Blackwater Val
They were bringing something with them—something—among their spectral ranks.
Dark-winged things flapped overhead and Richard and Tommy flinched away from the invisible wingbeats. When they straightened, their eyes went again to the figure inside that scattering of gauzy revenants. It looked semi-human. Humanlike, but not quite. Limping, jostled about. Shambling forward.
Lightning daggered the sky and Richard uttered: “Oh, my bleeding Christ.”
It was Julian Simon, gibbering incoherently, drools of slaver hanging, his camel-hair clinging to him in gory shreds. The old man lumbered into what light there was and they saw how the body had been traumatized, face ruined.
Bab Populer