FRESH OFF THE BUS FROM CREEPYTOWN: Countdown To The Beginning

By Al Bruno III

0:00

This account is intended for anyone who might unearth this research center. I've configured the computer's audio system to record whenever I speak or make a sound. The hard drive has enough space for thirty-six hours of audio. That should be all I need.

Since Mission Control does not respond, I can only surmise that they, too, have been compromised.

My name is Professor Ray Hengel. I leave our data and this audio journal in the hope that it will somehow aid whoever finds this place.

I am the only remaining member of our research contingent. There were twelve of us at the start: a gathering of forensic specialists, neurologists, biologists, chemists, toxicologists, and a pair of military consultants. We also had twenty-five infected cadavers to work with.

I prefer the term *infected cadaver* to the appellation the media is using: zombie. It brings to mind the stuff of cheap horror films and primitive superstition. If you take nothing else from my chronicle, dear listener, know this: this is a problem that can only be solved by science.

Our assignment was to find some way to stop the walking undead before they swept humanity aside. There were many early successes for our group. We determined that the source of the infected cadaver outbreak was not caused by the wrath of a vengeful God, witchcraft, voodoo, or something equally ludicrous. The source of the outbreak was radiation, radiation carried on the back of a comet, much as fleas carried the plague from one unsuspecting host to another centuries ago.

The tragedy here is that we failed to realize the power of said radiation, the sheer scope of its reconstitutive abilities. Our procedures were as simple as they were methodical. At the beginning of every week, we would pull one of the infected cadavers from cold storage and begin a protracted series of tests. We analyzed everything from their hair to their basal ganglia, and we were beginning to gain some understanding of how the radiation had animated previously lifeless tissue.

I am utterly certain that, had disaster not befallen us, we would have found a way to stop this nightmare from unfolding any further.

No, wait. I have so little time, and I still haven't explained the purpose of this audio record. You see, I was bitten on the right hand, in the fleshy web between the thumb and index finger. The force of the bite was sufficient to fracture the first and second metacarpals. A considerable amount of skin and underlying muscle tissue was torn away in the process. I've kept the wound wrapped in bandages until now. I'm going to unwrap it and examine the damage.
 

Fascinating. The bleeding has ceased, but the tissue surrounding the wound is darkening, almost like an abrasion on the surface of a piece of overripe fruit. I briefly probed the area with a scalpel and discovered a spreading purulence. It resembled pus, although it possessed a peculiar reddish-black coloration.

More troubling was its consistency. The substance was threaded with countless fine, branching filaments, resembling fungal hyphae or the fibrous growth of certain primitive plant organisms. I've never encountered anything quite like it.

Is this how the infection will eventually supplant my central nervous system? I wonder what effect it will have on the higher brain functions.

I wonder.

One of my fellow scientists, a garrulous little man named Wilkins, kept a cache of liquor in his rooms. I think I could use a drink. Several drinks, in fact.

1:59

It appears that I will not be having that drink after all. I suppose this explains my lack of appetite as well.

Mere moments after taking a sip from the box of wine Wilkins kept under his bed, I found myself wracked with nausea. At first, I attributed this loss of self-control to the low-quality swill I had foolishly imbibed, but as my retching metamorphosed into a bout of dry heaves, I began to realize that something far more malignant was at work.

I made my way to the battlefield that had once been our cafeteria and tried to see if I could keep down a pair of crackers and a glass of water. If anything, the resulting illness was even more prolonged and terrible. Just speaking about it makes me want to be sick all over again.

Much like rabies, it appears that the infection causes the sufferer's digestive system to reject all nourishment. I wonder if that is why the affected cadavers must feast upon living flesh.

7:39

 

Woke with a fever. 103, I think. It's hard to tell; my eyes are blurry. I kept dreaming of my loved ones. My wife, my parents, my—

Never mind. Such sentimental drivel doesn't exactly pertain to my thesis, does it?

To the point. Approximately nine hours after contracting the infection, I find myself feverish. There is a slight ringing in my ears, and I am ravenously hungry. The discoloration around the bite has spread down my fingers and up my forearm as far as the heads of the radius and ulna. They resemble dark threads working their way toward my heart.

My father died of a heart attack. I wonder if this will feel similar.

My hand occasionally clenches of its own volition. It's like watching a laboratory rat in its death throes.

 

8:28

 

...stupid, really. We should have realized. We should have taken better precautions.

I pieced together what had happened by reviewing the security tapes. Those two researchers never got the chance to dispose of anything. They were vivisecting one of the infected corpses. They had immobilized it by first strapping it to the table and then amputating its limbs and lower jaw. They extracted the infected cadaver's organs, took samples, and weighed them.

This was not simple sadism at work. We did this to determine whether the various nerve agents we were testing were having any effect at all. Besides, our main concern was testing and studying the infected cadavers' artificially stimulated nervous systems. Those excess tissues merely got in the way.

They threw the discarded tissues into a container. Then, when everything that could be learned about the infected cadaver had been learned, the organs and the still-struggling torso were taken to the incinerator for disposal.

We should have guessed. I should have guessed that the neural matrix created by the alien radiation would not subscribe to the patterns of behavior exhibited by Earthly life forms. This neural matrix was multi-tiered (dare I say, holographic?) in nature. Unfettered by the powerful neurological impulses that ordinarily governed them, the discarded tissues somehow adapted themselves to operate on a fundamentally different level.

Like a planarian worm, which can regenerate an entire organism from a fragment.

And it looked something like a giant worm attacking when the infected cadaver's small intestine looped itself around one of the researchers and dragged him screaming into the fetid trash barrel.

The other researcher then made the mistake of fleeing the room, leaving the door open.

