The Suburb Beyond the Stars

by M. T. Anderson

Gregory swore softly.

  Now that Brian had said it, they both could almost feel it, something slipping across their skin, something robbing minutes or slowing them to a crawl — time as breathable as air and thick as smoke.

  Brian flipped his phone closed. “No signal,” he said. “Try yours. Call your parents. We need to check the date.”

  Gregory dialed. “No signal,” he said.

  Brian was pale. Gregory looked panicked. Brian stood up and started to walk toward the living room, then turned back. He didn’t know where to go, what to say.

  “Gregory,” he said, “there isn’t an ancient evil invading the neighborhood.”

  “Huh?” said Gregory. “What are you suggesting? The Girl Scouts?”

  “No, what I mean is, this isn’t a situation where the development was built on top of something magical that’s trying to get out.” Brian sat down. He stared through the glass table at his knees. He couldn’t sit still. He stood up. He said, “The development itself is the invasion. Somehow, Milton Deatley, this dead developer, is bringing something into this world. The houses, the time jumble, everything. I don’t know why, but he’s bringing it here, and we’re all trapped in it. And tomorrow — tomorrow we’re going to go to his office and find out what he’s planning.”

  Outside, at the crossroads, in the dark, the kids rode their bicycles in circles. There were rectangles of light across the lawns and through the bushes and trees. They were lights from kitchens with granite countertops, from dens and marble-floored foyers. The children did not pay attention to their homes. They rode their bikes in circles. Some cried because they were so tired, but still they wheeled and spun as the night drew on and the crickets began to sing of heat and shadow.

  TEN

  Evidently, the cat usually slept next to Prudence’s head. Her pillow was shaggy. Brian choked on gray fur. Gregory was sleeping on the floor. They wouldn’t go into separate rooms. It was a hot night, so the window was open. Soft, small things nuzzled against the screen.

  There was a light on in the room. Prudence had a Norumbegan lantern hung above the bed. Before they went to bed, Brian had lit it with the Cantrip of Activation.

  Watching him use this paltry spell, Gregory had said, “See, the problem with me trying to cast the Cantrip is that when you say not to think about other things — like don’t think about school — that’s exactly what I think about. I’m thinking, I wonder if it counts as thinking about school yet, if I’m just thinking about thinking about school. And then the spell doesn’t work.”

  “We can try again. Just … you can’t get angry at me.”

  “I’m just saying I’d like to know something about magic. This is getting crazy and dangerous. It’s not fair that you can walk around knowing some magic and I don’t know anything. It’s got nothing to do with who won the Game. Just because you won the Game doesn’t mean that you’re Einstein.”

  “I know.”

  “Because I could have won the Game. It could have been me.”

  Brian didn’t want to argue. Even this much argument made him nervous. So he agreed to try to teach Gregory the Cantrip of Activation again, maybe in the morning, and they both went to bed.

  As Brian lay in Prudence’s bed, he got angrier and angrier that Gregory had said he could just as easily have won the Game. Brian felt like he had deserved it. He had noticed all kinds of things that Gregory hadn’t. He had been the one who’d realized that they were playing for different teams. He’d been the one in the greatest danger. And even as he lay there, filled with petty anger, Brian was haunted by images of what might still lurk on the streets and in the dark corners behind houses.

  He stared at the mandala hanging above him. The power switch from Prudence’s slumbering laptop pulsed blue as if in dreamy respiration. Brian thought about her fingers hanging above that white keyboard, her thumb bumping the space bar just before she — what? Was whisked away or bludgeoned from behind? He cringed. The thought of something stalking toward her on the carpet — or she was gagged or called distantly to the door by something with the voice of a neighbor or a high school friend but the hands of a maniac — some crisis … and now where was she? He was paralyzed by the possibilities: some cell, some alien labyrinth, or hunted, panting, through boulders and up mountain slopes. Even right now, this moment, in the dark, hoping that someone was thinking of her, tracing clues — but all the while, fearing some claw, some hook, some sword.

