The Nekropolis Archives Read online

  Praise for TIM WAGGONER

  "It's hard to say if this singular novel, which boasts a wicked sense of humor to round off the horror, should be eligible for an Edgar Award or a Bram Stoker or both."

  – Elliot Swanson, Booklist

  "Both horror and mystery readers will be delighted by this horror-noir adventure."

  – Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  "It's a classic. If you're a fan of Simon R. Green, who does a series very much like this one, you'll especially enjoy Nekropolis. It's a horror spoof done with a sense of wit and pulp detective done tongue-in-cheek. Sam Spade, watch out. There's a slow-footed zombie creeping up on you!"

  – Bewildering Stories

  "This is a terrific melding of the horror and private detective genres. Waggoner's writing is visually led, and the Blade Runner/Dark City atmosphere is well drawn."

  – Total SciFi

  "With plenty of twists, surprises, and undead smack downs, Nekropolis has made my list of top reads of the year. The setting is a lot like Simon Green's Nightside series with mystery, dark humor, and horror. Though I found myself enjoying this novel even more. The story is darker, a bit more complex, with likeable characters. It's fresh and fun; and I didn't want it to end. Fantasy and horror fans, don't miss this fantastic release."

  – SciFi Chick

  "It's the perfect weapon for killing a day. The cure for boredom. Nekropolis slaps all the disgustingly fun aspects of Tim Waggoner's writing right on the autopsy table, and I came away happy to have spent my money."

  – Spine Busters

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  Novels

  Nekropolis

  Dead Streets

  Dark War

  Cross County

  Dark Ages: Gangrel

  Darkness Wakes

  Defender: Hyperswarm

  Dying For It

  Godfire: The Orchard of Dreams

  The Harmony Society

  In the Shadow of Ruin

  Like Death

  A Nightmare on Elm Street: Protégé

  Pandora Drive

  A Shadow Over Heaven's Eye

  Stargate SG-1: Valhalla

  Blade of the Flame

  Thieves of Blood

  Forge of the Mindslayers

  Sea of Death

  Dragonlance, the New Adventures

  Temple of the Dragonslayer

  Return of the Sorceress

  Collections

  All Too Surreal

  Broken Shadows

  TIM WAGGONER

  The Nekropolis Archives

  THE NOVELS

  Nekropolis

  Dead Streets

  Dark War

  THE SHORT STORIES

  Disarmed and Dangerous

  The Midnight Watch

  Zombie Interrupted

  HOW TO SURVIVE YOUR FIRST TEN MINUTES IN NEKROPOLIS

  By Matt Richter

  The name's Matt Richter. I was a cop once, worked Homicide in Cleveland, Ohio. But that was a few years ago – back when I was alive. Now I'm a zombie, and I work as a private investigator on the very mean streets of a city called Nekropolis. You won't find it on any map, not a map of Earth, anyway. See, four centuries ago, the world's Darkfolk – supernatural creatures such as vampires, werewolves, witches, demons, ghosts and the like – decided humans were becoming too numerous for their comfort, and so they traveled to a dimension of darkness where they could build their own city and live in peace (or at least their twisted idea of peace). They dubbed their new home Nekropolis. But the Dark Lords who ruled the city didn't want to sever all ties to Earth's dimension. Not only was it their original home, but the planet contained numerous resources – both natural and human-made – they could make use of. These portals were strictly monitored and controlled, of course, but that didn't mean others weren't created illegally. Crime, it seems, is a multiversal constant. Good thing, too. For dimensional ex-pats like me, it means job security.

  Humans occasionally emigrate to Nekropolis (you wouldn't believe how many damn Goth kids find their way here). These immigrants come for many reasons. Some simply have a fascination with the darker side of existence, while others want to do business – legitimate or, more often, illicit – with the Darkfolk. But sometimes people find themselves stepping through a portal into Nekropolis by accident, without the slightest notion of what waits for them on the other side. And as you might imagine, ignorance is not only far from bliss in this case, it's usually fatal. The commonly accepted wisdom among Nekropolitans is that the average lifespan of an unprepared human on the streets of Nekropolis is ten minutes. When I first heard this statistic, I thought it was an exaggeration. Now after having lived – or at least existed – here for several years, I think it's an overly generous estimate.

  So, as a service to those of you who might one day find yourselves gazing into a floor-length mirror whose surface doesn't look quite as solid as it should – a mirror which seems to be beckoning you to step just a little bit closer… and to those of you who might be walking down a dark alley one night when a strange green mist appears out of nowhere and engulfs you… to all of you who end up suddenly standing on a sidewalk in Nekropolis wondering what the hell just happened, I present the following tips for surviving your first ten minutes here. Keep in mind that this advice comes with no guarantees, no money back, and your mileage may vary.

  1. Don't make eye contact.

  This one might seem like a no-brainer at first. In an earthly city, making eye contact is an open invitation to scam artists, beggars, or crazies who want to tell you all about the wonderful new religion they've created based on the worship of a giant Styrofoam grasshopper named Agnes. But you know how some wild animals take direct eye contact as a challenge? A lot of the citizens you'll encounter on the streets of Nekropolis are wild animals in one way or another. And the last thing you want to do is extend a challenge to them – because it will be the last thing you ever do. Remember, survival of the fittest isn't just an abstract concept in Nekropolis. It's practically the city's unofficial motto.

