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BQB’s Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal – Day 28 – (Part 1)

I was awake.

My head felt awful.  My shoulder hurt like hell.  But I was finally sitting up in bed.

“Oh thank goodness,”  Alien Jones said.  “The Mighty Potentate won’t vaporize me!  Well, at least not for this, anyway.  He’ll probably get me on something sooner or later.”

VGRF was holding onto me like I was going out of style.  I should almost die more often.

There was a knock on the door.

In walked Mario, Janet, and a contingent of people wearing gas masks.  Whoever they were, they were the same people who shot all the zombies dead (as in dead,dead not just undead) in the gym, saving me from filling their bellies with my flesh.

“Who are you people?”  I asked.

One of them stepped forward and removed a mask to reveal the face of a kindly old woman.

“Don’t you even recognize your dear sweet auntie, bubalah?”

“Aunt Gertie?”  I asked.  “But how?  We couldn’t find you at Decrepit Oaks!  I assumed you were dead.”

“Of course you assumed I was dead, dearie,”  Aunt Gertie said.  “Everyone assumes that old people are weak and useless but that shows what you know.  The old folks and I formed the East Randomtown Prepper’s Society years ago and we were completely prepared for a zombie apocalypse!”

“But how?”

“We all had bug out bags ready to go,”  Aunt Gertie explained.

“Did you consult the sage advice of noted zombie fiction author and bug-out-bag expert Sarah Lyons Fleming too?”  I asked.

“Nah,”  Aunt Gertie said.  “You know I don’t bother with your dumb blog anymore, BQB.  I just grabbed some shit to eat, some shit to kill zombies with and stuffed it all in a bag.”

“Where’d you get the firepower?”  I asked.

“I uh..”  Gertie hesitated.  “I know a guy.  Let’s leave it at that, sweetheart.”

“Wait,”  I said.  “Who were those two bodies I found in your bathroom?”

“Hauser’s thugs,”  Gertie said.  “They tried to kidnap me and were going to hold me for ransom, demanding that you turn yourself into Hauser.  I whipped out my bowie knife and made quick work of those sons of bitches, let me tell you.  Too bad you were dumb enough to come here on your own anyway.”

“Wow Gert,”  I said.  “And here all this time I just thought you were all about knitting and bingo.”

“A gal can diversify.”

The remaining geezers removed their masks.  One old dude with a sea of white hair shook my hand.

“Bob Northrup,”  he said.  “Sorry to give you the news this way, but I’ve been sticking it to your Aunt twice a week for awhile now.  Nothing too serious, mind you.  I’m only seventy-eight so I like to keep my options open.”

Gertie furrowed her brow.

“You could have just told him we were good friends, jackass!”

“At this point I don’t care,”  I said.

Mario showed me a cell phone and clicked a button.  Up popped a video of Hauser, George, and the DiStefanos loading boxes of supplies into the Compensator, the SUV my friends and I drove to the rec center.

“BQB,”  Mario said.  “Your aunt and her friends had been surveilling the area for a long time, devising a plan to rescue you.  They shot this video that clears your good name.  On behalf of the whole settlement, I want to apologize for ever doubting you.”

“Pretty lame, Mario.  Pretty lame.”

“I know,”  Mario said.  “And I hope this makes up for it.  We took a vote and the decision was unanimous.  We’ve decided to change the name of this settlement from Fort Hauser to Fort Battler, and we’d like you to be our new Mayor.”

“Oh screw that,” was my instant response.  I didn’t even take a second to think about it.  “Like I want to lead a group of asshats who wanted to feed me to a bunch of zombies.”

VGRF, always the voice of morality, perked up.

“People make mistakes, BQB,”  she said.  “They need you now more than ever.”

Janet, who you might recall was a registered nurse as well as the settlement’s medical advisor, looked at me.

“BQB,”  Janet said.  “You created a WordPress site and promoted it to the point where it attracted an audience of 3.5 readers.  No one could ever possibly repeat that amazing feat.  Songs will surely be sung in your name for years to come.  Please, you must take the wisdom you used to build a substandard blog that people only read when they click on it accidentally and use it to guide us.”

“Oh fine,”  I said.  “But on one condition.”

“Name it,”  Janet replied.

“This place is not Fort Hauser.  It’s East Randomtown.  The thousand or so survivors on the property, they’re the last East Randomtownians left.  No more cults of personality.  No more dictatorships.  We’re a town again.  We’re a democracy.  All important decisions are made through a vote and we’ll call for elections as soon as possible.”

Janet and Mario nodded.

“You’re a good man,”  Mario said.  “You really do deserve that statue.”

“I don’t want a statue,”  I said.  “Will you people let me rest now?”

Everyone poured out of the room except Alien Jones and VGRF.

“Congratulations, Mr. Mayor,”  AJ said.

“This sucks,” I replied. “I hate politicians.  Whoever they are, whatever party they’re in, they’re all out to pick your pocket, promise you the world and deliver you a bowl of hot steamy crap instead.”

“Maybe this is your chance to make a difference,”  VGRF said.

“We’ll see about that.”

The space phone interrupted our conversation with a loud ring.

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#31ZombieAuthors – Day 25 Interview – Zombie Warfare

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Today’s guest is Luke Duffy, author of The Dead Walk the Earth and When There’s No More Room in Hell series of books, which detail the journeys of soldiers as they fight undead hordes.

Have you ever read a zombie book written by a guy who’s skilled at jumping out of perfectly good airplanes? Having grown up in Northern England, Luke joined the Parachute Regiment at the age of eighteen. Further, he has worked in Iraq on the Private Security Circuit.

His first book, Running the Gauntlet: The Private War in Iraq, detailing his memoirs from his time on the circuit, was published in 2011.

Following that non-fiction work, he turned his attention to zombie lore.

Luke, thanks for taking a minute to talk with me today, and thank you for your service.

NOTE: BOLD=BQB; ITALICS=LUKE

Q.  I’m just going to say it. Look at you. Soldier. Private security. 51qtY0bYz1L._SX311_BO1,204,203,200_You’re a badass. As a layman, I’d think that having such vast military experience would inform one’s writing. Do you find that’s the case? Do you draw on your experience when writing your books?

A.  Absolutely. I read a few apocalyptic books before I decided to write my own. Some were great, others were awful. But one thing I found that the majority of them had in common was that most authors lacked any real experience in military matters. Don’t get me wrong, there were some great efforts out there, well researched and thought out, but there was always something missing. The mark was never quite hit. Only someone who has experienced being shot at, blown up, or felt those familiar sensations of dread and retrospect when preparing for a fight, can write a realistic battle scene. I’ve always tried to make the action as close to real as possible, and my own experiences have helped, a lot. I like to draw the reader into the pages, making them imagine what it is like to come under fire and wonder whether they would make it out. As a reader, it’s important to feel part of the story.

Also, most of my characters are actually based on real people that I have known over the years.

