Review: John Scalzi's Last Colony

First I'd like to thank John Scalzi for forming the wonderful world that resided inside the pages of the Old Man's War trilogy. It was a pleasure and an adventure, and I hope to see more from him in the future, in that universe or otherwise. 

To clarify, The Last Colony is the third and final novel in the trilogy, following the original Old Man's War and the sequel, The Ghost Brigades. It does it's part well, wrapping up the superficial conflicts nicely, introducing new ones (such is life), and revealing to the reader the real solution to the core conflict, an issue the reader had known about since the first chapter of the first novel. Not only did it reveal a great truth about humanity, the ending also left an echo within me as well. As the saying goes: You know a book is good when, even after finishing the read, you can't help but ponder it's events and the overall meaning.

It has been said before, but there is a recognizable relation between Scalzi and Heinlein -- the writer of great sci-fi classics such as Stranger in a Strange Land and the more popular Starship Troopers. This similarity is, of course, shown in the content, but also the frank and in-your-face truths that Scalzi would layout on the table throughout the trilogy.

Yet Scalzi makes it his own, most dynamically in his common-man humor, something eked out as chirps of laughter as I would read. The jokes, puns, and quips wouldn't be tossed in for flavor but surgically placed to magnify the suspense that had been building or relinquish it in a single moment.

Our culture often stereotypes great works as classics, or that they must be overtly complicated, dry, and pontifical. Scalzi shuns this notion and rewrites the law with a trilogy and speaks difficult philosophical theories in layman's terms.

I recommend John Scalzi's Old Man's War to anyone who's new or old to the science fiction community. It showcases the morals of the genre without being a copy-pasted style of the greats.

Zombie Wake-up

 I wrote this a month ago. It was playing with the idea of what it would be like to wake up amidst a zombie apocalypse. Not a fond morning from what it would seem.  

---------------------------------------------- 

The taste in Kyle’s mouth was what woke him. It tasted like day old moldy chicken covered in equally as stale mayo. As he pulled the door open to the bathroom Kyle cringed from a wave of cottonmouth. The sting on the side of his tongue blurred his vision from tears. Quickly, though, he stepped in, not bothering to turn on lights but still careful to tread on the rugs and not the freezing cold linoleum floor.

He turned the water on and went for the toothbrush when he suddenly felt his hand collide with the corner of a picture frame, most likely the one he had bought a few days ago. It hit the floor with a shatter and with an agitated moan he knew the glass pane was done for.

A few curses escaped him but Kyle made his way to the wall, patting blindly until he found the switch. Kyle jumped slightly, feeling a weird pressure against the bottom of his foot, tumbling slightly. Another handful of swears leaked out of Kyle’s mouth.

The room illuminated, revealing the clear plastic shower curtains, the stained bath tub, and the now destroyed picture frame that sat in pieces throughout the middle of the room. The in store picture that still had the price tag in the corner lay torn in the mess of broken glass.

But it was the pool of blood that kept Kyle’s gaze, not the shards of glass.

Kyle looked down in alarm, seeing a small shard sat atop his foot. I should be more careful, he thought, brushing the glass away. It didn’t budge. Kyle blinked heavily now, squinting at the top of his foot. Again he brushed and it stuck. Impatiently now he knelt down and started to pick at it, only stopping when a dribble of red leaked out from the side of the speck. Kyle rubbed his eyes and lifted his foot from the floor. Out squirted an arch of red from his sole.

Kyle’s eyes went wide, realizing in the sleepy daze that it wasn’t just a speck of glass, but a long shard, sticking from the sole of his foot to the top.

He shrieked slightly, expecting a massive wave of pain but it seemed the fog of sleep was still overwhelming his senses. He sat on the toilet, careful not to step on any more shards, and yanked a towel down from the rack to his right. Gently Kyle rested his foot on it and looked at the sole. A large shard of glass stuck through the bottom.

