Survival Island by Matt Drabble Book Tour and Giveaway :)
Survival Island
by
Matt Drabble
Genre:
Horror, Thriller, Mystery
"Matt
Drabble is a name that will one day be as widely recognized as
Stephen King & Dean Koontz"
- READERS
FAVORITE
A
new Horror/Thriller/Mystery from the Best Selling & Multi Award
Winning Author of "Gated"
"Asylum"
& "Abra-Cadaver"
Clayton
is a small island community cut off from the mainland. They keep to
themselves and they like it that way.
As far as the locals are
concerned there are Islanders and there are Mainlanders. But the
locals don't quite have the island all to themselves.
Depending
on who you talk to on the island The chosen Order of the Nine Divines
are either a peaceful religious order or a dangerous cult. Solomon
Abel had been the Father to the order, Known locally as The Niners,
for his entire adult life but he is an old man now and the younger
member, including his own son, are growing tired of the old ways.
As
far as Clayton Island is concerned a Clayton has held sway across the
land, a birthright currently owned by Dale Clayton. He is a man
haunted by the iron fist of his father and drowning in his own
inadequacy. The Islanders act like they respect him, but he imagines
it's only to his face.
For centuries the two communities have
live side by side, until now.
With the local timber mill
folding the Dale Clayton is left with no choice but to listen to
mainland developers. Smart suited men who seek to exploit the
island's natural beauty for their own gain.
Arriving with the
developers is an old face returning. Ashley Quinn hasn't set foot on
her homeland for almost 20 years and she had no desire to be here,
but her job was the one stable thing left in her life since the
divorce and she was barely hanging on to the life that she'd fought
so hard to make.
The people of Clayton Island haven't changed,
they've only gotten older, some she is glad to see and others not so
much.
With tensions rising fast between those who want the
future and those who want to hold onto the past Ashley finds herself
caught in the middle. And when it is discovered that The Niners are
sitting on the most valuable land on the island there are those who
will do anything to take it and those who will do anything to defend
it.
There is a powder keg on Clayton and it will only take a
single spark to burn the whole place down. Alliances and enemies are
formed with many hiding their true intentions and no one is what they
seem, because when two tribes go to war, everyone dies.
The
night air was cold enough to bite at any exposed skin. Taylor Cole
pulled his jacket up to his ears and tried to bury his face in his
scarf to fight against the seeping chill that was working its way
into his bones. He
was a small squat man making his way along the empty street, his
sunken eyes constantly scanning for witnesses. He clutched a small
paper bag tightly to his chest, a bag containing of bottle of his
treasure and it was taking every ounce of self-control not to fall to
his knees and devour the contents right here on Main Street. The
only thing stopping him right now was the fear of repercussions. The
local constable, Caleb Bowman, was a big guy who had thrown his ass
into the one holding cell in Clayton on more than one occasion.
Bowman had banned him from drinking in town, and even Casey had
turned him away earlier in the evening and that big bitch served
everyone. Unable to buy his booze, he had taken to seeking out his own plan,
which had included smashing a window at Tommy O’Brien’s store and
taking a bottle. He had only taken the one and at this point
considered it medicinal. There
was practically no crime on the island of Clayton, and he knew full
well that come sunup, Bowman would be looking for him, but right now
the sunrise seemed a lifetime away. He
made his way along the makeshift street, sticking as much as he could
to the shadows. It was after hours now, and Casey’s Bar had long
since turned out its last drunken customer. Island life meant most
were early to bed and early to rise, so he didn’t expect to see
anyone at this hour, but still he was cautious. With
the bag clutched tightly to his chest, its contents calling out to
him, he doubled his pace and was soon clear of the buildings. There
was a fire in his belly, one that needed to be doused before he could
sleep. His
father had been a drunk and his grandfather and his great-grandfather
and so on and so on; it was undoubtedly the family business. He knew
that other islanders shunned him on the street and avoided his gaze,
especially if he was asking for money. He
lived in a rundown shack away from prying eyes, but in truth, he
didn’t spend much time there, preferring the outdoor air and the
sanctity of the island’s woodland for comfort. He slept outdoors
most nights, but perhaps passed out would be a more accurate
description. There
had been a time when he’d craved a normal life, a partner,
children, a family to share his time and affection with, but it had
been a futile hope, he knew that now. He was a born a drunk. It was
his destiny. He
shuffled his way out of town and headed along the track towards the
mill. It was the only place in Clayton that held anything approaching
a good memory for him. The
logging plant had given him a job and respect at a time when he’d
kept his drinking under control. Sure, he’d had a couple with lunch
during his shift as supervisor, but he’d never let it interfere
with his work, and besides, it was only beer - that wasn’t real
drinking. But then the gaps between shots had grown narrower and
narrower until there were no gaps at all and he was drinking before,
after and during. Mercifully,
no one had died under his watch but Steve Butler had lost two fingers
due to a faulty safety rail that Taylor had forgotten to replace and
that was all she wrote. Dale Clayton himself had him frogmarched out
of the mill and he’d soon found out that Steve Butler had far more
friends than Taylor Cole. He
shook his head to cast aside the downbeat thoughts threatening to
ruin what was left of his night and hugged his bottle closer to his
chest, the one friend who would never leave him or gaze upon him with
scorn and contempt.
