BLURB:
Trace
Monroe doesn't believe in luck. He never has. But when a fiery-headed
cowgirl saunters through the saloon doors, wielding shotguns and a
know-how for killing the living dead, he believes he just may be the
luckiest man alive.
Trace wants to join Red's posse, but she
prefers to work alone--less messy that way. In order to become her
traveling companion, Trace has to agree to her terms: no names, no
questions, and if he gets bit, he can't beg for mercy when she severs
his brain stem.
He agrees, knowing only that Red is the
sharpest shooter he's ever encountered. The fact she's stunning
hasn't escaped his attention either.
What he doesn't know, is
that Red has a very good reason to be on top of her game. She not
only has the answer for how they can all outlive the plague taking
over the wild, wild west, she IS the answer.
Read the first chapter:
Prologue
– The Night Knew No Difference
Elisabeth
walked the path to the streambed with precise, careful steps. The
moon proved enough light to go by as she navigated the familiar brush
and rocks. She held a metal pail in one hand, and her father's
pistol, pointed toward the ground, in the other.
At the end of
the path, she placed the gun on a small boulder and knelt to dip the
bucket into the stream. Frigid water trickled over her fingers as she
clung to the handle, waiting for it to fill. She struggled to her
feet on the muddy bank, weighed down by the heavy bucket, but she
found her footing and stood in the slippery
mess.
" Elisabeth!"
She
stopped moving and the bucket slapped against her thigh, soaking her
dress. Tortured sounds came from the direction of the cabin—screams
and cries intertwined—and wrapped their frozen fingers around
her.
" Elisabeth!"
She
threw the bucket down, grabbed the gun, and ran toward the sound of
her brothers' squeals. Sharp rocks tore at her bare feet as she leapt
over fallen trunks, clutching the pistol in her white-knuckled
grasp.
The
deer carcass her father had hung in the barn could have brought a
mountain lion or wolves to the premises, but most likely, the smoke
from the chimney had attracted unwanted attention from the Natives in
the area. Attacks were common. The Smiths on the other side of the
hill had been burned out of their cabin just a few months
before.
Elisabeth
cleared the trees and scanned the grounds around her home. Nothing—no
Natives, no animals—only the swirl of smoke that escaped the
chimney and the yellow, flickering glow of firelight that illuminated
the windows. Silence blanketed the cabin and surrounding woods, which
frightened her more than the sound of her brothers' screams and
cries. She stood, gun raised, panting heavily as her fingers trembled
on the trigger.
"Ma?"
She took a hesitant step forward. "Pa?"
No
answer.
"Peter?
William?"
She
half expected her brothers to come running through the open door and
tackle her about the waist, but they didn't. Instead, she heard the
sound of a wooden chair being dragged across the floorboards.
Furniture tumbled. Dishes crashed. A shadow crossed in front of the
window.
Elisabeth cocked the gun and pointed
it toward the sky, afraid of accidentally shooting her mother or
brothers in a panic. She lifted her foot and placed it on the bottom
step.
"You a'right?" She softly placed one foot in
front of the other on the weather-beaten boards until she reached the
landing. "Ma?"
The door stood open a crack, but not
enough to see inside. As she stepped forward to push the door wide, a
sticky wetness seeped between her toes. Blood oozed over the
threshold onto the porch and Elisabeth stood squarely in the middle
of it. She opened her mouth to scream, but clasped her free hand over
it and allowed only whimpers to escape through the spaces between her
fingers.
She plowed through the door and
wielded the gun like the sharpshooter her father had trained her to
be. He would have been proud to witness his daughter's steady hand
wrapped around the Remington revolver, if he weren't looking down the
barrel of it instead. His cloudy eyes stared up at her as he knelt
over the dismembered, gutted body of her mother. No sound crossed
over Elisabeth's lips, though her mind exploded with terror and her
knees threatened to buckle.
She didn't doubt her pa's guilt
for a second. Blood drenched him, dripping from his hands, face, and
mouth. He threw his head back and grunted, displeased by the
interruption. The inhuman sound forced her to take a step back. That
man was not her pa. He was hardly a man at all. He reminded her of a
wild animal in the forest, feasting on fallen prey. Her mother?
