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Wilder Girls

A NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER!

A New York Public Library Best Book of the Year


"Power's
evocative, haunting, and occasionally gruesome debut will challenge readers to ignore its
bewitching presence."

Booklist, Starred Review

★ "This
gritty, lush debut chronicling psychological and environmental tipping points...weaves
a chilling narrative that disrupts readers' expectations through an
expertly crafted, slow-burn reveal of the deadly consequences of climate change....Part survival thriller, part post-apocalyptic romance, and part ecocritical feminist manifesto,
a staggering gut punch of a book."

Kirkus Reviews, Starred Review

"
An ode to empowering women and a testament to the strength of female bonds....Far more than just an unsettling horror story, this
powerful debut novel about a strange disease at an all-girls boarding school explores female empowerment, friendship and survival with tenacity and brilliance."

Shelf Awareness, Starred Review




Electric prose, compelling relationships, and visceral horror illuminate Power’s
incisive debut...[and  its] environmental and feminist themes are resonant, particularly the immeasurable costs of experimentation on female bodies, and the power of female solidarity and resilience amid ecological and political turmoil.”— 
Publishers Weekly, Starred Review

"
Tightly coiled narration moves between quietly reserved to
vividly but coldly detailed, doubling the horror."

Bulletin

"
Your new favorite book."-
Cosmopolitan

“Everything about this
thrilling, unnerving debut will make you want to immediately read it.
For fans of Mindy McGinnis and Gillian French.”—
Paste


Wilder Girls is so sharp and packs so much emotion in such wise ways.
I’m convinced we’re about to witness the emergence of a major new literary star.” —
Jeff VanderMeer, author of the
New York Times bestseller 
Annihilation



"Wilder Girls is
the bold, imaginative, emotionally wrenching horror novel of my dreams—one that celebrates the resilience of girls and the earthshaking power of their friendships.
An eerie, unforgettable triumph."—Claire Legrand,
New York Times bestselling author of
Furyborn


A nightmarish survival story that’s as much literary fiction as it is young adult...I couldn’t look away."
Casey McQuiston,
New York Times bestselling author of
Red, White, and Royal Blue

"The eeriness of Raxter Island permeates every scene, and Rory Power's characters are fierce and honest, blazing from the pages. This is
a groundbreaking speculative story—brutal and
beautiful, raw and unflinching. I adored this book."—
Emily Suvada, author of
This Mortal Coil

"A feminist, LGBT+, sci-fi-horror story with all the
tantalizing elements of gore, mystery, war, and love you can ask for.
Real, flawed, brave girls against a world gone mad.
A shudderingly good read!” —
Dawn Kurtagich, author of
Teeth in the Mist
Portrait
Rory Power grew up in Boston, received her undergraduate degree at Middlebury College, and went on to earn an MA in prose fiction from the University of East Anglia. She lives in Massachusetts. Her first novel is the
New York Times bestseller
Wilder Girls. To learn more about Rory, go to itsrorypower.com and follow @itsrorypower on Twitter and Instagram.
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  • Something. Way out in the white-dark. Between the trees, moving where the thickets swarm. You can see it from the roof, the way the brush bends around it as it rustles to the ocean.

    That size, it must be a coyote, one of the big ones hitting shoulder high. Teeth that fit like knives in the palm of my hand. I know because I found one once, the end of it just poking through the fence. Took it back and hid it under my bed.

    One more crash through the brush and then the stillness again. Across the roof deck Byatt lowers her gun, rests it on the railing. Road clear.

    I keep mine up, just in case, keep the sight raised to my left eye. My other eye’s dead, gone dark in a flare-up. Lid fused shut, something growing underneath.

    It’s like that, with all of us here. Sick, strange, and we don’t know why. Things bursting out of us, bits missing and pieces sloughing off, and then we harden and smooth over.

    Through the sight, noon sun bleaching the world,     I can see the woods stretching out to the island’s edge, the ocean beyond. Pines bristling thick like always, rising high above the house. Here and there, gaps where the oak and birch have shed their leaves, but most of the canopy is woven tight, needles stiff with frost. Only the radio antenna breaking through, useless now the signal’s out.

    Up the road someone yells, and out of the trees, there’s Boat Shift coming home. It’s only a few who can make the trip, all the way across the island to where the Navy delivers rations and clothes at the pier the ferries used to come and go from. The rest of us stay behind the fence, pray they make it home safe.

