Hater (Hater series)

From Publishers Weekly Starred Review. Originally self-published, Moody's nail-biter of a debut plausibly creates a nightmare world. Danny McCoyne, an employee of the Parking Fine Processing office in an unnamed, possibly British city, barely manages to support his wife and children. Things get a lot worse after incidents of random violence escalate to a condition that threatens the social fabric of the country. Those afflicted with the violent impulse are dubbed Haters. The rapid onset of the disorder, exacerbated by the frighteningly inadequate government response, leaves Danny and his family virtual prisoners in their own home. While the major twist and the final payoff aren't particularly surprising, the sections building up to them perfectly evoke the quiet desperation of an ordinary life. Moody might have been better off explaining less, but this intelligent, well-written chiller heralds a significant new talent. Guillermo Del Toro has bought film rights. (Feb.) Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. From Booklist *Starred Review* One day Danny McCoyne’s life tends toward the humdrum: job, family, the usual. The next day, suddenly, without warning or explanation, people are turning into killers, murdering their loved ones, attacking perfect strangers. Soon Danny is trying desperately to keep his family safe, while all around him society seems to be self-destructing, as ordinary men and women turn into animals, filled with hate and violence. This is a truly frightening book because, like Danny, we’re constantly scrambling to process what’s going on. Moody, who self-published the novel in 2006, writes as though his novel were a zombie movie, and readers familiar with the genre will have no difficulty seeing, in their mind’s eye, the rapid dissolution of society played out in front of them. (Is it purely a coincidence that the protagonist has the same first name as Danny Boyle, director of the movie 28 Days Later, whose zombielike creatures were infected with something that filled them with uncontrollable rage?) It’s a risky undertaking, giving literary form to a type of story that is traditionally told in pictures, but Moody completely pulls it off. The movie rights to the book have been sold, and it’ll be interesting to see if the film is as good as the novel. It’s hard to imagine how it could be. --David Pitt “A head-spinning thrill ride, a cautionary tale about the most salient emotion of the 21st century... HATER will haunt you long after you read the last page...” ― GUILLERMO DEL TORO, director, Pan's Labyrinth, Hellboy 1 & 2 “A lucid approach to the state of fear in which we live in and a spine-chilling fable about its utmost consequences... Be careful with HATER, chapter by chapter it will make its way into your soul till it finds the seed of evil that lurks within.” ― J.A. BAYONA, director, The Orphanage, Hater “Powerful and well-written.” ― S.M. STIRLING, author of Dies the Fire, The Scourge of God “HATER touches something universal and truly scary--the little voice in all of our heads that tells us the difference between 'us' and 'them'. Subtly drawn, engrossing characters take us inside a landscape of paranoia and fear.” ― DAVID WELLINGTON, author of Monster Island, 99 Coffins, Vampire Zero “David Moody spins paranoia into a deliciously dark new direction. [He] is one scary guy.” ― Jonathan Maberry, author of Ghost Road Blues, Patient Zero “David Moody's HATER is a brutal, eerie, and hugely entertaining novel that grips you with its grim and nihilistic attitude from page one. The attention to detail used to paint an average man's often frustrating life is as disturbing as the bloody violence that follows, giving us one of the year's most readable nerve-shredders.” ― TOM PICCIRILLI, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of The Midnight Road, A Choir of Ill Children David Moody is the author of Dog Blood , Autumn and Autumn: The City . He grew up in Birmingham, England, on a diet of horror movies and post-apocalyptic fiction. He started his career working at a bank, but then decided to write the kind of fiction he loved. His first novel, Straight to You , had what Moody calls "microscopic sales," and so when he wrote Autumn , he decided to publish it online. The book became a sensation and has been downloaded by half a million readers. He started his own publishing company, Infected Books. He lives in Britain with his wife and a houseful of daughters, which may explain his preoccupation with Armageddon. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One LUNATIC. BLOODY HELL, I’VE seen some things happen in this town before but never anything like that. That was disgusting. That made me feel sick. Christ, he came out of nowhere and she didn’t stand a chance, poor old woman. He’s in the middle of the crowd now. He’s outnumbered fifty to one and yet he’s still trying to fight. This place is full of crazy people. Fortunately for that woman it’s also full of police officers. There are two of them down with her now, trying to stop the bleeding. Three more have got to the guy who did it and they’re dragging him away. Damn, it’s three minutes to nine. I’m going to be late for work again but I can’t move. I’m stuck in this bloody crowd. There are people bunched up tight all around me and I can’t go backward or forward. I’ll have to wait until they start to shift, however long that takes. There are more police officers arriving now trying to clear the scene. It’s pathetic really, you’d think they’d show some respect but people are all the same. First sign of trouble on the street and everyone stops to watch the freak show. We’re finally starting to move. I can still see that guy being bundled toward a police van on the other side of the street. He’s kicking and screaming and crying like a bloody baby. Looks like he’s lost it completely. The noise he’s making you’d think he was the one who’d been attacked. I know I’m a lazy bastard. I know I should try harder but I just can’t be bothered. I’m not stupid but I sometimes find it difficult to give a shit. I should have run across Millennium Square to get to the office just now but it was too much effort so early in the morning. I walked and I finally got here just after quarter past nine. I tried to sneak in but it was inevitable that someone was going to see me. It had to be Tina Murray though, didn’t it? My sour- faced, slavedriving, unforgiving bitch of a supervisor. She’s standing behind me now, watching me work. She thinks I don’t know she’s there. I really can’t stand her. In fact I can’t think of anyone I like less than Tina. I’m not a violent man—I don’t like confrontation and I find the very idea of punching a woman offensive—but there are times here when I’d happily smack her in the mouth. “You owe me fifteen minutes,“ she sneers in her horrible, whining voice. I push myself back on my chair and slowly turn around to face her. I force myself to smile although all I want to do is spit. She stands in front of me, arms folded, chewing gum and scowling. “Morning,Tina,“ I reply, trying to stay calm and not give her the satisfaction of knowing just how much she bugs me. “How are you today?” “You can either take the time off your lunch hour or stay late tonight,“ she snaps. “It’s up to you how you make it up.” I know I’m only making things worse for myself but I can’t help it. I should just keep my mouth shut and accept that I’m in the wrong but I can’t stand the thought of this vile woman thinking she’s in control. I know I’m not helping the situation but I just can’t stop myself. I have to say something. “What about yesterday morning?” I ask. I force myself to look into her harsh, scowling face again. She’s not at all happy. