I’m interviewing Malcolm Price, veteran of a US-Army-run concept military unit. There are less than fifty survivors of the original batch of three thousand, making him one of the rarest of interview subjects I have run across. Their designation, “Canaries”, hearkens back to the days of coal miners using small birds in cages as primitive poisonous gas detection systems; if the bird died, the mine was considered “unsafe”. (more…)
Fearless Leader Nicky Tesla failed to return on air at the top of the past half hour, all you loyal listeners both among the living and, uh, existence-impaired out there howling with the donkeys. This is Jimbo Weiland, the Court Foole, on KRAK.
FADE DOWN. That wasâ€The Liberty Bell March†by John Philip Sousa, better known to most of you basement-dwelling, bong-scraping mold gnomes as the theme from ‘Monty Python’s Flying Circus.’ Aaaand… we’re back. Well, I am. Fearless Leader is a harder case to argue. As my Dad used to say, he went to defecate and the swine devoured him. (more…)
Waking at 6.00am Daniel usually struggled to open his eyes, but this morning he felt fresh. Last night had been a nightmare. Trying new tactics had worked well at first but soon his small band of fighters had been split up and went down like rookies. Daniel was the last man left to fight off the incoming horde and the adrenalin got him through the first few kills but there were too many. Just before he was wiped out though the server went down and X-Box Live was out for the rest of the evening. As a result he’d had an early night and with tomorrow being Good Friday he looked forward to meeting up with his friends in the pub after work and a long weekend. (more…)
“Look,” Kathryn said, “this one has the keys in it.”
“It’s probably out of gas,” Maureen acknowledged, “most of the ones with the keys left in them are out of gas.”
“Well,” Kathryn stripped off her business suit jacket and searched the mercifully empty streets, “we’re gonna have to give it a try.” She climbed behind the wheel and unlocked the passenger door so that Maureen could climb in the other side. (more…)
Joseph had seen them heading out to check out the zombies hanging around No. 4 wind turbine; ‘Sarge’, ‘Gomer’ and Barnes, the rancher that they’d hooked up with two days back. The ranch had five wind turbines built on easements leased to a Texas power utility, and the ranch was unlikely to ever be without power. They had power, and a good, deep well; now they needed food, some kind of fence, and a lot more; an endless list. (more…)
“Mother,” asked Seymour, “what are you doing out of bed?”
The old woman didn’t answer. She was carrying a lit wicket inside an archaic, silver, antique candle holder and the hot wax was dripping down onto her wrists. There was no need for this of course as the hallway was already ablaze with light courtesy of the best bulbs which G.E. had to offer. Plus the cold afternoon sun, which was brightened by the high piles of leftover snow outside, shone fearlessly through every available pane. (more…)
It was Jenny Cupcake who found the body. An avalanche had exposed a transparent wall of ice; and behind the ice, an elf hung, suspended in ice, arms akimbo and skin blue. His eyes stared forward blankly, and his mouth had dropped open. He looked flash frozen.
Jenny Cupcake tapped the ice with the butt of her Uzi. “You okay in there?”
The elf made no reply; didn’t blink, didn’t move, made no sign that he had even registered Jenny’s presence.
She peered at him. His uniform was outdated but identified as a worker from Sector 7-G. A ragged stump marked the spot where his left thumb had been savagely removed from his hand, and angry looking red gashes criss-crossed his palm. He had probably been a wood worker. (more…)
“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…)
