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He scooped her up, swung her over his shoulder, and started to run. She wheezed, trying to breathe. His foot had smashed her air out and now his shoulder kept ramming into her.

She felt as if she were drowning. Only a dim corner of her mind seemed to work, and she wished it would blink out. Better total darkness, better no awareness at all.

The man stopped running. He bent over, and Jean flopped backward. Beside her was a windshield plated with moonlight. She tried to lift her head.

So she lay there, struggling to suck in air. The man came back. Jean felt as if she had missed a chance to save herself. He leaned over, clutched both sides of her open blouse, and yanked her into a sitting position.

He snapped a handcuff around her right wrist, passed the other bracelet beneath her knee, and cuffed her left hand. Then he lifted her off the hood.

Through the windshield, Jean saw him rush past the front of the car. She drove her knee up. It bumped her chin, but she managed to slip the handcuff chain down her calf and under the sole of her running shoe.

She grabbed the door handle. She levered it up and threw her shoulder against the door and started to tumble out, but her head jerked back with searing pain as if the hair were being torn from her scalp.

Her cheekbone struck the steering wheel. A hand clasped the top of her head. Another clutched her chin. And he rammed the side of her face again and again on the wheel.

She felt his hand kneading her breast. The car was moving fast. From the engine noise and the hiss of the tires on the pavement, she guessed they were on the Interstate.

He looked down at her and smiled. It had the crewcut right, and the weird crazy eyes, but his nose was a little larger, his lips a lot thicker.

Jean started to lift her head. Did you see how they hit that tree? She gritted her teeth. Just goes to show what a twelve-gauge can do to a fellow.

Just sweet young things like you. It came as no surprise, no shock. Only one body had been found. Everyone talked as if the Reaper had killed the other six, but really they were only missing.

Maybe he takes them someplace and keeps them. But he just now said he kills sweet young things: He killed them all. Jean was tempted to grab his hand and bite it.

If she did that, he would hurt her again. He plans to make me scream. But that was later. Maybe she could get away from him before it came to that.

The best thing, for now, was to give him no trouble. And I know who you are, too. Maybe followed me around on campus, asked someone my name.

Have you read any books like that? The bittersweet story of your brief but passionate relationship with that guy. What was his name? You were the intended victim, Paul simply an unlucky jerk who got in the way.

He got lucky, then he got unlucky. He got off and got offed. Did he go out with a bang? Air hissed in through her teeth. Of course, some of the notoriety may be a trifle embarrassing for you.

Who was the last person to see you alive. People read that, a lot of them are going to think you were asking for it. So your demented roommate can listen through the wall and make noises.

We can find a place by the stream. I ask you a question, you answer. It tipped upward a bit, pressing her cheek against his belt buckle. An off-ramp, she thought.

The car stopped, then made a sharp turn. A cold tremor swept through Jean. You were just too horny to care? I hate those sniveling, whiny pouters.

Take me, for instance—I never pout. I make other people lose. His face was a vague blur. There were no more streetlights, Jean realized.

Nothing but moonlight, now. I killed a girl once. It was just two years ago. I was going with this guy, Jim Smith, and… I really loved him.

And then all of a sudden he started going with this bitch, Mary Jones. So one night I snuck into her room in the sorority and smothered her with a pillow.

And I enjoyed it. I laughed when she died. I can see some advantages to an arrangement like that.

You could lure the pretty young things into my car, help me subdue them. What do you think? His offer was just what she had wanted to hear—and he knew it.

He knew it, all right. But she went along, just in case. The front of the car tipped upward. Four out of eight. The other one said she pushed her kid sister out of the tree house.

What are the chances of that? His left hand kept jogging the steering wheel from side to side as he maneuvered up the hill.

She could reach up and grab the wheel and maybe make them crash. At this speed, the crash might not hurt him at all. But the car stopped.

He swung the steering wheel way over and started ahead slowly. The car bumped and rocked. Its tires crunched dirt.

Leafy branches whispered and squeaked against its sides. Most of them start about now. Sometimes they hold off till we get out.

He stopped the car and turned off the engine. Sit up slowly and open the door. As she levered the handle, he clutched the collar of her blouse.

He held onto it while she climbed out. Then he was standing, still gripping her collar, knuckles shoving at the back of her neck to guide her around the door.

The door slammed shut. They passed the front of the car and moved toward a clearing in the forest. The clearing was milky with moonlight.

In the center, near a pale dead tree, was a ring of rocks that someone had stacked up to enclose a campfire.

A pile of twigs and broken branches stood near the fire ring. The Reaper steered Jean toward the dead tree. She saw wood already piled inside the wall of rocks, ready for a match.

And she felt a quick glimmer of hope. Someone had laid the fire. He probably did it. He was up here earlier, preparing. She saw a rectangular box at the foot of the tree.

She began to whimper. She tried to stop walking, but he shoved her forward. He took a key from the pocket of his pants and held it in front of her face.

His forearm caught her under the chin, forcing her back as she started to double. Her legs gave out. She slid down the trunk, the barkless wood snagging her blouse and scraping her skin.

A knob of root pounded her rump. She started to tumble forward, but he was there in front of her upthrust knees, blocking her fall.

She was hurting and dazed and breathless. She was folded, back tight against the tree, legs mashing her breasts, arms stretched out over her knees, toes pinned to the ground by his boots.

She knew she had lost. Jean felt as if she were outside herself, observing. It was someone else being grabbed under the armpits, someone else being lifted.

She was watching a movie and the heroine was being prepared for torture. The loose cuff was being passed over the top of a limb. The Reaper lifted her off her feet and carried her out away from the trunk.

Then he let go. The man walked away from his captive. He crouched on the other side of the ring of rocks and struck a match. Flames climbed the tented sticks.

They wrapped thick, broken branches. Pale smoke drifted up. He stood and returned to the girl. His voice sounded as faint as the snapping of the fire behind him.

