Dead Land Book Three - Zombie Trilogy Excerpt

I'm continuing to work on the third book in the Dead Land Trilogy. I don't have a title as of yet, but I thought I'd put up an excerpt. It's uncorrected proof, so it might be a little rough.


The Dead Land Trilogy, Book Three
Copyright 2013 Anthony Izzo

The soldier on Jonas' radio had called it a hot zone. The dead walking everywhere, the area near the old HSBC tower crawling with them. There were some units pinned down and had radioed Jonas to request assistance. Jonas had agreed to come immediately. 

Chadwick heard yelling and gunfire on Jonas' mic.

Jonas ordered their convoy to turn around and head for the tower.

“You're not going in, are you? It's suicide.”

“They need our help. That's what we're here for, Chadwick.”

Jonas slowed the Humvee, brought it to a halt, and gave the order through his shirt mic for the column to turn around and head for the HSBC tower.  He swung the Humvee around.

“At least get more men,” Chadwick said. “We don't have many here.”

“These men are highly trained. We'll be just fine. Besides, I want to see how bad it is.”

They got the column of vehicles turned around and headed for the heart of Downtown Buffalo, driving along the 190 Expressway and exiting at Elm Street. They drove down Court Street, passing law firms and banks, all of them closed. Some papers blew down the street but there were only a few people on the sidewalks.  It looked like a ghost town to Chadwick.  Businesses and schools had closed once the bug had started to spread. He wondered how many people were sick or dying in their homes right now. How many were going to rise from the dead and haunt the streets like ghouls. 

“We can't seal off the whole city,” Chadwick said.

“Let's see what we can see,” Jonas said.

They crossed the Metro Rail Tracks, passed under the 190 overpass, and when they got into view of the tower, Chadwick gasped.

Several hundred pale-skinned, rotting things pounded on the doors of the HSBC building, apparently trying to get at the soldiers pinned inside. A chorus of hisses and growls erupted from them, nothing that sounded remotely human. The dead hadn't spotted the convoy.

Nearby, a Humvee burned, and the scorched body of a soldier hung out of the driver's side window.

“We're jeopardizing the Anderson survivors by bringing them here,” Chadwick said.

“They'll be fine. This is something, isn't it, Chadwick?”

“Something?”

“Kind of impressive, how fast they went from being human to being this.”

Chadwick eyed Jonas, who watched the throng of zombies as if it were a riveting television show. 

A voice crackled on Jonas' radio. “Sir, we can't hold much longer. Advise on reinforcements.”

Jonas hit the talk button. “We're right on the doorstep.”
“How are we going to break through that?”
One of the dead turned and noticed the Humvee, Chadwick feeling as if the lifeless white eyes were boring into him. The others, seeing their companion staring at the Humvees, also took notice, and a small crowd of them began walking towards the convoy. The one in the lead was a woman in a tattered red skirt. Her white blouse was stained with blood and she ambled forward, mouth opening and closing in anticipation of tasting flesh.
“You've got their attention. Now what?”
Jonas radioed one of the men in the rear trucks and told him to haul ass up here with the rest of the men. Chadwick stepped from the Humvee as the men double-timed it to the front of the convoy. Chadwick ordered them to take cover and open fire on his command.
More of the dead charged towards them. Chadwick took out his sidearm. “Let 'em have it.”
He took aim and popped the female zombie in the head, dropping her. Gunfire from M-4 rifles clattered around him, shredding zombies. More of the main group noticed the soldiers, breaking off and coming at Chadwick's men. He didn't give a shit if Jonas were appointed high holy commander. These were his men. Hell with Jonas.
As they continued to cut down zombies, Jonas stepped from the Humvee.
Chadwick watched as the front doors of the tower buckled and the dead flooded inward.
“Advise we are retreating to the upper floors,” the voice on Jonas' mic said.
“That's a wise choice,” Jonas said. “We will enter the building and provide support as soon as we can.”
“Thank you sir. We'll hold them off as long as we can.”
“Good man,” Jonas said.
Chadwick and the soldiers gunned down the remaining zombies. The rest of the crowd had pushed their way into the building and he heard glass smashing. Broken glass wouldn't stop things that didn't feel pain. 
“Jonas, how many men inside?”
“Two, three dozen.”
“We can't leave them.”
“I have no intention of leaving them. We're going in.”

Emma heard the gunfire, as did Kayla, and the girl pressed against her. The truck had stopped and the soldiers in the rear of the truck eyed each other with unease. After a few moments, one of their radios had crackled and they left the truck as if they were on fire. 
The familiar moans of the dead echoed throughout downtown's deserted streets. The moans were drowned out by gunfire and the death wails of the zombies. She wanted to see what was going on, but they were under the canvas back of the truck. Had to rely on sound.
“Seems foolish to bring us into the city,” Sam said. “More people equals more of those creepers around.”
“We're exposed here,” Emma said. “That's for sure.”
Even though they were exposed, this would be a perfect opportunity to escape. They were unguarded for the moment. Escaping right now would mean dragging Kayla across the city and running into God-knows-what.
Her thoughts of escape were put on hold when one of the soldiers returned to the truck. He was a fresh-faced kid with the beginnings of a mustache. 
“What happened?”
“They started to move in on us, but we got them,” the soldier said.
A moment later a heavy diesel engine rumbled and the truck lurched forward. They rolled forward for a bit before stopping. 
“What's going on?” Emma said.
“Bunch of Zs have our men cornered in the HSBC building. We're going in.”
This could be her chance. The kid seemed distracted. 
She heard a voice crackle on the kid's radio giving the order to move into the building. The kid started to hop down and Emma pulled the Glock from her waistband. Seeing the gun, the kid stopped. She had it leveled right at his face, and his eyes grew big. 
“The gun. Hand it over.”
He paused for a moment. “I mean it. I'll shoot you dead. Don't do it, kid.”
After thinking it over for a few seconds, he handed over the file and she took it.
“Get to the back of the truck.”
The kid complied. As he went past her, Emma thought she saw tears glistening in his yes. She almost felt bad for him. She didn't want to have to shoot someone again, but if it meant Kayla's safety, she'd pull the trigger.
“We're going, honey,” Emma said to Kayla.
“Out there?”
“We have to go. Give me Your ammo, soldier,” Emma said.
The kid unstrapped a harness with extra clips and handed it to Emma. 
“Please, don't shoot.”
“If you don't give me a reason to, I won't.”
Trudy looked back and forth between Emma and the soldier. “Maybe you're safer here.”
“I have to find my husband.”
“Look, Emma, I understand that,” Sam said. “But the soldiers are armed.”
“Mom, I don't want to go out there.”

