Welcome to the world of Allie Nighthawk, corpse whisperer and bad ass zombie hunter
The Corpse Whisperer
An Allie Nighthawk Mystery Book 1
by H.R. Boldwood
Genre: Urban Fantasy, Paranormal Mystery
Zombie hunting just got wicked fun!
Welcome to the world of Allie Nighthawk, corpse whisperer and bad ass zombie hunter.
“If you raise deadheads, you’d better be able to put ‘em down. Nobody said it was pretty. But in this day, when vampires aren’t just for breakfast anymore, and the dead are disposable pawns for necromancers, someone has to ante up. Looks like I won the lotto. Imagine my delight. You should thank me, really, because the world is batshit crazy.”
When the zombie population spikes and no one knows why, it’s up to Allie to solve the mystery. But there’s a hitch. She’s stuck babysitting Leo Abruzzi, a zombie-bitten gangster who’s turning state’s evidence. But the mob and a powerful necromancer will stop at nothing to take Leo and Allie down.
Allie Nighthawk is Anita Blake on steroids, with a fondness for leather and Jack on the rocks. She has a healthy dose of Stephanie Plum and Rachel Morgan in her, too, though she’d never admit it. The battle between good and evil just got wicked fun.
The cemetery would be a freaking obstacle course, but Rico insisted we wait until sundown to raise our rotter. As we climbed over the retaining wall, he explained that mommies don’t want their children watching me chase decomped deadheads down Central Parkway with a flamethrower.
I get that. I got no problem being discreet. It’s not like I want to do this work in the daylight anyway. You spike one zombie’s head, the ACLU and the paparazzi are all over you like stink on a flesh-eater. Besides, biters tend to hole up during the day, since they can’t see in sunlight. Wrangling them is easier in the dark, when they’re on the prowl.
Fallen tombstones, mole holes, and titanium flower vases all vying to take out my knees are the problem. That’s why the art of negotiation comes in handy.
“Hire me,” I said as we sprinted though the headstones. “I’m tired of this independent contractor shit. I want double-time for field work, full medical coverage, and disability benefits. Call it hazardous duty pay.”
Rico stopped and swung his flashlight in my direction. “Captain Dorsey said you’ve already discussed that with him. You’re not in the budget.”
“Really, De Palma? It’s not smart to screw with the one person who can keep your ass from getting corpsified.”
“That’s Cap’s call, not mine,” Rico said, taking off with long, powerful strides toward the gravesite.
The backhoe had done the hard work. I stared at McCoy’s low-rent casket shining in the moonlight and gave Rico one last chance to bail.
“You know, this isn’t as easy as I make it look. Raising a rotter is a lot like doing a rain dance. You might get a drizzle or you might need a freaking ark. McCoy’s a freshy. He hasn’t even been dead a week. Raising him will screw with the cognitive function of his brain—the part that processes information. He won’t be capable of lying, that requires deliberation and intent. But whatever else happens is anybody’s guess. You sure you want to do this?”
“She’s six years old, Nighthawk. We don’t have a choice.”
“Open the lid.” I closed my eyes and let the power surge through me like God’s own hand.
Make no mistake, the ability to raise the dead is a God-given gift that comes with a moral obligation to protect the living and the dead. The gift itself isn’t evil, but misuse of that gift is as ugly as it gets.
The mortician had done an impressive job, given the circumstances. McCoy looked like he was napping, like his eyes could open at any moment, and he’d be confused by his surroundings. Sometimes appearances aren’t deceiving.
“Cephas Allen McCoy, in the name of God, I command you to rise!”
Cephas moaned low and steady.
I spread my hands over him and whispered a single word. “Awaken.”
Tiny rivers of light streamed from my hands into his body, causing him to pitch and thrash. Teeth clenched, limbs flailing, he sprang upright and opened his eyes—crazed, animal-like eyes that showed fear but nothing else.
He grabbed the edge of the casket and leapt to the ground above. Shit. That’s what I’d been afraid of. His muscles still had memory. The .32 he took to the heart didn’t cause peripheral tissue damage. Climbing out of that grave, for him, was no more difficult than climbing out of bed to take a leak.
We stood, face to face—almost. He looked about six-two, giving him a good eight inches on me.
“Cephas, stop!”
He froze and stared at me, like he was trying to figure out who I was, trying to use the cognitive part of his brain that no longer worked. Then he twitched.
God. I hate when they twitch.
“Cephas, where’s Twila Harris?”
He growled and drooled on my feet.
