Eric T. Knight's Blog, page 37

Guatemala – 1999 part 2

tacos.

Wednesday

I take over the wheel for my second shift at daybreak in Amarillo, Texas.�� We won’t allow the photographer to drive.�� He looks worse in the daylight, his reddish hair stuck to one side of his head, stale beer sweating freely from his overworked body.�� I can’t see his eyes behind his glasses and that troubles me.�� He is pale and soft, like a fish.

I caught a few hours last night while Josh drove, but we never stopped.�� I’m tired enough that I have to blink hard to focus on the road.�� Josh sighs a lot and his words come slowly.�� He keeps asking me if I think he should sleep.

Why are we doing this?�� That is the question Josh and I bounce back and forth while Umberto alternates between snoring, opening another warm beer or adding his own disjointed comments.�� We ignore him.�� I try once to bring him into the conversation but it is futile.�� I can’t tell if it’s the alcohol or just his ordinary state.

The answer to the question should be easy.�� We’re going to sell this ridiculous car.�� Taking risks we shouldn’t for what will no doubt turn out to be a foolish amount of money.�� Better by far to race across Texas holding up a string of convenience stores, blasting Jimmy Buffet for courage and eating stolen Slim Jims.

Million of cars a year are stolen in the U.S.�� Many of them end up on the long pipeline south, down to Central America and yes, Guatemala, where we’re going.�� Import taxes of 80% or worse on legal cars makes this a lucrative trade.�� The bribes are easy and the chances of prosecution nil.�� Against all this our one dubious little Volkswagen of mid-80’s vintage surely can’t count for much.

But it’s not that.�� It never was that.�� The car thing was only a story for wives and girlfriends, a way to alleviate black looks.

It’s for the story.�� That’s why we have the photographer.�� It’s why our editors fronted us perfectly good cash and loaned us his services.

It’s not that either.�� As much as we try and reassure ourselves, we know we’re writers, not journalists.�� A couple of perfectly useless Creative Writing degrees between us.

It’s a quest, that’s what we finally agree on.�� A search for the primal, a deeper, darker side of ourselves that can only be found south of the border, where potholes swallow cars whole, the beer flows freely, and a man knows not to look at the soldados at the checkpoints.�� A place where an industrious man once stole an entire country and held it for several years.

On the surface our credentials are impeccable.�� It has been ten years since I was south of the border, but I once spent quite a bit of time down there.�� Lived in the primitive areas, made friends with the locals, got sicker than I’ve ever beeen.

Ten years true, but in the intervening time I’ve seen a great many other places.�� Spent several years out of the country.�� Met my Swiss wife Down Under.�� Toured the South Pacific.�� Lived in Europe.

Josh lived in Panajachel, our quasi-destination, for a year.�� When he was 19 he left school and hitched to Tierra del Fuego, via the hardest and most foolish route he could find.�� He’s lived in Ecuador, sold oranges in Panama, stumbled through the salt flats of Argentina.�� This would be a trip to the supermarket for him.

We clasp hands and agree on the severity of our quest.�� Blood brothers to the end.�� The photographer garbles something from the back seat and a limp hand pokes into the front.�� We give him a cigarette.

I remember back, last night/this morning, late/early when I tried to help clean up the back at a gas stop.�� I’d been sleeping in the back, the photographer’s haven.�� I stuck my hand in a plastic bag on the floor in the back – just awakened, gritty and weird – and got it back with a fine layer of tobacco spit juice.

That’s when I feared.

Sputtering gas station lights revealed taco clutter all over the floor.�� Broken shells.�� Cheese.�� Spilt salsa.�� Partial, piss-warm beers.�� The photographer’s sleeping bag smelt so bad I couldn’t touch it.

That’s when I knew.

Our photographer would have to go.

We break it to him outside Corpus Christi, in the parking lot of Ben’s Big Pig Hog-A-While.�� (“The thickest, slickest ribs in Texas.”)�� He’d stayed, passed-out, in the car while we ate and plotted against him.�� Worked up our nerve for what would have to be done.

He takes it well.�� Laughs even, and pats us on our backs.�� But there is something in his eyes which says this has been done to him before, and often during the night.

