By Peter Stenson
4 out of 5 stars
What if the zombie apocalypse came, but the few “lucky” enough to
survive didn’t even notice right away, because they’re all meth addicts?
And then when they do actually notice, the drive to survive (by killing
zombies, mostly) is almost always at odds with the drive to score more
drugs. Hmmm... get spun or prevent my best friend from getting eaten
alive...what to do.
Fiend is that story. It’s also a story about
addiction and redemption and tenuous hope (which is the kind I think
most people cling to most fiercely), and it’s sort of a twisted love
story too – both romantic and brotherly. Mostly, though, I think it’s a
kick-ass zombie story with conflict on just about every other page, a
ton of gratifying (the guilty pleasure kind) action, and quite a bit of
dark humor...and by dark, I mean the gritty, graphic variety that makes you
wonder if the author thought about his mom reading his book, because if I
thought about my mom reading something like this that I had written, I
probably wouldn’t be able to write it. But that’s just me. As subject
matter goes, it’s not something I usually go for, but I definitely
enjoyed this little foray and found myself looking forward to reading
whenever I could grab a minute.
The author, Peter Stenson, is a
former addict, so I’m assuming some of the emotions and perspective are
from his own first-hand experiences (well, not counting the zombies,
unless maybe he had some wicked hallucinations). He’s also a great
wordsmith – I hope he stays sober and keeps writing.
What’s great
about Fiend is the writing, the premise, the dialogue and the spiraling
story. What’s annoying is the lack of quotation marks when people are
talking, so you’re not sure if it’s a conversation or a bunch of
thoughts. But maybe that’s how it is when you’re wasted all the time, so
perhaps it’s for some kind of authentic effect.
So the story:
Chase’s life is pretty much already over. He’s blown his last hope of
sobriety, lost his family and pretty much everything else – including a
shot at love. So for him and all the fellow meth addicts out there who
are somehow immune to the “zombie fever,” the end of the world is an
opportunity. Except the only way to survive is to smoke, eat, snort, or
shoot meth on a regular basis – it’s the zombie antidote in an irony
wrapper, if you will.
As far as characters go, Chase is
surprisingly likeable. He’s not terribly deep, and he's not your typical
hero, but he’s not so far gone that he doesn’t have a conscience. It’s
an admirable trait in a drug addict I think. The conversations he has
both real and in his head are the best parts of the book. And, for a
loser, he’s still kind of a go-getter.
The action starts
relatively quickly. Chase and his buddy Typewriter (the name is never
explained) were holed up for days, so they didn’t even know most of the
human race was either dead or walking dead. When things start to get
ugly and they realize, through their drug-addled haze, what’s really
going on, they drive into (literally) a Cabella’s (my new go-to place
should the apocalypse be nigh, so you heard it here first – I got dibs),
to load up on supplies and guns. (Turns out Typewriter, the only
overweight meth addict ever, had a dad who thought gun safety and
assault rifle training would be a good idea.) Here’s an example of
Chase’s take on things, which I often found hilarious, even though I
don’t think it was supposed to be funny. Note, if you’re offended by
irreverent religious references, don’t keep reading. I just thought the
following bit was a great example of his emotion and desperation that is
also wrapped up in a fluffy hot dog bun of hope and a sort of
save-the-world bravado that you can’t help but admire just a little.
“Maybe
Typewriter senses my preference, because he hands me the mini gun. He
nods for me to pump it. I do. The chu-chunk feels like I’m jerking off
God. I still can’t believe what is going on – walking dead, death, guns –
but the disbelief and the need to figure out my stupid life have
morphed into something else, something one notch below on my brain
function map. Now it’s acceptance and survival and a fucking
short-barrel twelve gauge in my hands, a Glock nine in my waistband.”
Later,
they find themselves surrounded by giggling (yes, they giggle) zombies
and trapped in a pharmacy, which they broke into for Sudafed to cook
more meth. After drinking several bottles of cough syrup to calm his
nerves (bad idea, in case you’re wondering), Chase gets a text from his
erstwhile girlfriend (The good news: she’s alive! The bad news: because
she also failed to stay sober!) and decides not to give up after all.
"This
is your one fucking shot, Chase, think, goddam it, use your fucking
brain. I do jumping jacks to rid the cough syrup fog. I’m telling myself
that I’m a problem solver. I figure shit out. I make it happen. I’m
thinking about being unemployed over the last two years. How I was able
to keep a roof over my head. Able to smoke hundreds and hundreds of
dollars’ worth of dope a week. These are the marks of a problem solver."
Right. A problem solver. (And then he watches the smoke from
Typewriter’s cigarette go up to the ceiling and realizes they can escape
through the ventilation system – problem solved!)
Try it, you might like it. The book I mean. Not drugs. That would be bad.
