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By John O'Brien

There is not any sanctuary.

That was once taken away within the blink of an eye.  Humanity went out now not with a whimper, yet a bang.

Jack, a occasionally funny, occasionally philosophical ex-special operations pilot and soldier is without doubt one of the few left to struggle through the desolation left within the aftermath; looking to live on as a new ferocious species emerges from the rubble, hungry and unrelenting.  
Will his detailed forces education be enough?  
Will he be ready to continue his childrens secure and guide the few survivors via perils that now roam the area they once knew?  
Or will the hordes that now own the evening be triumphant, eternally removal the final of mankind from existence?  Humankind used to be on the best of the food chain.  But that has now changed. 

This hard-hitting, action-packed sequence starts off with Jack Walker being abruptly thrust right into a global where the infrastructure which adored Armani fits, evening golf equipment, speedy and dear automobiles and staring at the daily stock industry are gone.  Left in its place is the fabric global mankind outfitted yet a majority of the inhabitants has vanished; changed via a brand new, savage, unrelenting, crafty, animalistic species which hunts and operates at night.

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I had endured this argument many times before. I knew there was no barb in his words, only love and disappointment. “Dear Father,” I said impatiently. “You can leave it to me and I will appoint good stewards …” He waved me to silence. “Trading is not an occupation that can be delegated to servants,” he pronounced loftily. “There is too much room for dishonesty. ” “That is ridiculous,” I cut in. “How many caravans do you still lead in person? One in ten? Once every two years when you become restless?

Welcome home! The southern sun has burned you to the colour of cinnamon, my son! How was your journey? ” My father’s scribe rose from his position on the floor, gave me a quick but very warm smile, and went out, his palette in one hand and his pen and scroll in the other. Indicating that I should take the chair facing the desk, my father regained his own and beamed across at me. His office was dim and always pleasantly cool as the only light came from a row of small clerestory windows up near the ceiling.

You and your entourage put in here last year when your skiff was holed. ” “No news,” May replied stiffly. “I am returning to Pi-Ramses from the south. ” Her smile widened. “And of course momentous events may have taken place in the north of which you are unaware,” she chided him with mock solemnity. “Therefore you can give me no news. Or is it that you do not wish to encourage me in conversation? I have fed you, Royal Herald May. ” She did not wait for permission. Sliding to the earth, she crossed her legs and settled her shift across her lap, and I was reminded of how the scribe in my father’s household would sink to the floor and use just such gestures to place his palette on his knees in order to take the dictation.

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