Apocalypticon
by Clayton
Smith
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
BLURB:
Three years have passed since the Jamaicans caused the apocalypse,
and things in post-Armageddon Chicago have settled into a new kind of normal.
Unfortunately, that "normal" includes collapsing skyscrapers, bands
of bloodthirsty maniacs, and a dwindling cache of survival supplies. After
watching his family, friends, and most of the non-sadistic elements of society
crumble around him, Patrick decides it's time to cross one last item off his
bucket list.
He’s
going to Disney World.
This
hilarious, heartfelt, gut-wrenching odyssey through post-apocalyptic America is
a pilgrimage peppered with peril, as fellow survivors Patrick and Ben encounter
a slew of odd characters, from zombie politicians and deranged survivalists to
a milky-eyed oracle who doesn't have a lot of good news. Plus, it looks like
Patrick may be hiding the real reason for their mission to the Magic Kingdom...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Excerpt One:
Ben ripped
off a fresh, cleanish strip of blanket and wrapped it around the hand. Patrick
whimpered as he pulled it tight and tied it off. “Next time the world ends,
let’s make sure we’re stocked up on peroxide and bandages,” Ben said.
Patrick glowered
at the first aid kit, which lay open on the hood. Its contents included, and
were extremely limited to, six Band-Aids, four cotton swabs, a bottle of
Tylenol, some nail polish remover, a packet of Midol, a travel box of Clorox
Handi Wipes, and a roll of Tums. “Who packed that thing?” Ben asked. “Pee Wee
Herman?”
“The really
scary part is, that’s the kit we had in a house with a five-year-old. Criminy.
We’re lucky 20 fold-up accordion snakes didn’t pop out when we opened the lid.”
He picked up the Tylenol with his good hand and struggled with the lid for a
while before turning it over to Ben. “Help. It’s childproof.”
He couldn’t
tell if he really had a fever, or it if was a phantom sickness, but he wasn’t
taking any chances. The most benign injury could turn fatal without basic
medical supplies. And a half-inch hole through the hand was not a benign
injury. If the alcohol didn’t kill the infection, he’d lose his hand. That’s a
surgery he didn’t want to think about undergoing with full sedation, much less
in the backwoods of Mississippi while buzzed on a bottle of Canadian Mist with
Ben as his surgeon. He checked the bandage and made sure it was tight. The
wound seemed to have stopped bleeding, at least, though he seemed to have lost
feeling in his three middle fingers. He didn't take that for a good sign. “We
need real medical supplies,” he said. “Because I am not letting you cut off my
hand.”
“What’s the
point of even having a machete if we’re not gonna use it?” Ben complained.
AUTHOR Bio and Links:
Clayton
Smith is a sometimes-writer, sometimes-napper based in Chicago, where he uses
neither his bachelor’s in journalism nor his master’s in arts management. He is
often calamitous, and good at bacon. He lives with his impressively tolerant
wife.
Clayton’s
previous works include Pants on Fire: A Collection of Lies and the comedic play
Death and McCootie, which debuted at the 2013 New York International Fringe
Festival.
Links:
www.StateOfClayton.com
www.twitter.com/Claytonsaurus
www.facebook.com/Claytonsaurus
Clayton will be awarding a $25 Amazon gift
card to a randomly drawn commenter during the tour so follow his tour and comment often. You can find his schedule at
Thanks for this great giveaway!!!
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