Wednesday, February 22, 2017

Mythic Egypt adventure fiction... DYNASTY Zero

On Amazon Kindle

Dynasty Zero. A primordial clash of humans, gods and demon demigods.
A young demigod boy, a future unifier of pharaonic Egypt, also known to history as Narmer or Menes, lived on the fault line between deity and humanity. It was a time of the gods and demigods, when the throne of the god Horus shook and the weak hands of men stretched out to catch the crown and seize the scepter of Egypt.
Mythic adventure fiction.

Wednesday, February 8, 2017

America The Brave, a reckless Presidential address...Has THE HERO VIRUS happened?

 Hoping my non-ancient Egypt novel, the apocalyptic outback adventure "THE HERO VIRUS" hasn't predicted a world gone crazy...
Three armed looters stood in front of our silver RV motorhome, unafraid that the engine was running.
“They want our van,” my wife Belinda said.
“I’ll talk to them.”
A soft answer turneth away wrath, my father used to say.
But would it be enough to save my family?
“You can’t reason with them. Just run them over. Quickly, before they come around and stick guns in our faces.”
Belinda did not need to be infected with courage. It was the high tensile core of her nature.
But that didn’t make her wrong.
Courage agreed with her and said I should do what she said.
Mow down these looters.
But fear… fear whispered something else.
Fear said ‘stay alive. Seek safety.’ Fear revved the muscles for flight, keyed up hearing, sight, smell, reasoning - and the drive for survival.
And I was one of the very few who still had fear. An anxiety sufferer and so-called Afghanistan war hero suffering PTSD, I’d been hiding from the world with my family and now I was out in the open after buying supplies in town, trying to flee with them to a safer place where we could bury ourselves, literally... in an opal mining town in the outback of Australia where the people lived in dwellings dug underground, a place of sanctuary called Coober Pedy.
The looters were expressionless.
Their confrontation reminded me of a fire-fight in Afghanistan, where a pair of insiders, Afghan soldiers, coolly turned their weapons on my comrades, blowing away four in front of my eyes.
After a moment of paralysis, I squeezed the trigger that killed the turncoats with barely a twitch of fear, but later, when there was no reason to be afraid any more, a quake zone took the place where my courage used to be and it moved incessantly setting up weakening tremors night and day.
The quake now brought on a tsunami of nauseating adrenalin.
The looter on the right hand side of the windscreen lazily waved his gun barrel to tell me to get out of the vehicle. No fear in the face. As wooden as a bored traffic cop’s.
Petty thieves had grown to become daredevil criminals.
I thought: ‘what will we do if they take away our escape machine?’
The contagion of the population began with the arrival of meteorites that flashed through the sky around the globe, hitting the ground and spreading clouds of dust.
They brought something else…
The spread of a reckless new mood.
Unalloyed courage.
It swept through the population in the form of a contagion that destroyed ‘caution’, the basic survival switch in the amygdala, a pair of almond sized regions deep in the brain.
Was it a prelude to some attack?
I’d wondered why, if an unknown assailant lay behind the viral outbreak, they would choose to spread courage rather than fear among the population.
But the reason became evident.
Those whom the gods wish to destroy they first make mad.
Madly brave.
Fired with courage without the caution of fear they fronted enemies they once feared, sparked reprisals, conflict and bloodshed in the streets - and raised the threat of reckless wars between nations. And for those that remained after the carnage? History had shown that it was harder to kill a shadowy enemy, the terrorist, the guerilla, the coward, those who shrank into the cracks like spiders.
Bring them out into the open instead.
In this new world of courage, the brave ended up dead.
I saw an example of this now.
The armed men flicked their eyes skywards as they heard a cry.
A faller from a building top.
People were standing on the ledges of buildings watching the confrontation down below and one had lost his footing and slipped.
They called these human missiles Perchers - people who took to standing on the ledges of tall buildings and sitting on balcony railings to watch fights and mayhem down below.
The body slammed into the street near the front of the van with the packed thud of a cement bag.
“Yuk!” our pre-teen daughter Tash said from the back.
“At least he missed us,” her little brother Toby said gruesomely. His eyes were alight behind his plastic batman mask. Toby was always playing the superhero, ironic since he had been infected like all the family, except me.
I seized the distraction. I slid the stubby automatic gearshift down to reverse and jammed the accelerator pedal down, sucking us back down the street, which brought boos and whistles from the onlookers above.
“You’re running away!” Belinda said, appalled. “Mike, run them down!”
A spray of bullets threw up tarmac as I swung the RV into a side street, lurching over a kerb.
The jolt triggered a crockery fight in our motorhome’s overhead cupboards.
I winced, but the kids in the back seat club-lounge cheered.
“Go, Silver Bullet!”
That’s what they called the RV, although it possessed anything but the velocity of a projectile; it was just a four-cylinder diesel engine, its rear-wheels driving a 7.5 metre Mercedes Sprinter van.
The reverse camera threw up a growing image of smashed cars jamming up the street behind us.
No way back.
We’d have to go forward again and that meant opening us up to a gauntlet of crossfire.
My hands were shaking on the wheel.
“Do you want them to come down after us?”
Caution paid off.
Gunfire erupted in the distance, first a few sporadic shots, then a full on fire-fight.
I went back into ‘Drive’ and jammed the accelerator, propelling us back into the line of fire. We crossed the street.
No bullets sprayed the van.
The attackers had their own problems now.
A group of heroes had appeared on the scene and taken them on and the two groups were busy blazing away at each other to the cheers of the Perchers high above.
I took us barrelling away, hammering through the area towards the highway.
I reached the feeder lane as a stream of traffic hurtled by.
Nobody feared traffic cops any more. They’d just as soon run them down.
I found a gap and went into the slow lane. Caution said ‘go slowly’. But caution was wrong this time.
Wrecked cars littered the side of the highway to prove it.
Go slow and I’d be rammed by a vehicle coming up behind.
I slammed the accelerator to the floor.
Belinda nodded.
“Good. Getting your nerve back. I hoped you weren’t going to crawl all the way.”
Getting my nerve back?
If only she knew, I thought.
Driving among this rapid-fire stream of hurtling steel and chrome – cars, trucks and motorcycles - was like being in the middle of an ambush, dodging strafing enemy fire.
‘I’m sweating bullets’, I thought.
An advancing truck swelled up in our side mirror, rode there, towering, inches away, a cliff face of chrome and glass, the truck driver glaring down on us. If I so much as touched the brake, the behemoth would crush through the club lounge at the back where the kids sat in their seatbelts.
But the truck driver was oblivious to risk. He absently poured steaming hot coffee from a flask into a cup as he drove, with only an elbow on the wheel.
Fearlessness was lethal.