  Brian could not sleep at first, and when sleep came, his dreams were of circular roads, patios, rising lawns under which their owners slept, girls crawling through new basements. He dreamed of a spire of stone, and then grids — hours of grids — wiring, plumbing, hands reaching through pipes.

  He was awakened by hooves.

  Brian sat up. His hair was in his eyes, and so was the cat’s. He didn’t have his glasses on. Something murky was happening on the street, and Gregory was half up, already tense with alarm.

  “What is it?” Brian whispered.

  Gregory rose, crouched, and went to the window. He said nothing. There were enough hoof falls for a team of horses. Their rhythm was slow and leisurely.

  Brian found his glasses and made it to Gregory’s side.

  First he saw that the children were still wheeling in their circles, now silent, faces blank, riding at the crossroads.

  “What are they —?” he began, and then stopped.

  Coming up the street was an old black car, chrome shining, drawn by four white horses.

  The boys had seen it once before in this forest. It had been driven by the Thusser.

  Now it was led by a small procession of figures in armor, spiked and fierce, all carrying torches. Behind it, something danced.

  Brian was gone from the window and stumbling for the door.

  “You can’t go out there!” Gregory hissed. “Stop!”

  Brian didn’t answer. Gregory ran after him and, in the hallway, grabbed his arm. “It’s dangerous!”

  “What about those kids?” Brian asked furiously.

  “Would you think for a minute?” said Gregory.

  “Let me go! They’re in danger!”

  “There’s nothing we can do!”

  “We’ve got to try something! They’re right in the way of that procession!”

  “Don’t be stupid!”

  “Let go!”

  “I’m supposed to be the stupid one, remember?”

  Brian was tired of him saying this. “You’re not stupid! Now let me go!” Brian yanked his arm away and bolted down the hall. Soon enough, Gregory heard him thumping down the steps to the front door.

  “We can’t do anything anyways!” Gregory called after him, but still ran for the stairs.

  Brian was sprinting across the unruly yard. He still wore the T-shirt and boxers he’d been sleeping in. He had nothing with which to protect himself.

  But the danger appeared, for a second, to have passed.

  The kids were motionless, divided into two groups standing at attention. The black car rolled between them. There was a figure moving behind the windows — a mottled, red hand.

  Brian stopped on the edge of the lawn. He could feel himself surveyed. The horses were clopping past, their hoofs loud on the new pavement. The armored soldiers with their torches were already down the street.

  The creature that danced and cavorted behind the car was made of some rippling, striated stuff, musculature like glass and gray tar. It had a wide grin and thin eyes. It hopped from leg to leg, swung its arms around, rasped deep in its alien throat. It ducked its head lower than its knees, rose up, and twirled. It landed with the lightness of bricks.

  Abruptly, it stopped dancing. It stared from face to face in the little crowd of children.

  It wants something, Brian thought.

  It held out its hands and walked toward a boy of five or six.

  The child was terrified, but did not move.

  Brian ran out into the street, screaming.

  “Idiot,”
muttered Gregory, picking up a rake as he plunged across the lawn.

  The monster turned to watch Brian approach. It smiled at him kindly. Then it turned back to the little boy and began to lift him off the ground.

  The automobile had stopped. Its door swung open.

  Brian got to the monster and began punching. He yelled, “Put him down!” and slugged with all his might.

  His fist landed with a clunk and a squish.

  Shocked, Brian staggered backward. He looked at the monster’s flesh. It was boiling in a huge, metallic welt.

  The monster set the child down. It turned to Brian, brows creased.

  Brian hit it again, and grabbed at his own hand in pain. The beast’s flesh looked liquid, but punching it was like smacking solid concrete.

  The monster reached out and took Brian’s arm. It began to drag him toward the car. Brian’s bare feet skipped helplessly across the pavement.

  Gregory slammed the haft of the rake into the monster’s arm. The flesh gathered where he struck. He hit it again. The monster turned and regarded him dispassionately. Its skin moved as Gregory struck it.

