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Sneak Preview: Book Three of the Monster of the Apocalypse Saga
by C. Henry Martens
Book three is finished, awaiting the beta readers to get back to us and Kari to edit it, and so I have some time to reflect on the writing, the thought process, and the Great Idea.
The writing has surprised me. When I started book one, Monster of the Apocalypse , several things came together. A tough time in life, I was full of anger, and I put that into the pages that unfolded from my keyboard. It seemed a natural thing, and it worked and spoke to me as nothing else has in my life.
The first book was intended to represent my children and the struggles they would face… and the confidence I found in them as they progressed.
Book two, There Where the Power Lies , had to be written to explain the Great Idea in detail. The convoluted machinations of power and wealth to save the world with a truly terrible solution insisted on being told. Few people are aware of what dangers there are in the future, and those that do rarely put those several dangers together in order to see what results, so I was fascinated as the story flowed onto the page. Now book three is here, tentatively titled Yoke of Destiny, due to the old west nature of the scene as the world comes back from oblivion to remake the mistakes of the past.
What I like best in the three books is that they are very realistic in the future technologies proposed, the situations encountered, and the people described. These are books with fat meat on the bone, and I am proud of them.
Following, you will find the first several paragraphs of Yoke of Destiny. It is a read filled with the experience gleaned from real life on ranches and farms and will bring you back to the old west… and the west that still exists. Don't worry, no spoilers...
Yoke of Destiny, unedited, chapter one, section one
Lurching and shifting as the great beasts settled into their yokes and worked in unison, the massive redwood moved along the crumbling highway 5. Twenty-six span of three thousand pound animals strained against their traces, a day at a time, inching the load toward Roseburg in Sullivan territory.On average, one would die every day, its heart burst from the massive strain. The span would be unhitched and the downed animal dragged by its yoke-mate, and another, from the position in the hitch. Before it was well off the road, another span would replace it, and the thirty-foot bull whips would begin to crack and pop. The six drivers, three to a side, would rarely peel any hair from the beast’s hides, much less draw blood. The animals knew the sting of the lash well from the years in early training and required little urging by the time they reached their maximum strength and weight.The ten pair closest to the load were bulls. Stronger than steers, they provided a lever made of muscle and bone to winch the load forward whenever it stalled. Even though they were more powerful, there was care to keep the pull in a straight line. Otherwise the steers would winch the bulls to the side and off the road. Inevitably resulting in injury, animals would have to be put down.An entire industry revolved around the care and maintenance of the animals, alive and dead. The mature man in charge of the laboring oxen, Drill Shannon and his son, Edge, made sure that there were at least four spare span alongside the hitch at all times led by young boys new to the work. An outrider on horseback, sent ahead to inspect their path and anticipate obstacles along the sides, would relay information back every quarter mile so they could stay out of the way of the pull. The instructions would determine where the replacement spans would position themselves so that they would be accessible immediately but stay out of the way.Then there were the two men with single oxen that would drag the dead out of the way. They would attach their ox to the outside of the yoke opposite the live animal, and a lanyard to the nose ring of the survivor, and pull the downed beast back to the processing area to be turned into cured meat. As the operation progressed, there was always another freight wagon full of stacked and bagged jerky to be delivered ahead of them.Two men worked the meatwagon which doubled as a galley, a freighter delivered processed meat in round trips to Roseburg, a boy at the lead oxen with a lanyard, and four men employed to service the heavy cart beneath the load and remove or smooth out perturbations in the path, four herdsmen to care for and move the resting oxen, a blacksmith and his helper with their own wagon, and the Load Master, a big man with a voice like the bullwhip he carried. All told, twenty-eight men and over four hundred oxen had left Roseburg to retrieve the big tree. With any luck all twenty-eight men and two