RIGOR AMORTIS
edited by
Jaym Gates and Erika Holt
SMASHWORDS EDITION
(e-Book ISBN: 978-1-894817-84-4)
(n-20100905)
This book is available in print
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An Imprint of Hades Publications Inc.
P.O. Box 1714, Calgary, Alberta, T2P 2L7, Canada
Rigor Amortis
Stories Copyright © 2010 by the authors
Artwork Copyright © 2010 by the artists
(Artwork only appears in the printed edition)
Cover Illustration and Design: Robert “Nix” Nixon
Interior Illustrations: Galen Dara and Miranda Jean
Layout: Brian Hades
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without written permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
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Absolute XPress and Hades Publications, Inc. acknowledge the ongoing support of the Alberta Foundation for the Arts and the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing programs.
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PRAISE
“Graverobbers Gates and Holt have unearthed a set of tales that arouse and revolt, with more than a shovelful of humor. If you let these stories gnaw on your brain, you’ll come away not only entertained, but with meaningful reflections on the most challenging aspects of human experience—love and death. I prescribe Rigor Amortis to you, STAT.” —John Cmar, MD, podcast voice actor for ESCAPE POD, 2007-1010 Parsec Awards Judge.
“This new anthology gives fresh meaning to the term ‘a nice romantic dinner.’ Whether you’re a connoisseur of the erotic or the grotesque—or enjoy a hearty helping of both—Rigor Amortis delivers a full menu of startling, horrifying, and even heartbreaking stories to whet your appetite.” —T. M. Camp, author of Assam and Darjeeling, and Matters of Mortology.
“You’ll barf, you’ll cry...
... You’ll also have your preconceptions challenged.
There’s real sweetness in amongst the putrescence, and some humor, and some fine storytelling. Worth a read, certainly, but possibly not just before dinner—because some things really shouldn’t go ‘squelch’ like that.” —David Devereux, author of Hunter’s Moon and Eagle Rising.
Introductions
And Yet In Death by Lance Schonberg
Romance
Delivery Day by Jacob Ruby
Always and Forever by Jay Faulkner
Dancing Tonight! Live Music! by Nathan Crowder
’Til Death Do Our Parts by Kaolin Imago Fire
There’s Plenty of Room in My Heart by Alex Masterson
Like Smoke by Johann Carlisle
Surrender by Xander Briggs
I Fall to Pieces by Edward Morris
Unparted by Wendy N. Wagner
Returned by J. R. Campbell
Revenge Love, love (and chains) will keep us together by R. Schuyler Devin
Erzuli’s Chosen Few by Lucia Starkey
Your Beating Heart by M. G. Gillett
Breathing Optional by Kay T. Holt
Swallow It All by Jennifer Brozek
Traveling a Corpse Over a Thousand Li by Calvin D. Jim
Danny Boy by Renée Bennett
Syd’s Turn by R. E. VanNewkirk
Head by Wendy N. Wagner
Risk
Forbidden Feast at the Armageddon Café by John Nakamura Remy
Last Cigarette by Armand Rosamilia
Waking Up Someone Who Isn’t Me by Michael Phillips
Date Night by Pete “Patch” Alberti
My Summer Romance by Sarah Goslee
Second Sunday in September by Steven James Scearce
Take It Off by Andrew Penn Romine
Obligate Cannibal by Kay T. Holt
Raunch
Urbanites by Pete “Patch” Alberti
Mitch’s Girl by Carrie Cuinn
Liberation Den by Damon B
Honey by V. R. Roadifer
Clubbing by Michael Ellsworth
Sublimation by Don Pizarro
Cloudy With a Chance of Zombie Orgasm by Annette Dupree
Biographies
Jaym Gates
Zombie erotica; not your supermarket SPAM. It all started with a joke on twitter. Such is the beauty of the modern age.
I still don’t know how it really came about. But I mentioned a possible for-the-love anthology of zombie erotica, mused about the possibility of shopping it to publishers, and a few brainstorms later, the project suddenly had a full head of steam.
I was fortunate to find Erika. Not everyone is up for undead sex, especially not the sheer quantity of a slush pile. Erika threw herself whole-heartedly into the endeavor, and we haven’t slowed down since.