Maria watched the heavy rescue truck pull up, sirens winding down. The police from the forward vehicles in the convoy surrounded the ambulance, guns drawn. Jake came up and stood next to Maria. She put her arm around the boy and they watched as the cops closed in on the ambulance. 
She wanted to shout a warning to be careful, but could only watch. They were trained law officers, after all.
As they cops got close, the back doors of the ambulance flew open. The doors banged hard and the infected man from the plane bounded out. He looked around, perhaps searching for a victim. One of the cops stepped up, put a semiautomatic to its head, and pulled the trigger, emptying its brains on to the pavement. The infected man fell sideways and was still on the pavement.
As firefighters climbed out of the rescue truck, a pumper truck arrived on the scene. The police officers ushered Maria and Jake into the back of a patrol car and sped away. 
The cop, a middle-aged guy with a thick mustache and a mole on his cheek, drove in silence.
“Where are you taking us?” Maria asked.
“We have orders to deliver you to headquarters. It's anyone's guess from there. I hear the military is interested in you and your son.”
They had survived Anderson and were so far not infected. They might be of interest to army doctors and scientists. “So we're under arrest?”
“Not necessarily. But look on the bright side, you'll be safe. Not sure if you've seen the news, but things are going south. People are panicking.”
“That's not very comforting,” Maria said.
“Trust me. Nothing's getting into police headquarters.”
“I thought we were being taken to Vanderbilt Medical Center,” Maria said.
“Change of plans. Your name was on a watchlist. I'm surprised you didn't get nabbed at the airport,” the cop said. “We're supposed to hold onto you until the military arrives to get you.”
They drove to the police headquarters building in downtown Nashville. On the way to the station they passed a drug store.  The police officer pulled into a parking garage underneath the building and parked near an elevator. He let them out of the cruiser and directed them onto the elevator. From there they ended up in the rear of the station. The officer led them through some hallways and into a room with a holding cage inside.
He took out a key, unlocked it, and ushered them inside. 
“Do we really need to be in here?” Maria asked.
“Yeah, it smells like piss,” Jake said.
“We have problems all over the city. I can't babysit you. Someone will be in with a meal and to take you to the bathroom in a bit. I'm sorry,” he said, and left the room. 
Maria looked around the holding area. A metal bench lined one wall. There were various sayings scrawled on the wall in pen, one of them reading Ruben Sucks Cock.
“I guess we should try and get comfortable,” Maria said.

Chadwick watched the men move up on the busted doors of the HSBC tower. Glass glinted on the sidewalk and the metal framework of the doors had been bent as if melted by something hot. From inside came gunfire and the unintelligible grunts of the zombies. He thought they were about to become zombie chow, going in there like this. Jonas was too fucking stubborn to wait for reinforcements.
The trucks and Humvees were parked nearby.
Chadwick had his sidearm drawn and it felt inadequate to him. A tank might be more fitting. 
He waited with Jonas near the Humvee. The other man still hadn't drawn his sidearm, but instead stood with hands on hips, sleeves rolled to his elbows. 
“How many would you say were in that group, Chadwick?”
“A hundred?”
“That would be my guess, too. Not much of a hot zone, is it? I expected more.”
“That's bad fucking luck, talking like that. Be glad that's all we found.”
The men disappeared into the lobby and gunfire erupted again. Chadwick saw the throng of zombies surge forward. They hadn't gone very far into the building, most of the group gathering in the lobby.  As they moved out of the lobby, Chadwick saw fresh blood on their pale faces. One of them held a loop of entrails in its hands and he realized with despair that the trapped squad hadn't gotten far; they'd been devoured. 
“This is crazy. We need to pull out,” Chadwick said.
“So be it.”
Chadwick heard a chorus of howls. He looked to his left and saw a mob of the dead charging down the street. It looked as if Jonas had gotten his hot zone, after all. 

Emma was about to hop out of the back of the truck when she heard the commotion outside. Men yelling and the unmistakable grunts and groans of the newly dead. It was a sound she'd become used to, even in the short time since the virus broke out. It was also a sound she'd like to forget.
She got down, urging Kayla to the edge of the truck. “Wait here a sec.”
She slipped on the harness she'd taken from the soldier. Flipped off the safety on the M-4 and peered around the edge of the truck. What she saw shocked her: a crowd of zombies clogged the street and they closed fast on Jonas and Chadwick. The other soldiers were retreating from the HSBC tower. The dead poured out of the office building like rats abandoning a sinking ship.
The soldiers would never make it back to the truck in time. They'd be overwhelmed. 
“Kayla. Now.”
She reached up, grabbed Kayla, and set her on the ground. Grabbed her hand.
“Sam, tell everyone to hang on,” Emma said.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting us out of here,” Emma said. 
Keeping Kayla close, she hurried to the cab of the truck, where she opened the driver's side door and lifted Kayla inside. She climbed inside and shut the door, noticing a St. Christopher's medal hanging from the rearview mirror. She didn't much subscribe to the notion of saints, but if good St. Christopher would get them out of this mess, she'd pray to him every day. 
She started up the truck, took a second to look it over. It was a standard. Good thing she knew how to drive stick. She threw it in reverse and backed up, intent on swinging around to get away from the approaching horde. 
“Mom, hurry up.”
“I know.”
“They're getting closer.”
“I know. Hang on.”

Matthews had been in some bad situations. Going house-to-house to look for insurgents in Iraq was one of them. The clusterfuck that took place in Anderson was another. But he really believed this one might be the end of him. He'd gone into the lobby of the HSBC under Jonas' orders and found the soldiers he'd been sent to help in pieces. One poor bastard had been ripped in two, his legs ten feet from his upper body, both halves still twitching.
Now, he retreated from the lobby of the building with the zombies pouring from the building and their brethren coming down the street.
He watched Jonas and Chadwick duck into their Humvee.
The last truck in the convoy was backing up, which puzzled him. He couldn't figure out who was driving it, but he made a break for it. 
He turned to check on what remained of his squadmates and saw the dead catch up to two of them. They were pulled down and swarmed, the zombs pouncing like lions on a fresh kill. High pitched screams echoed in the street. Jonas should be court-martialed for this. They didn't half enough men by half to take on the crowd of creepers that was coming at them. 
Matthews neared the truck. He was perhaps ten yards away when he felt something coming from his left. He whirled and saw a zombie coming at him. It was an elderly guy in a plaid suit and khakis. One of his feet was missing, the nub of bone sticking out from his pantleg. The loss of a foot didn't slow him much. 
Matthews cracked the creature in the face with his rifle butt. Bone crunched and the zombie stood stunned for a moment, staring at Matthews with those milky white eyes. A look of rage crossed its wrinkled face and it started forward, but Matthews raised his rifle and fired, turning its head to jelly. The body slumped to the pavement. Jesus Christ, he thought. This is becoming the new normal. Shooting people that were actually human beings just a few days ago.
The zombie dispatched, he ran for the truck, glancing over his shoulder. Jonas and Chadwick were swinging their Humvee around, the vehicle surrounded by zombies. They managed to turn and blast forward, running over a pair of the dead and splattering them on the pavement. 
He didn't see any of his former squadmates. 
I'm it, he thought. All that's left.

Writing Updates

I spent most of the week's writing time working on freelance articles, but did manage to get some work done on the Dead Land Trilogy, the third zombie book in a series. It stands at about 25,000 words, roughly halfway done. I'm anticipating an October release if all goes well.

