A New Reality
My second novel, Revelation, is drawing to a close. What that means is somewhat fuzzy. Novel time is softer than real time and dashes or drags according to its own rhythm. There are months, such as November, when I write 23,000 words and months when I write 2,300. I try to write some each day, and certainly understand the importance of a deadline (I've written over 40 books), but when noveling isn't your prime source of income, days have a habit of slipping by.
Revelation is a unique story. No, really, I mean it. I'm a huge fan of military adventures, paranormal-based novels, and love stories (not romance novels, but love stories). All three genres are a large part of Revelation. On its surface this is a book based in the same world as Lock 'n Load Publishing's World at War: Eisenbach Gap board game. It's 1985 and our long-standing cold war with the Soviet Union has gone hot. The book includes lots of detailed and authentic (hopefully) tank battles, infantry fights, and the like, but slowly the characters begin to realize that this is more than a fight between superpowers. Attracted by the horrific violence, things--things horrific in their own right--are drawn to the fighting, and a new conflict erupts. In this excerpt, Mike Hudson, who was trapped behind enemy lines when the Soviets overran Klappebruck. comes face to face with a new reality.
Nevertheless, their luck was holding. Hudson was walking point when that changed. By the Sergeant's reckoning they were about a kilometer, maybe two, southeast of Eisenbach, moving as quickly and quietly as possible through a large patch of woods. How large Hudson didn’t know, how large the Sarge didn’t know, but they had been guiding on a small, almost overgrown, animal path for the past twenty minutes, the light from a full moon necessitating that they stay under cover, even if it meant the slow going in the woods.
If they had been alive, they would have killed him for sure.
That was the first thought that flashed through Hudson’s mind. Maybe he was tired, maybe they were just that well concealed, but one moment Hudson was on his narrow, moonlit trail, and the next, he was standing in a clearing—a small clearing, not more that thirty meters in diameter, with a dirt road leading in from the left, and departing on the right. A modest wooden house stood at the back of the clearing. Two stories, yet still not large, with steeply-sloping roofs, and rounded windows.
In front of the house rested a Soviet BTR-70, and behind it a GAZ jeep. Hudson dropped like he had been shot, which frankly, he was amazed that he hadn’t been. Keeping his arm low against his body he signaled for the others to halt. He heard rustling as they went to ground and the clack-clicking of a round chambering in the team’s M-60. There were five of them now. The Sarge, his buddy--although Hudson didn’t really know if it was the Sarge’s buddy, but the man had been with the Sergeant when they found Hudson in the drugstore in Klappebruck--a machine gunner and his loader. It wasn’t much, but it was better than going it alone.
An illuminated small window on the second floor, near the apex of the roof, bled a small amount of light on the clearing, but it was enough. Enough to see why he was still alive. Lying beside the BTR-70 was a lumpy shape. A few more seconds of consideration and Hudson determined it was a pair of lumpy shapes, soldiers judging by the helmets, piled on each other. Not in a position that would indicate sleep, but rather one that would indicate death. Another body lay next to the GAZ, and if Hudson didn’t miss his bet, the thick, dark streak on the jeep’s bumper above the soldier was a blood trail from where the Russian had slid down the jeep.
A hushed rustling close to his right announced the Sergeant’s arrival.
“Shit,” the man hissed under his breath. “What happened?”
“Don’t know, but I think it’s done happening,” Hudson breathed, never ceasing his scan of the house, vehicles, and the surrounding woods.
“Yeah?” returned the barely-audible reply.
"Yep, if anyone was still alive, those soldiers wouldn’t be laying where they dropped.”
The Sarge crawled forward a few feet, and Hudson could now see him without taking his eyes of the curious scene to his front. The man slowly moved his head side to side, no doubt scanning the area as Hudson had. A soft breeze a came up, rustling the trees’ leaves, and a shadow darted across the GAZ. Hudson snapped his rifle toward the jeep, tightening the squeeze on the trigger, but it had been just that… a shadow. At least that is what he hoped.
“I should check it out,” muttered the Sergeant and Hudson knew the older man was hoping he would volunteer, but Hudson wasn’t a hero, he was just Hudson.
“I’ll cover you,” was the best that he could manage.
The Sergeant nodded, taking each hand, in turn, off the rifle and wiping it on his sleeve. “Here I go.”
Hudson nodded, “Yeah.”
The Sergeant rose, rose slowly to a crouch, head pivoting back and forth, his eyes scanning for danger. Ever so cautiously he crept forward.