What happened next was like a butcher shop comedy. Somehow, that infected cadaver, or rather what remained of it, managed to free its monstrous kin from cold storage. Whether this was through dumb luck or an intelligence that had previously gone unnoticed, I can't say.

By the time we realized what was going on, we were being overrun.

9:31

 

The ringing in my ears is getting louder. I can't stop sweating. The black lines have spread all the way to my chest. It feels as though there's a fist in there, slowly squeezing my lungs.

My stomach is aching with hunger, but everything I've tried to eat, everything from ice cubes to raw hamburger, refuses to stay down. At this rate, I'll dehydrate before I succumb to the infection itself. Perhaps that's a mercy.

If, by some miracle, Caroline Majors is still alive and a message can be delivered to her, tell her... tell her I was thinking of her.

10:37

 

...Nuh... not want... Nuh... can't... Jesus! Don't want to die... not like this... not like this... Nuh...

18:07

 

It's a miracle! A miracle! No more fever. The discoloration on my hand is fading, and I can move my fingers again. Not as well as I used to, but still. Perhaps the human autoimmune system does have a way to combat the infection. I must see if I can contact the government!

But first, I'm going to record my vital statistics and take a blood sample. Any information I can gather might be useful. The cure could be in my white blood cells, just waiting to be released.

19:07

 

My breathing was nothing more than a reflex action. I let my exuberance get the better of me. It doesn't make any sense! Why am I still here? Why am I still talking?

 

20:18

The fever was bad. Worse than I ever expected. It killed me. You hear me talking, but I'm an infected cadaver now. The brain dies last, like a fish in a tank nobody cleans.

21:02

 

Stabbed me self—No! Myself! Stabbed myself in tummy. Blood, but no pain. I like that. No pain, but still here. Falling apart like... falling apart...

I'm going to get one of the guns off one of the military soldiers that died in the cafeteria. Shot to the head always works... scientifically proven...

22:24

The soldier lying on his back, arms out like Jesus. And Jesus say, "Take and eat; this is my body." So I did. It was cold, and it filled my belly, but then it came out through the holes I made. Maybe that's why I'm still hungry...

26:12

 

...God, why? God, why? God, why?...

 

34:32

...they're huuuuhhh... muh-ore soldiers... huhhhhh... suh-hoon... uhm... stuh-ill in muh muhnd buh-ut I can't stuh-stop! suh huh-ungry... uh-all uh huh-ave luh-ft is thu huh-unger...

FRESH OFF THE BUS FROM CREEPYTOWN

SUGAR COATED SACRAMENTS

 In a mad dash for candy, three boys discover that some Halloween horrors are all too real.

 

A MAN CALLED CORPSE

 

Surviving a bus crash was just the beginning for this sole survivor as they race against time to uncover the truth behind the horrifying creatures that caused it.

 

THE MAN THAT ATE NEWBORNS

 

A desperate man takes drastic measures to reclaim his lost love.

 

DAYS OF WINE AND ROSACEA

 

Ethel's addiction takes a dangerous turn.

 

SWEET NOTHINGS

 

A weary traveler confronts the long-forgotten secrets of Room 732.

 

GRAVE ROBBERS FROM OUTER SPACE

 

"...now, for the first time, we are bringing to you the full story of what happened on that fateful day. We are giving you all the evidence, based only on the secret testimonies of the miserable souls who survived this terrifying ordeal: the incidents, the places. My friends, we cannot keep this a secret any longer. Let us punish the guilty. Let us reward the innocent. My friend, can your heart stand the shocking facts about grave robbers from outer space?"

 

 

HOW I WONDER WHAT YOU ARE

A man trapped in the star-cursed town of Jebsen must find a way to escape.

THE EYESTALK KID

Enter the black tent and be lost to world of the Eyestalk Kid.

PRECIOUS MACHINE

 

Step inside the Kaydeross Asylum and discover the chilling truth about Dr. Masters and the mysterious Precious Machine.

 

IN MEMORY ALONE

 

“Are you just going to sulk or do you want to dance?” She stood before him with her hand outstretched and no pity in her eyes...

BEARS REPEATING

 

Derek looked through the front window of his home for a long, confused moment, looked away, and then looked back again. There was a man dressed as a bear standing on the street corner...

A SON'S DUTY

A man must confront his past and take control of his destiny when he is asked to fulfill a lifelong dream.

 

WAITING FOR THE MIRACLE

When Judith's faith and strength are put to the test, she must survive eight days in the Vessel of Transubstantiation.

 

 

 

ARTIFACTS AND HEIRLOOMS

After a smuggling job goes wrong, Mulrooney finds himself hunted through the Everglades by something far more terrifying than he ever imagined.

 

 

IN THE PIT

When Professor Mercer Conrad finds himself trapped in a pit with no way out, he must confront his beliefs and the terrifying truth behind the urban legends surrounding the cloaked figures known as Urban Headhunters or Pilgrims.

 

 

MY LOVE IS VENGEANCE

 

The loss of his son drives a father to seek revenge on a wealthy and powerful family, no matter what the cost.

 

FOOLPROOF

 

An ultimate act of defiance and contempt for the world.

 

LIVING DEAD NERD

 

Being sixteen is hell. Is being dead is worse?

 

BOGGS AND CROAD ARE FRIENDS

 

A wealthy businessman's dinner takes a dark turn forcing the him to make a life or death decision.

 

 

NEIGHBORHOOD TRASH

 

Gabe grows fearful of his new neighbors' unsettling habits in a rundown neighborhood.

A TOUCH OF RED

 

In a world ravaged by a deadly virus, a woman and her husband cope with fear, loneliness, and their crumbling marriage while facing their inevitable fate.

