Best New Zombie Tales (Vol. 2)

by Youers, Rio

“Sure.”

  “Show me.”

  Carrie slides her fingers into the pocket of her jeans and draws out a folded orange-red note. Twenty bucks. Carrie only paid a buck for the zombie book at the garage sale, so she must really want this one.

  Treece holds out her hand for the money, but Carrie shakes her head and gives the note to Ryan instead. “I want to see the book first.”

  “Go ahead.” Treece doesn’t move, so Carrie steps cautiously in front of her and crosses to the backpack. Ryan’s glance flicks nervously from the money, to Carrie, to the shadows. Treece moves to face Carrie, arms folded, and Ryan doesn’t seem to realize that Treece is now between him and the exit.

  “It’s not here,” grumbles Carrie.

  “It’s down the bottom,” says Treece.

  Carrie is not convinced, but she wants that book, so she makes a last effort to burrow into the backpack.

  That’s when Treece picks up a plank of old wood she left by the door earlier and belts Ryan across the head with it. At the same time, I step out from the shadows with another plank and smack it down on Carrie’s head. Well, it was supposed to be her head, but she looks up and cops it in the face. She falls onto her back onto the floor, squealing, and the floorboards crack under her.

  Treece and I figured it didn’t matter if Carrie and Ryan got banged up a bit now, given what we plan to do with them. I still feel bad at the sight of Carrie’s blood. She looks furious rather than scared, though. She tries to sit up, blood streaming from her nose and a cut above her eye.

  But she looks past me and her face turns white. The scarlet of her blood is much brighter now in contrast and it reminds me of Dylan’s blood after he fell.

  I think I feel worse when Dylan lurches out with his arms outstretched––a real schlock-zombie monster––and snaps his jaws at her.

  Carrie screams. “Stop it! Stop! I command you!”

  And he stops. A hand span away from her face, with his tongue sticking out, Dylan stops.

  “I’m your zombie master,” Carrie snaps at him, “Obey me!”

  Dylan cocks his head to one side, then leans in and licks a line of blood from her cheek. Carrie shudders.

  Then Dylan snaps his teeth. Carrie screams and jerks back, banging her head on the wall.

  I don’t really want to watch Dylan eat Carrie’s face, so I tug on his shoulders to give her some space. Not much though. I let Dylan hover while I unloop the rope from my shoulder and use it to tie Carrie’s hands together.

  Treece has already tied Ryan’s hands and dragged him over to sit against the wall alongside Carrie. Ryan is dazed and mumbling and sobbing. A line of blood has trickled through his hairline and in front of his ear, dripping onto his collar. After a moment I realize he’s saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He doesn’t stop saying it.

  I feel a bit sick, but really, Ryan can be as sorry as he wants––Dylan’s still dead and that’s not fair. I know that two wrongs aren’t meant to add up to rightness, but what else am I supposed to do?

  It was Treece’s idea to bring scarves to use as gags. I’m relieved that Treece doesn’t actually look like she’s enjoying this. She has a kind of grim determination in her expression.

  When Carrie and Ryan are tied up, Treece and I stand in front of them. We have to hold Dylan by the shoulders because he keeps leaning towards them, sniffing and snapping. We should just let him go. That’s what we brought everyone here for, after all. To let Dylan eat Ryan and Carrie’s brains and be less dead. Even if it only works for a little while, it’ll be worth it. I think.

  Only I feel sick, and I think maybe it’s not worth it. Ryan is blubbering and snotty, and Carrie is deathly white and staring, and I don’t want to watch my little brother eat their brains.

  “Treece…” I start, but I hear a sound and stop. Treece has heard it too. A footstep. Another. Outside. We stare at each other, frightened and helpless.

  “There you are! What have I told you about coming here, Amy Angelina Swindon?!”

  My mother’s voice is sharp. I know I am in big trouble, like all kids do when they get called by all their names.

  I stare mutely at my mother standing outside in the light and try not to look at Ryan and Carrie at all. Dylan has not taken his eyes off them. He nearly gets away, but Treece has a good grip on his shoulder.

  Mum––her handbag slung over her shoulder––pushes into the old room and walks right up to me. Past me. I watch as she pats Treece’s hand and lays her own on Dylan’s shoulder to hold him still.

