Human Waste by C.M. Saunders
George Romero’s original Night of the Living Dead, the progenitor of the modern zombie horror sub-genre, opened the door on those canny, clawing, rapacious flesh-eaters. And, for this horror fan at least, he closed it too because whenever I find myself needing a zombie fix—not too often, maybe every few Halloweens—I pop in my old NOTLD DVD, sit back, and enjoy. My appetite sated.
But since Romero’s cult classic and subsequent franchise, the proliferation of zombie films, comics, graphic novels, television shows, and city-wide zombie crawls have proven that I am in the minority. Fans can’t get enough. Zombies are hot, zombies are funny (many of the most successful offerings are black comedies in the vein of Shaun of the Dead and Zombieland), and sometimes, as in the case of C.M. Saunders’ new novella, zombies are not what they seem.
Human Waste begins from inside Dan Pallister’s council flat (a form of UK public housing). As he peers out his ninth-floor window, he sees that they are everywhere: “Fucking zombies…horrible, shambling, rotting husks of humanity shuffling around, looking for brains to eat.” He’s not sure what exactly has brought on “the end of days”, but the world has been going to hell for a long time now. Now at last it’s here in the form of a full-blown zombie apocalypse. Continue reading “Indie Horror Review #6”
“Caw! Caw!” Esmeralda screeched in a whoosh of flapping rainbow feathers, retreating to a dark corner of the embattled shuttle.
“If that damn bird doesn’t can it I’ll…”
“You’ll what?” Lester shot a lethal glance across the bridge at Cabe.
Cabe wrenched the throttle out of a near spin. The altitude indicator flashed with red alarm.
“She’s only responding with good sense like any normal person would.”
“She’s not a person,” Cabe steadied the nose and cruised for a few peaceful seconds till they hit an air pocket and dropped 5000 meters, nearly taking Lester’s lunch with it.
“You know a better way?”
“Jesus mate!” The parrot squawked, landing on Lester’s shoulder.
Cabe pulled the nose up to cruising altitude. The shuttle floated gently in a darkening sky. Star showers twinkled in the distance, and below them the planet Nazar simmered in a hostile glow of red vapors. Continue reading “Space Wedding”
by R. Saint Claire
When Dudley Frank (Dud to everyone), a man thrice her age and the first friend she made when she moved to the city, offered Yvonne the keys to his summer home with a sympathetic pat on her hand, she accepted. They both agreed she needed a rest after what happened. Although she tried to keep it light when she told him over dinner that her broken engagement with Brent Harrington was a mutual decision (a bold-faced lie), she could tell by the way Dud’s eyes narrowed at the news that he was concerned, but also disappointed. He had come to regard them as a couple and was looking forward to helping Yvonne (parentless and without many friends) plan her wedding. As he signaled the waiter for the check, Dud reflected on how this remarkable creature sitting before him let slip through her manicured fingers the best catch in the city. He didn’t voice it, but the older man suspected he knew why. For all her stunning blond beauty, classic style, and good manners, there was something about the girl that was just off. Continue reading “Traci”
A Sinister Six by Steve Boseley
A few months back I sent out a random tweet announcing I was looking for indie horror books to review and Steve Boseley (a nice English gent) sent me his collection of A Sinister Six: A Collection of Six Darkly Disturbing Stories. It took me awhile to get through them (not due to the quality of the stories, just the fact that I tend to read too many books at once ), but it allowed me to savor each one; some more than others, but that should be expected with an anthology.
Mr. Boseley’s collection is definitely in the realm of quiet horror, which I always find more satisfyingly frightening than the genre’s riotous little brother splatterpunk. The word sinister with its snaky sibilance is a good title for what transpires within these tales. The stories, like the author’s mostly milquetoast male protagonists, creep up on you slowly, lulling the reader into a comfortable world of banal middle-class normality and mundane complaints of everyday life until–with the deft flick of a pen–sad little flats and row homes transform into blood-soaked charnel houses. Cool!
by R. Saint Claire
I’m not what anyone would call a sensitive guy as the many girls who’ve slapped my face have told me (in so many words); But if I had known when I woke up this morning that by the end of the day I’d be fleeing for my life through a blizzard I’d have broken down and cried like I’m doing right now. At nineteen I’m too young to die. I have a life to live, many women to conquer, and I’d like to graduate and tell my Dad that I’m sorry my senior year in high school was such a shit-show. I know he’s still really pissed about that.
The flakes are huge, but I can still make out that farmhouse with the green siding up ahead. I hope the snow will cover up what I’m leaving behind me: deep footprints with a trail of blood between each one.
Father Angelo (from Quiet Tales of Ordinary Evil) by R. Saint Claire Scarcely had the church bell rung three times when the street was thronged with students scattering every which way across the d…