Excerpt of the Week - The Island

When two couples venture to an island where monsters of legend are real, what could possibly go wrong? 

The Island is available here. 

It's the horror fan's ultimate dream. A tour of an island where legendary monsters are real. Escorted by armed guards, lifelong friends Rick and Nate travel to the island as a birthday surprise for Rick. They soon find out that the island's inhabitants are hungry, and the tour turns into a fight for survival. 

A an action-packed horror novella loaded with monsters and gore from the author of The Dead Land Trilogy.

“Wait until you see what I've got planned,” Nate said, standing on the dock in his leather jacket and khakis. He was sporting a goatee, meant to compensate for the thinning hair and double chin that had crept up since he'd hit forty. 

“I think I'm a little scared,” Rick Solomon said. 

Julie, Rick's wife, said: “So where's the mystery man taking us?” 

Eve, smoking a cigarette and watching the sunset, said: “My husband's an enigma wrapped in a riddle. I don't even know what he’s planning.” 

“What's the bag for?” Rick said, alluding to the small suitcase Nate had at his side. 

“You'll see, my friend.” 

Rick supposed there were worse ways to spend your fortieth birthday. Nate had been promising a surprise for weeks, and the day was here. All Nate would tell him was to pack enough clothes for a few days. 

It was mid-November, and Rick shivered inside his pea coat. A few more minutes and he was going to head into the shack that served as the dockmaster's office. He didn't have to go inside, because a seaplane buzzed and banked over the lake. Came in for a landing and they all backed up.  

It came up parallel to the dock and after a moment its propeller cut out. 

Julie came up beside him and took his arm. He smiled at her. They'd spent an amazing weekend up at a spa in the Poconos to celebrate his fortieth, five-star meals and massages included.  

 

Now it was Nate's turn to give his best friend a gift.  

A door on the side of the plane opened, some stairs folded onto the dock, and a squat man with a crooked nose stepped off. He was dressed in black and bore the look of someone familiar with the ring. Rick noticed his knuckles were huge and scarred. He eyed up Rick and the others if they were his next opponent. 

“Which one of you is Nate?” the man said. 

“That'd be me,” Nate said. 

“Got the fee?” 

“In the suitcase.” 

“Hand it over,” the man said.  

Nate handed him the suitcase and he placed it on the plane.  

“My name is Sutherland. I'm going to frisk each one of you now. No cell phones. No cameras. And no guns.” 

Eve tossed her cigarette on the dock and stamped it out. “You're not frisking me.” 

“It's policy,” Sutherland said, his gaze flat. 

“No frisk,” Eve said. 

“Lady, either I frisk you, or you don't get on the fuckin' plane,” Sutherland said. 

Nate said, “Eve, just go along. It's Rick's birthday.” 

“Fine. But watch your hands.” 

Sutherland frisked Nate, Julie, and Eve in short order, taking their cell phones. Rick handed his over before Sutherland frisked him, and the man with the crooked nose put them in his pockets. The frisking wouldn't win him any awards for being gentle. 

“You'll get them back after the trip. Anyone have to use the john? No bathroom stops.” 

“We're good,” Rick said. 

“Get in the plane. We'll be in the air about two hours.” 

As they were boarding the plane, Sutherland put a hand on Nate's chest, stopping him. 

“It's all there, right? Two hundred thousand.” 

“You can count it if you want,” Nate said. 

Their wives climbed on board and Rick took Nate aside for a moment. 

“What are you fucking nuts? Two hundred thousand dollars?” Rick asked. 

“You know I'm good for it.” 

“The restaurant business must be good,” Rick said. 

“I've sold a lot of ribs and chicken this year,” Nate said, clapping Rick on the shoulder. 

“I can’t let you spend that kind of money.” 

“It's as good as gone. And trust me, from what I hear, this is going to be worth it,” Nate said. 

Sutherland said, “If you two ladies are done discussing beauty tips, I have a fucking plane to fly, okay?” 

As they boarded the plane, Rick said: “Wonder what charm school he graduated from?” 

 

 

The ladies took the two seats in the rear of the plane. Rick and Nate sat in the two behind the pilot. 

 There were some bottles of a nice Chilean pinot noir and cheese with crackers in a cooler. Rick was presently on his second glass. Feeling nice and warm. Normally he was a beer guy, favoring stouts and IPAs, but the wine was going down good. 

“So where are we going?” he asked Nate. 

“I haven't had that much to drink,” Nate said. “Not letting the feline out of the proverbial sack.” 

“What the hell kind of trip costs two hundred grand?” Rick said. 

“If you keep asking me, I'm going to have Sutherland throw you out of the plane. Just relax and enjoy.” 

“Can you at least tell me our destination? A town? City?” Rick asked. 

“We're headed north of the border. The wild wilderness of Canada.” 

“I don't have a passport. Neither does Julie.” 

Nate took a sip of wine, waved him off. “The people I'm dealing with don't have those concerns. It's been taken care of.” 

That made him a little nervous, as did the amount of money involved in this little outing. He suspected his best friend had some shady dealings from time-to-time. He owned the aptly titled Big Nate's Barbeque, a chain of twenty-three restaurants spread across Western New York and Pennsylvania. Although he was sure his buddy did well, the four houses and six luxury cars were maybe a little too much for the owner of a chain restaurant.  Plus, the amount of money he’d just handed over to Sutherland was a little concerning. 

After they'd been in the air for about two hours, the plane banked sharply and Rick looked down on a small, densely wooded island. At one end was a large log structure, perhaps a lodge or hotel. It was surrounded by high, concrete walls. Odd. 

 Maybe this is where they'd be staying.  

 

Excerpt of the Week - The Last Ride

Last year, I wrote a novel about a group of people living in a pandemic. A flu is sweeping the world, and some lucky lottery winners get to take an armored bus to safe haven. I got the idea for the Last Ride while reading about a bus that makes a run in Mexico. In one of the areas controlled by the cartel, people ride the bus from one town to another. The bus goes 80-90 mph the whole time. It's so dangerous that it stops for nothing. 

