Teaser: Eric A. Shelman #SummerofZombie





Eric A. Shelman

Cemetery Dance 74 Back Cover Ad (1)




My name is Warren Walsh.  My twin brother is Scott.  We’re twenty-seven years old last April 3rd.

We both have red hair and freckles.  Our facial features are what some might call chiseled.  Square chins, strong jaw lines.  Dimples.  Well-sized noses.  Vivid green eyes.  We’re both 6’5” tall.

I keep my hair long, usually wearing it in a ponytail; Scott’s hair is about down to the middle of his back.  He wears a full beard and mustache, but I only have a goatee.

Based purely on our descriptions and birth dates, I suppose at this point it’s not necessary to tell you we’re identical twins.

I’ll be right back.  I’ve just decided to record this stuff on paper because it appears there’s going to be some down time over the next eternity or so.


Okay.  I’m back.  I just enabled the receivers, adjusted the potentiometers on the speakers, and released Mick and Keith to the wind.

They both headed north.  That’s a good start and a relief.

Mick and Keith are two of my best homing pigeons.  Only thing is, they don’t so much return to a fixed location anymore as they hone in on an audible signal beacon.

That was Scott’s idea, but it wasn’t in response to the drastic change in the world.  We’d actually perfected the beacon training of all of our birds a couple of years before.

Scott reverse engineered some high-end proximity alarms and increased their effectiveness over a greater distance.  The electronics are solid and will run for days off watch batteries.

I know we’re supposed to have the same DNA, and it’s pretty clear we do, but electronics have always been a stronger suit for him than me.  It’s not that I can’t master them – I have to for the cars I work on – but it just comes easier to Scott.

Our birds know very well the tiny beeping sound that emits from their backpacks means food and shelter, and no matter how faint, they become alert and laser focused when the ping begins.  They drop down closer to the ground and they focus on the signal as their guide.  As the beeps get faster and closer together, they keep flying until it becomes a steady tone.

That means they’re within five feet of the beacon.  The rest is a matter of finding the food, which is always somewhere near Scott or me.

Let me explain my use of the word focus.

When I say the birds are focused, I mean they’re as focused as one can get when adorned with a birdbrain.  That’s the main reason we send two birds.  You see, it makes perfect sense to us humans that if we could fly, we’d use the old “as the crow flies” route.  A straight line from point A to point B.

It’s not the same with homing pigeons – not all of them.  Some pigeons fixate on the streets and manmade paths below them.  They’ll end up following neighborhood streets, even flying around roundabouts, that sort of thing.  If left to their own devices, they’ll often fly the man-made grid patterns the entire way.  That could increase the distance they’re required to fly by miles and miles, which means more time to get there.

That doesn’t work in this world.  Time is, more than ever, of the essence.

When there are two pigeons, they get where they are going faster; it’s as if one of them has a better idea, like, “I dunno, Mick.  Maybe we should ignore the streets down there and just fly straight north,” the other will shrug and say, “Okay, Keith.  I’ll go with you on this.”

Yes.  Both birds are open to the suggestion of the other, and they usually make better overall decisions and reach their destination sooner.

I didn’t believe it at first either, but I’ve seen it over and over.  It is true.

The other reason for sending multiple birds out to deliver an important message is the possibility that one will hit a power line or otherwise be killed, so sending two just makes sense; a backup.

Hell, you might wonder why we’re sending them at all.  I guess I’ll answer that, since I’m the one writing this and Scott is hundreds of miles away from me right now.  We have a lot of downtime these days.  We send the birds out and we get on the move.  We do a lot of hiding, and we do a ton of waiting.

Other than the birds, as far as we know there is no other means of long-distance communication right now.  All cell signals and municipal power sources are dormant.  With a generator, we could run a ham radio, but the Scabs would hear it.  They’ve got extraordinary hearing.

So, because we do a lot of waiting, this logging of our activities helps pass the time, but it also ensures that we have a record of everything we learn about the Scabs.  When we finally get together, we’ll compare notes and have a far more complete profile of the things and their methods.

I’m very aware that at any time, either Scott or I could be left waiting to hear from the other for eternity; either one of us could be killed at any moment, which brings me to the most important part of this story:  The Scabs.

Please allow me to explain by rolling back my story a bit.  Okay.  A lot.

