Armageddon's Children - Terry Brooks [68]
The demon pictured in her mind for a moment what she might do to the woman when she had her within reach again. She pictured the fear and pain she would find in her eyes when she had her in her grasp. She pictured the ways she would break her.
It was only then that she would feel vindicated.
Putting such images aside for another time and brushing off any further concerns about the old man, she began walking north out of the city.
Chapter TWELVE
IT WAS MIDDAY in the ruins of the Emerald City, and the Ghosts were playing stickball in the streets of Pioneer Square.
Stickball most closely resembled baseball, a game none of the Ghosts had ever seen, though they’d read about in books. They didn’t know anything about stickball, either, for that matter, other than what Panther taught them. Panther claimed to have played it on the streets of San Francisco. He showed them what he knew, and they made up the rest.
They had figured out what innings were and how many they should play, but nine innings made the game go on too long so they settled on five. They had figured out that in baseball there were nine or maybe ten players on the field, but they didn’t have that many Ghosts, so they settled for teams of three or four. They had a rubber ball, one that was kind of worn and squishy, but no bat, so they used a sawed-off broomstick. The batter just tossed the ball in the air, hit it as hard as possible, and took off running. If someone caught the ball, the runner was out. If it was dropped, the runner could keep going. But you could still touch him with the ball or throw it at him and hit him, in which case he was out, too. The game was played in the open space just north of the old pergola—Owl had looked the name up in one of her history books. There were four bases, old tires laid out in an irregular formation because the open space and surrounding streets were clogged with debris and derelict vehicles. The base paths looked a little like a maze. They hadn’t figured out strikes and balls, either, but that didn’t matter since there was no pitcher and they had decided early on that the batter should just keep swinging at the ball until he hit it.
They allowed three outs per side per inning, but sometimes they extended that number to four when one of the little kids made an out, like Squirrel or Candle, just because it seemed fair.
It wasn’t the stickball kids had played fifty years earlier in the streets of the cities of America, but it worked just as well. It gave them something to do besides forage and scout, and Owl was forever telling them they needed to have fun now and then. Panther, in particular, liked this form of fun, having thought up the game in the first place, and he spent much of his time urging the others to play it.
Just now, it was the fourth inning and he was batting, facing a field that consisted of Chalk, Sparrow, and Bear. Fixit and Candle were waiting for their turn at bat. Owl was acting as umpire, a role she was regularly assigned, as much because she was the only one any of them trusted to be fair and impartial as because of the wheelchair. Squirrel was still in their underground lair, recovering from his fever. While he had insisted he was strong enough to come up and play ball with the others, Owl had told him he needed at least one more day in bed. River was keeping him company.
Hawk stood off to one side, the odd man out in the game and just as happy to be so because he was preoccupied with mulling over the consequences of Candle’s vision of the previous night. Cheney dozed in a nearby doorway, big head resting on his paws, eyes closed, ears pricked, missing nothing.
“Better move way back, children!” Panther shouted to the fielders, tossing the ball up casually as he took his batting stance. “Hey, I said way back ‘cause