Magic Time: Angelfire

Contents

Dedication and Acknowledgments

Introduction

Of Angelfire and Blindman’s Blues

PROLOGUE

Manhattan, New York

I  What the Trees Said

ONE

I have that dream every night. The day the wheels…

TWO

My crossbow and a quiver of bolts were lying in…

THREE

There are some moments in life you can only survive.

FOUR

Damned idiot took more than a leak. He took a…

FIVE

Am I sure, Cal asks me, that I can find…

SIX

Goldman was gone when I went to wake him and…

SEVEN

Normally, I wouldn’t even think of stepping through a wall…

EIGHT

I’ve seen Goldman do some pretty surprising shit, but this…

II  Above, Below, and Here

NINE

I look down upon a valley from a high place.

TEN

So, you’re a lawyer, Mr. Griffin. A most maligned profession.

ELEVEN

Got a minute?

TWELVE

I’m no entertainment lawyer, but legalese is legalese, and the…

THIRTEEN

She was standing out under the trees behind the Lodge,…

FOURTEEN

Hey, I said.

FIFTEEN

Wind. An arctic wind, full of rain that could quickly…

SIXTEEN

When I was thirteen, I broke through the ice on…

III  O Animal, Who Are You?

SEVENTEEN

Life is strange. I knew that long before I pitched…

EIGHTEEN

Moments like the one we spend in the courtyard behind…

NINETEEN

During the frantic moments in which Enid and Goldie battled…

TWENTY

What can I say? When I walked out into the…

TWENTY-ONE

Twain’s words fall off my tongue into a vacuum. I…

TWENTY-TWO

Okay, easy would’ve been too much to ask, I suppose.

TWENTY-THREE

Goldie was not all right. And it took no medical…

IV  In the House of Suddhoo

TWENTY-FOUR

Howard didn’t lead us back through the business district. He…

TWENTY-FIVE

One thing I’ll say for Goldman—he doesn’t do things by…

TWENTY-SIX

We were smothered in cold, clammy darkness the moment we…

TWENTY-SEVEN

I hurt all over and tingled as if I’d connected…

TWENTY-EIGHT

They say the ritual of burying or burning the dead…

About the Authors

Praise

Other Magic Time Titles

Copyright

About the publisher

Introduction

Of Angelfire and Blindman’s Blues

Welcome to the further adventures of Cal, Colleen, Doc and Goldie.

It’s been said by many a megalomaniac before me, I like to create worlds.

But I also like to share them.

It’s one of the big reasons I work in TV. Whether it’s taking my boyhood friendship with the late great Ted Sturgeon and transmuting it into Deep Space Nine’s Far Beyond the Stars, or sitting around with a bunch of fellow writers and saying, "We’ve got twenty-two hours of Sliders to create—let’s do something we’ve never seen before," it is pure, unadulterated joy to play in a shared yard with other creative souls.

If you’ve read Magic Time, you may suspect that it’s a vision that has haunted me for years.

It was forged by several crucial moments in my life:

When the earth shook during the Northridge quake and the lights went out, and we all surged from our separate homes in search of the reassurance of companionship.

When riots seized L.A. and the night glowed red, palm trees burning like tiki torches flanking the Hollywood Freeway.

When El Nino howled, turning streets into rivers, driving people together, chilled and dispossessed, onto higher ground.

Those moments when all the clutter and noise of modernity were stripped away, and people crossed barriers of class and race and money to protect and hold on to each other, even in the riots.

Magic Time first emerged as the script for a two-hour television pilot, written by myself and my writing-partner wife, Elaine. But the land and characters continued speaking to me, demanding more elbow room.

Wherever I went, I found myself viewing a place through the lens of Magic Time, reshaping it into what Cal and his cronies might see and hear and smell.

I invited my friend Barbara Hambly along for the first trip, moving from Manhattan across a very altered world to Boone’s Gap, Virginia. Then Maya Bohnhoff joined up, leading Cal and his friends in their search to Chicago and beyond.

