Rabid Heart Read online

  Rabid Heart© 2018 Jeremy Wagner

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This 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.

  For more information contact:

  Riverdale Avenue Books

  5676 Riverdale Avenue

  Riverdale, NY 10471

  www.riverdaleavebooks.com

  Design by www.formatting4U.com

  Cover by Scott Carpenter

  Cover art and icons by Claudio Bergamin

  Digital ISBN: 9781626014633

  Trade Paperback ISBN: 9781626014640

  Hardcover ISBN: 9781626014657

  First Edition October 2018

  LYRICS PERMISSIONS:

  Black No. I

  Word$ and Music by Peter Steele

  Copyright (c) 1993 by Universal Music - MGB Songs and $nomantic Publishing

  All Rights Administered by Universal Music - MGB Songs

  International Copyright Secured All Rights Reserved

  Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard LLC.

  PRAISE FOR JEREMY WAGNER:

  “Jeremy is a pretty impressive dude.”

  —Peter Straub, New York Times Bestselling Author, A Dark Matter, Ghost Story

  PRAISE FOR JEREMY WAGNER’S

  THE ARMAGEDDON CHORD:

  ”Wagner debuts THE ARMAGEDDON CHORD with a highly entertaining blend of breakneck pacing, a cast of over-the-top characters and memorable lines... “

  —Publishers Weekly

  “An evil Egyptologist. A scheming billionaire. A guitar maestro. They're all there in Jeremy Wagner's, THE ARMAGEDDON CHORD. This is pulp fiction at its breeziest best.”

  —Rolling Stone

  “Wagner strikes a winning heavy-metal chord in this stunning story that foretells an End of Time beyond imagination. The author’s use of music as a backdrop and his development of fascinating characters make for interesting reading in this enthralling tale.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “THE ARMAGEDDON CHORD is a wild phantasmagoric thrill ride that will satisfy lovers of the darkest fantasy fiction and the heaviest of metal.”

  —Peter Blauner, New York Times bestselling author of The Intruder, Slipping Into Darkness, Proving Ground

  “THE ARMAGEDDON CHORD is a kickass novel!”

  —Jonathan Maberry, New York Times bestselling author of Patient Zero and the Joe Ledger series

  “Combining the world of heavy metal with malevolent supernatural forces Wagner has created quite a fantastic read... A riveting thriller that is sure to keep readers glued to the pages until the very end... The unique blending of ancient history, religion and heavy metal make this book unlike any others I have read... If you're a reader of horror or fiction novels or if you're a musician, then THE ARMAGEDDON CHORD will be right up your alley. I know it kept me up turning pages into the wee hours of the morning.”

  —Pure Grain Audio.com

  “THE ARMAGEDDON CHORD is a quick, enjoyable read full of action, violence, hell-spawned (and human) monsters and original variations of scenarios common to end-time thrillers.”

  —Decibel Magazine

  “Jeremy Wagner is an up-and-coming voice in the realm of horror fiction. His talent shines through this debut novel, and I can’t wait to see what his next offering will be. A real page-turner, THE ARMAGEDDON CHORD strikes just the right note!”

  —Yasmine Galenorn, New York Times/USA Today Bestselling Author of the Otherworld Series

  “THE ARMAGEDDON CHORD is like THE DA VINCI CODE with a heavy-metal soundtrack!”

  —Katherine Turman, co-author of LOUDER THAN HELL: An Unflinching Oral History of Heavy Metal

  “Wagner combines a world of classic adventure and intrigue with a dash of rock’n’roll mystique for a unique take on the thriller format.”

  —Joel McIver, Author of JUSTICE FOR ALL: The Truth About Metallica

  “Jeremy Wagner is the king of the new breed of horror! THE ARMAGEDDON CHORD strikes a low chord of death right through the reader’s frontal lobe.”

  —Chris Barnes of Six Feet Under

  “[THE ARMAGEDDON CHORD] left vivid pictures in one’s mind... There could even be a movie made about The Armageddon Chord. “

  —Valencia County News-Bulletin

  “[THE ARMAGEDDON CHORD] storyline is so awesome, I’m not sure why it wasn’t an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Really. Joss Whedon is wherever he is in all his brilliance, wondering why he didn’t think of this plotline. It’s that good. “

  —West of Mars

  “Wagner makes the story lots of fun by taking it to the extreme.”