My parents were Norman and Melissa Walsh.  Dad usually went by Norm and our mom went by Missy.  Yep.  For years, Norm and Missy were well known among homing pigeon racing aficionados.   They raised and trained champions for themselves and others.

No, they didn’t make a hell of a lot of money doing it; but it allowed them to live in their little cabin just off Griffin Lane, about eighteen miles east of Greenville, North Carolina.  It was a larger-than-average log house where Scott and I grew up learning how to fish, hunt and survive.  They leased the property from a family who owned a much, much larger chunk of land and let us carve out that piece where my folks built their sanctuary.  They planned to eventually purchase the place and fully intended to give me and Scott another couple of siblings, but that didn’t work out.

Hey, that concludes the TEASER of my forthcoming book, Scabs.  It’s the first of at least a trilogy, and it is shaping up to be a true horror novel with a “creature feature” edge.  Is there some human flesh-eating here?  C’mon … it’s me you’re reading.  😉

Look for the book on Amazon.com, but find me on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/authorshelman




Find my zombie books at http://smarturl.it/deadhunger

Shelman Author Pic

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The stench of rotting flesh is in the air! Welcome to the Summer of Zombie Blog Tour 2015, with 30+ of the best zombie authors spreading the disease in the month of June.

Stop by the event page on Facebook so you don’t miss an interview, guest post or teaser…and pick up some great swag as well!

Giveaways galore from most of the authors as well as interaction with them!

#SummerofZombie is the hashtag for Twitter, too!

Teaser: Rebecca Besser #SummerofZombie

Undead Regeneration

By Rebecca Besser

Undead Reg Front Cover 1

The scream that echoed through the apartment was ripe with terror. It tore violently from Kyndra Thornton’s throat as she bolted upright in bed. Her eyes shot open, but she didn’t see the familiarity surrounding her. Her mind told her that she was in mortal danger and her emotions believed it – they convinced her that her cause to be frightened was real. Her jaw throbbed from an old wound, one that brought horrors with it, horrors of a zombie and a crazy woman from her past.

“It’s okay, honey,” John Daniels said, awakened by her scream. He reached out to comfort her from his side of the bed.

The hand that came toward Kyndra wasn’t human; the skin was hanging off with puss and blood dripping from the claws at the tip of each finger. She screamed again and lashed out at the hand reaching for her, punching it.

“Ouch, damn it,” John growled, sitting up and rubbing his bruised hand. “What did you do that for?”

Kyndra whimpered and shrank away from him as he moved, violently thrashing around to free her legs of the covers. She fell to the floor with her legs still tangled in the sheet and cried out.

“Ky, what’s wrong?” John asked, trying to reach for her again to help her.

A grotesque zombie face peered at Kyndra from above, growling unintelligible sounds at her, reaching for her trapped legs. She fought harder.

“No!” she screamed and clawed at the floor, trying desperately to drag herself away from danger.

In the faint illumination of the street lights shining through the blinds, Kyndra spied a weapon she could use to protect herself just a couple feet away. The possible weapon was a baseball bat that stood in the corner, and it was the only thing she could focus on at the moment. She didn’t have any time to waste since a blood thirsty zombie was attacking her.

“Calm down,” John said, trying to untangle her legs from the sheets so she wouldn’t hurt herself. Once she was free, he saw what she was heading for. “Ky, stop, damn it!”

He shoved back his own covers, jumped out of bed, and darted around it, gripping the baseball bat moments before she could reach it.

In desperation, and still in the depths of her terrifying nightmare/illusion, she started sobbing and shrank away from the zombie who’d foiled her plan to protect herself. She scooted backwards on her butt, shaking her head, trying to think of a new defense. Her hopes died when her back came up against the wall.

“Please don’t kill me,” she sobbed, crossing her arms and curling them up around her head.

John knelt where he was, a good six feet from her, and took deep breaths. They’d been through this before, but it had been months since her last night-terror. This was a full blown hallucination though, and they were more rare. They’d thought they were past them. This one was completely unexpected and the worst one yet. He knew he had to be patient and wait out her panic; it was hard for him, since all he wanted to do was take her in his arms and tell her that everything was all right, that he would protect her.

Ky sobbed and sobbed, tears running down her face to saturate the thin, soft fabric of her night shirt. Her body shook with fear. For what seemed like forever, she waited for the piercing pain of broken teeth tearing at her flesh. When nothing happened, she chanced a peek through the small gap between her elbows.

