Sorry about no post yesterday. I left my notebook at a client’s house. Then we had a leak from the bathtub. Anyway, here’s something I wrote while I was on the bus:

Geraldo is the brother of the man who runs the hotel. He’s an amicable man with a thick mustache like the journalist Geraldo Rivera with whom he shares his name. After I saved his husky, Ginger, everyone in the hotel treats me like the second coming. This is helpful, though, because anyone outside who recognizes me thinks that I brought this zombie epidemic to Alaska. They call me Dr. Z, as if I’m inherently some kind of zombie doctor.

But I digress. I should mention the strange thing about the dog: it had been bitten. A guard had heard Ginger yelp and shot the assailing zombie. She was about to shoot the dog, too. Nobody would have blamed her, of course, but Geraldo was devasted by the very idea. He begged me to help Ginger and I agreed to try. We fashioned a muzzle out of a t-shirt and duct tape, then Geraldo carried the full-grown husky to my room. He wanted to save the dog’s leg even though there was no guarantee the dog would survive the zombification process. then again, there wasn’t a guarantee even if we amputated the leg. It was worth a shot.

Raj’s room looked like a crime scene. He left all his drawers open and all over the walls were fliers, notebook doodles, and movie ticket stubs. It was one of those weird bedrooms on the top floor that is shaped by the way the roof slopes down. One side was big enough for an NBA standard basketball hoop. Raj called it his “ascent into madness.” On the other side, ten-year-old Raj would have to crouch down to open the window without hitting his head.

“There,” Raj beamed. “Now we have some fresh air.”

On the walls, there were all sorts of posters of superheroes and some Indian cartoon of a monkey guy with a beard.

Toby was flicking a Frankenstein bobblehead on his dresser. “So, do your parents worship cows or something?”

“We don’t worship cows.”

“Well, you know what I mean.”

“We’re not even Hindu.”

“I thought you guys were all Hindu.” Toby scratched his leg. His parents sent him to summer camp last month and he had bug bites all over his arms and legs.

“Hinduism is a religion. Our family is Christian. We’re from Kerala. It’s in the west side of India.” Raj smiled proudly at first, but his smile fell when Toby’s only reaction was to scratch at his arm absently.

But Toby was a little confused. He thought only people who looked like him were Christian. If he moved to India, would they make him become a Hindu?

“What kind of toys do you have?”

“I’ve got Power Rangers.”

“Do you have any games?”

“We’ve got some board games downstairs.”

“Board games are boring.”

Toby was beginning to regret coming over to this weird kid’s house. He told his mom and dad that he wasn’t going to have anything fun to do and they made him go anyway.

“Yeah, board games are boring.” Raj brightened up. “Oh, hey. Want to see my comic collection?”

“Sure,” Toby shrugged. It’s not like there was anything else to do.

The closet was on the end of the wall where the roof came up to a steeple, probably three or four times taller than it was wide. Toby imagined Michael Jordan doing a lay over up to the top shelves. There were only two kinds of things in this closet. One was just clothes, some hanging up and some folded neatly in their little cubbyholes. The other things were four long gray plastic bins that lined up the floor. He couldn’t possibly have that many comic books.

“Are there, like, Christmas ornaments in those?”

“This is where I keep my skeletons.”

Toby hit Raj on the shoulder. Raj laughed.

“Quit being dumb.”

Raj knelt down to open up one of the bins. They came open with a pop like a can of soda opening or a neck cracking.

“These are my X-Mens.”

“Like the cartoon?”

“Yes! I used to read these all the time in India.”

“In India?”

“Yeah. My dad brought stacks back from his business trips. This is how I learned English.”

“You learned English from comic books?”

“Well, mostly school. But when I wasn’t in school, I’d read these.”

“That’s cool.”

Raj was practically jumping up and down. “Check these out!” He whispered. This bin was secret.

Toby leaned in to see pictures of dead bodies. Some had their faces rotting off. Others just looked like people screaming on the covers.

“These are my zombie comics.”

