Afterlife Battlefield by Johnny Ostentatious

Prologue

1

Saturday nights mean different things to different people. For young’uns, Saturday night means spending time with family and getting tucked in at a reasonable hour. For teenagers, Saturday night means hanging out with friends in malls and flirting with the opposite sex. For adults, Saturday night means socializing with neighbors and acquaintances at dinner parties or athletic events. For workaholics, Saturday night means catching up on clerical duties and answering low-priority e-mails. But for Zack Fury of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, Saturday night has always been the loneliest night of the week. And this one was no different.

Zack, a loner, sat on his Sanford and Son couch in the living room of his one-bedroom apartment. On the coffee table in front of him were countless Coors Light beer bottles, some half-empty, most liquid-less. Beyond the coffee table was a thirteen-inch TV on a wood tray table. Jacked into the TV was a no-frills DVD player, currently muted. On the TV screen danced images from an episode of The X-Files. The current scene centered around an alien autopsy.

To the left of the couch and the tray table were drawn venetian blinds. Under the window was a compact imitation-wood desk. On it was a portable CD player. Blaring from the speakers was The Cure’s goth album Pornography. A while back, Zack had created a three-hour MP3 CD consisting of The Cure’s depressing trilogy: 1982’s Pornography, 1989’s Disintegration and 2000’s Bloodflowers. He only listened to the CD when feeling more down than a blues singer.

It all seemed so hopeless. Why bother? No lover, no friends, no family. What was the point?

Zack reached over to the right. In between the couch and the end table was a Maverick, twelve-gauge, pump shotgun.

Zack laid the shotgun across his lap and reached for a beer. He grabbed one of the half-empty bottles and took a long swallow. The Coors Light was piss warm, not that he minded. His taste buds were so numb, he could slurp down Tobasco sauce without cringing.

Slamming the Coors Light bottle down on the coffee table, Zack belched, irritating his already hoarse throat from drinking for nine hours straight. Plus, his stomach rumbled from containing nothing but barley and hops. Not to mention his bladder quivered with the impending bathroom break.

Abruptly, Zack started sobbing. He brought his hands to his face and felt his shoulders bob. Tears splattered on his cheeks. A tablespoon worth of nasal drip slid down his throat, causing him to cough.

No longer crying, Zack picked up the shotgun and rested the trigger guard on the edge of the couch cushion, his legs hugging the stock of the Maverick. The barrel crossed his chest. Hands clammy, he moved the muzzle up to face, the trigger guard never leaving the edge of the cushion. He pushed the muzzle under his chin. Simultaneously, he reached down to his legs, but since his thighs hugged the stock of the shotgun, he had to squeeze his hand between his legs. His hand slid past the grip and found the trigger.

Downstairs, the octogenarian fuddy-duddy banged on the floor (her ceiling). “Turn that down!” she yelled in her Slavic accent.

Zack realized “Out of This World” was blaring from his computer speakers. He blocked out Robert Smith’s warble and stared down at the shotgun. Exhale from his nostrils created condensation on the barrel of the Maverick. He jammed the muzzle into his mouth. The front eyesight touched his tonsils.

Biting down on the barrel, Zack Fury squeezed his eyes shut and pressed down on the trigger.

Fade to white.

New Arrival Field

1

Zack opened his eyes. He lay supinely on a jagged surface. It wasn’t in his apartment.

Stone sober, Zack jumped up and staggered back a few steps.

“What the. . . ?”

Zack was in what looked like the hybrid of a desert, a forest and a quarry. The layout of the land was flat—no hills in sight. Intermittently on the ground were piles of different kinds of rocks: granite, obsidian, marble, slate, limestone and sandstone. Where there were no rocks, he saw either sand or dirt, the latter so malnourished, it sported cracks, like a picture of the Great Plains during the Dust Bowl. Odder still, this field (if you could call it that) had an occasional Joshua tree. From where he stood—apparently in the middle of this field—he saw six Joshua trees.

With nothing better to do, Zack decided to check out a Joshua tree. The nearest one was about 100 yards away. He walked over to it. The tree angled at a forty-five-degree slant. He touched the unremarkable bark, then leaned against it. Suddenly, he heard snapping sounds. He jerked away from the tree and gaped. It wasn’t a Joshua tree. Instead of sword-shaped leaves and greenish-white flowers in panicles, it had Venus flytraps, six altogether, one on each branch. The flytraps stretched for him with bloodthirsty aggression, their jaws snapping like steel leghold animal traps. He stepped back and was about to retreat from the Venus flytrap tree when he heard something.

Flapping.

Zack crouched down at the base of the tree. He looked up to eye the source of the flapping. It was hard to see the sky because the flesh-craving Venus flytraps swerved all over the place, searching for him, the snapping of their jaws increasing, sounding more and more like cracking whips. (Also, their minute noses sniffed for him.)

Finally, Zack saw where the flapping was coming from.

“Holy fuck,” he said.

It was a flying tarantula the size of a horse. The arachnid had black and tan fur, and its four wings were gray—two wings in the front, two near the rear.

“What the fuck?” Zack mumbled.

The tarantula coasted thirty feet over the Venus flytrap tree. Zack gripped the bark of the tree. The tarantula disappeared into the purple horizon.

Zack stepped away from the tree. The Venus flytraps must have sensed his movements. They reduced their snapping of the jaws and stretching of the vines.

Inserting his hands into his jean pockets, Zack studied the purple sky. There wasn’t a single cloud floating by. Weird.

Zack noticed something else. If he stood a certain way, he could sense a cool breeze. Strangely, he couldn’t always feel it because heat from the ground seemed to negate it.

“What the fuck?” Zack said into his shoulder.

“I wouldn’t use such colorful language, but yes.”

Zack jerked at the voice of the person walking toward him.

“Who the hell are you?” Zack asked.

“Doctor Prescott Rosenthal.”

Rosenthal

Twenty years ago, while studying at Johns Hopkins University, Prescott Rosenthal made the decision that his specialty in medicine would be ophthalmology. He selected it for one simple reason: it involved a minimum amount of blood. And the act of eye surgery was elementary, especially for someone like him, whose skeletal fingers and calm hands seemed ideal for numerous tasks, from creating precise incisions to suturing the haptics of intraocular lenses. In fact, operating on the eye came so intuitively to him, there were days when performing laser-vision correction or cataract surgery, he would daydream or outline a research paper he planned on writing. More than once, he entered the O.R. after a late night out with his physician friends, and he zipped through a full morning of surgeries without a hitch.

Conversely, Rosenthal struggled with the business side of running a private practice. The byzantine maze of tax laws, federal regulations and insurance provisions gave him a migraine no sedative could cure. Most practices employed an administrator to deal with the full-time job of pushing paperwork, but he had a bad run of administrators after his first one, Mrs. Lorry, suffered a nervous breakdown on her tenth anniversary. In the five years since her departure to the mental ward, he had employed fifteen administrators, the longest one staying three years, the shortest one staying three hours. The ones who filled the position briefly turned out to be so inept, he fired them as soon as he discovered they had lied during the interview, embellished their résumé or falsified their references. Regarding the administrator who filled the position for three years, that one turned out to be bilking the practice of tens of thousands of dollars. Apparently, he had been stealing Rosenthal’s money to bankroll the tours of a heavy metal band he managed. By the time Rosenthal discovered the scheme, the metal head had swindled $80,000—two years of the administrator’s salary.

