by Shock Totem
What follows is a muddle of events as Pilar takes over the ship, zombies run amuck, and Juan tries to figure out what’s going on from the mainland. I’ve never read a book where the exciting bits were as trying as this one. The action seems hastily crammed together while the less interesting parts, such as the descriptions of weapons and the inner workings of a particular Secret Service detail, are long and tedious. McKinney obviously knows a ton about police work (he’s a police officer himself), but for this book at least, he can’t seem to rip himself away from the cop fantasy to tell an interesting story. It’s strange.
The other large problem with The Savage Dead is the fact that it sees itself as a serious work of fiction, but is far too self-aware to have the emotional impact that such an offering would require. Sometimes it reads like a parody of itself, specifically in two instances: when Pilar interacts with her cartel bosses, and during the extended fallout of the zombie plague on the cruise liner. It’s almost as if the author took stock characters, events, and motivations from the two separate genres and simply copied/pasted them onto the page. The only time the book seems truly original is when we’re thrown into the past lives of the characters we’re following. Their pasts are actually cohesive and even (in Pilar’s case) intriguing. Yet the care displayed in crafting those back stories is thrown out the window once we return to the present. The characters become stock once more, almost as if they’re pod people who still remember the events of the past but have no emotional connection to them. They simply do what they do to drive the story forward.
Anyway, enough piling on. Suffice to say that I didn’t enjoy The Savage Dead. And I also don’t think this particular book can be used to define McKinney as an author. His four-book Dead World series is beloved by his fans, so there has to be something there that folks love. But with this offering, let’s just say it was a massive fail.
–Robert J. Duperre
Secret Things, by Stacey Longo; Books & Boos Press, 2013; 170 pgs.
You’re flipping through the channels when you come across a horror movie. You see the TV schedule at the bottom of the screen shows that the movie is about to be over—and indeed, that is precisely when the bloody heroine creeps up behind the cocky villain, raises her knife, and STABS. Cut to black, roll credits.
Well, that ending sure got spoiled. With an annoyed sigh, you flip the channel.
A standup comedienne is on the next channel—and just then, she’s delivering a raunchy punchline, and the audience—whom had gotten to hear the joke from the start—cracks the eff up.
Dammit! You’re really missing out on some good treats. Can’t you just catch a break and take in the whole of a narrative, and not just the final note? The punchline, after all, is the dessert that’s only sweet if you’ve already enjoyed the main course...
At long last, there’s a solution for this dilemma—a collection by Connecticut author (and co-owner of the great bookstore Books & Boos) Stacey Longo, called Secret Things: Twelve Tales to Terrify. The stories contained herein deliver in full upon their promises of horror, featuring strong narratives, memorable characters, and at times downright wicked humor.
I’d be beating around the proverbial bush if I didn’t come right out and say that I loved how they all ended. Have you ever read a story that seemed to meander aimlessly, and didn’t end on a strong note? Well, that is never the case here—instead, Mrs. Longo ends each story with flair, often with biting humor and downright shocking twists. From the absolutely brilliant opening title story and on through several others such as “Denny’s Dilemma” and “Trapped,” Mrs. Longo has a knack for ending her stories with on jarring notes, often delivering their punchlines with casual, even matter-of-fact, flair.
The protagonists in these tales are richly illustrated and frequently very sympathetic, often paired off against extremely unlikeable people; I was flat-out rooting for some of the characters in their respective situations. I found myself identifying pretty deeply with some of the characters, too—their introverted thoughts were so familiar that at times I was wondering if I was projecting myself!
Among the standout tales is “Cliffhanger,” which brings on the tension hard and fast from the get-go, as a woman falls from the edge of a cliff alongside the Grand Canyon, only to find herself perched on a narrow ledge between life and death. “Trapped” was a grim, claustrophobic, and unapologetic dark tale of a woman and her husband stuck in their house during a snowstorm. “Time to Let Go,” of which I won’t even divulge the details, was reminiscent of the works of Jackson, King, and Gaiman, as the plot slowly comes together, only to quietly pull the carpet out from beneath the reader at its conclusion.
