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Book Review: Tim Curran’s Dead Sea

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Deadsea

Zombos Says: Good

They expected torment and death. They expected thirst and drowning. They expected starvation. They expected suffering in all its guises and, yes, they expected things to come at them out of the mist, the sort of things that had crawled alive and breathing from nightmares and cellars and dank dark places. And on this matter they were right.

–Dead Sea

“Oh, stop being such a spoilsport,” Zombos said, helping Zimba aboard the yacht. Chef Machiavelli, dressed in his Speedo Fiji Garden watershorts, pouted as he passed me, waving his finger.

“No. No. And no again.” I was adamant. “Let others go down to the sea in ships. I’m not setting foot on that deck, no way, no how.”  Zombos threw up his hands in disgust. I folded my arms tighter in defiance.

After reading Tim Curran’s novel, Dead Sea, there was no way in or outside of hell I was going to put one foot aboard any ship. I didn’t want to have my eyeballs sucked out of their sockets through my butt, nor did I want some gelatinous, throbbing, hairy ovoid turning my insides out. Between Jaws, the Discovery Channel’s Deadliest Catch, and now Dead Sea, I hate the water and every hungry, slimy thing swimming through it. Jacques Cousteau be damned.

And damned is what the crew of the Mara Corday find themselves when the oily luminous fog washes over them and knocks out all of their high-tech navigation equipment. Unlike Scott Carey’s increasing problems with his diminishing stature in The Incredible Shrinking Man, after a similarly bizarre encounter with a luminous mist while boating, the Mara Corday’s crew has to deal with the increasing encounters–and sizes–of the ubiquitous and ever-larger pelagic inhabitants of an ungodly and unearthly ocean. And boy are they hungry; both the crew and those slimy, endlessly-tentacled inhabitants, that is.

While reading Curran’s deadly sojourn into this alien body of water, I was reminded of Hammer Films’ The Lost Continent, which was derived from Dennis Wheatley’s Uncharted Seas. An avowed William Hope Hodgson fan to boot (interview), Curran loves the sea so much he apparently wants to frighten the rest of us away so he can enjoy it all to himself.

Making doubly sure he covers both cosmic and supernatural bases, Curran tosses in a little Lovecraftian spice in the guise of a master evil that prowls around his alien seascape, sucking out the minds of unfortunate victims like a 7-Eleven Slurpee through a straw.

Curran anchors his story around George Ryan, a first-time seafaring man who reluctantly goes on the voyage for the needed money, and rocks the boat with Saks, a loud-mouth, “slab of cement,” that you keep wishing would get his comeuppance. The other crew members are colorful and full in personality, and as their predicament becomes more dire, act in all the right and wrong ways you would expect people to do in such a situation.

Then there are the others. As the crew enters the mist and things go to hell, Curran’s version of the Graveyard of the Atlantic, in which they’ve unwittingly entered, is populated with an ever-increasing assortment of briny, spiny, and deadly sea-life that not even Diver Dan would want to talk to. No sooner do they enter the mist than a crewman starts screaming about something inside him and off he goes over the side. Or was he dragged over the side? Then another crewman is snatched by something coming out of the thick fog. And before you can say “thar she blows,” the Mara Corday is struck by another ship and soon everyone is into the water trying to stay alive.

We follow their struggle for survival, alternately moving between the survivors in the raft, the lifeboat, and those just bobbing up and down on the debris from the sinking vessel. Fighting off the increasing attacks by the bizarre sea creatures–and their own petty squabbling as Saks just can’t keep his mouth shut–they slowly realize something else is seductively prowling around in the heavy luminous fog. Something that sounds like a woman’s voice, but it’s not a woman, making the hairs on the back of their neck stand on end. Then there’s that buzzing sound over the radio. It’s not static, but they’re not quite sure what it is.

Curran keeps the action moving, but does lapse into an overly long discussion–made by the survivors–of where they are and what the hell is going on. He also tosses in references to pop culture TV shows that make you self-conscious of the narrative you’re reading, disrupting the mood he is so carefully building. But his power at describing the alien and supernatural horrors of this Sargasso Sea will keep you reading page after page, hoping this or that character will survive, and wondering about the next horror to come splashing up out of the water.

