Free Lady in Flames by Ian Lewis Page B

desires, psycho-power unbridled.
    “Sinclane drove straight for Mason’s house. He sought to do worse than anything Mason might have feared in his last moments. Sinclane fancied himself a man of his word; he had to see through what he threatened.”
    Grimley interrupts. “He better not hurt that family.”
    “Just keep listening. Sinclane arrived at Mason’s house to find his wife locking up for the night. He barged his way in, gun in hand, and tossed her to the ground like she was garbage.
    “Already in bed, Mason’s boys came downstairs and tried to intervene. Sinclane wrangled them up, bloodied their noses, and tied them with their pajama bottoms.
    “Dazed and sobbing, the wife crawled toward the phone before Sinclane caught her. He dragged her by one leg back into the entryway where her children lay bound and bottomless.
    “He jammed the gun beneath her chin, straddled her, and said filthy things. He promised that all he said would come true. That’s when he heard the deep burble of motors growling together at various revolutions.
    “Sinclane twitched, not wanting to give in to the fear trying to wedge its way into his mind. He smacked the wife once more to get her to be quiet while he listened.
    “The roar grew steadier and fiercer as Sinclane’s fear gave way to a sweaty panic. He didn’t believe in the Night Drivers. He couldn’t. They were just made up. He swore and stood when soon the walls of the house shook with bellowing exhausts.
    “Sinclane barreled through the front door and stomped out to the front lawn. Eight ominous black cars rippled and bulged under the last shreds of dusk.
    “Sinclane stood there, calling down curses on them and taunting them to do something. Then his left knee exploded. He wasn’t sure whether he saw the muzzle flash first, or whether he heard the crack of gunfire. All he knew was the searing, jagged pain in his mangled knee.
    “Collapsed, Sinclane howled in throaty, raspy yelps. He foamed at the mouth and gnashed his teeth, cursing once again. His nervous system went into overdrive and he forced himself up on his elbows.
    “A shotgun blast came next, ripping his chest and the lower half of his face to shreds, twisting him backward. Sinclane lay on the damp grass, his consciousness splintered, when he heard car doors open and then slam shut.
    “The muffled plunk of footsteps carried across the lawn and then two dark figures stared down at him. They grabbed him with rough hands and dragged him toward the street. One of them tied a chain to his bumper. The other end he tied around Sinclane’s ankles.
    “Sinclane couldn’t voice ‘No’ like he wanted to. He could only wait as car doors slammed again, motors revved, and the Night Drivers accelerated into the night with his bloody, ragged body dragging behind.”
    Grimley and I sit in silence for several minutes. He peers at the ground, forehead wrinkled as if he’s thinking things over.
    “Can I have the soul now?” I’ve wasted too much time as it is. I hope he relents; reasoning with a wanderling often proves a maddening descent into the unreasonable.
    Grimley sighs. “Yeah, OK.” With gentle hands he leans to pass it to me.
    I accept it and a faint tickle flits across my palms—the extent of what I can feel. “Thanks.”
    We both stand and Grimley begins to walk away, little feet mashing down the grass in deliberate steps. Then he turns back, face shied away as if he’s afraid of what I’ll say. “Are there other bad men like Sinclane in the world?”
    “Yes.”
    “Do you kill them?”
    “Sometimes.”
    Grimley sets his mouth firm as if he’s reluctant but satisfied with that answer. Then he turns and walks off toward the road.
    I proceed across the front lawn to where the car waits. Cradled in my arms, the soul burns calm. For now it will have to hide in the duffel bag in the back seat. It’s been two days out-of-body; it will be OK for another day or two until I can construct a new body for