Battle for the WestSide - Original Fiction

 

Battle for the WestSide

Adventure fiction by Peter Welmerink

Part One: Defense Down

Mayor Ondesen had brought all his men and women in and gained a foothold on the east side of the Grand. Downtown GR was theirs and the rumors of brainwashing the populace over there, with drugged food and water, making most lethargic slugs: all confirmed.

The men and women of Bravo Company and the few thousand straggling holdouts along the west side of Grand Rapids were all that survived with sound mind and body.

“I want those civilians off the street and under cover,” I yelled, not needing to do so with the sensitivity of the throat microphone encircling my neck. Hugging the wall of the old paint store at Bridge and Broadway, I waved my team back along with the WestSiders who scampered for shelter.

A rain of hot lead spat vertically from the 131 overpass over Bridge, pocking pavement and building as far down as the boarded-up Anchor Bar and GRFD Station 3.

Gruss, one of my Recon team, hunkered behind an old rusted Durango, filled my earbud: “They’re launching drones. They’re going to swoop in and ping us then send AP rockets.”

Ondesen’s hired goons--soldiers of fortune, mercenaries, the majority of them--had pulled this stunt before. Keep us on the down-low with gun fire while sneaking SOMETHING into our domain. Drones were the most common and most pesky.

“That’s why everyone needs to stay off the streets,” I replied as the enemy gunfire died giving me an eyeblink moment to peer around the corner and up at the expressway overpass.

There came a metallic groan from down Broadway, past St. Mary’s Church. We had set up heavy metal barricades on all entrances to the west side of town. Bridge Street. Pearl Street. Fulton Street. All had thick welded metal “gates” reaching the top girders of the expressway underpass in each area. I surely did not like anyone from the opposite side messing with our work.

“Drones launched. I have one in my sights,” Gruss said.

A squeal, then a metallic clang, like someone dropping a metal trash can lid onto the ground. I tried to peer beyond the trees and buildings at the Broadway barricade.

“Someone or something has gotten through the 196 barricade. I can’t see movement though. I can’t ID who or what has come through,” I yelled over the comm as more bullets buzzed in from the 131 overpass.

“Captain, you’re out in the open,” Gruss reminded me. “The drones…”

Even over the rap of machine gun fire and bullets cracking off the asphalt, I could hear the steady hum of the multi-propped aerial drones overhead. I glanced up, seeing a white-bodied aerial hum above and by my location.

A heavy assault rifle boom. Gruss’s shot dead-on. Plastic and metal fragments of the downed drone clattered onto Bridge Street.

Unable to re-load and nail the second drone, it zipped away west down Bridge. It assuredly was snapping pictures, capturing video and marking anyone on the street and their hiding spot.

“We need to get back to HQ, gather everyone. Whatever compromised the Broadway barricade…”

I saw movement behind me. It came up quickly around the corner of the paint store building, on the Broadway side. Soldiers. Mercenaries, dressed in Ondesen’s dark navy vestments.

“Shiii…” I started to say as the lead man, assault rifle drawn and aimed at me, stepped up.

A metallic groan emit from the Bridge Street-131 barricade. The ground rumbled. Something big was coming.

“I didn’t know there were big corn-fed girls on this side of the river,” the soldier said with gun aimed at me. A red beret on his head. Dark goggles covering eyes though I could feel his gaze running me up and down. A skull-face bandana covering his nose, mouth, chin. “I figured we’d have starved you out by this time.”

“Captain, SITREP?” Gruss called in my earbud.

“Name?” the merc said to me as his other cronies lined up behind him.

The machine gun fire from the 131 overpass had subsided though the heavy metal groaning of the Bridge Street barricade continued. Out of the corner of my eye, above, I could see the remaining drone hovering.

“Name!” the merc barked at me again, irritated, anxious.

I dropped my arms, lowering my own machine gun.

“Captain Rachelle Gibson, Bravo Company.”

The merc lowered his weapon as the others behind him had theirs still raised. He pulled down his bandana, letting it hang at his stubbled neck. A big toothy grin split his face. “Dang, gents, we’ve just caught the leader of the WestSide Rebellion.”

