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On Sale: March 22, 2011
Pages: 384 | ISBN: 978-0-375-89559-3
Published by : Delacorte Books for Young Readers RH Childrens Books

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Read by Allyson Ryan
On Sale: March 22, 2011
ISBN: 978-0-307-74724-2
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Read by Allyson Ryan
On Sale: March 22, 2011
ISBN: 978-0-307-74725-9
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ABOUT THE BOOK ABOUT THE BOOK
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Synopsis|Excerpt

Synopsis

There are many things that Annah would like to forget: the look on her sister's face before Annah left her behind in the Forest of Hands and Teeth, her first glimpse of the Horde as they swarmed the Dark City, the sear of the barbed wire that would scar her for life. But most of all, Annah would like to forget the morning Elias left her for the Recruiters.  
Annah's world stopped that day, and she's been waiting for Elias to come home ever since. Somehow, without him, her life doesn't feel much different than the dead that roam the wasted city around her. Until she meets Catcher, and everything feels alive again.
But Catcher has his own secrets. Dark, terrifying truths that link him to a past Annah has longed to forget, and to a future too deadly to consider. And now it's up to Annah: can she continue to live in a world covered in the blood of the living? Or is death the only escape from the Return's destruction?

Excerpt

I

This city used to be something once. I’ve seen pictures of the way it gleamed—sun so bright off windows it could burn your eyes. At night, lights shouted from steel like catcalls, loud and lewd, while all day long white-gloved men rushed to open doors for women who tottered about on skyscraper heels.
 
I wonder sometimes what happened to those women when the Return hit—how they were able to run and survive with such absurd contraptions strapped to their feet. How different the world must have been before—safe and comfortable.
 
The City’s nothing like that anymore. Now, bare beams scrape the sky like splintered finger bones. Half the high-rises have fallen, and scavengers pilfered the intricately scrolled ironwork long ago. There’s not much of anything left anymore, just the fear that seeps fog-like through the streets.
 
Fear of the Recruiters. Fear of the Unconsecrated. Fear of tomorrow.
 
Even so, this city’s been my home. Other than the village I lived in as a child, this is the only world I’ve known. It’s sharp-cornered and raw but it’s a refuge for those with a burn to survive. You pay your rents, you follow the rules and you do what it takes to keep living.
 
Which is why I find myself on the Neverlands side of the Palisade wall that cordons off and protects the Dark City as the last dregs of evening slide across the sky. This is the place where Elias would go when he was desperate for money, desperate to trade so we could pay our rent and stay in our tiny flat for another year. It’s the place where anything can be found for the right trade, and where, after the blade of my only knife broke this afternoon, I’ve come for help.
 
Clutching the replacement blade tightly, I’ve started to cross over one of the bridges strung between two buildings when I hear a deep rumbling cough. It’s approaching dusk and storm clouds hover over the river, causing the light to drip a dull green. I shuffle faster toward the next roof, determined to get back to my flat in the Dark City before full night, but as soon as my foot lands on the rickety bridge connecting the buildings a voice calls out, “Wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
 
I freeze, the frayed rope railing in one hand. I’ve been alone long enough to have learned to look out for myself, yet something about the warning makes me hesitate. Just as I start to take another step the voice says, “Look down,” and I do.
 
The alley a dozen stories below is dim and choked in shadows, but even so I see something moving. A moan floats up, echoing softly between the buildings as it rises. The sun breaks through a narrow gap in the clouds and the light reflects down the alley, glinting briefly off what looks like eyes and a row of cracked teeth.
 
As my gaze adjusts I can make out dozens of clawing fingers reaching for me amid a pile of broken bodies that should have died from their fall but didn’t. Or maybe they did die and infection’s brought them back as plague rats. I shiver, disgust rolling through me.
 
Carefully, I inch back onto the roof, noticing how the wooden boards I was just about to walk onto are rotten. One step more and I’d have been down on that heap as well.
 
“You’re the first one to listen to me and not take a dive,” the voice says, and I spin, pulling my new knife between us. A woman sits tucked between two crumbling stone chimneys. In her hand she clutches a charred wooden pipe that feebly chokes out smoke.
 
