by Shock Totem
He rushes to the window and sees the only drug of his choice.
The Rat Burner.
The man is wrapped like an armadillo in layers of asbestos and black leather. A heavy tool belt circles his waist with enough utility to make an electrician cry—poison pellets, multi-tools, first aid, treats for his pet and dozens more pockets and pouches with mysterious implements. A machete for close work is strapped to his left leg. On his back hangs a square tipped shovel for piling the rodent bodies high. And last, a metal tank with flaking red paint hunkers next to the shovel. A rubber hose runs from the tank down his right arm to a gun with an extended nozzle—the burner.
From the van a demon-eyed lynx hops out and sits in the alley next to the Rat Burner. It flips up one of its broad paws and casually licks at the pads. Horn-like ears flicker, and it pauses to flash Jacob an emerald what-the-fuck-are-you-looking-at glance.
The Rat Burner looks up at Jacob and gives him a two-fingered salute, chucks his cigarette into a puddle, and opens the gas-valve on the hand gun. The pilot flickers to life. The propane hiss is like a spiritual hymn to Jacob’s soul. He slumps a little against the window frame and lets out a sigh, puffing his cheeks. A kind of peace settles over him.
Jacob spots a nutria perched on a dumpster. The nutria squeaks and shivers and for all the world looks like it desperately wants to shove its claw-hands into fur pockets, but it has none, and its screech is obliterated in the sudden roar of the hand-flamer licking out like a dragon’s tongue.
Ricardo Bare lives with his family in Austin, Texas, where he has been a video game designer for the last ten years, working on games such as the hit franchise Deus Ex. When not designing or playing games, Ricardo burns away the hours writing.
For more info about his games, stories, and novel, you can visit his website at www.ricardobare.com.
SOLE SURVIVOR
by Kurt Newton
Jake Turner felt another rib snap, adding new pain to the collection that was quickly building toward a critical mass called “agony.” He pulled air into his lungs in short, shallow breaths. His body slid another six inches along as the torturous contraction subsided.
How many ribs does that make? Four? Five?
He’d lost count. He didn’t even think about how long it was going to take for him to heal after this. All he thought about was the time ticking away. And the money.
And getting his fingers closer to the key in his pocket.
He bent his elbow and dragged his hand down across his chest. The acidic mucous that coated his skin stung the cuts and abrasions on his knuckles and toes—souvenirs of the last two challenges. His fingers got as far as his hip before the next contraction came.
He inflated his lungs as best he could as the outside pressure steadily increased. He tried to correct the awkward position of his arm, but it was too late. With excruciating slowness the ball of his shoulder slid out its socket with a wet suction-cup sound and a sickening pop.
His body slid another six inches along.
This time he nearly blacked out. The good news was the separation of his shoulder allowed his hand to reach his pocket. With renewed adrenalin, he ignored the pain and grabbed the key.
It’s not over yet, fucker! You think you’ve got me, don’t you? Just wait till you see what I’ve got for you!
He worked quickly now between contractions, sliding the key up to his chin, to the narrow collar around his neck. On the collar hung a small rectangular box. He inched the key toward one end of the box and felt for the keyhole. He cursed as the key began to slip from his fingers. The tighter he squeezed it the more it slipped.
His body was on fire now. Like an acupuncture treatment performed with a thousand red-hot needles, the corrosive mucous that coated him from head to toe was now eating its way into his skin.
He had to concentrate, eliminate everything from his mind but this one last hurdle. As the next wave of pressure began, the key at last found its niche. He turned the key, the box popped open, and he grabbed what was inside.
A jackknife.
He thumbed open the blade and began cutting. The force of the oncoming contraction suddenly split the punctured membrane, ejecting him like a newborn out onto the jungle floor. With a gasp of air, wiping mucous from his eyes, he got to his feet and stumbled toward the flag. He pulled the flag from its pole and collapsed onto the undergrowth, spitting up blood.