Hudson could hear each step clearly, and he thought it odd. A moment before, when they had been picking their way through the woods, Hudson had taken comfort in the symphony of night insects that rose every summer night in every stretch of woods across the world… or at least the woods back in Virginia and here in Germany, the only places Hudson knew. But now there were no chirping crickets, no buzzing cicadas, no hooting Loons. Hudson wasn’t an outdoorsman, had never taken to hunting, but he did know that prey was quiet when there was a predator about.
Hudson, watched, his rifle to his cheek, ready to fire if anything fired at the Sergeant. It wasn’t much, that was for sure. If something did fire at the Sergeant, the man would probably die, but his death might save the rest of the team. That was something, Hudson guessed. It wouldn’t be much to the Sergeant’s family. Did he have a family? Hudson didn’t know, didn’t know anything about the man. Anything except that the Sergeant was still alive, which meant the team was still okay. The night remained quite, as quiet as a cocked pistol.
Hudson stole a glance to the left. The Sarge’s buddy was snugged up to the trunk of a thick—God, that thing must be a hundred years old—oak, M-16 to his cheek, barrel pointed at the inert Russians. Back to the right he saw the barrel of the M-60 poking through the tall grass at the wood’s edge. The gunner and his assistant were invisible, as they should be. As he turned to once again line up his sights on the house, he caught another shadow, darting at the edge of the woods on the right side of the clearing. He swung to engage, but it was gone. He would have fired anyway, but doubt stayed his finger. Maybe it WAS his imagination, maybe all the Soviets, at least all the Soviets within a few hundred yards, were dead. Firing would only draw in the Soviets that weren’t, and he had no disillusions about the chances of the five of them winning a firefight with a company of Soviet infantry, or worse.
Pop. A quiet pop, and a pebble skidded into view. “Pssst!”
It was the Sarge, kneeling beside the dead Russians, and motioning for Hudson as he nervously scanned the edge of the woods. Edge of the Woods? That’s odd thought Hudson. A moment later he understood why.
He scurried to the sergeant, crouched beside the bodies, and then looked down. Looked down in disbelief. He didn’t know what had killed the crumpled soldiers at his feet, but he was sure what hadn’t, and that was any of the weapons of war that Hudson was familiar with. The ground surrounding the bodies was soaked, literally soaked to the point of dampness, with their blood. The Soviet on top was a smallish man; he lay with his back down on his comrade. His tunic was shredded, as was his stomach. Not shredded as in punctured by numerous bullets, like a machine gun might do, but shredded as in torn open with a patchwork of slashing wounds. Knifes? Not, however, a random slashing that you might see from a swordsman whipping a blade back and forth, but groups of cuts, usually four parallel lines. Claw marks? They were deep, suggesting great power, but the power they suggested was nothing compared to the strength the it took to inflict the man’s neck wound… if what remained of the appendage could, indeed, be called a neck. This was not a slash, nor was it a bullet hole, it looked as if something, some great force has just blown away all but a few shards of flesh, a handful of muscles, and the spine connecting the head to the torso. What could have done that? Hudson didn’t have to wait long for the answer.
Someone screamed, not an unusual sound in war, but usually a scream is preceded by a cause, such as an explosion, or gunfire. But in this case, there was silence, and then there was a scream—half fear, half pain, terrible pain—and then came the gunfire. It was the M-60. It opened up in a long burst, too long to be effective. Hudson watched as the recoil pulled the barrel higher and higher, the arc of flame strobing the woods surrounding it.
Light.
Hudson could see something, a massive something, holding someone—it must have been the assistant— above its head. Darkness.
Light.
The assistant gunner suspended in mid-air, his body strangely contorted, the buttocks, doubling back on his shoulder, as if the spine had been not just broken, but snapped. Darkness.
Light. The massive something—It must be eight feet tall—towering over the machine gunner. Hudson saw its jaws gaping, dog—or was it wolf—like teeth, glistening in the strobing orange light. Darkness.
Another scream, and then more darkness, the M-60 silent. Hudson could hear his breathing. Loud. Too loud he was sure. Almost as loud as the pulse in his ear.
The braaattt of an M-16 on full auto split the new silence. The Sergeant’s friend; silhouetted twenty meters distant, against the giant Oak, firing in the direction of the massive something—Hudson was pretty sure it was some type of beast now, and he was pretty sure that he had an M-16 just like Sergeant’s buddy, but hadn’t thought of using it until now. He pulled it to his shoulder, aiming at the spot that the machine gunner’s final freeze frame had been displayed.