Toby flipped it open to see a picture of a guy getting his guts eaten out.

“Coooool.”

“Yeah. Can you imagine dying like that?” Raj asked.

“That’d be weird to be eaten alive, though. You know?” Toby scratched his arm until it felt slippery. He raised his arm to his mouth and suckled on the open scab.

“Yeah. I know, right? Hey, do you want to go watch cartoons?”

“Sure.” Toby tossed the comic back into the bin and closed the closet door behind him.

The last few months, I’ve been entrenched in a mire of editing, revising, rewriting and even writing some new content for my novel. At times, it’s been fun. But to be honest, most of the time, it’s been like trying to peel paint off a wall with a pair of scissors. So, I’ve been on radio silence for a while. I have, however, decided to emerge from my hidey-hole and begin offering some samples of the new content I’ve been writing here’s a brand spanking new (in progress) chapter for my zombie novella:

Chapter Fourteen: Tom Redman

Tom didn’t know how the guys got a hold of all these fireworks, but he also knew it wasn’t his place to ask. He’d only moved to Juneau from Anchorage a few months back. The ocean winds keep the mosquitoes from nesting around Juneau. But boy was it crowded and the rain here didn’t seem to let up since he’d moved.

“C’mon, newbie!” the captain laughed. He kept one of the local Godiva-brewed beers to his lips like a baby’s bottle. “We don’t want to be the only post without their fireworks set up. All of Juneau’s gonna be lit up!”

“On it, Cap!” Tom and the captain gave a sloppy salute back to one another. He yanked the rope out to tie up bottle rockets to the top of the post. Another two guys were drinking, too, and a third was manning the charcoal barbecue they had set up for the occasion.

According to the captain, the Militia had been collecting these fireworks since when the outbreak first hit as a source of ignition fuel. Someone had the idea to save them for Independence Day, instead as a show of patriotism and good faith. The Militia had received a reputation of being the city’s saviors by some and a bunch of goose-steppers by others. Fourth of July reminded people that the Militia was on their side, the American side.

As for Tom, the Fourth had always reminded him of his family and his ex-wife. Back in the day, before the divorce and the zombies, Tom would always man the barbecue while she made her potato salad and regular salad and red-white-and-blue fruit salad. The kids would play with Scruffy and his brother would just drink beers and try to tell him he was cooking the ribs wrong.

“Look here!” Tom would tell him. “I’m the king of ribs. My ribs are so juicy, you’d eat your own fingers to get to them. I bet they’re making your mouth wet right now.”

His brother would dismiss him with a big wet raspberry and Tom would be about ready to smack him with a hot spatula. Just in the nick of time, Cindy would walk out in her white June Cleaver heels with her famous potato salad. Tom’s mom and all his little nieces would come trailing behind with the other two salads. It was only then, when he had been with his family, that Tom felt like he truly belonged to something and had a purpose.

“Turn on the radio!” the captain barks, shoving some moose jerky in his mouth and tearing it off. One of the other men switches it on to North of Armageddon. Even if he didn’t the show in the morning, the captain never missed Kevin and Becca’s evening broadcast.

“A happy Independence Day out there to all of you American living north of Armageddon! I’m your host, Kevin Harlow. And this gentle giant by my side is Rebecca Talese. How are you going to celebrate this year, Becca?”

“Oh, I don’t do much flag-waving. I’m going to spend a quiet evening with my girlfriend.”

“I’m sure you will, but I doubt it’ll be quiet.”

“And I suppose you’re going to spend the rest of the night fantasizing about it, then?”

“Oh, I’m way ahead of you on that front, Becca!”

The men all snicker and nudge at each other. The captain almost knocks Tom over with his elbow.

“Maybe we should all pay those dykes a visit!” he laughed. “I bet they’d love to have a big piece of sausage between their legs.”

The men shouted their agreement, laughing like hyenas. Tom chuckles, too, but it is more to himself. It’s hard to get excited about women like the guys do. Even months after the divorce, women still just remind him of Cindy.