 

ROUGH PATCHES

 

The once deep connection between a beloved pet and her family has been broken, leading to a nightmare of cruelty and revenge.

TOURIST TRAP

 

An abandoned marine park. A world overrun by the dead. A desperate fight for survival.

 

 

 

 

INNOCENT WHEN YOU DREAM

 

A man's struggle with nightmares and sleepwalking turns into a terrifying journey of uncertain reality.

 

ON A FOGGY NIGHT

 

An office worker's routine is disrupted by a strange fog and creeping madness.

 

BURMA SHAVE

 

Two strangers stranded on a deserted road encounter strange happenings along their journey.

 

MURIEL

 

In a fading desert town, a relationship between a middle-aged widow and a young man takes a haunting turn.

 

SOLDIERS THINGS

 

A man unveils the unsettling mystery behind his friend's haunting jungle wallpaper.

 

NOVEMBER

 

Haunted by his past sins, a young man must face a mummified creature driven by love.

 

 

FRESH OFF THE BUS FROM CREEPYTOWN: Living Dead Nerd

 

by

Al Bruno III

I can’t really blame what happened on some kind of horror movie outbreak or evil spell. I just woke up one morning and I was dead.

Dead. Totally dead but walking around, no pulse but a head still full of Star Trek trivia. Sixteen years old, and it looked like I wasn’t going to be getting any older. So weird. I’m still not sure what I am. Zombie? Vampire? Something worse? Has this ever happened to anyone else? Even Wikipedia couldn’t tell me. Maybe when I’m done here, I’ll make an entry.

My complexion had always been pale, and my parents never really listened to me, so the whole I can’t go to school because I’m only breathing out of habit excuse didn’t fly. I still had to shamble out and catch the bus.

The ride to Allen Palmer High School was the usual hell. Insults and blunt objects thrown at me no matter how close I sat to the bus driver. Metalhead stoners, the shop class rejects—they didn’t discriminate. That day was no different, but for once, none of it bugged me. I didn’t feel anger. I didn’t feel anything.

That just pissed them off more.

They kept at it, escalating. A textbook slammed into the back of my head. I turned around, expecting to see the usual grins, but they just stared at me. Silent. I wasn’t glaring on purpose. I thought I looked surprised—mostly because I was trying to figure out why in the hell one of those idiots had a calculus textbook. Whatever they saw in my face, it shut them up. They left me alone after that.

School was school. I went through the motions, but sophomore year is basically the middle film in a trilogy—just killing time until the ending.

I wasn’t sure what my ending was going to be now. Was I going to rot away? Fall apart? I didn’t know. I still don’t. But it doesn’t bug me much. When you’re already dead, what’s the worst that could happen?

The first week passed like nothing had changed. School, home, World of Warcraft.

No more bathroom breaks messing up my raids, so hey, silver lining.

Then came the hunger.

Not the normal kind. It wasn’t in my stomach. It was in my bones. A deep ache, like something inside me was starving, softening, getting weaker. Fish sticks and fries didn’t touch it. Nothing did.

But my neighborhood was full of cats—some of the stupidest, plumpest cats you’ve ever seen. Like those tiny chickens they serve at weddings.

The first time, I didn’t think. I just did it. Snapped its neck, teeth in before I even realized. It was warm. Blood-hot. My fingers stopped shaking. The hunger faded.

By the second week, things had changed. I smelled different, but nothing a bucket of Dad’s Hi Karate couldn’t hide. People treated me differently. Even when I smiled, something about me made them uneasy. I told my gym teacher I wasn’t playing dodgeball. I was going to the library. He just let me. Amazing.

My skin cleared up, but my grades didn’t. The jocks even stopped calling me ‘Timmy the Tard.’ Not that I cared anymore.

One guy still wanted to fight. Some seven-foot freshman who thought he had something to prove. He hit me. A few times. Didn’t hurt. I hit back. Once. He crumpled. Cried.

I got called to the principal’s office, but something in the way I stared at his carotid artery must’ve changed his mind about the whole responsibility and citizenship speech. He cut it short and suspended me for a week instead.

Mom hit the roof. Dad actually seemed kind of proud.

That night, one of the neighbor’s dogs went missing. I felt like celebrating.

Since I was suspended, Mom gave me punishment chores to keep me busy while she and Dad were at work. Fine by me. Physical activity kept me from just sitting around, and when you’re dead, that’s what you do. Sit. Stare. Stop thinking. Let things happen to you.

Let go and let God, my aunt used to say.

Not that God was something I worried about anymore. Sometimes, though, I wondered—what if Jesus was just a nerd like me? What if he was someone who kept swallowing abuse until he choked on it?

At least he got cool powers. All I got was a thousand-yard stare.

And then I got laid.

Seriously.

It was the girl across the street—Stephanie, but she wanted everyone to call her Serpentina. Expelled for setting fire to the tampon dispenser in the girls’ room. My kind of girl.

I was taking out the trash when she walked up, talking about how much she liked standing in the rain and how I sure had changed. That never happened before.

She invited me inside. One thing led to another. Next thing I knew, she was on top of me, showing me all the places she planned to get tattooed and pierced when she turned eighteen.

She was warm. I didn’t realize how cold I was until she pressed against me. I let her do the driving. She kissed me, moved my hands where she wanted them, and then guided me into her.

So warm.

And since we’re both guys here, let me tell you—I was doing the full-on zombie groan, if you know what I mean.

Bet you thought I was gonna kill her and eat her or something, right?

Come on. She’s crazy about me. And she wants me to meet her girlfriend—and the way she said girlfriend has me thinking. And you know what that means. And know what that means - I may be dead, but I’m not stupid.

