David Brian's Blog - Posts Tagged "john-everson"

Callum watched under the glow of the roadside light as a sweeping tide of rabbits, deer, foxes and squirrels hurried to escape the carriageway. Upwards of a hundred different animals scurried up the embankment before disappearing into the night...

During one of the bleakest storms in years, the raging pulse of an alarm signals a breakout from a government research facility. Hours later, a ragtag team of military rejects slips into a snow laden Midlands town. Their mission: either to retrieve or terminate the escapees.

Rumours soon abound, reports of mysterious deaths and disappearances occurring throughout the area. The attacks are focused along the borders of a local nature park, and when a disparate group of locals turns up at the reserve's tearoom, seeking sanctuary from the storm, it soon becomes apparent there are things moving amid the ivory haze of the blizzard… ravenous creatures on the hunt for fresh meat.

Preview

Fifteen minutes later and Wilder was standing in the hallway drawing on a cigarette. He sucked in a breath and then blew a stream of smoke towards the ceiling.

“You know this is a no smoking area, right?” said Harry as she leaned back against the wall and took a draw into her lungs.

“And yet here you are, trying to help me set off the smoke alarms.”

She smiled. “With all the madness gone on here tonight, I doubt anyone would even respond to a smoke alarm.”

Wilder studied the woman standing across from him. Hair the colour of burnt syrup framed a slim face with unblemished skin. She was gifted with natural beauty, although the bluest eyes he ever saw looked capable of delivering a stare that would chill a serial killer. The stern eyes and pale skin had contributed to Wilder’s initial impression of this being a harsh, less than engaging individual. But he had been wrong. It hadn’t taken long to discover Harry Chastain had a great sense of humour, and spending time together in the foyer only served to crush his initial damning assessment. He liked Harry. She was an attractive woman with a quirky style and wild eyes. She also possessed a sharp wit, although her most empowering feature was the aura of confident warmth she exuded. This was a woman who remained comfortable in her skin even when faced with grave concerns.

“It seems you underestimated the talents of your creations,” Wilder said before taking another pull.

“Hey, like I already said, I’m as much in the dark over this as you are.”

He studied her hard. “I doubt that. You have Fontaine’s ear.”

She laughed. “Yes, I’m his favourite ginger.”

“Rather you than me,” he said returning the smile. There was a pause and then he asked: “And the rest of the team?”

Harry smiled. “All fuck-ups like you and Brennan. You’ll meet them soon enough.”

All fuck-ups like you and Brennan. Then why select us for the mission? Wilder blew a smoke ring and watched as it floated towards the ceiling. Only minutes earlier he had been watching Ghorbani tapping away at the keyboard, opening various files on the computer. He stood transfixed, observing events as the nightmare unfolded. Wilder felt the colour draining from his features as he recalled the actions he saw on those screens. He looked at Harry, and felt a flush of relief that he was sporting a full beard: lest the paleness of his skin reveal the horror gripping his soul.

The pair finished the remainder of the cigarettes in silence, only occasionally smiling at each other as their eyes met across the hallway. Wilder was just about to suggest they return to the laboratory when a door opened at the end of the hall and a pale faced corporal hurried in their direction.

The corporal delivered a hurried salute to both officers. “Major. Captain. Colonel Fontaine needs you back inside, right away.”

“What’s happened,” asked Harry stubbing out the butt of the cigarette on the wall.

“We may have a lead, captain.”

End of preview

I hope you enjoyed this brief sample from Feeding Grounds. It's a horror thriller that's sure to put you off visiting the woods. And demonstrates why you are never truly safe . . . even in your own home.
The Kindle eBook is slated for a June 15st release, and can be preordered for the promotion price of .99c/.99p.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B095YQTPXY
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B095YQTPXY

The paperback received a quiet launch on May 24th, and is priced $14.99/ £11.99.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B095GPCXJP
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B095GPCXJP

Thank you for taking the time to read this post. Events worldwide have made it a really tough last eighteen months for every one of us. Hopefully we are now heading into the daylight. Stay healthy. And stay safe.

"There are people in the house. They have the children. What should we do?"

For Kate and Simon Collier, taking a midweek trip to a local restaurant provides some much needed respite from the rigours of their stressful careers. But little do they realise that their family is being hunted by a group of religious zealots.

