The Franklin Incident (Philly-Punk) Read Online Free
Author: Raymond M. Rose
prepare for what might lay ahead.
Unfortunately, they never got that luxury. Poe was drawing up the better parts of a plan when the lights that we had seen earlier came on again down the hall. Instantly, that horrible keening sounded out. Valiantly, the three men with pistols stepped forward and knelt, forming a firing line. Constables were no more than British soldiers in a different costume. The men with clubs, Poe, and myself held up the rear. I took the moment to carefully take the severed arm out from the Fightin' Jack. I set it as respectfully as I could on the ground. Then I slip the fist over my own, trying not to be too conscientious of the liquid lining the inside. I fastened the brace on my arm and reset the pistons on the side. It was ready.
Poe, pistol drawn over the heads of his constables, scanned the hallway, the white lights pulsating at us not twenty feet away. "Wait for my signal men! Then open fire."
The pulsating stopped. The lights went dark and the hallway returned to its pitch black existence. No sound could be heard whatsoever. Everything was still and black.
"Where'd it go, si—" one Constable began but Poe smacked him on the shoulder.
"Say nothing!"
I watched my friend carefully; glad to see the natural-born leader in him finally getting a chance to shine. Most people found Poe to be unsocial and cold. However, I always found the opposite. In certain company, Poe could be a fine conversationalist, amicable, even gregarious. He understood most men perhaps more than they cared to be understood. Most men found that offputt—
Something about the door on the constables' left side seemed to suddenly change. Not the door itself but... I couldn’t put my finger on it. Then the light seen through the crack at the bottom went dark all of a sudden as if... someone was standing before the door! "POE!"
The door seemed to bulge outward as if something was trying to climb through it like an open window. With a nerve-gnashing rip, the wood began to literally tear as the door exploded off its hinges in pieces. Shrapnel assaulted the line of constables like a cannon barrage. One large piece slammed into the closest constable, hitting him at the juncture of his neck and head where the bones inside cracked like dry branches on a lit fire. The man slammed into the other constables, barreling them over to the ground. They turned to the door, guns drawn around as a dark shape leapt out of the maw of the doorframe. Screams of horror filled the hallway and gunfire crackled, spent gunsmoke suddenly engulfing us all.
I watched Poe step forward, firing off the remaining shots in his six-shooter. His bullets, though, sparked off some metal chest plate as the smoke-shrouded shape dove at them.
Then it was among them.
One of the Constables was cut down by the killer's sword like a scythe through a wheat stalk. The three men with melee weapons leapt into the fray, their clubs drawn back for the strike. What were clubs against a sword? Beyond that, what was an Iron Fist? One of the men was drawn upward by a powerful arm and thrown towards Poe and myself. I scrambled out of the path of the living cannon fodder but Poe wasn't so lucky. He was slammed back though the open door and I heard his body tumble down the stairwell.
I fled the gruesome battle. Not out of cowardice nor to go in search of reinforcements. I fled the battle to find my friend. I knew him hurt and possibly defenseless against, what was clearly, a skilled warrior. You may think me craven, but I care not. I know why I left that battle.
I hurried into the stairwell. Poe lay at the bottom of the next landing, his head resting against the wall, blood flowing from a gash in his forehead. Carefully, I gathered up my unconscious friend and slung him over my shoulder. Sporadic gunshots, horrid screams, and that high-pitched keen echoed down through the stairwell. I
Unfortunately, they never got that luxury. Poe was drawing up the better parts of a plan when the lights that we had seen earlier came on again down the hall. Instantly, that horrible keening sounded out. Valiantly, the three men with pistols stepped forward and knelt, forming a firing line. Constables were no more than British soldiers in a different costume. The men with clubs, Poe, and myself held up the rear. I took the moment to carefully take the severed arm out from the Fightin' Jack. I set it as respectfully as I could on the ground. Then I slip the fist over my own, trying not to be too conscientious of the liquid lining the inside. I fastened the brace on my arm and reset the pistons on the side. It was ready.
Poe, pistol drawn over the heads of his constables, scanned the hallway, the white lights pulsating at us not twenty feet away. "Wait for my signal men! Then open fire."
The pulsating stopped. The lights went dark and the hallway returned to its pitch black existence. No sound could be heard whatsoever. Everything was still and black.
"Where'd it go, si—" one Constable began but Poe smacked him on the shoulder.
"Say nothing!"
I watched my friend carefully; glad to see the natural-born leader in him finally getting a chance to shine. Most people found Poe to be unsocial and cold. However, I always found the opposite. In certain company, Poe could be a fine conversationalist, amicable, even gregarious. He understood most men perhaps more than they cared to be understood. Most men found that offputt—
Something about the door on the constables' left side seemed to suddenly change. Not the door itself but... I couldn’t put my finger on it. Then the light seen through the crack at the bottom went dark all of a sudden as if... someone was standing before the door! "POE!"
The door seemed to bulge outward as if something was trying to climb through it like an open window. With a nerve-gnashing rip, the wood began to literally tear as the door exploded off its hinges in pieces. Shrapnel assaulted the line of constables like a cannon barrage. One large piece slammed into the closest constable, hitting him at the juncture of his neck and head where the bones inside cracked like dry branches on a lit fire. The man slammed into the other constables, barreling them over to the ground. They turned to the door, guns drawn around as a dark shape leapt out of the maw of the doorframe. Screams of horror filled the hallway and gunfire crackled, spent gunsmoke suddenly engulfing us all.
I watched Poe step forward, firing off the remaining shots in his six-shooter. His bullets, though, sparked off some metal chest plate as the smoke-shrouded shape dove at them.
Then it was among them.
One of the Constables was cut down by the killer's sword like a scythe through a wheat stalk. The three men with melee weapons leapt into the fray, their clubs drawn back for the strike. What were clubs against a sword? Beyond that, what was an Iron Fist? One of the men was drawn upward by a powerful arm and thrown towards Poe and myself. I scrambled out of the path of the living cannon fodder but Poe wasn't so lucky. He was slammed back though the open door and I heard his body tumble down the stairwell.
I fled the gruesome battle. Not out of cowardice nor to go in search of reinforcements. I fled the battle to find my friend. I knew him hurt and possibly defenseless against, what was clearly, a skilled warrior. You may think me craven, but I care not. I know why I left that battle.
I hurried into the stairwell. Poe lay at the bottom of the next landing, his head resting against the wall, blood flowing from a gash in his forehead. Carefully, I gathered up my unconscious friend and slung him over my shoulder. Sporadic gunshots, horrid screams, and that high-pitched keen echoed down through the stairwell. I
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