Currently, Rosenthal and his refractive surgery coordinator were splitting up the administrative workload. It was a temporary arrangement, only until he hired a new administrator, but he knew his refractive surgery coordinator wasn’t happy about the extra duties. Like most coordinators, she came from the sales/marketing field, which helped bring extra income into the practice, since she was more aggressive than a starving piranha. Similar to most sales types, she viewed clerical work as beneath her and reminded him of that fact at least once a day, either in conversation or via e-mail. Rosenthal placated her with promises that he was close to hiring a new administrator. Of course, he was lying. He hadn’t even placed an ad or contacted a recruiter. He procrastinated because now the coordinator behaved herself. When left only to manage refractive surgery patients, she occasionally acted unethically. For instance, a couple of months ago, Rosenthal was performing laser-vision correction—a.k.a. LASIK—on a forty-something baby boomer. During the procedure, he thought the patient’s pupils seemed too large (pupils that are too large can result in the patient being afflicted with aberrant vision), but he continued on with repositioning the corneal flap because his technician would have flagged the patient during the pre-screening process. Only later did Rosenthal discover that the patient did indeed have pupils that were too large. The tech had noticed it, but turned a blind eye after the refractive surgery coordinator bribed him with an offer he couldn’t refuse—a half-hour blowjob. Luckily, the patient only suffered mild halos given by automobile headlights when driving at night; Rosenthal easily corrected it with an enhancement. He considered terminating the tech and the coordinator’s employment, but his practice was barely operating in the black. Replacing one position, let alone two, could tip the scales so his practice would bleed into the red, free-falling him into bankruptcy. Instead, he intended to confront his tech and coordinator about the incident, which he hoped was an isolated one. Although, he hadn’t scheduled a meeting with the two of them yet. A bit difficult when you’re working sixteen-hour days.

Rosenthal grunted into his office. He collapsed into his leather chair. It was eight o’clock at night. His staff of six had gone home after the office closed at 5 p.m. He was the only one here. Outside, it flurried. Icicles hung from the top of the window, as they had since the first snowstorm in December. It was now mid-February.

Snarling, Rosenthal reached to the floor for one of the monstrous managed-care policy binders. Heavier than a James Michener tome, he dropped it on his desk. Dust rose and his desk lamp shook.

“Let’s see here,” Rosenthal said, frowning and opening the 1,000-page manual to its table of contents. He saw words and corresponding page numbers, but nothing registered, everything a blur. He sighed, then removed his spectacles, closed his eyes and rubbed his eyelids. God, was he tired. What he wouldn’t give for one night of relaxation and a deep eight-hour sleep. But if I do that, my practice will go under, and I’ll be forced to work for someone else. No, he could not allow that to happen. He was not going to wind up poor and penurious like his father, who was forced to take a job as a drugstore night manager after being disbarred for tampering with evidence.

Rosenthal put back on his eyeglasses. He refocused on the table of contents and found the page he was looking for, when a white flash filled his vision. He wheeled back in his chair until it rammed into the wall. Framed diplomas crashed to the floor, their glass panes smashing.

“Oh . . . ow . . . aughhh. . . .” Rosenthal moaned.

Pain shot up and down Rosenthal’s arms, so immense, he could lift neither limb. The pain’s epicenter seemed to be in his chest. So intense, it felt as if his sternum was going to crack open. And, for some odd reason, the half-eaten shrimp fried rice in his trashcan filled his nostrils.

The pain shot up a notch. Rosenthal couldn’t take it much longer. If he didn’t know any better, he would swear an anvil sat on his chest.

Rosenthal jerked, his arm flopping to and fro. He fell out of the chair, onto his face. The pain reverberated throughout his entire body. He never had a heart attack before. He hoped he lived through this massive one.

He didn’t.

3

Zack stood staring at Rosenthal, who wore a white lab coat. Of average height, Rosenthal was about fifty years old and balding with black/gray tufts of hair above his ears.

“Where did you come from?” Zack asked.

“Bangor, Maine,” Rosenthal answered.

“No, I mean how did you get here?”

“I’m not sure. I was in my office. When I awoke, I was standing in the middle of a field of rocks. I soon started walking.”

“This is really fucked up,” Zack said.

“I would have selected a less vulgar choice of words, but, yes, that seems to be an accurate assessment.”

Zack cocked his head. Could this Bobo the Clown-looking motherfucker use any more twenty-five-cent words?

Rosenthal, apparently, didn’t catch Zack’s glare. He extended a hand. Zack shook it and introduced himself, noticing that under the doctor’s lab coat were a white-collar dress shirt; a red, white and blue necktie; creased brown slacks; and mahogany penny loafers.

Zack took a moment to realize he wore the same attire as in his apartment: Lawrence Arms T-shirt, Levi jeans, white athletic socks and black Chuck Taylor high-tops.

Rosenthal asked, “Do you know where we are?”

Zack shook his head.

“How long have you been here?” Rosenthal said.

Zack flapped his lips. “Um . . . about—I don’t know.” Pause. “That’s weird. Since I’ve been here, I’ve lost all sense of time, you know?”

Rosenthal shoved his hands into his lab coat pockets. “No, I don’t know. That was why I was asking you.”

“Chill out, dude. No reason to get all postpartum on me.” Zack felt his sense of humor surfacing—one way he dealt with depression.

Rosenthal closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine!” Eyes open and hands back in his lab coat pockets, he exhaled through his nose. “I suggest we start walking to find out where we are.”

“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

“And why is that?” Rosenthal sneered.

Zack told Rosenthal about the flying tarantula. While doing so, he noticed the Venus flytraps (several feet away) had calmed down. They no longer stretched and snapped their razor-sharp, bloodstained teeth.

After Zack finished telling the tale of the flying tarantula, Rosenthal dipped his chin down, giving the punk rocker a condescending look that the affluent have been giving the working class since the dawn of civilization. Zack, arms at the side, flexed his fists.

“Flying tarantula?” Rosenthal said. “I don’t know what kind of scam you’re trying to pull, young man, but I didn’t just drop off the turnip truck. I graduated magna cum laude from Johns Hopkins. You’ll have to get up pretty darned early to pull the wool over my eyes.”

“That’s OK, I like to stay up all night,” Zack said, paraphrasing a joke from the 1980s’ British sitcom The Young Ones.

“What!?!”

“Dude, listen to me. Why would I make up something like that? I mean, I like to make shit up every once in a while to fuck with people, but come on.”

“Mm-hmm.” Rosenthal folded his arms across his chest.

“Well, if you don’t believe that, you gotta at least believe this Venus flytrap tree. Look at them! Have you ever seen anything like it?”

Rosenthal looked over Zack’s shoulder. His face slackened and his arms dropped to his sides. “Oh my word.”

“Pretty twisted, huh?”

“If it’s not an optical illusion. . . .”

“Damn, dude, you’re tough. You make Scully look like John Keel.”

“Excuse me?”

Zack spoke real slow, as if talking to a conservative Christian. “Dana Scully was the character on the TV show The X-Files; she was the skeptic. John Keel was the guy who wrote The Mothman Prophecies. He— Oh, never mind.” To change the topic, Zack clapped his hands once, loudly. “What were you doing before you got here?”

“I told you: I was in my office, prepping to perform some paperwork.”

“You weren’t doing anything you might be ashamed of?”

“What is your point, Mr. Fury?”

“Before I got here, I was in my apartment. I killed myself, or at least I thought I did. . . .”

“How?”

“I stuck a shotgun in my mouth and—click—pulled the trigger. How’d you kill yourself?”

“For your information, I did not commit suicide. I suffered a massive heart attack.”

“A-ha, so you did die! You just weren’t hanging out, chilling in your posh office. You had a coronary in there. You lied! You’re not just a liar, you’re a lying doctor. That’s the worst kind, you know.”

Rosenthal fiddled with the knot of his necktie. “Yes, I may have omitted some information, but I fail to see how that categorizes me as a liar.”

“Lying by omission, BITCH!” Zack danced next to Rosenthal and began singing his own version of The Sex Pistols’ “Liar”: “Liar, la-la-la, lie / Why didn’t you tell the truth? / You’re so suspicious / You’re a liar.”

Rosenthal snapped. “Will you knock it off! Start acting your age and not your shoe size.”

