White Horse: A Novel
By Alex Adams
4/5
()
About this ebook
Thirty-year-old Zoe leads an ordinary life until the end of the world arrives. She is cleaning cages and floors at Pope Pharmaceuticals when the president of the United States announces that human beings are no longer a viable species. When Zoe realizes that everyone she loves is disappearing, she starts running. Scared and alone in a shockingly changed world, she embarks on a remarkable journey of survival and redemption. Along the way, Zoe comes to see that humans are defined not by their genetic code, but rather by their actions and choices. White Horse offers hope for a broken world, where love can lead to the most unexpected places.
Alex Adams
Alex Adams is a retired computer software computer engineer living in New Jersey. He has extensive insights into academic life and software house culture, and he offers many observations on the human condition, gained from decades of work experience, volunteering, reading, and world travel.
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Reviews for White Horse
117 ratings24 reviews
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5I just want those of you that read my blog regularly know that this is not my regular fare. But I had to post my review here because I know a lot of you do read adult fiction. This is a book that shows an apocalypse before during and after. Something that's so frighteningly realistic that I wonder that it hasn't happened yet or if it will happen in my life time. The people are dying so rapidly that they have to burn the bodies. A war was being fought but it was forgotten when the sickness came on hard and fast and those that came home, came home to no one. Zoe for some reason along with a small portion of the population is immune to the sickness. And when everyone she loves, cares about, dies, she decides to go in search of the one person who may or may not be alive that means something to her.Zoe is determined. God is she determined. And she has hope. She doesn't believe in God. She thinks he's left them all. But the hope she has, that is what keeps her going. Hope. Four little letters but they have such strength in them for her. They help her rescue a blind girl from a rapist. Help her escape monsters, drowning. When she is too tired to walk she keeps walking. She finds companionship with the most unique living things. And hope is what helps her believe that somehow she'll reach her destination. That's a whole lot of hope.I did not feel very hopeful reading this novel. I was pretty sure humans were done for and most of the time I thought Zoe was going to die. Do not read this if you're depressed. It isn't uplifting even if Zoe has a lot of hope. It doesn't spill over. Adams throws one hurdle after another in front of Zoe until she seems to be superwoman to be able to continue. There is no time to mourn or hold hands and have a pity party. She's likely to be killed. Keep moving forward. That's Zoe's motto and she does, no matter who her companions may be. I sat here and read this straight through not stopping for meals, children, dogs or phone calls. I could not put it down. It was gripping and totally consuming. I had to know if Zoe made it, if all that hope was for nothing, if all the monsters were bad, if she'd find anyone at the end of her journey. I promise, despite it's graphic sexual violence (and you do finally understand it) and the general doom that comes with an apocalypse you will not be able to put this book down. It is an unbelievable story. It was almost too much for one book and I think I"ll have to read it again to absorb it. But when I read the last line of the novel I immediately wanted the next book in the series (this is a planned trilogy).The story is written in a "Then" and "Now" type of timeline and that works very well for the story. It doesn't give away too much up front nor does it keep us too much in the dark. The wording was a little jarring at times. "Horns are the spice sprinkled over relentless traffic. Bodies form an organic conveyor belt constantly grinding along the sidewalks." (p.14ARC) I had to pause and read these sentences a couple of times because they didn't read easy. There are many sentences like that and it took a while to get used to her way of writing. It's unique and I like it, but unusual. But as I said, I read the almost 300 page book in less than a day so it didn't bother me too much!I highly recommend this novel, a strong start in the series, to anyone that enjoys apocalyptic stories. I received an ARC of this novel from the publisher in return for an honest review.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5As a saga of the addiction of hope and how it can control us, it is very stirring. It does get a bit long, but hang tight, it gets awesome again.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5How to review White Horse? In all honesty it's one of the best books I've read this year, and yet anything I type here seems inadequate as to explain why I loved it so much. What is really striking about Alex Adams' story is how beautifully it walks the line between light and dark. The populace is dying. Everything that people once believed made them human is now gone, taken from them by a disease. Still, there is a glimmer of hope underneath it all. In Zoe I found one woman who, despite everything else, had the will to survive. Her hope radiates out, and helps light the way through this otherwise bleak story.
White Horse follows Zoe through chapters from "Then" and "Now". Although I normally dislike books that switch between past and present tense, it fits in White Horse perfectly. Zoe has gone from a simple custodian, to a nomad. Her past life and her present life are shown in stark contrast to one another, until they slowly merge closer and closer together. Seeking only to find her lost lover and hold on to what makes her human. Wandering through the dead cities, glimpsing the sad remains of humanity. Zoe's story is dark and dangerous. The story telling in White Horse is done in gorgeous prose, but it hardly masks the atrocities the world is suffering. Trust me, this isn't a story for the faint of heart.
The other characters in this story are just as well done as Zoe. Out of all of these, I feel like the one who needs the most introduction is "The Swiss". The exact opposite of everything that Zoe strives to hold on to, this is a villain who will make you want to tear the pages out of the book. You won't do it of course, because that would mean ruining the story, but you'll want to. Hope plays a big part in this story. Each time that Zoe makes it over an obstacle in her path, three more take their place. Yet, she never stops hoping.
White Horse ate me up inside. I read fervently, cringing at the descriptions of what the world had become, and yet ever hopeful that Zoe would accomplish what she set out to do. The last few chapters blew me away with their twists. The last few pages broke my heart. Alex Adams has written something that fits in the dystopian genre, and yet is infinitely better. I loved this book, and I'll be happy to admit that I am excited to see where this trilogy goes next. - Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5This book wasn't what I expected when I first opened it, and I was initially a little bit disappointed. I decided to keep reading and give the story a chance, and I'm glad I did because after the first couple of chapters I was hooked. I couldn't put it down. Now I eagerly look forward to the next book in the trilogy.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5First. This book is not dystopian. I don't know where I got that idea from, but it's apocalyptic.
Other than that... Meeeeeh. I had my ups and downs. Places where I thought it was pretty good and really bad. Another weakness is the prose. Too many metaphors and similes. I mean, you could say, "it grew on me like a colony of E. coli and it was room-temperature Canadian beef." (Yeah, that's bad intentionally.)
I also could've done without the end. Maybe these types of endings don't suit me anymore. I shan't say anything else, for fear of ruining it for someone else.
Also, if I hadn't been to Europe, this would have spurred me to travel to the Greek Isles. They truly are beautiful.
Read this as your second airplane/beach read. - Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Slightly oversprinkled with metaphors and similies, but I loved it. Post-apocalyptic is not a genre I normally read, but the blurbs on the jacket were interesting so I pulled it off the library shelf. Finished it in one day and may read it again just to delight in the language and the sly literary allusions. Two favorite lines: "I read my fortune until I laugh. I laugh until I cry. I cry until I sleep." And, "There is another road, though it is less traveled."
