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From the international bestseller: an Afrikaner boy and his father navigate post-Apocalyptic South Africa—“reminiscent of The Stand and The Passage” (Stephen King).
Nico Storm and his father, Willem, drive a truck filled with essential supplies through a desolate land. They are among the few in the world, as far as they know, to have survived a devastating virus that has swept over the planet. In this new reality, Nico realizes that his superb marksmanship and cool head mean he is destined to be his father’s protector, even though he is still only a boy.
Willem Storm, though not a fighter, is a wise and compassionate man with a vision for a new community that survivors will rebuild from the ruins. And so Amanzi is founded, drawing Storm’s “homeless and tempest-tost”—starting with Melinda Swanevelder, whom they rescue from brutal thugs; Hennie Fly, with his vital Cessna plane; Beryl Fortuin and her ragtag group of orphans; and Domingo, the man with the tattooed hand. Then Sofia Bergman arrives, the most beautiful girl Nico has ever seen, who changes everything.
As the community grows, so do the challenges they face—not just from the attacks of biker brigands, but also from within. Looking back later in life, Nico recounts the traumatic events that led to the greatest rupture of all—the murder of the person he loves most.
“Compelling, action-packed and fraught with emotion . . . bears favourable comparison with landmarks of the genre such as Stephen King’s The Stand and Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. Simply stunning.” —John Coates, Express (UK)
“Great stuff.” —Stephen King
Dit boek is momenteel niet beschikbaar
582 afgedrukte pagina’s
Oorspronkelijke uitgave
2017
Jaar van uitgave
2017
Vertaler
K.L. Seegers
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  • b2345306299citeerde uit5 jaar geleden
    I was thirteen, in that no-man’s-land between boy and teenager, and for the moment comfortable there
  • Johny Arteagaciteerde uit5 jaar geleden
    I shot Muscles. I could see him to the left of Pa in the untidy, overgrown garden of one of the other houses. He was etched against the light; time seemed to stop, his tall shadow seemed to move in slow motion, the big revolver still thrust out in front of him. I swung the scope on him, and I shot him, as I had practised, on tins and stones beside the road over the past five or six weeks. I shot him through the head, and I took my eye off the scope, looked at Pa, and saw another movement behind Muscles, deeper in the shadows. The man with long hair. He was coming towards the pavement. I swung the rifle, and I aimed and shot him with the Tikka .222. I shot him above his right eye, in the forehead, the blood making a dark spray against the light as he dropped.

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