Part 1 (1/2)

Take the Long Way Home.

Brian Keene.

Acknowledgments: For this new edition of Take The Long Way Home, my thanks to everyone at Deadite Press; Alan Clark; Joe Na.s.sise, Gord Rollo, Tim Lebbon, and Michael Laimo (for the origin of this novella); John Skipp; Nick Kaufmann; Mary SanGiovanni; and my sons.

For my parents, Lloyd and Shannon Keene, with love, respect and admiration.

Author's Note.

Although many of the exits and locations in this novella exist alongside Interstate 83 as it carves its way through Pennsylvania and Maryland, I have taken certain fictional liberties with them. Don't look for them during your daily commute. They might have vanished along with everyone else.

PEELING THE SKIN OFF OF G.o.d'S KNUCKLE SANDWICH, ONE PUNCH TO THE TEETH AT A TIME.

____________________.

AN INTRODUCTION BY JOHN SKIPP.

Let's face it: life is a b.a.s.t.a.r.d sometimes. It will sneak up behind you and kick your a.s.s. It will spin you around and smack you right in the face, then jab you quick in the solar plexus; and as you whoof with pain, doubling over by reflex, it will bring its knee up to shatter your nose.

You stagger back, squirting, and life moves in for the kill: a professional of such infinite experience that it seems almost bored as it takes you apart.

If you get whacked around like that enough-and you happen to believe in G.o.d-then you might start to wonder, ”What is WRONG with that guy? Is He some kind of crazed bully? Is He off of his meds?

”WHAT THE f.u.c.k IS THE MATTER WITH HIM?”

Sure, if you're big on pa.s.sing the buck, you can blame it all on Satan. But WHO HIRED SATAN? In life-if you've been around the block more than once-you can almost always trace the muscle back to the source by following the money.

Or you can blame it on yourself. Which is a good idea, when you're actually responsible . . . but not quite as easy to swallow when you're just minding your own business, trying to be cool, and suddenly life/G.o.d/Satan/whatever sneaks up and kicks the living s.h.i.+t out of you.

Now, for all too many of us, the natural response to an onslaught by overwhelming odds is to curl up, protect the most vulnerable areas, and pray to G.o.d that we survive.

If we live through it-and we always do, till the day we don't-we are also left to puzzle out why this is happening to us. Why this is happening at all.

But have you ever watched a good human being get hammered, over and over, and yet stubbornly REFUSE TO FALL?

It's an amazing sight. It happens all too rarely. It's gladiator s.h.i.+t, on the most meaningful scale: a strength of character, a firmness of resolve, and a love of the best, most meaningful parts of life that is SO STRONG, and SO TRUE, that it takes every punch to the face it gets handed.

Swings back, with all of its might.

And keeps swinging, even as it gets pummeled to its knees.

That doesn't stop till it can swing no more.

And, even then, wills its arm up for one more blow.

This isn't just testosterone and feisty DNA.

This is a heart on fire.

Which brings me, at last, to the writer in question, and the book you're about to read.

Brian Keene's prose has a firm handshake. That was one of the first things I noticed. It's strong, and direct, and personable, like the guy who stands behind it. He doesn't try to dazzle you with wordplay. He doesn't feint and weave. For him, this fight is not polite. And there is neither place nor patience for bulls.h.i.+t.

Keene shakes your hand, then wades right in: a no-nonsense literary slugger with a keen wit, tremendous endurance, and a great sense of detail and rhythm and pacing. He places his blows just so, landing them right where he knows they'll hurt, or surprise you with a simple, perfect, beautiful truth.

I've only read three of his books so far-The Rising, Terminal, and the one before you-and if there's one thread I've noted throughout, it's an astounding resolve: defiance coupled with an absolute determination to see this through. A demand for understanding. And a deep, deep yearning for nothing less.

So that peace can be found.

So that peace can be earned.

I respect the f.u.c.k out of that.

In fact, I respect the f.u.c.k out of my man Keene, pretty much across the board. He's one of the hardest-workin' boyz in the biz (Go ahead! Ask him about his next twelve books!); and as a stand-up guy in a curled-up world, he's uniquely great at galvanizing the literary troops, getting them up off their a.s.ses. I love to watch him work the horror crowd. It is, in a word, inspiring.

One of the great delights of my career has been meeting the generation of writers I inspired: amazing guys like Brian Keene, Cody Goodfellow, and Carlton Mellick III (name-checked herein, in a wacky cameo). It makes me especially proud, because these cats are The Real Deal. If my s.h.i.+t helped, then-gulp-G.o.d bless me!

I gotta say, though, that Keene is the one clearly emerging new rock star of horror, insofar as I'm concerned. If his books were music, they would occupy a working cla.s.s, hard-earned s.p.a.ce on the shelf between Springsteen, Eminem, and Johnny Cash (not surprisingly, three of his heroes). His edges are raw, his emotions are pure, and his grooves throb with the oftentimes-spilled, still heart-pulsing blood of the ages.

That said, this isn't a big-a.s.s rock star turn. It's more like Springsteen's Nebraska, maybe gene-spliced a little with King's The Long Walk: a whisper of G.o.dforsaken highway, wind whistling through the holes in a shattered acoustic guitar.

No zombies. No giant earthworms.

Just us, and our destiny.

And a punch in the teeth.

DOES G.o.d FEEL OUR PAIN? If It does, It is feeling this book, right now.

Going ”OW,” as the skin sc.r.a.pes off Its knuckles.

Maybe even questioning, for a moment, Its plan.

Or, at least, in awe-as I am-of anyone who stands up.

And takes a bite out of the fist that feeds them.

John Skipp.

Just outside of L.A.

December, 2005.