A Very Ordinary Woman: ‘Sons of Earth’ Preview

In the city, your job, your income, your house, your lifespan, are predestined by your class. Justine is determined to do good at her new job, but how can she do good when her job is to create slaves for the city?

Brrring. Brrring.

Casey’s arm pinned Justine momentarily as he reached across her and shut the alarm off. “Enough already,” he muttered in her ear.

“It’s too cold.” Justine burrowed into his side and put her face in his neck. He smelled like soap, and he was deliciously warm and solid beside her. And outside it was dark, and freezing.

His lips tickled her ear, nibbled the lobe, and pushed against the delicate skin behind. Justine twisted in his arms, met his smiling green eyes just for a moment, and found his mouth with hers. For a moment his lips possessed hers, hungry and gentle all at once. She pressed up against him.

“No, no,” he muttered against her lips. He dropped his arms and rolled out of bed. “Ah, dear God it’s cold.” He hopped from one foot to the other as he leapt into his pants. “Ah, dear Jesus, must I?” He jerked on the lamp’s cord as he snatched up his shirt from the chair.

“No.” Justine drew the covers over her head to get away from the light. She smiled in spite of herself. He was too cute in the morning, dark curls all rumpled, skin covered with goose-pimples as he rushed to get into his clothes, complaining good naturedly all the while.

The blanket jerked off her face, and Casey grinned down at her.

“It’s my happy place too,” he tweaked her nose, “But duty calls.” The bed wobbled as he got up and padded in sock feet out of the bedroom. In a moment she heard the clank of the kettle against the metal sink and the gush of the faucet. The building’s old pipes groaned.

Casey hummed tunelessly in the other room. The radiator clanked and rattled, and air started blowing.

“Ohhh…” Justine rolled out of bed and sat for a moment, her feet poised over the bare floorboards. In the kitchen she heard the distinct creak of the toaster as Casey depressed the springs. Breakfast would be ready in a minute.

She mustered up her willpower, put her feet down, and then rushed around the room at top speed, throwing on her jeans and her sweatshirt, grabbing Casey’s wool sweater from the chair where he’d forgotten it. By the time she reached the kitchen, she was almost warm.

Casey was just pouring the water over tealeaves.

Casey would pick up their weekly rations tonight, on his way back from the work-truck, and they’d get coffee with breakfast again. She sat down at the table by her toast. Casey pushed his chair back and plunked down. He covered her hand with his own, bowed his head, and said “Lord, thank you for a new day. May we glorify you today. Grant us strength to do your will cheerfully. Grant Justine courage as she begins her new position. Thanks for your provision. Amen.”

As Justine bit into her wheat toast she realized it was generously buttered, and as Casey set his down to take a sip of tea, she saw his was dry.

“Case…” She took his uneaten toast and switched it for her other.

He switched them back. “I’ll get butter at the farm.”

“But I’ll get food at the plant.”

He held her gaze, unflinching.

“Okay.” She bit her toast again. She’d catch it next time.

“So, first day on the production floor?” Casey smiled weakly over his teacup.

“First day.” Casey knew how she’d hoped to fail the two-week training course, anything to avoid going onto the facility floor. She didn’t want to work with Manufactured Persons. She didn’t want to be any part of manufacturing human beings. She’d seen them walking past the window, patrolling the district, every one of them near twins of each other, the imprint of what someone had decided was perfect.

And someone like Casey, the beautiful man gazing at her across the table, worked himself to exhaustion just to provide for her because he wasn’t gifted enough to make it into the academies and into a professional position. Though, she would never have met him if he had, because she wasn’t good enough for that either. And now she was chosen to work at Caspian. There was no choice in the matter for her.

“You will do good there,” Casey said quietly.

Justine chewed her toast and looked down.

“And you’ll finally be able to tell me if an Empty has a belly button.”

Justine’s gaze flew up toward his.

Casey winked. He grinned at her, then stuffed the last of his toast in his mouth. “My bus will be here soon. I’m going down.” He sighed and shrugged. “Three more weeks. I better enjoy it.”

