Tuesday, April 12, 2016

This Would Be Paradise, Book 2 by N.D. Iverson

Release date: April 3, 2016
Subgenre: Post-apocalyptic science fiction

About This Would Be Paradise, Book 2:


Community connotes safety and togetherness--or does it?

Bailey and Chloe head back on the road, where they come across strange markings belonging to a group intent on bloodshed and abduction. With this heinous enemy lurking in the shadows, they seek help in new and old friends along the way.

When they arrive at Hargrove, nothing is what it seems inside the makeshift, post-apocalyptic community. People are turning up dead, and for once, zombies aren't the ones to blame. Fingers are pointed, everyone is a suspect, and no one is safe outside or inside these walls.
Page count: ~282 pages   



I ducked to the side, hoping they hadn’t seen me. My heart raced like it wanted out of my chest. I peeked back out when the flashlight beam no longer shone in the window. The two men had weapons on their belts, which I’d failed to notice at first glance. They broke apart and the strangers headed for the front door.
I swallowed. This was bad news. But what the hell do I do?
I quietly shut the bedroom door where Chloe was sleeping and decided to find Roy, fear flooding my system. I reached the apartment door as a gunshot blasted downstairs and someone screamed. I threw the front door open and found others sticking their heads out in the hallway.
“Get back in your rooms and lock the door!” I commanded.
One by one, the doors closed and the heads disappeared. Heavy footfalls came up the stairs and one of the strangers hit the landing fast. His stare whipped down the hallway, his eyes locking with mine. Panicking, I slammed the door shut and flipped the deadbolt. I backed up a few feet when the door handle twisted. The door vibrated with a loud bang as he rammed against it.
“What is that?” Chloe asked, her eyes wide.
“Get back in your room and hide!” I pointed and she scurried back inside her bedroom.
I retreated farther as the banging intensified. With one last hit, the door flew open, landing flat on the scuffed floor. The hinges and locks had been forced out of the wall, the aged wood unable to withstand the barrage. The intruder fell with the door but was already getting up. He looked up at me, no expression on his face, just determination. Without a word, he started towards me. I turned and ran to the sofa bed, the intruder on my heels.
I needed something to use as a weapon and my gun was stashed away in my backpack. Fucking think of something!
I spotted the knitting paraphernalia in the bag on the floor and dashed over the sofa bed. I grabbed one of the metallic needles sticking out, then rolled to the other side of the bed, but realized I’d trapped myself. The man stood on the other side of the pullout couch, mirroring my movements as I moved from side to side like a cornered animal. He knew that I knew I had nowhere to go. He placed a boot on the bed and climbed up. I tried to run around the end of the bed, but he lunged for me.
We hit the wall and fell to the floor, him half landing on top of me. My whole side exploded in pain from the impact, and I yelled out. He grunted as if in pain, which confused me, since I was the one who’d taken the brunt of the tackle. I struggled with everything I had but eventually registered that he was slowly slipping off me. He lifted his head, his face pale, and then he looked down. I followed his gaze. The knitting needle was sticking out of his chest.
Hot blood poured from the wound and trickled down my arm. He wheezed, and with a final shove, I got him off me. He rolled onto his back, the needle protruding from his chest. I shuffled back from him just in case. His hands were shaking pointlessly beside the knitting needle; he must have been in shock. His breathing was labored and he spewed blood with each exhale. I probably hit a lung.
He’d run headlong into the sharp end of the weapon, taking himself out. That could have been me had I been holding the needle the other way.
I could be the one dying right now. My veins froze with liquid nitrogen at the thought.
My attention flew to the busted door when it groaned from added weight. The other stranger was standing on it. He took in the scene with a passive face, his eyes landing on his fallen comrade and my retreating form. Now what do I do?
“Bailey, are you okay?” The bedroom door inched open and my heart leaped into my throat.
The man watched Chloe appear in the bedroom doorway, and I screamed as loud as I could, getting to my feet, “RUN!”
The man sprinted toward the bedroom as the door slammed shut. In my fear-addled state, I managed to rip the needle from the chest of the man on the floor. He groaned and blood gushed from the wound, the needle no longer clogging the hole. I ran for the other man; my only concern was to stop him from getting to Chloe.
I tackled him with all the force I could create, swiping at his face with the bloody needle. He was far stronger than I was and shoved me back, flinging me to the small kitchen floor. I slid back until my head connected with a hard corner. Dots of light and blackness coated my vision.
He stepped toward me, then must have thought differently, because he went back to the bedroom door. I tried to call out but my voice wasn’t working. My consciousness wavered, darkness cascading over my eyes. The last thing I heard was a scream before I drowned in blackness.

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About N.D. Iverson:


N. D. Iverson is a young author trying to find her niche in the world. She has a business degree - to which she is still trying to find a practical application for. She has bounced from half-baked ideas of becoming a forensic pathologist (cut short when the option for attending an autopsy came up and she rather quickly decided maybe that wasn't for her), a member of a rock band (sadly, neither she nor her friends could play instruments or sing, not that it's a requirement these days...), and many more.

This Would Be Paradise is her first completed novel, which has started a chain reaction of one-too-many book ideas dancing around in her head. She plans on wrangling in these ideas and turning them into something readable. 

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