James Axler – The Mars Arena

“The end of the world’s come and gone,” Ryan said, “unless these people got something more planned. Or know something we don’t.”

“A DNA strand overlaying a picture of the solar system,” the black woman mused. “That doesn’t sound like they’re preparing for the end, or even believe that it is.”

Ryan looked at the dead man. “However it was, his story died with him.”

“There’s probably still people out here who were with him,” J.B. countered.

“Does he have a weapon?” Ryan asked Jak.

The albino held up an empty holster. “Did. Gone. Mebbe lost in snow when tremors come.”

“No long blaster?” Ryan was wondering if the dead man might offer part of a solution to the subsonic rifle shot that had maybe saved his life.

Jak shrugged. “Mebbe lost, too.”

“There’s a pair of asterisks here,” J.B. said, tapping an area beyond the pass they were looking for. It was south and east of Carson City. “I’m betting this guy was headed there next.”

“Does it say what’s there?” Ryan asked.

“This notation’s new, marked on top of a piece of tape so nothings lost underneath.” J.B. squinted at it through his glasses. “Shostakovich’s Anvil. Sounds Russian.”

“Could be some kind of Russian settlement there, come drifting down out of the north.”

Ryan didn’t like not knowing what the man had been doing there, and how come he ended up with his neck broken. “And these people found out about it and were going to visit?”

“Way past asking,” Jak said.

“Yeah, but it’s an ace on the line this man wasn’t out here on his own.” Ryan headed off in the direction Jak had said Krysty had taken. They needed to be moving off the mountain if they could, or take shelter from the storm if they couldn’t.

KRYSTY OPENED her eyes and found herself in a hallway that stank of death. Ahead of her Ryanclad in a scarlet armored vestmoved through shifting shadows and a cloud of dust.

Her lover carried the Steyr rifle in his hands. The knuckles of his left hand were skinned; blood trickled between his fingers, spattering the floor beneath his steps. His beard growth looked days old, and his eyes had dark hollows under them.

“Ryan!” she called out.

As with Dean, though, the big man didn’t hear her. Before she could move to one side of the hallway or the other, he walked right through her.

“Where’s Ryan?” she asked, following along her lover’s backtrail.

“It’s not time for you to know,” came the older woman’s voice.

“This isn’t happening now?”

“No.”

Krysty felt the world shift around her, opening up slightly, and she suddenly realized she couldn’t feel the rocks beneath her feet. “When?”

“Concentrate,” the older woman snapped. “If you lose him, then I lose him, and it could be that you’ll lose him for all time. Do you want that?”

“No.” Krysty focused on Ryan, abruptly noticing she was no longer able to hear his footsteps against the rock-strewed floor. Even his edges had grown indistinct.

“Follow him.”

Krysty started forward, surprised at how hard it was to move now. His long stride outdistanced hers. She put more effort into her steps, wishing she could run.

“You grow tired,” the woman’s voice said. “It’s not your fault. This is very demanding. Especially for you, the focus point.”

Ryan hesitated at the next door, letting the Steyr lead him around the corner. It gave Krysty almost enough time to catch him. She reached out to touch him, expecting her hand to go through his back, and it did. It looked as if her hand had been amputated at the wrist and thrust inside Ryan’s back. When her lover took a step forward again, her hand reappeared as if by magic.

Ryan walked up a short flight of stairs. At the top a small doorway let into a room that held splintered shards of the same multicolored light Krysty had seen during her visit with Dean.

“Close enough,” the woman said. “Get ready to talk to him.”

Krysty moved closer as Ryan stepped into the room. A lumpy shadow tore itself free of the ceiling only a few feet in front of him, then came hurtling down. She tried to cry out a warning, knowing it was already too late.