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REVIEWS:

1)    Carefully orchestrated intrigues enliven the plot of this post-apocalyptic thriller set in the ruins of a near-future America. At the center of the book’s events are renegade malcontent Janus Kymbel and ex-military trooper Lene Callis, both of whom have been forced into a mandatory breeding program in Kishar, a colony under the authoritarian rule of the quasi-religious Protectorate Council. When Janus and Lene escape to the outside world with the help of friends Simon, Claire, and Frank, they discover that the plague-spawned “rot” that supposedly will kill them beyond Kishar’s safe borders is a lie, and that, contrary to received wisdom, there are colonies other than Kishar. As the quintet gradually uncover the truth about how their world came to be and about the powers that control it, deceptions and betrayals abound and key characters act as though they know more than they’re letting on about the course of events. Though the plot’s twists and gyrations are entertainingly unpredictable, the author tantalizes with the suggestion that all of the story’s events are foreordained and herald the appearance of a mystical stranger -- very likely one of the main characters -- who will have the power to heal and restore the world. The author shows firm command of this tale’s complex, potentially unwieldy elements, and skill at mixing contemplative narrative moments with cinematic action sequences.  

 2)    I was lost in the story after the cryptic opening.  This one is a real winner.  It's strong, detailed, tells back story gracefully without slamming it in on the reader.  The flow is excellent. 

3)    Polished, easy to read, hooks the reader.  The writer is going to spin a tale, and take their time, not rush too much information at the reader in the first chapter.  Makes me want to pull up a chair, put on the teapot and settle down.

CHAPTER 1 - Opening Scene

Even in the safest womb

Passion can find its way in

Aborting your chances for a subtle retirement

The howling of sled dogs and the thunder of black fuel-fed treaders reached the shallow cavern where Janus Kymbel lay curled up, unconscious in the dirt. 
The sound popped in his head like a firecracker.  His eyes flew opened. Seconds rolled into minutes as he stared blindly at the cavern’s mouth, and the changing sky beyond. His dull mind toiled in place like the stuck second hand on a dying clock. He didn’t move. He didn’t make a sound.  And he didn’t know he was sharing the cave, or himself, with a cold blooded predator. 
It wasn’t until a brown scorpion, its eight legs tiptoeing out of his shirtsleeve like a cagey prowler that he scrambled to his feet, only to stumble backwards and crash into the rear wall of the cavern. 

Hoarse gulps replaced slumbering breaths and a rapidly forming lump on the back of his head was already giving him a sick headache.  He staggered toward the cave’s mouth where he searched the floor for the scorpion.

“Not so fast, asshole,” he said, when he spotted it.

He let the toe of his boot hover above it. 

The prehistoric anthropoid squared itself around and raised its stinger as if to say, you really want to do this? 

“Yes. Yes I believe I do,” was his answer. 

He lowered his boot until he felt the pop before twisting the insect’s guts into the sand.

Across the valley the dust from the treaders spilled out of the deep shadows.  It was a churning, pulverous flashflood. And hidden in its asphyxiating core were the ruthless desert- guerrillas and their vicious canines who wanted him dead.

He retreated into the cavern where he stood for a long moment staring at the ceiling. He then he raised his hands to his face, pressed his palms hard against his temples and screamed, “faaaaauck.” 

He had wasted his only protection, the night, by sleeping through it.

“Forgive me, my friend,” he said, sweeping his hat from the floor.  He slapped it against his thigh to clear the dust, and then with the kind of gentle poise a father might exhibit approaching his sleeping infants crib, he reached for the horse that had gotten him this far. 

“I’m sorry.  Fuck, I so sorry.” He rested his forehead on the horse’s neck and then drew in a breath, reached for his saddle, and hoisted it over the animals back.  He had to cinch the strap to the last notch, but the saddle still slid more than was safe.

The bay gelding didn’t respond to his apology or to the weight on its back.  That glaring apathy, like the chaotic roar in the distance, served as another reminder of his failure. 

“Looks like we lost this one.  Big surprise, huh?  We’ll go down together, you and me, okay?” 

He was shaking now, but not from fear.  That emotion had left him long ago.  His body simply wasn’t willing to play anymore, and in light of what he was certain to face in the next few minutes, odds were he wouldn’t have to.  In one way or another, the skylines would kill them both.

