DadTrends » Fiction

Warm Bodies Gives Zombies a Voice

Jonathan Liu — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 13:15:27 +0000

Let me be frank with you: I like zombies.

I like playing zombie-themed board games like Last Night on Earth and Eaten by Zombies (and even Zombie Dice, in which the zombie theme is just a thin veneer over a fun press-your-luck game). I watched The Walking Dead with fascination (though I must admit I haven’t caught up with this season yet). For Halloween last year, I was one of the folks who really pushed for “GeekDead” week. And, of course, I like reading books about zombies.

But I’m not a zombie purist. In fact, I haven’t watched any of Romero’s classic zombie movies, nor many of the newer twists on them. I’m more a Shaun of the Dead than Dawn of the Dead sort of guy. I generally like my zombies with a side of humor, or at least a knowing wink, which probably explains why I liked the Zombies vs. Unicorns anthology.

So, bear all that in mind when I tell you about my latest favorite zombie story: Warm Bodies by Isaac Marion. I read this prior to Wordstock in October, and couldn’t put it down. It’s not a silly zombie book, but it does take the zombie story in an interesting direction.

Warm Bodies is a bit of a different zombie story: for starters, it’s narrated by a zombie. The tables are turned: we finally get into the brains of a zombie, so to speak. R (that’s all he can remember of his name) is a young man of indefinite age; although he’s undead he’s a pretty well-preserved specimen, without too much decay or missing parts. He describes life in the zombie next out at an abandoned airport, and what it feels like to be a zombie — in particular, the fact that although he has some thoughts bouncing around in his head, there’s a barrier between his brain and his vocal chords, which means that pretty much everything comes out in grunts and short phrases.

Zombies can talk, but not very well, and it takes too much effort. This idea, that the narrator can tell you a story that he can’t actually vocalize, is one that I’ve seen before. Years ago I read a book called The Ha-Ha by Dave King, about a Vietnam vet who was injured and became unable to speak. We get the story from his point of view, hearing all the things that he thinks and imagines in his head but is unable to communicate outside of himself. Or there’s also Jonathan Lethem’s Motherless Brooklyn, told from the point of view of a thug-turned-detective with Tourette’s Syndrome: the outward appearance of the character is significantly different from the inner workings of his mind.

From the outside, then, Warm Bodies‘ zombies actually appear much like your typical zombies: they shamble around aimlessly, they groan, sometimes they hunt in mobs, and they eat brains. Marion has his own explanation for why the zombies eat brains, and he uses it to incorporate some interesting narrative techniques that would otherwise be impossible. But as he told me in his interview, he tried to stay true to a lot of classic zombie tropes, at least from the perspective of an outside human observer.

Where things really take a non-traditional turn, though, is what happens after R goes on a raid with some other zombies. He captures a girl, Julie, and for some reason decides not to eat her. Instead, he takes her back to the airport and hides her in the airplane that he calls home, telling her that he’s going to protect her. He becomes fascinated by this living human and the sparks of memory of his old life that her presence inspires. Julie, naturally, is a bit freaked out by this, but makes an effort to figure out what’s going on in R’s head, and it leads to an uneasy friendship.

Through Julie, we get the human perspective on the post-zombie world. Survivors have holed up wherever they can; there’s a human settlement inside what used to be a sports stadium, with shantytowns and gardens. It feels like a make-shift military installation, and everything has been pared away for survival. It turns into a parallel of the zombie’s situation: are the humans really any more alive than the zombies, if all they’re doing is surviving? Without room for pleasure or frivolous pursuits, when the only goal is to stay safe inside a walled fortress, what sets humans apart from their undead counterparts?

But although Warm Bodies uses zombies to get across some Big Ideas about the human condition, it’s not all serious. There is humor — more witty than funny — which is almost inevitable if you’re going to tell the story from a zombie’s point of view. Things like: “Breathing is optional, but I need some air.” or “She is Living and I’m Dead, but I’d like to believe that we’re both human.” He reflects on what it’s like being dead, without having deadlines and responsibilities and just being able to cruise back and forth on the conveyor belts in the airport, something he would never have done while living. “Being dead is easy.”

Warm Bodies is not a laugh-out-loud book by any means, but — like zombies themselves — it’s a juxtaposition of opposing ideas, humor despite the gravity of the situation, life springing from death. It is more poignant than scary, a zombie book that manages to go beyond kitsch or horror to dig at some really interesting issues. It is, dare I say, a touching book about zombies.

If you’re a hard-core zombie purist or somebody who wants your zombies terrifying and not sympathetic, I don’t know that I would recommend Warm Bodies. But if you’re willing to stretch the boundaries of the genre a little, it’s a fantastic, thought-provoking book.

Disclosure: Atria Books provided a copy of the book for review.

