Author Armand Rosamilia – Dying Days 6

Dying Days 6 by Armand Rosamilia

EXCERPT from Dying Days 6 by Armand Rosamilia:


Her name had been Eve, which she thought fitting.

She loved watching football as a kid with her dad in Upstate New York. Dad was a Giants fan so she’d begun rooting for the rival Jets. Now, she wished she hadn’t been such a bad daughter.

“I need her to shut up,” Eve said quietly to the terrified man in chains.

The woman had been screaming for hours. At first Eve thought it amusing. How long could someone yell when they were slowly tortured?

Too long.

“Should we take her off the table?” the man in chains asked.

Eve moved with lightning speed and slapped the man across the face, driving his nose into his skull and killing him. Eve smiled and licked the trace of blood on her hand.

She no longer needed the blood or the violence but it came with the power. She needed more power. As a teen she’d read a book about Countess Bathory and thought it was very cool. Now Eve wanted to be the new Bathory. She needed a new subject to do her bidding now, too.

“Unchain this dead man and get his pitiful body out of my stadium,” Eve said.

Two servants ran and did her bidding as quickly as possible, never making eye contact.

Eve pointed at the woman, stretched on the table on the sideline below.

“I grow weary of her screams. If she isn’t going to tell what I need to know, hang her in the parking lot with the others,” Eve said.

Humans were so problematic but necessary right now. As much as she wished she could wipe them off the face of her earth, she needed them as she grew in power. She needed them to keep others away from this stadium, and rebuild it in her image.

The markings of the football team formerly housed here were now gone, a pile of broken teal, black and gold standards and banners either burned or piled on the practice field away from this spot. Eve didn’t want to see another jaguar or dumb football slogan, although the giant screens needed to be fixed and the markings taken from them at some point. She’d already lost three humans climbing to the top of the stadium without finishing the job.

Through the tunnel, she could see two small eyes watching. It was the little girl, so inquisitive and curious despite her mother’s fear that Eve would eat her.

“Come, little one,” Eve called out from across the stadium. She smiled and motioned with her hands.

The girl got six steps before her mother ran out and grabbed her roughly by the shoulders, steering her back.

“Let her go,” Eve yelled.

The woman took another step back, ignoring the command.

“I will not say it again,” she said. Eve was moving, already down the steps and onto the field.

The mother stopped, back rigid as she stood between Eve and her precious daughter, not looking back.

Eve lightly pushed the woman away, not even bothering to look at her. She wasn’t important. The mother was just another female to birth more children who would someday grow to help build an empire.

“What’s your name?” Eve asked, bending down and smiling.

“Are you a monster?” the little girl, maybe six years old, asked.

Eve laughed. “Is that what your mother’s been telling you?”

“No, ma’am,” the mother answered quickly. “I just… we need to get back inside. It is your law we don’t come out unless you call for us.”

“Maybe I did call for her. You didn’t tell me your name, honey,” Eve said. She smiled at the little girl again.

“Amber,” she said.

She laughed. “Amber is a fat girl name.” She had such pretty red hair.

The mother opened her mouth to say something really stupid but wisely turned away without a sound.

Eve put her hand out. “Come, Amber, we have much to discuss.”

The woman tried to step between her daughter and Eve again.

“You’re dismissed,” Eve said.

“My daughter…”

“No harm will come to the child. I just want to talk to someone so innocent for awhile. I grow so bored with adults who think they know what I want them to say.” Eve looked down at Amber. She was a skinny little thing. Unlike anyone she’d ever known named Amber. Including her own sister, Amber.

When the woman didn’t immediately back down, Eve grinned and leaned forward. The mother stared into her gray eyes, frightened but her maternal instinct overpowering reason and survival.

“Don’t let me slice your throat in front of your daughter. You cannot win this battle. The only thing you can do is put your trust in a monster like me and pray to your God I don’t do anything bad to your precious child,” Eve said. She patted Amber on the head and pointed. “Go run across the field as quickly as you can. I’ll wait for you on the other side.”

When Amber began to run, crossing the football field, Eve turned back to the mother.

“Are you not fed?”


Eve raised her hands. “Do I not protect you from the zombies? Do I not get you food and drink, a bed to sleep in, and entertainment? Am I a bad ruler?”

The mother shook her head quickly.

“Then it makes me curious why you don’t trust me with Amber. Have I ever touched one of the children or said something inappropriate? Have you heard rumors from others in your group?”

“No.” The woman stared at Eve and she could see she was trying to keep her thoughts as hidden as she could, even though it wasn’t working.

“You’re worried about me hurting her. You should be more worried about yourself, especially if you can’t offer me what I want,” Eve said. “If I were you, I’d take this time alone and realize it’s a gift. Go back and find a mate, because barren females aren’t anything more than zombie bait.”

Eve was about to threaten her further when the images in her mind startled her.

She turned back to see Amber standing on the other sideline.

“Amber, I want you to run around the field. Play. Have fun. I’ll be right back. I’m going to talk with your mother and then you and I will eat M&M’s and drink soda,” Eve said.

She turned back to the mother and put a hand on her shoulder.

“Take me to the men who are forcing themselves on the women. These men will be dealt with severely so this doesn’t happen again,” she said.

The mother shook her head. “No. Please don’t do anything. I can handle it.”

Eve looked at Amber as she started running. “Eventually, once you’re all broken, they’ll start on the children. This is what men do. This is why I am here now. To cull the herd so we can find only the ones worth living.” She grabbed the woman roughly by the chin. “I am not asking you to tell me. I will eviscerate you in front of the flock to prove a point, do you understand? I am not your friend. I am not going to rip these men apart brutally because I love my followers and want to show them justice. I am doing it because you are my property and every dead woman means one less baby for me. I need a population to continue my work. Take me to them.”

She nodded her head slowly.

Eve grinned. She hadn’t had to kill anyone and make an example in too many weeks.

The Chosen One was coming right to her, drawn to the power, and she needed to stay sharp.


Author Armand Rosamilia

Armand Rosamilia is a New Jersey boy currently living in sunny Florida, where he writes when he’s not sleeping. He’s happily married to a woman who helps his career and is supportive, which is all he ever wanted in life…

He’s written over 150 stories that are currently available, including horror, zombies, contemporary fiction, thrillers and more. His goal is to write a good story and not worry about genre labels.