That got me thinking about potential story ideas. Swap out Mexico and cartels for the apocalypse, and there was a story. The Last Ride was born.

You can purchase the last ride as an e-book or in paperback. 

A killer flu has swept the world. Survival is key. In a city soon to be deserted by the military, a group of lottery winners get to take the last bus out. The armored vehicle will take them to a government shelter. The trip won't be easy. Along the way they will have to face roving gangs and warlords. 

Among the passengers on the bus is a young woman carrying the fate of the world in her hands. People will kill to get their hands on what she's carrying. The passengers will have to band together if they're going to survive the last ride to safety.

They’d kill me if they could, Tony Wells thinks. 

He moves along the street, his large hand enfolding ten-year-old Sam’s. The boy is a little too big to have his hand held, but it’s for safety reasons.  

In the past few months, three kids have been snatched off the street. Sold to slavers and sex traffickers for food. Now that money is worthless, human cargo is the new currency.  Plus, they’re marked for winning the lottery. 

He sees people peering out of broken windows. Five and six story apartment buildings line the street. A group of men warm their hands over a barrel fire out in the street. They look like they want to gut him alive.  

“Keep moving,” Tony says. 

“They hate us, don’t they?” Sam says. 

“Pretty much.” 

“Because we get to leave?” 

“That’s about right,” Tony says. 

Jake says, “They had just as much chance as us to win.” 

“People are bitter sometimes.” 

He supposes he would be, too. Those left behind in the old city are likely going to die. There are rumors that the army division guarding the city is pulling out. Their supplies are running thin, and winter is coming. That will leave a ragtag militia to protect a small city. The odds aren’t good for those left behind.  

Tony and Sam reach the end of the street, leaving behind the small apartment where they rode out the outbreak.  Tony remembers watching bodies in bags being tossed onto flatbed trucks. Flu vaccines ran out after the first six months of the epidemic.  The government was decimated. Air Force One crashed over Virginia with the president and cabinet aboard. Civil war broke out between numerous armed militias. 

Tony has a .45 semiautomatic in a holster on his hip. He traded three bags worth of groceries for the gun and two magazines in the early days of the outbreak. He hopes he doesn’t need the gun. 

They reach the end of their street. He takes a final glance at their apartment building. There’s part of him that wants to turn back, hole up, and stay safe in the confines of 7B, but he knows it’s a death sentence to stay here. They’re the lucky ones.  

The two of them pass a group of men seated on the steps of an apartment building. They have on winter coats smudged with grease and dirt. Tattered jeans. Their cheeks are hollow, as if someone has scooped out the muscle and fat underneath. He feels like a gazelle walking in front of a pack of hyenas. 

Sam is staring at them. 

“Don’t linger,” he says to Sam, nudging him along. 

The compound is up ahead. Concrete walls with sandbags stacked on top. Men walk on a parapet behind the sandbags. He can see their heads and shoulders. They all have rifles slung over their shoulders. 

 

Outside the gates sits a tank. It’s painted in camo. The tank has long since run out of gas, but the main gun still works, as does the .50 caliber machine gun mounted on the turret. It is enough to dissuade anyone dumb enough to risk a frontal assault on the compound. 

“I’ll bet it’s cool riding in a tank,” Sam says. 

“I’ll bet it is. Also hot, dirty, and loud.” 

“Think they’ll let me fire the gun?” Sam says. 

“Keep dreaming,” Tony says. 

As they approach the tank, a guy wearing a big fur hat pops his head from the hatch. Leans on the .50 caliber. “ID numbers for both of you.” 

Tony reads off the ID numbers everyone in town was assigned after the outbreak.  

The man in the fur hat reaches down in the tank and brings up a clipboard. From his front pocket he takes a pair of reading glasses and puts them on. He thumbs through some sheets and says: “Wells, Anthony. Wells, Samuel, ages thirty-eight and twelve. Photo matches up. Looks about right. Lucky winners. All right. Head to the gate.” 

The man raises his hand and makes a twirling motion. The gate cranks open. When it’s fully ajar, Tony sees a machine gun nest fortified with sandbags just inside. Three more men are hunkered around. A guy with brown stumps for teeth sees them and says, “Pass us. Depot is the third building on the right. Get going so we can close the fucking gate.” 

“Can I say the F word?” Sam says. 

“No.” 

“Not like I haven’t heard it,” Sam says. 

“Still a negative,” Tony says. 

As they head inside the gate, Tony hears a barely audible “Fuck it” escape Sam’s lips. He smiles and decides to let it go. 

The Werewolf Novel Nears Completion

Nightshade, my werewolf novel in progress, crossed the 60K word mark this week. I'm guessing it'll clock in around 70,000 words total, which means about 10-12 more days of writing. From there, it's off to the proofreader before getting it uploaded.

I recently finished reading The Magpie Coffin by Wile Young. It's a fast, brutal, read, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. I released a horror western earlier this year entitled Vanished. I'm considering diving back into that territory soon. I've also been enjoying some of Jeff Strand's recent work.

I have a short story I'll be posting here soon. It's entitled "A Rough Night at the Redeye Mine." If you like undead things creeping out in the night, this one's for you. I'll also be putting it up for sale on the e-book platforms.

Murderland: Excerpt of the Week

This week, I'm sharing an excerpt from my horror novella, Murderland. It centers around an amusement park with a bad history and a murderous creature escaped from a freak show.

Something has escaped the Tarp Brothers' Carnival Sideshow. A bloodthirsty creature bent on killing. It's made its way to the abandoned White Sands Amusement Park, known to many as Murderland.

As the creature terrifies the local population near White Sands, a police detecive and a group of college kids will come face-to-face with the terror in the woods. When the Tarp Brothers set out to capture the beast, all three groups will collide.


You can purchase Murderland on all e-book platforms. Also available in paperback.


