Descrizione
Informationen zum Autor GREG COX is The New York Times bestselling author of numerous books and short stories. Besides the novelizations of 52 and INFINITE CRISIS ! he has also written books and stories based on such popular series as ALIAS! BATMAN! BUFFY! DAREDEVIL! FARSCAPE! GHOST RIDER! IRON MAN! ROSWELL! SPIDER-MAN! STAR TREK! UNDERWORLD! XENA! X-MEN ! and ZORRO. Klappentext The novelization of the superhero event starring Batman! Superman! Wonder Woman! and the heroes and villains of the DC Comics Universe Victorious at long last against his enemies on the world of New Genesis! Darkseid has unleashed the forces of Apokolips on Earth. With the secret of the Anti- Life Equation at his command! Darkseid now possesses the ability to eradicate all free will from humanity-and usher in an end to the age of super heroes. Facing an ever growing army of mindless slaves and corrupted heroes! Superman! Batman! Wonder Woman! and the remnants of the Justice League of America find themselves consumed by the ever spreading darkness. They remain humanity's only hope-the only light that will not be extinguished in the world's darkest hour. Chapter Two Metropolis. Now. Dan Turpin struck a match. As the stocky ex–cop lit his cigarette and tossed the match aside, it struck him that fire was probably mankind’s first big mistake. Like everything else the sad, stinking human race ever thought of, we take a good idea and use it kill ourselves. A balding bruiser of a man way past retirement, Turpin took a drag on the cancer stick as he ambled along the docks down by the waterfront. A rumpled tan trench coat was draped over his burly frame. His weathered features wore a chronically sour expression. Towering steel cranes perched over dilapidated wharves, while busy stevedores unloaded the freighters anchored along the piers. Seagulls circled and cawed overhead. A salty breeze, blowing off the harbor, did little to improve his disposition. Formerly a member of Metropolis’s elite Special Crimes Unit, Turpin no longer carried a badge, but that didn’t stop him from pounding the pavement as a private eye these days. He was three weeks out on the trail of six missing children. Bright kids, gifted kids, who went out one day and never came home. At this late date, Turpin had little hope of finding the kids alive, but who knew? There was still a chance that one or more of the children might still be kicking. And if not, then whoever was responsible needed to get what was coming to them. His investigation led him to a deserted wharf adjacent to a rundown warehouse. Chain–link fences guarded wooden pallets piled high with miscellaneous crates, bales, and bags. Smoke rose from one of the timber crates. A look of disgust came over Turpin’s bulldog face as he recognized the stomach–turning stench of burning flesh. Oh hell… He squeezed through a ragged tear in the fence, the rusty metal tines snagging on his coat, and headed toward the crate for a closer look. The top of the crate was smashed clean through, as though it had been struck by a falling meteor. The nauseating odor, which raised unpleasant memories of his wartime experiences as a Boy Commando, grew stronger and more oppressive with every step. Bracing himself for the sight of a child’s torched remains, he stepped up onto the edge of a pallet and peered down into the splintered crate. “What the hell?” There was a smoking body lying inside the box all right, but it didn’t belong to one of the missing kids. Instead, to his surprise and relief, Turpin found a battered figure sprawled atop boxes and boxes of cheap toy ray–guns from China. The man’s bright red uniform, which was fashioned from a strange unearthly fabric, was torn and scorched, like he’d come through some sort of fiery accident. Fresh cuts and third–degr...
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