Tales
of Blood and Sulphur:
Apocalypse
Minor
Tales
of Blood and Sulphur
Volume
One
J.G.
Clay
Genre:
Horror
Publisher:
Forsaken
Date
of Publication: 24th July, 2015
ISBN:
978-1513701998
ASIN:
978-1513701998
Number
of pages: 212
Word
Count: 77,000 words approx.
Cover
Artist: Ashley Ruggirello
Book
Description:
Eleven
Tales steeped in Blood and reeking of Sulphur
J.G
Clay takes you on a journey through the voids of Reality and into
dark places where demons, mutants and inter-dimensional creatures
taunt, taint and corrupt Humanity. Survival is not guaranteed, sanity
is not assured and death lurks in every corner. These are the Tales
of Blood and Sulphur: Apocalypse Minor; eleven twisted tales of
terror and mayhem..... There are cracks in the skin of Reality.
Some
are microscopic, others are as wide as a four-lane motorway. As the
fault lines increase and widen, the door to our world shines like a
beacon in the darkness, a warm and inviting sight to others beyond
our understanding. When They cross over into our realm, The Tales
begin...... A gambler taking one last desperate throw of the dice. A
struggling writer making an unholy alliance. An eternal being
fighting to stay alive in the financial capital of India. A man
burdened with a terrible town secret. The Law Enforcers who must
never cry. The End of Days live and direct from the rural heartland
of England.
The
blood is warm, the sulphur is burning, the tales will be told, the
Apocalypse Minor is imminent!
Excerpt:
‘Above
them, the azure of the sky was torn by a crack. It was difficult to
accurately measure how large the hole was. The more the reporter
concentrated on it, the more it seemed to shift and blur as if it
knew that the men below were observing and measuring it. It seemed to
flatten, then expand and then flatten again, growing wider with every
expansion. Thin filaments of stuff poked through the hole, questing
and searching the space around it before disappearing back.
It’s
tasting the air. The thought startled him. It wasn’t alive whatever
it was. Strange, certainly. Unexpected? Most definitely. But not
alive. This was one for the scientists. He would make his report, get
Murray to air it, and leave it with people far more qualified and
clever than he. Reporting from the Twilight Zone wasn’t in his
remit, at all.
As
he watched, the crack opened up, wider this time.
Silence.
It was total, suffocating.
Even
the birds had stopped singing.
The
hairs on J.D’s neck raised in stiff salute as the atmosphere became
heavy with expectation.
He
heard the men shuffling nervously behind him. His annoyance grew as
tried to mask his own fear. It was time to take control of this
situation. Wasn’t that what Quigley would do?
He
turned, an angry look on his face.
“What
the f***’s the matter with—”
A
low groaning stopped him dead. It boomed from the sky, echoing around
them. Mac’s eyes widened, Mullen became pale. Earl raised a
quizzical eyebrow but that was the extent of his response. He wasn’t
an emotional sort. He was too stoned anyway.
The
groaning sound continued for a moment before tailing off into an ear
splitting keening. J.D. clapped his hands to his ears as the pitch
became too intense to bear. It was no use. The sound seeped through
his hands as if they were not there. Pain spiked behind his eyes. He
screamed, sinking to his knees. The pitch became higher, rattling the
filling in his molars. He felt a warm gush as the blood vessels in
his nose let go. The world canted sideways, then became dark. He
keeled over.
“Wake
up, man, wake up.”
He
groaned, pushing away the insistent hands that kept shoving and
shaking him.
“No
school today, mum. It’s a holiday.” He mumbled incoherently as
hands dragged him up to a sitting position.
“J.D,
shape up, man.”
Annoyed,
the reporter lashed out groggily. A hand smashed his cheek, whipping
his head to the side. Clarity returned to him, the slap stinging his
face. He looked around. Sickening pain lanced his head, reaching a
crescendo before subsiding into a low level buzz. His vision
clearing, he noticed a peculiar tint to the daylight. The world
looked greener than before.
Have
I had a stroke or something?
He
moved his legs and arms and looked up. Mac crouched in front of him,
his face pale, almost beige. His lips and chin were coated with
crimson, trails of blood leading from his nose. They all had
nosebleeds, it seemed. Mac’s eyes were large, agitated and lined
with red.
“Thank
f*** you’re awake. Look man, we’ve gotta get the f*** out of
here. That thing’s got even bigger.” His voice was panicky, the
words tumbling out in a rush.
Irritated
and groggy, J.D. pushed him away and struggled to his feet. His
senses cleared and returned, but the green tint to the daylight
remained. Mac spun him around, pointing back to the strange portal.
“Look
at that. You can’t tell me that’s normal.”
J.D.
looked up.
What
the ever-living f*** is going on here? His mouth dropped open at the
sight above them.
The
crack had increased in size and become rounder, yet jagged. A rotten,
emerald light spilled from the hole in the sky. He felt relieved. He
wasn’t having a stroke. The relief evaporated. There were sounds
coming from the hole, slithering squelching sounds. He gulped,
turning to the others. Earl had his boom mike raised, headphones on,
his face blank as he recorded. Mac looked terrified, as did the
farmer. J.D. stepped up to him, his face within kissing distance. He
jerked a thumb toward the hole.
“That
noise! Is that what you heard last night?” Mullen merely nodded,
his face ashen, his lips moving in a soundless incantation. The man
was very close to losing his mind. The squelching became a fraction
louder. The reporter considered his options. This was beyond the
scope of any of them. Maybe it was better to let the authorities take
care of it. Or maybe it was the biggest chance ever gifted to a
struggling, disrespected, low-level reporter. The idea appealed. This
could be the event that would propel him past his smug rival and his
horrid boss.
He
looked over at Mac. “Have you called it in?”
Mac
shook his head.