Here’s how we worked: we plotted out the journey beyond Manhattan more or less simultaneously. As Barbara and I wrote chapters of book one, we’d fire them off to Maya, and she in turn sent us the developing chapters of book two. It was an exciting time, as we would be inspired by each other, alter bits and pieces to match, polish it all together into a (hopefully) seamless whole. Along the way, new characters stepped up, insisting they be included, among them Barbara’s Secret Service agent Larry Shango and Maya’s fierce, heartbroken flare Magritte.

But let me be clear on one point—Maya wrote the book you now hold in your hands. I may have created the world and the lead characters, done minor course corrections…but this tale is all hers.

And what a tale it is.

As for the next installment, our intrepid band of chroniclers will be joined by Mr. Robert Charles Wilson, the brilliant author of Darwinia. Watch this space.

Now, however, switch off your pagers and cell phones, unplug the TV, turn your back on the computer and the internal combustion engine…and give yourself over to a time and place where all miracles—both dark and light—emanate from the burning core of our own true selves.

MARC SCOTT ZICREE

West Hollywood, California

June 2002

This, O my best-beloved, is a story quite different from the other stories—a story about the Most Wise Sovereign Suleiman-bin-Daoud—Solomon the Son of David.

There are three hundred and fifty-five stories about Suleiman-bin-Daoud; but this is not one of them…. It is not the story of the Glass Pavement, or the Ruby with the Crooked Hole, or the Gold Bars of Balkis. It is the story of the Butterfly that Stamped. Now attend all over again and listen!

The Butterfly That Stamped,

from Just So Stories by Rudyard Kipling

PROLOGUE

Manhattan, New York

"Your young men will dream dreams…"

Cal Griffin blinks up into my eyes and gives me a look that says he’d willingly crawl out of his skin if that would get him away from me. He glances at the building he is hoping to flee into and tries to pull his arm out of my grasp—not hard enough to succeed.

Around us, the chaos concert of city traffic is deafening. I put my lips close to his ear. I’m telling you this because you talk to me, don’t just look through. No such thing as coincidences. It’s omens, Cal. Something’s coming. A line of verse leaps into my head and off the tip of my tongue before I can stop it: ‘Metal wings will fail, leather ones prevail.’

Cal stares at me, puzzled, wondering what I’m blathering about. That makes two of us.

I let go of him and step aside. You keep your head low.

Cal nods mutely, turns to the doors. Just before he enters, he glances back, face going ashy when he sees me watching him.

I’ll see you later, Goldie, he murmurs.

If there is a later, I say, and he falters, missing the revolving door. He has to wait for it to come around again.

I watch him vanish into the building, lost among all the other Suits. He doesn’t believe me, of course. Can’t blame him, but I had to try.

I wipe some powdered sugar from my chin. Time to go through the Dumpsters in search of another Gillette. This is a use-it-then-lose-it society. There are always throwaways.

The street empties as the Suits swarm into their termite towers. Anyone looking at me now would find it hard to believe I was once on my way to becoming one of them. I hadn’t known myself then, hadn’t known a strange truth about the world. Onion. The world is like an onion. One thing with many layers. Stinking or succulent, depending on how you look at it.

Good metaphor. I am still capable of good metaphors. Any other time, I’d be absurdly pleased with it, but not today. Today, my cleverness offers no satisfaction.

Because something’s coming and it’s going to be bad.

I spy Doc Lysenko manning his hot dog cart nearby. Someone else I should warn. I take a step in his direction, but with a suddenness that steals my breath, all the oxygen has been sucked out of the world. My legs threaten to fold up under me and I put a hand out to a nearby wall. Heat radiates from it—from the pavement—and the din of the city is like Thor’s hammer.

What a world, what a world. Who would’ve thought a good little girl like you could destroy my beautiful wickedness?

Shit, Goldman, get a grip.