Zack, grinning, pogo-danced in circles around Rosenthal. In mid-pogo, he froze, landing on the ground and protruding his chest to belt out his best imitation of Johnny Rotten’s groan at the end of “Bodies.”

“Relax, man,” Zack said, “I’m just joking. Lightening up the mood, dimming the lights, chilling the ham. Know what I’m sayin’?”

Hands on hips, Rosenthal glared. “Your humor neither amuses nor entertains me. If we’re going to be partnering—”

“Ooooo, ‘partnering.’ Sounds kinky. Hey, if this was a Red State, there’d be the possibility of us getting lynched. Does the threat of imminent death arouse you, Ennis?” Zack raised his eyebrows flirtatiously.

“You’re an idiot.”

“I believe that’s an insult. Hey, you just insulted me. Tell you what, take it back and call me an ‘idiot savant,’ and I won’t sue you for slander.”

Rosenthal sighed and stared into the distance.

“Go ’head,” Zack said. “Say it. Say it!”

“How long have you been off your medication?”

“Pshaw, medication is what got me here in the first place. Well, self-medication, actually. . . .” Zack felt his goofy mood dissipate, replaced by pensiveness and sobriety. “We’re really dead, aren’t we?”

“It would appear so.”

“Where the hell are we?”

“I believe you answered your own question.”

“Where’s the Devil and all the demons with the pitchforks, then?” Zack asked.

“Perhaps they’re on their way.”

“Maybe we should get moving, then.”

“Why didn’t I think of that,” Rosenthal said with a snicker.

They walked away from the Venus flytrap tree. The flytraps sniffed, stretched and hissed at them.

4

Peripherally, Rosenthal saw Zack Fury looking at him. The punk rocker was on the verge of speaking. Rosenthal picked up pace. Unfortunately, that didn’t stop Zack.

“I don’t think we’re in hell.”

Rosenthal grunted to show he heard Zack. He hoped the vocalization would prevent the punk rocker from expanding on his thought. Alas, no.

“I mean,” Zack said, “I’m a motherfucking atheist. Since I don’t fuckin’ believe in God, I don’t believe in the Devil, or in heaven or hell.”

“I’m fairly confident we aren’t in heaven.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I’m sure if you scour texts from various religions, none of them would describe heaven as an empty quarry.”

“Good point.” Zack stopped. “Hold up.”

Rosenthal continued walking. “What’s wrong?”

“We can’t go this way.”

Rosenthal halted, his back to Zack. “Why not?”

“This is the way that tarantula went.”

“So.”

“So, I don’t wanna run into that mofo. You didn’t see the size of that thing. It’s bigger than a fucking horse.”

Rosenthal turned around. “I believe it’s time we laid down some ground rules.” He counted them off on his fingers. “A: we are not to use profanity of any kind, not even accepted euphemisms. B: we are not to fear hallucinations conjured up by your Kafkaesque paranoia. C: w—”

“Ding, ding, ding!” Zack made the sign of time-out. “First off, I’ll curse for however fucking much and however goddamned long I want. They’re only words, so piss off. Second, I didn’t imagine shit! I saw a flying tarantula, so quit trying to belittle me, you rich sonofabitch.”

Rosenthal brought his hands together, tenting them, middle fingers grazing his chin. “I propose a compromise.”

“You ‘propose a compromise’? What the fuck, are you fuckin’ Monty Hall on Let’s Make a Freaking Deal?”

“If you make an effort to minimize your . . . colorful interjections, I will concede and lead us in a different direction.”

“Yeah, all right, whatever.”

They switched direction to walk perpendicular from the route the flying tarantula took. For several moments, Zack did not speak. For this, Rosenthal was grateful.

Appreciating the overdue silence, Rosenthal noticed neither his nor Zack’s feet made a sound. You’d think soles of shoes striking rocks would produce at least a minuscule audio effect, but no, nothing. It was almost as if they wore socks on a plush carpet. Very peculiar.

“I wonder what our connection is,” Zack said.

Rosenthal rolled his eyes and attempted to regulate his breathing. Five minutes of peace and quiet. Is that so much to ask? Perhaps this Zack Fury was educated in the inner-city public-school system. That would explain his high level of ignorance.

“I mean,” Zack said, “I know we’re connected with both of us being dead and all, but there’s got to be something else, you know?”

Rosenthal didn’t reply.

“You said you’re from Maine, right?” Zack asked.

Rosenthal inhaled and waited several moments before exhaling. “Yes.” He stared at the purple horizon. Approximately 200 yards ahead stood a Venus flytrap tree. Like the previous one, it angled at forty-five degrees.

“OK, I’m from Philly. P.A.’s not too far from Maine. Where’d you say you’re from again, Bangor?”

“That is correct.”

“Hey, doesn’t Stephen King live down there?”

“Up there. Yes, he does.”

“Ever hang out with him?”

Rosenthal shook his head. “Occasionally, I’ll see him in the supermarket or 7-Eleven, but, no, we never ‘hang out.’”

Of course, there were stories—Bangor legends, most likely—of Stephen King’s maniacal public behavior in the early and mid-80s, when the horror writer was in the throes of his drug and alcohol addiction. But Rosenthal hadn’t arrived in Bangor until 1990, years after King sobered up with the help of his wife and family. However, Zack Fury of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, did not need to know those sordid stories. As Rosenthal had learned in his first month in the Pine Tree State, Maine residents took care of their own, celebrities and commoners alike.

“Anyway,” Zack said, “so Philly and Bangor are just a hop and a skip up the East Coast, right?”

“Actually, it’s a ten-hour drive.”

“Yeah,” Zack wisecracked, “but that’s doing the speed limit.”

“What is your point, Mr. Fury?”

“We both live in the same country. Maybe that’s our connection. I mean, it’s not like one of us lived in America, and the other in India, you know?”

“No,” Rosenthal said, “I do not know. Your comments make absolutely no sense whatsoever. You are not in the least bit logical. It’s as if you pride yourself on proceeding from point A to point P, while circumventing fourteen necessary steps.”

Zack smirked. “So what are you trying to say, I’m retarded?”

Rosenthal clenched his teeth together. Maybe if he didn’t retort to Fury’s remarks, the Philadelphian would get the hint.

“So,” Zack asked, “how did you waste your days?”

Because Zack posed a question, Rosenthal had no choice but to reply.

“Excuse me?”

“What did you do for a living?”

“I am an ophthalmologist,” Rosenthal said.

“Caller, you say what?”

“Excuse me?”

“I was quoting Oprah Winfrey, or as I call her, Orca, the jabbering pile of Jell-O. She’s pretty hot, don’t you think? Man, what I wouldn’t give to roll around in the hay with her for five minutes. Know what I heard? I heard when she cums, thousand-dollar bills pop out of every orifice of her body. And she doesn’t scream either. Instead, her vocal cords make a sound like a cash register. You know, ca-ching, ca-ching, ca-ching.”

“Are you attempting to be facetious?”

“Shit, yeah, motherfucker! And I must be succeeding ’cause you’re frowning more than Sarah, Plain and Tall.”

“Hardly.”

“So what’s an ophthalgist?”

“An ophthalmologist performs surgical procedures on the eye.”

“Oh, so you’re like that cat I go see every couple years to get my eyes checked.”

Rosenthal placed his hands behind his back and curled them into fists. This was his number one pet peeve in interacting with laymen: explaining the hierarchy of the eye-care field.

“What you’re referring to is an optometrist,” Rosenthal said. “As an ophthalmologist, I subspecialize in cataract surgeries and refractive procedures.”

“Cataracts . . . that’s the crap old people get, right?”

Rosenthal nodded. “Extracting cataracts is actually an elementary surgery. Most cases are outpatients.”

“Speak English, Doc.”

