Shining in Crimson
Empire of Blood Book One
Robert S. Wilson
Fourth ebook edition © 2013.
Cover design by Elena Helfrecht.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons living or dead (unless explicitly noted) is merely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 Robert S. Wilson. All rights reserved worldwide.
Acknowledgments:
The following people were pivotal in the writing and shaping of this novel:
Dustin Cade, who constantly threatened to kick me "in the jeans" if I didn't finish this novel. Richard Flores IV, whose critique and encouragement helped immensely. Scott Nicholson, whose advice and mentoring has changed me as a writer and a person. Jennifer Wilson, my wife, my best friend, and my proofreader. She's put up with me even at my worst and helped me in every way she could along the way. My other proofreader, April Charisse, who, along with Jennifer, helped to doctor up my many blunders. The writers at The Hatrack Writer's Workshop, who had some great critical advice for the beginning of the novel.
Also, a big thanks goes out to Jim Boone, whose knowledge of plant life in the Nevada desert and willingness to go out of his way to help was crucial to the setting of this story. Jim's website www.birdandhike.com has some great info and pictures of plant life in the Nevada desert. Matthew O'Brien's book Beneath the Neon gave me some great pictures and background information to draw from for the underground tunnels of Las Vegas for Chapter 11. Matthew has also started a program called Shine a Light: "a community project that helps the hundreds of men and women living in the underground flood channels of Las Vegas." The program "provides water, food, clothes, blankets and other items (when available) to the people in the tunnels." You can learn more about it at his website: www.beneaththeneon.com Last but not least, I'd like to thank CL Stegall and Dark Red Press for the incredibly amazing cover image.
As for anyone I've forgotten to mention here, please forgive me. These days, I'm lucky to even remember my own name.
For Mom.
If only you were here to see it...
Chapter 1
The Penitent
Hank hadn't expected the judge to decide any other way. These days they didn't hand out robes to anyone afraid of sending less than a dozen men to Necropolis almost every day. Hank found that he couldn't blame them. It keeps the peace, he thought. Even in the days before the chaos took hold, America had never been as safe as it was now.
He sat in the back of a paddywagon surrounded by twenty or so other males of all different shapes, colors, and sizes, also condemned to die. The air smelled of bad breath, thick body odor, and stale, smoked tobacco. Only a few of them had committed violent crimes. A tall, pale, black-haired man with tattoos covering his arms had murdered three people. More than a handful of the prisoners were children. One, a young blond kid, had been caught stealing in a supermarket. Most of the men had broken the morality laws, same as Hank.
Hank wasn't proud of what he’d done, though he wasn't sure the punishment fit the crime. He could see the last of the sun being swallowed by the horizon out the back window. They had traveled through the middle of nowhere for what seemed like days now. He saw more pale sand and tumbleweeds out that back window than he ever had before. He was pressed between two other men like a sardine. And his backside felt like it had been beaten by the hours of country roads.
A while later, the sun disappeared, taking the last rays of sunlight Hank figured he would ever see. He thought of Toby and swallowed hard. None of the other men noticed. They were all too busy with their own problems. After hours of nothing but darkness outside, street lights began poking out of the void and then drifted away just as fast. At first, it was only every once in a while. Then several at a time. Before long, there were too many to count. Finally, they streamed together into a long line of light that changed colors as it burned into Hank’s retinas. After that, large neon signs started appearing. If the colors weren’t so bright, Hank wouldn’t have been able to see them through the phantom line of light still obscuring his vision.
Now there were new, more colorful shapes. He closed his eyes to make the nuisance go away, but it only grew worse. The only sounds were breathing and the engine. He opened his eyes again and looked outside. The street lights revealed sidewalks and parking lots beyond the road, all of which were empty. He wondered why they bothered turning on the lights. It wasn't like the residents of Necropolis needed them. For the first time since he knew of the city's existence, the meaning of its name dawned on him. Necropolis, city of the dead.
