Where I share my love of books with reviews, features, giveaways and memes. Family and needlepoint are thrown in from time to time.
Showing posts with label Amalgam Publishing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Amalgam Publishing. Show all posts

Sunday, July 28, 2013

Spotlight: End of the World Playlist by Dan O'Brien (Giveaway)



Welcome to the fourth day of the The End of the World Playlist blog tour. It will run until August 1st and will feature excerpts and new author interviews each day. But first, here is the obligatory blurb about the novel to settle you into this dystopian world:

The world as we knew it had ended. Deep in the mountains of the west coast, six men survived. In the town of River’s Bend, these six friends continued on with their lives as zombies inherited the Earth. As they navigated the world that had been left behind, the soundtrack of life played on.



A few questions for the author:


How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you are? 

I feel much older than I appear. Though I am very active and have youthful features, I often feel as though I am at the end of my life as opposed to in my early thirties. My wife finds the whole idea quite silly.


Which is worse, failing or never trying? 

Definitely never trying. You won’t know what you are made of without going as far as you can and pushing your limits beyond everything you have ever known. Failure is simply a learning experience.


If life is so short, why do we do so many things we don’t like and like so many things we don’t do? 

I imagine it is because it is simpler to do those things that we are more comfortable with, even if we don’t like them, then taking the chance and failing at something we love.




Here be an excerpt for your enjoyment:


Track 4
Three Little Birds


Dan reclined on his bed, arms behind his head. He was already dressed, and the sun had barely risen. His room was barren except for a mattress: no box spring, no frame. There was simply a mattress on the ground. His weapons were stacked neatly against the wall with their respective rounds laid out before them. 

On the floor sat a single photograph of a woman, of his wife. She was beautiful with a fair complexion and wide brown eyes. His blue eyes watched the ceiling, his mind calm. 

Blam.

Blam. 

The sound of gunfire filled his senses. He was up from his mattress in one quick movement. Grabbing the automatic rifle, it hit against his shoulder. He looked down the sight with a grim fix of his lips. Moving into the hallway, he peered around at the other doors. They opened slowly, sleepy faces looking back at him. 

Blam. 

Blam. 

The gunfire erupted again. 

Dan moved down the hallway with the practiced ease of someone who is well versed in the hunt. He could hear Kenny’s voice from his room. “You motherfucker! Fucking fuck motherfucker, fuck. I’m gonna fucking…”

Dan kicked the door to Kenny’s room open with a quick motion. Kenny stood, wearing only his boxers––Simpsons’ boxers with Duff written in yellow letters all across it. 

There was blood all over his bed. And a severed zombie head. In addition, a plethora of bullet holes riddled the child-sized bed in which he chose to sleep. And let us not forget the two stiff, severed zombie arms that were laid very near where Kenny would have been sleeping. 

“What the fuck is this?” demanded Dan.

Kenny looked up. “I woke up with this motherfucker in my bed. I shot it, shot fucking holes in my bed.”

Dan lowered the rifle and looked at Kenny inquisitively. “Why would there be a deadhead in your bed?”

“That rhymed.” Will stood just outside the door with a big smile painted across his face from ear to ear. 

Kenny looked at him. Rage covered his face. Pointing a heavy finger, he started forward. “You think this is funny? You did this, didn’t you? You little shit.”

Dan interceded, flashing Kenny a cold look. Turning to Will, he addressed the prankster. “Did you do this?”

Will shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe, fuck him for giving me shit.”

Kenny lunged forward again, but Dan pushed him back. “What the fuck is wrong with you two?”

“Gotta pass the time somehow,” reasoned Will. 

Dan shook his head and moved past Will, bumping him slightly. Pointing a thumb at Dan, he continued. “What’s his deal?”

Kenny moved in close, towering over Will, and pointed an accusing finger at him. “You fucking owe me sheets, man.”

Will made a funny face at him. 

“The fuck I do. You owe me weed.”

Kenny bumped him. “Sheets and new fucking socks, and boxers and shit, man. How the fuck am I supposed to get murky zombie goo out of everything? I want a new bedroom set and clothes, motherfucker.”

Will stood on his tiptoes to address the challenge. “They are gonna be Smurf sheets and baby tees with that kind of attitude.”

“If you are gonna go gay, then at least get Hello Kitty. I wouldn’t mind having those around.”

Will made a face like he was touched by Kenny’s words. “I wasn’t sure until now, but I am fairly certain that you are a full-blown homosexual. There is nothing wrong with that of course, but I am glad that you finally have the courage to admit it.”

Kenny pushed Will over, knocking him through the open door frame. 

“I get it, still a little sensitive about being outed and all. We’ll talk later,” continued Will.

Kenny threw up his hands and kicked the zombie head across the room, splattering brains against the far wall. He groaned as the smear oozed on to the floor. 

*

A Ford Econoline Van with heavy tires sat next to the Bronco. The glass was heavily tinted, and little sharpened ridges ran along the base, above the wheels. Allen loaded weapons into the back of the van as Brandon carried a .50 caliber assault rifle, its stand, and an enormous spool to the back of the van. Jesse moved around the side of the van with a box of dusty books. 

“What the fuck are you doing with those?” asked Will.

Jesse looked at him coolly. 

Will was the youngest of the group. 

The two men rarely spoke. 

“I have finished these and plan on returning them for some new reading material.”

“Why the fuck would you do that?”

“I imagine I do it for the illusion of order in all of this chaos, or perhaps the ability to create structure in an unstructured world.”

“That is a little weird, man.”

Jesse shrugged and continued on to the front of the van. Will ran forward. He wore a survival vest of sorts, but it was tagged all over with graffiti. Canisters of paint hung like weapons all about his person, leaving little room at his side for the sheathed bat wrapped in barbwire and covered in a hundred or so bent and unevenly placed nails. On his back his assault rifle was adorned with various bright stickers. The red bandanna he wore made him look more like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever than Stallone in Rambo.

