The banana leaves were shredded by the storms that had torn through Florida in September, but new growth had already unfurled, and turgid green leaves clapped in the wind. Dana sat alone on her back terrace and sipped red wine that she couldn’t taste. She sucked on her cigarette, gazing at the smoke as it jetted from her mouth and dispersed into the blackness beyond her porch light.
It had only been a few months since Troy left her. He had a heart attack, which might not have even killed him if he hadn’t careened off the road into an alligator infested canal. Blunt trauma to the head, the coroner’s report said, from the impact of Troy’s skull against some part of their old Jeep. Continue reading “The Particles Formerly Known as Troy by Christa Wojciechowski”
don’t think just act don’t think just act don’t
The metal girder was cutting through Eddie’s tracksuit, slicing through the fabric and into his knees as he strained. He cursed, yelled, but he wasn’t strong enough to pull both children to safety simultaneously, risked letting them fall.
‘Listen,’ he said, into the hole. ‘I need to let go for a second.’ Continue reading “The Other Boy by Robin Maginn”
Subject Theta had died for 197 seconds. I sat back and quickly confirmed the ECG readings and then looked over his blood works. O2 was obviously low, CO2 higher than the norm. A slight imbalance of electrolytes as the body fought against cellular death. The insignificant chemical trace of the potassium used to stop his heart. Nothing vastly dissimilar from the other twenty seven staged ‘deaths’ we’ve run through here.
I checked his viral load. No sign of the HR2ZV activating at all. Considering the horrific effects this retro virus has wrought on mankind its bloody hard to motivate it into working. I checked Subject Theta’s timeline. The cocktail of drugs were administered at 10:45am. His controlled descent into death came at 10:51. Defibrillation was commenced at 10:54 or 180 seconds after time of death. One shot, 75 joules and the subjects heart restarted as planned. Just like clockwork; but the damned Human Romero Type 2 Zombie Retro Virus did not activate. Continue reading “Zed by Ste Whitehouse”
He was a black hole in a suit. An abyss in a necktie. And he sat down next to her on the train.
Her eyes were on her phone, but it would do no good. She was too distracted to feel his attention like a pulse against her skin, ticking, ticking, the toothed stare testing her for soft spots. She had many. Continue reading “Compeyson by Valentina Cano”
Translated from Portuguese by Toshiya Kamei
When the sun at last rose above the Mirante do Vale Building, and its rays pierced through the dirty windows of apartment 339, Débora woke up. It was still early, but even her cat, Beppo, had his eyes open. Only Ian – the artificial intelligence of the house – kept a watchful eye. Even so, harsh daylight seeped through gaps in the blinds, flooding each corner of the room. Débora kept her eyes closed, covered her head with one corner of the crumpled sheet, but the light crept into every crevice, illuminating the shadows. She turned from one side of the bed to the other, rolled over, and finally exclaimed, “Darn!” And she got up. When she set her feet on the floor, Ian said, “Good morning, Débora. Did you get a good night’s sleep?” His voice was like a heap of agitated ants. Continue reading “Everyone Sleeps at Night by Anderson Fonseca”
The bastard alarm goes off, wrenching Seymour out of his dream. The nightmare images fade rapidly but he’s left with fleeting, barely-remembered glimpses of hideous twisted creatures. He blames the cheese puffs. He remembers being slumped in bed the previous night, snacking and watching the late news on TV. There’d been some mention of a virus, and a couple of serious looking academics had explained that the situation was worsening. The newsreader sternly announced that the filthy public were starting to riot in the streets. This was followed by images of a general panic as people ransacked supermarkets for microwave ovens and widescreen televisions. Because those were always so terribly useful in an apocalypse. Continue reading “The Restless Dead by Martin Webb”
The noise is back.
A slight scraping followed by a small muffled patter that disappears before they have time to make out what it is, or where it’s coming from.
“Was it footsteps?” Gemma frowns in her attempt to hear more. A deep crease has formed between her eyebrows. Continue reading “Angel Wing by B.F. Jones”