by Tim Akers
I was about to give up and just run when the engine roared to life. I shouted victory, slammed the door shut, and dropped it into gear. Glass popped under my tires as I backed out of my spot, then I cranked the wheel around and lurched toward the exit. I was halfway across the lot when a cacophonous wave of violence swept over the asphalt.
An explosion blossomed over the soccer field. I couldn’t see what was going on over the berm, but I could hear screaming, and Kracek’s hideous laughter. The tips of his wings fluttered through the air, and bright, blinding flame washed across the field. The screams got louder, and worse.
“Holy Ydrissil,” Chesa breathed. “I had no idea it was going to be like this. I had no idea, I swear...”
“This is well outside the bounds of your usual ren faire experience, yes,” I said. I slammed on the brakes and stared toward the field, fingering the transmission.
“What are you doing? John, what are you doing!”
“Ah, to hell with it,” I muttered. “Chesa, get out.”
“No. No, no, no. You’re going to do something stupid, and then it’s going to be my fault for not stopping you. You’re just trying to impress me, and I’ve got to tell you, it’s not going to work. You’re not a hero, John.”
“Maybe today I am. Now get out.”
She stared at me for three long seconds, then fumbled the seat belt off and rolled out of the car. She slammed the door shut and leaned down to the open window. “Boys are idiots.”
“Yup,” I said, then threw the car in reverse, spinning the station wagon’s balding tires as I spun around. “Can’t take the car home in this condition anyway.” I pointed the hood toward the walkway that led to the fields, pulled the seat belt across my shoulder with one hand while I steered with the other, and floored it.
There was a barrier to prevent this very thing from happening, but it was made to stop ambitious suburban parents from driving their precious German SUVs onto the sidelines, not to stop a chunk of Viking metal at top speed. I crashed through the barrier, slewed back and forth on the loose gravel of the path, then reached the field. The shocks bottomed out in the drainage ditch, and for a brief moment I was airborne, flying like a Valkyrie toward the dragon, and destiny. I planted the nose in the mud, sawed the wheel back and forth as the tires bit into the sod, then lay into the accelerator and started screaming.
The heroes were in a bad way. The knight was down, dagger girl was on fire as she danced away from the dragon’s claws, bloody rents in her leather armor and desperation in her eyes. The mage, if that’s what he was, knelt beside the fallen knight. There was blood coming from his eyes. He turned and looked at me, his eyes going wide and white as I barreled toward him. Then he grabbed the knight and rolled out of my path.
The dragon heard me at the last second. He was focused on the girl and her shining daggers and gave no thought to an engine roaring ever closer, not until it was too late. Kracek swung his sinuous neck toward me, wide head just off the ground. His golden eyes flashed wider for just a second, and flames curled around his jaws as he breathed in, ready to obliterate me, Mom’s Volvo, and the everything in between.
I put the hood of the car into his jaw, going about forty miles an hour. The front of the car crumpled, and I was thrown against the seatbelt, hands smashing the wheel as my head snapped forward like a whip. I saw the hood erupt and the engine, old and heavy and still spinning, shoot out of its moorings and through the dragon’s skull. The dragon’s teeth shattered like delicate china. The black slug of the engine tore through Kracek’s head and punched out the other side, taking whatever suburban frustration and mystical wisdom a dragon posing as a property lawyer might contain along with it. The dragon’s neck whipped through the air like a firehose, spewing molten flame across the field. He deflated, scales shuffling to the ground, wings withering like spiderwebs in the wind. Then he dropped to the ground and was still.
With numb fingers I snapped the seatbelt off, shoved open the crumpled door, and got out of the car. The two people still standing stared at me with open shock. I tried to wave, lost control of my arm, my shoulder, and then my legs, following my hand to the ground. I lay there for what seemed like a long time, breathing in scorched grass and wondering if the ringing in my head would ever stop. A shadow fell across my face. I looked up and saw the mage and the girl, staring down at me. The girl looked furious.
“Who’s this guy?” the mage asked.
“An idiot,” she said. Then she turned away and ran to the fallen knight. The mage leaned over.