Chapter 2
I switched on the radio to calm my nerves.
It was a sound grab from the United States… a Presidential address.
The swell of the national anthem inflated the long open space of the RV like pressure in a balloon.
The words held a chilling irony.

O, say, can you see?
by the dawn's early light?
what so proudly we hailed, at the twilights least gleaming.
whose broad stripes and bright stars,
through the perilous night,
oe'r the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming.
and the rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
gave proof through the night, that our flag was still there.
o, say, does the star spangled banner yet wave?
for the land of the free, and the home of the brave!

Home of the brave...
A male voice announced the President, who spoke after a pause.
“My fellow Americans, today our nation truly is the home of the brave, not just in name, but also in action.
Today our air and naval forces launched simultaneous strikes on the nuclear facilities of North Korea, Iran and Pakistan.
No longer will we tolerate fear, pacification and appeasement.
We are strong, we are brave and we are determined no longer to tolerate rogue states that threaten us. Furthermore we have put on notice the silent enablers of chaos, China and Russia, to desist in their support of lawless regimes or suffer the consequences.
America has never been stronger. America has never been braver.
Our economy and stock market are on a high and show record levels of confidence… we have nothing to fear, but fear itself. God Bless America, home of the brave.”
I stabbed the radio button, switching it off.
‘It’s all going to crash,” I said.
“The economy?” Belinda said.
“It’s about time we stopped pussyfooting around tyrants,” she said.
“Yeah, sock it to them!” the kids cheered on their mum from the back.
I despaired.
How could I, a frightened has-been hero, protect my family in a world infected by courage, a world where the brave ended up dead?
A movement on the side of the road snagged my eye. Oh no.
A Highway Dancer.
A woman stepped out onto the highway and my hands froze on the steering wheel. Before I could swerve, she skipped out of our path, coming to a stop on a painted demarcation line as our RV shaved her body, the wind of our passing raking her hair and dress.
“Wow, she’s good,” my daughter Tash said. “I wonder if I could do that?”
“You’re never going to try.”
Human road kill.
The remains of Highway Dancers littered the roadsides, food for crows.
Would she be another victim?
Trucks and cars planed her sides.
I tore my eyes away from the mirror.
I couldn’t bear to watch.