Murderland Copyright 2019 Anthony Izzo


One


“This is going to be amazing,” Jerry Stanton said as he stared at the towering Ferris wheel that dominated the sky above the amusement park.  White Sands Amusement Park had closed two months ago, but the place was still largely intact. A six-foot fence surrounded the property, no doubt designed to keep people like him out.
Marissa nodded. “I can’t wait to see the funhouse.”
She took out a Nikon digital camera. The photos would go up on their website. Two urban explorers about to set out on their next adventure.
They were at the rear end of the property. The waves from the  beach crashed in the distance. When this place was operational, people had flocked to the cottages and spent their days on the beach or at the park.
“Someone probably cut this fence,” Jerry said. “Can’t imagine we’re the first ones to explore the park.”
Marissa tied her hair back with a scrunchie-thing. At least that’s what he called it.  “God, you’re beautiful.”
“You’re laying it on thick. What do you want?”
“Oh, nothing,” Jerry said.
Jerry slung his backpack over his shoulder. He had some protein bars and Gatorades in there, along with his camera and a Moleskin notebook. He liked to make observations about the places they explored.
“Did you bring a weapon?” Marissa asked.
“Do I ever?”
“Dangerous place,” Marissa said. “Eight people dead in the park’s history. That one girl fell off the lookout. Or was pushed.”
“Accidents. It happens at amusement parks, unfortunately,” Jerry said. “I suppose a few of them were suspicious, though.”
“Murderland,” she said.
“Let’s find the hole in the fence.”
They made their way along the fence until Jerry eyed a spot where the fence had been cut. On the other side of the fence was a concession stand called the “Dog Hut.” It was a long building covered in cedar shakes. Surrounding it were picnic tables and benches. It somehow made him sad to see the place empty like this.
The two of them ducked through the hole in the fence. Security was spotty at the park. There may or may not be a guard patrolling the grounds. Although in mid-October it was getting chilly and a guard might not want to be bothered freezing his ass off walking out here.
Marissa stopped to snap a few pictures.
“That Ferris wheel shot is going to look good on the website,” she said. “Dramatic against the sky.”
“Big bastard, isn’t it?”
“It was from the World’s Fair, I heard,” she said.
“Where do you want to go first?”
“Funhouse. Definitely,” she said.
They made their way through the area of the park dedicated to concessions. Pizza shacks, stands advertising cotton candy, soft pretzels, and candy apples. Jerry imagined he could still smell the food. He was here once, for his twelfth birthday. He’d cut his belly on an inner tube valve stem at the water park. His mother had yelled at him for being careless. Some damn fun this place was.
They turned left, passing the shuttered game stands. The Whack-a-Mole, the ring toss, and the dart throw among them. After another turn, they came to the funhouse.
The structure was all angles and turns, painted black and deep purple on the exterior. One side had a giant skeleton painted on it.  In the corner of the wall was painted a cartoon witch with a crescent moon in the background. Typical carnival cheesiness.
A ramp led up to a boarded-up door. Over the door was painted the words Enter if You Dare.
Between the two of them, Jerry and Marissa pried the plywood from the entrance with enough room to slip inside. They took out flashlights and turned on the beams.
They moved down a corridor, Jerry noticing holes in the floor. “What are those for?”
“Air holes. They would blow air up to scare the customers,” she said.
They came to a room and entered. Jerry lost his balance and slammed into a wall before realizing the floor was tilted at a crazy angle. Marissa giggled. “They used to tilt the floor mechanically. Weren’t you ever in here?”
“I didn’t come to the funhouse,” he said.
Marissa snapped a few pics, her flash illuminating the room.
From the tilted room, they proceeded to a room of mirrors. Jerry spotted a door at the rear of the room and got curious. He gave it a push and it opened, cool air wafting into the room of mirrors. A dank, damp stink emanated from the other side of the door.
He poked the beam through and realized it was some sort of maintenance corridor. He turned the beam on a ladder which descended into an opening. “This might be interesting.”
He slipped through the door and heard Marissa say, “Wait for me.”
The corridor ran the length of the building and turned at the end. He guessed workers could reach any of the rooms in the funhouse through this hallway. But the ladder intrigued him. What was down there?
Marissa slipped through the door.
“We should check that out,” Jerry said
“I don’t know. Could be flooded or something down there.”
“I just want to have a quick look,” he said.
He threw a leg over the ladder and descended. At the bottom, he was surprised to find a long tunnel. He shined his beam into the darkness.
The tunnel had smooth concrete walls tagged by bright graffiti. It appeared to take a left turn up ahead.
“How is it down there?”
“There’s a tunnel. I wonder if these go under the entire park?” Jerry said.
“I’m coming down.”
Marissa joined him at the bottom of the ladder.  “Whoa.”
“We should see how far it goes,” she said.
“Okay. This is really cool.”
They proceeded to the turn and followed it. There was a mechanical zombie with rotting skin leaning against the wall, a castoff from the funhouse. Next to that was a golf cart. The tunnel was quite wide. Jerry guessed you could fit two golf carts side-by-side in here.
They made a few more turns.
“We probably shouldn’t go too far,” Jerry said.
“Just a little farther,” Marissa said.
They ventured a little further, past an abandoned popcorn popping cart.
“Did you hear that?” Marissa said.
“What?”
“Behind us. Something scraping in the tunnel?”
Jerry strained to listen. He did hear something. It was a scraping noise, followed by tapping. Tap. Tap. Tap.  
There was definitely someone in the tunnel behind them. Probably just kids coming down to explore, maybe making noises just to freak them out.
Tap. Tap. Scratch.
A stench wafted down the tunnel, something like ripe garbage mixed with rotting flowers.
“That stinks,” Marissa whispered.
“Homeless person maybe?” Jerry said.
“Lower your voice,” Marissa said.
“They already know were here.”
“Turn off your light, Jerry. Do it.”
She clicked off her flashlight, and a moment later, he did the same. They stood in the darkness, the sound of their breathing filling the air.
The smell grew stronger. More clicking noises.
“We should go,” Jerry said. “I don’t know what the hell that is.”
“C’mon,” Marissa said, turning her light back on.
They continued down the tunnel, heading farther from the funhouse. Now footsteps sped up behind them, someone coming out of the darkness.
The two of them broke into a run. Something hissed. It sounded angry. Or maybe hungry. What the fuck was it?
As they reached another junction, Jerry turned to see something tall coming at them. It had to hunker down to avoid hitting its head. Something with impossibly long limbs. Crooked fingers ending in claws.
Jerry tried to turn the corner. The tunnel thing was on him. Something swiped at his face, slicing open his cheek. He screamed and fell to the ground, landing on his belly.
Marissa turned and screamed.
“Go!” he said, and something like a heated knife dug into his neck and ripped him open to his tailbone.

