Ultimate Undead Collection: The Zombie Apocalypse Best Sellers Boxed Set (10 Books)

by Joe McKinney

  So bored. I always had stuff to do at home when Ally was around. She worked odd hours, so sometimes I would be alone for a weekend. But I had video games and TV. I could catch up on all the shows like CSI and NCIS—which I’m pretty sure is just CSI spelled a different way.

  How would those guys look at my new girlfriend? They would have to take blood samples, I’m sure—check her for trauma. Check me for drama as I squealed about what great care I was taking with her. They would make sure she wasn’t raped, which isn’t even a remote possibility. I may be alone and young and horny, but I am not into fucking dead chicks. Gross. That can’t feel good anyway; I mean, it would be all dry and stiff. Just thinking about is almost enough to put me off sex forever.

  She managed to turn on her side, and after a few minutes of the rain pelting her, she drew her legs up so that her skirt rode up pretty high. God, why is she dead? She has such nice legs—as long as I ignore the gray. I managed to get some more relief while I watched her roll over a couple of times. Does that make me a sicko? I might have to strike this part from the diary once I am rescued.

  Rain and more rain. Hovering in a corner right now while it pours down. Found a dry spot, and that is how I am writing to you, dear Diary. I wish night would get here so I can sleep. But this day may just go on forever.

  Dragged the remains of the fire under the cover and then added a little more wood. Added some leaves to the shelter so that water stopped hitting me. Phew. As long as she doesn’t see the fire, I won’t have to put up with her screaming.

  I should just put her out of her misery tomorrow morning. If I can work up the nerve.

  Day 8

  My Girlfriend’s Husband Smells

  This morning, I woke huddled in my little sleeping area, shivering from the water that doused me overnight. The leaves I had added didn’t last long, and most of them lay soaked with rain on the other side of the lean-to. I really need to build up the shelter so I can stay dry. I have had a little luck weaving the big bladed ones together, so I think I’ll try to make a roof of some sort. Was thinking that if I created a triangular shape, it would let the water run off.

  I stood and stretched. I was going to say good morning to her, but she wasn’t in her spot.

  What the hell?

  Her rope was broken in the middle. I looked around quickly, expecting her to jump out at me at any second, but she was nowhere to be seen. Her gag was on the ground; it looked like she had chewed through it. Not good. I might have to make a new one out of her skirt. The material looks stronger than the thin t-shirt I was wearing.

  I walked to the beach and looked in the water, hoping she hadn’t wandered into it. I wonder how long she would be able to survive in the ocean. Probably until a shark got her. This presents an interesting question. If she bites an animal, will it turn into a zombie? Zombie sharks or zombie dolphins. Man, that is a freaky thought.

  The water was crystal clear. The sand warm. It flowed around my toes as I wandered. If I had some beer, food, and a live girl, this would be paradise. I don’t know how big the island is yet. If she hadn’t turned up, I might have found out today.

  I scanned the beach and thought I saw movement in the distance. Might have been a mirage. The water splashes up sometimes, and I think I am seeing things that aren’t there.

  I walked along the waterline for a few minutes, and sure enough, it was her. She was on all fours. That was a new development. I wondered when she’d developed better motor skills.

  She was on top of something. I couldn’t make it out, but it looked like a person. I started running, thoughts of another survivor leaping to mind. What if someone else made it and she was trying to eat them? Oh my God!

  “Hey, HEY!” I yelled.

  She turned her head, and her good eye locked on mine. She snarled around something in her mouth and then turned back to the thing on the ground. I came up alongside her and, to my horror, saw it was a body. It was a large person dressed in a flower-print shirt that looked awfully familiar.

  The stench reached me, and I turned away to retch. I couldn’t afford to lose anything that was in my stomach, so I bit down on my gag reflex. I looked again, this time steeling my mind for the worst and realized who it was.

  It was her husband. And she was eating him.

