Eloise J. Knapp's Blog

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Zabat’s Comet promises a stunning astronomical display as it narrowly passes our planet. Then a solar flare nudges it hurtling toward Earth. Humanity crumbles during the countdown to Doomsday.

But Zabat is more than just a comet. The impact brings not swift extinction but a massive cloud of dust that appears to have a mind of its own. A sinister intelligence. A force that threatens to change what’s left of humanity.

Jack, Colleen, Lara, and Dan survived the violent chaos of the countdown. They survived the threat of extinction. Now they’re about to find out that after Doomsday, there are horrors even worse than death.

“The Dust of Dawn is a suffocating thriller that will keep you turning the pages and wondering what’s going to happen next. An apocalypse unlike any I’ve read.” – Nicholas Sansbury Smith, USA Today Bestselling Author of the Hell Divers series

“Eloise Knapp once again shows her ability to look at the most overused ideas with sharp, fresh eyes and deliver amazing stories. Eerie and thought provoking in a way few post-apocalyptic thrillers manage. A wonderfully disturbing book.” – Peter Clines, NYT Bestselling author of PARADOX BOUND and DEAD MOON

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Art by noro8

Last Man fired two more rounds. The first tore through the monster’s neck, the second its jaw. It staggered and went to its knees. Still, it wasn’t dead.

The Archer let loose an arrow that embedded itself through the hollow of one of the things cheeks. Its tentacle arm reached up and jerked the arrow free, unfazed. The arrow clattered before falling between the chunks of rubble.

Then each of the standing mutants circled their downed comrade. Last Man realized they were taking a defensive position around it. Instead of resuming fire, he waited. He had three rounds left in the 30-30. It would not be enough.

One of the things raised its face to the sky and released a series of short yelps. They held their ground.

Tentatively, Last Man took a step backward, his sight still locked onto his target. The mutants didn’t react. He moved farther and the Archer followed his lead. Step by step they put more distance between them and the tentacled monsters until the creatures were nothing more than vague shapes in the fog.

It was only then that Last Man began to run.

He twisted his ankle on the rubble. His lungs burned.

He kept going.

Eventually they cleared the wasteland. The terrain became easier to navigate and their line of sight increased. As the adrenaline faded in his body, Last Man’s thoughts wandered. If he’d managed to kill that creature—if it was even possible—he had a feeling the other three would’ve ripped him apart.

The Archer stopped. The stood in the center of a road Last Man was unfamiliar with. Brick buildings crumbled around them. Overhead a flock of birds silently flew by.

The hair on the back of Last Man’s neck prickled. He hadn’t forgotten how the Archer killed those two boys then pointed an arrow at his head. His grip on the 30-30 tightened, but he didn’t raise it. The Archer still held their bow in hand, though an arrow wasn’t pulled back.

“I’m not much for a sentimental goodbye,” Last Man said, keeping his voice neutral. “So why don’t we go our separate ways and hope we never run into those things again.”

Without missing a beat—still silent—they walked past Last Man and didn’t look back once.

It wasn’t the last time he’d see the Archer.

Last Man Flash Fiction FAQ

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Art by Red Rabbit

There was a split second where the Archer had to decide what the bigger threat was; Last Man or whatever was headed their way.

It was of no surprise to him when the Archer turned away from him and aimed towards where they heard the howls. Everyone was an enemy until something worse came along. Fine with him. Last Man stood fully and scanned the area for their new threat.

In the middle of the sea of concrete rubble with virtually nowhere to hide and no advantageous position to take. Last Man squinted as he tried to make out forms in the fog. The Archer dropped down beside him taking cover behind the same meager slab of concrete.

It was quiet. Last Man slowed his breathing and focused.

He wasn’t sure where the monster came from. All of the sudden it was just there, forty yards away, standing above the boy’s bodies. It was more horrific than any Walker he’d ever seen. Where arms once were hung sinewy tentacles that writhed on the ground as they investigated the bodies. One tentacle slithered against the bloody bodies. The appendage rose to its mouth where it tasted the fresh blood. A shudder coursed through its body. It raised its face to the sky and let out a long, high pitched scream.

A chorus responded. Through the fog came another three mutants. They tore into the corpses, tentacles tearing limb from body, flesh from bone.

They hadn’t spotted the Archer and Last Man taking cover behind the slab.

They had to act now, while the things were eating. If they tried to slip away and the creatures heard, they’d lose the element of surprise and stood little chance against four. Whatever these things were, they were fast as hell and moved silently.

