extra cash lying around.
Peter pushed into the outer office, hoping to surprise his visitors. He brought his axe back, freezing in mid-swing, his mouth agape as he stared at a woman whose flesh glistened red where her head used to be.
Something moved to his left. He turned sharply, in time to see Ed ambling toward him, carrying his head under one arm. Behind Ed, the dumb couple, Benny and his wife, what was her name?
There was another sound behind him—the waitress with the stupid grin that was no longer there was bumping into the water cooler. She was holding her head in one hand, fingers tangled in the bloody blonde hair.
More came through the front door. He recognized some, but mostly they were victims he’d not thought of since disposing of them. They were the poor, the homeless, the down and out, the dregs of society. They began to close in on him.
Peter hoped he was dreaming. He’d fallen asleep, that’s all. This wasn’t Night of the Living Dead, and besides, zombies didn’t live with their heads off. Wasn’t that the way it worked? He wasn’t a big movie buff, but he knew that much. Anybody with half a brain knew that much.
He swung the axe anyway, even if he was dreaming. The blade buried in an arm here, a leg there—he even lopped off one of the waitress’ breasts, but she kept coming. They all kept coming. They circled him until he could no longer swing his axe. Finally, they converged on him completely, groping, tearing at his clothes and then his flesh. They held their decapitated heads to him and the heads began to feast on what the dead things dragged from Peter’s writhing body.
He had one last thought before he died. It was a ridiculous thought, but true nonetheless—these worthless creatures wanted their refund checks.
There Goes the Neighborhood
Jonesville was a quiet little town with a population of five hundred, not counting the dead that started climbing out of the lake one rainy night in May of 2005. Like most small-town folk, the people of Jonesville were used to their own way of living. They clung to it adamantly, even when the walking dead began to ruin the tranquil rural landscape with their rotting presence.
Truth be told, those that came out of the lake had more right to be there than any of the current residents of Jonesville, but nobody wanted to talk about that. Some things were better left unsaid, you see, and the people of Jonesville knew which things fit neatly into that category.
Most Jonesville residents eventually got used to the dead being around. Some simply tolerated the rotting corpses, so long as said rotting corpses stayed the hell out of the way and remembered their place.
Alan Bainbridge was one of those residents who tolerated the walking dead. He did so only because he wasn’t about to let them ruin the good life he’d found in Jonesville.
Alan had purchased a home here for his family, a wife and son. The house sat on the outskirts of town, right near the big lake, and he’d be damned if he was going to let a few rotting corpses force him to leave it all behind. He’d swung a good deal on the house and property—a once-in-a-lifetime deal. He would not give it up for a few dead neighbors. Dead wasn’t any worse than some of the weirdo fucks he’d been accustomed to living around back when he’d had his family in a low-income trailer park.
Oh sure, it was strange at first, going down to Main Street for groceries and seeing old lady Jenkinson limping back and forth in front of the post office, or pulling into Fred’s Garage and seeing Fred himself standing at one of the pumps with a greasy rag and overalls, holding a gas nozzle in one decayed hand while he chewed some imaginary tobacco with gums that were black and slimy with rot.
Strange, sure, but Alan got used to those things pretty quick. His wife Cora thought it would be best if they packed up and left, but Alan wouldn’t hear of it. He’d bought his new house for
Peter pushed into the outer office, hoping to surprise his visitors. He brought his axe back, freezing in mid-swing, his mouth agape as he stared at a woman whose flesh glistened red where her head used to be.
Something moved to his left. He turned sharply, in time to see Ed ambling toward him, carrying his head under one arm. Behind Ed, the dumb couple, Benny and his wife, what was her name?
There was another sound behind him—the waitress with the stupid grin that was no longer there was bumping into the water cooler. She was holding her head in one hand, fingers tangled in the bloody blonde hair.
More came through the front door. He recognized some, but mostly they were victims he’d not thought of since disposing of them. They were the poor, the homeless, the down and out, the dregs of society. They began to close in on him.
Peter hoped he was dreaming. He’d fallen asleep, that’s all. This wasn’t Night of the Living Dead, and besides, zombies didn’t live with their heads off. Wasn’t that the way it worked? He wasn’t a big movie buff, but he knew that much. Anybody with half a brain knew that much.
He swung the axe anyway, even if he was dreaming. The blade buried in an arm here, a leg there—he even lopped off one of the waitress’ breasts, but she kept coming. They all kept coming. They circled him until he could no longer swing his axe. Finally, they converged on him completely, groping, tearing at his clothes and then his flesh. They held their decapitated heads to him and the heads began to feast on what the dead things dragged from Peter’s writhing body.
He had one last thought before he died. It was a ridiculous thought, but true nonetheless—these worthless creatures wanted their refund checks.
There Goes the Neighborhood
Jonesville was a quiet little town with a population of five hundred, not counting the dead that started climbing out of the lake one rainy night in May of 2005. Like most small-town folk, the people of Jonesville were used to their own way of living. They clung to it adamantly, even when the walking dead began to ruin the tranquil rural landscape with their rotting presence.
Truth be told, those that came out of the lake had more right to be there than any of the current residents of Jonesville, but nobody wanted to talk about that. Some things were better left unsaid, you see, and the people of Jonesville knew which things fit neatly into that category.
Most Jonesville residents eventually got used to the dead being around. Some simply tolerated the rotting corpses, so long as said rotting corpses stayed the hell out of the way and remembered their place.
Alan Bainbridge was one of those residents who tolerated the walking dead. He did so only because he wasn’t about to let them ruin the good life he’d found in Jonesville.
Alan had purchased a home here for his family, a wife and son. The house sat on the outskirts of town, right near the big lake, and he’d be damned if he was going to let a few rotting corpses force him to leave it all behind. He’d swung a good deal on the house and property—a once-in-a-lifetime deal. He would not give it up for a few dead neighbors. Dead wasn’t any worse than some of the weirdo fucks he’d been accustomed to living around back when he’d had his family in a low-income trailer park.
Oh sure, it was strange at first, going down to Main Street for groceries and seeing old lady Jenkinson limping back and forth in front of the post office, or pulling into Fred’s Garage and seeing Fred himself standing at one of the pumps with a greasy rag and overalls, holding a gas nozzle in one decayed hand while he chewed some imaginary tobacco with gums that were black and slimy with rot.
Strange, sure, but Alan got used to those things pretty quick. His wife Cora thought it would be best if they packed up and left, but Alan wouldn’t hear of it. He’d bought his new house for
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