She frowned when she saw John kneeling on the floor across the room, holding the baseball bat they kept in the corner at his side, half-resting it on the floor. He was watching her intensely. What had happened dawned on her and she slowly lowered her arms and wiped her face with her hands.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“You tried to kill my hand,” John said with a half-smirk, holding up the hand she’d punched. “But thankfully it survived.”

Ky giggled and sniffled. “What’s with the bat?”

“You were serious this time,” John said, lifting the bat slightly and looking at it. “I think you were planning to bash my head in.”

“Oh, gawd,” Ky sighed and covered her mouth with her hand. “I’m glad you stopped me.”

“Yeah,” John said, looking back over at her, “me too. I really didn’t want to lose what little bit of brains I have up there.”

Ky grinned. “I love you. I’m so sorry about all this. I thought it was over.”

John stood, put the bat back in its place, and walked over to where she still sat against the wall. He reached down, took one of her hands in his and pulled her up – she stood willingly. Once she was on her feet, John pulled her into his arms.

“I love you more,” he whispered in her ear.

Ky wrapped her arm up around his back and gripped his shoulders, squeezing him tight. She started crying again for an entirely different reason. She hated when she was like this. She hated what she had tried to do to John. But instead of getting angry with her, he was always patient and calm. She loved him more than she could ever tell him and was thankful that he understood. After all, he’d survived the same nightmare, so he knew exactly what she was going through.

“Thank you for loving me…and for putting up with all this,” she said before kissing the side of his neck multiple times.

John smiled. “You’re a handful, but you keep me entertained.”

She laughed. “Oh, is that what I am, entertaining?”

John pulled back and looked into her dark eyes. “Well, yeah! I’m not into boring women. You should know that by now.” He winked at her.

Find out more about Rebecca Besser:


Rebecca Besser Author Pic

*   *   *   *   *

The stench of rotting flesh is in the air! Welcome to the Summer of Zombie Blog Tour 2015, with 30+ of the best zombie authors spreading the disease in the month of June.

Stop by the event page on Facebook so you don’t miss an interview, guest post or teaser…and pick up some great swag as well!

Giveaways galore from most of the authors as well as interaction with them!

#SummerofZombie is the hashtag for Twitter, too!

Teaser: Jay Wilburn #SummerofZombie

Summer of Zombie 2015

Teaser from chapter one of The Dead Song Dodecology Book 1: January from Milwaukee to Muscle Shoals

by Jay Wilburn

Dead song book 1 CD Cover Idea-001

Donna Cash tucked her dick away from the front of her sequined dress. She adjusted the wig she had borrowed from the box of supplies left unclaimed by previous drag queens, mostly eaten by zombies in the streets of Milwaukee.

She took the stage and stumbled on her left platform shoe which threatened to fold under and snap her ankle. Donna stood tall and sexy, but Timothy Janvier was short and had a growing belly. He wore a girdle and high platforms to make the transformation.

Donna straightened her back and slid her gloved hands down past the full curve of her hips. The fingertips showed through cuts in the satin gloves to reveal the shine of bright red nails against the sequins covering her body. She mixed wine color and slut red polish when she could find them in the ruins of beauty shops to get her signature hue that looked crackled and sexy under crappy propane lights. Beauty shops did not get hit like grocers, liquor stores, and gun shops. She slept in them some nights trying new make-ups until she felt drowsy.

The crowd did not turn her way right away, but a few went silent. She would take that as a recovery for now. The move was well practiced and required a little finesse to keep the satin from snagging on the sequins and ruining the sexy.

As she stood in front of the greenish metal of the microphone, Donna Cash decided to call an audible. The sultry tune of “True Folsom Blues” gave a good “come and bend me over” sort of jazz/blues vibe, but this crowd was already teetering. She leaned out toward the Asian fellow at the piano leading the band of guitars, drums, and horns. It wasn’t a bad ensemble for a post apocalyptic drag bar house band. She imagined it probably helped that nothing else was open for miles, so the surviving talent had pooled.

“Like Rome in the Renaissance,” Donna muttered.

“Florence,” the Asian fellow said. “We’re like Florence in the Renaissance.”

“Play something,” someone shouted. The titters of laughter and conversation followed.

