“This book is anti-everything. It is the anti romance as advertised. It’s an anti-zombie story, anti-pulp, anti-genre. At the same time, it pays tribute to everything you could love and hate about all these things. I can’t promise you are ready for it, but Rated Z is here and waiting to see if you are. Not bad work for Dark Ages Literature.” — Jay Wilburn
Preview from Rated Z: Money Shot
An Anti Romance
by Brahm Stroker
Abigail took the pistol, looked down the sights. “I’ve shot this one before.”
“Perfect. Now let’s go find us a shovel,” Shooter said and headed out the door with his daughter, armed and ready for anything. Father and daughter flanked Bunny as the three walked over the gravelly surface through the Prairie Schooner trailer park.
“Look for a place with a garden,” Bunny said.
“Good idea,” Shooter said.
They bypassed several abandoned trailers until they came upon one with a small vegetable garden next to it. Sure enough, there was a spade leaning against the wall.
“There we go,” Shooter said and he picked up the shovel. “I want to do the respectful thing and bury your mother.”
As they were about to return to Abigail’s trailer, sounds of a ruckus came from inside the trailer they stood in front of. Everyone turned and looked at the door waiting for a crazed person to burst out. But things quickly quieted down and they could hear what had been reduced to garbled conversation.
“Someone’s in there,” Bunny whispered.
“And I’m not so sure they’re alone,” Shooter whispered back. “I don’t think they know we’re here. Assume they’re armed and dangerous so be careful.”
Shooter readied his shotgun and took the point.
“You two stay back and guard my rear,” he said.
“Love that rear,” Bunny said.
Shooter winked. “Good, make sure you’re protectin’ it.” He stepped to the doorway and listened. Indistinct chatter could be heard. “Is someone here? We don’t mean you any harm.”
“Why aren’t they answering you?” Abigail asked.
“Don’t know, but we’re goin’ to find out,” Shooter said and cracked the door open. He took a cautious look inside. A woman knelt in front of a small statue of Christ and a rosary. She chanted her prayer, oblivious to Shooter’s beckoning call.
“Ma’am,” Shooter persisted. “Are you OK?”
He moved into the trailer, his weapon held at the ready. As he closed the gap, he could see the woman, bent at the knees, held something protectively and continued to pray to a statue of Christ. She bobbed back and forth in front of the statue, continuing her chant. Shooter didn’t understand what she was saying because he didn’t know Spanish.
“Bunny! Bunny, I need you to get in heah!” Shooter said. “Abigail, I need you to guard the door.”
Bunny came into the trailer and her facial expression showed the smell of rotting flesh assaulting her senses. She pinched her nose and covered her mouth.
“My God,” she said. “That’s awful.”
“See if you can talk to this woman,” Shooter said.
“It stinks, Dick,” Bunny said, her voice muffled.
“Now you’re sayin’ my dick stinks?” Shooter said and looked at Bunny.
“No Shooter, IT stinks,” she said and pointed at the woman.
“Well, see if you can get her attention. I got you covered. Just get out of the way if anythin’ happens.”
Bunny gagged as she breathed in the odor. She approached the worshipping woman and touched her on the shoulder. “Excuse me, Miss?”
The woman kept gesticulating.
Bunny grabbed the woman’s shoulder a little harder. At that, the woman turned and revealed her decaying face and the dead baby she held in her arms.
“Vete!” the female corpse growled. “Vete!”
“What’s she sayin’?” Shooter asked.
“Go away!” Abigail yelled.
“What?” Shooter said to his daughter, his attention divided. “You ok out there darlin’?”
“Yes, Daddy. She’s saying to ‘go away’,” Abigail said.
“Aunt you full of surprises,” Shooter said.
“Yeah, high school Spanish paying off,” Abigail said.
“I didn’t know you were takin’ Spanish,” Shooter said.
“There’s a lot you don’t know,” Abigail said, resentment could be heard in the reply.
“Better watch it back there. You’re startin’ to sound like your mother!” Shooter said.
“Shooter! Pay attention!” Bunny said as the women struggled to her feet.
“Vete!” the fecund woman snarled, the mummified infant at her chest. The creature jerked toward Shooter, and one of the little arms of the baby dropped to the floor. The decaying woman looked down and recovered it quickly, holding it against the baby’s ribs. “Vete! Deja a mi bebé solo.”
“Huh? What’s she sayin’?” Shooter asked.
“Leave my baby alone,” Abigail said.
“Let’s just back on out of here,” Shooter said. “How do I thank her for the shovel?”
“Gracias por la pala,” Abigail said.
“Wha?” Shooter.
“Gracias por la pala,” Abigail said.
“Gracious for your pail,” Shooter said to the decaying woman as he backed out.
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