A bizarre and hilarious look at surviving societal collapse…
When Armageddon hits you can’t always pick your post-apocalyptic companions, That’s the dilemma facing major-league scout Riley Knight, who finds himself stranded with a collection of borderline crazies at a remote diner when a gigantic solar storm plunges the world into the dark ages.
Cut off from the rest of the electricity-deprived world, the group, whose grip on sanity is tenuous, and whose coping skills leave much to be desired, are forced to rely on each other with laughingly absurd results. As their situation rapidly deteriorates, the distant town of Jericho becomes their only hope for survival. Only the road to Jericho is fraught with peril that only the bravest of them may survive. Worse, Jericho may not be the safe haven they desperately seek. How will they survive this new bizarre and frightening world where everyone’s a nut in a place that’s getting nuttier by the day is anyone’s guess.
Praise for Surviving Crazy:
“A downright hilarious look at ‘the end of civilization as we know it’… A funny book in the ‘slap him in the head style of comedy’ but this goes deeper.” — Readers Favorite 5 Stars!
“An exceptional and original novel that holds the reader’s fully entertained attention from beginning to end. An impressive and deftly crafted novel populated with memorable characters and unexpected plot twists and turns” — Midwest Book Review
“With a long, character-building fuse and a whip-smart pen behind the imagery-rich writing, this novel hums with tension and possibility from the start… Surviving Crazy is a head-scratching read that will make you laugh out loud and stay up late to see how it all plays out.”— Self-Publishing Review
“I thoroughly enjoyed this goofy, comic novel, and laughed out loud through much of it. The characters are wildly drawn, and the satire is sharp and pointed…The ending is surprising, ironic, and perfect.” — Readers’ Favorite
“A colorful burst of comedy and satire.” — RedCity Review
“An ingenious, humorous novel…a thoroughly engrossing,rib-tickling-funny read that lovers of both SF and literary fiction won’t wantto miss.”…The Prairies Book Review
“Anentirely new perspective on end-time scenarios. Readers should hold onto theirhats in this fast-paced story. It is bursting with troublesome yet loveablecharacters who fill this tale with hyperbole, danger, and amazing camaraderie” — US Review of Books
Excerpt
It was at that point in his near-death experience when Shephard said he saw the light appear in front of him, a bright embraceable warm radiance accompanied by a soothing voice calling him into it.
Shephard however wasn’t ready to comply just yet and began to resist. “I was yelling at the voice that I wasn’t going anywhere until it did something about that jackass Floyd Monroe. I mean I was livid. I wanted some action.”
The voice tried coaxing Shephard into the light by promising him that it only wanted to talk for a brief moment before it sent him back into his body. Then Shephard could take care of Floyd anyway he wanted. It sounded like a reasonable compromise and so Shephard headed off into the light.
What happened next according to Shephard was his face-to-face meeting with God, or who he presumed to be God. “He kind of looked like Mr. Feathers.”
Mr. Feathers was Plucky Rooster’s national mascot, a giant red rooster famous for his straw hat and bib overalls.
Riley’s look of disbelief was shared by Shephard. “I know. I was expecting God to look different too. Something along the lines of a bearded, silvery-haired guy in a white robe. Naturally, I began to think I was getting conned.”
About The Author
Frank Crimi is a writer and the author of Surviving Crazy. His other books include Raining Frogs & Heart Attacks. Frank is married with two sons and two grandchildren.
The world you know is dead. We did this to ourselves.
The epidemic struck at the end of the Third World War. Fighting over oil,
power, and religion, governments ignored the rise of an
antibacterial-resistant plague. In just five years, the Earth was
annihilated. Only one city survived—Etyom—a frozen hellhole in northern
Siberia, engulfed in endless conflict.
The year is 2251.
Two groups emerged from the ashes of the old world. Within the walled
city of Lower Etyom dwell the Robusts—descendants of the poor who were
immune to the New Black Death. Above them, in a metropolis of pristine
platforms called lillipads, live the Graciles—the progeny of the
superrich, bio-engineered to resist the plague.
Mila Solokoff is a Robust who trades information in a world where knowing
too much can get you killed. Caught in a deal gone bad, she’s forced to
take a high-risk job for a clandestine organization hell-bent on
revolution.
