James Axler – Stoneface

Ryan struck at it, but the black fluid wrapped itself around his hand, then flowed up his arm. Sepia tendrils squirted into his mouth, his nostrils, his eyes.

Struggling wildly, Ryan clawed the black shadow-stuff from his face. He opened his eye, and found himself twitching on the floor of the room.

Krysty was kneeling over him, shaking him by the shoulder. “It’s a dream, lover. Only a dream.”

Ryan quivered and sat up, touching his face. He felt only sweat.

“It’s all right now,” Krysty said soothingly.

He tried to slow his breathing, ashamed to have made such a spectacle of himself. Early-morning sunshine shafted in through the window. Dust motes danced in abundance, given a glittery glow by the sunlight.

“I was asleep,” Krysty said. “You transmitted your fear to me. It woke me up.”

Smiling thinly, Ryan got to his feet and checked his chron. It was a little before seven. Out on the street he heard the hustle and bustle of Helskel preparing for another day.

“What did you dream about?” she asked.

Going to the wash basin, Ryan splashed cold water on his face. When his eye no longer felt like it was full of sand, he told her about it.

“Must have been a residue of our steak dinner. Or maybe your shadow-people story. Or even a psionic broadcast from Hellstrom.”

Krysty shook her head. “I would’ve sensed that. You just had a garden-variety nightmare.”

He pulled on his clothes, Krysty mirroring his actions. “I hope it wasn’t precognitive.”

A knock sounded on the door. Their blasters leapt into their hands, and they took positions on either side of the door.

“Who is it?” Krysty asked.

“Just me, Phil. I’ve got breakfast.”

Ryan and Krysty exchanged quick, meaningful glances. Her hair stirred as if from a breeze, then she mouthed to Ryan, “Safe.”

He moved aside while Krysty tucked her blaster into the waistband of her jeans and opened the door.

Holding a tray filled with covered dishes and a small pot of coffee, Phil said, “Compliments of the chamber of commerce.”

Since both of the shaggy-haired man’s hands were in sight and occupied, Ryan lowered his blaster, but he kept his finger resting lightly on the trigger.

Krysty took the tray with a word of thanks.

“The patriarch wants to see you after you’ve eaten,” Phil said, pointing at Ryan.

“Just you. The rest of you are confined to your rooms until you hear otherwise.”

“Not very hospitable,” Ryan said, letting a steel edge slip into his voice.

Phil shrugged. “You got nice places to flop, three squares a day I know a lot of people who’d cut their mama’s throats to trade places with you.”

He stepped out of the room and pulled a wheeled cart laden with breakfast trays down the hallway. “The patriarch will see you downstairs. Now, I’ve got to feed the rest of your crew.”

Krysty shut the door with her foot and put the tray on the bed. The breakfast consisted of double portions of scrambled eggs, several strips of bacon, slices of freshly baked bread and a pot of the real coffee.

Neither Ryan nor Krysty felt much like eating, but they knew survival rules dictated they should force the food down. Both retained vivid and unpleasant memories of days passing between meals. Regular meals were the exception, not the rule, in Deathlands.

Once he’d eaten, Ryan felt more relaxed, the nervous tension ebbing away. After they finished the coffee, he stood, jacked a round into the SIG-Sauer and buckled on his gun belt. “Time to go. Do you sense anything?”

Krysty shook her head, frowning in frustration. “Just a void. I don’t know if Hellstrom is broadcasting a shield I can’t penetrate or if there are truly no hostile intentions.”

“Only one way to find out.”

Ryan stepped toward the door, and Krysty grabbed him from behind, encircling his waist with her arms.

“Let me go with you, lover.”

Ryan turned, encircling her in an embrace. “Best we play out the hand the bastard’s dealt to us, at least for now.”

They kissed passionately, then Ryan disengaged himself from her arms and left the room.

Downstairs in the saloon, Hellstrom was seated in his wicker throne. Fleur, in her leather jacket and boots, lounged against the bar, nursing a glass of red liquid that Ryan hoped was tomato juice.