She raised her face, he dropped a kiss on her eyelids, and ran a finger down her jaw. Then he grabbed his bag from the hook by the door, slung on his coat, and stomped into his boots. Justine’s stared at the last bit of toast in her hand as he clomped down the stairs toward the street. Yes, three more weeks until Casey was laid off for the winter, and her income became all they had.

She ate the toast. Her bus was only five minutes behind Casey’s.

The bus rumbled up to the gates of the district and jerked to a stop. The last few passengers crammed their way on. Lisa squished onto the seat beside Justine and squeezed her hand.

“Good morning,” Justine said softly.

“Good morning.” Lisa leaned in. “Church is at your place, not Ernest’s right?”

Justine smiled weakly. “Yeah.”

Lisa laughed under her breath. “Case is preaching?”

Justine smiled. “Yeah. He rehearsed on me last night—like he needs it.”

“You set to start?”

“I guess.”

“The supervisor told me that I’ll be training you.”

Relief washed over her. “Good. Oh, good.”

Two MP guards swung open the chain-link gates and the bus ground into gear again. It rolled off the rutted gravel road onto a paved street and picked up speed down the thoroughfare. They flew past tall brick apartment buildings; the worst of the professional district and far better than anything Justine had ever lived in. Big-box stores with massive, empty, parking lots—not yet opened, flanked the road.

Justine looked down at her lap. Yes, she was vaguely curious what was in those stores. She’d only heard stories. But compared to the small, government-run stores in her district, they looked awfully intimidating.

Lisa’s blond head bobbed against her shoulder, her eyes shut. A forty-five minute bus ride usually provided Justine with a half-hour nap. But not this time. This time her eyes stayed wide open as the bus bumped over the bridge into the industrial district. The white steam clouds melded into the grey sky. Snow wafted down against the bus windows as it stopped at the train tracks. A tanker train inched by, and when it finally passed, Justine saw the square silver sides of Caspian genetics. Beyond it, trees. They’d reached the edge of the city. They’d go no further.

Sons of Earth, a SciFi novel, is to be released this spring, and I’m pumped to share it with you! If you liked this snippet, check out my full length work We are the Living, an apocalyptic romance, which you can buy on Amazon.

First Look Inside ‘Sons of Earth’: Reject

The opening scene of Sons of Earth, the Sci-Fi novel I will release this spring!

He was watching her. Though he never made eye contact, from under his long, dark lashes he watched. His perfect lips curled, almost too minute to perceive. It made a full body exam decidedly awkward.

But she was done. Khalia pointed to his clothes, folded neatly on the table, and with the same obedience she expected, he picked them up and began pull them on. Even with her eyes on her clipboard, she could still feel his gaze. She glanced up. The bluish fluorescent light sent glints off his eyes as he dropped them.

MFP25A12 was her third and last examination of the morning. The other two had been in perfect condition. She’d recorded every parameter, all within limits, almost exactly on target. Not A12. Vitals, in limits. Height, 183 cm—in limits. Weight, 80.73 kg—drastically out of limits. At his age, he should be not less than 90kg. Khalia scanned the parameter sheets for the last two months. His weight-gain had leveled off two weeks ago, even after adjustments to his diet.

Thud. Khalia glanced up. The MFP was, for once, not looking at her. He’d dropped his shoe onto the concrete floor. She shook her head, and flipped through his records.

He was reject—garbage.

Khalia sighed and took one last glance across the pages. As she flipped to the first page, her eyes lit on a section titled “Intelligence Quotient. Limits 100-120” and below it, the number 183.

Her head snapped up. A12, now dressed in his black garments, didn’t bother to lower his gaze. He stared at her, full on.

“Hey.” She pointed with two fingers toward the floor. His chin tilted downward in obedience but his lip curled again.

Khalia shivered. What rogue gene had slipped through, and graced this specimen with genius IQ? She should test him. Maybe it was a mistake, a transcription error. Who had tested him? The signature was Adam’s. She needed to ask, even if by all physical signs MFP25A12 was destined to be rejected. Barjinder would want to know how this happened.

Khalia grabbed a blue tag from one of the many hooks beside the light switches. It read “Further Testing Required”, the one right beside the red “Reject” tag, stark crimson against the snow-white wall. She stuck it to the Velcro patch on A12’s sleeve.

