The Start of the Majestic World
Berthold Gambrel
Author Bio
A horror writer who favors mystery and ambiguity over gore and violence; who prefers the weird to the merely grotesque, and who favors intellectual fear over gross-out stuff. If none of that sounds appealing to you, there is plenty of other stuff for you to choose from. But if you have the courage to face cosmic horror, read my work, and enjoy a more sophisticated brand of fear.
Description
Agents Maynard and Brett are no strangers to complex mysteries and morally grey assignments. When they are sent in pursuit of a mysterious rabble-rousing radio personality, however, they stumble upon a web of conspiracy and betrayal beyond anything they could have imagined. As events lead them from the brooding hills of Appalachia to the remotest wastes of Siberia to the deserts of the American southwest, they discover unlikely allies and twisted madmen, scientists bent on playing God, and mounting evidence hinting at sinister machinations that threaten the entire nation. With each thrilling episode, the ever-escalating power and scope of the danger they face forces them to call upon all their skills and experience to survive.
Book excerpt
The streets of Charlotte were practically empty. It was an overcast and foggy Christmas day. The few vehicles out on the streets contained people making trips to see relatives; otherwise, there was little traffic. So little that a dark blue Mercedes van parked for several hours on the side of an otherwise empty street attracted some odd looks from passers-by. Too many looks for the liking of its occupants, Federal agents Maynard and Brett.
Maynard sat in the driver’s seat, looking like nothing so much as an impatient divorced mother, waiting for her children to finish their holiday visit so she could take them back home. She acted as if she were sipping a latte, though she did not actually do so—she wanted her blood free of caffeine in case things turned ugly.
Concealed in the back of the van, where three passenger seats normally would have been, Agent Brett hunched over surveillance equipment focused on the apartment building across the street. The thermal cameras gave him a picture of what the occupants on the side facing him were doing, and the three laptops spread around him showed the surveillance feeds of the U.A.V.s that circled high above, unnoticed in the misty sky.
Close at hand was his heavily modified Walther WA-2000, with its black synthetic stock and telescopic thermal scope. It may have been an older weapon, but Brett’s opinion was that sometimes the older weapons were better—they had been tested out by more people, and there had been more time to work out all the glitches. It was ready to go at a moment’s notice if he needed it; but he hoped they would be able to set up the shot in a more leisurely fashion.
The only sounds in the van were the very faint buzz of the electronics and the occasional crackling, static-filled strains of “Here We Come A-Wassailing” that they were picking up over their surveillance radios. The two agents did not speak unless it was necessary. Superfluous speech would only waste time and perhaps distract them. A few times a light rain—almost a thick mist—would settle on the city, and then Agent Maynard would run the windshield wipers, but this was the only activity that occurred for several hours.
Author Website
https://ruinedchapel.wordpress.com/