Through it, someone else said, “Show us your pussy.”

The band leader tilted his head at Donna, but she shook her head at him.

Donna arched her back and gave her best swell of ass. Now she got some whistles and husky laughter. It was the kind of laughs straight dudes used to cover the tingles down under from a queen’s ass.

She whispered the chord progressions to the band leader. He nodded, but she still wasn’t certain. “True Folsom” was a safe opener because it was tough to fuck up. “Like a Ring of Fire” was a much harder mash-up, but if she wanted to play it safe, she could have stayed in Detroit.

Safe won’t earn you both toothpaste and dinner, bitches.

Donna stood back up straight and batted her eyes and pouted her lips in the flickering light from the lanterns. As she pulled a few more whistles, she tossed her head back and puffed out her chest which was mostly line illusion through make-up. A whiff of raw sewage wafted up from the grate just below the stage and she fought the urge to heave.

Tough to maintain a crowd of hard-ons over the smell of shit, but here goes everything.

“What the fuck were you looking at?” Donna Cash demanded. “You weren’t nearly so stiff when I went down. Did you have a heart attack and turn zombie on me, pumpkins?”

The crowd gave the first real cheer of the night. The crowd knew that you had to be bitten to turn into a zombie, but the joke still played. A mug flew past her head and shattered against the back wall. A pair of dirty, tightie-whities slingshot by her on the other side landing on top of the piano with the brown streak up. The fact that both missed her was a sign of respect in Donna’s book.

The band leader poked at a key and the other musicians came close to matching. He swiped the stained drawers aside with one elbow.

He muttered. “I kind of wish I was back in Hong Kong at moments like this.”

“Someone has been saving those up for a while,” she said to more laughs. “Well, I’m Donna Cash and I’m here now, mother fuckers.” She swung her palm around and slapped her own right ass cheek with a loud smack. “Hit it hard, boys.”

The music blasted out from the band almost on tempo.

“I made it through the wilderness … like a burning flame …”

After a few lines and a few moves, the crowd broke down the middle between cheers and dropped jawed awe – the perfect split. As the chain link at the far end of the room near the door rattled, Donna thought she was building to a climax. When the tables nearest the door barked on the floor and chairs overturned with sharp crashes, she suspected something else might be going down. The shouts and growls confirmed it.

One fellow picked up his chair and slammed the fencing. He caught one of the posts and broke the legs loose. Another man charged and jammed a Bowie knife through the links three times. He missed twice snapping the wire with a screech from the knife’s edge. The third stab caught one of the shadowed figure’s shoulders. A spray of black mist exploded out from a boil as the blade exited the rotten body. The man with the knife bent over and gagged, wiping the smear of gore around his eyes and nostrils.

Donna Cash added “Oh, shit” to the end of the chorus.

The men in the room lifted guns and aimed across the club. A shotgun blew out pellets from too far away ringing off the chain link and the closest tables. The band faltered, although to his credit, the drummer kept the downbeat. Another impotent, ear-ringing shotgun blast and one man still sitting and staring at Donna grabbed his face with both hands and fell backward onto the floor screaming. His friends on both sides of him dove for the floor.

Donna pulled the greasy green microphone free of the stand and rolled her hand in a circle. “Keep playing, boys. I think we can still salvage this. I’ve had worse nights.”

The band obliged.

More shots rang out until the sparks flew off the lock. The gate swung open and the dripping bodies staggered through the gap into the club. The ones in the back of the horde settled for falling upon the lax security trapped between the cage and the front doors.

Donna stepped off the stage with a whistle of feedback and kept singing. “That’s until I found you as the flames kept getting higher …” During the bridge, she broke off to call over the cheap speakers. “Put your barrels away, Pumpkins, I’ll handle these stiffs.”

The men looked between Donna sauntering across from the stage and the corpses shambling through from the cage. They kept their guns up and ready, but backed up watching her close the distance on the dead.

Donna continued the song as she slapped the ass of the black fellow that wore the shiny, silver helmet. Tight as a fucking drum. Who the hell still does squats during all this? Damn. He let out a little yelp and a few guys laughed despite the peril.

“Firm,” she broke to say before resuming the lyrics. “Like a ring of fire … torched for the very first time …”

Donna closed her hand over his bat just above his grip on the handle. She tugged at it rhythmically until he let go. She rested it on her shoulder and turned back to wink at the crowd just as the colorless fingers reached for her back.

