S.G. Browne

You wake up on Wednesday morning after a restless night with a cold inflating your head and dripping down the back of your throat.  You pump yourself full ofEmergen -C and Day-Quil, then catch the 6:30AM Super Shuttle to SFO for a flight to Denver.  After a two-hour layover in Denver and a vegetarian burger on a crunchy role with questionable tomatoes and limp lettuce, you climb aboard a subway car disguised as an airplane for the two hour flight to Winnipeg, Canada.You land in Winnipeg and, on the cab ride to the hotel, you look out the windows and see condemned buildings and vacant lots and people shuffling along the sidewalk in a daze and you think, “If the zombie apocalypse started here, no one would notice.”

You check into your hotel, grab some questionable sushi, meet a few of the volunteers and invited guests from the convention, then call it an early night so you can get some sleep.  At 1:50AM, you’re woken up by the couple in the next room having wall pounding sex and you realize the walls are as thin as the Bush Administration’s reasons for invading Iraq.

The next day you realize this convention is going to be very small.  Maybe 50 people if everyone brings in a homeless person from the crime-ridden streets.  And you’re wondering if you’ve wasted $1000 on airfare and hotel.  But then you get to spend time with the volunteers and guests and you realize this is going to be a different kind of convention.

You enjoy a reading by Conrad Williams from his new novel ONE and a panel about the unique writing journey of Edo van Belkom.  You have drinks at the hotel bar with Joshua Gee and F. Paul Wilson, who not only both enjoy the TV series LOST but who help judge the Gross Out Contest, which you hosted.

You host a panel and have a reading and sell all six copies of your novel (which you told customs were just samples and not for sale).  You take cold medicine that containspseudoephredrine, the main ingredient in crystal methamphetamine.  You find out your hotel is frequented by aboriginal prostitutes.

You hang out with Rhonda Parrish (who thinks you have a good singing voice) and Gavin Hughes (who you strong-armed into reading for the Gross Out Contest).  You hang out with Kelly Young (who took compromising pictures of you) and Tommy Castillo (who won the Gross Out Contest).  You sing karaoke with these four people.  You’ve never sung karaoke before, but you manage to pull off a rendition of Sinatra’s “Fly Me To The Moon,” which isn’t as good as Kelly’s version of “Walking in Memphis” or Tommy’s version of “The Rainbow Connection” in the voice of Kermit the Frog, but you have a great time.

You go out to lunch and dinner with these people.  You hang out in the bar with them.  (Because that’s what writers do at these conventions.)  You have a conversation about surviving a post EMP Winnipeg and how you would get home during the breakdown of society and how when you leave the room to take a leak you come back to find out the hypothetical you in this scenario has just been violated.

In addition, you meet Cliff and Linda and John.  You meet Derek and Tim and Sherry.  You meet Nicole and Shad (who got engaged at the convention).  You meet Toni Stauffer and Thomas Sippos and Chris Angus and a dozen others who you fail to mention because your memory isn’t as good as you thought it was.  So you apologize to those forgotten and hope they forgive you and still buy your book.
When you leave Winnipeg on Sunday, you realize you had more fun at this convention than at perhaps any other convention and you realize you have fond memories of the murder capital of Canada.  But it still looks like the zombie apocalypse is just waiting to happen there.

Back in the spring of 2002, I was working on the re-writes of my second and third novels for submission to a couple of small press publishers in the horror community.  Each of the publishers had expressed enthusiastic interest for my novels and it looked like, after more than a decade of writing with the hopes of become a published novelist, I was finally going to realize my dreams.

But then a funny thing happened.  I started to hate what I was writing.

Both novels were of the supernatural horror variety, influenced by a steady diet of King, Straub, Koontz, and McCammon that I’d fed on as a teenager and young adult.  And although I was proud of both novels, the more time I spent re-writing them, the more I realized that I was growing to hate them.

What had once been fun had now become tedious, painful work.

So after struggling with the rewrites for several months, I told the two small presses that I wouldn’t be submitting the manuscripts and I kissed my opportunity to become a published novelist goodbye.

Then I stopped writing.

For the next year and a half I played a lot of golf and spent more time reading and playing with my dog.  I wrote a best man’s speech based on Hamlet (“To wed or not to wed, that is the question…”) and a 40th birthday poem for my wife based on The Raven (“Once upon a birthday dreary…”), but that was about it.

Sometime in the middle of all of this, I read Lullaby by Chuck Palahniuk.

Although I’d seen Fight Club (one of my favorite all time films), I’d never read the novel or any of Palahniuk’s other books.  But for some reason, this novel resonated with me on a level I hadn’t previously experienced.  And when I was done, I had an “a-ha” moment.

While my three novels and four dozen short stories had all predominantly been influenced by my love of horror, I’d written a few short stories that were dark comedy with a supernatural edge to them.  But I’d never thought about writing anything other than straight horror novels.

Lullaby changed all that.

After finishing Lullaby, I began to think about turning a short story of mine into a full-length novel.  The story, “A Zombie’s Lament,” dealt with a group of zombies who attend Undead Anonymous meetings and yearn for civil rights.  About a year later, I wrote the opening scene for Breathers.

(Next entry:  M is for Maggots)

(This entry brought to you courtesy of Andy)

I supposed K could have been for Kill.  (Obvious)  Or Kidney.  (Good stuffed in mushrooms)  Or Kinky.  (Zombie sex)  Or even Kyanize, which is defined as:

to make resistant to decay by treatment with a solution of mercuric chloride

Of course, this only pertains to wood, which doesn’t help the living dead and would only cause Jerry to snicker and make some comment about “sporting wood…”

Jerry: Dude, you said “wood.”

