Johnny Gruesome
Page 1
Accolades for Gregory Lamberson’s JOHNNY GRUESOME
“If you like your horror fast and nasty, then take a ride with JOHNNY GRUESOME. GRUESOME is a loving and intelligent tribute to the classic splatter films that set the pace for modern horror. With sharp writing and an eye for detail. Lamberson masterfully brings a night mare to life. Bold and trashy in all the right ways, JOHNNY GRUESOME is a book (and a villain) you won’t soon forget.”
—Lee Thomas, author of PARISH DAMNED and
THE DUST of WONDERLAND
“JOHNNY GRUESOME is a rarity: bright and clever descriptions, an elusive sense of humor, and high-level pacing. I wish I had written it.”
—Herschell Gordon Lewis,
The Godfather of Gore: Blood Feast and 2,000 Maniacs
“Sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll are back, in the Death Mobile drivin’, leather jacket-clad corpse of JOHNNY GRUESOME, a man who lives up to his name in every sense of the word. The reader is advised to put some Alice Cooper on high volume, crack open a can of beer and dive right in. Be forewarned, however, this is one ride through the hell of high school and the wince-inducing gore of undead vengeance you may have to take more than once. In JOHNNY GRUESOME, horror has a new hero.”
—Kealan Patrick Burke, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of
CURRENCY OF SOULS, THE TURTLE BOY, and THE HIDES.
“JOHNNY GRUESOME has a frightening sense of detail that makes it all the more horrific–it’s a gruesome ride that you can’t stop reading.”
—Gunnar Hansen, “Leatherface” in the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre
“Any way you slice things, it just doesn’t get any more gruesome than this. Greg Lamberson’s JOHNNY GRUESOME is a rotting fetid romp of a novel that shows you a little of life post-mortem for your average teenage headbanger. A B-movie nightmare recreated with loving fan-boy zeal, I give it an “F” for fun, freaky and foul fucked-up funk.”
—Steve Vernon Author of HARD ROADS
“Greg Lamberson’s JOHNNY GRUESOME is edgy, violent, supernaturally cool and the new undead king of quick-and-dirty horror. JOHNNY GRUESOME spins the zombie genre into a fresh and ballsy hardrock direction that just kills!”
—Jonathan Maberry, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of
GHOST ROAD BLUES and DEAD MAN’S SONG
“JOHNNY GRUESOME has the potential to become an iconic horror character in the mold of such genre heavyweights as Freddy Krueger and Jason Vorhees. With a cinematic eye (what else can you expect from the man who directed such films as Slime City and Undying Love?), Gregory Lamberson gives us what could have been a great B-movie about revenge from beyond the grave, but which instead has been fleshed out and given richer life in the form of a novel. The result is a fun, compelling read with characters we care about.”
—L. L. Soares, RIGHT HOUSE ON THE LEFT
“Gregory Lamberson’s JOHNNY GRUESOME isn’t just your old run of the mill zombie tale. It’s a smokin’ hot, sexy, rockin’ zombie adventure!”
—Angeline Hawkes, Bram Stoker Award nominated author of
THE COMMANDMENTS
“This homage to the splatter films of the 1980s … is a wild ride through the darker recesses of the reader’s imagination…. Recommended to anyone who loves their horror hard, fast, and fun.”
—Dave Simms, Hellnotes
“Horror fans who loved over-the-top novels and slasher films of the 1980s will see their youthful favorites released from an uneasy grave with JOHNNY GRUESOME. The killings are deliciously gory, the characters well developed and believable, and the pace is perfect.”
—Steven E. Wedel, Horror World
“Here’s one for the history books. A novel that not only combines the best of more than a half-dozen tropes in horror literature (ghosts, zombies, serial killers, unkillable slashers, revenge fantasy, etc.), but does it well…. This is top-down one of the best, most gripping, and most gruesome horror novels I’ve ever had the pleasure of reading. … I would recommend this novel to any horror fan, hands down…. There is no reason not to hold this book to your jaded, black, horror-soaked heart.”
—Shawn Rutledge, SkullRing
“Johnny is the kind of villain you find yourself rooting for; he’s cool, nasty, and a smart-ass, and not in the way-too-many-bad-puns kind of way…. Does JOHNNY GRUESOME deliver? Yes, yes it does. JOHNNY GRUESOME rocks. … So if you’re in the mood to put on your favorite Iron Maiden T-shirt and rock out to your favorite Metallica album in book form, then JOHNNY GRUESOME is just your book.”
—Wil Keiper, Horror YearBook
DEDICATION:
In memory of my mother, Jeanne T. Keefe, who raised me in the real
Red Hill and encouraged my love of monsters.
Published 2008 by Medallion Press, Inc.