Or out of the mist. In one tightly-written and creepy encounter with a derelict ship, the USS Cyclops, Curran steers his story neatly into an eerie and scary rendezvous that lies between ghostly terror and icky creature-horror. You’ll feel shivers down your spine just as the crewman who board her do.

Not satisfied with describing fibroid horrors feeding on the survivors, or multi-legged beasties with puckered mouths hungering for their flesh and blood, or an irradiated horror that melts the flesh from their bones into sticky puddles, Curran tosses in a UFO, the Fourth dimension, and a building climax of impending doom if they don’t find a way out.

Dead Sea is a good choice to read at night, when you’re all alone. Author Tim Curran displays a masterful touch at mixing genres, and in keeping the pace moving as he shifts the story back and forth between the separate groups of survivors struggling to stay alive and the horrors that wait patiently all around them.

 

“I say, what’s that thick fog rolling in?” Zombos said, just as he was casting off the tether lines. “Is it glowing? Zoc? Zoc?”

I didn’t answer him. I was too busy running as fast as I could to the safety of the mansion.

Book Review: Ghost Road Blues

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Zombos Says: Very Good

“I don’t understand.”
“Yeah, you do, but you don’t want to understand.” The man leaned back and laughed. “Hell’s a-coming, little Scarecrow. Hell’s a-coming  and we all gotta learn to play the blues.”

Something wicked refuses to leave Pine Deep, the small town in Jonathan Maberry’s Ghost Road Blues. It took up residence years before and simply refuses to leave, or die. Back then, the townspeople started dying instead, and only one person, the Bone Man, could stop it. But he was stopped, too, before he could complete his mission.  And now it’s waited long enough. People are dying again.

“Iloz Zoc, move your left hand.”

I stopped typing and looked up from my laptop. “What? Who said that?”

“Me, the something wicked you just wrote about.”

I froze for a moment. “I’ve got to stop doing these all-night reviews,” I said to myself. “Damn Dunkin’ Donuts had to stop making Dunkachinos, too. I can’t do this without two or three, at least. What do I know about Blues mythology, anyway? And I’ve got to stop talking to myself.”

“Iloz Zoc, move your left hand. I can’t see what you’re writing.”

I moved my left hand.

“That’s better. Let’s see…something wicked refuses to leave Pine Deep…okay, look, first thing is I’m not really wicked. Maberry only writes me that way. I’m really a pillar of the community.”

“Now hold on there, old boy. It’d be better if you were a pillar of salt, instead,” said another voice.

I looked up. Standing in my attic office was a tall, thin man.  “Wait, I know you. There’s a hint of grave dirt and tombstone dust about you. And that guitar strung across your back is a dead giveaway. You’re the Bone Man, right?”

He bowed slightly and smiled. “In the flesh; well, close enough.”

“That’s it, I’m heading to bed,” I shut my laptop.

“Now hold on, there, little reviewer, it’s somethin’ we got to do. Somethin’ you got to do.” He pulled the guitar over his head and started to play.

“Oh, please, the Blues isn’t going to stop me this time and you know it,” said the voice.

“Guys. Okay, maybe I’m hallucinating, maybe not. But since I’ve got the two of you here, I can use your help in this review. Hey, is Crow available?”

“No, he’s off doing a book signing in Toledo,” the Bone Man said.

“What about Mayor Terry?”

“Ditto in Peoria. Maberry kept the cushy signings for himself. ”

“Alright, then.” I opened my laptop. The Bone Man tuned his guitar. “Let’s do it.”

 

Ghost Road Blues is the first salvo in Maberry’s trilogy for Pine Deep’s predicament with an evil that won’t die. It starts off with a frightening haunted hayride—Pine Deep’s big attraction—and ends with a small battle won, but the war is just starting. In between the beginning and the ending, you will find it hard to put down, even though it’s over four hundred pages, as Maberry ties events seamlessly together by using simple actions to bridge them, keeping the tension moving at a brisk pace while still moving forward and backward in the narrative to build his characters.

The troubles for Pine Deep began thirty years before. Like the foreboding 1692 wheat blight in Salem Massachusetts, Pine Deep’s cornfields are suffering and failing while a serial killer is murdering townspeople left and right; until the Bone Man stops the murderer in a bloody and muddy fight that nearly finishes him, too.

