'Wolf' Jack screamed, but thunder exploded across the blue sky again, drowning him out.Oh god, where to start with this one.
'Jason' Morgan of Orris screamed, and Jack realized that Morgan was not cursing in the Territories argot he was calling his, Jack's, name. Gobbets of flesh began to rain down around Jack. Blood flew in a needle-spray of droplets. It struck one of the cow-sheep caught in the reedy muck on the other side of the stream and the unfortunate beast simply exploded, as if it had swallowed dynamite. Jack thought that was what it was.īlue fire arched over Jack's shoulder, sizzling-it was like a deadly electric rainbow. And in the center, looking like an extra in a film about Admiral Byrd's assault on the South Pole, was Morgan Sloat, his thick red face twisted with murderous rage. The snout of what looked like a Chevrolet pick-up truck was on the right, floating three feet above the field where he and Wolf had been sitting peacefully and talking not five minutes ago.
#The girl who sees smells. Patch#
The edge of the brick toilet was on the left side of that blistered, tortured patch of air. He was seeing it as if through ripply, badly made glass. and directly into the rest area on I-70 near Lewisburg, Ohio. Panting, his soaked hair hanging in his eyes, Jack looked over his shoulder. A moment later another of the terrified cow-sheep struck him and bore him under again. Wolf bent over and retched up a great muddy sheet of water.
That's it, he's gone, must be, let him go, get out of here. As he watched, they began to sag tiredly outward in four different directions.īut he struggled on toward Wolf, pushing a dying, weakly convulsing cow-sheep out of his way to get there. The animal's legs were still there, mired in the mud like shake-poles. Again it struck the other bank, this time vaporizing one of Wolf's cattle. The wet, sizzling zap of electricity again, seeming almost to part his hair. I-īut the Queen's son died an infant, died, he. Sorry, but I've got to see if I can avoid getting drowned by Wolf's herd before I see if I can avoid getting fried by your doomstick there. He was coughing and staggering, seemingly no longer aware of where he was. Wolf struggled up again, his hair plastered against his face, his dazed eyes peering through a curtain of it like the eyes of an English sheepdog. He stood at midstream in water that was crotch-deep, cattle passing on either side of him, baa-ing and bleating, staring at that window which had been torn in the very fabric of reality, his eyes wide, his mouth wider. Morgan started forward, his face swimming and rippling as if made of limp plastic, and Jack had time to see there was something clutched in his hand, something hung around his neck, something small and silvery. He got up again quick, coughing and choking, one hand feeling inside his jerkin for the bottle, afraid it might have washed away. One of them bunted his hip hard and Jack went over, inhaling water. Jack fought his way toward those hands, still dodging the cattle as best he could.
He saw Wolf's head going down again, both hands waving. Jack whirled clumsily around in the stream, barely avoiding another cow-sheep, this one floating on its side, dead in the water. And the small silver thing in his hand had turned to a small rod tipped with crawling blue fire.
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