Praise for The Unlikely Event:
***** - "I thought this was going to be another 'typical' zombie story. I was so wrong, and so happy to learn how wrong I was. You want to read this book!! Well-written, thought provoking, funny, scary, and even some really gross parts. Excellent storyline with characters that are easy to love (or hate)."
***** - "Intelligent Horror -- I was pleasantly surprised at how much I enjoyed this book."
***** - "I need to go hug my kids. You're sick, man, really sick."
From the Back Cover
The fever had been shadowing him since the airport, but it slapped him in the face about the time that the plane reached cruising altitude. Patterson ordered a vodka tonic, dialed up an action flick on the tiny TV fastened to the carpeted wall in front of him, and slowly faded away into a disturbing reverie. In his dream state he was a younger man, boisterous, less angry. His hair was long and his mustache was gone, as were some fifty pounds around his midsection. He was light. So light that he could bound the length of the plane in a single step. And he did. And he scoffed at the stupid people watching their stupid movies. The ignorant giggling at the irreverent. And he scoffed at the parents, trying so hard to curtail their children's antics. And he went down the stairs in a single leap. He floated above the lesser classes. And he scoffed at the poor--packed into their small seats, with their small waists. They looked like french fries in a commercial; perfectly organized in their little red cardboard container, not a fry out of line, each one popping their head up above the cardboard just perfectly. And it made him hungry. He was so hungry. He tasted the salty sweat of fever dripping down his face, collecting on his bushy mustache. He could taste the salt coalescing with the pad thai he had eaten for dinner, the curry and spices still coated his hair follicles. He was starving and he wanted protein. Meat. Flesh. And he floated through the ceiling and back into his seat, and his eyes came to rest on his wife's shoulder. And he sniffed her. And then he coughed--
A fit of coughing wracked his body and he was again fully aware. Perspiration flung to and fro like a wet dog ridding itself of rainwater. The cough abated momentarily, and he whimpered pathetically. Looking down at his arm, he saw puss bubbling, as if boiling, underneath and out of the bandage. His arms were covered with matted sweaty arm hair. He reeked, and he knew it.
He unbuttoned the top button on his blue dress shirt, and he untucked it from his baggy tan slacks. Attempting again to sleep, he threw his head against the back of his chair and cranked the volume in his headphones. He drifted into another reverie while wishing his scraggly hair hadn't thinned so much--maybe then the sweat would stay out of his eyes.
With a suddenness, he died briefly.