Joe R. Lansdale
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
In the field of country noir--the dark side of rural and small-town America--Lansdale staked his claim to East Texas with The Nightrunners. A '66 Chevy bears down on the countryside, with a carful of vicious teenagers and evil of Biblical proportions, in this terrifying morality tale of sex and violence. Here’s what Publishers Weekly just said in its starred review: “Lansdale’s The Nightrunners (1987)...set new standards for the depiction of graphic violence and is probably the best novel of its type between Psycho and The Silence of the Lambs ... This upsetting look at the human capacity for evil breaks with crime novel conventions when a supernatural element enters the story in the form of the grotesque deity known as the God of All Things Sharp...The Nightrunners retains its ability to awe and to horrify."
the pines, the water and the boiled-egg moon. Becky sagged, stumbled away from the window. She put a hand on the arm of the couch, kept herself from toppling. Her nightgown was damper if than ever; shaped around her breasts and pulled up between her legs like a clutching hand— Clyde's hand. God, don't think that. He's dead. He's not some kind of boogeyman. Or is he? she thought suddenly. She sat down on the couch and shivered. The room was freezing. She was damp, and there was the icy
the road were a few houses. Blacktop and clay roads branched off in every direction, probably leading their way past what made up the population of Minnanette, which, according to Dean, was about five hundred, That figure seemed large to Montgomery, but then again, it wouldn't take much of a town to service five hundred people, and from this point, it wasn't too outrageously far to Livingston or Lufkin, and one or both of those places would be where all the serious shopping was done. He drove a
necessary for them to team up, but he'd be damn glad when things returned to normal and he had a car to himself. He picked his gun belt (Roxanne brought it in for him every morning when he was working, which was most of the time) off the back of a chair, strapped it on. It was a silly habit. He still had breakfast to eat, but after all these years in the Highway Patrol, it had become as natural a thing to do as zipping up his fly—in fact, more natural. Men and their guns, he thought. He sat
And now, there was this between them, and it was as solid as a metal wall. "What do you suggest?" she asked. "I suggest I listen to you, that you tell me about the dreams. I suggest that when you finish telling me about them, I refrain from trying to explain them in my pop psychoanalyst way." She smiled, "Monty ... I know it's hard to understand, really. It's just these things are so real ..." And before she knew it, she was telling him all about the dreams again, explaining that new
started back to the cabin. Becky stood just inside the doorway, looking in. But Montgomery knew she wasn't seeing the living room. She was tuned inward, examining an endless replay of her rape in Technicolor and stereophonic sound. He stepped around her and into the room. Becky turned and smiled at him. An empty smile. He smiled back, and still holding the bags, he hooked the door with his foot and kicked it closed. It slammed much harder than he expected. TWO The dreams had started