Oasis by Rachel Caine

Author:Rachel Caine [Caine, Rachel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-02-12T00:00:00+00:00

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I woke up to screaming. Genuine, honest-to-God screaming. I flailed, dropping the forgotten book to the floor, vaulted out of bed and landed barefoot on the thin carpet with my heart pounding an erratic salsa rhythm. I jerked aside the

curtains and winced at the sudden blinding blaze of light ... the motel faced east, and the sun was well over the horizon. Out here, you were strongly reminded that a star was a big ol' fusion reactor, because it looked dangerous

and bubbling and radioactive, closer than it did in safer climates.

The screaming was coming from the Dairy Queen next door.

I stuck my feet into my shoes, grabbed up the key and unlocked the door with shaking hands, then pelted across the parking lot. On the way, I was joined by a

dark figure heading out of the last room of the motel -- Number 10 -- who paused

to pop the trunk on his Cadillac and retrieve something.

The screaming had the high, panicked pitch of a kid in real trouble. I skidded

to a halt at the double doors of the DQ dining area and grabbed the handle, but

it was locked. I rattled it and made a cave of my hands to try to see into the

shadows inside.

I saw the girl who'd served up my shake pressed against the wall, fists crammed

against her mouth. Still screaming. Staring at something hidden behind the counter. I banged on the door hard. Glass and metal rattled. She dashed over and

did unlocking things, and as soon as the door was open threw herself on me like

a shaking, girl-sized limpet. I couldn't make anything out of what she was gasping at me, so I peeled her off and edged over to peer over the counter.

I'd seen dead guys before, but this guy was really, really dead. In pieces.

There was something particularly revolting about a dead guy in pieces on the floor of the DQ, under the brightly-colored posters advertising tasty frozen treats and brazier-cooked meat products.

I swallowed hard, several times, and tried not to breathe through my nose.

"I'm no doctor," the guy in the black leather jacket said casually, leaning over

the counter, "but that guy may need medical attention."

Laconic, and not funny. I whirled toward him. He had a shotgun propped casually

up against his shoulder, and sunglasses pushed up on top of his head, and he looked bland and utterly disinterested as he stared down at the pieces of what

had formerly been known as Bob or Fred or Joe.

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