There is a whole bunch of Brit horror authors, who are more than equal to their more famous American cousins. Ramsey Campbell is like Peter Straub on ketamine, Graham Masterton is the snappier version of ole King, Barker is…Barker, Brian Lumley is Robert Howard meets Lovecraft meet Clancy, Shaun Hutson is like a better-paced John Saul, and James Herbert… James Herbert learned to write like Dean Koontz a decade before Dean Koontz learned to write like Dean Koontz, only James Herbert’s structure of the story is closer to King. Imagine it: Koontz’s descriptions, King’s character treatment, British turn of phrase. Doth your mouth not water?
Domain deals with the aftermath of a nuclear holocaust, without the endless soapy introductions that some other books *cough, Swan Song* can be faulted at having, and although it has its endearing B film moments, it’s also densely populated with sudden eruptions of awesomeness. And mutant rats.
The following quotes relate the highlights of a section where a protagonist waking up in hospital room in an underground shelter which is suddenly being flooded and invaded by mutant rats.
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Bryce was slowly becoming aware that something more was wrong, lying there in the subdued lighting of the sick bay with other ailing survivors, listening to the screams and shouts beyond the closed door, the strange rushing sound, the lapping of water around the cot beds inside the medical room itself. Sharp sounds that sounded like ... sounded like gunfire. Bryce sat upright and others around him, those whose sedation allowed, did the same, all of them confused and more than just frightened. A woman shrieked as water drenched the mattress she lay upon. Bryce pushed himself back against the wall when tiny waves lapped over onto his blanket. He was still groggy, and for a moment the cot-filled room swung in a crazy pendulum movement. Someone splashed by his bed and he flinched as ice-cold water slapped his cheek. Other figures followed and Bryce drew in his legs, crouching there in the gloom between his own
Bryce was thrown from the top bunk and the impact as he plunged beneath the surface dismissed the dragging residual effects of the drug. He rose spluttering and coughing, tangled in other arms and legs, pushing against them as they pushed against him. A double bunk toppled onto him and once more he was beneath the water, choking on its brackish taste, the iron frame heavy against his chest. At first he fought against the weight, but as he struggled a notion sifted through the terror, nudging him in a quiet, stealthy manner. Why bother to fight? the thought asked, why resist when death was inevitable? He tried to heave the metal bed from him, its mattress floating down onto his face as if conspiring with the water to smother him.
Wasn't this a better way to die? the inner voice said slyly. Wasn't this preferable to madness and pain? The cot rose a few inches then slumped back as though another weight had been added to it, perhaps someone climbing onto it to keep free of the flood. One or two minutes of unpleasantness before drifting off to sleep, a sleep deeper and more peaceful than you've ever known, one that could never be interrupted, never infringed upon. Never again tainted with living. Yes, it was good, it was desirable. But the pain now; how can I accept the pain now? Easily. Don't resist, that's the secret, that's the way. A few bad moments and then you'll drift. You'll see. Am I already mad? Has the disease struck so fast? No, no, not mad. Dying so effortlessly will be the sanest thing you've ever done. My lungs are tearing. It hurts, it hurts! Not for long. Breathe in the water, one large swallow, then no more pain. I can't. I'm afraid. It's easier than you think. Who are you? I'm your friend. I'm you. Will you stay with me? Always. For ever...
No longer to be a refugee from the holocaust with no certain future, no longer a victim of the disease which spoiled the mind as well as the body. No grief now, little sorrow. A fading sadness. Peacefully, softly drifting. His inner voice had not lied. The weight from his chest gone. Floating. Upwards. Rising. Upwards. Something pulling? Hurting him? Hands on him? No, not that, not now! It was settled! It was accepted! Leave meeeeeee ... He burst through the bubbling surface, water jetting from his lungs, and tried to free himself of the hands that had yanked him from the restful peace. The choking muffled his protests as the two men held him; the pain returned, racking his muscles.
