Read Online Aberrations by ed. Jeremy C. Shipp - Free Book Online
Authors: ed. Jeremy C. Shipp
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side, the gunner’s arms flailing awkwardly at the air as the lieutenant tore into him with his fingers and his teeth.
Stunned, it took Canavan a long moment to look away.
When he did, he saw dark forms staggering closer through the haze. He turned, looking for a way out, and realized he was surrounded.
His team was gone.
He raised his rifle and fired into the crowd, burning through three magazines as he hunted for a way out.
But there were too many of them.
He screamed into his radio for air support, reloaded, and went on firing.
He was still firing when he heard the whistle of artillery above him. He dropped to his belly, covered his ears and opened his mouth to equalize the pressure. But the explosions were too close, and the blast bounced him violently off the pavement.
For a moment, he was too stunned to think. He was bleeding from his nose and his mouth and he couldn’t breathe.
He had just staggered to his feet, driven by a desperate, instinctive urge to get the hell out of there, when the second wave of artillery rolled in. A concussion blast knocked him off his feet, but he was unconscious before his back hit the ground.
* * * * *
When he came to, Canavan was on fire.
He could smell his hair burning beneath his helmet, and even beneath forty pounds of gear and ammo, his skin felt like it had been splashed with hot grease.
Canavan tore at his clothes frantically, pulling off his helmet, protective mask, body armor, and even his tunic. Right down to his t-shirt. He rose to his feet, swatting at his body as though he were covered in bees, his head reeling.
The air was full of dancing sparks that slanted across his field of vision like snowflakes in a light breeze. He thought his optic nerves had been damaged by the concussion blast. His inner ear, too. He couldn’t walk straight. The ground felt like it was rolling beneath his feet and there was a throbbing pain in his head that made his eyeballs shake.
He staggered drunkenly and dropped to one knee.
He heard moaning and looked up. A zombie was limping towards him, carrying the stench of burned flesh and decaying meat with it. Most of its clothes had melted into its skin, leaving it encased in a slick, black slime. Only then did Canavan understand that the sparks he saw were actually burning bits of airborne dust. This zombie had no doubt been at the edge of the blast area, for Canavan could see dust mote lances of light passing through the holes in his chest.
Canavan reached down to his right thigh and pulled his pistol from its holster.
The front sight was swimming in the air in front of his eyes. Canavan fired and missed four times. He teetered backwards and took aim again, and with his next shot managed to hit the zombie in the left shoulder, blasting off a piece of charred flesh and spinning the zombie around.
But the zombie didn’t drop.
The thing moaned and raised the stumps of its arms as though it were seeking absolution and came at him again.
Canavan stepped back. He raised the pistol and fired through the entire magazine before landing a lucky head shot and dropping the wrecked corpse to the ground. It lay there in a heap, and Canavan, moving backwards uncertainly, could only gape at it.
Some vital connection between Canavan’s mind and muscles and bone had short-circuited. Walking was a painful, doubtful process. He felt like he was moving through water, and in his confusion his mind tumbled back across the last year to the flooded streets of Houston in the wild days following Hurricane Mardell, the city whelmed beneath the oil-streaked waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Once again the air was unnaturally green and cool and wet, like it was made of damp cloth. He was up to his hips in water the color of melted caramel. It stank like raw sewage and shone with an unnatural chemical luster. The living dead were in the water with them, survivors waving their arms over their heads frantically
Stunned, it took Canavan a long moment to look away.
When he did, he saw dark forms staggering closer through the haze. He turned, looking for a way out, and realized he was surrounded.
His team was gone.
He raised his rifle and fired into the crowd, burning through three magazines as he hunted for a way out.
But there were too many of them.
He screamed into his radio for air support, reloaded, and went on firing.
He was still firing when he heard the whistle of artillery above him. He dropped to his belly, covered his ears and opened his mouth to equalize the pressure. But the explosions were too close, and the blast bounced him violently off the pavement.
For a moment, he was too stunned to think. He was bleeding from his nose and his mouth and he couldn’t breathe.
He had just staggered to his feet, driven by a desperate, instinctive urge to get the hell out of there, when the second wave of artillery rolled in. A concussion blast knocked him off his feet, but he was unconscious before his back hit the ground.
* * * * *
When he came to, Canavan was on fire.
He could smell his hair burning beneath his helmet, and even beneath forty pounds of gear and ammo, his skin felt like it had been splashed with hot grease.
Canavan tore at his clothes frantically, pulling off his helmet, protective mask, body armor, and even his tunic. Right down to his t-shirt. He rose to his feet, swatting at his body as though he were covered in bees, his head reeling.
The air was full of dancing sparks that slanted across his field of vision like snowflakes in a light breeze. He thought his optic nerves had been damaged by the concussion blast. His inner ear, too. He couldn’t walk straight. The ground felt like it was rolling beneath his feet and there was a throbbing pain in his head that made his eyeballs shake.
He staggered drunkenly and dropped to one knee.
He heard moaning and looked up. A zombie was limping towards him, carrying the stench of burned flesh and decaying meat with it. Most of its clothes had melted into its skin, leaving it encased in a slick, black slime. Only then did Canavan understand that the sparks he saw were actually burning bits of airborne dust. This zombie had no doubt been at the edge of the blast area, for Canavan could see dust mote lances of light passing through the holes in his chest.
Canavan reached down to his right thigh and pulled his pistol from its holster.
The front sight was swimming in the air in front of his eyes. Canavan fired and missed four times. He teetered backwards and took aim again, and with his next shot managed to hit the zombie in the left shoulder, blasting off a piece of charred flesh and spinning the zombie around.
But the zombie didn’t drop.
The thing moaned and raised the stumps of its arms as though it were seeking absolution and came at him again.
Canavan stepped back. He raised the pistol and fired through the entire magazine before landing a lucky head shot and dropping the wrecked corpse to the ground. It lay there in a heap, and Canavan, moving backwards uncertainly, could only gape at it.
Some vital connection between Canavan’s mind and muscles and bone had short-circuited. Walking was a painful, doubtful process. He felt like he was moving through water, and in his confusion his mind tumbled back across the last year to the flooded streets of Houston in the wild days following Hurricane Mardell, the city whelmed beneath the oil-streaked waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Once again the air was unnaturally green and cool and wet, like it was made of damp cloth. He was up to his hips in water the color of melted caramel. It stank like raw sewage and shone with an unnatural chemical luster. The living dead were in the water with them, survivors waving their arms over their heads frantically
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