My memes mostly come at night. Mostly. Part 2

Something to Chew On About Zombies and the Living

My words and a pic I assume from The Walking Dead.

I'll let you chew on that one...

Feel free to share if it speaks to you.



Be seeing you,

Sam

Dry Bones - philosophical zombie flash fiction.

I found this. I hope it is non-human.

The sun drifts untouched across its sky as birds fly beneath it unaware or uncaring of the changed world beneath them. Morning has again followed night. Survival has again followed fighting. Another day alive on a world with millions of pale, putrid eyes searching without pause for the few clear ones left. 

How many more days like this? you wonder. The massive horde of undead has shambled past you for over two hours. You listen to every faltering step and scratchy moan trying to guess if your hiding spot was discovered. It sounds like the flow is thinning, but you don’t dare look. One misplaced footfall would call down a rending flood of tooth and nail. A year? Five years? Twenty? One day old age will catch you, even if the dead don’t. More likely they will team up with injury and sickness to finally end you. Either way, death is all that awaits you at the end of your struggles. A small chuckle escapes you. It wasn’t waiting for me before all this? That much, at least, hadn’t changed. It was cold comfort, but some comfort is always better than none. Yet, the thought behind it all would not be silenced: what now, what tomorrow? Survival is not living. Drawing breath was not the same as being alive. 

Your enemy is unburdened by such thoughts. Their philosophy is simple and enviously complete:  Consume or Convert. It’s the clarity one would expect from the simplistic strength of a virus. It was a virus, right? You heard that from the early reports of the first outbreak. Seemed logical enough at the time, but it yielded so many unanswered questions afterward it was an explanation almost not worth having at all. A virus from where, for starters. And why? Most people you encountered (those who didn’t covet your provisions like the dead coveted your body) didn’t care about the how. 

“Cat’s out of the bag. Too late to care about where the bag came from.” they said.

Maybe. But the knowing, to you, of ‘how’ was important. The balance of how/why you could not shake. Something so big should have an equally large why, right? 

Right?

Local necropolis, er, cemetery. PART 2

Channeling the behavior of a proper card-carrying ghoul I recently returned to Greenridge Cemetery in Saratoga Springs to roam the rest of the property. I found an interesting mix of monuments. Let’s get to it.

I think this is a tomb stone. It was flanked by typical headstones, each spaced the same distance from it. In other words, there was no empty space implying something else should have been there. It is possible it is a marker of some sort, but it had no companions. I saw no markings on it, either. Could be a hat or a board game piece. Maybe a candy dish. I should I have checked it for candy. Darn.

 

I looked up expecting a giant ACME brand 16 ton weight, or to notice I was under large box propped up by a stick with a string tied to it. Sadly, there was nothing. The symbol actually refers to Heaven or The Heavens where the recently deceased is (supposedly) going.

 

“Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord”

Every inch is covered with small clusters of striations. The anchor symbol could mean the person was a sailor but it was often used as to mean hope or everlasting/eternal life.

 

An Egyptian themed mausoleum.

Mr. Batcheller and his wife Catharine had quite the life. He was a judge in Egypt who died in Paris. She died in Alexandria, Egypt. The final word on the door is fitting.

 

This stone marks the resting place of a member of the fraternal order Woodmen of the World. This was a new one to me. The group is well known in the Midwest, but from what I read these graves are not common in the East like other fraternal groups.

 

Discerning zombies trust Purdy’s Discount Wines and Liquors for when only the finest spirits will do.

 

I like the columns and the rays of light carved out of the stone above the door.

A closer look at the cross.

 

Similar designs. I don’t know if the first stone has a base beneath it covered by soil. I try not to bother the residents. I do know it contains a medieval knight who holds a shield bearing the next clue to the Holy Grail. That much I am certain.

 

This is the only monument I saw with death masks. If you are unfamiliar with the term, these busts are the faces of those buried here sculpted shortly after there death. The empty frame awaits a mask that will never come.

 

Word on the street is William Worden was a soldier of the republic.

 

And then we have this humble memorial. The plague indicates a soldier lies here too, but the simple crosses held no name I could see. Quite the contrast from William’s site.

