Hey Ben here.

It’s been 12 years since we wrote Kill Them Dead: Genesis, our serialized fiction about a future zombie apocalypse that begins in space.

Not sure what’s more shocking—the 12 years or the zombie story starting on a space station.

Never mind.

Mark and I had a blast writing it.
Mark and I had plans.
Big plans.

We were building the Kill Them Dead universe.
We wanted to continue the series.
To tell the story of Billy, Jason, Miki, Payton, and Lachlan Cook.
To entertain our readers.

But then… life happened.

Our passion project got benched.
For way too long.

I won’t bore you with the reasons. Instead, I’ll just tell you this:

In 2025 we will be Creating the Kill Them Dead World

No, Mark and I didn’t split up.
In fact, we’ve done a lot together since then.

We built a publishing business. Created an app business. Wrote a bunch of other stuff.
Stayed authors trapped in employee bodies. Still unknown authors.

You get it.

But this year, we’ve decided to follow our passion.
To rebuild what we started.
To continue.

And best of all? We’re doing it without expectations.
That’s one of the perks of being an unknown author.

We know the original fans we gathered 12 years ago might not still be around.
And that’s on us.

But we hope that rebuilding the Kill Them Dead universe will ignite a new audience.
That it will draw them to the original story—and into what’s to come.

We love creating worlds, and this one’s got a lot of life left.

So, here’s the plan. We’ll keep you updated as we go. But for now, we’re writing:

Kill Them Dead: The First Event.

This was originally a prologue in the first Kill Them Dead book. Over time, we realized it didn’t add much to the story, so we cut it.

Until now.

(P.S. You can read that original prologue at the end of this article!)

This story kicks off an exciting new angle—where the zombie apocalypse begins.

Wait. Did that last sentence make sense?

Anyway…

Why not just continue the original series where we left off?

Fair question. And no, it’s not because we don’t know how to continue the story.
We know exactly where it’s going. We’ve been planning it for over a decade.

But here’s the thing (and maybe our logic is flawed):
It’s been so long since we wrote the original Kill Them Dead series, and we’ve written over 200 books in other genres under other pen names.

We’re struggling to find that original voice and style.

So, we’d rather start fresh in the Kill Them Dead universe.
Build back up to that voice.
If we ever can.

Creating the Kill Them Dead World – what other ideas are there?

This isn’t a to-do list, but here are some ideas we’re tossing around:

• The First Event (as discussed)—might be a standalone or a series.
• Continue the original timeline.
• Jump to the future, after the world has recovered.
• Focus on zombie hunters.
• Explore the original timeline through new characters in different locations. (We love this idea—so many possibilities.)
• Set a story on one of the other space stations (Phoenix or Caitin). If you’ve read the original prologue, you’ll see the potential.

The possibilities are endless.

Even if these ideas just gather digital dust, it’s better than letting them sit in our heads.

Anyway, thanks for sticking with us. And as promised, here’s the original prologue from the 2013 edition of Kill Them Dead.

Prologue

London, 1599

Historians refer to it simply as “The Event of 1599.”

It appeared from nowhere, and for a brief moment in history, a few Londoners stood in awe and followed a tail of fire as it lit up autumn’s night sky. None of them knew its origin, and words like Armageddon were muttered with a good dose of trepidation and fear. Witnesses would later recall a blast of hot air directly underneath the tail, similar to a warm summer breeze, as it shot from east to west. The head of the fire-tail descended and—for a moment—appeared to be on a collision course with the Tower of London. Some onlookers waited with bated breath for the tower to be struck, while others fled into the perceived safety of their houses. It barely missed the town’s pride, the capitol, but did lock on its final resting place: a tiny, unknown establishment named Quinn’s Tavern.

Moments before a space rock the size of an ox’s head smashed through his wooden tavern roof, Oweyn Quinn served drinks to a couple of regular visitors.