Kenny loaded the Bronco. He laid a chainsaw on the seat along with his assault rifle. He carried two shotguns, crossed along his back. 

“Looks like I’m riding with you today, Gigantor,” quipped Will.

Kenny groaned mockingly. “Seriously?”

Dan walked by, nodding at Kenny. There was a glimpse of a smile on his face. “Figured you’d want to be there to pick out the sheets,” chided Dan.

Kenny shrugged his shoulders. “Fine. Keep the shit to a minimum, half-pint.”

“Whatever you say.”

Will stepped away, feigning fear. “Gojira! Gojira!”

Kenny stepped forward, waving the smaller man away.






Bio: A psychologist, author, editor, philosopher, martial artist, and skeptic, he has published several novels and currently has many in print, including: The End of the World Playlist, Bitten, The Journey, The Ocean and the Hourglass, The Path of the Fallen, The Portent, and Cerulean Dreams. Follow him on Twitter (@AuthorDanOBrien) or visit his blog http://thedanobrienproject.blogspot.com. He recently started a consultation business. You can find more information about it here: http://www.amalgamconsulting.com/.









Would you like to win a copy of The End of the World Playlist?

All you have to do is comment on a post during the tour. Two randomly drawn commenters will be awarded either a physical or digital copy of The End of the World Playlist.


Visit http://thedanobrienproject.blogspot.com/ and follow the blog for a chance to win a Kindle Fire!




Friday, July 19, 2013

Cerulean Dreams by Dan O'Brien - with Interview, Excerpt and Giveaway!


Welcome to the third day of the Cerulean Dreams blog tour. It will run until July 24th and will feature excerpts, new author interviews each day, and a video blog by the author. But first, here is the obligatory blurb about the novel to settle you into this dystopian world:

Orion, the last city of men. Deep within the desert, a secret lay waiting. Young women found dead in the street. A corporation that controls the sleep of a populace that never sees the light of day. Alexander Marlowe seeks to unravel the mysteries of Orion as he helps a young girl, Dana, flee the city. The closer they come to the truth, the greater the danger that hunts them. Follow them as they search beyond the boundaries of everything they have ever known for answers. 



A few questions for the author:


Do you have a day job as well? 

I am a literary and publishing consultant, which is a fancy way of saying that I edit, format, and consult for books other than my own. I do quite a bit of marketing consulting and ghostwriting as well. You can learn more about the consulting at http://www.amalgamconsulting.com/


When did you first start writing and when did you finish your first book? 

I first started writing when I 6 or 7, and then completed my first book when I was 16. There were numerous little stories during that decade, but none that I would call finished. 


How did you choose the genre you write in? 

The genre itself is generally background to the book or idea that has grabbed hold. I find that I move between different genres with relative ease. I like a strong fantasy or science fiction setting, but I am by no means limited by them. 


Where do you get your ideas? 

From all over the place. I find that I will have a great idea when I am cycling. It might even find me when I have sat down for dinner. I must admit the most frustrating place to be struck by an idea is in the pool. How am I supposed to write anything down?





Here be an excerpt for your enjoyment:


Chapter III


The door to the 49th floor was unremarkable. Faded letters counted out the floor number and the metal handle was loose as Marlowe pulled it open. It was, however, what was on the other side of the door that caught him by surprise. 

“Proximity alert,” warned the masculine voice. 

Marlowe ducked his head as a metal pipe collided with the doorframe, sparks showering, as it rebounded back into the hands of the assailant. 

“Deactivate,” roared Marlowe and he rolled forward. He had dropped his weapon. As he pushed back to his feet once again, the visor had returned to its appropriate place. 

The wielder of the pipe was a head taller than Marlowe, and wider. The heavy set of his jaw was uneven. Dull eyes completed his appearance: a towering menace. “No cops,” the man-like shadow growled. 

Marlowe looked over his shoulder, seeing only more darkness. “I’m not a cop. I’m an investigator…”

The man leapt forward, swinging the pipe hard. Marlowe ducked again, just beneath it. The lunge had placed the men chest to head. The metal pipe had lodged into the wall. As the man struggled to get it free, Marlowe struck him hard in the ribs, feeling bones break beneath his strike. 

“I don’t want to hurt you, I’m just…” started Marlowe. 

The man had abandoned the lodged weapon for the moment and lashed out. Striking Marlowe across the chest with his forearm, he lifted him into the air and then into the retaining wall with a heavy thud. 

Dust sifted through the air as pieces of the wall fell away from around Marlowe’s body. The tower of a man reached out and grabbed Marlowe, lifting him off of the ground. With an easy toss, he launched Marlowe like a shot-putter. Marlowe rolled to a stop, groaning as he wiped a hand across his mouth. 

Blood flowed freely. 

“I guess he isn’t listening.”

The behemoth stormed down the hallway, his thick hands lifting Marlowe once again. This time, before he could be tossed, Marlowe struck him hard in the throat with the side of his hand. The ogre of a man faltered for a moment. As he did so, Marlowe punched him hard in the throat, a gurgle erupting.

The man fell to one knee, dropping Marlowe. 

“As I was trying to say,” began Marlowe before kicking the man hard in the face. He continued. “I’m just looking for a girl.” The man opened his mouth, but only a groan escaped. 

Marlowe reached down and smirked. “This is where it went, huh?” His weapon glinted in the sparsely lit hallway. Picking it up, he wiped his mouth with his free hand. Marlowe looked at it, shaking his gun a little and then gestured toward the behemoth. “You seen a girl around here?” he spoke. Gesturing a woman of short height, he continued. “About this tall, blonde hair. Probably looks like a kid to a guy your size.”

The man opened his mouth again. The beginnings of words were evident, but lost again. Marlowe sighed and thought very seriously about hitting him with his weapon. “You can point, can’t you?” 

The man nodded, holding one hand to his bruised throat and pointed with the other down the hall. He grunted, trying to form words. 