I send my mind into a ritual I started when I was nine: I take the sturdy brown tome down from the bookshelf. Needing inviolable privacy, I go into an upstairs bathroom and perch on the closed lid of the toilet. I open the book—Encyclopedia Britannica, Volume One—and begin reading: This letter has stood at the head of the alphabet during the whole of the period through which it can be traced historically…

Non compos mentis, my sister called me, and told me to look it up. I did, and then read from A to Z, passing through all the points between. A safe haven, a fortress where I couldn’t hear Mom and Dad snarling psychobabble and legalese at each other. Order from chaos. I was transported. By words.

Words have power. Rituals have power.

My mind steadies. I have to get home, to hunker down and wait while there’s still time. I slip into the narrow alley behind me, let it shield me from the noise. Dumpsters radiate hot garbage smell. Funny how, even now, my nose is so easily offended. You’d think, given where I’ve been living lo, these many years, my sense of smell would’ve gone on permanent vacation.

I mentally run over the possible routes back to the underground, discarding Rockefeller Center for Grand Central. This time of day there’ll be less scrutiny, easier to slip into the darkness. Just gotta be careful not to touch the third rail.

There is a rustling behind me, an odd, whispery sound.

Intriguing.

I turn. Wadded candy wrappers, stained sheets of the Post, and bits of excelsior that have tumbled out of the Dumpster are starting to swirl about in a minitornado, gathering speed. What’s wrong with this picture is that there’s no wind. None. In spite of this logistical oversight, the trash is still dancing in the air.

Abruptly the force swells, pushing the Dumpsters back and forth on their wheels, their heavy metal lids rising and then banging down again and again, like in a bad horror flick. My skin feels prickly; the smell of ozone charges the air.

Not yet, I think, please, not yet.

Doesn’t matter that I’ve been expecting this; I’m terrified. Above me there’s a crackling, snapping noise. And it ain’t Rice Krispies. I look up to see blue electrical discharges whipping about in the sky. Dark clouds roil, casting a yellow-gray pall over Manhattan, over the alley, over me. I feel incredibly small and watched—by what, I don’t know and don’t want to know.

The blue lightning is ferocious, slashing in all directions with a sound like ice sheets splintering. And behind it another, greater sound, a low roar that vibrates through me, growing in power and rumbling the ground. I want to run, to hide, but I can’t. I’m not even sure there’s anyplace I can hide.

Sudden desire overwhelms me, a compulsion to leave the shelter of the alley, to see what is happening to the city. This is not my desire; this comes from outside, but it so invades me that I feel imprisoned, shackled from the inside out.

The pavement beneath my feet heaves and buckles, as if some massive serpent is struggling to burst forth from below. Obeying my captor’s voice, I fight my way back to the alley mouth and peer out.

The sky is alive with blue lightning. It spits its hatred down at the city, frenzied fingers reaching out to every spire. The roar is deafening, a spike through my head. I clap my hands to my ears, but that does nothing. The sound is in my head, too, and now it rises to a scream.

The buildings are melting. Like ice cream cones on a hot day, dripping down—the entire city is liquefying. Proud towers turn to slag as the lightning dances its mad dance and the clouds enfold it like a shroud.

My mouth is open and I think I’m screaming, but I can’t hear it against the shriek of the city. I fold in on myself, covering my eyes, rocking, defenseless. In what I know are my last moments, I surrender to it, realizing that no matter how much I prepare, how much I might know, in the end it will do with me whatever it wishes.

I open up to it, and the world falls away.

There’s a jolt, as if the earth is taking one last token stand, and I realize I’m the only one screaming. I clamp my mouth shut, force myself to stop, and cautiously open my eyes.

The buildings are still upright; people still crowd the streets; but the cars, moments ago surging and huffing, are suddenly going nowhere. Sure, I might be looking at normal gridlock, but I know that’s not what this is. The normal sounds of Manhattan have stopped, leaving something as close to silence as this city has known since Peter Stuyvesant stepped off the boat and wowed the locals.

