![]() ![]() There was another clap of thunder, this one a huge oaken thud that rolled through the sky like an artillery shell. 'Wolf' Jack screamed, but thunder exploded across the blue sky again, drowning him out. A moment later another of the terrified cow-sheep struck him and bore him under again. Wolf bent over and retched up a great muddy sheet of water. Morgan started forward, his face swimming and rippling as if made of limp plastic, and Jack had time to see there was something clutched in his hand, something hung around his neck, something small and silvery. As he watched, they began to sag tiredly outward in four different directions. The animal's legs were still there, mired in the mud like shake-poles. Again it struck the other bank, this time vaporizing one of Wolf's cattle. The wet, sizzling zap of electricity again, seeming almost to part his hair. Gobbets of flesh began to rain down around Jack. Blood flew in a needle-spray of droplets. It struck one of the cow-sheep caught in the reedy muck on the other side of the stream and the unfortunate beast simply exploded, as if it had swallowed dynamite. Morgan Sloat's suede boots became dark leather knee-boots, their tops turned down, what might have been the hilt of a knife poking out of one.īut the Queen's son died an infant, died, he-īlue fire arched over Jack's shoulder, sizzling-it was like a deadly electric rainbow. That's it, he's gone, must be, let him go, get out of here- Help rebuild the Kingdom and make it the new place of magic merging. Jack thought that was what it was.Īnd the small silver thing in his hand had turned to a small rod tipped with crawling blue fire.īut he struggled on toward Wolf, pushing a dying, weakly convulsing cow-sheep out of his way to get there. And in the center, looking like an extra in a film about Admiral Byrd's assault on the South Pole, was Morgan Sloat, his thick red face twisted with murderous rage. The snout of what looked like a Chevrolet pick-up truck was on the right, floating three feet above the field where he and Wolf had been sitting peacefully and talking not five minutes ago. The edge of the brick toilet was on the left side of that blistered, tortured patch of air. He was seeing it as if through ripply, badly made glass. and directly into the rest area on I-70 near Lewisburg, Ohio. Panting, his soaked hair hanging in his eyes, Jack looked over his shoulder. It was like listening to a man shout inside a telephone booth. His voice carried, but it had a muffled, dead quality as it came from the reality of that world into the reality of this one. 'There you are, you little shithead' Morgan bellowed at him. ![]() He stood at midstream in water that was crotch-deep, cattle passing on either side of him, baa-ing and bleating, staring at that window which had been torn in the very fabric of reality, his eyes wide, his mouth wider. The cry was low, gargling, full of water. ![]()
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