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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Vampire Apocalypse: A World Torn Asunder

  Prologue – The Beginning of the End

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Vampire Apocalypse: Descent Into Chaos

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Vampire Apocalypse: Fallout

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  A PERMUTED PRESS book

  Published at Smashwords

  ISBN (Trade Paperback): 978-1-61868-2-420

  ISBN (eBook): 978-1-61868-2-437

  Vampire Apocalypse: A World Torn Asunder copyright © 2013

  by Derek Gunn

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover art by Dean Samed, Conzpiracy Digital Arts

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

  Prologue

  The Beginning of the End

  The town slept.

  Except for the occasional glow of dull light from oil lamps that dotted the scene and mirrored the stars, a shroud of darkness lay heavy over everything. Massive turbines that had powered the state, more than a month earlier, had ground to a halt when the last reserves of fuel dried up. There were a few wind or water-powered plants, but these were already overloaded and their use had been restricted to emergency personnel and authorities.

  The town had been in decline even before the war and long before the energy crisis, but there had been hope before. Now even that was gone. States with power stations fared much better of course, but they no longer fed the power grids for the surrounding states, unless those poorer states paid exorbitant prices. These power states had already grown more dominant, placing guards at their borders to prevent mass migration. It wasn’t that these states didn’t allow people to move in, but they wanted to choose their immigrants. The talented, those who would be useful in this new world, were welcomed and all others were “encouraged” to leave and scrape out a living in the poorer, dying states.

  The Central Government had quickly lost its influence as local militia were called in to protect each state’s assets. A once proud, America rapidly fell to a feudal system where few were rich. The new source of wealth, after all, was power—power that did not require oil to run its turbines, vast natural resources, and most importantly a plentiful supply of food. Many states were forced to give up what valuables they did have—their brightest people, most fertile lands and mineral rights—in order to receive a trickle of power to keep their people warm in the winter.

  It hadn’t taken long for an advanced civilisation to regress. A brief but vicious war in the Middle East had laid waste to most of the world’s oil fields and left what remained under a cloud of radioactivity that would take decades to dissipate. Millions had died. Whole countries had been wiped off the map, and agreements between remaining countries had stretched and then broken as accusations and blame abounded.

  Europe closed ranks against a resurging Russia and a dominant China. America, fearful of losing its foothold in Europe, had sided with the new Franco-British alliance, expending huge amounts of precious resources, both in materials and manpower, to skirmishes that never quite escalated to total war.

  As rationing became widespread and stockpiles drained, public opinion at home changed. America was forced to pull back and allow the Russian/Chinese alliance to swarm over a ravaged Europe. Six months it had taken, from the first shot, to redraw the world map and change an entire civilisation. Nations that were once poor and technologically behind, now reigned. In the new world, technology meant nothing without power.

  * * *

  Jack Newton sighed as he watched over his dying hometown. He had been born here, had gone to school here and, except for the time he had left to train for the Police, he had always been here. He would probably die here he realised.

  Newton snuggled deeper into his sheepskin jacket as the cold sucked greedily at his body and left him shivering. From behind the wheel of his cruiser—a car that ran on rationed fuel—he could see a glow on the horizon where the neighbouring state still pumped power to its towns and cities from their power plant. The lines that connected his state to this plant were in place, but the power that ran through the lines was rationed and being paid for with dwindling resources.

  This state and town had already sold off land around its borders to cover themselves for the minimum power requirements that would see them through the coming winter. But God only knew what they would do after. They had already lost their top chemical and steel researchers to prosperous states. He couldn’t really blame them for leaving; they had families to feed and the wealthier cities offered a future.

  There were already rumblings at town meetings. People wanted to use the local militia to take the power plant by force; they had provided most of the muscle and resources in its construction anyway and only a few miles, and a now contentious state line, kept it from their control.

  That resentment had reached the point where townspeople were considering taking the power plant by force marked a worrying trend.

  Newton sighed heavily as he looked out over the slumbering town through his windshield. They could talk all they wanted but there was no way they’d be able to commandeer the plant. On his last sweep of the border, Newton notic
ed that a militant camp had been set up around the power plant and armoured vehicles now patrolled the entire area. It seemed that their former friend, the neighbouring state, had been thinking around the same lines and had put their own deterrent in place. A pretty effective deterrent as far as Newton was concerned.

