While Endemic climbs the charts and gathers more and more happy reviews, my newest anthology just launched. Our Alien Hours is now available on Amazon!
The Mortchallin watched us for decades, waiting for their time to strike. A global electromagnetic pulse like no human has ever seen marks their beginning and our end. In this anthology of seven connected stories, you will experience the invasion from the point of view of ordinary people facing fate.
When the alien conquistadors arrive, our actions in the face of death and danger reveal everything about what it means to be human.
Robert Chazz Chute is the award-winning author of This Plague of Days, AFTER Life, Amid Mortal Words, and Endemic. With the publication of Our Alien Hours, he adds new short stories to his readers’ armory of apocalyptic binge-reads. If you enjoy this one, try the first in this anthology series, Our Zombie Hours.
The main character in The Night Man is not your typical hero. Easy Jack returns home to Orion, Michigan, wounded and struggling to recover. A former Army Ranger, he has a scorching case of PTSD. His vision is impaired in bright light and his left knee always hurts.
His dad gets mixed up in some shady criminal activities, but Easy’s got nowhere else to go. His history in Orion leaves him cold as a romance with his high school girlfriend heats up. All he wants to do is forget the past and train dogs for K9 units. He’s got Sophie, a loyal German Shepherd, by his side. Good thing, because some very nasty people keep trying to kill Easy. And what’s with the devious billionaire showing up on his doorstep? The mystery unfolds with many revelations and twists. If you haven’t checked out The Night Man yet, please do. Here’s the universal link to take you to your country’s Amazon store. It’s available in ebook and paperback.
About the Cover
Several of my covers have evolved over time. Sometimes I experiment. I love this powerful cover image, but I did worry that some may interpret the novel’s presentation as horror instead of a suspenseful action thriller. When my editor, the ever-helpful Gari Strawn (of strawnediting.com) wondered out loud about the same issue, I finally got my butt in gear to do something about it. I added the subtitle “A Killer Crime Thriller”. I tweaked the keywords and the book description, too.
Of all my work, I suspect The Night Man might be among the most underrated, not least because, amid all the soulful mayhem, it’s damn funny.
As we get through this pandemic together (and apart), I anticipated a bump in sales of my apocalyptic stuff. I write crime thrillers, too, but I’m better known for the sci-fi about our world’s end. AFTER Life is about a weaponized plague. In This Plague of Days, the first book is about where we are now: governments struggling to cope, systems breaking down, and people sheltering in place.
Though apocalyptical stories strike a chord with many readers, having “plague” in my titles has not boosted sales as expected. Those in isolation have more time to read, but perhaps they’re doing other things. Maybe they’re sleeping and eating more, bingeing Netflix or focusing on feel-good stories. A startling number of people seem to have taken up baking bread. Sure beats watching the news until depression kicks in.
I totally understand the impulse to retreat into comfort food and comfort media. When my kids were little and I was a stay-at-home dad, we watched iCarly together. I have a rather dark worldview. iCarly was a kids’ show with low stakes in which everything would always work out just fine. No threats, no death, no worries. Silliness can be an antidote to bad moods in tough times. A couple of nights ago, we watched Nailed It. It’s a show where amateur bakers are set up to fail with sometimes hilarious results. The show titled “Failure” was great for a laugh. I needed that.
With my palate thus cleansed, I went back to reading Weep by Eoin Brady, a zombie novel set in Ireland. I bought it because (a) I find the disaster genre interesting, and (b) Contagion, the prequel to This Plague of Days I’m writing, is also set in Ireland. Weep is clever. Mr. Brady writes well, with an elegant descriptive power that isn’t overdone. I suspect he’s worked in the hospitality industry for the little details that give his novel such an authentic context. One of the main characters reminds me of a prepper friend of mine, too. If zombies are your thing, I highly recommend Weep.
I wouldn’t enjoy stories of such doom and gloom as a steady diet, of course. (People who know me well would say, “Even Rob wouldn’t enjoy stories of such doom and gloom as a steady diet.”) Variety in all we consume makes for better nutrition for the body and mind.
