By and copyright of Owen Quinn author of the Time Warriors and Zombie Blues
The zombie rollercoaster continues as the undead continue to give us their view of being a rotting corpse under the control of Mother Nature.
This time round we meet Comic Book zombie and the zombie who thinks the ending of Toy Story 3 is sacrilege. What happens when a zombie’s faith in God is rocked to its very foundation and why is the spirit of Elvis Presley still going strong in the vast
roaming herds?
A zombie tells why the covid pandemic was much preferable to being undead and why having a club foot makes you feel normal as a zombie. Plus more zombie characters than you can shake a stick at.
Available on Amazon now!
They came to my village in Poland one cold night in November and took my family from me. In an instant my mother sent from a hardy family driven woman and loyal wife to a twisted hideous crone. Her soft unblemished skin mottled like rotten pears, her teeth became fangs and her eyes burned with a hatred born from Satan himself. Alfie, my younger brother’s blood smeared her face and pieces of his flesh were stuck between those incisors. A taloned hand sharply swung out to the side slashing my father’s throat in a second. I will never forget him sinking to his knees, bloodied hands clasped to his throat, with the most startled expression on his face. I can still hear his gargling death throes as his words shattered like glass in his gaping throat. They were calling to me to run but I could not. His bulging eyes screamed at me to flee. His expression was begging God to deliver his only daughter from his demon possessed wife. His mind snapped under the impact of the image of his once loving wife cradling their children, her beautiful voice singing lullabies to the abomination before him that had ripped the throat from one of those same children. His body trembled as his hands fell away from his throat as the life ran out of him as surely as the blood flowed from the mortal wound. Somehow his survival instincts thought he could stem the bleeding but it was to no avail. The jagged wound was too deep; the jugular severed. His parental natural instinct to save his family was as thick as the growing pool of blood he was kneeling in. It was hopeless. My pale father fell face forward and all I could think of was how his beard tickled when he kissed me goodnight. I still recall that sensation forty seven years later. The memory still brings me comfort and sorrow simultaneously.
Father’s inert body got no attention from the demon as it swung its glare in my direction. I prayed that God would save me and send an angel against this monster. If there were demons like this in the world then God’s warriors couldn’t be too far behind. What had once been my mother advanced towards me, jaws snapping, yellow eyes burning with pus.
Suddenly, the door burst open in an explosion of splinters. A short rotund man with thick blond hair and clad in black stormed into our log cabin. Whirling round, the demon shrieked at him, blood spraying from her hissing jaws like misty dew. I recall to this day how beautiful that actually was; the droplets twinkling like gems as the light caught it.
In that moment I learned that even in horror there is a certain beauty. No matter what the demons try to do to us or try to twist our normality into a weapon against us, Mother Nature would always find a way to reclaim their poison into something beautiful.
I glimpsed a telltale band of white round the man’s neck. He was repeating something, chanting words I was not yet familiar with. Of course I knew right there what the man was.
God truly had answered my prayers.
Three other people flanked the priest also chanting, two men and a woman; three priests and a nun.
All three men were dressed in black. One of the blond priest’s companions was Oriental, the other a man of colour. The nun did not wear the traditional garb of the Sisterhood. Her shiny ginger hair was cut short and bobbed yet not long enough to be grabbed by hand. Her usual holy traditional dress had been replaced by a tight all in one suit with a leather belt round the waist attached to which were weapons. Both wrists were ringed by bracelets like plain silver handcuffs from which extended curved blades with the merest flex of her wrist. She moved like no other nun I had ever met. Her steely gaze was locked on to the demon. She was so agile and impossibly flexible with almost inhuman moves that confused the demon. Confronting the demon, the rotund blond man threw a spray of holy water at the snarling demon making it recoil like it had been stung by acid. Long nailed hands clawed at her face as the green tinged flesh smoked and bubbled. Leaping upwards towards the ceiling, it tried to flee with a screech.
The Time Warriors and Beyond 