Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    Galaxy’s Edge Magazine: Issue 40, September 2019: Galaxy's Edge, #40
    Galaxy’s Edge Magazine: Issue 40, September 2019: Galaxy's Edge, #40
    Galaxy’s Edge Magazine: Issue 40, September 2019: Galaxy's Edge, #40
    Ebook289 pages5 hours

    Galaxy’s Edge Magazine: Issue 40, September 2019: Galaxy's Edge, #40

    By Joe Haldeman, Mercedes Lackey, Janis Ian and Nancy Kress

    4.5/5

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    A Magazine of Science Fiction and Fantasy

    ISSUE 40: September 2019

    Mike Resnick, Editor
    Taylor Morris, Copyeditor
    Shahid Mahmud, Publisher

    Stories by: Sean Patrick Hazlett, Jon Lasser, Nancy Kress, Eric Margerum, Mercedes Lackey, S.R. Mandel, Gregory Benford, Janis Ian, J.W. Alden, P.G. Galalis, Joe Haldeman

    Serialization: Midnight at the Well of Souls by Jack L. Chalker

    Columns by: Robert J. Sawyer, Gregory Benford

    Recommended Books: Richard Chwydyk

    Interview: Joy Ward interviews Kevin J. Anderson

    Galaxy's Edge is a bi-monthly magazine published by Phoenix Pick, the science fiction and fantasy imprint of Arc Manor, an award winning independent press based in Maryland. Each issue of the magazine has a mix of new and old stories, a serialization of a novel, columns by Robert J. Sawyer and Gregory Benford, book recommendations by Richard Chwydyk  and an interview conducted by Joy Ward.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPhoenix Pick
    Release dateSep 3, 2019
    ISBN9781612424736
    Galaxy’s Edge Magazine: Issue 40, September 2019: Galaxy's Edge, #40

    Related to Galaxy’s Edge Magazine

    Titles in the series (43)

    View More
    View More

    Related ebooks

    Science Fiction For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • Article

      Rants & Raves

      Jul 14, 2021

      ➝ Revisiting Star Trek: Enterprise – who said it was boring? I’m really enjoying it! ➝ Why did I think the Fear Street movies were made for kids? They’re definitely not. ➝ Masters Of The Universe: Revelation is a great continuation of the series, but

      1 min read

    • Article

      Martian wants Drabbles

      Jul 7, 2022

      Martian is a zine for SF drabbles and the team publish new ones twice a week. Drabbles are very short stories of exactly 100 words (excluding title) and they are tricky to write. Read what’s published here to see how other writers do it. The editoria

      1 min read

    • Article

      Found in Space

      Feb 8, 2022

      Found in Space
      2 min read

    • Article

      Can Zack Snyder Bring The Zombie Flick Back From The Dead?

      May 25, 2021

      Not for the first time, the zombie movie is about to rise from the grave. In Zack Snyder’s Army of the Dead (the director’s new Netflix feature), pro-wrestler turned big screen strongman David Bautista leads a team of mercenaries in a smash-and-grab

      5 min read

    • Article

      In Icewind Dale II

      Nov 30, 2021

      In Icewind Dale II
      6 min read

    • Article

      Writing Outer Space

      Apr 12, 2018

      On the one hand, there is the world as we know it, the ground-level of human life and everything it entails: the whole arc of history, the transformation of our natural environment, nervous first dates over coffee. On the other hand, there is the rem

      9 min read

    • Article

      Continue/quit

      Mar 17, 2022

      Continue/quit
      3 min read

    • Article

      Right Angles

      Nov 1, 2022

      Right Angles
      4 min read

    • Article

      Twitch Reflex

      Nov 30, 2021

      Twitch Reflex
      2 min read

    • Article

      Books

      Oct 24, 2022

      Books
      6 min read

    • Article

      Looking Backward From the future

      Jun 30, 2020

      Looking Backward From the future
      14 min read

    • Article

      Pick Your Punk

      Aug 13, 2019

      Pick Your Punk
      6 min read

    • Article

      Letters

      Jan 5, 2022

      CONTACT US BY POST: PO BOX 1200, WHITSTABLE CT1 9RH, OR E-MAIL SIEVEKING@FORTEANTIMES.COM PLEASE PROVIDE US WITH YOUR POSTAL ADDRESS I have submitted an account of strange occurrences in my house [‘Hexham fairies’, FT380:76, June 2019] and I read “It

