Zombie Apocalypse! Acapulcalypse Now

Book 3: Zombie Apocalypse! Spinoff

by Stephen Jones, Alison Littlewood

Genres: Ghost; General Fiction; Horror

Synopsis

A mysterious multi-millionaire invites a collection of rich and powerful men and women from around the world to his exclusive hotel on the cost of Acapulco. As they leave Heathrow airport, the events at All Hallows Church, which sparked the zombie plague, break out. Now the guests must battle each other, the resentful locals, the impending horde of undead, and the land itself. A spin-off novel of the bestselling Zombie Apocalypse! series.

Release date: October 6, 2015

Publisher: Running Press Adult

Print pages: 320

Sample

IF MICK HALF-closed his eyes, the pyramid could almost appear to be real. The sun was behind it, the sky a deep, perfect blue, and it was easy to imagine that it was over 1,000 years ago, the monument rising high to honour the ancient gods of the land.

But it was not 1,000 years ago.

The pyramid’s steps were a little too even and a little too high to climb. If it hadn’t been cast into a jagged silhouette he could have seen that its walls were actually, in the main, windows; their purpose was to be looked out of, not at. If he’d been standing closer still he would have been able to see the balconies that wrapped around every level.

The structure was what he had learned to think of with disdain as a theme hotel. Still, its purpose was grand enough – to inject new life into tourism on this once-desirable stretch of coastline, to resurrect the ghost of its glamorous past.

Acapulco was once the playground of Hollywood stars, the gorgeous and talented and the fabulously wealthy. It hadn’t been that way for a long time.

For a moment hope stirred in his chest, something that at once surprised him and made him wrinkle his nose.

Somewhere, a power drill started up with a manic shrieking. A voice was shouting something, over and over: “Suntan, suntan!”

Where the magic never ends, he thought. That was how they were selling the new hotel, the words embroidered in small script across the pocket of the shirt he wore, just beneath its freshly minted logo.

The sound of the sea, soothing and always there, intruded on his thoughts, and he remembered that there was something real here after all. The final piece of the structure, the blocky shape set upon the pyramid’s flattened top, was an actual ruin. It had been ripped from its place on the Yucatan shore, its heritage undermined by the mighty dollar, or in this case the English pound. It had been transplanted to this place, somewhere it was never intended to be. They called it the Monumento que Canta, the monument that sings, because of the way the wind was said to sound through it whenever the coast was about to be invaded.

There had been an outcry against uprooting it, protests in Cancun and along the Riviera Maya, no doubt witnessed by bemused and uncaring tourists. Now it was going to be the picturesque backdrop to a modern rooftop bar.

Mick shook his head. He did not know if the ruin’s voice had ever been heard; now it never would be.

That voice came again, “Suntan!”, this time raised and insistent, and he saw someone hurrying towards him. It was the head of food and beverages, the F&B as they called him, pale and sweaty and looking all too clearly as if he’d just stepped off a flight and landed somewhere he didn’t belong. He also looked angry.

“Suntan!”

A sinking realisation swept through Mick. “My name is not Suntan,” he said. “It is Iktan. Iktan Camal. It’s a Maya name. I said to them they could call me Mick. They have put it on my badge—”

“Whatever. Who the hell cares? There’s a new load of painter and decs just arrived, and they want feeding.” The F&B leaned over, resting his hands on his knees. His lily-white cheeks were turning red and Iktan briefly wondered if this was what a heart attack looked like. The man straightened. “They need a waiter. Get to it.” He turned away, calling back over his shoulder: “And what’s wrong with calling yourself Rick? Like in the film. The punters’ll like that.”

Mick frowned after the man’s portly form. Another realisation washed over him and he muttered, “That’s Casablanca, you culero. Not here. Not in Mexico.” He sighed and started to make his way inside, heading past the empty hollow of the new pool with its unused waterslide. The sound of his feet was hollow against the new tiles, the gentlest of breezes failing to stir the fringe of ornamental palm trees, newly shipped in and set in planters made in the shape of a Maya headdress.

