While
you are enjoying this fresh salad, please take a moment to enjoy a glimpse into
my new novel, Starter Zone, Book One
of the Revelation Chronicles.
Street gangs rule the cities in the three years since the fall of civilization. Sixteen-year-old Cami and her younger sister Alby struggle to survive. Every drop of untreated water puts their lives in peril. Caught and imprisoned by soldiers who plan to sell them into slavery, Cami will do anything to escape and rescue her sister. Even if it means leaving the real word for a life in the realms, a new game-like reality created by the hydrologists for the chosen few.
But life in the realms isn’t as simple as it seems. Magic, combat, gear scores, quests, and dungeons are all puzzles to be solved as the sisters navigate their new surroundings. And they encounter more dangerous enemies than any they faced in the real world.
Time to play the game.
Read an Excerpt:
I would like to offer you a glimpse into Starter Zone, the first book of my new
YA/LitRPG series, The Revelation Chronicles.
PROLOGUE
I
was born into a world where silicone still ruled. Where the products of the
earth outshone those of the sea. Integrated circuits ran all electronic
equipment and scientists strove to make the conducting lines smaller and
smaller. Silicon Valley tried, and failed, to make chips fast enough to upload
human consciousness.
The
Revelation came a few years later from the hydrologists. They designed a system
that did not use silicone, but instead worked with water molecules. The
hydrologists managed to imprint the consciousness of a human mind on a single
drop of water.
The
water was to be kept in self-contained, sealed aquariums—pure, undiluted,
eternal—where virtual realities were constructed to meet every need and desire.
All of human knowledge encoded and stored in literal pools of data and
integrated with the drops of human consciousness. It was, the hydrologists claimed,
utopia achieved.
The
obscenely rich were the hydrologist’s first clients, many taken near the end of
their lives. The procedure did not always work, but there were enough successes
to spur people’s interest. People suffering from terminal illnesses volunteered
to be inscribed, and the hydrologists worked and refined their process. Private
companies formed and competition forced price wars. Hundreds of customers grew
to thousands, and then to millions. There were landmark court cases arguing
whether or not health insurance should cover the cost of the
inscription—whether or not this was a medical procedure designed to save lives
or a form of physician assisted suicide. The law struggled to decide if life
ended when the body was drained to a dry, leathery husk, or if life continued
inside those glowing, sealed aquariums.
I
was thirteen when the governments seized control of the laboratories, first in
the Eastern European countries. Then the labs of Europe and the Middle East
were swallowed up. Terrorist attacks soon followed and destroyed most of the
civilized world over the next three years. The United States, Canada, and
Greece, those bastions of democracy, did not fall until the very end. Of
course, by then no one cared whether or not the government or the private
companies ran the uploading programs. Many of the aquariums ruptured in the
strife and the droplets, imbued with human consciousness, re-entered the water
cycle of the planet.
CHAPTER
ONE
As
the sun hovers near the horizon, ready to dip below and plunge the world into
darkness, the weather changes for the worse. Clouds gather. Peeking out my
window and over the outline of rooftops in the distance is what looks like
thunderheads moving toward me in the invisible polluted gusts of wind.
I
try not to think about the coming storm as I methodically pull on my boots and
zip up my jacket. It is supposed to be waterproof, but I would not risk going
out in anything above a light drizzle. Water has a way of seeping through even
the best defenses. There’s also a lining that’s overly warm for a summer
evening. I’m already sweating and the discomfort adds to my nerves.
I
check the hunting knife strapped to my left leg. It was one of the first
weapons purchased for me by my dad back when the sporting goods stores were
still open for business. He didn’t think I was ready to handle a handgun at
thirteen, but he taught me to shoot a rifle in the open fields by our house,
helping me hold the weapon steady until I grew strong enough to support the
weight. Now, three years later, I have a handgun, a Ruger semi-automatic, but
bullets are scarce and loud noises are problematic. My small ammo stash sits in
the bottom of my backpack next to the gun.
Instead
of the gun, I carry an extra-light crossbow as my go-to weapon. I can hand-make
the bolts so I don’t worry about running out of ammunition and the shot is
relatively silent. I carry the spare bolts in a quiver strapped to my right
leg. It’s awkward when running, but I can draw the bolts fast when needed.
My
little sister, Alby, has loaded her own backpack. I lift it to test the weight
and then pull a few things out. I place them in my own pack without comment. I
help her position the lighter pack over her shoulders, tightening the straps so
that it will stay balanced. She always tries to do more than she should, but I
don’t like the way her face has a perpetual pinched, strained look or the deep
shadows under her eyes. She looks far older than her seven years. This scares
me more than everything else and that fear threatens to register on my face. I
force myself to stay calm.