On the road again and Mexico lies just over the horizon.�� Freedom.�� Texas is too damn big and probably best viewed from outer space or somewhere further away.�� Perhaps we are expecting the flashing lights when they pull us over.

The cop is friendly, courteous, but persistent.�� His job is interdiction.�� Drugs and weapons and the border.�� His excuse for taking us down is a bad turn signal.�� His real reason a profile that we fit.

He searches our car three times while the drug dog paces in the back of his car and we stand in the Texas sunset.�� He is sure he has us and he does, but he is looking for the wrong thing.�� He barely glances at licenses, doesn’t care about registration.�� He wants drugs and the fact that we are going the wrong way, that we would have to be the world’s biggest morons to be smuggling drugs into Mexico, doesn’t carry much weight with him.�� What is a minor thing like geography compared to the science of profiling?�� But this is Texas and we aren’t too tired to know that the rules are different here.

Suddenly, irrationally, we are free.�� Shaken but determined.

Wreckers Gate – 2

���You���ll pay for this,��� he moaned from where he lay on the ground. ���I���ll see you dragged back to Qarath in chains.���

Rome walked past the fallen man without giving him another look, but when he heard the gasp of pain he knew that Quyloc hadn���t been so kind. A sharp kick, probably. Ilus had once dressed down Quyloc in front of all the men and then had him lashed, all because Quyloc did not stand when he went by. Quyloc didn���t easily forget a slight.

Rome held the axe loosely in one hand as he made his way through the camp. The men were gathering as news of his presence spread. They crowded around his path, many fresh off the battle field, armored and carrying weapons. Some were wounded, with bloodstained bandages wrapped around heads and limbs, hobbling out of the medical tents to see what the noise was about. There were scattered cheers as he made his way through them, Quyloc and Tairus close behind, and a number fell in behind him.

When it became clear that he was headed for the walls of Thrikyl the cheers began to die off and bewilderment and concern began to show. Did he mean them to mount a new attack on the impregnable city? Especially now, when they were already bloodied from the day and the sun was slipping close to the horizon? Many of them drew back, whispering among themselves. The Black Wolf wore no armor, his clothes were rags and he carried a strange-looking axe. Had he gone mad?

At the edge of bowshot Rome turned to Quyloc. ���Wait here.���

���What are you doing?��� Quyloc hissed, trying to keep his voice low enough that the soldiers couldn���t hear. ���Are you crazy?���

���Probably,��� Rome admitted. ���If I am, there���s no sense in you or anyone else getting killed too.���

���I have to agree with Quyloc,��� Tairus put in. ���I don���t see how getting yourself killed is going to do anyone any good.��� He looked back at the massed soldiers, every eye watching intently. ���They respect you. Hell, they love you. Talk to them. Maybe they will follow you.���

���And if they do, what then?��� Rome asked. ���We march on Qarath and besiege it, kill our own people in a bloody civil war?��� He shook his head. ���No. I have to do this. If it doesn���t work, Rix will get what he wants and no one else dies. If it doesn���t������ What made him think this would work? What did the days in the Gur al Krin do to his brain? he wondered.

Except that the axe seemed to be humming slightly in his hands and he had a feeling he knew what it was capable of.

Alone he started across the empty battlefield, looking at the high stone walls before him. They were massive, a good hundred spans tall. It was said that the walls of Thrikyl had been built by the gods and while that might not have been true, what was true was there were no visible seams in the stone. It might have been raised whole from the very bedrock. Those walls had never fallen.

Rome thought he heard a voice urging him on, perhaps one of the men waiting behind him. Perhaps only his own imagination. He shifted the axe to hold it in both hands. Too light for a proper weapon, but beautifully balanced.

He was halfway to the walls when he heard the hurrying footsteps behind him and knew it was Quyloc. Always Quyloc backed him up, ever since they were boys. Now Rome felt his smile break out. This was the way it should be. With Quyloc behind him there was nothing he couldn���t do. His brawn and Quyloc���s brains. ���Just like when we took down Dirty Henry,��� he said, but didn���t think Quyloc heard. It didn���t matter. What mattered was that all this ended right here. Now.