This is okay, she thought. She stood rigid and stared at the dark blade. Her heart felt like a hammer trying to smash its way out of her chest.

It cut her clothes instead—the straps of her bra, the sleeves of her blouse, the waistband of her skirt. He took the clothes to the fire.

Here in the mess hall. I leave a meal for him and his forest friends, and they do the cleanup for me.

No fuss, no bother. And you, sweet thing, will be spared the embarrassment of returning to campus bare-ass. He took out pliers and a screwdriver.

He set the pliers on the flat top of a rock. He picked up the screwdriver. Its shank was black even before he held it over the fire.

Jean saw the flames curl around it. Smiling, he rolled the screwdriver in his hand. No need to rush. Are you savoring the anticipation?

Done it plenty of times before. Scream, twitch, cry, kick, beg, drool… bleed. Not necessarily in that order, of course. Pliers in one hand, screwdriver in the other, he walked slowly toward Jean.

Wisps of pale smoke rose off the shank of the screwdriver. He stopped in front of her. So many choice areas to choose from. Jean jerked her head aside.

The tip moved closer. She shut her eye. Felt heat against its lid. But the heat faded. After all, half the fun for you will be watching. He had simply touched her with the nose of the pliers.

Jean tried to jerk away, but the handcuffs stopped her. As the edge of her shoe glanced off his hip, he stroked her thigh with the screwdriver.

She twisted away, and he flopped beside her. She gazed down at him, hardly able to believe he was actually sprawled there.

She was dreaming and pretty soon she would come to with a burst of pain and… No, she thought. She looked for the rock thrower. And spotted a dim shape standing beside a tree on the far side of the clearing.

It limped toward the glow of the fire. From the shape, Jean guessed that her savior was a woman. Others began to appear across the clearing.

One stepped out from behind a tree. Another rose behind a clump of bushes. Jean glimpsed movement over to the right, looked and saw a fourth woman.

She heard a growl behind her, twisted around, and gasped at the sight of someone crawling toward her. Toward the Reaper, she hoped.

The flesh had been stripped from one side of her back, and Jean glimpsed pale curving ribs before she whirled away.

Now there were five in front of her, closing in and near enough to the fire so she could see them clearly. She stared at them. Came out of herself, became an observer.

The girl cuffed beneath the tree was amazed that a one-eyed girl had been able to throw a rock with such fine aim. It was even more amazing, since she was obviously dead.

How can she walk? How can any of them walk? The troops had really feasted on her. One arm was missing entirely.

The other arm was bone, and gone from the elbow down. Where she still had flesh, it looked black and lumpy. Some of her torso was intact, but mostly hollowed out.

The right-hand side of her rib cage had been broken open. The ribs on the left were still there, and a shriveled lung was visible through the bars.

Her face had no eyes, no nose, no lips. She looked as if she might be grinning. Of course not, dope. How can she see?

One of the others still had eyes. They were wide open and glazed. She had a very peculiar stare. She still had most of her skin.

But it looked shiny and slick with a coating of white slime. Had she been peeled? She was black all over except for the whites of her eyes and teeth—and hundreds of white things as if she had been showered with rice.

But the rice moved. The rice was alive. The last of the five girls approaching from the front was also black.

Her body was a crust of char, cracked and leaking fluids that shimmered in the firelight. She bore only a rough resemblance to a human being.

Her crust made papery, crackling sounds as she shuffled past the fire, and pieces flaked off. A motley crew, thought the girl cuffed to the limb.

She wondered if any of them would have enough sense to find the key and unlock the handcuffs. They were limping and hobbling straight toward the Reaper.

Whose shriek now shattered whatever fragile force had allowed Jean to stay outside the cuffed stranger. She tried to keep her distance.

Was sucked back inside the naked, suspended girl. Felt a sudden rush of horror and revulsion… and hope.

Whatever else they might be, they were the victims of the Reaper. He was still shrieking, and Jean looked down at him. He was on his hands and knees.

The scalped girl, also on her knees and facing him, had his head caught between her hands. She was biting the top of his head. Jean heard a wet ripping sound as the girl tore off a patch of hair and flesh.

He flopped and skidded backward, dragged by the rock thrower and the one with the slimy skin. Each had him by a foot. The scalped girl started to crawl after him, then grunted and stopped and tried to pick up the pliers.

Her right hand had no fingers. She pawed at the pliers, whimpering with frustration, then sighed when she succeeded in picking up the tool using the thumb and two remaining fingers of her other hand.

Quickly, she crawled along trying to catch up to her prize. She scurried past Jean. One of her buttocks was gone, eaten away to the bone.

She gained on the screaming Reaper, reached out and clamped the pliers to the ridge of his ear and ripped out a chunk.

Halfway between Jean and the fire, the girls released his feet. All six went at him. He bucked and twisted and writhed, but they turned him onto his back.

While some held him down, others tore at his clothes. Others tore at him. The scalped one took the pliers to his right eyelid and tore it off. The burnt one snatched up a hand and opened her lipless black mouth and began to chew his fingers off.

While this went on, the armless girl capered like a madcap skeleton, her trapped lung bouncing inside her ribcage.

His pants and boxer shorts were bunched around his cowboy boots. The scalped girl had ripped his other eyelid off, and now was stretching his upper lip as he squealed.

The rock thrower, kneeling beside him, clawed at his belly as if trying to get to his guts. Slime-skin bit off one of his nipples, chewed it, and swallowed.

No longer shrieking, he choked and wheezed. The dancing skeleton dropped to her bare kneecaps, bent over him, and clamped her teeth on his penis.

She pulled, stretching it, gnawing. The scalped girl tore his lip off. She gave the pliers a snap, and watched the lip fly.

Jean watched it too. Then felt its soft plop against her thigh. It stuck to her skin like a leech. She stomped her foot on the ground, trying to shake it off.

And then she was throwing up. She leaned forward as far as she could, trying not to vomit on herself.

A small part of her mind was amused. And she had watched the corpses do unspeakable things to the Reaper. At least she was missing herself.

