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Reinigen: A Post-Apocalyptic Fiction Novel
Paperback
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ISBN10: 1647380782
ISBN13: 9781647380786
Publisher: Lightning Source Inc
Published: May 15 2023
Pages: 226
Weight: 0.68
Height: 0.48 Width: 6.00 Depth: 9.00
Language: English
ISBN13: 9781647380786
Publisher: Lightning Source Inc
Published: May 15 2023
Pages: 226
Weight: 0.68
Height: 0.48 Width: 6.00 Depth: 9.00
Language: English
With the United States, China and Russia jockeying to become the world power, it turned out to be a long forgotten regime that plunged the world into chaos. After twice trying to take over the world, and coming close, did we really think the evil would go away so quickly after World War II? When their bid to take over the world was thwarted, they decided to play the long game, harvesting the DNA of their leader so that in the future they could recreate him. However, even they weren't prepared for what they unleashed on the world. What they hoped to create was their beloved leader, what they got was much, much worse. With the world in turmoil and life outside becoming more uninhabitable by the day, the Ark was meant to be their sanctuary, but now it is going to become their tomb. Excerpt
Trudging along the frozen ground, the occasional tuft of long dead vegetation crunching beneath his boots, he walks with a slight forward lean, bracing himself against the constant, icy wind. Layered from head-to-toe in what were once high-quality clothes, now looking more like soot-stained rags, he presses on, head down, face covered, squinting against the penetrating conditions. A long, heavy, black coat gives him the look of a gunslinger, hiding much of his form, impossible to ascertain his true size or build. He carves his way through desolation that not long ago was vibrant and brimming with life.
Wisps of darkened snow dance and scamper along the barren Earth as he pushes forward. Even with his face covered, the stink of this decaying world penetrates the makeshift mask, his nostrils filled with the sulfur-filled scent that can best be described as the smell of death.
From his old, weathered, waterproof backpack, he removes a container full of water and takes a long, satisfying pull on it, quenching his thirst from a day of traveling. It contains a biofiltration system that allows him to use any water he finds, most of which is contaminated. He then removes a container full of sliced oranges, unscrews the lid and begins devouring the contents.
With daytime temperatures never getting above the 30s, the days are quite cold. But the nights are downright brutal as wind chill levels often reach negative numbers and without proper shelter, frostbite and death is imminent. He removes a package from his backpack, carefully folded, opening a long, thin roll of material. He sets up the tiny tent, erecting it as far into the makeshift cave as possible and in less than two minutes, home for the evening is prepared. The tent is small and dark green in color, only two feet high, three feet wide and seven feet long. He then wiggles his way into the tent, sealing the door behind him with heavy, Velcro straps. He then produces a small, black object made of durable plastic that is about the size of a brick. Checking the battery life, he sees that it is in the red now. Definitely in need of a charge, but enough juice for a few more days. He flicks it on and the coils inside spring to life with an orange glow. He hangs it from a small, fabric hook above him, and with a low hum, it begins already circulating heat. In a matter of minutes, the heat from the device, reflected off the specially designed, insulated interior of the tent, makes the space warm and balmy. Soon he ends up shrugging off his jacket, then his shirt until he is bare-chested. His light brown hair is nearly black from the grime of this world, and he feels as though he may never be clean again. It feels so good to shut his eyes and he rubs them hard with the heels of his thick, powerful hands, as if he is trying to erase the images he has seen. Then, in minutes, he drifts off to sleep.
His name is Mason.
Wisps of darkened snow dance and scamper along the barren Earth as he pushes forward. Even with his face covered, the stink of this decaying world penetrates the makeshift mask, his nostrils filled with the sulfur-filled scent that can best be described as the smell of death.
From his old, weathered, waterproof backpack, he removes a container full of water and takes a long, satisfying pull on it, quenching his thirst from a day of traveling. It contains a biofiltration system that allows him to use any water he finds, most of which is contaminated. He then removes a container full of sliced oranges, unscrews the lid and begins devouring the contents.
With daytime temperatures never getting above the 30s, the days are quite cold. But the nights are downright brutal as wind chill levels often reach negative numbers and without proper shelter, frostbite and death is imminent. He removes a package from his backpack, carefully folded, opening a long, thin roll of material. He sets up the tiny tent, erecting it as far into the makeshift cave as possible and in less than two minutes, home for the evening is prepared. The tent is small and dark green in color, only two feet high, three feet wide and seven feet long. He then wiggles his way into the tent, sealing the door behind him with heavy, Velcro straps. He then produces a small, black object made of durable plastic that is about the size of a brick. Checking the battery life, he sees that it is in the red now. Definitely in need of a charge, but enough juice for a few more days. He flicks it on and the coils inside spring to life with an orange glow. He hangs it from a small, fabric hook above him, and with a low hum, it begins already circulating heat. In a matter of minutes, the heat from the device, reflected off the specially designed, insulated interior of the tent, makes the space warm and balmy. Soon he ends up shrugging off his jacket, then his shirt until he is bare-chested. His light brown hair is nearly black from the grime of this world, and he feels as though he may never be clean again. It feels so good to shut his eyes and he rubs them hard with the heels of his thick, powerful hands, as if he is trying to erase the images he has seen. Then, in minutes, he drifts off to sleep.
His name is Mason.
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