Cell A novel

Review by Booklist Review

Think horrormeister King's gone soft? Try this: Clay Riddell, on top of the world after finally signing a contract that pays off for his years of scrabbling as a comics artist, is fairly bouncing along Boston Common when an awful lot of the people nearby suddenly go berserk, using any weapon that comes to hand, including their teeth, to assault with deadly intent everyone in their paths. Motor vehicles collide or leap curbs to smash through windows and doors at high speed. Planes power-dive into buildings. And, of course, gunfire and explosions punctuate the soundscape. Instinctively, Clay puts his heavy portfolio between a small man about to be butchered by a middle-aged crazy, and thus meets Tom McCourt. Within the hour, they rescue 15-year-old Alice Maxwell, and another of King's many stories of a decent remnant struggling to survive in a world gone mad is off and running. During the course of what must be the most suspenseful, fastest-paced book King has ever written--a 'Salem's Lot without lulls--the trio expands to as many as six, though it is solely from Clay's perspective that King tells the story. Clay is concerned with more than survival, for his 12-year-son is out there, surely by himself, Clay thinks, given the time of day that the Pulse began. The Pulse? Keenly perceptive Tom noticed right away that all the crazies became so while using their cell phones. Tom's was broken that day, and Clay doesn't own one. Exploiting motifs and devices from Richard Matheson's vampire-world classic, I Am Legend (1954), and George A. Romero's living-dead movies (author and filmmaker are this book's dedicatees), King blasts any notion that he's exhausted or dissipated his enormous talent. --Ray Olson Copyright 2006 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

What if a pulse sent out through cell phones turned every person using one of them into a zombie-like killing machine? That's what happens on page six of King's latest, a glib, technophobic but compelling look at the end of civilization-or at what may turn into a new, extreme, telepathically enforced fascism. Those who are not on a call at the time of the pulse (and who don't reach for their phones to find out what is going on) remain "normies." One such is Clayton Riddell, an illustrator from Kent Pond, Maine, who has just sold some work in Boston when the pulse hits. Clay's single-minded attempt to get back to Maine, where his estranged wife, Sharon, and young son, Johnny-Gee, may or may not have been turned into "phoners" (as those who have had their brains wiped by the pulse come to be called) comprises the rest of the plot. King's imagining of what is more or less post-Armageddon Boston is rich, and the sociological asides made by his characters along the way-Clay travels at first with two other refugees-are jaunty and witty. The novel's three long set pieces are all pretty gory, but not gratuitously so, and the book holds together in signature King style. Fans will be satisfied and will look forward to the next King release, Lisey's Story, slated for October. (Jan. 24) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

King (The Colorado Kid) has an ax to grind and he employs the tools of his trade to accomplish the task. Clayton Riddell is in Boston to meet with publishers in hopes of selling his graphic novel series. Portfolio in hand, success within reach, Clay stops to watch the people flocking around a Mister Softee truck. Within moments the world is changed as a mysterious signal reaches cell phone users, turning them into zombies. Clay, who is cell-less (like King himself), soon teams up with others who have eluded the evil transmission. They embark on a quest to save themselves from the violence and destruction wrought by the changed beings who once owned cell phones. Using the familiar streets of Boston and introducing Riddell minutes before the catastrophe occurs circumvents the need for the strong setting and character development found in the bulk of King's work. Though the lack of these elements weakens the less-than-subtle message woven into the tale, King fans will, no doubt, want to read for themselves.-Nancy McNicol, Ora Mason Branch Lib., West Haven, CT (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

King's apocalyptic cautionary tale suggests that cellular communication could be as pernicious as it is pervasive. Artist Clay Riddell has just traveled from his native Maine to Boston to sell his first graphic novel when all hell breaks loose. Vehicles crash at random. Language turns to gibberish. Bystanders devour the flesh of strangers. As King (From a Buick 8, 2002, etc.) describes this urban meltdown in gory, graphic detail, it becomes increasingly obvious to Riddell that all who have suddenly become crazy were talking on their cell phones. Some sort of simultaneous transmission has transformed the city's citizenry into mindless zombies. The author taps into the collective dread of a society battered by 9/11 and Hurricane Katrina as he depicts a battle for survival that pits "normies" such as Clay, the few who didn't have cellular access, against hordes of "phoners," who quickly develop a flocking instinct and telepathic communication. The plot can't sustain the sizzle of its sensational opening: More concerned with the effects of this cell-phone terrorism than its cause, the author never indicates what's happening beyond Clay's immediate vicinity. Yet the hero's odyssey remains compelling as he attempts to return home to estranged wife Sharon and beloved son Johnny, and the surrogate family of refugees he attracts along the way adds a human dimension. Clay doesn't have a cell phone, but his son does, and he has no idea in what form he might find Johnny if he manages to find the boy at all. As King acknowledges in his dedication, he owes a debt to zombie-flick director George Romero and horror/fantasy author Richard Matheson. The revenge of a cellphone-hater. Copyright ©Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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Cell 1 The event that came to be known as The Pulse began at 3:03 p.m., eastern standard time, on the afternoon of October 1. The term was a misnomer, of course, but within ten hours of the event, most of the scientists capable of pointing this out were either dead or insane. The name hardly mattered, in any case. What mattered was the effect. At three o'clock on that day, a young man of no particular importance to history came walking--almost bouncing--east along Boylston Street in Boston. His name was Clayton Riddell. There was an expression of undoubted contentment on his face to go along with the spring in his step. From his left hand there swung the handles of an artist's portfolio, the kind that closes and latches to make a traveling case. Twined around the fingers of his right hand was the drawstring of a brown plastic shopping bag with the words small treasures printed on it for anyone who cared to read them. Inside the bag, swinging back and forth, was a small round object. A present, you might have guessed, and you would have been right. You might further have guessed that this Clayton Riddell was a young man seeking to commemorate some small (or perhaps even not so small) victory with a small treasure, and you would have been right again. The item inside the bag was a rather expensive glass paperweight with a gray haze of dandelion fluff caught in its center. He had bought it on his walk back from the Copley Square Hotel to the much humbler Atlantic Avenue Inn where he was staying, frightened by the ninety-dollar pricetag on the paperweight's base, somehow even more frightened by the realization that he could now afford such a thing. Handing his credit card over to the clerk had taken almost physical courage. He doubted if he could have done it if the paperweight had been for himself; he would have muttered something about having changed his mind and scuttled out of the shop. But it was for Sharon. Sharon liked such things, and she still liked him--I'm pulling for you, baby, she'd said the day before he left for Boston. Considering the shit they'd put each other through over the last year, that had touched him. Now he wanted to touch her, if that was still possible. The paperweight was a small thing (a small treasure), but he was sure she'd love that delicate gray haze deep down in the middle of the glass, like a pocket fog. Excerpted from Cell: A Novel by Stephen King All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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