      10 min read

    • Article

      Books

      Aug 14, 2023

      Books
      6 min read

    • Article

      Confessions Of A Boggart Hunter

      Feb 24, 2022

      Seven or eight years ago I started to read compulsively about an English folk monster, the boggart. Studies, writing, articles and surveys followed. I launched my Boggart Census in 2019 in Fortean Times (more of which below) and there are now two boo

      14 min read

    • Article

      Confessions Of A Boggart Hunter

      Feb 24, 2022

      Seven or eight years ago I started to read compulsively about an English folk monster, the boggart. Studies, writing, articles and surveys followed. I launched my Boggart Census in 2019 in Fortean Times (more of which below) and there are now two boo

      14 min read

    • Article

      Catnip For Culture Lovers

      Oct 29, 2020

      IT’S BEEN NOTED THAT this year’s Booker Prize shortlist is mostly debut novels, but it’s not new for literary awards to abandon foalish newcomers as they learn to stand unaided. When Martin Amis’s first novel won the Somerset Maugham Award, “I told m

      6 min read

    • Article

      Nine Haunting Postapocalyptic Novels

      Feb 3, 2022

      The paradox of imagined apocalypses is that they’re always more about the present than the future. Here's a list of a few haunting and evocative titles. The post Nine Haunting Postapocalyptic Novels appeared first on The Millions.

      4 min read

    • Article

      The Old Un’s Notes

      Oct 20, 2021

      The Old Un’s Notes
      6 min read

    • Article

      Books

      Feb 19, 2021

      At a local newspaper in South East London in 1957, journalist Jean Swinney receives a curious letter written to the editor. Gretchen Tilbury – abeautiful, well-to-do woman – claims her 10-year-old daughter is the product of a virgin birth. Gretchen h

      5 min read

    • Article

      Remembering Steve Ditko: Forget Kirby Dots, Let's Talk Ditko Sparkles

      Jul 8, 2018

      The idiosyncratic co-creator of Spider-Man, Doctor Strange and many lesser-known comics characters died last week. His distinctive storytelling style shaped generations of comics readers.

      6 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for Galaxy’s Edge Magazine

    4.5/5

    2 ratings0 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

      Book preview

      Galaxy’s Edge Magazine - Joe Haldeman

      ISSUE 40: September 2019

      Mike Resnick, Editor

      Taylor Morris, Copyeditor

      Shahid Mahmud, Publisher

      Published by Arc Manor/Phoenix Pick

      P.O. Box 10339

      Rockville, MD 20849-0339

      Galaxy’s Edge is published in January, March, May, July, September, and November.

      All material is either copyright © 2019 by Arc Manor LLC, Rockville, MD, or copyright © by the respective authors as indicated within the magazine. All rights reserved.

      This magazine (or any portion of it) may not be copied or reproduced, in whole or in part, by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

      ISBN: 978-1-61242-473-6

      SUBSCRIPTION INFORMATION:

      Paper and digital subscriptions are available. Please visit our home page: www.GalaxysEdge.com

      ADVERTISING:

      Advertising is available in all editions of the magazine. Please contact advert@GalaxysEdge.com.

      FOREIGN LANGUAGE RIGHTS:

      Please refer all inquiries pertaining to foreign language rights to Shahid Mahmud, Arc Manor, P.O. Box 10339, Rockville, MD 20849-0339. Tel: 1-240-645-2214. Fax 1-310-388-8440. Email admin@ArcManor.com.

      www.GalaxysEdge.com

      ad

      Table of Contents

      THE EDITOR’S WORD by Mike Resnick

      WE WHO FLEE THE SUN by Sean Patrick Hazlett

      WHY HUMANS CAN’T WRITE FICTION: A REVIEW by Jon Lasser

      FEIGENBAUM NUMBER by Nancy Kress

      DEATH FOR THE CURE by Larry Hodges

      PLOT HOLES by Eric Margerum

      WET WINGS by Mercedes Lackey

      FOUR ACCOUNTS OF THE DISCOVERY OF ORCHARD STREET collated by S.R. Mandel, cartographer

