Chapter 1
The Night After the Monsterland Catastrophe
A bright moon
painted the desert’s surface pewter. Here and there, dark spots soiled the
landscape like oil spills. Most of the bodies had been taken before the troops
were ordered to leave. They carted away the corpses, bulldozing the zombies
into mass graves, until radios chirped with urgent orders deploying the
soldiers to the bigger threats that erupted in the main cities like a chain of
angry volcanos.
Monsterland was
extinguished, its carcass left for the vultures to pick, the exhibits silent as
a tomb.
The dead
president and his equally dead entourage were whisked away on Air Force One,
along with the dark-clad special operatives that came and left like the brisk
desert wind that now howled through the empty streets.
A gate screamed
in the silence, slamming with a reverberating smash. The uneven gait of someone
with a physical challenge filled the void. The scrape and plod of his limp
echoed against the wall of mountains framing the theme park. His labored
breathing huffed as he made his way down the streets.
A door creaked
loudly as it was blown by the wind. He stopped, his distorted figure
silhouetted in the pale moonlight, his body turning silver. He looked at the
broken glass littering the pavement like diamonds, then up to the still,
pre-dawn sky. He considered the sun peeking over the jagged horizon in the
east, its golden light painting the dips and hollows of the hills. Soon the
coming day would chase the darkness away.
Time was the
enemy now. He had to move faster, or it would be too late. He picked up his
pace, lurching along the winding road. A keening howl ricocheted through the
streets, bouncing off the walls. It sounded like a ... no, he thought, it
couldn’t be. The werewolves were all dead. Destroyed by Vincent Konrad when he
made their heads explode.
The old man
paused, listening for it again, and was not disappointed when the animal
whimpered. He gauged it to be inside the defunct vampire exhibit. He moved
toward the entrance. The storefronts had been destroyed. A few body parts lay
on the pavement, as if people had discarded them in a rush. He heard the
scraping of paws on the street and a shiver went down his crooked spine.
He knew the
werewolves were dead; he had seen it with his own eyes. A figure detached from
the shadows. Igor flattened himself against the wall. He watched it move
stealthily down the street, stopping when it scavenged a morsel of rotting
flesh. It looked up to stare at Igor, its eyes glowing in the darkness.
A coyote? He
waved a hand, dismissing it. It had to be a coyote; it was too small to be a
wolf, too big to be a dog. The beast twitched its ears, then resumed its meal.
Igor knew the
coyote was not a threat, and he continued his mission. His lame foot hit a can,
sending a cacophony of sound like an explosion in the deserted park. The beast
dropped the bone it was gnawing on, sniffing the area. Its iridescent eyes
searched the streets.
It could be a
baby wolf, Igor thought, keeping himself as still as possible. He felt it
watching him, even from this distance. It was not a threat, yet.
Igor skittered
away, hugging the walls of Monsterland, putting as much distance as he could
between them. Not an easy feat, considering his distorted hips. He muttered to
himself about carrion and the wind. His eyes darted nervously, scouring the
hills, not exactly sure what he was looking for. Adrenaline coursed through his
veins. His heart pounded so loudly he was certain that the creature watching
him could hear it too.
His feet
stumbling to a halt, he bent over, gasping for air, cursing Vincent and those
meddlesome teenagers, as well as the rest of the world.
The beast gave
another mournful howl that went right through him. Igor glanced at his empty
hands, berating himself for not bringing a weapon. He searched his surroundings
for anything to protect himself.
Then he saw it,
one of the axes they had on almost every corner. All of them had been pulled
from their protective cases. One was lying in a pool of coagulating blood, the
blade long gone. He picked up the broken axe handle, turning in a semicircle.
He was ready for an attacker.
A new, larger
outline made his heart quiver with fear. It crouched in a corner, its snout
covered with blood. This one was bigger, not a coyote, a wild wolf. Wait, he
thought. Weren’t the gray wolves of California all but extinct?
Igor narrowed
his eyes. The beast was a light reddish brown and not the silver gray of a
wolf’s pelt. A chain hung from its neck, the pendant of a werewolf’s head
dangling, emerald eyes flashing. What was it? Was it a mutant coyote? A wolf?
Some weird hybrid, he wondered for a minute, his breath harsh in his ears. They
watched each other soundlessly.
A hybrid then.
He’d heard about them, a rare mixture of wolf and coyote. What did they call
them? Coywolves ...? or was it Woyotes? He shrugged indifferently. Perhaps
someone’s pet, he decided. Igor’s mirthless laugh came out like a snort.
The coywolf
stood still, its ears alert, its head cocked as if it was observing him.
Igor dropped the
makeshift weapon, calling out, “Eat the rest of your meal, you dumb beast.”
The animal
continued to watch him, its two front paws on the remains of a zombie’s chest.
Igor wiped his
forehead, waiting, his eyes coming back to search the village, confirming it
was empty, except for the carrion eaters like the coyotes and vultures. He
looked up, noting the circling predators waiting for him to move on.
“Interrupted
your meal,” he chuckled. Just the local scavengers looking for food. That was
all; the shadows revealed nothing else. Satisfied he was alone, he moved on. He
had work to do.
A paper flew
past him, hitting a kiosk as the wind plastered it against its surface. It
flapped like a dying bird. Igor reached over, taking the fluttering paper,
peering at the map of the park, the one they gave people as they entered
Monsterland. A bark of laughter escaped his mouth.
