Ex-Communication: A Novel (Ex-Heroes, Band 3) - Softcover

Buch 3 von 5: Ex-Heroes

Clines, Peter

 
9780385346825: Ex-Communication: A Novel (Ex-Heroes, Band 3)
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0385346824 ISBN 13: 9780385346825
Verlag: Crown, 2013

Inhaltsangabe

The third novel in Peter Clines' bestselling Ex series.

“All of us try to cheat death.  I was just better prepared to do it than most folks.”
 
In the years since the wave of living death swept the globe, St George and his fellow heroes haven’t just kept Los Angeles’ last humans alive—they’ve created a real community, a bustling town that’s spreading beyond its original walls and swelling with new refugees.
 
But now one of the heroes, perhaps the most powerful among them, seems to be losing his mind.  The implacable enemy known as Legion has found terrifying new ways of using zombies as pawns in his attacks.  And outside the Mount, something ancient and monstrous is hell-bent on revenge.
 
As Peter Clines weaves these elements together in yet another masterful, shocking climax, St. George, Stealth, Captain Freedom, and the rest of the heroes find that even in a city overrun by millions of ex-humans...
 
…there’s more than one way to come back from the dead.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

PETER CLINES has published several pieces of short fiction and countless articles on the film and television industries, as well as the novels Ex-Heroes, Ex-Patriots, Ex-Purgatory, and 14.  He lives and writes in southern California.

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The third novel in Peter Clines' bestselling Ex series.



"All of us try to cheat death. I was just better prepared to do it than most folks."



In the years since the wave of living death swept the globe, St George and his fellow heroes haven't just kept Los Angeles' last humans alive-they've created a real community, a bustling town that's spreading beyond its original walls and swelling with new refugees.



But now one of the heroes, perhaps the most powerful among them, seems to be losing his mind. The implacable enemy known as Legion has found terrifying new ways of using zombies as pawns in his attacks. And outside the Mount, something ancient and monstrous is hell-bent on revenge.



As Peter Clines weaves these elements together in yet another masterful, shocking climax, St. George, Stealth, Captain Freedom, and the rest of the heroes find that even in a city overrun by millions of ex-humans...



…there's more than one way to come back from the dead.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Location, Location, Location
 