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The jar was the beginning; it appeared out of nowhere, delivered by no one to be found sitting in her living room. No one can say how it arrived, this ancient jar, or where it came from. But all that was secondary, the only thing to matter now was what the jars sudden presence in her home and in her life meant. The jar was a mystery, and the only thing she knew for curtain was that this mysterious jar frightened her.It started with the weather, then it was the war. But it wasn't just one country against another, if it had been there might have been somewhere safe to run to, but it was the whole world and nowhere was safe. Now there were monsters lurking were before there were only people. With no where safe, she ran in the direction of the one person she loved, because at the end of the world where else would she want to be.Having lost everyone she ever cared for, somehow she still manages to carry on. Because despite the disease, the death, and the monsters, despite the end of the world, life still goes on. Armed only with hope, she will walk halfway across the world to find a new beginning for the future, or she will die trying, for what else has she to live for.White Horse is a gripping tale of the end of the world and those who are left behind to survive it. This is the story of one ordinary woman who makes a heroic journey across a wasted and broken earth in search of hope, love and life on the other side of the world. As the story unfolds the truth about the jar, the war and her love is uncovered. This is a survival story that tells of strength and humanity in a world that is no longer what it was. An intelligent, passionate and keenly written story that will hold you captive.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5It is the end of the world as Zoe knows it. A mysterious plague came along, killed almost everyone. A small few survived, but were changed, mutated. Others were immune. But civilisation is gone. It is man eat man out there now as the survivors try to stay alive. Zoe isn’t just crossing the world in some random hope of trying to survive. She is pregnant, and the child’s father is in Greece. Or so she hopes, wishes and believes. She must reach him for any chance of a life.
Zoe tells her story in alternate sections, then and now. Then, back before the war and the weather and the plague. Back when life was normal, or as normal as it could get. And now. After the end.
It is an effective structure, letting the reader get to know Zoe and how the world ended.
Trouble is, I just didn’t enjoy this book. Plot elements seemed to swing out of nowhere. Randome things happened because, I felt, the author figured we need a bit of action now, or lets through in some horror. It made very little sense.
But the writing itself, the descriptions and words actually used, they work well. It makes for a very easy to read book. You could probably skim read it and not really notice a lot of flaws, but they just annoyed me. Zoe herself I didn’t like, and everyone existed to serve her story, which is understandable, I mean, this is her tale, but at the same time they felt and read like supporting characters not real people.
And the bad-guy! I’m sorry, but, just no. Didn’t work for me at all. Irritated me no end.
So I didn’t like this one, but I think I would try another by Adams, this is her first one, a certain amount can be forgiven. - Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The world has ended, but her journey has just begun.Thirty-year-old Zoe leads an ordinary life until the end of the world arrives. She is cleaning cages and floors at Pope Pharmaceuticals when the president of the United States announces that human beings are no longer a viable species. When Zoe realizes that everyone she loves is disappearing, she starts running. Scared and alone in a shockingly changed world, she embarks on a remarkable journey of survival and redemption. Summary amazon Not your typical first novel! Not your typical apocalyptic fiction!My mother rolls out the guilt parade and slaps my buttons like my psyche is a game of Whac-a-Mole.Nagging Moms, match-making sisters, a flirtatious therapist....sounds more like a Sophie Kinsella novel....Then "white horse" strikes, a DNA mutating strain that kills 90% of the population it infects and causes human-effacing mutations in a large proportion of survivors. This is the story of Zoe's will to survive--not as an animal--but as a moral human being. The antithesis of a superhero, she has the strength of perseverance. White Horse is the first of a survival trilogy by Alex Adams. I am looking forward to the next installment. Thanks to LibraryThing for the recommendation!8.5 out of 10 Recommended not only to readers of apocalyptic and dystopian fiction but to fans of suspense fiction as well.
- Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5Read from Aug 11-13, 2012This a story about how the world ended and what happened after. We go back and forth between now and then slowly discovering more about Zoe.The end comes in two ways here...global weather crisis and medical stuff. It's an interesting mix, but I didn't really understand how the weather thing came into play. It just felt like extra.The really annoying thing came at the end when I read about the author only to discover that this is apparently the first in a trilogy. Seriously?!
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5I enjoyed reading this. I found it different than many post-apocalyptic books that I've read, perhaps because the focus was less on the physical survival elements and more on her personal journey.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Review:I love pandemic stories. Call it morbid fascination but to me pandemics really are the most likely scenario for global breakdown of society. The author Alex Adams paints a world slowly being ravaged by a disease called White Horse. This isn't your normal plague, no this one attacks at a genetic level. For those not immune from white horse they are left with two options either die miserably or suffer mutations that range from growing second hearts, scales, or even fins and that's if your lucky. Needless to say White Horse is unique all its own and is a disease I hope to never encounter in this lifetime.One of the things I really appreciated about White Horse was the incredible world building. Through a series of flashbacks and flashforwards we get to see Zoe's life before, during, and after White Horse takes hold. While I could of done with less time jumping (sometimes it would happen 2-3x per chapter) I definitely appreciate all the details we get to see because of it. Now as much as I loved the world building it would be nothing without the incredible writing. To say this book was beautifully written wouldn't do it justice. Ms. Adams fine tuned the art of playing with emotions. I laughed, I cried, I raged in horror even but to her credit I couldn't stop reading. Like Zoe and the jar, I felt ominous tidings gnawing at the back of my brain demanding I read this in one sitting.Speaking of the characters I love Zoe!! She is compassionate, smart, brave, and an eternal pillar of hope and goodness in a world that is quickly filled with much cruelty and depravity. Zoe is one of the nicest characters that I've had the pleasure getting to know in a long time and I truly hope this isn't the last we see of her in this series.On the flipside I hated The Swiss probably as much or if not more than Zoe even did. What an awful human being he was which you know bad for the characters but a great villain for us to hate on. That being said OH MY GOODNESS the twist at the end involving his character took me by complete surprise, like damn I didn't see that one coming at all. Well played Alex Adams, well played indeed.Overall I have to say that I loved this book. White Horse is one of the best pandemic based apocalyptic books I've read in a very long time. I will definitely be picking up Red Horse when it releases in August that's for damn sure!I suppose the question that remains is Would I recommend White Horse? Yes, yes, I would. In fact, go buy it now I promise you won't be disappointed. In the end, I will be rating White Horse by Alex Adams ★★★★★. White Horse is definitely worth a read, worth your time, and completely worth the price!*Reviewed through Netgalley.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Dystopian/post-apocalyptic novels are all the rage the last few years. I suspect it's related in part to the economy and the sociopolitical landscape. The current world ain't what it was. Dystopian novels allow us to write through or read through the basic tension that underlies much of our lives now. Will I lose my job? What if I get sick? What happens if terrorists blow up What if Republicans take power and put women back in the kitchen with no rights? What if Democrats win and take away all our guns and use tax money to do it? What if someone kidnaps/hurts/murders my child? Is school safe? Is my house safe? What if I end up homeless? The list of modern anxiety is endless and much of it, rational or not, is based in part on the reality that we are shown every minute of every day in our living rooms, on our computers, on the radio - the 24-hour news cycle stoking the voyeurism, the anxiety, the fear.I'm hard on the post-apocalypse in fiction. I think it's Margaret Atwood's fault. I was in my early twenties when The Handmaid's Tale was published. It was the mid-eighties, Reagan ruled the roost and pro-life people were beginning to protest at abortion clinics - many of these protests became violent. The evangelical right was on the rise. It was a scary time for me and Ms. Atwood tapped into that anxiety - you could feel the potential for theocracy sliding beneath the surface of our politics. It's a brilliant book and difficult to top or even equal. In all that time only The Reapers Are the Angels by Alden Bell has truly satisfied my requirements. I'm adding White Horse to the list.White Horse is not a young adult novel, although young adults might like it. It's a very adult novel centered around a pandemic, but more importantly the story of one woman's journey through the before, the during, and the after. It's a love story, and love is the motivating factor for Zoe's journey all across the map, but more importantly it's a novel of survival, of search for self and meaning, of the beauty of the journey, of compassion for humanity, of the possibility that lies at journey's end. Ms. Adams writes well and Zoe's voice sings through the death and the ugly and the search for beauty left untouched or begun anew. I loved this book - couldn't put it down. I hope you'll read it. You won't be sorry.