Pumpkinhead

I left one film off my list of horror favorites. Pumpkinhead, which was Stan Winston's directorial debut.

Favorite Scary Movies

October is my favorite month of the year. Not necessarily because of Halloween. I just love a blustery October day, the changing of the leaves, seeing a full moon on a cold Fall night. Maybe it's the horror writer in me. Seeing as I've listed my favorite horror novels in a previous post, today I'm putting up some of my favorite horror films.

Halloween (1979)  Carpenter wisely leaves much of Michael Myers' motivations and back story to our imagination, creating a faceless terror that is as scary today as it was thirty years ago.

Alien (1979) A masterpiece.  The chest bursting scene is the most referenced scene in the movie.  For my money, the scariest sequence is when Dallas creeps through the bowels of the ship, searching for the Alien. We see him tracking the Alien with a motion detector until finally he finds the creature (or the creature finds him).  Gets me every time.

Feast (2005) Loaded with gore, dark humor, and some unique takes on introducing key characters, this one's just plain fun.

Paranormal Activity (2007) This one goes for a slow build, but it's worth the wait.  Proves sometimes what you don't see in a film is scarier than what you do.

The Descent (2005) A group of female adventurers goes spelunking only to find they're not alone. The caves provide a creepy, claustrophobic feel. But that's nothing compared to what they find in the caves. I saw the unrated version, and if you're a fan of gore, you won't be disappointed.

Jaws (1975) To this day, I won't swim in water where I can't see the bottom. Enough said.

The Road (2009) A horror film (although not presented as such) based on Cormac McCarthy's Pulitzer Prize winning novel. See if the scene when The Man and his son search the seemingly empty house doesn't give you chills.

Top Ten Horror

Thought I'd rattle off a list of top ten horror novels. These are novels that always stick with me. Some of them I've re-read and keep on my bookshelf for no other reason that getting rid of them would be like kicking out a friend. I'm probably leaving a ton of books out, but these are the ones that come to mind:

1.  The Shining - Stephen King

2.  It - Stephen King

3.  The Road - Cormac McCarthy

4.  Season of Passage - Christopher Pike

5. Phantoms - Dean Koontz

6. The Terror - Dan Simmons

7. Endless Night - Richard Laymon

8. Watchers -  Dean Koontz

9. Island - Richard Laymon

10.  The Stand - Stephen King

No Escape now available

Thanks to my amazing wife, who is also my Business Manager, No Escape is now available for Kindle:

http://www.amazon.com/No-Escape-ebook/dp/B0047T7EZY/

The Cover for No Escape

Thanks to my lovely wife's computer skills, we were able to come up with an e-book cover for No Escape:

If all goes according to plan, it'll be up for sale on Amazon within the week. 

As a family, we've been doing a constant juggling act the past month. My wife is a teacher, and she was picked to be the Senior Class advisor. So that means we've been working the school's concession stand for the Friday night football games. It's kept us busier than the proverbial one legged man in the ass kicking contest, but it's been a blast.

The writing class I'm teaching is going well. My students are bright, articulate, and both have a good amount of writing talent. I think they'll both turn out stellar stories.  I'm finding I enjoy teaching and will be offering the class again in the winter class session.

Due to our hectic schedule, I've gone into guerilla mode when it comes to writing.  Strike fast, get the words down, and get out. Usually on a note pad while in a waiting room, or maybe some pages early on a Saturday morning. I think that's how most writers do it. At least the ones with full time jobs and other commitments. I think there's a myth about writing that you have to have huge blocks of time to do it. Or a special place to write where the Muse comes along and sprinkles fairy dust on your keyboard. If you have that time and space, more power to you. But it can be done in short bursts, too.  Life doesn't stop for writing, but that doesn't mean you can't write.

The next novel is rolling along (almost too well - that scares me). No completion date for that one yet, but the pages keep piling up.

No Escape Chapter One

Here's Chapter One of No Escape:

                       Chapter 1

                        Crash

     Jack Hammond was not a superstitious man, and didn’t buy into portents and bad signs. But he couldn’t shake the quiver of dread that ran through his stomach as he watched the thunderheads from his cabin window. It was a big picture window with a pretty view of the Saint Lawrence River. Beyond it was a deck that wrapped around the cabin. From the relative safety of the cabin, he watched the purple monsters drift through the sky. It was dusk, and they blended with the orange and violet of the sunset, now quickly dimming.