      RAVE ON by Gregory Benford

      ELI AND THE DYBBUK by Janis Ian

      WEAVING LIGHT FROM WOUNDED HEARTS by J.W. Alden

      A TRUER ACCOUNT OF SIR GEOFFREY AND THE DRAGON by P.G. Galalis

      LINDSAY AND THE RED CITY BLUES by Joe Haldeman

      RECOMMENDED BOOKS: by Richard Chwedyk

      A SCIENTIST’S NOTEBOOK (column) by Gregory Benford

      DECOHERENCE (column) by Robert J. Sawyer

      THE GALAXY’S EDGE INTERVIEW: Joy Ward Interviews Kevin J. Anderson

      SERIALIZATION: MIDNIGHT AT THE WELL OF SOULS (part 1) Jack L. Chalker

      The Editor’s Word

      by Mike Resnick

      Welcome to the fortieth issue of Galaxy’s Edge magazine. We’re pleased to welcome new and newer writers Larry Hodges, Sean Patrick Hazlett, Jon Lasser, S.R. Mandel, Eric Margerum, J. W. Alden, and P.G. Galalis, plus old friends Nancy Kress, Janis Ian, Gregory Benford, Joe Haldeman, and Mercedes Lackey, plus Recommended Books columnist Richard Chwedyk, science (as well as fiction) by Greg Benford, and literary matters by Robert J. Sawyer. The Joy Ward interview this month features mega-seller Kevin J. Anderson. And speaking of mega-sellers, this issue begins the serialization of Jack L. Chalker’s Midnight at the Well of Souls.

      All in all, a pretty typical issue of Galaxy’s Edge. I hope you enjoy it.

      * * *

      There was a (brief) time when they closed the Patent Office because there was nothing left to invent. That was not only before the creation of jet planes, polio vaccine, and computers, but before the telephone and the electric light, believe it or not.

      Just goes to show that the future has more surprises than most people think.

      There was a time when people thought science fiction was all played out too. When Apollo 11 touched down and Neil Armstrong took his one small step for man, half the talking heads on TV pointed out that now that we had reached the moon, science fiction writers had run out of stories.

      That was before the height of the New Wave (which, like most of the 1960s, took place more in the 1970s), and before cyberpunk, and before slipstream, and before... Well, you get the picture.

      Then Dell killed its science fiction line, and so did Playboy Press, and Pyramid vanished, and Fawcett Gold Medal were no longer players...but lo and behold, along came DAW and Tor and Baen and a host of smaller presses.

      Amazing and Galaxy and Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Fantasy Magazine and half a dozen other magazines died, and that was the end of magazines and short stories. Until you activated your computer and found us, and Subterranean, and Clarkesworld, and a dozen more e-zines, all paying competitive rates.

      Sound familiar—like you’ve heard or read it all before? Like maybe three paragraphs ago?

      Now that Sir Arthur C. Clarke has died, the last of the so-called Big Three (Heinlein, Clarke, and Asimov) has gone, and I’m hearing the same pessimism about the future from all the self-appointed experts who are as ignorant of the field as they are of its history.

      Just about the time Stanley G. Weinbaum and Robert E. Howard and H. P. Lovecraft passed from sight, along came Robert A. Heinlein and Isaac Asimov and Theodore Sturgeon and A. E. van Vogt and Leigh Brackett. And when some of them went off to war, or out to Hollywood, here came Jack Vance and Ray Bradbury and Arthur C. Clarke. And when some of them went into teaching or Scientology, why we had Robert Sheckley and Alfred Bester and Cyril M. Kornbluth in the full flowering of their literary powers. And when some of them deserted us for movies and non-fiction, here came Robert Silverberg and J. G. Ballard and Anne McCaffrey, and when everyone was sure there was no more talent out there, along came Roger Zelazny and Larry Niven and Ursula K. Le Guin...and it’s been like that ever since.

      Just as there’s always a new generation of writers, there’s always a new generation of naysayers. The thing to remember is that history is not on their side.

      And who knows more about future history than science fiction people?

      Sean Patrick Hazlett has sold forty short stories and a collection to date, and is currently editing an anthology for Baen. He is a Writers of the Future winner.

      We Who Flee the Sun

      by Sean Patrick Hazlett

      Bartolo Bonetti arrived at Doctor Jakob Simchowitz’s Spanish style ranch house a day early to case the joint. Two miles from the outskirts of Barstow, the place made Bonetti as nervous as a nun in a strip club. A sense of isolation more oppressive than the desert’s stifling heat corrupted the arid air like chlorine gas on a World War I battlefield.

