Note from the Author:
New World Order is the last book of the Sunset Rising trilogy, but not necessarily the last book of the series. Throughout the three novels, I’ve created a post apocalyptic world that I think is worth exploring. A lot of research has gone into my world-building and I was fortunate enough to have experts generously offer to help me imagine this fictional place. For more information about my research, check out my blog.
I would be remiss (and perhaps divorced!) if I didn’t mention the long hours my very handsome hubby, Mike, put in on my books. He is my tech support, my web designer, my ebook formatter, and my soul mate. We are partners in everything we do and I know how lucky I am to have him.
There are a number I’ve people met on my writing journey that I also need to thank: Christina Galvez (my trusted proofreader and critique partner), Ellen, Karen, Sarah, Holly, Zeina, Kerry, Hayley, Heather, and several other people who beta read the Sunset Rising series and took the time to give me an honest critique. My editing company, Red Adept, for all their hard work and expert advice. And Nathalia Suellen, for creating the gorgeous covers for the series. My heartfelt thanks to you all!
Of course, I need to thank you—the reader—for picking up Sunset Rising and taking a chance on a new author. Your ongoing support, helpful reviews, and countless emails honestly gave me the confidence to continue writing the series and invest in my craft. I’m now pursuing a career as a full-time writer. THANK YOU ALL! And always remember, your opinion about a book matters, both to other readers and the writer. Sharing your thoughts in a review makes a tremendous impact for an independent author.
I hope you stay with me on the series. It’s going to be fun to see how Pacem in Terris (PIT) evolves in the midst of this lawless land. Writing Sunny and Jack’s characters has been fun, but there are other characters just as worthy of the spotlight in future novels Thanks for joining me on Sunny’s and Jack’s adventures!
Continue reading for an excerpt of Susan McEachern’s new release, Shag Lake.
Shag Lake
Susan McEachern
Geri McKenna hasn’t seen her brother’s best friend, Sean Eastman, since he graduated high school. Sean left their little town of Pembroke just hours after she nailed him with a kiss behind the shed, never to be seen or heard from again. No calls, no texts, no social media to stalk online.
Eight years after the awkward incident behind the shed, Geri and Sean meet again. She’s now an ambitious journalist working in a dead end job, and he’s a successful structural engineer working on a classified government project. For different reasons, they’re both interested in a woman who has gone missing amidst allegations of a Sasquatch encounter in the vicinity of Shag Lake. Geri is determined to get the scoop on the hottest story to hit the Internet, while Sean is determined to stop her.
Dodging alien creatures and a corrupt shadow government, Geri and Sean struggle to find neutral ground in this debut new adult adventure by author Susan McEachern (who also writes young adult as award-winning author S.M. McEachern).
Shag Lake Excerpt:
One
Geri McKenna
“Oh, and you’ll never guess who’s in town,” my big sister Emma says with a sly smile. “And Mark invited him to the wedding.”
Mark is our brother, the middle child. I wish I had the luxury of putting work out of my head and immersing myself in a conversation about his wedding. Is it only a day away already? But even though I’m officially on my own time, Derek Hoover, my boss, hasn’t stopped pinging me with texts since I left the office at noon. If his texts were important, I wouldn’t mind. But pestering me to find emails he’s capable of finding himself doesn’t register as important to me. Not to mention, it’s making my blood boil because I am an assistant columnist, not his personal secretary, and it’s high time he figured that out.
Emma turns down the volume on the radio. “Did you hear me?”
I flick a glance at her at the same time she tears her eyes away from the highway and locks onto the phone in my hands.
An unintelligible word escapes her, something between ugh and ack. “Mom’s already freaked out about you missing the rehearsal tonight, and she’s gonna lose it if you’re on that thing all weekend.”
My mouth drops open at the injustice. “It’s not my fault the flight was delayed two hours.”
“You really couldn’t have come home yesterday? Just one day earlier?” Her lips tighten. “Mark would’ve taken the time off for you.”