Geekly Reader: Pseudonymous Bosch’s Secret Series

Jonathan Liu — Sun, 27 Nov 2011 12:30:45 +0000

The Secret Series by Pseudonymous Bosch

When the first book in the Secret Series by Pseudonymous Bosch was published in 2007, it was shortly after the final book in Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events, which I had followed from the beginning. I remember seeing the first book, The Name of This Book Is Secret, in bookstores and being somewhat intrigued. But when the next few books in the series started showing up, with titles like If You’re Reading This, It’s Too Late and This Book Is Not Good For You, I wondered how similar this series would be to Unfortunate Events. It just seemed too familiar: the pseudonymous author who warns you not to read the book, a couple of kids who are up against a mysterious secret society and vast conspiracies … did I really want to start that again?

It turns out I should have.

Ok, it’s hard not to dwell on the comparisons between Bosch and Snicket — both are intrusive narrators who become prominent characters in the books themselves. Both warn you time and again not to continue reading the books (though, I should point out, for somewhat different reasons). Both like to tell you what words means, using slightly off-kilter definitions. But despite an obvious debt to Snicket’s work, I think Bosch has really made the paranoid narrator voice his own, and the Secret Series turned out to be quite a different kettle of fish (a phrase which here means “very fun to read”).

So here’s the rough outline, without revealing too many details. Cass and Max-Ernest (not their real names, of course) are both middle-schoolers. Cass is a survivalist, always studying and preparing for any disaster that could befall. Max-Ernest is an extremely logical boy who nonetheless wants to be a magician or comedian, or both, despite an inability to tell jokes. The two of them stumble upon a dead magician’s diary and are drawn into a larger world of secrets.

Bosch throws in a variety of things in his stories throughout the series: the very first chapter (after the intro) is entirely composed of Xs. It’s secret, you see, and he simply can’t tell you those things. Sometimes he jumps around in chapter numbers — going backwards for a countdown, or using negative numbers, or skipping some chapters entirely. Sometimes the books are interrupted by Bosch’s further warnings not to continue reading them, or quizzes to see how well you’d do in a secret society, or emergency drills about what to do if somebody spots you reading the book.

The books also have appendices, which contain recipes, explanations, codes and decoders, and other miscellaneous bits of information that may pertain to the books. There are interviews with Bosch (conducted by himself), magic tricks, how to say “hello” in a hundred different languages, and more.

If it sounds like it’s a big jumble of seemingly disparate things, you’re right — it is. But it works. I think any reader who loved the Lemony Snicket books would really enjoy the series — particularly those who liked the way Unfortunate Events started off but felt it dragged on just a little long without giving enough answers. The Secret Series is just five books long, and Bosch keeps up a pretty quick pace. Sure, each one does have the kids facing a sinister enemy (and overcoming obstacles to defeat them), but you also do feel that (1) you’re finding out a little more about the secrets in each book, and (2) the characters are developing and changing as the series develops. It’s pretty cool the way that things that happen early on in the series have repercussions later on, and this is especially impressive in light of the fact that Bosch didn’t have a definite plan when he first started writing the series.

The books are appropriate for middle-grade readers, though I should warn that there is some creepy stuff that happens throughout the series. The villains are a bit nastier than Count Olaf. For one example (minor spoiler alert): at one point some of the bad guys describe their plan to vacuum out a boy’s brain fluids through his nose, hearkening back to the Egyptians’ process of mummification. In another book there is a humanoid creature who appears to eat villains, so there are some references to cannibalism (and whether or not it’s truly cannibalism if the creature is not really a human himself). At any rate, the series does traverse some darker waters, so you may want to preview the books before giving them to younger readers. Middle-schoolers and up probably shouldn’t have too much trouble with it.

I read the first book before my interview with Pseudonymous Bosch at Wordstock, and he made the comment to me outside of the interview that, really, as an adult, I didn’t necessarily need to read the rest of the books, as they’re meant for kids. However, I really got into the series, and ended up reading the next four books over the past few weeks, and I’m glad I did. They’re fun and quite geeky, with a lot of random facts and trivia incorporated into them. There’s a bit of fantasy and magic involved, but a lot of the fun is just watching these two kids working on figuring out the Secret and keeping it away from the bad guys.

All right: I can’t say much more without starting to get into specifics of the plot and giving things away. If you’re looking for an excellent mystery-adventure series for middle graders (or, heck, adults who like kids’ books), don’t overlook the Secret Series. Start with the first one, The Name of This Book Is Secret, and see if you and your kids aren’t hooked by the end of it.

And just for reference, here’s the order of the series:

Note that the first four books are now available in paperback, but the fifth was just released in September and is currently in hardcover only. For more about the series and Pseudonymous Bosch, visit his website.

Disclosure: Little, Brown provided copies of the books for review.

There Can Never Be Enough Horror: Lovecraft eZine

MJ Harnish — Wed, 02 Nov 2011 11:30:29 +0000

There are Things that were tamed in the beginning of the cosmos and chained by the stars which were placed in a sigil of five dimensions in the tongue of a formless race which was ancient before the elements.

