TV Dinners from Hell Read online

  Praise for Amber Fallon:

  “Fallon’s writing will hit your brain like a hammer, leaving you dazed and satisfyingly pulped. Pure, over-the-top fun from cover to cover.” —Rachel Autumn Deering, author of Husk

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  “Wherever there’s horror, Amber Fallon is there.” —C.V. Hunt, author of Ritualistic Human Sacrifice and We Did Everything Wrong

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  “Chilling and delightfully gruesome!” —Joe McKinney, author of Dead City, Flesh Eaters, and Mutated

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  “Solid writing and killer sensibilities make Amber Fallon a force to be reckoned with.” —Danger Slater, author of Puppet Skin

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  “Amber Fallon’s writing is propulsive and tough. If it seems like she’s taking a breath, you better keep your guard up, because she’s just winding up for a big hit. Fans of JF Gonzalez and Brian Keene, place your bets now. Fallon is the new Extreme Horror knockout artist.” —Bracken MacLeod, Bram Stoker Award nominated author of Stranded and Come to Dust

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  “Amber Fallon brings fresh perspectives and new energies to classic tropes, reinventing them in delightful (and often unsettling) ways.” —Christine Morgan, author of Spermjackers from Hell and The Raven’s Table

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  “Like the VHS horror of your youth that you don’t have to worry with the late fee on. Like those 80s pulp horror books you used to gawp at while waiting in line at Hill’s, you know, all skeletons and embossed covers. Like the world ending and the dead singing. Like unseen creatures and quiet ghosts. Like honesty and lies. Amber Fallon delivers stories that are all of these things, and things that are even more unsettling.” —John Boden, author of Jedi Summer with the Magnetic Kid and Spungunion

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  “Amber Fallon writes the kind of skin-peeling, savage horror that calls back to such authors as Guy N. Smith. An economy of words and a brutal understanding of the human animal make her a rising star in the dark horror universe.” K.H. Koehler, author of Dinosaur Valley and Ghost in the Machine

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  “After the B-movie pulp style of her debut The Terminal, and now the atmospheric creepfest that is The Warblers, Fallon has proven herself to be a versatile new voice in the horror field.” —Stephen Kozeniewski, author of Hunter of the Dead and The Hematophages

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  “Amber Fallon’s work inhabits two worlds: She delivers exciting, well-written narratives packed with nuanced characters, but also the kind of bloody, monstrous, weird onslaught of words that keeps fans of hardcore horror happy and coming back for more. Whichever you prefer, come for one and stay for the other. Fallon is a dark fiction star in the making, and jumping on her train early is a smart move.” —Gabino Iglesias, author of Zero Saints

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  TV Dinners from Hell

  by

  Amber Fallon

  Published by Fresh Pulp Press

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, save those clearly in the public domain, is purely coincidental.

  “Night Music” Copyright © 2016 by Amber Fallon

  “The Donor” Copyright © 2016 by Amber Fallon

  “Pretty Pretty Shiny” Copyright © 2013 by Amber Fallon, formerly appeared in the anthology Operation Ice Bat, edited by Brian Keene

  “Behind the Smile” Copyright © 2012 by Amber Fallon, formerly appeared in the anthology Here Be Clowns, edited by Dorothy Davies

  “78154” Copyright © 2012 by Amber Fallon, formerly appeared in the anthology So Long, and Thanks For all The Brains, edited by Matt Nord.

