By James Rouch
A brand new BREED OF SUPER-WARRIOR WAGING THE battle OF THE FUTURE-WITH SURVIVAL because the merely PRIZE! The Zone-a strip of Western Europe the place armies have confronted one another and fought their wars for hundreds of years earlier. It has develop into the devil's playground for the super-weapons and super-warriors of the longer term. Blasted to a likeness of Hell itself, barren, desolate past description, ridden by way of sickness and stinking of demise, the following opposing forces search one another out in a perilous, endless video game of cat-and-mouse. A shaky truce has been referred to as. significant Revell's designated wrestle corporation, misfits and mavericks familiar with fierce front-line motion, is assigned mundane behind-the-lines tasks. yet their interest-and their anger-are aroused whilst a chain of mass graves is came across. Civilians are being slaughtered through the KGB battalion dealing with the SCC place. Revell's studies are missed. HQ threatens to disband the SCC if the problem is pressed. So Revell and his scuffling with band of misfits take issues into their very own palms, waging cruel conflict at the perpetrators of the atrocities and including new devastation to the nightmare panorama called... THE area.
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Extra resources for Civilian Slaughter (The Zone, Book 8)
I do not understand why I have been given a prognostic gift vivid enough to make me feel morally obliged to prevent a foreseen evil—but not clear enough to allow me to act at once with force and conviction. Because of the disturbing supernatural aspects of my life and because the weight of my unusual responsibilities outweighs my power to fulﬁll them, I risk being crushed by stress. Consequently, I have kept the nonsupernatural part of my life simple. As few possessions as possible. No obligations like a mortgage or a car payment to worry about.
Perhaps it contained maintenance supplies. Or interred in the chest might have been the shrunken remains of the pier master’s poor wife, Lorraine, who perhaps had been murdered twenty years ago when she complained once too often about a lingering creosote smell in his work clothes. My eager imagination might have worked up a hair-raising image of Lorraine’s shriveled cadaver, pickled in creosote, if I had been able to believe there was actually such a position as a pier master. I don’t know where the name Lorraine came from.
The fairy light teased ﬁtfully across the shape before me, but then revealed a rat sitting precisely where the two beams joined. I am not afraid of rats. Neither am I so tolerant that I would welcome a swarm of them into my home in a spirit of interspecies brotherhood. The rat was paralyzed by the sight of me looming over it. If I advanced another step, it had three routes by which it could ﬂee to safety. In moments of stress, my imagination can be as ornate as a carousel of grotesque beasts, standing on end like a Ferris wheel, spinning like a coin, casting off kaleidoscopic visions of ludicrous fates and droll deaths.