The Archer was facing Last Man, their bow drawn but pointed at the ground. Last Man nodded to his rifle and then to the monsters, pointing to himself then the two on the right.

The Archer nodded in agreement.

Last Man stepped away from his cover. He aimed the sight of his 30-30 on the first creature. Its jaw moved furiously as it gnawed at an arm. He squeezed the trigger. The bullet hit the thing in the temple, blowing away a chunk of its head. It collapsed onto the ground.

Then the thing stood and locked its gaze on him. Chunks of brain and gore dripped down half of its face from the gaping wound in its head.

A flash of pure, unadulterated fear shot through Last Man’s entire being.

They were fucked.

Last Man Flash Fiction FAQ

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art by Ken Barthelmey

“Put down your gun and step away.”

The Last Man froze. As he scanned the horizon in front of him, and paid close attention to what was in his peripheral, dozens of thoughts raced in his mind. Where did they come from? How many were there? How long had they been following him and WHY hadn’t he heard or seen them before?

“He said put your fucking gun down!”

Male voice. Different from the first voice. Higher pitched. Younger.

“Okay,” Last Man said. “I’m going to move real slow and set the rifle down.”

It was foggy. Visibility was poor. Is that why he hadn’t seen them? Was he losing his edge—after all, he hadn’t seen another living person in years—or were they that good?

In front of him were hills and valleys of rubble for the next quarter mile. Nothing but bombed wasteland. Concrete and rebar made it dangerous to move through the terrain quickly.

If the two people behind him wanted to kill him, they would’ve done it by now. Shoot first, loot later. Their hesitance told him volumes. Last Man bent down and set down his rifle, then rose slowly with his arms above his head.

“Ok. Uh…Now…” the second voice said. “Tom, what do we do?”

“Fuck, I don’t know.”

“Screw Dad for not teaching us…”

The captors conferred in whispers. Last Man took the opportunity to shift his head just left enough to see behind him.

They were twenty feet away. Teenagers. Both boys were rail thin. Their jackets hung off bony shoulders and they both looked like they’d topple over if a slight breeze hit them. One held a shotgun.

“I don’t know what you plan to do here, but whatever it is, we can all walk away alive,” Last Man said. He kept his tone clear and emotionless.

“Shut up!” the shotgun-wielder yelled. “Take off your pack and gear and leave it by your gun.”

There was a shake in their voices beneath the bravado. They were afraid. Last Man didn’t care to guess what they’d been through or who they’d lost. He didn’t want to kill them, but would if he couldn’t talk them down.

“Listen to my brother, you fu—”

The boy was cut off as an arrow pierced his right eye. He stumbled back one step, then fell. His brother dropped to his knees, scanning for whoever did it while screaming for his lost kin.

Last Man grabbed his rifle and scanned the immediate area for cover and the attacker. All he could see was fog and a sea of concrete.

The remaining boy’s screams turned to gurgles. Last Man glanced over and saw him grasping at the arrow in his throat. He ripped it out. Blood spurted across the rubble and gushed down his skin, soaking his flimsy shirt.

Last Man stayed low and began moving away from the scene, still scanning for the sniper. He managed to find a large slab of concrete and set his back against it. He took a deep breath and peeked over the edge of the slab.

The figure standing two feet away from him was dressed in grays and black. A thin layer of dust coated their entire body. They blended into the rubble wasteland perfectly. Last Man could almost see his own reflection in the gas mask the archer wore.

They wielded a compound bow and an arrow was pointed right at Last Man’s head.

He heard a long, high pitched screech in the distance. Soon it was met with a dozen others and Last Man knew the archer was the least of his worries.

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Art by artroni.deviantart.com

The Last Man had forgotten what sleep was like without the nightmares. Sometimes he could only recall fragments. An endless abyss of undead. Fetid breath from mouths lined with jagged, black teeth. Glassy eyes that looked everywhere and nowhere at once. Maggots writhing in open chest cavities. Loops of entrails spilling out, hanging against their knees as they shambled ever forward.

In his nightmares he was running, but never fast enough.

He had a gun, but the wrong caliber of rounds.

He was safe in a bunker, but all his food had spoiled.

No matter the nightmare, in the end, the horde overtook him. Dragged him into the blackness. First he’d hear his clothes tear…then his flesh. Their lips smacking and jaws grinding as they chewed up his skin and muscle. A peculiar feeling of lightness as they tugged out his stomach, his lungs, his heart.

