Never mind that it'll come to nothing, as so many such deals do if one of this brave new millennia's most imaginative minds had taken a shine to David Moody, I assumed it was a safe bet I'd find something in Autumn to enjoy.įor one thing, there's the zompocalypse itself, a turgid affair seen from the perspective of four "characters" I couldn't for the life of me differentiate between. Going in, you see, there's every reason to believe in Autumn: a formerly self-published internet sensation dating back to the early noughties - remember those? - with a sell-through of more than half a million copies, a little-known film adaptation in its corner, and an ongoing successor series Guillermo del Toro dug enough to both blurb and buy the movie rights to. I haven't been so let down by a book since The Left Hand of God, last year. Uninspired from first to last, paced like a leach with a limp, so d eeply derivative as to feel a violation the longer it goes on, and worst of all its offences: Autumn is written with such insipid amateurishness as to give blessed flight to all the woebegone hope and dreams would-be authors clutch against their chests. Autumn, I'm afraid, is not a good zombie story. Though I'll be the first to admit the literature of the undead isn't particularly known for profoundly conflicted characters or daring narrative strides - nor it is a genre of fiction often remarked upon for its quality, overall - nevertheless there's something about the thought of the whole world turning into monsters who'd die all over again to taste my brains that keeps me coming back.īut enough of the wordplay. I'm oddly partial to a good zombie story, I am.
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