note and then some. A trickle of urine burned its way through his urethra and dampened his boxers.
The ground jerked and rippled.
What was left of Jackson suddenly appeared in the air, several yards away from where it had been, still surrounded by black spheres. The eviscerated corpse dropped, smashing to the heaving ground, and the second group of aliens returned, throbbing and twisting, accompanied by a sound like radio being tuned—many voices saying something that hovered on the very edge of intelligibility.
“Run!” shouted a distant voice, repeating the advice Clancy had given Penemue only minutes before. Clancy looked across the street that divided north campus from south and saw a man dashing across the road. The man held a flashlight that bobbed with each step, its light looking horribly like one of the creatures.
“For God’s sake, get out of there now!” the man shouted again. He looked familiar, but Clancy was in no shape to figure out where he’d seen him before.
The ground took a sudden leap to the left and he fell, rolling onto his belly, digging his fingers into the dirt to stabilize himself. He reached out and grabbed his pistol, yanking it toward him and sliding it into its holster. He couldn’t remember how many shots he’d fired, but he didn’t have time to change the clip now.
The newcomer shouted again: “Greg! Run, go, get away from those things!”
Clancy saw that, impossibly, Penemue was still standing, his legs wide and his hands out of his coat pockets as if to brace himself on thin air. The man turned, his pale eyes searching for the caller as he rode the bucking ground as easily as a sailor rode a heaving ship deck.
Clancy looked back at the monsters. They had swarmed away, moving closer to the center of the field as if losing interest in the humans. Thank God. He pulled himself to all fours and began to crawl across the field toward the road and the shouting man.
Another quake nearly threw him off balance and he froze, looking back. One of the spotlights sputtered and blew, sending sparks into the air. A snake thing lunged upward at the aliens, its jaws gaping, its blind head swinging ecstatically toward them.
It was too much. He looked forward again and crawled as fast as he could, pausing only when the shaking of the ground threatened to throw him down.
Then the newcomer was kneeling next to him, stretching an arm around his shoulders and pointing a flashlight across the field.
“What—” For a moment Clancy tried to pull away.
“Careful.” The other man was staring past him. Clancy stared at his face and suddenly remembered where he’d seen him before.
“You’re the priest!”
“Minister,” the man corrected, his eyes still fixed on whatever was happening out by the monsters. Clancy was afraid to turn and look. “Luther Lindgren. We talked earlier today.”
Clancy grabbed his arm, feeling a surge of superstitious faith.
“Can you send those things away?”
“No.” Lindgren’s voice sounded distant. “No. My grandfather couldn’t, and I can’t, either.”
XIX
This time, instead of revealing a vast horizon, the hellpassage was a narrow tunnel, its walls composed of seething beetles and roaches and earwigs and other squirming insects. Jack kept his arms tightly against his sides as he sidled through. He wasn’t afraid of bugs, but damned if he wanted any crawling around inside his shirt, either.
It was bad enough that his magickal wards were acting up again, warning him that he was near evil—as if he might have forgotten he was walking through hell.
He liked the bugs better than the infernal crematoriums, though. If he had to take Todd’s twisty passages through space, he preferred them filled with natural creatures.
“If you say we can walk through both heaven or hell,” Andy was speculating aloud, “and all we’re perceiving is an interpretation of something too difficult for our mortal minds to comprehend, then why are our
The ground jerked and rippled.
What was left of Jackson suddenly appeared in the air, several yards away from where it had been, still surrounded by black spheres. The eviscerated corpse dropped, smashing to the heaving ground, and the second group of aliens returned, throbbing and twisting, accompanied by a sound like radio being tuned—many voices saying something that hovered on the very edge of intelligibility.
“Run!” shouted a distant voice, repeating the advice Clancy had given Penemue only minutes before. Clancy looked across the street that divided north campus from south and saw a man dashing across the road. The man held a flashlight that bobbed with each step, its light looking horribly like one of the creatures.
“For God’s sake, get out of there now!” the man shouted again. He looked familiar, but Clancy was in no shape to figure out where he’d seen him before.
The ground took a sudden leap to the left and he fell, rolling onto his belly, digging his fingers into the dirt to stabilize himself. He reached out and grabbed his pistol, yanking it toward him and sliding it into its holster. He couldn’t remember how many shots he’d fired, but he didn’t have time to change the clip now.
The newcomer shouted again: “Greg! Run, go, get away from those things!”
Clancy saw that, impossibly, Penemue was still standing, his legs wide and his hands out of his coat pockets as if to brace himself on thin air. The man turned, his pale eyes searching for the caller as he rode the bucking ground as easily as a sailor rode a heaving ship deck.
Clancy looked back at the monsters. They had swarmed away, moving closer to the center of the field as if losing interest in the humans. Thank God. He pulled himself to all fours and began to crawl across the field toward the road and the shouting man.
Another quake nearly threw him off balance and he froze, looking back. One of the spotlights sputtered and blew, sending sparks into the air. A snake thing lunged upward at the aliens, its jaws gaping, its blind head swinging ecstatically toward them.
It was too much. He looked forward again and crawled as fast as he could, pausing only when the shaking of the ground threatened to throw him down.
Then the newcomer was kneeling next to him, stretching an arm around his shoulders and pointing a flashlight across the field.
“What—” For a moment Clancy tried to pull away.
“Careful.” The other man was staring past him. Clancy stared at his face and suddenly remembered where he’d seen him before.
“You’re the priest!”
“Minister,” the man corrected, his eyes still fixed on whatever was happening out by the monsters. Clancy was afraid to turn and look. “Luther Lindgren. We talked earlier today.”
Clancy grabbed his arm, feeling a surge of superstitious faith.
“Can you send those things away?”
“No.” Lindgren’s voice sounded distant. “No. My grandfather couldn’t, and I can’t, either.”
XIX
This time, instead of revealing a vast horizon, the hellpassage was a narrow tunnel, its walls composed of seething beetles and roaches and earwigs and other squirming insects. Jack kept his arms tightly against his sides as he sidled through. He wasn’t afraid of bugs, but damned if he wanted any crawling around inside his shirt, either.
It was bad enough that his magickal wards were acting up again, warning him that he was near evil—as if he might have forgotten he was walking through hell.
He liked the bugs better than the infernal crematoriums, though. If he had to take Todd’s twisty passages through space, he preferred them filled with natural creatures.
“If you say we can walk through both heaven or hell,” Andy was speculating aloud, “and all we’re perceiving is an interpretation of something too difficult for our mortal minds to comprehend, then why are our
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