Shindo Yamaguchi from Japan’s Ministry of Defense knew trouble was brewing. It wasn’t because COVID-19 was spreading or because the 2020 Olympics had been postponed or because manga piracy was on the rise. Yamaguchi knew there was a new kaiju threat on the horizon.

It wasn’t like Japan hadn’t seen a giant monster or two. Tiamatodon, a two-headed mutant theropod, and a Mesozoic-era marine lizard known as Tylogon, had been terrorizing the South Pacific for years.

At the moment, Yamaguchi wasn’t particularly worried about a two-headed Megalosaurus or a prehistoric whale. The new kaiju threat was linked to a nearby flock of pterosaurs. Yamaguchi was alarmed by first-hand accounts of a new flock member covered in body armor. The Japanese agent knew that a bulletproof hatchling would grow up to be a tank-proof adult. Evolution had suddenly become a race war.

“Nature equipped mankind with an advanced intellect and tool-making abilities, and these abilities allowed us to become the dominant animal on the planet,” explained Yuzo Abe, college professor and kaiju expert. “But Mother Nature has not forsaken her other children. We are in an arms race against the flock. If the armored juvenile lives long enough to sire offspring, his descendants could produce even more dramatic adaptations.”

Along with husky body armor that made him look like a medieval warrior, the pterosaur also sported opposable thumbs. And later, when the flock attacked a couple of island military outposts, the youngster (now called “Brown Scale”) was seen to possess a keen strategic intelligence. “Those monsters don’t fight like monsters,” said a sea pirate who witnessed the flock in action. “They fight like soldiers.”

As the danger escalated, the Japanese Maritime Self-Defense Force went on the attack. Its mission was clear: destroy the mutant pterosaur as quickly as possible.

The Japanese weren’t the only ones that wanted Brown Scale dead, however. The flock didn’t want his seed contaminating future generations. Brown Scale was an aberration. “He was deformed,” said the flock’s matriarchy, “and deformity breeds more deformity.”

Everything led to a novel-ending kaiju clash pitting Brown Scale against the Japanese, the flock matriarchs and Tiamatodon, the two-headed freak. Each of them wanted Brown Scale dead—or at least permanently clipped.

But as things unfolded, all the blood and thunder turned out to be nothing but sound and fury. Nobody wanted Brown Scale to sire an X-flock of mutant pterosaurs. In truth, Brown Scale didn’t want to surround himself with a harem of breeders anyway; he only wanted a monastic, sexless existence (although he probably wouldn’t mind spending a little bit of time with his sister Razor Beak occasionally). “He yearned to be alone with the same intensity another person would long for company. The idea of becoming physically intimate with his own kind filled him with revulsion.” Props to author Neil Riebe for writing a unique kaiju story and giving readers a surprisingly reflective novel-ending resolution.

[I Shall Not Mate / By Neil Riebe / First Printing: February 2019 / ISBN:  9781794482463]

Readers don’t have to wait long for the killer kangaroo to show up in Alan Baxter’s latest novelette. The Australian buck begins its blitzkrieg hop right away on page two: “The roo’s mouth closed over its victim’s neck,” writes Baxter. “The flesh peeled up and away with a wet tear.”

Yes, there’s a ferocious kangaroo bedeviling a small town in the Aussie outback. But why is it so bloodthirsty and violent (and where the heck did its sharp teeth come from)? Normally these grass- and shrub-grazing animals are harmless and pastoral “like upright deer,” says the author.

The explanation dutifully comes during the final chapter, but observant readers who can identify the book’s outside/inside story will probably figure everything out pretty quickly. Or, if not, they can simply read the author’s Forward and Afterword. That’ll do the trick.

Only 400 people live in Morgan Creek (a town described as a “human blemish on the pristine outback”). Most of the local men are layabouts and wife beaters—the worst of the bunch is old Bill Catter. He’s so bad, his wife Pauline prefers to sleep in an abandoned goldmine at night rather than in her own bed. “No one likes that shit cunt,” says one neighbor. “We should have run him out of town years ago.”