“When did you see her? Was it today? A week ago?” The man pointed at the ground. “Today?” Marlowe queried, crouching as he talked to the man. 

The man nodded, breathing out. 

“Thanks.” Marlowe struck him across the face hard with his weapon, knocking the man to the ground in a heap. Looking farther into the darkness where the man had pointed, he stared. “Now to find 4918.”

He held his weapon in his right hand, reading the room numbers as he passed them: 4910, 4912, 4914, and then 4916. “And here we are,” he whispered as he moved in front of 4918. 

He looked down both sides of the hallway: empty.

There was no one else on the floor except for the maniac with the pipe and whoever was behind this door. He raised his foot and struck the door until the hinges splintered and the door vaulted in. The door hung awkwardly from the frame. 

Marlowe peeked through the opening, taking a moment in case someone was on the other side of the door with serious firepower. “I have a weapon. I’m coming in,” he called, but didn’t immediately enter, again waiting in the wings of paranoia. He had been present for too many busts and stings that had gone sour. 

The first guy through the door was a target. He breathed out and ducked low through the door, plastering himself up against the wall and kicking the door mostly shut with a grunt. 

“Anyone here?” he called out. 

The small hallway of the apartment gave way into a wider, darker living room. There wasn’t a light in the place. A shuffle of feet and a faint whimper caused him to turn his head. “I’m a private investigator. I’m not with OrionCorps. I don’t want to hurt you,” he called and then hesitated before adding, “I’m looking for a girl.”

A shadow darted across the room, heading toward a broken window opposite the entrance. Marlowe was in motion, leaping over boxes strewn across the ground and grabbing the darting form by the shoulders––slender shoulders. 

She screamed, swinging her delicate fists hard and striking him across the face and chest. Bright blonde hair and half-closed blue eyes swimming in tears assaulted him. Marlowe seemed like a giant compared to her, and he was only of average height. 

“Leave me alone, I don’t want to go,” she screamed. 

He shook her. “Hey, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not here to take you anywhere, just calm down,” he spoke, his voice steady but reassuring. 

She continued to whimper, but her hands stopped flailing and settled to her sides. “They are coming for me. The Lurking is coming,” she whispered, her voice breaking mid-sentence. 

He pulled her away from his body. “The Lurking?”

“Upgrade complete.”

The visor wrapped around his face in an instant, separating his vision from the young girl to the loading screen of Cerulean Dreams. Something was wrong. He didn’t see clear skies or mountains. 

This was different. 

“What the….” 

He looked up and the skies were on fire, the ground beneath him ash and twinkling embers. A horrible thunder rolled from the distance that was only more crimson and gray. 

“Deactivate,” he commanded. 

“Voice Recognition malfunction, repeat command.”

He pressed his temple hard. “Deactivate. Log off network. Sever connection,” he commanded again, this time with greater force. 

“Disconnection of network can result in loss of privileges.”

“Deactivate and log off immediately,” he repeated in a steely tone.

The deactivation whir was different than that of the network gathering information. The pulse of its departure calmed Marlowe for a moment. The visor lowered and returned to his temple. He covered his face with his hands. Rubbing his eyes hard, turtle shells swam in the darkness. 

“What in the hell was that?” he whispered. Lifting his hands, he tried to look at the girl once more. What he saw, however, was much more than just the girl. 

The room had filled. 

Men, women, and children now stood shoulder to shoulder; gray silhouettes of what they once were. Standing, their hands rose to their faces. Their heads moved in manic, convoluted motions. Screaming and shaking, their bodies remained neutral. Marlowe backed away and the blonde girl stepped forward. 

“Can you see them?”

They moved closer to Marlowe, transporting across the room effortlessly. One moved directly in front of him, the shaking, screaming woman knocking Marlowe from his feet. “What––what,” he mumbled as he crawled away from the slinking apparition. 

It lowered too, following Marlowe. 

“We have to leave,” the girl cried.

Marlowe backed into a wall, the suddenness of it startling him. He looked at the girl fearfully and then back at the apparition as it lowered in front of his face. The otherworldly features and haunting terror painted across its features sent shivers down his spine. “What are they?”

She moved next to him, bridging the distance. She smelled like blossoms. Her blonde hair was a strange contrast as it fell across his arm. Pulling on his arm, her eyes pleaded. “We have to go, they are coming,” she whispered urgently. 

“Who is coming?” he asked, not wanting to look at the shaking, translucent figures. Then he heard the sirens. Paranoia swept over him like a rush of heat: OrionCorps. Maybe Cerulean Dreams Cleaning Crews, though neither option would instill such horror as he saw in the young girl. 

“They are coming. We have to leave,” she replied and pulled at his heavier body. 

“Hold on….” 

He hesitated. 

He did not know what to call her. 

“They called me Dana,” she spoke as if sensing his question. “And we have to go. If they catch us here, they will kill both of us.”

Marlowe struggled to his feet and then groaned as he saw his weapon at the center of the room amidst the strange phantoms. “My gun,” he croaked. His throat was dry and the need for something to drink was suddenly very strong. 

She dashed across the slick material of the floor and grabbed the gun. Shoving it into his hand, she tugged on his arm with renewed force. “We have to go,” she commanded this time. 

He looked back into the room.

The phantoms reacted to the sirens, looking out the broken window into the lights in the distance. Sighing, he grabbed Dana by the arm and pulled the door open roughly. “Fine, I’ll get you out of here. We’re going to have a talk when we get someone safe.”

She looked out into the hall. Her lithe body was barely that of an adult. She looked up into his eyes, the irises nearly clear, the azure only faint. “There is no place in Orion safe enough.”

Sighing, he looked back toward the stairwell. 

“No elevators, looks like it’s the stairs again,” he grumbled and then moved forward, the girl in tow. As he moved through the hallway, he did his best to ignore the slowly emerging forms similar to those he had witnessed in the room. 

They crawled across the walls, their jagged, uneven movements horrifying in a cerebral way. Marlowe could not bring himself to acknowledge them just yet. The brown paint on the walls was chipped in places. The flickering bulb he had passed on his way was blackened. 