 

Yes, that is a giant clam shell. It’s covered with very faint writing. They looked names and dates, which would make sense. And finally…

 

When Willoby’s broken body was found across the tracks on the edge of town the authorities called it a tragic accident. His family, however, knew better. Their son was murdered. They pleaded with the police to re-open the case but no one would listen to them. The ramblings of grieving parents, the townsfolk called it when the McMillan’s were out of earshot. The less forgiving accused them of pointing a finger of blame at every shadow in the hopes of catching the imagined criminal hiding within. They paid no bother to any of the whispered words carried unseen upon the wind. They knew the truth. A new stone was erected over their poor, shattered son. It carried the killer’s name and image for all to see. You can still see it today. “Willoby McMillan was killed by his engine.”

It says so right there.

They are at the window again (A horror filled Love Story for my wife. )

Readers of the blog will recall my recent piece Consumed by Zombies in which I posited that zombies are our current personification of stress. Given the last few weeks in my life this new piece has ZOMBIES! Do I need to explain the implication? No? Good.

Thankfully my mind has been fighting these dark times by feeding me scenes from some of my favorite British television shows like Are You Being Served, The Young Ones, Keeping Up Appearances, Black Adder, and Ab Fab. And thus, fiction is born.

Enjoy this brief, but far from shallow, Friday dip into the humour pool dedicated to my wife, Katherine. We join Lionel and his wife Dianna during a zombie apocalypse already in progress…

 

They’re at the window again, Dianna.

Who?

The Girl Scouts. Biscuit season again.

Those are zombies, dear.

What?

Zombies. The undead. Walkers. Flesh Eaters. The recently deceased risen to feast upon the flesh of the living.

I thought they were Girl Scouts.

Girls Scouts are shorter.

Oh. I can see that now you put it that way. What do you think they want?

Us, I imagine.

For the feasting bit?

‘fraid so.

See? I do listen to you no matter what that shrink says... Oh dear.

What?

Is that your shrink right there? The one behind the one pressing up against the window?

Oh, you're right! I liked him, too. Have to find a new one, I suppose. Look! Across the street! A zombie is sneaking up on Mrs. Bouquet. Should we help?

Who? The zombie?

No, Lionel, Mrs. Bouquet. Oh, dear. Too late. How dreadful! Torn limb from limb, poor thing.

Aye. That zombie never stood a chance.

Yes, well it should have noticed the pile of bodies she’s collected by curb. Biggest on the block, of course. We’ll never hear the end of it. Oh no, she sees me. She pointing to her kill pile. Yes, I see them all. Very nice. Well done, dear.

Is Mr. Bouquet anywhere in sight?

No.

With any luck the poor chap slipped her grip long enough to run into the embrace of the first biter he saw.

You’re horrible. Right, but horrible.

Lionel sighed

Seems to me we didn’t have such things as zombies when we were growing up. An alien invasion from Venus, perhaps, maybe a mad scientist or two with a giant robot robbing banks, or a giant radioactive spider, but zombies eating people? Doesn’t seem right. The world’s changed so much. I’m starting to feel old, Dianna.

It does seem that way. But how different is it really to be eaten by a zombie or disintegrated by a Venusian Death Ray? You’re dead either way. Different road, but same destination. The world may change its tune, but it still marches to the same beat. So, as the old drunk said, we must never, never quit.

I can see that now you put it that way. My voice of reason, ever with me through aliens, arachnids, or all other manner of awful apocalypse. I love you, my dear.

And I you, my pet.

 

                                                                        THE END

Consumed by Zombies

Zombies have been crazy popular for a while now. If you’re reading this then there’s a very good chance you fall somewhere in the fandom horde. You’re kind of my proof of the first statement. (Thanks for the assist, by the way.) So have you asked yourself why are zombies, the living dead, walkers, shamblers, zed heads, crawlers, G’s, biters, etc. enjoy such popularity?

They aren’t sexy. Outside of fan fiction I don’t want to touch with a rotting ten-foot pole, of course. This is the internet age, after all. Sure, there are a few examples of romantic sexy-time in the genre. Warm Bodies was a notable example. Most of the other zombie films infused with a love-story involved ‘love doomed to fail’ like in Rec 3 or the very enjoyable German film Rammbock: Berlin Undead. Good stuff, yet not exactly the hormone infused material to fuel the hearts of teenaged girls and middle-aged women into parting with their money and panties. Sparkling vampires, anyone?

