stevecain's Blog

ZombieZak raises a good point about the circulation, however, going back again to the discussion about digestion and if zombies receive any "nutritional value" from the flesh they consume. IF that were the case and IF said zombie consumed any flesh saturated by an intoxicant, what would be the result? Then again, an inebriated person has already processed the intoxicant rendering it non-effective by the time it has entered the blood stream. Perhaps a particularly strong hallucinogenic, recently consumed might leave "usable" amounts in the brain, stomach, etc. So many "if's", so little time.

Howdy there, Zombie Diva! Nice to put a face to the name.

I am trying to create a very short zombie comedy film about a married, hen-pecked zombie. I have almost everything ready to go, the script, the FX makeup, I have the shots blocked (in my head), I have the title shots, music and sound effects. All I need is an actress to play the part of the shrewish wife.(Funny, you don't look shrewish.)
My better half has declined to participate, so if there are any aspiring actresses near the West Tennessee area who are willing to look and sound bitchy and wear curlers and a houserobe on camera, get in touch with me. No nudity.(Unless you just wanna)

Okay, I couldn't resist. Can the undead become intoxicated? I suppose that this topic might recirculate back to the old topic of zombie digestion. Something else to be considered as well is what part of a reanimated brain might still be functioning. What about alcohol versus narcotics, depressants versus stimulants? This one might be a thinker! I throw this topic out to the good Librarians like a fat man to a horde of ravenous zombies.

Come and get it!

Ya know what Doc? I might just do that. Once I get back home Friday, I'll work on that.

Gotta love our neighbors to the North. They do know their beer!.....hmmm. Do zombies enjoy beer, or get drunk? Sounds like a new "Oh yes they are! Oh no they're not!" topic.

Hey there, CZ! Yes, I am enjoying "Pineville". Excellent production! Keep up the good work!

YES!!! Soon, I hope?

Entombed in decay
My body no longer my own
Inside my head
I am not alone
Denied true death
A grave I will never see
Destiny my curse
A thing that should not be
I hunger for flesh
A desire beyond all need
I will come for you
On your warmth I'll feed

Hey Doc! Just like any great story, I hated to see the end of "Beginning Of The Dead". It was a fantastic story with a great ending. The fact that the reader gets kinda pissed off that Mike and Sarah get dead shows that you did your job in making us care about the main characters. No fairy tale endings here!

Thanks,D.F.! It's always good to have friends across the pond!

Hello Librarians,old and new!

I finally have more time to do the things I want,

which means I can get back to being a good librarian!
I am so proud of the good Doc and the progress the show
has made and how everyone, including some fan-damn-tastic
authors, have really made the show something very special!
It's so good to be back among my people again!

Steve Cain

Thank you very much. It may be a bit too sentimental for some, but that story rattled around in my skull for many moons before I committed it to notepad. Thanks again, babygirlminxie!

I will definitely be there this year! The added bonus is that Oct. 25th is my birthday! Coolness!

AHHH GEEZ! Maybe next time I should log in before I post! The above anonymous post was mine.

I dunno, TBE. I had the thing typed in "notepad" and I just copied and pasted it to the forum. I think when I originally wrote it, I had the "wrap" format engaged in notepad.

Saying Goodbye
by Stephen Cox (AKA Steve Cain)

Clayton Walker shuffled over to the huge television that dominated one wall of the tiny living room, a gift from his eldest son. He switched it on and flicked through the channels, finding only static and test patterns until he came to channel 10 out of Memphis. Clayton rarely watched P.B.S., but it seemed that now his options were severely limited. He turned the sound up as the image of the W.K.N.O. studio came into view. Several men were sitting at a table, deep in heated debate. A rather fat and sweaty man was struggling to speak calmly, but was being shouted down by a red-faced man in a cheap suit that had seen better days.

".....Doctors at the CDC in Atlanta are doing everything they can with what they have to work with. They need more time to.."

"More time?!?! We don't HAVE more time! It's estimated, ESTIMATED mind you, that three quarters of the world's population is dead, and who knows how many more are infected, or carriers of the disease! All of this in as far as we know THREE WEEKS! We don't HAVE more time!"

"There is only so much we can do. As you pointed out, all this has happened in such a short time. The CDC and health agencies all over the world are working around the clock to find answers. I understand your frustration, but..."

Mr. Cheap Suit jumped to his feet and his face got even redder as he pointed at the fat man and shouted.

"You don't understand SHIT, James!! How many family members did YOU watch get torn to shreds by theses.....things?! Huh?! How many, James?!"

James, the fat man just hung his head down. Cheap Suit took a deep breath, sat down and spoke again, this time quietly, almost whispering.

"My daughter was the first to get sick at our house. We all thought it was the flu, but it happened in hours. Hours! By the next day she was dead. My wife....my wife was holding Brittany, holding and rocking our poor dead baby. All I could do was stand in the door and watch. I couldn't move, couldn't even scream when Brittany opened her eyes.......she....she..."

Cheap Suit broke down sobbing uncontrollably. Clayton turned the television off. He simply couldn't watch anymore emotional outbursts. His tired eyes drifted towards the back bedroom, towards the closed door. He sighed and rubbed a calloused hand over his face, feeling the stubble on his cheeks scrape against his palm. As he sat back on the couch, his mind drifted and memories flashed through his consciousness, colors muted and figures distorted by time and the failing synapses of his seventy-three year old brain.

