An exciting debut novel, in the tradition of The Passage . The Beautiful Land is part science fiction, part horror--and, at its core, a love story, between a brilliant young computer genius and the fragile women he has loved since high school. Now, he must bend time and space to save her life, as the world around them descends into apocalyptic madness. Tak has nothing to lose when he gets a call from the Axon Corporation with an intriguing job offer: exploring alternate time lines. Once he’s spent a few years jetting between different realities, however, he discovers that Axon is up to more than just exploration, and he steals a mobile time machine and goes rogue. The cartoonishly evil mad scientist at Axon’s helm, Charles Yates, who would “smother a baby with a pillow” in the name of science, has nefariously plotted to destroy every reality in existence with the help of a virus: a flock of grotesque, birdlike creatures that indefatigably obliterate everything. With the help of his friend Samira, a PTSD-stricken, former Iraq War translator, Tak flashes in and out of realities to escape the virus and hopefully save all the universes. Tak’s sardonic and irreverent tone moves this interdimensional caper along at a quick and entertaining pace, which helpfully distracts from its thin characterization. Averill’s debut may lack depth, but it makes up for it with a quippy lead and well-wrought action. --Sarah Hunter Alan Averill started writing at five years old when he scribbled down a story about Bigfoot killing him with a log. He currently lives in the Pacific Northwest with his wife, Sue; his dog, Sam Perkins; and a whole lot of rain.  chapter three   Tak is almost twelve hours into the ?ight before he notices that something has gone seriously wrong. With only three hours to go on the Sydney to Los Angeles nonstop, the plane is dark, travelers are sleeping, and the attendants should be strapped into their seats with a book or chatting quietly in the galley area. This time, however, things are different. Instead of engaging in mindless chatter, the attendants are buzzing through the aisles with ner¬vous looks on their faces. Occasionally, two or three will duck off behind the bulkhead for a brief, whispered meeting, then emerge from either side and whisk their way up and down the aisles some more. At ?rst, Tak thinks that there’s some kind of low-key me¬chanical problem—the ?aps are a bit sticky, or the hydraulic pres¬sure is off. But after watching the attendants scuttle back and forth for the better part of an hour, he dismisses this option. He’s been on planes with problems before, seen that ?avor of panic on at¬tendant’s faces. This is different. It’s almost like they’re moving up and down the aisles to avoid attracting attention to something. Or someone , he thinks suddenly. Could be a problem with a passenger. Medical emergency up in ?rst class, maybe? Some drunk asshat making jokes about lighting his shoes on ?re? He’s on the end of a four-seat aisle in the very last row. That is where Tak prefers to sit. He likes being able to see the entire plane in motion, likes being able to predict and adapt to anything that might come his way. The only things he has to worry about behind him are a pair of lavatories and a small galley, where they store the beverage cart. Some would consider this level of caution to be excessive, but Tak doesn’t care. After the last four years of his life, he readily allows himself a healthy dose of paranoia. As he watches the attendants try not to look as worried as they clearly are, he absentmindedly runs one hand back and forth over the slim, silver briefcase in his lap. He thinks about mechanical problems and terrorists and unexplained airline disasters that spontaneously occur at forty thousand feet and gives a small chuckle. Oh man, if you guys only knew what this was. That would really give you something to worry about. The chuckle fades. His last thought—if you only knew what this was—rolls around and around in his brain, gathering momentum like a snowball down a mountain. As it grows, Tak starts to feel something approaching nervousness for the ?rst time since take¬off. He runs his thumbs over the latches of the case and lets the thought fester as he turns one eye toward a group of four attendants standing next to the ?rst-class curtain. They’re well trained, but not perfect. Eyes occasionally dart to the rear of the cabin, then down again. Bodies are shifted ever so slightly toward the back, as if ready to spring on a problem. After a few minutes, Tak leans his head into the aisle and tilts it to the side like a dog hear¬ing a quizzical noise. One of the attendants catches his eye and snaps her head around so fast her neck threatens to break. As he stares at the back of her head, he can almost physically feel her trying not to look at him. The snowball thought is massive now, rolling over trees and skiers and Swiss mountain chalets with impunity. He licks his lips, g