“Captain, answer me!” Gruss yelled again in my earbud.

The Bridge Street barricade collapsed with a groan and loud metallic BOOM, but the ground continued to tremble.

I took a chance to move a bit, even with all the guns on me, and peek around the corner onto Bridge, and up the street towards the 131 and Bridge Street overpass. If the machine gun fire still continued I would’ve gotten my face shot off.

I almost wished it would happen.

Driving across the downed barricade, flattening it further like pancake, a giant, armored and tracked beast grumbled and snarled into the West Side.

“Surrender, Captain. The day is lost,” the merc said with a evil sneer.

“Tank!” Gruss yelled in my earbud, seeing the same giant, modified M2A4 Abrams-Sully main battle tank slowly entering our locale.

I turned back to the merc.

“It’s all lost, baby,” the merc grinned.

I looked beyond him then smiled back at him. “Not quite,” I replied, balling my fist behind my back. “And don’t call me baby.”

TO BE CONTINUED

#

Interested in reading more action-adventure by Peter Welmerink, contact him at authorpeterwelmerink@gmail.com

Also visit his Patreon page for more exciting material: www.patreon.com/pwelmerink

Battle for the Westside copyright 2020 Peter J Welmerink

Summer in the Urban Civilian Retention Area (UCRA)

By Captain Jacob E. Billet

 

 

 

I remember my youth, wandering the west side streets of Grand Rapids. We'd ride our bikes down Lake Michigan Drive, the hot asphalt sucking at our rubber bike tires. My mother would bring us kids to the West Side Public Library on Bridge Street, we'd get some books, read for a while under the shade on the front lawn of St. James Catholic Church next door. A few bucks saved, my young friends and I would ride or walk over to the Dairy Queen on Fulton Street, get a Peanut Buster Parfait or a Dilly Bar. We'd go swimming at the Lincoln Park pool: ice cold water and heavy chlorine smell.

 

The only smell near that old pool nowadays: the city's local undead.

 

Other than the feeding runs and surveillance patrols, the moment the weather gets warmer, where the heat and sun can start to "bake meat," the city has us load up with 50 gallon drums of cool, refreshing water, an extra air compressor, generator and several heavy duty garden hose. It's not for our sake, to cool down us, or to play "wet habit time" with the nuns at the WSA. (Cripes, Stokes is really getting to me. That's something he'd only say, though not in the company of those battle-hardened, holy sisters.)

 

Shower time is for the UCRA civilians. The folks on the other side of the river, the living populace, with their "care and concern" for their undead neighbors, want these poor, rotting folk on THIS side of the river to enjoy a cool misting of water.

 

Sure, I understand why. Sun baked zombies equals hellacious smell, dried out, peeling flesh (nothing worse than a rotter shedding their skin, or in this case, a entire populace of undead littering the streets with orange-peel flesh...it's like Autumn with leaves blowing about the streets), skin frying and sticking to pavement.

 

So we hose them down.

 

We drive up and down the streets, main ones first--Bridge, Stocking, Fulton, Lane, Lake Michigan Drive, Valley, then sweeps up Butterworth back to downtown.

 

It can be a day long excursion with us doing nothing else but giving the locals a soap-less shower.

 

Still, I'm almost glad the city cordoned off this neighborhood. It has kept most of the places of my childhood from being destroyed.

 

Yeah, I can't simply walk about like the old days, but sometimes it's just nice to see the old places. Though maybe NOT some of the old faces.

 

No one informed me that Mrs. Van Duin was undead and upright, still living in the corner house, two houses down from where I grew up. Used to wear heavy make-up back in the day. Ugh. She could use it now for sure.

 

###

 

For Captain Billet's further adventures in the UCRA and about Grand Rapids, Michigan in 2025, check out TRANSPORT. Available in ebook and paperback through most booksellers.

 

TRANSPORT (Book One)

Amazon http://amzn.to/1DOQNPl

B&N http://bit.ly/1xDXMck

 

TRANSPORT (Book Two) HUNT FOR THE FALLEN

B&N http://bit.ly/1titw5T

Amazon http://amzn.to/1vq0ORF

 

TRANSPORT (Book Three) UNCIVIL WAR

To be released July/August 2015

 

Publisher: Seventh Star Press LLC

 

Info:

grandrapidsaltered.blogspot.com

peterwelmerink.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TRANSPORT to IMAGINARIUM

My panelist and moderator schedule for the forthcoming IMAGINARIUM Convention in Louisville KY this September is here!

