Contents
Title Page
Book & Copyright Information
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Epilogue
Author's Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
JACQUELINE GUEST
© Jacqueline Guest, 2014
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll-free to 1-800-893-5777.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Edited by Laura Peetoom
Cover and text designed by Tania Craan
Typeset by Susan Buck
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Guest, Jacqueline, author
The comic book war / Jacqueline Guest.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-55050-582-5 (pbk.).--ISBN 978-1-55050-583-2 (pdf).--
ISBN 978-1-55050-801-7 (epub).--ISBN 978-1-55050-802-4 (mobi)
I. Title.
PS8563.U365C66 2014 jC813'.54 C2014-900459-1
C2014-900460-5
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014931277
Published by: COTEAU BOOKS 2517 Victoria Avenue, Regina, Saskatchewan Canada S4P 0T2 www.coteaubooks.com
Print copies available in Canada from: Publishers Group Canada 2440 Viking Way Richmond, British Columbia Canada V6V 1N2
Print copies available in the US from: Orca Book Publishers www.orcabook.com 1-800-210-5277
Coteau Books gratefully acknowledges the financial support of its publishing program by: the Saskatchewan Arts Board, The Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Government of Saskatchewan through Creative Saskatchewan.
For Lorraine Tourond
Dearest Auntie Queen – your amazing memory
for details of events long past never cease to educate and
entertain me. Thank you for all the hours of tea,
talk and wonderful adventures.
PROLOGUE
IT STREAKED FROM THE FARTHEST REACHES OF AN UNKNOWN GALAXY — A SILVER SWORD CARVING THE LIMITLESS NIGHT SKY. OUR HERO STARED, UNABLE TO MOVE, UNABLE TO HIDE, AS THE BRILLIANT INTERSTELLAR VISITOR BURNED ITS WAY TOWARD HIM.
CHAPTER ONE
OUT OF THE DARKNESS
With a thunderclap, it slammed into the earth behind the hill. Robert Tourond saw a cloud of dust and debris explode into the air and adrenalin sent him running – not away, as any thinking fifteen-year-old should have done, but toward the carnage.
Stumbling through the darkness, a glimmer in the distance caught Robert’s eye. He slid down a particularly muddy slope and veered in the direction of the beacon.
“Wham! Kablam!” he cursed, hearing fabric tear as his pant leg caught on a jagged rock hidden under the slime.
There was a weird smell in the air, like after a lightning strike, and he figured he was close. Topping a small rise, Robert saw the dry prairie grass blazing and raced over to stomp out the flames.
Coughing from the acrid smoke, he wondered what was going on.
Then he spied it.
There, glowing bright cherry red in the blackened weeds, was a tiny...a tiny what?
He glanced up, wondering if those practice air-raid drills he’d thought were so silly had perhaps been needed after all. Was this a piece of a Nazi Messerschmitt BF 109 or a big Junkers 88 that had been targeting peaceful Calgary, Alberta?
He shook his head at the ridiculous idea. Nah, couldn’t be. The air-raid warden would have loved the rare chance to sound Wailing Winnie, the warning siren, long before any plane was even near the city.
This was something else, something strange.
Slowly, Robert reached down and gingerly touched what appeared to be a small rock.
“Jeez, Louise!” he yelped, yanking his burnt fingers back from the blistering stone. Taking out his handkerchief, he picked up the pebble. Heat radiated into his hand as he examined his find.
Realization came to him. There was only one thing it could be. It was a meteorite, a piece of the universe, a fragment of a fallen star. Actually finding one was something that happened once in a lifetime – heck, once in a hundred lifetimes! It was worth keeping.
Winding the cloth around the oddity, Robert stuffed it in his pocket, then started back in the direction he’d left his bike. As he trudged through the darkness, an overwhelming need to see the rock again made him stop and dig it out of his pocket. He was sweating and felt a weird tingle as he held his special prize.
The moonlight reflected dully off the heavy pebble’s rough surface. It was mesmerizing. When he moved it around, it shot tiny electric sparks into his palm. This was his lucky night. He’d found a small piece of heaven.
Stashing it carefully back in his trousers, he frowned at his torn pants leg. The pants were new and his mother was going to explode when she saw them. It was late, too. He had to get home before she called out the cavalry.
Now, where was his bike? No way would he leave it behind, even if it meant getting the third degree from his mum for being AWOL. Robert looked around. Everything appeared eerily different in the moonlight. Squinting, he saw something odd in the silvery light. There was a piece of fabric caught on a rock and not any old fabric: it was the missing piece of his trouser leg. Hurrying over, he picked up the scrap and stuffed it in his pocket with the meteorite. What a stroke of luck to spot it! He might just be saved from death by angry mother when he got home. Plus it meant his bike was at the top of the nearby rise.