The second engineer, Thomas, was helping the woman who had fallen onto the bunkbed, the added weight that had pinned Bryce to the floor. He dragged her towards the door, the deluge less violent now that the water level inside the sick bay matched the level outside. Yet it was strong enough to make them stagger and fall. Encumbered by the dead weight of the hysterical woman, Thomas flailed around in the gloom beneath the waterline, tugging at the arm that hugged his neck. He broke the hold and pushed himself upright, the woman rising with him. She clung to him, a hindrance that could drown them both. He changed his mind about rescuing her. Thomas pushed her away with a hand around her throat, then smashed a fist into her upturned face. Teeth broke under his knuckles and she fell away from him, sinking, a spasm of bubbles breaking the uneven, choppy surface. Aghast at what he had done but nevertheless relieved to be rid of her, Thomas headed for the door, ignoring the shouts from behind.
Farraday had witnessed the incident and he raged inside, unable to help, his own hands full with Bryce, who was sagging as though eager to drown, unwilling to help himself. To Farraday's surprise, the woman blustered to the surface just a few feet away, her eyes dazed but still pleading. Still helping Webber keep Bryce on his feet with one hand, Farraday reached out for the woman with the other, grabbing one arm as she began to sink again, and pulling her over to him. Her head rested against his chest and she seemed momentarily calmed, as if trusting him to save her. 'Let's get out!' Farraday shouted to Webber. We can't help any more!' He called for the others to follow, hoping they would hear, averting his eyes from the rear section of the sick bay, afraid of seeing something that would compel him to wade down there and help. These two, Bryce and the woman, were enough. They began moving towards the door, a tightly packed foursome, fighting the undertow, careful not to trip over unseen loose objects.
Bryce allowed himself to be carried along, neither helping nor hindering. His mind was in a peculiar turmoil, a jumbled mixture of regret and elation. He knew what it was to die and it wasn't so frightening. Not actually scary at all, was it? Perhaps just a little bit. But infinitely better than living with excruciating pain. Oh yes, anything was better than that. And let's not forget the gross indignity of madness. No, let's not forget that. Ah, pleasant death. Yes. With no true oblivion. No. Then where are you going? I... don't know. They're help... Do you want to be helped? Is that what you really want? More torture? Would you welcome insanity, would you enjoy it? I... Would you? Leave me alone! But I am you, how can I leave you? 'LEAVE ME ALONE!' 'It's okay, Bryce, we've got you. There's another way out of the shelter. We can make it.'He stared into the face of Farraday, barely recognizing the senior engineer. He tried to speak but did not know what to say. 'It's all right,' Farraday told him. 'Just try to help us, try to walk.' He did as he was asked, closing out the distant inner voice that was no longer soothing but angry, telling him what a fool he was being. 'I don't want to die.' 'Save your breath, man.' Farraday's own breath came in short, sharp groans, the effort beginning to tell on him. We can't hear you, so don't try to speak. Conserve your energy.'
He just had time to observe flames licking from the test room area when the complex rocked with thunder and searing white light rushed towards him, melting the protective film over his eyes, stripping the skin from his face. He fell back, carried by the blast, and water smothered his flaming hair, steam rising in a brief cloud from his burnt face. He shrieked and black water eagerly raced in, reducing the sound to a bubbling gurgle. The others had fared no better and, to Bryce, it was just the continuation of the long nightmare. He had been partly protected by the senior engineer who stood directly in front of him and who had taken the full brunt of the explosion.
Farraday's weight had been thrown against him, forcing him down, away from the flames, extinguishing the burning bandages on his mutilated hand, instantly soothing the scorching white heat that had exposed all the nerves on one side of his face, vaporizing the fire that had gristled his right ear. The water welcomed him back. The tidal wave that followed, tightly packed into the narrow corridor, picked up all four of the burnt survivors and hurtled them along in a boiling stream, catching Thomas as it went, scraping their bodies along the walls, smashing into the machinery that finally blocked the tidal wave's path. His neck was broken and other bones had snapped, yet Bryce could hear the voice again, homing in from a distance, soon drawing near. Are you ready now? it asked, just a little sulkily.