By James Jaros
Tomorrow's global is a barren region, decimated through vengeful nature and ailment . . .
And those that rule the ruins worship a merciless and poor god.
Having survived the fear of the Alliance and the single-minded fanaticism of its hideous faith, a caravan of survivors strikes speedy into the good American barren region, the wastes of what as soon as was once America's heartland. along with her daughters at her side—recently rescued Ananda and her bold older sister, Bliss—Jessie hopes to discover sanctuary within the Arctic, now rumored to be temperate. yet their enemies are strong and constant, and won't relaxation till they own the caravan's most beneficial treasures: their prepubescent girl kids, a stolen tanker choked with gasoline . . . and a couple of nervous twins, whom the military of God calls "demon."
But the risk in pursuit pales sooner than the horror that lies forward whilst Jessie, the marauder-turned-ally Burned arms, and the innocents of their care face the savagery, the insanity, and the monsters that live within the terrifying urban of colour
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Additional resources for Carry the Flame (Burn Down the Sky, Book 2)
Tarly was buried beneath a mound of black wool blankets and shaggy furs. The snow was drifting in to cover him. He looked like some kind of soft round mountain. Steel whispered on leather faint as hope as Chett eased his dagger from its sheath. One of the ravens quorked. “Snow,” another muttered, peering through the bars with black eyes. The first added a “Snow” of its own. He edged past them, placing each foot carefully. He would clap his left hand down over the fat boy’s mouth to muffle his cries, and then .
The realm knows Jaime Lannister as a beardless knight with long golden hair. A bald man with a filthy yellow beard may pass unnoticed. ” The dagger was not as sharp as it might have been. Cleos hacked away manfully, sawing and ripping his way through the mats and tossing the hair over the side. The golden curls floated on the surface of the water, gradually falling astern. As the tangles vanished, a louse went crawling down his neck. Jaime caught it and crushed it against his thumbnail. Ser Cleos picked others from his scalp and flicked them into the water.
That’s a bear print. You want some meat or no? ” But the hounds only huddled closer, whining. Chett snapped his short lash above their heads, and the black bitch snarled at him. “Dog meat would taste as good as bear,” he warned her, his breath frosting with every word. Lark the Sisterman stood with his arms crossed over his chest and his hands tucked up into his armpits. He wore black wool gloves, but he was always complaining how his fingers were frozen. “It’s too bloody cold to hunt,” he said.