“Who exactly is coming?” he spoke, his back to the girl who cowered behind him. He had expected the ogre from before to still be sitting in the hall, but he had apparently already left. “Are we talking OrionCorps, some governmental entity?”

Her voice was a barely audible, just a faint whisper. “The Agency and the Lurking. They are always searching, peering into everyone in Orion. Already they know that you are with me.” She paused, her small arms pulling him to a stop. Her eyes were wells of emotion, deep reservoirs of hidden pain. “You are now in great danger.”

Marlowe cast a sidelong glance at the wall, only to meet the dead glare of a shadowed child. Hollow eyes watched him as it perched upon the wall, head tilted like an owl. “I am beginning to get that feeling,” he spoke. His eyes locked with the apparition that had begun to pull itself from the wall, stretching unnaturally as if to reach out to Marlowe. 

A squeeze of her hand brought him back, her voice laced with urgency. “We must keep moving. They are here as a warning. Those who hunt us are already here.”

Marlowe nodded, gulping as his throat once again felt like sandpaper. The distance to the stairs was covered quickly and he pulled the door open with a sharp grunt. Dana remained a few steps behind him. Her demure figure slunk, looking one way and then the other in outright fear. 

Leaning over the rail of the stairs, Marlowe looked down. Their armor was black, the silver emblem of OrionCorps stamped on their helmets and chest. Marching around each level of the stairs, it was more than a platoon of them. 

They were out for the kill. 

Marlowe pulled away from the railing, sucking in air sharply through his teeth. He clicked his gun against the steel of the railing. “Seems like you’re in a lot of trouble, Dana. What exactly did you do to warrant a platoon of OrionCorps?”

“Not me. We are in trouble, Mr. Marlowe,” she answered. Still standing in the hallway, she held the stairwell door open. “They’re not coming for me. I don’t exist to them. They’re coming for you because they sent them. They know that they can get to me through you.”

Marlowe backed away from the railing and out the door into the hallway once more. He surveyed his options. The cadre of soldiers would be through the door in a matter of minutes. His weapon would overheat before he could down all of them. “I could give you up. Say it was all a misunderstanding, tell them…”

Her fear turned to anger, smooth, pretty features suddenly contorted. “Tell them what, exactly? You don’t have any concept of what is going on. You would turn me over and they would still crucify you. You can run with me or stay and face the consequences for something you cannot comprehend.”

He looked at her sourly, the sweet image of a scared girl gone. “What do you think I should do?” he queried, holstering his weapon and moving deeper into the hallway. 

The darkness there was quiet, except for the buzzing of the lights and the strange whispering that came from every crack and corner of the place. The haunting faces emerged from the walls en masse. 

“Run and don’t look back. Get out of Orion,” she replied. The hallway cornered again and then again, rounding out the floor; a window was beyond the stairwell door that looked out at the adjacent building. 

Marlowe looked at the window thoughtfully. “There is nothing outside of Orion,” he replied, not looking at her and instead removing his weapon from his holster once more. 

She looked at him mutely.

Her intense gaze said otherwise. 

He shot the window twice, the safety glass exploding outward. The sucking of air was a hiss as it flooded the floor. Marlowe shouted as he grabbed the girl by the arm. “When we get clear, I want answers.”

Lips pursed, she simply stared.

Marlowe shook his head and slipped his gun under his coat. “Just hang on and try not to look down,” he said as he pulled her forward into a mad dash. 

“What?”

Together, they catapulted out the window. 

The world rushed at them. 

Marlowe tried desperately to keep his eyes open as the cold air rushed against his face. The heavy sound of cords firing filled the air. Thick nets exploded across the open space between the two buildings, catching the two twisting bodies. They bounced, head over feet, dislodging his grip on her arm. 

Marlowe watched as the erratic pattern of the cords flooded his vision. He stuck out his hands to try and find some kind of grip, but he was bouncing too fast, making the cords into razors. He struggled to grab a hold, finally doing so. His bloody hands firmly held the web that the cords had created. He gulped, trying to catch his breath, and looked for the girl. 

“Dana,” he called. 

The distance between the buildings was dwarfed by the gulf of gloom beneath them. He stood uneasily, stepping forward with care so that his leg would not be ensnared by the net. 

“Where are you? Dana?” he called again. 

Her voice came slow at first. “Here.”

Marlowe bounded across the net, using its elasticity to cover the distance easier. She was huddled into the fetal position, her hands covering her face. “Are you alright?” he asked, reaching down and touching her shoulder. 

She wheeled, knocking away his hands, slapping him across the face a few times before he caught her hand. “You crazy bastard, you could have killed us,” she screamed, attempting to stand upright, but only falling.

He laughed and backed away as she took another swing. “You seem fine,” he spoke with a grin. 

Looking across to the tower, he saw the shadows that were no doubt OrionCorps searching the floor. Marlowe and the girl had precious little time before OrionCorps figured out that their prey had flown the coop. Reaching down, Marlowe grabbed her hand and pulled her forward. 

“Let’s go,” he spoke, pointing to the opposite building. Fear pulled his hand back, as the building was covered in crawling apparitions. Wide mouths and soulless black eyes peered back at him.

Dana bounced out in front of him, making her way toward the phantom-covered tower, oblivious to what he saw. She had asked him earlier, in the room, if he could see them. He was beginning to wonder if they were seeing the same thing. 

The side of the adjacent building was covered in large, clear windows. Marlowe pulled out his weapon once more. Aiming it unevenly at the closest window as they bridged the distance between buildings, he opened fire. The glass shattered inward and down the side of the building, making an entrance for the displaced duo. 

The Messiah district was adjacent to Sherwood district, named for Sherwood Avenue which ran through the majority of it. From poorer beginnings, Marlowe and Dana found themselves on the threshold of more prosperous opportunities. They crawled through the newly opened window into the relative darkness of the room. 

