Lulu Pangloss, a small seventeen-year-old, has traveled
the country with her mother most of her life, never really
settling down. Her mother's latest plan is to track down
Lulu's alleged father, Fred Cowper, in Rhode Island to
collect child support. But with Fred Cowper in sight, all
hell breaks loose in the form of a virus that turns
menstruating women into blue-skinned zombies who then pass
the disease along to men through an engulfing kiss. These
xombies prove incredibly difficult to kill. Lulu has a pre-
existing condition that gives her immunity, but she's
shaken to the core when she loses her mother,
dysfunctional lifestyle notwithstanding--to the virus. She
turns to Fred for help as he's the only live person she
knows.
Fred, Lulu and a group of men & boys from the military
facility with which Fred used to work manage to escape on
a submarine. Used to the solitary traveling life with her
mother that she knows finds it difficult to be the only
female in the company of more than a hundred men and boys
who blame her for the virus because of her gender. Likely,
most of it stems from fear and insecurity, but Lulu will
have to somehow find her place in this male madhouse to
survive. The trials, tribulations and ventures of the
submarine journey comprise the bulk of the novel, and
there's plenty of action, drama, squabbling and general
turmoil aplenty.
Walter Greatshell combines science fiction and classic
horror in this apocalyptic tale that will appeal to fans
of "Night of the Living Dead" as well as those who read
Stephen King and Clive Barker. Greatshell touches on broad
concepts like survival of the fittest and the ever-elusive
mortality cure as well as dissecting relationships such as
between Lulu and Fred Cowper and Lulu and a potential love
interest. He includes vivid descriptions that bring the
people and their surroundings to life and incorporates
enough chase and fight scenes to please any action fan.
Greatshell accomplishes a lot in XOMBIES: APOCALYPSE BLUES
by giving readers a novel that is both an action-packed
horror story and a poignant coming-of-age tale. I look
forward to the sequel XOMBIES: APOCOLYPTICON.
Lulu Pangloss has problems. She has no friends, her mom is
difficult, and her absentee father is a deadbeat. Things can
hardly get any worse...or so she thinks.
Then the world comes to an end.
It starts with Agent X, a plague that turns women into
raving, demonic predators--Xombies--who then hunt down and
infect anyone they can catch. Guns are useless; armies are
helpless.
With civilization collapsing all around her, Lulu hitches a
ride with a crew of wary male refugees, and together they
flee for the last place on Earth rumored to be safe. But
what they find is as unexpected, and as terrifying, as the
hell they've left behind.
Excerpt
Returning to the traffic jam, Cowper slowed to bump the car
up onto the highway divider as per my earlier suggestion.
But as soon as we were on that narrow island, I realized
why he had taken the extra measure with the screens: the
median was scarcely wider than the car itself, hemmed in on
both sides by bumper-to-bumper traffic. Driving along that
cramped passage was unnerving—there could be no U-turns, no
reversing at any speed. And the soft, grassy track seemed
to go on forever.
Cowper didn't seem unduly concerned. "Once we turn right at
the intersection, should be clear sailing," he said. "Long
as we don't get stuck in the mud."
I put my faith in the elderly gent, though as we neared the
end I didn't like the look of things. This was no mere
traffic jam, but an abandoned military roadblock. Through
the misting windshield I could see relics of recent
violence: shoes, broken glass, bullet holes, and spent
shells everywhere. But no bodies.
Shadows flitted between the cars. I drew up my legs under
me.
"Here they come," I said.
They came in droves, like paparazzi. One minute our path
appeared to be clear, the next it was choked with rushing
bodies that hurled themselves at us willy-nilly. Cowper
accelerated, trying to mow them down, but even the most
brutal impact did not seem to prevent many of them from
clinging parasitically to the window cages. In minutes it
became pitch-black inside the car, the windows draped with
writhing, naked monsters. All credit to the driver for
keeping us moving—I don't know how he did it.
"How can you see?" I yelled over the pounding.
He ignored me, scrunching up his gnome face to peer between
the cracks. Absorbed in his futile task, Cowper was
bottoming out, hitting the horn again and again like a
cranky old codger. I wouldn't have minded, except his horn
played the festive strains of "La Cucaracha" and seemed to
energize them.