And I, Herman Goldman, saw it coming.

I find my feet, supporting myself against the once again solid brick and mortar of the nearest building. Your old men will see visions… I murmur, and wonder if I can still score some antipsychotics at the Roosevelt’s Free Clinic.

I

What the Trees Said

Suleiman-bin-Daoud was wise. He understood what the beasts said, what the birds said, what the fishes said, and what the insects said. He understood what the rocks said deep under the earth when they bowed in towards each other and groaned; and he understood what the trees said when they rustled in the middle of the morning….

The Butterfly that Stamped,

from Just So Stories by Rudyard Kipling

ONE

GOLDIE

I have that dream every night. The day the wheels came off the world. Bye-bye physics. Natural laws, who needs ’em?

And every morning I wake, realizing it’s all real.

Okay, no buildings literally melted, nor did the sidewalks and streets actually roll like ocean waves. But the whole world experienced it, this moment of cosmic mayhem, this thing most of us refer to simply as the Change. At least, we think it did. Nothing we’ve seen in the intervening weeks has suggested otherwise.

I have other dreams, too, also terrifying, also rooted in so-called reality. One of them is about a girl named Tina Griffin. Like our world, she changed—or began to change—in that moment of upheaval. So did a lot of other people. But Tina’s in my nightmares because I know her. She is the reason we left New York, the reason we head inexorably west—because her brother Cal has the same nightmare, and because that’s where the Megillah has taken her.

The Megillah is my pet name for what all the evidence points to as the cause of the Change. No one else calls it that. They have their own pet names for it: Armageddon, Doomsday, Kali Yuga, the Day of Judgment, the Real Thing.

Ek velt, Grandmother would’ve said: the end of the world.

Apparently, in elite government circles it was known simply as the Source. A science project of sorts. Funny, the words science project usually bring to mind papiermâché volcanoes and ant farms, not something that has the power to rip the world apart and put it back together all wrong.

But it appears that the Megillah has that power.

Tina Griffin, all of twelve years old, was one of the things it reassembled. And after it warped her body, clothed her in light, and granted her the power of levitation, it sorted her from among its other various types of makeovers and simply took her. And others like her. Where or why, we have no idea. Sort of a perverted take on the Evangelical Christian Rapture.

Before she was wrenched, screaming, out of her brother’s arms in the tiny back bedroom of a run-down house in Boone’s Gap, West Virginia, the changeling Tina spoke of Something in the West—a power, an entity, an Enigma. Something that came into the world with a roar and that now grows in it like a malevolent cancer.

And so, a Quest. Or a monumental game of hide and seek. We seek the Enigma and it…well, it doesn’t so much hide as it evades. It’s that thing you’re certain is behind you in the dark. But a swift about-face only nets you empty air and a dark slither out the corner of one eye.

And whispers.

Since that moment in Manhattan when buildings did not melt and sidewalks did not ripple, I’ve heard its whispers. Which makes (lucky) me the only one with half a clue about what part of the West the Megillah inhabits. And that’s about all I have—half a clue. I listen for it; I hear its Voice and we go. Tag, I’m it. Marco Polo. Games. Rough, deadly games.

Since leaving Boone’s Gap our quest has taken us through varied terrain. Quiet pastoral countryside where cows and sheep still graze and watch our passing with little interest. Places where it seemed the earth had erupted in boils, or a giant hand had reached down, dug in, and tried to wrench the bedrock out through the grass and trees and soil. We avoid cities. Cities are places of unimaginable darkness and violence. I suppose they always were, but it’s a different kind of violence now, at once more focused and more mindless, soul-deep and brutal.

There’s violence of a sort in the country, too. And its effects have been devastating. We’ve seen ghost towns and ghost suburbs and ghost farms. But nothing like what we saw as Manhattan unraveled like a cheap sweater.

