Best New Zombie Tales Trilogy (Volume 1, 2 & 3)

by James Roy Daley

  The banks disagreed. The banks had gotten used to keeping the money and assets that the dead left behind them, where no beneficiaries were involved, and they did not want to have to give these assets back. Cases were brought against the banks by a growing number of dead people but until the question of their basic rights was addressed there could be no decision on who owned the money. This of course meant the dead had no means of purchasing the gold they required to survive. That left the dead with few choices. If they wanted to continue to exist they only had two options; either they earned their money or they would have to steal it.

  Most of the living would not employ the dead so many of them were forced into crime to survive. It was this fact that branded all of them as criminals. This had the result of the dead being shunned and violence had a habit of breaking out regularly when they came to town. While Carter was not allowed to simply throw the dead out of his jurisdiction, just because they were dead, he did make sure to warn any that did come through that he took a dim view of anyone causing trouble in his town.

  He took a deep breath and addressed the man.

  “Morning,” Carter managed finally, pleased that his voice didn’t break. The corpse nodded back, his mouth still grinning insanely at him. As a law officer he was not allowed to merely kill the stranger on a whim. Until the lawyers ruled one way or the other, this corpse had as many rights as any of the town’s citizens. His hands were tied. Only the elite Texas Rangers could kill without recourse, and they hardly ever came this far north.

  The Governor had made the Rangers exempt in an attempt to mollify his richest supporters. He had dressed it up in fancy language extolling the Ranger’s proud history and supporting their judgment when on missions. It just wasn’t practical, he had stated in his address to the papers, to force these men to check in before they acted. It would be suicide for these trusted men to be second-guessed for every decision.

  The result was that the Rangers had become untouchable. But Carter had heard stories of Rangers combing the state and quietly executing the dead. It seemed that the Governor was making sure that whatever may be decided by the Government about the issue of the dead’s rights, that it would not have an impact on the Governor’s own finances.

  The stories were becoming more and more frequent of Ranger death-squads sweeping the state trying to accomplish their mission before the lawyers came to any decisions. Carter didn’t really care one way or the other. The dead were dead. Who cared if they were put back in the ground? Carter knew more than most about the current situation because the Governor’s mistress lived in his town. Each time he came to visit Carter made sure that he got an update from the Governor’s bodyguards.

  Carter shifted on his feet nervously. Most of the dead he dealt with were easy prey and he could intimidate them easily. But this corpse seemed far too confident. He had never seen such confidence in the dead before, and it worried him. He cursed himself for letting Boyle go on to the hotel. He could have done with the younger man’s support.

  Outside the bells finally stopped tolling and he sighed in relief as the pounding in his head began to subside. The sun flared briefly outside in momentary relief from the wind and its glare blazed through the glass and reflected off something on the man’s chest.

  Carter frowned as he blinked and then the glare suddenly stopped as the wind picked up and sand once again drew its veil over the sun. He studied the man’s chest and saw that there was a badge there of some sort. Was he a lawman too? That would certainly make things easier. A lawman, even a dead one, would understand his predicament. He looked harder at the badge; the edges were not pointed like his own and it was more rounded just like…

  Oh shit! Realization flooded through him. He’s a Texas Ranger. A dead Texas Ranger. No-one had provisioned for that. Did that mean he still had his immunity to the law? Shit, he had to warn the Governor.

  Suddenly a terrible thought struck him.

  If this ranger killed the Governor, would the Governor still retain his powers of office after death? That could turn the whole state upside down. The dead already outnumbered the living in the state. If they were in charge, might they be able to pass laws that would make living in the state almost impossible.

  Up till now the dead had been limited to two options to obtain the gold they coveted; employment, which was unlikely, and crime, which gave the living an excuse to kill them. But now, it struck Carter, they had discovered a third option to their problem. If they controlled the law, they could control the gold. Up till now people had considered the dead to be stupid, merely an inconvenience rather than any real threat. If they were capable of such planning, it showed an intelligence that sent a cold feeling of fear flooding through his veins.