     He turned and watched Karen, his twelve-year-old daughter, as she lie on the floor- on her belly. Her IPOD pumped Good Charlotte’s latest offering through her earbuds. Her feet moved in time with the music. Amanda, his wife, sat at the kitchen table. Her nose was buried in the latest J.A. Konrath novel. He wanted at that moment to hug them both tightly and not let go. He couldn’t say why, but it seemed urgent.

     It would be roughly an hour when his life would be changed forever.

     Jack turned from the window. They had brought a boom box on their camping trip, and Jack went to the kitchen counter and turned the radio on. He was greeted by the hiss of static but then he tuned it until he found a local news station.

     Without looking up from her book, Amanda said, “Whatcha doing?”

     “Looking to see if the latest Kenny G. single is playing anywhere.”

     “Try W-C-R-A-P. You might find it there. Are we going to the caverns?”

     “They’re closed, kiddo, remember?”

     “Sucks.”

     “You’ll live. Plenty to see on the island.”

     He listened to the end of an oldies song and then caught a weather report. There was a severe thunderstorm warning, possible hail and high winds. He didn’t like the sound of that. The bridge they came over to get on the island was a rickety wooden thing that dated back to the Eisenhower administration. He wouldn’t want to go over it in a storm.

     “Thunderheads moving in. I’m going to batten down the hatches.”

     “Need a hand sailor?”

     “I’m good,” he said. He went over, kissed her on the head. Her hair smelled like roses and tea leaves.

     As he walked past Karen, he gave her a friendly nudge with his foot. She frowned and went back to listening to her I-POD.

     Outside, it had grown darker. The crickets sang in full chorus. He grabbed their beach towels off the clothesline, along with the axe, which he’d used to split logs for the campfire. With the weather coming in, it didn’t much look like they’d have a campfire tonight.

     He looked again across the river. The sunlight had been swallowed up. Smoky thunderclouds had mixed with the dark sky. Lightning flashed, and in the distance a flock of geese screamed.

     Why the hell am I so nervous about a damned thunderstorm?

     He had just started toward the cabin when he heard the roar of an engine, then a blatting horn. It blared repeatedly, sounding like a big truck. Whoever was driving pushed it hard, the big engine revving.

     He walked down the stone driveway to the road, which was about thirty yards from the cabin. The horn blared again. He saw the headlights come around the bend. The RV came into view, its driver’s side door open and flapping.

     The driver beat on the horn again.

     For a moment, Jack was frozen to his spot. He watched the RV roar ahead as if it were in slow motion. It took him another moment to realize two things: it was coming right toward him, and it wasn’t stopping.

     Rubber shrieked and the RV gave a tortured groan. Jack couldn’t see the driver and was sure the driver couldn’t see him, or was incapacitated in some way. He had a horrible moment where he envisioned the runaway RV veering toward the cabin, where Karen and Amanda waited, unaware of the danger. He hurried to the cabin steps, climbed them.

     The RV charged ahead. Its front wheels rolled over the grassy area next to the driveway. Jack ducked inside, dropped the towels and axe near the door, confident the RV was going to miss the cabin but wanting to be near his wife and daughter. Karen took no notice, lost in her music. Amanda looked up. “What is that noise?”

     Before Jack could get a word out, he heard a huge thud, then the grinding of metal.  The cabin shook. He turned and looked out the door. Amanda jumped up from the table and came to his side, as did Karen. Apparently a crash of that size was louder than even Good Charlotte’s blaring guitars.

     The RV had plowed into a tree near the fire pit. The front end had been crumpled. The windshield shattered. The  side door banged open-shut, open-shut. The engine made a tortured gurgling sound and steam poured from the front end. Jack cautiously opened the door. To Karen, he said, “Call the park police. The number’s on a flyer on the bulletin board.”

     “I’m on it,” she said. “Hopefully our damned cell works this time.”

     Given the remoteness of the cabin, the cell phone service had been spotty.

     Jack stepped onto the deck, and Karen began to follow. He put his arm out, blocked her. “Stay here.”

     “I want to see. Maybe I can help.”

     “Stay put,” he said, and went outside.

     “Are they dead?” Karen asked.

     “That’s what I’m going to find out.”

     Jack approached the RV, a big Gulf Stream with a blue stripe across its side. The driver’s seat was empty.  He climbed up into the cabin. Looking down, he saw a pair of blue jean-clad legs and their wearer. It was a pudgy bald man with a Syracuse University tee shirt on. It bore dark stains and Jack looked at the man’s neck and saw the source of them: blood leaked from the side of the man’s neck. Jack moved forward, knelt down next to the man. The guy had given it up.