Outside, it was a steady twenty-seven degrees. Inside, the air-conditioning was turned up so high that it shivered the hairs on Mick’s arms. Were the managers trying to bring their English winter with them? They should have taken the singing monument and stuck it on their hard, freezing coast. There it might have sung, with the cold breath of the north wind in its gullet and no one who would understand to hear it.

Soon the guests would arrive, dripping with jewels and leaving a trail of money behind them. Mick grinned at that thought, reminding himself that he’d competed for this job, had wanted this job. If he couldn’t be rich, it was best to stick to the rich as closely as he could; that way, a little luck – and money – might just rub off.

His real name, Iktan, meant “clever”, but that should have been the name they gave to his little brother. He was the smart one of the family, the one who would soon be leaving his job in a fast-food joint and going to college, a college that he – Mick – could now help pay for. Their parents, who still farmed maize in the traditional Maya way, had frowned when the boys had come to the city, although they hadn’t protested; they knew how things were. Now he would show them he’d done the right thing.

Smiling, he passed through the hotel’s main lobby, its Reception desk taking up most of one massive wall. Water trickled behind it down some roughened material meant to look like rock, as if a jungle waterfall had accidentally found its way into a grand hotel in a Pacific beach resort. A huge television was mounted on the wall off to one side, though it was switched off and silent.

And here, there were other things that were real: a glass case, no doubt linked to some fancy alarm system, was full of ancient obsidian blades, incongruously placed next to ear spools decorated with gold and turquoise. Another held a large bowl made of clay, its painted design almost entirely faded, alongside miniature human effigies, beads and pieces of a broken mask. There was also a tablet, carved with figures that Mick couldn’t make out.

He shrugged as he passed it. Apparently, the owner of the hotel had insisted that everything in these displays was genuine. Mick wondered whether the man was happy with the result of his endeavours. The effect of the smartly painted walls, everything in new straight lines, the shining glass of the displays, was to make the real appear to be fake; almost as if it were in disguise.

He looked up and saw the name of the hotel writ large in a carved wooden panel suspended above the Reception desk: HOTEL BAKTUN. Its name had been taken from the Maya Long Count calendar, a period of thousands of years that some said was meant to culminate in the end of the world, not too long from now.

He turned his back on it. The floor, wide and grand and made of local tile, was covered in a fine layer of dust. Wood shavings curled among the detritus like maggots in flesh. Mick hurried across it, ignoring the blows of hammers and the arcing tick-tick-tzzzzzz of a welder, leaving behind him a trail of perfect footprints.

As he moved, a man approached, walking with his head bowed and his hand to his forehead, as if he were trying to obscure his face. Mick swerved but somehow the man barged into him anyway, knocking him aside with a shoulder that was hard and unyielding. Mick turned, but the man made no apology, did not even pause.

Mick shrugged. He wondered who the man was. He hadn’t been wearing an apron or overalls or a paint-stained T-shirt. He wore a silk shirt and chinos – a manager, perhaps? But he hadn’t seemed that type, someone strutting around with his head thrown back to watch everything that was happening, ready to bark out an order. He had seemed more like someone who didn’t really want to be seen.

But there were legions of people in the hotel, all of them making sure it would be ready on time, and who the hell was Mick? A waiter, nothing more, with a name that didn’t quite belong to him. He had no way of knowing if someone was there who shouldn’t be. And yet – he did know. He sensed it, could almost smell it. But then, the man could be a sightseer, not from the lands of money and showbiz but from the city, and why shouldn’t he come in for a look around? The relics of Mexico were here, not in a museum for all to see but encased in glass in a new hotel, positioned only for foreign eyes.

As if in answer to his thoughts he saw the F&B heading towards the front-of-house manager, who was beckoning him with an anxious expression on her face. They met near the Reception desk and looked at something she held out. It looked like a miniature television. Why didn’t they just switch on the big screen? But they bowed over it as if they were keeping a secret. As Mick watched, the F&B covered his mouth; probably his favourite football team had just lost. Mick smiled.