I am looking forward to meeting the Seventh Star Press team (my publisher) and SSP authors, other writers and all sorts of new people and new friends.

My IMAGINARIUM Schedule:

Saturday      11:00 AM     Cover Lovin'

Saturday      7:00 PM        The Zombie Horde

Sunday        9:00 AM        Lone Hero Vs. Heroic Group

Sunday        11:00 AM      Into the Wastelands (M)

I will also be at the Seventh Star Press table/booth, hanging with the SSP crew and signing books.

Hope to see you there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

September 19-21 2014 Louisville, KY

at the Crowne Plaza Hotel

The Imaginarium offers a wealth of programming, events, and all kinds of fun for those who enjoy the world of creative writing!

The Imaginarium is open to all genres, and explores all kinds of creative writing, from books, to comics/graphic novels, screenplays, blogging, and much more!

The convention opens to the public at 4pm on Friday and runs through ...the close of the Awards Banquet on Sunday (which starts at 5pm). Programming begins at 9am on Saturday and Sunday, and for the most part panels end by 9pm on Friday and Saturday.

###

TRANSPORT (Book One) can be found here:

AMAZON

Paperback

Kindle

BARNES & NOBLE

SCHULER BOOKS

Paperback

  

Bob the 1950's Gas Station Attendant Zombie Short Short Story

Face the Face

by Peter Welmerink

**These events occur after TRANSPORT (Book 3) UNCIVIL WAR**

“Keep your eyes peeled. I don’t want other undead civilians thinking we’re laying down lunch for them,” Lieutenant Gil “Gillie” McPherson said as he watched four men wrestle the gurney from the back of the big armored MRAP parked at the street corner of Bridge and Indiana. “City spent enough cash on old Bob here, and I’m sure we’d take the blame if the old man got chewed up right after we re-planted him.”

 

 

The four soldiers huffed and puffed with the stretcher in tow. They glanced all about as they got the litter to ground level. A few locals teetered by but seemed more attracted to the gentle growl of the big Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected vehicle than the grunts and groans of the men.

 

 

“Not sure why they didn’t ‘plant’ the old dead fart,” young Private Leon Jansen said, skinny, all-muscle arms straining. Sweat ran down his brow in rivulets. “It would beat spending the cash on the rotter and lugging his carcass back out here.”

 

 

The other three grunts assisting Jansen rolled their eyes. One boasting DIETRICH on the name tape of his tactical vest, just loud enough to be heard, uttered: “Newb.”

 

 

On the olive drab canvas stretcher lay Bob the 1950s Gas Station Attendant zomb who was usually found rummaging about the defunct Marathon Service Station on the southwest corner of Indiana Avenue and Bridge Street. Bob, for short, had become a well-known local fixture within the confines of the Grand Rapids UCRA (Urban Civilian Retention Area) on the west side of town. Appreciated for his special ability as a SZ, “satellite zomb,” Bob, somehow able to mentally acquire and verbally communicate Intel on activities of the undead both within and outside the city limits, was looked upon fondly as a friend-of-sorts to the GRCC military personnel. They got a kick out of trying to decipher his grunting and snarling dialect, finding a majority of it revolving around his “memories” of the 1950’s.

 

 

A grievous blow to the head had almost sent him to the realm of the truly dead-dead.

McPherson didn’t answer the Private, instead he pointed towards the old brick and mortar gas station with the paint-peel white walls. “Set him indoors for now. We’ll hang out a bit, see if he comes around, and make sure none of the neighbors bother him.”

 

 

“Only another Zee could love a face like that,” Dietrich said peering down at the natural, red pock-marked side of Bob’s face. “Though they did a helluva job repairing the other side of his head.”

 

 

The undead gas station attendant’s injury left the upper right side of the man’s face and skull obliterated. The surgeons on Spectrum Hill used a series of skin grafts over a hard plastic polymer that replaced sections of damaged skull bone.