Q. You started out with non-fiction and then moved on to fiction. What drew you into the world of zombies?

A. In a few short words; Dawn of the Dead. I’m talking about the original. I watched it when I was about six or seven, and from there, I was hooked. It wasn’t so much the action and the zombies themselves, but more to do with the collapse of society and the slow death of humanity. Even as a kid the words ‘what if?’ rattled around inside my head. The end of civilisation has always fascinated me, regardless of the cause. But what could be more exciting, terrifying, and total, as the dead returning to life and hunting the living?

I like to imagine how different people, from various rungs of the social ladder, would react to a global crisis such as a zombie plague. I think true, true colours would quickly come to light, and I think the whole ‘good and bad’ thing would be turned on its head in many cases. I couldn’t imagine Bob Geldof and Bono still wanting to save the world, hugging plague victims and shaking hands with zombies. I think they would barricade themselves into their mansions and drop from the radar.

Q. Here’s a question I’ve thrown at a lot of writers this month. How do you find the time to write? I ask because I’m rather unfocused and if a good show comes on TV, there goes my writing for the day. So obviously, I respect a guy who has served in the military and in private security and yet still finds the time to write. Do you have any advice for aspiring scribes on how to balance work and writing?

A. My best piece of advice would be to create a routine. Finding the time and motivation to start writing, even if I’m half way through a book and on a roll, can be extremely hard. Sometimes I need to give myself a serious kick up the arse to get myself down behind my computer. Like you said, distractions can have a severe effect on you. So, what I do is ensure that I get myself into a routine. If I’m working away, most of my writing is done in the evening, which can be a real pain because my energy and enthusiasm is sapped by then.

When I’m home in the UK, it’s a little easier. I get up, have a coffee and a smoke, check the news, as well as the usual morning stuff that a man does. Then, come ten o’clock, I get to work and do at least four hours writing each day. After that, the world is my lobster and I don’t feel guilty, having the fact hanging over my head that I jacked on my work for the day because Susanna Reid was looking particularly hot on morning television and I became side-tracked.

Q. The description of The Dead Walk the Earth states, “Eight soldiers, accustomed to operating below the radar, carrying out the dirty work of a modern democracy, become trapped within the carnage of a new and terrifying world. Deniable and completely expendable. That is how their government considers them, and as the dead begin to walk, Stan and his men must fight to survive.”

“Deniable and expendable.” OK. So obviously, I enjoy being alive, so I’m not asking you to get into “If I tell you I have to kill you” territory (sorry, bad joke there) but generally speaking, is being “deniable and expendable” a fate that soldiers often find themselves facing?

A. Depends on the type of soldier and the operations being conducted. There’s no such thing as a clean government, and they all need someone to get their hands extremely dirty on their behalf, from time to time. I’ll not go into too much detail, but deniable operatives do exist. No, not like xXx and Mission Impossible. They’re just beyond fantasy. Deniable operators could be the man next door, or the guy driving your taxi. Shaved heads, huge muscles, and wearing Oakley sun glasses in the dark… don’t help.

I suppose that all soldiers are expendable, to a degree. Or at least they are viewed that way by the people who send them to war. No politician, no matter how sincerely they claim to have, has ever lost sleep or shed a tear over the men and women of their country being brought home in bags. Tony Blair and George Bush; they saw their military as mere pawns to be moved about on their own paths towards personal glory and gain.

Don’t get me wrong, I was part of the invasion of Iraq. I was amongst the first troops into Kosovo during the liberation in 99. I battled in Sierra Leone during their civil war, and I patrolled the streets of Northern Ireland before the peace process. I enjoyed the lot, but I never lost sight of the fact that not a single member of the government cared how many of my friends lost their lives.

Since joining the private circuit in Iraq, I’ve seen the attrition rate first-hand, and watched as countless friends were killed. Yes, we were in it for the money, but we were also doing a job on behalf of the US and UK governments, helping to rebuild the Iraqi infrastructure. But before long, the media stopped reporting the deaths and the government leaders forgot about us. All the while, the deaths of British and American private military soared. Expendable.

Q. Hypothetically, would today’s modern military be able to take on a zombie outbreak? Not that I spend a lot of time worrying about such a scenario, but I’d be interested to hear your take on it.

A. It depends on society as a whole, I suppose. In my books, the concept of the dead returning to life (zombies) has never been imagined. There are no books, movies, computer games, or folk tales about such creatures. So, when the dead begin to rise, it’s complete confusion, terror, and chaos. No one knows how to deal with the problem. On the one hand, some see the threat for what it is, and insist that immediate action be taken. However, on the other hand, there are the ‘bleeding hearts’ and ‘do-gooders’, bleating that even the dead are people and have rights.

Governments hesitate, fearing backlash should they act with what can be viewed as brutality and inhumanity towards the infected (yes, I believe that even on the brink of an apocalypse, the politicians would still worry about their image and future votes).

People struggle to come to terms with the outbreak. Families cannot imagine that the monsters staggering towards them are no longer their dad, mum, sister, brother, uncle – twice removed… etc.
Then there are the legal complications to consider. Most people out there follow the rules. They avoid confrontation and shy away from violence. Inflicting pain and suffering is not a desire that most human beings carry. Many would hesitate, because we have all been brought up to understand that killing is wrong, both in a legal and moral sense. Suddenly being told that it is perfectly okay to smash your neighbor’s head in with a hammer, isn’t going to have any great and immediate effect. Most people would simply lock their doors and hide. Even I would hesitate, and I don’t like my neighbors.

Morality and human emotions play huge parts in the downfall, and only when it is too late, do people realize the extent of the catastrophe and put down their delusions of decency and respect, but by then, it’s too late.

However, in reality, I believe that the military would soon have the outbreak under control. No doubt, they would all be rounded up and sent to work in Starbucks, maybe even become Labour Party members.

Q. Any plans for further zombie books in the future? Or perhaps other monsters? I read a post on your blog that made me think you find technology as infuriating as I do. That me think – soldiers vs. killer robots has some potential.

A. I take it that you’ve never watched Terminator?

Seriously though, yes, I find technology infuriating. In my opinion, it causes more trouble than its worth, even though I have found myself reliant upon it.

I have one more book to write in the current series, and then I intend to get a couple of kids’ books written that I have in mind. Yes, it’s a dramatic shift from people being eaten alive and copious amounts of profanities and violence, but I’ve had these stories in my head for some time, so I will be hanging up my zombie hat for a while. I may return in the future, if the demand is high enough and I have some new ideas, but for now, I need to step away from the genre.

Q. Luke, thanks for stopping by. Before I go, do you have any last minute advice that might help me survive the East Randomtown Zombie apocalypse?

A. Get away from the cities. Find a place that is remote. The dead are stupid, and lazy. Can you imagine them walking up mountains or fording rivers? High-ground, preferably open with good all round visibility, would be your best bet. Dense forests are also good, but they can be a double edged sword; they can’t see you, but you can’t see them, either. I wouldn’t like to have to bug-out from a wooded area during the dark hours, surrounded by zombies

If you’re stuck in an urban area, stock up, stay out of sight, and keep quiet. Remember, a barricade can never be too big, no matter how valuable that antique chest of drawers is. Trust no one, and lock your heart away in a sealed box. There’s no room for easy emotion and sentimentality in the zombie apocalypse world. Finally, make a note of all the people close by who have pets, because when the time comes, cats and dogs make good eating.

