Book Spotlight: The Thing in the Wind

Today I have a book spotlight for you on the horror book, The Thing in the Wind by Bill Mullen. Enjoy.

The Thing in the Wind 

A search party stumbles upon an unspeakable horror that threatens both their lives and sanity. 

In the heart of the Canadian wilderness, a harrowing tale of survival and psychological horror unfolds in this gripping novel. Amidst the vast, unforgiving landscape, a woman's world is shattered by the mysterious disappearance of her mother in the remote reaches of northern Saskatchewan. Along with her father and a small, determined search party, she embarks on a desperate quest for answers, only to encounter an unspeakable terror lurking in the shadows of the ancient forests.

As the group navigates the treacherous wilderness, their journey becomes a chilling fight for survival against not only the harsh elements but also a malevolent force that defies explanation. Haunted by eerie premonitions and the feeling of being stalked by an unseen entity, they begin to realize that they are facing a horror far beyond their wildest imaginations. 

This suspenseful narrative weaves together the threads of environmental horror and the mysteries of the unknown, crafting a story that is as thought-provoking as it is terrifying. With a strong female protagonist at its core, this novel explores the depths of human resilience and the bonds that tie us to the natural world.

For fans of the haunting wilderness narratives in Adam Nevill's The Ritual and the psychological depth found in Paul Tremblay's works, this Canadian Wilderness Survival Horror Book is a must-read. It stands alongside books like The Terror by Dan Simmons, offering a unique blend of psychological thrillers and horror, imbued with the eerie lore of Wendigo supernatural horror books.

Dive into this gripping horror novel, where the beauty of nature collides with the darkest corners of the human psyche, and the hunt for missing people unravels a mystery that might have been better left undiscovered.

Book Link: https://geni.us/ThingInTheWind

About the Author

Bill Mullen was born in England and holds an MFA from the Bluegrass Writers Studio. He now lives in Kentucky where he teaches literature and writing at Eastern Kentucky University. His first novel, Red Nocturne, was published in 2016.

 

Interview With Author Arnold Logan

Today I have an interview with fellow Canadian, and satirical author Arnold Logan. Enjoy!

Interview With Arnold Logan

Why don’t you begin by sharing a little about yourself.

Experience has been my teacher. I shrank from the firm embrace of power, preferring to learn by sitting on a footstool in the School of Hard Knocks. But I paid what seemed to be the exorbitant price that school exacts.

I once read the story of a young man who smuggled hashish from Afghanistan through Russia in the 1970s. He rode the Siberian Express train and was caught by the Russian police, only to be put in a Siberian prison for any years. On the day he was released, he followed the example of the other prisoners who’d been freed. It was the custom there to break in half the spoon which was the one piece of cutlery the prisoners were allowed to have. Every prisoner kept that tin spoon close at hand, lest it be stolen from him. If that happened, their diet of watery, compromised soup would go uneaten and be stolen by others. Like that young man, I, too, have broken my spoon in half. Perhaps I am still breaking it.

Could you tell us a bit about your latest book?

Springtime in Lawrence Park is a roman á clef, one that’s influenced by the picaresque novels of the eighteenth century. It’s a rollicking yarn, if I dare analyse my own style.

The novel follows Marie Barnacle, the heroine or subject (if you prefer). Marie is the youngest child in an old-money family that’s slid down a few rungs on Canada’s social ladder. They have great expectations for their daughter, of course. I trace Marie’s struggles as she tries to transform herself—from a chrysalis into a butterfly. But the ancient force of authority and the genetic tug of medieval history combine with the motives of her family to oppose her progress and development.

Who is your intended readership?

The reader whose reward is sympathy.

What are your writing inspirations?

For this novel, the books that feed its cold stream are Hamlet, The Tempest, everything by Daniel Defoe (but especially Roxanna), and Dickens’ Little Dorrit.

The poets have been inspirational too. Baudelaire the Miraculous, Shelley the Gentle, Keats the Giver, Poe the Obscure.

What was the most challenging part of writing this book?

The greatest challenge was to stay the course. The second was entering the arena of dialogue; I feared that the most.

What did you most enjoy about writing this book?

The triumphal whirl that came from the inspiration inherent in composing that first draft. Which, of course, was followed by the essential work—breaking up hot rocks in the sunshine of editing.

Did anything surprise you about the process of writing your book?

The joy of unearthing buried treasures in the course of rewriting.

Why did you write this book?

I felt like a tailor sewing a coat. After devising a pattern, I cut it out and selected the fabric.

I’ve always wanted to speak, to speak of the stories I’ve gleaned or suffered through or sought out curiously. This is my first effort to be heard in public.

To say that I was inspired by emotions, by tragedy, and by an urge to honour the writers who have often rescued me would seem trite, were it not true. And the sheer pleasure derived from the process—pen in hand—inspired me to continue to the end.

When the book was complete, when it was over, it felt a bit like losing a friend, which is, of course, a bitter end. But this is one friend who I may never lose fully, and I’m starting to appreciate the sweetness of closure with its potential for a new beginning and new friendships.

What’s your next project?

I’d like to write about war and orphans, but I haven’t formed an outline yet. Right now I’m bundling some poems together to send off to magazines.