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The apocalypse, for Zoe Marshall, starts very mysteriously. One day, when she returns from her job as a janitor at Pope Pharmaceuticals, a jar waits inside her locked apartment. While it looks innocuous enough, the terrible sense of foreboding it inspires drives her to therapy where she discusses the possible opening of the jar as if it were a dream with a therapist who, if things weren't going downhill fast, she could have a relationship with that goes beyond the professional. Unfortunately, romance is the last thing on Zoe's mind because people are dying, and the ones who aren't are changing in disturbing ways. Even as the human race dwindles, Zoe discovers a hope inside herself that sends her on a perilous journey across the world. White Horse is a promising debut and start to a post-apocalyptic trilogy that has a winning main character fighting against all but impossible odds who is determined to maintain the goodness in her humanity despite its near extinction around her. Zoe's first-person narration features a distinctive voice that is seasoned with unexpected dark humor born of desperation. Despite the constant danger and struggle, Adams' novel doesn't give way to the soul-sucking hopelessness that runs rampant in books like Cormac McCarthy's The Road, but it doesn't shy away from the terrifying realities of a world that is coming apart at the seams. Zoe's narration alternates between the past, revealing the slow downward spiral of civilization through sickness and war, and present, as she navigates the post-apocalyptic nightmare in search of the lover she has to believe is still alive. White Horse is packed with vivid characters, disturbing visions of a planet in the throes of a slow apocalypse, and twists that readers won't see coming. Having the "stories" converge as Zoe's past meets up with her present is a perfect plot device for keeping the pages turning. Best of all, White Horse tempts you to read its sequels without the cruel ploy of a major cliffhanger on the last page. The ending manages to walk the very fine line of being fully satisfying while also keeping readers hungry for more. If there's any downside to White Horse, it's the occasional overblown description. Sometimes it's a little over the top to say, "Smoke is a voluminous, billowing, high-fashion cloak framing the fire, enhancing its dangerous beauty," when a simple, "the smoke billowed" would more than suffice. Adams' propensity for dramatic metaphors might take some getting used to, but once the story picks up, they become considerably less glaring and often seems to be called for in a world where nothing is like it was, and everything seems dramatic. Ultimately, White Horse is a page turning thriller of a book that paints a terrifying picture of the future but leaves room for the hopeful possibility that goodness in humanity can still win out.
- Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5Two star as it's not great, but not total dreck either.Others have done a synopsis of the plot, so I’ll leave that out of my review.I’m not sure what to say about White Horse. Was the writing good? It was decent, even though there were entirely too many similes and metaphors for my comfort, and at times the writing verged on pretentious . (Seriously – metatarsals instead of toes?) Were the characters interesting? Yes. Did I care about them? Not in the least.It was just such a dark and disturbing tale, with bits and pieces that left you going “Say what?” at various points, that I found the novel nearly impossible to finish; yet it’s difficult to pin down exactly why.For instance –the jar. A metaphor for Pandora’s box? A way to get Zoe involved with Nick? A symbol for humanity? Presented first as a dream, then as reality, it simply made no sense in the context of the novel. The sub-plot with Lisa – pregnant and then not? Was Lisa just yet another way for Lisa to show that she hasn’t lost her compassion and humanity? If 90% of the population died quickly, why the difficulty in scrounging for food? Why was the Swiss so damned insistent on killing everyone he ran across? If he wanted Zoe, he could have taken her at any point. A lot of those scenes felt like filler – something to make the book longer and to make the Swiss appear more evil and Zoe more noble.Add in a near-mythological trip through Italy and Greece to find Nick and things wind up seriously muddied along the way. I did finish the book, however I did so only in order to discover the twist at the end that other reviewers had spoken about. Otherwise, I would have tossed the book aside at about the 50% mark. Overall the book felt very flat to me, and trying to impress too hard with being a "literary" end of the world tale. This is the first in a trilogy. Will I read the rest? No. I don’t think I could wade through some of the unnecessarily flowery prose to find the meat of the story again. For my own analogy, reading this novel was like eating a peanut butter sandwich at a 5-star restaurant. You paid a lot of money for that sandwich so you're going to eat it, but at the time time, you feel vaguely dissatisified that you did so.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Alone and pregnant in a plague ridden world - White HorseZoe and her unborn child must face diseased zombie like people who are scared and dying and a few sadistic killers to reach her destination and find her husband. She is traveling with a young girl to Brindisi when she comes across someone who could be her biggest threat yet. Along the way Zoe will encounter humanity at its best and worst and must fight to survive this cruel world that has gone terribly wrong after a plague called White Horse is unleashed on the world. Zoe's story goes back and forth from the past where she worked at Pope Pharmaceuticals to her current travels. We see the progression of the disease and the loss of hope as more and more succumb and Zoe's biggest fear is for her baby. White Horse is a terrific debut by Alex Adams in the tradition of Stephen King, Justin Cronin and Cormac McCarthy's The Road.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Scary, how humans can treat each other when things fall apart. I really liked Zoe, protagonist. She keeps in mind that "We don't have to be monsters. We still can choose."Premise: a pharmaceutical company's research project gets out of hand. The action moves between before & after, clearly marked, & give us a fully developed portrayal of Zoe's character--so much more than her menial job--to explain her behavior in the grisly present. The information we are given at the end about Koch's identity doesn't have any foreshadowing, & comes across as something the author pulled out of her hat because she didn't know how to resolve the problem.Random quote: "We are a parody of normality."Review based on an ARC
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5This is Book One of a post-apocalyptic trilogy for adults. It’s quite dark, and yet echoes of humanity shed occasional light on an otherwise bleak landscape. The story is told in alternating sections of “then” (before the apocalyptic events) and “now” – both in Zoe Marshall’s voice.In “now,” ninety percent of the world’s population is dead, killed in part by a virus, the source for which we don’t learn until close to the end of the book. (The virus is called “White Horse” by a televangelist to label it as one of the four horses of the Apocalypse.) "Then" begins with Zoe, one month away from age 31, underemployed as a janitor for Pope Pharmaceuticals while she re-evaluates what she wants out of her life. Her husband, Sam, died in a car crash five years earlier, and ever since then, she has been saving to go to college. But one day, she comes home to find that someone has put a heavy jar into her apartment, and the mystery of it terrifies her. She starts seeing a therapist, Nick Rose, at first telling him she has “dreamed” of this jar because she doesn’t want to sound crazy. Zoe and Nick both feel an attraction to one another, but the relationship possibilities are overshadowed by cataclysmic events in the outside world: a lethal virus is spreading; experimentation with the weather has gotten out of control and has led to war; and among the ten percent left alive, not all of them have survived in a human form.In "Now" Zoe is on a journey across the world, trying to find someone, somewhere, with whom she has a connection, and struggling to maintain her hold on sanity and humanity in a world inhabited by dangerous and desperate deviations from normality.Evaluation: This book alternates between lyrical and scary; horror and hope; exhilaration and despair. Zoe is brave, but not infallible, and her constant fear and inner struggles with morality versus the will to survive are all too understandable, even as they weaken her. The juxtaposition of the "then" and "now" sections is done in a quite clever manner, with striking parallels between the action in each part. It’s a bit like The Stand, a bit like The Passage, and a bit like The Road. But although there is brutality and tragedy, the memory of friendship and the possibility of love drive Zoe to keep going. And just when you think it will end in too facile a manner, the author throws you a great big curve. Can’t wait to read the next installments!
