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.He’s a stranger to me now.” For a brief second, Partridge wishes his father dead.Evil, he thinks to himself.His father isn’t simply capable of evil.He has acted on it.Why? Partridge wonders.“I’m so sorry about your parents,” Partridge says.He takes in the stretches of destruction in every direction.He staggers a little, trying to absorb the loss.And then his foot catches, and he trips on something.When he regains his footing, he reaches down and picks up a metal object with three spokes fanning out around a sharp tip, caked in the dirt and ash.Bradwell walks back to him and stares at the thing in his hand.“Is that a dart?” Partridge says.“I remember the kind thrown at a target, but never one that big.”“It’s a lawn dart,” Bradwell says.Partridge hears the sound before he sees it—a whir that’s nearly a buzz.He shoves Bradwell out of the way.They both land hard, the wind knocked out of them, as another dart thuds into the ground behind him.Bradwell staggers to his feet.“This way!” he says.They both start running toward a red-and-blue melt and squat down behind it.The darts come quickly, whirring and thudding.Two darts wedge into the plastic on the other side.And then everything’s quiet.Partridge looks around the melt and spots a dwelling propped up with bricks and walls supported by melts dragged from other yards.“A house,” he says.“A short fence in front of it.” Partridge remembers picket fences with little latches that swung open that penned trimmed dogs bouncing in the yards.But this fence is mostly sticks wedged into the ground, and on top of each stick something has been hung.He can’t tell at first what the strange things are, but then he sees a blackened rounded cage—a set of wide ribs, some of the bones cracked, gone.Two sticks down, there’s a broad skull.Human.Part of the skull is missing.Sitting in front of the house’s remains are two skulls, lit from within by candles, like jack-o’-lanterns.Halloween.Partridge remembers wearing a box made to look like a robot.The Meltlands were famous for holidays, the trees strung with ghosts and Santas teetering on roofs.He sees what seems to be a garden, overturned dirt with stakes, but it’s just more bones.These are splayed decoratively, hand bones spread to look like blooms.In another world, these things—picket fence, jack-o’-lanterns, gardens—meant home.Not anymore.“What is it?” Bradwell asks.“It’s not good.They’re proud of their kills.” Another dart thunks into the plastic.“And they’ve got good aim.Are these the protectors?”“Could be,” Bradwell says.“If so, we surrender.We want to be captured and brought in.I won’t know if it’s them ’til I see ’em.And I need a better angle.I’m running to that melt there.” Bradwell points up ahead.“Try not to get hit.”“How many lawn darts can they have?”“I don’t want to know what they use once they’re out of lawn darts, do you?” Partridge says, shaking his head.Bradwell sprints.The darts come at him.He lets out a shout.He staggers, gripping his left elbow.He’s been hit in the shoulder.He keeps running and throws himself behind the next melt.Partridge takes off after him before Bradwell can tell him not to.He sprints and slides to a stop beside Bradwell, whose jacket sleeve is already bloody.Partridge reaches for the dart lodged in Bradwell’s arm.“Don’t!” Bradwell says, rolling away.“You’ve got to get it out,” Partridge says.“What are you, afraid of a little pain?” He holds his arm down at the elbow.“I’ll do it fast.”“Wait, wait,” Bradwell says.“Do it on the count of three.”“Okay.” Partridge leans on Bradwell’s arm, pinning it to the ground, then wraps his hand around the dart.It’s in deep.“One, two—” And he pulls it out, ripping some of the jacket too.“Shit!” Bradwell cries.The wound gushes blood.“Why didn’t you count to three?”Paybacks, Partridge thinks, an impulse to get back at Bradwell for holding him in such contempt, for punching him when Pressia was first missing [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]