Most of it was hitting the ground in front of her shoes, though a little was splashing up and spraying her shins.

Finally the heaving subsided. She gasped for air and blinked tears out of her eyes. And saw the scalped girl staring at her.

The others kept working on the Reaper. The scalped girl stabbed the pliers down. She rammed them deep into his mouth and partway down his throat, left them there, and started to crawl toward Jean.

She stopped at the puddle of vomit and lowered her face into it. Jean heard lapping sounds, and gagged.

The girl raised her head, stared up at Jean, licked her dripping lips, then crawled forward. The head snapped back. The girl tumbled away. A chill spread through Jean.

Her skin prickled with goosebumps. Her heart began to slam. The scalped girl, whose torso was an empty husk, rolled over and started to push herself up.

Her body swept down and backward. As she started forward again, she pumped her legs high. She kicked and swung, making herself a pendulum that strained higher with each sweep.

Her legs hooked over the barkless, dead limb. She drew herself up against its underside and hugged it. Twisting her head sideways, she saw the scalped girl crawling toward her again.

Jean had never seen her stand. But the others could stand. They were still busy with the Reaper. Ripping off flesh with their teeth.

He choked around the pliers and made high squeaky noises. As Jean watched, the charred girl crouched over the fire and put both hands into the flames.

When she straightened up, she had a blazing stick trapped between the fingerless flaps of her hands. The pants, pulled down until they were stopped by his boot tops, wrapped him just below the knees.

In seconds they were ablaze. The Reaper started screaming again. He squirmed and kicked. Jean was surprised he had that much life left in him.

The key, she thought. If I live that long. Jean began to shinny out along the limb. It scraped her thighs and arms, but she kept moving, kept inching her way along.

The limb sagged slightly. She scooted farther, farther. Heard a faint crackling sound. Then was stopped by a bone white branch that blocked her left arm.

She thrust herself forward and rammed her arm against the branch. The impact shook it just a bit. A few twigs near the far end of it clattered and fell.

The branch looked three inches thick where it joined the main limb. The branch barred her way like the arm and hand of a skeleton pleased to keep her treed until its companions finished with the Reaper and came for her.

She clamped it between her teeth, bit down hard on the dry wood, gnashed on it. Her teeth barely seemed to dent it. She lowered her head.

Spat dirt and grit from her mouth. The Reaper was no longer moving or making any sounds. Pale smoke drifted up from the black area where his pants had been burning.

The charred girl who had set them ablaze now held his severed arm over the campfire. The slimy, breastless girl was pulling a boot onto one of her feet.

At first Jean thought she was pinching herself with them. One at a time, she was squashing the maggots that squirmed on her belly.

She reared up, coils of intestine drooping from her mouth. Though he was apparently dead, his victims all still seemed contented.

Straining to look down past her shoulder, Jean saw the scalped girl directly below. Reaching up, pawing the air with the remains of her hands.

Could just see the others turning their heads toward the sound of her voice. If I could just kill her! Good luck on that one.

Jean clamped the limb hard with her hands. Jean released the limb with her legs. She felt a breeze wash over her sweaty skin as she dropped.

She thrashed her feet like a drowning woman hoping to kick to the surface. A heel of her shoe struck something. Then she was swinging upward and saw her.

Turning on her knees and reaching high, grinning. Jean kicked hard as she swept down. The toe of her shoe caught the bitch in the throat, lifted her off her knees and knocked her sprawling.

Jean dangled by her hands, swaying slowly back and forth. She bucked and tried to fling her legs up to catch the limb.

Lost her hold and cried out as the steel edges of the bracelets cut into her wrists. Her feet touched the ground.

The scalped girl rolled over and crawled toward her. She grabbed the limb. She pulled herself up to it and drove her knees high but not fast enough. She pulled at Jean, stretching her, dragging her down, reaching higher, climbing her.

Her grip on the limb started to slip. She squealed as teeth ripped into her thigh. She dropped straight down.

Falling, she shoved the limb sideways. It hammered her shoulder as she landed, knees first, on the girl. The weight drove Jean forward, smashed her down.

Though the girl no longer hugged her legs, she felt the head beneath her thigh shake from side to side.

She writhed and bucked under the limb. The teeth kept their savage bite on her. Then had their chunk of flesh and lost their grip.

Clutching the limb, Jean bore it down, her shoulder a fulcrum. She felt the wood rise off her back and rump. Its splintered end pressed into the ground four or five feet in front of her head.

Bracing herself on the limb, she scurried forward, knees pounding at the girl beneath her. Not with the missing fingers. Teeth snapped at her, scraping the skin above her right knee.

Jean jerked her leg back and shot it forward. Then Jean was off her, rising on the crutch of the broken limb.

And saw the others coming. The breastless girl with runny skin wore both his boots. Her arms were raised, already reaching for Jean though she was still a few yards away.

The rock thrower had found a rock. The skinned girl aswarm with maggots picked at herself with the pliers as she shambled closer.

She ducked, grabbed the limb low, hugged it to her side and whirled as the branchy top of it swept down in front of her.

It dropped from its height slashing sideways, its bony fingers of wood clattering and bursting into twigs as it crashed through the cadavers.

Three of them were knocked off their feet. A branch struck the face of the scalped girl crawling toward her, popped, and flew off.

Then the crawling girl was behind Jean again and the others were still down. All except the rock thrower. Now her arm was cocked back, ready to hurl a small block of stone.

Jean, spinning, released the limb. Its barkless wood scraped her side and belly. It flew from her like a mammoth, tined lance. Free of its pull, Jean twirled.

The rock flicked her ear. She fell to her knees. Who scurried toward her moaning as if she already knew she had lost. Driving both fists against the ground, Jean pushed herself up.

She took two quick steps toward the crawler and kicked her in the face. Then she staggered backward. The rock thrower was down, arms batting through the maze of dead branches above her.

