Zombie Raccoons & Killer Bunnies Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Introduction

  DEATH MASK

  BUNRABS

  FOR LIZZIE

  FAITH IN OUR FATHERS

  BONE WHISPERS

  WATCHING

  THE THINGS THAT CRAWL

  THE WHITE BULL OF TARA

  DEAD POETS

  SUPER SQUIRREL TO THE RESCUE

  HER BLACK MOOD

  NINJA RATS ON HARLEYS

  BATS IN THEBAYOU

  TWILIGHT ANIMALS

  THE RIDGES

  ABOUT THE EDITORS

  “You have offended, fat one. Now you die.”

  The rats all pulled daggers.

  Er. I blinked up at him, confused. What about threats, rantings, that kind of thing? I mean, really . . .

  “She dies, you die.”

  We all looked to see Wan standing on the seat of the car, backlit by the dome light of the minivan. Wisps of fog were gathered around his feet. He had his sword out and pointed at the ninjas. “Move away from her if you value your lives.”

  It would have been very impressive had he been more than a few inches tall.

  The rats chuckled, and even I smiled. Wan looked so earnest, standing there with his sword in his hand.

  “She dies,” the possum laughed. “And then we beat the information out of you, traitor.”

  Okay, not so funny now.

  I leaped up, dodged one of the rats and hit the possum right on the snoot. Impressed?

  The only problem is it didn’t happen that way. My middle-aged fat body wouldn’t leap up for nothing. So I did the best I could. I kicked one of the rats right on the shins. Smartly.

  He dropped the knife and clutched his leg. Some ninja.

  All eyes were focused back on me. “Kill her,” the possum snarled.

  —From “Ninja Rats on Harleys”

  by Elizabeth A. Vaughn

  Also Available from DAW Books:

  Swordplay, edited by Denise Little

  Swords—at one time they were the quintessential weapons, and even today there are true sword masters practicing their craft around the world. Certainly, swords are essential tools of the trade in fantasy novels. Magical or legendary blades, workaday weapons, deadly daggers, rapiers, cutlasses, broadswords, and samurai swords all can be found carried by the heroes and villains, soldiers and assassins who people the seventeen original tales to be found in Swordplay. From a dwarf-crafted blade meant to slay a dragon to a cursed sword that once belonged to D’Artagnan, from Arthur’s legendary Excalibur to the Sword of Solomon, from a sword bespelled to crave blood to cold steel that magicks its wielder into a video game, here are imaginative stories that cut right to the heart of fantasy adventure. With stories by Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Mike Moscoe, Nina Kiriki Hoffman, Peter Orullian, Laura Resnick, and Janna Silverstein.

  Terribly Twisted Tales, edited by Jean Rabe and Martin H. Greenberg

  Fairy tales are among the earliest fantasies we are exposed to when we are young and impressionable children. What more fun could a fantasy writer have than to take up the challenge of drawing upon this rich material and transforming it into something new? These eighteen stories by Dennis McKiernan, Mickey Zucker Reichert, Michael Stackpole, Jim Hines, and others do just that. From the adventure of the witch in the gingerbread house and her close encounter with the oven . . . to Golda Lockes, who has a very special arrangement with those well-known bears . . . to a murderous attack with a glass slipper . . . to a wolf detective who sets out to solve “Grandma’s” murder, here are highly inventive stories that will give you an entirely new perspective on those classic tales.

  Gamer Fantastic, edited by Martin H. Greenberg and Kerrie Hughes Whether you spend your evenings enmeshed in computer games, or gather with your friends for war games every weekend, or faithfully attend gaming conventions year after year—or you just enjoy reading stories with three-dimensional settings and characters facing imaginative challenges, you’ll find what you are looking for in these thirteen tales created by veterans of the fantasy realms such as Chris Pierson, Donald J. Bingle, Jim C. Hines, Bill Fawcett, S.L. Farrell, Brian M. Thomsen, Jean Rabe, and Kristine Kathryn Rusch. And as an added bonus, there is a special introduction by Margaret Weis and a tribute to Gary Gygax by Ed Greenwood. So arm yourself for a fun-filled time as you join the ranks with this brand-new anthology.