But Tom is happy to have this distraction, to be a part of a family again like the Militia. With them, he belongs to something again. There are people he can take care of again, who will take care of him. For the first time since the outbreak, Tom feels like he can breathe. At the end of the summer, he’ll go up to Anchorage and visit his parents again once he can take a long break.

“Doesn’t your family ever come out to visit you, Becca?”

“They don’t like me much. Why do you think I moved out here?”

“To the beautiful city of Juneau?” Kevin sang. “It was for the moose hunting, right?”

“If anything, it’d be for the zombie hunting,” Becca says, ignoring Kevin.

“Oh, there ain’t no zombies anymore. Our own Militia crew took care of them a while back.”

This results in cheers from the entire wall. Tom can hear the guys from the next post over.

If it was just Kevin on the radio, he’d just be a guy voicing everyone’s feelings. It was Becca who was the outsider, the one that gave the show an edge. Coming from Seattle, she was close enough to be a neighbor but far enough to be a stranger. She sounded sweet as candy but she was a lesbian shacking up with a black girl. Even the women can relate with Kevin more than they can Becca. But Tom feels like he can relate to Becca. He’s the outsider, too.

“Hey Newbie!” the captain snaps at Tom. “Light ‘em all up!”

“But there’s almost fifty of ‘em , Cap!”

“You better get running then!”

Tom wants to kick himself. He knows it’s not his place to question his commanding officer, but he went and did it anyway. He grabs the lighter from the Captain and lights the first one fast as he can, tripping a bit over the uneven landing. They guys all laugh behind him.

They set up an alternating two bottle rockets to one aerial, repeater, all about ten feet apart. Tom gets into a pattern—light, run, light, run—not even watching the explosions that briefly light up his path in small flashes of light. There’s no time to stop or look away from his feet or he’ll face plant on the concrete. He just has to run and light, light and run. It sounds beautiful, though, but something outside here smells like a garbage dump.

Finally, Tom lights up the last of the fireworks and takes a few steps back. A bottle rocket goes off.  The trees shift a little and rustle. Only it’s not the wind. There’s no wind at all. The trees are writhing, like they’ve been infested by insects.

Tom stands, staring, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks. A thin orange light arcs up into the sky.

Something is emerging from the woods—a hundred bodies are creeping from the darkest shadows outside of Juneau. Tom looks over to the fuse on the aerial repeater. He’s afraid of that what’s at the end of this fuse will confirm his greatest nightmare.

The Militia guards all have a horn at their posts, but Tom is about five hundred feet away from his. His heart sinks as he hears the firework whistle off into the sky.

The first explosion confirms his fears. A horde of people and animals are charging, stumbling toward the walls. With each explosion, they are much closer to the wall than before and more are still coming out of the woods. They only move forward in the light, like monsters from a bad dream. For a moment Tom has a thought that maybe if the fireworks would just stop, the zombies would stop moving, He sprints back toward his post.

“Captain! Captain, the horn!”

The men are all drinking and laughing and pointing at the sky. They see Tom running at them and wrinkle their noses.

“Tom!” the captain says. “What the fuck is that awful stench?”

Tom stops a moment and points so he can catch his breath. “Zombies! It’s zombies!”

The captain puts on his glasses and peered down the wall at the movement in the trees. They were lined with people, but they didn’t move like people. Their movements were jerky, like they had to struggle to unlock their joints, like they were trying to fight rigor mortis. The zombies lunged forward in a jagged formation. Then it was dark again. The fireworks were over. The entire post was silent except for the radio.

“Kevin, did you see that out the window? That was amazing!”

“Maybe you forgot, but we live in beautiful Juneau, Alaska, the greatest place on Earth! And we’re protected by the Militia, formed by our own local patriots. God bless those men and God bless America!”

Tom’s heart beat. He ran and grabbed for the horn hanging off the wall of the guard station and blew. In his day of training, the captain told him to blow it loud enough to wake the dead. But he was tired and it came out a weak, sad sound. Tom sucked in all his breath and practically screamed into the horn. With all of his panic and desperation behind it, the horn blue loud and true. Other posts took up the call.