Sarge-buddy fired again, emptying the clip, the muzzle flame illuminating a circle to his front. He bowed his head and tore open an ammo pouch on his bandolier, his actions lit by the second story window. Hudson fired a three-round burst, and then Sergeant did the same, the loud popping of the M-16 ringing in his ears. Hudson wasn’t sure what they were firing at. There was no sign of the beast, as Hudson now though of it, but firing the weapon made him feel less impotent. Sarge-buddy had the ammo now, and slapped the banana clip into the weapon, and then the massive something, the beast, dropped from the tree, driving Sarge-buddy to the ground. Sarge-buddy fired, but the shots were wild, his body pinned by the beast. Hudson swung and fired—pop, pop, pop—and the beast roared, its head tilted back, bellowing at the moon. No mistake this time. The beast did have a dog-like snout, with a set of teeth that would have done the Red Riding Hood’s antagonist proud. He had hit the beast. Maybe one shot, maybe three shots, but he had hit the beast. A man would have been knocked off Sarge-buddy. Heck, most men would have been killed, but not the beast. The beast took its baseball-glove-sized maw and swiped Sarge-buddy’s face. Sarge-buddy didn’t move anymore.
Pop, pop, pop. It was the Sergeant again, and three more 5.56mm rounds tore into the beast’s body. This time it did more than howl. With amazing agility the beast leapt to its feet and charged them. Twenty meters, fifteen meters…Screw this, thought Hudson. He flipped the M-16 selector to full auto, aimed at the charging beast’s feet and pulled the trigger. There were 10 or 12 rounds left in the magazine… Hudson lost count, but they stitched a line from the beast’s massive thigh, only seven meters distant, up his torso—close enough that Hudson could see them tearing into the fur-covered flesh— and into the shaggy neck—so close that he could smell the beast’s foul, blood-scented breath. No more bullets, no more room, the beast staggered, the beast fell, and then the beast slid on the wet grass, its head, which was easily the size of Hudson’s chest, coming to rest inches from where Hudson knelt, empty rifle still aimed. The eyes were closed, but still breath came from the gaping snout. Hudson didn’t take his eyes off the monster. He was sure that’s what it was now. It had transitioned from a massive something to beast to monster in the time it took him to empty a magazine and the monster to kill three soldiers. Hudson groped the webbing of his gear for another magazine. The beast’s eye’s opened, still he groped, it began to raise the head, still he groped, it looked at him, still he groped, and then the Sergeant put four more rounds into the skull, blasting it apart, and ending the drama. Or so they thought.
Revelation is a unique story. No, really, I mean it. I'm a huge fan of military adventures, paranormal-based novels, and love stories (not romance novels, but love stories). All three genres are a large part of Revelation. On its surface this is a book based in the same world as Lock 'n Load Publishing's World at War: Eisenbach Gap board game. It's 1985 and our long-standing cold war with the Soviet Union has gone hot. The book includes lots of detailed and authentic (hopefully) tank battles, infantry fights, and the like, but slowly the characters begin to realize that this is more than a fight between superpowers. Attracted by the horrific violence, things--things horrific in their own right--are drawn to the fighting, and a new conflict erupts. In this excerpt, Mike Hudson, who was trapped behind enemy lines when the Soviets overran Klappebruck. comes face to face with a new reality.
------------------------------------------
It was the night that the small band of American survivors, which included Hudson, found the BTR-70. They were working their way north by northwest from Klappebruck, looking for the American lines, they would have no luck finding them then, or in the foreseeable future, but they didn’t realize it. The soldiers thought that Klappebruck had been a setback, not an indication of a general retreat. They had been wrong.Nevertheless, their luck was holding. Hudson was walking point when that changed. By the Sergeant's reckoning they were about a kilometer, maybe two, southeast of Eisenbach, moving as quickly and quietly as possible through a large patch of woods. How large Hudson didn’t know, how large the Sarge didn’t know, but they had been guiding on a small, almost overgrown, animal path for the past twenty minutes, the light from a full moon necessitating that they stay under cover, even if it meant the slow going in the woods.
If they had been alive, they would have killed him for sure.
That was the first thought that flashed through Hudson’s mind. Maybe he was tired, maybe they were just that well concealed, but one moment Hudson was on his narrow, moonlit trail, and the next, he was standing in a clearing—a small clearing, not more that thirty meters in diameter, with a dirt road leading in from the left, and departing on the right. A modest wooden house stood at the back of the clearing. Two stories, yet still not large, with steeply-sloping roofs, and rounded windows.
