Lights flashed in and out of time to organ music pumped in through low quality speakers. Games, rides, and food carts filled the basketball courts and softball fields at Dewey’s Memorial Park.

“Look, they have a real elephant!”

“Daddy, can I play the balloon game? Please?”

“Kettle corn. I love kettle corn.”

Excitement filled the air, as families lined up for The Blaster, pulled puffy wads of cotton candy from communal bags, or sprayed the mouths of metallic clowns with water from squirt guns, trying to fill their balloons to bursting before anyone else. (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…)

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…)

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…)

All chapters in the “Hunger” series

Chapter Four

“It’s no use. The bastard thing will nae start!” Martin gave up trying to turn the jeep over. The engine was thoroughly flooded and his frantic attempts to start it again had only made the situation worse. “Sergeant, we’ve got to get out of here. If you can’t get the jeep started, we’re going to have to run.” Reuter again looked through the field glasses. The approaching throng of people wending their way out of the tiny village of Ornel was gradually growing closer, now less than 100 yards away.

“Are ye daft, ye fookin’ tosser?” Clive yelled from the back of the jeep. “I’m nae hoofin’ it! They’ll back off once I put a few warning shots from the .50 across them.” To demonstrate, Clive fired off a rapid burst from the .50 caliber. The slugs impacted into the ground directly in front of the mob to no discernible notice. They continued to press forward, the entire crowd moaning in an unearthly chorus. As they drew nearer, the grisly wounds of each person seemed to magnify before the two British and two German soldiers sitting in the jeep. (more…)

It was a monumental occasion for me. It was my first night on the job as Zeputy Ian Slater of the Zombie Patrol: ZP for short. I knew my mom and dad would have been proud, had they not been eaten by my brother and two little sisters. But that’s all in the past. Years of therapy served me well and allowed me the opportunity to embark on a new phase in my life. I was no longer going to be a survivor, hiding cowardly behind thick steel doors while others risked their lives to protect our community. No, I had put myself on the front lines.

To be honest, I couldn’t have been more excited. (more…)

CHAPTER ONE

“Wait for me…”

The thought touched briefly in Jason’s mind and he looked up at the blazing sun. Who had said that? And when? Just as quickly, the thought was gone and he looked down at the road again, his feet scraping against the concrete. It hurt to move. The sun was too hot against his sunburned skin and his eyes felt too dry. Two days ago someone had shot him-not too bad, just a scratch against his leg, but a small cloud of flies were starting to gather around the wound, irritating the skin. He wanted to brush them away, but most of the time he couldn’t communicate the simple thought to his brain. Part of him wanted to sit down and do nothing, but hunger kept his legs moving shakily forwards.  (more…)

Sequel to CONSEQUENCES

John slowly awoke. It took him several seconds to remember where he was. He was used to waking up in a strange house or in the back seat of a car but this was the first time he’d woken up in a helicopter.

Rubbing his tired eyes, and stretching as much as he was able in the cramped confines, he looked out the window at the countryside passing by. Every now and then he caught sight of a zombie stumbling across an empty field. For some reason they never seemed to look up and notice the helicopter. (more…)

1

I drag a moist towel across my forehead and squint into the big brick oven. Hickory pops and crackles in the back corner of the deep fireplace below and keeps the oven at a stable 400 degrees. I double-check the little stainless steel thermometer, something I dug out from the charred ruins of Luigi’s Pizzeria.

The House smells yeasty, pungent and a little sour. Very slowly the aroma of crusty bread begins to claw at that sourness until it chases all but the last wisps of beery dough smell away. A sponge – that is a bucket filled with wet flour, sugar, salt, and yeast – bubbles and rises very slowly on the floor beside the table. I made this sponge with the last of our dried yeast a year and a half ago, but I’ve managed to keep it alive and flourishing, irrespective of the persistent chill, near constant rain, and perpetual threat of starvation urging me to cook the whole thing at once. (more…)

CHAPTER 2.

As the dawn broke, 65 year old Klaus Goddard walked with his cows back to the milking barn on his meager farm. Morning chores would not wait, war or no war. 1944 had been a hard year, particularly with so much of his crops and milk production being diverted away for the war effort. It had been so much harder after the Allies landed in France and began pushing the Wehrmacht back. It seemed inconceivable to Klaus that things could become so unraveled. If anything, 1945 appeared to be much worse. He sighed tiredly. Things had been like this back in the Great War too. It was a vicious cycle, it seemed. (more…)

The following handwritten account – found in a farmhouse in Lisdoonvarna, Co. Clare – was initially accredited to flamboyant Z War hero John Fletcher as it had been signed with his name.

At the time it was widely discredited as a forgery as its manner and tone did not reflect Fletchers famous idiosyncratic style, nor did his apparent timidity in the text match the warriors’ well known ferocity. However, new anecdotal evidence has recently come to light that hints at this documents possible authenticity.

The following abridged version, appearing here in print for the first time, was originally intended for inclusion in the biography: “John Fletcher: Corpse Killer!” but was excised by the publishers who feared that this unverifiable adventure would leave them open to litigation should it prove false. Also, Fletcher’s controversial actions during the War might subsequently have become open to serious revisionism. (more…)