Dana dusted glass fragments from her clothes. “What just happened? Why didn’t we hit the pavement?” she asked as she peered through the window. 

Marlowe looked back at the window, swallowing hard as the apparitions poured through the opening. “Cerulean Dreams and the 1st Congress wanted to make suicide more difficult, so they installed motion sensors on the outside of all buildings from the 2nd floor to the highest floor. When someone jumps, the sensors recognize it and launch mathematically generated nets to catch him or her.”

She scoffed and continued to dust off the glass particulates from her clothing. “Your little diversion will only sidetrack them for so long.”

“Stay where you are,” challenged a hard voice. 

Marlowe turned. 

His hand was already on the handle of his weapon. 

“Pull the weapon free and throw it toward me,” spoke the voice and then added, “slowly.”

Marlowe acquiesced with a tight smile and threw his gun toward the voice. “We have a misunderstanding here. This girl was a jumper and I went out the window after her,” replied Marlowe, turning around to gesture toward Dana. 

Only she wasn’t there.

“She was here a second ago,” Marlowe mumbled, turning to face the voice. The apparitions no longer crawled. Standing still, they filled the room––so much so that Marlowe could not help but feel claustrophobic. Their faces were frozen in a dead scream, skin gray and shadowed. There were whispering voices that had no gender, but simply spoke in hushed, erratic tones. 

The voice stepped from the shadows. The weapon in his hand was held tightly, the barrel unwavering as it focused on Marlowe. “I’m an OrionCorps officer and this is my home. I know who you are. Your description is being blared over every bandwidth. OrionCorps and Cerulean Dreams are looking for you. Raise your hands above your head. Turn around.”

Marlowe lifted his hands with a sigh. Turning, he spoke. “Sounds like I’m pretty popular. What are they saying I’ve done?”

The click of binders being removed from a belt was not lost on Marlowe. “Some kind of terrorist assaulting the network, out to get Cerulean Dreams. Doesn’t matter, you are a wanted man.”

Marlowe saw the shadow of Dana move along the side of the room. She was caring something heavy. “First time for everything, I guess. I think that you should…” The man clicked the binders hard over Marlowe’s wrists. “That hurt, man. Anyways, I think that you should put your gun down. Hand me my weapon and forget I ever came through your window.”

The officer laughed. 

“And why should I do that, criminal?”

“Because you are about to get your ass kicked by a ninety-pound girl.” The heavy sound of something colliding with bone and the thud of a body dropping announced Dana. He felt a tugging on his binders and then eventual release. 

Again, there was the smell of blossoms. 

“You almost gave me away with your bravado,” she warned, looking at the heap of the officer. His body was splayed, gun vanished in the gloom. Glass gleamed on the beige carpet; shadow cloaked the interior of the room. 

Marlowe bent down, massaging his wrists. 

He opened the man’s coat, reaching into one of the pockets. Removing a black rectangular piece of metal, Marlowe flicked it open, reading the inscription. “Lieutenant Dane Sicirio,” uttered Marlowe. Putting it in his pocket, he added, “Terrible picture.”

Dana moved forward into the darkened interior. 

Marlowe grabbed his weapon, deposited it into his holster, and turned hesitantly. Reaching down, he grabbed the lieutenant’s weapon and placed it in the wide mouth of one of his coat pockets. “Might need this later….”

“Found something,” called Dana from deeper within the dim apartment. 

The apparitions were relentless. Emanating from the darkness, Marlowe could hear them whisper––see the outline of their deformed, broken bodies as they convulsed before him. “What?”

She reemerged, the flickering lights from her hands brought out the color in her face: a portable visor, OrionCorps issue. “You might want to see this,” she responded, handing the device to Marlowe. 

As big as his palm and as thin as a sheet of paper, he held it with one hand, cupped. He ran his hand horizontally across the bottom, a green spectral trail following his finger, engaging the hardware once more. 

“News,” he spoke. 

Not as quick or reactive as the cerebral visor, the imaging took a moment, shaking and garbled as voices and faces came through. The jovial nature of the newsroom seemed unusually morose: black chair and dull gray desk. 

Even Shamus appeared as a graven, caretaker version of himself. “OrionCorps and Cerulean Dreams officials are looking for an individual who has been labeled a possible terrorist. The individual in question is a former military officer and OrionCorps captain, Alexander Marlowe.” Shamus paused and they flashed an archaic picture of Marlowe: close-cropped hair and a three-day beard. A perpetual scowl was spread across his features.

It was the picture of a guilty man. 

“He is being sought in connection with a series of murders involving young women. Bodies of unidentified women have been found dumped in the Messiah district over the past couple of months. Anyone with any information regarding the whereabouts of Marlowe, or any information that could lead to the capture and incarceration of the suspect, would be greatly appreciated and should be directed to OrionCorps.”

Marlowe’s hand flexed, crushing the portable visor. 

“Those sons of bitches,” he growled, throwing the cracked metallic device across the room. “I was trying to find out who was killing the girls. They have it all wrong.”

“They have it right where they want it,” spoke Dana. 

Marlowe brushed past her, opening the door of the apartment and looking out into the brightly lit hall. “I don’t want to hear any more of this conspiracy crap.” 

The voices came again, this time their whispers rose to a crescendo. His mind panicked. Paranoia seeped through his mind slowly, like fingers tickling his brain. 

They were after him. 

He backed away from the door. Glancing at the apparitions that hid in the shadowed corners of the hall, their visages disappeared in the light. 

“What do they want?”

“Me, dead,” she answered. “And you as well, it would appear.”

Marlowe licked his lips. Each hand was on a weapon, gently stroking the handles. 

“We need to get out of this building. We have to find a way out of the city,” reasoned Dana.

Marlowe nodded. 

His voice was low. “Right, we have to get out. Daytime would be better. No one is awake during the day. We can sneak past them in the day,” he repeated. His voice was a whisper, as if he were speaking to himself. 

