Best New Zombie Tales Trilogy (80 page)

Introduction 3

JAMES ROY DALEY

The release date for Best New Zombie Tales Volume Three has been delayed as long as possible. I’ve had a folder full of excuses tucked away inside my mental Rolodex for a while now, probably since the day Zombie Tales Two was made available to the general public. I’ve told people all kinds of things, crazy things: the book wasn’t ready, the stories weren’t quite right; I’m waiting for my book sales to improve; I’m worried about flooding the market.

The moment Zombie Tales Three was ready for print I knew he would come to see me, seeking vengeance, seeking retribution. Zombie-Lovecraft chewed the hand from my arm the first time I released a zombie book (see Zombie Tales One), and he sawed the foot from my leg the next (see Zombie Tales Two). Neither incident was enjoyable in any possible way. Both experiences were painful, leaving me scarred mentally, physically, and emotionally.

So why put out a third volume? Why not keep rolling out the excuses until the day I die?

Honestly, I’m not sure that I have an answer for that one. Maybe it’s because I grew up with a punk rock attitude, or maybe I’m just too damn stupid to do the intelligent thing. Or maybe, just maybe, I figured I could take the son-of-a-bitch, and give him a piece of what’s comin’.

In the months following the release of Zombie Tales Two I spent a lot of time in the hospital. My leg, which was in terrible shape, endured three separate operations. The first was an emergency operation performed hours after my attack. During the second surgery, which was completed a few weeks later, I had part of my leg amputated in preparation for the third operation––a procedure known as osseointegration.

Osseointegration is a new way of attaching an artificial limb to a body. Up until recently the ‘stump and socket’ method was used, causing significant pain to the amputee. This new ‘direct attachment’ method works by inserting a titanium bolt into the bone at the end of the stump. Several months after the operation is complete the bone will bond itself with the titanium. Once the bone and the titanium are connected an abutment is fastened to the bolt, which extends from the stump. The artificial limb can then be fastened securely. Some of the benefits of this method include better control of the prosthetic, the ability to wear the prosthetic for an extended period of time, and the ability to do things like drive a car, or in some instances, play a musical instrument.

My tool of choice was a Poulan Pro, 42cc, 18-inch, gas-powered chainsaw. The Poulan Pro is a pull-start model with a Duralife engine that comes with a tool-less chain tensioning system, an anti-vibration handle, an air-filter system, an automatic chain-oiler, a carrying case, and a two-year warrantee… all for the low, low price of $239.99. The only problem with the saw is its weight. The Poulan Pro weighs in at 11.8 pounds before gassing-up, and 13.1 pounds after.

The saw wasn’t my only expense.

The cost of my two prostheses was just shy of $80,000, but thanks to health care and my insurance company I paid a little less than a thousand bucks. However, with my third prosthetic, an arm that was immediately disassembled and used for parts––and deemed unnecessary by both the government and my insurance company––my cost skyrocketed to nearly $25,000.

For weeks I avoided buying that extra arm; I thought for sure I’d be able to find a way around it. After all, Evil Dead Ash seemed to have no problem sticking a chainsaw onto his arm with nothing more than a roll of duct tape and a screwdriver; he made it look easy. Things were different for me, though. In the end, after weeks of trying, I couldn’t get the chainsaw fastened to my limb. After countless hours in my workshop, trying to make the impossible possible, I did what I had to do: I dug deep into my pocket and ordered the extra prosthetic arm from a company called CR Equipments. I then waited eleven days for the equipment to be shipped, and dismantled it a few hours later.

Around 7pm the next day everything was set. The chainsaw was modified and fastened to my abutment, which was connected to the titanium bolt, which had been directly fused with my bone.

Everything was perfect.

I wore the chainsaw day and night. Not wanting to be seen in public with this new modification, I had all my food delivered, I never invited company over for a visit, and I never left my home. I wore the tool to bed too, even though it was a bitch to sleep with and it leaked gasoline all over my sheets. In a perfect world I would have worn the saw every last minute, but the world isn’t a perfect place, and occasionally, I was forced to take it off.

~

I heard the loud BANG as the bathroom door was kicked open. The shower curtain was ripped from the rod before I knew it would happen. I stood there, naked, confused, and cursing up a storm with a glorified plastic bag wrapped around my prosthetic leg––a bag that I purchased from CR Equipment for a measly $345.95––and a second glorified bag wrapped around the stump of my arm, which, for the record, cost a few dollars less.

I looked left. I looked right. I looked at the chainsaw, which suddenly seemed to be very far away and completely useless to me. I thought about pushing my attacker away, I thought about screaming, I thought about begging for my life, but begging didn’t do much the last couple of times that I saw the man, so why would it be any different this time?