Excerpt of the Week

Going to start posting an excerpt from one of my books each week. This week's is from Enter the Night. You can purchase it as an ebook here. It's also available in paperback at Amazon and Barnes & Noble. Book blurb below:

They came to the mountain to hunt ghosts. They ended up as prey.

The Iron Mountain Asylum once housed the criminally insane. The worst of the worst. Four men escaped the asylum and were never caught. The legends grew. Some said they lived on the mountain, killing anyone who crossed their path.

The contestants on a reality show called Enter the Night are about to find out if the legends are real. Six people. Non-stop filming. A week exploring the abandoned asylum and a military base near the mountain. The contestants will find out that there are things far more frightening on the mountain than ghosts. 

Truth be told, the mountain gives Bob Grey the creeps. 

He steers the cube truck up the winding road. Hits the wipers. Snow begins to pelt the windshield. There’s a blizzard coming down from the Canadian Rockies that will hit later next week. 

“Getting icy,” he says into the Bluetooth headset.  

“Take her easy,” Gary Meyers says. Gary is in the Dodge Ram behind Bob’s truck.  

“What’s the name of this show again?” Bob says. 

“Enter the Night,” Gary says. 

“How about we call it let’s get the fuck off this mountain? I’ll star in that show,” Bob says, and Gary meets this with braying laughter. 

He steers the truck around a switchback and continues up the mountain. Takes a swig of coffee from his travel mug. It’s now lukewarm and bitter, but it’s better than nothing. “Why would anyone want to film a reality show up here?” 

Gary says, “Couldn’t be Hawaii or South Beach, could it?” 

“Honeys in bikinis and drinking on the beach. That’d be more like it.” 

They’d passed the abandoned military base at the foot of the mountain, where rusted tanks and trucks sat abandoned behind a chain link fence. Bob is glad they don’t have to drive up to the abandoned hospital near the top of the mountain. He’s grateful to be stopping midway at the lodge. 

“Lodge should be coming up,” Gary says. 

Bob spots the rustic sign in his headlights. It reads: Iron Mountain Lodge. He brakes and turns onto the road that goes to the lodge. 

The road twists and turns. He wishes for a Red Bull and maybe some caffeine pills to keep him sharp. For now, he contends with shitty gas station coffee. Dozing off at the wheel up here would be deadly. 

The lodge comes into view: it’s four stories tall. Miles of roof. Hundreds of windows. He knows it was a playground for the rich in the last century. The Rockefellers stayed here on a regular basis. Howard Hughes used to rent an entire floor for himself. Now it looks like it wants to swallow people whole. At least in the dark. It’s probably fine, maybe even nice inside. 

He parks the truck near the front of the lodge. A massive covered porch runs the entire length of the building.  

Lights appear in his side mirror; Gary pulls up behind him in the Dodge. 

He spots the maintenance garage; that’s where they are to park the cube truck. It’s loaded with supplies for the week-long shoot.  

Bob has driven truck all over the country. The current gig with Blackmore Productions isn’t bad. The pay is decent. He’s home for good chunks of time. But right now, he’s shivering and wants to be back at the Holiday Inn, where he can order a Philly cheese steak from room service and watch a pay-per-view movie. 

He gets out of the truck and the wind screams. He holds onto his Blackmore Productions trucker’s cap to keep it from blowing away. He wishes he’d brought a winter hat. 

Gary fumbles with the keys before inserting the right one in the lock. He gives it a turn and cranks the door handle. 

“Don’t just stand there. Help me lift the bastard,” Gary says. 

They hoist the garage door open and Bob spots a pickup truck with a snowplow attached. There’s also a vehicle with tracks that looks like it belongs to the ski patrol.  

The boss wants them to leave the truck in the garage and the film crew will unpack it.  

He notices an odd smell: body odor. Like someone hasn’t showered in a month. Once, he’d gotten a whiff of a homeless guy who accosted him for a handout in Nashville. It reminds Bob of that. “Smell that? It’s really rank.” 

Gary says, “Probably a dead critter got stuck in here.” 

“Smells so bad I can almost taste it. I’ll get the truck,” Bob says. 

“I’ll guide you in,” Gary says. 

As Bob walks to the truck, Snow whips into his face. The wind moans again. His warm room back at the hotel comes to mind again. 

Bob picks up his pace and reaches the truck. He hops in the cab. As he’s about to start it up, he hears a high-pitched scream. Someone in terrible pain. 

He keeps a .44 Smith & Wesson in a case under the seat when he drives. Bob’s kept it there ever since being beaten and robbed on a run through East St. Louis. He gets out the revolver and loads it. There are brown bears on the mountain and he sincerely hopes he’s not about to run into one of those. 

Bob hops out, bracing himself against the wind. The snow picks up and the garage is now barely visible. It’s going to be a bitch driving down the mountain in this. 

He reaches the open garage door. “Gary, you okay?” he calls. 

The snow lets up long enough and Bob sees a man with Gary’s body draped over his shoulder. Blood drips down and stains the snow. The man looks back. He’s wearing a gas mask, an olive-drab coat, and camo pants. 

He turns and continues walking, carrying Gary like a sack of dry concrete. 

“Hey! What the hell?” 

Bob raises the Magnum, realizing Gary is in serious trouble, but he has no shot.  

The man disappears around the garage. 

Bob chases after him. 

Blogging in the Pandemic Entry 4

This week, I finished up a 5,500-word short story that I'm planning on submitting to a magazine. I also continued work on Nightshade, my latest horror novel. The novel is around 34,000 words right now.