“Why
not?”
The
darker skinned man snorted in disbelief, gesturing at the green tear.
“Have you fucking seen what’s going on? What’s the point of
calling it in to Murray? I called the police.” Mac really must have
been terrified. He had no love for the boys in blue.
“What
did they say?”
The
camera man shrugged. “That they were aware of the situation and
that the army was on their way. People can see the light as far away
as Leicester, Kettering, even Brum. When I told them about the other
stuff, the guy on the phone said, and I quote, “what stuff?’”
J.D.
turned this over in his mind. They were at the epicentre of this,
able to see clearly what others at a distance could not. The footage
shot would be pure gold.’
A
Brief excerpt from ‘Tales of Blood and Sulphur: Apocalypse Minor.
In this snippet, a burglar learns that there are worse things in the
world than drug withdrawal. And those things
have
tentacles. I hope you are disturbed.
Stigger
was a crackhead. He knew this. His family knew it, as did the local
police, his probation officer and anyone unfortunate enough to be
stuck behind him in the queue at the local shops. He didn’t care
what people thought of him and his habit. He wore the stigma like a
badge of honour, sneering at those who looked down on him. He had the
last laugh on them.
Crackhead
that he was, he was also an expert burglar. The need for money to
feed the gorilla on his back had honed his skills, as had the
‘holidays’ he had taken at Her Majesty’s pleasure. He had
learned more about his craft on the inside than he would have thought
possible. Lags liked to talk, to show off their skills and impress
the youngsters. There was a lot of useful knowledge to be gained
inside, if you were prepared to listen, and listen he did.
He
had learned the value of patience and observation. Pick a target,
stake them out, learn about their habits and routines, sort your
escape route out—all of this and more he had committed to memory.
Stigger
had been watching the writer fella for weeks now. The man was a
creature of habit as well as being stinking rich. He had often
wondered why a best-selling author still lived in a semi-detached
house in a small Midlands town. Maybe the guy didn’t like showing
off. Respect to him if that was the case. It didn’t really matter
anyway. This would be a grand payday. Who cared about why he was
still here?
Stigger
had waited in the alleyway that ran along the back of the houses, for
fifteen minutes. Three o’ clock. The writer would be fast asleep by
now, as would be most sensible people. It was time to move.
He
threw his bag of tools over the fence, wincing a little at the thud
it made. The burglar counted down twenty seconds. No lights came on
in the street. There was no tell-tale twitch of curtains.
Sweet.
He
shinned over the fence, dropping to a crouch in the dark. Years of
drug use had reduced him in size from hefty to skeletal, an advantage
for someone in his line of work. There was always a fence to climb
over. You couldn’t do that easily if you were a fat bastard.
The
house was dark, it’s rear illuminated weakly by the solitary
streetlight out on the path. He would have to get the back door open
quickly, even though the light was not great. Stigger couldn’t take
the chance of anyone seeing. The writer was a popular guy around
town. He always stood his round in the pubs and did a lot for the
community. Getting caught robbing the man would be a good way to get
railroaded out of town. He couldn’t leave his mum behind. Not now.
She was too sick to leave.
Gathering
up the little strength he possessed, he dropped onto his front and
began to crawl through the dark towards the house. He stopped for a
moment to collect his bag, returning it to his back, before resuming
his crawl. The place stank to high heaven. Stigger fought the urge to
cough, fearing detection. He held his breath for a few moment until
the tickling ceased.
Jesus
H. Christ. Has he been s-g out here?
The
smell grew in intensity. He grimaced as his fingers sank into the
ground. The earth was warm. And wet. Stigger frowned in confusion as
his hands sank further into the soil.
What
the f–k?
He
shivered as he felt something lightly brush his fingertips.
Worms?
Must be worms. Bollocks to this.
He
pulled.
Strong
hands gripped his wrists, pulling him forward. His face smashed into
the stinking mulch, his nose cracking as it broke. Stigger tried to
scream. Sticky, wet mud flooded his mouth, his tongue slick with the
taste of rot. The hands, if that was what they were, released his
arms and gripped his head. Stigger convulsed. Nails pierced his eyes,
pulling them from their sockets. His skin burned as fluid washed over
his head. The hands kept pulling at his loosening skin, pulling him
further and further into the ground. His mind buckled under the white
agony as more fluid erupted from beneath him, a stinking acid that
ate into him, dissolving flesh and bone. He could feel things
ravaging him, tipped tendrils that broke through his skin, eagerly
tearing organs loose and squeezing the juices from him.
A
tentacle wrapped gently around his still beating heart. Stigger,
blind and mad from the pain, wished for death. The tentacle squeezed,
bursting his heart and granting his wish. He became limp. The limbs
pulled him deeper into the ground.
His
bag sat forlornly on the lawn, a forgotten relic. The earth beside it
heaved and bled, grass dying as the chemicals beneath dissolved the
roots.
About
the Author:
J.G
Clay was born in Leamington Spa, Warwickshire on Halloween night,
1973. By sheer coincidence, it was the night of the full moon. The
man was tailor made for the Horror Genre. A life-long horror and
science fiction fan, he has written for his own amusement since his
teenage years, taking time off to do the usual things that adolescent
boys do and growing up disgracefully. Now in his forties, he has
returned to his passion for the dark, the weird and the twisted.
Tales of Blood and Sulphur is his first foray into the world of the
Author but rest assured, there are plenty more stories to come. The
man has a plan and he is out to scare the world, the solar system and
beyond. Off duty, he has a passion for music, films and Birmingham
City FC. He can also hold down a half decent bassline. J.G lives with
his wife and step-daughter in Rothwell, Northamptonshire – the
heart of the English countryside, an idyllic setting but a strange
one to find a Nightmare Child of Halloween.
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