There’s even a piece of non-fiction found in the middle of it all—“Interlude: A Story That Failed” is a secret thing in its own right, and a good source of chuckles. (It’s also a nice companion piece-cum-prelude to the story notes at the end of the book.)
Secret Things was more than a good escape; it was a darkly entertaining glimpse into the talented and delightfully twisted mind of a promising author. You won’t want to miss out on what she does next—and how she’ll end her next tale!
That evening, you don’t even bother turning on the TV. You toss the TV remote to the wall, pick up your copy of Secret Things, and start reading.
–Barry Lee Dejasu
The Best Horror of the Year: Volume Five, Edited by Ellen Datlow; Night Shade Books, 2013; 406 pgs.
Ellen Datlow’s annual best-of anthologies are anticipated like prom. Getting even an honorable mention is akin to being on the news, a sure sign you’re made some mark on the seemingly endless blackboard that is horror fiction. Shock Totem can proudly claim a few of our stories and authors have received mention in these volumes, in the past and in this one, volume five. The first chunk of pages are an enchilada of horror press name-checking, and then we get to the meat of the matter: the stories.
Lucy Taylor’s “Nikishi” is a strong tale of retribution and demonic justice that sets us on our way, followed by Dan Chaon’s “Little America,” which is a freshly strange and deeply unsettling zombie story. A few stories later we are subject to “The Callers,” by Ramsey Campbell, in which a young man is staying with his grandparents. Bored, he follows his Gran to the bingo hall—and from there things get very weird and weirder.
Gemma Files’s “Nanny Grey” is a haunting tale of a haunted girl and the bad man who has unwholesome designs for her. Gary McMahon (one of my favorite authors; read his stuff!) turns in “Kill All Monsters,” the tale of a man and his family held prisoner by his visions and the duties they bind him to. Paranormal investigators meet their match in “The House On Ashley Avenue,” by Ian Rogers. Margo Lanagan’s “Bajazzle” is a hypersexual and sinister tale about fidelity and lust. “The Pike,” by Conrad Williams, is a wonderfully nostalgic tale of a man and an ugly fish. Very reminiscent of “Catfish Gods,” by Weston Ochse.
Amber Sparks’s “This Circus the World” may well be my favorite of the lot. Stunningly written and daring. Prose that reads very much like a poem, but the overall tone is so dark and lingering. Truly a beautiful piece of writing. Gary McMahon gets a second feature with “Some Pictures in An Album,” where a young man clearing out his parents’ estate comes across an album and the darkest of secrets he has hidden for too long. “Wild Acre,” by Nathan Ballingrud, confronts guilt and terror and how that can suffocate a person when they join hands. Stephen Bacon’s “None So Blind” is a grim scene story about a dying man and a blind woman. Adam G. Nevill gives us “Pig Thing,” wherein a family is attacked by the titular creature, though very little of the terror comes from the monster.
All of the stories contained in this collection are good. I have mainly singled out the ones that stuck with me. Datlow is known for her discerning tastes in short fiction and she has once again proven that to be true. A very eclectic and entertaining omnibus of short fiction that some folks may have missed out on last year. Remedy that.
–John Boden
Cain’s Blood, by Geoffrey Gerard; Touchstone, 2013; 353 pgs.
The premise of Geoffrey Gerard’s debut novel, Cain’s Blood, is enough to make any horror aficionado pluck it from the shelf and give it a good once over. Clones of the world’s most infamous serial killers have escaped from a government-funded facility, leaving a trail of violent crimes in their wake. Shawn Castillo, a former black ops soldier, has been tasked with the capture of the escaped clones and ultimately teams up a young boy created from the genes of Jeffery Dahmer. What’s not to love?