We got hit with a late blast of winter this week in the Buffalo area. My wife and I had been walking every night after dinner, but the miserable weather has put that on hold.

Watched Underwater this week. Despite having a cool premise (deep sea mining station besieged by mystery monsters), the movie failed to generate any real tension. Also learned little to nothing about the characters, so I really couldn't give a shit what happened to them. 

I'm reading I Am Legend. Trying to spend time each day on writing, drawing, music, and art. Also making time for workouts. I've also been buying a lot of e-books (curse you, Bookbub). Not a bad thing.

Governor Cuomo just extended NY Pause (COVID-19 lockdown) until May 15th. I'm working from home until at least May 31st. I suspect that might be extended, and when I do go back to the office, I'm guessing things are going to be a lot different.

Blogging in the Pandemic Entry 3

Since I haven't been keeping up with this every day, I'll call this Entry 3.

Couldn't sleep so I've been up since 4:30 this morning. Since I was up, I wrote 1,000 words on the WIP, crossing the 30,000-word mark.

It appears I'll be working from home through at least the end of the month, possibly longer.

I finished reading two books this week. Alma Katsu's The Hunger, and Steve Harvey's Act Like a Success, Think Like a Success. I'm trying to read/listen to something motivational each day. Stories of people who are successful, whether it be at running a business, fitness, or some other vocation. I think a lot of motivational quotes and sayings are bullshit. That is, unless you take action on them.  The motivational talks and books can help you keep a positive frame of mind. That positive mindset needs to be paired with action and actually doing the work. Something I'm working on doing.

Got in a workout last night. Dumbell presses, rows, farmer's carries, and curls. Also rode the stationary bike for a bit.

Watched a creepy little thriller on Netflix called He's Out There. Had my heart racing, which doesn't often happen with a horror movie. Once the movie gets rolling, the tension doesn't let up. It was almost unbearable (in a good way). Highly recommended.

Going to go log on for the day job in a bit. Hope everyone is staying safe and healthy.

Blogging the Pandemic Entry 2

Started yesterday with some writing before I had to log in for the day job. I got around 350 words on Nightshade. After that, I hit the workout room and did push-ups, chins, and kettlebell farmer's carries.

My usual shift for the day job is 7:30-4:00. After work, we decided to get take-out pizza and support our local businesses. We usually order from two pizza places. I get gluten-free from one place for my wife and son. From the other, we get traditional pizza. I have to say one of the places had an absolute shit show going on in terms of filling orders. They're allowing two people in the pick-up area (a good thing) due to social distancing. However, the line stretched out past the lot, as people were keeping their distance from each other (again, a good thing). Some customers had their food brought out to cars, while others waited in line. All in all, disorganized. I understand businesses are scrambling with these new restrictions, but they need a better system. Ideally something where food can be brought out to minimize contact.

After dinner, Jenn and I took a 45 minute walk. My son and I got in a game of NHL 20, then Jenn and I watched a few episodes of The Office.

Finished up the night by learning some new blues licks on the guitar.

Living in the Days of a Pandemic

At times it seems absurd to be working on a werewolf novel with everything going on in the world.  I guess if I finish it, the book might provide a welcome distraction for a reader.  I suppose the world still needs stories, so I'll keep plugging away at it.

My day job is allowing us all to work from home, for which I feel fortunate. My wife is a teacher and is also working from home, preparing lessons and reaching out to students. We're practicing social isolation/distancing, having groceries delivered, and staying put. Our biggest fear at this point is for our oldest son, who has Muscular Dystrophy. We've been through pneumonia and bronchitis with him before, and it can be terrifying.

I've been filling my time with Netflix (Train to Busan and a colorized WWII documentary recently), writing, sketching, and reading (Alma Katsu's The Hunger).

My wife and I have also ventured out for some walks. Eerie to see our town completely shuttered right now. Last night, we saw one other couple out walking. And yes, we kept a healthy distance as we passed them.

Werewolf Horror

I set aside The Veil, at least for now. Not sure if I'll go back to it. There was nothing wrong with it, just not feeling the story. I'm not sure it's the book I wanted to be writing at this time. Normally, I'm not in favor of abandoning projects, but it just wasn't working for me. Every book reaches a point during the writing when you feel like your sailing through the doldrums. Normally, I push through, but for some reason, I couldn't keep going with this one.

Instead, I'm about 11,000 words into writing a werewolf novel and am enjoying it so far. Looking to have this one ready and for sale by late spring.

I'm currently reading Bird Box by Josh Malerman.

Watching the final season of The Ranch on Netflix.

I'm liking Lana Del Rey's Norman Fucking Rockwell. The new Tea Party record also has some good stuff on it.

I'll post a cover for the werewolf book once I get one worked up.

Library Presentation

I gave a talk last night at the Aurora Town Library about publishing and writing. I discussed my experiences with traditional publishing, agents, and my journey into indie publishing. We had around 15-20 people come out, and had some excellent questions.  Also had some good discussions about writing with the audience.

My son's former baseball coach was there, and I'd never realized he was a writer and an artist. He's working on a children's book he initially wrote for his grandson and is trying to decide where to go with it.

All in all a fun night with a good crowd.

Vanished is Now Available

Starting off 2020 with a new release, a horror-western novella entitled Vanished. I uploaded it to the major e-book platforms a few days ago. The print version should be available shortly.

I'm continuing work on The Veil. I had taken a break from writing The Veil to complete Vanished. As it is right now, I'm at 45,000 words on The Veil, about 2/3 of the way finished.

Just finished reading Zero Saints by Gabino Iglesias, which was very good.

Currently reading Dark Matter by Blake Crouch.

Here's the cover and sales copy for Vanished. You can purchase it on the fine e-book platforms.


Sheriff Will Barnaby is summoned when a member of the missing Hanson party stumbles into the mining town of Wilton, Colorado. Tommy Hanson is dazed and muttering about terrors in the valley near Wilton. The Hanson family disappeared six months prior while setting out in wagons for a new life. Will realizes he'll have to round up a posse and investigate the Hanson boy's story. With the help of his deputy and two hired guns, Will sets out to discover what lurks out in the valley near Wilton.

