AMKent books

When a grenade falls, and eventually detonates, most expect a flash of fire and sparks. The films dramatize these little eggs of death into something flashier, they pop, there are little to no flames visible, and severed limbs often remain within fairly intact clothes. With adrenaline and the brains magnus opus, its survival instinct, in play, recipients of grenades who live often do not realise they are incapacitated until they try and move. Dr. Hoyle had become an expert in the study of grenades, the thought of his morbid fascination with how it would rearrange the anatomy of whoever unfortunate enough to be in its vicinity shamed him. Men stumbling forward grasping at nothing and confusedly not understanding their eyes were dangling by a thread. Terrible instruments, primal in their execution, a simple bang and a puff of smoke. Yet, despite their lack of technological prowess, they solicited nearly all that a human was capable of. A grenade can coax out the internals, and turn a human into a cave, but he had not seen it reveal the soul. Even in those most gut-wrenching moments, Dr. Hoyle was still convinced that the soul had not reared its divine little head.