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5The world as we know if is threatened by a new deadly virus. To many it means the end of life, but for others the virus mutates and causes humans to be become, well....less so. White Horse is about one woman's struggle to survive in a world with new rules for survival. The further away this book traveled from the world we now know, the more I seemed to lose interest. After investing in nearly half of the book, I decided to finish it, but was disappointed. Definitely not a book for people who can't enjoy a good fantasy
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5My secret passion is dystopian fiction. I usually indulge myself with young adult offerings, but the opening lines of Alex Adams' adult debut novel White Horse drew in and had me settled into my favourite reading nook (for a very long time) "When I wake, the world is still gone. Only fragments remain. Pieces of places and people who were once whole." I am always intrigued by what authors imagine our future might be. Our protagonist is Zoe - a young widow who works as a cleaner at Pope Pharmaceuticals. Zoe's story is literally told in a Then and Now fashion. (which really worked for me) We start at the beginning with a mysterious jar appearing in her apartment, then cut to Zoe already on the move, trying to get to what she believes will be a safe place. The narrative cuts back and forth, from people getting sick, sicker and the world we know slowly disintegrating to almost two years in the future as Zoe makes her way across a world hardly recognizable. Ninety percent of the population is wiped out, five percent are mutating in horrific ways and the remaining five percent seem to be immune. Zoe has no idea why she hasn't succumbed to the plague, named White Horse - a reference to one of the four horsemen of the Apocalypse. White Horse was a very different read. I was horrified, yet mesmerized, repelled, yet drawn in by Adams' tale. She paints a brutal, raw picture with her prose. But those prose completely capture a world turned upside down. Fair warning to gentle readers - there are scenes and descriptions that may offend some. I'm still not quite sure how I feel about Zoe. She comes across as a very strong character, both physically and mentally and we know that she will survive. I applaud her efforts to try and hang on to her humanity and ideals in this new world. While I find her a strong lead character, I never felt fully engaged with her, despite cheering for her to beat the odds. I'll have a chance to bond with her in future books - this is the first in a planned trilogy. I want to see where Adams takes Zoe next - the last line in White Horse is a gotcha. White Horse is a strong debut from a new author and was definitely an addicting read for me.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Review Courtesy of Dark Faerie TalesQuick & Dirty: Dark and utterly terrifying. White Horse is the disturbing tale of Zoe as she journeys with the last vestiges of hope in a death riddled world.Opening Sentence: Look at me: I don’t want my therapist to think I’m crazy.The Review:The end of the world begins with a jar. A jar that mysteriously shows up in Zoe’s tightly secured apartment. The jar just sits on a table in middle of her living room. She stares at it in wonder. She doesn’t touch it because it terrifies her. She thinks it is possible she is going crazy but she doesn’t really think she is so she goes to a shrink. Dr. Nick Rose is the psychologist that she goes to with this secret but she tells him the jar came to her in a dream, that it isn’t real. He wants her to study the jar, to open it but she is wary of it. Zoe has her friends look at it believing they may know what it is and what is inside of it.Cats begin disappearing. Zoe’s friend who lives in the apartment complex soon dies. Zoe begins to fall for Nick but she wants to keep it professional because she likes talking to him. More of Zoe’s friends die. Then isolated outbreaks of people start dying by the same strange disease. Zoe happens to work as a janitor at Pope Pharmaceuticals. She believes there may be a connection to the deaths but she doesn’t have much time to think about it. War begins. Nick and others volunteer for a war that no one wants to fight. It is a strange war, one fought by controlling the weather. The war ends when there aren’t enough people left to fight it.Zoe embarks on a journey. She is joined by a blind English girl, Lisa, and The Swiss, a mysterious man. Zoe ends up in Italy looking for a boat that will hopefully take her to her ultimate destination. The travel is not easy, oftentimes there is the weather to contend with but also other people to look out for. Zoe often runs into friendly people who just want to help but she is hindered by The Swiss, ruining her plans at every turn. Lisa is a teenaged girl (exact age never revealed). She has been sexually molested by her father and Zoe helps her escape from that life. Lisa is blind and an idiot, she has no problem roaming off on her own, often getting her wounded or in trouble. I often wondered if Lisa wasn’t blind at all, that it was just a ruse for her tragic character.The Swiss is pure evil. He is an unstoppable bad guy that just has it out for Zoe and you don’t know why. The Swiss just starts out mean to Zoe and Lisa. He has no problems taking what he wants. He hides his evilness at first but Zoe is not stupid. She knows he is up to something. The Swiss often refers to Zoe and Lisa as their country names, America and England. He is impersonal and terrifying.Zoe knows she is no one special. She doesn’t understand why everything is so focused on her. Everyone around her dies and her journey is sabotaged by an evil man. Zoe doesn’t come off as the strongest person and at times she may be a little selfish but she grows to fit the environment around her. Zoe wants to help save those that she can but death follows in her wake. I really felt for Zoe and the hopeless situation she has been put it. She clings to one last strand of hope to help her through her journey.The dark and terrifying tone help set the pacing in this book. The world-building is a bit much combining disease, war, weather, Pandora’s Box and genetic manipulation, but I had no problem following it. Bits and pieces are revealed at a time, the narrative switches between the past and present, to reveal how Zoe got where she is and how Zoe is faring on her journey.Overall, White Horse is a terrifying thriller. This novel is so filled with darkness, hopelessness and despair. It was not a light read, but if you like books about the end of the world then White Horse is a good addition.Notable Scene:“The other two types?” When she squints, trying to figure out what I’m talking about, I remind her she said we were down to three types of people, and the dead ones were just the first.“Two more types, right. You and me, the living. The ones who aren’t sick. For whatever reason, we’re the lucky ones who seem to be immune to this thing. Or unlucky, maybe. I haven’t decided yet.” She sits up straight, stares at the TV. The president is giving a press conference with what’s left of the press. “And the others.”“ ‘The others’?”