“Come.”

She opened the door and led him into the wide, fluorescent lit hall, past the rows of exam-room doors, and into the airlock. She shed her shoe covers and lab coat, and pushed him ahead of her into the warm yellow light of the corridor. “I’m taking this one for further testing,” she said to the forms clerk. She signed the sheet that was handed to her, and led her charge two doors over to the genetics lab.

Barjinder’s desk was empty. She’d get the MFP situated, then go find him.

Khalia opened the door of the holding room, an eight by eight room with a cot and a toilet, and let her charge pass by her. She turned and set the clipboard in the folder by the door, and grabbed the log book to fill it out. Her pen had just formed the letters “M F P” when she heard a slight rustle.

Her head turned, and she was nose to nose with the MFP. She squeaked, and then his hands were on her throat. She thrashed, he pushed her against the wall, pinning her. Her lungs burned empty, her head swam. She made one last effort to jerk free. He was a brick wall.

Black spots grew larger and larger.

The last thing Khalia saw before she lost consciousness was his dark eyes, gazing deep into hers. His lip was still curled.

‘Sons of Earth’ Coming This Spring!

I am excited to announce that Sons of Earth, a sci-fi novel, is to be released this spring!

A manufactured person is no person at all. Designed to fight and die, Dominic escaped from the metallic womb of Caspian Genetics. He knows that if he is found out he’s as good as dead, but he cannot forget that his brothers are enslaved.

He matches his wits against Caspian’s might. But how can Dominic stand against an industry that denies his personhood when he doubts his own humanity? As his plans unravel, Dominic is forced to face the question: Was he lied to? Is he human after all?

Sons of Earth will be released in Kindle, as well as other e-book formats, and print. Stay tuned for previews.

Zombie Baby

The following is an excerpt from my novel We are the Living, an apocalyptic love story set in a small Tuscan town.  In this scene, Liam and his colleague are cleaning corpses from a house in the dead city of Siena when they make an unexpected discovery:

“Liam, we forgot that one.” Gennarosa contorted her face in an attempt to adjust her mask without touching it. Her gloved hands were slick with gore and decomposed flesh. She tipped her chin toward a house with a green door and pots of dead, dry geraniums on the doorstep. Behind them, Max shouted at Julio as they came out of a store, carrying a corpse between them. The radio crackled, and someone rattled off in Italian. Gennarosa ignored it and so did I.

I sighed and stepped toward the door. I stood, gun trained on the door, and Gennarosa reached over and opened it. The door slammed against the wall. Through the protection of my respirator, I caught the faintest whiff of rotting flesh.

I peered into the semi dark.   The kitchen looked undisturbed, like the owner had stepped out for a bit and would soon return.

Gennarosa motioned for me to go first. We passed through the kitchen. The dining and living area had been tossed. Blood splattered up one wall, and there, below the bloodstain, was the bloated corpse of a man. His arm was flung out, fingers frozen, pointed toward the doorway. He was definitely dead, not infected.

I pushed open the bedroom door. Only a sliver of light peeked through the drapes. I pulled the flashlight from my belt and swung the beam of light around the room.

“Feet,” said Gennarosa, pointing.

Two shoes stuck out from behind the unmade bed, half covered by draped blankets. I rounded the bed, the gun trained on the feet and bundled bedclothes. Just as the body came into full sight, it moved.

I jumped back, taking Gennarosa with me. We crouched, half-expecting the body to spring up, or at least make another move. It didn’t. It remained as it was, with only the legs protruding from under the blanket.

“What the hell?” Gennarosa leaned forward, but stayed safely behind me.

I reached out with one foot and poked the leg. It didn’t move. To heck with it. I kicked it. There was a faint movement around what should have been the torso, and then a squeak.

“What?”

“I’m going to pull off the blanket,” Gennarosa took a step closer, “At the ready.”

Poised on the balls of her feet, she leaned forward and yanked away the blanket.

“Oh God,” Gennarosa said.

