Spilled across the floor in heaps like glittering treasure were countless rounds. The piles rose waist-high.
I’d been counting on finding them here.
You couldn’t burn bullets. Not without turning yourself into Swiss cheese.
The farthest stretches of the store were dark. Even so, I could see no Hosts. I listened for a moment but heard no movement.
Nudging the door open another few inches, I crept inside, Cassius slithering through with me, tangling in my legs. I fumbled Sheriff Blanton’s revolver, a .357, out of the holster, set it on the floor, and started digging through the mounds of ammo. Rounds spilled over my hands and wrists, leading to mini-landslides. As the bullets clattered on the floor, I winced, shooting glances at the dark reaches of the store. The baling hooks were swinging around on their nylon loops, getting in my way, so I slipped them off and laid them aside.
Searching for .357 Magnum rounds among this many bullets was like looking for a particular piece of hay in a haystack, but I found one, then another, plucking them out of the piles. A minute later I had a run of luck, coming upon a slew of .38 Specials. Though slightly shorter, they’d fit the revolver. I grabbed handfuls, shoving them into Alex’s bag. They rattled to the bottom. They’d be heavy, but well worth having.
Just a few more seconds until I loaded the gun. Then I’d be way safer out here on my own. But in my excitement at finding the bullets, I’d gotten focused on the task at hand.
Too focused.
The rumble of Cassius’s growl made my hands freeze halfway into the bag. Despite the heat of the forge, a cold sweat broke out across my back. Dread pooled in my chest.
I looked over my shoulder.
Looming above me was Bob Bitley. His shirt in tatters, his wispy beard singed. The dancing light of the forge played through the boreholes of his eyes, giving his face a demonic cast. My baling hooks were out of reach on the far side of the ammo heap. Alex’s hockey stick rammed through the bag. The revolver unloaded on the floor beside me.
And yet Bob was ready. He gripped a set of roughly hammered shackles, the type you might see in an old dungeon movie, the chain drooping between them. He shifted, and the crate beside the anvil became clear. Those lumps of metal resolved as dozens and dozens of shackles.
He’d been melting down the guns, turning them into restraints.
It might have been less horrifying if there were any emotion at all on his face—rage or wrath or even evil. But the blank slate of his features somehow made him all the more menacing. I’d only known him to be clean-shaven. The messy beard—nine days of growth—was a reminder of the horrors being wreaked on gentle Bob Bitley, his body still functioning even after his mind had been taken offline.
He grabbed the back of my shirt, shoving one of the shackles toward my wrist. I struck at him. With incredible strength, he hurled me away.
It happened to be in the direction of the forge.
I stumbled a few steps, my hands flailing to keep me upright. I managed to halt just in front of the fire, leaning forward to try to regain my balance.
One of the tong handles nearly kissed my cheek. Hot air gusted in my face. My palms inches from the burning coals. Arching onto my tiptoes, I wobbled, swinging my arms to pull my momentum back.
At last I did.
As I whipped around, Bob lowered his head and charged. There would be no avoiding the forge; he was going to knock me straight into the flames. He’d almost reached me when a tan streak shot in from the side, hammering him from view.
Cassius.
He snarled, chomping down on Bob’s beard and shaking his head violently.
Bob drew back a massive arm and swatted the seventy-pound dog aside as if he weighed no more than a hamster. Cassius struck one of the heaps of ammo sideways, rounds flying everywhere, raining across the floor.
With a single lurch, Bob hurled himself from his back onto his feet. He spun the shackles around his hand and charged again.
None of my weapons were in reach.
But something else was.
I reached for the blackened handles sticking up out of the forge and ripped the tongs free. As Bob came at me, I raised the glowing yellow tips up to the level of his eyeholes and let Bob’s weight carry him onto them. He impaled his face on the tongs, the membranes popping, the hot metal sinking deep, winding up somewhere near the middle of his head. I clenched the handles hard, cinching the tongs inward toward his brain. His eyes fizzled around the hot metal. Black sludge poured into the eyeholes. Noxious smoke drifted from his ears and nose, his mouth foaming.
With the tongs embedded in his face, he fell to his knees and stayed there, kneeling, motionless, his head dipped as if in prayer.
Snatching up Alex’s bag, the revolver, and my hooks, I shot for the door, wanting to get clear after all the racket we’d made. Cassius and I ran from the hardware store. I dove across the hood of the same car we’d hidden behind earlier, Cassius bounding around the grille. On the sidewalk I flattened to the ground, peering through the tires, my dog beside me.