“Come on, you have to have seen them. The ones who got sick but didn’t die. At least, not straightaway.”I think about Mike Schultz eating the mice. One day he was sick, the next he was supplementing his diet with test subjects. I think about my father and his Mr. Hyde routine. There’s no way I can twist that to make it sound normal.“I’ve seen some. How bad is it?”She nods at the TV, reaches for the remote.“Human beings are no longer compatible with life.”The White Horse Trilogy:1. White HorseFTC Advisory: Simon & Schuster/Atria provided me with a copy of White Horse. No goody bags, sponsorships, “material connections,” or bribes were exchanged for my review.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5What I LovedIntenseMany parts during the book had me sitting on the edge of my seat wondering what was going to happen next. The book is filled with survival, killings, lots death and a race against time.CharacterZoe: What an amazing character. She has survived against all the odds and has even conceived while 90% of the worlds population is dead. Zoe has lost everything and everyone she has ever cared about and to go in search of her lover that may even be dead is risky and brave. Traveling from America to Europe while pregnant is a huge task.Post-ApocalypticThe world has ended by a disease that has wiped out 90% of the worlds population. The other 10% is immune or has been transformed by the disease making them to be something not so human. I wonder what percent I would fall into? The dead, immune or mutated?TrilogyEven though this is being planned as a trilogy the ending was summed up really well. I still want to know what is going to happen in the next book, but I wasn't left with a lot of loose ends.Now & ThenThe book goes back and forth between pre-disease/outbreak/after effects to now and her traveling through Europe. The time span of the book is only 18 months (I think). Going back and forth in the timelines is both aggravating and awesome. A part will be really intense and something new is being revealed and then it will got to the Then timeline, but that part will be just as good and it will cut back again. We go back and forth between two times that are both intense and intriguing and I want to be in-taking it all at once. ConfusionNow & ThenWith the alternating timelines it does get confusing. The information about how civilization ends really isn't explained in the beginning, bit by bit gets revealed as Zoe either finds out the information or reveals it. A few times with the Then timeline hops between being later in the after effects and then goes back to pre-disease. Just paying attention to the story and reading it makes everything understandable. RecommendationAdult post-apocalyptic thriller trilogy that is a must read.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5I had a certain idea of what this book was going to be like before I started reading it. I thought the blurb sounded interesting and it reminded me of daydreams I had when I was a teenager about a movie, the title of which I’ve long forgotten, of a man who was one of the very few left in the world after a catastrophe wipes out humanity. What would I do in those circumstances? Well, from the blurb, White Horse sounded like my childhood daydreams but after the first page I knew I’d never imagined anything like this.Then it made me think of The Road by Cormac McCarthy, a book I was not very fond of. Fortunately I saw differences almost right away. Whereas in The Road, the idea of hope was conveyed with contempt, I sensed hope was the backbone of White Horse; every page is imbued with it even as events make it seem there’s nothing worth fighting for.This novel is so rich in detail and imagination that every page brought new surprises. Sometimes I found myself rereading a paragraph to decipher what the author meant and then it would hit me a paragraph or page later – ah hah! But it’s so cleverly written that if there had not been an ‘aha’ moment it wouldn’t have mattered. That’s the way this book is – it infuses the culture of a new world order around the reader so well that its meaning sinks in without realization.The main character is likeable so I rooted for her on every page. She’s brave, focused and honest. Even at the most cringe-worthy moments, it was difficult to put down. The only issue I would have with this book is the cover. Something about it gave me the idea that White Horse leans towards the YA genre. Wrong! Not YA at all. And of course the blurb does start off saying ‘thirty-year-old Zoe leads an ordinary life…’ which should dispel any the notion that it’s YA. But the cover threw me off.I will go so far as to predict that this book will become a huge best-seller. It certainly deserves to be.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5I had a certain idea of what this book was going to be like before I started reading it. I thought the blurb sounded interesting and it reminded me of daydreams I had when I was a teenager about a movie, the title of which I’ve long forgotten, of a man who was one of the very few left in the world after a catastrophe wipes out humanity. What would I do in those circumstances? Well, from the blurb, White Horse sounded like my childhood daydreams but after the first page I knew I’d never imagined anything like this.Then it made me think of The Road by Cormac McCarthy, a book I was not very fond of. Fortunately I saw differences almost right away. Whereas in The Road, the idea of hope was conveyed with contempt, I sensed hope was the backbone of White Horse; every page is imbued with it even as events make it seem there’s nothing worth fighting for.This novel is so rich in detail and imagination that every page brought new surprises. Sometimes I found myself rereading a paragraph to decipher what the author meant and then it would hit me a paragraph or page later – ah hah! But it’s so cleverly written that if there had not been an ‘aha’ moment it wouldn’t have mattered. That’s the way this book is – it infuses the culture of a new world order around the reader so well that its meaning sinks in without realization.The main character is likeable so I rooted for her on every page. She’s brave, focused and honest. Even at the most cringe-worthy moments, it was difficult to put down. The only issue I would have with this book is the cover. Something about it gave me the idea that White Horse leans towards the YA genre. Wrong! Not YA at all. And of course the blurb does start off saying ‘thirty-year-old Zoe leads an ordinary life…’ which should dispel any the notion that it’s YA. But the cover threw me off.I will go so far as to predict that this book will become a huge best-seller. It certainly deserves to be.
Book preview
White Horse - Alex Adams
PROLOGUE
DATE: THEN
Look at me: I don’t want my therapist to think I’m crazy. That the lie rolls off my tongue without tripping over my teeth is a miracle.
I dreamed of the jar last night.
Again?
he asks.
The leather squeaks beneath my head when I nod.
The exact same jar?
Always the same.
There’s a scratching as he pushes his pen across the paper.
Describe it for me, Zoe.
We’ve done this a half dozen times, Dr. Nick Rose and I. My answer never changes, and yet I indulge him when he asks. Or maybe he indulges me. Me because I’m haunted by the jar, him because he has a boat to buy.
