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. simply the determined live on. considered one of them is Rick Nash. yet there's a expense for survival: communion with a starving evil born from the furnace of radioactive waste. It calls for sacrifice. simply it might probably hold 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 dying. To defy it, a hell past imagining
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It was a rat the size of a pick-up truck. Maybe not one rat, but two or three that had grown into a single flaccid nightmare mass that was horribly puckered, hairless, and fish belly white. That’s what I saw. It reposed on a filthy, stinking pile of debris, cannibalized human bodies, and bones in a huge oblong cavity in the wall. It was like some kind of fucking altar. That clownwhite flesh was nearly transparent like some kind of pulsating jelly and you could see the bones beneath it. The skin seemed to move, to writhe, vibrate with a slick, boneless motion as if everything beneath it was in constant, sickly motion.
11 “Shit,” Sean said, his light playing over them. We all had our lights on them and our guns. Behind us, I could hear the squeaking and scratching of the rat pack that was tailing us. I started thinking the Hatchet Clans didn’t sound so bad. ” Specs said. “No,” I told him. “Not unless we don’t have a choice. No sense riling them if we don’t have to. ” “Good thinking, brother,” Sean said. There were eight or ten of them sitting on a section of collapsed wall, huge, fatbellied rats with glistening red eyes.
On the back of his vest there was a flaming skull. Above it, a rocker read: WARLOCKS MC. Below it, BAYONNE, NJ. “You’re a long way from Bayonne,” I said. “Yeah, I am, brother. Came here to straighten out some shit. It’s what I do,” he told me. “See…just before they dropped them fucking bombs, I was sent here to straighten out some business. It was club business. Private. But since there ain’t no more law, no more feds, and no more clubs, I’ll tell you. Here in Cleveland, there was a Hell’s Angels charter, a clubhouse.