Monday, April 2, 2018

Unbelief Series bk 1-4 by C.B. Stone

Book 1
C.B. Stone
YA Dystopian


has a name...

the ashes of destruction, the Elite rose up as the ruling power of
the New World, enforcing new laws. 

laws are broken at great peril.

she witnesses her best friend taken by force in the night, she knows
he is destined for a fate worse than death. 

heard the rumors, the whispers of what happens in

seen the dead looks in the eyes of those who return.

If they

she can’t ignore what she's witnessed...

No matter the

How can she abandon her best friend to such a fate?
She must try to save him...

matter the cost.

is a dystopian series set in a post-apocalyptic world with hints of
romance. Books should be read in order. May be cliff hangers.

Book 2


happens when your eyes are opened to truth?

dream that night of walking through the ruins. Strangely, I’m
barefoot. Yet the snow beneath my feet doesn’t feel cold, I don’t
even feel cold. Somehow though, I’m going the right way, I know I
am. I’m not sure how I know… it’s just a knowing I feel deep
down in my bones.

Sinna has stumbled into a world unlike
any she’s ever known. Her eyes have been opened and there’s no
going back. She’s never considered herself a Believer, she always
left that to Jacob, but things are happening fast. 

there something to this faith stuff after all? 

And if
there is, is it strong enough to see her through what’s coming

This is a dystopian series set in a
post-apocalyptic world with hints of romance. Books should be read in
order. May be cliff hangers.

Book 3


can't walk away now...

plan—this crazy, stupid, impossible plan—could work. At the very
least, it will serve to get the boys back into the folds of the
Elite, so they don’t come to any harm for helping me. 

it’ll get me back inside so I can try to save my father—but then
what? How will I get him out? We have no guarantees this will even

Sinna is headed back to Rehabilitation. 

it or not, she doesn't see any other alternatives. She can't just
pretend everything is okay, and hide out in the Garden. 

how will they get back there? 

And what will happen when
they do? Will they be able make it back out alive a second

Sinna isn't at all sure about any of it, but her
conscience won't let her back out now.

Wars: The Beginnings
Book 4


the Beginning...

wasn’t always a crime. 

Faith in God wasn’t always

In the glory days of the Old World, there were
many who lived out their faith in full view of all, and taught their
children, and their children’s children about God, their beloved

In those days, prayer was still allowed in
schools, church was still held on Sundays with picnics and family get
togethers afterward, and the spare change that jangled in everyone’s
pockets still carried the words ‘In God We Trust’. 

the God Wars happened. Life was never the same again.