  The monster began walking again toward the car’s open door.

  Gregory tagged along, slamming the rake against the thing, trying to bruise it — scratch it — anything to get it to release Brian. Where he smacked, the skin bunched and calcified.

  “I can’t hurt it!” said Gregory.

  The monster watched each blow fall, and willed its flesh to harden. Each time there was an impact, the meat made a callous there as stiff as stone.

  The head of the rake snapped off.

  The thing was tired of being smacked by Gregory. It dropped Brian’s arm. It confronted his friend.

  The blond-haired boy swung the broken rake handle. The beast watched the strike land and smiled at the crack of wood against its gathered, lumpy flesh. After the blow, the skin stayed briefly puckered in a welt, then flowed back to its former ductility.

  “There’s no way to hurt it!” Gregory cried, slashing out wildly with the wooden handle.

  The monster snorted.

  Suddenly, Gregory saw Brian pick up a trike and point meaningfully to his own neck.

  The monster lunged for Gregory, swiping its crystal paws. Gregory didn’t know what Brian meant — but aimed to stab the creature’s neck. The spiked end of his stick struck the throat — which hardened — and snapped again — now no use. Gregory screamed as the hard hands grabbed him. The thing moved stiffly, its neck momentarily too encrusted, too calcified to budge.

  And at that moment — when it couldn’t move its head and couldn’t see what was coming — Brian, behind it, walloped it with a tricycle.

  The flesh was unprotected, unhardened. The trike sunk, splattered skin, and spewed dark chips. The monster yelped and bucked. It fell, broken, to the street. Its back was in pieces. It oozed black jelly.

  The two boys stood, panting, panicked, in the road.

  From the automobile came the sound of clapping.

  A voice from inside rang out. “Well done, boys. We’ll see you soon.”

  The door slammed shut. The horses lowered their heads and began to drag again. The car rolled forward. The torches processed. The children stared.

  The car disappeared around the corner.

  The monster lay, shattered, on the street.

  Brian and Gregory spent the next fifteen minutes getting the kids to their houses. They all lived on that street, but it took them a while to wake up from their trance enough — through shaking, through water from a hose — to tell Brian and Gregory who lived where.

  When the parents opened the doors to receive each kid, they scolded them as if it were only a late night out. “Where were you? You were supposed to be in by seven thirty — Thank these boys for bringing you home. Thank them!”

  One by one, the children went inside. Their bikes were left on their drives.

  Cassie and Charlton’s mother, Mrs. Drake, recognized Gregory. “Oh, thank you,” she said. “Usually they’re not out so late.” She was half covered in dirt, as if she’d been lying in it. It stained her chin and her pantsuit. She didn’t seem to mind, however. She told the kids to get ready for bed.

  “You have to keep them inside, ma’am,” said Brian. “It’s really dangerous out there. Did you see the car? Hooked up to the horses?”

  “People speed,” said the woman, pressing down her mud-spattered hair. “They go so fast. Where are they trying to get to? Or what are they trying to get away from? Sometimes I wonder.”

  Brian looked at her oddly. He said, “Mrs. Drake, did you fall down?”

  She raised her eyebrow. “What are you suggesting?” She smiled tightly. “Anyway, thank you for sending the kids in. I hope you had a good time playing.”

  And then she closed the door.

  By three in the morning, the neighborhood was silent and mostly dark. No one stirred on the streets and culs-de-sac, the lanes and ways, except one child walking in desolate circles, his bike confiscated, his eyes half closed. In the houses, people lay in their beds, some asleep, dreaming of jobs, others staring at the closet door or the blinking of the time. Dogs sighed at the foot of quilts. The mountain rose above them all.

  In one house, a boy was awake and pacing. Brian could not sleep. He was too worried. He felt invasion in his chest, the stealthy disruption of rest by anxieties. His unease was physical, and kept him roaming about the living room and kitchen. His hands ached from where he’d hit the solidifying monster. His knuckles were bruised. He couldn’t believe that his best friend could sleep at a time like this.