But before Rosenthal could expound about cataract surgery, Zack asked, “So what’s the other thing you do? Refraction surgery, is it?”

“Refractive procedures, more specifically laser-vision correction, in which I enhance a patient’s vision to give him or her as close to twenty-twenty vision as possible.”

“Oh, like LASIK.”

“Yes, Laser-Assisted In Situ Keratomileusis is one form of laser-vision correction, but there are other refractive procedures, such as Photo Refractive Keratectomy, Laser Epithelial Keratomileusis and Conductive Keratoplasty. Also, remember that there are ophthalmologists whose subspecialties may include glaucoma, vitreo-retinal, pediatric, neuro-ophthalmology, etcetera.”

“So you aren’t that dude that checks my eyes?”

Rosenthal shook his head. “That would be an optometrist, or acronymically known as an O.D. An O.D. is licensed to prescribe corrective lenses and diagnose visual impairments. He is not—I repeat, NOT—trained nor licensed to perform surgical procedures. That is my job. It is what I do.”

“Why even have them, then?”

“Optometrists are similar to executive assistants, in that they are a necessary expense. An assistant may spend half the day filing her nails and gossiping on the phone, but the rest of the time she is useful by greeting patients, filing paperwork and corresponding with other practices. An optometrist, on the other hand, may spend most of the time goofing off with his sophomoric sense of humor, but he does service the ophthalmologist by carrying out the monotonous procedure of an eye examination.”

“Christ, sounds more complex than a NOFX bass line.”

“And, of course, the eye field employs opticians, as well.”

“What do they do?”

“Opticians cut and edge eyeglasses to fit a prescription. Like optometrists, opticians are merely glorified lab rats.”

“Wow,” Zack said, “that’s pretty stuck up of ya, don’t you think?”

“Hardly. After college, I underwent seven more years of schooling—eight if you count my fellowship. Optometrists are only required to attend four years of optometry school after college, and opticians are provided on-the-job training by their employer.”

“That’s pretty messed up. It’s almost like classicism. You know, ophthalmologists are the upper class, optometrists are the middle class, and opticians are the working class. Hey, is it a coincidence that all three of youse start with the letter O?”

Rosenthal shrugged. “I never gave it much thought. However, the three professions are frequently referred to as the three O’s.”

“So are you and your ophthaligist fellow cronies always trying to keep the other two O’s down, like how the rich do in real life?”

“There is no need to. As long as the other two O’s do not overstep their boundaries, the three professions will remain harmonious.”

“So how come you wear glasses?” Zack asked. “Shouldn’t you have gotten that LASIK done on yourself?”

“While LASIK is a relatively safe procedure, complications do result in one to ten percent of cases (depending on which literature you consult). I am not prepared to risk my vision on an elective procedure.”

“But you do it on other people?”

“Correct,” Rosenthal said, his right fingers fidgeting.

“Isn’t that a bit hypocritical? If LASIK is so great, you should get it done on yourself.”

“I disagree.”

“Then why do it?”

“I’m answering a demand. Consumers desire refractive procedures. My practice is satisfying that desire.”

Zack laughed. “So, were you born a cock-knocker, or did it take years of practice?”

“What did I say about profanity? We had a verbal agreement.”

“Agreement, schmagreement. I can’t keep biting my tongue when it’s clear you work hard at being a dick. Pun intended.”

“Why you!”

Rosenthal scuffled toward Zack, grabbing him by his scruffy T-shirt. A RIPPP filled the air.

“Get the fuck off me,” Zack said, “you greedy . . . eye-operating . . . Yankee motherfucker!”

“Not until you respect your elders!”

The two broke free from one another. Rosenthal wasn’t sure how it happened. He was too busy trying to catch his breath.

“Yeah,” Zack said, “you got the elder part right. You are old. You’re so old, you probably go to the retirement home and all the one-hundred-year-olds are coming up to you, asking what it’s like to be a senior citizen.”

Rosenthal breathed so heavily that retorting to Zack’s juvenile quip was out of the question. As the ophthalmologist’s shoulders bobbed, he discovered the origin of the rip he had heard. The rip came from him. His lab coat was torn where the sleeve met the coat. Fortunately, the rip only measured approximately two inches. Not that it mattered. This place they occupied—this field—wasn’t frigid, nor was it hot. The temperature could not be classified in any shape as comfortable, however, he was neither sweating nor shivering. He felt. . . . What was the word? Disengaged? No, that wasn’t it.

Rosenthal felt tugging on his arm. He scolded Zack: “Will you knock it off! You already tore my sleeve. You’re not going to be happy until it’s completely detached from my lab coat.”

“Hey, you did that all on your own. You grabbed me first, remember?” Zack waved his hands. “Never mind. Check that out.”

Rosenthal looked to where the punk rocker pointed.

Ten feet away, a mound of rocks trembled. Suddenly, an arm broke through the top of the pile. Visible was the elbow to the hand, fingers separated and stretched apart.

Melody

Fifty kilometers south of Darwin, Australia, Melody Holiday strolled down a path at the campground she and her traveling mates had pulled into last night. It was now the next day, late morning, hot with the humidity skyrocketing and energetic insects bouncing off her sweaty skin.

Melody was half-Aboriginal, half-Australian. At one-and-a-half meters tall, she had high cheekbones, big breasts, a flat stomach and long legs. Despite these traits of stereotypical Western beauty, her dark skin almost daily elicited racist remarks and attacks. Interestingly, such blatant bigotry never discouraged her from being a performer.

Melody was the lead singer of Polemonium, an indie-rock band that a critic once described as “what Millencolin would sound like if fronted by Olivia Newton-John.” Polemonium was halfway through their monthlong tour. They were to play in Darwin tonight.

Humming to herself, Melody hopped over a tree root. She passed a nest of chirping baby black bitterns being fed by their mother. The scene reminded Melody that her twentieth birthday was next week. In two-and-a-half weeks, when she returned home to Sydney, she would celebrate it with her father, but not with her mother. She hadn’t seen her mother since she was sixteen, when her mother rejoined her tribe in the outback. Her mother was an Aborigine.

Melody’s parents met back in the 1980s, when her father was drumming with his band, Whammo. The New Wave outfit toured frequently with Midnight Oil. The two bands went against the grain of the mainstream by not always playing in metropolitan clubs. They often set up their gear in remote locales, like the outback. While playing in northern Queensland on an Aboriginal reserve, Melody’s father sweet-talked her future mother into accompanying him for the remainder of the tour. Three months later, with no more places to play, the two bands returned to Sydney to rest and recharge. It was during this sabbatical that Melody’s parents married and made love.

Growing up, Melody’s main memories of her mother were her moping around the house and crying herself to sleep. Despite fitting into Australian society, her mother missed the outback. Things probably wouldn’t have been so bad if Melody’s father had a nine-to-five job where he was home most of the time, but Whammo was somewhat successful, so he was constantly writing, recording, performing and touring. The band did break up in 1989, however, he continued working in the music business as a session drummer. Unfortunately, most of his gigs were in Melbourne, so he would be gone for weeks at a time. This, of course, only intensified her mother’s depression. Luckily, in 1995, Whammo reunited to be the house band for a Sydney-based, late-night talk show. The show wasn’t in production when Melody was on school holiday, so during these breaks, the Holiday family drove up north to visit the tribe Melody’s mother grew up with. To this day, Melody couldn’t believe how blissed out her mother was on these trips—she wouldn’t stop smiling. Those trips went on for a couple of years, until at the end of one holiday, her mother didn’t come back with them; her mother loved her tribe more than her husband and daughter. It surprised neither Melody nor her father. Nonetheless, on the three-day drive home to Sydney, she and her father spoke only when necessary.

“Mel!”

Melody snapped out of her reverie. “Yeah?”

“We roll in fifteen minutes,” said Sean, Polemonium’s guitarist. He tapped his watch, as if for emphasis.

