Brian M. Sammons

Dear mom and dad,

I hate it here at Camp Wynnaquett. I really, really do. I hate it more now than I did in my last letter to you. Please come and get me, I want to go home. It’s not just the other boys picking on me anymore. Scary people are hurting kids and camp counselors too. Some of the counselors are gone. Like missing gone, not just not hear gone. No one knows where they are and that made everybody even more scared.

And I hurt my leg. Yesterday while swimming in the lake someone bit me on my left leg. I felt someone’s hand grab my foot and then he bite me. The counselors said I imagined it. The grab, not the bite. Someone really did bite me, honest. But the counselors said it was just a turtle bite. They said it wasn’t really that bad and they put bandages on me but it still hurts lots. They said I was just scared of the stories the older boys were telling about Timmy Swanson and that I just imagined someone grabbing me, but that’s not it. Really it’s not. Also, I think the camp counselors were lying when they said that. I saw them look at each other after looking at my leg and they looked scared. Later I heard Matt, the nice counselor I told you about, say that it sure wasn’t any turtle that bit me but Randy, the head camp counselor told him to be quiet. Continue Reading

George dropped his briefcase by the front door and was both moving and digging his keys out of his pocket before the expensive leather case flopped over on its side. He was in such a hurry that he had to stop and turn around to shut the front door to his house.

Today had been just hell at work. Mrs. Jameson was on him from the start, that skinny, shrieking bitch. All day long she’d been peering over his shoulder and pestering him. She had asked for the Layton file no less than five times today, as if pestering him would get it done any faster.

Then there was Katie, his secretary, who had not only did not bring him his morning coffee promptly at nine-thirty, as was his custom, but also claimed she had told him of the eleven-o’clock Schlossberg meeting today when George knew perfectly well she hadn’t, the lying bitch.

“Bitches, all of ‘em,” George muttered to himself as he unlocked the basement door and threw it open to bang loudly off of the hallway wall. Taking the stairs down two at a time, he loosened his tie and ran a shaking hand through his thinning hair.

He desperately needed some air.

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It’s amazing what you can get used to when you have to.

The dead starting to walk was a shock like no other. People just couldn’t handle it. When it started as many people died due to denial-induced inaction and suicide as they did to the zombies.

Just saying the word zombie without feeling foolish took some time. Everyone knew what they were but no one wanted to admit it. The press continued to use “the walking dead” or “undead” right up till the end. I guess it’s hard to be terrified of zombies after seeing them dance with Michael Jackson and appear as fodder in countless video games.

Realizing you were truly on your own, that no army helicopter was going to come out of the sky and save the day was a bitter pill to swallow. Even on the last day we had electricity the government was still promising that help was on the way.

It never came.

Killing a living person was a tough to overcome at first. I always thought it wouldn’t be that hard if I had to do it. Hell, I was a cop before the world went to hell so I was even trained to do it. Not to mention I thought I was desensitized after shooting several dozen zombies. Then I did it and it was like a punch in the gut. Not pulling the trigger, that was the all too easy part. It was what came afterwards that was hard. Watching him gasp, bleed out, his eyes loosing focus and knowing what he would turn into because of me.

Losing Carrie and Devon almost killed me. Both were taken when I was out searching for food. Coming home, finding the house overrun, shouting for them and getting no answer. I wanted to eat a bullet after that but something deep down inside of me wouldn’t let me do it. So I just kept going. It felt like I left a piece of myself back in that house with my wife and child. Whatever it was, I think it was something that I wouldn’t need anymore.

Now I figure I’m more like the zombies than not. I feel nothing. I exist, but don’t really live. I kill and move on. And like them, I eat.

Running out of food was the hardest thing of all to overcome. The grocery stores picked clean, no time or place to grow crops, no animals left to eat. I can’t even remember the last time I heard a barking dog or a singing bird. But there’s plenty of meat out there if you have the stomach for it. It often makes you puke, even after burning it to a crisp, but it’s better than nothing. And sometimes I get lucky. Maggots don’t taste as bad as you would think.

Then there’s the few and far between days when I am truly blessed and I find warm meat. Huddled and terrified, like I use to be. They trust in my old uniform, fall for my smile, and believe my kind lies.

And they have no idea of the things I’ve had to get used to.

© Brian M. Sammons

Brian M. Sammons has penned a few dark tales over the years. They have appeared in the magazines Bare Bone, Cthulhu Sex, Dark Animus, and Horror Carousel and in the anthologies Arkham Tales, Cthulhu Unbound Vol. 2, Horrors Beyond, and Twisted Legends, among others. Later this year his first novella, The R’lyeh Singularity, written with David Conyers, will be published in Cthulhu Unbound 3 which he also co-edited.  Despite all this, Brian is often described by his neighbors as “such a nice, quiet young man” and he loves animals. You can find out more about Brian at his very infrequently updated website: 
http://www.freewebs.com/brian_sammons

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