He runs two very successful podcasts on Project iRadio, too…

Arm Cast: Dead Sexy Horror Podcast – interviewing fellow authors as well as filmmakers, musicians, etc.

Arm N Toof’s Dead Time Podcast – with co-host Mark Tufo, the duo interview authors and filmmakers and anyone else they feel like talking to.

He also loves to talk in third person… because he’s really that cool.

You can find him at


©Armand Rosamilia, 2016. All rights reserved.


Author Armand Rosamilia – Dying Days 5

Dying Days 5 by Armand Rosamilia

EXCERPT  from Dying Days 5 by Armand Rosamilia:

Chapter One

Sally was bleeding out and all Mitchell could think about was if the zombies could smell it. He’d been covering her mouth for an hour, pushing down hard every time she tried to scream.

“You’re hurting her,” the little Puerto Rican bitch said for the fifth time in the last twenty minutes. Her New Yaw-Rican accent was getting on Mitchell’s nerves. If she wasn’t so damn hot, he would cover her mouth, too, but also her nose, until she died.

He hated having such vile thoughts. He was one of the good guys. “If she cries out, we’re dead. I heard noises outside.”

“There’s always noises outside,” the wimpy dude with the cracked glasses said. “The world moves around us.”

“Man, whatever drugs you’re taking, please share with me,” said the Puerto Rican chick. “Or else shut the fuck up with your Matthew McConaughey crazy talk. You’re not nearly as good looking.”

Mitchell put his hand up when he heard another noise. He was sure of it this time. Someone was right outside the door. Something…

There were seventeen people crammed into the bathroom of the Chinese restaurant, and it only had two stalls. Not nearly enough room to survive for long. With Sally sliced open and stinking like death it was only a matter of time before they were found out. Despite what Mitchell and a few of the more intelligent members of the group wanted, no one would let them toss Sally out into the restaurant or the street to be eaten. She hadn’t been bitten. She’d taken a nasty fall off a roof onto a wrought iron fence.

Sally was dying and she was going to get them all killed.

“Everyone please be quiet,” Mitchell said. He pointed at the door, which had no lock on it. They’d piled the garbage cans and wedged a chair under the door handle like someone had seen in a movie once, but Mitchell knew it wasn’t going to hold against anyone with a bit of intelligence. Like the fucking zombies roaming around lately.

Why had he joined with this sorry group of people anyway? Mitchell was doing just fine on his own. He had a little bit of food and water. He was sleeping on the roof of the Staples building across the street. He’d found two computer keyboards inside and he was keeping them as his weapons. So far he hadn’t had to use them. The break room vending machines were his source of food and drink. Until he’d emptied them.

There was a knock at the door.

One of the women went to go to the door, but two men held her down.

“Maybe it’s someone who needs help?” she asked, struggling to break free. “My poor son could be out there.”

“Or a zombie messing with us,” one of the men said. “I’ve been face to face with a smart one. They’ll screw with you, chase you down like an animal, and then bleed you out for hours. Stay away from the door.”

“You’re talking too loud,” Mitchell said. He waved his hands for everyone to back up into the far end of the bathroom.

There was a second knock. “Is everyone alright in there? I heard some talking. You people need any food or water? We set up a base camp just up the road.”

“We’re saved,” the woman said with a faint smile. “I knew my prayers would be answered.”

Mitchell shook his head. “No one speak.”

“Hello? This is the National Guard. We’re here to save you. The zombies are retreating back to Canada. Order will be restored. God has saved us all,” the voice said. “But we need to move fast. We’ll be heading out in a few hours.”

Now several people were coming forward, relief on their faces.

Mitchell knew it was all bullshit. He shook his head and put his arms up but no one was stopping. “It’s not real. There are zombies on the other side of the door. Don’t you get it? We’re being duped into opening up and letting them feed on us. All of us. I’m not going to do it.”

“Get out of the way,” a large man said, sweat streaking down his face. He’d been sitting against a sink since Mitchell had gotten here, and he hadn’t said a word. Now he was coming at Mitchell and gaining momentum. “I’m getting rescued.”

“Seriously, this is a mistake,” Mitchell said before the man pushed him out of the way. “We’re all going to die.”

“This isn’t a trick, is it?” an elderly woman was shouting.

As if they’d tell you the truth, Mitchell thought. No, we’re lying. This really is a trick. Haha. He moved to the back of the bathroom as the people scrambled to open the door and invite death inside.

Just as the door was cleared, something heavy slammed against it from the other side and everyone surged back.

People murmured and the large man put both hands up and tried to hush the crowd. It didn’t work.

“Open the door already. I’m having an episode,” a woman said. “I don’t like cramped spaces.”

“You’ve been here for three days without complaint,” someone else said.

Mitchell tried to blend into the wall, knowing there was something really bad about to go down.

“Please don’t open the door,” someone else said but they were drowned out by murmuring. “This isn’t going to end well.”

Another knock at the door and everyone fell silent.

Mitchell slumped down to the floor. He didn’t want to see people getting ripped apart, and it was going to happen.

“Hello?” a deep male voice said from the other side of the door. “Can I have your attention, please and thank you?”

It wasn’t the same voice as before. Whoever was talking had a bigger presence to Mitchell. An authority figure. Trouble.

“I can hear you in there. At least a dozen, maybe more. I have good news and bad news. What do you want to hear first?”

“Good news,” the big man finally said when no one answered. He’d stepped up to become their leader, and Mitchell was fine with it.

I should’ve stayed on the roof across the street, Mitchell thought.

“Alright. First, the good news… you didn’t open the door. Smart move. There were three zombies out here, ready to kill everyone in the bathroom. It would’ve been really bloody and quite the mess. So… you’re welcome. I wiped them out. But watch where you step when you exit the john because there might be a few puddles and limbs on the floor.”

Mitchell covered his head with his hands and pulled his knees close to his body. Could this get any worse? He knew it was about to.

No one made a sound, staring at the door.

“Hello? You still in there? Someone needs to ask about the bad news now,” the voice said.

“What’s the bad news?” Mitchell heard the big man say.

“Well, here’s the kicker. I’m also considered a zombie, except I’m more powerful than the ones bothering you. So powerful, in fact, I dispatched them with ease. Which was good short-term for you. Long-term? That would be up to you.”

“Don’t… open… the… door,” Mitchell yelled hysterically.

“Before everyone freaks out and tries something ridiculously stupid like attacking me, there are a couple of things you need to know. I’m not here to kill you. I’m actually here to make you an offer you can’t refuse. Interested in hearing my sales pitch?”

