The Quantum Prophecy - Ryan Matthew Harker (best management books of all time TXT) 📗

beast was easily twelve feet tall. Salivating jaws opened and closed showing off the three to four inch fangs the creature sported as teeth.
Time then seemed to slow for Candlelite as he struggled to regain his senses. He found himself thinking that there was something odd about this bear. While definitely of a grizzly persuasion there was some quality that seemed almost human about it. As if somewhere behind the pure bestial madness it was cloaked in, there was some glimmer of a lost humanity flickering behind its eyes and hidden in its soul. Before he could think anymore he was slashed by the bear’s powerful claws and flung bleeding through the air. The only thing that stopped his flight was a small tree that was little more than an old sapling and its trunk snapped like a twig as his body crashed through it.
Collapsing into the ground this battered man yet found the strength to lift his head and watch as his tormentor approached him once more. Bracing himself for the worse Candlelite could not help but cringe as the hellish monstrosity slowly dropped its incredible bulk and placed its huge paws on top of his chest. He struggled to breathe as the creature crushed the air from his body but he still managed somehow to feel surprised when the bear brought its head down to his and inhaled sharply. Then with a completely human air of surprise the bear suddenly removed itself from Candlelite’s chest and loped off into the trees.
Not pausing to wonder at the animal’s behavior Candlelite slowly dragged his abused corpse off into more concealing undergrowth. Finding a dense area of ferns in which to hide he allowed the shock of the violent attack to overtake him and lost consciousness.

*****

An owl was heard far off in the distance and a coyote howled its defiance at the night, Max Kimbal put the Honda 650 4-wheeler into neutral and shut off the ignition. He climbed off the bright red machine and began his search. It did not take him long to find the shattered tree or the large pool of congealing blood and from there his search led him even quicker to where his quarry was lying.
Candlelite was not nearly as concealed as he had thought himself. Max had a good view of exactly how tore apart the young man really was, which was to say not nearly as bad as he had thought he would be. In fact he seemed like he had already healed significantly. The right side of his head was covered in blood and beneath the blood and hair his face and scalp was showing with the mottling of deep bruises. His cheek was laid open to the bone and his right eye was black and swollen completely shut. He’ll be lucky if his jaws not broken, Max thought.
Not being at all practiced in the field of medicine Max left the rest of the trampled mans injuries for later inspection, went back to recover his 4-wheeler and soon had it parked at the young man’s side.
Attached to the rear of the machine was a small flatbed trailer with side-rails made of two-by-fours. With all the care a man of his age could manage, Max gently lifted the young man up and onto the trailer. When he was satisfied he remounted his vehicle and carefully began picking his way back to the Complex.
Max felt no need to hurry. It was dark and it would do no good to reopen the youngster’s injuries with callous driving. Even now the stasis had sunk in and with luck his charge’s body would hold together until they reached their destination and proper medical treatment.
It was lucky enough this man had been so fit before his unfortunate accident for he had made good time through the forest and in most of a day he had traveled as far as the fourth string sensors. It had been through the video lens of one of these that Max had seen the great bear make use of its giant paws and razor like claws. Not waiting to view the almost certain outcome of such a one-sided battle, the little scientist had, with little hope, set out to rescue the poor bastard. Or what would be left of him anyway.
He was very surprised to see that the bloody rag doll on the ground before him was still breathing. Not for once doubting this half dead man’s inability to explain his continued existence; Max lost no time in running possible scenarios through his head. Idly meandering through the forest on a trail only he could have found, thoughts of a fantastical nature tried to explain to him how the bear’s warpath had ended without the loss of life. Unfortunately nothing short of the miraculous entered his head. Finding no suitable answers to his questions, Max concentrated on moving his little vehicle at a slightly quicker pace through the forests dense terrain.