A small map he held in his possession told him he was in the heart of the Devil’s Anvil.  It wasn’t the first time he had ended up there.  In fact, it was the third time in as many days, and he couldn’t understand how the map, his compass, and the stars had failed to get them past it.  Still, there was something comforting in this bleak place, something in the air.  It smelled like rain. 

That the Anvil was one of the grimmest places imaginable hadn’t stopped the Mechanics from pursuing him.  Another fact he couldn’t comprehend.  A wedge of cheese, some clothes, and an old discarded weapon were all he got from their outpost; hardly a reason for killing a man. Nevertheless, that’s all there was between them.

He edged his way out of the shadows to consider his options in the nowhere-to-hide landscape. Then everything seemed to wink-out when he saw a flash and heard the crack of a high-powered rifle.  The pack had spotted him.  The bullet splintered rock above the entrance just east of where he stood.

He didn’t flinch.  He knew they weren’t interested in a clean kill, and he contemplated whether he should wait for them where he stood, or make them work.  He chose work.

Once in the saddle, he drew the weathered rifle from a makeshift sling he wore over his shoulder.  The gun was foreign to him.  He had never even fired it.  All he knew is what the Mechanic’s woman told him.  Point and pull the trigger.  He took his time loading it, all the while singing a nameless tune to the gelding.  A second shot didn’t interrupt his chorus, but when he did slam the breechblock shut, he kicked the horse into a gallop.

The Thirtieth Incarnation - Prelude

 Prelude:

 Above a pristine stretch of shoreline, a radiant full moon sat in a steel blue sky like a colossal gold coin, its brilliance casting a silver highway across the water.

On the beach, a lone fisherman tossed his line over lazy waves and let it drift out.  He was unaware of two lovers in the dunes behind him until, he heard a strange sound and twisted round.

Twenty yards away, a young couple stood staring skyward.  Hovering directly overhead was a rolling mass of inkiness and light. It snapped and crackled like hot grease, and long spindly fingers of blinding white light flew out, coiled around, retracted, and then burst out again, touching and moving through the couple.

The fisherman could not look away. And while he stared, the world fell silent and a suffocating void filled his senses. He could no longer hear the waves or the hissing sand as the water retreated. It was as though time stopped.  Nature appeared frozen in place, and he watched as the mass slowly descended around the pair, shrouding them from view.

Within seconds their bodies absorbed the cloud and they collapsed onto the sand.

The fisherman’s line tightened around his hand, cutting into his palm, when something large took the bait.  He felt nothing.  Nor did he see the blood dripping into the sea foam at his feet.  He stood statuelike staring blindly at the prostrate couple.

And though his brain screamed run, his legs were useless. His voice evaporated before it left his lips, and inside, he was beginning to panic wondering if he was breathing.  He could feel the weight of the sky bearing down on him.

And then as quickly as it began, it ended. The pressure lifted.  Everything snapped back into action.  He could hear the waves and feel the wind in his hair and the pain from the taught line that was now imbedded deep into his flesh.  He spun his wrist furiously trying to unbind it. His blood flowed faster and harder. His feet were buried ankle-deep in pink sand.

A loud cry from the dunes directed his focus back on the couple.

The young man bolted upright and then he grabbed the woman, hugging her close.

The fisherman cut the line, abandoned his gear, and ran toward his village in terror.

He never told a soul.  Nor did he ever see the couple or return to that stretch of beach again.

Three years later on his way to market, he was approached by a man wearing a heavy cloak.

“I have a favor to ask of you, friend,” the man said.

“We are not friends,” the fisherman replied, wary of the stranger. He pulled his bag of fish closer and veered around the foreigner.

“I am here on behalf of the couple on the beach,” the stranger said.

The fisherman dropped the sack, spilling his hard-earned catch onto the road, and turned around.

“What I’m about to tell you will frighten you more than death,” said the stranger, “but it is the truth and all mankind needs your help.”

“No,” shouted the fisherman. “I don’t want to know about those people. I never want to discuss that night. Leave me in peace.”  He gathered the fish, refilled the sack, and hustled down the road.  Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. The touch lulled him into a state of complete calm.  The man in the cloak took the sack of fish and walked the fisherman off the road into the hills where he told him of the Allasso.

“They are our only salvation, and it was no mistake your being on the beach that night,” the stranger began.

     That was five-thousand years and twenty-nine lifetimes ago. The world is a different place, but the fisherman, his decedents, and the faithful are still shielding the Allasso from their enemies.