Xombies: Apocalypse Blues
Read Xombies: Apocalypse Blues Online
Authors: Walter Greatshell
Table of Contents
“The writing is fast paced and keeps you hooked. The book itself is a cross of
Night of the Living Dead
and an end-of-the-world-type premise that you would find in books like George Stewart’s
Earth Abides
.”—
Roundtable Reviews
Night of the Living Dead
and an end-of-the-world-type premise that you would find in books like George Stewart’s
Earth Abides
.”—
Roundtable Reviews
“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
Unbroken
“A triumph, both epic in scope and entirely unpredictable, and anchored by one of the most refreshing and unique voices in modern fiction.”—Nate Kenyon, author of
The Bone Factory
The Bone Factory
“An amazing novel . . . It’s really, really good.” —Bob Fingerman, author of
Bottomfeeder
Bottomfeeder
“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
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
Monster Librarian
“Well paced . . . The story unfolds with plenty happening and some genuinely shocking scenes.”—Zombies
Outside.com
Outside.com
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Published by the Penguin Group
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Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand
(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,
South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Originally published in a slightly different form as
Xombies
.
Xombies
.
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.
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: APOCALYPSE BLUES
An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley mass-market edition / August 2004
Ace mass-market edition / October 2009
Berkley mass-market edition / August 2004
Ace mass-market edition / October 2009
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,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
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,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eISBN : 978-1-101-14057-4
ACE
Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ACE and the “A” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ACE and the “A” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
ACK NOW LE DGMENTS
Thanks to my agent, Laurie McLean; my editor, Danielle Stockley; and Berkley veep, Susan Allison, whose belief in resurrecting the dead made it all possible. In fact, kudos to everyone at Berkley and Ace—any flubs herein are mine, not theirs.
Finally, my greatest shout-out must go to my wife, Cindy, for never letting me forget that this was not only possible but inevitable. As ever, this book is for her.
M
y name is Louise Alaric Pangloss, I am seventeen years old, and I suffer from chromosomal primary amenorrhea. I am not in the habit of announcing that to the world, but there is so little of the world left now that it scarcely matters what I say. I am very slight of build—that is to say, flat as a board—and frequently mistaken for a girl half my age. In part this is due to my neotenic, waiflike features; but in the past it was also a product of my wardrobe, which over the years had become an increasingly specific costume calculated to elicit sympathy from bill collectors, truant officers, social workers, and other bureaucratic functionaries. It consisted of a plush green velvet dress and bodice, with a lace collar, puffy-sleeved blouse, white knee-length stockings, and shiny Buster Browns. With my milk white skin, wide-set amber eyes, and pigtailed black hair, these elements combined to create an archetype of Edwardian innocence, which my mother was only too happy to wield like a voodoo doll. The effect was especially brutal if I feigned tears or affected a British accent. I should say that out of costume I was not a particularly adorable child. At one elementary school I was nicknamed “the alien” because of my supposed resemblance to the little gray men of UFO lore; at another I was “Lucy,” after the prickly
Peanuts
character.
y name is Louise Alaric Pangloss, I am seventeen years old, and I suffer from chromosomal primary amenorrhea. I am not in the habit of announcing that to the world, but there is so little of the world left now that it scarcely matters what I say. I am very slight of build—that is to say, flat as a board—and frequently mistaken for a girl half my age. In part this is due to my neotenic, waiflike features; but in the past it was also a product of my wardrobe, which over the years had become an increasingly specific costume calculated to elicit sympathy from bill collectors, truant officers, social workers, and other bureaucratic functionaries. It consisted of a plush green velvet dress and bodice, with a lace collar, puffy-sleeved blouse, white knee-length stockings, and shiny Buster Browns. With my milk white skin, wide-set amber eyes, and pigtailed black hair, these elements combined to create an archetype of Edwardian innocence, which my mother was only too happy to wield like a voodoo doll. The effect was especially brutal if I feigned tears or affected a British accent. I should say that out of costume I was not a particularly adorable child. At one elementary school I was nicknamed “the alien” because of my supposed resemblance to the little gray men of UFO lore; at another I was “Lucy,” after the prickly
Peanuts
character.
How I came to be lying in state, under glass, with a procession of men and boys paying their respects to my magnificently preserved body—and all of this taking place aboard an Ohio-class nuclear submarine—is the basis for the story I am about to tell. It is the only known record of these events.
CHAPTER
ONE
ONE
M
y mother and I missed the news about Agent X because we spent most of that January cooped up in a beach bungalow outside Jerusalem, Rhode Island. Prior to that we had been living in Providence, stalking an elderly man Mum had tracked all the way from Anaheim, California—a man she contended was my father. I found her crusade embarrassing and pointless: If she had been foolish enough to get knocked up by an old goat who ran off the first chance he got, it was more an expression of her character than his. Having lived with her for seventeen years, I knew all too well what a pain in the ass she was. The guy had my sympathy.
y mother and I missed the news about Agent X because we spent most of that January cooped up in a beach bungalow outside Jerusalem, Rhode Island. Prior to that we had been living in Providence, stalking an elderly man Mum had tracked all the way from Anaheim, California—a man she contended was my father. I found her crusade embarrassing and pointless: If she had been foolish enough to get knocked up by an old goat who ran off the first chance he got, it was more an expression of her character than his. Having lived with her for seventeen years, I knew all too well what a pain in the ass she was. The guy had my sympathy.
When we began leafleting his Pawtucket neighborhood, the codger spooked and fled to his summer cottage by the sea.
“You can’t get away from me that easily,” Mum muttered nefariously, late into the night. “Oh no, buster. If that’s what you think, you got another think coming. Yes indeedy.” We had to pack up and leave our little Gano Street apartment during the wee hours of the morning, a drill I was quite familiar with after a lifetime of covert maneuvers.
“Isn’t this fun?” Mum said breathlessly as we loaded the sputtering Corolla. Her eyes were bright and wild. It was cold.
“Oh, sure,” I said. “What am I supposed to do with my bike?” I had just gotten it for Christmas—a new Huffy.
“Just leave it chained under the stairs, honey. We’ll get it later.”
That was the thing about her: She knew we would never set foot within a mile of this place again, not with all the back rent and utility bills we owed. Caches of our abandoned pets and possessions stretched from coast to coast, and she acted as if someday we would follow it all home like a trail of bread crumbs. Did she even realize we were butting up against the far side of North America? The only place left to run was the Atlantic Ocean.
In reply to my grinding contempt, she said, “Come on, sourpuss! It’s an adventure! Show a little spirit!”
It wasn’t hard to find off-season rentals in summer resorts. Owners of such properties were usually so happy to have winter tenants that they made no bones about leases, first and last, background, or credit histories. Add to that the discount rates, few nosy neighbors, and attractive, out-of-the-way locations that tended to discourage process servers, and you understand why such accommodations were a staple of ours. Poor old Mr. Fred Cowper had no idea that by retreating to the seaside, he’d all but put out the welcome mat.
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