SOPHIE LITTLEFIELD
âGrab a Littlefield pronto.â
âKirkus Reviews
âStartling and unputdownable from beginning to end ⦠hands down the best zombie book Iâve read all year.â
âAll Things Urban Fantasy
â⦠page-turning action and evocative, sensual, harrowing descriptions that bring every paragraph of this thriller to life.â
âPublishers Weekly
âA fascinating protagonist and some of the scariest zombies I have ever encounteredâa doublebarrelled salute.â
âJess dâArbonne, The Denver Examiner
âStephen Kingâs The stand in a bra and panties.â âPaul Goat Allen, BarnesandNoble.com
âSophie Littlefield shows considerable skills for delving into the depths of her characters and complex plotting as she disarms the reader.â
âSouth Florida Sun-Sentinel
âPsychologically fascinating ⦠a gripping read.â
âThe Paperback Dolls
âSophie Littlefield has stepped into the male-dominated field of apocalyptic fiction and is making them take notice.â
âFresh Fiction
âI did not want to put this book down ⦠for anyone who likes to be on the edge of their seat.â
âThe Book Den
âOne of the best zombie books Iâve read ⦠truly interesting Zombies. 9/10â
âSunshine and Bones
â⦠alternately creeped me the hell out and broke my heart repeatedly.â
âThe Discriminating Fangirl
âLittlefield excels at keeping the momentum going and she knows how to inject a huge beating heart into any story, even one in which humanity is barely alive.â
âPop Culture Nerd
SOPHIE LITTLEFIELD grew up in rural Missouri. She writes the post-apocalyptic Aftertime series. She also writes paranormal fiction for young adults. Her first novel, A Bad Day for Sorry, won an Anthony Award for Best First Novel and an RT Award for Best First Mystery. It was also shortlisted for Edgar, Barry, Crimespree and Macavity Awards, and it was named on lists of the yearâs best mystery debuts. Sophie lives in Northern California.
For M, with love and regret
There you are and always will be
In your pretty coat Skating lazy eights on the frozen pond of my heart
The existence of this book is a testament to the tenacity and vision of two people: my agent, Barbara Poelle, who only accepts ânoâ when it suits herâand my editor Adam Wilson, who gets it and then some. In the moments when the story shines, itâs because of them.
Thanks, too, to the entire Harlequin team, who made me feel welcome from day one.
THAT IT WAS SUMMER WAS NOT IN DOUBT. The nights were much too short and the days too long. Something about the color of the sky said August to Cass. Maybe the blue was bluer. Hadnât autumn signaled itself that way Before, a gradual intensifying of colors as summer trailed into September?
Once, Cass would have been able to tell from the wildflowers growing in the foothills where she ran. In August petals fell from the wild orange poppies, the stonecrop darkened to purplish brown, and butterweed puffs drifted in lazy breezes. Deer grew bold, drinking from the creek that ran along the road. The earth dried and cracked, and lizards and beetles stared out from their hiding places among the weeds.
But that was two lives ago, so far back that it was like a story that had once been told to Cass, a story maybe whispered by a lover as she drifted off to sleep after one too many Jack and Cokes, ephemeral and hazy at the edges. She might not believe it at all, except for Ruthie. Ruthie had loved the way butterweed silk floated in the air when she blew on the puffs.
Ruthie, who she couldnât see or touch or hold in her arms. Ruthie, who screamed when the social workers dragged her away, her legs kicking desperately at nothing. Mim and Byrn wouldnât even look at Cass as she collapsed to the dirty floor of the trailer and wished she was dead.
Ruthie had been two.
Cass pushed herself to go faster, her strides long and sure up over a gentle rise in the road. She was barely out of breath. This was nothing, less than nothing. She dug her hard, sharp nails into the calluses of her thumbs. Hard, harder, hardest. The skin there was built up against her abuse and refused to bleed. To break it she would need something sharper than her nail. Teeth might work, but Cass would not use her teeth. It was enough to use her nails until the pain found an opening into her mind. The pain was enough.
She had covered a lot of ground this moon-bright night. Now it was almost dawn, the light from the rising sun creeping up over the black-blue forest skeletons, a crescent aura of orange glow in the sky. When the first slice of sun was visible sheâd leave the road and melt into what was left of the trees. There was cover to be foundâsome of the native shrubs had survived. Greasewood and creosote still grew neck high in some places.
And it was easy to spot them. You saw them before they saw you, and then you hid, and you prayed. If they saw you at all, if they came close enough to smell you, you were worse than dead.