Teaser: Jack Wallen #WinterofZombie


one | we once had dreams


The bullet left the pistol, as silent as the coming night. The look on Jacob’s face was serene and welcoming. He begged for death, and I was to be his angel of mercy. As the slug traveled the distance between death and life, it slowed until I could trace its path with my finger. As stealthily as it shot from the gun, it entered the bony casing around Jacob’s brain.

Only this time, he didn’t die. He sat there, staring at me, blinking and bleeding from his eyes, mouth, and nose─everywhere but the wound.

“There’s a storm heading your way, Bethany,” Jacob whispered, his voice a chorus of horror. “You will run, but you will not flee.”

From the bullet wound in his forehead, a pale, white finger emerged. As the digit pushed forward, Jacob’s voice turned into a dread-filled moan. The pitch of the voice did a dramatic Doppler shift into basso profundo and Jacob’s lower jaw bifurcated and dropped.

I kissed the tip of the pointing finger and then said, “Swallow me whole, my love.”

As the gaping maw engulfed my head, a blast of Hell’s own heat scorched my flesh. The acrid smell of death wafted into my nostrils and coated my tongue with the taste of sacrificial failure.

“Jacob,” I cried out into the bottomless pit of my lover. The cry echoed on in a spiral of chaos.

“Bethany.” The voice of Jacob shifted from that of a monster to that of a man.

As I traveled down Jacob’s hot, sulfuric gullet, the peristaltic vibrations threatened to tear me apart.

It was my turn. I zombie I.

I screamed at full force, my vocal cords threatening an existential exit from my being. As my voice grew in pitch and volume, Jacob’s bones cracked and his flesh tore. Dark, viscous blood splashed in every direction and offal spilled over the dry, cracked earth.

Carefully, I stepped from Jacob’s undone form, covered in the gore of my one-time lover, and dropped to my knees. With another primal scream, I let my hatred of the moment fly. As the sound echoed off the surrounding nothingness, the ground beneath me quaked and a voice called down from the heavens, “Bethany.”

Flames licked at my flesh to fry the remains of Jacob, to cleanse me of the past.

“I’m not ready to forget!” I shouted.

Again the disembodied voice called out, “Bethany.”

My eyes shot open. Hovering above me, Jamal looked down, his gleaming white smile a warm welcome back.

“You were screaming to wake the undead,” Jamal whispered.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“Who gives a shit, B? It’s the apocalypse. Time is irrelevant.”

I punched him in the shoulder, a bit harder than I intended. Jamal’s inner geek came out to play and he winced.

“Toughen up, Gladys, it’s the apocalypse,” I teased. “And the relevancy of time is irrelevant when you have a child. Jacob needs to be fed.”

Jamal grinned and kissed my forehead. “Already taken care of, sexy pants. Your boy has a full tummy, a clean diaper, and is busy dreaming of…whatever it is babies dream of.” He dropped onto his back, hands clasped behind his head. “I wonder what babies dream about?”

I rolled over, kissed Jamal’s full, warm lips, and said, “Good night, sweet prince.”

“And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest,” Jamal finished the quote and wrapped a comforting arm around me as I drifted off.


Purchase Fry Zombie Fry on Amazon.com:



*   *   *   *   *

The stench of frozen flesh is in the air! Welcome to the Winter of Zombie Blog Tour 2015, with 40+ of the best zombie authors spreading the disease in the month of November.

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!

#WinterofZombie is the hashtag for Twitter, too!

Teaser: Peter Welmerink #WinterofZombie

TRANSPORT Triptych Cvr Spread_with Text

Winter of Zombie 2015 Book Teaser Post



You can find another post regarding my Military Zombpocalypse Thriller, TRANSPORT, on Mr. Rosamalia’s regular blog. Here, I thought you might enjoy a little excerpt from TRANSPORT (Book Three) UNCIVIL WAR. My main character, Captain Jake Billet, finds himself in a bit of a predicament while on the west side of town where the “local” undead are contained.




There is nothing more agonizing to listen to than the bawl of the undead. It is like listening to a cow at slaughter, where the beast isn’t quite dead and the chainsaw doesn’t bite through in that first stroke. All you know is the poor creature feels every steel tooth of the saw tearing into its flesh. The horrible death knell increases on the street as UCRA civilians, once living, breathing folks, humans, turn to puddles of gore. They are unable to move, only able to dissolve like plastic in a hot furnace.