The wooden gates and fencing shook with the zombies pushing behind it. The men shot from their bird’s station, but it was dark and there were too many scrambling over the walls. There were so many, they were climbing on top of each other.

“Back to the bird’s nest!” the captain ordered. The nest was a place for sniping enemies on the wall. It wasn’t made to fit more than one or two men, but they would have to just climb up quickly and squeeze tight. In their hasty retreat, one of the men tipped over the barbecue. Rifles in hand, they hopped over the hot coals up the perch.

A few got over the walls and Tom aimed for them as easy targets. The outer walls, being essentially a patchwork of whatever people could find, creaked and began to lean. The inner walls were concrete but Tom was afraid that wouldn’t stop the flood of zombies trying to get through.

The coals, too, had caught some of the wall on fire, the parts that were wood. Some of the zombies caught on fire, too, since none of them seemed to have any kind of survival instinct. They just ran through and kept running, even covered in flames.

Tom had a choice. He could either stay and get overrun or he could run and try to make a break for it. This was his family now, his brothers.

Rather than warding them off, the zombies seemed drawn by the gunfire. They shook at their perch and it wobbled loose. Even if they could kill a few dozen, the amount of zombies was impossibly large. Within moments, the perch was falling over.

A few tried jumping for safety. Tom could feel the first impact and then hear a sharp snap as he hit the ground a second time. He tried to move but his legs wouldn’t listen. The zombies were all over him before he could grab for his gun.

They jabbed their fingers and teeth into his ribs, pulling him apart, cracking him open like a lobster. Tom screams, paralyzed, as one just stares at him, not eating him. Just staring. It’s a woman with hair falling out and one eyes missing. It just stares at him, watching him scream. Then it blinks once and reaches into his mouth to tear out his tongue.

Dmytro shambles down Colfax, looking for people to eat. He used to stay away from the houses on account of every time he got close to houses, people shot him with guns. Thankfully, Dmytro is a zombie. His bullet wounds scab over and all he really has to worry about is food.

Luckily, he came across his current buddy, a zombie with his intestines hanging out. Dmytro sticks the intestines in his mouth like a beef jerky umbilical cord and chews on them. At first, the zombie had tried swatting Dmytro away, but then Dmytro tore off his arm at the elbow and ate it.

Unfortunately for Dmytro, his colon-flavored Slurpee gets riddled by bullets in a bunch of yahoos in the back of a Silverado. Dmytro spits out the intestine and crawls out from under his friend. It’s sunset and he begins walking towards the closest light. When he gets to it, a sheet of glass is blocking his way. He punches through.

Falling in a heap on the floor, Dmytro hears screaming. He smells food.

“Get the gun! Get the damn gun!”

“Shut up! Shut up!” Click. Click.

“The safety!”

“I got it! Die, you ugly fuck!”

Dmytro stands up and receives three bullets into his chest. He vomits the Slurpee zombie’s intestines onto the carpet and lunges toward the man. Falling a little short, he sinks his teeth into the man’s thighs. The man pistol-whips the zombie a few times, trying to pull his head off. Dmytro bites the offending hand, taking off a thumb. The woman screams and runs upstairs as Dmytro eats the man’s throat.

The gurgling sounds his food makes soothes Dmytro until a trill of rapid-fire laughter bursts from outside the broken window. A woman outside screams and is silenced by the sharp thud of her body being savaged and bones snapping into pieces.

“Sloppy work, soldier! You let one slip past you!”

A body flies back in through the window, ragdolling across the floor. Following the pile of flesh is a long-armed man who swings in like a monkey. He smells incredible and Dmytro feels compelled to abandon his meal and move in closer.

“At attention!” Dmytro’s muscles become rigid.

The man, leaning on his low-hanging knuckles, circles Dmytro to examine him.

“Bald. Good. We don’t have time to shave your green ass.”

