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  “Sargent!” the Major snapped sternly.

  “What is it, Sir?” the Sargent asked, slowly dealing the cards.

  “I don’t want you giving the young Private false expectations about what is going to happen. This still isn't a fair fight,” the Major said seriously looking at the hand he had been dealt. Then added with a smile, “Not for them anyway.”

  They laughed whilst inspecting their hands. There was an increase in the fevered banging on the door and the Sargent looked at the door, seeing the metal creasing at the hinge.

  “Think I might have overestimated how strong the door was,” he said with concern. Sure, the hinges would hold but the weaker material of the door was giving in.

  “Well boys, this game was over anyway,” the Major said, showing the others his winning hand with a grin. He scooped up his SA80, and said, “Back down we go.”

  With that, three of the soldiers raised their guns and aimed at the slowly crumbling door...all except the Sargent who collected and packed away his cards before joining the others in formation by drawing his handgun and knife. Not a single hand shook, nor did they waiver. They were soldiers fighting for Queen and Country. The door collapsed. They picked their targets and the soldiers began firing.

  Ryan Colley

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  What Happened to Emily?

  C.L. Williams

  A LOUD GUNSHOT HEARD from a distance is enough to scare Mary Reid and her husband Bobby. The panicked Mary sees her young son, Ryan, walking through a field behind their house. She rushes to her son and grabs him by the hand and forces him inside of the house.

  “RYAN!” A panicked Mary screams, “What were you doing outside? You know there are zombies out there!”

  “Sorry mom, I was looking for Emily,” Ryan says, trying to defend his actions.

  Emily is Ryan’s older sister who went missing after the first zombie sighting was made public. Ryan knows that his parents have gone frantic since she went missing. Even though he tried to use it as a defense mechanism, Mary nor Bobby were having it.

  “Son”, Bobby says to Ryan, trying his best to be the calm parent at this moment. “It was recently reported that you don’t have to be attacked by a zombie in order to become one. We have to be careful until a cure can be made.”

  “I know,” Ryan says to his dad. “I just wanted to be the hero and find Emily.”

  “We know, but you can’t be outside by yourself unless one of us tells you it is ok to be outside and right now, it’s not,” Bobby says to Ryan, doing his best not to go frantic.

  “Ok, but can I go back to the barn and get my action figures,” Ryan says, trying to bargain with his parents about going back outside.

  Mary and Bobby walk with Ryan outside and watch him as he makes his way to the barn. Mary nor Bobby see any Zombies and believe it is ok to let him go to the barn by himself. Ryan has done so in the past and they allowed it before the first sighting of zombies. They watch him as he looks down and grabs a stick that fell from one of the trees in the backyard. He swings at the grass as if he is holding a sword as he makes his way to the barn.

  Ryan opens the large barn door and steps inside. He starts tapping the ground of the barn with the stick he grabbed, causing the animals to make noises as he is tapping. He turns on the light in the barn that lights up everything except for one corner. He grabs his dad’s milking stool and drags it to the dark corner. He places it down and sits as he begins tapping the ground once more.

  As he is making a tapping sound something comes running in his direction. Out of the shadows comes none other than his older sister Emily, now reanimated as a zombie. He notices the gun he used to shoot his sister is underneath the stool he is sitting on. He is far enough that his sister can’t attack him but close enough for him to see her as a zombie. The news was right, it does not take a zombie attack to become a zombie and Ryan shooting his sister was enough for her to become a member of the living dead. He goes back and grabs the stick he dropped when he grabbed his dad’s stool, he walks back over to where he chained his sister and proceeds to poke her with the stick and provokes her as she tries to attack him. Little Ryan is not scared of his sister, he simply looks at her and says, “what happened to you can be our little secret.”

  C.L. Williams

  C.L. WILLIAMS IS AN independent author from central Virginia. Over the last few years, C.L. Williams has written and published poetry, horror, fantasy, and romance. He has released poetry books, novellas, and recently released his first novel in 2018. When not writing, C.L. Williams can be found performing his poems at a poetry reading, selling his books at conventions and festivals, or reading and sharing the works of other independent authors.