      As he faced the house, Bonetti shrugged. He’d get over this area’s strange vibe. His work had taken him to rougher spots, and he sure as hell had been in plenty of tricky situations. He was a professional.

      On a positive note, this was the first contract he’d ever taken that didn’t explicitly involve wetwork. It may have implied it, but until he finished the job, Bonetti couldn’t say one way or the other if he’d have to terminate his target. Only time would tell.

      He couldn’t help but worry how exposed and alone he felt out here. This was a place where anything could happen, but no one would ever know.

      He leaned the dolly next to the front door. He groaned. He’d had to lug that damn dolly miles across the desert for the job—but when it was done, he’d be swimming in dough. He unlocked the door and entered the dim residence. After placing his duffel bag containing his shotgun, flashlight, and other supplies on the floor, a strange stench overwhelmed him. It was as if someone had mixed the sweet smell of antifreeze with the nauseating odor of rotten eggs.

      Covering his mouth with his forearm, Bonetti explored the space. It was empty—except for the one item he needed to satisfy the terms of the contract.

      The casket.

      It was cheap. Of that, Bonetti had no doubt. He’d wager that prisoners from Victorville had probably slapped some pine boards together for pennies on the dollar.

      He crouched down and opened it, finding nothing inside. He wasn’t surprised. It was supposed to be empty.

      He stood back up and once again surveyed the room. No one had lived here for a while. In fact, Bonetti would’ve bet good money that no one had ever lived here.

      Checking his watch, Bonetti sighed. His mark wouldn’t arrive for another twelve hours or so. To kill time, he checked and rechecked the rest of the house to make sure there weren’t any weapons his target might use against him.

      Two hours later, Bonetti was as bored as a soldier peeling potatoes on kitchen patrol. He’d secured everything, even the matchsticks. By now, his head was aching. He’d drunk a ton of fluids on the way here and had expected to find water in the fridge. But Simchowitz’s house didn’t have one.

      It was too late to get any drinks now. Bonetti had parked his Jeep outside the Wal-Mart Supercenter before making the rest of the trek on foot. There was no way Bonetti was leaving to get more supplies. Even if he was a day early, his quarry could arrive at any moment, and Bonetti wasn’t one to take chances.

      He headed to the kitchen and turned on the faucet. Light brown water sputtered out. He waited for it to run clear, but it never did. He cupped his hands and took a sip anyway. He immediately spit it out, desperate to get the brackish taste out of his mouth.

      Bonetti went outside to get some air. The far horizon was now like a rainbow-colored accordion. Layers of purple blended into red and then orange as dusk began its daily descent into darkness.

      As he watched the sun disappear beneath the horizon, he spotted something else—a slight blue glow. Out in the desert, without the light pollution of civilization, the stars shined brighter. So too did this strange blue phenomenon. It also seemed to hum on the edge of Bonetti’s hearing. He’d catch nearly imperceptible snippets of a high-pitched drone that faded into the desert’s background noise before he’d have a chance to make any sense of it.

      There was something else about that eerie light. Staring at it seemed to weaken him, to drain his energy. It also darkened his mood, cloaking him in shadow and dread. After he finally turned away from it, his headache had become more intense.

      Propelled by exhaustion, Bonetti went back inside and lay on the floor. Outside, crickets whirred and chirped. From years of desert living, Bonetti had long since become familiar with their nocturnal chants. Yet something was off. As he listened more closely, he perceived a peculiar trilling and whistle hum. These unnatural melodies evoked feelings of longing and gloom.

      As the night crept on, the familiar yips and yowls of coyotes briefly soothed him. But soon they too made unsettling sounds. He noticed a disquieting cadence of barks—as if the coyotes were calling out to each other in some long-lost canine tongue.

      Bonetti was no stranger to fear—an emotion he’d thought he’d long since mastered. Not tonight. Tonight he was terrified.

      As he drifted to sleep, the faces of his past victims haunted him: the cheating wife he’d mutilated on behalf of her husband; the child he’d strangled just because she’d witnessed a hit; and the old man he’d executed so a greedy son could inherit a fortune.

