Release Day Blitz Remedy by Anna Abner

My 4 All-Time Fave Zombies

The stories of risen dead originated in the voodoo religion, but they definitely got more fun when Hollywood took over. From the first zombie monster in 1932’s White Zombie to the decomposing walkers on The Walking Dead, zombies have always been my favorite movie monsters.

#4: Kyle from American Horror Story: Coven (2013-2014)

Kyle and Zoe had an instant attraction, but when he was killed the same night they met, what was a witch to do except piece him back together and raise him from the dead? He had a bumpy readjustment period, but with time Kyle learned to be (mostly) human again.

#3: Sophia from The Walking Dead (Current)

Technically, all my favorite characters on the show are zombies since they have the zombie virus inside them. But of all the turned walkers poor Sophia broke my heart the worst. I really wanted her to be okay and when she re-appeared I cried for her, Carol, and all of them.

#2: Freddie from Return of the Living Dead (1985)

This movie gave me nightmares, and it will always be my favorite horror film. The wiggling dog corpse. The tar monster in the basement. The cemetery literally coming to life. Not only is this movie crazy scary, but I was emotionally invested in Freddie being the good guy who would get a happy ending. Nope. Zombie.

#1: R from Warm Bodies (2013)

If all zombies were as adorable as Nicholas Hoult’s R, horror movies would be very different. First, the book was an amazing story I could not put down, but then the film was even better.

These characters, and countless others, inspired me to write my own zombie YA adventure, Remedy.

Remedy

A Red Plague Novella

Red Plague Series 4

Anna Abner

Genre: YA Dystopian

Publisher: Mild Red Books

Date of Publication:  July 26, 2016

ASIN: B01FOKFCTO

Number of pages: 175

Word Count: 45,000

Book Description:

The red plague has devastated the human race, turning billions of people into zombies with red eyes and an insatiable hunger for human flesh.

Seventeen-year-old Callie Crawford is used to fighting. She was an all-star wrestler in high school, and since 212R destroyed her world, she hasn’t stopped fighting. When her high school boyfriend Levi caught the virus, Callie saved him by keeping him chained in a rural North Carolina barn, waiting for something to change.

Before 212R, Roman Duran was a computer nerd, but since the virus, he’s become a guard in the survivor enclave in Washington, DC. After volunteering for a rescue mission, Roman has been belittled, robbed, and left for dead. He hasn’t saved a single person.

Until he stumbles across Callie. Because she has a zombie on a short leash, and Roman is carrying a syringe full of zombie cure.

Callie and Roman will face soulless survivors and rabid zombies on their journey to save a single infected. Along the way, Callie will have to choose between her past and a whole new future.

Amazon

Excerpt:

Roman Duran ran a step behind Jared and saw the moment the other man faltered on his wounded leg, careening into a chain link fence. Without missing a step, he ducked under Jared’s arm and forced him forward. The pack of infecteds was only two or, at the most, three blocks behind.

“Here,” Pollard Datsik, the third member of their trio, hissed, slipping around a block wall and sprinting up a set of exterior stairs to an apartment above a liquor store. Roman dragged Jared behind him.

While Roman helped Jared to a sagging sofa, Pollard shut the door with a quiet click and peered through the window, his breath a puff in the silence.

“Are they following?” Roman whispered. “Are they swarming the stairs?”

Pollard stretched his neck to see further, and then soft-stepped to the next window and stared at the street below.

“I’m fine,” Jared murmured unnecessarily. “I tripped. It won’t happen again.” He shoved Roman away. “I just need a couple minutes.”

Roman didn’t buy it. The injury in question was a jagged slash above Jared’s knee he’d earned climbing a fence the night before. Though they’d stopped running long enough to wrap it, Jared wasn’t as energetic as he’d been before the wound.

Separating from Jared, Roman peered through a broken windowpane, blinking away the exhaustion that had dogged him for the past couple of days. Without enjoyment, he chewed one of their last handfuls of goldfish crackers, the food dry and pasty in his mouth. Water was about to become a serious issue.

“I’m so thirsty,” he complained in a whisper. “And dirty.” What he wouldn’t do for a clean, clear stream of fresh water.

