A second story from Tony has arrived!

Click here to read ‘A Disagreeable Affectation‘ by Tony Schaab

Let me start this off with an apology. I’m sorry.

It’s been a number of weeks since I have posted anything, including an update as to where I am and why there has been an unexplained gap in posting.

Basically I got hit with a perfect storm of ’stuff’.

Work went crazy. I had to travel around the country, meet a bunch of people, solve a bunch of problems. I got sick, I just got better! (Huzzah!). Ontop of that I had the opportunity to start two startups (Which is one too many at the best of times!) and so they are in the process of launching.

So with all of that I lost the time and inspiration to write anything for the site, and I took the cowards way out and avoided the site, as I really did not know what to say.

Again, I’m sorry. Later on today I will post up another submitted story (Keep them coming btw ), and then tomorrow we will resume our usual schedule.

As an aside, I have a bonus for you guys which should materialize in a month or so (Cant say any more at the moment, but trust me its pretty cool!).

“GET TO THE TRUCK!”

Backing down the alleyway the six heavily armed survivors methodically unloaded bullets into the approaching wall of zombies. Accuracy was not a concern, as long as the shot was aimed at head height a zombie almost always dropped to the floor.

Looking back, Abbey, the group’s leader saw a side door to the alley vibrating and splintering as something on the other side tried to get through. Swinging her weapon she fired a full clip into the flimsy wood. As she reloaded she called out “Mark, Anthony, get to the truck and start it up, we need to go!” Firing several last rounds each they turned and sprinted for the vehicles, Mark jumping into the cab and Anthony hopping into the flat bed. As Anthony’s shots began to fly over their heads into the approaching crowd and the roar of the trucks engine coming to life filled the air Abbey gave the order “Alright, one more clip each then run!” and with that the remaining survivors unloaded the rest of their loaded ammunition, turned and fled to the waiting vehicle.

Pulling each other onto the flat bed, they each took up positions and began to fire again, trying to hold their aim steady as Mark rammed the vehicle into gear and began to accelerate. With a sudden crash a nearby door leading to the street shattered outward and a large, dark skinned man emerged, running toward them.

With a startled scream, Abbey, the closest person to the rapidly approaching figure, pulled the trigger and sent a hail of bullets into and through the man, ripping through him, sending him crashing to the floor, clutching at his throat as blood pumped out across his hands and onto the dusty street. As the truck picked up speed Abbey watched as the man, now on his knees, was enveloped in dust from the truck. For a minute there was silence, broken only by the sound of the trucks suspension creaking as they drove.

Finally, Anthony looked up at Abbey “Zombies don’t run Boss” he said.

The old French town had seen better days, and as Jean picked his way carefully over the rubble he wondered if he would ever see those days return. Dropping to his knees alongside an overturned and burnt out car, he scanned the town square for sign of movement. His gut screamed at him to keep going, but his brain, in calm control, forced the fear down. Hasty action resulted in death these days, he had seen it countless times, had watched the fear overtake people’s minds, driving them to flee, to fight, to make fast, stupid decisions.

He stayed silent and still for several more seconds, before finally, with agonizing deliberation and slowness, set off across the square, staying close to the larger chunks of debris and scanning the dark, empty store fronts and doorways, as he made his way toward the base of the clock tower.

He approached cautiously, reaching out with one hand to test the handle, while pointing his small revolver at head height at the door frame. Twisting the handle he pushed, only to knock the door against the dead bolt in place. “Dammit” he exclaimed as he turned back to look out across the square, trying to locate another suitable location to hide for the night.

As he looked around he heard a loud wooden creak from above, looking up with wide eyes, he watched as the top floor window splintered outwards, showering a cloud of glass and wooden splinters around a dark figure of a man as he stepped out into the void above Jean. Throwing himself into the door, he tried to press himself backward as the figure hurtled toward him. With a sickening crunch the man slammed into the ground, dragging his face down along Jean’s leg, shredding muscle and leaving teeth and fragments of bone imbedded into Jean’s outstretched leg.

Screaming in pain and panic Jean fired wildly as the disfigured man, began to pull himself up with jerky sporadic movements, before slumping back to the ground as the bullets shattered what remained of his skull. “NO!” Jean screamed as he looked at his torn and bleeding leg and at the now still zombie lying in front of him. “NO! NO!” He screamed again, violently kicking the still body in a fit of rage and spraying dark black red blood across the floor. As the rage subsided Jean slid down the door in exhaustion and pain. As he sat there breathing deeply he heard a distant sound. He closed his eyes and swore as the low moans of a dozen zombies reached his ears. He looked up and could make out the first of them emerging from an alleyway, shambling toward him with hungry murder in its eyes. Jean looked at the approaching zombie, looked at his pistol, aimed and pulled the trigger.

A second story from Michael Sullivan is here!

