The Brink
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
Praise for Awakened
Also by James S. Murray and Darren Wearmouth
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Mark set down two wine glasses on his kitchen counter. So far, the fourth date had gone perfectly. After three months of living in London, he had finally found a British girl who liked his Boston accent. He liked hers, too. He had taken Imogen out for a lovely dinner. They had laughed at each other’s jokes. Two twentysomethings having a good time. They had walked back to the warmth of his basement apartment on Westbourne Park Road and watched some Netflix. He wanted to watch a scary movie, like The Descent or John Carpenter’s The Thing. Nothing like a good horror flick to make the heart race faster and help break the touch barrier. But she insisted they watch a popular hidden camera show starring these four guys from New York. As an aspiring stand-up comedian, he had to admit—the show was funny.
It was getting late, almost midnight. He guessed she was staying over for the first time, but so far it had gone unsaid. Mark uncorked a second vintage bottle of Chianti, letting out the rich aroma, and poured two generous measures. He wanted to impress her. She worked for an investment bank in Canary Wharf, and despite her protestations, he could tell she had class. Old money with the type of cut-glass English accent reserved for those in high society.
He wanted things to be perfect.
Unfortunately, a faint, sulfurous odor knocked away the scent of the wine, as if somebody had struck a match or something was burning. Mark frowned as he visually inspected the kitchen’s electrical ports and appliances. Everything appeared fine. He had taken the garbage out, so it wasn’t that, either. Perhaps, he considered, the source was of a romantic nature. Imogen making the next move. He craned his head from the kitchen alcove to check if she had lit a candle.
The TV screen bathed the dark room in a monochrome glow. In this light, Imogen looked even more like Charlize Theron, lounging on the leather couch in her purple dress. She looked stunning.
But no lit candles.
“Do you smell that?” he asked.
“Smell what?”
“I dunno. Burning?”
She shrugged. “It only stinks of you in here.”
Mark smiled at her joke. He inhaled through his nostrils, trying to track the smell. He could still detect it. Only slightly, but it was there, lingering in the air. Maybe Imogen was being polite by denying its existence. He had gotten a great rate on this basement apartment, especially given how old the building was, but he was now beginning to regret it. Technically, his studio apartment was actually in the converted sub-basement, below the basement itself. There was no way it could be legal, but it was so very cheap. The lack of natural light was tough to deal with at times, but at moments like this, he wanted the place as dark and cozy as possible.
A new episode began playing on the TV. “. . . among four lifelong friends who compete to embarrass each other . . .”
“Do you want to watch another one?” he asked.
Imogen rose from the couch. Her hand caressed his. “Nah. Let’s go to bed . . .”
His heart raced even faster. He grabbed the TV remote control and switched it off. The room transformed to near darkness, and she led him to the bed.
A lamp on the bedside table provided soft lighting. The comforter was folded in half on the lower end of the bed. Crisp white sheets and pillows covered the rest. He had arranged it immaculately in the hope of this moment.
Mark spun to face her.
She had slipped off her dress and was wearing fancy black lingerie.
His heart skipped a beat. He moved toward her and reached out his hand to caress her face.
Here goes nothing . . .
The strange smell forgotten, he focused on the alluring subtle floral scent of Imogen’s perfume, which had driven him crazy all evening. He closed his eyes and leaned in to kiss her.
Her soft lips made contact with his, for the first time. The moment felt electric, exhilarating. She bit his lip lightly, and they both opened their eyes, smiling.
They fell back onto the bed, intertwined in each other’s arms. She pulled off his shirt. He nuzzled into her neck, kissing every inch of her skin there. She was easily the sexiest girl he’d ever kissed.
He drew the comforter up over them, and their bodies moved in rhythm.
Then the sound from the TV blurted in the room.
“. . . among four lifelong friends who compete to embarrass each other . . .”
They froze, peering into each other’s eyes, and giggled.
“Sorry,” he said.
He reached out from under the covers and fumbled with the remote on the nightstand, hitting what he thought felt like the power button.
The sound stopped.
Silence returned to the room.
He dove back into her neck, nibbling softly. Her breathing quickened as he made his way slowly down to her chest. He lifted the straps of her lingerie off her shoulders. Imogen peered into his eyes and gave him a seductive grin.
“. . . among four lifelong friends who compete to embarrass each other . . .”
The TV was even louder this time, making them both jump in fright under the covers.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he said, confused. “I’m sorry.”
“Haha, it’s okay. It is my favorite TV show.”
He grabbed the remote and sat up to face the TV. This time, he’d do it right.
“What the hell?” he asked.
She sat up to look.
The room remained in near darkness.
Nothing played on the TV screen.
The two lay there in silence for a moment, baffled by the experience.
