Strangeways by Robert J. Brunner

Release date: 30 May 2017

Sub-genre: Ghosts, Norse & Viking Myth

About Strangeways:

SINNERS IN THE HANDS OF AN ANGRY GOD!

Thomas Griffin has heard the legends about Strangeways Federal Penitentiary -- tall tales and whispered rumors.

Ghost stories.

Now a guard has died, and the FBI agent is summoned to the century-old prison to investigate.

Inside the massive stone walls, Griffin finds a drug-fueled madhouse of violence and hate. He kills a man in self-defense only to see him rise from death and murder an innocent. Inmates commit horrific suicides using the only weapon at hand -- the prison walls themselves. The trail of grisly deaths lead Griffin to the greatest threat -- not just to body, but to soul -- the disciples of an ancient, blood-thirsty cult.

Excerpt:

The Cave was cold.

It was a one-story, red-brick structure to the north of D-Block. It had one door in its front, which faced the exercise yard, and except for the small glass pane above the door handle, there were no windows in the building. Its sole purpose was solitary confinement.

Katrina's heels clicked along the hallway and echoed back to her. She carried a first-aid bag on one shoulder, and a supply bag over the other. She kept the key, which she had borrowed from C.O. Sinclair, in hand.

A narrow run of fluorescent lights offered the only illumination in the building. The interior of each cell would be dark. The walls of each unit were solid brick, and the iron doors let in no light, except when the small pass-through was open, to slide food trays back and forth during the meals.

A voice called out from behind one of the doors. "Who's that? Sounds like a woman. You here to see me, mama? I'm right here. Daddy's right here." Katrina passed by without a word in response. "Fuck you, bitch! Get in here and let me stick it in!"

She stopped in front of cell 012. She was surprised how calm she felt. She had never visited an inmate in the Cave by herself, and wasn't sure if the warden would approve. She hadn't asked for permission to come alone, because she would have come even if she'd been denied. She had to know.

She caressed the door with her fingertips. It was the same gesture she might use to gently wake a lover. "I'm coming in," she called out. She put the key in the lock, turned it, and pulled the door open, bringing light into the cell.

Sutter smiled at her.

He sat in the five-point restraint chair, no tension in his body, utterly at peace. She felt his gaze travel over her. She knew then that Morrison had been right. Everything he said was true. Impossible but true. The warmth she felt, the love that came from that smile, was not from a man. This was being in a chapel, alone with your god, and knowing he only wants your happiness and well-being.

Still standing outside the door, she said, "May I?"

"Yes," he answered. It came out in a low hiss, and she realized he enjoyed the sensation of vocalizing the word. She stepped into the cell, leaving the door open.

A shine caught her attention, and she saw a shiv laying on the floor at Sutter's feet. Heat rose in her, and she wanted to call a guard, bring this to someone's attention. Someone had come here with a weapon. Had they threatened him? Had they injured him? "Are you hurt?" she asked Sutter.

"No," he said, in a gentle growl.

She stepped to him and put down the bags. She ran her hands over his dark skin, checking for wounds. "My doctor," he said. "My healer."

"You know who I am?" she asked.

"You are mine," he said.

She reached into the supply bag, and brought out a lidded plastic bowl filled with water, and a small face-towel. She opened the lid, soaked the towel, and rung it out. She brought the damp cloth to Sutter's face and pressed it to his forehead.

          "I am," she said.

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About Robert J. Brunner:

Bob Brunner is a police dispatcher and 911-operator. He has seen people at their worst, and their best. He has comforted the victim, and engaged with the suicidal. He has testified at trial, and heard a man’s last words. 

He lives in the city he dispatches for and knows more about his neighbors than he should.

He has written all his life. He is working on something now.

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Guest post - Tim Major on Cosy Catastrophes and Heavy Knitwear SF

The term ‘cosy catastrophe’ was coined by Brian Aldiss in his science fiction history ‘Billion Year Spree’. Cosy catastrophes are stories involving a sudden non-violent event that wipes out most of civilization; the cosiness refers to the conceit of a band of survivors left to rebuild society in relative comfort. Aldiss originally used the phrase to describe (with a hint of criticism, perhaps) John’s Wyndham’s novels, particularly ‘The Day of the Triffids’.

There’s something peculiarly British about the cosy catastrophe. It’s a stereotype that we Brits enjoy a good moan, but there’s truth in it. However, I think we also relish situations in which we must roll up our sleeves and get on with something practical, too. Cosy catastrophes are wish-fulfilment fantasies linked to left-leaning politics, environmental idealism and frustrations with the complexity of modern life. When I’m mired in convoluted processes in my day job, I read post-disaster fiction and I’m almost envious of the characters’ simpler goals.

Cosy catastrophes seem dated nowadays. In modern fiction, if there’s a disaster, the world afterwards is going to be awful. Rather than shacking up in cuddly communes, we’ll be staggering about in wastelands like those depicted in Cormac McCarthy’s ‘The Road’. However, some cosy catastrophe elements have prevailed. On the Mild Concern film website, Tim Brandon coined the phrase ‘Heavy Knitwear SF’ to describe a particularly grubby, down-to-earth vision of the future, a muddy subset of the post-apocalypse. These books and films contain little in the way of technology. In general, the threats and the solutions are humdrum.

I love these types of stories. I enjoy the smallest of leaps from the contemporary world to one entirely changed, because it leaves characters and locations intact and recognisable. Kazuo Ishiguro’s ‘Never Let Me Go’ backgrounds all of society’s technological advances in order to concentrate on the fate of a small group. Jonathan Glazer’s astounding film adaptation of Michel Faber’s ‘Under the Skin’ grounds the story in a Glasgow so recognisably alien that we accept the ability of an actual extra-terrestrial to navigate it without comment from onlookers.

