{"product_id":"the-warehouse-isbn-9781984823809","title":"The Warehouse","description":"\u003cb\u003eIn this “whip-smart and engrossing” (Associated Press) dystopian novel from the bestselling author of the Assassins Anonymous series, a disillusioned employee and a corporate spy team up to expose a massive tech company’s dark underbelly.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“Outstanding . . . walks a fine line between near-future thriller and smart satire.”—NPR\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR: \u003ci\u003eFinancial Times, Real Simple, Kirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eCloud isn’t just a company. It’s a solution. Our revolutionary live-work compound provides safe, clean lives—so employees never have to leave.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePaxton never expected to find himself inside these walls, working for the tech company that’s swallowed much of the American economy. But considering what’s left of the world outside . . . well, suddenly what Cloud’s offering doesn’t seem so bad.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eZinnia never thought she’d be here either. For a corporate spy, going undercover at Cloud—where each employee’s every move is tracked—is the ultimate risk. But it also promises the ultimate reward. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd if she has to sacrifice Paxton to claim her prize, that’s a small price to pay . . . isn’t it?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEqual parts page-turning and terrifying, \u003ci\u003eThe Warehouse\u003c\/i\u003e is about what happens when Big Brother meets Big Business—and who will pay the ultimate price.“An engrossing novel that will make you forget all about your favorite streaming service for a few nights.”\u003cb\u003e—Stephen King\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Warehouse\u003c\/i\u003e is a thriller of ideas, and its interplay of taut action and incisive cultural commentary gives it shades of \u003ci\u003eFahrenheit 451 \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eJurassic Park.\u003c\/i\u003e”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Engaging . . . part modern age consumerism cautionary tale, part near-future dystopian nightmare . . . Its message just might make you think twice when dealing with today’s omnipotent online retailers.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eSYFY Wire\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Futuristic thrillers such as \u003ci\u003e1984\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eFahrenheit 451\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Handmaid's Tale\u003c\/i\u003e succeed because the plots harbor more than a few kernels of truth that make the stories believable. Add Rob Hart's whip-smart thriller \u003ci\u003eThe Warehouse\u003c\/i\u003e to that oeuvre. The engrossing plot not only seems that it could happen, but also, in many ways, is happening now.”\u003cb\u003e—Associated Press\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Featuring an explosive twist-in-the-tail climax, this terrifying hybrid of Orwell’s \u003ci\u003eNineteen Eighty-Four\u003c\/i\u003e and Zamyatin’s \u003ci\u003eWe\u003c\/i\u003e is a triumph.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Guardian\u003c\/i\u003e (UK)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A literary blockbuster with brains . . . gripping [and] hugely engaging.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Observer\u003c\/i\u003e (UK)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Fires an exhilaratingly unsubtle broadside against a world where the wage gap is becoming a yawning chasm.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eFinancial Times\u003c\/i\u003e (UK)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Thrilling . . . conjures a warped but recognizable near-future America that nails the dystopia-as-utopia aspect of our worst nightmares. Like the best dystopian fiction, \u003ci\u003eThe Warehouse\u003c\/i\u003e holds up a dark mirror to our times.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Taut, tense, and masterful. Every page presents a new set of chills that tells you in no uncertain terms: this is where we’re headed if we don’t correct our course.”\u003cb\u003e—Chuck Wendig, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eWanderers\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Fast-paced and unputdownable, thrilling and ominous . . . terrifying object lesson of a story that will haunt you each time you see a box on the front step.”\u003cb\u003e—Delilah S. Dawson, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eStar Wars: Phasma\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Witty, insightful, and masterfully told, \u003ci\u003eThe Warehouse\u003c\/i\u003e is a riveting tale that reflects on the state of humanity and where we might be heading.”\u003cb\u003e—Ashlee Vance, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eElon Musk\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Wildly imaginative yet frighteningly real.”\u003cb\u003e—Riley Sager, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eLock Every Door\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A chilling and all-too-believable portrait of a not-so-far-off future where free will succumbs to big business.”\u003cb\u003e—Alafair Burke, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Better Sister\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“As a polemic, \u003ci\u003eThe Warehouse \u003c\/i\u003eis full throated and sweeping. . . . [Hart’s villain] is the belief that brazen capitalism is the solution to the world’s problems.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e Book Review\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eRob Hart\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of the Ash McKenna crime series and the short-story collection \u003ci\u003eTake-Out. \u003c\/i\u003eHe also co-wrote \u003ci\u003eScott Free \u003c\/i\u003ewith James Patterson. He’s worked as a book publisher, a political reporter, and a communications director for a politician and was a commissioner for the city of New York. He lives on Staten Island with his wife and daughter.\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003ePaxton\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePaxton pressed his hand against the front window of the ice-cream parlor. The menu board on the wall inside promised homemade flavors. Graham cracker and chocolate marshmallow and peanut butter fudge.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFlanking it, on one side, was a hardware store called Pop’s, and on the other was a diner with a chrome and neon sign he couldn’t quite make out. Delia’s? Dahlia’s?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePaxton looked up and down the stretch of the main road. It was so easy to imagine the street bustling with people. All the life this place used to hold. It was the kind of town that could inspire feelings of nostalgia on the first visit.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNow it was an echo fading in the white sunlight.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe turned back to the ice-cream parlor, the only business on the strip not boarded up with weathered plywood. The window was hot to the touch where the sun hit it and coated in a layer of grit.