Zombies For Everyone (Jenna Sutton Supernatural Cozy Mystery Book) by Kimberly Wylie ➱ Book Tour with Giveaway
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https://www.jennasuttonmystery.com
Excerpt 1:
Keith Pringle looked like a
stereotypical school superintendent. White, middle-aged, average height, not
fat, but he had a belly that spoke of more hours behind a desk than out being
active. His thin, wire-rimmed glasses sat atop a bulbous nose. His hair was
also thin, especially on the top, and a bit disheveled like he had been running
his hand through it. He wore a blue suit that was a bit rumpled. In general, he
looked like a man who had a lot on his plate and could use a good vacation.
“Thank you
for coming so quickly,” he began and then paused not knowing how to continue.
I looked to the woman lying on
the bed. She was asleep or knocked out; I wasn’t sure which. Her breathing was
shallow and fast, almost a pant. But, according to the monitor standing
sentinel next to her bed, her heartrate was steady and blood pressure appeared
to be normal, from what little I knew about vitals. She was hooked up to an IV
of something slowly dripping into a line running under the covers, presumably
to her left hand.
Pringle just stood
there—silent. It had been hard for him to talk to me over the phone; this was
almost impossible face-to-face. I could see him having an internal debate. Was
this some sort of early senior prank on the school superintendent? I wondered
briefly how he had ended up at the symposium earlier today to begin with.
“I’m guessing
this is Ms. Pruett you told me about on the phone,” I started. “Why don’t you
tell me what happened.”
Mr. Pringle sighed and moved to
the far corner of the room, where a built-in bench lined one wall and a chair
sat next to a small table. He motioned to us to follow suit. Kieron and I sat
on the bench, while Pringle took the chair.
He took a deep breath and
began.
Excerpt 2:
I got up and
walked over to Ms. Pruett. I pulled back the covers covering her left hand. It
was fine—healthy and whole. Five slightly chubby fingers. Not one of them
gnawed on.
“Sorry,” Mr. Pringle said quietly, “the other hand.”
I walked around
the bed and pulled back the sheet covering her right hand. Before I even got to
her hand, I could see the greenish-gray marks trailing up Ms. Pruett’s forearm.
The Lichtenberg figures looked like delicate ferns tattooed into her flesh but
were slowly creeping up her arm and would eventually seek out her heart. Her
hand was covered in a bandage, but I was sure if I were to remove it not only
would I find two missing fingers, but the hand would be almost entirely
green-gray, with blackened tissue necrosis starting already nearest to the bite
wound.
Definitely a
zombie bite.
Crap.
Who is your hero and why?
My hero is my father. I know that sounds cliche, but hear me
out.
My father was not a great dad. Not by a long shot. Oh, he
wasn’t horrible, I wasn’t beaten. He wasn’t a drug addict. I was fed and clothed
and always had a roof over my head. This makes him a way better father than
many. But he was no Ward Cleaver.
He always seemed to want someone else’s kids more than my
brother or I. When he was still married to my mom, he used to take our friend’s
sons out hunting. I was desperate to go. Not because I wanted to hunt, but
because I wanted to be doing stuff with my dad other kids were getting to do.
When my parents divorced, he remarried and instantly had three new kids to do
things with. He never saw how this negatively affected me or my brother. He was
too busy with his new wife—his new family—like a child with new toys on
Christmas forgetting the teddy bear he’s had for years.
But, despite this, he’s my hero because, in the end, he
taught me two of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned in my life. He taught
me:
●
How to be thankful, and
●
How to be selfless.
My dad served two tours in Vietnam as a US Army Ranger.
During this time, he was exposed to Agent Orange. Five decades later, he
developed esophageal cancer. It was terminal. It made me so angry.
I asked my dad one day, tears streaming down my face as grief
and anger warred inside me, “Aren’t you pissed off, Dad?!? Aren’t you angry
that they used Agent Orange and now… now it’s killing you?!?”
He pulled me into a hug and then pulled back, looking me dead in the eye and
said, “Not one bit, honey.”
I was astounded. How could it be true? How could he not be
angry?
But then he continued, “Fifty years ago, I was in the middle
of a jungle with people who wanted to kill me. Agent Orange made it possible
for me to get out of there alive.
“If you had given that 19-year-old kid an option—either way
spray this stuff and you have a good chance you get to go home, but in 50 years
you might end up with cancer, or we don’t spray it and you take your chances
with the dense jungle, I would’ve taken Agent Orange every day of the week,
even if I had known what I know now.”
I remember looking at him in disbelief.
“I am thankful for Agent Orange,” he continued. “Agent Orange
is the reason I’ve had all these years to have a family and live a full life
and do so many things, when I know so many of my buddies didn’t get that. I
can’t be angry when I’m so very thankful.”
My mind was blown. And I started to really consider what he
said. Could we be thankful for such an awful thing? I realized we can, and we
should.
I stopped being angry at the cancer and started to be
thankful for it instead. I was thankful my father hadn’t had a sudden heart
attack. Thankful he wasn’t involved in some fatal accident. Thankful for the
almost two years we had together to heal old wounds, say things that needed to
be said, and grow closer than we ever had been before. I was thankful because I
knew too many friends who had lost loved ones suddenly who didn’t have these
opportunities.
As his disease progressed, my dad volunteered for a drug
trial program. At first, we had high hopes. But then things went very badly
very quickly. The side effects from the drug sent my dad into the hospital one
final time.
And, again, I was so very angry.
I remember sitting at his bedside, on Thanksgiving Day,
sobbing and telling him how angry I was and how I wished he hadn’t volunteered.
“Honey,” he said soothingly, a peaceful smile on his face as
he held my hand, “I had to volunteer. I had to give the researchers a chance to
learn all they can. If my death puts them even one small step closer to finding
a cure, my death will be worthwhile. My time on this planet will be
worthwhile.”
It was so profound. How could someone be so selfless?
I needed to be this selfless.
From that point on, I realized that would be my new life
mission—to leave this planet a little bit better than when I found it. I want
to be a positive contributor, even if that means personal sacrifice in the end.
With that goal, I started a small jewelry company and raised over $10,000 that
I donated to several charities. During COVID, I put together a fundraising
cookbook that helped feed over 20,000 people between May and October or 2020. I
have just released a new children’s picture book—Carl the Misunderstood Crocodile—where I am donating the profits to
a conservation and animal rescue non-profit where I live. They are such small
things, but, as my dad said, if it makes even one small difference, then my
time on this planet will be worthwhile.
So although I don’t ever want to emulate my dad as a parent,
as a human being, I think he was pretty darned amazing.
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