49
Dale’s exhausted, brittle vision made Amos look like a broken mannequin, a life-sized 1960s GI Joe with joints that moved too freely. The harsh fluorescent light made his skin translucent and cast blue into his lips. He lay on his back, with his legs trailing up the stairs towards Dale. His leather shoes gleamed beyond anything Dale had seen in the discount shoe store, contrasting wildly with the lame Linux is Sexy T-shirt. His camouflage hadn’t saved him from a bigger predator. His chest didn’t move. The blue lips didn’t flutter.
The dart sucked his attention further.
Neon blue plastic, like a child’s toy. Four feathery fins, faint lines running front-to-back all along them. Perhaps as long as his finger.
Two feet from his ear, Hartnell shouted something. It sounded two miles away.