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLooking inside, at the dusty stacks of flared tin cups and the empty stools and the fallow refrigerators, Paxton wanted to feel some kind of regret, about what this place must have meant to the town that surrounded it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut he had reached the limit of his sadness when he stepped off the bus. Just the act of being there was stretching his skin to bursting, like an overfilled balloon.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePaxton hitched his bag over his shoulder and turned back into the horde shuffling down the sidewalk, trampling the grass jutting through the cracks in the concrete. There were still people coming up in the rear--older folks, people nursing injuries so they couldn’t walk as well.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eForty-seven people had gotten off the bus. Forty-seven people, not including him. About halfway through the two-hour ride, when there was nothing left on his phone to capture his attention, he’d counted. Heavy-shouldered men with the callused hands of day laborers. Stooped office workers grown soft from years of hunching at keyboards. One girl couldn’t have been more than seventeen. She was short and curvy, with long brown braids that reached down to her lower back and skin the color of milk. She wore an old lavender pantsuit, two sizes too big, the fabric faded and stretched from years of washing and wear. The sliver of an orange tag, like the kind used in secondhand stores, stuck out from its collar.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEveryone carried luggage. Battered roller suitcases wobbling on uneven pavement. Bags strapped to backs or slung over shoulders. Everyone sweating from exertion. The sun baked the top of Paxton’s head.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt must have been well past a hundred degrees. Sweat ran down Paxton’s legs, pooling in his underarms, making his clothes stick. Which was exactly why he wore black pants and a white shirt, so the sweat wouldn’t show as much. The white-haired man next to him, the one who looked like a college professor put out to pasture, his beige suit was the color of wet cardboard.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHopefully the processing center was close. Hopefully it was cool. He just wanted to be inside. He could taste it on his tongue: dust blowing from ruined fields, no longer strong enough to keep a grip on anything. It had been cruel of the bus driver to drop them at the edge of town. He was probably staying close to the interstate to conserve gas, but still.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe line ahead shifted, drifting to the right at the intersection. Paxton dug in harder. He wanted to stop to pull a bottle of water out of his bag, but pausing at the ice-cream parlor had been an indulgence. There were now more people ahead of him than behind.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAs he neared the corner, a woman launched past him, clipping his side, making enough contact he almost stumbled. She was older, Asian, with a mop of white hair on her head and a leather satchel looped around her shoulder, making a hard push for the front of the pack. But the effort proved to be too much and within a couple of feet she tripped, went down hard on her knee.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe people around her stepped to the side, gave her room, but didn’t stop. Paxton knew why. A little voice in his head screamed, Keep walking, but of course he couldn’t, so he helped her get to her feet. Her bare knee was scratched red, a long trail of blood running down her leg to her tennis shoe, so thick the line was black.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe looked at him, barely nodded, and took off. Paxton sighed.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You’re welcome,” he said, not loud enough for her to hear.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe checked behind him. The people at the back were picking up the pace. Walking with a renewed sense of effort, probably at the sight of someone going down to the ground. There was blood in the air. Paxton hitched the bag again and took off at a brisk pace, aiming hard for that corner. He turned and found a large theater with a white marquee. The stucco on the front of the building was crumbling to reveal patches of weather-worn brick.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBroken neon glass letters formed an uneven pattern along the top of the marquee.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003er-i-v-r-v-i-e.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePaxton figured it was supposed to spell out Riverview, even though there didn’t seem to be any rivers nearby, but then again, maybe there used to be. Parked outside the theater was a mobile air-conditioning unit, the sleek vehicle humming, pumping cold air through a sealed tube into the building. Paxton followed the crowd toward the long row of open doors. As he got closer, the doors on the end closed, leaving a few in the middle still open.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe pushed forward, nearly running the final few steps, aiming for the middle. As he stepped through, more doors slammed behind him. The sun disappeared and the cool air enveloped him and it felt like a kiss.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe shivered, looked back. Saw the last door close, and a middle-aged man with a pronounced limp was left out in the blazing sun. The first thing the man did was deflate. Shoulders slumped, bag dropped to the ground. Then the tension returned to his spine and he stepped forward, smacking his palm against the door. He must have been wearing a ring because it made a sharp crack, like the glass might break.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Hey,” he yelled, his voice muffled. “Hey. You can’t do this. I came all the way out here.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCrack, crack, crack.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Hey.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA man in a gray shirt that said RapidHire on the back in white letters approached the rejected applicant. He placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. Paxton couldn’t read lips, but he assumed it was the same thing spoken to the woman who’d gotten turned away from the bus. She was the last person on line and the doors closed in her face, and a man in a RapidHire shirt appeared and said: “There is no last place. You have to want to work at Cloud. You are free to apply again in one month’s time.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePaxton turned away from the scene. He couldn’t find more room for his own sadness--certainly he couldn’t muster space for anyone else’s.\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Ballantine Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304931021029,"sku":"NP9781984823809","price":20.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781984823809.jpg?v=1767742130","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-warehouse-isbn-9781984823809","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}