Springtime in Lawrence Park

Marie Barnacle should have had the perfect life. Born into wealth and prestige, she grew up in posh Lawrence Park, with its winding roads, stone mansions, and old money. But Marie’s charmed life is haunted by a dark family secret. The youngest child of Raul and Tabitha Barnacle, Marie Dorée is burdened by her parents’ attempts to burnish the faded glory of their dynasty. This dark satire follows Marie through her troubled childhood, rebellious adolescence, and her efforts to establish a life beyond the reach of her domineering parents and possessive brothers. She traipses from one unfulfilling career to the next and drifts through a series of dalliant affairs. When she finds a love that offers a real escape, Marie’s family tightens its noose. The Barnacles would do anything to protect their darling—even destroy her. Springtime in Lawrence Park peers past the veneer of our most dignified neighbour­ hoods to explore the hidden—and often hysterical—lives of the decadent elite

You can find Springtime in Lawrence Park at:

Fire and Ash Publishing

Chapters/Indigo

It is also available on

Amazon (Canada)

Amazon (US)

Halloween Week: An Interview With Author Todd Allen

Welcome my horror minions,

to the start of my gloriously devilish

Halloween Week!

And do have a great beginning to kick off the week! Today's post is a wonderful interview with fellow Atlantic Canadian, and horror author, Todd Allen. He chats about his debut novel, Sacra Obscurum, discusses his writing and shares a wickedly tantalizing excerpt from his novel.

Enjoy!

An Interview with Todd Allen

1) Why don’t you begin by sharing a little about yourself.

I was born in New Brunswick, Canada in 1976. Maybe it had something to do with being the youngest of three boys, but I was a kid who always needed a creative outlet. I drew and I painted, and later, I picked up the guitar and played in garage bands.

I have been a fan of all things horror for as long as I can remember. I first took an interest in horror novels by picking up my older brother’s paperbacks and reading bits here and there. One day I picked up Stephen King’s Pet Sematary and my eyes were opened to a whole new world. I was hopelessly addicted.

Today I’m a husband and a father and when I’m not occupied by the duties of those roles, I like to write horror stories. Sacra Obscurum is my first novel.

2) Could you tell us a bit about Sacra Obscurum?

Like most every horror story, it explores a struggle against evil. In it, a few small-town boys perform a ritual from an arcane book and the story focuses on the effect the rite had on the town several years later and the effect it had on the Dawson family in particular.

It opens with Matt Dawson returning home after the death of his father, Stanley. Like Stanley, Matt is a clinical psychiatrist and he is obliged to assume control of his father’s practice. As Matt learns about his new patients, questions arise concerning Stanley’s recent behavior. Matt begins to fear that his father was involved in a decades-old murder and rumors persist that he dabbled in the occult. Matt is so driven to uncover the truth that he ultimately puts his own life in jeopardy.

3) How did you become interested in writing about the occult?

There was a poll conducted in 2013 that revealed 57% of Americans believe in the devil. Of that group, 40% believe the devil has occasionally possessed people. Quite simply, people believe in the devil. They believe in the occult. That people still hold such old-world beliefs is fascinating to me.

I was raised in a Christian household. We weren’t what some people would view as devout Christian, but we went to church weekly and observed all the holidays. On occasions that I went to my parents with concerns about vampires or werewolves, their response would never vary. They would tell me, “Those things aren’t real. Monsters aren’t real. But the devil, he’s real. He is the only thing you need to worry about. So go to church and say your prayers and he won’t bother you.” I think a lot of parents send a similar message to their kids even today—roughly 57%, of the population I’d say. That alone makes it an interesting sub-genre to work in. Also, there is a wide back story to draw material from and it is based in a history that is widely accepted by the society we live in.

When dealing in the occult and in demonology, the ultimate threat is coming under possession by a foreign intelligence. Possession brings about a total loss of freedom, a loss of identity. That is the one concept in the genre that frightens me above all others. And if it is frightening to me, I just have to write about it.

4) What did you enjoy most about writing your book?

I had a lot of fun working with the setting. The story unfolds in the town of Saint Andrews. It is a real place. It is a coastal town on the North Atlantic with a deep tradition of fishing and seafaring. The physical characteristics of the place are quite unique. It is nestled between a mountain ridge on one side and the sea on the other. It has the feel of a place that would be very difficult to escape so it made the perfect setting for putting characters in danger. The townspeople were fun to write, too. They have a bit of a regional dialect and a few unique traditions that I hope came through in the book.

5) What did you hope to accomplish by publishing your book?

Being from Eastern Canada, the Maritimes in particular, I wanted to contribute a story to the horror genre that my neighbors could relate to, that we could call our own. This is an old place—one of the first regions settled in North America—and ghost stories abound. My grandmother could tell a slew of them. In recent years, some of the region’s more popular ones have been published in collections, but I still don’t think we do enough to celebrate our history of the macabre.


6) Why did you decide to write in the horror genre?

I had my first run-in with horror at a tender age. I saw a movie that I was altogether too young to see. I was terrified. Needless to say, there were sleepless nights to follow. When I finally got over the trauma of my first horror film, I learned something about myself that was a little surprising—I liked being scared. And I stopped at nothing to recreate the terror that gripped me during that first film. I watched every horror movie I could get my hands on. As I matured, I turned to books and found a whole new appreciation of the genre. Books can provide the reader another level of intimacy with characters and it pays dividends when those characters are endangered. When you spend ten chapters getting to know characters, it is so much easier to fear for them when they ultimately face the monsters.

