Crystal Tomb

Today we have Melanie Nilles.

What is your earliest memory of writing?

Third grade. I had a teacher who encouraged us to write our own stories. Every child loves making up stories, but I kept it up through school until I was older and actually learned how to focus my attention on telling a complete story.

How does it feel being published?

It's great knowing that others are reading your work. It's not being published that's exciting though; it's being read. The purpose of writing is to share ideas, specifically the ones in the writer's head. Being published is just a stepping stone to sharing that with the world.

When did you decide to be a writer?

In college is when I decided I wanted to actually be a writer and started writing regularly. Of course, those early drafts sucked, but over lots of practice, I improved.

Do you get writer's block? How do you combat it?

Sometimes, but I don't think of it as writer's block. If I'm blocked, there's a reason for it, and often that reason is because something is wrong in the story but I haven't consciously worked it out. Once I have, I can move forward again.

Where do you write? Do you write longhand, typewriter or computer?

I prefer to write with my laptop on my bed. Often the best ideas come during sleep or just before falling asleep, so the bed tends to be my most creative place in the house. And I can have some peace while the family is making noise elsewhere in the house.

Tell us about your Latest Book.

I have a new book coming out Memorial Day (U.S.) week. It's the third book in my popular young adult Starfire Angels series. The title is CRYSTAL TOMB.

Description:

The Shirukan aren't the only threat to the Starfire shard Raea bears...

An alien enemy has awakened to reclaim the crystal that was theirs, and those last survivors of a war that nearly destroyed Inar'Ahben aren't afraid to kill anyone who stands in their way.

An ancient monument to a mythical civilization on Earth may hold the key to stopping the new enemy, if the secret of its origins can be unlocked. Raea is running out of time to solve the most puzzling question of human history and resolve the conflict brought to Earth. If she fails, she may lose more than the Starfire...

What advice do you have for aspiring writers?

Dreams take time to mature. If you want something bad enough, you have to work hard to make it happen. No one is going to just hand you the keys to success. Only you can make that happen.

Also, never give up trying to improve. Perfection is impossible, but making the best better is not.

Thank you for the chance to share a few thoughts.

Melanie

www.melanienilles.com>

The Cameo Trilogy

Today we have Dawn McCullough-White. She's almost finished with a very interesting trilogy.

Bio:

Dawn McCullough-White writes mainly dark fantasy and horror.

Her novels tend to favor the use of anti-authority anti-heroes as

the main characters, most commonly with a strong,

female protagonist.

Dawn was born in 1969, in Rochester, NY, and began writing

prose at age 14.

Ms. McCullough-White is married and has a young son. She is

fascinated by history and social psychology. She is a vegetarian

and animal lover. Her favorite drink is Gewürztraminer.

She's fan of Alice in Chains, U2, and Stabbing Westward, her

favorite books include The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien,

A Movable Feast by Ernest Hemingway, and The Social Animal

by Elliot Aronson.

Questions:

What is your earliest memory of writing?

I used to write and illustrate my own comic books starting when I was around seven years old. So, that's probably the earliest example I can think of. I wrote my first novel when I was fourteen.

How does it feel being published?

It feels right, like this is what I'm supposed to be doing in my life.

When did you decide to be a writer?

I knew it's what I wanted to do when I was a teenager. At the time I was pretty naïve, and didn't really understand how the whole process really worked, but I did think long and hard about what career would satisfy me in my life and writing certainly filled the bill. Of course, I didn't go to college when I graduated from high school right away either, my parents were against it, and that probably could have helped to improve my writing at the time. Instead, I ended up learning how to write the old fashioned way- writing thousands of words, numerous novels, and improving a little more with each one, until I could finally deem my writing good enough for human consumption.

Do you get writer's block? How do you combat it?