Mitchell stood up. Had he heard right? Was the fucker playing with them now?

“What do you think?” the big man asked and shrugged his shoulders.

“I’d rather not destroy the door, to be honest. But I will if you make me count to three,” the voice said. “Regardless, I’m going to chat with you for a bit.”

Mitchell pushed through the crowd. His hands were shaking. He couldn’t take this anymore. If they were going to die, so be it. But this teasing was literally going to kill him.

He was expecting someone to stop him as he put a hand to the door, but everyone was busy holding their breaths. Mitchell glanced around before turning the knob and pushing open the door.

It was a sharp-dressed man in the hallway. Not a bloody monster, although he did have some crimson spots on his royal navy suit. His dress shoes were covered in gore and the bottom of his pant legs was ruined. But he was smiling.

“Hey, thanks for opening the door. I really do appreciate it.” The man motioned, with his hand, for Mitchell to come out. “Let’s talk in the main room. Away from the smell of the hallway and the bathroom. I have a proposition, like I said.”

Mitchell stepped over what could be an arm but he didn’t want to spend too much time staring at it. He was afraid he’d pass out and fall face down in a pool of blood while the rest of his companions stepped over him.

The group was led into the restaurant, the man going to where the front doors used to be. He stood in the entryway in the darkness and now Mitchell could see his glowing red eyes. “I’ll get right to the point. I was like the mindless zombies and then I smartened up. Quicker than the rest. It was beneficial to me. I spend my nights roaming the area. I search out the zombies and destroy them.”

“Why?” Mitchell asked skeptically. He figured he had nothing to lose and no one else was stepping up to ask any questions. He wanted the guy to get to the point.

“Because I’m no longer a mere zombie. I’m so much more. I have powers you can only imagine. I can sense things. I can control things. Read minds. Manipulate the world around me. Understand more than the human brain could ever hope to learn and process. I have become the evolution of the race, and there can only be one of me.”

“You sound more like a vampire than a zombie,” Mitchell said.

The man smiled. “If it helps you by putting a label on me, so be it. It doesn’t really mean anything. I am what I am. And I am offering you all a chance to live.”

“Keep talking,” a woman said.

“I am building a new life. A safe haven where the zombies won’t be able to touch us. A place with food and water and electricity. Somewhere you can raise your children without worry,” the man said. “And in return I ask for your loyalty. Nothing more.”

“Nothing more?” Mitchell asked. “Then what’s in it for you?”

“A community to help protect me, of course. There are millions of zombies and they’re all heading to Florida. I can’t destroy them all myself. I need people on the walls of the compound to keep them at bay. I need help in keeping the human race alive.”

“To what end?” a woman asked.

The man chuckled. “I no longer need human flesh to live. I no longer have the horrible sexual urges of my lesser brethren. But I do need the blood. I won’t die without it, but I will survive longer with it.”

“You are a fucking vampire,” Mitchell said. “Holy shit.”

“If you come with me tonight, I offer safe passage to Daytona Beach to live and flourish. I won’t force you. If you choose to stay, I have no problem with it. But then you will become an ongoing source of blood for me. I hope you understand. Our human numbers are dwindling and I have so many big plans to expand where we live. We have a garden but need more people to help with crops and to gather supplies. Does anyone have any construction experience?”

Three men held up their hands.

“Excellent. We’ll be starting expansion in the next week. We’d love to have you be a part of the team. I will protect you.  Will feed and clothe you. In return, you will help me. Any questions, or shall we go? I have a team waiting for you outside in a school bus to transport you to Main Street.”

“Who are you?” Mitchell asked.

“I am The Lich Lord.”


Author Armand Rosamilia

Armand Rosamilia is a New Jersey boy currently living in sunny Florida, where he writes when he’s not sleeping. He’s happily married to a woman who helps his career and is supportive, which is all he ever wanted in life…

He’s written over 150 stories that are currently available, including horror, zombies, contemporary fiction, thrillers and more. His goal is to write a good story and not worry about genre labels.

He runs two very successful podcasts on Project iRadio, too…

Arm Cast: Dead Sexy Horror Podcast – interviewing fellow authors as well as filmmakers, musicians, etc.

Arm N Toof’s Dead Time Podcast – with co-host Mark Tufo, the duo interview authors and filmmakers and anyone else they feel like talking to.

He also loves to talk in third person… because he’s really that cool.

You can find him at


©Armand Rosamilia, 2016. All rights reserved.

Author Armand Rosamilia – Dying Days 4

Dying Days 4 by Armand Rosamilia

EXCERPT from Dying Days 4 by Armand Rosamilia:

Chapter One

There were two of the rotting fuckers, set on either side of abandoned cars with their backs to the dunes, waiting to ambush whoever came down the road. The only weapons they carried were their natural ones: teeth and fingers, but they were in the advanced stages and they wore clean clothes and the bloodstains had been washed away.

And they were whispering back and forth across the stretch of open road between them, joking and laughing like there was nothing wrong in the world. One of them, the larger of the two, was scratching something into the sand with a small stick. They looked bored.

Tosha Shorb noticed the chain running across the road between the cars. She’d been on this stretch of A1A for hours without a car coming by. What were they waiting for?

She heard the engine the same time her two new friends did. They gave a quick thumbs up before squatting behind the cars. Tosha got comfortable in the dunes with her Bushmaster M16 A2 Carbine and was about to take both zombies out when she saw movement in the dunes on the opposite side, closer to the beach. At least four zombies were getting into position and two of them carried rifles.

“Motherfuckers,” she growled quietly. Now they were arming themselves. This was getting worse and worse each day. She’d had to abandon the tour bus when zombies began setting up road blocks like this. And about half of them were banding with others to hunt the living while the other half wanted to destroy both the undead and those still breathing. And there weren’t many left still breathing.

Three vehicles were coming down the road: a custom van with a hole cut out of the roof to allow the two gunmen easy access, a pickup truck with a dozen armed people piled in the back, and a black SUV in the rear.

They were driving right into an ambush but Tosha moved her finger from the trigger. This wasn’t her fight. She wasn’t going to leave just yet, though. There might be food and supplies left over after the massacre. Luckily the zombies didn’t worry about eating (except breathing people) or drinking. They also never seemed to tire and never slept. She’d observed some becoming inactive, just leaning against a wall or even sitting and staring into space. But their eyes didn’t close. Ever.