“Answer me, damn it!” I pulled the bag of barbecue chips out of my pocket, opened it, and waved it under his nose. “Tell me where she is and they’re yours.”
Rico’s eyes went wide. “Potato chips? You’ve got to be—”
“Hey. You mind? I’m working here.”
Cephas grabbed at the chips and slurred, “Duck blind on Lake Chetak. Shush…it’s a secret.”
Now for the tough question. “Is Twila still alive?”
“Yes. Yes. Pretty. Go play with her. Need to play. Need her.” His mouth quivered, and a long string of saliva that dangled from his lip bounced like a bungee cord. Then he snarled, snatched the chips out of my hand, and bolted across the cemetery.
“Ah, shit!” I took off after him, the freaking twitcher.
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Corpse Whisperer Sworn
An Allie Nighthawk Mystery Book 2
Zombies, Voodoo, and Hoodoo-what would you do?
Follow Allie Nighthawk to exciting New Orleans where she raises the dead, puts down rotters, and dabbles in the mystical world of hoodoo. She’s on the trail of an evil necromancer who will stop at nothing to rule the world with his army of deadheads. Is her magick strong enough to save the day? Or will this necromancer from her past kill her before she gets the chance? She figures she’s got a fifty-fifty shot. Make that forty-sixty.
Excerpt from Corpse Whisperer Sworn:
I pointed at the ladies, reminding them to maintain their position, then stepped back into the parlor, approached the casket, and lifted the lid. Poor kid. It looked like he’d had a hard, if short, life. No hint remained of the life force that rightfully belonged to an eighteen-year-old. Lines etched his face, a face far too gaunt and haggard to belong to a teen. Damn drugs. And damn the dealers for turning addicts into shambling zombies long before they ever die.
I bowed my head and sucked in a breath, centering my mind and heart. Warmth flooded each of my fingertips, one at a time, and then coursed through my hands into my arms. The warmth quickly escalated to an agonizing burn, like it always does when I raise the dead.
I’d placed my hands above the corpse and had begun to do my thing when a shriek from Lucia stopped me cold. “Madre di Dio! Stop. Is not my Rocco.”
Nonnie and Lucia, who had crept up alongside me, cringed and quickly reeled away from the casket. They crossed themselves feverishly and began chanting something from the old country—something with a lot of consonants and phlegm.
I shot Lucia the stink-eye. “What do you mean, that isn’t Rocco?”
“Is not my boy.” She craned her neck forward, peering over the edge of the casket. “Is old man. Older than me.”
“You’re sure?” I asked. “Rocco lived a rough life, what with the drugs—”
Nonnie pulled her glasses down her nose and peered at me over the top of the rims. “Try these,” she said, taking them off and shoving them at me.
“Oh, for God’s sake. Stop that,” I said, batting them away.
The codger in the coffin twitched, causing the ladies to scamper further back and shoot him the Italian horned hand, in unison.
Son-of-a-bitch. I knew I shouldn’t have taken this gig.
The corpse, suspended somewhere in the galvanized gray space between reanimation and death, resembled a modern-day Frankenstein. The good news was that Lucia had distracted me before I’d raised him completely. If I’d have brought him all the way back, I’d have had to put him down by extreme means. As it stood, I still had a chance to make this go away quietly.
“Sorry, guy,” I said, bending over him. “Wrong number. Go back to sleep.”
The corpse twitched again, opened his eyes, and shot me an accusing stare.
Like this was my fault, right?
“What the hell are you looking at? Haven’t you ever made a mistake? Go to sleep, you crusty buzzard.”
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Book Trailer:
Life Among the Tombstones
An Allie Nighthawk Mystery Prequel
Freelance zombie hunter seeking full-time employment-benefits required.
In this prequel to The Corpse Whisperer series, financially challenged zombie hunter, Allie Nighthawk, returns to her hometown of Cincinnati and finds herself knee-deep in murder, mayhem, and zombies. Can she solve not one but two murders, and get away unscathed — when the good guys might not be so good, and a presence from her past returns for revenge?
Excerpt from Life Among the Tombstones:
I opened the car door and got a noseful of Eau de Deadhead.
“We’re in the right place,” I said, letting my eyes wash over the ten-story tall Crosley Building, a behemoth of crumbling brick and broken windows.
Harry slipped his radio into his pocket, then opened the glove compartment and pulled out his backup piece. He clipped it to his belt and took the lead as we jogged through the dark.
“Seriously?” I snickered, drawing Hawk. “Your back up piece is a .38, too?”
He puffed like a freight train. “Big surprise. I told you, I’m a dinosaur.”