We see other folks ever so often. And ever so often we see not-folks. Ex-people who, like Tina, had their DNA radically rearranged. Tweaks, Colleen calls them. I prefer twists—it’s a gentler word. Although there’s nothing gentle about what the Change has done to them. People tend to avoid them, and they tend to avoid people. Something I understand, completely.

Most often we don’t see them, but merely feel them. Since some of them are rather unpleasant, it pays to be vigilant. You develop a sort of ESP about these things. The sense of being watched creeps over your skin and through your brain like a trickle of freezing water. When this happens, Cal’s hand goes to his sword, Colleen’s goes to her machete, Doc’s makes the sign of the cross. Mine does nothing. At the moment, I carry neither weapons nor gods.

We’re traveling on potholed tarmac today as we head for the border between West Virginia and Ohio. Cal and Doc are mounted on fine steeds (Sooner and Koshka, by name), Colleen drives our spiffy home-built wagon, while I ride shotgun. I mean that figuratively, of course. Since the Change, no one I know has yet figured out how to make a shotgun work. This is one of those good news/bad news things.

Our wagon is a pickup truck from which the transmission has been removed and the engine compartment gutted back to the firewall. It still has its vinyl-covered seats, but no roof, no windows, no windshield, and sawed-off doors. You can crawl from the front seat right over into the bed. It was, as they say, a find. Only cost us our bicycles and a couple of days work in the bed ’n’ breakfast from hell.

Water barrels are ranked outboard down both sides of the truck bed, which has an awning that extends from the tailgate all the way out over the remains of the cab. We roll it down in the event of inclement weather. The whole thing looks a lot like those old World War Two troop transports; only it’s a brilliant shade of macintosh yellow. For the first time in many days, the awning is rolled all the way up to the topmost strut of the support framework.

I glance at the sky and realize that’s likely to change. It’s a chill, cloudy afternoon—unseasonably cold. The sky presses down on the land like a heavy, gray sponge full of rain. Somewhere, there are calendars that say it’s autumn, but it feels like half-past winter, and the trees are turning rapidly, as if hurrying to catch up.

Along the road ahead I see a strip of maples with prematurely nude branches. It’s only when we get practically on top of them that I realize the leaves are merely transparent. They look like those blown glass things that once glittered in Manhattan shop windows. And as the moist breeze stirs them, I hear them, too—a fine shimmer of sound that’s almost music.

Fascinating. The rocking of the wagon no longer seems so soporific. I swing out over the chopped-down door and hit the ground running.

A sharp snarl snatches at me from behind. Goldman! What the hell do you think you’re doing?

Replying to Colleen’s question while galloping into the forest would waste breath, so I don’t bother. I make the trees and gingerly reach up to touch the crystalline leaves. They’re beautiful, but hard and cold, with sharp, biting edges. A breeze moves through the branches and stirs them to song. I imagine an entire melody is cradled in those branches, but then I imagine a lot of things.

I’m enchanted. I take off my cowboy hat and carefully dislodge several of the leaves into the crown. They fall with a sweet tinkle of sound.

What is it? Cal Griffin peers down at me from his horse, hazel eyes darting from me into the deeper woods. His hand is on the hilt of his sword.

I hold up one of the leaves. Steely sunlight sparks cold fire in the tracery of veins. We may have to rename a couple of seasons, I say. How about spring, summer, shard, and bleak?

Cal leans down from the horse and takes the leaf from my fingers. "Ouch. You’re not kidding. I’d hate to be standing under a tree when these things fall. If they fall. He lays the leaf carefully on the palm of my hand. Better get back in the wagon. Colleen might slow down or even stop for you if you apologize for scaring her like that."

I carefully tuck the leaves into the pocket of my buckskin jacket and set the cowboy hat back in its rightful place. As always, my hair—too thick, too curly, and too long—puts up an admirable fight, but I cram the hat down until it submits peacefully.

Scare Colleen, I repeat. Isn’t that an oxymoron?