  “The Glen” Copyright © 2011 by Amber Fallon, formerly appeared on Horror on the Installment Plan

  “Something Bit Me” Copyright © 2014 by Amber Fallon

  “Tequila Sunrise” Copyright © 2013 by Amber Fallon

  “Dawn of the Death Beetles” Copyright © 2017 by Amber Fallon

  “The Shark that Ate Everything” Copyright © 2016 by Amber Fallon, formerly appeared in the anthology Fossil Lake IV: Sharkasaurus, edited by Christine Morgan

  “Demolition Derby” Copyright © 2011 by Amber Fallon, formerly appeared in the Sirens Call eZine

  “Blind” Copyright © 2009 by Amber Fallon

  “Tell Me How You Die” Copyright © 2017 by Amber Fallon

  “Clickers in Space” Copyright © 2015 by Amber Fallon, originally intended for Clickers Forever: A J.F. Gonzalez Tribute Anthology, printed with permission from J.F. Gonzalez’s estate

  “Odessa” Copyright © 2012 by Amber Fallon

  “The Dick Measuring Contest at the End of the Universe” Copyright © 2017 by Amber Fallon

  “Ornamentation” Copyright © 2011 by Amber Fallon, formerly appeared in the anthology Return to Deathlehem, edited by Michael J. Evans and Harrison Graves

  Cover art Copyright © 2017 by Marc Schoenbach

  Interior illustrations Copyright © 2017 by Chris Enterline

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the Publisher, except for short quotes used for review or promotion. For information address the Publisher.

  Paperback ISBN: 0692956980

  Paperback ISBN-13: 978-0692956984

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  Dedication

  For J.F. Gonzalez.

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  Menu

  INTRODUCTION

  NIGHT MUSIC

  THE DONOR

  PRETTY PRETTY SHINY

  BEHIND THE SMILE

  78154

  THE GLEN

  SOMETHING BIT ME

  TEQUILA SUNRISE

  DAWN OF THE DEATH BEETLES

  THE SHARK THAT ATE EVERYTHING

  DEMOLITION DERBY

  BLIND

  TELL ME HOW YOU DIE

  CLICKERS IN SPACE

  ODESSA

  THE DICK-MEASURING CONTEST AT THE END OF THE UNIVERSE

  ORNAMENTATION

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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  INTRODUCTION

  DINNER FOR ONE

  Hungry? You must be, after your day. Sit. Eat. There's plenty in this book to chew on.

  Your armchair is waiting. There are some old scary movies on TV tonight, the kind that make a blue flicker of light and shadow dance across the walls behind you in the otherwise empty house. It is empty, isn't it? Tonight, it's dinner for one. There is beer in the fridge.

  Oh, and there are some TV dinners in the freezer.

  What you are warming up right now is a 17-course collection of Amber Fallon's short fiction, and it is a feast for one. Showcasing some of Amber's best short fiction to date, this book runs the gamut from quiet supernatural and preternatural horror to the more visceral and bestial sides of humanity. The genres range from horror to a little bit of fantasy and science fiction. There's something in here for everyone’s taste, and once you've had a bite, you'll gobble up the whole thing in one sitting. I did.

  I've always thought short story collections are a little like family-style eating. You can get a sampling of all the different types of fare a writer has to offer. There is one chef, but many different flavors to experience. Some tales are sweet or salty, some are heavy and weigh on our stomachs, some are savory and instantly satisfying, and some are just plain bizarre. The best foods for the mind and body fill and satisfy us and nourish us for a time. Some of these foods are
slavishly prepared for hours. Some of these are quick, microwavable comfort foods. The best dinners, in my opinion, are a little of both. The best books are a little of both, as well. TV Dinners From Hell is one of those books.

  When I first met Amber, she told me that she wrote zombie horror. She does—some of the most beautifully written and heart-wrenching tales in this book are a testament to that—but she does so much more. Like the greatest gourmet chefs, she uses specific ingredients to achieve a certain tone or effect. In these stories, her monsters, human or otherwise, have cravings—sometimes for human flesh, sometimes for souls, and sometimes, for goals unsettling in their vagueness. We aren't always told what the secret sauce of some of these stories is, but we don't need the recipe. We can taste it, we can feel its effects inside us, and that is enough. These stories have an aftertaste, and it is powerful and memorable, as good work should be, and sometimes the inherent mystery of why is what makes it work so well. With many of these tales, we don't realize what we've taken into ourselves until it's already half-digested.

