The first book I'm teasing your reading senses with actually comes from my Blogging partner Jen Naumann. First it was all about vampires, but now it's all about zombies. Here is a tease from her very funny and thrilling book The Day Zombies Ruined my Perfectly Boring Life:
~TEASE~
ONE
I feel less than alert—despite the energy drink I consumed as the sun was first rising—when the homecoming queen drops me at the curb in front of my house. I am relieved to finally break free from her dad’s old Lincoln that has a rancid stench of sunflower seeds and rotten cigars. I slam the rusty door and lean down to wave.
Mindy’s blond hair sticks out wildly around her face from her loose ponytail and there are dark rings beginning to form underneath her bright green eyes—both results of our eventful night. I imagine my own reflection would give me tremors at the moment if I had some kind of mirror at my disposal.
“See you at the dance tonight!” Mindy beams wildly.
“Yay. I can hardly wait,” I return, making no attempt to hide the sarcasm in my voice.
She honks the horn twice and pulls away. I hold my hand up until she is gone from sight. Although I get along with pretty much anyone and everyone, being in the company of royalty such as Mindy McKinney doesn’t make me popular by default. There are only fifty girls in the entire senior class, and being in a school that small, your chances of being homecoming queen—regardless of your looks or social status—become much higher by default. Don’t get me wrong; Mindy is certainly pretty and popular, but once you get to know her you eventually come to realize she has the personality of a tree stump, at best.
Having just returned from an all-nighter with some of my fellow senior girls, a nine-hour nap seems in order. For the record, it wasn’t my idea to “decorate” the senior football players’ homes for homecoming. I say “decorate” very loosely as transporting chickens from a classmate’s farm to the players’ garages was involved. We also placed large tire tractors in the middle of their driveways and wrapped their cars with endless rolls of Saran wrap. Most likely we will get some kind of “disciplinary action” for our excursion—maybe even face suspension once Monday morning arrives. But what would senior year be without the threat of not getting to participate in the graduation ceremony?
I look up at our stellar stone-front house nestled just on the edge of the thick woods that separate us from town. We built the monstrosity ten years ago after my parents received a generous inheritance from my wealthy grandparents. I have never understood why my parents, who are hardly ever home themselves, felt the need to have three extra bedrooms. I sometimes wonder if maybe they had planned on having more children, but changed their minds once they realized we actually needed to be fed, clothed and given occasional attention.
Surprisingly, the front door to the house is wide open. We never use that door, not even on Halloween as my mom doesn’t believe in giving sugar to other people’s children—she thinks they’re all too hyper even without it. Instead, my best friend and I like to hide in the bushes and see how many kids we can scare half to death until a parent comes by to chew us out. Last year there were hardly any kids who came out—I think the little buggers are finally on to us.
A gust of really cold wind blows through me and I look up to see the clouds are beginning to thicken. Holding my sweatshirt tightly against my body, I quickly cross the manicured yard to the open door and slam it shut behind me. I holler out a greeting that bounces off the peaks of the high ceilings, but is met with silence. Figuring my dad is probably engaged in another bizarre project, I continue all the way through the house to our backyard.
The weeds out back have always been a major source of contention for my dad. Even though fall is here, he is known to be working on the weeds up until the first frost of the season. On more than one occasion, I remember him having to wear gloves and a stocking cap while doing it. According to him, they are on the county’s property line—why should he spend his precious time weeding it when his taxes pay the county to do a perfectly good job of it?—or something like that. My dad is forever ranting about some political conspiracy theory or how the president is a horrible leader and will eventually cause the apocalypse in one way or another. I don’t usually give that much weight to his ramblings—if I did, I certainly would have turned insane years ago.
But I find the backyard to be empty, too.
Despite the wicked wind pulling my hair up around my face, the trees in the forest seem to be unnaturally still, causing a cold trickle of fear down my back. I never used to be such a scaredy-cat, but my best friend and I recently watched a marathon of horror movies and my overactive imagination can sometimes get the best of me. A few days ago I could have sworn on my own life that a lifelike doll from my childhood was staring at me—I spent an entire morning paralyzed in bed until I was completely sure she wasn’t going to attack me.
