A Special Sneak Peek of THE RED SKY

Hello all!

I’m very excited to share with you a very special sneak peek of THE RED SKY, which will be out in October 2022. Below is the opening Prologue of the book, which I am happily sharing with all of you today. If you have comments or questions, feel free to leave them below, and thanks for reading!

Obviously, if you haven’t yet completed THE BLACK SKY, you might want to hold off on reading this until you do.

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One year ago, a long-range nuclear missile detonated two-hundred and fifty miles above the Gulf of Mexico, just south of what remains of southern Louisiana. It was intended as a warning, but it became an unintended beacon of hope.

Debris tendrils rippled through the permanently overcast skies, purple fingers twisting to magenta and then bright red, as weary eyes across the battered continent looked up in unison at the post-apocalyptic signal flare. Survivors of the asteroid impact, less than sixty million left in the former United States of the eight billion worldwide, witnessed in unison humanity briefly reclaim the heavens. Through eleven years of misery and despair, the earth and its inhabitants fought back against their extinction. Perpetual midnight evolved into a cloudy gray mist. Air quality slowly improved as the climate began its long journey of self-correction.

A word, simple yet powerful, crept back into the lexicon: hope.

Ibbie Blake didn’t see it, and honestly, she didn’t give a shit.

One of her coworkers at the grocery store on West 138th and Broadway in Manhattan mentioned it as everyone stared with mouths agape at the island’s non-stop televised corporate news feed. Frantic reports trickled in of a blackout in the lower half of the city, followed by random gunfire, explosions, and the crashing of a helicopter. Rather than stand around and gawk at a screen, when shift ended, she left.

Most of her day was spent in worn-out footwear that stressed her back. All she cared about was going home, having dinner, and falling asleep until the next shift started. She picked up bits and pieces of information in the days and weeks afterward, continued not giving a shit, and went on with her life.

Today, like a year ago, Ibbie finishes her ten-hour shift at the market. In her pre-asteroid life, she was the operator of a small but successful family-owned organic farm in New Hampshire. Her current position as ‘Produce Supply Chain Manager’ requires her to keep stocked the fruits and vegetables that are grown at the soil-free aeroponic farm located several floors above the ground level store. Half of her day is spent in a service elevator, shuttling full crates of the lower quality products sold to the general public onto the sales floor while the pristine picks are ferried out to the corporate kitchens around the city, consumed by the untouchable elite at the top of the literal food chain. Though it smells of engine oil and rotted wood, it’s Ibbie’s sanctuary - the only place in the building without a security camera. Which means on occasion, if she pops a grape into her mouth, or a wayward radish or plum finds its way into her pocket, so be it.

Ibbie long ago reached a moral peace with the arrangements, understanding her life in the grand scheme is only valuable so long as she keeps working. She gives that same level of respect back to the omnipresent corporation that chews up and spits out everyone daily without remorse. Along with her twenty million or so fellow residents, she understands that her kind - the expendable workforce - are interchangeable cogs. Necessary grist for the capitalist mill.

Outside the island, positioned at the other end of various bridges, are makeshift camps of thousands waiting for a chance to escape the forgotten wasteland known as the “Free Zone,” a pyrrhic description if there ever was one. Free of laws, of safety, potable water, fertile soil, most wildlife, or anything resembling a society. They live in surrounding tent cities and wait in overcrowded queues for a job opening in one of the fourteen corporate-controlled cities around the former United States.

Ibbie hates surviving on the crumbs of the wealthy, but it’s better than starving in the Free Zone.

At shift end, Ibbie clocks out on the biometric fingerprint scanner to receive her daily credit allotment, a portion which is automatically deducted from her citizenship debt balance. Current tally is eight years, eleven months, and twenty-two working days remaining to erase the debt, a debt every new citizen incurs upon arrival once they start a new job. The broader the skill set, the better chance of moving up the queue. But pad the resume and fail to perform, back to the Free Zone with no second chance, a list shared amongst all the cities.

She makes the cold January footstep trek up Broadway through West Harlem and Hamilton Heights to her two-hundred square foot apartment in Sugar Hill. The sidewalks are always busy, the city runs twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, just like before. There is no morning commute traffic, no busy lunch rush, no happy hour. The city is constantly in motion, ensuring nothing stops, from production to consumption. All work and very little play when the game is survival.

Ice is worn to the concrete in the busy pathways, but on the less traveled edges, an occasional slippery spot hides in waiting. With the tread nearly erased from her shoes, she makes an extra effort to stay center, weaving through pedestrian traffic and the regular intervals of scaffolding with efficiency and rote boredom. Up above, building facades are cracked and crumbling, beaten and battered from a perpetual winter. Some are repaired, some wrapped in material to prevent large chunks from coming down, while most are simply demolished to flatness.

