All You Can Eat

Shane McKenzie

Praise for Shane McKenzie

All You Can Eat

“McKenzie’s prose strikes like a sledge-hammer to the belly and a baseball bat to the crotch. He writes one-hundred-percent BALLS TO THE WALL, and I’m certain his name will soon rank high on the short list of effective extreme-horror authors.”

—Edward Lee, Stoker Award winning author of Brain Cheese Buffet, The Bighead, and Header

“Unflinching and uncompromising, tough and talented, Shane McKenzie stands at the forefront of the next generation of horror writers.”

—Bentley Little, Stoker Award winning author of The Summoning, The Store, and The Haunted

“Edward Lee fans are going to dig All You Can Eat! My advice? Devour this in one sitting, before it eats you!”

—J. F. Gonzalez, Author of Survivor, Back From the Dead, and the co-author of the Clickers series.

“Shane McKenzie has a wonderful grasp of the dark and terrible. He truly understands what terrifies us and his love for the horrific comes through in every ghastly sentence he composes.”

—Wrath James White, author of His Pain, Population Zero, and Like Porno for Psychos

“Shane McKenzie’s prose churns with horror, strangeness, fun, and unease. He’s an exciting new voice in the horror genre.”

—Nate Southard, author of Just Like Hell

“Shane McKenzie has the kind of imagination that should require a license to operate. He is one to watch.”

—Ray Garton, author of Live Girls, Crucifax Autumn, and Sex and Violence in Hollywood

DEADITE PRESS

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PORTLAND, OR 97211

www.DEADITEPRESS.com

AN ERASERHEAD PRESS COMPANY

www.ERASERHEADPRESS.com

ISBN: 1-62105-031-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

Printed in the USA.

This book was my first actual sale, and a lot of people helped me get to this point. First of all, I want to thank Jeff, Rose, Carlton, and everyone at Eraserhead for taking a chance on me and welcoming me into the Deadite family. A big thank you to Nate Southard who read through the first draft of this and didn’t tell me to go fuck myself afterward. Thank you to Kevin Wallis, AJ Brown, and Lee Thompson for all the help early on. Thanks to Jessy Marie Roberts for letting me run with my ideas. Thank you to RJ and Boyd at Cutting Block for helping me better understand what it takes to get an editor’s attention. Thank you to all the fine folks at the Zoetrope offices. And of course, thank you Melinda, my wife, for all the support through everything. You read this book and are still married to me, so in my eyes, you’re a bad ass motherfucker.

For Wrath James White.

This wouldn’t have been possible without your help.

Thanks for all the guidance…

and for kicking my ass.

CHAINSAW DISCO BLOODBATH:

THE SHANE MCKENZIE STORY

BY NATE SOUTHARD

The house looked normal enough. Hell, the house looked downright quaint. A brick two-story in suburbia, a few cars in the driveway. Normally, I get nervous the first time I enter somebody’s home, but the exterior of this place was so calm and quiet that I felt perfectly at ease.

“Naaaaaaaaaate!”

Shane greeted me with a shout that shook my bones. He was wearing a luchador mask, tuxedo shirt with the sleeves torn off, and suspenders. It was a one in the afternoon on a weekday.

Fine, that last part is a lie. It was a Saturday, and I was there for a Halloween party. Still, the rest of it was true, and the dichotomy between the loud, slightly crazy Shane and his quaint, cozy home is a fun little metaphor for the man and his writing.

That’s the thing, ya dig? You don’t see Shane McKenzie coming.

I mean that. I sure as hell didn’t see him coming. A couple years back, I received a few emails from Shane, who also lives in the Austin area. It’s always good to meet a writer living in your hometown, so we exchanged a few emails back and forth. At the time, Shane was largely working as an editor, writing fiction when he wasn’t busy putting together anthologies. Right away, I found myself impressed with the guy’s drive. He was reaching out and snagging stories from amazing writers like Bentley Little, Joe R. Lansdale, and Jack Ketchum. These are writers who still intimidate me, so his gumption left me a little slack-jawed.

When I finally met Shane all face-to-face like, I was surprised by how quiet and cool he was. Shane talks to you in the laidback, friendly way that eventually takes control of everybody who lives in Austin. He’s fast with a handshake, but that’s about it. Everything else he delivers with an easy cool that makes you expect to see smoke curling around him. I’d tell you his voice pours out of him like coffee and honey or something like that, but I hang out with Shane all the time, and he doesn’t need to know about my man-crush.