  Dying Days: Break Room

  Armand Rosamilia

  THE FIRST ZOMBIE WAS joined by another at the break room door, and Darren knew he wasn’t getting out alive.

  He’d been crammed into the tight space between the soda and vending machines, and he wasn’t a small guy. Dinosaur bones, his grandpa used to say. Family curse. All the men have fat asses and small members. Guts so big it hides the family jewels and makes the womenfolk close their eyes and do the deed.

  Darren wished his grandpa were still alive so he could protect him. He’d once gone to Darren’s school in first grade because Tommy Thompson had been bullying Darren.

  What kinda name is Tommy Thompson? Your parents brother and sister, too, boy? Slow as shit little bastard better keep your damn hands offa Darren or I’ll chop them nose-pickers off and you’ll never be able to touch your pecker or stick it in a relative. You got me?

  A third zombie had joined the others and their bloody faces were crammed in the break room window, as if they could see him.

  Could they? Darren had nowhere else to hide in the room. Due to budgetary cuts the company had taken most stuff from the room: two tables, six chairs and the vending machines were some of the things left. He thought the only reason the machines were still here was because they had a contract with the companies, otherwise they’d be gone, too.

  The microwave had been suddenly taken two weeks ago. Supposedly for repairs, even though it worked just fine.

  A small refrigerator and the cabinets secured to the wall were the only other items.

  The extra chairs, the TV and even the cork board had been removed.

  He figured if the sink wasn’t attached, they would’ve taken it, too.

  Darren could’ve flipped over a table and hidden behind it, but then his legs and hips would begin to hurt. It was hard for a big guy to sit on the floor comfortably.

  If anyone tries to kidnap you, Darren, just go dead weight, grandpa used to say. No way one man will be able to carry ya. Not bein’ mean, just bein’ honest. These are life lessons, boy. Stuff you can’t find in all them damn books you read. You’ll ruin your eyes with that garbage. Eyes is for huntin’ and findin’ a good woman to put up with your shit. Remember that.

  Darren had remembered that, although he was a lousy shot with a .22 or a shotgun. He still read the occasional book about monsters or aliens, but he’d hidden them from his family, especially grandpa. When he’d come to live with them in his later years, he’d never stopped spouting his wisdom. Even on his deathbed.

  Ya got a handsome face, Darren. Shame you wasted it by eatin’ so much. Shoulda taken ya out more fishin’ and deer huntin’ with me. Lord knows your prissy daddy didn’t do it before he left town. He treated you like a girl, which I told him, and your mama was the wrong thing. It’s a hard world. Cold. It’ll rip ya apart, tear ya down. Only the strong survive. Like me.

  Grandpa had lasted until ninety-seven despite the cancer eating away his insides. On his deathbed he still had some of his chaw and his favorite lighter, worn down from decades of using it. He painstakingly refilled it when it got low desp
ite the fact they’d bought him disposable lighters for holidays and his birthday.

  Don’t need no plastic lighter. This’ll be buried with me. Damn thing lasts.

  It had been buried with his body, along with his two favorite shotguns and a picture of grandma.

  The zombies were pressed against the door and it began to shake with the pressure. Darren figured sooner or later they’d bust through the glass. He wondered if they were smart enough to squeeze through the opening.

  Anything can be used as a weapon, Darren. A pencil in the eye will mess a fella up real quick. Don’t underestimate a good kick in the nuts, neither. It takes the fight outta the man right quick. No such thing as a fair fight. You either winnin’ or losin’. No two ways about it. When I raise my fists or a chair, I aim to hurt the other guy somethin’ fierce. I once killed a man in Reno just to watch him die.

  Darren thought that last part was a song lyric. He racked his brain to remember which one it was. His grandpa was always listening to old people songs like country music.

  The door shook violently as the zombies slammed against it.

  Darren knew he’d been spotted and trying to wedge his bulk between the vending machines wasn’t working. He pried himself loose and went slowly to the door.

