Bayou Moon - Andrews, Ilona [17]
William had practiced in the Broken out of habit, memorizing random things he read and watched, everything from gun catalogs to cartoons. He could recite the first hundred or so pages of an average paperback after having read it once. But the amount of information the Mirror had crammed into him strained even his brain, and now it hummed as if some phantom bees had made a hive in his skull. Eventually his mind would come to terms with the information, and he’d either learn it permanently or allow himself to forget it, but for now it was giving him a hell of a headache.
A man walked out of the crowd, heading for the cow. About forty, with gray hair cut in what would’ve been a mullet if he wasn’t balding, the man walked with a slight limp, dragging his left leg. He wore black jeans, a black T-shirt, a gray flannel shirt, and a Remington rifle. Looked like a 7400 from where William was standing, but he’d have to see it closer to be sure.
The man stopped a couple of feet away and looked him over. William raised his chin and gave him a flat stare. The newcomer struck him as an enterprising sort of man. The kind that would slit your throat for a box of tissues in your bag while you slept.
The man turned to the woman, gave her a long once-over, and spat into the grass. “Here for the Edge?”
“Yes,” William said.
The woman nodded.
Yep, he would be spending the next few days in the company of that enchanting stench. Could be worse. At least she didn’t reek like vomit.
“Name’s Vern. Follow me.”
Vern limped his way from the swap meet into the brush. The hobo followed. William shouldered his rucksack and went after them.
They hiked through the brush for about twenty minutes when he sensed the boundary. The hair on the back of his neck stood up.
Vern turned around. “Here’s the deal. We cross into the Edge here. You die in the crossing, that’s your problem. Don’t count on any CPR and shit. If you make it through, we’ve got a two-day trip up through the swamps. Both of you paid half. The second half is due when we land in Sicktree. If you give me any trouble, I’ll shoot your ass and won’t worry twice about it. You change your mind and want off the boat, you get off in the swamp. I ain’t turning back, and I ain’t issuing no refunds. We clear?”
“Clear enough,” William said.
The woman nodded.
Vern grimaced at her. “You mute or something? Never mind, none of my business.”
He turned and stepped into the boundary. Here we go. William tensed against the incoming pain and followed.
Thirty seconds of agony later, the three of them were bent double on the other side, trying to catch their breath.
William straightened first, then Vern. The woman stayed bent, sucking in the air in small pained gulps. Vern headed down through the brush to where sounds of running water announced a stream.
The hobo woman didn’t move. Too much magic in her blood.
“You got it?” William asked.
She jerked upright with a groan, pushed past him, and followed Vern.
You’re welcome. Next time he’d mind his own damn business.
He pushed through the brush and almost ran straight into the water. A narrow stream lay before him, its placid water the color of dark tea but still translucent. Giant cypresses with thick, bloated stems flanked the stream. They stood densely, as if on guard, their knobby roots anchoring them to the mud. At the nearest tree, Vern waited in a large boat, a wide, shallow vessel with peeling paint and dented sides. A wooden cabin took up most of it, more a shelter from the sun than a cabin really: the front and back walls were missing. Two ropes hung from the nose of the boat, dipping into the water.
“No motor?” William asked, stepping aboard.
Vern gave him a look reserved for the mentally challenged. “Not from the Edge, are you? One, a motor makes noise, so the whole swamp will know where you