Goddamn Graveyard Zombies
An Excerpt from My Next Novel
Hey friends. Happy almost spring! With the nice weather coming, I’ve been out in the yard. My front yard and backyard are both fixer-uppers, but they’ve got a lot of potential. The front yard was xeriscape when we bought the house a decade ago. Xeriscape is a good idea in theory, but it’s a pain in the ass to weed, and if your neighbors have lawns, you better believe that creeper grass is going to take over the space. So, I’m scaling back the rock-covered space and planting new things. If things will grow anyway, I’d like to control what grows. I’m beautifying the backyard too. No more clover-riddled lawn. I’ve got big plans, and big plans take a while to execute. And that’s fine. Working in the yard isn’t writing, but it’s a good thing to do when I don’t have my ass in my chair and my fingers on the keyboard.
This month’s newsletter will have an excerpt of my next book in lieu of a short story. I’ve been immersed in the writing of this novel and haven’t had time to pull away and work on a shorter piece. I hope that’s okay. Check it out beyond the Subscribe button.
Currently Reading: Slewfoot by Brom, Mars Attacks: Martian Deathtrap by Nathan Archer.
Currently Watching: Dope Thief (Apple+), Lost (rewatch, Netflix), Monday Night Raw (Netflix), Clown in a Cornfield (SXSW premiere, Directed by Eli Craig).
Currently Listening: 2 Guys Talkin’ Toys, 83 Weeks with Eric Bischoff, Operation: Mindcrime by Queensryche, Miscalculations of the Rat Angel Problematic by Rubix Kitten.
Reynolds tossed Terry through the open cellar door, and the caretaker tumbled headlong down the wooden staircase. He kept his chin tucked and his arms over his head so as not to do any mortal damage, but it didn’t spare him any pain. Every roll on the bumpy way down ignited fresh agony that added to the throbbing sensations erupting all over his body. He landed on the dirt floor with an explosion of dust engulfing him like smoke.
He tried pressing himself back up but fell back to the ground almost immediately, coughing and spitting.
“What the fuck is your problem, man?” he said—he’d nearly sobbed it.
Reynolds descended the stairs, taking his sweet time. “I won’t bore you with my sob story, Terry.”
“Fuck that. If you’re going to toss me down the stairs and nearly kill me, you better tell me why. Please. Bore me.”
Reynolds paused, halfway down the staircase.
“I suppose I do owe you an explanation. Have you ever been in love, Terry?”
Terry glared over his shoulder at Reynolds. “Are you serious?”
“I asked you, didn’t I?”
“You did,” Terry said, fighting through the pain to get to a sitting position. He used his sleeve to wipe dirt and spit from his chin. “But I asked you first.”
He hadn’t been kidding with those girls earlier: he had seen his ex-wife in her wedding dress before the ceremony, and while the dissolution of his marriage was more complex than his failure to adhere to a superstition, that answer was a lot more entertaining and certainly less pathetic than the truth. But he didn’t want to talk about Rita, least of all to this asshole.
“Fair play,” Reynolds said and resumed his descent. “I suppose you have; even pathetic winos like you have at least tried to—”
“Watch it, Mister. I hate wine.”
Reynolds reached the bottom of the stairs. “I’m glad your sense of humor is intact,” he said and held out his hand.
Though his body desperately wanted him to lie back down, Terry stood on his own and crossed his arms. “You must think I’m pretty stupid if you think I’m gonna let you touch me again.”
“Well…” Reynolds sniffed and looked past Terry, peering into the darkness. When he met Terry’s gaze once more, his eyes twinkled with something devious. “Where are they?”
Terry thought about spitting in his face and again denying knowledge. The aches and stings still flaring through his limbs and torso warned him that he shouldn’t play with fire. He had no doubt Reynolds would delight in inflicting more pain upon him. Perhaps even killing him.
Would I even be missed? he thought grimly.
Probably not. Rita had remarried last he checked. She even had a few kids. As far as his employers went, the Ribald family would find someone else to take care of Lazarus, and the men who brought the canisters would find another sucker with bad habits to hide their dirty laundry.
Despite this, Terry didn’t want to die, nor did he wish to feel further pain or humiliation. He turned and pointed a crooked finger into the dark part of the cellar, where the mostly diminished outside light couldn’t reach.
“That’s a good boy,” Reynolds said.
He clapped Terry on the back, and the caretaker nearly crumbled with apprehension of having this man’s hand on him again. Reynolds knew it too—he chuckled lightly to himself as he stepped past Terry. He stopped briefly to pull the chain that switched on the overhead light bulb, then proceeded to the back of the cellar.