Roman glanced at his companions, noting their equally stained and stinking uniforms. Maybe volunteering to leave Washington, DC had been a crappy decision all around. Maybe the veep should have sent older, more experienced survivors on her search and rescue mission. Maybe his eighteen years on the earth weren’t enough for this kind of mission.

A pack of infecteds had caught their scent in Raleigh and hadn’t let go. Forty-eight hours without sleep or rest. Two days of running, of hiding, of trying to lose the predators. And now, they were out of food and water.

“What if we climb on the roof?” Roman whispered. “We could wait them out.”

Pollard took the bag of crackers from him and crammed a handful into his mouth.

“We’re out of water,” Jared reminded them. “What if they trap us for days? No.” He shook his head at the room’s closed door. “We could end up a lot worse than we are now. I say we keep running.”

“Forever?” Pollard scoffed. “There has to be a point where we say we can’t continue like this. A point where we circle around the pack and head home.”

Roman wouldn’t call Washington, DC home. But then he’d never called anywhere home. An orphan kicked into the system after his mother abandoned him, none of the dozen foster and group homes he’d lived in had ever been his home. And DC was no different. It was a way station to somewhere else, no matter whether he had an apartment or a job or a purpose. It still wasn’t home.

Roman had yet to find his real home.

Swallowing dry crackers, Roman double-checked the number of rounds for his M-16. When they’d left the safety of DC’s walls, they each carried forty rounds for their personal firearms. It had sounded like a lot at the time, but he was down to nineteen rounds. The other two men had less.

For an entire day, Jared had fired warning shots at their pursuers—a mistake, Roman realized now—but the only result had been bringing even more infecteds into the pack, as nearby stragglers were attracted by the noise.

His ears perking up, Roman rushed to the far window and scanned for movement. Was he crazy, or did he hear a car engine?

Roman had left DC wanting to help people, both infecteds and survivors. After running into people, one worse than the last, his companions were nearly to the point of abandoning the mission. But Roman hadn’t given up. Even though they hadn’t helped a single person.

Between two rooftops, he caught a glimpse of a fast-moving white Range Rover driving in a westerly direction. A part of him wanted to catch up to the driver, but another part of him, a starving and sleep deprived part, wanted the vehicle to pass them by and disappear.

The sound of the Range Rover’s engine quieted as it drove out of sight.

“Let’s try the distraction method again,” Roman suggested. The last time they’d thrown empty cans near the zombies, they’d been curious enough for Roman and the other two men to escape. “It worked before.”

Their rescue mission to Myrtle Beach could still be salvaged once they shook this pack. Unhindered by the starving horde of infecteds, the three men could scavenge for food and water, sleep safely in shifts, and cover ground at an easy pace. This running for their lives, though, couldn’t go on forever. Without water and more substantial food than goldfish crackers, he wasn’t going to survive much longer.

“I’ll open fire,” Pollard said, as if Roman hadn’t spoken, “and you two run for the cell tower at the end of the street. I’ll meet you there.”

“Good plan,” Jared said, “except you’re a horrible shot. I’ll do the shooting, thanks.” He stood, trying to hide a wince of pain and failing.

Pollard clenched his jaw at the insult. “Fine.” He grabbed Roman by the sleeve and dragged him toward the door.

“You sure about this?” Roman asked, still thinking his idea would work better than wasting more bullets and hoping to find each other under a tower.

“Just run fast,” Pollard said.

About the Author:

Anna Abner lived in a haunted house for three years and grew up talking to imaginary friends. In her professional life, she has been a Realtor, a childcare provider, and a teacher. Now, she writes edge-of-your-seat paranormal romances and blogs from her home in sunny Southern California about ghosts and magic. You can connect with her online at AnnaAbner.com.

www.AnnaAbner.com

www.twitter.com/AnnaAbner

https://www.facebook.com/annaabnerauthor/

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Dead of Night by Carlyle Labuschagne

Humbled by Writing

I had written from the age of twelve, secretively to myself in the form of poems, song writing, keeping a diary. I had always been that girl who wanted to be liked, who needed approval from the world. I had changed myself to become popular, altered my whole being to conform to the ideals of others.

I might have been a little too good at it and in turn it cost me my YA years. 

Being popular consumed me. I tried my hand with great success at many things, from figure-skating, gymnastics, ballet, art, drama; TV presenting…the list goes on. But all those things never really touched me, moved me. The passion was lacking. So, many years later–many wrong turns later–the bad girl had to change.

