James Axler – Shadowfall

“Something is afoot, Watson,” he said. “Think of the strange affair of the light-sleeping albino and what happened when the drum was pounding near him. But Holmes, nothing happened. The lad did not wake. Precisely, my dear Watson. Jak has not awakened. Nor did he stir as I blundered out of the tent. Now, why can that be?” Doc crouched behind a young aspen. “But soft, who comes hither?”

A dozen or more men approached him from the center of the camp. They were moving quietly, and Doc could make out the glint of moonlight off edged steel. One of them carried the drum at his waist, beating on it with a padded hammer.

At the front of the group were Schickel and Straub, the latter easily identifiable by his shaved head.

Doc drew his Le Mat and eased back on the hammer, cocking it over the .65-caliber shotgun round. He held the revolver low, so that the silvery wash of light wouldn’t catch on the blaster’s gold decoration.

Straub held up his right fist and the drummer stopped. The light was very poor, and Doc strained to see just what it was that the bald man held in his uplifted hand. It was either a short-hafted scythe or a long pair of shearing scissors.

“Doesn’t much matter which,” Doc breathed, talking to himself to steady his nerves and boost his courage.

For several seconds the menacing gang of brushwood men stood still and silent. Doc watched the tableau, his brain working overtime, making connections the scent of strange herbs; the rhythmic beating of the drum; the deep sleep of his friends; friends whose reflexes would normally stand comparison with a mountain cougar.

“Mesmerism,” he whispered. “Straub has laid some deep hypnotic dream upon them all.”

One of the men with Straub and Schickel had gently pulled back the flaps of both tents, peering cautiously in with a hooded lantern, returning and giving a thumbs-up sign.

“For earth and water and air,” Straub said, again lifting what Doc could now see was a pair of long scissors.

Why earth and water and air? Doc wondered. It was probably some sort of mock-mystical incantation.

“Ready?” Straub said to the others, moving a little to one side.

Doc bit his lip. Now he didn’t have a clear shot at the leader of the group, who was hidden behind several of the other men. In that case, Schickel would have to do, as the putative head of the ragged community.

That decided “who.”

And it was clear that “when” was now.

“Now,” Doc said, steadying his right wrist with his left hand, looking straight down the gold-chased barrel.

His finger tightened on the trigger.

RYAN HAD BEEN in an uneasy slumber, tossing and turning, aware of physical discomfort, yet not quite able to drag himself clear of the trap of sleep to do anything about it. It was as though he lay beneath a log jam that had crushed his brain, making it impossible for him to act at all.

All of his instincts were yelping at him, trying to warn him that something was grievously wrong. But it was as if his mind were shrouded in several layers of clinging plastic film.

The boom of thunder ripped away that muffling veil and jerked him fully awake, his hand grabbing automatically for the butt of his SIG-Sauer, aware now of screams and shouts from just outside the thin fabric of their tent, aware of J.B., Krysty and Mildred also suddenly coming awake around him.

“Le Mat,” the Armorer said, as terse as ever.

THE SHORT UNDER BARREL of the Le Mat carried the 18-gauge scattergun charge. It was hopelessly inaccurate at any range much above twenty paces, where the shot would star out so far that it was only likely to cause relatively minor flesh wounds. But, as a light cavalry handgun, it wasn’t likely to be used at anything other than point-blank range.

Schickel was standing about sixteen yards from the dark shadows where Doc was crouched. His face was half-turned away, toward the entrance to the nearer tent, where he was about to order his men to take the helpless outlanders prisoner. Or chill them. It didn’t much matter which. Just as long as it gave Straub the chance he needed to get his lusting fingers on the two superbly unique heads of hair sleeping within.