by Shock Totem
WO: I disagree that Scott is an evil person, just an average ordinary guy with foibles and flaws, caught up in the madness that has enveloped the world around him, someone who finds himself faced with a situation where it’s either kill or be killed. I can’t really think of anything he did that would be considered evil...fool-hearted maybe, with the opening scene.
MH: Did you aim to create a world deprived of anything that could truly be conceived as good?
WO: I don’t think it’s as cut and dried as that. I think I removed all rules and regulations of an ordered society, replacing them with the law of the jungle, the strong will survive and the meek will fall to the end of the line for a good old fashioned…(read the book).
And as far as what truly transpired, I tried to leave all that up in the air, a mystery for the characters in the book (and the reader) to ponder. Was it a supernatural occurrence or was it truly the Biblical Rapture? Nobody really knows. All they can really do is guess, and I think it worked out quite well leaving it at that.
MH: What was it you set out to achieve with The Damned, what impression do you hope it leaves in reader’s minds?
WO: I see The Damned as an action adventure story with a bit of horror added for good measure. Yes, there are horrific elements to the book, but I always saw it as an adventure Scott found himself caught up in. As for what I hoped to achieve: I wanted to write a thoroughly entertaining story populated with three dimensional characters, putting them through enough conflict to keep the reader flipping the pages. I think I succeeded in that regard. Entertainment is the key here, I think. If people come away saying they were entertained, I’m happy with that.
MH: I’d say you succeeded there. Was there anything deeper you tried to convey? The book itself skirts around religion, dipping into the Bible and Christianity, but never quite focusing on it. Tell us a little about this aspect.
WO: Other than a good old fashioned “good versus evil” romp, there was never anything quite so deep in The Damned. Mostly it’s just a good, fun story.
MH: In a review of The Damned, I read that Norm Rubenstein, a book reviewer at Horror World, said, “I think if it were possible to have a son by Ed Lee and Wrath James White, marry a daughter of a breeding between Richard Laymon and Jack Ketchum, and these two would mate and have a son—you may well wind up with William Ollie.” How does this make you feel? Is this how you see yourself?
WO: I’m incredibly humbled by those kinds of comments, and though it’s flattering, and I’m pleased to be favourably compared to such terrific writers, I don’t hold myself in such high regard, and see myself merely as someone doing their best to further their craft.
MH: Are you influenced by any particular names in the world of writing? Who are your literary heroes, what role have they played in making you who you are today?
WO: Heroes would be Stephen King and Richard Laymon, Ray Garton, Jack Ketchum and Dean Koontz, Ed Gorman and John D. MacDonald. As far as influences go: Richard Laymon has had an extraordinary influence on my writing, more so than anybody else.
One other person who isn’t famous but who I owe a great deal for whatever success I’m to achieve: Ben Duiverman. That guy taught me the rules of writing and a great deal about grammar when I first started out, and I’ll always be grateful to him for that.
MH: Moving onto your second novel, KillerCon, which is due to hit the scene later this year, can you share a little about that with us?
WO: KillerCon, a favourite of mine, is about what happens when an Internet flame war gets out of hand, what might happen when someone who feels safe and secure insulting a few anonymous bits and bytes on a computer screen finds out that he may not be so safe and secure after all.
MH: A very creepy concept. Any particular reason why it’s a favourite of yours?
WO: The story is one of my favourites, not so much the concept, although it’s a pretty cool one. I think the book is fun and fast-paced, lots of action with a wide thread of dark humour running through it.
MH: Would you say your aim with it was similar to that of The Damned?
WO: My aim is always, first and foremost, to tell an entertaining story.
MH: It’s been said KillerCon is a fun read, full of black humour. Is it a lighter read than The Damned which deals with largely brutal characters?
WO: A little lighter, I think, more of a “fun” read, maybe, but still with lots of action, suspense and violence. Has a certain buddy film feel to it, I think, as our protagonist and his neighbour find themselves on a hellish road that in the end will lead them to a showdown with a psychopath.
MH: From reading your work, I know you are very skilled when it comes to creating characters who are dark and dangerous. When it comes to infiltrating elements of horror into your work, would you say you extract it more from the characters themselves than external influences?
WO: A little of both, I think. Most people have a dark side they’d rather no one else know about. I try to infuse a little of that into the characters and plop them down into some kind of trying situation.
MH: And what gave you the inspiration for KillerCon? Was there a message or a moral you intended to impart?
WO: When I first started writing, about seven years ago now, I sold a story to a webzine. For some reason or other, I found myself at Tom Piccirilli’s website asking him if he would read it. Much to my surprise, he read it and offered a few comments. So the next time I placed another story in another webzine, I immediately asked him to read it, too. He didn’t respond to that email, which made sense, because, really, I didn’t know what I was doing and my writing was atrocious. And who was I anyway? So I got to thinking. This guy responded to me and he doesn’t even know who I am? For all he knows, I could be some kind of psycho who didn’t like being ignored. That idea bounced around my mind four or so years, and one day KillerCon was born.
As far as a message or theme: I never start a book with anything like that in mind. Often by the end a message or underlying theme will show itself, but that pretty much happens on its own, or it has so far.
