Amanda HockingAmanda's Blog
Old-Fashioned Zombies (and New-Fangled Ones)
Today’s Zombiepalooza post comes from J.L. Bryan, author of The Paranormals trilogy (Jenny Pox, Tommy Nightmare, and Alexander Death) and other novels. Fairy Metal Thunder is the first book in his new Songs of Magic series. On Monday (October 17), he begins The Paranormals Blog Tour, where you can win a Kindle Fire, Jenny Pox-themed jewelry, autographed books and more. Watch for a Zombiepalooza giveaway of Jenny Pox, too, later this month.
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Old-Fashioned Zombies (and New-Fangled Ones)
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I want to thank Mandy for inviting me back for Zombiepalooza II! I don’t know if anyone actually calls her “Mandy.” I’m just doing that thing where D-list celebrities refer to A-list celebrities by unusual nicknames. (“So, I was having lunch with Tony Hopkins and Marty Scorsese the other day…”) I’ve always wanted to do that.
Which brings us right to tonight’s topic: Old-fashioned zombies versus new-fangled zombies: who would win in a fight? (This topic is totally different from my “slow versus fast zombies” guest post last year.)
This is an obvious subject to me because my Paranormals trilogy has some old-fashioned zombies. By old-fashioned, I mean the traditional legends you would find in Haiti. A zombie master turns people into zombies, raising them from the dead, usually for some manual labor drudgery, like working a plantation (an obvious metaphor for slavery, of course). In the first zombie movie, White Zombie, the zombie master uses zombie labor in his mill.
Those zombies lost a cultural-evolutionary rat race to the teeming apocalyptic zombie horde. The George Romero-style zombie took over the world and ate its brains. Amanda’s Hollowland and Hollowmen feature zombie hordes that behave in this very inconsiderate manner.
So I thought it would be fun to build a stadium, pit a horde of my zombies against a horde of Amanda’s zombies in a colossal public exhibition, and give out free balloons. Because balloons are nice. But apparently we don’t have the budget to do that for this blog post, especially once you add in the balloon and helium costs, so we’ll just imagine what might happen.
At first, my zombies would seem to have the advantage. There is a central mind, the zombie master, directing their actions. On top of that, my zombies can use simple tools, like shovels, picks, and AK-47s. This organization and tool-slinging ability puts them ahead of the brainless brain-eaters.
However, we know how this story ends. The hungry swarm always wins. They inherit the Earth, and no amount of tools or human intelligence can hope to stop them. Because, in the end, when you only have one goal, and that goal is eating brains, a goal which turns others into zombies like you…there’s just nothing that beats that level of persistence, dedication, and single-minded fixation.
Live humans get distracted with thoughts, feelings, and other blah. Zombie masters are only human, and so zombie-master-controlled zombies just don’t have the same intensity of focus as the feeding horde. They can lose purpose and topple over if the zombie master is feeling depressed, sleepy, or dead. And that’s when they get eaten by the swarms of other zombies, who are just hungry, and not subject to remote psychic control.
And that’s how the new swarming zombies beat out the old-fashioned kind.
I still wish we could have had that big zombie fight in the stadium, though. Maybe next Zombiepalooza.
One of Four from David McAfee
I actually posted this story in the last in last year’s Zombiepalooza, but I liked it so much, I asked David McAfee if I could post again. It’s a really fantastic story, and I wanted you all to enjoy it. David McAfee is the author of 33 A.D. and Grubs, a novella that gave me nightmares. For more info about him or his books, please check out his site: mcafeeland.wordpress.com
One of Four – along with fifteen other stories – is included in McAfee’s horror anthology, Pound of Flash. It also has bonus material from David Dalglish, Daniel Arenson, and Michael Crane.
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“You know who I am, Father.” It isn’t a question.
The priest looks at me, his youthful eyes brimming with idealistic forgiveness, and nods.
“I know who you claim to be,” he says as he steps past the nurse – a burly bitch named Swanson – and starts to close the door behind him.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Swanson says, holding up her left hand. She casts a meaningful glance at her missing ring finger. The scar is an angry red. “He’s a vicious old bastard.”
Her diamond ring had hurt like hell when it passed through my bowels, but the look on her face had been worth it. Maybe I wouldn’t do shit like that if they’d give me something to eat.
