MudMan
The
Golem Chronicles
Book
One
James
A. Hunter
Genre:
Adult Urban Fantasy
Publisher:
Shadow Alley Press
ASIN:
B01BX7PT7M
Number
of pages: 415
Word
Count: 111,000
Cover
Artist: Lou
Harper
Book
Description:
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
sure what 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.
About
the Author:
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.
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