Author Archives: bookshelfbattle

Sanctuary in a Zombie Apocalypse – Stay or Run?

It’s one of the oldest zombie apocalypse tropes going.shutterstock_296856533

A plucky band of survivors happen across a makeshift utopia, a community safe from zombie attacks.

They’re invited in, made to feel welcome, given a purpose, a chance at a new life…and then…BAM!!!

The old double-cross.  They’re betrayed, killed, chopped up into a stew, you name it.

BQB thinks Fort Hauser is a pretty sweet deal and wants to stay.

VGRF thinks its all just a little too perfect and wants to head for the hills.

Who’s right?  Who’s wrong.

3.5 readers, BQB is counting on you. Advise him in the comments as to whether Fort Hauser is haven or a hoax.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , ,

BQB’s Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal – Day 14 – (Part 3)

Doug gave us the dime store tour of the camp he’d set up in the rec center gym.

Over a hundred makeshift beds were scattered across the wooden floor.  Some people slept on cots, others in sleeping bags, or on sheets and blankets.  Some folks who weren’t able to sleep milled about in different groups.

Near the bleachers, there was a buffet set up.  The welcome smell of hot soup filled my nostrils.

“This was all just a matter of being in the right place at the right time,”  Doug said.  “I’ve been a volunteer coach here since I retired…”

Hauser parlayed his fifteen seconds of fame into a car dealership, Hauser Hyundai.  People from all over stopped by to buy

Doug Hauser - One of East Randomtown's best and brightest, though that's not saying much.

Doug Hauser – One of East Randomtown’s best and brightest, though that’s not saying much.

South Korean cars at a reasonable price and watch Doug recreate his infamous fight scene.  Usually, he’d just whip a long haired wig onto one of his salesmen and ask him to pretend to be Don Johnson.

I witnessed this spectacle myself once when I was twelve and Aunt Gertie bought herself a used Hyundai.

“I was watching my boys score another win when the zombie apocalypse broke out,”  Doug explained. “The fence around the park has kept the monsters at bay and a few brave souls and I have been making daily scrounge missions into town, picking up all the supplies and survivors we can find and bringing them back here.”

“That’s impressive Doug,”  I said.  “East Randomtown is in your debt.”

“Oh it’s nothing, BQB.  I’m just doing what any good citizen in my shoes would do.”

“What’s this I hear you’re the Mayor now?”  I asked.

“Oh that,”  Doug said as he rolled his eyes.  “People just started calling me that.  I never asked for the title but you know how people are.  They need some authority figure to glom onto.  I was sad to hear about Mayor Bramble.  I’m going to call for a fair election as soon as possible.”

“Doug,”  I said.  “About that statue.  You know, I never had anything to do with…”

Doug belted out a big “SHHH!”

“Please BQB.  Of course I know you never asked Bramble to tear my likeness down and replace it with yours.  Do you really think I give a rat’s ass about that thing anyway?”

“You don’t?” I asked.

“Hell no,”  Doug said.  “Thirty years ago I was a dumb kid who tried to become an actor.  Other than getting the shit beaten out of me on one cop drama, it didn’t pan out.  That’s just life.  You try one thing.  It doesn’t work.  You try something else.  Bramble was the one who made a big deal about it.  He was always obsessed with drawing attention to a town no one’s ever heard of, same thing he did with you and your website.”

“You’re a good sport, Doug,”  I said.

“I always lecture my team about good sportsmanship. I’d be a hypocrite if I didn’t follow my own rules,”  Doug said.

Janet Melman was two years behind me at East Randomtown High.  She went on to become a nurse.

“Hey BQB,”  she said as she walked over in a pair of scrubs.

She turned to Doug.

“We need to talk, Mayor.  I’ve got a list of medications my patients need.  Some of them aren’t going to last long without them.”

“Excuse me, BQB,”  Doug said.  “Please, you and your friends get something to eat and get a good night’s sleep.  We’ll talk more in the morning.”

Doug and Janet walked off.

“And you thought coming here was a bad idea,”  I said.

“I’m still not convinced it wasn’t,”  VGRF said.  “This is all just a little bit too perfect.”

“Think whatever you want,”  I said.  “I’ma get me some hot soup and call another zombie author.”

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,

BQB’s Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal – Day 14 (Part 2)

WELCOME TO HAUSER TOWN

ONLY THE WORTHY ARE WELCOME

To protect the indigenous wildlife, a tall fence ran the whole perimeter of East Randomtown Park.

VGRF pulled our ride to the front gate.

It was manned by a pack of gun toting local yokels.

There was George the Barber, who’d made his living providing men’s regular cuts for forty years.  He was packing a pretty

The DiStefano Brothers - a pair of gun toting hoodlums even when East Randomtown wasn't zombified

The DiStefano Brothers – a pair of gun toting hoodlums even when East Randomtown wasn’t zombified

fierce looking shotgun.

The DiStefano Brothers, Carl and Billy, each carried a machete in one hand and a handgun in the other.

“Halt,”  George said, shining a light into our car.  “Who dares enter Fort Hauser?”

“It’s me George,”  I said.  “BQB. You’ve been my damn barber since I was a kid.”

“That gets you no special treatment here, nerd!”  George replied.  “State your business!”

“State my business?”  I asked.  “My friends and I want to come in and not get eaten by zombies!”

“Hold please,”  George said.

The barber pulled out a walkie talkie and mumbled into it.  A few seconds later, the voice on the other end clearly stated, “Send them in.”

Carl rolled the gate open.

“Proceed directly to the Rec Center,”  George said.  “Don’t dilly dally.  Mayor Hauser is expecting you.”

“MAYOR Hauser?”  I asked.

“Don’t make me repeat myself, poindexter,”  George said.

We did as we were told.  When we reached the rec center, we hopped out of the truck and found ourselves face to face with the infamous statue in question.

