The Best of Penny Dread Tales
“Each bone-stubbled carcass, each spike of irradiated grass growled at the dark inside him. Days stretching to weeks, he entertained the fantasy that, like him, these plains would die forever. It was a cruel thought. Flickering lizards—little candles of life—and summer cloudbursts snuffed his macabre fantasies. He could never die, and the world would only live.He pulled the pamphlet from Rosie’s saddlebag only to put it back. He’d arrive soon. Hypnotized by the chuff of Rosie’s pneumatic horseshoes, he fell into a dream. Denver City sprouted from the shimmering heat, woven from light and fog. He and Rosie trotted its familiar High Street, a squat warehouse on their left. Its hand-carved sign declared:Metalwork & HorseshoeingL.M. Smith, Prop.In this false lucidity, he pulled Rosie’s reins toward their former home. She ignored him, instead breaking into a brisk jog. As all good things do, Denver City died. He tried to ask “¿Que es esto, Rosie?” but weeks without water left his voice dead... as the surrounding plains.The question proved superfluous; a black speck squirmed on the horizon, too big for brush and too small for buffalo.MoreLess
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