  Citing early influences like J.F. Gonzalez and Brian Keene, Amber's work is a rich and spicy dish of unflinching violence and unapologetic humanity. There is a pervasive sense in each of these stories of being alone, whether by choice or an error in judgment, and of a history of dinners for one in these characters' pasts. There is also a frank examination of the kind of choices people used to being alone make, good or bad. Much of the work that has influenced Amber is precisely in the realm of universal conditions of aloneness and loneliness; one of the great horrors in tales of the apocalypse or after is what people do with those two conditions, or what is done to them as those conditions evolve. And much like those previous influential works, Amber captures the inherent vulnerability of those conditions. Like both Brian's and J.F.'s work, she infuses her writing with a kind of honesty and integrity in the face of being alone that warms the gut.

  Mouth watering yet? It should be.

  Reminiscent of the best of the old anthology series, everything from Tales From the Dark Side to Tales From the Crypt, the stories in this book are servings of the deliciously horrific. There are sides of truly profound insight and heartbreaking clarity. In a voice that I believe is uniquely Amber's, the stories examine the beauty and ugliness of the world through the perspectives of very real, sometimes flawed, sometimes brave, sometimes cruel women or the people close to them. The flavor of these stories is unique in that regard; these are the sides of women that they don't always want you to see. These are the true fears they don't want you to know they have. These are the sins they commit in the dead of night and kick themselves for in the light of morning. In this book, readers are treated to slices of real life, seasoned with just enough of the otherworldly to bring out humanity's taste. And readers are left with the gnawing certainty that these are stories about hunger—hunger to be accepted and loved, to do the right thing, to hold onto what little we have left in this world. Hunger to survive. The satiation of that hunger is a profound driving force from which we can feel the pangs long after we close the book.

  Presentation is key, but taste is everything, and Amber's writing has both. No stranger to the kitchen herself (both literally and metaphorically), she has prepared in this book a fine a la carte presentation of her talent. Try it. You'll like it. You'll want second helpings, maybe even thirds.

  Hungry? Eat up.

  —Mary SanGiovanni

  Hell's Dining Room, NJ

  September 20, 2017

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  NIGHT MUSIC

  It was dark by the time she pulled her junky red sedan into one of the few empty parking spaces left. She knew she shouldn’t have been out so late, shouldn’t have had so much to drink, shouldn’t have ignored the 20-minute warning siren for so long…but she couldn’t help it. Billy was there and he was talking to her, and their conversation was just flowing so easily. She felt the kind of heart-fluttering, dizzy elation she hadn’t felt since grade school, and she just couldn’t pull herself away. “One more drink” had become two, and then three, as the minutes ticked by and the color bled from the sky overhead.

  It was okay. She was sure it was okay. Night must have just fallen, after all. The stars were out, and the moon had peaked over the skyline, but it couldn’t really be that long after sunset, could it? The sirens must have just stopped their warbling cries. The security patrols didn’t even seem to be out yet, which was good, since she really didn’t want to have to deal with a fine and an escort. Although an escort might not be so bad, she thought as she glanced warily around the darkened parking lot, eyes darting nervously into the shadows.

  No one had seen any of those things in weeks, anyway. And it had been months since anyone had been attacked by them. Maybe they didn’t even exist anymore. Maybe the patrols had killed them all weeks ago and were just keeping up the act so they’d all stay employed. That seemed like the kind of thing the government would do. Anyway, they’d be slow to inform people that the threat had passed. That was bureaucracy for you.

  She opened the door and got out of her car on wobbly, Jell-O-kneed legs, forgetting her keys in the ignition. She had to take several steps back to her car to retrieve them.

  The warm summer night was eerily calm. Silent. Not a cricket chirped in the muggy air. She stumbled and veered off course, nearly tripping into the gutter before she righted herself and stepped back onto the sidewalk. It was only six blocks to her crappy little apartment. What could possibly happen to her in six lousy blocks? Nothing. That’s what.