“Even idiots can be heroes,” he said. He pressed his palm against my forehead. There was a bright scarlet light, and then nothing.
I woke up in a very different kind of place.
Chapter FOUR
MUNDANE ACTUAL
The first thing I smelled was mildew and antiseptic. When I opened my eyes, the dim light of a pair of candles flickered over stone walls and a white ceiling, spotty with water stains and mold. I coughed, and the sound echoed. I tried to sit up, but the sheets wrapped around my shoulders were as tight as a straitjacket, and just as comfortable. I took a deep breath and was alerted by my nervous system that I was actually in a lot of pain, maybe enough pain to kill me, certainly enough to keep me still and whimpering for the immediate future. So I continued to whimper. This drew the attention of my attendant.
“So, not dead then?” The speaker appeared to my right, nothing more than a dim shape in the candlelight. He tucked some bit of restrictive sheet even tighter around my shoulders, then leaned in close. I was surprised to see he was wearing a pair of vintage sunglasses, the kind with thick black plastic frames, and lenses as black as midnight. Long, curly brown hair spilled out on either side of his face. He was dressed in a dingy white blazer and blue jeans. He tapped my forehead. “That’s a pity. We could use another dead guy around here.”
“Where am I?” I croaked. My throat was as dry as uncooked rice. Mr. Cool Shades went to a nearby table and returned with a stein of water, then slowly poured it over my face. I gasped for breath, getting more of it into my lungs than my belly, while the rest soaked into my sheets. “What the hell?”
“You’re in Mundane Actual,” he said, and you could hear the capitals. He returned the metal cup to the table. Both it and the candelabra on the table looked like props from the renaissance faire. “This is as far as we can take you for now.”
“Not a hospital? I feel like I should be in a hospital.” Cold fear crept into my gut. “Have you...am I being kidnapped?”
“Maybe. Or maybe you’re dead. We’ll get into that later.” He leaned against the table and folded his arms. Now that my eyes were adjusting to the light, I thought I could see a dim glow behind his shades, as though his pupils were burning. “It’s really an interesting question, about free will, and our right to choose what the universe may have already picked out for us. Did you stop having a choice when you drove your wagon into our friend’s face, or was it sooner? Or later? Or are you making choices at all. See, in the sixteenth century—”
“Enough of that, Matthew,” a familiar voice said. The man I thought of as the mage appeared at my feet. I mean that literally; he wasn’t there, then he was. “I’m sure our guest has enough issues without your existential rambling. How are you feeling, son?”
“Like I was in a car crash with a dragon, then tied up and left to die of thirst. So, you know, pretty great.”
“Oh, you’re thirsty?” Matthew asked. He turned back to the table. “You should have said something.”
“Why did you pour water on my head?”
“Why would I pour water on your head if you were thirsty?” he asked.
“Exactly!”
“I don’t think I understand your question.” He presented the cup again, holding it next to my shoulder. I looked from it to his face, then to the mage.
“Matthew,” the mage said. “He can’t very well take that cup from you if his hands are tied, can he?”
“Right, righ
t. Mundane. I forget.” He jerked the sheets free of my chest, setting off a whole new round of misery and pain. I had a moment to stare at the cuts and bruises across my chest before the pain hit me, and then I wasn’t very thirsty for a while. When my senses returned, I carefully levered up onto my elbow and took the cup. The water was cold and stale, thick with silt. I almost spat it out, but my dry throat demanded otherwise. As I was gulping down the last of the water, a lot of stuff clicked in my head. Dead bodies on a field, and my friends disappearing into the woods.
“I have to go,” I said, trying to stand. The mage made no effort to stop me. He didn’t need to. Gravity and the pain in my chest were enough. I settled back on the bed. “I mean...I have to find out what happened to my friends. To the people at the park.”
“A lot of them died,” the mage said simply. “But not so many we can’t fix it. With the news, that is. Dead is still dead, even here.”
“Oh, God. Oh, hell...” I said. I was starting to feel sick again. “Do you know if my friends made it out?”