“. . . AMONG FOUR LIFELONG FRIENDS WHO COMPETE TO EMBARRASS EACH OTHER . . .”
The words again, even louder. The identical line as the previous two times, like it was being repeated over and over on a loop. But that was impossible, because the TV was off. Unless the damned thing had broken, and that was the last thing he needed on a tight budget.
He tracked the sound downward. It wasn’t coming from the TV.
In fact . . . the sound had come from underneath the bed.
How could that be?
Somebody had to be playing a cruel trick on him. Nothing else made sense. Whoever it was, their timing was awful.
He peered over the side of the bed to investigate. It was too dark, though, and he couldn’t see anything. He could smell sulfur again, stronger this time, and he was now firmly convinced one of his friends had somehow sabotaged his
date. Furious, he leaned over to grab his cell to light underneath his bed, when he heard, behind him, the sounds of ripping fabric and an odd gurgle. He spun back to face Imogen—
A serrated black spike erupted out of her stomach, a few inches below her bra. She let out an ear-splitting scream. She wrapped her hands around it, and the sight of the wriggling appendage made it seem as if she were controlling the thing that had burst through her torso. Blood pooled around her body and soaked into the white sheets as she stared at him with fear, confusion, and agony in her eyes.
Mark scrambled off the mattress, wide-eyed, consumed with her terror, which was mirrored on his own face.
Something clasped around his ankle.
He looked down.
Before he could move or think, scaly black hands with razor-sharp claws squeezed harder. He gasped at the feeling of his shin being crushed. He tried to kick free, but the tightness of the grip only increased. Above his anguished roar, he heard his bones crack.
The claws sliced through his ankle, severing his foot in the blink of an eye. He screamed in agony as he collapsed face-first onto the bed, his eyes blinking away the blood that had come out of Imogen.
His stump sprayed blood over the floor of his miserable little apartment.
The black spike thrust through the bed between them, like a flexible spear. It carved through the mattress, splitting it in two, and punctured Imogen’s rib cage, impaling her with its serrated edge once more.
She tried to gasp, but there was so little life left in her that she didn’t have the energy—or the air in her lungs—to scream.
Her odd silence unnerved Mark.
The tail withdrew from her body. A moment later, it thrust through her mouth, turning her subdued cry to a brief gargle. Dark purple blood streamed from the side of her mouth onto the pillow. Her head rolled to the side and she stared at Mark through dead eyes.
“NO!!!” he yelled.
As if in response, a massive creature exploded out of the center of the bed. Black and muscular, the scant light from the lamp seemed to be absorbed by its obsidian skin. Its tail wafted from side to side, spattering drops of Imogen’s blood from its tip across the bedroom walls. It punched her corpse to one side, the force so strong it threw her across the room, a deep depression knocked into her blood-soaked sternum. Her limp body battered against his set of drawers.
Mark attempted to scramble back, but the creature’s foot pressed him downward, forcing the air from his lungs. His torso crushed against the remote, hitting the power button. Light blasted out from the TV set.
The creature towered over him, thick strings of saliva dangling from three rows of dagger-like teeth. The overwhelming smell of sulfur burned Mark’s nostrils now.
The creature reached down and lifted him by his jaw.
Claws plunged into his neck.
Sprays of his blood joined Imogen’s on the walls.
His vision fogged. He attempted a bubbling breath.
The creature twisted his head to the side.
Mark’s neck cracked.
His body went limp.
The last thing he saw was the outline of the vicious creature, silhouetted by the bright white light of the TV, as all life quickly drained from his body.
Chapter Two
Berlin, 3:00 p.m. on April 30, 1945
The Red Army’s artillery shells whistled through smoke-filled sky and exploded around the shrapnel-scarred Reichstag building. The stench of cordite and death clogged the air. Colonel Otto Van Ness crouched by the side of the Führerbunker’s emergency exit in the chancellery garden, Luger pistol in hand, and peered at the shattered remains of his beautiful city.
The dream was over.
Otto removed his black peaked cap and wiped the sweat from his brow. He had risen from the bunker to witness the final twitches of the Third Reich’s corpse. He wanted it seared into his mind so he’d never forget how it all ended.
Some brave souls still fought on at the central zone’s defensive ring.
That was suicide.
Reports inside the bunker had stated Soviet troops were already fanning through Berlin’s streets in overwhelming numbers. The increasingly loud crackle of gunfire confirmed they’d be here in minutes—if that—ready to capture the Führer and subject him to a public show trial and execution.
One way or another, that wasn’t happening.
It was decision time.
Otto blanked out the sounds of his city in its death throes and focused on the Führer’s survival. Everyone talked about Göring, Himmler, and Goebbels, but Van Ness—perhaps because of his anonymity—was truly Hitler’s right-hand man. The voice from the shadows whispering advice to the Führer. It was Van Ness’ job to anticipate all possibilities and plan for the worst.