He will find death and terror waiting for him outside Wilton. And an investigation into missing persons turns into a fight for survival.

An action-filled novella from the author of Murderland and The Last Ride.

Book Copy for Vanished

I finished up my edits on Vanished this morning. It clocked in at just over 31,000 words (about 125 pages). Here's the blurb for it:


Sheriff Will Barnaby is summoned when a member of the missing Hanson party stumbles into the mining town of Wilton, Colorado. Tommy Hanson is dazed and muttering about terrors in the valley near Wilton. The Hanson family disappeared six months prior while setting out in wagons for a new life. Will realizes he'll have to round up a posse and investigate the Hanson boy's story. With the help of his deputy and two hired guns, Will sets out to discover what lurks out in the valley near Wilton.

He will find death and terror waiting for him outside Wilton. And an investigation into missing persons turns into a fight for survival.

An action-filled horror-western from the author of Murderland and the Last Ride.

Up Early and Writing

I took the day off from work for the Thanksgiving holiday. Got up at 5:45, and after puttering around on social media, I got about three-and-half pages done on Vanished. It's almost complete. I hit my target word count of 25,000 words for this one. It's probably going to finish up around 30,000 words when finished. 

Started watching The Mandalorian the other night and I'm loving it so far. They got the feel of Star Wars right (if Star Wars has a feel, I guess). A Facebook friend of mine suggested that Star Wars might be better suited to episodic television than movies, and I tend to agree. I'd like to see more shows in the SW Universe. Anyway, looking forward to episode three of The Mandalorian. 

Currently reading King's The Institute. Just checked Blake Crouch's Recursion out of the library. 

Work on Vanished Continues

Vanished, my horror-western novella, is coming along. Just crossed the 20K word mark. I'm anticipating it will end up around 25K. This is one of those stories where I can't seem to get the words down fast enough. It pours out. Some stories are like that. Others are like squeezing the proverbial crimson fluid from stone, or at least they progress a little slower.

Jenn, my lovely wife of almost 25 years (anniversary is next week) got me a 72-pc set of Copic markers, which was an amazing surprise. Looking forward to doing a lot more drawing/sketching. We're also revamping our art/craft room in our basement with the intent of us both working down there. Looking forward to that, as well.

It's damned cold and dark in Buffalo. Fifteen degrees for a high today. We got around 8-10 inches of snow where I live (about 20 miles south of the city). As a lifelong Buffalonian, I should be used to this, but that first snowfall is always a little tough to take.  Every year, that snow gets a little heavier on the shovel.

Progress Continues on the Books

The Veil is holding at around 40,000 words. I've put it on hold temporarily to finish up Vanished, my horror-western novella. Vanished is clocking in at around 12,000 words and I anticipate it'll finish between 20-25K, which I think is a good length for a novella.

I've been drawing lately and will post some stuff here when I get a chance. I recently saw Joker and thought Phoenix was incredible. Currently reading King's The Institute. That's all for now.

A Good Saturday Morning

Started today off with a dumbell/kettlebell workout. Hanging out with my oldest son. I'm writing and he's watching Food Network.

Might head up to the farmer's market today. My wife and I were joking last night about our wild night we had planned (a trip to Target and Lowe's). I think a routine/calm life is key if you want to be a writer. Having constant drama and being pulled in all directions only diminishes your writing. I've always been a fan of a quiet evening at home, and I've gotten a ton of writing done from my living room chair (where I'm sitting right now). I'm also at the point in my life where I just want to spend time at home with my wife and sons. That's my definition of a good life. Don't really need to go out to bars, etc. And getting more writing done is a nice by-product of those quiet evenings at home.

Doing Some Lunch Time Writing

A lunch or work break is one of the best times to get some writing done. I can't count how many pages I've gotten done on breaks over the years. It all adds up, even if you only get a few hundred words done. And it's better than listening to people act like their life is ending because Monday rolled around again. 

The Veil is clocking in at around 35,000 words right now. Making progress.

I'm currently reading The Institute by Stephen King and enjoying it quite a bit. The story is rocketing along, and I find myself thinking about the book when I'm not reading it. Usually a good sign for me, meaning I'll finish the book in short order. 

Excerpt From My Horror Novella

I got down the first chapter of a horror novella the other day. It's called Vanished. I've had the desire to do a horror/western for a while. Here's the first chapter. I'm hoping to have this one done by year's end.

