by Jack Kilborn
Jack: Thanks. I predict that at least 25% of people who start the book won’t be able to finish it because it’s too frightening. It gave me nightmares when I was writing it.
JA: There certainly are some memorable scares.
Jack: I didn’t use any chapters in the book. My goal was to go from one high point to another without any breaks. I hope it worked.
JA: It worked for me. You call it “technohorror.” What is that?
Jack: The technothriller genre is about fusing modern day science and technology with big thrills. Michael Crichton perfected the form, which has been used to great success by Dan Brown, James Rollins, Steve Berry, and many others. Technohorror views technology in a more sinister way.
JA: Do you think the scenario in AFRAID could happen?
Jack: I wouldn’t be surprised if it already has.
JA: You’ve sort of come out of nowhere. Care to share your writing background?
Jack: It’s probably similar to yours. Bitten by the writing bug at a young age, getting a lot of rejections, finally landing a two-book deal with a big publishing house.
JA: I like the Afraid Game on your website.
Jack: Thanks. It’s a fun little Flash thing I did. People seem to enjoy it.
JA: There’s also an excerpt from AFRAID on www.jackkilborn.com.
Jack: Almost forty pages worth. A healthy dose of horror. I’ve already gotten some hate email, people saying it’s too graphic. But it’s not really graphic. It’s violent, sure, but I leave most of the details up to the reader. Do you have excerpts on your website?
JA: Yes, at www.jakonrath.com. But I’m not doing an excerpt from my new book, CHERRY BOMB. That’s because at the end of my last Jack Daniels novel, FUZZY NAIL, there was a cliffhanger, so I don’t want it to spoil what the big secret is.
Jack: Can’t people just search on the Internet and find the answer?
JA: So what’s the next Jack Kilborn book?
Jack: I just finished TRAPPED, my follow-up to AFRAID. It’s sort of a sequel, and explores many of the same themes. The people who have read it believe it’s scarier than AFRAID is.
JA: I don’t see how that’s possible.
Jack: I’ll send you a copy.
JA: Thanks. I’d be happy to blurb it.
Jack: I’m sort of holding out for blurbs from bestselling authors, if you don’t mind. No offense.
JA: No offense taken. Maybe you’d like to blurb one of my books, if you have time.
Jack: One of those chick books? Sure. But I can’t promise I’ll like it.
JA: CHERRY BOMB has a four page sex scene, several torture-murders, and an extended woman-on-woman fist fight.
Jack: I’ll give you my address so you can send me a copy. The cover makes it look harmless.
JA: None of my books are harmless. If you want proof, there’s an excerpt following this interview.
Jack: I thought you didn’t want any excerpts.
JA: This one doesn’t contain any spoilers.
Jack: What’s CHERRY BOMB about, by the way?
JA: Jack Daniels chases the most brilliant and sinister serial killer she’s ever faced. One who killed someone dear to her, and plans to kill more.
Jack: How come the serial killers always have to be brilliant? How about having a serial killer with average intelligence?
JA: They’d get caught too quickly. Make for a pretty short book.
Jack: True. So can anyone just pick up CHERRY BOMB and start reading, or do they have to start at the beginning of the series?
JA: You can begin anywhere in the series. But for those who want to read them in order, it goes WHISKEY SOUR, BLOODY MARY, RUSTY NAIL, DIRTY MARTINI, FUZZY NAVEL, CHERRY BOMB.
Jack: Maybe we should talk about this e-book thing. We’re both doing well with e-books on Kindle.
JA: I noticed you had the #1 Kindle bestseller for over three weeks. The novella SERIAL, that you wrote with Blake Crouch.
Jack: Yeah. I think I remember Crouch. Good writer. It’s got Donaldson from TRUCK STOP in it.
JA: And Taylor from TRUCK STOP is a character from AFRAID.
Jack: I know. I wrote it, remember?
JA: I’ve noticed SERIAL has gotten a lot of one-star Amazon reviews.
Jack: People think SERIAL is too sick. It probably is. No worse than TRUCK STOP though. Or AFRAID. Or your books, from what you say.
JA: Do the negative reviews bother you?
Jack: They amuse me. I love the ones from people who give it one star and stopped reading on page 3.