Yes, I do. It happens mainly in between writing projects which is the worst, because when it happens I'm sitting there stressing about what book I'm going to write next, and it seems like the sky's the limit. I find limiting my choices about the plot helpful, that way I'm not just floundering around in limbo with too many pointless, unconnected ideas. It's also a lot easier when you're an Indie to write what you're passionate about. I really can't imagine the stress put on traditional writers to pump out whatever their publishing company wants them to write in whatever time frame suits them. I'd probably chew my arm off if I ended up in that position. I'm too anxiety-ridden anyhow to handle that sort of added stress to my life.

Where do you write? Do you write longhand, typewriter or computer?

On my eight year old laptop, the M key sticks but so I'm too comfortable with it to replace it yet. It will probably end up dying with one of my half written novels on it before I break down and buy a new one.

Tell us about your Latest Book.

Well, my latest book is Cameo and the Vampire and if all goes well I'll be releasing it this summer. It's the third book in the Cameo Trilogy, and should tie up all the loose ends left dangling in books one and two, and as the book suggests the main character will probably have an encounter of some sort with a vampire.

The series fall in the Historical/Dark Fantasy/Paranormal Fantasy genres- and are action adventures, with paranormal creatures such as vampires and zombies. These are fast paced, character driven novels.

What advice do you have for aspiring writers?

I'd advise them to do a lot of writing before they decide to put anything out for the public to read, and get an editor.

Preview:

Cameo the Assassin

Chapter One

Her eyes were wide, nearly sightless orbs staring into the sky. She watched as the clouds drifted overhead, gasping. She could hear her own blood bubbling at the corner of her mouth as it slithered out and slipped in a gob onto her neck. For a moment she felt nothing, her eyes went dark, and she felt herself suck in the air once more. Never had simply breathing given her such happiness, at least, not as far back as she could remember. Maybe this is exactly how she felt with the very first breath of her life.

At her throat was the dead head of Adrian, his blonde hair was tousled gently about her. It was the first gentle thing he had done with her all day. His blood was mingled with hers now, predator and prey, dead and dying lying in the beauty of the summer meadow.

Somewhere beside her lay sandwiches and colorful plates. Ivy had wanted pretty plates and had made certain that the silver was polished very well. The last she had seen of her little sister had been her lifeless form, knocked hard into the Faettan soil. She was a few feet away now, a little body lost in the sea of tall grass ... like her own ... and like that of the young lord with his head still on her breast.

The sun was warm on her face, illuminating exactly what had taken place only a little while ago, showing all of Faetta true darkness in the brilliant light of day. Somewhere, drifting in on the summer's breeze, was the sound of people passing on the ridge, chatting about their lives as she was dying just down the hill, in the meadow.

Her eyes were fixed; the transformation of the day into dusk was recorded behind those lenses. Her body rigidly awaited death. Her blood gummed up in the stab wounds in her chest, cold and nearly luminescent against her deathly pale skin, as the faintest of starlight lit her young woman's form.

The spider's web danced in the cool breeze. It was assembled beautifully in the branches of the black trees whose backs arched, and arms stretched to the sky, silhouetted against the setting sun. The meadow was turning dark. This was the moment he had been waiting for. The sun was soon snuffed out, and he did not waste any time. He burst forth from the dark house at the clearing, his black boots beat down the tall grass and the wildflowers growing in the meadow. He was tall and thin, rigid in appearance, nothing more than wispy black gauze against the stark nightfall, running like a wild animal toward his prey. He quickly fell upon the picnic basket, half-eaten food, and silverware fallen askew under the waxing moon. The forks and knives glittered in the starlight.

A fog rolled out from under the thick of the treeline; it ebbed along as if it were alive itself and fanned out with its smoky tendrils snaking around the bodies that lay there.

Haffef's black eyes found the form that he had longed for and saw the child in the distance. As he swept past the older sister, he saw the distinct rise and fall of her chest. This had been the scene of a horrible crime, and as he knelt to look into her eyes, he took in her ripped gown and saw the rape that she had endured at the hands of the others at this picnic, seeing vividly what she had seen.

Her body was covered with stab wounds, and to one side of her bruised and bloodied body lay the dead body of a man. Clutched in her fingers was a paring knife slick with blood.