My latest thriller is also available. Beat the Devil is available for Kobo and Nook.

It's about an ex-Navy SEAL who gets recruited by a government agency to take out a serial killer.

Only $2.99.

Buy from Amazon

By from Kobo 

Beat The Devil Now Available

My latest thriller, Beat The Devil, is now available for Kindle and Kobo.

Notorious serial murderer Raven has escaped during his prison transfer. A merciless killer, Raven had struck terror into the hearts of the populace for years before being locked up.

Now he's free again.

A newly-created government agency doesn't want Raven arrested. They want him dead. The Agency kidnaps ex-Navy SEAL John Childress' family and makes him a proposition: kill Raven and he gets his family back.

With the help of an ex-cop who put Raven away and one of the Agency's assassins, Childress must find his quarry before time runs out.

Beat the Devil. The hunt is on.

$2.99 for Kindle and Kobo. Nook version to follow soon.

KOBO

Kindle 

The Day's Writing

This was the first weekend I didn't have to work my day job in some time. I took advantage by working on some writing projects.

The first John Childress novel is done. Just waiting for the proofreader to go over it, then I'll be uploading it to Kindle, Nook, etc. I haven't decided whether to do a paperback version. There hasn't been much demand for them, but Createspace makes it easy to do, so I just might do a paperback anyway.

I'm working on a crime novella about a mob wife that rips off her husband. There's crooked cops, a hit man, and lots of mayhem. I typed in about 5 pages from the rough draft I'd started in a notebook. This should be a fairly quick project, possibly uploaded next week.

I had someone ask me about the third Dead Land book, and I'm outlining that now. Should be out in July if all goes well.

Beat The Devil Chapter 2

Here's Chapter 2 of Beat the Devil. It still needs to go off to the proofreader, but I thought I'd post a preview.

Beat the Devil - Excerpt
Copyright 2013 Anthony Izzo

John Childress climbed the stairs, an important mission on the line. He was to read The Hungry Caterpillar to Jordyn. At six-years-old, she was one of the top readers in her class, but she still loved her father to read to her. This was what he'd missed while in Afghanistan.

He's put in his twenty in the SEALS and had retired earlier in the year. It suited him fine. He had loved what he did, relished every mission, but being home was even better.

As he entered Jordyn's room, she was sitting up, a pillow behind her back. Her damp hair hung in loose curls, sill wet from the shower Megan had given her.

“Hey, Daddy.”

“Are you still awake? Shouldn't you be sleeping?”

“Dad, really?”

“Really. You should go to sleep,” Childress said.

“Quit teasing,” she said.

“Or if you'd like me to read this,” he said, holding up the book.

She patted the bad and he sat next to her, their backs against the headboard. As he opened the book, the lights went out. Jordyn gasped.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Just a circuit breaker. I'll flip a switch in the basement and the lights will come back on.”

Jordyn eyed him as if she didn't believe her father.

Jessica entered the room, a flashlight in her hand. Her hair was pulled back in a pony tail and a few errant strands crossed her forehead. As usual, she looked amazing, even with her hair hastily pulled back.

“Wanna play amateur electrician?” she asked.

“Consider me hired,” he said, and stood up. He took the flashlight from Megan and she took his spot next to Jordyn on the bed. After going to the basement, he opened the breaker box and found none of them tripped. He speculated there was an outage on the road somewhere.

The lived in a rural area, the nearest neighbor hundreds of yards away. He couldn't even peek out the window and see if the neighbors lost power, as well. They were bordered by fields and the neighbor's house was too far away to determine if the lights were on.

He went upstairs and looked out the bay window in the living room. The pole light at the road cast a glow on the end of his driveway. It was odd that the light still had power.

They had an extra flashlight in the kitchen junk drawer. He entered the kitchen and something caught his eye outside. Someone was creeping across the field and coming towards the house. Dressed in black. A chill went down the back of his neck.

He burst from the kitchen and raced up the stairs. Entered Jordyn's bedroom. “Listen to me. Go in the hallway bathroom. It'll be safe. There's no windows. Lock the door and don't come out until I tell you.”

Megan stood up, her brow knitted into a frown. “John, what the hell's going on?”

“Call 9-1-1,” Childress said.

“John, tell me.”

“There's someone creeping up on the house,” he said, and went to Jordyn's window.

It overlooked the back yard, and looking out, he saw more of them, dressed in black and carrying pistol-grip shotguns. They were to the edge of the field, almost at the house.

“Who?”

Childress gripped her wrist and brought her to the window. He pointed out the men, who were mere shapes in the darkness. Her eyes grew wide.

“You have your cell?” he asked.

“In my pocket.”

“Lock yourself in and call the cops.”

She took the cell phone from her pocket, dialed, and held it to her ear. “Nothing.”

They only had cell phones, no landline. It occurred to him that the intruders may have jammed the signal, which would mean they were professionals. Had there been a leak? He wondered if he'd been exposed to some terrorist cell and they were coming to seek revenge.

Childress ushered his wife and daughter into the upstairs bathroom. He heard the lock click into place. He went to the hallway closet and grabbed his old softball bat. It was better than nothing.

He went downstairs, racking his brain as to who might be coming after him.

In the kitchen, he peered out the rear window. Two of them, carrying shotguns, crept near the back of the house, the men getting closer to breaking in.

More of them might be coming through the front door, and he cursed himself for not locking it. He hurried to the front door, flattened himself against the wall. As he reached to lock it, the door was eased open.

The two men came inside, but they hadn't seen Childress yet. Both of them were clad in black, all but their eyes obscured by ski masks.

He hit the second man in the knee, sending him to the ground. Followed up by smashing him in the face, the bone giving with a hollow crack. He fell face down on the floor.

The first guy turned, aimed the shotgun at Childress. He swung the bat, clipping the shotgun and forcing the guy to point it at the ceiling. He jabbed the guy in the throat with the butt-end of the bat. The intruder fell to the floor holding his throat.

He grabbed the shotgun from the man, a Mossberg pistol grip. A moment later, the back door exploded inward. The other four men entered the kitchen and fanned out. He fired the Mossberg, forcing them to scatter. Glass shattered. Hope that wasn't the good china, he thought.

Trying to Win New Wheelchair Van

For the second year in a row, our son Tony is entered in a contest to win a new wheelchair van. The contest is part of National Mobility Awareness Month. It's a nationwide contest, and people can vote one time per day.

Tony has mitochondrial myopathy, which falls in the Muscular Dystrophy spectrum of diseases. There is no known cure and we depend on the van to get him where he needs to go.

I'd like to take a moment to ask if people would take a look at Tony's profile and cast a vote. It only takes a second, and our family truly appreciates every vote. We've got our fingers crossed, as our current van is 14 years old and has 120K miles on it. My wife drives Tony to her school, which is 50 miles round trip.

Please consider voting for Tony by clicking on the link below.

http://www.mobilityawarenessmonth.com/entrant/anthony-izzo-east-aurora-ny/

Thriller Excerpt - Chapter One of Beat the Devil

I have about sixty pages left to edit on Beat the Devil. Here's the first chapter. I'll post additional chapters over the next few days.

