Lansarea oficială a celui de-al cincilea volum al seriei Tunele scrisă de Roderick Gordon and Brian Williams va avea loc în septembrie în UK. La noi va apărea probabil prin iarna-primăvara lui 2012. Până atunci puteți citi mai jos atât descrierea oficială cât și un fragment. În plus, am găsit pe net un clip foarte drăguț realizat pentru seria Tunele, de fapt este un promo realizat pentru Closer (volumul 3 al seriei). Mie mi-a plăcut și sper să vă placă și vouă.
The Styx have surfaced. If you thought the Limiters were nasty, think again. They’ve brought their females with them this time. And all that stands in their way are Will and his friends, and a rag-bag team of retired commandos.
It’s a smoking spiral of chaos and not everyone will survive.
Highly-anticipated fifth book in the internationally bestselling Tunnels series.
Fragmentul din Spiral:
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Apart from the noise and the gut-wrenching fear of physical injury, the most terrifying thing about an explosion is the millisecond in which the whole world fractures. It’s as though the very fabric of time and space has been split asunder, and you’re falling through it with no idea what lies on the other side.
When Colonel Bismarck came to, he was spread-eagled on a marble floor. For a moment he was unable to move, as if his body forbade it. As if it knew better than he did.
Although there was utter silence, the colonel didn’t question it. He felt no alarm, no urgency. He was staring up at the shattered ceiling where snowy chunks of plaster rocked gently. He became captivated by their movement – backwards and forwards, forwards and backwards – as if they were caught in a breeze. He was even more bewitched by the spectacle as some of the pieces broke loose, falling in slow motion to the floor around him.
His hearing began to return.
He made out a sound that reminded him of woodpeckers. ‘Vater,’ he said, recalling the hunting trips in the jungle around New Germania with his father. Sometimes they’d be gone for as much as a week, sleeping in a tent and shooting game together.
It was a comforting memory. Lying in amongst the blast debris the colonel smiled, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He heard the rattle again, still so remote. He didn’t associate it with the rapid fire of automatic weapons.
Then the Royal Mint building was rocked by a second blast. The colonel shut his eyes at the blinding flash of light, every bit as bright as the sun in his world at the centre of the Earth.
The percussive wave swept brutally over him, sucking the air from his lungs.
Shards of glass flew across the room like driving sleet.
‘Was ist …?’ the colonel gasped, still on his back as the glass tinkled on the polished marble around him.
Not only was everything quickly becoming hazed by a choking black smoke, but his mind seemed to be full of it too.
‘Wie erhielt ich hier?’ he said, groping for comprehension.
How he’d come to be there he had absolutely no idea. The last memory that felt substantial enough to rely on was of being ambushed in New Germania. He’d remembered being captured by the Styx, but after that – and he found this strange – he could only remember purple light. No, purple lights, many of them, burning with such power that his memories were dim by comparison.
He vaguely recalled the long journey to the outer crust, and then not much else until he found himself in a lorry with a squad of his New Germanian troops. They’d been taken to a large building – a factory. And associated with this factory, and still in the forefront of his mind, was something he’d had to do. A task so vitally important that it overrode all other considerations, even his own survival.
But, right now, he couldn’t put his finger on what this task had been. And he didn’t have time to dwell on it further as a burst of gunfire from close by galvanised him into action. He sat up, wincing from the sharp pain in his head where it had struck the floor. Coughing and choking as the acrid smoke caught in his throat, his first priority was to get to cover.
He dragged himself through a doorway where the smoke was less dense and found that he was in an office, with a high ceiling and a desk with a vase of flowers on it. Kicking the door shut, he lay behind it while he checked himself over. His hair was sodden from an injury at the back of his head, but he couldn’t tell how serious it was – the skin around it was numb and he knew from experience that head wounds always bled profusely. He ran his hands over the rest of his body, finding no further injuries. He wasn’t in uniform but was wearing a coat and civilian clothes, none of which he recognised. But at least he had his military-issue belt around his waist, and his pistol was still in its holster. He took it out, its weight comforting in his hand. Something he knew. He waited, listening for sounds on the other side of the door.
He didn’t have to wait for long.