And they were healing.  The gunshot wounds, severed limbs and stilted walk were going away, slowly but surely.

There were a half a dozen zombies creeping down the dunes, from her side, in anticipation of the ambush and she instinctively put her finger back on the trigger. But pulling the trigger would alert every zombie in the area to her presence, and she didn’t feel like dying today. Or any day soon.

The other unnerving thing with these zombies was the fact they could sense people. She remembered being in a McDonald’s storage room and two of them coming in, talking about her smell and trying to find her. They had but she had put a metal bar between both their eyes and crushed their skulls in for good measure. What was most disturbing were the smiles they wore as they attacked. They were showing emotions… except for pain. Tosha remembered the confusion on their faces as they were being killed yet again. As if they believed in their immortality.

There were too many of them in the area and it didn’t matter how armed these people were because they’d be ambushed any second.

“It’s not your fight,” Tosha whispered to herself, but she kept her finger on the trigger and looked through the scope at each zombie as it got into position.

Her red hair was tied back and she’d tossed off her shoes a few miles ago because they were ripped and it hurt worse than bare feet to walk in them. Her jeans were ripped in several places (luckily not in the crotch since she’d stopped wearing undies a few days ago) and so was her shirt. Her pale skin was burnt and she’d give anything for some makeup, a pair of sunglasses and a cold beer right now.

Maybe these people had clothing. A pair of shades. A pair of thongs for her ass, which was getting rubbed raw by the jeans right now. Not your fight, she thought once again. Just fade away and go find a spot to sleep tonight.

The convoy was getting closer to the chain and the car pileup and they were slowing down. She heard someone in the SUV yelling something and the SUV stopped.

Tosha used the scope to look at the people in the SUV but she couldn’t get a good look at any of them. There were at least four occupants but they had the windows up.

As she watched, they began to back up, away from the cars in front of them, just as zombies swarmed over the dunes like ants.

Shots were fired on either side and a man pitched off the back of the pickup truck and hit the ground. Everyone else leapt out and tried to take cover on either side, but there was nothing to hide under or behind, and the zombies began firing at them like fish in a barrel, while at least a dozen zombies ran down the sand and jumped onto the pinned down living.

Tosha watched as the van tried to drive through the trap, but the chain was hit at about thirty miles per hour and slowed the van down, pulling the two cars on either side against it. The two original zombies scrambled onto the top of the van as it tried to back up, and both zombies fell into the open pit on the roof.

The SUV kept backing away without anyone stopping to help or fire a shot.

The living, from the pickup, put up a good fight, shooting at zombies and getting many headshots. The driver of the pickup managed to turn it around, doing a U turn on the soft shoulder of the road and running down two zombies.

Just when it looked like they’d escape, a zombie shot the front tires and they both deflated, forcing the driver to overcorrect and end up smashing into a dune on the side of the road.

Zombies shooting guns, Tosha thought. What is this dead world coming to now?

She was once again reminded of ants because so many zombies appeared from over the dunes and she shuddered when she realized at least twenty had been hiding, buried in the sand on either side of the road, and now popped up, swiped sand from their bodies, and joined the attack.

The people in the pickup truck didn’t stand a chance. Another three shots were fired before the zombies dragged everyone out of the truck and rounded up the survivors in the road, ripping them apart and stripping them of their flesh.

Tosha turned away when she saw bloated sexual organs. These motherfuckers were sick. She wished she had a bazooka to blow up the entire lot of them in one fell swoop.

The ocean was rough today despite it being so warm and not many clouds in the sky. She’d been working on her tan for too long and now she was burnt. She wondered if she’d ever just tan without it feeling like she was on fire.

This beats the snow of Pennsylvania, she thought. She had no idea what month it was and Tosha had lost track of time since running from her home. All she knew was it was warmer here but filled with zombies, all seeming to march to the sea for whatever reason.

If she could figure out what time of year it was, she could maybe head back north and arrive during the summer so it wouldn’t be too bad. But she doubted a thousand mile trip back, after all the shit she’d had to endure getting to Florida, was in her future.

A stray zombie appeared in the surf, one of the mindless ones. Tosha didn’t remember the last time she’d seen a ‘newer’ zombie. As they’d matured and became cognizant, the zombies had taken to killing not only the living but the newer zombies as well.

The horde of zombies on A1A was a rarity, and for that she was relieved. If they decided to stop killing one another and march across the country, the living would be killed quickly.

A zombie appeared from the dunes not too far from where she was hiding and jogged down the beach, angling toward the new zombie.

Seeing it run was jarring, as was the fact the zombie wasn’t bloody, with gaping gunshot wounds and stringy hair or a missing jaw. It looked like a normal living and breathing person, jogging happily down the beach. Except… it wasn’t breathing, and the zombies had an odd malevolent look in their gray eyes, another way to see they were really undead.

But, from a distance, with zombies walking and talking like normal people, wearing nice clothes, driving cars and using weapons, opening doors and waving at you like they were friends, the danger was worse than ever. Even with so many older zombies eliminating the newer members of their sick society, it was worse.

The zombie walked right up to the one coming out of the surf. Newer zombies couldn’t sense anything but living, breathing people, and it did what they always do: walked right past the older zombie, who stepped behind and grabbed it by the neck.

Tosha didn’t want to see another massacre and had nowhere to turn her head without seeing death and decay.

She closed her eyes.


Author Armand Rosamilia

Armand Rosamilia is a New Jersey boy currently living in sunny Florida, where he writes when he’s not sleeping. He’s happily married to a woman who helps his career and is supportive, which is all he ever wanted in life…

He’s written over 150 stories that are currently available, including horror, zombies, contemporary fiction, thrillers and more. His goal is to write a good story and not worry about genre labels.

He runs two very successful podcasts on Project iRadio, too…

Arm Cast: Dead Sexy Horror Podcast – interviewing fellow authors as well as filmmakers, musicians, etc.

Arm N Toof’s Dead Time Podcast – with co-host Mark Tufo, the duo interview authors and filmmakers and anyone else they feel like talking to.

He also loves to talk in third person… because he’s really that cool.

You can find him at


©Armand Rosamilia, 2016. All rights reserved.

Author Armand Rosamilia – Dying Days 3

Dying Days 3 by Armand Rosamilia

EXCERPT from Dying Days 3 by Armand Rosamilia:



He had a name, once, and it was Frank. He had a last name, but he couldn’t remember it. His thoughts, at the moment, were on trying to figure out what exactly a last name was.