It was actually two statues set on one base.  Both cast in bronze, the one on the left was of a young, chubby cheeked Doug Hauser doubled over, a pained expression on his face as the statue on the right, that of a young Don Johnson, delivered a punch to Hauser’s stomach.

On the base, a plaque read:

In Honor of Douglas Adams Houser

Thirty seconds getting the snot beaten out of you on the greatest crime drama of the 1980’s brought an infinite amount of glory to East Randomtown.

Duct taped to the side of Doug’s head was a red piece of paper that read:

OFFICIAL DECREE

This monument is to be destroyed immediately and replaced with a sculpture of Bookshelf Q. Battler.

Plaque to read, “In honor of Bookshelf Q. Battler, the East Randomtown resident whose ingenuity brought the eyes of 3.5 readers to his hallowed website.”

Signed,

Mayor Philbert T. Bramble

“We need to leave,”  VGRF said.  “This guy is going to shoot you in the head as soon as he sees you.”

shutterstock_51833212“VGRF,”  I said.  “I’ve met him before.  He came to my elementary school once and told us all about how Don Johnson left him pissing blood for a month.  Sure, that probably wasn’t the best story for a bunch of little kids to hear, but still.  Doug Hauser is East Randomtown’s favorite son. I don’t care what Bramble’s stupid decree says.”

I knocked on the glass door.

Doug’s voice came over the intercom.

“One moment.  I’m coming.”

A minute later, the door opened and Doug walked out to greet us.  He wore a dirty white undershirt, a pair of jeans and had a gun secured in a holster on his hip.  He was in his early sixties, but despite a few wrinkles, a few extra pounds, and a receding hair line, he looked just like his statue.

He took one look at me, grinned, and gave me a big hug.

“Bookshelf Q. Battler.  Thank God you found us.”

“Good to see you, Doug,”  I said.  “This is…”

“I know,”  Doug said.  “We’ve got a generator going and one of my guys rigged up a Wi-Fi hotspot.  I’ve been monitoring your survivor’s journal.  A pleasure to meet you, Video Game Rack Fighter.  Bernie.  Blandie.  And this must be…”

Doug squatted down and gave Alien Jones the old once over.  AJ was still in his incognito hipster disguise.

“Are you for real?”  Doug asked.

“Are you?”  Alien Jones replied.

“If it’s all the same,”  I said.  “We try to keep him on the down low.  Sure, I talk about him on the blog but no one ever believes any of my posts are for real.  If we could just tell everyone he’s my deformed kid with ADD, I’d appreciate it.”

“Of course,”  Doug said.  “Please, entre vous.  Mi casa es su casa.”

At this point, Attorney Donnelly, Official Legal Counsel for the Bookshelf Battle Blog, advises me to state that at no time did Mr. Don Johnson, one of the greatest thespians in the history of the stage and/or screen, ever make Doug Hauser piss blood, nor did he beat him up or injure him in anyway.  Any reference to Mr. Johnson and/or Miami Vice are purely for fictional and parody purposes only. 

Tagged , , , , , , , ,

BQB’s Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal – Day 14 (Part 1)

October 14, 2015 – 12:00 A.M.

Night fell and we were back in the Compensator, heading west through the Great Random Forest, a tract of undeveloped land where the trees grew tall and other than the squirrels, there wasn’t much of anyone to keep a guy company.

“What’s that?”  I asked, pointing to a plywood sign.

Scrawled on it with black spray paint were the words:

Sanctuary for the Worthy

Head Ye Who Would Dare to Fort Hauser

(Formerly Known as the East Randomtown Park and Rec Center)

“Fort Hauser?”  VGRF asked.

“Hauser,”  I said.  “Doug Hauser!”

Doug Hauser - BQB's rival for the title of East Randomtown's Most Famous Citizen

Doug Hauser – BQB’s rival for the title of East Randomtown’s Most Famous Citizen

“The guy who was an extra for thirty seconds in one episode of Miami Vice in 1985?”  VGRF asked.  “The guy you beat for the title of most famous East Randomtown resident when you obtained 3.5 readers for the Bookshelf Battle Blog?”

“The same,”  I replied.  “He must have started a survivor colony.”

East Randomtown Park was a family favorite.  Picnics, concerts, sports, you name it.  It had a walking trail, a beautiful pond, tennis courts, I could go on and on.  It was one of the few locations the town had going for it.  At the Westernmost point of the tract of land was a rec center with a basketball court and a gym, not to mention an indoor track and swimming pool.

“Something doesn’t smell right,”  VGRF said.

“I’m sorry,”  Bernie said.  “That was me, yo.”

Blandie gagged.  “Oh my God!  I need air!”

“That’s not a good idea,”  VGRF said.

“It’s not a good idea to die of asphyxiation either,”  Blandie said as she rolled down her window.

Alien Jones, who was sitting between my ex and my friend, chimed in.

“I must concur with the blonde human.  The stench is quite potent.  Fairly close in molecular composition to the gas banned for warfare purposes by Intergalactic Space Law.”

“I wasn’t talking about that anyway,”  VGRF said.  “This guy just puts out signs inviting people to seek his help because…why?  The kindness of his heart?  I’m sorry but throwing in with him would be a terrible idea.”

“A zombie apocalypse can bring out the worst in people,”  I said.  “Or the best. Maybe this is Hauser at his best?”

“Your mate is astute, BQB,”  Alien Jones said.  “I sense this is the worst.”

“That’s just an old zombie apocalypse trope,”  I said.  “The old ‘invite people to a camp under the guise of charity then rob and/or murder and/or eat them’ routine.  This isn’t a book or a TV show.  This is real life.  We should check it out.”

“Aren’t you’re the last person Hauser wants to see?”  VGRF asked.  “Seeing as how Mayor Bramble was planning to have Hauser’s statue torn down and replaced with a sculpture of you?”