  She had his shirt pulled up on one side, and a large chunk of his gut was missing. She ignored me as I walked around, both hands clenched over my mouth as I looked at the body. The last time I had seen him, he was laughing while feeling up his hot young wife. She had been vibrant, alive, flushed with champagne. Now they were both dead, although he was sure deader than her.

  Oh crap! What if he came back to life like her? I couldn’t have two zombies wandering around my island. I would have to bash in his head. And her head, while I was at it. Should have done that on the first day, but … who would I talk to then?

  Some choice, eh? Keep the one with boobs or take a chance on a big fat guy who was missing most of his stomach.

  His head and one arm were in the water; the rest of his body was in the fetal position. I splashed into the surf and grabbed his arm, intent on dragging him out to sea. I thought I could weigh his body down with rocks. She hissed at me when I tugged on him, but she kept eating.

  He must have weighed two-eighty in life. Now he was bloated and waterlogged. His head lolled out of the water, and I saw that his eyeballs were missing, eaten away by some sea creature, no doubt. His skin was pasty and puffy. There was no way that guy was coming back to life, I told myself over and over. He was too decayed, too full of water and crap. No way, man, no fucking way.

  His fat ass was hard to move, so I yanked harder. There was a tear and a sucking noise, and suddenly I was falling into the water, holding his arm. I splashed and came up sputtering as seawater rushed into my nose and mouth. I stood up fast, wiping it off my face, and tossed the arm onto the beach with a squeal of horror. The fleshy part was facing me, and all the stringy gooey stuff that used to connect him to his shoulder was hanging there like a weird bowl of pasta. I was amazed that there was no blood. He probably bled out in the water. But how come he didn’t attract a shark or something?

  She ignored me and kept chewing.

  I stomped through the water and grabbed the end of the rope that trailed behind her. I gave it a hard tug, pulling her off his corpse. She stumbled to her feet. I gave another yank. She fell on her back and stared up at the sky as if in shock. But she kept chewing her mouthful of husband.

  I used the rope to pull her farther away. She struggled but couldn’t figure out how to roll over. She must have crawled to the beach while I was asleep. I’m glad she didn’t try to come after me in the night. Last thing I need is for her to take a bite of my arm. Might wake up dead. I mean undead.

  I didn’t want a repeat of the arm tearing off, so I grabbed his legs and pulled. He was so heavy! Maybe I should have torn him into pieces after all. It would’ve been a hell of a lot easier if I had an ax; then I could have hacked him apart.

  I pulled and pulled. Worked the body inch by inch until it was in the water. Then he was easier to move. He wasn’t really buoyant anymore, probably due to his waterlogged clothes and skin. I wondered if it were possible for a body to stay in the water so long that all of the blood was replaced with seawater.

  I was dragging him out to sea by his legs when his head surfaced. That eyeless socket regarded me with something like scorn. Could just be my imagination. I have been alone for close to a week now. Maybe it was starting to get to me—the insanity of being stuck on a deserted island with a damn zombie.

  Alone.

  Yeah, I know she is there, but she is this mindless shambling thing that wants to eat me. Does that sound like a good companion? At least Tom Hanks’s volleyball didn’t snarl and snap all the time.

  I was in the water up to my neck when I figured it was far enough. I pushed him and hoped the current would take him out to sea.

  It didn’t.

  He sank so that o
nly one leg stuck out of the water, then he started drifting back to shore. I could see the current pulling him. He rolled over, and his face was dragged along the sharp reef. That wouldn’t do much for his looks. I tugged him back out and then went underwater—pulling one leg with me. I found a large rock and wedged his foot under it. Took a few tries to lock him in place, but when I was done, only his neck and head were showing.

  I realized I should take his clothes while I was at it. Might need those later.

  It wasn’t hard to tug the shirt off his one-armed torso. I threw it to shore and went back for the pants, but there was no way I could tear them off unless I let him loose again.

  She was freaking out by now, rolling over and over, trying to get to her side. In a furious push that looked like an old lady trying to get up (Help, help, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!), she made one last attempt and actually rolled over onto her stomach and started crawling toward the arm. That gave me an idea of how to get her back to camp and keep her busy for the rest of the day.