Demitri Stasevich is a Gracile with a dark secret—a sickness that, if
discovered, will get him Ax’d. His only relief is an illegal narcotic
produced by the Robusts, and his only means of obtaining it is a journey
to the arctic hell far below New Etyom.
Thrust together in the midst of a sinister plot that threatens all life
above and below the cloud line, Mila and Demitri must master their demons
and make a choice—one that will either salvage what’s left of the human
race or doom it to extinction …
Bronze Medal Winner — 2019
Independent Publisher Book Awards — Science Fiction
Four years have passed since the lillipads fell and Etyom slipped into
darkness. The New Black Death has mutated again, spreading to near
epidemic proportions. What little order existed in Earth’s last city has
disintegrated into chaos.
Rippers roam the Vapid, robbing and leaving their victims butchered. The
Robusts have spilled out of their broken enclaves and hide in any dark
corner that will conceal them. Meanwhile, the elite Graciles, fallen from
their pristine towers in the sky, have all mysteriously disappeared.
Demitri is a prisoner in his own mind. His demon, Vedmak—now known as the
Vardøger—is manipulating Demitri’s body to execute a secret plan far more
disastrous than even the Gracile Leader dared.
Mila, her status among the fractured resistance elevated to that of
Paladyn—a protector of the people—leads the fight against zealots intent
on destroying what little remains of Etyom. It is a responsibility she
never wanted, a calling that prevents her from doing what she truly
desires.
Yet, Mila should be careful of what she longs. Caught between
annihilation and loyalties that refuse to die, she must reconcile a single
immutable truth: following your heart comes at a price.
No matter how badly I want it to be different this time, in the end I still die.
We all do.
I lie on the cot, cold sweat clinging to my skin, arms raised to my face, stuck like a marionette tangled in its own strings. The dream feels so real. Another breath—count it out. In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four. My heart slows, my mind no longer caught in the grip of the terrifying dream: a battle in which I play a critical role, yet I’m no soldier. This nightmare stalks me night after night, and even though I know I’m dreaming, I’m powerless to prevent the inevitable—the coming of Death.
The alarm on my personal electronic device, or PED, chirrups three times: 05:00. Not much sleep during the dark hours, again. I squeeze my shoulders, rubbing away the dull, muscular ache, and try to remember the fading embrace of a brother who now feels far away. A deep breath in, a slow exhale out. Get up already, Mila.
The frigid floor stings my bare feet. I shrug into a few less-than-clean garments and pull on my boots. The stale smell of the attire fills my throat. A shiver crawls across my skin. Sard, it’s cold. Gotta find something warmer. After rummaging through a pile of soiled clothes that lie in the corner of my room, I pull out a short leather jacket, its collar lined with fur—though from what animal is unclear. Shaking it hard a few times, I stare at the fur lining. I know the lice are in there somewhere. No time to try and clean it now. The jacket slips over my shoulders, the ice-cold collar snugging up around my neck. It stinks like dead rat.
My PED and my precious collection of writings go into my satchel, carefully so as not to crush the worn old picture that lies at the bottom. I fish out the faded image of Zevry and me. I can be no more than eight-years old in this photo. He’s grinning, as usual, with one arm wrapped around my shoulder. It was taken more than twenty years ago—yet little seems to have changed. Still have roughly cut short hair, now with a streak of color in the front. Still have a lean, almost boyish frame—though I’ve added some piercings and tattoos over the years in an attempt to distinguish myself. And then of course there’s my scar—cutting its pink path across my forehead and left eye. Slashed deep into my face not long after this picture was taken, it’s a permanent reminder you don’t walk the streets alone in a place like Etyom.
No time for this. I stuff the picture back into my satchel and head out the door without locking it. Anything worth stealing is already on me—and it wouldn’t take much to force the door to my closet-sized room anyway.
My boots creak on the rickety stairs leading into the bar below. It’s quiet now, a far cry from the bedlam hours earlier. Smoke hangs lazily in the air, like the memory of an old ghost.
“Come on, Clief.” I cough. “How do you breathe this stuff night after night?”
The man at the bar raises his head but continues to wipe down the counter. “Oh, it’s not that bad. Sorta like burning plastic.” He offers a tired smile. “Off so early?”