  There were so many now, all the way down the hallway past the break room and into the warehouse area. Maybe a hundred.

  With no other door out of the break room, Darren was trapped. He’d eventually starve to death.

  Darren glanced at the vending machines. He’d been good. Stayed away from sweets the last few months. Lost a few pounds. Stopped drinking soda. Switched to water. Gone to the gym twice a week.

  What did it matter now? If he was going to be eaten by zombies, he might as well live a little. But... if he was rescued by a pretty firewoman or police officer, and she found him covered in empty candy wrappers and soda cans?

  Life is about choices, Darren. Lookit your grandma. She ain’t a beauty but, eh, she’s alright. I coulda had any gal I wanted. I chose her. Why? Why not. It felt right at the time. She gave me some damn good years, too. Popped out some kids like your damn momma. Gave me grandkids, although only you’s worth the price of salt in China. The rest are little assholes. Anyway... what was I sayin’? Oh, yeah... you do what needs to be done, kid. What makes you happy. Wanna have sex with a buncha people? Knock yerself out. Just don’t get into no love triangle or get a social disease. Be smart is all I’m sayin’. Cheat on yer taxes. Government is stealin’ from us so why not? You wanna stay fat like that? Your choice. Darren, only you control your path. ‘Member that next time you swallow a Snickers bar.

  Grandpa could be a royal jerk sometimes, but he was usually right, whether you wanted to hear it or not. Darren needed to stay vigilant and not give into the temptation of Kit Kats and Coke in the machines.

  He paced the room because he was bored, his head down when he passed the door. It wasn’t like seeing him had brought the zombies to a frenzy. They were already riled up.

  Exercise was good for him, too. Even though he was starting to breathe heavily, and his shins hurt, he kept going.

  A couple of minutes later, winded, Darren stopped and opened the fridge. He worked with a bunch of skinny bitches who brought yogurt and salad to work. Protein shakes and bottled water.

  Darren smiled. He had enough healthy food to last a couple of weeks if he rationed it out or it didn’t go bad. With the electricity still working it would be fine.

  He had tap water if he ran out of the bottled stuff.

  In the cabinet he found four boxes of health snacks. Someone named Amber had written her name in black marker on them. Obviously, a big girl trying to lose some weight.

  Every Amber he’d ever known wasn’t small and petite. Darren smiled. There was enough...

  Then he saw the unopened box of Oreo cookies.

  As the glass shattered behind him, he decided he’d never be able to go down fighting.

  No, he was going down with a smile on her face.

  Darren ripped open the Oreos as the door bent and popped open and the hungry dead swarmed at him.

  Before I go, boy, promise your grandpa you won’t die on account of you being a big gob of fat. Promise me, Darren.

  He opened the fridge to see if there was any milk.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE: I swore I’d never write another zombie story and definitely not another one set in my Dying Days world.

  But when I saw the theme this little tale hit me right in the face like a one-pound bag of M&M’s. Peanut, of course.

  Who knows...maybe someday I’ll write more stories set in my Dying Days zombie world...

  Armand Rosamilia

  ARMAND ROSAMILIA IS a New Jersey boy currently living in sunny Florida, where he writes when he's not sleeping. He's happily married to a woman who helps his career and is supportive, which is all he ever wanted in life...

  He's written over 150 stories that are currently available, including horror, zombies, contemporary fiction, thrillers and more. His goal is to write a good story and not worry about genre labels.

  He not only runs two successful podcasts...

  Arm Cast: Dead Sexy Horror Podcast - interviewing fellow authors as well as filmmakers, musicians, etc.

  The Mando Method Podcast with co-host Chuck Buda - talking about writing and publishing

  But he owns the network they're on, too! Project Entertainment Network

  He also loves to talk in third person...because he's really that cool.

  You can find him at http://armandrosamilia.com for not only his latest releases but interviews and guest posts with other authors he likes!

  and e-mail him to talk about zombies, baseball and Metal:

  [email protected].

