I could have sworn I posted this already, but it looks like it disappeared...

This review was printed in Shroud 14: The Quarterly Journal of Speculative Fiction and Poetry.



“A bullet has no conscience to consult as it flies from the barrel of a gun. It doesn’t feel the wind or the sun or the rain as it speeds toward its target. It penetrates the innocent and the guilty with equal intent and creates victims with the same enthusiasm with which it saves them from the bullets of others. No feelings of

I could have sworn I posted this already, but it looks like it disappeared...

This review was printed in Shroud 14: The Quarterly Journal of Speculative Fiction and Poetry.



“A bullet has no conscience to consult as it flies from the barrel of a gun. It doesn’t feel the wind or the sun or the rain as it speeds toward its target. It penetrates the innocent and the guilty with equal intent and creates victims with the same enthusiasm with which it saves them from the bullets of others. No feelings of regret or elation occur to it as it tears skin, breaks bone, rips through organs, and frees blood to flow over them all. A bullet is the ultimate punctuation: more final than a period, more forceful than an exclamation, and never a question. A bullet is only potential and, after fired, it settles into eternity as a dead heap with no future. And the gunman’s hand, having writ in fire and smoke and blood, moves on to send another round to follow along.”

—From Chapter Two: Joanie Goes to War



Bracken MacLeod’s first novel is very much like the bullet he so flawlessly describes—confident, pointed, unapologetic, savage—hitting its target with precision. It is a powerful, tense, and extremely real story delivered in prose that makes the writing disappear and the events unfold before the reader more like a film than a book.



The supernatural element is one I found to be both intriguing and somewhat elusive, though not underdeveloped. It dwells on the outskirts of the novel, mirroring its involvement in the plot.



The violence is extreme, graphic, and cruel—MacLeod immediately shocks us with it in the Prologue—but the sensitivity with which he develops his characters and the message his story sends makes the stark, explosive violence all the more compelling.



The gradual unveiling of Joanie Myer’s motives is like a fine wine being allowed to breathe—something not to be rushed. And while the circumstances which led to her actions are not nearly as enjoyable as the end result, they certainly lend credibility to her brutal rampage. For MacLeod to elicit sympathy from the reader for a character who acts with such cold, calculated precision is no small feat—but he does it. All the while, he is simultaneously weaving a tumultuous plot with the other characters, including our protagonist, Lyn—a dynamic and unfailingly human young woman who in many ways is doing what Joanie is doing—taking a stand. As much as we feel for the victims, and root Lyn on, there is no mistaking the tragedy at the root of Joanie’s assault on the diner—or her being worthy of the compassion only we and Lyn are ultimately able to afford her. The essence of truth at the heart of this novel is spoken in five words by one of my favorite characters as he reveals the inevitable doom which faces us all as we resist a force of nature such as Kreewatan: “You survive if you can.”



This debut is truly impressive, and if not for the presence of a highly symbolic “spirit of destruction . . . an animistic atom bomb”, it would not be classified as horror. The writing borders on the fringes of genres much like the creature lingers on the periphery of the woods—and the plot. MacLeod nailed this, and will have a huge audience already in place for his next literary venture. Unlike his bullet, MacLeod’s potential has been released, and most certainly has a future.

