All the Fiends of Hell is the twelfth novel by Adam
Nevill and the seventh to be published by his own imprint Ritual Limited. In
keeping with the majority of the books previously published by Ritual, the
cover is adorned with another stunning piece of art by Samuel Araya, employing
once more their distinctive red and black palette.
The novel begins with an event somewhat
akin to the evangelical Rapture in which populations are raised into the sky. However,
this turns out not to be a resurrection, with the pure of heart taken directly
to heaven to meet God, but rather the first step in an elimination of the human
race by extraterrestrial visitors bent on…
Well, there’s the thing. The
motivation behind the annihilation is never elucidated because the story
unfolds via the viewpoint of Karl – ordinary, unexceptional and directionless
as the book’s blurb describes him – a masterstroke by the author as it serves
to increase the sense of confusion and dread the events of the first night and
then the subsequent days instil in him and, thus vicariously, the readers. There’s no
mention here of any government, scientific or military response (although,
given the present incumbents of the Houses of Parliament, that response would
probably “let’s see if it blows over” or, more likely, “how can we make money
from this?”). This limited third person approach is hugely effective,
distilling (presumably) global events down to the individual level.
Karl somehow survives the apocalyptic
event and there follow a number of hugely atmospheric scenes in which he
wanders the now deserted landscapes of his home town; scenes which bring to
mind cinematic examples of the same scenario such as the various film versions
of Richard Matheson’s I Am Legend, 28 Days Later and, of course,
Romero’s Dead films. All of these, of course, have the added bonus of
rampaging hordes of monsters added to the mix.
And such is the case with All
the Fiends of Hell; bizarre creatures now roam the deserted streets,
hunting down those who survived the initial cull in order to kill them. Cue
some thrilling set-pieces in which Karl witnesses attacks by the creatures, as
well as some “derelictions” in which he discovers the aftermath of the attacks.
The terrifying prospect of being
hunted by the monsters is made even more so by the way in which they carry out
the killings. Despite obviously having access to the advanced technology which
brought about the initial Rapture (and to get into Earth’s orbit in the first
place), the hunters resort to physical violence, snapping necks, in order
perform their duty. Worse still, the bodies of those despatched are arranged
into hideous displays.
This latter suggests a true
malevolence to the invaders, an inference that they enjoy the act of killing
and are proud of it. Despite its sci-fi trappings, All the Fiends of Hell
is most definitely a horror story. Indeed, the original cull of victims also
hints at this malevolence despite the lack of violence involved, the novel
opening with Karl surrounded by his family, gently encouraging him to join them
outside, the implication that something lovely awaits them there…
The horror here is decidedly cosmic.
It’s a seam Adam has mined on many previous occasions but Fiends differs
from his other novels in that, rather than the horror being confined to an
individual or small group of people here it involves the entire planet. This is
epic terror. The cosmic awe is skilfully created and enhanced by the imagery of
the book; a red pall filling the sky, moving inexorably south and bringing with
it the murderous fiends; within those red skies a huge, black object. One can
imagine Denis Villeneuve having a field day transferring these visions to film
but reading these passages I was put in mind of the apocalyptic paintings
of John Martin, and in particular his The Great Day of his Wrath.
(Incidentally, this painting was
apparently inspired by a trip to the Black Country, an area of the Midlands not
far from where the opening chapters of the novel are set).
Comparisons can be drawn with
Adam’s earlier novel Lost Girl. Both are apocalyptic novels – although
that event is still awaiting completion in the earlier book – but something
else which binds the two together is the theme of a father/daughter
relationship. Whereas in Lost Girl, that relationship was a real one,
here it’s the bond between Karl and an orphaned girl he discovers on his
travels (along with her brother) and who becomes his charge which provides much
of the narrative thrust of the novel. When the girl, Hayley, is abducted it
becomes Karl’s mission (alongside finding safety of course) to track her down. Much
in keeping with Lost Girl, the question of how far he will go to save
her plays a big part in proceedings and, as with the earlier novel, the answer
is startling – and horrific.
Whilst the scale of All the
Fiends of Hell (albeit seen through the lens of individual experience)
differentiates it from his other novels, there is still much of the Nevillesque
on display here. Descriptions of smells which elicit childhood memories in Karl
provide a hugely effective opening to the novel and it’s the distinctive aroma
of chlorine which indicates the presence of the fiends. The fiends are classic
Nevill creations too, although in many cases their forms are not entirely
visible (something which only adds to their strangeness), what can be seen fits
nicely into the Nevill template established in his earlier novels. The villain
of the piece, Bob – who provides a human element of horror to proceedings –
speaks with a heavy accent reminiscent of the scum of the earth the Father came
across in Lost Girl and one of Adam’s foulest creations, Knacker McGuire
of No One Gets Out Alive.
And, of course, the colour red
plays a prominent role, with the ominous pall that covers the sky and marks the
progress of the alien invaders casting its ruddy illumination over the world, creating
an image of Hell on Earth.
Cosmic awe and existential dread
make fine bedfellows and rarely have the two been combined to such devastating
effect as in All the Fiends of Hell. Come story’s end the invaders
remain as enigmatic and unknowable as they were at the outset, something which
only adds to their horror. Whilst the book’s opening played with the idea of
faith - the hints at some kind of Rapture type event are overt – the chance of salvation
presented here relies entirely upon it, with little more than rumours that the sea offers a
means of escape driving the characters to the south coast. It’s a book that in
one regard shows the power of the human spirit whilst at the same time
demonstrating humanity’s insignificance in the grand, cosmic, scheme of things.
It’s a fine addition to Adam’s oeuvre and one I thoroughly recommend.
