Ghostwalkers by Jonathan Maberry Page B

gone, too.
    He frowned.
    The landscape looked familiar. A pair of hillocks, a dead juniper, an untidy row of chaparral cactus. All of that was the same as it was when he and the Sioux rode up to that painted wooden arch on which had been written the word F ORTUNE .
    But the town was not there.
    He got to his feet and as he studied the land he realized that he was wrong about that.
    The town was there.
    But it was nothing more than broken timbers laying bleached in the sun. Nothing more substantial than the charred cornerstone of a building was left. It chilled him despite the heat because this was not a new disaster. Those timbers lay like bones of some ancient thing, half covered by the hungry sands. Somehow the town had died and been reclaimed by the desert.
    How long ago, though?
    Surely he could not have slept for years, and only many years of the unrelenting sun could do this.
    â€œMadness,” he said aloud, and even he wasn’t sure if he was making a statement about the world or his own mind.
    Behind him, Looks Away groaned again. Grey reluctantly turned from the impossible wreckage and hurried over to his new companion. His foot kicked something and he saw that there was a full waterskin on the ground by where he’d awakened. He uncapped it, sniffed it, smelled nothing more than water and heat. He took a pull, and although the water was warm it tasted as pure as new melted snow to his parched throat. The second sip tasted every bit as good.
    Grey knelt beside Looks Away, uncertain as to whether the man was alive or dead. Or, if his luck was holding steady, something else . He placed a hand on the man’s chest, felt the reassuring thump-thump of a living heart, and blew out a sigh of relief. Looks Away groaned softly and his eyelids fluttered weakly. Then, much as the Sioux had done for him after the ghost rock explosion, Grey gently cupped the back of the man’s neck and helped him raise his head to take a sip.
    â€œEasy now,” he cautioned, “wet your throat with a sip first. There, that’s good. Now take a real pull.”
    Looks Away took the waterskin from him and took two long drinks, then, gasping, thrust it back into Grey’s hands.
    â€œBy god and all the devils in hell,” the Sioux growled as he struggled into a sitting position. “What the bloody hell happened and where the bloody hell are we?”
    â€œGod only knows. Or, maybe it’s the Devil who knows.” Grey stood up. “In either case, take a look for yourself and maybe you can tell me.”
    He held out a hand and pulled Looks Away up. Together they walked over to where the F ORTUNE sign should have been. Pieces of it lay on the ground, the letters faded to ghosts. Grey watched as the other man turned to look at the landscape and then looked once again at the ancient ruins.
    â€œI don’t…,” the Sioux began, but let the rest trail off into the dust.
    â€œYeah,” said Grey.
    They stood there for a long time, neither man saying another word. What, after all, could they say to this? Nothing in Grey’s experience provided him with a vocabulary sufficient to put what he felt into words. Sure, there were words for some of this deep in his soul, but none of those words would fit into his mouth. He couldn’t have said them at gunpoint. From the strained, frightened expression on Looks Away’s face, he was facing the same challenge. So they left it unsaid.
    As one they began backing away from the town. Then they turned and ran for their horses.
    However as they approached, Grey saw something that twisted an already misshapen day into an even more perverse shape. There, tucked into a fold of his saddle, was a single heavy pasteboard card.
    On the back was a painting of the death mask of some ancient queen, her mouth bloody.
    Grey did not want to touch it, and his hand shook as he reached for it.
    â€œWhat’s that?” asked Looks Away sharply. “Is that a