Ginger Nuts of Horror
there is a woman guarding a great secret and he's supposed to kill her.
John C. Foster has delivered a truly unique thing with his novel, Dead Men. A severely dark and gritty supernatural noir mural, painted in broad strokes of blood and ash and fear, probably using a torn scalp for a brush. It's a feral book, skittish and baring teeth and probably disease in its frothing drool. A fistful of quarters connecting with your jaw is what Dead Men is.
John Smith wakes up after dying in the electric chair. Clad in a slit-back suit he is paired with another John Smith (nicknamed Alice) who is the British mirror image of himself. And a third John Smith who is the most fiendishly sketched psychopath I've read in a long time. John Smith I and Alice roar off in a black caddy looking for a girl, this is their mission. During which signals will get crossed and double crosses are common currency. They need to find and kill this woman, that was the order.
If only the mission ere that simple. When Smith slowly starts to assemble the chunky pieces of his memory and realize what kind of mess he's been placed into, that is when the book really catches. The sizzle of the fuse you've been holding pops and crackles into a full blown flame, chugging its way to the keg of powder that promises to be the follow up. Wait? Did I neglect to tell you this is only the first of a series. I'm sorry.
Dead Men: Libros De Inferno/Book One. The writing is razor sharp and scalpel thin. Held deftly between thumb and forefinger it creates clean wounds that sting and heal nicely. The language and imagery are shadow pitch on the sole of your boots as you walk the streets at Midnight. That dark. Foster is a force to be reckoned with, a voice to be listening to and a writer to be reading.
I mean it.
Dead Men is available from Perpetual Motion Machine Publishing.
And from Amazon UK