  Punchline

  Noel Osualdini

  GOD HELP ME.

  Killing people hasn’t been part of my job description since I returned from ’Nam. Armed guards may carry guns, but we aren’t supposed to actually shoot anyone.

  Yet this morning, between talking to Ash about last night’s curry and taking a dump in the police crapper, I emptied my pistol into a crowd of shoppers and store managers, schoolkids, salesgirls... And when I ran out of bullets, I pulled the gun out of my dying partner’s hand and kept shooting.

  All of this with my bowels about to explode and add to the carnage.

  Mild Vietnamese curry, my arse.

  My poor burning arse.

  Hollywood would have us believe that every shot fired in anger reverberates like a cannon blast into a metal drum, but the truth is that in the seemingly quiet, safe suburbs, death and injury can come swiftly and stealthily, with little more than a sudden crack. Sometimes no more than the mild pop! of a security man’s pistol.

  Pop pop pop, I shot ’em, and they fell like jungle under the assault of a crackling machine gun. Like innocent villagers running from vengeful gunners who’ve been assured that every settlement harbors a nest of the enemy. Three shots, three down; three shots, another three down. My old sergeant, Johnno Harrington, would have been proud to see my deadly aim at the people in the mall.

  I’m hardly proud of it.

  Like me, Sergeant Harrington got through the war somehow. He didn’t get taken out on a dirt road by a sniper hiding near some backwater village, like my mate Jackie Kelso, or as he walked into a hut to check on a crying baby, like Brian Howard. Neither of us had our guts slit open by a VC knife and die trying to stuff our innards back in, like Lawrie Brown. No, Johnno Harrington, my mate who would never talk about the war after we got back, would return to Australia alive and intact––physically, anyhow, if not emotionally––only to die a few months later of a galloping pneumonia from long marches between plantations and through jungles, left alone while his wife was out shopping. There was no-one there to hold his hand while he passed, there was no popping of rifle fire in his ears. Perhaps the backfire of an exhaust, or a tire popping on the highway.

  Pop, pop––


  “Pop?”

  This time it’s my granddaughter, Alicia, barely five and cute as a button, using the English endearment for grandfather, not the American word for father. I am sitting at my wooden kitchen table, my hands shaking and bloodstained from the final battle, my mind wandering. I am still shocked that I have been able to make it home alive. I am still shocked at what I’ve done.

  But there’s nobody here with me, of course: innocent little Alicia is a memory. The only living person in the room, with the blood of a dozen shoppers and kids and a handful of Viet Cong on my hands, is me.

  And I won’t be alive for long.

  Hold my hand, I’m dying.

  I don’t know if the police would even bother coming for me now: they have their own problems to deal with. The sound of gunfire in a police station. My mind, rippling with memories. The sound of good men being slaughtered.

  Pop! A memory. VC popping up out of nowhere, as if they’d just risen from their graves. It cost Huey Jones an arm, and nobody could explain how we’d missed that enemy soldier standing in clear sight. The crackle of allied machine guns in the background, mowing down jungles with their bullets, as we faced off with troops who seemed to have materialized out of thin air, formed themselves from the long grass.

  We Australians had always thought it was only World War II POWs who dug tunnels: them and bloody rabbits.

  “Pop!”

  And suddenly, in my mind, it’s 8.30 this morning again. It’s a school holiday, but it’s not a bank holiday, and I’m due to leave for work in a few minutes. Alicia and her brother were supposed to be spending the day with friends, but she’d woken with a slight fever––something going around, and a kid at daycare had actually bitten her yesterday––so I’d organized Kylie, one of the local teenagers, to look after both of them for the day. I suspected that when Alicia’s eight-year-old brother finally got up, he too would have a cold from a night out with their non-custodial father: their father, who was never a soldier, never a man, but who used to beat my daughter into oblivion on a Saturday night. I recalled the excuses from Marta about walking into doors, the broken ribs from slipping on a freshly-mopped floor and hitting the kitchen table side-on. Domestic excuses for domestic violence.