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Personal Apocalypse: A World Without End novel
Josiah grew up in a dying world. The Holdout survived, but when you are the son of Sylvia Cragen, you give up delusions early. He knew that they would die bloody–it wasn’t a matter of if. Only when.
Parker shouldn’t be alive. He should have died long before scouts from the Last Holdout rescued him. And he knows better than to believe that sailing away from the safety of the Holdout is a good idea.
Now, without the Holdout to protect them, all of his nightmares are coming true. Josiah is just crazy enough to believe that a fresh start is a good thing. But Parker has lived as prey, hunted by zombies and survivors before–and he knows that no one really survives. In the wild, zombie claimed world outside the walls of safety, there is only the dead walking.
The virus took four months from Day One to hit Africa. By then, the death toll around the world was a staggering thing. It is an acknowledged fact that the Third World fared better in those first few months. They weren’t dependent on Synthrix. They didn’t have the mass build up of it in their armies and militia, and population.
But like any place with a market for it, Synthrix slipped in. The black market ran a thriving business. The great cities dispensed it like candy.
The guerilla warlords fed it to their children soldiers.
And with that, the virus had it’s foothold.
Four months. That is when the first case of ERI-Milan was reported. Atlanta was in ruins and Buchman had ordered a mass evac of the Eastern seaboard. In the middle of the American heartland, a prison was being converted into the first Haven.
A man. His name wasn’t remembered. He wasn’t a citizen of Kenya. He was a stranger, a man from Europe who slipped in before the borders closed, backpacking around the world or something equally ridiculous.
He died. The stupidest fucking thing. He was playing football with some kids at the hostel he’d been languishing in—the borders were closed for egress as well and he was well and truly trapped.
He broke his neck.
Four months. Two days. The virus ripped through his system. The doctors in Nairobi were lazy. It was a simple and as tragic as that. After four months, with not a single case reported on the continent, they were lazy.
And when that nameless drifting backpacker died, they didn’t go through proper containment procedures.
He killed four in the first two minutes.
Within twelve hours, Nairobi was dying. Infected were everywhere, and the half-eaten remains they raced over were all that was left.
Nairobi died bloody.
They said Africa died. But one city doesn’t kill an entire continent.
It spread, from there. A black tidal wave of infected that washed over the continent in a matter of weeks.
It took four months for the virus to find a foothold in Africa.
It took it less than one to cover the continent in a wash of blood and bodies and hungry, furious infected.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Nazarea Andrews (N to almost everyone) is an avid reader and tends to write the stories she wants to read. Which means she writes everything from zombies and dystopia to contemporary love stories. When not writing, she can most often be found driving her kids to practice and burning dinner while she reads, or binging watching TV shows on Netflix. N loves chocolate, wine, and coffee almost as much as she loves books, but not quite as much as she loves her kids. She lives in south Georgia with her husband, daughters, spoiled cat and overgrown dog. She is the author of World Without End series, Neverland Found, Edge of the Falls, and The University of Branton Series. Stop by her twitter (@NazareaAndrews) and tell her what fantastic book she should read next.