CAPTURED
by the
CHIMERA
ZOMBIE-MASTER
by Veronica Sommers
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Veronica Sommers
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher. Thank you for your support of the author's rights.
First Edition: June 2020
Playlist
"The Last of the Real Ones"
-Fall Out Boy-
"The Fear"
-The Score-
"Force of Nature"
-Bea Miller-
"Save Me"
-BTS-
"Warriors"
Imagine Dragons
"Incomplete"
-Backstreet Boys-
"Meaning of Life"
-Kelly Clarkson-
1
Finley
When I wake up, Atlan isn't there.
Panic squeezes my lungs and I sit up in the pitch black, trying to remember where I am—in the Hordelands, in some godforsaken bunker full of research labs or whatever. We're here to rescue a team of doctors and researchers who claim to have a solution for the zombie virus. A vaccine? A cure? Some way to kill them all? I'm not sure—we just got here last night and we haven't really had time for show and tell.
Atlan and I stayed in one of the tiny rooms off a long corridor of sleeping cells. Last thing I remember is his body enfolded with mine, warm skin and hard muscle, his heartbeat thumping softly, moving my blood through his veins; because Atlan is a vampire, and his body can't replenish its own blood cells. He needs fresh, living blood, sucked through the tiny tubes in his fangs, straight from my circulatory system to his. It's a duty I'm happy to perform these days—not just because his strength keeps humanity safe, but because I love him.
And he's gone.
His absence sparks anxiety along my nerves, because even though I'm a survivor, and I can mostly take care of myself, I am also a realist. His strength is my best chance of making it out of the Hordelands and back to the Deathcastle outpost, back to safety behind the walls that protect Blue City.
Besides, I just need him. When we're apart I get this restless, unsettled itch, an aching dissatisfaction that's only salved in his presence.
He's probably just taking his turn to guard the hallway. Sergeant Perez, the woman in charge of this rescue mission, told him he'd need to stand watch at some point tonight.
I blink against the impenetrable dark, trying to remember where the light switch is located on the wall. This room—more of a cell, really—is unfamiliar, because Atlan and I pretty much walked in, glanced around, and lunged for each other. I slide across the two cots we pushed together and step in the direction that the door should be, hands outstretched in the dark.
There's an unfamiliar scent in here—something sharp and caustic, with a rank animal edge to it—and as I take that single step, my body flares with the sudden certainty that I am not alone in this room.
Something else is in here with me.
A soft hiss of breath slithers out of the darkness, and my bare skin prickles all over—prickles with the terrible awareness of danger, and with the knowledge that I am being watched.
I know the vague location of my clothes, on the floor somewhere between me and the door. But the Thing in the room is also between me and the door, and I don't dare move any nearer to it.
I shrink back to the cot, my fingers gripping one of the blankets and slowly, slowly tugging it free, pulling its scratchy length around my bare body. The rustle of the cloth seems unbearably loud but I persist, tying the blanket under my armpits.
The instant I finish, a voice shatters the silent dark. It's low and resonant, with a sibilant quality that's distinctly inhuman. "No need to cover up. Clothing is a sign of shame, of weakness. A need for armor and walls."
So this thing can see in the dark. And it sounds horribly snakelike, and I'm pretty sure it's male.
My jaw is shaking so hard I can barely form words. I have enough courage for one phrase, one question. I try several in my head, rapidly, until I reach the one closest to my heart. "Where is Atlan?"
"Who is Atlan?" responds the voice.
"My—a vampire. A warrior. Blue eyes, dark hair, very imposing, strong—" I stumble into a half sob of terror and tell myself fiercely to shut up.
"The vampires have been placed in my custody. I have use for them."
I don't miss the faint emphasis on the word them. Apparently I'm disposable, and that's my immediate problem, more pressing that the bone-jarring revelation that the vampires are in this creature's custody, and that everything we expected of this place was wrong—
"I'm Atlan's blood bag." I hate the squeaky, desperate quality of the words. "He needs my blood to survive."
"Does he now?" hisses the voice. "I wonder. That's what we're here to discover, you see. That, and other things. Science, little human. It's a wondrous thing. The only god worth worshiping in these dark times, wouldn't you agree?"
Something shifts, scraping over the concrete floor.
"I was never one to worship anything," I whisper.
"But surely you believe in something." The voice comes from my left now, and I jump, startled.
Something brushes my back, right between my shoulder blades. It doesn't feel like fingers, or like flesh at all—too hard, too—bristly. And then a sharp point touches the base of my neck. A knife, a sword, a thick needle—I'm not sure which—but the menacing prick of pain sends a thrill of fear up my spine, crackling over my scalp.
"What is it you believe in, human woman?"
From the way he speaks the question, combined with the threatening pressure at my neck, I have a feeling that the answer I give to this question will determine whether I die in the next few seconds.
"I believe in—life. I want to live, and to help others survive."
"Others, you say. Other humans?"
"All others. Every form of life deserves protection, and freedom."
