“Okay, so I go to Charlotte. It’s not that far.”
“Perhaps you didn’t hear me say that it was at Corporate HQ. What do you think was the first target they hit in the corporate war?”
I sighed and looked at the floor. I didn’t even have to say it; it was apparent that one was gone, too. “And Philly? They got nuked too?”
“No.” Boudreaux shook his head. “I almost wish they would have, though.” He shook his head again. “When you found us, we were coming back from Philly. Although our original destination was Chattanooga, when we found out it was nuked, we tried to get to Corporate HQ. When we found out that was gone, too, we went to Philly. That place was…awful. I lost several Agents there. The depths of depravity people will sink to…and how quickly…” His eyes took on a haunted look as he remembered.
“But you found the imprinter?” I asked when he didn’t continue after a few moments.
“I never saw the imprinter, but I saw its handiwork,” Boudreaux said. “Clowns. They made dozens…maybe hundreds of clowns.”
“I take it they’re the scary kind, not the funny ones.”
“Yes, ‘The Clown’ was an assassin imprint we had. We only used it once, and I told the people to destroy it. Not only was the clown an outstanding assassin, he was also totally psychopathic, something we didn’t realize until we’d turned him lose on a mission. It cost us five Agents to take him down when he refused to come back in after the mission. Some of the things he did…horrible. I knew that imprint had to be destroyed, and I ordered it to be done away with.”
“But it wasn’t,” I said. It wasn’t a guess.
“No, apparently, it wasn’t destroyed,” Boudreaux replied. “Someone found it and had made some, and when we approached the building where they were, hundreds of clowns came out to meet us. I don’t know how many people they actually imprinted or how many people were just dressed up as clowns and didn’t have the actual load, but we didn’t stick around to try and fight through them. If even half those people had been imprinted…we would have all been killed.”
“So you just left them?”
Boudreaux shrugged. “There was nothing we could do without a huge loss of life, so we left. As psychopathic as the clown is, they’ll eventually turn on each other and do us all a favor. Until that time, though, I intend to avoid Philly at all costs. We were headed back to Pensacola when you found us.”
That filled in the discrepancy for where Boudreaux had been all that time; he’d gone to Philly and back. It didn’t help me, though.
“So, how are we going to get me a Spade or Collins imprint?”
“There’s no way we can,” Boudreaux replied. “Nothing is worth taking on the clowns. Nothing. And even for a friend, I will not send my people into that circus and get them killed. There aren’t enough good people remaining on this planet; I won’t needlessly kill off the remaining ones I have. You’re welcome to go there, but you’re going to need friends. Probably thousands of them, if you want to take on the circus.”
“But it can be done?”
“Of course. Anything can be done; it’s just a matter of how many casualties you’re willing to take in order to accomplish your mission. I wasn’t prepared to take the number of casualties it would have cost.”
Not having me—at least one of my personalities—wasn’t acceptable. I wanted Spade, but failing that, I would take Collins. Maybe I could find a nice country doctor in small-town Alabama to get married to and live out my life in peace. But I needed, “me.” I couldn’t—no I wouldn’t—continue in this weird nothingness where I wasn’t anyone. I would find friends, then take on the clowns, and I would get back my life. At least one of them, anyway.
It’s important to know who you are in this Fallen World.
# # # # #
About Chris Kennedy
A bestselling Science Fiction/Fantasy author, speaker, and publisher, Chris Kennedy is a former naval aviator and elementary school principal. Chris’ stories include the Theogony and Codex Regius science fiction trilogies, and stories in the Four Horsemen military sci-fi series. Get his free book, Shattered Crucible, at his website, http://chriskennedypublishing.com.
Chris is the author of the award-winning #1 bestseller, Self-Publishing for Profit: How to Get Your Book Out of Your Head and Into the Stores. Called “fantastic” and “a great speaker,” he has coached hundreds of beginning authors and budding novelists on how to self-publish their stories at a variety of conferences, conventions, and writing guild presentations, and he is publishing fifteen authors under various imprints of his Chris Kennedy Publishing small press.
Chris lives in Virginia Beach, Virginia, and is the holder of a doctorate in educational leadership. Follow Chris on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/chriskennedypublishing.biz.
