Review
“Drew Magary’s new novel, The Hike, follows Ben, a dad trying to get home after wandering into a parallel universe on a business trip. . . . Buy it for all your friends—everyone loves a good dad odyssey.”
—GQ
“The Hike just works. It’s like early, good Chuck Palahniuk leeched of all bitterness and class warfare—back when Chuck was still weird and tired and furious. It’s like a story you tell yourself on a long drive alone in the dark. It’s fun and fast and bizarre, familiar yet completely other. But the real kicker? Magary underhands a twist in at the end that hits you like a sharp jab at the bell. You'll see stars, I promise, but I don't want to come within a million miles of spoiling for you. It’s just that good.”
—NPR.org
“A page-turner. . . . A successful work of contemporary fantasy. It displays a writer in command of his voice and experimenting with more traditional forms of narrative, while being inventive, funny, and, by the end of the work, quietly profound and touching.”
—BoingBoing
“It’s kind of a more cynical version of The Phantom Tollbooth mixed with a game of Dungeons & Dragons from Community creator Dan Harmon’s podcast Harmontown.”
—Wired, chosen as one of “This Summer’s 14 Must-Read Books”
“At once heartfelt, nerve-wracking, and soul-searching, The Hike is an emotional punch to the gut draped in the trappings of fantasy and psychological horror. It’s a beautifully written novel with thoughtful characters, crunchy descriptions, and crisp action. I loved every single ounce of this book. I’m already looking forward to re-reading it and I only finished it a few days ago. Easily a contender for a slot in my top five favorite books of 2016.”
—Tor.com
“Often hilarious, as you would expect any book by Magary to be, but like The Postmortal there is a real darkness and thoughtfulness to Ben’s journey that will keep you engrossed.”
—i09.com’s Summer Reading Guide
“A gonzo fantasy adventure with a simple premise: a guy gets lost in the woods. Yet with Magary, getting lost means being chased by dog-faced murderers, crashing into an iceberg, almost getting eaten by a giant, and being forced to build a castle for the undead. In short, things get weird.”
—Men's Journal
“The Hike does for casual hiking what Jaws did for swimming in the ocean. . . . An existential, metaphysical journey into what would happen if you ended up in an alternate universe that challenged everything you thought you knew about yourself.”
—GeekDad.com
“A fun and funny book.”
—PopMatters.com
“The Hike reads like a mix of The Odyssey and The Phantom Tollbooth, with the same humor Magary uses on Deadspin. . . . Along the way, Magary’s hero hunts for an enigmatic mastermind, encounters man-eating giants and monsters, and teams up with a talking crab. What starts out as a saga of suburban ennui quickly turns into gripping tale of survival.”
—Washington City Paper
“Among the strangest books I have ever had the pleasure of reading. . . . True to its nature, the story stays unpredictable and weird right up to the climax. Magary’s book is a love letter to fans of gaming, fantasy and adventure, but above all, to open minded readers who can relax and hang on for the ride.”
—BookPage
“A road novel, a psychedelic Pilgrim’s Progress for the 21st Century, Cormac McCarthy after three scotches. . . . I loved every single page of it. . . . [This book] is very good. Tell your friends.”
—The Free Lance-Star
“Magary’s second novel (after The Postmortal) features elements reminiscent of Homer’s Odyssey, Stephen King’s “Dark Tower” series, Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland, and the PC game King’s Quest. Mostly, it is a reminder of not only how easy it is to get lost but also how difficult it can be to find one’s way back. Fast-paced and immensely entertaining, this is highly recommended for sf fans and adventurous literary readers.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“In this literary odyssey, Magary combines fascinating dream imagery, assorted video game tropes, and a story structure that’s deliberately predictable (with nods to many other tales of wandering through strange lands before returning home) but still surprising.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Creepy. . . . Magary isn't shy about getting weird fast. . . . [He] even nails the ending with a Twilight Zone twist that would have Rod Serling nodding with approval. An eerie odyssey that would be right at home in the pages of the pulpy Warren comics.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“The Hike is Cormac McCarthy’s Alice in Wonderland—gritty and terrifying but with deliriously surreal twists and turns. There’s not a chapter that doesn’t shock and surprise, and underneath it all is the levity and wit I’ve come to expect of Drew Magary’s writing.”
—Jeffrey Cranor, New York Times bestselling cowriter of Welcome to Night Vale
“The Hike is so much fun, has so much pure velocity, that I didn't realize until it was too late—what I thought was a drumbeat of excitement was actually the novel’s secret, powerful heart. Magary’s new book is a metaphysical thrill ride that will stay with me.”
—Charles Yu, author of How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe
Praise for The Postmortal
“An exciting page turner . . . Drew Magary is an excellent writer. This is his first novel but he tells the story masterfully. . . . The most frightening thing about The Postmortal is that this could really happen—it’s not a supernatural story, but it’s even more terrifying than zombie apocalypse.”
