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Today we are revealing the cover for THE RUIN OF THE WORLD by Nazarea Andrews. This is a new adult title and it will be released April 27th. It is the 4th, and final, book in The World Without End series.
Amazon: http://amzn.to/1AcZKNB
CLICK HERE TO ADD TO GOODREADS.
I have little left in life. Little
that matters. Kelsey has been lost to me for almost a decade, and I have turned
away from every door my family name might open. Even places where I could be
accepted because of my prestige and the dubious favor of 1, it’s not real. The favor
is bought with blood and fickle. So fucking fickle.
My brother is dead, his ashes scattered across a nameless desert, a thousand miles in my past. Even that has been taken from me.
And I accepted it. I accepted every fucking thing, adapting and moving forward. Because that’s what you do. You move forward, and you adapt and you fucking get on with it, because the alternative is no better than death.
I don’t know how to move on from this. I don’t know how to let go of the only thing that matters.
What is the only thing that matters?
She always gave the answer I demanded, the one that hid the truth. The one that framed it in a way that made her comfortable, and able to accept me. I can see her now, the annoyance and the desire she tried to fight, the resignation, and the fierce hope.
What is the only thing that matters?
Her.
OR
The river is wider than I remember, and the very edge of the west. I crouch on the bank, and my second steps up next to me. We’re in the stretch of land that is unclaimed—the river stands at the divider, and everything East belongs to the dead. But this close, no one living ventures. It’s not safe—even far scouts don’t come this far east.
We might have ceded everything east of the Mississippi, but the truth is, we gave the zombies everything. We hold the Havens, and everything else belongs to the dead.
“Sir? Rice and Payton cleared the bridge.”
I nod, and shift, coming out of my crouch to stand. Fisher looks nervous—they all are. He doesn’t look like a priest, not dressed in the fatigues we commandeered from the Army when we swept through two months ago.
He is, though. Omar would never let me have anything less than a fully loyal Black Priest at my side. His way of controlling me, the situation. Fucking bastard.
I shake my head, shake the anger that wants to rise. I can’t indulge in that right now.
Some anger makes you better. Sharper. But this anger is the kind of consuming rage that gets people killed and I can’t afford that right now.
“Move out,” I murmur. Fisher snaps off a salute, and jogs away. I stay at the water for a longer minute, watching the steady glide of the river, and then I follow him.
The forward scouts did a good job—there are no infects on the bridge to trip us up as we take the river. It’s eerie how clear the bridge is. Not because cars stopped moving on it, but because when we ceded the East, we cleared the bridges, and barricaded them. Even from here, I can see the stone wall that spans the six lanes of traffic, bleached white and gleaming in the morning sun.
The infects who had wandered on the bridge hadn’t come from the East.
Fisher is back, his eyes worried as we cross the bridge in silent formation.
There are no threats here, not in front of us, and we have enough eyes to keep an eye on our six. But all of us move across the arched expanse with tense caution that can’t be taught—it’s ingrained in the children of the change.
You don’t grow up with the dead walking and not figure out how the fuck to stay alive.
“Tuck,” I call, and a wiry solider—one from the Army instead of the Order, breaks ranks, jogging ahead. He hits the wall at a sprint, and I hear an appreciative whistle from Payton as he scrambles up the wall. I admit, privately, that it’s impressive. The man is like a fucking spider, clinging where there is nothing, moving lightning fast and gracefully until he perches on the top of the damn wall like some G.I. Joe Humpty Dumpty.
I snicker, and Fisher’s head snaps around, his eyes wide as he watches me. I whistle, and Tuck nods, swinging his rifle around.
“There aren’t many, boss,” he calls back to me.
“Just clean it up. You know our orders.”
Fisher shifts next to me, and Tuck sights down his rifle. There’s a soft puff of air and then a shrill scream.
Killing one is a sure fire way to draw the attention of the others. I hear a body scrambling at the wall, broken fingers scratching, and my stomach turns.
