Screams filled the room as loud as the explosions as glass ceased to be a complete solid in one half of a heartbeat. In the second half, the newly renovated conference room became light. Not good light. Not anything clean or holy or useful. Just a million-billion little sparkling edges, each one hyper-accelerated through the…
“The Slaughterhouse Nine are in Brockton Bay.” If Director Piggot ever wanted a job reading audiobooks, horror had to be her first stop because the way she said that made Greg’s stomach drop further than it ever had before. Like the contents of his guts, the room shifted. Not loudly. Not at first. That was…
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The industrial shower gel in the hideout bathroom was radioactive. Well, not literally. But it might as well have been. Greg clicked his tongue at the smell of artificial cherries and the feel of liquid sandpaper on his skin from what he scrubbed down with, staring back at himself in the mirror one last time….
Shink. The blade sank in, all six inches embedding deep into the space under his ribs. Sophia’s physical weight was a car crash more than a tackle, all the force of a cinderblock dropped from a third-floor window as her newfound manic strength was enough to take him entirely off his feet. All the air…
If Greg Veder had to write out who he had the most love for in the whole wide world, his mom would be number one on that list — all the nonexistent i’s in the name ‘Susan Veder’ dotted with bubbly hearts. Number two on that list would have to be one Axel Ramon. It…
“Boss, this your personal?” The smell of blood — fresh and dry — was thick around him, somehow managing to cover up the stench of a body that definitely hadn’t known a good shower in at least a week. It wasn’t bad enough to make him breathe through his mouth but Greg still forced out…
The popcorn ceiling of his bedroom might as well have been a map of the world. Just ridges and bumps staring back at him as the late July sun started bleeding out to the night sky through the horizontal slats of his window blinds, tinting out from orange to purple. Map or not, Greg Veder…
The kitchen island was cold under her palm, the big hunk of marble Mom had needled Dad into getting freezing as always. Even with the late afternoon sun beaming down right on it, the surface was barely any warmer than the fridge. “Emma-doll, sweetie…” The last two syllables stretched long and sweet like bubble-gum, a…