Writing horror is such a liberating experience for me, as well. Perhaps no other genre allows a writer to make commentary on society while still having so much fun. Metaphor plays a heavy roll in this. Sometimes monsters aren’t just monsters. Vampires have been known to represent the spread of disease; werewolves, a lack of self-control; the Frankenstein monster, the folly of Man playing God. There are so many ways for horror writers to speak their minds.

7) What do you enjoy most about writing in the horror genre?

There is no better feeling than the one I get when a reader explains how my book frightened them. When they say, “I had to put it down at night, because I was too freaked out to continue,” that’s the best. I guess I get a kick out of making people feel uncomfortable.

8) Do you have a favourite author, or writing inspiration?

I can’t narrow it down to just one favourite, although Stephen King remains a stand out to me. There are some excellent horror writers emerging on the Canadian scene. Guys like Andrew Pyper, Nick Cutter and Michael Rowe are doing some fantastic work. I suppose, when I read their books, I get excited about the future of horror fiction in Canada.

9) What advice would you give beginning writers?

A great way to practice story building is by telling stories to friends. Years ago, a few friends and I had a weekly ritual. We’d meet at the pub every Friday after work for a few pints. During all the elbow-bending, we’d talk about whatever happened to each of us over the last week at work, or at home, or with women—the whole bit. I didn’t see it at the time, but I was getting great practice at telling stories. If it was a funny story, the timing had to be just right to elicit a great laugh. If the story was a jaw-dropper, the twist had to be delivered perfectly to get the most impact. The friends who listened to those stories made the best critics. Whether or not they realized it, their faces would tell me just how well I presented my story. I learned a lot about what works and what doesn’t. The same story-telling rules can be applied to writing.

Now we don’t meet at the pub very much these days. We’re all married and have families to care for, but those experiences remain invaluable. I really believe that recounting those stories for friends helps me in my process today. Sometimes when I’m trying to arrange a passage effectively, I’ll think, how would I tell this story at the pub?

Author Bio: 

Todd Allen lives on the East Coast of Canada in Southern New Brunswick, and is a down-to-earth, fascinating interview. His examination of the occult exposed him to many modern witchcraft, demonology, and summoning practices and he was more than happy to get those research materials out of his house upon completing his book.

Website: www.ToddAllenBooks.com

And here's an excerpt from Sacra Obscurum:

Matt reviews the mysterious Dykeman’s long-lost chart

A turn of the page revealed another incident report. It was more of the same – violent behavior followed by punishment. This time, Dykeman managed to bite an orderly despite being restrained to his bed. That earned him lockdown and a dose increase. Matt was beginning to see a pattern. Dykeman had been doped up, restrained and kept under lock and key for more than fifty years. And it had started long before he was placed in Stanley’s care. How did he survive all that time? Matt pondered. What could possibly be keeping him alive when his body has been poisoned with drugs like this for decade after decade? Ordinarily, Matt would sympathize for the patient. Clinically speaking, Morris Dykeman was a very ill young man and the years had not improved his state. But speaking from the heart, Matt saw Dykeman as a homicidal madman who was kept in Stanley’s hospital mere blocks away from his home, where he grew up, where his mother lived. Dykeman had been there the whole time, while Matt attended elementary school, went to Boy Scout meetings, played barefoot on his lawn. Dykeman was there like a beast lurking in the shadows.

            After he emptied the wine bottle, Matt flipped through more pages. There were more incident reports, but he could not bring himself to read them. He had the gist. As he got to the bottom of the chart, there were fewer and fewer dose records and none of them bore any notes by attending psychiatrists. If there was no change in condition, there was nothing to write about. And how could there be any change when he was kept in a vegetative state? He became the forgotten patient. And when Stanley came calling, Centracare was probably thrilled to be rid of their guest. Dykeman became someone else’s burden.

            Strangely absent from the chart were Stanley’s notes. Matt had assumed that he would have performed his own patient evaluation, but maybe he didn’t bother. After all, Dykeman’s records spoke for themselves. It was clear that the patient would never be well. He could never improve to the point of reentering society, or even achieving any quality of life, so why waste time on him? But then again, why bring him to Saint Michael’s in the first place? Matt may have found Dykeman’s elusive chart, but he still did not find any answers.

Matt groaned and rubbed his tired face. There was another wine bottle chilling in the fridge with his name on it. He was about to stagger to the kitchen to retrieve it when he noticed the envelope at the very bottom of the folder. He flipped to it, pulled it free, and pushed the chart away. On the front of the manila envelope, Saint Andrews Police Dept was stamped in red ink. Matt opened it, dumped its contents on the desk. There were some pages stapled together and half a dozen or so eight-by-twelve black and white photographs. The first one took a moment for Matt to comprehend. When he did, the Chardonnay he had consumed attempted a comeback. Tears stung his eyes as he swallowed hard against the tempest in his stomach. He took a breath. 