The Prophecy of Zarah by Jenne Kaivo

Although Halloween has come and gone, there’s no reason to limit spine-chilling thrills and creepy stuff to just the last days of October. If you’re a fan of Lovecraftian horror, the Lovecraft eZine is worth checking out. The blog’s main page is packed full of interesting Lovecraft-related links, photos, and articles. However, the site’s main appeal is the free, monthly eZine itself which contains a nice selection of Lovecraft-inspired horror stories written by both established and aspiring authors*. For those of you in possession of a Kindle or Nook, there’s also a ePub version (available for 99 cents per issue) so you can take along the month’s stories with you wherever you go.
*Submissions from unpublished authors are welcome – you can find submission guidelines here.

PerambuLit: A Choose Your Own Audio Story

Ethan Gilsdorf — Fri, 14 Oct 2011 14:47:25 +0000

Love? Gunplay? Explosions? Ghosts? It all begins with PermambuLIT, a choose your own story / interactive audio fiction project being launched at the Boston Book Festival

Ever since I devoured all those Choose Your Own Adventure books — mine were actually Endless Quest books put out by the folks who gave us Dungeons & Dragons — I’ve been intrigued by the idea of interactive storytelling.

Here was the concept: Via a second-person point of view, the reader, aka ”you,” could enter a story, assuming the role of the protagonist and making choices that determine the main character’s actions in response to the plotline. At the bottom of each page, you would select one of two choices of what you do next, and turn to the appropriate page. A sort of a rudimentary interactive fiction. These books are still around.

D&D is a further manifestation of this concept. Video and computer games are another. And yet the idea of writing a location-specific text adventure for adults, with multiple outcomes, but not necessarily genre-based, has always remained intriguing to me. This fall, I finally got to take part in a project that fulfilled this fantasy.

Here in Boston, eight writers have teamed up with the technical prowess of Broadcastr to produce PerambuLit, a “Create-Your-Own-Adventure” audio story, customized for attendees of the Boston Book Festival this Saturday, October 15. But even if you don’t live in Boston, you can experience this project (see below).

PerambuLit is an audio story, allowing festival-goers (and folks anywhere) to experience a fictional narrative both by listening to it and by walking along its various routes. Listeners will hear the voices of the writers themselves, recorded for this project by the online audio literary magazine The Drum. The story has eight different endings. From a premise of a date at the library gone bad, or good, you might run into a bumbling spy, a neophyte psychic, a reality TV show producer or various specters from the past.

The writers include myself; Jenna Blum, author of Those Who Save Us; Daphne Kalotay, author of Russian Winter; Matthew Pearl, The Dante Club; Catherine Elcik, ”How to Be Sure You Want To Be a Farm Girl” in Carve Magazine; Becky Tuch, founding editor, The Review Review; Steven Brykman, National Lampoon, The New Yorker; and Power, author of the forthcoming Clean Monday.

Since the story takes place in the streets of Boston, ideally we want listeners to listen on site. You begin PerambuLit on the steps of the Boston Public Library, and use Broadcastr’s geotagging application for your iPhone and Android to map the route. For example, after listening to the first segment, you get to choose to walk down either Boylston Street or St. James Avenue. You then tap on the audio “tag” on your smart phone screen for this route, which causes the corresponding audio segment of the story to play. Then you choose again. And again …

The story goes live today, Friday, October 14. If you happen to be in downtown Boston this weekend, then here’s the ideal way to listen.

1. Go to the steps of the Boston Public Library (Dartmouth St.).

2. Download the free Broadcastr (iTunes link) app onto your iPhone or Android phone.

3. Open the Broadcastr app.

4. A pop up window will display, offering you the PerambuLit experience; click “yes.”

5. Instructions will display, and you can begin your adventure!

But even if you’re not local, or can’t make it to the Boston Book Fest, your location doesn’t matter. You can still listen either using the app or by going to the broadcastr website, searching for “perambulit” and listening from your computer or other device.

We hope you enjoy the story.

The Nyarlathotep Event by Jonathan Wood: Case File #10, Rematch

Michael Harrison — Fri, 05 Aug 2011 13:30:35 +0000

For the past two weeks, we’ve serialized author Jonathan Wood’s short, “The Nyarlathotep Event” here at GeekDad, and we’re finally at the last installment. This story is set in the same world as Wood’s debut novel, No Hero, the Lovecraftian urban fantasy that dares to ask, what would Kurt Russell do? The first chapter of No Hero is available for free, and the novel is available from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and other independent book stores.

If you missed the first nine installments, check them out here, first:

Note: This installment contains several words that some might not consider appropriate for young readers.

The Nyarlathotep Event by Jonathan Wood: Case File #10 Rematch

Fear. It’s easy enough to be ruled by it. There are a lot of things to be afraid of these days. Terrorists. Bioweapons. New Lady Gaga songs.

My personal issue with fear is a little more immediate, though. It is seven foot tall, wears red robes, and goes by the name of Nyarlathotep.

And I’m in his citadel, in his dimension, and in this moment, I realize I probably should have brought my gun. My best friend, Clyde, is a government-paid magician, but he appears to have disappeared into madness.

