Magic Time: Ghostlands by Robert Charles Wilson, Marc Scott Zicree Page B

charted his actions from Ukraine to Manhattan to this harsh pioneer land.
    It was half-past two in the morning when Cal appeared in the shop’s doorway—its metal gate forever frozen halfway up—to alert them to the fact that they had visitors.
    Emerging onto the roof with Cal and Doc, Colleen found the snowstorm had intensified, the flat surface growing icy, the breaths of the lookouts misting out into the moonlit skylike the trails of lost souls. She was surprised to see that Olifiers was there, too, and that he had brought the rest of his people with him.
    Cal motioned her and Doc to the forward edge, where Goldie already stood gazing out. Even with the naked eye, Colleen could make out the horsemen several miles off, bearing torches, moving deliberately in their direction.
    The paddyrollers.
    How the hell did they get a line on us? Colleen wondered. She knew she had obliterated any evidence even an astute tracker would have caught, especially at night.
    “Do we pull up stakes?” she asked Cal.
    “No. They could run us to ground, and out in the open we’d have a harder time making a stand.”
    “So what’s the play?”
    “We’ve got a few minutes. We use the time we have.” He moved off to confer with Olifiers and the others.
    Goldie was humming a tune Colleen at first couldn’t place, then recognized as “Hail, Hail, the Gang’s All Here.”
    “Will you quit with that?” she snapped. “Or at least hum something good.”
    Obligingly, he switched to “Every Breath You Take,” by the Police.
    Colleen didn’t get the joke, until she looked through the field glasses Doc handed off to her.
    In the garish light of their torches, she could see fifteen hard men riding quickly on big, powerful horses. The riders were weighted down with evil-looking knives, short swords and what looked like spearguns.
    They wore body armor and police helmets.
    But more striking than that—and what chilled Colleen beyond anything the white crystals flurrying around her could—were the three stunted figures scrabbling ahead of the horses, tethered to them by thick lengths of rope.
    She understood now how the trackers had found them.
    The posse had grunters on leashes, and were using them as bloodhounds.

SIX
    THE PADDYROLLERS
    T hey stood waiting in the fresh snow outside the glass doors—one shattered, one whole—as the horses thundered to a halt in front of the mall.
    Colleen had her crossbow trained on the lead horseman as he steadied his mount, holding his torch overhead in a big gloved hand. The other men were fanned out behind him on their horses, palms on their weapons. On two of the steeds were big coiled lengths of chain—shackles awaiting use.
    The horses blew out steam from their nostrils, their mouths frothing from the hard ride. The trio of gray, stooped grunters were gasping, too, the vapor in the cold air wreathing them in what looked like veils. Their huge, pallid eyes stared unblinking at Colleen and Doc, Goldie and Cal.
    Cal stepped forward, but said nothing. He held his sword casually, in readiness.
    “I am Hector Perez,” the head man said, speaking each word as if it were a command. “Lieutenant in charge of this duly deputized posse. We are currently pursuing a group of escapees from Stateville Correctional Facility in Joliet, Illinois.”
    “Joliet, huh? Not Unionville?” Colleen asked, with an edge.
    Perez didn’t move his head, but his narrowed eyes slidover to appraise her. “Sorry, ma’am, I didn’t catch your name.”
    “I didn’t give it.”
    Cal stepped between Perez and Colleen. “You were telling us your business,” he prompted.
    “We have reason to believe our fugitives are inside that building.” Perez paused, then added meaningfully, “Our quarrel is not with you, unless you choose to make it one.”
    Cal said, “Give us a minute.”
    Perez nodded assent. Cal drew Colleen and the others close, none of them lowering their weapons or taking their eyes off their adversaries.