By James Lowder

They might not remain lifeless! The zombies cannot be stopped. From the pitch-black holds of pirate ships and the tunnels underneath the steaming, war-torn jungles of Veitnam, they get up. and there is no solution to gradual their shambling march of conquest, no nook of the realm or interval in historical past that is secure from the invasion. mystery executive labs, the fashionable galleries of latest York's paintings scene, and the drawing rooms of 19th century England all turn into the lair of the dwelling lifeless during this artistic and chilling choice of horror and darkish myth fiction.

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The trees were like tall skeletons with too many bones. Leaves skittered across the road, scratching at the asphalt. A dog barked a few streets over. At least, it sounded like a dog. A good old red-blooded, living and breathing turd factory. Never hurt nobody, most likely. He walked into the scraggly yard, reluctant to leave the cone of the last streetlight. He thought about going up the street and cutting across the other end of the yard, but that way was scary, too. The autumn forest hovered on every side.

Andy looked up and saw that the girl and the man in fatigues had stacked all the canned food atop one of the tables. The man in fatigues aimed his gun at the door. ” he shouted. “S’Earl,” the reply came. Fatigues unbolted the lock. “Come on in, Earl. ” Two new people entered the room—a skinny guy with wild hair and glasses, followed by a harried-looking, motherly woman. ” the skinny guy, Earl, asked. “New boyfriend,” Fatigues said, jerking his thumb at the girl. “Asshole,” the girl said. ” the new woman cried.

It was the sound the cats had made when they wanted to be let in. Dexter’s mom wanted them out of the house, because of the hairballs and the stains they left in the corners. But Dexter always let them in at night to curl on top of the blankets at his feet. At least for a week or so, until he got tired of them. He didn’t have any cats now, so it couldn’t be a cat at the window. Dexter pulled the blankets up to his eyes. Something bumped against the glass, moist and dull, like a nose. The Hounds of Love 47 No no no not a nose.

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