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BQB’s Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal – Day 23

We were all exceptionally bored.

Uncle Hardass

Uncle Hardass

A long day rolled into evening, nothing but a drip from the nearby showers to entertain us.

OK, there was also a plethora of streaming media content from Alien Jones’ perpetually charged space phone, but while the rest of the gang watched a movie, I wasn’t into it.

I felt an overwhelming urge to be alone and walked off into the shower room.  Once I was by myself, the tears flowed freely and I openly cried.

From behind me, I heard the voice of a grumbly old man.

“Waaahhh…waaah waaah!”

I turned around.

“Uncle Hardass?”

For those above and beyond this site’s average 3.5 reader count, I was raised by my Aunt Gertie and her husband, my Uncle Hardassimo “Hardass” J. Scrambler.

Before he died of a massive heart attack, Uncle Hardass’ favorite past times included:

  • Complaining about hippies, commies, and others he deemed no goodniks who didn’t work hard enough.
  • Slaving away at the salt mines.  Literally, he worked at Salt Mines, Inc. and his job was to dig hunks of salt out of the ground everyday.
  • Reminding me how much he did and how little I did in comparison.  I tried not to take it too personally, because he’d of reminded everyone else in the world too had they been willing to listen.

Despite watching his casket get lowered into the ground, I’m still haunted by his ghost to this very day.

That’s not a metaphor.  He actually just shows up at BQB Headquarters unannounced to bitch about whatever I’m doing, inform me that I’m doing it wrong, and to demand an answer as to when I’m going to abandon writing and take a job at the salt mines.

Writing, of course, to Uncle Hardass, is a pursuit beneath “real men” and is something that only hippies and commies do.

Ironically, despite his protestations against writing, Uncle Hardass, from time to time, manages to log on to my blog uninvited to offer his, Things That Really Frost My Ass column. It’s not really a column so much as it is a laundry list of things that are pissing him off at a given point in time.

“Yeah it’s me,”  Uncle Hardass said.  “Holy shit, look at you, ya’ blubbering crybaby! This really is the girls’ locker room, isn’t it?”

“Whatever,”  I said.  “Hit me while I’m down.  That’s what you do.”

“I’m not hitting you, Nancy.  What gives with the waterworks?”

“You want to know why I’m crying?”  I asked.  “Because you were right.”

“I always am,”  Uncle Hardass said.  “About what this time?”

“Writing.”

“Bahh!  Writing!”

Uncle Hardass raised his voice a few octaves, pretending to be all girly and mocked me.  “Oooo la dee da!  Look at me!  I’m a writer!  The world needs my thoughts and opinions!”

Then he reverted to his old, miserable self.

“Baloney.  Give me the salt mines any day.  Write a thousand words and you’ve got nothing but a bunch of shit on paper.  Yank a hunk of salt out of the ground and Salt Mines, Inc. will give you just compensation for it.  That’s the problem with your generation.  Everybody wants something for nothing.  Everybody thinks they’re so damn special.”

I laughed.

“Ohhhh, don’t worry about that, old man,”  I said.  “You worked on me long enough to convince me that I’m not special.  Every day I wake up and the first thing I think about is how exactly un-special I am.”

Uncle Hardass snapped his fingers and a table appeared in the middle of the showers.  There was a basket with cold cuts and bread in it.  He took a seat and proceeded to make himself a sandwich.

I took the other chair.

“Well,”  Uncle Hardass said as he spritzed a slice of bread with some mustard.  “It worked, didn’t it?”

It worked?”  I asked.  “That I’m acutely aware of how little I matter to the world?  Yes.  Yes it worked.”

“Do you have a job?”  Uncle Hardass asked.

“Yeah,”  I replied.  “At Beige Corp.  It’s boring as hell and pays shit.”

“But does it pay the bills?”  Uncle Hardass asked.

“Yes,”  I admitted.

“You’ve got a girlfriend?”  the old man inquired.

“Yes.”

“You don’t take her for granted do you?”

“No.”

Uncle Hardass cut his sandwich in half.

“Why?”

“Because she’s smart and pretty and could have anyone and if I don’t make her happy she’ll leave me because I’m not…”

Uncle Hardass perked up and pointed a knowing finger at me.

“Say it.”

“…special.”

“You’re welcome,”  Uncle Hardass said as he bit into his dinner.

“Oh whatever,”  I said.  “You’re really going to eat that?”

“I’m dead,”  Uncle Hardass said.  “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

He took another bite, then picked up a napkin and dabbed some mustard off his chin.

“Son, when you were growing up, every adult in your life had a job.  Your teachers were supposed to make you feel special because the idea that you could do anything made you study more.  Your aunt made you feel special because it made her feel special to see you smile but me?  I had the hardest job of all.  Life will take its size twelve boot and wedge it straight up your ass if you’re not careful and it was my job to dissuade you of all this ‘I’m special’ bullshit so that you were prepared for all the crap the world throws your way.  In spite of a world designed to tear the little guy apart, you’re still here..  You’re alive.  You have a roof over your head and people that give a shit about you and none of that came from writing so you’re welcome, Lord Fauntleroy.  My work here is done.”

“I’m never going to write again,”  I said.

“Glad to hear it,”  Uncle Hardass said.  “Writing is for weirdoes, primadonnas, and women.  But uh, just out of curiosity, why?”

“Writing got me into this mess,”  I said.  “A corrupt general conspired with the corrupt mayor of this settlement to frame me because he didn’t like something that was written on my blog.  Now my friends will pay because I had a big enough ego to think people would want to read my dumb blog in the first place.”

Uncle Hardass picked up the other half of his sandwich.

“You know, son, writing is a girlish hobby to be sure but, if it makes you happy and it’s legal then it’s your God given right as a citizen of the United States of America, the greatest f%^king country on the face of the Earth to do it if you want to.”

“You hate writing,”  I said.  “You don’t hate writing.  Make up your mind.”

“Oh it’s made up,”  Uncle Hardass said.  “Writing is stupid and unmanly.  But all I ever wanted for you was to be able to survive on your own, pay your own way through life and find a woman that can look at you for five seconds with puking and now that you’ve got all that, I could give three shits what you do in your spare time.  Personally, a real man would get a second job but if you want to mince around and tap out words like you’re the next Oscar Wilde have at it.”

“You’re the most complicated man I’ve ever met,”  I said.

“Not really,”  Uncle Hardass said as he made himself another sandwich.  “I like money.  I like to work hard for it.  I like being independent and that only comes from working hard for money.  Also, I like that now that I’m dead I can eat as much as I want and not get fat.  You want one?”

“Nah, I’m good,”  I said.

“Seems like the only thing a real man in your situation could do now is spring his friends out of this hooscow and get them out of harm’s way,”  Uncle Hardass said.

“Why?”  I asked.  “Apparently if you die you just get to visit your relatives and bitch at them.”

Uncle Hardass smiled.

“Am I really a ghost, BQB?”  Uncle Hardass asked.  “Or subconsciously, has your mind focused the practical, pragmatic tough-guy side of yourself into an apparition that looks like the only adult you knew when you were growing up that warned you that the real world doesn’t hand out participation ribbons?”

