Metahumans vs the Undead: A Superhero vs Zombie Anthology Read online

  Coscom Entertainment

  winnipeg

  The fiction in this book is just that: fiction. Names, characters, places and events either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons living or dead, living dead or possessing abilities far beyond us mere mortals is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-927339-01-5

  Metahumans vs The Undead is Copyright © 2011 by Coscom Entertainment. The stories contained herein are Copyright © 2011 their respective authors. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce in whole or in part in any form or medium.

  Published by Coscom Entertainment

  www.coscomentertainment.com

  Text set in Garamond; eBook Edition

  Cover Art by Justin Shauf and Gary McCluskey

  Contents

  Introduction by A.P. Fuchs

  Halo of Blood by Gina Ranalli

  Gone but Not Lost by Eric S. Brown

  Knight of the Zombies by J.B. Robb

  The Puppet Master Strikes by Anthony Giangregorio and Rebecca Besser

  Coda to the Golden Age by Lorne Dixon

  Undead Love by Joe Martino

  Fable the Immortal by Rhiannon Paille

  Zombies Attack! by Frank Dirscherl

  Black and White by Keith Gouveia

  Night(cat) of the Living Dead by J.L. MacDonald

  There’s Something Rotten Up North by A.P. Fuchs

  Author Bios

  Introduction

  by

  A.P. Fuchs

  Superheroes have been a part of my life since as far back as I can remember. I’m pretty sure it all started with Superman when I was around three years old. I grew up on the Christopher Reeve movies, the classic Spider-Man cartoon with those psychedelic backgrounds, and Super Friends as much as time would allow. As I got older, costumes and action figures dominated most of my playtime with my brother and sister. Even when we played LEGO, my brother and I would use the space guys and spaceships and those would be our heroic personas while, back home at the LEGO house, my sister would take care of us after we returned and changed into our alter egos.

  It strikes me that, looking back, it was the superhero genre as a whole that shaped my childhood, teenage years and beyond. For a time, my parents encouraged it because it instilled strong moral values and showed the battle between Good vs Evil and how Good always prevailed. And there was a time, too, where superheroes were outlawed growing up as my folks felt I had grown too obsessed with them. However, while they might not have physically existed for a time as I got older, I always kept them in my head, thinking about their adventures, remembering watching Superman take flight to save Lois Lane after stepping out from a revolving door, Spider-Man shooting webs that didn’t seem to really stick to anything yet he swung around all the same.

  Superheroes.

  They’re my thing. They’re what I do. And they’ve been a huge part of my creativity over the years, especially when I switched from focusing on becoming a comic book artist to being a writer. Though my early works were horror, if you read between the lines, you could clearly see a superhero tale beneath. In 2006, finally, I decided to actually release some superheroic creations on the public and thus began publishing my superhero opus, The Axiom-man Saga, which is a life-and-times superhero story chronicling the life of a superpowered hero, everything from his high-octane adventures, to his mythology, to simply trying to figure out how to change into his costume as quickly as possible without the use of superspeed.

  The book you hold in your hands is a solid example of how I not only view superheroes, but also how I view zombies. Unlike most undead enthusiasts, zombies have never really been monsters to me. Oh sure, they look scary, stink, and crave human flesh—but underneath all that, I’ve always perceived them as a horde of supervillains looking to conquer the human race. This posture was my approach when I wrote my first zombie novel, Blood of the Dead (Book One of The Undead World Trilogy). I had a very heroic protagonist—a brooding, lone gunslinger—and zombies that went beyond the stereotypical virus-based creatures into something even more sinister. The same kind of zombies-as-supervillains mentality dominated my book, Zombie Fight Night, in which zombies fight other heroes like samurai, robots, Bruce Lee, Axiom-man and more in a UFC-style setting. And, of course, I was able to entertain that same zombie/supervillain notion with Axiom-man: The Dead Land, in which the story takes our hero into the world of Blood of the Dead.

  Metahumans vs the Undead is about showcasing independent superhero creations—some of which have comics and novels about them—and pitch them against decaying supervillains that love human flesh. It’s everything from a dark, supernatural tale by Keith Gouveia, to superheroines taking on the walking dead by Gina Ranalli, to a homage to the Golden Age of comics by Lorne Dixon, to a Batman-esque parody by Anthony Giangregorio and Rebecca Besser.

  The superhero genre is incredibly underused on the whole. True, the comic book medium has finally begun using superheroes in new ways, movies, books—but it’s still an incredibly small genre versus something like, say, fantasy. I believe it was famed comic painter Alex Ross who said something like, “The superhero genre is every genre in one.” And it’s true. You have fantasy, horror, sci-fi, romance, action, adventure, mystery and more all wrapped under a single banner. The superhero genre is the only place you can do that without upsetting any of the purists.

  What you hold in yours hands is very special, very unique, and very important as it leads you into a world where Good vs Evil is on spectacular display, where heroism knows no bounds, and where the true villainy of the undead is unleashed.

  Get ready to take flight!

