Niceville

fell. The other man had his weapon raised—there was a deafening crack and a billow of blue fire exploded from the muzzle.
    Merle felt hot lead pellets plucking at his neck and his left ear as the shot cloud flew past him. He stood straight up as the figure racked another shell into the chamber and shot the man four times in the head. The skull exploded outwards, black blood and bone chips flyingaway in a ragged cloud, but the man stayed on his feet for another half second, still fumbling at the shotgun.
    Albert stepped in and fired two rounds into the man’s chest and he finally went down. Albert leaned in, tugged the shotgun free, tossed it into the fogbank, where it struck with a muffled clatter.
    He looked down at the bodies, then at Merle.
    “Well, ghost or man, looks like we can kill them.”
    They reloaded, kept walking, stepped past the three dead men, reached the open gate and turned into the walkway. A jet of blue flame erupted from the dark inside the open doors.
    Merle felt a stinging lash of fire across the right side of his face. He heard Albert’s .38 snapping at his right shoulder.
    Someone inside the doorway fell forward into the light, collapsed onto the walk, still moving, his thick arms trapped under his chest. Merle put a round into the back of the man’s skull, the explosion ringing up and down the darkened hallway.
    Albert stepped past him and walked farther into the hall. At the far end, there was a sparkle of blue fire and then several popping cracks. A slug snapped past Merle’s cheek. Albert grunted, slumped sideways and went down on a knee, raising his revolver. Merle and Albert both fired at the same time, the solid boom of the Colt and the lighter crack of the .38 blending together, the muzzle flares lighting up a crouching figure at the far end of the hall, a figure in dark blue.
    Albert’s rounds struck the terrazzo floor and went wild and then he was out of ammunition and had to stop to reload. The figure down at the end of the hall was still firing at them, visible only by the tiny blue flash of his gun muzzle.
    Merle reloaded the .45, racked the slide, stepped past Albert, and walked farther down the hall with slugs plucking at his shirt and hair.
    He steadied his hand and put three heavy rounds into the man, aiming by his own muzzle flash. He saw the rounds hit, saw the guard falling back.
    The hallway was full of gun smoke and the reek of cordite. His right ear was ringing like a bell.
    “See if there’s a light,” said Albert, still on his knee, holding his belly with his left hand, the revolver in his right. Merle felt around the entrance, flicked a switch: nothing happened.
    Albert sighed, pulled his hand away, looked at his bloody palm.Merle realized he was still standing in the pale light from outside, a perfect target. He knelt down, got a grip on Albert’s coat, and pulled him along a few yards, getting their backs up against the brick wall.
    Nothing moved.
    There was no sound at all.
    The place was black and silent.
    Albert was having trouble breathing.
    Merle could smell blood on him.
    “I have to go on down,” he said to Albert. “Will you be all right?”
    “You go on down,” said Albert. “I’ll be fine.”
    Merle checked his magazine, changed it out for his third—and last—magazine, racked the slide again. He patted Albert on the shoulder, stood up, keeping his back off the wall, remembering from somewhere that slugs fired in a hallway tended to ride the surface of the wall, if they hit, so if you stood out a few inches, the slug would zip by you. Merle hoped this was true.
    He made his way down the long narrow hallway, past a series of doors that reminded him of the doors he had passed on his way to Rainey Teague’s room at Lady Grace. He got all the way down the hall and felt his boot stepping on something soft.
    He knelt down and felt a hand, a man’s hand, cold and limp, and wet. He lifted his hand and smelled cold copper on his fingers.
    The man on the floor moved and now he could hear his breathing, short and ragged. He touched the floor around him, found a small semi-auto pistol. He knelt there for a few minutes, listening to the man die, trying to see into the darkness.
    “Albert?”
    His reply came back, faint, hoarse, echoing.
    “I’m here, John.”
    “How are you doing?”
    “I’ll do. How are you?”
    “I think there’s nobody left. I’m going to go look around. Stay there. Reload.”
    “I already reloaded. You take