ZOMBIE SUFFRAGE A LETTER TO THE CHRISTIAN ZOMBIES OF AMERICA

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However in terms of entertainment value, the stories varied widely and I think I only enjoyed about half of them. The last two stories that close the book are the worst examples of this. Still, all things taken together, I liked the collection and enjoyed it for its merits which only just outweigh its demerits. May 19, Sha rated it liked it. There are some great short stories in here. But, the majority of the stories are basically the same theme. Zombies attack and people die. Jul 25, Casey rated it it was amazing.

This is a fantastic anthology. Riley - "After Nightfall" Hugh. Lovecraft - "Herbert West, Reanimator" H. Turzillo - "April Flowers, November Harvest" In this gruesome anthology of the living dead, all these and more will try to catch your eye and devour your brain. From the macabre pens of the world's most spine-tingling horror and fantasy writers, the grisliest, goriest, ghastliest stories from the last two centuries have been plucked from the shadows by legendary editor Otto Penzler, to form the most monstrous volume in zombie history.

Featuring a "Horrifying ghouls, decaying corpses, body snatchers, grave robbers and flesh-eating monsters. Featuring a cast of world-class writers, including H. Aug 03, Greg rated it really liked it Shelves: While the cover makes this anthology look like pure pulp, it's not. There are so many really great stories here - there are a couple of standouts that alone make this one worth checking out. It's an unforgettable gem of a story. The other is "Deadman's Road" by Joe R.

Lansdale, which pulls you into to the creepiest western yarn you've ever read While the cover makes this anthology look like pure pulp, it's not. Lansdale, which pulls you into to the creepiest western yarn you've ever read. Witty, atmospheric and weird as hell. There are lots of others here that are well-written, historically significant and just great short stories one more shout out: This compendium is a wonderful read however I wouldn't recommend it for all fans of the zombie genre.

Modern day fans may not enjoy the older style zombie horror tales. That being said, fans of traditional horror should find this book to be a treat. Apr 02, Davie added it. Jan 20, Tracey marked it as to-read Shelves: Sep 17, Dm rated it really liked it. This book is a great example of how times change but horror stays relatively the same. Overall a good example of the evolution of zombie in stories and a good collection for the die hard fans. I saw this at the used book store at the local library for a quarter.

I had to get it. Awesome and excellent read. Amanda Fox rated it liked it Dec 14, Rebecca rated it really liked it May 12, Fco Acosta rated it liked it Jul 07, Mog rated it liked it Oct 03, Suzan rated it it was ok Feb 10, Arlian rated it liked it Nov 12, Henrik Rostoft rated it liked it Mar 08, Jennie rated it really liked it Nov 25, He was too late, we owned the issue now, and watching him, I could see he knew it, too.

There was a celebratory hum in the air as the plane settled to the tarmac. Burton spoke for a few minutes at the airport, and then the Secret Service people tightened the bubble, moving us en masse toward the motorcade. Just before he ducked into the limo, Burton dismissed his entourage. His hand closed about my shoulder. He was silent as the limo slid away into the night, but as the downtown towers loomed up before us he turned to look at me. He held up his hand. It was like you knew something, like you knew the story was getting ready to break again. I could sense the question behind his words— Did you know, Rob?

He told me once you could tell what kind of man you were dealing with by the people he chose to surround himself with. When I think about that, I feel good, Rob. I just wanted to tell you that. I could feel him studying me as I gazed out the window, but suddenly I could find nothing to say. I just sat there and watched the city slide by, the past welling up inside me.

Unpleasant truths lurked like rocks just beneath the visible surface. I could sense them somehow. We were at the hotel by then. The limo eased to the curb. Agents slid past outside, putting a protective cordon around the car. The door opened, and cold January air swept in. Burton was gathering his things. My parents and all that. Just an hour or two if you can spare me. I was trying to puzzle this through when I saw the kid clutching the lunch sack. There was an odd expression on his face, a haunted heart-broken expression, and too late I understood what was about to happen.

I was trying to move, to scream, anything, as he dragged the pistol out of the bag. Glancing down, I saw that I was rooted to the floor. My bare feet had grown these long knotted tendrils.