The only thing ever keeping me solid and grounded was my writing…being by myself, to not have my thoughts corrupted by others. (Of course I allowed it to happen). But it wasn’t until 2009 that I felt compelled to shut the world out and indulge in my imagination without caring what anyone thought of me. I had always been ruled by that element. Self-consciousness. I felt that unexplainable sense of belonging almost instantly when I embarked on my first Novel The Broken Destiny. And in many Ava’s story reflects my own. To embrace a destiny of greatness you have to find the greatness in yourself!

At first it was all about getting all the emotion out there, and through writing my first novel, I came to terms with who I was. I finally started dealing with all my baggage I had always run away from. Writing saved me from becoming what I hated in myself.

I knew from the moment I thought about writing The Broken Destiny that I’d be published, I’d make it happen. It was not to prove anything to all those who did me wrong (okay, maybe a little). It was to be okay with me, self-approval above all approval of the untrue world out there – to set away all those false needs of belonging. It was like someone chimed a magic wand over me and I became me again.

The journey has been amazing–life changing. I have really been accepted with great encouragement by the most amazing people. And it is because of all of those who did me wrong , all those wrong turns, mistakes and bad decisions that I am able to inspire and help others feel better about themselves. My insecurities melted away the more I wrote. It is amazing to find something that is utterly and truly satisfying. For me, my novels are my soul, my journey though the dark to find the light. So yes, I am very nervous about people reading my work, as that is my soul-baring experience set in a tale of difficult and trying times created by one ’s self.

I hope to inspire, change and motivate you to follow your dreams and stray true to yourself. The only person that can hurt you is you. By being truly you, you can achieve anything you so dearly desire. I had never worked for anything in my life, one of those spoiled kids who grew up with a silver spoon in her mouth (that is how you say it in English, isn’t it?). I have overcome my language barrier with such ease; I have surprised myself and have grown because of it. I have never worked so hard and so passionately for something ever before. Having great friends along the way has helped me hang on through difficult, frustrating times. My deepest gratitude to all who have touched my life during this time (you know who you are – yes, you reading this!)

My friends still find it strange that I don’t wear high heels everywhere I go. I find myself not relying on makeup and things. Writing is my feel-good med. I am humbled by the magic it has brought to my life. I am at peace. My first novel is all about overcoming those insecurities, believing and loving one’s self. I not only changed myself through writing – I hope to change all those who read my work.

~ Don’t let fear cripple your dreams. Let love and passion give you wings ~

Happy writing all,

 Carlyle Labuschagne”

Dead of Night

The Aftershock Series

Book One

Carlyle Labuschagne

Genre: YA Dystopian

Publisher: Fire Quill Publishing

Date of Publication: September 21, 2015

ISBN: 978-0-9946536-9-7

Number of pages: 236

Word Count: 72 000

Cover Artist: Sandra Valente

Book Description:

In a dark and desolated After Earth, love still does exist, but the cost of bearing such a flaw is death.World War III has left Earth in utter turmoil. People’s beliefs are said to be the cause of the worldwide destruction. After The Clearing new laws are set about – to show certitude in anything besides the law is weak and chargeable as mutiny. To be illogical and have faith in religion is illegal, to be limitless is dangerous. And Illness is seen as a defect – all flaws that are inexcusable.

But to love is the greatest betrayal of all man kind. It is a fault the world has long forgotten and punishable by death, a fatal risk Aecker and Opel are fully prepared to take – because in love there is freedom. But how far can they push back before it claims their lives and of those they care about?

Excerpt:

CHAPTER ONE

HEART ON FIRE

HIS VOICE ECHOES THROUGHOUT THE VAST room. It’s a voice I feel I could know, one that is as familiar to me as his handsome face. When he moves, the bunk’s springs squeak like a little rodent that is desperate to scurry away. I don’t mean to stare—but those soft gorgeous lips and strong jaw, the warm smile that brings sparkle to his honey-colored eyes, carries forth a loud voice in my head, telling me this boy can be trusted.

Lingering beneath his gentle stare I can see something else, the embers of concern. They drown out the spark in his stare as he waits for my answer.