Something rustled to my right. I spun, holding Hawk at high ready. A piece of newspaper tumbled through the air and plastered itself against an ancient metal dumpster stationed along the Arlington Street side of the building.
I exhaled slowly and lowered my gun.
Little Allie harrumphed and called me a wussy.
“Bite me, bitch.”
Harry glanced over his shoulder. “You say something?”
“No. Keep moving.”
That haranguing head hag would be the end of me yet.
From our left came the unmistakable sound of a footstep, as it crunched against the broken glass, bricks and concrete that littered the ground. Harry and I whirled, weapons drawn, but the art deco-styled building threw random shadows in the waning glow of the moon. Even with the help of a flashlight, scanning those inky silhouettes proved difficult—like distinguishing one shade of black against another.
One of the shadows rippled. Or had it? I shut my eyes and let my other senses go to work. The stink of death grew stronger. The air beside me displaced, and brushed silk-like against my skin. I shivered and tightened my grip on Hawk. “Harry?”
No answer.
“Harry.”
“I can’t see for shit,” he muttered.
A biter popped into Harry’s flashlight beam, maybe six feet ahead. In one fluid motion, he brought his .38 to bear, squeezed off a round, and nailed it between its eyes.
He drew in a long, loud breath and announced, “Deadhead down.”
“Don’t get cocky. Take a whiff,” I said, breathing in the stench. “He’s not the only game in town.”
The sound of movement ahead in an archway spurred us forward. We reached the alcove and nearly tripped over splintered pieces of plywood strewn on the ground, directly across from an entrance to the building. Where once had been a boarded-up door, now stood a gaping black maw. A woman’s scream came from inside.
Harry barked at his radio. “1 David 26, requesting backup. 1329 Arlington Street. Possible assault.”
“Roger, 1 David 26. Backup en route.”
“We don’t have time to wait for backup,” I whispered. “One bite and she’s finished.”
Harry snorted. “Who said anything about waiting? Get the hell behind me and see how dinosaurs do things.”
Our flashlight beams created thin pinholes of light in the black abyss. We stared into the void and funneled inside, eyes and ears peeled, creeping forward at the speed of slugs. Harry shined his light to the right, and I shined mine to the left, but our field of vision was nearly nonexistent. The echo of our footsteps told us the room was huge. The second scream rang out, followed by distant banging and clanging noises.
After clearing our point of entry, Harry and I headed in the direction of the scream and ended up at a large, heavy-gauge metal door. He yanked on the handle and pulled. The door groaned, but opened wide. Unseen feet shuffled across the concrete floor into the darkness. A distant chorus of moans and groans halted as we stepped through the doorway.
Little Allie, who hadn’t been fond of this call to begin with, launched a full-scale assault in my head. She hadn’t needed to. I was way ahead of her.
“Harry—”
“Yeah. I know. This is all kinds of FUBAR.”
The huge metal door behind us slammed shut. That door weighed hundreds of pounds. It hadn’t closed itself.
Harry brought the radio to his mouth. “1 David 26, 1329 Arlington Street. Where the hell is that backup? Possible zombie horde. Repeat. Possible zombie horde.”
“Roger, 1 David 26,” the dispatcher responded. “How…how many zombies in a horde?”
Harry looked at me and rolled his eyes.
“How the hell should I know?” I yelled into Harry’s phone, “Just send some damn backup. Like a shit ton.”
Harry harrumphed and slid the radio back into his pocket. “Are you fucking kidding me? Did she really ask how many biters in a—”
He raised his .38 and fired. A bullet screamed past my head. I grabbed my aching ears and spun to find a biter flat on its back, not three feet behind me. Most of its head was missing.
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Corpse Whisperer Torn
An Allie Nighthawk Mystery Book 3
Zombie hunting 101: Never tell your neighbors what you do for a living.
“Just after sunrise, I jumped on my Harley and hurtled toward Templeman’s Funeral Home, packing Hawk, my custom 9mm, a backup Glock, and a seven-inch Ka-Bar knife—the standard-issue zombie-hunter’s tool kit. Not that I’m standard-issue, by any stretch. I was born with the ability to raise the dead. It’s a genetic thing. Don’t ask me how it works. I didn’t write the playbook. I’m just living the dream.”
Allie Nighthawk faces a ghost from her past as she explores the fascinating and historic world of Cincinnati’s underground. When the Z-virus threatens world-wide contamination, it’s up to Allie to save the day. Is her magick strong enough to turn the tide? Or will doubt and inner demons stand in her way? And will those she loves survive?