Just like the tavern, Oweyn was rough, uncompromising, and unwashed, with little ambition to grow his business. Truth was, he had no ambition other than to serve his own lust for cheap alcohol, with a preference toward Irish whiskey. Besides the drink, his only love was for his beautiful teen daughter, Catin.

“Come on, Oweyn, pour us another one, will ’ya?” begged Old Man Miles, the tavern’s most loyal customer. Long white hair dangled from underneath a leather hood covering the battle scars that trenched across his neck and cheeks. The scars were sad reminders of his brutal endeavors during the war with France. Old Man Miles would spend most of his drinking time reciting war stories to those sober enough to listen and would end every story by taking off his hood in remembrance of fallen comrades.

“Here,” said Oweyn, as he handed Old Man Miles a wooden cup of whiskey. Oweyn watched as he swallowed the liquid in one quick quaff before slamming the cup down on the bar counter.

The old man wiped his mouth and burped loudly in approval. “Give us another small sample,” he said. “And, by the way, where is that lovely daughter of yours?” An old smile and a couple of rotten teeth completed one ugly picture.

“You know Catin is in the kitchen. You also know you can’t enter. I keep her there, away from the likes of you,” replied Oweyn without encouraging further communication.

“When will you give me her hand in marriage?” scoffed Old Man Miles.

“When you are dead,” Oweyn said and chopped a meat cleaver into the counter next to the old man’s wrist.

“Then we must hurry up,” Old Man Miles wheezed, undeterred by the violent threat of the barkeep’s action.

Oweyn poured the next round without concern or conscience, after which Old Man Miles limped away. He was relieved to return to his own drink, his thoughts drifting to Catin, almost eighteen and eligible for marriage. Regardless of Oweyn’s many flaws, he did keep one promise—to his dying wife—that he would ensure their daughter married into the house of a good, caring man. The only problem was that the good, caring type was virtually nowhere to be found in East London.

His thoughts were interrupted by sudden, hysterical screams at the tavern door. All the patrons, five in total, stood up from their chairs and piled out into the street, which was usually pitch dark at this time of night. The screams grew louder as an orange fireball lit up the dark city, block by block.

“Father?” Oweyn heard Catin’s soft, concerned voice. Her long black hair hung loose around her innocent face.

He stood up and gazed deep into her eyes, her face pale. “Catin, get back in the kitchen,” he ordered. “Now!” He waited until she obliged.

“My good God! It’s the devil himself, I tell ya!” Old Man Miles shouted.

A loud, rumbling whoosh sound passed from directly above as Oweyn made his way toward the window. The rumble grew louder and intensified by the second. Terror filled his nerves, and he sprinted toward the kitchen, but Oweyn only managed a few steps before the roof collapsed on top of him.

Oweyn Quinn could still hear the screams of the people as blackness engulfed him.

---

“No! Please!”

He listened.

Another cry.

“Please!”

He slowly opened his eyes.

The cry had evolved into a scream, one filled with pure terror.

It was Catin.

Oweyn’s head throbbed worse than any hangover he had ever endured. His legs wobbled in a disoriented attempt to follow the cries. There was something wrong with his eyesight, and after repeated squints, he only managed to identify silhouettes in the smog of embers. Although concerned about his sight, there was nothing wrong with his sense of smell. At first, he could not determine what the strong scent was that assaulted his nostrils. After a while, he realized what it was: flesh. Human flesh.

Within seconds, an animalistic darkness and desire filled Oweyn to such an extent that he had to fight the urge to tear his own skin off. Newfound energy surged through his body, but even that did not relieve him of the screaming noise and the stabbing pain in his brain.

“Daddy! Please! Help me!”

Her cry was clear and desperate. Oweyn moved in the direction of the sound. A form hovered over his girl like a wolf ready to devour its innocent prey. With a single push, he threw Old Man Miles off Catin. His mind wanted to command his mouth to shout, “Get off her!” but he only managed a muffled growl instead.

