Adams, John Joseph (ed) - Dead Man's Hand / Адамс, Джон Джозеф (ред) - Карты мертвеца [2014, EPUB, ENG]

The Red-Headed Dead: A Reverend Jebediah Mercer Tale / Рыжеволосый мертвец short story by Joe R. Lansdale The Old Slow Man and His Gold Gun from Space short story by Ben H. Winters Hellfire on the High Frontier short story by Dave Wolverton (as by David Farland) The Hell-Bound Stagecoach short story by Mike Resnick Stingers and Strangers novelette by Seanan McGuire Bookkeeper, Narrator, Gunslinger short story by Charles Yu Holy Jingle short story by Alan Dean Foster The Man with No Heart short story by Beth Revis Wrecking Party novelette by Alastair Reynolds Hell from the East short story by Hugh Howey Second Hand: A Card Sharp Story novelette by Rajan Khanna Alvin and the Apple Tree: A Tale of Alvin Maker novelette by Orson Scott Card Madam Damnable's Sewing Circle short story by Elizabeth Bear Strong Medicine novelette by Tad Williams Red Dreams novelette by Jonathan Maberry Bamboozled short story by Kelley Armstrong Sundown short story by Tobias S. Buckell La Madre del Oro short story by Jeffrey Ford What I Assume You Shall Assume novelette by Ken Liu The Devil's Jack short story by Laura Anne Gilman The Golden Age novelette by Walter Jon Williams Neversleeps short story by Fred Van Lente Dead Man's Hand short story by Christie Yant

AMOS The ray of light came over the eastern horizon like a sunrise, like the door to a dank jail cell cracking open, like the sweeping fiery sword before an angel of judgment. It elongated into a thin, bright, yellow wedge that washed out the stars and revealed the shining parallel tracks before it, dividing the vast, dark continent into halves, leaving behind the endless vegetal sea of the Great Plains and plunging heedlessly toward the craggy, ancient, impassive peaks of the Rockies. Only then did the piercing cry of the steam whistle finally reach Amos Turner on the hill a half-mile away. His mass of untrimmed white beard and shaggy hair was momentarily illuminated, making his face—full of deep lines carved by the winds of many winters and summers spent in a saddle in the open—seem like a snow-capped mountain in the wilderness. “Whoa,” Amos said, and patted Mustard’s neck as the mare snorted and skittered back a few steps. The ground trembled as the locomotive rushed by, pulling behind it cars laden with the goods and people of the East, contentedly dreaming of free land and fresh starts. But to Amos, the train seemed a malignant serpent, a belching, unfeeling monster, a long and heavy chain that ended in shackles. “Time to go on.” Gently, he turned Mustard west and began the long journey into the unknown. Soon, the sound and light of the locomotive faded away, and he was again alone with his thoughts under a sky studded with brilliant stars, the way he preferred. . . .