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and there was another, louder, crack and the thing's head came away in his hands.
    The fallen body squirmed like a broken-backed snake, grabbing blindly for Carter's ankles as it slithered after him across the floor. Carter looked to Warren for help, and saw him raise its head in his hands. A black, swollen tongue protruded from between its jaws and Warren caught it between his teeth in a single, sinuous movement. As Carter looked on in horrified wonder, Warren jerked his head and tore the tongue from the rolang's head.
    The body stiffened and fell still. Warren dropped the head and took the tongue from his mouth. "There we go," he wheezed, "Easy as pie."
    "It almost killed you," Carter said. Then, "It almost killed me!" He looked around the room. The shadows had cleared, and every scrap of paper had fallen from the walls.
    "But it didn't," Warren said, weighing the tongue on his palm. "No sir, it did not. And now the ritual is done, and our Mr. Rolang is safely over the River Styx."
    They stared down at the body for long moments. Carter fought to catch his breath. He could hear the policemen on the stairs, talking loudly, but apparently making no move to investigate the gunshots.
    "You never said what the ritual was for," Carter said, finally.
    "Hmm?" Warren said, still examining the tongue. He hadn't taken his eyes off of it since he'd torn it free of the dead thing's head.              
    "The ritual. Why would someone undergo such a hideous experience?"
    Warren held up the withered lump of meat. Carter thought, for a moment, that he might drop it. Instead, he stuffed it into his pocket. 
    "Why does anyone do anything, Carter?" Warren said, and smiled.
     
     
     

     
     
     

     
    The Dark Horse
    By John Goodrich
     
    The dry, yellow wind off the Dominion of Manhattan brought a bitter scent to Laura’s nose. The building’s broken windows and splintered doors moaned in the acrid wind. She’d holed up in this apartment because the door was still on its hinges. Something skittered behind her. Laura whirled, spear at the ready. A filthy raccoon with one pus-filmed eye twice the size of the other glared at her from the doorway. She tensed, ready to pin it to the floor. The coon crouched. They considered each other, the wind’s low dirge the only sound for long moments.    
    Laura reached behind her with one hand, and found a crinkly wrapper by feel. She tore it open with her teeth, and flung it at the coon. She didn’t like to waste food, especially something as good as a Twinkie, but she didn’t want trouble from the coon, either. With that eye, it wouldn’t be good to eat.
    The coon sniffed her offering, then tore big bites out of the golden cake. She watched it gulp the yellow thing down, then lick the plastic wrapper clean, manipulating its treasure with humanlike front paws. It glared at her with its good eye, then limped out the doorway. 
    She ought to follow it, find out if it knew where any food was. But she’d eaten well for days, and wasn’t feeling hard up. She could afford a little generosity. The apartment building had been good to her: a safe place to sleep, good forage, and no one else around. Eating from old cans was a lot easier than scrambling after rats and roaches. 
    Laura threw some wood and paper on the coals of her small fire, and soon the flames leapt high. The night was cold, and the fire would be dead by the time she woke. She should have closed the door to keep the coons, cats, and dogs out. With the fire warming the concrete floor, she threw an old rug over herself and curled into a ball. She hoped she wouldn’t dream.   
     
    She woke with a start to see a man squatting before her fire. Before she was fully awake, she had rolled into a defensive crouch, spear in hand, ready to kill. He just raised his hands, showing her that he had no weapons. 
    “I just want a can of your food, some time by your fire, and a little talking.”
    “I got the clap and AIDS.” Her