Happy Thursday, friend! Welcome to an interview with author N.J. Gallegos about her latest novel, The Fatal Mind. Let’s welcome N. J. and learn more about this horror thriller!
Get to know the author: N.J. Gallegos
Hi N.J.! Welcome to Armed with A Book. Tell me and my readers a bit about yourself!
Howdy! By day, I’m an ER doctor and by night, I’m a horror author. I’ve always loved horror (thanks Mom!) and after reading Stephen King, I was hooked! My debut novel, The Broken Heart, follows an abused housewife who unknowingly receives a heart transplant from a serial killer and it’s a bloody good time. When I’m not writing, I’m trail running, listening to EDM, watching reality TV (especially Bravo’s Real Housewives franchises), and brewing beer (love a good IPA). Originally from Colorado, I now live in the Midwest with my wife and two cats, Theodore and Cat Bane.
What inspired you to write this book?
Answer: I read an article about how people can hack into medical devices like drug-infusion pumps and pacemakers (alarming to say the least) and the idea of technology intended to cure instead becoming deadly scared the hell out of me. Even worse? What if a doctor has the best intentions yet their creation wreaks havoc and devastation? The story pretty much wrote itself from there.
How long did it take you to write this book, from the first idea to the last edit?
Answer: In summer of 2022, we went on a family vacation to Myrtle Beach, and I started the first draft of this book when I needed to steal away from alone time away from the noise. I put the finishing touches on the book April 2024 with the help of my editor.
Who would enjoy reading your book?
Answer: Anyone who enjoys Freida McFadden, Robin Cook, or Michael Crichton; folks who enjoy medicine and drama; and those who like strong women protagonists/antagonists.
Did you bring any of your experiences into this book?
Answer: I take care of a lot of migraine patients in the ER, and I feel for them. Many of them try countless medications, Botox, acupuncture, as well as “quack” cures to help with their pain. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine someone agreeing to an implantable chip that might help alleviate their suffering.
Do you have a favourite quote or scene in the book that you find yourself going back to?
Answer: The very last chapter and the last line. Many of my beta/ARC readers have commented on it and I might have cackled while writing it. Curious? Guess you’ll just have to read it for yourself!
What’s the best piece of advice you have received related to writing?
Answer: Just get the idea down on paper. The first draft is supposed to be “sloppy copy” and later you can go back over it to your heart’s content and make tweaks. The hardest thing to do is to start something so don’t put undue pressure on yourself to be perfect… no one is!
If you could give a shout out to someone(s) who has helped in your writer journey, please feel free to mention them below!
Answer: My editor, Michael Dolan. I participated in Twitter’s #PitDark event where each hour you “pitch” your book via tweet and if editors/agents “like” your pitch, they invite you to submit your manuscript. Michael believed in The Broken Heart and with his amazing guidance and feedback, he helped me publish my first novel. I’m forever grateful for him and love working together.
Where can readers find you on the Internet?
Twitter/X: @DrSpooky_ER
Personal website: https://njgallegos.com/
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/author/njgallegos87
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/22352302
The Fatal Mind
Horror, Thriller, 2024
Dr. Aldea Absinthe’s experimental chip-implant procedure inhibits the migraine pain of her patients, releasing them from debilitating chronic pain. When she performs her new procedure on Shawn Gilbert, a former NBA superstar whose career was cut short by headaches, Gilbert becomes her biggest advocate, launching the brilliant and beautiful neurologist to national stardom. But when Gilbert’s wife Rachel sees Gilbert’s personality become darker by the day, it becomes a race against time to uncover the deadly secret behind Dr. Absinthe’s miracle cure in this Black Mirror meets Frankenstein medical horror thriller.
Content Notes: domestic violence, drug and alcohol use, medical procedures, gore, cursing, mention of abortion
Book Excerpt from
The Fatal Mind
Chapter 6
Shawn
I sat in Exam Room 3, lamenting the freezing metal beneath my bony ass. Why did I have to wear this stupid gown anyway? Last I checked I was here for headaches not a prostate exam. But I’d smiled at the nurse—Claire per the badge—and did as I was told, shucking my shirt and sweats. I kept my Garfield and Odie boxer shorts and black athletic socks on. Both offered meager protection from the artic ambient temperature. My left leg jittered, as it did when I was overcome with boredom or nerves. The table rattled; I looked up. The wall clock’s minute hand ticked past three. Fifteen minutes late—classic doctor move.
Inside my skull, dull ache sharpened until a pointed ice pick stabbed through each eyeball. A thin hiss escaped my lips, and I squeezed my eyes shut. Electric slivers shot through my face into each tooth, like chewing on tin foil with a mouthful of dental fillings. Each root throbbed. Shocked at how I never got used to the pain, even after all these years—I sent up a prayer: Please, please, please don’t let Dr. Absinthe be some quack. Although… truth be told I didn’t really believe in God. How could I? The bastard snatched away my charmed life, doused it in gasoline and struck a match. Torched it straight to the ground.
