James Axler – Stoneface

As J.B., Jak, Doc and Mildred followed him and Krysty through the sagebrush, Ryan tried to shake the fingers of horror clutching at his mind and heart. The slashing with knives and the cremation of Zadfrak was the concoction of a deranged mind. It served no purpose other than ceremonial theater. It was a sham.

“Still want to wait until daybreak?” J.B. asked, jogging beside him.

Ryan shook his head. “Let’s move out. If anyone tries to stop us, blast ’em down.”

When they reached Helskel, Jak, Mildred and Doc volunteered to retrieve their gear from the rooms, while J.B., Ryan and Krysty went to prepare the Land Rover.

“According to the fuel gauge,” J.B. said, “we have about a quarter of a tank. Let’s get as far as we can on that, then stop and gas up.”

“Good idea,” Ryan replied.

They rounded the corner of the saloon, sprinting toward the parked vehicle. They ran only a few yards before J.B. rocked to such a sudden halt that Ryan nearly trod on his heels.

” Shit !” J.B. hissed.

Ryan stepped around him and inspected the Land Rover. “Fireblast!”

The armored wag’s six tires were flat. They had all been expertly slashed.

Chapter Eight

There really wasn’t a choice. To pack up and hike out of the area on foot was completely out of the question. Behind them were the badlands, and they had no idea of what lay ahead. Nor were they inclined to abandon the wag. It would be too much of a loss to simply shrug off.

“Perhaps it was the work of one of the men we met today,” Doc offered. “That Dog fellow, for instance. A prank, a vindictive act of vandalism, and perhaps Hellstrom knows nothing about it.”

Doc’s theory sounded unconvincing, even to his own ears. After a brief discussion, it was decided that everyone would return to their rooms.

They entered the saloon through the back door and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Ryan took a position in a chair, facing the door, blaster in hand. Krysty sat on the bed, leaning against the headboard, her Smith amp; Wesson in her lap.

They spoke very little. They just sat and waited for something to happen.

Ryan checked his wrist chron every so often. At a little after three, he saw that Krysty had nodded off, still sitting upright against the headboard, eyes closed, breathing shallowly through her nose.

He thought about waking her, then decided to let her sleep an hour. He looked out the window and watched the distant fire-glow of the pyre for a few minutes. When he turned to look at Krysty, she was no longer there.

Instead, a vast, rocky plain stretched out all around him, the edges blurring into the horizon. He found himself standing completely still in a small depression made of dry, cracked earth, like the remnants of an ancient water hole. A bloodred sun shone down with a light that was sharp and painful to the eye.

He stared up at it with a horrid fascination. From its crimson center, tongues of flame roiled and churned in a scarlet maelstrom. From the molten core sprang a white shape, whiter than snow, whiter than bleached bone.

A man shape fell from the sun and landed gracefully in the small depression. Lars Hellstrom’s bloodred eyes glowed, and a white-hot halo of energy crackled around him like a static discharge.

Hellstrom drifted toward him, ghosting over the ground, feet not moving, smiling a dreamy smile. Ryan reached for his blaster, but he knew it wouldn’t be snugged in his holster.

He gestured for Hellstrom to come closer. “Come on, hell’s spawn,” he crooned. “I’ll send you back to Charlie on a shutter.”

Hellstrom floated closer. Ryan bounded forward, hands reaching for and closing around the man’s throat.

Ryan’s hands crunched through flesh and bone as though they were dry ashes. Snarling, he shifted his grip to the dreamily smiling face, and it crumbled to fragments beneath his clutching fingers.

Hellstrom’s neck and head fell away, and from the empty space between his shoulders spewed a torrent of blackness. Like a stream of semiliquid tar, it coiled and curled, a piece of shadow somehow given life and movement.