He snickered. Some of the men turned and looked at him darkly. This only made him smile more. He was about to let out a burst of laughter when the wagon came to a screeching halt. All the humor left him at once. Other than the low idle of the engine, everything became dead quiet. Strange mechanical noises crept from the back of the wagon like the sound of gears waking within a clock tower. Then he heard similar noises from the front of the wagon. Twin thuds came from the front and back of the wagon, shaking it and making most of the passengers jump. Both of the mechanical doors began to open with a horrible screeching.
The open doorway in the back led to the quiet, empty city. But the front doorway contained shapes of men dressed in black, armored outfits. They had the American Imperial flag printed on their right breasts and wore gas masks on their faces. Each of them held a thick, black hose pointed at a different group of prisoners. Large clouds of gas shot out from the hoses, filling the wagon with a thick, noxious fog. It tasted strongly of sulfur. Choking on the gas, Hank nearly vomited. The convicts began flooding out the back of the wagon and away from the suffocating gas. Hank followed, still choking as he ran.
When he reached the road, he leaned over and joined the chorus of gasps. His lungs burned as he inhaled. But he kept taking deep breaths anyway, hoping it would eventually help. He looked over just in time to see the last man, a short Hispanic with long hair, come stumbling from the wagon. The back door shut with a loud thud. Then the wagon squealed its tires and sped off. By the time Hank could breathe without hurting too badly, it was gone.
The one who murdered three people lead several of the others down an alley off the main road. The area was surrounded with old rundown factories. A busted-up, red car from before the war was parked in front of one of the buildings. Several men managed to break in and were trying to hot-wire it. All around, men ran in different directions, either alone or in groups. Hank circled around, trying to decide where to go. But in his heart, he knew it didn't matter where he went. None of them would make it out alive. No one ever did. For the last twenty years, the American Empire boasted the most effective justice system in the world. It was simple, really. Use one evil to destroy another. Sure, some innocents got caught up in the mix from time to time. But as the saying went, you have to break a few eggs.
He decided to go on his own. He was pretty sure the locals could sense heat, making a group an easier target. And with going solo, there would be no one to slow him down. He found an alley a few blocks down from the other men and followed it in the opposite direction. It got darker the further he went. The rough texture of brick grazed his hands as he felt his way through the alley. When he’d gone a ways down the block, a loud engine cranking and failing almost gave him a heart attack. What good would a car do for those morons anyway?
Of course the thought of Toby reared its ugly head again. Toby would already have that thing going zero to sixty. That boy of his could fix anything you put in front of him, so long as it had moving p
arts. But he was only sixteen, and now that his father was about to check out, who would take care of him? The boy's mother left when he was a baby. Hank never managed to find her and felt sure she didn't want to be found. And Diana, he didn't want to think about Diana. The thought of Toby growing up in the Empire all alone hurt him enough. It dawned on Hank if he could make it through the night and get close enough to the edge of the city, he might make it out alive. The bastards were bound to Necropolis. It was common knowledge, ruthless as they were, that they held to their end of the blood pact rather loyally.
Hank turned left down another alley, this one even more narrow than the one before. Something ahead smelled rotten. He heard the scurrying sounds of rats all along the way. Before the war, the residents of Necropolis would have kept the city clean of them. But then again, before the war, Necropolis hadn't been Necropolis. No one even knew its inhabitants were real then. The war had brought them out. They waited centuries for such a war to come along and leave the humans vulnerable. They were smarter than humans. Anyone who didn't blindly believe everything the Imperial Church brainwashed them to could see that.
The first scream echoed from somewhere far behind him as he came upon North Eastern Avenue. It stopped him dead in his tracks and he turned to make sure no one was coming. Once he was sure they weren't close enough to get him, he crossed the street. He started to look both ways as he went, out of habit, his heart running in overdrive. He hadn't truly been afraid until that point. Hearing the scream made it real.
