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Rumors of the Undead (30 Days of Night, Book 1), by Steve Niles, Jeff Mariotte
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In a sleepy, secluded Alaska town called Barrow, the sun sets and doesn't rise for more than thirty consecutive days and nights from November to December. During this time a few years ago, from the darkness and across the frozen wasteland, an evil that normally preferred to exist in the shadows descended upon Barrow and brought the residents to their knees. Barrow's only hope was Eben and Stella Olemaun, a husband-and-wife law enforcement team who were torn between their own survival and saving the town they loved.
Months later, as Stella Olemaun attempts to warn the world about the looming vampire threat by any means necessary, a rogue government agent may be taking more than an active interest in her story. And meanwhile, further north, a new sheriff and his young son must solve the lingering mystery of Barrow, even as the survivors of the original attack prepare for the sun to set once again -- however this time, they're ready. 30 Days Of Night: Rumors Of The Undead is Steve Niles's innovative and eagerly anticipated expansion of a nightmarish narrative that explores the nature of ancient evil existing -- and thriving -- in an unsuspecting modern world.
- Sales Rank: #1958387 in Books
- Published on: 2006-03-01
- Released on: 2006-03-01
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 6.75" h x 1.40" w x 4.19" l, .45 pounds
- Binding: Mass Market Paperback
- 416 pages
Review
"If you have a taste for the real stuff of horror fiction, you'll find it in 30 Days of Night."
-- Clive Barker, for the award-winning graphic novel
About the Author
Jeff Mariotte is the author of more than forty-five novels, including the supernatural thrillers Season of the Wolf, River Runs Red, Missing White Girl, and Cold Black Hearts; the thriller The Devil’s Bait, the horror epic The Slab, the Dark Vengeance teen horror quartet, and others, as well as dozens of comic books, notably Desperadoes and Zombie Cop. He has written books, stories, and comics set in beloved fictional universes, including those of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel, CSI and CSI: Miami, The Shield, Criminal Minds, Conan, Superman, Spider-Man, Hellraiser, and many more, and is a two-time winner of the Scribe Award presented by the International Association of Media Tie-inWriters. He’s a co-owner of the specialty bookstore Mysterious Galaxy in San Diego, and lives in southeastern Arizona on the Flying M Ranch. Please visit him at JeffMariotte.com or Facebook.com/JeffreyJMariotte.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
1
Morning sun, diffused by the yellow brown haze that snugged over the Los Angeles basin like a toxic cap slowly strangling the life out of its citizens, eliminated the Slumber Motel's only advantage: neon so old it looked retro. It was one of those typical Hollywood joints that tourists sometimes accidentally picked off the Internet. Usually they realized the error of their choice before checking in, and switched to one of the national chains. If they didn't, then their first night's lullaby was dealers and hookers plying their trades, the shopping cart people collecting bottles from the trash cans around the vending machines, junkies hitting up guests for smokes and spare change. The cops came around once in a while, but they preferred to stay away if at all possible. Even the scrawny palms shed their fronds and stood bare, jaundiced and sickly, as if they'd rather die than live too close to the faded pastel box.
Andy Gray knew that crime was a given at a place like this. Only the presence of yellow crime scene tape wound around the trunks of the spindly palms and tied to the rusty iron banister and the squad car sitting at the curb with two uniforms inside it were unusual. Andy left his Bureau ride, a standard gray Crown Vic, and walked up to the black-and-white, waving his ID at the two young cops.
They emerged from their car, stretched out the kinks. "Help you?" the male cop asked.
Andy scanned the man's brass nameplate. "Special Agent Andrew Gray, FBI," he said, passing over the leather folder with his shield and ID card. "I need a closer look at the crime scene, Officer Ybarra."
Ybarra checked out Andy's identification, then smiled broadly. His teeth were white and straight, accentuated by his dark olive skin. His partner, a woman named Coggins, was almost a foot shorter, but solid. She kept her lips pressed together in a thin line as she handed him a clipboard. Andy added his signature to the list of those who had come before him. "CSIs have been here all night," Ybarra told him. "But they're gone now, so I guess it's all yours."