The others were starting to get up. Jean ran through them, cuffed hands high, twisting and dodging as they scurried for her, lurched at her, grabbed.

Then they were behind her. All but the Reaper and the armless thing sprawled between his legs, chewing on him. Gotta get the handcuff key, she thought.

The car key was in the ignition. She leaped the Reaper. And staggered to a stop on the other side of his body.

Gasping, she bent over and lifted a rock from the ring around the fire. Though its heat scorched her hands, she raised it overhead.

The corpses were coming, crawling and limping closer. It struck with a wet, crunching sound. It stayed on his face as if it had made a nest for itself.

Jean stomped on it once, pounding it in farther. Then she swung around. She leaped the fire and dashed through the clearing toward the waiting car.

If they were better able to afford one than he was, Bright wished them luck. Now that it was daylight, he could see into all the lowest rooms of the high rise opposite, but there was no sign of life on the first two floors.

Perhaps all the tenants were singing the hymns he could hear somewhere in the suburb. He took his time about making himself presentable, and then he went downstairs.

The lifts were out of order. Presumably it was a repairman who peered at him through the smeary window of one scrawled metal door on the landing below his.

The blurred face startled him so much that he was glad to see people on the third floor. The woman they had come to visit was losing a smiling contest with them.

She stepped back grudgingly, and Bright heard the bolt and chain slide home as he reached the stairs. The public library was on the ground floor.

First he strolled to the job center among the locked and armored shops. There was nothing for a printer on the cards, and cards that offered training in a new career were meant for people thirty years younger.

They needed the work more than he did, even if they had no families to provide for. He ambled back to the library, whistling a wartime song.

The young job-hunters had finished with the newspapers. Bright started with the tabloids, saving the serious papers for the afternoon, though even those suggested that the world over the horizon was seething with disease and crime and promiscuity and wars.

Still, it was no wonder that most readers came to the library for fiction rather than for the news. He supposed the smiling couple who were filling cartons with books would take them to the housebound, although some of the titles he glimpsed seemed unsuitable for the easily offended.

He watched the couple stalk away with the cartons, until the smoke of a distant bonfire obscured them. The library closed at nine.

Usually Bright would have been home for hours and listening to his radio cassette player, to Elgar or Vera Lynn or the dance bands his father used to play on the wind-up record player, but something about the day had made him reluctant to be alone.

He read about evolution until the librarian began to harrumph loudly and smite books on the shelves. Perhaps Bright should have gone up sooner.

When he hurried round the outside of the building to the lobby, he had never seen the suburb so lifeless. Identical gray terraces multiplied to the horizon under a charred sky; a pair of trampled books lay amid the breathless litter on the anonymous concrete walks.

He thought he heard a cry, but it might have been the start of the hymn that immediately was all he could hear, wherever it was.

The few lights that were working had been spray-painted until they resembled dying coals. Gangs of shadows flattened themselves against the walls, waiting to mug him.

As he climbed, a muffled sound of hymns made him feel even more isolated. They must be on television, he could hear them in so many apartments.

One pair of lift doors on the fifth floor had jammed open. He labored upstairs to his landing, where the corresponding doors were open too.

Once his head stopped swimming, he ventured to the edge of the unlit shaft. There was no movement, and nothing on the cable except the underside of the lift on the top floor.

He turned toward his apartment. Two men were waiting for him. They were staring at his door and rubbing their hands stiffly. They wore black T-shirts and voluminous black overalls, and sandals on their otherwise bare feet.

They turned together, holding out their hands as if to show him how gray their palms looked under the stained lamp. Their narrow bland faces were already smiling.

They might be two men or even two women, despite their close-cropped hair. They gazed at him as if nothing he might say would stop them smiling, their eyes wide as old pennies stuck under the lids.

When he pulled out his key and marched forward, they stepped aside, but only just. He pushed the door open, no wider than he needed to let himself in.

His visitors came plodding in, bumping the door against the wall. Their expressions seemed more generalized than ever. They seemed no surer who should talk than who should close the door behind them.

The one by the hinges elbowed it shut, almost trapping the other before he was in, until the other blundered through and squashed his companion behind the door.

They might be fun, Bright supposed, and he could do with some of that. They tried to lumber into the main room together.

One barged through the doorway and the other stumped after him, and they stared about the room. He resented the disapproval, but he was more disconcerted by how his visitors looked in the light of his apartment: God only knew how long it would take them to stand up.

Whichever responded, the voice through the fixed smile sounded more pinched than ever. The gray ingrained in their flesh suggested disuse rather than hard work, and disused was how they smelled in the small room.

The sight of their faces stretched tight by their smiles was so disagreeably fascinating that he jumped, having lost his sense of time passing, when one spoke.

The jerky hand produced a videocassette that bore a picture of a priest. His visitors pivoted sluggishly to survey the room.

Their smiles turned away from him, turned back unchanged. They must have seen that his radio could play cassettes, for now the righthand visitor was holding one.

He held open the door to the vestibule and shrank back as one floundered in the doorway while the other fumbled at the outer door.

He held his breath as the second set of footsteps plodded through the vestibule, and let out a gasp of relief as the outer door slammed.

Perhaps deodorants were contrary to their faith. He opened the window and leaned into the night to breathe. More of the building opposite was unlit, as if a flood of darkness were rising through the floors, and he would have expected to see more houses lit by now.

He could hear more than one muffled hymn, or perhaps the same one at different stages of its development. When the smoke of a bonfire began to scrape his throat, he closed the window.

He set up the ironing board and switched on the electric iron. Perhaps he could remind himself. He carried the radio to his chair by the window.

As he lifted the cassette out of its plastic box, he winced. A sharp corner of the cassette had pricked him. He sucked his thumb and gnawed it to dislodge the sliver of plastic that had penetrated his skin.

He dropped the cassette into the player and snapped the aperture shut, then he switched on, trying to ignore the ache in his thumb.

