Zombie Tales From Dead Worlds

Zombie Tales from Undead Worlds

By Rhiannon Frater

Copyright © 2014 - 2020.

All Rights Reserved.

Edited by Erin Hayes

Copyediting and Interior formatting by Kody Boye Publishing Services

Cover Artwork and Layout by Corey Hollins

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events and situation are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

Contents

The Blanket

The Scavengers

The Building

The Necromancer

The Race

The False Start

Also by Rhiannon Frater

About the Author

It was his father's yells that pulled Milo from his deep slumber. He had been dreaming of Transformers and marshmallow teddy bears when he was jerked out of the surreal adventure. The instant he opened his eyes, the dream was lost. He'd liked the dream. It was better than his old nightmares about monsters, and now he was hungry for marshmallows.

Lying on his side, he stared at the window across the darkened room, not certain for a moment why he was awake. His father cried out again, his words almost guttural.

...they're in the house! Tara, they're in the house! Get the kids!

Milo's heart accelerated as he listened to the rage filled grunts of his father echoing through the house.

Milo! Get up! Milo! his mother screamed, then he heard her bare feet running down the hallway toward his younger sister's bedroom. Milo!

Downstairs, his father's voice roared. It reminded the eight-year-old of animals when they fought for their lives in nature documentaries. He always hid his face behind his Optimus Prime pillow while he watched nature shows. Clutching the pillow now, he buried his face against his favorite Transformer’s red chest.

Low growls and moans mixed with the cries of his father, causing him to tremble beneath the thick fleece blanket covered in his favorite robot heroes. His father had bought it one day when he was ferrying Milo back from playing baseball in the park. A merchant had been selling an assortment of colorful fleece blankets out of the back of a truck on the side of the road. Milo had instantly wanted the big colorful one with Optimus Prime and the other Transformers in action hero poses.

I’ll buy it so the monsters will be too afraid to give you bad dreams, his father had said with a wide grin.

Optimus Prime will smash them! Milo had answered confidently.

The blanket was warm and soft, and Milo never had bad dreams after he started sleeping beneath the colorful Transformers.

Milo! His mother's voice was an inhuman screech. Come here!

The noises from downstairs were terrifying. Thumps were followed by the sound of furniture toppling and something hitting the walls. The steady beating against the first floor windows gave way to the crash of glass shattering.

Tara! Get...the...kids... The voice of his father sounded weary, desperate, scared, and full of pain. It reminded Milo of how he'd sounded when learning to ride his bike without training wheels, and he'd fallen off and broken his arm.

The stomp of many feet on the stairs unleashed Milo's bladder. The wetness spread around him, but he didn't move from where he laid on his bed staring at the window. The moon was bright and beautiful beyond the frost covered panes.

Beneath the floorboards of his room, the racket continued, but his father no longer called out. All Milo could hear were low, reverberating moans.

Milo! Milo! his mother screamed.

From the sound of her footsteps, he knew she was running to his room. He could clearly hear his little sister crying, then his mother started to shriek in terror.

In the glass panes of the window, the reflection of the dim light creeping through his ajar bedroom door was interrupted by shadowy figures rushing past it, the thunderous footfalls chasing after his mother's. Then he heard the slam of her bedroom door, followed by the furious pounding of many hands against it.

His mother stopped calling his name.

Instead, she wailed in fear.

Barely able to move his fear-frozen limbs, Milo managed to huddle down, the blanket creeping over his head. His ragged breathing puffed the thick material out around his mouth and warmed his flushed skin. Beneath his bottom, the mattress was soaked, but he knew his mother would never yell at him for wetting the bed again.

There were bad things on the television today. His father said they shouldn't worry. The government would take care of it.

Now Milo knew that his father was wrong, for his bedroom door banged open.

When his father had bought the blanket, he'd told Milo that it would protect him from all the monsters. It would keep him safe so he could dream about good things.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Milo tried to go back to sleep. He wanted the blanket magic to work so he wouldn't hear his mother screaming or his little sister crying.

And he wouldn't feel the many hands grabbing him through the softness of his blanket...

The red lipstick was garish on her thin lips, but he wasn’t about to tell Patsy. She smiled at her reflection in the speckled and warped mirror with satisfaction, and then continued humming along with an old country star singing about a bucket having a hole in it. The old disc skipped and sputtered on the turntable, but Patsy wouldn’t part with the record. Hank hoped he’d be able to find her a newer copy during one of his salvaging runs. The scratches and skips annoyed him.