The body was that of a woman, whose long dark hair splayed away from her browning skull, face erased. Her arms were locked around a little form, a baby. The baby was burrowed into the woman’s body-cavity, intestines spread around it like dried sausages.

It lifted its head. Its face was grey, eyes vacant and its cheeks were smeared with blood. It was a zombie baby.

 

We are the Living is now available for purchase through Amazon Kindle, and for Kobo, iBooks and other platforms through Smashwords.  You can download samples on those sites, or read samples I have posted here.

 

 

Exciting News! ‘We are the Living’ Now Released

Hello Friends,

Can a Canadian Mennonite write a post-zombie-apocalyptic-romance novel set in Italy with Catholic heroes?

If you’d like to find out, We are the Living is now available on Kindle!  As many of you know, this is my first novel and I’ve been working on it for some time.  I’m excited to share it with you!

Kayla’s plans are as finely tuned as her cello, so when Liam joins her friends on their tour of Europe, she resents him.  The ex-soldier with a fragile psyche seems like a liability.  But when political turmoil in France explodes into a zombie apocalypse, their lives may depend on this warrior’s skills.

Their flight takes them to a tiny Italian community where a mysterious priest is curing zombies. There, Kayla and Liam’s shared horror draws them together.  But they aren’t the only ones who want the cure.

As the threat of the living eclipses the danger of the undead, they must decide whether to run, or to fight for those they love.

To read samples, click here or go to Amazon to download the first chapter.  Thanks for your support!

 

 

“They’re Overrunning the Barricade”

A scene from We are the Living, which is to be published this summer.  In this scene, the main characters have caught a ride on a military truck out of Paris, which is now overrun with zombies.  They stop at one of the military barricades for night, intending to carry on the next morning.  The scene is from the point of view of Kayla, the lead female character. To my gentler readers: this scene contains strong violence.

We were stopped in the middle of a two-lane road, and warm, humid air. There were the shadows of a few large buildings nearby, maybe a chimney. It was the industrial outskirts of the city, the very last of Paris. The only light was the blinding spotlights set up at the roadblock. Trucks, like the one we’d come in, were clustered around. The white light silhouetted a few soldiers.
Liam and one of his new soldier friends walked us across the road, up to a troop-carrier with a canvas cover at the rear of the roadblock. Again we found ourselves rolling out spare clothes and trying to get ourselves comfortable on the hard metal truck bed.

“They can’t expect road-blocks to keep a mob of infected inside the city,” Morgan whispered as Liam settled down beside him.

Liam sighed. “There are patrols around the border. But you’re right. There’s no way they can contain the whole city. Go to sleep, Morgan. We’ve made good progress today.”
I lay my head down and cuddled up to Alex, my back to Morgan and Liam. I heard a click and looked back. Liam had popped the magazine out of the pistol.

“How many rounds?” Morgan asked.

“Full mag minus one.”

The lost feeling crept in again. My father owned guns, and I’d seen him shoot them, but they’d always scared me. I’d always refused to shoot. I bit my lip and pushed my face into Alex’s shoulder. I hoped to God I could keep that policy.

***

I heard a yell, and a chatter of gunfire. Liam was up before I’d lifted my head. Light shone, green through the canvas cover of the truck, then a square of brightness as Liam peeked out the back.

His hand closed around the pistol in his waistband. “Infected,” he hissed.

I never saw what was coming toward us, and for that I was grateful. Liam told me later what he’d seen—a wave of infected rushing toward us, unmindful of the gunfire and the bodies falling around them. The rattle of small arms was joined by the deeper clamor of a machine gun. The zombies came on, undeterred. As long as they could stay on their feet they still moved.

I, cringing in the corner of the truck bed, still heard a scream even though my hands were clamped over my ears. Then came the ringing report of Liam’s pistol and Morgan’s yell. A disfigured face gaped at me through the gap between the canvas and truck before Liam’s gun barked again. The head exploded backward and out of sight.

“They’re overrunning the barricade!” Liam cried. He lunged toward the canvas flap.

Morgan grabbed him by the jacket. “Don’t you dare go out there!”