Sadly, the brilliance of the premise is tarnished by the delivery. This is largely due to the novel’s rapid pace. Reading Cain’s Blood is akin to traversing a carnival in a rocket car. There are plenty of cool things to see, but most of the time you’re moving far too fast to get a good look. Much of the plot has the characters moving from state to state in pursuit, but little of the scenery is ever mentioned. Likewise, many of the houses and hotel rooms are cycled through with little attention to detail. What’s worse is that this breakneck speed kills much of the suspense the novel could have had. In the horror genre, pacing is King. No amount of crime scenes or gallons of blood can change that. At its heart, Cain’s Blood is more of a thriller one might take to the beach than a horror novel.
In terms of characterization, those who populate the novel often fall into worn tropes, particularly the protagonists. The damaged soldier seeking redemption and the misunderstood youth can feel paper thin in places, and the reader isn’t given solid reasons to cheer them on until later in the book. Additionally, the young clone is clearly used as a poster child for the nature vs. nurture debate, turning him into more of a medium for the author’s thoughts on the subject than a fully-realized character. The escaped killers themselves also leave something to be desired in terms of development as much of their characterization is heavily dependent on the personas of the originals to the point of it being a crutch, overshadowing any personal experience the clones might have, at least in the case of those partaking in the killing spree.
One of the stronger aspects of the novel is the information on cloning sprinkled throughout. Girard has done his homework, and it certainly shows. From a brief overview of cloning to open the novel to lectures on various government experiments and cover-ups, plenty of ground is covered. While this can sometimes turn into a heavy-handed info dump as a character proceeds to tell the reader about a dozen related events at a go, these insights tend to be some of the more enjoyable sections the book has to offer.
While the use of facts regarding real events makes progress toward cementing the premise in reality and making it more believable, almost every plot choice in the novel works to do the exact opposite. Between the addition of other government science experiments and Hollywood style shootouts, much of the novel ends up coming off as outlandish rather than convincing. Throw in a number of gaps in logic regarding the behavior of the escaped clones and a highly convenient ending and everything becomes a little too unstable. The suggestion that a clone of John Wayne Gacy would be genetically predisposed to wearing a clown suit and makeup is tenuous at best, as is the concept that a handful of homicidal loners would pile in a car for a murderous road trip.
It may be worth pointing out that the Internet is full of praise for the novel, and that while reading these reviews I felt as though I had experienced something entirely different from the average reviewer. If you’re looking to read something that is quick and requires little mental effort to digest, Cain’s Blood may be for you. However, if you are looking for something with prose that goes the extra mile and suspense served up with a good, old-fashioned sense of dread, it may be best to look elsewhere.
–Zachary C. Parker
WATCHTOWER
by D.A. D’Amico
Just before dawn. The mosquitos had given up trying to feast on dying men. Air, boiling steam during the day, had congealed to a thick sultry fog that clung to the brush like tar. Sour earthy odors from the jungle mixed with the raw stench of unwashed bodies as I cupped my hand over Dex’s mouth.
He gasped once and sagged back, the fight draining out of him. None of us had much struggle left. It had been beaten out, worn away until lying down to die was the easiest thing. But capture didn’t mean surrender, not to me.
“Shut it!” I yanked the little bundle of manioc paste from Dex’s hands. It was as much as I dared stash from the VC, and it would have to get us as far as Dong Ha—if the Marines still held that base, and if the North Vietnamese hadn’t overrun the DMZ. “Don’t make me go alone.”
Dex blinked his big crazy eyes and nodded. He’d been singing again, humming that gritty whisper he said was “her” song and pursing his lips like a fish on asphalt. I thought the jungle had gotten to him, or the beatings, but others had seen her too.
“She’s calling.” He shook me off, staggering up a small mound of stone tailings in the direction of the silo, tugging on the stump of his mangled left leg. The moon cast jagged shadows over the little hill, serrated lines of pale silver light that made the thick jungle appear black. I shouldn’t have brought him. I knew he’d bug on me, but Marines stick together. Semper Fidelis.
