“Mr. Whelan, Mr. O’Keeffe, why do you persist with this ludicrous idea of returning to Dublin? Even on some amoebic intellectual level you pinheads must understand that Dublin is shut to us forever. It is home only to the teeming dead. Teeming! Pressed tightly together in the parks and thoroughfares. Moaning beneath the statues of our baffled Patriots. Staring myopically at nothing. Bereft of stimulus. Swaying in the wind from the Dublin Mountains. Sodden and mildewed by the rain off the sea. There is nothing for you there anymore my little ex-junkie friends. I’m afraid you can never go home. Don’t ask me again.” (more…)

The heat of the morning sun forces me from my canvas home and out onto the flat gravel world. I drink greedily of my meagre water and wrench the two foam stops from my ears. The low monotone rumbles becoming distinctive moans from my dead neighbours below. My heart sinks.

I crunch across the gun shop roof towards the door, locked and wedged shut with my heavy pack. Sliding it out of the way I listen. Six days of scratching and shuffling becomes seven and I don’t know if I have the will to open the door. Slowly, I turn the key and hear excitement rise from below. Hesitantly, I open the door and the carpet of foetid stinking hands below grasp through the broken stair well to the bottom edge of the door, hunger increasing every day. I close the door quickly, lock it and wedge the pack back against it. One more day trapped in my new home, my new prison. (more…)

A bicycle stands against the wall of the antique store, whose windows have long been dark, the soap-written deals yellowed with long decay. The hand holding a digital voice recorder trembles despite the warmth of the day. The smell of blood fills the air, the crimson brightness splashed against the dull surface of the sidewalk in Rorschach blots. A thumb hovers above the play button, finally engaging the playback. (more…)

1

The morning air bites with sharp, frozen teeth even though it’s almost April. My breath hangs like a light white cloud before slowly vanishing. I’ve got to move quickly before the morning sun chases away the dawn chill. My snowshoes are almost a hindrance now as much of the snow is gone, replaced by sopping mud and heaps of decaying leaves. I still wear them. I still need them to get to The Family Trees. (more…)

Hong Kong was filled with smoke. Sergeant Lee Kwon-Sang walked the street with a medical mask over his face to keep the acrid air from stinging his throat. A year ago he would have been issuing fines for some of the fires. That was before the zombies. Now only a heartless man would interfere with Yue Lan, The Feast of the Hungry Ghosts. Sang had a feeling that this year it would last longer than three days. There were too many of the dead to burn paper for, some people had lost their entire family to the attacks. Mercifully, the undead were under control. Yet every loss of life added to their numbers, hence new deaths were of utmost concern. It was now law that such incidents were to be reported immediately. People were given express permission to deal with deceased relatives as necessary. As private citizens were still not allowed to own guns, the recommended method was to use an ax. (more…)

The high oak-board wall cutting across Prairie Road was overwhelmed with graffiti, portions of which were obscene, though chemicals and pressure washers had cleaned some of these areas away. These scoured-off areas left the wood’s surface rough, and were large enough for the high school’s art students to attempt to create vivid paintings of the Garden of Eden, the Statue of Liberty, and Christ’s burdened march through the crowds toward Golgotha. Words such as “survive” and “united” and “faith” spread through these images, as were phrases like “Support Our Troops” and “God Bless America.” Each scene had the added painted adornment of blazing, glorious crosses and flowing American flags. (more…)

With so few humans left, wondered Skiff, why hadn’t the zombies simply starved to death? He poured the last of the kerosene on to the floor of the barn and dropped the empty can onto the hay.

Of course he knew the answer; they didn’t need to eat to survive, they ate to feed the ceaseless hunger for human flesh. Their own flesh was no longer human, it couldn’t be. When one considered the way the sickly gobs of the stuff fell from their bodies at the slightest provocation, it was obviously something dead and rotting. (more…)

1. The Protector

As far as General Jamieson was concerned, 2012 represented the lowest point in the history of the once great United States of America. Things happened that year that he wouldn’t have believed possible.

Where the fuck could you even start? (more…)

1

As the bus squealed to a halt at the mouth of his driveway, Brian Keating slung his backpack over his shoulder, and made his way past the empty seats toward the driver.

“Have a good night, Mr. Sayers,” Brian said.

The late afternoon sun spilled through the windshield, and the driver shielded his eyes with one hand as he fumbled with the dial on his radio with the other. He cocked his head toward the loud hiss that emanated from the exposed speaker duct-taped to the dashboard. (more…)

1

My signature chicken soup bubbles happily on the wood stove as I load the .45 revolver at the kitchen table. It’s getting dark later now and the wind’s softening bite heralds a warm spring just over the horizon. I check the windows before sliding the hardened oak shutters into their cast iron slats. (more…)

–It was never clear where or how these patrons ended up going. The “how” was eventually taken care of first by a busboy, then a cop, then a coroner, then a bunch of people in green scrubs saying, “what the fuck?” quickly before they had their throats ripped out. (more…)