Back in the basement of the church rectory, sixteen-year-old Billy Winters was trying to subdue a zombie that was tearing apart old books and furniture. Billy could easily net the zombie and drag it away, but he couldn’t lug a snarling, contagious zombie up a full flight of stairs. His miniature schnauzer, Killdozer, was furiously barking at it, but Billy held his leash tight. “Back, boy. I don’t know if that zombie virus can hurt dogs.”
Killdozer whimpered, then sat down.
“Cast the demon into hell!” yelled the elderly pastor, who was flicking it with holy water. The zombie hissed, perhaps knowing it was being insulted, or perhaps disliking a flick of cold water, as anyone would.
Kate burst in, holding a bottle of Meadow Surge. “Billy, I’ve got an idea. You got that net?”
“As usual.”
“Get Dozer the top of the stairs. You stay there too, Father.”
“To hell!” he said, giving one last flick to the cornered zombie.
Once those two were upstairs, Kate opened the bottle. “See that fizz? You were human once. You want the sugar and those cancer-causing chemicals, now don’t you?”
The zombie moved further, its hands outstretched. Kate moved back. “Uh, Billy. You do have that net handy, right?”
Billy rushed down the stairs beside her, net and pole in hand. “Got it.”
The zombie lunged for the drink, but Kate was faster, rushing up the steps. The zombie, already tottering on solid cement, looked perplexed by them. It had probably not climbed steps since its transition—it had fallen through an old chimney to the rectory.
“You can do it. One leg up,” she said encouragingly.
It tried one step, grabbed the rail, and then another. When it reached the top step, Kate threw the drink on the floor. The zombie clambered toward the bottle, and Billy tossed his net, trapping it. He pulled the zombie to the door outside, where his truck was waiting, and tossed it in the bed. “All clear, Father. I’ll take him to the government dropoff point.”
“To hell!” The pastor said again, now with a spray bottle of holy water. It just misted the air a little bit.
“Kate, that was brilliant,” said Billy. “There must be some chemical in the drink that drives zombies crazy.”
She nodded. “Hey … where did Killdozer go?”
They turned. Killdozer was behind them, lapping up the Meadow Surge that had spilled on the ground. He was foaming at the mouth, his hair standing on end.
“Uh, Kate, Father … what do you do if your dog turns into a zombie?”
“Yeah, Father,” said Kate, backing away. “You know the Good Book. Any tips?”
The pastor grabbed a piece of hamburger from the refrigerator, tossing it at the gray dog. Killdozer gobbled it up, then sat down, calm.
“Thank the Lord,” said the pastor. “He’s fine.”
Billy walked up to his dog, rubbing him behind the ears. “Good boy. Who’s not a zombie? You are!”
Kate looked down at the puddle of green liquid. “Billy, what if a virus isn’t making the zombies confused, disheveled, and incoherent? What if it’s a chemical in the drink?”
“Can’t be. My mom’s boyfriend has been drinking it since it came—” Billy clapped a hand over his mouth. “Dear God. We're all going to die.”
I Don’t Dream Like That Anymore
Captain Dekker looked out at the stars. They were lost in space. Stranded, really. The ship’s lights were dim. Before long, the starship would run out of fuel, and the internal heating system and artificial gravity controls would shut off.
There had been some sort of quarantine. That was the polite word for it. Some sort of attack—microbial, bacterial, or perhaps otherworldly—that left the colony on Titan completely silent, their dome impenetrable. The spaceports, too, were similarly unmanned. The captain didn’t know why, exactly. But hurried messages from Earth claimed they could send a ship to help them.
It would arrive in seven years.
His crew, in between rationing food over the last few months, had figured out that if one crosses the wires of a blaster the certain way, it will deliver all of its energy in one deadly pulse. His crew mates were quiet now. Still. But he was the captain. The captain goes down with his ship.
His ship’s robot was still fluttering about, cleaning and trying to make repairs, as it had done in the many years during the mission.
“Do you ever dream, Jack?” the captain asked, wearily.
The robot was tiny, with wiry arms made for repairing starships. “Hm,” said the robot. “I have two definitions for dream. Can you clarify?”
“Well, when you sleep—I mean, power down—sometimes you have extra feelings and images that come at you. That’s a dream.”
A click. “Understood. No, I don’t dream. Well, I really can’t say I don’t. I assume I must not.”
“I see.”
The robot buzzed around, trying to wipe off the ice appearing on cabin windows. “A dream can also mean a goal, a wish. Something a person desires.”
The captain looked down at his blaster, still in his lap. He was a kid once, a kid who chased stars, but now the stars had pushed him away. “I don’t dream like that anymore.”
“My power circuits can provide a small amount of heat for you,” suggested the robot, plugging an arm into one of the ship’s ports. “There is still sixty days’ supply of oxygen. Rescue messages are beaming out every two minutes.”
The captain nodded. Every two minutes. Every two minutes for how many days? He’d run out of food and couldn’t last much longer. He picked up the blaster, then put it down again. He looked out into the dull nothingness of space, and put on a headphone to listen to the looping message. His voice, at least, was going to live on forever.
“My ship is lost in space, please send help. My ship is lost in space, please send help. My ship is lost in space, please send help…”
About the Author
Laura E. Bradford’s first novel is Flyday, and she is currently working on a futuristic thriller, a paranormal YA series, and a zombie novel.
She blogs at https://lauraebradford.blogspot.com, and her Twitter account is @lauraebradford.