Knock, knock!
“It’s Dr. Absinthe. Can I come in?”
The roar between my ears ebbed but my heartrate spiked. “Um… yeah, come in!” I called, voice cracking at yeah like a teenager in the throes of puberty. I inwardly cringed.
The door swung inward, and Dr. Absinthe walked in, immediately offering me her right hand. “Hi there. I’m Dr. Absinthe. Nice to meet you!” Grasping her hand in mine, I gave it the firm shake my agent taught me long ago. Her palm felt warm and impossibly soft; lots of lotion probably.
“Shawn Gilbert,” I said. No embarrassing crack this time. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Delicately, she sat on a silver stool, turned—facing me—and gave me a wry smile. “Shawn Gilbert. I never thought I’d meet you, let alone have you as a patient! I loved watching you as a kid.” Chocolate brown eyes glittered; the same color as Rachel’s.
Heat bloomed on my cheeks and my ears followed suit—like always. Even in the height of Gilbert Fever I got embarrassed but post-retirement? I felt so awkward about it. I rubbed the back of my neck and tense knots meet my fingertips. “Uh… thanks.”
Her eyes cut conspiratorially to the door. “My nurse, Claire, made fun of me, but I brought a basketball in. I was hoping—” She stopped and giggled girlishly. “—maybe you’d sign it?”
How long had it been since someone asked me to autograph something?
Flashes streaked through my mind, pulling me back into a quagmire of memories.
Pulling up in the team bus; walking to the arena dressed in one of my sharp suits—tailored, of course—a pair of Gilberts on my feet. The crowds. So many people. Most wore jerseys—usually mine although my teammates Baylon and Rev were popular runners-up—and on spotting me, they screamed my name. Chanted. Those hugging the barrier thrust things into my path: posters, glossy headshots, and T-shirts. Very cliché but I’d had a few pairs of panties tossed my way.
Such a long time ago. I blinked and the exam room came back into sharp focus. Dr. Absinthe clutched the basketball—seemingly pulled from nowhere—with a hopeful expression. “Of course; I’ll sign it. Does that mean I get a discount on my bill?” I quipped.
She winked. “I’ll see what I can do on my end. Here,” she said, tossing the ball to me. Automatically my hands rose to meet it. The familiar slap of bumpy rubber against my palms sent a pang of sadness through me. “Let me grab you a Sharpie,” she said. Turning her attention to her white coat, she rummaged through the pockets.
I cleared my throat. “So… did you play basketball?” I asked.
She laughed. “I tried. Me on defense? MVP. Great. Offense? Terrible. I often forgot to dribble the ball which—as you can imagine—is a big impediment.” Returning her attention to Operation Sharpie, she added, “I’m more of a sport-without-a-ball kind of gal. But I loved watching it. Still do.”
“Dribbling can be tricky, to be fair,” I said.
“A-ha! Found it.” She tossed me the black marker. Uncapping it, I scrawled my signature—nostalgia hanging heavily over me. “Thanks again for signing that. I wish I could go back in time and tell younger me this would happen.” Her dainty fingers flashed over the keyboard, and she peered at the computer monitor, shifting into doctor mode. “So, you’re experiencing migraines, then? Tell me more about that,” she said, leaning forward.
A bolt of lightning went off in my head and I winced. “Well… to tell the truth, I’ve got one right now.”
Dr. Absinthe’s eyebrows knitted with concern. “Can I get you something for that?” She gestured towards the exam room door. “I can have Claire give you an injection or…”
I waved my hand. “Nah, it’s okay. I’m used to it. Plus… nothing helps anyway.” It really didn’t. I’d tried damn near everything. Tylenol, Motrin, Excedrin, Magnesium, Riboflavin, medications with unpronounceable names.
Baylon recommended rubbing molasses clockwise on the temples. Saw him do it a few times in the locker room before a game when he was hungover. Didn’t do a damn thing for me other than make me sticky.
Soak your feet in a hot bath to draw out the migraine? Felt nice; did zip.
I saw tons of neurologists, each putting me through tests like a lab rat. Loud clanging MRIs. EEGs. Vials of blood sent to far away labs—draining me like medical vampires.
As much as I hated to admit it, I even tried the various “cures” found in the back pages of The National Enquirer. You know the type: Tired of being fat? For only 4 payments of $29.99, you can buy the best fat-burner! I ordered an amulet promising to chase away demons responsible for headaches. Made by a Native American Medicine Man or so the ad claimed. One quick glimpse of the bottom revealed a Made in China stamp.
Another ad touted healing crystals purported to draw bad energy out. I remembered seeing them in downtown shops near the Keep Austin Weird t-shirts. I purchased three—Amethyst, Agate, a Clear Quartz—with high hopes that this would be the answer. Nope. They resided on the living room mantle next to our wedding photos; pretty, but useless.
