Callsign: King II- Underworld

But he doesn’t come. He can’t hear me. He’ll never hear me again. How could he?

My voice fades to a whisper. Pain stabs my head with every beat of my heart. The pinpricks of light surrounding me are now blurry halos. In the quiet, I can no longer hear the ragged breathing of the young creature. Certain it’s dead, I weep again, mourning not just the death of this deformed thing that tried to eat me, but the death of something much more precious to me: my soul. As my body gives way to exhaustion, I slide down onto the stone floor, surrounded by bones and wonder, maybe that’s the point.

###

Click here to buy!





—SAMPLE—





THE ADVENTURES OF DODGE DALTON AT THE OUTPOST OF FATE by Sean Ellis



Available on Kindle: Click here to buy!



DESCRIPTION:



Dodge Dalton's discovery of an ancient outpost at the bottom of the world made him a hero, but now a new evil has arisen, intent on seizing the power of the outpost to literally unleash Hell.Guided by a deadly prophecy, a faceless villain will stop at nothing to transform the world into a place of skulls.It's a race to save the world from the terrible secret that lies hidden......at the Outpost of Fate!



EXCERPT:

Chapter 1—Any Port in a Storm



The story about the miraculous reappearance of the plane ran in the evening edition of the Clarion, but because the airline spokesperson had kept the more salacious facts of the case out of public circulation, the item was relegated to a few column inches, half way down page four. The article stated only that the plane, which initially had been feared lost in the storm, had arrived safely after a brief delay.

David Dalton—known to friends, co-workers and thousands of American readers of the syndicated weekly feature "The Adventures of Captain Falcon" as "Dodge"—had not yet read that item or any other headlines in the evening edition as he stepped from the Clarion Building and into the storm-swept streets, but he was certainly making good use of the tabloid; he held it open, over his head, to deflect some of the torrential rains that had already soaked through his shoes. He wasn't terribly worried about getting wet; the urge to shelter himself was mostly automatic. If he'd stopped to think about it, he would realized how foolish it looked and simply endured Mother Nature's assault, but his mind was a million miles—or more accurately, eight thousand miles—away.

The telegram was crumpled in his pocket, but its message had been burned into his memory: URGENT I SEE YOU...AMNH TONIGHT...CONCERNS OUTPOST...A. PENDLETON.

He knew Augustus Pendleton—Professor Augustus Pendleton—by reputation only, but that was enough to pique his interest. Pendleton, an expert on pre-Columbian archaeology, was one of a select group of scientists that had been made privy to the discoveries Dodge and his associates had made at the bottom of the world—a remote ice cavern in the permanent winter wilderness of Antarctica. They had taken to calling the place "the Outpost," but that name said little about its true function; in fact, the purpose intended for the cavern by its designers, like the identity of those architects, was one of the mysteries being pursued by Pendleton and other members of the U.S. government's brain trust. The actual location of the Outpost was known only to Dodge and three other souls, but they had provided the scientists with detailed descriptions of the cavern and some of its artifacts. Dodge could not imagine what news Pendleton might have that could be so urgent as to require a late audience at the Museum of Natural History, but he was eager to find out.

As he reached the sidewalk, he caught a glimpse of a Checker Cab sidling along with its flag up. Dodge thrust out a hand to hail the taxi and hurriedly opened the door, but as he started to get in, someone called his name. He drew back and peered in every direction through the watery veil. There wasn't another living soul for blocks.

Shrugging, he got inside. Must be hearing things.

The rain was drumming a staccato pattern on the metal roof, making it difficult to hear his own voice, much less the sound of someone calling for him. "Museum of Natural History," he shouted over the back of the driver's seat. The fellow in the front of the cab nodded and pulled back into the deserted streets.