Wreckers Gate, book 1 of��The Devastation Wars

Wreckers Gate excerpt

How long they���d been crossing the Gur al Krin Rome could no longer say. All he knew for sure was that he was close to dying. The dune he and Quyloc were climbing seemed to have no end and he wasn���t even trying to stand anymore. Crawling was good enough. It was all he had left. Momentum and sheer stubbornness had kept him going this far, but even that was fading. His tongue had swollen to fill his mouth completely. He thought he could feel the tip of it protruding from between his blistered lips. The world tilted and blackness crowded the edges of his vision hungrily. Quyloc was a vague form somewhere ahead of him.

When he finally made it to the top of the dune it took a moment for the fact to register. He raised his head, expecting only to see more sand dunes ahead. Instead he saw something unbelievable. Quyloc croaked something. Rome closed his eyes, rubbed them, then opened them, afraid to believe what his eyes told him. They���d shown him many things in the last few hours, all of them lies.

Far below, at the foot of the dune, the sand trickled away to nothing. A narrow canyon ran off at an angle, crowded with rock spires and jagged boulders. A few stunted trees sprouted from the bottom of the canyon amid tufts of iron-gray grass. And right there, in the canyon, behind a crude earthen dam, was a muddy pool of water hardly big enough for a dozen men to crowd around. Paradise. The water swelled and exploded in his vision and Rome knew, at last, that this was no lie. Eager noises came from him as he started crawling head first down the dune.

Quyloc grabbed his arm and croaked again. Rome tried to push him off but Quyloc was insistent. ���Crodin,��� it sounded like he said. He held out a shaking finger.

Rome followed the finger with his eyes and nearly wept at what he saw. Huddled in the shade of a cliff wall were a handful of hide tents, painted with garish symbols in orange and red and yellow. A dog padded listlessly through the camp and flopped down in a patch of shade. No Crodin were visible, but that did not mean they were not there. It was midafternoon, the height of the daily furnace. Only idiots and dying men moved at this time.

���I���ll kill them,��� Rome said, or tried to. The sounds coming from him didn���t sound much like words. He felt for his battle axe but the only weapon that met his fingers was the strange black axe he���d found in the desert. Every other weapon was gone. He didn���t have so much as a dagger. The thing couldn���t be very useful. It felt like it was made of glass. Likely it would shatter if he so much as dropped it. He wished he hadn���t lost his other axe.

���Nightfall,��� Quyloc croaked.

Quyloc was insane. The sun wouldn���t go down for hours. He���d never live that long. He didn���t care what the Crodin did to him. He was going down there now. But when he tried to crawl forward once again he couldn���t move his legs. He turned his head, saw Quyloc lying across his legs.

���Circle around. Find shade.���

Rome fought him anyway. He didn���t want shade; he wanted water. But he couldn���t seem to reach back where he could get a hold of Quyloc and after a moment he had to stop. The sun made all movement so difficult. He sagged down onto the hot sand. ���Okay.���

Quyloc rolled off him and then helped him pull himself back up to the crest of the dune and down the other side, out of sight, where they began the laborious process of circling around, finding a place where they could hide from the sun without being seen. A process made so much worse by the knowledge that water, life, salvation, lay so close at hand.

Wreckers Gate, Book I of The Devastation Wars

Watching the End of the World – 20

Two hours passed and Nate woke up Akila and went back down the ladder. Tony was no longer in the warehouse. Tamara and Jordynn were sprawled out on the couch and the love seat. Tamara was snoring. Caleb and Santiago were the only ones still awake.

As Nate walked into the room, Caleb gripped Santiago���s hand fiercely. In his other hand he was holding his rifle.

���We���ll show those wankers,��� he said, his words slurring. ���They come again we���ll give them what for.���

Santiago banged the butt of his rifle on the table. ���Gonna shoot them some new assholes.��� He was slurring badly too. There were two empty bottles on the table between them and a glass that had been tipped over.

���There���s nothing������ Caleb stumbled over his words. ���Nothing we can���t do, the two of us, so long���s we stick���stick together.���

���That���s it, hermano,��� Santiago replied. ���That���s it.��� He saw Nate standing there and waved him over. ���Hey, come join us. Have a drink, a drink to kicking ass.���

���I���ll pass,��� Nate said. Santiago said something derisive but he ignored him and went to find a bed.

Watching the End of the World

Free review copies?