“I never wanted that,”  I said.  “I’m sure Hauser knows that.  Head to the park, babe.  There’s safety in numbers.  Morganstern can’t kill everyone.”

“Don’t be so sure of that,”  Alien Jones said.

Tagged , , , , , , , , ,

#31ZombieAuthors – Day 13 Interview – Michael Cairns – Video Blogging

Michael Cairns headshot High Res copy

FIND THIS ZOMBIE AUTHOR ON:

Amazon           Website

Facebook           Twitter

Today’s zombie author is Michael Cairns, the scribe behind the series, Thirteen Rosesan epic tale that begins with a flower seller who’s forced to save the day in the face of a zombie apocalypse.

Here on the Bookshelf Battle Blog, I like to talk to people about their own personal battles.  Currently, Michael’s winning the battle when it comes to making a name for himself in the writing game, but analysts say the struggle to retain his hair might be lost.

I’m dialing him up on Alien Jones’ space phone now.  Michael?  Bookshelf Q. Battler here.  Let’s talk.

NOTE:  BOLD=BQB; ITALICS=Michael

Q.  Michael, I’m stuck in a rather stressful situation.  I’m in the middle of a zombie apocalypse that’s struck my hometown.  As if that’s not enough, a maniacal alien despot who hates reality television has threatened to conquer Earth if I die before writing a novel that’s so good, it inspires the masses to abandon any and all interest in shows in which vapid, mindless, quasi-celebrities are followed around by cameras all day.  On top of that, a corrupt general is trying to blow me up because I allowed one of my correspondents to write about a top secret mission dating back to World War II on my blog.

But this interview isn’t about me, it’s about you, and I don’t want to bore you with my personal problems.  Suffice it to say, all this stress made me think about your situation.  This year began with you making a pledge to your fans that you’d write fifteen books in 2015.  Further, you promised to submit a daily video log chronicling your efforts.

We’re on the tail end of 2015.  How has the challenge gone, what inspired you to do this in the first place and how have you dealt with the ensuing stress?

A.  Hi Bookshelf. First, can I say how sorry I am to hear about your terrible situation? That sounds like pretty dire straits to me. If you’ll forgive a little advice, I’d urge you to keep eating your greens to keep your strength up, and never leave home without at least two chainsaws about your person at all times.

With regards to your question, it’s been a pretty crazy year.  Just to clarify, the challenge was to publish 15 books.  My inspiration for this was that I wrote 15 books in 2014. I then sat down with another indie-published friend of mine who threatened to kick my arse unless I actually did something with them. So, the challenge was born. To keep things interesting, I also opted to write a million words, publish a short story on my blog every week and vlog my journey every day. The challenge has, so far, gone remarkably well. I’ve published 6 books and have another three less than a month away. So the last few months of 2015 are going to be pretty packed, but it’s still doable, assuming I’m willing to completely lose what remains of my sanity.

Regarding the rest of the challenge, that I’ll easily do. I’m going to hit a million words sometime around the beginning of October, and my short stories are, fortunately, getting better each week.

As far as stress goes, it’s been a mix. I’ve given up shaving, given my chocolate addiction free reign, and taken to shouting at myself on long car journeys…okay, maybe not so much of the last one. It has been stressful, though mostly in a fun way. I have two young children at home and also decided to move house in July, so that’s only added to the fun…

Q.  I whine louder than a balloon with air escaping out of it about how I can never find the time to write, but here you are living the dream.  Do you have any advice for my 3.5 readers about how to balance writing with all of the other curveballs that life throws our way?

A.  Excellent question. I think the answer to that lies in a couple of things. The first is to examine yourself and your habits, and decide how organized you are. If you are someone who does things in a random, scatty kind of way, it can be tricky to develop the discipline to write on a regular basis. Tricky, but by no means impossible. I wrote a guest blog post on how to develop said habit, which you can check out here.

The second thing is to decide how important writing is to you. I know that seems kind of obvious, but it’s easy to say how much it matters. The question is, is it important to ditch reruns of The Walking Dead? Is it important enough to wake up an hour earlier each morning? Simple things that will develop your writing habit.

I can highly recommend Julie’s website that tracks her first year in the self-publishing business. She’s a romance writer, so if you’re struggling to find the light at the end of your apocalypse shaped tunnel, Bookshelf, it might just help brighten your day. 🙂

Q.  How has daily video logging worked out for you?  Is that a means of author/fan communication that you’d recommend for aspiring writers?

A.   I have to be honest about this, it’s been hard work. I’ve got the process, from recording the vlog to having it uploaded onto Youtube and posted on my blog, to tweets scheduled down to about 20 minutes, but there have been more than a few nights when it’s the last thing I’ve wanted to do. Have said that, it’s also been great fun. I’ve gotten almost comfortable talking to myself, certainly improved my ‘umms per minute’ rate, and have a wonderful record of the year. I’ve also got to vlog from all sorts of interesting places. I toured Italy a couple of times with my band in the summer, so I’ve vlogged from over there. I’ve also been to numerous festivals and concerts and done the same from there, so it’s been fun. With regards to author/fan communication, I wouldn’t put it near the top of the list. I’ve had a few nice chats with the videos as a springboard, but not nearly as many as via emails and twitter.

Follow Michael’s 15 for 15 challenge on cairnswrites.com!

Q.  One Goodreads reviewer described Thirteen Roses as “The Walking Dead as if written by Neal Gaiman.  Is that a fair 51BTDCI9zlL__SX331_BO1,204,203,200_assessment and if so, why?