The noise he heard was the ocean and he moved his stiff neck and looked down to see his shuffling feet kicking up sand on a beach. Frank had never been to the beach. Never felt sand on his toes, but he was doing it now. He was barefoot. He didn’t know why.

Frank couldn’t stop walking. He was being driven by something, an anger… but he didn’t know who he was mad at. He knew he was raging, though, and needed to strike out and rip someone apart. He didn’t know why, but, suddenly, knew it was the only reason to keep moving.

There were others on the beach, but he felt nothing toward them. No anger and no need to destroy them. They moved in the same flowing, general direction as he did. One would veer off and walk into the waves or over the dunes, and he could see more stepping out of the surf and joining the walk.


The word came unbidden to his mind. These were zombies, undead, monsters… and they were in search of the living, to tear them apart, to rape them, violate and break all in their paths. They weren’t evil. They were just hungry.

Frank willed himself to stop. A man, with his head broken and at an odd angle, bumped into him. Frank lashed out, with creaking arms, and knocked the zombie to the ground.

It felt right. This mindless creature struggled to rise on battered legs but seemed incapable of simply rolling over and pushing himself up.

Frank knew how to stand. He knew the mechanics of how to drive a car, how to brush his teeth, how to make love to his wife.

His wife had been sick? Frank remembered bits and pieces of memory. He lived in Montreal. He worked in a dead-end job selling newspapers. His wife had been back to Sweden to see her sick mother. By the time she’d returned to Canada, she was coughing and wouldn’t talk about the visit or her mother.

He couldn’t remember his wife’s name, but he remembered the bite mark on her forearm. The wound festered and he’d taken her from the airport right to hospital.

There was an incident. Frank remembered a nurse and doctor being bitten. By his wife? Chaos in the emergency room, followed by stampeding hospital personnel and patients. He went for his wife; she was out of the bed, dragging smashed equipment as she moved.

Frank remembered trying to extricate her from the machines, pulling needles and wires from her body. She stared at the blood as it spurted from her wrist and onto his chest.

Then she’d bitten down on his neck and the pain was intense. He saw red and then… he was dead. He couldn’t remember his wife’s name.

Warmth on his feet, as the sun beat down. This was no Canadian beach. He had no idea where he could be, but he was walking, so it couldn’t be too far.

Frank remembered biting people and savagely attacking their bodies. He remembered ripping apart orifices and, actually, having brutal sex with people until they died. The thought appalled him at first.

The zombie was still trying to get up on the beach. Frank was about to help him, but then he stopped. Why should he? It dawned on him: this monster was after the same dwindling thing he was looking for. The living.

Frank reached up with stiff hands and felt his neck wound. It was just a sliver of ripped skin, although, he swore she’d done a number on him before he died. He flexed his legs and it felt good. How was this possible?

The blood.

Frank knew the blood, coursing over and into his body, made him stronger. It made him grow closer to whole again. With each living body he consumed, he was closer to being fully formed. He needed to find humans before the rest of these weaklings did.

He knew by looking at them, as they walked by, they weren’t conscious of their surroundings or aware like he was. He didn’t know why, and he didn’t care.

“I was in the first wave. My wife was patient zero,” he actually whispered through cracked lips, and was amazed he’d spoken. He felt his vocal chords flexing for the first time in, what, days? Weeks? Months? Years?

The zombies around him were growing as well, but they were nowhere near where he was. But, in time, they would rival him, and grow aware. They would try to destroy him as the enemy. Frank couldn’t have that. He was even angrier now, but he let it wash over him. He could control it, little by little. He knew his brain was now his driving force, and not the insatiable hunger.

With his back threatening to pop, Frank bent down and lifted the zombie to its feet. The mindless creature began to shuffle away without a notice to Frank or the help.

Frank moved behind him and wrapped both arms around its neck, crushing the unused windpipe and yanking as hard as he could, trying to dislodge the head from the body. He struggled for several minutes before stopping. The zombie didn’t fight back; its feet still trying to propel it forward.

Finally, the head snapped back and the zombie went lifeless. Frank dropped it to the beach. One less to contend with. The beach was filled with them.


His wife’s name was Claudia, and he’d met her online. In a chat-room. They’d talked and had webcam dates for months before she flew from Sweden for a visit. She never really left, moving in with him, getting a job at the local daycare, and only returning to Sweden to pack her things and for family emergencies. They’d been wed six months later, a small ceremony attended by friends and family. Their honeymoon was spent in Florida, a week holed up in a hotel room making love while the sound of the waves crashed outside their balcony.

Frank knew he wasn’t in Montreal, and he wanted to find his wife. Or did he? She would try to feed off the living as well, and once the stock was gone, he knew he would become a dried husk. He needed the living.

Another zombie got too close and Frank twisted its neck until he heard the snap. These creatures had no fresh blood he could use, but they needed to be eliminated.

Frank trudged down the beach, weaving back and forth as he came across new undead, breaking necks with wild abandon and feeling better and better as he did, using muscles he’d not used in a long time.

There was a pier up ahead and he made his way to it, dropping bodies as he moved from side to side. He went to the dunes and snapped the neck of a little girl, bloody and carrying a small yellow shovel. Two men came out of the surf and he made his way to them. They didn’t resist or seem to notice him. He dispatched both, feeling his atrophied muscles seeming to come back to life.

By the time he made his way up to the boardwalk and onto the pier, he was grinning, which hurt, but not as much as he thought it would.

He could read the signs around him, as his bare feet slapped on the warped wooden boards. The large building, at the mouth of the pier, was a restaurant. Frank thought he’d seen it before, and knew Claudia was in the car with him. A rental car. His honeymoon?

The sign painted on top of the building said FLAGLER BEACH.

Where he’d spent his honeymoon. In Florida.

Frank had walked about 1,400 miles. How long would that take?

His nostrils expanded and he took in some of the fresh salt air. A zombie walked right up to him before veering to his left. Frank broke another neck.

He began moving north on A1A, sure this was the direction he’d gone when he was here with Claudia. He needed a place to stay and recover. He could feel his body struggling to survive and grow now. His wounds would heal and his blood would begin flowing again. Frank just knew it. Would he be able to pass for human? Would he be able to get close to them without being destroyed? His mind was filling with memories and thoughts and overloading.

