Author Scott Cramer*
My brother was aware as a boy that he could think up stories, but he told me this only in his late teens, after he had begun to write seriously and was sending his writing. Haiku was one of his early forms that influenced me, and so I thought that while he was getting a degree in chemistry, his taking a course in poetry writing with nationally known poet Denise Levertov was most meaningful. But there were also long stories with accomplishments of strong writing sent. After graduating, his travels about the country were interspersed with jobs here and there, as he continued his writing. I’d occasionally hear from him of his adventures. Then, taken from his experiences working a hundred miles off the New Jersey coast, his “Life on an Oil Rig” was accepted by Yankee Magazine. He became a contributing editor until he reached a decision to do what he really wanted to do—write fiction. The Toucan Trilogy, written in his fifties and excerpted below, was his first major publication.
My brother was aware as a boy that he could think up stories, but he told me this only in his late teens, after he had begun to write seriously and was sending his writing. Haiku was one of his early forms that influenced me, and so I thought that while he was getting a degree in chemistry, his taking a course in poetry writing with nationally known poet Denise Levertov was most meaningful. But there were also long stories with accomplishments of strong writing sent. After graduating, his travels about the country were interspersed with jobs here and there, as he continued his writing. I’d occasionally hear from him of his adventures. Then, taken from his experiences working a hundred miles off the New Jersey coast, his “Life on an Oil Rig” was accepted by Yankee Magazine. He became a contributing editor until he reached a decision to do what he really wanted to do—write fiction. The Toucan Trilogy, written in his fifties and excerpted below, was his first major publication.
GENERATION M
Book 3 in The Toucan Trilogy
“Cramer creates a picture of our world that’s both frightening and inspiring in this heartfelt story that both young adults and adults can enjoy. A heartwarming but not overly sentimental story of survival.”
KIRKUS REVIEWS
ATLANTA
When Maggie awoke, Abby told her about the boy she’d seen dragging a body.
“Don’t be afraid,” Maggie said and took hold of her hand. “We have each other.” Maggie brought the radio to her lips and tried to contact Sandy. “Alpha Zulu, do you copy? Alpha Zulu, do you copy?”
Dusk had fallen, and Abby wondered how long they should keep trying. With no other options, the answer was obvious: for as long as they had voices.
“If something happens to me, you have to keep trying to contact Sandy,” Abby said.
“I will,” Maggie replied with sadness filling her eyes.
Abby’s heart contracted from the swiftness of Maggie’s response.
After a long pause, Maggie added, “You’re going to make it. Hang in there.”
Abby realized she must look as sick as she felt. She was dying. Exhausted, she rested her head on Maggie’s shoulder and closed her eyes, thinking about Touk and Jordan, then Toby and Mark. Had they safely reached the pill plant? She hoped Toby would return before dark and press against her, but quickly a sense of dread cuddled up next to her when she wondered if she would ever see him again.
“Alpha Zulu, do you copy? Alpha Zulu ….”
Maggie’s voice grew fainter as Abby felt herself approaching sleep, sinking deeper into a quicksand of strange, fever-induced images and disconnected thoughts.
“Wake up! Abby, wake up! Abby!” Maggie said in an urgent tone, tugging her arm. “Abby, wake up.”
Abby blinked and the night pressed against her eyeballs like sandpaper. It was completely dark. She glanced at the glowing hands on her watch and realized she’d been asleep for hours. “What’s wrong?”
“Shhhh.” Maggie was inches away, but Abby couldn’t see her. “Some kids are just outside the alley,” she whispered. “They know we’re here. I heard them talking.”
Abby heard only the thudding of her heart, but a voice screamed a warning in her mind, and she squeezed Maggie’s hand harder when she felt her pulling away.
“Stay,” Abby pleaded. “We’re safe here.”
Maggie easily broke the grip and placed the radio in Abby’s hand. “Keep trying to get Sandy.”
Maggie started a little avalanche of cans when she stood and shuffled toward the front of the alley.
Maybe the kids had moved on, Abby thought, or maybe Maggie had been mistaken, or they were just a bunch of survivors sick with the Pig, trying to endure the pain, not wanting to cause any trouble.
“Oh my God,” Maggie cried out. “The smell is so awful.”
A bloom of icy shivers started down Abby’s neck, and before they had reached the base of her spine, Maggie screamed. The jagged grunts and cries of a violent struggle followed, Maggie’s voice mixing with those of strangers, both boys and girls. To help her friend, Abby tried to stand, but she immediately folded over from a cramp.
Frantic footsteps informed her that Maggie had broken free. She was running and her attackers were chasing her. The sounds faded into the night.