  “So. Carrie Harper,” she says, glaring at our prisoners, “I should have known you would be mixed up in this. You’re just like your mother. And you should know better, Ryan. Your mother will be very disappointed.”

  There are whimpering sounds through the gags, but Mum remains next to Dylan.

  “Your mother should know better, too, Treece,” she says to my new friend.

  “It’s not Mum’s fault,” Treece says bravely, “I’m the one who put the book in the garage sale. She doesn’t even know it’s gone. She’ll be furious when she finds out.”

  “Well. Maybe. Perhaps she’s grown up a bit since university. Having kids of your own will do that for you. Some of the time.” This with a meaningful look at Carrie. “What happened, Amy?”

  Shamefaced, I tell the story with as much detail as I can. Treece chips in to explain our plans.

  “You’re almost right,” says Mum, “But not quite. Do you have the book here?”

  “It’s in Carrie’s bag,” I say. “I don’t know if she did it right anyway. She used kitchen herbs instead of wolfsbane.”

  “The herbs don’t matter very much,” said Mum, like she knew all about it, “It’s only the blood that counts. Whose was used in the incantation?”

  “Carrie cut her own arm,” I tell her.

  “Was any of Ryan’s blood used?”

  “No. Just Carrie’s and Dylan’s.”

  “That makes things more straightforward,” says Mum, “Now, hold onto Dylan, Amy. Don’t let him go.”

  I do as I’m told and my mother steps towards the two kids tied and gagged against the wall. She bends down and stares into their frightened eyes.

  “Hmm,” says Mum, “Well, you’re right about that much, Treece. He’s in there.”

  “In there?” I ask.

  “Dylan’s soul,” says Mum, “Is in Ryan and Carrie. I would recognize my son anywhere.”

  Oh.

  Part of me thinks my Mum has cracked, only, Dylan really is a zombie, of course, so maybe she has a point.

  “I’m really sorry Mum,” I say, “It was an accident. I shouldn’t have left him behind.”

  “No, you shouldn’t,” she replies, “But he shouldn’t have run off after you. And these two shouldn’t have been messing about in here. And this young lady,” Mum nods sharply at Carrie, “Should not have been meddling with that book.”

  How many stupid decisions have landed us here, I wonder. Do we lay any of it on Treece’s Mum for having the book in the first place? On the person who gave it to her? On the person who wrote it?

  But it was just a book until Carrie decided to use it, and I decided to let her.

  “It’s my fault, really,” I say, “I’ve been trying to make it right again, Mum.”

  “That is something else you shouldn’t have been doing on your own. This is for grown ups, Amy.”

  “I know. But…if you need…blood or anything to make it better again…” I hold out my arm to her, palm up.

  Mum sighs. “I do need blood, Amy, but not yours. Fetch the book for me.”

  I dig it out of Carrie’s bag and hand it to her. Mum flicks through the pages rapidly, as though she’s familiar with the book. She stops at the pages that Carrie used, reads in silence, then nods. She digs into her handbag and takes out a pair of kitchen shears. The kind she uses for quartering roast chickens. She holds them in front of Ryan and bends to speak to him.

  “Ryan,
you’re quite lucky. It was an accident and you don’t have much of Dylan’s soul in you. What I want you to do is concentrate. I want you to feel Dylan’s soul inside you.”

  Ryan nods in a panic.

  “Calmly now, son,” says Mum, “It won’t hurt as long as you stay very calm. Can you feel Dylan’s soul?”

  Ryan nods again, his eyes fixated on the shears.

  “Be sure now, because if this doesn’t work we’ll have to do it again. Here.” She removes the gag so that Ryan can take a deep breath. “There you go. Can you feel Dylan’s soul?”

  This time when Ryan nods, it’s more carefully, like he’s really trying.

  “I need to think about Dylan’s soul, very hard, and to push it into one place. Can you push it down into your finger for me?” Mum unties his hands too, and holds very hard to it. If Ryan thinks he can run away, he’s mistaken. My mum has a grip like a bulldog. She singles out his left index finger. “Push Dylan into this finger, Ryan. As hard as you can.”

  Ryan closes his eyes and grits his teeth. He grunts a little.

  “Is it there yet, Ryan?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Swindon,” breathes Ryan.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Swindon.”

  “Good.”

