Tandem of Terror Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Eric S. Brown
watched Mark be yanked off the car from
behind the Gatling by grasping, eager hands. Mark disappeared in
the sea of the dead. Brent turned away from the remains of the
battle and ran. He tossed his empty rifle aside and jerked his Colt
free from the holster on his belt. His feet crunched gravel as he
darted down the length of the train. He reached the fallen tree and
knew there was no way he could jump it. He veered to the right and
took off into the woods surrounding the railway with more than a
dozen of the dead on his tail. Sweat rolled off his face and skin.
In desperation, he hopped onto a tall tree using his momentum to
gain height and started to climb. Cold hands closed on his legs and
ankles as he felt a set of yellow teeth cut through the fabric of
his uniform into the flesh of his thigh. "God Forgive me," Brent
pleaded as he pressed his Colt's barrel to the side of his head and
pulled the trigger. His limp form fell loose from the tree into the
waiting mob below.
The Tomb in the Stars
Eric S. Brown
I don't know why I write this now. It is
unlikely anyone will ever read these words. Being a killer is never
easy for a sane mind, but for those of us who were torn away from
our homes, our families, to have a rifle shoved into our hands, it
is an utter nightmare beyond the scope of understanding.
Nearly half of us either committed suicide or
were shot for treason while we were still at the Alliance training
camps. No one here except for the veterans and officers even want
to fight this war. The whole of Earth thinks it is wrong, but the
government does not care.
Us newbies who managed to survive the camps
clung to each other forming a deep comradeship, only to have that
taken from us as well as the training ended and we were shipped off
to our various units.
On the black last day at the camps, I bid
farewell to those who had shared my suffering and was marched
abroad a shuttle leaving for the front. I grasp my orders tightly
in my hands, wishing I could rip them to shreds and throw them into
the cool spring breeze which swept over the landing platform. As I
boarded the shuttle, I noticed an odd painting upon its hull. You
see, all Alliance squads are given a nickname to add to their
morale and this painting represented my new squad. It showed a dog
laying on the ground. Its skull split open with brain matter oozing
out onto the green grass around it. Underneath the painting, I read
the words, "The Dog Kill Squad". This did nothing to alleviate my
fears and I doubted I would ever see my beautiful wife again.
I guess like everyone else, I had thought
myself immune to the draft. I had been a class one citizen of the
Alliance. I was famous and wealthy, the hot rising holo-vid writer
of my generation. When the papers arrived on my doorstep, I had
protested and went to the head of the studio I worked for. I was
presently under contract with them to write their new "War" series
of films and prayed that they would pull the necessary strings to
gain my freedom but they did not.
As I climbed aboard the shuttle, I longed for
a means to write of my fear and my pain, immortalize it so the
world could see it and understand, but we were allowed no personal
possessions. I carried only my assignment orders, my rifle, and a
bit of field survival equipment issued to me. The seat I had chosen
allowed me to watch as the shuttle lifted itself from the ground
and broke through the clouds into the eternal darkness of space. I
watched the Earth sink into the distance behind us as the shuttle
approached the cold storage ship that would haul my squad the rest
of the way to the front lines on the outer rim of Alliance space.
Even now, Alkar warriors swarmed over the outer colonies, killing
every one in their path.
They marched me onto the storage ship and
stripped me of my gear and clothes, shoving me into a tank much
like a meat locker. Gas swirled into the hollow metal chamber
around me as I screamed. Then the darkness
behind the Gatling by grasping, eager hands. Mark disappeared in
the sea of the dead. Brent turned away from the remains of the
battle and ran. He tossed his empty rifle aside and jerked his Colt
free from the holster on his belt. His feet crunched gravel as he
darted down the length of the train. He reached the fallen tree and
knew there was no way he could jump it. He veered to the right and
took off into the woods surrounding the railway with more than a
dozen of the dead on his tail. Sweat rolled off his face and skin.
In desperation, he hopped onto a tall tree using his momentum to
gain height and started to climb. Cold hands closed on his legs and
ankles as he felt a set of yellow teeth cut through the fabric of
his uniform into the flesh of his thigh. "God Forgive me," Brent
pleaded as he pressed his Colt's barrel to the side of his head and
pulled the trigger. His limp form fell loose from the tree into the
waiting mob below.
The Tomb in the Stars
Eric S. Brown
I don't know why I write this now. It is
unlikely anyone will ever read these words. Being a killer is never
easy for a sane mind, but for those of us who were torn away from
our homes, our families, to have a rifle shoved into our hands, it
is an utter nightmare beyond the scope of understanding.
Nearly half of us either committed suicide or
were shot for treason while we were still at the Alliance training
camps. No one here except for the veterans and officers even want
to fight this war. The whole of Earth thinks it is wrong, but the
government does not care.
Us newbies who managed to survive the camps
clung to each other forming a deep comradeship, only to have that
taken from us as well as the training ended and we were shipped off
to our various units.
On the black last day at the camps, I bid
farewell to those who had shared my suffering and was marched
abroad a shuttle leaving for the front. I grasp my orders tightly
in my hands, wishing I could rip them to shreds and throw them into
the cool spring breeze which swept over the landing platform. As I
boarded the shuttle, I noticed an odd painting upon its hull. You
see, all Alliance squads are given a nickname to add to their
morale and this painting represented my new squad. It showed a dog
laying on the ground. Its skull split open with brain matter oozing
out onto the green grass around it. Underneath the painting, I read
the words, "The Dog Kill Squad". This did nothing to alleviate my
fears and I doubted I would ever see my beautiful wife again.
I guess like everyone else, I had thought
myself immune to the draft. I had been a class one citizen of the
Alliance. I was famous and wealthy, the hot rising holo-vid writer
of my generation. When the papers arrived on my doorstep, I had
protested and went to the head of the studio I worked for. I was
presently under contract with them to write their new "War" series
of films and prayed that they would pull the necessary strings to
gain my freedom but they did not.
As I climbed aboard the shuttle, I longed for
a means to write of my fear and my pain, immortalize it so the
world could see it and understand, but we were allowed no personal
possessions. I carried only my assignment orders, my rifle, and a
bit of field survival equipment issued to me. The seat I had chosen
allowed me to watch as the shuttle lifted itself from the ground
and broke through the clouds into the eternal darkness of space. I
watched the Earth sink into the distance behind us as the shuttle
approached the cold storage ship that would haul my squad the rest
of the way to the front lines on the outer rim of Alliance space.
Even now, Alkar warriors swarmed over the outer colonies, killing
every one in their path.
They marched me onto the storage ship and
stripped me of my gear and clothes, shoving me into a tank much
like a meat locker. Gas swirled into the hollow metal chamber
around me as I screamed. Then the darkness