By Sophie Littlefield
Awakening in a bleak panorama as scarred as her physique, Cass buck vaguely recollects surviving whatever bad. Having no concept what number weeks have handed, she slowly realizes the frightening fact: Ruthie has vanished.And together with her, the majority of civilization.Where once-lush hills carried vehicles and trade, the roads this present day see in simple terms cannibalistic Beaters—people grew to become hungry for human flesh by means of a central authority scan long gone wrong.In a damaged, barren California, Cass will suffer a harrowing quest to get Ruthie again. Few humans belief an intruder, not to mention a girl who turned a zombie and in some way grew to become again, yet she unearths aid 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 arms. specifically once they examine that she and Ruthie became the main feared, and wanted, of guns in a courageous new world….
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Her eyes fluttered closed as she inhaled as deeply as she could, and when she opened them, she saw that Smoke was staring at her with an expression that was part curiosity and part calculation, and no part fear. She drank. A. meetings. The first time she accepted a cup of coffee only because everyone else was drinking it. She’d never liked it much, drank it only on the occasional morning when she needed a little extra lift to get going, but at that meeting she drank two cups and on the way home she bought a ten-cup model at Wal-Mart, along with two pounds of ground beans.
Ruthie, who she couldn’t see or touch or hold in her arms. Ruthie, who screamed when the social workers dragged her away, her legs kicking desperately at nothing. Mim and Byrn wouldn’t even look at Cass as she collapsed to the dirty floor of the trailer and wished she was dead. Ruthie had been two. Cass pushed herself to go faster, her strides long and sure up over a gentle rise in the road. She was barely out of breath. This was nothing, less than nothing. She dug her hard, sharp nails into the calluses of her thumbs.
Kaysev had taken root in patches between the dead plants, and Cass had been curled up with her face in a soft clump, its gingery scent in her nostrils along with the other smells: the metal tang of crusted blood, the rotting spoils of her own breath, her body’s odor foul and acrid. Her mind had been clouded and troubled, both racing and stalled, somehow. She had no idea how she’d come to be lying, bruised and mangled, in the weeds, and she wondered if she was dead, because her last memory was praying for death when the Beaters closed their ruined fingers around her arms.