“Jack, you’re crazy!” “I know.” A hundred yards. The batteries hummed. A blue spark jumped, sizzling. Bare earth flowed past them on either side. No grain here, Jack thought. If Noël Coward had written a play about Morgan Sloat, I guess he would have called it Blight Spirit. “Jack, what if this creepy little train jumps its tracks?” “Well, it might, I guess,” Jack said. “Or what if it breaks through the gate and the tracks just end?” “That’d be one on us, wouldn’t it?” Fifty yards. “Jack, you really have lost your mind, haven’t you?” “I guess so. Take your gun off safety, Richard.” Richard
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