  These thoughts flooded his throbbing head in a flash. The Ranger merely smiled insanely at him.

  He had to do something. He dropped his hand to his own weapon, adrenaline speeding his reflexes. The Ranger moved in a blur and suddenly Carter was staring at the barrel of the Ranger’s colt before he even slapped leather. He looked into the Ranger’s dead eyes and thought for a moment that he saw a widening of the corpse’s grin.

  Maybe that damn Shaman had got it right after all! By making the dead dependant on gold he had forced them to strike at the heart of the cornerstones of the country itself––its wealth and power. For a second he wondered what it would be like being dead.

  And then he heard the shot and darkness swept over him…

  The Worst is Yet to Come

  PETE MESLING

  Lyndon knew he wasn’t supposed to play on Duff Kendrick’s farm but it was impossible to resist. Rusting scraps of ancient farming equipment littered the yard. Railroad ties that lay strewn in an adjacent pasture were sad reminders of corrals that never got built. Cattle chutes were in need of mending. Sagebrush and leafy spurge ran riot among it all, right up to the front door of the ramshackle house. Everything about the place was paradise to a boy like Lyndon.

  Or would have been, if not for the rumors.

  Area boys were disappearing in Bradley County and there weren’t a lot of clues. But kids were good at filling in gaps, and it didn’t take long for the collective finger of Lyndon’s circle of friends to point to Duff Kendrick—Duffer, he was commonly called—as a prime suspect.

  He approached cautiously from the field behind the Kendrick farm. The sun melted like topping on the horizon, which was the best time to strike. Well, maybe not strike…forage. Lyndon wasn’t a junk expert, but he knew what he liked. And Duffer Kendrick’s dilapidated farm was a gold mine. These expeditions also gave Lyndon an opportunity to do a little spying.

  As he followed his usual course through high weeds and fossils of the Industrial Age, Lyndon’s eyes fell on something that hadn’t been there during his last scavenging run. Some kind of black metal cabinet, just to the right of the path he usually followed through the shabby yard. It was a safe, he realized as he drew near. Its door hung wide open, like an inviting amusement. Or a hungry mouth, he tried to warn himself. He rested one hand on top, the other on the door. It was big enough for him to get into, and he was already wondering how he might get it home and convert it into a bunker or hiding place.

  His father had cautioned him against playing in things that could trap him, like ancient refrigerators. When the old man had been drinking, such cautionary tales were often punctuated with a backhand across the face or a kick to the shin. But this was different. The door of the large black safe was heavy, and the way the whole thing was canted backwards in a shallow cleft of soil, he didn’t see how the door could possibly close on him. Besides, it probably wouldn’t lock even if it did shut. All he wanted was to peek at the world from inside the thing; try it on for size.

  As he stepped inside, it became clear there was more to his curiosity than wanting an unusual perspective on Duffer’s farm. Still facing the back wall of the safe, Lyndon felt the low tingle of a delicious fear. Not only was he doing something Father would have objected to in
the harshest terms—would have belt-whipped him for—but it was something not every boy would have had the nerve to do. Finally he turned around and felt as though he’d conquered something. Duffer’s yard framed by the doorway of the safe seemed small, and Lyndon wondered if the whole world would seem a little smaller from now on.

  But before he could step out of the safe to find out, it began to tip backwards. He struggled to reach the opening but was thrown off balance by the movement of the falling safe. It collided hard with the earth, and all motion ceased, except for the door, which seemed to swing inward in slow motion. He reached up, hoping to block the door, keep it from latching shut…but he wasn’t quick enough. And suddenly he was in the most complete, suffocating darkness he had ever known.

  His own breathing deafened him to other sounds, if there were any. Instinct urged him to try the door, but fear—no longer delicious—kept him motionless, except for the rapid, heavy breaths he drew, wondering how many he could take in such a small space before they failed to deliver oxygen to his blood, and to his brain. His breaths quickened at the thought.