Fallen prey?
"Pa?"
The word choked her. She couldn't breathe. On crooked limbs, he
worked his way to a crouching position, cocked his head to the side,
and pinned his gaze on her. He stood and dragged himself forward—one
step, then another.
"Pa,
no!" Tears wet her cheeks. The man who had hugged his family
just hours earlier, who swung each of the boys around until they fell
laughing and dizzy on the ground, had vanished. He had called her
li'l girl, even though she was no longer little. The hideous monster
that slowly lugged itself toward her had replaced the man she knew
and loved.
"Please,
Pa, don't!"
He
snapped his head from side to side and roared a guttural response.
Her mother's blood fell from his tongue and lips, splattering the
floor at his feet. He reached his arm forward, and Elisabeth didn't
hesitate—she wound her finger around the trigger and pulled.
The
bullet ripped through his shoulder and his arm fell limp at his side.
If anything, the injury stunned him, but didn't alter his
progression. He continued his slow, agonizing path toward her. She
fired again. The bullet penetrated his right eye and went clear on
through, lodging itself in the wall behind him. His knees bowed and
he wobbled briefly before collapsing in a broken mess on the wooden
floor.
She continued to hold the gun in her hands, but
squeezed her eyes shut. This
can't be happening. This can't be happening. Her
shoulders shook as sobs ripped through her chest and heart.
Now she turned
to throw her head back and yell into the night, to release the pain
and fear that threatened to destroy her.
The sound of
whimpering from the loft caused her eyes to fly open. She'd forgotten
about the boys.
"Peter! William!" She stepped over
her father's broken body and refused to look at her mother's remains
as she moved past. "It's okay," she called to them. They
must be terrified, hiding in the loft above her. "It's okay now.
Everything's gonna be a'right. Come on down."
"Beth?"
She
released a sob from her constricted throat upon hearing the sound of
her brother's voice. "Peter!" She climbed up the bottom
rungs of the ladder. "It's okay now. No one's gonna hurt
you."
He poked his blond head over the edge of the loft
and peered down at her. "I don't feel so good, Beth." Beads
of sweat dotted his brow as he wrapped his arms around his stomach.
"Pa bit me."
Elisabeth climbed the remaining rungs
to reach her brother. He sat on his haunches, rocking in pain. He
leaned to the side and retched dark blood onto the floor.
"It
hurts!" He removed his arms from around his belly, exposing a
gaping hole beneath his bloodied nightshirt.
She grabbed the
closest thing she could find—his discarded jacket—and balled it
up before pressing it into his abdomen. Why
is this happening? It doesn't make sense.
"It's
gonna be okay. It's gonna be fine." She looked around the loft,
panicked. "Where's William?"
Peter shook his head
and nodded toward the shadows. "Willie's sick, too."
She
crawled on her hands and knees toward the huddled figure in the
corner. "William, you okay? You hurt?" She held her hand
out toward her frightened brother. "I know you're scared, but
it's a'right now. It's a'right."
The ten-year-old boy
lunged forward, leaving her mere seconds to pull her hand back to
escape his snapping jaws. He wore the same crazed expression she'd
seen on her pa's face.
She fell backwards and scooted away
from him, but William sprang forward again and gripped her ankle. He
opened his mouth, ready to clamp down, but she kicked at him with her
other foot until he released his hold. Once free, she pushed past
Peter and climbed part way down the ladder before jumping off and
landing on the floor below.
"Peter!" she yelled up
at him. "Jump down to me! Come on! Jump!" The sick little
boy, still pressing the increasingly bloodied jacket to his stomach,
launched himself over the side and Elisabeth caught him.
"Don't
look!" she told him, and Peter pushed his face into her shoulder
to avoid the gruesome scene of their parents' deaths.
She
carried him out the door and ran toward the barn with Peter wrapped
firmly around her torso. He dug his fingers into her shoulders, while
his tiny body shook and grew hotter by the moment. His warm blood
seeped through her dress. She didn't have much time. God,
help me!she silently prayed. I
can't do this on my own.