JA: It’s a nasty little story, but fun. And it’s free, right?
Jack: SERIAL is 100% free. So I see from searching Amazon.com that you’ve got a bunch of books you put up on Kindle yourself. You’ve priced them all under $2.00. Why so cheap?
JA: I don’t feel ebooks should be expensive. There’s no cost to print or ship. Why should I charge the same price as a print book?
Jack: I agree. Cheap and free are what readers want. What’s ORIGIN about?
JA: It’s technohorror. The US government is studying Satan in a secret research lab. He’s the Dante version: horns, hoofs, wings, eats live sheep. The book is sort of JURASSIC PARK meets THE EXORCIST.
Jack: What’s THE LIST?
JA: I don’t want to spoil it. Let’s just say it’s a technothriller about some very famous good guys and bad guys. Jack Daniels also has a cameo.
Jack: Jack Daniels is in another one of your exclusive Kindle books, SHOT OF TEQUILA.
JA: She’s the co-star in that. It’s sort of an Elmore Leonard-type crime novel, with a lot of action.
Jack: How about DISTURB?
JA: Another technothriller, with a medical slant. A pharmaceutical company invents a pill that replaces a full night of sleep. But it has some pretty horrible side-effects.
Jack: Violent and gruesome?
JA: Of course.
Jack: What is 55 PROOF?
JA: A collection of fifty-five short stories. It has some previously published Jack Daniels shorts, and also some horror stuff. Some of the horror is pretty hardcore. Tread lightly.
Jack: FLOATERS?
JA: Another Jack Daniels novella, that I wrote with Henry Perez.
Jack: PLANTER’S PUNCH?
JA: Jack Daniels again, a novella I wrote with Tom Schreck.
Jack: You’re really milking this Jack Daniels thing. Is she in SUCKERS too?
JA: I wrote SUCKERS with Jeff Strand. Jack isn’t in it, but one of her series regulars, Harry McGlade, is the hero. It’s funny, and pretty sick.
Jack: Finally, you got this poetry collection called DIRTY JOKES & VULGAR POEMS for only eighty cents. Does it suck?
JA: I’d have to say that’s the greatest thing I’ve ever written. Some of the jokes and poems are so disgusting, so bad, so totally wrong, that I expect it will someday become a TV series.
Jack: Poetry is stupid.
JA: This isn’t like the crap you had to read in school. This is funny stuff.
Jack: For eighty cents, maybe I’ll try it. So are you working on another Jack Daniels novel?
JA: It’s called SHAKEN. There’s an excerpt in PLANTER’S PUNCH. What are you working on now?
Jack: Another in-your-face technohorror novel.
JA: Go figure. Should we discuss what it was like working together on writing TRUCK STOP?
Jack: Why? You think anyone is actually still reading this?
JA: It’s possible.
Jack: Working with you was fine. No problems. Except for that dumb pun you wanted to keep in the story.
JA: At the end, I wanted Latham to say to Jack, “First you hit that pimp with the salt shaker, then you threw salt in Taylor’s face. So, technically, you asalted two men.”
Jack: Yeah. That pun. There’s something wrong with you.
JA: I like it. Maybe I’ll stick it back in the story.
Jack: So, we done here?
JA: I think so.
Jack: Good. This was getting kind of
long. Besides, I’ve got plans later that involve sleeping with your wife. I think she likes me more than you.
JA: I think you’re right…
Jack Kilborn is the author of the technohorror novel AFRAID, already released by Headline Books in the UK, and Grand Central in the US. Visit him at www.jackkilborn.com.
JA Konrath is the author of the Lt. Jack Daniels thrillers. His sixth, CHERRY BOMB, was just released in hardcover by Hyperion. Visit him at www.jakonrath.com.
All of Jack’s and JA’s books are available as ebooks, and as audiobooks from Brilliance Audio. And if you haven’t figured it out yet, JA Konrath and Jack Kilborn are the same person. Ask their wife.
