Twistaplot #2 The Train of Terror

Well, the breaks between these aren't getting any shorter, but I still vaguely remember the anthropological expedition that turned into an intense crime drama. In an amazing bit of synchronicity or perhaps mere coincidence today's subject is by the same author, but represents the always disappointing Twist-a-Plot series. I've finally been able to acquire some of the harder to get entries to that series, including this one, so the dream of finishing at least one small portion of this pointless and tepid nostalgia dive is beginning to take shape. I sure look forward to the bitter weeping that will come immediately after all these books have been painstakingly and thoroughly chronicled in this, the best of all possible web-logs, but there's no time for that, we've got a train to catch.

  Night train to Chernobyl.

The cover implies some sort of supernatural thriller or at least a jump-scare fest, but this impression seems at odds with the banal introduction. Instead of a wacky Uncle we get a wacky Aunt, which I imagine is both the beginning and end of the innovation we'll seeing. Anyway, this second-level blood relative will be entertaining my ungrateful self in Idaho over the summer and my dear old mum is packing me on the train to the potato zone. I dodge a goodbye kiss, which is more teenage behavior (Idaho? Yuck, so lame. Everything is boring. Etc.) than what you'd expect from the child avatar typical of these books, but no time to dwell on that minimalist characterization. I take note of a "beautiful blonde lady" with a pet carrier (the radioactive toolbox from the cover, I guess) and a bald, facially scarred Hard Man. I'm guessing they will be important and, sure enough, my first choice is which of these two to sit next to. Alfred Hitchcock this shit ain't.

Murder exchange! Dramatic tennis! Seriously, it's really good.

I decide not to sit next to the character the book describes as "scar face" because I really don't want to see his little friend and hopefully this will be the last I see of a bad guy like that. Then, just after settling in with the more aesthetically pleasing option I promptly drop my lunch, which sounds like slang for the yellow yawn but is actually the bag itself in this case. Miss Pet Carrier commands me not to pick it up, because that's normal behavior, but I don't need to listen to your rules, man.

More messing up promptly follows, as the bag tears open and now I'm reducing to choosing which part of the noon meal to retrieve. Riveting choices, high stakes, pulse-pounding terror, yeah this book is delivering big time. Maybe get those sunflower seeds, before they scatter. Honestly, seeds? You're not a minor league outfielder, kid.

Most of them should get in my gaping maw.

Of course I make a botch of this, too. While groping blindly for the big league cheek-packers I instead pull the pet carrier open. This entire plot line is just a series of blunders. If I wasn't so physically maladroit there would be no story. I'm starting to suspect the "aunt" I was promised doesn't actually exist and instead this train is taking me to a special camp for the chronically uncoordinated. Once there, a combination of endless ridicule, harsh punishments and campfire songs will cure my all thumbs disorder, at least if the brochure my parents told me was "nothing, dear" is to be believed.

I decide to peek into the pet carrier. Honestly, I already opened it, might as well have some desert with my dinner.

As you probably guessed, it's a giant snake and I'm promptly bitten. It then slithers off and I presume now is the time to admit that I've already had it with these monkey-fighting snakes on this money-flying train.

  Don't expect a two disc Criterion special edition of this one any time soon.

The lady offers a pill that is "antivenom" and even forces it into my mouth. That was probably a wise decision in light of the physical prowess I've displayed up to this point. The next choice is, and I'm not even joking, whether to spit or swallow. Yeah. This is what we've been reduced to. What else can even be said? What could follow this? Is this pile of garbage going to talk about my little league career and ask if I was the catcher or the pitcher? Good grief. 

I swallow. The lifesaving medicine, that is.

The next choice is whether to go to the rear or not. Yes.

It turns out the pill was indeed lifesaving and the woman is now super friendly for some reason. Faced with this sudden and incongruous warmth I volunteer to go track down the loose reptile and this is when it's time to go to the, ahem, rear.

Of the train.

That line is also suggestive.