From the look of things, North Eastern Avenue had once been very busy. Hank spotted an old army surplus store a ways down the street and started towards it. Everything looked gray. The road, the sidewalk, and even the street signs. As he crossed a side road just before the surplus store, he heard more screams. The screams were coming from way up in the air. He looked up above the tops of the buildings behind him. Figures dressed in what looked like black rags flew around in circles above the buildings. Each one of them had a man wearing a blue prisoner's jumpsuit hanging from its face. He couldn't tell for sure from that distance, but it looked like they held the men with their teeth. Hank watched in horror as, one after another, the flying figures began to drop their victims to the ground. None of them made a sound as they fell, giving Hank the impression they were already dead. He turned and ran for the army surplus store.
He went for the back of the building, for cover if nothing else. He came upon a door with a window. He found a couple of big rocks on the ground. Afraid busting any glass would alert them to where he was, he set the rocks down and began to slowly rip a portion of his shirt off as quietly as he could. As he was ripping the shirt, the screams started again. He wrapped the strip of shirt around a rock. He waited for another round of screams. When they started, he cringed as he slammed the shirt-wrapped rock into the door's window.
The rock shattered the window inward, knocking glass onto the tiled floor inside. It was quiet enough, Hank thought, to be covered by the screaming. He carefully put his arm in the hole where the window had been and felt around for the lock. The air inside was cool. Once he managed to unlock the door, Hank looked around to make sure he saw no movement. He went inside once he was sure he was alone.
Aside from the little bit of light coming in the front windows, the inside of the store was fairly dark. He could make out the different aisles, but not what sat on most of the shelves. He thought of turning on the light switch, but decided not to risk it. He groped around the shelves carefully. For the most part, he found what felt like clothing. Eventually, he came across a large machete that included a sheath with a belt clip. He backtracked to where he’d found the belts and took one that seemed like it would fit him well. He put the belt around his waist with the sheath attached and buckled it tightly. He put the machete in its sheath and sighed. He thought having the thing should give him more comfort than it did.
When he made his way to the next aisle, more screams caught his attention. He tried to block them out, but had to admit to himself the sound was making him more and more nervous. After all, they must have gotten most of the prisoners by now. He continued feeling his way through the items on the shelves, trying to find anything useful and especially hoping to come across a flashlight. Particularly the kind that came with its own batteries. He’d come all the way down the aisle before he noticed a good while had passed since he last heard any screaming. This worried him.
He picked up his pace as he headed for the next aisle. About halfway down, he found something in a thin cardboard box he couldn’t identify. He looked toward the end of the aisle where the light shone in through the front windows and reflected on the white, tiled floor. He snuck over to the end of the aisle and knelt down. He put the package just close enough to the light to see it was a thin box of matches. He considered using the matches to light his way to look for a flashlight. But, remembering they could sense heat and not knowing their range, he was reluctant to do so. He stared at the matches for a few seconds. Then he looked back at the dark aisle he had been searching and sighed.
A voice in his head reminded him that they were fairly small matches and it was highly unlikely the things could sense heat from so far away. Besides, if they could detect heat that well, they would have already found him by now. With that thought, he gave in and tore open the box with his trembling hands. Once he freed one of the match packs, he dropped the rest of the box. Then he pulled out a match and lit it before he could change his mind. The match filled a small perimeter around itself with light and the smell of sulfur. The scent almost soothed him. He knew the small flame wouldn't last long, so he carefully started searching the closest shelves. A moment later he felt a stinging, burning pain in the fingers holding the match. He threw it on the ground and did a quiet dance while sucking his thumb and finger. Continuing his dance of pain, he began smacking his fingers against the side of his leg. When the stinging died down enough, he took a deep breath and sighed again.