 

 

The four-man team carried Bob into the buildings front entrance. They cleared a spot to lay him, putting him behind the wood counter where a pyramid of rusty oil cans perched.

 

 

“So peaceful,” Jansen said peering very closely at the dead man’s reconstructed face. “How long do we have to stay here until the extra dope keeping him in sleepy time wears off?”

 

 

“As long as it takes,” Dietrich said as the other two men carried the empty stretcher out of the building.

 

 

“That can’t be soon enough. I hate this place,” Jansen said looking over his shoulder at the other soldier.

 

 

BOB by artist Tim Holtrop

(with some additions by me)

“Don’t let anyone in town hear you say that. They’ll throw you in the hoosegow for being a Loyalist or something.”

 

 

Bob emitted a groan.

 

 

Jansen looked back at Bob, finding rheumy eyes open and peering at him.

 

 

“Ah!” the young grunt screamed and ran from the building.

 

 

With hand on sidearm, Dietrich sniffed, smiled at the undead service station attendant, and said: “Thanks, old man. You won’t have to worry about that kid.” He stood, sniffed again, and backed out of the door, calling over his shoulder, “Jansen’s gonna need a change of underwear.”

 

 

#

 

 

They waited the rest of the day for Bob to get up and start shuffling about. The mission was not only to return the old one to his “residence,” but also see if he still “functioned” with his surgical modifications.

 

 

“I see blips of brain activity but none of the usual spikes when SZ’s are transmitting,” McPherson said as the team sat in the MRAP watching the service station and the neighborhood surrounding them.

 

 

“Probably nothing around to hone in on. The others seem to avoid this area since the plane crash and chemical spill.” Dietrich scratched at a spot under his helmet.

 

 

“HAZMAT crew cleaned that up good.” McPherson continued to watch the handheld device monitoring Bob. “Just goes to show, these folks retain memories to some extent,” he said referring to Grand Rapids local undead.

 

 

The handheld pings.

 

 

“Here we go. Bob’s up, starting to transmit.”

 

 

Jansen leaned forward to see what the Lieutenant was seeing. “Retina-Optic Nerve Image Defragging and Reintegration. How much did that cost the taxpayers?”

 

 

Dietrich thought perhaps the kid was pretty smart after all, until he saw the words scrolled below the small screen on McPherson’s handheld.

 

 

McPherson ignored the young soldier. “Bob’s coming outside.”

 

 

They watched as the old zomb teetered out of the service station door in his new duds: blue mechanic coveralls and a sky blue long sleeve shirt. He walked by the rusted gas pumps and halfway to the street corner. Stopping, he stood stock still and appeared to stare straight at the big MRAP parked a few feet in front of him.

 

 

“What’s he doing?”

 

 

“He’s just staring at us.”

 

 

McPherson’s screen showed a menagerie of fuzzy images: outlines of Cadillac cars, a group of women in poodle skirts, a group of hunch-back humanoid creatures skip-hopping through a field of tall grass.

 

 

“Is he picking up something? Is that what he is seeing or what his, what? Zombie ESP is satelliting to him?” One of the other grunts said looking at the Lieutenant’s handheld, then out the small rectangular visor next to him.

 

 

Jansen peered out the port slot next to him. “We’re just seeing the little reminiscences of what’s flitting around inside his rotted gray matter. What a waste of time and money.”

 

 

The grunt pulls a combat shotgun from the stanchion next to him, pushes the barrel out the window, and yells: “Hey, stupid, quit standing there and show us something good.”

 

 

Trigger is pulled.

 

 

The shotgun booms.

 

 

Jansen is gang-piled to the floor of the MRAP. Dietrich kneels on his chest while another soldier pulls the shotgun out of the Private’s hands.

 

 

“Dumb shit!” Dietrich snarls, fist cocked back ready to feed his fellow a knuckle bone, or four.

 

 

“What the--?” McPherson says, eyes on the monitor then out the window, then back to monitor. He grabs a pair of field glasses and looks through them, lowers them, looks at the screen, then back through the binoculars.

