Read Online Kingdom: The Complete Series by Steven William Hannah - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Steven William Hannah
Tags: Sci-Fi/Superheroes/Crime
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bullets shattering on him, stinging his skin
like a haze of metal hornets. Exploding into their ranks, the soldiers scatter
like pins before a bowling ball. Men are thrown into the air as he breaks their
line, swinging punches like an amateur heavyweight.
His mind descends into
an alcohol-fuelled blood rage. A sweep of his arm bats three men to the ground
with such force that he feels their ribs crack and they hit the ground in
silence. Soldiers are thrown into each other in the chaos, all whilst they
continue to pour gunfire on him like boiling tar. He roars through the pain, a
hundred tiny needles trying to pierce his skin.
Mark keeps swinging,
but there is nobody within his reach any more. The soldiers have retreated from
the melee, forming a circle around him filled with wounded men, clutching their
broken limbs and writhing in pain on the road.
Another order comes
over the speaker and Mark is hit with shots from every angle. He grimaces as
though he is being electrocuted and brings his arms up around his face, his
ears ringing as the assault deafens him.
The bullets are like a
hurricane of lead, driving him to his knees, drowning him in agony.
He can't think
straight: everything is on fire. Every thought that his mind can formulate is
snatched away by the cacophony of gunfire and screaming. Before he can do
anything, he is curling up on the ground, his arms over his head, screaming in
pain. He twists and turns, trying to find an angle from which they can't hurt
him, and in his twisting he becomes aware of the buzz of rotor blades above
him.
The helicopter hovers
above him like a vulture waiting for his death. It's guns open fire, and he is
knocked onto his back, writhing like a wild animal with his soft flesh bared to
a predator.
Somewhere in the pain
and the anger, beyond the helpless loss of control, he realises that the heavy
buzz of the alcohol is leaving his mind. He is beginning to think straight, and
as he does the pain amplifies itself over and over. First the gunshots were
hornet stings – now they are gut punches, turning into the sharp agony of
switch-blades as he flails his limbs to try and paw the bullets away. As the
alcohol wears off, so does his strength and his endurance.
The terrifying realisation
hits him, and before he can help it he is shouting for them to stop, to let him
live – to cease fire before they kill him. He knows deep down that he cannot
endure much more. His body is burning too much alcohol keeping him alive.
Soon his skin will
start to break. He will start to bleed. Then the gunshots will rip through his
body, killing him.
They keep firing until
the pain is a constant blast of white noise hitting his entire body, whilst the
pounding bass drum of the helicopter's cannon repeatedly punches the wind from
him. With his death creeping up on him and no other end in sight, Mark's
kicking feet finally find purchase on the ground and he manages to stumble to
his feet. His arms come up around his face as though shielding himself from the
blast of an explosion, and his wincing eyes squint open as though he were
looking at the sun, for just long enough to take aim at the helicopter.
Then he roars like a
man at the end of his sanity, screaming at himself more than his attackers, and
leaps into the air.
Not a single shot hits
him in mid-air.
With a hollow thud he
slams into the helicopter and grabs on, his grip twisting the metal body into
handholds. Bucking and swaying like a wild bull, the pilot tries to shake him
off. Mark grits his teeth and holds on, drawing his hand back and punching
another handhold into the bodywork. He pulls himself up to a glass cockpit, and
finds two panicking pilots scrambling for something.
The pilot pulls a red
lever beneath his seat.
Explosive charges detonate
all around him, and the cockpit is blown off. Mark takes a cloud of flame and
broken glass in his face and cries out, clutching at whatever grip he can get.
The spinning blades explode and break
like a haze of metal hornets. Exploding into their ranks, the soldiers scatter
like pins before a bowling ball. Men are thrown into the air as he breaks their
line, swinging punches like an amateur heavyweight.
His mind descends into
an alcohol-fuelled blood rage. A sweep of his arm bats three men to the ground
with such force that he feels their ribs crack and they hit the ground in
silence. Soldiers are thrown into each other in the chaos, all whilst they
continue to pour gunfire on him like boiling tar. He roars through the pain, a
hundred tiny needles trying to pierce his skin.
Mark keeps swinging,
but there is nobody within his reach any more. The soldiers have retreated from
the melee, forming a circle around him filled with wounded men, clutching their
broken limbs and writhing in pain on the road.
Another order comes
over the speaker and Mark is hit with shots from every angle. He grimaces as
though he is being electrocuted and brings his arms up around his face, his
ears ringing as the assault deafens him.
The bullets are like a
hurricane of lead, driving him to his knees, drowning him in agony.
He can't think
straight: everything is on fire. Every thought that his mind can formulate is
snatched away by the cacophony of gunfire and screaming. Before he can do
anything, he is curling up on the ground, his arms over his head, screaming in
pain. He twists and turns, trying to find an angle from which they can't hurt
him, and in his twisting he becomes aware of the buzz of rotor blades above
him.
The helicopter hovers
above him like a vulture waiting for his death. It's guns open fire, and he is
knocked onto his back, writhing like a wild animal with his soft flesh bared to
a predator.
Somewhere in the pain
and the anger, beyond the helpless loss of control, he realises that the heavy
buzz of the alcohol is leaving his mind. He is beginning to think straight, and
as he does the pain amplifies itself over and over. First the gunshots were
hornet stings – now they are gut punches, turning into the sharp agony of
switch-blades as he flails his limbs to try and paw the bullets away. As the
alcohol wears off, so does his strength and his endurance.
The terrifying realisation
hits him, and before he can help it he is shouting for them to stop, to let him
live – to cease fire before they kill him. He knows deep down that he cannot
endure much more. His body is burning too much alcohol keeping him alive.
Soon his skin will
start to break. He will start to bleed. Then the gunshots will rip through his
body, killing him.
They keep firing until
the pain is a constant blast of white noise hitting his entire body, whilst the
pounding bass drum of the helicopter's cannon repeatedly punches the wind from
him. With his death creeping up on him and no other end in sight, Mark's
kicking feet finally find purchase on the ground and he manages to stumble to
his feet. His arms come up around his face as though shielding himself from the
blast of an explosion, and his wincing eyes squint open as though he were
looking at the sun, for just long enough to take aim at the helicopter.
Then he roars like a
man at the end of his sanity, screaming at himself more than his attackers, and
leaps into the air.
Not a single shot hits
him in mid-air.
With a hollow thud he
slams into the helicopter and grabs on, his grip twisting the metal body into
handholds. Bucking and swaying like a wild bull, the pilot tries to shake him
off. Mark grits his teeth and holds on, drawing his hand back and punching
another handhold into the bodywork. He pulls himself up to a glass cockpit, and
finds two panicking pilots scrambling for something.
The pilot pulls a red
lever beneath his seat.
Explosive charges detonate
all around him, and the cockpit is blown off. Mark takes a cloud of flame and
broken glass in his face and cries out, clutching at whatever grip he can get.
The spinning blades explode and break
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