Jake loops his arms under Bob’s armpits and lifts. For an emaciated bag of flesh and bones, the old boy weighs a ton. Ignoring the pain in his side, the gunshot wound to his arm, Billet lifts and drags Bob away from the spreading yellow fog curling and undulating toward the gas station.


“It affects healthy and unhealthy flesh,” Lettner says skipping along excitedly beside Billet.


“Is this real? This can’t be real,” Jake says.


He spies a large garbage dumpster sitting behind the service station. It butts up against the wall of the one story building. “Who would bring this to the city? How could they without someone knowing. All the people we work with. We would’ve had Intel on this.”


Black Hair’s one word, one name, closed Jake’s mouth, and then: “Largo.”


Rupert Largo is well known for his contempt for Mayor Honeywell. Everyone knew, including the mayor, the City Treasurer bucks for his position. Rumors also abound there was a city commissioner leading an underground group of radicals looking to eradicate the zombie populace in the UCRA. GRAZA, Grand Rapids Anti-Zombie Association it was called.


With the activities of Loyalists well-known in West Michigan since Lettner’s death, and GRAZA, and singular folk who take things into their own hands: the big city was hard pressed to really dig deep and pursue anyone in these extreme factions.


Now, adding hired armed insurgents—mercenaries—to the mix…


Jake’s head spins with the endless possibilities.


“Quite the shit storm you’re in, Captain,” Lettner says as Jake drags Bob to the trash gon.


Lifting, pushing, struggling, Jake hefts Bob onto the steel trash receptacle. He climbs upon himself, then lifts the old undead gas station attendant to the roof line. A sack of potatoes would be easier to maneuver. He fumbles, almost drops them both back to the pavement below. The holes in his chest, arms and legs ache dully. His clothing sticks to his flesh, pulls away every time he moves, causes pain. He takes it, the only thing that makes him feel alive, motivated.


The yellow mist sweeps around the corner of the gas station. Lettner stands there, ground level, smiling, unaffected; it’s an old friend to him.


“I see pretty clearly,” Jake says, one last thrust upward, heaving Bob over the edge. He hears the crunch of gravel as the old zomb hits the flat roof top. Jake follows, starts to pull himself up and over. “Largo’s involved in this somehow. Maybe the whole thing.”


The toxic fog coils around the gas pumps, roils around and beyond, spreading like an incoming ocean tide. Jake sees the black haired rotter sent to kill him shrouded in the stuff, like a body lying just under a watery surface. Flesh melts away from skull. Clothing deflates as the body is eaten away. Red-black liquid gore oozes from shirt collar, sleeves and pant cuffs. A skeleton in ragged black combat attire is all that remains within a few heartbeats.


“At least he’s better off,” Lettner says, the first hint of glumness in his usually sarcastic jovial tone.


Jake ignores the man and pulls himself over the roof’s ledge. He rolls, pushes himself upright, kneels, body crunching the gravel and tar-lined service station rooftop. The heavy fog doesn’t rise any higher than the mid-way point of the big metal trash gon. Thankfully.


It’s still a problem though as Jake peers down at the swirling, spreading mist. If it’s the same stuff Lettner used on the West Olive populace years ago, the substance affects healthy, living flesh the same as necrotic, dead flesh; eats it down to the bone, all flesh, all muscle, tendons, organs. It turns one to sauce without the blender.


In the distance, from the city, sirens wail.


“They’re bringing in the firefighting units,” Jake says aloud, kneeling beside the still form of Bob. “They don’t know what they’re driving into.” Taking his tattered and torn, bloody shirt off, he gently winds it about Bob’s head to keep what’s left of the ancient man’s rotting gray matter inside his shattered skull. He ignores the deep gashes and puckered, weeping holes about his own uncovered body.


It will take the city several minutes to gather the protective convoy to flank the lone, special UCRA-designated pumper truck—an old converted MRAP the size of a school bus.


All the buildings west of the gas station are one story; Bridge Street Fluorescents, a short hop from the service station roof to it, then down and a quick jog across the lawn of the West Side Savings & Loans, Flamingo Lounge, a vacant lot and then Squire John’s Fish-n-Chips.


An overturned Buick blocks the front entrance of the old restaurant on the corner of Lane and Bridge, purposely situated, along with wood-plank and steel-reinforced front and side windows. The rear entrance, a steel door with an electronic sensor pad and video monitor above, keeps the contents inside safe from the local populace and then some.