In front of the house rested a Soviet BTR-70, and behind it a GAZ jeep. Hudson dropped like he had been shot, which frankly, he was amazed that he hadn’t been. Keeping his arm low against his body he signaled for the others to halt. He heard rustling as they went to ground and the clack-clicking of a round chambering in the team’s M-60. There were five of them now. The Sarge, his buddy--although Hudson didn’t really know if it was the Sarge’s buddy, but the man had been with the Sergeant when they found Hudson in the drugstore in Klappebruck--a machine gunner and his loader. It wasn’t much, but it was better than going it alone.
An illuminated small window on the second floor, near the apex of the roof, bled a small amount of light on the clearing, but it was enough. Enough to see why he was still alive. Lying beside the BTR-70 was a lumpy shape. A few more seconds of consideration and Hudson determined it was a pair of lumpy shapes, soldiers judging by the helmets, piled on each other. Not in a position that would indicate sleep, but rather one that would indicate death. Another body lay next to the GAZ, and if Hudson didn’t miss his bet, the thick, dark streak on the jeep’s bumper above the soldier was a blood trail from where the Russian had slid down the jeep.
A hushed rustling close to his right announced the Sergeant’s arrival.
“Shit,” the man hissed under his breath. “What happened?”
“Don’t know, but I think it’s done happening,” Hudson breathed, never ceasing his scan of the house, vehicles, and the surrounding woods.
“Yeah?” returned the barely-audible reply.
"Yep, if anyone was still alive, those soldiers wouldn’t be laying where they dropped.”
The Sarge crawled forward a few feet, and Hudson could now see him without taking his eyes of the curious scene to his front. The man slowly moved his head side to side, no doubt scanning the area as Hudson had. A soft breeze a came up, rustling the trees’ leaves, and a shadow darted across the GAZ. Hudson snapped his rifle toward the jeep, tightening the squeeze on the trigger, but it had been just that… a shadow. At least that is what he hoped.
“I should check it out,” muttered the Sergeant and Hudson knew the older man was hoping he would volunteer, but Hudson wasn’t a hero, he was just Hudson.
“I’ll cover you,” was the best that he could manage.
The Sergeant nodded, taking each hand, in turn, off the rifle and wiping it on his sleeve. “Here I go.”
Hudson nodded, “Yeah.”
The Sergeant rose, rose slowly to a crouch, head pivoting back and forth, his eyes scanning for danger. Ever so cautiously he crept forward.
Hudson could hear each step clearly, and he thought it odd. A moment before, when they had been picking their way through the woods, Hudson had taken comfort in the symphony of night insects that rose every summer night in every stretch of woods across the world… or at least the woods back in Virginia and here in Germany, the only places Hudson knew. But now there were no chirping crickets, no buzzing cicadas, no hooting Loons. Hudson wasn’t an outdoorsman, had never taken to hunting, but he did know that prey was quiet when there was a predator about.
Hudson, watched, his rifle to his cheek, ready to fire if anything fired at the Sergeant. It wasn’t much, that was for sure. If something did fire at the Sergeant, the man would probably die, but his death might save the rest of the team. That was something, Hudson guessed. It wouldn’t be much to the Sergeant’s family. Did he have a family? Hudson didn’t know, didn’t know anything about the man. Anything except that the Sergeant was still alive, which meant the team was still okay. The night remained quite, as quiet as a cocked pistol.
Hudson stole a glance to the left. The Sarge’s buddy was snugged up to the trunk of a thick—God, that thing must be a hundred years old—oak, M-16 to his cheek, barrel pointed at the inert Russians. Back to the right he saw the barrel of the M-60 poking through the tall grass at the wood’s edge. The gunner and his assistant were invisible, as they should be. As he turned to once again line up his sights on the house, he caught another shadow, darting at the edge of the woods on the right side of the clearing. He swung to engage, but it was gone. He would have fired anyway, but doubt stayed his finger. Maybe it WAS his imagination, maybe all the Soviets, at least all the Soviets within a few hundred yards, were dead. Firing would only draw in the Soviets that weren’t, and he had no disillusions about the chances of the five of them winning a firefight with a company of Soviet infantry, or worse.
Pop. A quiet pop, and a pebble skidded into view. “Pssst!”
It was the Sarge, kneeling beside the dead Russians, and motioning for Hudson as he nervously scanned the edge of the woods. Edge of the Woods? That’s odd thought Hudson. A moment later he understood why.