“They’re crime scene photos…Dykeman’s crime scene photos,” he said softly. “It’s okay. You’ve worked on cadavers before…you can handle this.” 

Indeed, he had. Matt had even dissected a human brain in the course of his studies. But there had not been any blood. That was all the difference. Though the blood appeared black in the pictures, there was no mistaking it. It was everywhere: splashed on the floor, climbing the walls, dripping from the ceiling, everywhere.

He looked back to the photographs. He had never seen anything like it. What used to be people was rendered to bits and pieces. What was once Dykeman’s family was mere gore strewn about their kitchen. Matt shuffled the pictures to the next. It was a close up of a housedress – white with flowers dotting it on the parts that were not blood-soaked black. The next depicted a pair of hedge clippers resting on the kitchen table. “Oh my God…” escaped Matt’s lips. He brought his hand to his mouth. The image of the huge shears slick and dripping, froze the breath in his chest. How does one use those to butcher people…to butcher family? Stunned, Matt looked to the next photo. It was a shot of a weird symbol painted on the kitchen wall. No, wait, it was not paint, it was drawn in blood. And by hand, too. Matt could see streaking made by individual fingers in the gruesome drawing. He put the stack of photographs face-down on the desk.

Well, that's it for today. 

Please pop by tomorrow for some of my wicked poetry,

and for some featured poems by guest poet, Sean Theall.

And for a Halloween treat, both books in my Killers and Demons series

are free until midnight October 31^st on Smashwords. 

Check them out here:

Killers and Demons

Killers and Demons II: They Return

Interview with Jayra Almanzor

Today we have an interview with a talented new author, Jayra Almanzor, who is here to chat about herself, and her new YA science fiction book, Stygian Rift.

Interview with Jayra Almanzor

Why don’t you begin by sharing a little about yourself.

Hello everyone! My name is Jayra Almanzor and I am a writer and student from Canada. Let’s see… where to start? Well, I really like bitter gourd, for one, and window-shopping!

You've written a science fiction novel, Stygian Rift. Can you tell us a bit about the book?

Stygian Rift is a YA novel about a young boy named Robert who one day wakes up in an eerie chamber. He then realizes that this is no ordinary chamber — it’s a monster-filled chamber designed exclusively to get rid of the world’s population.

Why did you decide to write a novel in the science fiction genre? Is there a particular appeal for you?

Nothing but my love for science and current events, I guess. The thought of the world overpopulating (considering how we already have about seven billion people) just gets to me.

You also write in other genres. Do you have a preferred favourite or do you find each genre has its own enjoyable aspects?

Yeah! I write in other genres. I personally just stick to the Young Adult category paired with either fantasy or science fiction. However, as a guilty pleasure sometimes, I also like to write cheesy contemporary romances!

What do you find most challenging about being a writer?

Time management and procrastination. Sometimes, when I’m really inspired, I tend to write thousands of words in an hour. However, when I don’t feel like it but I think I should, I just write like one word in an hour.

What (or who) inspires your writing?

My parents inspire me the most about my writing. They encourage me to keep writing in order to reach my dreams.

You also create digital art. Do you find working in this visual medium enhances your writing? And if so, how?

When I don’t feel like writing, I like drawing and painting my stories’ characters and/or scenes because I think that I’m still “stepping in” to my stories, just in a different medium.

What are some of things you like to do when not writing?

I just watch Youtube videos! Sometimes when my ping isn't that high, I play League of Legends, but as time progresses and I start to lose some time on my hands, I think I’m going to refrain a bit from playing video games.

What’s your next project?

I have finished a fantasy novel a few months back and it’s still on its editing phase.  I guess going through publication and marketing for that book will be my next project!

Adventures in Self-Publishing: A Guest Post by Ethan Jones

Today, please welcome guest blogger Ethan Jones, as he talks about self-publishing and introduces his book that launches today, Arctic Wargame:

My Adventures in Self-publishing

First things first: Self-publishing is a lot of fun and a lot of work at the same time. It’s a venture into an adventure.

I shopped my two novels, Arctic Wargame (out on Amazon on May 22) and Tripoli’s Target (out in fall 2012), to a few hundred agents and publishers over the course of 2009-2011. I received some great feedback. A few agents asked for a partial manuscript and two or three for a full. But no one was willing to make an offer or sign a contract. In the mean time, I kept writing.

I had not considered self-publishing because it seemed like a lot of work and I had truly hoped an agency or a publisher would pick up my works. Upon the suggestion of a good friend, I dusted off my first novel, Arctic Wargame. I found three great beta readers, all published writers, and we took a new stab at my gibberish. Then, I worked with two great editors and proofreaders, to create the best possible work. After formatting it professionally, it finally saw the light of publishing through Amazon.

Self-publishing, like many other things, is not for everyone. It is a lot of work, most of it done independently. It involved a lot of multi-tasking, being creative and relentless. The writer needs to be also a salesman and a publicists, to take care of the promotion and the marketing of the book, and to work with an art designer for the cover. Then, it's the turn to format the work and upload it to the right distribution channels. And let us not forget your social network and web presence.

Of course, most of these services can be contracted depending on your budget, but the majority of up-and-coming writers may not have the necessary sources to cover all or a part of these expenses. Depending on what one is willing to do on their own, the total cost for a book can range from a few hundred to a few thousand dollars.

