But he needs his human (and somewhat human) friends to help him. Humanity’s only hope is Deucalion, who was endowed at his creation with powers over physical space. At the end of the previous installment, an army of Victor’s genetically engineered killers had cut the town off and begun murdering and “reprocessing” the inhabitants, as the start to a program to destroy all life on earth (Victor judges it messy and inefficient). In this book, all the main characters who first met in New Orleans, the detective couple Carson and Michael, the genetically-engineered Bride of Frankenstein, Erika, along with her adopted child, the troll-like Jocko, Deucalion the monster, and Victor Frankenstein (or rather his clone) all come to a final showdown in the town of Rainbow Falls, Montana. He’s optimistic without being sappy, and can deal with tragedy without inducing despair. He creates amusing and engaging characters who know how to talk to each other, and keeps them in escalating peril, mesmerizing the reader. Not the greatest prose stylist around, he is nevertheless one of the few authors whose writing has gotten constantly better since he became a publishing superstar. It should be clear to all regular readers that I’m pretty much in the bag for Dean Koontz. Frankenstein, so corrupted by power and pride that he has ceased to be human at all, in Frankenstein: The Dead Town, the dramatic climax to Dean Koontz’ five-book deconstruction of Mary Shelley’s original narrative. Thus Frankenstein’s monster, now known as Deucalion, purified by suffering and made truly human, addresses Dr. Looming, the giant says, “You are my maker.” “I’ve made no error,” Victor Immaculate confidently assures him, “and neither did your maker.” You do the same wrong over and over, with ever greater fervency, causing ever more misery, because you are incapable of admitting error.” For centuries, I have been the monster, and you the well-meaning idealist who claims he would have undone what he did if only given the chance. “The pages reek with your bottomless self-pity so poorly disguised as regret, with the phoniness of your verbose self-condemnation, with the insidious quality of your contrition, which is that of a materialist who cares not for God and is therefore not true contrition at all, but only despair at the consequences of your actions.

The dead town by dean koontz