And now Morgan Creek’s got a rampaging roo to worry about. Over seven feet tall and insanely jacked, the animal could be seen in the moonlight flexing its muscles like a parody of Mr. Universe.

Just because it looked like a kangaroo, however, didn’t mean it actually was a kangaroo. In truth, it could be anything. Up close its fur had a musky and dusty odor, says Baxter, like something spicy and smoky. Like something brought forth from the fiery pits of Hell, perhaps?

After decapitating, eviscerating and dismembering a handful of unlucky residents (it’s all good fun btw), the monster is eventually trapped in the town’s abandoned goldmine. This is when Bill Catter, his wife Pauline and the roo have their final showdown. Spoiler alert: the last paragraph provides a #MeToo kick in the pants. I think the men of Morgan Creek are about to get hammered.

In his foreword, author Baxter freely admits that he shamelessly wrote The Roo to be as ocker as the outback. The word “ocker” is slang for “aggressively boorish in a stereotypically Australian manner.” That’s a great way to sum up this book. Mission accomplished, mate.

[The Roo / By Alan Baxter / First Printing: March 2020 / ISBN: 9780980578263]

There are many things I hate (Starburst candy for one, cow’s milk for another). But specific to this site, I especially hate authors who write monster novels and don’t fully commit to the genre.

How many times have you read a novel where the monster lurks in the shadows until the final chapter? How many times has an author used vague and unsatisfying descriptive language? In other words: How many times has a monster novel not been a monster novel at all?

I’m happy to report that Oscawana by Frank Martin wholeheartedly embraces the monster novel playbook. The creature (affectionately dubbed “Oscar”) is big enough to blot out the sun when he arises from the titular lake, and there’s plenty of explosive kaiju carnage during his relentless slog from Upstate New York to Manhattan.

When Oscar first shows up, he’s unquestionably a bizarre sight. But he’s far from intimidating. He’s short and fat (about the size of a pit bull) and his face looks somewhat like a Picasso painting. Despite his fierce grotesqueness, says the author, April Hawkins finds the creature to be innocently sweet.

April is a 16-year-old city girl who’s spending the summer lakeside with her mother’s brother. With his dorky grin and nerdy beachwear, Uncle Henry looks like he’s a Monkey D. Luffy wannabe. During April’s first night by the shore of Lake Oscawana, Uncle Creepy sneaks into her bedroom looking for a little One Piece.

And there it is. Author Martin introduces the most enduring genre trope: Man, not beast, is the biggest monster of all. I think we can all agree that pedophilia trumps giant sea blob mayhem every day of the week.

But there was always a chance that Oscar wasn’t real. Maybe April’s imagination was stuck in overdrive. I mean, what made more sense? That she discovered a freaky lake monster, or that her mind was fractured and broken after being abused by her uncle?

The answer comes in one explosive moment. Oscar is real, and April is unintentionally controlling him to do her bidding. She’s using the beast as a murder weapon to wreck vengeance on a couple of horny boys, a grumpy neighbor and a child molester. She even sends him to Manhattan to smash her parents. “Her mission had consumed Oscar and become the only force driving him forward,” writes Martin. “Nothing else mattered or registered in his mind.”

The kaiju action that follows is dramatic and totally satisfying. The author may have been making a point about mankind being the ultimate super monster, but that didn’t stop him from unleashing Oscar upon New York. Let monsters be monsters, that’s what I say.

[Oscawana / By Frank Martin / First Printing: January 2020 / ISBN: 9781922323224]

Russ Cloud was a wildlife expert and the star of a reality program called Survivor Guy. But over the years a lot of copycats had chipped away at his show’s popularity—shows like Man vs. Nature, The Naked Survivalist and The Mormon Family Robinson.

According to network bean counters, Cloud needed a big ratings boost to keep Survivor Guy ahead of the pack. “Your show is beautiful, but you’re hemorrhaging market share,” warned his agent. “Ya gotta shake things up. You run around in the woods, but think about it. What else runs around the woods? Ghosts, aliens, monsters … Bigfoot!”

Cloud thought monster-hunting shows were stupid, but he reluctantly agreed to participate in a bigfoot-themed edition of Survivor Guy anyway. Maybe that would put him back on top of the ratings again. Fingers crossed.