“Mr. Marlowe?” queried Dana worriedly. 

Marlowe stood fast, his hands shaking a little. “We need to get out of here. I agree with you there. It isn’t safe at all, not at all. Not safe. Not safe.”

Dana placed a hand on his arm. 

“Are you okay, Mr. Marlowe?”

Marlowe laughed nervously. Smoothing his hair with his clenched hand, he breathed out. “We just need to find a way out,” he said, enunciating each syllable to try and calm his nerves. 

Dana peeked out into the hall, taking a small step and then another. Marlowe was behind her, holstering his weapon once more and looking down one side of the hall to the other. He saw the mirthless face of the phantoms that haunted his steps in the corners that the light could not reach. They watched him, waiting for something; what that was, Marlowe was not certain of yet. 

The red light of the elevator caught Dana’s attention. “The elevator would be quicker,” she reasoned as she pushed the button. 

The light changed to a throbbing yellow. 

Marlowe turned quickly to it, his brow heavy in sweat. He nodded slowly. “The elevator would be quicker,” he repeated. 

Dana looked at him and her eyebrows rose as the doors opened. She stepped in, staring as Marlowe stood there. “Mr. Marlowe, are you coming?”

The elevator was filled to the brim. Apparitions stood on top of each other, crawling, spilling from the open doors. “I’m not entirely certain there is enough room,” he managed and then gulped hard as they crawled to his feet. 

Some grabbed on his legs, staring up at him with dead eyes. Marlowe leapt back, batting at his leg. Pulling his weapon, he pointed it at the ground. “I’m not sure if it is safe to take the elevator after all,” he said slowly, the barrel of his weapon wavering. 

Dana watched in horror. Holding the doors open with her hand, she stepped out toward Marlowe. “What is wrong with you?”

He looked at her with wide glazed eyes. 

“You don’t see them?” he asked incredulously. 

She paused and smiled. Her eyes were innocent. “Of course, I do,” she answered. “But we have to get out of this building. You said so yourself.”

Marlowe took another step forward. Grimacing, he kicked at an apparition with his leg, watching as his foot passed right through it. “You see them?” he asked again. 

She placed her hands on her hips. “Yes, that is why we must keep moving. We both see them now. We are in the presence of the truth. We must flee the city or they will get us. I thought you understood this.”

Marlowe swallowed hard. Nodding, his confidence returned as he kicked off another phantom, only to have it replaced by more crawlers. “Right, right. They are coming and these people are portents of the truth. Right, right. Why are they coming again?”

“Because we know the truth,” she replied and gestured all around her. “We see the truth.”

Marlowe nodded again, biting his lip and returning his weapon into his coat. He turned to her, his eyes wide, near manic. “And what exactly is the truth?”

She spun back into the elevator and huffed. 

“We don’t have time for this.”

“Right, no time. Never enough time,” he mumbled. Looking into the elevator, the apparitions were gone. Turning around into the hall, they were there no longer. “Right, now they’re gone because we know the truth and they are coming.”

“Mr. Marlowe?” spoke Dana in irritation again. 

Marlowe stepped into the elevators as the doors closed.






Bio: A psychologist, author, editor, philosopher, martial artist, and skeptic, he has published several novels and currently has many in print, including: The End of the World Playlist, Bitten, The Journey, The Ocean and the Hourglass, The Path of the Fallen, The Portent, and Cerulean Dreams. Follow him on Twitter (@AuthorDanOBrien) or visit his blog http://thedanobrienproject.blogspot.com. He recently started a consultation business. You can find more information about it here: http://www.amalgamconsulting.com/.









Would you like to win a copy of Cerulean Dreams?

All you have to do is comment on a post during the tour. Two randomly drawn commenters will be awarded either a physical or digital copy of Cerulean Dreams.


Visit http://thedanobrienproject.blogspot.com/ and follow the blog for a chance to win a Kindle Fire!




Friday, July 12, 2013

Blog Tour: Bitten by Dan O'Brien with a giveaway!


Welcome to the fourth day of the Bitten blog tour. It will run until July 16th and will feature excerpts, new author interviews each day, character interviews, and a casting call by the author. But first, here is the obligatory blurb about the novel to settle you into this dark world

A predator stalks a cold northern Minnesotan town. There is talk of wolves walking on two legs and attacking people in the deep woods. Lauren Westlake, resourceful and determined F.B.I Agent, has found a connection between the strange murders in the north and a case file almost a hundred years old. Traveling to the cold north, she begins an investigation that spirals deep into the darkness of mythology and nightmares. Filled with creatures of the night and an ancient romance, the revelation of who hunts beneath the moon is more grisly than anyone could have imagined.



A few questions for the author:


What is the single most powerful challenge when it comes to writing novel? 

Marketing it. Sitting down and doing it has never been a problem for me. And with more than a dozen written, I think I can say that with some confidence. Marketing is what came the slowest, but is now something I feel like I have a good handle on. 


What do you consider your biggest failure? 

Not doing what I wanted sooner. I can hear the groans and shouts now. Yes, I realize I am only 32. I wrote my first book at 16 and was published by 20 and then gave up because there was no one waiting with a giant check. I traded in novel writing for freelance editing and copy-writing and just waited too long for my liking. Also, I never took piano lessons and I can’t ski. 


Do you research your novels? 

It depends on the novel. If there is something specific from a region, I am most definitely looking it up. Is there lore? Then I am there pouring through the pages. I spent a lot of years in academia, so research is not foreign to me. It can be very relaxing. Then again some people find speed metal relaxing, so it’s all relative. 


How much impact does your childhood have on your writing? 

A tremendous amount in terms of why I got into writing in the first place. I loved science fiction and fantasy when I was a kid. I read hundreds and hundreds of books when I was in elementary school. Had I not that voracious appetite for reading, I might have chosen a different profession.