Crap.

Up until now it hasn’t been too much of a problem. Until now, I’ve been able to take advantage of this being a reality other than ours, and just summoned things by concentrating hard. Apparently now I’m in Nyarlathotep’s actual house, that’s not an option. Not that I don’t try it. I imagine swords, guns, knives, bombs, even Donkey Kong on the off chance I can catch him off guard.

No go.

Nyarlathotep steps towards me. He’s got no gun either, but that’s not really an issue for him.

Visions overwhelm me. Rush up at me from the floor, swallow me.

—drowning here, swallowed by surfaces suddenly turned liquid. I can feel them pressing in. Insects scuttering forward, enveloping me. In my mouth, my ears, my eyes. Peeling back my flesh. And beneath I am something other than expected. There is no flesh here, no blood and bone. Hollow glass veins. Crystalline tendons. A hammer descending, to shatter me, obliterate me. Fear building, building. My heart beating faster in my chest until I fear even that. Until it is enough to shatter my fragile body. Overwhelming me. Drowning me—

It could go on and on. Forever. There is so much to fear. To run from. Through the vision I can see Nyarlathotep, hand outstretched, pacing slowly towards me. And I know then that all thoughts of killing him are madness. Because fear can never be killed. It will live forever, beat in my heart forever.

But there, then, I know too, that all of that doesn’t mean fear can’t be overcome too.

I squeeze shut my eyes as the visions press in, but I push back. I gather my breath. I open my eyes.

Nyarlathotep is a step away. His fingers an inch from my throat. I have one hope. One trick this place has taught me. I brace myself. And I laugh.

In his face, I laugh. As loud and hearty as I can make. Trying to avoid the hysteria overcoming me. I laugh, and I laugh, and I laugh.

His hand strikes me and shatters like glass. Nyarlathotep stares at it, disbelieving. He comes on, his arm grinding against me, splintering, fracturing, spilling to the floor in glistening red shards. And then his whole being smashes against me. And he is only so much dust at my feet.

And then his whole citadel trembles. Cracks run through it. The whole of this reality shatters and shakes. And then I am falling, tumbling through a tear in the world, into blackness.

Christ Church College, Oxford

I land with a crack on my back in the center of Christ Church quad.

I lie there panting. I look about me. And I realize, this is it. This is Oxford as I remember it. Regular, normal, boring Oxford. Normal, boring students staring at me, wondering where I’m from. The madness from Nyarlathotep’s reality has been banished.

Clyde, my partner, lost to madness in that other reality, sits up next to me, paws at his eyes.

“I just had the worst dream…”

In my ear, static as my earbud reconnects with the MI37 home office. I hear Tabitha’s voice. “Five, four, three… oh wait. You’re back.” She pauses. “Cut that bloody close. Idiots.”

Yeah. Everything back to normal.

And I smile. Because, really, there’s no place like home.

Jonathan Wood is both a geek and a dad–two great flavors that go great together. He posts on twitter as @thexmedic and intermittently blogs at http://www.cogsandneurons.com.

The Nyarlathotep Event by Jonathan Wood: Case File #9, Citadel

Michael Harrison — Thu, 04 Aug 2011 13:30:59 +0000

It’s getting down to the wire!

Yes, we’re serializing author Jonathan Wood’s short, “The Nyarlathotep Event” here at GeekDad. It’s set in the same world as his debut novel, No Hero, the Lovecraftian urban fantasy that dares to ask, what would Kurt Russell do? The first chapter of No Hero is available for free, and the novel is available from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and other independent book stores.

If you missed the first eight installments, check them out here, first:

Note: This installment contains several words that some might not consider appropriate for young readers.

The Nyarlathotep Event by Jonathan Wood: Case File #9 Citadel

As citadels that are the embodiment of sheer terror go, Nyarlathotep’s is pretty imposing.

I mean, to be fair, he benefits from having built it in a nightmare reality based on humanity’s collective fears where things like gravity and physics are apparently spongier than I’m used to, but still, he deserves points for effort. Blood colored spires, statues that actually scream, non-Euclidean angles — he went the whole nine yards.

Still going to kill the bastard, of course.

I lower Clyde, co-worker, friend, and currently dribblingly insane person off my shoulders. I check my watch. If time obeys the same rules here as back home I’ve got about twelve minutes to get this done. Time to take some shortcuts.

Fortunately, the best thing about a nightmare reality is that nightmare rules apply. I concentrate, sprout wings, and take to the air.

Hell yeah, I do.

I sweep down over spires, twist between towers, work my way deeper and deeper into the heart of the complex. A vast central tower looms before me. I aim for a window near its peak, tuck in my wings, clutch Clyde tight to my chest—

—and tentacles explode out of one wall and smash me into the tower.

And, yes, that would probably be the worst thing about a nightmare reality: nightmare rules apply.

I fall, scrabbling against the tower’s sheer surface. I try to clear my mind, to focus. My fingers elongate, develop suckers. I latch on. One arm spirals away, elastic and strong, wrapping around Clyde.

