Thursday, April 16, 2009
Cold in the Light by Charles Gramlich
Where the beings known as the "Whoun" came from, only a few know.
What they're going to do next is anyone's guess.
But in the Ozark Mountains of Arkansas, where a decades old conspiracy has started to unravel, a small handful of reluctant heroes are about to find out. Against an enemy from their nightmares, the group will have to fight, to save the life of an unborn child who isn't human, a child that will change their world forever.
In the brooding forest, they'll learn what it means to fear the dark.
And the light.
Tru Maclang followed Highway 265 up past Stone Hill, driving slowly with his window down and his lights off. He'd seen no sign of the black Toyota and was about ready to head home for the night. A closed gas station at the top of the hill offered the deputy a place to turn around, and he pulled into its graveled lot and brought his cruiser to a stop. That’s when his ears caught the faint impression of a shout.
Tru turned off his engine, waited to hear if the sound repeated. It didn’t. But as he sat in the quiet an impression of fear crawled up on his shoulder and began to whisper in his ear. That fear came out of many things, the metronomic ticking of his engine cooling, the blackness of a night where the moon's light seemed swallowed, the sudden stillness of the world around, like spoiled butter melting on a plate.
There should have been a wind to stir the odors of pavement and grass. But the wind had died. There should have been an orchestra of crickets and frogs. They were silent. There should have been a comfort in being cocooned inside his car with a gun strapped to his hip. He didn't feel any comfort. He felt like something wrong was happening here. Not just bad, but wrong.
Feeling halfway foolish and halfway scared, he reached a hand for the car's ignition, and stopped as a fleeting shadow caught the corner of one eye. It was coming his way, coming fast, straight toward the police cruiser from across Old Man Fowler's meadow. The hair stitched itself to Tru's scalp in a cold wave. His right hand dipped for the service revolver at his belt; his left grabbed the door latch, snapped it open. The back of the car rocked as the shadow struck it.
Tru heard broken taillight glass tinkle on gravels, and by then he was out of the cruiser, knees locked in a defensive crouch and pistol thrust out before him. Whatever had hit the car had been knocked down by the impact, was momentarily hidden by the bumper. Tru saw a hand come up and slap on top of the trunk. He heard a faint screech as the nails of that hand slid on the metal, but there was still enough strength in the hand to pull the body up behind it. Neither the hand nor the body were human.
For the first time in his seven years as a deputy, Tru Maclang almost fired his revolver in the line of duty. His finger had taken up the last of the trigger's slack when it froze on the weapon. The same hand that had scraped paint from the car had moved to rest on a belly that was ripe and swollen with late-term pregnancy.
Question - as suggested by Charles (that's him in the pic - ladies, as you can see, he could teach us a lot about accessorizing):
So who is the father of this pregnancy? And what is Charles's top baby
Buy COLD IN THE LIGHT here...
Publisher: Invisible College Press
Barnes & Noble
Visit Charles to discuss alien pregnancies at his blog