DeadGirl, by B.C. Johnson
Genre: young-adult, urban-fantasy/paranormal-romance
Publisher: Curiosity Quills Press
Date of Publication: November 6, 2014
Cover Artist: Andy Garcia
Description:
Dead is such a strong word …
Lucy Day, 15 years old, is murdered on her very first date. Not one to take that kind of thing lying down, she awakens a day later with a seemingly human body and more than a little confusion. Lucy tries to return to her normal life, but the afterlife keeps getting in the way.
Zack, her crush-maybe-boyfriend, isn’t exactly excited that she ditched him on their first date. Oh, and Abraham, Lucy’s personal Grim Reaper, begins hunting her, dead-set on righting the error that dropped her back into the spongy flesh of a living girl. Lucy must put her mangled life back together, escape re-death, and learn to control her burgeoning powers while staying one step ahead of Abraham.
But when she learns the devastating price of coming back from the dead, Lucy is forced to make the hardest decision of her re-life — can she really sacrifice her loved ones to stay out of the grave?
Excerpt:
I ran through a dark parking lot next to a closed-down office building, crunching asphalt under my Maddens. The chill wind tore at my jacket. I would have abandoned it if I’d had the chance―I felt like I was wearing a parachute. Not good for wind resistance. It only reminded me how stupid Batman had to be streaking into battle with a blanket tacked to his shoulders.
Shut up!
I shook my head, trying to clear the crap that kept threatening to break my attention. Why now, in my final moments, couldn’t I stop thinking about junk? Why couldn’t I just focus, once, on what mattered?
I’d run the wrong way. I knew that already. When the guy and his buddies had accosted me, I just ran away from them. It was my natural instinct. Forget that the Set, with all its shops and movie theaters and food courts―plus the rest of civilization―were on the other side of those jerks. Forget that running away meant running into dead parking lots. My brain had screamed for me to book it, and I’d booked it like a champ. In the wrong effing direction.
Why couldn’t I say the f-word, even in my brain? Another problem to sort out.
When my hands slapped into chain link fence, I knew I was toast. I wasn’t paying attention and the alley behind the office building only led to the freeway.
A few cars passed as I stared out into the blackness. The urban-ocean sound of the freeway lulled me into a weird stupor. I touched my head to the chain link fence and felt the cool diamond-shaped wire pressing into my overheated skin.
My pulse slowed, and I heard footsteps.
I was trapped.
To hell with it.
I spun around, my fists balled white. The fastest guy, the tall skinny one with the spiked hair, had caught up to me. It was cold, but he had the white tank-top and loose jeans you’d expect someone in his profession to wear. He took a few more steps toward me and stopped. His muscles stood out, tense against his skin―he was ready to spring if I tried to run past him. Not that I would.
His buddies were catching up―three of them were visible, chugging along to get to us. I took a perverse glee in noticing the big fat one, the one who had called me a hoochie, wasn’t even in sight.
“What’s a matter?” the spiky-haired guy asked. I smiled grimly when I heard how out-of-breath he was.
“Give you a chase?” I asked. I didn’t feel witty or vivacious. I felt helpless and terrified. Something in my tone must have fooled him, though, because he stood up straight in alarm and took a step back.
I don’t think I was playing by the script anymore.
To hell with the script. I wasn’t going to die like a chump, especially not while looking cute. I took a step forward, and he stepped back again. I gave him a triumphant smile.
It didn’t last long. His friends arrived and made a line to block me in.
I ran through a dark parking lot next to a closed-down office building, crunching asphalt under my Maddens. The chill wind tore at my jacket. I would have abandoned it if I’d had the chance―I felt like I was wearing a parachute. Not good for wind resistance. It only reminded me how stupid Batman had to be streaking into battle with a blanket tacked to his shoulders.
Shut up!
I shook my head, trying to clear the crap that kept threatening to break my attention. Why now, in my final moments, couldn’t I stop thinking about junk? Why couldn’t I just focus, once, on what mattered?
I’d run the wrong way. I knew that already. When the guy and his buddies had accosted me, I just ran away from them. It was my natural instinct. Forget that the Set, with all its shops and movie theaters and food courts―plus the rest of civilization―were on the other side of those jerks. Forget that running away meant running into dead parking lots. My brain had screamed for me to book it, and I’d booked it like a champ. In the wrong effing direction.
Why couldn’t I say the f-word, even in my brain? Another problem to sort out.
When my hands slapped into chain link fence, I knew I was toast. I wasn’t paying attention and the alley behind the office building only led to the freeway.
A few cars passed as I stared out into the blackness. The urban-ocean sound of the freeway lulled me into a weird stupor. I touched my head to the chain link fence and felt the cool diamond-shaped wire pressing into my overheated skin.
My pulse slowed, and I heard footsteps.
I was trapped.
To hell with it.
I spun around, my fists balled white. The fastest guy, the tall skinny one with the spiked hair, had caught up to me. It was cold, but he had the white tank-top and loose jeans you’d expect someone in his profession to wear. He took a few more steps toward me and stopped. His muscles stood out, tense against his skin―he was ready to spring if I tried to run past him. Not that I would.
His buddies were catching up―three of them were visible, chugging along to get to us. I took a perverse glee in noticing the big fat one, the one who had called me a hoochie, wasn’t even in sight.
“What’s a matter?” the spiky-haired guy asked. I smiled grimly when I heard how out-of-breath he was.
“Give you a chase?” I asked. I didn’t feel witty or vivacious. I felt helpless and terrified. Something in my tone must have fooled him, though, because he stood up straight in alarm and took a step back.
I don’t think I was playing by the script anymore.
To hell with the script. I wasn’t going to die like a chump, especially not while looking cute. I took a step forward, and he stepped back again. I gave him a triumphant smile.
It didn’t last long. His friends arrived and made a line to block me in.
About B.C. Johnson:
Born in Southern California, B.C. Johnson has been writing since he realized it was one of the few socially acceptable ways to tell people a bunch of stuff you just made up off the top of your head. He attended Savanna High School in Anaheim, and an undisclosed amount of college before deciding that weird odd jobs were a far greater career path.
This lead him to such exciting professions as: aluminum recovery machinist, lighting designer, construction demo, sound mixer, receptionist, theater stage hand, wedding security, high school custodian, museum events manager, webmaster, IT guy, copywriter, and one memorable night as the bouncer at a nightclub. He is trying very hard to add “vampire hunter” and “spaceship captain” to that list.
He currently lives in Garden Grove with his supernal wife Gina, his half-corgi, half-muppet dog Luna, and his new half-grayhound, half-living-tornado-of-destruction Kaylee. He also spends time with his two brothers, his parents, and his close friends, whose primary pursuit are usually healthy debates about movie minutiea. When he’s not working or writing, he’s been to known to pursue all conceivable geeky avenues of interest including but not limited to video games, the sort of TV shows/movies Benedict Cumberbatch might star in, graphic novels, podcasts, funny gifs, the whole thing.
He’s also been known to apply his special brand of hyperbole and mania to pop-culture humor essays for various websites that can be found on his homepage, bc-johnson.com. B.C. also has a high school noir short story called “The Lancer” available on Kindle.
Deadgirl is his first novel.
Find B.C. Johnson Online:
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