He smiles fleetingly and jerks a thumb toward the wagon, which has come to a stop down the road with Doc hovering near the tailgate. Get.

Maybe it’s just a paradox, I say, moving away from the trees. Or an anomaly, or a mere flight of fancy.

Cal clicks Sooner into a lope and leaves me to chug my way back to the wagon.

Colleen stays stopped to let me climb in. Then she gives me a chill glance, laces the reins through her fingers like she’s done it every day of her life, and clucks the team into motion. In this nippy weather they are rarin’ to go, as they say in the Wild West. They toss their heads, paw the ground, and pull at their bits. Colleen manages them effortlessly.

You’re sure good at that horsey stuff, I tell her, chipping at the brittle silence. I guess it’s because you’re a native Cornhusker and all, huh?

She gives me a cool green glance. You think?

I shrug. Okay, I don’t know why you’re good at it. You just are. You’ve been around horses a lot, I’d guess.

She repeats the glance, then puts her eyes back on the crusty tarmac ahead. One callused hand smoothes back her hair, which is almost as spiky as her annoyance. Scissors still work, but Colleen is careless of such niceties. I think she does her hair with her pet machete.

Yeah. I got a horse when I was thirteen. Before Dad died. You never forget the feeling of the reins in your hands, the ripple of muscle between your knees, the smooth glide of a horse at a full gallop. To this day, whenever I get stressed out or pissed off… A pointed glance. …I walk myself through bridling and saddling a horse just to chill. Well…and to prove to myself I remember how to do it.

Her eyes go back to the road then, and she closes up tight as a clam. Conservation of intimacies, I guess. I play with my glass leaves, trying to shake music out of them.

After about five minutes of this Colleen speaks again. You know what, Goldman? That’s damned annoying.

I wrap the leaves in a handkerchief that’s made its way into my breast pocket and put them away. You know what, Ms. Brooks? No one’s called me Goldman since my sophomore baseball coach. Well…and my probation officer.

Your what?

Loose lips, the curse of an unquiet mind. Oh, look, I say. A road sign.

There is, indeed, a road sign. It proclaims that there is a town not far ahead. Grave Creek. Nice, ominous little name for a town.

Eight miles, says Cal, drawing his horse up close to the wagon. If we hustle we might make it before the sun goes down.

On a clear day we’d have some wiggle room, but the oppressive cloud cover puts us uncomfortably close to twilight. Since the Change, out after dark is not something you want to be. If the world is peculiar when the sun is up (and it is plenty peculiar), it is insanely scary when the sun goes down. Colleen nods and clucks her team into a brisk trot.

Barely half an hour later we hear a shout from Cal, who’s taken the vanguard. He lopes back to us through the gloamin’, waving an arm. Doc draws up along our right flank to see what all the hoo-ha is about. Pulling up, Cal points southwest.

The clouds have lifted at the horizon and a baleful red sun glares at us from beneath the edge. Against the bleed of crimson, a water tower stands in sharp silhouette. Firelight flickers atop the squashed sphere.

Civilization ho, I say.

A lookout? asks Doc, his eyes on the tower.

Or a beacon, Cal says. Maybe it’s a friendly hello to wayward travelers.

Wishful thinking. You know, there were these pirates up Newfoundland way that used to set signal fires on the cliffs to beckon to merchant ships. After the ships piled up on the rocks, the pirates would go out in little boats and collect the booty. Survivors were offered a choice: join the jolly pirate band or die.

Judas Priest, Goldman! says Colleen. Do you have to be such a friggin’ fountain of helpful information?

Doc Lysenko hides a smile in the twilight over his shoulder. Ah, a child’s daydream. Didn’t you ever want to be a pirate, Colleen?

Colleen’s face goes through the most amazing set of expressions: Doc has surprised a smile, but she aborts it and stretches it into a grimace, then inverts it into a scowl, then smoothes it into a look of prim disapproval. What I want, she says finally, is to be somewhere other than out in the middle of nowhere when night falls.