It’s true. I’m trying to build reviews and I need your help. (Just picture one of those old Uncle Sam wants you posters, but imagine me, who you don’t know from a stick in the mud – hint: I’m the one who doesn’t look like a stick in the mud – in place of Uncle Sam and you as…well, you.)

(here, maybe this picture will help. ps, i’m a little more smiley than him)

So, back on topic. I need help with reviews. You need a great book to read to get your mind off of that whole bag of Cheetos��you ate last night (don’t think people don’t notice the orange stains on your fingers, because they do). The solution?

Watching the End of the World.

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Click here, fill out the form, and I’ll send you a digital review copy. In exchange, I hope you will review the book on Amazon and/or elsewhere. (No bathroom walls, please.) That’s it. Easy peasy.

PS Let me know what format you prefer – Word, PDF, mobi, epub.

Not Hiding Anymore

I have a confession to make: I’ve always been somewhat ashamed of being a writer. Maybe��ashamed isn’t the right word. Maybe I should say embarrassed. Whatever the word is, I’ve always kind of hidden my writing from others. It goes like this.

Standing around with the other men at a gathering of some sort, maybe a kid’s birthday party (when you have little kids there’s a lot of those). Not really knowing each other, sooner or later one of us says, “So, what do you do?” Ugh. I hate this question. I generally focus on the more acceptable jobs I’ve done over the years, like teacher, small business owner, social worker. If I mention writing at all it’s a quick mumble, always hoping they’ll gloss over it.

Bad is when someone says, “Oh, what do you write?” I was trying to avoid this. Bad enough that I spend so much time tapping computer keys for no money, but a great deal of that time has been spent writing fantasy.��Fantasy. Saying that aloud to a group of strange men is the kiss of death.��You write about dragons and unicorns? (For the record, I have never written about either. I have some pride. Just kidding. Not putting down those who write about either. I love both of them and can talk at length about��The Last Unicorn.)

Even amongst my old friends, those who have known me since college, when I was actually getting my Creative Writing degree and was proud of it, I’ve kept it all down low. I don’t talk to them about my latest book, especially not when they’re talking about the stress and hassle of their Serious Important Jobs. It’s just me and my dirty little secret.

Why so much secrecy, you ask? Well, I think I’ve always felt the pressure to have a “real” job that is proper and productive. (For the record, I’ve had lots of “real” jobs. After all, I’m married with two kids. Food doesn’t produce itself. It’s just that I’ve always avoided them as much as possible and gotten tired of doing them right away.) Writing’s okay as a hobby, but a real man should have a real job. (Writing can be a real job too, if it’s technical writing or journalism, both of which I hate with a passion and both of which would crush the joy I take in writing.)

Anyway, I’m done with all that. I’m not hiding my passion anymore. I love writing. I am passionate about it. There’s nothing like the feeling when I’m in the midst of the scene and I can watch it unfolding before my eyes, when the characters are racing around doing crazy, cool, interesting things and I’m just running along after them trying to get it down before it’s gone. When it’s on, when it’s happening, I’m not calling the shots. The characters are. They come alive and they grab me by the throat and they��demand to be heard.

It’s awesome. There’s nothing else like it.

I’m a writer. I’ve been writing novels for 25 years now, since the 80’s. By my estimation I passed Malcolm Gladwell’s 10,000 hour mark somewhere in the 2000’s. By now I must have 15k hours. That’s 15,000 hours of my life doing something that has almost never paid me a dime, turning out works that at most a few dozen people read. I’ve been writing in the early morning darkness when others were asleep. I’ve been writing when others were watching TV or killing time on the Internet. Day after day. Week after week. Month after month.

I’m proud of that. I’m proud of my dedication. Proud of my hard work. I’ve written a dozen novels over the years and the last five have been really good. They’re quality, well-crafted stories with strong characters and unexpected surprises.��I can hold them up with pride.

I’m a writer. And I’m proud of it. If you’re a writer, I hope you’re proud of it as well.

Watching the End of the World – 19 or so, can’t remember

Nate stood there for a minute longer, wishing there was something he could say or do but the truth was that there wasn���t. He felt just as lost and desperate as Tony. Finally he left and went on the roof.

When he opened the trapdoor and stuck his head out, he couldn���t see anything but inky blackness. From the blackness came Akila���s voice.