I consider it an unfair comparison because Mark is an NHL player who has both the financial means and enough time off to go home for lengthy visits.
“Sure, he would, if it was off-season. But I get two weeks of vacation, not two months, and I just took a week off at Christmas to be home and—” A moment of déjà vu stills my tongue. I’ve tried too many times to explain to Emma how demanding and competitive it is to work for The Global News, one of the most prominent news agencies in the world, and she still doesn’t get it. How could she? She’s worked at Farrell Insurance Brokers for six years, and Robert Farrell is the kind of hometown employer who understands the pressures of family. If Emma needs a day to take her son to the doctor, no problemo. If her husband is home sick with the flu and she needs to be by his side, totally understandable. A wedding in the family? Heck, she can take all the time she needs.
So how can she possibly comprehend that Global doesn’t give a rat’s ass about family? Their sole interest is keeping their ratings high, and if I start losing followers, I’ll be sacked and replaced by one of the thousands of journalists waiting in line to work for them.
“And?” Emma prompts me, waiting for me to finish my spiel.
I keep my thoughts to myself. “And I really appreciate you picking me up, but I feel guilty that you’re not at the party. You should’ve just let me rent a car.”
“I’m not going to let you pay for a rental.”
“Thanks, big sister.” I mean that from the heart, because life in New York City isn’t cheap, and despite living with three other roommates in cramped quarters, I’m surviving paycheck to paycheck.
We pass the sign for Sawmill Road, and given Emma’s respect for the speed limit, I ballpark our estimated time of arrival to be twenty minutes—more than enough time to get this email out of the way.
I blow out a sigh, sending my lips flapping in an apologetic sound of frustration. “I just have to reply to this email, and then I’ll turn it off, okay?”
The question is actually rhetoric so I’m only vaguely aware when Emma starts lecturing me on how she thought my job wasn’t what I wanted and drilling me about why I’m still working for a demanding, egotistical idiot.
Admittedly, my job sucks—or should I say, it sucks for me. There are a lot of journalists out there who would love to write a fashion column. Unfortunately, I’m not one of them. I’m not even fashionable. I spent four years averaging three hours of sleep per night to get top honors in a journalism degree from Ryerson University with the dream of becoming a globe-trotting, hard-hitting reporter with power to change the world through the written word, and whose entire wardrobe of sensible cottons could be contained in one lightweight backpack.
So it was a bit of a dilemma when I successfully landed an interview with Global and was offered a position as an assistant columnist on its fashion column. Not exactly my dream come true, but it was an entry-level foot in the door with arguably the biggest news agency in the world, and I was betting on it leading to a bigger and brighter future. Okay, sure, it’s been two years and my foot is still stuck in the door. But I’m poised to make an entry.
I thumb through my emails, find the one Derek wants, hit the forward button, and tap out a message:
Hey Derek, here’s the email you’re looking for. Hopefully that’s all you need because I’ll be in a church for the rest of the day and have to turn off my cell phone. Sorry! And although I know it’s a huge inconvenience, I’m pretty sure I have to be in church for the
rest of the weekend. Weddings, eh? These days people treat ’em like Broadway plays. Nothing but entertainment. Anyway, I’ll check in when I can.
After I hit send on the email and close the app, I turn and stretch between our seats to reach my briefcase sitting on the back seat so I can slide my phone into the pocket opposite my laptop. “There. I’m all yours.” I show her my empty hands.
Her eyes widen to full capacity, and she steals a sideways glance at me. “Are you kidding? You didn’t hear me when I said who was in town?”
“Um...” I search my brain for a name I might’ve vaguely heard.
She rolls her eyes and huffs. “Your lover boy from the summer of ’08.”
I hesitate for a few seconds, afraid to confirm it’s who I think it is: my brother’s best friend from high school, who I had a huge crush on. “You mean, Sean Eastman?” An uncomfortable knot begins to tie itself in my stomach.
“Who else would I be talking about? Or did you have a couple of guys on the go in tenth grade?”
It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Oh. My. God. Will you let it go already? It was a stupid kiss behind the shed eight freakin’ years ago. I was what—fifteen?”