And just before he’d awaken, drenched in sweat, pulse caught in his throat, the dead were reaching for his eyes…

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art by one of my favorite artists, Blake Rottinger

He remembered what it was like when he knew mankind had given up. That humanity had finally loosened its grip and stopped fighting the infection.

It was the dead of winter and bitter cold. Ash drifted beside snowflakes, lazy as they made their descent to the ground. Fire consumed the city. Smoke billowed from empty skyscrapers. There was not a living soul in sight.

GOD HELP US

He swallowed the lump in his throat and looked away from the graffiti scrawled across the billboard overheard. His gaze moved down the road at the tangled mess of abandoned cars and garbage.

Where did he go from here? He’d been to the other cities on the emergency broadcast. He hadn’t seen another survivor in weeks.

Maybe he was alone. Maybe he was the last man on earth.

Then he saw movement in the corner of his eye. He tensed and brought up his rifle. His hazmat suit squeaked. He regretted how much the foggy mask impeded his vision.

There was nothing but a frostbitten corpse leaning out a car window. Its skin was almost papery, tight against frozen muscle. The Last Man was hungry and tired. It was showing. He needed to find somewhere to rest the night. He’d rethink what to do in the morning…

The corpse flexed its hand and drew its bony fingertips up the car door. When it raised its head and snapped its ragged teeth in his direction, the Last Man realized he wasn’t truly alone.

Looking for earlier “Last Man” flash fiction? Click here to view everything in this category.

art by siqri

The Last Man stood motionless. A chill ran across his neck and back and it wasn’t from the cold. He was one wrong move away from being dinner.

Twenty yards ahead of him were four wolves. He hadn’t seen them until he’d reached the crest of the snowdrift. Their coats were so white they camouflaged near perfectly in the snow. The hard winter sunlight nearly blinded him, but he kept eyes on them.

He always cut through the city to get home after a winter hunting trip, and not once had he seen more than a bird or two. In the summer, the city was infested with Walkers and animals avoided it. In the winter, the Walkers froze near solid or were buried under the snow, but wildlife still shied away, perhaps sensing what lurked within.

Even with the 30-30 lever action rifle ready in his hands, the Last Man decided it wasn’t a fight he wanted to pick. The wolves hadn’t noticed him yet. He kept his eyes on them and walked backward, retracing his steps until he was at the bottom of the drift, out of sight.

There were few clear paths to take back home. This added another half day to his travel time.

He gritted his teeth and trudged forward, hoping he wouldn’t lose another toe to frostbite.

art by 5ofnovember

The Last Man had been waiting for hours. His eyes stung from the dry, cold weather. A chill had settled so deep in his core, he didn’t think he’d ever warm up again.

It didn’t matter. He would stay until just past dusk. Only then would he end the day.

This had been his hunting spot for three winters and it never failed him. With each passing year nature took back what was once hers. Animals roamed freely here now. The cars rusted. The asphalt disappeared under brambles and grass growing from its cracks. In the distance, skyscrapers turned into skeletons.

The Last Man shifted slightly and closed his eyes for a few long seconds to try and warm them up.

He heard a twig snap. Standing in front of him was the biggest buck he’d ever seen. Slowly, he brought up his rifle and aimed…

For those of you just starting, this is my first ever Last Man flash fiction. I started posting these on my Facebook fan page and wanted to have a spot other than Facebook that I could keep them. I do not claim any of the art, and credit the artist whenever I am able (which is most of the time). Thank you for reading!

The pop machine on Capitol Hill in Seattle was a mystery. It stood, covered in layers of graffiti, on the corner of John Street and 10th Avenue East. The locksmith company behind it provided electricity for the machine, though they had no clue who was restocking it or why.

For twenty years it provided refreshing cold soda to anyone willing to pay the insignificant price of 75 cents.

Numerous locals tried to find out who was behind the landmark’s peculiar existence. They’d convinced nearby shops and apartment buildings to let them look through their grainy security footage in hopes of catching a glimpse of the person or people restocking the machine. It was good fun. There was even a popular blog on it and a Facebook fan page. They simply wanted to solve the mystery, but at the same time, they didn’t.

What no one knew was that the soda machine wasn’t the quaint feature story they thought it was. It was no machine. It was a Gateway.

On a nipping, foggy November night, a cloaked figure pushed a dolly cart stacked with boxes of soda pop. Despite the cracks and debris on the ground, the dolly moved with impossible silence and grace. The figure walked with confidence knowing the Master would stop the security cameras from recording his image. For fifteen years now, the Master had protected him from all manner of exposure.

