Xombies: Apocalypticon
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE - RODEO ZULU TANGO
CHAPTER TWO - DEAD SEA
CHAPTER THREE - WATERFIRE
CHAPTER FOUR - NANTUCKET SLEIGH RIDE
CHAPTER FIVE - BLUE MAN GROUP
CHAPTER SIX - X GAMES
CHAPTER SEVEN - XIBALBA
CHAPTER EIGHT - FIELD TRIP
CHAPTER NINE - NUBS
CHAPTER TEN - THE UNDERGROUND
CHAPTER ELEVEN - RIDERS ON THE STORM
CHAPTER TWELVE - GANO STREET
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - THE FOUNDING FATHER
CHAPTER FOURTEEN - HOPALONG CASSIDY PHALANX
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - BOBBY RUBIO
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - XMAS
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - THE INFERNAL MACHINE
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - SNAIL TRAILS
CHAPTER NINETEEN - PHOSPHORYLATION
CHAPTER TWENTY - CLASS WARFARE
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - BLUE SUEDE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - THE WHOLE ENCHILADA
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - SNAKE PIT
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - OCTOPUS’S GARDEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - I AM THE WALRUS
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX - YES, VIRGINIA, THERE IS A SANTA CLAUS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PRAISE FOR XOMBIES: [APOCALYPSE BLUES]
“A triumph, both epic in scope and entirely unpredictable, and anchored by one of the most refreshing and unique voices in modern horror fiction. Expect great things from Mr. Greatshell in the future.”
—Nate Kenyon, author of The Bone Factory
“Surprise after surprise . . . a heady brew of horror, science fiction, suspense, and adventure . . . as sharp and bone-chilling as an arctic gale.”
—A. J. Matthews, author of Unbroken
“An amazing novel . . . I picked it up and couldn’t put it down. Beyond the freshness of take on the subject matter and the compelling narrative, I was taken completely by the sheer quality of the writing. Often genre fiction is driven more by ideas and momentum than by good writing, but not in the case of Xombies: [Apocalypse Blues]. That was top-notch in every regard. A modern classic.”
—Bob Fingerman, author of Bottomfeeder
“I really loved Xombies: [Apocalypse Blues] and want to know what’s up next.”
—Jonathan Maberry, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of
The Dragon Factory
“By far the best horror novel I’ve read. Hell, I’d check out anything that [Greatshell’s] written at this point.”
—Jason Thompson, author of Manga: The Complete Guide
“The writing is fast paced and keeps you hooked. The book itself is a cross between Night of the Living Dead and an end-of-the-world-type premise like Earth Abides, one of my all-time favorites. I see the makings for a pretty decent horror movie—maybe Hollywood will listen?”
—Roundtable Reviews
“The pace is frantic almost from the first page. The ending is unexpected, yet seems right. I’m looking forward to more from this author.”
—The Romance Readers Connection (4 stars)
“I loved [this] book.”
—David Wellington, author of Frostbite
Ace Books by Walter Greatshell
XOMBIES: APOCALYPSE BLUES XOMBIES: APOCALYPTICON
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
XOMBIES: APOCALYPTICON
An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Ace mass-market edition / March 2010
Copyright © 2010 by Walter Greatshell.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
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375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eISBN: 9781101369593
ACE
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a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
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ACE and the “A” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
http://us.penguingroup.com
ACKNOW LEDGMENTS
To my agent, Laurie McLean; my editor, Danielle Stockley; and all the excellent folks at Berkley/Ace—my sincerest thanks. To my readers—you’re the reason I love this job. And to my wife, Cindy—all my books are for you.
To die—without the Dying
And live—without the Life
This is the hardest Miracle
Propounded to Belief.
—EMILY DICKINSON
CHAPTER ONE
RODEO ZULU TANGO
In considering why the collapse of civilization occurred with such astonishing speed, we must acknowledge the role of sexism: In almost every recorded instance, men failed to respond with appropriate caution to female attackers. This has been called the Sadie Hawkins Effect, in which radical reversal of traditional sex roles conflicted with assumed male supremacy and clouded the ordinary instinct for self-preservation. Overnight, a world in which women were the “weaker sex”—where they frequently dared not walk alone for fear of sexual assault—was transformed into a world where wholesale violation and murder were being committed upon men by women, where men were suddenly the objects of violent lust, and where the toughest of tough guys dared not go out in the open for fear of his life . . . and his wife. This was not a condition that most men could readily grasp, to their abrupt misfortune. By trying to retain their perceived sexual hegemony—by leaping in to “take charge”—the males of our species surrendered in droves to the annihilating passion of the Maenads.