     Overhead, thunder crashed, and then the hiss of rain began to patter on the RV’s roof. Jack moved back through the RV, passing through the kitchenette. There was a smudge of a fluid that he knew could only be blood on the Formica tabletop. In the back, in a bunk, he saw someone lying under a blue comforter.

     He approached, heart pounding, aware that even in the darkness of the vehicle, he didn’t see the blankets rising and falling. “Hey,” he said. “You okay?”

     No answer came.

     He paused for a moment, half-expecting the form under the blanket to pop up like a funhouse boogeyman. The person under that sheet was dead, he was sure of it. In Afghanistan, he’d seen his share of the dead, some with faces missing, others burned so badly you wouldn’t guess they were human at one time.  This person wasn’t sleeping.

     He moved forward and in one motion pulled back the comforter. He found a woman with a tee shirt that matched the dead man’s. At first Jack thought the woman was smiling, but then he realized her lips had been cut away and jagged slashes made in the cheeks. He looked at her hands and saw that the fingers had been removed, the stumps bloody and ragged. He didn’t see a mortal wound, but it was there somewhere.

     He scanned the RV. Dots of blood stained the carpet. It didn’t look as if there’d been a struggle.  The only sign of a mess was the blood stain on the table. Jack would’ve thought there’d have been papers and clothes strewn about, things knocked over. What the hell happened?

Not wanting to touch the body, he backed up to the front seats, stepped over the dead man, and climbed out of the RV.

Outside, the rain assaulted him. It came in sideways, the wind throwing it in his face. He hurried to the cabin door, where Amanda and Karen stood, watching him.

     “Well?” Amanda asked.

     “Did you get anyone on the cell?”

     “The parks police aren’t answering.”

     He didn’t like that. “Watch out,” he said, opening the door and stepping inside.

     “Jack? Did they?”

     He looked at Karen, who had begun to chew her lower lip. The earbuds still dangled from her ears but she had shut the music off. He debated making her go in her bedroom while he spoke to Amanda, but the girl would find out anyway.

     “They’re dead. A man and a woman.”

     “Didn’t survive the crash?” Amanda asked.

     “Someone killed the woman. She was – cut up. Missing fingers. I don’t know if it was the driver, but he had a wound in his neck. I doubt it was him that killed the woman. They were running from someone.”

     “Jesus,” Amanda said, and shut the inner cabin door. She clicked the passageway lock shut.

     “Did someone really kill them?” Karen asked.

     “Looks that way, kiddo. I’m sorry you had to hear that,” Jack said.

     “The police will come, sweetie. Someone had to have heard the crash.”

     Jack didn’t know about that. The road wound away from their cabin, theirs being the last one on the road. There were other cabins a few miles down the road, each several hundred yards a part.  “We’re driving up to the parks police station. It’s right near the entrance.”

     “We should stay put. Help will come,” Amanda said.

     “I’m with mom. The weather’s lousy, too,” Karen said.

     He didn’t like the idea of sitting here waiting. The perpetrator of the crime could be long gone, or he could be looking for more victims. The cabin had a flimsy lock, and the picture window could be easily shattered. “We’ll take a ride up, let them know. Maybe the storm’s got their phones messed up. I don’t want to sit here and wait.”

     “For what, Dad?”

     Amanda looked at him, waiting for Jack to finish his sentence. After thirteen years of marriage, she probably knew exactly what he was thinking. Wait for some maniac to show up at our cabin.

     Amanda said, “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to drive up there.” 

From the top of the fridge, Jack grabbed a hatchet he’d brought for chopping kindling. He also took a buck  knife from the top of the fridge. Karen, seeing him do this, said, “I hope you don’t need those, dad.”

     “Me neither, kid,” he said, and bending over, kissed her cheek.

     Amanda grabbed her cell phone and the raincoats hanging on the coat hook near the door. She handed Jack his navy blue slicker and he put it on. With the hatchet and knife in hand, he went to the door and looked out. No sign of police, or anyone else. The road was dark and desolate as the surface of the moon.

     The wind drove the rain against the door in bloated drops and it splattered as it hit. The RV was a big white blur through all the rain.

