MudMan (The
Golem Chronicles #1)
By: James A.
Hunter
Genre: Adult Urban Fantasy
Publisher: Shadow Alley Press
Audiobook Publication: August 10,
2016
ASIN: B01BX7PT7M
Pages: 415
Word Count: 111,000
Cover Artist: Lou Harper
Levi Adams is a soft spoken, middle-aged Mennonite man—at least he tries to be when he’s not murdering people.
Levi’s a golem, a Mudman, crafted from
the muck, mire, and corpses of a World War II concentration camp—killing is
just a part of his DNA. He doesn’t like it, but unfortunately he’s been saddled
with a divine commission to dole out judgment on those who shed innocent blood.
After seventy years as a cold-blooded murder machine, however, Levi’s trying to
change his grisly nature. And the AA meetings and church services are helping.
A little. But when he runs across a wounded girl, Sally Ryder, during one of
his “hunting expeditions,” he realizes self-help may have to go on the back
burner.
Someone is attempting to revive a
pre-Babylonian murder god, and the road to rebirth is paved with dead bodies.
Lots and lots of them.
Now, Levi must protect Ryder—the key to
an unspeakable resurrection—and defeat a Nazi mage from Levi’s murky past. But
the shadowy mage holds a terrible secret about the Mudman’s unorthodox birth,
one offering insight into Levi’s morbid compulsion for bloodshed. It’s a secret
Levi would pay anything to uncover: maybe even Ryder’s life. If Levi isn’t
careful, he may end up turning into the monster he always imagined himself to
be.
ZERO:
Awakening
June, 1943
He blinked his eyes open
for the first time: a newborn stealing his first look at the world, which, in a
way, is exactly what he was. Except no squealing, rosy-cheeked infant had ever
been so big, so ugly, or so filled with blood-boiling rage. Never had a child
been so appalling. He squinted at first, letting in only the merest trickle of
light because even the wan illumination from the moon, which loitered over the
world like a fat thumbnail, was harsh to his virgin eyes.
Smells came next: the
scent of musky earth, the harsh tang of powdery slaked lime—used to mask the
reek of decay—and buried beneath that, the sour stink of rotten flesh and burnt
hair.
The sky spit down a
misty drizzle, fine droplets of cool water that turned his gray skin slick.
After a few moments more his eyes adjusted fully, allowing him, at last, to
survey his surroundings. Mud and muck, deep brown and goopy, lined everything.
It squished beneath his shoulder blades, clung to his arms and legs, and
liberally coated the corpses crudely piled to his right. Despite the mud, the
bodies appeared almost white, like angry specters waiting for him, welcoming
him to this new hell with silent screams and vacant eyes.
How he knew anything was
beyond him, since this was the first day of his life, the day—or rather
night—of his unnatural birth. Surely, no baby pushed and fought its way into
the world with dark and grisly thoughts of murder and death lingering in its
mind, with knowledge of mass graves, heinous experimentation, and hasty
executions. But he knew such things. Fragments of memories floated and swirled
inside his skull, dancing a slow funeral dirge, parading incoherent snatches of
imagery through his head.
The Wehrmacht march
through the streets in their black spit-shined boots and high-collared, gray
wool uniforms. Smart and dashing, those uniforms, dressing up the face of
murder in civility and pageantry …
The Luftwaffe soars
overhead. The buzz of the single-prop Focke-Wulf and the thunderous roar of the
colossal Messerschmitt transport planes fill the air with their racket …
He clutches a small boy
to his chest, his body trembling as he hides, holding his breath for fear of
being heard. Terror and panic wriggle in his guts as the black-garbed
Schutzstaffel—the SS—make their way from door to door, fists rapping on wood,
rifle buttstocks smashing out windows, booted feet kicking their way inside …
Then, train cars, loaded
to capacity, roll through his thoughts. Bodies press up against one another so
tightly he can’t breathe—except he isn’t a he, but a she. And she is searching
for her sister. They’d been separated in all the chaos …
So many images, circling
around, each screaming more loudly than the last, each demanding he lend them
an ear or an eye or a hand. He clutched at either side of his head. Broad,
fleshy palms pressed in as though he could simply pulverize the images and send
them back to whatever nightmare they’d come from. But they kept coming, and as
they came—faster and faster, like a hail of automatic machine gunfire—his chest
began to itch and burn. It felt like someone had taken a cherry-red fire iron
and jabbed it into the meat covering his breastbone.
A huge hand flew to the
pain, his fingers finding crude markings etched directly into the skin, cut
deep into the muscle below. As he touched the mark, the jagged wound, the
voices and visions coalesced into a single demand. A demand for retribution.
The anger came next, flowing from the brand like gasoline pumping through his
veins, scorching his insides and propelling him to action. He lumbered to his
feet, the muck squishing around his thick toes, and made for the muddy wall of
his earthen womb. In reality, an open grave. He dug his digits in and used his
flabby, though powerfully built, arms to pull himself upward and free.
He lay on the edge of
the pit for a long beat, charting the lay of the land, eyes scanning the dark,
which covered everything like a velvety blanket. In the distance, not so far
off, he saw a squat building. Some sort of bunker, outlined by the faint glow
of light bulbs. He wasn’t surewhat he was. Where he was. Or how he’d gotten
there. But, as the brand burned in his chest, he was certain of one thing:
someone—or, perhaps, lots of someones—had quite the butcher’s bill to account
for, and he was ready to collect.
Hey all, my name is James Hunter and I’m
a writer, among other things. So just a little about me: I’m a former Marine
Corps Sergeant, combat veteran, and pirate hunter (seriously). I’m also a
member of The Royal Order of the Shellback—’cause that’s a real thing. I’ve
also been a missionary and international aid worker in Bangkok, Thiland. And, a
space-ship captain, can’t forget that.
Okay … the last one is only in my
imagination.
Currently, I’m a stay at home Dad—taking
care of my two kids—while also writing full time, making up absurd stories that
I hope people will continue to buy. When I’m not working, writing, or spending
time with family, I occasionally eat and sleep.
You can visit me to find out more at
No comments:
Post a Comment
Please be respectful, all comments are moderated. Please reframe from comment fights, everyone has a right to their own opinion, if you don't like it, to bad.
I love to hear your thoughts, and crazy idea's. I'll make very effort to replay to your comment and views. :)
-Cheers.