Tomes of the Dead (Book 2): Bad Blood by Wendig Chuck

Author:Wendig, Chuck [Wendig, Chuck]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Zombies & Vampires
Publisher: Abaddon Books
Published: 2012-05-03T04:00:00+00:00

COBURN SMELLED PEACHES and cigarettes. Heard Kayla laughing somewhere behind the high-pitched tone humming in his ears. Remembered that the last time he saw someone with a grenade, it was Leelee, Kayla’s best friend and almost-doctor and surrogate mother—the pin hit the ground and the grenade took out her and a pack of hunters. And that was the end of that.

I miss her, came Kayla’s voice rising out of the fog.

The vampire tried not to think about that.

Instead, he put out his hand, tried to stand, but found that his arm was like that zombie who gutted him—missing below the elbow. He fell, leaning hard on a nub of bone. A barbed spear of white-hot pain shot up from the bone to his shoulder and all the way to his ear.

He rolled over. Into something wet.

Wincing, he sat up, felt along his back for whatever it was—came back with a smear of red. Nearby lay a bowl—no, not a bowl, but a chunk of skull-cap with hair on the bottom. Masterson.

Masterson was everywhere.

The grenade, silly, Kayla said. Remember that?

Oh. Right.

At the last moment, before the grenade went off, Coburn turned and dove away from Masterson, pushing that poor dumb human bomb backward. Which explained why Coburn’s arm was half-gone.

Now, here he was. Missing an arm. Covered in dust and shattered brick and parts of Masterson. At least you’re not trapped in a Wal-Mart about to be eaten by a crazy super-obese lady, came Kayla’s voice. Yeah. You never said much about that, but I can see it here with all your other memories. That was pretty gross, JW.

It was pretty gross.

And this was not as bad as that.

At least he had blood here. It was undignified and made him feel more than a little like a starving dog but...

He bent down, and vacuumed up what was left of Masterson with his lips. Like he was slurping spilled soup from the floor. It was dingy and dirty and losing its nutritive value fast and occasionally he had to spit out spurs of bone or clumps of hair, but blood was blood and this arm wasn’t going to regrow itself. (Well, it would, but only with the proper urging.)

While siphoning up the liquid parts of the exploded Minister Masterson, Coburn wondered just what the hell that guy’s deal was. Thought he was some kind of cult leader. Leading the people toward a—what was it he said? A symbiosis with living man and undead asshole. But the truth was, Masterson was just another parasite. This one clinging to Lydia the way a remora fish hangs off the belly of a shark—bottom-feeding scum-sucking trash-picker. Not a leader. Not a ‘minister.’

When Coburn was done, he stood.

Grunted. Flexed his toes. Gritted his teeth.

Blood moved to wet the bony end of his arm. Muscle and tendon grew along with it, along with an unfurling flag of too-pink skin.

It was miserable. Felt like his arm was covered in a thousand ants, then dunked in a bucket of boiling water to kill them.

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