Godless Murder Machine by Mike Leon

Author:Mike Leon [Leon, Mike]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: SciFi, Action & Adventure, Military
ISBN: 9781519138231
Google: ll_LjgEACAAJ
Amazon: B0186J4U4S
Publisher: Basement of Doom
Published: 2015-11-27T00:00:00+00:00

EXT. HIGHWAY - DAY

Sid growls angrily inside the ball of compressed metal that once was a Ford Taurus. The car is upside down and filled with acrid black fumes. He searches for sunlight in the steel prison around him. The driver’s side window is crunched into half its original height, but he thinks he might be able to squeeze through.

He pulls the P90 strap over his head and places the gun on the ceiling under the passenger’s seat. Then he wrenches his feet from under the demolished dashboard and plants his elbows on the ceiling. He pokes his head through the window and sees a hundred feet of dry grass separating him from the street. The car rolled so many times even he lost track. He appears to be about seventy meters from the center of the blast, now a column of smoke and cinders in the street. Sid reaches through the window with his left arm and finds that the window isn’t quite big enough for his shoulders. He plants a hand on the outside of the car and roars as he pushes himself through the frame. Broken glass tears at his skin. He kicks against the passenger’s seat and pushes harder. He manages to wedge himself into the window like a cork, with one arm free and the other still stuck in the car.

And then something moves in the dust. It is the shape and size of a human, but it can’t be human. There’s no way any human could have survived that explosion.

Or is there?

Sid knows all about explosions. He’s blown up buildings, cars, people, and other monsters with a multitude of different compounds including C4, ANFO, Semtex, TNT and even H6. The blast by itself typically only produces minor injuries like concussions and hearing damage. Most of the fatalities are due to debris, shrapnel, falling glass, collapsing structures—a bunch of things that weren’t there in the middle of the street.

It seems like a ridiculous assertion. There must have been at least two thousand pounds of C4 stacked on that pallet. That’s a bunker buster’s worth of explosive. It was enough to vaporize any flesh and blood creature at the center of the blast.

Still, it comes.

It comes from the cloud, wrapped in smoke and embers. It brushes bright orange flakes from its head and sheds the tattered and burning black burqa like an old skin. It is a short thing, only the height of a petite woman. Its limbs are withered and emaciated. Its body is little more than a ribcage with translucent flesh stretched over it. Scars abound on its arms and legs. A finger is missing from the left hand, broken off at the first knuckle. What little hair it has grows in short clumps on its cranium. It has genitals which are not identifiable, but the lumps of scar tissue where its breasts were excised imply that it is female. So does the word carved over her face in letters that each stretch from her forehead to her chin.

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