—Mark Frauenfelder, BoingBoing
“Unnerving. . . . An absorbing picture of dawning apocalypse . . . The Postmortal is a suitably chilling entry into the ‘it’s-the-end-of-the-world’ canon.”
—The Austin Chronicle
“The first novel from a popular sports blogger and humorist puts a darkly comic spin on a science fiction premise and hits the sweet spot between Margaret Atwood and Kurt Vonnegut.”
—Ron Hogan, Shelf Awareness
“The Postmortal surprised me in a good way.”
—Michelle West, Fantasy & Science Fiction magazine
“Magary’s vision of future technology and science is eerily realistic.”
—The New York Press
About the Author
Drew Magary is a correspondent for GQ and a columnist for Deadspin. He is the author of the memoir Someone Could Get Hurt and the novel The Postmortal. His writing has appeared in Maxim, New York, The Atlantic, Bon Appétit, The Huffington Post, the Awl, Gawker, Penthouse, Playboy, Rolling Stone, and on Comedy Central, NPR, NBC, Yahoo!, ESPN, and more. He’s been featured on Good Morning America and has been interviewed by the AV Club, the New York Observer, USA Today, U.S. News & World Report, and many others. He lives in Maryland with his wife and three kids, and is a Chopped champion.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
CHAPTER ONE
THE PATH
There were deer all over the road. He drove past a street crew in orange vests carrying a dead one off to the side of the highway, gripping the animal by its dainty hooves and moving it like they were carrying a small table upside down. After that, he saw more and more of the deer: some whole, some ripped in half, some just pieces of raw meat. Some were consigned to the shoulder, and he wondered if they had been dragged there or if the big, hulking trucks had plowed into them and chewed them up and spat them out in random pieces off to the side. There were a lot of trucks on this highway, all of them faceless. They didn’t seem to be driven by people at all. They were just there, seemingly operated by some grand master switchboard, programmed to never stop. And they were legion. They had paved the asphalt with all that deer blood under him.
His only companion in the car was the disembodied female GPS voice coming from his phone. She kept silent for fifty miles as he looked out his window at the last gasps of fall in the distant hills—pretty red and yellow swaths of foliage surrounded by sad patches of gray, like an
unfinished oil painting. Eventually, the GPS, with an inhuman calm, led him off the highway, down a ramp and to the right, then up a hill and to the left. Then she commanded:
In five hundred feet, turn right.
She was ordering him to turn directly into a cliff face, which he disobeyed. He stared down at his phone after passing up the proposed turn into oblivion: Rerouting, rerouting, rerouting . . .
“Come on.”
Eventually, the GPS stopped screwing with him, and led him up the steeply sloped driveway of a small mountain resort. It was a wedding mill. He could tell. There was an entire villa of wedding party bungalows, along with designated “Smile Spots” where a pushy photographer could hold a dozen groomsmen hostage for forty-five minutes without access to a cocktail. He drove up the private road, past a bridal salon and an open courtyard for summer ceremonies, all the way to the surprisingly dumpy main inn at the end of the loop. It was a Tuesday. Not even cheapskates get married on a Tuesday. His was one of only three cars in the driveway. He got out and left a message for his vendor:
Hey, it’s Ben. I’m here. See you at seven.
He walked through the main entrance and was greeted by an old, shabby lobby. Yellowed wallpaper. A table of frosted, maple leaf-shaped cookies wrapped up in little bags that cost five bucks each. Coffee urns that had been drained hours ago. Off to the left, Ben spied a wooden
bar with swivel stools, but no bartender present. A small girl in a billowy cupcake nightgown danced around the cookie table in her bare feet as her mother screamed at her.
“Will you get dressed? This floor isn’t clean!”
She shooed her daughter up the stairs as Ben walked over to the reception area. No one was at the desk, but he could see a sad little office open behind it. He let out a meek “Hello?,” the kind of “Hello?” you use when you creep downstairs at night to see if a robber has broken in. A short old lady shuffled out of the office and took his credit card and ID.
She looked at him funny. He was used to that. He had a long scar that ran down from his eye to the corner of his mouth. Whenever people looked at him, they saw the scar and assumed he was a mean person, even though he wasn’t. Or, at least, he wasn’t in the beginning.
“What time does the bar close?” he asked the clerk.
“The bar?”
“Yes, the bar. The one over there.”
“I think the bar closes around nine.” His little business dinner would probably end well after that. Drinking at the hotel would take more planning than drinking at a hotel usually requires.
“It’s very pretty around here. Is there a path where I can go hiking?” he asked her.
“A path?” Yeah, lady. A fucking path.
“Yeah, like a trail, you know?”
“No, I don’t think we have any paths around here.”
“Really?”
“No.”