I climb the wall. It ripples beneath me.

I jump as the first spike erupts from the wall’s surface. I fall, but re-summon my wings. I seize Clyde. I climb. The spikes eject from the wall at speed. Jagged rain.

My body is steel before they strike me. I shelter Clyde and they clatter away.

And screw wings. I’m from the twenty-first century dammit.

A moment is all it takes to get a jet engine strapped to my back. Going up.

The tentacles lash out as I jet upwards, but I angle away, roasting them with afterburners. They blacken, curling and falling away. Take that you bastards.

A window looms. I blast towards it, faster, faster. And I’m outstripping the citadel’s imagination. I’m outstripping its speed to respond. I’m bloody winning.

Except the window’s frame twists even as I slam towards the glass, the edges stretching, stretching, until it resembles something worryingly close to a smile.

Glass shatters. A wall looms. I collide. Blackness descends.

Later

How long was I out? How long do I have left? Is it too late for reality? I look for my watch, but everything is black.

“Clyde?” I say. No reply.

“Always late,” a voice says.

I recognize that voice.

“I’m very disappointed, Arthur.”

It’s my mother’s voice.

A spotlight flicks on, a white circle of light on the floor before me. I hear footsteps. My mother comes into the circle. She’s bleeding. A great gash across her neck. She collapses, reaches for me.

“Jesus!” I dash forward, grab her hand. She’s trying to say something I can’t hear. I read her lips. “Arthur…” There’s something she’s desperate to convey, but she can’t…

And then it hits me. Nightmare rules apply.

And this is a cheap bloody ploy.

Lights. I summon them. Banish the darkness. My mother’s body wilts in their brightness. Becomes mannequin parts falling apart beneath cheap clothes. An illusion dismissed.

The brightness illuminates a throne room, rich wall hangings, a velvet carpet, a magnificent golden chair. No Clyde. I can’t see him. But there, standing before the chair, waiting for me–my target, my goal. Nyarlathotep is home.

And seeing him there, all traces of confidence drain away. No, they are violently expunged from my body. Seeing him there, finally, I am truly afraid.

Read the next installment of The Nyarlathotep Event by Jonathan Wood, Case File #10, Rematch

Jonathan Wood is both a geek and a dad–two great flavors that go great together. He posts on twitter as @thexmedic and intermittently blogs at http://www.cogsandneurons.com.

The Nyarlathotep Event by Jonathan Wood: Case File #8, Interrogation

Natania Barron — Wed, 03 Aug 2011 13:00:23 +0000

More mayhem!

Yes, we’re serializing author Jonathan Wood’s short, “The Nyarlathotep Event” here at GeekDad for the next two weeks. It’s set in the same world as his debut novel, No Hero, the Lovecraftian urban fantasy that dares to ask, what would Kurt Russell do? The first chapter of No Hero is available for free, and the novel is available from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and other independent book stores.

If you missed the first seven installments, check them out here, first:

Note: This installment contains several words that some might not consider appropriate for young readers.

The Nyarlathotep Event by Jonathan Wood: Case File #8 Interrogation

I never thought I’d say it, but once you get used to a dimension of fear and chaos, it’s not as bad as it sounds. Yes, it’s driven my partner, Clyde, insane, and yes, it does keep trying to kill me with more and more depraved horrors, but, well it could be worse.

Take the field of flying knives I have to traverse. Blades whirl, shearing life from plants, small rodents, the odd offensive-looking rock. But a little concentration on my part, and I manifest a titanium steel umbrella and, with Clyde balanced on my shoulder, I cross the place in relatively safety.

Nightmare logic.

And when I reach a river of blood leeches—each creature a foot long, each with a spine-filled maw reaching for me—I just think hard and then I have wings. Clyde and I sail over them easy as blinking.

Seriously, I’m like the Green bloody Lantern in this reality. It’s awesome.

Really the only serious fly in the ointment is that if I don’t find its ruler, Nyarlathotep in the next fifteen minutes or so, all of regular reality is going to be permanently buggered. And I have no idea where I’m going.

Fortunately I’ve always been more of a beta male, so stopping to ask for directions isn’t a serious dilemma. If only I could stop people trying to kill me long enough to ask.

I finally strike gold in a castle that drips gore and is chock-full of tiny gremlin-like creatures armed with stilettos. An old-school suit of armor makes maneuvering difficult but renders their attempted stabbings utterly ineffective. After a few attempts I finally seize one around the midriff and heft it to eye height. It kicks and spits with its full eight inch frame. Really, if it wasn’t so full of bile it’d be quite adorable.

“I’m looking for Nyarlathotep,” I inform it.

It lunges for my eyes, hurling its blades at the grills in my armored mask. I flinch back and fling it away. Possibly a little too hard. It hits a wall and becomes an ugly stain.

I keep the next one further from my face.

“Which way to Nyarlathotep?”

It suggests some awful things I should do to my mother.

“I’m not a violent man,” I tell it, “but I can apparently crush you like an insect.”