"What of the zombies?"
"They're not alive—at least, not in the way we used to define it. And they threaten to consume other living things, so—they have to be stopped."
The point at the base of my neck twists, just slightly. "And if they ceased consuming other things? Should they be allowed to live, to exist?"
"I—" I'm about to say no, until I think of the female zombie I faced out in the Hordelands—the one who mimicked my movements. She had an almost human quality about her, like an echo of a past self.
I don't know what reply this person wants me to give, so all I can do is answer from my heart.
"If they weren't a danger to humans anymore—if they could be calmed and controlled somehow—then they should be allowed to exist without violence."
A rumble of approval grates from my questioner's throat. "And would you like to help make that possible? Freedom and safety—life—for all sentient creatures of this wild new world?"
"Yes," I respond, slowly, unsure because this feels like some kind of bargain or agreement that I don't yet understand, and that makes me very, very nervous.
The pricking at the back of my neck ceases, followed by anothe
r shifting, scraping sound. The door to my room opens, a burst of white light from the hallway illuminating my questioner in silhouette. I cringe away from the sudden brightness, squinting, trying to see more clearly. Hulking shoulders fill the door frame, and above them is a head crowned with sharp branching prongs, curving black against the light. They look like the antlers of a young buck. Must be a headpiece of some kind because logic is screaming at me that a man with antlers cannot be real.
Something snakes up beside the figure—bulbous and jointed, with a swollen end and a sweeping stinger—a scorpion's tail, almost as long as I am tall.
My brain scrambles to make sense of it because even here, in this world of vampires and zombies, certain things are still impossible. Impossible.
"Dress yourself, if you must," says the Thing. "Someone will bring you to me when you're done."
His towering bulk vanishes from the doorway, and I'm left with a vague impression of dark purpose and monstrous power. Monstrous, in the truest sense of the word.
Someone will bring you to me when you're done.
I don't like the sound of that. But I do appreciate being given the opportunity to dress.
On shaking legs, I stagger forward, flick the light switch on the wall, and close the door. I draw a ragged breath, feeling a little more secure in the tiny room. My fingers tremble as I pick free the knot of my blanket-dress, shimmy into my underwear and jeans, hook my bra, and pull on my shirt. I sling my pack over one shoulder as well, cringing a little as it bumps my bruised rib.
I'm ready, but I don't move. I can't. I stand in the center of the room, my fists clenched, jaws tight. The strange scent of that male creature hangs in the air, alien and off-putting. Its otherness weakens me, turns my muscles limp and useless.
I don't want to open that door again. I don't want to see that Thing in full light, or be forced to face the reality of my new situation. I thought I would be headed back to Deathcastle today, crossing the Hordelands in armored vehicles with a bunch of soldiers and scientists—and most importantly, with Atlan at my side.
Atlan.
I need to find out what happened to him, and what's really going on here. Were the researchers in league with this mutant thing? Did they lure us here under false pretences? Or did he take them captive too?
The creature said he had a use for the vampires, which means Atlan is still alive, probably somewhere inside this bunker. I have to find him. We have to get out of here together. If possible, we'll bring along Sergeant Perez, and the other vampires, and the human soldiers if they're still alive—but Atlan is and always will be my number one priority. Not that I'll be much use as a rescuer; I've had some strength training and combat instruction, but I'm no soldier. I'm a blood-bag, a former third-grade teacher, a renovation DIYer. I survive by hiding and being clever, not by fighting.
Maybe this situation doesn't call for brute strength, though. Maybe cleverness and an instinct for survival are all I need.
As I glance around the room one more time, my eyes linger on the spot where Atlan shoved me against the wall, kissed me, drove himself inside me, gave me everything—his love and his body. For him, I can do anything. Even walk out a door into a bunker ruled by a monster.
I finish my scan of the room, my gaze dropping briefly to a black object by the bed. Atlan's coat. How did I not see it before? He must have left it here when he went out on watch duty.
He loves that coat. I can't leave it behind, especially when I don't know if I'll be coming back to this room again.
Sliding off my pack, I pick up the coat and slip my arms into it. It's too big for me, and despite Atlan's efforts to clean it each time he returns from the killing fields, its glossy black surface still smells faintly of blood and zombie guts, and the inside carries a hint of sweat. But I don't care, because it also envelops me in the warm, spicy scent of him, strengthening my soul in a way I can't define.
For some reason, Atlan chose me. Loves me. His body reacts only to me, my touch, my love, my scent.
He's mine. He does not belong to whatever monster has laid claim to him.
Mine.
I pick up my pack again, take a deep breath, and open the door.
2
Atlan
I've never been tied up before.
Not even when I first became a vampire, when I experimentally touched my fangs to the skin of one of the doctors who was "treating" me. He recoiled, screaming, and fled, slamming the door behind him.
The doctors left me locked in a room for a couple hours, talked over my impulsive action anxiously in low tones, and eventually decided to try letting me and a couple of the others drink blood from humans.