Lovecraft said, “Another zombie book? You have
got
to be kidding me! You’ve got balls… kid. I’ll give you that.”

“Wait!” I shouted. “Please… God, just wait!”

“No. There will be no
waiting
this time, you injudicious, ill-advised, imprudent, accretion of Homo habilis defecation… you inconsequential, negligible, trifling, paltry, stump of––”

I stepped back, away from the maniac, and slipped on my prosthetic limb bag. My back slammed against the wall and I fell, landing in the tub. At the same time Lovecraft brought the axe down hard.

And missed.

I found myself beneath him, looking up. My arms and legs––or what was left of them––were thrashing about like I had been electrocuted. Panicking, an image came to mind: an overturned turtle, lying on its shell, feet moving uselessly in the air.

Lovecraft raised the axe again.

“Stop it!” I shrieked, still thrashing about. “What’s wrong with the second zombie book? There was nothing wrong with it! Zombie Tales Two is good! IT’S
GOOOOOOD!”

Holding the axe high, Lovecraft unleashed, “I don’t care if it’s good! That’s not the point!
No more zombies!
Do something original! Do something better!”

“But I am! I’ve done a Best New Vampire Tales book and I’m about to release a Best New Werewolf Tales book! Do you know about those?”

Oh my God. I thought he was mad before, but the anger that consumed his pale and oddly shaped face doubled, becoming a 9.9 on the wrath scale. I had never seen anything like it.

“Werewolves?” he mumbled, offended by my words. “Vampires?”

“Yes,” I whispered, trembling, knowing I was in worse trouble than before.

“You’ve missed the point, you despondent and miserably dejected wad of cephalopod tentacle! Do you really think that werewolves and vampires are original?”

“Uh…”

“
Do you?”

What could I say? He created Yog-Sothoth and Cthulhu and I created… no, not created… rehashed––he created Cthulhu and I rehashed werewolves, vampires, and zombies… again. I was up shit creek with the words ‘yes - I think werewolves and vampires are original’ written across one paddle, while my other paddle announced: ‘no - I don’t think werewolves and vampires are original, but I’m releasing them anyway.’

I rolled the dice.
“Yes?”

“Yes?!
YES?!
You think werewolves and vampires are
original?”

“Well…
maybe…?”

~

Ahem.

Let me clear my throat.

Dear literate zombie fans; my name is James Roy Daley. What you’re looking at is a little idea of mine, brought to life by the power of hard work. If you’ve read the first two volumes you know what I’m doing here. I’m putting together the best zombie tales I can get my hands on. If you haven’t read the first two volumes I figure you’re missing out. The first two volumes are loaded with great stories by some of the best writers in the biz, writers like: Gary McMahon, Kim Paffenroth, Jonathan Mayberry, Jeff Strand, Rio Youers, Mort Castle, Tim Waggoner, Matt Hults, Ray Garton, Gord Rollo, John Everson, Nate Kenyon… the list goes on and on. What I’m trying to build here, inside this little series of mine, is the definitive collection of zombie stories. I’m hoping that in the years to come–– when the next generation of zombie enthusiasts start looking for zombie fiction––people will point them towards the Best New Zombie Tales Series. After all, the first two anthologies were excellent and volume three, which you’re reading now, might just be the best of the bunch.

The Lazarus Condition

PAUL KANE

Prologue

‘
And he that was dead came forth, bound hand and foot with graveclothes: and his face was bound about with a napkin. Jesus saith unto them, Loose him, and let him go… ’

John 11.44

No one paid any attention as the dead man walked down the street.

A familiar street to him, with children playing football on the grass verge, wives gossiping on the corner next to the shop. He took in all the streetlamps, never having noticed them,
really
noticed them before. Now he was scrutinizing everything, from the pebble-dashing of the council houses to the rickety nature of the peeling fences––which could so easily have been resurrected with a lick of paint.

Given new life.

He paused to look up at the sky, seeing the birds there catching the mild breeze, returned from their winter migration now that spring was here. They’d been drawn to sunnier climes, just as he was being drawn to this place, pulled as surely as if he was made of metal and someone was holding a gigantic magnet. He continued up the street, passing more people as he went: a man walking with a stick, newspaper jammed under his arm; a young woman pushing a buggy with a screaming kid in the seat; a postman making deliveries to each of the houses. None of them looked closely enough to
truly
see him. None of them ever looked too closely at anything, they just went about the business of their mundane lives, worrying about bills––the same ones the postman was shoving through letterboxes that very morning––about the weather, about their families.

He was almost there. The house he was looking for was just across the road. He stared at the overgrown hedge and front garden: once neat and trim with a pond in the middle and gnomes fishing with tiny rods. What had happened to those? He couldn’t remember. In the great scheme of things did it really matter? Things came, things went. It was how it was.