Melody realized she stood on the bank of a river. The water flowed south. A turtle or two swam by. The smell of mold and musk permeated the air.

Wow, my mind must have been really wandering if I made it all the way out here. Melody glanced over her shoulder. Sean was gone. She wondered if he had found her because of a psychic link they shared. Just because they weren’t an item anymore didn’t mean their connection had to sever. After all, they were the songwriting team for Polemonium. In fact, last night they started a new song. Even though the tune was in the nascent stages, she had a good feeling about it. Who knew, it might wind up being catchy enough to be the lead track on their next CD.

Melody sat Indian-style on the edge of the bank. Since Sean and her were ex-lovers, she knew the Polemonium van wasn’t going to leave for at least twenty-five minutes. Sean had the annoying habit of dividing or multiplying timetables by two. When they went into the studio, he’d declare they were going to cut a sixty- to seventy-minute album, but it always winded up being thirty minutes—thirty-five minutes tops. In this instance, he said the van was “rolling” in fifteen minutes. Translation: half-hour.

Forgetting about her ex for a moment, Melody wanted to know why her thigh felt weird. She shifted and saw her dress was riding up, allowing the grass she sat on to tickle her thigh. She solved that minor annoyance by smoothing out her skirt. Now, she sat on the edge of the bank, her legs dangling about a quarter of a meter above the river.

Melody wore sandals with dark-green nylon straps and black cork/latex soles. She also sported a one-piece, burgundy, chamois dress. It was crosscut, covering the essentials, and had a two-inch strap that ran over her left shoulder; the dress’ skirt had ragged edging. She called this outfit her cavewoman dress. It reminded her of the garment an actress would wear in one of those anachronistic 1950s B movies that were allegedly set in prehistoric times.

Melody wore her cavewoman dress whenever onstage. After the show last night, she hadn’t felt like slinking out of it. Right now, she considered washing it here, but the river was infested with too much plankton.

Without warning, one of Melody’s sandals slipped off her foot and splashed into the river. “Son of a. . . .” she mumbled, scooting off the bank. Her move was so sudden, a dragonfly changed trajectory in order to not kamikaze into her temple.

Standing in the river, water coming up to her chest, Melody moved her sandal-less foot in circles, feeling for her footwear. “Where are you?” She couldn’t leave without the sandal. It was the only footwear she brought along for the tour, and the band only had enough money for food and gas.

Melody carried on with using her foot as a scout, sensing mostly sand, dirt and fallen eucalyptus leaves. Something brushed her ankle. The fin of a passing fish?

Melody stopped moving her foot around. Time to face facts. “Nuts.”

Melody took a deep breath, then went underwater. Almost immediately, she found her sandal. It had landed on a mossy log. She wiggled her foot into the sandal and pushed against the log.

Half a second later, Melody popped above water. Rubbing her eyelids, she flapped her lips to purge the river aftertaste. Her mouth felt as if it were jam-packed with scallops. God, how she hated seafood.

Vision clear, Melody froze. In front of her was a six-meter-long crocodile. Unlike the turtles from before, the croc wasn’t floating by. It stared at Melody, snout no more than a meter away.

Melody didn’t move for what seemed an eternity. River life around her and the crocodile carried on: a squirrel monkey swung from one mangrove tree to another, a pair of Radjah Shelducks waddled out of the water onto the shore, and a cane toad floated by on a yellow, oversized lily pad.

Why isn’t it doing anything? Melody thought about the crocodile. Is it playing a game with me?

Suddenly, Melody realized a mistake in judgment. All this time she had been looking into the crocodile’s vertical pupils. Did the croc take that as an invitation for a stare down? Possibly. After all, ever since she noticed the reptile, it hadn’t blinked once.

Another thought struck Melody. Maybe the crocodile couldn’t tell she was there. Wasn’t the theory in the book Jurassic Park that dinosaurs had poor eyesight and only spotted prey when it dashed for safety?

To test the Michael Crichton theory, Melody stepped back.

The crocodile swam forward and stopped after closing the gap between them to half a meter. It hissed.

Melody started to cry. She didn’t know why. No, that was a lie.

Being within arm’s length of a carnivore brought Melody’s inner turmoil to the surface after months of denial and avoidance. She shouldn’t be in the band. She was still in love with Sean. She couldn’t take one more night of seeing him slip away after the show with a pocketful of condoms and a groupie on each arm. Why was life so unfair?

“Mel!”

Melody didn’t budge. She knew whose voice whisper-yelled from the riverbank. It belonged to the man she dreamt of growing old with, the man she fantasized about whenever she masturbated, the man who broke up with her six months ago because he “wasn’t ready to settle down.”

“Mel,” Sean said again. “Ma—Muh—Melody, d—don’t move.”

Tears gushed down Melody’s cheeks. She jerked. The crocodile took its cue.

The reptile leapt toward its prey. Melody flinched, wondering if she made the right decision, but she never finished that thought. The sight of the soaring crocodile caused her bladder and rectum to empty in unison. She started to shiver. The croc’s salivating tongue wagged her way. Its mouth zoomed closer and closer. . . . She was mesmerized by a purple pebble wedged between two molars. What was that doing there? The croc’s tongue covered her face, feeling clammy. She cringed. The reptile’s teeth skidded down both sides of her head. Was that her left ear that just lopped off? The croc clamped its jaws around her neck. She kicked and flailed, blood running into her mouth, gagging her.

The crocodile dragged Melody down below.

6

Zack, along with Rosenthal, watched the arm flop back and forth. This went on for a few moments, until the punk rocker snapped out of the shock. He stepped toward the mound of rocks the arm protruded from.

Rosenthal grabbed Zack’s arm. “Wh—What are you doing?”

“Obviously somebody’s buried in that pile. I’m gonna help dig ’em out.”

Rosenthal let go of Zack. “What if it’s a trick?”

“What!” Zack strode for the pile.

“It could be a trick.” Rosenthal inched backward, hand on cheek and chin. “That arm may not be attached to a body. It could be a trap. It may be a predator.”

Zack glared at the ophthalmologist. Had he been one of those kids who swore monsters lived under his bed?

Zack kneeled over the mound of rocks. “Can you hear me?”

A voice murmured from the rocks. Zack couldn’t make out any words. Sounded like somebody speaking through a tin can.

“Hang on,” Zack said. He began picking up rocks and pushing them down the mound. The trapped person’s arm and hand twitched. In excitement?

“Hold on, hold on,” Zack said more to himself than whomever he was rescuing. “I’m going as fast as I can.”

Zack paused. Rosenthal peered over his shoulder.

“Feel free to jump in anytime,” Zack said.

Rosenthal stepped back and stared at his manicured hands. Zack pushed aside a few more rocks, wondering what the good doctor was doing. Then he realized that Rosenthal was hesitant to participate in manual labor because it might damage his hands. Next to neurology, eye surgery probably demanded the most delicate of hands to operate. It made Zack wonder what arthritic surgeons do. Retire?

Zack continued to toss rocks aside. In doing so, he noticed the rocks were warm. The deeper he dug, the hotter the rocks got. He hoped they didn’t get so hot that he wouldn’t be able to pick any up.

At this point, the entire arm of the buried person was exposed. The shape and svelte of the limb told Zack it was female. Patches of grime dirtied the arm in a few spots.

Soon, the girl’s head was visible. She had light dark skin (Hispanic, perhaps?), and her black hair was dripping wet. The only other physical characteristic Zack noticed was that her eyes were translucent gray.

“How ya doin’?” Zack said. “Shouldn’t be much longer.”

The girl didn’t respond.

“That’s great, Fury,” Rosenthal said. “Make small talk with her.”

“Hey, Doc, why don’t you— Oh, wait, you only operate on eyes, so that doesn’t make you a real doctor. Right?”

Rosenthal stormed away. He took refuge near a Venus flytrap tree.

