The Vengeful Dead

Also by J. N. Duncan

Deadworld

THE VENGEFUL DEAD

J. N. Duncan

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

Also by J. N. Duncan
Title Page
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Teaser chapter
Copyright Page

Acknowledgments

First of all, I’d like to dedicate this book to my wife, a fellow writer, who must put up with all of the vagaries of the writing life times two. It makes some things that much more difficult, and she continues to tolerate and support me on my writing journey. I love you, babe. I would also like to thank all of those involved in getting this story to where it is: my editor, Martin Biro, and all of the good folks at Kensington for handling those difficult aspects that allow me to keep doing the most fun part, which is writing more stories. I would also like to thank Nathan Bransford, who was a great agent and helped to shape this story into what it is. I hope his new endeavors treat him well. And last, but certainly not least, I thank all of the readers out there who have enjoyed
Deadworld
enough to continue the series.

Prologue

Detective Thomas Morgan threw the empty pill bottle out of his cruiser into the manicured hedge separating a pair of half-million-dollar Sterling Heights homes. The bitter pill in his mouth was beginning to dissolve, so he reached and grabbed the cold remnants of his McDonald’s coffee and washed it down.

Had to be the last one for a while, if not for good. Beverly had been getting suspicious of late. Money was funneling in and out of the bank account too rapidly, which was gradually working its way toward zero. And let’s face it, the shit was too good to be taken indefinitely. Morgan had seen it more times than he cared to remember. He was turning into an addict or maybe he already was one, if truth be told. Perhaps it was pilfering from his daughter’s college fund that finally clued him in. Oxycontin was not more important than his daughter’s future. Tom had felt disgusted with himself. Desperation was ugly and weak. He was turning into what he dreaded most, a bad cop.

Hopefully leaving all signs of the bad cop stuck in the branches of a boxwood hedge, Morgan turned the corner into a swirl of crime-scene color, strands of yellow crime-scene tape and red-and-blue flashing lights. Four cop cars blocked off the street leading to a two-story, Tudor-style house that looked like every sixth or seventh house in the upscale neighborhood. Small groups of residents clumped together on the sidewalk and across the street, wrapped up in robes, blankets, or jackets, morbid curiosity getting the better of them, despite the cool and damp October morning. Everyone loved a good murder.

And apparently, this one was very good, in the way people judged horror movies based on how disturbing the death scenes were. Morgan pulled up behind the roadblock and got out of his car. On the opposite side, he spotted Frank Wysocki’s vehicle. Morgan frowned. Sock would be less than pleased that he had not been immediately available to pick him up. When he found him sitting on the front porch, hands hanging loosely over his knees and looking pale as milk, Morgan figured this murder was not just very good, it was Oscar caliber.

“Sock, man. You lose your lunch?”

“Where the fuck you been, Tom? Don’t stick me with this shit.” Sock wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and then through his receding, graying hair. “Your jalapeno-eating, hairy, black ass can take the upstairs. I’ll take the nice and cheery guy with his brains blown across the wall.”

“Hey, no problem. Sorry for the delay. I was away from the phone for a few.” He gave Sock a pat on the shoulder and walked up the front step. Worse than a brain mural? He moved quickly to get out of Sock’s sight. Morgan did not like the sound of that, because it usually meant children were involved.

“You’re always away from the fucking phone,” Sock said, but Morgan was already through the front door and chose to ignore him.

He pulled a pair of neoprene gloves from his coat pocket and considered stepping back out for a mask, but that would mean raising Sock’s ire once again and so he decided to let it slide. It was just a bit of the old blood and death. Just breathe through the mouth and tune the emotions out. It took years of practice to get good at, but was essential for Homicide.

Morgan upgraded his assessment when he reached the end of the foyer, which opened out into a living room to the right. It was a lot of blood, and one could only call it a living room in the loosest of terms. A white male slumped over on a leather sofa in sweats and a U of C T-shirt. He was in decent shape, until someone put a slug in his head and redecorated the wall with bits of his brain matter. The smell of it was thick and pungent, so the guy had been dead a few hours then, at least. As for the rest of the living room, every last piece of furniture and decoration had been smashed to pieces, demonstrating a level of violence far in excess of that needed to just ransack the place.

Initial impression: crime of passion. Someone had been very upset about something or someone. The rest was up to Sock for now. Morgan continued walking toward the staircase and had to stop to get out of the way of a young beat cop hustling to get to the front lawn before he puked.
Welcome to Homicide, kid. Sometimes it ain’t cool or fun.
Needless to say, it put Morgan on edge. Even strong stomachs had their limits. He kept his breath coming through his mouth only and climbed the stairs two at a time.

The temperature dropped a good ten degrees by the time he reached the landing. No draft blew through the house, however. If some dumbshit had opened a window to air out a crime scene before the evidence guys had done their job, he was going to give someone a reason to be sick.

Disbelieving voices, low and muttering came from the room at the end of the hall that doubled back from the top of the stairs. John walked by a workout room with weights and a treadmill, and then a spare bedroom. Items were knocked over and broken, more like an afterthought than an actual effort to destroy.

And still the temperature turned colder. Morgan thrust his hands into his leather coat’s pockets and forced his breath to slow and get shallower. The stench had taken on a different tone. Someone had spilled their guts onto the floor. He had seen it before with knife and bullet wounds. Gut deaths were some nasty shit.