  —Anti-music.com

  “THE ARMAGEDDON CHORD is a fun and thrilling combination of heavy metal music and horror. Jeremy Wagner has written a great story... This is a book that is hard to put down. Wagner has hit the ground running with his debut novel. I can’t wait to see what he has in store next.”

  —The Horror Fiction Review

  “[Wagner] has pioneered the genre known as ‘heavy metal horror fiction’ with this work, combining aspects of modern heavy metal added to a new take on the horror novel genre. Wagner has crafted an excellent, original story that no one has really ever tackled before... H. Metal fans will find the many nods and references to the real music business, the world of heavy metal music and guitars pleasing while big horror fans will love the well-crafted, unmitigated evil and gore elements. The cultural and historical facts were painstakingly researched; lending an air of authenticity to the book that rivals others in the genre.”

  —Metal Army America

  “THE ARMAGEDDON CHORD is a fun, fast-paced explosion of heavy metal, Egyptian mythology, and a good taste of the occult that makes for a very engaging read. If you enjoy apocalyptic tales and epic clashes between good and evil, then the plot of this book will definitely have you hooked.”

  —Metal Injection

  Dedication

  For those who are gone but never forgotten: Dallas Mayr (aka Jack Ketchum), Rocky Wood, Katherine Ludwig, George Romero and Tobe Hooper

  Acknowledgements

  Big thanks goes out to Juliet Ulman—one of the greatest editors I’ve ever worked with who did an amazing job keeping me within the orbit of reality and sticking with making this story as amazing as possible. Thanks also to Katherine Turman for the added sanity-checks and re-reading. Grateful beyond words to Lori Perkins—my constant believer, mentor, guidance counselor, and an entrepreneur like none other. Peter Blauner—another mentor—you rule so much my friend, Ronald Malfi for constant advice, wisdom, and friendship. To my horror-brother, Kirk Hammett (monster kids rule forever!). To my badass legal team of Peter Strand and Teresa Rodriguez. And most of all to my wife Kym who’s always pushed me to write constantly and who is always my first reader—and who’s the first person to tell me if I’m out of my f-ing mind or not—I love you, babe.

  Rabid Heart first started out as a short story for a zombie anthology St. Martin’s Press was putting out. It ended up taking on a life of its own and became the novel you’re reading now. This novel is Lori Perkins’ fault. Any incorrect details or mistakes in this novel are my fault.

  Loving you was like loving the dead,

  Loving you was like loving the dead.

  Loving you was like loving the dead,

  Was like loving the dead...

  -- Peter Steele/Type O Negative

  Chapter One

  Rhonda Driscoll wiped her sweaty palms on h
er camo as her golf cart sped along a lighted service tunnel and away from the underground armory. She could barely touch the gas pedal. The E-Z-GO cart accelerated along with her heart. The heavy cart bottomed out on a speed bump.

  Jesus Christ.

  Her payload of doom shifted and rattled. She glanced back anxiously as her eyes scanned the overloaded cargo of eight fully-automatic rifles, ten handguns, two RPG’s, 5,000 rounds of ammo, and a case of grenades. Everything looked okay.

  I’m driving a four-wheeled bomb.

  She shook her head. She never signed up for this. Not long ago she’d been a happy hair stylist, newly engaged to Brad and hitting the gym and Nordstrom’s when she could afford it. She was just a trusted civilian, not a soldier. But she took orders anyway, and time waited for no one, her father liked to say, and this seemed especially true today. She frowned at her zebra print watch. Sarge expected her half an hour ago, and goddamn if he didn’t hate tardiness more than zombies and ISIS. She chewed her bottom lip.

  The weapons were meant for newly arrived military personnel and armed civilian survivors who waited above ground at Fort Rocky Military Base: A.K.A. “Camp Deadnut.” Her father ran the place.