Of course, all that exertion left me starving, and that’s where you come in, you big, broad-shouldered jock, you.

I knew you couldn’t resist the chance to follow me here, to ‘teach me a lesson’ after what I did to that mongoloid brother of yours.

The dogs and the cats went neck-first. But since you pulled down my shorts in gym class—

I’m starting with your guts.

Scream all you want.

No one’s gonna hear you.

Man, I always wanted to say that.

FRESH OFF THE BUS FROM CREEPYTOWN: Living Dead Nerd

by

Al Bruno III

I can’t really blame what happened on some kind of horror movie outbreak or evil spell. I just woke up one morning and I was dead.

Dead. Totally dead but walking around, no pulse but a head still full of Star Trek trivia. Sixteen years old, and it looked like I wasn’t going to be getting any older. So weird. I’m still not sure what I am. Zombie? Vampire? Something worse? Has this ever happened to anyone else? Even Wikipedia couldn’t tell me. Maybe when I’m done here, I’ll make an entry.

My complexion had always been pale, and my parents never really listened to me, so the whole I can’t go to school because I’m only breathing out of habit excuse didn’t fly. I still had to shamble out and catch the bus.

The ride to Allen Palmer High School was the usual hell. Insults and blunt objects thrown at me no matter how close I sat to the bus driver. Metalhead stoners, the shop class rejects—they didn’t discriminate. That day was no different, but for once, none of it bugged me. I didn’t feel anger. I didn’t feel anything.

That just pissed them off more.

They kept at it, escalating. A textbook slammed into the back of my head. I turned around, expecting to see the usual grins, but they just stared at me. Silent. I wasn’t glaring on purpose. I thought I looked surprised—mostly because I was trying to figure out why in the hell one of those idiots had a calculus textbook. Whatever they saw in my face, it shut them up. They left me alone after that.

School was school. I went through the motions, but sophomore year is basically the middle film in a trilogy—just killing time until the ending.

I wasn’t sure what my ending was going to be now. Was I going to rot away? Fall apart? I didn’t know. I still don’t. But it doesn’t bug me much. When you’re already dead, what’s the worst that could happen?

The first week passed like nothing had changed. School, home, World of Warcraft.

No more bathroom breaks messing up my raids, so hey, silver lining.

Then came the hunger.

Not the normal kind. It wasn’t in my stomach. It was in my bones. A deep ache, like something inside me was starving, softening, getting weaker. Fish sticks and fries didn’t touch it. Nothing did.

But my neighborhood was full of cats—some of the stupidest, plumpest cats you’ve ever seen. Like those tiny chickens they serve at weddings.

The first time, I didn’t think. I just did it. Snapped its neck, teeth in before I even realized. It was warm. Blood-hot. My fingers stopped shaking. The hunger faded.

By the second week, things had changed. I smelled different, but nothing a bucket of Dad’s Hi Karate couldn’t hide. People treated me differently. Even when I smiled, something about me made them uneasy. I told my gym teacher I wasn’t playing dodgeball. I was going to the library. He just let me. Amazing.

My skin cleared up, but my grades didn’t. The jocks even stopped calling me ‘Timmy the Tard.’ Not that I cared anymore.

One guy still wanted to fight. Some seven-foot freshman who thought he had something to prove. He hit me. A few times. Didn’t hurt. I hit back. Once. He crumpled. Cried.

I got called to the principal’s office, but something in the way I stared at his carotid artery must’ve changed his mind about the whole responsibility and citizenship speech. He cut it short and suspended me for a week instead.

Mom hit the roof. Dad actually seemed kind of proud.

That night, one of the neighbor’s dogs went missing. I felt like celebrating.

Since I was suspended, Mom gave me punishment chores to keep me busy while she and Dad were at work. Fine by me. Physical activity kept me from just sitting around, and when you’re dead, that’s what you do. Sit. Stare. Stop thinking. Let things happen to you.

Let go and let God, my aunt used to say.

Not that God was something I worried about anymore. Sometimes, though, I wondered—what if Jesus was just a nerd like me? What if he was someone who kept swallowing abuse until he choked on it?

At least he got cool powers. All I got was a thousand-yard stare.

And then I got laid.

Seriously.

It was the girl across the street—Stephanie, but she wanted everyone to call her Serpentina. Expelled for setting fire to the tampon dispenser in the girls’ room. My kind of girl.

I was taking out the trash when she walked up, talking about how much she liked standing in the rain and how I sure had changed. That never happened before.

She invited me inside. One thing led to another. Next thing I knew, she was on top of me, showing me all the places she planned to get tattooed and pierced when she turned eighteen.

She was warm. I didn’t realize how cold I was until she pressed against me. I let her do the driving. She kissed me, moved my hands where she wanted them, and then guided me into her.

So warm.

And since we’re both guys here, let me tell you—I was doing the full-on zombie groan, if you know what I mean.

Bet you thought I was gonna kill her and eat her or something, right?

Come on. She’s crazy about me. And she wants me to meet her girlfriend—and the way she said girlfriend has me thinking. And you know what that means. And know what that means - I may be dead, but I’m not stupid.

Of course, all that exertion left me starving, and that’s where you come in, you big, broad-shouldered jock, you.

I knew you couldn’t resist the chance to follow me here, to ‘teach me a lesson’ after what I did to that mongoloid brother of yours.

The dogs and the cats went neck-first. But since you pulled down my shorts in gym class—

I’m starting with your guts.

Scream all you want.

No one’s gonna hear you.

Man, I always wanted to say that.

