front and the street beyond. Farrell was slowing now, the momentary safety giving him a chance to think. He needed to contact Cerberus, find Ohio Blue or locate the nearest mat-trans.
In a moment he had engaged his Commtact, the subdermal communicator that was located just below his ear. “This is Farrell out in the field. Do you read? Over.”
As he spoke, a figure came hurrying around the edge of the house, chasing after him through the long underbrush. It was the woman in the robe, the one who had accompanied the man to the deserted street. She must have doubled back. Her arms were pumping as she chased Farrell, and he drove himself onward, confident he could outrun her by dint of his longer legs. Her teeth were gritted and her eyes looked fierce as they fixed on his back, while Farrell darted across the jungle of the backyard.
A moment later Farrell saw the boundary fence that had once marked this property, a simple chain-link line running just above waist height. He kicked his left leg out, leaping high and vaulting over the fence in a swish of dirty white clothing. Beyond, he guessed he was in an access road—probably the kind that had once been used by garbage trucks—though it, too, had been given over to the wilderness, with fronds and reeds growing as high as his waist, some up to his chest.
“Farrell, this is Donald Bry.” The voice from the Commtact device reverberated through Farrell’s mastoid bone so that only he could hear it. “What’s the situation, over?”
Farrell looked behind him, saw the woman jump the fence in pursuit, the familiar form of a leather slingshot now grasped in her fist.
“Bit busy,” Farrell explained over the Commtact.
He didn’t wait for Bry’s response, just turned and faced the woman bearing down on him. She plucked a palm-load of stones from the leather pouch at her belt, loading the slingshot in a swift, practiced movement. With a sound like an angered beehive, the slingshot began to whir around and around, picking up speed in preparation of launch. Farrell looked all around him, searching for cover, some way to get out of the line of fire. He could still see the back of the house through the raging underground, saw Sela Sinclair and the robed man come out the back door chasing their prey. There was nowhere to run.
“And when there’s nowhere to run, you stand and fight.”
That’s something else Edwards had drummed into him in those training sessions.
Farrell was upon the woman in a flash, driving the heavy exhaust pipe at her chest where the crimson shield glinted in the sunlight. The pipe hit with a hollow thunk, knocking the breath out of Farrell’s opponent. Surprised, the woman toppled backward, the stones dropping from her slingshot as it momentarily lost all momentum, like a child’s bucket-of-water trick.
Farrell stood over her in the long grass, feeling the ghastly weight of that hunk of metal in his hand. She looked up at him, her dark hair in disarray around her face, blue eyes fixed on his. “I am stone,” she uttered, the words like a mantra.
It would be so easy, Farrell thought, to hit her again, to crush her skull in a single, savage blow. But no, that wasn’t him. That wasn’t how he did things.
So he turned and he ran, the breath heavy against his chest as his booted feet pounded against the compacted earth and leaves.
* * *
THE DARK-HAIRED WOMAN, whose name was Tanya Stone, struggled up from the grass, urging her body to follow Farrell as he sprinted away. She plucked the leather loop that formed her slingshot from the ground, wiping the dirt from it as she stood, began moving after Farrell. She had taken two paces when her partner, Jackson Stone, called for her to halt.
Tanya turned, seeing Jack and the ebony-skinned newcomer, and she gave him a quizzical look. “I can catch him.”
As she spoke, a chill seemed to cut through the air, and Tanya became aware of another presence. She turned around, searching the brush for a moment before she spotted the other figure, the woman with the red-gold hair and eyes the green of the ocean—Brigid Haight. In her late twenties, Haight was poised in the bole of a tree, prowling from its shadow like a stalking cat, her black leather suit covering her entirely, clinging to her limbs like a second skin. It seemed somehow appropriate that Haight had dressed in the dead flesh of animals, surrounding herself with their ghosts.
Haight was the chosen of Ullikummis, his first priest in the New Order, and while Tanya had not met her before she recognized her instantly. And she shivered in the woman’s presence as something seemed to crawl along her spine.
Beside her, Sela Sinclair looked at the slender, red-haired woman stepping from the shadows and she felt a stab of recognition. Inside her head, the drums were beating louder and faster than ever before, louder and faster and far more brutal.
* * *
FARRELL SPRINTED DOWN the overgrown access road, glancing back over his shoulder to see if he was still being followed. The woman was on her feet and she had been joined by Sela Sinclair and the man in the fustian robes. They seemed to be talking, watching as Farrell ran from them. Their confidence irritated him, made him angry.
He turned back to face the path he was running along, with its tangles of briars and reeds, the moisture heavy in the air where the plants breathed. There was a wall ahead, reaching up almost to head height but crumbling in places, a sickly green creeper clinging to its surface. He stopped when he reached it, conscious of the ache in the muscles of his arm where he was hefting the heavy length of exhaust pipe. He glanced fearfully behind him once again, back up along what was left of the old road. Another figure had joined his three pursuers. This one was dressed in black, a bloom of red hair haloing its head. From this distance with the sun in his eyes, Farrell couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. But he knew one thing for certain—it meant they had added another member to their hunting group, another body to chase him and capture him and presumably indoctrinate him into this cult of Ullikummis.
“Cerb-er-us,” Farrell said, the syllables broken by his heavy breathing now. “I need a way out of here, right now.” To his right he saw another low chain-link fence, this one bent out of true and with a gaping hole in its center. Farrell moved toward it, keeping one eye on the gathering group at the far end of the little road.
Donald Bry’s voice came back to Farrell over the Commtact link. “What’s the problem, Farrell?”
“Hostile types just tried to kill me or indoctrinate me, I’m not sure.”
“‘Hostile types’?” Bry repeated, and Farrell suspected that, wherever he was, the man had raised an eyebrow at the phrase.
“The stone nuts,” Farrell grunted, clambering over the sagging fence. “Ullikummis’s people. They tracked me down—I don’t know how.”
“Is Sinclair okay?” Bry asked, the consummate bookkeeper even in times of stress.
“She’s one of ’em, man,” Farrell said. He was running now, arms pumping, the pipe swinging in his hand as he pelted across the overgrown expanse of garden toward another shell of a building.
“What do you—?” Bry asked, mild surprise in his voice.
Farrell sprinted past the side of the house, pushing himself on. “I can’t explain how,” he interrupted. “I think maybe she’s always been one of them, like she was just biding her time waiting for the right moment to strike.”
He hurried on, out past the churned-up