The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO
is a registered tradmark of Medallion Press, Inc.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment from this “stripped book.”
Copyright © 2008 by Gregory Lamberson
Cover Illustration by Dan Plumley and Adam Mock
Book design by James Tampa
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Typeset in Adobe Jenson Pro
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN# 978-193475545-7
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:
I created Johnny Gruesome in a screenplay I wrote twentythree years ago. During the evolution of that script into this novel, numerous people offered me invaluable assistance.
I wish to thank Ed Walloga, Robert Craig Sabin, and Joseph Fusco for their recommendations regarding the screenplay, which also applied to the novel.
Thanks also to Jeff Strand, Steve Wedel, Chris Hedges, Nick Cato, Richard Hipson, Lee Thomas, Jaime Le Chance, and L.L. Soares for their editorial comments and suggestions, and to Roy Robbins of Bad Moon Books for publishing the Limited Edition hardcover of this book.
The rock CD Gruesome was always intended to be a companion piece to this novel, yet the wonderful music and lyrics of Giasone and Marcy Italiano influenced me during the writing of the final draft. How many authors get to polish their work while listening to an original soundtrack for it?
Thank you to artist Dan Plumley for his ’80s tattoo-style cover for the book you now hold; he joins a roster of artists who have interpreted Johnny, including Eric Maché, Zach McCain, Kelly Forbes, and Martin Blanco.
Thank you to the folks at Medallion Press who made it their mission to bring “the headbanger from hell” to a wider readership: Helen A. Rosburg, Adam Mock, James Tampa, Christy Phillippe, Janet Bank, Horror Acquisitions Editor Ali Degray, and my primary contact, Kerry Estevez. You’re all gruesome in the best sense of the word!
Finally, with love, thanks to my wife, Tamar, for sharing my dream and providing me with brutally honest criticism during this endeavor. Patience and understanding are required during the nurturing of a novel, even one about an undead teenager who still digs rock ‘n’ roll.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter-Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Epilogue
Like one, that on a lonesome road
Doth walk in fear and dread;
And having once turned round walks on,
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.
—Samuel Taylor Coleridge
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
Some heads are gonna roll …
—Judas Priest
Prologue
Eric Carter held on to the edge of the indoor swimming pool, teeth chattering as the water chilled his bones. His shriveled testicles clung to his inner thighs for warmth, like leeches hungry for blood. Shouts and laughter echoed around him, the shrill voices of boys indistinguishable from those of girls, the steady motion of the bodies in the water creating a rhythmic tide against his slender back.
Behind him the diving board sprang, its reverberation continuing through the deep splash that followed. He moved one hand over the other, his toes skimming the pool’s plaster bottom. Keeping his head above the water, he bobbed toward the pool’s midpoint like an astronaut on the surface of the moon. Shame burned his ears as underclassmen glided across the shallow end with the aid of kickboards. He had failed to swim the pool’s length at the start of the semester, and Coach Bell had assigned him to remedial lessons with the fourth graders, much to the delight of his fifth-grade classmates.
Shivering, he turned in a half circle and surveyed the deep end of the pool. Coach Bell had designated the last ten minutes of class free time, and a cluster of students lined up at the diving board, their hair dripping and bodies glistening. A girl in a salmon-colored bikini and a rubber swimming cap stood at the board’s edge, pinching her nose. As she jackknifed off the board, Eric glimpsed Coach Bell outside his glass-enclosed corner office, chatting with Miss Calloway, the girls’ phys-ed teacher.
With the swimming instructor preoccupied, Eric saw his opportunity. His chest swelled with determination. While some of his classmates swam laps on the opposite side of the pool, others played water polo in the deep end and splashed each other while treading water. As usual, nobody noticed him. His feet no longer touched bottom, and as he pulled himself around the aluminum ladder, he glanced up at the wooden bleachers.
Johnny Grissom sat alone in the top row, clad in his usual ensemble: faded blue jeans, a black concert T-shirt, and dingo boots. His dark hair hung down to his shoulders, glazed eyes radiating boredom. Eric hadn’t seen the boy in the water all semester. Johnny’s eyes settled on him, and he turned rigid. Eric had never suffered Johnny’s legendary wrath because he’d always been smart enough to avoid him. Now he felt as if he had a large target on his chest, a feeling that increased when Johnny’s thin lips formed a smirk. Looking away, Eric focused on the deep end. Reflections of the overhead lights danced on the surface as water polo players propelled themselves forward with rubber flippers.
Pressing the flats of his feet against the side of the pool, Eric imagined himself as Spider-Man, poised to leap from the top of a Manhattan skyscraper. Taking a deep breath, he launched himself forward, facedown. He sliced the water, cupping his hands and kicking his feet, chlorine burning his eyes. He turned his head, gulping air, and stroked the surface.