Botox, acupuncture, mushroom tea that tasted like dog shit seasoned with a hint of acorns, I’d run through the gamut. The only thing that came close to helping was weed which took the headache from 10 to 9.7. More so it made everything hilarious. I spent hours parked in front of the TV with a bowl of popcorn laughing until I wheezed.
I’d scoured the ends of the Earth, searching for mythical roots. This. That. Always destined for disappointment when touted miracle cure turned became just another dud. I’d tried it all and then some.
Dr. Absinthe was my last hope.
I sighed. “I’m sure you saw the headlines and watched the highlight reels. One wrong move and my career? Over. Like that.” I snapped my fingers. “Afterwards, dribbling a ball—just dribbling—left my head ringing.” I shrugged and added, “The resultant depression sort of sucked too, not gonna lie.”
Dr. Absinthe gave me a smile. “On the bright side: I—” She solemnly placed a hand on her chest. “—would have never developed a migraine from dribbling.”
I chuckled. “That’s true.”
“I’m sorry for all the suffering you’ve endured. Life’s really not fair.” She stared down at her hands. “Like my mom used to say: life’s a bitch and then you die. You got dealt a bad hand, that’s for sure.”
“Yup,” I replied. No arguments there.
She tapped her fingers against her thighs. “Without you, well, the team—they uh—”
“—sucked?” I finished for her.
Dr. Absinthe thrust her hands up. “Hey, you said it, not me!”
“Doctor-patient confidentiality remember? This is a safe space. Or so you said.” I joked.
“That’s true.” She picked up a pen and pointed at me with a wink. “So, I reviewed your questionnaire, and it looks like you’ve tried everything short of an exorcism.” I snorted and she raised an eyebrow. “Sounds ridiculous but I’ve had patients try it. Not that it worked. At least, not for their headaches. Helped with inner demons though from what I hear,” Dr. Absinthe said with a grin.
“Yeah, didn’t try that one. Not yet anyway.” Had I thought of it, I probably would have.
She shook her head. “I don’t think you’re going to have to resort to that. Here’s the thing, Mr. Gilbert—”
“Shawn,” I cut in. “Call me Shawn.”
“Shawn,” she repeated. “After reviewing your most recent labs and imaging, I think you would be an ideal candidate for my migraine chip. Your blood pressure is great. You don’t smoke. And you’ve—quite honestly—exhausted every option short of a lobotomy: something I also do not recommend for the record. I think you could benefit from this.” She paused. “But—”
But? Nothing good ever ended with but.
She put her index finger in the air. “But—I gotta caution you. My chips aren’t FDA-approved yet. Strictly experimental at this point. Not to say they don’t work—they work beautifully—but I haven’t jumped through all the hoops yet. Any patient receiving the chip must enroll in my clinical trial. I’ll want to run tests too.” I must have made a face because she waved a hand. “Nothing too crazy: functional MRIs, blood work, questionnaires, that sort of thing.”
“That’s fine. I can do that,” I said. Sounded reasonable to me. If Dr. Absinthe told me eating a fresh dog turd cured headaches, I would probably try it.
Dr. Absinthe nodded. “One stipulation: for the next six months, you’ll need to relocate here. If any untoward complications were to arise, I’d like you nearby so I can manage them appropriately. Personally. Texas is a little too far away I’m sad to say.” She raised her hand. “Not that I expect anything to happen, mind you. The chips have proven extremely safe thus far. Just a precaution.” She looked at me. “Is that something you can do?”
“I mean… I need to chat with the wife first but yeah. Count me in. Tentatively.”
“Of course, discuss it with your wife. The best marriages are based on communication, right? Not that I’d know—I’m not married.” Her smile faltered. “If you don’t mind me asking; what does she do?”
“She’s an ER nurse. We met right after my accident; she took care of me in the ER.”
“Okay, that’s adorable,” Dr. Absinthe remarked. “I’m a romantic at heart so I love a good meet cute like that. If it helps, I can put you in touch with realtors and I know a lot of folks. Easy to put in a good word. The ER is always looking for experienced nurses.” Dr. Absinthe stood and shook my hand again. “Talk it over with her and let me know what you think. I think this could be good for you, Shawn.”
A thin sprig of something warm sprung up in my chest, a feeling I hadn’t felt in some time: Hope.
“I will. Thanks for everything, Dr. Absinthe. I’ll be in touch.”
She gave me another wink and gestured to the basketball with her thumb. “Thanks again for the autograph!”
She left the exam room and I exhaled shakily, cautioning myself not to get my hopes up.
Not that it helped.
Interested?
Add The Fatal Mind on Goodreads and Amazon.
If you are an indie author and would like to do a book excerpt, check out my work with me page for details. Check out other book excerpts here.
Be First to Comment