Why would he show me this consideration? I don’t know who this beautiful stranger is.

 I look around, realizing that I don’t even know who I am. Or, if the blue cotton uniform I am wearing is even mine. I glance back down at the green tin cup I hold in my hands, and the sweet and salty aroma of corn soup fills my nostrils.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” His voice is calm, but the quickening thump of his pulse and the tight set in his jaw relays something else entirely.

He inches closer, beads of sweat darkening his dusty blond hair, giving away the secret he is trying so hard to hide. He is upset. Nervous. Maybe both.

Is he withholding something?

Unknowingly, my head tilts to the side, trying to figure out what happened to me, and who this perfect stranger might be. And why I think I might know him. The stabbing sensation in my head throbs with each breath I take, making it hard for me to think clearly. I feel wrapped up in a thick fog, and just beyond it lives some useable memory.

From across the room, I stare at dirty clothes disregarded near the burn shoot. They reek of vomit and old blood. Staring at the clothes, I can immediately tell they belong to a female. The material is new, stretchy, and cut for a slim, short figure. Quickly glancing down at my body, I assume they could be mine―those clothes most definitely hold clues as to who I really am.

My familiar stranger sits across from me on the bunk bed, his body turned slightly toward mine. My hand creeps up to my head wound, making me wince at the feel of the raw, painful flesh. At my obvious discomfort, he immediately moves closer, his breath warm and sweet as he leans in. His gentle fingers lift the hair from my forehead as he inspects the injury. “We need to get you to a doctor.” His voice comes out shaky, uncertainty tainting his beautiful tone.

“No.” I jerk away. The dregs of my warm soup spill over the rim of the cup, splashing onto my raw fingers and wrists.

He watches me carefully as I stare forcefully into his eyes. His hand suddenly moves away and then I feel it―pain. I pull back farther, even though I crave his touch.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, moving one seat over, his back resting on the gray, concrete wall beside the bunk.

“It hurts,” I say, confused as to what hurts more, the wound or the fact that I have no idea what is going on. “How long have I been out?” I ask him.

He shrugs. “Not more than two days.”

I sigh at his answer, one that comes from somewhere deep and mournful inside me. As the feeling of loss wraps around me, it’s like a vice, squeezing tighter and tighter until I can’t breathe anymore. I close my eyes, attempting to block out whatever memory is making me feel so utterly terrified.

“It’s okay. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

I shake my head. “It’s not that.”

But, I must ask myself, who is ‘he’? Who is this brutal attacker I do not even remember?

Standing slowly, I place the soup cup on the wooden bench situated beside the metal-framed bed. As he looks up at me, I feel the sudden need to run far and fast and never look back.

 “Thank you for your hospitality, but I-I must go.” I stumble over my words.

Moving too quickly, my head meets with the source of light above me. The light ebbs out for a second, and I pull in a sharp breath as pain shoots through me once again. Suddenly, I am terrified of the dark and feel myself reaching out for him. His forearm is soft, warm, strong, and alluring all at the same time. The fear that makes my pulse race alters slightly. I suddenly fear being trapped by an emotion I do not understand. Ruled by a feeling that is strong and fatal. I lose control of my thoughts.

He chuckles. “Where are you going to go in this storm?”

The light flickers back on. I look up as it continues to sway back and forth above us, searching the room for something, anything, yet I’m not sure what it might be. A feeling of anxiety washes over me. It’s so intense it spreads and enters my chest, as if a bald eagle has flown down to take my heart on gilded wings. The feeling to run tugs at me again. But when I look down, I notice I’m still gripping his arm. Instinct tells me that what I’m doing is wrong, that I should never be so close to a human.

“Sorry,” I apologize. When I release his forearm the golden color immediately returns to his flesh.

“It’s okay.” He smiles, invitingly. “Quite a grip you have there.” He keeps the grin, shaking out his hand as if I have stopped the blood from flowing through his veins.

I look away. “I can’t stay,” I announce, staring at the glimmer of light bouncing off the silver armlet wrapped tightly around my wrist―that shine, that glow, the entire piece is trying to remind me of something.

As he moves, the light brings out the blond streaks in his hair, and his shirt pulls tight around muscular pecks as he crosses his arms over his chest. He grins mockingly, and ever so slightly his feet shift toward me.

