Warstalker's Track Read Free Page B

cup of coffee down on the porch rail and leaned against the post nearest the steps. The worn, faded wood groaned at the pressure: two hundred pounds was a lot to bring to bear on old construction. The yard was all but invisible, masked by slanting sheets of rain and rushing streams of mud-colored water that carried more of the drive-way—and the mountain, on whose knees the house squatted—into the frothing river at its base that had once been Sullivan Cove Road. His lower lip stuck out in his standard scowl of disapproval. A chill breeze caught him —damned chilly for Georgia in June—and he shivered, hugging the brawny torso that strained beneath the plain white T-shirt he wore above worn jeans and bare feet.
    “No natural storm,” he repeated.
    The initial response was from Tiberius, the ancient yellow tomcat, who made one quick pass against his legs, apparently sensed a kick impending, and fled to the sheltered corner where Little Billy’s bedroom had been tacked on ten years back.
    “You ever think it was?” someone snorted behind him, the tones so masked by the rattly timpani of what sounded suspiciously like hail on the roof he couldn’t tell if it was his wife or younger son who had spoken—save for the wording. Nor did he look around, as JoAnne, his spouse of twenty-three years, padded out to join him. The scent of breakfast came with her: coffee, corn bread, and bacon freshly fried. He felt her stop at his back, and reached around to draw her close. Warmth flowed across his shoulders as her arms enclosed his ribs. Hair brushed his neck where she laid her head against him. Gettin’ to her, too, he thought. Has to be, for her to be like this.
    “Hoped it might be,” he replied in a pause between blasts of thunder. He squinted into space, gazing west: toward the lake, the mountain—Bloody Bald—and the farm that lay between his own and those two landmarks: Dale Sullivan’s place, home of his single surviving uncle. It was dark as pitch over there, as if all the fury that had wracked the mountains for nigh onto a week had been distilled into one single vat of gloom that was rupturing out there, half a mile away.
    “Men in this family do a lot of hopin’,” JoAnne murmured through a shudder he knew she’d have masked if she could. “Me, I do most of my hopin’ about the men in this family.”
    “Billy okay?”
    A shrug. “Think so. He was up half the night, but once he’s out, he could sleep through the Second Comin’.”
    Big Billy nodded toward the yard, the rain, and the road. “Might get his chance sooner’n we thought.”
    JoAnne eased around to flank him. “Wish it was that,” she acknowledged. “That I’d understand. It’s this stuff that comes from that other place I can’t puzzle out. I’ve seen it and I still can’t. Seen enough, anyway.”
    “Magic,” Big Billy agreed. “Just ain’t natural. Folks like us oughtn’t to have nothin’ to do with it.”
    JoAnne nodded solemnly. “Yeah, well you an’ me both know that, but this ain’t our world anymore. We got the kids, but this sure ain’t their world now! Shoot, they know more now than we’ll ever know. And David’s just barely finished the first part of college, never mind Billy—I still say he’s gonna beat ’em all, smart-wise.”
    Big Billy gestured at the yard with a stubby right hand, while the left sought his abandoned coffee; he winced as a gust of wind whipped rain into his face. JoAnne edged behind him again. “Shit,” he spat. “Reckon I oughta go check on Dale?”
    “Might be a good idea. Phone was still out last time I tried. Comes and goes,” she added, as her husband turned toward the house.
    “Wish this fuckin’ rain’d go!” Big Billy grumbled, aiming one final frown at the storm before retreating inside. “Guess I’d better walk; truck’d prob’ly flood out on the way.”
    As if in answer, thunder boomed again—louder and closer alike. A final gust of wind flailed at him, as though