A.   I wish!! I loved that quote. It was the kind of quote you couldn’t pay to get, and that it was entirely not my doing was even better! Neil Gaiman’s Sandman is still one of my favorite comic series of all time, so I was beyond flattered to have that comparison made. I’d like to think I could get somewhere close to him in terms of characterization if nothing else, but I’d have to leave that up to the reader to decide…

Q.  There are a number of zombie apocalypse books which feature a science based beginning, i.e. an experiment gone wrong,  (which coincidentally is how my zombie apocalypse began), terrorists who discharge a virus, or some other physical phenomena.  I understand your zombie series has more paranormal origins.  I don’t mean to ask for spoilers, but can you elaborate a bit for my 3.5 readers?

A.   Without wanting to cop out, it’s very difficult to divulge much of the paranormal side of things without giving everything away. Having said that, I’m happy to say that the origin of the zombies is fairly standard. Am ambitious and slightly naive science student spends far too much time messing with an airborne-delivered toxin. The government takes it away from him, only to have some religious nuts discover the answer to their very screwed up prayers and get involved. The paranormal element comes in with the people left behind, the sorry survivors such as yourself. There’s more to it than that, but I really don’t want to spoil all the fun.

Q.  I might know a guy who’s also losing the battle for his hair.  Note that it’s not me at all, just some other unnamed person.  Any advice on follicle stimulation that I could pass along to this individual or should he just give up the goose?

A.  Alas, I’ve tried all sorts. I can confirm that having kids, moving house, and eating your own body weight in chocolate don’t help with hair growth, despite all my wife’s assurances that they would. Actually, she might not have said the thing about the chocolate…

Q.  Michael, thanks for taking a few minutes to speak with me today.  Before I go, do you have any final words of wisdom that might help my friends and I survive the East Randomtown Zombie Apocalypse?

Food! Head to the nearest library and get yourself some books on farming. Simple, self-sustaining farming is a must with all that supermarket fruit and veg already rotting away. Similarly, find some goats and put a fence around them. Chickens, too, if you can find them.

However, considering the people you surround yourself with, I’d have thought finding a space ship and getting the hell off this Godforsaken rock would be the only true way to survive.

Best of luck and lovely to talk to you.

BQB EDITORIAL NOTE: Thanks, Michael!  I’m going to check with Alien Jones on that, but he’ll probably bore me with some lecture about Intergalactic Space Law, which I usually just take as code for him being too lazy. Good luck with your challenge!

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

BQB’s Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal – Day 13

At exactly six am, we all woke up to what sounded and felt like an earthquake.

I bet Jerry Bruckheimer doesn't have shit like this on his blog.

I bet Jerry Bruckheimer doesn’t have shit like this on his blog.

VGRF and I looked out the window just in time to see a squad of F-15 fighter jets flying over head. In their wake, a sonic boom followed.

Blandie popped out of the bedroom.

“What was that?!”

Bernie jumped up.

“I didn’t touch anything!  I swear!”

“Relax, humans,”  Alien Jones said.  “The East Randomtown Mall is no more.”

The space phone rang.  I answered it.

“Hello?”

“Battler, you son of a bitch.  You’re still alive.”

I recognized the voice from yesterday’s broadcast.

General Morganstern?  What a Douchenstern.

General Morganstern? What a Douchenstern.

“General Morganstern.”

“I was hoping you’d still be in the mall.  I do hate to waste good missiles.  Pity.”

I put the space phone on speaker.

“Wait.  So you’re TRYING to kill me?”

“Of course.”

I could feel a sense of panic spread over the group.

“Why?”

“Two words, dipshit.  Operation Fuhrerpunschen.”

I tried to bluff.

“I don’t…I don’t know anything about…come again?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, nerd!”  Morganstern shouted.  “You’ve got that 1950’s style private detective spilling his guts about how he took out Hitler all over your pathetic excuse for a blog!”

“So?”  I asked.  “I only have 3.5 readers!”

“That’s 3.5 too many!”  Morganstern replied.  “National security is at stake, son.  You and your friend out in California have no idea what forces you’re messing with.  We’ve got plans for Jake and as for you?  We’ll find you.  We’ll blow your ass up and the public will never know that you were anything more than a zombie apocalypse casualty.”

I sat down on the couch.

“Is there anything I can do to talk you out of this?”

“Maybe,”  Morganstern said.  “Turn over the alien so we can slice him up.  Do that and shut down the Bookshelf Battle Blog down for good and never utter the words, “Operation Fuhrerpunschen” to anyone ever again, and I’ll let you live.”

Alien Jones and I had become looked up at me and was about to speak when I cut him off.

“No, Alien Jones,”  I said.  “Don’t even think about it.  I’ll never give you up to save myself.”

“I wasn’t thinking that at all,”  Alien Jones said.  “I was just going to ask if you think your Aunt has any booze up in this shack.”

“You’ll get my alien over my dead body,”  I said into the space phone.  “Listen, my 3.5 readers just assume everything on my blog is fiction.  I’m not worth your time.”

“The very powerful man I answer to would disagree.”

“The President?”  I asked.  “I doubt he’d condone what you’re doing.”

“The man I’m working for makes the President look as powerful as an old washer woman.  That’s all I’ll say about that.”

“General,”  I said.  “Fine.  Kill me if you have to, but please, let my friends go.”

“Do they know about Operation Fuhrerpunschen?”  Morganstern asked.

Bernie and Blandie were clueless.  Alien Jones and VGRF were both Bookshelf Battle Blog contributors so of course they knew.

“No not at all,”  I lied.

“Sir?”  Blandie interrupted.

I directed my gaze toward Blandie and mouthed the words, “SHUT UP!”

“Sir,”  Blandie repeated.  “My name is Blandie Settler.  I’m a proud American in good standing and I just want to assure you Iknow NOTHING about Operation Furry-whatever, so there’s no reason to…”

Boo! Blandie is the worst!

Boo! Blandie is the worst!

“Jesus Christ, Battler!”  Morganstern barked.  “Have you had me on speaker the entire time?  Now I really DO have to kill every last asshole you’ve got in that room with you!”