The priest ignores her missing finger. “He won’t harm me,” he says. “He can’t.” With that, he closes the door, while Swanson shakes her head and resumes her duties.
I can’t keep the snarl out of my voice. “Damn right I can’t.” I jerk forward in the bed, but the straps around my bare, sunken chest and arms hold me in place. I know it’s useless. I’ve been trying to break them for years now with nothing to show for it but raw, bleeding skin. They are too strong, especially in my pathetic state. They never feed me in this place, preferring to keep me weak and pliable.
He takes a seat by my bed, his soft white robe settles around him as though it’s made of air. On his finger a hefty gold ring winks in the dim light of my cell. I catch a faint whiff of cologne. I can’t place the brand, but it smells expensive. It probably is. The Catholic Church looks after its own.
I smile, revealing a mouth full of sharpened teeth. I had them filed to points long before the priest was even born. In my emaciated state, I must look like a fleshy skull smiling at him. He blanches, but doesn’t look away.
“They told me about those,” he says. “Do you think you frighten me?”
“Don’t I?”
He shakes his head, then reaches into a pouch at his side. He pulls out a vial of water and a rosary and sets them both on the nightstand. “Are you ready?”
I chuckle. A thick, wet gurgle. It’s all I can manage. “You can’t exorcise me, Father. I’m not a demon.” My belly growls. In the confines of the tiny room it sounds like an angry bear.
“We will see.” He pulls the stopper from the vial and begins to pray. I can’t understand a word of it. Must be Latin. He makes a motion with the vial that looks like a cross, then splashes the water on my face and chest. It’s cold, but that’s it. My skin doesn’t boil or blister, and I don’t scream.
He looks closer, his expression slightly puzzled. Then he reaches down and dips his finger into one of the drops on my chest, swirling it around in a circle.
“Careful, Father,” I say. My belly rumbles again, accentuating my warning.
His eyes shoot from my chest to my face, his disbelief plain to see. His finger raises off my flesh and hovers a few inches away. Almost close enough to bite, but not quite. He is probably thinking of Swanson’s scar.
“It’s true, then,” he whispers.
I nod. “But you already knew that.”
He looks at the vial in his hand. “I had to be sure.”
I nod again. “Of course.”
“We’ve been waiting for you.” His words are slow, deliberate. The fear that escaped him earlier now weighs heavily on every syllable. “How long do we have?”
I shake my head. “You should have come to me sooner.”
“We didn’t know.”
“Yes, you did.”
He closes his eyes and turns away, his face red. Maybe he didn’t know, but his colleagues did. They had plenty of time to fix things, and instead they went on as they always had. Only now, when it’s too late, do they think of me, locked away in their prison. Had they come to me sooner, I could have saved them. Any of my brethren could. But we waited. We wanted to see what they would do.
Now we know.
The earth begins to shake beneath us. His eyes snap open.
“Are the others here, already?” he asks.
“Not yet, but they are coming.”
He nods, tears sparkling in his eyes. He clutches his Bible and his rosary to his chest, and again begins praying in Latin. The only word I recognize is famēs, and only because it’s my name. A few moments later the roof of the building crashes down on him. The weight of the rubble snaps my bonds, and I am able to rise on shaky legs.
I leave the room and walk through the hallways, listening to the screams of people dying around me. Swanson is buried under a pile of debris. Her unblinking eyes stare up toward the ceiling.
The others are indeed coming, just as I told the priest. They have quite a distance to travel, of course. Currently, War is in the Middle East, Pestilence is in Africa, and Death…Death is everywhere.
I step out of the ruined building and look back just as the front, a huge brick and marble facade that sports a gleaming bronze Crucifix, tumbles to the earth. The Crucifix lands on a woman in a black and white habit, who sees me standing nearby and begs for mercy in Portuguese.
Too late, I remind myself.
I raise my thin, bony arms to the sky, waiting for instructions. They are not long in coming.
My name is Famine, and it’s time to go to work.
Scarier Than Monsters… Guestblog from Jason Letts
A guest post from Jason Letts, author of a new dystopian novel entitled Suspense.