Excerpt from Corpse Whisperer Torn:
I pulled my 9mm, stepped back inside, then closed the door and locked it behind me. A small, blender-like appliance sailed out of the prep room and smashed against the hallway wall, bursting into pieces. I mentally reassembled the pile of rubble into an embalming machine.
“Mr. Messmer?” I called, from the doorway. “You’re behaving badly, sir. C’mon out, huh? Be a good biter. I haven’t even had my first cup of coffee.”
Growls and grunts burst out of the room, followed by a deafening crash.
“You’re going to make me come in there, aren’t you, Mr. Messmer?”
I slid into the room, holding Hawk at high ready and quickly sliced the pie. A tall metal shelving unit lay on its side along the back wall. Open cardboard cartons, resting upside-down on the floor, had spilled dozens of plastic bottles across the tile. Some of their lids had popped open and fluid was seeping across the floor. Several file cabinets had been overturned, as well as the two occupied gurneys. My bogey, crouched behind the toppled shelving unit, hadn’t noticed me yet. He was too busy munching the bicep of one of the cadavers.
Toppled gurneys meant that we were already in the cross-contamination zone. No matter how quickly I wrapped this up, the funeral home was going to need biohazard remediation services.
Templeman was going to have a meltdown.
The shelf’s support brackets crisscrossed in front of Messmer’s head, obscuring my line of sight. I shifted my feet and accidently kicked one of the plastic bottles. It skittered across the tile floor, bowling into other bottles along the way.
Messmer snapped his head up and snarled at me.
I centered Hawk on his forehead with my left hand, then used my right hand to pull out the Doritos. After ripping open the bag with my teeth, I held it out to him. “Look what I’ve got!” With a gentle squeeze to the bottom of the bag, I nudged a chip out onto the floor. “That’s for you, dude. Go on, take it. You know you want it.”
Messmer scrambled to his feet, sniffed the air, and did the one thing I hoped he wouldn’t do. He twitched.
Why do I always get the twitchers?
The rotter grabbed hold of a toppled cabinet, pivoted toward me, and brought it high above his head. I stepped back to brace myself, but my foot landed on one of the plastic bottles and I fell just as I squeezed the trigger. My first bullet went high. My next bullet went wide. The third hit him right between the eyes. Target acquired.
It hadn’t been pretty. And it certainly hadn’t been clean, considering the ceiling slathered in zombie blood and brain sushi (known as zushi, in my trade). But, at least, the job was over, right? I’d almost made it to my feet when a brilliant flash blinded me, and the entire world went black.
The next thing I knew, I opened my eyes and found myself back out in the hallway, smashed up against the wall. I leaned forward with a moan and pulled my head from its skull-shaped crater in the drywall.
What the hell?
I pulled myself up along the sheetrock and surveyed what was left of Templeman’s Funeral Home. The back half of the prep room, and whatever had been behind it, was completely gone. Police and fire trucks were arriving at the scene. I wobbled through the carnage toward daylight, replaying the events as best I could, and made my way to the gaping hole in the building. Climbing over the crumbled brick and out onto lawn, I came face-to-face with Mr. Templeman.
The old buzzard was pointing at my gun and stomping his feet, but the gist of what he said was overridden by the ringing in my ears.
“Don’t worry. I’m fine,” I yelled, gently shaking drywall dust from my hair. Slowly, the haze in my brain began to lift. The noise-induced hearing loss faded and the sequence of events took shape in my aching head. I’d fired three shots. The first had hit the ceiling. The second had gone wide, to the right of Messmer. The third had hit his forehead. The shot that went wide wouldn’t have stopped until it hit the wall. For all I knew, it could have even gone through the wall and into the next room. If memory served, that had been a storage room.
I glanced at the pile of rubble and winced. “Mr. Templeman, were there chemicals in your storage room?”
“It’s a freaking funeral home! I had thirty cases of formaldehyde in there.”
Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit…
“Is that…flammable?”
His eyes blazed as he swept his arm toward the pile of pulverized building materials behind us. “What do you think, Einstein?
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H.R. Boldwood, author of the Corpse Whisperer series, countless short stories, and Imadjinn Award finalist, is a writer of horror and speculative fiction. In another incarnation, Boldwood is a Pushcart Prize nominee and winner of the 2009 Bilbo Award for creative writing by Thomas More College. Boldwood’s characters are often disreputable and not to be trusted. They are kicked to the curb at every conceivable opportunity when some poor unsuspecting publisher welcomes them with open arms. No responsibility is taken by this author for the dastardly and sometimes criminal acts committed by this ragtag group of miscreants.
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