Again he shrieked, figuring the wave of pain was about to hit him. But again there was nothing. He touched the glass and pulled slightly, filling the room with a metallic smell. More blood came out yet there was no pain until, finally, he tossed the reddened shard into the sink and rinsed his hands. Maybe the lack of pain was the adrenaline, he thought to himself, and quickly wrapped the foot tight, applying pressure to the wound like he had seen on TV.

He left the bathroom on one leg, hopping his way to the bed, finally beginning to shake of the sleepiness that had been blurring his senses. He passed the phone and paused. Should I call anyone? I mean, Is it really an emergency?  There wasn’t any pain and it didn’t seem that bad. Was it that urgent? After balancing on his foot a little longer Kyle decided he wasn’t a doctor and dialed 9-1-1.

The phone didn’t ring, though, but went directly to a busy signal. He hung up and dialed again. The busy signal echoed through the receiver but Kyle waited, hoping to get an answer. After a few minutes he gave up and inspected the foot again.

The bleeding had stopped but the towel was completely red now. He pulled it off with a cringe and could see the hardwood floor through the hole.  Staring, Kyle began to feel frantic, and went for the phone again when suddenly gun shots exploded from outside.

Out of habit he dropped to the floor, his eyes going straight for the windows. More shots rang out and he scrambled for the door, checking it was locked. It was but after a few more shots from outside, Kyle was pushed him past the thresholds of fear and left with curiosity. He snuck on his hands and knees to the windows, seeing a glow of red through the blinds.

The apartment building across the street was in flames. Each window spewed out bright fire into the night air. Below, expecting to see a team of diligent fire fighters he saw a single man, holding a pistol, shooting off into the distance.

The man was clad in baggy clothes, holding a container in the other hand. The booms from the gun filled his ears again. This time, though, Kyle didn’t bother to hide.

He looked to where the man was shooting, swearing to himself he would move from this garbage neighborhood, just like he had promised himself time and time before. The man was probably shooting at gang members, maybe even the police.

To Kyle’s surprise it was about five people, each unarmed and each running towards the man frantically. A bullet tore through the chest of one as another of the five finally reached the man and dragged him to the ground, biting through his hand, tearing off the trigger finger.

The others quickly swarmed and the man screamed until his voice was drowned in a gurgle. It didn’t take Kyle long to see what was going on. He had seen Dawn of the Dead, the old and the remake.

He sat up and walked towards the door, pulling the couch in front of it to barricade. Kyle put his back against the wall and with one last push with his foot it lodged into the walkway, barring the door shut.

Kyle stared at the foot. Few drops of blood drooled out of the hole on top now and, with a sudden realization, he sprinted for the bathroom mirror.

Kyle’s eyes were sunken, darkened but still filled with slight color. His skin was very pale, a faint green highlighting his cheekbones.  And Kyle’s hair, a receding hairline and a crew cut, was seemingly falling out.

He looked at himself and turned to look outside, knowing what he was and with an overwhelming amount of fear he realized something else.
 

Kyle was hungry.

Backyard Nightmares

I wrote this roughly 4 months ago as an experiment in suspense in a story. I tried to keep as much detail about the specific genre from the story until the very end. Hope you like it.

----------------------------------------------

I was always afraid of the forest just outside of the old rotten fence of my dad’s house. During the day I could see as far into the trees as the daylight allowed but when night came there was only the shadowy tendrils of the branches crawling across the backyard grass. When I was a child I would stare into the night and watch the forest, waiting to see if any red or yellow eyes would be staring back. I never saw any but it always felt there was something out there.

From what I was told a neighbor found my dad in the backyard, sitting in a fold-out chair. The neighbor said they saw him early in the morning, about 4-ish, when they were walking the dog. They said he was still looking out into the forest when he died, like he was trying to see something but couldn’t.
The chair was still there when I entered the backyard.

I don’t know why but I sat down in the chair and looked into the forest. For some reason I wanted to know what he saw or think what he was thinking about, and remembered a conversation he had with me, back when I was younger.

My father was strict, someone who lived a life of military discipline even though he had been honorably discharged years ago. Dad was a god-fearing man, even though it didn’t mean much in today’s world. He kept his life orderly and decent, the type of gentleman who wore a tucked in collared shirt, never with short sleeves, always matched his belt to his shoes, and knew how to groom his beard when it was time to grow one.

