It's May 21st, time for the Teen FIRST
blog tour!(Join our alliance! Click the button!) Every 21st, we will
feature an author and his/her latest Teen fiction book's FIRST
chapter!
and his book:
Thomas Nelson (May 6, 2008)
ABOUT THE
AUTHOR:
AUTHOR:
RobertLiparulo is an award-winning author of over a thousand published
articles and short stories. He is currently a contributing editor for New Man
magazine. His work has appeared in Reader's Digest, Travel & Leisure,
Modern Bride, Consumers Digest, Chief Executive, and The Arizona Daily
Star, among other publications. In addition, he previously worked as a
celebrity journalist, interviewing Stephen King, Tom Clancy, Charlton
Heston, and others for magazines such as Rocky Road, Preview, and L.A.
Weekly. He has sold or optioned three screenplays.
Robert is
an avid scuba diver, swimmer, reader, traveler, and a law enforcement
and military enthusiast. He lives in Colorado with his wife and four
children.
Here are some of his titles:
House of Dark
Shadows (Dreamhouse Kings Book 1)
Comes a
Horseman
Germ
Deadfall
Product Details
List Price: $14.99
Reading level: Young Adult
Hardcover: 304 pages
Publisher:
Thomas Nelson (May 6, 2008)
Language: English
ISBN-10:
1595544968
ISBN-13: 978-1595544964
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
1
At twelve
years old, David King was too young to die. At least he thought so.
But try telling that to the people shooting at him.
He had no idea where he was. When he had stepped through the
portal, smoke immediately blinded him. An explosion had thrown rocks
and who-knew-what into his face. It shook the floor and knocked him off
his feet. Now he was on his hands and knees on a hardwood floor. Glass
and splinters dug into his palms. Somewhere, all kinds of guns were
firing. Bullets zinged overhead, thunking into walls—bits of flying
plaster stung his cheeks.
Okay, so he wasn’t sure the
bullets were meant for him. The guns seemed both near and far. But in the
end, if he were hit, did it matter whether the shooters meant to get him
or he’d had the dumb luck to stumble into the middle of a firefight?
He’d be just as dead.
The smoke cleared a bit. Sunlight
poured in from a school-bus-sized hole in the ceiling. Not just the
ceiling—David could see attic rafters and the jagged and burning edges of
the roof. Way above was a blue sky, soft white clouds.
He was in a bedroom. A dresser lay on the floor. In front of him was a
bed. He gripped the mattress and pushed himself up.
A
wall exploded into a shower of plaster, rocks, and dust. He flew back.
Air burst from his lungs, and he crumpled again to the floor. He gulped
for breath, but nothing came. The stench of fire—burning wood and
rock, something dank and putrid—swirled into his nostrils on the thick,
gray smoke. The taste of cement coated his tongue. Finally, oxygen reached
his lungs, and he pulled it in with loud gasps, like a swimmer saved
from drowning. He coughed out the smoke and dust. He stood, finding his
balance, clearing his head, wavering until he reached out to steady
himself.
A hole in the floor appeared to be trying to eat
the bed. It was listing like a sinking ship, the far corner up in the
air, the corner nearest David canted down into the hole. Flames had
found the blankets and were spreading fast.
Outside,
machine-gun fire erupted.
David jumped.
He stumbled toward an outside wall. It had crumbled, forming a rough
V-shaped hole from where the ceiling used to be nearly to the floor.
Bent rebar jutted out of the plaster every few feet.
More gunfire, another explosion. The floor shook.
Beyond
the walls of the bedroom, the rumble of an engine and a rhythmic,
metallic click-click-click-click-click tightened his stomach. He recognized
the sound from a dozen war movies: a tank. It was rolling closer,
getting louder.
He reached the wall and dropped to his
knees. He peered out onto the dirt and cobblestone streets of a small
village. Every house and building was at least partially destroyed, ravaged
by bombs and bullets. The streets were littered with chunks of wall,
roof tiles, even furniture that had spilled out through the ruptured
buildings.
David’s eyes fell on an object in the street.
His panting breath froze in his throat. He slapped his palm over his
mouth, either to stifle a scream or to keep himself from throwing up. It
was a body, mutilated almost beyond recognition. It lay on its back,
screaming up to heaven. Male or female, adult or child, David didn’t know,
and it didn’t matter. That it was human and damaged was enough to
crush his heart. His eyes shot away from the sight, only to spot another
body. This one was not as broken, but was no less horrible. It was a
young woman. She was lying on her stomach, head turned with an expression
of surprised disbelief and pointing her lifeless eyes directly at
David.
He spun around and sat on the floor. He pushed his
knuckles into each eye socket, squeegeeing out the wetness. He swallowed,
willing his nausea to pass.
His older brother,
Xander, said that he had puked when he first saw a dead body. That had been
only two days ago—in the Colosseum. David didn’t know where the portal
he had stepped through had taken him. Certainly not to a gladiator
fight in Rome.
He squinted toward the other side of the
room, toward the shadowy corner where he had stepped into . . . wherever
this was . . . whenever it was. Nothing there now. No portal. No
passage home. Just a wall.
He heard rifle shots and a
scream.
Click-click-click-click-click . . . the tank was
still approaching.
What had he done? He thought he could
be a hero, and now he was about to get shot or blown up or . . .
something that amounted to the same thing: Dead.
Dad had
been right. They weren’t ready. They should have made a plan.
Click-click-click-click-click.