He took out another match and lit it, moving on to the next set of shelves. In the dim light he could see flippers, snorkels, and goggles of different sizes. He moved on to the next set of shelves. Something reflective caught his eye. He looked closer. It was a compass. He took hold of it greedily, looked it over and then clipped it to his belt. By the time he finished searching the rest of the aisle, he had used half the book of matches with ten remaining. He lit another, looking at the items at the end of the last aisle. There he found what he’d been looking for. A plastic package gleamed before him containing a green flashlight with two D sized batteries. He smiled and went to reach for it when he heard a thud from above the ceiling. His heart skipped a beat.
Leaving the flashlight behind, he knelt down and slipped behind the aisle. A split second after he managed to hide himself, he heard another thud and then the middle of the ceiling collapsed. Debris came crashing down as a skulking figure dressed in dark ragged clothing dropped like a cat onto the floor several aisles down from him. Hank turned and leaned back against the aisle to hide. He could hear nothing but very obvious and slow footsteps. It was quiet enough that if his enemy could breathe, Hank would have heard him do so.
The steps sounded like they were going away from him toward the other side of the store. He winced as he attempted to pull out his machete without making any noise. Once he managed to free the machete, he tried to propel himself onto his feet just as quietly. His left leg had fallen asleep and caused his foot to hit the floor with a light tap. Before he could straighten himself fully, he heard the sound of rapid movement above him and without thinking pulled the machete upward with both hands toward the sound. He looked up to see the figure stuck with the machete, its fangs showing as it hissed at him. Its yellow eyes resembled the eyes of a cat or a snake on a face that reminded him of a pasty male model turned crackhead. He pushed the machete harder into the creature, hoping it would die, and felt a warm drop of liquid fall into his open mouth and then to the back of his throat. He choked on it. The figure grabbed
hold of the machete, pulling it from Hank's hands, and threw it aside. Hank heard the machete hit the floor as the ragged model with yellow eyes straightened itself and smiled at him.
Then the figure made a horrible, high-pitched squealing sound as it jumped down from the top of the aisle toward Hank. By instinct, Hank put his hands out to stop the thing, realizing it would do no good. When he felt his hands resisting the force of the creature, he opened his eyes to see what should have been the impossible. His hands were actually holding the thing back. It looked at him with shock on its sculpted features.
Experimentally, Hank tried gripping the thing with his hands and found it quite easy to do. He pulled the creature sideways and then flung it upward. It flew through the air and fell backward knocking over several of the aisles in a roar of sheet metal. He wiped his mouth where he felt the warm liquid and looked at his hand. It was a dark, almost black, thick substance. The creature's blood. It had to be. Hank took advantage of the moment to retrieve his machete. It took him a while of reaching around aimlessly on the floor, but he found it. He turned toward where the creature fell and saw it was gone. He looked around desperately, knowing what it would cost him if he made any more mistakes. He pulled the machete blunt end against his arm so he could slash underhand if need be. He no longer had to use both hands to hold it steady with his new-found strength. He wondered how long the affects of the blood would last as he crept around the still standing aisles looking for the thing.
He could hear a lot he hadn’t been able to before. One sound was a faint rustling from behind the aisle to his right. He looked at his hands and then silently put his palms against the wall of the aisle and pushed the whole thing over without effort. He heard the same high-pitched squeal. This time it seemed to echo and bounce around in his brain. He jumped on top of the toppled metal shelving with an agility to match the creature he had just pinned underneath. He glanced down to see it writhing and hissing, only its head free. Watching the pitiful thing, he pondered what it would take to kill it. He knew all of the old lore involved, who didn't? But how much of it was actually true, he couldn't be sure. He put all of his strength into stabbing the machete down into the creature's throat. He hoped it would die, but knew if it didn't it would at least be pinned for the moment. It didn't die. Instead, it hissed louder. Hank jumped down to the floor beside the creature's head. Then he reached down and picked up the metal shelving from the thing and pushed it forward so it fell down on its other side with a loud crash. The noise reminded him his captive had many brethren out there in the city. All eager to suck any man's lifeblood from him.
Shining in Crimson: Empire of Blood Book One (A Dystopian Vampire Novel) Page 1