Plague Year
Authors: Jeff Carlson
Tags: #Fiction - Science Fiction, #Space Opera, #Fiction, #Science Fiction, #Science Fiction - General, #Adventure, #General, #High Tech, #American Science Fiction And Fantasy
Plague Year
Plague
Book I
Jeff Carlson
Synopsis
The nanotechnology was designed to fight cancer. Instead, it evolved into the Machine Plague, killing nearly five billion people and changing life on Earth forever.
The nanotech has one weakness: it self-destructs at altitudes above ten thousand feet. Those few who've managed to escape the plague struggle to stay alive on the highest mountains, but time is running out-there is famine and war, and the environment is crashing worldwide. Humanity's last hope lies with a top nanotech researcher aboard the International Space Station-and with a small group of survivors in California who risk a daring journey below the death line...
“An epic of apocalyptic fiction: Harrowing, heartfelt, and rock-hard realistic. A cautionary tale. Not to be missed.”
—James Rollins,
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Judas Strain
“Part Michael Crichton, part George Romero, Jeff Carlson’s
Plague Year
is deft and compelling, full of high-altitude chills.”
—E. E. Knight, National bestselling author of
Valentine’s Exile
“Frightening, plausible, and action-packed,
Plague Year
is one of the best debut novels in years...Jeff Carlson packs riveting storytelling with a lot of fresh ideas.”
—David Brin,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Kiln People
“A grim and fascinating new twist on the post-holocaust story, unlike anything I’ve read before.”
—Kevin J. Anderson,
New York Times
bestselling co-author of
Hunters of Dune
“Jeff Carlson is a terrific writer and
Plague Year
is a marvelous book, full of memorable characters, white-knuckle scenes, and big ideas. Get in on the ground floor with this exciting new author.”
—Robert J. Sawyer, Hugo and Nebula Award–winning author of
Rollback
“
Plague Year
proposes a frightening new nanotech catastrophe, and uses it as a crucible to explore the best and worst of human nature. Tightly written and well-told.”
—Robert Charles Wilson, Hugo and Aurora Award–winning author of
Spin
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
PLAGUE YEAR
An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2007 by Jeff Carlson.
Maps by Meghan Mahler.
Interior text design by Laura K. Corless.
ISBN: 1-4362-3468-9
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For Diana
Content
They ate Jorgensen first. He’d twisted his leg bad—his long white leg. The man hadn’t been much more than a stranger, but Cam remembered five hundred things about him.
It was a weakness.
Cam remembered someone who never cursed, who kept his credit cards and driver’s license for some reason. He remembered a hard worker who exhausted himself the day that he fell.
Later there were others Cam had actually talked with, where they were from, what kind of jobs they’d had. Talking made the days easier, except that ghosts seemed very real after you’d sucked the marrow out of someone’s finger bones, and Cam got extra portions because he volunteered for wood detail even when the snow drifted up over the roof.
Each night stretched longer than his memory. Erin refused to have sex more than it took to get warm, and then there was nothing to do but pick at his blister rash and listen to the nightmares and slow whispers that filled the hut.
He was glad when Manny banged on the wall and yelled.
Erin shifted but didn’t wake. She could stay down for twelve, thirteen hours at a stretch. Others pushed up on one elbow or raised their heads, mumbling, groaning—screaming when Manny pushed through the door and let in a river of cold air. Fresh air. It washed Cam’s ghosts away.
The kid was short for fifteen, barely five-three, but still had to duck the ceiling. They were lucky they hadn’t scavenged enough material for anything better. They probably would have built high out of habit. This low space was quick to heat and they planned to drop the roof another twelve inches before winter rolled around again, use the extra boards for insulation.
Manny said, “There’s someone in the valley.”
“What?”
“Price wants to light a bonfire.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Someone’s in the valley. Coming toward us.”
Cam reached over Erin to shake Sawyer, but Sawyer was already awake. His arm tensed under Cam’s palm. The fire, down to coals, threw just enough light into their corner that the profile of Sawyer’s newly shaved scalp looked like a bullet.
“In the valley,” Sawyer repeated. “That’s impossible.”
Manny shook his head. “We can see a flashlight.”
* * * *
The high California Sierra, east of whatever remained of Sacramento, consisted of surprisingly straight lines. Ravines and drainages formed slashing V shapes. Every mountaintop grew to a pyramid or slumped away as flat as a parking lot. Painted by the sweet glow of the stars, the sight gave Cam hope—that it was beautiful, that he could still recognize beauty.
Even better, it must be April or even May and would finally get warm enough that he could escape the stinking hut and sleep outside.
The toes Manny had lost didn’t prevent the kid from setting a quick pace, weaving around the fields of snow they hadn’t yet carried to their crude reservoir. Cam and Sawyer kept close on his heels. This peak was no bigger than the back of God’s hand and they knew every barren inch of it, hunting day and night for the few rodents and birds that lived along the tree line, scouring it clean of plant life.
They’d been up here now for most of a year, maybe longer. It was definitely spring again, they knew that much, no matter how confused their best calendar might be.
They’d been up here too long.
Jim Price had everyone from the other cabin hauling firewood to a low ridge, even his woman, Lorraine, who’d miscarried just three weeks ago. Cam couldn’t recall whether Lorraine had limped before or not. So many of them moved awkwardly now.
Price himself stayed by the woodpile, pointing, hollering, marching alongside one man briefly before hustling back to help another guy load up. “Here you go, let’s go!” Unfortunately some of these people needed cheerleading. In Cam’s opinion, at least half of Price’s supporters were fractured, beaten souls who had latched on to the only available father figure. At forty-six, Price was twelve years older than anyone else on the mountain.