The Wicked Dead (The Tome of Bill Book 7)

by Rick Gualtieri

  Table of Contents

  Prologue: Destiny’s Bitch

  Part 1

  Bartender in Training

  Welcome to Crazy Town

  Busy Little Bees Buzzing Around

  The Mean Streets

  Twenty Sides of Terror

  The Douchetastic Four

  Hunkering Down

  Wrath of the Defilers

  Meet and Greet

  Should I Stay or Should I Go?

  The Bitching Hour

  The Telephone Game

  Vamanos, Muchachos

  A Rare Blood Type Indeed

  Dreamscape

  The Call of the Wild

  Deal With the Devil

  Fire and Brimstone

  Like Oil in Holy Water

  Uneasy Alliances

  The First Step of Many

  The Sisterhood of the Traveling Skull

  Head Games

  War Party

  Catching Up

  Down on the Farm

  The Long Kiss Goodbye

  Part 2

  Raising the Stakes

  Score of a Lifetime

  Shit Storm

  A Turd in the Hand...

  Prisoners of War

  The Last to be First

  The Rebel Alliance

  First to Escape

  Not You Again!

  Pound Puppies

  The Monster Squad

  War of the Gargantuas

  Midnight Tryst

  Pillow Walk

  Gee, Didn’t See That Coming

  Sight Seeing

  Doctor’s Note

  Pandemonium

  Out of the Frying Pan

  The Big Bad

  One Shall Fall

  Greasy Kid Stuff

  A Small Problem

  Infiltration

  Undead Alive

  Class Reunion

  That Sinking Feeling

  The Choice

  The Sacrifices We Make

  All Hell Breaks Loose

  To Destroy The Destroyer

  Freewill Versus Freewill

  Face Off

  Sting Like a Bee

  The Cleanup Crew

  Unexpected Company

  First Base

  The End Days

  The Spine Crushing Epilogue

  Bonus Chapter

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  THE WICKED DEAD

  The Tome of Bill

  Part 7

  Rick Gualtieri

  Copyright © 2015 Rick Gualtieri

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author. Your support of author’s rights is greatly appreciated.

  All characters in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The use of any real company and/or product names is for literary effect only. All other trademarks and copyrights are the property of their respective owners.

  Edited by Megan Harris:

  www.mharriseditor.com

  Cover by Mallory Rock:

  www.malloryrock.com

  Proofread by BZ Hercules:

  www.bzhercules.com

  Published by Westmarch Publishing

  www.westmarchpub.com

  The Wicked Dead (The Tome of Bill, Part 7)

  There are reasons we fear the night. Now he must become one of them.

  Bill Ryder has a powerful destiny. He just never expected it to involve an amnesiac bloodsucker, a bunch of D&D dorks, and a hormonal witch. It's time for the gamer, geek, and legendary vampire to embrace his fate. Ordered to storm the vampire stronghold in Boston, Bill must approach the doorstep of the invincible undead warlord he's destined to face. It's his only chance of stopping Armageddon.

  As his enemies stand in his way and his allies falter, the vicious beast inside of him wants out. If he stands tall and faces his fate, the world might just have a chance of surviving. If he fails, an unquenchable evil will destroy everything Bill knows and loves.

  Why can't the end of the world ever be easy?

  For that circle of close friends I keep. You may be small in number, but you mean the world to me. You inspire me, listen to me vent when I have to, and smack me upside the head when I need it.

  Special thanks to my awesome alpha and beta crews – Alissa, Ruby, Solace, Chris, Evgenia, Matt, Adam, Scott, Angela, Don, and Jim. I couldn’t have done this without your help. You pimp-slapped this story into line, kept me grounded, and also helped remind me that Wolverine’s claws go SNIKT, not SNICKT.

  Prologue: Destiny’s Bitch

  How the hell did I end up here?

  Not in this actual place, mind you. That one is pretty damn easy. I mean, I live here – not actually in the bathroom, of course. I’m talking here in a metaphysical sense anyway.

  See, not too long ago, I died and was resurrected as one of the fiendish ... err ... fiends of the night – the nosferatu, which I’m pretty sure is a movie name and not a scientific classification. In laymen’s terms, I got bitten and woke up as a vampire.

  That was fucking weird enough, but it was only the tip of the iceberg. Things snowballed from there, all the way to a problem that sorta concerns the end of the world. Pretty heady stuff for a guy whose typical weekend used to involve little more than getting shitfaced.

  Sadly, there’s a supernatural war raging, one fated to lead to an end state not entirely dissimilar to the Biblical Armageddon.

  It gets even better. Through actions not entirely my fault, I am afforded the privilege of receiving credit for starting this war. Go me!

  But that’s not all. According to a bunch of dusty old scrolls – ones that I’m not even allowed to read – I’m supposed to be a major player in its outcome.

  All in all, it’s a nightmare I can’t seem to wake up from.

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I’m no hero. I’m just a...