“Look out, baby.”

Donna heard and she thought it might have been the same asshole that yelled to see her pussy. She really was winning the crowd.

With a backward jab, she felt the fat head of the bat connect with the orb of an eye socket. A little distance was gained, but rough fingers crackled as they clawed at her sequined back. The gun barrels rose so the darkness in each one loomed at her. She remembered the bullet holes backstage and figured she was out of time and out of luck with drunk aim.

Donna crossed her ankles and gave an expert spin. Light dazzled off her dress and the dead weight of her arm whirled the sweet spot of the bat into the temple of the scratchy corpse behind her. Even as his skull caved nearly into two pieces, she saw that the others had honed in on her as well.

Donna rolled the bat behind her and up over her shoulder as she tried to make her retreat appear to be a shuffle step. The bat whistled as it plowed down onto the top of a saggy jowled zombie. His head turned into a canoe and he corkscrewed as he collapsed onto the floor.

“Oh, the twist. How retro.”

Over the laughter, a gruff voice through the backstage walls said, “On your left, watch it.”

Donna whirled the bat overhead, but the wispy mustached partner of the black fellow stepped into view before the strike and drove a dark blade into the zombie’s ear. A fan of armpit hair spread out from under his extended arm. The creature staggered before falling limp off the end of the blade. Not to waste the swing, Donna whirled the bat an additional loop over the man’s long blond hair before ripping through the face of the cadaver she had been aiming for the first time. Its eyeball popped loose and landed in someone’s World’s Greatest Boss mug with the gray end of the optic nerve hanging up out of the hooch.

“Don’t drink that, pumpkin,” Donna warned.

Her strike glanced off too much to bust the one-eyed zombie’s skull, but she did turn its head completely around the wrong way. The body swiped blindly at the air as it stumbled backward over a chair into the floor.

The black fellow dodged past Donna with his head down and connected his silver helmet to the forehead of the next beast reaching for them. Its brains exploded out the back of its head leaving a brown smear on the silver helmet. The man raised his fists and jammed two broken chair legs through the heads of two more zombies bringing them down.

“I need my bat back, bitch.” The black dude adjusted his stained helmet up higher above his brow before he turned to face her.

A skinny girl with sheered bone exposed where her knees should have been drug herself between the feet of the slobbering, leaking men shuffling through the gate into the club.

Donna flipped the bat in the air and caught it on one clean spot holding the handle back out to its owner with the tight ass. She wrapped the cord to her mic around the neck of the dead girl on the floor as she went for Donna’s calf with broken teeth. Donna pulled tight drawing feedback and static from the speakers and lifting the girl up high enough that her fingers barely grazed the floor.

“Jesus, will someone close the damn door?” Donna lifted her chin to speak into the raised mic. “Everyone is getting in without a cover now.”


Check out The Dead Song Legend Dodecology Book 1: January from Milwaukee to Muscle Shoals




Check out the five song sound track in The Sound May Suffer … Songs from the Dead Song Legend Book 1: January




Jay Wilburn lives with his wife and two sons in Conway, South Carolina near Myrtle Beach on the Atlantic coast of the southern United States. He was a teacher for sixteen years before leaving to become a full-time writer. He writes in many genre. His Dead Song series book 1 is available now along with the five song soundtrack The Sound May Suffer.

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The stench of rotting flesh is in the air! Welcome to the Summer of Zombie Blog Tour 2015, with 30+ of the best zombie authors spreading the disease in the month of June.

Stop by the event page on Facebook so you don’t miss an interview, guest post or teaser…and pick up some great swag as well!

Giveaways galore from most of the authors as well as interaction with them!

#SummerofZombie is the hashtag for Twitter, too!

Teaser: Julianne Snow #SummerofZombie

An Excerpt from The Dead of Penderghast Manor

Julianne Snow


Perhaps now would be a good time to explain what actually occurs after death. Death is not completely final. There is something that remains once one’s pulse stops; a consciousness, best described as an afterlife, continues.

There are a few that escape the eternal box; they’re the faceless, nameless people that you sometimes pass on the streets. The ones that you ignore, or rather, forget to notice. Unlike the Hollywood version of the Zombie mythos, they are unconcerned with consuming living flesh. Their main goal is to find a quiet place to exist until the moment their bodies completely give out.