 

“I had nothing to do with that blight,” the voice said.

“Oh, hush it,” the Bone Man said. “Let the man write.”

 

But that serial killer, Griswold, was not wholly human, and that inhuman part of him has festered and seeped into Pine Deep’s cornfields, quietly growing stronger as it lay in Dark Hollow, in the ooze and slime of the marsh under the full moon all those years, patiently waiting to return. There are some in Pine Deep that look forward to that return; his followers, human monsters that go about their daily lives in quiet anticipation, just as the corn blight returns, forboding the hellish nightmare to come.

Tow-Truck Eddie is one of those followers, but he’s nothing compared to Vic Wingate. Vic’s a special kind of monster; a wife-beater and bully who Maberry writes too vividly, too real. Tow-Truck Eddie is just a psychotic killer who thinks he’s the sword of God. He pales in comparison to Vic.

For the survivors of the horror that came and went thirty years ago, that uneasy feeling of dread has returned. Malcolm Crow remembers it all too well. Now forty, he’s still powerful for a small guy, and takes on Karl Ruger, another sociopath soon to be in the service of Griswold, in a bloody and muddy fight that drives Ruger exactly where Griswold wanted him all along: Dark Hollow.

Before that happens, though, Crow is simply the proud owner of the local skulls, comics, and rubber body parts gift shop in town; but when Mayor Terry puts him back on active police duty to help with mad-dog Ruger’s flight into Pine Deep, you know he’s someone special. His main squeeze, Val Guthrie, thinks he’s special, too. Val is also strong, and proves it when Ruger invades her home and starts beating up and terrorizing her family. In a tense series of pages, Maberry shows quite clearly why Ruger is feared and hunted by the police–and the perfect vessel for Griswold’s plan.

As Pine Deep’s normally quiet existence is shaken, Mayor Terry has his own problems to deal with. He’s worried that his local arm of the law can’t handle Ruger; which is why he called in Crow. But that’s not his only worry. His medication doesn’t seem to help anymore, and his dead sister keeps popping up to tell him something he doesn’t want to hear.

Young Iron Mike Sweeney has his own problems to deal with, too. They start with the name of Vic. Iron Mike lives under Vic’s roof, and Vic beats him almost daily—viciously, but deep down, Vic is afraid of him? He’s a threat to Griswold’s plan, but how? Each time Vic lashes out at him, you feel the sting and taste the salty blood. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, conveyed in simple words and straightforward description of action.

The Bone Man knows that Iron Mike is special, just like Crow and Val. The Bone Man died that faithful night thirty years ago, but just like evil that can’t be stopped, good cant’ be stopped, either. Like evil, good waits and waits until it sees an opening, a crevice to breathe. Like evil, good has it’s followers, too. They just need a nudge in the right direction, that’s all, to get them started.

 

“Now you’re playin’ the Blues,” the Bone Man said. He strummed his guitar.

“You still won’t win,” said the voice. A rumble of distant thunder followed his words. “I’ve got two more books to go and Maberry will fall in line, just like Ruger did.”

“Er, right…let’s see, where was I?” I continued my review.

 

Ruger’s swath of destruction begins in the cornfields, continues in Val’s home, and gets fortified in a sickening encounter in Dark Hollow. Ruger is the catalyst that accelerates Griswold’s plan for Pine Deep—and maybe every other town and city.

Maberry builds the foundation for the coming battle with classic horror elements like a bug-filled homunculus messenger, reanimated dead guys, and a fast approaching Halloween season while he positions his combatants in Ghost Road Blues, but leaves much of the why for later.

Of course, comparisons to other noted horror authors is highly likely, but for the present, Maberry’s style focuses on his character’s actions, not their thoughts, and this moves the story fast and furious. Ghost Road Blues is both event and character driven, using a disarmingly simple style that conveys the thoughts and feelings of his characters without endlessly describing their thoughts and feelings. Yet within this simplicity lies a writer who knows the elements of horror inside and out, and can call them up in a whirl of terror-filled images.

Considering that Ghost Road Blues won the Stoker Award for Best First Novel, I eagerly look forward to reading Book Two: Dead Man’s Song.