Along with an ace crew of trackers, hunters and academics (and one eccentric billionaire), Cloud sets up camp in the Idaho woodlands. Within a day or two, his team stumbles upon a troop of sasquatch. What luck!

But hold on. Something was obviously wrong. Even though Native American tribes referred to their cryptid neighbors as “wild men of the woods,” most experts believed bigfoot were not “wild” at all. History suggested that they were reclusive and non-aggressive “as long as humans didn’t carry a boom-stick,” said author Nick Sullivan.

The creatures that Cloud and his team discovered were the exact opposite of “reclusive” and “non-aggressive.” Their eyes glowed with madness, demonic features stretched into a perverse rictus grin, sounds of feral rage gurgled from their massive vocal cords—“a wild-eyed, slavering monstrosity that would have been home in a nightmare,” underscored the author.

What could possibly be going on? Were the sasquatch psychotic? Did they have rabies? Were they under an evil spell from Baron Mordo? Or was some form of environmental (or otherworldly) toxin disrupting their brain chemistry?

Spoiler alert: the title of the novel gives it all away. The bigfoot troop had somehow become a ravenous horde of zombies. And that was bad news for reality TV stars and anyone else hiking, camping, engaged in paintball military simulations or micro-dosing in the Idaho woods.

There were two sides to Sullivan’s novel. As you’d expect, there was a horror and shock element to the story. Someone gets their head sliced open by a low-flying drone, for example. But there’s also a warm-and-fuzzy Hallmark Channel vibe too. In other words, there’s a pinch of humanity in the brutal inhumanity.

In addition, the cast was mostly sweet and goofy. Cloud was a bit of a prankster, Brick Broadway was a musical lovin’ ex-wrestler and Dr. Sarah Bishop was on a quest to exonerate her disgraced father. Even a few of the bigfoot youngsters scored high on the eccentric scale.

Throughout the novel, my two favorite characters were billionaire Cameron Carson and his devoted assistant Bill Singleton. I’m positive that the author created them as knockoffs of Waylon Smithers and Montgomery Burns. Even when events turned fatal, the pair’s relationship continued unabated. “Call my personal chef,” cried the hungry walking dead billionaire. “I’m craving several Wagyu rib-eye steaks.” “Of course, sir,” said Singleton with undying servitude.

[Zombie Bigfoot / By Nick Sullivan / First Printing: August 2016 / ISBN: 9780997813203]

According to editor Christofer Nigro’s introduction, the inspiration for this 2019 short story collection goes all the way back to 1965. That was the year Creepy #7 appeared on newsstands.

Nigro wasn’t around back then. But years later—as a kid obsessed with Warren comic mags (Creepy, Eerie and Vampirella)—he became aware of that particularly iconic issue. With its striking Frank Frazetta cover painting (see it here) and an interior story featuring a fight between a werewolf, a vampire and a ghoul, Creepy #7 hooked Nigro on the idea of dueling monsters.

As such, Duel of the Monsters, Vol. 1, is both a tribute and an homage to that memorable comic. Fifty-plus years later, the concept of monsters fighting monsters is still pretty cool. Who wins in a fight between Abbott and Costello and the Invisible Man? The 50-foot Woman and the Amazing Colossal Man? The Phantom of the Opera and the Phantom of the Paradise? Electric Frankenstein and Dr. Funkenstein? These are questions that all monster fans have pondered at one time or another.

Nigro’s anthology is a straightforward and bountiful collection featuring werewolves, vampires, zombies, ghosts, space aliens, serial killers, clowns, sea creatures, mythological beasts, dragons, cryptids and urban legends. They’re all here and they’re all ready to rumble.

The concept is strong, the stories are fun and the enthusiasm of the authors is real. Unfortunately, the execution is weak. Many of the writers come from the small press (or indie) community and their grasp of craft is clumsy and immature. Even a professional author such as Matthew Dennion stumbles with a wisp of an effort. Ultimately, Duel of the Monsters, Vol. 1, rises and falls depending on the reader’s forgiving nature.

