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The instant USA Today bestseller from CJ Leede, author of Maeve Fly—a scorching and sweeping new novel about the end of the world as we know it.

Sexual assault, violence, death, pandemic, on-page animal death, religious bigotry and homophobia.

A virus is spreading across America, transforming the infected and making them feral with lust.

Sophie, a good Catholic girl, must traverse the hellscape of the midwest to try to find her family while the world around her burns. Along the way she discovers there are far worse fates than dying a virgin…

The end times are coming.

Don't just take our word for it...

“Though it’s a horrific premise…Leede never allows the story to descend into titillation or exploitation… American Rapture is both a taboo-shredding nightmare and a sex-positive coming-of-age story.”
– Neil McRobert, Esquire

“A riveting, sprawling, staggeringly brilliant novel about the horrors of shame and repression and sexual violence and moral panics. American Rapture is a riotous scream and an emotional ode to anyone who has ever hidden their true self under their mattress. Blood-soaked, heart-wrenching, grim and glorious. Leede is a singular talent.”
– Rachel Harrison, national bestselling author of Black Sheep

“A bold, fiercely sharp, and deeply unsettling reimagining of the zombie apocalypse genre, which Leede crafts with equal parts anger and unwavering empathy.”
– Chuck Tingle, USA Today bestselling author of Camp Damascus

Taste the very first page

Birdsong outside my window.

Bright midwestern morning. Fresh sun, clear air. Birdsong outside, and silence inside. Dust specks floating, settling, gathering on stuffed animals, crucifixes, Bibles, in the corners of the wooden built-ins my father designed. Paintings of Jesus, of Mary, in their wooden frames. Beige curtains, beige carpet. Silence in my room.

The window before me is sealed shut. Sealed because I opened it the night my brother was taken from our home. The night my world went silent. Five years ago today.

I can feel the season’s change is almost here, but I do not yet know it holds the beginning of the end. I do not yet know anything except the inside of this room and the screams of my brother that live in me forever.

Downstairs, bacon sizzles in a pan. My mother calls my name. I pull on my plaid pleated skirt, collared shirt, and sweater. The birds outside have flown away.

In the hall, I press my palm to Noah’s closed door, the framed painting of Jesus beside it, one of so many in the house.

I picture my brother, sitting on his bed in the low lamplight. The last good moments, ones that replay all the time.

Our birthday was coming, we were almost twelve, and I had snuck into his room, afraid, like I always was. I never could have known what my being there would do. That these precious moments would become our last together.

We were both homeschooled and took classes at church, but Noah…

November 2024