 

 

Bob bolted around the back of the gas station upon Jansen’s shotgun blast. Next, the old station attendant appeared on the flat roof of the garage. The zomb, now turned towards the west, again stood stock still except for his mouth which seemed to be moving as if he was speaking to someone.

 

 

On the monitor, a fuzzy image of a dark-haired soldier; a captain by the look of the twin bars on the patch of his tactical vest. Amazing as it was, the man’s name tape could be read: BILLET.

 

 

“What the hell? Bob seeing one of our own,” McPherson said as he looked at the monitor and then back to the old zomb on the station roof.

 

 

Bob turned to face them.

 

 

Dietrich took the field glasses from the Lieutenant and looked out and up at the Bob.

 

 

“Well, shit, that’s a new one on me,” Dietrich said, eyes glued to the binoculars.

 

 

“The image of one of our own guys?” McPherson replied.

 

 

“No,” Dietrich said lowering the field glasses and turning to the Lieutenant. “I think the old zomb is crying.”

 

 

###

 

 

“Your memory is a monster; you forget – it doesn’t. It simply files things away. It keeps things from you, or hides things from you – and summons them to your recall with a will of its own. You think you have a memory; but it has you!”--John Irving

 

 

“The world shrieks and sinks talons into our hearts. This we call memory.”-- Tim O’Brien

###

TRANSPORT (Book One) is available and can be found here:

Barnes & Noble

Amazon

Busy TRANSPORT-related Day

Hey all.

Mike Wilson, winner of the Sister Mirose print set

Well, so Michael A Wilson was the highest bidder for the Tim Holtrop-illustrated SISTER MIROSE print set. His bid of $100 won him the limited edition, signed 12x18 matted prints which reveal a scene from TRANSPORT: UNCIVIL WAR (Book Three) and a one-shot static pose illo of Sister Mary Mirose with the circa 2025 West Side Apostolate in the background.


The money went straight to the 746 House Flag Day Fundraiser today. Greg Cobb and his wife had a big to-do yard sale, which included Grand Valley State University mascot Louie the Laker and, later in the afternoon, Griff from the Grand Rapids Griffins hockey team. It was a beautiful day for a yard sale and there was quite a few cars coming and going from the place. I showed Greg the Mirose prints. He was very impressed and said he'd been following the news about the prints and the TRANSPORT book series.

Author Peter Welmerink standing outside
the REAL Westside Apostolate with the Sister Mirose prints

I also stopped at the actual, real-life WESTSIDE APOSTOLATE and showed the hard working crew there the print set. They were very stoked to see their building in the fictional setting that is TRANSPORT.  One of the viewers/workers said: "The building looks better in the illustration than it does now."

I pointed out that the IRL building doesn't have zombies or bullet holes like the illustration does...then I was directed to the three bullet holes in one of the front windows. Okay, well, at least they don't have zombies...or the massive, battle-hardened nun like Sister Mirose.

It was a pretty cool afternoon meeting the 746 House Flag Day folks and visiting the real deal Westside Apostolate and talking to all.

Special thanks go to Tim Holtrop for the artwork, Russ Colter and crew at CropMarks Printing for the awesome 12x18 prints, and Stephen Zimmer and Seventh Star Press for the opportunity bringing the TRANSPORT series to life for all to read and, hopefully, enjoy.

Roll out and roll on!

Pete



Sister Mirose copyright 2014 Peter Welmerink

First Signed Copy of TRANSPORT Goes To....

I did a first ever novel book signing today on a customer-bought copy of TRANSPORT Book One.

Kudos go out to TODD DOUGHERTY who bought a copy through Barnes & Noble and brought it to me to sign. Gold Sharpie signature on the cover. Short ink pen message on the inside first page.

Thanks Todd! Happy Reading!

First TRANSPORT book signing
Photo taken by Bev Chesebro

Heartwell versus Honeywell: Mayor's of Grand Rapids - Fictional and Real

Happy June, folks.

A reader, who is familiar with Grand Rapids (the nonfictional one), noticed the Mayor of Grand Rapids in my TRANSPORT World appears to have a last name that sounds strikingly like the real current Mayor of GR, George Heartwell.



Not a Feral Zombie in the TRANSPORT World, but Mayor George Heartwell of IRL Grand Rapids, Michigan.
 




