A rookie, then. LA cops had never routinely referred to the criminalists who examined crime scenes as CSIs until the TV show came along. There were too many specialties -- medical examiners, latent print examiners, forensic anthropologists, photographers, trace evidence examiners. A cop with more experience might have said, "The CSIU has been here all night." The crime scene investigation unit covered all bases, and cops -- forever going up against criminal defense attorneys who'd grasp at any straw they were offered -- needed to learn to speak precisely. Andy guessed that the CSIU had, in fact, spent the night here, with the possible exception of the medical examiner. MEs only came out when there were dead bodies on hand.
Trouble was, Andy was pretty sure there had been a dead body in that hotel room.
The fact that nobody knew the body was dead was the whole problem.
He turned away from the cops and looked over the scene, trying to take it in as it was now without remembering what he'd been told about the events of the night before. What he'd seen when he got to the LA office.
Jacob Paul Norris. Andy's partner. Dead man walking.
The science of modern crime scene examination had pretty much been invented by the FBI. He remembered what he had learned at Quantico, that approaching a crime scene with preconceptions blinded you to the reality of the situation. Andy Gray emptied his mind and opened his senses.
The stink of rush hour traffic fumes along Sunset.
Glass on the parking lot surface, glittering in the morning light. Some of it tinged with red.
Blood -- pools of it, almost black on the macadam. More splashed against the pale yellow stucco walls.
Small puddles of something else, on the sidewalk that ran along in front of the rooms. A housekeeper's cart had been caught in the crossfire. The puddles were probably shampoo, cleansers, solvents, something like that. Forensics would confirm that for him.
Chips out of the stucco. Bullet holes. At least a hundred, he guessed.
Motel room windows shattered. Curtains swaying gently in the breeze that also fluttered the crime scene tape, making a noise like a kid with a playing card in his bicycle spokes.
Another smell, metallic, underlying the exhaust fumes. Copper. Blood.
And a third, fainter still. Familiar. Andy searched his memory and came up with it.
Rotting meat.
Staying where he was, Andy turned slowly, taking in the surroundings. A block wall at the end of the parking lot -- part of a liquor store. Sunset Boulevard -- cars slowing so their occupants could gape at the wreckage of the motel. Like traffic didn't already suck bad enough. Across the street, a tattoo parlor, then a trendy bar, then the Standard Hotel with its upside-down sign. Cute.
Andy lived in Sacramento with his wife and two daughters, but he'd been spending so much time in LA, he was beginning to hate it as only a native could.
Only days ago, there had been yellow tape around the Standard, too, but the hotel's owners carried more weight with the city than the Pakistani family that owned the cleverly named Slumber Motel. A woman had been murdered at the Standard. Shot. Didn't even make the evening news. The Olemaun woman had been checked into the next room, but she'd vanished. She was, officially, a "Person of Interest" to the LAPD. She had already been that to the Bureau.
Andy shrugged. He'd seen enough out here. He would demand copies of all the CSIU's reports and fill in any blanks that way. Time to look at what he had really come here for.
Paul's room.
He returned to the Crown Vic. From a kit in the trunk he took some plastic booties and tied them on around his ankles, covering his shoes. The CSIU had already taken their pictures and measurements and samples, so he wasn't concerned about Locard's principle of exchange. Andy wasn't going to contaminate the crime scene by looking at it, but if the stories he'd heard were true, he had no interest in contaminating his own shoes by stepping into that room unprotected. For the same reason, he tugged on latex gloves. The dark suit was off the rack from JC Penney, and if he got anything on it he could expense the dry cleaning. But the shoes were Bally, a gift from his wife. Not cheap -- not on his salary.
So outfitted, he crossed the parking lot to the door of Room 7. The door was closed but not locked. He turned the knob, pushed it open.