Then we’d better get a move on. Cal turns his horse and leads on toward the looming silhouette of the tower.

Unaccountably, I shiver.

Our road descends into a shallow, triangular valley where the woods stand back from the edge of the grassland like spectators at the scene of an accident. The bottom of the triangle is a mile or two distant, and a second road runs north to south along it, merging with the one we’re on. As we make the descent, my eyes are on the place where the town should be. I can just make out more flickers of light sprinkled about the base of the water tower. I do hope they’re not pirates.

We have company, murmurs Doc from our starboard bow. He’s staring across the valley to the north-south road.

Where? asks Colleen, tensing.

There. Doc’s gesture is almost lost in the twilight.

A small group of people moves along the converging road toward Grave Creek, clearly visible against the dark woodland that hugs the road. They seem to be struggling with some sort of litter. Three of the people are very small. Children. Or munchkins, maybe. These days it could be either.

I think they may have injured, Doc says. They could likely use our help.

Hold on, Doc, Colleen warns him. Let Cal scope it out first, okay?

Cal is already doing that, I realize, moving down into the valley at a leisurely, nonthreatening trot.

I’ll light the lanterns, I say, and do, suspending them from hooks—one on each side of the driver’s box. Kerosene, no less. I just love modern conveniences.

Cal’s nearing the floor of the vale when yet another group of folks comes out of the woods to our north. This new bunch heads down across the meadow on a course that roughly parallels the north-south road. There is a flicker of fire as someone in the road troupe lights a torch. There is no answering flicker of light from the folks in the meadow. They just keep pressing through the tall, dry grasses.

The newcomers, I realize, are moving very smartly. Maybe this is because they aren’t hauling someone on a litter, or maybe because they’re in a bigger hurry. The new folks overtake the first party and swing wide as if to pass them by. Then they veer sharply onto an intercept course, and suddenly it’s as if I’m looking at them in a funhouse mirror. They become indistinct, fluid around the edges, a school of shadows flowing across the landscape as if pulled by currents.

By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes. Hair rises up on the back of my neck and I wish I could borrow Colleen’s machete—or Doc’s faith.

There is a shout up ahead as Cal digs his heels into Sooner’s flanks and tears off across the meadow.

"Oh, shit!" Colleen voices my sentiments exactly before she brings the reins down hard on gleaming horsehide.

The horses plunge into sudden and frantic motion—hot-blooded engines snorting steam into the twilight. The wagon jerks and my cowboy hat goes flying. Liberated hair tumbles into my eyes, blinding me. I hear nothing but the agonized squeaking of the truck’s springs and the labored effort of the team. The truck is heavy, awkward, and probably a bitch to pull, but Colleen steers them off the road entirely and sends us bumping straight across the meadow. We’re on a path that will take us directly into collision with the others…if our wheels don’t fall off first.

Ahead of us, where the two roads meet, the first band of travelers has gathered to make a stand. There are seven of them. Three are children; two are women—one extremely pregnant. One of the two men is stretched out on the litter, brandishing a torch. The others have torches, too, and baseball bats, and a wildly barking dog. Slim defense against what they face. Advancing on them are strange, dark beings that are less men than shadows of men—vaporous, nebulous, writhing.

Cal rides Sooner into the breach between the two groups. His sword is still in its sheath, but he’s swinging a loaded sling. Slowing Sooner only a little, he looses a scatter of golf-ball-size rocks into the shadow troupe.

Surprise! The rocks connect. The sound that results is not one I ever want to hear again. It is as if the air itself has cried out—a siren of rage that drowns out the baying of the dog and the thunder of our charging horses.

The shadows seem to melt back into the tall grass. But only for a moment. Then they’re back. I try to count them and fail. The shadows uncoil and ooze forward, pressing Cal and his horse back toward the crossroads and the frightened refugees.