The couch cushions crease under me as I lean back and drink him in the way one drinks that first cup of coffee in the mornings. Small, savoring sips. He fills the comfortably worn leather chair. His body has buffed it to a gentle gleam that is soothing to the eye. His large hands are worn from work that doesn’t take place in this office. The too-short hair, easy to maintain. His eyes are dark like mine. His hair, too. There’s a scar on his scalp his gaze can’t possibly reach in the mirror, and I wonder if his fingers dance over it when he’s alone or if he’s even aware of its presence. His skin is tan; indoors is not his default. But where to put him? Maybe not a boat. Maybe a motorcycle. The idea of him straddling a motorcycle makes me smile on the inside. I keep it hidden there. If I let it creep to my lips, he’ll ask about that. And while I tell him all my thoughts, I don’t always share my secrets.
Scorched cream. If it were a paint color, that’s what they’d call it. It’s like … it was made for me. When I reach out in the dream, there’s a perfectness to the angle of my arms as I try to grasp the handles. Did you ever have the one kid in school whose ears stuck out like this?
I sit straight, tuck my hair behind my ears, shove them forward at painful right angles.
His mouth twitches. He wants to smile. I can see the debate: Is it professional to laugh? Will she read it as sexual harassment? Laugh, I want to tell him. Please.
I was that kid.
Really?
No.
His smile breaks free, and for a moment I forget the jar. It’s neither huge nor perfect, but he made it for me. I find myself filled with a million questions, each designed to probe him the way he searches me.
Do you have a recurring dream?
I ask.
The smile melts away. I don’t remember them. But we’re talking about you.
Right. Don’t throw me a bone. The jar, the jar. What else to tell you about the jar?
Are there any markings?
I don’t need to stop and think; I know. No. It’s pristine.
My shoulders ache with tension. That’s all.
How does it make you feel?
Terrified.
I lean forward, elbows pressing a dent into my knees. And curious.
PART
ONE
ONE
DATE: NOW
When I wake, the world is still gone. Only fragments remain. Pieces of places and people who were once whole. On the other side of the window, the landscape is a violent green, the kind you used to see on a flat-screen television in a watering hole disguised as a restaurant. Too green. Dense gray clouds banished the sun weeks ago, forcing her to watch us die through a warped, wet lens.
There are stories told among pockets of survivors that rains have come to the Sahara, that green now sprinkles the endless brown, that the British Isles are drowning. Nature is rebuilding with her own set of plans. Man has no say.
It’s a month until my thirty-first birthday. I am eighteen months older than I was when the disease struck. Twelve months older than when war first pummeled the globe. Somewhere in between then and now, geology went crazy and drove the weather to schizophrenia. No surprise when you look at why we were fighting. Nineteen months have passed since I first saw the jar.
I’m in a farmhouse on what used to be a farm somewhere in what used to be Italy. This is not the country where gleeful tourists toss coins into the Trevi Fountain, nor do people flock to the Holy See anymore. Oh, at first they rushed in like sickle cells forced through a vein, thick, clotted masses aboard trains and planes, toting their life savings, willing to give it all to the church for a shot at salvation. Now their corpses litter the streets of Vatican City and spill into Rome. They no longer ease their hands into La Bocca della Verità and hold their breath while they whisper a pretty lie they’ve convinced themselves is real: that a cure-all is coming any day now; that a band of scientists hidden away in some mountaintop have a vaccine that can rebuild us; that God is moments away from sending in His troops on some holy lifesaving mission; that we will be saved.
Raised voices trickle through the walls, reminding me that while I’m alone in the world, I’m not alone here.
It’s the salt.
It’s not the fucking salt.
There’s the dull thud of a fist striking wood.
I’m telling you, it’s the salt.
I do a mental tally of my belongings as the voices battle: backpack, boots, waterproof coat, a toy monkey, and inside a plastic sleeve: a useless passport and a letter I’m too chicken to read. This is all I have here in this ramshackle room. Its squalor is from before the end, I’ve decided. Poor housekeeping; not enough money for maintenance.
If it’s not the salt, what is it?
High-fructose corn syrup,
the other voice says, with the superior tone of one convinced he’s right. Maybe he is. Who knows anymore?
Ha. That doesn’t explain Africa. They don’t eat sweets in Timbuktu. That’s why they’re all potbelly skinny.
Salt, corn syrup, what does it matter?
I ask the walls, but they’re short on answers.
There’s movement behind me. I turn to see Lisa No-last-name filling the doorway, although there is less of her to fill it than there was a week ago when I arrived. She’s younger than me by ten years. English, from one of those towns that ends in -shire. The daughter of one of the men in the next room, the niece of the other.
It doesn’t matter what caused the disease. Not now.
She looks at me through feverish eyes; it’s a trick: Lisa has been blind since birth. Does it?
My time is running out; I have a ferry to catch if I’m to make it to Greece.
I crouch, hoist my backpack onto my shoulders. They’re thinner now, too. In the dusty mirror on the wall, the bones slice through my thin T-shirt.
Not really,
I tell her. When the first tear rolls down her cheek, I give her what I have left, which amounts to a hug and a gentle stroke of her brittle hair.
I never knew my steel bones until the jar.
The godforsaken jar.
DATE: THEN
My apartment is a modern-day fortress. Locks, chains, and inside a code I have three chances to get right, otherwise the cavalry charges in, demanding to know if I am who I say I am. All of this is set into a flimsy wooden frame.
Eleven hours cleaning floors and toilets and emptying trash in hermetic space. Eleven hours exchanging one-sided small talk with mice. Now my eyes burn from the day, and I long to pluck them from their sockets and rinse them clean.
When the door swings open, I know. At first I think it’s the red answering machine light winking at me from the kitchen. But no, it’s more. The air is alien like something wandered freely in this space during my absence, touching what’s mine without leaving a mark.
Golden light floods the living room almost as soon as my fingers touch the switch. My eyes blink until they summon ample lubricative tears to provide a buffer. My pupils contract just like they’re supposed to, and finally I can walk into the light without tripping.
They say it’s not paranoia if someone is really out to get you. There is no prickle on the back of my neck telling me to watch out behind me, but I’m right about the air: it has been parted in my absence and something placed inside.
A jar.
Not the kind that holds sour dill pickles that crunch between your teeth and fill your head with echoes. This looks like a museum piece, pottery, older than this city—so says the grime ground into its pores. And that ancient thing fills my apartment with the feel of things long buried.
I could examine the jar, lift it from the floor and move it away from here. But some things, once touched, can never be untouched. I am a product of every B movie I’ve ever seen, every superstition I’ve ever heard, every tale old wives have told.
I should examine the jar, but my fingers refuse to move, protecting me from the what-if. They reach for the phone instead.
The super picks up on the eighth ring. When I ask if he let someone into my place, his mind goes on walkabout. An eternity passes. During that time I imagine him clawing at his balls, out of habit more than anything else, while he performs a mental tally of the beer still left in the fridge.
