Survival Island Book Tour & Giveaway

“Matt
Drabble is a name that will one day be as widely recognized asStephen King & Dean Koontz“–READERS
FAVORITE

 

Clayton
is a small island community cut off from the mainland. They keep to
themselves and they like it that way.

As far as the locals are
concerned there are Islanders and there are Mainlanders. But the
locals don’t quite have the island all to themselves.

Depending
on who you talk to on the island The chosen Order of the Nine Divines
are either a peaceful religious order or a dangerous cult. Solomon
Abel had been the Father to the order, Known locally as The Niners,
for his entire adult life but he is an old man now and the younger
member, including his own son, are growing tired of the old ways.

As
far as Clayton Island is concerned a Clayton has held sway across the
land, a birthright currently owned by Dale Clayton. He is a man
haunted by the iron fist of his father and drowning in his own
inadequacy. The Islanders act like they respect him, but he imagines
it’s only to his face.

For centuries the two communities have
live side by side, until now.

With the local timber mill
folding the Dale Clayton is left with no choice but to listen to
mainland developers. Smart suited men who seek to exploit the
island’s natural beauty for their own gain.

Arriving with the
developers is an old face returning. Ashley Quinn hasn’t set foot on
her homeland for almost 20 years and she had no desire to be here,
but her job was the one stable thing left in her life since the
divorce and she was barely hanging on to the life that she’d fought
so hard to make.

The people of Clayton Island haven’t changed,
they’ve only gotten older, some she is glad to see and others not so
much.

 

With tensions rising fast between those who want the
future and those who want to hold onto the past Ashley finds herself
caught in the middle. And when it is discovered that The Niners are
sitting on the most valuable land on the island there are those who
will do anything to take it and those who will do anything to defend
it.

There is a powder keg on Clayton and it will only take a
single spark to burn the whole place down. Alliances and enemies are
formed with many hiding their true intentions and no one is what they
seem, because when two tribes go to war, everyone dies.

I
have a career high position of 5th on Amazon’s Horror Author Rank of
which I am immensely proud. I was also accepted as a full member ofthe Horror Writers Association.

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PROLOGUE

The night air was cold enough to bite at any exposed skin. Taylor Cole pulled his jacket up to his
ears and tried to bury his face in his scarf to fight against the seeping chill that was working its way
into his bones.
He was a small squat man making his way along the empty street, his sunken eyes constantly
scanning for witnesses. He clutched a small paper bag tightly to his chest, a bag containing of bottle
of his treasure and it was taking every ounce of self-control not to fall to his knees and devour the
contents right here on Main Street.
The only thing stopping him right now was the fear of repercussions. The local constable, Caleb
Bowman, was a big guy who had thrown his ass into the one holding cell in Clayton on more than
one occasion. Bowman had banned him from drinking in town, and even Casey had turned him away
earlier in the evening and that big bitch served everyone.
Unable to buy his booze, he had taken to seeking out his own plan, which had included smashing
a window at Tommy O’Brien’s store and taking a bottle. He had only taken the one and at this point
considered it medicinal.
There was practically no crime on the island of Clayton, and he knew full well that come sunup,
Bowman would be looking for him, but right now the sunrise seemed a lifetime away.
He made his way along the makeshift street, sticking as much as he could to the shadows. It was
after hours now, and Casey’s Bar had long since turned out its last drunken customer. Island life
meant most were early to bed and early to rise, so he didn’t expect to see anyone at this hour, but
still he was cautious.
With the bag clutched tightly to his chest, its contents calling out to him, he doubled his pace and
was soon clear of the buildings. There was a fire in his belly, one that needed to be doused before he
could sleep.
His father had been a drunk and his grandfather and his great-grandfather and so on and so on; it
was undoubtedly the family business. He knew that other islanders shunned him on the street and
avoided his gaze, especially if he was asking for money.
He lived in a rundown shack away from prying eyes, but in truth, he didn’t spend much time
there, preferring the outdoor air and the sanctity of the island’s woodland for comfort. He slept
outdoors most nights, but perhaps passed out would be a more accurate description.
There had been a time when he’d craved a normal life, a partner, children, a family to share his
time and affection with, but it had been a futile hope, he knew that now. He was a born a drunk. It
was his destiny.
He shuffled his way out of town and headed along the track towards the mill. It was the only
place in Clayton that held anything approaching a good memory for him.
The logging plant had given him a job and respect at a time when he’d kept his drinking under