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This one keeps me up at night. Ever since a friend told me about this I can’t start thinking about it without freaking out, and it’s one of those things I feel like people need to know about just to understand what could actually happen to them out in the world.
About a decade ago, a guy and his high-school sweetheart ended up going to different colleges, and after being away from each other for a few weeks he spontaneously decided to get in the car and drive out to see her. It was going to be a great surprise, but it meant driving all night up in the mountains to her little college town.
He ripped a few CD’s, grabbed a Red Bull or two, and went out on his all-night road trip. At about 3am, he was having trouble keeping himself awake. There was still a long ways to go, but he pushed himself to get there. He was out on some back roads in the middle of nowhere when he turned a corner and saw something up ahead in the road. He hit the brakes and stared at the pair of bodies his headlights illuminated.
There were some swerving tire tracks, obviously some kind of hit-and-run. Now two bodies were sprawled across the road ahead of him. Gasping for breath and gripping his steering wheel, he tried to figure out what to do. This was before everybody had cell phones, and he hadn’t seen another car or a town in hours.
The temptation came over him to get out and check on them, drive them somewhere and get some help. But he decided he just wasn’t in a position to do anything. He couldn’t deal with this right now, and maybe he’d flag down the next truck he saw or something. Driving around the bodies was tricky, almost forcing him into some bushes by the side of the road. He took a good long look at the bodies as he passed by and then hit the brakes a dozen yards or so past. It would be wrong to just leave them there.
He scratched his chin as he prepared to get out when he glanced in the rearview mirror to find that the bodies in the road were sitting up.
The guy’s eyes widened when people started coming out of the bushes on both sides of the road. There must’ve been twenty or thirty of them, joining the two people who’d been lying dead until just moments ago. The driver didn’t waste a second. He slammed on the gas pedal and got the hell out of there as fast as his little Honda Civic could take him.
I don’t want to think about what those people would’ve done to that guy if he’d gotten out of the car. It’s hard not to wonder why they were all there, and how everybody must’ve been OK with snatching drivers off the road. To me, it gets at something even scarier than monsters: people in large groups.
Sort of like Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery,” there’s something about groups of normally rational people engaging willfully in violent acts that gets under my skin. How can someone turn a blind eye and just go along with others like that? How does everybody nod and say yes when somebody says something like, “You know what this PTA meeting needs…a human sacrifice!”
Anyway, I don’t want to tell you not to do something to help when you can, because there are times when we do depend on the kindness of strangers. But what I will tell you is to keep your eyes and your wits around you. And be careful. Because you never know what’s hiding behind the bushes.
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I’d like to send a big Thank You to Amanda for generously giving me this space as part of her Zombiepalooza Spectacular! Like many of you, I’m eagerly awaiting the release of Hollowmen. My prediction: Harlow toughens up and spends a little time going rogue.
Big Hollowland News!
I’m now going to take a small break from Zombiepalooza to bring you some news. Although, since it’s about The Hollows, it’s not technically still about zombies, so it still fits in with Zombiepalooza.
Anyway, this press release came out today:
- Dynamite is proud to announce that we have reached an agreement with Amanda Hocking and will publish Hollowland comic books in 2012!
- Amanda Hocking is an American writer of paranormal romance young-adult fiction. Hocking lives in Austin, Minnesota. Employed as an assisted living worker until 2010, she wrote 17 novels in her spare time. In April 2010, she began self-publishing them as e-books. By March 2011, she had sold over a million copies of nine books and earned two million dollars from sales, something previously unheard of for self-published authors. To date only five other authors have sold over a million digital e-books. In early 2011, Hocking averaged 9,000 book sales each day.
- In Hollowland, Nineteen-year-old Remy King is on a mission to get across the wasteland left of America, and nothing will stand in her way – not violent marauders, a spoiled rock star, or an army of flesh-eating zombies.
- “It’s always been a dream of mine to bring the world of The Hollows to graphic novels,” says acclaimed author Amanda Hocking. “I’m so fortunate to be able to partner with an amazing publisher like Dynamite to bring this dream to life.”
- “It is such a pleasure for Dynamite to be working with Amanda as she knows the world of comics,” says Dynamite President and Publisher Nick Barrucci. “Amanda’s success shows that hard work and passion pays off and we can’t wait to see her incredible energy translated to comics!”