  2. Don't bleed.

  Many Darkfolk have a heightened sense of smell – not to mention a heightened appetite. Get cut (or for women, visit Nekropolis at the wrong time of your cycle), and you'll find yourself attracting some extremely unwanted attention. And while you're at it, try not to sweat too much. Or breathe too loudly. Or break wind. Or… Hell, just try your best not to do anything.

  3. Stay out of the street.

  While walking into the middle of a busy city street is never a good long-term survival strategy, the road traffic in Nekropolis is an altogether different animal – sometimes literally. With their enhanced reflexes and resistance to physical damage, Darkfolk can and do drive as fast as they want. And to them a major vehicle collision is little more than a mild inconvenience, especially for those who are already (or mostly) dead. And then there are those vehicles that are practically lifeforms in and of themselves: Meatrunners, Carapacers, Grillgoyles, Leviavans… many of which run on a more meaty fuel than gasoline, and which aren't averse to topping off their tanks with a quick snack if it's suicidal enough to get in their way.

  4. Don't walk too close to doorways or alley entrances.

  You know that old phrase, "The Boogeyman will get you if you don't watch out"? Well, in Nekropolis the Boogeymen have a damn long reach and lightning-fast reflexes. Imagine giant trapdoor spiders hopped up on golf ball-sized amphetamines. Tread carefully, and if possible, travel with a friend who weighs more – and is therefore more appetizing – than you.

  5. Don't assume something's not dangerous just because it doesn't look dangerous.

  There's a simple rule of thumb in Nekropolis. Everythin
g wants to kill you. Vampires, demons, and werewolves are obviously apex predators. But that scrawny little puppy that wanders up to you, wagging its tail and whining pitifully because it's cold and hungry? If you're dumb enough to stoop down to pet it, you deserve what happens to you next.

  Now that you've read my tips, you may be thinking there's no way you'll ever make it past the ten-minute mark. But just remember: I did. Hell, I managed to last almost half a week before I died. So welcome to Nekropolis and good luck. You're going to need it – by the truckload.

  Matt Richter

  Nekropolis

  417 AD (Anno Descension)

  A SHORT STORY

  DISARMED AND DANGEROUS

  Gleaming steel talons came streaking toward my face, and though my reflexes aren't what they used to be, I managed to dodge to the right in time to keep from losing anything more than my left ear. I wasn't particularly concerned. An ear's not all that important, and I could always get it reattached later. Assuming that the demon on the other end of those talons didn't turn me into shredded zombie flakes first.

  The steel talons – possibly a surgical augmentation since the rest of the creature appeared organic – sank into the alley wall, neatly pinning my ear to the brick in the process. The alley walls were covered with leech-vine, but luckily for the demon, its talons had sunk into a patch of brick where the vine was thin. Even luckier, the inorganic substance of its talons didn't prod the vine into attacking. The demon grunted in frustration and the scale-covered muscles on its arm tightened as it fought to pull its hand free. This would have been an excellent time for me to turn and run like hell – or in my case, do a shuffling half-walk, halfrun – away from the demon. But I had unfinished business with the damned thing. Besides, it had my ear.

  A variety of specialized weaponry comes in handy in my line of work, and I reached into the outer pocket of my suit jacket and withdrew one of my most useful tools.

  With a final yank the demon managed to pull its hand loose, and it turned to face me, shark teeth bared in a savage snarl, my bloodless ear still stuck to one of its talons. When it saw the weapon I held aimed at the corrugated hide directly between its eyes, the snarl became a chuckle.

  "A squirt gun?" Its voice sounded like ground glass being shaken in a coffee can. "Are you insane? Real bullets wouldn't do much more than tickle me!"

  "I know." I tightened my finger on the plastic trigger and began pumping streams of holy water into the demon's face.

  The creature howled in pain as its facial scales began to sizzle and smoke. The demon threw up its hands to protect itself, the motion dislodging my ear and sending it flying. I didn't see where it landed; I was a bit busy. I'd look for it later – assuming I survived. I kept firing, if that's the right term to use when your ammo is liquid, hoping to at least disable the demon, if not kill it. Unfortunately, the demon had other ideas.

  Bellowing in agony, eyes squeezed shut and weeping blood, the creature lashed out and fastened its thick fingers around the wrist of my gun hand. Before I could react, the demon yanked, and my right arm came out of the socket as easily as a greasy wing parting from an overcooked chicken. I had only a single thought.

  Not again!

  "I have to warn you, Matt. This isn't the prettiest work I've ever done. I'm a houngan, not a surgeon."

  "Don't worry about it. I got over being vain about my appearance about the same time I stopped breathing. Look at it this way: you have an important advantage over a medical doctor. You don't have to worry about your patient dying if you screw up."

