"Who the hell is this guy?"
"Someone call the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and get our military options!"
More calls for action bounced off the domed ceiling, the empty demands of men and women far too accustomed to power, incapable of rational thought in the face of an actual threat. A few wiser souls held their tongues: those with military experience along with the few left wingers who practiced what they preached. The rest of the room descended into chaos.
Without warning, the screen showed another setting. A large suburban home, with numerous outside lights piercing the darkness. Most heads in the room turned to watch, voices falling silent. A few recognized the house, and someone groaned, "Oh, no!"
An explosion rocked the house. Flames shot out of the windows and doors. Within thirty seconds, orange tongues of flame engulfed the collapsing structure. In the House Chamber, no one spoke in more than a whisper, but word soon spread. One of their own was dead.
"Sorry about that brief loss of contact, just some technical difficulties on this end. I regret that I had to sacrifice the senior senator from Montana, but your fearless leader simply was unwilling to choose a city. Plus, I've seen better behavior from a class of five year-olds. It's a shame that Senator Rawlins couldn't be with you today, though I understand the prognosis for his tumor was excellent. All of you who were hoping the cancer wouldn't kill him got your wish. Please pay attention now, unless you want yet another reduction in the government payroll."
One reporter, Tom Wilson, opened his cell phone. Trying to avoid drawing attention to himself, he made a call to his editor.
"Bob, it's me. Shut the hell up and listen. I don't want to stay on the phone, but I assume you're watching this. Call the Secret Service and tell 'em you think the President is on an airplane somewhere. I gotta go."
He hung up and returned his gaze to the screen. The voice from the monitors carried the chill of Arctic winter.
"But enough distractions. Madame President, which city will it be?"
###
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—SAMPLE—
THE SENTINEL by Jeremy Bishop
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DESCRIPTION:
In the frigid waters off the Arctic Ocean, north of Greenland, the anti-whaling ship, The Sentinel, and her crew face off against a harpoon ship in search of Humpback whales. When the two ships collide and a suspicious explosion sends both ships to the bottom, the crews take refuge on what they think is a peninsula attached to the mainland, but is actually an island, recently freed from a glacial ice bridge.
Seeking shelter, the two opposing crews scour the island for resources. Instead, they find Viking artifacts, the preserved remains of an ancient structure and a stone totem warning of horrible creatures buried in the island's caves. Facing violent, frigid storms, a hungry polar bear and the very real possibility that they are stranded without hope of rescue, Jane Harper leads the two crews, who must work together to defend themselves against an ancient evil upon which the modern stories of both zombies and vampires are based upon.
The original undead are awake and hungry. Beware the Draugar.
SAMPLE:
1
Whales. What can I say about them? As an anti-whaling activist, I'm supposed to have this shtick memorized, supercharged, cocked, locked and ready to fire across the bow of anyone who looks at a whale the wrong way. But here's the simple truth: while I share the same mild affection for the world's largest creatures that most people do, I sort of just fell into this job. I needed work out of college and answered an ad in the paper. Turns out what I lacked in passion, I made up for by having an analytical mind and a knack for pretending to be someone I'm not—a lifetime of moving around the world and trying to fit in can do that to a girl.
So when I take the glass jar filled with red paint and lob it toward the Bliksem, one of Greenland's few whaling ships, I'm fairly indifferent to whether or not it hits the mark. But I'm currently incognito, so I need the effort to at least look genuine.
Red gore explodes across the Bliksem's gray hull. I let out a genuine whoop. Some suppressed side of me finds this fun, and for a moment, I understand the appeal that has thirty, mostly college dropouts, heading out to sea to combat whaling for months at a time. It feels like when I egged Jimmy Sweedler's house after he left the prom with Susan Something. A part of me hopes he got her pregnant, was forced to marry her and now lives in a trailer infested by rabid chipmunks. But the thirty-three year old, responsible part of me just feels bad for his parents who had to clean up those two dozen eggs.
Yeah, two dozen.
I had anger issues.
Still do, actually, but I can keep it in check when I'm undercover, or use it to fulfill the act.