—The Maenad Project
Marcus Washington, aka Voodooman, sat at the card table and tried to gauge his opponents’ blank expressions. You weren’t allowed to turn or take your eyes off the game; you weren’t allowed to show fear. It was a matter of honor that you had to sit still and play for real in the shadow of death.
Marcus knew these men better
than he knew his own family. They were the Dead Presidents Posse, the four of them seated at the cardinal points of the compass:
Righteous Weeks faced north, with the best view; Little Rock faced west; 50 Cal east; and Voodooman himself in the blind position, for which they drew straws before the game—all very cool customers who were not easily spooked. But they were nervous now, all right. The question was, were they nervous enough?
Marcus could hear the dancing clown at his shoulder and the expectant buzz from the stands—he sensed the bull’s-eye on his back, knew he had better choose his next move carefully, or it could be his last. Seeing Calvin’s frozen grin, he thought, Boy looks like a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs. Maybe this would be a good time to bluff.
Righteous had just raised two dollars and the others had matched it, so Marcus said, “I’ll see your two dollars and raise you five more.” He threw his chips in.
The tension swelled like steam in a teakettle—oh, it was going to be close.
Little Rock and Calvin folded, shaking their heads. Righteous disgustedly tossed in the chips and said, “I call, you son of a bitch. Show your hand.”
Marcus had no hand to show; it was pure trash. He felt naked in the crazed glare of the stadium lights. If nothing happened in the next instant to prevent it, he was going to have to show his cards, losing gambler cred as well as the nineteen dollars in the pot. Then the skin on his shaved scalp tingled—Oh damn—
Something happened.
The other three leaped backward in unison, and Voodooman barely had time to dodge as a ton of pissed-off Black Angus Hereford came barreling through the game like a horned locomotive, causing the cards, the chips, the table itself, as well as the players and their chairs, to explode in every direction.
The audience exploded, too, into gales of laughter—convict poker was the prison rodeo’s most popular event. The last event of the evening, and in this instance, the last rodeo event of the year, for this was New Year’s Ropin’ Eve.
“Shit, man, that was close,” said Righteous Weeks, helping Voodooman to his feet and handing him his hat. “You one crazy nigger. Motherfucker got eyes in the back of his head.”
“Just remember it’s my hand—last one seated. Cattle call.”
“You earned it, brother—straight bull flush. Were you really holding?”
“Nope.”
Weeks laughed, dusting himself off. “I didn’t think so. Shee-it. A’ight, let’s put this puppy to bed.”
It was almost 10 P.M., an hour before lockdown. Now the animals would be returned to their pens and the weary and battered inmates to their cells—those who weren’t already at the prison infirmary or being ambulanced to the state hospital. Now the hootenanny would begin: Bands would play, free men and women would dance and drink until midnight on the red dirt of the arena, then it would all be over but for the fireworks. No inmates invited.
Voodooman was helping corral the bull when the first screams started in the stands.
He looked up in astonishment to see rioting among the spectators: men and women grappling with one another, and the prison guards and trusties rushing to intervene. At first he thought it was a joke, some kind of mass prank: Several hundred women were straddling men—bodily pinning them down—and smothering them with what looked to be passionate kisses. But clearly there was nothing funny about it—some folks were just angry, telling their children not to look, but the ones nearest the trouble were plainly scared about something. Other audience members were frantically trying to pull the pairs apart and shouting for help.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,” said the announcer, “I’M AFRAID I HAVE TO ASK YOU TO REFRAIN FROM CAUSING A DISTURBANCE. I KNOW IT’S NEW YEAR’S EVE, AND WE’VE ALL HAD A FEW DRINKS, BUT REMEMBER THAT WE ARE ON THE GROUNDS OF A PENITENTIARY AND MUST ACT IN FULL ACCORDANCE WITH THE RULES—IT’S FOR YOUR OWN SAFETY. THIS IS A FAMILY SHOW. WE’RE ALL HERE TO HAVE FUN, BUT ROWDINESS WILL NOT BE TOLERATED.”
Marcus watched as five people, two of them state troopers, managed to wrestle one of the women off, fighting for all they were worth to get her into a headlock and cuffs. Other men were interfering with the woman’s arrest, offended by the rough treatment she was receiving. They were trying to be gallant. Meanwhile, the man she had been kissing looked like a broken doll, sprawled on the bench.
Holy shit, Marcus thought, that man’s dead.
The woman looked . . . strange. Wet with pepper spray, her face was twisted into a mask of black rage—or was it pleasure—her mouth a gaping pit and eyes almost popping out of her head. She was wearing a sexy cowgirl outfit with buckskin fringes, all torn and disheveled now. They were all like that, all fighting like wildcats to get at the men; Marcus could see the tendons standing out in their necks. Their blue necks, he noted. All the women seemed to have blue skin.
