Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Epigraph
PART I - Loveville
CHAPTER ONE - DREADNAUTS
CHAPTER TWO - TWO DEAD BOYS
CHAPTER THREE - XMAS
CHAPTER FOUR - PEPPERLAND
CHAPTER FIVE - LOVEVILLE
CHAPTER SIX - REBELS WITHOUT A CAUSE
PART II - Divine Providence
CHAPTER SEVEN - PROPHETS
CHAPTER EIGHT - TODD HOLMES
CHAPTER NINE - INQUISITION
CHAPTER TEN - SANDOVAL
CHAPTER ELEVEN - THE MOSH PIT
CHAPTER TWELVE - CONVOCATION
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - COUP
CHAPTER FOURTEEN - RAY AND BRENDA
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - GULAG
PART III - Chesapeake
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - POWWOW
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - FATHER KNOWS BEST
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - PETROPOLIS
CHAPTER NINETEEN - BRIDGE TUNNEL
CHAPTER TWENTY - FRENCH TOAST
PART IV - Xanadu
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - BIG ENTRANCE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - FREE CONCERT
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - SAILING
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - STORM
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - MR. DIXON GOES TO WASHINGTON
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX - MONS POPULI
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN - OOBLECK
PART V - Sesame Street
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT - LIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE - SESAME STREET
CHAPTER THIRTY - LEVIATHAN
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PRAISE FOR
XOMBIES: APOCALYPTICON
“Zombie stories and novels are cool, but Xombies, to me, kick it up to a whole ’nother level … Xombies: Apocalypticon is more exciting, more action-packed, more gory, and more darkly humorous than its predecessor.”
—BSCreview
“Good characters and great action scenes … Fans of the original book should enjoy this one, and zombie fans looking for something different may enjoy it as well.”
—Monster Librarian
“Walter Greatshell’s Xombies: Apocalypticon actually succeeds in bringing something new and fascinating to this milieu … The Xombie tale is gory, wild, surreal, gross, and definitely action-packed. It has a macabre sense of humor and isn’t afraid to step on toes or go places that might offend some readers. Yet it adds onto that with some great world-building and a fascinating biological puzzle that will certainly keep you guessing. If that sounds like your cup of tea, then I definitely recommend this one!”
—Errant Dreams
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 Sparrow Rock
“Surprise after surprise … a heady brew of horror, science fiction, suspense, and adventure … 28 Days Later meets Lord of the Flies … as sharp and bone-chilling as an arctic gale.”
—A. J. Matthews, author of Unbroken
“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
“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 Pariah
“I really loved Xombies: [Apocalypse Blues] and want to know what’s up next.”
—Jonathan Maberry, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of The King of Plagues
“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 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 Overwinter: A Werewolf Tale
“This book has it all: action, excitement, a subtle love story, a bit of comedy, and even a really cool part where the story is told from the point of view of a zombie for a few chapters. The book is even left open for a sequel. I’ll keep my fingers crossed.”
—Dead Lantern
“Greatshell’s book is just as much science fiction as it is horror, and he creatively blends [the] two genres together. Greatshell does a great job of developing Lulu as a character, and his strong writing makes this an enjoyable apocalyptic tale.”
—Monster Librarian
“Well paced … The story unfolds with plenty happening and some genuinely shocking scenes.”
—Zombies Outside.com
Ace Books by Walter Greatshell
XOMBIES: APOCALYPSE BLUES
XOMBIES: APOCALYPTICON
XOMBIES: APOCALYPSO
MAD SKILLS
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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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: APOCALYPSO
An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Ace mass-market edition / March 2011
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To my wife, Cindy; my son, Max; and also to the gang of talented apes I hang out with on Saturday nights: Dave, Steve, Adam, and Dan. I’m proud to be one of you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Some books come easy; others come hard. This one was hard. I don’t know why, except that maybe because it was the third book of a trilogy, the fifth book I’d ever had published, and the summation of everything I’d written to this point, there was a lot I wanted to pour into it—much too much, as it turned out. If it’s true, as the French say, that “one must suffer in order to be beautiful,” then any beauty achieved here is thanks to my long-suffering editor, Danielle Stockley, and the rest of the talented staff at Ace Books. I’d also like to thank my agent, Laurie McLean, and, most of all, you, my readers, for joining me on this adventure.
How is it possible for you to have accompanied me all this time without coming to perceive that all the things that have to do with knights-errant appear to be mad, foolish, and chimerical, everything being done by contraries? Not that they are so in reality; it is simply that there are always a lot of enchanters going about among us, changing things and giving them a deceitful appearance, directing them as suits their fancy, depending upon whether they wish to favor or destroy us.
—Cervantes, Don Quixote
Comedy is not pretty.
—Steve Martin
PART I
Loveville
CHAPTER ONE
DREADNAUTS
There was no boat. There was no crew. There was only a shared dream, fragile as a bubble in an endless sea. And there was no sea, just ripples of time and space—the bottomless, shoreless reach of eternity.
And Beatles music.
Suspended in the depths like a black thought, the USS No-Name echoed with the murky strains of “Eleanor Rigby.” Within its vast hull, we all listened, everyone equally intent, equally inert, whether whole or in pieces, all motionless as corpses in the smothering dark, embedded like fossils amid the roots of a tree—which was what the boat had become: a single organism of cold flesh and metal, blue limbs intermingled with blue steel, organs with plumbing, sinew with cable, bone with bracing. The flesh persisted, the flesh was permanent—the metal somewhat less so. Water trickled in, pooling blackly in the bilge.