See what I mean?  So you get the point.  In any case, none of them appealed to me or to the author, who is a bit of a shut-in and could use a trip to the Hustler Club, if you get my drift.  So we ended up going with Kibosh.

Why Kibosh?  Because of this line in Breathers:

“…being able to smell your own rotting flesh tends to put the kibosh on your belief in a divine power.”

Needless to say, zombies don’t tend to have a lot of faith in God.  You don’t see the undead shambling to the local church in their Sunday best to sing the praises of a higher intelligence.  Most of us would rather stay home and watch football.  Or curl up with a good book and a cup of tea.

Once you reanimate, you wonder what kind of God would purposely do this to you?  Never mind about the life that you’ve lost and are now forced to watch from the sidelines.  Forget about the way your dog rolls on your or the way your cats use you for a scratching post.  What you wonder is what kind of a higher intelligence would bring you back from the dead to be ridiculed and vilified and imprisoned in a zombie zoo?  Or worse, on a reality TV show?  While it’s bad enough to have to deal with the embarrassment of public sloughage, there’s nothing worse than suffering through the indignities of putrefaction on network television.

It’s enough to turn even the most devout believers into skeptics, so it’s not surprising that zombies can tend to get a little surly.  Of course, just because we have our doubts about the existence of a supreme being doesn’t mean we don’t have a conscience.  After all, when you’ve started eating human flesh, even if you’ve never believed in God or heaven, you still tend to wonder about eternal damnation.

(Next entry:  L is for Lullaby)

So on Zombie Talk Thursdays on Twitter (#zombietalk), the question posed today was:What songs would you listen to while battling the zombie hordes?

Naturally, since Breathers is written from the viewpoint of the aforementioned and often-maligned zombie hordes, it’s not second nature for me to think about what songs would be appropriate for dispatching of the undead.  But I came up with the following playlist, along with a brief description of why I included each song:

“Down With the Sickness” by Richard Cheese
Both this cover version and the original version by Disturbed appear in the 2004 remake of Dawn of the Dead. I like this one because it would a nice, surreal, lounge music feel to the mayhem.

“The Man Comes Around” by Johnny Cash
Also on the soundtrack to the remake of Dawn of the Dead, this is a prophetic song for a zombie apocalypse.

“Comanche” by The Revels
From the Pulp Fiction soundtrack, this is the song that plays when Bruce Willis take his samurai sword to Zed and his pawn shop pervert pal. Enough said.

“Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap” by AC/DC
The opening guitar riff is enough to put me in the mood to pick up an axe and start swinging.

“Dead Man’s Party” by Oingo Boingo
Just to add a little irony to the playlist.

“Brain Stew” by Green Day
Mostly I love the title, but the steady bass beat and the scratchy, dissonant sounds at the end are the perfect aural accompaniment to using a chainsaw.

“Subtract You” by Zebrahead
While the title is appropriate for dispatching the undead, the song itself is fun and playful. And who doesn’t want to have fun when you’re killing zombies?

“No More Mr. Nice Guy” by Alice Cooper
Another well-titled addition to the playlist. After all, you can’t be George Baily and kick some zombie butt.

“Surrender” by Cheap Trick
Like “Subtract You,” this title has the attitude that you’re not backing down. Plus it’s got that uptempo beat that makes getting splattered brains and blood not such a big deal.

And finally, for those lovers committed to battling the zombies together:

“Never Tear Us Apart” by INXS

What are some of the songs in your zombie battle playlist?

You can follow me on Twitter @s_g_browne.  Or follow Andy on Twitter @AndytheZombie.

A conversation between Andy, the main character in Breathers, and Jerry, his best friend…

Andy: Jerry is a twenty-one-year-old car crash victim with an exposed brain and very little self awareness.
Jerry: (Waving)  Hey.

Andy:  They can’t see you, Jerry.  This isn’t on television.

Jerry:  Oh.  (Simulates masturbation)  So they can’t see this?

Andy:  (ignoring Jerry) A fifth of Jack Daniels, half a dozen bong hits, no seat belt, a utility pole, and bad judgment on a right-hand turn sent Jerry through the windshield of his cherry red 1974 Charger and skidding along River Street on his face.

Jerry: Road rash city.
Andy:  Which is how he ended up as a member of Undead Anonymous.

Jerry:  Total bummer.

Andy: Yes.  But maybe you wouldn’t be a zombie if you would have exercised a little more common sense behind the wheel of your car.

Jerry: Dude, you fell asleep while driving home from a party and like, totally killed your wife.

(Sound of crickets chirping)

Jerry: Sorry dude.  That was harsh.

Andy: It’s okay.  At least I don’t wear my baseball hat sideways and my pants halfway down my ass.

Jerry: (hiking up his pants)  It’s the style, dude.  The chicks dig it.

Andy: Breather women don’t dig undead, decomposing slackers.

Jerry: Yeah, but there’s some totally hot zombie chicks out there who are interested in a good stiffy.

Andy:  You’re referring to your permanent, post-mortem erection.

Jerry:  Terminal boner, dude.

Andy:  Jerry fancies himself a ladies man among zombies.

Jerry:  (popping a couple of peppermint Altoids)  Curiously strong.

Andy:  Yeah, well, they’ll have to be more than curious to have an impact on your breath.

Jerry:  Or I could go around wearing women’s make-up like you.
Andy:  I think we’re done here.

Jerry: (removing his hat and leaning forward) Dude, you wanna touch my brain?

(Next entry:  K is for ???  Send me your suggestions)