The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [184]
A sound rose on the air like a scream. The sound grew louder, and something swung into view around the corner of the building. There was a deep roar, followed by another squeal. In a green flash the thing hurtled forward. The gorleths turned their heads, their lidless eyes staring, just in time to see it strike them.
Five hairy bodies flew through the air, gangly limbs flung wide. Blood sprayed out in a glittering arc, misting Travis with crimson as he turned his head away. The gorleths seemed to hover in midair, so long that for a terrible moment Grace thought the things could fly. Then they came crashing to the pavement in five tangled, oozing heaps. They did not get up.
The thing raced back around in a tight circle. Only as it squealed to a halt between her and the others did realization cut through Grace’s dullness. It was a truck—a big, green, double-cab pickup truck, blood smearing its now-dented front hood. Two rifles were nestled in a gun rack mounted on the back window, and a rainbow air freshener swung wildly beneath the rearview mirror. On the truck’s front bench sat two men.
No, not men, Grace. Look at the hats. They’re cowboys.
The lean man on the passenger side let out a whoop as he squinted through the windshield with crinkly blue eyes. “Now that’s what I call roadkill, Mitchell.”
The driver didn’t answer him. Instead, he turned to gaze at Grace through the window, his eyes serious behind wire-rimmed glasses.
“Need a lift, ma’am?” he said in a deep, melodious drawl.
61.
Travis glanced out the rear window of the pickup, but all he saw were cars and pavement. The industrial building was at least a mile behind them now. Even if the Scirathi had ordered the gorleths to pursue, they could not run so far so fast. He felt another hand squeeze his. Grace. He forced himself to turn around.
“So, Travis,” Davis Burke-Favor said, leaning over the back of the front seat, “are you going to introduce us to your friends or not?”
They had all tumbled into the back bench of the pickup in a frenetic dash to escape before more of the creatures burst out the door of the building, and Mitchell had peeled out of the parking lot before they were completely inside.
“This is Grace Beckett,” Travis said. “She’s a doctor. And this is Vani. She’s …”
His words faltered. What exactly was Vani. A spy? A protector?
“I am their friend,” Vani said.
Travis gazed at her. She raised a single eyebrow, and he smiled.
“That she is,” he said.
Davis tipped his gray Stetson, his lean, tanned face crinkling again in a grin. “Pleased to meet you both.”
“All right, Travis,” Grace said. “Now it’s our turn.”
She leaned back on the seat, her face pale, her ash-blond hair a snarled mess, but her eyes strangely brilliant. Her face was scraped in several places, and Davis’s handkerchief was wrapped around one of her hands, which had been bleeding after her fall.
Travis finished the introductions. “Grace, Vani, these are friends of mine from Castle City, Davis and Mitchell Burke-Favor. The funny one who laughs at everything is Davis. The good-looking one with the radio voice is Mitchell.”
“See, Davis?” Mitchell drawled, not taking his eyes off the road as he drove. “I told you I was the handsome one.”
“No, you’re the old one.”
“I’m just getting better with age.”
“That’s not fair. I’m handsome, too.”
“No, you heard the man. You’re the funny one.”
“That’s funny as in comedic—you know, the life of the party. Not funny-looking.” Davis looked back over the seat. “Isn’t that right, Travis?”
Travis glanced at Vani and Grace. “In case you couldn’t tell, they’re sort of together.”
“I believe we had gathered that fact,” Vani said, a faint smile on her dark red lips.
“That obvious?” Davis said.
Grace nodded. “The his-and-his rifles are dead giveaways.”
Davis let out a hoot of mirth, slapping the seat, and even Travis laughed, though it hurt; his lungs still ached from their mad