Post by joelcrodriguez on Mar 18, 2014 1:06:43 GMT -5
Hello, PA fans! The first book in my post-apocalyptic set series, 'Passage to Oasis', is now available on Amazon.com for download! As a celebration, I've decided to share with you all the first chapter of the book, hoping I can spark up some interest with you folks. Enjoy, and be sure to check it out! If you don't have the money to buy it but are interested, send me an email at joel.christopher.rodriguez@gmail.com and I would be glad to send you a free .pdf!
Chapter 1:
Home, Sweet Home
The sun burned Jeremiah’s eyes even before he opened them that morning. It was just another day in what used to be home. He rolled over his bug ridden mattress to the right side and placed his blistered feet down on the rotting hardwood floor and laced up his boots as he did every morning. Jeremiah looked across the room at his thermometer to check today’s temperature. It was 98 degrees Fahrenheit at just eight o’clock in the morning. Strange for the month of October, but there have been stranger in the past…
What I wouldn't give to be in Alaska, Jeremiah thought to himself, despite knowing that he had nothing to give to live in the frozen wasteland. All he could claim were the tattered dirty clothes on his back and his leather satchel.
Jeremiah was caught staring at the crack in his wall, his mind drifting off to the time before the Great Flame, ignoring the groans and creaks from the old manor. Suddenly, he heard a crash. The sharp sound of porcelain shattering into thousands of brittle splinters echoed through the decaying house, followed by several sets of footsteps. Jeremiah reached over to his bedside table and pulled out his Smith & Wesson .38 Special from the top drawer. He carefully crawled over to the doorway, trying his hardest to not make a sound.
Bang!
The thunderous clap of the Colt .45 held by the mad man on the first floor of his home made Jeremiah quiver in fear. Up until now, he tried to live as far from bandits and raiders who plagued the outskirts of Boston.
Were there more of them? If so, how many? Who the fuck are they? Should I run? Hide? What the fuck is happening!?
Jeremiah’s brain raced with inquisitive thoughts as he began shaking from panic. If they were to go upstairs, he might just be done for. After thinking it over for a few seconds, he scurried away into the closet and closed the door behind him. Jeremiah sat as far back as he could in the empty, musty storage space with his .38 aimed towards the door. After waiting for what seemed like a century, he heard the footsteps fade away and head outside. As he exited the closet, he pulled himself up to the window and observed the five large men walk back to their scrap armored pickup truck parked in the driveway. They looked like raiders or bandits; one carried an axe, another carried a baseball bat with nails or railroad spikes driven through it, one unarmed, one carried what seemed to be some kind of bolt-action rifle, and the one in the middle carried a chrome plated Colt .45. All of them except the man with the .45 were wearing face masks and large coats. He set himself apart of the usual wasteland attire with his leather jacket plastered in pins that advertised older punk bands. He had a bright red Mohawk that was at least a foot tall.
With his gun drawn, Jeremiah slowly approached the stairwell and proceeded down calmly and quietly. He looked down to the front lobby of the manor, and saw a man’s leg sticking out around the corner of the hallway, with a trail of blood following him from the front door. Jeremiah slowly approached the east hall, expecting the worst, and turned the corner to see a dead elderly man who had been gunned down. His hair was light grey patchy, and his beard went down past his chest. He could not figure out what he had more of on his face; Scars or wrinkles. Both of his eyes were cloudy and he was wearing a long olive drab trench coat. He had a bullet wound in his chest and another right between his eyes; which was an obvious execution from the man with the Mohawk. With a sigh, Jeremiah went down to the cellar to grab his shovel and dragged the body to the backyard. He took the man's coat and boots, but left the rest of his clothing, feeling it would be disrespectful to take all of it.
What was supposed to be a normal day of scavenging for food and water had become a great confusion.
Who was that man? What did they want with him? Jeremiah had kept thinking to himself.
He decided to stay in for the rest of the day. He had one more can of beans and a bit of water collected from the rain, but food and water was hardly his concern. He lay on the torn up couch in the living room for hours staring at the ceiling, thinking about his life before the Great Flame. He was the last in his family’s blood line which had traced back before the 1300’s.