  The crackle of the radio startled him from his reverie. Reluctantly he snatched at the radio and cursed as the coiled cord tangled itself around the grip of his gun.

  “Go ahead, Lou,” he said as he turned back towards the city.

  “Sheriff, we’ve got another one.”

  Newton ran a hand over his face, massaging his temples where a headache throbbed behind his eyes. Dear God, what is going on?

  “Where?” Newton snapped.

  “Over at the Grady’s place. I’ve sent Phil and Jess over already.”

  “Okay, I’ll meet them there, out.” Newton tossed the radio into the passenger seat, taking a moment to rearrange his gun belt. He had to tighten the belt by another notch yesterday, and it was still a little loose. The rationing did have at least one positive side effect, and he felt more alive over the last few weeks than he had in some time. As sheriff, it was his responsibility to hold things together, and where he had grown lazy before the troubles—in a stagnant community where little happened—he was now stretched too thin in a town that was falling apart.

  Over the past several months, a handful of teenagers had even disappeared; he had dutifully investigated but never found anything. He really didn’t expect to either. It was pretty obvious where they’d gone. The lure of the larger cities, those that promised food and power, were too much for some to ignore. Most of these kids hadn’t wanted to face their families and tell them that they were leaving. It was easier just to slip away. Newton could understand it to a degree. Dwindling food and resources and a lack of prospects within the confines of the state were strong factors when young people were deciding their futures. Those that had stronger family ties tended to remain.

  As a result of fleeing teens, the community was populated primarily by older people—maybe too old to be much help in the hard times ahead.

  There had also been three riots that week, a few suicides, and numerous gang fights as the remaining youths sought to expand their gang territories. With all this going on, Newton had little time to devote to the pre-winter decline and end of the year population figures.

  On top of all that, he had a killer to contend with—a particularly vicious killer who was taking full advantage of the extended hours of darkness. This would make the fourth victim in as many nights. He shivered as he thought of the previous victims and how they had been ripped apart.

  Jack didn’t think the missing teenagers and the recent killings were connected. Teenage boys had been pulling up stakes since the early days of the power outage. And the victims of the killer were always left in plain sight or killed within the confines of their own homes. None of the missing boys had ever been found, and Jack suspected they didn’t want to be.

  He took a left onto Wyndell Road, slowing at the now darkened traffic lights before accelerating through to Fairfield. It was unlikely that anyone else would be driving. Fuel for vehicles was being rationed now—more so for citizens than law enforcement—but it didn’t hurt to be careful; even small accidents could be fatal now that the hospital was running low on supplies.

  Pat and Jillian Grady lived out by the mall on Route 40. They were a quiet couple, middle-aged with a teenage daughter. Jack Newton had reprimanded Jennifer Grady just last week when he’d disturbed a late night party in the local cemetery. He had caught a group of teens defacing gravestones. Jennifer hadn’t been doing any of the damage, but she had been unlucky enough to have been caught with those who were. The kids that were left in town had few outlets for their frustration. Their nice, comfortable lives had been drastically changed with the rationing and most of them had been recruited to work the land around town, trying to get it ready for spring planting. It was backbreaking work, clearing trees and scrub for burning, and then raking the ash into the soil for nutrients, but it was essential to the town’s survival. They hadn’t caused that much damage, but a few headstones had been knocked over and two mausoleums had been broken into.

  Jennifer’s parents had been shocked but Newton had played it down for them; kids needed some outlets, and with no TV, no entertainment of any kind, and no alcohol, it was no surprise that they were frustrated.

  He saw the flashing lights of the patrol car, pulled in behind it, and made his way over to the small group of people ahead of him. Officer Jess Walker saw him approach and excused herself from a conversation she’d been having with Peter Hackett, the Grady’s neighbour and the town’s sole remaining and now redundant computer specialist. All the other technical experts had left for states that still had power to run their machines, but Hackett had been born in this town and at sixty-five wasn’t going anywhere, or at least that was what he had told Jack during a particularly late session of the local council. Nothing had actually been decided at that meeting—nothing ever was—but he did recall that all twelve members had passed out drunk after, so it hadn’t been a complete waste.

  “What have we got, Jess?” Jack asked when she reached him.