“Thanks Blandie,”  I said.  “Thanks a lot.”

“You’re just lucky your phone can’t be tracked,”  Morganstern said.  “I’d of wiped you off the map by now.”

“How did you get this number anyway?”  I asked.

“We’ve been tracking your porn viewing for quite sometime, Battler.  Every time you hit on one of the sites we’re monitoring, it gives us all your info.”

VGRF wacked me.

“What?”

“Even now?” she whispered.  “You’re looking at porn during the zombie apocalypse?  Have you no shame?”

“I’ve got to say our tech guy had to work around the clock to figure out how to dial a number that included four pictures of a frog licking a cupcake.”

Alien Jones shrugged his shoulders.

“There are parts of the universe where a frog licking a cupcake is considered good luck,”  Alien Jones explained.

“You know what the sad part is General?”

“What’s that?”

BQB and Jake working on an Operation Fuhrerpunschen novel together?!

BQB and Jake working on an Operation Fuhrerpunschen novel together?!

“Had you just come to me and asked me to keep Operation Fuhrerpunschen off of my blog, I’d of done it.  But now that you’re trying to kill my friends and I, I can guarantee you that not only will I find a way to escape, but I’ll contract with Jake to put a full length novel about said operation on Amazon as soon I get home!”

The General went silent for a bit, then uttered, “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me, bitch.”

“You’ll never get out of this alive, Battler,”  Morganstern said.  “I’ve got surveillance drones combing East Randomtown as we speak.  As soon as you pop your ass out into the light of day, I’ll shove a missile up it.”

I hanged up the phone.

“Listen everyone,”  I said.  “I’m the one who allowed Jake to talk about a top secret mission on my blog.  I’m the one who brought the heat down.  Morganstern wants me.  He’s just threatening the rest of you to get at me.  Let’s split up.  You all get to safety.  I’ll turn myself in.  Once I’m dead, he won’t care about you.”

“Untrue,”  Alien Jones said.  “I read Morganstern’s mind.  He truly intends to hunt down you and anyone who has ever heard the words, ‘Operation Fuhrerpunschen.’”

“Shit!”  Bernie said as he stuck his fingers in his ears.  “Stop saying it then!”

“Our only hope of survival is to stick together.  It will be risky, but we’ll only move under the cover of darkness so as to avoid the military’s surveillance.  If we are detected, we run the risk of becoming the victims of another air strike.”

“Then it’s settled,”  VGRF said.  “Let’s all get some rest and we’ll move out at dusk.”

“I’m sorry I got you all into this mess,”  I said.  “I promise to you get you out of it.”

“Don’t make promises yo’ ass can’t keep, sucka,’”  Bernie said.

“Which reminds me,”  I said as I dialed a number into the space phone, “I promised to interview another zombie author today.”

Tagged , , , , , , ,

Like BQB on Facebook!

shutterstock_207984706

Hello 3.5 readers, just a reminder to follow yours truly on Facebook, and you’ll get regular updates from deep inside the East Randomtown Zombie Apocalypse.

 

Tagged , , , , , ,

#31ZombieAuthors – Day 12 Interview – Joe McKinney – Legendary Zombie Master

jm

FIND THIS ZOMBIE AUTHOR ON:

Amazon           Website

     Twitter               Facebook

Bram Stoker award winning novelist Joe McKinney is to fans of zombie fiction what Elvis is to rock and roll.  Simply mention Joe’s name to zombie enthusiasts and they’re likely to swoon and pass out.

If a zombie invasion were to ever go down, Joe could handle it.  After all, in his day job, he’s a Sergeant with the San Antonio, TX Police Department, where he’s a patrol supervisor.  He’s also worked as a homicide detective and a disaster mitigation specialist.

51CTSWUWJzL__SX302_BO1,204,203,200_As if that weren’t impressive enough, he’s also the author of the Dead World series.  The action begins in Dead City.  After a series of hurricanes rocks the Gulf Coast, a zombifying virus spreads to San Antonio, where police officer Eddie Hudson has to brave a zompoc in order to get his wife and son to safety.

Joe’s also the author of the Deadlands series, the latest book of which, The Dead Won’t Die, came out last month on September 29.  In fact, word has it that he’s heading to Atlanta October 16 and 17th for book signings, so if you’re in The Walking Dead territory, you might want to keep a pen handy.

Thanks for taking the time to speak with me today, oh wise zombie master.  My 3.5 readers and I greatly appreciate it.

NOTE: BOLD=BQB; ITALICS=JOE

Q.   You got in on the ground floor of a zombie fiction renaissance that began in the mid-2000’s and to date, doesn’t show any signs of stopping.  What is it about zombies that have kept fans of these creepy creatures coming back for more after all these years?

A.   I was on a zombie panel at a horror convention a while back, and one of my fellow panelists was a writer who is generally regarded as “one of the literary elite” sort. I like this guy.  I have a lot of respect for him, both as a person and as a writer.  I’d even go so far as to call him a mentor.  And we’re good friends on top of that.  Well, somebody from the audience threw out a question very similar to this and my friend answered something like this:  “Zombies are a symptom of our self-loathing.  We so hate ourselves and our society that we invent a straw man like the zombie, a monster that both looks enough like us so that we see in its putrefaction how much we disgust ourselves and yet is anonymous enough that we can imagine those who anger us as we fire an endless barrage of headshots at the approaching horde.”

Now, I don’t totally buy that.  I don’t think self-loathing, or even societal loathing, is a strong enough emotion to turn a drive-in movie monster into a cultural archetype.  There may be something to that explanation, especially for the readers who spend too much time arguing about politics on Facebook, but that isn’t everybody.