“Radio in the Lane Avenue safe house,” Billet checks one last time that Bob was secure.


Lettner looks up at him through the bloody shirt. “You better hurry, Captain. You don’t want anyone else to die on your watch.”


Unholy screams from below, Jake glances over the roof’s side to see several more curious neighborhood civilians engulfed in the yellow fog.


“Help… us,” his wife Jenna cries from the roadway, the ghost image of her and Joey starting to sink beneath the ochre waves.


“Fuck you. Not this time,” Jake says back to Lettner, finding just Bob’s shattered visage gazing up at him. The old boy lives, and there’d be plenty others if he can get to the Lane safe house, to the communications radio he knows is within.


He stands and runs for the west edge of the rooftop. He leaps the arm-length span between the gas station and the Bridge Street Fluorescents rooftop. With all his wounds, he expects more pain versus the dull throb.


On the opposite side of the lighting distributor store, a short drop to street level again. Jake stops, peers over the roof’s edge. The heavy yellow vapors have flowed like flood waters further down the street, swirling around the West Side Savings & Loan, the Flamingo Lounge and further.


“How much did that plane carry?” he asks himself.


Never the less, he swings himself over the edge of the roof, and drops to ground level. He turns, standing on the grassy sward lining the old bank building ahead of him. The cloying yellow mist swirls about him, waist level, rolling up along his bruised and bleeding naked abdomen and chest.


He begins to scream.


Welmerink Pic 2015

Peter Welmerink (www.peterwelmerink.com) was born and raised on the west side of pre-apocalyptic Grand Rapids, Michigan. He loves his hometown and West Michigan, which is why he writes about it. He writes Fantasy, Military SciFi, and other wanderings into action-adventure. His work has been published in ye olde wood pulp print and electronic-online publications. He is the co-author of the Viking berserker novel, BEDLAM UNLEASHED, written with Steven Shrewsbury. TRANSPORT is his first solo novel venture. He is married with a small barbarian tribe of three boys.



Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pwelmerink

Twitter: @pwelmerink


grandrapidsaltered.blogspot.com (TRANSPORT-related posts)

darkheroicfantasy.blogspot.com (author interviews and all things fantastical)



Barnes & Noble





Barnes & Noble





Barnes & Noble




*   *   *   *   *

The stench of frozen flesh is in the air! Welcome to the Winter of Zombie Blog Tour 2015, with 40+ of the best zombie authors spreading the disease in the month of November.

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!

#WinterofZombie is the hashtag for Twitter, too!

Guest Post: Mike Evans #WinterofZombie

zombies and chainsaws



I don’t know that this is so much of an article as it is a grief. One that many of you probably feel each and every time that you turn on your television or sit down with you iPad or smart tv or however you decide to stream your favorite shows and movies.

What is this guy going to whine about you say? No worries I’ll be getting there I promise. Budgets, I don’t understand them. Can you imagine how good of a zombie movie they could make if they sunk the kind of money into one consistently that something like The Terminator, or Titanic got to have.

I mean think of the epic scale movie they could do if you got someone like James Cameron behind a zombie film, it’d make people get butterflies in their stomachs at the shear thought of it. I love movies like Dawn of the Dead, Zombieland, Twenty Eight Days Later, and World War Z.               You love them to? Of course you do why because they were granted a big ass budgets to get actors that could act, that they knew these films were actually going to be viewed in a theater and not thrown into a five dollar bin at Wal-Mart where they would randomly be picked up or if they were very lucky be placed on Netflix only to be called a complete piece of crap in the rating system.

The idea of having your book turned into a movie is such a epically cool idea but fearful at the same time to think it could be a B or C god forbid piece of crap forever to be made fun of. If you look at The Walking Dead which let me say I’m a fan it’s great it’s freaking awesome and I’m one of the many who like you has yet to miss any episode. They had something going for it a great cast, bought by a great budget, great zombie make up and creations brought to you by, yes you know it as well as sets, and every other thing that a big budget brings you. If these movies make so much money and the indie market for zombie books is so hot right now are they blatantly trying to keep awesome movies that in their own respect are huge series and could be franchises like no other? I question does it need to have a ring, or a boy on a broom to be something that people want to see more than one movie about?

