By Tim Curran
The day after the next day to come: Nuclear fallout. Mutations. lethal pandemics. Corpse wagons. physique pits. Empty towns. The human race trembling at the fringe of extinction. merely the determined continue to exist. one in all 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. purely it could maintain Nash one step prior to the nightmare that stalks him-a sentient, seething plague-entity that stalks its selected prey: the final of the human race. to simply accept it's a residing dying. To defy it, a hell past imagining
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I decided to err on the side of caution. It was the second time Sean had mentioned these Hatchet Clans. I didn’t know what they were, but if they scared Sean they must have been some real bad boys. We got inside and Sean told us to stay away from the windows. He stayed by them, watching the streets. ” Specs asked. Sean let out a long, low sigh. “They’re fucking dangerous, that’s what,” he said. “Scabs are psychotic, but they’re disorganized. Half the time when there’s no game— people, I mean—they’re killing each other.
We were on the floor in sleeping bags. There was a locked green metal gun cabinet that I wanted badly to loot. There were all kinds of Army surplus around: food, clothing, tools, medical equipment, you name it. I figured Sean had been real busy at the local Army base or National Guard Armory. I stared at the flickering flame of a Primus stove, listening to him talk. “Yeah, I got me some good prospects for tomorrow, my brothers,” he said, staring up into the darkness. “There’s a nest of Trogs not two blocks from here, over near where I found you boys.
He fell into me, clutching at me, pulling at me, trying, it seemed, to wrap himself around me. “Nash, Nash, Nash…it’s there, Nash! It’s right there I tell you! I saw it…I fucking saw it looking at me—” Then my light found it, too, and something in me sank, submerged forever. I looked right at it and to this day I know I saw it, but I couldn’t have. For there are mutants and then there are mutants. 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.