The town was ten
miles away, and she would have to hitch up the wagon in order to get
her brother to help safely—balancing him on a horse would be near
impossible—but it would take too much precious time. Time she
didn't have.
"It's okay, Peter. Just hang in there."
He
let out a low, throaty hum and she quickened her pace. If she didn't
hurry, she would lose him, too.
Elisabeth struggled to hold
onto her brother while fumbling with the wooden latch that held the
barn door closed. As she shifted his weight to her hip, his sharp
baby teeth clamped down on her tender flesh and a searing pain
engulfed her shoulder. He shook his head like a dog refusing to
release its bone.
She cried out, begging him to stop.
Agonizing pain radiated down the length of her arm and her fingers
splayed to the point of near breaking. She grabbed the back of his
head and tugged at his hair in an attempt to pull him off, but his
strength rivaled that of a full grown man.
She spun around and
slammed his body against the barn door, trying to knock him off with
force. He clung to her with greater resolve and tightened his fingers
around her upper arms. When she slammed her brother's body into the
barn door for a second time, it splintered and flew open, but the boy
seemed unaffected. She wound her left hand around Peter's twisted
face, pushed her fingers into his eye sockets, and began to pry him
off her. He screamed out briefly, but his vice-like jaws clamped onto
her shoulder once more and she lost all feeling in her arm.
She
stumbled into the barn searching for anything she could use to strike
him. A burning pain flowed through her veins and stiffened her joints
and muscles, shortening her steps. Her eyes began to blur and she
blinked in an effort to restore her vision. Her mouth dried up, as
though her body was reabsorbing itself, and her stomach growled and
rolled.
Without warning, Peter's head snapped upright. He
cried out as his body went rigid, and his grip on her arm slackened.
He slipped from her body and sunk to the earth at her feet, crying as
his arms and legs jutted out and retracted.
She couldn't see
him clearly, but heard everything—his moans, his cries, the sound
of him choking to death. She stumbled backward, clutching her useless
arm to ease her own pain. When her brother lay still, Elisabeth fell
to her knees and looked heavenward.
Crickets chirped in rhythm
and an owl hooted its warning off in the distance. The night knew no
difference.
**My thoughts**
I hate zombies and I hate Westerns. I know, so what the hell are you doing reading this book, Andi?
I'll tell you why. I fell in love with Angela Scott's writing when I read Desert Rice. I saw the Zombie West series listed in the back of that book and contemplated reading it. When the opportunity to review it came available, I jumped on the chance. I wasn't disappointed.
Angela Scott is an excellent writer who tells a good story with believable characters. This western romance has twists and turns that will make you cower in disgust and laugh out loud. I am impressed that she was able to blend three different genres together into such a page-turner. I am also glad that I don't have to wait too long for the next one, as it is already on my Kindle!
BIO:
I hear voices. Tiny fictional people sit on my
shoulders and whisper their stories in my ear. Instead of medicating
myself, I decided to pick up a pen, write down everything those
voices tell me, and turn it into a book. I’m not crazy. I’m an
author. For the most part, I write contemporary Young Adult novels.
However, through a writing exercise that spiraled out of control, I
found myself writing about zombies terrorizing the Wild Wild West—and
loving it. My zombies don’t sparkle, and they definitely don’t
cuddle. At least, I wouldn’t suggest it.
I live on the
benches of the beautiful Wasatch Mountains with two lovely children,
one teenager, and a very patient husband. I graduated from Utah State
University with a B.A. degree in English, not because of my love for
the written word, but because it was the only major that didn’t
require math. I can’t spell, and grammar is my arch nemesis. But
they gave me the degree, and there are no take backs.
As a
child, I never sucked on a pacifier; I chewed on a pencil. I’ve
been writing that long. It has only been the past few years that I’ve
pursued it professionally, forged relationships with other
like-minded individuals, and determined to make a career out of it.
You can find me at my website,
where I blog obsessively about my writing process and post updates on
my current works. I’m also on Twitter and Facebook,
but be forewarned, I tweet and post more than a normal person
ONLINE LINKS:
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From the author:
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