“Time!” Cold water splashed across his skin as he was hosed down.
Jake lay on his back pulling fresh air into his burning, pain-addled lungs. He stared up into the jungle canopy. A cameraman swooped in and suddenly blocked his view. Jake turned his head to the side to check on the competition.
A medical crew worked furiously on a young woman just pulled from the other anaconda. One medic performed CPR while another held an oxygen mask to her acid-burned face. After several anxious seconds the young woman convulsed, gasping for air. They slid her onto a stretcher. She gave a thumbs-up as they carried her away.
A muscular arm reached down and offered Jake a hand up. The hand belonged to Sean Dugan, host of the top-ten rated television show Sole Survivor.
“Jake Turner. You swam across a piranha-filled lake. You punched your way out of a wooden cargo crate filled with scorpions. And you survived being swallowed by a thirty-foot anaconda. Jake Turner, apparently survival is in your soul. Congratulations.”
The host shook his hand.
Jake winced. He looked into the camera and flashed a winning smile.
Kurt Newton is the author of two short-story collections, one novel, and five collections of poetry. His stories have appeared in Weird Tales, Space & Time, and Dark Discoveries. His novella, The Brainpan Concerto, was recently published by Sideshow Press. He lives in Connecticut.
THE SPOOKY STUFF
A Conversation with James Newman
by John Boden
James Newman...a Southern Gentlemen who gave us the novels Midnight Rain and The Wicked, as well as such novellas as the co-authored Night of the Loving Dead, with James Futch, Holy Rollers, and the upcoming The Forum.
Newman was kind enough to take time out of his busy schedule to sit and chew the fat with me...
• • •
JB: James, we’ve known each other a few years, met up—where was it, the old Horror Channel board? I don’t recall, do you?
JN: I think that’s right. Of course, I can barely remember what I did last week, half the time. I used to think it was because I’d smoked too much weed back in the day. Now I know it’s just ‘cause I’m getting old.
Seriously, though, thanks for asking me to do this. It’s always a pleasure talking to you, John.
JB: Well, I’ve never smoked weed or done any sort of drugs and I can’t remember shit myself, so we’ll dismiss it as old age. Do you remember what your first story was about? Who was your main source of encouragement during those early years?
JN: Ya know, I’m reading this late at night...at first I read the above question as “I shit myself,” and my first instinct was to reply, “Yeah, sadly, that comes with old age, too. Wait—you mean you’re not supposed to do that at 36?” But seriously...
I don’t remember what the very first story I ever wrote was about, but I do recall when I was in the fifth grade I had this little book of short stories I threw together, complete with illustrations. They were all cheesy little horror stories with ridiculous E.C. Comics-style twist endings. But I was really proud of them. My teacher at the time caught me working on the book during class, and she confiscated it. But here’s the cool part. She skimmed through the book, apparently recognized that I had some real talent, and instead of getting in trouble I ended up reading a story to the class every day after lunch. That was cool. I felt like a pint-sized rock star.
As for the person who encouraged me, going even farther back than that fifth-grade teacher, it was always my mom. She’s very creative herself. (I urge folks to check out the photos section of my website, where you can see
a kick-ass recreation of the “Old Shack” from Midnight Rain that my mother made for me not long after the book was released.) Mom always told me I could be whatever I wanted to be, and she was the one who instilled in me my love for books as far back as I can remember. Heck, she had me reading before I ever started kindergarten, in fact.
JB: How did you get into writing? What were your formative years like, toiling over stories and subbing them? I always find it somewhat reassuring to hear how published writers have had to endure the same rocky paths that we newish writers are navigating...
JN: Oh, gosh. I can remember writing stories when I was just five or six years old. My mom still has a few of them, in fact. I’ve had a fascination with “the spooky stuff” for as long as I can remember, and have always enjoyed making up my own demented little horror tales.
