Nine Meals is a bestselling book with over 160 reviews on Amazon.com
Do you love an intelligent tale about loss, survival, and the human spirit?
Nine Meals has got IT. A rich plot. Deeply developed characters you want to both hug and hide from (the apocalyptic setting is a character unto itself, no doubt). Dialogue to die for and narrative so evocative you don't dare skip a word. I gush every once in a while and I can't help it here. See if you can hang with me while I let it all out. ~ Excerpt of review by Christine
When the sun belched and the power grid failed, it was only nine meals until the end of the world.
Billy "Shep" Shepard always thought the apocalypse would come from an asteroid with a funny name, or a super bug, or a nuclear war, or even Yellowstone blowing its top. It came from none of those things. Instead it came from an angry sun in the form of the biggest Coronal Mass Ejection mankind had ever seen - and it slapped the human race back a century.
In these grim times, people kill for food, water and weapons. They scratch out a feeble existence after "The Ejection." But not Shep. His biggest question each day in his underground bunker is "Cheese Ravioli, Beefaroni or SpaghettiOs?"
Shep soon discovers that nothing in this new world is guaranteed. He and Antigone, a girl he rescues, are forced to take a perilous journey across an unyielding landscape toward the one place rumored to be unsullied by the disaster. Along the way they must overcome hunger, disease, desperation and death while running from a man who wants nothing more than vengeance.
Excerpt of Part I - Chapter One
When Fletching Gets in Your Eye
(Kindle Locations 30-47)
Cheese Ravioli, Beefaroni or SpaghettiOs? That was the big decision to be made on this day. Well, on any day, really.
He was Billy Shepard – his friends, of which he had none anymore, called him Shep – and he had his pick of those and many others. Cans, hundreds of them, filled with all sorts of things like soups and broths, meats and SPAM, were stacked high in the pantry on shelves that ran the length of the wall in the cellar.
That pantry was his world now. His salvation. He stroked the coarse hair on his chin and contemplated his choice. It wasn’t one that should be made lightly. After all, the decision would determine his culinary selections for days. SpaghettiOs. Yes, SpaghettiOs it is. Can’t go wrong with SpaghettiOs. It was his guilty pleasure. It had calories. That was the most important thing. Life takes a lot of calories after the Ejection and he needed all he could consume.
He grabbed a can , stuffed it into the pocket of his tattered gray tracksuit jacket – he so loved it and couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it, even in the ragged condition it was in – and made his way up the narrow steps into his kitchen, which had seen better days. Everything had seen better days. The floor was warped and the linoleum cracked and peeled. The mustard yellow plaster walls were crumbling like dried-out and stale shortbread and the light that shined through the filmy window did little to make the room more attractive.
That was the point, though. The gangs didn’t raid the dank places, the dirty places, and the decrepit places. They raided the places that looked better than the squalor where they eked out an existence.
It was all about appearances now.
He wanted his house to look as if it was the worst place on the planet to be. He was doing a pretty good job of that, he thought.