As always, the warmest memories were of Clayton's wife Maebelle. Sweet Maebelle, Clayton's only true love, the only other person he could ever count on. The only person that could have put up with his stubborn, strong willed ways for fifty six years of marriage.
She had raised three wonderful children, two smart (and stubborn) boys and a sweet (but stubborn) girl that was more than just smart, she was, in Clayton's humble opinion, a genius. Their oldest son Clayton Ezekiel Walker Jr. was a successful corporate attorney in Memphis. Their second born, Darrius Anthony Walker was an accountant with a televangelist in Texas. Sandra Renee Walker just became an associate professor of physics at Temple University. His children had always been a great source of pride to him. They were good kids who never forgot that they came from the same red clay dirt of South West Tennessee that their parents came from. They were proud of their accomplishments, but were also proud of their past, their roots, their family. Clayton sighed again as he wondered if his children were still alive, or if not...... He just hoped that if they were dead, they stayed that way.

Clayton felt that twinging pain in his gut again. He knew it wouldn't be long, he would have to do it soon. He grunted as he pushed himself off the couch and headed in the direction of the closed bedroom door. It was so quiet in the little mobile home now. His every step across the faded carpet made the cheap plywood underneath creak and groan. He smiled when he thought about the arguments he had with the kids about this trailer. They had wanted to get together and buy their parents a nice house in a decent Memphis suburb. Clayton couldn't imagine giving up his five acres of red clay dirt and the trailer that had been his and Maebelle's for the past twenty three years. His job at the saw mill and Maebelle's job at the nursing home allowed them to buy the land and the trailer. Clayton had been the first in his family to own land and a home and he was fiercely proud of it. Five acres of land, an old but well maintained mobile home and an equally old and well maintained Chevy pick up sitting in a dirt driveway just off a two lane country road were all he needed to feel like a man. Well, all that and Maebelle. He sighed with a quavery breath as his hand grasped the doorknob.

Clayton opened the bedroom door and stood in the doorway for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the dimly lit interior. The only light came from the fading orange sunset glowing behind the curtains in the windows and the candle burning on the nightsand next to his side of the bed. His eyes soon made out the form of his dear beloved Maebelle laying on the bed. As his eyes continued to adjust, he could see the halo of blood around her head that had soaked into the pillow and dried. He could also see the small round hole in her forehead, just above her left eye. A wave of guilt and sorrow washed over Clayton, nearly doubling him over. He held back the sobs that were threatening to overwhelm him. On the heels of the psychic pain, physical pain twisted his guts, this time bringing him to his knees. It was time. As he rose up from his knees, the lights in the living room behind him went out. That seemed to be a sign that it was time to go, time to say goodbye.

Hands that no longer seemed to be his own picked the pistol up off the nightstand. He hadn't held that gun since last night. Clayton's mind swam back to the events of the past two days, the detail sorrowfully vivid. The day before yesterday Maybelle had strarted to feel sick and feverish. Within four hours, she took to her bed, shaking and sweating, burning up with fever. She stayed that way till yesterday. Clayton would take her temperature and lay cool cloths on her fevered head. He had made her drink orange juice and water, trying to make sure she didn't dehydrate. Around seven o'clock last night, the fever broke and Maebelle slept. Clayton just sat by her side, holding her hand as she slept. Around nine thirty, she sat up suddenly and gasped, squeezing his hand almost painfully. He watched as her eyes rolled up into her head and she fell back to the bed limply. He felt for a pulse but he knew there would be none.The first tears burned down his face as he held her hand to his head. He stayed like that for maybe an hour, slowly rocking back and forth, sobbing. He released her hand, getting up to....... to do what? It didn't matter. He just needed to go outside and breathe for a minute. Clayton let a cool evening breeze dry his tears as he prepared to go back in the house and do what he had to do. He walked back in the house and as he reached to shut the door behind him he saw Maebelle, standing at the bedroom doorway.

His mind whirled as he stared at his wife, standing there looking at him. Thoughts flickered through his brain, the fever broke, she's up and around, all better now! As his confused mind grasped at all the wondrous possibilities, his subconscious noticed something was wrong. Warning bells were ringing in his head as he began to come to his senses. No. She was dead. She was. Her hand was cold. He WATCHED her die. Her eyes, they're all...wrong. Her skin, once a deep mahogany, was now grey and ashy looking. When she began to shuffle towards him, he had to fight down the panic. Her hands began clench and unclench, reaching out towards him. A low, growling moan started in the back of her throat and burst out between her lips as her mouth opened. A thin line of drool ran down her lower lip as her mouth hung slack. Clayton successfully fought down the rising tide of his panic and began to rationalize the situation. Maebelle had what all those other people had. That disease that everyone on the television had been talking about. This...thing walking toward him was NOT Maebelle, not anymore. On the news shows, they said the only way to put these things down was to damage the brain. A shot to the head was said to be the best and quickest way. He had to get to his pistol, but it was in the nightstand drawer next to the bed, behind this shambling shell of Maebelle. Clayton knew he would have to maneuver quickly to get past her. His breathing was quick and shallow as he waited for her to get closer to him. When she got within arms reach, he ducked and shoved at her torso, knocking her off balance as he went around her to the right. His joints complained as he ran stumbling into the bedroom. As he opened the drawer, he heard her shuffling back towards the bedroom. His hand fumbled around in the drawer, searching for the revolver. He could feel her right behind him, bending down towards him as he finally grabbed the gun. He turned around, looking up directly into her open mouth. He recoiled, bringing the pistol up and firing at the same time.

Clayton let the memory fade as he stared down at the pistol in his hand. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he fought back the tears once again. He swung his legs up onto the bed, settling down next to the cold form of his wife. Switching the .38 revolver to his left hand, he reached out with his right, grasping Maebelle's icy fingers. He brought her hand to his lips for one last kiss.

"I'll be there soon, 'Belle." Clayton said softly.

He brought the gun up to his forehead. Whispering a small prayer, he began to slowly squeeze the trigger.

The End