“Every day.” Still pinching my nose and squinting, I make my way toward the door. “I’m serious. Get some fresh air in here. That botchi is going to scramble what’s left of your tiny brain.”
He huffs out a laugh. “And that out there? That’s where you get the fresh air?”
“You know what I mean.”
As I push open the door, the wind hits me like a frozen punch in the mouth. Going out in this icy hell never gets easier. The streets are dark and cold, shadows upon shadows concealing the horrors of Etyom. It’s hard to believe this place was once considered a haven. Long ago, it was a vast, sprawling gulag-turned-mining community called Norilsk. Between World War III and the New Black Death, nearly nine billion people around the world lost their lives. Those who were left fled their homes and cities in search of someplace safer. For many, this barren hellhole was it. The conflict hadn’t fully destroyed the city, and the New Black Death struggled to take hold in the brutal Siberian climate. Survival was possible here.
A mass migration followed; the Russian government was helpless to stop it. Outside Norilsk, organized social structure, at least the way people understood it then, gasped its final dying breath. And then, silence. Communications with the outside world went dark. Zev said anyone who hadn’t died in the war succumbed to the New Black Death. It was then everyone here knew they were truly alone. They chose to isolate themselves, even renamed the city Etyom. My brother and I weren’t born for another few hundred years, the descendants of those who fought to survive. We’re fighters, Mil.Survivors.Nothing can keep us down. That’s why we’re called Robusts.
About Stu Jones
A veteran law enforcement officer, Stu Jones has worked as a beat cop, an
investigator, an instructor of firearms and police defensive tactics and
as a member and team leader of a multi-jurisdictional SWAT team.
About Gareth Worthington
Gareth Worthington BSc PhD EMBA is a trained marine biologist and holds a
doctorate in comparative endocrinology. Gareth works in the pharmaceutical
industry helping to educate the world’s doctors on new cancer
therapies.
Four years have passed since the lillipads fell and Etyom slipped into
darkness. The New Black Death has mutated again, spreading to near epidemic
proportions. What little order existed in Earth’s last city has
disintegrated into chaos.
Rippers roam the Vapid, robbing and leaving their victims butchered. The
Robusts have spilled out of their broken enclaves and hide in any dark
corner that will conceal them. Meanwhile, the elite Graciles, fallen from
their pristine towers in the sky, have all mysteriously disappeared.
Demitri is a prisoner in his own mind. His demon, Vedmak—now known as
the Vardøger—is manipulating Demitri’s body to execute a
secret plan far more disastrous than even the Gracile Leader dared.
Mila, her status among the fractured resistance elevated to that of
Paladyn—a protector of the people—leads the fight against
zealots intent on destroying what little remains of Etyom. It is a
responsibility she never wanted, a calling that prevents her from doing what
she truly desires.
Yet, Mila should be careful of what she longs. Caught between annihilation
and loyalties that refuse to die, she must reconcile a single immutable
truth: following your heart comes at a price.
Previous Book in the Series
Sci fi, dystopian, apocalyptic
Date Published: May 22 2018
Publisher: Vesuvian Books
The world you know is dead. We did this to ourselves.
The epidemic struck at the end of the Third World War. Fighting over oil,
power, and religion, governments ignored the rise of an
antibacterial-resistant plague. In just five years, the Earth was
annihilated. Only one city survived—Etyom—a frozen hellhole in
northern Siberia, engulfed in endless conflict.
The year is 2251.
Two groups emerged from the ashes of the old world. Within the walled city
of Lower Etyom dwell the Robusts—descendants of the poor who were
immune to the New Black Death. Above them, in a metropolis of pristine
platforms called lillipads, live the Graciles—the progeny of the
superrich, bio-engineered to resist the plague.
Mila Solokoff is a Robust who trades information in a world where knowing
too much can get you killed. Caught in a deal gone bad, she’s forced to take
a high-risk job for a clandestine organization hell-bent on
revolution.
Demitri Stasevich is a Gracile with a dark secret—a sickness that, if
discovered, will get him Ax’d. His only relief is an illegal narcotic
produced by the Robusts, and his only means of obtaining it is a journey to
the arctic hell far below New Etyom.
