Dianne had always maintained that the homers held the key to understanding zombie behaviour. Homers, those most unique of zombies that still seemed to retain some semblance of their past lives. Homers like Sweeny Todd, the zombie that frequented the abandoned barbershop, Little Orphan Annie who latched onto any mother figure and walked with them to the end of the block, or Hendrix, the adolescent male zombie with the torn heavy metal tee shirt who hung around the ruined guitar store. But of all the homers that Dianne had studied over the past few months, Romeo was the most fascinating. (more…)

… and in the end, after Tony suggests that he might like to share Sonja’s daughter with the rest of the men working in the camp, she puts a bullet between his eyes and steals his truck. She hopes to put as many miles between Shelly and that hell hole as she can before the truck runs out of gas.

Sure, they follow her. They follow her as far as Crenshaw. But nobody dares go through the city. They are a pile of cowards just like Tony. She sneers her way through the lonesome town just fine. She doesn’t see one of the restless dead. She doesn’t see anyone, for that matter. (more…)

Tales of the Zombie War is proud to present the first in a series of French translations of our stories thanks to the efforts of Nina Khmielnitzky. Please spread the word to your French-speaking compatriots in the fight against the undead.

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Le bus s’arrêta en grinçant à l’entrée de l’allée, et Brian Keating balança son sac à dos sur son épaule, puis dépassa les sièges vides en remontant vers le chauffeur.

« Bonne soirée, M. Sayers », dit Brian.

Le soleil de fin d’après midi qui filtrait par le pare-brise était éblouissant. Protégeant ses yeux d’une main, le chauffeur tripotait le bouton de la radio de l’autre. Il penchait la tête vers le grésillement bruyant que projetait le haut-parleur fixé au tableau de bord au moyen de ruban adhésif. (more…)

I never had a stomach for shooting. The only time that I had been invited to one of my Grandfather’s famed huntin’ n’ fishin’ weekends I had earned the scorn of my extended male family by firing early and high at a doe, allowing her to scamper into the forest before the more experienced marksmen could take a bead.

That was a lifetime ago, before the apocalypse. God knows where they all were now; dead probably, or worse. And here I was, rifle once again in my hands, the butt nestled to my shoulder and the muzzle pointed at Jenny’s forehead. (more…)

They say Winter doesn’t forgive

Gospel, true as the grave is cold

But it does forget

Eyes snow blind with hope, believing

The lies told with frozen breath

A blizzard of desperation (more…)

Cherry blossom sores riddling her body, Mary lifted the arm to her mouth and pressed her teeth down, feeling her mouth flood with salty metal. Sweat and blood mingled on her taste buds.

The pack gorged in the aisles of the grocery store. Her nose filled with the rot of lettuce and the decomposing survivors who ended their lives no better than the horde they fed; herded by their hunger. A family of them. (more…)

Orange County, California, USA

[ I look down on the city of LA, from my perch on a balcony in the hills above the city. The sounds of reconstruction and clean up still echo even 10 years after the war. I’m waiting for the owner of this large, walled in compoud. It is definately a post war consturction. Part House, part shooting range, part bunker and storage facility. It’s owner, a very successful business man, gives lessons in shooting, and most importantly, the art of killing the undead. I’m here to get his story of what had happened when the day came, when the dead walked the Earth. ] (more…)