This is a difficult book for me to rate. It has high entertainment value, but unfortunately, it is of the action movie variety. Sure, it's fun to read about explosions, human depravity, quick-draw knife battles, torturing hostages, and what not, but after a certain point I begin to question the time I've spent, to examine the pages I've turned for some semblance of human dignity.
I understand the author's utilitarian concerns. This is pulp fiction, printed on recycled toilet paper. A hundred years from now, no one is going to write a dissertation on the Traveler series. It is just one notch above those adventure magazines boys hide under their beds. I must say, however, that if you are looking for a simple, straightforward gore-fest, look no further.
The first book in the Outrider series, in my opinion, was far superior to this one. In that epic yarn, you had a Mad Max ripoff battling inhuman odds, with incredible pacing and satisfying moments of heartbreak and sadistic joy. In this series, however, I had trouble identifying with the main character. A certain amount of sarcasm is warranted, I'll grant, but the acidic cynicism of Traveler borders on the misanthropic. The twists and turns of his pre-doomed misadventures are less predictable than they are completely random. There is no real femme fatale, and the big baddies rarely show their ugly mugs. Instead you get endless ranks and files of disposable thugs, shoddily armed, and mishap-prone. You get tasteless depictions of women doing un-progressive things against their will or against the odds.
The bleak societal criticisms, relying as they do on Vietnam-era politics come off as more dated than relevant. The perspective of a near-future which has by now past usually has that effect. But think of Philip K. Dick or Orwell, who could make 1984 look ominous, and who got a few things right. I'm not saying that D. B. Drumm didn't think about what he was doing, but what I've read of this series seems to play out like a weekly serial the author wrote using a series of checkboxes. Pressed for time, he might've reached into a tried and true toolbox of snide comments, fluffy tropes, and contrived situations. Instead of plotting out a logical progression for the protagonist, the reliance on intense violence violates my innate inability to turn off my brain.
On the plus side, all of the prerequisites for a good time for most people are met. Every word out of the protag's mouth elicits a chuckle. The chewing-gum plot is completely forgettable but for some, will be a welcome distraction. I am a sucker for burnt out wastelands tenanted by goofy, grimy sociopaths. Witty banter is never so apropos as when it comes from a gritty, gristly, leather-jacket sporting mercenary and a blundering henchman. Is it a harmless diversion or a searing cult classic? Decide for yourself.
Is it morbid curiosity or subtle appreciate that makes me want to continue on to Traveler #2?