  And quick as a flash, Mum runs the blade of the shears against the pad of Ryan’s finger, drawing blood as she calls out something that sounds like “solvo captivus animus!” Ryan gasps, then makes a strangled scream as Mum grabs Dylan and drags him forward.

  Dylan snaps at Ryan’s bleeding finger, takes it in his mouth and chews. Mum smacks Dylan on the arm. “No biting, Dylan!”

  Dylan growls at her.

  “Dylan Tyler Swindon, you do not growl at your mother! And you do not bite. What Ryan did was stupid but it was an accident, and he’s very sorry. Aren’t you Ryan?”

  Ryan nods, sobbing. “Yes, yes, yes yes yesyesyes. Sorrysorrysorry.”

  With a grumbling noise, Dylan stops chewing at the fingers and sucks at the blood.

  “Ryan,” says Mum gently, “Keep focusing on Dylan’s soul. Tell me when it’s all gone.”

  All we hear for a few minutes is Dylan’s sloppy sucking and Ryan’s whimpers. Then Ryan says hoarsely, “It’s… it’s gone… Mrs. Swindon.”

  “You’re definite?”

  “Y-y-yes, Mrs. Swindon.”

  Dylan has stopped sucking so hard at Ryan’s finger, too. He is staring at it now, dissatisfied.

  Mum clears away the rope and scarf and helps Ryan to his feet. “Run along home then, Ryan.”

  Ryan runs.

  Mum nods as the dust settles in Ryan’s wake and moves to crouch in front of Carrie.

  “It’s a very different matter with you, young lady,” she says. Carrie, who has been looking hopeful that she too will get out of this with a cut and some chew marks, goes pale again.

  “What you did was not an accident,” says Mum, “Turning Dylan into a zombie was very deliberate. As I recall when we very stupidly used that book, it requires you to mix your blood with the victim’s, and certain incantations. That does not happen by accident. Most of Dylan’s soul is in you, and he wants it back.”

  Carrie squirms, trying to push her way back through the wall to freedom. It doesn’t work.

  “Carrie, dear,” Mum tries to sound gentle, “I don’t want to let Dylan eat your brains if I can help it, but you’ll need to help me.”

  Carrie whimpers.

  “I know, dear, but you should have thought of that before you killed my son and then did zombie magic on him.” Carrie’s eyes squeeze shut and tears fall over the face, making tracks through the blood. “What I want you to do, Carrie,” continues Mum, “Is just what Ryan did. Feel Dylan’s soul inside you and push it to your finger. Your pinkie finger on your left hand. Can you do that?”

  Carrie nods vigorously.

  “Concentrate very hard,” says Mum. She takes out Carrie’s gag and loosens the ropes around her wrist without untying her completely. She grasps Carrie’s left pinkie in hers. “You are right handed aren’t you, Carrie?”

  More nodding.

  “Good. Focus. Tell me when you think all of Dylan’s soul is in your pinkie.”

  With great concentration, Carrie scrunches up her face and we can see her willing so hard, making the part of Dylan that is trapped inside her move out of her brain and down her arm and into her little finger.

  “Is it all there, do you think, Carrie?”

  “I think so.”

  “Be sure, Carrie. We only want to do this once.”

  Carrie scrunches her face up and wills some more.

  “There,” she says at last, “All there, Mrs. Swindon.”

  “Definitely, Carrie?”

  “Most definitely, Mrs. Swindon.”

  “Good girl.”

  “Solvo captivus animus!” cries Mum, and she uses the shears to cut off Carrie’s pinkie finger at the base.

  Carrie bursts with a short, sharp scream and then groans and cries. Mum shoves the finger into Dylan’s mouth. “Eat up, Dylan. There’s a good boy.”

  Dylan scoffs it down like it’s a chewy bit of licorice.

  While he eats the finger, Mum turns back to Carrie. Mum takes a facewasher from her bag and clamps it over the wound. “There, there, Carrie,” she says, “It’s all over now. As long as you were telling the truth.”

  The terror in Carrie’s face is worrying. Dylan finishes eating her finger, but it doesn’t seem to have helped much. Mum regags Carrie and tightens the ropes around her again before inspecting Dylan’s eyes. She clicks her tongue and examines Carrie’s again.

  “Oh dear,” says Mum, “That’s a pity.”