But that night I had woken up from night terrors. The screaming would last as long as the kid would be in REM. The worst part of it is that as hard as my dad tried I wouldn’t wake up from the night terrors. But when I did I would have no memory of them save a sharp pain in the back of my throat, from the screams.

Sad thing is I still have those sharp pains in my throat.  I guess the night terrors never really stopped.

The nightmare would always start with me waking up from in my twin-sized bed that most likely was still in the same room up on the second floor of the house. I would throw off the sheets and be overwhelmed with gusts of freezing air. When I looked down to my feet I’d see myself wearing the same green plaid pajamas and realize I was a child once again. We’ll, it wasn’t so much a realization as it was a reminder, like I had gone to bed as a child was expected to wake up as one.

I would stand and look around the room. The window would creak slightly from the corner of the room, blowing more wind in. My hair would stand on end when I heard the sound fill the room, my heart would race faster than I thought humanly possible, and in moments my skin would be coated in a frozen sweat.

That’s when I would look to the forest outside, its tendril-like branches against the overcast night sky, the only light glowing from the clock at the other side of the room.

It was flashing 12:00, as if there was a power outage during the night.

A movement from the window would tear my attention away from the blinking red numbers and in horror I would watch the seemingly distant tree branches crawl towards me. The black fingers would wrap around the window sill until the black tentacles would creep towards my feet.

I would snap awake immediately after a hand-like branch wrapped around my ankle.

My dad would be there, standing outside of the door, waiting for me to wake up. I would be gasping for breath in my bed as he would walk in with water and a wet towel.

He would never say anything. Dad would simply sit next to me and wait until I could catch my breath. He’d hand me the water and I would chug the glass as he gently place the wet towel on my forehead.

After a few minutes he would pat my shoulder and smile. “What ever’s in there,” he would say. “Will always stay in there, no matter how real it might seem.” The words always seemed to comfort me, not because of any logic that dad spoke with but because of how he said it, like he understood from some sense of familiarity. The words were like a promise to me, that he would protect me from my own nightmares.

Needless to say, when I moved out I left with some anxiety.

“Are you family of the deceased?” I jumped slightly in my seat, heart racing from the sudden voice from behind me.

“I am. And you are?” I saw an older man, uncut facial hair that grew to the base of his neck. Around the man’s eyes were layered wrinkles that shouted wisdom back at me. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail, gray streaks following the strands across his temples. He shifted his weight to his back leg and pulled his black leather jacket, revealing a badge. And a gun.

“Detective Louis Gatts.” He tipped an invisible hat to me. “I’m guessing you are the deceased’s son.” I nodded. He continued. “I was the detective assigned to your father’s case.” He stuck out his hand. His nails were stained underneath. “Call me Louie.”

I shook. “Jonathan.” I said, still getting used to another person being in such a personal place and interrupting my thoughts. “Can I help you with something?”

“Do you know how your father died, son?” The man’s voice shook from old age.  My brow furrowed and I gave a slight sigh. I didn’t like where this was going.

“I figured it was a fatal heart attack, Detective.” Louie grimaced at the formal title, a proper response for calling me ‘son.’

“Jonathan,” the man said, spreading his legs slightly like he was carrying something heavy. He rubbed his wrinkled forehead with a heavy sigh. “Your father was strangled to death.”

A familiar cold sweat overwhelmed my body as the words leaked across the yard. My heart began to race. And an overpowering urge to scream boiled within my gut.

But in silence all I could do was stare into the forest that sat just outside of the fenced yard, waiting to see red or yellow eyes, staring back at me.

What the Scholar is Reading...

I enjoy reading, just as any writer should. Because of this I've decided to let the reader know what books I'm working my way through. When I finish the novel I will write a brief review of that novel's style, characters, world building, narrative distance, and any other detail that I feel needs to be discussed.

It never hurts to review what we read. It helps us look passed the playtime that comes with a good book and study what made the writing tick.