The couple returns home to find their three children being held captive by the Sons and Daughters of Light, a sect led by the savage King Mod; a man who proclaims himself to be the Second Coming of Christ.

As the nightmare unfolds, it becomes apparent that the attack isn't a random intrusion. And on the darkest night of their lives, one civilised family will be tested on how far they are prepared to go in order to survive.


Preview

Dried tears line the boy’s face, his reddened cheeks stained by the same salty streams that dampen his neck and wet the shabby collar of a once-white school shirt. The thunder and lightning has ceased, but grey clouds continue to linger low in the sky outside, as though refusing to fully concede the storm. The light inside the room remains dull, and so the boy briefly turns his eyes to the room’s solitary window, set eight feet to the rear of the armchair in which his mother lies snoring.

The sleeping woman’s head rests uncomfortably on her left shoulder, a mop of dark matted hair obscuring the once pretty features. The mother’s petite, skinny body is slumped in one corner of the seat, a dribble of dark stained saliva trickling from the edge of her mouth. The animalistic grunts she emits are easily explainable: two empty vodka bottles lay discarded on the floor.

The boy touches his reddened face, then runs fingers over the bump rising above his left eye. His bottom lip is split, bloodied and sore. At just seven years old, he knows he should be in school today. The fact that, not for the first time, his mother opted to open a bottle before he even finished his cornflakes means another absence from his one happy place: the teachers and school he considers a sanctuary from the drink sodden cruelty of his mother’s addiction.

He is terrified of his mother. Or, more accurately, he is terrified of the outbursts which always accompany the drinking. Nevertheless, he also loves her more than life itself… he will do anything in an attempt to make the woman proud. Today though, he understands the why of this latest assault, and so forgives both the backhand and the closed fist which followed. He knows his mother is in pain. He understands that the rotten tooth at the back of her mouth is the catalyst for this violent start to the week.

He moves to within two paces of the slumped woman before the stink of the dark liquid dribbling from her mouth stops him in his tracks. He is too young to fully understand, although the sour smell of the fluid staining his mother’s chin tells him that the tooth is making her sick. It is a realization that troubles him greatly. He reaches out a hand and places it onto his mother’s right arm, gently but firmly shaking it in an attempt to wake her. The action garners barely a response, other than a disgruntled shrug of the arm and a snorted grunt. A nonplussed expression paints itself across the boy’s features, he is unsure of what he can do to rid her of the affliction.

Then a bulb of inspiration fires in his brain, his eyes brightening with excitement as he turns and makes for the kitchen.

He opens the cabinet doors set beneath the sink unit, stretching his slender body over the bottom shelf until he can drag out the red toolbox. Even though it is made of plastic, the box is heavy and makes his shoulders ache. He sets it down on the floor before sliding his thumbs under the two retaining catches and flipping up the lid. Inside the box there is a wooden handled hammer, several screwdrivers of various lengths and styles, plus a surplus of other small tools many of which he is unable to identify.

For a moment he wonders why his mother keeps the tool-set? She certainly never uses any of the items contained in the box and has never even done so much as hammer a nail into a wall to hang a picture. The only time he has ever seen her open up the box was during the previous year’s power cut: since that night the torch has been kept in the same kitchen drawer as the dinner utensils.

The boy picks up a set of long-nosed pliers from the box, the weight of the tool surprising him as he turns it over in his hands, studying the insulated, blue plastic hand-grips. The shape and style of the jaws reminds him of a crocodile's dangerous mouth.

He leaves the toolbox laying open on the kitchen floor, and quickly returns to the lounge. His mother still slumbers in the armchair, the slow rise and fall of her chest and the grunts of disturbed dreams providing proof of life. He prods her with the sharp end of the pliers, needing to ascertain that she will remain asleep until he cures her ills.

She does not stir.

The boy climbs up onto his mother’s lap, straddling her with his legs before placing a hand on either side of her face, and as gently as he can he rests her head into the chair. Once he is certain she is sitting comfortably, he pulls the pliers from his trouser pocket and gently prises them into her open maw. As he searches the floor of her mouth she emits a few disgruntled snorts, but the actions fail to raise her from the stupor.

Finally he manages to locate the rotten tooth, and a sense of pride washes over him as he realises he has the power to heal his mother. The unconscious woman lets out a hurtful cry as he twists the pliers the first time, but he remembers what she tells him each time she strips plasters from his healed wounds. A short sharp discomfort, then we’ll be done with it. Just tear it off as quickly as we can.