More profanities follow. Small he may be. Easily intimidated he is not.

“Please?” I venture.

Further obscenities. And then my jaw starts to tremble, because all of this abuse is delivered by a voice so high it’s barely in human hearing range. And then I laugh. It doesn’t feel at all appropriate as chunks of viscera rain down the castle walls, but I’m starting to become immune to the shock horror aspects of this place.

As soon as the sound is out of me, the gremlin shrieks and does its best to claw its way out of my hand. I’m so shocked I stop laughing and stare at it. It recovers slowly. I chuckle. It slams its body backwards, wrestling an arm free to cover its ears.

“Nyarlathotep now, or I bust a gut all over you,” I tell it. Not the most threatening thing I’ve ever said, but it has the desired effect. The thing grimaces and screeches, and jabbers, and around me the walls of reality flex and then-

I stand (and Clyde whimpers) on a cliff overlooking a barren, dusty plain. Rising from the center, like red wax dripping toward the sky, is a many-spired citadel.

“Nyarlathotep,” the gremlin gibbers at me. “Nyarlathotep!” Looks like the sort of place an extradimensional avatar of fear and chaos would call home. I nod my thanks to the gremlin and then throw it over the edge of the cliff.

Seriously, the murderous bastard could have brought us a little closer.

Read the next installment, The Nyarlathotep Event: Case File #9: Citadel.

Jonathan Wood is both a geek and a dad–two great flavors that go great together. He posts on twitter as @thexmedic and intermittently blogs at http://www.cogsandneurons.com.

The Nyarlathotep Event by Jonathan Wood: Case File #7, The I in Team

Natania Barron — Tue, 02 Aug 2011 13:00:31 +0000

The excitement continues! Yes, we’re serializing author Jonathan Wood’s short, “The Nyarlathotep Event” here at GeekDad for the next two weeks. It’s set in the same world as his debut novel, No Hero, the Lovecraftian urban fantasy that dares to ask, what would Kurt Russell do? The first chapter of No Hero is available for free, and the novel is available from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and other independent book stores.

If you missed the first six installments, check them out here, first:

Note: This installment contains several words that some might not consider appropriate for young readers.

The Nyarlathotep Event by Jonathan Wood: Case File #7, The I in Team

Every time I fight unspeakable horrors from alternate realities, I am reminded of the value of teamwork. Say, for example, that I am forced into a dimension of fear and madness to act as the government-sponsored assassin of its avatar, Nyarlathotep, then back-up is about my favorite thing in the world.

So now, forced into a dimension of fear and madness and acting as the government-sponsored assassin of its avatar, Nyarlathotep, it’s really not an awesome time for my partner to lose his shit.

But Clyde Marcus Bradley, MI37 field agent, geek, cat-lover, and bloody wizard is lying on the ground whimpering, while I’m stuck with defending us from a reality gone awry.

Untethered nightmares come at me. Balls of blades, steely and sharp; beings of arms and bone, scratching, clawing; creeping insectile horrors; nuns with switchblades; rats the size of terriers; tentacular masses, sticky, viscous, and clutching. I scavenge weapons, improvise barriers. I duck blades, catch punches, wrestle limbs. I am beaten, blackened, bruised. I come up with something in my teeth. I am an animal. I am pissing terrified.

Space ripples and changes about us. Maybe we are traveling, some dream logic carrying us along like a current through rooms of living flesh, of bone, of chitin, rooms threatening to drown us, rooms I cannot bring myself to describe.

I can feel it slipping in behind my eyes. After-images of travesties that clamber into my brain and breed. I lose track of what is real in a place where everything is unreal. And I need to pull back. I need to get him good and grounded. But there is no ground. There is just Clyde, just me. Circling. Falling. Falling again.

I land. A plain. Some tundra. A dust cloud on the horizon. I pick myself up. And Clyde is still there, right next to me. And I know something big is coming. I just need to get to him, to get us both away. I start to run, but dream rules apply. My limbs do not obey me. Each step is a tottering nightmare of minimal increments.

And the cloud. The cloud is fast, is impossible in its speed. Closing. Closing. And in the dust I get an impression of hooves, of horns, of teeth.

“Clyde,” I yell. “Clyde!” I’m begging him. He has to help. I was never built to be the man alone.

Finally I am at his side, I slap him, shake him. His head lolls. His eyes roll. “Come back to me,” I whisper. The cloud comes closer.

He is not going to snap out of it. He is gone. I am alone.

I gather him up in my arms. I stagger. Another step of glacial slowness. The cloud’s thunder shakes this world.

And it would be so easy to slip away, to give in, to let the madness take me, to be consumed by this reality.

But there is a home, a place to get back to, friends and family. And Kurt Russell movie marathons. And bacon.

And screw this. Clyde and I are getting out of here with Nyarlathotep’s head on a bloody platter.

I turn. I face the cloud. It’s almost on me now. Massive. Thundering.