“Who were they?” he asked. “We’re compiling a list for the media teams, so they can start on direct contact. If you have their names...”
“Eric Cavanaugh and Chesa Lazaro. They were dressed like...like...”
“Elves. The girl at least. We’ve had our eye on her for a while.” The mage stood up and pulled a small notebook from his robes, then conjured a pen of pure light and wrote in it. I was still staring when he snapped the book shut. “She’s fine. But we’re not sure about Eric. Cavanaugh, you say? I’ll have the cleanup crews look into it.”
“Cleanup crews? Media teams? These are people we’re talking about! People who have died.”
“Yes, I understand the concept. I wouldn’t worry just yet. Some of them we can retrieve. Their bodies might not yet believe they’re dead, and then it’s just a matter of talking the flesh back into the game. Like I said, we’re still compiling the lists. I’m sure your friend will show up. And while we’re at it.” He lifted the notebook again. “What’s your name?” the mage asked.
“John. John Rast,” I said, “What’s yours?”
“Sir John Rast? So you gave your actual name to the lists.” He made his note and tucked the book away with a smirk. “Don’t most folks make up something more...interesting?”
“I’m as interesting as I need to be,” I said defensively. Truth was, I couldn’t come up with anything better. “What’s your name? Merlin? Gandalf? Tim?”
“Furaha na Nguvu ya Tembo,” he said simply. “Or is that too interesting for you?”
“Few Harry na—”
“Tembo for your lazy American tongue.”
“Fair enough, Tembo,” I said, then swallowed more water and held the cup out to be refilled. Matthew just stared at it for a while. I looked at him. “Is there more?”
“Yes?” he answered, genuine confusion in his voice.
“May I have some, or is there some special way of asking for water in this place?”
Tembo took my hand and guided the cup back to my mouth. It was full again, and I realized the table didn’t have a pitcher on it. Bile burned through my throat. I dropped the cup and rose to my feet, ignoring the pain in my chest. The sheet fell to my knees, and I was thrilled to discover that I was completely naked and not doing a lot for my reputation, considering the cold and injuries. I snatched the sheet up around my armpits—ignoring the stabs of pain in my chest—and stood there, shivering.
“Seriously, what the hell is going on!” I snapped. “There was a...a dragon, and those lights, and the girl with the daggers...and a DRAGON! Do you have any idea—”
“Yes, yes, we know. We were there.” Tembo held up one hand, like he was arguing politics with a drunk relative, rather than discussing the particulars of a dragon on a suburban soccer field. He put a gentle hand on my shoulder and pushed me down onto the bed. “I think that’s enough weird stuff for one day.”
“No! You’re not going to put me to sleep again, buddy! I want some answers, and...” I doubled over in pain as something tore loose in my chest. I leaned against the bed and tried to breathe. When the agony had passed, I continued. “Scratch that. No answers. I don’t need to know what sort of nonsense you’re up to. I just want to go to a nice, normal hospital, with nice, normal doctors and boring cups that don’t fill themselves.”
“That would be foolish,” Matthew said patiently. “You’re in the best hospital in the world. In all the worlds. Besides, we’ve got some questions for you and your friend.”
“Questions for me? For me! What on earth could you possibly want to ask me?”
“I had forgotten how curious mundane conversation can be. What on earth, indeed. On earth.” Matthew chuckled and rubbed his thigh, then seemed to lose track of the conversation as his palm chafed the blue leg of his pants. “Man, I miss jeans.”
“Later,” Tembo said. “For now, one more weird thing, and then you promise to stay calm until we can get our boss down here. Okay?”
“Hospital or I start screaming,” I said. “I don’t care where this is, someone’s going to hear me.”
“Sir John, you have no idea,” Tembo said. He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration, then motioned to Matthew. “St. Matthew, ease this man’s pain, will you?”
“You’re sure? I’ve only got so much, and Clarence—”
“Clarence will be fine once we get him back to his domain. Esther hates it when she has to spend the first part of an interview convincing a Mundane that the world really is an interesting place. Our friend needs a little persuasion.”
