"Anthology - Book of the Dead" - читать интересную книгу автора (ANTHOLOGIES)

DEDICATION


For
Tom Allen
[1938-1988]


God bless you, man.
Wherever you are…


Acknowledgments

You know that an idea’s time has come when the green lights extend clear to infinity. This book, which was conceived one fine summer afternoon by a miracle of serendipity on a back porch in Pennsylvania, and which by all rights should have been one hell of a difficult sell, breezed straight through to fruition with scarcely a hitch.
It’s been a long time coming, and there are a lot of people we’d like to thank; for their patience and support, for their enthusiasm and professionalism, and, most of all, for their friendship.
Special thanks must certainly go to Lou Aronica, Pat LoBrutto, Janna Silverstein, Robert Simpson, Susan Sherman, Katherine Schupf, and all the fine folks at Bantam; Adele Leone and Richard Monaco, Mark Zeising, George and Chris Romero, Tom Savini, Everett Burrell and Greg Nicotero, Dave Schow, Marcus Nickerson, Jesse Horsting and Midnight Graffiti, Richard Rubenstein, Salah Hassanein, TK & BAM, the Fango gang, our long-suffering families, and Lise Rogers, perhaps the most benign copy editor in all of human history.
We’d like to extend extra special uberthanks to the writers who contributed to this book. They kick big moby butt, and they keep us honest.
Last, but hardly least, we’d like to thank all of those (too numerous to list) who participated in the creation of the Dead trilogy; and to the millions who have taken those zombies into their hearts without ever once becoming them.
Thanks, guys. We owe you one.
Now buy this book.


FOREWORD

BY GEORGE ROMERO

It was 1967 when I saw my first walking corpse. I was a struggling filmmaker living, among other struggling filmmakers, in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. I remember someone asking, “If you want to make movies, how come you stay in Pittsburgh? I mean… this ain’t exactly Hollywood.” “No,” I replied, “It sure ain’t. That’s sort of why I like it here. Besides, Hollywood isn’t the only place where the dead can walk. No, sir. On those rare and mystical occasions when the dead do decide to rise up and walk, they walk any damn place they feel like walkin’.”
I’d seen walking corpses in E.C. comics and in the movies, but I’d never seen one in the, er… flesh. Not until that summer of ’67. I saw a lot of them that summer up around Evans City, Pa., a few miles from Mars. My friends, the other filmmakers I mentioned, and I took moving pictures of them. In the Spring of ’68 those pictures were released to the public. You may have seen them. Quite a few people have. My friends and I were (and still are) thankful for how well those pictures were received.
I saw the dead walk again in 1978. Saw them walk yet another time in 1984. I took moving pictures of them each of those times and those pictures, like the first ones, were released to the public. The public… or at least a certain portion of it… seems to have an interest in the walking dead.
Not long ago I was talking with two friends of mine, John Skipp and Craig Spector, who suggested that while the dead were walking in Pittsburgh, they were probably walking in other places as well. After all, whoever… or whatever… causes the dead to walk, isn’t going to go to all that trouble just to terrorize Pittsburghers. These things tend to be more than just localized phenomena. “Maybe we can find some first-hand stories from other parts of the world,” they said. “If we can collect enough stories we might be able to publish a book. A… Book of the Dead.”
I remembered that conversation back in 1968. “They walk any damn place they feel like walkin’.” Was that me that spoke those words so boldly? God. I was so young, then, so naпve. Willing to admit that I knew about the dead. Willing to ignore the recriminations, the denunciations of society. I even found pride in what I was doing, in what I was saying. Times were different then. Ah, the sixties.
But these are the eighties. The self-centered, get-rich-and-look-good-at-all-costs eighties. Sure, I thought to myself. There are stories out there, alright. There have to be. But trying to find them… that’s gonna be next to impossible. I said to my friends, “Go ahead. If you can find somebody who knows about the walking dead… somebody who’s willing to admit it, that is… I’ll eat my hat.”
I didn’t think John and Craig would come up with anything. I figured there were few out there who knew the movements of the dead and that those few, fearing ridicule, would probably clam up when approached. I’m amazed at the list of necrophiles who were willing to appear in this volume. I regret the derision these brave souls have subjected themselves to by admitting their knowledge of matters beyond the grave. I know, from experience, that there are those out there who will judge them to be either mad or in league with the Devil. I offer my thanks to all the contributors here. They have renewed my faith and made me feel… much less alone.
I’ve selected a knit stocking cap, black and gold, with a Steeler emblem on the side. Is it okay if I put some spaghetti sauce on it?



INTRODUCTION

ON GOING TOO FAR
OR
FLESH-EATING FICTION:
NEW HOPE FOR THE FUTURE


“What’s going to come out of those people who think that Night of the Living Dead isn’t enough?”
Robert Bloch