���Shut that thing. You���re ruining my night vision.���

He climbed out onto the roof and lowered the trap door behind him. Afraid he might fall over the edge, he just stood there. After a minute, shapes began to emerge from the darkness. Gradually he picked out Akila, standing at one end of the warehouse. A mosquito whined by his ear and he slapped at it. He walked over to her.

���If you want to go get some sleep, I can watch for a while.���

���Thanks. I could use a break.��� She didn���t offer him the rifle, for which Nate was grateful. She walked a few feet away and lay down on the roof.

���Aren���t you going to go inside?���

���No offense, but it doesn���t look like you know your ass from a hole in the ground when it comes to weapons.���

���I���ve seen them in movies and on TV. They don���t seem to ever run out of bullets.���

���I���ll give you all a lesson tomorrow. Until then I���ll keep a hold of this for you. If you hear anything, just wake me up.���

���Yes, sir.���

���Now you���re getting it.��� She shifted, trying to get more comfortable, then said, ���Did those knuckleheads find any more ammo?���

���No.���

���Good. I���m more worried about one of them shooting me by accident than one of the enemy.���

A minute or two passed in silence. ���Akila?���

Sharply. ���What?���

Nate told her what they���d seen on the TV. When he was done he waited for her to respond but she said nothing. ���Well?��� he said.

���Well, what?���

���What are we going to do?���

���The same thing we���re doing right now. Keep our heads and be ready when those assholes come back shooting.���

���Is that it?���

���We���re in enemy territory. Probably outnumbered. We���ve got no intel and no chance of reinforcement. Seems like enough to me.���

Nate felt like shaking her. ���But what about the virus?��� he said in exasperation.

���What about it?���

���Is that all you have to say?��� He realized his voice had risen but he couldn���t seem to control it. ���Our world���s falling apart and that���s all you have?���

He heard her sit up, felt her eyes on him. ���Listen, Nate. I was a soldier for eight years. If I learned one thing during that time, it���s this: sleep when you can. Don���t fret about things outside your control. Focus on the enemy in front of you.���

���That���s more than one thing.���

���Damned if it isn���t. I was never much good at math.��� She lay back down.

Nate started to say something else and she cut him off. ���Don���t say another word. I���m trying to sleep. Get me up in two hours.���

Then Nate sat there in the darkness, listening as her breathing grew steady and slow. At first it was unbearable. He wanted to talk. He wanted to scream. He wanted to do something. But gradually her words sank in. There really wasn���t anything he or the others could do about what was happening in the outside world. All they could do was deal with what they had in front of them. That was enough.

He must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew he was jolted up out of a dream by a loud roaring from the trees. He jumped to his feet.

���What was that? Was that a lion?���

Akila didn���t reply. There was another roar and after it a chorus of shrieks and cries. What the hell were those? Birds? Monkeys?

Another roar and Nate walked over to Akila and shook her. ���Wake up.���

���Quit that. I���m awake.���

���There���s a lion.���

���I heard it.���

���What should we do?���

���Let me go back to sleep.���

���But what if it gets up here?���

���Then wake me up and I���ll shoot it for you. You can make a rug. Go away. Now.���

Watching the End of the World

(Near) Death in the Daintree

There’s this rain forest in Australia called the Daintree and I nearly died there at the hands of a madman.

Perhaps I should explain.

Twenty years ago or so��I quit a��teaching job and took off to see Australia. I flew to Cairns (pronounced “cans”) in northeastern Australia with a few grand in the bank and plans to hopefully spend six months there through a combination of scrounging whatever (illegal) work I could and absolutely pinching every penny I had to death. I was traveling alone because all my friends were either busy being responsible, hardworking adults, or were broke-ass deadbeats.

I spent a couple days in Cairns and decided it would be fun to go north to Cooktown. I could have hitched but I was still a little freaked out at being that far away all alone so I opted for the next cheapest option, ride sharing. Gas (or petrol, as they call it for some odd reason) is bloody expensive in Oz, so people do a lot of ride sharing when they have a long trip to go on. It works like this: Tom wants to go to Cooktown and he has a car. But the petrol is going to cost him an arm and a leg. So he puts up a note on the board in one of the local backpackers (they’re like hostels; you share a room with a bunch of other people and save a lot of money) offering a ride in exchange for sharing the gas expense. Eric wants to go to Cooktown but is too cheap for a bus, so he calls Tom. Tom picks him up. They drive to Cairns. End of story.

