Read Online Laws of Nature -2 by Christopher Golden - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Christopher Golden
Ads: Link
clouds. There were no other cars on the road. Now that he had gotten off Route 89, he was alone, with only Molly's sleeping form and the spirits of the dead for company. He wanted to scream.
Jack would never get used to it. They were dead, and it always felt to him as though they wanted something from him that he could not provide.
Life.
Go home, Jack.
Though the road was slipperier than ever beneath his tires, he risked a quick glance at Molly. She was cute as hell, her lips parted just a bit, a tiny bit of drool at the edge of her mouth that he would tease her for later. He mentally willed her to wake up, but resisted the urge to reach out and shake her. After all, what would he say? She knew about the ghosts, but just as she did not like to discuss her mother, he was reluctant to talk to her about the Ghostlands, because that might lead to questions about Artie.
A few miles farther on, he rounded a corner and the road began to climb up. All around there were hills and small mountains. A green sign at the side of the road announced that Barlow was three miles away, and Buckton eight. Jack never saw a trace of Barlow, and imagined it must be off the main road.
A short time later the Jeep rolled to a stop at an intersection where more than a dozen ghosts stood along the side of the road, like spectators at a parade. As one, they turned to stare at the Jeep, and at Jack behind the wheel. With the rain sluicing through them, they then lowered their heads and would no longer meet his eyes.
He froze. The engine idled as he sat there staring at the ghosts, hoping they would look up at him. If they did, and they told him to go as the other specter had, Jack knew he would turn the Jeep around and keep driving until he saw the lights of Boston.
But they did not glance up again. Would not.
"What the hell is this?" he whispered, his voice too loud in the Jeep with Molly sleeping beside him, even though the soft music on the radio drowned out his words.
There came an answer.
"Call it the welcome wagon, bro."
With a start, Jack glanced in the rearview mirror. In the backseat, the rear of the Jeep visible through him, sat Artie Carroll. Artie was a ghost now and a part of the spirit world that Jack could never understand. But Artie was still Artie.
"What do you think of it up here, Jack?" he asked. "Weird country, I think. I mean, on the one hand you've got plenty of liberals, all that PC Ben & Jerry's stuff and the push for gay marriages. On the other hand, you've got enough hunting to make Charlton Heston wet himself. An NRA festival. Damn peculiar, wouldn'tja say?"
Jack felt a chill run through him, and he did his best not to let Artie see how it all affected him.
"Good . . . good to see you, Artie," he said, voice barely above a whisper. Molly would hear him if she woke up. If he was lucky, she'd think he was talking to himself.
"You're freaked out, Jack. Don't lie to me. I don't come around for a few weeks, maybe you stop believing I'm still here," Artie said, sadness creeping into his voice.
Jack could clearly see the upholstery through Artie's body. Every inch of him was transparent, and sometimes his legs seemed to be disappearing. He drifted more than moved.
Every inch . . . but not his eyes. Artie's eyes were black and gleaming with sparkles that might have been stars. Something swirled inside them, something solid. His eyes were not transparent, they were windows into somewhere else. Jack thought it was the Ghostlands, but if it was not, he did not want to know what else it could be.
Molly began to stir, so Jack accelerated again, even more slowly. They crossed the intersection and rolled past the ghosts, but not one of them looked up.
"What do you mean, 'welcome wagon'?" he asked quietly.
"They've heard about you. Word travels in the Ghostlands. All these folks are victims of the Prowlers. You got vengeance for me and some others in Boston.
They're hoping you'll do the same here," Artie explained.
Jack
Jack would never get used to it. They were dead, and it always felt to him as though they wanted something from him that he could not provide.
Life.
Go home, Jack.
Though the road was slipperier than ever beneath his tires, he risked a quick glance at Molly. She was cute as hell, her lips parted just a bit, a tiny bit of drool at the edge of her mouth that he would tease her for later. He mentally willed her to wake up, but resisted the urge to reach out and shake her. After all, what would he say? She knew about the ghosts, but just as she did not like to discuss her mother, he was reluctant to talk to her about the Ghostlands, because that might lead to questions about Artie.
A few miles farther on, he rounded a corner and the road began to climb up. All around there were hills and small mountains. A green sign at the side of the road announced that Barlow was three miles away, and Buckton eight. Jack never saw a trace of Barlow, and imagined it must be off the main road.
A short time later the Jeep rolled to a stop at an intersection where more than a dozen ghosts stood along the side of the road, like spectators at a parade. As one, they turned to stare at the Jeep, and at Jack behind the wheel. With the rain sluicing through them, they then lowered their heads and would no longer meet his eyes.
He froze. The engine idled as he sat there staring at the ghosts, hoping they would look up at him. If they did, and they told him to go as the other specter had, Jack knew he would turn the Jeep around and keep driving until he saw the lights of Boston.
But they did not glance up again. Would not.
"What the hell is this?" he whispered, his voice too loud in the Jeep with Molly sleeping beside him, even though the soft music on the radio drowned out his words.
There came an answer.
"Call it the welcome wagon, bro."
With a start, Jack glanced in the rearview mirror. In the backseat, the rear of the Jeep visible through him, sat Artie Carroll. Artie was a ghost now and a part of the spirit world that Jack could never understand. But Artie was still Artie.
"What do you think of it up here, Jack?" he asked. "Weird country, I think. I mean, on the one hand you've got plenty of liberals, all that PC Ben & Jerry's stuff and the push for gay marriages. On the other hand, you've got enough hunting to make Charlton Heston wet himself. An NRA festival. Damn peculiar, wouldn'tja say?"
Jack felt a chill run through him, and he did his best not to let Artie see how it all affected him.
"Good . . . good to see you, Artie," he said, voice barely above a whisper. Molly would hear him if she woke up. If he was lucky, she'd think he was talking to himself.
"You're freaked out, Jack. Don't lie to me. I don't come around for a few weeks, maybe you stop believing I'm still here," Artie said, sadness creeping into his voice.
Jack could clearly see the upholstery through Artie's body. Every inch of him was transparent, and sometimes his legs seemed to be disappearing. He drifted more than moved.
Every inch . . . but not his eyes. Artie's eyes were black and gleaming with sparkles that might have been stars. Something swirled inside them, something solid. His eyes were not transparent, they were windows into somewhere else. Jack thought it was the Ghostlands, but if it was not, he did not want to know what else it could be.
Molly began to stir, so Jack accelerated again, even more slowly. They crossed the intersection and rolled past the ghosts, but not one of them looked up.
"What do you mean, 'welcome wagon'?" he asked quietly.
"They've heard about you. Word travels in the Ghostlands. All these folks are victims of the Prowlers. You got vengeance for me and some others in Boston.
They're hoping you'll do the same here," Artie explained.
Jack
Similar Books