Here be an excerpt for your enjoyment:


Chapter IV


The morgue was at the bottom of the only mortuary in the town of Locke. Agent Westlake, Montgomery, and the youthful deputy made their way through the building’s darkened interior, into the bowels of a cold stone structure that could withstand the end of the world.

Montgomery smiled. “Surprised about our simple morgue, Agent Westlake?”

“Not in the slightest. It would be ridiculous to have a separate building given how infrequently violent crimes occur in your small alcove of a town. It is efficient in a way.”

“Well at least some one appreciates…” spoke Collins as they emerged in the wide whitewashed walls of the basement. Collins was wearing her characteristic bee hive, though black butterfly clips held up random, erratic wisps that attempted to free themselves from bondage. “…what I do here.”

Agent Westlake led the crowd, looking over the walls of silver doors that encased empty chambers where the departed slept in a kind of purgatory before finding a home in the earth or the hearth, as they such desired. Montgomery and the deputy hovered near the table where a white sheet covered the bumpy, uneven terrain of a body. 

“How many homicides?”

The sheriff and deputy looked over at the agent with mute glimpses. “Homicides, Agent Westlake?”

Lauren touched the cold metal of the human cabinets. “In Locke or surrounding towns. How many deaths of unnatural causes have you had?”

Montgomery shrugged. 

“One a year, maybe every two or three.”

“And now two in 48 hours. Perhaps there is something to that.”

“Perhaps.”

Collins, her thick glasses decorated with rings of silver balls interlinked to form a chain, pulled back the sheet that covered the woman. “We still don’t have an identification, but what we do have is cause of death.”

Montgomery crossed his arms and the deputy scratched his head. Westlake lingered over the body as the sheet revealed what might have once been a woman. The dark hair was pulled back and laid down beside her pale skin like wet carpet. The make-up was reduced to heavy indentions in the skin from prolonged use. 

Her breasts remained a testament to their creation and construction by the hands of man. Lines along her stomach announced more cosmetic alterations. Lauren reached out and touched the pink wound; deep lacerations carved her chest cavity. 

“Did you swab the wound?”

Collins lowered her head, looking over glasses. “No, we here in the north don’t know nothing about our business. We just put the bodies in boxes up here.”

Lauren smiled at the woman, chagrinned. 

“My apologies, Dr. Collins.”

Collins smiled. The use of a formal title allowed everything to be forgotten. “We did a full autopsy, sent out for toxicology and swabbed the wound for particulates. What is it that you are looking for?”

Lauren placed her hands on her hips. “Whatever did this used a weapon. Knowing the material and construction, we might be able to limit our focus.” The sheriff coughed and Lauren looked down. “Of course, I mean the scope of the sheriff’s investigation. I am merely shadowing.”

“Couldn’t it have been an animal?” echoed the deputy, his face the very picture of absence of thought. “I mean the wounds look like they could have been from a wolf or bear or something.”

Lauren looked to Montgomery and he nodded, giving his silent approval. “If it were animal there would be other markings, not just a singular, purposeful wound. A deathblow as it was. Animals rip and drag. And usually a low chest wound would indicate knowledge of anatomy. A predator would have gone for the jugular.”

Collins replaced the sheet. “We should have the reports back in a couple of weeks.”

“Couple of weeks?”

Montgomery intervened. “Things work a bit slow up here. We have to send the reports out. Get processed somewhere else and wait for results.”

Lauren touched a hand to her mouth in thought, stepping away from the table. “Would it be a terrible insult if I tried to expedite your wait time, sheriff?”

Hands in pockets, he shrugged. “Not at all, Agent Westlake. I would say that would be a very kind thing to do. Go a long way toward that cooperation and professional courtesy you were looking for.”

Lauren smiled tightly and withdrew her cell phone from her coat. “I will see what I can do.”

*

Dominic McManus walked through the old farmhouse filled with barren walls and aged paintings. There was an unsophisticated smell, a sense of the rustic enhanced by the wilderness. Wood planks beneath his feet alternated in sound, creating a symphony of rhythm. The afternoon sun hid behind the gray cloud cover, creating a lining of beer-colored halos that shielded the world from luminance. 

The woods were silent, tall pines and evergreens sentinels against the night that would come and the day that followed. Dark, surreal paintings were littered about the simple walls depicting creatures roaming the night, dancing a ritual beneath the moon. The living room was home to one wide, strangled rug in desperate need of cleaning. 

Triangles and lines of muted light cascaded onto the antediluvian home. He walked the house: his home. Bare feet touching the ground, he moved with a grace unbecoming for a man of his considerable size. Nearly six feet, his wide shoulders were marked with long, thin scars of memories past. His chest was a mat of tight black hair that made an artistic triangle. 

Sweat dripped down off of him, following the contours of his strong shoulders and slender waist. His shirt was draped over one of two uncomfortable-looking beige chairs that looked as if they had been left in the rain for a century. 

His dark hair touched his shoulders, unrestrained. 

“Friday,” he whispered. 

A Labrador––the sleek color of night––bounded into the room. He knelt, running his hands across the side of the dog in broad strokes. “Good girl,” he whispered, allowing the dog to nuzzle his lightly bearded face. She was his sole companion by choice. 

Standing again, he walked to the single oak table at the center of the room, grabbing his shirt as he walked by. He pulled it over his shoulders and sat into one of the odd-looking chairs that surrounded the table, reaching down again to attend to his friend.

The house was a silent reminder of a past forgotten. He had come to Locke for simple reasons: a life unfinished. There were ghosts of the past haunting the land. That haunted him still. Each night was a journey, a remembrance. 

His kitchen was clean; no dishes in the sink. There were none of the usual signs of a bachelor. Bowls of fresh fruit, some spilled out past the rims covered the counter. There was no refrigerator, no stove. A heavy, off-white freezer lay on its side, humming softly. There was a heavy wood stove, a cast-iron pot setting atop the warm, burning embers inside. A thin string with a white packet hung from it: tea. 

