The Last Tower

By Adalind Monroe

Gathered beneath the shadow of the Last Tower are all that remains of those who have managed to survive the solar radiation and constant exposure. They shuffle through a half-life of blinding days and sun-drenched nights, but even a half-life is better than the alternative -- Fading.

They call him the Champ, because unlike those who fell victim to the Fade before him, he came back, and though they cannot be said to truly have a leader, he is the shining beacon of hope that not all can be consumed by the light.

On an unremarkable day, the Sixtieth Floor breaks its silence to call upon the Champ and request his presence in the cool, shadowy bastion overlooking the wastes. Why, on a day like any other, has the Sixtieth Floor called him up? And why has it called no one else? Is the Champ the savior of those below? Can he alone preserve the Tower? Or could there be something far greater hidden at the top of The Last Tower?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frowzy Books
• Release date: Sep 28, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301245512

Adalind Monroe

Born in San Diego, California, and raised by actors, Adalind grew up playing in the shadow of the stage. Despite a genetic interest in theatre, her passion for the written word has characterized her life, from the first recorded horror piece ("We were almost scared to death, but if we had been scared to death we would probably be dead." - cir. 1990 approx.), to the thirteen year labor of love that is the epic high fantasy saga of Eleasia, writing is without a doubt her greatest love. Though she is contractually obligated to say that, in fact, her best friend is her greatest love, they both know the truth. One of the few constants she can confidently claim in her life thus far (beyond far too many animals at any given time, and a loving and supportive family of crazy people), writing took a place of prominence only when she had to ask herself "What do I want to do with my life?" That constant that had so characterized her childhood, even more than being surrounded by actors, became the answer to any question you could ask her, especially when it makes no literal sense. "Would you like fries with that?" "No thank you; I'm a writer." Though fantasy is without a doubt her dominant genre, her roots in supernatural suspense and horror have never lost their place in her heart. After discovering she was fully capable of writing short stories (a feat she believed utterly impossible, and laughable if suggested), she found her thoughts returning to the kinds of stories that had so captured her imagination when she was a child. Preferring to eschew the trappings of modern horror, Ms. Monroe's tales tend toward the sub-genres of "Weird Fiction" and "Psychological Horror" when not entirely drenched in High Fantasy. And if you're entirely unaware, she's widely recognized as an accomplished humorist. You can tell your friends. Adalind lives in beautiful Southern Oregon with four cats, two dogs, two other dogs, and a lizard named Obi-Wan. The lizard is definitely a Jedi.

Book preview

The Last Tower

By Adalind Monroe

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Copyright 2012 by Adalind Monroe

*****

Sunlight seared the pavement. The fallen monuments of Man's former achievements wavered in the evening sun, burnt white from long exposure. Freeways and city streets lay in useless slabs, piled on top of each other in haphazard hills. The Scavengers bravely navigated the cracked and jagged surfaces for the last traces of useful hardware as another day crept into the lazy maw of another darkless night.

In the shadows of the Last Tower, the people gathered to watch the ghostly Scavengers. Speaking quietly amongst themselves, the spectators passed around bags of seeds or other sparse snacks, reaffirming bonds as they watched in passive fear and curiosity; no one walked in the sunlight anymore, not since everything started to Fade. Onlookers shaded their eyes with swaddled hands, squinting across the landscape to those bold or foolhardy enough to tempt fate. The Scavengers picked their way through the rubble at the edge of a section of collapsed freeway that had once stood proudly upon cement pillars like an altar. In their white bindings and shrouds, said to provide some relief from the sun, they