That’s one of the reasons AFTER Life, Citizen Second Class, Amid Mortal Words and This Plague of Dayscontain hopeful notes (to varying degrees). I’m not interested in false hope or happily-ever-afters that don’t ring true. I prefer satisfying endings that linger with readers. And jokes. Surprise and defying mundane expectations is key to a good plot. It’s also required for a solid joke. In the brain tickle business, it’s fun to make your reader’s mind bounce around its bone case. Even amid utter mayhem, well-placed wit can take a story up to the next level. That’s a roller coaster ride readers want.
People read what they read for many reasons. Those reasons are often opaque to us. We simply like what we like. Recently, a kind reviewer included this note to her review of This Plague of Days, Season One:
One might ask why am I reading this book at this time. It’s like when I watched the “Exorcist” before going in for a job interview. My reality might have been scary had I not been prepared by scaring myself worse than a job interview. The series I know will be scarier than what I’m prepared to live through, should I survive this pandemic. Stay safe everyone.
If you feel the need to vary your media diet, please do so. It’s okay to protect your psyche and forego the news, for instance. Many of us finally have the time to get to our To-Be-Read piles. There’s plenty of room to enjoy all kinds of inky adventures. If you aren’t into end-of-the-world stories right now, check out The Night Man. Scary cover, sure. However, though it is not an unserious book, I packed a lot of jokes in there, too. Want a funny romp set in New York’s underworld in the ’90s? Try Brooklyn in the Mean TIme. There’s fun to be had in all kinds of escapes and we all need a break from existential dread, right?
Escapism comes in many forms. Enjoy what you enjoy.
Stay inside if you can.
Read what you want.
Love as much as possible.
~ Robert Chazz Chute writes science fiction, horror, and killer crime thrillers.
As I researched This Plague of Days, I immersed myself in prepper culture. I read a lot about what to do when shit hits the fan. Immunologists warned us we were long overdue for a major pandemic. Many ignored those warnings because it was cheaper and convenient to roll the dice on our safety. Too many times, we have lived as if there are no consequences, as if “it hasn’t happened yet,” meant “it won’t ever happen.” Too much short-term thinking, too little clarity.
We’ve had many warnings and instructions on how to prepare, but I don’t think anyone is ready for the consequences we face. We remain unprepared for the next steps, after this crisis has finally passed. It feels like we’ve been asleep, doesn’t it? We’ve taken so much for granted, confident that things will go on as they have.
Several times I’ve heard people say, “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
Unless you’re a nigh-immortal who witnessed the devastation of the Spanish Flu, this is all new territory.
There are new twists. Listening to podcasts from New York, the sound of wailing sirens in the background is a haunting reminder of horrors many are now experiencing. Connected through social media, we can bear witness to those horrors even as we wait behind our walls.
I suspect that if I survive, I’ll spend less, save more, and make more conscious choices. I hope we all refuse to settle for less. We might be more willing to weed out that which does not serve us. We’ll think more about where food comes from, for instance. We should better understand the connections and services that make a civilization run.
This experience will forever change most of us. However, I’m not an optimist. I suspect many people will be so relieved that the pandemic is over that we will rush back to sleep. People in power, eager for our praise and gratitude, will be eager to forget their failures to lead and protect us. We will not prosecute greed and profiteering as we should. Leaders who failed us will attempt to secure their positions, no matter how little they deserve their wealth and power. Short-term thinking will prevail because they’ll tell us we can’t afford long-term solutions.
I hope when we emerge from this crisis, we won’t settle for mundane normality. There is often a great gap between who we think we should be and who we are. Reaching for something better could make for a wonderful tomorrow that would honor today’s sacrifices.
Stay as safe as you can. We are all in this together. Don’t forget that once you feel safe again.
~ Robert Chazz Chute writes apocalyptic epics and killer crime thrillers from his basement bunker.