I’m doing it!
He couldn’t believe he had been so frightened by the prospect of swimming. What was the big deal? He never wanted to see a kickboard again. He paced himself, worried that his body would wear itself out before he reached his destination. As he turned his head to take a breath of oxygen, he saw the diving board ahead instead of the ladder. Somehow he had veered off to his right, away from the pool’s edge.
He tried to right his course, but water shot into his mouth and down his throat. Coughing, he realized he had stopped moving and his legs swung beneath him. His head dipped beneath the surface, his outstretched fingers grasping at air. Water pressed against him on all sides, distorting the sounds above. Gazing at the rectangular light fixtures in the ceiling with panicked eyes, he kicked with all of his strength. His head broke the surface, the murky sounds of oblivious laughter clearing as water rushed from his ears.
Reaching out in vain, trying to call for Coach Bell, he sank beneath the surface again, his heart hammering in his chest. He kicked his legs as if pedaling a bicycle and rose at a slower rate. This time, only his face broke the surface. Gasping, he flailed his arms, then sank again, lacking the strength to resurface.
Mom!
He descended into the cold blue world, his movements strained. A dozen legs kicked above him, too far away to reach. The flippers moved in slow motion as his heart sped up. His ears threatened to pop and his body convulsed. Drowning …
The water before him exploded in a concussion of oxygen, white bubbles blowing out in all directions and rising to the surface. A dark shape within the eye of the explosion turned and swam toward him. Excited shouts from above penetrated the depths. One hand snatched his hair and another spun him around, an arm choking him from behind. He clutched the forearm beneath his jaw with both hands and felt himself being dragged toward the light. As he broke the surface again, his wet hair plastered his left eye. Coughing up water, he gasped as the sudden intake of air seared his lungs.
His rescuer tugged him to the deep end ladder, where Coach Bell reached under his arms and shouted something unintelligible. Eric hugged the ladder, his weakened arms feeling elastic. He raised his eyebrows at the sight of his savior. The boy was treading water beside him, fully dressed, his black T-shirt bloated with trapped air.
Johnny.
The zombie’s head exploded in a shower of skull fragments and tumorous brain matter. The headless corpse toppled to the sidewalk, where its legs continued to kick. A horde of hungry dead things lumbered up the street to take its place, empty office buildings standing like silent tombs. A woman screamed, and somewhere in the distance a siren wailed.
“Shoot!”
Eric squeezed the trigger, inflicting serious damage on a mailbox and a streetlight behind the advancing horde.
“Shoot in the middle of them,” Johnny said. “You’re bound to hit something!”
Leveling the gun, Eric fired at the center of the undead army and held the trigger down. Two of the creatures collapsed before the gun stopped firing. “I’m out of ammo!”
One of the
foul-looking creatures stepped before them. Its hair had fallen out and one eyeball dangled from a gaping socket, home to squirming maggots. It opened its mouth wide and bit down with rotting teeth. Bright red blood filled the screen, and an anguished scream issued from the surround-sound speakers.
“You’re dead,” Johnny said. “Move over.”
Eric slid to the far side of the sofa, and Johnny sat in its center, opposite the TV. Gripping his plastic gun in both hands, he fired a continuous burst. Heads exploded, hearts ruptured, and intestines gushed across the sidewalk. The score in the upper left-hand corner of the screen climbed until none of the creatures remained standing.
“Wow,” Eric said.
Johnny blew imaginary smoke from the end of the gun’s barrel. “No one’s turning me into a Happy Meal.”
A shadow fell over them. Helen Grissom entered the living room with a serving tray in her outstretched arms. Dressed in casual slacks and a sweater, she set the tray on the coffee table and placed a mug of steaming hot chocolate before each boy.
“Would you like to stay for dinner, Eric?”
Eyeing the Oreos on the tray, Eric shook his head. “I don’t think my mom will let me.”
Helen’s warm smile failed to mask the exhaustion in her eyes. Even with makeup, her skin looked pale. “I bet she will if I call her.”
Eric’s face brightened. “Okay.”
Winking at him, she returned to the kitchen.
“Your mom’s cool.”
Johnny grinned. “I know.”
The game reset itself and corpses clawed their way out of graves.
Spring
Eric stood in the shadow of the silent house, toeing the cracked sidewalk, his back to Main Street. Cars passing over the wet asphalt sounded like hissing snakes. Clutching a fruit basket, he stared at the shaded windows. A barren apple tree and a tall hedge separated the yellow and brown house from the brick dwelling on its left, and a cherry orchard and grape vineyard sloped outward on its right.