  It was late afternoon, and my confrontation with the demon lay several hours in the future. I was sitting on a stool in Papa Chatha's workshop, shirt off, holding my right arm in place with my left hand while Papa, seated next to me, played seamstress. His brow was furrowed in concentration, and small beads of sweat had gathered on the mahogany skin of his smoothly shaven head. His white pullover shirt and pants were splotched with stains that looked too much like blood. None of if was mine, though. I hadn't bled for a long time. One of the advantages to being a zombie.

  Another benefit was that I felt no pain as Papa sank the bone needle into the gray-tinged flesh of my shoulder. I could feel pressure as the pointed tip emerged from the ragged skin of my left arm, felt the tug as Papa pulled the thread through, but that was all. I looked away, but not because I found it uncomfortable to watch someone reattaching a limb that had once been part of my body. I've gotten banged up quite a few times since I came to Nekropolis, and Papa's usually the one who gets stuck trying to put the pieces back together. I didn't want to watch because seeing Papa at work reminded me that not only couldn't I experience pain, I couldn't experience pleasure, either. Not physically, at any rate.

  I scanned the shelves in Papa's workroom, taking in the multitude of materials that a professional voodoo practitioner needs to perform his art: wax-sealed vials filled with ground herbs and dried chemicals, jars containing desiccated bits of animals – rooster claws, lizard tails, raven wings – books and scrolls piled on tabletops next to rattles and tambourines of various sizes, along with pouches of tobacco, chocolate bars, and bottles of rum. Papa said he used the latter three substances to make offerings to the Loa, the voodoo spirits, and while I had no reason to doubt him, over the years I've noticed that he tends to run out of rum before anything else.

  "There." Papa broke off the thread with his ivory-white teeth then tied the end into a knot. I turned back and examined the result. The stitching looked tight enough, but the pattern was uneven, to put it kindly. Papa hadn't been kidding about the aesthetic qualities of his sewing. You'd think a guy who makes as many voodoo dolls as he does would be a better seamstress.

  "Give it a try," Papa said.

  I made a fist with my right hand and flexed the arm. It moved stiffly, but that had nothing to do with Papa's repair job and everything to do with the fact that I was dead.

  I lowered my arm. "Feels good. Thanks." I rose from the stool and went over to the chair where I'd draped my shirt, suit jacket, and tie. Most zombies wear whatever rags they died in, but I'm not your run-of-the-mill walking dead man. I'm still self-aware and possess free will. Before I came to this dimension, back when I was alive, I worked as a homicide detective in Cleveland. I wore a suit on the job then, and I still wear one now. Makes me feel more human, I guess.

  Papa continued sitting on his stool while I got dressed. "Sorry I couldn't do more for the skin, but the spells I used to fuse the bone and muscle back together should last for about a month before they need to be reapplied," he said. "That is, assuming you don't irritate any more cyclops." He frowned. "Cyclopses? Cyclopsi?" He shrugged. "Whatever."

  I finished with my tie and slid on my jacket. "You know Troilus. Always trying one scam or another to make easy money. This time it was a protection racket." I lowered my voice to a bass monotone in what I thought was a passable imitation of the cyclops. "'Pay me a hundred darkgems a week or you might end up taking a bath in Phlegethon.'"

  Phlegethon is the river of green fire that surrounds Nekropolis and separates the city's five sections. It's a cold fire that burns the spirit instead of the flesh, but its waters are home to giant serpents called Lesk who are only too eager to use their sharp teeth to take care of what the flames can't.

  Papa grinned. "I assume you were hired to encourage Troilus to pursue alternative methods of securing an income. Your employer anyone I know?"

  "A vampire named Kyra who has a tattoo parlor on the other side of the Sprawl, not far from the Bridge of Forgotten Pleasures. She uses living ink, and the tattoos she creates move through their wearer's skin. It's a striking effect."

  Papa nodded. "This is the first time I've heard her name, but I've seen her work before. So what did you do?"

  "I decided on the subtle approach. I tracked down Troilus and told him that if he didn't stop threatening people, I'd poke his eye out."

  Papa laughed. "Very subtle! Let me guess: in response, Troilus yanked your arm
out of the socket."

  "That's right. But I'm nothing if not professional. Instead of getting angry, I calmly asked Troilus to give me my arm back. People like him are used to getting what they want through violence, and he was so surprised by my lack of reaction that he just looked at me with that basketball-sized eye of his for a moment before doing as I asked."

  "And what did you do after that?"

  "Undead or not, I'm a man of my word. An arm doesn't have to be attached to be useful, you know." I looked at the fingers on my right hand and frowned. "I think there's still some vitreous fluid under my nails."

  Papa grinned and shook his head. "One of these days, Matt, you're going to get yourself torn into so many bits that not even Father Dis will be able to put you back together."

  "Let's hope that day's a long time coming." I reached into the inner pocket of my suit jacket and took out a handful of darkgems. My fee for helping Kyra. I hadn't charged her much, but even though I was dead and no longer needed food or drink, I still needed money to cover the rent on my apartment and to pay Papa Chatha for his services. Not only for today's repair, but for the regular application of the preservative spells that keep me from rotting and smelling like Lake Erie at low tide.