Welcome back to Black Words-White Pages and this week, we are getting a sneak peek at an excerpt from Douglas S. Pierce's release, OMEGA RISING. The release for this book is on May 15, 2020 but not to worry, you can pre-order it now and won't have to worry!! It will be sent directly to your kindle of release day!! So without further adieu, let's check out the excerpt!!!
OMEGA RISING
ORIGINS OF AGENT RUSTY BONES BOOK 1
DOUGLAS S. PIERCE
COVER ARTIST: REBECCA POOLE, DREAMS2MEDIA
BLURB
“It’s going to be a wild one tonight.” I uttered those prophetic words on Halloween. The same night I died in the line of duty.
In life, I didn’t believe in magick, monsters, religion, or souls. Funny how waking up dead with my consciousness trapped in an amulet provided such clarity.
My name is Agent Rusty Bones, and this is my account of the rather dubious life-choices that landed me in the clutches of the ultra-secretive Omega Project. To solve my own death, I must now escape those holding my very essence in an iron-clad grip. But the clock is ticking. Can I bring my killer to justice before anyone else suffers my same fate?
Fans of dark humor and action-packed urban fantasy will love the undead adventures found in Omega Rising: Origins of Agent Rusty Bones Book One, by Douglas S. Pierce!
EXCERPT
“Working on Halloween sucks. I can’t wait until I get enough seniority to get this night off.”
“Yeah, Morgan, it’ll be a few years before your rookie ass will get there.” I looked at the taller man as he studied the duty roster for the night. “But I can tell you one thing for sure.”
“What’s that, Smitty?”
“It’s going to be a wild one tonight.”
“What makes you think that?” Morgan turned towards me.
“It’s Halloween. It’s a Friday night.” I shrugged my shoulders and slipped past him on my way into the dingy little closet-like space we called a lunch room. “And I heard something on the radio on my way in about a rash of robberies over in Detroit. I’ve just got this feeling that something’s coming our way tonight.” I eased down onto a creaky metal folding chair and pulled my right leg up so that I could start lacing up my boot.
“Damn, I sure hope so. It’s about time I found some excitement in this job,” Morgan said. He remained standing, looming over me like a skeletal giant.
“Be careful what you wish for there, Rook,” I snorted. “You’ll get enough action on this job without wishing for it, trust me.”
“You crusty old vets are all the same, hoping for a quiet shift spent at the donut shop.” He ran his right hand through his dark, oiled curls. “Man, if I could only get on the Tactical Ops team like you, I wouldn’t need to hope for some action.” He paused for a moment and shot me a look. “Hey, why are you even working tonight anyway? I thought you old guys booked off shifts like this?”
“Since the divorce, I’ve got nothing better to do,” I muttered, dropping my right leg down, and pulled the left one up to work on those laces. Sitting back in the chair, I interlaced my fingers behind my head and closed my eyes. “So, I might as well babysit the likes of you. It keeps me from thinking about other shit.” I kicked my feet up on a second chair and leaned even further back. “Hey, be a good rookie and wake me up for roll call.”
“Yeah, sure thing, hoss. It looks like you’ve got about fifteen minutes.” His shadow passed over my eyelids as he sauntered off.
I waited until his footsteps faded away before opening my eyes again. I didn’t much like the kid and didn’t want to answer any more questions. Not tonight, anyway.
As the ancient Coke machine gurgled back into action behind me, I surveyed the small, cramped room. It was dominated by two oblong Formica tables sitting in the center that bore the scars and stains of more than twenty years of hard use. Six mismatched folding chairs were shoved haphazardly around each table, while another half-dozen lay strewn about as if to make an obstacle course of the place.
Along the far wall, a large cork pegboard hung over the small condiments table. It was covered by an assortment of unread safety bulletins and three stacks of yellowed and dog-eared ‘Wanted’ posters that were more fun to read than the dry technical bulletins.
The sharp tang of freshly-burnt coffee overlaid the older, staler odors of gun oil and boot polish, meaning that Sergeant Mason was pulling desk duty tonight. That man hadn’t made a good pot of coffee in the twelve years that I’d known him. The coffee maker uttered a wet belch of agreement with my assessment and hissed as yet another drop of the acrid mixture slid onto the hot plate beneath the overflowing pot.