He jerks the pliers hard towards the centre of the mouth, attempting to free the blackened molar from the swollen gums surrounding the bottom row of teeth. Four times he sets the pliers to the task, and on each occasion the stupefied woman voices discomfort and struggles in the seat. But the son will not be denied.

With the fifth attempt he manages to unseat the tooth from the gums, the room seeming to resonate with the crack of the dislodging: his mother’s scream providing backing vocals as he yanks the offending article free from her mouth, her twisting head and bucking body almost unseating him, causing the jaws of the pliers to clatter against incisors and snag on bloody lips.

In her drunken state the woman cannot fathom what has happened, but the hurt afflicting her scrawny body is enough to make her rise, and as she wrestles herself free of the pliers and climbs to her feet, the child is dumped to the floor. Fear marks the boy’s face, terror at the rage in his mother’s eyes. There is also concern: blood continues to waterfall from the woman’s open maw.

Her right hand clasps the hurt jaw, her eyes swelling with confusion and then rage as she studies the pliers she has taken from her son. The blow she delivers is purely a reflex action, a backhand strike that both mother and son are familiar with. But her pain makes her oblivious to the pliers she holds in her hand, the weight of the tool delivering a concussive strike to the boy’s brow. Stars dance in front of his eyes even before his head bounces off the floor. As blood from the wound begins to weep into his blurred eyes, he becomes aware of the mother standing over him: aware of the strange, guttural sounds escaping the bloody waterfall of her face, the difficulty in her breathing, and then the crash of her body hitting the floor as she falls backwards.

The mother’s choked death throes are the last thing the boy hears before he loses consciousness.

A considerable length of time passes before he awakens. The hand he touches to his left brow confirming that the mother is not the only one to have bled this day. He doesn’t know it but he has suffered a dizzying concussion, and as he pushes himself up to a sitting position, the wound to his head means it is difficult for him to understand the carnage in the room.

He crawls over to the mother, fascinated but also hurting, understanding that she is gone from this world, laid out on a carmine floor. Her eyes are open and staring at an invisible speck on the ceiling, her face painted with fear: the realisation of her own demise. It had only ever been the boy and his mother… despite the regular bouts of brutality and anger, she always told him he was special. That she was the only parent: no man is your father.

Her stillness scares him, but he leans forward and plants a kiss on the side of her face. And now I have no mother.

The boy’s fingers touch something sharp hidden in the blood surrounding his mother’s body. He picks up the shard of broken tooth and rises to his feet, considering this act of kindness that has taken his mother from him. He moves to the window, for some unknown reason needing to study this fragment of his mother that he knows he will always keep with him.

He only wanted to ease her suffering, and the shard provides some small comfort once he realises he will never truly be alone so long as he keeps the object with him. It is then that the light strikes his eyes, the clouds outside finally rolling back to reveal a sun several times brighter than any he has seen during his young life. He holds up a hand to shield his face, turning from the window to where his mother lays posed on a red canvas.

Her face no longer looks afraid.

She is at peace now.

The boy turns back to the window, his watering eyes drawn to the light, and as he does so the dizziness afflicting his brain begins to evaporate: to heal.

His mind returns to the stories they have been taught in school... and at last he understands. It was always his path to be denied that which his classmates share.

No man is your father. Mother’s replies to his questions had been cryptic. You are special. No man is your father.

He rolls the tooth in his fingers, finally understanding: he succeeded in healing his mother’s pain. He steps back from the window and drops to his knees, keeping the shard in his palms as he clasps his hands in prayer, and looks up at the stinging light of the sun.

“You came for me, Father. When I needed you the most. You came back for me.”

End of preview

I hope you enjoyed this brief sample from Once More with Feeling. It's a tale that's sure to have you checking the window latches and bolting the doors before retiring to bed. Just remember, you are never truly safe . . . not even in your own home.
The Kindle eBook is out on October 17th, and can be preordered now for the promotional price of .99c/.99p.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BDMCLZVQ
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0BDMCLZVQ

The paperback received a quiet launch on September 8th.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BCRXDR86
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0BCRXDR86

Thank you for taking the time to read this post. And, wherever you are in the world, I hope life is treating you well.