Catin’s hand touched him. The odor of her youthful body made him quiver while her heartbeat drummed to a frantic rhythm. It subdued the screaming noise, and the stabbing pain subsided.

The sound of footsteps closed in.

Catin’s eyes radiated fear.

Everything went black, and Oweyn no longer had control of his own actions. Without thought or mercy, he yanked Catin’s head sideways and bit down into the comfort of the soft human flesh around her neck.

Catin cried out to her father as blood squirted from her wound, but the thing that tore away at her flesh with its teeth was no longer the man she called father; he no longer recognized her.

---

Sunlight trickled through the broken roof, and dust particles formed millions of little stars that sparkled as they slowly drifted down toward her tired eyes. Fatigued, Catin’s body slowly came back to life with a medley of pins and needles. Questions raced through her mind, and she wondered how long she had slept—and what on earth had happened.

Catin took time to take in her surroundings and tried to piece together the previous night. The puzzle was hazy. Somewhere between fire, light, and monsters, her memory lapsed. For a moment, she thought about the Book of Revelation. Father McBride loved to preach from the last book of the Bible.

Her body was stretched awkwardly across a wooden beam. Although her aching muscles felt stiff, she determined with relief that nothing was broken, until her hand slid over the open wound between her neck and shoulder. She was horrified as the last memory of the previous evening entered her bruised soul. The man she called her father had devoured her flesh, soulless, with dead, black eyes.

She had no idea as to the whereabouts of her father and wanted to be with him regardless of what he had done. Wetness welled in the corners of her eyes. She tried to contain herself, but within seconds her body shook as she sobbed uncontrollably. Each tear brought back another painful memory, and after what felt like a London summer shower, Catin managed to sit upright. She clutched the wound, and it felt dry, almost sticky. But that was not the strange part. She started to wiggle her fingers deeper into the wound, at first with care, then more forcefully, and she waited—went even deeper—before she realized.

There was no pain.

The open wound, big enough to bleed out even the toughest bloke on the block, was void of any kind of feeling.

“How?” she asked aloud and glanced around the tavern, searching for someone or something to recognize. Distraught and with more sorrow building up from inside her chest, she knew that nothing would ever be the same again. Their lives, not perfect by any measure of the word, but theirs nonetheless, were reduced to rubble that lay scattered as if an enormous cannonball had exploded inside the small building. There was a massive hole almost in the center of the floor, the concrete shattered into thousands of tiny cracks and loose rock.

A mysterious green light radiated from the floor between single, solid fragments of black rock. Catin held her breath as her eyes locked onto it; she was instantly mesmerized by its beauty. The rock looked utterly out of place, a smooth crust with green strands as thick as hair entwined on the surface.

Catin was drawn to the rock with an intrigue as powerful as the fear that gripped her. For a while, she just admired the beauty and simplicity of the object. Powdered fragments of rock were patterned in a perfect, solid circle, and as she dragged her finger through it, spikes of cold shot into her fingertips. She pulled her hand back and investigated the powder. Carefully, she touched it again, but this time she was ready, and the cold was bearable.

While drawing lines through the powder, she noticed the last solid piece. In a strange anticipation, Catin’s hand reflexively descended toward it. Although beautiful, she was disappointed when her skin met the surface. There was no coldness as with the powder, and it felt like a normal layer of rock. However, she was surprised by its lightness in weight and lifted the stone from the ground, both of her hands forming a protective cup around it.

A sudden shout and the scurried taps of feet broke the rock’s spell on her.

“Come on! Time to get rid of all the filth!” she heard an abrasive voice shouting commands.

As Catin peered for the first time into daylight, terror filled her eyes. The once-quiet cobbled street, with more dangerous corners than anywhere else in London, was now painted scarlet with the blood of mutilated bodies. Most of the unlucky few were coated in royal red army uniforms, but they were not the only victims, and cries filled the air as family members found their dead. Making the scene even more surreal were desperate people who clutched onto the dead like drowning sailors to lifeboats, only to be kicked away by unharmed soldiers who ported the bodies away.

