The Gunmaster: Fear of the Reaper
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About this ebook
People are dying, murdered by the mysterious Reaper and only Darian Poe, the legendary Gunmaster can find out who and why!
When members of a tontine of weapons manufacturers fall one by one before the deadly Reaper it is up to the Gunmaster- from his base in Hong Kong and under the guidance of ancient masters of the Bonpo religion- to carry out his sacred trust, find the culprit and bring him to justice.
With the help of the sexy and spectacular Majesty Blayde- hottest freelance adventuress to ever shoot a jive turkey- The Gunmaster fights modern day buccaneers to save the world from both a horrible new and mythological ancient weapon too terrible to be imagined.
The bloody battle rages from a hidden sanitarium in the mountains of upstate New York to Hong Kong and ends at an ancient temple in the jungles of Cambodia. It is a journey that will test The Gunmaster like no opponent has ever tested any Gunmaster for many generations and the fate of the world at stake!
Written with all the punch and raunch of a 1980s men’s adventure novel Fear the Reaper continues the generational adventures of The Gunmaster- legendary figure who fights the proliferation of weapons of mass destruction in the world- from Pulpspotations “Praey for the Raven!” with nonstop action and thrills!
Teel James Glenn
A native of Brooklyn, NY, Teel--or T.J. as most know him, has a long career as a performer, teacher, stunt expert that has informed his writing.
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The Gunmaster - Teel James Glenn
FEAR OF THE REAPER
TEEL JAMES GLENN
Fear of the Reaper © copyright 2018 Teel James Glenn.
The bonus story Back in Business
© copyright 2015 Nicholas Ahlhelm.
Published by Metahuman Press, Cedar Rapids, IA. Cover art by Teel James Glenn.
Pulpsploitation concept created and owned by Nicholas Ahlhelm.
CONTENTS
Prologue: The Last Fight
1. A Mazed
2. All At Sea
3. Guns and Roses
4. International Relations
5. Country Air
6. In the Hall of Ancients
7. The Circling Vultures
8. The Reaper Strikes
9. Hidden Horror
10. Into the Mind
Interlude One
11. Into the Green
12. Time of the Dark
Interlude Two
13. In the Eye of God!
14. The Cost of Power
Epilogue
Afterword
About the Author
Bonus Story
Prologue
The Last Fight
Kambuja 1432 C.E.
The jungle screamed of the coming of the invaders.
The cries of monkeys competed with the shrill squawks of the birds to proclaim the intrusion.
The four legged beasts, predators and prey alike, raced pell-mell through the dense tangled foliage ahead of the death bearers.
The ground shock with the thunderous steps of the great beasts that led the invaders army, the trees shuddered and were pushed aside by their great bulk.
The war drummers beat out a steady, marching dirge that was echoed by half a hundred warriors in step and announced them as loudly as the animal chorus.
All this Monk Chivy observed from the top of the Temple of the Sun with growing apprehension.
He was a young man, barely past childhood, yet he felt the sudden burden of what he and Master Sothy had to do now that the invaders had come and it made him feel old.
I must have no fear,
he said aloud to reassure himself. Mine is the path of the Buddha. I serve my people.
The saffron colored robe fluttered around Chivy’s slim form as he raced down the stairs into the main temple room.
They come, Master!
Chivy called. They are just beyond the jungle line.
The elderly Monk Sothy was seated cross-legged in the center of the temple’s mosaic patterned main room, various brightly colored pots, jars and vessels arrayed out around him like a mandala. In his lap he held a large wooden bowl in which he was mixing powders with a careful, calm circular action while he chanted softly.
He looked up from his work to smile. Easy, my son, find your calm center. Stillness of soul is strength.
The young monk halted his advance and nodded. He willed himself to breathe deeply.
Recite the sutras, Chivy,
the older monk said. It will help you be at one with your purpose. I have just a few moments to complete the preparations to welcome the Ayoythaya’s forces.
The boy did as directed, assuming the lotus posture beside his master. He verbalized the words of Lord Buddha while Sothy continued his work. For a time the recitation of the sutras was the only sound in the ornate temple, echoing off the scenes of Buddha’s life, etched in sheets of gold around the walls, but gradually the sounds of the approaching army intruded.
