Pariah by Bob Fingerman

By Bob Fingerman

The realm is in chaos. A zombie plague has gobbled each kingdom on this planet. ny urban is not any exception. think 8 million zombies. Shoulder to shoulder. strolling the streets, searching for their subsequent meal. The citizens of 1 house development have bonded to maintain themselves secure from the onslaught, yet their inevitable death lurks correct outdoors their window, a continuing reminder of the doom that awaits them. pressured to stay within the defense of the development, the tenants locate themselves at every one others' throats. after they undercover agent a lone teenage woman who walks one of the hordes, unattacked by way of the undead, their international opens up.

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They’d read all their books and magazines. Neither had any talent worth pursuing. Mike had been into photography, but that was no longer an option. She wrote bad poetry back in the day, but now why bother? What would she write about, the death of everything? Been done and done and done to death. 9-ounce bottle of Kirkland Signature Premium Water. But the water was far from premium. It was rain water. Ellen couldn’t remember how old the bottle was. They filled a whole case of them last rain. Ellen traipsed back into the bedroom where Mike now stood by the window staring straight across the alley at the neighboring building, not ten feet away.

It was grayed out, lifeless. Stars would be nice. Maybe the moon. Something. Instead there was nothing, nada, zip. How could that be? Maybe his eyes were going. Beneath him the silver-painted tar paper was lumpy and hot, still retaining the heat of the day. He felt the texture with his thick fingers, creased and peeling, much like his own skin, which was sunburnt from spending all his time up here on the roof. Let the others rot in their apartments, he figured. I’d rather rot in full sight of God.

With you torturing me all through the night. Sleep? What is this thing you call sleep? I should be so lucky to sleep. ” “Is that supposed to chasten me, ‘Abraham’? What, I’m a five-year-old and saying my whole name is a scold I’ll abide? Abe, Abraham, call me whatever you like. Call me Ishmael, for all I care. Sleep. ” In the blackness, Abe smiled in triumph. In all her years, Ruth was never one for cursing. It was beneath her, such vulgarity. Swearing was for the common folk, the hoi polloi. , and even Emily Post might call you a cocksucker at dinner.

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