But I could go on all day about the strange and surprising little quirks that make Shane McKenzie the hombre he is. I could tell you how he’s Scottish and Korean, and how that somehow makes him look Mexican. I could tell you how an ecstatic, enthusiastic Shane sounds calmer than a bored Shane. And sure, you could say I just did. I guess I’d have to tell you to shut up and stop being a jerky jerkface so I can finish my damn story.

Rude . . .

Anyways, so at the 2011 World Horror Convention, Shane told me about this idea he had for a bizarre zombie novel where the cannibalism would be caused by a strange form of gluttony. Immediately, I thought it was a fun idea. He asked if I’d be willing to read it, and I said I would. When the manuscript hit my inbox, I opened it right away and started reading.

I didn’t see it coming.

Man, it didn’t matter how laidback and cool Shane was as a person. It didn’t matter that he was this everyday husband and father from the suburbs. The story he’d sent me was insane. Somehow, this guy I thought I knew had gone from acting like Bruce Wayne to being The Joker. Everything he writes is marinated in this chaotic, maniacal sense of fun. You might think you’re sane, but listening to Shane talk story ideas for an hour will make you question every facet of reality. I’m not even sure the word horror accurately describes what Shane McKenzie does. And bizarro doesn’t fit either.

Chainsaw Disco Bloodbath. That’s the stuff Shane McKenzie writes. Yeah, that’s it. Chainsaw Disco Bloodbath, baby. Spread that on your toast and smoke it.

Well, now it’s your turn to read this wonderfully strange story about obese zombies. I think you’re gonna dig it. Shit, I know you are. Unless you don’t like fun, jerky jerkface. You think there’s something wrong with fun? What the hell’s wrong with you?

Seriously, I need to wrap up this intro so Shane can get to his story. We’re wasting time. Soup’s on, and everybody has a spoon. You don’t wanna miss dinner, do ya?

Now, meet Shane McKenzie. Say hello and enjoy yourself. He’s the nicest psycho you’ll ever meet.

—Nate Southard

HUNGRY

The man breathed through his mouth, labored and wet. An empty plate lay on the table in front of him, a brown stain where the food had been. Dribbles of grease striped his chin. He reached across the table and plucked the rectangle of beef from his wife’s plate.

“Jesus, Tom.” The fork dropped from her hand and clattered to the table. She squinted as her husband stuffed the meat past his teeth, chewed it with an open mouth. Masticated bits dropped from his lips and landed on his plate—he leaned over and licked them up.

“I’m…hungry.” He spoke around a mouthful of beef, stared at her with vacant eyes, and burped out a dank and meaty odor.

The woman covered her nostrils with her forefinger. Her mouth salivated from the scent, as if preparing for vomit. “What’s gotten into you?”

“I’m hungry. I want…buffet.” He slammed his fist, chubby and hairy, on the table with the last word.

The woman scooted her chair back and stood. She sighed, ran her hand through her hair, walked into the kitchen. “I made us a healthy meal. Spent hours on it, and this is how you act?”

He jerked to his feet, knocking his chair over. His stomach bumped the table and the legs screeched as they scooted across the floor. “…hungry…”

“Tom, look at you,” she said. “Things are getting out of hand...your weight. I saw the credit card bill.”

He stopped, the abrupt halt jiggling his chins. His head slowly turned toward his wife and his brow furrowed like a slab of bacon, mouth hanging open as his breathing rattled and his tongue moved in and out just past his lower lip. The purple circles around his eyes were deep as bowls.

“It’s not healthy, Tom. I love you. I only want what’s best. Going to that place every day? For a month? It has to stop.”

He stepped toward her. She matched it with a step backward, desperate to keep distance between them.

“I’m hungry. My stomach…it hurts. I need it.” He licked his lips.

“We can do this together. I’ll cook your favorites.” She kept taking blind steps deeper into the kitchen while he pursued. Her back hit the wall and she forced a smile. “I only want to help you.”

He turned toward the stove where another helping of beef lay in a pan, reached out and wrapped his fist around it. A low moan oozed from his throat as he shoved it into his mouth and his teeth mashed into it; he swallowed big chunks whole.

“Tom?”

He slid his feet across the tile until his gut pinned her to the wall.

She whimpered and turned her head as his stench, spoiled food and sweat, engulfed her.