I’ve had very little taste for killing since we left the Outpost, four months ago. It’s still what I’m best at. But I no longer can lose myself in the fight—not when the screaming infects take me back to my own dead. There are three more shorts, quick and silent, and the screams go still. I glance up at Tuck, grinning atop his wall, and nod.
“Bring it down.”
My brother is dead, his ashes scattered across a nameless desert, a thousand miles in my past. Even that has been taken from me.
And I accepted it. I accepted every fucking thing, adapting and moving forward. Because that’s what you do. You move forward, and you adapt and you fucking get on with it, because the alternative is no better than death.
I don’t know how to move on from this. I don’t know how to let go of the only thing that matters.
What is the only thing that matters?
She always gave the answer I demanded, the one that hid the truth. The one that framed it in a way that made her comfortable, and able to accept me. I can see her now, the annoyance and the desire she tried to fight, the resignation, and the fierce hope.
What is the only thing that matters?
Her.
OR
The river is wider than I remember, and the very edge of the west. I crouch on the bank, and my second steps up next to me. We’re in the stretch of land that is unclaimed—the river stands at the divider, and everything East belongs to the dead. But this close, no one living ventures. It’s not safe—even far scouts don’t come this far east.
We might have ceded everything east of the Mississippi, but the truth is, we gave the zombies everything. We hold the Havens, and everything else belongs to the dead.
“Sir? Rice and Payton cleared the bridge.”
I nod, and shift, coming out of my crouch to stand. Fisher looks nervous—they all are. He doesn’t look like a priest, not dressed in the fatigues we commandeered from the Army when we swept through two months ago.
He is, though. Omar would never let me have anything less than a fully loyal Black Priest at my side. His way of controlling me, the situation. Fucking bastard.
I shake my head, shake the anger that wants to rise. I can’t indulge in that right now.
Some anger makes you better. Sharper. But this anger is the kind of consuming rage that gets people killed and I can’t afford that right now.
“Move out,” I murmur. Fisher snaps off a salute, and jogs away. I stay at the water for a longer minute, watching the steady glide of the river, and then I follow him.
The forward scouts did a good job—there are no infects on the bridge to trip us up as we take the river. It’s eerie how clear the bridge is. Not because cars stopped moving on it, but because when we ceded the East, we cleared the bridges, and barricaded them. Even from here, I can see the stone wall that spans the six lanes of traffic, bleached white and gleaming in the morning sun.
The infects who had wandered on the bridge hadn’t come from the East.
Fisher is back, his eyes worried as we cross the bridge in silent formation.
There are no threats here, not in front of us, and we have enough eyes to keep an eye on our six. But all of us move across the arched expanse with tense caution that can’t be taught—it’s ingrained in the children of the change.
You don’t grow up with the dead walking and not figure out how the fuck to stay alive.
“Tuck,” I call, and a wiry solider—one from the Army instead of the Order, breaks ranks, jogging ahead. He hits the wall at a sprint, and I hear an appreciative whistle from Payton as he scrambles up the wall. I admit, privately, that it’s impressive. The man is like a fucking spider, clinging where there is nothing, moving lightning fast and gracefully until he perches on the top of the damn wall like some G.I. Joe Humpty Dumpty.
I snicker, and Fisher’s head snaps around, his eyes wide as he watches me. I whistle, and Tuck nods, swinging his rifle around.
“There aren’t many, boss,” he calls back to me.
“Just clean it up. You know our orders.”
Fisher shifts next to me, and Tuck sights down his rifle. There’s a soft puff of air and then a shrill scream.
Killing one is a sure fire way to draw the attention of the others. I hear a body scrambling at the wall, broken fingers scratching, and my stomach turns.
I’ve had very little taste for killing since we left the Outpost, four months ago. It’s still what I’m best at. But I no longer can lose myself in the fight—not when the screaming infects take me back to my own dead. There are three more shorts, quick and silent, and the screams go still. I glance up at Tuck, grinning atop his wall, and nod.
“Bring it down.”
Nazarea Andrews is an avid reader and tends to write the stories she wants to read. She loves chocolate 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, and overgrown dog.
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