“Sure thing, Tem,” Matthew said. He whipped his sunglasses off. The light I had seen through the shades before wasn’t fire at all. His eyes shimmered, like the sparkle that comes off diamonds in those jewelry store commercials, the purest, most unbelievable light. He held his hands forward, palms up, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. The shimmer lingered, then flared into brilliance. Pure light washed over me, filling me with warmth and hope and comfort. I collapsed back onto the bed.
My pain was gone. The skin on my chest was smooth, the scabs gone, and whatever had been grinding in my ribs was replaced with a comfortable warmth. When I sat up, there was no discomfort. Not even my muscles ached, and the mottled purple bruises where the seatbelt choked me had disappeared. I stared down at my hands in wonder.
“What did you do?” I asked.
“You might call it a miracle, if you’re that type,” Matthew said. He folded the sunglasses and put them in his pocket. The light in his eyes was gone, replaced by dull brown irises and bloodshot whites. “That’s all I’ve got, Tem. Clarence will have to wait until we get across the threshold. I need to get back to the Brilliance, spend some time with the light, before I can heal anyone else.”
“You couldn’t have done much for him with that little radiance, anyway,” Tembo said, nodding grimly. He motioned toward the door. Matthew clapped my shoulder, then turned and left. The mage settled onto the edge of my bed.
“Is that proof enough?” he asked.
“Proof of what?”
“Impossible things. There are going to be a few of them, from here on out. I can’t really say more than that. Not until the boss gets here.”
I looked down at my hands, flexing the fingers, rolling my wrists. I was healed. I nodded my head.
“Sure,” I said. “That’s proof enough. So who’s the boss?”
“I’ll let her do the introductions. For now, simply know that you and your friend are lucky to be alive and not in chains. Took some convincing to keep Bethany from filling you full of holes. Clarence spoke well of you. Of your bravery, at least, if not your ability.”
“Wait,” I said, as his words finally settled on me. “My friend? Is Eric here?”
“I do not think that girl would answer to the name Eric,” Tembo answered. “She seemed quite keen to know if you were hurt. Though I’m not sure that’s to your benefit.”
“Ah,” I said, and the
bottom dropped out of my stomach. “Chesa. Great.”
Chapter FIVE
FERAL JANITORS
After Tembo and Matthew left, I took the time to explore the room I was in. I wouldn’t usually use the word “explore” in this context, but this was definitely an exploration. There was a worryingly large pile of bloody towels at the foot of my bed. I pushed them around with my toe, trying to decide if it was enough blood loss to cause hallucinations. Maybe, maybe not. I snatched up the candelabra and started into the darkness, away from the door. Turns out I was in a long, dark hallway with beds every fifteen feet, and no windows. The light from the candelabra never gave me more than five feet of illumination, and the farther I got from my own bed, the dimmer the candle’s flame grew. I went until the wick was a dim glimmer, then turned back. The hallway could have gone on forever, for all I could tell. It certainly went for a hundred feet.
With the uncertain void stretching out beside me, I found it difficult to sleep, despite Tembo’s warnings about the rigors ahead. I finally settled into a restless doze, my mind running through the events of the day, the impossibility of dragons, and the strange man with the glowing eyes. There were a lot of weird things going on, and my mind was reeling. But mostly I was worried about Eric and Chesa. Eric, because he was my friend, and Chesa, because she wasn’t, and I wasn’t looking forward to having to explain what had happened. Especially since I didn’t really know what had happened, or where we were, or anything. Maybe she would have some answers. Hopefully.
I was sleepily mulling the possibility of slipping out before my interview with this boss person when the door opened, and two nondescript men in gray coveralls came in. I heard their voices before the door opened, and they sounded perfectly normal, which made their arrival all the more shocking.
“There were three of them, big as dinner plates, just scuttling around behind the fridge. Dinner plates, Mike!” The speaker was short and thin, his head and hands too large for his body, dressed in gray coveralls. His companion was nearly his twin. The light from the outside hallway blinded me for a second as they came into the room. There was something wrong with their hands...“So, being the kind of man that I am, and not the kind of man you are, I got the zippo out of the garage—”
