New Vintage Pulp: Zombies, two stories
Bait by Isabelle Drake
On the floor of Cade's truck were three cans of Reddi Wip, two chocolate and one plain. There was also a pile of Taco Bell trash and an empty fifth of Jack. A lavender thong hung from the truck's shifter, his t-shirt was twisted around his left forearm and his wrist was handcuffed to the steering wheel. So it had been yes. He opened the other eye. The 45 on the dashboard was a beauty. Black. Solid. Looked trustworthy. But seeing it there probably meant that yes should've been no.
I Won't Stay Buried by Grant Bailie
It's a hell of a thing to wake up dead. For one thing, you don't notice right away. You’d think you would, but you don’t. And there's that taste in your mouth, but there are ways to explain that: you might have smoked too much on Sunday night, or had three too many gin and tonics. It could be gingivitis or halitosis. The point is, there are plenty of ways for someone’s mouth to taste like death. On the morning it happened to me, I was dressed and almost out the door when I became aware of a peculiar sensation. There was a profound and internal stillness. Nothing inside me was moving.
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