Liam staggered back, and steadied himself. He stood taut, gun ready. Something scrabbled on the metal behind me. I whimpered, crawled toward the middle. The barrage of machine-gun fire faltered, stopped, started again. An assault rifle chattered, just on the other side of the canvas and metal and something splattered against the side. There was a low, animalistic moan. Again, scrabbling, like claws or nails on the side of the truck. The gunfire beside us stopped. The machine gun stopped. A garbled scream. The canvas at the back of the truck bowed toward us in the imprint of a head and clawing hands. Liam turned toward it and shot straight through the fabric, right between the pits where the eyes were. The green canvas turned brown as it slid down the side and out of sight. Another moan, then, silence.

In the quiet, a soft patter started on the canvas. Rain.

Still Liam stood. Morgan crouched beside him. Alex slowly rose to his feet. Liam held out his hand. “Don’t.”

We waited. The drizzle became a downpour. I watched with dull eyes as the dark smear on the canvas ebbed downward. It was still quiet.

Finally, Liam eased the edge of the canvass away and peeked out. “Oh, God.” He pulled his head back in and pressed one hand against his chest. He’d gone pale against his grey-blue jacket. He sucked a slow breath through his nostrils and shut his eyes. His body steeled, and he opened his eyes. “Morgan, come. Let’s make sure it’s clear.”

Morgan’s eyes were huge in his pale face but his jaw was just as tight as Liam’s and eyes every bit a stern behind his glasses, even though I could see his hand shaking as he rose to his feet. They jumped down. I heard Morgan say something, and Liam reply. Their footsteps departed.

“E-Everyone’s dead,” I said. “The infected got them all. They’re all dead.” I grabbed for Alex’s hand, as if it were an anchor, because my world was split in two, so far from my control.

“Kayla, we’re alright,” he breathed in my ear, but I could hear the strain in his voice. His fingers were clammy.

I took a shuddering breath. “For how long?”

Illegal Baby Names

And speaking of babies, there are actually baby names that are illegal! And thus, to make sure that you remain a law-abiding citizen, watch this video.

Why do I keep ranting about baby names? Well, I’ve named my baby at long last… My novel, that is.

It is called We The Living. It is an apocalyptic story (which may include the odd zombie horde) and is due to be published mid year.

Are there book names that are illegal? Well, I guess I don’t know. But if it involves ‘fifty’ or ‘shades’ or ‘grey’ or (heaven forbid) ‘twilight,’ I heartily recommend jail time.

5 Ways to Name a Baby (Or Not)

I can’t imagine how hard it must be to name a baby. I mean, that’s the name they’ll be called their whole life. Never mind that there’s nine months to think about it, I’d probably be one of those parents who waits four or five days before officially naming the kid.

And once you do name your child, there’s no guarantee everyone likes it. I remember a former boss who called her grandson ‘it’ for the first few days because she hated the name he had been given.

So how do you choose a name? I’ve never named a baby, but by my observation, these are the options.

1. Choose a solid, traditional name. Now, this depends on your nationality, I know. But for argument’s sake, let’s say you name your little boy Peter, James or John and your girl Martha, or Mary or (heaven forbid) Bertha. They aren’t stylish, but they’ll never be out of style either.

2. Choose a stylish name.
Back in the day when I was born and given the unconventional moniker of ‘Geralyn’, my peers were being named Jessica and Amanda, which is why I’ve known at least five of each. There will be a lot of sixty-year-old Amanda’s in forty years, a lot of sixtyish Tylers in fifty years, and a pile of grandmas named Emma in sixty years.

3. Name your child after a family member.
This is great and all, but how do you choose which relative? What if you don’t have enough kids to name them after all the important relatives. I dunno. Risky. And what if they have an awful name? I mean, I’m sorry, but I’m not naming my little boy Helmut. I’m just not (my apologies if your name is Helmut).

4. Make something up.
I swear this is what some parents do. One day, when I was working retail, a mom yelled at her little boy “Satan!”
I drew back in horror as she dragged the little boy to the till. Then I realized that his name was Saden. I bet that looked good on paper. Yikes.

5. Respell a conventional name to make it cool.
This is actually quite simple. Say you like the name Taylor, but you’re like “oh, that’s boring.” First, you drop the ‘y’, then you add at least one extra ‘e’. Taelor. Then add a silent ‘h’. Taehlor. Bingo. Isn’t that exotic?

