Free Strange Magic: A Yancy Lazarus Novel by James Hunter Page B

merest pinprick of energy.
    By God, I’d gotten through—manhandled my way past the drug-induced haze clouding my mind. I didn’t have access to much power, but I did have access to enough power. Drawing upon the earth, calling up the strength and resilience of ancient rock and man-made stone, I insulated myself in the stubbornness of dirt and bedrock. I wrapped that power about my mind like a cloak, blocking away the screaming pain in my body.
    This was a dangerous thing to do, but not nearly as dangerous as staying where I was. Utilizing raw elemental strength and force to block pain is not the same thing as healing an injury—healing takes a crazy amount of power and time, not to mention some serious grade-A talent. This particular Vis application is a quick and dirty bit of business that allows me to push my body well beyond its natural capabilities and tolerances.
    Though that may sound great, it’s important to remember that pain, though not pleasant, serves a highly beneficial purpose. Pain is a warning sign that things are not okay in your body, a flashing signal which says: STOP, decease, go no further, turn back idiot . You ignore the warning signal of serious pain at your own peril, risking permanent damage if you push too far passed your limits.
    The way I figured it, a fatal head wound counted as long-term permanent damage, so the risk was appropriate.
    With that bedrock strength in me, I gained my feet—if only barely—and stumbled into a slow, lurching stride. My numb limbs carried me across the two-lane street running in front of the abandoned office buildings and onto an intersecting road, which would take me away from The Full House. By the time I limped across the intersection, my vision had become decidedly narrow—black crept in steadily around the edges until all I could see was a thin swatch of sidewalk in front of me.
    I took plodding, methodical steps forward, each one carrying me a little further from Morse and his gang.
    Left. Right. Left. Right. I let the words flow into me, the steady singsong cadence of a Marine Corps drill instructor.
    I’m not sure how far I made it when my legs finally gave out and I crumpled to the ground. I’d crossed at least one more intersecting side street, so my guess would be about two blocks, maybe three—though that seemed like a stretch in my mind. It wasn’t far enough away, not really, but it’d have to do. My body was finished, it flatly refused to cooperate in any meaningful way. Though the pain was still a distant thing, I didn’t have a leg to stand on.
    There was a dilapidated station wagon, which looked like it hadn’t moved in a good long while, parked near me. I tried to push myself toward it with my legs, but everything below my waist had staged a mutiny. My arms were still hanging in there though, serviceable, if only just.
    I pulled myself, inch by terrible inch, under the vehicle—a beaten up junker, in shades of green and rust—my body a dead weight fighting against my progress, my survival. Through a dirty puddle of water pooling at the curb—it smelled disturbingly of dog pee—but I didn’t care. Well, maybe I cared a little, but I’d get over it.
    A sense of peace filled me … no, not peace, resignation. Yeah, that was it, resignation. I rolled onto my side, letting go of the Vis, letting my body surrender to the tranquilizer agent pulsing through my blood. I’d finally gotten to cover, finally found a haven of sorts, a place where I could pass out with at least a small hope of waking up. All that was left now was to wait. Soon drug-induced darkness would take me and I’d sleep. Wouldn’t be so bad.
    I couldn’t feel my body anymore, my mind was a floating orb in a sea of nothing. Even that was fleeting as my thoughts took on the woozy quality of near-dreams … my eyes filled with the vaguely lucid images that sometimes arrive on the front edge of genuine sleep.
    I saw my boys. All grown up now, with children of their