Unless Tom is a madman.

I knew the day was going to be interesting when we’d been driving for a few minutes and he casually said, “I think we’ll take the short cut through the rain forest, eh mate?” (Try to imagine all dialog in this post with an Australian accent. It will make the experience more immersive.)

Now, what I should have said was, “There’s no such thing as a��short cut through a freakin’ rain forest, you damned idiot!��The words ‘short cut’ and ‘rain forest’ don’t even��go together!”

Instead I double checked our ride. Maybe I just imagined we were riding in a Toyota station wagon. Maybe we were really in a Landcruiser. No, it was a station wagon. Maybe Tom was pulling my leg. The Australians have been known to “wind up” Americans for fun. No, he seemed serious. I should have gotten out of the car right then. But for some dumb reason I stayed cool and offered a noncommittal response.

The Daintree Rain Forest is, as the name implies, a rain forest. Complete with lots of rain, mud and general jungle conditions. It is also home to numerous salt water crocodiles, which are generally considered to be the most vicious predator on the face of the planet. You see, your friendly neighborhood shark isn’t a huge fan of human meat, being filled with preservatives and such, and is only interested in hunting when he’s hungry. Crocs, on the other hand, can’t eat you fresh. They want to eat you after you’ve been rotting for a week or so, because you’re lots more tender then. So he hunts when he’s not hungry, whenever the opportunity presents itself.����And salt water crocs, of all the members of the croc family, seem to consider humans as great entrees.

But wait, you’re thinking. Eric called them��salt water crocs. He’s going through the rain forest. That’s fresh water. Good. You’re paying attention. The problem with your reasoning is Mr. Salt Water Croc has no problems with swimming miles and miles up fresh water rivers, finding a nice little pond in the middle of nowhere and waiting for some fool to come along and, I don’t know, wash the mud off him in the pond. He can run 35 miles per hour in short bursts and leap clean out of the water if he wants.

Enough about the crocs. I’m setting you up. For the record, I did��not almost get eaten by one. I just find them truly terrifying creatures and wanted to spread my fear to you, in case you ever think about getting one at the pet store.

So there I was in a Corolla station wagon, driving into the rain forest with a madman. It was, of course, muddy, and raining. Because it’s a rain forest. Every mile or so we passed another sign saying something like: Danger! Four wheel drives only! This means you, you idiot!

I pointed out the first couple signs but Tom just laughed them off in true Australian madman style. “That’s just to scare the tourists. We’ll be right, mate!”

We did see other vehicles, all of them looking like something you’d see on a National Geographic expedition. Their occupants all pointed and stared. My uneasiness grew.

Tom’s approach to the bad stretches of road, of which there were many, was to wind the little motor up and charge headlong into the morass. While laughing wildly, perhaps even maniacally. We slid sideways as often as forward. There was much crashing through rivers and flying up steep hills. There were many opportunities to consider fiery death while we were sliding towards a wicked drop off on the side of the road. I remember eyeing my backpack in the back seat and thinking,��If he slows down enough, I’m grabbing that and jumping out. I’ll walk back to town.

Finally came the hill he just couldn’t make it up. Ruefully, he said, “I reckon we’ll have to turn back.”

Best thing I heard all day. I started thinking I was going to live after all.

Then it happened. We came to a stretch with deep ruts carved into it. Somehow, we’d made it across the first time, but now our luck ran out. The wheels dropped down into the ruts and we were going nowhere. Tom suggested I push and when I got out, the mud was so slick I immediately fell down. It was like someone spread oil over ice.��I’m not kidding.

I skidded around back to push and then forgot everything I ever knew about getting a vehicle out of mud. (Growing up on a ranch, I know a bit about this subject.) I positioned myself behind the��drive wheel. Which meant that when Tom stomped the gas, mud sprayed me head to toe. Literally.