  “It’s the worst yet, Sheriff.” Jess Walker was a handsome woman. She stood five-foot-five, with broad shoulders and a trim waist. At first glance she seemed quite ordinary, especially in a uniform that was designed to emphasise respect and not her physical attributes. But as he approached her, Newton was momentarily struck by an intensity in her features that he hadn’t noticed before. The deepest red curls that Jack had ever seen defied imprisonment beneath her patrol cap, and strands cascaded out here and there, emphasising the paleness of her complexion. Her eyes were a dazzling green and they shone with an inner fire that belied her diminutive stature. Her eyes held him in thrall for a moment before her voice snapped him out of it.

  “There’s four dead,” she continued after she had taken a deep breath. “Sorry.” She faltered again as the memory of the carnage caused bile to rise in her throat.

  Jack laid his hand on her shoulder. “It’s all right,” he said quietly. “I’ll check it out myself and we’ll talk later. See if you can get a cup of coffee from one of the neighbours.”

  She nodded and Jack moved past her towards the Grady’s house. The Grady family lived in a good part of town and the houses were well cared for, though the once well-manicured lawns were now overgrown, ragged at the edges, and flowers spilled out of beds chaotically. No one had time for gardens anymore when whole fields had to be tended.

  Two cars still sat in most driveways though, but with the fuel rations, these vehicles were of little use. The Grady house was a bungalow, but was one of the few on the street with an attic conversion, and the extension loomed over Newton as he approached the door. Four dead, he thought. Jesus, what have we got roaming our streets?

  After the second killing Jack Newton had called the FBI for help—though states controlled the power, there was just enough government left to ration the fuel and investigate high crime—but they had let him know, in no uncertain terms, that they had enough to do without visiting every damned state that had a homicide. Ever since the power had gone, each state had pretty much been left to its own devices. It was impossible to govern or police a country the size of America when mass transport had been reduced to horses and a few steam trains. Solar powered vehicles were few and far between and were mostly built heavy and used to strengthen the country’s defences against the threat of invasion from Russia and China, countries that had adapted much better to the new age. Newton doubted that either country would risk an invasion; America was a long way from Europe by conventional means. But one never knew.

  Jack shook himself from his reverie as he passed through the door. The first thing that struck him was the smell—a heady mix of excrement and a sickly sweet odour that caught in his throat and made him gag. He fumbled for his handkerchief to filter the s
tench, but the flimsy material wasn’t up to the task and his stomach turned. He gulped air through his mouth and, while this helped him force the nausea down, the rank air dried his sinuses and started a coughing fit. He breathed in small, careful breaths.

  He took a moment to gather himself before continuing through the house. The he made his way towards the glow of the gas lamp in the front room. The bodies, or rather what was left of them, were strewn across the floor. Jack could see mangled flesh, bare bones, and organs in the dull light. Mercifully, the worst of the atrocity was lost in the undulating shadows caused by the flickering gas lamp—almost spent of its fuel.

  The flame stuttered once more and then suddenly went out. Jack found himself alone in the pitch dark room and forced down the urge to turn and run. It wouldn’t do for the others to see him like that, and he’d probably break his neck anyway. It still amazed him how dark it was now that street lights no longer provided a background glow.

  He lost his bearings.

  Which way was he facing?

  Was the door behind him or to his right?

  His pulse quickened. The darkness closed in on him, as if it were alive and coiling, ready to squeeze the life out of him.

  Newton clenched his teeth and forced himself to breath normally as he retraced his steps. He was fairly certain that he had not turned since entering the room so the door should be directly behind him. He turned slowly, pointedly ignoring the grisly scene that he knew was around him. He forced himself to breathe through his mouth and to slide his feet forward until he reached the door. Then he quickened his step until he felt the cool air from outside wash over him.

  His skin prickled and he shivered, whether from the sudden chill or the images that still danced through his mind . . . he couldn’t be sure. He assumed that three of the dead would be Pat and Jillian Grady and their daughter Jennifer, but who was the fourth? He put that mystery to one side as he approached Jess again. She had obviously found a kindly neighbour and now leaned against her patrol car with her hands wrapped around a steaming mug. He thought of the mangled remains in the house and offered up silent thanks that it wouldn’t be him who sifted through the bodies and identified the victims.