is a prequel. It's highly recommended to read the Unbelief Trilogy

When Ed Mullens dies, Sam Jackson is forced to accept the fact that all the men he trusts,
the only men he trusts, are getting old. He sighs. He has a new executive assistant these days,
Dennis Lyle, but he can’t say that he trusts him all that much. Not like he did old Ed Mullens.
Lyle doesn’t have the kind of dedication Sam expects of those privy to his inner circle. To
Dennis, this is just a job. Sam is fast approaching his eighties and his biggest wish is that he still
had the clarity of mind he’d possessed in his younger years. He’d always taken his sharp mind
for granted, and that’s never been more apparent than now, while his circle is shrinking.
Dennis is fast becoming a great disappointment. He has none of the qualities of his father
who had been the town mayor before he died. Lyle’s father knew and understood the value of
science and forward thinkers. He had been agreeable to relying on experts in various fields of
study for input and feedback regarding refinement of processes, and of pioneering new
endeavors felt to be essential to growing a strong and progressive society.
His son Dennis... not so much. In fact, Jackson is certain he doesn’t comprehend, much
less support the value of science at all. The only upside is that he hasn’t thrown his lot in with the
Believers either. In fact, he doesn’t appear to have a leaning in either direction, which is
annoying in it’s own right. “Maddening,” Jackson mutters. The man truly seems to have no
personality at all.
When Sam realized years ago that damned snoop David Moore had been hovering around
his house the day the secret council held their first meeting, his first instinct had been to kill him
then and there. “You have to crush the head of the snake while it’s still small,” he said at the
Robb, the chicken-livered wimp that he is, thought it would be a better idea to just fire the
man and discredit him. Jackson’s thin lips curl with remembered disgust. In the long run, he’d
grudgingly admitted that Robb's plan turned out all right. Moore made no trouble for anyone
once he’d been fired, and it didn’t take a lot of effort to help the man's reputation plummet. Once
he’d realized his big break wasn’t around the next bend, he’d retreated into a sodden state of
drunkenness. Sam smiles. From there it was nothing to share the gossip of David’s drunkenness
in the right circles and let human nature take its course. Moore was neutralized in no time.
Still, sometimes in the middle of the night, Sam loses sleep wondering what kind of trails
Moore might have left behind him. But he knows it’s useless to worry. Besides, enough time has
passed that even if something were to show up, it simply wouldn’t be possible to discredit the
Elite Group. It’s nothing more than a think tank comprised of some of the finest minds of the
century. An aura of sanctity has been carefully cultivated, and new, fresh minds are brought in
all the time, originating from some of the brightest and best graduate science programs around
the world.
Tonight, sitting in his condo suite, Sam has some measure of the peace he has always
sought. The people who look after him are well trained in everything from feeding him to
keeping his life organized. It had been difficult to let go of some of the reins of power when they
first began establishing the Elite Group, but somehow he’d managed. They’d paid top dollar for
top service and that’s exactly what they got. These days, they have the best cadre of scientists,
technical gurus and military intelligence money can buy.
Sam smiles again, pleased with himself. Governmental issues can be so easily controlled,
it’s almost laughable. All due to situations that are manufactured to achieve a desired outcome,
and key information that is disseminated to the right people the right time, for a specific purpose.
What’s that old saying, information is power? Indeed it is. Jackson chuckles quietly, the sound
getting stuck in his aging throat and morphing into a hacking cough.
He spits into a hanky, and stares out the window, blind to the golf courses that spread out
along the borders of his property and the golfers swinging their clubs. His gaze searches his
driveway, looking to see if any cars have pulled in yet. Jackson asked his cronies to come to visit
him this evening.
Rossi is losing it and it’s only out of courtesy for the old crook's past contributions to the
Elite Group that has Sam continued to include him in their planning sessions. Robb is laid up in
intensive care. His black old heart is failing him, which isn’t a surprise. Bob Reiger is mercifully
still at the top of his game. Gareth W. Pelzman... well, that there’s another issue altogether.
Gareth is younger than any of them but he has always been a law onto himself. Definitely the
wild card of the bunch.
Dennis Lyle enters the room and asks if he can be of any assistance. Lyle is a married man
and he has a couple of bright sons who appear to be far smarter than their father will ever be. So
unfortunate. Inwardly, Jackson sneers. Outwardly, he smiles graciously and says, “Please, take
the night off, Dennis. Go home to that beautiful wife of yours and relax. We're just going to have
a little poker session here and reminisce over our glory days.”
Dennis is married to Albert Rossi's daughter and she’s beautiful if you like thick-lipped,
big-breasted women with empty heads and little to say. The only reason Sam hired Dennis is
because Albert had made it clear it was the ‘right’ thing to do. That along with being Mayor,
Lyle's son made Dennis a good choice. Or so they thought.
He’s adequate, Sam supposes. At least for the kinds of tasks related to the Jackson persona
he presents to the world. Sam frequently attends gala fund-raising events but entertains very
little. When his old cronies show up at his place, to anyone who may be watching, they are just a
tight-knit group of crotchety old men enjoying retirement. Dennis, for his part, does what he’s
told and doesn’t ask questions. Mostly because he doesn’t have the kind of inquisitive nature that
demands answers. That kind of nature could be highly problematic for the great minds behind the
new social order, so there’s something else to be thankful for.
The other three men show up as Dennis is leaving. Albert takes a few minutes to chat to his
son-in-law and provide well-meaning advice on the care and rearing of his grandsons. Bob and
Gareth come and sit down with Sam. Before Albert joins them, Gareth cackles, “Maybe God is
on our side after all!”
Sam glares at him, wordlessly asking him a question.
Gareth shakes his head good-naturedly. “That flood. A natural disaster. It took out
thousands along the Bible Belt. A few more ‘acts of God’ as they like to call ‘em, and we could
really wipe out those persistent pockets of Jesus-lovers.” It amuses Gareth to mock the narrowminded
religion of the people he knew when he was a child. “Trust in God,” his grandmother
said. Their so-called God took away his family one by one and left him a helpless child, a lonely
orphan with an aging set of grandparents who barely knew who the president was at the time.
Albert enters the room and shakes his head. “I'm glad my grandsons inherited their
mother's brains. That husband of hers is a pretty poor excuse of a man,” he announces.
Sam Jackson glowers at him. “Well, I'm sooo grateful you persuaded me to hire him as my
most valuable employee,” he grumbles sarcastically.
Albert waves a hand in the air. “Oh you know he is competent, Sam. He just doesn't have
any oomph to him, that’s all. No guts, no glory, eh boys?” Albert snickers, plopping his aging
body into an empty chair near the poker table.
Gareth drums his fingers on the tabletop, waiting for the side conversation to end. When it
doesn’t, he butts in, booming as well as he can with his aging voice, “I was thinking that perhaps
we could learn something from this natural disaster, gentleman.”