As Terry watched, mounting tension exacerbated his pain. Three canisters were lined up against the back wall. If not for the markings designating them as belonging to the U.S. Bureau of Defense Technologies, they could have easily been mistaken for oversized beer kegs. And with them being in the cellar of a known drunk, that was totally plausible.
He'd known these damn canisters were nothing but trouble the day the men in white suits brought him the first one. He’d wanted to refuse, too, but he’d been out of liquor and out of money that day. They’d offered him enough cash to get him through until the next pay period and then some. And at the end of the day, he was still an addict.
Now he had three of those damn things, and he could do nothing but stand by and watch as this Reynolds prick got a look at them and did whatever he pleased.
Terry stuffed his hands in his pockets and cursed himself for being an alcoholic and, most of all, for being a coward. Reynolds approached the one in the center and tapped on the lid of it.
“I can’t see inside,” he said and tried to pry open the lid.
“Well, don’t open it, you damn fool,” Terry hollered, unable to help himself. “What the hell do you want them for anyway? You never answered my question.”
Reynolds smirked at him. “You never answered mine.”
He turned back to the canister. Terry’s hands made fists in his pockets. Something ignited inside his whiskey-pickled brain, something he hadn’t felt for a long time. Not since before Rita left.
You know what? Fuck this guy.
Motherfucker pushes you down the stairs.
Now he’s gonna open that canister, and that’s gonna fuck things up for everyone.
Best case scenario: I lose out on that extra booze money and maybe even my job watching over Lazarus. Worst-case scenario…
The worst-case scenario is…
“The end of the world,” he muttered.
Reynolds faced him. “What’d you say, booze for brains?”
“I said, ‘I bet your dick’s smaller than an earthworm’s. You beat up on old drunks because otherwise, you’re just a worm-dick nobody.”
Reynolds took a step towards him. “You best shut your rotten mouth.”
“Or what? You’ll gag me with your nothing dick? Bet that tiny thing wouldn’t even clog one of my nostrils. Why don’t you come over here and let me see it. I might have a microscope upstairs.”
Reynolds was moving toward him now. Long, angry strides that were nearly lunges.
“Here he comes, ladies and germs: the worm-dick wonder. Can he find his tiny cock before New Year’s? Maybe he ought to put it on the end of a fishhook.”
Reynolds reared back with a fist. “I’m gonna fucking kill you,” he growled through gritted teeth.
Terry stumbled backwards, but on his way down, he swiped a handful of dirt. Reynolds swung and missed. Terry flung the dirt into his face.
Reynolds half-gasped, half-cried out. His hands went immediately to his face, and he staggered backwards.
Terry got back up and bared his teeth in a beastly snarl.
“Fuck you, motherfucker!”
He growled and rushed forward. Drove his shoulder into Reynolds’ abdomen. The collision forced Reynolds to backpedal. Terry held on, pushing with his legs and still growling with righteous rage. His growl became a bellow as he lifted Reynolds off the ground. It was no light feat, but Terry’s anger was his strength. The seconds he held Reynolds in the air were so empowering, he considered never having another drop of alcohol again. If he could take on this jerkoff, he could take on anything. Maybe he could remarry. Maybe he could even get Rita to take him back.
When he and Reynolds crashed into the cinderblock wall and the canisters lined up along it, all hope siphoned out of the moment.
He released Reynolds and watched the well-dressed asshole crumble to the dirt floor. One of the canisters tipped over beside him with a heavy clang, while its two counterparts wobbled from impact.
Terry watched the lid of the fallen container for signs of a breach. Ooze splashed against the inside of the glass rectangle in the lid’s center, but the lid was otherwise undisturbed. The two wobblers steadied themselves, while in front of them, a winded Reynolds held his midsection and contorted his face in agony from the blow he sustained.
Terry relaxed his shoulders and smiled with a self-satisfied feeling of accomplishment. Panic usurped the pleasant feeling when the lid to the middle canister popped open with a screech of ripping metal. It was followed by a sustained hiss as a column of yellow steam billowed from the opening. Terry watched in horror as the steam hit the ceiling and fanned out like a mushroom cloud.
Reynolds clambered to his feet and stumbled to Terry’s side. The steam stopped pluming from the canister, but it covered the ceiling like exposed insulation.
“What is that shit?” Reynolds said, his lips curling in revulsion.
Heat rose in Terry’s cheeks as he glared at Reynolds. “You know what it is! That’s why you wanted it: it brings back the dead!”
“But what’s it gonna do to us?”
Before Terry could answer, something bony and dripping emerged from the opening. At the end of it, five barb-tipped fingers clawed at the poisoned air.
