Godfall: Flyover Fiction
Autor Van Jensenen Limba Engleză Paperback – 31 oct 2023
As the sheriff of Little Springs, David Blunt thought he’d be keeping the peace among the same people he’d known all his life, not breaking up chanting crowds of conspiracy theorists in tiger masks or struggling to control a town hall meeting about the construction of a mosque. As a series of brutal, bizarre murders strikes close to home, Blunt throws himself into the hunt for a killer who seems connected to the Giant. With bodies piling up and tensions in Little Springs mounting, he realizes that in order to find the answers he needs, he must first reconcile his old worldview with the town he now lives in—before it’s too late.
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Specificații
ISBN-13: 9781496235213
ISBN-10: 1496235215
Pagini: 308
Dimensiuni: 140 x 216 x 19 mm
Greutate: 0.36 kg
Editura: Nebraska
Colecția University of Nebraska Press
Seria Flyover Fiction
Locul publicării:United States
ISBN-10: 1496235215
Pagini: 308
Dimensiuni: 140 x 216 x 19 mm
Greutate: 0.36 kg
Editura: Nebraska
Colecția University of Nebraska Press
Seria Flyover Fiction
Locul publicării:United States
Notă biografică
Van Jensen is a former newspaper crime reporter. Breaking into comic books with the acclaimed Pinocchio, Vampire Slayer graphic novel series, he has written some of the biggest characters in comics, including The Flash, Superman, Wonder Woman, and James Bond. A native of western Nebraska, he lives in Atlanta.
Extras
BEFORE
Under the moonlight, the pool of blood shone black. David squatted
and peered into the yard-wide void rent into the dirt and scrub brush.
It seemed deep, like he could fall in and tumble through the earth, spit
out in China, Australia. Wherever the hell is as far away from Nebraska
as a man can get.
“Sheriff. Which way you figure she went?”
David stood on a knee that stiffened when the weather turned frigid, a
reminder of a torn meniscus suffered during a high school football game
a decade and change earlier. His muscular build made itself known even
under his thick, brown coat, which had the words “Sheriff ’s Department”
stenciled in yellow across the back. He stood an inch shy of six
feet, though the black Stetson on his head made him seem taller. He
wore blue jeans, as he always did. The wind lashed at him, needles
against his face. Just his goddamned luck that someone would do this
on a night so cold.
He clicked on his flashlight, and the pool of blood burned to life. To
the side, Gentry Luwendyke stood with his arms crossed against a sheepskin
coat. A puff of exhalation issued from below his unruly mustache,
then was whisked away by the punishing February wind.
David carved slow arcs with the flashlight. Some ten yards away, the
light caught a smear of red.
“This way, it looks like,” David said.
David led the way from one spatter to the next, each splash of blood
smaller than the last, moving in a mostly straight line toward the dark
rim of trees along the field’s western edge. Frost clung to the grass and
prairie sage, which crunched like broken glass beneath their boots. By
the time they reached a copse of cedars and Russian olives, the trail had
diminished to single drops.
A rage was building in David’s stomach, combusting until he felt its
heat beneath his coat; he was sweating, despite the cold. Someone did
this. Someone would have to pay. He clenched the flashlight. No. Not
now, he told himself. He could be angry later. Now he needed to focus
on the task at hand. Where had she gone?
“There.”
David saw her first, lying on her side amid a clearing. She seemed
dead, till her chest rose and deflated, and a ghostly plume floated from
her nostrils. He leaned over her, careful not to step in the blood running
across the ground. David set the flashlight in the grass facing her and
pulled off his gloves.
“Sons of bitches,” Gentry hissed.
“Rifle shot. Hit her here,” David said, tracing his hands along the soft
fur of the cow’s abdomen.
Into her intestines. Lord knows what organs it hit; she was fading fast.
“Sons of bitches,” Gentry repeated, louder.
Suddenly the heifer snorted and spasmed. Her legs thrashed to find
a footing. David fell backward and scrambled away as she pounded
her hooves, almost righting herself. Then she stumbled and collapsed.
They inched back closer.
“She don’t need to suffer no more,” Gentry said.
“She doesn’t,” David agreed.
“I’ll do it. My cow.”
Gentry’s eyes were on the Glock nine-millimeter pistol holstered
on David’s right hip. David clicked open the leather strap and drew the
weapon, cold as hell in his hand.
“No. I can’t have anyone else using my firearm. Regulations.”
He stepped over the cow’s head. She was breathing hard, a froth of
mucus and blood bubbling from her nose and mouth. Her obsidian eyes
pleaded with him, uncomprehending of the pain inside her, the chaos
of the world, the horror of life and the even greater horror of whatever
lies beyond it. David had no answers. He rested the barrel against her
temple and fired.
Under the moonlight, the pool of blood shone black. David squatted
and peered into the yard-wide void rent into the dirt and scrub brush.
It seemed deep, like he could fall in and tumble through the earth, spit
out in China, Australia. Wherever the hell is as far away from Nebraska
as a man can get.
“Sheriff. Which way you figure she went?”