 

” Wait a moment,” said the voice. “You didn’t mention that your copy of Ghost Road Blues was personally sent to you by Maberry, and he autographed it for you. Personally. Oh, and there’s that little business about you being a contributing editor to his magazine, Cryptopedia.”

“Finish the tune, man. Finish the tune,” said the Bone Man, smiling as he swung his guitar back over his shoulder.

“Yes, he sent me a copy of his book. He also sent me a copy of his other superlative work, Vampire Universe, which he autographed for me, too.  I also reviewed that one favorably. So what’s your point? That I can’t be impartial. That I have a vested interest to play nice? Well, Griswold, or whatever the hell you are. We’re writers. We know all about the Blues. We can take the good with the bad because we write about it everyday. We can poke each other in the gut just as well as we can pat each other on the back. That’s how we get better at what we do. So far, though, Maberry doesn’t need any poking.” I shut my laptop and headed to bed.

“But you have forgotten one thing,” said the voice. “You wrote your notes all over that personally signed first edition of the Bram Stoker winner for Best New Novel.” A peal of thunder shook the room.

“Oh, my lord! You’re right! What did  I do!”  I turned to the Bone Man for help.

“That’s cold, man. You’re on your own with this one. That’s beyond even me,” he said, and vanished with a twang from his guitar.

“Arrghhhh!” I screamed, as Griswold’s triumphant laughter echoed into the distance.

Book Review: Dying to Live
Life Among the Undead

/ Books (Fiction) / 2 Comments

Dyingtolive “Dr. Paffenroth? Kim Paffenroth?”

“Here.”

“Follow me please.”

The administrative assistant led Paffenroth into a large office with no walls. A large scaffold stood on one side of the room, stretching up to a breath-taking ceiling high above him. The ceiling was filled with paintings of ecclesiastical wonder illustrated in colors that would shame a rainbow.

Sitting behind the desk was a clean-shaven, white-haired man, flipping through the pages of, Dying to Live: A Novel of Life Among the Undead. He closed the book and put it down on his desk, then folded his hands on top of it. He smiled at Paffenroth. “Hi, Kim. Please have a seat.”

Paffenroth sunk into one of the stuffed leather chairs. “My word,” he said.

“Yes, I know,” said the man behind the desk. “Heavenly, aren’t they? I’ve ordered a set of ottomans to go with them, but I’m afraid I may have guests falling asleep the minute they sit down,” he chuckled. “Kim–or would you rather I called you Dr. Paffenroth?”

Paffenroth waved his hand.

“Kim, we need to talk about this novel of yours. I’m not sure if—”

He was interrupted by singing. It drifted down from the top of the scaffold. “Hey, Michaelangelo!” he called. “Why don’t you take a lunch break? I’ve got to talk with my guest in private.”

A head peered out from the scaffold. “Bene.” To Paffenroth’s surprise, the individual stepped off the scaffold. Two large white wings unfolded as the man fell and they began flapping the air, quickly stopping his descent. He flew off into the distance still singing.

“Now Kim,” said the man behind the desk, picking up where he left off, “I love the book. It has all the right beats, and builds on each beat, making you really care about the people surrounded by that universe in chaos. Sort of reminds me of those first seven days, you know. I just don’t know if people are ready, though, for a thought-provoking religious approach to zombie horror. I mean—”

He noticed that Paffenroth’s attention was focused on the desk. “Like it?”

Paffenroth nodded. “It’s unbelievable. Does it ever end?” he asked, looking off to the horizon, first left, then right.

“Da Vinci did it,” said the man behind the desk. “Looked great on paper. Hell, everything he draws looks great on paper. But the downside is it takes an eternity to find anything in it’s draws.”

Paffenroth laughed. “That’s funny.”

“What?”

“Can God make a desk so big that even he…”

“Oh, you’re right! I hadn’t thought of that.” They both chuckled.

The door to the office opened and a wizened, long-bearded man poked his head in. “I’m heading to Starbucks, any takers?”

“Kim?” asked the man behind the desk. Paffenroth nodded no. “We’re good, thanks for asking, Methuselah.”

“Okie dokie,” said Methuselah, and closed the door.

“Great guy; been with us for ages. Now, getting back to your book. I’m certainly not one to interfere, but I do have some concerns about where this might go. I just want to—”

The door to the office flew open. A man dressed in a gray pin-stripe suit and carrying a briefcase sprinted in, followed on his heels by the administrative assistant.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I couldn’t stop him,” said the assistant, apparently at her wit’s end.

