Meet the Z-Team.

A crack commando unit died in battle and was resurrected against orders by a necromancer. Today they are hunted by the government and survive as soldiers of fortune. No job is too dirty, no threat too great.

When a gang of outlaw demons takes over a small desert town,

The Z-Team must drive them off or else the townspeople will be forced to sell their souls and the town will be damned.

 

If you are in trouble and no one else can help, maybe you can hire the Z-Team

A short story of zombies, magic, and mercenaries.

“Larry’s gonna need some stitching up before our next gig.”

“Why do you do that?”

“What?”

“Use their names; they’re dead. They’ve been dead for over six years. Whatever made Larry Winslow that person fled when he died; he’s just Z-4 now.”

Harvey ‘Needles’ McGee finished from his inspection of the former Larry Winslow and walked to the bar where the necromancer, Macken Duvalier, perched on a stool.

The two men couldn’t have been more different. Needles was short and squat with a shock of pumpkin colored hair and skin so white he might be mistaken for a ghost. The Necromancer had skin as black as coal and when standing hovered a foot over the smaller man. He was thin, almost to the point of anorexia, but possessed a wiry strength.

“C’mon Mac, that was his name. Just because the boys are dead doesn’t mean I can’t address them proper.”

“When the body dies,” Mac said. “The person they were is no more.”

Mac’s voice gained a sing-song lilt as he spoke. His Haitian roots always emerged when he dropped into lecture mode, especially when lecturing about Necromancy and zombies.

“Those bodies there are nothing more than shells, vessels for the power which I summoned. You might as well call the troop vehicle Mary as address the dead by proper names. When I raise the dead I bind the merest grain of my soul to the power from the Greater Dark. This is what animates the team, not their souls but raw power which I control. They are no better than machines, hence Z-1 through Z-4.”

“Yeah, but I liked Larry.”

Mac shook his head in mock disgust. “You, my friend, are impossible.”

“Hey guys, we got a client.” Richie ‘Zoot’ Jimenez barged into the room waving a pad of paper.

Mac and Needles abandoned their disagreement over a zombie’s proper form of address and joined the excited man. Zoot got his nickname from the outrageous suits he wore when not in combat fatigues. The muscular Puerto Rican wore a bright yellow shirt and wide legged purple pants. The combination was painful to look at. He had abandoned the long jacket and wide brimmed hat while indoors. Even without the full ensemble he still looked like a refugee from a 1940’s jazz band.

Mac took the pad from Zoot’s hand and scanned the scribbled notes.

“Where the hell is Silverfield?”

“It’s a small town north of Vegas,” Zoot said. “Small population, damn near a ghost town.”

“And these people can afford us?”

“She says they can. She wants to have the meet at some diner outside of town.”

“Biker gang took over the town,” Mac read from the notes. “Seems a bit low threat for us but if the lady is willing to pay, who am I to say no to a damsel in distress.”

Mac pulled a cigar from his pocket and set about readying it to smoke while he considered the offer at hand. The team had once been soldiers, a crack unit tasked with the hardest jobs the military could find. Half the squad had died in a poorly conceived attack on a terrorist stronghold. Necromancer Sergeant Duvalier had resurrected his teammates against direct orders. Fleeing his court martial with the aid of his squad they were branded outlaws and had been on the run ever since.