7th Son: Descent by J. C. Hutchins

By J. C. Hutchins

As the United States reels from the weird presidential assassination dedicated by way of a toddler, seven males are kidnapped from their common lives and brought to a mystery executive facility. every one guy has his personal occupation, his personal distinctiveness. All are exact in visual appeal. The seven strangers have been grown—- unwitting human clones—-as a part of a undertaking referred to as seventh Son. the govt. now desires anything from those "John Michael Smiths." They percentage the flesh in addition to the implanted stories of the psychopath liable for the president's homicide. The killer has larger plans, and basically those seven have the original skills to trace and forestall him. but if their progenitor makes the conflict own, it turns into transparent he may possibly understand the seven greater than they be aware of themselves.

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I gasped as if he was hurting me. “Let me go. ” He forced me back in the direction of the house. The pulse of helicopter blades speeding up their rotation registered somewhere in the back of my mind. If that craft lifted off, Julianne was gone. I couldn’t let that happen. The man’s training and size would enable him to counter any move I threw at him. My only shot was suckering him into underestimating me. I thrashed against him ineffectively, hoping to convince him this was all I had left to give.

Then I heard grunting behind me; a runner, giving chase. I straightened course and pushed more energy into my legs. The grass was stiff and harsh against the soles of my feet, jabbing and slicing. The copter backwash was hot, smelled like exhaust, blowing faster and louder every step closer, until I couldn’t hear my pursuer anymore. But I knew he was still there. Ahead the helicopter shifted to one side, then started to lift. I hit a dip in the ground and stumbled to one knee. Pushing off, I righted myself and ran harder.

Dead people. Lots and lots of dead people. Many are in white lab coats, stained with blood. Others are in what look like military fatigues, equally soaked in red. A dozen. Maybe more. Lying on the ground. Propped against a chair. Sprawled out on a table. Two crimson figures, arms around one another, bruised faces forever frozen in agony. Then the smell hits her. —heading for a door at the other side of the building, praying it isn’t locked, skidding to a stop when it suddenly opens wide and an army guy stands there with a big rifle pointed her way.

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