Excerpt from Beat the Devil
Copyright 2013 Anthony Izzo

1

They were taking him to one of those Supermax facilities, where John Raven would spend the rest of his days in a cell. Twenty-three hours a day in a six-by-eight cage, with an hour allowed for exercise.

The guards walked him out of the cell block, Raven shuffling along with cuffs and leg irons. The Department of Corrections van waited for them, dimly visible through the sheets of rain falling outside Block D.

The guard, a pig-faced slug named Harrod, nudged him along with a shotgun. One of the other guards slid the door open and they muscled Raven into the van. A steel grid separated the driver and passenger from the rear seating. They shut the van door and Raven listened to the rain beat on the van roof. It was a six hour drive to Supermax. To the end of his freedom.

Herrod turned to him and said, “Going to enjoy your new home, Raven?”

“I'd enjoy skinning you. That's what I'd enjoy.”

The look of anger appeared on the pig's face was worth it.

“Boy, if I had five minutes with you, I bet you wouldn't talk so tough,” Harrod said.

“You wouldn't last five minutes with me. “

He scared people. That he knew. He'd always been big, growing to six-foot-five as a teenager. He had done thousands of pushups and burpees in his cell, packing on slabs of muscle. His long, dark hair sometimes hung over his eyes, making him hard to read. And then there was the scar: a mess of pink tissue that crisscrossed his right cheek, given to him by a cop.

“You'll never see the sun again, know that Raven?”

“Do you have family? I once cut a family of four to pieces. The father lasted two hours before he died.”

“You deserve to rot,” Herrod said, turning around.

Raven smiled, something he rarely did.

The van began rolling and he looked out the rear window and Griffin State Penitentiary faded in the distance, becoming a large gray blur in the falling rain.

The scenery rolled past, the road flanked by towering pines. Up ahead twin head lights approached on the other side of the road. He could see the running lights of a semi, the rig swerving back and forth. Something was wrong with it.

It drew closer and Raven watched it veer towards the van, the grill looking like the maw of a great beast. The van's driver tried to swerve, but the semi clipped the van's bumper and they whipped around and before Raven knew what was happening, they had flipped. The van rolled several times and Raven felt as if he were in a steel drum being rolled down a hill.

He heard screeching metal and the blare of a large horn as the van came to a stop. He was staring up at the broken side window, the van resting on its side. Turning his head to the right, he saw the pig-faced guard sprawled over the seat. His neck was cocked at a bad angle. Broken.

The front windshield had been smashed out and the driver was nowhere to be seen.

His body felt as if he'd been hit with baseball bats. He realized when he moved his arms, his wrists were no longer bound, the chains having been snapped by the crash.

He got to his knees and began crawling towards the front of the van. The cage separating the driver from the passenger's had been peeled open. He crawled over the dead guard, who smelled as if his bowels had let go. After ten minutes, he managed to crawl out the hole where the front windshield had been.

The guard who had been driving lay on the blacktop, his face covered in blood. Raven went to the dead guard, hunkered down. He found a set of keys on the man's belt and undid his shackles. Then he took the guard's weapon, a Glock 40. He grabbed the extra clips, too.

Looking down the road, he saw the semi had rolled. The trailer had been ripped open, looking like someone had taken a can opener to it. Smoke billowed from the tractor.

He saw a second set of headlights approaching and he watched as a Ford pickup truck approached. It stopped and a large man in a blue mechanic's uniform got out. A grease-smeared cap rested on his head. “You okay? Any other prisoners around?”

“Just fine, and I'm the only one,” Raven said.

“You ain't going to hurt me, are you?”

Raven shook his head.

“I'll get my cell,” the man said, approaching. “Call for help.”

“I'll be needing your clothes,” Raven said.

“Excuse me?”

“Your clothes,” Raven said, and shot him in the face.

He undressed the man, who was roughly Raven's size. After stripping down to his prison-issue boxers, he dressed in the man's uniform. The patch sewn on the shirt indicated the guy's name had been Jeff. “Thanks Jeff,” he said, and dragged the body, now clad in a pair of red jockey shorts, into the woods. Taking the Glock and ammunition, he got behind the wheel of the Ford and drove off.

He wondered how much time he had before they realized he was loose. And if it was enough time to settle some old scores.

He drove for half-an-hour until he spotted a ranch home tucked back on a hill. A long driveway snaked up to the house. Even at eleven p.m. the lights were still on.

Turning up the driveway, he killed the headlights and eased the vehicle forward.

Off in the distance, sirens cried out.

Donald Spielman was in bed watching the local news run through a fluff piece, something about a dog riding a skateboard. He wondered why he bothered with the news at times. The dog, a terrier named Sydney, rolled along on screen, its tongue wagging in the breeze. Nonsense, he thought.

He glanced at Isabel. His wife was sleeping on her side, her breasts pushed up in the lace nightie. He considered nuzzling her neck and seeing where it went. Their boys were staying with her parents for the night, which meant a rare evening alone.

He was amazed by her beauty. The dark hair and flawless olive skin. Even more amazed that she had fallen in love with an average long-haul trucker.

He was about to make his move when a knock came at the door. It made him flinch.

Who the hell was here at this hour?

Donald got out of bed and threw on a faded terrycloth robe. The thing was so ragged Isabel threatened to burn it every so often. He tied the belt, intent on telling the person at the door to politely fuck off.

They did get the occasional visitor. They were a few miles from the nearest neighbor. Visitors usually came in the form of stranded motorists. Probably someone looking for a jump or help with changing a flat.

As he opened the front door, he heard himself gasp. A man with a bouncer's build stood on the porch. He wore a pair of coveralls that strained at the seams. His long, dark hair partially obscured his eyes, making the man hard to read.

“You break down?” Donald asked.

“I need a place to say,” the man said. His hands were jammed in the coverall pockets.

“This isn't a Motel Six. I'll bring the phone to the porch, if you need to call someone.”

“Your place will be fine.”

Donald felt his face start to flush. “Take a hike, huh?”

He started to close the door, but the stranger pulled a semiautomatic pistol from his pocket. Donald froze.

“Who else is in the house?”

Donald's heart jackhammered. “My wife.”

“We're going inside. If you try and run or call for help, I'll shoot you between the legs. Got it?”

He'd been a fool for opening the door. He wanted to lunge at the man, gouge his eyes, but he didn't. Getting shot here wouldn't help Isabel. “Okay.”

“Good man. Now let's go meet that wife of yours.”

Concept Art

Here's a cover concept I came up with for my first book in the John Childress series. Let me know what you think. I'm looking at a late April release for this one. The description is below.

In the blink of an eye, a corrections department van crashes, unleashing one of the nation's most feared serial killers. Sentenced to life in a Supermax facility, John Raven is turned loose on an unsuspecting population. He has only one thing on his mind: getting revenge on those who punished him.

John Childress is an ex-Navy SEAL. While at home one night, men in black fatigues close in on him and his family. Taken to a government compound, he's given an ultimatum by an organization known as The Agency: track and kill Raven or never see his family again. It's the Agency's business to eliminate internal threats, and Raven is on their radar.