Nevertheless, I am aware of every single move he makes, like the way his eyelashes touch the top of his cheeks when he blinks, and how the corners of his eyes crease with the revelation of his gorgeous smile. His impeccable chest moves slowly as he breathes. His eyes hover on my face, making me shift uncomfortably. I don’t like the way he looks at me, it’s wrong. But I don’t know why I feel this way. All I know is that I don’t want to feel weak.

 “What?” I ask sheepishly, suddenly feeling as if my dark, blue pantsuit has become transparent. Heat rushes to my face―an unexpected and unpleasant moment.

“You’ve been stalking me for weeks, and that’s all you have to say? You’re not even going to ask me my name? Or thank me for saving your life?”

It’s like an anchor falls, dropping me back to the depths of the uneven mattress. The squeak fades away as shock kicks me in the gut and allows me only one long, shuddering breath.

“I-I,” I falter. I have no recollection of my assault, or anything else that came before.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” he whispers, his charming voice now peppered with unease. “It’s me, you can tell me anything. You know that, right?” Sitting down, he keeps his distance, as if making sure that I do not feel I am prey to his predator.

“I’m not sure…I know anything.” My brows furrow, as my fingers tremble over the soft skin of my lips. The frigid cold forms goose bumps on my skin as I stare into the thick, dark, naked concrete walls of the bunker. I am just that. I am colorless and empty. I have no present. And the past has vanished. I am back in that tunnel in the dead of night, with no sense of anything other than the blackness and the loneliness reaching out for me, attempting to make my soul crumble into dust.

“I don’t remember,” I finally admit, the words bitter and brief on my tongue.

 I wait for a while in the silence of the moment, hoping my inner animosity will dissolve, and that the fear will leave me alone so I can figure things out. What thought might trigger a memory?

Gingerly, he grabs my hand and turns it, flattening my palm against his hard chest. “Aecker. My name is Aecker. You don’t remember me at all?”

I shake my head.

His eyes are gentle, digging up unsettled feelings within me. But he is not really sad or bothered by my sudden memory loss. In fact, he seems almost relieved.

I stare at his long fingers as they wrap around my tiny wrist. The contrast between his tanned skin and my pale hand is strikingly beautiful. But the shiny, silver bracelet that takes up most of my forearm is what bothers me. I wish I knew what it meant. I feel my pulse ticking beneath his fingers, sense the beating of his heart through my palm. It’s slow and steady at first, but as time passes and as the silence mounts, the heat of our touch grows into a black hole, sucking me in to his endless gravity. I feel attached to him, as if my hand is melting right into his chest. I want to grab hold of his human heart and become one with it. I wish to wrap my hand around it and try to translate the language that’s making it move. We are suddenly tethered to each other in ways I cannot begin to fathom.

With my gaze shamefully glued to his chest, his heart rate increases. Strangely, this effect rubs off on me and I can feel the beat of my own heart increase to match his, causing a perfect symmetry between us. In slow motion, I watch his Adam’s apple move up and then down as he swallows nervously. My eyes affix to his luminous, ochre gems as they grow wider―the darkness of his pupils swallowing up the magic of his irises.

Abruptly, it all disappears, and I am aware of another presence in the room. Jerking my hand away, the feeling I now own is awkwardness, almost as if I have somehow been caught trespassing.

“Aecker, what are you doing?” a deep voice calls out.

“I can explain.” Aecker stands, the bed springs moaning at the release of his weight.

I stare up at yet another beautiful man, with similar eyes and square jaw. He places a device on the center table, and then his gaze falls on me. This tall man’s eyes widen.

“What happened?” He moves closer, lifting my hair from my face, his other hand―fingers unbelievably icy―grips my chin, raising my face to the light.

“I couldn’t leave her…” Aecker begins.

“Who did this to you?” the man asks, sitting me down beside him, allowing the creaks and groans of the mattress to once again spring to life.

“She has no idea,” Aecker replies. It’s almost like his words filter right through me, and I feel like I am falling into a downward spiral, face first, swirling into the void where the forgotten stray.

It’s all sitting wrong with me; my sudden memory loss, and the fact that this boy known as Aecker called me a stalker. But the most disturbing, are the feelings I just experienced between him and me. It felt sinful, but I couldn’t stop myself. So perhaps it was just as well the stranger interrupted when he did, or who knows what would have happened.

