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May 4, 2007


We're always looking for a good excuse to post a zombie story. So let's just cut to the chase today. Give us a zombie tale.

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David: It'll Do

No one knows where the plague came from. No one in any condition to answer questions, anyway. All over the world, people started dying, and then coming back to life, hungering for the flesh of the living.

It got pretty grim there for a while. Folks found out what they were made of when they were suddenly confronted with brain-eating monsters that used to be their husbands, wives, or children.

I got lucky, finding my way through the wreckage of civilization to this old folks’ home. Medicine, stored food, lockable doors. And the former residents can’t bite without any teeth.

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Jeff R.: The Word

Nobody could actually bring themselves to use the Z-word, not after it started happening. Somehow saying it made them seem less real, which was an insult to the people dying around us.

We wound up using 'Zeds' mostly because of Tony Macross. He was a Canadian but a damned fine man. A former UN Peacekeeping force officer, He took charge in the first few hours, kept us moving and armed. He saved my life at least three times that day, and the best I could do for him was to put a bullet in his eye after he got bit.

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Dave: The Dead Past

"Goddammit, I hate these things!" Roger said, swinging the fire axe.  It cut through the zombie shoulder to ribs before getting stuck. 

"Remember Prague, '45?" Arbuthnot asked.  His saber cut cleanly through the neck of the next creature, and the two zombie bodies tangled together for a few precious moments, giving the men a chance to catch a breath.

"Yeah," Roger replied.  "But those were mad scientist Frankenstein-style zombies.  These are more voodoo rising-from-the-grave zombies."

"No, you're thinking of that abbey in Montenegro."

Roger blinked.  "Damn, you're right."  He yanked the axe free, and they went back at it.

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Jim: One Night In Martinique

She forced her eyes open. A chicken and a crow hung from the thatched ceiling, both decapitated and dripping blood in a steady rhythm that matched the throbbing in her head. She vaguely recalled sitting in a bar… having a drink…

A dark woman’s face leered down at her. “De job is done,” the woman said in a singsong Caribbean accent. “De debt is paid.”

A man’s voice asked, “How long until she starts… you know…”

“Rotting?” A toothy grin. “A few months, maybe.”

“Come, girl!” the man ordered. Wordlessly, she slowly rolled to her feet.

But inside she screamed.

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