Dead
of Night
The Aftershock Series Book One
The Aftershock Series Book One
Author: 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
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.
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!"
*** GIVEAWAY ***
5 Digital copies
Dead of Night.
Blog Tour Organised by:
Question to the author: What's the most daring thing you've ever done?
ReplyDeleteNow this sounds like one for me! And the cover art is perfect. Thanks for sharing a new author.
ReplyDeletegood luck with the new release.
ReplyDeleteWhat a fascinating book! Great excerpt. I'd love to read more.
ReplyDeleteA great read through thank you.
ReplyDelete