Zombie films are not portrayed in the right like in my opinion. They would be movies about hope, about survival, about looking out for more than just yourself, they are filled with so much emotion when done right that I think the larger scale corporations who produce these are not giving them the respect that they deserve. The walking dead isn’t great because it has slow zombies it’s because you care about the characters which is because they have great writing, great actors, and yes a big budget, I don’t know specifically what they earn on that show, but you would think that someone somewhere in the industry might recognize this little show and think maybe I could get a slice of that pie. Is it that important that we don’t leave any movie from the 80’s and 90’s as original and not make a remake out of it?



Amazon Author Page http://www.amazon.com/Mike-Evans/e/B00IQ9Z75A/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1

Facebook author page https://www.facebook.com/pages/M-Evans-Author/1438259789750360

My author page http://tinyurl.com/mikesauthorpage

Twitter @mikee1123


Mike Evans lives in Iowa with his wife and children. He writes for character depth because he wishes for you to love the character, regardless if they are the villain or the hero. He likes to write from a unique perspective, doing things with books that no one has done before. He keeps his characters realistic, there are no superhero like events that will happen. There are no perfect characters in his books, everyone has their flaws much like that of life.


*   *   *   *   *

The stench of frozen flesh is in the air! Welcome to the Winter of Zombie Blog Tour 2015, with 40+ of the best zombie authors spreading the disease in the month of November.

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!

#WinterofZombie is the hashtag for Twitter, too!

Teaser: Russell James #WinterofZombie


Q Island by Russell James Chapter 1


He’d never been so hot.

Despite the plummeting temperature, rivulets of sweat streamed under the wooly mammoth’s thick, coarse hair. He felt as hot as on a summer’s day, though the cold north wind whipped a dusting of crystalline snow around his feet.

All week, he’d felt abnormal. His joints ached. When he dug for roots with his tusks, shooting pains, like two massive splinters, ran through his skull. In these last few days, he had felt progressively worse. The Siberian plain seemed to bend and roll before his eyes.

Waves of rage often crashed within him without cause, and then receded. Sometimes strange sights and colors appeared, and then disappeared as if by magic.

He scanned the endless grayscape through his watery eyes. The overcast sky and the vast open plain met at some invisible point on the horizon, giving the world a haunting uniformity. Save for wisps of blowing snow, nothing moved.

His mother’s herd of twenty had fallen as quickly as petals from a dying flower. First his cousin died, dropping without warning as the herd moved south to better grazing lands.

Blood poured from her mouth as she twitched on the taiga. The herd gathered around her, unsure why she suddenly fell and went mute. They nudged and prodded her to no effect.

As they realized she’d passed, each gave her forehead a caress with the tip of their trunk. By the time mother trumpeted for them to continue, dozens of bloody footprints circled the corpse in the crushed grass. Their heads bowed lower, and with a slow mourning step, the family continued the journey behind the matriarch who knew the way to winter pastures and the sun-driven schedule they had to keep.

By the next morning, three others were stricken. The two youngest and the grandmother were found bleeding in the grasses as the illness struck the furthest ends of his family tree.

The tragedy stunned the herd. With such long lifespans, the passing of family members was rare. To see so many losses in such a short time…

Each day dawned upon more dying mammoths, lumps of steaming hair and puddles of congealing blood. His mother balanced the mourning of the herd with the need to survive.

She pushed them south, somehow strong enough to carry both the burden of the dead and her responsibility to the living. On the plague’s fourth day, the herd’s guiding star went dark. He and his sister stayed at their mother’s side as she labored to breathe in the cool morning mist. When her heart went still, his own went numb, unable to understand the loss of what he held most dear. He and his sister spent the day and the night standing, then lying beside her cooling carcass. By morning, the leaderless herd had scattered. That afternoon, his sister fell ill and collapsed.

He tucked his tusks under his sister’s body and tried to help her stand. It felt like he was moving a fallen tree. She made no response. He set her back down and caressed her face with the tip of his trunk. He could tell she was dying. Her psychic communal bond with the herd had grown weaker each day, like a tangled mat of ivy, breaking one strand at a time.

The last strand broke. He nudged her eyelids closed. The world wavered and swam. A chill ran up his spine.

Her eyes snapped wide open. His heart skipped a beat with joy at her resurrection then stopped in terror. Her soft-brown eyes had turned the bright, glowing red of a prairie fire.

She rolled up on her feet, and let loose a furious trumpeting. She turned and charged him.

