Read Online Walk the Sky by Robert Swartwood, David B. Silva - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert Swartwood, David B. Silva
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lumbering forms, human but not human, their moonlight-reflected gazes hollow and unlike anything Clay had ever seen.
With the knife in one hand, tearing the kerchief out of his mouth with the other, he headed away from the godless hordes. Running past several demons that seemed to step out of nowhere. Back down the street in the direction of the jailhouse.
The town was deserted now.
All the buildings were dark and silent.
Clay stopped just before the plank walkway in front of the jailhouse to catch his breath.
Behind him, the demons gathered into a huge, lumbering mass that reminded Clay of a colony of ants organizing to bring its prey home. They weren’t as fast as ants, but they scrambled over one another, fighting for position, stumbling and pushing to get to the forefront.
He turned from the hordes back to the jailhouse just as a demon stepped out of the shadows less than five feet away. When it reached for him, Clay brushed aside its arm and landed a blow to the side of the demon’s head that sent it toppling over.
It was the first time in his life he’d landed a punch—it was a shove that had sent Bolton’s son tripping over his own feet onto that rock—and it hurt like hell.
Clay turned away and tried to shake out the pain.
As he did, he was met by another demon, this one bigger and stronger. It was nearly on top of him, and Clay’s reaction was instinctive and without thought.
He plunged the knife into the demon’s stomach.
The creature had no eyes but its crude mouth opened in a soundless roar as the demon fell backwards, black blood oozing from the wound, the body all at once going rigid as it hit the ground.
That was as much as Clay saw.
The rest of the demons were even closer now, almost on top of him, and he turned and ran.
The moon shined down on him as if he had been chosen, providing all the light he needed to slip past the town’s last building. From there, the moonlight took him through the surrounding desert to the rise of a hill less than a mile away.
When Clay reached the top, he stopped, bent over, and nearly threw up.
His muscles cramped. His lungs ached. His head pounded.
The town was a speck in the distance now, though the darkness appeared to churn with movement.
The demons.
They would be out all night. Most of them had probably given up hunting him, but a few who were determined would still be coming. He’d have to keep moving. At the moment, he was safe, but he’d have to keep moving.
Still breathing heavily, Clay stood up. He looked down at his hands and saw they were empty. Where was the knife? He had a faint memory of stabbing the demon, and then ... had he dropped it back in town?
It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was safe. For now.
Feeling some of his strength returning, he turned to run deeper into the desert when a hand reached out from the dark and touched him on the arm.
14.
Reverend Titus Willard was lying in bed, staring at his beautiful sleeping wife, when there was a knock at the door.
Marilyn stirred beside him. She murmured, “What is it?”
“Stay here.”
He slipped out of bed and grabbed his robe and headed out of the bedroom toward the front door where Roy stood on the other side of the glass.
“Yes?” Willard said, opening the door.
Roy nervously bounced from one foot to the other, his face pale and drawn.
“We got trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Can’t quite explain, Reverend. You just need to see for yourself.”
“I’m spending time with my wife,” he said in a voice much louder than was needed, wanting Marilyn to hear how he did not want to leave her. Not that he didn’t love her already, but after last night, her coming to him like she did—like he had always prayed for, coming to him as a wife was supposed to come to her husband—why, it had set every wrong in the world momentarily right.
With the knife in one hand, tearing the kerchief out of his mouth with the other, he headed away from the godless hordes. Running past several demons that seemed to step out of nowhere. Back down the street in the direction of the jailhouse.
The town was deserted now.
All the buildings were dark and silent.
Clay stopped just before the plank walkway in front of the jailhouse to catch his breath.
Behind him, the demons gathered into a huge, lumbering mass that reminded Clay of a colony of ants organizing to bring its prey home. They weren’t as fast as ants, but they scrambled over one another, fighting for position, stumbling and pushing to get to the forefront.
He turned from the hordes back to the jailhouse just as a demon stepped out of the shadows less than five feet away. When it reached for him, Clay brushed aside its arm and landed a blow to the side of the demon’s head that sent it toppling over.
It was the first time in his life he’d landed a punch—it was a shove that had sent Bolton’s son tripping over his own feet onto that rock—and it hurt like hell.
Clay turned away and tried to shake out the pain.
As he did, he was met by another demon, this one bigger and stronger. It was nearly on top of him, and Clay’s reaction was instinctive and without thought.
He plunged the knife into the demon’s stomach.
The creature had no eyes but its crude mouth opened in a soundless roar as the demon fell backwards, black blood oozing from the wound, the body all at once going rigid as it hit the ground.
That was as much as Clay saw.
The rest of the demons were even closer now, almost on top of him, and he turned and ran.
The moon shined down on him as if he had been chosen, providing all the light he needed to slip past the town’s last building. From there, the moonlight took him through the surrounding desert to the rise of a hill less than a mile away.
When Clay reached the top, he stopped, bent over, and nearly threw up.
His muscles cramped. His lungs ached. His head pounded.
The town was a speck in the distance now, though the darkness appeared to churn with movement.
The demons.
They would be out all night. Most of them had probably given up hunting him, but a few who were determined would still be coming. He’d have to keep moving. At the moment, he was safe, but he’d have to keep moving.
Still breathing heavily, Clay stood up. He looked down at his hands and saw they were empty. Where was the knife? He had a faint memory of stabbing the demon, and then ... had he dropped it back in town?
It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was safe. For now.
Feeling some of his strength returning, he turned to run deeper into the desert when a hand reached out from the dark and touched him on the arm.
14.
Reverend Titus Willard was lying in bed, staring at his beautiful sleeping wife, when there was a knock at the door.
Marilyn stirred beside him. She murmured, “What is it?”
“Stay here.”
He slipped out of bed and grabbed his robe and headed out of the bedroom toward the front door where Roy stood on the other side of the glass.
“Yes?” Willard said, opening the door.
Roy nervously bounced from one foot to the other, his face pale and drawn.
“We got trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Can’t quite explain, Reverend. You just need to see for yourself.”
“I’m spending time with my wife,” he said in a voice much louder than was needed, wanting Marilyn to hear how he did not want to leave her. Not that he didn’t love her already, but after last night, her coming to him like she did—like he had always prayed for, coming to him as a wife was supposed to come to her husband—why, it had set every wrong in the world momentarily right.
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