The Twelve: why you should read a sequel

A glimmer in the eye... is two in a bush? No, that's not correct...

Folks, I finally saw that glimmer in someone’s eye. One that made me question the human soul. But it wasn’t humanity that shone from thither. It was an implant. As soon as you begin replacing bits of people with bits of poly-molecular whatnots, those of us inclined to questioning begin questioning at which point the person becomes more whatnot than whatever it is that makes a person a person, what bits of flesh and tissue harbour conscience (in the antiquated sense ‘of being’) and why-oh-why this even matters.

The last one being the most thought-provoking. It probably doesn’t matter, but I am trying to avoid finishing actual work.

I waxed lyrical about The Passage and now I think you may be very pissed off, if you read it instead of just reading my mostly projected commentary. Because if you began the second part of this treasure hunt to find our ‘consciences’, you will have found a different book. If you are pissed about that, then you are pissed at me for not warning you. In which case, you should be pissed at yourself too for taking me seriously when I go out of my way to convince you otherwise.

The second book is called The Twelve, after the 12 original Virals (these being vampiresque and bat-like humanoid creatures, except uglier, less seductive, primordial and messy eaters). We follow some of the same characters from the first book, except they are not the same and not because they have implants. The book picks up years later, which I usually find unnerving because I then have to spend time reconciling these people and the people who became my friends. Sometimes, who they have become is not what I planned for them. Not cool, author. Not cool.

Sorry, that was misleading. From my phrasing, it sounds like there is going to be however. I very much do not like who my friends became in the future to the future post-apocalypse called The Passage.

However (double mislead) the author also returns back in time to the break-outs. One of my favourites is a character who was in the military and then went to work as a sales assistant in a DIY shop. No, he wasn’t undercover. No, he wasn’t working out issues. No, he didn’t shoot or otherwise harm customers (everyone who has ever worked in retail give me a hey-ho!). Whatever the reason, after the virus breaks out, he breaks into a too-young-to-be-so-wealthy customer's apartment, with a rifle and camera, and videos and broadcasts what he can see. At night, he sharpshoots the critters and avoids being sharp-massacred.

So, what does the military do? The higher-ups (however many there are left) conclude that he is threatening morale among the survivors (there are definitely not many left – in fact, the entire city centre he is in is infested, which is what he is broadcasting, which is undermining the fantasy that anyone is alive). Logic shouts, send in military cells and murder some murderous Virals, which will improve morale. Better yet, ask the sharpshooter how he has survived in the enemy’s nest and copy him. Better yet! Send the higher-ups and he can record how they slaughter the enemy. (The enemy being despondency.)

Fear in the form of failure shouts, let’s hunt the scapegoat, and take away his camera and gun. Luckily, he has a number of lettered plans: Plan B is a Ferrari.

What I like best about this character is he is never the victim that movies convince us is the only alternative to rage. He is tortured, no doubt, but he is also considered: he knows that he is driven by his demons, but he does not judge that nor does he spend the rest of his life staring into his navel. He acts, with purpose, or he withholds, on purpose. He is kind, but he was kind before, which is why he is showing people the truth from a high-rise. He is a survivor, so he helps people survive, like the two are co-dependant.

And this is what I enjoyed about both books: the characters, even when they changed or did things I didn’t want what them to do. The author relies on certain stereotypes, but more as a diving board. It bends and the diver flies and suddenly you see them differently – as a shape or gliding projectile or missile or just purely corporeal – conscience or no conscience, meaningful or abysmal…

About-turn and march back to My Point.

That was my pitch for why you should enjoy the second book and not be pissed at me, and not because no one wants people to be pissed at them or because I warned you. The second book is self-indulgently about the characters and glimmers in eyes that have nothing to do with implants. The first book set the scene and spooked me, oh, and made me cry. The second book, at first, seems unrelated and you wonder, why would the diver walk past the board and toward the changing rooms? Keep watching.

Maybe I will write more about the actual book, and not try to convince you to keep reading or to make you think kindly - or badly - of me. Maybe I will find a metaphorical rather than literal glint in someone’s eye. Maybe. The former is more likely. Also likely is that this trilogy will turn into a nine-book epic. If it does… No, I will probably read them and review them. But I will be pissed off, too, because plots and characters are like sleeping dogs: you should let them lie. Navels are less interesting the more you stare, glimmers flicker and weaken, and, Mr Lucas, you lied to me and I hate you.

