 The Fens, August 1943. Forced to seek medical attention, Corporal Ray Ward and his squad are warmly welcomed at Sinclair House, a rehabilitation unit dealing with solders suffering from shell-shock. But Sinclair House isn’t what it appears to be. Out in the orchards, blood-chilling screams can be heard from the locked Nissen huts and the sheer volume of armed, clearly agitated military personnel around the property seems excessive. Ward and his men know something very wrong is happening at this isolated country estate and soon find themselves caught up in the middle of terrifying events… Exclusive Extract:There was an angry shout from the Nissen huts and something else, a sound like a crowd at a football match. Robin pushed away from the coop and its potential eggs, aiming for the bush. “Stop!” someone yelled and he froze, his heart thudding in his chest and wrists. What would he say, what could he say? This was the cane, for sure and probably a proper leathering from Dad too. “I said stop!” yelled the same voice. Robin hadn’t moved, which meant he hadn’t been seen so he quickly pushed himself back. A single shot was fired, which filled the night with sound and made the silence that followed it even noisier. Nobody moved on the gravel but he could hear someone running, the heavy thud of their step indicating they were moving fast. A shape came towards him from the orchard, arms flailing as if trying to keep balance. “I said stop!” yelled the voice, “or I’ll fire.” The runner kept moving and the guns responded. There were several single shots, probably from Lee Enfield number fours. Robin knew his guns, he knew what they sounded like and prided himself on his knowledge. The Sten guns rattled into life. Several 9mm bullets thudded into the wall behind Robin, showering him with stone dust. He flinched, covered his face. The runner bumped his leg against the side of the chicken run, the limb flicking out at an odd angle and cartwheeling the man across the lawn. More bullets hit the lawn, ripping holes into the grass. Robin was three feet away from the bush and, it seemed, still in the firing line.  Mark West lives in Northamptonshire with his wife Alison and their son Matthew. Since discovering the small press in 1998 he has published over eighty short stories, two novels, a novelette, a chapbook, two collections and six novellas (one of which, Drive, was nominated for a British Fantasy Award). He has more short stories forthcoming and is currently working on a crime/thriller novel. Away from writing, he enjoys reading, walking, watching films and playing Dudeball with his son. He can be contacted through his website at www.markwest.org.uk and is also on Twitter as @MarkEWest Universal book link - https://books2read.com/theexercisemarkwest    Comments are closed.
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