     Their Explorer was parked about fifteen feet from the cabin and was barely visible, the rain and darkness cloaking it.  “I’ll go first,” Jack said, thinking of the clump of woods that surrounded the cabin, and that it would make an excellent hiding spot for an intruder. He placed the knife, still sheathed, in his belt. In his right hand he held the hatchet, and his left the car keys. “Wait here. I’ll open the car door and then you two run out.”

     He took the first step, not quite feeling as scared as when his unit went into caves looking for Taliban – but it was close. He half-expected to be knocked over, tackled by the maniac that killed the people in the RV.

     Once outside, he descended the steps and moved to the car. The rain pelted him. He got the door open, scanning the trees for any signs of movement. When he was sure no one was lurking nearby, he waved for Amanda and Karen to follow.

     Karen came first. Jack watched her hit the second step and her foot kicked out and she flopped on the steps, letting out a small grunt. Amanda, who had turned to lock the door, now was crouched over, saying “Karen, you okay?”

     Karen was getting to her feet, and Jack heard her mutter, “Fuck” under her breath. Normally he would’ve reprimanded her, but under the circumstances, he let it slide. 

     “You okay kiddo?” Jack called.

     Amanda was at Karen’s side, took her by the elbow.

     Karen said, “Just bruised my butt, I’m sure.”

     They climbed into the Explorer. After setting the hatchet down between the seats, Jack started the Explorer up and pulled down the driveway.

     As they pulled onto the road, a blast of thunder that sounded like the hammer of God shook the truck. The storm had brought bad things, after all.

Inspiration

A great first line can really get your story moving. Stephen King has said that stories are found things, meant to be unearthed like fossils. 

Here's some random opening lines off the top of my head. Feel free to use them. Maybe it'll get you digging on that story fossil.

"I awoke to a gun in my face and knew it was going to be a bad day."

"As I peered down the hole, it stared back at me with bloodshot eyes."

"This is how it happened."

"She saw the hooded man coming up the walkway and immediately locked the front door."

"He gazed upon his army, ten thousand strong, and prepared for what might be his last battle."

"Getting your ass kicked tends to put life's minor problems in perspective."

"As the van rolled past, she noticed the passenger. He wore a rubber Halloween mask."

"He'd seen his share of nasty homicides, but never anything like this."

"The new neighbor, yeah. That's the guy on the wanted poster I saw."

"As they rode up to the fortress, the dead lay strewn upon the ground."

New Novel - Prologue

As promised, here's the prologue of my latest novel, No Escape. Sample chapters to follow over the next few days.          

                   No Escape

                   By Anthony Izzo

                   Prologue

     Captain Ernie Nevitz didn’t like the assignment and wanted to drop his cargo as soon as possible. His wife, Felicia, was due to pop with their third child and he’d been out of contact her while on this ship. Due to the nature of the assignment, the crew hadn’t been allowed contact with family. The Navy had recruited him because he knew how to keep his mouth shut; he did his job and didn’t  question the brass.

     As the ship drifted down the St. Lawrence River, Nevitz thought of having a girl this time. He loved his two boys, but he couldn’t help thinking of the Barbie jeep he’d bought for his unborn daughter. She’d grow into it and he hoped Felicia wouldn’t be too pissed about it.

     There was a storm coming in. The latest forecast had them hitting it in less than half-an-hour. The steel gray clouds and choppy water told him they were going to get it hard. The first rumble of thunder echoed a moment later.

     Nevitz’s second in command, an angular, hawk-faced guy named Gill, stepped beside him. Gill’s expansive, wrinkled forehead twisted his features into a frown. Man his age shouldn’t have that many wrinkles, Nevitz thought.

     “Gill,” Nevitz said. “What’s the good word?”

     “Sir, problem with the containment hold.”

     Nevitz glanced at him, and in the glow of the bridge’s instruments, Gill looked like a specter.

     “What type of problem?”

     “An error message. Our tech people are working on it.”

“If they can’t fix it?”
“There could be a breach.”

“Go full arms. How many men on the door?”

     “Two.”

     “Triple it. But don’t cause a panic.” They had Marines on board in the event of something like this.

     “Aye Aye sir.”

     Gill took off, his long strides somehow reminding Nevitz of an ostrich. Not ten minutes after Gill left, an alarm wailed. “Goddammit, this had better be an error.”

     Nevitz headed below deck to the containment room, unsnapping his holster along the way. His Colt automatic was ready – just in case.