The Gateway glowed, its yellow light setting the fog around it ablaze. Beads of slimy condensation seeped from its rusted edges. For a moment it flickered, the yellow light pulsating a caustic green.

He grinned. The Master was almost ready. The Gateway would soon be primed for his arrival.

The figure placed his hand against the lock on the Gateway door and squeezed his eyes shut. A buzzing sensation crawled across his skin. The door clicked and swung open.

A wave of misty, subzero air enveloped him. The taste of death and chaos came with it, metallic and pungent on his tongue. When the mist faded, he began his work. Instead of metal ramps or guides to keep the pop in place, the innards of the machine were quite organic and stretched farther back than the machine could physically allow. Ropes of narrow gray tentacles wiggled, their sharp tips gravitating towards the open door.

Slowly, carefully, the figure handed the tentacles cans of soda. They wrapped tightly around the aluminum vessels and pulled them back into their squirming depths where they’d keep them chilled and ready. Multiple soft tisssc noises cut through the silence as the tentacles pierced the cans with their single, needle-like tooth, and injected a seed.

Soon the figure completed his work. The dolly contained nothing more than empty cardboard boxes. November was a hard time for the Gateway to gain tributes. In the summer, it had to be restocked multiple times a week. In the cold months a fraction of the number of people were interested in it. What made things trickier was that not everyone who drank was proper tribute. Thus the process of gaining enough had taken many years.

A low rumble came from deep within the Gateway.

The tentacle mass stilled. Then, in unison, parted to reveal the eye of a behemoth, so large the figure knew it had to be the Master’s. Not reptilian nor mammal, but something entirely different. It was set deep in a scaly socket. Acidic green light emanated from it. It blinked.

He had never seen the Master before, lurking in the other plane. Primal fear took hold of his body. His heart hammered in his chest.

Suddenly he remembered. It was as though he’d woken up from a dream. A very long dream. His name was Bryan Warren. He lived in Seattle his whole life. He had a wife, Diane, and child, Abbie. They were dead. Abbie loved going to the mystery pop machine. Diane took her there one day. They became casualties in a gang related shooting.

Bryan, fueled by rage, grief, and alcohol, came to loop a chain around the machine and tear it down forever.

But the Master stopped him.

It cooed sweet things to him. Showed every carnal pleasure and power he could imagine. Promised him he could have his family back if only he served. He couldn’t resist the temptation. As his resolve caved, a retro frosty can of Dr. Pepper popped out of the machine. Bryan drank and became a slave.

That was fifteen years ago.

Bryan then realized why the Master showed himself. It had come to collect.

“No,” he choked. “No, I don’t want this! Please, don’t!”

He gathered enough will to stumble back. With lightning speed, the tentacles shot from the Gateway and wrapped around his ankles. Their grasp was as hard and cold as ice. Bryan’s fingernails peeled back and bled as he grabbed at the sidewalk to try and pull himself free.

Somehow, he’d always known, but the Master stopped him from thinking of it. He was the last tribute. He was the waypoint for the plane of madness to enter a new, untainted realm. He’d helped it put its seed in the world for two decades, and now it was ready to reap what it had sowed.

The air quivered with an electric charge. Bryan tilted his head and saw the sky split open.

The Master had arrived.

#

Ok, time for some context! I was in the ER waiting room (don’t worry, everyone is okay) when I picked up the Seattle Times and read this news article about a pop machine on Cap hill that has been putting out mysterious pop for 20 years. I was talking to a friend about how crazy it was, and he suggested I write a story. So, instead of messing around on my phone, I started this story and finished it later. Of course, I couldn’t pass up photoshopping the actual mystery machine into a creepy, Cthulhu-y masterpiece to go with. :) Hope you enjoyed!

Who are you and what do you write?

Hey, I’m Jason Bovberg, and what I’m doing with my Blood trilogy (Blood Red, Draw Blood, and the forthcoming Blood Dawn) is telling an urgent, real-time apocalyptic-horror tale from several different perspectives. Blood Red is told from the point of view of Rachel, a 19-year-old girl who’s barely hanging on to her sanity in the real world, let alone a new world populated by weirdly and slowly reanimating “corpses.” (This ain’t a zombie story; it’s altogether stranger.) Draw Blood is told from the perspective of her father, so we see the same event through new, more mature eyes as things get more and more aggressively weird. And Blood Dawn, which I’m currently finishing up, finishes the story from the point of view of someone who was “infected” in Draw Blood, wrapping up the story in a storm of blood, bone, and otherworldly chaos. It’s a hell of a lot of gory fun.

