The Revealing

by Bill Myers

  “Tank?” Andi gasped. She took a half step closer to see, then turned back to Cowboy. “Is that you?”

  Cowboy could only stare. We all did.

  “This is much too unusual,” the professor said.

  I shot him a look. “Now who’s stating the obvious?”

  The melting floor kept coming. The professor opened the door. There was the hall with the back stairway, the dining room, and kitchen just like before. And just like the House in Washington.

  “What do we do now?” Andi asked.

  “The catacomb,” the professor said. “In the Capuchin Crypt.” He turned to me. “You took photographs of the floor plan with your cell phone.”

  I pulled the phone from my pocket and flipped through the photos.

  “Andrea, you said the bone pattern on the wall was identical to the floor plan of the house in Washington.”

  “Precisely. Other than the double doors sealing off the entry hall, they are identical.”

  I found the photos and enlarged one.

  She pointed to it. “See. There’s the entry hall with the formal stairway. Here’s the living room we just crossed through. The hallway we’re currently standing in, the back stairs, the dining room, and . . . what’s this?” She pointed to a knuckle bone or something in the middle of the kitchen. It was slightly darker than the others, almost red.

  The professor looked a moment then quietly answered. “The feast is in the kitchen.”

  We turned to him.

  “That is what Hartmann said about the spear.”

  “The taxi driver, too,” Cowboy said.

  I glanced over to the door. It had started melting.

  “Do you suppose . . .” Andi looked down the hallway toward the kitchen.

  The professor repeated, “The feast is in the kitchen.” He turned and started down the hall. We traded looks as he said it again, louder. “The feast is in the kitchen.”

  Without a word, we followed.

  CHAPTER

  9

  I don’t see nothin’,” Cowboy said. “It’s just a kitchen.”

  And he was right. Fancier than mine (its cupboards actually had food), but nothing special. Sink, stove, fridge. A little eating area to the side. There was an island in the center, but nothing to write home about.

  “What did you expect,” the professor said as he opened the fridge, “a sign reading, ‘Look here for the spear that pierced Christ’s side’?” He began riffling through the usual suspects and tossing them on the ground—milk, bread, eggs. “Don’t just stand there, people. Search!”

  We moved to action. Andi and Cowboy took one side of the kitchen with its cupboards and drawers, me and Daniel took the other. I looked behind the plates and glasses. Taking the professor’s cue, I swept them off their shelves, letting them crash to the floor. No one bothered looking down the hallway. We knew what was coming.

  “Alrightee!” Cowboy shouted. “Hold up. Hold up, I said! Ain’t no need lookin’ further. I found it.”

  We turned to see him holding an old piece of metal—five, six inches long, with some wood attached. I’m guessing it was the head of the spear. Well, half of it anyway. The thing had been cut long ways, right down the middle.

  I stepped closer to look.

  “That’s far enough,” he said. “No need for you to come closer.”

  “I’m just taking a look at—”

  “Stop, I said! Stop right there!”

  I slowed to a stop and frowned.

  “This is mine! I found it fair and square. And no matter how you try, there’s no one gonna take it from me. You got that?”

  I traded looks with the others. The good-ol’-boy accent was the same, but the charm was gone. “What’s goin’ on, Cowboy?”

  “My name’s not Cowboy.” He turned to Andi and the professor. “And it ain’t Tank, either. It’s Bjorn Hutton Christensen . . . the third.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “very impressive.” I started toward him again. “So why you gettin’ all hot and—”

  “Aha!” Andi cried.

  I turned to see her pull what looked like the other half of the spear from the back of a utensil drawer. You couldn’t miss the look of triumph on her face.

  Or the anger on Cowboy’s. “That’s mine,” he shouted. “It belongs with this one here.”

  Andi shook her head. “Wrong. Your piece belongs with mine.”

  The professor and I glanced at each other.

  Cowboy broke into his smile and took a step toward her. “No big deal. I’m sure we can work it out. For starters, why don’t you be a good little girl and just hand that over—”

  “It’s mine!” She yanked her piece to her chest. “It’s in my possession and you can’t have it.”

  “Yeah?” he said. “Just watch me.”

  He started at her until the professor stepped between them. “This is hardly the time to quibble over—”

  “It’s mine!” Andi pulled away. “I found it, and by all rights, his piece should also—”

  “I found mine first! That half belongs to me!”

  “And that?” The professor pointed to the melting floor just coming into the kitchen. “Who would like possession of that?”

  “I can stop it,” Andi said. “If he gives me my other half, I’ll have more than enough power to stop it.”

  “Your half?” Cowboy shoved the professor aside and started for her. “You give me my half!”

  “Stop it!” I shouted. “Cowboy!”

  But Andi didn’t need my help. She squared off to face the big guy, holding up her piece like a weapon. “My intelligence is greater than yours. I can manage this power far more wisely than some ignorant farm boy.”

  Cowboy slowed and sneered. “You think you’re so smart with your brains and all. Well, brains got nothin’ over real strength. Not when it comes to—”

  “Look!” I pointed at the melting floor closing in.

