constant stream of cries of pain and invectives.
“Come on! Patch my wound up, too,” he pleaded with D, but the Hunter didn’t glance at him or even bother to tell the warrior to tough it out. The bleeding had been stanched by the first-aid kit the warrior always carried, but the bullet was still inside him. Though removing it himself wasn’t out of the question, D hadn’t given Strider time enough to do even that.
“Damn it, is this supposed to be some new kind of abuse or something?” the warrior grumbled, but his scornful gaze grew hazy and his mind was starting to slip by the time they reached the service area.
Actually, the service area was no more than a single building—a farmhouse that’d been converted into a combined cafeteria and lodgings, as the proprietor’s main occupation was farming. In a manner of speaking, it was a flophouse.
As expected, the interior had been laid waste. According to Irene, it was run by a family of seven, but not one of them was anywhere to be seen. As proof that they hadn’t fled, their wagon remained out back.
“I wonder what could’ve happened to them all?” Irene said.
No one answered her.
D set Stanza down on a sofa in the living room. Then he went to check out the rest of the house.
“A brat and two gimps—those are some real special traveling companions,” the hoarse voice jeered.
“Never mind them,” the Hunter replied. “What happened to that torrent of malice?”
“Oh, that? I thought it was gonna blow sky high, but it seems to have calmed down. That energy is a collection of hate, but it also has a will. I’m sure it despises all of you and the supernatural soldiers, too.”
“It’s biding its time, then?”
“Probably—it’ll wait for the perfect opportunity to kill us all. That thing’s trouble. It’s flowing around beneath our feet. It’s ever present. It’d be safe to say it’s wise to everything we do.”
“Industrious, isn’t it?”
“You can say that again,” the hoarse voice said, laughing haughtily.
After checking the house from attic to basement, D went outside. There was a barn out back. A deep blue tinged the air. To all appearances, it was the epitome of a peaceful evening.
D suddenly halted.
A sandbox had been set up in one corner of the yard, and in it lay a plastic pail and shovel. Nearby sat a child’s tricycle.
“Guess they’re gone now,” the hoarse voice said. “And they’re never gonna get to play in that sandbox again.”
Saying nothing, D turned to face the barn. It had big wooden doors that opened out from the middle, and they now stood open about a foot.
Right in front of the doors, the hoarse voice said, “Hmm.”
Opening the left side, D slipped inside.
After he’d gone three paces, a voice told him, “Okay, freeze!” It’d called down to him from the barn’s loft. A long ladder stretched up from the ground. Beside it stood a tall man, his old-fashioned repeating rifle trained on the Hunter.
“Zack Morrowbak?” D asked.
The man’s expression changed. “You’re a bounty hunter, ain’t you? Well, I’m gonna kill you dead, fucker!”
Flames of murderous lust clung to every inch of the man.
“Don’t do it, Zack,” called out a voice at ground level—from the far end of the barn. Beside the wagon, a bearded man stepped out with a crossbow leveled. He was around forty, older than Morrowbak.
“Yuri Tataika,” D said.
“My, it’s an honor having a looker like you say my name. Now, Zack, don’t you go looking at his face, you hear?”
“I hear that,” the other man responded in a rough voice, but it was already too late—his words carried a ring of intoxication.
“There’s one more of you, isn’t there?” D said, his eyes peering past the wagon where Yuri was standing.
“No, make that two .”
With that, a middle-aged man appeared from behind the wagon, a longsword on his hip. In his hand he held a knife. The tip of it was pressed against Irene’s pale
“Come on! Patch my wound up, too,” he pleaded with D, but the Hunter didn’t glance at him or even bother to tell the warrior to tough it out. The bleeding had been stanched by the first-aid kit the warrior always carried, but the bullet was still inside him. Though removing it himself wasn’t out of the question, D hadn’t given Strider time enough to do even that.
“Damn it, is this supposed to be some new kind of abuse or something?” the warrior grumbled, but his scornful gaze grew hazy and his mind was starting to slip by the time they reached the service area.
Actually, the service area was no more than a single building—a farmhouse that’d been converted into a combined cafeteria and lodgings, as the proprietor’s main occupation was farming. In a manner of speaking, it was a flophouse.
As expected, the interior had been laid waste. According to Irene, it was run by a family of seven, but not one of them was anywhere to be seen. As proof that they hadn’t fled, their wagon remained out back.
“I wonder what could’ve happened to them all?” Irene said.
No one answered her.
D set Stanza down on a sofa in the living room. Then he went to check out the rest of the house.
“A brat and two gimps—those are some real special traveling companions,” the hoarse voice jeered.
“Never mind them,” the Hunter replied. “What happened to that torrent of malice?”
“Oh, that? I thought it was gonna blow sky high, but it seems to have calmed down. That energy is a collection of hate, but it also has a will. I’m sure it despises all of you and the supernatural soldiers, too.”
“It’s biding its time, then?”
“Probably—it’ll wait for the perfect opportunity to kill us all. That thing’s trouble. It’s flowing around beneath our feet. It’s ever present. It’d be safe to say it’s wise to everything we do.”
“Industrious, isn’t it?”
“You can say that again,” the hoarse voice said, laughing haughtily.
After checking the house from attic to basement, D went outside. There was a barn out back. A deep blue tinged the air. To all appearances, it was the epitome of a peaceful evening.
D suddenly halted.
A sandbox had been set up in one corner of the yard, and in it lay a plastic pail and shovel. Nearby sat a child’s tricycle.
“Guess they’re gone now,” the hoarse voice said. “And they’re never gonna get to play in that sandbox again.”
Saying nothing, D turned to face the barn. It had big wooden doors that opened out from the middle, and they now stood open about a foot.
Right in front of the doors, the hoarse voice said, “Hmm.”
Opening the left side, D slipped inside.
After he’d gone three paces, a voice told him, “Okay, freeze!” It’d called down to him from the barn’s loft. A long ladder stretched up from the ground. Beside it stood a tall man, his old-fashioned repeating rifle trained on the Hunter.
“Zack Morrowbak?” D asked.
The man’s expression changed. “You’re a bounty hunter, ain’t you? Well, I’m gonna kill you dead, fucker!”
Flames of murderous lust clung to every inch of the man.
“Don’t do it, Zack,” called out a voice at ground level—from the far end of the barn. Beside the wagon, a bearded man stepped out with a crossbow leveled. He was around forty, older than Morrowbak.
“Yuri Tataika,” D said.
“My, it’s an honor having a looker like you say my name. Now, Zack, don’t you go looking at his face, you hear?”
“I hear that,” the other man responded in a rough voice, but it was already too late—his words carried a ring of intoxication.
“There’s one more of you, isn’t there?” D said, his eyes peering past the wagon where Yuri was standing.
“No, make that two .”
With that, a middle-aged man appeared from behind the wagon, a longsword on his hip. In his hand he held a knife. The tip of it was pressed against Irene’s pale
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