The fog crept over her battered form, as if it would steal her life away and take her with it as it moved. Haffef glanced over his shoulder at the girl who was just a few feet away, then back at the teenager in front of him who had a cameo brooch embedded in her collarbone.

Kneeling beside her, he tossed the dead body off of hers, moving it with such force that he nearly took off Adrian's head. A young woman he had seen before in Terrence, he realized, now lay here amidst yellow flowers, nearly dead. He was amazed she had actually lived through the day.

She felt the long, black hair against her face, caressing her body. It was light like the frail web of a spider. She felt his slender fingers against her back, the gentle feel of him raising her neck and the shocking pain it caused. After all she had endured earlier, she found herself unable to fathom what was happening to her now. It felt like ice ripping open her throat, its shards coursing from this icy bite to her heart. She took in a breath like one she'd never known; her lungs expanded, but it was almost as if they had hardened, and it nearly hurt to make them work again. It was renewing, but there was death in that breath of life. She blinked with eyes that were dry, and all she saw were black boots that were slick with dew and long, black hair that fell to the ankle of his boots.

She pried her fingers from the paring knife, opening and closing her hand to see if it still worked. Her breath was visible in the cold night air....

The stars moved across the sky as she regained strength. She watched the cool slivers of silver-tipped clouds as they slipped overhead. The moon and stars shifted position while she remained, her eyes capturing the moments that were lost to her. With a sudden surge of energy, she flipped her body onto her stomach and pulled herself away from Adrian's corpse.

The Bayman's Bride

Today on the blog we have J. Jay Kamp. Without further ado, here is the interview. Enjoy.

Thanks so much for this great opportunity! I really do appreciate it so much.

What is your earliest memory of writing?

When I was eleven years old, I started writing down stories -- fan fiction, in a way -- about Han Solo. These were usually complicated soap-opera-like stories about he and I being married, the houses we lived in (primary residence and vacation home), the pets we kept, and all the fun we had together. I kept writing from there, and created different stories about whomever I liked over the years, which continues to this day, as all my books' characters are inspired by actors or musicians.

How does it feel being published?

It feels pretty surreal. I've spent twenty years submitting my work to agents, and I even managed to secure an agent at one point, which didn't do me a heck of a lot of good. It seems to me that traditional publishing houses are very narrow in their tastes, and strict in their guidelines, and my books don't really fall within those confines. So it feels good to be free to express my own ideas, and set a story in Belize if I want to (which I'd been told was too exotic a locale by agents and editors).

When did you decide to be a writer?

I decided to become a writer while I was standing in line at Tower Books in Seattle in 1990, waiting to have Anne Rice sign my copy of The Vampire Lestat. Of course I'd been writing long before that, but I'd been sidetracked by the idea of a music career in my youth, and it was only in meeting Rice that I realized I was really made to write books. I began my first novel upon arriving home from the author signing, and I've been writing books ever since.

Do you get writer's block? How do you combat it?

I've been fortunate so far in that I've never really suffered from writer's block. I tend to feel like I'm "channeling" my characters, and often they almost write themselves. I have vivid memories, for instance, of writing the character of James in The Last Killiney; if I became stuck during some part of the story, I would ask him out loud, "Well, what do you say here, James?" And the answer would come to me. Strange but true.

Where do you write? Do you write longhand, typewriter or computer?

In the beginning, after the book signing with Anne Rice, I converted an old bird aviary attached to our house into a writing den. It was quiet, out of the way, and had no distractions other than the cat wandering through once in a while. Later, I wrote a significant portion of The Last Killiney at the kitchen table at our family's vacation home at the north end of Vancouver Island in Canada, which is where much of that book takes place. By the time I wrote The Bayman's Bride, I had a writing nook installed in a corner of my bedroom...and a pair of ear plugs. As for the mechanical method of my writing, I wrote my first book on an Apple Mac Plus, which later enjoyed a revival as a door stop. Since then, I'm afraid I've been converted to PCs, and in the last ten years, I've written everything on a laptop using Microsoft Word.

