Timothy by Mark Tufo

Author:Mark Tufo
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Speculative Fiction
ISBN: 9780987240026
Publisher: Severed Press
Published: 2011-12-23T00:00:00+00:00

The End

Read on to discover more zombie books and read free excerpts of Necrophobia, The Living End and White Flag of the Dead

www.severedpress

NECROPHOBIA

Book #1: Wake the Dead

By

Jack Hamlyn

“Given the greater number of dead than living on this earth,

a revolt of the dead against the living who had buried them

would certainly end in defeat for the latter."

—Ornella Volta

CLOSING IN

It was the end of July and the air was hot and thick like boiled molasses. Ricki was in the kitchen whipping up some breakfast and I was in the living room, sweat running down my face as I tried to wire in the new air conditioner. I had just fished a Philips screwdriver from my red toolbox when I heard the screaming.

It went through me like a knife.

It was loud and cutting and absolutely shrill. It didn’t even sound human. More like an animal being flayed alive. I stood there for maybe three or four seconds shocked into inaction, then I stepped out onto the porch.

By then, Ricki was at the screen door looking out. “What is it, Steve?”

“I don’t know. I heard screaming.”

“So did I.”

But what I saw in the neighborhood was…nothing.

Absolutely ordinary. Old Lady Hazen was out tending to her flowerbeds. Jimmy LaRue was up on his roof, hammering. Cars were passing in the street. The mailman was walking up the sidewalk with his bag of letters, pausing now, maybe listening as well. Jimmy LaRue was pounding too goddamn loud, so he didn’t hear anything. Mrs. Hazen…well, she couldn’t hear cymbals crashing next to her ear let alone dogs barking.

I looked over to the mailman.

He had put his earbuds back in and went on his way.

The scream came again and it was wet and gurgling. By that time, people up and down the block were out on their porches wondering what in the Christ was happening.

“Should I call 911?” Ricki asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe I better go look.”

“Steve…”

“I’ll be right back,” I promised.

Then I ran up the sidewalk, listening for the scream, and it came again. Though this time it was weak and broken, more liquid than anything and I didn’t care for that much. It was coming from Rommy Jacob’s backyard. I was sure of it. Rommy was a widower. He lived for his garden. He made offerings to us each summer of tomatoes and cucumbers and snap peas. I jogged around the side of his house, almost tripped over a wheelbarrow full of black soil, and that’s when I saw him.

He was lying on the ground, twisting and squirming. It looked like someone had painted his throat and face a bright, Technicolor shade of red. He saw me. He looked right at me and there was more than agony in his eyes, there was horror. Sheer horror. His red-stained fingers were at his throat and when he opened his mouth to speak, blood came out. It bubbled out of the side of his throat…which was missing, I saw, like a tiger had taken a bite out of it.

I just stood there.

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