Teaming with an ex-cop and one of the Agency's best operatives, Childress must hunt down a brutal killer and secure the release of his family.

If he fails, there'll be Hell to Pay.

An action-packed thriller from Anthony Izzo.

Sneak Peek at Book Description

I finished up the edits on the latest novel, for which I still don't have a good title. That will come. I have  a few in mind, but nothing that thrills me yet. I thought I'd post what will eventually become the book description on Amazon, etc. I'm not in love with calling my shadowy government organization "The Agency," so that will likely change. This is an extremely rough draft, but I thought I'd share.

Childress appears in my short story "Underworld," which I wrote under the Jack Vincent pen name. He's teaming up with Cody Garrett, an ex-cop who readers will recognize from The Hollow.


In the blink of an eye, a corrections department van crashes, unleashing one of the nation's most feared serial killers. Sentenced to life in a Supermax facility, John Raven is turned loose on an unsuspecting population. He has only one thing on his mind: getting revenge on those who punished him.

John Childress is an ex-Navy SEAL. While at home one night, men in black fatigues close in on him and his family. Taken to a government compound, he's given an ultimatum by an organization known as The Agency: track and kill Raven or never see his family again. It's the Agency's business to eliminate internal threats, and Raven is on their radar.

Teaming with an ex-cop and one of the Agency's best operatives, Childress must hunt down a brutal killer and secure the release of his family.

If he fails, there'll be Hell to Pay.

An action-packed thriller from Anthony Izzo.

Escape From NY

My wife and I just spent three days in New York City. We stayed in Manhattan and did roughly a hundred-and-fifty miles of walking. We had a blast. There's no place like NY, at least not that I've been.

Highlights were the fossils at the Museum of Natural History and the Arms and Armor display at the Met. The nerdy kid inside me could've spend all day reading the descriptions of the different suits of armor. The armor designed for King Henry VIII was particularly cool. The displays of armor, axes, maces, and swords also provided a ton of inspiration for future stories.

There were also two geeky-looking guys who looked like twins (right down to matching suits). I had some interesting thoughts on how to work them into a novel.

We had great Italian food in Hell's Kitchen and some terrific Turkish food at a restaurant called Parsha.

Most of the stereotypes I've heard about New York were false. We stayed in Manhattan the whole time and I never felt unsafe. The people were friendly and I didn't feel like I was playing Russian Roulette every time I crossed the street. In fact, it's probably safer crossing the street there than it is in Buffalo. I'll definitely be going back.

On the writing front, edits continue on the yet-unnamed thriller. I'm looking at a release later this month, and I'll really be pushing this one, promotion-wise. I'll be posting an excerpt in the near future.

Forgotten Now Available

The 40th birthday has come and gone. I had a terrific weekend with friends and family. My wife did a bang-up job with the birthday dinner (beef enchiladas and salted caramel cupcakes for dessert). She also surprised the hell out of me by getting me a Kindle Fire and Amazon gift card. I spent the gift card last night and have enough reading material to keep me busy for a couple of years. Looking forward to reading books by Nate Southard, Victor Gischler, and Jack Ketchum.

Forgotten, my latest horror novel, is available for Amazon. Nook and Kobo versions will follow in the next few months. It's also available to borrow for members of Amazon Prime. Here's the description from Amazon.com:

A 60,000 word novel of terror from the author of The Hollow and The Dead Land Trilogy.

For as long as anyone can remember, The Dwellers have lived on the mountain near Forgotten. After remaining dormant for years, they've returned. Hungry. Demanding sacrifice.

The locals have their eye on unsuspecting travelers, intent on sacrificing them to the Dwellers. As visitors to the town discover, Forgotten is not kind to strangers.

Three groups of travelers are in for a hellish visit to Forgotten. A father's teenage son disappears on the mountain. A pair of vacationers are ambushed on the road outside town. A private investigator delves into the disappearance of a college student, only to become trapped in a nightmare scenario.

Forgotten. Plenty come to visit. Not everyone leaves. You can pick it up here

New Novelette Coming Soon

I'll be putting up a new novelette, roughly 10,000 words, for sale on Amazon in the next day or two. I'm also doing a print version through Createspace, which I thought might be cool to give away for contests, etc.

It's called One Crazy Night.

It started with a noise in the attic.

Then the strange footprints appeared on the stairs.

Soon, a young couple will find out just what is hiding in their attic, and it will lead to a night of terror they'll be lucky to survive.

The Best Writing Advice I've Read In A While

Perhaps truer words were never spoken, at least in the context of writing advice. Courtesy of E.B. White:

"A writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a word on paper."

Updated Cover Art

So I decided to play with the cover art for No Escape. This was my first e-book and I felt an update of the cover was due. I like the new cover and think it's appropriate. A clandestine military unit plays a large role in the book. Plus I just liked the image.

From the book's description page:

It started with an experiment gone wrong...

A ship carrying the military's latest weapon in the war on terror ran aground...

Now it's loose...


Jack Hammond is an ex-Special Forces soldier who has returned from the war. He's looking to take a peaceful island vacation with his family and forget about the horrors in Iraq and Afghanistan. Soon after the Hammonds' arrival on the island, a military ship runs aground. It's carrying the military's latest weapon in the war on terror, bloodthirsty creatures trained to kill terrorists. And now they're loose. Soon bodies begin piling up, and a clandestine military unit arrives on the island to deal with the threat. Jack must battle the creatures and hostile soldiers to get his family off the island before it's too late. Before there's no escape.

A novel of terror from the author of CRUEL WINTER, EVIL HARVEST, and THE DARK ONES.


Pick it up for $2.99 at Amazon

A Few Updates

I have one more scene to finish in Forgotten, then I'll let it sit for a week or so before editing begins. I'm about ten pages into writing a novella called Above (working title). It's about a serial killer that hides out in a young couple's attic. It was inspired by the Villisca Axe Murders. I've read accounts where it was believed the killer hid in the house and waited for the family to go to sleep. I found that idea pretty creepy, and decided to do my own take on the scenario.

In December, I'll turn my attention to writing the final book of The Dead Land Trilogy.

Tonight's Survivor and Criminal Minds night in our house. The fam is requesting Paninis for dinner. Good food on a cold night. While we watch TV, I'll be typing away on the laptop.

Corrupting The Youth of America

The other day, I spent my morning molding impressionable young minds at one of our local high schools. A good friend of mine is an English teacher, and twice a year I speak to his classes about writing. The kids in his classes are always funny, smart, and observant.

I usually have a favorite question. This year it was: "Do you feel like a psychopath when you write?" My immediate reaction was to laugh. Horror writers have that reputation. As if we have a basement full of corpses. That's not true. They're really in the attic.

I choose topics and stories that get under my skin. Write scenes that disturb me, bother me. Hopefully that creates the same reaction in the reader. And the greater and more disturbing the evil, the greater the triumph when the good guys win in the end (at least with some of my endings).