She Who Must Be Obeyed (AKA my wife) mentioned that the new move in appropriate terminology is to encourage physical distancing, not social distancing.
With COVID-19 rampaging across Earth, isolating is necessary. However, you need not feel alone. All in this together even if we’re apart, right? Some experts suggest reaching out to three people a day (electronically). Give a call to someone you haven’t spoken to in a while. Check in, especially with the elderly, vulnerable neighbors or family members who are stuck, alone or at risk. Alone doesn’t have to be lonely. Making and maintaining social connections has even been shown to be good for our health. Stress and strife is something we need to tamp down as much as we can.
Don’t know what to say to people going through hard times? Often, all you need do is listen so they feel heard and seen. Other times, you may be able to help people at risk connect to services that can assist them.
Speaking of Reaching Out
Did you know that avid readers of my work have a private Facebook group where I hold forth on the doings of the day? It’s often jokes and occasionally it’s serious. I add excerpts from my work in progress, too.
Example? Here’s a snippet from the This Plague of Days prequel I’m working on now:
Armed only with the cane, Moira rushed toward the screams. She was still weak, but now that she’d survived the Sutr flu, she was determined to fight whatever came next. She did not spare a moment to tell Kevin Laughlin that she would return to his side. The dying have no time for lies.
For another taste from the group, here’s today’s post (a review of sorts):
Hey, Monday, you great looming beast full of threats, coffin nails, and bat wings. And hello, friends.
When we ran out of our addictive Tiger King supply, we watched Wild Wild Country on Netflix. Again, I am amazed at the sheer amount of footage narcissists require. If you know someone who records everything, there’s a good chance they killed somebody or they’re about to do something super shady that should land them in a prison cell.
Wild Wild Country has been out for a while. I’d given it a miss, but it is so watchable after you slog through the first episode. It’s about a cult that started out with high hopes. Then god complexes, bigotry, and government corruption get in the way. A utopian vision in rural Oregon slides from peace and love to AK-47s. It’s disappointing and teaches us a lesson we should have learned a long time ago: Don’t trust the feds.
There is so much fascinating nuance in these tales of downward spirals. I don’t watch a lot of true crime. I imagine that if you binge too much of it, it’s difficult to see the good in humanity. I know I often sound like a cynic, but they say every cynic is a disappointed idealist.
If you dig what I do, this is your invitation to join our happy little group of readers.
The last time my whole family was together, my mother still had both legs and Grammy still remembered we didn’t have a president anymore. The pictures, taken in the soft light of early morning, show my sister and my parents standing together, looking sharp in their uniforms. In our old gray dresses, Grammy and I seem washed out, present but somehow incomplete, diluted. By the time the sun rose to a hard glare, the ones in uniform were on their way to their posts, answering the call of duty. I was left to care for my grandmother.
“They’re off to close the distance between ought and is,” Grammy said. “Good luck to ’em, cuz, good God, that’s a need! All our lives we’re told to make stacks and save wads and now we can’t even make change. Sometimes life feels like we’re set to fight a forest fire with nothing but a water pistol and a box o’ dry crackers, dudn’t it?”
She put her thin stick of an arm around my shoulder and said, “And here you are, stuck in the sticks with an old lady to watch out for, makin’ sure I don’t wander off. Won’t exactly be your halcyon days, huh? You feel left behind? Or left out? You could stick me on an ice floe, maybe.”
“I don’t think there are any ice floes left, Grammy.”
She chuckled. “Looks like you’re stuck, then.”
I didn’t mind. I loved her and I didn’t want to be a part of any battles. However, in the war for the future, we are all drafted.
I thought I was relatively safe growing up in a little town in Georgia. However, the tendrils of conflict wound their way everywhere, even to our tiny part of the world. I had to leave my little town of Campbellford. If we were to survive, we had to take drastic action.
“They say this winter will be the warmest yet.” Grammy fanned herself on her rocking chair on the front porch. She used to rock for hours out there. Grammy didn’t have the energy to rock in her chair anymore. She sat still, listened to the quiet and complained that her nightly concert of frogs and crickets was gone. The marsh had dried up.
