Read Online Last God Standing by Michael Boatman - Free Book Online

cleavage, stepped forward. I moved closer, melting into the crowd. My lungs were burning and my head was screaming at me to find a quiet place to lie down.
    “Everyone with access to a television or the internet can see these images,” the buxom reporter said, her voice low, her accent northern Italian. Hannibal nodded and eyed the busty brunette appreciatively at the same time.
    “Everyone, eh?” Then he raised his voice and addressed the cameras. “My name is Hannibal Barca, of Carthage, Phoenicia and Ibaria. I have fought my way out of a thousand Hells, crossed oceans of Time, even as I once crossed treacherous mountain ranges: with the thrust of my unbreakable will.”
    The quarter-mastodon shook his head and rolled his eyes, his great ears flapping like leathery fans. “Name’s Persi by the way. Short for Perthon. Can you believe him? Seven of us were along on that last crossing. He drove my herdmates to their deaths, the selfish bastard.”
    “I am come to do violence on this den of thieves,” Hannibal cried. “After a thousand mortal lifetimes I am come to claim Rome, in the name of my father, Hamilcar the Great, my brother Hasdrubal the Fierce, and my first cousin Hamadul the Unkempt. I come in the name of the People of Carthage!”
    The reporters stared. The paparazzi and their camera crews stared. Finally, an old Italian woman who lay on the ground clutching her broken ankle broke the silence.
    “What the hell is he talking about?”
    The busty brunette stepped forward and thrust a microphone up toward Hannibal.
    “Contessa Rosellini, CNN. Are you claiming that you’re not a terrorist?”
    Hannibal smirked, even while his eyes did their best to pierce Rosselini’s blouse. “To the whoremasters of Rome, signora… I am terror.”
    This sent an awkward pulse through the survivors. A pudgy reporter in a pink suit stepped forward. “What cell are you associated with?”
    “Cell?” Hannibal barked. “Hell has been my prison cell for longer than you can imagine!”
    “No no,” the pudgy reporter snipped. “Cell… as in terrorist sleeper cell. Which one are you working with?”
    “I knew it. He’s a Muslim!” the old woman with the broken ankle shouted. “Look at that curly hair, the swarthy complexion!”
    A British tourist, who was trying to staunch the blood pouring from a gash in her husband’s forehead, spoke up.
    “He looks Italian to me.”
    “Italian? Where are your brains, slut? Look at those shifty eyes. He’s an Arab!”
    “Or a Jew!” someone among the reporters piped in. “He could be an Israeli. Look at that hooked nose.”
    “That’s anti-semitic!” a bearded man standing next to me barked. “You’re all racists!”
    The discussion erupted into a shouting match, most of it centered around which objectionable ethnicity the man on the mastodon might or might not claim. The reporters edged in closer, trying to out-shout each other, thrusting their microphones up at Hannibal.
    “So,” the quarter-mastodon sighed. “Taking a break from running the Universe?”
    My head was throbbing like a banshee in menopause. My chest was tightening with every breath and I was still unable to access the Eshuum. “Something like that.”
    “Lovely. Everyone needs to get away every now and again. I remember when my cow and kids and I stormed Trebia. This was before Trasimene. I lost my cousin Sathanat and six herdmates at Trasimene. Terrible war. But in Trebia we trampled hundreds.”
    “Good times.”
    “Wonderful times! First real holiday I’d had in thirty years. I remember the first time we trampled some Romans…”
    I tuned out the rest of Persi’s story: Hannibal was enjoying the heated looks coming from some of the women, and not a few of the men who still lived. But soon he would tire of the attention and people would start dying again. And I still couldn’t connect to the power.
    Just then, six armored North African warriors trotted out of the smoke dragging a filthy old