Tom laughed so hard I thought he’d have a stroke. He suggested I clean off if I wanted to ride in his car anymore. There was a river nearby – big surprise, in a rain forest – and a decent-sized pool. However, due to the aforementioned crocs, I was a little apprehensive so I pretty much cleaned off by the following method: Dash up to the water’s edge. Splash on a couple handfuls. Dash back. Watch for crocs. Repeat. All of which Tom found equally funny.

I got back in the car. It rained some more. I was feeling pretty glum. Tom was downright chipper. I concluded he was insane.

“How the hell are we getting out of here?”

“Something will come up.”

Lunatic.

Finally this giant expedition vehicle came along. Eight wheels. Gear lashed all over the top. About ten tourists sitting in it. It stops. The driver rolls down his window. I’m thinking, Great. This guy can pull us out no problem. We’re saved.

“You boys have food?” Sort of. “Because you’re going to need it. Looks like you’re going to be here for a while.” (All the while the tourists are snapping pictures of us like crazy. Look, Martha. Here’s our pictures of those dumbasses in a Corolla stuck in the rain forest! Wonder if they’re dead.)

Then the rat bastard rolled up his window and��drove away. I couldn’t believe it. I wanted to feed his smug ass to the crocs.

Well, to cut this all short, someone finally did tow us out. By the time we got back on the highway the car was completely covered in mud. There was no visibility through any of the windows, except for the windshield where Tom’s one working wiper worked only poorly. Freed of the restraints of bad roads and mud, Tom proceeded to drive at approximately the speed of sound through mountain roads, careening into the opposite lane half the time, practically blind because of the mud. I only thought we were going to die in the rain forest. On the highway I was sure of it.

Long after dark we rolled into Cooktown. Sitting in a pub, Eric guzzling beers in an attempt to soothe his nerves, and Tom says, “My car before this was also a Corolla wagon.”

“Oh, yeah?” I reply. “What happened to it?”

“I rolled it.”

Big surprise there.

Nick Cole’s Red King reviewed

I���m not quite sure how I stumbled onto Nick Cole���s book Red King, from the Apocalypse Weird Saga. I think I fell down into one of those Internet rabbit holes (it happens periodically, maybe more often than that) and when I snapped on my penlight, lo and behold, there was the Red King. Post-apocalypse? Check. Zombies? Check. As an added benefit the cover screamed pulp and there���s times when I just have to feed that appetite (said appetite having been first discovered while reading Robert E. Howard in my youth) especially since my appetite was recently whetted by a binge consumption of Z Nation (which I heartily recommend).

I have to admit, at first I���m not that impressed. I watch as Holliday binge drinks for a few days and thus completely misses the introduction of the zombie apocalypse and am reminded fondly of Sean of the Dead���s intro, but he doesn���t seem to me all that interesting of a character. Nor do the next characters to happen along, Ash and Frank.

But then along comes Jackson Braddock and the weird part of the title starts to kick in. Braddock is kicking ass and killing zombies in a downtown LA that is almost completely overrun by Zed. But he���s not just trying to get to safety or save a busload of children or anything so mundane as that. No, Braddock is trying to intercept and terminate a target, get hold of the briefcase the target���s carrying, and bring it to the lone military outpost still standing in LA, a downtown bank skyscraper.

Really? It���s the zombie apocalypse and the most important thing isn���t trying to kill the zombies or escape but to get a briefcase? I have to know what���s in that briefcase. Okay, Jack���s at the bank building, he���s talking to the military, they���re going to expedite his ass out of there ��� and then, holy shit! People gunning each other down. Betrayal. Dirty nuke exploding. And there���s Jack with some head bad guy and there���s more going on here than just the ZA and, oh yeah, the head bad guy isn���t really a guy at all, but something else.

Now the story���s moving. Back to Holliday, Ash and Frank and, you know what, the characters are starting to come alive and get interesting. Holliday makes about the worst decision a person could make in the middle of the ZA but not too surprising for those of us with first-hand knowledge of how addicts think. But it���s all a set up to bring in���

Ritter.

���Holiday saw a white guy who thought he was street. A guy who listened to rap, maybe even thought he was a major league drug dealer, when at best he smoked weed too much and dealt on the side to pay for his habit, often at the expense of his friends. Holiday saw a guy who was probably raised by a single mother in a bad neighborhood. In short, he saw the President of the White Guys chapter for the Snoop Dogg fan club.���

Okay. So Cole has brought in some kind of stereotypical cocky street punk. The story backs up then and I get to find out how Ritter spent his past few days, holed up in some nameless office building with some other unlucky stiffs and they���re dealing with the fact that one of their own, Dave, who was going to break out and bring them help, is now Zombie chow and they���re stuck.