The flexibility, the freedom and the low pressure are three things I liked during my adventures in self-publishing. There are no deadlines, other than those you impose on yourself, and those are quite flexible. If the editor does not return your manuscript on time, there are no upset agents or publishing managers. If the cover art is not acceptable, there is always time for a second or third or fourth draft. Interviews and blog posts can be scheduled around your life, not the other way around. You are free to do as much or as little promotion as you want.

The time-consuming, the learning curve and multi-tasking are three things I struggled with as I ventured into the self-publishing route. The first time is the hardest, of course. It takes a lot of time to find the right beta readers and editors. One must be willing to learn how to give interviews, how to conceptualize a cover design for their work, how to draft a press release and how to handle media inquiries. All these processes take time. Over the course of the same day a writer must wear so many other hats.

Needless to say, all these activities take away a lot of time and energy that otherwise would have been invested in writing another book. But self-publishing offers authors that direct communication to their readers, allows them to make their work accessible to everyone, everywhere in the world, and enables them to keep the price down, while still keeping an excellent margin of profit (70% of the sale price through Amazon, if you work is priced between $ 2.99 and $ 9.99). Above all, it allows the authors to realize their long-time dream of publishing their work and entertaining their readers.

I would love your readers' feedback. They can get in touch with me via e-mail at this address: fictionwriter78@yahoo.com  I promise to write to each and every one of them.
My blog - http://ethanjones.blog.com - is the place to learn about my future works, to enjoy exclusive book reviews and author interviews.
I'm also on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/pages/Ethan-Jones/329693267050697
Follow me on Twitter: @EthanJonesBooks
 
 
Author Bio:

Ethan Jones is a lawyer by trade and the author of Arctic Wargame, a spy thriller available on Amazon as an e-book and paperback.  He has also published two short stories: Carved in Memory, a prequel to Arctic Wargame, and The Last Confession, both available on Amazon as e-books.  His second spy thriller, Tripoli’s Target, will be released in fall 2012.  Ethan lives in Canada with his wife and his son.

Arctic Wargame

Canadian Intelligence Service Agent Justin Hall—combat-hardened in operations throughout Northern Africa—has been demoted after a botched mission in Libya.
When two foreign icebreakers appear in Canadian Arctic waters, Justin volunteers for the reconnaissance mission, eager to return to the field.  His team discovers a foreign weapons cache deep in the Arctic, but they are not aware that a spy has infiltrated the Department of National Defence.
The team begins to unravel a treasonous plan against Canada, but they fall under attack from one of their own.  Disarmed and stripped of their survival gear, they are stranded in a remote location.  Now the team must survive the deadly Arctic not only to save themselves, but their country.

Excerpt: 

PROLOGUE

Ghadames, Libya
Six months ago
October 10, 3:00 a.m.