THEN
 
     The arrow on my GPS was starting to turn, but the road looked like it was turning with it.  We’d been driving for about an hour at that point.  Neither of us said much.  We didn’t speak the same language, so it wasn’t that surprising.
     My driver, Nikita (named after Khrushchev, his manager had told me) was an inch taller than me, maybe twice as wide, and with a permanent scowl cutting across his stubble.  Picture every stereotypical Russian you’ve ever seen.  The reason it’s the stereotype is because so many of them look like that.  Nikita’s one of them.  The scent of cloves hung on him like cologne, but he had the good manners not to light one up while we were in the car together.
     To be honest, we tried to talk a couple times.  I think that’s just human nature.  We’ve got another person next to us, so we feel obligated to say something.  Every now and then I’d ask about our progress or part of the landscape or offer to show him the GPS so he could get his bearings.  Once I tried asking about the weather.  “It’s a lot warmer than I expected,” I said.  “Is it always this warm here in the summer or is this a global warming thing?”
     Half the time he’d ignore me.  The other half he’d turn and reply with a few sentences.  Or maybe one sentence with some really long words.  I can’t even speak a few words of Russian on my own, so it was hard to tell.  Once, he delivered a long, impassioned speech about... something.  Maybe a tree we passed that he grew up with or something.  I have no idea.
     It wouldn’t’ve taken much to speak Russian, granted.  There’s a tattoo on my Adam’s apple for just that sort of thing, and one behind each earlobe.  But a lot of the stuff we were carrying was very sensitive and I couldn’t risk it getting tainted by other energies.
     So, anyway, when I’d tried to hire a guide, I hadn’t thought to ask for someone who spoke English. It’d been hard enough explaining the location I wanted to the guy at the agency.
     “Here,” I told him, pointing at the map.  “That’s where I want to go.”
     The tour guide manager was a skinny man who reeked of cigarettes.  His fingers were yellow.  I got the sense they’d been a regular part of his diet for years.  He looked at the map spread across the counter.  “Cherepanovo?”
     I shook my head and tapped the map again.
     “Iskitim?”  He shook his head.  “Bad place for tourists.”
     “No,” I said shaking my head again.  I double-checked my notes—as if I didn’t have the exact location memorized—grabbed a pencil, and made a small X on the map.  “There,” I told him.  “I want to go right there.”
     He frowned at the mark on his map, then peered at it.  “Sixty kilometers away,” he said.  “Nothing out there but a few poselok—little villages.”
     “I just need to be there in two and a half hours,” I told him.  “Me and my equipment.”  I gestured at the bags and pulled a few bills from my wallet.  This trip was costing me three month’s pay, but if I pulled this off, it’d be worth it.
     Granted, if I messed it up, there was a solid chance I was going to be very dead.  Along with everyone in a forty mile radius or so.  Give or take a mile.
     He shrugged, took the money, and picked up the phone.  After a quick conversation in Russian he told me my driver would be here in twenty minutes.  He explained Nikita’s name as we killed time.
     I expected to get two or three people and a truck.  Instead I got Nikita.  The man was an ox.  He threw one bag onto his back and picked up one under each arm.  He and the manager tossed a few quick words back and forth and then he marched over to a battered BMW sedan.  He fit all three bags in the big trunk—you can’t help but think of the Russian Mafia when you see a trunk that big—and waved me to the passenger side of the car.
     For almost an hour now we’d been driving along a paved road that could’ve been in Kansas or Oklahoma or some flyover, grain-belt state.  You hear Siberia and you picture some nightmare arctic wasteland, but it’s kind of beautiful.  If you’re into that sort of thing.
     The arrow on the GPS began to swing again, but this time the road didn’t swing with it.  I looked ahead but didn’t see any turnoffs.  Nikita drove along at a steady fifty miles an hour or so.  The arrow was pointing at the steering wheel, then him, and then it was aimed at the back seat.
     “Stop,” I told him.  “We missed it.”
     He grunted, shook his head, and gestured at the road ahead of us.
     “No,” I said, shaking my own head.  “Back there.”  I held up the GPS. 
     Nikita slowed the car to look at the little digital arrow, then glanced back over his shoulder.  He sighed and turned the car around in a wide three-point turn.
     We backtracked three-quarters of a mile until the arrow was perpendicular to the road.  He watched it with me and brought the car to a smooth stop.  I hopped out. 
     It looked like we were on the edge of someone’s field, one that’d grown wild for a season or two.  Just flat land for miles, broken by a couple small clumps of trees.  For some reason I’d imagined this spot would be in some remote forest or something.  Maybe a mountain plateau.
     We were still half a mile away.  I looked back at Nikita.  He’d opened his door and looked over the car at me.  “Come on,” I told him.  I pointed at the trunk.  “Bring the bags.”
     He threw his hands up and looked around with a bewildered expression.  He threw a few words at me and gestured at the road again.
     I pointed out at the field with the GPS and tapped my watch.  “The bags,” I said again.
     He sighed, slammed his door shut, and stomped over to the trunk.
     I stumbled out into the field.  The grass was just high and thick enough that I couldn’t see the ground, so it was awkward.  I made myself go slow.  It would suck to get this close, after all this time, and break my ankle a few hundred yards from the site.
    Nikita cleared his throat behind me.  “We drive out here to see field?”
     I stopped and looked back at him.  “You can speak English?”
     He snorted.  “Of course I speak English.  You think this is United States where people speak only one language?  Russians much smarter.”
...

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Verlag
Crown
Erscheinungsdatum
2013
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0385346824
ISBN 13 
9780385346825
Einband
Taschenbuch
Auflage
1
Anzahl der Seiten
352
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
gpsr@libri.de
gpsr@libri.de

Friedensallee 273
Hamburg
22763
Deutschland

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