Moving out into the back porch, a mesh enclosure with a single chair that overlooked the backyard and the surrounding property, he contemplated the world around him. There was a rifle on the ground just beside the chair and a wastebasket with torn off days of a calendar. Each had a circled day; every marking was a shrouded secret. 

He stood looking out upon the wilderness, knowing its mysteries. The murders had already spread through town. The word was panic. He knew more than he could possibly tell them. 

Lauren Westlake: her name intrigued him. Born to the west of a great lake, her ancestors must have been hunters or river folk. There had been something intoxicating about her. He walked her home, made sure she made it through the night. 

Things would get worse. 

The whistle of the iron kettle made him turn. He stalked back into the house. The heavy muscles of his arms flexed. Veins formed an interspersed roadmap down his bicep and into his forearm as he lifted the kettle free. 

The tea was poured. He carried the simple mug with him as he returned to the porch, looking out upon the still woods. He knew that they would not be still that night. Things would get much worse. But what could he do? What could be said that would not cast doubt upon his guise? He had come for a reason, for a purpose. That is what had to remain most important. He would have to be vigilant. 

*

Lauren smoothed out the map on the wall behind the sheriff’s desk. It was littered with light blue lines and no script save for some cardinal directions. The deputy leaned against the long counter of the station. The sheriff sat back in his in chair, arms laced behind his head. 

“You think there is a pattern to the attacks? I thought we needed three points to make a line. We ain’t got but two yet,” spoke the deputy as he took a drink of the stale, tasteless coffee. 

Lauren placed the last tack into the map and stepped back. “Three points would make a perfect line. But we are not looking for a line. We are looking for a connection, deputy. Until we get those toxin and particulates screens back, which by the way, I managed to shave off some time. We should have them in a couple of days. But until then, we need to see if we can’t figure out what we have here.”

“You think there is going to be another murder, Agent Westlake?” said the sheriff, emotionless.

“I believe there will be many more before all of this is said and done.”

The deputy placed down his coffee and folded his arms. “What exactly do you think is going to happen?”

“It starts out as a single murder. Looks like an animal attack. And then another. And another. A pattern emerges. Women and small children attacked, maimed in a fashion meant to look like an animal.”

Mrs. Meadows and the deputy covered their mouths, eyes wide. Lauren touched the map, spreading out the wrinkles and folds from years in a desk drawer. “Then it stops. As quickly as it came, it disappears. We have had at least three instances similar to what you have had here. The second victim is missing flesh, which is disturbing and new. We have not seen that before. In the past, there were missing organs, purposeful disfigurement.”

“You think it is the same person?” queried the sheriff, his monotone voice skeptical. 

Lauren leaned against the wall. “Doubtful. If it is, we are talking about someone who has been killing for thirty or forty plus years, a serial situation. When I took over the investigation, it had been sitting for near a decade.”

The sheriff switched feet on the desk: dirty soles, filthy souls. “I thought you were talking about a recent case. This sounds as if it might be unrelated.”

Lauren frowned. 

She had anticipated this doubt. “When I resuscitated the file from deep storage, it was because there were some strange killings in a rural area outside of a Chicago suburb. There was talk of animal attacks. Investigations produced bodies not just similar to what you have here in your sleepy town, but identical to what was sitting in those dusty case files.”

She placed her hands on the sheriff’s desk. He looked at her hands grimly. “There is a connection,” she finished. Returning to the map, she pointed at a garish red pin marked with white speckles. And then tracing a line to another tack, this one a green best suited for Christmas decorations. “We have two attacks separated by a mile, mile and a half maximum.”

“That’s a lot of woods, Agent Westlake,” whined the deputy. She did not bother to turn around. Montgomery chastised him with a reproachful glare. 

“Agreed, deputy. We need more people to cover the area effectively.”

The sheriff coughed. “What you see is what you get. I could, if it was an emergency mind you, get some extra deputies from Pine County or from over in Laketown. But that would be a while and would require an emergency.”

Lauren glared at him, her wide eyes squinting to angry spheres. “Murder is not serious enough for you?”

Montgomery grimaced, his kind of smile. “Murder is most serious, even to us country folk. But, the fact remains that Collins could not identify the weapon used in the attacks. If there was such an explanation or a connection, it would be that both looked like animal attacks.”

Lauren touched her head. 

The hangover had subsided to a dull throbbing, an angry itch that scratched at her last nerve. “What about the existing case files? What about my sudden presence here in Locke? Are these not sufficient to cause alarm? Certainly a hysterical woman would be enough.”

The sheriff looked at her with a crooked grin. “I would hardly call you hysterical, Agent Westlake,” he spoke with a slight ruffle. 

“What about canvassing the area between the two murders with the personnel you have?”

“Seems reasonable, but I am not ready to call in reinforcements. I think that you might be overshooting your mark.”

“Can we at least have a look at the Leftwich house and then patrol the area tonight?”

The sheriff stood slowly. 

He stretched out his legs as he did so. 

Lifting the mug beside him, he grinned. 

“You can ride with us.”

She thought to argue the point, ask for separate cars, one for each of them to better scout the area. Nodding with a tight smile, she motioned with her hand that she would follow. As they exited the station out into the cold open air of Locke, she realized the day had already begun to shrink away from the coming night. The feeling deep in her gut told her that the night would be a long one.




Bio: A psychologist, author, editor, philosopher, martial artist, and skeptic, he has published several novels and currently has many in print, including: The End of the World Playlist, Bitten, The Journey, The Ocean and the Hourglass, The Path of the Fallen, The Portent, and Cerulean Dreams. Follow him on Twitter (@AuthorDanOBrien) or visit his blog http://thedanobrienproject.blogspot.com. He recently started a consultation business. You can find more information about it here: http://www.amalgamconsulting.com/.









Would you like to win a copy of Bitten?

All you have to do is comment on a post during the tour. Two randomly drawn commenters will be awarded either a physical or digital copy of Bitten.


Visit http://thedanobrienproject.blogspot.com/ and follow the blog for a chance to win a Kindle Fire!




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