control. Sure, he’d had a couple with lunch during his shift as supervisor, but he’d never let it
interfere with his work, and besides, it was only beer – that wasn’t real drinking. But then the gaps
between shots had grown narrower and narrower until there were no gaps at all and he was
drinking before, after and during.
Mercifully, no one had died under his watch but Steve Butler had lost two fingers due to a faulty
safety rail that Taylor had forgotten to replace and that was all she wrote. Dale Clayton himself had
him frogmarched out of the mill and he’d soon found out that Steve Butler had far more friends than
Taylor Cole.
He shook his head to cast aside the downbeat thoughts threatening to ruin what was left of his
night and hugged his bottle closer to his chest, the one friend who would never leave him or gaze
upon him with scorn and contempt.
The mill was on its last legs, no matter what that prick Dale Clayton tried to tell everyone. The
town mayor’s family had built the island up into a town, and descendant Dale never missed an
opportunity to claim the credit. The whole town knew that the plant was done – and with it, the
town. Taylor felt a stab of satisfaction that soon all of Clayton would fall and all those under the
watch of the sanctimonious Dale.
The gates were padlocked, but the fence was slack and Taylor lifted a section, squeezing himself
through the gap, making sure that his bottle was secure. He sliced his hand open on a rusty piece of
metal but his prize was safe, and that was all that mattered.
He made his way up to the mill entrance. The front door was locked, but he quickly found a large
enough rock and smashed a window. There was no alarm. He figured that even if crime was an issue
on the island, Dale Clayton would have been too cheap to install any sort of security system.
It was strange being back in the building, especially during the darkness hours. He made his way
up to Dale Clayton’s office. While the rest of the logging plant was falling apart, the owner’s office
was still pristine and no expense had been spared for the prick’s comfort.
There was thick, expensive-looking carpet underfoot, and on a whim, Taylor stopped long enough
to piss on it. He had intended to sit in Clayton’s comfy leather recliner and drink himself to sleep, but
now, of course, the office stank of his own piss.
Instead, he took the bottle out onto the metal walkway outside of Clayton’s office. The balcony
overlooked the mill floor and the big boss man would often stand on his perch, surveying his minions
below.
Taylor was leaning over the railing when something clanged against metal somewhere down
below in the shadows. He jerked his head up in shock and stood motionless, holding his breath.
There shouldn’t have been anyone here at this time of night. Maybe some of the local kids had
broken in; it wouldn’t be unheard of.
Eventually, he let his breath out with a long sigh. Maybe it was a rat or other small creature
coming for a last look around at the old place. A rat visiting the ship just before it sank seemed
appropriate.

On a whim, he decided to leave his mark on the mill tonight. He took a bunch of framed
certificates, awards and photographs from Clayton’s office. He headed down to the plant floor to
take his own goodbye tour.
He drank as he walked, filling his system with burning liquid courage and becoming more
emboldened with every step.
Clutching the armful of Clayton’s prized mementos, he dumped them onto the long conveyor belt
in the centre of the mill floor. He prayed that the power was still on in the building and his prayers
were answered when the truck-stripping machine sparked into life.
The sound was deafening but he was past caring now as he took another long swig from the
bottle, fuelling his anger and excitement further.
Clayton’s frames made their way jerkily along the conveyor belt before being smashed to pieces
under the heavy metal teeth. Taylor laughed, and his voice was lost in the clanging noise.
As he merrily drank, he was wondering what else of Clayton’s he could drag down here and
throw through the chomping jaws, in lieu of the man himself, of course.
He was pondering such thoughts when suddenly, the bottle fell from his hand and smashed to
pieces on the concrete floor. He stared down at the spilled precious dark liquid, wondering how he’d
dropped it when he noticed that he was actually still holding it.
His pickled brain took some time to process what his eyes were seeing. The broken bottle was
still gripped around the neck by his hand, but both were now lying on the ground. He turned his gaze
to his arm to find a bloody spurting stump and then he finally felt the pain.
His scream roared momentarily louder than the machinery but didn’t last long.
Just beyond his hand and the remains of the bottle, a circular saw blade with razor sharp teeth
was now embedded in the side of the conveyor belt. Clutching his arm with his one remaining hand,
he turned around, and as he moved, he felt a rush of wind pass by him, missing his torso by
millimetres. A second saw blade had flown by him and smashed into a wooden strut, driving deep
into the surface.
Taylor started to stagger away. He’d intended to run, but the shock and blood loss were quickly
starting to take their toll.
He stumbled alongside the long conveyor, desperate to get away, his addled mind working off
sheer instinct now.
A third blade struck him in the back of his left knee and drove him down to the ground, making
any escape now moot. He sank against the side of the conveyor, blood pouring from the two
devastating wounds. The third saw blade was still deeply implanted in the back of his leg, its metal
teeth sank into bone.
Taylor’s mouth popped open and shut like a starving goldfish. His eyes were bulging wide in pain
and terror as he dimly felt a powerful hand grab hold of his collar from behind.

His small squat frame was lifted effortlessly, and then he landed down hard on the conveyor belt
rollers. He desperately tried to squirm free as he headed towards the clamping mechanics, fighting
to drag himself off the rollers, but a strong hand held him in place.
The man standing over him was muttering something under his breath, but Taylor couldn’t see
him clearly. The strong hand pinning him down now started to propel him forward. He was dimly
aware that he was heading feet first into the whirling machinery, and as his boots disappeared into
the gnashing teeth, the pain was monstrous.
He screamed and screamed, but there was no one to help him. At If he’d gone in head first, at
least it could have been over quickly; instead, he was torn to pieces and it took what seemed like an
eternity to die.

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