A few of the kids always want to be writers. They ask for my best advice. I always tell them to write a lot and read a lot. Sitting down and putting words on the page is the only way I know to become a writer. A thousand words per day nets you a first draft in two or three months.

I'm going back next week to talk to another class. We'll see if I get the psychopath question again.  In the meantime, I'll practice my dead-eyed stare and creepy laugh.

Excerpt from Forgotten - Chapter Two

So far I've posted the Prologue and Chapter One from my work-in-progress, Forgotten. As I write this blog post, the family and I are re-watching some of The Walking Dead episodes from Season One. Poor, stupid Merle still gets left on the roof.

Here's the excerpt. It's uncorrected copy. Please don't redistribute. Copyright 2012 Anthony Izzo.

Chapter Two

Jess Armstrong pulled her Dodge Durango into a slanted parking slot at the Forgotten Diner. It was a low-slung white building. The lights inside glowed bright, given the restaurant the qualities of a beacon in the dark night. It was along the town's main drag and she got out of the Durango and walked inside. 

The counters continued with the theme of gleaming white. She'd expected to inhalde the aromas of meatloaf and fresh coffee, but she smelled nothing of the sort. The front counter was empty, and there were a dozen red vinyl stools lined up. She had driven all night to get here and her stomach ached from hunger. There was a piece of pie in a clear glass pie case sitting on the counter. That and a cup of coffee would do it.

She took a seat at the counter. A greasy menu was tucked between two napkin holders on the counter. She took it out and looked over it. If the grill wasn't closed, a burger actually sounded good, something with bacon and blue cheese that wouldn't help her abs one bit.

She'd come here working a case. A private investigator, she'd been hired to track down a missing college student, a kid named Martin Vega. Two weeks ago, she'd gotten a call from a tearful woman asking for a meeting. She'd agreed to meet with Emily Vega and discuss the case.

Her office was in an old feed mill that had been converted into offices. The heavy beams and ductwork had been left after the renovation, giving the building an industrial feel. Emily Vega entered Jess' office, a slim Latino woman in a down vest and jeans. Her eyes were red-rimmed and she carried a crumpled tissue in her hand.

“Are you good at finding missing persons?” Vega asked.

“I've done it before,” Jess said, taking out a yellow legal pad and gel pen. “Who are you looking to find.”

“My son.”

“What's his name?”

“Martin. He's a student at The University of Buffalo. He called and told me he was taking a break from college. He wanted to be a photographer,” she said, wiping her nose with the tissue. “He liked to photograph abandoned places.”

“So he cut class to go take pictures?”

“That's right.”

“When's the last time you heard from Martin?”

“Three days ago. He called from a town called Forgotten. It's in Montana.”

“A long way from home,” Jess said, noting the name of the town. “What did he say?”

“He was going into an abandoned mining town to take pictures.”

“How do you know he's gone missing?”

She shifted in the chair, reached in her pocket, and took out a cell phone. She flipped it open and punched in a code. Then she put it on speaker.

A young man's voice said:

“Mom, there's someone after me. I'm up in the mountains. I'm lost. I called the cops up here and they told me to stop bothering them. Call for help if you get this.”

“Did you call the police up there.”

She folded the phone back up and stuck it in her pocket. “They said there was nothing they could do. The local police said there wasn't enough to make them think he was missing.”

“So you came to me.”

“Mrs. Vega, I'm sorry.”

“Will you do it?”

“I get half my fee up front. The other half when I find him.”

“So you'll find him?” she asked.

“I'll do my best.”

So here she was, halfway across the country in Big Sky Country, hoping to find a college kid who decided to blow off school. Before she looked for Martin Vega, she needed something to eat. “Hello?”

No answer came from the diner, so she went behind the counter and entered the kitchen. The counters were spotless and free of food. It didn't have that lingering greasy smell that seemed to linger in every diner. “Anybody?”

A door slammed shut in another part of the kitchen and a gaunt kid in white cook's clothes appeared. His t-shirt hung on his bony frame. “Customers aren't allowed in the kitchen.”

“I was looking for a waitress.”

“We're closed.”

“The sign said open. Plus your lights are on.”

“Doesn't matter. We're closed. Now leave.”

“I've come a long way. How's about a piece of pie out there?”

“It's no good. I need to throw it out.”

“I'll buy it.”

“Do I need to call the Sheriff? I said we're closed, you dumb bitch.”

Jess felt her temples start to throb. At thirty-one, she didn't have high blood pressure, but she could feel her blood start to cook. It was apparent she wasn't getting a meal. “So much for small-town hospitality.”

She left the kitchen, feeling the kid's gaze on the back of her neck. As she moved through the diner, she was half-tempted to grab the piece of pie, but she didn't. Might need the local law to cooperate. As she climbed into the Durango, the kid was standing in the doorway of the diner, his stare boring into Jess. If looks could've killed, she would be pushing up daisies.

She arrived at the Three Pines lodge. The lodge was constructed of logs, a main building in the center and two wings jutting off to each side. A stuffed grizzly bear on hind legs stood outside the door. After getting her bag from the rear of the Durango and making sure her shoulder rig was concealed, she went inside. Looking around, she saw the walls were lined with the heads mounted animals. Deer. Elk. The head of another bear. Maybe it was the other bear's relative.

A red-haired woman stood at the front desk, which was constructed of a polished piece of rough wood built on top of logs. She was typing something on a keyboard.

“I have a reservation,” Jess said.

“Name?”

Jess told her. The woman checked her in, swiping her credit card. She gave Jess a room key. “Two eighteen. I'm sure you'll find it.”

“Thanks for the hospitality. Is there a restaurant in the lodge?”

“There is. It's closed. If you're hungry, there's vending machines over there.”

“Doritios for dinner. I've had worse,” she said, gathering her bag and key. She stopped at the vending machine and purchased a package of Oreos and a bag of chips. Then she went up to her room, intent on having the gourmet dinner provided by the Lodge.

After stumbling around in the woods, Ray found his way back to their campsite. The fire had died down to a dull orange. The cold bit through his clothes and his body ached from the tumble down the hill. He didn't know what to do, so he could at least gather more wood for a fire.

He threw some more wood on the fire, but it only smouldered, refusing to light. He scanned the woods, looking for any sign of Pete. There was only darkness.

He didn't know what he'd do if he lost the boy. Pete had grown into a good young man. Gone were the days when he idolized Ray, when the simple act of Ray fixing a broken toy truck was deemed heroic. But they still had moments: like going to the occasional Buffalo Bills' game, the two of them grilling steaks in the lot before kickoff. It made his chest ache to think Pete might be gone.

He cursed himself for coming back to the campsite. Should be out looking for Pete. Ann Marie's voice echoed in his head, his wife sometimes exhibiting an almost casual cruelty: Maybe someday you'll find your spine, Ray. He shouldered his pack. If he died out there, at least he would die searching for Pete.

Heading in the direction of the footprints, he managed to find the trail. They certainly were fucking strange. Some type of animal. He continued into the pines, trying to follow the general path of where the footprints might have gone. He was rewarded by finding snapped brush and branches, meaning something large had come through.

