Here’s the opening scene from my new thriller PIG, which is now available on Amazon. The story takes place in both Siberia and the Southern Alberta foothills. I’ll send a free copy to the first 50 people who send me an email asking for one. In the email, state whether you’d like a mobi or an epub version. All I ask in return is that you go on Amazon and write up a review after you’ve read it.
Snowden Nastiuk needed work. By work, I don’t mean a job. He had one of those. Never been without one in his life. Right now, Snowden Nastiuk — Snow, to those who liked him; Nasty to those who didn’t — had a job just trying to stay alive. Problem was, he wasn’t sure he wanted it.
Back to the work. Which Snow needed. Work on his being, his self, his existence. Which he’d never done. Not until now. Until he had time. Until the woman: Magda; Magda was probably the only reason Death wasn’t sure it was interested in Snow.
Freezing to death is surprisingly peaceful. Snow steps outside his porta-cabin just outside Noyabrsk, Western Siberia in the middle of the night for a quick piss, his breath feathering out in wisps of steam. The water in his commode has frozen over again. There isn’t a Canadian man alive who hasn’t whipped out his dick and spelled his name in steaming piss in the snow. With the wind howling, he doesn’t hear the click of the lock behind him. He is dressed only in underwear. After he pisses, he turns to go back inside. The door is locked. At the time, his core body temperature is 98.6 degrees. His first thought is how embarrassing it is going to be when someone finds him. Cold slaps his naked face, squeezes tears from his eyes. He checks his watch: 0313 hours. His breath leaks from him in short, billowing steam puffs, creating a sharp catch deep in his chest as the cold air reaches his lungs. He hops up and down to try and keep warm as he thinks about what he’s supposed to do in situations like this. He spends precious time rushing from porta-cabin to porta-cabin, knocking on doors and trying to wake someone up. No luck. Either they’re asleep or passed out drunk. Already, his extremities are cold, the web of surface capillaries on his skin constricting, sending blood coursing inwards and deeper into his torso in order to keep vital organs warm. His temperature has now dropped below 97 degrees, his body covered in goose bumps.
Snow’s second thought is that he doesn’t remember locking the door. He never locks it, in fact. The door jamb is so damaged, it can’t be shut completely and there’s nothing inside worth stealing anyway. His watch reads 0348. At least he thinks it does. He’s shivering too hard to read it correctly, a vain attempt to get muscles to generate additional body heat. He has trouble controlling his hands. His motor skills are seizing up. If there were a mirror nearby, he would see his lips turning blue. His body temperature is now less than 90 degrees. Soon, he has stopped shivering. Metabolic processes are shutting down. Amnesia is setting in. He will have a hard time remembering any of this later.
Snow’s third thought is that it is not outside the realm of possibility that he is about to freeze to death.
His fourth thought is that he doesn’t much care.