Tell us about your Latest Book.

The book I'm working on right now is going by the working title of The Wager. It's book number three in the Ravenna Evans Series, and has the same characters as The Last Killiney (and also The Bayman's Bride, although that doesn't become apparent until one reads The Wager). The story is set in Belize, Dublin and Dorsetshire, and the hero is a man tormented by his inability to sleep, and by the consequences of a bet he's made in which he's lost everything. There are bits about the Irish rebellion of 1798, the Belizean "Battle of St. George's Caye," Dorset coast smugglers and time travel, so there's a lot going on in this story and I'll be very excited when it's finished!

What advice do you have for aspiring writers?

Always edit and revise your work. Listen to criticism if you're hearing the same thing from several people, but ignore those who want you to rewrite everything to fit with their ideas. And above all, keep writing!

Here are links to my books, The Last Killiney and The Bayman's Bride, as well as my Facebook page

And lastly, here's an excerpt from The Bayman's Bride:

Rowen was at the bookseller’s when he first came around.

Her maid described him as a Spaniard—a dark-complected man, pleasant enough in face and manner, but with an accent so thick she’d scarcely understood a word he’d uttered.

“’Twas something about m’lord,” the maid told her, putting the letter in Rowen’s hand. “Said he’s coming back in two days.”

Rowen looked at Hester in astonishment. “Bennett is here?”

“No, the Spaniard is coming, not Lord Marlowe.” With her usual perturbed expression, Hester shook her head, hands gravitating naturally to her hips as she regarded her mistress. “He’ll be here to fetch you on Thursday…or at least that’s what I thought he said.”

“And he mentioned Bennett? Bennett sent him?”

“Well, open the letter and see, why don’t you?”

So she did. With trembling, awkward fingers, Rowen unfolded the paper to find her husband’s flawlessly written hand. In the corner, just as she’d expected, she saw not her first name nor the endearment of “wife,” but a cool and formal address of title: To Lady Marlowe.

She shouldn’t have read another word.

But of course, she had to. She’d not seen Bennett in nearly a year. Surely his letter would reveal his location, his reasons for leaving…because he’d gone away, you see. Bennett had courted her, pursued and proposed to her, and then, in an act that can only be described as premeditated cruelty, he’d gathered up his well-traveled baggage and left. On their wedding night. He’d not even consummated their nuptial vows. He’d boarded his carriage without so much as a parting kiss and journeyed to New Spain. She’d heard nothing more.

Now with his letter finally in her grasp, Rowen skimmed down the page with impatience until she found what she wanted: the Bay Settlement on the Bay of Honduras. Between the Belize and Sibun Rivers, he’d taken up lodgings at a logwood camp where “communications with Jamaica are so infrequent as to make correspondence with you all but impossible.”

How convenient. She wanted to tear up the letter at his indifference. Still she forced herself to read on about how, through a Scottish settler, Bennett had learned of a city in the jungle near Belize Town. “It’s a ruin,” he wrote, “similar to those in Mexico City, but smaller, much more elaborately decorated. Carvings and idols cover its walls, so I’ve hired some workers to remove these treasures. I’ve sent one man to collect you forthwith, as well as to buy a ship for transport. This man will escort you to our encampment, at which I’ll be waiting for you with utmost expectancy. Please abide my wishes, Lady Marlowe. Give Santiago no trouble.”

So the Spaniard’s name was Santiago. Rowen said it aloud, and Hester confirmed it right away. “Santiago de Escalante, m’lady. Made me repeat it three times, he did.” Taking the hateful letter from her hand, Hester tossed it in the fire. “What will you do, then? Will you receive him? Or would you have me suggest where he put his ship?”

Angrily, Rowen pictured her husband—but no, not her husband. She’d try to forget that little technicality, although she recalled everything else about the man. The particular shade of his dark blond hair, his close-set eyes the color of sage, Bennett had been attractive, true, but he’d carried himself with the poise of an ostler or a potato farmer. He’d been vastly intimidating, and yet his manner had been so painfully reserved, so genuinely shy, she’d often felt sorry for him.

