OUT NOW: The Limpet Syndrome – Tony Moyle
EVEN IN DEATH, LIFE FINDS A WAY…
Imagine there was a politician whose only ambition was to corrupt and manipulate the very people who elected him, without them even knowing it. This was Byron T Casey’s ambition. It helped that he was the Prime Minister and had just acquired Emorfed, a substance that had the ability to alter a person’s soul.
Sandy Logan was the only person capable of stopping him. But there was one problem. Sandy was dead. It complicated matters that his death had been aided by the mysterious Limpet Syndrome, which meant he wasn’t dead dead. Very few people understood why Sandy’s soul had lingered on Earth, least of all Sandy.
This presented a far more serious problem. A soul wandering aimlessly around the globe threatened the stability of the Universe itself. Sandy’s soul had to be recovered and the powers that be had decided there was only one man for the job, the recently deceased John Hewson. Obviously he’s not dead dead you understand.
John would have to travel to Hell and back if he was going to work out the secrets of the Limpet Syndrome, locate Sandy’s soul and bring down a government. In his pursuit to discover the truth of his own death, John is about to find out that death isn’t the end; it’s just the beginning of the end.
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Tony Moyle was born in the small town of Shepton Mallet in 1976 and has spent the last four decades attempting to find a third reason for the town to be famous following Babycham and a Frank Bruno World Title fight.
Although he studied Chemistry at Exeter University he was terrible at it and instead found a role within the business community.
With valuable experience working with local and international businesses through his sales consultancy business, In-Sell, he’s hoping some of that knowledge converts to selling books.
After twenty years of deliberation and prevarication he published his first novel, ‘The Limpet Syndrome.’ With any luck the next book won’t take quiet so long! In fact he’s already working on two sequels and three unrelated story ideas.
He lives in the small town of Ashington at the base of the South Downs national park with this wife, Laure, and two children.
One thing was for certain, John was dead. Everyone knew it. The ambulance crew, the fire brigade, several witnesses and, most importantly, the decrepit old man hurrying suspiciously from the scene. Only one person didn’t know, and that was John. He couldn’t be totally certain because he didn’t feel dead. He assumed that death meant you didn’t feel anything at all. But he was convinced there was certainly something not dead about him.
It wasn’t a pleasant way to die, although there are very few good ways to go. If he’d been asked before the event for his perfect exit from the world, John Hewson would have opted to be smothered by two scantily clad, sex crazed nineteen year-old models feeding him an unlimited supply of alcohol and more illegal drugs than you could shake a stick at. Unfortunately, not everyone is lucky enough to go with a smile on their face and he definitely wasn’t wearing one. Anyone who had the misfortune of witnessing John’s untimely demise would have described the look as horrified panic. It wasn’t an altogether inappropriate facial expression given that he was crumpled up in the driver’s seat of his car, its bonnet fused to a red postbox with all the handy work and finesse of a drunken welder.
Initially, John was nursing nothing worse than a cut to his head and a broken foot, both mere trivia compared to the realisation that he could smell the rich and pungent aroma of petrol. The smell wouldn’t have bothered him had it not been for the fact he was totally unable to move from his position. It wasn’t long until his worst fear came true, the fear of an uncontrollable spark. A spark that had soon turned the car into a fireball and John into something entirely indefinable.
How long ago the crash was, or what circumstances had led to it were no longer in focus. He was struggling to identify what he was, let alone when he was? The one thing he could be certain of was it was dark and an icy chill had infiltrated his body. Although he couldn’t really be sure that it was necessarily feeling that he was experiencing. It felt weird, whatever it was.
Very slowly strange entities started to form in the darkness around him. There was a sense of electricity pulsating in the air that occasionally passed straight through him. This power source collected to form a dozen miniature electrical storms that drifted and bobbed elegantly at a height some two feet from the ground. They weren’t the dark grey that you would associate with geological weather. These storms were electric blue and discharged small sparks chaotically into the air. In the gloom they swirled, occasionally bumping into each other fighting for dominance and crackling with energy. They all shared one familiar behaviour. They were all floating along in the same direction towards, what John sensed to be, a doorway.
Attempting to get to his feet to follow them he immediately answered one of the questions that was circling above him. He had no feet. He wasn’t sure what he did have but feet were deficient to the tune of two. It didn’t seem to matter because in the same manner as the other storm-like objects he too was drifting along and, if he wasn’t mistaken, he appeared to be in a queue. In contrast to their lawless structures, one by one these little blue storms were patiently taking turns to go through a dimly lit doorway at the end of an otherwise vacuous space. As John got closer to the object floating next to him a sensation of curiosity washed over him, as if someone else’s emotions were trying to supersede his own. The blue sparks were more than just electricity, they tingled with life.
Eventually it was John’s turn to enter the door at the end of the room…”