Nest Pitch JK3: BIOHUNTER
Category/Genre: Adult science fiction
Word Count: 82,000
A ballsy attitude won’t save rogue biohunter Niobe’s neck when she’s falsely accused as the source of deadly new bioweapons wreaking havoc across a resource-starved North America, and must track down the real killers.
If the MC was an Easter egg…
Screw Easter Eggs. I’m fine whisky poured from a long, steel-capped red leather boot.
Excerpt: 300 words.
Barton’s wheat beer was second to none, Niobe thought, as she took a long pull of cool brew. You had to hand it to the guy – he could tickle a good beer out of just about any crop but his wheat beer was a mouthful of farm girl and sunshine. Shame about the company, but she could sit with nomads, scavengers and other human flotsam if it meant a good drink.
Barton’s saloon/charge station/brothel, built conveniently just a day from the abandoned riches of Pittsburgh, attracted the best quality low-life. It was run by the brawny, hirsute publican Terry Barton – one of a long line of Bartons who had steered the establishment through the upheavals of climate change and, to all appearances, continued to serve alcohol, food, and sex to locals and travelers in much the same fashion for nearly two centuries.
Niobe figured the Bartons must have married their sisters to preserve a bloodline that delivered menfolk built like mastodons, as evidenced by the row of Barton portraits lined up above the bar. She found herself glaring back at the bushy-eyebrowed, block-jawed faces that stared down, unsmiling, at the dusty rabble occupying the room.
The brew cooled its way down her throat as she cast her eyes around the bar, stifling a belch with the back of her hand. The dark wood-paneled room featured the expected bar paraphernalia – the obligatory Texas longhorn skull, battered road signs, moth-eaten national flags, and Barton’s prized collection of street signs salvaged from the decaying, flooded streets of New York.
The establishment was set up with the aim of keeping Barton’s customers comfortable, contained, and feeling groovy. Ceiling fans kept the air moving, a deep cellar kept the beer cold, a creative cook kept the food interesting, and Barton’s resident musician rotated drunkenly from piano to guitar to fiddle to keep the patrons entertained.