I think the title alone is a good enough reason to be reading this – but I probably bought it because of Terry Pratchett’s recommendation on the cover.
The man in the suit rearranged his features – he was probably aiming for sympathy but achieved constipation – before saying, ‘I’m afraid all of your colleagues passed away in the stampede.’
He patted Terry’s shoulder, bare above the robe, and drew his fingertips lightly across the skin, exhaling softly as he did so. Another wave of nausea gripped Terry and he leaned over the bed to retch dryly. When his stomach had once again realized it was empty, Terry flopped back onto the pillow.
‘There wasn’t a stampede’, he said, hoarsely. ‘Those cows just went for us. Biting, stamping, ripping. They meant to kill us.’
Tell me this wasn’t more or less the first thing you envisioned the first time you heard the words “Mad cow disease”. I know I’ve been dreaming of apocalyptic cows since the nineties, anyway. (And tried to scratch that itch with the movie Black sheep, but that didn’t turn out all that well.) Michael Logan’s Apocalypse cow won the Terry Pratchett prize, which is a prize too few people talk about, and I have to look up a complete list of nominees and winners, because it sounds so great.