He heard a hiss, the click of a microphone, a voice. Bright knew the name; perhaps he would be able to place it now that the ache was fading. The absence of the pain was unexpectedly comforting: If you looked out at the suburb, you would see the littered walkways where nobody walked at night except addicts and muggers and drunks.

There was better elsewhere, Bright told himself, and managed to turn his head on its stiff neck toward the portrait photograph. Believe me, you can.

Christ says you can. He had to suffer agonies for the truth, but we offer you the end of pain and the beginning of eternal life. The resurrection of the body has begun.

His injured hand alone felt as heavy as himself. His voice seemed to be growing louder, so loud that the speaker ought to be vibrating.

You will go forth to save your fellow man and be rewarded on the day of judgment. Man was made to praise God, and so he did until woman tempted him in the garden.

When the sound of our praise is so great that it reaches heaven, our savior shall return. But he felt as if it wanted to take the place of his entire life.

Voodoo widower, he chanted to himself to break up the oppressive repetition of the hymn, voodoo widower.

He was fending off the hymn, though it seemed impossibly loud in his head, when he heard another sound. The outer door was opening.

The numbness that had spread from his thumb through his body had sculpted him to the chair. He heard the outer door slam as bodies blundered voicelessly about the vestibule.

Douglas Preston Original Title: The Book of the Dead Book Format: Hardcover Number Of Pages: Great book, The Book of the Dead pdf is enough to raise the goose bumps alone.

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Romero, a wild frontiersman in the grandest tradition. By running the heart of his brazen cosmology through their distinctive filters, they have breathed even more fire into his already vibrant archetypal landscape.

No tiny task, that. And fourth, because we The Editors had a hand in goosing this glorious sucker into existence, thereby doing our part to stretch the boundaries of modern horror fiction just a little bit further.

Because, have ye no doubt, until fairly recently it seemed as though the body of traditional horror fiction had reached the coast and settled there.

It was more than happy to homestead the territories, tilling the fertile soil opened up by Lovecraft, Machen, Poe and James, not to mention Bloch and Matheson and Serling and Blatty and yes, even Stephen King.

This is not, in itself, a bad thing. The world could do worse than to suffer a surfeit of such vision.

But still, the call which came to all of them keeps right on calling. This book is but one response: This is a book that goes too far, and invites you along for the ride.

And the fear of mass activity, of mindlessness on a national scale, underlies my fear of zombies.

While Sam Peckinpah was doing his part to usher in the age of explicitness by blasting Ernest Borgnine into teensy little bits in The Wild Bunch, Romero dared to give us a pair of darling young lovers and send them heroically off into danger, only to blow them to flaming smithereens, then let the camera hang around while a gaggle of rotting guys and gals next door devoured their crispy innards.

Night was daring in other ways, as well: And did an end run around the tidy horror convention of good vs. But perhaps most significantly, Night was the first horror film to give shape to the dawning fear that the American Dream, such as we knew it, was dead.

From that moment on, his vision of a world overrun by the living dead was more than just a nifty plot device: Dawn was also the first major film to defy the dreaded MPAA Motion Picture Association of America by refusing to dilute into an R-rated version while simultaneously refusing to accept an X, the skull-and-crossbones which would have placed it on the marquee right next to Deep Throat and Debbie Does Dallas.

It went out, instead, unrated, in flat-out refusal to play the censorship game. This unwillingness to compromise would have doomed a lesser film.

But there had never been anything like the nonstop cavalcade of technicolor sploosh that Romero unleashed with Dawn. When audiences the world over went nuts for the thing, the age of splatter had truly arrived.

And with it, the battle over how much is too much pitched into predictable overdrive. George Romero, God bless him, had gone too far.

Because it now takes more and more violence to make us feel shock and revulsion, media violence has to become more and more graphic to be profitable.

Swill in a bucket. Schow There was no question that Dawn of the Dead was desensitizing. After two hours and however many minutes depending on which cut you saw of exploding heads and rippling viscera, it got awfully hard to give a damn about the no-longer-humans and their violent au revoirs.

In certain respects, it is the ultimate dehumanization flick, because you can no longer afford to think of these blueish-green people as people.

To regard them as more is potentially fatal. The sense of dehumanization is pointedly not by accident. But there are also moments of intense, perverse and profoundly disturbing rehumanization.

At this point, the levels of horror are many; you can take your pick as to which hurts the worst. Is it the moment when the limb finally severs, then flops in gruelingly authentic deadpan to the floor?

Or perhaps the moment comes seconds later, when she brings the torch up to his dripping stump, setting off a bio-frenzy of sizzling, blackening cauterization?

All of that takes place on the first level, the ground floor of being. But, as critics of the overt mode are quick to point out, simple carnography is easy.

Just train your gaze on the icky thing in motion, and you need go no further. Lord knows that the cinescape is redolent with empty goo and spew, loveless as your average quickee porn loop and meaningless as popping a zit.

But this brings us to the second level, which takes place on the stripped-naked faces of the people to whom this horror is occurring.

To go any further is to pander, to lower oneself into the slag-pit of cheap sensationalism. But the advocates of the less is more school of horror are specialists in the art of averting their eyes, and their modus operandi tends toward a far more irrational brand of fear.

I never even knew what hit me. It is, with all due respect, an evasion of the most fundamental sort.

Which brings us to the third level: At this point, you can no longer detach; the unknown has become tangible and all too real, beyond cheapening on the one hand or denial on the other.

You can see the wet hole and the charred stump, yes; but beyond that—and in vital, visceral conjunction— you can know how it feels to be a part of it.

It is the point at which true illumination becomes possible: There is no sacrifice of one for the other. Such sacrifice is worse than pointless.

To go too far is to come that much closer to having it all; and in dangerous times like these, we need it all if we are to survive.

Do you wish to see perceive nothing, or do you want to see things as they really are? It is not hard to see things as they really are, it is simply a matter of tearing down walls, ridding oneself of defenses and presumption, rendering oneself vulnerable, an idiot, a fool.

