Fever House (Fever House, #1)

by Keith Rosson

know, right? Wild-ass coincidence. Cosmic-level shit. Enough to believe someone’s pulling strings on our behalf, baby.”

This kind of dialogue annoys me

Down Third Avenue he goes—away from the hospital, just walking to walk, to feel some kind of movement—and a man sitting on the curb with the dejected posture of a drunk slowly turns his head, affixing a pair of glittering eyes on Bonner. Blood is smeared across one side of his face and darkens the collar of his shirt. He’s wearing a suit. He staggers and pivots, begins galloping toward Bonner on legs that seem strangely suited for it. A thought rips crazily through Bonner’s mind—the man looks like a child pretending to ride a pony. It’s only when he staggers around the garbage can and comes fully into view that Bonner sees that his ankle is broken. He is running on the bone itself, the ankle bone, his shoed foot flopping uselessly to the side. The man is heavyset, balding, slow. Horror seizes Bonner’s throat. He sidesteps, tries to keep the garbage can between them. The man hisses, cocks his head. Through the blood, Bonner can see that the side of his face is a galaxy of bite marks.

Good lord