The U.S. Army plays a huge part in this story as well, and I know just enough about that life and career to know that I know very little about that life and career. Definitely not enough to do justice to the Army, which it so rarely gets in zombie stories. Jeff talked to me at length about the decision to join the military, as did my dad, Dennis (who spent Vietnam aboard the Will Rogers). Staff Sergeant Lincoln Crisler—a fine author himself—helped with military call signs and communications. My stepsister, Carolyn (Master Sergeant Dade, ret., to the rest of you), spent ages teaching me about command structure, ranks, and life in the military. My best friend, Marcus, who has forgotten more about every branch of the military than I will ever learn, answered questions about weapons, vehicles, tactics, and more at all hours of the day and night. He also helped me smooth out several issues in early drafts. Again, any mistakes or exaggerations in these pages are entirely my own and not theirs.
Jacob at Permuted Press let me spend some time on a desert island with The Eerie Adventures of the Lycanthrope Robinson Crusoe before diving into this book.
Jessica, the Permuted editor for this book, caught far too many things that slipped past me, in spelling, grammar, and structure. Also a belated thanks to Matthew, who did a fantastic job editing Ex-Heroes. A discussion we had about sonic booms and the nature of Zzzap’s energy form became the talk between Barry and Sorensen.
I am indebted to Jen, Larry, and John (Surfin Dead over at Zombie Zone News.Com), who all read early drafts of this book, offered many comments and critiques, and let me know where I’d gone horribly wrong and where I’d gone somewhat right.
And a very special thanks, as always, to my lovely lady, Colleen, who listens patiently, criticizes fairly, prods gently (or not-so-gently), and has far more faith in me and my ability than I do at times.
—P.C.
Los Angeles, February 15th, 2011
And now a preview of Peter Clines upcoming novel
~14~
Coming in 2012 from Permuted Press.
Zero
He ran.
He ran as fast as he could. As if Hell itself were chasing him. As if his life depended on it.
He was quite certain it did.
The truth was, he was dead already. He’d seen enough men bleed out in medical theaters to recognize the wet pulse jetting between his ribs. The knife had done its job with almost surgical precision.
He mustn’t think about himself, though. Not now. There was too much at stake. He had to keep running.
If the Family caught him, everyone would die.
One
Nate Tucker found out about the apartment as people often learn about the things which change their lives forever—by sheer luck.
It was a Thursday night party he didn't want to be at. Party was too big a word for it but calling it a few rounds after work seemed too minor. There were half a dozen people he knew and another dozen he was supposed to know but hadn’t really paid attention when they’d been introduced. None of them seemed interesting enough to go back and learn their names after the fact. They sat around tables that had been pushed together, shared communal appetizers some people would argue they never touched, and sipped overpriced drinks they made a point of claiming they’d first had at more exclusive restaurants.
Nate had realized a while back that nobody talked with each other at these things. People just took turns talking at each other. He never got the sense anyone was listening. He wished his coworkers would stop inviting him.
Nate was being talked at by a man he remembered as the Journalist with the Hot Redhead Girlfriend. He'd been introduced to the man at one of these things a month or two back. Like everyone else at the table, he considered himself part of the film industry, even though, as far as Nate could tell, the man’s job had nothing whatsoever to do with making movies. At the moment, the Journalist was lamenting a cancelled interview. His subject, a screenwriter, had to dive into last minute rewrites demanded by some producer. Nate wondered if the Journalist got to put that sort of thing in his articles—idiot revisions made to climactic scene to pacify self-centered executive.
There was a break in the Journalist’s monologue. Nate realized the man was waiting for an acknowledgement. He covered the pause with a cough and took a hit off his beer. “That sucks,” Nate said. “Do you lose out altogether or can he reschedule?”
The Journalist shrugged. “Maybe. My week’s packed, and he’s going to be busy pulling his hair out.” He took a sip of his own drink. “Anyway, enough about me. What’s up with you? I haven’t seen you at one of these things in ages.”
Nate, who remembered waving to the Journalist at last week’s almost-party and getting a chin-wave back, shrugged himself. “Nothing much,” he said.
“Weren’t you working on a script or something?”
Nate shook his head. “No, not me. Not my thing.”
“So what have you been up to?”
He took another hit off his beer. “Work. Trying to find a new place to live.”
The Journalist’s brow rose. “What happened?”
“The guys I’ve been living with, they decided to do their own thing,” said Nate. “One’s moving back to San Francisco, the other’s getting married so he and his girlfriend—his fiancée— they want their own place.” He shrugged. “We had a house, but I can’t afford it on my own.”
“Where are you now?”
“Silverlake.”
“You looking for anything in particular?”
Nate considered it for a moment. It was the most anyone outside of his roommates had asked about the search. “I’d like to stay near Hollywood,” he said. “I don’t need much space. I’m hoping to find a studio for around eight hundred a month.”
The Journalist nodded and took another sip of his drink. "I know a place.”