* * * * *
Titles by Chris Kennedy
Red Tide: The Chinese Invasion of Seattle – Available Now
Occupied Seattle – Available Now
Janissaries: Book One of The Theogony – Available Now
When the Gods Aren’t Gods: Book Two of The Theogony – Available Now
Terra Stands Alone: Book Three of The Theogony – Available Now
Can’t Look Back: Book One of the War for Dominance – Available Now
The Search for Gram: Book One of the Codex Regius – Available Now
Beyond the Shroud of the Universe: Book Two of the Codex Regius – Available Now
The Dark Star War: Book Three of the Codex Regius – Available Now
Asbaran Solutions – Available Now
The Golden Horde – Available Now
Alpha Contracts – Available Now
A Fiery Sunset – Available Now
A Pale Dawn – Available Now
The Replicant War – Available Now
The Mutineer’s Daughter – Available Now
* * * * *
Connect with Chris Kennedy Online
Website: http://chriskennedypublishing.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/chriskennedypublishing.biz
Twitter: @ChrisKennedy110
Instagram: chris.kennedy12
* * * * *
The following is an
Excerpt from Book One of The Devil’s Gunman:
The Devil’s Gunman
___________________
Philip S. Bolger
Now Available from Blood Moon Press
eBook and Paperback
Excerpt from “The Devil’s Gunman:”
I eased the door open and braced for gunfire or a fireball.
I got neither. I swept the entryway with my rifle’s sights. Nothing more offensive than some high school photos glared back at me, and I didn’t hear anything running down the hallway or readying a weapon. There were no shouts from police or federal agents, either.
What I did hear, from the living room, was incessant chatter underscored by the occasional interjection of a laugh track. The chatter was accompanied by the soft peripheral glow of my television. Whoever had broken into my house was watching a sitcom.
“I’m unarmed,” a man’s voice rang out. “So put down the rifle, and let’s have a talk.”
“The fuck we will,” I shouted back. “You broke into my home!”
I moved down the hallway, keeping my rifle on the opening to the living room.
“That’s part of what we have to talk about,” the voice said. I peered around the corner and saw a young Caucasian man. His pale features and dyed blue hair did little to mask the malicious smirk on his face. He was dressed in an oxford shirt and slacks with a skinny tie, as though he couldn’t figure out if he wanted to look like he’d just joined a band or an investment firm. He wore a silver tie clip with a red blood drop on it.
I stood there with my rifle sights on his head.
“I’m here as a messenger,” he said and flashed his teeth. I saw pointed incisors. That was enough for me. “This is peaceful, Nicholas. No need to be violent.”
I lowered the rifle. I didn’t like the prick’s condescending tone; he sounded like he enjoyed the sound of his own voice. Those types were always eager to give up information.
“Okay, let’s talk. Who’s the message from?” I asked.
“I hold the honored post of Emissary of the Lyndale Coven,” he said politely, examining his nails. “We’ve taken a professional interest in you, and Coven leadership sent me.”
“Oh yeah?” I asked. “What for?”
“To dictate the terms of your surrender,” he said, locking eyes with me. His hands twitched, then curled slightly. I imagined him leaping off the couch and knocking me down. I fought the urge to bring the rifle to bear, keeping it at the low ready.
“Thought your kind needed an invite,” I said.
The man snarled.
“We both know who built this house. I have a standing invite. The coven master says that the Duke no longer wants you, so you’re fair game. Our agreement, which I have right here, has the details.”
He pulled a no-shit scroll out of his suit jacket and put it down on my coffee table. I glanced at it. The Lyndale Coven seemed to be under the impression that I belonged to them. I read the word “slave” once, and that was enough for me to decide I wasn’t interested.
“No dice,” I said.
“These terms are much more charitable than those the Coven Master wanted,” he said, warning in his voice. “Oath breakers aren’t normally given this kind of clemency.”
I didn’t have much idea what he meant about oath breakers, but I wasn’t going to play ball with this pompous fuck.
“Not charitable enough,” I said. “Why do you guys want me? Running out of blood from young clubgoers and runaways?”
The young vampire smiled again, flashing his teeth with what I’m sure he thought was menace.
“It’ll certainly improve our coven’s standings with the Duke if we prove we can clean up his loose ends. I’m sure you’ll make an excellent blood thrall. We’ll be taking a pint of blood every month, as—”
I raised the rifle and sighted in on his head. He sighed, and rolled his eyes.
“Look, you primitive ape, guns won’t—”
I fired three times, the rounds earth-shatteringly loud in such a tight place. He screamed in pain and terror as the holy rifle’s bullets tore through him, the wounds leaving bright blue caverns of light.
His screaming echoed in my head, so I kept shooting. I fired the rest of the magazine until there was nothing left but a corpse, riddled with holes and glowing softly, and me, standing there in my gunpowder-fueled catharsis.
I dropped the mag and slapped in a fresh one, savoring the sound of the bolt sliding forward and knowing that if the emissary had any friends, they too, would be introduced to the kinetic light of St. Joseph.
“Anyone else here? I got more.”
* * * * *
Get “The Devil’s Gunman” now at: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07N1QF4MD.
Find out more about Philip S. Bolger and “The Devil’s Gunman” at:
https://chriskennedypublishing.com/philip-s-bolger/.