I really couldn’t have done this without her, nor without Galen Dara and Miranda Jean, our talented interior artists.
Editing this anthology has been a short, strange, furious ride. Starting with justifiable concerns that “zombie erotica” could only be “zombie rape,” we went out of our way to solicit and select stories with unusual plots, elegant characters, and lush prose.
We saw expected trends, unexpected trends (second person point-of-view!), and overall, a trend of phenomenal writing. With both first-time and established authors, we had a hard time choosing, mulling over the table of contents until the last possible moment.
This is not a collection for the faint-of-heart! There are stories in here which will thrill, amuse, disgust, and challenge. From tender love stories to undead sex-trafficking to voodoo, the stories run the gamut of style and emotion. Horror, fantasy, urban fantasy, science-fiction and straight-up zombies, gay, straight, and orgy, there aren’t many unturned stones. Such is the beauty of flash fiction: bite-sized.
Just think of Rigor Amortis as a nicely-wrapped box of zombie appetizers. Brain, spine and spleen, there’s something in here for everyone.
Erika Holt
A few years back, while working as a civil litigation lawyer in the lofty confines of a large firm affectionately known amongst articling students as, “the Death Star,” little could I have imagined I’d end up editing an anthology about zombies. Or sex. Or graphic, zombie, sex.
You see, I’m not the type to jump up, arm waving, to volunteer for others’ hair-brained schemes, especially ones that are provocative. So, naturally, when Jaym Gates, a person I knew only through brief contact on twitter, offered me the opportunity to co-edit an anthology of zombie erotica, I said, “Absolutely!”
It was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.
Who wouldn’t want to work with the tiny but fiery bundle of creative energy that is Jaym? Or an amazing group of talented authors and wonderful artists? I thoroughly enjoyed the editing process, whether it be debating how a vulva is best described; whether “cock,” or...”member...,” would work better than “dick;” or staring at stunning pictures of naked, rotting, and sometimes dismembered body parts.
Does that mean there’s something strange about me? Jury’s still out.
Luckily my husband has been very supportive, promising to foist books on unsuspecting work colleagues, though he’s non-committal about reading it himself. But, how am I going to tell my mom? My in-laws? My...dad? Oh, God, my dad. And, my grandparents can never know.
But, regardless of what anyone thinks, I gained what feels like an encyclopaedia’s worth of knowledge, (and not just about biology, though there were lessons there—when was the last time you used “mons” in a sentence?), and am extremely proud of what we’ve achieved.
Have fun with Rigor Amortis; I did.
RIGOR AMORTIS
Lance Schonberg
In life my love turned every head she passed,
She paled the moon and shamed the starry sky.
But when she failed, those gathered ‘round me asked,
How God allowed such light to wane and die.
And yet in death her beauty still remains,
Oblivious to all my sobs and cries.
My careless tears upon her sheets leave stains,
Until some damnéd curse bids her to rise.
To seek out living flesh to slake her thirst,
She stalks the streets for any breathing thing,
Without a care she’s somehow driven, cursed
To feast upon fresh hearts and brains. She sings
The joy and taste of still warm flesh. A kiss
Now spiced with blood and death, I can’t resist.
ROMANCE
Jacob Ruby
Angela sat at the dining room table, with a pink toolbox, a sealed cooler, and a disheveled stack of papers before her. She drummed the fingers of her left hand, her good hand, on the loose sheets of the printed manual, worn from reading many times. She’d intended to read it again while waiting, but found she couldn’t concentrate. Instead she watched the street, waiting for the truck.
And thought of Jane.
Jane had been everything to her, for too many years to count. But obviously Jane had been counting, and eventually wanted someone younger, more pliable. They had stayed in touch—though the term friends was a stretch. Jane pretended to care, but her occasional presence brought mostly pain. Angela believed it had caused her stroke.
Her heart leapt into her throat as a large white truck pulled past, slowed, and began backing into the driveway.
The wooden crate looked heavy, but the delivery guy handled it just fine, sliding it to the platform on the back of the truck, then hand-carting it with ease to the front door. She met him there, holding the door open with her lame right shoulder.
“Hi, uh,” he stopped, looked at her, then his clipboard, and then to the numbers beside the door. “Is the man of the house home, or, um, a son perhaps?” He kept his face down, searching for something more on the delivery sheet.