     Entering the containment control room, he squinted at the white light that seemed to stab his eyes. Once his eyesight adjusted, he went to a computer monitor, where Gill stood over the shoulder of a seated soldier.

     “Gill, what is this? Am I going to miss by baby girl’s birth?”

     “Sir, they’re out.”

     Nevitz felt his blood temperature drop. “Tell me the door’s still in tact.”

     “That’s failed, too.”

     Automatic weapons barked from down the corridor and Nevitz knew they were in trouble.

     Nevitz took out his Colt automatic. Gill and the two other sailors in the room grabbed Colt AR-15s from a specially installed rack on the wall. Because of their cargo, nearly every part of the ship had been outfitted to store hardware.

     Screams echoed in the hallway. One of them high and wet sounding.

     “Gill, open the hatch.”

     “Sir?”

     “We’re trapped rats in here. We’re going to fight our way out and get to the bridge.”

     Gill put his hand on the hatch’s wheel. The other men crouched, ready to open fire.

     Nevitz nodded, and Gill swung the steel hatch open.

     Based on the carnage he saw, the captain knew two things: he would never see his wife again, and he was going to die horribly.

What's New

By all accounts, the Buffalo Bills looked horrible today. Almost as bad as Trent Edward's mutton chops. But I digress.

I'll have a new novel ready for download on Amazon Kindle very soon. I'll be putting up sample chapters on the blog sometime this week. The book's called No Escape and takes place in one frantic night. It's the story of Jack Hammond, an Iraqi war vet looking for a peaceful island vacation with his family. When a mysterious ship with a deadly cargo runs aground on the island, his vacation turns into a nightmare. Jack must figure out a way to survive the unwanted visitors and get his family off the island.

Also, I'm teaching a course this fall on novel writing as part of Adult Continuing Education in East Aurora. I've never taught, but this is something I've wanted to do for a while. Jumping out of the plane and hoping the parachute will open. So far I have one student (that I know of) and she's pretty excited. If nothing else, maybe someone will bring some really excellent donuts from Tim Horton's. Wish me luck.

Going Digital

Contemplating doing something new (for me, at least). Have a novel that I'm considering putting on Amazon's Digital Platform. This allows authors to set a price and have their work available for download on Kindle.

More to come on that. I've been reading their website and I'm intrigued.

What I've Learned

I sold my first book nearly five years ago. I'm asked on a fairly regular basis by aspiring writers to judge an idea they have for a book. Or sometimes they want the inside track on how to get published. Sorry, but there is no inside track. I don't have it, and no other author does. But I can share what I've learned in my short time in the business.

1. There's a lot of luck involved. The right book to the right editor/agent at the right time can make all the difference. There is hard work and talent involved in making something like the Harry Potter series or Twilight a phenomenon, but luck plays a huge part, too. Making millions in this industry (or hundreds of millions) is the equivalent of hitting the Powerball lottery.

2. Ignore writing books. That's right. Keep walking past the writing reference section in your local Borders. With the exception of Writer's Market and a good style/grammar guide, leave them alone. Why shouldn't you buy the latest writing book that tells you how to write a megabestseller? Read too many books on writing and you start to suffer from what golfers call "paralysis by analysis". Outline. No, don't outline. Never open a book with weather. Never write on Tuesday during a solar eclipse. Pretty soon instead of writing you're staring at a blank page, frozen. The best writing books are the novels you have on your bookshelf. Read them. Learn from them. Figure out what the author did and how he did it.

3. The world at large doesn't give a shit that you wrote a book. Store clerks will be indifferent. Customers in a bookstore will get whiplash trying not to make eye contact with an author holding a booksigning. Must not look. Will be forced to speak with author. And as for book signings, they are mostly a waste of time. May the self-promotion gods not strike me down for that last statement. Unless you are a well known author with a large following (or can bribe your friends and family into coming), you'll probably spend most of the time at a table. Waiting. That's not to say you shouldn't promote. Write a blog. Meet other writers. Get online and participate in forums. Put excerpts and free stories on your website.

4. In the name of all that is holy, don't get in it for the money. For a first time, mass market paperback deal, you can expect between $2500 and $5000 for an advance. And around an 8% royalty rate. Write because you can't stop telling stories. Because you're always composing something in your head, turning things into plots, playing "what if." Keep writing because you love it, and if you make money, great. If not, be glad you've been blessed with a talent and use it.

5. Don't quit. There'll be rejection. Lots of it. Even after you're published. Keep writing. Always.


Take the above advice for what it's worth. Your mileage may vary.