Which was exactly what this moment was.
And Van Ness was prepared. His escape plan centered around the Führerbunker, the deepest human-made subterranean complex in history. So deep, in fact, that his latest excavation had exposed a massive cavern, containing the dusty black claw of a prehistoric predator—perhaps from a mighty dinosaur that had once ruled the plains of Europe. It was an exciting find, but even more exciting was knowing those caves could lead Herr Hitler safely out of the city.
Otto had ordered workers to build a false wall to conceal the cavern and construct a set of stairs leading to the antechamber in the Führer’s bunker accommodations. Nobody beyond his closest team members knew it even existed . . . and he’d had most of those men sent to fight off the Russians in the streets of Berlin.
Suicide, he thought with a grim smile.
A shell burst to his right, close to the public parkland of the Tiergarten.
A blood-curdling scream rose above the cacophony of explosions and gunfire. Otto scanned the rubble-strewn road for the injured soldier. Something about a single person suffering cut through him deeper than the collective noise of total war. It was as if his cruelty could be tempered by individual pleas.
He hated the feeling of weakness.
A cool spring breeze cleared the acrid smoke.
Three members of the Hitler Youth lay dead, their bodies spread behind a howitzer in grisly twisted shapes. The sole survivor of the gun crew had lost a leg. Tears streamed down his blackened face and he reached out a quivering hand. The boy tried to raise himself. He coughed out a spray of blood.
Part of war is playing God with people’s lives, for better or for worse.
He hated this intimate reminder of the Third Reich’s failings. With a sneer, Otto aimed his gun and fired.
The boy’s brains spattered the howitzer’s barrel and he slumped against its wheel. The Fatherland had lost another son, added to the millions who had already sacrificed themselves in a noble yet failed cause.
Another explosion ripped through the air.
Closer.
Small fragments of debris rained down on him. The Russians were finding their range, and this death by a thousand cuts would soon be over.
Otto had seen enough. He needed to get the Führer out.
He also wanted to live.
Hitler sealed off in the bunker was like keeping a wasp in a jar. His anger would only increase with every piece of bad news, pushing him toward . . .
“No,” he growled.
Not suicide.
They had to get away and regroup. Argentina perhaps, or Chile.
Otto scrambled to his feet, dusted down his uniform, holstered his Luger, and headed through the entrance of the Führerbunker. This place was supposed to be his crowning glory, a haven for the upper echelons of the regime. Now they were trapped like rats in the bilge of a once great ship. His jackboots pounded the steps as he descended toward the main complex.
The nervous, sweat-stained faces of the soldiers told him they had come to the same grim conclusion: Berlin had finally fallen. From here, it was every man for himself, though no self-respecting German would disobey orders and flee. That was for the French and the Italians.
> “Close the bulkhead doors,” Otto ordered.
An explosion boomed overhead, causing the lights to flicker. A few of the soldiers ducked and glanced toward the ceiling.
Otto shoved a junior officer and bellowed in his face. “Nothing is getting through four meters of concrete, you fool. Run to the upper bunker and order them to close the doors!”
Another set of stairs led deeper down. Otto strode along the corridor, past rooms on either side containing generators, telephone switchboards, and Eva Braun’s private quarters.
None of the senior officers met his glare while he advanced. The whole place stunk of despair. Their faces made it clear that they knew this place was nothing more than a mortuary waiting for its inhabitants to die. He shook his head as he passed the empty map room and reached the door leading to the Führer’s accommodations.
Hitler’s personal adjutant, Major Günsche, and his private valet, Lieutenant Colonel Linge, blocked his path.
“Out of my way,” Otto snapped.
Linge bowed his head. “It’s over.”
“What?”
“The Führer is about to pass from this life to the next.”
“You fools—get out of my way!”
Otto attempted to squeeze between them.
Günsche threw a stiff arm across his chest. “I cannot allow you to disturb his final moments. The Führer gave the order for no one to enter.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Yes, that’s a fact.”
Otto grabbed Günsche by the lapels and thrust his forehead toward the younger man’s nose. It connected with a satisfying thud.
Günsche slumped in his grip. Otto threw the moaning idiot against the wall, even as he took the man’s Luger from its holster. He turned toward Linge and raised the gun at the remaining gutless obstacle in his path.
“Nein—” Linge shouted.
The bullet tore through the valet’s throat. The officer crumbled to the ground.
He spun and shot Günsche in the head. Then he dropped the gun on the floor, slipped through the door, and locked it behind him.
The silence in the empty living room concerned him. Nobody sat in the luxurious chairs, and the painting of Frederick the Great had been ripped off the wall and stomped upon. However, the bookcase he had used to conceal the secret hatch remained in place.