Read Online Ghouls of the Miskatonic (The Dark Waters Trilogy) by Graham McNeill - Free Book Online
Authors: Graham McNeill
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him. The sleeve of his coat tore, but his skin was untouched. He rolled and fired again, emptying his pistol in a flurry of shots, until the hammer clicked down on an empty chamber.
“In the name of Christ!” shouted Jimmy, looking up from the floor and finally laying eyes on the hideous flying things. “What the bloody hell is going on here, Finn?”
Finn didn’t answer him, throwing his gun away and scrambling over to where Jimmy’s weapon had landed. His own bullets had done nothing to the creature, but he felt better being armed. Even before he reached the gun, he heard fresh gunfire coming from outside the house. Had Sean and Fergal seen what was happening somehow and come to their aid? He doubted it, but it was a pleasant notion.
He grabbed Jimmy’s fallen pistol and rolled onto his backside in time to see the two creatures tear into his hapless comrade. There was nothing frenzied or animalistic about their attack. Razor sharp pincers sliced at Jimmy’s chest and belly, and blood sprayed the flying monsters as they expertly sliced him open, like a butcher dressing a carcass for the shop window.
Finn backed away on his rear, bumping into something behind him. He heard a screech that sounded like tearing metal or a busted axle grinding a gear shaft, and looked up in time to see the silver sphere on the pedestal wobble out of alignment and fall to the dusty floorboards. It hit with a heavy crunch that was surely out of proportion to its weight, and no sooner had it landed than the two creatures dropped Jimmy’s dissected remains and spun around to face him.
Without quite knowing why, Finn scooped up the silver sphere and ran to the shattered windows. He had no plan save getting out of this room, and the flying things were between him and the stairs. The fall would kill him, he was sure, but it was preferable to being cut open like a frog in a grade schooler’s biology lesson.
The buzzing creatures zipped toward him, but Finn was already moving. He hurled himself through the broken window. He missed most of the glass, but a spiteful shard caught the hem of his trousers and probably saved his life. Instead of sailing out into the air and falling three stories to the ground, he swung back toward the mansion like a pendulum on the fulcrum of his caught trouser leg.
He slammed into the wall and dropped straight down as the cloth gave way, landing hard on the angled pediment of the building’s columned portico. The sound of gunfire punctuated the night, though Finn had no time to wonder what the hell had gone wrong with the deal. The wall next to him erupted in dry explosions of plasterwork and lath as a burst of automatic weapons’ fire arced upward.
“Jesus jumping Christ!” yelled Finn, rolling out of the line of fire. Still clutching Jimmy’s gun and the silver sphere, Finn slid down the roof and off the end of the pediment. Something below him blew up in a mushrooming pillar of fire, but before he could wonder what it was, he landed with a thump in the bushes to the side of the main entrance. Though it hadn’t killed him, the fall had winded him badly. Finn fought for breath as he waited for the pain of broken limbs to flare up his spine.
The pain never arrived, but his breath came in terrified hikes. The darkness was banished in the light of burning trucks. Both vehicles belonging to the Newburyport lads were gone, and in their place were burned out wrecks, ablaze from end to end. Burning whiskey filled the air with a sour mash reek, casting leaping shadows as dozens of figures struggled in life-or-death fights.
“What the hell…?” said Finn. “What in the name of the wee man is going on here?”
He saw Sean and Fergal, firing wildly into the trees, as the Newburyport lads picked themselves up from the explosion of their trucks. Blackened bodies lay strewn around, and wiry figures darted from the trees with squealing shrieks. Finn couldn’t see them clearly, but that was a mercy, as one form
“In the name of Christ!” shouted Jimmy, looking up from the floor and finally laying eyes on the hideous flying things. “What the bloody hell is going on here, Finn?”
Finn didn’t answer him, throwing his gun away and scrambling over to where Jimmy’s weapon had landed. His own bullets had done nothing to the creature, but he felt better being armed. Even before he reached the gun, he heard fresh gunfire coming from outside the house. Had Sean and Fergal seen what was happening somehow and come to their aid? He doubted it, but it was a pleasant notion.
He grabbed Jimmy’s fallen pistol and rolled onto his backside in time to see the two creatures tear into his hapless comrade. There was nothing frenzied or animalistic about their attack. Razor sharp pincers sliced at Jimmy’s chest and belly, and blood sprayed the flying monsters as they expertly sliced him open, like a butcher dressing a carcass for the shop window.
Finn backed away on his rear, bumping into something behind him. He heard a screech that sounded like tearing metal or a busted axle grinding a gear shaft, and looked up in time to see the silver sphere on the pedestal wobble out of alignment and fall to the dusty floorboards. It hit with a heavy crunch that was surely out of proportion to its weight, and no sooner had it landed than the two creatures dropped Jimmy’s dissected remains and spun around to face him.
Without quite knowing why, Finn scooped up the silver sphere and ran to the shattered windows. He had no plan save getting out of this room, and the flying things were between him and the stairs. The fall would kill him, he was sure, but it was preferable to being cut open like a frog in a grade schooler’s biology lesson.
The buzzing creatures zipped toward him, but Finn was already moving. He hurled himself through the broken window. He missed most of the glass, but a spiteful shard caught the hem of his trousers and probably saved his life. Instead of sailing out into the air and falling three stories to the ground, he swung back toward the mansion like a pendulum on the fulcrum of his caught trouser leg.
He slammed into the wall and dropped straight down as the cloth gave way, landing hard on the angled pediment of the building’s columned portico. The sound of gunfire punctuated the night, though Finn had no time to wonder what the hell had gone wrong with the deal. The wall next to him erupted in dry explosions of plasterwork and lath as a burst of automatic weapons’ fire arced upward.
“Jesus jumping Christ!” yelled Finn, rolling out of the line of fire. Still clutching Jimmy’s gun and the silver sphere, Finn slid down the roof and off the end of the pediment. Something below him blew up in a mushrooming pillar of fire, but before he could wonder what it was, he landed with a thump in the bushes to the side of the main entrance. Though it hadn’t killed him, the fall had winded him badly. Finn fought for breath as he waited for the pain of broken limbs to flare up his spine.
The pain never arrived, but his breath came in terrified hikes. The darkness was banished in the light of burning trucks. Both vehicles belonging to the Newburyport lads were gone, and in their place were burned out wrecks, ablaze from end to end. Burning whiskey filled the air with a sour mash reek, casting leaping shadows as dozens of figures struggled in life-or-death fights.
“What the hell…?” said Finn. “What in the name of the wee man is going on here?”
He saw Sean and Fergal, firing wildly into the trees, as the Newburyport lads picked themselves up from the explosion of their trucks. Blackened bodies lay strewn around, and wiry figures darted from the trees with squealing shrieks. Finn couldn’t see them clearly, but that was a mercy, as one form
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