- For art and more information, please visit: www.dynamite.net About Dynamite Entertainment:
- DYNAMITE ENTERTAINMENT was founded in 2004 and is home to several best-selling comic book titles and properties, including The Boys, Green Hornet, Vampirella, Warlord of Mars, Bionic Man, Game of Thrones and more!
- In addition to their critically-acclaimed titles and best selling comics, Dynamite works with some of the most high profile creators in comics and entertainment, including Alex Ross, John Cassaday, Garth Ennis, Michael Avon Oeming, Mel Rubi, Marc Guggenheim, Stephen Sadowski, Mike Carey, Jim Krueger, Greg Pak, Brett Matthews, Matt Wagner and a host of up and coming new talent!
- DYNAMITE is consistently ranked in the upper tiers of comic book publishers and several of their titles – including Alex Ross and Jim Krueger’s PROJECT SUPERPOWERS – have debuted in the Top Ten lists produced by Diamond Comics Distributors. Several of their titles have also hit The New York Times Best-Sellers list: The Boys, Vampirella Archives, Robert Jordan’s New Spring and Wheel of Time graphic novels. In 2005 Diamond awarded the company a GEM award for Best New Publisher and another GEM in 2006 for Comics Publisher of the Year (under 5%). The company has also been nominated for several industry awards, including the prestigious Eisner Award.
I am incredibly excited about this. I love graphic novels, and I really think the action of The Hollows lends itself to the form.
Also, what the press release didn’t say is that the graphic novels won’t just be an adaptation of Hollowland and Hollowmen, it will be new content. It’s going to be new stories, new adventures, a continuation of the novels. The deal has just gone through, so we haven’t had a chance to talk about what that means exactly. I’ve got some ideas for it, but I want to to talk with Dynamita’s writers and artists before I tell you anything concretely.
I will be heavily involved in the process, but I’m not sure if I will be directly writing the of the graphic novels. I do have script approval, though, so even if I’m not writing them, I will be able to make changes as necessary. I’d really like to write them, and if I can, I will, but I’ve got such a busy workload right now, I’m not sure if it will be possible.
Anyway, I’m really excited. As soon as I know more – like who the artist will be and if it will be more serialized comics or a graphic novel – I’ll be sure to tell you. But The Hollows will definitely be out in comic form in 2012.
Tough Love from Michael Crane
Zombiepalooza has a short story today from author Michael Crane, whose fabulous drabbles need to be made into an illustrated paperback. If you’re not familiar with his work, check out Lessons, Lesson II, and Lessons III immediately!
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Tough Love
The dumb bitch deserved it, Earl thought to himself as he sat in his recliner, downing his second bottle of beer. Heidi probably thought that he enjoyed beating the living crap out of her on a nightly basis, but what the hell did she know? If she didn’t mouth off, he wouldn’t have to strike her down. She thought she knew the world, but the truth was she didn’t know jack shit. That was one of the many things he could never stand about the woman. This idea that she knew how things were supposed to go until he’d have to remind her otherwise.
Drawing in some air, he looked down at his bruised knuckles. He probably hit her harder than he needed to, although he would never admit it to anybody. Certainly not to Heidi. As he focused on the red and purple that populated his hand, he thought about the night before. A whole lot of shit went wrong. She knew he had a bad day at work, goddammit. His boss was riding his ass, reminding him that he was planning on shit-canning a bunch people by the end of the week. Earl didn’t know if his name was on his list or not, but it made him uneasy.
There was one simple thing that Heidi needed to do, and that was to cook him a decent meal when he came over. That’s all she had to do, and yet she had managed to screw the pooch on that one. When that plate of awful green nothing was set in front of him, there was only one possible response.
“What the fuck is this?”
It didn’t take long for Heidi to get an attitude. Getting all snotty, she said, “I just got home a little bit ago. I didn’t know you wanted to come over tonight and I didn’t have time to cook nothing. Besides, it won’t kill us to eat healthy for a change.”
“Oh, so now I’m a fat ass. Is that it?” He stabbed his fork into the lettuce and grimaced.
“Stop putting words in my mouth. You know I hate when you do that, Earl.”