I sat and thought about that.

Uncle Hardass smacked the table and laughed.

“BAHH HA HA!  I’m just screwing with you!  Of course I’m a damn ghost, you jackass!”

The old man handed me the basket, snapped his fingers and made the table and chairs disappear.

“My boy, the thing to remember is this.  Whether it’s writing some kind of fruity novel or saving your pals from an unjust fate, the only way to get something done is to realize that you’re not special enough for the universe to take an interest and make things happen for you.  YOU have to make them happen for yourself.”

“Thanks,”  I said.

“But seriously, stop crying.  You look like a homosexual.”

I snickered and wiped a tear off my face.

“You’re not allowed to say stuff like that anymore.”

“Aww who gives a shit?  I’m dead.”

Poof.  He was gone.

I carried the basket into the locker room and set it down.  It was a welcome sight for everyone as our captors hadn’t thought/cared to leave us any food.

“Where’d this come from?”  VGRF asked.

“Uncle Hardass.”

As the Bookshelf Battle Blog’s Second-in-Command, VGRF was familiar with my ghost uncle.

“Sweet!  Pimento loaf from the great beyond!”

“Guys, I have to cut movie night short,”  I said as I grabbed the space phone.  “I gotta bust us out of here but first?  I need to call a zombie author.”

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#31ZombieAuthors – Day 22 Interview – Ryan Casey – Zombies and TV Style Serialization

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By: Special Guest Interviewer, Alien Jones

Attention all humans. Today’s guest is Ryan Casey, author of the critically acclaimed zombie apocalypse series, Dead Days. Zombie fans will also enjoy Infection Z and mystery buffs should check out the Brian McDone Mysteries series.

Known for tales filled with dark, page-turning suspense, complex characters and knockout twists, Casey has a BA in English with Creative Writing from the University of Birmingham. A resident of the United Kingdom, he enjoys American serial television and wastes too much time playing football manager games.

Thanks for taking my call, Ryan. I hope you don’t mind being interviewed by an alien. BQB was kind of a wuss about touching a phone covered in intergalactic goo. Go figure.

NOTE: BOLD=Alien Jones; ITALICS=Ryan

Q. Let’s get the important stuff out of the way. Are we talking American football as in the NFL or the game Americans call soccer but the rest of the world calls football?

A. Oh, soccer. Absolutely soccer. I’m a massive sports fan all round though and NFL’s profile is definitely growing in the UK, much like soccer in the US. Football Manager games are the height of addiction, mind. If you want to offer up a portion of your productivity to the gods of procrastination, go ahead and pick up a copy. You’ll absolutely regret it.

510gVdAGSWL._SX331_BO1,204,203,200_Q. Dead Days is the story of a group of survivors in a UK based zombie apocalypse. The description of Season Two of Dead Days states, “the only survivors were those willing to sink to the most brutal depths of humanity in order to further their own existence.”

So I just have to ask, if only the most depraved are able to survive an apocalypse, should we be concerned that a-holes are destined to inherit the Earth?

If I’m being cynical, I’d say yes, that’s a very big concern. Nice guys really do finish last a lot of the time, as I’ve unfortunately discovered through experience on way too many occasions. So if you want to survive an apocalypse, get practicing being a depraved arsehole — fast!

In all seriousness though, I don’t think it’d quite play out like that. I think humanity would struggle, naturally, especially if communications and luxuries of a material world suddenly become irrelevant. I like to think there’d be a lot of room for good, positive movements, too. They just don’t make for quite as good reading.

Q. Piggybacking on that last question, when a zombie apocalypse requires survivors to “sink to the most brutal depths of humanity,” is there anyone left for the reader to root for?

Yes! Absolutely. I love these characters and apparently so too do readers. I think what makes them so relatable — or more specifically, empathetic — is that they all go through shit. They all make bad choices. They all do things in the heat of the moment that stay with them, haunt them.

But the difference between the heroes and the villains of Dead Days? The heroes overcome their demons. They face up to their sins, take responsibility. The villains succumb to their problems. Which, unfortunately, often makes them even more dangerous.

Q.  A lot of people want to write but not as many study writing formally. You studied Creative Writing at the University of Birmingham. Did you find that experience helpful and would you recommend Creative Writing as a major to other aspiring writers?

I found it a helpful experience. There were some good teachers and some fantastic fellow students, for example Stuart Meczes, author of the brilliant HASEA urban fantasy novels. But I’d say it’s all just a part of the wider learning program of being a writer. The learning doesn’t stop when we leave university. The learning continues, constantly.

I believe the only way to keep writing fresh is to consistently push myself. I want the novel I’m working on to be the best novel I’ve ever written… and for the next novel to be even better. I write a lot, but I throw away even more. Seriously, you do not want to see my unfinished novels folder.

Q. You like serialized television and it shows in your writing. In fact, Dead Days is offered to readers in a serialized format, meaning episodes come out at regular intervals to eventually form a seasonal box set. As an author, what inspired you to present your work in this way rather than in one large novel?

Dead Days was an experiment that worked out beautifully. I’m a big fan of serialised television, like you note, and was particularly influenced by this golden age of television we’re living in. Shows like Breaking Bad, Game of Thrones, True Detective, The Walking Dead — some truly stellar writing, better than anything the movie industry offers at present, in my humble opinion.

I always thought the serialised form went hand in hand with this generation of shorter-attention spans and constant distractions, but I was disgruntled with how many “serial” projects were actually just novels broken up into parts.

The intention of Dead Days was, and still is, to transform a television experience onto the page, and not just tear a novel to pieces for financial gain.

Q. A number of authors are embracing the serialized TV style format of writing. For aspiring writers out there, are there any advantages to this style? Any disadvantages?

A major advantage is, like I mentioned, how hand-in-hand with the television format it goes. I think in a world of infinite distractions—iPads, smartphones, Netflix, news—the serialised form is a great way to deliver tighter experiences to readers, so they can enjoy the story then get on with other elements of their busy lives.

A disadvantage is that you have to learn TV structure. As I mentioned, far too many writers just jump on the serialised craze and split their novels into chunks because they think it’ll lead to financial riches. That’s not how it works. If you want to write a serial, you have to learn the craft of television writing before you jump into it. You have to learn about episodic arcs, series arcs, all kinds of things like that. To me, it’s not a negative because I like learning and already had some experience in TV writing. But if you don’t like doing the work, it could be a disadvantage.

51pY7O7uCLL._SX311_BO1,204,203,200_ Q. Infection Z is your other zombie apocalypse series. It follows Hayden McCall, a jobless layabout in his mid-twenties. Assuming his landlord has paid him a visit to collect the overdue rent, Hayden learns that his landlord has become zombified and the story begins. Is it a challenge to write an underdog’s way out of a zompoc? Would it have been easier had Hayden been a muscle bound military man/weapons expert? But of course, would Hayden have been as relatable to the average reader?