  Man, how crazy things had gotten. Had it only been six months? She’d just turned 21. Her grip tightened on the steering wheel. The fucking U.S military. And Daddy... he and his asshole Marine boys and the President sure fucked things good, didn’t they? Waited until the last minute to tell everyone about a Necro-Rabies breakout in North America. Mental flashes of her mother, younger sister Beth, her friends, and her fiancé, Brad Savini, all back in Levendale... ripped to pieces by hordes of rabid, flesh-hungry zombies, the Cujos, along with the countless others who were merely bitten, then turned and walked among the undead.

  Walking dead. Her stomach tightened. They creeped her the fuck out, all of them; walking dead, Cujos, zombies, whatever you called them.

  Fuckers.

  Before all TV screens on base went black six months ago, she’d watched with the rest of the country as their clever, and now deceased, president joked in an interview that the Oval Office had nicknamed the victims of the new plague “Cujos.” Someone told her Cujo was actually a book by some author from Maine. Stephen Koontz was it? King, maybe? Her eyes blinked. Stevie Queen? It didn’t matter. She drove her cart and assumed the scary scribe had already turned Cujo himself, roaming the streets with the rest of them.

  Goddamn it.

  Rhonda wiped a tear from her right eye. Sure, she knew she’d been one of the lucky ones to make it out alive via a Black Hawk helicopter thanks to her dad, Colonel Kenneth Driscoll. Daddy was still alive, her only living family member, but damn him, he should’ve let her die with Brad. She and her babe would both be in a better place right now.

  She put on a tougher face and tapped the bun of brunette hair on top of her head as the cart ascended a wide ramp into a bright day of a world above ground. Two armed soldiers in camo stood guard at the ramp’s exit. A wooden-faced soldier on her left jabbed a bony finger at her. “Halt. Let me see your ID.”

  “C’mon, Ted. You know damn well who I am. There’s only a couple hundred of us here.”

  Ted “Teddie” Fitch always bugged her. He acted like he was some kind of badass working Area 51 or Secret Service or some junk. She scowled at him. Douchebag.

  She remembered Teddie from high school, back when he was just another preppy slimeball. Rhonda recalled Teddie entered military service right after graduation. Teddie was always getting into trouble, but always avoided arrest or any punishment. His old man forced him to join the Marines in hopes of straightening his ass out after Teddie allegedly slipped a date-rape drug into a girl’s soda. The girl’s parents threatened to sue the Fitch’s but they never did anything. The girl never filed charges, something that always angered and disappointed Rhonda. It was rumored that Teddie had done this and worse before without consequence.

  Rhonda had observed Teddie swaggering around base with a growing sense of disgust. By day, he was an insufferable tightass. At night, he chugged beer rations and hit on her whenever they crossed paths. Rhonda tasted something bad when she thought of this. Her heart belonged to Brad. Thoughts of any new man iced her insides. Thoughts of Teddie in her bed? Gag me with a pitchfork.

  Rhonda turned to the other soldier. He looked like a skinny beaver. “Jim-Bob. Y’wanna tell Teddie here that I gotta get these weapons up top before the Colonel has another conniption and makes you both clean out the latrines?”

  Jim-Bob shifted his rifle in his hands. “Yeah, Ted. Let her through, goddamn it. She’s the Colonel’s daughter, for cryin’ out loud.”

  Teddie’s wooden expression didn’t change. He stared at Rhonda’s large breasts beneath her flak-jacket and with deliberate delay, looked up into her eyes. A sly grin formed on his face before he turned away and shouted, “Coming up and out!”

  Rhonda floored the golf cart and drove across Camp Deadnut to her delivery point. Camp Deadnut, home to the living, the best place in a dead world that money couldn’t buy.

  Two-thousand acres of Camp Deadnut’s base spread throughout the gorgeous hills and country of North Carolina. Before Necro-Rabies, 5,000 Marines trained here each year in Infantry and Marine Combat. Now the camp housed only about 200 survivors; approximately 100 well-armed Marines and another hundred civilian men, women and children.