Earl dropped his fork onto his plate. He began to massage his temples with his eyes closed, trying to calm down. “I told you I had a bad day at work, and this is how you try to cheer me up?”
“I’m sorry you had a bad day, but I think you’re overreacting.”
He pounded his fist into the table. “A fuckin’ salad, Heidi? That’s how you try to make my day better?” He grabbed his plate and hurled it at the wall behind Heidi. She ducked and covered her face with her hands, doing her best to avoid the debris.
“Get out,” she said.
“Not until I get a meal, goddammit. You get your ass back into that there kitchen,” he growled while pointing, “and cook me some dinner!”
“I don’t want you over here when you’re like this. Please,” she pleaded, tears in the corner of her eye. “Please, just leave me be.”
Earl shook his head and got up, knowing that he was going to have to set her straight yet again. She couldn’t have pulled a stunt on a worse night for him. There was a part of him that was afraid of what he was capable of, but then there was the other half that didn’t give a damn if he beat her to a bloody pulp. She was going to learn her lesson. He’d make sure of that. As he walked toward her, he formed fists inside of his jean pockets. Earl made sure he was real close, having his nose almost touching hers.
“Make me,” he said.
That’s when she did something he never would’ve thought possible. Air and saliva left her tiny mouth, hitting Earl directly in the face. At first he was in complete shock, but then he lost it. His fists came flying out of his pockets and began to wail on Heidi. It didn’t matter to him where he struck her so long as his fists were hitting something of hers. She cried and begged him to stop. Even with a mouth full of blood, she couldn’t get him to back off. It was too late for that. Much, much too late, and he was going to make sure that she understood that. By the time he was finished, she was cowering in a corner and sobbing her little eyes out. Blood stained her orange shirt around her shoulders. Before Earl left, he looked down at the floor by her and spat.
That was the last time he saw her. Even though it was only a night ago, it felt like days. As he leaned back in his recliner and placed the wet, cool bottle against his forehead, he felt a moment of regret. Not that he had a problem with putting a woman in her place when she got lippy with him, but he knew he went too far. He could’ve killed her. Her entire face was probably the color of a raisin by now.
Still, she didn’t’ have to push him. Sure, he felt bad about how things ended the other night, but he didn’t forget the fact that it was her fault. If she had cooked him a nice dinner and kept her yap shut, everything would’ve been fine and dandy.
“You gotta learn, Heidi,” he said to himself. “The day you stop mouthin’ off to me, and we’ll be fine like wine.”
That night when he left Heidi’s, he remembered seeing somebody standing on the street. The man was just staring at the house, his mouth hanging open like some goofy kid with mental problems. Earl thought that maybe he was drunk, but why in the hell was he standing out there like that? Earl didn’t’ think to ask at the time. He was too heated to ask the guy what he was up to, and it didn’t occur to him until now how odd it all looked. Was the guy waiting for Heidi? Maybe she was two-timing him.
Earl’s hand tightly gripped his bottle.
Maybe that was why Heidi didn’t have time to prepare a meal for him. He didn’t tell her that he was coming by until right after he got out of work. Hell, he didn’t even think he was going to see her. Just seemed like the thing to do after the crappy day he had. Heidi wasn’t expecting him, that much was for sure. Maybe this guy spotted Earl’s truck and knew that somebody else was over. The man was waiting for him to leave so the two of them could make an even bigger fool out of him.
Just like with the plate of disgusting salad, Earl chucked his bottle, only this time it hit the floor. The bottle didn’t break, however. Only beer spilled onto his vomit green carpet.
“Goddammit!” he screamed. He grabbed his phone and dialed Heidi’s number. He had a few things he wanted to say to her. Well, say wasn’t exactly the right word, but either way he was going to get to the bottom of things.
No answer. Not even a ringtone. Just straight to voicemail.
“Bitch!” he snarled. A picture of Heidi and the strange open-mouthed man screwing began to repeat over and over again in his mind. Her screaming in pleasure while the goofy weirdo was nailing her from behind. Earl clamped onto his ears and closed his eyes, hoping that the sound and vision would go away. When he was finally able to shake it off, Earl stood up and grabbed his keys from the kitchen counter. He slammed the door shut as he left his house and hopped into his truck. He didn’t bother to put on a seatbelt. As soon as the truck started, he floored it. A cloud of dirt and gravel formed as he sped away.