A. I don’t strictly believe in ‘write what you know,’ but I believe in ‘write what you can empathise with.’ I have more in common with a lazy underdog than a military expert (unfortunately), so I just find it easier to get into the heads of characters like Hayden. Only difference between him and me is he overcomes his demons. I’d be the guy locking himself in the bathroom whimpering until the zombies finally barged their way inside…

Q. Ryan, thanks for taking the time to be interviewed by an alien. Before I go, do you have any last minute words of wisdom that might help my human charges and I survive the East Randomtown Zombie Apocalypse?

I’d get punching that alien stomach of yours some more. If there’s a space phone in there, who knows what else is hiding within? A space machete? A space rifle? A space CURE?! You’ll only find out by trying.

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BQB’s Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal – Day 22 – (Part 1)

The morning was off to a bad start.

George the Barber

George the Barber

George the Barber, accompanied by the DiStefano brothers, were in the office VGRF and I used as our bedroom. We were half-asleep on an old cot when they barged in, shouting and pointing their guns at us.

“Get your ass up, traitor,” George said.

“Excuse me?”

“Now!” the old man said as he slapped me across the face.

We got up and our captors marched us across the gym floor. Every survivor stopped what they were doing to observe the commotion.

“Want to tell me what this is all about?”

“NO TALKING!” Billy shouted as he mashed the butt of his rifle against my back.

“F&*K!” I cried. “Is that any way to treat your Deputy Mayor?”

“Oh, I have a hankerin’ all your rights and privileges have been revoked, boy,” George said.

The trio lead us out into the parking lot where Doug, Mario, and a few armed goons were standing around the Compensator, the SUV my friends and I had driven over from the mall.

“Bookshelf Q. Battler,” Hauser said.

“Doug, I’m not supposed to be outside, remember? Morganstern’s been itching to get me away from the rec center so he can blow me to smithereens.”

“You think I care after your betrayal?”

“What?” I asked.

Doug nodded at Mario, who in turn, opened the back door of the Compensator. It was overflowing with pilfered stuff. Food. Boxes. Cans. Packages. Much needed supplies.

“I trusted you with a position of authority and you robbed us blind!” Doug shouted.

Mayor Hauser

Mayor Hauser

I didn’t know what to say.

“That’s not…I didn’t do that!”

“A likely story,” Doug said. “The three hoodlums you came in with are already in custody. We’ll give you some time to rot and think of what you’ve done until we can organize a trial. May God have mercy on your soul, Bookshelf Q. Battler.”

Carl grabbed me and Billy grabbed VGRF. We struggled as they dragged us back to the rec center.

“Wait,” VGRF said. “BQB didn’t do this!”

“That’s noble of you to protect your beau, girly,” Doug said. “But you need to start thinking about yourself. If he forced you to help out with this, now’s the time to come clean.”

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BQB’s Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal – Day 21

Another morning in the computer lab.

Coming Soon - Johnny Gunhands: A Farewell to Hands (hands to be edited out in post-production)

Coming Soon – Johnny Gunhands: A Farewell to Hands (hands to be edited out in post-production)

I paced the floor and slurped on stale coffee while Alien Jones typed the words as they flowed from my cake hole.

“Johnny Gunhands. He’s muscular, rugged, virile, and in his late twenties.”

“ERRRNT! Wrong!” the Esteemed Brainy One replied.

“Wrong?”

“Wrong! How could someone become such a skilled master at taking down criminals without a bit of life experience behind him?”  Alien Jones asked. “Personally, I picture Johnny Gunhands pushing forty.”

“Aww but then the young people won’t read it,” I said. “Everyone under thirty-five is convinced that everyone over thirty five is a bunch of corrupt old farts who’ve sold their souls to the man!”

“What does everyone over thirty-five think about everyone under thirty-five?” AJ asked.

“That all they do is snapchat and take selfies all day.”

“Are these assessments accurate?”

“Surprisingly so on both counts,” I said.

I took another sip of my java. Bleh. It was rank, but my only source of caffeine. It would have to do.

“Fine,” I said. “We’ll compromise. Johnny Gunhands is thirty-two. Old enough to get some respect from gray haired readers. Young enough that the selfie stick crowd won’t think he’s Methuselah. Can I go on?”

“Please.”

“So in the opening scene, we see a butcher’s knife. A random mobster holds it up in the air and a ray of moonlight glistens off of it. It comes down with a WHACK and then the mobster says, ‘That’s what you get for arresting the boss, see?’”

“SHIT!” Alien Jones cried.

“Oh like you could do any better.”

“No,” AJ said as he nursed his hand. “The mouse. It got white hot and…”

Sparks flew out of the monitor. To our amazement, a foot came out of the screen, then another one, then a torso, arms, and a head.

“What the F%$K is that?” I yelled.

“It’s an e-zombie!” AJ replied.

The monster let loose with a terrifying growl and then lunged at me.

I did what any man trained in martial arts could do.

I performed a round house kick to the beast’s head, knocking it clean off.

It rolled to the floor but it was still alive. It grunted and it’s eyes moved around.

I stepped on it, pressing my foot down until I felt the skull crack under my shoe, the damned creature’s brains going kerplooey.

“I’ve heard about a computer virus but this is ridiculous!” I said. “Who knew that e-zombies were even a thing?”

Alien Jones handed me the space phone.

“There’s an author who knows all there is to know about this.”

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#31ZombieAuthors – Day 19 Interview – Eric A. Shelman – It’s Never Too Late

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Today’s guest is Eric A. Shelman, author of the Dead Hunger series.  Readers can follow the journey of Flex, his niece Trina, Gem, Hemp and Charlie as they make their way through a zombie infested world.

Eric’s first book was a non-fiction work.  Co-authored with Dr. Stephen Lazoritz, Out of the Darkness: The Story of Mary Ellen Wilson tells the story of the first successful rescue of an abused child in America.  Specifically, nine-year old Mary Ellen was saved from a terrible situation in 1874 by the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, or ASPCA.  The case shined a much needed light on the dangers children face and was the precursor to many of the child abuse prevention laws in place today.

Thanks for helping me out today, Eric.

NOTE: BOLD=BQB; ITALICS=ERIC

Q.  Zombies.  They shuffle along.  They groan and grunt.  They eat brains.  You’d think authors would have run out of ways to make them unique and original by now but sure enough, writers are always coming up with new spins on the zombie genre.  How do they do it and what’s your secret?

A.  Zombies can absolutely be shufflers and shamblers and have some new features, too.  My Dead Hunger series has several interesting aspects to it; the very process that reanimated them also incorporated other chemical reactions within the zombies, which I suppose is to be expected.   These reactions became abilities.   This is even more true in my females who were pregnant when they turned.   What in nature is created – no matter how it’s created – without any offensive or defensive skills?   The lowly cow is even designed with its eyes on the sides of its head so that it has better peripheral vision to assist it in escaping predators before it’s too late.   Birds have talons, sharp beaks and great eyesight.   Most creatures are equipped for the task at hand.    Why not zombies, too?

Q.  My first observation about Dead Hunger is the collection of characters.  People from different backgrounds working together for survival.  There’s scientist/mechanical engineer Hemp, punk rocker Charlie, Flex the electrician and Gem the artist.  What is it about a zombie apocalypse that brings people together?  Would these folks have likely bothered with one another without a common threat facing them?

