Monthly Archives: August 2015

Chris Von Halle — The Fourth Generation


Today I have author, Chris Von Halle with me to tell us about his new book, THE FOURTH GENERATION. But before we talk to Chris, let’s find out a little bit about one of his characters, Marf.

Marf is the Fourth Gen-- Chris vhmain character’s best friend. He and the main character (Gorin) live in a faction (a suburban house) in a society that exists a hundred years after a birth-transmitted disease that kills everybody when they turn seventeen. I (the author) am sitting with Marf on the shoddy brown sofa in the living room. The room’s wallpaper is peeling away in places, revealing small squares of naked white wall. Marf is short, scrawny, has black hair that sticks up in shocks on his head, and talks in a high voice.

Chris: So, Marf, before we begin, where is everybody in your faction at the moment?

Marf: Well, it’s the middle of the day, so everyone’s out doing their jobs like they should be. And since most of the kids in a faction are supply hunters, most of the ones that live in mine are out in town hunting for Valuable Objects—or artifacts, in other words. The food manger, Jarez, is out in the backyard feeding the chickens, and the housekeeper Peet’s around here somewhere. Probably cleaning.

Chris: So what’s your job in the faction, then?

Marf (puffs out chest): I’m the game hunter. It’s a real important job, man, I’ll tell ya that. I mean, people gotta eat, right? Ya see, when it comes down to it, I’m real good at setting traps and hunting down squirrels with the faction’s nasty fire poker over there by the fireplace. That and Jarez’s chickens and the vegetables from the hydroponic greenhouse keep all ten of us pretty full on a regular basis.

Chris: Interesting. If you don’t mind my asking, what would you say is your greatest flaw?

Marf: HA! Greatest flaw? I ain’t got no flaws, man. Well, at least nothin’ big. But if I had to pick one—and that’s real hard, I’ll tell ya that—I’d say it’s that I work a little too hard. I mean, getting food for the faction’s real important and all, but sometimes a guy needs a little rest every once in a while, ya know?

Chris: Definitely. I see. What would you say is your best quality, then?

Marf: Well, I guess I’d have to say I’m real loyal. Not just to my best friend, Gor, but to my whole faction. I work so incredibly hard at hunting so that they always have enough energy to keep collecting the most precious Valuable Objects every day. Ya know, so that someday our faction can finally win the Tournament of Prestige. I’m thinking we just might have a chance this year, too, since we were sooooo close last year and we keep getting closer every year.

Chris: The Tournament of Prestige, huh? What’s that all about, if you don’t mind my asking?

Marf: ‘Course not, man. I’m the guy to ask, all right. Ya see, this town’s made up of a bunch of factions, and like I said before, the supply hunters in them all hunt for Valuable Objects, or VOs for short, out in the middle of town. The VOs that are more useful and valuable than others are worth more prestige points. At least, according to the rulers who live in their big old mansion on the outskirts of town. So, at the end of the year, the rulers tally up all the points that each faction has gotten over the course of the year and announces the winning faction, which then gets a tour of the rulers’ awesome mansion. Not to mention it gets to live in a whole different mansion itself for an entire year. And, last but not least, it gets its flag raised in the Old World football field in the park for all to see, with all the names of its faction members scrawled on it. It’d be so priceless to win the Tournament of Prestige, man. I swear, my faction better win it at least once before I die!

Chris: Yeah, sounds like quite a prize—or prizes, I should say. Okay, one last question. Who do you admire the most?

Marf: That one’s easy, man. I gotta say my best friend, Gor. He’s the only true friend I’ve got, really. And he collects more VOs than all the other supply hunters in our faction, so he gets the most prestige points of everybody by far. That’s why they all respect him so much. When it comes down to it, and don’t tell anyone this, man, deep down I wish I could be like him.

Chris: All right, well, it was nice meeting you, Marf. Thanks for you agreeing to the interview.
Marf: No problem, man, any time. And if you ever write a sequel, I’d better be the main character!

Chris (laughs): Yeah, we’ll see about that, Marf.

Back Cover Blurb:

In the future, no adults exist. Ever since the plague swept the world 100 years ago, no one has lived past seventeen.

Sixteen-year-old Gorin, a collector of curious artifacts left over from the pre-plague civilization, is on the verge of perishing from that deadly epidemic. And his last wish is to find a way to visit the rulers’ reputedly magnificent, off-limits mansion.