I dropped my hands down to cover the small bulge of my gut, buried my chin in my chest, and tried not to think about how much I missed spending time with Kenny and Jasmine.
I drifted into a fitful sleep.
***
“Daddy, Daddy!” Jasmine ran towards me from the corner bus stop, her pig tails flopping and her shoes scuffing the pavement.
“Yeah, baby girl?” I turned in time to catch and twirl her in the air like a helicopter.
“All the kids at school,” she said in a breathless rush, “are talking about our house and how SCARY we made it! Mrs. Thompson even mentioned it in class today!” She giggled when I swung her around again before putting her down.
“Awesome, Jazzy!” I gave her a gentle chuck under the chin. “We did an amazing job this year, don’t you think? I loved your idea of having that witch coming out of your bedroom window. That was a great choice, Jazz.” She beamed.
We both turned to face the ghoulish menagerie of death and doom that covered our front yard and admired the results.
From top to bottom and side to side, the Smith homestead was one wicked Halloween set piece. The front yard fence was dressed up to look like the wrought iron fencing of those old-time cemeteries, while every available square foot of grass was packed with the headstones of both famous and infamous characters. One gravestone was marked by its tilt and the wax hands reaching out of the soil as a zombie sought to escape its earthly prison. Another decaying corpse hung from the large maple tree in the front corner of the yard. It was being pecked at by a battery-operated raven that had an eye dangling from its beak. Ghouls, ghosts, and mummies of all kinds peeked out from behind every conceivable hiding place. A giant spider dangled from a massive web strung between the garage and the flag pole. Piles of skulls and other bones lay scattered everywhere.
Every window but one in the front of the house was boarded up, giving the impression that the place had been condemned. The lone exception was Jasmine’s second-story window where a green-faced and scary-looking witch was positioned to appear as if she were emerging to look for her next fiendish meal. A headless corpse was strewn on the low part of the front roof, as if he had been carelessly dumped from above.
The garage, however, was my pride and joy. The normal backdrop of hanging hand tools and lawn equipment was covered by a painted screen that gave the appearance of an evil laboratory. The scene was further set by a moving Frankenstein body laid out on a metal table that would sit up every few minutes, groan loudly, and then settle back down with a sigh. A mechanical piano pounded out spooky music. A dry ice machine sputtered and spilled out a roiling fog that immediately sank to the floor and drifted out into the driveway.
I felt a small hand tugging on my elbow. I dropped my calloused hand down and squeezed her tiny, warm hand in mine.
“I love Halloween best of all, Daddy,” she said in a happy voice. “It feels like our own special holiday.”
***
I jolted awake. One of my legs had slipped off of the chair where I had propped it up. I blinked, wiped the drool from my chin, and tried to get my bearings.
The sharp tang of the burnt coffee and the subtler smell of stale gun oil brought me back to the moment.
I sat up and checked the clock.
7:55.
Damn. Muster began five minutes ago!
Standing up, I stretched my arms and back before stumbling over to the Coke machine. I threw a quick glance back to make sure no one else was watching before I balled up my fist and gave the thing a sharp whack in the sweet spot. The satisfying thud of an almost cold can of Diet Coke landing in the dispenser was almost as much of a reward as the drink itself.
I’m already late, so I may as well enjoy this.
I popped the lid on the can and sauntered down the hall towards the motor pool garage where Sergeant Mason held his musters, even in the dead of winter. The heels of my boots echoed on the linoleum of the empty hall. Pausing before the gray steel door that opened into the garage, I sipped my pop and listened to the muffled voice of Sergeant Mason already briefing the rest of the shift.
Bracing myself for the shit storm I was about to face, I took another swig from the can and stepped through into the bright lights and chilled air of the garage.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Douglas S. Pierce is a son, husband, and father who lives in the Metro Detroit area with his wife Patricia (of more than 25 years), his daughter Kerry, two Shiba Inus (Suki and Akira), and a pair of black cats named Harley and Stella. He is a proud veteran of the United States military and a practicing pagan. Raised on weekly trips to libraries and bookstores, Doug has had a lifelong love affair with the kind of stories that inspire hope, kindness, and love.
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