Dennis Honeywell is the Mayor of Grand Rapids in my TRANSPORT World.

Honeywell a nod to Heartwell? You bet!

I have not met in person Mayor Heartwell, but I can say he is not a guy who hides in the shadows or behind his other city council members. In fact, he and the rest of city commissioners and elected officials have done wonders for IRL Grand Rapids. (I could tell you horror stories of Grand Rapids in the 1980's, mainly because the town was creepy quiet back then, where-as now...GRAND RAPIDS ROCKS!)

And what about Mayor Honeywell of Grand Rapids circa 2025?

I do not know what kind of challenges Mayor Heartwell endures day-to-day, but I can say Mayor Honeywell, who is a stand-up guy, probably keeps a cabinet of aspirin close by for all the headaches and woe he endures day-in and day-out. His council members are always in an uproar, asking for more in their beleaguered wards, pushing for more security to keep them enclosed and protected within the confines of Grand Rapids city central while complaining they are too boxed in. He is required to endure outside towns and villages coming to the big city asking for assistance or complaining "he" is overreaching his boundaries when it comes to assisting them. (Grand Rapids often sends military transports and aid outside city limits which is met by differing forms of approval, some very negative. Example: Reganshire.)

Most of the Elected Officials of the TRANSPORT World Grand Rapids have either stepped down, left town or succumb to the Viral Blight. The City Treasurer, Rupert Largo, is second-in-command as there is no City Manager, etc. There is no love lost, won or shared by Honeywell and Largo. Honeywell knows the man (Largo) is bucking for his job.

As Heartwell, for real life Grand Rapids, fully supports the great city of Grand Rapids, so does Honeywell.

Heartwell must enjoy his position, as does Honeywell, though...

...In a militarized, post-zombie apoc world, I am thinking Mayor George Heartwell is glad he isn't the one filling Mayor Dennis Honeywell's shoes.

TRANSPORT Book One is available at Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble online, and at any other fine online or offline (walk-in) bookstore.

What has happened to the Military in the fictional world of TRANSPORT?

A question was posed to me regarding what has happened to the U.S. Government and all the Armed Service departments in the TRANSPORT world.

1. As everything has gone to hell in a hand basket, and everyone has to work together (or, as in reality, it would be great if that happened), the U.S. Armed Services--Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines--have been combined. You have mixed services and service personnel, perhaps not changing when it comes to rank, but sharing skills and training when and where possible.

Example: Captain Jacob Billet (CO of the HURON) comes from the Army sector, while Lance Corporal Loutonia Phelps (the HURON's driver) and Lance Corporal Eddie Mulholland (the HURON's rear gunner) both come from the Marines.

CAPTAIN JAKE BILLET

Art by Tim Holtrop copyright 2014

The Coast Guard and National Guard have also been rolled into this larger lot, though again you will have a mix of personnel with specific training in their respective areas and locales.

It all works well with the national and global catastrophe Humankind now endures.

Or as General Owen Shiffler, an old Texan warhorse, once said (a few weeks prior to collapsing with the virus): "Ya'll get along, I mean, really work together, or I'll put each and everyone of you out in the sticks with nothin' but your LPCs*."                  

* - LPCs, leather personnel carriers, aka, boots.

2. The United States Central Government is still alive and well, though at a reduced capacity. POTUS has issued each state's management responsibilities, except Alask and Hawaii, be their own, offering what military assistance the beleaguered and diminished U.S. Armed Forces can muster. The large cities, where the majority of the military is located, now pay for, and in some cases, totally manage their armed forces units (with the help of the particular units military command). It is basically like each large city with a military garrison has their own little DoD (Department of Defense).

There is still a Secretary of Defense, and a few under-secretaries, but again, separate departments have now been combined into one.

In Grand Rapids, in current story line, the hierarchy would be (for example):

A. Billet reports to Colonel Jackson

B. Colonel Jackson reports to Grand Rapids Mayor Honeywell and city commission

C. Jackson will also report out to whoever is in the government position of JCS (Joint Chiefs of Staff), as needed.

I hope this answered questions and clarified this particular subject that isn't necessarily spelled outright in the story.