David stood on a knee that stiffened when the weather turned frigid, a
reminder of a torn meniscus suffered during a high school football game
a decade and change earlier. His muscular build made itself known even
under his thick, brown coat, which had the words “Sheriff ’s Department”
stenciled in yellow across the back. He stood an inch shy of six
feet, though the black Stetson on his head made him seem taller. He
wore blue jeans, as he always did. The wind lashed at him, needles
against his face. Just his goddamned luck that someone would do this
on a night so cold.
He clicked on his flashlight, and the pool of blood burned to life. To
the side, Gentry Luwendyke stood with his arms crossed against a sheepskin
coat. A puff of exhalation issued from below his unruly mustache,
then was whisked away by the punishing February wind.
David carved slow arcs with the flashlight. Some ten yards away, the
light caught a smear of red.
“This way, it looks like,” David said.
David led the way from one spatter to the next, each splash of blood
smaller than the last, moving in a mostly straight line toward the dark
rim of trees along the field’s western edge. Frost clung to the grass and
prairie sage, which crunched like broken glass beneath their boots. By
the time they reached a copse of cedars and Russian olives, the trail had
diminished to single drops.
A rage was building in David’s stomach, combusting until he felt its
heat beneath his coat; he was sweating, despite the cold. Someone did
this. Someone would have to pay. He clenched the flashlight. No. Not
now, he told himself. He could be angry later. Now he needed to focus
on the task at hand. Where had she gone?
“There.”
David saw her first, lying on her side amid a clearing. She seemed
dead, till her chest rose and deflated, and a ghostly plume floated from
her nostrils. He leaned over her, careful not to step in the blood running
across the ground. David set the flashlight in the grass facing her and
pulled off his gloves.
“Sons of bitches,” Gentry hissed.
“Rifle shot. Hit her here,” David said, tracing his hands along the soft
fur of the cow’s abdomen.
Into her intestines. Lord knows what organs it hit; she was fading fast.
“Sons of bitches,” Gentry repeated, louder.
Suddenly the heifer snorted and spasmed. Her legs thrashed to find
a footing. David fell backward and scrambled away as she pounded
her hooves, almost righting herself. Then she stumbled and collapsed.
They inched back closer.
“She don’t need to suffer no more,” Gentry said.
“She doesn’t,” David agreed.
“I’ll do it. My cow.”
Gentry’s eyes were on the Glock nine-millimeter pistol holstered
on David’s right hip. David clicked open the leather strap and drew the
weapon, cold as hell in his hand.
“No. I can’t have anyone else using my firearm. Regulations.”
He stepped over the cow’s head. She was breathing hard, a froth of
mucus and blood bubbling from her nose and mouth. Her obsidian eyes
pleaded with him, uncomprehending of the pain inside her, the chaos
of the world, the horror of life and the even greater horror of whatever
lies beyond it. David had no answers. He rested the barrel against her
temple and fired.
Recenzii
"A gripping, fast-paced, genre-bending novel full of heart and wonder. Give this one to fans of Ben H. Winters and Dan Chaon."—Portia Kapraun, Library Journal
"A giant's body falls from the sky, exposing extant rifts in a small Nebraska town in Van Jensen's shocking novel Godfall—a murder mystery with a science fiction twist."—Michelle Anne Schingler, Foreword Reviews
“Van Jensen delivers the sense-bending strange in this tale of mystery and wonder.”—Gary Phillips, author of One-Shot Harry
“I felt slapped awake by Godfall’s brilliant conceit and the profound change witnessed in a small town that suddenly finds itself on a global—and even cosmic—stage. This book is thought-provoking, awe-inspiring, and visionary but always grounded in human particulars.”—Benjamin Percy, writer of Wolverine for Marvel Comics and author of The Ninth Metal and Red Moon
“Godfall is a fresh and surprising genre mashup, bringing a laconic small-town sheriff together with a crash-landed alien and a series of brutal killings, beautifully interweaving otherworldly images and naturalistic details of rural Nebraska life. Van Jensen is a terrific writer, and I was under the book’s strange and extraordinary spell from start to finish!”—Dan Chaon, author of Sleepwalk
“Godfall is the genre-mashup novel of my dreams. With breathtaking imagery and razor-sharp prose, Van Jensen gives us a story that is part alien sci-fi, part mystery—with a doomsday cult, a serial killer, and a dash of Sandhill cranes—all set against the beautiful backdrop of rural Nebraska.”—Erin Flanagan, Edgar Award–winning author of Deer Season and Blackout
“Godfall blends rural noir with a daring dose of sci-fi to create something wholly new and engaging. Van Jensen comes in hot with his [fiction] debut.”—Alex Segura, author of Secret Identity and Miami Midnight
“It isn’t easy to infuse magical realism with grit, but Godfall does it with panache. I was under Van Jensen’s spell from the first chapter. A striking debut novel from one of my favorite writers.”—Kevin Maurer, coauthor of No Easy Day and author of Damn Lucky
Descriere
When a three-mile-long humanoid alien crashes into Earth in western Nebraska, the local small-town sheriff’s job becomes far more complicated—and dangerous—especially when a series of brutal murders occurs.