Neeta & Ted: Shambling in a Winter Wonderland

Valentine's Day has come and gone, but romance is still in the air. I've got a serial story running in Liberty Island Magazine, "Shambling in a Winter Wonderland." Zombie exterminators, Neeta Lyffe & Ted Hacker, are on vacation - or are they? It was supposed to be a fun week of learning to ski and planning their wedding, but the undead have other plans. You can follow the story on Liberty Island. The reading is free, but if you like it, please tip the author. That's the only way I get paid. 

In the meantime, I thought I'd share this excerpt with you. It shows a little of how Neeta's and Ted's different personalities complement each other. Neeta sometimes wonders how she fell for such a clown, but as her best friend has noted, she needs laughter in her life. Do you have a soulmate? How does he or she complement your personality?

"Zombies? On skis?" Ted's squeal came loud and clear over her helmet as they followed the sheriff on snowmobiles up to the accident scene. "If it weren't so dangerous, it'd be core awesome!"

"Apparently, there was some kind of shrine set up with skis and snowboards. This won't be easy. They were already fearless and skilled. Now they're mindless, fearless and skilled - and the only thing they have connection to the area is that ski contest.” Neeta spoke through chattering teeth. “Are you sure you want to marry me? I'm cursed."

Even with all the layers she could pile on under her HazMat suit and her ski mask making her helmet uncomfortably tight, the cold air cut through her. Ahead, Sheriff Buttuns swerved to avoid a root that arched out of the snow, and she followed. She heard a thump, and guessed that Ted chose to jump the branch instead.

"Nah. You're interesting. I love that. Come on. If it weren't for your so-called curse, we wouldn't be snowmobiling in restricted territory right now. How fuze is that? Just go with it. 'Embrace the suck,' as Gordon used to say."

Gordon had been a Marine. He’d been discharged for too much enthusiasm. "I'm not a Marine."

"Your mom was. Doesn't any of that rub off?"

"Shrapnel shredded her arm. She was medically discharged before I was born."

"You need to get into the spirit of this. Sing with me: Oh, the zombies outside are frightful/but the napalm's so delightful…"

"You're insane! I'm marrying a crazy man." But she couldn't keep the smile out of her voice. He did make the job fun.

"As long as you love me so…"

Digging up a zombie

Winter's a-coming, and soon, we'll be seeing snow.  Last year, I started a story about zombies on skis.  Real life got in the way, and I didn't get it finished, though it's on my list.  (You know the list I'm talking about, right?)  Anyway, I thought I'd share with you one of my favorite scenes, where a hunting dog finds the prize of a lifetime.

Hambone bounded through the snow, the wide pads of his stubby legs leaving heavy footprints.  He struggled up the snowdrift and paused, mouth open and panting, his breath making tiny clouds.  His ears dragged in the snow, and he shook them, annoyed at the cold tips.  He could hear his owner calling his name, but he ignored it.  There was a smell!

He raised his head, seeking the strongest scent.  The air stung his nose.  Cold air brought the best smells, and this one was strong and new.  What could it be?  It was kind of people and kind of rotten hamburger…  Oh, he had to know. 

He stretched out his nose.  It was close, maybe even under the snow, close.  He moved further up the hill, sniffing, ignoring the exasperated cries of his master.  He always came back, and usually with something new and interesting to present.  The Master would put it on the Connie’s desk and laugh while she shrieked.  The more she shrieked, the better Hambone’s reward.  He’d get something grand this time, for sure!

He heard another sound, a low moan.  Aha!  Found it!  He tilted his head back, baying, and was rewarded by a sharp, commanding call of his name.  Now the Master knew.  He ignored the call but galumphed toward the other sound.  The smell came from that direction.  The snow moved.  He paused, head tilted, then perked.  Something blue was under it.  Blue and moving.  Toy! 

With scurrying legs, he dug up the prize and grasped it with his teeth.  It resisted at first.  

Tug-of-war!  Hambone loved tug-of-war.  He braced his legs and pulled.  The toy’s groaning turned to growls, and he growled back.  Mine, mine!

A rip and a wafting of spoiled hamburger smell, and it was his.  Just in time, too—the gentle snowfall had started to get icy.  Now that he had solved the mystery of the smell and won his prize for the Master, he wanted to curl up in front of the warm fire and get belly rubs.  He turned his back on the groaning, spread his legs, and piddled so all the world would know of his victorious presence.

He trotted back toward his master, his mouth full of his prize—a partly rotted arm in a blue jacket sleeve, its blue-gloved fingers curled with the middle one extended in a universal symbol of anger and defiance.  

Wouldn’t his master be proud?