Read Online The Sanity's Edge Saloon (The Sea and the Wasteland Book 1) by Mark Reynolds - Free Book Online Page A

thick rows of fangs, a jaw impossibly
large for its skull. “The question you need to answer, Algernon , is who does have the ticket, if not you?”
    The Writer squinted, trying to focus
through the splits in the lens; trying to see the slash of brilliant blue. Please
go to Cross-Over Station, Jack , he prayed fiercely. Believe, and go to
Cross-Over Station.
    “I’m sorry, Algernon. I can’t make
out what you’re saying.” Kreiger leaned down, a cupped ear placed dramatically
close to the Writer’s mouth. “Or is the name caught in you’re throat? Shall I
have one of my dregs open it up and take a look?”
    “Go back … Kreiger. The new Caretaker
… she’s already … gone ahead.” Would so small a piece of misdirection buy Jack
time? Time enough to learn about the Nexus and how it worked before Kreiger and
the other Cast Outs fell upon him like wild dogs? Go to Cross-Over Station,
Jack. Please!
    “What’s her name?”
    The writer deliberately pursed his
lips and stared up at the sky, that brilliant shade of blue. Not the
sun-bleached color of the Wasteland sky, but a blue like that blue from so long
ago, the fields of France, staring up into the sky. So blue you could almost
dismiss the thick smell of cordite and the moldering stench of blood and
dirt—so much mud—the black silhouettes of branches overhead, the snarls of
twisted wire. Between the clouds of vanilla-smoke, the blue of the sky. You
could almost feel it against your skin like the splash of the sea. You could
escape into that blue if you tried, if you knew how, if you knew where to go … if …
    “Her name?”
    Such a brilliant shade of blue. New
summer. High June. The color of carefree youth and endless days and warm
nights, innocence and freedom and the boastful courage and spirit that
experience has not yet wrung to caution and cowardice. If I could take but one
thing, I would like to take the memory of that single, brilliant color …
    “It looks as if I’m losing you,
Algae. And there are still so many secrets locked inside your head, caught in
your throat, balanced upon the tip of your tongue.” Kreiger looked to one of
his monsters. “Gerrymander, Algernon has something he’d like to share with us,
a secret he wants to tell. But he can’t find the words.”
    And with chilling calm, he said:
“Look for them, won’t you?”
    The Wasteland creature took
Algernon’s head in thick-clawed fingers, prying his mouth open until the bones
snapped and the flesh tore, the Writer’s screams lost in a thick, wet choke of
his own blood.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    CROSS-OVER STATION
     
     
    While an empty alleyway bore witness
to the death of the Writer at the hands of his ancient nemesis, Jack walked up
and down Main Street searching for a train station, oblivious. He had already
closed out his bank accounts and stopped for breakfast at a fifties-style
diner. Neither had taken as much time as he thought. Amazing how easily one’s
entire life’s savings could be collapsed into a simple debit memo. He carried
it to the teller window where it was brusquely exchanged for cash.
    And just like that, his last
connection was broken, nothing holding him here but old habits.
    Breakfast, what was to be the
glorious start to a fantastic day of unimaginable surprises, proved equally
unexciting. They served good coffee, he had to admit. Three cups later, he
found his nerve and left. But good coffee aside, breakfast was otherwise
ordinary.
    As it so happens, it was the last
ordinary thing in Jack’s life.
    He started at the corner of Main Street and Locust and headed towards Seventh, looking from side to side for Cross-Over
Station. Few businesses operated along this section of Main Street, and those
that did discouraged walk-in traffic. On one corner was the distribution center
for the local newspaper, a somewhat-battered dispenser chained to a post just
outside its doors, empty. On the opposite side of the street, a small nameless
bar with