Just a cloud, I tell myself. Just dust and wind. I don’t know the rules of this place, but I know the rules of dreams. Of nightmares. And I pray that they apply.

The cloud breaks over me. Just dust. Just wind. It scours my cheeks. Hoofbeats crash around me. Just echoes. Just the boom of the wind.

And then peace. Then a breeze. I open my ways. The cloud has blown away. I still hold Clyde.

Reality slips. I stand in a corridor full of doors. I can hear scampering about and above me. And I know I can hear the rats in the walls.

I am still afraid. I would still favor flight over fight. But fight I will. Because I can face my fear. Because now, Nyarlathotep, you get bloody yours.

Jonathan Wood is both a geek and a dad–two great flavors that go great together. He posts on twitter as @thexmedic and intermittently blogs at http://www.cogsandneurons.com.

The Nyarlathotep Event by Jonathan Wood: Case File #6, Sweet Dreams

Natania Barron — Mon, 01 Aug 2011 13:30:58 +0000

As you’ve likely noticed by now, we’re serializing author Jonathan Wood’s short, “The Nyarlathotep Event” here at GeekDad for the next two weeks, It’s set in the same world as his debut novel, No Hero, the Lovecraftian urban fantasy that dares to ask, what would Kurt Russell do? The first chapter of No Hero is available for free, and the novel is available from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and other independent book stores.

If you missed the first five delicious installments, check them out here:

Note: This installment contains several words that some might not consider appropriate for young readers.

The Nyarlathotep Event: Case File #6, Sweet Dreams

Christ Church College, Oxford England

Some days I really get the vastness of the universe. I’m tiny. It’s big. I don’t matter. I get it.

Then, some days, you save the world—you know, for example you close an interdimentsional portal infecting the world with madness, kill an avatar of fear called Nyarlathotep when armed only with a bit of two-by-four—and you think the world should really pay more attention.

But no. Instead, Oxford remains a twisted fun house version of itself and the populace remains howling at the moon.

Clyde—my spell-slinging partner in government-sponsored world saving—and I exchange a look. Clyde puts a finger to his ear.

“Tabby,” he says to our handler back at MI37, “any chance you know what’s going on?”

“Dimensional portal’s definitely closed,” Tabby says. “QED Nyarlathotep’s not as dead as he looks.

Twenty or so of Nyarlathotep’s cultists are scattered around us waiting for the concussion to kick in. Except one of them starts to laugh.

“You really thought just stabbing him would work?” He laughs harder.

And to be honest I rather had. But I don’t want to give the bastard the satisfaction of hearing me admit it.

“Oh pants,” says Clyde. “Great big bloomers. We can’t kill him outside of his home reality, can we?”

Wait… Now we realize this?

The cultist laughs harder still. “And you closed the portal.”

So we can’t even get him. Oh bugger and balls.

And then Clyde mutters a few words under his breath. And next to him time and space bend. Like a bubble rising through viscous liquid.

“Ta-dah.” He indicates the reborn portal.

The cultist stops laughing.

It should be a satisfying moment, except-

“Wait,” I say. “We seriously have to go into a dimension representing humanity’s collective fears and madness?”

“Well,” Clyde says, “the travel brochure mentioned something about beaches.”

I give him the finger because I’m not at my most eloquent in the face of certain death.

“Also,” Tabitha adds, “top him, get back, and close the thing in thirty minutes or less. Otherwise permanent world buggering. OK?”

Perfect. Just bloody perfect.

“Tick tock.”

I brace myself and step through.

Another time. Another place.

As it turns out, humanity is afraid of pretty weird stuff. At least that’s the only reason I can think of that a giant version of Snuggles the teddy bear is trying to kill me with a meat cleaver.

We’re in something that looks like an airport terminal. Stepping through the portal put me six feet above the floor. With a feeling like slipping out of jello, I fell to the floor. And there was Snuggles. Six feet tall, eye buttons dangling on threadbare strings, a cleaver the size of my chest balanced in one hand.

“Passport!” he giggles and takes another swing at my head. I duck. He buries the blade into a cement pillar. He tugs it free with an adorable chuckle. A stitch bursts in his arm at the effort. Stuffing spills loose.

This is typically the point at which I cower and wait for Clyde to sling a spell that makes him seem more like a walking missile launcher than most people you meet. Except, when I look over, Clyde is sitting with his hands over his eyes, screaming.

Seriously? This is Clyde’s personal hell? Really?

Snuggles takes another swipe at my head. I duck, roll, come up behind him. Snuggles wrestles the cleaver out the floor. Another stitch pops while he giggles madly.

And I am not particularly good at this whole fighting thing, but at times like this you do what you have to do.

I kick at his loose arm. More stuffing spills. I kick again.

Snuggles looks back at me, his cotton line drawn up in a smile. “Playtime is over,” he says as sweetly as can be. He heaves on the cleaver. I kick one last time.

Another stitch pops. Snuggles heaves. The whole joint gives way. He staggers back uttering things no beloved children’s character should ever say, still laughing between the curses.