Even though the window facing onto the parking lot had been blown out, fresh air still hadn't cleansed the stench inside. This was where the meat smell had come from, and a lot of the blood. It looked like Paul had been moonlighting as a butcher, running his own slaughterhouse from the room.
The blood was everywhere. Some of it was fresh, still liquid, some brown and crusted on surfaces as if it had been there for days. Spatter on the walls and pictures and mirrors, drip patterns on the ugly gray carpeting and the once white bedspread. Puddles drying on the fake wood veneer of the dresser and the little round dining table.
He continued into the bathroom. A sink with a mirror over it, a toilet, a bathtub with a shower, and a small opaque glass window that probably opened onto the alley. A towel rack that had probably held cheap white hotel towels. The CSIU had taken those. Andy could see spots where they'd swabbed the blood in here, but plenty was left behind. If he had to guess, and Andy Gray didn't like guessing, he'd say there had been multiple violent deaths in this small, dank room.
The mirror was filmed with red as though somebody had feebly attempted cleaning the gore. Through the crimson screen, Andy caught a glimpse of a man as bland as his name. Short, graying hair; sallow skin; the look of a man who spent too much of his time inside or in the dark. He didn't want to examine himself any closer and looked away.
The sink looked like a painter had been cleaning brushes in it -- a monochromatic painter, at that. Paul's red period. Even -- Andy felt his gorge rise, fought to keep down his coffee-shop breakfast -- the sides of the toilet were coated with the stuff. Chips in the porcelain showed bone fragments as well.
Good Lord, what had gone on in here?
Something on the tile floor. Andy bent over, afraid to kneel in this place. Pulled a pen from his pocket and used it to nudge the tiny object. A tuft of fur. He scanned the rest of the floor, still bent over. A tiny tooth in one spot, something else that might have been a cockroach's carapace. He had been told that they had actually recovered animal parts from here -- rats, insects, lizards. All of them ripped open, desiccated.
All of them drained of blood.
Andy stood up again, too fast. The room tilted and he had to catch himself on the edge of the sink. Thank God for the latex gloves, he thought. Would there be any shower long enough and hot enough to scorch him clean after this? It was the oldest cliché in the book, but Andy would never get used to seeing scenes like this. He would worry when his stomach didn't tighten up.
He had to get out of here. His pores felt clogged with grime, his nose packed with blood. He tasted it. He knew the evidence technicians had taken all of Paul's belongings -- clothing, laptop, briefcase, any notes he might have made. Local cops hated it when the Bureau swept in demanding their evidence, their casework. He didn't blame them a bit, but he had done it himself and would do it again today. They didn't know what they were looking at, had no clue what the big picture was, and they could not be allowed to know. LA's Assistant Director in Charge himself had made that abundantly clear.
So Andy would supplement his walk-through with everything the LAPD's Hollywood Division had collected, and he would make enemies of the Hollywood cops in the bargain. Cementing the Bureau's reputation as a bunch of hard-nosed assholes who didn't care about the cops on the beat. Andy wasn't...
Most helpful customer reviews
1 of 1 people found the following review helpful.
Great human horror story
By Stephany Rodriguez
I read the comic book that this story is based upon. The comic was brilliant and unique and a really great story. The book tells an even better one. In this book you will meet FBI agent Andy Gray. Andy is a fairly normal, nerdy kind of guy. He is very nondescript and a little in awe of his more outgoing flamboyant partner. The story is about Andy's partner being turned into a vampire and Andy's quest to stop him. It is also about how to come to grips with hard truths about the people that you love and how wallowing in denial and self pity can ruin a life. You actually get to see Andy make mistake after mistake and you cringe and really don't like him a lot in this book, but you can't stop yourself from reading. The book is so gripping that you have to follow his tragic story to its conclusion.
2 of 2 people found the following review helpful.