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other and chews her gum even harder and faster. Her jaw moves in a frantic circular motion. She looks like a cow chewing the cud. Fucking heifer. “What about yesterday morning?” she spits. “Well,“ I explain, trying hard not to sound like I’m patronizing her, “if you remember I was twenty minutes early yesterday and I started working as soon as I got here. If I’m going to make up your fifteen minutes for today, can I claim back my twenty minutes for yesterday? Or shall we just call it quits and I’ll let you off the five minutes?” “Don’t be stupid. You know it doesn’t work like that.” “Maybe it should.” Bloody hell, now she’s really annoyed. Her face is flushed red and I can see the veins on her neck bulging. It was a stupid and pointless comment to make but I’m right, aren’t I? Why should the council, the city government, have it all their own way? Tina’s staring at me now and her silence is making me feel really uncomfortable. I should have just kept my mouth closed. I let her win the face-off and I turn back around to sign on to my computer again. “Either take it off your lunch hour or work late,“ she says over her shoulder as she walks away. “I don’t care what you do, just make sure you make up the time you owe.” And she’s off. Conversation’s over and I don’t get any chance to respond or to try and get the last word. Bitch. Tina makes my skin crawl but I find myself staring at her rather than at my computer screen. She’s back at her desk now and Barry Penny, the office manager, has suddenly appeared. Her body language has completely changed now that she’s speaking to someone who’s higher up the council pecking order than she is. She’s smiling and laughing at his pathetic jokes and generally trying to see how far she can crawl up his backside. I can’t help thinking about what I’ve just seen happen outside. Christ, I wish I had that bloke’s umbrella. I know exactly where I’d shove it. Sometimes having such a dull and monotonous job is an advantage. This stuff is way beneath me and I don’t really have to think about what I’m doing. I can do my work on autopi lot and the time passes quickly. It’s been like that so far this morning. Job satisfaction is non ex is tent but at least the day isn’t dragging. I’ve been working here for almost eight months now (it feels longer) and I’ve worked for the council for the last three- and- a-half years. In that time I’ve worked my way through more departments than most long- serving council staff manage in their entire careers. I keep getting transferred. I served time in the pest control, refuse collection, and street lamp maintenance departments before I ended up here in the Parking Fine Processing office or PFP as the council likes to call it. They have an irritating habit of trying to reduce as many department names and job titles down to sets of initials as they can. Before I was transferred here I’d been told that the PFP was a dumping ground for underperformers and, as soon as I arrived, I realized it was true. In most of the places I’ve worked I’ve either liked the job but not the people or the other way around. Here I have problems with both. This place is a breeding ground for trouble. This is where those motorists who’ve been unlucky (or stupid) enough to get wheel- clamped, caught on camera violating a traffic rule, or given a ticket by a parking warden come to shout and scream and dispute their fines. I used to have sympathy with them and I believed their stories. Eight months here has changed me. Now I don’t believe anything that anyone tells me. “Did you see that bloke this morning?” a voice asks from behind the computer on my left. It’s Kieran Smyth. I like Kieran. Like most of us he’s wasted here. He’s got brains and he could make something of himself if he tried. He was studying law at university but took a holiday job here last summer and never went back to class. Told me he got used to having the money and couldn’t cope without it. He buys an incredible amount of stuff. Every day he seems to come back from lunch with bags of clothes, books, DVDs, and CDs. I’m just jealous because I struggle to scrape together enough money to buy food, never mind anything else. Kieran spends most of his day talking to his mate Daryl Evans who sits on my right. They talk through me and over me but very rarely to me. It doesn’t bother me though. Their conversations are as boring as hell and the only thing I have in common with them is that the three of us all work within the same small section of the same small office. What does annoy me, if I’m honest, is the fact that they both seem to be able to get away with not doing very much for large chunks of the working day. Maybe it’s because they’re friendly with Tina outside work and they go out drinking together. Christ, I only have to cough and she’s up out of her seat wanting to know what I’m doing and why I’ve stopped working. “What bloke?” Daryl shouts back. “Out on the street on the way to work.” “Which street?” “The high street, just outside Cartwrights.” “Didn’t see anything.” “You must have.” “I didn’t. I didn’t walk past Cartwrights. I came the other way this morning.” “There was this bloke,“ Kieran explains regardless, “you should have seen him. He went absolutely fucking mental.” “What are you on about?” “Honest, mate, he was wild. You ask Bob Rawlings up in Archives. He saw it. He reckons he practically killed her.” “Killed who?” “I don’t know, just some old woman. No word of a lie, he just started laying into her for no reason. Stabbed her with a bloody umbrella I heard!” “Now you’re taking the piss...” “I’m serious.” “No way!” “You go and ask Bob...” I usually ignore these quick- fire conversations (most of the time I don’t have a clue what they’re talking about) but today ... Read more