C. J. Tudor

PRE-ORDER THE HEART-POUNDING NEW NOVEL FROM THE SUNDAY TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE CHALK MAN AND RICHARD & JUDY PICK THE BURNING GIRLS A crashed coach full of students. A stuck cable car full of strangers. An isolated chalet full of friends. A snowstorm rages outside. Inside one group, a killer. But which one . . . ? Praise for C. J. Tudor: 'C. J. Tudor is terrific. I can't wait to see what she does next' Harlan Coben 'Britain's female Stephen King' Daily Mail 'A mesmerizingly chilling and atmospheric page-turner' J.P. Delaney 'Her books have the ability to simultaneously make you unable to stop reading while wishing you could bury the book somewhere deep underground where it can't be found. Compelling and haunting' Sunday Express 'Some writers have it, and some don't. C. J. Tudor has it big time' Lee Child 'A dark star is born' A. J. Finn

The Drift

Rose

When did we stop being people that others wanted to touch and hug and become these revolting husks? Or was that what we always were? Lumps of meat given life by a flick of the sorcerer’s wand. Perhaps death didn’t take anything away. Perhaps it merely restored us to our natural state. 

Lindsay

“In extreme situations, feeling like you are doing something makes a difference psychologically, even if it has no effect on the outcome.”

But lies were the grease that oiled daily life.

Necessity might be the mother of invention, but it was also the father of fuck you.

You’re either a good guy or a survivor. And the earth is full of dead good guys.

Aimee :)

They were trapped. With the dead. And if rescue didn't come soon, they would be buried with them.

I see you, referencing The Chalk Man 🤭

Carter hated woods and forests. Always had. He blamed his dad. When Carter was a kid, his dad had told him this story about some kids he once knew who had found the body of a girl in the woods. She had been dismembered.

Limbs hidden under piles of leaves. They caught the dude who killed her, but never found her head.

When the world started to end, not with a whimper or a bang but with a slow, whistling sigh, Meg didn't care.

He lay in the crisp white drift, legs and arms splayed, a perfect snow angel. His failing retinas stared up at the bright blue sky. The storm had passed.

When the first crow landed and poked its beak into his eye, he didn't blink.

Later that night, bigger predators would come. By morning, there would be nothing left but a ragged carcass.

A week later, a hunter would shoot a wolf. A sickly-looking thing, but wolf meat was as good as any to feed his family.

Soon afterwards, the hunter would fall ill and die. Then his family. Then his family's friends.

The Drift quotes

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