By Lloyd Tackitt
December 2012, an enormous sunlight typhoon knocks out the ability grid. 300 million americans are abruptly confronted with a survival scenario. they've got no water, electrical energy or gasoline. foodstuff speedily disappears from the shop cabinets, to not get replaced. in simple terms 3 percentage will continue to exist. these 3 percentage could have a lot in universal. What does it take to be certainly one of them?
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Extra resources for A Distant Eden (A Distant Eden, Book 1)
No surprise there. The big question is whether they'll ship it at all before Nova, Kuroto, and Megadyne take their lunch money. Anyway. 0 has been announced, which means I can expect to see new and faster kinds of script kiddy attacks when that ice ships. No skin off my nose. If I can't nail a script kiddy to the wall by now, I might as well retire. Speaking of which, it's 6:45. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, I'm going to be late. Finish bolting down my breakfast bar and orange juice, roll into the shower and haul myself into the seat.
Some landmark missing. Find the one jack and fumble at the cable. White coat reacts. 舠She's conscious! Sedate her, quick, before she goes tachycardic again! 舡 My arms are strapped to the gurney. Bobby's face. I notice him as the needle bites my thigh with a cold burn grown suddenly hot, tendrils of heat radiating from it upward toward my brain. 舡 My brain forms the word, I feel my lips move around the hard plastic tube in my throat, but I can't make a sound. Anger rising within me. I strain at the straps holding my wrists, but I can feel the sedative making my thoughts soft, the urgency draining out, like blood washing down the drain.
Beware of the dog. m. Friday. The alarm goes off for the third time. Three minutes later it goes off again, and this time I'm too awake to hit snooze. I'm already running late. The black sky outside my window is fading to grey; fuzzy with snow, and with the approach of dawn. I watch the window a long moment, watch the snow fall on the city of Denver, my eyes seduced by the motion, jagged pieces of dream slowly melting away as my sleep-fogged brain struggles to come up to speed. The apartment is plain; the walls are neatly painted off-white cinderblock, and linoleum or whatever the fuck marketroids call it these days, on the floor.