Author

Craig Rainey – The Writer

Massacre at Agua Caliente – A Novel

As of March 5, 2018 you can purchase a copy of Craig Rainey’s latest fiction novel, Massacre at Agua Caliente.  The book is based upon the original script of the same name.

Get Your Copy Here!

The Story Behind the Book – Massacre at Agua Caliente

The idea for the story came about some 5 years ago when prolific film-maker Brett William Mauser sat with Craig Rainey as they discussed the film biz over a tasty beverage.

Craig asked why Brett had never cast him as the lead in any of his nearly 40 films.  Brett’s reply sent Craig on a journey which only now is finally complete.  He replied, “Casting you as the lead would make it impossible to cast a villain across from you who anyone would believe was a threat to you.  You are too big a character and too strong for anyone to fear for your safety from anyone I know to cast in the antagonist role.”

Craig laughed his disbelief at his destiny to be a role player as cop or bad guy for the rest of his career.  Brett offered a solution, albeit an unlikely one.

“Now if I could write a script where the bad guy is the hero, I could easily cast you.”

After that day, Craig made it his goal to write a film script which featured the villain as the hero.  From that long labored goal emerged Massacre at Agua Caliente.  Many called it a vanity project for good reason.  Craig Rainey intended to star in the film.

The script was greeted with several awards from numerous film/screen-writing festivals including:

  • Summer Slam Film Festival 2015 – Best Narrative Period Screenplay
  • Summer Slam Film Festival 2015 – Best Breakout Writer – Craig Rainey
  • Action on Film Festival 2015 – Honorable Mention
  • Paragon Film Festival 2015 – Official Selection

The future of the script looks bright as does the novel.  Support Craig Rainey in his writing career and get your copy of the book in e-book or paperback.

Look for his upcoming pilot novel for his newest action series –

Carson Brand – Roman Holiday

Brand knew he was number nine.  This wasn’t how he thought it would happen.  He was certain that it would have been a bullet.  He didn’t know who would be nine, but he was absolutely convinced it would be a bullet.  No one died in combat from a spear – not since the Zulu’s.  The sand was right but they were not the British Colonial Army and the kid who threw the spear wore Nikes and a Nine Inch Nails Tee shirt, not a skin loincloth and a bone in his nose.

He fell to his knees gripping the rough shaft of the quivering spear.  Sergeant Thiel shouted and pointed at the kid.  Two soldiers tackled him and wrestled with him, roughly shoving his face into the hot sand.

Brand rolled to his side as slowly as he could through shock and his weakening condition.  The initial sensation was that of a heavy pressure crowding his organs.  In seconds, pain was quickly overcoming his body’s natural anesthetic God engineered in us to handle extreme trauma.

Thiel fell to his knees and held the spear steady, taking the weight of the weapon as best he could.  His grimy face registered grave concern as he reassured Brand.

“Captain, you’re gonna be okay.”

Brand grimaced his disagreement.  This really hurt.  His experience with wounds was vast.  His scars were legendary with his troops in the sand and his civilian friends when he rotated back to the states.  He was seen as a battle scarred hero to many.  He didn’t feel one bit heroic.  Mortality looked him in the eye and he wasn’t ready to die.

In his experience, bullets and shrapnel burned and tore with specific pain.  This injury seemed to involve his entire body.  Searing pain was prominent but the weight of the weapon within his gut felt like he was hooked and weighted like bait, falling deeper into a cold black abyss. He fought to rise to the present.  He yearned to feel the heat of the desert sand.

“I can’t believe I am 9”, he uttered through grit teeth.

Thiel stifled a tense chuckle.  The captain had finally assumed the mantle of superstition he had railed against for so long.

“You aren’t number 9, sir.”

Brand felt his body roll up around the spear.  Other troops pressed him down to the ground once more.

“You gotta stay still, sir” another troop informed him, his voice husky with concern.

His next glimpses of his fading life were flashes of activity, to which he felt more audience than participant: the pain of being lifted onto a Blackhawk Helo, the pain of turbulence jarring the spear n flight, the pain of being lowered onto a gurney.  He felt no more pain after uniformed men wearing white sleeve bands with red crosses administered Morphine on the tarmac.

He opened his eyes and focused on the white ceiling grids and rectangular florescent light boxes of his hospital room.  He grimaced at the tightness of the wound.  He moved a hand and gingerly felt his gut.  The sheet and blanket was flat over heavy bandages.