#VANDEATH Preview!
And finally, here’s a little preview of #VANDEATH. If you’re still on the fence about preordering, hopefully this nudges you one way or the other, hahaha!
(Oh, and I know 2nd person is controversial, only the opening’s like this…the rest of the book is your standard 3rd person ;) )
FUCK IT, RUN.
The impulse hits your brain like a zapping electrode, some unseen hand mashing down on your fight-or-flight response. It’s really fight, flight, or freeze, but we’ll do you a solid and ignore the moment you froze, when you saw the machete tear across Jimmy’s throat, the crimson gout spewing forth from his stubbled neck. The hand that grasped his hair seemed to come out of nowhere, manifesting out of the night itself, the action so fast and sure you can’t quite believe it happened, like Jimmy should be finishing his story about the time he saw Widespread Panic—a boring story, to be sure, but not every story needs to be interesting when you’re drunk.
One second, you were sitting by the campfire, your backs to the darkness.
The next, something came out of it.
Suddenly, the year doesn’t matter. It could be 2025 AD or 2025 BC. Maybe it’s not fair, you being the result of such a stretched-out sperm-and-egg relay race that’s led you to a comfortable twenty-first-century existence, hard-won by your forebears who died at twenty-five because they stubbed a toe. You aren’t supposed to die until you’re old and broken down and basically had your fill of this life, anyway.
This can’t be real. This can’t be you, this terrified thing hightailing it into the desert. Jimmy’s hot blood is soaking into your shirt and you’re running off into the night.
But to WHAT?
You’re in the middle of the desert. No one’s coming to help you. If you live through the night, things will only get worse, because then the sun comes out. A relentless enemy that weighs 333,000 times more than the earth you’re standing on and will cook you alive.
So run, while there’s still a good six or seven hours of darkness. Run into the night, away from your satellite phone which might bring help—too late—and the axe Jimmy used to cut the burning wood that’s become his pyre, which could’ve caved in the skull of the thing pursuing you.
The monster: man-shaped, like they all are. Draped in desert camo. Its eyes are two red splotches, angry pulses bursting from total blackness.
But that’s at your back. You run, faster than you’ve ever run before. Sweat beads on your brow. Your shirt sticks to your back. You don’t know where you’re going. Just away. Into the dark.
There’s so much of it, isn’t there?
At least you aren’t alone. You’ve got the voices. Nagging you, assailing you. Shouldn’t you have helped Jimmy? Maybe he’s still alive. Even more, why didn’t you grab that sat phone? Why would you flee headlong into the desert, where there’s not so much as a friendly gas station attendant with a convenient gun under the counter to help you?
Because you weren’t expecting this. No one ever does. We, as a society, don’t believe things like this are going to happen to us. Sure, maybe someone gets stabbed on the subway or there’s a mass shooting, but those things always happen somewhere else.
No one ever expects to be the girl with the knife to their throat.
Especially you, Kat. Aren’t you so above this?
The fire is now just a faint dot behind you. Every so often, you whip your head around, looking for a shape following you. You don’t see anyone. Your heart is still slamming in your chest but your head’s clearing, enough to think something other than horrible screaming thoughts.
The night sky is clear. The stars shine down, illuminating the desert.
The sight steadies you. You can think. You’ve made mistakes. You forgive yourself. The important thing is what you do next. You picture the map you reviewed on your phone. Where the campsite is. Where you are in relation to it.
That helps. Because knowing where you are lets you think about where you might go.
It’s not great—the closest road, the 190, is in the literal opposite direction of where you’ve run. Ditto for the Furnace Creek Visitor Center. If you keep going the way you’re going, you’ll hit mountains. Hell, you can see them rising up in front of you now—the night’s that clear.
So you can go back the way you came. Try to evade the monster.
Or you can turn north. Run perpendicular to the mountains until you hit the 190 that way. Maybe flag down a car.
You try to remember how far it is. Everything looks closer together on the map. You’re going to have to run for miles.
It’s really the only option. Hopefully, you make it by dawn.
You cut right, scanning the desert around you. It still doesn’t seem like anyone’s following, so you slow to a jog. If you save your strength, use it sparingly, you might just make it.
Headlights suddenly cut on, lancing across the desert floor to pin you in place. A moment later, you hear the rumble of the engine.
The headlights come for you.
Your plan is out the window. You turn for the mountains, now your only chance. Maybe you can find a box canyon, somewhere the car can’t follow.
No more saving your strength. You won’t need it for anything ever again unless—
The night flies by, faster than it should, and it takes your brain a second to process the fact that you’re flying through the air.
You’re wondering why it doesn’t hurt when you see the jagged rock rushing up to meet you. Your face slams into it, mouth open, the jagged end breaking through the back of your skull, bursting your head like a watermelon, brain matter and blood spurting into the air.
Of course you don’t see that part.
Or this:
A figure steps down from the vehicle. Boots crunch on the desert floor with every slow, precise footstep. The figure reaches you in its own good time and examines its latest collab with Mother Nature herself.
That fickle bitch.
It runs a gloved hand along the broken rim of your skull, marveling at what’s happened. How its vehicle, the ground, and you came together so perfectly. What are the chances? One in a million? More?
Sorry, Kat. You weren’t supposed to die in the desert. Maybe from plastic surgery complications, or in a motorcycle accident, or—most likely—of old age. But not now. And certainly not like this, in such an improbable and undignified manner.
You’re beyond the concept of dignity now, which might be a good thing because the monster who’s murdered you and your boyfriend Jimmy has noticed your tattoos. Especially that angel on your lower back.
Kind of a shitty angel, don’t you think? Letting this happen to you?
The monster traces the outlines of your angel, a light moan escaping its lips.
Carefully, gently, the monster separates your ruined skull from the rock outcropping and, with much less care, drags you by the ankles across the desert floor to a pair of open doors, where your angel will soon become something new and strange.
And so will you.