  Cowboy started at her again. “It needs strength. Not some brainiac with—”

  “Stay back!” Andi crouched, ready to spring. “You’ve been warned!”

  He laughed, then lunged at her. She screamed as he grabbed her arm. But he was too focused on getting the weapon to see her knee come up sharp and hard.

  It found its mark. He was more startled than hurt. She used that split second of surprise to pull his hand into her chest, bringing his piece next to hers.

  There was no flash, no sound. Just a look that came into her eyes. Wild, full of wonder.

  Cowboy saw it, too. He blinked. Surprised at his actions. Surprised at hers. “Andi?”

  She yanked the metal out of his hand and pulled away. Now she had both pieces, clutching them, hunching over them like some crazed animal.

  “Andi?” Cowboy reached for her. Not the spear. Her.

  She looked up at him. She smiled. Then she threw herself at him—shoving him backward. Not much, but enough. His left heel caught the edge of the melting floor. He tried pulling it away, but it had him. It quickly ran up his foot and turned it into liquid. Then his ankle. Then his leg.

  He looked down at it, puzzled. Then to us. There was no pain on his face. Just confusion. The melting spread up to his knee, his thigh. And, as it melted, he sank.

  By the time I got to him the liquid had reached his other foot and started melting his other leg, sinking him into the floor. I reached down to him—the liquid just inches from my own feet. “My hand!” I shouted. “Take my hand!”

  He saw the floor coming at me, knew the danger.

  “Take my hand!”

  He looked back up. Now he was up to his waist.

  “Take my hand!”

  But he wouldn’t.

  I took half a step back, the floor nearly touching the toe of my shoes. But I kept reaching, arching my back, trying to stay clear. “Take my hand!”

  He’d melted up to his chest.

  “No, Miss Brenda.”

  “Cowboy!”

  He kept sinking until he was up
to his neck. Only his head was above the floor, more than a little creepy.

  I stretched with all I had. That’s when I lost my balance. I swore and fell . . . until the professor swooped in and grabbed my waist. He yanked me back so hard we tumbled onto the solid floor.

  By the time I scrambled to my hands and knees, Cowboy was gone.

  CHAPTER

  10

  I leapt to my feet and spun around to Andi shouting, “What have you done?”

  She stared, as surprised as the rest of us. But there was no missing the awe on her face and in her voice. “The power . . . don’t you see it?” She motioned to the floor. It melted at the regular speed, but the area closest to her had slowed. It was circling, going around her. “I can feel it. Energy is flowing through me.”

  We watched as she put the two pieces of metal into one hand and raised it high over her head. “I order you to stop!” she shouted.

  It didn’t. Not completely. But the melting had definitely slowed. She was standing close to the island, and all three of us edged next to her.

  “That’s right,” she said. “Good. There’s no need to be afraid. Come closer. I’ll protect you.”

  Nobody was crazy about the idea. But nobody liked what happened to Cowboy, either.

  She turned back to the floor and shouted, “By the authority granted to me, I order you to stop!”

  It may have slowed some more, but it kept inching forward. We backed up until we were pressed against the island.

  “I command you to stop!”

  “It won’t,” Daniel said quietly. I looked at him. “It’s purer than her.”

  “Purer?” the professor said.

  Daniel nodded, then hopped up on the kitchen island.

  “What are you doing?” Andi said. “I have the spear, the one that killed Christ.”

  Daniel motioned for me to join him. With the melting floor just feet away, it seemed a good idea.

  Andi tried again. “I order you to halt!”

  Still no luck.

  The professor decided to join us. It took a little effort with his old bones, but we got him up on the counter, too.

  By now the whole kitchen was pretty melted—cupboards, sink, fridge—everything but the shrinking circle around Andi and our island.

  “Andrea, come up here,” the professor ordered. “Join us.”

  “But . . .” She looked back at the floor. It was inches from her feet.

  “Get up here. Now!”

  She had no choice and finally hopped up on the island.

  The last of the floor quickly melted. Now all four of us sat there. A little boat in an ocean of a melting kitchen.

  But the boat was also melting. It shifted, then dropped half a foot. We pulled in our feet, scrambled up until we were standing. It slumped again, hard. So hard we could barely keep our balance. Like an ice cube on a griddle, the whole thing kept getting smaller and smaller.

  It lunged to the left, throwing all of us off balance. The professor the worst.

  “No!” he cried.

  His feet slipped until they touched the liquid. Me and Daniel grabbed his hands, but we were too late. It washed over his feet, dissolving them as fast as they had Cowboy.

  “Let go!” he shouted.

  We wouldn’t.

  It rose to his ankles, his calves.

  “I order you to release me!”

  “Shut up!” I yelled.

  He fought us, trying to break free as he kept sinking . . . up to his thighs, his hips.

  “Release me or you’ll also perish!”

  “I said shut up!”

  He was up to his chest.

  We wouldn’t let go.

  But the professor had other ideas. He twisted until he wrenched both hands free.

  “NO!” I yelled.

  He threw himself backward.

  “Professor!”

