Release date: May 6, 2017
Subgenre: Post-apocalyptic YA
About Feral:
He's just a teenager, hollow and lost, looking to keep the past buried,
to forget. He surfs the backwash of the westward migration across a dead
America; a war-torn desolation devoid of electricity, infrastructure
and civilization. It has become a strange and unrecognizable land, rife
with the worst of humanity. And his is a life without hope, equally dark
and solitary.
Until he meets Feral.
Once was boy, selfish and directionless.
Now is love.
Now is reason.
Now is vengeance.
She is his vow, his purpose, and to save her, he'll murder the world.
Until he meets Feral.
Once was boy, selfish and directionless.
Now is love.
Now is reason.
Now is vengeance.
She is his vow, his purpose, and to save her, he'll murder the world.
Excerpt:
I hear the report of the rifle again just as the man hits the
ground.
My eye is drawn back to the kid. She’s a little girl.
Christ, she looks just like Lisa. She drops to her knees,
crying and freaking out, but she’s being quiet about it — she’s
learned that much. Based on the direction that the man and
woman fell, I think she’s on the far side of the playhouse from the
sniper, so she’s safe unless he…
I see the helmeted rifleman come into view as he walks past the
ruins of the garage. He’s Crayton alright. He’s got a
pistol in a holster hanging from his belt, a small knapsack slung
over both shoulders and a long sniper rifle.
He must be going for the supplies of the two deaders out on the
soccer field, but, thank God, from his angle he won’t be able to
see the kid.
“Just stay put,” I whisper to her like she can hear me.
The panic in her eyes is hard to watch — the betrayal.
She looks back to the house and then to the soccer field in
confusion. And then she gets back on her feet.
She looks like she’s about to run.
“Oh, baby, don’t…” Feral cries softly.
And then the soldier stops and removes his helmet, cocks his head
and listens.
He takes a step toward the playhouse and stops again.
He draws his pistol.
Shit.
He gently lowers his rifle to the ground and then takes the pistol
in both hands, holding it up like they do in the movies. He
changes his path, walking in a broad circle as he moves cautiously
toward the playhouse.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
I’m not sure if I can make the shot from here. I hope his
ears are still ringing from the shots that brought down the parents of the year and won’t hear me.
Feral grabs my arm as I begin to slide out from under the stair
stringer. Her eyes say, be careful.
I quickly, but as noiselessly as possible, crawl out of our hiding
place and then scurry on my hands and knees through the rubble to
what’s left of the laundry room wall that’s still standing next to
the garage. I hiss at the pain from the small rocks, glass
and splinters jabbing into my hands and knees.
I remember the woman on her hands and knees from this morning.
I’m almost there.
My mind clears and focuses — once more emotionless.
When I get to the wall, I stand up, peer around it and carefully
take aim.
He’s still moving slowly, about fifteen feet away. He hasn’t
heard me yet.
I lean back under cover of the laundry room wall and slide my feet
along the tiled floor.
And then the little girl starts crying, gasping with great
shuddering sobs.
Amazon
About P.J. Post:
P.J. Post writes dark, character-driven coming of age stories.
Palimpsest is an epic tale of apocalypse, survival and identity.
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