The Colt took them down, one-two-three.
Walter crossed his fingers and prayed that the bullets would not bounce—would not clip or ding the hydrogen tubes or tanks, or the swollen bulb of the Sweet Marie. His prayers were answered, or ignored. Either way, nothing ignited.
Soon the ship was clear. As clear as it was going to get.
And reaching it required a ten-foot drop.
Walter threw his cane down and watched it roll against the ship, then he dropped to his knees and swung himself off the edge to hang by his fingertips. He curled the good leg up, lifting his knee. Better a busted pin than a busted ankle.
And before he had time to reconsider, he let go.
The pain of his landing was a sun of white light. His leg buckled and scraped inside the sheath that clasped the false limb; he heard his bone piercing and rubbing through the bunched and stitched skin, and into the leather and metal.
But he was down. Down beside the Sweet Marie. Down inside the fire, inside the ticking clock with a deadly alarm and only moments—maybe seconds, probably only seconds—before the whole town went up in flames.
At the last moment he remembered the clasp that anchored the ship. He unhitched it. He limped bloodily to the back port and ripped the hydrogen hose out of the back, and shut it up tight because otherwise he’d just leak his fuel all over North Mexico.
He fumbled for the latch and found it.
Pulled it.
Opened the door and hauled himself inside, feeling around for the controls and seeing them awash with the yellow-gold light of the fire just outside the window. The starter was a lever on the dash. He pulled that too and the ship began to rise. He grasped for the thrusters and his shaking, searching fingers found them, and pressed them—giving the engines all the gas they’d take. Anything to get him up and away. Anything to push him past the hydrogen before the fire took it.
Anything.
Reluctance slipped away below, and behind. It shimmered and the whole world froze, and gasped, and shook like a star being born.
The desert floor melted into glass.
Arlene Schabowski of the Undead
By Mark McLaughlin & Kyra M. Schon
Mark McLaughlin’s fiction, poetry, and articles have appeared in hundreds of magazines and anthologies, including Cemetery Dance, Midnight Premiere, and The Year’s Best Horror Stories. His most recent story collections are Raising Demons for Fun and Profit and Twisted Tales for Sick Puppies. His first novel, Monster Behind the Wheel (coauthored with Michael McCarty), was a finalist for the Bram Stoker Award. His next book will be Vampires & Sex Kittens, a collection of essays.
Kyra M. Schon is the actress who played Karen Cooper, the trowel-wielding zombie girl in the basement in the original Night of the Living Dead. Since 1985, she has made her living teaching pottery and sculpture, and she also sells unique zombie memorabilia through her website, www.ghoulnextdoor.com.
In 1939, audiences at The Wizard of Oz were dazzled to see a black-and-white movie burst out into full Technicolor, when Dorothy departs gray Kansas and arrives in the magical land of Oz, and black-and-white has been battling it out with color ever since. In the 1998 film Pleasantville, twins are transported into a black-and-white 1950s-era sitcom, and as they slowly liberate the town from its oppressive staidness, residents who have broken the mold become fully colorized. In the recent video game The Saboteur, the hero moves through black-and-white cityscapes in World War II-era occupied France attempting to disrupt Nazi plans—if he’s successful, color is restored to liberated areas.
In the world of zombies, of course, the most epic confrontation of black-and-white versus color is the showdown between George Romero’s original 1968 black-and-white classic Night of the Living Dead and the 1990 full-color remake directed by makeup man Tom Savini. Devotees of the original will emphasize its classic status and the haunting quality of its stark black-and-white look, whereas advocates for the remake will point to its sophisticated makeup effects and stronger female characters.
Like zombies themselves, the debate just keeps on going, relentless. Our next story also features a clash between black-and-white and color. Child stars often seem to grow up to lead troubled lives, but seldom as troubled as this.
Really? Right now?
Okay.
Let me tell you about a nice lady, who lives not too far from here. She was in the movie. And still is, in a way.
Her name is Lorraine Tyler…and also Arlene Schabowski. Lorraine is in her early forties, though you couldn’t tell by looking at her. She has long, wavy blonde hair. Arlene is nine years old, and she has long, wavy blonde hair, too. Most people would agree that she looks quite dead.