But I want to keep things positive. The anthology is not without some merit. In particular I liked the slow burn of “House of Secrets” by Robert Galvin. “Gashadokuro Battles the Kee-wakw” by Zach Cole is a nice nod to Japanese mythology. And I really enjoyed Breyden Halverson’s kaiju-like story “Wrath of the Okanagan Lake God.”

I gather from the Nigro’s introduction that he plans to turn Duel of the Monsters into an on-going series. Even though Vol. 1 is deeply flawed; I look forward to follow-up editions. I would encourage Nigro to exercise more editorial control in the future, however. The monsters are counting on him.

[Duel of the Monsters, Vol. 1 / Edited by Christofer Nigro / First Printing: November 2019 / ISBN: 9781732365773]

Aftershock starts on the day Los Angeles is smacked by the biggest earthquake in recorded history. The initial tremor began “like a deeply released, contented sigh from a lover in warm slumber,” and quickly escalates to a 9.4 on the Richter magnitude scale.

After a few shaky moments, the earth moved 12 inches. Property damage was estimated to be more than 100 billion dollars and 75,000 people were now dead. Said author Robert W. Walker: “L.A. was like a fallen Humpty-Dumpty.” All the king’s men couldn’t put the City of Angels back together again.

To make matters worse, a team of scientists were sequestered in an underground L.A. laboratory at the time of the quake. Working on a super secret virus, their mission was to create a truly terrible weapon to add to the country’s chemical-biological arsenal.

When a 40-story building collapsed on the subterranean research facility, the experimental CBW was released prematurely into the environment. Feeding on the dead and taking control of first responders, the virus arose Phoenix-like to terrorize local citizens.

The virus, a recombinant DNA version of a rare New Guinea cannibalism disease, transformed its host into a hungry and vengeful monster (see the book’s cover illustration for a surprisingly accurate rendition). “Its limbs were large, thick branches, covered with layers of rotted, scorched and scaly skin. They moved fluidly as if bone had become latex. The head and eyes, a mass of lumpy flesh, carried two bulging, twisted orbs. The large nostrils formed a snout, recklessly pushed to one side. The torso was that of a hunchback. Skin was the color and consistency of creosote, found inside a well-used chimney. Claws dragged along the ground, too heavy for the weak frame. But they were tough, hard and metallic.”

The monster wasn’t just a heap of “rotted skin and lumpy flesh,” however. After munching on brains and offal all day, it carried the weight of existential grief on its shoulders. Like all living things, it had a primordial urge to reproduce. “The creature pondered this grim thought until it ached,” said the author.

But don’t shed a tear for the “Brain Snatcher.” By the end of the novel it was leaving a messy trail of headless corpses all over L.A. County. One way or another, the virus and the host had to be eradicated.

The creature was ultimately vanquished in a showdown at Dodger Stadium. “You’re no demon!” said Dr. Michael McCain. “You’re just a twisted lump of flesh, a life form that was never meant to be! I’m going to send you straight to hell!”

The Brain Snatcher paused, trying to interpret the words of the man standing before it. After a brief moment of reflection, its indecipherable screech of pain could be heard from the Santa Monica Pier to the hills of the San Fernando Valley. “Awaataa! Awaataa! Awaataaaaa!!”

[Aftershock / By Robert W. Walker / First Printing: November 1987 / ISBN: 9780312909062]

The Slave of Frankenstein takes place two years before the start of the U.S. Civil War. It’s 1859 and the focus of the entire nation is concentrated on Harpers Ferry and the forthcoming hanging of abolitionist John Brown. “Our universe is suspended somewhere between Heaven and Hell,” says a concerned patriot.

Not by coincidence, Frankenstein’s monster is lurking in the nearby Virginia woods. Along with a sizable band of renegades and ruffians, he’s got a mad plan to rescue old man Brown, kidnap Victor Frankenstein and ultimately end slavery.

That’s right. Author Robert J. Myers has reinvented Mary Shelley’s infamous monster as an American freedom-fighting abolitionist. If the monster’s plan is successful, says Myers, he might be able to stop the Civil War, keep the Union safe and become a political powerbroker in Virginia.