At this point, opportunity and the cleaver are the same thing so I grab them both. I stagger under the massive weight. Snuggles’ detached arm still clings to the cleaver. I swing madly, spin round and round.

And then the blade buries itself in Snuggles’ gut, and he chuckles one last time and lies still.

I stand up sweating hard. And now would be a great time for me to snap Clyde out of it. Because I can see the Care Bears coming and they have machine guns.

Read the next installment, The Nyarlathotep Event: Case File #7: The I in Team.

Jonathan Wood is both a geek and a dad–two great flavors that go great together. He posts on twitter as @thexmedic and intermittently blogs athttp://www.cogsandneurons.com.

The Nyarlathotep Event by Jonathan Wood: Case File #5, Nyarlathotep

Natania Barron — Fri, 29 Jul 2011 13:30:18 +0000

Yes, you read that right: Nyarlathotep!

If you missed the first four installments, check them out here:

Note: This installment contains several words that some might not consider appropriate for young readers.

The Nyarlathotep Event: Case File #5, Nyarlathotep

Christ Church College, Oxford England

One thing I’ve always liked about Kurt Russell movies is that they end.

That sounds wrong…

I like that they conclude. Evil is defeated. The good guy wins. A sunset is ridden into.

In real life you face down a horde of angry cultists, close an interdimensional portal, high-five your spell-slinging partner, and then you find out there’s a seven-foot tall avatar of fear and chaos who’s all pissed about it and manifested behind you when you weren’t looking.

In real life this shit never ends.

Having never faced an interdimensional avatar of fear and chaos before, I go with the nearest weapon to hand and throw a rock at him.

Apparently this avatar–Nyarlathotep is his name–is made of sterner stuff than that.

So: plan B.

It may not be overly heroic to run and hide while getting your friend to do the fighting, but my friend knows magic and I don’t, so this may not be as bad as it initially looks.

Clyde mutters something under his breath, flings out his hand. Electricity crackles.

And then Clyde flies eight feet through the air and lands in a crumpled heap. Sort of the opposite result to the one we were going for there.

God, I wish I’d thought of a plan C.

In its absence, I stick to cowering. Nyarlathotep steps toward Clyde. He stretches out a robed arm. The impression of a hand and its end–a claw, black leather skin, yellow nails–and then gone, or denied. On the floor, Clyde screams.

What would Kurt Russell do? Possibly not the smartest question, but it’s stood me better than you’d imagine in times of need.

Except Kurt Russell would probably charge the guy yelling. The man alone. Guns blazing.

A stupid, stupid plan.

Except I don’t have any better ideas.

There’s a broken chunk of wood on the floor, one end a jagged ruin of splinters. It looks sharp.

I grab it, brace myself, burst from cover. I level my weapon. I charge.

As it turns out, the key to a good battle cry is timing. Too early and, well…

Nyarlathotep turns, swings his arm from Clyde to me. Clyde finally lies still. And then-

Fear breaking over my skin like water, drenching me, drowning me. I can see it all. The inevitability. The end. He’s here. Our harbinger. Our prophet. Our Nyarlathotep. He comes bearing this truth: this world collapsing under its own ragged weight, burying us in flesh and concrete; we will chew on our friends, our families–a desperate, animal need to consume, to feed, to survive. An utterly ridiculous, utterly futile urge.

I’m standing inches from him. Just standing. Weeping. Knowing how foolish this all is, how much madness it is. I stare at the wood in my hands. Better I just end my own life with it. Better I chew off the hands holding the wood. Better I claw out my eyes. Better I gut myself and feast on my own-

“Ooph!”

Breath bursts out of me. Something heavy and hard colliding with my back, sending my stumbling, staggering towards, towards…

The wood strikes Nyarlathotep’s gut. It slashes through the robes. Reams of cloth without end. Still the weight drives me forward, drives the wood in. And it feels I’m crossing some terrible boundary, as if I’m wounding myself. Then: a glimpse of skin–black, yellow, green with pus. I gag, and then the wood carries on, and on, and in, and the figure, the god before me, Nyarlathotep, convulses, heaves, collapses. And the wood goes on, and in, and before my eyes, he dies.

A feeling like a whip crack inside my skull. And Jesus, did I… was I…

There’s a pile of red rags on the floor next to me. I’ve fallen down. Clyde is on top of me. I’m holding a charred stump of blackened wood.

“Sorry about that,” Clyde says, picking himself up. “Think I was trying to stop you from killing him. Did a bit of a number on me, old Nyarlathotep there. Good thing I tripped and knocked you, really. Clumsy bugger that I am.” He nods several times, as much to himself as to me.

I shake my head, try to clear the shrieking madness Nyarlathotep put in there. And I see the rags on the floor. Empty. Dead. Nyarlathotep… concluded.

I smile. Because that’s an ending I can really enjoy.

Jonathan Wood is both a geek and a dad–two great flavors that go great together. He posts on twitter as @thexmedic and intermittently blogs athttp://www.cogsandneurons.com.