Other options include, naming your child a foreign name and then mispronouncing it, naming them after an inanimate object, after a popular celebrity or book character (i.e. the little girls I’ve seen named Esme and Arwen), and plenty other others I’ve missed.

Why did I go through all that? Nope, I’m not pregnant. I’ve finally named my novel. It’s due to be published mid-year, and I’ve gone through three or four different titles. But now (hear ye, hear ye) It shall be called We The Living, since it is an apocalyptic story about carrying on after all is lost.

Don’t like it? Oh dear. Well, it is my baby.

Lingering Smoke (A Work-In-Progress Excerpt)

The following is an excerpt from my current work in progress, a disaster novel set in Europe.  This portion won’t actually make it into the novel, as it is set about two and a half years after the story ends.  By this point, the main characters are attempting to return to a normal life, and struggling to move on.

Sienna came back to haunt us one Sunday when we returned from church to the stench of burning beef roast. I rushed to the stove and yanked open the creaky oven door and pulled out the smoldering rump roast.

“Aww…” I flipped through the Rolodex of my mind for a word that would express my disappointment but was also appropriate for my two little kids, who were standing in their boots and winter parkas, watching me with big eyes. I settled for saying nothing. Tears welled up in my eyes. My roast! My one and only roast, which had cost me a good chunk of my weekly grocery budget.

I swiped at my eyes with one hand and tossed the oven mitts down with the other. Damn!

“Mommy.” Mo tugged at me. His mittens, dangling from their strings, waved some of the smoke toward the open door. “Mommy.”

“Shut the door, Mo,” I said.

“Mommy, Daddy is sick.”

I turned. Liam was gone. Sean’s bundled little figure was silhouetted in the doorway. I crossed to the door with three strides. Outside, Liam was kneeling in the snow, heaving up the last of his breakfast.

Oh God. I suddenly smelled, in what had just been smoking beef roast, what Liam must have smelled: burning flesh.

“Mo, go get Daddy a glass of water.” I jumped off the step into the snow. Sean waddled out behind me and stood on the edge of the step, whimpering. I touched Liam’s back. He stiffened.

I pulled him to his feet, away from the foul mess on the ground, and wrapped my arms around his waist the best I could with my pregnant belly. I ignored the odor of vomit on his breath and held him and listened to his breath hissing between his teeth as he fought to get himself together.

Mo tugged on my hand and held up a blue plastic cup, half full of water. “Daddy?”

I let Liam go, and Liam took the water. “Thanks Mo,” he said softly. He swished water in his mouth, spat it onto the snow, and repeated the process. Sean, still on the step, whined.

Liam touched my hand and gave the cup back to Mo. He picked Sean up and nuzzled his chubby cheek. Sean wiggled, oblivious to his daddy’s pain.

I sighed deeply and walked back into the house, where the open door and fresh air had not yet dissipated the smoke. Mo followed me, clutching the cup. He set it on the counter beside the roasting pan.

“Mommy?” he said in a small voice.

I turned back and looked down into his big brown eyes.

“Mommy.” His brow wrinkled. “What’s wrong with Daddy?”

I lowered myself down, awkwardly, and dropped to me knees so I’d be on eye level. How would I explain this? “Mo, we’ve told you about the bad things that happened before we lived in Emilio, right?”

Mo nodded solemnly.

“Well, sometimes things remind us of those bad things and sometimes when we remember, our bodies do funny things—like get sick.”

He seemed to understand. God knew that Mo, at four, already understood way too much about human suffering.

I hugged Mo. “Well, Mo, I think we’re going to have to eat somewhere else. Can you open the window by the table?”

“It’ll get cold.”

“But it will let out the smoke.” I opened the kitchen window. Mo fumbled with the crank and opened the window by the dining table. Then we put our boots back on and went back outside. Liam had kicked snow over his mess, and was carrying the giggling Sean around on his shoulders.

He smiled weakly at me. “McDonalds?”

I laughed.

Mo nodded eagerly. “Yeah! ‘Donalds!”