He needed time to process everything in his head, and form a game plan.

The streets weren’t crowded with zombies but there were enough of them. He knew it was pointless to wander and try to kill every single one of them, but if he didn’t they would eventually gain consciousness and try to destroy him. He’d been one of the first. He had no idea how many more, from the initial wave of attacks, were still out there, and if they were plotting as well. He couldn’t take the chance.

He stopped, the hot pavement burning his feet. He didn’t actually feel the pain but it was instinctive to him. His feet were black with grime and the bottoms were probably flayed of skin. It would grow. He needed to find shoes to wear.

Across the street was an abandoned restaurant with a wooden walkway leading to its front door. Java Joint. It was a coffee place, the windows blown out. Frank decided he would stay there, out of the sun and away from any of the living. He would gain strength and destroy any zombies who got too close.

He would begin to plot his next move. But, first, he needed to find a good pair of Nikes. And a living person so he could bathe in its blood.


Author Armand Rosamilia

Armand Rosamilia is a New Jersey boy currently living in sunny Florida, where he writes when he’s not sleeping. He’s happily married to a woman who helps his career and is supportive, which is all he ever wanted in life…

He’s written over 150 stories that are currently available, including horror, zombies, contemporary fiction, thrillers and more. His goal is to write a good story and not worry about genre labels.

He runs two very successful podcasts on Project iRadio, too…

Arm Cast: Dead Sexy Horror Podcast – interviewing fellow authors as well as filmmakers, musicians, etc.

Arm N Toof’s Dead Time Podcast – with co-host Mark Tufo, the duo interview authors and filmmakers and anyone else they feel like talking to.

He also loves to talk in third person… because he’s really that cool.

You can find him at


©Armand Rosamilia, 2016. All rights reserved.

Author Armand Rosamilia – Dying Days 2

Dying Days 2 by Armand Rosamilia

EXCERPT from Dying Days 2 by Armand Rosamilia:

Chapter One

The undead came on, wave after wave, almost in time with the pounding of the surf to their right. For six hours, they filled the dunes and the strip of A1A with their rotting, shambling carcasses.

There were still hundreds of them below, wandering in and out of the ocean, stumbling over the dunes, under the stilt houses and clogging up the street.

At some point, they’d figured out how to climb the stairs to two stilt houses, killing the occupants of one and being slaughtered, in turn, by the survivors in the other until a barrier could be erected. None of the survivors in the other stilt houses said anything, but everyone knew that once this attack was over, the occupants would all need thorough checking for bite wounds.

Murph spit tobacco over the side of his home, the brown glob splattering on the head of an undead woman twenty feet below. “Looks like rain.”

Darlene Bobich, looking tired and older than her twenty-eight years, could only laugh. “If rain were the worst of our worries, it’d be a great fucking day, old man.”

“True.” Murph turned his crinkled face toward her and grinned. “But no matter what happens, at some point you gotta figure it’s gonna rain, even here in Florida.”

“True indeed. I’m going to crack open a cold one. You in?”

Murph spit the last of his chew over the side and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Yeah, but none of that foreign crap. I think I hid some Buds in the back so John-John wouldn’t see them.”

The two walked back inside and laughed at the sight of John, Murph’s son, passed out on the couch with three Budweiser beer cans on the coffee table.

Murph went to wake him up but Darlene stopped him. “Let him sleep. We’ve been through Hell the last couple days, especially him. He covered our retreat the entire march back.”

They’d sent a group to meet, greet and protect a large horde of survivors coming from Daytona Beach. Orlando had been overrun and thousands of refugees had fought their way east on I-4, toward the ocean, before turning north for the safety of St. Augustine.

Something had gone terribly wrong. Instead of weary, tired and hungry people, they encountered thousands and thousands of deadly, unwavering, hungry zombies. The way back had been relatively clear, with a few stray undead in their path, but the horde had unnerved some of them, especially fourteen-year old Bri, who was in such shock that Eric had to carry her all the way back.

Darlene grabbed a couple of cold ones and tried to shake the thoughts from her head. She couldn’t. “It was the smell.”

“Pardon?” Murph said and took an offered beer.

“Right before we knew something was wrong, a second before Bri turned back to us with that confused fear in her eyes, I smelled them. Not consciously, but the faint scent was there.”

“Nothing worse than being downwind from a corpse, honey.”

Darlene shook her head. “I didn’t simply smell them, I sensed them. It’s hard to explain.” She took a gulp of beer and closed her eyes. “I don’t know. I just knew what they were in my head before my eyes could really see them, before even Bri saw them, and she was standing only five feet from them.”

“Crazy world we live in,” Murph said and winked. “That’s why God made beer. The great equalizer.”

Darlene raised her can in salute. “A wise man once said, ‘Beer… now, there’s a temporary solution.'”

“Wise man?”

“Homer Simpson.”

“Who?” Murph asked.

Darlene laughed. “Never mind.”

Murph went into the kitchen. “D’oh,” he said, loud enough for Darlene to hear.

She laughed. “I think the weird part right now is the relief that we know exactly where they are.”

“Want pretzels?” Murph asked.

“Sure. I mean, there are swarms of them down there but at least we’re not under the false pretense that they’ve all rotted away or wandered off.”

Murph pointed at his son. “I haven’t seen him that comfortable in way too long. I know what you mean. I’m too old for this shit. My knees are popping like crazy and I honestly don’t think I’ll ever make it down those stairs. For all intents and purposes, this is my coffin.” Murph sat down in his chair and sighed. “But you can’t ask for a bigger coffin than this, right?”

“Exactly, and especially one with a working fridge full of beer.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

John rolled off the couch and stretched, looking worn-out. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and trudged silently to the bathroom.

“And they say the ones outside are the rude ones. At least they have an excuse,” Murph said loudly. He stopped when he heard the thump and jumped out of his seat at the same time Darlene did.

“Was that the wood?” Murph whispered, frozen in place.

“I’m not rude, but don’t fuck with me before I take a piss,” John said as he entered the living room.

Before anyone could shush him, they heard the tell-tale sound of wood being pried from the stairs.

They went into action, with John getting one of his bows and Darlene her trusty Desert Eagle and her machete. Murph grabbed a baseball bat and opened the door for them.

Since they’d been out here on the deck last, the rain had begun, a thin sheet of wetness. It looked like it would spit for a bit before sputtering out, but you never knew what the Florida weather would do.