What about the rest of us?  Why do we love zombies?  Well, aside from the creeping dread that comes with imagining streets filled with the undead and the way really great zombie stories tend to treat the apocalypse like a crucible that distills humanity down to its core, I think the zombie has caught on because it’s a blank page upon which writers and readers can draw anything they want.  What are you afraid of?  Disease; death of the mind, a la Alzheimer’s; societal collapse; or possibly illegal immigration?  You name it, if you’re scared of it, we have a zombie for you.  They are sponges for metaphor.  They can be anything you want them to be, and I believe that that’s their secret storytelling power. 

Q.   On your site, you mention how your daughter’s birth inspired you to follow your dream of becoming a writer, but it wasn’t easy.  You explain how you penned a 1950’s style space opera, came to the conclusion that it was “crap,” and wondered why you were even bothering.  Honestly, in my experience, most aspiring authors stop when they reach the “This is crap!” point, but you kept going and today you’re a rousing success.

For those of us who are convinced our writing is “crap,” can you give us a little pep talk to inspire us to keep going until we hit our non-crappy groove?

A.   Getting started is hard. Really hard.  There are days when you spend a lot of time looking at yourself in the mirror wondering why you’re even bothering.  And when you do finally get your first few pieces out there, there’s never a shortage of nasty trolls to tell you how you shouldn’t have bothered in the first place.  You need a lot of hard work, a lot of bullheaded determination, and a really thick skin.  Oh, and a super harsh inner critic that isn’t afraid to occasionally be a cheerleader.  Like I said, it’s hard.

But it can be done.  And while I can’t tell you the secret of finding that determination you need to get out of your own way, I can let you in on a little secret that will make it easier for you to write that first novel.

First, outline your story, in exhaustive detail, before you ever start thinking of your opening sentence.  It seems like every time I go to a convention, somebody says, “You know, I’ve got this novel I’ve been working on for three years now.”  I usually stop them right there and ask them if they outline or write by the seat their pants.  Invariably, I get some confused rambling about how Stephen King said writers should be pantsers because anything else would stifle creativity.  I usually answer by pointing out that never getting the story written is even more stifling to creativity.  Outline, outline, outline.  It’s the first step to success.  My outlines for novels will usually go 70 to 90 pages and they take me about two months to write…about the same amount of time as the novel itself.

The second part of the secret?  Write a little bit every day.  Don’t listen to the stories of Ray Bradbury writing Fahrenheit 451 in 9 days, or Robert Louis Stevenson writing Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde in 3 days.  You don’t need that kind of self-abuse.  What you do need is a manageable word count that you promise yourself each day.  When I started out, that promise was 500 words a day.  These days, it’s 1,500.  But you have to work up to that.  You have to start with digestible chunks and gradually build up from there.  Remember: How do you eat an elephant?  One bite at a time!

Q.   “Write what you love” is one piece of advice you mention on your blog.  Specifically, you hit your stride when you realized that after growing up on a steady diet of monster flicks, the zombie apocalypse genre was right up your alley.

So in other words, aspiring writers should just be themselves and stop trying to be something they’re not?

A.   Yeah, pretty much. One simple lesson I try time and again to convey is that if you want to be interesting, you have to be interested.  What that means is that you have to love what you’re writing about.  I don’t mean simply loving zombies, so you write a zombie story.  I mean loving the life of being a cop with a family, and so you write a zombie story about a cop trying to fight his way home to his family on the first night of the zombie apocalypse.  You’ll see the same love in every writer you read, both the great ones and the hacks.  The point is that writing is all about getting your inner joy out there, even if the mood in which that joy conveys is tragic.  Simply put, if you don’t love it, nobody else will either.  It doesn’t matter what you’re interested in.  If you are crazy cool madly in love with ladybugs, and you write a murder mystery, or a romance, or a horror novel, or a science fiction space opera about how cool ladybugs are, your chances of successfully connecting with an audience just went up about ten thousand percent.  We don’t care what your interest is, just that you convince us that you love it, and that we should too…through your characters!

Q.   “Write what you know” is a phrase often heard in the literary world.  As a police officer, you know law enforcement procedure and it shows in your writing.  For example, when I discovered that Dead City involved a series of hurricanes, it didn’t surprise me to learn that you worked as a disaster mitigation specialist.

How else have you drawn on your police experience to bring greater detail to your writing?  And should aspiring scribes go out and get some experience in something, anything before they put pen to paper?

A.   Well, I have to be careful about that. My department has specific rules about writing for publication that prohibit me from writing on cases I have personally worked on and cases that have yet to be adjudicated.  You can imagine why.  Imagine being a rape victim.  You somehow work up the courage to report the rape, and you spend the afternoon pouring your soul and anger and all the rest of it out to a detective.  Now imagine that detective turns around and sells your story to some magazine somewhere.  Imagine the outrage and violation you would feel.  I take my oath as a cop very seriously, and that trust is a bond I will never break.

Still, I get quite a bit of mileage from the things I’ve learned on the job.  Being on the job you learn a lot about human nature, and that definitely helps with writing.  It also helps with creating a unique niche for my writing.  Lots of horror utilizes police procedure, but grudgingly, because most writers lack any firsthand knowledge of it.  Writers will create situations where the police have to make an appearance, and then they’re forced to tap dance until they find a reason to get rid of the police.  I see it all the time.  I don’t have that problem, though.  I would definitely recommend that all writers develop some kind of skillset like that, be it beekeeping or pot making or anything, really.

Q.   You hold a Master’s Degree in English Literature.  For anyone out there hoping to break into the literary world, do you recommend such a formal course of study?

A.   It worked for me, but I’m just one voice shouting in the wilderness. I know hundreds of writers, and they come from every profession imaginable.  Some are butchers; some are call girls.  Some are beekeepers; some are college professors.  Some are cowboys; some are stand up comedians.  One writer I know owns a barbeque restaurant in New Braunfels, Texas that serves the best braised beef short ribs you could possibly imagine.  It really doesn’t matter what your background is.  What does matter is that you love something so much that you want, want, need to fit it into a story.  Find that spark inside you, and the words will come.  I promise. 