“It’s a hand!” Reynolds cried. “It’s a goddamn hand.”
“Well, shit, nothing gets by you, does it?”
A second limb emerged. This one grasped the edge of the canister. Like the first, it dripped green ooze. Lesions blighted its gray skin; in the worst of them, Terry could see bone.
“We gotta get out of here,” Reynolds blubbered.
“You took the words outta my mouth,” Terry said, but neither man moved.
Something round and bulbous crested the opening. Ooze slid down the smooth surface like mud down a rock. The eyes that peeped over the edge were wide, but perhaps that was because the skin around them mostly had rotted away. They moved back and forth as they scanned the room. Their gaze locked onto the two terrified men and somehow widened even further.
The full face of the undead thing came into view. Its lips and cheeks were gone, rendering its mouth into a permanent toothy grin. Slime dripped down its chin like toxic drool.
“Yeah, screw this,” Reynolds said.
He clamped his hand on the back of Terry’s neck and shoved him forward. Terry fell to his hands and knees just as the canister tilted over, spilling ooze and ghoul to the floor directly in front of him.
The ooze was green and viscous, pocked with bubbles and floating flaps of half-melted skin. The ghoul crawled through the mucilaginous muck. It had spindly limbs that were knobby on the joints. A concave belly gaped beneath exposed ribs; the viscera was still present but deflated and torn. Its legs dragged behind it like a trailer with flat tires. It opened its mouth to reveal a tongue that seemed much too long and let out a gurgling wail that seemed both menacing and mournful.
Terry scooted back, not about to let the spreading ooze or the ghoul touch him. He got his feet under him and stood. Spun and saw Reynolds about to climb the stairs. He sprang to catch up.
Reynolds spotted Terry catching up. He quickened his pace, but Terry was too full of panic and rage not to gain enough ground. Terry charged, reaching forward with clawed hands like the ghoul behind him. He grabbed a fistful of Reynold’s shirt.
“Get back here, motherfucker.”
Reynolds twisted and flung an elbow to Terry’s cheek. “Get the hell off me.”
The strike caused another burst of pain and a white flash across his vision. He fell against the cinderblocks but didn’t let go.
“What the hell are you doing?” Reynolds said, still trying to pull himself free.
Behind and below them, the ghoul crawled forward.
“You tried to feed me to that dead thing! You tried to kill me.”
“You’re gonna kill us both if you don’t let go.”
Terry glanced back at the oncoming horror. The ghoul was rising to its feet. It let out another pitiful, gurgling cry and came up into a full stance. With most of its core muscles rotted away, its torso swayed side to side like a mud-slicked tube man. Its barbed fingers clawed at nearby air. Its legs buckled but carried it forward and kept it standing. A third bloodcurdling bellow escaped its throat. Only the dregs of humanity remained in the sound. This was worse than bestial—it was otherworldly, demonic.
Terry let go of Reynolds. The polo shirt-wearing prick took a swing at him, again hoping getting a taste of Terry would slow the ghoul down. But Terry sidestepped the blow and Reynolds pitched forward. He landed face-first on the unfinished floor. His legs were still on the stairs, partly folded, with his feet caught between two wooden planks.
Reynolds groaned and shook his head. Tried pushing himself up, but the ghoul was already falling upon him. Pressing down on his shoulder blades and making him eat dirt.
For a fraction of a second, Terry considered intervening.
Then he remembered why Reynolds was on the ground. Why they were down here to begin with. And why a motherfucking ghoul was shambling about out of its canister.
The ghoul lowered its face and pressed its teeth against the back of Reynolds’ head. For being so decayed, the ghoul’s jaw had uncanny bite power. Its teeth broke into Reynolds’ skull, and brain matter fluffed out of the fracture like bloody cotton candy.
Terry couldn’t look away. Couldn’t stop watching as the ghoul took a bite of brain. As it chewed and its eyes rolled back in an almost placid expression. The ghoul sighed as if in ecstasy and took another bite.
Below it, Reynolds spasmed. His hands flapped against the floor like fish out of water. His feet jerked between the wooden planks that held them. Somehow those dull sounds were almost as bad as the wet chewing coming from the ghoul’s jaws. Almost.
Terry wanted nothing more than to run. To run and close this cellar door and forget this whole thing ever happened.
And he almost did. He even lifted one foot, preparing to spin and run up the stairs.
But I can’t do that.
No, no. I can’t do that.
I can’t do that because if I do…
“End of the world,” he said.
At the sound of his voice, the ghoul raised its head. A half-gnashed wad of brain plopped out of its mouth and into Reynolds’ blood-matted hair.
Terry put his foot back down, and the stair below it shifted—a loose board!