* * *

Margaret Moore celebrates her fortieth birthday quietly. It’s a day that should be
celebratory but in reality, it’s now only a day of sadness. Her father had died on his way home
from spending her birthday with her and her son, little David. Or, as she calls him, Davey. She
blinks, shaking her head. It’s hard to believe fifteen years have passed since that dreadful day.
Today, Davey is helping with the flood damages that have wreaked so much havoc on the
towns along the lower Mississippi. So, it seems like a natural day to spend time remembering her
father. Other than her son, she has no other family. Her mother died last year from a heart attack.
At least Davey telephoned her to wish her happy birthday. Margaret smiles as she looks at the
photo of her son, holding a prominent spot on the wall near the front entrance. He is such a
handsome boy.
Unbidden, she has an immediate second thought and has to convince herself it’s not an
irreverent one. She clucks her tongue, mentally chiding herself. But if she’s being honest, Davey
is proof positive that God has a sense of humor. Just like most firstborn children she’s ever
known, Davey is the spitting image of his father. A weird phenomenon, but she’s convinced the
first child a woman has inevitably looks like the father, whereas the second tends to look like the
mother. Whether that holds true or not with everyone, only God knows. But that was certainly
the case with young Davey, much to her chagrin. When Margaret found out she was pregnant,
she realized almost immediately that she didn’t want to marry the man who got her pregnant.
The man who in fact, had been her boyfriend for nearly two years prior. He’d been great fun and
all, and she’d liked him well enough, but he just wasn’t the kind of man you chose to bind
yourself to for the long haul.
Maybe it isn’t God's sense of humor but merely a pointed reminder that having a child with
someone binds the two of you together forever in an intangible but undeniable way. She’d lost
touch with Davey's father years ago, and sometimes feels bad about that. Occasionally she is
reminded how arrogant of her it has been of her to deprive Davey of a father.
Margaret and her mother had been close but she always knew that she and her father had
shared a special bond. After her parents divorced, she and her father developed a different sort of
relationship. It became more mature and their discussions often became intense and highly
political. This was partially because she had been sixteen at the time and it had become easier to
run his radical ideas by a sixteen year old who could intelligently argue back, than it had been to
have such discussions with a ten year old.
Her father had been on the road for much of Margaret's childhood, covering stories and
seeking out deep secrets and hidden agendas. He was a crusader for good, her mother always
said. Even still, she divorced him. She’d been lonely for one thing, living on her own and raising
a child. She also once admitted years later that she’d been afraid too. “Your father never had any
fear of the repercussions of sticking his nose in business it didn’t belong in, but I did.”
The reports after her father's fatal accident claimed it was caused by drinking and driving.
But Margaret knew better. He'd had one glass of wine at her birthday party. He was not drunk
when he left her and Davey and began the hour-long drive back to his own home. He had
however, been agitated and distracted, which she supposed could have resulted in the accident.
The media reports were highly skewed, she was certain. She always knew that for some reason,
the head of Robb Media hadn’t liked her father, even after the years of excellent service he’d
provided for that company. Because of that, she chalked the negative reports up to journalistic
chicanery and the whimsy of an antagonistic ex-boss.
For whatever reason, the newspapers sought to blacken his memory as much as they could.
Margaret possesses her mother's personality and she has always been much less inquisitive than
her father. She could definitely see him driving too fast, obsessed with whatever thoughts were
tormenting him that day, and losing control of his car. Despite that, part of her knows if only
she’d been more like her father, she’d have seen a plot behind his death and she’d have pursued
that plot, looking for the truth.
Margaret roams restlessly around her living room and looks out the front window. Eyes