The tall man stands, clears his throat and asks me my name. From the corner of my eye, I see Aecker shaking his head.

“Do you have a name? Or shall I just call you ‘girl’?”

“No, sir.” I shake my head, too.

“Sir?” His head jerks in Aecker’s direction then back to me, as a look of confusion appears in his eyes. He takes a few steps back, like I’m infected with some horrific disease that he will do anything to protect himself from. “Do you remember anything at all?”

I continue to shake my head as if I were made of nothing but wires and conduits―something completely mechanical that is unable to think or feel, just follow orders.

 “She must be a City Dweller.” His words are said with distaste, sounding like he wants nothing more than to spit on the floor at the mere thought of something as hideous as me infiltrating his life.

When he notices the bracelet around my wrist, his shoulders slump dramatically. Closing his eyes and pressing his long, dark lashes against tanned skin, he looks as if he is trying desperately to hold back something, yet impatience appears in his voice.

 “She’s a Tracker. She must leave right now,” he states with finality, making me feel like I have successfully drowned in that black void where my forgotten memories live, where I will be washed away and swallowed up, never to be seen again.

“She does not look anything like a Tracker!” Aecker’s words are defensive.

“There are whispers of the new generation.”

“It doesn’t matter, Dyllian!” Aecker says passionately, moving closer and pushing the older boy away so that he is now standing between us.

“You know it does. You have to get rid of her. If they find her, if Cupola even catches one scent of this intruder and your involvement with her, you will be killed and I can’t do anything to stop it. Trackers bring nothing but death. You know that!”

Aecker moves even closer to me, his hands come to rest on my shoulders as he stares into my eyes. “She’s nothing like them.”

“What is a Tracker?” My thoughts are finally voiced.

Dyllian steps back, resting an elbow against the wall. With the other hand, he pulls out a dirty old rag and wipes his face. “Trackers are soldiers, spies, assassins. They are here to kill any Inborns and infiltrate their hideouts. To bring violent death to Believers and make examples of their flaws.”

“Believers of what?” I interrupt again.

Dyllian’s eyes pin mine so strongly, I feel like a deer staring down an eager hunter’s arrow.

“Of anything.”

Aecker notices my distress, and I grip my hands together so they don’t see me shaking. Fear is a weakness.

“Like I said,” Aecker strokes my cheek with the back of his fingers, “You are not one of them.”

Despite his tender eyes holding mine, trying to offer comfort, his words still burn a hole through my chest. A deep and intense heat causes my heart to beat erratically, because I realize that he is looking at me like I am his only possession; his to protect until his very last breath. And this time, I don’t mind the way it makes me feel.

As Dyllian turns to study me, something alerts my brain that my small, dark world is about to be buried by this revelation, and the flicker of hope I saw in Aecker’s eyes just moments ago is about to be extinguished. I know why my heart feels as if it is on fire; I want to be his hope, but I don’t know how I possibly can be. If I am a Tracker, it will mean the death of something that is being born between us. I might not know who or what I am, but I know unequivocally that I don’t want to live without the promise of a future and a life beaming in Aecker’s eyes.

I like the way it makes me feel.

About the Author:

Calyle is an South African award wining author, with a flair for mixing genres and adding loads of drama to every story she creates. For now she is happy to take over the world and convert non Sci-fi believers.

Her goal as an author is to touch people's lives, and help others love their differences and one another by delivering strong messages of faith, love and hope within every outrageous world she writes about.

"I love to swim, fight for the trees, and am a food lover who is driven by my passion for life. I dream that one day my stories will change the lives of countless teenagers and have them obsess over the world literacy can offer them instead of worrying about fitting in. Never sacrifice who you are, its in the dark times that the light comes to life."

Carlyle used writing as a healing tool and that is why she started her very own writers support event - SAIR bookfestival.

 "To be a helping hand for those who strive to become full times writers, editors, bloggers, readers and cover artists – it’s a crazy world out there you dont have to go it alone!"

https://www.facebook.com/Carlyle-Labuschagne-189835811074342

https://twitter.com/CarlyleL

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http://www.amazon.com/Carlyle-Labuschagne/e/B00CHZ2IWE/

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