Page 94

I had tensed to receive the bullets, but none came. Instead, a corpse tumbled by and came to rest against a rock. I recognized Ellar Michaud from the picture on his driver’s license, even with an exit wound that had removed his nose.

“Coming down,” said a voice I knew, and Antoine Pinette staggered to where Louis and I lay. The right side of his face was badly burned, that eye a ruin, and his right hand was a melted claw. The cotton of his jeans had fused with the flesh on his legs, and his blackened jacket had lost its sleeves. He smelled of smoke, fire, and roasted meat. He sat heavily on the dirt and pine needles, laying his gun beside him. He was dying, but why he was not already dead was revealed only when he spoke again.

“He killed so many of us,” he said, his scorched tongue distorting his words. “But I got him, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” I said, “you got him.”

“Got him good,” said Antoine.

His chin fell to his chest. He breathed once, deeply—a final exhalation of satisfaction—and then was no more.