About the Book: (from Shelfari)
In the distant future, a pristine Earth is protected by a worldwide park service. But there’s one problem: no humans allowed.
Aubrey Van Houten just turned 15 and everything he thinks he knows is about to change. Aubrey lives five miles underground in a government facility called Holocene II where he has been taught that his people are the only survivors of a global nuclear war. Believing Earth’s surface uninhabitable, the residents of Holocene II begrudgingly live and work assigned jobs on separate subterranean levels until they can retire at 35 to a virtual reality paradise.
Aubrey aces the test that will determine his career and is called up to work at Level One—a welcome adventure for Aubrey, and an honor for his father who is soon to retire. But when a chance accident derails Aubrey’s first trip away from home, he stumbles onto the surface and discovers a real paradise off limits: a pristine planet where humans are hunted and killed by a mysterious Park Service.
Alone and on the run, Aubrey must learn to survive in a world he never dreamed existed while searching for answers to why everything he was taught is a lie.
This book can be purchased at Amazon and Barnes& Noble
About the Author: (in his own words from Amazon)
Hi, I'm Ryan Winfield. I'm a 38-year-old writer living in Seattle. Author of the New York Times and USA Today Bestseller "Jane's Melody", "South of Bixby Bridge", and "The Park Service Trilogy". I hope you enjoy my books and I'd love to hear from you at facebook.com/ryanwinfield.
I've been asked why I write. I write because I remember.
I remember waking up to snow. Great buckets of it poured from the gray skies and blanketing everything in quiet white. I remember racing to dress, struggling with my boots. "Here, don't forget your mittens." I remember the soft thump of that first footstep in the cold and virgin powder, the tracks looking back, foghorns blowing on the mist-covered bay. I feel the canvas paper bag cutting into my shoulders, the weight of Sunday's headlines heavy on my mind. I see the trees bowed with armloads of white, as if to curtsey my passing. I remember rubber bands and ink stained hands. A car spun sideways in a ditch. Always a car. Then barking dogs, a distant chainsaw. Freckles throwing fastballs that hurt for the cold of them on my neck. I remember snowmen, and igloos, and icy trails through the white and wondrous woods. And I remember sweet Mrs. Johnson waiting at her door. The smell of Avon powder, her thin smile, an envelope pressed into my palm--ten dollars and a peppermint candy cane thank you. Evening now. I remember running downtown--Salvation Army bells, white lights strung in sidewalk trees, bundled shoppers bent against the wind. I remember the heavy door, the warmth, the wood. The bookstore! Smells of paper and leather and ink. Walls of worlds bound and waiting for me to read.
Nothing has affected me as much as reading has. Dickens, Tolkien, and Lewis raised me. And while I've walked through my own hell, made my own mistakes, and found my own redemption, always there have been books. Books to help me escape, books to teach me when to stay and fight, books to help me see where I've been wrong and where I've been right.
I write because I remember. And I write because I still dream.
Ryan Winfield author page on Amazon
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