Not anymore.

“Well?” Hester asked. “Surely he can’t make you go?”

Rowen gazed at the fire in the hearth, the little flames rising on Bennett’s letter. “No,” she said. “He can’t make me go. ’Twould take twenty Spaniards to get me on that ship.”

“And even then we’d fight, wouldn’t we?”

“If he thinks—,” and Rowen almost shook with rage in considering the notion, “—if Bennett believes he can marry me to suit his father, then command me to join him in some mosquito-infested jungle…”

Hester raised an eyebrow. “Tropical fever’s impaired his judgment.”

“Well, why else would he send for me? No lord takes his lady to such a dangerous place unless he’s mad, surely.” Shrugging, she glanced at the maid in frustration. “You know he’s reclusive. Bennett’s never needed a woman, much less a wife. God knows his idols amuse him more, and in the way of family, he can’t mean to start one, unless—”

“Unless his father’s demanded an heir?”

Rowen shuddered. Of course that’s what the old duke wanted. His Grace would have Bennett produce a son, a successor to the estate’s three houses, 46,000 acres and rent role of £27,000 a year, not to mention the duke’s legacy of statesmanship which Bennett showed no interest in inheriting. In all these things Roselund needed a grandson.

Bennett cared only for antiquities.

“The duke’s cut him off,” Hester announced.

“Then my lord will starve.”

Hester tapped her foot. “I’d think not, m’lady.”

Rowen ignored her, walked toward the window with her eyes fixed stubbornly on the sill. Outside, the racket of horses’ hooves and carriages in the Strand was an easy distraction to the way Hester watched her. An heir! A year alone and now he wanted her? Did he think she’d forgotten the way he’d sauntered into the house after their wedding, no hand in hers, no waiting for her, just this casual business of directing the servants to load his crates? Bennett hadn’t an emotional bone in his body. Take care around my vases, he’d said, and then, when she’d begun to cry, Would you suffer me to stay, my lady?

“Let him starve, indeed,” she whispered. “He’ll get no heir.”

Drachar's Demons

David Burrows is the author of the Prophecy of the Kings, a fantasy trilogy comprising Legacy of the Eldric, Dragon Rider and Shadow of the Demon. David is currently working on Drachar’s Demons.

I used to write stories in junior school when I was 7. Apparently I leaned right over the work which probably explains why I needed glasses at an early age. My teacher was great and I think I was teacher’s pet. No, they didn’t have a cage for me at the front of the class, but she used to always give me glowing reports about my stories. I think that must have had an influence. I was very good at writing stories about dinosaurs so a book involving dragons is clearly a step in the right direction. I had the idea for the Prophecy of he Kings when I was 17, but unfortunately didn't start writing the full tale until many years later.

Getting published is only the start of the process so I couldn’t afford to be jubilant when I self-published Prophecy of the Kings. It was a very nice feeling to see the work in print, but anyone can do this and I think becoming an author involves a great deal more. The first reviews really made me feel more like an author, although I really think that accolade has to be reserved until you’ve become noticed or sales hit a good figure (10,000 books). I was awarded book of the month on one web site (http://sfbook.com/shadow-of-the-demon.htm) and also a gold award on another – (http://readersfavorite.com/cat-71.htm?review=3451). That was really excellent news and started to make me feel that I was becoming an author. I still feel I have a long way to travel.

Writing is part time which is a very good thing given how slow it can be to earn living from writing. I decided to write after reading Tolkien’s Silmarillion, such an epic and sweeping tale. That was when I was seventeen. That book really enthralled me and I just felt I wanted to try my hand at writing. I have a very good imagination and for fantasy that really helps.

I wrote the books long hand originally. I liked writing on trains best of all and found I could concentrate better then. Not sure why, because it is everything I would normally try to avoid, noisy and distracting, but for some reason that worked for me. My wife was a secretary for a while so she typed the manuscript up and did a far better job than I could. I now have a laptop so I tend to write straight into Word.