  The situation could be worse. The base had decent barracks, a clean and well-stocked kitchen, underground food storage and a chow-hall, hot showers, His and Her heads, a hospital, an airstrip, aircraft hangars, maintenance and intelligence buildings and a small chapel. But it was the two huge and fully-stocked ASA’s (Ammunition Storage Areas) that Rhonda and everyone else at Camp Deadnut valued above all. These over-stocked and underground weapons warehouses also held some 100,000 gallons of regular, diesel and aircraft fuel combined.

  Aboveground, additional warehouses and hangars contained two-dozen deuce-and-a-halfs, six M1A1 battle tanks, three F/A-18 Super Hornets (Rhonda learned only one dude on base knew how to fly these) and four Black Hawk helicopters. Another 15 Humvees sat parked on base near a maintenance building. Each vehicle came loaded with a weapons platform fitted with .50-Cal machine guns and MK-19 Automatic Grenade Launchers.

  Rhonda parked her golf cart and approached Sergeant Harris, who was assembling his soldiers, new additions and the civilians-made-combatants, for an off-base excursion he planned.

  “Sarge. The cart’s loaded with plenty of firepower and ammo. Ready for distribution, sir.”

  Sarge studied Rhonda with his iron eyes, his grim face lined with 58 years of life IN a world full of war. He straightened his camo jacket and barked at his company, ordering them to organize, split weapons and ammo from Rhonda’s cart, and prepare for new deployment. He turned his attention back to Rhonda. “Driscoll. We’re set to fly out at 1300.”

  Rhonda glanced at her wrist. She’d be airborne in 15 minutes. She met Sarge’s stare and pursed her lips. “Haven’t we already picked apart every city and town in a 20-mile radius? I mean, we’ve saved a few, but we’ve lost more.”

  “That’s why we’re going out 30 miles, Driscoll. We’re going beyond and it’s the first time we’re going back since the Outbreak. We gotta keep looking for survivors, doctors, news, food and anything else to get that much closer to getting this shithole planet civilized. No matter what the cost.”

  Rhonda figured Sarge would rethink cost once their numbers dropped from 200 people to 50. She sighed. “Where we goin’ this time?”

  “Levendale.”

  Rhonda gasped. No way. She couldn’t... no, didn’t want to return to Levendale: her hometown turned horror city. Go back there? Back to that nightmare where everyone she loved, save her dad, had died? The idea made her choke. “Sarge. I don’t think I can…”

  “Bullshit, Driscoll. You’re goin’. You think you’re the only one who lost everything, New Fucking Soldier? You signed up for this shit. Every week I hear you say you wanna n
uke the zombie fuckers who killed your fiancé. Here’s your chance. Hell on wheels, you’re going. You’re the best goddamn gun-bunny we got.”

  Rhonda nodded. Sarge was right. She had practiced hard to become a stellar artilleryman—or artillerywoman. She’d shown them, hadn’t she? Every Marine boy at Camp Deadnut watched her hit a paper plate with a tight, five-shot group at 100 yards with 180-grain silver bear rounds from an AK-47. Not bad for a girl who matured with shooting skills she learned in country cornfields with Daddy and his mountain of firearms.

  She was a Colonel’s daughter with no interest in military service. Sure, she learned soldiering and weaponry from Dad, but it was all sport to her.

  Rhonda had also worked as a hair-stylist at Sylvia’s Salon in downtown Levendale. Hair was another passion of hers, but like many people her age, she couldn’t figure out what road to take in life. That was before the world changed. Guns were now her livelihood. Doing hair, wondering what jeans would would fit her petite frame, or hoping Brad would bring her Starbucks to work didn’t matter. Other things were more important, like her ability to fieldstrip any piece of ordnance or weapon from a Colt .45 to a grenade launcher with quick speed. She gave great detail to every clean and lubricated part she took apart and reassembled. Guns and hair. She thought it sounded like a Redneck Great Clips.

  I’ve got all kinds of skills, I guess.

  She suddenly felt her resistance shift to interest. Apprehension turned into curiosity. Why not go back? What if one of her friends was alive back there, waiting for rescue? What if some of her stuff remained in her townhouse? What if fucking looters had broken into her townhouse? She had wondered about all of this before, but hadn’t had the opportunity to go back to Levendale until now.