FRESH OFF THE BUS FROM CREEPYTOWN: Tourist Trap

by

Al Bruno III

The living dead shambled aimlessly down the street, their clothes and flesh in tatters. Heart pounding, I angled the van around them as best I could. Their slimy fingers flailed at the vehicle as it passed, leaving streaks across the metal.  

Niagara Falls had been a desperate hope—maybe there would be settlements on the Canadian side. Instead, abandoned cars clogged the roads, and shattered storefronts gaped like broken teeth. The Pancake House burned, grocery stores had been looted clean, and zombies milled inside a department store showroom, gnawing confusedly on half-clothed mannequins. Every few miles, I tried the CB radio, searching for any voice, any sign of help.  

Beside me, the passenger seat overflowed with ammo and weapons. Medical supplies and food were in the back with Lyta, who panted through each contraction. None of this had been planned—you have to understand that. None of it.  

Florida had been home once, but everyone had been heading north since the outbreak. The theory was that colder temperatures might slow the undead. Whether it was true or not, it seemed worth a shot.  

Lyta had been stranded on I-90 when I found her, her Volvo hopelessly clogged with zombie remains. They had begun swarming her car. Pulling over, I took out enough of them to give her time to run for my van.  

Over the last year, my aim had become deadly precise. When this all started, I hadn’t even known how to fire a gun. Guess all those hours playing DOOM had finally paid off.  

At first, I thought I’d drop her off at a settlement. When I asked where she was headed, she gave a simple answer.  

“North.”  

And just like that, we became traveling companions. It felt good to have someone to talk to again, someone to watch my back while foraging. She wasn’t stunning, but maybe she could have been, if not for something... sour about her looks. Still, she was good company, and in the back of the van, when we made love, she was eager and welcoming.  

That was then. Now, the gas gauge hovered at a quarter tank, and Lyta moaned in pain. Twenty hours of labor, and still no baby. If something didn’t change soon, she was going to die.  

Desperate, I tried the CB again. A settlement, a military base—anywhere with a doctor. Silence.  

I should have pulled out. Or worn a condom. But she’d told me she couldn’t have kids, something wrong with her ovaries. Something gynecological—I don’t remember exactly. But she got pregnant anyway. Figures. I’d never won a damn thing in my life before.  

Then an idea hit me. Ocean World was up ahead. The place had rides, animal exhibits—dolphins, killer whales. A place like that had to have first aid kits. Maybe several.  

Lyta gasped my name over and over as I pulled into the empty parking lot. We passed the skeletal remains of a bear, but otherwise, it was clear. Probably, the zombies had already eaten everything here months ago. They weren’t picky—I’d seen them devour anything from cows to kittens. Still, they seemed to prefer human flesh. Maybe we just tasted better.  

I parked as close to the main entrance as possible. Lyta was beyond walking now. Promising to find a cart, I made for the entrance, but she clutched at me, begging not to be left behind.  

Fifteen minutes. That’s how long it took to calm her down. Jesus. Fifteen minutes wasted.  

Locking her inside the van, I grabbed my rifle and handgun, stuffing extra ammo into my jeans pockets. Hopefully, I wouldn’t need it. But zombies were like cockroaches. They got everywhere.  

Ocean World must have been fun once. Now, the overgrown grass swallowed walkways, and rides creaked in the wind. A sign pointed toward the Visitor’s Aid Station—my destination.  

Most of the animals had died in their pens, likely of starvation. The bears hadn’t been so lucky; zombies had gotten to them first, stripping them to the bone.  

Movement near the "Snack Shack" caught my eye. Two zombies staggered in front of it, grotesquely bloated. I huddled against the aquarium building, considering whether to take them out. Gunfire might attract more. Instead, I decided to cut through the aquarium and take the long way around.  

The archway above read: Explore the Wonders of the Deep. Inside, darkness swallowed me whole.  

I’d forgotten the flashlight, but there was no turning back now. The stench of rotting fish filled the air. My fingers brushed against glass tanks slick with condensation and filth. The passage curved—was I going in circles?  

Then, the sound of wet, dragging footsteps.  

Something moved in the shadows.  

I called out. No answer. The figure lurched forward.  

I fired. The shot missed. The muzzle flash illuminated a zombie—an Ocean World tour guide, now a grotesque husk.  

The bullet shattered a fish tank. A torrent of water and dead barracudas slammed into the zombie, knocking it off balance. As it struggled to rise, I took another shot. It twitched once, then stilled.  

Slumping against the wall, I struggled to push down the exhaustion. There were times, before Lyta, when I had thought about ending it all. Held a gun under my chin, waiting for courage. It never came. The idea of oblivion scared me. The idea of something after this? That scared me more.  

But I couldn’t die now.  

The Visitor’s Aid Station was stocked. Bandages, antibiotics—wheelchairs.  

Grabbing one, I ran back. No detour through the aquarium this time. Two shots took down the zombies near the "Snack Shack."  

Lyta was hyperventilating when I reached her. A damp stain darkened the crotch of her sweatpants. Not blood. Not water. Something else.  

Not good.  

She kissed my hand, murmuring, “I didn’t think you’d come back. I love you.”  

I shushed her and started loading her into the wheelchair. Every movement sent pain slicing through her.  

Halfway to the Visitor’s Aid Station, something in the amphitheater caught my eye. A massive black-and-white shape floated in the murky water of the whale tank. Had that been there before?  

Zombies crawled across its bloated body like maggots.  

One tumbled over the edge, landing on the ground with a wet smack. Others followed, spilling out of the tank like a nightmare.  

Lyta screamed.  

Gripping the wheelchair, I ran. The station was just ahead.  

Then the wheel hit a crack in the pavement.  

The chair pitched forward. Lyta slammed onto the ground. The impact sent me sprawling.  