  She pulled her light jacket closer even though the air was almost stiflingly warm. Her face was flushed with both alcohol and thoughts of Billy Barner, but she felt chilled anyway. Just a few blocks. A few slow, stumbling blocks.

  She wished there was some kind of noise. Any kind of noise, just so she didn’t feel so completely alone. The silence was creepy. She remembered being annoyed by the sounds of the city at night when she’d first moved in. Now she was almost in tears, wishing for the sounds of a street fight, a maybe-backfire-maybe-gunshot, even a motorcycle. Anything. The world felt completely deserted. She resolved then and there to never be out after the sun went down again—even if the plague was cured and the curfew was lifted.

  She was halfway down the first block, stumbling as slowly and as quietly as possible, when she heard it: thin, reedy strains of an old Patsy Cline song. Her blood ran cold.

  The sound was distant and tinny, as it if were being played on an old transistor radio through someone’s open window far away, but it was enough to make her quicken her steps, adrenaline rendering her instantly sober.

  “I fall…to pieces…”

  The haunting lyric faded away into the eerie silence and stillness of the night. Maybe it had just been someone’s old radio, a station fading in and out at an inopportune moment. It was nothing to worry about, she was sure.

  Five blocks. Just five little blocks. She could do this. She clutched her jacket even tighter and dug her keys out of her pocket, gripping them in her fist like a weapon, improvised brass knuckles. She glanced back over her shoulder at the little parking lot and her car, now a block and a half away. She could dash back there, get in her car, drive it up to her apartment, and park on the damned sidewalk. She might get a fine, might even get her crappy little car towed, but it might be worth it. Maybe she should just sleep in her car for the night. Lock the doors, pull the old blanket she kept in the back seat over herself, and wait for sunrise. It would be cramped and uncomfortable, but she’d be safe.

  No. She was an adult, goddamnit! Not some scared little girl. It was less than four blocks to the safety of her apartment. She could make it four blocks. It was almost silly to think she couldn’t. She could see her apartment from where she stood, yellow curtains in her kitchen window looking greenish in the moonlight. In just a few minutes, she’d be up there at that window, looking out at the street and the night and giggling over how silly she’d been to feel so afraid.
>
  She had never noticed how dark her street was before, especially near the little parking lot shared by the apartment complexes in the area. The nearest streetlight was at the end of the next block, and the faint orange light it cast only served to deepen the shadows that surrounded it. Her breath quickened with her steps. She could feel the rhythm of her footfalls as they beat out a tympanic melody in time with the frantic pounding of her heart. Her head felt fuzzy, and her vision swam in and out of focus. Why had she had so much to drink?

  She was almost to the glowing orange circle beneath the streetlight when she spotted it. Her. The thing. Her blood ran cold. She dropped her keys in surprise, her heart jumping into her throat at the noise. The thing that used to be a woman turned in her direction, dead eyes staring sightlessly at her as she picked up her keys and scrambled backwards on shaking, unsteady legs.

  Even in the darkness and across the distance, the thing’s vacant eyes marked it as one of the infected. It moved oddly, inhumanly, as if its knees and elbows had suddenly become far too heavy for its body. It jerked towards her, almost dragging its calves and feet, its knees knocking together and sending it canting off in a stumble. Its arms dangled, its hands swinging pendulously as it moved. But the worst part was its mouth, which was open wide, far too wide for any human being. It was a vast, inky black void from which Patsy Cline’s voice rang out, clear and loud and as sharp as daggers. It hadn’t been someone’s radio.

  “Time only adds to the flame.”

  She gasped and nearly tripped, regaining her balance at the last second as the thing lurched at her. It was more than a block away and it moved slowly. Could it catch her if she ran? Would it follow? Could it even see her with those dead black doll’s eyes? She ducked behind a leafy bush and watched as Patsy’s song rang out in the humid air. She’d never be able to listen to that song again, which was a sin. She loved Patsy Cline.