Up against the clock, he and his friend Stausha steal into the mansion and discover a secret more horrifying than they ever could’ve imagined—a secret that holds the key to the survival of the whole human race.


I raced up the stairwell pretty fast for someone in my awful condition. My empty backpack bounced on my shoulders, my feet landing just in front of the steps’ worn, chipped edges. Sunlight leaked through the dusty windows at the top of each landing, enough to light my way to the decaying apartment building’s eighth floor.

The rest of the Valuable Objects better still be there.

No way I was losing the Tournament of Prestige this year, and the VOs could be worth just enough prestige points to finally push my faction into the top spot. But if someone else found them while I was gone…

At last I made it to the eighth floor. My chest heaved as I sucked in breath, my burning legs threatening to crumple.

You’ve gotta be kidding me.

The second door on the right lay wide open. My heart banged against my ribs, making it tough to breathe, as I crept to the door as quietly as only I could.

I peeked inside the room. My gut clenched, even though I’d seen it coming.

A boy about my size—taller than average with good-size muscles—stood in front of the old wooden cabinets on the left side of the room. He had blotchy, dark gray skin, so was about sixteen years old like me. His back looked a little crooked, like his spine wasn’t quite aligned right. Mine was probably in similar shape.

Even from the doorway I could see through the cabinet doors’ inlaid glass. Empty, except for one measly glass bottle. Sure enough, the boy started to turn away from them. I jerked my head back into the hallway, then peered back in. He made his way to the right side of the room.

No—not there.

He stopped at the faded loveseat wedged against the wall. Patches of peeled leather formed large, complicated shapes that looked like continents on a globe.

Get away from there.

Then again, this room had been scoured countless times over the past fifty years by generations of supply hunters like us, and none of them had found the short, tiny closet behind the sofa. Chances were slim this kid would.

Please, Power, this is my last year, my last chance. Please don’t let him find the VOs.

He walked to the side of the loveseat and put his hands on it. He was about to push it!

I yanked my flashlight out of my pocket, snapped open the battery compartment as quickly and quietly as I could, and hurled a battery across the room. Wasn’t like I needed it. Our faction got fresh batteries every week from the mansion, and could probably get more if we asked.

The battery smacked the back wall by the open window—I felt a light breeze, even from where I stood by the door—and hit the floor with a thud. The boy stopped pushing the sofa. Thankfully, he’d only moved it a couple inches. Not enough to reveal any of the closet.

“What the…?” He watched the battery roll across the wooden floor a bit and stay still.

He walked toward it.


He picked it up and headed toward the window, his back to me. Probably thought someone had thrown the battery through it.

I crept toward the sofa as quietly as I could, so there was no chance the kid could hear me. Few people had feet as soundless as Gorin of Faction 235.

I navigated around the squeaky floorboards. Good thing I’d memorized them during my first two trips to this room, after I’d found the jackpot of a closet this morning. Could never be too careful or prepared for a situation like this. Every VO counted, especially ones worth as many prestige points as DVDs.

When I made it to the loveseat, I shoved it aside as hard as I could and burst into the closet.

“Hey!” the boy cried as I lifted the lid of the plastic blue bin inside and started to stuff the last of the whopping stash—a stack of plastic DVD cases coated in thick dust—into my backpack. Not sure exactly what they were or what they did in the Old World. Us supply hunters weren’t trained to know stuff like that, annoyingly enough, though I’d give all my limbs to be given one hint.

Feet shuffled toward me. “Get your filthy paws off those. They’re mine.”

I turned my head toward the boy. He towered over me, at least by a foot. Thick, muscled arms framed his sides. Okay, so I was wrong—he was bigger and stronger than me. He dug his gaze into mine with pebbles for eyes on his overly broad forehead. A large, beak-like nose jutted from his face.

“Sorry, you know the rules,” I said. “I got to all of these before you, fair and square.” Which meant I got to keep them. Actually, I’d gotten to them way before him, but I had no proof of that, so no use mentioning it.

He folded his meaty arms across his chest. “Sorry, punk, but I don’t play by the rules.”

Author Bio:Chris VH

Chris von Halle has had many different lives in many different worlds—the near and distant future Earth, other planets, and even other dimensions—and his books recreate his childhood memories of such outlandish locations.  In this world and life, he lives in Ridgewood, New Jersey, and enjoys such extraordinary activities as playing videogames, tennis, and basketball, and writing the occasional comic strip.

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Twitter: @ChrisvonHalle

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