“Lots of traffic used to come through Campbellford on their way to some damn place, to and fro. By times one or two of those automatic trucks still blows past, just ugly gray boxes they are, all speeding, all dangerous and never stopping around here. Not a single driver in them. That used to be our number one job by population: drivin’ truck and deliverin’ things hither and thither. Now that there’s more trucks barrelin’ up and down the roads and no drivers, I think that’s why we got stuck with all this extreme weather. The air, Kismet! It’s so darn close.”
“Humid, you mean?”
“The air never used to be so close!”
“I know. The humidity makes my hair all frizzy.”
“You have quite a mop on you, more of a hair don’t that a hairdo. Get the scissors, I’ll give you a trim.”
Grammy wasn’t dangerous but I wasn’t about to hand her scissors. Her creeping dementia had already made me elder-proof the house. If she cut my hair, I’d worry she might not stop cutting when she got to my ears.
“I’ll get you your hand fan to keep the heat at bay,” I said.
“I got no energy to be wavin’ that thing at myself all day.”
“Then I’ll fan you.”
“I don’t pay with anything but smiles and a nod. You goin’ out lookin’ for a job tomorrow?”
She said tomorrow like tomorrah. I once asked her where she got her expressions.
“Wasn’t always stuck in a rocking chair in this little town. My family lived on turd stew sometimes but we used to move all over and live all over. I talk same as I did when I was your age. When I was young, so was the world. The world’s as old as me now and lookin’ no better. I don’t care for it.”
“You look lovely, Grammy.”
“My grandmother would have called that statement a bunch of horsefeathers.”
“What would you say?”
“I say, break all the mirrors!”
I ignored her and ducked into the house for a moment. “I can’t find the fan!” I called. “Where’d you put it?”
By the time I returned she’d forgotten what I went searching for. “Ah! A fan,” she said. “Can’t keep the stink off but maybe we can wave it downwind. Good idea.”
She gave me a smile and a nod as I fanned her. It was payment enough, but where memory failed, habits took over. She didn’t leave her favorite topics alone for long. Whenever she was annoyed, she would bring up my lack of employment. I helped out at the town’s food bank but the work wasn’t steady and paid in tins of fake fish.
“Maybe there are still things to do like changing tires on those robot trucks, huh?”
“I think the robots pretty much take care of the robots,” I replied.
“Incestuous business,” she said. “Or is that … what’s the word?”
“Nepotism?”
The way her eyebrows knitted together, I suspected that was a word that was now lost to her vocabulary.
“All you got is odd jobs, Kismet.”
“All the jobs are odd now. It’s not like when you were young and Jesus was still a carpenter running his own business.”
“Ain’t that so,” she said. “Even his business went bad. Nobody’s paying our savior any attention anymore. Everybody needs Jesus but we’re past the point of no return, aren’t we?”
“It’s not that bad. Not quite yet, anyway.”
“Isn’t it? You only say that because you don’t remember how it was before.”
“Then I guess I’m lucky. When you don’t know how good it was, you can’t miss it.”
I didn’t know how much worse things could get. Not then. We called it the Slow Apocalypse because the troubles had taken so long to mount. The future was a dark and looming cloud, but its shadow had taken over the landscape for so long, we were more fatigued than frightened.
The collapse started slow, like when the swamp and the jobs dried up at the same time. Lots of people’s jobs were going away and who’s really going to miss a swamp? With the frogs dead and the crickets gone to wherever crickets go, the nights were quieter. When the power rationing began, we told ourselves that was just the way it was and, with not a light in sight all the way to Atlanta, the stars seemed brighter.
“No shine from the humankind,” Grammy marveled. “No light to compete with the Milky Way. I haven’t seen the night sky so well since my eyes were good and I was younger than you.”
