Savage Prophet by James Hunter

Author:James Hunter [Hunter, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Shadow Alley Press, Inc.
Published: 2016-10-06T23:00:00+00:00

NINETEEN:

Baron La-Croix

A clumsy zombie with molting green skin crawled over another of its fellows, using the body below as a ladder, scrambling up, one bony hand stretching toward me. With a contemptuous flick of my wrist and a whisper of power, I sent unseen force ripping into the undead asshole. Its head exploding in a puff of dust and powdered bone as the remainder of its decaying body flipped through the air, smacking into a cluster of zombies hobbling forward on dead feet.

I paid them no mind, instead focusing on the concrete wall before me. The earth vibrated with life. Trembled with potent, potential energy stored and waiting to be transformed into deadly, violent kinetic energy—all it needed was a little shove. I reached deep, pumping down strands of earthen-Vis and deathly-Nox, joining the dual forces together as I shaped the working according to my will.

The wall before me responded, the concrete barrier transforming into a formidable defensive hedge, augmented with spear-shafts of rock, called up from the deep places below.

Shanks of rock sprouted from the dusty street beyond, jutting up along the base of the wall, spearing and entangling any of the encroaching dead in a forest of razor-sharp protrusions. Earth shafts and javelins of black obsidian impaled eight or nine of the creatures, jabbing clean through torsos and legs, arms and necks. Piles of ropy gray gore—coiled intestines and other internal organs—spilled out from the fresher corpses, while the older zombies emitted great gray puffs of dust.

They didn’t cry out, though. Didn’t moan or complain. They also didn’t stop, those undead shitheads.

They worked without thought or emotion to free themselves from the spikes: A few wriggled backward, dislodging the rock shafts from their chests and bellies. Those who had suffered wounds to arms or legs continued on virtually unfazed, struggling and fighting until their limbs simply tore away—deadweight (ha, now there’s a pun for you) in the march for progress. Obviously, superficial wounds wouldn’t stop them, but it did slow them down, which was something I guess.

Small victories, am I right?

I thrust out both hands, palms up, and, with a howl, called up dual beams of flame, each as thick as my thigh. The conjured fire, hot as a blowtorch, carved through the crowds of undead, igniting clothing, melting skin like wax, and blackening the bones peeking through from beneath. I zigzagged the lances back and forth, drenching the first few rows of slowly marching monsters in a hungry heat that ravaged them mercilessly. Some faltered under the brutal assault, the blaze roasting their decrepit bodies until they could no longer stand, could no longer move or advance or function.

But it wasn’t good enough. Not even close. The clumsy bastards were both too resilient and too numerous—an asstastic combo for me.

For every body that collapsed, too damaged to continue the fight, two more took its place, stumbling forward, crawling over their fallen brothers and sisters, pressing in closer and closer. For the time being, the spiked defensive barrier

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