Q.   OK.  Here’s a big question.  You’re a busy police officer.  On top of that, you’ve got a family.  And yet, amidst all of these important commitments, you have managed to have an amazing career as a writer.

Meanwhile, I don’t want to call myself a slacker, but one time I sat down with my laptop to write an epic masterpiece, got frustrated after the first few lines, then ended up watching a Steven Seagal movie marathon while devouring an entire box of Oreos instead.

Please, for myself, and anyone else who can’t get their act together, give us some tips on how to juggle work, family, other stuff that happens in life, and still find time to pursue writing.

A.   Any author who tells you every day is an orderly procession of getting the words on paper is a filthy liar. Some days are hard, even after you make a name for yourself.  Some days, the Oreos and movie marathons are what the body and soul need.  There’s no shame in that.

But you have to hold two seemingly disparate ideals in mind if you want to write professionally.  First, you have to have a love of craft and a determination to keep butt in chair that, frankly, defies human nature.  The kids are playing with the dogs in the backyard, and begging you to come join them.  There’s a lovely breeze blowing.  Your youngest looks at you with a smile you know won’t be there in her angsty teenage years.

But you have a deadline.

That kind of denial of human nature.  Bullheadedness, my wife calls it.  Maybe even assholery.  Yeah, it sucks that bad.

But how do you get to have problems like that?  Well, that comes with manageable word counts.  Seriously, folks, 500 words a day.  Treat everyday like it’s NaNoWriMo.  Do 500 words a day.  You can do it.  Outline first, figure out what you’re going to be writing during those precious few moments out of each day that you can spare for the keyboard, and then start typing.  Get the first draft done.  Don’t go back and edit what you wrote the day before, just push forward to the end.  Once you’re done, go back and edit.  That’s why they call them first drafts. 

Q.   Thanks for checking in, Joe.  Before I go, do you have any last minute advice that might help my friends and I survive the East Randomtown Zombie Apocalypse?

A.   Well, yes…obviously Cardio! Oh, and as a cop, I wholeheartedly recommend the double tap as well.  But after that: Be smart.  Be watchful.  Pay attention; it don’t cost nothing.  Take a good look around you every moment of every day.  Even if the apocalypse doesn’t come (and I think I’m not alone in kind of wishing that it would come), you will still have the observational aptitude to write about it.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

BQB’s Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal – Day 12 (Part 3)

“Where to?”  VGRF asked.

“You know where, babe,”  I replied.

VGRF took a right onto Pondmore Road and from there it was smooth sailing.  An occasional zombie would take interest, but they were no match for a skilled driver.

Five minutes later, VGRF pulled up to a box shaped building.  The sign on the front read:

Decrepit Oaks

Our Seniors Put the “Do” in “Can-Do!”

“You’re going to risk our lives for your old ass aunt?”  Blandie asked.

“You know, Aunt Gertie used to talk about you all the time,”  I said.

Blandie perked up.  “Really?  What did she say?”

Aunt Gertie - Dead, missing, or zombified?

Aunt Gertie – Dead, missing, or zombified?

“That you’re shallow, materialistic and when it comes to relationships, you care more about what a man looks like than what he’s got going on inside.”

“And that’s a problem…why?”

“I give up, Blandie,”  I said.  “If you want to stay in the car, fine, but I need to check to see if the woman who raised me is still alive.”

“Fine.  I’m coming.”

I got out and Bernie passed Alien Jones to me.  The little guy was still exhausted from shooting a force field out of his body, so we were on our own for the rest of the day.  I threw him over my shoulder like he was an extra bag.  He didn’t weigh that much at all.

The gang grabbed our gear and we entered the old folks home.

Decrepit Oaks wasn’t so much a nursing home as it was an apartment building for old timers.  It catered to elderly folk who were still active, but needed some help with meals, cleaning, and so on.  I’m not sure my aunt even needed to live there but that’s what she wanted.  There were times when I thought Gertie might live long enough to bury us all.

Bernie and VGRF shined their flashlights.  The place was deserted.  Oddly though, everything appeared to be in immaculate condition.

We headed down the hallway to the residential section.

“Yo, y’all need to be hella careful,”  Bernie said.  “Some of these damn old peeps might look just like zombies.  You don’t wanna gank an old ass human by accident.”

“That’s partially accurate and partially offensive, Bern,”  I said.  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“What’s her number?”  VGRF asked.

“Forty-nine.”

We walked and walked.  Along the way, a few apartment doors had been left open.

I peeked inside each one of them.  They were all nice and neat, beds freshly made, everything in order.

“Maybe they were able to evacuate in time?”  VGRF asked.

“I hope so,”  I said.

We reached forty-nine.  Gertie had given me a spare key.  I found it on my ring and opened the door.

The place was a mess.  The coffee table was turned up on its side.  Broken glass pieces were strewn everywhere.  A lamp was shattered on the floor.

From the bathroom came a loud moan.  I put Alien Jones down on Gertie’s bed, drew my gun, pointed it at the door, and nodded to Bernie, bidding him to open it.

Sure enough, a zombie ran out.  He’d once been a young man, late twenties, in combat fatigues.  Whoever he was, he was out of place at an old folks home.  I exploded his head with one shot.

Zombie attack!

Zombie attack!

I borrowed VGRF’s flashlight and entered the bathroom.  The floor and walls were soaked with blood.  In the tub, there was a ripped apart corpse.  It was so badly disfigured that it was unrecognizable.

VGRF put her hand on my shoulder.

“Is it…”

“I…I don’t know.  God I hope not.”

Bernie picked up the Esteemed Brainy One and carried him for me for awhile.

“What now?”  my friend asked.