    The tallest, Ms. Welch, stops at the gate and fumbles with the lock until at last, the gate swings open, and Boat Shift come stumbling in, cheeks red from the cold. All three of them back and all three of them bent under the weight of the cans and the meats and the sugar cubes. Welch turns to shut the gate behind her. Barely five years past the oldest of us, she’s the youngest of the teachers. Before this she lived on our hall and looked the other way when somebody missed curfew. Now she counts us every morning to make sure nobody’s died in the night.

    She waves to give the all clear, and Byatt waves back. I’m gate. Byatt’s road. Sometimes we switch, but my eye doesn’t do well looking far, so it never lasts. Either way I’m still a better shot than half the girls who could take my place.

    The last Boat girl steps under the porch and out of sight, and that’s the end of our shift. Unload the rifles. Stick the casings in the box for the next girl. Slip one in your pocket, just in case.

    The roof slopes gently away from the flattop deck, third floor to second. From there we swing over the edge and through the open window into the house. It was harder in the skirts and socks we used to wear, something in us still telling us to keep our knees closed. That was a long time ago. Now, in our ragged jeans, there’s nothing to mind.

    Byatt climbs in behind me, leaving another set of scuff marks on the window ledge. She pushes her hair over one shoulder. Straight, like mine, and a bright living brown. And clean. Even when there’s no bread, there’s always shampoo.

    “What’d you see?” she asks me. I shrug. “Nothing.”

    Breakfast wasn’t much, and I’m feeling the shake of hunger in my limbs. I know Byatt is too, so we’re quick as we head downstairs for lunch, to the main floor, to the hall, with its big high ceilings. Scarred, tilting tables; a fireplace; and tall-backed couches, stuffing ripped out to burn for warmth. And us, full of us, humming and alive.

    There were about a hundred girls when it started, and twenty teachers. All together we filled both wings off the old house. These days we only need one.

    The Boat girls come banging through the front doors, letting their bags drop, and there’s a scramble for the food. They send us cans, mostly, and sometimes packs of dried jerky. Barely ever anything fresh, never enough for everyone, and on an average day, meals are just Welch in the kitchen, unlocking the storage closet and parceling out the smallest rations you ever saw. But today’s a delivery day, new supplies come home on the backs of the Boat Shift girls, and that means Welch and Headmistress keep their hands clean and let us fight for one thing each.

    Byatt and me, though, we don’t have to fight. Reese is right by the door, and she drags a bag off to the side for us. If it were somebody else, people would mind, but it’s Reese—left hand with its sharp, scaled fingers—so everyone keeps quiet.

    She was one of the last to get sick. I thought maybe  it had missed her, maybe she was safe, and then they started. The scales, each a shifting sort of silver, unfolding out of her skin like they were coming from inside. The same thing happened to one of the other girls in our year. They spread across her whole body and turned her blood cold until she wouldn’t wake up, so we thought it was the end for Reese, and they took her upstairs, waited for it to kill her. But it didn’t. One day she’s holed up in the infirmary, and the next she’s back again, her left hand a wild thing but still hers.

    Reese rips open the bag, and she lets me and Byatt root through it. My stomach clenching, spit thick around my tongue. Anything, I’d take anything. But we’ve got a bad one. Soap. Matches. A box of pens. A carton of bullets. And then, at the bottom, an orange—a real live orange, rot only starting to nip at the peel.

    We snatch. Reese’s silver hand on my collar, heat roiling under the scales, but I throw her to the floor, shove my knee against the side of her face. Bear down, trap Byatt’s neck between my shoulder and my forearm. One of them kicks; I don’t know who. Clocks me in the back of the head and I’m careening onto the stairs, nose against the edge with a crack. Pain fizzing white. Around us, the other girls yelling, hemming in.

    Someone has my hair in her fist, tugging up, out. I twist, I bite where the tendons push against her skin, and she whines. My grip loosens. So does hers, and we scrabble away from each other.

    I shake the blood out of my eye. Reese is sprawled halfway up the staircase, the orange in her hand. She wins.

     
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Beschreibung

Produktdetails

Einband Taschenbuch
Seitenzahl 368
Altersempfehlung 14 - 17
Erscheinungsdatum 09.07.2019
Sprache Englisch
ISBN 978-0-593-11848-1
Verlag Random House LCC US
Maße (L/B/H) 21,1/13,9/3 cm
Gewicht 377 g
Verkaufsrang 6000
Buch (Taschenbuch, Englisch)
Buch (Taschenbuch, Englisch)
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