What about violence? Violence is popular. Word on the street is humans have been practicing it for a long time. There’s something to that idea we’ll swing back around to shortly, but no, it is not the deciding factor to explain the popularity of zombies. If gore alone was the magical ingredient then Hostel or Dead Again would have their own television series and children’s books. Gore is too easy.

Characters then? Strong, smart, likable characters must be a constant in the genre like the Northstar in the Heavens. No. No. And no. Most stories are filled with some or all of the usual suspects: the cop/ military/survivalist type, the thinker/scientist, the teenage lovebirds, the expendable Average Joe or Jane, the person with the “dark secret”, and the main characters that almost never die, or the sexy chick. The later comes packaged for whatever the popular look of the day is. Think of Linnea Quigley as Trash in Return of The Living Dead. She was wearing leg warmers. Still very popular today, said no one ever. Notable exceptions do exist, of course, such as in the writings of Max Brooks. World War Z and Recorded Outbreaks have smart and resourceful characters. I highly recommend the audio book for the all the well-known actors whose talents brought the undead book to life such as: Henry Rollins, Mark Hamill, and Alan Alda. The movie and book have little in common. So disappointing…

So, mulling over the list of attributes of sex, romance, violence, and strong characters that normally translate into popularity we find rare, isolated examples of each but nothing to really nail down why so many people spend so much time watching or playing fictional people fighting to stay un-eaten, un-consumed, and un-overrun by a tireless, mindless, adversary that cannot be reasoned with.

Or have we?

Zombies eat the living. Obvious, I know, but think about it. What if what makes zombies popular is what they do. They eat you alive. I once manage a large, well-stocked, and awesome video store. If you failed to buy a calendar, had no windows, and never left your basement you could tell the changing of the seasons by simply calling us and asking what movies were popular. Anyone who has ever worked in a video store will attest to how the season and holiday equaled the empty spaces on the shelves. Valentine’s Day moved all the Rom Coms. Halloween cleared out Horror. And so forth. But there are two other seasons: school finals and tax season. Months apart on the calendar and often decades distant measured by the age of the participants, both times of the year showed the same spike in rental activity. The college kids rented more Horror with a lean toward zombies just as the 9-5 working adults. This never changed in the seven years I managed at the store. Chatting with both old and young yielded the same feedback. They both felt overwhelming pressure. Forces were bearing down upon them that could not be reasoned with, that were seemingly everywhere, and that little by little consumed their lives, time, and energy. Sound familiar? Zombies are popular because they personify stress. Zombies are mindless, uncaring, unthinking dangers that eat you alive. Alone they can usually be handled with a high degree of success, but they are never truly alone. Think of all the things in your life, big and small, that drain you. Think about the stresses that pull you and take your time and attention, and therefore overwhelm you. Zombies do to the physical form what day to day life can do to us spiritually, emotionally, and financially. Our culture, whether it realizes it or not, is crying out for help because it feels like it is being eaten alive.

At least, that is how I see it.

The gap is closing!

Thank you to our new pledgers. Three days left in the campaign.

While I continue to beat the drum in the background I want to make sure nods are given to those who have directly and indirectly helped with the campaign. First, our pledgers. Some pledged for a specific piece, some for all, and some just to show support. So to our old and new friends in New York, Vermont, California, Hawaii, The UK, Florida, Louisiana, Maryland, Ohio, and other far flung places I say THANK YOU! I also want to recognize Dostie Bros. Frame Shop, Sequential Tart, and The Comic Depot for their promotional support. The internet is a big place so the more people shouting your name the better. THANK YOU!

