Special Edition: THE WALKING WORM Prologue Available To Read, Kickstarter Live

The fundraising campaign will run through the month of October. Here's the prologue to give you a taste

As I’ve posted a couple times earlier, I intend to fund production of The Walking Worm, the third book in the “Long War” series after The Thing in the Woods and The Atlanta Incursion via Kickstarter. This will allow me to cover all production costs in advance and functions as a sort of pre-order, with those who back it receiving physical and electronic copies well before anybody else.

(If the Kickstarter funds I won’t release TWW until February 2025, giving my backers their goodies 2-3 months before everybody else.)

Many of you had seen the pre-launch page in previous newsletters, but those of you I spoke with at the Georgia Horror Fest in Augusta in late September are seeing this for the first time. The Kickstarter is officially live now. To help promote it, the awesome J.R. Handley has interviewed me on The Blasters and Blades Podcast about it. As of this morning, I have five backers who’ve pledged $175 out of $1200, around 13% of the project funded.

You can see the general plot in the image above. Now here’s the prologue, in which small-town pill-popper Brennan Reeves seeks help for his problem — and doesn’t want the “help” he finds.

Prologue

Brennan Reeves swallowed, fear momentarily distracting him from the shooting pains in his legs and back. That truck crash had sure done a number on him, even two years later. Clouds had devoured the Moon, and the blue-white light from flickering Colemans drowned the normally abundant stars. The lanterns marked the path ahead as it snaked into the scaly pines. The chill wind whipped around him, biting through his shabby brown jacket.

The burly black man escorting him looked him straight in the eye. His scarred, shaved head glistened in the lantern light. "Fear not. You have been found worthy. Worthy of freedom from pain."  

Brennan nodded. He'd been attending that recovery group at Eagle’s Wings Church after the detox program dropped him. No job, no insurance. The pain had roared back. His leg twinged again, another reminder. He shivered as he passed into the shadows beneath the trees. Dry forest debris crunched beneath his thinning shoes. Despite the cold, sweat was already building beneath his receding blond hair.

The guard led Brennan deeper into the gloom. Brennan looked about, fingers working at his sides. There should be all sorts of noise in the woods this late, but the night was deathly silent. He followed the guard – he wondered if he should ask his name – along the path until it met asphalt. The old road, green plants breaking through its dark surface, slithered between towering silver chain-link fences topped with razor wire. Fences the bastards from the company put up around the big textile mill just north of downtown Patterson, the last of what had been many. They'd closed it down and sent the machinery to goddamn El Salvador or wherever.

The guard interrupted his brooding. "We've arrived."

They walked onto the asphalt, dark shards biting Brennan’s feet. He needed new shoes, and didn’t know how he’d afford them.

More lanterns bracketed the path rolling from the doorway of the long-closed textile plant like a tongue from an enormous mouth. Brennan reckoned the lights would've attracted flies, but the night remained strangely still. The guard gestured toward the path. Brennan’s heart raced. Nausea welled up deep within him. He’d had plenty of that from his latest attempt to ditch the pills, but this felt different.

“Do you hesitate?” the guard rumbled. All Brennan could do was nod. He knew he must look a fright, ghost-pale in the dark and sweating to boot. “Remember, ‘My righteous one shall live by faith…’”

“‘And if he shrinks back, My soul has no pleasure in him,’” Brennan completed the verse. Pain flared in both legs as he took the first step toward the door. The guard pulled jangling keys from his pocket. The sound screeched against Brennan’s ears. More noise clawed at his eardrums as the long-disused door squealed open. The entrance stared back at Brennan like a huge dark eye.

"This path you must walk alone," the guard said. "Follow the lights to where He dwells. There you will find relief from your pain."

Brennan took another step, setting a twinge running up his leg. One more and his leg spasmed. He barely kept his feet, the burning in his spine another gift the compression fracture the accident had given him. The bone’s healed, he told himself. Just nerve damage. Just nerve damage.

The door yawned ahead like an alligator’s maw. He narrowed his eyes, but the light from lanterns flanking the entrance drowned out any view of inside. He glanced back at his escort.

The big man stood unwavering. "There is but one way to freedom. One way to life." He pointed. “And the way is in there.”

Brennan drew a breath. Could he back out now? Give up all this crazy nonsense and go back to the meetings? Try to get off the pills the same damn way everybody else did?

He shook his head. He’d tried. He’d tried five times. He’d only realized he needed to try something different when he sold Grandma’s fine china for pills barely a month after she’d been put in the ground. That was when he called Tanker again and told him he was ready.

“He is there,” the guard said. “Run the race. Keep the faith.”

Brennan took a deep breath. Hands working in front of him, he stepped through the doors into the abandoned factory’s silent gullet. The guard closed the door behind him, leaving him buried in darkness.

Slowly, his eyes adjusted. Stars peeked through holes in the roof. He’d expected to hear birds in the rafters or rats skittering, but the place was dead.

He glanced over his shoulder before stopping himself. “‘If he shrinks back, My soul will have no pleasure in him,’” he repeated.