In the airless environment, a creeping patina of blue rust became more evident by the day … at least in the areas where lights still functioned. Nobody cared. There was a short somewhere, many shorts, all neglected, life-support systems ignored and faltering … for there was no life left to support.
It didn’t matter as long as the reactor still burned, the screw still turned, and the music still played. That music was our residual humanity made manifest; it was the sound of hope: hope of finding the living and relieving their mortal woes, the damned seeking the doomed and spreading the seed of Maenad salvation … before it was too late. Such was our mission.
Such were we missionaries.
All at once, the music stopped. From miles away, far across the void, down from the world of light and air, came a new sound, a deep electronic vibration low enough to be detectable even through water. A sound meant specifically for submarines to hear: an Ultra Low Frequency radio signal.
In the belly of the boat, a rusty, cracked voice: “Can you hear that?”
“Yes.”
“Sounds like an invitation.”
“Let’s RSVP.”
The glittering blue surface of the sea spread in all directions to the thin circumference of the horizon, swells rolling in long regiments under the sun. In the middle of this enormity, a giraffe-speckled pole rose from the water—the boat’s radio antenna. It scanned the heavens for the least electronic whisper and immediately fixed upon the loudest signal. This was routed to the AV console in the radio shack, where Reggie Jinnah played it for a small audience that included Captain Harvey Coombs, Dr. Alice Langhorne, and me. All of us Xombies. Reggie’s mates, three other Anglo-Pakistani musicians who formerly comprised the Beatles tribute band known as the Blackpudlians, waited in the background, having been using the room as a makeshift music studio.
On the video screen, we could see an image of a man. He was a very familiar man, a man we had not seen since the height of the Agent X pandemic and never expected to see again. A man I had seen shoot himself on national television.
The superimposed caption read, PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES.
“Turn up the sound,” I said.
“Sorry.” Reggie hit a switch. Now we could hear the man’s familiar voice:
“—time to correct the mistakes of the past. We are rebuilding humanity one soul at a time, just as we are rebuilding civilization one brick at a time, and we can choose the kind of society we want it to be. Do we want another society doomed to failure? A society based on fear and lies? Or do we want one based on reason and truth? Not a society of exploitation, corruption, and waste, but a federation of free peoples in which the Golden Rule prevails; a society in tune with nature, run on green principles of clean energy and self-sustaining agriculture, and serving the highest goals of mankind, for which everyone shares the burden and the benefits. If you can hear this, you are invited to join our grand endeavor. We are located in the heart of Washington, DC, a place we now call Xanadu. In Xanadu, we have learned to live in harmony with Xombies as we have with each other, not as adversaries or exploiters but as fellow citizens of the Earth, celebrating the diversity of all beings, for all beings play a precious role in building the future. If you still live in fear, hatred, or despair, join our growing family and learn the meaning of freedom.”
This was followed by a long series of diverse and attractive faces—men, women, and children, of many races, styles, and physical types—all saying the same thing: “I am Xanadu.” At the end, the president came back, closing with, “We are Xanadu. And we welcome you.”
“Sounds bloody good to me,” said Reggie. “Where do I sign up?”
CHAPTER TWO
TWO DEAD BOYS
Two boys missed the boat.
Unlike all their shipmates, Todd and Ray were neither dead nor undead. They were very much alive, thank you, though a casual observer might not have deduced this fact from their ghoulish appearance—in fact, such an observer would have had to be forgiven an involuntary shudder at the sight of two such unspeakable monstrosities as Todd Holmes and Raymond Despineau.
But there were no observers, casual or otherwise, to shudder or deduce anything. Other than the two teenagers, the entire riverfront was deserted. Neither man nor Ex-man walked its urban shores, the place having been recently cleansed of its inhabitants. Whether alive or dead, red-blooded or blue-, all had been caught up in the Reapers’ recent Waterloo and swept downriver to the sea.
All except Todd and Ray, who had missed the boat.
Let me tell you how they looked: Imagine a pair of seven-foot-tall rag dolls; pumpkin-headed monstrosities with blackened knotholes for eyes and gaping, raggedy mouths. Scarlike seams crisscrossed their bodies, stitched shut with shiny metal staples. Their naked, veinous flesh was weirdly active, a crazy quilt of mismatched skin samples, some with hair, some without; some with nipples or moles or freckles or ears or faces, some without; but every part alive with tics and twitches and grand-mal spasms, several square yards of jerky meat, all aflutter with the animating energy of Maenad Cytosis—the original Agent X.
Like beauty, this ugliness was only skin-deep. It was a shell of undead tissue that clung to each boy’s mesharmored body like a thick excrescence of living coral, a literal power suit that amplified his strength to Maenad proportions. But that was the secondary purpose of Reaper outerwear. The prime purpose was that it allowed the
boys to walk among Xombies unmolested. It was camouflage.
Each suit had been carved from live-caught Xombies, tailored to spec, and worn by a foot soldier of the Moguls during their scavenging raids. Todd and Ray had stolen the awful, offal garments in order to make their escape, only to be trapped inside the grisly vehicles of their flight. Now the Reapers were all dead, their barge sunk, and the submarine, which had been the boys’ last hope, was a floating flytrap, a five-hundred-foot-long Pandora’s box. Witnessing the annihilation of the Reapers, the boys had been hesitant to go anywhere near the thing … until they realized the only other choice was to be abandoned in this no-man’s-land of Providence, Rhode Island.
Great.
“This is so not cool, man,” groaned Ray, watching the U-boat vanish in the distance. Hell-ship or not, there was clearly some sort of intelligent control at the helm, whether human or otherwise. “What are we gonna do now?”
“Try to chill. I’m thinking.”
“Awesome.”
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