Morgan paused when he reached the door. Goose bumps ran down his spine. He closed his eyes and tried to will away the nervous knot in his stomach. This had happened a couple of other times when he was on the verge of stepping into a crime scene that he would never truly walk away from. Some crimes had a way of burning themselves indelibly upon your soul, and no effort could scour it clean. They changed you and you had to hope you were strong enough to not let it take you down a dark path that might end your life or at least your career as a cop.

This was going to be one of those crimes.

Both officers had handkerchiefs over their mouths. They were staring across the room, which Morgan found obscured by a corner of wall marking the entry into the room. He cleared his throat and both of them jumped, wide-eyed, glazed with fear and then relief.

“The fucking cavalry has arrived!” one of them said, raising his fists into the air. “This is brutal shit, man. It’s all yours, Detective—”

Morgan stuck his arm across the entry, blocking his escape. “I’ll need one of you to stay,” he replied. “Draw straws or something.” He took a step around the corner and stopped dead. “Jesus-mother-fucking-Christ!”

“Brutal, man. I warned you,” the first said. The other just nodded, refusing to pull the cloth from his mouth.

Morgan waved at him. “Go. Brutal boy can stay.”

“Aww, shit, Detective. Come on.”

He narrowed his gaze at the cop, mouth drawing into a thin line. Morgan did angry face very well. “You’re staying. Greenie over there can go puke now. Go!” The other hurried out and Morgan slowly turned back around to face the bed on the opposite wall. “What in God’s name . . .”

“I told you, Detective,” came the muffled reply. “Brutal. Sick fuck.”

Morgan swallowed down the bile in his throat. He had abruptly forgotten to watch his breathing and sucked in a lungful of the putrid air. The woman on the bed had been gutted and had the same black dot on her forehead. Dark splotches of blood and matter coated the headboard and wall behind her. The rest of her was just a grizzly mound of red straight out of a horror movie. From the neck down, Morgan hardly recognized the rest as having been human. Whoever had attacked her had not just cut her open. They had actively yanked her insides out.

“You touched anything over there, officer?”

“No sir,” he said. “I’m not getting close to that. Blood on the floor around the bed too. Maybe not just hers.”

Morgan nodded and stepped toward the end of the bed. The woman lay slumped against the headboard, pillows pushed to the side. Her legs were pushed apart at an uncomfortable looking angle, with her hands clenched in her lap. Likely, she was alive when her gut had been split open. So much for anger. They had a genuine psychopath on their hands. Still, Morgan eyed the mass of organs and entrails spilled out on the bed. They did not look quite right, far more mass than should have been coming out of the human body. Given the blackening, pulpy mass in the chest cavity, the lungs and heart were still tucked up inside. So, why did this look all wrong?

Careful of the blood spatter on the floor, Morgan stepped around the corner of the bed and moved in for a closer look, holding his breath as he did.

“You see something, Detective?”

Morgan waved him off, leaning over the body. He started to reach down, to pull some of the gore aside but froze, inches away. Something tiny and far too recognizable lay buried with the bloody remains. He stood up, staring at it in disbelief. “Ah, fuck me, man.”

“What is it?”

It couldn’t be. Sweet Lord above let it not be. Morgan leaned back over, his hand with a slight tremble. He slipped his gloved hand beneath what might have been kidney and lifted, exposing a miniature arm and hand with its tiny fingers to go along with the face that he could not believe was what he was seeing. Morgan’s heart thumped like a mad drummer in his chest.

Leave my baby alone!
The voice burst inside his head, a screaming, rage-filled bomb.

Morgan stumbled back, clutching at his head. “God . . . damn . . .”

“Sir? What the hell?” The officer rushed over to Morgan, gripping an arm to steady him.

He gasped, sucking in the foul air, sure that any moment he would be spewing his coffee all over the floor. “Pregnant,” Morgan said, shrugged off the hand and made for the door. “She was pregnant!”

“Ah, shit,” the officer said with quiet shock.

Morgan stumbled down the hall, grasping at the rail to keep his balance. He had to get out.

He killed my baby! He killed him. He must die. Must die! Help me kill him. You must!

He tripped and fell going down the stairs, clutched at the hand rail and kept himself from somersaulting down to the bottom, but only managed to delay the fall, and Morgan did a tumbling, rolling slide over the last dozen stairs before thudding onto the hardwood floor of the foyer. Someone had torn the babe right out of her womb, massacred her flesh and left the infant to rot away in the wake of blood. The voice was right. Someone would have to die for this.

Yes. You will help me. He must die.

Morgan struggled back to his hands and knees. “Get out of my head.”

No. You will help me. My baby needs justice.

What was this shit? The Oxycontin was fucking with him, causing hallucinations. That had to be it.

Let me in, Detective Thomas Morgan. You will help me get justice.

“Morgan, you OK?” Sock was kneeling beside him. “What the hell is going on?”

Sock’s voice sounded hollow, distant. His muscles were weak and trembling. “Sock? She was . . . the vic . . .” Morgan sagged sideways into Sock, who grabbed a hold to keep him upright.

“I know, man. Sucks to be us, huh?”

Sock’s voice faded into the distance, coming down a long tunnel. “Sock . . .”
Sweet Jesus, help me.

You are too weak, Thomas Morgan. I will gut them and splatter their fucking brains all over their walls. My boy will have justice!

“What is it, Morgan? You need me to get someone in here?” asked Sock.

Morgan sat up and stretched his neck from side to side. He pushed away from Sock and slowly staggered back to his feet. “No. I don’t need anyone. I’m good. I’m going to kill them, every last one of them.”

“That’s the spirit,” Sock said, slapping him on the back.

“Yes,” he said and grinned. “It is.”