Monday, February 6, 2017

"THE SARCOPHAGUS" 5-star Amazon

Adventure, mystery, fantasy. A coded ‘resurrection machine’ revives an age of adventure.

In the modern age, Ryder an archaeologist in Egypt discovers a mysterious empty sarcophagus in a tomb. Then his Egyptologist partner Janet goes missing.

He vows to go after her, even if it means journeying across the boundaries of reason and existence. Ahead of Ryder and his dog lies a pre-dynastic realm of myth: the mysterious Mistress of the Bow and Ruler of Arrows, the evil Lord Seth, legions of animal-headed creatures, the venerable bird-man, the child Horus. And key to it all is the quest for the magical amulets of power. A life-and-death struggle is on at the edge of time. And the universe watches - and waits...

Wrapped in the spell of ancient Egypt?

Coded dangers from the ancient past, modern day conspiracies,

Friday, February 3, 2017

RANGE EGYPT in mystery fiction

Amazon Kindle and paperback

Thursday, February 2, 2017

"MEET ANSON HUNTER Alternative Egyptologist and author of ‘The Secret Stela of Destiny’ (11 – 12 noon)"

Fiction's Egyptologist does a book signing in just such a London bookshop - a scene from my novel "The Ibis Apocalypse"

ANSON looked at his watch, again. He was waiting in the lamplit interior of an occult bookshop in London and longed to be somewhere else.

A sign in the window said:


Alternative Egyptologist and author of ‘The Secret Stela of Destiny’ (11 – 12 noon)

“You can sign a few more copies, if you like.”

It was the bookseller speaking, a saturnine lady who presided from a table near the back. She had the air of a spirit guide channeling the mystical wisdom of the books in her shop. Did she conduct Tarot card readings back there?

“We don’t charge our customers extra for signed copies of our books, not like the Americans,” she said.

But her sales strategy wasn’t working, he thought. The place was packed, but only with books.

Any general bookstore would be better than this, even The British Museum’s Bookshop, situated just a stone’s throw from this occult-New Age establishment. Or should that be a crystal’s throw? The scent of incense laced the atmosphere of the bookshop like a mystical cobweb. Depressing. A bookshop should have a whiff of imagination, mental rigour and print, he thought, not of dreamy nirvana.

So close, and yet so far from mainstream acceptance, in fact he was a long way from any acceptance right now. Few took him seriously. Here he was, still alive, after his last obsessive quest in Egypt and the world went on. Had he been mistaken in his fears about the reactivation of an ancient curse of destruction in the Hathor Holocaust affair? Maybe not, if global scorching and the increase in the frequency and severity of global disasters and chaos were any guide. But who believed him? Then there was a resealed tomb that he must one day decide whether to reveal to the world or at least revisit.

But right now he was chasing a new and even more sinister obsession about danger from the ancient past - the Destiny Stela, subject of his latest book.

A pile of his new books sat ignored among others on a book table beside him, the cover showing a stone relief of the ibis-headed Thoth, ancient Egypt’s god of writing and magic, or heka. Narrow paper tags ran across the covers and carried the bookstore’s New Age logo and the words ‘signed copy’. Anson had signed a batch lingeringly to pass the time.

He glanced around the shelves with eyes that normally held an obsessive light, but now appeared morose. Which books would The Secret Stela of Destiny end up rubbing covers with? That one over there about the eternally lost continent of Atlantis and the ten plagues of Egypt, or that one about the pyramids going unrecognised as ancient power plants? Dispiriting.