To go nine-tenths of the way is to suffer at every moment utter madness. To go all the way is to become sane.

Most people prefer blindness. But most people are a dying race. Pick up the newspaper. Turn on the TV. Look out your window. Death and mindless brutality have permeated every aspect of our lives to such a degree that there is no escape, no place safe to hide.

And while violence per se is certainly nothing new, it might be safe to assert that during the twentieth century some dark, twisted component of the human spirit has come of age.

And in doing so, given rise to a radical twist in the nature of Absolute Values in relation to life as it is. When the first poison gas blew through the trenches of Belgium and France, something fundamentally twisted.

When the first ovens fired at Auschwitz and the first mushroom clouds bloomed over Hiroshima and Nagasaki, something twisted.

When oppressed peoples rioted in the streets or were led off to slaughter, when it became all too clear that our fearless leaders were more often than not bald-faced businessmen who sold us out in the name of profit, when killer cultists who listened to The Beatles carved up Sharon Tate and her unborn baby, ushering in an era of serial killers and Khmer Rouge, drive-by shooters and day-care rapists, hijackings and knee-cappings, death squads and body dumps… Something twisted.

And it keeps on twisting, in the winds of change. And it never will. The old maps grow frayed at the edges; whole new vistas open up where before there was the fog and the fading to black.

Or better yet, to return to the last place we felt comfortable. The last place we felt we knew. Your Humble Editors would offer that it is better to press on: It is not my job to lull you with a false sense of the rightness of the universe.

This wonderful and terrible occupation of recreating the world in a different way, each time fresh and strange, is an act of revolutionary guerrilla warfare.

I stir the soup. I make your nose run and your eyeballs water. You hold in your hands a world of hurt: You hold in your hands a universe of grisly possibility, replete with all of the hope and humanity supportable by such a place.

Not bad for a book of zombie stories. The contributors responded to our invitation with an enthusiasm that both stunned and delighted us.

We asked for their most intense vision. But we never expected the level of intensity that came pouring in, story after story.

Everybody knows something about the world of the walking dead. This is our way of probing the boundaries, penetrating the unknown, making sense of the nonsensical and the abhorrent.

It has been brought to you by a handful of the wildest frontiersmen that this world has to offer, guys who have gone to the edge and have the arrows in their backs to prove it.

Read every goddam thing they write. They are not writing for no reason. Each in their own way, they are pushing us toward understanding: If we are to rise above this nightmare, we must first make peace with the monster inside ourselves: A new dark age beckons on the one side.

A renaissance, on the other. If there is any hope for the future, it surely must rest upon the ability to stare unflinchingly into the heart of darkness.

Then set our sights on a better place. Just as each of us has an aberration, a hidden secret. He was going to answer his own obtuse question, and the answer he had already decided upon was no.

It was the puffery that preceded the crunch—was she going to fuck him tonight, or not? She was positive he had already answered that one in his head as well.

Dinner had run to ninety-five bucks, not counting the wine or the tip. Dessert had been high-priced, higher-caloric, chocolate, elegant.

Cabs had been taken and token gifts dispensed. Older men frequently asked her out. When Quinn invited her to dinner, a weekend date, she had pulled his file, consulted his figures, and said yes.

All the girls in the office did it. He drove a Jaguar XJS and was into condo development. The dinner part had been completed two hours ago.

Now it was his place. When your income hit the high six figures there was no such animal as date rape. It was inactive tonight.

Best to stay mum; it was like compensation. To her certain knowledge she had never bedded bisexuals or intravenous drug users, and in truth she feared contracting AIDS in the same unfocused way she feared getting flattened in a crosswalk by a bus.

There was no way in the world either of them could fit a condom over their mouths, so it was academic. She had disconnected, and felt just fine.

She took a deep, languorous breath, keeping him on the far side of her wine glass, and stifled the giggle that welled within her. Oh my yes, she felt nice, adrift on a cumulus pillow of gasified brain cells.

She would look past him, through him, in just this way when he was on top of her, grunting and sweating and believing he had seduced her… just as he now believed she was paying attention.

She rewound back to the last utterance she cared to remember and acted upon it. She added a glowing smile and toyed with a long curl of her copper hair.

His interest came full blast, too eager. She played him like a catfish on a hook. Through the tabletop he watched her legs recross.

The whisper of her stockings flushed his face with blood. His brain was giddy, already jumping forward in time, to the clinch.

His voice was so cultured, his tone so paternal. He was losing control and she could smell it. She kept a childlike killer smile precisely targeted.

So much bitterness, there beneath the manner and cosmetics. There was a tall vase of irises on an antique end table near the fireplace.

He kept his gaze on her. The fire was in his eyes as well. Every inch the coquette, Amelia bit off the delicate chiffon of the iris.

I like the flavor. It became evident that his erection was making him blunder. She had made a point of telling Quinn she liked lots of flowers, and he and his Gold Card had come through in rainbow colors.

All over the penthouse were long-stemmed roses, carnation bouquets, spring bunches, mums, more. Quinn found the sight of Amelia chewing the flowers throat-closingly erotic.

His voice grew husky and repeated her name. It was time for him to lunge. So far, no big deal. Quinn used silk scarves to secure her wrists and ankles to the mahogany poles of the four-poster bed.

With a long, curved, ebony-handled knife he halved the front of her dress. Into the vanilla highlands of her breasts he mumbled promises of more expensive replacement garments.

His hands lost their sophistication and became thick-fingered, in a big masculine hurry, shredding her hose to the knees and groping to see if she was as moist as his fantasies.

Then he was thrusting. Amelia rocked and pretended to orgasm. This would be done in a hurry. She expected him to go for the knife again, to stroke her nipples with its razor edge or tease her nerve endings with mock danger.

Instead, he reached into a headboard compartment and brought out a rubber mask festooned with sewn leather and buckles and shiny gold zippers.

It almost made her laugh. The contraption engulfed her head like a thick, too-tight glove. She thought of getting stuck in a pullover sweater, only this material was definitely nonporous.