Zack ignored the sulking eye doc. He threw aside a few more rocks. The girl was helping, too, since both of her arms were now free. Once they dug down to her waist, Zack stopped and said, “Whaddya think, wanna see if I can pull you out?”

The girl nodded, touching her left ear, as if to make sure it was present and accounted for.

Zack squatted at the edge of the hole, securing each foot between a couple of rocks. He gripped the girl’s biceps; she clutched above his elbows.

“On three, OK?” Zack said.

Once again, the girl nodded.

Zack smirked. “And none of that Lethal Weapon shit, either. It’s on three, not after or before. Oh, and promise me something, will ya? After I pull you out, please don’t say anything like ‘I’m getting too old for this shit.’ ’Cause you can’t be any more than twenty-two. And nothing pisses me off more than young’uns, like yourself, saying they’re so old, when you’re not.”

The girl looked at Zack as if he were crazy. It was an expression he’d been receiving since junior high.

“On three,” Zack said. “One, two . . . three!”

He pulled the girl out of the hole in the ground. Even though she was slender, she was heavier than he had anticipated. Then again, maybe it was because her lower half was still surrounded by rocks.

The girl got stuck from the knees down. Zack and her put more effort into it, grunting in unison. That did the trick. Before you could say, The excavation was an outstanding success, Zack and the girl lay on the ground, panting.

After Zack quit panting, he sat up and asked, “How ya feeling?”

“Fine. Little winded, but I’ll live.”

The girl had an accent. British?

“Where the bloody hell are we?” she asked.

“That, my dear,” Zack said like Sherlock Holmes, “is the million-dollar question.”

7

Rosenthal stood near a Venus flytrap tree, out of reach of the famished flytraps. However, being bit by a flytrap was the last thing on his mind.

Rosenthal watched Zack lead the young lady away from the pile of rocks she had been buried under. She certainly was exotic looking, the ophthalmologist observed, with her dark skin, jet-black hair, slender frame and copious breasts. She reminded him of his housekeeper, Celena. Obviously, this young lady was more fetching than Celena, mainly due to her youth and firm body.

Rosenthal had been having an affair with Celena for almost five years. He did not know why she aroused him so much. She wasn’t gorgeous, with her pimply skin, plump girth and petite bosom, but he couldn’t keep his hands off of her. Maybe it was her maid outfit, or the fact that she spoke no English. Whatever the case, she was a suitable object for his sexual fantasies.

Ever since his wife had slipped into a coma six years ago, he found his libido almost impossible to satiate. At first, with the assistance of Vaseline, he made love to his unconscious wife, but he quickly grew bored of that weekly exercise. Soon, he made passes at Celena and was elated that she did not put up much of a fight, each pass of his more aggressive than the previous one. Quicker than you could say Clinical Eye Atlas, they subjected each other to their twisted sexual scenarios. Perhaps the sickest act they concocted was doing it doggie-style in front of his comatose wife. Even now, standing several feet from the Venus flytrap tree, Rosenthal felt himself getting aroused by that salacious memory. Why was that?

“Hey, Doc,” Zack said, “this here’s Melody. What’s your last name again?”

“Holiday.”

“Melody Holiday. Is that your real name? Ah, don’t matter. Melody, this is Doc Rosenthal. Doc’s an optometrist. You know, one of those cats who sells glasses on street corners.”

“I AM AN OPHTHALMOLOGIST,” Rosenthal said, “I AM NOT A GLORIFIED REFRACTIONIST!”

“Easy there, Doc, don’t get your panties all in a bind—could lead to hemorrhaging.” Zack turned to Melody. “The Doc’s a little uptight. He’s having trouble accepting the fact that we’re all dead.”

“Dead?” Melody said.

“Yeah,” Zack said. “How’d you die?”

“I . . . I was on this campground outside of Darwin. . . .”

“Darwin? Where the hell’s that?”

“It’s in the Northern Territory. In Australia. I—”

“Oh, so you’re Australian. I thought you were British.”

“For goodness’ sake, Fury,” Rosenthal said, “quit interrupting her!”

“Was I?” Zack addressed Melody. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s OK.”

Rosenthal said, “Go on, dear.”

Melody told her story, appending, “I can’t believe I killed myself. It was so impulsive. It’s not like it was premeditated or anything. I mean I’m not one of those people who thinks about it for years before finally doing it. I was—am—a fairly balanced individual. I was just going through a bad patch. You would too if you had to work with your recent ex.” She glanced at her sandals. “If that crocodile never swam by, I’d probably still be alive. I definitely would have died a natural death, whether in my twenties or in a geriatric state.”

“Damn,” Zack said, “that’s one fucked-up story, Mel.”

“Please don’t call me that.”

“What? Mel?”

Melody nodded.

“How come?” Zack asked.

“If you wouldn’t, I’d really appreciate it,” she said without a trace of annoyance.

“Sure.”

Rosenthal started to analyze Zack and Melody’s interaction, but the faint fragrance emanating from the Venus flytraps distracted him. Smelled like incense.

Resting his hands on his hips, Rosenthal surveyed the land by spinning around 360 degrees on his heel. The six Venus flytrap trees visible from here appeared to be equidistant from one another. Fascinating.

“That’s unusual,” Melody said.

“What’s that?” Zack asked.

“I’m not the least bit tired.”

“I don’t get it. Why’s that unusual.”

“I was just trapped underneath those rocks. You’d think I’d be a little fatigued, right?”

“Hmm.”

“What?” Melody asked.

“Well, something I realized before you got here is that I’m not hungry at all. How ’bout you, Doc?”

Rosenthal removed his hands from his hips and inserted them into his lab coat pockets. He paused, attempting to assess his appetite.

“No,” Rosenthal said. “I’m not hungry.”

“What the hell was that?” Zack asked.

“Excuse me?”

“You have to grind your teeth to tell if you’re hungry or not?”

“Was I grinding my teeth? I hadn’t noticed.”

“You are a f—”

Melody interjected, “Don’t either of you find that odd? I’m not tired and none of us are hungry nor thirsty.”

“Odd?” Zack said. “Shit, it’s downright fucking spooky.”

“What did I tell you about that mouth?” Rosenthal said.

“You said, ‘Zack, my good man, could you do me a favor and curse a little more? ’Cause I’m more uptight than a pocketful of Puritans, and I need to loosen up—stat—if I’m ever going to have a half-decent bowel movement.’”

Melody addressed Rosenthal. “You said you’re a doctor, right?”

“Yes, I am an ophthalmologist. My subspecialties are cataracts-slash-IOLs, as well as refractive procedures.”

“What do you make of us not being hungry, thirsty or tired?”

Rosenthal removed his hands from his hip pockets and pressed his palms together. Fingers stiff, he tapped his chin with his middle fingers. After a moment of deliberation, he said, “Regrettably, I am unable to postulate a hypothesis. I require tangible data; unfortunately, none is available.”

“What,” Zack exclaimed. “She only asked you to fucking guess. This ain’t no freakin’ SAT, motherfucker!”

Rosenthal, frowning, spoke to Melody. “I do apologize, dear. However, I cannot offer even an assumption without performing some tests. My reputation must not be tarnished in any form whatsoever.”

“Your reputation?” Zack said. “Dude, we’re in middle of who-the-hell-knows-where. Trust me, your rep is safe and intact.”

Rosenthal cleared his throat. “I have made my decision, and I stand by it.”

Melody did a 180.

“What’s wrong?” Zack asked.

“Do you hear that?” she said.

“Hear what?” Rosenthal and Zack chorused.

“It sounds . . . like wind. But. . . .”

“But what?” Zack asked.

“It sounds metallic-like.”

Rosenthal looked into the distance. He saw nothing nor felt any wind.

It

was

so

quiet

you

could

hear

a

lens

drop.