Graphic but disjointed at times
By Dr. K
This book is good; not great, not bad. The graphic descriptions are some of the best in current horror literature. The problem is in practicality and fluidity of the story. There is a saying, "freedom within form." A story should provide a plausible context for the reader to enter, even if fiction. Unfortunately this one doesn't at times, which is enough to keep the reader aware that s/he is reading a fictional story. Fiction doesn't equal unbelievable, which this book is at times. I won't elaborate in detail as I do not want to spoil it for other readers. In summary, I recommend the book for a quick and dirty read. Cheers.
2 of 2 people found the following review helpful.
Too Many Rumors
By Ana Mardoll
30 Days of Night: Rumors of the Undead / 978-0-7434-9651-3
"Rumors of the Undead" takes place after the '30 days of night' in Barrow, Alaska, where nearly the entire population of an isolated arctic town is massacred by vampires under an extended cover of darkness. Rather than being a direct sequel, however, "Rumors" follows in the footsteps of an FBI agent assigned to keep an eye on Stella Olemaun, one of the few survivors of that massacre, and author of a tell-all vampire expose book.
The basic problem with "Rumors" is that it suffers heavily from trying to make the Masquerade work - it wants to have an X-Files world where vampires exist but no one is willing to believe what is right in front of their eyes. As such, FBI Special Agent Andy Gray is not assigned to watch Stella Olemaun because she might be murdered by vampires for exposing them, but rather because she's been buying up some odd weapons lately and is therefore obviously a terrorist.
About 50 seconds into the 'investigation' - indeed, before the book even starts - Andy's partner gets himself turned into a vampire (after 400 pages, you still will not know how, when, or why), and goes on a killing rampage to frame Andy for the deaths of everyone he's ever met. Being that this is the fictional, X-Files version of the FBI, it comes out that the FBI *knows* about vampires, but is vested in covering them up at all costs, so they cheerfully put Andy on the Most Wanted list and he prudently decides to go on the lam with the end-goal of finding undeniable proof of vampires and warning the world.
It's not a terrible set-up, but the book does so much wrong with it that it loses its sting. We're told early on that Stella (who we never see directly in this novel) was furious at having her vampire expose labeled as 'fiction'. A terrified publishing executive confides to Andy that a mysterious 'They' (the vampires? the FBI?) 'made' them publish the book under the watered-down 'fiction' label, but that doesn't make *any* sense because neither the FBI nor the vampires want the book to exist at all, so why didn't 'They' force the publisher to not touch the book at all? For that matter, if vampires are such a powerful force that they can threaten publishing companies, then I have to venture to say that that particular cat is out of the bag.
Other issues with the Masquerade problem is that all the 20+ S.W.A.T. members who saw a vampire take multiple bullets to the chest have to be convinced that they didn't *really* see him get up afterward, the doctors who confirmed that a lack of a pulse wasn't preventing the suspect from walking and talking have to be silenced, the blood samples have to be gotten rid of, and several incriminating videos have to be deleted. All this can be swept under the FBI rug, but why? Even more ridiculous is when we find out that not only does Stella Olemaun have in her possession a an unreleased *video recording* from the 30 days of night, but when she and her husband become vampiric guardian angels of Barrow (don't ask - this isn't explained at all), despite the fact that *they are vampires*, they still can't figure out how to provide proof to the outside world that vampires exist - it never occurs to anyone to go on CNN and offer to let the anchor chop off a few bits so that they can miraculously grow back for the viewing public to see.
Even without the Fridge Logic, "Rumors" just comes off as very mediocre. It's a decent "man on the lam" story of a man out for vengeance, but the revenge motive is slightly dampened when the book hammers home repeatedly what a terrible husband, father, and human being Andy really is - not so much an anti-hero as an apathetic stand-in for one. The ancillary characters in this book are too many to count, and their lives and deaths are all so tangential to the revenge story that the focus of the book starts to become more about the FBI cover-up which is painfully under-motivated and forced. Maybe vampires just work better in Barrow, Alaska than in Los Angeles, California.
~ Ana Mardoll
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