The Zombie Letters
© 2015 by Billie Dean Shoemate III
Published by Asylum817 Productions
All rights reserved.
Cover art by Billie Dean Shoemate III and Danielle Spectre
Author maintains all rights to this book. Any attempt to re-distribute or copy this book in any other printed or electronic form will result in legal action.
http://www.asylum817.webs.com
Novels by Billie Dean Shoemate III
FICTION
Villain
Hourglass
The Shaman
Lot 150
In the Willows
Vendetta: Villain II
Oblivion: Villain III
A Madman’s Jury
NON FICTION
The American Soapbox: a Thesis of Modern Living
FILMS
Lot 150
All of Billie’s Books are available online through Amazon
as well as through Asylum817 Productions http://www.asylum817.webs.com
FOREWORD
by the author
Hello again. It’s nice to be back with old friends, isn’t it? You know . . . this is a novel that you, Dearest Reader, almost never got to see. With the release of my tenth novel, A Madman’s Jury, I had retired writing. I was done. Finished. Blammo. Billie has left the building. As I’ve said before, I love being an author, but I hate writing. Sounds kind of strange, doesn’t it? I find writing to be a mental torment that is honestly quite excruciating. I dig into myself and dance with a part of me that I would give my very soul to have dead and buried. I dislike the demons I exercise in order to create what I create. In fact, I loathe them. Those demons, those closeted skeletons are the last remnants of a man full of hatred, sadness, depravity, isolation and desperation. I used them and gained reward in writing. My books have won awards, received excellent reviews and earned me a seat on the respected Indianola Book Review. I achieved everything I ever set out to do . . . but what once was a therapy and release for me became the most prominent thing hindering my healing as a human being. The sense of isolation deepened. The effects of an upended life seemed to magnify themselves within my heart. Writing, despite the incredible rewards, had simply lost its magic. Not to sound melodramatic or pretentious, but most writers will understand. Perhaps this is why so many of them end up losing their fucking minds. I always believed, write what you know. If all you know is hurt . . . if all you feel is pain . . . if that’s all that puts you in that creative place, it will only be so long until the bubble bursts.
So, I hung it up. For three years. Three years of no new material, no short stories, no layouts. Nothing. I write my novels longhand and I got to the point where the only time I put a pen to paper was to sign a check. Honestly, I had never felt better. I devoted more time to my independent publishing label and helped others fulfill their aspirations. That is beyond rewarding; seeing other people’s dreams come true. I got so much joy seeing the looks on their faces when they received that first hardback in the mail and getting to see the tangible reality that once only existed in pure thought. The brick and mortar of the world they created became tangible. Something they could hold. What an incredible feeling. I live for it.
About two months ago as of writing this little introduction, someone posted a review of my second novel, Hourglass. It was posted on some back-alley college website run by some dude in a dorm someplace. One of my friends mentioned it to me and suggested I read it. When I followed the link in my e-mail, my jaw dropped. It wasn’t a review. It was a thesis.
Without getting too specific, he said he went back and read all of the introductions I write for these books and felt exited that he got the chance to read a novel written by someone who hated what writing was doing to him . . . someone who may not have been entirely sane. In his sprawling thesis (which included a pretty damn good review of Hourglass), he said something I will never forget.
“Creative insanity . . . artistic madness . . . is a bi-product of the brilliant and inquisitive mind. Lunacy only exists in artists that struggle to understand the harsh world they are tossed into. Most people go along with it. They are content in the good and the bad. Artists ask why. Someone who has truly found their purpose in life will always struggle to find sense in it. And they will always fail. Why, because life itself does not make sense. Life to a normal person is just something to go through. A genius has recognized life for what it really is; a world populated by flawed, broken creatures caught in endless, randomized fate. Madness has to be embraced, because all attempts to stifle it will only intensify it. Life may never be okay. It may never be normal. However, people with minds strong enough, or cursed enough, to create something have a responsibility. Human beings are looking for a release . . . an escape. They need another world to visit for awhile. Maybe, just maybe, one man’s torment is the release of many.”
Interesting thought, my friend.
I went back and read reviews of other novels of mine, as well as the mountains of rejection slips I collected when I was still green in this line of work. I realized something profound. I imagined the people who have bought and borrowed my books reading them. They sit at their desks with their Kindles or lie on the couch with their paperbacks. They pick up a few sentences in line at the grocery store or at the doctor’s office. My friend Kia reads my novels while she is in her bathtub. Aside from the lovely mental image that little tidbit of information conjures up, I realized something. My words were being read. My feelings . . . my beliefs. My thoughts and observations. My demons and my skeletons. My fears. My failures. See, I write fiction. To anyone that even halfway knows me and has read my novels, they can tell that my books are deeply autobiographical. People read my books, soak them in and got something out of them. Even people who hate my writing. They slam the book down or delete them from their Kindles . . . maybe give it to a friend or sell it at the annual Spring garage sale. See what I’m getting at?
