By Tim Curran
The day after the next day: Nuclear fallout. Mutations. lethal pandemics. Corpse wagons. physique pits. Empty towns. The human race trembling at the fringe of extinction. in simple terms the determined live to tell the tale. one in every of them is Rick Nash. yet there's a cost for survival: communion with a starving evil born from the furnace of radioactive waste. It calls for sacrifice. in basic terms it may possibly retain Nash one step sooner than the nightmare that stalks him-a sentient, seething plague-entity that stalks its selected prey: the final of the human race. to just accept it's a residing demise. To defy it, a hell past imagining
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Hundreds of hairless, squealing things with transparent hides. Misshapen like deformed fetuses, they wormed through the cadavers and skinless husks like maggots in pork. This maybe is what put us into action. The mother hopped down, her clawed, spade-feet slapping the wet timbers. Her lips pulled back from blackened gums, fence-post teeth licked by whipping tongues. A freight train roar of hissing anger vomited from those throats as she came on, her huge, pendulous teats swinging back and forth like sacks of grain.
Listen,” I finally said. “What I told you was a secret and we’re not going to talk about it, okay? ” We had other things to worry about. I knew well enough from Youngtown that you didn’t want to be caught out in the open after dark. We had to find a place to lay low. We were down along the Cuyahoga River. There wasn’t much but a lot of industrial sites, many of which looked long abandoned, and the usual assortment of neighborhoods and storefronts that spring up around places like that. Lots of bars and lunch counters and not much else.
Specs was way ahead of us. I could see the bobbing light of his helmet. Behind us there was nothing but the roaring of the mother rat and the shrill, angry squeaking and squealing of her pack. I figured we’d never make it. We’d be devoured alive in that narrow, claustrophobic pipe. But eventually it opened up into another main drainline. It must have been some sort of overflow. I climbed out and Specs was waiting there, his grime-streaked face pulled tight, his eyes huge. Sean got out after me and led us through the water to a ladder.
Biohazard by Tim Curran