Free Blackbone by George Simpson, Neal Burger Page B

mounting. What it hadn’t tasted in eons lurked only a few feet away. It burbled with anticipation. Tendrils of oily blackness whipped above the rolling mass and snapped at the air. In all the time it had lain dormant, nothing had changed. Men were still quick to feel fear, and fear was emotional turmoil, and from that could be drawn power, power to live and to grow, and the greatest fear of all was fear in the certainty of death. When death stared man in the face, his emotions boiled at fever pitch, and from that could be drawn energy for growth, the energy of victims, supplying the strongest power of all. Because the host was constantly aware of the parasitic presence inside him, he was in a perpetual state of fear and panic, and that energy could be drawn upon to sustain the seething blackness harbored within the body. Whenever this feeding took place, the host would be plunged into paroxysms of fear that death was imminent. The fear and feeding would then build on each other. Eventually, death would come to the host, but long before that his energy would be depleted. So even now the nightform probed the air for a replacement. It would not be needed for some time yet: there was still good feeding in this host, but soon...
    The nightform gathered itself against the cold steel of the vestibule door, angered at the obstruction. Good feeding was outside. It would not be held back. There. A narrow slot. Room to slip through.
    Beneath the vestibule door, a black smudge flowed through and emerged unseen by the man outside. It rolled past his boots, buffeted by the wind but holding its ground. Even in its weakened, unfed state, it was stronger than any mere natural force.
    It reared up a few inches and tasted the air—the man’s thoughts, emotions. In a moment, it knew exactly what to do.
    Strann stood at the platform railing, fighting the sway and the bumping tracks clacking beneath his feet. He stared out at the Missouri River, at the broad expanse of moonlight-spackled water, the twinkling lights of Mobridge dwindling in the distance. He watched for a long time, drawing on his second Camel and wondering why he was disappointed. What the hell had impressed his father so much? It was just a huge goddamned river, just flowing water. Nowhere near as thrilling as killing krauts.
    He thought of the nine men he had killed in North Africa. Nine in two days. And the pride he had felt after the job was done and everybody was counting. No thrill in standing there waiting as they advanced across the desert, wondering if they were going to get him or he was going to get them. No fun in that at all. It was the killing itself, then the luxury of success that he liked.
    Germans. With those coal-scuttle helmets and sand- colored uniforms, they mocked him in his dreams, inviting him to come back and fight again, because next time they would get him.
    “Fucking krauts,” Strann grumbled, trying to banish them from his thoughts. He knew that killing nine men in two days was pure luck. That’s why he had become an MP. If he had to go through it again, those nine men might still be alive, and it might be his bones lying in the sand, bleaching under the sun. He could still see them— the Germans—slogging across the desert ahead of their tanks, coming closer, right up to his position, so close he could see the fear in their eyes. He looked up at the roof of the next car.
    One of them was up there, big hands wrapped around a rifle stock, holding it steady, aiming it directly at him. The rifle swayed slightly with the motion of the train.
    Strann rocked from side to side, his eyes fixed on it, knowing it was a figment of his imagination. He almost laughed, but the sound choked off in his throat.
    Something’s wrong. This is no dream. There is someone up there—
    He couldn’t see a face, but there was a coal-scuttle helmet and one ferocious eye sighting down the barrel at him.
    Then the rifle flashed fire and something ripped past Strann’s