He scurried to the sergeant, crouched beside the bodies, and then looked down. Looked down in disbelief. He didn’t know what had killed the crumpled soldiers at his feet, but he was sure what hadn’t, and that was any of the weapons of war that Hudson was familiar with. The ground surrounding the bodies was soaked, literally soaked to the point of dampness, with their blood. The Soviet on top was a smallish man; he lay with his back down on his comrade. His tunic was shredded, as was his stomach. Not shredded as in punctured by numerous bullets, like a machine gun might do, but shredded as in torn open with a patchwork of slashing wounds. Knifes? Not, however, a random slashing that you might see from a swordsman whipping a blade back and forth, but groups of cuts, usually four parallel lines. Claw marks? They were deep, suggesting great power, but the power they suggested was nothing compared to the strength the it took to inflict the man’s neck wound… if what remained of the appendage could, indeed, be called a neck. This was not a slash, nor was it a bullet hole, it looked as if something, some great force has just blown away all but a few shards of flesh, a handful of muscles, and the spine connecting the head to the torso. What could have done that? Hudson didn’t have to wait long for the answer.
Someone screamed, not an unusual sound in war, but usually a scream is preceded by a cause, such as an explosion, or gunfire. But in this case, there was silence, and then there was a scream—half fear, half pain, terrible pain—and then came the gunfire. It was the M-60. It opened up in a long burst, too long to be effective. Hudson watched as the recoil pulled the barrel higher and higher, the arc of flame strobing the woods surrounding it.
Light.
Hudson could see something, a massive something, holding someone—it must have been the assistant— above its head. Darkness.
Light.
The assistant gunner suspended in mid-air, his body strangely contorted, the buttocks, doubling back on his shoulder, as if the spine had been not just broken, but snapped. Darkness.
Light. The massive something—It must be eight feet tall—towering over the machine gunner. Hudson saw its jaws gaping, dog—or was it wolf—like teeth, glistening in the strobing orange light. Darkness.
Another scream, and then more darkness, the M-60 silent. Hudson could hear his breathing. Loud. Too loud he was sure. Almost as loud as the pulse in his ear.
The braaattt of an M-16 on full auto split the new silence. The Sergeant’s friend; silhouetted twenty meters distant, against the giant Oak, firing in the direction of the massive something—Hudson was pretty sure it was some type of beast now, and he was pretty sure that he had an M-16 just like Sergeant’s buddy, but hadn’t thought of using it until now. He pulled it to his shoulder, aiming at the spot that the machine gunner’s final freeze frame had been displayed.
Sarge-buddy fired again, emptying the clip, the muzzle flame illuminating a circle to his front. He bowed his head and tore open an ammo pouch on his bandolier, his actions lit by the second story window. Hudson fired a three-round burst, and then Sergeant did the same, the loud popping of the M-16 ringing in his ears. Hudson wasn’t sure what they were firing at. There was no sign of the beast, as Hudson now though of it, but firing the weapon made him feel less impotent. Sarge-buddy had the ammo now, and slapped the banana clip into the weapon, and then the massive something, the beast, dropped from the tree, driving Sarge-buddy to the ground. Sarge-buddy fired, but the shots were wild, his body pinned by the beast. Hudson swung and fired—pop, pop, pop—and the beast roared, its head tilted back, bellowing at the moon. No mistake this time. The beast did have a dog-like snout, with a set of teeth that would have done the Red Riding Hood’s antagonist proud. He had hit the beast. Maybe one shot, maybe three shots, but he had hit the beast. A man would have been knocked off Sarge-buddy. Heck, most men would have been killed, but not the beast. The beast took its baseball-glove-sized maw and swiped Sarge-buddy’s face. Sarge-buddy didn’t move anymore.
Pop, pop, pop. It was the Sergeant again, and three more 5.56mm rounds tore into the beast’s body. This time it did more than howl. With amazing agility the beast leapt to its feet and charged them. Twenty meters, fifteen meters…Screw this, thought Hudson. He flipped the M-16 selector to full auto, aimed at the charging beast’s feet and pulled the trigger. There were 10 or 12 rounds left in the magazine… Hudson lost count, but they stitched a line from the beast’s massive thigh, only seven meters distant, up his torso—close enough that Hudson could see them tearing into the fur-covered flesh— and into the shaggy neck—so close that he could smell the beast’s foul, blood-scented breath. No more bullets, no more room, the beast staggered, the beast fell, and then the beast slid on the wet grass, its head, which was easily the size of Hudson’s chest, coming to rest inches from where Hudson knelt, empty rifle still aimed. The eyes were closed, but still breath came from the gaping snout. Hudson didn’t take his eyes off the monster. He was sure that’s what it was now. It had transitioned from a massive something to beast to monster in the time it took him to empty a magazine and the monster to kill three soldiers. Hudson groped the webbing of his gear for another magazine. The beast’s eye’s opened, still he groped, it began to raise the head, still he groped, it looked at him, still he groped, and then the Sergeant put four more rounds into the skull, blasting it apart, and ending the drama. Or so they thought.
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