He reacted on instinct with lowered tusks. Before he knew it, his twin ivory spears pierced her side. Blood gushed from two gaping wounds. She fell to the ground, still. No steam rose from her mouth.

Now, for the first time in his ever-shortening life, he was alone. His relief at survival ran tempered by the hollowing sorrow of unbearable loss. As a pounding headache echoed in his enormous skull, he trumpeted a low mourning cry.

The wind picked up. A blast ruffled his thick fur, and a jet of subzero air froze a stream of sweat to his skin. Still, he felt hot beyond anything he’d ever experienced. The fury that had ebbed and flowed since he fell ill rushed in with more force each time. He burned from the inside out. Even the world around him seemed washed in red.

Ahead, the ground sloped steeply down to a small pond. A thin sheet of ice had already formed across the surface. The mammoth saw relief in that frigid water, a gulp to quell the raging fire in his gut and the inferno of anger in his mind.

His aching joints would only move in slow motion. He lumbered forward, trying to make a straight line for the pond as the ground seemed to ripple and sway beneath him.

The hot metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. Time was short. If he could make it to the pond, the water would make everything all right.

He staggered to the pond’s edge. The world took a dizzying spin, and his knees buckled under him. With a panicked trumpeted wail, he fell to his side. Tons of dead weight hit the ground like a falling boulder. He slid into the pond, shattering the ice at the surface and sending a shower of crystal shards into the air.

The water ran deep. The pond filled a sinkhole that stretched far into the limestone.

The mammoth gave one huge shudder in a weak attempt to surface. He snaked his trunk upward for a breath of air. It tapped against the clear ice that had already re-formed.

The mammoth bellowed out an agonized cry, consumed by the sting of his losses and the pain of his passing. He sank deeper. The world went dark.

He saw one last bright hallucinogenic vision. His mother and sisters stood on a verdant meadow of waving green grass. They beckoned him forward with their trunks. He joined them.

The air temperature crossed minus 30°F. The ice spread downward. In no time, it encased the mammoth’s cooling body. It would remain undisturbed for ten thousand years.


*   *   *   *   *

The stench of frozen flesh is in the air! Welcome to the Winter of Zombie Blog Tour 2015, with 40+ of the best zombie authors spreading the disease in the month of November.

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!

#WinterofZombie is the hashtag for Twitter, too!

Teaser: Peter Meredith #WinterofZombie

new crusade

Chapter 1

A First Kill

March 27, 2015

4:01 a.m.

For one man in Poughkeepsie, the screams and the frequent gunshots meant a dream come true. For Benjamin Olski, the zombies that were running amok outside his apartment window represented a chance of a lifetime, but only if he could rein in his fear.

Terror had been growing in his mind ever since he peered through his quarter-inch thick spectacles and watched the first man die on the street. It had been just some dude, looking stupidly preppie with his collar upturned and his khakis neatly creased. As though he were part of a morbid opera, he’d been surrounded by three of them in a wheel of golden light thrown down from a high streetlamp. With the dark all about, the scene was vague in its details and grainy like an old home movie.

The beasts were black-eyed and had hands that were hooked into claws. Their mouths, dark pits smeared with old blood, gaped wide, looking way bigger than normal mouths; they were like the jaws of a lion. Because they moved so well and with such deliberation, Benjamin initially mistook them for ghouls, but they were too well dressed for ghouls and too clean to have crawled out of a coffin. No, these weren’t creatures from the grave; they were zombies, fast zombies, the very worst kind.

The soon-to-be dead preppie had looked like a fool, putting up his fists as though he was going to box with them, as if that was even a possibility. Benjamin, crouching his lanky frame behind his bedroom curtain shook his head, saying, “What an idiot.”

A second later, they attacked. The preppie fool punched one and then was ripped apart by their teeth and their claws. Benjamin watched, gripping his .38 caliber pistol in two sweaty hands. He could’ve gone down there and killed a few of the zombies, but even as he told himself that the man was a goner anyway, he knew that it was just an excuse.

The truth was the zombies struck cold terror in his heart. They were vicious and strong, and so much faster than he’d been led to believe by all the movies he’d seen and the stacks of comic books in his closet which he had read over and over again.

When the three zombies in the street lifted their heads from the feast, they wore glistening beards of dark blood and Benjamin had whimpered.

But now was his time to shine…hopefully.