MH: So you don’t work to a firm plot, then? Do you let a story build itself from a basic starting block, or do you know the end before you get there and work towards it?
WO: “So you don’t work to a firm plot, then? Do you let a story build itself from a basic starting block…” That pretty much nails it. As far as the ending, I rarely know how it’s going to wind up before the book is written. Usually I’ll work that out midway to three quarters of the way through.
MH: And the characters—are they in your mind before you start, or are they born from the story itself?
WO: They’re all conceived as the story progresses.
MH: Do you have a favourite character you’ve created?
WO: Larry from KillerCon. He’s just a fun guy to be around.
MH: With such an exciting start, what do have you in store for the future?
WO: Well, so far I’ve written eight novels, including the follow-up to The Damned, tentatively titled Damned If You Do. That one has been contracted for, hopefully the others will follow suit.
MH: Are you able to shed a little light on the sequel in the making?
WO: Only that it’s going to rock.
MH: And I’m pretty damn sure it will. I for one can’t wait to find out what lurks just around the corner for you. Best of luck for the future.
WO: Thanks.
THE DEAD MARCH
By Brian Rappatta
Tommy Shaw said there was love, there was sex, and there was fucking. Love was mostly in the movies; real people didn’t do it if they could help it. Sex was for married couples; they usually did it to make up after a big fight. But fucking...that wasn’t about two people at all. Fucking was when you just needed a ride and you didn’t give a shit about anyone else.
Aaron thought Tommy Shaw was mostly full of shit, but he had a point. Mom and Dad hadn’t had sex in a long time. They just fucked instead. Well, Dad fucked, anyway; Mom just la
y there, trying not to cry.
And Aaron knew Tommy Shaw was right because Dad hadn’t figured out anything was wrong yet. He wasn’t too observant when he’d come home drunk and needing some, but tonight Dad was especially clueless.
Dad was really going at her, occasionally muttering things like, “Come on, bitch, get wet.” Aaron had long since given up trying to cover his ears with his pillow; in a single-wide that was twelve steps from any point to another, there wasn’t any escaping the racket.
Mom didn’t make any noises nowadays, not even teeth-clenched grunts of pain or half-stifled sobs. She didn’t say anything anymore, either, at least not out loud. Aaron thought Dad would have noticed that by now, but then, Dad hadn’t been home since Friday night. Aaron had never been drunk, but he thought it must fuck up your sense of smell somehow. It had to, or else Dad would have noticed. Or maybe it was that Mom usually smelled anyway; if it wasn’t cigarettes and armpits it was something else.
Dad would have to find out sometime, though, and when he did, he’d yell and scream and maybe hit him once or twice.
But until then, Aaron just sat down on the little square of floor between his bed and the wall and pulled his box of G.I. Joes out from under the bed. Not the action figures he kept on his nightstand for his dad’s benefit, but those he kept under his bed, the ones he couldn’t ever show Dad. The vintage ones whose plastic chests he’d smeared red permanent marker all over. He wished they’d make G.I. Joes with accessible chest cavities, and blood, and entrails...but what the heck? He could use his imagination.
He was a bit old for action figures, really; the other sixth graders at school had already started to give them up in favor of Playboy or Hustler, but you were never too old for entrails, even if they were make-believe. So Aaron replayed his favorite scenario, where he was the general and Sergeant Slaughter and Flint and Lady Jaye and all the rest stormed the Cobra stronghold. Men got blown open at every turn. And like the good soldiers they were, they kept going through, decimating chest cavities and spilling guts toward their goal. Nothing could stop a real soldier.
Right in the middle of the best part, though, Dad figured it out. His shriek brought Aaron up short. Dad drank like a man, but he screamed like a girl.
Slowly, Aaron began putting his special G.I. Joe figures back into the box. He slid the box beneath the bed just before Dad threw open his door.
“You,” Dad said. His eyes were bleary from drink, but they blazed wildly. His potbelly sagged over the band of his stained underwear. “You sick little fuck, what did you do to her?”
Aaron didn’t answer. He knew better. Sometimes saying things just made Dad madder. He merely slid back on the floor until he hit the wall, and then drew up as tightly as he could.
Dad took two steps across the room, grabbed him by the arms, and hauled him upright. Aaron cringed. He did not look at Dad.
“Answer me!” Dad shook Aaron hard. He pulled back his right fist. “What did you do to her? Did you...that thing you do...did you?”
“I didn’t kill her,” Aaron said. “I never kill anything. You killed her.”
Dad hesitated. His fist stalled in the air. “What did you say?”
“You killed her,” Aaron said again. “You hit her too many times. I just made her get back up.”
Mom came into the room then. She didn’t say anything; she didn’t have to. Dad’s back was to her, but he couldn’t have missed her arrival. Her aroma filled the room.
His fist still raised, Dad turned around slowly. He saw Mom, and his face drained of color. His cheeks puffed out as if trying to suppress vomit.
For a moment nothing happened. The faint buzzing of a lone fly orbiting Mom’s head was the only sound in the trailer.
