Magic Time: Ghostlands Read Free Page A

kicked up out of the west, ran its cold hand across Cal’s cheek. “This wind picks up, we may have to hunker down out here. Better keep an eye out for places to go to ground.” But not for long, never for long, no matter what the flatlands threw at them.
    He remembered the hard Minnesota winters of his childhood, where the snow flew parallel to the ground—a spray of fluffy white shrapnel you’d swear could peel off layers of skin. That’s when you knew God was no Caribbean tour director but a stern taskmaster, and not one particularly inclined to like you. You found out who you really were in those endless gray months, not in the sunshine days. Goodpractice for what ultimately came down, Cal thought, and for what might lie ahead.
    Doc clucked in mock disapproval. “America is for sissies. You haven’t tried a Moscow winter.”
    “No,” Colleen said as the horses continued on, “and I haven’t driven a tank in Afghanistan, either. But I wouldn’t lay bets on beating me at arm wrestling, if I were you.”
    “Which is why I take pains not to cross you, Boi Baba, ” Doc said.
    Cal caught the slight smile Colleen shot him, the affection beneath. He would have to remember to ask Doc what that phrase meant when they were alone. Probably “pain in the ass” or “woman of sarcasm.”
    A distant cry sounded in the air, and he saw Colleen glance up sharply. He followed her gaze—nothing but a lone red-tailed hawk, its brown and white wings spread wide to catch the currents and float circling, scanning the ground for a lunch that thankfully was not them.
    On several nights spaced over the last two weeks, Colleen had mentioned to Cal she thought she had heard a muffled beating like vast wings through the thick, obscuring cloud layer above them as they’d made camp. But it had been fleeting, and neither Cal nor Doc nor Goldie could corroborate the sound over the hammering prairie night wind that snatched away their body heat and drove them huddling into their tents till morning.
    But whatever unseen god of hawks and demons shadowed them—if it was indeed more than imagination pricked by the brooding suggestiveness of this wide ocean grassland—it did not deign to make its appearance known.
    “So what now?” Colleen asked Cal. “Homestead and wait for the crops to come up?”
    “We continue west, see if we can find some people.” Nowadays, short of tuning into K-Source, that was the only way to get current information. And also rumor, distortions and outright lies.
    “Um, I don’t think that’s gonna be a problem….” Goldie had pulled up, was scanning the fading light to the east.
    Cal followed his gaze and spied the ragtag group of menand women emerging from the tall grass, about thirty in all, a hundred yards off, striding quickly toward them. Even at this distance and in this light, he could see they all held broken branches, stones, twisted lengths of pipe. A beefy man in front—a huge guy, like a refrigerator with a head—raised a pair of field glasses and scrutinized Cal and his companions.
    He lowered them excitedly, shouted, “One in the middle, that’s him!”
    With a cry, the group broke into a run, came rushing toward them, waving their weapons.
    “Your call,” Colleen said evenly to Cal. “Hell-bent for leather, or…?”
    “Goldie?”
    Colleen snorted. “Right, trust the one with the personality dis—”
    “Colleen.”
    Goldie considered the mob, lapsing into a strange calm, as if there weren’t a herd of buffalo stampeding toward him. After a long moment, he muttered, “Look like a nice group of folks.”
    A fortune cookie with a sting in its tail, like so much of what Goldie said. Was he being ironic, or…?
    Cal brought his horse around to face the attackers, unsheathed his sword. Colleen took the hint and unslung her crossbow; Doc freed his machete.
    Goldie sat on Later and watched them come, began to hum under his breath. Cal caught a snatch of tune, realized it was “It’s