Latest Novel

Long time since my last update. My latest novel is done, after a round of revisions. Sending it to my agent today. If all goes well, hopefully I'll have a book out next year.

Goodbye, Old Friend

Nobody died.  I was thinking about one of my favorite authors and how much I used to love his work. When I first discovered this writer, I went out and picked up all of his titles and pretty much devoured them. 

Last week I checked his most recent book out of the library. I read ten pages and had to put the book down. The description felt forced. The author was trying too hard. The relationship between the male and female leads consisted of little more than cutesy dialog.  I wondered what had happened to one of my favorite writers.

I'll give his next book a try.  But somewhere along the line things seem to have changed. This author's creepy, keep-you-up-all-night thrillers are a thing of the past. The latest book wasn't the same.  It was like seeing an old friend after a number of years and finding you've drifted apart. Anyone else experience this with an author?

On the flip side, are there any new authors you've read and are excited about? Someone whose work you just have to read?

The Ending

Finished writing the ending of my latest project (which is actually a rewrite). Now I just have to go back and type in the parts I wrote in my notebook. The notebook has its ups and downs. It's portable and allows me to sneak in writing time. Waiting rooms are a perfect place. I don't really need to know what bitchy things Jennifer Aniston has to say about Angelina Jolie. So the latest copy of People can gather dust while I get a few pages written.

After typing in the material from the notebook, I'll give it a once over, tying in old and new material. Then it's off to my agent for a look.

I keep telling people I hope to sell it. They ask me why this book would be any different. I hope they're right, but with publishers scaling back and the economy in the tank, you never know. I'll just keep writing and think positive. Sometimes that's all you can control.

Recent Reads

I haven't read much horror fiction lately.  I've been reading more crime novels and thrillers as of late. Two that really kept me coming back were Good People by Marcus Sakey and Severance Package by Duane Swierczynski.  I found myself thinking about both books in between reading sessions and couldn't wait to get back into them. Good stuff. I also got Swierczynski's The Wheelman for Christmas, and it's on my TBR pile.  Check them out.

The weather here isn't doing much to help Buffalo's reputation as the snow capital of the world. It's damned cold. I pumped gas today and took my glove off for about ten seconds. My skin actually hurt. Right now it's a balmy six degrees. I'm afraid to check the windchill.

New Year

It's been a crazy 2009. Dealt with some troublesome relatives.  Watched my oldest son struggle with school to the point where we decided to home school him.  Today was the first day of me working with him and it went great. 

On the writing front, working on revising my latest novel. I had sent it to my agent and he gave me a thorough editorial letter.  His comments were dead on, so I'm in the process of tearing the guts out of the novel, keeping the good stuff, and tossing the junk.  Hoping to make a sale with it. 

Write a Novel In One Month

I've seen a few books floating around the web that promise to help people write a book in a month.

I thought I'd share my own version.

For a 90,000 word novel:
1. Sit ass in chair
2. Write 3,000 words per day

That'll be $19.95, please.

If there's some other magic formula, please let me know.

Review

Review for Evil Harvest here:

http://www.dondammassa.com/r3.htm#Evil_Harvest

The Dark Ones

Coming down the home stretch on the next book. I've got about another week of writing to finish the draft, then it's on to editing and revisions. I'm calling it The Dark Ones right now, but I'm also considering Dark Siege. Kensington will have their own suggestions as well. If time permits, I'll post a snippet.

Evil Harvest, Chapter One

For your reading pleasure:

Chapter One

Matthew Crowe was stopped at a red light when he heard the woman scream.

The scream came from his left, and he glanced out the open driver’s-side window at the Folsom Furniture plant. The main warehouse looked the same as it did in his youth, a pile of rust and bricks that resembled a long-dead industrial relic. He would have thought it abandoned. A spotlight shining on an open door at the front of the building and a tractor trailer with FOLSOM in blue letters parked at a loading door told him they were still in business.

He checked the light again; it was still red. He looked back at the open warehouse door. That was bad news. Business owners didn’t make a habit of leaving doors open, especially with thousands of dollars’ worth of merchandise sitting behind them. Did something break in, or out? That was the question.

The woman cried out again, this time a hoarse groan. No mistaking it, someone in trouble. He checked—no oncoming cars—and turned left against the light.