A.  I believe in any apocalyptic situation, you’re going to encounter compatibles and non-compatibles.   The latter you’ll just say hi and bye to, but the former you’ll try to get to come along.  Sometimes the latter want to kill you and take your stuff!   That’s when you’re forced to take them out.   But with regard to Flex and Gem, of course they’d have been together … eventually.  They were once together, after all.   No, they would likely have never met the likes of Hemp and Charlie, and Hemp and Charlie would never have encountered one another, but that’s the beauty of a disaster, right?   Giving strange bedfellows a chance to actually become “familiar bedfellows.”    AND to find out that the other isn’t so strange after all.

Q.  Hemp experiments on zombies in a mobile lab to figure out what makes them tick.  While I don’t mean to ask for spoilers, do you have any general thoughts on zombie physiology?  Are there any prevailing theories on what could, hypothetically speaking, cause a human to become zombified?

A.  In Dead Hunger, each individual cell within the zombie’s body is converted into a meat-seeking entity.  If you were to take a lil’ microscopic chunk of raw beef and insert it into the epidermis of a zombie, all the neighboring cells would zip right in and devour it.   Because the eyes still work, and the senses that ramp up hunger, the muscles coordinate and move in the direction of sustenance.   Yeah, that would be us … human meat.   So … my zombies reanimate on a cellular level – whatever the hell that even means.

Q.  On your author page, you mention that in 1999, after writing a 53,000 word book about witches and reincarnation, you couldn’t figure out how to finish it and ended up on a twelve year writing hiatus only to be inspired by reading about the success of other zombie authors on Facebook.  It’s never to late to pick up a delayed dream, is it?  For anyone who’s set a goal aside for awhile, what advice would you have to motivate him/her to pick it up, dust it off and give it another try?

A.  I was a fool to have quit writing for so long.   Imagine all the fiction I could’ve produced in that decade?  I mean, I’ve got 15 books now, and 11 of them were written just since 2011.  Just FOUR years!  So yes – it’s never too late to start pursuing your dream of becoming whatever it is you want to become.   It’s important to remember though, that in my early writing career, I sent out queries and did all the things you’re supposed to do.  I never really had any success back then.  All that rejection helped me hone and polish my skills, though, and I believe every writer has to do the work and experience that negative feedback in order to figure out where improvement is needed.   As for me, I guess maybe I needed that additional dozen years for things to become easier for individuals, through programs and offerings such as CreateSpace, Kindle  and ACX for audiobook production.   They made it possible for me to kick the old guard to the curb and hatch my own creations.    Some of what we indies put out are hits – others misses.   I hope my readers feel I’ve given them more hits than otherwise. 

Q.  You’ve also written non-fiction with the case of Mary Ellen Wilson.  What drew you into writing about this case?

A.  Back in the mid-nineties, I was ready to write a novel.   I was a big fan of horror, and had written several short horror stories, but found that the market for publication of these stories seemed to be shrinking.   The logical next step was to go all out and finally just write a book.   I discovered a book of what were deemed “amazing-but-true” stories, and thought I would take one of those “true” stories and use it as the basis for a horror novel.   Within the book, I discovered the story of a little nine-year-old girl named Mary Ellen, who, in 1874, was rescued from her abusive home by the American Society for the Cruelty to Animals.   (ASPCA)  I immediately became interested, as it was essentially the story of the beginning of the child protection movement, but nobody had ever written about her before.

After researching her case, I began the book.   With more research, I found the man who would eventually become my co-author, Dr. Stephen Lazoritz.  He was a pediatrician who specialized in child abuse cases.  Together, we made connections that allowed us to be the ONLY people in America to secure a copy of the court transcripts for the trial that prosecuted Mary Ellen’s foster mother, Mary Connolly.   These transcripts also allowed us to complete the book, with all of the newfound knowledge the transcripts contained.   The book was released in 1999, and since that time, thousands have been sold and both Stephen and I have spoken at national conferences and on CSPAN-2’s Book TV.  (1999)

Q.  For those interested in writing non-fiction, do you have any tips to share?

A.  Find a compelling story that nobody’s written enough about – then write about it!  Figure out how you want to impart the information, and have a LOT of people read it before you publish it.

Q.  Eric, thanks for offering your expertise in light of my zombie infestation.  Before I go, do you have any list minute words of wisdom that might help my friends and I survive the East Randomtown Zombie Apocalypse?

Get a good group of loyal people around you and get to a remote location where you don’t have far to go for food and water supplies.  Develop defenses – spiked pits, anything that can get between you and them.   Set up makeshift alarms in the woods – use cowbells.    Zombies run into shit.  So that’s pretty much it!    Oh, yeah … try to figure out what caused it, because that might help you figure out how it can be stopped, at least on an individual basis.

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Bookshelf Q. Battledog’s Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal – Day 19

MEANWHILE AT BOOKSHELF BATTLE HEADQUARTERS…

Bookshelf Q. Battledog, Head of Security for BQB HQ

Bookshelf Q. Battledog, Head of Security for BQB HQ

Woof.  Woof woof.  Woof.

TRANSLATION: Should I live to be a thousand years old I shall never and hopefully will never experience another happenstance as horrid as the East Randomtown Zombie Apocalypse.  The dead arising from the grave, evil beasts in the form of once trusted humans now engaging in that most repulsive activities, namely, the most brutal consumption of human brains.  Oh ye wicked cannibals, may you never know the wickedness of your heinous deeds lest ye weep until the end of time and forever more upon the grim realization of the atrocities you have committed as the result of your zombified condition most foul.

Woof woof.  Woof woof.  Woof!  Woof?  Woof woof woof woof woof.

TRANSLATION: Truly, an unenviable task is my charge, that of course being the safety and security of the Bookshelf Battle Headquarters, the menacing structure which houses a) BQB’s blogging operations b) his action figure collection and c) most importantly, his magic bookshelf.  The latter item provides the most difficult challenge, as surely there are many unscrupulous individuals in the world who yearn to get their unclean hands on a bookshelf that contains great power.  ‘Tis a burden I would not wish on my greatest enemy, a lowly cat, let alone myself.

WOOF!

TRANSLATION:  Outside, hideous zombies claw at the walls, trying to gain entry into BQB HQ.  As a layperson or rather, a laydog, I am uncertain of the science of it all.  If a zombie should bite me, will I become a zombie dog?  If a zombie bites Video Game Rack Fighter Cat, will he become a zombie cat?  If a zombie bites another zombie, does that zombie become a zombie zombie?  Fi, oh mine miserable mind, thou surely produceth questions of the utmost import and yet they go unanswered.  Despair, thy name is Bookshelf Q. Battledog and yet I must retain my composure and project forth a demeanor of intrepid fortitude for if those who call BQB HQ home learn that even their noble Head of Security is in doubt, then morale shall suffer greatly and all shall be lost.

