Zombies Don't Cry: A Living Dead Love Story

217 Pages·2011·1 MB·English

by  Rusty Fischer

YOU KNOW, SURPRISINGLY, they don’t sell a lot of brains in the local 24-hour
grocery store around the corner from my house. And, believe it or not,
they don’t really like it when you ask about them. At least, not the
sleepy college kid working the only open cash register the night I
become a zombie.
“Hi, yeah, listen, uh …Tad? Tad, I’m looking for, well, see, my,
uhhm …grandfather …is coming into town this weekend, and he
really likes, well, believe it or not, he loves brains. Don’t look at me
like that. I guess they ate them on the farm when he was growing up or
something, but …do you know where I could find any?”
“Tad,” or so says the name tag on his chest, looks past me, around
me, out into the parking lot, and everywhere but at me before finally
saying, “Very funny.” Then he stares at me, as if to say, without words,
“I’m too smart to be punk’d. Even if it is two in the morning and
there’s not another soul around for miles.”
“It’s not a prank, Tad. Seriously. I looked all over the meat
department, found tubs of chicken livers, something called
‘chitterlings’—not sure I want to go there—even a big, gray cow’s
tongue, but …no brains. So …do you know where I could find them? I
mean, I’m asking as a customer”—here I hold up the insanely fat roll
of $20 bills Dad keeps in a cookie jar in the kitchen in case of an
emergency (which, I think you’ll agree, this is)—”so I’m really not
trying to prank you.”
He sighs, reaches for a curvy microphone next to his cash register,
pushes a button at the base, and says, “Harvey, I’m sending a live one
back to the butcher for a few pounds of, get this …brains….”
Published 2011 by Medallion Press, Inc.
The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO
is a registered trademark of Medallion Press, Inc.
If you purchase this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was
reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received
any payment for this “stripped book.”
Copyright © 2011 by Rusty Fischer
Cover design by James Tampa
Edited by Emily Steele
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic
or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval
system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally.
Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Typeset in Adobe Garamond Pro
ISBN 978-1605423-82-1
Dedication
For my lovely wife, Martha, who’s had to put up with my zombie shenanigans
for far too long now.
Acknowledgments
Rusty would like to thank the following for their invaluable contribution to
the “making of” Zombies Don’t Cry.
First, to Jamie Brenner with Artists & Artisans, Inc., who knew this book
better back when it was still called Have a Nice Afterlife. Jamie taught me the
importance of story, as well as knowing your audience. She also taught me that
timing is everything and that writing a “timeless” book is more important than
chasing a fad.
Second, to the good folks at Medallion Press. Finding a publisher is never
easy; finding a publisher who actually cares about its authors, particularly in this
day and age, is doubly so. I’m proud to have found a “home” at Medallion,
where zombies are always welcome. Editorial Manager Lorie Popp has been
particularly encouraging, and I’d also like to give a major shout-out to my “point
person,” Editorial Director Emily Steele, who has made the process easier than it
should be.
Next, to my unofficial mentors on Facebook and Twitter. There are too many
to list by name, but being able to talk about writing, publishing, e-books, print
books, submissions, query letters, plot, and characterization with folks I’ve long
admired—and read—has been a true inspiration. They say writing is a solitary
venture, and that’s true for the most part, but social media has really opened up
my world and, I like to think, my writing is better for it.
Finally, to my family and friends, who have learned more about zombies than
they probably ever wanted to. I never fail to get a kick out of hearing my in-laws,
Helen and Gerry, asking about flesh-eating zombies or watching my mom, Colee,
egging her teacher friends to buy her son’s book about the living dead. (And
don’t get me started on trying to convince my dad, Rusty Sr., how well a book
about zombies would go over at Rusty’s Raw Bar.) They’ve been hearing about
this book for so long, I hope they’re not disappointed when the dead finally
spring to life!
Contents Prologue Zombie Picnic
Part 1 Two Weeks Earlier …
1 The Curse of Third Period Home Ec
2 “Oooomph”
3 Rubbing the Grave
4 A (Way!) Decent Proposal
5 Raindrops Keep Falling on My Dead
6 You Might Be a Zombie If …
7 Brains on Aisle 9
8 “Maddy, Do You Know?”
9 Zombies 1 and 2
10 The Proper Care and Feeding of Zombies
11 The Zombie Pledge
12 Ambushed
13 Cloudy with a Chance of Gray Matter
Part 2 The Dead and the Near Dead
14 Maddy Gets a Makeover
15 Reversal of Fortune
16 Man Troubles
17 Jock-Blocked
18 Sentenced to Food Court
19 Creature Features
20 Batter Up!
21 The Z Files
22 Formerly Yours
23 Any Grave Will Do
Part 3 The Afterlife
24 And So It Begins
25 Home Ick
26 Eternally Yours
27 Breaking & Tasering
28 The Business End
29 Three’s Company
30 Zombies in the Girls’ Room
31 A Pimp Called Death
32 Maddy’s Choice
Epilogue Maddy in the Middle
Prologue
Zombie Picnic
THE GRAVEYARD is calm at this hour, an appropriately full moon shining
down on acres of freshly mown lawn and miles of evenly spaced
headstones. Their endless rows are surprisingly calming; it’s almost
like I’m staring at a big mouth with thousands of teeth smiling just for
me. Though the air is chilly this time of year, it’s clear, making
everything clean, crisp, and high-resolution; death in hi-def.
I always thought this was a particularly nonspooky cemetery as far
as cemeteries go. Most of the ones you see on TV or in the movies are
purposefully creepy crawly, gruesome affairs, with crooked headstones
leaning and fences broken and the graves overgrown with dried, dead
bushes and looking, I suppose, about the way you figure a cemetery
should look.
Here in Florida, they take their graveyards pretty darn seriously.
The fence doesn’t creak when you walk by, there is no pack of feral
black cats roaming the grounds, the grass is ballpark green, the
headstones are all straight, a nice unbroken sidewalk runs the length of
the graveyard, the grave markers are clean, and the flowers are all
fresh.
I use the moonlight to inspect the contents of the picnic basket at my
feet.
Four cans of Mountain Dew?
Check.
Plastic forks and knives?
Check.
Plastic plates?
Check.
Paper napkins?