It couldn’t have been more than two seconds after we met up with Steve that I decided I had to fuck him up. The words “I sure am glad to see you two are still around. I don’t know what I’m doing out here,” were barely out of his mouth. I had just enough time to look him over. That’s when I noticed his boots.

They were things of beauty, those boots. Brown leather with that fancy western-styled stitching on the toes. Steve had jeans on, so I couldn’t see the tops, but it looked like two colors of leather—one light brown, the other dark—made some kind of pattern. I would have traded all manner of riches and finery for those things. Seeing as how I had neither, I’d have to procure them in another manner. (more…)

Tales of the Zombie War is proud to present the first pieces of submitted artwork to the site. These are from Gothenburg, Sweden-based digital artist George Cotronis. Please see more of his work at ravenkult.com. Click on an image to see a full-size version of the work.

Illustration by George Cotronis

Illustration by George Cotronis

Illustration by George Cotronis

Alan was deeply apologetic as he transferred Karen from her wheelchair to her easy chair. They normally went out in the afternoons for a stroll into town. It broke up the day and let her get some fresh air. Unfortunately Alan, for all his vigor at age 60, was feeling fatigued and ill enough that they turned back 2 blocks from the house.

“I’m sorry dear heart,” he said again as he propped her on the pillows, “I’ll call the clinic and see if I can’t go in tomorrow to get checked out. Here, let me put the news on for you while I call, is that alright?” (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 His uniform was outdated but identified as a worker from Sector 7-G. A ragged stump marked the spot where his left thumb had been savagely removed from his hand, and angry looking red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…)

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.

1

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…)