Book Spotlight | Frost Bite by Angela Sylvaine

Today the spotlight is on Frost Bite by Angela Sylaine!

Described as Critters meets Fargo, Frost Bite is a ’90s sci-fi horror comedy about alien worms landing on a small town on Earth and infecting the animals. It’s up to two friends to defeat the aliens and save everyone! After the recent resurgence of 80s horror, I’m excited to dive into 90s nostalgia in this book. Frost Bite is out today and you can get a copy through the link below.

To give you a taste, I’m sharing the synopsis and excerpt from the book. Thank you to the author for this exclusive excerpt!

Genre: Horror
Pages: 278
Publication Date: 10 Oct 2023
Author: Angela Sylvaine
Publisher: Dark Matter Ink

Synopsis

Remember the ’90s? Well…the town of Demise, North Dakota doesn’t, and they’re living in the year 1997. That’s because an alien worm hitched a ride on a comet, crash-landed in the town’s trailer park, and is now infecting animals with a memory-loss-inducing bite–and right before Christmas!

Now it’s up to eighteen-year-old Realene and her best friend Nate to stop the spread and defeat the worms before the entire town loses its mind. The only things standing in the way are their troubled pasts, a doomsday cult, and an army of infected prairie dogs.

Excerpt

THE PACK OF prairie dogs waited in the middle of the ice-slicked parking lot, the gas pumps behind them. They watched Realene with bulging, black eyes, completely focused on her as if she were prey.

These were not the creatures who amused her with their summer antics, chasing and calling to one another through the tall grass and wildflowers. Her dad’s lectures played through her mind, and she knew these animals were sick. As an intern at the hospital, she’d seen the effects of rabies after an infected dog bit a person. In addition to physical symptoms, victims could experience confusion and agitation. Like Brooke.

“It’s okay, little guys. I’m not going to hurt you.” Brandishing the bat, Realene backed up until she reached the gas station’s front doors. She raced inside, clicking the lock behind her before realizing how ridiculous that was. Prairie dogs couldn’t open doors, even when rabid.

The shrill ring of the phone split the quiet, and she jumped. It only lasted half a ring before going silent. Overhead, the lights flickered and went dark. Bat still clutched in her hand, she grabbed the phone to call 9-1-1 and heard no dial tone or static, just dead air. The handset slipped from her grip, the plastic cracking on impact with the tile floor to display the phone’s wire guts.

Though sunny outside, the light barely penetrated the store, leaving most of it in shadow. She half expected one of the tiny animals to come creeping out of the darkness of the candy aisle, its tiny muzzle foaming.

“Well, shit.” Realene watched as the prairie dogs stood on their hind legs a few feet from the doors, peering through the glass. She started to worry maybe they could open doors, or even pick locks with their sharp, little claws. The one in the front gave a few short, sharp barks, and Realene wished—not for the first time—that she could understand their complicated language. The pack dropped to the ground and ran toward the corner of the building, disappearing from sight.

She returned to the door and flipped back the lock. Opening the door a crack, she stuck her head out and looked in both directions. No sign of the prairie dogs. The prospect of being stuck in the store with no power or phone urged her to make her escape while she had the chance. She didn’t want to go out unprotected, so she grabbed the cardboard Santa by a handle on its back, located just below the battery pack and on-switch.

Careful to be quiet, she slipped through the doors, frigid air stinging her bare fingers that held the bat in one hand and Santa in the other. She braced the cardboard cutout against her chest like the shield of some medieval knight, but instead of a coat of arms, her shield wore a ridiculous red suit, a wide grin with several teeth blacked out by mischievous kids, and sported a speech bubble that said, ‘Thank you for shopping at Snack Station.’

Her beat-up Escort was an island oasis in the icy expanse of the parking lot, and she quick-stepped toward it, careful not to slip, her unzipped coat flapping around her. Wrenching open the door, she tried to shove Santa inside, but only succeeded in bashing him into the doorframe and snapping off the fluffy white ball atop his hat.

“Fine, stay here,” she said, before throwing him to the ground.

The impact flipped the on-switch, and he called out ‘Ho, ho, ho,’ his pink-cheeked face staring up at her.

“Shut. Up,” she whispered, then plopped into the driver’s seat, closed the door, and pressed down the lock. Santa called out another ‘Ho, ho, ho,’ and a panicked giggle bubbled from her throat.

Shivering, she took a moment to zip up her coat before fishing her key from her pocket and jamming it into the ignition. The engine cranked but didn’t start. She slammed her hands on the steering wheel. “Dammit!” Of course her battery cable would pick now to come loose. Eyeing the door to the Snack Station, she wondered if she might be better off holing up until someone came to her rescue. Animal control, a customer, anyone.

She noticed the mood ring on her finger, which was a bright yellow, and she cursed her own stupidity. Ma was home alone in the trailer a few hundred feet away from the rabid prairie dog colony. Realene needed to get home. Now.

Trembling, she tugged her gloves from her pocket and put them on, her skin already starting to itch from exposure. The car windows were frosted at the edges, but she could still see outside. There were no prairie dogs in sight, but she’d seen Cujo plenty of times and knew a rabid animal could be sneaky. Sure, that had been a Saint Bernard attacking a Pinto, but the parallel was close enough.

Hoping she could prove to be half as brave as Donna from the movie, Realene forced herself to grab the handle and push the door open, cringing at the creak of rusty hinges. She popped the hood, grabbed her bat, and rushed around to the front of the car. ‘Ho, ho, ho,’ Santa said, and she pressed her lips together to avoid releasing a tirade of cursing.

Her breath coming in fast pants, she forced herself to wedge her gloved hand in the crack to release the latch, sure one of the creatures would be waiting there to bite her. But the pain she expected never came, and when she raised the hood she saw only her car’s inner workings, free of vermin. She set the bat against the bumper and bent over the engine. Working quickly, she tightened the cable and lowered the hood with a quiet click.

A bark sounded behind her, and she whirled around, knocking over the bat, which rolled beneath her car. A single prairie dog rose on its hind legs and barked.

Cover photo by Enrico Mantegazza