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   Chapter 48 No.48

Dead Beckoning By Christina Engela Characters: 5531

Updated: 2018-06-30 12:01


"Maybe I led the Terrans to Meradinis, " Blachart reasoned, "But if not me, then somebody else would have eventually. It was long overdue, we expected it for years – we all knew it would happen one day! That's why we all had our own escape plans, and our own hoards. The smart ones did – and anyway, I'd already had enough of this bloody business to last me two lifetimes!"

Sona Kilroy regarded him coldly, like an insect, a lower life-form – weak, pathetic. A victim, prey – just like any one of the countless dead corpses he had made in his career spanning more than 20 years. In his view, this man – this turncoat was weak! He was going to win this engagement.

"I'm going to kill you slowly…" Kilroy growled at him in a haunting tone, taking a step forward, and produced a knife from his sleeve. "And you will cry for the end, you fucking nancy-boy!"

"My name's not Roy, you fucking idiot, so you're bound to just screw it all up… again!" Blachart retorted sharply as Kilroy took another step towards him. "Stop!" He commanded. Kilroy lunged forward, as if to rush him with the knife. Blachart fired. The searing energy bolt whined across the space between them. Kilroy blocked it with his outstretched right hand. A metallic noise wrapped in a sizzle rang out as it smacked home, vaporizing the living tissue, sending a cloud of steam into the air. Kilroy winced in pain. Blachart stared with disbelief! The hand was still there… no, not quite. Something like a hand was still there, a metallic skeletal claw, rising from the still steaming flesh at the base of Kilroy's wrist, flexing as the signals from his brain pulsed along the living neuron

past him, he felt a vice-like grip around his left wrist and a terrific jerk before hitting the ground quite hard. Then he found himself sliding, being dragged across the gravel towards the precipice!

By the time things settled down enough for him to get his bearings, he was already lying prostrate looking over the edge of the precipice down into the void, scrabbling like an animal trying desperately to slow his slide towards the edge. Kilroy's artificial hand had an iron grip on his left wrist, and the weight of the man's body was dragging him slowly, steadily towards his doom. The gravel chewed through his clothing into his underbelly, and there were twinges of pain through his arm and shoulder as Kilroy twisted about, trying to get a grip with his feet against the cliff face below. The void below yawned darkly at Blachart. For a brief moment Kilroy looked almost comical, his feet flailing against the darkness. Pebbles fell past them, disappearing into the black, silently. Nothing further was heard from them, indicating the bottom was a long, long way down. If there was a bottom.

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