The ghoul stood, while Terry bent. The wood was coarse against the pads of his fingers as he pried. The ghoul took a tentative step over the motionless Reynolds and onto the first stair. Its tongue lapped the brain juice from its chin. It growled, hungry for more brains, for Terry’s brain.
Terry pulled on the board. It bent but didn’t break.
The ghoul drew closer. Its tongue wagged like an eyeless snake. Its bulging eyes zeroed in on Terry.
Terry put his foot on the adjacent wall for leverage. The board groaned under the pressure but remained attached. Terry groaned right back.
“Come on,” he said through gritted teeth.
The ghoul took another step. It was close enough for Terry to smell the pungent rot beneath the ooze that slicked and saturated its dead skin.
Terry knew he should run, but he was committed now. Stubbornness of wanting—no needing—to finish his task kept him glued to the spot, even with death so near.
A skeletal hand with fingernails that hadn’t stopped growing reached for him. It was inches from his face.
He moved his hands closer to the nail still holding the board in place and screamed as he pulled. The board came loose, knocking him off-balance and into the oncoming ghoul. Both he and the ghoul fell atop Reynolds. The dead man’s already ruined skull gave way with a wet crunch. More of his brain matter spilled onto the floor, drawing the ghoul’s attention.
It took a handful of the neural tissue and stuffed the fatty morsel into its mouth.
Terry stood and held the board like a Louisville Slugger. Swung like he was in the homerun derby. The blow connected, striking the ghoul’s skull and knocking the ghoul into a tumble.
It was tumbling toward the remaining canisters. If it reached them, things would go from bad to worse. Terry bolted after the rolling ghoul. He swung the board down in an arc, striking the ghoul on the upper arm and stopping it in its tracks. The force of the roll caused Terry to somersault. On the way down, his shoes grazed the rim of the canister that was lying on its side.
He winced and lifted his head to watch the lid for signs that it was opening. The ghoul took advantage of the distraction, bearing down on him with its jaws open wide. In an instant, Terry brought the board up, blocking the ghoul’s attack.
The ghoul grabbed the board and pulled, trying to wrest it from Terry’s grasp. Keeping his hands on the board, Terry gave a hard shove. The ghoul hung on and snapped its jaws like a bear trap. Its teeth made a mind-numbing clatter as they closed. Terry kept pushing to keep the ghoul at bay, but he couldn’t gather enough leverage or force to get it off him. He needed to get out from under the ghoul before the adrenalin wore off and his strength waned.
As he fought, he kicked. His feet intermittently struck the nearby canister, but he couldn’t stop himself. He could only pray that the lid would hold.
Please God, not for me, but for those kids down there just trying to have a good time. For Rita and her kids, even though they aren’t mine. Let the other canisters stay shut. Help me hold the line here.
The teeth gnashed, droplets of saliva splashing each time they closed. As they dripped against his face, he desperately tried to keep his eyes and mouth from entering the line of fire. God only knew what diseases this ghoul carried.
And the ghoul was pressing down on him. He couldn’t count on it running out of stamina before he did. Giving the board a final shove, he let it go and slipped out from under the ghoul. He rolled away from the second downed canister and stood.
When he reached his feet, he wobbled. Rolled his ankle and fell against the standing canister with all his weight.
The onset of panic swallowed the flare of new pain in his hip.
The lid unlocked with a hiss but didn’t pop open. He moved to fasten the locks, but a growl behind him drew his attention.
The first ghoul was lunging at him again. The board was stuck to its right hand, held in place by one of the remaining nails. Terry got an idea—not a great one, but a bad idea was better than no idea in situations like these.
He waited for the ghoul to get close and pulled open the lid of the canister against the wall. As the noxious steam billowed from the opening, he dived to the side. The outpouring engulfed the face of the first ghoul.
Caught off-guard, the ghoul thrashed and coughed. The steam clung to it like a piss-stained coat, and the ghoul staggered and swayed. The board flew free, taking the ghoul’s pinkie and a rag of skin with it.
Terry scrambled to the flailing ghoul and shoved it face-first into the open canister. Slammed the lid down on the back of its neck. Lifted and smashed the lid down again. A third time.
He opened the lid and kicked the ghoul to the floor. A divot in the back of its head bled black and green, but the ghoul was up and crawling within seconds.
A memory of movie dialogue about killing the brain to kill the ghoul flashed through Terry’s mind.
Well, that was clearly bullshit.
As always, thanks for reading. If you enjoyed that, you can support me by subscribing to this newsletter or buying a signed book by clicking the button below.
this was so fun! you're great at writing action sequences. i was riveted!
Tense, can’t wait for the full novel to drop.