  Wait a second. Was I actually about to go off into a whining bitch-fest about never asking for any of this? Ugh. That’s it; I’ve become a fucking movie cliché. I might as well change my last name to Potter and resign myself to the fact that, no matter what I do, the dumbasses in charge will be too fucking stupid to stop anything without my stepping in and winning the Tri-wizard Tournament or some shit like that.

  Any of a dozen movie plotlines run through my head, and they’re all more or less the same: reluctant hero must believe in himself because destiny cannot be denied ... blah blah blah. Goddamn, are there no original stories left to tell? Oh well, at least most of them aren’t musicals. According to my sixth-grade band teacher, if I was forced to play for my supper, I’d die a slow death by starvation.

  Any way you look at it, I’ve been shoehorned into a role I don’t want – especially right now. If anything, I have plenty of other shit to keep my mind occupied, some pretty good stuff at that.

  Hell, two blonde goddesses live just one floor below me – either one of which I would be more than happy to call my girlfriend, lover, or chick who occasionally fucks my brains out but otherwise treats me like shit. One of them is a plucky, mind-scrambled vampire who, if attitude were ice cubes, could sink the fucking Titanic. The other is my former co-worker turned ancient enemy that I am destined to one day battle to the death. Shit, entire romance series have been written about crap like that.

  Yet, with all that potential, I’m distracted from what should come naturally. I mean, I’m locked in a bathroom. Under normal circu
mstances, I’d be more than happy to indulge my imagination so as to take care of business – if you catch my drift.

  Instead, I’m standing here looking at myself in the mirror – glancing fleetingly into my own eyes, knowing there might be something else inside of me staring back ... hell, almost daring it to.

  Almost, anyway.

  I’m still not sure I want to kick that particular nest too hard. It’s one thing to be stung by a honeybee. Sure it hurts, but unless you’re allergic, it’s not the end of the world.

  What lurks inside the deep reaches of my mind, though, is more the equivalent of those giant nightmare hornets they have in Japan. Hell, I wouldn’t doubt those things are less insect and more a faction in this war. If I ever found myself standing between an angry Sasquatch and a swarm of those fuckers, I’d...

  I shake my head to clear it. Distractions aren’t particularly helpful when it comes to getting anything done, and I’ve always been more susceptible to them than most. Almost makes me wonder if my parents should’ve put my ass on Ritalin back when I was in grade school. Hell, it’s not like I’ve never subscribed to the better living through chemistry trope. Why, I remember this one time Tom and I got so stoned, we...

  I’m doing it again, aren’t I? Seems to be the story of my life. Anyway, my point had nothing to do with any of that crap.

  The truth for me is that it’s all about fear. It always has been.

  There have been so many things I’ve wanted in my life – some of those being more people than things – yet I’ve never wanted them badly enough to actually do anything substantial about it. It’s always some excuse: I’m too busy, too shy, too dead ... too afraid.

  That last one’s the real kicker. I might as well throw all the other excuses out the window. No matter how many ass-kickings I got in school, bosses who have bitched me out at work, or horrors I’ve faced down since becoming one of the undead, there’s always been one underlying factor. I’ve always been too afraid to do anything that could really move the needle.

  A part of me wants to argue that’s bullshit. Hell, in the past year alone, I’ve faced down nightmares that would make normal people shit themselves copiously. We’re talking master vampires, assassins, rock monsters, Bigfoot, and even Gan. You’d think that would make me pretty darn brave, but I know better. That stuff was little more than a willingness to do whatever was necessary to keep breathing, all so I could eventually return here again and resume a life comfortably stuck in neutral.

  I mean, have I taken the time to study vampire history and learn what I can? Aside from the prodding of others, have I taken it upon myself to train so as to best use my supernatural abilities? Hell, despite working with her for three years, dragging her into this war, and now living less than twenty feet above her, did I ever once sit Sheila down and do what should be the easiest thing in the world for a yappy fucker like me – talk?

  Deep down, I know the answer to all of that.

  I also know it won’t get the job done this time.

  * * *

  Again, I stare at my reflection in the mirror, but this time I don’t look away. My brain is too busy working overtime to process this little intervention I’m giving myself in my own bathroom – a bathroom that, quite frankly, could use a good bleaching.

  Many of the movie plots running through my head share exactly what I’m thinking – heroes who were afraid to face their destinies, yet somehow got sucked into them anyway.

  The more they fought against their fate, the stronger fate pulled them in. It’s not much different with me, except that most fiction is a pleasant lie meant to make us feel good. In real life, reluctant heroes probably find little more than an early grave waiting for them at the end of their story.

  And that’s when a revelation hits me.

  It’s so simple, I’m tempted to slap the shit out of myself for not thinking of it sooner.

  I look at myself and say, “Reverse psychology, you stupid motherfucker.”

  If I keep fighting against what needs to be done, I’ll eventually find myself in a final showdown – one I very much doubt I’ll win. I mean, destiny seems to love its fucking irony.

  But what if I manned up? If that happened, maybe the universe wouldn’t find my eventual fate so amusing. Maybe it would decide the Draculas and Sasquatches could clean up their own fucking mess without using me as their personal jizz mopper.