Soon the hotel would be ready. Mick would be waiting on celebrities instead of an army of workmen, people who would, before long, melt back into the city from whence they came. The gates would close and the hotel would become an island, a law unto itself; a place for feasting, while without, men scrambled and fought and died for whatever pesos they could find.

He made his way down a corridor with bare wires hanging down from the ceiling and towards the kitchen. There, he paused. A window was set into the side of the building and from it, he could see the sea. That bright blue line spoke of freedom, and clean salt air. He remembered days splashing in the surf, he and his brother closing their eyes against the spray. He found himself smiling.

The hotel was a future, of a kind. But still, he couldn’t help but see in his mind’s eye the pyramid as it would appear from that shore, its lines too clean and too new, blocking out the sky. And somehow, he knew; if he were a Maya god, he would not be pleased by the sight of this new tower rising into the air. He would, in fact, be really fucking angry.

THE CHAMPAGNE ON the flight hadn’t been cold enough. Ten hours, and Louise – or Louisiana, as she insisted on being called, despite hailing from the outskirts of Leicester – hadn’t stopped talking about it.

She had stopped talking now, though. So had Celeste. The taxi, a rattle-bone blue and white VW Beetle they’d picked up at the airport – the busy, echoing airport, “In with the cattle,” as Louisiana had put it, just as if it hadn’t been her choice in the first place – had finally pulled up outside the hotel.

The driver had been silent all the way, pausing only beneath an underpass alongside a line of other similarly painted Beetles, where he had stopped to buy, randomly and without comment, a whole block of cheese from a street vendor. He’d carried out his business through the car window without saying a word. He didn’t speak now. He simply sat with one arm hanging out of that same open window, the one that had let in the dust and a draught that baked rather than cooled, and tapped the side of the door with his fingertips.

Celeste wasn’t sure she wanted to move. People milled about all around the hotel, men in paint-splashed overalls carrying tools or wood or sacks of rubbish. An electrician appeared to be wiring a light above a carved sign which said HOTEL BAKTUN. No one came to help with their luggage or to open the car doors, and Louisiana tutted as she shoved hers wide, tutting again when it sprung straight back at her.

She flicked back her gleaming blonde locks and did what Celeste had come to think of as her “Ferrari exit”. She swung out her long, long legs, knees pressed together, and set her Louboutins firmly on the ground before pushing herself up from the seat.

A dry cough from the driver pulled Celeste’s attention away and she realised that, once again, she would be the one to pay. There was rich, she thought, and then there was rich – after a certain point, the wealthy never seemed to pay for anything themselves. Of course, neither did those for whom it was merely a masquerade.

She pulled some pesos from her Prada purse and pushed them at the driver, thinking there would be change, but he folded the notes without looking and slipped them into the pocket of his shirt before winking at her in the rear-view mirror.

She looked away. It was too hot to argue. She hurried to join Louisiana, who stood with her back to the car, staring up at the hotel. She’d donned her Chanel sunglasses and Celeste couldn’t see her expression.

Celeste went to open the boot and started to lug the heavy cases from it, setting them on the ground. As she did so, she thought of what should have been – a private flight with all the other guests, being pampered all the way, instead of an early trip to a hotel that wasn’t ready for them.

At least the others would join them soon, and she remembered the reason they were here. She glanced up to the very apex of the hotel, feeling, as she always did, a flush of pride followed by her usual pang of disbelief.

The Baktun had been shaped as a flat-topped pyramid, and later, when it opened, it would sing; or rather, her husband, Colton Creed, would. She could hear his voice in her mind, raw and throaty and with a resonance that had more than once made her shove him straight down on to their bed.