Deciding I just need a shower and a whole lot of sleep to reset my paranoid mind, I turn on my heels just as a faint moan drifts towards me. I stop at once.
Filled with a sickening dread, I shuffle my feet to where the now gold and red trees meet our backyard. The only thing I see moving is a small gathering of bright leaves. They circle in the sky just above me in a mini-tornado pattern before they flutter down and land at my feet. I stand and watch, fascinated.
The moan returns, more guttural this time. My attention is drawn back to the woods. Another sound like a heavy log being dragged through dried leaves comes from my right. Just a few yards away from where my dad thinks to be our property line, the outline of a person comes into view behind a line of nearly bare maple trees.
By her ill choice in fashion, it is obviously a younger woman coming toward me although the features of her face are not totally clear in the distance between us. Her long brown hair hangs down in straight clumps, swinging back and forth with each off-balanced step she takes. A bright pink t-shirt with the word “Boss” displayed across the chest in rhinestones clings tightly to her petite body and her long legs jet out from what I perceive to be a totally out of style pair of all too short gym shorts. Why she would be dressed in such skimpy attire on a cool fall day is beyond me, but I guess she could be one of those insane people who like putting their bodies through the torture of daily exercise.
What this chick is even doing in the back of our crappy old woods is a serious mystery in itself. From her ill style of clothing and neglected personal hygiene she would be better off heading to a mall for some kind of emergency makeover.
“Can I help you?” I finally ask her loudly. Then I correct myself silently—probably nothing I can do will save her from her traumatic lack of fashion sense. “Do you need…something?”
Her speed quickens at the sound of my voice and the odd moaning amplifies—I suddenly realize she is making the horrible noise. Great. Lack of fashion and inability to communicate are apparently both problems for her. The wind slams a rotten odor into my nostrils, forcing me to hold my breath.
With each step she takes, it is clear there is plenty more wrong with her. Her head hangs down and off to the side as if the muscles in her neck have worn out. I still can’t see her face clearly as that nappy hair covers most of it, but there is something really off in the coloring of her skin that seems to be more of a pale gray. And the deficiencies don’t stop there. Not only is her skin discolored, but it’s muddled and torn. It’s far worse than having just forgotten to wash her face at bedtime.
I begin to fear that she is a leper.
My heart beat speeds up to a disconcerting rate. “Ah…are you okay? Do you need a doctor or something?”
As the distance closes between me and this tragically fashion-challenged woman, I become frozen in fear. Hair still covers a portion of her face but I can now see her pupils. They are completely white. And her jaw hangs down to reveal a majority of her teeth appear to be missing. Her face is covered in something kind of like boils that ooze blood. Together, the neglected appearance and nasty smell are simply nauseating—it is far worse than my original conclusion of a lack of fashion.
It occurs to me now:
1. This woman is definitely not okay,
2. If she gets any closer, she will get her leprosy or whatever all over me, and
3. Being near her could result in great bodily harm or possibly some kind of dismemberment if she is in fact violent, as I am beginning to suspect.
{End of Tease}
Find The Day Zombies Ruined My Perfectly Boring Life at
iBooks
About the author:
Jen was born and raised in no-man's land Minnesota. She lives on a farm with her husband (of 14 years) Brian, children Sammy and Owen, and mutts Jake and Bellatrix. Yes, that’s right. She named her dog after the crazy witch from Harry Potter. She’s a fan girl like that. She is also obsessed with Jack Johnson, Beastie Boys, Foo Fighters, Goonies, concerts, photography and all things zombies (Walking Dead, Zombieland, Shaun of the Dead). Jen likes to laugh. A lot. If something she writes on here sounds like it could be sarcastic, it probably is. While she doesn’t have high fashion available to her within a 200 mile radius, she likes to think she dresses smart. Just to be safe, you probably want to ask Maria for advice in that department. Everything else—including relationship advice—is fair game.