“Let it go?” she asks incredulously. “You searched the Internet for weeks to see if there was an earthquake at the exact moment you kissed him. There’s no way I’m letting that go, sista. Ever.”
I slap a hand over my eyes as if that will blot out the most cringe-worthy moment of my life. But it’s still there, right behind my lids, playing out in living color. Sean and I were behind the shed by the woodpile, and I was stacking firewood onto his outstretched arms when I got a huge splinter in my finger. I screamed, grabbed my injured hand with my good one, and stared at it with the kind of horror usually reserved for a severed limb. Sean dropped the wood he was holding, snatched my hand, and yanked the splinter out. Seriously. No tweezers required because it was practically the size of a piece of kindling wedged under the first two layers of my skin. I could’ve pulled it out myself, but I wanted my hero to save me because I was fifteen and a total drama queen. And if that wasn’t embarrassing enough, I had to go and sway against him in what I can only describe as a bad impression of a swooning southern belle, and kiss him.
That was the last night I saw him—thank the Lord—because that particular end-of-school party was the last soiree for the high school grads. The next day they all went their separate ways, and we never heard from Sean again. Ever. He just disappeared. Mark tried to track him down over the years, recently renewing his search to send Sean a wedding invitation. And I’ll privately admit to conducting my own online search for his profile too, but nada. It’s the like the guy dropped off the face of the earth.
Until now.
The thought of seeing him again is creating a knot in my stomach that cinches so tight, my abs are clenching.
Breathe, Geri. He’s probably forgotten all about it, I reassure myself.
Yeah, but my sister is going to make sure to remind him.
My eyes shoot left, assessing that little smirk on her face. This is our brother’s wedding weekend, and with all the parties and family gatherings planned, she’s probably already composing the perfect delivery for this story to maximize the humor value. Okay. Game on. She needs to know that I am not without a counterattack.
“Two words,” I say. “Tommy. Weenerrammer.”
She screws her face up in disgust at the same time she guides the car off the highway and onto the exit ramp. “First, it’s pronounced ‘whiner-rammer’ not ‘weener-rammer.’ Second, Tommy’s last name is Weisman. Third—”she pauses for dramatic effect “—everybody makes mistakes, Geri.”
“Exactly what I’m saying. You keep quiet about my faux pas, and I’ll keep quiet about yours.”
Emma slows to a stop at the intersection. “Oh c’mon. The one date I had with Tommy,” she says, holding up one finger to emphasize the singularity of that event, “was the desperate act of a heartbroken girl trying to make her ex-boyfriend jealous.” She flashes her wedding ring at me before she turns left. “And it worked. On the other hand, you kissing Sean Eastman behind the shed had no other motive than you wanted him for your lover.” She puckers up, aims a kissy face at me, and eases the car left at the intersection.
I hold up one finger, mimicking her, and say, “The one time I kissed Sean Eastman—”
“He rocked your world,” Emma says, cutting off my next words. She gives a couple of ha ha has then shakes her head while muttering, “An earthquake...”
“What? They happen in Ontario. And that would’ve been about the right time of year for one.”
One of her eyebrows shoots up, while the other crinkles into a furrow. “You mean like earthquake season, Eeyore?”
I stifle a laugh. “Oh, stop. You know what I mean.” Emma shakes her head, eyebrows still askew. “Like this time of year—mid-April,” I explain. “When the warmer temperatures penetrate deep enough to melt the frost layer and the basement rock begins to expand, it creates earthquake conditions.”
“Oh yeah. Sure,” she deadpans. “I’m totally onboard with that theory.”
“Good,” I say. “Because if you start sharing your version of what happened between me and Sean Eastman, I’ll be forced to share the whole seedy story about your date with Tommy Weenerrammer.”
“Go ahead,” she says. “I’m already happily married with a kid and”—she pauses and looks away from the road for a second to make eye contact with me—“another one on the way.”
My mouth drops open. “What?” And even though she has her hands full driving, I plant a kiss on her cheek. “How far along? Do Mom and Dad know?”