After moving through the woods, the moonlight his only companion, he spied a shiny object on the ground and hunkered down: it was Pete's pocket knife.

There was no blood on it, and he found that somewhat comforting.

He continued to follow the footprints as they wound through the broken branches left by Pete's abductor.

After travelling another couple hundred yards, he came to a clearing. In the clearing was a domed structure constructed of sticks and leaves. It stood around ten feet high and gave the impression of a makeshift shelter.

Circling around it, Ray listened to determine if anyone was inside. There was an opening tall enough to admit a man of seven feet tall. He took out Pete's pocket knife and clicked the blade open, thinking some weapon was better than nothing.

The same sour, musky smell that he noticed before Pete's abduction came from the doorway of the thatched structure. Ray crept inside, the ground spongy under his feet.

He squinted to see, the darkness near total. He didn't hear anyone inside. “Pete?”

This place was empty. But who the hell built it?

As he turned to go, he stepped on something squishy and wet. He kicked at the unseen object and it clung to his foot and he stumbled out the door. He managed to unstick the mess from his shoe, and in the moonlight he got a better look at it: pinkish gray and slicked with blood. The rest of it trailed inside the shelter and he realized it was a loop of entrails.

He fell to his knees and fought the urge to vomit. Jesus, please don't let that be Pete.

Stomach churning, he stood. His hands shook and he looked at the viscera on the ground at his feet. What if Pete's clothes were inside? There was only one way to tell.

He ducked back into the shelter and felt around, crawling back and forth on the ground. He found no clothes but did manage to stick his finger in something. He was glad it was dark.

When he climbed out of the shelter, he wiped his hands on some leaves. “Maybe it's from an animal.”

He continued through the woods, following the broken branches until he came to a cliff. From down below came the gurgle of water. Ray looked at the ground and saw the footprints ended at the cliff. He peered over the edge and saw the cliff went down to the riverbed. There were a series of rock shelves on the way down. It was possible someone could climb down, resting on each shelf.

The footprints definitely ended here.

The first shelf was about twenty feet down and he figured it was the only route the abductor could have taken. He lowered himself, belly pressed against the rocks. He found some footing and managed to climb down to the first shelf, sweating and panting.

He searched the rocky shelf for any sign of Pete but found nothing.

After another ten minutes of climbing, he reached the next shelf down. This time he found Pete's brown leather wallet. Still no blood on it, which he took as a good sign.

Climbing to the floor of the ravine, with resting, took him another forty-five minutes, and when he reached the bottom, he was minus half the nail on his right fingernail. He sucked on the wounded nail as if it would help but was rewarded only with the tastes of blood and dirt.

His throat felt as if he'd sucked dirt through a straw and swallowed. The water was long gone.

He knelt at the riverbank, scooped up some water, and swished it in his mouth. Then he spit it out, the water silty and brackish.

After searching the riverbank, he found the footprints. They headed down river and he follwed them for another quarter mile.

As he slogged along the riverbank, the hairs on his neck prickled. He got a tight feeling in his guts, like he might let loose in his drawers. Fear. Someone watching him.

As a shriek echoed through the woods, he took out the pocketknife.  

Forgotten Chapter One - Excerpt

Here's an excerpt of my work-in-progress, Forgotten. I had previously posted the prologue. This is Chapter One. This is uncorrected copy. Please do not redistribute. Copyright 2012 Anthony Izzo.



Forgotten By Anthony Izzo

Chapter One

The day had started off full of promise, just Ray and his son hiking in the mountains. Seeing the West, the Big Sky country. They had started off at eleven this morning, stopped to eat turkey subs near a clear blue stream, the sun pleasantly warming their faces. They had headed further into the hills and it wasn't until around three o'clock that Ray realized they were lost. He hadn't told Pete, who at fifteen, was up for anything and would've accused his old man of being a worry wart.

Now it was four o'clock and being fall it meant dark would be coming soon. The shadows had started to lengthen and Ray felt a tiny bit of panic start to well up inside him. Being lost in the mountains with very little survival gear didn't appeal to him.

They had been heading downhill, Pete up ahead of Ray. The air had grown chilly. They were on a narrow trail flanked by scrub pines, the smell of the trees thick in the air. “Hold up Pete.”

Pete, tall and lanky and looking nothing like the little boy Ray rembered, turned. He gave Ray a goofy grin. “We're lost, aren't we?”

“How'd you know?”

“We've just sort of been wandering,” he said, and adjusted his back pack.

“I think the stream is back that way. Where we had lunch,” Ray said, unsure.

“I don't think so, Dad.”

Ray took a compass from his pocket, fiddled with it. He couldn't figure the damned thing out and put it away after a moment. He didn't want to admit to himself that he had no damned business going this deep into the wilderness without help. They had spent the first few nights of their trip in a little tourist town called Forgotten. It was named after an abandoned mining town a few miles from the tourist place. They had been staying at a place called the Three Pines Lodge and had set out on a hike. He hadn't told the clerk at Three Pines about their trip, for he'd expected to be back that same day.

Seeing a log, he sat down. His head swam. It wasn't just him up here. He had Pete to worry about. “Hold up.”

“I'm not going anywhere.”

It seemed as if the shadows had crept out of the woods. As they had descended the trail, Ray had heard birds chirping on a regular basis, but now he heard none. “Dammit. Maybe we should backtrack.”

“How about we find a spot to set up camp? We hunker down for tonight and find our way down in the daylight.”

“Hold on. I'm an idiot,” Ray said, reaching into his pocket and taking out his cell phone. He had the phone number for the Lodge in his contacts. They'd planned this vacation for months, and he'd had to make several calls to the Lodge. “Help is on the way.”

He brought up the Lodge on the contacts menu and hit Call. Prayed for a signal up in the mountains. The phone rang three times and a female voice answered. “Three Pines Lodge. Lisa speaking.”

Lisa. Good. That was the clerk they'd seen before leaving. She would remember them. “Lisa. My name is Ray Hansen. I'm staying in room three-fifteen. Look, my son and I are lost up in the mountains and I was hoping you could call for help.”

“Let me look you up in the computer,” she said.

“I don't see why that matters,” Ray said.

“I'll determine that, sir,” she said, voice growing cold.

He could hear her fingers tapping a keyboard. “Sir, I'm afraid I don't show you in our system.”

“How can I not be in our system? You rented me a room. I talked to you this morning.”

“I'm afraid I don't remember.”

Ray felt his face start to flush with anger. “Is this a joke?”

“Sir, I wonder if you're the one joking. You're wasting my time.”

“Look, can you please call the local authorities. It's getting dark up here.”

“You shouldn't have gone up there.”

“What?”

Lisa repeated, “You shouldn't have gone up there. You belong to the mountain now.”

The connection ended and he tried to dial again but the phone rang for nearly a minute with no answer. He felt like throwing the cell phone against a tree. He didn't let his anger take over and shoved it in his pocket instead.

“What happened?” Pete said.

“She acted like she didn't know me.”