  He didn’t scream. He didn’t shout. There was a brief second as the back of his head lay on the surface then sank, followed by his face. Now there were only his flailing arms and hands until they also disappeared.

  “Professor!”

  The island was three feet off the floor. It pitched so hard, me and Daniel could barely stay on top.

  Andi wasn’t so lucky. “Help me!” she screamed as she fell.

  She sank like a stone, throwing out her arms, holding the spear high over her head as the floor swallowed her . . . but not before Daniel lunged forward and grabbed it.

  Even that didn’t help. The last of our little island was quickly melting. I grabbed Daniel and hoisted him onto my hip . . . just as the floor swept over my feet. There was no pain. Just a warmth. It kept rising, absorbing my legs, my thighs.

  Daniel scampered higher—clinging to my neck with one hand, holding the spear with the other. I felt the warmth wash around my belly, rising to my chest. I helped him up onto my shoulders.

  A moment later I saw it touch his feet. He didn’t cry out, just lifted the spear high over his head. The floor surrounded my neck now. I lifted my head to breathe. One gulp of air, two—before it rose over my mouth and nose. And then I was gone.

  CHAPTER

  11

  It was like a dream.

  But it wasn’t.

  The art studio. The dozen or so kids at their easels. I’d never been here, but I’d also spent years teaching in this very classroom . . . and loving every minute of it.

  They were special-needs children—Garret, the Asian kid with MS, Lucy sitting in her wheelchair in the final stages of leukemia, sweet Melissa with her severe learning disabilities. I knew them all . . . yet I’d never met them.

  “That’s good,” I said to Rupert, his genetic disorder so severe he could only paint with a brush between his clenched teeth. The canvas was smeared in blacks and browns. “What would happen if you put a splash of red in there? Maybe even yellow?”

  He looked up at me, his eyes beaming. And my heart melted.

  That’s why I do what I do. Art therapy. Letting these kids express themselves when nobody else will listen. This month it’s paint. Next month it’ll be clay. Anything to give them an outlet . . . and to take their minds off the ugliness of the world destruction.

  World destruction? The phrase surprised me. I looked around the room for a window. It was the same dimension as the living room in the cliff house, the one I’d spent so much time dreaming about.

  Or was this the dream?

  But it wasn’t a living room. It was a classroom. Bright lights, cheery colors, rainbows and animals painted on the walls.

  I found a window and crossed to it. The shutters were closed.

  “Miss Brenda, Miss Brenda, come see what I’ve done.” It was Lindsey, an eight-year-old who had been abandoned at the church by her parents. There was a lot of that now. With the plague, the famine, and the war, parents were unable to care for their children, particularly those with special needs.

  I stopped. Were such things true? They hadn’t been before.

  “Miss Brenda?”

  “I’ll be right there, kiddo.” I pushed open the shutters. We were in a big city, crowded, buildings packed super tight. Three stories below on the sidewalk people wore face masks. Like in a hospital. Some even had gas masks. And for good reason. The air was a thick puke-green.

  I stared, trying to understand . . . until someone touched my sleeve.

  I turned. It was Daniel. Littlefoot was beside him. I knelt in front of them, remembering the other dream, the one in the melting kitchen. “What are you doing here? You all right? Where are the others?”

  He shook his head.

  “What?” I said.

  “Gone.”

  I searched his face. “Andi? Cowboy? The professor?” I knew the names, but not from here.

  “All dead.”

  “When? How?”

  He pointed out the window.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Everyone dies.”

  “But—”

  “In this
world everyone dies.”

  “In this . . .” my mind spun, trying to fit the pieces, remembering what Andi had said about a multiverse. “In this world, in this . . . universe?”

  He nodded.

  “Everyone will die in this universe?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “But in the other—Cowboy and the others, they won’t die? This”—I turned to the window—“this won’t happen?”

  “If you come back and help.”

  I rose and looked around the classroom. “But this . . . this is my life. This has always been my life.”

  “No.”

  He was right, of course. The other world had been too real.

  “This is what makes me happy.”

  He shook his head and pointed out the window.

  “What?”

  His voice filled with emotion. “We can stop this.”

  “If we go back?” I said. “If we go back to our other world?”

  “Yes.”

  I looked to Littlefoot. Her eyes had shifted colors. Now they were a deep cobalt blue. She reached out her hand to me. I stared at it, then turned back to Daniel. He looked more serious than I’d ever seen him.

  I turned back to the girl. She nodded, did her best to smile. Daniel gently reached for my hand, took it, and placed it in hers.

  I didn’t pull it away.

  Without a word she turned and we threaded our way through the classroom. Daniel followed. One by one the children stopped painting. They turned and stared. More like glared. But not at me. At Daniel and the girl.

  “Miss Brenda . . . ?” It was Lindsey. “Are you okay? Are they hurting you?”

  “What?” I smiled. “No, of course not, we’re just old friends.”

  She didn’t look convinced. Neither did the others.

  I leaned down to Daniel and whispered, “What’s going on?”

  He motioned to Littlefoot and himself. “We don’t belong.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not our universe.”

  “But it’s mine?”

  “Only if you want.”