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datatime: 2022-12-01 00:41:14 Author:UismgTtR

The parka wavered, disappeared for a moment, then came back as a cloak and hood.

Panting, his soaked hair hanging in his eyes, Jack looked over his shoulder . . . and directly into the rest area on I-70 near Lewisburg, Ohio. He was seeing it as if through ripply, badly made glass . . . but he was seeing it. The edge of the brick toilet was on the left side of that blistered, tortured patch of air. The snout of what looked like a Chevrolet pick-up truck was on the right, floating three feet above the field where he and Wolf had been sitting peacefully and talking not five minutes ago. And in the center, looking like an extra in a film about Admiral Byrd's assault on the South Pole, was Morgan Sloat, his thick red face twisted with murderous rage. Rage, and something else. Triumph? Yes. Jack thought that was what it was.

And the small silver thing in his hand had turned to a small rod tipped with crawling blue fire.

Wolf struggled up again, his hair plastered against his face, his dazed eyes peering through a curtain of it like the eyes of an English sheepdog. He was coughing and staggering, seemingly no longer aware of where he was.

He could feel the force of that command, gripping his face with invisible hands, trying to turn it.

He stood at midstream in water that was crotch-deep, cattle passing on either side of him, baa-ing and bleating, staring at that window which had been torn in the very fabric of reality, his eyes wide, his mouth wider.

The cry was low, gargling, full of water.

That's it, Jack thought despairingly. That's it, he's gone, must be, let him go, get out of here-

That's it, Jack thought despairingly. That's it, he's gone, must be, let him go, get out of here-

It's a lightning-rod. Oh Jesus, it's a-

And the small silver thing in his hand had turned to a small rod tipped with crawling blue fire.

Morgan started forward, his face swimming and rippling as if made of limp plastic, and Jack had time to see there was something clutched in his hand, something hung around his neck, something small and silvery.

'Boy'

And the small silver thing in his hand had turned to a small rod tipped with crawling blue fire.

The parka wavered, disappeared for a moment, then came back as a cloak and hood.

He stood at midstream in water that was crotch-deep, cattle passing on either side of him, baa-ing and bleating, staring at that window which had been torn in the very fabric of reality, his eyes wide, his mouth wider.

But the Queen's son died an infant, died, he-

But the Queen's son died an infant, died, he-

The wet, sizzling zap of electricity again, seeming almost to part his hair. Again it struck the other bank, this time vaporizing one of Wolf's cattle. No, Jack saw, at least not utterly. The animal's legs were still there, mired in the mud like shake-poles. As he watched, they began to sag tiredly outward in four different directions.

It's a lightning-rod. Oh Jesus, it's a-

He could feel the force of that command, gripping his face with invisible hands, trying to turn it.

Wolf bent over and retched up a great muddy sheet of water. A moment later another of the terrified cow-sheep struck him and bore him under again.

The wet, sizzling zap of electricity again, seeming almost to part his hair. Again it struck the other bank, this time vaporizing one of Wolf's cattle. No, Jack saw, at least not utterly. The animal's legs were still there, mired in the mud like shake-poles. As he watched, they began to sag tiredly outward in four different directions.

The cry was low, gargling, full of water.

The wet, sizzling zap of electricity again, seeming almost to part his hair. Again it struck the other bank, this time vaporizing one of Wolf's cattle. No, Jack saw, at least not utterly. The animal's legs were still there, mired in the mud like shake-poles. As he watched, they began to sag tiredly outward in four different directions.

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