Across the hall from him lived Cheryl O’Neil. She had long, long legs; a deep year-round tan and tits only money could buy. For a year now, she had starred in his dreams and not just in his increasingly perverted fantasies. She also took center stage in his daydreams, the ones in which he was a hero, the ones straight out of a comic book.

He had lived so much of his lonely life in those books because what choice did he have? He was greasy, scrawny, and his pale skin sported perennial zits that bloomed in every season. Because his mother had told him they would scar him if he touched them, he left them to bead into sickening pustules. Since he seldom bathed, he stank of old sweat.

At twenty-eight, he was a nerd, a sad, socially inept nerd who could only dream about a girl like Cheryl, except now was his chance to impress her!

There was a man in the hall screaming vulgarities and pounding on her door. Benjamin stuck his eye to the peephole and saw it was one of her many ex-boyfriends. Just another no-name jock. Cheryl’s boyfriends all came and went quickly and all were tall with lantern jaws and perfect hair and none bothered to introduce themselves to Benjamin. They never even seemed to notice him when they passed in the hall, almost as if he wasn’t fully human in their eyes.

But now the tables had turned. The ex-boyfriend didn’t look right. Sweat streamed from his thick, wavy hair and his normally handsome face was twisted into an angry mask. But it was in his eyes where the biggest change lay. They were wet and dark like pits of tar.

“Open up, bitch!” the Ex yelled at the top of his lungs. “I know you’re in there. I can smell you. You’re behind this. You did this to me!” His fists were bloody from all the pounding; he didn’t seem to notice or care. He was driven by his need; wanting to get at Cheryl and hurt her and probably eat her as well.

Benjamin knew what he had to do. He’d read a thousand comic books and they all agreed there was only one thing a hero could do in this situation: he had to save the girl. After living a lifetime unseen in a societal shadow, he had to step up and prove himself…but the Ex seemed so big and so violent and the sound of his fists splintering the wood had Benjamin cringing even with the gun in his unsteady, damp hands.

Strangely, the gun seemed both heavy and small. It felt like it weighed fifty pounds in his soft hands and yet he was afraid that it wasn’t big enough to do the job, and he was afraid that he would miss and he was afraid that if he did hit the Ex it wouldn’t kill him and he was afraid…just afraid.

He had lived his entire life in fear. It was why he had always retreated into the world of daydreams and comic books. “But not now,” Benjamin whispered. “Okay, okay. Here I go. Here I go.” He couldn’t seem to bring himself to move. He just stood there, hyperventilating, as Cheryl’s screams, which had been muffled, were growing louder with the disintegration of her door. The Ex was practically through.

“I can do this,” he hissed, gathering together the filmy shreds of his courage and stepping into the hallway. The man was right there not five feet away. Benjamin raised the pistol. It was like holding a living thing. It was hot and all the shaking in his right arm seemed to come from it. Benjamin took hold of it with his left hand as well, mostly to try to tame it but partially to control the embarrassing trembling. Oh, how badly he wanted to pull the trigger right then. It would be so much easier to shoot the man in the back; much easier than actually confronting him, but would a hero do that? Would Batman or Wolverine?

“No,” he said, under his breath.

Benjamin steeled himself, puckering his ass, taking a firmer grip on the gun and swallowing loudly. He then yelled in a reedy voice that was nearly as high-pitched as Cheryl’s: “Stop! Leave her alone.”

Although Benjamin had the pistol out and had it pointed with all the menace his shaking hands could generate, the Ex didn’t seem to be too concerned by it. He turned from the door, snarling like a dog, showing black gums. His hands were bleeding and the blood wasn’t right, it was too dark. It came out a deep maroon, looking almost congealed. Just like the rest of him, it was wrong. Benjamin knew it. Fresh blood should’ve been brighter, almost cherry in color.

“You’re a zombie,” Benjamin said, voicing his accusation.

The Ex’s snarl turned into one of the hated sneers, the kind that jocks had always used to dismiss nerds like Benjamin. “Who the fuck are you calling a zombie? You little pig, shit, fuck!”

He took two steps forward and Benjamin took two steps back, hitting the wall next to his apartment door with his back foot. It was unexpected and he guessed wrongly, that his door had closed behind him. He thought he had trapped himself in the short hallway with a very big man-eater and, in a rash of panic, he pulled hard on the trigger.