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The carpet was twisted and raveled where they had driven themselves into the floor. My parents whirled about in an athletic fox-trot, their faces manic with laughter. The music was building to an awful crescendo, percussives bleeding seamlessly together, the snap of the snare drums, the terrible booming tones of the clock, the quick sharp report of the gun. I saw the girl go over backwards, her hands clawing at her throat as she convulsed. Blood drenched me, a spurting arterial fountain—I could feel it hot against my skin—and in the same moment this five-year-old kid turned to stare at me.

I woke then, stifling a scream. Silence gripped the room and the corridor beyond it, and beyond that the city. I felt as if the world itself were drowning, sunk fathoms deep in the fine and private silence of the grave. I stood, brushing the curtains aside. An anonymous grid of lights burned beyond the glass, an alien hieroglyph pulsing with enigmatic significance. Staring out at it, I was seized by an impression of how fragile everything is, how thin the barrier that separates us from the abyss.

I spent the next morning in the Carnegie Library in Oakland, reeling through back issues of the Post-Gazette. The headline flickering on the microfilm reader rocked me, though. Two die in fiery collision , it read, and before I could properly formulate the question in my mind—. Disconnected phrases seemed to hover above the cramped columns—bridge abutment, high speed, alcohol-related—and halfway through the article, the following words leapt out at me:.

Friends speculate that the accident may have been the product of a suicide pact. The couple were said to be grief-stricken following the death of their daughter, Alice, nine, in a bizarre shooting accident three weeks ago. Outside, traffic lumbered by, stirring the slush on Forbes Avenue. I sat on a bench and fought the nausea for a long time, cradling my face in my hands while I waited for it to pass. A storm was drifting in, and when I felt better I lifted my face to the sky, anxious for the icy burn of snow against my cheeks.

Somewhere in the city, Grant Burton was speaking. Somewhere, reanimated corpses scrabbled at frozen graves. I held myself together for two days, during our final campaign swing through the midwest on January 3 and the election that followed, but I think I had already arrived at a decision. Most of the senior staff sensed it, as well, I think. I seemed set-apart somehow, isolated, contagious. Lewis clapped me on the back as we watched the returns roll in. The election unfolded without a hitch. Leaving off their work in the grave yards, the dead gathered about the polling stations, but even they seemed to sense that the rules had changed this time around.

They made no attempt to cast their ballots. They just stood behind the cordons the National Guard had set up, still and silent, regarding the proceedings with flat remorseless eyes. Voters scurried past them with bowed heads, their faces pinched against the stench of decay.


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On Nightline , Ted Koppel noted that the balloting had drawn the highest turn-out in American history, something like ninety-three percent. Trust Cokie to get it right. Stoddard conceded soon after the polls closed in the west. It was obvious by then. In his victory speech, Burton talked about a mandate for change. Some commentators speculated that it was over now. The dead would return to the graves, the world would be the old world we had known. On January 5th, the dead were digging once again, their numbers always swelling.

CNN was carrying the story when I handed Burton my resignation. He read it slowly and then he lifted his gaze to my face. We went through several iterations of this exchange before he nodded. I spent a week in Pittsburgh, walking the precipitous streets of neighborhoods I remembered only in my dreams. I passed a morning hunting up the house where my parents had lived, and one bright, cold afternoon I drove out 76 and pulled my rental to the side of the interstate, a hundred yards short of the bridge where they died. Eighteen wheelers thundered past, throwing up glittering arcs of spray, and the smell of the highway enveloped me, diesel and iron.

It was pretty much what I had expected, a slab of faceless concrete, nothing more. Evenings, I took solitary meals in diners and talked to Gran on the telephone—tranquil gossip about the old folks in the home mostly, empty of anything real. Afterwards, I drank Iron City and watched cable movies until I got drunk enough to sleep.

All around the world, the dead were walking. They walked in my dreams, as well, stirring memories better left forgotten. Mornings, I woke with a sense of dread, thinking of Galileo, thinking of the Church. I had urged Burton to engage this brave new world, yet the thought of embracing such a fundamental transformation of my own history—of following through on the article in the Post-Gazette , the portents within my dreams—paralyzed me utterly.

I suppose it was by then a matter mostly of verifying my own fears and suspicions—suppose I already knew, at some level, what I had yet to confirm. But the lingering possibility of doubt was precious, safe, and I clung to it for a few days longer, unwilling to surrender. Upstairs, a grizzled receptionist brought out the file I requested. It was all there in untutored bureaucratic prose.

There was a sheaf of official photos, too, glossy black and white prints. I felt it was something I ought to do.

