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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