In some rare cases, they seek out living companionship and to an extent, respect.

The best known example is a comedienne who shall remain nameless. Hell, it’s obvious to anyone that she’s had a lot of work done. Her intention was to give off the appearance that she is still alive, but nothing could be farther from the truth. The story that passes for accepted fact among those in the know is this: the comedienne passed away naturally in her home and upon reawakening, she decided to carry on as if nothing had happened. She had the money to pay for silence and the preservation services.

There is a relatively larger number of the Dead among the living and there are reasons they remain (somewhat) anonymous; chances are you can already figure out just who they might be.

One of the great advantages to being Dead is that you get to decide who you want to communicate with. It’s like a switch of sorts; one minute you’re just a regular corpse, but with a pulse of Dead energy, you become apparently, and in some cases terrifyingly, sentient. It’s part of the reason that most people are utterly unaware of the existence of the Dead; they just have no desire to share their existential challenges with the world at large.

The only time they come out of hiding is on Halloween or for annual Zombie Walks. Nothing beats being able to be yourself and congregate with other Dead in your community. Besides, one of them inevitably wins “Best Dressed” each and every time. It’s just one of the perks of being Dead; the gore factor is readily apparent from the natural decomposition process and if you cannot use it for recognition at some point, what fun is it really?

The only thing that really sucks about being Dead is the fact that when you were alive, you were unaware of what occurred after death. The Funerary Services sector is booming, and burial and cremation are the accepted methods for the disposal of your deceased loved ones. For most, the only time they really had left before burial was at the funeral home.

For some reason, Chester got the ultimate nod of acceptance from the Dead. It was almost an instinctual thing with them; in Chester’s presence they acted as if nothing was amiss. As far as any of them were concerned, they still had a lot of time left on their clocks and it didn’t seem to matter that most of it was going to be spent underground.

Naturally, some begged and pleaded with Chester to just let them leave. There was no way that he could have ever done such a thing, however. The families of the deceased were counting on the Penderghast family to prepare their dearly departed for everlasting burial. That didn’t stop the recently deceased from trying, though. And try everything they did…

If you’re interested in reading more, The Dead of Penderghast Manor can be purchased or borrowed from Amazon! Here’s the universal link – http://mybook.to/TheDeadofPenderghastManor


Julianne Snow is the author of the Days with the Undead series and Glimpses of the Undead. She is the founder of Zombieholics Anonymous and the Co-Founder and Publicist at Sirens Call Publications. Writing in the realms of speculative fiction, Julianne has roots that go deep into horror and is a member of the Horror Writers Association. With pieces of short fiction in various publications, Julianne always has a few surprises up her sleeves. Be sure to check out The Carnival 13, a collaborative round-robin novella for charity which she contributed to and helped to spearhead which was released in October 2013.


Social Media Links:

Twitter: @CdnZmbiRytr

Facebook: Julianne Snow

FB Fan Page: Julianne Snow, Author, Days with the Undead, & Zombieholics Anonymous

Amazon Author Page: Julianne Snow

Goodreads: Julianne Snow

Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/cdnzmbirytr/

Google+: Julianne Snow

Blogs: Days with the Undead, The FlipSide of Julianne & Zombieholics Anonymous

*   *   *   *   *

The stench of rotting flesh is in the air! Welcome to the Summer of Zombie Blog Tour 2015, with 30+ of the best zombie authors spreading the disease in the month of June.

Stop by the event page on Facebook so you don’t miss an interview, guest post or teaser…and pick up some great swag as well!

Giveaways galore from most of the authors as well as interaction with them!

#SummerofZombie is the hashtag for Twitter, too!

Teaser: Melanie Karsak #SummerofZombie

Midway: A Harvesting Series Novella


We had been driving for a few hours, trying the radio with no luck, when we finally came to a fork in the road. We had a choice between two dirt roads. We pulled over and examined the map. The Bronco was low on gas, and the small town that was supposed to be there wasn’t. Vella’s map was as old as her Bronco. There was no sign of a town or anything else anywhere. I had wanted to get away from people, but I didn’t want to be in the middle of nowhere. Both roads looked equally country. We knew Mama Rosie’s truck wouldn’t be able to make the haul. She’d have to ride with us.