“Breach,” Darlene said, although her companions already saw.

The zombies had pulled the wooden barrier from the stairs below and were now moving two abreast up the steps, slowly scrambling up.

John looked around. “I told you we should have brought heavy things up here to toss down.”

“There was no time for that,” Murph said and waved over to the next stilt house, where Eric White was standing on his deck with a hunting rifle in hand. Murph waved him off.

Darlene nodded. No use shooting and drawing even more of them. They had no idea how far the main horde had gotten, and if they were still close they might turn back, drawn to the noise.

John took one of the lead zombies out with an arrow through the forehead but it pitched over the side. His next shot dropped one on the steps but it didn’t hinder the others’ movements.

“Did you just see that?” Darlene asked.

“See what?” John said between shots.

“The zombies below pulled the killed one down and away.”


“They used to keep tripping over them, but now they are actually moving the fallen. And why did they suddenly decide to pull the barrier down instead of clubbing into it?”

“We’re fucked if they decided to start thinking,” Murph chimed in.

John put his compound bow down on the floor. “This is ridiculous.  There’s too many of them coming at once. Dad, give me your bat.”

“Let’s do this,” Darlene said with a grin, hefting her machete.

“And have you cut my head off? I don’t think so. Go grab a baseball bat from my room, but not the Chipper Jones model.”

“The what?”

Murph smiled. “John-John’s been a Chipper fan since he broke into the majors with Atlanta. He finally got himself a nice Chipper Jones model baseball bat, and it only took a zombie apocalypse for that to happen.”

Darlene shook her head. “Don’t start without me.”

By the time Darlene found a suitable bat,—someone named Mike Lowell—John was already down the steps and swinging for the fences.

“Lying bastard,” Darlene called out and joined him.

There were at least four zombies either unmoving or being trampled two steps below their position, but it didn’t look like John had gained any ground.

“What bat is that?” John said without looking.

“Some Chipper guy,” she said.


Darlene connected with the head of a bloody woman, striking from overhead so she didn’t accidentally hit John.

Still they kept coming, and they were being pushed from behind by their comrades, eager to taste Darlene and John. A quick glance and Darlene wished she hadn’t looked: there were at least a hundred zombies now pressed around the base of the stilt house, and more were being attracted by the sounds.

John took a step back as he connected with another swing, but he was tiring. So was Darlene. They began moving back up the steps, one at a time, as they swung. Each strike of the baseball bats was becoming weaker.

As they got to the landing on the deck, they separated enough to get a wider swing in. The stairs were packed with zombies and Darlene decided that once they got pushed inside she’d use her Desert Eagle until she ran out of bullets. At this point, the noise couldn’t possibly attract any more of them.

As if in answer, Eric began shooting at them, picking off the ones a few steps down. He was a great shot, punching holes through the backs of heads and necks.

The mist of rain became a steady stream from the sky.

John slipped on gore and almost went down. As he stumbled, Murph shot the zombie reaching for John point-blank in the face.

“Hold them, I got an idea,” Murph shouted.

Darlene swung at a zombie but the blow bounced off its shoulder and she lost her grip on the bat. The rain grew stronger and a wind pushed it into her face. She fell heavily to the deck, her hands searching for the baseball bat, pushing at the legs and feet of the undead that tried to trample her.

“Fuck,” John shouted in defeat, connecting with his bat and pushing a zombie into two more coming up the steps.

Darlene found her bat and stood, surveying the chaos before her. Three zombies had made the deck, two in front of her and one going at John. There were two more pushing to get over the last step, with bobbing heads behind them. John looked exhausted, barely holding the bat in his hands.

Eric shot a zombie coming up the stairs but another took its place.

Is this it? Is this the way it ends, after everything I’ve been through? Never going home, never surviving to fight another day, never seeing if this mad world dies or rights itself? To die here, to die now…

Darlene’s thoughts were interrupted with a whoosh sound over her shoulder. Instinctively she ducked but the flaming bottle was already past her, exploding on the two zombies coming up the steps.

“Watch out!” Murph yelled way too late, the flames already shooting up and burning bodies.

John laughed and started swinging again.

Darlene, with a rush of adrenalin after almost being set on fire, attacked with purpose, dropping zombies before her with renewed vigor. A flaming zombie shambled to her and she clubbed it, the fire licking up to her hands on the bat.

The zombie pitched back and, for a moment, the stairs were clear.

Eric stopped shooting and waved.

The lip of the deck nearest the stairs was on fire and Murph ran past the two and started stomping around, putting it out. Darlene ran to his side to help and to protect him from the horrors ascending the stairs, but she didn’t need to worry.

Murph put out the last of the fire and laughed, looking down to the swarming undead twenty feet below and to the demolished staircase on the ground.

“Who’s ready for another beer?” Murph asked, waved thanks to Eric, and went back inside. “Told you it was going to rain.”

*   *   *   *   *

Darlene, bored, went back onto the deck and sat facing the ocean. The rain had stopped several hours ago but the undead were still in force. They surrounded the houses, making it impossible for anyone else to rescue them. Eric was game, Darlene knew, to begin doing what he did best: construction. She watched him pacing on his own deck with a pad and pencil in his hand, and she knew he was itching to begin the project of rebuilding the stairs.

But first the dunes would need to be emptied of the zombies, and John didn’t have enough arrows to do the job. Even now, she could see another two zombies appear from the surf and stumble up the beach.

John came up next to her. He glanced over the side and shook his head. “I hope we don’t run out of food.”

“I hope, for your dad’s sake, we don’t run out of beer.”

“He has enough Redman hidden in his room that he’ll just have to live off his chew.”

John waved at Eric and then looked over at Darlene’s stilt house. “Miss home?”

“Home?” She followed his gaze and smiled. “That’s not home, that’s my temporary house until I can get back north.”

“Still the plan?” John asked.

Darlene laughed. “Yep, still the plan. I’m not going to push it, and I know it’s probably a suicide mission to think I can travel over a thousand miles through this shit just to see if my home is still in one piece. But it’s something I have to do.”

“You could stay here.”

“For what?”

“For me?” he asked with a smile.

“What does that mean?” she asked. The sexual tension between the two of them had been brewing since day one but they’d both ignored it like the proverbial elephant standing in the corner.

“I like you,” he said and looked away.

