The Rising Dead by Devan Sagliani

her bikini photo, sliding the rest of the images back under his pillow. “I'd take you on the most romantic date of your life and you'd instantly fall in love. Oh Travis. You're the best. How did I ever live without you? That's what you'd say. And I'd say, I have no idea and . . .”
    A loud banging on the door made Travis jump mid-sentence. Someone called out his name. He couldn't tell who it was.
    “Travis McAnus. You in there?”
    “Who is it?” Travis looked around for a place to hide his stash but there wasn't any time. The door was already swinging open. He couldn't risk trying to move them now so he sat back on them. Thank God he hadn't left the door ajar or they might have seen the whole thing! He'd never live that down. He quickly grabbed his copy of Being and Nothingness from the nightstand and pretended to be studying, slipping his string bikini Gemma shot into the back of the book.
    Flynn, Garrett, and Vance marched in, all talking at once. Flynn had on a full face of makeup like a chick and a blonde wig.
    “Guys! Guys! Guys!” Travis yelled until they quieted down. “What the fuck?”
    “You sure do have a lot of crap,” Garrett said, swinging his big head around to take it all in. Travis had spent the last few years covering nearly every square inch of his room with posters and paraphernalia, alternating between zombies and movie star goddesses. Selma Hayek was nestled comfortably between Dawn of the Dead and Night of the Living Dead, while a breathtaking shot of Miranda Kerr wearing almost nothing and rolling around on warm sand in paradise was juxtaposed against a zombie Marilyn Monroe, eating out James Dean’s heart in black and white. His mom had commissioned a street artist to do that on the Venice Beach boardwalk during their vacation to Los Angeles. The guy who did it looked, and smelled, half dead himself. He practically ripped the twenty dollar bill out of his mom's hands, then whipped it out in less than five minutes of frantic scribbling. It had quickly grown to be Travis's favorite.
    “Yeah,” Travis mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess. What do you want?”
    Flynn stepped forward.
    “Garrett and I need exhibitor badges to the Zombie Con. We're also doing the zombie walk, obviously, but he won't hand over his info unless it's directly to you. He's acting like a real faggot.”
    Garrett immediately protested, talking over Flynn before he could say anything else.
    “That's because I want to end up being in the parade this time,” he complained, “instead of having some homophobic riot cop shove me out of the way because I don't have the right badge.”
    “How many times do I have to apologize for that?” Flynn flashed an angry glare at him. “Besides that was in Austin. This is Vegas. There are no rules here. People are going to be just filing in off the street with fucking oversized drinks in their fat hands and food crusted down the front of them.”
    “And don't forget the escort fliers jammed in their overflowing pockets,” Vance said with a laugh.
    Travis nodded, sagely taking it all in. Secretly he just wished they get the fuck out of his room. He'd loved the rowdy atmosphere of Thunderdome when he first moved in - but it had quickly faded as the months went by. He'd shacked up with Garrett who he knew from some undergrad classes at UNLV. The rent was unbelievably cheap, even before they added Parker to the mix. Parker, a star pitcher with a dark streak, spent most of his time out partying. Travis dug that. He'd been counting on that when they let him take over the extra room, the one that barely fit a normal sized bed. Parker was just looking for a place to get away every now and then, someplace off campus and away from the Frat house. He wasn't much like any jock Travis had ever met in his life.
    “It's like having an invisible roommate,” Garrett said after the first month. Parker had crashed a handful of times and always left early in the morning. It wasn't