Everyone gets writer’s block at a guess. My way of dealing with it is not to bother. I wait, and wait and wait. This is the advantage of writing part time and not having dead lines. The reason for my writer’s block was I wrote my characters into a corner; a fix; trouble. This is where the tale led me and I refused to rewrite the tale. I really took a long time waiting for inspiration. Sometimes months. When it came it was like reading someone else’s book, turning a page and going – wow, that’s a really neat idea. I would like to think that Prophecy of the Kings is full of really good ideas and some of the reviews confirm that. The other area where I struggled was in making up names. For a fantasy book of nearly 250,000 words, that can be a real challenge. I solved this one by using anagrams of people I know. A witch in book two became Ariome, nearly an anagram of Moira – the mother in law! Boy was I in serious trouble for a while. She took it in her stride though and bought me a small witch on her travels, to go in my car. I often spin it, hoping to make her feel sick. That’s boys for you.

My latest book is Drachar’s Demons and I am thoroughly enjoying writing it. It is a prequel to Prophecy of the Kings. I can hear some groans from Star Wars fans – they either love or hate their prequels. However, a prequel was very natural to write. I created a whole new world in the Prophecy of the Kings. You really have to have a background plot to tell a good tale in my opinion; something that the current book sits comfortably over. What is the surprise though is how hard it is to tell that tale. You have to keep true to the sequel and try not to change anything, chasing a good storyline. What was really good though was that Drachar’s Demons just flowed from imagination to computer and I found the plot waiting to be let out. It was far easier than Prophecy of the Kings. Still occasional blocks, but so far I have completed three quarters of the tale in record time (for me). So far it has taken me 3-4 months, writing part time.

For any aspiring author I would suggest, have a go, but manage your own expectations and be prepared for some really harsh criticism. Some authors take it to heart when people criticise their work. You cannot do that, you have to take the criticism and use it to grow and become a better author. Most of all is to have fun writing. If it is not fun, then it isn’t working.

Best wishes

David

The Russian Renaissance

Today on the blog we have writer Ian Kharitonov to talk about his new book The Russian Renaissance.

What is your earliest memory of writing?

I began writing an Indiana Jones fan fiction story when I was about 6 or 7. Shame I didn't finish it!

How does it feel being published?

It's a great feeling to get your book out to readers. I'd never imagined anyone would care about my novel when I started, I did it purely for myself, but my novel ended up winning an award from Clive Cussler.

When did you decide to be a writer?

I've always been creative, and I realized that I wanted to be a writer when I was 15.

Do you get writer's block? How do you combat it?

When I get writer's block it means that something is wrong with the story. The only way to combat it is improving your work, by editing weak areas or doing more research on the subject you're dealing with.

Where do you write? Do you write longhand, typewriter or computer?

I still jot down notes in an old-fashioned exercise book, and write on my Macbook at home.

Tell us about your Latest Book.

The Russian Renaissance is an award-winning international thriller. Following the tradition of Cussler, Ludlum and Morrell, it's full of high-octane action, intrigue and exotic locations. Unlike other thrillers set in Russia, it's been noted for its high level of authenticity and chilling factual detail.

Here's the blurb:

"Constantine can no longer hide in Europe. As he discovers a century-old secret, he must flee back to Moscow, chased by assassins.

Only one man can save him. Eugene Sokolov: an officer in the world's most elite rescue unit, a martial arts legend… and Constantine's brother.

They face an enemy unlike any other. In a game run by a KGB spymaster, the fate of Russia will depend on their survival."

What advice do you have for aspiring writers?

Learn your craft. A lot will come from experience, but at least two books are essential: Techniques of the Selling Writer by Dwight V. Swain and The Successful Novelist by David Morrell. After that, don't listen to any advice and follow your heart.

EXCERPT : The Russian Renaissance

PROLOGUE

1941

The Soviet Union

Death was the only destination in the train’s five-year-long schedule.

Even its name sounded like a shrill omen. The Felix Dzerzhinsky, a 137-tonne locomotive, was a child of its era—an unstoppable mass of raw power fleshed in metal.