Zombies closed in.  

Three shots dropped as many, but the rest came on, relentless.  

Lyta struggled to rise, too swollen, too weak.  

“Save yourself!” she gasped. “Leave me!”  

Could I? Without her, I could outrun them. And she might not survive childbirth anyway.  

The settlements in the north called to me.  

Legs tensed.  

The squelching of undead footsteps filled the air.  

Then—  

With a roar, I hurled the wheelchair into the horde. It knocked several over, but the others pressed on.  

Somehow, I lifted her and ran.  

By the time I reached the station, every muscle burned. Lyta moaned, contractions wracking her body.  

Cold hands latched onto my neck, yanking me backward.  

I screamed.  

Lyta grabbed my pistol and fired over my shoulder. The hands loosened. She kept shooting.  

Hours later, barricaded inside, I watched her breastfeed our newborn child.  

The undead loomed outside. Our supplies dwindled. Escape seemed impossible.  

But for now, none of that mattered.  

For now, we were still alive.  

FRESH OFF THE BUS FROM CREEPYTOWN: On A Foggy Night

 

by

Al Bruno III

We live in a world of surveillance, cameras, code numbers, and background checks. Our every purchase and infraction is recorded by mindless computers and soulless bureaucrats. Our births, our lives, and our deaths are nothing more than information to be filed away.

It was after I had quit the University that I found myself a part of that never-ending process. I had secured steady and suitable paying employment in the field of medical billing, cross-referencing information for eight hours a day. The process was mindless enough; an insurer would call, and I would find the correct records and pass the information along. No names were part of the transactions, only numbers curtly passed from one disinterested voice to another. From what I understood, my fellow employees and I were merely there to correct database errors and investigate irregularities.

I worked in a wide room that was nothing more than a grid of half-cubicles and desks. I wore a headset and hunched over a computer. I had long ago forgotten that each sequence of numbers that passed from my lips was a life encapsulated.

The morning of the impossibly heavy fog, I walked into the building to find myself one of the few employees who had risked the drive. That meant a crushing workload and mandatory overtime, but I didn’t mind; I lived alone in a studio apartment that might have been a cell; I never went out on weeknights and slept through most of my Saturdays. Sometimes, I  would treat myself to a movie on a Sunday afternoon, but I always took great care to sit in the back row of the theater, for if I spied a single blemish on the fabric of the screen, it would be all I could focus on for the rest of the show.

The first few hours of my shift passed slowly; the diminished staff had created long hold times that left every caller with a litany of complaints and a waspish tone. I kept my tone apologetic and respectful.

Somewhere to my right, a coworker was coughing endlessly; behind me, another banged his mouse on his desk in frustration.

 

When I excused myself to the restroom I realized to my discomfort that someone was crying in the bathroom stall.

My lunch hour was quiet and lonely. I spent some of it outside smoking one cigarette after another until the sight of the fog began to play tricks on my eyes. It left me with a strange feeling of vertigo, as though I was slowly spiraling into emptiness.

The second part of my shift is when it began. The call was ordinary at first, but the voice on the other end of the line cut me off mid-greeting with a demand for information. I did my best to comply but had to ask the caller to repeat himself several times.

The numbers he gave me were wrong—completely wrong. Please understand that I am not talking about faulty account information or transposed digits.

I mean to say that the numbers themselves were wrong.

They were integers that existed outside the zero through nine that I had been taught and lived with for all of my years, but I knew these were numbers I was hearing nonetheless. I could almost see them in my mind,   impossible symbols that no human hand had ever drawn.

The caller made an impatient sound as I stared at my keyboard in dismay. Could any key express the characters the caller was describing? Though my college education was incomplete, I had studied enough to understand the concept of imaginary numbers, but this was more than that. These were alien numbers,  blasphemous numbers, and every time the caller repeated them, I felt an ache in my head.

“I don’t understand,” I finally admitted.

The caller simply repeated himself again and again, until the numbers sounded like a prayer in an unknown language. I disconnected the call and pulled off my headset. Shudders worked their way through my body. I looked at the windows. The fog had blunted the afternoon light, casting everything into shades of gray.

I heard the numbers again; I looked at my headset, but it was silent. Standing, I listened to those terrible syllables coming from the mouths of my coworkers; they murmured them with easy familiarity. I cried in alarm, but no one looked up from their work. I ran to find a supervisor, but he was also on the phone, speaking facts and figures that made no sense at all. He didn’t look up when I called his name; even when I  touched his shoulder, he did not react, and his flesh was clammy with sweat. I could see the veins in his forehead throbbing as he spoke.

There was a loud crack, and the lights flickered and went out. Something similar had happened the previous year; a truck had crashed into a telephone pole, snapping power lines and leaving us with nothing more to do but, while away, the remainder of our shifts with small talk and gossip.

Despite the dead phones and darkened screens, my coworkers continued to talk. In fact, they spoke louder and faster, their voices finding a chaotic rhythm.

I fled from the madness, leaving my job, apartment, and possessions behind.

As I said before, the modern world has reduced us to numbers, but what if the numbers we chose to do that with were the wrong ones? What if we have unknowingly reduced ourselves to nonsense?

 

FRESH OFF THE BUS FROM CREEPYTOWN: Rough Patches

 by

Al Bruno III

Something stirred beneath four and a half feet of frozen mud and snow. It was a rage so profound that even February's cold couldn't dim it. Instinctively, Patches began clawing her way toward the moonlight. It was almost like being born again.

She had been the strongest of her littermates, the first of six to find the teat, open her eyes, and notice the tall, pink figures looming over her mother's pen. Again and again, they would pick her up with soft, careful hands, cooing and tickling her. She couldn't help but wag her tail, eagerly licking their faces and fingers.