I
check her raincoat and boots, making sure everything fits snugly. I help Alby
pull up the hood of her coat, tucking in a strand of dark hair that has escaped
her ponytail. As frightened as she is, she manages to give me a smile. I smile
back, trying to present a brave front. As my dad used to say, “fake it till you
make it.” Over the last few years, I’ve
been faking confidence more and more often for Alby’s sake.
“Ready
to go?” I ask with all the false cheer I can muster in my voice. I take one
last glance over the motel room that had served as a temporary home for the
last few days, looking for anything that we might have left behind. The room is
swept clean. No trace whatsoever that we had ever been there.
Alby
nods. “Ready, Cami.”
“If
we get separated, remember to keep going north,” I say. “Follow the road till
you get to the park, then take the walking paths. No matter what happens, keep
going. Stop when you get to the Stone River. I’ll meet you at the bridge in the
center of the park where we used to feed the ducks, okay?”
She
nods again, looking up at me with those dark eyes so full of trust. I hug her,
because if we do get separated, there isn’t much hope we will ever see each
other again. I need to keep up the pretense of hope, though, because that’s all
we have to keep us going.
Stone
River Park is at the very limits of the city and the area surrounding it is
relatively unpopulated. I figure that once we are out of the city, our chances
of survival will dramatically increase. After reaching the park, we can follow
the Stone River north. There’s bound to be deserted houses in the country and
less chance that any of the gangs would be interested in the meager pickings
outside of the city. We might even be able to find a place to stay before
winter.
I
crack open the door of our motel room. It is still light enough to stain
everything with graying shades of color. The setting sun casts long shadows
between the buildings, so I depend more upon my ears to find signs of other
humans. I hear no motorcycle engines and no voices, only the wind, blowing and
moaning, and the far-off call of a bird. The coming storm appears to have
cleared the streets. They are deserted except for empty, crashed vehicles abandoned
in every lane.
Alby
and I had been lucky to reach the motel a few days ago. The single-story
building is on the outskirts of the main town and catered to big rig truck
drivers and other traffic from the interstate. I had found the skeleton key in
the motel office after climbing in through the bathroom window. Alby and I
spent the nights scouring every room for supplies.
No
one had broken into it before we got there. Too many other rich targets to go
around. But inside each room was a mini-fridge filled with snacks. Even though
the electricity had been turned off, the chocolates and small bags of
honey-coated nuts were edible. The tiny bottles of alcoholic beverages in each
fridge did not seem useful, but I kept a few. They might be helpful in starting
a fire someday when we made it outside the city. We even discovered coffee
filters and a small bottle of chlorine bleach—a major score for treating our
drinking water.
If
I hadn’t spent days secretly peering out the dark windows of the motel, I might
believe my sister and I were the last two people left on earth. But I know that
out there, behind the ruined buildings and boarded-up windows, there are at
least a few pairs of eyes whose owners would kill us without a second thought.
My eyes flick toward the two bodies hanging from the traffic lights in the
nearby intersection. They hadn’t been moved. Good.
The daytime usually belongs to
looter-gangs, each with spray-can marked territories in bright displays of
color that start on the buildings and drip down toward the pavement. The gangs
wear something marked as well, usually a jacket or bandanna that will stand out
from a distance. The snipers hole up in their nests and target anyone who
encroaches on their gang’s territory. They particularly looked for members of
other factions trying to increase their terrain.
Paint
tags don’t show up well after dark, though, so the gangs have started leaving
their victims as warnings to others not to encroach on their holding. These
bodies have been hanging undisturbed in the intersection for several days,
indicating a lack of activity in the area. I can only hope that the gangs have
moved inward, toward the center of the city and more supply-rich targets.
No
one is ever going to catch the murderers, or the ones who strung up the bodies
like macabre trophies, and put them in jail. They’ll just go on and do it again
and again. Like animals in the jungle—except that animals are not cruel.
We
were lucky to go unmolested by the local gangs. Heaven knows we don’t look like
we have much of anything, and we don’t look threatening, but that will only
last for so long. Someday someone will try to kill us, possibly for no other
reason than wanting to watch us die. The whole world, it seems, is at war, and
no one is on my side except Alby. We only have each other.
A
streak of lightning splits the sky almost directly overhead, making me wince.
It is followed by a heavy clap of thunder. As frightening as it is, the bad
weather is to our advantage. No one wants to be caught outside in the rain.
Everyone is more afraid of fresh, untreated water and what it can do than they
are of each other. But I believe we can make it out of the area and to shelter
before the rain poses any danger.
In
fact I’m betting our lives on it.