Robert climbed up to the ridge and saw his pride and joy right where he’d left it. He’d always had CCMs before and liked the Canadian-built bike well enough. For Christmas last year, though, his parents had splurged and bought him this top-of-the-line Raleigh three-speed, the greatest bike on the planet. Hopping aboard the sleek green wonder, he sped toward a shortcut he’d discovered that would save him an hour of pedalling. It was faster but also kind of dangerous.
Nose Hill, a high plateau on the northern outskirts of the city, was rugged and in several places the path down was narrow and followed the edge of a cliff. In the daytime you could enjoy spectacular views of the Rocky Mountains to the west. At night, even with the moonlight, he had trouble seeing three feet in front of his tire.
Robert approached a blind bend in the trail. Before he could make the turn, a coyote sprang out in front of him. He veered hard, skidding wi
ldly, as he barely managed to miss the nocturnal hunter. Heart pounding, he decided walking down was way safer for him and his green machine. He pushed it around the corner, and then stopped.
A large boulder loomed in front of him, blocking the path. If he’d ridden around the bend and hit it, he’d have gone over the edge for sure.
Robert squeezed past the obstacle, being careful not to scratch his bike, then appraised the inky sky, now tranquil as a still pond on a summer night. He was enjoying some extraordinarily good luck and it had started with finding his new treasure; a treasure that had come from out there – from the void, from outer space!
He could feel the meteorite in his pocket and, oddly, it still pulsed with heat, like it was happy he’d come along. “And,” Robert announced to any passing star that cared to listen, “this little piece of the Milky Way is going home with me!”
CHAPTER TWO
PARALLEL UNIVERSES
September was rolling by, so school was back in full swing. As Robert walked down the hall he noted that, although he was in high school now, everything was pretty much a repeat of last year. Grade ten had the same boring planets in their same predictable orbits. In fact, Crescent Heights High was the very definition of predictable. The jocks still strutted with other jocks, their brawn overpowering their brains. The popular girls still giggled mindlessly as they rated a student’s worth based on whether she’d made the cheerleading squad. And the brainiacs still furtively scuttled down the halls, dodging the jocks for health-and-safety reasons and avoiding the females because their genius didn’t extend to interacting with that particular alien species.
Robert much preferred the loners. They kept to themselves and didn’t crave the spotlight. He could understand that. In the past, if he wanted company, he’d always had his three brothers. Now that they were all overseas fighting in the war, he had something else that was far more satisfying than any phoney clique at school.
His universe was contained in the pages of the comic books he lived for, those wondrous black-and-white masterpieces that could transport him to worlds where evil villains were defeated and beautiful vixens always made the right choice for a true hero. He spent every cent he had on comics and had milk crates full of the epic tales stashed in the garage and hidden in his room. His mother didn’t approve of his choice of reading material nor spending money on that choice. Thoughtful son that he was, he protected her by making sure she never found his library.
Further down the hall, Robert spied the Queen of the Loners. She was known as Crazy Charlie Donnelly and she lived in infamy among anyone who had to deal with her. Her real name was Charlene, which didn’t suit her as much. Still, if you knew what was good for you, Charlene was what you called her. That girl liked to fight.
She was certifiable. Take, for instance, the way she got around town. Every normal kid in the world rode a bicycle; that was the way it was done. But Crazy Charlie ran. She ran everywhere, which explained why she was built like a beanpole. And if you asked her why, she’d cut you down with, “Because I like it. Now butt out of my business, pal!” To top it off, she wore men’s pants all the time. No decent girl wore men’s pants, much less the kind labourers wore, made of blue denim.
He watched as the skinny blond pushed past a group of jocks blocking her path to the water fountain. Charlie was tall and athletic, but they were big and dumb, plus there were four of them. Not odds Robert would have taken on, but then he wasn’t nuts.
“Look who’s back,” the guy built like a bull buffalo sneered. “Dang, Charlie. I see you ain’t filled out any more over the summer. I guess I won’t be asking you to the prom. Flat as you are, I might mistake you for one of the boys.” This drew guffaws and a round of crude comments from his buddies.
Charlie pushed past him. “Out of my way, meathead. I’d punch you but I don’t want to chance popping that disgusting and, I might add, giant zit on your chin.”
Robert had to agree. The pimple was mammoth.
The jock reflexively covered his inflamed sore and angrily reached out to stop her with his other hand. But Charlie was too fast. With a quick elbow jab to his solar plexus, she winded the big goon, then continued to the fountain like nothing had happened.
Robert would have stuck around, but he didn’t want to see the dope cry. That was how it always ended when you messed with Crazy Charlie.
______
Every day, Robert brought his meteorite with him to school. He could reach into his pocket, hold it in his fist and feel its power any time he wanted. He checked it frequently, inspecting the heat-scarred surface and feeling the odd heft of it as it nestled in his palm. He couldn’t get over his luck at being there the very moment the meteorite had struck.
The long week lumbered on relentlessly. Finally Friday arrived and Robert burst out of the prison doors, leapt on his bike and screamed down the street toward one of his favourite destinations – Kreller’s Drugstore.
As he walked in, a small bell jangled over the door, the same bell that had been there for as long as Robert could remember. He went to the counter and found the pharmacist counting pills and pouring them into a brown glass bottle. He waited politely, taking in the familiar drugstore smells and eyeing the orderly shelves filled with paraphernalia for assorted aches and pains. On the hospital-green walls, colourful posters advertised liniments, stomach remedies and blood tonics guaranteed to make a new man out of you, whether you wanted to be a new man or not. Behind the counter, Mr. Kreller had tacked up his standard signs – no reading magazines for free, no sampling candy for free – and a poster with information on war savings stamps (definitely no getting those for free).
Finally the elderly pharmacist screwed the cap on the bottle and set it aside.
“Hi, Mr. Kreller.” Robert piped up before the druggist could start another prescription. He was polite, not patient.
“Well now, there’s the laddie I’ve been waiting for.”
Robert’s heart sped up a beat. “Someone came in today?” He always referred to the comic books as if they were the hero they contained. To him, it was more natural.
“One of your favourites, Captain Ice.” Mr. Kreller walked to the cash register and pulled a brown paper bag from under the counter.
Robert put his quarter down. “He’s going home with me.” Good thing he’d come in. Mr. Kreller only got one of each title. What if some other kid had beaten him to it?
Mr. Kreller peered over the rims of his half-spectacles and gave Robert a meaningful look. “Supply is tight in these tough times.”
No kidding. His mother constantly reminded him it was 1943 and there was a war on so he should be careful – with his clothes, with his bike tires, with his allowance. “Money doesn’t grow on trees, don-cha-know.” Robert did know, better than anyone. With his fifteen cents change tucked safely in his pocket, he cycled home, his mind turning over his constant problem. Although he tried not to, somehow he always ended up spending every cent of his allowance on comics. The thing was, at ten cents each and with his allowance only a quarter, his favourite three required more money than he usually had at one crack. Sometimes he’d get a few extra cents from his mum, and he got money for his birthday and Christmas, which helped. The problem was saving for his favourites when there were so many others calling his name – Iron Man, Nelvana of the Northern Lights, Johnny Canuck and the new guy, Canada Jack.
Still, it was easier keeping up now than it had been before the war had started. Superman, Captain Marvel, Flash Gordon – in fact, any comics printed in the United States – no longer came to Canada. The War Exchange Conservation Act prevented non-essential goods, like comic books, from coming across the border. Robert would have made a petition and sent it to Prime Minister Mackenzie King if he could have found other kids as crazy about comics as him. It was a good thing his own Canadian superheroes had stepped in or he’d have nothing to read.
Robert peeled around a corner and barely had time to screech on his brakes as a girl leapt out in f
ront of him, crossing the intersection against the light. “Wham! Kablam!” he yelled as he barely avoided running smack into her.
Robert recognized the jaywalker – or jayrunner, rather. It was Crazy Charlie Donnelly. If anyone would break the rules, it would be her.
She scowled at him over her shoulder and he returned the look before she disappeared around a corner. She wasn’t going to ruin his good mood. He was too excited to get home and jump into Captain Ice’s latest adventure.
Quietly, he slipped in the back door of his house, hoping his mother would not hear and press-gang him into some disgusting chore. He wanted to read his new comic right away.
“Is that you Robert?” his mother called from deep inside the hall closet.
So much for his silent entrance. He swore his mother could hear a pin drop in Berlin. “Who else would it be Mum? Mussolini?”
Robert’s mother walked into the kitchen pulling an apron over her head. She was a slim woman, small and strong for her size. She was also one of the most energetic people he knew.
“Enough of your cheek, young man. Why are you so late? I have my Knit for Victory group tonight and need to get supper early. Also, I noticed your shoes are looking terribly scuffed. I know you polish them Saturday night but with this war on and having to make them last, you need to put a little more effort and elbow grease into...”
But Robert wasn’t in the kitchen anymore. In his mind, he was far away, on a dangerous mission.
When he first started reading comic books, he’d discovered something amazing. He found that if he concentrated, he could escape into their black-and-white universe and make the real world disappear...
CLOUDS HAD GATHERED AROUND HIM AND THE SCREAM OF AN ENGINE FILLED HIS MIND. A HAIL OF BULLETS STREAKED TOWARD OUR UNSUSPECTING HERO IN HIS LITTLE FIGHTER. THE ENEMY PLANE HAD BEEN HIDING IN A CLOUD BANK! WITH LIGHTNING SPEED, OUR HERO DODGED THE ATTACK, THEN USED THE SAME CLOUDS
The Comic Book War: The Comic Book War Page 1
