EARTHCORE by Scott Sigler

Author:Scott Sigler [Sigler, Scott]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9781939366894
Publisher: Empty Set Entertainment
Published: 2017-05-30T04:00:00+00:00

1:48 a.m.

At the east gate, Cho Takachi slowly squatted down, then lay flat on his stomach. Elbows on the dirt, he tucked the Mark 14 EBR to his shoulder. One eye closed, he sighted straight down the road that led to the west gate.

The west gate, where something beautiful was hacking Frank Hutchins to pieces.

Blood.

Those knives.

Glowing bodies flashing with angry colors.

Why hadn’t he listened to Sonny? The old man had said something bad was going to happen. Had Sonny known it was this? How could anyone have known it was this, when Cho couldn’t even process what this was?

Frank’s hand … sailing through the air, hitting the dirt road and rolling a few times before flopping to a halt, three fingers curled loosely, middle finger sticking up as if Frank had been trying to flip his killers the bird before they gutted him.

The creatures — so beautiful, so impossibly angelic — kept coming through the ruined west gate, flowed north toward the separator, toward the administration trailer, south toward the hangar and the fuel tanks.

And straight down the road, toward Cho.

Had they seen him?

If they did, they would cut him, pile on him like they had on Frank, slice him to pieces with those heavy knives. Cho knew how sharp the knives were. He’d held one in his hands.

Benjamin’s demons.

The man hadn’t been crazy, not at all. He’d been telling the truth.

Cho felt like he’d been transported into a movie, teleported there by some spell, a monster movie where all would die, all but one, because someone had to live on or how would you get people to come see the sequel?

He glanced to his left, to the armory building. Lots of ammo inside. More guns. Could he hide there?

One of the creatures rolled/flowed/stretched to the separator building’s blue walls. A platinum knife whipped up, down, slicing a screeching gash in the sheet metal. Other creatures rushed over, did the same, slashing over and over, ripping free great shreds of metal.

Nope, not going to hide in the armory.

He heard a woman screaming. He heard gunfire. Both sounds came from the north, where the Quonset huts were, where people had been sleeping until the Klaxon’s shrieking call. Cries of shock, of alarm. Of pain. Of death.

The lab door opened. A man walked out, coffee cup in hand. He was halfway between Cho and the glowing angels of death slicing into the metal wall. The man took three steps before he saw them. He stopped, stared, his back to Cho.

The coffee cup slipped from the man’s weak fingers.

The angels of death stopped hacking the wall.

A sound like the screeching of hot tires on hotter asphalt. Cho saw new colors explode on their strange bodies, amber spots and circles of seafoam green (how the fuck did he know what seafoam green looked like?). Boneless arms stretched out and the creatures rushed in. If the man had a thought to turn and run, that signal didn’t make it from his brain to his feet before they were on him.

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