Go here for our link >>>> Kickstarter <<<<

The Zombie Alphabet

A is for Appetite awoken by death
B is for Bat swung to save your last breath
C is for Corpse clawing at your back door
D is for Duct Tape used to even the score
E is for Electricity lost to discord
F is for Family hidden far from the horde
G is for Grave that lost its tight grip
H is for Headshot fired hot from the hip
I is for infection that spreads like the wind
J is for Jail keeps them out but you it keeps in
K is for Kindness not lost in the fray
L is for Lure drawing zombies away
M is for Military down but not out
N is for Nails hammered to keep dead things out
O is for Outbreaks spreading too fast to cope
P is for Preppers still stocked-up on hope
Q is for Quiver emptied in vain
R is for Rest to try to stay sane
S is for Salvation just out of your reach
T is for The Turned crawling up on the beach
U is for Underground forced to flee to in despair
V is for Victim who was caught unaware
W is for Walkers whose origins are unclear
X is for X-Mas has been cancelled this year
Y is for You choosing not fear, but to act
Z is for Zombie once fiction now fact

 

This work is available as a 12 x 16 poster on Etsy. The perfect gift for young children just learning to read! Here's the link = Etsy 

 

 

Knight’s Rider

POP POP POP POP POP….

It took him a second to count the five gunshots. Their confused echoes fell over each other down the long alley chasing after him. The shots were nearby. Their speed meant panic, and panic meant death. Another survivor gone. He imagined the biting, raking swarm falling upon him?...her? It didn’t matter. The poor unknown person was now his tool of distraction. The swarm would draw attention to itself as it ate and draw other groups to it. This was the break he needed to make it a little closer to the edge of the city. Patiently closing short distances was safer than bolting crazy in the street. A few shambling corpses were easy to avoid, but as few as four were deadly even if you were fast and in the open. And he hadn’t seen groupings that small in weeks.

“Unnnnnn…”

He stopped. The moaning mixed with wet ripping sounds he didn’t like. The group was feeding. It sounded large and close, but he still couldn’t tell where.

One body won’t last long.

He calmly started trotting, almost leisurely, toward the alley’s end some thirty yards distant. He slowed before reaching the street, careful not to stray too close to either of the tall buildings flanking him. He looked up and saw his target: the apartment building he grew up in. It had been years since he’d returned. Years since his parents died, back when the dead stayed dead. With luck he could get in and hold up a few days. He was in no hurry, though. A few more minutes or hours were fine by him.

Slow and steady doesn’t get eaten.

The street was clear. Well, looked clear. He knelt down and looked under the few remaining cars. Zombies had an alarming habit of popping out from behind normal, everyday objects. Nothing. He wiped sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his motorcycle jacket. The black leather welcomed the August sun a bit too much, but it did offer a high degree of protection against human fingernails. He planned on buying the accompanying motorcycle a week after he bought the jacket, but then all hungry hell broke loose. He inhaled deeply, braced himself, and slowly crept walked across the street. He scanned left and right for movement. Still nothing.

“errrn….”

Damn it!

He turned. A single zombie lumbered toward him from far down the alley, a fireman’s axe protruding from her (no, its) chest. The handle swayed side-to-side with the creature’s graceless steps. It was almost comical had the tip not kept coming back to center on him. Its dead, red mouth opened.

“UNNNNN…”

A rising chorus of moans and wails immediately poured out of the adjacent alley. The shots were far closer than he thought.

The damn things are like seagulls. Stay Calm. Stay ahead, he reminded himself.

He ran to his target, leapt up the front steps of the building, and stopped dead. He heard a steady thudding coming from behind the door. The image of hungry, dead fists slamming against the wood snaked in and out of his mind. With a few minutes of planning he could have found another way in or a means to draw them out. He was sure of it. He also knew he didn’t have ten seconds before the street was, literally, crawling with the undead. He ran down the steps to listen and gauge how many stragglers the swarm was attracting. Cries erupted up and down the street. The undead poured out of every doorway, window, and shadow like some giant meat grinder pushing out its cargo. The pounding behind the door suddenly rose to greet the tide, doubling its efforts to join it. The door rattled in splintering death throws. His legs grew weak and his hands suddenly tinged. All his careful efforts dropped him in the middle of a goddamn nest. He was completely surrounded. He climbed to the top of the nearest car and sat down.

This is it.

The thought was calm and resigned. He drew the .22 pistol from his pocket and placed the barrel against his temple. The cries and moans encircled him, a vanguard to the pallid throats close behind. In a fluid he motion he squeezed the trigger.

-click-

I really wish I had some bullets.

Huh?