  I waded to shore, waterlogged like her ex, and grabbed the arm. It probably looked like I was shaking hands. She kept her eye on the meat the whole time. I shook it in front of her face. “You want some food, baby? Follow me. I got a one-course meal with your name on it.”

  I walked away with his arm dragging in the sand. She followed close, her eye never leaving the pale ragged flesh.

  I dropped the arm when we arrived back at camp. She leaned over and started nuzzling the flesh like a lover. I know, the irony, right? I tied the rope back together while she ignored me. I returned the courtesy by ignoring her chewing.

  After that, I had pretty good luck with the surf and turf—although it was mostly surf. The turf came when I cooked a starfish in a weird papaya-looking fruit shell and ended up chowing down on one of the palm leaves I used to cover it up. Tasted gross, but it was one of the most filling meals I have had yet.

  Meanwhile, she worked away on her own dinner and didn’t once snarl or snap at me, not even a single dirty look. She was as content as I have seen her on the island. I think that’s saying a lot, considering she is fucking dead.

  Day 9

  My Girlfriend Likes to Play with Herself

  She didn’t give up on the arm. She kept gnawing away like it was a hunk of prime rib. Saliva squirted into my mouth when I thought of the last time I had eaten a good steak. I tried to think of the starfish and oysters as if they were a decent meal, but after a week on this cursed island, it’s all I can do to choke them down no matter how hungry I get.

  I tied her up again, but she ignored me and went back to gnawing. She was no longer tearing out big chunks. She was just nuzzling the bones and meat like a … well, like a dog.

  I spent the day working on my hut-to-be. I laid a foundation of palm leaves and branches, built them up so they were a few inches off the sand. I have been assaulted nightly by all kinds of bugs and things that bite. With any luck, the little bastards won’t be able to get me when I’m off the ground.

  My idea of building a house like a tri-fold enclosure was paying off. I wove leaves all day to create the walls and ceiling. When I was done, I had something I could lie under. I stretched out and watched her stare at her prize. She didn’t move for a long time, and I wondered if she was thinking about anything in particular.

  Zombies don’t think, they don’t feel, and they don’t talk. I know the stories and movies, but seeing one this close is something different all together. First of all, she is cold to the touch, and if you think I am enjoying her running around in what is left of her clothes, you are wrong. Her skin is gray and mottled. It looks like some really bad spackle on the side of a house. She only has one good eye; the other is dead and looks like a white almond.

  The worst part is that she had been chewing on dead meat all night and day. I don’t even want to think about where it goes or how it gets back out. It’s not like she can take a crap. For all I know, the stuff she has been chowing down on is just sitting in her stomach and rotting. That’s probably what makes her breath so foul that I have to sit upwind.

  And now she has a strip of skin stuck in her teeth and no idea how to get it out. She has been trying all morning. It just bounces off her chin as she snaps at it over and over again. It reminds me of the paddleball game where you bounce a ball off a small paddle that is attached via a rubber band. I bet she has tried to get that thing a hundred times already. Her one good eye stares down at it, but she can’t seem to get her hands to do anything like pull the skin off her broken teeth.

  Boing. Snap. Boing. Snap. Boing. Snap. Skin, five hundred and forty. Zombie chick, zero.

  I was busy making the hut when she fell on her face. She had reared back slowly and then let her mouth snap shut against air. She moved quicker than I have seen her move before, and it landed her on the ground.

  I took the opportunity to stop working on the hut and find some smaller leaves. I got on her back again and tried to ignore the smell, the cold skin, and the clothes that were covered in dried blood. I tilted her head to the side as she snarled at me and used the leaves to pull the skin out from between her teeth. It was a long piece that was white and putrid. Spoiled and nasty.

  I know when the rescue boat arrives and they read my diary, they will have trouble coming to grips with some of the things I had to do to the girl, but I promise I did everything as humanely as possible.