It’s too bad that Frankenstein’s creation is 200 percent batshit crazy. His proposed solution to America’s slavery problem is to create an entire race of zombie-like creatures using Baron von Frankenstein’s book of animation as an instruction manual. These walking corpses would be a new kind of slave, says Myers, both Constitutionally compliant and absent of freewill.

Frankenstein, Jr., is not interested in playing god, however. Unlike his father, he doesn’t want anything to do with making monsters. “I have sworn never to tempt God by allaying myself with such an unholy enterprise,” he tells the beast in a pique. “I will do no such experimentation. We both know the foul results of competing with the natural laws. Cease your unholy designs and sink back into the bog of your origin!”

The monster cannot abide by young Frankenstein’s holier-than-thou rebuke. After 41 years, he still holds a grudge against Baron von Frankenstein for the sin of creating him as a foul and ugly fiend and taking no responsibility for his brutish outcast life. If he can’t broker a zombie-slave revolution, he has no choice but to pursue and destroy his creator’s progeny. “I will settle our score either by your demise or by your involuntary servitude,” he says. “My fortune must rise as yours sink. Otherwise, there is no justice under Heaven.”

After a narrative filled with Civil War-Era politics (including a seven-page pro-slavery screed), sexual trysts (consensual and otherwise) and surprising cameos from John Wilkes Booth and George Washington’s great-grandnephew, the monster’s grand schemes are smashed to smithereens. Despite his machinations, he can’t overcome the brutal truth of his gloomy existence: A creature of Frankenstein will always remain a creature of Frankenstein and a slave of one era must remain a slave in the next. His fate was sealed the moment he opened his eyes on Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory slab.

[The Slave of Frankenstein / By Robert J. Myers / First Printing: August 1977 / ISBN: 9780722162989]

Back in 1961, President John F. Kennedy pulled the plug on a proposal to invade Cuba with a cast of giant crabs. It was Eisenhower’s crazy idea and JFK hated it. The newly elected president didn’t want anything to do with his predecessor’s cockamamie science fiction plan.

Kennedy wisely put the kibosh on a Cuban crab invasion. But what happened after that? Did the giant, bulletproof mutant monsters just disappear?

Nope. The genetically engineered super crabs were still hanging around. Dishonorably discharged from the CIA, they found a home near Fort Jefferson Dry Tortugas National Park.

Located 70 miles off the coast of Miami, Fort Jefferson was an abandoned pre-Civil War outpost. Even though it was officially part of the National Park Service, it was mostly uninhabitable—no Starbucks, no Netflix, no comic book stores, no nothing. “It was probably the quietest park in the whole system,” said Kathy West, the on-site park ranger. “Nothing out of the ordinary ever happened out here.”

Obviously Ranger West was unaware of the danger surrounding Fort Jefferson. The waters off the coast were clear and calm, marked only by a spiky coral reef. West had no idea what was going on because the crabs were busy doing nothing for over 50 years.

That all changed in a flash when a rogue Homeland Security agent shows up in tow with his crew of black ops musclemen. Their evil plan was to resurrect Eisenhower’s abandoned crab invasion (but with a dastardly twist).

Now it was up to West, an eccentric 80-year-old Navy veteran, a soggy torpedo and a self-described “history nerd” to stop an onslaught of giant crabs upon Miami Beach. “The odds weren’t good,” wrote the author.

Claws was more than a giant crab novel, however. Author Russell James had something else in mind the entire time. As it turned out, the crabs were just the “MacGuffin,” a literary device that fueled the plot. James was more interested in writing a lively mash-up of Men in Black, Challengers of the Unknown and (maybe) the Suicide Squad.

In the last chapter, Kathy West and her sidekick Nathan Toland were conscripted into a secret government assignment. In the future, wherever and whenever monsters attacked, they would be the first responders. It would be their job to keep the public safe from the creatures that haunted national parks, preserves, sanctuaries, archeological sites and historic structures. Their mission: to conserve and protect.

[Claws / By Russell James / First Printing: May 2019 / ISBN: 9781925840759]