Click here to read ‘A History Lesson‘ by Michael Sullivan

Authors Biography: “Michael is a mild-mannered 29-year-old currently deployed to the Middle East with the U.S. Army. Other examples of his writing can be seen here. His blog, which has almost nothing to do with zombies, can be viewed here. And if you have a fever whose only prescription is more zombies, check out my friend Tony’s zombie-themed blog right here.“

A new zombie story from the community is here! (Also my posting will be getting back on schedule very soon, last week was v. busy    )

Click here to read ‘PaparazZombie!‘ by Tony Schaab

Tony’s Biography: Tony Schaab is your average 31-year-old guy, who shivers every time he hears that number, currently living in Indianapolis with his wife and dog.  He has often been described as a “jack of all trades, and master of none.”  In addition to writing in his free time, Tony works full-time as an college Admissions Counselor, works part-time as a private-event DJ, volunteers weekly at his local Humane Society, and is Troupe Manager of IndyProv, Indianapolis’ only independent improvisational comedy troupe.  Tony has a special affinity for the undead in his writings, his readings, and his viewings; his blog, “Slight of the Living Dead,” is a unique and well-read zombie movie/novel/TV series review website.  Contrary to popular belief (and possible public slander), Tony does thank his friends quite often, except for Michael Sullivan, who went to college with Tony for three years and never once had a zombie-centric conversation with him.

A second story from Narzane is here!

Click here to read ‘Home Alone‘ by Narzane

Narzane’s Biography: I am a new writer from Michigan just starting to make ZS’s. I live alone. I hope to keep on making more of these and to keep on getting better and better at it!

A new story from the zombie stories community is here!

Click here to read ‘Happy Birthday‘ by Michael Sullivan

Michael’s Biography: “Michael is a mild-mannered 29-year-old currently deployed to the Middle East with the U.S. Army.  Other examples of his writing can be seen here.  His blog, which has almost nothing to do with zombies, can be viewed here.  And in a shameless plug that his good friend Tony will never properly thank him for, another wonderful zombie-themed blog is available here.”

Demetri and Rodya crawled along side the low wall, carefully placing their feet so as not to make any noise and keeping a steady hand on the Kalashnikovs slung across their necks. Demetri reached the end of the wall first and looked down the hillside at the large antiquated but still in service flak cannon below. Squinting he tried to make out the distant figures moving around the large multi barreled, vertically pointing cannon. Rodya nudged him and handed him a set of binoculars, which Demetri took with a silent nod.

Through the magnified view he could see three of the men rushing to one side of the gun and pointing out across the adjacent field. Panning across to see what they had spotted Demetri cursed as he watched a group of shambling undead making their way toward the gun post. Zooming out, he watched as two more men joined the three, bringing with them a collection of rifles that they passed out. Each man loaded his rifle, took aim and after a few seconds began firing at the oncoming undead.

The crackle of gunfire drifted up toward them, as Rodya leant back against the wall and lit a cigarette. “The poor bastards don’t know how to kill them” muttered Demetri as the zombies continued moving across the field and reached the low sandbag wall around the gun emplacement. Dragging itself over, the first one reached out and grabbed the closest soldier who, unlike the others, had not had the sense to back away. Ignoring the bullets that shredded its outstretched hand and arm the zombie fell onto the soldier, dragging him to the floor and tearing flesh and limbs apart.

As Demetri watched more of the undead poured over the wall, walking through the hail of bullets unimpeded toward the soldiers. In a desperate act, one of the defenders threw his rifle to the ground and ran to the firing seat of the large gun. With a metallic screech the barrels swung down, and rapidly rotated toward the zombies. Despite several being alongside the barrels and thus out of the firing line the soldier pulled the trigger and started firing. Demetri pulled the binoculars away and watched as the massive gun began to shred the adjacent field, churning turf apart, shredding zombies and splintering whole trees into shattered firewood as the massive explosive ‘Booms’ rolled across the small valley.

Rodya’s cigarette hung loose from his lips as he stared in disbelief at the destruction below him, and then, as something caught his eye, he nudged Demetri and pointed. One of the undead had walked around the gun, ignoring the fierce hand to hand battle of soldiers against zombies and proceeded to stumble up to the gunner. Reaching over the seat the zombie grabbed the soldiers jaw and pulled. Blood sprayed onto the gun and with another vicious pull the zombie dragged the soldier out of the seat, knocking a lever and setting the gun in motion.

Demetri and Rodya sat motionless as the gun began to rotate and lift, sending round after round into tree tops and then along the hillside. The two looked at the path of destruction rapidly making its way toward them and with unspoken panic, launched themselves down the hillside. As they ran Demetri looked to his side at the rapidly approaching destructive line and with a desperate roar, threw himself forward, knocking Rodya to the ground. As the two tumbled down the hillside, Demetri could hear the sound of whistling shells flying over his head and felt the thumping vibrations pounding through his chest. Mud, grass and smoke rolled over them and then, in an instance, it was gone.

Lying on the ground, bruised and battered the two looked up as the giant cannon stopped firing and its slow whirl came to a stop. For a moment nothing moved and then, with agonizing slowness, one of the soldiers, blood pouring from a gaping wound in his side and arm hanging at an impossible angle, stood up, spied the two lying on the hill and let out a low moan that drifted across the hillside toward them. As they watched several more stood up and joining the first, began to lurch toward them.

Demetri swore, tilted his neck until it gave a satisfying crack, picked up his rifle, turned toward Rodya and said “Time to get up comrade, we have work ahead”.