The hunter’s moon, a shade of orange so dark it appeared to be filled with blood, hung fat and low over the mirror surface of Big Lake McDonald. Sal Morton took in a lungful of crisp Wisconsin air, shifted on his seat cushion, and cast his Lucky 13 over the stern. The night of fishing had been uneventful; a few small bass earlier in the evening, half a dozen Northern Pike—none bigger than a pickle—and then, nothing. The zip of his baitcaster unspooling and the plop of the bait hitting the water were the only sounds he’d heard for the last hour.
Until the helicopter exploded.
It was already over the water before Sal noticed it. Black, without any lights, silhouetted by the moon. And quiet. Twenty years ago Sal had taken his wife Maggie on a helicopter ride at the Dells, both of them forced to ride with their hands clamped over their ears to muffle the sound. This one made a fraction of that noise. It hummed, like a refrigerator.
The chopper came over the lake on the east side, low enough that its downdraft produced large eddies and waves. So close to the water Sal wondered if its wake might overturn his twelve foot aluminum boat. He ducked as it passed over him, knocking off his Packers baseball cap, scattering lures, lifting several empty Schmidt beer cans and tossing them overboard.
Sal dropped his pole next to his feet and gripped the sides of the boat, moving his body against the pitch and yaw. When capsizing ceased to be a fear, Sal squinted at the helicopter for a tag, a marking, some sort of ID, but it lacked both writing and numbers. It might as well have been a black ghost.
Three heartbeats later the helicopter had crossed the thousand yard expanse of lake and dipped down over the tree line on the opposite shore. What was a helicopter doing in Safe Haven? Especially at night? Why was it flying so low? And why did it appear to have landed near his house?
Then came the explosion.
He felt it a moment after he saw it. A vibration in his feet, as if someone had hit the bow with a bat. Then a soft warm breeze on his face, carrying mingling scents of burning wood and gasoline. The cloud of flames and smoke went up at least fifty feet.
After watching for a moment, Sal retrieved his pole and reeled in his lure, then pulled the starter cord on his 7.5 horsepower Evinrude. The motor didn’t turn over. The second and third yank yielded similar results. Sal swore and began to play with the choke, wondering if Maggie was scared by the crash, hoping she was all right.
Maggie Morton awoke to what she thought was thunder. Storms in upper Wisconsin could be as mean as anywhere on earth, and in the twenty-six years they’d owned this house she and Sal had to replace several cracked windows and half the roof due to weather damage.
She opened her eyes, listened for the dual accompaniment of wind and rain. Strangely, she heard neither.
Maggie squinted at the red blur next to the bed, groped for her glasses, pushed them on her face. The blur focused and became the time: 10:46
“Sal?” she called. She repeated it, louder, in case he was downstairs.
No answer. Sal usually fished until midnight, so his absence didn’t alarm her. She considered flipping on the light, but investigating the noise that woke her held much less appeal than the soft down pillow and the warm flannel sheets tucked under her chin. Maggie removed her glasses, returned them to the night stand, and went back to sleep.
The sound of the front door opening roused her sometime later.
“Sal?”
She listened to the footfalls below her, the wooden floors creaking. First in the hallway, and then into the kitchen.
“Sal!” Louder this time. After thirty-five years of marriage, her husband’s ears were just one of many body parts that seemed to be petering out on him. Maggie had talked to him about getting a hearing aid, but whenever she brought up the topic he smiled broadly and pretended not to hear her, and they both wound up giggling. Funny, when they were in the same room. Not funny when they were on different floors and Maggie needed his attention.
“Sal!”
No answer.
Maggie considered banging on the floor, and wondered what the point would be. She knew the man downstairs was Sal. Who else could it be?
Right?
Their lake house was the last one on Gold Star Road, and their nearest neighbor, the Kinsels, resided over half a mile down the shore and had left for the season. The solitude was one of the reasons the Mortons bought this property. Unless she went to town to shop, Maggie would often go days without seeing another human being, not counting her husband. The thought of someone else being in their home was ridiculous.
Reassured by that thought, Maggie closed her eyes.
She opened them a moment later, when the sound of the microwave carried up the stairs. Then came the muffled machine-gun report of popcorn popping. Sal shouldn’t be eating at this hour. The doctor had warned him about that, and how it aggravated his acid reflux disease, which in turn aggravated Maggie with his constant tossing and turning all night.