You can interrupt a person speaking. You can talk over them, right? You can shut them up. There are a million ways to do it. Whether you finished the book or closed it for whatever displeased reason, writing cannot be interrupted. Do me a favor and close this book right now for a second. These words will stay right here. The words still exist whether or not you choose to read them. They will remain on this page long after I am dead and gone. Writing cannot be talked over, shut up or told to sit down and be quiet. I’ve had my share of hits and misses as a novelist. That’s for damn sure, but just knowing how much people got out of them; even the ones who regard me as a bit of a hack . . . they kind of put the torment into perspective. Maybe instead of a cross I bear or a heavy chain I forged in life, the torment is a badge. A medal. A purple heart.
So, Dearest Reader, here it is . . . a return to the darkness inside. The hardest I can possibly work. The fastest my gears can turn. For the longest time, I thought I was writing for myself. How incredibly wrong I was. The books are only mine when I write them. After they are published, they become yours. Despite the emotion you felt after reading one of them, I truly believe that you are worth the hell I go through to do this.
I may never understand this fucking place. Hell, I may never even like it. I may never be okay or normal, whatever the shit those words really mean. Now I know why monsters exist inside of people and what the skeletons in our closets are for. Madness needs to be embraced. When I decided to do just that and started to write again, something strange happened.
I still felt like fucking shit. I still didn’t sleep. I still locked myself away from the world. But you know something?
I enjoyed the hell out of it. For the first time since I started writing, I enjoyed it.
Here is the novel that is my talisman of
a promise that in whatever shape or form, I will always be here . . . still as pissed off, tormented and miserly as I always was, but with a renewed sense of purpose. Thanks for enjoying the ride so far. This shit isn’t stopping ever again. I sincerely hope you all enjoy this book. I appreciate, as always, your time and commitment.
Now, if you will excuse me . . . I hear a skeleton knocking at the inside of my closet door again. Gotta give the ol’ boy some air.
He’s been in there way too goddamn long.
-BDS
10/28/2014
THE ZOMBIE LETTERS
Billie Dean Shoemate III
This book is dedicated to my grandmother, Janet Amos.
Hello again . . . welcome back.
Kick off your shoes and leave your good feelings at the door.
Sit and stay awhile. Put the coffee on.
Let’s go to the dark place one last time.
PROLOGUE
I
The large door hissed open to let the man inside. He was a General . . . and quite the decorated one. He extended a hand to the man they brought in that morning. The new guest stayed seated, not returning the handshake. The General politely smiled and placed his hand back into his pocket. “Darin Miles, right?”
“Yes, sir . . . that’s me,” the seated man said. He sat with his back slumped and his head pointed toward the floor. He looked like a defeated man. A ruined one. God knew what his eyes had seen. What kinds of things he had been through. He spoke slowly and without any kind of readable tone. The dry, spent and worn-out husk of a man named Darin Miles sounded dry and hoarse . . . his eyes halfway open and his breathing shallow. “Forgive me for not getting up. I haven’t sat in a chair for almost a year. I’ve inherited a beautiful lack of social skills, but I am ready to get to work. Take me to your on-site disease center. Colonel Andrus told me you had one and that I would be working with your men. I don’t believe in wasting time. So . . . if you could . . . get the fuck on with it. Sir.”
“You will brief us first,” the General said as calmly as he could. “I understand that all of your boss’s notes are intact, as well as the records you kept in your facility. I know you’re anxious to get cracking, but what is more important to us right now is getting a brief from you. Your living area will be visited daily, as many days as it takes, by a member of our personnel. She will dictate everything you say. You tell us everything as clearly as you can and we will give you access to anything you need. We do want to find a cure just as much as you do, Darin. But . . . if I may be harsh for a moment . . . you are not the only brilliant man in the world. Our people are capable of floating the boat until you get to run the lab. You are valuable and I thank God you’re here . . . your statement will be as effective as your presence. Now, please . . . what do you have?”
Darin sighed deeply, motioning for a glass of water from the cooler in the corner. The General gave it to him. Darin drank it slowly, staring at the cup with such a lost expression on his face. It was heartbreaking. The General felt a swell of sadness for him, despite the business at hand. After a short trance at the cold water in the little paper cup, Darin Miles spoke again. “I have Nathaniel’s emails to me, as well as Brian O’Reilly. I have Brian’s medical records. I can supply them to you anytime you need it. You can trace everything back to us with those materials.”
“Thanks, Darin. I know you have been through a lot. I can’t possibly imagine. Give your statement. Stay calm and focused. Take as long as it needs to be to make it concise and correct. We will build a report with all of this and you can review the brass in the report personally. We will end this with you here. I promise.”
II
NATHANIEL WINTERS EMAIL
RECIPIENT: UNSENT
SECURITY CLEARANCE ‘A’ ONLY
CLASSIFIED
---------------------
My fellow Americans,
I never believed in any of this before.