Suddenly, the dead man burst to life, leaping up and seizing another man who had been checking his pulse. The attacker’s face was puffy and purple from strangulation, his tongue black, but his near-death experience didn’t slow him down any. Onlookers shouted in surprise, scrambling backward as the two men thrashed between the benches, then tumbled out of sight below the bleachers.
Marcus wasn’t sure whether to laugh or scream—this was the damnedest thing he’d ever seen. It had to be some kind of stunt—had to be.
A shotgun was fired into the air, and an officer yelled, “Everyone stay seated! That’s an order!”
The announcer came on again:
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WE ASK YOU TO PLEASE REMAIN IN YOUR SEATS AND COOPERATE WITH THE AUTHORITIES. DO NOT LET YOURSELVES GET DRAWN INTO THIS BRAWL. THE FOLKS RESPONSIBLE WILL BE DEALT WITH SHORTLY IF YOU’LL ALL JUST REMAIN IN YOUR SEATS AND REFRAIN FROM ADDING TO THE CONFUSION. ALL RODEO PERSONNEL AND TRUSTIES ARE INSTRUCTED TO RETURN AT ONCE TO THE STAGING AREA. EVERYONE REMAIN CALM—THE SITUATION IS UNDER CONTROL. WE APOLOGIZE FOR ANY INCONVENIENCE.”
The rodeo performers and trusties weren’t listening. They had all stopped what they were doing and were calling to their wives and sweethearts in the stands, or just watching dumbfounded as chaos broke out above them. The animals were getting jumpy from the noise.
Reining in one of the ponies, Righteous Weeks called out, “What in hell’s going on? Somebody makin’ a break I don’t know about?”
Voodooman could only shake his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Be one hell of a diversion.”
“You got that right,” agreed Voodooman in his Texarkana drawl.
Despite what the announcer said, nothing was under control. In fact, the trouble was spreading like wildfire, doubling every couple of minutes. The number of cops was shrinking by the second, and now some of them were joining the fray, crazy and blue-faced as the women, attacking and grappling with anybody they caught, forcing their victims down like spiders on flies and sucking the life breath out of them—a kiss of death. “Love Potion Number Nine,” Marcus thought crazily, but there was nothing funny about it. It was all happening so fast. People were dying—they were as dead as any corpses Marcus had ever seen, and he had seen a few. But then the weirdest thing kept happening, the ridiculously crazy thing. The victims—the corpses frozen in their last death rictus—would jump up and maul someone else. It was like a murderous game of tag: You’re it.
Voodooman could see the whole deranged business because the crowd was thinning as people fled the stands. They ran down onto the field, scattering in all directions, and the horrible blue attackers followed them. Marcus couldn’t believe how many of the things there were already. Another few minutes, and there wouldn’t be anybody alive and sane left in the arena. For a moment longer there were isolated bursts of wild shooting, then no more guns, no more guards, no more control.
Frozen with shock, Voodooman said, “What the fuck they doin’ to ’em?”
“I don’t know, brother, but leave us get the hell outta here.”
A man carrying a little boy ran up to them, screaming, “Help us! Please stop
them!”
“What the fuck you expect us to do? We ain’t armed.”
“Please! They’re coming—!” He was suddenly blindsided by a running leap, taken down by a feral-looking teenage girl. She was all over him like a snake swallowing a rat—it was if she thought she could burrow down into his body through his mouth. Her teeth broke against his teeth. The little boy was knocked to the ground and lay there screaming.
They could hear the man’s chest collapse, like the dregs of a milk shake being drained through a straw.
Voodooman grabbed the kid and put him on the skittish horse, tying a rope around his middle and fastening it to the saddle horn. “Hug his neck good and tight,” he said, shaking the child by his shoulder to snap him out of it. “Okay?” The boy nodded through his tears. To Righteous Weeks, Marcus said, “Get up there with him, man. Go!”
“You do it—I ain’t gonna be nailed with no childendangerment rap.”
“Just ride clear of this mess and drop him off with somebody!”
Before Righteous could reply, the horse suddenly reared up, yanking him off his feet and breaking his grip on the reins.
“Damn,” he said, watching his favorite mount escape with the bawling kid on its back.
“Ain’t nothing we can do,” said Voodooman grimly. “Come on.”
They allowed themselves to be swept up in the hysterical mob exiting the field. People were being attacked right and left, or falling and being trampled. As the two convicts crowded through the entrance promenade, they saw their cell-mate 50 Cal galloping toward them on another horse, the warden’s big Percheron stallion. Cal had a blue woman lying hog-tied across his legs, and a little girl hanging on to his waist from behind. As he rode, he had to hold down the woman with one hand to prevent her from bucking loose. People beseeched him to stop, to save them, too, but he ignored them, breasting their yearning hands as if they were a cane thicket.