Can the next paragraph have a "The End" under it? Please?

Anyway, off to the rear. No snake anywhere. Would I like to "get down on the floor." Sure.

The snake "zaps you one more time between the eyes" and I guess this is fatal, even though I just took an antidote pill and it's probably still in my system. Whatever, at least the painful run of innuendos is over. As I die I wonder if I made my bed, because that's a good final thought before the horrific confrontation with eternity and with that we're done.

I did not enjoy this book.

It looks like it just told a joke and is waiting for your reaction.

Aaron Zehner is the author of "The Foolchild Invention" available in paperback and e-book format. Read free excerpts here and here.

Which Way Books #8: Cosmic Encounters

Looks like more space exploration is headed our way, even after a disappointing LSD metaphor that featured far less "UFO" and far more "The walls are melting, again." Hopefully the "Which Way" Series will offer a more straightforward take on the vast cold empty, rather than taking the author's sixties college years and changing the dorm into a spaceship and all the drugs into mind rays or the like. Either way, there's every reason for optimism, as this series didn't disappoint in the horror genre. Can it do science fiction? Let's dig in.

It's like they couldn't decide if it would be an android or a robot and the end result pleased no one.

The prose is right to the point, wasting no time blandly spitting out the crazy. I'm a astronaut. I don't age at a normal rate thanks to an ability to directly control the heartbeat (if you think breathing manually sucks, imagine that). Doctors, presumably, hate me. I can communicate via "electrotelephonic waves." The book does not in any way dwell on the massive societal and personal implications of all this. After all, we've got a Universe to explore!

I blast off in a rocket, destination the "Olympus Galaxy." Of course it's a solo mission, because crushing solitude will help fend off the good old space madness. This must be a government sponsored rocket, because things go wrong almost immediately. I've got to repair a fuel cell on the outside of the ship. While messing around, my "lifeline" breaks. I haven't even reached the first choice and it already looks like I'm going to be a beautiful corpse endlessly drifting through the vacuum. 

"Help me, Sandra Bullshit!"

Somehow I manage to cling to the rocket and make my way back inside. Well, glad that's over. Of course I promptly fall asleep because there's no better sleep aid than nearly dying a horrible death. When I wake up I discover that the ship has drifted off course. Next thing I know a "bright object" is on a collision course. Yeah, looks like that madness is having a pretty rapid onset this time. Maybe I should have taken a class on retaining my sanity while out there instead of that electronic wave thing.

To make a short story about the same length it turns out it's a "craft" and I get swallowed up. Yeah, it's probably time for the probing/space zoo/dinner table. I meet three identical looking people, because space is all wild and crazy and man, I don't even remember which pills I took. 

The truth is arguably even more amazing than what I'd been anticipating. It turns out this is a "mother ship" peopled entirely with clones created from a single human cell. They need another person to create more Humans by Xerox and it looks like I'm it. 

Imagine, if you can, a whole field of identical looking sheep.

I decide to convince them that I'd be a poor candidate for this operation. After all, I nearly got myself killed screwing around with a fuel cell. Actually, instead of pointing to my dangerous ineptitude I argue that I'm a unique and special miracle and it would be bad to have copies running around. They have little sympathy for this concern, declaring that their motto is "Uniformity is Strength." I try to appeal to their good nature but am told to get into a chair. Naw, no way. 

This leads to my horrible death, but at least I don't have to live to see my genetic material passed on, which is every man's worst nightmare.

I'd say this one was decent. Instead of hallucinogenic nonsense we got heavy-handed political commentary so call that one a push. Descriptive writing is not this author's strength and there was a certain bland matter-of-factness that clashed with the subject matter. Still, I'd say it's worth a look. 

I was trained in rhetoric by the internet.

Check Out My Books!

Aaron Zehner is the author of "Posts from the Underground," now available in paperback and e-book. Read free excerpts here and here.

His first novel "The Foolchild Invention" is also available in paperback and e-book format. Read free excerpts here and here.