The gun bucked in his hands, again so much like a live thing. It was like trying to hold onto a small, violent animal that wanted to jump out of his hands. The bullet went over the Ex’s right shoulder, cutting the air with the hiss of a snake until it struck the chandelier over Cheryl’s dining room sending glass raining down.

Benjamin didn’t hear the sound of breaking bulbs and shattering glass. He was in a panic zone where nothing registered on his senses except the half-formed zombie in front of him. His hands were spazzing in fear and when he shot a second time, he did so with the same jerking motion, missing a second time, again high and to the right.

“Fuck!” Benjamin screamed, pressing his back against the wall. He was trying to aim for the head because, as everyone knew, that’s where you had to hit to kill a zombie and this was most certainly a zombie. It had barely paused after the first shot and didn’t at all after the second. It was now so close that Benjamin’s third shot traveled exactly two feet before it crashed through the upper teeth of the zombie and blasted out the back of its throat.

The Ex was staggered but didn’t fall. It said something in a horrible, wet gurgle before it again tried to rush forward. Benjamin fired twice more taking out chunks of flesh and bone before he managed to bring the Ex down. He then stood there for a few seconds against the wall, hyperventilating and shaking.

“What did you do?” Cheryl asked in an airy voice. She stood in a state of contortion, her arms bent and crooked, one leg twisted so that she looked to be protecting her privates with one knee. Her back was hunched forward and her neck was extended, stork-like so she could see out into the hall without taking a step.

“I saved you,” Benjamin answered in the same breathless manner.

*   *   *   *   *

The stench of frozen flesh is in the air! Welcome to the Winter of Zombie Blog Tour 2015, with 40+ of the best zombie authors spreading the disease in the month of November.

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!

#WinterofZombie is the hashtag for Twitter, too!

Teaser: PM Barnes #WinterofZombie

Zombie Seed Conception Revised

Teaser from Zombie Seed II: Conception:


Al shook his head and cleared it of the memory as they arrived at the staging area for the observation room where Will was.  He was shocked by the number of people gathered in the small space.
Steve looked up from a paper print out he was reviewing with two other scientists and moved over to them.
“Martin, Al, glad you could join us.”  Al had to stifle his emotions. Did that little fuck face have any other greetings in his mental tool belt?
“It’s not looking good in there. It’s possible we might be losing subject 2.”
Al leveled a look at Steve that was filled with brazen hatred.  Steve quickly looked away and continued talking about the details they had gathered since the onset of Will’s downward spiral.

Al, who was paying little attention had stepped away and moved over toward the huge window. There on the opposite side was a man that had grown to be Al’s only friend in all of this and he didn’t look good.

“So you see, we might be facing a huge setback here.”  Steve finished as he came up behind Al. Al turned quickly and made his way for the door to the room, ready to go in and offer up whatever assistance he could to the man who looked like he was barely hanging on.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned around to see Steve holding out a mask and a pair of gloves.

“We know it’s not airborne Al, but with this new development we can’t really take any chances. Plus with Subject—Will’s weakened immune system, we wouldn’t want to bring him anything that pushes this thing over the edge.”
Al had to admit that Steve had a point.  He grabbed the mask and gloves, quickly applying them before stepping in.


“It’s okay Will, everything is going to be okay,” Al said reassuringly, even though he didn’t believe it.
He felt Will tighten his grip on his hand and looked down as the man tried to form words with his dry mouth.
Where the hell was that damn water?

“Don’t strain okay, don’t strain. We’re going to get you taken care of okay.”  Al realized that his lack of confidence was becoming evident in his voice.  He also realized that Will’s grip on his hand was tightening and becoming uncomfortable.  How could a man who was barely able to lift his head produce enough pressure to make Al feel like his bones were being ground?
Al took his free hand and placed it over Will’s, patting it in hopes that the gesture would cause the man to lighten up. Instead, the grip intensified.
Al attempted to remove his hand but found that he was unable to. Will had him in a lock.  He looked from his gloved hand, which was bunching around the spot where Will was latched on and appeared dangerously close to ripping, to Will’s face.

The man’s mouth was speedily forming soundless words that Al couldn’t make out.
All of a sudden Will shot up into a semi- seated position and pulled Al to him.

The five words were delivered in a gust of desert heat and then Will collapsed back down and started to convulse.

me (2)

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The stench of frozen flesh is in the air! Welcome to the Winter of Zombie Blog Tour 2015, with 40+ of the best zombie authors spreading the disease in the month of November.

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