But they didn't actually tie me up, or strap me down.
My hands aren't just tied—they're secured with no less than three zipties, and then locked into a pair of handcuffs, just for good measure. I may be strong, but I'm not breaking out of this anytime soon.
"What, were you all out of chains?" I quip to Dr. Clarice Corbin. She's sitting in a metal chair near me, her glasses halfway down her nose and her hair in a frizzy brown cloud. Maybe she'd be pretty if she weren't so damn crazy and deceitful and downright evil.
She smiles at me, pushing the glasses back up with a fingertip and leaning forward. "Chains are harder to come by than the movies and TV shows might lead you to believe. We don't have a convenient supply of manacles welded to the walls, Handsome. Though that would be fun, wouldn't it? Yes, yes—I'd love to see you chained to a wall, stretched out like the Christ." She spreads her arms wide and laughs.
I'd lunge across the room and attack her, bound or not—except that my neck is circled by a length of thick rope, and that rope is attached to a hook in the ceiling, and if I pull a few inches in any direction, I choke. So I settle for baring my fangs and snarling at her in true TV vampire fashion.
And of course it doesn't scare her. Judging by her grin, she loves it.
"Oh, I like you," she says. "You're my favorite already." She taps a few more times on her tablet and then rises, approaching me, trailing a finger down my bare chest and stomach all the way to my belt. And then she licks her fingertip. "You be a good boy while I go visit your friends."
"You've got both of the other vampires?"
"We nabbed the other male. The female, Chandra—she gave us the slip. But there aren't many places she can hide here. Not for long, anyway. No, no—not for long. It's a big place, my love. Bigger on the inside, you might say." She laughs shrilly. "But not big enough for her to evade our little hunters."
I want to ask about the "little hunters"—something about the phrase, about her tone, sends chills along my spine—and there's not much that scares me anymore. I'm a damn vampire warrior of the apocalypse. Only two things frighten me now. One—failing to protect the humans I'm charged with defending. Two—something happening to Finley, my Finley, my lover, my darling—
"Where is Finley?" My voice is hoarse with the intensity of my desire to know.
"Finley?" She looks genuinely confused.
"My blood-bag." I can't let Dr. Corbin know what more Finley means to me, or these freaks might use it against me, somehow. "I need her."
"Oh, the blonde. Pretty little thing. Skinny. You two seem close, cuddly, cozy—am I right? Yes, I know I'm right. I'm never wrong, no, never." Dr. Corbin chuckles again, a jittery sound, raw in spots. "You saw Reuel, didn't you? I made him. Me. He might tell you it was him, but it was mostly me. Me. That's why I'm his favorite." She says it desperately, defensively, daring me to contradict her.
"Reuel? You mean that big patchwork monster who stung me and strung me up here?"
"Yes, yes!" She clasps her tablet to her chest, her eyes lighting. "His venom worked on you just long enough. We weren't sure it would, you know, with your healing abilities and all. But it was so perfect—we couldn't have planned it better. We organized this together, Reuel and I. Bringing you all here."
"What does he want?"
Her face twitches, the
muscles spasming nervously, and she turns away from me, toward the door.
"Dr. Corbin!" I call after her. I have to know what's going on here, why we've been tricked and trapped. She must answer me. She likes me—maybe I can use that.
I throw all my desperation into her name. "Clarice!"
She freezes, her back still toward me.
"Clarice, please."
Dr. Corbin rotates slowly in place, but instead of a rueful expression, she wears a hideous clown's grin on her face—the grin of a monstrous wicked spider, plucking the threads around the fly it has caught.
"Hush, now, Handsome," she hisses through the smile. "You'll know our purpose soon enough."
3
Finley
When I open the door, I expect to be grabbed immediately and hustled off to see the Monster Prince, whatever he is—whoever he is. But there's no one in the hallway at all. It's completely silent.
I consider moving down the hall toward the common areas of the bunker, like the bathroom and the kitchen/breakroom thingy—but I'm curious what might be at the other end of this corridor. It stretches further than I can squint, away into the dark. Only this area, where our group was given rooms, is lit by harsh bulbs.
Keeping my back to the wall, I sidle along the hallway toward that dark zone. Maybe there's a rear hallway down there, another room, a second exit, something. Anything is better than encountering that horned scorpion man again. Sure, he hinted that I would be allowed to live, to join him in whatever he's scheming—but to hell with that. I won't join his team unless I have absolutely no other choice.
Once I pass out of the lighted area, the dark wraps me in its arms, tighter and tighter, until I think I might stop breather altogether. It's terrifying, moving along a pitch-black passage in an underground bunker that I now know is populated by at least one monster. My heart hammers through my lungs, impeding my breath, and my nerves and muscles contract painfully tight, ready to react the second something jumps out of the dark at me, which of course it will, because this is just like an old horror video game where the stained concrete halls lead to one bloodied chamber of terror after another—
Captured by the Chimera Zombie-Master Page 1