Excerpts

The icy air stabbed at Joseph's lungs as he tried to slow his breathing. His heavy breaths became a cloud of white that froze against the cold metal barrel of his rifle so that a layer of frost covered the colorless steel nearly half way to the muzzle. The run up the snow covered hill toward the stone block building had taken every ounce of energy in his already exhausted body. As warmth returned to his hands, his knuckles began to bleed; scratched by the snow he'd clawed through to on the steepest section of the hill. The Marines had managed, just barely, to take the high ground first and now they caught their breath, crouched behind a low stone wall in front of the limestone face of the abandoned brewery. Every one of them panted and heaved, trying in vain to regain composure and the slower breathing they knew they'd need in a moment. The ground in front of them was open down the slope toward the line of woods below. A few leathery, dried oak leaves clung stubbornly to their frozen branches. At the bare hint of a breeze they fluttered against one another creating a feint crinkling sound like thin paper being crunched into a ball. That was the only sound other than the labored breathing of the cold, tired men. All was quiet and motionless at the wood line as they peered intently into to the dead gray woods, eyes straining in the waning light under a blanket of low gray clouds. It was as if the whole world had been drained of any color that might betray some sign of life until... ...movement. Joseph was not the only one to notice as a quiet curse whispered through shaking lips a few men down. Something stirred in the woods below; first in one spot, then another, then all along from one end of the lifeless wall of gray trees to the other. What emerged from the colorless woods was death itself and it wore a coat the color of blood. Sixty men, three times their number, formed a crisp solid line at the bottom of the hill. All right then lads, enough gawking; it's time get to work. Sergeant Gilmore's voice was even and sure. Reload. Excerpted from Grimm Patriot by David W. Arndt All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.