thirds of the animals would return.But it wasn’t to be. An unseen divot, hidden by thick, overhanging grass beneath the right front wheel, plunged it six inches into the ground. Enough to crack the carriage and shatter the axle, the massive wheel hit the ground like a huge sledge hammer, catching the off side Carter between his neck and left arm. The weight, and the heavy iron rim, sliced his body through from shoulder to waist before smashing his hips and splintering his thigh bones into the decaying concrete of the old freeway. The other off side carter, seeing what was happening and helpless to prevent it, scrambled beneath the load to the other side, and to safety.The tons of tree settled, and the next axle popped, and then the third and fourth. Enough to upset the balance, and shift the center of gravity, the load groaned as it snapped the front chains holding it in place. The event cascaded, and the load became free of restraint.Both the meatwagon and the smithy had moved up earlier in the day to a small meadow alongside the old highway. The smith looked up and realized what was happening. He grabbed his apprentice and ran to the rear of his wagon and away from the trajectory of the oncoming behemoth. The two men on the meatwagon were intent on hoisting a fresh carcass opposite the road, the heavy block and tackle masking any sounds in their focus on their work. A fresh span was being led to the head of the column, alongside the load. The inexperienced kid with the lanyard froze, his eyes growing wide and bulging, as though being pulled from between his lids.From the front of the bull teams, Edge watched as a man launched himself toward the kid leading the oxen. He grabbed the youngster and pulled him by the arm, jerking it viciously. Suddenly the boy seemed to wake, and he scrambled with the other man toward safety, dropping the lead rope. They ran toward the front of the descending tonnage, and just as the mass rolled completely off the cradle the older man stumbled and fell. The young man stopped and reached back, but the man waved him away and screamed for him to run. He did, making it to safety just before he would have been crushed.The trunk didn’t even hesitate as it flattened the two wagons to the ground and rolled over the remains. The meatwagon men were under the wreckage and not visible, but Edge assumed they were dead. The abandoned yoke of oxen had seen the danger, but had been caught and driven into the ground as they turned to run. They looked like hide rugs lying on a floor. A strange thought occurred to Edge as he recognized that the rugs had a yoke around their necks.The man that had helped the young kid was flattened as well. Edge could hear someone screaming as he fell to his knees, realizing that the prone, collapsed form wore the shirt he had given his father for his birthday. He didn’t realize that the screams were his own until being told later.The great tree settled against some small pines, just past what was left of the wagons, as though the saplings had stopped it. In the sudden silence, only the screams echoed off the hills.
www.readmota.com
Book three is finished, awaiting the beta readers to get back to us and Kari to edit it, and so I have some time to reflect on the writing, the thought process, and the Great Idea.
The writing has surprised me. When I started book one, Monster of the Apocalypse , several things came together. A tough time in life, I was full of anger, and I put that into the pages that unfolded from my keyboard. It seemed a natural thing, and it worked and spoke to me as nothing else has in my life.
The first book was intended to represent my children and the struggles they would face… and the confidence I found in them as they progressed.
Book two, There Where the Power Lies , had to be written to explain the Great Idea in detail. The convoluted machinations of power and wealth to save the world with a truly terrible solution insisted on being told. Few people are aware of what dangers there are in the future, and those that do rarely put those several dangers together in order to see what results, so I was fascinated as the story flowed onto the page. Now book three is here, tentatively titled Yoke of Destiny, due to the old west nature of the scene as the world comes back from oblivion to remake the mistakes of the past.
What I like best in the three books is that they are very realistic in the future technologies proposed, the situations encountered, and the people described. These are books with fat meat on the bone, and I am proud of them.
Following, you will find the first several paragraphs of Yoke of Destiny. It is a read filled with the experience gleaned from real life on ranches and farms and will bring you back to the old west… and the west that still exists. Don't worry, no spoilers...