I glance around the roof, expecting some sort of trap. The woman gestures toward my knife. “Don’t bother,” she says. “Just me up here.”
 
She puts the pipe back in her mouth, the end of it burning a bright red, and in that instant I get a clear look at her face: thick dark lines painted around eyes smudged by tears or sweat or both. Then the ember fades, pulling her back into shadow.
 
But not before I see the raw circle around her wrist, festering with infection. The flesh edging the wound puffs and oozes, and I recognize it as a bite. I pull my knife back up between us, refusing to let it shake.
 
I’m usually pretty good at avoiding any confrontation with the Unconsecrated. No matter how careful you are, there’s always the risk that something will go wrong and they’ll get their teeth into you one way or another.
 
The woman shrugs and inhales. The light makes her skin glow again and I watch how her hand trembles. Cracks etch through the powder she used to make her old skin appear blushing and fresh—it looks like a fractured mirror instead.
 
I think of my own face, the scars overlaying the left side of my body like a thick spider web. Her cracks can be washed away. Mine can’t.
 
It’s easy to see that she’s close to the end—when the infection will kill her. I glance down again at the pile of bodies below, their feeble moans filtering into the night. She’ll be one of them soon. If she’s lucky someone will take care of her before she turns. If she isn’t…
 
I swallow.
 
With a sickening heaviness in my stomach I realize I’m the one who’s going to have to kill her. It makes me feel off balance and I take a few steps away from the edge of the building, suddenly unsettled by such height.
 
The last of the evening light slides down my body, a final brush of heat, before disappearing for what will be yet another night of forever. The woman’s eyes aren’t on my knife; instead they focus on my face.
 
She inhales but her chest barely moves. She considers me a moment, staring at my scars. “There are men who like ’em like you—messed up,” she says, nodding. Her gaze slips past me back down the island toward the ruins of the bigger buildings of the Dark City in the distance.
 
No they don’t, I think.
 
She exhales a wavering line of smoke. “But more ’n likely, they’re the ones that want to do the messing.” She pushes a thumb into the corner of her mouth, as if tidying up a lip stain that she’s no longer wearing, the gesture a habit of so many years that’s become useless.
 
I should say something. I should be comforting or consoling or helpful. This woman’s infected and she’s facing the final moments of her life and I realize how utterly useless I am faced with the enormity of what’s going on. Instead I clear my throat. How in the world would I know what could give this woman comfort?
 




From the Hardcover edition.
Carrie Ryan

About Carrie Ryan

Carrie Ryan - The Dark and Hollow Places

It’s hard to believe that The Dark and Hollow Places is out and that the Forest of Hands and Teeth trilogy is drawing to a close. When I sat down to write The Forest of Hands and Teeth for National Novel Writing Month in 2006, I didn’t expect it would get published. It was the book I began after my husband suggested I “write what I love” (and yes, I loved wondering how a world would survive hundreds of years after a global catastrophe like the zombie apocalypse). Every evening I’d come home from work and I’d write a new scene and then my husband would come home and I’d read it aloud to him. We’d talk about the story on long walks—writing became like a love letter to him.
 
Having the book published by Delacorte Press was literally a dream come true! All my life I’ve wanted to be a writer and I was even amazingly fortunate to be able to quit my job as a lawyer and write full time. I finished editing The Forest of Hands and Teeth and I was sad to leave the world behind, but I’d always thought of it as a stand-alone novel.
 
Until my editor asked me if I could write a sequel. I jumped at the opportunity to dive back into this universe and I loved expanding the world to a new town, new characters, new obstacles. And as soon as The Dead-Tossed Waves was finished I started on The Dark and Hollow Places.
 
Writing this third book was bittersweet. I’m not an author known for being easy on her characters and yet I found myself unwilling to throw too much of the world at Annah, my third protagonist. And then I realized . . . that’s exactly what I had to do: elevate the stakes even higher than they’d been before.
 
I’ve been asked why I write books that many people describe as “dark” and my answer is always the same: I want to show that, even in the darkness, there is hope. The world of the Forest of Hands and Teeth isn’t an easy one, but neither is the one we live in now. The key is to find the brightness of hope—to hold on to love, friendship, family, and self—against all obstacles.
 
 
 
 
 


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