Magic Time: Ghostlands Read Free Page B

a Wonderful Day in the Neighborhood.”
    Refrigerator slowed as he drew near, raised his hands. “Easy, easy there, boss. We got no harm.” He turned back to his followers. “Lay ’em down, folks.” They set their weapons on the ground. Cal lowered his sword, nodded at Colleen and Doc to stand down.
    Refrigerator strode up close to Cal, nearly his height standing on the ground. “You’re Griffin, ain’t you? Cal Griffin.”
    Cal hesitated a moment, then nodded.
    Refrigerator squinted one big blue aggie eye, wrinklesfanning out. “You don’t look like such a long drink of water.” Then he bellowed a laugh like a volcanic eruption and seized Cal in a bear hug, nearly yanking him off his mount.
    Colleen whipped up the crossbow reflexively, but Doc put a steadying hand on her wrist.
    The big man let go and stepped back, still laughing, wiping tears from his eyes. His companions were all staring ardently at Cal, smiling shyly.
    Up close, Cal could see now they were a weary and malnourished bunch, though leanly muscled as if used to hard labor. Their jackets and overcoats were buttoned against the chill, a sad attempt given the rips and tears that gaped like toothless mouths; their tattered clothes hung off them as if they were scarecrows outfitted by an indifferent assembler. Most were in their twenties and thirties, with a scattering of teens.
    “I’m Mike Olifiers,” Refrigerator said. “These others, hell, they can all introduce themselves. We been long traveling, out of Unionville, hugging the Missouri River mostly, but it’s been worth it, yes sir. ” He pulled a big kerchief from his pocket, blew his nose explosively, then fixed Cal again with an admiring gaze.
    “We heard about you. You beat the Storm back in West Virginia, blew it clean outta Chicago.”
    “Well, sort of, not really…”
    “You’re famous in these parts, boy, don’t you know that?”
    “Hard to believe word’s gotten around so fast,” Colleen cut in. “I mean, it’s not like we’ve got CNN or even E! True Hollywood Story, God help us.”
    “Word travels fast, even so,” Olifiers replied. “ Good word, ’cause there’s so damn little of it.”
    Cal felt chilled rather than warmed. Oddly, he had a memory of when he was eighteen, when his mother died, and he had decided in that garish police waiting room to raise Tina on his own. He thought, then as now, I’m not big enough.
    “I’m sure whatever you heard is mostly exaggeration,” Cal said. “And besides, I didn’t do it alone.” Or succeed, Calthought bitterly, remembering the slashing nightmare of the Source blasting into existence in the devastated Wishart house in Boone’s Gap, spiriting Fred Wishart and Tina away.
    “You’re modest; I heard that, too,” said Olifiers. He reached out to put a meaty hand on Cal’s shoulder. His wrist came clear of his sleeve and Cal caught sight of a livid mark along the skin. Seeing this, Olifiers pulled his hand back as if burned, shame blossoming in his eyes. He pulled his sleeve down to cover it, looked at the others.
    They shifted where they stood, tried to make subtle adjustments to their clothes at the neck and wrist.
    Colleen picked up the vibe, looked in confusion from the group to Cal. But Doc had seen the mark, too. Cal nodded to him.
    Doc dismounted, approached Olifiers and his band. “You will excuse me….” With the expert hands of a physician, he examined Olifiers’s wrist, turning it this way and that in the muted twilight. Then he drew near the others. Olifiers signaled compliance. No longer effusive, they stood as Doc lifted collars, pulled up pant legs to reveal thin ankles, inspected necks and shoulders.
    He turned back to Cal, the expression on his angular face all the affirmation Cal needed. “Rope burns, lesions from manacles and shackles, welts—possibly from lashing…”
    It was as Cal suspected. At the Preserve, Mary McCrae had told him of such things, but he had never seen it firsthand. Another