Witch World by Christopher Pike

I’d hear from you again.”
    “Don’t be silly, I had a great time last night.”
    “So did I.”
    “Hey, would it be okay if I stopped by and said hello?”
    “Right now?”
    “Yeah. There’s some stuff that’s going on and, well, I guess I could use your opinion on what to do about it.” I added, “But I can come later if that would be better.”
    “Now is fine. But come right away. I have to go out later.”
    “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
    “Take a taxi, don’t walk. It’s a thousand degrees outside.”
    “Don’t I know it,” I said.
    I went downstairs and exited through the main entrance and got in line for a taxi. His hotel was only a quarter of a mile from mine. It seemed silly to waste money on a cab. Yet I was tired from our hours on the water, and although the sun was heading toward the horizon, the temperature was still over a hundred. I was lucky the line for the taxis was short.
    My driver didn’t even look at me when I climbed in his cab.
    “The Mandalay Bay,” I said.
    He nodded, started the meter, still silent. He was squat, dark-skinned, foreign, with a heavy beard. I searched for an ID and a license, which were usually pinned where a passenger could see them, but I saw nothing. We pulled away from the MGM onto the Strip.
    He went the wrong way. That didn’t trouble me. The exit left the MGM at an angle that made it difficult to drive directly to the Mandalay Bay. I assumed he was circling the block so he could come at our destination more easily. But when he had driven three blocks away from the Strip, I began to worry.
    “Hey, where are we going?” I demanded. “I told you to take me to the Mandalay Bay.”
    He nodded. “Mandalay Bay.”
    I tapped on the plastic window that separated us. “It’s back there.”
    He nodded, pointed in front of us. “Mandalay Bay.”
    “No. Turn around. Go back to the Strip.”
    He shook his head. “No Strip.”
    “God, don’t you speak English?”
    Apparently my question offended him. He stopped talking but kept driving farther and farther from the Strip. He turned onto another road that appeared to lead into an industrial section. There wasn’t a hotel in sight, and that was rare in Las Vegas. I continued to bang on his window but he ignored me. I was pissed I had forgotten my cell. I would have called 911.
    But I was more annoyed than afraid.
    All right, I thought, two can play this game. I’d wait until he had to stop at a light. Then I’d leap out the door and run like hell and he could chase me on foot if he wanted to get his fare.
    The problem with my plan, though, was that it seemed to take forever until we reached a red light.
    Finally, he had to stop. My door was unlocked.
    I was out of the taxi in a second.
    He cursed and leaped out his side of the cab but I was already running down the street. For a moment I was afraid he would jump back in his taxi and try to run me down. But out the corner of my eye I saw him drive off.
    I stopped running and took stock of my surroundings. It was definitely an area of town that didn’t appear in any travel brochures. Besides rows of warehouses, there were numerous factories. Dusty buildings with peeling paint—they looked asif they had been built during World War II. It was Saturday, so unfortunately, they were all closed.
    Nevertheless, it was eerie. There wasn’t a single car in any of the parking lots. It was almost as if this section of town was under quarantine. The idea had no sooner occurred to me when I noticed a smell of decay. The bloated sun burned on the horizon like the mushroom cloud of an exploded nuke. It was still unbearably hot but the stench seemed immune to the dry air.
    The concrete sidewalk was broken and uneven. It was easier to walk down the center of the asphalt road. But when I stepped over a sewer cover, I thought I heard faint moans. It sounded like a large group of people in horrible pain.
    It was real, it wasn’t my imagination. I returned to the sewer