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    Zombie Nights
    Zombie Nights
    Zombie Nights
    Ebook65 pages6 hours

    Zombie Nights

    By Tom Lichtenberg

    3/5

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Being a zombie, not so easy. That could have been Dave Connor's six word memoir. "At first he couldn't remember how he'd ended up in that shallow grave; he just knew it was hell to claw his way out, and that the taste of its dirt would remain in his mouth for the rest of his time on this earth" ... Expect the unexpected in this existential resurrection thriller.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherTom Lichtenberg
    Release dateMar 11, 2010
    ISBN9781452300085
    Zombie Nights
    Author

    Tom Lichtenberg

    Author of curiously engaging novellas of the science-fiction-y, post-modern-y, absurdist variety

    Read more from Tom Lichtenberg

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    Reviews for Zombie Nights

    3/5

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    • 3/5
      If you're looking for a zombie apocalypse type story or a gory brain-eating zombie story, this one is not for you.

      This is a story about one person who "wakes up" in a grave as a zombie, with no idea who or what he is. But he is able to learn things, and slowly the story unfolds and tells us how he ended up in the grave.

      I found it interesting, but lacking in depth. I agree with other reviewers that the ending was rather abrupt and unsatisfying.

      I didn't notice the numerous editing errors others have mentioned, so possibly the book has been updated based on previous complaints.
    • 3/5
      Quick fun read in the genre of the time
    • 5/5
      Dave is not your average zombie. He doesn't eat brains (or anything else, for that matter). After being murdered by a local gang, he rises from his grave and returns back to the only family he has left, an uncle. He learns to speak almost normally from daytime television and and at night, he wanders the streets, trying to help the less fortunate among the living. He makes friends. Dave crawled out of the grave one day and becomes a better human than he ever was. But, unfortunately for Dave, the gang members who stabbed him to death see him one day and want him dead (again).

    Book preview

    Zombie Nights - Tom Lichtenberg

    ZOMBIE NIGHTS

    By TOM LICHTENBERG

    COPYRIGHT 2010 TOM LICHTENBERG

    SMASHWORDS EDITION

    Smashwords Edition, License Notes

    This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If youre reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

    Zero

    Dave Connor was only thirty two years old when he unexpectedly passed away. He was still only thirty two when he even more unexpectedly undied. At first he couldn't remember how he'd ended up in that shallow grave; he just knew it was hell to claw his way out, and that the taste of its dirt would remain in his mouth for the rest of his time on this earth.

    He felt the cold more than anything. That and the darkness and the worms crawling across his face. There wasn't exactly the thought of I've got to get out of here. There was the action, a sudden panic surged within him and the struggle to move his arms which were pinned by his side. He could only wiggle them at first; pushing out as hard as he could he felt his elbows grab a little space, and his fingers stretch until he could curl them just a bit. It was all he needed. Bit by bit he cleared enough room to clear a little more. Now kicking and punching and scratching the wet clammy dirt, feeling every instant as if he would choke on the grains that poured into his mouth and into his nose, filling his eyes and his ears until suddenly, air breaking free; the cold night air with a sprinkle of rain coming down. He was out.

    It was almost as dark above ground as it had been below. Foggy drizzle dripped from the trees and he had no idea where he was. A forest it seemed. He sat on wet grass by the remains of his tomb and spat out the dirt and wiped futily at the clothes which would never get clean. There was mud in his hair and blood on his face and his hands. On his side was a hole in his shirt that led to a hole in his stomach. The bleeding had stopped and the mess was congealed, gooey with puss. He didn't feel pain.

    He decided to get up and walk. He didn't care which way he went. He was lost anyway. If there was a path, he didn't notice. He just walked, through the trees, over rocks, by a stream, over a small wooden bridge. There were trail signs posted at random, but he didn't bother to read them or follow. It registered vaguely that he must be in some kind of park. That meant there were people somewhere. That meant he ought to get out before it got light. None of that made any sense, but it is what he thought. It was instinct.

    But he didn't make it out right away. He could sense that the dawn was arriving, so he looked for a cave, or some bushes in which he could hide. He found an old half burned out tree that would do. He hunkered down in it, and waited. Day came. Day lasted awhile. He kept his eyes open and noticed some things. He noticed he never got hungry. He never got thirsty. He never got tired, or bored. He had no desires. No physical urging. It was all very new and he felt that it was and there was a certain satisfaction, as if patience was something he'd never achieved until now.

    He had leftover instincts as well. He put a thumb to his wrist and could feel a faint pulse. He noticed his lungs weren't filling with air. He was breathing but not with his mouth or his nose. It seemed his whole body was breath, that each pore in his skin absorbed air and ejected it too. This soaking in of the atmosphere was pushing the blood through his veins, and into his brain. He knew what things were. Trees, for example, and sky. He watched animals go through their motions, birds in their frenzy at daybreak. The squirrels, racing and chasing. Insects buzzing. Bees humming. The rain stopped and the sky became blue, with some clouds. He waited and watched for the sun to go down, and followed its direction to find out where he was. When it grew dark again he followed it west.

    He journeyed as straight as he could, ever west. To not go in circles was his most basic plan. He thought that at least he would get somewhere else, out of the woods, and then ... and then, next. He traveled for hours, occasionally stumbling over rocks and roots but for the most time getting along fine and taking it slow, and sometime, late at night, he arrived at the edge of the woods. There he stood on a hill, looking down at the lights of a town he knew well. He even remembered its name, Spring Hill Lake.

    One

    He was standing at the edge of Fulsom Park, a semi-public woodlands situated on a bluff above the city, which lay in a valley and lined the banks of the meandering Wetford river. In

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