Countdown & Telekinesis

Beatport

Countdown

Tate lay trembling in the dark tangle of weeds. Dripping black stalks of nocturnal vegetables clutched and stirred around him. Poisonous night insects slithered across the surface of the fetid bog. He was covered with slime. His clothing was torn and ripped. Somewhere along the way he had lost his B-pistol. His right shoulder ached, he coul hardly move his arm. Bones broken, probably. He was too numb and dazed to care. He lay face-down in the sticky muck and closed his eyes. He didn't have a chance. Nobody survived in the bogs. He feedly smashed an insect oozing across his neck. It squirmed in his hand and then, reluctantly died. For a long time, its dead legs kicked. The probing stalk of a stinging snail began tracing webs across Tate's inert body. As the sticky pressure of the snail crept heavily onto him, he heard the first faint far-off sounds of the camp going into action. For a time it meant nothing to him. Then hi understood-and shudered miserably, helplessly. The first phase of the big offensive against Earth was already moving into high gear.

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