turned inward, blind to the present world, she thinks back to that day his car had pulled into her
driveway. He’d opened his trunk and pulled out one enormous box. It was plain, made of
cardboard. She’d thought at first it was her birthday present, especially when that was the only
thing he’d carried into the house.
She’d pushed the door open wide, ushering him in and said, “Oh is that for me?”
He’d set the box down in her hallway and replied, “No. This is.” Then he’d reached into
his pocket pulled out a small package that he handed to her. She fingers the locket around her
neck. That had been her gift. A solid gold locket.
He’d given the box a small kick with his foot. “This is just some papers I'd like to store
here. Old research and a lot of memories.” His tone was reflective.
When she’d looked at him with a questioning gaze, he’d elaborated. “I'm downsizing and
sorting out some things. I'll have more stuff I'd like to store here, if you don’t mind. Oh, and is
there any furniture of mine you have a particular liking for?” She’d felt something then, some
frisson of unease. Maybe it had been God forwarning her of what was to come.
The box turned out to be full of family pictures, along with an old antiquated Bible, the
heavy kind with the gold-edged pages. It also held congratulatory cards that had been sent to her
parents on her birthday – her original birthday, the actual day she was born. There had also been
a file folder with a thick stack of articles neatly typed and stapled together.
When she had to close up her father's apartment after the accident, she and her mother
went through that box together. They’d laughed and cried and reminisced. Then they’d each
chosen which mementos they wanted to keep to remember him by. Margaret’s heart aches as she
remembers her mother’s words that day. “Sweetheart, you know I loved him too,” she’d
whispered tearfully.
All I could think of to say back was, “I know, Mom. And he loved you.”
At the end of it all, her mother took some of the furniture and Margaret took all his files
and his old typewriter. Now, on her fortieth birthday, Margaret thinks of that Bible and the
typewriter, both of which are on display in her front hall, set lovingly on a narrow, long-legged
She thinks again of the boxes of papers stored in her garage and the file folder she has
stuck in among the taller books on her bookshelf. All the family photos she and her mother had
diligently arranged in properly labeled albums.
Now, with Davey gone for her birthday, Margaret wonders if this was how lonely her
father had felt. Downsizing? He’d lived in a tiny, one-bedroom apartment. How far did he plan
to downsize, exactly? She remembers he often used to tease her about having absolutely no sense
of curiosity. He always credited her mother with giving her genes that kept her from sticking her
nose into dangerous places.
Feeling suddenly as though she’d let him down somehow, Margaret looks up toward
heaven and whispers, “I'm sorry, Dad.” Then she gets up and refills her wine glass. Letting her
instincts guide her, she wanders over to her bookshelf and pulls the file folder down from where
it has been stuffed for fifteen years.
She opens the folder and the first stapled collection of papers that catches her eye is one at the
back. It has a front page of yellow lined paper littered with her father's distinctive handwriting.
Bold big letters in thick black pen strokes. The rest of it is typewritten.

Stone is sometimes called author, writer, or purveyor of stories. One
might even dub her a yarn spinner if you will. It's very possible she
might be considered just a little left of normal by most, but she's
cool with that. Really, she's too busy avoiding normal to care. On
any given day, you might find Stone pounding away at a keyboard in
sunny Florida, contemplating waves, contemplating life and dreaming
up more exciting stories to share with readers. 

Sunday's of course. Sunday's are God's day, so you'll often find her
making her best "joyful noise" with her local church praise
team. When not pounding poor fingers to bloody nuggets and
reinventing the definition of eye strain, C.B. Stone enjoys living it
up, doing the family thing, the kid thing, and the friend thing. And
in her downtime, reading the minds of fans.

being invisible. Being invisible is fun.

the tour HERE
for exclusive excerpts and a giveaway!

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