The cost of chicken was the first thing I really noticed. Grammy used to prepare chicken breasts for me, skin off and baked not fried. It was supposed to be healthier that way, for those who cared, for those who still clung to the idea that a longer life was important.
“I prefer the old way, Southern done, fried up with lots of grease,” Grammy told me, “but we gotta keep you strong and healthy for what’s ahead.”
“What’s ahead?” I asked.
“A whole lot less than what’s behind.”
Then Grammy stopped buying chicken. The price climbed too high. “We used to keep chickens in the yard back in Raleigh. We were poor but we never went hungry. Mostly we lived off the eggs but even the eggs are getting up there.”
“Up where?”
“Up where we don’t belong, with the rich folks.”
The pig fever epidemic had hit hard the first fall that Daddy, Mama and Sissy were away. China slaughtered almost all of them.
“They got a few pigs left in a special zoo underground somewhere,” Grammy said. “Keepin’ ’em around so’s they don’t go extinct, preserving the DNA so they can bring ’em back someday. If that grand resurrection happens, it’ll be long after my day. Too bad. My mother used to make me bacon on grilled cheese when I came home from school each day. I used to love head cheese and trotter stew.”
“Trotter stew?” I made a face and she laughed. Later, when all was quiet and I had some time to think, I wondered if Grammy was trying to turn my stomach on purpose, maybe to make me miss bacon less. The veggie bacon from the food bank wasn’t quite the same.
Then, when the embargoes began, the grocery store changed. There was still stuff on the shelves but nothing was fresh. “Food all tastes the same now,” Grammy complained, “as if it’s the same crap in different molds, processed up the wazoo and bland. Even the packaging is bland now. They don’t even have to bother with making the labels colorful and pretty anymore. You get what you get and you’re told to be grateful. Unless it’s the outhouse, I forget why I walked into a room these days. My memory of better days is still good, though. That’s kind of cruel, isn’t it? Makes you think God got tired of us and wandered away to work on more interesting projects.”
A little weary of her whining, I reminded her there was a war on.
“Always was, always will be,” Grammy spat. “And when do you think your mother, father and Sissy will get back from it? You listen to the news. How we doin’?”
“They say we’re winning.” Even as I said it, no strength bolstered my words. “Let it alone, Grammy.”
I missed my parents. Rich and Kacy Beatriz were both Army infantry.
“We met while we were on containment duty,” Mama told us. “I looked over and here was this big man with a jaw like a steam shovel and I thought, ‘Now that’s a man.’ Rich looked over at me and our eyes met. We knew right away, like we’d been spending our lives waiting for the other one to show up.”
Mama and Daddy were married by an Army chaplain in a tent on the side of a hill looking out at Alcatraz. They had one night of leave, conceived Sissy and went right back to manning the barriers the next morning.
I loved that story. Despite the demands of their work, my parents saw each other’s best selves. Bad times don’t always build heroes but they met at a time when they could still believe in their mission to protect our country.
“Your daddy and the propapundits say good times are comin’ back,” Grammy said. “They’re taking their damn time and mighta gotten lost along the way. I wonder where they all are right now.”
“Leave it alone, Grammy. They’ll be back when they can come back.”
“You gonna look for a job, Kismet?”
“Leave it alone, Grammy.”
My sister found work following my parents into the service.
“Smart as a whip, that girl,” Grammy told me. “But too good for this place, always had her eye on the horizon. Your sister always wanted to be somewhere else even though all places are pretty much the same.”
Sissy was born Susan. She got her new moniker after I was born. I couldn’t pronounce her name properly at first and Sissy stuck.
She joined the Air Force. She wanted to take the training in New Chicago to be a doctor. They call it New Chicago but they really mean North Chicago. Chicago officially became two cities but they say it was always two cities, anyway.
Late at night when it was too hot to sleep, I’d sit in Grammy’s rocker and watch for meteors. My grandmother could still name all the constellations but, even without light pollution, she couldn’t see the stars very well, anymore. The diabetes got to her eyes.