“Let me go talk her into coming with us,” I said to Vella, opening the door.

“I can move some stuff and fit her in the back.”

“It ain’t her fittin’ I’m worried about. What if she won’t leave her snakes?”

“Convince her.”

I nodded, and Puck and I hopped out and headed toward Mama’s van.

When I came to the side of the van, Mama wasn’t in the driver’s seat. She must have gone back to check her snakes. I opened the door and called to her. “Mama Rosie?”

She didn’t answer.

I looked down at Puck. He seemed nervous. He never liked Mama’s snakes, and I didn’t blame him. I stepped up into her truck. The door to the back of the van was open. I walked in to see Mama Rosie sitting at the ticket seat at the other end. I also noticed a couple of the pens had been opened.

“Mama, you all right? You got snakes out?” I called.

Mama Rosie didn’t move. Only a little light showed in from the skylight overhead. Mama’s head hung low.

I took two steps into the van. One of the snakes hissed at me, lunging at its glass cage wall.


Puck was standing on the driver’s seat dancing around nervously.

When I came up to Mama Rosie, she was still not moving. Her arms and legs hung limply. Her head hung low.

“Mama?” I said, and gently putting my hand on her forehead, I tilted her head back.

Her eyes rolled forward with a flutter. They were milk white. She opened her mouth, and a gurgling sound erupted. Two black snakes came slithering from her open mouth. She rose and lunged at me.

Puck started barking loudly.

I ran toward the front of the van, knocking several of the cages down behind me, blocking Mama’s path. As I turned to leave, a snake darted out of in front of me. I jumped sideways and fell into the driver’s seat. Mama Rosie was grunting and pushing through the cages. Puck barked at the snake and chased it out of the van.

I found myself staring down at the driver’s side floor, face to face with one of Mama’s tarantulas. It wandered away. Just then I remembered something. I jabbed my hand under the seat, praying to God no snakes were hidden there, and found Mama Rosie’s handgun.

I pulled it out in time to see Mama Rosie come crashing toward me. I aimed as best I could, closed my eyes, and fired.

I heard Mama Rosie hit the ground with a thud.

A moment later, Vella came running up.

“Oh my God! Are you okay?”

I sat up to see I had shot Mama Rosie between the eyes. Snakes were crawling everywhere.

“Get out of there,” Vella called, lending me a hand.

We closed the door to the van and stood at the side of the road breathing hard.

“You shot her in the head,” Vella said.

I nodded, but I also started crying. My stomach flopped, and I turned to the weeds at the side of the road and threw up. I had shot Mama Rosie. My whole body shuddered as I thought about those snakes bursting out of her mouth. I threw up again. What the hell was happening?


About the Author:

Melanie Karsak is the best-selling author of the The Airship Racing Chronicles (Chasing the Star Garden and Chasing the Green Fairy), the award-winning horror/dark fantasy Harvesting Series, and The Saga of Lady Macbeth. She grew up in rural northwestern Pennsylvania and earned a Master’s degree in English from Gannon University. A steampunk connoisseur, white elephant collector, and zombie whisperer, the author currently lives in Florida with her husband and two children. She is an Instructor of English at Eastern Florida State College.


Buy The Harvesting Series:

The Harvesting: http://amzn.com/B009GI3YBY

Midway: http://amzn.com/B00OX2KY7U

The Shadow Aspect: http://amzn.com/B00WDI66K0


Connect with the Author Online:

For VIP previews, free short stories, sneak peeks, and giveaways, join my mailing list: http://eepurl.com/OSPDH

Blog: http://www.melaniekarsak.com/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/MelanieKarsak

Facebook: www.facebook.com/AuthorMelanieKarsak
Email: karsakmelanie@gmail.com

Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/melaniekarsak/

Amazon.com: http://www.amazon.com/Melanie-Karsak/e/B009DKGKQG

Final His Res Ebook Cover Midway

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The stench of rotting flesh is in the air! Welcome to the Summer of Zombie Blog Tour 2015, with 30+ of the best zombie authors spreading the disease in the month of June.

Stop by the event page on Facebook so you don’t miss an interview, guest post or teaser…and pick up some great swag as well!

Giveaways galore from most of the authors as well as interaction with them!

#SummerofZombie is the hashtag for Twitter, too!