As he turned, he heard a second shriek, a low growl that rose in pitch to a keening wail. He felt the shriek reverberate through his guts, felt his stomach and bowels get liquidy. The last time he had heard that sound, there had been blood and pain and cries for mercy. Leaving now was not an option. One of the bastards was after someone.

He gunned the Cavalier’s engine and rolled up the driveway, gravel crunching and popping under the tires. He swung the car into a diagonal parking spot in front of the warehouse. Hope nothing happens to the car. Rental company will be pissed.

When he boarded his plane, he never counted on something like this happening so soon. Ten years out of Lincoln and I run into Them the first night back.

Ten years away, first in the Army Rangers and then in cramped apartments and Motel 6s around the country. Hell of a way to live, collecting newspaper clippings, Internet printouts and interviews about creatures that shouldn’t exist.

But they did exist, and from the sound of it, one of them was on the hunt.

Throwing the car in park, he got out, unlocked the trunk and pulled out the tire iron. If he had an automatic weapon handy, it might be a fair fight, but the tire iron would have to suffice.

The warehouse was separated from a four-story factory building by an alley. At the end of the alley, another spotlight shone like sunlight at the end of a train tunnel. Matt watched for any sign of movement, any shift in the shadows. When nothing rushed from the alley, he moved ahead, tire iron in hand.

The woman cried out again and he heard footsteps flop on the concrete floor of the warehouse. Had she managed to slip away? It sounded that way.

Creeping up on the door, he peered inside the ware house, half expecting the thing inside to pop out and grab him. Here goes, he thought.

He ducked inside and looked up at the three-tiered steel racks, the highest of which ran twenty feet in the air. Crates, pallets and rows of shrink-wrapped furniture went on for what seemed like a mile. It also created hundreds of hiding spots. Moonlight filtered in through the high windows, but instead of providing welcome illumination, it seemed to create more shadows.

He glanced at the door. The bolt was a mangled lump of metal. Likewise for the rings that held the door’s security bar in place. Something wanted to open the doors, and had done so from inside the warehouse.

He ventured a soft, “Hello?”

The woman darted out from under the storage bays and into the center of the aisle. She ducked and scrambled underneath one of the lower racks. The darkness swallowed her up. Dammit, he thought.

He started down the aisle, aware that he could be ambushed from any angle.

A thundering crash behind him. Matt spun around to see a pallet of kitchen chairs piled on the floor. The plastic shrink-wrap had busted, and the chairs’ legs had snapped like kindling.

A second pallet of chairs tumbled down from the third tier and landed on the first pile. Matt realized the assailant was attempting to block the exit. It would not be impossible to leave through the door, but anyone who tried moving the chairs would be an easy target as they attempted to clear the exit.

Now he heard it move, thudding along the top racks, its breath coming in heavy, wet grunts.

Matt searched the racks, trying to get a glimpse of the woman. He crouched down, scanning the crates under the racks. “You in there?”

No answer came, so he continued to the end of the aisle. As he turned left, he heard footsteps, someone in a hurry. He turned quickly, but before he could square his shoulders, something hard and metal smacked his ankle.

Shit, that hurts! he thought, hopping in pain.

The attacker followed up with a shove; already off- balance, Matt toppled over and smacked the concrete. The tire iron clanged to the floor beside him. Being a Good Samaritan hurt like hell.

“You son of a bitch!” the woman said, and pounced on top of him. She raised the crowbar over her head and brought it down like a lumberjack. He blocked the blow, his arm smacking her forearms. The crowbar flew out of her hands and tumbled under a pallet.

Her primary weapon gone, the woman dug her nails into his cheek. He winced but managed to grab her wrists and hold them. “I’m trying to help you, dammit!”

She tried to pull away, but then it dawned on her she couldn’t get loose her shoulders slumped in defeat.

I’m not what dragged you in here, he thought.

“My God,” she said. “I’m sorry.” A tear dribbled down her cheek. He wanted to wipe it away for her but thought better of it.

She was straddling him, and he glanced at her Nike T-shirt. It had been torn across the belly; blood stained the white fabric and had dribbled onto her running shorts. Something had clawed her before she slipped away.

“Thank you,” she said. “For coming in after me.”

In the dim warehouse, her eyes stood out. Pale green, they looked like they could be sniper’s eyes under the right (or wrong) circumstances. She was compact and had the lean, smooth legs of a runner. Her curly black hair was pulled into a ponytail. He took her for about twenty-eight or twenty-nine.

Matt said, “We need to get out of here fast. We’re in here with someone very dangerous.”