Posts Tagged ‘zombie’

PseudoPod 466: Bad Newes from New England

Show Notes

the story payment will be donated to RUNNING STRONG, a Native American charity.


Bad Newes from New England

by Moaner T. Lawrence


This act of goodwill stirred great cheer in the people of New Plimouth and, with freshly raised spirits, they bade the Wampanoag enter; opened home and hearth in the spirit of God, and offered to share their modest bounty; whereupon the Wampanoag made entrance, each savage family pairing off with one of our own. I, Chief Massasoit, the chief’s bodyguards, Hobomok, Captain Standish, and Pastor Brewster removed to Mr. Allteron’s house in front of the corn fields. Two of the chief’s children also joined us: His eldest son Wamsutta, a man of twenty years who was often short of patience, and suspicious of all Europeans, and his gentle daughter Amie, a girl of sixteen years who was ever amicable toward everyone.

As we entered Allerton’s cottage, I had expected to greet Mr. Billngton’s wife as she was to be our matron for the festival, however Goody Winslow stood in her place by the fire looking quite haggard and overworked. I inquired of Goody Billington’s whereabouts, whereupon Dr. Fuller quietly informed me that Mr. Billington had died a short while ago, as well as the vexing news that Captain Standish had known of this and had not seen fit to inform me. The captain begged pardon, and insisted that, though he had learned of Billington’s passing, he did not wish to interrupt the proceedings. Wishing not to spoil the festivities I held my peace, whereupon our guests removed took their places at the tables outside, whilst the women set to their proper places preparing supper. I informed Chief Massasoit of the recent losses from our peace party, and the satchem spoke in admonishment, stating that he had warned us not to trust the Massachusetts, but that he was not a little overjoyed to hear of Squanto’s passing; accusing him of being a trouble maker, and stating that if the Massachusetts had not killed Squanto, the chief may have very well done so himself. Amie, unlike her father, had been fond of Squanto. News of his death, caused her much distress. At length supper was prepared, and we soon found our table set with a cornucopia of delights: Cheate bread, butter, salt, a selection of fruits and cheeses, a few boiled lobster which I prayed with all sincerity the chief would not be insulted by, indian corn, fowl, deer, pompion pottage, and apple cider. We joined hands, and Pastor Brewster led us in grace, zealously giving thanks to God almighty for being on land, the generous bounty that He, and our savage neighbors, had bestowed upon us, and, that if it be His will, that the Lord continue to look after us and to help propagate our colony to fruition.

Pseudopod 445: Sweetness

Show Notes

“When it comes to the classic zombie myth, I’ve always been curious about what it must feel like to change from human to monster. It seems to me something of a huge cop-out to have the transformation happen only after the person was dead. And I’ve always been interested in why zombies act the way they do. Why the hunger?”


“It starts in the back of the throat, that spot where coughs gets caught when you’ve got a cold. It is sweet, like too much caramel, like cheap air freshener, like that perfume my grandmother wore constantly and which always made me gag.

Now I wonder if this is the last time I’ll think about my grandmother.

It will consume me piece by piece until there is nothing left and I am one of those that has been overcome by it. That is how it works, they say. The people on the news say.”

Pseudopod 431: Twitcher

Show Notes

“Twitcher” is a slang term for a bird watcher – something I only discovered, serendipitously, straight after I’d finished the story under a different title.


“Lester turned the focus dial the barest fraction, looked wistfully at the nest one last time and lay the binoculars down. The Plummers would wait. They’d have to. The parents were healthy, the eggs
undamaged. They had plenty of food nearby, and that was more than he could say himself. They could manage on their own for a few hours.

No one knew they were there; he hadn’t told, not Margie, not anyone.
It was him and them and God, no other players at this table. So they could get by for a few hours while he sorted himself out with the few things he’d need to last the crucial coming days.”

PseudoPod 352: Enough With The Crazy


Enough With The Crazy

by Emile Dayne


Everything was fine until he saw the fire hydrant across the café. Something about it caught his attention, as if it was some important object from his past, perhaps even from childhood.

Which was absurd, since he had grown up two thousand miles away in a small town with very few fire hydrants, of which not one had played any important part in his life. He hadn’t even danced in its spurting water during the hottest summer days.

Yet the very sight of this one made his heart lose its rhythm. His legs shook as he approached the hydrant. In one corner of his mind a watchful voice was warning him to not act too weirdly out on the street in full view of everyone and he did try his best. But then the world around him turned into blurry fluid that wobbled thunderously and terribly.

All outlines lost their sharpness, pedestrians became contorted like ghosts. The fire hydrant was real, stable, and firm. But although a center of solidity in a world which had suddenly turned to oppressive jelly, it did not inspire safety in any way. Rather, its stability seemed as evidence that it was the evil source of everything that was wrong now, and which had gone wrong with Sam in the past months.

Two distorted figures with male voices stopped for a second by the hydrant. One of them raised an object to his head and appeared to bite into it. The smell of warm hotdog reached Sam’s nose and then a few drops of ketchup fell on the pavement.

Sam lost his balance and swooned, but even as the ground tilted up, images flashed through his head, very similar to the ones from his nightmares, maybe even the same ones, but this time not jumbled and obscure, but clear and in sequence.

People – men and women and children – faces twisted into grimaces, attacking an elderly couple from all sides, bringing them down, tearing at their clothes and at their flesh. By this exact hydrant. Blood falling where the ketchup was now.

Him, shouting for everyone to stop, then running into the melee, pushing people away, trying to get to the victims and save then, and then suddenly already holding an arm and biting at the puffy hand with whines of impatience…unbearable urgency and a sense of utmost wrongness rolled into a shattering–

Blackness. Far off sounds.