The sand dunes sank into darkness as a curtain of clouds dimmed the glow of the crescent moon. Justin limped closer to the small barred window of his prison cell. His bruised chest pressed against the rough surface of the bloodstained wall. He squinted and tried to stand on his toes for a better look. The rusty shackles clawed against the scarred skin of his ankles, and the heavy chain rattled on the cement floor.
“Quiet. Be quiet, you bastard infidel,” a guard growled in Arabic from down the shadowy prison hallway.
Justin stood still and drew in a deep breath, the cold night air of the Sahara desert filling his heaving lungs. Everything went silent again. No rapid steps rushing to his cell. No swearing bellowed by other inmates. He lifted his head, wrapped his free hands around the iron bars, and clenched his teeth, ignoring the jolts of pain from his fingers. With his eyes about an inch over the windowsill, Justin scoped the landscape, searching for the long-awaited rescue team.
Abdul, his connection within Libya’s Internal Security Agency who lay in the cell next door, had confirmed their escape was to take place early that morning. Their previous attempt the night before had failed, despite the inside help of one of the terrorists. Justin hoped this time their plan would be executed with no glitches.
At first, he noticed nothing except the rugged outlines of the steep dunes and the whitewashed walls of the sleepy town. Straining his eyes, he peered again. A small shadow slithered toward the prison wall. Justin blinked to clear his vision and stared at the approaching figure.
Bent at the waist, the shadow advanced at a rapid pace. It quickly disappeared from his sight, and he wondered whether the man had encountered a guard.
Justin’s heart pounded. He placed his ear to the wall and sensed a low grating noise. Someone, the shadow he hoped, was scaling the wall.
The window was at least twelve feet above the ground. He wondered how long it would take the shadow to reach it. A long minute dragged by and Justin was still alone. He breathed faster and faster and urged the man on the freedom side of the wall to make good time.
Finally, a hushed voice whispered in Arabic, “Abdul, Abdul, it’s me, Bashir. You there?”
“I’m Justin,” he replied softly.
“You’re the Canadian agent. Where’s Abdul?”
“In the other cell, around the corner, but that one has no window.”
“When did they move him?”
“A few hours ago, after they gave him a good beating.”
“Can he walk?”
“I think so.”
Bashir went silent for a moment. Justin looked up, but could not see the man’s face through the window. He asked slowly, “Bashir?”
“Shhhh.”
A few seconds later, he heard a scraping sound. Bashir was offering him a large metal key through the window bars. “That’s for the shackles,” Bashir said under his breath, “and this is for the guard.” He produced a black dagger.
Justin grabbed the handle and weighed the weapon in his weak hand. A ray of moonlight glinted off the ten-inch blade.
“Can you do this?” Bashir whispered.
“Yes.”
“You have only one chance. I’ll wait for you and Abdul in two black Nissans by the main gate. Then we’ll drive across the border to Tunisia.”
Justin frowned. “What about the hostages? The two Canadian doctors?”
“The Algerians moved them from their safe house to another location, out of the prison but still in town. My men are on their way there.”
“And Carrie?”
“Yes, your partner is with them.”
Justin breathed a sigh of relief. “OK. I’ll make sure Abdul and I meet you by the gate.”
“You’ll have to be quiet. About twenty men are guarding the prison, and we can’t defeat them all.”
“OK.”
“Abdul knows the way, but if you can’t free him, walk down the stairs and go left. The hall will take you to a small courtyard on the ground floor. There will be a guard or two by the gate. You need to cross into the house next door.”
“Downstairs, then left, then to the house,” Justin said, finding it a bit difficult to concentrate on Bashir’s words.
“Yes. Get to the roof of the house and drop down along the side facing the mosque. Follow the road leading to the main gate. Is it clear?”
“Yes, it is.”
Bashir’s clothes rubbed against the wall, and then silence returned to Justin’s cell. He stared at the key and the dagger in his right hand. Stepping back from the window, he was careful not to jerk the chain and alert the guard beyond the solid metal door. The key fit into the shackles’ padlock. He coughed loudly as he turned the key to cover the dull clunk of the lock snapping open. Now almost free, he removed the metal loops from around his ankles.
First imprisoned in Tripoli after their hostage rescue operation went wrong, Justin and Abdul were subjected to torture by the Algerian hostage takers for two days. After Justin and Abdul attempted an escape and killed a guard in the process, the Algerians––with the help of the Libyan secret police––moved them to Ghadames, an isolated and less risky place in their minds.
Justin wasted no time. He took a deep breath, gripped the dagger tightly, and called out to the guard, “Hey, open the door.”
“Shut up,” the guard roared back.
“I need to talk to you.”
“No. Just shut up.”
Justin banged twice on the heavy door.
The guard’s voice grew louder as he drew nearer to the door. “What’s the matter with you? You want me to break your leg?”
Justin slammed his fist against the door.
“That’s it. You asked for it,” the guard shouted.
Keys clattered as the guard struggled to find the right one to unlock the door. Justin stepped to the side and lifted his dagger high, waiting for the right moment. His hand shook. The weapon felt heavy, straining his muscles.
“I’m going to beat some sense into you now,” the guard barked.
As the guard shoved open the door, Justin thrust his hand toward the man’s throat. The blade slashed deep under the man’s thick chin, severing his windpipe. The guard dropped dead into his stretched arms, blood sputtering from the man’s mangled neck.
Justin used the guard’s black robe and turban to wipe the blood stains from his face and his arms. He stripped the man of his keys, his side arm—an old Beretta 92 pistol—his AK-47 assault rifle and two magazines. Justin dragged the body to a corner of his cell and locked the door behind him.
He tiptoed to Abdul’s cell. On the second try, he found the right key. As he opened the door, the powerful stench of sweat and urine almost twisted his stomach inside out. Abdul was lying against a wall, asleep.
“Abdul, Abdul, wake up.” Justin rustled him.
“Huh? What?” Abdul mumbled with a big yawn.
“Time to go, man.”
“Justin, how did you…” Abdul sat up slowly and stared into Justin’s eyes.
“Bashir gave me a key and a knife.”
“Bashir? When did he come?”
“Tell you later. Let’s go. Can you walk?”
“Yes, yes, I can.”
Justin unchained Abdul’s bruised legs and helped him to his feet. Abdul leaned against the wall before taking a few unsteady steps.
“I’m good. I can do this,” Abdul said.
“OK, follow me.”
“First, give me that.” Abdul pointed at the assault rifle.
“Bashir said we need to break out in silence. Too many fighters for us to kill them all.”
Abdul held the AK-47 in his hands with difficulty and fumbled with the safety switch. Finally, he switched it to full automatic. “Just in case,” he mumbled.
“Let’s go.”
Justin threw a glance down the hall and signaled for Abdul to follow him. They moved quickly to the end of the narrow hallway, their bare feet tapping lightly on the concrete floor, grains of sand gritting their toes.
“We go to the first floor, then left,” Justin said as they came to a spiral staircase.
“Then what?”
“Left through the hall until we reach the courtyard. We have to go through the door taking us to the house next to the prison. Bashir will wait for us at the main gate.”
“What? That’s Bashir’s plan? There’s always a group of guards in the back.”
“He said there should be only one, two at the most, and we have to get rid of them quietly.”
“That’s impossible. They’ll see us as we go outside and kill us.”
“Maybe they’re dozing off.”
“If not, we shoot first.”
“No. We’ll have the rest of the Algerians coming after us.”
Justin winced as his left foot landed on the coarse surface of the first stair. He took two more steps and turned his head. Abdul nodded and followed behind him. Holding the dagger ready in his hand, Justin continued down the stairs. He reached the bottom. The hall forked right and left. A light flickered from the right. Justin stepped back, gesturing for Abdul to stop.
“What’s that way?” Justin asked in a hushed tone, pointing toward the light.
“A kitchen and a dining area. And someone’s awake.”“Don’t worry about it. We’re slipping out the other way.”
Justin glimpsed again toward the dim light, then to the opposite side and began creeping down the hall. He saw a door about twenty steps ahead and figured it was the one opening into the courtyard. Pressing on, he quickened his pace. Abdul’s feet shuffled loudly behind him.
“Quiet, quiet, Abdul,” he said.
“That’s not me.”
Justin turned his head and looked over Abdul’s shoulders. He stared right into the eyes of a man standing five or six steps behind Abdul and pointing a pistol at them. The gunman was of a small, thin stature, clad in a white robe and a black headdress.
“Stop or I’ll blow your head off,” he said in Arabic.
The gunman’s voice crackled abruptly. Its unexpected high pitch startled Justin. The pistol shook in the young man’s hands.
“He’s just a kid,” Justin whispered to Abdul, who was preparing to turn his rifle toward the gunman.
“I will shoot you,” the young man squeaked, this time louder. “You, turn around with your hands in the air,” he ordered Abdul.
Abdul swung on his heels, firing a quick burst.
“No,” Justin shouted.
Bullets went through the gunman. Two large purple stains appeared on his chest as he collapsed over a chair.
“No, no, no,” Justin cried. “He was a kid, just a kid.”
“Who was going to blow our heads off,” Abdul replied.
“We could have talked to him.”
Abdul shook his head. “No time for talk. Now run.”
Before Justin could say anything, someone kicked open the door behind him.
“Down,” Abdul shouted and pointed his AK-47 toward the door.
Justin fell to the floor, while Abdul kept his finger on the assault rifle’s trigger. Bullets pierced the bodies of two guards who entered the hall. Loud cries and barking orders came from two stories above. Rapid thuds of heavy boots echoed throughout the prison. Justin pulled out the Beretta from a pocket of his tattered khakis. As soon as two men running downstairs entered his sights, he planted a couple of bullets in each man’s neck.
“Go, go, go. Move, move!” he yelled at Abdul.
Abdul checked the door and fired a short burst into the courtyard. A few shrieks confirmed he hit his mark, and he dove outside. More gunfire followed. The reports of assault rifles echoed in the night. Heavy machine guns hammering in the distance pounded the urgency of their escape into the Canadian agent. After trading his Beretta for a high-powered AK-47 next to the body of a dead guard, Justin joined Abdul in the courtyard.

