By Dave Jeffery
It took thirty mins for town to die. yet their starvation might final ceaselessly. the army has sealed town. not anyone is getting into. nobody is getting out. yet a workforce of cyber-criminals have a task to do. a task that would see them receiving an incredible payout in the event that they be successful. Or a bullet in the event that they don't. as soon as contained in the urban Kevin O'Connell and his staff locate that staying alive proves to be simply as tricky as staying useless ...
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Additional resources for Necropolis Rising
Generally only at night. Of course, he thought. Night. Dr. Greene had told him to expect as much. But ghosts? "Be prepared for some containdications from the chemotherapy," came the words like a clipped dissertation. "Olfactory and aural hallucinosis. Exodikinesis, immoderate scotipic debris, synaptic maladaption and toxicity intolerance. " Normal, Smith reflected. Dying’s normal too. Three treatments left him racked for hours, dry heaving bile. His hair had fallen out. "To hell with this," he'd told Greene, on the fourth visit.
Thinks no one noticed. " Dee whispered. An old bag, huh? Joyce smirked back her ire. Pancakes. She'd trump something up on Marianne and fire her next week, too. Then the two little airheads could stand in the unemployment line together. See if their youth put food on the table. See if their big tits paid the rent. …….. That night Scott spread Joyce Lipnick out like a feast. A feast of passion. A feast of warm flesh. Her orgasms rushed out of her, each a torrid spirit unleashed by her lover's ministrations.
He held up his Bible. Smith thanked him and walked out. He felt abandoned, not as much by God as by himself. Conviction wasn't proof. Belief didn't validate a reality. Next, he took a Yellow to the University, where the static sunlight made everything look brittle and fake. Inside, cool darkness and tile shine led him down the hall. PHILOSOPHY DEPARTMENT. Smith stepped unannounced into the first office. A man—who looked as old—glanced up from a cluttered industrial gray metal desk. "May I... " Smith considered how he must look—a haggard, emaciated vagabond.
Necropolis Rising by Dave Jeffery