“Clever bastard,” Ried said and waited.
Once it was all clear, he counted to three and then darted inside the barn hoping to find a car or motorbike to make his escape with. Instead, in the dust-filled shafts of light, he saw only bales of hay and several horse stalls on his left.
“That’d be right…” he faced the small stables and puffed his cheeks. “Okay, on horseback it is.”
Behind his back, something metallic moved with a clink and tap.
“Shit.” Ried’s gut clenched and his diaphragm lurched. He crouched, turned and moved against the wall opposite the stalls. Ried balked for several seconds at sounds source. Despite his fever, Ried’s blood chilled from the vision.
A wall of implements, all drawn from the stuff of murder; scythes, long shears, double-bladed axes, and different-size cane knives hung on the wall, swaying in the breeze.
“Bloody hell. I’m never reading Stephen King again.”