This isn’t the vibrant Manhattan of yesteryear or even the sanitized tourist version. There are no colorful street performers or vendors hawking knock-off Gucci bags. Faces are covered with either low-end cotton masks to filter out the still troublesome airborne particulates, or higher-end versions with portable air tanks. Either is a necessity for a walk over a few blocks. And Ibbie’s walk is more than just a few blocks.

The only difference between today and almost any other day is a package waiting for her at the first-floor security office of the apartment building. Another fingerprint scan to receive the anticipated purchase and she’s finally home, kicking off her work shoes with an aching sigh. Stripping out of her winter wear and dirty work overalls, she slips on her regular t-shirt and gym shorts, then collapses onto her lowered Murphy bed. Dinner flashes in her head as she fingers the remote to turn on the wall-mounted television screen. A well-manicured talking head seated at a news desk introduces their guest with vapid efficiency.

“On this solemn anniversary, we are joined by Manhattan Island Vice President Sandra Nolan. Vice President Nolan, welcome back to the program. And thank you for taking the time out of your busy schedule.”

The screen splits, the talking head on the left, the also well-manicured Sandra Nolan on the right. On the lapel of her fashionable blazer, a pin displays the number “1” with the word “Manhattan” etched vertically. All of Manhattan’s corporate leadership wears the reminder of the previous year’s attack, which is plastered across Manhattan on banners and flags.

“Thank you for having me,” says Nolan in a pleasant but let’s-get-this-over-with tone.

“Vice President Nolan, it has been a historic twelve months for our city. A year ago, to the day, Free Zone terrorists launched a deadly attack on the city. Shortly after, you championed the creation of the United Cities Coalition with Atlanta, Chicago, St. Louis, Indianapolis, Columbus, and Pittsburgh in response to the New American Alliance led by Jasper Reynolds. In addition, after almost eleven years of the Manhattan Island board governing the island, we have ushered in a new era with the popular election of Peter Birkman as the new President and C.E.O., replacing interim President Lloyd Rust. You’ve been the face of the administration over the past year, can you talk about what the transition period has been like?”

Her stomach weighing in on the lack of a dinner plan, Ibbie steps into the tight galley kitchen area, placing the cardboard package on the aged laminate countertop before examining options in the refrigerator.

“President-elect Birkman asked me to stay on during this period,” Nolan says, “and it has been exciting to work with him through the next phase for the city. With the new leadership in place, and changes made to our overall management workflow, there is an opportunity for the citizens to have a greater voice in our day-to-day operations.”

Ibbie pulls out a partial head of iceberg lettuce, chops off the brown spots, and dices the rest into a bowl, followed by the remains of half a cucumber, green pepper, and two carrots, tossing the odd bits into her mouth and savoring the crunch. Quick cleaning of the knife and she turns her attention to the package, slicing it open to reveal - a shoebox. Wearing the same pair for almost four years has taken a painful toll. The cushioning flattened, the arch erased, like wearing flip-flops meant for the beach on a file mile run. She siphoned a few credits here and there for the last six months to make this purchase.

“Happy Birthday to me,” she sing-speaks under her breath, and eyes the television across the room with waning interest.

“Let us shift gears back to the ongoing negotiations between the UCC and NAA,” says the talking head.

“We’re very much looking forward to bringing all parties together,” Nolan starts. “My conversations with heads of the coalition member cities have made steady progress towards a comprehensive summit itinerary. President Birkman will be traveling this week to a coalition conference to finalize the itinerary before heading to the summit in Indianapolis at the end of the week. We’ve made important strides this year after a decade of isolation.”

Ibbie lifts the shoes out of the box and slips them on, a perfect fit thanks to the digital scan she received at the footwear kiosk. Advanced dynamic nitrogen-infused cushioning support with water-proof lining, temperature regulation, self-lacing, and custom triple-color striping. She walks around the room a bit, luxuriating in the thick cushioning and proper arch support.

“According to a recent report, there has been a significant drop in waiting lines at the prospective citizen queues surrounding the city,” the talking head continues, “while at the same time, outside the northeastern gates thousands of refugees have arrived from Boston. Clearly, Manhattan cannot accommodate them all. Will resettlement of these refugees to partner cities be discussed?”

“Yes,” responds Nolan. “As you know, we have a worsening humanitarian crisis developing because of the attack on Boston. Having no governing body or policing force for the last year, the city has suffered a power vacuum leaving over seven million citizens to fend for themselves. They are at the mercy of several brutal Free Zone gangs fighting for control. Thousands have fled the city, and while we cannot accommodate them all, we have reached out to our UCC partners for assistance.”

Hungrier than she thought, a flicker of unsteadiness hits Ibbie’s head and knees as she steps back into the kitchen and pops a chunk of cucumber into her mouth. She instinctively grabs for the countertop as her knees buckle, dropping her to the checkered linoleum floor. The sound from the television crumbles into a distorted wash as she gasps for breath and her chest tightens.

And then she’s gone.