She smiles coyly. “I was going to wait until we got through earthquake season unscathed, but I was too excited and blabbed the news. I’m already past the first trimester.”
I make a squee noise because I’m really excited for her—and for me too, since I never intend to get married and have a gaggle of kids. I’m more than happy to placate my raging baby hormones via my nephew and... niece?
“Keep it to yourself, though,” she says. “I haven’t told many people because this is Mark and Shauna’s big wedding week. I’ll share the news after they leave for their honeymoon.”
“You haven’t changed. Always looking out for your little brother.”
She pats my knee. “And my little sister too. Which is why I’m giving you a heads up about your old flame being in town. You might want to clean up around the back of the shed in case your basement rock gets penetrated.”
I give her a good-natured chuck to the arm with just enough force to elicit an ouch.
“So, what’s he like now?” I ask with as much disinterest as I can muster while looking out the passenger window as though I’m suddenly interested in the wall of trees banking Highway 58.
“I don’t know, I haven’t seen him yet. But hopefully he’s not still weird.”
I turn my head to look at her. “I never knew you thought he was weird.”
“Well, maybe weird isn’t the right word. He was more like”—she pauses, her face a mask of concentration—“a lurker, you know? Always quiet and sooo attentive, like he was observing us or something. I don’t know.” She shakes her head. “Don’t get me wrong. He was a good-looking boy, so I totally see why you were into him, but I just thought it was strange that he was always at our house and we never met or heard from his mom. Not even once.”
“He was tutoring Mark in math; he had to be at our house all the time,” I remind her. “And let’s face it—without Sean, Mark wouldn’t have gotten that sports scholarship.”
“Yeah, I guess,” she says in a distracted voice, tilting her head in the direction of the car’s speaker. “What’s going on now?” She turns up the volume on the radio.
...failed to return to The Park Resort and Spa last night. Both women are reported to have cell phones with them, although coverage in Algonquin Park isn’t always available. The Rescue Coordination Center has dis
patched a team, which includes both ground and air...
Emma tut-tuts as she turns the volume of the radio back down. “What were they doing up there alone?”
“Hey, females are capable hikers,” I say. “Why shouldn’t they enjoy the park?”
She holds a hand up for me to stop. “I didn’t mean to make this an argument about the equal right to get lost in the woods. I’m just saying that it’s unusual for two women to go hiking in the park alone.”
“Anyway,” I say, drawing the word out, “hopefully they’re okay and someone finds them soon. It’s still damn cold at night, and there aren’t many hours of daylight left.”
Emma halts at the four-way stop, waits her turn, and then guides the car left onto the country road where we grew up. It was a short street when I was a kid, with only four houses, all of them on the lake side of the road. Now the paved street stretches for half a kilometer, with homes lining both sides.
Several cars are parked on either side of the street in front of my parents’ house, and Emma has to navigate through tight quarters to get in the driveway.
“Looks like Mark and his gang are still here,” she says as though it isn’t a big deal.
But it is a big deal. It’s a huge deal. I’m two and a half years younger than my brother, so my teen years were spent being the obnoxious kid his friends didn’t want around because my presence was a blight on their social status. Considering they practically lived by the lake in our backyard—hockey in the winter and swimming in the summer—staying out of their way was kind of impossible. Okay, sure, in retrospect, I probably could’ve given them more space, but in my fifteen-year-old mind, it was my backyard too and I could go out there any time I wanted. And if Sean was in our yard, I wanted to be there badly enough that I would even endure his snotty girlfriend, Michelle Ashton, and her smarmy sidekick, Lacey Holmes.
Maybe it’s a little immature, but I’ve harbored a long standing fantasy that if I ever came face-to-face with the cool gang again, I would dazzle them with just how awesome I’ve grown up to be. So I need more time to prepare. Having spent most of the day in an airport then a few hours on a sweaty plane, I’m a complete mess and—Oh my God. What if Sean Eastman is here?
New World Order Page 33