There are no silly questions, feel free to ask any other.

Roll out!

Pete

 

###

 

TRANSPORT (Book One) can be found here:

 

AMAZON

Paperback

Kindle

 

BARNES & NOBLE

 

SCHULER BOOKS

Paperback

TRANSPORT Book One...NOW AVAILABLE!

Hey fans of The Walking Dead and Military Fiction...and those who have been looking for a heavy mixer of both...

TRANSPORT Book One is now available.

The book is available on Kindle, Nook, Kobo, iTunes, and other formats.
Paperback will be available very soon also.

For Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/Transport-Peter-Welmerink-ebook/dp/B00K6KCDK4/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1400536935&sr=8-3&keywords=peter+welmerink

For Nook: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/transport-peter-welmerink/1119449062?ean=2940149292646

For Kobo: http://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/transport-2

And stay tuned HERE at GrandRapidsAltered.blogspot.com for more news regarding the series, including snippets of other TRANSPORT related tales, artwork and other heavy duty, bone-crunching tidbits that can only be found in the world of TRANSPORT.

Interview in MAHLE NORTH AMERICA COMPANY NEWS MAGAZINE

As part of MAHLE INDUSTRY, they put out a company "newspaper" every quarter. Each facility picks an employee to interview and show what they do outside of work, hobbies, etc.

I was chosen for the April issue.

The interview article is below: (As found on the back cover of the magazine. How cool is that?!)

TRANSPORT Book One Cover Art Revealed

All right folks. Here we go.

End o' last week, Seventh Star Press released an image of the cover art for TRANSPORT Book One.

Full release here:
http://www.seventhstarpress.com/category/peter-welmerink/

Cover art done by Mr. Jason Conley of the great state of Tennessee.
He did a fantastic job on all three book covers.
(And Tim Holtrop did the black and white interior art for all three books! Cool stuff!)

Book One is due out in May 2014.

Contact Info

Hello Friends.

If you have questions, comments or inquiries about TRANSPORT or any other Peter Welmerink tale out there, feel free to correspond with me at: swordandheavyarmor@gmail.com

Until then.

Best regards.

Pete

9/11 and why I write military fiction

I was on the road traveling the other day, realizing it was the 12th anniversary of that awful day. It was on the news, the big memorial event in New York. I watched it for a while before heading out. Said a little prayer for those lost, the families of the deceased and injured, and remembered our military guys and gals out there fighting the good fight.

I passed Camp McCoy as I drove through northwest Wisconsin.

I drove by the Russell Rd Military Museum while driving home.

Thinking a lot about our military personnel both present and past. Thanks you all. I salute you.

Why do I write military fiction?

Because I love the vehicles, the action and adventure in the old stories transcribed by veterans of all those wars. I know it is a grim world, in a world at war, in the fighting man and woman who has to endure being far from home, possibly smack in the middle of an enemies homeland, under fire, or simply enduring a sandstorm and having to literally take your vehicle apart to get all the grit out.

When I write, about my fictional characters and fictional situations (after all, I am writing about a slightly future flung world, post-zombie apocalypse), I often think if anyone in the military might enjoy this craziness in which I write. I write to entertain, to get the story out. And when writing military fiction, more than say sword and sorcery, I often stop and think about our military folk of today and in the past. I appreciate YOU and what you are doing, and our veterans, what you have done.

The fighting spirit. Perhaps that is really what is enduring. Out there, against the odds, probably more often with the odds against you, and yet you endure. You are strong. You keep pushing forward.

Besides the cool military vehicles and the adventure, that is what I am writing about: the fighting spirit, the push to survive against the odds, fighting the good fight, pushing forward.

Anyway, I thank you, those soldiers of today and those soldiers of yesterday, for inspiring me, to write my crazy adventure tales in this Military Thriller genre. Hopefully it is enjoyed. Hopefully I can throw some light moments in there, maybe get a chuckle from time to time. But will always push the fighting spirit, because, like you, this is what my underlying character story is about, pushing back against the odds, and surviving.

(I know in war, not all survive. It's not always pretty. We don't always win. But we will still go out fighting the good fight.)

Pete