  - A.P. Fuchs

  Winnipeg, MB

  November 23, 2011

  Halo of Blood

  by

  Gina Ranalli

  Spectrolite watched in horror as the teenage girl sitting on the floor put the muzzle of the .45 beneath her chin.

  It all seemed to happen in slow motion—the weapon being raised, the tightening of the pale finger on the trigger, even Spectrolite’s own hoarse shout as she reached one fingerless green glove toward the kid as she ran. The word NO! was obliterated by the sound of the shot; then came the fine red mist, the halo of blood that appeared to be suspended in the air over the girl’s head for many long seconds, before blasting out in all directions and being chased by white bone fragments and bits of gray matter.

  With the top of her head completely gone, the girl slumped sideways, the remaining contents of her skull spilling out onto the cracked blue linoleum of the kitchen floor with wet, splattering plops.

  Skidding to a stop a couple feet away from the corpse, Spectrolite succeeded in suppressing a gag, but still coughed into her free hand. In the other she held her beloved Remington 11-87 shotgun, now pointed at the floor. Her other favorite weapon, a Colt Anaconda, rode in a low-slung holster at her left hip.

  “Come on!” a voice shouted from behind her. “It’s too late!”

  Spectrolite quickly lowered her two-way goggles and spun around to see her twin sister, Ametrine, in the doorway, the top half of her face obscured by a violet mask.

  “She killed herself,” Spectrolite said, gesturing at the body of the dead girl. “I tried to stop her, but—”

  “There’s no time,” Ametrine shouted. “She’d been bit. She was a goner anyway. Let’s go!”

  Ametrine t
urned away, violet cape flapping behind her like a banner as she raced back out of the house.

  Spectrolite gave one last grim glance at the suicide before following her sister out into the blood-soaked night.

  The sound of screaming came at them from all directions. The small town had been overrun with what appeared to be—for lack of a better term—the undead. Ravaged bodies lay everywhere—on lawns, in the streets. Body parts, clearly gnawed on and tossed aside, were a common sight and neither woman bothered to study them too closely. They were here to rescue the living, not mourn the dead, but it was beginning to look like this would be one battle they might not win.

  One of the undead rounded the corner of the house they had just exited, a fat man in a stained wife-beater and nothing else, blood smearing his entire face and dripping from his chin. His moon-white eyes settled on the women. He snarled, grinning savagely and dropping the slimy piece of intestine he’d been half-heartedly chewing. He charged toward them with a garbled roar, fat, bloody hands outstretched.

  Spectrolite leveled the shotgun at his head, but Ametrine beat her to it with just a thought.

  The zombie froze in place, as if suddenly cast in stone. With a minor lift of her chin, Ametrine shattered the undead man into a million shards, imploding his body like a bomb-blasted building.

  “Nice going, Sis,” Spectrolite said dryly, lowering her weapon once more. “Saves me ammo.”

  From behind the wild tangle of dark hair that fell over her face, Ametrine somehow managed a slight smile.

  The two sisters, while not identical, looked enough alike that people sometimes confused them with one another, but that only happened when they were out of costume.

  In costume, the world knew each of them for their own identities. Ametrine, in her violet and gold. Spectrolite, preferring more earthy tones, wore dark green and gray, the eye insignia on her chest impossible to miss.

  They were both Kinetics since puberty, their super-human abilities stemming from a toxic combination of synthetic drugs tainting the water supply of their parents’ generation and a highly unusual combination of neuro-chemicals.

  There weren’t many Kinetics in the world, but there were certainly enough.

  Although tonight, Spectrolite thought, they could have used an entire army from Gen Rx and still she wouldn’t have bet on them winning this fight. Even if they managed to defeat every last undead creature, there was still an entire town that had lost the majority of their population. No matter what happened from this point forward, Spectrolite would not be able to call it a victory. But she was not known for her sunny disposition either. That was her sister. Together, they were a perfect, functioning, self-contained unit. Yin and Yang. One dark, one light. The way it had always been and, she imagined, always would be. The sisters Stone, Laura and Lindsey, forever entwined.

  Another scream yanked Spectrolite from her thoughts and she warily peered through her goggles, searching the dark landscape for the screamer.

  “There’s too many of them,” she told Ametrine. “And most of them seem to be inside. How did they all get in the houses?”

  “They probably turned indoors,” Ametrine replied. “What we’re hearing now is the sounds of the undead eating their own families.”

  Spectrolite winced. “Going from house to house will take too long.” She scanned the neighborhood, thinking. After a moment, she said, “Can you collapse the structures? Make it easier for us to get in and the victims to get out?”

  Ametrine scowled at her. “I could, but I don’t think bringing roofs down on people’s heads would be particularly helpful.”

  “What about just a front wall?”

  “We’d still have to go from house to house, Laura. We need to figure out another way and fast.”

  Seconds ticked by. More agonized screams echoed throughout the night. “We’ll have to lure them out, then,” Spectrolite said at last. “But how? All we know is that they like eating people.” The absurdity of what she’d said made her feel like cringing, but she’d have to think about that later.

