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    Die, You Zombie Crackers!
    Die, You Zombie Crackers!
    Die, You Zombie Crackers!
    Ebook117 pages1 hour

    Die, You Zombie Crackers!

    By David C. Hayes

    ()

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    About this ebook

    The deep, dark woods. They can be scary as hell, especially for the folk that live and love in 'em. Making moonshine and selling moonshine and drinkin' moonshine are all anyone ever cared about... until it happened. Even in the back woods, the yokels weren't safe from no undead poxalips. The dead done come back to life, bad 'shine bein' the cause, and it is up to a small band of hillbillies to stop them new kind a' zombies from killin' everybody. Four rednecks stand between a horde a' un-living rubes and the rest of the world. Only they was brave enough to say, "DIE, YOU ZOMBIE CRACKERS!"
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJournalStone
    Release dateOct 2, 2014
    ISBN9781940161877
    Die, You Zombie Crackers!

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      Book preview

      Die, You Zombie Crackers! - David C. Hayes

      DIE, YOU ZOMBIE CRACKERS!

      MARK C. SCIONEAUX & DAVID C. HAYES

      Bizarro Pulp Press

      An Imprint of JournalStone Publishing

      www.BIZARROPULPPRESS.com

      Bizarro Pulp Press

      An imprint of JournalStone Publishing

      Detroit*San Francisco

      www.BIZARROPULPPRESS.com

      Die, You Zombie Crackers Copyright © 2014 Mark C. Scioneaux and David C. Hayes

      ISBN: 1940161878

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without the written consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

      Printed in the USA.

      Cover art by Trinity Mason

      E-conversion done by Lori Michelle

      http://www.theauthorsalley.com

      CHAPTER ONE

      The lush, thriving woods of Illinois sprawled out, revealing all the majesty and power of the United States. Trees centuries old towered above the fertile ground, composted over the years with decaying leaves and droppings from the inhabitants of this perfect ecosystem. Deer and caribou lived peacefully with the mouse and toad. Devoid of predators, nature can exist in harmony. To one walking through the forest, the gentle call of song birds and the loving hum of bumble bees soothed the senses. The place is untouched. Serene, in its natural splendor, and enjoyed by the very few fortunate creatures that call it home.

      Cut paths, worn over the years by heavy boots, served as markers for those on casual nature hikes. To the adventurous campers, these paths were merely crisscrossing highways on which one could enjoy nature in its untouched state, and nothing more. But to the locals, they are beacons that point toward one hidden path. The path that leads to a very special place enjoyed by only a select few.

      Traversing a certain path leads to a small glade. Cleared generations ago, it is the only part of the forest that has felt the touch of the saw blade of man, and the only portion that will ever feel its wrath. It’s a gathering place for the backwoods people who sparsely populate the land. To some, it is magical and carried a lovely aroma like the briny scent of the sea. To most, however, it smelled like money, and the coppery stench of blood, sweat, and tears.

      But that day, the glade was used for only one reason: love.

      That’s right baby. You know I love you.

      The voice floated through the woods, echoing off the trees and finally disappearing into the sky. The birds and bees scattered as the voice, like the crack of lightening, came out of nowhere. Billy Bob Roberts didn’t seem to care who heard him. He knew there wasn’t anyone around.

      He sat at a picnic table with a checkered tablecloth spread over the rotted wood. Vienna sausages, potted meat, sardines, and a few Saltines littered the table, a redneck feast unlike any other. To the side, over a roaring fire, bubbled a fine concoction of tomatoes, onions, garlic, and freshly shot squirrel. His stomach rumbled as the gamey scents reached his nose.

      Turning his rail thin body, which some called wiry, he marveled at his beloved moonshine still. It had been constructed hastily, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t put some love into it. Rubber tubing jutted from a pan where a liquid bubbled and brewed. The tubing reminded Billy Bob of snakes, and he reminded himself to look for any before he left, scanning the ground compulsively. He hated snakes. Hated them since the day he put on one of his boots and his big toe met the fangs of a non-poisonous rat snake. He’d almost lopped the entire foot clean off, convinced the poison was making a beeline straight to his heart. His neck popped as he stretched and he peered at the bucket on the ground that collected droplets from the hose. This was going to be his best batch.

      Turning back to his guest, he picked up his mason jar and swirled the crystal clear liquid inside. Tipping it, he took a sip, and felt his sinuses open. A searing burn, like a train out of Hell, ran down his throat. He loved that feeling.

      I tell you, it don’t get much better out here . . . especially when I’m with you. He awkwardly smiled, revealing a row of crooked and yellow teeth. Another taste of moonshine made its way down his gullet. I mean that, you know? There ain’t nobody else. You believe me, right? Please say you do.

      She acknowledge in her own special way that sent his heart soaring. The feeling of love, and lust, held him, as he closed his eyes and pushed his lips together. Arm muscles popped with deceptively strong tendons and sinew as he lifted himself, bringing his face closer to his beloved. An unexpected voice interrupted his moment of passion.

      Billy Bob! Get your skinny ass over here and fix me another bottle. Now!

      Lover boy snapped to attention in the direction toward the demand, and sighed. He knew he must go, and parting would be sorrowful, if only for a fleeting minute.

      I’ll be right back, Gladys. I promise.

      The inflatable sheep said nothing, but Billy Bob saw the hurt in her black vinyl eyes. The betrayal was almost too much for him. But he knew he would be back, and when he did return, he would get that kiss that was stolen from him. Damn customers.

      ***

      Billy Bob rounded the still, inspecting the ground for snakes along the way. Standing just at the edge of the glade were two familiar shapes: one delicate and small, the other lumbering and imposing.

      Hello, Lisa . . . er . . . I mean, Leon. How you doing, Scumbag?

      The brother and sister stood unmoving as Billy Bob approached. He never understood why Lisa preferred being called Leon, or dressed like a man. She was pretty, though her face was always covered with dirt, and oil. Grease stained her mannish attire. He’d heard she was one of those liberal lesbians who his people hated, and his church would never accept. He’d had a crush on her a while back, but when he heard she batted for the other team, he quickly lost interest.

      Her brother, Scumbag, was a mess all unto himself. Born hulking, but slow, Billy Bob assumed their momma was hitting the ’shine pretty hard during the pregnancy. Scumbag stood behind his sister, mouth working a piece of jerky, and his eyes transfixed on anything that moved. His overalls were stained and dirty from bumping into anything and everything in his path. Billy Bob guessed they hadn’t seen the creek and a good bar of soap in a long while.

      Leon winced at the accidental mix-up of names, and Billy Bob thought for a moment she might slug him. Scumbag perked up, the piece of jerky falling from his mouth and landing silently on the ground. He raised one of his large mitts and waved like a child at a parade.

      Hey, Billy Bob! Hey!

      Without taking her eyes off Billy Bob, Leon threw her hand back and smacked Scumbag on the chest, snapping him out of his delusional excitement. He stared at the ground like a child whose hand had been caught in the cookie jar—and the family dog was named Cookie Jar. Leon retrieved a wad of cash from her pocket and handed it to Billy Bob.

      I need a jug. Just one this time.

      He stuffed the cash in his pocket, not bothering to count it. One jug of the good stuff, coming up, my la . . . er . . . sir.

      Billy Bob shuffled over to the still and picked an empty plastic gallon container off the ground. Filling it with clear alcohol, he capped it, and walked back to Leon. Scumbag was preoccupied chasing a butterfly around the still. Billy Bob thought of saying something, but decided to let the idiot have his fun. He handed the jug to Leon, who greedily snatched it.

      "Here you go, Leon.

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