Godspeed, Carry My Bullet Blog Tour PROMOTIONAL BLAST
About the Author
Ian Lewis prefers not to be bound by a particular genre. Though the inspiration for his work varies, it often finds roots in something he dreamt. He strives for a gritty realism and maintains an interest in the humanity of his characters. His hope is that readers find themselves haunted by his stories in the sense that the narrative sticks with them long after they've finished reading, leaving them with a subtle restlessness for more. Mr. Lewis is the author of The Camaro Murders, Lady in Flames, and Power in the Hands of One, all novellas. His first full length novel, Godspeed, Carry My Bullet, was released in April of 2016. He has been writing since 2002.
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Title: Godspeed, Carry My Bullet
Author: Ian Lewis
Bobby Clyne has nothing to lose. Two illegitimate governments have taken the place of the fallen United States: The Directorate in the East and the United States Valiant in the West. And he's just learned that a man who once terrorized his family as a low-ranking member of the Military Police is set to become the Grand Marshall of the Ohio Region. Armed with his father's Dragunov sniper rifle, Bobby embarks on a mission of revenge with consequences far more reaching than his personal vendetta.
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August 20th, 2013
Listening to the yelps of rioters echo off of battered storefronts, Bobby Clyne stood motionless in the dank summer heat. His stale, one-room apartment overlooked the melee below, and he peered through the yellowed window sheers with an acrid taste in his mouth.
Bottles and other debris flew as instigators grabbed whatever makeshift weapons they could find in the gutters and garbage cans. Grimy, sweat-soaked skin met in rushed collisions as men elbowed past one another. There was no regard for decency or dignity as limbs flailed in greedy anticipation of what they might find.
The temptation was due to a stalled government supply truck that carried non-perishable food items. With a wheezing stutter from the motor, the rig had coasted to a stop, vulnerable in the left lane of Euclid Ave.
Traffic wasn’t the problem so much as the hungry riffraff trolling the streets in the mid-afternoon stink. When it was clear the boxy, tired truck wasn’t going anywhere, they made good on their desire to fill their stomachs and show their contempt for state discipline.
With his eyes narrowed on the street below, Bobby sat down on a metal folding chair next to the window. He wiped wet palms on his gray cargo pants. An olive-drab t-shirt clung to his back, and his brow shined slick with sweat beneath a tuft of chestnut hair. His face was unremarkable save for a pronounced lower lip.
Bobby hated the Directorate—the government of the East—but didn’t see fit to take part in such a public and stupid display of disrespect. Despite his deep-seated animosity, the sting of old wounds reminded him that he was helpless to do anything about his circumstance. He’d already watched his father try and fail.
Still, he fantasized about rising up against the Military Police. Their constant presence soured him. With round-the-clock patrols and a general disrespect for civilians, they were a gratuitous display of the Directorate’s power, and Bobby swore he’d never enlist with them even though he was a decent shot with a rifle.
Bobby nudged the firearm at his feet that leaned against the water-stained wall. It was a Dragunov, an old Russian sniper rifle that his father had given him before he died.