Arctic Wargames is available at Amazon:  http://www.amazon.com/Arctic-Wargame-Justin-Novel-ebook/dp/B0084FH6M8/

An Intense Literary Apocalyptic Novel: A Review of Since Tomorrow

My Book Review of Since Tomorrow by Morgan Nyberg:

Since Tomorrow by Morgan Nyberg is an unsettling novel, in the way only a powerful, well-crafted book can be, using its words to twist into your mind and make you think. It’s the type of book that resonates right into the back of your mind and curls around your soul.

The book is set in a post-apocalyptic future, where excess and dissipation have finally caught up with the world and where society has self-destructed. The novel unfolds within the city of Vancouver, Canada, where a small population survives, eking out a meagre existence by farming and scavenging.
This is a magnificent book that lays out an exquisitely formed vision of a broken world that has lost the trappings of civilisation as we know it, but none of its emotional underpinning. In this new society we still find people trying to form communities, people trying to take advantage, some who have given up, and some who want to make it better. No punches are pulled here in the pages; characters die, both victories and tragedies happen and life goes on despite everything. The author gives you characters you can love and hate, all living in an amazingly realistic future world.

In so many ways this book just works effortlessly, giving the reader different levels of enjoyment or reflection in its words. I highly recommend this book; it is worth your time to read it.
 
 
Since Tomorrow is available at:
Amazon

For Canada Day: Even The Paranormal Play Sports

Happy Canada Day!

To celebrate, I bring you a little Canadian paranormal:

Even The Paranormal Play Sports

“Welcome everyone to the final showdown between the Clover Creek Undead and the Johnsonville Bloodsuckers! Let the hockey begin!”

A roar went up from the crowd; we had all begin looking forward to this championship game for weeks. I mean life has to go on, right, even if some of your friends and neighbours aren’t, well, exactly alive anymore.
I was sitting third row up, so I scanned the rink as the players skated in and cheered as my boyfriend Freddie hit center ice. I waved at him and he blew me a kiss. He was so gorgeous, even in all that bulky hockey gear; I could see a hint of his vampire fangs as he smiled. It was good to see him smile again, heck to see everyone so happy again, after all that happened.

