I like to occasionally post snippets of the Trail of Dead sequel just to prove to people that, yes, I am still working on it, and yes, it is still pretty goddamned angry. Somehow I think it may be getting angrier.
Somewhere above the jagged treeline there are moons, stars, planets where the weather is controlled by committee and the food is sown in plenty and going hungry getting poor growing tired is a story you tell your doe-eyed dewy-cheeked uterine slough to make their genetically perfect little faces scrunch up in bedtime night terrors. Monsters live in the dark, my meaty tit-polyp. They look like us, but they’re not. Some of them sell their bodies for money instead of fucking over other people. When they screw, nothing comes of it but a good time and extra laundry, because—here approaches the real horror, darling discharge of my dangling dingus—they can’t even afford to print new clothes every goddamned day. If a storm blows in they might all drown, and then who has to clean the bodies and pump their lungs dry and check if their consciousnesses are backed up? Who auctions off the ones too fucking poor to hire salvage crews to locate and reload those scraps of personality? Who sells synth shells down by the seashore? Why, their local planetary governments, of course! And what a fuckin’ disgrace it is, that decent from-the-womb-splatted human folk have to help pay for any part of that wretched swarm’s upkeep. Monsters, sweetest dumpling squeezed cunt-stained and screaming from mine nethers. Use your riches like a shield and the good fortune of how you were made like a sword and hire a bootheel to stand on their necks until the squirming chokes, slows, stops.
Rhye strides through the night, the mud and the mosquitoes and the darkened houses scattered sagging on either side of the road like bone-tired old men who have outlived all their buddies. She does not look up at the sky. Fuck the sky.