Ben couldn’t believe that. You’re in the middle of a gorgeous mountain region that has long been settled by humans, and you don’t think anyone has blazed a trail back there? He was gonna walk anyway. He’dfind something.
She checked him in and gave him a room key. An actual key. Not a key card.
“Ma’am, can you tell me where the elevator is?” he asked her.
“We don’t have one.”
“Oh. Well, thank you anyway.”
Ben grabbed his rollerboard and trudged awkwardly up the staircase with it. There was no porter to help. The hallway upstairs was alarmingly narrow. He would’ve had to turn sideways to let another man pass by. He came to room 19, turned the key, and was greeted by a musty, red-painted room. Nothing about the joint felt comfortable. It was like staying at a hated aunt’s house.
He called his wife. The kids were screaming in the background when she picked up. They were always screaming in the background.
“Hey.”
“You make it?” she asked.
“I did.”
“How’s the hotel?”
“Little shaky, to be honest. Not wild about the idea of staying an entire night here.”
“Oof. Don’t put your suitcase on the bed. Bedbugs.”
“I’ll have you know that I put it on the table. It never touched the bedspread.”
“Good boy.”
“It’s pretty here, though. You could have come. Oma could have looked after the kids.”
“Please. They’re too much for her. They’re too much for me.”
“Yeah, that’s true. How are things there?”
“I had to kill a huge cricket in the basement. Second-biggest one I’ve ever seen.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“Yeah, so enjoy the time to yourself, you lucky bastard.”
“It’s a work trip. It’s not that fun.”
“Sure, it isn’t.”
“It’s not. Don’t give me shit for it.”
“So what are you gonna do with all that free . . . FLORA, I AM ON THE PHONE. . . . FLORA, JUST ASK HIM FOR IT. . . . Christ. I gotta go.”
“No worries. Love you.” With three children, they never properly finished any conversation.
He threw on his workout clothes and walked back downstairs, passing through the empty lobby into a small fitness center and then out a pair of glass doors to the outside. He had his phone and room key on him, but nothing else. No watch or wallet. Behind the main inn was an open gravel driveway and a flimsy shed for the groundskeepers’ equipment: ATVs and lawn mowers and piles of mulch and whatnot. Past that, he could see a flattened road that led into the countryside. Looked like a path to him. Maybe it was for authorized personnel only, but no one was around to stop him. He cruised past the shed and found the trail widening in front of him. After three minutes, he came across a birdhouse and a trail posting that read “0.1 Miles.” He felt the urge to uproot the sign out of the ground and bring it back to the lobby. Look at this, you crazy lady. Look at the marked path that’s right behind your hotel.
Ben kept on walking. The path ran atop an esker, with the ground sloping down on either side, like moving along one continuous peak. Down below he could see a valley that was blanketed by massive estates: acres of pristine grass that required hours upon hours of care every day to maintain. He saw big houses plopped down in the center of those green fields, each one fit for a retired president. They probably had kitchens with marble islands and everything. You could have your friends over to one of these houses and serve them fine cheeses and drink good red wine and make merry from middle age until death. It would be a nice little rut to find yourself stuck in. He wanted to jump off the mountainside and fly down to one of them.
The rest of the path beckoned. He felt the urge to jog but a history of knee injuries made that dicey. His right knee was a gnarled root of scar tissue and grafted ligaments, and he would rub it like a talisman whenever he exercised, even when it didn’t hurt. So he gave the knee a reassuring pat and walked faster. He passed a second marker, and then a third, and then a fourth, which was encircled by birdhouses. They really were houses, too—with shingled roofs and stepped gables and little doors and windows for a family of sparrows to peek out of. Maybe they had kitchen islands as well. Maybe everyone got a cool house around here.
And then he came to the half-mile marker and found a circle of benches built from tree-trunk sections that had been sawed in half and bolted to big flat discs taken from sections of another tree. There was a stone pit in the center and a scattering of ashes. From any seat, you had
a nice vantage point of the surrounding Poconos. You could smoke pot here. You could play guitar here. You could split a flask of whiskey here and then go have sex behind a tree. It was that kind of spot. A good spot. Back near his home in Maryland, there weren’t many spots like this. Things were cramped and congested and busy, every last bit of real estate claimed. There were no more secret passageways.
The path circled around the sitting area and led right back to the inn. This was the end of the trail . . . except. Except there were ATV tire tracks leading away from the circle and down into the hard forest below. He took out his phone (he could never go very long without checking it) and noted the time: 3:12 p.m. There was no point being stuck back in Bed-and-Breakfast Land, suffocated by all that quaintness that only people over sixty yearn for. He had time. He had all the time in the world. And the GPS could always lead him back, even if that meant the occasional hiccup. When he was getting ready this morning, he accidentally pressed the walking prompt for directions instead of the driving prompt. The prompt told him he would need
eight days to walk to the hotel. He laughed when he saw that.
He pocketed the phone and followed the tracks.
Audiobook