David rose into a
crouch and turned toward the crumbled wall.
I’m here
now, he thought. I gotta know what I’m dealing with, right? Okay then.
I can do this.
He popped up from his hiding place to
look out onto the street. Down the road to his right, the tank was
coming into town over a bridge. Bullets sparked against its steel skin.
Soldiers huddled behind it, keeping close as it moved forward. In turn,
they would scurry out to the side, fire a rifle or machine gun, and step
back quickly. Their targets were to David’s left, which meant he was
smack between them.
Figures.
At that
moment, he’d have given anything to redo the past hour. He closed his
eyes. Had it really only been an hour? An hour to go from his front porch
to here?
In this house, stranger things had happened.
. . .
At twelve
years old, David King was too young to die. At least he thought so.
But try telling that to the people shooting at him.
He had no idea where he was. When he had stepped through the
portal, smoke immediately blinded him. An explosion had thrown rocks
and who-knew-what into his face. It shook the floor and knocked him off
his feet. Now he was on his hands and knees on a hardwood floor. Glass
and splinters dug into his palms. Somewhere, all kinds of guns were
firing. Bullets zinged overhead, thunking into walls—bits of flying
plaster stung his cheeks.
Okay, so he wasn’t sure the
bullets were meant for him. The guns seemed both near and far. But in the
end, if he were hit, did it matter whether the shooters meant to get him
or he’d had the dumb luck to stumble into the middle of a firefight?
He’d be just as dead.
The smoke cleared a bit. Sunlight
poured in from a school-bus-sized hole in the ceiling. Not just the
ceiling—David could see attic rafters and the jagged and burning edges of
the roof. Way above was a blue sky, soft white clouds.
He was in a bedroom. A dresser lay on the floor. In front of him was a
bed. He gripped the mattress and pushed himself up.
A
wall exploded into a shower of plaster, rocks, and dust. He flew back.
Air burst from his lungs, and he crumpled again to the floor. He gulped
for breath, but nothing came. The stench of fire—burning wood and
rock, something dank and putrid—swirled into his nostrils on the thick,
gray smoke. The taste of cement coated his tongue. Finally, oxygen reached
his lungs, and he pulled it in with loud gasps, like a swimmer saved
from drowning. He coughed out the smoke and dust. He stood, finding his
balance, clearing his head, wavering until he reached out to steady
himself.
A hole in the floor appeared to be trying to eat
the bed. It was listing like a sinking ship, the far corner up in the
air, the corner nearest David canted down into the hole. Flames had
found the blankets and were spreading fast.
Outside,
machine-gun fire erupted.
David jumped.
He stumbled toward an outside wall. It had crumbled, forming a rough
V-shaped hole from where the ceiling used to be nearly to the floor.
Bent rebar jutted out of the plaster every few feet.
More gunfire, another explosion. The floor shook.
Beyond
the walls of the bedroom, the rumble of an engine and a rhythmic,
metallic click-click-click-click-click tightened his stomach. He recognized
the sound from a dozen war movies: a tank. It was rolling closer,
getting louder.
He reached the wall and dropped to his
knees. He peered out onto the dirt and cobblestone streets of a small
village. Every house and building was at least partially destroyed, ravaged
by bombs and bullets. The streets were littered with chunks of wall,
roof tiles, even furniture that had spilled out through the ruptured
buildings.
David’s eyes fell on an object in the street.
His panting breath froze in his throat. He slapped his palm over his
mouth, either to stifle a scream or to keep himself from throwing up. It
was a body, mutilated almost beyond recognition. It lay on its back,
screaming up to heaven. Male or female, adult or child, David didn’t know,
and it didn’t matter. That it was human and damaged was enough to
crush his heart. His eyes shot away from the sight, only to spot another
body. This one was not as broken, but was no less horrible. It was a
young woman. She was lying on her stomach, head turned with an expression
of surprised disbelief and pointing her lifeless eyes directly at
David.
He spun around and sat on the floor. He pushed his
knuckles into each eye socket, squeegeeing out the wetness. He swallowed,
willing his nausea to pass.
His older brother,
Xander, said that he had puked when he first saw a dead body. That had been
only two days ago—in the Colosseum. David didn’t know where the portal
he had stepped through had taken him. Certainly not to a gladiator
fight in Rome.
He squinted toward the other side of the
room, toward the shadowy corner where he had stepped into . . . wherever
this was . . . whenever it was. Nothing there now. No portal. No
passage home. Just a wall.
He heard rifle shots and a
scream.
Click-click-click-click-click . . . the tank was
still approaching.
What had he done? He thought he could
be a hero, and now he was about to get shot or blown up or . . .
something that amounted to the same thing: Dead.
Dad had
been right. They weren’t ready. They should have made a plan.
Click-click-click-click-click.
David rose into a
crouch and turned toward the crumbled wall.
I’m here
now, he thought. I gotta know what I’m dealing with, right? Okay then.
I can do this.
He popped up from his hiding place to
look out onto the street. Down the road to his right, the tank was
coming into town over a bridge. Bullets sparked against its steel skin.
Soldiers huddled behind it, keeping close as it moved forward. In turn,
they would scurry out to the side, fire a rifle or machine gun, and step
back quickly. Their targets were to David’s left, which meant he was
smack between them.
Figures.
At that
moment, he’d have given anything to redo the past hour. He closed his
eyes. Had it really only been an hour? An hour to go from his front porch
to here?
In this house, stranger things had happened.
. . .
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