Rosenthal looked into the distance. He did not see anything, therefore, he scanned the horizon. Nothing. Then he saw it. “Oh my word.”

“What,” Zack said, “what is it?”

By the look on Zack’s face, Rosenthal knew he saw it too.

Approaching was a skeleton on horseback.

8

Melody stepped back. The skeleton galloped toward them on its horse. The skeleton wore a cloak. When six meters away, the skeleton removed its hood to reveal the scariest skull Melody had ever seen. The skull was red and glistened, as if it had been buffed and waxed. The sockets didn’t appear to house any eyes or optical nerves, but they did glow green.

“Fuckin’ A,” Zack said.

“Oh my Lord,” Rosenthal said.

The skeleton yanked on the reins. The horse halted half a meter from Melody, Zack and Rosenthal. Melody gawked at the horse. It was a black stallion, but it was the unhealthiest one she had ever seen. It had droopy eyelids and numerous patches of skin were either missing or peeling off. Also, it seemed to stare at Melody without seeing her. And it drooled, its saliva landing on an obsidian rock, staining the black glass red. Melody shook her head. At one time this may have been a robust black stallion, but not anymore. It was now nothing but a zombie horse.

The skeleton slid off the zombie horse with the nimbleness of a professional ballerina. It unbuttoned its cloak. Melody gasped. Parts of the skeleton were translucent. It seemed its skull, hands and feet were solid, but a few of its ribs, half of its right hip and some of its spine were see-through. This wasn’t a skeleton. It was a skeletal ghost.

The skeletal ghost whipped out a saber. The sword had an ornate hilt—bedecked with diamonds, emeralds, sapphires and rubies—but the blade was rusty. The ghoul volleyed the saber from one bony hand to the other. Melody gaped. The blade wasn’t rusty. That was dried-up blood. Lots of dried-up blood.

“New Arrivals,” the skeletal ghost said, as if speaking through a 1980s synthesizer. Melody wondered if the voice sounded retro because of the ghoul’s tongue. It consisted of shiny alloy coils that appeared to be welded together.

The skeletal ghost quit tossing the blood-caked saber between its hands. It wrapped both hands around the hilt, one hand over the other. The movement made a sound similar to walnuts cracking.

Melody stepped back, careful to steer clear of the stretching Venus flytraps. Zack and Rosenthal followed suit.

The skeletal ghost brandished the saber in one hand. It pointed the tip at each of them.

“Eenee,” the skeletal ghost said, pointing at Rosenthal. “Meenee.” It pointed at Zack. “Minee.” It pointed at Melody. “Mo.” It returned to Rosenthal.

The ophthalmologist shook his head. “No!”

“Yesssss,” said the skeletal ghost, bounding forward.

Rosenthal scurried backward, not looking where he was going.

“Look out!” Zack said.

A Venus flytrap swooshed over and knocked Rosenthal down. His shoulders hit the ground first, knocking his glasses off his face and throwing his legs up in the air. Another flytrap maneuvered over the first one and clamped onto the ophthalmologist’s left calf. Rosenthal screamed. Melody cringed.

Faster than a streak of lightning, the skeletal ghost slipped out of its cloak and leapt onto the Venus flytrap tree. Zack flinched at the feat, but Melody did not because the ghoul passed on Zack’s side, not hers.

Apparently, the skeletal ghost latched onto the tree thanks to its talon-like fingers and toes, its digits digging into the bark with the ease of a termite squirming into wood.

It amazed Melody how respectful the Venus flytraps were of the skeletal ghost. They seemed to shrink back in fear. All except one. The one biting Rosenthal.

“Please, somebody help me,” he cried. “Oh God, oh God, oh God.”

Melody was surprised she could hear the ophthalmologist’s pleas. After all, he was hanging upside down, the bottom of his lab coat shrouding his face.

A slurping sound. Where is it coming from? Melody soon found out. The Venus flytrap holding Rosenthal licked his leg with its salivating crimson-colored tongue.

The skeletal ghost, still clinging to the side of the tree, leaned toward the defiant Venus flytrap. The ghoul chomped its teeth in the flytrap’s direction, sounding as if heavy iron doors slamming shut. The flytrap wasn’t intimidated. It bit down harder on Rosenthal’s leg.

“Ooooohhhaaaauuuuuugggghhhhhhh!” Rosenthal said.

The skeletal ghost sprung off the tree. In midair, the ghoul swung and twirled its saber elaborately, like a conceited samurai. The respectful flytraps darted out of the way. The ghost brought its sword down. The rebellious flytrap realized a moment too late what was in store. It released Rosenthal (he dropped on the rocks with an “umph”) and attempted to dodge the saber’s lethal edge, but the ghost was quicker than a possessed cheetah. Its sword sliced through the vine that connected the flytrap to the tree. Bright purple blood gushed from the vine.

The flytrap fell to the ground and flailed next to Rosenthal. He had been curled into a ball, hands over his wounded leg, but as soon as he saw his attacker at his side, he scrambled away. Melody was about to call after him, but the flytrap distracted her.

The flytrap flipped over and stood on its half-a-meter vine, assuming an S shape—making it look like an aggressive snake. It hissed at the skeletal ghost.

The skeletal ghost stood in front of the tree, the respectful flytraps peeking over its shoulders. The ghoul chucked its saber upward, performed a manic double somersault, then reached up and interrupted the sword’s acrobatics by catching it by the hilt. Arm extended vertically, the ghost held the saber like a spear.

To Melody’s surprise, the flytrap did a 180 and slithered off into the distance. The skeletal ghost seemed to consider chasing after the flytrap but didn’t, most likely due to what happened next.

The zombie horse whinnied and keeled over.

The skeletal ghost turned on its heel and marched toward the fallen zombie horse. Melody cringed when the ghoul passed. And she felt Zack take her hand, his other hand gripping her forearm.

The skeletal ghost walked up to the zombie horse. Upon reaching the equine’s underside, the ghoul crouched down and slipped the saber in its sheath. The ghost placed a hand on the rotting skin of the horse’s neck. In a flash, the ghoul jumped to its feet and kicked the equine’s underside.

Melody winced at the stench emanating from the zombie horse: a mixture of skunk, sour milk and rotten eggs. She covered her mouth, realizing that the skeletal ghost hadn’t just kicked the collapsed horse. The ghoul had inserted its foot inside the equine. She wasn’t sure if the ghost’s foot had pierced the horse’s hide, or if it had thrust into a part of the equine where skin was missing. Regardless, the squishy sound the ghoul’s foot made inside the horse was audible enough to make her vomit, even though no food or drink filled her stomach.

The skeletal ghost began kicking the zombie horse, its foot deep inside the equine. The body of the horse moved whichever way the ghoul’s foot went, like a ball trailing a chain.

Melody wondered why the ghost was torturing its (dead?) mode of transportation. To frighten Melody and Zack? If so, mission accomplished. She had no motivation to move from their current spot. And even if she did, how could Zack and her flee? It would be unconscionable to leave Rosenthal behind.

Abruptly, the skeletal ghost removed its foot from inside the zombie horse and withdrew its saber from the sheath. Sshhhhhhhhttt.

The skeletal ghost swaggered around the unmoving zombie horse and stopped when reaching Melody and Zack. She gasped. The ghoul seemed to be smiling at them, although it was hard to tell, since its teeth were always showing. Those teeth unnerved her. Bleach white, they contrasted the red skull.

The skeletal ghost strode away from Zack and Melody. She noticed horse sinew clung to the bronze ring on the ghoul’s middle toe of its left foot.

The skeletal ghost stalked toward Rosenthal. The ophthalmologist lay on the ground, about seventy meters away from the Venus flytrap tree.

“No, no!” Rosenthal said. “You stay away from me!”

The skeletal ghost ignored the ophthalmologist’s advice.

Melody said to Zack, “We need to do something.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe throw rocks at it.”

