nape of her exquisite, delicate neck. But he allowed a gasp of pure horror to escape from his lips, and her head jolted towards the sound, the sudden movement dislodging one of her prosthetic eyes; launching it across the table where it bounced against the far wall before skittering across the plush carpet to stop at his feet.
Crispin heard the voice of his mother reaching out to him from a dim, dark past. “Careful, Crispin; this one’s got her eye on you!”
Miller began to giggle, and as Heather came to him, her arms outstretched, her hands searching, his giggle turned into laughter; uncontrollable, belly-aching laughter.
From behind the door Richardson beat a frenzied tattoo upon the wood.
Miller doubled over, helpless and Heather fell upon him, her mind focused on nothing but her lust to sate the terrible eternal hunger in her belly; her strength, easily subduing Miller once the hysteria gave way to pain.
She gorged on him, ripping open his throat with ease, biting off the fingers that had first lovingly re-created her, and then violently violated her at a time of vulnerability, just to sate base need.
Had Heather not lost the ability to engage in abstract thinking, she may have enjoyed the irony that tables had been turned; that Crispin Miller was now an object of her desires .
She would enjoy him as much as he’d enjoyed her. And contrary to Marcia Miller’s doctrine, Heather Monaghan wasn’t planning on leaving Crispin alone any time soon.
He had far too much to offer.
***
8
Slowly, Kunaka approached the road block, his eyes fixed, his brow marred by three deep lines.
Up ahead there were seven troopers and one huge barricade. The soldiers were wearing biochem masks and steel helmets; their boots planted shoulder width apart and regulation issue.
The barricade was far more makeshift: a portable barrier made up of two concrete blocks planted both side of the road, and bridged by a striped horizontal pole.
What the road block lacked in conviction, the arsenal protecting it gave greater credence. Each trooper sported an SA80 and parked to one side of the barricade was a Challenger 2 tank, its 120 millimeter canon aimed towards to city.
“ These guys are packin’ some serious shit, O’Connell,” Kunaka whispered into his headset. “I think there could be a biochem alert in play; they’ve got masks in situ.”
“ Ok,” O’Connell’s voice fizzed in his ears. “We’re taking enough risks without adding to ‘em. Get your masks on, guys.”
As the Mastiff approached, one of the soldiers stepped forward motioning for it to stop with a wave of his hand.
Obediently, Kunaka pulled the truck up short and a Corporal came over to the window. The big man wound the window down in readiness. He noted that the Corporal had his finger outside the trigger guard of his SA80, and pointing down the barrel.
Safety’s off. A bad sign. It meant the guards were prepared.
Expectant.
“ What’s your business, soldier?” the Corporal said, peering up at Kunaka through his face-plate. His voice was raspy, his breathing accentuated by the filter hanging like twin tin cans from his chin.
“ Special orders, Corp,” Kunaka said, his lie momentarily hidden by a mist of carbon dioxide settling on the inside of his visor. In his lap, his hand curled around a high powered pistol.
In this game a lie was only going to get you so far. But you still needed people to play. Sometimes people were reluctant. Sometimes they needed persuasion.
“ I’m going to have to clear that,” the Corporal said turning away slightly to confer with his headset. “What’s your TAC number?”
Kunaka told him. It was made up on the spot; a blasé response since the high power frequency jammer O’Connell was currently activating in the back of the truck wasn’t going to allow the Corporal to relay it to Jack Shit.
“ Echo Bravo eight to command, come in over,” the Corporal said into his radio.
A burst of static told
Crispin heard the voice of his mother reaching out to him from a dim, dark past. “Careful, Crispin; this one’s got her eye on you!”
Miller began to giggle, and as Heather came to him, her arms outstretched, her hands searching, his giggle turned into laughter; uncontrollable, belly-aching laughter.
From behind the door Richardson beat a frenzied tattoo upon the wood.
Miller doubled over, helpless and Heather fell upon him, her mind focused on nothing but her lust to sate the terrible eternal hunger in her belly; her strength, easily subduing Miller once the hysteria gave way to pain.
She gorged on him, ripping open his throat with ease, biting off the fingers that had first lovingly re-created her, and then violently violated her at a time of vulnerability, just to sate base need.
Had Heather not lost the ability to engage in abstract thinking, she may have enjoyed the irony that tables had been turned; that Crispin Miller was now an object of her desires .
She would enjoy him as much as he’d enjoyed her. And contrary to Marcia Miller’s doctrine, Heather Monaghan wasn’t planning on leaving Crispin alone any time soon.
He had far too much to offer.
***
8
Slowly, Kunaka approached the road block, his eyes fixed, his brow marred by three deep lines.
Up ahead there were seven troopers and one huge barricade. The soldiers were wearing biochem masks and steel helmets; their boots planted shoulder width apart and regulation issue.
The barricade was far more makeshift: a portable barrier made up of two concrete blocks planted both side of the road, and bridged by a striped horizontal pole.
What the road block lacked in conviction, the arsenal protecting it gave greater credence. Each trooper sported an SA80 and parked to one side of the barricade was a Challenger 2 tank, its 120 millimeter canon aimed towards to city.
“ These guys are packin’ some serious shit, O’Connell,” Kunaka whispered into his headset. “I think there could be a biochem alert in play; they’ve got masks in situ.”
“ Ok,” O’Connell’s voice fizzed in his ears. “We’re taking enough risks without adding to ‘em. Get your masks on, guys.”
As the Mastiff approached, one of the soldiers stepped forward motioning for it to stop with a wave of his hand.
Obediently, Kunaka pulled the truck up short and a Corporal came over to the window. The big man wound the window down in readiness. He noted that the Corporal had his finger outside the trigger guard of his SA80, and pointing down the barrel.
Safety’s off. A bad sign. It meant the guards were prepared.
Expectant.
“ What’s your business, soldier?” the Corporal said, peering up at Kunaka through his face-plate. His voice was raspy, his breathing accentuated by the filter hanging like twin tin cans from his chin.
“ Special orders, Corp,” Kunaka said, his lie momentarily hidden by a mist of carbon dioxide settling on the inside of his visor. In his lap, his hand curled around a high powered pistol.
In this game a lie was only going to get you so far. But you still needed people to play. Sometimes people were reluctant. Sometimes they needed persuasion.
“ I’m going to have to clear that,” the Corporal said turning away slightly to confer with his headset. “What’s your TAC number?”
Kunaka told him. It was made up on the spot; a blasé response since the high power frequency jammer O’Connell was currently activating in the back of the truck wasn’t going to allow the Corporal to relay it to Jack Shit.
“ Echo Bravo eight to command, come in over,” the Corporal said into his radio.
A burst of static told
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