It looks like Barcode: Eyes That Kill is on track to be published my early May. Until then, sit with a little excerpt from the first chapter:
The clouds are practically shadows hovering in the wind. From my standpoint, they block out the moon and stars. The dense layer of smog separating humanity from the limitless sky is dense enough to taste. If I concentrate on each inhale and blow vapors from my mouth on the exhale, it’s almost like smoking a very dirty cigar.
I convert Shiva into my signature claymore and step off of the jeep. Before I can tighten my grip, my weapon changes against my will. Black ooze creeps up the blades. When it solidifies, my sword is one long rod.
“Shiva. I can’t fight with this. It won’t cut.” My voice sounds hollow. Admitting that I’m tired might benefit my conscience, but nothing could make my present situation any easier.
The dirt and blood painted on my knuckles have dried into crusted grime. Several factures are visible on my armor. While I’m listing off all of my petty damages, I’ll add my throbbing spine. Acquiring life insurance may present a problem in the future. Fortunately, Shiva provides an impeccable service.
The blade splits into three equal sections. The grip warms my hand and each area begins rotating with an increasingly violent hunger. The rod expels a wind mighty enough to push the SUV behind me. The gladiators nearby must feel the pressure too. Many cover their faces from the wicked winds blown into their eyes.
This killing tool sounds like three motorcycles racing against each other, revving their engines louder than the next.
I touch the cement with the tip of the blade, creating a drilling sound, which blows away the asphalt. The weight of the torque sword increases little by little until it’s just heavy enough for me to notice, but light enough to whip around. Perfect.
The malevolent color of my eyes intensifies. Everything within my vision becomes a target brightened with a red glow.
As I return to the center of the street, I allow my voice to menacingly thunder throughout the city. “Die.”
One young challenger leads the rest of the mob. He’s too young for the immature armor he’s wearing, but not old enough for his balls to sag. Immaturity or ignorance has provided him with the courage necessary to face death.
Even as the pack approaches the scourging winds snaking around my sword, their faces show no reservation or fear.
From the chopper, Helios announces, “Don’t damage the device in his pocket. Otherwise, kill him.”
Before the snobbish prick can finish, I tap my blade on the chin of the mob’s leader. Calling his death “instant” would be the understatement of the year. Shiva’s light touch shreds half of his face, sending the debris flying into the eyes of his neighboring allies.
One man, obviously not fit for battle, stops dead in his tracks and vomits. I fling my blade around, murdering three others, before making it to him. The amateur isn’t able to wipe his dinner from his lips before the blade obliterates his skull.
After noticing the damaging effects of Shiva, the other men and women back away. I creep towards one very cute lady, somewhere in her mid-fifties, and stare her down. She didn’t spend time gearing up her armor, so a few straps are loose around her waist. The adorable woman has more wrinkles than necessary for all the nights she cried herself to sleep. She steps into a bigger man that holds her lovingly.
“You know, backing away now is like hiding under the covers at night.” I tilt my head as a tear trickles down her face. Then, I whisper, “The monster can still see you.”