He looked up at
the giant monolith that was once the Werewolf River Run, its hulking shape
obscuring the horizon. “You are here,” he giggled, pointing a grimy finger on
the paper’s surface. He dragged his deformed body further down the pavement.
The storefronts that used to be Monsterland’s Main Street yawned vacantly, the
wind whistling through the narrow alleyways. “Now, you are here,” he laughed.
Shouting, he listened to the sound of his voice bouncing off the
blood-splattered walls.
He made his way
to the back end of the zombie village, feeling like the last man on earth. He
glanced around at the desolate landscape. His home, the beautiful theme park,
was little more than ruins destroyed by the army.
His nose
twitched from the fetid smell of rot. The US Army had massacred the zombies.
The troops came like a force of nature wiping out everything in its path, every
last one of them blown away by the troops.
They were black
ops, special forces, he knew from their uniforms. He wondered if things were
indeed going as planned. He shrugged, knowing right now nothing mattered except
for what he had to do. The irony that he was just about the most important man
on earth brought more amusement to his smile.
The local police
force was gone, as were the leaders of most countries in the world. He knew all
was chaos outside, perhaps even war, each nation blaming the next for the loss
of their leadership. Not to worry, he thought. Vincent left America in capable
hands.
Dreams do come
true, he snickered. Nightmares too, he finished the thought. A long line of
drool pulled at his lower lip. He paused at a pothole in the road, decomposing
body parts glistening, the disappearing moon turning the bits of bone and
brains pearly.
Anxiety bloomed
in his chest as he passed the opaque windows of Vincent’s derelict Monsterland
hotel, the Copper Valley Inn. He hated that place. Abandoned construction
vehicles were frozen in their spots, testimony to the hotel’s unfinished
business.
Despite the
pastel colors of its exterior, it sat like an ominous crypt to the part of the
theme park that Vincent could never control. Told Vincent it was a money pit.
Crews couldn’t work because ... well, it didn’t matter anymore. The help was
all dead. He thought he saw a light flicker in the window, but when he turned,
he realized it was nothing more than a sputtering gas lamp that had never been
disconnected.
He stood for a
while, staring for more activity, and then jerked with the realization that he
waited too long and wasted precious time. Surely no one expected him to go
searching during the heat of battle.
Vincent said it
was enough time to set up the timetable. Vincent knew everything, and Igor felt
his panic ebb. It had been barely twenty-four hours since the attack. For all
he knew, he could be on a fool’s errand.
He pressed his
hand on his hip, his back screaming with resentment at so much movement. He was
not used to any exercise. He sighed, wiping his brow with the ragged end of his
costume, the lace scratching his skin. He caught the cuff, snagging the
material with his teeth, tugging it free from his velvet jacket. He loathed the
show and was glad he’d never have to endure the humiliation of performing
again, especially with the vamps. Those condescending, blood-sucking parasites.
He wouldn’t have to worry about them anymore, he thought with satisfaction.
Vincent had promised he’d not have to endure them for long, living up to his
part of the bargain quite nicely. They were gone, torn apart by the werewolves
or transformed into a tasty dinner by the zombies. Either way, they wouldn’t be
bullying him with their nasty insults. Something buzzed around him, and he
swiped at it.
It felt as
though he walked to the other side of the earth. Why Vincent had to pick
Zombieville to make his last stand, he’d never know. The Werewolf River Run
would have been much more convenient. It was getting lighter now, and he could
easily make out the smoking devastation.
He searched the
horizon, his eyes resting on the burnt wreckage of a golf cart, the torched
skeleton listing at an odd angle.
Pulling his lame
foot, he pushed himself as fast as his body could travel, his breath hitching
with the effort.
The corpse was
gone. He knew they would have taken that for DNA testing, proof that the enemy
was vanquished. The only things left were the putrid carcasses from Monsterland,
the decaying zombies, massacred vampires, and what was left of the werewolves
after Vincent had exterminated them.
He climbed a
small hill, his bad leg screaming with pain. Igor crowed with triumph when he
saw it, the discarded lump of flesh, lying forgotten in a ditch, face down. He
shivered as the desert wind stirred and eddied around him. Damn, but it was
desolate here.
He hunkered
down, forcing himself to skitter on the hard-packed earth. He wondered what his
son, the vice president—no, he corrected himself, the new president of the
United States, Mr. Nate Owens—would think of his father now, scrambling like a
dung beetle in the dirt.
He cursed. The
drool was back, dripping from his mouth like a sparkling spider web. Instead of
rising—it was beyond him at this point—he shimmied over to the severed head,
reaching forward, reverently, grabbing it by the matted hair, and grasping it
to his chest.
The black eyes
stared back dully, the dark depths reflecting the hunchback’s twisted smile.
Vincent Konrad’s
lifeless face lay in his hands, the pale lips open in a soundless scream.
“I’m so happy I
could kiss you, Vincent!” he told the decapitated head. He cradled the face of
his friend. “We’ll get you fixed up in no time.”
The moon bathed
the face a pale blue. The hunchback jiggled the dead weight, cackling with
delight as the one papery eyelid drooped as if it were winking.
In the distance,
that coywolf howled, making Igor suck in his breath with fear. He tucked the
head under his arm as he struggled back up the small hill, mumbling something
about Plan B.