Now, in the darkness of her shallow grave, Patches felt a pang of sorrow for the loss of her mother and siblings. She could still remember her mother's scent, her steady breathing, and the spots on her fur—so like her own. Back then, eating, playing, and running through the grass with her siblings had been her whole world.

That contentment ended when the other Tall Ones came for her.
At first, they had intrigued her with their unfamiliar smells and constant attention. She especially loved playing with their child, chasing and being chased. His laughter—a sound that was neither quite a squeal nor a growl—had thrilled her. When they put a collar around her neck, she thought it was just another toy.
By nightfall, she was bundled into a cage lined with newspapers and a strange-smelling blanket. Before she could protest, they drove her to her new home.

The memories goaded her to dig. Dirt and snow filled her mouth, choking her howls. The earth clung to her greedily, sucking at her limbs. They had taken so much from her. In the end, they had taken everything.
Despite her initial fears, Patches adapted to her new life quickly. The Tall Ones had roles, just like her own kind did. The male was "Dad" or "Danny," the female was "Ma" or "Shirl," and the boy was "Billy." Everything had many names—even her.
And she was "Puppy" or "Doggie," but mostly, she was "Patches." It felt good to have a name. It felt good to belong. They became her pack.

For a time, Patches knew only joy. There were always treats and pettings to be had. She lay on Dad's feet as he stared mesmerized into his box of colored lights. She raced across the yard, chasing squirrels and the occasional bird. She walked with Ma, reveling in the wind and the symphony of scents it carried. And she played with Billy until they both collapsed from exhaustion, falling asleep with her nestled under his bed.

Yet there were moments of pain. Blows rained down on her when she messed on the floor or chewed the carpet.

"No! Bad! Bad! Bad! Bad dog!" they would shout.

She learned the rhythm of their voices, and as the summers passed, she got better at following their odd rituals. But some of the rituals didn't make sense. Occasionally, they fed her from the table; other times, they swatted at her for begging. Still, more often than not, Patches only knew contentment and joy—afternoons spent lying in the warm beam of sunlight coming through the windows or the rush of love when Billy came home, kneeling down to scratch her behind the ears. They had their strange ways, but they were still her pack.

During their lazy games of fetch, Patches sometimes froze mid-run, her eyes drawn to the tree line. Something was there. Something terrible, yet familiar. The feeling had always been with her, hovering at the edges of her world.

Time passed, one summer after another. Then, changes began. The voices of her pack began to grow louder and angrier. No longer was she allowed on the soft couch. They would yell at her when they found her there, luxuriating in the warmth and smells. The voices of her home became louder and angrier. Then Dad began to hit Mom, and Mom started to hit Dad. It happened more and more until one night, it turned into something far worse.

And when the moment came, she acted the only way she knew how. Dad had been in the throes of his dark madness—the madness that always seemed to be brought on by the sharp-smelling water he drank. Billy tried to run—he'd almost made it. He was young and strong, just on the cusp of adolescence, but he stumbled and fell. His father was on him, lifting him by the throat, shaking him like prey.

Billy had been like a littermate to her. He fed her, played with her, and soothed her. Patches did the only thing she knew—she growled a challenge. She bared her teeth.

The man dropped Billy and turned on her with a kick. It struck her belly, stealing her breath. She staggered, trying to recapture the bravery she'd felt moments before. His fists came next, a blur of fury and pain. For the first time in her life, Patches thought she might die.

"Fucking dog! Growl at me?"

"Dad! Leave her alone, Dad!" Billy's voice cracked with desperation.

The blackness came so fast that Patches didn't even realize she'd blacked out until she woke in the barred cage they'd brought her here in long ago. She was in the basement, a damp place with smells she'd never liked.

Time crawled by in the cage. It was too small—she couldn't stand or turn around. All she could do was lie there and wait. She watched the grass flutter in the breeze from the basement window and wondered when they would come for her.

That night, alone in her misery of hunger and lingering bruises, Patches caught a strange odor—burnt earth, iron, something unplaceable. Her hackles rose as she realized it was the thing from the treeline. The Terrible Thing.

She barked a cautious warning, and when no one answered, she barked a dozen more times. The sound set Dad storming down the stairs. He kicked the cage with each bellowed word.

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Do you hear me? Shut up!"

When his rage was spent, he stormed back upstairs, slamming the door behind him.

A few hours later, she lost control of her bladder, even though she knew better than to mess inside the house. She soiled the cage three more times before Ma and Billy finally came. They cleaned her, cooing softly as they washed the filth from her fur and fed her scraps of food. Billy took her outside and wept at the sight of her limping across the yard. As the sky began to darken, they put her back in the basement, back in the cage.

That became the pattern: locked in the tiny cage every morning and night, with only a few hours of freedom in the afternoon. The shouting and thudding from upstairs grew louder each day.

If she made even the slightest sound, Dad would storm down the stairs, yelling and striking the cage. She could feel him trying to break something inside her—the part of him that was already broken.

Her isolation dragged on. In desperation, Patches gnawed at the bars of the cage, tasting blood as her teeth scraped against metal. On warm Saturday mornings, Billy would take her for short walks, and she longed for them to never end, to keep walking, to never turn back. But they always did.

Her time outside grew shorter as the days passed. Ma started to carry the scent of the sharp-smelling water on her breath. Billy changed, too. His voice deepened, his step grew heavier, and he began to swagger in a way that made her uneasy.

Fall turned to winter, and Patches' world grew colder and smaller. They forgot to let her out for days, and she started soiling her cage again. Ma would groan and call her a "bad dog." Billy would mutter, "Dammit, Patches," then call for Ma. Worst of all was when Dad found her mess. His rage would explode. He'd drag her out of the cage and shove her nose into it, yelling all the while.