She liked him, too. Hell, she would make love to him right here if he wanted to. She was completely into him and sexually attracted. She smiled when she thought of the number of times she’d taken care of herself while thinking of John in the last few weeks.

“I like you, too. You know that.” Darlene stood and leaned on the rail. “But?”

John sheepishly held up his hand and his wedding band. “Look, I know it’s stupid and probably unrealistic.”

Darlene came to him and gave him a hug. “We’ve been through this already, haven’t we? I know you’re still holding out that your wife is alive. I get that. We all need something to believe in, and that’s what keeps you going. I would never force an issue between us. In the short time we’ve known each other, you’ve been a great friend, and probably the first guy in forever who didn’t treat me like shit or hurt me.”

“I would never hurt you,” he said.

She couldn’t stop the horrible thoughts flooding her mind now that she’d gone to that dark place and she hated herself for it right now . “I hope not.”

John must have sensed her dark demeanor because he squeezed her harder. “You’re a true friend and I know you have my back, and I have yours. What more could a person want these days?”

Your cock in me, she thought, more to make herself laugh and get back to positive.

When she did grin, he laughed. “I’m guessing from that look you’re thinking something dirty?”

“What look? I’m always thinking something dirty.”

“True,” John said and was only inches away from her.

I could lean in and kiss him, it would be that simple. I could be that bitch that breaks up a marriage, even though there is a ninety-nine point nine-nine percent chance the other person is  dead. I could have him for me, the dream guy I never had.

Eric’s short quick whistle pulled them apart. When they looked his way, he pointed out to the water and scurried into his home.

They both dropped to the deck and John fished in one of the tackle boxes they had out there for just such an emergency. He pulled out two pairs of binoculars.

The side of the deck facing the ocean had a nice sunscreen built in, running six feet across and from the deck to the roof. It was painted in garish Miami-style teals, oranges and bright yellows. It also worked as a great shield for times like this.

John had slit several spots in it so they could press the binoculars to it and see without giving away that someone was actually here.

They’d been raided before, twice by land and once by sea, but the thieves had been unsuccessful.

“They seem to be going past us,” John whispered.

Darlene focused her binoculars at the caravan of boats heading north offshore. “Survivors from Orlando?”

“Could be. Maybe, when they were attacked, they got lucky and got the boats.”

Darlene counted seven crafts. “If they’re the survivors, there aren’t many left. Do we flag them down or let them go?”

“Not sure. I’d better get my dad.”

Darlene concentrated on the lead ship, a larger yacht with at least twenty people on deck. “Wait,” she said and gripped John’s arm.


“Let them pass.” Darlene held the binoculars away from her face and felt the tears begin to roll down her face. “I know them.”

“How?” John asked and put a hand on her shoulder.

“That’s Doug Conrad and his militia.” She turned to John and buried her face in his shoulder. The bastards that held her captive.


Author Armand Rosamilia

Armand Rosamilia is a New Jersey boy currently living in sunny Florida, where he writes when he’s not sleeping. He’s happily married to a woman who helps his career and is supportive, which is all he ever wanted in life…

He’s written over 150 stories that are currently available, including horror, zombies, contemporary fiction, thrillers and more. His goal is to write a good story and not worry about genre labels.

He runs two very successful podcasts on Project iRadio, too…

Arm Cast: Dead Sexy Horror Podcast – interviewing fellow authors as well as filmmakers, musicians, etc.

Arm N Toof’s Dead Time Podcast – with co-host Mark Tufo, the duo interview authors and filmmakers and anyone else they feel like talking to.

He also loves to talk in third person… because he’s really that cool.

You can find him at


©Armand Rosamilia, 2016. All rights reserved.

Author Armand Rosamilia – Dying Days

Dying Days by Armand Rosamilia

EXCERPT from Dying Days by Armand Rosamilia:



Chapter One

Anything But Luck

Darlene Bobich never believed in luck. There was a reason for everything, and whether it was the good graces of God Above or skills and experience that got you through, it was never a random occurrence. Things happened for a reason, as her daddy used to say.

This morning she put a bullet through her daddy’s heart. He didn’t stop trying to kill her, so she put another through his stomach.

The one between his eyes and the one through his left eye stopped him.

The gun, a Desert Eagle gas-operated semi-automatic, was given to her as a gift from her daddy. This was one of the first that he’d had a hand in creating when the Israeli manufacturer had moved its operations to Maine.

A small five year window before the Desert Eagle was once again back in Israel. Her daddy had been working in a factory in Dexter making footwear for twelve years. When it was announced that better paying jobs were right in town instead of thirty miles away, he’d jumped at the chance. Her daddy knew nothing about weapons but it didn’t stop him from being hired, and he was a fast learner.

Darlene remembered the look on his face when he handed her the present, a large box wrapped in Christmas paper with a silver bow. “I made this for you,” he’d said and kissed her cheek. Darlene was seventeen, on the verge of graduating high school and going off to college in the fall, when he’d given it to her.

Ten years of weekends on the gun range with daddy had taught her how to handle the weapon and defend herself. She’d never needed to until the dead started to rise.

Fittingly, ironically or just plain horrifically, the first zombie she’d had to kill was her own daddy. Her aim hadn’t been off; she thought that a bullet through his heart would stop him, but now she knew that his heart had given up the fight already. The second shot was meant to slow him down so she could think, but he didn’t double over in pain. Pain was not an option for him anymore, only the hunger.

Darlene took the last two shots in quick succession, hitting both targets perfectly. Daddy would have been proud of the accuracy. Even as he fell, lifeless, to the kitchen floor she knew that it wasn’t luck that had put this weapon in her hand and the skill to use it.

It was her sweet daddy that had.


Author Armand Rosamilia

Armand Rosamilia is a New Jersey boy currently living in sunny Florida, where he writes when he’s not sleeping. He’s happily married to a woman who helps his career and is supportive, which is all he ever wanted in life…

He’s written over 150 stories that are currently available, including horror, zombies, contemporary fiction, thrillers and more. His goal is to write a good story and not worry about genre labels.

He runs two very successful podcasts on Project iRadio, too…

Arm Cast: Dead Sexy Horror Podcast – interviewing fellow authors as well as filmmakers, musicians, etc.

Arm N Toof’s Dead Time Podcast – with co-host Mark Tufo, the duo interview authors and filmmakers and anyone else they feel like talking to.

He also loves to talk in third person… because he’s really that cool.

You can find him at


©Armand Rosamilia, 2016. All rights reserved.