Grammy’s memory was getting worse and so was her outlook. “Some nights I lay in bed in the heat and I think one of them big rocks will come down from outer space and put us out of our misery, put us down like a dog. But it ain’t all over. You got some livin’ to do yet. Don’t you worry. There’s still time for you.”
She told me the same thing many times. Even though the news was new to her each time, I sensed less and less conviction.
After she was down for the night, I’d sit out on the porch and wonder how much time there was left and how I should spend it. Time used to be malleable. It could stretch and compress and play tricks. Now it seemed a short and tired thing. Just like our money, it was limited, easy to spend and almost as dried up as the swamp.
It’s true you don’t miss what you never had but I did remember the noise from the frogs and crickets. It was a wild thrum, call and response, a choir whose church was nature. I liked the quiet but too much silence can get to a person. You think you like something and then you get too much of it.
That was how I felt when I got the encrypted message from my sister. My bracelet lit my face, the only electronic glow for miles. Tears slipped down my cheeks as I read and reread her plea. I hadn’t heard from her in a long time and she’d set the note to be delivered months after it was written. She made it clear I was needed, that I was the only one she could trust for the task she’d set. My instructions were short and precise. I had to leave Grammy behind to answer my own call of duty.
I memorized the message and erased it. Then I walked down the road in the dark and knocked on my closest neighbor’s door. Lisa Gott was at her kitchen table reading by an oil lamp. I told her what I needed, what Grammy needed to know and what she didn’t need to know.
Lisa’s husband Buddy was away, stationed in Vancouver, Washington. She understood and didn’t hesitate to agree to help.
I needed her to say yes but, to be polite, I asked, “You’re sure? The refrigerator isn’t even hooked up anymore but Grammy keeps putting things in it. If she runs out of clothes in her bedroom, sometimes that’s where you’ll find them.”
“Kismet, after what you did for this town, for Buddy and me?”
“I took no pleasure in that — ”
“It was necessary. You came through for all of us. You’ll never hear no from me.”
The next morning, I assured Grammy all would be well in my absence. “Lisa will check in on you. The money from Daddy and Mama will keep coming. You always said the wars will never end so you can depend on the money. If you’re short, Lisa can help out with rations from the food bank.”
“You gonna leave a blind old woman to her own self just like that, huh? Just like Sissy and your father. Like your mother, you’ve got that wanderlust. That’s the trouble.”
“Grammy, I love you, but you keep telling me I need a job. You tell me that every day. It’s time I looked where the jobs are. That means going farther down the road.”
“Well, bless us and bless you,” Grammy said sourly. “You know the difference between a hot clammy night you can’t sleep and a sweaty sultry summer night, Kismet?” Grammy asked. “Your mood and your company. You want to survive in this world, you need an umbrella for your troubles. Go into Atlanta and see if y’all can find the right people to keep you safe.”
As I walked down the dusty road headed south past abandoned farms and empty buildings, ragged yellow ribbons were tied around many of the trees. It seemed everyone from the area had at least one family member in the military.
I pushed that thought away and focused on breathing and walking, just like Mama taught me. I told myself I was on an adventure. Bad times can make heroes. I wanted to believe that. I wanted to make it true.
Citizen Second Class is a dystopian tale set in Atlanta. These strong women resist those who would oppress them.
That link will take you to the sales page for Citizen Second Class in your native Amazon store. Thanks for reading and thank you for being a reader. I hope you’ll soon become a fan.
Whether your love is crime thrillers or doomsday sci-fi, I have something to entertain you.
Sometime Soon Somewhere Close allows you to enter the minds of several criminals in this collection of dark crimes. Some will succeed. Some will fail. They’re all interesting, though I have a special affinity for the tales of revenge. Free now!
Explore several compelling doomsday scenarios in All Empires Fall. How do you think the end of the world will come? Meteor strike? Pandemic? Check out these possibilities, choose your hero, and see if your avatar survives.
Both these books are free for you right now (but the giveaway won’t last long). Grab your ebooks now!
