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Everywhere He Sees Her-Fiction by Oliver Lodge
Vegas Phoenix-Fiction by Steve Prusky
Bad Burger-Fiction by Willie Smith
Death and Forsythia-Fiction by Kenneth James Crist
Eileen-Fiction by Ray Valent
Eleventh Frame-Fiction by Bruce Harris
Regarding the Destruction...-Fiction by Matthew Lyons
The Next Step-Fiction by Nicholas Manzolillo
What Men Show Whores-Fiction by M. E. Purfield
You Should've Called Me-Fiction by Carol Sojka
At the Zombie Five and Dime-Reprint by Kenneth James Crist
Cassie-Reprint by Frank Zafiro
Nice Life if You Don't Weaken-Reprint by Michelle Reale
Old Aunt Sin-Reprint by Gary Lovisi
Yellow Mama-Reprint by Cindy Rosmus
Bald Baby-Flash Fiction by Paul Beckman
Ruby-Flash Fiction by Liz McAdams
Widow's Might-Flash Fiction by M. C. Neuda
Saturday Night, Sunday Morning-Flash Fiction by Victor Clevenger
Sunday Evening-Flash Fiction by Victor Clevenger
Monday, Around Noontime-Flash Fiction by Victor Clevenger
The Woman on the Train-Poem by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
What Have Some of Us Become?-Poem by John D. Robinson
She Knows Something-Poem by John Lunar Richey
Harley Caress-Poem by Joe Balaz
The Unspoken Words-Poem by Ayaz Daryl Nielsen
A Thunderstorm's Sideshow-Poem by David Spicer
Fruits, Vegetables, and Mindy's Topaz Eyes-Poem by David Spicer
Catherine-Poem by J.J.Campbell
Failures With Past Lovers-Poem by J.J.Campbell
Stomp-Poem by David Mac
Wilt?-Poem by David Mac
Carol of the Bells-Poem by Robert Beveridge
Eden-Poem by Robert Beveridge
Crazy, Crazy-Poem by Marc Carver
Love-Poem by Marc Carver
The Worst Poet in the World-Poem by Marc Carver
Hail, Tiger!
Angel of Manslaughter
The Gazing Ball
Strange Gardens
Gutter Balls
Calpurnia's Window
No Place Like Home
Dark Tales from Gent's Pens

Art by Mike Kerins 2017

At The Zombie Five-and-Dime

Kenneth James Crist

Looking out from the open door of the hayloft, I watch over the town. Moonlight silvers every shiny surface, the water in the fountain in the town square shimmers, a pallid reflection of that lucent orb, making my eyes heavier with every measured beat of my heart.

I can feel my pulse in my wrists and in my neck, behind my eyes and, when I think about Robyn, in other places, too. It is so damned hot out, even hours after sundown, and I long for air conditioning and a cold, long-necked Bud.

Not that I was ever much of a beer drinker, but lately the thought of a cold, brown bottle, its sides dripping with moisture, is one of the things that almost drives me mad… thinking about Robyn is the other.

Now I sit, every night without fail, sweat running from under my arms and down the crack of my ass, watching and listening to the stillness. I know they’re out there, and I know they’re coming. It’s not a matter of if they come, it’s a matter of when they come.

And, even though I don’t feel I really have all that much to live for now, I won’t go easily when they finally show up again. They’ve been here before, some familiar and some not, but it doesn’t really matter if you recognize a relative or an old friend here and there. You still do what must be done…or you die. And if it were only dying, that wouldn’t be so bad. But there’s that other thing…



Robyn and me, we really had it made. We had food, we had shelter and we had weapons and all the ammo we needed. We coulda held out just about forever. And she could really shoot, too. When we ran into some of those things out there, she got just as many head shots as I did.

‘Course we tried never to meet up with ‘em, if we could help it. ‘Cause it was really some bad shit to have to shoot your uncle Jim or Aunt Emma, ‘cause they were no longer with it. No longer human, really, is what I mean to say.

It was kinda funny how I met up with Robyn. Each of us, at the same time, thinkin’ he was the only normal person left. And when we did happen to run across each other one day in the town’s only variety store, we damn near shot each other before we realized we were both okay. Simpson’s Five-and-Dime, that was. But then, when ya think about it, if we’d been undead, we wouldn’t have been lookin’ for candy and cigarettes…

Anyway, we hooked up that day and we been together ever since. But now…now I don’t know what I’m gonna do.

It was a long time after the shit started before we began hearing what actually caused it. We heard stuff about nuclear fallout, but I wasn’t buyin’ that, ‘cause if it was nuclear shit, nobody would be immune. And Robyn and me, we never showed any signs of bein’ sick at all. And besides, if it had been bombs, wouldn’t we have heard explosions, or seen mushroom clouds?