  It sounds crazy and, quite frankly, somewhat stupid, but – according to my eleventh-grade economics teacher – the stupidest idea in the world realized will be infinitely more successful than the best idea that gets shelved because someone would prefer to sit on their ass instead.

  Even if it doesn’t work, it should sure as shit prepare me a whole lot better than just standing here in my bathroom talking to...

  A loud knock on the door causes me to almost jump out of my skin.

  “You okay in there, Bill?” Tom, one of my human roommates, asks, a note of concern in his voice.

  “Yeah,” I reply, forcing myself out of my reverie.

  “Good, because some of us need to take a shit, and your desk is starting to look mighty inviting.”

  Taking the time to wash my hands, I make him wait a few extra seconds as an unspoken “fuck you” of an answer.

  I glance in the mirror one last time, my mind made up. There’s a lot of work to be done – and some of it goes so far beyond borderline insane that it’s gotten a green card and set up residence there.

  Nevertheless, it’s time I got to it.

  Part 1

  Bartender in Training

  “Anything?”

  “Yeah.” Sally held up her glass. “This needs more vodka.”

  “I’m not talking about the drink.”

  “Sorry. The only thing I can concentrate on right now is what a shitty bartender you make.”

  I grabbed the glass from her hand and stormed out of the room, grumbling numerous unkind words as her smirk followed me. Although her memories might still be scrambled, deep down, she was still Sally. That meant she’d quickly made a game out of her sessions with Christy, settling into a routine that was all about her. Christy would do the magical equivalent of entering my partner’s head and rearranging the furniture, often exhausting herself in the process. Afterward, Sally would be the one demanding to be pampered for her suffering – refusing to cooperate until she was suitably mollified.

  And yet, for some reason, I actually wanted her memories back. Hell, I was willing to do whatever it took to restore her.

  I must’ve had rocks in my head.

  I slammed the door shut behind me and let out a weary sigh. No, it wasn’t rocks. There was something a lot heavier weighing me down.

  Some days, I almost envied the older vampires. To them, power and station were everything. Pesky crap like emotions were too petty a thing for them to worry about. A callous, Vulcan-like attitude sure as shit sounded tempting lately. It would have made things a whole lot easier as I fumbled through the days – trying desperately to sort out my feelings for the women in my life.

  I walked over to the kitchen nook, amazed at how life could sometimes hand you everything you ever wanted while still flipping you the finger.

  Seriously, if you had told me even a few months ago I would live in the same building as Sheila, the girl I’d been pining after for years, I’d have done cartwheels up and down the halls. That was shit straight out of my best fantasies. Sure, her presence was out of necessity as we prepped for battle – one that we had no guarantee of walking away from alive – but those were just the pesky details.

  Allowing myself to have feelings for Sally had muddied those waters, though. A small part of me kept screaming that it made no fucking sense. Sure, physically, Sally was a dream girl for most heterosexual males, but her attitude was enough to drive any sane person to drink. She was an alpha dog to the extreme. In many ways, the concept of just working with her was intimidating – much less doing
anything of a more intimate nature.

  In short, she was a threat to the manhood of any meat-eating, tough-guy male – much less me. She was smart enough to give her biting wit razor sharp teeth and tough enough to let her fists do the talking if need be. Hell, she was out of my league on so many levels that I shouldn’t have even been allowed to watch her play.

  All in all, there were enough red flags to make me run screaming. Yet, all of it had the opposite effect on me. I greatly respected her. She was strong even when she didn’t have any reason to be, and she’d stuck by my side during moments when I wouldn’t have blamed anyone for running for the hills.

  My thoughts trailed off as I looked through the cabinets in the little nook. Where was that bottle of vodka? More importantly, why was I putting even a modicum of effort into finding it? Was I scrambling to top off a concoction of orange juice and blood in the hope that Sally would claim remembrance of something – anything?

  Of course I was.

  For the sake of our friendship alone, I’d have done that and more had it meant she remembered even a second of our past.

  “Getting awfully dry in here!”

  Bitch! Yeah, I definitely had rocks in my head.

  Speaking of crazy concepts, though, I really had more pressing ones to focus on. The truth was, worrying about any potential relationship with either Sheila or Sally was a luxury I really didn’t have.

  The end of the world was nigh, but there was a good chance we wouldn’t even live long enough to see it. We’d been busy planning an assault on the Boston Prefecture – the heavily fortified former nerve center of vampire activity in the Northeastern United States. That in and of itself would be tough enough, but it just got better from there. Assuming we got in, we’d have to battle our way through an unknown number of vampires, zombies, and god-knows-what-else to reach our true target: Vehron the Destroyer – a nickname not earned due to his fondness for naval vessels.

  The whole part about him being a badass was right on target, don’t get me wrong. The untruth was that my friends had actually been the ones planning things. I’d made myself scarce the past few days. Worry over Sally had been a part of it, but there had also been some planning of my own – considering a desperate course of action that I knew to be batshit crazy.