      Their images swirled like demented clowns on an acid trip through a diabolic circus. A crowd of them emerged from the blue haze on the horizon. They converged on him. Drawing closer, they scowled and raved; shouted and screamed. Closer. They kept coming until they tore him apart.

      Bonetti woke shivering in a cold sweat. As he lay in the darkness, a steady rapping attracted his attention. He slowed his breathing to isolate the source of the sound.

      The thumping quickened. It came from the attic. He was sure of it. Steadily, it grew louder, crescendoing until it became so intense it shook the house.

      He tried to convince himself it was a hallucination, but deep down, he knew it was real. Bonetti froze, paralyzed in fear, before succumbing to exhaustion and oblivion.

      * * *

      Bonetti woke flailing and gasping for air. A coarse rope tightened around his neck.

      The primal need for survival sharpened Bonetti’s senses. He forced his fingers between his neck and the rope. Someone tugged from behind. Leveraging his considerable bulk, Bonetti spun to the right, yanking the rope with it. A rail-thin man stumbled over Bonetti. In an instant, Bonetti was on his feet and grabbed his assailant.

      He had to admit: this guy had some balls. Not a pound more than a buck fifty, he was no match for Bonetti’s two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle.

      Grappling the intruder by the throat, Bonetti slammed him against the wall. Glaring, Bonetti yelled, Who the fuck are you?

      The tiny man’s legs dangled like a kid at the top of a Ferris wheel. He gurgled and sputtered, refusing to answer. But a response was no longer necessary. Bonetti recognized the man from Simchowitz’s photo: he was the target.

      Bonetti choked the bastard until he passed out, then tied him in his own rope and tossed him in the casket. After slamming the lid shut, Bonetti closed the latches.

      Now that things had settled down, Bonetti rubbed his neck. He could feel a ligature mark swelling on his skin. His throat was sore. He took a moment to thank God the man hadn’t murdered him in his sleep.

      Faint rays of light slipped through the blinds like droplets of water on a dam about to burst.

      The house was as still as a morgue—so quiet that Bonetti began to question his sanity. Had the house really shaken last night? Had he actually heard the coyotes talking to each other?

      As Bonetti went further down the rabbit hole, he wondered if it was a coincidence that his mark had arrived early and attacked first. What if Simchowitz had also paid the other man to put Bonetti in the box, or even kill him?

      These notions gnawed at him as he walked over to the ancient rotary phone hanging on the wall. He pulled out a slip of paper with Simchowitz’s number. Bonetti’s instructions had been to contact his client as soon as he’d secured his target in the casket.

      He lifted the receiver and held it to his ear. Bonetti watched impatiently as the dial spun for each number while the phone made a steady, hypnotic whirr.

      Simchowitz here, the doctor answered in a gravelly voice.

      Bonetti said nothing. He waited patiently, hoping Simchowitz would slip and betray his treachery.

      After a long pause, Simchowitz said, Hello? Who is this?

      Bonetti put his hand over his mouth to muffle his voice, then said, Who do you think it is?

      This time Simchowitz stayed silent.

      After a long and uncomfortable lull, Bonetti finally said, You hired both of us, didn’t you? Why?

      Simchowitz chuckled. I have my reasons, but they’re none of your goddamn business. If you still want to earn the rest of your fee, listen up. In the kitchen pantry, you’ll find a map on the top shelf. Use it to locate the crater. Take the casket and dump it there, then return to the house. You’ll get your money tomorrow morning.

      Why the hell do I gotta wait another night?

      Because I’m traveling on business, Simchowitz replied. Look, do you want your money or not?

      Bonetti sighed. Fine.

      * * *

      Bonetti waited until after sundown before heading to the crater. He placed the casket on the dolly and pushed it out into the desert night.

      As it grew darker, Bonetti observed a slight blue glow near the horizon. He stopped, pulled out his red-lens flashlight and checked his map.

      His destination was fewer than two hundred yards ahead. He looked toward the eerie blue light. Whatever its source, he’d get there soon.

      He switched off his flashlight, folded up the map, and shoved it in his pocket. He wheeled back the dolly and began pushing it forward.

      As he trudged through the sand, he passed sleeping coyotes caked in phosphorescent blue goo. He stopped for a moment to watch them. They were larger than any coyotes he’d ever seen. Their raspy breathing had a strange metallic ring to it—which begged the question: if coyotes were nocturnal, why weren’t they awake?