Then we heard it was some germ warfare stuff the towelheads used and that sounded more likely. All they’d have to do was get it into the air or the water supply somehow. Not too tough to do, when ya think about it. ‘Specially since there were so many of ‘em already over here.

But I bet when they were makin’ that shit, whoever really did mutate the virus or mix the chemicals or whatever, they never figured out that a certain percentage of people who died from it would come back.

We heard most of this stuff on an old ham radio receiver Robyn’s dad had played with before things went to hell. So we knew there were still a few normal folks out there. But we didn’t have no transmitter, so we couldn’t find out where they were. Robyn said on the two-meter band, the radio could skip all the way around the world. That was how we knew it wasn’t just Alabama that was fucked…


There were so many corpses when it got really bad, that there was no way they could all get buried. There simply weren’t enough survivors left to put them all in the ground and not enough hours in the day. Most of those unburied simply rotted away and eventually the incredible stench started going away, or at least lessening, until it was just a lingering, sour smell underlying everything else. You got bougainvillea and sour body stench, or chocolate brownies and rotten meat. Sometimes your own armpits reminded you of that other smell and at the same time, that you were still alive.

Within about a week after the end, when it seemed that 99.9% of the world’s humans and cats (did I mention the cats?) had died, some of the dead began to walk around again. A curious thing, there, or as Robyn called it, a phenomenon. At first, that was all they did. Just walked around and looked somehow stupid and at the same time pathetic. Creatures to be pitied, not really alive so much as reanimated by the very disease or chemical cocktail that originally killed them. But within a couple of days, just as I was getting used to seeing them shuffling around at all hours of the day and night, they began to get hungry. And that was when they turned vicious.

They seem to have a bloodlust, or maybe it’s a life-lust, that’s just an incredible thing to see. If they can get a live person trapped inside a building, they’ll sometimes wait for days or even weeks for that person to give up and come out, or to die and join them. If they catch you out in the open, unarmed and unable to outrun them, you’re history. They never use weapons of any sort, other than their own teeth and hands. They seem to have lost the capacity to use weapons or even tools, for that matter.

I have seen what happens once they catch a person and set upon him. I have seen several of them devour a freshly killed human, then become sated and drop into a stupor, sometimes for many hours. One thing about that soporific state of theirs: it makes them easy to re-kill. That’s what it really is, a repeat process that finally ends their reanimation. The only thing I’ve found that works is a head-shot with a fairly powerful firearm, something with enough wallop to literally scatter their brains over as much area as possible.



There! Something moved, right over there, between the hardware and Simpson’s Five-and-Dime! I know I saw it…but now it’s gone again. Could be they’re trying to encircle me again. They’ve tried it before. I burnt down one barn to escape after they thought they had me trapped. They seem to hate fire and…damn! There it was again.

I’m not believin’ this! Now there’s a whole bunch of ‘em, just stepping out and into the light, like they have nothing to fear at all. Well, I guess when you’re already dead…and now they’re goin’ into Simpson’s…now what the hell do ya suppose they want in there? Okay, as soon as they’re all inside, I’m gonna go down and take a look…I certainly owe these bastards for Robyn…


They got Robyn one night not too long ago, not because she got careless, but because I did. I was supposed to be up and on watch. See, that was the only way we could get any sleep, one of us watching and the other asleep, trusting in each other for our very lives.

She and I had made love, something we’d been doing almost from the very first. Again, it was a way of reaffirming that we were still alive and normal. So we did it a lot. And when you do something a lot, whether it’s fucking or playing the violin, you will get good at it. Robyn and I had learned each other so well… We could bring each other right to the edge of climax and then, by careful, slow manipulation and teasing, keep each other there for sometimes thirty or forty minutes, until neither of us could stand it anymore and with just a nod or a single word, often a gasp or shudder, we’d both know it was time and we’d go through it together, finding briefly that special place that only the best lovers ever know. It’s a place where, if you could just remain there, you’d gladly die just to have it continue and never let up.

But, of course, you can’t ever remain there. And there is the afterglow and the holding and the closeness of love that, to some extent makes up for it.

I fell asleep. Simple as that. I was responsible, I was on watch and she was sleeping deeply. I didn’t wake up until they were already on her and ripping out her throat. Her shrieks and gargling screams, her final gasp, which sounded almost like my name, these haunt me and make me a more substantial killer.

I got them all. There was nothing calm and methodical about it. Not like now. I was crazed by the loss of my woman and, for a time, I was insane. There were a total of nine of them and I’m almost ashamed to say I used up almost two hundred rounds of ammunition on them. Now I seldom use more than one round per kill.

Later the next morning, I buried Robyn down at the bottom of the hill. I put her pretty deep, because I didn’t want anything digging her up. I had a tattered old Bible that had been my mother’s and I read some meaningless scripture and I prayed for her soul.