“Heidi, Heidi,” he said, gnashing his teeth as he drove. “You are going to get it. If you’re doing what I think you’re doing, you are going to get it. Mark my words.” His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly as he got closer and closer to Heidi’s place. Whatever remorse he might’ve felt from the other night was a long and distant memory. The feeling was replaced with absolute rage and hatred. Earl didn’t think it was possible to have so much hate for one single person until that very moment.
When he arrived, he only saw Heidi’s car in front. That would normally be a good sign, except Earl remembered that the guy didn’t appear to have a car when he saw him. Earl rushed out of his truck and when he reached the front door, he began to pound on it with both of his fists.
“Open the door, Heidi! I need to have a word with you!” He kept on pounding. “Open the door, goddammit! If you know what’s good for you, you’ll open the door!”
No answer. After a few more seconds of pounding, Earl cursed to himself and tried the door knob. To his surprise, the door opened. He took a deep breath and then entered, slamming the door shut behind him.
“Heidi? Where the hell are you?” he demanded.
Again, no answer. He surveyed the area to see if there was anything out of place. He noticed that Heidi’s plate of salad from the other night was still on the table. Earl’s broken plate was on the floor where he left it. Not only was Heidi possibly two-timing him, but she was also lazy. So what if she was beaten pretty badly? The woman could’ve at least cleaned up the mess when she recovered. She wasn’t bedridden, dammit.
His thoughts were interrupted when he heard moaning coming from the bedroom. Earl’s eyes locked onto the door as he listened. One voice, he couldn’t recognize. It was a low groan. No way did it belong to a woman. When he heard the second groan, he knew that one was from Heidi.
Earl’s shaking hands balled up into fists. His long, dirty fingernails dug into his sweaty palms. Even though he pretty much expected to find Heidi cheating on him, the reality of it all began to hit him. The moans became louder, almost sounding animalistic.
“You cheating bitch!” he spat. He headed for the bedroom door. This time, he had no intention of knocking. As soon as his hand touched the knob, he pushed the door open.
“Caught you in the act, you two-timing—whah?”
Heidi was sitting on the bed, although he wasn’t quite sure if it was really her or not. The person that was presented before him had ugly, pale skin. Her face was all black and blue, and she stared at him with dead eyes. Bits of dark, crusty blood dangled from her stringy, dirty blonde hair.
Earl was completely dumbfounded. Out of any possible scenario that might’ve played out in his mind, what he was witnessing was a gazillion times worse. This wasn’t the woman he’d been dating for the past five months. This thing didn’t even resemble a person. She looked like a hideous creature straight out of a horror movie.
“H-Heidi?” Earl gulped. Sweat began to drip from his forehead and his right eye twitched.
A long and low moan that sounded like the creaking of a heavy door was the only response she gave. Not once did she blink. After the moan, a crooked smile formed on her bloody and broken face.
“Braaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnns,” she moaned.
A figure from behind grabbed onto Earl’s body. A loud moan, this time a male’s entered his eardrums. He tried to break away from the guy’s grasp, but he was too powerful. Before he knew it, Earl felt the top of his ear being bitten into. He screamed in pain as the man’s teeth ripped a piece off. Blood splashed onto his shoulder. The groaning and grunting man forced him down onto the bed. Earl, lying on his stomach, looked up at Heidi. Heidi continued to smile, with her purple tongue licking her chapped lips.
“Heidi! Help me! Please!” he begged. Tears that hadn’t been shed since the death of his father five years ago began to stream down his face. The man was still forcing his weight onto him.
“I’m sorry for everything,” he cried. “I’m sorry I hit you! I’ll do better, I swear! I’ll never lay a hand on you ever again, just help me!”
Heidi leaned forward, her nose now touching his. She opened her mouth and a vile stench poured onto Earl’s face.
“Braaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiinnnns,” she repeated.
Earl shook his head and begged for his life. He continued to do so even when her teeth began to stab into the top of his skull. Blood gushed down his face and after a couple of agonizing minutes, the screaming and begging ceased.
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For more information on Michael Crane, please visit his blog at authormichaelcrane.blogspot.com