Excerpt from Vanished

Copyright 2019 Anthony Izzo


One


A knock came at Sheriff William Barnaby’s door roughly after midnight. Someone arriving at his door this late usually meant a body had turned up in town.
He was sitting by his woodstove and enjoying a whiskey.
Someone knocked again. The wind howled, rattling the small cabin.
“Goddamit I’m coming!”
He got up out of the rocking chair. At seventy, something hurt every day of his life. Tonight it was his back that was signing, despite the liniment the doc had given him to put on it. The hot ache sometimes spread down through his legs. It was getting worse with winter on the doorstep.
Before going to the door, Barnaby grabbed the double-barrel shotgun. He opened the breach, making sure it was loaded, then snapped it shut. Rumor had it that the Barton gang had broken out of prison in Yuma. Five brothers, two of them now dead, courtesy of Barnaby. Barnaby had been the one who sent them there, and he’d stood on the platform as the noose had been tied around Jake Barton’s neck. Jake had raped and murdered a rancher’s wife while the rest of the gang proceeded to rustle their cattle.
Barnaby had shot Terry Barton, one of the other brothers, through the neck. Son of a bitch wouldn’t go quietly. The other three brothers he’d sent to jail.
He approached the door. “Who’s there? Speak up or I’ll send buckshot through this fuckin door!”
“It’s Ernie, Sheriff. Don’t shoot.”
Barnaby opened the door to find Ernie Talbot standing on his front porch. The deputy had on his customary duster. His hat was slung low, covering his eyes. If it weren’t for his light blonde hair and baby face, Ernie might’ve passed for a real gunslinger. People were fooled by Ernie. He looked about twelve, but he could shoot the balls of a fly at a hundred paces.
“And to what do I owe the pleasure?” Barnaby asked. “Somebody dead?”
“Naw. Can I step in? I’m freezing my ass off.”
Barnaby stepped back from the door and waved Ernie inside. He scurried over to the woodstove and put his hands out to warm them.
“You’re interrupting my whiskey. Get on with it.”
“Were you really gonna shoot, Will?”
“Bartons are on the loose, if you haven’t heard. I’m a crabby old fuck, but I like to think I have a few more years in me. Don’t need those boys coming around and cutting my life short,” Barnaby said.
“Damn. Yeah, they probably got it in for you,” Ernie said.
“Why are you here, Ernie?”
“Right. Maggie Cummings wants you to come see something. Some kid wandered into town. Barefoot. Feet all torn up. Won’t say a damned word. Clothes are covered in blood. I don’t think he can talk.”
“You could’ve handled this, come and got me in the morning. Why now?”
“Because he was with the Hanson party.”
A slight chill passed over him. Barnaby slid up next to Ernie. “Look at me.”
The young deputy turned his head.
“You sure this boy was with the Hanson party?”
Ernie swallowed, then nodded. “I’m sure. It’s Bev Hanson’s second youngest. I’d know him if he was my own. Seen him around town a million times before they set out.”
“Shit. All right. I’ll get my gun belt and we’ll head over there.”


Barnaby lived just outside of town, his cabin built on a hill overlooking Wilton. The miners had built this place shortly after finding copper in the ground ten years ago. He mostly broke up fights and put drunks in jail for the night. That was until the Bartons came around and started terrorizing local ranchers. He probably should’ve put all five of them in the ground when he’d had the chance.
Barnaby and Ernie rode down Wilton’s main street. Maggie lived in a place above one of the saloons. The two of them hitched their horses, then proceeded upstairs.
Barnaby knocked. “Maggie, it’s Will Barnaby. Ernie says you got trouble.”
The door opened. Maggie stood there holding a lantern. She had a scar that ran from her eye and curled around her mouth. Didn’t make her any less pretty. Her shithead of a husband had given her that scar. Barnaby had sent him to prison, as well.
“Thank you for coming, Will. He’s in the other room.”
Barnaby removed his hat, as did Ernie. He stroked his mustache, making sure there were no crumbs caught in it. Smoothed out his hair. Despite the other aches and pains that came with aging, and the fact that his bowels worked less frequently than he liked, he’d kept his hair. Age hadn’t taken that from him. His mane was longish and a shiny white-silver. He put hair tonic in it daily, although he would never admit that to anyone.
He supposed a pretty young thing like Maggie would never notice an old coot like him, but he still liked to keep up appearances.
The apartment had a kitchen and a bedroom. It smelled good in here, like fresh baked bread. Maggie had a stack of books on her table. She wanted to be a librarian someday, or so she had told Barnaby.
“Ernie says the boy was wandering down the street?” Barnaby asked.
Maggie nodded. “The wind was rattling the windows something awful. I looked outside and happened to see him. I went downstairs and rustled him inside. Tried to get him to drink some hot tea, but he wouldn’t. He just stares. Won’t say a word.”
“Ernie says he’s one of the Hansons?”
“He is. Tommy Hanson.”
Part of him wished the boy had never wandered into town. The Hansons were gone. Forgotten. Whatever fate they had met was out there, on the trail to California. It seemed distant, like something he’d never have to think about. No one talked about it. Now it was back in his lap and he had to deal with it.
He sighed. “All right. Let’s have a look at the boy.”


Barnaby entered the bedroom to find the boy sitting on the bed. His legs dangled over the sides. His bare feet were cut up and torn. Dirt smudged his cheeks, and his hair hung in greasy clumps. He was about ten-years old. A sour, wild smell came off of him.
Ernie came in behind, followed by Maggie.
“I’d like to wash him up, get some of the dirt off his face, if that’s okay,” Maggie said.
Barnaby spied a wash basin and some cloths on the night stand. She had already planned on cleaning the boy up. Despite the situation, he grinned. That was Maggie, sweet and kind-hearted. “I think that’s be just fine.”
Maggie shifted around him and sat next to Tommy Hanson on the bed. She dipped one of the cloths in the basin and began dabbing at the dirt on the boy’s face. He didn’t seem to take notice.
Barnaby hunkered down in front of the bed, trying to get eye-level with the boy. “Tommy, I’m Sheriff Barnaby. Can you hear me?”
The boy just stared.
“Where did you come from?”
Barnaby looked down at the bare feet. They were cut up something awful. He didn’t see any signs of frostbite, though. “Ernie, go get the doc. I want him to patch up the boy’s feet.”
“Now?”
“No, at dawn tomorrow. Yes, now,” Barnaby said.
“Right, Will. Of course,” Ernie said, and hurried out of the room.
Will placed a hand on the boy’s arm. “Tommy, you can talk to me. You’re safe. Now can you tell me what happened?”
Still nothing.
“Did someone hurt you? Where’s your family?”
Tommy’s lower lip began to quiver, and he let out a scream that sounded like an animal being slaughtered. It startled Will, rocked him back on his heels, and he wound up on his ass. Maggie jumped off the bed, dropped the washcloth. It landed on the floor with a wet plop.
Goddamn, this was going to be one hell of a night.

Excerpt From My Supernatural Thriller - The Veil

I crossed the 30K word mark on the work-in-progress. It's called the Veil, and deals with another realm/world (the afterlife) and the war between good and evil that exists there.

Here's the first chapter and a look at the cover. I'll likely tweak the cover, as well, before publication. This one will be out sometime this winter.

The Veil 

Copyright 2019 Anthony Izzo

One 

Frank Combs saw the odd-looking guy enter the convenience store. From his car, Frank observed the man turn right and pass a display of snow shovels. Next to the snow shovels were bottles of blue wiper fluid marked on sale.  