  Copyright © 2009 by Tekno Books and Kerrie Hughes

  All Rights Reserved

  DAW Book Collectors No. 1491.

  DAW Books is distributed by Penguin Group (USA).

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  All resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-14532-6

  First Printing, October 2009

  DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED

  U.S. PAT. AND TM. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES

  —MARCA REGISTRADA

  HECHO EN U.S.A.

  S.A.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Introduction copyright © 2009 by Kerrie Hughes

  “Death Mask,” copyright © 2009 by Jody Lynn Nye

  “BunRabs,” copyright © 2009 by Donald J. Bingle

  “for lizzie,” copyright © 2009 by Anton Strout

  “Faith in Our Fathers,” copyright © 2009 by Alexander B. Potter

  “Bone Whispers,” copyright © 2009 by Tim Waggoner

  “Watching,” copyright © 2009 by Carrie Vaughn

  “The Things That Crawl,” copyright © 2009 by Richard Lee Byers

  “The White Bull of Tara,” copyright © 2009 by Fiona Patton

  “Dead Poets,” copyright © 2009 by John A. Pitts

  “Super Squirrel to the Rescue,” copyright © 2009 by P.R. Frost

  “Her Black Mood,” copyright © 2009 by Brenda Cooper

  “Ninja Rats on Harleys,” copyright © 2009 by Elizabeth A. Vaughan

  “Bats in Thebayou,” copyright © 2009 by Steven H Silver

  “Twilight Animals,” copyright © 2009 by Nina Kiriki Hoffman

  “The Ridges,” copyright © 2009 by Larry D. Sweazy

  INTRODUCTION

  I used to live in Kansas, where blue laws at drive-in movies kept scenes of horror or sex from being shown on the outdoor screen. Instead, the moviegoers would hear the action but not see it, while children in neighboring houses could not see or hear anything that might warp their little minds. I know because I was one of those nearby children desperately trying to see the movies from my bedroom window a few blocks away.

  Finally, at age 15, I was old enough to go to an R-rated, cut-apart horror film and saw a classic called Dawn of the Dead. Too much was removed for me to see the gory details, but the sounds of zombies munching on their screaming victims made me retch. I had to go home. I wasn’t that scared when I saw Jaws in the theater, although I’m still not going to swim in the ocean. Or lakes for that matter—have you seen what happens to camp counselors? But I digress.

  I’m still more terrified of zombies than I am of vampires, werewolves, and demons. I’m not scared of witches and ghosts because I know quite a few witches and have met at least two ghosts. Quite frankly, I am more afraid of psychopaths and corporate suits.

  At an
y rate, for the last dozen years or so I’ve been making a very bad joke about zombie raccoons and killer bunnies being the cause of every unknown noise in the dark and my trash being knocked over and strewn around. It’s probably neighborhood cats and dogs, but I’m not going outside to find out. I also must admit that the killer bunny thing is a Monty Python affectation, and I recently went to see Spamalot hoping to see some good old fashioned killer rabbit carnage. The show was good, but the bunny did not get nearly the stage time it deserved.

  When soliciting authors for this anthology, I found that most of my invitees were quite fond of raccoons and would feed them on a regular basis. Jody Lynn Nye actually lets them eat inside her house. When I lived in a second-story apartment, a mother raccoon and her babies would climb up nightly to get a free dinner while my cat hissed and yowled from behind the safety of the patio door. My son and my cat made it very clear that wild animals should not be fed by humans, as it makes the population too large for the environment. I say better to feed the raccoons than be fed on by them!

  As to the stories in this anthology . . .

  I’d like to point out that Beth Vaughn has given me a story that is the second part of one that appears originally in Furry Fantastic. I’m hoping she will turn it into a book soon. Brenda Cooper has a story set in the same world as her stories in Maiden Matron Crone, Children of Magic, Fellowship Fantastic, and The Dimension Next Door. Alexander Potter also has a reoccurring character that appears in the same four anthologies. Clearly I am a fan of these folks.