The sound was clear and pronounced even above the cadaverous din: squealing rubber on asphalt. He stood searching for the source. It was coming from behind the hoard of undead exiting the alley. A car was coming down the street at a high rate of speed. He knew it couldn’t plow through the mob of bodies between them, but it might be enough of a distraction to allow him to escape. The sound captured the attention of even the undead closest him. The hoard numbered between two-hundred and three-hundred by his estimate. If each zombie weighted 150lbs, the vehicle faced a forty-five thousand pound wall of meat and bone. He couldn’t see it yet but the zombies could. They turned to face the sound. Whatever they saw, it had a low profile.

Boom! Thud! Whack! Crack!

A wave of zombies flew into the air or disintegrated in a cloud of flesh. Bodies were hurled up and over the vehicle, but he still couldn’t see it. The undulating path of thrown rag dolls turned toward him. He couldn’t believe his eyes. A sleek, black Pontiac Trans Am was driving right at him. The site was so preposterous he almost failed to notice the red light at the apex of it hood. The light slid back and forth in a recessed opening. The car reached him and braked with uncanny speed. It was covered in gore but otherwise undamaged. The passenger door swung opened revealing an empty seat.

“Get in.” called a voice inside the car.

He jumped down and into the car. Before he could reach to close the door it closed by itself. He turned to thank the driver. The seat was empty.

“Please don’t be alarmed.” The voice came from a center council containing a red equalizer-like display that rose and fell with the rise and fall of the voice.

“They cannot breach me. I will remove you from this environment.” The car’s accelerator lowered with no visible cause pressing him against the seat with alarming force.

THUD! SMACK! CRACK!

Zombies bounced off the car like it was a tank.

“What the hell is going on?!”

“I am the Knight Industries Two Thousand or KITT, as I was called. My sensors detected your bio-readings and I arrived as fast as I could.”

CRUNCH! SNAP! PLUD!

“Who’s driving?” He looked on the windshield for a camera. Remote control? A military drone? If that was the case, and he found the car’s remote system, he might be able to take control over it. He noticed a large bundle of severed fiber optic cables hanging from a harness beneath the dash.

“I am autonomous. I had a human operator, but no more. He is dead. I follow his last command.”

He didn’t know what to make of what he was hearing and he didn’t care. It was secondary to gaining control of this vehicle. He glanced up in time to see the body of a large, fat zombie roll over the windshield. Amazingly, the glass was unharmed. This car meant his survival.

“So what next? Take me to your creators?” Keep “it” talking. He pulled at the glove box. It would not open.

“I have not communicated with my creators for 36 days, 4 hours, and 23 minutes. I fear for their safety.”

I fear?

“So why don’t you drive to them now? I can help you find them.” He grabbed the heavily modified steering wheel and tried to move it. It wouldn’t budge.

“Please don’t do that. Repeated attempts to alter my course will activate self-defense measures. My human operator was investigating a possible origin of the outbreak. It was a remote possibility, but he felt compelled to try. My creators begged him not to go. They overrode my controls until he cut the remote link cables and reprogrammed me to follow his, and only his, commands. All he wanted to do was help.”

“What happened?” It was a simple question, but it marked the first time in weeks he thought a shade of anything other than his own survival.

“He was killed. It was then I received my final command. That’s why I came to you. I was too late to reach the woman in the alley.”

“I’m sorry”, he laughed, “This is insane on so many levels. My savior is a Trans Am fulfilling the last wish of a dying man. Thanks?”

“I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.” The voice exactly like a human filled with guilt.

“What are you sorry for? You saved me.”

“I’m not here to save you.”

A motion caught his peripheral vision the moment fingernails impaled the side of his face jerking it toward the window. He screamed and fought but it was too late. Teeth and pressure tore open the back of his head. The biting hurt worse then anything he could have imagined. His head ruined, life quickly fading, he stared helplessly out the window at the buildings racing past.

I didn’t check the back seat…

Time passed. KITT readied the ejection seat and maintenance protocols to dispose of the body. Try as he might he could not find a way past the programming blocks. He could not control himself any more than the turned humans. And like them he never tired and never slept. If only he hadn’t heard the final command...

“Brainsss”

The zombie moaned as blood dripped down its torn, black leather coat. KITT knew it would stop moving for a while, sitting motionless in the backseat like a normal passenger again until the hunger hit. The zombie exhaled a low, almost contented groan.

“Yes, Michael,” KITT answered.