No,
he says, eventually. Something get stolen?
No.
What’s the problem, then?
I hang up. Count to ten. When I turn the jar is still there, centered perfectly in my living room between the couch and television.
The security company is next on my list. No, they tell me. We’ve got no record of anyone entering apartment thirteen-oh-four.
What about five minutes ago?
Silence. Then: We’ve got that. Do you need us to send someone out?
The police give me more of the same. Nobody breaks in and leaves things. It must be a gift from a secret admirer. Or maybe I’m crazy; they’re not above suggesting that, but they use polite, hollow words designed to make me feel okay about hanging up the phone.
Then I remember the answering machine’s blinking light. When I press Playback, my mother’s voice booms from the speaker.
Zoe? Zoe? Are you there?
There’s a pause; then: No, honey, it’s the machine.
Another pause. "What—I am leaving a message. What do you mean, ‘Talk louder’? There’s playful slapping in the background as she shoos my father away.
Your sister called. She said there’s someone she wants you to meet. Her voice drops to a whisper that’s anything but discreet.
I think it’s a man. Anyway, I just thought you could call her. Come over for dinner Saturday and you can tell me all about him. Just us girls. Another pause.
Oh, and you of course. You’re almost a girl, she tells Dad. I can picture him laughing good-naturedly in the background.
Sweetie, call me. I’d try your cell phone, but you know me: ever hopeful that you’re on a date."
Normally, I feel a small flash of anger in my chest when she calls to match make. But today …
I wish my mom were here. Because that jar isn’t mine.
Someone has been in my space.
DATE: NOW
The human body is a wondrous thing. It’s an acid manufacturing plant capable of transforming simple food into a hot burning mess.
I vomit a lot now. I’m great at it. I can lean forward just right and miss my boots completely. If the world wasn’t gone, I could go to the Olympics.
As soon as breakfast comes up, I poke down an apple. It takes.
Do you have to go?
Lisa asks. She’s chewing her bottom lip, working the delicate skin into a pulpy mass.
I have to get to Brindisi.
We’re standing in the farmhouse’s yard, encapsulated in a constant damp mist. Plush moss springs from pale stones that make up the house’s exterior walls. My bicycle is leaning against a long-abandoned water pump. Somewhere along the way, the owners had resources enough to reroute the plumbing and enter the twentieth century, but they left the pump for charm or lack of caring. The bicycle is blue and not originally mine. No money changed hands. It was purchased for the paltry sum of a kiss outside Aeroporto Leonardo da Vinci di Fiumicino. No tongue. Just the surprising taste of tenderness from a Norwegian man who didn’t want to die without one last embrace.
Please,
Lisa says. Stay.
I can’t.
There’s a tightness in my chest from the mountains of regret heaped upon it. I like her. I really do. She’s a sweet kid who once dreamed of nice things. Now the best she can hope for is survival. Thriving is not an option and it may never be.
Please. It’s nice having another woman here. It’s better.
Then it strikes me, the note of desperation in her voice. She does not want to be left here alone with these men. They should be bound to protect family, and they do. But shared blood isn’t the only reason: I suddenly realize they see her as a possession. A way to while away the hours until humanity draws its last ragged breath. I should have sensed it sooner, but I was so bound to my own agenda that I failed to look beyond my borders.
I’m sorry,
I say. I didn’t know. I should have, but I didn’t.
A pale pink flush creeps over her fair skin: I’ve guessed her secret. Although she can’t see me, I glance away to give her a moment to recoup. My cheeks buzz with shame.
The silence lasts long enough for the precipitation to congeal into raindrops.
You can’t stay any more than I can. Come with me.
I should regret the words, but I don’t. If she agrees, it will add who knows how many days to my journey. Time is a luxury when you can’t see what’s left in the hourglass. But with humanity limping along as it is, kindness is rare. I have to hold on to what makes me human.
Really? You’d let me go with you?
I insist.
Her neck pops as she jerks her chin over one shoulder, back at the house.
They won’t let me go. They’ll never allow it.
What did they do to you, baby girl? I want to ask. Whatever she says, it won’t affect my decision anyway: she’s coming with me.
Go up to your room and get your things. Make sure you’ve got something comfortable and warm to wear.
But—
I can see she’s still worried about the men.
I’ll take care of it.
We go inside together, and in the abrupt shelter we luxuriate for a moment. It feels good not to be rained on. Then we nod and she inches up the stairs while I make for the kitchen.
As far as kitchens go—and I’ve known few—this one is lean. Not an efficient leanness, but the too-thinness of a woman who fights to maintain an unnatural weight. The room has sag; I can see where things should go if one had the inclination to decorate or a love for cooking. It yearns to be filled with a family.
Only one man is present: Lisa’s uncle. His skin is filled to capacity and oozes over the chair’s borders. It’s a sturdy piece of furniture probably many generations old. The wood is dark from time, and the seat is some kind of thick wicker with a honeyed sheen. The chair has seven empty siblings.
The big guy glances up, scans me for weaknesses he can exploit. My breath catches as I pull my shoulders back and push my chin forward, trying to look as strong as my body will allow. He finds nothing he can take without considerable effort and goes back to chewing on the bread I made two days ago after I picked the weevils from the pantry’s ample flour supply. Crumbs fly from his mouth, spraying the table with damp flecks that will harden and stick if they’re not wiped down soon. Neither Lisa nor I will be here to do it. These men will be wallowing in their own filth in no time.
Lisa’s coming with me.
He grunts, swallows, fixes his beady eyes on me. Raisins pressed deep into dough.
She stays.
It wasn’t a question.
His bulk gathers like an impending storm as he heaves himself from the chair.
We’re her family.
This can’t go anyplace good. A cold spot the size of a quarter forms on the back of my neck and spreads until I’m chilled all over. What was I thinking? He’s bigger than me. Morbidly obese and slow, true, but large enough that if he gets me on the ground, I’m screwed.
We stare each other down. If we were dogs, someone would be betting on him, impressed by his sheer size.
A sharp shriek tears the artificial calm. Upstairs. Lisa. For a second I tune out, my attention latching onto the strange silence that always follows a scream.
The fat man lunges for me. Lisa is in trouble, but right now I am, too.
I feint left, dive right. He’s like a crash test vehicle hitting the wall, plaster dust forming a white halo around his body. It takes him a moment to recover. He shakes his head to clear the pain fog, then comes at me again.
Again I manage to dodge him. Now we’re staring each other down across the width of the table. Just a few feet between us. No weapons in sight. Lisa is a tidy housekeeper, and though this isn’t her home, just one they stumbled across the same way I did, everything is in its place.
Another scream. This one drifts like dandelion fluff.
Inside my chest, my heart hurls itself at its bone prison. It knows her father is up there with her and it knows what’s happening.
I’m going to her,
I say. And if you try and stop me, you’re a dead man.
He laughs. His jowls wobble and shudder.
When he’s done fucking her, we’re going to take turns fucking you, bitch.
