Bloodman - Brossura

Pobi, Robert

3,78

1.836 valutazioni di Goodreads

Brossura

ISBN 10: 1476751870 ISBN 13: 9781476751870

Casa editrice: Touchstone, 2014

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Recensione:

“Heartbreaking and chilling.....” – Andrew Pyper, author of The Killing Circle and The Guardians

“...it is so gripping you don’t want to put it down... a dark and frightening story, exceptionally well told...” -- Saskatoon StarPhoenix

“Bloodman should come with a halogen nightlight. This Stephen King meets Michael Connelly thriller is scary, creepy, page turning, original, bloody.” – The Mystery Site

“Bloodman is not so much as book as it is a journey, one that is both beautiful, and horrific. And far from anything you expected.” – Deryn Collier, author of Confined Space

“A gut-punch of a book.”

– Gregg Hurwitz, author of You're Next and Trust No One

Estratto. � Riproduzione autorizzata. Diritti riservati.:

Day Four

Montauk, Long Island

Two hundred feet below the rolling metal surface of the Atlantic, a handful of ghosts skittered along the ocean floor in a jerky seesaw roll, furling and unfurling in a diluvial ballet. They were dragged forward by the storm that raged overhead, still together after miles of progress across the rock-strewn bottom. Soon the gentle slope of the sea floor would change pitch, the earth would drop away into black, and the ghosts would tumble down into the deep. There they would be picked up by the Gulf Stream to be dragged up the Eastern Seaboard, past Massachusetts, finally washing out into the North Atlantic. Maybe they would be consumed by the creatures that swam in the dark world of the cold waters—maybe they would simply decay and be forgotten—but it was certain they would never be touched by daylight or warmth again.

Debris littered the ocean floor around them and the sounds of the world coming apart at the seams echoed overhead. An army of lawn furniture, scabs of roofing tiles, plywood, tires, an old Barbie doll, golf bags, a dented refrigerator, oil paintings, a battered Dodge Charger—banged along in the current with them, heading straight out to sea. Of all the detritus, the Charger moved the slowest, tumbling over and over on its side, one door gone, the lights somehow still glimmering like the eyes of a dying robot. Barbie moved quickest, staying upright with the help of her buoyant plastic injection-molded breasts and the bubble of air trapped in her ancient, empty head.

The ghosts were given no special treatment, no consideration by the storm; they collided with appliances, snagged on rocks, were inelegantly covered with weeds and plastic bags and rips and tears in their skin like the rest of the garbage.

But unlike the other flotsam being herded out to sea, they were not the product of the hurricane; they had been created by something much more malevolent, and much less predictable, than weather.

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