A startling truth struck Abby. Maggie had wanted to engage the strangers to lure them away from the alley, giving Abby a chance to contact Sandy.
With tears trickling down her cheeks, she anchored the radio against her lips. “Alpha Zulu, do you copy?”
She hung her head and wept, too choked with sadness to go on.
The brave pilot would lose her attackers and return to the alley. Toby, too, would arrive at any minute.
Her positive thoughts did little to flush the despair from her heart.
An hour later, Abby turned on the radio and pressed the button. “Alpha Zulu. Please, do you copy?”
A voice crackled in the heavy silence. “This is Alpha Zulu. Who are you?”
“Abby Leigh.”
Abby waited for a response. None came. Had she lost the connection? She had forgotten to release the button. “I’m Abby Leigh,” she said and took her finger off the button.
“Abby, thank God. This is Sandy. Where are you?”
“I’m near the bunker. Mark and Toby are at the pill plant.”
“I discovered Mark’s message,” Sandy said. “I have several colleagues who I can trust. We’re preparing to go to Alpharetta. Can you meet us there?”
Abby slumped into the trash pile. “My friend disappeared. Someone chased her, but I’m too sick to look for her. I can’t go very far. I have the Pig.”
“You have AHA-B?”
“I took three antibiotic pills, but they aren’t working. I’m dying.”
“Abby, listen to me very closely, I want you to die.”
Abby’s heart stopped. Then, with the shockwaves of Sandy’s words echoing in her mind, she put the walkie-talkie close to her ear and learned how she was going to die.
For over forty years Scott has been committed to writing, adjusting life situations to allow time—including starting his day at 4:30 a.m. Recently visiting, I passed his open door and saw him hunched toward the screen as if he were literally there in the scene. Curious, I asked, “Are you working on ‘the big picture’?” His answer—“Nope, I’m working on two lines”—permanently changed how I write.
My realization is, “Listen to the voice within. Do what you feel pulled to do. Let no one tell you that what you are doing has no value. You have a purpose for being here on Earth that may require courage and effort beyond what you imagine as yours—but just keep going.”
*Scott Cramer has written feature articles for national magazines and newspapers, optioned a screenplay, and worked in high-tech communications. His work has appeared in Boy’s Life, Reader’s Digest, The Boston Globe, The Christian Science Monitor, Yankee Magazine, and other national publications. The Toucan Trilogy—Night of the Purple Moon, Colony East, and Generation M—are his first novels. Scott and his wife have two daughters and reside outside Lowell, Massachusetts.
Her positive thoughts did little to flush the despair from her heart.
An hour later, Abby turned on the radio and pressed the button. “Alpha Zulu. Please, do you copy?”
A voice crackled in the heavy silence. “This is Alpha Zulu. Who are you?”
“Abby Leigh.”
Abby waited for a response. None came. Had she lost the connection? She had forgotten to release the button. “I’m Abby Leigh,” she said and took her finger off the button.
“Abby, thank God. This is Sandy. Where are you?”
“I’m near the bunker. Mark and Toby are at the pill plant.”
“I discovered Mark’s message,” Sandy said. “I have several colleagues who I can trust. We’re preparing to go to Alpharetta. Can you meet us there?”
Abby slumped into the trash pile. “My friend disappeared. Someone chased her, but I’m too sick to look for her. I can’t go very far. I have the Pig.”
“You have AHA-B?”
“I took three antibiotic pills, but they aren’t working. I’m dying.”
“Abby, listen to me very closely, I want you to die.”
Abby’s heart stopped. Then, with the shockwaves of Sandy’s words echoing in her mind, she put the walkie-talkie close to her ear and learned how she was going to die.
End of excerpt.
For over forty years Scott has been committed to writing, adjusting life situations to allow time—including starting his day at 4:30 a.m. Recently visiting, I passed his open door and saw him hunched toward the screen as if he were literally there in the scene. Curious, I asked, “Are you working on ‘the big picture’?” His answer—“Nope, I’m working on two lines”—permanently changed how I write.
My realization is, “Listen to the voice within. Do what you feel pulled to do. Let no one tell you that what you are doing has no value. You have a purpose for being here on Earth that may require courage and effort beyond what you imagine as yours—but just keep going.”
*Scott Cramer has written feature articles for national magazines and newspapers, optioned a screenplay, and worked in high-tech communications. His work has appeared in Boy’s Life, Reader’s Digest, The Boston Globe, The Christian Science Monitor, Yankee Magazine, and other national publications. The Toucan Trilogy—Night of the Purple Moon, Colony East, and Generation M—are his first novels. Scott and his wife have two daughters and reside outside Lowell, Massachusetts.
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