conceal potential stalkers, pegged the burro out, and hobbled the gelding. He laid his wards out with a murmur and a click of the stones, banked a fire despite the mild Indian summer night, rolled into a groundsheet and slept.
He was deep in dreamless sleep when Harley's sharp nicker of cold fear shattered the quiet.
Chapter 4
Somewhere it was written that cockroaches were going to inherit the Earth. Thomas knew he'd seen it and the evidence chittering in front of him would support that statement. He kicked his rifle loose from its sheath, scrambled to his feet, and grabbed it up. Harley was making admirable speed even hobbled, but the little burro was at the rope's end, braying in terror.
Cockroaches came in several sizes. In-City roaches were usually ankle- to knee-high, but this out-country dumpster size easily qualified as a "tank," big enough to make even a wolfrat reconsider. Antenna whipped at Thomas as mandibles moved. A string of slime dropped from a hairy jaw. The scent of the corpse had drawn it and it was hungry.
A fire flash wasn't going to deter it for very long. Thomas dropped the vial out of its chamber and patted down his jacket, searching for something with a little more kick to it. The inside flaps of his brown leather jacket were lined with sleevelike pockets, filled with vials of this and that, handy little concoctions. He slid his hand inside. The knobby end of a crooked finger bone slipped eagerly into his grasp. The last thing he needed now was a fight with witch power and his haunt. "Oh, no, Gillander, not now," he said and dropped the bones hastily back into a pocket. Another fumble for a vial with its embossed seal telling him what it contained and he grasped it in triumph.
The burro let out a squeal as the tank charged. Almost dwarfed by its shrouded burden, it spun at rope's end and kicked out. Thomas dropped the vial into the loading chamber and cranked the rifle. The roach sliced a second time and caught the burro along his shaggy withers. In the night, the blood looked blue-black as it welled up. The roach skittered around into position to charge again.
Thomas shot into the dirt at the creature's cable-width legs. The vial shattered on impact and exploded. In a shower of dirt and gravel, the roach flipped in midair and came down on its back with a death rattle of shell and insect anger. He helped it along with his wrist blade.
The little burro stood stubbornly at its pegging rope's full length, ears flicking forward and back in uncertainty. Thomas approached it, talking gently, and wrapped an arm about its shaggy neck. He could feel its heart thundering in its body. He pulled another vial from his jacket pocket and uncorked it between his teeth. The medicinal smell would stay on his mustache until he had a chance to wash, he thought ruefully. He poured the vial over the burro's shoulder and watched as it fizzed and a cloud of foam rose. The little beast shuddered under his ministrations, but Thomas knew the liquid didn't hurt, not really. And the carrion poison of a cockroach would be far more lethal. When the gash stopped foaming, it bled cleanly for a moment, then clotted abruptly.
Thomas slapped the creature's neck. "You'll be fine, old son. Now," he whirled, peering into the gloom. "Where the hell did Harley go?"
Harley had gotten pretty far down the canyon by the time Blade caught up with him. He'd kicked his fire site apart and moved camp with the search, knowing that neither animal would rest well with the roach carcass twitching all night. Plus, where there was one, there were bound to be more. He hiked with his saddle and tack thrown over one shoulder, rifle in the other hand, eyes squinted against the darkness until he sensed before he saw animal heat.
Harley's ears flopped forward and back in embarrassment as he walked up. Lather dried the gelding's neck and flaked off as Thomas thumped him in greeting.
"Even handicapped, you made pretty good time, old man."
The horse
He was deep in dreamless sleep when Harley's sharp nicker of cold fear shattered the quiet.
Chapter 4
Somewhere it was written that cockroaches were going to inherit the Earth. Thomas knew he'd seen it and the evidence chittering in front of him would support that statement. He kicked his rifle loose from its sheath, scrambled to his feet, and grabbed it up. Harley was making admirable speed even hobbled, but the little burro was at the rope's end, braying in terror.
Cockroaches came in several sizes. In-City roaches were usually ankle- to knee-high, but this out-country dumpster size easily qualified as a "tank," big enough to make even a wolfrat reconsider. Antenna whipped at Thomas as mandibles moved. A string of slime dropped from a hairy jaw. The scent of the corpse had drawn it and it was hungry.
A fire flash wasn't going to deter it for very long. Thomas dropped the vial out of its chamber and patted down his jacket, searching for something with a little more kick to it. The inside flaps of his brown leather jacket were lined with sleevelike pockets, filled with vials of this and that, handy little concoctions. He slid his hand inside. The knobby end of a crooked finger bone slipped eagerly into his grasp. The last thing he needed now was a fight with witch power and his haunt. "Oh, no, Gillander, not now," he said and dropped the bones hastily back into a pocket. Another fumble for a vial with its embossed seal telling him what it contained and he grasped it in triumph.
The burro let out a squeal as the tank charged. Almost dwarfed by its shrouded burden, it spun at rope's end and kicked out. Thomas dropped the vial into the loading chamber and cranked the rifle. The roach sliced a second time and caught the burro along his shaggy withers. In the night, the blood looked blue-black as it welled up. The roach skittered around into position to charge again.
Thomas shot into the dirt at the creature's cable-width legs. The vial shattered on impact and exploded. In a shower of dirt and gravel, the roach flipped in midair and came down on its back with a death rattle of shell and insect anger. He helped it along with his wrist blade.
The little burro stood stubbornly at its pegging rope's full length, ears flicking forward and back in uncertainty. Thomas approached it, talking gently, and wrapped an arm about its shaggy neck. He could feel its heart thundering in its body. He pulled another vial from his jacket pocket and uncorked it between his teeth. The medicinal smell would stay on his mustache until he had a chance to wash, he thought ruefully. He poured the vial over the burro's shoulder and watched as it fizzed and a cloud of foam rose. The little beast shuddered under his ministrations, but Thomas knew the liquid didn't hurt, not really. And the carrion poison of a cockroach would be far more lethal. When the gash stopped foaming, it bled cleanly for a moment, then clotted abruptly.
Thomas slapped the creature's neck. "You'll be fine, old son. Now," he whirled, peering into the gloom. "Where the hell did Harley go?"
Harley had gotten pretty far down the canyon by the time Blade caught up with him. He'd kicked his fire site apart and moved camp with the search, knowing that neither animal would rest well with the roach carcass twitching all night. Plus, where there was one, there were bound to be more. He hiked with his saddle and tack thrown over one shoulder, rifle in the other hand, eyes squinted against the darkness until he sensed before he saw animal heat.
Harley's ears flopped forward and back in embarrassment as he walked up. Lather dried the gelding's neck and flaked off as Thomas thumped him in greeting.
"Even handicapped, you made pretty good time, old man."
The horse
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