Please join me today in welcoming author, R.G. Bullet. (be sure to read to the end to see a special offer on the books)
Hi Michelle,
Thanks for inviting me here today.
I was watching The Walking Dead the other day and it triggered a thought: that when an outbreak occurs, slaying Zombies could be turned into an art-form. I drew a rudimentary diagram but I am sure it's food for thought for your readers.
When you're defending yourself from within a ranch or shopping mall surely you would start inventing ways of mass slaughter? Perhaps you'd come up with an effective trap like a converted slaughter-house that has the living frolicking near the entrance as a lure--just enough to sucker the Zombies in. You know, like a Tupperware Party...
Saffy the teenage girl in The Caldecott Chronicles comes up with some seriously disturbing methods to wipe out the undead--they don't always succeed but it is a testament to her ingenuity. I would like to invite your readers to participate in inventing a few traps. Someone must be able to better my idea? Feel free to send them along and I'll post them up.
Thanks for inviting me over. Stay vigilant!
Short excerpts from The Caldecott Chronicles No.1:
Why burning you may ask? In his frantic ef forts to ward off these undead, your Uncle Charles spent most of the week blasting away from the roof. No bloody good that did. The only thing he devastated was the munitions supply, and then he twisted his ankle leaping over one of the gargoyles. As if my hands weren’t full enough.
You’ll be glad to know I didn't waste ammu nition; I simply lured Wiggins and his entourage into the pit using Charles and myself as bait. Ac tually Charles didn’t even know he was being use ful, as he was simply resting his foot, playing that awful violin of his and utterly intoxicated on brandy.
Quite a scene in the quadrant, I can tell you. Not sure who screamed at me more—Charles for wasting a half-gallon of his precious petroleum spirit, or the pit full of burning ‘help’. I will detail the account of your Uncle Charles and the ammu nition later—right now I still find it too stirring to elaborate further.
Seconds after the demise of her husband, Mrs. Simmons (or at least I think it was Mrs. Simmons) came to the window of the top floor. She drooled something green over the white curtains and ma naged to open the window to step out, as if it there were an imaginary stair down to the garden. Ex cept there wasn't, obviously. What shred of intelli gence is left in these creatures seems easily squan dered. She hit the earth with a sickening crack. I thought that would hinder her efforts to eat me alive, but even with one leg trailing behind and both broken hands flapping loose in front like greyish-green gloves she still managed get up speed. She must have been famished, poor wretch.
I wish I’d had one of those camera thinga majigs to take a photographic remembrance, Al bert. I could have captured a great shot (pun in tended) for The Windsor Times, I can tell you. This Simmons woman was quite a sight—tangled and matted hair, and maggots falling from her right eye socket like yellowy tears. I let her have one blast. She’d earned that. Her plunge from the window gave me a quite a chuckle.
About the author:
R. G. Bullet was born in Berkshire, UK. After living in nine different countries he has finally settled in Miami Beach, USA. He is addicted to tea, reading, writing, motorbikes and shamefully, Call of Duty. His middle grade debut novel: The 58th Keeper and The Caldecott Chronicles have just been released.
During this tour, R.G. has lowered the price of Book 1 and 2 to 99 cents, available now (see link above). Books 3, 4 and 5 will be released shortly (date TBA).
