Asylum by John Terrell Jackson Jr

Author:John Terrell Jackson Jr [Jackson, John Terrell Jr]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Severed Press
Published: 2018-10-22T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8:

Leviathan

The elevator descended calmly as if slowly plummeting to the surface of Hell, and nauseated by the absence of blood-crazed violence, Alabama spent his displeasingly peaceful ride admiring the significantly greater weight of his newfound sidearm—the fifty-caliber hand canon that had contributed to the mercilessly delivered demise of the entity that had butchered those irreplaceable to him—and holstering his beloved magnum, slid the Desert Eagle alongside his thigh, which was already strapped with layers of unused, battle-ready new weapons hungering for carnage. Browsing the armory, he had chosen all sorts of ass-kicking material produced in all shapes and sizes with the sole purpose to fuck shit up, and he was satisfied with the instruments of war he had chosen.

On either of his thighs, his trousers were laced with a three-piece set of six-inch throwing knives that fitted comfortably beneath his twinning leg holsters, one housing the Desert Eagle and the other concealing a Mossberg 500 twelve-gauge super shorty that packed snugly against his thigh. Around both of his biceps, he wore slug-rich ammo bracelets that provided more than enough ammunition for his miniature shotgun, and the compartments of his KM2 fiber vest—now freshly replaced by a fresher, undamaged unit he had snagged from the armory—were corpulent with a storage of excess seven-round, fifty-caliber AE magazines for his magnum and M67 fragmentation grenades. A bandolier strapped with forty-millimeter grenades—fragmentation and incendiary—and several 100-round belts of 5.56X45 millimeter NATO rounds were slung over his shoulders and around his muscular trunk, providing plentiful ammo for the two large pieces that hung loosely by his sides on straps, a M32 six-shot forty-millimeter grenade launcher and a M249 SAW. He also geared two over-the-shoulder sheathes, each scabbarding a stainless combat-ready machete yearning for blood. Lastly, he had smuggled spike-tipped brass knuckles that he contemplated on bashing Lenard’s skull into a pulp with as well as any other given enemy that got in his way.

Sid had also collected a M249 SAW as one of his primary weapons, chains of 5.56X45 millimeter rounds wrapped around his titanic chest and shoulders alongside drums of twelve-gauge slugs clipped to a bandolier equipped to house ammo for the AA-12 dangling by his side. A multitude of fragmentation grenades were anchored to his belt, and holstered on the leg adjacent to his double barrel—which alongside the sickles was irreplaceable to his arsenal—was an eight-inch barrel .357 Python. Loose twelve-gauge shells added bulk to his cargo pockets, and alike Alabama, he contained even more slugs wrapped in shell bracelets around his biceps. The two alone possessed enough firepower to decimate a dozen behemoths if not more.

“So through here we get to the surface, right?” Alabama asked.

“Yeah,” Sid answered.

“Then where?” Alabama queried.

“Guess we’ll find out,” Sid replied.

“And the surface is…?” Alabama questioned, trailing off on his words, unsure how to place them together as his anxieties overwhelmed him.

“Different,” Sid responded. “Much different than the war you knew before, but even for me, it might be different, and worse of all, it’s only been a few hours.

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