Unicorn Western: Full Saga (Books 1-9) by Sean Platt & Johnny B. Truant

Author:Sean Platt & Johnny B. Truant [Platt, Sean]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sterling & Stone
Published: 2013-05-19T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHT

BEYOND INFURIATING

According to Buckaroo’s chronometer, a half hour passed before the birds paused their assault on the barn. The sound outside during that time became cacophonous, sounding more like an artillery attack than a flock of birds trying to peck their way in. There were sounds like flying machines streaking down from the sky — a sort of descending, paralyzing squeal of noise. There were explosions like incendiary powders. And on top of that, there was the never-ending chatter of birds and the scratching of a million talons and the clicking of a million beaks.

The barn’s roof was alloy; they could hear the birds clacking across it like rain plinking into a can. They could hear the crows dive-bombing into the barn’s wooden sides. They heard them clawing the vents, trying to get in. Edward was able to extend small protections to keep them out, but with the protection he still held for Mai, he became like a boy with his fingers and toes in many holes in a leaky dike, spread too thin and too exhausted to so much as think. The unicorn couldn’t even get his own water, so Stone brought it to him in a bucket.

By the time Buckaroo’s chronometer showed that a full hour had passed, the birds outside had started to settle and diminish (ruffling noises replaced the sounds of bombs and shells, and even the more mundane sounds of angry pecking beaks), and after two hours were gone, every sound had ceased. The barn took on an ominous quiet like a waiting storm. They were all imagining the birds sitting patiently outside with their beady black eyes, ready and willing to outlast the four men, the unicorn, and the machine for as long as they had to.

After a full hour of quiet — now into proper morning in San Mateo Flats, when citizens should be up and stirring — Whitney stood, brushed off his pants, and announced that they should move on with their mission. There was a bandit out there who must be brought to justice.

“You’re kidding,” said Stone.

“Of course I’m not kidding.” Whitney picked up his coat hanger and gave its end a twist as if checking the sights on a fine revolver. “Do you plan to stay in here forever?”

Clint looked at the lawyer. His hair was wilder, having grown from sleepy corkscrews into wild points and tufts, his scalp now pocked with scratches and scabs. He was still in his pajamas. Stone, who had slept in his clothes (and didn’t, as far as Clint knew, own pajamas), was still sitting on the dirt floor, his eyes on the closed barn door. His knees were up. He sat with his arms crossed atop them, fingers brushing the holstered stocks of his magic guns — the ones that seemed to carry unlimited ammo. The lawyer looked ridiculous and out of place in the company of his five strong and battle-scarred companions. Yet the ridiculous lawyer was also most eager to resume fighting.

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