  He considered calling for help, but that would have been a stupid waste of energy and air, especially without trying the door first. Slowly his right hand moved in the darkness, seeking the cool steel of the door above him. He pressed his hand flat against the surface, then brought his other hand up. With both hands in position, he began to push. For a tiny piece of an instant, he thought it might relent, but it was only an illusion caused by the slight give of his wrists and the fleshiest parts of his palms. The latch was secured. Escape was hopeless.

  Mrs. Filch, his sixth-grade teacher, had told the class once that it was important never to panic in an emergency, that it only made matters worse. But caught up in the worst emergency of his life, Lyndon was surprised to feel more terrified of trying to remain calm than he was of throwing a useless fit. He’d rather make noise and tire himself than cross his arms on his chest like a vampire and let the horrible reality of his situation slowly choke the life out of him.

  And that was all the invitation panic needed. He clawed the door, seeking a sliver of space to slip a finger into, praying for his eyes to adjust to the gloom and discover a razor-thin shaft of light at a loose hinge. But of course there was nothing, and his clawing had no effect. He took to screaming, but that was bad and unbearably loud in the small space. Made him feel a thousand miles deep inside the earth, so he stopped. But the fitful clawing and scraping and scratching continued for some time.

  He might have blinked out for a while then. It was hard to separate the blackened stillness of his steel womb from what might have been a brief period of unconsciousness. Or even an extended blackout. Why should he have thought he’d only nodded off for a short time? Maybe a day had passed without his knowledge. The thought wanted to grow into another fit, but this time he was able to resist. There was no way he was going down that road.

  Suddenly there was movement. The safe was being hauled up. Had to be two people on the job, at least. Yet there was no chatter, no crunching of boots on the stony path. Even before he started up his screaming again, he realized the safe was soundproof.

  It was difficult to judge what direction he was heading in, felt like the safe was floating and bobbing in the air by magic. Maybe Duffer was taking it to the house. It wasn’t much use out in the yard, after all. Or maybe he’d sold it to Tuck Wagner down the road and they were walking the safe to Tuck’s pickup. Or…

  The pond.

  Of course. Duffer had caught himself another boy, so why not dump the safe into the pond? Good riddance to bad rubbish. Oh, God! How could this be happening? As if his situation wasn’t bad enough, now he saw that it could easily get a whole lot worse. Even if the pond water wasn’t able to find a way in—which might have been a kind of blessing—knowing he was not only trapped in the safe, but also had a body of water pressing in on him from above…he tried desperately to take his thoughts in another direction, but it was like wading through the sludge of a nightmare.

  The sensation of falling was followed by a sudden slowing, then a wobbly descent that ended when the safe hit something hard and immovable. A rock at the bottom of the pond? It felt like when Lyndon’s dad had backed the minivan into a light post in the grocery store parking lot: unexpected and halting. Luckily the safe remained on its back. Lyndon might have lost his mind completely if he’d been spun around and knocked about on the way down.

  A sudden curiosity about self-destruction startled him. But what else was there? He couldn’t just wait for unconsciousness, could he? How long would it take? But then again, how would he kill himself? A hopeless panic tapped him on the shoulder once more. This time it was put off by a new sensation, something wet near his hairline. He ran a finger over the spot, then brought his finger to his nose. No scent. He licked it. Water. A mad giggle escaped his lips, but when a second drop struck his forehead, quickly followed by a third, he remembered it was nothing to get enthused about.

  His hands shot up to the door of the safe, and he pushed with every gram of his diminishing strength. Did it give just a little? He let it go, then redoubled his efforts. Now it did rise some, in the top right corner. Not a lot, but enough to put a bandage on his despair. Again he let the heavy door settle back down, and again he thrust his hands into it with gritted teeth and an animal groan. A slight metallic pop sounded this time, and the dripping water grew to a trickle. He repeated the simple operation until, at last, one hinge came free.