Several times we crashed into other cars, and I wasn't sure
if it was accidental or Cowper's attempts to shake off our
foe. If intentional, it failed, because for every Xombie we
lost, we gained three by losing speed. It reminded me of a
grisly nature film I'd seen showing cattle set upon by
vampire bats. Also, the car was falling apart: I could hear
the wup-wup-wup of flat tires, and smoke began pooling
around our legs. We didn't have long to live.
I remembered those radio reports referring to Agent X as
some kind of disease, but it was incredible to me that
these things could be in any way considered sick. They were
superhuman, nothing stopped them. I could even tell that
some were smart. One female Xombie—a blue woman who
straddled the hood like a fierce, Celtic witch—had no
trouble figuring out the arrangement that kept the screens
in place, and began unhooking the straps. In seconds the
whole thing was loose, held in place only by other bodies,
and she battered its frame against the windshield, starring
the glass.
This is it, I thought.
The web of cracks burst inward, the witch's hands peeling
apart the safety glass like a membrane and her grinning,
black-eyed face thrusting through at me. Trapped in my
seat, I could hear myself making a high-pitched whine from
deep in my throat. Just then Cowper stamped hard on the
brakes, causing the whole unmoored wire contraption and
every Ex on it to go flying off the car in a jangling heap.
Finally, I could see again. We were clear of the traffic,
clear of maniacs, and dragging our flopping treads down a
tree-lined drive toward some kind of factory complex. The
trees gave way to parkland, then a high fence and a series
of concrete barricades. It was the end of the road, in
every sense. Cowper turned off the dying motor, and we sat
there in silence. My ears were ringing.
I was about to say the place looked deserted when a
brilliant light filled the car. It beamed down from above
the fence, from a hidden platform. Bathed in phosphorescent
white smoke, we couldn't see a thing.
"Hold up your hands." Cowper held up his own, fanning
identification cards like a poker hand. "Fred Cowper here!"
he shouted. "Referred by James Sandoval!"
For a long moment there was nothing, then a voice
shouted, "Step out of the vehicle!"
We climbed free of the car, keeping our hands up. Cowper
had an old leather satchel slung from his shoulder. Again,
he called out, "Fred Cowper here! Fred Cowper—don't shoot!"
A different voice called down, "Fred Cowper? We thought it
was the Mexican Army. What'd you do, take the scenic
route?"
"Who's that? Chief Reynolds? Beau, you know I'm cleared
with Sandoval!"
"That was three weeks ago. We gave up waiting for you."
"Goddammit, I'm here now! Open up!"
After an unbearable pause, the spotlight went off, and we
could see men with guns lined up on a high catwalk and
makeshift guard tower. They were not soldiers, but some
kind of private security force—what my mother called "rent-
a-cops." Others below waved us toward a cagelike revolving
door in the fence. "Hurry!" they shouted. "Run!"
As we made for it, something charged from the shadows
between barriers, something naked, blue, and low to the
ground. I barely saw it before gunfire erupted from a dozen
places at once, and the thing was knocked over, spouting
flesh. It was a headless torso riddled with holes, trying
to get back up on its hands. Then we were inside the door,
pushing as hard as we could. But it only revolved a quarter
turn before crashing against the bolt, trapping us inside.
"Who's the girl?" demanded a stunned-looking sentry.
"Sandoval said I could bring someone," Cowper said. "Open
the damn gate!"
"Girls are supposed to be quarantined."
"That's only if they might turn. She has a medical
condition that stops her from maturing. Look at her—does
she look seventeen?"
"She's seventeen?" All the guards nearly jumped out of
their skins, as if I were liable to snatch their guts out.
Impatiently, Cowper replied, "You morons, if she was gonna,
she already woulda. Don't you get it? Where's Reynolds?" As
he spoke, I saw a ghastly figure appear out of the hazy
twilight, racing along the outside of the fence toward us.
We were pinned in place; it could grab us right through the
bars.
"Let us in!" I screamed.
"I guess it's 'Bring Your Daughter to Work Day'," said the
man Reynolds from above. "All right, go ahead," he
ordered. "Let 'em in." The gate swung open, and we were
jerked through, half-deaf from the fusillade around our
ears. I had never heard shooting before. It wasn't like the
movies. Something squishy slammed against the bars just as
we jumped clear. I didn't want to look. I could've cried to
be among people again, and tried to thank them, but any man
I approached reared like a spooked horse.
"They're a little traumatized," Cowper observed, taking me
aside. "Send 'em a thank-you note."
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