Free Ghostwalkers by Jonathan Maberry

dried salt. Dead colors for a lifeless town.
    Only the whores on the balcony of the brothel looked whole and healthy. They were dressed in frilled silks and satins. Grey and Looks Away stared up at them, seeing every color in the rainbow, from royal purples to soft blues of Pacific evenings to the shocking yellow of new-grown daffodils. Each of the brothel’s ladies smiled down at them. Red, red lips parted to reveal white, white teeth.
    â€œGrey,” said Looks Away quietly, “do you see any children?”
    Grey shook his head. “Not a one. Don’t see a schoolhouse, either.”
    â€œI know I haven’t been to as many American towns as you have, but is that normal?”
    â€œSon,” said Grey, “I think we left ‘normal’ behind somewhere out there in the desert.”
    â€œAh.”
    â€œKeep your eyes open.”
    â€œYes,” drawled the Sioux. “Capital idea.”
    They stopped outside of the brothel. There was a name painted on a silk banner draped elegantly above the big batwing double doors.
    Madame Mircalla’s Palace of Comfort
    Grey swung out of the saddle and tied Picky’s lead to a post over a water trough. The horse eyed the water cautiously for a moment, sniffed it, nickered in as close to a sound of disapproval as a horse could make, and reluctantly took a drink. The other horses joined her.
    Looks Away lingered in the saddle for a moment longer, looking up at the smiling women. Grey followed his gaze. The women were all young, some barely out of their teens. They were all voluptuous, with soft half-moons of enticing flesh rising above the lace trim of their bodices. Their hair was pinned with flowers and feathers. Their skin was totally unmarked by disease or any imperfection.
    A voice in Grey’s head whispered a warning.
    Get out of here now.
    But he ignored it. That voice had spoken too often in his life, and too often he’d listened. Sure, he’d survived … but that survival had always come at a cost.
    Doing so took some effort, though, and if he wasn’t sunbaked, thirsty, and hungry for real food, he might have heeded the warning.
    â€œYou coming?” he asked the Sioux.
    â€œWith great reluctance and trepidation,” said Looks Away as he swung his leg over the horse’s rump and dropped to the ground.
    Side by side they mounted the steps. It was cool on the porch. One of the women, a fiery redhead with emerald green eyes, rose from a rocking chair and stood between them and the door. She was a little older than the other girls. Maybe twenty-eight, Grey reckoned. Very pretty and she smelled of roses.
    â€œBy the queen’s garters,” murmured Looks Away.
    â€œYou fellows are new in town,” said the woman, making it a statement rather than a question.
    â€œBrand new,” said Grey. “Passing through.”
    â€œFrom where to where?”
    Grey hooked a finger over his shoulder. “From back there to somewhere else.”
    His answer seemed to kindle a light in the redhead’s eyes. She nodded, as if appreciating his caution. Then she swiveled her gaze toward Thomas Looks Away.
    â€œSioux,” she said, again not making it a question.
    â€œUgh,” he said. “Me heap big red savage.”
    The redhead rolled her eyes. “That’s adorable. But I heard you talking a second ago. You sound like someone who’s traveled a bit.”
    Looks Away paused, shrugged, nodded. “A bit.”
    â€œThen you’ll feel right at home. All of us girls here have been around the block a time or two.”
    It was so saucy a comment that the two men laughed. The woman laughed, but her laugh was a beat slower and, Grey thought, entirely false. Or, maybe it was that she was laughing at a different joke than the one he thought she’d made. The laugh had that kind of flavor to it.
    She said, “My name is Mircalla and this place belongs to me and my sisters.” Her