  At five, he sat down on the sofa to rest for a minute. He stared at the scrolls framed on the wall. They made no sense, a cavalcade of men in hats. He stared at them until his eyes closed. He tilted his head backward, and at last, was asleep.

  In nearby houses, men and women prepared for work.

  ELEVEN

  The scud of running shoes on pavement woke Gregory up. It was seven thirty — or at least the clock said it was — and a jogger was going past. It was the same man they’d met the day before in the construction zone, who’d told them about the chariot.

  Gregory looked around the room. He wished Prudence were there. For one thing, she would have fixed them breakfast. For another, it would have been fun to tell her about the night before. She would have been proud of him, walloping the monster with a rake. Brave, she might have called him.

  Gregory found Brian asleep in the living room. “Hey, Slumberina.”

  Brian stirred and looked around, reaching clumsily for his glasses.

  “If you weren’t going to sleep in the bed,” Gregory said, “why didn’t you let me use it? The floor was completely uncomfortable.”

  “Sorry. I couldn’t sleep. I came out here.”

  “I see that.”

  They ate stale cereal without milk. They didn’t speak while they ate. They just pulled cat hair out of their mouths.

  They left the house about fifteen minutes later. People were just setting off for their jobs.

  “So we’re going back to the sales office,” said Gregory.

  “To meet Milton Deatley,” Brian agreed.

  “Deceased.”

  Brian nodded.

  Mrs. Drake, no longer dirt covered, was talking to a girl who was about Brian and Gregory’s age. “Don’t let them watch too much TV,” she said. “Unless they’re watching those ‘Little Achiever’ videos. Send them outside to play. There’s a lot of kids their age in the neighborhood.” She saw Brian and Gregory and waved. “Hi, boys!” she said. “Thanks again for bringing the kids home last night!”

  “No problem,” said Gregory.

  Brian went over to her. “Um, ma’am,” he said. “You might want to, you know, keep them with you. More. It really isn’t very safe around here. I don’t think people understand what’s going on.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The babysitter girl was goggling at Brian.

  Bria
n shrugged nervously. “I think that this isn’t a normal development. I think there’s something wrong here. Someone is watching you and is confusing all of us about time and …” He didn’t really know how to explain it. The mother was looking at him without any expression.

  “You’re kind of a creepy boy,” she concluded. “Why are you trying to frighten us?”

  “I’m not — it’s because … we have to worry about the, you know, the … didn’t you see that procession last night?”

  “Thanks, anyway, for bringing the kids home,” said the woman. “Have a good day.”

  “I’m not trying to be creepy,” said Brian. “But everyone here is in danger.”

  “From what?”

  “From … things from outside the world.”

  “Outside the world,” said Mrs. Drake. She looked at the babysitter girl. The babysitter girl was scratching her cheek a lot.

  Gregory came up and seized Brian’s shoulder. “Ignore him,” said Gregory. “This young man’s impressionable brain has been fried by rock music, video games, and artificial sweeteners. He’s the problem with society today.”

  “Gregory —” Brian protested.

  “Let’s go,” said Gregory. He apologized to Mrs. Drake. She glared at them and nodded. “I have to get to work,” she said.

  “See?” said Brian. “That’s what I mean about us all being confused. It’s Saturday.”

  “It’s not Saturday,” said the woman.

  “Yesterday was Friday,” Brian insisted.

  “Maybe she has to work on Saturday,” said Gregory.

  “It’s not Saturday,” the woman said. “It’s Tuesday.”

  The babysitter girl looked bored and toed the flowers.

  “Never mind him,” said Gregory. “Sorry. We’re sorry.” He dragged Brian off.

  They kept going down the road.

  “Why did you pull me away?” said Brian. “You heard that. She’s confused. We’re in some kind of time … thing. She needs to know. Everyone here needs to know.”

  “You’re not going to convince them by telling them crazy stories about things from other worlds.”

  “But that’s the truth.”