“That’s all right, Ruth. I’ll take care of it.”

“Dr. Paffenroth, don’t say another word. Permuted Press sent me to handle everything.” He put his briefcase down and handed out his business card.

“You’re a lawyer, Mr. Christian?” asked the man behind the desk. “This really isn’t necessary. I just wanted to chat with Kim about the philosophical implications of his wonderful book.”

“Yes,” said Paffenroth, “I don’t think we need to—”

“Tut, tut,” said Mr. Christian. “Permuted Press just wants to make sure that everything is fairly weighed in the balance and nothing is found wanting.”

“Alright then, have a seat.”

“I rather stand, if you don’t mind. These chairs look too comfortable,” said Mr. Christian, with a twinkle in his eye.

“Fine. I was just telling Kim how much I like his novel. His choice to use the first person narrative is well-chosen, as it’s really the only way to get inside Jonah’s head to understand where he’s coming from, and learn his thoughts about the other people he meets who are also surviving by the skin of their teeth.” The man behind the desk picked up the book, thought a moment, and continued.

“Through Jonah’s eyes, you can also experience the pain of separation, of a house divided on a global scale. Believe me, that is something I can fully appreciate. Metaphorically speaking, the situation of utter despair these survivors find themselves in can also be viewed in the light of many current events. Their questioning of their faith, and the ultimate reason for it all is a universal constant we all share.”

“I’m glad you like it,” said Mr. Christian, “but why, then, are we here?

“Well, it’s the questioning part that concerns me,” said the man behind the desk. I am, after all, the prime mover—it wasn’t easy—even though it was a labor of love. But it’s this constant blame game that’s driving me nuts.”

“What blame game?” asked Mr. Christian.

“This blaming me for everything new or old under the sun, whether good or bad. Simply put, I’m not my children’s keeper. They’re a will and a law unto themselves, and anything bad or good that happens from their actions is their responsibility and their reward alone. I have enough trouble making the little green apples grow. I’ll probably be blamed for global warming next. This “it is or it isn’t God’s will” has simply got to stop. And your characters, from Jonah to Tanya to Jack wonder where I fit into all of it.”

“But that’s like saying don’t fight the good faith,” said Mr. Christian. “How else can a person give meaning to their actions, their existence, if they feel there is none at the end of the day? No trip to Atlantic City when you retire, no winning Lotto ticket even if you pray and pray for one. Hey, you started all this. Now you want to leave everyone high and dry?”

“Wait, I’m not following all this,” said Paffenroth. “My novel is focused on the feelings and dispositions of people in the face of overwhelming circumstances. It’s only natural for them to question why they survived while others don’t, and why—”

“And why I’d let it all happen?” interrupted the man behind the desk. “The minuses and the pluses for it all, and all that spotty divine intervention stuff as your survivors rationalize the random events around them and their existence, and the existence of the zombies? Holy Moses, I can think of—”

The door to the office swung open. “You called, boss?” asked a white-robed man, sticking his head in.

“Oh, no, sorry Moses. My bad.”

“No problemo!” said Moses, and closed the door.

“Alright, alright, we can go around in circles all day arguing,” said Mr. Christian. “How about we focus on the novel and work with some concrete examples?”

“A sensible idea,” said the man behind the desk. He flipped through the book. “Here, right off the bat, you have a line that reads “God’s righteous judgment on a sinful humanity.” I don’t judge. Hell, I have enough trouble keeping my own house in order.”

“But you’re taking that line out of context,” said Paffenroth. “It’s only natural for Jonah, or anyone else for that matter, to wonder if there really is a purpose to all the madness he’s dealing with, all the death. I’m not implying there is, I’m just exploring how any individual in such a situation might think. People—especially people under extraordinary circumstances—question what’s happening around them and to them. It’s as natural as the changing of the seasons.”

“Good point,” said Mr. Christian.

