World of trouble

Ben H Winters

Book - 2014

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Subjects
Genres
Mystery fiction
Suspense fiction
Published
Philadelphia : Quirk Books [2014]
Language
English
Main Author
Ben H Winters (author)
Physical Description
316 pages ; 21 cm
ISBN
9781594746857
Contents unavailable.
Review by Booklist Review

The concluding volume of the Last Policeman trilogy takes place the week before an asteroid will slam into Earth. Hank Palace, who used to be a police officer before society started tearing itself apart, has one thing he needs to accomplish before the asteroid hits: find out what has happened to his sister, Nico, who (as recounted in the previous books in the trilogy) had hooked up with a group of people who claimed to have a plan to save the world. Where the first two books (The Last Policeman, 2012, and Countdown City, 2013) were preapocalyptic mysteries, this one, while still set before the cataclysm, reads like a post-­apocalyptic story: society has almost completely fallen apart, cities are deserted ruins, people are scrounging for food, technology is all but dead. The series has had a built-in expiration date from the very beginning, so readers shouldn't be upset that it's ending now, but and this is an indication of Winters' abundant gifts as a storyteller we really, really wish he could find a way to keep it going. A fine conclusion to a unique and compelling trilogy.--Pitt, David Copyright 2010 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.
Review by Library Journal Review

The conclusion of Winters's trilogy (The Last Policeman; Countdown City) about a -policeman struggling to do his job as the world is about to end still finds Hank Palace tilting at windmills. As the meteor that will destroy Earth hurtles ever closer, his final case is to find his sister Nico. He and Cortez (a thief he met in the last book) follow a clue that leads them to a deserted police station in Ohio, where Nico and her group were gathering in a final effort to stop the meteor. The station looks deserted but presents Hank with one last tragic puzzle to solve. VERDICT It is impossible not to love Hank and his need to try to do the right thing all the time. The bleak premise of this series could be too much, but, instead, it gives a certain clarity to the action of people who become their most real selves when the end of the world arrives. And Hank could have been quite a policeman. (c) Copyright 2014. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Review by Kirkus Book Review

The end of the world wont stop the last policeman from solving one more case.Would-be detective Hank Palace is driven by a sense of purpose long abandoned by a planet thats gone crazy as the last days approach. Though he spent little time as an actual detectiveafter all, theres no such thing as police, or even order, any morePalace is the kind of guy who keeps at his job, even in the final days before asteroid Maia is predicted to collide with the Earth. Besides, the last case Palace has chosen is personal: He has to find out what happened to his younger sister, Nico, before everything comes to an end. During their last meeting, Nico claimed to be on the trail of a scientist who could save the planet. When Palace tried to call her bluff, she made a quick getaway, determined to find what she believed to be the truth. Now Palace attempts to retrace her steps, going through the remains of civilization from Massachusetts to Ohio armed only with Nicos high school yearbook photo. Even Palaces most loyal companion, his dog, Houdini, limps alongside him as if he knows that the end is near and that the two companions must find their own meaning in it.This final installment in Winters trilogy (Countdown City, 2013, etc.) is the weakest, marked by a falling off of both the writing and the story that made the first entry worthwhile. Perhaps the world lasted 14 days too long. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

"Are you here about the dust? Please tell me you're here to do something about the dust."      I don't answer. I don't know what to say.      The girl's voice is throaty and ill, her eyes looking out over a nose-and-mouth mask, staring hopeful and crazed at me as I stand baffled on her doorstep. Beautiful blonde, hair swept back out of her face, dirty and exhausted like everybody, panicked like everybody. But there's something else going on here, something not healthy. Something biochemical in her eyes.      "Well, come in," she says through her allergy mask. "Come on, come in, close the door, the door."      I step inside and she kicks the door shut and whirls around to face me. Yellow sundress, faded and tattered at the hem. Starved-looking, sallow, pale. Wearing not just the allergy mask but thick yellow latex gloves. And she's armed to the teeth is the other thing, she's holding two semiautomatics and has a smaller gun tucked in her boot, plus some kind of heavy-duty hunting knife in a calf sheath at the hem of the sundress. And I can't tell if it's live or not, but there is unquestionably a grenade dangling from a braided belt at her waist.      "Do you see the dust ?" she says, gesturing with the guns, pointing into the corners. "You see how we've got a serious problem with the dust?"      It's true that there are motes hovering in the sunbeams, along with the garbage scattered on the floor, heaps of dirty clothing and open trunks spilling over with all manner of useless things, magazines and electrical cords and wadded-up dollar bills. But she's seeing more than what's here, I can tell, she's in the outer reaches, she's blinking furiously, coughing behind her mask.      I wish I could recall this girl's name. That would help a lot, if I could just remember her name.      "What do we do about this?" she says, rattling out words. "Do you just vacuum it, or--? Is that it--do you just suck it up and take it out of here? Does that work with cosmic dust?"       "Cosmic dust," I say. "Huh. Well, you know, I'm not sure."      This is my first trip to Concord, New Hampshire, since I fled a month ago, since my house burned down, along with much of the rest of the city. The chaos of those final frantic hours has died down to a grim and mournful silence. We're a few blocks from downtown, in the abandoned husk of a store on Wilson Street, but there are no jostling anxious crowds outside, no frightened people rushing and pushing past each other in the streets. No klaxon howl of car alarms, no distant gunfire. The people are hidden now, those that remain, hidden under blankets or in basements, encased in their dread.      And the girl, disintegrating, raving about imaginary dust from outer space. We've met once before, right here at this same small shop, which was once a used-clothing store called Next Time Around. She wasn't like this then, hadn't fallen prey to it. Other people are sick in the same way, of course, to varying degrees, different kinds of symptomatology; if the DSM-IV were still being updated and applied, this new illness would be added in red. A debilitating obsession with the gigantic asteroid on a collision course with our fragile planet.  Astromania , perhaps. Delusional interstellar psychosis .      I feel like if I could only call her by her name, remind her that we have a relationship, that we're both human beings, it would ease her unsettled mind and make me less of a threat. Then we could talk calmly.      "It's toxic, you know," she's saying. "Really, really bad. The cosmic dust is real, real bad on your lungs. The photons burn your lungs."      "Listen," I say, and she makes a panicked gasp and rushes toward me, her assorted armaments jangling.      "Keep your tongue in your mouth ," she hisses. "Don't taste it."      "Okay. I'll try. I won't."      I keep my hands at my sides, where she can see them, keep my expression neutral, soft as cake. "I'm actually here for some information."      "Information?" Her brows knit with confusion. She peers at me through clouds of invisible dust.      It's not her I'm here to talk to, anyway; it's her friend I need. Boyfriend, maybe. Whatever he is. That's the guy who knows where I need to go next. I hope he does, anyway. I'm counting on it.      "I need to speak to Jordan. Is Jordan here?"      Suddenly the girl finds focus, snaps to attention, and the pistols come up. "Did he--did he send you?"      "No." I raise my hands. "No."      "Oh my God, he sent you. Are you with him? Is he in space?" She's shouting, advancing across the room, the barrels of the semiautomatics aimed at my face like twin black holes. "Is he doing this?"      I turn my head to the wall, scared to die, even now, even today.      "Is he doing this to me?"      And then--somehow--miraculously--the name.      "Abigail."      Her eyes soften, widen slightly.      "Abigail," I say. "Can I help you? Can we help each other?"      She gapes at me. Heavy silence. Moments flying past, time burning away.      "Abigail, please ." Excerpted from World of Trouble by Ben H. Winters All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.