Pariah
| Published: | 2010 |
| Rating: | ★★★★ |
| Tags: | Horror, Suspense, Action Adventure, Fiction Horrorttt Suspensettt Action Adventurettt Fictionttt |
Starred Review. When a zombie pandemic sweeps the land, a group of survivors hide out in an Upper East Side apartment building. As food supplies dwindle tensions rise, and their only salvation appears in the form of Mona, a mysterious girl who repels the zombies. Though Mona brings food to the survivors and a new sense of possibility, they wonder why she's impervious to the zombie hordes and endeavor to discover her secret. But their decision to put it to the test could shatter the safe, careful world they've built for themselves. Fingerman's latest is a spectacular entre in the zombie genre, largely due to his focus not on the undead but on the living, investigating our humanity and how easily we can turn on each other. But what truly distinguishes Pariah from other worthwhile entries is its humor in the face of bleak and extremely disturbing events (the sociopathic jock, Eddie, for instance, enjoys fishing for zombies in a manner that will turn readers' stomachs). The lack of resolution is unsettling, but what could be resolved in a post-apocalyptic world overrun by the undead? Readers should shamble to the store for this one. (Aug.) (c)
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“Fingerman is a brilliant satirist, artist and mind.” — Trey Parker, co-creator of
South Park
“It doesn’t seem fair that Bob Fingerman gets to be such a funny, savvy, cool and smart writer who can also draw. It gives him an advantage and I may need to have him assassinated.” — Augusten Burroughs,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Running with Scissors
“Mr. Fingerman is a deeply talent, creative, and disturbed man.” — Max Brooks,
New York Times
bestselling author of
World War Z
“The thinking man’s zombie novel.” — Mike Mignola, creator of
Hellboy
“If you’re thinking: ‘Not another zombie novel,’ this is definitely the book for you. Bob Fingerman’s
Pariah
is a testament to the versatility of zombie fiction. It is, quite simply, a work that will remind you why you fell in love with the genre in the first place.” — Robert Kirkman, author of
The Walking Dead
“If you think there are no original twists left in the zombie genre, think again. With
Pariah
, Bob Fingerman crafts an exciting, fresh take on it, breathing much-needed new life into the undead.
Pariah
is a clever, compelling read.” — Brian Keene,
The Rising
“As grim as it gets. Zombie fans looking for unrelenting grue and apocalyptic mayhem need look no further. But there’s a heart to this story, too, in the immaculately crafted characters—the survivors, the last of the human race, pushing themselves well past where the struggle for survival ends and there’s nothing left but to hold on and hope. A masterpiece of the zombie genre, for its realism and its courage to embrace the darkness.” — David Wellington, author of
Monster
_ Island_ and
Vampire Zero
Pariah
Also by BOB FINGERMAN
White Like She
Minimum Wage
Beg the Question
You Deserved It
Recess Pieces
Bottomfeeder
Connective Tissue
From the Ashes
BOB FINGERMAN
A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES
NEW YORK
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
PARIAH
Copyright © 2010 by Bob Fingerman
All rights reserved.
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
Tor
®
is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
ISBN 978-0-7653-2817-5 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-7653-2627-0 (trade paperback)
First Edition: August 2010
Printed in the United States of America
0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For my wife, Michele, who I love so much it’s hard to fathom
First up, I’d express everlasting gratitude to John Schoenfelder. After having read my first novel, John approached me to see if I had anything else up my sleeve. I told him about
Pariah
and he invited me to submit it. He loved it, and though it didn’t work out with him, rather than let it die, he did a truly rare and generous thing and passed it along to the next person I want to thank: my great editor, Eric Raab. Eric shared John’s passion for
Pariah
and made it happen at Tor. Which brings me to Tom Doherty, without whom there’d be no Tor, nor this deal. Thanks, also, to Whitney Ross, Eric’s able assistant. I’d also like to express gratitude to Irene Gallo and Jamie Stafford-Hill for making
Pariah
look so terrific. Thanks to Bob Mecoy, for brokering this deal. To Kirsten Wolf, for providing another pair of sharp eyes. To Helene and Saul, my magnificent parents, for (among many other things) fostering in me a love for the written word. I’d be remiss if I neglected to extend my thanks and undying admiration to George A. Romero, for minting the modern zombie; even when we add our own new wrinkles, we’re all just playing with Mr. Romero’s toys. And, once again, thanks, love, and all good stuff to my astonishingly wonderful, loving, supportive, beautiful wife, Michele. I think that was longer than my allotted forty-five seconds.
Man needs to suffer. When he does not have real griefs he creates them. Griefs purify and prepare him.
—José Martí
February,
Then
Larry Gabler lay there, gasping, bleeding. At seventy-two, he was Abe’s junior by eleven years, but at the moment he could have given Methuselah a run for his money.
“You gotta get home to Ruthie,” he wheezed as sweat glossed his waxy face.
“Yeah, yeah,” Abe said, pouring himself a stiff one from the bottle in his desk. The radio droned the barely cogent reportage of nerve-wracked correspondents attempting to articulate what was happening throughout the five boroughs—not to mention
the entire globe
. Abe took a tentative sip of the whisky, then downed it as he sauntered over to the window to catch an eyeful of uncorked chaos below. As he peered down, three taxis collided, the driver of one bursting through his windshield like a meat torpedo. People were jostling, shoving, climbing all over each other, every man for himself,
the hell with the rest
. The sounds of screams and random gunfire echoed in the darkening canyon of office buildings, the sun ducked for cover beyond Jersey to the west. Mixed in with the usual filth in the gathered
curbside snowdrifts was a new hue: deep red, and plenty of it, like big, bloody snow cones.