“Miss Dawson, could we get back to the interview?”
Oh, yeah, I almost forgot the reporter. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to neglect you, but I had to wave to my sweetie. And you can call me Deidre.”
“Teenage love aside, Deirdre, my paper is very interested in the alleged strange occurrences in this area, so if you would...” He turned on a tiny digital recorder.
Geez, the guy’s persistent. Would it kill him to wait until the game was over? I sighed.
“Okay. Here’s how it happened. It started early last summer, just before the start of tourist season. No one even bothered giving the two strangers much notice. Most everybody just thought they were nutty Europeans, although Marcy thought they were a gay couple from the States, California maybe, and Crazy Mitchell swore they were mobsters to anyone who would listen.” I paused for a second as they dropped the puck and our team won possession.
“These guys rented the old Sampson place up on the hill off Cedar Street. They kept to themselves and they didn’t come to town much, or do any of the tourist stuff. This, of course, got all the tongues wagging and theories about what they were doing in that house were flying left and right. People were even saying Crazy Mitchell was right about them being mobsters and any day the town would be shot up or invaded by the RCMP.”
My attention was pulled to the ice; Freddie had the puck. “Go Freddie!” I cheered as my honey scored and the reporter fumed beside me.
“Relax, why don’t you? I’ll get to it, but I’m not missing the hockey.” I cheered again as our team won the faceoff.
“They were here for a couple of weeks or so, before the first incident, when the dead cow was found. At first everyone thought it was coyotes, but then the rumours went around, about how there was no blood in the carcass.”
“I heard about those rumours. They didn’t have any hard facts to back them up. There was no evidence the police were called in to investigate, no official record of an incident with a dead cow, or any report of a disposal of the carcass. There’s no proof of any such event occurring.”
“Oh, it occurred, but I wouldn’t know about police investigation or stuff like that. I don’t usually take notice of dead cows.” I smirked at the reporter. “Besides, I was too busy with the end of year school dance. It’s a sort of pre-prom thing for all the high school students. We did this whole vampire/werewolf/Twilight theme, which is kind of funny considering.”
“I’m sure your dance was lovely, but could we get back to what’s important here.”
“Hey, jerk, the dance is important. That’s where it happened.” Action on the ice distracted my attention. “Damn, Clover Creek has the puck. Take it back, Johnsonville. Don’t let them score!”
“Could you please try and focus on the story, Miss Dawson!”
This guy really annoyed me, and he was asking for it, but I turned my attention back. “Like I said, the dance is where everything happened. We held it at the arena here, on account of the big turnout, and hockey season being over meant the place was free to use for the evening. We had to have chaperones, cause everybody was afraid we get drunk or something, like we couldn’t do that anyway. And I guess that was the excuse those new guys used when showed up at the dance. It’s like we thought they were just trying to help, be all community or something.”
“Two strangers show up at a teenage dance and no one questioned it? I find that odd.”
“Well that was the thing wasn’t it? They should’ve seemed out of place. Marked as possible pervs at least, but they weren’t. We didn’t know until later how or why.”
“You’re saying these men conned their way into a high school dance? To do what exactly? Threaten a bunch of teenagers? To what end?”
“Recruitment. They spiked the punch and the rest of the drinks, waited, then locked us in the arena and gassed the place. We didn’t even know what went down until we, uh, woke up I guess.”
“You are telling me two men locked down an entire building to drug a group of teens unconscious? That seems a bit, farfetched.”
“No. We weren’t drugged, they killed us.”
The reporter stared at me as if I’d just grown two heads, and then he got mad. “Is this some type of joke? Pull one on the idiot reporter? Because I don’t like having my time wasted, young lady!”
“It’s no joke. The two guys were honest to real vampires. They put some juiced up vampire blood in the drinks and then pumped in poison gas to kill us all. Except we didn’t die. We became like them, vampires. Pretty much every teen around here, over the age of fifteen is now a vampire.”
“That’s preposterous.”
“Yeah, it was kind of a complicated idea. I mean, after we, changed, we were supposed to fall in line with their plans and all and become some kind of army or something like that. Like we’d listen to a couple of uptight, out-of-town vampire loons.”
The reporter looked at me funny and shrank back in his chair. “You’re serious. You actually believe what you’re saying. What is this, some weird paranormal cult thing?”
“Is that what you think? Well it isn’t. It’s real.”
“This is nuts. It must be brain damage or brainwashing or a hoax. You can’t be-be...”
“What? A vampire? The undead? That’s what everybody else said too, until the government came. Now, they believed us, and did the whole hush-hush clean up bit you see in movies. But not before a few rumours and YouTube videos leaked out. Which is how you got sent here, I’m guessing?”
“We go on more substantial facts than YouTube videos, but yes, my paper sent me here to investigate a possible government cover-up and suspected violations of civil rights.”
“Good luck with that. This whole incident has been deemed a ‘national security risk’ and those two vampires classed as ‘domestic terrorists’.” I notice two burly men headed our way. “Did you know that our national spy agency has a paranormal division?”
“Excuse me? CSIS has a what?”
“A paranormal division. It seems it has been operating for years. They have the entire area under surveillance and curfew.” The two brawny guys came to a stop behind the reporter. “And I believe these two agents are here for you.”
The agents hauled the reporter out of his seat and they scuffled, but he was taken away. I kind of felt sorry for him, but hey, I got to protect my own. Those CSIS nuts were serious about not letting the secret out and my friends and I like living or un-living as it were. As long we vampires cooperate, we get to keep our heads.
I turned back to the hockey, just in time to watch Freddie steal the puck.
“Go Freddie!” I gave my sweetie my best fanged smile.