By James Herbert
The unmissable new action-thriller from one of many largest names in British fiction -- the number one bestselling writer of The Ghosts of Sleath, Haunted, The Magic Cottage and The Rats. As thousands of readers worldwide will testify, James Herbert's skill to surprise and enthral is matchless. Now, in '48, he has handed his personal outstanding achievements to create an electrifying new novel of natural heart-stopping motion and invention that may take readers to new degrees of terror and pleasure. In 1945, Hitler unleashes the Blood demise on Britain as his ultimate act of vengeance. Hoke, an American pilot and one in every of a tiny minority with an extraordinary blood workforce unaffected by way of the lethal ailment, has survived on my own one of the particles and the lifeless of London for 3 years. Now, in 1948, a slow-dying crew of Fascist Blackshirts think their in simple terms desire is a transfusion of blood from certainly one of Hoke's style. Ever extra determined as their deaths procedure, they are after his blood.
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Ignoring him, I picked myself up and, still crouched, peeked over the curved stair rail at the light from the top of the escalators. Bright flashes and ear-deafening explosions sent me scrabbling towards the light, the sounds amplified by the tiled walls. Vague heaps on the floor did their damnedest to trip me as I went and other bundles I knocked into, carcasses locked tight in sitting or kneeling positions, toppled over to lay there in those same attitudes of rapid death. Bullets ricocheted off walls or found softer targets around me and, with only a few feet to go, I took a desperate dive into the passageway where the German and the two girls were hiding.
The two girls just gawked at me as I yanked open the door, but Stern had caught on; he'd already picked up a small cardboard box from the floor and was busy opening it. He pulled out a gas mask and handed it to Muriel. As I went into the booth he was looking around for more. A suit of bones sat slumped on a high stool inside the ticket booth, the skull with its leathery skin and empty eye sockets resting sideways on the narrow counter in front of it, thin, mummified hands stretched towards the small paywindow as if reaching for fare money.
Their clothes began to smoulder. I gave Stern a warning shout, but it was already too late. As he straightened, pulling on the gas mask as he did so, there was an explosion of fire behind him, trapped gases and flammable material joining forces to give the inferno a special boost. I'm not sure if the German jumped instinctively, or the blast of scorching air threw him forward, but suddenly he was airborne, arms outstretched, back arched. He was lucky - the flames never got the chance to engulf him completely.