She followed the madness until it ended in the open square a block away from the tavern. There, she witnessed in horror how each of the bodies was decapitated. But it was not only the dead who lost their heads. There was a second guillotine, marked for the living, with a blade sloshing up fresh blood with every hard swoosh!

Could my father be here? she thought and moved into the open clearing. The stench of death hung thick in the air, fueled by each bone-crushing swat of the guillotines.

She brought the rock toward her chest with shaking hands, just as a large hand grabbed her by the arm and pulled back her petite body.

“We have another one!”

“What is happening?” she asked in fear but received only silence. Catin was led farther into the open, and strength drained from her body when she realized she was being forced toward the guillotines. Her knees buckled under the tremble of fear, and she fell forward.

“Up!”

“Please, I just…”

The kick threw her forward. “I said up with you, monster!”

Monster? She repeated the word in silence, afraid of another blow. Her body found some strength, and she managed to pull herself up. Instinctively, she searched for salvation, someone to save her.

“Please, God, please,” she uttered before everything became a daze.

Just left of the guillotine lay the stripped and naked bodies of her father and Old Man Miles. They rested together, decapitated and drenched in blood, hacked to shreds.

Spasms of vomit left her body.

Catin stumbled forward, and as she slammed onto the ground, the rock fell from her hands. It rolled into the sunlight and emitted a green glow.

Everything and everyone stopped their activity to witness the phenomenon.

“Bring the rock to me,” a voice packed with authority broke through the stunned silence. “And bring me the young one, too.”

---

“Hand me the rock.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” a soldier answered and stretched out the rock toward Elizabeth, the Virgin Queen. The royal family had been hidden inside a carriage throughout the entire incident, witnessing the carnage of death from afar as if they were enjoying one of the many Shakespearean plays so popular in London.

“Were you bitten?” the Queen directed the question toward Catin without taking her eyes from the stone.

“She was, Your Majesty.”

“Did I ask you? Away from me!”

Catin had no idea how to answer. Her eyes glanced around frantically, but she realized that the possibility of escape was as rare as the rock. Red figures in uniforms covered every conceivable exit.

“I asked, were you bitten, child?”

Catin dropped to her knees. “Please,” she begged. “There is nothing wrong with me!”

Queen Elizabeth looked at the rock and gave an approving nod as a smile slid across her face. “Take her head,” she said.

The death sentence was soft, unremorseful, and final. Surges of uncontrollable fear pumped through Catin’s body, and wetness trickled down her legs when a soldier dragged her by the arm and pulled her toward the guillotine. Her feet kicked while her free hand swatted, but to no avail.

“Please don’t do this,” Catin begged again and glanced at the soldier.

He tugged at her arm.

Catin closed her eyes.

The guard yanked her forward.

She twisted her wrist and grabbed hold of the guard’s arm.

“What the…?”

With one hard jerk, she ripped the guard’s arm from his body.

He screamed out in pain.

How is this possible?

Frantic screams echoed from the gathered crowd.

What’s happening to me?

“Get the monster!” a guard shouted.

Catin stood up and felt a surge of power and energy run through her body.

It felt magnificent.

Blurry red figures stormed her, and Catin’s instinctive feeling was to jump. She soared through the air, high over the heads of the astonished soldiers, and landed somewhere behind them.

The guards attacked, and without effort, Catin swatted away one soldier after the other. Her fingers transformed into claws, and the smell of fresh blood sent her into a frenzy. She roared loudly at each man she flung away. Some died on impact with crushed skulls, while others sustained critical wounds.

Catin never felt more alive.

Once satisfied that all the guards were subdued, she ran.

She ran three blocks, faster than any horse would have been able to carry her, when her body suddenly bent down on all fours. She did not question it. Power and speed pumped through her body as she ran on all fours through the city.

Catin Quinn disappeared into a nearby forest.

She was never seen again.