The air smelled of perfume, mildew, and the decaying flowers in the blue vase on the vanity. The tube of lipstick slipped from Patsy’s fingers and rolled swiftly along the slanted floor. Hank grabbed it and returned it to her, receiving a grateful smile for his effort. The room slightly listed to one side, but miraculously, the mansion on the edge of the swamp was still standing even though most of civilization was moldering away. The old plantation house had been built to last, and it was still clinging to life. The east wing was flooded with a foot of water, but the west was still above ground and suited their purposes. Submersible pumps helped keep the water at bay for the time being. He knew that Patsy wouldn’t leave the big rambling house without protest. She was terrified of venturing too far out into the world where the mindless dead wandered in search of human flesh.

Tucking the tails of his black cowboy shirt into his jeans, Hank half-listened to the melody and half-listened to the generator beneath the window. It was starting to sound ragged, and he’d have to tinker with it again. The light bulbs in the dusty chandelier ominously flickered.

Tilting her head up, Patsy grimaced. Are we going to lose power again?

It’s old machinery, honey. It’s going to give us trouble. He finished zipping up his jeans, fastened his belt with the huge longhorn buckle, and stared down at the toes of his new cowboy boots. The pair was rattlesnake skin and a bit worn from the previous owner’s wanderings, but they’d polished up nicely. The silver on the toes glinted in the light.

I just hate lighting candles. It makes me so nervous. Patsy fluttered her boney hands to dry the polish on her press-on nails. It was a new color he’d found for her in a decrepit Walgreens, a deep purple shade. If those dead idiots get into the house, they might set it on fire.

They’re not going to get into the house. The fence keeps them back and the traps cripple them up nicely. Hank picked up his black cowboy hat and set it on his bald head.

Satisfied that her nails were done, Patsy carefully tucked the glossy black locks of her wig in dramatic waves, using long pins to keep it in place. A few silk flowers were tucked over one ear. She was wearing a pretty black and white dress he’d found for her and a bright red belt was fastened around her very small waist.

Am I pretty? she asked, staring at her reflection.

Hank pressed his mouth to her cheek, the scent of her face powder filling his nostrils. You’re the most beautiful girl in the world.

On the vanity sat a photo of them looking young, robust and blissfully happy on their wedding day. How Patsy had managed to hold onto the small silver frame all these years, he had no idea. Sometimes he wondered if it was really them, but Patsy was confident it was. It didn’t matter one way or the other. They were together and that was enough for Hank. He’d loved her for as long as he could remember.

I need help with my leg, Patsy said with a sigh.

It was across the room. Hank retrieved it and carefully fit the end against the white bone protruding from beneath her knee. It had taken him some time to figure out how to make the hand-carved prosthetic work, but she could now walk about without much trouble. He slipped the pin through the fake leg and the hole he’d drilled into the bone before screwing the nut in place to hold it.

There you go, he said and patted her knee.

Help me with my stockings, sugar.

With gentle fingers, he rolled the fishnets up over her feet and to her waist. He had to loop the waistband carefully over her hip bones to make sure it didn’t slip off. Without being asked, he tucked her feet into her high heels. She’d lost most of her toes during their wandering days, so he made sure the straps were tight so she could keep her balance. It pained him that she’d taken more bodily damage than he had over the years. Other than the damage to his face, he only had some meat missing from his chest and one shoulder. Though a tiny bit of one cheek was gone, her face was still intact. He was glad for it. Patsy always filled the hole with putty in an effort to maintain a life-like visage. No living creature would ever take her for being alive up close, but from a distance they might until they noticed her leg or how skeletal her frame actually was.

Are you sure I’m pretty? Patsy stared into the mirror. The contrast between her gray skin and the flesh-colored makeup on her face was vivid, but he never said a word.

The prettiest girl in the world, both living and dead.

She smiled brightly.

Hank had no lips to smile with, but he winked at her.

Hank helped Patsy down the front steps of the plantation house while she clung to his hand, maneuvering carefully. The humid air was scented with the tangled fragrances of Patsy’s flower garden and the swamp. The old pickup truck was loaded with items he’d salvaged for this run and the tires had sunk into the mud from the weight. Patsy kept the flagstone path he’d made for her, her slim gloved fingers clutching his arm.

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