  I tore part of her skirt off and wrapped it around her mouth. I’m still afraid of her bite.

  I left her on the ground and went back to work on the hut. She rolled around and managed to get her hands trapped under her body and then bounced up and down like she was humping them.

  It looked like she was playing with herself. The snarls and grunts didn’t help.

  It rained later, so I took off my clothes and rubbed down with some sand. She looked at me blankly and continued thrusting her body up and down. So I decided to treat it like a vote of approval and did a little dance for her.

  I dug out some oysters later and even tried to spear a fish. This ended in failure about fifty times. I took one last throw at a large fish and managed to spear a little tiny red one right next to it. I felt like I had just made the winning toss in the Olympics!

  I nearly ran back to camp to show her what I had caught. I hooted and hollered, but she just rocked back and forth on her hands. After watching her for a few minutes, I slipped my hands under her waist and pulled her up to her feet. She steadied herself and turned her head ever so slowly to look at me with that one blue eye. I scraped a couple of maggots off her other eye, and I must say, it was a downright romantic moment.

  Until she snarled at me and bit against the gag like she was going to rip my nose off. I backed away, sat on a rock, and watched her walk to the end of the rope, then strain against it. She was no more than three feet from me. Her eye crinkled up in rage—well, the good one did—and she reached for me with those hands that were now covered in sand, dried blood and chunks of her husband’s skin.

  This is ridiculous. I should just kill her.

  “Should I kill you, babe?”

  Snarl.

  “Should I take you out and leave you in the water, point you away from the island and then swim away?”

  Snarl.

  “Maybe hang you from a tree and set you on fire? Do you think a boat or plane would see that?”

  Snarl.

  These one-sided conversations were getting on my nerves. But she is my Wilson, so it is my obligation to chat with her. Tell her my problems. Tell her how I feel about stuff. Show her a good time on the island. Walk her from one end to the other. All the stuff a couple should do.

  I cooked the fish and tossed her the raw fins. She stared at them from her tree, where she had managed to wrap herself up again. She howled against the gag and reached for me with one arm. I got a stick and pushed one of the fins toward her. She watched me, not the stick, not the fin. She kept her eye on me, and a gross pink fluid bubbled out of her
mouth. I stopped in mid-chew and fought to keep my stomach calm. I wanted to turn and throw up. I knew that if I did that, I would have to re-eat the stuff, because I am so low on food. Managed to keep it down after a few breaths. Phew.

  What the hell was that crap coming out of her mouth? If I didn’t know any better, I would have said it was foaming Alka-Seltzer in red Kool-Aid. I wonder if her guts are backed up from all the stuff she ate. I can’t take much more of this.

  Tomorrow, I plan to explore the island. With any luck, I will find a better place to live.

  Day 10

  My Girlfriend Hates to be Left Alone

  I spent the day exploring the island. It was a nice change of pace to get away from her. I wandered and tried to keep a map, but my drawing skills aren’t really up to snuff. I passed the stream, followed it to a tree-covered hill, and attempted to climb it. Quickly realized I am not cut out for being more than a few feet off the ground. All I could think about was falling and breaking a leg. That would be the end game for me.

  The trees grew closer together here, and I had trouble getting through them. The stream ran cleaner but not cooler. I drank until I was full and then moved around the hill.

  I came across some more fruit and attempted to eat them. I’m not sure what they were, but they tasted bitter, and they were very stringy. I choked down the flesh of one and pocketed a few others for later.

  I found a new place to fish and dug out some more oysters. Ignoring their taste, I ate them raw. Funny how just a week ago, I would have turned my nose up at the thought of shellfish. Now I dream about that shit like it is filet mignon with crab and a bearnie … bernnie … ber—ah fuck it. Whatever you call that green sauce on top.

  The day was coming to an end, so I walked back to camp. At least what I thought was camp. With my terrible sense of direction, I went the wrong way. Ended up down the beach from my makeshift home.