“No, that’s mine,” she answered. She watched his face flush a light crimson, and wondered if her nervousness showed. “Could you carry it in for me?”
He backed the dolly over the stoop, and wheeled it into the dining room.
“This is my third delivery today. More than a dozen this week,” he said, still blushing but also smiling. “You’re the first woman I’ve delivered to, though. Just doesn’t seem like, um, well, something you’d get into, you know?”
She knew, and agreed. Before she’d left, Jane had told her about a new craze; like a sex doll, but so much more. Not quite alive, not really dead. Jane had suggested it could help around the house, but Angela knew Jane, always the dominant, had more in mind. Angela had refused. That didn’t interest her in the least.
“Would you be able to help loosen the lid?” she asked.
“Certainly, ma’am.” He seemed a tad too enthused.
She handed him a thick, flat blade screwdriver and a small hammer from the toolbox. He made short work of loosening the long staples, then began to pry-off the lid.
“No!” she said, stopping him. “I’m sorry, but that’s enough. I can get it from here.”
His eyes showed disappointment, but he smiled when she handed him a twenty. She walked to the door, thanked him again. Locking the door behind her, she stood for several moments, looking at the box.
A perfume smell drifted out, cloying in its fake sweetness. She understood its purpose, and it brought her back around to the task at hand.
She lifted the lid, let it fall to the back. The inside was lined with thick foam and filled with pink packing peanuts. A few strands of blonde hair peaked out. Lighter than Jane’s. She scooped out the material, one handful at a time, slowly revealing a young woman, seated and hunched over.
Naked.
That hadn’t occurred to her. She ran to the front windows to draw the shades down, into the living room to cover the back windows, and finally pulled the vertical blinds across the glass doors in the kitchen.
The girl had sat up and turned her head towards Angela, but otherwise was in the same position as before. Angela stopped; stepped back instead of finishing her stride. The girl’s eyes, once a bright, steel blue, were now clouded over. They didn’t track Angela’s movements but floated around. Her nostrils flared, and her mouth moved slightly beneath layered strips of pink duct tape.
Angela grabbed the cooler. The bonding process required quick action, and she was prepared. She removed the tape, barely noticing the faint warning symbols across its surface. She pulled a raw cow brain from the cooler. The girl moved with surprising speed, grabbing the mass and gorging. Angela offered a second, trying not to watch but unable to close her ears to the violence.
That could be me.
No. The manual had said: Feed them often at first, a diet rich in brains, and they will obey your every whim. Angela understood the implication, but her whims were different. Now that Jane was gone, she did need help around the house.
After finishing, the girl became still once again. Angela cleaned her with a damp cloth, carefully wiping her mouth and chin.
“We should get you some clothes,” Angela said, standing up. The girl followed her lead and rose. Angela tried not to stare, but the girl was flawless. Early to mid twenties, athletically thin and fit, long, naturally blonde hair; exactly as she had ordered her. Much like a young Jane.
Better than a young Jane.
Angela couldn’t help but notice certain, other assets, ones she’d not specified: the full, high breasts, and the tuft of pubic hair, also blonde, waxed into a heart shape.
“We need a name for you.”
She hadn’t been planning to name her, but now it felt right. She took the girl’s hand in her good one, found the skin cool to the touch. Angela pulled slightly and the girl responded, stepping out of the box with far more grace than she’d expected.
“I think I’ll call you Lily.”
The girl’s hand squeezed hers and it felt...nice. Angela smiled at where her mind was going.
And blushed.
Jay Faulkner
She’s at the door. Still.
I don’t have to look down from our bedroom window, though the full moon will illuminate everything in pristine detail and let me see her clearly. I don’t need to go downstairs and peer through the back door, to our perfect little garden where the autumn leaves carpet the lawn with red and gold.
I don’t need to look; I know she’s there.
She’s been there for the last three days. The last three nights.
Nights are the worst. It is then I miss her most. In the two years since we got married, we’d never slept apart. The same ritual, from our first night together to our last, always the same: undress each other and climb between cold sheets which would warm beneath us as we made love. Then, when we were satiated, we’d lie face to face, whispering our personal mantra before falling asleep.
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Always.”
“Forever.”