Paffenroth continued. “First we find Jonah alone, his family gone, his life a daily, dismal chore of survival. Literally he’s up a tree, the only safe place to sleep, and he’s honed his skills at killing the zombies: but he still wonders about them. Who they were before they turned. The zombies are people like him, were people like him; that’s what he realizes even when he’s bashing their brains out. His remorse at killing them comes from his realization that, soulless as they may be—at least in their insatiable hunger and mindless purpose—they were like him once. That’s the real horror of it all. That and the fact that he could become like that at any time if he let’s his guard down.”

“And that’s what makes this novel something new under the sun,” added Mr. Christian. “Sure, it’s got well-written, suitably gory action scenes, but each character’s questioning of their own experience gives this story legs. We’re fast to include religious evil whenever horror happens, but I think it’s high time we start including religious good, too. That includes the symbols we associate with them, and the thoughts we share about them. And even with all this philosophical thinking going on, the novel still moves at a brisk pace.”

“Did you have a problem with Milton being considered some sort of zombie messiah?” asked Paffenroth.

“Yeah, what about that?” asked Mr. Christian. “How did your son take that one?”

“Oh, he’s been on tour ever since Mel Gibson’s film made him popular again. But I know he’s good with it. He likes the introspective nature of the character. The realization Milton comes to—how he can best utilize his “gift”, if you will, is wonderful. I am always one for hope, and he provides that with his actions.”

“And isn’t that what it’s all about?” asked Mr. Christian. “Paffenroth’s survivors add meaning to their actions to provide them with hope. Without it, you might just as well be a zombie.”

He continued. “Even the ritual of going into the city to provide some sort of rite of passage for people joining that small community of survivors is important. Jonah questions it’s effectiveness at first, but comes to realize it’s necessary to get people into the proper mindset for survival. When all the usual rituals of everyday life fall by the wayside, it’s important to provide new ones, otherwise people have no anchor to hold them steady.”

“And it sets up the encounter at the hospital,” added Paffenroth. “Without that journey, they would not have stumbled upon Frank and Zoey, a father and his infant daughter.”

“That’s quite a chilling scene, isn’t it?” said Mr. Christian. “I mean, the locked room with all those zombies in it.” He shuddered. “You were too graphic with that one. Like one of Dante’s levels of Hell, a nightmare that never ends.”

“Dante loved it, by the way,” said the man behind the desk. “Wish he had thought of it first.”

“It also foreshadows the events that take place in the prison, toward the end of the novel,” said Paffenroth.

“Yes! That’s quite a horrific little adventure for Jonah, Popcorn and Tanya, isn’t it?” said Mr. Christian. “That prison, like the locked hospital room, is a microcosm of insanity surrounded by the same. Nicely poised philosophical question comes out of that, too. Are the zombies, who mindlessly kill and infect—in nicely gruesome ways—their victims, evil, or are the convicts, who, with malice and aforethought kill and torture their victims for pleasure the real evil ones?”

“That’s it! That’s my point exactly,” said the man behind the desk. “Volition. Those convicts became a law unto themselves, and thereby were lawless—and Godless for that matter. But it still was there choice. Free will; once you have it, it’s all up to you. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Now wait a minute,” said Mr. Christian. “I happen to know you did a little miracle to keep Sanjaya going on American Idol. So don’t give me that free will, no intervention crap.”

“Okay, so I’m a sucker for an underdog,” said the man behind the desk. “But it doesn’t happen often. Besides, Mephistopheles has Simon under contract, so I had to needle him a bit.”

“Look,” said Mr. Christian, “we can argue until Hell freezes over, but I think the point of the novel is that people will always strive to find meaning in what happens around them; even during times of zombie apocalypse. All Paffenroth did was to bring that sense of meaning into his novel. I, for one, think it brings zombie literature to a new level. And even with all that philosophical wondering going on, the story is fast-paced, and his characters make you want to see them survive. Along the way, kicking some zombie butt is also a plus, and he tosses that in with an ease that’s surprising coming from an author with his theological background.”

“True,” said the man behind the desk. “I think I have a better understanding of your motivations.” He handed Paffenroth the book. “Just one last thing: can you do me a big favor and sign it? Make it out to ‘my divine inspiration,’ would you. Thanks.”

“We done?” asked Mr. Christian, grabbing his briefcase.

“We’re done,” said the man behind the desk. “Oh, and Kim, you’ll just wake up and think this was all a dream. I look forward to your next novel. Keep up the good work.”