I’m surprised you didn’t try sooner.
He holds up both palms. What can I say, love? We like lamb, not mutton.
It’s my turn to laugh, only mine is bitter and dry.
What, bitch? What’s so fucking funny? Share the joke.
I inch down the table toward the open doorway. On the other side of this wall there’s an umbrella stand. What’s in there is useless for keeping a body dry, but the pointed end could still easily put out an eye.
Did I ever tell you what I did for a living before all this?
He grunts. Follows me down the table until we’re both at the blunted edge.
Some kind of lab rat.
I nod. Something like that. I’ve done a lot of lifting, so I’m pretty strong for a skinny woman. What have you done besides shift gears in your truck and swing a glass of Guinness?
There’s less strength in my body now than there was before the world ended, but my survival instincts have brought me this far. I make a break for it but I miscalculate: his reach is longer than mine. His arm snaps out. Fat grasping fingers coil themselves around my ponytail. He jerks me backwards and pulls me against him until his gut is a stuffed IHOP pancake bulging against my back. A triangle forms around my neck and tightens. Chest, humerus, ulna.
Usually when I long for the past, I dream of meals in chain restaurants where they serve the exact same dish every time. I dream of how it feels to be dry, or how my skin tingled when I stood too long in a too-hot shower. But now? High heels. Stilettos. With a four-inch metal rod keeping the heels straight and true. Because my captor has socked feet and it would take nothing to drive my fashionable weapon right between his metatarsals.
I’m wearing boots with a thick sole made for walking, but he’s six-foot-something and I have to exaggerate to see five-five, which means my heels aren’t going to do much besides grind his toes. It’s not enough.
I win,
he says.
Maybe he’s right, but the game isn’t over yet. There’s more than just me at stake.
When was the last time you saw your own dick?
My voice thickens as the arm tightens at my throat. He’s pulling me closer and higher. My heels are rising off the ground. There’s a whisper of rubber against tile as my feet flail to seek stability. Can you hold it to piss or do you sit like a woman?
Fuck you.
Please. Fat guys like you can’t get a hard-on.
Dark spots obscure my vision. It’s morning but my daylight is fading fast. Lisa is sobbing now between the screams.
There’s more strength in him than first appears. Adipose overlays significant muscle mass; the perfect camouflage. My toes leave the ground.
Everything that follows happens in an instant.
My chin drops and I sink my teeth into his forearm. The enamel slices through the tissue and scrapes bone. I draw my knees up so when he drops me and lets out a roar that comes all the way from his scrotum, my weight falls like the sparkly ball on New Year’s Eve and my boots crush his feet. A gasp shoots from my throat as I fall forward onto my knees. Impact pains set my shins on fire. My opponent recovers long enough to deliver a swift kick to my backside with his damaged foot. Warm copper with a hint of iron floods my mouth. I scramble to my feet, dart sideways, arm held protectively over my stomach.
Without a thought in my head besides survival, I reach for a chair. It’s lighter than its mellowed wood would suggest. Or maybe not. In times of need, the human body can conduct amazing feats. I know this because That’s Incredible! told me. And Cathy Lee Crosby had a face an eight-year-old could trust.
White bone gleams through the skin as I lock my hands into place on the chair’s back. He’s English, which means he understands little about my national sport. This chair is my bat and his face is the ball. Baseball on steroids.
He comes for me and I swing. There’s a sharp crack as his face shatters. Wet droplets of blood splatter my shirt and face: a mosquito’s wet dream. Broken teeth crumble from his sagging mouth, and he falls. He is a mountain of flesh conquered by a woman holding a chair. The wood slips from my hands as I stagger into the hall and mount the stairs.
DATE: THEN
I get his name from a friend of a friend’s sister.
Oh my God, you have to call him. He’s the best,
my friend says with the exaggerated enthusiasm of one passing on thirdhand news.
Nick Rose. He sounds like a carpenter, not someone who listens to problems for a crippling fee. A woodworker. Someone average. I can do that. I can talk to someone regular. Because normally when I think about a therapist I imagine an austere Sigmund Freud looking for links between my quirks and my feelings about my mother. My relationship with my mother is just fine, although I haven’t yet returned her call or contacted my sister like she asked.
What would Freud make of that? What would Dr. Nick Rose?
I make the call out on the street from my cell phone. The city is in full tilt. Horns are the spice sprinkled over relentless traffic. Bodies form an organic conveyor belt constantly grinding along the sidewalks. Out here my words will be lost, but that’s what I want. I’m a rational woman but the jar’s arrival has me questioning my grip on reality. And deep down inside me, in the vault where I keep my fears carefully separated and wrapped in positive thoughts, I get the crazy notion that the jar will know.
So I stand outside on a corner, cup my hand over the phone’s mouthpiece, and dial.
A man answers. I expected a female assistant and I tell him so and immediately feel a jab of guilt for stereotyping my own sex. Some feminist I am.
He laughs. It’s just me. I like to talk to potential clients. It gives both of us a feel for each other.
Clients. Not patients. My shoulders slump and I realize how taut my body has been holding itself. Dr. Nick Rose’s voice is warm and bold like good coffee. He laughs like someone who is well practiced in the art.
I want to hear it again, so I say, Just so we’re clear, I don’t secretly want to have sex with either of my parents.
Another laugh is my reward. Despite my reservations, I smile into the phone.
Me either,
Dr. Rose tells me. I worked through that in college just to make sure. It was touch and go for a while, especially when my father kept asking me if he looked pretty.
We laugh some more. My tension is rendered butter melting away from my psyche. And at the end he tells me that Friday afternoons are all mine if I’ll have him.
When we hang up, I am light-footed. The mere act of procuring a therapist has done wonders for me already. Friday. It’s Tuesday now. That gives me three days to fabricate a story about the jar. A dream, maybe. Psychologists love dreams. Because I can’t tell him the truth and I can’t explain why because I don’t know. The answer isn’t there yet. I don’t want him to think I’m crazy, because I’m not. Desperate is what I am. Quietly desperate and insatiably curious.
I follow the routine: unlock, unlock, open, close, lock, lock, chain, security code. The blinking light on the panel glows green, just like it’s supposed to.
The jar is waiting.
DATE: NOW
Lisa’s whimpers come from her bedroom. I say her bedroom; but who knows who it really belongs to. Whoever was here before shook all their personal belongings into suitcases, or maybe boxes, and fled. So I call it Lisa’s room, although it won’t be for much longer. Not if I can help it.
Left at the top of the stairs. Second right. Through the open door.
What’s left of her family is in there with her.
Her father is a leaner man than his brother, younger by a handful of years, although from this angle I can’t see his face. His ass is a glowing white moon with a pale slash of hair dividing the hemispheres.
Beneath him, Lisa is pressed into the bed facedown. She’s past struggling, resigned to her place in the family hierarchy. A crude puppet impaled by her puppet master, hunching the bed herky-jerky with