The bookseller revealed the skills of a clairvoyant.

“I’ll be putting you in the ‘mystery history’ section, following the launch period,” she said, “in case you’re wondering.”

The information did little to cheer him.

The shop door opened and a man swept in. Was he a prospect for a signed copy of his book?

The new arrival brought a swirl of cold air and turbulence into the shop with him, like a man in a hurry. Perhaps the blue Lufthansa travel bag slung over his shoulder gave a clue. On the other hand, he could just be anxious to get his hands on a signed copy of Anson’s new book.

Anson reminded himself that the Germans were pillars of Egyptology and he tried to engage the newcomer. But the man barely paused to meet Anson’s stare, before checking out the bookseller at the back of the shop. Then he ran a hand over sparse blond hair before directing his attention to the shelves where he began to browse among the books.

Anson felt his shoulders sink. Right at that moment, he could almost have exchanged his life as a renegade Egyptologist, theorist and phenomenologist working in the shadows of the sacred and mysterious, for the ivory tower of respectability.


He thought about signing another copy of his book and wondered how long he could stretch out the scrawling of another signature. Perhaps he could include a written message inside:

Dear New Age/occult reader, Here’s hoping my book puts the fear of God into you.

But wait, all was not lost. The browser was working his way around the book table. He was approaching and making eye contact.

“Mr Anson Hunter, the Egyptologist? I am hearing that you are signing books today,” the man said in a low voice, speaking in accented, present continuous English.

Hope surged.

“I am. In fact I have been.” He picked up a book to hand it over. “Here’s one I prepared earlier.”

The man made no attempt to take the book. “I do not want it,” he said, shaking his head.

“You don’t want it signed?”

German. Maybe he’d prefer a pure copy without Anson’s seismographic graffiti inside.

“No, I do not want your book for me. I do not like it.”

“Maybe try a few pages before you decide.”

“I do not study Egyptology.”

So a little author adulation was out of the question, Anson thought.

“It is about my grandfather that I come here.”

Anson did some arithmetic. The answer was not encouraging. Judging by the gift-shopper’s age, the grandfather would have to be pretty decrepit by now.

“Your grandfather likes Egyptology?”

The man shook his head again.

“He is dead.”

Past tense. No grandfather. He failed to see where this was going.

“Then a suggestion. My book could make a doorstop. You could cover it in a funky fabric and sit it at the front door.”

The man took a notepad and a pen out of a coat pocket and began to scribble.

“I write my name here - it is German and maybe uneasy to spell.”

An autograph from a reader? No, make that a nonreader. This was certainly unexpected. The man wrote and wrote. A long name evidently. Finally he tore the message off the pad and slipped it to him, throwing a guarded glance at the bookseller.

Anson read it.

I am Reiner Faltinger. In Berlin I have clues for your search. We talk more on the Internet.

Anson shrugged. “You’re going to have to give me a clue...”

Did Nefertiti come to Egypt as a princess from Anatolia? (i.e. Mitanni or modern Turkey)

Her name Nefertiti means 'the beautiful one has come'
Out There.  A recent report
A snapshot of the 'secret discovery' in Turkey

Don't know what you make of this reported 'Akenaten Discovery' that reports a cache found in modern day Turkey with links to Nefertiti and the suggestion that she fled there upon the collapse of the Amarna experiment.

Yet interestingly, early Egyptology scholars were firm in their belief that Nefertiti, whose name Egyptian name means 'the beautiful one has come', hailed from the land of Mitanni.

I confess as an author I have a love/hate relationship with alternative history theory.

The fictional hero of my Egypt Series, (Anson Hunter, The Smiting Texts etc) is himself a renegade Egyptologist who is routinely ignored by the Egyptology establishment.

Yet he himself has an antipathy to the far 'fringe' of alternative historical theory.

"Many of these alternative history theorists are so far from the mainstream they're out of the bloody river," he is known as saying.

However the Nefertiti story is food for thought. Even if the discovery turns out to be a crock (and not a crock of gold).

Just saying...

Wednesday, February 1, 2017

Egypt, find, lost, secret, mystery....

Look into the Roy Lester Pond Egypt fiction collection on Amazon