  “We have to split up,” Ametrine said. “I’ll go east, you go west. We don’t have any other choice.”

  Spectrolite considered objecting, but knew her sister was right. She nodded and raced for the nearest house to her left while Ametrine ran off in the opposite direction.

  There was no time for niceties. When she arrived at the front door, she kicked it in with one heavy, black boot and barged into the house, weapon raised and sweeping back and forth.

  The foyer was empty, but she heard the sound of a television coming from a nearby room. Lifting her goggles so they rested on her forehead, she cautiously moved in the direction of the noise. A sporting event was on by the sound of it.

  Passing through an empty kitchen, she found no signs of disturbance. Maybe no one was home?

  She continued to explore the house until she came to a den where the television was. A man sat on a sofa, his back to her, facing the TV. From what she could tell he appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties.

  “Sir?”

  No response.

  She spoke louder. “Sir?”

  When she still didn’t receive a reply, she stepped to the side of the sofa to get a look at the man’s face.

  Marble-white eyes remained fixated on the television screen while drool dribbled down his chin. He wore a blue and green jersey with the number 44 across the chest, and in one hand he held a can of beer, rested against his knee.

  He was clearly like the others they’d seen tonight, but without the bloodlust. Instead, he seemed to be in some kind of trance, unaware of anything except the television.

  Without taking her eyes off him, Spectrolite moved to the TV and shut it off. The man jerked as though something had surprised him. The beer can slipped from his grasp and fell, spilling beer and foam onto the braided rug at his feet.

  Raising the shotgun so it pointed at his chest, Spectrolite said, “Don’t move.”

  The man blinked furiously, brought the heels of his hands up to his eyes and screamed.

  “What the . . . . Sir, are you okay?” She wasn’t sure how to react. So far, every person with white eyes had been a reanimated corpse, seemingly oblivious to pain.

  When the man dropped his hands from his face, blood dripped from the corners of both eyes, but the irises were now a bright, regular blue. He regarded her with a confused expression until his gaze found hers and then, due to her own supernatural eyes, he became entranced again. A look of placid content overcame him; he sighed deeply and his breathing slowly regulated.

  “Dang!” She lowered her goggles once more, reached down and shook the man by the shoulder.

  He snapped out of his new stupor just as quickly as he’d fallen into it. “Where’s Stephanie?” he asked, glancing around the room.

  “Stephanie?”

  “My girlfriend. She was right here. Who are you?” His eyes moved up and down Spectrolite’s body, no doubt confused by her costume.

  She ignored the look. “I don’t know. I think she must have . . . left.”

  “Left?” The man shot to his feet. “In the middle of the Superbowl?”

  “The Superbowl?” It was Spectrolite’s turn to be confused. She looked at the blank television screen. “Everyone in town must have been watching,” she muttered thoughtfully.

  “What?” the man said. “I don’t know. Probably most people. Why? And who are you? Why are you in my house?”

  “Most people,” she repeated before returning her attention to the man. He wore a football jersey. On the coffee table were several bowls of various kinds of snacks: chips and pretzels, as well as a couple more unopened cans of beer. “But for some reason, you’re immune. I’m guessing not completely, though, based on the state I found you in.”

  The man’s brow furrowed. From his expression it was clear he thought the costumed woman before him was insane.

  “Stephanie!” he shouted again, seemingly not wanting to take
his eyes off Spectrolite, his eyes snapping between her goggled face and the weapon she held.

  “Stay here,” she told him. “I’ll search the rest of the house for Stephanie, but I doubt she’s still here. Unfortunately, I damaged your front door, but once I’m gone I want you to barricade it behind me. Understood?”

  When he didn’t reply, she added. “Don’t worry. I’m here to help.”

  “Help? Help what?”

  She exited the den without replying. Luckily, the house was a small bungalow and only took a few minutes to search. She found nothing out of the ordinary and no other people. Before she left, she peeked back in on the man, who was toying with a cell phone. When he saw her, he barked, “I’m calling the police. I want you out of here now!”

  “Just do what I said. Barricade the door.”

  The sound of him swearing at her followed her back out onto the lawn. As she ran to the house next door, the wheels of her mind spun frantically. Something about the TV signal, then. Whatever had happened to this community had been done intentionally and done at the optimum time, when most of the population would be glued to their television sets.

  It was genius, really. But who could be behind it? And why? Some kind of controlled experiment? Was it visual or auditory? Whatever the signal had been, it had fried the brains of the viewers or listeners, and then what? Rebooted them?

  It didn’t make a lot of sense but it was a theory, at least, though not one she could contemplate for long. She was just mounting the front steps of the new house when two children, a boy and a girl, came racing out the door, their expressions terrified, tears streaming down their cheeks. The girl, no more than nine, ran ahead of the boy and seemed to have not even seen Spectrolite, slamming into her lower body at full speed.

  Managing to keep her balance, Spectrolite gently grabbed the child by a shoulder and said, “Whoa! It’s okay. I’ve got you.”