Thoughts of the days before he was sealed in the basement shelter were all that really played through his mind, over and over again. One that had been brought to light was back when him and his mother used to tend the garden in the backyard of the Hartman Manor. It had once been a flourishing haven for fruits, vegetables, and other vegetative life, but was now nothing more than a graveyard. The man that was gunned down in his manor today was not the first. Well, the first inside the manor, but not the first on his property.
Chapter 1:
Home, Sweet Home
The sun burned Jeremiah’s eyes even before he opened them that morning. It was just another day in what used to be home. He rolled over his bug ridden mattress to the right side and placed his blistered feet down on the rotting hardwood floor and laced up his boots as he did every morning. Jeremiah looked across the room at his thermometer to check today’s temperature. It was 98 degrees Fahrenheit at just eight o’clock in the morning. Strange for the month of October, but there have been stranger in the past…
What I wouldn't give to be in Alaska, Jeremiah thought to himself, despite knowing that he had nothing to give to live in the frozen wasteland. All he could claim were the tattered dirty clothes on his back and his leather satchel.
Jeremiah was caught staring at the crack in his wall, his mind drifting off to the time before the Great Flame, ignoring the groans and creaks from the old manor. Suddenly, he heard a crash. The sharp sound of porcelain shattering into thousands of brittle splinters echoed through the decaying house, followed by several sets of footsteps. Jeremiah reached over to his bedside table and pulled out his Smith & Wesson .38 Special from the top drawer. He carefully crawled over to the doorway, trying his hardest to not make a sound.
Bang!
The thunderous clap of the Colt .45 held by the mad man on the first floor of his home made Jeremiah quiver in fear. Up until now, he tried to live as far from bandits and raiders who plagued the outskirts of Boston.
Were there more of them? If so, how many? Who the fuck are they? Should I run? Hide? What the fuck is happening!?
Jeremiah’s brain raced with inquisitive thoughts as he began shaking from panic. If they were to go upstairs, he might just be done for. After thinking it over for a few seconds, he scurried away into the closet and closed the door behind him. Jeremiah sat as far back as he could in the empty, musty storage space with his .38 aimed towards the door. After waiting for what seemed like a century, he heard the footsteps fade away and head outside. As he exited the closet, he pulled himself up to the window and observed the five large men walk back to their scrap armored pickup truck parked in the driveway. They looked like raiders or bandits; one carried an axe, another carried a baseball bat with nails or railroad spikes driven through it, one unarmed, one carried what seemed to be some kind of bolt-action rifle, and the one in the middle carried a chrome plated Colt .45. All of them except the man with the .45 were wearing face masks and large coats. He set himself apart of the usual wasteland attire with his leather jacket plastered in pins that advertised older punk bands. He had a bright red Mohawk that was at least a foot tall.
With his gun drawn, Jeremiah slowly approached the stairwell and proceeded down calmly and quietly. He looked down to the front lobby of the manor, and saw a man’s leg sticking out around the corner of the hallway, with a trail of blood following him from the front door. Jeremiah slowly approached the east hall, expecting the worst, and turned the corner to see a dead elderly man who had been gunned down. His hair was light grey patchy, and his beard went down past his chest. He could not figure out what he had more of on his face; Scars or wrinkles. Both of his eyes were cloudy and he was wearing a long olive drab trench coat. He had a bullet wound in his chest and another right between his eyes; which was an obvious execution from the man with the Mohawk. With a sigh, Jeremiah went down to the cellar to grab his shovel and dragged the body to the backyard. He took the man's coat and boots, but left the rest of his clothing, feeling it would be disrespectful to take all of it.
What was supposed to be a normal day of scavenging for food and water had become a great confusion.
Who was that man? What did they want with him? Jeremiah had kept thinking to himself.
He decided to stay in for the rest of the day. He had one more can of beans and a bit of water collected from the rain, but food and water was hardly his concern. He lay on the torn up couch in the living room for hours staring at the ceiling, thinking about his life before the Great Flame. He was the last in his family’s blood line which had traced back before the 1300’s.
Thoughts of the days before he was sealed in the basement shelter were all that really played through his mind, over and over again. One that had been brought to light was back when him and his mother used to tend the garden in the backyard of the Hartman Manor. It had once been a flourishing haven for fruits, vegetables, and other vegetative life, but was now nothing more than a graveyard. The man that was gunned down in his manor today was not the first. Well, the first inside the manor, but not the first on his property.