This is gonna sound like complete bullshit, but believe it or not I don’t really have any “long hard road to publication” stories. Don’t get me wrong—I’ve had my share of rejections (they still happen, in fact, though I am proud to say that these days the ratio of acceptances to rejections is much, much more to my liking), but I think I was pretty lucky in that I sold quite a few of my early stories not long after I got started. Granted, they were picked up by crappy little ‘zines that paid in copies (so it’s a bit of an exaggeration to say I “sold” them, as very little green crossed my palm back then), and now I’d probably hide my face in shame if anybody dug up those early stories and tried to blackmail me with them or something.
But there you have it. I also got lucky with my novel. Sold my first one to the first publisher I submitted it to. Of course, that was a great feeling. I know I’m an exception to the rule, as that’s not the way it usually happens.
JB: I first read your novel Midnight Rain and liked the nostalgic youth aspect of it, reminiscent of McCammon’s Boy’s Life, Simmons’s Summer of Night, or even King’s “It.” Is that novel autobiographical in anyway?
JN: Not really. My father is alive and well (although he did serve in Viet Nam, like Kyle Mackey’s dad), and my mother is about as far from an alcoholic as one can get without being a teetotaler. But there are things about the main character that I think any boy who grew up at that time, in the South, can relate to. A love for his bicycle. Secret places. Not to mention the dark side of this region, namely racism. It is still alive and well. I see it a lot more than I care to.
JB: Sadly, I think as long as there are people there will be issues. If color was not a divisive factor, we always have class and religion, and if that was gone, I’m sure we’d find something—it’s our flawed nature, I fear. Have you always lived in the darkly lore-rich playground of the South?
JN: Yep, born and raised. And, unfortunately, I’ve seen a lot of those issues myself. Hell, I see it among my own kin, sadly enough. My wife’s side of the family, particularly. We have beautiful nieces and nephews who are considered inferior by certain members of the family because they are half-black.
It’s sickening. I mean, this is the 21st century, right? The stories I could tell you...it’d make ya puke, man. I’m surprised we still speak to some of the folks who have so shamelessly perpetrated such bigotry against their own flesh and blood.
JB: What do you like to read? Who are your literary inspirations?
JN: Well, it’s no secret that my favorite writer is Joe R. Lansdale. Actually, he’s one of two tied for the first place spot. The other would be Ed Gorman. Other influences of mine include Ray Garton, Richard Matheson, Bentley Little, F. Paul Wilson, Stephen King (particularly his early work), and Nancy Collins’ short stories.
Believe it or not, these days I find myself reading a lot of crime/thriller stuff, more so than horror (or writers who mix the two genres and aren’t specifically labeled as “horror writers,” per se—my favorite example being John Connelly). That’s not to say I’ve stopped loving horror, ‘cause I do. But, to be perfectly honest, there’s not a whole lot of work within the genre that’s knocking me on my ass right now. Sad to say, I usually end up disappointed with ninety-five percent of every new horror title I read.
JB: I love Lansdale as well. I’m a huge fan of his short stories but his novel work is good, too. Have you gotten to meet him?
JN: I have. As a matter of fact, I’m proud to say that I sat on several panels with Mr. Lansdale at a sci-fi/fantasy/horror convention in Nashville, TN. He was the Guest of Honor, and I was a Guest. I still can’t believe it. That was BEYOND cool, lemme tell ya.
JB: What would you like to accomplish as a writer?
JN: Ya know, at one time I had this big dream of doing this for a living. I guess I still do, in a way, though now I look at this business through the eyes of a guy who’s had a little bit of experience (read: a guy who’s seen what this writing gig actually PAYS!).
I know there’s a very small percentage of writers who make a living doing this and nothing but this, and the percentage of writers who actually made a GOOD living at it is even smaller than that. And, honestly? I’d have to start making REALLY big bucks, I think, to ever quit my day job. Not only because I love said day job, but also because of the benefits. I have a family, ya know? So I’ve gotta hold on to those benefits.