Ancient tile cracked beneath him as he advanced. Another lantern ignited ahead, not bright but enough to guide him.

“‘Your word is a lamp unto my feet,’” he muttered to himself.

His hesitation faded. He walked more confidently, though each step brought pain. As he drew closer, he made out a single Coleman lantern sitting before the rust-streaked silver roll-up door. He stopped abruptly. What lay beyond?

“You’ve come this far,” he muttered. “Don’t shrink back.”

Open the door, something whispered inside his head. Open the door and you will find freedom from pain.

“Lord? Lord, is that you?”

No response. For the briefest moment Brennan wondered if he’d imagined it. He hadn’t been sleeping well due to the pain. He’d heard soldiers on patrol in Afghanistan – or Daddy’s friends who’d been to Vietnam – got so tired they’d start seeing things.

More pain in his back. He’d come this far. He knelt, back protesting, and took the rust-roughened handle. The wheels on either side screeched in protest as he worked the door upward. Although bits of corroded metal fell, silver streaks lined the frame. Other had been here recently. Hope bloomed in his chest. He wasn’t the only one too weak to beat the painkillers.

When he got the door halfway open, he bent over and slipped under. The roof opened overhead. Silver stars lit the dark. In the emptied former factory floor ahead, a dark figure sat on a carved wooden throne. A hood obscured its face.

Brennan came to an abrupt stop. What was going on now?

“‘The prayer offered in faith will make a sick person well,’” he told himself. He took another step, then hesitated. Tanker was a man of God, but what lay head looked like the cover of some heavy-metal album his parents’ preacher didn’t like. Could this really be God’s doing?

He steeled himself. This could be a test of his faith. Abraham had been through worse. Moving more confidently now, ignoring his hurting legs, he approached the strange figure.

Kneel. Brennan sank to his knees before the throne. Fear not. The figure rose, positively huge now that it stood upright, and descended toward him. It didn’t walk like a normal man, but flowed like spilling water. A chill rolled up his spine. He suddenly needed to piss. That wasn’t natural.

God’s work is not done in the natural realm. Be still.

The towering figure rolled to a stop before him. It laid hands on his shoulders. Brennan expected the touch to reassure him, but it didn’t. Each hand had five fingers ending in what felt like long nails, but each finger felt like it then had more fingers. Small, wriggling fingers. It felt strangely like that massage wand he’d ordered off the Internet, yet another remedy that hadn’t worked.

Fear not. Soon you will have the freedom you so need.

The fingers on his shoulders began dissolving into what felt like swarms of maggots!

With a scream, Brennan tried to jump back, but the still-strong grip restrained him.

The worm does not die, Brennan.

Brennan’s shoulder and chest seethed with the writhing of dozens of worms. He screamed again, clawing at his body and brushing at the disturbingly smooth interlopers. Scores of tiny mouths bit the bare skin of his neck and face. Angry hisses echoed around him.

You put your hands to the plow and yet turned back. Luckily for you, I am forgiving.

Worms crept up his neck onto his cheeks. Brennan tore at them, but they kept coming. He fought to rise, to run, to get the hell out –

KNEEL!

The whisper in his head was now a roar, like waves driven by a hurricane. Brennan sank down despite his terror, the rough floor biting through his thin jeans.

The worms were all over his face. They pushed into his nose. His nostrils flared as the intruders burrowed deeper, the pain eclipsing anything he’d ever felt since the car accident. He opened his mouth to scream, but worms flooded in.

Yes. Soon you will be free of the pain. Free to serve Me.

Brennan looked pleadingly up at the titan, which hadn’t moved since laying “hands” upon him. The darkness hid its face. Was it a man? Was it a woman? Was it Jesus? No, it couldn’t be Jesus.

The worms worked their way deeper, ripping out a scream that sounded comically nasal. Hot blood trickled around them as something tore between his eyes. Tears flowed freely now.

He looked again, and saw.

Instead of the face of Jesus under the hood, black worms seethed. Their slime caught the starlight. Glowing orange eyes rolled open within that awful false face.

Yes.

Brennan’s next choked scream only let more worms pour in.

Done

Here’s the official Kickstarter link again. Digital rewards will go anywhere in the world, but physical rewards — signed and unsigned copies of The Walking Worm and the two previous novels — are limited to the United States. The $1,200 goal is intended to cover the following itemized production costs:

Cover Art By Matt Cowdery, Completed: $400

Editing By Christine Morgan, Completed: $350

Cover Design By Mikio Murikami, Incomplete: $150

Layout and Formatting By Damian Jackson, Incomplete: $100 (based on previous work)

Taxes and Fees: $200 (using an estimate of 18%)

Fundraising will end 10/31 at 11:59 PM. Since the book is so close to completion, it is my intention to have the digital rewards available in November and the physical awards in later November or December. Like I said before, Kickstarter backers will be getting it well ahead of everybody else. Also, signed books make for nice, creative holiday gifts. :)