Sameer Gudhate presents the Book Review of Zero Bomb by M.T. Hill

Have you ever stopped mid-scroll on your phone and wondered: what happens after we hand everything over to machines? That quiet unease? That creeping fear? That’s the pulse that drives Zero Bomb by M.T. Hill — a novel that doesn’t just imagine a dystopian future, but one that feels eerily close, like it’s breathing down our necks.

Hill, already nominated for the Philip K. Dick Award and now shortlisted for the Neukom Literary Arts Award, crafts a story that walks the line between sci-fi, mystery, and grief-driven introspection. He doesn’t scream for attention — his world-building and storytelling whisper their warnings instead. And honestly? That’s what makes it so chilling.

We begin in a fractured future England — think oppressive government, outlawed religions, banned books, and everything tracked digitally. In the middle of this surveillance-heavy landscape is Remi, a man broken by the death of his daughter, Martha.

He leaves his past — and most of his identity — behind, choosing instead a life as a cycle courier in London, delivering underground literature. But when a driverless car nearly kills him, the past starts clawing its way back. Cryptic messages appear. A possibility surfaces: maybe Martha isn’t dead after all.

What follows is a dangerous descent into a world of rebellion, radical thinkers, and a mysterious novel called The Cold Veil that serves as both prophecy and provocation. The more Remi gets pulled in, the more the lines between reality and revolution blur.

Hill’s prose feels like cracked pavement under bare feet—stark, jarring, and deliberate. He doesn’t over-explain. He lets images do the work: a green-eyed fox, a city blinking into chaos, a self-driving car with murderous intentions. It’s haunting and minimal, like Orwell filtered through the melancholy of Ian McEwan.

He also does something bold — halfway through the book, he shifts completely. The tone, structure, even the genre feel like they morph. It’s risky, but it works, drawing you deeper into the machine of this narrative.

Remi isn’t your typical hero. He’s flawed, fragile, and frequently lost. But that’s exactly why he feels real. You find yourself rooting for him, not because he’s strong, but because he’s trying — to make sense of his grief, his world, his daughter. But it’s Martha who quietly steals the spotlight. Her character unfolds gradually, and when it does — it hits you. She’s clever, grounded, and the emotional core of the book. Thematically, Hill explores automation, identity, surveillance, and above all, purpose. What do we do when machines can do everything for us?

This isn’t a fast-paced thriller, but a layered journey. The first third is personal and grounded, the second shifts into meta-fiction with excerpts from The Cold Veil, and the third… well, no spoilers, but let’s just say it all comes together in a way that surprised me. At times, the pacing does stumble, especially in the transition between sections, but the ambition behind it is admirable.

The book is laced with existential questions: What happens when humans are no longer needed? What role does grief play in shaping radical beliefs? It also touches subtly on nationalism, erasure of culture, and how stories — banned or hidden — become weapons of change.

There’s a sadness that sits with you throughout. Not in a depressing way, but in that quiet, reflective sense — like standing in the rain after a funeral. Some moments — like Remi’s flashbacks of Martha or his interactions with the strange mechanical fox — genuinely made me pause and breathe.

What stood out most to me was the world-building. It’s not flashy, but it lingers. The green-eyed fox. The underground safehouse. A book within a book that becomes real-life resistance. These aren’t just scenes — they’re moods.

At times, Hill’s narrative can feel detached. Some sections are more cerebral than emotional, which might distance certain readers. But in hindsight, that coldness feels intentional — a reflection of the sterile, emotionless world Remi is trapped in.

Reading Zero Bomb felt eerily personal to me—it wasn’t just another dystopian novel, but a mirror held up to parts of my own life. After losing my father, a man who believed in simplicity, service, and human connection, I began to feel the weight of a world increasingly run by machines. Technology may offer convenience, but it can’t hold your hand through grief, can’t understand silence, or offer the warmth of presence—and that’s exactly the void I saw in Remi’s journey. His search for purpose, his quiet ache, and his resistance against a world that had become too automated reminded me of my own attempts to stay grounded in human values, especially as someone who finds refuge in books and writing. Zero Bomb spoke not just to my mind, but to the quieter, often unspoken struggles of the heart—the kind of internal resistance you carry when everything around you is speeding up, numbing out, and forgetting what it means to simply feel.

Zero Bomb is unsettling, smart, and strangely poetic. It doesn’t hand you easy answers, but instead asks the kind of questions that echo long after the last page. M.T. Hill is clearly a writer to watch — thoughtful, daring, and unafraid to challenge both form and theme.

Would I recommend it? Definitely — but with a warning: it might leave you feeling haunted… and maybe just a little more aware of the machines around you.

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