During 1936, its first year of operation, the Felix Dzerzhinsky coursed between Russia’s faceless stations and towns, hauling cattle. The animals had filled the tidy new freight cars with the lingering smell of their sweat and waste, parasites infesting the cracks between the hoof-dented boards, the feeling of imminent slaughter staying with the train forever.

Soon enough, the cattle was replaced by people. Men and women, old and young, most sick, some bleeding, all filled the freight cars heading to the gulags, towards a fate far more dreadful than that of the animals. The luckiest died on the way.

Now, as the war broke out, the Felix Dzerzhinsky carried a special cargo to the safety of Central Asia: hundreds of wooden crates stacked from the secret vaults of Leningrad and Moscow. Special passengers in the form of a six-man Red Army escort occupied the newly-fitted first class carriage.

The single beam of light sheared the night as the Felix Dzerzhinsky roared across the vast Kazakh steppe. The train pushed its boilers to the limits, charging to the invisible finish line. Yet its run was cursed by the presence of the treasured cargo.

Death still waited at the other end.

Inside the confines of the single passenger car, the gunshots boomed above the monotonous throbbing. The Red Army soldiers were too slow to react. They had not expected an attack from within. Not from their commander, Comrade Yehlakov of the NKGB.

At close range, Yehlakov blasted the heads of four soldiers keeping watch, each barely eighteen. While the other two fumbled for their bolt-action rifles, shocked awake from sleep, confused, Yehlakov finished them off.

The new car was now also smeared with death.

Yehlakov replaced the empty clip of his TT semiautomatic, and entered the driver’s cabin, gunning down the crew. The driver clutched his throat, trying to clog the wide open hole, and the torrent of blood gushing from it mingled with the soot on his hands. He stumbled, gurgling, looking at his black blood. A second gunshot destroyed his face, and he crashed over the corpse of his fireman.

Stepping over their bodies, Yehlakov pulled the brake handle. The brakes locked onto the wheels and the enormous friction showered sparks in every direction. A piercing screech of protesting metal reverberated around the compartment. The train shook as it tried to restrain its own momentum. Gradually, the Felix Dzerzhinsky came to a stop.

Yehlakov climbed down from the cabin and looked around. The gloom was impenetrable. The train’s lamp would serve as a position marker.

Leningrad, the origin of the Felix Dzerzhinsky, was a city commanded by evacuation mayhem. Fuel, provisions, armaments and entire factories were being relocated from the advancing Germans, and many consignments lost in the process. The disappearance of the train, if it were ever noticed, would be written off to a Luftwaffe raid in Moscow by Army staffers fearful of repercussions. Yehlakov didn’t care much. There was little chance of Moscow surviving anyway.

A column of trucks appeared in the distance, their flickering lights drawing closer. The huge ZIS-5 vehicles stopped in front of Yehlakov, washing him in the beams of their headlights. In the blinding light he couldn’t make out the faces of the men approaching him.

“Right on time,” Yehlakov said, squinting.

“Too bad for you,” the man from the lead truck replied. Three figures leveled their machine guns at Yehlakov—the recognizable silhouettes of American Thompsons.

Yehlakov’s cry was cut short by a hail of .45-calibre bullets that shredded his body.

“All right men,” an order sounded. “Move, move, move!”

The tiny figures of two dozen soldiers scurried to the Felix Dzerzhinsky like scavengers ravaging a beached whale.

Reloading all the crates into the trucks proved to be a massive job, but the attackers carried it out with efficiency. Trouble arose only once. A crate crashed, bursting open, and antique icons poured from it onto the dusty ground. Gleaming through the darkness in their radiant halos were the faces of saints. The holy men gazed at killers with divine serenity, their eyes full of suffering and forgiveness.

After it was all over, raging flames engulfed the empty cars, and the attackers vanished back into the night.

The dead metal beast had completed its final, blood-drenched journey.

***

www.iankharitonov.com

www.amazon.com/dp/B004PLMJ3G

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-- Ian Kharitonov