It is done,
Monk Sothy finally said with a deep sigh just at the moment the distant drumbeats stopped.
Chivy stopped his own recitation and stood smoothly. He was calm now, at peace with what had to be done. He smiled down at the elder monk and Sothy smiled back with supreme understanding.
The others are gone,
Sothy said. We should have justified pride in the duty laid before us, Monk Chivy. Your martial skill and my knowledge of the ancient gift of our order have ordained that we be here, in this place at this time. It is as it should be.
It is still a great honor,
Chivy said quietly.
The older monk held up the bowl with the liquid results of his mixings and Chivy took it from his hands.
Let us walk into the glorious sunlight,
Sothy said with a sly smile. And give this gift of the Buddha to the interlopers, whether they want it or not.
Chapter One
A Mazed
The gibbous moon hung in the autumn sky like an overripe melon. The haze that swirled around the full globe cast it in orange-red tones so that the man in the moon took on the aspect of a jack-o-lantern as he lorded over the quiet Witch Valley, New York below it.
It was a small, quiet valley that housed a hamlet of the same name with some twenty thousand souls. It was at the northern fringe of Orange County, a hundred and fifty miles north of the concrete canyons of New York City.
Witch Valley was a good place to live, and had been since the 1930s. There were no Hoover towns for valley residents, even in the hardest times. While black dust clouds swept across New Mexico, Oklahoma and Texas, Witch Valley was basking in clear autumn breezes.
A network of small family farms, a few wealthy country mansions and mostly modest getaway cabins, the valley was a sleepy place, a summer getaway and refuge from ‘civilization’ with one exception: The Sharp Gun Works.
It was the chief local industry headed by Professor Hugo Sharp. He inherited the family business after his academic career. The Works were set high up on a hill like some medieval castle commanding the north end of the valley. In the thirties it had been a radio company factory and in World War II had turned to manufacturing radio gunsights for bombers. It had manufactured night vision devices for the Air Force in Vietnam. Now with the war over for seven years the works had shifted to scientific and oil prospecting devices.
A wide field of corn stretched out at the base of the hill on which the Gun Works sat. The stalks covered fully a half mile of ground, creating an eight-foot high mass of virtually impenetrable foliage outside a pattern of pathways that the corn had been planted in. It was a true maze.
In the middle of that mass of flora, a single figure was running frantically. It was Hugo Sharp.
Hugo was a hefty man just short of middle age with dark red hair and a pale complexion. Hugo sweated. He sweated because he was running. Running was not a thing he usually did. Certainly, not running for his life!
I have to get out of this, he thought as he paused for a moment to decide which way to go, which way might give him a chance of survival. I have to get away from that madman!
The burly man, his tweed suit now tattered and rumpled from his headlong run, pushed himself forward down one of the dark lanes of the corn maze. He stumbled forward more than ran, seeming to follow his own huge belly, never really on balance the entire time he ran. He clutched at the unusual medallion that dangled around his neck as if it were a talisman that could protect him from whatever was chasing him.
The medallion was made of bronze and reflected the moon’s pale light as if calling to the over-watching skygod for recognition. The image on the triangular adornment was of a fearsome death’s head, a human skull from which six tentacles descended, each with a vicious talon at its tip. Every turn of the maze seemed to lead to a cul-de-sac to frustrate the fleeing man. After three such dead ends the portly man dropped to his knees with a sob.
I don’t deserve this,
he cried. I don’t.
He seemed to deflate with depression, his jowls slack and tears flowing down his pallid cheeks. His shoulders jerked with convulsions as his despair ripped through his body. He knew he could not go on any further. Knew he was done in. The sweat that dripped from him cooled quickly and his sobs became shivers of cold as his body chilled.
He panted and shook his head in confusion. What will become of Nyoka? Why did this happen to me?
Then, as if in answer to his query, there came a sound from somewhere in the cornfield, faint at first, so faint he thought it was his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. Or the rustling of the corn stalks in the evening breeze. But as he caught his breath the sound persisted.
He raised his head to listen, not sure what he heard.
It was a low, keening sound, almost like a distant whistle or maybe a