Death Draws Five by John J. Miller & George R. R. Martin

Author:John J. Miller & George R. R. Martin [Miller, John J. & Martin, George R. R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Anthologies, Science Fiction, heroes, Contemporary, Fantasy
ISBN: 9781596872974
Goodreads: 776437
Publisher: iBooks
Published: 2006-01-29T00:00:00+00:00

Jerry looked at his new found partner dubiously. “Ophiolatrists?” he asked. “What’s that?”

“Snake worshipers,” Angel said briefly, her face set a frown that seemed habitual. She was quite good-looking, Jerry thought, despite her dourness. Her leather jumpsuit accentuated the lushness of her figure and her gloomy expression couldn’t eclipse the strong, handsome lines of her features. She wasn’t really beautiful because she lacked any hint of delicacy, but she had other qualities in sufficient quantity to more than make up for that.

They walked down the road in silence for several minutes. It was pretty obvious to Jerry that if there was going to be any conversation, he’d have to initiate it. It was in his experience pretty much always a good idea to talk to attractive women, because all good things started with talking.

“So,” Jerry said, conversationally as they sauntered together down the country road, shaded by the thickly-forested slope that came down to the verge, “how long have you worked for the government, Angel?”

“My name’s not Angel,” she said.

Jerry frowned. “Sorry. I thought Ray said—”

“I am the Midnight Angel,” she informed him. “Named after the hour of my Lord’s Passion in the Garden of Getheseme.”

“I—see,” Jerry said, thinking, Why are all the great-looking ones such nuts?

“This must be it,” she said, her full lips grimacing in distaste as they halted in front of a gated dirt road that led up into the heart of Snake Hill.

Jerry peered over her shoulder to read the hand-lettered sign nailed to the wooden gate.

PRIVATE PROPERTY

POSTED

CHURCH OF THE SERPENT REDEEMED

NO TAX COLLECTORS, POLICE OFFICERS,

OR GOVERNMENT MEN

THIS MEANS YOU!!!!!

The periods at the tips of the exclamation points were represented by slightly off-centered bullet holes punched through the wooden sign. The free-hand letters were actually well formed and on the edge of artistic. The spelling was surprisingly literate.

“Well, none of that fits us,” Jerry said. “I mean, you may work for the government, but you’re not a man—”

She turned and stared at him.

“I mean obviously. Not. So... I guess we can go in.”

Angel turned without a word and slipped the small wire loop off the gate’s upright post. Jerry didn’t take her utter dismissal personally. It seemed the usual face that she presented to the world. She swung the gate open and Jerry started to follow her onto the winding dirt path leading up Snake Hill when, with a laboring engine smelling of burning oil, an ancient Volkswagen mini-van painted in faded psychedelic designs of exploding stars and dancing mushrooms—with a big peace sign on the front panel—pulled up to the turn-off and chugged to a stop, sounding something like a lawn-mower with a bad choke.

A young man stuck his head out the driver side window. “Can I help you folks?”

Jerry glanced at Angel. She was looking at the newcomer with recognition and active suspicion, but didn’t seem prepared to comment. He stepped towards the van, smiling, ready to take charge.

“Maybe,” he said. “We’re looking—whoa!”

Pungent waves bearing the scent of marijuana wafted out from the open window and hit Jerry in the face with the force of a palpable blow.

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