Then Dad released Aaron and stumbled out of the room, pushing past Mom with his hand over his mouth. Halfway to the front door he sank to the floor and puked all over the living-room carpet. After, he sat back on his knees, his belly heaving. Then he picked himself up and stormed out of the trailer without even bothering to put any clothes on. The screen door banged shut.
Aaron took a deep breath. He struggled to bring his breathing back to normal. After a few more gulps of air, he took a couple steps across the room toward his mother. She stood motionless, waiting for him.
Aaron sighed. “How’d he figure it out?” he asked.
His mother couldn’t answer him with words. Instead, she held out her left hand. Her fingers clutched the lumpy discolored tip of her tongue. Dad must have bitten it off when he was fucking her.
• • •
Dad didn’t come back for three days.
So for those days, Aaron hadn’t bothered to go to school. Instead, he stayed in the trailer, ignoring the noises of the trailer park around him; he heated cans of soup on the stove when he got hungry, but mostly he talked to Mom. He told her about all the things he’d never told her before: his mad crush on Tommy Shaw in his gym class; the time he’d spied on the Millers when they were fucking; even Felix, the dead German shepherd he kept in his own private spot in the woods behind the trailer park. He told her stories he made up, stories he’d read, and he even got out his G.I. Joe figures and told her the guts-crushing story of storming Cobra’s lair. She listened intently, and her eyes almost seemed to have some life in them during the exciting parts, and never once did she ignore him to light up a cigarette. And at night he slept wrapped tightly in her arms, immersed in the sweet scent of her. In the morning he cleaned fragments of skin and hair off the bed-sheets. Sometimes he’d stay in bed for the entire day just talking to her.
Dad returned on Wednesday. Aaron peeked out the bedroom window as his battered old Ford pickup rumbled up in front of the trailer. A rusted yellow chainsaw lay in the bed. Aaron kissed Mom good-bye and went back to his room.
Begging Dad not to take her away would do no good, and neither would kicking and screaming and flailing. Aaron did not emerge when Dad came in; not even when he loaded Mom in the pickup, took her for a drive, and came back a few hours later without her. Aaron just sat on the floor by his bed and played with his G.I. Joes, the lame ones without the red permanent-marker entrails.
Dad came in and found him like this several hours later. He didn’t storm in this time, at least; he actually knocked.
Dad stood there for a moment before he spoke. “How’s it going, kiddo?”
“Fine,” Aaron mumbled.
Dad paused. “Mom’s not coming back.”
Aaron nodded. “I know.”
“It’s probably best if you don’t talk about her anymore.” Dad studied his feet. “I mean, about how she—about why she went away. Like, to your guidance counselor and shit.”
“Okay.”
“And you shouldn’t go looking for her, either.”
“Okay.”
Another uncomfortable pause. “Bought something for you.” Dad held out his right hand. He had a plastic K-Mart bag.
Aaron reached over and took the bag. He opened it and pulled out a G.I. Joe action figure: Quick Kick.
“I didn’t think you had that one yet,” Dad said.
“I don’t. Thanks, Dad.”
“No problem. Who’s my boy?”
Aaron swallowed. He knew the answer. “Love you, Dad.”
“Love you, too, kiddo.”
• • •
Aaron got up in the morning while Dad was still sleeping. He dressed quietly and slipped out the front door.
Dad’s ratty old pickup was parked askew out front. The entire vehicle was filthy with caked mud, and the front bumper drooped at an angle. The passenger-side window was busted and covered with duct tape and a garbage bag. In the bed was the only tool Dad owned: an old chainsaw with a worn blade. Aaron shuddered. He tried hard not to think about that blade slicing through Mom.
Aaron started walking through the trailer park. The residents were just beginning to wake. Tinks, the Hernewyczs’ little Chihuahua, was yapping from inside their gray metal single-wide, and the Coreanders’ tr
ailer was vibrating to a chorus of grunts and groans. The Deepneaus had set out eight bulging trash bags. The trash man was supposed to come on Tuesdays but he hadn’t been by this week. Aaron held his nose as he passed by.
About a quarter mile down McCandless Road, Aaron raced a train across the tracks, then continued on his way. Halfway to school, he stopped. Fifty paces ahead, in the dirt by the side of the road, was a raccoon.
Aaron approached it slowly, looking around in all directions to see if anyone was there. A car whisked by; the people inside paid him no mind.
He kneeled next to the raccoon. He petted its head and the fur on its back. He caressed the slicks of red on its underbelly. He leaned in closer and whispered, “Get up.”
It twitched once. Its little paws scrabbled in the dirt. After a few attempts it managed to get its feet under it and lurch upright. It stood still, looking up at Aaron for direction.
“Go,” Aaron said. He pointed back in the direction of the trailer park. “Keep on going into the forest until you find Felix.”
The raccoon padded off, dragging a patch of fur and skin on the ground. Aaron watched it go until he saw a car coming in the distance. He turned around and resumed his trek toward school. He knew the raccoon would find its way. Aaron thought he might name it Randy.
Harris K. Thurman Middle School sprawled over one story, with hallways that twisted and turned in every direction. Aaron arrived late to first hour, and his teacher assigned him an after-school detention.