“You dialed the right number?”

“No Pete, I called the damned Dairy Queen in town. What do you think?”

Pete's eyebrows knitted together in a frown. “Don't have to get pissy about it.”

“I'm sorry. Of course I dialed the right number.”

“So now what?” Pete asked.

“We'll find a spot and camp for the night.”

They hiked down the mountain until it had grown almost too dark to see. It had been blind luck that they'd found a small shelf ledge with an overhanging rock. They would be able to use it for shelter. They set their packs underneath and sat down. Ray had a few granola bars and bottled water in his pack and they downed the granola bars and half the water.

They were both wearing long sleeves, but Ray's was thin flannel and he was already shivering. One thing he did have was flint, and they were able to gather enough kindling and wood. After setting up a fire teepee, Ray got the flint to spark and got a fire going. Thank goodness for small favors. “Not exactly the Hilton, but it'll do for the night.”

“We'll survive. It's been a great trip.”

“You mean that?” Ray asked.

“I mean it. It's been cool.”

Ray had suggested the trip after Ann Marie had decided she wanted to start bar-hopping at forty-three. She'd been hanging out with a crew of single people, all of them under thirty. Several of them male. Most nights she wasn't home anymore and he wondered what had become of the woman who used to spend her nights knitting and watching Seinfeld re-runs with him. Pete needed a mom. Ray needed a wife. Right now, Ann Marie was being neither. “I'm glad. I'm having a good time, too. Even if we're lost.”

Pete waved it off. “We'll be fine.”

The fire began to crackle and he felt a pleasant warmth on his face. Maybe things would be okay, after all.

The fire had died down to embers and Ray had curled himself into a ball, a stone digging into his side. He was using his pack as a pillow and a huge crick had formed in his neck. Ray checked his watch. Two ten a.m. He glanced at Jake, who was snoring, and he envied his son's ability to sleep.

“Best build up the fire,” Ray said to himself.

He crawled out from under the rock shelf, stood up, and stretched. His back gave a crack and he rolled his neck, attempting to get out the mess of knots that had formed in the muscle. Sticking to the edges of their campsite, he gathered up wood. He was about to go back and place it on the fire when he heard branches snapping in the darkness.

He shrugged it off as a deer and continued gathering wood. As he approached the dying fire, he heard the rustling noises coming closer. Critch-Crunch. It sounded like someone on two legs. Not an animal. Icicles seemed to form on his spine. He wanted to curl back up under the rock shelf and wait for the unseen thing in the woods to go away.

Instead of curling up, he nudged Pete, who woke up. In a whisper, he said: “There's something in the woods.”

“What is it?”

“I don't know. Sounds like a person.”

“Who the hell would be up here?” Pete said.

“Keep quiet.”

Ray glanced at the fire and wished for the first time that the fire had gone out and had not attracted the unseen person in the woods. Branches snapped and leaves crackled. A sour, pungent smell filled the air, and Ray worried that it was a grizzly bear. They wouldn't stand a chance if a bear wanted to take them.

Ray spied a large stick on the ground near the fire. Ten feet away. Four inches in diameter, it appeared solid, and although it wouldn't be a perfect weapon, it was better than nothing. Still crouched, he moved out of the rock shelf and reached for the stick.

Pete cried out from behind him and he saw something massive and dark tear from the woods and snatch up Pete. It had to be eight fucking feet tall. Moved like a panther. Pete's cries echoed from the darkness. Ray scrambled to his feet and blindly ran after Pete, stumbling into the woods.

He got about twenty yards and realized Pete's abductor had disappeared. But how was that possible? He had given chase right away and didn't think it possible for the kidnapper to disappear that fast. Glancing around, all he saw was the shadows.

“Pete?”

He strained to listen and heard branches crunching somewhere in the distance. It was vaguely to his right and he took off in that direction. Had to find Pete, no matter what.

Soon he had traveled a few hundred yards and it didn't take long before he was lost. Turning, he tried to locate the glow of the fire, but saw nothing. He stopped and listened, but heard nothing. Taking a chance, he called Pete's name, but no answer came.

He moved where he thought their campsite would be located and as he slipped between two tall trees, the ground gave out, as did his footing. Pitching forward, he lost his balance and was aware of skidding down a hill. Ray clawed the dirt on the way down, but he couldn't grab hold and his slide down the steep hill continued. He rolled twice before landing at the bottom, a stinking puddle soaking his shirt.

Getting to his feet, he felt like he'd taken a beating. His back ached and he'd scraped his elbows and knees. His shirt had ripped at the elbow, and his jeans had torn at the knees. He looked up at the hill and determined it too steep to climb. He had to get help. Someone to help locate Pete.

What the Hell had taken him? It was big. He saw that much. But it had moved too quickly for him to get a good look. He didn't even know what he'd tell the cops.

He picked a direction and started walking. Part of him wanted to scream. The other part wanted to cry, as he'd utterly failed Pete.

Five minutes after he started walking, a high-pitched wail echoed through the night.

The wailing noise came from the top of the hill, where Ray had tumbled. Pete had to be up there. He began to scramble up the hill, legs aching. He peered upward and was aware of someone standing at the top of the hill, and it had to be seven feet tall. He flattened himself against the ground and crawled behind a medium-sized boulder.

The breeze blew, bringing with it the scent of something rotten and dead. He glanced up again and saw the figure move away. His heart felt as if it might explode in his chest, and then Doctor Matthews would be right, the prick. He'd been telling Ray to lose weight for years.

It took him fifteen minutes, but he climbed to the top of the hill. When he reached the top, his fingers were bleeding from clawing roots and rocks. His legs burned from lactic acid buildup in the muscles, as if he'd just done a thousand squats. He looked around but so no sign of the abductor. The smell still hung in the air, gagging him.

He looked down and saw evidence of the abductor. A three-toed footprint nearly eighteen inches long. It appeared there were claws jutting from the toes.

A series of the strange footprints continued across the ground and then disappeared. He followed them and discovered the just stopped. Gone. Like Pete.

Updates and The Writer's Toolkit

I have about twenty to thirty thousand words left to write on the current novel. It's called Forgotten. It involves some flesh-eating mutants, messed-up townspeople, and a vacation spot you might regret visiting. Look for a late October or early November release.

I've recently gotten hooked on Breaking Bad. Going back and starting the series from Season One on Netflix. Outstanding performances and storytelling so far.

Also been thinking about writing on the go and carrying a writer's "toolkit."

I carry mine in an Army Engineer's bag purchased at the surplus store. Here's what I've got in mine:

Laptop

Multiple notebooks

Multiple pens (I like the Sharpie-style pens)

Kindle (if you're writing, you need to be reading, as well)

Sketchpad and pencil kit (even if you don't consider yourself artistic, you can always sketch out diagrams of fictional towns, buildings, etc. to keep things straight)

Index cards (for plotting, storyboarding)

As I've posted before, be ready to grab those extra moments in waiting rooms and such.  Words have a habit of piling up over time. Even if you spend a few minutes outlining or making story notes, it's time well spent.