Her lungs felt brief panic until the thing was fully seated and she could gulp air through the nose and mouth slits.

Then Quinn resumed pushing himself into her, his prodding more urgent now. He broke rhythm only to zip the holes in the mask shut.

Fear blossomed loud in her chest, becoming a fireball. She pulled in a final huge draught of air before he zipped the nose shut, and wasted breath making incomprehensible muling noises against the already-sealed mouth hole.

She could not tell him now of her congenital lung problems, that respiration was sometimes a chore. When the weather was wrong, she had to resort to prescription medication just to breathe.

It had never come up, all through dinner. They had been too busy with aberrations and prime moments and eating flowers… All she could feel now was a slow explosion in her chest and the steady pounding down below, in and out.

She began to buck and heave, thrashing. Quinn loved every second of it, battering her lustily despite her abrupt lack of lubrication.

The friction vanished when he came inside her. Panting, he lumbered immediately to the bathroom. When he returned, Amelia had not changed position, and he finally noticed she was no longer breathing.

Sometimes it went down this way, he thought. The price of true passion, however aberrant. But she was still moist and poised at the ready, so he opted to have one more go.

He huffed with surprise when she began to squirm beneath him again. He went aahhh and started stroking rigid and slippery in a fast tempo.

That was it—she had fainted. Sometimes it went down that way as well—orgasm put them in the Zone for a while. She would awaken on high-burn and come her teeny secretary brains right out.

Her jaw wrenched around at a ridiculous angle and bit into the leather muzzle of the mask from within, shredding a hole.

In the brief second before the pain hit, Quinn thought of that crazy shit on the news. Cannibal attacks on the eastern seaboard.

Some whackpot scientist had claimed that dead people were reviving and eating live people. It was all Big Apple ratshit.

His throat flooded with the foaming pink backwash of inhaled blood. He made a liquid gargling noise as he tried to recoil, to back out of her, to get the hell away from this fucking lunatic, but she had a deathgrip on him below-decks, as well.

Then Quinn was able to yell, and he did because he could feel the ring of vaginal muscle increasing pressure, locking up beyond the circumference of his cock.

The more he tried to pull out, the harder he got. Blood was a liquid. His panic erection was vised with no options. He shoved wildly against the bed, blood pumping from the cavern in his face.

He began hitting her with both fists, but she was beyond feeling a thing. When he felt the muscle sever his penis like a wire cutter, he began to scream hoarsely.

None of his neighbors would pay any mind. Suddenly freed, he sprawled backward. Blood gushed, ruining the carpet and sputtering from his crotch.

Quinn hit the floor and kept screaming until catatonia blanketed him. It took Amelia about half an hour to gnaw through her bonds.

She spent another hour and a half eating Quinn. During her meal the life left his body, and the queer radiations mentioned on the news did their alien work.

By then there was not enough left of his corpse to rise, or walk, or eat anyone else. The pieces lolled around on the floor, feeling the first pangs of a new hunger, unearthly and unsatisfiable.

Her savaged dress dropped away. Swaying side-to-side she found her way into the room where they had dined when they were alive.

Sparks of remembered behavior capered through her dead brain matter, evaporating for the last time. She began eating the flowers in their vases, in no hurry to begin her nightwalk.

The flowers were alive, but dying every moment. Their life might become hers. When she stopped, all the bouquets had been stripped. Eventually Amelia found her way to a door, and moved into the world to seek others of her newborn kind.

Never again would she be as beautiful. It was her moment, just as Quinn had said. She blended with the shadows, a striking, cream-skinned nude with flower petals drifting down from her mouth, ochre, mauve, bright red.

The first she heard of the man was his voice. She looked up at Paul. His eyes were wide with alarm. She felt totally helpless and exposed.

Not that the guy could see anything. He turned his head toward the man. Jean could feel his heart drumming, his penis shrinking inside her.

And started to get up. Jean jammed her shoes against his buttocks, tightened her arms around his back.

Later, she knew it was a shotgun. She jerked her head sideways to get away from them. Jerked it the wrong way. Saw the clotted wetness on the moonlit trunk of a nearby tree, saw his ear cling to the bark for a moment, then fall.

A torrent of blood blinded her. She started to scream. The man stomped her belly. He scooped her up, swung her over his shoulder, and started to run.

She wheezed, trying to breathe. His foot had smashed her air out and now his shoulder kept ramming into her. She felt as if she were drowning. Only a dim corner of her mind seemed to work, and she wished it would blink out.

Better total darkness, better no awareness at all. The man stopped running. He bent over, and Jean flopped backward. Beside her was a windshield plated with moonlight.

She tried to lift her head. So she lay there, struggling to suck in air. The man came back. Jean felt as if she had missed a chance to save herself.

He leaned over, clutched both sides of her open blouse, and yanked her into a sitting position. He snapped a handcuff around her right wrist, passed the other bracelet beneath her knee, and cuffed her left hand.

Then he lifted her off the hood. Through the windshield, Jean saw him rush past the front of the car. She drove her knee up.

It bumped her chin, but she managed to slip the handcuff chain down her calf and under the sole of her running shoe.

She grabbed the door handle. She levered it up and threw her shoulder against the door and started to tumble out, but her head jerked back with searing pain as if the hair were being torn from her scalp.

Her cheekbone struck the steering wheel. A hand clasped the top of her head. Another clutched her chin. And he rammed the side of her face again and again on the wheel.

She felt his hand kneading her breast. The car was moving fast. From the engine noise and the hiss of the tires on the pavement, she guessed they were on the Interstate.

He looked down at her and smiled. It had the crewcut right, and the weird crazy eyes, but his nose was a little larger, his lips a lot thicker.

Jean started to lift her head. Did you see how they hit that tree? She gritted her teeth. Just goes to show what a twelve-gauge can do to a fellow.

