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Excerpt from Fog Zombies, An Undead Spoof, the new ebook by Vincent Bracco

July 24, 2014

Part One – Silent Visitor

The fog rolled in, spilling over itself like giant waves of cookie dough but not as tasty and without the chocolate chips.

Elias knew what would happen next.

People in rags would appear out of nowhere, lost, and wandering along the sand dunes, as if looking for new clothes and a place to shower.  With glowing eyes and death’s chalk-white pallor, they’d seek out the living, without much success at first as most were slow and limping. Understandable, as one’s foot tends to fall asleep in a cramped coffin after a hundred or so years.

But don’t let their initial clumsiness and poor posture fool you. Once the powdery undead blood mixes with the red bisque of the living, they’re up and dancing. Until they find out they can’t drive.

Elias knew individually or even in pairs they were harmless, no worse than those dawdling Mall strollers who get in your way when you’re trying to get to the store before it closes. But if a few or several hundred got together you can forget about sitting on the porch, going for the mail, or using insect repellant.

Elias found the fog mesmerizing. Staring at it, he’d forget everything and wind up drinking too much–or worse, too little. Sadly, the undead never joined him for a drink, which really bothered him, because if you can’t get an undead babe to have a drink with you, what chance did you have with a live babe like Inez Willow?

The fog moved through the line of trees separating his property from old man Sloan’s.  It was trespassing, as fog tends to do, and moving slower now, probably because it was digesting Sloan and unable to move as fast.

Man-eating fog.

Elias shivered. It was a chilling thought.

He’d been plagued by chilling thoughts lately. What if shape-shifting politicians were entering the music industry just to meet girls and get rich? What if Area 51 was a retirement community for elderly aliens?  Will companies ever stop saying something is new and improved and just get it right the first time?

He wanted to blame someone for this horror. But whom? The weathermen? They’d been predicting fog all week.  Yet they never said anything about this stuff. This heart-stopping, gut-wrenching, foot-scratching, toe-cramping, eye-twitching, ear-ringing, throat-clearing, mind-bending, lip-smacking, back-breaking, side-splitting, nose-blowing, chest-heaving, blood-curdling death fog. Unless they said it while he was in the kitchen getting a snack.

He peeked through the kitchen curtains. The fog was still crawling toward his house, crawling like gray death.

If you could call it crawling.  It moved like vaporous molasses, the deadly kind. And the way it looked–he could only describe it as vaporishly evil and sinister. A presence unlike anything the world had seen except for the Mexican Chupacabra or its close relative the Belgian Chupacabra.

A slow, creeping mass of evil vaporosity. Moving steadily closer by the minute, the second, bringing a slow and torturous death, and leaving in its wake a thick, slimy film of condensation. A messy misty death no number of paper towels could absorb, despite the claim on the label.

It was creeping. Creeping toward him, and his house, this gray death.  Or was it grey death, with an “e”?

The “e” gave it a more somber texture. He’d use that version. He jotted it down and would mention it to Inez the next time he saw her.


Did she know about the fog? Had she heard the latest weather report?

Elias remembered the meteorologist’s exact words: Clearing by midmorning. Yeah, sure. He glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. Ten-thirty.  Something was terribly wrong.  Why were these weather forecasters allowed to get away with such vague language. Mid-morning. Partly cloudy. Mostly sunny. Which is it? Make up your minds. It’s either cloudy or sunny. What’s this partly or mostly nonsense?

Elias tried to finish his breakfast. The fog was picking up speed. Sloan was probably fully digested by now. It was halfway toward the house. There wasn’t time to do the dishes. He thought about making a run for it. Where would he go?

He could drive into town, then what? Most likely he’d run into someone he knew. They’d ask him for money or a favor. Or if they were one of the fog zombies, they’d try to eat him. Nice of them, considering he’d never gotten the time of day from any of them, ever!

No, driving into town was out. There had to be somewhere else he could go. But where? Where?

He smiled.



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