COMING AUG 1st, 2011
[VOL. 0 - THE DAY THE RAIN STOPPED]
a zombie thriller novella by G.Y. Haney
(note: this title is intended for mature audiences. While this excerpt itself is fine, Dead Living as a whole contains violence, gore, scenes of terror & suspence, and some language. But you should expect that, right? I mean, this is the end of the world, after all. Things are going to get a bit messy...)
Marc Romero wasn't a bad guy, per say...
He was just a guy who had fallen on a few hard times, fallen in with a few wrong crowds, and had never really gotten back up. He had kicked drugs last year, though. That counts for something. And he hadn't had whiskey in four months, sticking only to the occasional Killian's. He's on the right path. He just can't hold down a job.
And he can't get away from the thrill of breaking into a home and taking people's shit.
Still, he wasn't a bad guy. And someday, he thought now and again, he might even be a good guy.
As Marc skillfully took the business end of a crowbar to the back door of the home, he knew that today was not that day. The white house on the corner of 101st Avenue and Baker Street had been empty for a week. Or so that's what Marc had surmised. He had cased the joint for that long. No one had come in or out.
Keeping tabs on a house in this rain? Marc though to himself as he pried door from frame with a satisfying snap. The haul better be worth the trouble. But Marc knew in the back of his mind that it would be. He'd seen enough houses like this in his time - old behemoths owned by retired snowbirds, hanging down in Florida for a bit longer since Michigan's spring was a little, how would you say it, longer and shittier than usual? Marc had preyed on two such houses last week alone and had walked away with quite a score. It was like taking candy from a baby - a wrinkly, old baby.
He survey the tiled entry room with quick, experienced eyes. A door to the garage on the right; a door to the back yard straight ahead. To the left, a door up some stairs to the main floor; a door down some stairs that led to the basement. Marc ascended the stairs and found this door locked as well.
A few moments later, his crowbar helped him enter.
Marc looked around and listened for a sound. He was standing in a yellow-walled kitchen, a beige-countered island in front of him, the sink and stove to the right. The house was deathly still. A putrid smell, source unclear, attacked his sense. His eyes began to water and his nostrils stung.
"Sweet Jesus." Marc pulled a white and black bandana from his back pocket and brought it crumpled to his face. It did a bit to block out the scent.
What the hell died in here?
It was just an expression, sure, but it struck Marc then that it could be a complete possibility.
Better make this quick.
Marc turned and headed for the stairs to the second floor. He always hit the master bedroom first - it was where the jewelry or other precious items usually were. Sometimes he'd find a pistol or two. He liked finding guns, guns went for a nice price on the street. Of course he kept a few for his own collection. The silver revolver tucked into the back on his jeans reminded him of that. He had jacked it from a house almost two years ago. It was his favorite pistol. His lucky pistol, even. He had never even had to pull it; just its mere presence seemed to protect him.
As Marc bounded up the steps, the smell got worse. Thoughts of treasure came to a halt as he realized he may find more than he bargained for in this particular home. He slowed his pace. At the top of the stairs, he saw three doors. One to the left was open a bit. The others were closed. Marc pressed the bandanna deeper into his face, let it partially fill his mouth and creep into his nostrils, anything to block that wretched odor.
Marc placed a wavering hand on the partially open door and slowly pushed it open...
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