“I’ve just read the manuscript of Dave Zeltserman’s new novel,
Blood Crimes. This is one of the few fresh takes on vampirism I’ve read
in years. It’s as if Charles Bukowski sat down and said, OK, Bram
Stoker, how about this?” Ed Gorman
“The
prolific and wildly talented Dave Zeltserman serves up a fast, furious,
frightening and (yes)funny orgy of bloodletting. Makes “Grindhouse”
look like Little House on the Prairie.” Roger Smith
BLOOD
CRIMES is a genre-bending collision of horror, dark urban fantasy and
crime that rides shot-gun with Jim and Carol as they carve a homicidal
path cross-country. Jim is infected with the vampire virus. Carol isn’t.
Yet. But they’re united in their hunt for society’s most dangerous
predators for Jim’s dinner — so he can feed without harming the
innocent. What they don’t know is that they’re not alone. There are
others on their trail, and the climax of BLOOD CRIMES is a shocking jolt
of pure mayhem and rock ‘n roll violence.
A short taste:
After
her first few weeks together with Jim, he bought her a lady’s handgun, a
Smith & Wesson .38 caliber revolver. It was funny that it was
considered a lady’s handgun since it still had enough firepower to stop a
two hundred and fifty pound NFL linebacker in his tracks. It wasn’t
pink, and it didn’t have little hearts decorating it, but Carol figured
it was because the gun could fit in her purse and only weighed twenty
ounces. Whenever she helped Jim lure a predator to feed on, he always
insisted that she bring her gun along in case he lost track of her. She
now had the gun laying on the bed and stared transfixed at it for what
seemed like an eternity, all the while an evangelical preacher from the
TV rambled on about how Jesus suffered each day for their sins and if
the good people listening could only dig deep into their hearts, and
even deeper into their wallets, the Lord’s pain could be eased. A
hardness froze Carol’s face. Earlier she had cracked open the cylinder
and dumped the bullets onto the bed sheet.
Almost from the
beginning she’d been wanting Jim to infect her so they could go through
this together. Wasn’t that what true love was all about—to share
everything each other went through, the good and the bad? He refused to,
though, saying that their life together always on the move was
difficult enough; that at least if Carol were uninfected she’d be able
to drive during the day and run the other errands they needed. She
didn’t buy his explanation. They could move from city to city just as
easily at night. She knew he was trying to protect her from what he was
going through, but as far she was concerned, that wasn’t good enough.
She wanted him to share his pain with her. If they were really each
other’s soul mates, there shouldn’t be anything between them.
She
picked up the revolver. For something that only weighed twenty ounces,
it felt heavy in her hand. She slid a bullet into one of the chambers,
then spun the cylinder.
If Jim came back and found her dying, he
would have to infect her to save her life. No matter all the things that
he’d said to the contrary, he would have to save her.
Carol,
he’d tell her in that tired voice of his he’d fall into whenever they
had this argument, you don’t know what you’re asking me. This is not
something I could ever let you go through. Fuck, I can’t think of a
worse curse to wish on anyone, let alone something that I would ever
inflict on someone I loved with all my heart. Please, let it drop, it’s
never going to happen.
Bullshit. If he really loved her as much as he claimed he did, how could he ever let her leave him?
She
pushed the muzzle of the gun against her belly, felt the coldness of
the steel. There were five chambers. Four empty, one with a .38 caliber
bullet. A twenty percent chance. Her muscles tensed as she squeezed the
trigger. An empty click, nothing else.
Oh, fuck.
She almost vomited the shots of tequila and greasy burger and fries from before. Somehow she kept it all down.
If
he really loved her he would save her. No matter what else, he would
have to save her. If the situation were reversed, she wouldn’t think
twice. She spun the cylinder again, hearing the metallic clicks. Again,
she pushed the muzzle hard against her bare belly. The preacher was
rambling on about how Christ loved all of them. She started laughing. It
sounded like something that could’ve been coming out of a wounded
animal.
Christ loved her, huh? What about Jim? Did he love her enough? Could he let her die?
Her face hardened with resolve. If he could then she didn’t want to fucking live.
Calmly,
her hand steady, she squeezed the trigger. Another empty click. This
time, though, everything in her stomach came rushing up, and she made a
dash for the bathroom. It all came out quickly, easily. Minutes
afterwards, her stomach empty and swollen, she gargled with mouthwash,
then stood at the bathroom sink splashing cold water over her face. She
avoided looking at her reflection in the mirror. She didn’t want to see
what she looked like, but could imagine her eyes rimmed with red and her
skin waxy and unnaturally pale. Headlights from outside flashed through
the room, then died. Carol grabbed one of the threadbare towels from a
rusted metal bar and wiped her face dry. She caught a glimpse of herself
in the mirror, and broke out giggling at how drawn and tired she
looked. She was out of the bathroom and still giggling when Jim opened
the motel room door. Their eyes locked for a moment, then she stumbled
forward and buried her face in his chest and held him as tight as she
could and tried to hide that she was now sobbing.
He put an arm around her thin shoulders and ran a hand through her hair.
“Are you crying or laughing?” he asked in a soft whisper.
“A little of both. Oh fuck, I’m glad you’re back.”
I sold my 3rd novel Small Crimes to
Serpent’s Tail in 2006. Back then we had a different publishing and book world.
Hell, ebooks didn’t exist, self-publishing was a dirty word, and it was chain
stores putting pressure on independent bookstores, not Amazon. When I was first
starting out, I was writing crime noir, then later horror and books that were a
mix of horror and crime. All standalones. During this strange journey, I’ve been
reviewed in major newspapers, both in the US and abroad. I’ve seen my books
translated into six languages, and one of them made into a movie. 
Now in 2017, I’ve just seen my second Morris Brick thriller
and 13th traditionally-published novel, CRAZED, be released. There’s
not much chance I would’ve been able to write this series when I was first
starting out. As long as you’re trying, you can’t help but grow as a writer,
and that’s a big part of the reason. My publisher requires these Morris Brick
thrillers to be at least 90k words long, which means I need to be able to
outline plots where I know how long the book will be while not adding any fat
or filler. The books need to be fast, and the complex puzzles I’m constructing
need to tightly fit together regardless of the word length. That’s a skill that
takes time to learn. Also, I understand the business side much better than when
I started. If you’re writing a series, you need to play by a certain set of
rules. It doesn’t mean you can’t have fun, or you’re not proud of the books—because
I’m damn proud of these Morris Brick thrillers—it just means you’re more aware
of writing within the genre’s boundaries.
