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About the author:
Amy Rachiele is a Reader, Writer, Tea-er, Werewolf-lovin’, Sci-fi Junkie, who won’t survive the apocalypse… unless she has a tailor made Iron Man suit.
Here is a short sample from the book:
I cover my ears and run. The cellar door is open and I trip down the stairs gouging my bare leg on a splinter jutting out from the decaying railing. Blood trailing across my leg doesn’t stop me, and I take the last few steps landing on the dirt floor. It seeps in between my toes–dry, powdery, and old like someone trapped it in a bottle, suffocating it. I jump over discarded broken chair legs and scattered junk, my dress tangling between my legs. I hide behind the fragments of a rundown cabinet. Spiders, shadows, and the musty odor have kept me from coming down here until now. I crouch down and hug my knees to my chest. The screaming from upstairs is muffled but it rings in my ears just as loud as if it was beside me. I crush my hands over my ears again and rock back and forth wishing it all to be over.
The cellar steps creak and my tear streaked face pops up. My heart thumps wildly while I peek out from my hiding place.
He is a silhouette descending down. I watch in the eerie dimness as his darkened hand slips along the rail as he plunges deeper into the cellar.
He is coming for me.
There is nowhere to go.
I stuff myself tighter behind the wooden slab wondering if my heart can burst from fear. I run my hand down my calves in an attempt to comfort myself and the wetness from my wound reminds me of it making it prickle with pain.
Seconds pass and he is here, standing over me, colossal. He squats down and my hand snakes out slapping his arm. A bold, defiant move fueled by the rebellion in my veins. The flesh of my fingers stings hurting me more than any damage my ten-year-old body could do to him. I can’t see his face but I can imagine what his face looks like contorted when mad.
No one leaves during a cleansing, not children, women, or even anyone who is sick. Everyone must be present for it. It is a ritual to remind us of our allegiance to the Anointed Heavens. It’s silly and I don’t want to do it.
His beefy hand reaches out to take me by the arm but I slap it away. Anger is vibrating off of him. I crouch down tighter, making myself as small as possible, hoping this will keep him from reaching me.
The word isn’t coming from me. It is coming from someone on the stairs. There is a thunk of someone running down the rickety steps.
“Don’t hurt her!”
“Get back upstairs, Jonah!” The fire in his voice resonates, and I clamp my filthy hands over my ears again and slap my eyes shut, crunching the lids together and pray for him to go away.
My eyes snap open and the dream that comes to haunt me at least once a month flits by like annoying moths that buzz around a light in the dead of night.