He was flying in by private jet from L.A. later, along with his manager, to suss the place out before the opening performance; because that was what he did. He was a professional. It was one of the reasons why she loved him, though she often found herself wondering why he hadn’t left her behind when he was caught up in the whirlwind of success; why he had ever even looked back. She wouldn’t have blamed him. But she had been by his side from the beginning and she was by his side now. Running to keep up, is what the little voice in her mind whispered, and then another voice cut in:

“Christ. What the hell have you got me into, Cele?”

Celeste swallowed down her frustration. A free show, she wanted to say. Another chance to soften up your unctuous sugar daddy, she could add. She opened her mouth to say something about a free pass to luxury, then closed it again. She could see Louisiana’s point. The hotel was huge and grand and dramatic, its windows glinting back diamonds in the sunlight, but the bustle around it looked like chaos.

It was Louisiana who’d wanted to fly out early, to be here when the “boys” arrived. The fact that her friend had passed up a private jet only showed the depth of her resolve. Of course, Louise – Louisiana – would have a glut of private jets if she could only get a ring on her finger. She’d also have all the champagne she wanted, as cold as ice.

Celeste swallowed her disdain. She’d seen the tiny back-to-back terrace that Lou had come from, had met her beetle-browed and bad-tempered father. It almost made her see why her friend had clung so fiercely to Shelby Waxler, Colton’s slimy producer, who was sixty years old if he was a day. Still, Louisiana’s odds weren’t good. Shelby did not hold any particular disrespect for the sanctity of marriage; rather, he didn’t seem to think it had anything to do with him. He liked his playthings and he liked them young. If Louisiana hadn’t spent everything she had on surgery, her snub little nose, her doll-like Cupid’s bow in its baby pink lipstick—

“For heaven’s sake, leave those,” Louisiana said. “Someone will bring the luggage. I can’t get burnt.” She shaded her face from the sun with her hand, then endeavoured to shade that hand with the other.

Celeste looked dubiously at the suitcases. The taxi was a rumble of dust in the distance and no one was near, but still . . .

Louisiana clipped away in her towering heels. With one more glance at their possessions, Celeste hastened to follow.

If the outside had been a mess, the lobby was worse: people milling about everywhere, the tiles filthy, broken old tat in dust-covered glass cases, no one to greet them and no one at the Reception desk. At least in here it was shaded and deliciously cool. Louisiana tapped her knuckles on the desk, then straightened, looking towards a huddle of people in some kind of uniform – navy shorts, khaki shirts – bending over something.

“Watching television!” she exclaimed. “While there are paying customers!”

Her voice carried easily and Celeste flinched, wanting to remind her that they were invited guests, not paying at all, but she didn’t get the chance. One of the men had broken away from the huddle and was hurrying over.

“Pardon, ladies,” he said. “We weren’t notified—”

“You may bring our bags to our room,” Louisiana snapped. “They’re outside. Probably getting heat-damaged.”

His badge said HECTOR: HEAD OF F&B. Celeste had no idea what that meant, but he said, “Of course. Our manager here will take your names—”

Louisiana held out a hand, stopping him. She turned to Celeste, her eyes glowing. “Do you hear that?”

Celeste had no chance to reply. Louisiana marched away, across the lobby and into a wide passageway, just as if she knew where she was going. Celeste stared after her. After a moment, she followed. Hector’s voice trailed after them, so low she almost thought she’d imagined it: “You’re feeling quite well – you flew in from London, didn’t you? You’re not sick . . .?”

Louisiana was standing on a wide-tiled patio that led down to a pool, overlooking the white-capped sea. She was in the full sun, regardless of the heat that beat down on their heads. After the shaded lobby, the colours were deep and rich. Celeste knew at once what her friend had heard, could hear it now herself quite plainly: the deep thrub-thrub of helicopter blades.

“There,” Louisiana said, her sunglasses holding back her hair, shading her eyes with her hand, this time without complaint.

The shape, like a black hornet, was growing closer, stirring the soupy air. It was coming straight towards them. She felt a leap of hope – could it be Colton? But they were sending a limo to the airport, weren’t they?

