From the very beginning, Dustfall leans heavily on a palette of words meant to conjure a visceral sense of decay and discomfort: venison, feces, sweat, grease, flatulence, rotten teeth, onions, rot, stench. It feels as though the author purchased these terms on clearance and was determined to work them into every other page. The result is not an immersive, gritty world but an overbearing fixation that often undermines the storytelling. Rather than enhancing the atmosphere, this constant barrage comes across as adolescent, crude for the sake of being crude, and it breaks the narrative flow.
What makes this reliance on filth more frustrating is the lack of balance or realism. Historically, Native American communities were known for their cleanliness and practical hygiene, and knowledge about basic sanitation as a means of preventing disease would logically survive in any post-apocalyptic society. Instead, the novel presents a world where people supposedly endure squalor without the expected outbreaks of sickness, a miracle at best, plot armor at worst. This disconnect strips the setting of credibility and makes the attempt at bathroom humor feel even more out of place.
The plot itself trudges forward with some interesting ideas, but the pacing is weighed down by the author’s obsession with grime and bodily functions. The climax delivers a predictable payoff, only to pivot toward setting up a conflict framed as a “battle of the alpha women,” a trope so worn out it earns more of a sigh than anticipation.
As someone who reads widely in the post-apocalyptic genre, I would place Dustfall in the category of “read only if you’ve run out of better options.” There are glimmers of potential and moments where the narrative engages, but overall the book is too long, with too little substance to justify the investment.
The one bright spot, as always, is Kevin Pierce. His narration elevates the material and brings a sense of professionalism and polish that the text itself struggles to maintain.