I’m fascinated by the notion of “perspective,” and I really wanted to play with that in the Blood trilogy. The whole endeavor is partially inspired by the original idea for the movie Cloverfield and its planned sequels. Those further tales would have told the story of the same invasion from the perspective of various cameras around New York City. I LOVE that idea, so I stole it. Sorta.

Beyond my horror novels, I’ve also written a nostalgic ‘50s noir in the tradition of Chandler, Hammett, Cain, and Prather called The Naked Dame. It’s another book in which I play with voice, somewhat more playfully. I loved writing that book and could see returning to the genre.

You versus Norm Partridge in a fight to the death. Who would win?

So you heard about Portland? Yeah, it was at the World Horror Convention last year. I took issue with the fact that Norm was the Guest of Honor in my place, so that Saturday afternoon I challenged him to a fistfight at the entrance to the dealer’s room. It was ugly. No one has heard from Norm since.

Looking back on the terrible things you’ve done to your characters, or the cruel backstories you’ve given them, if there was one sentence you could say to them, what would it be?

I have no regrets about what I’ve put you through, because you are far, far stronger now than when we met—well, except for the dead among you, sure, but even you played your noble part in the narrative, so you should feel an enormous degree of pride.

Go back to the moment you finished writing your first-ever novel. Doesn’t matter if it has been published, self-published, or lost forever to the depths of My Documents. What did it feel like to write those last words?

In my case, it was something like a relieved “FINALLY!” because it took me quite a while to graduate to long-form writing from short story writing. Back then, the notion of penning a 100,000-word tome was beyond comprehension, and in fact it took a couple of awkward “practice” novels to get there—as well as a period of close to a decade. (Those practice novels shall remain permanently drawered. One of them, in fact, was frightfully close to porn. Hey, writers use all kinds of crutches to keep the works moving, right?)

You’re at the grocery store when you spot a bleary eyed woman with a shopping cart full of cake mix and rat poison. What is she about to do, and more importantly, why?

The woman had a tic on the side of her face, and at first I thought she was winking at me. Walking the other direction down the aisle, I avoided eye contact. I strode past the sugar, past the flour. I nonchalantly grabbed a packet of baking powder off the shelf. In the convex mirror at the back of the store, I saw her in the distance, turning back to peer at me, her face distorted, her body elephantine. Stop it! I thought. I walked along the back of the store, whistling softly, while she checked out. Glancing down the center aisle, I caught one more flash of a grin, of her eyes turning toward me, dark and quick. In a moment, I watched her leave the store, walking crookedly, with her purchase. She had the money now, and my directions. I just hoped she would spell my daughter’s name right on the cake.

Describe, in vivid detail, a child’s reaction to their parent stating, “Santa isn’t real, Billy, but the monster under your bed certainly is.”

Smiling, Mommy closes the door, and I watch her shadow retreat in the gap between the wood and floor. I think she even laughs a little, the sound drifting away like wind chimes. Did she really just say that about Santa? It doesn’t make sense. I crawl back into the corner of my bed, staring at the edge, pulling the covers up. Whatever is down there seems to yank back at the sheets. Mommy can’t be right! The tree is all lit up downstairs, and the milk and cookies are out, and in the morning Santa will have left his presents. All of them, everything I’ve always wanted. Something grunts under the bed, and I shut my eyes. No! It’s not fair. My heartbeat is racing, and I can’t stop myself from shivering. I curl myself in a ball and scream inside. Something cracks. After a long moment, I open my eyes. The creature is peering over the edge of the bed, locking its eyes with mine. It wears a coal-stained red cap, slimy and flat, and its face is grimy as if with grease. Its face is plump, it mouth curled up in a rictus grin, revealing sharp teeth. Its eyes gleam. It pulls a great bag from beneath the bed and lifts it to its shoulder. Its voice is full of cinders. “Merry Christmas Billy.”

Write 3 steps on how to be Jason Bovberg.

1) Acquire an obsessive-compulsive collector mentality

2) Find terrific pleasure in the dark and weird

3) Shave your head, and begin typing

Last Words

You feel your life force fading. You have only moments left. You look up into the cloudy sky, raise your fist and yell, “(Your epic last words here)”.

“I know you’re an author, too, you bastard, so tell me: What part did I serve in the narrative?”

Connect!

Jason made it through The Author Games and lives another day. Check out his official website, www.jasonbovberg.com, Facebook, Goodreads, and Twitter!