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
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
· Gold (1st Place)
Winner — 2019 Feathered Quill Book Awards — Science Fiction/Fantasy
· Finalist — 2018
Dragon Awards — Science Fiction
· Winner — 2018 New
York Book Festival — Science Fiction
· First Place Ribbon
— 2018 Chanticleer International Book Awards — Science Fiction
Next Book in the Series
Sci fi, Dystopian, Apocalyptic
Date Published: Aug 25 2020
Publisher: Vesuvian Books
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
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
Instagram: @garethworthington @stujonesfiction