So getting back to your question...
What would I like to accomplish as a writer? I think I’d just like to tell a few stories that folks will enjoy—and remember. Maybe a handful of people might even remember them after I’m gone. That’d be nice.
JB: Well, I can tell you, anytime I see a commercial for one of those Save the Kids/Feed the Children-type groups I smile a dark smile and think of your short story “Suffer the Children.”
JN: (laughs) So do I. If you want to read a better story than mine, though, one influenced by those things, you oughta check out Tom Monteleone’s “Spare the Child.” Awesome.
JB: How important is music to your creative process? I know some writers who need a constant barrage of music while they write, and others who need total silence. I know you are a bit of a rocker; but what do you like as a soundtrack for your craft?
JN: I usually listen to horror-movie soundtracks when I’m writing. A few of my favorites: The Terminator, John Carpenter’s Christine, Night of the Living Dead 1990, and Creepshow. I also dig Lustmord’s stuff, and I’ve also gotta mention the creepy work of a guy named Chris Alexander (who’s also a writer who used to report for Rue Morgue and now, I think, Fangoria).
I am a rocker—a lot of my favorite bands these days I discovered based on your recommendations, as you know, John—but for the most part I tend to get distracted when I try to listen to music with vocals while I’m writing.
The latest novel has been one of the very rare exceptions to my “instrumentals only” rule. Been listening to a lot of blues—Howlin’ Wolf, Lightnin’ Hopkins, Buddy Guy—during this one. That’s probably because it’s a very Southern-style work, and my main character listens to the blues a lot. So it sets the right mood for me to get into that groove (think the main theme—not just the vocals, but the images, too—of that True Blood show, and you’ll get what I’m going for...although I’m not really a fan beyond the opening credits).
JB: Describe the collaborative dynamic in contrast to writing alone? I touched on this same subject with John Skipp in issue #1, and I wanted to ask another writer who has “mixed it up,” as I find the concept of collaboration a bit intriguing.
JN: I haven’t done it for a while now, but there was a period a couple years ago when I was collaborating a lot. There was Night of the Loving Dead, with James Futch, The Church of Dead Languages, with Jason Brannon, and Love Bites, with Donn Gash. It’s a lot of fun. I always love collaborating with someone whose work I’m a fan of, first and foremost, but of course it helps when we’re pals, too. Really forces me to be “on the ball,” when someone else is depending on me. And of course it helps the creative process to have someone think of something I never would have thought of, or take the story in an all new direction, expanding on an idea tha
t might have been cool but they push it farther to make it really cool.
It’s a great feeling when you get the momentum going—sending portions of a work back and forth, faster and faster, rockin’ and rollin’. It’s almost like you become one mind. All it takes is finding just the right person to collaborate with. I think I’ve been extremely fortunate so far.
JB: How do you feel about the current state of horror, the small presses, and so forth. Is the genre dying? Is small press going the way of the buffalo?
JN: I’ll be perfectly honest with you, and I say this at the risk of sounding like a real prick: I’m not too confident in the health of the horror genre right now. The small presses don’t seem to be doing too well, from what I’ve seen, because of the economy. Folks aren’t so quick to plop down fifty bucks for a limited edition these days as they used to be. I know I’m not.
But in my case, I think it’s got just as much to do with the quality of work (yeah, this is the part where I fear I’m gonna sound like a prick). I can’t remember the last time I bought a small-press title that wasn’t a trade paperback for less than twenty bucks, or at least a hardcover that I picked up ‘cause there was some huge sale going on and I got it for half-price or something. Like I said earlier, I’ve been disappointed with ninety-five percent of the new horror titles I’ve picked up the last year or two... I can think of five recent titles off the top of my head that other folks raved about and I thought they were absolutely God-awful. Writing that felt sloppy and amateurish, like it was the work of a young wannabe just starting out, maybe with a pinch of talent but nowhere near ready to be published.