Fate. That golden treasure so easy to define, yet impossible to understand in its totality. Do we all have fates? I don’t know. Probably not, now that the thought has crossed my mind. Most of us end up losers . . . pumping fuel, eating shitty gas station food, living in crowded cities in dingy apartments, subscribing to Netflix and playing video games to pass the time. Some of us end up homeless, divorced and/or childless. That’s actually sort of a negative-fate, isn’t it? I truly believe it that way now that I have actually given it some serious thought. Never thought about fate before. I was an in-the-moment guy. I guess I realized that a destiny is not given to everybody. Some destinies are not always grand, either.
I don’t want to pull out all of the stops yet. I have time. Not much, but enough to finish this before my writing is of no use to you. I’m tired and I need sleep. By the end of the week, you will know anyway. I am sending this to the people I know will tell the world the truth. I assume that when it happens, you will no doubt have many questions. Hopefully these letters will answer most of them. The million dollar question . . . I would give my soul for an answer to that one. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, right?
Good goddamn intentions.
No matter the objective, we can all start to smell the asphalt after awhile and there is nothing we can do to stop it. My road to hell became yours and for that, I have shut myself in here. I cannot bear to hear one scream out of agony or fear. They are screams that I have caused. They are ones I cannot undo.
Christ, what a cowardly way to go out. Holed up under my rock that was once a temple to my greatness. It was a tome of my opportunities. A Stonehenge, a pyramid carved out of my intellect. Years from now, it will be regarded as a tomb. Hell, it’s a tomb now. This place, once filled with lives bustling down its hallways and souls scurrying about their daily business is now only inhabited by echoes. The soft clicking of the keyboard sounds like the personification of doom clicking its teeth together in delight. Its belly is ravenous as it prepares to eat me alive. After all I have done . . . after all the advancements we human beings made, it has come to this. I am actually frightened of how I will be viewed in the future. If mankind survives. Pretty pathetic. Here I am, the man solely responsible for what could be the extinction of the human race and here I am, worried that I will either be seen as a monster or a martyr. No. Martyr is a bad word. Martyrs die for a good cause. Or at least a cause that is noble to them. They die to shift the paradigm. I am no John the Baptist. I am no Ghandi. I am no Mother Teresa. I am no Jesus Christ.
I am doom. I am destruction. I am the end . . . and there’s nothing I can do about it.
Help me.
My mind is sharp and my body strong for now. Strange thoughts pop into my head lately. Disturbing and confusing things. Four days ago, I was walking my dog though the Anderson Hall recreational park area. Just enjoying the day. Brucie, my boxer, was doing his usual sniffing every blade of grass on the planet. You know how dogs do as they seem to globally position latitude and longitude coordinates just to take a shit? As I was waiting for Brucie to do his apparently serious and technical business, I saw a beautiful young woman about ten yards from me . . . sitting on the grass with a white terrier by her side. The dog was wagging its tail happily, watching some of the boys from Deruldo Hall play tennis. I felt an urge . . . an incredibly strong one I cannot explain. My mouth dried up and head hurt. I closed my eyes when dizziness set in and imagined myself running up to the little terrier, slicing it open from throat to nuts with my pocket knife and making the young woman eat its guts. I almost saw myself from within the black curtain of my closed eyelids. I saw myself forcing her jaw open and stuffing the dog’s intestines into her mouth.
I smiled.
I actually smiled.
I couldn’t believe what I was thinking. After a minute, the world stopped spinning and the headache subsided quickly, but that strange feeling in the pit of my stomach stayed right where it was. I ran inside and found the closest bathroom I could get to. My stomach was in fiery knots. My ears were ringing, but it
felt good somehow. I swear it felt like I’d just had an orgasm. It was the same exact feeling. I felt a slight sting in my right thigh and upon examining myself in the bathroom stall, I noticed that I had been bleeding. I stood there in a stupor with poor Brucie collared to a tree outside.
My pocket knife. It was usually clipped to my belt. Now it was loose and open in my pocket, scraping against my thigh. I carry an old stiletto spring-assist knife. It has one hell of a spring action on it and has a safety switch like those old switchblades. Those things don’t just come undone in your pocket. I had been touching it. That sinking feeling in my stomach . . . sick, yet somehow quenched and satisfied, was the blood that I could taste. That’s where the loop-de-loop in my stomach was coming from. I was swallowing blood. Looking at myself in the mirror, I noticed that I had sliced my own tongue with that knife. I don’t remember it happening and thank god no one saw me. The straight, thin line of blood on my tongue wasn’t deep enough to merit a hospital visit, but it was deep enough to lance enough blood to swallow and get queasy. I think that was the point in which I knew something had happened, but I still didn’t know to what extent. I was most certainly concerned, but it was yesterday morning that proved to me that a terrible mistake had been made.
The Zombie Letters Page 1