Except that Ritter knew all along the guy wasn���t going to make it. He went along with the plan to get Dave out of the way. Heck, even if Dave had cleared the zombies he was doomed. Why? Because Ritter gave him the wrong damned keys to the getaway car. Shit. That���s cold. And now I���m definitely racing through the pages.

Interesting. Ritter claims he knew Dave was going to bail on them and that���s why he gave him the wrong keys. Maybe there���s more to Ritter than meets the eye. He���s watching the other people he���s trapped with, gauging, assessing. There���s a whole lot more thinking going on in his head than he lets on but when serious insights into others is interspersed with straight-up idiot white boy gangster thoughts it���s hard to tell if Ritter is brilliant or a delusional, empty poser.

After poor Dave���s moment in the spotlight as the zombie���s lunch du jour, the survivors come up with a new plan to escape, except that, according to Ritter, he���s the one with the plan and he���s just manipulating the others into thinking that it���s their plan. He���s looking more delusional. And in the midst of it all he���s checking his cell phone for a text. Some package he���s supposed to deliver that Dave had and refused to give him, which is why he���s still here. And now I really have to know what is so freaking important that anyone would still give a shit about it after the world ended.

I���ve said enough and I hope I haven���t spoiled anything for anyone. I guess what I really wanted to get across is that Ritter looks to be one of the most interesting characters I���ve come across in a while, right up there with Caine (please, please read Heroes Die) and Sandman Slim (Richard Kadrey���s character is awesome). I want to watch him do his thing more. I want to figure out who he is.

I���m also intrigued by the blurbs at the end of the book where eight other authors introduce their books set in the Apocalypse Weird saga and we���re told that ���old secrets and dark enemies merge across multiple realities that are getting dangerously close to one another.��� I want to see how all this fits together. I hope it lives up to its promise. Does anyone remember the old Thieves��� World books? That���s the closest I remember to something like this and I hope it���s as good.

Check out��The Red King on Amazon.

Landsend Plateau – 2

In the morning when she sat up and brushed her hair from her eyes, Shakre saw that he was awake, lying on his side, watching her. In the morning light his facial scars were more prominent. He looked much like a human, though his face was coarser in its features, his nose broad and flat, his eyes deep set below a thick brow. He was hairless, his scalp smooth except for some old scars. His ears were tiny, pressed into his head almost like an afterthought. His neck was as big around as his head, solid muscle joined to massive shoulders and a chest that bulged with more muscle. There didn���t look to be any fat on him, just layer after layer of muscle all the way down to his feet. Mindful of the violence which crouched within him, she made no move to approach him, only sat there with her hands in her lap and returned his gaze.

The clouds were thin and shredded by a brisk wind. The lake grumbled to itself. The Godstooth loomed over them like an aged grandfather about to fall. After a few minutes he sat up, then pushed himself to his feet, though it was with some difficulty. She wanted to help, but she sensed that he did not accept help easily, that it was likely only to enrage him, and she sat without moving while he grunted and levered himself upright. He looked down at her, his eyes a yellow-gold color, like a cat���s. He looked at the cloaks that lay in a pile around him, then at her.

���I am Shakre,��� she said, pointing at herself. ���I have come to help you.��� Her words would mean nothing to him, but she thought the sound of her voice might.

He grunted and turned away from her to look at the fallen bodies of his foes and his great hands clenched. She followed his gaze and a small exclamation of surprise came from her.

The gray-cloaked man was gone.

She got to her feet and walked the few steps to where his body had lain. There were no tracks, no sign of the body walking or being dragged away. No sign of anyone approaching the body. It was simply gone. She shuddered and whispered a prayer for the man he had once been. Kasai owned that one, and Kasai did not easily give up what it had taken. She looked around and saw that the stone pot lying on its side, the lid off. There were marks by it, similar to what a snake would make, leading towards the Godstooth.

Excerpt from��Landsend Plateau, book 2 of The Devastation Wars