It’s about grime, I suppose. Every frame of Andrei Tarkovsky’s ‘Stalker’—my favourite SF film—is suffused with dirt. Every character has soil beneath his fingertips. It’s easy to identify with characters that spend their days tired, hopeless and covered in muck. Alfonso Curaon’s superb adaptation of ‘Children of Men’ barely features any elements of colour. The biggest success of Ridley Scott’s ‘Alien’ is not the monster, not the terrific cast, but the filth. The sense that the Nostromo is truly inhabited makes its invasion far more galling.

In my novella, ‘Carus & Mitch’, I’ve played with these conventions. It’s a cosy catastrophe story, at least at first, and it features a number of items of heavy knitwear and a great deal of grime. However, Carus and Mitch themselves don’t fully understand quite what dangers lie outside their remote house. I hope that readers will enjoy sifting through the clues to determine what kind of dystopia the world has become.

Tim Major’s dystopian novella, ‘Carus & Mitch’, is published on 23^rd Feb 2015 by Omnium Gatherum. Find out more on GoodReads.

You can follow Tim via Twitter (@onasteamer) or his blog, coincidentally named ‘Cosy Catastrophes’.

Carus & Mitch by Tim Major

Carus & Mitch by Tim Major

Release date: February 23, 2015

Subgenre: Dystopian

About Carus & Mitch

Carus is only fifteen but since their mum disappeared, looking after her little sister Mitch is her job. There’s nobody else. Not in their house and not outside, either. There’s something out there, scratching and scraping at the windows.
The barricades will hold.
They have to.

Carus & Mitch is a novella with elements of post-apocalyptic fiction, psychological horror and urban fantasy. Fifteen-year-old Carus’s knowledge of the dangers of the outside world is limited, so readers will need to piece together the mystery from her fragmented memories.

Excerpt:

I’m awake and upright and clutching the blankets. A name echoes from my dream.

Mitch.

Did I shout my sister’s name when I was asleep? I glance at her bed. The blankets are thrown back. It’s empty.

I stand up and pull my own blanket around me against the cold. Underneath, I’m still dressed from yesterday.

“Mitch!” My voice is cracked and dry.

I burst out of the bedroom and stumble down the stairs. The bare wood creaks and splinters snag against my socks. The blanket trails behind me like a cape.

It’s icily cold downstairs. The kitchen is empty and the dishes are laid out from yesterday, licked clean of crumbs.

“Mitch! This isn’t funny! Come here!” In a quieter voice I add, “Please.”

Sunlight glows through the streaks on the kitchen window. I remember my dream. Sunbeams dipping into water like loose coils of rope. The only noises I hear are the whistling of the wind and low murmurs from beyond the library.

It won’t do for Mitch to see me upset, when I find her. I’m her big sister, so it stands to reason that I have to be the brave one. I pat the plaits in my hair. Neat enough. I push at the heavy door to the dining room.

The usual hubbub greets me. The smell of droppings makes my stomach heave. The floor is a carpet of shifting grey and orange, lit only by the sunlight coming through the door. Chickens cover every surface and fill the upturned packing crates we use as nesting boxes. A few birds shuffle around my feet, making exploratory pecks at my toes through my thick socks. One of the cockerels watches from a vantage point on top of a crate.

A long trough filled with straw is set in the centre of the table. There’s a collection of freshly-laid eggs nestled in the straw. On each egg is a letter drawn with felt-tipped pen. They spell out the message, HAPPY 15 BIRD DAY CARUS.

“Surprise!”

I turn. Mitch stands partially hidden behind the door.

“It wasn’t me. It was the chickens,” she says, bouncing up and down. “Happy birthday, Carus! I mean bird day.”

I’d totally forgotten my birthday but Mitch is particular about keeping track of the date. I manage a grin and pull my little sister into an embrace. Often, lately, I’ve found myself surprised by her height. Surely she’s taller than most seven-year-olds? That is, if there were any others to compare her to. One of these days she will look just like me, a gawky, stringy teen. What will I look like, by then?

“Thanks, Mitch.”

The chickens bustle around her feet as she leans over the feeding trough to a crate tucked away at the back. It’s the only one we don’t remove eggs from for trading.

I try to peer into the crate too. “Anything?”

She turns with a disconsolate look on her face. “The mum chickens are just sitting there. I can’t even see the eggs.”

“Well, that means it’s all working just right.”

“They look sleepy. What if they’ve forgotten what to do?”

“Don’t worry. They never forget. Mums just look after their kids without even thinking about it. They couldn’t stop it if they tried.”

There’s an awkward silence and I can’t think how to fill it. Mitch pulls away from the incubation crate and hugs herself with both arms. I’ve seen her do that several times recently and I’m not sure I know what it means. I slip my own arms around her chest from behind and we stand like that for a bit, like interlocked statues surrounded by the chickens.

I speak quietly because my mouth is right by her ear. “It’s okay. It’s all going to be okay.”

She doesn’t say anything. Her breathing is like the swell of the wind.

I stop myself from saying anything about the marked eggs. The letters will have to be scrubbed off again before I can let them leave the house.

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About Tim Major:

Tim Major lives in Oxford in the UK with his wife and son. His love of speculative fiction is the product of a childhood diet of classic Doctor Who episodes and an early encounter with Triffids. Tim’s short stories have featured in Interzone and the Infinite Science Fiction anthology, among others.

Contact Tim via Twitter @onasteamer, his Goodreads author profile or his blog, Cosy Catastrophes.