I move slowly, taking my time. I keep to the shadows, not too difficult now, as most of the streetlights have burned out in the past months. I’m surprised every evening that some of them still come on…

The crew of undead are wrecking Simpson’s. I don’t know why they do these things, unless they actually are able to feel anger and they have to take it out on something. I stand in a dark spot, watching them trash the store, knocking over shelves, strewing merchandise everywhere, tearing down and stomping everything they can reach. Eventually one of them throws a blender from the soda fountain through the front plate glass window, and I am overjoyed. That makes it just so much easier to get good, accurate head shots. Nothing in the way to deflect a bullet, you see. I work the action on my M-16 and get to work.

I have equipped the weapon with a high-powered laser sight. It not only makes my shots more accurate and saves ammo, but for some reason I can’t fathom, the laser light stuns them and makes them freeze, at least momentarily. I try to sweep the laser across their eyes, then take my shot.

As soon as I turn on the laser, they begin screeching. Whether it’s that painful to them, or if they just know what’s coming, I’m not sure. I pop the first one that turns in my direction—a good shot, square between the eyes. Mushy, half-rotted brains spray some of the others as the round plows through his head and the screeching turns up a notch.

I already have a headache from the heat and this is not helping. I get the next two before they can even turn toward me. Headshots are the only thing that work and I nail them both cold, one in the temple and the other at an angle, the round hitting just above the mastoid bone. The walls are dripping with nastiness now, and I’m right up close to the window.

Time to take the last three and get out of here. I get one, then, my weapon jams. I haven’t been able to keep it as clean as I’d like and I’m paying for that now. I toss it aside and draw my secondary weapon. The Glock 9mm is not equipped with a laser, but it still does the job. I get another female as she’s trying to make it out the door and the last guy as he gets to the broken out window, close enough I can smell his breath. Unfortunately, I have enough imagination, I can picture vividly what he’s been eating.

Then it’s all over. I feel a certain pride that I have taken out another six of the hell-creatures and only used nine rounds.


I still don’t know why I didn’t just walk away. Maybe I just felt like I needed to double-check my kills, or maybe survey the damage. When I got inside, I looked them over carefully, even though I’ve never met a zombie that was savvy enough to play dead or try to fake me out in any way.

As I was turning to leave, something moved in the back of the store. There was just enough light coming in through the wrecked storefront to see that this one was female. I brought up my weapon and sighted on her head, keeping my focus on my front sight, and started to squeeze off the shot when something familiar stayed my hand.

Even under the layer of grave dirt, with little white worms crawling in her hair and in the gaping wound on her neck, I recognized her. My heart leapt and at the same time my breathing stopped. On Robyn’s face was a half-smile, almost as if she recognized me, too. She raised one arm and started toward me, one foot dragging in a slow shuffle.

I turned and ran.


I keep thinking that soon I’m going to have to kill Robyn. I’ll have to put her to her final rest. I cannot understand why or how she came back, unless she was infected and we just weren’t aware of it yet.

I keep her locked up in the barn most of the time and I have been finding things to feed her that seem to keep her somewhat satisfied. Sometimes I’ll shoot an animal and bring her the fresh corpse for her to tear at and devour. Once she is sated and groggy, then we can sometimes still make love. It’s not as good as it once was, but, since I got her bathed and cleaned up, since I got the vermin out of her hair and sutured up her neck wound, it’s not too bad. Better than being alone and hurting.

But I never know when she’s apt to turn vicious and try to bite or claw me, so it’s a risky business, this living with Robyn.

Kenneth James Crist is a tired, broken-down old motorcycle cop from Wichita Kansas. He began writing a novel in 1994 as keyboard practice and has since written four more novels, several novellas and a butt-load of short stories. His publications have been seen in Bewildering Stories, Tales of the Talisman, A Twist of Noir, A Shot of Ink, Eaten Alive, The New Flesh, The Sink, The Edge, Skin and Bones, Twisted Sister and Kudzu Monthly, to name a few. Recently, he had three stories accepted by John Thompson at Hardboiled, for two anthologies that were published in April of 2014, The Undead War and Hardboiled, both available from Dead Guns Press.

He also has four books up in Kindle format, for sale on Amazon.com: Dreaming of Mirages, The Gazing Ball, Joshua, and Groaning for Burial, his latest zombie fiction. One of his novellas, Surviving Montezuma, is being serialized by Anne Stickel at Black Petals.

Having turned 72 last June, he still rides his big Harley every day that weather permits and is now completely retired. He volunteers as a blood services driver for the American Red Cross and he is also a member of the American Legion Riders and the Kansas Patriot Guard.

In Association with Black Petals & Fossil Publications 2017