“This place looks pretty safe,”  I said.  “Let’s clear all the rooms to be sure, lock the building up, then pick a room and spend the night.  We’ll consult Alien Jones on what to do next when he wakes up.”

“I can’t stay here,”  Blandie said.  “This whole place reeks of bengay and depression.”

“Then feel free to…”

“I know, I know,”  Blandie said.  “Wait in the car.  Fine.  Lead the way.”

An hour later we finished checking all the apartments and after discovering the building was zombie free, we locked the front and back doors, took over apartment one, the unit closest to the front door in case we had to make a break for it, and settled in.

“You guys get some sleep,”  I said as I took a seat on the couch.  “I’ll take first watch.”

Bernie stepped out of the bedroom and made some googly eyes at Blandie.

“The bed’s big enough to share if you catch my drift.”

“I’ll rip off any part of you that touches me, nerd,”  Blandie said as she walked into the bedroom and slammed the door in Bernie’s face.

“Shoties be trippin’ yo,” Bernie said.

He crashed on the floor.

VGRF snuggled up into my arm nook.

“Are you going to call another zombie author now?”  she asked.

“Yes,” I replied, “And a plot this thick requires not just any zombie author, but one of the most legendary zombie masters of all time!”

Tagged , , , , , , , , ,

BQB’s Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal – Day 12 (Part 2)

“Grab the gear,”  Alien Jones said.  “We’re leaving.”

“Out there?  With those things?”  Blandie asked.  “No way!”

“You heard the human military leader,”  Alien Jones said.  “By tomorrow morning, this entire structure will be a pile of charred ash.  We can’t stay here.”

I picked up my bug out bag.  VGRF and Bernie did the same.

“What’s the plan, Esteemed Brainy One?” I asked.

The Compensator - when only a vehicle capable of depleting the oil reserves of a third world country will do.

The Compensator – when only a vehicle capable of depleting the oil reserves of a third world country will do.

“I sense there is a brand new, fully loaded Compensator Sports Utility Vehicle illegally parked across two handicapped parking spaces outside the nearby entrance.  It was formerly owned by what you humans would refer to as a ‘One Percenter Douche Bag.’  We will make our way to it, hit the open road, and improvise a further plan from there.”

“Can I have a gun?”  Blandie asked.

“You’ll shoot your foot off,”  I said.

“You let HIM have a gun,” Blandie said, pointing to Bernie.

“Good point,”  I said.

I pulled a spare pistol out of my waistband and handed it to her.  She handled it rather clumsily.

“So how do you take the safety off?  Is it just this little…”

BAM!

Blandie fired a shot right into the roof.

“Gimme that!”  I said as I took the piece back.  I searched around for a blunt instrument and handed her a trophy that read, ‘Blandie Settler:  Hipster Hutt Manager of the Year.’”

“You were manager of the year?”  I asked.

“Yeah,”  Blandie said.  “So?  What?  I can do stuff good!”

I opened the door.  That dumb, confused zombie was still bumping into the corner.  He was harmless, so I left him alone.

“I need new duds,”  my alien buddy said.

Hipster Alien

Hipster Alien

Alien Jones picked out some hipster wear – a white bucket hat, plaid cargo pants, a muscle shirt and oversized sunglasses.

“What planet are you from?”  Blandie asked.

“Oh, it doesn’t really matter,”  Alien Jones said as he adjusted his sunglasses.  “I doubt you’ve ever heard of it anyway.”

The little green guy punched a button on the space phone and the security gate lifted.  A throng of zombies poured in but were instantly vaporized when our tiny protector threw up his force field bubble.

“We only have five minutes,”  I explained to Blandie as we ran out of the store. “And whatever you do, DO NOT TOUCH THE BUBBLE!”

Away we went, turning multiple bloodthirsty, brain hungry zombies into mist clouds until we hit the parking lot.  Alien Jones’ bubble began to flicker.

“There’s the douche-mobile!”  I shouted.

Alien Jones punched a button on his phone and the Compensator’s engine started and the doors unlocked.

“VGRF,”  I shouted.  “Take the wheel!”

The bubble passed out and so did my alien friend.  I scooped him up into the back seat then took the front passenger’s seat.  Blandie and Bernie got in the back.

The parking lot was quiet but as soon as VGRF backed the SUV up, zombie heads turned and they all converged on the vehicle.

“BQB you pussy!”  Blandie shouted.  “You’d let a girl drive?!”

I turned around to face Blandie.

“She’s not just any girl.  She’s the Goddamned Number One International Car Thief Mayhem Champion Ten Years in a row.”

I looked at VGRF.

“You got this baby.  Punch it!”

The Highest Ranking Car Thief Mayhem Champion in the World

The Highest Ranking Car Thief Mayhem Champion in the World

VGRF took off like she was in a stolen car, not just because she was, but because her nimble fingers had played out this scenario on her gaming console millions of times before.  She smashed through piles of the undead like they were nothing.  Blood and guts sprayed all over the window and she didn’t even flinch.  She just sprayed the cleaning fluid and ran the wipers.

She banged a right out of the lot and floored it down the mall access road.  Zombies chased along side the SUV, banging on the sides.  She swerved right and left, taking them all out.

Full steam ahead, VGRF sailed the big truck at 80 MPH down the road until she came across a gaggle of beasts blocking the way forward.  Too thick to slam through, she improvised.

“HANG ON!”  my sweetie yelled.

With expert precision, VGRF yanked the emergency hand brake up, swerved out and just barely missed the horde car as she took a right and headed down Main Street.

To our left was a steep hill.  More zombies ran down it and flanked the left side of the car.

VGRF rolled her window down and pulled a handgun out of her jacket pocket.  She shouted, “BREAK YOSELF, FOOL!” then took them all out.

“BQB?”

“Yeah Bernie?”

“I don’t wanna be rude but your old lady is givin’ me a mad chub right now, B.”

“Me too, Bernie.  Me too.”

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,