Just sweet young things like you. It came as no surprise, no shock. Only one body had been found. Everyone talked as if the Reaper had killed the other six, but really they were only missing.

Maybe he takes them someplace and keeps them. But he just now said he kills sweet young things: He killed them all.

Jean was tempted to grab his hand and bite it. If she did that, he would hurt her again. He plans to make me scream.

But that was later. Maybe she could get away from him before it came to that. The best thing, for now, was to give him no trouble.

And I know who you are, too. Maybe followed me around on campus, asked someone my name. Have you read any books like that?

The bittersweet story of your brief but passionate relationship with that guy. What was his name? You were the intended victim, Paul simply an unlucky jerk who got in the way.

He got lucky, then he got unlucky. He got off and got offed. Did he go out with a bang? Air hissed in through her teeth. Of course, some of the notoriety may be a trifle embarrassing for you.

Who was the last person to see you alive. People read that, a lot of them are going to think you were asking for it.

So your demented roommate can listen through the wall and make noises. We can find a place by the stream. I ask you a question, you answer.

It tipped upward a bit, pressing her cheek against his belt buckle. An off-ramp, she thought. The car stopped, then made a sharp turn.

A cold tremor swept through Jean. You were just too horny to care? I hate those sniveling, whiny pouters. Take me, for instance—I never pout.

I make other people lose. His face was a vague blur. There were no more streetlights, Jean realized. Nothing but moonlight, now. I killed a girl once.

It was just two years ago. I was going with this guy, Jim Smith, and… I really loved him. And then all of a sudden he started going with this bitch, Mary Jones.

So one night I snuck into her room in the sorority and smothered her with a pillow. And I enjoyed it. I laughed when she died. I can see some advantages to an arrangement like that.

You could lure the pretty young things into my car, help me subdue them. What do you think? His offer was just what she had wanted to hear—and he knew it.

He knew it, all right. But she went along, just in case. The front of the car tipped upward. Four out of eight. The other one said she pushed her kid sister out of the tree house.

What are the chances of that? His left hand kept jogging the steering wheel from side to side as he maneuvered up the hill.

She could reach up and grab the wheel and maybe make them crash. At this speed, the crash might not hurt him at all.

But the car stopped. He swung the steering wheel way over and started ahead slowly. The car bumped and rocked.

Its tires crunched dirt. Leafy branches whispered and squeaked against its sides. Most of them start about now. Sometimes they hold off till we get out.

He stopped the car and turned off the engine. Sit up slowly and open the door. As she levered the handle, he clutched the collar of her blouse.

He held onto it while she climbed out. Then he was standing, still gripping her collar, knuckles shoving at the back of her neck to guide her around the door.

The door slammed shut. They passed the front of the car and moved toward a clearing in the forest. The clearing was milky with moonlight.

In the center, near a pale dead tree, was a ring of rocks that someone had stacked up to enclose a campfire. A pile of twigs and broken branches stood near the fire ring.

In this funny, nightmarish masterpiece of imaginative excess, grotesque characters engage in acts of violent one-upmanship, boundless riches mangle a corner of Africa into a Bacchanalian utopia, and technology, flesh and violence fuse with and undo each other.

A fragmentary, freewheeling novel, it sees wild boys engage in vigorous, ritualistic sex and drug taking, as well as pranksterish guerrilla warfare and open combat with a confused and outmatched army.

The Wild Boys shows why Burroughs is a writer unlike any other, able to make captivating the explicit and horrific.

Oxford University Press Format Available: The Tibetan Book of the Dead is one of the texts that, according to legend, Padma-Sambhava was compelled to hide during his visit to Tibet in the late 8th century.

The guru hid his books in stones, lakes, and pillars because the Tibetans of that day and age were somehow unprepared for their teachings.

Now, in the form of the ever-popular Tibetan Book of the Dead, these teachings are constantly being discovered and rediscovered by Western readers of many different backgrounds--a phenomenon which began in with Oxford's first edition of Dr.

While it is traditionally used as a mortuary text, to be read or recited in the presence of a dead or dying person, this book--which relates the whole experience of death and rebirth in three intermediate states of being--was originally understood as a guide not only for the dead but also for the living.

As a contribution to the science of death and dying--not to mention the belief in life after death, or the belief in rebirth--The Tibetan Book of the Dead is unique among the sacred texts of the world, for its socio-cultural influence in this regard is without comparison.

This fourth edition features a new foreword, afterword, and suggested further reading list by Donald S. Lopez, author of Prisoners of Shangri-La: Tibetan Buddhism and the West.

Lopez traces the whole history of the late Evans-Wentz's three earlier editions of this book, fully considering the work of contributors to previous editions C.

Jung among them , the sections that were added by Evans-Wentz along the way, the questions surrounding the book's translation, and finally the volume's profound importance in engendering both popular and academic interest in the religion and culture of Tibet.

Another key theme that Lopez addresses is the changing nature of this book's audience--from the prewar theosophists to the beat poets to the hippies to contemporary exponents of the hospice movement--and what these audiences have found or sought in its very old pages.

University of Texas Press Format Available: The Book of the Dead is the name now given to a collection of religious and magical texts known to the ancient Egyptians as The Chapters of Coming-forth by Day.

Their principal aim was to secure for the deceased a satisfactory afterlife and to give him the power to leave his tomb when necessary.

Copies of The Book of the Dead written on papyrus rolls were placed in the tombs of important Egyptians, each roll containing a selection of chapters.

Many examples have survived from antiquity, dating mostly from c. The Wheel of Darkness by Douglas Preston pdf.

Please note that the tricks or techniques listed in this pdf are either fictional or claimed to work by its creator. We do not guarantee that these techniques will work for you or not.

Some of the techniques listed in The Book of the Dead may require a sound knowledge of Hypnosis, users are advised to either leave those sections or must have a basic understanding of the subject before practicing them.

The book is not hosted on our servers, to remove the file please contact the source url. Loved each and every part of this book.

I will definitely recommend this book to thriller, mystery lovers.

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