All that glimmers...

The Passage: post 3

My first retraction. One I have been anticipating for a while. Folks (and I need you to remind me of this), do not, under any circumstances, no matter the book, no matter the author, no matter where you are or with whom - ok, I'll stop - review a book you have not finished yet. Or do - I'm not the boss of you - but be prepared to lose some credibility. The ending of The Passage surprised me, pleasantly, as did the last book of Wool.

The main character in the movie, named Amy and played by Destiny Whitlock

I anticipated this almost as soon as posted my last post, a list of my own projections onto a story set in the post-apocalypse. (The author is dead, people. Figuratively. Where the 'author' is the idea of an author. So, as a reader, I can pretend I wrote the book, or something. Hang on, this does not make sense. My degree may be a sham.)

The plot holes become more obviously devices meant to reinforce the good ole themes of the apocalypse. Loss,what it means to be human, time, civilisation, and of course the eternal quest. Basically, The Heart of Darkness, except not as boring, racist or badly written. (This is a touchy subject, so please move on along.) But these themes could only develop over time, by comparison with other places and people, because they themselves progress.

I complained about the improbability of human tools being intact 100 years later. And practically this is true. (Rust, erosion and general entropy being, like, real. And language, you know, changing - ask Mr Chaucer. Seriously, my degree is a con.) But figuratively, it is like the whole world - not only the human world - is in stasis.

I could only appreciate this in the last few paragraphs of the book (thanks for that, Mr Cronin. I hate being manipulated), during which I cried. Yep. Real tears, runny nose, thick throat et al. I am still sniffling. I cried in the same way as I cried in the first couple of chapters, because those disappearing characters I complained about? Yep, like the Virals themselves, they showed up again to bodyslam me.

A scene from early in the book (c)  uncannyphantom. They had me at 'polar bear'

Wait a minute. One of the sub-plots is still hanging (pun). Because, guess what? The author's publishers want me to buy the next book. Did I mention I hate being manipulated? Well, joke's on them, because I have a pirated copy. Now, I am not proud of this. But my degree is a sham and everyone with access to spellcheck thinks they can be a writer and editor, so this is a hazardous career if you want to pay rent. But, if I didn't have this copy, I probably would buy it. And if you buy a copy of each book, I would feel justified... (This is not manipulation. This is guilt. Very different.)

I very, very badly want to know what happens and how, I want the characters in my life (although to be kind I might remove them from the apocalypse), I want to understand the sub-plot. Because the author surprised me every few pages and not because the author had attention-deficit disorder but because the surprises made sense and I wondered how I did not see these glowing, flying human bats coming. (This is not manipulation; this is errrr something else.)

This book has a plot. I am always suspicious of plots, partly because, yes, my degree is a piece of paper, and this piece of paper says that the author is dead which means I am the author and I have always been better at characters. (Never trust a piece of paper, because it is clearly false to say that all authors are dead and books are written by readers, and as ludicrous as saying you can see humanity in someone's eyes, much less that humanity glimmers.)

When I was growing up, I read all the Enid Blyton mystery books and Nancy Drews. I would lie on my bed or crouch in a tree (I was a tomboy) and read nonstop for a day or two. Then I needed the next one. Have you ever had that need for a work of fiction? Like being thirsty or wanting Monday to be a weekend day on a Sunday evening. I need The Twelve and, in fact, writing this post is time I could spend reading the sequel (this is how much I like you).

This need has less to do with the heeby jeebys than my fondness for the two main characters. I feel as though I could protect them from the big bad, but contrary to intellectuals who think books write themselves, I can't. Still, I feel as though I could. Now, the author has had George RR Martin moments (when he killed off my favourite character, I was devastated), so I need to keep my eyes peeled. Or open. Or glimmering.

Enough. You are distracting me from reading the next book. Retractions retracted, author murdered, degree burnt, emotions manipulated. Vampires called Virals, Amy. We good? Good.