Six Sentence Sunday: High Plains Lazarus

I began writing this story about a day before I went off to Trinoc*coN one year, because I knew I had to read something and I suddenly decided I hated everything I'd ever written (yes, I have those kind of days). It came from the voice: as soon as I heard Finn's voice in my head, I knew I had a winner. I hadn't planned to write a zombie western -- and I didn't know that it would end up being a 10,000 word novelette that really would like to be a novel. In time, in time.

As another bottle went whizzing by my head I knew that I had made some serious miscalculations. I knew too that Jim was like to kill me because of those miscalculations, but at the moment the shambling wreck of a corpse was a much more pressing issue. I had unloaded most of my pistol into it already when Jim shouted that I should quit wasting bullets like they were made of manure and throw something more substantial, but somehow guns still seemed like a good idea. Cursing his illustrious forebears, I finally holstered my beloved pearl-handled Colts and looked around for something heftier. The dead guy continued his staggering plunge toward me, so I grabbed a chair and flung it wildly across the room. It fetched up a glancing blow on his shoulder, which spun him around to the left...

You can pick this story up in the collection Rotting Tales from Pill Hill Press. Fun stuff there -- get your zombie on and go west.