The odd guy wore Ray Bans and a Dodgers baseball cap with a hood pulled over it. The sunglasses were out of place, as gray clouds were spitting rain on his windshield. He seemed hunched over as he walked, dragging his feet on the sidewalk. He might have taken the guy for a homeless person, except the clothes he wore were clean. 

Frank stopped here every morning on the way to work to get a large coffee and cinnamon roll. The coffee was fair. The roll was good. It didn’t hurt that the woman behind the counter called him hon. She was nice-looking. She had shocking pink hair and lots of tattoos, a far cry from any woman he’d ever been with.  

He supposed a little harmless flirting was okay.  

Kristen wouldn’t mind. He was pretty sure she had a little crush on the manager at Whole Foods, as she’d let it slip that he looked a little like Chris Evans. Frank had taken to referring to the manager as Captain America. Kristen usually rolled her eyes at that. 

The rain pelted the car and wasn’t letting up. He decided to head in and get his coffee. Maybe he’d get a cinnamon roll, after all. 

Frank hopped out of the car and scurried to the door. 

Inside, the smell of fresh-brewed coffee greeted him. He nodded to the clerk. Her name was Sara, she of the pink hair. 

“Cinnamon roll today hon?” 

“Maybe. Watching the girlish figure.” 

She laughed and it was goddamned musical. 

He headed for the coffee station and eyed the man with the sunglasses. The man stood in front of a freezer case and was staring at the frozen pizzas. His lips moved but no words came out. 

Frank decided to move along, filling his cup with a dark roast and popping a lid on. Some days he liked cream, but all they had today were little containers of flavored, ersatz creamer. That stuff was crap. 

He decided against the cinnamon roll today. He stayed in decent shape, hitting the gym three times a week. At the same time, he couldn’t deny the little belly hanging over the belt. The pastries weren’t helping that any. 

The man with the sunglasses approached, buzzing past Frank and muttering to himself. He left a whiff of laundry soap in his wake. The man stopped at the end of the aisle, inspecting the Little Debbie and Hostess snacks on a rack. He muttered something else to himself and proceeded to the counter. 

Frank found it weird that the man hadn’t purchased anything. Maybe he was going to ask for something at the counter. 

Sara said, “Help you find something?” 

Without saying a word, Sunglasses reached in his pocket and came out with a revolver. Duct tape covered the handle. Frank dropped his coffee, the black liquid seeping into the grout in the floor tiles. He couldn’t take his eyes off the gun. 

Okay maybe he’s a junkie looking for drug money. Play it cool and he’ll leave without firing a shot. 

“I’ll open the drawer for you. I can’t get to the safe. The manager’s not here yet,” Sara said, her voice level and calm. Frank wondered if they had been robbed before and she’d been through this type of thing. 

The guy didn’t seem to be paying much attention to Frank. He considered rushing the man, but it would only take a quick turn and a pull of the trigger to gun Frank down.  

“You think I want money?” 

“Okay, just take it easy,” Sara said.   

“All dogs gotta die,” the guy said, leveling the gun at Sara. 

What the hell did that mean? 

“Hey man, take it easy,” Frank said, and moved toward the counter. 

In one swift move, the robber turned, aimed, and shot Frank. The bullet hit him like a tank and sent him to the ground. 

In every action movie Frank had seen, when the hero took a bullet to the shoulder or arm, he shook it off. Gritted his teeth and went on kicking ass and taking names. That wasn’t the case in real life. He’d been hit in the right shoulder, and it was as if a major league slugger had whacked him with a bat.  

That, and it hurt like a son of a bitch. Intense, fiery pain shot through his arm and shoulder. His stomach swirled. Blood seeped into his dress shirt, turning the powder blue a dark red. How long did it take to bleed to death?  

He was no stranger to guns. He owned two of them, and shot regularly. Never did he imagine he’d be shot. He found himself thinking that he wouldn’t finish the website article that his boss wanted done today. Nice job, Mr. Social Media Manager. At least he had a good excuse, being potentially mortally wounded. 

“My job here’s done,” he heard the guy say, and when he looked up, the guy was pressing his way out the door. He didn’t take any money. Just some random psycho. 

 Sara the clerk was already running over, her phone pressed to her ear. She knelt by Frank. He could hear the 911 operator over the phone asking for details.  

“Hang in there, hon. They’re on the way.” 

The next hour or so – it could’ve been longer or shorter – was a blur. The medics were pressing on his shoulder to stop the bleeding, giving him pain meds, asking him a million annoying questions. He was whisked into the ambulance and the EMT riding in the back told the driver to punch it. 

He’d managed to give them Kristen’s name and cell phone number. 

They pulled him out on the gurney and they whipped him past Kristen, who reached out and gave his hand a quick squeeze as he passed by. He was out for a bit, then in. He remembered being wheeled into an operating room and then having the anesthesia mask placed over his face. 

When he woke up, Kristen was seated next to his bed. There were tubes and wires hooked up to him. A steady beeping droned in the background. His tongue felt like it had been scrubbed with steel wool.  

A dull throb settled in his shoulder. His head felt fuzzy and he guessed the pain meds were coming steadily through his IV. 

“How am I?” Frank asked. 

“Well, you made it through.” 

Kristen was wearing yoga pants and a loose, gray hoodie. Her brown hair was tied back in a ponytail. She’d had the day off today and had been in casual clothes when the cops had called her. 

“My arm?” 

“There might be some nerve damage. Too early to tell,” she said. “But you made it. The police want to talk to you when you’re up for it. God, Frank, I was so scared when I got the call.” 

“Glad you’re here,” he said. “Did you call work?” 

She rolled her eyes. “Yes. Like that’s the most important thing. Sheila said they’re all thinking about you.” 

“You’re beautiful, know that?” 

She smiled. “I think that’s the pain meds talking.” 

“Sincerely,” he said, although it came out Shinsherly. “Glad you’re here.” 

“You already said that. Close your eyes and get some rest. You’ll need it.”