Being a book reviewer certainly has its perks.

I recently read and reviewed Jason S. Hornsby’s Every Sigh, the End, a wonderfully dense and thoroughly acidic take on both popular culture and apocalyptic paranoia. Since reading ESTE, I’d heard that he’d been working on a second novel, and had even read a free download of the first few chapters. It was enough to whet my appetite, and I occasionally checked the forum on his publisher’s website to look into street dates or more information about it. It didn’t appear, at the time, that it would be out for a while.

Well, I was wrong. Eleven Twenty-Three is coming, and yours truly landed an advance copy.

Getting free books is awesome and always appreciated. It’s one of the things that makes doing this so much fun. Having an author contact you for your opinion and publicity is always great, but having an author whose published work you’ve already enjoyed and whose future work you’re already anticipating contact you for your opinion is like Christmas, only without the annoying music, tacky glowing lawn ornaments and cheap last-minute gifts lining the shelves of the local WalMart like half-forgotten apologies. It’s Christmas minus all of the extraneous crap.

Thanks to a crippling bout of insomnia, it took very little time for me to tear through Hornsby’s new novel. I’m starting to suspect, now that my sleepless nights are beginning to abate, that this book may have had more than its fair share of influence on my inability to get any decent rest.

Eleven Twenty-Three begins with a bang, drags the reader along through one horrific moment after another and ends with the kind of soul-crushing whimper that can only be accompanied by nausea. Layne Prescott, after having suffered a horrible, career-shattering encounter with a student at the high school where he once taught, takes off to China with his girlfriend Tara in order to recoup his losses. During his time there, he receives word that his father has died, and he is forced to return to the States to attend the funeral. While waiting for his flight, he runs into a mysterious American ex-pat with a briefcase handcuffed to his wrist. Shaking off feelings of unease, Layne boards his flight and returns home, unaware of what he is bringing back with him.

From here, the story takes a very drastic turn. Something is invading Layne’s hometown, and whatever it is causes the citizenry to behave very strangely. For the sake of staving off spoiler material, I won’t divulge what it is that causes this behavior or what the behavior even is, but let me state that it ties in directly to the novel’s title and is unimaginably brutal.

This is one novel you won’t feel comfortable reading alone with the lights dimmed down.

Like Every Sigh, the End, Eleven Twenty-Three is divided into sections, each with its own set of quotes dictating theme and mood for the following pages. Like its predecessor, this new work is deep and intricate, with layers upon layers peeling back like the cross-section of an onion. While there are no out of sequence sections or shifts in time, Eleven Twenty-Three is still one hell of a complicated novel. This time, however, it’s a very comfortable read, with a protagonist that’s a bit more easily understood and endearing to the reader. Layne is no Ross Orringer. He’s no jaded, pretentious asshole looking down on the rest of the world while turning his hatred in on himself. He’s a regular guy, someone who is easily identified with despite his shortcomings and moments of horrible decision-making. He is someone readers will empathize with because he’s just like everyone else.

Despite the subtle differences between novels, Hornsby’s style stays consistent throughout the new work. The snarky asides so abundant in ESTE are still present (thank god, as I found them to be highly entertaining) and the supporting cast all have their moments of introspection and intrigue. Like the novel that came before it, Eleven Twenty-Three still carries the sense of looming dread, helplessness in the face of shadowy conspiracy and hopeless trepidation that is characteristic of the author’s style.

Also like the novel that came before it, Eleven Twenty-Three is well worth a second read, and I’m waiting for the day when I can pick up a hard copy, hold it in my hands and dive in for round two.

I guess I’m more fond of insomnia than I originally thought I was.