She sighed, annoyed, and sat up in bed.
“Sal! The doctor said no late night snacks!”
No answer. Maggie wondered if Sal indeed had a hearing problem, or if he simply used that as an excuse for not listening to her. This time she did swing a foot off the bed and stomp on the floor, three times, with her heel.
She waited for his response.
Got none.
Maggie did it again, and followed it up with yelling, “Sal!” loud as she could.
Ten seconds passed.
Ten more.
Then she heard the sound of the downstairs toilet flush.
Anger coursed through Maggie. Her husband had obviously heard her, and was ignoring her. That wasn’t like Sal at all.
Then, almost like a blush, a wave of doubt overtook her. What if the person downstairs wasn’t Sal?
It has to be, she told herself. She hadn’t heard any boats coming up to the dock, or cars pulling onto their property. Besides, Maggie was a city girl, born and raised in Chicago. Twenty-some years in the Northwoods hadn’t broken her of the habit of locking doors before going to sleep.
The anger returned. Sal was deliberately ignoring her. When he came upstairs, she was going to give him a lecture to end all lectures. Or perhaps she’d ignore himfor a while. Turnabout was fair play.
Comforted by the thought, she closed her eyes. The familiar sound of Sal’s outboard motor drifted in through the window, getting closer. That Evinrude was older than Sal was. Why he didn’t buy a newer, faster motor was beyond her understanding. One of the reasons she hated going out on the lake with him was because it stalled all the time and—
Maggie jack-knifed to a sitting position, panic spiking through her body. If Sal was still out on the boat, then who was in her house?
She fumbled for her glasses, then picked up the phone next to her clock. No dial tone. She pressed buttons, but the phone just wouldn’t work.
Maggie’s breath became shallow, almost a pant. Sal’s boat drew closer, but he was still several minutes away from docking. And even when he got home, what then? Sal was an old man. What could he do against an intruder?
She held her breath, trying to listen to noises from downstairs. Maggie did hear something, but the sound wasn’t coming from the lower level. It was coming from the hallway right outside her bedroom.
The sound of someone chewing popcorn.
Maggie wondered what she should do. Say something? Maybe this was all some sort of mistake, some confused tourist who had walked into the wrong house. Or perhaps this was a robber, looking for money or drugs. Give him what he wanted, and he’d leave. No need for anyone to get hurt.
“Who’s there?”
More munching. Closer. He was practically in the room. She could smell the popcorn now, the butter and salt, and the odor made her stomach do flip-flops.
“My…medication is in the bathroom cabinet. And my purse is on the chair by the door. Take it.”
The ruffling of a paper bag, and more chewing. Open-mouthed chewing. Loud, like someone smacking gum. Why wouldn’t he say anything?
“What do you want?”
No answer.
Maggie was shivering now. The tourist scenario was gone from her head, the robber scenario fading fast. A new scenario entered Maggie’s mind. The scenario of campfire stories and horror movies. The boogeyman, hiding under the bed. The escaped lunatic, searching for someone to hurt, to kill.
Maggie needed to get out of there, to get away. She could run to the car, or meet Sal on the dock and get into his boat, or even hide out in the woods. She could hurry to the guest bedroom, lock the door, open up the window, climb down—
Chewing, right next to the bed. Maggie gasped, pulling the flannel sheets to her chest. She squinted into the darkness, could barely make out the dark figure of a man standing a few feet away.
The bag rustled. Something touched Maggie’s face and she gasped. A tiny pat on her cheek. It happened again, on her forehead, making her flinch. Again, and she swatted out with her hand, finding the object on the pillow.
Popcorn. He was throwing popcorn at her.
Maggie’s voice came out in a whisper. “What…what are you going to do?”
The springs creaked as he sat on the edge of the bed.
“Everything,” he said.
The following is an excerpt of Cherry Bomb by J.A. Konrath, now available everywhere books are sold from Hyperion Books…
Stun guns work on two levels. The first is through pain compliance. Being hit with a million volts hurts like hell, comparable to being jabbed with a hot poker. But unlike a hot poker, the electric current also overrides a person’s muscles, causing them to twitch uncontrollably while simultaneously being unable to fight back.