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A little while later, someone touched my shoulder. It was the receptionist, her broad face creased with concern. Her spectacles swung at the end of a little silver chain as she bent over me. I left Pittsburgh the next day, shedding the cold as the plane nosed above a lid of cloud. I drove with the window down, grateful for the warmth upon my arm, the spike of palm fronds against the sky. The nursing home was a sprawl of landscaped grounds and low-slung stucco buildings, faintly Spanish in design.

I found Gran in a garden overlooking the Pacific, and I paused, studying her, before she noticed me in the doorway. She held a paperback in her lap, but she had left off reading to stare out across the water. A salt-laden breeze lifted her gray hair in wisps, and for a moment, looking at her, her eyes clear in her distinctly boned face, I could find my way back to the woman I had known as a boy.

But the years intervened, the way they always do. Her injured leg jutted before her.


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  • I sat by her, on a concrete bench. The morning overcast was breaking, and the sun struck sparks from the wave-tops. Whatever on earth is there to look into , Robert? I could see the fear in her eyes, then. Now it was my turn to laugh. Turn on the television sometime. Nothing stays dead anymore.

    I raised you, I made you what you are today! Her hands twisted in her lap. You were so young. It seemed best somehow to just. Just for a little while, they said. They needed time to think things through. She fell silent, squinting at the surf foaming on the rocks below. The sun bore down upon us, a heartbreaking disk of white in the faraway sky. You seemed like you were fine. I turned at the door. Her leg thrust toward me in its cast, like the prow of a ship. She was in tears. I felt ill at ease, restless.

    An anthology of zombie fiction

    And then, as I fished through my wallet in a bar one afternoon, I saw a tiny slip of paper eddy to the floor. I knew what it was, of course, but I picked it up anyway. My fingers shook as I opened it up and stared at the message written there, Call me some time , with the address and phone number printed neatly below. I made it to Laguna Beach in fifty minutes. The address was a mile or so east of the water, a manicured duplex on a corner lot.

    But I left my car at the curb and walked up the sidewalk all the same. I could hear the bell through an open window, footsteps approaching, soft music lilting from the back of the house. Then the door opened and she was there, wiping her hands on a towel. The house was small, but light, with wide windows in the kitchen over-looking a lush back lawn. A breeze slipped past the screens, infusing the kitchen with the scent of fresh-cut grass and the faraway smell of ocean. As she made coffee, I studied her, still freckled and faintly gamine, but not unchanged. Her eyes had a wary light in them, and fresh lines caged her thin upper lip.

    When she sat across from me at the table, toying with her coffee cup, I noticed a faint pale circle around her finger where a ring might have been. Maybe I looked older too, for Gwen glanced up at me from beneath a fringe of streaky blonde bangs, her mouth arcing in a crooked smile.

    Law school at UCLA, five or six years billing hours in one of the big LA firms before the cutthroat culture got to her and she threw it over for a job with the ACLU, trading long days and a handsome wage for still longer ones and almost no wage at all. Her marriage had come apart around the same time.

    By this time, the sky beyond the windows had softened into twilight and our coffee had grown cold. As shadows lengthened in the little kitchen, I caught Gwen glancing at the clock. Call it nostalgia or loneliness. Call it whatever you want. But suddenly the image of her wry glance from beneath the slant of hair leaped into mind. She paused a moment. The shadow of the door had fallen across her face. She laughed uncertainly, and when she spoke, her voice was husky and uncertain. That was a long time ago. Lewis and I stood together as we waited for the ceremony to begin, looking out at the dead.

    They had been on the move for days, legions of them, gathering on the mall as far as the eye could see. Dana Maguire might be out there somewhere. Privately, Lewis had told me that the dead had begun gathering elsewhere in the world, as well. Our satellites had confirmed it. In Cuba and North Korea, in Yugoslavia and Rwanda, the dead were on the move, implacable and slow, their purposes unknown and maybe unknowable.

    He had turned to me then, his long pitted face sagging. It was the first time I had spoken of it aloud, and I felt a burden sliding from my shoulders as the words slipped out. I told him all of it: I told him about the police report, too, how the memories had come crashing back upon me as I sat at the scarred table, staring into a file nearly three decades old. He lived alone, you know. It must have been close to midnight by then. Music thumped downstairs, jazzy big band music. Then my eyes fell upon the gun in the drawer. The light from the hall summoned unsuspected depths from the blued barrel.

