By Sophie Littlefield
Awakening in a bleak panorama as scarred as her physique, Cass buck vaguely remembers surviving anything negative. Having no concept what number weeks have handed, she slowly realizes the scary fact: Ruthie has vanished.And together with her, the vast majority of civilization.Where once-lush hills carried vehicles and trade, the roads this day see simply cannibalistic Beaters—people became hungry for human flesh by way of a central authority scan long gone wrong.In a damaged, barren California, Cass will endure a harrowing quest to get Ruthie again. Few humans belief an interloper, not to mention a lady who turned a zombie and by some means grew to become again, yet she reveals support from an enigmatic outlaw, Smoke. Smoke is her savior, and her safety.For the Beaters are out there.And the people grip at survival with their set off palms. particularly after they study that she and Ruthie became the main feared, and wanted, of guns in a courageous new world….
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She was a lean woman with poorly cut hair, pieces of it jutting unevenly at her cheekbones. But she was clean—remarkably so. Her skin looked healthy and her eyes were clear. Cass found herself wondering if she was the man’s lover, and her gaze went to the woman’s fine small hands, the nails trimmed neatly. Her smooth pale legs under the plain denim shorts. “I’m Nora,” the woman said. Cass cleared her throat. Until this morning, she hadn’t spoken in many days, and she was out of practice. “I’m Cassandra.
Her nails were blackened and broken. Real Beaters usually had no nails left, but how could the girl be expected to notice a detail like that? In the second or two it took the girl to cross the last dozen yards of scrubby land, Cass considered standing firm, wrists out, chin up, giving her an easy target. They were taught well; any child over the age of five could find the jugular, the femoral, the carotid, the ulnar. They practiced on dummies rigged from dolls and clothes stuffed with straw. Sometimes, they practiced on the dead.
Eight or nine kids—toddlers up to six-or seven-year-olds—played on carpet scraps arranged on the floor at one end of the cafeteria. Sammi was watching them, along with a boy about her age. Smoke led Cass into the large open space, and the adults’ conversations died. People set down their playing cards, the baskets of clothes they had been folding, the kaysev they had been separating and cleaning and preparing. They regarded Cass with open curiosity and, in some cases, suspicion and fear and hostility.