide is approaching and the only way to avoid it is to run. But as I prepare to fly out from Kildare to the Azores in the Twin Otter I’m haunted by thoughts of Della. I can think of nothing else as I worry for her safety. I think about Ralph Patterson, her idiot husband and I wonder, as death closes rapidly in on us all; does he have a survival plan and will it prevent me from ever seeing her again?

Ralph is my sometimes business associate. He’s a money making genius on the Trading floor but outside of that he can be a gobshite of biblical proportions. He has a brain of course, and I hoped to god he was using it instead of performing some sort of headless chicken routine. This was the possibility that planted misgivings in my head. (more…)