Thrust together in the midst of a sinister plot that threatens all life
above and below the cloud line, Mila and Demitri must master their demons
and make a choice—one that will either salvage what’s left of the
human race or doom it to extinction …
Bronze Medal Winner — 2019
Independent Publisher Book Awards — Science Fiction
The young man in the brown jacket spins, arms raised high, a blood-curdling
scream issuing from his lips. A few awkward steps and he falls, sprawling
headlong across a pile of slush and rubble. A crimson fan spreads out under
his corpse, staining the snow red. Another death, another friend of the
cause, gone.
He was seventeen.
All around the pop-whizz of gunfire followed by deafening explosions from
detonating grenades reminds us all the Kahangan stronghold of Nazal will not
fall easily. I slide farther into the frozen mud of the ditch and scrunch
into a ball.
“Mos.” Where the hell is he? “Mos, you with
me?”
“I’m here, Mila.” The barrel chested Kahangan with midnight
skin crawls up next to me, careful to keep his bulk below the rise.
“Who’s hit?”
“Mauricio.”
“Is he dead?”
“He’s not moving.”
“Sniper?” Mos jerks his head in the direction of the building
before us. Politsiya in faded Cyrillic letters adorns the ruined
facade.
“Knows what they’re doing too.” I pull a small mirror from the
arm pouch on my leather jacket and slowly raise it to get a better
view.
In the reflection is the form of a person, prone on the roof of the
palace—if you can call it that.
A glint of light bounces off the glass.
I snatch my hand down and pinch my eyes shut as a chunk of earth explodes
from the rim of the ditch, showering us with wet clods of cold mud. The
lingering crack of a rifle follows. He’s got a sarding scope and a
good, stable position. Guy definitely knows what he’sdoing.
“There’s a way up to the roof on the back side,” Mos says.
“I can flank his position and approach from behind if you can keep his
attention.” He cocks his head. “That’s probably stupid,
huh?”
“It’s only stupid if it doesn’t work.”
Mos, already shuffling away, motions to a few others hiding in another
ditch to follow.
“What are you going to do?” I ask.
“Wait for my call.” Mos grins, revealing large, square, white
teeth, then creeps away and seems to vanish into thin air.
The cold seeps through my clothing, stealing the fading warmth of the sun.
My scarred Kalashnikov rifle feels like a cold, lead weight. I exchanged my
bean-bag propelling weapon for a death-dealing one some time ago. I
don’t even remember when that happened. Like everything else in this
forsaken city, it just sort of did. Yeos forgive me. I loose my canteen from
my satchel and take a shaky swallow of the nearly frozen water.
A bark, much like a wild dog.
The signal. “Now!”
I drop the canteen, roll to the left, and rise to one knee. Three more of
my fighters appear and the air ignites with the sounds of war. Dust and
stone billow around the sniper’s nest. Our suppressive fire has the desired
effect: he’s blinded by debris.
“Ceasefire!” I kneel again, the Kalashnikov pressed into my
shoulder, watching as the dust clears. “Stand ready.”
We wait in silence, a bitter wind snapping at our scarf-covered
faces.
Another flash of light from the roof.
“Get down!” I flop into the muck.
This time there is no report. No exploding clump of earth. A cry of terror
fills the air, followed by the sounds of a struggle. I chance a glance. Mos
is standing tall and proud on the roof.
“Hold your fire!” I yell.
My comrades lower their weapons. Mos reaches down and plucks up a skinny
Kahangan who drops a long-barreled rifle. The little man screams, flailing
madly against my friend’s superior strength.
“Traitor.” Mos bellows loud enough to be heard, even from down
here. With a single heave, the large Kahangan hurls the sniper over the
edge. The man’s hollow scream is cut short as he strikes the frozen ground
some ten stories below.
I force myself to peer down at his mangled corpse, twisted like a broken
doll in the ice and mud below. The Kalashnikov drops to hang from its canvas
strap across my chest. My people follow suit, relaxing their guard, their
eyes glazed over in a mixture of relief and stress. They’re all good
soldiers. Committed to the cause—peace in Etyom, the last city. The
Kahangan civil war has been going on for too long. Kapka—who somehow
managed to survive the RPG blast on the platform four years
ago—continues his campaign against the followers of Yeos with renewed
vigor, but has so far not managed to take this Musul faction. Instead, in
this desolate place, power-hungry warlords fight over resources while the
people suffer. Here, it’s not Kapka who reigns, but Nazal.