I slid down, small stones clattering as they cascaded under my bare feet. I crouched. Our prison wasn’t bars or towers, but the Viet Cong still patrolled the tight cluster of huts as if the heavy brush were made of barbed wire.
“Go, get away.” Dex had already found the worn dirt trail we used every day to shuffle from our prison shack to the tiny quarry. “She needs me.”
I grabbed him. In the dark, his eyes looked otherworldly, huge black-rimmed mirrors that reflected pieces of the waning moon. I shook with the effort not to punch him, trying to remember that Charlie had messed him up. He’d taken twenty hard lashes with a rattan cane and three days in the tiger pit for his first escape attempt. They’d cut his left foot off on his second, hacked through it with the same machetes they used to trim the bamboo struts. They’d kill him if they caught him this time, and me along with him.
We didn’t have time for hallucinations.
“Don’t do this. We all see things in our dreams. Hell, I’ve even seen your girl.”
He stopped struggling. “You?”
Two nights ago, I’d dreamed of the waifish beauty that had appeared in the thoughts of at least five men. She came to me with an eerie song on her full lips, her lean features giving her an elfish quality. The scent of apple blossoms shimmered around her like heat, making it impossible to glance away from her big green eyes. I’d been scared enough not to return to sleep. She’d gotten inside my head.
I’d heard her again earlier tonight, calling just after lights out, and decided then that it was time. Our escape couldn’t wait any longer. The jungle, with its rotting stench, incessant rainfall, and brutal heat, was winning.
“It’s only wishful thinking,” I said.
“She’s more, much more. You’ll see.” His tone spooked me, as if he’d been brainwashed. Charlie had done more than just ruin his body; they’d messed up his head, and I didn’t want to wait around until they did the same to me.
When I’d first suggested escape, Dex had been all over it. He had a girl in Osaka, someone special, and it was worth his life to get back to her. He could talk about nothing else. Now, he only had thoughts for his dream woman. Me, I had the Corps, and an old man stateside to whom I needed to prove a thing or two, so I was running no matter what.
• • •
“Dex, this is it. Turn around.” We crested the small trail. I hadn’t realized how close we’d gotten to the small area we’d liberated from the jungle in order to reveal that enigmatic ring of stones.
“Wait!” I heard talking in the distance, curt Vietnamese words shot back and forth like rifle fire. I pulled Dex to the ground, my breath rapid, and my limbs tingling. “They’re up to something.”
Through the trees, I could see the outline of the thing we called the silo. Some trick of the moonlight made it seem enor
mous, like a long-abandoned medieval keep. It reminded me of pictures my dad had shown me of the castles he’d visited during his tour in the last good war. The memories felt like déjà vu. Those strongholds had been burned-out piles of rock stretching like fists into the sky, and each one reeking of mystery. I thought I’d like to visit them someday, but here in the jungle south of Da Nang, trapped behind enemy lines, beaten and forced to hump rocks, I’d lost the child inside of me.
The Marines recruited me in sixty-seven because my old man was a jarhead, and his old man before him. I got shipped in-country in sixty-eight, and it was only a short while before I found myself on the wrong side of action, out of ammo and trapped under a heap of my dead and dying buddies.
Charlie had rounded up two dozen of us and marched us out to the middle of nowhere, double-time, with three dead from exhaustion before they’d finally let up. We thought we were in hell, but that was before they’d forced us to pull boulders out of the soupy black earth with wooden shovels, day after sweltering day, week after festering week.
“What are they saying?” I asked. Dex knew a bit of Vietnamese, picked it up during his time in Saigon. It all sounded like quacking to me.
The light shifted. The tower stood out among the palmyra and ebony trees as if lit from within, a cool blue radiance covering the outer stones like a sheath.
