This Past Week, I Was Caught. . .
Dead to Rights
My readers
and blog followers will be aware of the fact that I have something of a weak
spot for the different. The zany and unusual. I like things that stand out from
the mundane. Things that make the tired and staid special. The humdrum enjoyable.
That’s probably why I was drawn to Greg Stumbo’s Generation Zed series.
As you know,
I dipped into the first story, Dead
Serious, the other week, and was delighted to find a fresh approach to the
zombie apocalypse. One where the surviving band of misfits isn’t made up from ex
army rangers, cops, Special Forces, or geeky know-it-alls with PhDs yelling,
“Bazinga!” and dropping knowledgeable
expressions into every longwinded sentence. No, our – and I use this term
loosely – ‘heroes’ are a bunch of nerdy friends and newly-met acquaintances
with the combined skill level of a lobotomized walnut. Excellent stuff, as it
made following their dodgem ride of misadventure through a not so funfair of
chomping death rather fun to follow.
And that mayhem
continues in – Dead to Rights. You
get just a hint of that from the blurb.
******
So, that
didn't work. You know what's worse than dead people getting in the way? Not yet
dead people getting in the way. This whole end of the world thing is starting
to seem like an awful lot of work. Who signed me up for this anyway? The pay is
worse than a cheap neighbor when they ask you to mow their lawn. I’m starting
to think the undead are safer than the not yet dead!
******
Okay then. What
total disasters – and yes, that IS meant to be plural – befall our hapless
protagonists this time?
Well, here’s
the thing. Despite being shockingly inept at most everything they do, the gang
has been relatively lucky. The zombie apocalypse hasn’t been in full chomp-mode
for too long, so they haven’t come across anyone particularly nasty. In fact,
everyone they’ve met has been the exact opposite. Downright friendly! Not the
thing you want when you’ve got a bunch of incompetents planning an ill-advised
rescue mission of the friend they left behind in the Wal-Mart.
As it turns
out, that rescue mission is something of a stroll in the park – or should that
be, stroll through a fenced-in compound – populated by incredibly polite
survivors, whose idea of a disagreement is to sit around a camp fire singing
‘Kumbaya’ while the grown-ups ‘talk about it’. Still all awfully nice and
pleasant . . . and an absolute recipe for disaster for the gang, who start
getting crazy ideas about how to improve their lot in a world turned upside
down.
What do I
mean?
Let’s just
reiterate that up until now, they’ve met some very nice people. (Pains in the collective butt, most certainly - but nice nonetheless). And of course,
that makes the gang somewhat complacent, especially when they start branching
out into the wider community with grandiose ideas of becoming ‘fixers’ for
those people still in hiding.
Think about
it. In their area alone there’s an armory manned by jumpy national guards.
Several larger groups who imagine that being isolated will protect them. Oh
yes, and there’s a prison full of community minded citizens who are undoubtedly
shocked of the events that have led to their early paroles, and who are now eager
to show repentance for the misdeeds that led to their incarceration in the
first place.
What could
possible go wrong?
I mean, the
gang possesses all the savvy of a drunken dungeon master breaking in a new
game, where the instructions are written in Braille. Klingon Braille. What’s worse
is that they can’t even make the simplest of decisions without arguing. So you
just know what’s gonna happen.
Not so much,
“why didn’t I take the blue pill,” as, sneaking into a firework factory,
lighting as many blue touch papers as you can, and sticking your fingers in
your ears . . . and hoping there won’t be the inevitable boom!
As before,
this neat misadventure is tied together by the glaring ineptitude of the main
characters, who haven’t yet begun to appreciate the reality of the nightmare
they’ve woken up in. And until they do, they continue to stumble, fumble and grumble
from one rose-tinted disaster to another in a wonderfully entertaining way. You
just want to slap them! And when you realize that, you begin to appreciate how
adroitly Greg Stumbo has drawn you into their apocalypse, and how invested
you’ve become in what happens.
But of
course, to find out the answer to that little conundrum, you’ll have to read the book.
And boy, will you be glad you did.
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