out of nothing all because there was enough bad mojo. But on the flip side, if there was some kind of fugly monster he had to deal with, it would keep his hands busy, his head occupied and he wouldn’t have to think for a while. Better still if he ended up in a world of hurt, because that would keep him from thinking clear even for a while after.
Even better if something did him enough damage to knock him senseless. If he had to do a few months in stasis, then he’d get a few months of mindlessness.
Not that any of that was going to happen. There was nothing here, just that lingering malevolence, like a living, breathing entity.
He could almost feel it watching him.
No bodies.
No blood.
He hadn’t seen anybody since he’d left the little village before dawn, and that had been hours ago. He’d passed several houses and all of them had that abandoned air, and underlying had been that hint of misery. Of death and pain. Of violence that lingered in the air like blood splatter on a white wall.
People had been here—had died here. He’d left the last house behind a few miles back, moving along the shore of the loch, moving closer and closer to…what…he didn’t know.
Whatever had happened, whatever was happening was enough to stain this place. Might be why it all seemed abandoned for miles around. He didn’t know, not yet. But he would. Because something was definitely wrong, and it involved death.
He knew it as well as he knew the shape of his hand, the weight of the twin Colts he wore in a manner nearly identical to how he’d worn them when he’d died shortly before the American Civil War.
Right now, he carried one of those Colts in his hand. They were a matched set, well over a century old and he’d sooner pull out his eyeteeth, using a pair of tweezers, than give up either of them. It was surely a sign of something that he took more than a little comfort in the way a Colt felt in his hand. It wasn’t even that he needed the gun to kill anything. He could kill with fire, with a knife, with his hands—and had.
The weapon was just…familiar. The only thing left of a life that was no longer his.
The wind moaned through the trees and the sound was enough to send a shiver down his spine.
Tough son of a bitch you are, he thought sourly. Trembling at the sound of the wind .
He left that stretch of beach, his gaze shifting to one of the shadowy islands, barely visible in the darkness.
There. Whatever he needed to find, it was out there.
That island was where he found the first sign of life. Not people, again—and no bodies, either.
Crouching at the remains of a fire, he tried to ignore the wind that cut through him like a blade. It might not be possible for him to freeze to death, but he hated the cold.
“I kind of hate you, Will.” He eyed the remains of the fire. Using a stick, he scraped away the sticks, the twigs, the ash. Nothing to be found.
Inside the barrier of the trees, set back some distances from the shore, he paced, eyes on the ground.
The scent of blood was cloying. Fresh blood. But he saw…
“What is this?” he mused.
Crouching down, he studied the white wrapping on the ground in front of him. He already knew what was in it. Bread. Meat. Mustard. His sense of smell was far sharper than what he thought was really needed. And because of that sense of smell, he knew, even before he unwrapped the sandwich, he’d find something odd.
It was fresh. Made within a day or so.
The weather here was still cool, hovering in the thirties or forties, but if the sandwich had been more than a day or two old, the lettuce on it wouldn’t look particularly appetizing and the bread would be a soggy mess.
Odder still was the fact that none of the game on this island had grabbed it. Food was food, after all.
But even as he said it, he found himself rising and turning, head cocked, ears listening. He closed his eyes to drown out everything else.
Nothing —
His eyes flew open and he started to
Even better if something did him enough damage to knock him senseless. If he had to do a few months in stasis, then he’d get a few months of mindlessness.
Not that any of that was going to happen. There was nothing here, just that lingering malevolence, like a living, breathing entity.
He could almost feel it watching him.
No bodies.
No blood.
He hadn’t seen anybody since he’d left the little village before dawn, and that had been hours ago. He’d passed several houses and all of them had that abandoned air, and underlying had been that hint of misery. Of death and pain. Of violence that lingered in the air like blood splatter on a white wall.
People had been here—had died here. He’d left the last house behind a few miles back, moving along the shore of the loch, moving closer and closer to…what…he didn’t know.
Whatever had happened, whatever was happening was enough to stain this place. Might be why it all seemed abandoned for miles around. He didn’t know, not yet. But he would. Because something was definitely wrong, and it involved death.
He knew it as well as he knew the shape of his hand, the weight of the twin Colts he wore in a manner nearly identical to how he’d worn them when he’d died shortly before the American Civil War.
Right now, he carried one of those Colts in his hand. They were a matched set, well over a century old and he’d sooner pull out his eyeteeth, using a pair of tweezers, than give up either of them. It was surely a sign of something that he took more than a little comfort in the way a Colt felt in his hand. It wasn’t even that he needed the gun to kill anything. He could kill with fire, with a knife, with his hands—and had.
The weapon was just…familiar. The only thing left of a life that was no longer his.
The wind moaned through the trees and the sound was enough to send a shiver down his spine.
Tough son of a bitch you are, he thought sourly. Trembling at the sound of the wind .
He left that stretch of beach, his gaze shifting to one of the shadowy islands, barely visible in the darkness.
There. Whatever he needed to find, it was out there.
That island was where he found the first sign of life. Not people, again—and no bodies, either.
Crouching at the remains of a fire, he tried to ignore the wind that cut through him like a blade. It might not be possible for him to freeze to death, but he hated the cold.
“I kind of hate you, Will.” He eyed the remains of the fire. Using a stick, he scraped away the sticks, the twigs, the ash. Nothing to be found.
Inside the barrier of the trees, set back some distances from the shore, he paced, eyes on the ground.
The scent of blood was cloying. Fresh blood. But he saw…
“What is this?” he mused.
Crouching down, he studied the white wrapping on the ground in front of him. He already knew what was in it. Bread. Meat. Mustard. His sense of smell was far sharper than what he thought was really needed. And because of that sense of smell, he knew, even before he unwrapped the sandwich, he’d find something odd.
It was fresh. Made within a day or so.
The weather here was still cool, hovering in the thirties or forties, but if the sandwich had been more than a day or two old, the lettuce on it wouldn’t look particularly appetizing and the bread would be a soggy mess.
Odder still was the fact that none of the game on this island had grabbed it. Food was food, after all.
But even as he said it, he found himself rising and turning, head cocked, ears listening. He closed his eyes to drown out everything else.
Nothing —
His eyes flew open and he started to
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