Colleen shoves the reins into my hands. Take the team! she yells, then rolls off the back of the seat into the truck bed, leaving me with a handful of fat leather noodles.

TWO

COLLEEN

My crossbow and a quiver of bolts were lying in the well behind the seat. I grabbed them as I went over. I’d barely touched down when the wagon veered sharply, slamming me hard against the left wheel well. If it hurt, I didn’t feel it.

Just ahead a child screamed high and shrill. I barely heard it over the rumble of the wagon and I barely heard that over the bass drum in my chest.

I came upright and poked my head out through the support struts of the awning. We were still aimed more or less at the crossroads, but unless Goldman suddenly learned to steer a four-in-hand, we were going to trundle by to the north, behind the…whatever-the-hell they were.

Looking at them made me want to rub my eyes. They were shadows. Spooks. No kind of tweak I’d ever seen before. I couldn’t tell how big they were, how fast, how nimble. From this distance I couldn’t tell a damn thing about them, except that they were attacking.

Cal had gotten out of their way and was circling, maybe hoping to distract them, maybe looking for time to reload his sling. The tweaks followed his movement, reaching out like shadowy fingers. A chill streaked up my spine.

I was nocking an arrow when Doc flew past. Before I could do more than yelp, he pulled the lantern off my side of the wagon and galloped his mare full tilt at the tweaks, shouting and waving the lantern at them. I ground my teeth together and shot the bolt into the cradle.

The lantern did jack. If anything, light made these things harder to see.

Fine. I’ll just have to guess what I’m shooting at.

I aimed into the pack of flickering shapes and fired.

The bolt hit something—I heard it—and one of the flickers stopped, suddenly solid. It flailed the air for a moment, then leapt. Straight at Doc. It was like a wave of quicksilver that covered eight or nine feet in a single bound.

By all rights Doc should’ve been dead. Would have been dead, if not for the blessed stupidity of animals. First, his horse shied, dodging the tweak but putting itself and Doc right between me and my target. Then this mutt torpedoed out of nowhere and started doggy-dancing all around, barking its fool head off. The horse bolted and Doc tumbled off over its rump. He and the lantern hit the ground with the sound of shattering glass. The dog disappeared, but I could still hear it barking.

My chance was gone; the wagon rumbled past the tweaks and onto the north-south road. The horses got tarmac under their feet and charged due north. I lost sight of Doc.

I jerked my head around toward the front seat and yelled at Goldman to bring us around. Crank it! I shouted, and mimed the motion at him.

He cranked, pulling us into a right-hand crash turn that I prayed wouldn’t tip us over. Against the force of the turn I clawed my way to the right side of the truck bed and tried to see Doc.

He was about twenty yards behind us now, pushing himself up off the ground. The lantern had fallen four, maybe five yards beyond him, and flames were spreading swiftly through the dry grass between him and the tweaks, fanned by a chill westerly breeze.

The shadow-pack would be on him in a flash.

I hefted the crossbow and tried to steady it on the lip of the truck bed. I didn’t have a clear shot, not arcing away like this. But if I had to wait until the wagon came around, it would be too late. I squinted through the fire and smoke and dying sunset for Cal, but he was riding away up the road with three children clinging to him for dear life. The other refugees were frantically dragging the litter along behind.

I was it.

Doc was on his knees, watching the tweaks from behind the spreading curtain of flame. Their bodies whipped as if caught in a fierce wind and they were making this freakish keening sound. Made my skin crawl.

They were afraid of fire.

I popped back into the truck bed, threw open a supply locker and scrabbled madly through the stuff inside. Ammunition. I needed ammunition. I found cotton wadding, cloth bandages, alcohol. I used a bandage to bind the wadding to the tip of the bolt in my bow, doused it in alcohol, and dug a cigarette lighter out of my back pocket. The small blue flame was a comfort. Scrambling, I made a handful of sloppy, drunken bolts, then slipped three of them into the magazine