Candlelite’s first thought was that he must be dead. He could hear the steady drone of Satan's minions and could feel the rough gait of the monstrosity that must be carrying him. He did not open his eyes but watched as shadows flickered across the glare penetrating his eyelids. Not wanting to see what Hell looked like he lay there and did not move. Then the pain hit him like a jackhammer and a groan escaped his parched lips. Suddenly his jolting progress stopped and the strange experience with the bear came hammering back into his memory. He forced open his eyes and forest filtered sunlight flooded his senses.
A shadow fell over his inert body and looking up he discerned a black form standing next to him. That was when he saw the ‘demon’ that carried him was actually some kind of trailer. He tried to sit up and immediately fell back as pain washed over his mangled form.
“Don’t try to move.” The voice that spoke was soft but firm. “Right now the WurmDome protects you but if you break your wounds open you may not make it to see the Complex.”
Candlelite did not understand everything the voice said but he relaxed and opened his eyes again. The man was walking around to stand out of view at his feet. There was a metallic noise followed by a grunt and then Candlelite felt the shift of the trailer shocks as they compensated for added weight.
“My name is Max,” Max said as he knelt beside the broken man.
“Candlelite,” Candlelite gasped.
“Good to meet you,” Max rustled around for something in the pocket of his coat.
“I wish it could have been under better circumstances though,” he said wistfully as his search finally produced a small case from which he procured a loaded syringe. “Now don’t you worry Candlelite, you’ll barely feel this and then you’ll feel nothing at all.” And without another word Max stuck him with the syringe.
Almost instantly darkness began to descend upon him and as words of protest died on his lips Candlelite lost consciousness again.
Max replaced the cap on the syringe and returned it to the case. He then put the case back into his coat pocket while stepping down from the trailer. With one more look at his peacefully slumbering charge Max remounted the gate to its place on the temporary bed and locked it.
Resolving to keep the man drugged for the remainder of the journey Max started the bike and pushed on towards the Complex.

*****

There was no way to tell where their prey had gone. They had lost him shortly after he had begun his journey through the forest.
When contact was made in the city they had followed the target as it led them through a series of seemingly random maneuvers up and down the deserted streets. They had little trouble maintaining the tail. Most of his men had been in the trade for decades. A few, himself included, had been doing almost this very same thing for a couple of centuries. The life of a mercenary commando unit was never dull. Especially one whose primary field of expertise lay in tracking those unsavory anomalies of human nature better left in the history and superstition of a world older than this one.
Jeshux DuTerriux Jules had migrated to this ‘Earth’ along with the thousands of others from AnEerth. But unlike other immigrants, he had come when the Harashna- or wormhole, as the people of Earth called it- opened its radiance of color into his world almost at the first instant. He had followed hot on the trail of a very dangerous war criminal of his world, the most powerful sorcerer history had ever seen, Warlock Harmony.
Not willing to live up to his name Harmony had brought confusion and destruction to everything he touched. Chaos of an almost absolute quality was his meat and death of the most hideous nature his potatoes. One almost hesitated to refer to him as a man, for a man who carried the sin of his atrocities with so little effort could only be thought upon as a demon, a monster of the most diabolical nature.
Jeshux had led his battalion to the very peak of the Million Tiered Tower, which had been the seat of the Warlock’s power. He and his own had delivered bloody retribution to the vast hoards of Hell that inhabited this finger of infidelity. No evil could have stood in the way of Jeshux and the ferocity he brought that day. He smiled in remembrance of the courage with which his men fought.
The trip up those countless steps had been long and arduous. Unnumbered droves hammered at the mercenary force, always seeking to press them down. The steps were slick with the blood of man and beast and the air was heavy with the smell of slaughter and burnt flesh. The aura that permeated the very stone around them had sapped relentlessly at their will while the horrible monstrosities they had faced were in themselves a demoralizer. Yet they fought on, a mercenary force on a mercenary mission, and yet they fought. Jeshux men had a love for money and the power that it bought; it was a deeper love of their fearless leader that drove them onward and upward that day.
At the time it did not seem to matter that Jeshux mercenaries were fighting with body armor and plasma weapons. Harmony had his hordes, his hordes had inhuman strength, razor sharp teeth and claws, and at times the battle had seemed futile. Jeshux and his men may have been immortal but they still bled and died mortally. For every werewolf, vampire, goblin or ghoul that was slain it seemed three more would appear in its place. As if by magic the people of Earth would have thought but the people of AnEerth were not so naive, they knew that most likely it was magic.
Just when Jeshux had thought that good would be overcome by evil, that the last landing had been won just to be lost, there seemed to be some silent signal to retreat. A weary cheer had emerged from the parched throats of the remaining mercenaries. Jeshux cut it short with an impatient hand signal. Something had felt wrong and he looked around himself warily. His men were still there two or three hundred strong but the enemy had still been in the thousands, why the hasty departure? And about that time one of his most trusted lieutenants had called out to him.
A man named Marcus McAriicoys- Jeshux right hand- pointed to a narrow window. Little more than a crossbow slit, Jeshux pressed his face to it and what he saw was forever etched in his memory. It was the birth of the Harashna itself and being an educated man McAriicoys