Wednesday, August 10, 2016

The Suicide Motor Club


She saw them with true eyes, saw what they were. Saw the catlike reflection in their eyes, saw the driver’s smile, his foxlike canines, the wolfish teeth on the one wrestling with her. Saw the sharp red hole that was the woman’s mouth, the teeth in it the teeth of biting gar.

They like fast cars. They like the nighttime. They prowl the lonely highways of America, headlights off, hunting. Always hunting. They are the Suicide Motor Club, and you should pray very hard that you never meet them.
Judith Lamb wasn’t so lucky. She first met the Suicide Motor Club one night in 1967, on the road to Amarillo with her husband and her son. One minute, things were normal, the next, a carful of monsters with human faces pulled up out of nowhere and dragged her boy right out of the car. Then, to leave no witnesses, they ran Judith and her husband off the road and vanished into the night.

The dead ride quickly, indeed.
Flash forward two years. Judith is the sole survivor, her husband dead from his injuries, her son’s whereabouts unknown. Only she can tell the tale of what happened that night in 1967, but who would believe that monsters with shining eyes had ambushed them and taken her son? No one save a clandestine group calling themselves the Bereaved. And they offer her the one thing no police officer, therapist, or holy order can: revenge.  
Good luck, Judith.

Fasten your seatbelt, dear reader, because The Suicide Motor Club is a ride to hell and back you won’t soon forget. Christopher Buehlman (Those Across the River, The Lesser Dead) continues to impress as a top-caliber horror writer, so if horror is your preferred genre, do yourself a favor and add him to your reading list right now.
And stay off the road at night.

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