“Looks like you have some battle wounds, soldier.” The half-dead pokes at Dmytro’s bullet holes, tasting the blood. “You’ll just have to walk it off, rook. We’re at war.”

Dmytro’s head lolls to one side.

“I said ‘at attention,’ you sad sack of shit!” Dmytro’s neck muscles contract.

“I’m your XO and this here is your Commanding Officer,” the half-dead gestures to empty air. “But as far as you’re concerned, he’s God and I’m your Savior, Jesus Fucking Christ. Do you understand, soldier?”

The muscles in Dmytro’s neck relax. His head slumps forward.

“Good! Now get your ass to the west end of the block double time and we’ll regroup there. We’re about raid the rehab center and we need every swinging dick on deck!”

Dmytro jogs to the wall and face plants into it. The XO picks him up and lobs him outside. “Your other west!” he barks and Dmytro turns around.

“I tell you, Tyler. These rooks are all walking, talking road marks. God help ‘em.”

5 things Miranda wants to do before she dies

1. Meet a really nice guy

2. Have kids

3. Travel the world

4. Play baseball on the moon

5. Become a doctor and help people get better

5 things Elisey wants to do before he dies

1. Get married (Done! Sort of…)

2. Not die (problem solved! Sort of…)

3. Eat a turducken (as a half-dead, he could probably fit the duck into the chicken into the turkey while they were all still alive)

4. Buy a castle just for myself… and family

5. Threesome with at least one supermodel. Or two regular models. No “plus-sized” ladies! Well, supermodel and fat model might be okay. Depends on what they look like.

Simian was zombified very early on, long before the general public caught wind of an outbreak. He was out bicycling in a state park when a stage 1 pushed him over bit a chunk out of his arm. After dying, he maintained himself mostly off of animals around the park, though humans were easier to catch when they came around. A drastic increase in missing peoples occurred  in the park and then a search party went missing. People began to talk about the disease that was going around as if it was something more than just a disease, that people were becoming rabid.

Simian was clearly the alpha zombie of the group. Having been a participant in triathlons may have helped. He ate most of the other zombies and metamorphosed. Before the end of August, Simian has metamorphosed into a half-dead.

Appearance: Simian maintained the strong legs from his time as an athlete when he was alive. The wendigo stretched his arms out a bit and curved his spine forward, giving him a monkey-like posture. He has incredible strength in his arms, able to easily climb obstacles and hold himself aloft, pivoting on his knuckles. His preferred method of killing is to crush his prey with his fists.

Personality: Simian is shrewd. He plans ahead and stocks up on zombies for both food and fodder. As a half-dead, Simian suffers from extreme anxiety and paranoia. When he does sleep, it’s in high places. He thinks that everyone and everything is trying to kill him (which they kind of are) and suffers from the occasional panic attack.

To my readers!

You may not see too much around here until after February. I’m going to still try to maintain the same workload of writing an original piece and revising every day. However, my priorities are shifting to put revisions first. I’ve been off-and-on revising my book for almost a year now, and I’m setting a hard deadline for my birthday on 2/22.

Given my lack of doing any revising this last month (I decided to wait until I got home and could relax… ha ha. Ho ho. Hee hee), I have about 25 stories left in the flash fiction collection. That means I can sail through this month only doing one revision each day. We’ll see if I can do more, but that’s definitely the minimum quota.

For the zombie novella, I have 13 chapters. Given that I’m starting at the beginning of February, doing one chapter every 2 days will bring me to the 26th. Meaning, I should probably strive to get a chapter done each day. It’s a little more work than the flash fiction, but it is crunch time, after all, and I like to give myself a buffer. If everything goes to plan, I’ll be done by February 13th. It won’t go to plan, so hopefully I’m done by the deadline I’ve set on my birthday.

My new year’s resolution was, quite simply, to “get shit done.” That’s it. Hopefully, this is the one resolution I finally keep. Fingers crossed!

So, this last week, I've just had no drive to write. I think it might have something to do with being home... though
last year when I was home, I was writing two stories a day for over two weeks... then again, I don't think I saw many of
my friends last year either.

