Editor's Note: Who doesn't need to have a zombie defense system? We certainly do!
This is a funny and satirical novel with horror elements that kept me reading until the end!
Book Description: Twenty five years ago a plague came that brought upon the United Five State Republic zombies. ZOMBIE, INC. is a company that sells zombie defense systems. Now that the zombie population is starting to dry up, will this company be able to survive?
Author's Inspiration: My husband Steve and I were having cheeseburgers at a local restaurant when we started talking about a company that relied on zombies as their main commodity. What would their handbook be like? What kind of devices would they sell? Who would they employ?
And we came up with the bare bones (so to speak) of Zombie, Inc.
From the Book: Dill pressed the steering wheel at the top. The car hummed and rolled forward, slowly gathering momentum. She rounded the corner, and the Wrangler van came into view. Her eyes widened.
“What the fu–?”
Carl laughed. He’d been watching her face, waiting to see what happened once the Wranglers were in sight. “Something else, huh?”
She glanced at him and then turned her stunned gaze back to the vehicle twenty-five feet down the road, turned sideways curb to curb. It was a big pickup truck, flat black, with the Zombie, Inc., logo on each door panel in red. The tires were easily four feet high with heavy, studded tread, and the body of the truck sat an additional eighteen inches over the tires. A cowcatcher grill, also flat black, covered the front, and a rack of bull horns with zombie heads on each of the two points sat above it like something from a wild-west nightmare. A red cap on the back had the word ‘Wrangler’ in loopy writing made to look like rope.
The engine roared, shaking the truck, then the sound died. In the sudden silence, Dill took a breath to speak, but then the doors of the Wrangler truck opened. Two Wranglers tumbled out.
The men were dressed as old-time bikers in heavy blue jeans and leather chaps and leather vests over bare skin. Their forearms were laced up in black leather, and they wore studded collars around their necks, and the sun glared and sparked off the metal spikes. Steel-toed cycle boots with chains and do-rags of flat black emblazoned with red skulls completed the look.
They ran, whooping, toward Carl and Dill.
“They….they, uh…” Dill stuttered. The Wranglers looked like bandits, like pirates, hooligans, ruffians. “Are they coming to kill us?”
Carl’s shoulders rose and dropped. “Man, you just never know,” he said.
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Christine Dougherty
Christine Dougherty is a largely reclusive writer who lives in south Jersey with two cats, one dog, and one husband. Driven to write by a mild case of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder but distracted from it by chronic migraines, Christine lives a life of conflicting impulses. A memory geared toward the dark, a deep-seated fear of the world, and an overly sensitive nature make Christine's writing visceral and raw as she tries to write the accumulated horror of the world out of her system.
Favorite Place to Write: I like my writing room.
Favorite Music: I don't listen to music while I write
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