Little is known of the origins of this despot. Some say, like all warlords,
he simply rode to power on the broken backs of the Kahangan people. That
there was nothing he wasn’t willing to do and no one he wasn’t
willing to betray to claim the power he felt was owed to him. Others seem to
whisper of his evil deeds like he’s some sort of phantom—a
terrible consequence of our own divisiveness. Whatever the case, Nazal is a
plague. He’s no Kapka, but the piles of corpses he’s left in his
wake can no longer be overlooked. The resistance will stop him because
someone must.
About Stu Jones
A veteran law enforcement officer, Stu Jones has worked as a beat cop, an
investigator, an instructor of firearms and police defensive tactics and as
a member and team leader of a multi-jurisdictional SWAT team.
About Gareth Worthington
Gareth Worthington BSc PhD EMBA is a trained marine biologist and holds a
doctorate in comparative endocrinology. Gareth works in the pharmaceutical
industry helping to educate the world’s doctors on new cancer
therapies.
Kevin shouldn’t be writing this. And you shouldn’t be reading
it. After all, reading is now a crime–and for good reason. After the Coma
Outbreak, everyone knows what happens to people who read. Their eyes slam
shut. And they never get out of their desks again.
EXCERPT
I Shouldn’t Be Writing This
If anyone catches me, they’ll report me to the proper authorities.
After that, who knows what will happen to me.
Juvie? Jail?
After all, writing is now a criminal offense.
The people who report me will think they’re doing mea favor.
They’ll think they’re doing all of us a favor.
Well, all of us who aren’t in a coma. Yet.
In my school, Spaulding Middle, there aren’t many of us left.
“It’s for your own good, Kevin,” they’ll say to me, pointing to all the comatose students
slumped over their desks. “Do you want to become one of them?”
“The more you write,” they’ll say, “the more likely you or someone else—someone you care about—will read what you write.”
And everyone knows what happens when you read.
Your brain stops working.
And you never get out of your desk again.
About the Author
Patrick Hueller is the author of several award-winning books for young
readers, sometimes under the pen name “Paul Hoblin.” Foul, a
horror book, was a YALSA Quick Pick and was described by Booklist as
“unbearably tense.” The Beast was a School Library Journal
selection. Archenemy made the ALA’s Rainbow Book List. Wolf High and
The Wish were on SLJ’s list for “Accessible Reads for Struggling
Reluctant Readers.” He is also the author of the middle grade series
Stu Stories, which Geoff Herbach (author of Stupid Fast and Hooper) said
“hit[s] on pretty much every topic I cared about when I was a kid
(love, Jedis, severed legs, etc.). His most recent book is Kirsten
Howard’s Biggest Fan, a YA book published by INtense Publications that
National Book Award finalist Charles Baxter called “beautifully
written, with a concert-hall perfect pitch for speech and idiom and ways of
feeling.”
Kevin shouldn’t be writing this. And you shouldn’t be reading
it. After all, reading is now a crime–and for good reason. After the Coma
Outbreak, everyone knows what happens to people who read. Their eyes slam
shut. And they never get out of their desks again.
About the Author
Patrick Hueller is the author of several award-winning books for young
readers, sometimes under the pen name “Paul Hoblin.” Foul, a
horror book, was a YALSA Quick Pick and was described by Booklist as
“unbearably tense.” The Beast was a School Library Journal
selection. Archenemy made the ALA’s Rainbow Book List. Wolf High and
The Wish were on SLJ’s list for “Accessible Reads for Struggling
Reluctant Readers.” He is also the author of the middle grade series
Stu Stories, which Geoff Herbach (author of Stupid Fast and Hooper) said
“hit[s] on pretty much every topic I cared about when I was a kid
(love, Jedis, severed legs, etc.). His most recent book is Kirsten
Howard’s Biggest Fan, a YA book published by INtense Publications that
National Book Award finalist Charles Baxter called “beautifully
written, with a concert-hall perfect pitch for speech and idiom and ways of
feeling.”
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