Nay zombies, move on I say, move on!  For as the great Winston Churchill said, “We shall fight them on the beaches, we shall fight them in the air, we shall fight them in the streets, we shall never give up, we shall never surrender!” and while those wise words were made in relation to the Nazi scourge I for one argue that they are equally germane to the zombie menace lurking outside these fortified walls.

Woof.

TRANSLATION:  And thus, I must bring this post to an end, for parting is such sweet sorrow.  Bookshelf Q. Battler fear not, for thy HQ is in good paws – paws of a canine who pledge to do all within his power to protect your compound and especially your magic bookshelf from the zombified masses.  

Godspeed, good sir, for it is now time for you to contact another zombie author.

Woof woof.

TRANSLATION: P.S. I pooped on your bed.

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#31ZombieAuthors – Day 18 Interview – Deirdre Gould – Maine Prepping and Self-Publishing

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FIND THIS ZOMBIE AUTHOR ON:

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My guest today is Deirdre Gould, who has strategically placed herself in Maine, where cold temperatures make the zombies run slower and remote isolation means zombifying viruses take longer to spread.  Better yet, harsh storms make it so no one thinks Deirdre’s crazy for prepping.

In other words, she finds it to be a primo spot for writing the After the Cure series, which chronicles a world in which “the December Plague” has turned humans into violent, bloodthirsty, cannibalistic monsters.

I just hope they don’t eat me.  I taste awful.

Let me see if I can Deirdre on the space phone.

Q.  Hello Deirdre.  Are you a prepper and if so, I’ll ask the question I’ve posed to other prepper authors this month.  Why?  Are we all doomed or is it just a better safe and sorry thing?

A.  Hello BQB, things are getting pretty dodgy for you and your comrades! I hope I can help! Am I a prepper? Well, yes and no.  What lots of folks forget about Maine is that most of it is very, very rural.  And in the winter, when the tourists go home, even the cities are kind of rural.  There are some places, like my home town, that first got electricity within my lifetime (and I’m in my 30s).  Not only was a significant portion of my childhood spent without running water or electricity, but even after we got put on the grid, it wasn’t reliable. For a long time, it wasn’t unusual for the power to go out at least once a week.  It’s still pretty normal for it to go down once a month or so. And although our power workers are truly the best, it’s a big state (landwise) and once the power goes out, it could be out for a few hours or several days.  

As recently as the 1998 ice storm, my family spent two full weeks with no power and no running water.  And winter up here is no joke. You know that Stephen King book. The Storm of the Century?  Yeah, we have one of those at least every year.  Really. Had to turn one of the kids over to Linoge like six years ago. So almost everyone has a wood stove, most rural places still have an old hand pump well (and someone that lives there knows how to prime it and is constantly reminding people not to fall in), and lots of us have pantries stocked full at any given moment.  Especially because we can our own goods. And because for many people, the closest grocery store is forty five minutes to an hour away (everything is very spread out here).  Solar panels are big here, when people can afford them. Homemade windmills too.

But I don’t know anyone who has a bunker, unless it’s been turned into a root cellar after the Soviet Union collapsed.  Or a gun unless it’s for deer hunting. While a packed pantry is good, I try not to store more than about six months worth of anything, it’s just not practical for my particular family. And while Mainers have a reputation for being curt or crotchety, we really do take care of our neighbors instead of try to hide what we’ve got from them.  And I know there are lots of very generous preppers out there who do the same, but I’ve also heard stories about secret storehouses and guarded water sources. But probably somewhere in the back of almost every Mainer’s mind is the memory of someone helping them out when they most needed it.  Whether it was being rescued from an icy accident, sharing water with each other during the ice storm, or that emergency delivery of wood or oil in the worst part of February, we’ve all got them. Even in this modern world, we wouldn’t survive out here without each other. Besides, having the neighbors over is an excuse for a party. I like to think of us more as the Hobbits of the Prepper world. We do it because it makes good sense, and because we are always expecting company.  Not because we’re all doomed. 

Q.  Soap.  Water.  Tacos.  iPads.  Netflix.  Showers.  All these great inventions become lost in a zombie apocalypse.  Why do zombie fans fantasize about a world where all these things we take for granted are lost?

A.  I think it’s that old urge to pit man against nature. We want to imagine that we are tough enough to measure up without our crutches. We’ve conquered every bit of this old earth (there’s even a litter problem on Everest and tourists in Antarctica), so there’s no place left for those that feel that drive to explore, to prove that rugged individualistic streak. Much of apocalyptic fiction is concerned with the end of civilization, of course, but why? Is it because there is something inherently wrong with showers and readily available bacon? For the majority of these stories, no. It’s not really about damning our current way of life (though lots of these stories contain “warnings”), it’s about wanting to do better. About wanting to be better. But we all know we are creatures of habit. We won’t stop what we like unless we’re forced to.  We won’t make a better world until the one we live in is destroyed.  These stories aren’t about losing technology and history and massive portions of the population.  That’s just a byproduct.  The real story is about the people that emerge when they are forced to do without.  To do without modern implements, without the convenience and interconnectedness of society, even to do without the most basic and precious commodity we have, other humans and their brain power (cause it’s being snacked on).  It’s about being alone in an unfamiliar world and not only surviving, but making that world a better place.  Starting fresh.  That’s what we all really want to do. Start fresh.

Q.  You provide your readers with an interesting spin on the zompoc genre, namely, your series begins “after the cure” has been found.  This cure turns the Infected back to normal, regular humans but alas, they have to live with the realization of all the horrible things they’ve done.

I hate to ask for spoilers, but here’s the question that pops into my mind.  A zombie turns back to normal.  Should we blame him for eating other humans or should we be all like, “It’s cool, man.  You were a zombie.”

A.  No worries, that’s not really a spoiler, that’s one of the biggest questions of the series and why I started writing it in the first place.  Remember that the non-zombies aren’t totally innocent either.  They would have had to kill to survive as well. In the world of After the Cure, some of the Immunes killed even when they didn’t have to. But they didn’t know that the zombies would be cured. Should we blame them too?  How does a society function when everyone is a killer? You’d think that it would just fall apart. But we know, from our own human history, that it happens. We don’t have zombies, but we do have war and atrocity and cruelty. But when the war is over, when the conflict is resolved, people still have to go home. Maybe their neighbor was on the opposing side. Maybe their boss at work betrayed them to the opposing side. Maybe their grocer was their prison camp guard. But somehow, life goes on, people still interact, even when it seems incomprehensible.  So that’s a running theme throughout the series.  Who is guilty? Who is evil? How do people live not only with their neighbors, but with their own memories?

Q.  In the first book of the series, a court psychologist and a defense attorney work to bring those responsible for the virus to justice.  I could be wrong here, but I can’t think of another zombie apocalypse series where the reader actually gets to see a zombie apocalypse end and people turn their attention towards rebuilding society.  How did you come up with the idea for this?