      Slowly, Bonetti stepped away from the slumbering animals, careful not to wake them. He continued on toward the shimmering pit.

      Minutes later, Bonetti stood upon the ledge of a massive crater as wide as a football field and about half as deep. Blue ooze illuminated the roughhewn basin below like lava. Near the crater’s center, Bonetti spotted a wrecked tractor trailer.

      He turned away from the pit. A glint of moonlight reflected off an object about twenty feet behind him. It was a torn and ragged shard of metal as big as a mailbox. Pulling out his flashlight, he shined it on the piece. A warning, stenciled on its warped and broken skin read: Danger: Mutagenic Compounds.

      When the man inside the casket started kicking and screaming, Bonetti nearly leapt from his skin. His heartbeat quickened. A burst of adrenaline coursed through his veins.

      Shut the fuck up, Bonetti said, giving the casket a swift kick.

      Please. Don’t do this, the man pleaded. I have a wife and kids.

      As a hitman, the wife and kids plea no longer troubled him; it just made him want to kill a man even more.

      Bonetti kicked the casket again. You were gonna do the same to me. Then he heaved it into the crater. The man’s shriek faded as the casket tumbled and slowly sank into the luminescent blue sludge.

      Disturbed, Bonetti turned and walked back to the house. Upon his arrival, he called Simchowitz.

      The deed is done, Bonetti reported.

      Excellent, replied Simchowitz. Just make sure you’re still in the house tomorrow morning. Otherwise, I’m not paying you a dime.

      Now Bonetti was pissed. You know what? Fuck you, he said with venom. I haven’t put the casket in the crater yet, Bonetti lied, because I have too many questions about what’s going on out there.

      The line went silent for so long that Bonetti almost hung up. Then Simchowitz said, Fine. Ask me your damn questions.

      What the hell is that blue shit? Where did it come from?

      While working at a San Francisco biotech startup, I became concerned about a compound the company had been developing for a classified military project. After the company laid me off, I took matters into my own hands. A few days ago, I arranged for a hijacking of a semi bound for China Lake Naval Weapons Station.

      Why? said Bonetti.

      I suspected the military had weaponized the compound.

      What happened?

      Simchowitz laughed. What do you think? My crew stole the semi. Inside it, they found a five-hundred-pound bomb. They stowed the truck behind a property I’d rented under an assumed name—the house you’re in now.

      A shiver rippled down Bonetti’s spine. Jesus, he said. Why haven’t I heard about any of this on the news?

      You think the Pentagon wants anyone to know it lost a bioweapon?

      Is that the truck in the crater? said Bonetti.

      Yes.

      What the hell happened to it?

      The compound was unstable, Mr. Bonetti. There was an accident. It produced the crater where you were supposed to dump your target.

      Or where my target was supposed to dump me, Bonetti fumed.

      Simchowitz hissed. Do your job or I’ll hire someone else. Good day. He hung up.

      Knowing more about his current situation, as fucked up as it was, had a peculiar calming effect on Bonetti. All he needed was to stay one more night in this nuthouse, and he’d earn a cool million.

      * * *

      We who flee the sun are now awake, an androgynous voice whispered.

      Groggy, Bonetti rubbed his eyes. When he opened them, he saw a hairy, blue camel spider, six-inches long, resting on his chest. Its beady eyes stared intently into his.

      The scene was so surreal that it overwhelmed his instinct to bolt.

      We who flee the sun are now awake, the voice echoed.

      Bonetti lay paralyzed, uncertain what to do. Maybe he was hallucinating, he thought, in an attempt to calm himself. Yet he could clearly feel the camel spider’s weight on his chest.

      We who flee the sun are now awake, the voice said. This time Bonetti was certain it was directly piped into his head.

      This was definitely real.

      He panicked and flung the camel spider across the room. A fraction of a second after he scrambled to his feet, the arachnid zipped back toward him. He stomped on it with his bare foot, leaving behind a gelatinous mush.

      A low whistle hum reverberated from the ceiling. It rapidly crescendoed. The house quaked. Glowing blue cracks fissured in the ceiling.

      Wiping the camel spider’s guts on the rug, Bonetti threw on his clothes. He grabbed his duffel bag and pulled out his

      Enjoying the preview?
      Page 1 of 1