Once into the trees he found that the creek was still there. He ran along its edge, stumbling in and out of it, soaking his gym shoes. He slowed, looking for his old hiding spots, but everything was smaller than it should have been.
He sat at the edge of the water, not caring if he got muddy. He tried to stop crying. Gnats swarmed his face.
He heard them calling for him, somewhere above him. He crawled up the bank and wormed his way into the undergrowth. He pressed himself into the bushiest bush, the branches scraping at his arms and back. A few feet in front of his face was the back of a park bench, the walking path a few feet beyond that.
A minute later they walked past his hiding place. “I’ll check the playground,” he heard his mother say. The woman who said she was his mother. Overnight, they’d changed more than the park. His mother replaced by a gray-haired woman. His brother turned into a giant. And his father—
they’d told him his father was dead.
He watched them split up, disappear between the buildings. Still he didn’t move. Gnats flicked across bare legs. He itched all over. But he stayed hidden.
A short, chubby man sat down on the bench, his back to the boy. The man took off his baseball cap and ran a hand across his scalp. He was bald on top, frizzy around the sides, like Bozo. Next to him on the bench was a bag like a big purse.
“You can come out now,” the man said without turning around. “The coast is clear.”
The boy didn’t move.
“Or you can stay there.”
The boy poked his head out, looked left and right. No one else in sight. He crawled forward on his elbows. He tried to stand and slipped. The bald man got up and extended a hand. The boy took it and got to his feet. The man was smiling at him, but it was a sad kind of smile. The boy jerked back, recognizing him. He made a noise like a choked scream. The bald man still had his arm. The boy closed his free hand into a fist and swung, catching the man across the temple.
“Hey!” the bald man said. He stepped back and covered his ears with his arms. The boy came after him, swinging with both fists now. He struck again and again, hammering at him.
The bald man didn’t try to strike back. Eventually he dropped his arms and let the boy flail at him without obstruction. The blows turned the man’s ears bright red, drew blood from his nose. He stood there, silently absorbing the punishment. After a minute the boy stopped, panting.
The bald man turned his head and spat a dollop of blood. “I deserved that,” he said. “And more.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. His golf shirt was streaked with red. Both cheeks looked bruised, and one ear seemed pulpy and red as a tomato. “I don’t know how I’ll make it up to Bertram, though.”
The boy glared at him.
“All done?” the man said.
The boy slapped him across the cheek, hard enough to turn his head. The man rubbed his jaw. “Okay then.” He walked back to the bench and sat down. The boy remained standing, tensed to run.
“I won’t bother you again,” the man said. “I promise. I just wanted to tell you that you never have to worry about . . . me. I’m going to keep the other demons away from you too. Kind of a guardian angel.”
The boy said nothing.
“Maybe someday we’ll be able to keep all the demons away.” He touched a finger to his nose. It had stopped bleeding. “I’m working with a woman and some other people. We’re contacting scientists. I don’t think you’d understand right now if I tried to explain, but we’re . . . trying to shut the door that the demons use.”
A distant shout: “Del!” The old man and the boy turned together. A tall, bearded figure waved from the other end of the park. He moved toward them in a jerky half-run.
“I should be going,” the bald man said. He stood, retrieved his cap from the ground, and pulled it on. “Oh, and I brought you something.” He handed the boy a thin package wrapped in foil paper. “Happy birthday, Del.”
He walked briskly away. In a moment he disappeared around the corner of a building.
Lew reached the boy. He breathed heavily, his face bright with sweat.
“Hey man, we’re looking all over for you,” he said. “Who were you talking to—did he bother you? Did he do anything to you?”
The boy shook his head.
“Okay, good.” He studied the spot where the man had disappeared, then looked down at the boy and noticed the present in his hand. “What do you got there? Did that guy give this to you?”
The boy handed it to him. Waited. Lew pulled off the wrapping paper.
“Fuck,” he said. It was a comic book. He studied the cover for a long moment, then looked up at the spot where the man in the ball cap had disappeared. Gone. The boy took the book from his hand. The cover showed a man in goggles shooting a bulky gun. He flipped it open, frowning.
“That’s RADAR Man,” Lew said. His voice sounded strained. Then he cleared his throat and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll read it to you. And there’s a ton of comics in the basement. They’re all yours.”
The boy took his brother’s hand, and they started walking back, the boy holding the comic open in his other hand as they walked.
“We gotta get you cleaned up, man,” Lew said. “But you know nobody’s mad at you, right? It was totally an accident.” The boy nodded absently. He was looking at the comic book. “And let’s not tell the Cyclops that I swore in front of you. She would so kill me.”
NOTES
The comment made in chapter 5 by “Valis” on the difference between fantasy and science fiction was taken from Philip K. Dick’s essay “My Definition of Science Fiction,” which appeared in The Shifting Realities of Philip K. Dick, Selected Literary and Philosophical Writings, edited by Lawrence Sutin. That book also reprinted a drawing from Dick’s Exegesis that I adapted for the Rapturist symbol in chapter 4.
ACKNOWLEDGMENT S
The first-time novelist owes thanks to almost everyone he’s ever met. A novelist who’s written a pop culture mash-up like this one is also indebted to almost every book he’s ever read, starting with the comics of Jack Kirby and Stan Lee. Thank you for teaching me to read, gentlemen. This book also owes much to the stories of H. P. Lovecraft and the novels of A. E. Van Vogt (pronounced “A. E.”) and Philip K. Dick. Kathy Bieschke and Gary Delafield were, as always, my first, best, and toughest readers. Andrew Tisbert and Elizabeth Delafield saw later drafts and kept me on track. My thanks as well to the many friends (including several more Delafields) who read the manuscript; to my children, Emma and Ian Gregory, who weren’t allowed to read it; and to my sisters, Robin Somerfield and Lisa Johnson, who were simply thankful they weren’t in it.
Several wise professionals guided me through the last mile of the publishing process. Gordon Van Gelder offered well-timed words of advice and a door-opening e-mail. Christine Cohen pushed the book into exactly the right hands. The deft copyediting of Sona Vogel and Deanna Hoak saved me from several embarrassments. My thanks to them all, and especially to my editor, Fleetwood Robbins. He under-2 8 8
A c k n o w l e d g m e n t s
stood the book from the beginning yet saw how it could be more true to itself.
Finally, my deepest thanks go to Darrell and Thelma Gregory, who never turned down their odd son no matter how many times he showed up at the checkout counter holding another comic or paperback. Mom, I’m sorry this book has so many curse words.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR