“I am Mr. Magic,” the man said. His voice was deep, melodious. He ascended another step. “It’s my pleasure to finally meet the great Brains.” He chuckled.
Mr. Magic. Jesus. No wonder he was dressed like a stage magician. Brains would never have expected the Stranger to wind up being something like this. Not in a hundred years.
“Whoever you are, whatever you are,” Brains said. “Stop, or I’ll shoot!”
Mr. Magic only smiled. He spread his long arms. “Then fire away, Darren.”
His voice was mellow, utterly calm. Water seemed to seep into Brains’s knees. Mr. Magic had transformed from a mass of smoke, for God’s sake. Would a gun really harm him?
Mr. Magic took another step.
Brains sucked in a deep breath and squeezed off three smooth shots. The first two rounds hit the guy squarely in the chest. The third struck his shoulder.
But Mr. Magic did not bleed—did not so much as wince. Brains might as well have pelted him with feathers. Damn.
“My turn,” Mr. Magic said, and flung his cane onto the steps. The cane mutated into something that looked like a black snake, but it had dozens of miniature legs, bulbous eyes, and wicked-looking fangs.
Whatever it was, it had never been described in Brains’s science textbooks. Brains’s eyes grew so large, he thought his contact lenses might pop out.
Like an angry cobra, the creature raised up and hissed, its hateful glare fixed on Brains. It raced up the stairs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Propelled by dozens of small, shiny legs, the snake-creature scurried up the steps toward Brains.
Brains didn’t try to hit the thing with a bullet. It was too damn fast. He turned and dashed to the nearest room, his bedroom.
Ice water gushed through his veins. The .45, his sole weapon, was basically useless. Jason had said that whatever you fantasized in Thunderland immediately became real, but Brains’s mind pumped so quickly he could barely think, much less summon the concentration to imagine anything that might stop Mr. Magic. His only choice was to escape.
He heard the reptile-creature chasing after him, hissing, its legs pattering across the hardwood floor.
In the stairwell, Mr. Magic laughed.
Move, move, move.
Brains rushed inside his bedroom and slammed the door, locked it. Frantic, he looked around. He saw his bureau beside the door. He positioned himself beside it and shoved it hard, blocking the doorway.
The dresser obviously would not stop Mr. Magic, but it might buy Brains some time to run. As Brains moved away from the makeshift barricade, the many-legged serpent darted from beneath the bureau. It was small enough to slither underneath the door.
Trying to run, Brains spun so wildly that he tripped over his own feet. He smashed against the floor. The gun popped out of his grasp.
Oh, you stupid klutz!
The snake-creature was quick to take advantage. It scrambled across the carpet and burrowed under the cuff of his jeans.
Brains screamed.
Hissing, the reptile-beast ran along his leg like a slick of warm oil, making his pant leg bulge. Pain suddenly stabbed his thigh.
Screaming, Brains hammered his fist against the knot in his jeans that had to be the creature’s head. It hissed furiously, its body squirming, but it did not die. He felt its tiny legs squeezing against his thigh, as though trying to suck the blood out of him. It bit him again.
Growing dizzy with agony and revulsion, Brains rolled, snared the gun. He pounded the butt of the revolver against the reptile’s skull, one-two-three-times, and finally heard a satisfying crunch.
Tears filling his eyes, he grabbed the foot of the bed and struggled to his feet. Dead, the serpent slid down his leg, its limp tail protruding from the cuff of his jeans. He snagged the end of its slimy body and yanked it out of his pants. Grimacing, he threw it across the room. The reptile-beast struck the wall ... and when it hit the floor, it was a black cane once more.
Everything Brains had ever learned in school was useless. Book smarts didn’t matter in Thunderland; the rules of biology didn’t exist here. It was a world of strange, deadly magic.
Pure animal instinct alone would keep him alive. And instinct told him to haul ass.
“Are you and my little friend having fun in there?” Mr. Magic said from the hallway. He chuckled.
Brains hustled across the room to a window. Lightning flared, the ghostly incandescence casting his reflection on the glass and showing him a face that he scarcely recognized as his own. He looked nothing like the calm, self-assured young man he was accustomed to seeing in the mirror each day. He looked like a little kid who had seen the bogeyman.
Behind him, the doorknob rattled.
Hands shaking, he unlocked the window, pushed it up all the way. Icy raindrops slanted in through the screen, soaking his arms. He raised the screen as high as it would go. The opening gave him sufficient room to escape. Directly under the sill, latticework dropped to the sodden ground, glistening vines snaking over and under the wooden geometric web.
He slung one leg over the sill.
An explosion as loud as a thunderclap boomed through the room, and then the bureau lifted off the floor and hurtled toward him like an out-of-control truck, smithereens of the shattered door showering the carpet. He threw his other leg outside and clambered onto the latticework in time to avoid getting smashed. The dresser banged into the window frame, knocked away chips of wood, and fell onto its side, where it lay motionless.
Mr. Magic strolled through the ruined doorway, cape fluttering. He ambled casually, clearly in no hurry to attack Brains. His smug arrogance made Brains want to smash his face. This was only entertainment for him. Brains vowed that he would discover a way to gain an edge on Mr. Magic and survive.
But for now, he could only run. He began to climb down.
Rain battered his back and wind whipped his raincoat, but he managed to descend to the muddy, flooded backyard without a hitch. He sloshed forward a few steps, looked up to the window.
Backlit by the bedroom light, Mr. Magic gazed down at him. Because of the slanting rain, Brains could not discern the expression on his face, but he bet it was that stupid, arrogant grin.
He gave Mr. Magic the finger and ran.
Much to Linda’s surprise, after a short while the rainfall slackened. It no longer bombarded the Buick with the frenzied vehemence that had made her wonder if Mother Nature had taken a hit of PCP. It had subsided to a persistent drizzle.
Rivers of water rushed into gutters, and debris drifted around the swampy streets like flotsam from a blasted warship. It would likely take hours for the roads to become suitable for driving, and she refused to wait for those ideal conditions. Flooded roads or not, they had to find Jason.
“Even though the rain’s let up, we should walk to Darren’s place,” she said. “The streets are gonna be in bad shape for a long time.”
“We can make it in the car,” Thomas said. “We’ll have to drive slowly.”
“But it would take us forever to get to his house.”
“I don’t care. I don’t want to walk. I’ve gotten a bad feeling about that idea.”
“Why?”
“Because something isn’t right about this place. You must have noticed it. For one, there’s the thing with all the clocks stopping. Second, the phones and the radios being dead. Then, look at this storm. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never seen it rain like this.”
She nodded. He had voiced some of her same thoughts.
“There’s another thing I noticed,” she said. “Since we’ve left the house, we haven’t seen a single person. This is Fourth of July night, Thomas. Even in the worst weather, someone should be out, driving, walking, or something. But look.” She wiped away the condensation on the passenger window, which gave them a view of the outside world. Total darkness enveloped every house in sight. “The city looks abandoned.”
“So what do you think is going on?” he said.
“In a nutsh
ell? Some strange shit.”
“Then we’re on the same page. I don’t know what’s happening. For all we know, we could be in the Twilight Zone. I do know that I don’t want to walk out in the open. I feel as if that would make us easy targets.”
“Good point,” she said. “Although I don’t feel safe anywhere, inside this car included. If, like Jason thinks, we’re in danger from some entity or spirit, it can probably reach us wherever we are.”
“Listen to us.” He laughed, shaking his head. “Both of us sound like we’ve gone off the deep end.”
It was funny, in a way. They were adults living in a modern, well-ordered world, and they were discussing spirits and alternate dimensions as though they were members of some mystic sect. It would have been funnier to her if they had not been living this odd new reality.
The marital problems that she and Thomas had endured lately seemed remote, like the tribulations of characters on an old TV show. The sheer weirdness of what was going on, and their desperate need to find Jason, made everything else irrelevant. This situation was far more important than anything she’d ever faced in her life.
“All I really care about is finding Jason,” Thomas said. “The car can take us to him faster.”
“Agreed. Let’s get moving.”
He shifted the Buick into gear. They pulled away from the curb and rolled slowly into the submerged street.
Linda watched the houses that they passed. All of them were dark, eerily desolate. Thomas’s fear of walking in the open seemed not only reasonable but wise. It was easy to believe that, if they set foot outside the car, something would snatch them and suck their lives away.
She shivered.
They reached Darren’s house. Like all of the homes on the block, it was a well-kept, two-story contemporary model, complete with a big yard and a three-car garage. Like all of the others, it was dark, too. Her hope that they would find Jason there dimmed. She reminded herself to stay positive.
After they got out of the car, they stood beside each other on the wet lawn, glancing around warily. Thomas had drawn the .38, but she would not have felt safe even with the National Guard at her back.
A burst of lightning shattered the night into a million luminescent pieces. Thunder groaned, the ground trembling as though huge, subterranean creatures burrowed underneath the crust of the earth.
They sloshed across the sidewalk and climbed the porch steps. She pressed the doorbell.
Soft chimes rang within. But no one answered.
Thomas tested the knob of the heavy oak door. It turned. He gave the door a soft push. Sheer darkness greeted them.
“Anyone home?” He poked his head inside the doorway. No response.
“Are you here, Jason?” she said.
No answer.
Pushing the door open, they stepped inside. They methodically searched the house. It was tastefully furnished with upholstered furniture in earth tones, polished hardwood floors, lots of green plants, and several fine pieces of African-American art. Finding nothing of significance on the ground level, they ascended the staircase to the second floor. When they saw a nearby bedroom, they halted.
The door had literally been blown off the hinges. Slivers of wood, obviously from the ruined door, littered the carpet. Deeper within the room, a bureau rested on its side beneath an open window. Rain drizzled inside.
“What happened in here?” Thomas said. He crunched across the rubbish, walked around the knocked-over dresser.
“It looks like there was a fight,” she said. “Or a tornado touched down in here.”
He surveyed the destruction. “I hope Jason wasn’t around.”
“I don’t think he was,” she said. “Call it motherly instinct, but I think someone else was involved. Probably Darren.”
“Yeah, Darren ... and the bad guy,” Thomas said, examining a shard of wood.
The bad guy. The Stranger, as Jason had called him. As she viewed the chaos that had been wreaked in this room, the idea of such a dangerous personality did not seem far-fetched.
Chills overcame her. She hugged herself, trying to warm up.
Thomas dropped the sliver of wood. “I want to get out of here. There’s nothing in here that helps us, and this place is starting to give me the creeps.”
“Ditto,” she said.
They left the house, closing the front door behind them.
“Where do you want to go next?” she said.
“His other buddy’s crib. What’s his name? Mike.”
“What if no one’s there?” she said.
“Then we go to the police station.”
“What if no one’s there, either?”
He put his arm around her as they walked back to the car.
“Then we start praying.”
Brains ran as he had never run in his life. He ran through backyards, across alleys, over front yards and sidewalks. He splashed across flooded streets and tore across gardens, driveways, and patios. He climbed over fences and jumped over piles of trash. He had no destination in mind. His only goal was to run as far as his pumping heart would carry him.
As he ran, the rainfall ebbed, from a blinding shower to a drizzle. The wind, thunder, and lightning also abated, though they periodically declared themselves.
The night only grew darker.
Eventually, he eased into a jog. Then a brisk walk. Then he stopped.
He did not stop because he believed he had escaped Mr. Magic. In this fantastical realm, where Mr. Magic exercised god-like powers, escape was not a real possibility. He quit running because he needed to create a strategy. Unless he found a way to defeat Mr. Magic, his running would be wasted energy, and this would continue to be a lopsided game of cat-and-mouse.