Yoke of Destiny, unedited, chapter one, section one
Lurching and shifting as the great beasts settled into their yokes and worked in unison, the massive redwood moved along the crumbling highway 5. Twenty-six span of three thousand pound animals strained against their traces, a day at a time, inching the load toward Roseburg in Sullivan territory.On average, one would die every day, its heart burst from the massive strain. The span would be unhitched and the downed animal dragged by its yoke-mate, and another, from the position in the hitch. Before it was well off the road, another span would replace it, and the thirty-foot bull whips would begin to crack and pop. The six drivers, three to a side, would rarely peel any hair from the beast’s hides, much less draw blood. The animals knew the sting of the lash well from the years in early training and required little urging by the time they reached their maximum strength and weight.The ten pair closest to the load were bulls. Stronger than steers, they provided a lever made of muscle and bone to winch the load forward whenever it stalled. Even though they were more powerful, there was care to keep the pull in a straight line. Otherwise the steers would winch the bulls to the side and off the road. Inevitably resulting in injury, animals would have to be put down.An entire industry revolved around the care and maintenance of the animals, alive and dead. The mature man in charge of the laboring oxen, Drill Shannon and his son, Edge, made sure that there were at least four spare span alongside the hitch at all times led by young boys new to the work. An outrider on horseback, sent ahead to inspect their path and anticipate obstacles along the sides, would relay information back every quarter mile so they could stay out of the way of the pull. The instructions would determine where the replacement spans would position themselves so that they would be accessible immediately but stay out of the way.Then there were the two men with single oxen that would drag the dead out of the way. They would attach their ox to the outside of the yoke opposite the live animal, and a lanyard to the nose ring of the survivor, and pull the downed beast back to the processing area to be turned into cured meat. As the operation progressed, there was always another freight wagon full of stacked and bagged jerky to be delivered ahead of them.Two men worked the meatwagon which doubled as a galley, a freighter delivered processed meat in round trips to Roseburg, a boy at the lead oxen with a lanyard, and four men employed to service the heavy cart beneath the load and remove or smooth out perturbations in the path, four herdsmen to care for and move the resting oxen, a blacksmith and his helper with their own wagon, and the Load Master, a big man with a voice like the bullwhip he carried. All told, twenty-eight men and over four hundred oxen had left Roseburg to retrieve the big tree. With any luck all twenty-eight men and two thirds of the animals would return.But it wasn’t to be. An unseen divot, hidden by thick, overhanging grass beneath the right front wheel, plunged it six inches into the ground. Enough to crack the carriage and shatter the axle, the massive wheel hit the ground like a huge sledge hammer, catching the off side Carter between his neck and left arm. The weight, and the heavy iron rim, sliced his body through from shoulder to waist before smashing his hips and splintering his thigh bones into the decaying concrete of the old freeway. The other off side carter, seeing what was happening and helpless to prevent it, scrambled beneath the load to the other side, and to safety.The tons of tree settled, and the next axle popped, and then the third and fourth. Enough to upset the balance, and shift the center of gravity, the load groaned as it snapped the front chains holding it in place. The event cascaded, and the load became free of restraint.Both the meatwagon and the smithy had moved up earlier in the day to a small meadow alongside the old highway. The smith looked up and realized what was happening. He grabbed his apprentice and ran to the rear of his wagon and away from the trajectory of the oncoming behemoth. The two men on the meatwagon were intent on hoisting a fresh carcass opposite the road, the heavy block and tackle masking any sounds in their focus on their work. A fresh span was being led to the head of the column, alongside the load. The inexperienced kid with the lanyard froze, his eyes growing wide and bulging, as though being pulled from between his lids.From the front of the bull teams, Edge watched as a man launched himself toward the kid leading the oxen. He grabbed the youngster and pulled him by the arm, jerking it viciously. Suddenly the boy seemed to wake, and he scrambled with the other man toward safety, dropping the lead rope. They ran toward the front of the descending tonnage, and just as the mass rolled completely off the cradle the older man stumbled and fell. The young man stopped and reached back, but the man waved him away and screamed for him to run. He did, making it to safety just before he would have been crushed.The trunk didn’t even hesitate as it flattened the two wagons to the ground and rolled over the remains. The meatwagon men were under the wreckage and not visible, but Edge assumed they were dead. The abandoned yoke of oxen had seen the danger, but had been caught and driven into the ground as they turned to run. They looked like hide rugs lying on a floor. A strange thought occurred to Edge as he recognized that the rugs had a yoke around their necks.The man that had helped the young kid was flattened as well. Edge could hear someone screaming as he fell to his knees, realizing that the prone, collapsed form wore the shirt he had given his father for his birthday. He didn’t realize that the screams were his own until being told later.The great tree settled against some small pines, just past what was left of the wagons, as though the saplings had stopped it. In the sudden silence, only the screams echoed off the hills.
www.readmota.com
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