hissed away as strings of steam. That hiss—like a cat, recoiling—was the only sound.
This is going to scare Bub! Michael thought. The panic overrode him, deleting the strange, certain feeling he’d possessed a moment before.
But Patrick surprised him: the balloon reflected in his eyes, and he gazed upward with cautious happiness, like a child playing peekaboo.
“Whose balloon?” he said.
Someone must have ignited it. But there wasn’t anyone in the pilot’s position. The basket was empty.
As startling as if the moon itself had been turned off: the balloon’s flame, untouched, snuffed out with a puff.
Michael and his pursuers flinched. The balloon loomed, and the basket creaked.
A shadow rose, up from the basket’s floor.
The moment stretched and twisted. It could not have been more than half a second, but the pilot seemed to rise ponderously, like a terrible jack-in-the-box unfurling in slow motion. The pilot had no visible eyes—he was total silhouette—but Michael felt him scanning them all. As the pilot reached full height, a second shape rose, in his hands. A gun shape.
Michael fell on Patrick, hugging him into the snow as the shadow opened fire.
Light flashing: thunder trying to tear the world.
The Bellows had been staring up at the pilot, like Patrick. So they had no chance. One shot each, one bullet each: skull center, every one.
It was impossible, even with an automatic, but the pilot seemed to catch all of them at once, as if some unseeable scythe had cut them with one shining swoop.
The motorcyclists who had been madly pursuing were now madly attempting an escape. There was a momentary, somehow considering pause from the pilot; he cocked his head.
As the motorcyclists reached the rim of the forest, the pilot plucked three quick gun bursts.
Three bodies fell face-first into the shadows of the tree line.
The aerial assassin pivoted one final time and aimed his weapon at Michael.
“No no no, wait, no!” Michael screamed.
He kicked back in the snow, pinned naked on a bull’s-eye.
The balloon descended slowly on its own. The pilot stood preternaturally still, like a statue in a hurricane, even as the basket settled in the snow, dangerously near the cliff.
Night-vision goggles were strapped to the man’s head, the lenses protruding on stalks. An oxygen unit covered his mouth. With his breath curling from the mask’s side cylinders, he looked like a knight and a dragon both.
“S-sir?” Michael said.
The gun aiming at Michael never moved.
Patrick squirmed out from under him and sat up, his eyes big and clear with awe. “Who is that?”
It could have been anybody. The man was a blank.
The pilot raised a hand.
“Name,” he said. The voice rang. Hard. Cold.
And without waiting, the pilot cocked the gun’s slide in preparation.
Michael shot to a stand. “Wait—”
“Your name!”
“What?”
“SAY THAT GODDAMN NAME OF YOURS!”
“Wha—Michael Faris!”
“Count,” the voice said. This word came calmer; for the first time, Michael noticed a slight hill-country accent in it.
Count? He thinks you’re a Bellow!
“Sorry, wait wait! One two three four five sixseveneightnineten.”
The man didn’t answer.
Michael paused, swallowing dryly.
“Is that okay? Is that enough? Sir?” Michael said. “’Cause honestly, if you want me to count higher than ten, I gotta take off my shoes and use my toes.”
The joke was for Patrick’s sake. But Patrick didn’t laugh.
“Him too.” The pilot pointed his rifle at Patrick.
Michael stumbled left, shielding his brother. “Hey!”
“Move.”
“Sir, he’s fine!”
“Damn, but I looooove proof,” the man said.
Patrick stared. “What’s your name?” he asked softly.
“Count.”
“He’s fine. Bello—those things can’t talk like he’s talking!”
“Are you the Game Master?” Patrick asked.
“Patrick—”
“The what?” the man said.
“Are you the soldiers Michael saw?”
Pause. Pause. “Where’d you see soldiers?” the man said.
“Pretty close,” Michael said; he cringed inwardly. “Sir. Please. We’re fine.”
The shadow considered it.
“Well. I’m Captain Horace Jopek of the United States Army 101st,” he said. “And I’m wonderin’ if anybody’s lookin’ for a ride to the Safe Zone.”
A soldier. Captain Horace Jopek. Captain Horace Jopek.
Michael stood, feeling curiously light. I did it, he thought. I freaking did. Oh my God, we’re safe. Game, the eff, Over.
“Jeezus, why didn’t you say so?” Michael said, laughing a little.
Patrick was grinning shyly, half hiding his face against Michael’s leg. “It’s okay, huh, Michael? We won, huh?” Michael nodded.
“So, where you ladies come from?” said Captain Jopek.
The captain took off his goggles and mask. As Michael’s adrenaline began to subside, he realized that this captain was titanic, one of the tallest men he’d ever seen. The captain seemed about forty, and somehow his face emphasized just how huge he was. The wide, stubbled chin looked as powerful as the