“Magic,” he asked, feeling ridiculous, “you listening? I need you to open up and suck in this car.” He made a pincer motion, sweeping his arms up over his head.
A light breeze gusted over his back, drying his sweat and reminding him of the cold.
“Come on,” he said. “Do it. I command you, swallow the car.”
He motioned again. Nothing. He sighed, looking around at the trees swaying gently in the breeze. Somewhere in their branches, a squirrel chattered.
He threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, God! I have no idea what the hell I’m doing.” He laughed again, the sound strange in his ears. But he felt a little better as he moved into the woods.
Once he was out of sight of the trail, he treated his wounds with what he found in the first-aid kit, using up its entire contents. Nearly every inch of him was covered in gauze, Band-Aids, and antibiotic ointment. He had no water to wash his wounds and used the bottle of peroxide instead, wiping with gauze and a miraculously clean corner of his ragged T-shirt.
His ears rang, but the drums felt intact. He looked at his reflection in the plastic case and saw no blood leaking from them. His calf throbbed. The sock had sealed the wound though blood still oozed through the black crust that had formed on the fabric. His shoulders ached from the impact with the car.
Treating his injuries restored a measure of humanity but reminded him of his surroundings and lack of supplies. He shivered in the chill air, hungry, thirsty, and exhausted. The blanket of fallen needles was soft enough, but he couldn’t eat them and doubted they’d keep him very warm.
The relative peace calmed him, and the tide of magic receded. He shut his eyes and found it hard to open them again. Exhaustion beat hunger, and he burrowed deeply into the soft pine needles. The trees blocked most of the wind, keeping them from blowing off.
Before he knew it, he was fast asleep.
He awoke in the deep of night, filthy, starving, and freezing.
The night air stung him, and his teeth chattered.
He stumbled along in the darkness for hours. When the chem-light eventually failed, he didn’t bother to light another one, moving by touch along tree trunks and kicking over rocks he could no longer feel through frozen feet. The moon was a sliver. What little starlight penetrated the tree cover was inadequate to navigate by. He groped along, conscious that he might be going in circles and long past caring. All that mattered was staying warm.
A sharp burning pulled taut across his chest, bringing him to his senses.
A half-crumbled line of fence posts stretched before him. Strung across the top of two of them was a rusty length of barbed wire, hopelessly tangled in the rags of his T-shirt. Beyond it, the trees gave way to an overgrown, star-dappled field.
A low, wooden tobacco barn dominated the field. The peaked roof was supported by hinged slats, gray- brown with creo-sote, louvered open to admit the air. A small house with dark windows and a beat-up blue pickup parked outside stood farther off.
He blinked, seeing shelter and possibly food and water. He disentangled himself from the barbed wire and trotted toward the barn.
The barn’s massive doors were unlocked. He winced as they groaned on their hinges, but there was nothing for it. It was there or the woods, and he wasn’t sure he would last another night without at least something to drink. A dog began to bark from the vicinity of the house. He ignored it, praying the owner would think it alerted by some animal.
The barn interior wasn’t much warmer, but it kept the wind off better than the trees. The strong smell of tobacco nearly overwhelmed him. He took out another chem-light, cracked and shook it, sending horror-movie shadows dancing. The weird light couldn’t penetrate the shadows in the rafters, but he could barely make out a loft above him. The ground was neatly brushed with straw. Long clutches of drying tobacco hung in orderly rows, marching away from him down the barn’s length. To his right was a tractor, smelling of oil.
He turned to his left and nearly cried out. A wooden barrel bound by rusty hoops and brimming with water stood under a rotted portion of the roof.
He seized the barrel’s sides and thrust his head in, drinking deeply. The water was rank, but he couldn’t stop. He finally tore himself away, feeling the chilly fluid pour down his torso, stinging his wounds. His vision grayed momentarily, and he sank to his knees, resting his cheek on the barrel’s rim.
A fat black Labrador retriever sat before him, head cocked to one side, tongue lolling happily. A frayed collar suspended a bunch of silver tags. The thirst surged again, followed by powerful nausea.
“Nice doggie,” he mumbled. He batted at the dog, trying to scratch its head and missing. Then he was doubled over, vomiting before collapsing facedown in the contents of his stomach.
He lay, dimly aware of the dog licking the back of his head.
“Thank…you. Thanks,” he mumbled.
“On Jake’s behalf, you’re welcome,” a man said in a thick New England accent. “When you’ve recovered, I’ll need you to stand up and keep your hands where I can see ’em.”
Britton slowly got to his feet, then checked himself as he heard the familiar clack-clack racking of a shotgun’s pump action.
CHAPTER VIII: TRESPASSER
— Lieutenant General Alexander Gatanas
Commandant, Supernatural Operations Corps
Press conference responding to an article allegedly exposing
a hidden SOC program trafficking in prohibited magic
Jake nuzzled Britton’s elbow as he leaned against the big animal’s neck, balancing between barrel and dog.
A sixtyish man stood in the entrance, wearing bedroom slippers, dirty denim overalls, and a faded cap. He was paunchy, with a wide, jowly face, small eyes, and a slightly upturned nose. He kept the shotgun leveled at Britton’s chest.
“Come on over here, Jake,” the man called. “You get away from him.”
Jake turned toward his owner, panting. He nosed Britton’s hand, his bulk upsetting the barrel, dark water slopping out. The man rolled his eyes. “Useless goddamn dog,” he muttered.
Jake backed away from Britton, bristling as the magic rose in reaction to the gun, opening a gate between them, the back of it to Britton. He couldn’t see the landscape facing the man, but he could hear the keening of the demon-horses clustered beyond.
The man took a lateral step and raised the shotgun, sighting down the barrel at Britton’s face. “You just put it away, now,” he said. “Whatever it is you’re planning to do, I promise you I can pull this trigger before you can do it.”
Britton struggled against the magic but he still felt its tendrils push into the gate, reaching for the pack beyond. Their keening became frenzied as they resisted, terrified of the flickering portal.
“Come on, you damned fool,” the man said. “Don’t do this. You don’t want to do this.” His finger tensed on the trigger.
“I can’t control it,” Britton rasped. “It’s worse when I’m stressed. I’m hurt and I’m hungry and you’re