She began to cower at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. She flinched at raised hands. Dad seemed to take pleasure in her fear. "Not feelin' so tough now, are you?"

After that, they let her out of the cage at night, but she was still confined to the basement. Billy visited less and less. Sometimes, they forgot to feed her, and her water grew stale and warm. When she barked or whined for attention, they banged on the floor above her, shouting for her to be silent.

The miserable routine dragged on until her body began to betray her. One day, Patches couldn't keep food down anymore. Instead of pity or comfort, her sickness earned her beatings and scoldings. Even Billy struck her now. "Stupid dog! What the fuck is wrong with you?"

No matter how hard she tried, her stomach would heave violently, the acid burning her throat. Her strength drained with each day, her ribs pressing painfully against her patchy coat. Patches barely had the energy to lift her head, but she could still hear them arguing upstairs.

"The dog is sick," Ma whispered. "There was blood in her puke this time."

"Maybe if you stopped hitting her—"
"Don't talk to me like that! I never wanted the damn mutt anyway. Maybe if your idiot son walked it—"

"Fuck you!" Billy shouted.

"What did you say to me, you little shit?"

Patches heard a scuffle, then doors slamming. After that, silence.

That night, Billy came down to the basement. Patches wagged her tail weakly, too tired to lift her head. He didn't speak to her. Instead, he put the collar around her neck and clipped on the leash. Patches let herself hope. Maybe this time, they were going for that walk that would never end.

Billy led her up the stairs, past Ma sleeping on the couch. The cold air hit her like a slap when they stepped outside. Dad was waiting for them, a long, dark stick in his hands. She sniffed at it curiously, but its scent told her nothing.

Billy led her into the woods, and Dad followed behind them. The trees were thin, their bare branches clawing at the moonlit sky. Snow crunched underfoot as they ventured deeper into the night.
The forest smelled strange. Beneath the crisp scents was a darker undercurrent, the foulness that had always waited and lingered in the woods near her home. It was watching.

Even now, despite everything, instinct drove her to warn the pack that had once loved her. She growled, but the sound was thin and hollow. She tugged at the leash, desperate to make them understand. Instead, she felt a sharp kick to her side. Pain flared, but she barely noticed it. The Terrible Thing was near. Why couldn't they sense it?

"Do we have to?" Billy asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.


"You gonna be a pussy your whole life?" Dad snapped. "It's just a damn dog."

"We could take her to the vet," Billy said, his voice tight, almost pleading.

"A vet? You got two grand lying around for some worthless mutt?"

Patches kept staring into the treeline, her ears flicking slightly when the dark stick came up. Its thick end rested on Dad's shoulder, the smaller end leveled at her.

The first crack of thunder hit like a hammer. The impact knocked Patches off her feet, pain tearing through her side. It missed her heart but ripped into her guts, leaving a burning heat that spread through her fur. She tried to stand, but her legs wouldn't listen. Her gaze found Billy's, wide and pleading.

"She's still moving, Dad!" Billy's voice cracked, sharp with panic.

"Shut the hell up. I'm trying to aim."

The second crack hit below her throat. A searing wave of pain exploded through her. The world blurred red, then faded to black. Blood flooded her mouth. Cold crept into her limbs. Above her, the moon hung distant and indifferent.

"There," Dad said. "That's done it. Go to the garage and grab a shovel."

"But she's not—"

"She will be. Now get a damn shovel before I put you in the grave with her."

The grave they dug was shallow, the frozen ground resisting the dull blade of the shovel. Dad cursed with every scrape of metal on ice-packed dirt, his breath fogging in the freezing air. Billy stayed silent, his movements jerky and uncertain.

When they dumped her body in, it landed awkwardly, limbs bent unnaturally. They shoveled dirt over her in hurried, careless strokes. A patch of her face remained uncovered, the fur matted with blood, but neither man seemed to notice—or care.

Then they walked away. If they had looked back, they might have seen it: the glint of an exposed eye staring out of the dirt. It's gaze followed them, unblinking—a silent curse. And somewhere in the woods, the Terrible Thing heard it all the same.

And it moved like smoke out of the shadows, formless and unrelenting. It churned above the grave, festering with a heat that twisted through Patches muscles and took root in her bones. Patches curse was repeated back to her voicelessly.

Instinctively, Patches began clawing her way toward the moonlight. It was almost like being born again. Memories goaded her to dig. Dirt and snow clogged her mouth, choking her howls. The earth clung to her greedily, sucking at her limbs.

When Patches tore free of the grave, freeing her snout and bloodied jaw, Her nose emerged. Then her skeletal frame, soil, and blood rendered her unrecognizable. She stood, legs shaking at first but growing stronger. Her eyes burned with a black fire. They smoldered.

 The Terrible Thing had retreated back to its hiding place but had seen to it she would never rest. And it had left her with other gifts as well.

Patches raised her head and howled.

The forest answered her cry. The night stirred, shadows taking shape around her. Birds with broken wings, unlucky rodents, forsaken pets with matted fur, and even a human woman—her form gaunt and brittle from some cruel misfortune—emerged from the dark. Patches welcomed them all.

In that moment, Patches realized they did not serve the Terrible Thing. They were the Terrible Thing, and very soon, they would unleash themselves upon the world. They would spread like a tide of rot and ruin, infecting the world around them, adding to their numbers, and tearing the cruel world to pieces.

But not yet.

Her eyes turned back toward what had once been her home, the place where her betrayers lived. Slowly and purposefully, Patches began to make her way towards it.

Her new pack followed her.