The Sanity's Edge Saloon (The Sea and the Wasteland Book 1) by Mark Reynolds Page B

others along
with him was meant as a demonstration of his resolve: Kreiger would take the
ticket—and thereby the Nexus—and the Writer could do nothing to stop him.
    What were you thinking, old man?
    The two creatures—there was nothing
about them that might be confused with human beings—stared back at him with
blank expressions, their faces a hodgepodge of leathery skin, jagged fangs and
bestial eyes. They were dressed identically: long coats of black, collars
pulled up as if against some imaginary storm, their monstrous appearances
concealed like comic book goons beneath the wide, drooping brims of their black
hats; they were images lifted off old cinema posters, bad pulp comics, the
worst kind of B-movie. One had a hawkish nose and ice-colored eyes, his face
carved and creased like an ancient, wind-worn statue. The other gazed absently,
eyes burned milky white, sightless, slits instead of nostrils covered with
folds of skin like some abstract artist’s perverse graffiti, a skull obscenely
fleshed. The flaps of skin bulged spasmodically as it sniffed the air, sensing
the Writer purely by smell.
    Wasteland dregs! The Writer thought in amazement. The
pompous fool has actually carried Wasteland dregs with him into this world!
    “Tell me Algernon,” Kreiger said.
“You call yourself the Writer, but how will you write when my creatures have
bitten off your hands? How will you see your words when they have gouged out
your eyes? How will you speak your stories when they are eating your tongue?”
Kreiger’s voice grew closer, his words punctuated by the steady footfall
against cement like the sound of hobnailed boots stamping iron catwalks in a
dungeon buried far below the earth and the sun and the sight of God. “There are
many of us who would like access to the Nexus, Algae. More than you could ever
imagine. Now, for the last time, where … is … that … TICKET ?”
    And for the Writer, the world seemed
suddenly caught like a fly in amber, all the players reduced to bees struggling
through a honey jar, the air viscid and thick, every movement unbelievably
drawn out and impossibly long. The Writer saw his own numbed fingers squeeze
the burning hot cups, the plastic lids bending and popping loose exactly as he
was tossing them, splashing the still steaming liquid into the faces of the two
creatures barring his way. And then he was running, shouldering between the
dregs as they hunched over squealing and clutching at their scalded flesh with
clawed hands. He never slowed to see if either was hurt, or how badly. He
simply ran.
    He had to get to Cross-Over Station;
it was his only chance.
    Behind him, a scramble of thumping,
footsteps in pursuit accompanied by a thickened wheezing sound; the dregs were
unaccustomed to this world, to the water in the air. He had an edge.
    Don’t be a fool, old man. You’re the
one not used to this world , he thought darkly, and knew it to be true. Already he could feel the
rapid thumping of his heart against his chest, the sound of blood pressing
through his neck and behind his ears. Try as he might, he could not breathe
deep enough to keep running like this, reduced to short gulps of air like a
landed fish. He was too old; too old for Kreiger and his pet demons. How much
further to Cross-Over Station? Two blocks? Three?
    He had to try.He harbored no
illusions about what they would do to him if they caught him, especially when
they discovered that the ticket was gone.
    I have to warn Jack!
    Around him, no one looked up, or saw
him, or even moved, all trapped in the moment between moments, the last
battleground between the Writer and the mad wizard of the Wasteland. Or was
this all in his head, invisible monsters, the manifestations of his own secret
madness? Will the world miss me when I die? Will they even know?
    Must get to Cross-Over Station ,he thought through a cloud
of exertion.
    The dregs devoured his lead with
inhuman strides, lions charging across the savannah, single-minded