The
mill was on its last legs, no matter what that prick Dale Clayton
tried to tell everyone. The town mayor’s family had built the
island up into a town, and descendant Dale never missed an
opportunity to claim the credit. The whole town knew that the plant
was done - and with it, the town. Taylor felt a stab of satisfaction
that soon all of Clayton would fall and all those under the watch of
the sanctimonious Dale. The
gates were padlocked, but the fence was slack and Taylor lifted a
section, squeezing himself through the gap, making sure that his
bottle was secure. He sliced his hand open on a rusty piece of metal
but his prize was safe, and that was all that mattered. He
made his way up to the mill entrance. The front door was locked, but
he quickly found a large enough rock and smashed a window. There was
no alarm. He figured that even if crime was an issue on the island,
Dale Clayton would have been too cheap to install any sort of
security system. It
was strange being back in the building, especially during the
darkness hours. He made his way up to Dale Clayton’s office. While
the rest of the logging plant was falling apart, the owner’s office
was still pristine and no expense had been spared for the prick’s
comfort. There
was thick, expensive-looking carpet underfoot, and on a whim, Taylor
stopped long enough to piss on it. He had intended to sit in
Clayton’s comfy leather recliner and drink himself to sleep, but
now, of course, the office stank of his own piss.
Instead,
he took the bottle out onto the metal walkway outside of Clayton’s
office. The balcony overlooked the mill floor and the big boss man
would often stand on his perch, surveying his minions below. Taylor
was leaning over the railing when something clanged against metal
somewhere down below in the shadows. He jerked his head up in shock
and stood motionless, holding his breath. There shouldn’t have been
anyone here at this time of night. Maybe some of the local kids had
broken in; it wouldn’t be unheard of. Eventually,
he let his breath out with a long sigh. Maybe it was a rat or other
small creature coming for a last look around at the old place. A rat
visiting the ship just before it sank seemed appropriate. On a
whim, he decided to leave his mark on the mill tonight. He took a
bunch of framed certificates, awards and photographs from Clayton’s
office. He headed down to the plant floor to take his own goodbye
tour. He
drank as he walked, filling his system with burning liquid courage
and becoming more emboldened with every step. Clutching
the armful of Clayton’s prized mementos, he dumped them onto the
long conveyor belt in the centre of the mill floor. He prayed that
the power was still on in the building and his prayers were answered
when the truck-stripping machine sparked into life. The
sound was deafening but he was past caring now as he took another
long swig from the bottle, fuelling his anger and excitement further. Clayton’s
frames made their way jerkily along the conveyor belt before being
smashed to pieces under the heavy metal teeth. Taylor laughed, and
his voice was lost in the clanging noise. As he
merrily drank, he was wondering what else of Clayton’s he could
drag down here and throw through the chomping jaws, in lieu of the
man himself, of course. He
was pondering such thoughts when suddenly, the bottle fell from his
hand and smashed to pieces on the concrete floor. He stared down at
the spilled precious dark liquid, wondering how he’d dropped it
when he noticed that he was actually still holding it. His
pickled brain took some time to process what his eyes were seeing.
The broken bottle was still gripped around the neck by his hand, but
both were now lying on the ground. He turned his gaze to his arm to
find a bloody spurting stump and then he finally felt the pain. His
scream roared momentarily louder than the machinery but didn’t last
long. Just
beyond his hand and the remains of the bottle, a circular saw blade
with razor sharp teeth was now embedded in the side of the conveyor
belt. Clutching his arm with his one remaining hand, he turned
around, and as he moved, he felt a rush of wind pass by him, missing
his torso by millimetres. A second saw blade had flown by him and
smashed into a wooden strut, driving deep into the surface. Taylor
started to stagger away. He’d intended to run, but the shock and
blood loss were quickly starting to take their toll. He
stumbled alongside the long conveyor, desperate to get away, his
addled mind working off sheer instinct now. A
third blade struck him in the back of his left knee and drove him
down to the ground, making any escape now moot. He sank against the
side of the conveyor, blood pouring from the two devastating wounds.
The third saw blade was still deeply implanted in the back of his
leg, its metal teeth sank into bone. Taylor’s
mouth popped open and shut like a starving goldfish. His eyes were
bulging wide in pain and terror as he dimly felt a powerful hand grab
hold of his collar from behind. His
small squat frame was lifted effortlessly, and then he landed down
hard on the conveyor belt rollers. He desperately tried to squirm
free as he headed towards the clamping mechanics, fighting to drag
himself off the rollers, but a strong hand held him in place. The
man standing over him was muttering something under his breath, but
Taylor couldn’t see him clearly. The strong hand pinning him down
now started to propel him forward. He was dimly aware that he was
heading feet first into the whirling machinery, and as his boots
disappeared into the gnashing teeth, the pain was monstrous. He
screamed and screamed, but there was no one to help him. At If he’d
gone in head first, at least it could have been over quickly;
instead, he was torn to pieces and it took what seemed like an
eternity to die.
Born in Bath, England in 1974, a self-professed "funny onion", equal parts sport loving jock and comic book geek. I am a lover of horror and character driven stories. I am also an A.S sufferer who took to writing full time two years ago after being forced to give up the day job.
I
have a career high position of 5th on Amazon's Horror Author Rank of
which I am immensely proud. I was also accepted as a full member of
the Horror Writers Association.
I have always been very careful not to
study my methods too closely. I have no formal training or
qualifications as far as becoming an author and I have never taken
any kind of creative writing classes. I simply sat down one day to
try and write a book and when I had finished telling the story I
found that I had a full length novel. I usually start with an idea
for the main story and often the twist in the end. Then I design the
cover which gives me a better handle and then I start. Some parts are
planned out but most of the time the story unfolds to me as I’m
writing it and is often a surprise.
Follow
the tour HERE
for exclusive excerpts, guest posts and a giveaway!
Comments
Post a Comment