* * * * *
The following is an
Excerpt from Book One of The Shadow Lands:
Shadow Lands
___________________
Lloyd Behm, II
Now Available from Blood Moon Press
eBook and Paperback
Excerpt from “Shadow Lands:”
The combatants, for lack of a better term, were both resting at the edges of the dance floor. To the left was a very butch-looking blonde in what looked to be purple leather, along with her entourage, while to the right, a petite, dark-skinned Hispanic in a princess outfit stood, surrounded by meat popsicles wrapped in leather. Vampire fashions make no damn sense to me, for what it’s worth. There were a few ‘normals’ huddled against the far wall, which showed signs of someone’s face being run along it, repeatedly. Sure enough, the London ‘Special’ was in the DJ booth. He killed the sound as soon as he realized we were standing there.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce the final players in our little drama, the Reinhumation Specialists of the Quinton Morris Group!” the Special said into the mike.
“Fuck me running,” I said.
“With a rusty chainsaw,” Jed finished.
The two groups of vampires turned to face us.
“Remind me to kick Michael in his balls when we get back to the office,” I said.
“You’re going to have to get in line behind me to do it,” Jed replied.
“You can leave now, mortals,” the blonde said with a slight German accent. She had occult patterns tattooed around her eyes, which had to be a bitch, because she would have had to have them redone every six months or so. Vampires heal.
“Like, fershure, this totally doesn’t involve you,” the Hispanic said, her accent pure San Fernando Valley.
“Jed, did I ever tell you how I feel about Valley Girls?” I asked, raising my voice.
“No…”
“Can’t live with ‘em, can’t kill ‘em,” I replied, swinging my UMP up and cratering the Valley vampire’s chest with three rounds into the fragile set of blood vessels above the heart. Sure, the pump still works, but there’s nothing connected to it for what passes as blood in a vampire to spread. On top of that, company-issue bullets are frangible silver, to which vampires have an adverse reaction.
With that, the dance was on. The damn Special in the DJ booth at least had the good sense to put on Rammstein. Mien Teil came thundering out of the speakers as we started killing vampires. Gunny ran his M1897 Trench Gun dry in five shots, dropped it to hang by a patrol sling, and switched to his ancient, family 1911. I ran my UMP dry on Valley Vamp’s minions, then dropped the magazine and reloaded in time to dump the second full magazine into the Butch Vampire as she leaped toward the ceiling to clear the tables between us and the dance floor. As soon as Butch Vamp went down, the remaining vampires froze.
“Glamour,” the Special called, stepping out of the booth. “I can control a lot of lesser vampires, but not until you got those two randy cunts thinking about how much they hurt.”
“You. Fucking. Asshole,” I panted.
Combat is cardio, I don’t care what anyone else says.
“Yes?” he replied.
I looked him over. He was wearing a red zoot suit—red-pegged trousers and a long red jacket with wide shoulders over the ubiquitous white peasant shirt, topped with a red, wide-brimmed hat. He even had on red-tinted glacier glasses.
I felt his mind try to probe mine, then beamed as he bounced off.
“My that hurt,” he replied.
“You know, we don’t work with Michelangelo for nothing,” Jed replied. Apparently the mind probe had been general, not specific.
I went through the messy side of the business—staking and beheading—assisted by Capdepon. Crash helped Jed sort out the normal survivors, followed by prepping the live lesser vampires for transport. The Special leaned against a wall, maintaining control of the lesser vampires until we could move them out. Once all the work was done so the cleaners could move in, and the lesser vampires were moved out of Eyelash, I stepped wearily to the Special.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“You can call me,” he paused dramatically, “Tim.”
I kicked him in the nuts with a steel-toed boot. Even in the undead, it’s a sensitive spot.
* * * * *
Get “Shadow Lands” now at: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07KX8GHYX/.
Find out more about Lloyd Behm, II and “Shadow Lands” at:
https://chriskennedypublishing.com/imprints-authors/lloyd-behm-ii/.
* * * * *
The following is an
Excerpt from Book One of the Turning Point:
A Time to Die
___________________
Mark Wandrey
Available Now from Blood Moon Press
eBook, Paperback, and Audio
Ex
cerpt from “A Time to Die:”
An hour later, Ken tried to drink some of the water and eat some of the food Erin had left for him, only to vomit it up moments afterwards. His head swam with pain and confusion, and sweat poured from his forehead despite the cool evening breeze. Suddenly he stumbled to his feet, not knowing why, completely unable to concentrate. “Wha—what?” he choked, spinning around and searching for the source of the disturbance with blurred vision.
He heard something behind him, and he spun again to find only darkness. “Damn you,” he snarled and took a step in that direction, only to fall over a root in the gloom and sprawl in the dense pine needles. His mind exploded in lights, pain, and voices. Whispers and screams, thoughts and ideas he could not understand. “Stop it, stop it, stop…stop…STOP!” The last word came out as an anguished wail from the depths of his soul that echoed through the woods and down to the Rio Grande thousands of feet below. He shuddered in the brush, and the man that was Ken succumbed.
Don't Call Me Ishmael Page 23
