Deathbringer
Imagine, if you will, that you were smack dab in the middle of a zombie invasion. Now imagine that because you hesitated about getting away from said zombies, someone called you “fuckface.” Would you respond, “And you can stop calling me ‘fuckface.’ My name’s Avery Starke, and I’ve been told I’m a pretty good lookin’ guy.”?
Of course not. Which is why your reaction to that line may serve as a gauge to your reaction to the whole of DEATHBRINGER, Bryan Smith’s follow-up to HOUSE OF BLOOD. That 2004 title was purposely cartoony and over the top. So’s this one, but it lacks … well, the cohesive sense of fun, even despite a strong start and the occasional gem of a line like “The head on the dashboard was trying to talk.”
I hope I’m not spoiling it for you, but Smith’s book is about a guy who brings death. Shadowy and sinister, the Deathbringer is a member of a decades-old sect called the Reapers, who have the power to take your life simply by touch, and turn you into a flesh-eating zombie. (Protecting the world from Reapers? The Guardians, of course.) Taking a page from George Romero, our protagonists – a grieving cop, his ex-girlfriend, his almost-brother-in-law and the crazy punk slut who killed his fiancée – hole up in a house to survive the onslaught. But given that the crazy punk slut is kind of in on the game, they also have to fight the threat from within. And maybe have sex with her, because this girl’s horny switch is forever set to “on.”
Smith’s story jumps from serious to supremely silly, sometimes within the same chapter, making for an inconsistent read. With such wide jumps up and down the spectrum, you can’t really have it both ways. Am I to be elated or shocked when someone is dismembered? Am I supposed to laugh or cheer when a Guardian bursts in to save some hides and announces he’s “from the Mexico branch”? I can’t tell; it’s gory but not exactly scary, and nonsensical without being a parody. (But, for the record, I laughed on that Mexico bit.)
I will say that DEATHBRINGER does offer one thing I’ve never read before: a zombie giving herself the pseudonym Whisper Starshine, getting high in a VW bus full of stoners. I leave it to you to decide whether that’s a good thing. –Rod Lott
[...] And there are mummies. While I think that matter of cross-pollination alone is genius, Wellington really should be commended for not settling for aping George Romero movies. Though that obviously provided the template (as it has for all things zombie ever since), Wellington isn’t in it just for the gore, which would get old fast. He infuses this pulse-pounder with pathos and other realistic emotions that carry a weight of plausability, bringing it far above the level of just an average, everyday effort. The man holds a master’s degree in creative writing, and it clearly shows in his prose, to where the damn thing – dare I say it? – even flirts with being literary. [...]
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