He reached out with broth-dripping fingers and took hold of her arm. “I need food. I need the buffet…it hurts.”

“You’re hurting me.”

He leaned his head over her and sniffed, eyes fluttering and nostrils stretching wide.

She tried to pull her arm free, but his thick digits held tight, dimpled her skin with the grease-soaked fingertips. As he smelled her, a wet rattle emanated from his throat; he groaned and shuddered.

“My stomach…it needs it. The buffet. Meat…”

He dropped his head and bit into her arm.

His teeth grinded back and forth into her flesh, shoving through to the bone. Blood gurgled around his mouth, and she screamed, her eyes widening as the burn in her arm raged up her shoulder. Her knees went weak, but she was held up by Tom’s grip.

He jerked his head to the side, the chunk of meat still attached to her arm by a strip of skin. When it tore free, it sounded like paper ripping. The woman shuddered and whimpered as her husband chewed the red and yellow mouthful, smacking his lips, pulverizing the meat with every crunch of his teeth. Blood coated his chin like a beard.

She wept, took gasping breaths, tried to gain her footing but slipped on her blood that continued to pump from the gaping hole. “Tom, no…”

“Mmmm…” He swallowed.

She found strength and hammered at his chest with her other hand, her wedding ring gleaming and stained red. Tears and mucus streamed and slid down her face as her arm throbbed, and her heart ached.

She slipped out of his grip and cracked her tailbone on the kitchen floor.

His frame blocked out the fluorescent light above them. A string of red drool oozed from his lip and puddled in her lap as he descended.

Her legs kicked, sliding in the blood, her tennis shoes squeaking.

She was awake while he devoured her. His weight trapped her as he took bites from the fleshy parts of her body, his breath hot and fetid.

“Mmmm…hungry...”

A NEW PLACE

Juan tumbled into the bodies next to him as the panel truck lurched to a stop. In the darkness, he couldn’t tell who sat with him or even how many others there were. He could only hear their whimpers, their rapid breathing.

The trip was long and hard; he had no idea how long they’d been traveling. The air in the cramped space was thick and musty: body odor, urine, and excrement mixed with the sting of vomit, a result of those suffering from motion sickness.

But the truck had stopped. Juan didn’t know what that meant. Are we finally here? he thought. He hoped so, and could only be thankful that his wife and daughter weren’t with him. His mind flooded with worry at the thought of them going through the same long journey in the future. If he could raise the money.

What seemed like hours ago, he heard the unmistakable sounds of rape, somewhere on the further end of the truck toward the front: grunting and guttural moans over the gasps and squeaking of an unwilling female. Juan started to do something about it, started to climb blindly through the darkness to help whoever this poor girl was, but he couldn’t risk it, had to put his family first, so he stayed put, stayed seated. And nobody else moved to stop it either.

“¿Donde estamos?”a woman’s voice chirped from somewhere to Juan’s right.

A chorus of murmurs and weeping ensued. Juan wrapped his arms over his knees and pulled them to his chest.

The truck rocked and a door slammed.

The murmuring raised in volume and intensity. Prayers began flowing from unseen lips, pulling tears from Juan’s eyes as he thought about his wife and daughter, what he left behind.

The back door swung open and harsh sunlight engulfed them. Juan squinted, held out a hand to shield his eyes from the burn. He turned his head and saw the others; all packed tightly like sardines in a tin can. Their feet and pants were caked with shit-piss-puke stew. Brown faces stared out, some trying to dash toward the opening, toward the new beginning they had all hoped for.

A red-faced man in a straw hat frowned at them like a sunburned toad. A toothpick shifted from left to right and he snorted then swallowed. One eye clamped shut as he studied the group. He shoved an older man in the chest who’d managed to push to the opening. “Get yer ass back there. Not yer stop, Jose.”

Juan peeked past the man and into the brightness of the day behind him. They were parked in a narrow alleyway, the walls decorated with graffiti and questionable stains. Trash cans lined the alley and stray cats paused in mid-stride to watch the commotion.

The man swatted Juan’s knee, sending it clanking into his other one. “You, Jose. Get up and get out.”

Juan looked back at the others for a moment, but their stares of envy and longing were too much. He nodded toward them—none nodded back—and jumped out of the truck, stretched his aching body. The man sized him up with his one eye, the other still squinting, and spat a wad of yellow mucus just between Juan’s feet.

All You Can Eat

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