A.  Actually, it was from reading truckloads of zombie books! I love them, I can’t get enough of them, even the ones that fall into a sort of formula. But after tome number gazillion and one, I realized that the causes of zombieism were always kind of limited.  For the most part, it was either a deadly virus or some chemical spill that caused zombies (with an occasional voodoo spell or electrical malfunction thrown in).  But I’d never seen a zombie story where a bacteria was involved.  That’s it, that was where it started. I started to wonder why nobody ever used a bacteria, and I realized that it was because a bacteria had the potential for an antibiotic, a cure, where a virus didn’t. It violated one of the most cherished rules of zombieism: They can’t be cured, so all you can do is kill them. It’s part of the “fun” of zombie fiction. There is no moral quandary about killing them because they can’t come back. They aren’t “people” anymore.  Zombies who can’t be cured might as well be a tornado or locusts or a volcano, just a natural disaster to be avoided or beaten. But what if that rule changed? What if people discovered that not only could the zombies be cured, but that once they were cured, they could remember everything that had happened while they were sick? And what if they found out late? Really, really late. 

If they were anything like us, the first thing they’d do is try to find someone or something to blame for what had happened. Something to excuse their own guilt. That’s why the trial became the initial frame for this world. But are the defendants really guilty or just convenient scapegoats? 

Q.  What motivated you to start writing?

A.  I’m one of those weird people who never wanted to start doing this for real. I mean, I’ve enjoyed writing since I was a little girl, but I never wanted to be a writer. I went to school for something very different, but when I was in college my mom was diagnosed with cancer. I took a year and a half off from school to help her. It meant many, many really long days of driving and sitting in doctor’s offices and hospitals (remember, everything is far away in Maine!). So to amuse myself, I started writing a novel. I didn’t finish it and set it aside for a long time, but I thought about it often and I’d add a bit here and there. Finally, the year my oldest child was born, I heard about Nanowrimo and decided I was going to finish this book (I think it had been about 7 years since I started it at that point).  At the end of November I had a draft and put it away. Three years later, I’d been laid off from my copywriting job and struggling to find something else and honestly just couldn’t find anything. So I sat down and worked on the book for another year. I pretended it was just going to be for me, that I didn’t care about anyone reading it, but I started reading all these sites by agents anyway. Finishing the book made me more confident and I started working on other things, just for fun. I submitted a few pieces but everything I was reading on the agent sites convinced me that I shouldn’t even bother trying. Nobody ever took on new writers any more. I had a better chance of winning the lottery as being picked up by even an agent, let alone a publisher. And then I heard about KDP. I decided I had nothing to lose, and posted one of my finished novels, just to see what would happen.  It was addictive. I got sucked in.  I still considered it a hobby, something for my spare time, pretty much until last year when I started hearing from readers. Then it started to get serious, because someone besides me actually cared what happened to my characters. I’m now firmly entrenched and I actually sometimes feel guilty because I enjoy doing this so much, it feels like I’m goofing off instead of working a “real” job. 

Q.  Thanks for talking with me today.  Before I go, do you have any last minute advice for my friends and I that might help us survive the East Randomtown Zombie Apocalypse?

A.  Well, you are a couple of weeks in now, you’ve probably got some nicks and scrapes by now. You are going to want to keep any wounds clean and free from infection. In a world where antibiotics will be hard to find, you are going to need some easy alternatives or else that blister on your foot could mean amputation in a few weeks, or worse.  Honey is a great topical antibiotic. It can be rubbed directly onto small wounds to fight off infection before you bandage them. For internal or systemic bacteria (like listeria from that bad deli meat you ate from the mall after the coolers lost power), if you have a silver dollar or a piece of real silverware, some water, and a battery, you can make some colloidal silver to fight that nasty bug off.  Use too muc, though and your skin will turn a lovely shade of blue, permanently. If you listened to Sarah Lyons Fleming on day one, you probably have some baby wipes to clean yourself, but what are you doing about those nasty blood spattered weapons? Those things are crawling with zombie virus. Washing them won’t completely kill the germs, so you’ll need to find some copper. The pipes in your building probably aren’t doing much good now, if the electricity is off. Hack off a length of copper pipe. At night (or whenever you stop to flop down, exhausted from the near constant run/slaughter/run combo) place your pipe over the weapons. In two hours or so, almost all the germs will be gone, even a foot away from the actual copper!  Here’s hoping you make it to day 19!

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BQB’s Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal – Day 18

shutterstock_236377990“Deputy Mayor Battler!  Deputy Mayor Battler!”

As I strolled through the gym, my constituents peppered me with questions.

“We’re running low on gas.”

“People are eating too much.”

“I can’t find my shoes.”

“Ration, ration, and they’re on your feet,” were my immediate answers.

“BQB,”  VGRF said.  “Is it me or are you more decisive lately?”

“Well, I have been taking alpha male lessons from Gillian Zane, so could be.”

The DiStefano brothers found me.

Carl showed me his cell phone.  On it, there was a video of a large group of people wearing gas masks and toting assault rifles walking past the security fence.

“We scoped this guys near the north perimeter,”  Carl said.  “What do you make of it?”

“Are they military?”  I asked.

“I don’t think so,”  Carl replied.  “Shit, they’re all in plain clothes.”

“Huh,”  I said.  “Did they see you?”

“Yup.”

“And they didn’t interact?”

“Nope they just moved on.”

“Weird,”  I said.  “Could be someone trying to make a move on us.  Could be just another group of survivors passing by.  Keep an eye on it and let me know if anything happens.”

“Sure thing, Deputy Mayor.”

The DiStefanos walked away.

I sat on the bleachers with VGRF.  We gabbed it up for awhile until Mario Guzman found me.

Before the fall of humanity, Mario had been an accountant.  Today, he used his CPA skills to keep a running inventory of all our supplies.

“Deputy Mayor, can I show you something?”

“Sure.”

VGRF and I followed Mario to the rec center’s storage room.  It was full of boxed and canned food, nothing tasty of course, but everything was chock full of preservatives and guaranteed to last a long time.

Mario closed the door behind us.

“We’re being robbed.”

“What?”  I asked.

“There’s a thief in our midst,”  Mario said as he showed me a clip board.

“I have no idea what these numbers mean,”  I said.  “I hate math.”

“I’ve been keeping a daily count of everything we have since our community began,”  Mario said.  “So far, the numbers have added up but a few days ago, I noticed we’ve been consistently down ten percent of everything.”

“Everything?”

“Everything!” Mario replied.  “Look.  Powdered milk -10%.  Toilet paper -10%.  Bottled water – 10%.  Cereal -10%  Rice – 10%.  If it was just one or two items I wouldn’t be worried but someone is pilfering our stuff regularly.”

“Who has access to this room?”  I asked.

“Just Hauser and his inner circle of advisors,”  Mario said.

“Let’s change that,”  I said.  “Put a trustworthy guard in charge of this room.  Anyone who enters has to sign themselves in and out and note what they’re taking.  The guard will keep an eye on people while they’re in here to make sure no funny business transpires.”

“You’ve got it,”  Mario said as he exited the room.

VGRF and I were alone.  My girlfriend rubbed her hands on my chest and leaned in.

“I think I’m going to like this new you.”

“Yeah well, get used to it, baby.  I’m alpha nerd all the way now.”

VGRF leaned in for a kiss.

“Is that a space phone in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

“It’s a space phone,”  I replied.  “Speaking of, there’s a zombie author I’d better call.”

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