Searching for .357 Magnum rounds among this many bullets was like looking for a particular piece of hay in a haystack, but I found one, then another, plucking them out of the piles. A minute later I had a run of luck, coming upon a slew of .38 Specials. Though slightly shorter, they’d fit the revolver. I grabbed handfuls, shoving them into Alex’s bag. They rattled to the bottom. They’d be heavy, but well worth having.

Just a few more seconds until I loaded the gun. Then I’d be way safer out here on my own. But in my excitement at finding the bullets, I’d gotten focused on the task at hand.

Too focused.

The rumble of Cassius’s growl made my hands freeze halfway into the bag. Despite the heat of the forge, a cold sweat broke out across my back. Dread pooled in my chest.

I looked over my shoulder.

Looming above me was Bob Bitley. His shirt in tatters, his wispy beard singed. The dancing light of the forge played through the boreholes of his eyes, giving his face a demonic cast. My baling hooks were out of reach on the far side of the ammo heap. Alex’s hockey stick rammed through the bag. The revolver unloaded on the floor beside me.

And yet Bob was ready. He gripped a set of roughly hammered shackles, the type you might see in an old dungeon movie, the chain drooping between them. He shifted, and the crate beside the anvil became clear. Those lumps of metal resolved as dozens and dozens of shackles.

He’d been melting down the guns, turning them into restraints.

It might have been less horrifying if there were any emotion at all on his face—rage or wrath or even evil. But the blank slate of his features somehow made him all the more menacing. I’d only known him to be clean-shaven. The messy beard—nine days of growth—was a reminder of the horrors being wreaked on gentle Bob Bitley, his body still functioning even after his mind had been taken offline.

He grabbed the back of my shirt, shoving one of the shackles toward my wrist. I struck at him. With incredible strength, he hurled me away.

It happened to be in the direction of the forge.

I stumbled a few steps, my hands flailing to keep me upright. I managed to halt just in front of the fire, leaning forward to try to regain my balance.

One of the tong handles nearly kissed my cheek. Hot air gusted in my face. My palms inches from the burning coals. Arching onto my tiptoes, I wobbled, swinging my arms to pull my momentum back.

At last I did.