I am happy to announce that I’ve just finished writing the third book in the best-named trilogy of all time. The last volume, titled The Daring Adventures of Amorous Prince Dietrich brings conclusion to the escapades of our misunderstood and loathed protagonist – Dick.
Hello Darkness my old friend. Yup, the name of the second book in my dystopian, first-person zombie novella series is – you guessed it right – Darkness! Following on the somber premise laid out in the first book – Decay, Darkess continues the story of humanz. And there’s an amazing cover, too, once again conceived by the kickass artist Anton Kokarev.
No rest for the righteous. With great delight, I have commenced to write the final piece in the best-named trilogy of all times, Woes and Hose. The third book will be called, wait for it, The Daring Adventures of Amorous Prince Dietrich. And it’s already 25% done!
Ah, this is the question that every author has asked themselves, at some point in their career. Now, I personally believe that one should not write books for money – as opposed to getting paid to write, ’tis a subtle difference. One should write with love and passion, and if a work makes it into the big beyond, then it’s a nice bonus. A really nice bonus. Now, regardless of what your motives are, the question remains. And the answer is: no, of course not, don’t be silly.
Lee Qiang opened the email. It was in Mandarin:
I know you’re angry. I know you feel like I betrayed you. But we both know that’s not the case. This is war, and as luck would have it, we fight for different sides in this sorry conflict. We both know what it takes—whatever it takes—to finish the mission. I could not have given up mine, and I know you know and respect that. You would have done the same. Had I given up, I would have lost your respect, and no matter how insincere that may sound to you, I find that important.
“How are you?”
“Nervous,” Sveta said.
Lee Qiang smiled. “That facade finally crumbling, eh?”
Sveta made a wry face. “I have seen prisoner exchanges before. Sometimes they go badly wrong. I’d rather be crossing the Volga River in a Taifun. At least there I had the feeling of being in control.”
Is that what’s bothering you? Lee Qiang wondered. That you are no longer in control? That you cannot manipulate anymore? That you’re going back to your side, which may not look fondly on your getting captured?
Friendly territory.
To the untrained eye, the differences between our side and their side were subtle. New flags and uniforms, new types of technology and weaponry. But it was still a war zone. Rubble, checkpoints, walls of gabions, machine gun turrets, sniper nests.
And then there were the smells of destruction.
To Lee Qiang, this was a brand new world.
Ignoring the wounded, Lee Qiang tuned his mind back to the fight. They had to neutralize the armor first. If they did not, they would all die.
He tried to close his fist. It worked. He opened it. A spongy feeling, but his muscles responded. His sleeve was drenched with blood. The fabric was ripped in two places where the shrapnel had cut through.
Lee Qiang rose, using his left arm to pull himself up against the greasy side of the all-terrain vehicle. The cannon breech was closed. Lonya must have reloaded a fresh shell before the Type 89 fired. Lee Qiang positioned himself behind the gunner sight, aiming the iron at the AFV.
“Maybe you use some of that gay charm to talk our way out of this?”
Lee Qiang put a hand on Lip’s shoulder and loved the fact the man flinched ever so subtly. “Not sure if that’s going to work here, but thank you for your suggestion.”
There was a bridge.
Flowing lazily under it, the Volga River.
Guarding both banks was a shady bunch of troops in mismatched camo and a serious stock of weapons.
Yefim had rhotacism.
Back in Poland, when Lee Qiang had been growing up, such a speech impediment would have earned a child a lifetime worth of beating. Probably in all the Slavic countries.
The fact Yefim was still very much healthy and alive in Sector 8 meant the childhood bullying had prepared him well.
They sat in the man’s house, in what would technically be the living room, drinking too-sweet tea from small crystal glasses.
It was surreal.