    All I wanted to do was show Alice. I just wanted to show her. I never meant to hurt anyone. I never meant to hurt Alice. I remember carrying the gun down stairs to the foyer, Mom and Dad dancing beyond the frame of the doorway, Alice standing there watching. I remember the music screeching to a halt, somebody dragging the needle across the record, my mother screaming. I remember Alice lying on the floor and the blood and the weight of the gun in my hand.

    But the weird thing is, the thing I remember best is the way I felt at that moment. A bullet had smashed the face of the clock, this big grandfather clock my uncle had in the foyer. It was chiming over and over, as though the bullet had wrecked the mechanism.


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    • I was afraid my uncle was going to be mad about the clock. Lewis did something odd then. I realized something else, too: Burton would have you back in a minute. He owes this election to you, he knows that. But now, staring out across the upturned faces of the dead as a cold January wind whipped across the mall, I felt the lure and pull of the old life, sure as gravity. The game, Burton had called it, and it was a game, politics, the biggest Monopoly set in the world and I loved it and for the first time I understood why I loved it. For the first time I understood something else, too: It was the same reason: Because it was a game, a game with clear winners and losers, with rules as complex and arcane as a cotillion, and most of all because it partook so little of the messy turmoil of real life.

      I fell in love with politics because it was safe. You get so involved in pushing your token around the board that you forget the ideals that brought you to the table in the first place.

      Zombies! Zombies! Zombies!

      You forget to speak from the heart. I just shook my head and gazed out over the handful of living people, stirring as the ceremony got underway. The dead waited beyond them, rank upon rank of them with the earth of the grave under their nails and that cold shining in their eyes. A year has passed, and those words— justice, I suppose —still haunt me. I returned to D. Gwen came with me, and sometimes, as I lie wakeful in the shelter of her warmth, my mind turns to the past.

      It was Gran that brought me back. The cast had come off in February, and one afternoon in March, Gwen and I stopped by, surprised to see her on her feet. She looked frail, but her eyes glinted with determination as she toiled along the corridors behind her walker. Friday, June 14, Elmore Leonard: Posted by Elora Writers Festival at 4: Argosy , Elmore Leonard , magazine fiction , Tizwin , Westerns.

      Because the prankster always goes too far, that is the essence of prank. Thursday, June 13, "Hammett's freakish knack for making neutrality interesting". Ragged gray flakes of cigarette-ash dotted the yellow top of the desk and the green blotter and the papers that were there. A buff-curtained window, eight or ten inches open, let in from the court a current of air faintly scented with ammonia.

      The ashes on the desk twitched and crawled in the current. Wednesday, June 12, provocative. However, readers who pick up Nineteen Eighty-Four because of the current worries over the Prism programme would be wrong just to see it as a novel about the dangers of overweening technology. The all-seeing telescreen in the corner of the room is an important device for allowing the state to exercise control, but Orwell's real concern is about far more insidious threats to liberty.

      The Big Brother state aims at nothing less than the control of language and thought. In Nineteen Eighty-Four , Winston Smith's defining act of rebellion is to keep a diary, to attempt to record his thoughts and feelings accurately — not easy when the expressions you need have been obliterated or perverted. The greatest inhibition, to use Senator [Bernie] Sanders's word, is mental rather than physical.

      Zombie Guts and Border Walls | Public Books

      Posted by Elora Writers Festival at 6: Tuesday, June 11, " But the rest of it, the peripherals, then are power generation, cooling and so on. And at current capabilities that are advertised on the web with Cleversafe. And if you—and my estimate of the data they would be collecting, which would include the targeted audio and perhaps all of the text in the world, that would be on the order of 20 terabytes a minute—or, yeah, 20 terabytes a minute. But I only estimated a hundred, because really they want space for parallel processors to go at cryptanalysis and breaking codes.

      Can It Be Saturday Now "Bring and take are two common, simple words that have gotten more than their share of attention by people unsure if they're using them correctly. The words are distinct in meaning, but—and this is a big but—much of the time the context makes it irrelevant which you use, and that's why there's a problem. Insofar as bring and take are distinguished, bring is used for movement towards the speaker or the speaker's point of reference, and take is used for movement away from or accompanying the speaker or the speaker's point of reference.

      Thus, two sentences that shouldn't cause much trouble are: Monday, June 10, "The cruelest lies are often told in silence.