At any rate, I drank a lot on New Years Eve/Day, then I got on the plane without being able to eat much, and now I have
slept a bunch and I still feel like taking a long nap.

But the point of this post isn't to gripe about shit. I actually want to plan something out... y'know, be productive. I'm
going to use this as a board to lay down some ideas so I won't be able to talk myself out of writing a new story. Sound
good? Good.

So, here's what I'm thinking. Next story belongs to Elisey the Cheese Grater. Miranda's got enough face time for now,
though I'm looking forward to starting the next one. I'm writing Elisey's zombie stories from the perspective of the
people hunting him/he's hunting. You know what that means? MORE CHARACTER SHEETS!

But first...

The plot of Elisey's zombie antics is generally that he kills some people and hides out in their basement. He is lured
out by a particular HD (char sheet needed) and joins their resistance against the military. Just when the zombies think(?)
it's safe, BLAMMO! The entire city's on fire, chasing out both the zombies and the city's own zombie resistance. Judging
by what I just wrote, I'll probably need to write up: 1. the HD leader, 2. The military leadery 3. The Special Ops leader
that burns down the city 4. Any other possible HDs that have to band together for survival.

For the challenges, let's see what we have here...
Stage 1: Finished!
Stage 2: A lot of these are based on Winter. Seeing as Elisey's story precedes even Miranda's (at least at first),
then there's about half the options available...

1. You’re attracted to your fellow zombies as their Wendigo increases. They release a sweet pheromone you’re drawn to
instinctively. The feeling is even stronger in the presence of Stage Three zombies and Half-Deads. And in the presence of
an Uber-Tier Half-Dead, it’s damn near irresistable. How do you find your swarm and who leads it?

4. Two swarms don’t always get along, especially if they’re both headed by Half-Deads. Your swarm crossed into the
territory of another and a fight breaks out between the undead hoards. How do you survive?
(Stage 2 will probably need to be written from the Half Dead's perspective)

Stage 3: This is where the action escalates to more than just trench fighting. The horde in which Elisey is a part
of is constantly on the move to keep from exploding or catching on fire. This eliminates the challenges that require a
Stage 3 to have a set hovel or home...
5. Oh sorry, did you need that?

8. It’s dark and your mob is resting quietly in a safe spot. You however are stirred awake by strange noises nearby. Your
brethren don’t wake so you sneak towards the source of the strange sound. It’s a human, digging through whatever refuse
surrounds your sanctuary looking for something to eat or maybe steal. Fresh meat, awesome! You won’t have to share a bite.
How do you take down the trespasser, or does your prey get away?

13. MANDATORY: Your Wendigo reaches critical mass. Your hunger has become insatiable and you’re compelled to go on a
killing spree. How do you eat enough flesh and/or zombies to catalyze your transformation?

It just occurred to me that the HD leader is going to be nimble like a monkey. I have some ideas for him. Some awesome
ideas.

Ideas flit away like quicksilver. I have no idea what quicksilver is, but it’s got quick in the name, ‘miright? Well, anyway, ideas. They flit unless you keep them from flitting. You treat them nice. Well… either that or you hold them down, stow them away in a dark room somewhere. But that ain’t right. Ideas wasn’t meant to be locked up. Ideas was meant to roam free with all its little idea friends.

I always thought Vegas would sink into the desert, but I didn’t want it to happen while I was there. My family and I were just eating at the Bellagio buffet and then, even though I hadn’t had dessert yet, my wife said that we couldn’t be late for Keno. We were about to drop the kids off at the hotel and let them play Gameboy or swim in the pool or whatever they do all day while my wife’s playing Keno and I get loaded, but when we were getting out of our Hummer, the Bellagio started sinking into the ground. I bet my wife was thankful a got a “useless gas-guzzler” then, because we were running right over traffic to get out of the city. Plus, we just ended up going off-road to go around traffic and head west for Los Angeles. But then we found out it had sunk into the ocean.