Shana Festa - Induction

Hello readers! My name is Mark Tufo, author of the Zombie Fallout series and other stories. But this isn’t really about me, although I had to get in my shameless plug, this is about Shana Festa and her new book Time of Death : Induction . I get asked probably a couple dozen times a week to look at folks’ stories or writings and I always graciously decline. Listen, I’m honored that folks think I’m knowledgeable enough to give them tips and pointers or critique their stories. Fact is, I am not a critic. I hate doing it. I would no sooner tell someone their work was subpar than I would take food from a baby (unless it was a peanut butter cookie then all bets are off). Once upon a time, I accepted all stories truly with the hope that I could help out. I got so inundated within the first month, I quickly stopped. I’d received over a hundred books, the vast majority of which I will never, despite my good intentions, read. Now they reside in the corner of my office where they produce feelings of guilt every time I pass them by. I realized that just reading those stories would become a full-time job. That was three years ago, and I’ve politely turned down every request since.

So why now, you ask? Well you can blame it on the missus. Now I’m not saying seek her out and request that I read your book. I’ve already told her I don’t like doing it. I’m not comfortable with it, and I am by no means an expert. With that being said, Shana has done a lot for us by posting reviews of my books on her blog and generally tweeting the hell out of them. So for that we are extremely thankful. When she contacted us and told us that she had written a book, I was thrilled for her—if you’ve ever tried it, you’ll realize it’s not nearly as easy as one might think trying to collect those thousand thoughts you have and making them sound cohesive. Shana did it and she did it well; her story is fast-paced and crammed with action and characters you will come to love (well not all of them). I’ve written a few forewords and I struggle with what I can and cannot share, i.e. spoilers. Suffice it to say, I believe Shana has a brilliant start to what is sure to be an epic zombie apocalypse adventure. And I hope Shana takes this as the compliment I intend for it to be. I do believe her strong female lead could be related to Mike Talbot (read the story and that’ll make much more sense).

So to you, dear reader, Shana has delivered with her first novel what most can only hope to achieve, and I truly hope that you enjoy it as much as I did!

Nick Michaels sipped coffee on his back lanai, savoring the last few minutes of peace before leaving for work. Even in October, Florida was still hot enough to reduce the man to a puddle of sweat.

He pulled on his work boots, gave his sleeping girlfriend a quick peck on the cheek, and went out into the morning. Soon he was behind the wheel and heading down the road. He tapped the power button on the truck’s radio as he pulled out of the parking lot and turned the dial until he found something worthwhile. With his windows down, he sang along with Alanis Morissette about all things ironic.

The job site was a hive of activity when he arrived. His truck’s loud diesel engine was replaced with the sound of heavy equipment coming to life. Nick fed the pipe into the ground as the bit penetrated hard earth. He held up a fist to his teammate as the grinding noise of metal on rock changed to a high-pitched whine, indicating the drill bit needed to be replaced. The team welcomed the disruption and used the time to make trips to the portable toilet, smoke cigarettes, and gulp down some water under the shade of a tree on the adjacent lot.

Their break was cut short when a woman in her late sixties rounded the corner of the house shaking her fist in the air and yelling for them to get off her property. The ranting woman was clad in a flowered housecoat and matching slippers. Her gray hair was done up in pink foam rollers, and most of it was trying to escape. The men held up their hands in a placating gesture and backed away from the tree, heading to their respective stations and resuming the dig.

With the drill bit replaced, Nick once again guided it down through the hole. The sound reminded him of childhood visits to the dentist as it bored through rock. He shuddered at the memory of cavities being filled and swore he felt a tingle in his mouth every time the whirling rotor struck some new obstacle in its path. After only a few minutes, the deep rumbling was again replaced with the whining of nothingness. Annoyed, Nick began the process of removing the tool from the deep hole to check for damage. As the head was backed out, a pocket of gas escaped through the newly created opening, and a loud whoosh sounded as it traveled to the surface.

A dense cloud of yellow vapor escaped, engulfing the closest men in a thick fog. Nick collapsed, clutching and scratching at his throat while the offending vapor suffocated him. As fast as it materialized, it began to dissipate in a swirling mist and evaporated into the air. The aftermath left him disoriented on the sunbaked dirt. Fresh air flooded back into his lungs. He began to cough, creating little clouds of dust that stung his eyes and felt gritty on his teeth as he licked his lips. There was a pounding in his head that beat in time with his heart. When he opened his eyes, a stab of pain bore into his pupils as the light danced on his corneas like glittering fairies from Hell. Slowly shaking his head as if to clear water from his ears, Nick found his three teammates to be in a similar state of pain and confusion.

The men half-stumbled, half-crawled to the respite of the tree and sat with their backs against the trunk. Each of them held their head in their hands in a futile attempt to quell the pounding headache, and they took turns letting out quiet moans of suffering lest the unwelcome noise of their voices amplify the pain.

The nosy neighbor watched from the front lawn, yelling into a phone with a shrill voice that pierced Nick’s ears. Sirens sounded in the distance.

As the throbbing intensified with the increasing wail of sirens, Nick stumbled to his truck. Behind the wheel, his vision swam and his earlier coffee threatened to heave forth from his belly and spray the windshield. Turning his head caused a spinning feeling as if the earth were shifting uncontrollably on its axis. He started the truck and drove. It was not without great effort that he slowed to a stop in front of his apartment complex. Forgetting to put the gear shift into park, he fell from the cab. The truck continued to slowly creep forward toward the building. Motionless on the pavement, his last sight—before the spastic seizing overtook him—were the big yellow arches of the neighboring McDonald’s.

What awoke shortly after was no longer Nick. Its gray pallid skin was lined with spidery blue veins. Its eyes were an opaque milky-white with red broken blood vessels streaming from the pupils like exploded fireworks. It had no memories, no feelings. The only thing it knew was hunger: a primitive, visceral urge to feed. The thing, formerly known as Nick Michaels, climbed stiffly to its feet and lumbered clumsily toward the scent of food.

Ignored was the smell of french fries, replaced by the sweet bouquet of living flesh. Once again gazing at the golden arches with unfocused eyes, the abomination made its way to the drive-thru window for some fast food. Instead of ordering at the lit sign, its gaze fixed upon the shape of an elderly woman behind the open window of a car, and it leaned in to feed.