  Carrie’s eyes widen until they are huge and round like a manga cartoon character.

  Mum beckons Dylan over and stands back. “I’m so sorry, Carrie,” says Mum, “But you’ve still got a lot of Dylan in you, and frankly it’s you or my son. What am I supposed to do?”

  Dylan lunges at Carrie. She screams behind the gag.

  “Your mother will understand,” says Mum, “After what we had to do to save her younger sister. Your Auntie April.”

  Carrie doesn’t hear. And is beyond caring about clarification.

  I’m sorry she’s stopped screaming. It had been drowning out the chewing noises.

  * * *

  A lot of things have changed since then.

  Mrs. Harper left town. I think she moved to New Zealand.

  Ryan has become very quite and well behaved. His teachers think it’s a miracle

  Mum gave Mrs. Muldoon the zombie book back, and Treece was grounded for a month. Mum and Mrs. Muldoon are talking again now. They won’t say why they fell out, but Treece and I know it was something to do with Mrs. Harper and that creepy book back at university.

  Though it’s sort of nice that the zombie book brought them back together again.

  Now our mums are talking, Treece and I are best friends. I know she’s good in a crisis, and she has excellent taste in books. We swap stuff all the time, although she leaves her mother’s locked collection strictly alone.

  Dylan is mostly back to normal. His arm and ribs healed quickly and you’d never know he had been dead for four days.

  He remembers a little of what happened, but not much. Sometimes he tries to bite Ryan still, more on reflex than because there’s any of his soul left in Ryan. I hug Dylan more often than I used to, though I still call him Dill. He still steals my stuff, the pest.

  I’m pretty well behaved myself these days. I seriously do not want to get on Mum’s bad side.

  Gravedigger

  NATE KENYON

  Bobby DeCourci slipped a middle finger inside the dead woman, probing upward until he reached resistance. In up to the third knuckle. The feeling was like the pocket of a wind-breaker on a wet day, slick and cool and loose, nothing like a live one. Not that he’d felt that in some time. He wasn’t one to get a lot of pussy, not since the accident. And Damon never let him forget it,
the shithead.

  He hooked his nail on the package and pulled gently. It slipped out of the vaginal opening with a slight sucking sound and fell into his waiting hand. A simple plastic baggie, filled with what looked like white flour and coated with fresh semen.

  “Gotcha,” he said aloud.

  “Yeah?” Damon said from across the room. Bobby glanced over. He thought (not for the first time) that Damon was like a boil situated at that one place on your back; a boil you want desperately to pop, but can’t quite reach. They had been working together in this goddamn basement for almost five years now, keeping time with the dead, and he found that on the whole he’d rather spend time with a corpse than the only other living thing in the room.

  The man’s hunched shoulders shook as he scrubbed himself at the sink. Bobby grinned. He’d been worried for a moment, but Damon was so fucking tiny he hadn’t even felt the package in there, even as he went at the woman on the slab like a rabbit on speed.

  It had ended in a minute, tops. The pervert couldn’t even satisfy the dead.

  “Nothing,” he muttered. Keep scrubbing, Casanova. He slipped the baggie in his coat pocket and went back to work draining fluids from the woman’s body. She was in her late thirties, judging by her face and the flesh on her hips. Her breasts were like deflated gray balloons lying on her chest, and the skin around her eyes was unnaturally taut. Had some work done already, Bobby thought. Probably came from money. His family, money was a four-letter word. His own mother had lived off welfare in the same trailer for damn near thirty years after his father had run out on them, and when she died she turned it over to him along with a credit card bill and a kitchen drawer full of expired coupons. He had tossed the coupons, dragged one bookcase full of glass gnomes and crystal snow-flakes to the curb, turned the rug in the living room the other direction and called it his own.

  Bobby looked down at the bags of flesh and sighed. Embalming someone was a bitch. Most people thought being an undertaker would be creepy, but the bulk of it was damn practical. It was all just dead meat that had to be cleaned up and prepared for viewing. But it wasn’t pretty. There was all the sewing they needed to do, and the makeup to cover up the damage. In the end, Bobby always thought they looked like a wax doll. Yessir, cremation was the way to go. The alternative, slow rot in a wooden box buried six feet under with the worms, was plain fucking nuts.