  It was a crappy development, in a way. He now stood a chance of pushing the door outward and cranking it on its other hinge enough to allow his escape. But if he wasn’t quick about it, the waters of Duffer’s pond would rush into the small cavity of the safe—and, soon after, his lungs. A good splash had already got him across the cheek when he knocked the one hinge loose. He didn’t need a second reminder.

  Brute force seemed like the only solution. He’d read recently, in one of his paperbacks from the school’s mail-order book program, about a little girl who’d been able to lift a motorcycle off her dad because adrenaline gave her muscles a boost when she saw him pinned, limp and bloody, under the thing, not half a block from their home. According to the same story, most accidents happened within five miles of a victim’s front door. That part fit Lyndon’s situation. Duffer Kendrick’s farm wasn’t three miles from his place. And if that part of the story applied to him, why couldn’t the part about having superhuman strength for a few seconds?

  No use thinking about it. The adrenaline pumping through him might not last forever. It was now or never.

  For an instant, he wished the safe had landed upright. It would have been easier to put some momentum into the job that way. But there also would have been the risk of knocking the safe onto its front, sealing him in an underwater tomb. He’d have to work with what he had. With an upward lunging motion he slammed both hands into the door above him and kept pushing until water streamed, then poured, in. Still, he kept exerting himself against the cold, wet steel. His fingers found the gap and wrapped themselves around the door’s edge. He grunted with the effort of pushing even harder. There was light now, drifting down from the pond’s idle surface. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to give Lyndon the encouragement he needed to see his task through. With one mighty outpouring of force, and a deep breath of stale air, he twisted himself onto his knees and forced the door out of his way, turning it on its remaining hinge. It rotated like the cover plate of an old-fashioned peephole.

  Once the gap widened enough, he dragged himself through. Freedom, at last! But he came to a sudden halt, still feet from the surface. Something had him. Looking down, he saw that one of his shoelaces had snagged on the ruined hinge of the safe. Still, he wondered if his efforts had been for nothing. But a fierce yank tore the lace free, and Lyndon floated to the surface, aided by the quickest paddling his shod feet and clothed body would allow.

  Breaking through the algae skim atop the pond was like being born into a se
cond phase of life, one he hadn’t been convinced he’d live to enjoy a minute or two ago. From this point in time—paddling in the middle of Duffer’s pond and gasping for air—he would take nothing for granted, let no opportunity go unexplored. It may have been the first vow he’d ever made to himself.

  His focus was on staying afloat and getting to shore, but he soon noticed two men sitting on a log up along the gulch that wound through these parts. Their backs were to him, and they sat too far off to hear his splashing and wheezing.

  Ten feet from the bank, the toes of his shoes swept up silt from the pond floor, and then he was standing. There must have been a sharp drop-off behind him, which would explain how he and the safe had sunk so far before reaching the pond’s bottom, and how the two men on the log could have carried the load far enough out to make sure it went good and deep.

  The one on the left was Kendrick. The other one looked like Tuck Wagner, and Lyndon now saw a turd-brown pickup parked near the house. Definitely Tuck’s. He approached with tiger stealth. Once in earshot he was able to duck behind a fat cottonwood and listen as Duffer talked Tuck’s ear off.

  “Well, this cocksucker said he was out, didn’t have anymore. I said, ‘I drove a hundred and fifty miles to this gun show, it’s day one, nine-thirty a.m., and you want me to believe you’re sold out of the safe I came here to buy? There’s a name for that,’ I told him. ‘It’s called false advertising. The ad said the Windsor 580 would be available for two hundred and fifty bucks. Now, I want me one of them gun safes.’

  “Boy, he looked at me like he wished someone would come along and lop his fool head off. Anything to get out of this one. Finally, he offered to sell me the floor model. ‘Ain’t got no shelves,’ I says. ‘Be happy to mail you some,’ he fires back.