He took stock of his surroundings. He was near Lewiston Avenue, a major road on the western edge of town. Every house and building looked deserted. Wounded from the beating the storm had administered, trees drooped, their broken branches littering the ground. A river of black water containing all kinds of debris streamed down the roadway, seeping into the gutters.
All in all, it was a scene that might have been painted by a landscape artist suffering from severe depression. He looked farther ahead. What he saw lifted his spirits.
Several hundred yards away, a covered pedestrian bridge spanned the width of Lewiston Avenue, in the same location that it occupied in the real world. It looked the same, too: suspended about twenty feet above the pavement; constructed of sturdy black steel, with girders and stiffening trusses; two sets of stairs, which allowed access to the walkway from either side of the street; a metal roof covering the center span. It was so identical in every detail to the real bridge that he would not have been surprised to see the same obscene graffiti imprinted on the girders.
In Thunderland, a sanctuary was too much to wish for, but the bridge was the next best thing. Once upon it, he would no longer have to run, which meant he could conserve his strength. He could survey the land from an elevated position, which would enable him to see anyone approaching before they reached him. Since flights of stairs were attached to both sides, he could not be cornered; when the need to flee arose, he could take the closest stairway to the ground.
His mind made up, he walked toward the bridge, grass squishing beneath his feet.
He came to the stairs. Raindrops glimmered like bits of silver on the steps and railing. At the top, tunnel-like darkness yawned.
He looked around. He was still alone.
He grabbed the cold railing. He climbed the stairs, his aching legs protesting at the effort.
On the walkway, a soft wind stirred about scraps of litter.
Drenched by perspiration and rain, the raincoat clung like a second skin to his body. He feared it would restrict his movements, so he removed the gun from the pocket and peeled off the coat. He dropped it to the floor.
At his house he had fired three rounds at Mr. Magic. He replaced the expended bullets with new ones.
Exhaling, he leaned
against the railing. He was so tired; fatigue weighed heavily on his bones. If he survived, he would sleep twelve hours every day for a week recuperating.
Cool wind whistled down the passageway.
In the distance, thunder groaned.
The sound of footsteps drew his attention. Someone was climbing the stairs on his right, footfalls clanging softly on the metal steps.
He spun, raised the .45.
Darkness gathered at the end of the bridge. He was too far away to peer over the edge of the platform and identify who might be approaching.
Waiting, fresh sweat streaming down his face, he balanced his finger around the trigger.
A hat rose into view: a baseball cap that sported the Chicago White Sox logo.
It can’t be, Brains thought. No way.
Mike Johnson, his cousin, hopped onto the bridge.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Brains did not lower the gun.
“Hey, man,” Mike said. “What the hell are you doing up here? Put down the damn gun.”
“You aren’t Mike,” Brains said. “My cousin is dead. I saw his body myself, in the real world.”
“Dead? What?” He walked forward. “Man, I’ve been here for hours looking for you and Jason and dodging that crazy-assed Stranger. He’s been chasing me all over the place. Where have you guys been?”
It sounded and looked like Mike. Just like him. He wore a Chicago White Sox cap, matching jersey, and shorts. Nike basketball shoes. Even a thin gold necklace with a small gold crucifix in the center. The resemblance to his cousin was perfect.
But it was not Mike. It couldn’t be. Mike was dead, beyond all doubt. Brains had been present earlier that afternoon when his aunt and uncle had identified Mike’s lifeless body.
“I know you’re dead,” Brains said numbly.
“What do you mean, I’m dead?” Distress lined his face. “How can I be dead in the real world but alive in this place? Tell me, Brains.”
“I don’t know,” Brains said, realizing how little he really understood about Thunderland. Was it possible that Mike was alive in Thunderland but dead in the normal world? Could Mike be trapped in this alternate dimension?
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