She looked around and saw an emerald circle of precisely cut grass away to the side of the building, marked with a crisp white H. She smoothed back her dark hair and glanced at Louisiana. There was no way her friend would miss this.

The sleek machine was almost above them, and coming in so low that she could just make out the pilot’s impassive face behind his black sunglasses and headgear.

They watched it land, Louisiana grasping her hair in both hands and ducking as if she could avoid the blasts of warmth.

“I love the smell of chlorine in the morning,” Celeste joked.

Louisiana never shifted her eyes from the man who emerged from the helicopter. He was wearing a rather old-fashioned black suit complete with a white cravat, his colourless hair swept back from his aquiline face by the wind stirred up by the rotor blades. He walked swiftly towards the hotel, his stride brisk and his back very straight, flanked by two broad bodyguards. “It’s not morning,” Louisiana murmured. “And anyway, the pool’s empty.”

Celeste didn’t know what was more depressing, the fact that her friend didn’t get the reference or that she’d found something else to complain about. Still, Louisiana didn’t seem inclined to dwell on the state of the pool. She only watched the man as he entered the hotel through an unmarked black door.

“He didn’t even look at us,” Louisiana said. “We’re his fucking guests, and he didn’t look.”

Celeste thought she was actually going to stamp her foot. “You think that’s him? The mysterious owner himself?” She frowned after the figure. There was only the door, blank and closed again. It didn’t even appear to have a handle.

“Of course.” Louisiana straightened and looked around. “And his name’s Moreby. Don’t you know anything? He’s supposed to be some distant descendant of that Moreby – the one who ran around London building occult churches and subterranean passageways and God knows what else. He died or maybe disappeared, I forget which, centuries ago. Funny really, though – this place is supposed to be built on top of a Mayan ruin, isn’t it? Maybe the new guy’s a chip off the old block. Now, where’s that man? Ah – there you are.”

Celeste had started at the name Moreby, but she turned to see that her friend was correct. Hector had indeed scurried after them. She wondered if Louisiana was right about the hotel’s owner too. But then, her friend seemed to know everything about everybody that mattered; in other words, those with money or power or preferably both. Now here was Hector, come to usher her inside just as if she were a queen.

He led them back towards the patio entrance, babbling about how he didn’t really do front of house but just for them he’d sort everything out personally and he hoped they had a lovely time. He shot little glances at Louisiana as they went, taking in her shapely legs, her pert breasts.

The glass doors stood open, but Hector went to a small side door and held it wide for Louisiana, taking in the back view as she went through, and then he handed the door to Celeste. She took its weight, wrinkling her nose, and let it fall again behind her. What was the point of making a fuss? It wasn’t as if she really cared about such things. Although it occurred to her that, however tenuous Louisiana’s grip on the superstar lifestyle, she was at least a damned sight better at it than Celeste.

THEY COULDN’T HAVE built the hotel better. It was square, for a start, though Francisco Ramos couldn’t really give two shits about what shape it was. What mattered was how far he would be from an exit at any given time, and for that, a square was just fine with him.

He’d already checked the outside. The idiots couldn’t have made things any easier. Large central entrances were flanked by smaller ones, sometimes more than one. When the tourists came, many of the doors would be standing open all the time; none could surely be locked. He barely kept the smile from his face. Not even the sight of the helicopter pad outside – a helicopter pad – could wipe it off. The rich bastards deserved all they got.

The wages of sin, he thought, and brought the Saint Francis he wore about his neck to his lips, at once regretting the gesture. It had been automatic. The medallion had been given to him by his grandmother on his sixth name day, just weeks before she passed. He would not be parted from it, but still, the thought of God, or his saints, was better just now pushed to the darkest recesses of his mind. And no true member of Los Fieles would ever wear such a thing. There was only one saint they recognised, if saint she truly was.

But God liked those who seized opportunities, didn’t he? That was what Franc. . .