  The resulting anthology is an interesting mix of fairy tale, horror, and humor, and I would like to thank each and every author for their contributions and DAW for creating the opportunity for all of us to create these stories.

  So sit back and enjoy the critters, but for the love of cats, don’t go outside at night when you hear your trash cans fall over—it might just be those zombie raccoons!

  Kerrie Hughes

  DEATH MASK

  By Jody Lynn Nye

  Jody Lynn Nye lists her main career activity as “spoiling cats.” She lives northwest of Chicago with two of the above and her husband, author and packager Bill Fawcett. She has published more than thirty-five books, including six contemporary fantasies, four SF novels, four novels in collaboration with Anne McCaffrey, including The Ship Who Won; edited a humorous anthology about mothers, Don’t Forget Your Spacesuit, Dear!; and written over a hundred short stories. Her latest books are An Unexpected Apprentice, and Myth-Chief, cowritten with Robert Asprin. And, yes, she does believe in magic.

  Uneasily, Ide Pilkington eyed the hollow end of the shotgun. Granny Morrow sighted along it, finger on the trigger, in no kind of hurry. He was a big, hefty, balding man, probably outweighed her two to one, but he couldn’t outrun buckshot. He glanced guiltily at the injured raccoon on the ground between them, then up at the one sharp blue eye regarding him over the gun barrel. She had the one yellow light on the porch behind her and the light from the full moon overhead to aim by.

  “Now, you just move off my land as fast as your miserable bandy legs can take you,” Granny said, her voice low with menace. “And don’t you come back. If I find out you’ve been botherin’ one of my animals again, you will wish that your parents had never met. Git!”

  Pilkington held up his hands in protest. “Now, just a minute, Granny. I have a right to go after those varmints been eating my tomatoes, and you know it!”

  One bony thumb cocked back the trigger. Pilkington backed up a few paces. He glanced toward the forest just beyond the rail fence. He swore he could see glowing eyes. He bet the miserable furballs were laughing at him. He put up his chin, hoping to stand his ground and regain some of his dignity. Granny didn’t raise her head from the stock.

  “They ain’t varmints; they’re my animals. Hurtin’ one of ’em hurts me just as bad as if I was the victim. You been throwin’ stones at ’em, and today you set a spiteful trap. It was too much punishment for a coupla tomatoes, and you know it. I told you, git. I’ll give you to five, then I’ll pepper whatever part’s facin’ me with birdshot. Your choice. One.”

  “Granny!”

  “Two.”

  Pilkington didn’t wait for three. It took him all the way to five to get to the edge of the clearing that surrounded Granny’s white painted farmhouse. The woman was eighty-three if she was an hour old, but she was still the best shot in the county. Even her sons didn’t have the aim she did. If she could pick it up, she could fire it. He raced across the sparse lawn and plunged into the bushes just as a shot rang out behind him. Twigs and bits of bark rained down on him. He sputtered and batted at his face, but he kept his thick legs threshing.

  He emerged onto the gravel road that separated their properties and brushed off his shirt sleeves. Wouldn’t do for anyone else to see him racing around like a scared rabbit. To his relief, no one was around.

  “Curse that woman, she’s a witch!” Pilkington said angrily. “Them raccoons told on me! I don’t know how she knew about the stones, but she did! They hadda told her. Damn and curse them to the moon and back.”

  Any time he tried to put out snares or poison, he found the traps in a heap on his doorstep and the baited vegetables lined up like a display in a store. The only thing she couldn’t control was what he did himself. It was pure frustration, that’s what brought him to throwing stones and finally designing a deadfall full of stakes that he baited with ripe tomatoes. That raccoon never should have been able to get out of the pit. Not alive, anyhow. And it had gone and told on him before he could stop it.

  It was an old feud between him and Granny, one that the neighbors up and down State Route 36 had advised him to forget about, but Pilkington just couldn’t let it go. It wasn’t like them raccoons made off with a tomato or two. The masked rodents bit into every half-ripe fruit they could reach until they found one worth eating. He had lost a quarter of the tomatoes on his vines. The lettuces had been double-decimated by the rabbits. The deer, against all common sense, had nibbled just about every jalapeno that was even close to ripe. He didn’t even want to think about how much damage had been done to his corn by the ravens. He was going to go broke and lose the farm that had been in his family for generations, and it was all that crazy woman’s fault.

  Lennie Edgewater, his neighbor to the south, had advised him to leave out a pile of his best pickings near his back door every night as a bribe, and the critters wouldn’t touch the rest.

  “Your daddy was the one who told me to do it,” Lennie had said, the brown eyes in his pouchy, coffee-toned face earnest. “Didn’t he tell you the same? Granny made a pact between us and them animals. I can’t believe you won’t see sense. We get some good out of it, too. I haven’t seen a single hornworm or caterpillar since I started, and there ain’t no aphids on my wife’s roses, either. Make friends with those critters, or it’ll be the end of you. You’re gonna have a heart attack.”

  Pilkington admitted he might be stubborn about it, but animals were stupid. How would they understand that meant to leave his crops in peace? What if they decided they had a taste for his prize squashes just before the county fair? How about if they ate down all his corn before the guy from the seed company came by to inspect? What if they didn’t like what he put out, and destroyed his whole crop for the hell of it? How could Granny communicate with varmints anyhow?

  He crept back toward Granny’s place. What could she do for a dying raccoon? She came from a long line of witches, so the locals said, and her daughter Hazel was surely one, too. He couldn’t stop himself—he had to see. He slipped as silently as he could through the stand of hickory saplings and peered up toward her house.

  The moon lit up everything like a spotlight. Granny had left her shotgun on the porch. She knelt on the grass with a bundle of dark fur in her arms, her white head bent over it, keening quietly to herself. Pilkington’s rational mind told him that she was just mourning over a critter as though it were a beloved pet. She might just be crazy. No harm in that.
She farmed her land and pretty much minded her own business. But it was the sight of the other critters gathered in a circle around her that he couldn’t rationalize in any way, shape or form. Deer, rabbits, a fox, a pair of coyotes, even a bobcat stood among a horde of raccoons. They looked sad, too.

  No, he had to stop himself thinking that way! They were dumb animals! They must be standing there because they thought she was gonna feed them, or something like that.

  She laid the critter down and passed her hands over it as if she were stroking it, but she didn’t touch it. It lay still. Pilkington felt guilty for a moment that it was dead.

  “Rest, pretty one, my pretty one,” Granny said tenderly, her hands working back and forth. “Sleep safe. I won’t call you ’less I need you. Dream of the moon and good harvests. That’s right. Sleep in peace.”

  Pilkington blinked. It had to be a trick of the movement, but it seemed as if Granny wove a cocoon of moonlight around the body. He saw the ticked, fawn-colored fur and the ringed tail glow softly. There were marks on its belly where the stakes had pierced it. She turned the raccoon over and tucked its little hand-like paws under its chin as if it were asleep, but the eyes in the striped mask weren’t closed. They glowed directly toward Pilkington. He flinched backward as if the eyes accused him. Then the light faded, and the glow disappeared into the black strip across its face.

  Granny sat back on her skinny haunches and rested her hands on her blue-jean-covered knees. She nodded to the circle of animals. As if they were trained circus performers, a couple of badgers came forward and bowed to her. Pilkington was sure now that he was dreaming. They started digging beside the dead raccoon. In a moment they had heaved up a pile of earth that would fill a wheelbarrow. Granny picked up the body and laid it in the hole. The badgers turned around and began to scoop dirt on top of it. They rolled on the top of the mound like otters and smoothed it out. Granny gave them a pat on each of their flat, wedge-shaped heads as if they were dogs, a move that would cost an ordinary man his hand.