“What, are you kidding?” Zack said. “Did you see that sword? It’s razor sharp.”

“I know.”

“Please,” Melody heard Rosenthal say. He still lay on the ground, obviously injured from when the Venus flytrap bit him.

“Please,” Rosenthal said, “I beg you. Please don’t kill me.”

“You’re already dead,” said the skeletal ghost.

No matter how many times Melody heard it, that metallic voice sent chills up her cranium.

The skeletal ghost knelt on one knee. Its one hand jammed the saber between two rocks, while its other hand landed on Rosenthal’s crotch. “Join us.”

“Please!” Rosenthal started sobbing.

Melody heard flapping. She looked up.

Through the purple sky flew an oversize tarantula. Its four wings—two in the front, two in the back—moved so quickly, they were nothing but a blur. On top of the tarantula was an Asian man dressed in a sleeveless chain-mail tunic.

9

Even though it wasn’t sunny, Zack squinted up at the sky to get a gander of the flying tarantula. He wondered if it was the same one as before.

“You. . . .” said the skeletal ghost.

“That’s right,” the Asian man yelled over the flapping of the tarantula wings. “No mordavers for you today.”

The skeletal ghost stepped away from Rosenthal and swiped up its saber, then turned on its heel, holding the sword like a baseball bat.

The Asian man dug his face into the tarantula fur. Out from the spider shot viscous webbing. The skeletal ghost cursed, springing out of the way. The webbing splattered on a large basalt rock. The tarantula arched upward, taking the rock along with it.

From the position Zack stood, it looked as if the tarantula sucked the webbing back into its spinnerets, which were at the end of its abdomen. Now the tarantula clutched the rock with its fangs.

The tarantula flew erratically through the air, the Asian man still saddled on its back. On the ground, the skeletal ghost no longer held the saber like a baseball bat; it held the sword at waist level, elbows resting on its hips. The tarantula glided over the ghost and, at a height of 100 feet, dropped the rock. The ghost didn’t flinch. The rock sped down sixty miles per hour. When the rock was within ten feet, the ghoul raised its saber. The rock raced closer. The ghost swung its sword, chopping the rock in two. Half of the rock smashed on the ground, breaking into hundreds of pieces. The other half torpedoed toward Rosenthal’s right leg. The ophthalmologist screamed.

Melody covered her mouth with both hands. “Oh my God!”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Zack said. He felt his stomach twist and flip.

Rosenthal writhed on the ground. The rock sat in the middle of his leg, covering his lower thigh, knee and upper shin.

Even though Zack didn’t like Rosenthal, he felt sorry for him. First, his left leg got nibbled on by that Venus flytrap, and now his right leg was pulverized by the rock.

“Oh please, oh please, oh please,” Rosenthal said. “Somebody please kill me . . . the pain . . . I can’t take it. . . .”

The skeletal ghost gave Rosenthal a snide look. Zack wasn’t sure, but it looked as if the ghoul snickered, too. The punk rocker didn’t give it much thought because the tarantula made another approach.

This time, the tarantula landed on the ground on all eight legs, but quickly stood on its two hind legs. It flicked its abdomen; webbing discharged from both of its spinnerets. With one hand, the skeletal ghost raised its saber. Webbing enshrouded the blood-caked blade. The ghoul pulled on the sword, but the webbing must have been too thick to cut through. The tarantula twitched its abdomen, yanking the saber out of the ghost’s hands. The spider severed the webbing from its spinnerets. The sword flew a few furlongs. When it touched down, it clacked quietly. Zack squinted. Looked as if it landed on a slab of obsidian rock.

The skeletal ghost stared into the distance, as if pining for a family heirloom. The ghoul—hissing—whipped its head toward the tarantula. But the spider was already spewing more streams of silky webbing. These two strings aimed low. The ghost tried jumping out of the way, however, it was too slow. The webbing wrapped around its ankles, knocking them together, sounding similar to woodblocks banging against one another. The ghoul toppled over, its skull landing on Rosenthal’s chest.

“Ahhhh! Get it off me, get it off me!”

The ophthalmologist’s wish was granted. The tarantula took flight, taking the skeletal ghost with it.

Hanging upside down, the skeletal ghost thrashed about and verbalized vehemence. It grabbed its ankles and attempted to climb up the webbing to the tarantula. The spider must have been aware of this, Zack observed, because it began rocking in a way that made the ghost—still lassoed to the webbing—spin counterclockwise.

Suddenly, the string of intertwined webbing snapped halfway between the skeletal ghost and the airborne tarantula. The ghoul zoomed through the air, its arms and legs flaying. It crashed into the Venus flytrap tree, the flytraps breaking its fall.

Zack clutched Melody’s upper right arm. Even though they were fifteen feet away from the tree, Melody took several steps back. Zack did the same.

The skeletal ghost lay motionless at the base of the tree, its lower back arched over a root. Abruptly, the ghoul bent its knees and slammed its feet on the ground, its heels touching its pelvic bone. Simultaneously, it reached back and slapped a hand, palm down, on either side of its skull. Applying pressure to its hands, the ghost jumped up (bones cracking) by performing a wave that started with its arms. The ghoul landed on its feet, looking as if tumbling through the flytrap tree invigorated it.

Zack quit staring at the skeletal ghost. A shadow crept over him and Melody. They turned to see the Asian man on the tarantula.

“Hop on,” he said.

Melody took the man’s hand and climbed aboard the oversize tarantula.

“Zack!” she yelled.

Zack hadn’t hopped on yet. Dumbfounded, he nibbled on his lower lip.

The skeletal ghost charged for Zack.

Peripherally, Zack saw the Asian man tap the tarantula with his heel. The spider’s third left leg shot out, grabbed the punk rocker by the belt and placed him on its back, behind Melody. Thing must be double-jointed, Zack thought through his astonishment.

The Asian man leaned into the tarantula. The spider galloped forward. It took to the air just as the skeletal ghost reached them. The ghoul lunged toward Zack. “Yiauugggh!” Zack said, scooting forward. The ghost tried to claw Zack’s back, but missed. The punk rocker’s groin tightened at the sound of the ghoul’s hand slicing through the air. Sounded like a sickle. As the tarantula gained altitude, wind enveloped Zack. He felt two slashes at the bottom-rear of his Lawrence Arms T-shirt.

The tarantula continued to ascend. Zack had his arms around Melody’s waist, and she had her hands on the Asian man’s hips. Zack got a whiff of the tarantula. Smelled like a hybrid of manure and honey.

On the ground below, the skeletal ghost marched toward Rosenthal. Zack heard Melody shout over the wind into the Asian man’s ear. “We have to help him!”

“I know,” the man said over his shoulder.

10

Rosenthal shivered at the sight of the skeletal ghost approaching. The ghoul leered at him, its alloy tongue lolling out of its mouth.

The skeletal ghost squatted down. With incredible ease, its bony fingers picked up the rock on Rosenthal’s right leg. The ophthalmologist looked down at his leg. It appeared that his knee had been pulverized. He saw no evidence of bone.

“You have to help me!” Rosenthal said. “I think I’m about to go into shock.”

The skeletal ghost nodded. “Help . . . yes. . . .” it said in its metallic voice. Its tongue licked its bleach-white teeth. Rosenthal swore the ghoul was grinning.

A buzzing sound snapped Rosenthal’s attention away from the skeletal ghost. He looked up to see the flying tarantula swooping down.

“No. . . !” said the skeletal ghost.

In an instant, the skeletal ghost leapt behind Rosenthal and put him in a headlock. The movement intensified the pain in the ophthalmologist’s right leg. He tried to scream, but couldn’t because of the headlock. However, he could cry. Tears gushed down his cheeks at an alarming rate. He was bewildered by the emotion. He hadn’t cried in more than thirty years, not since he had received a B in high school on an algebra test.

The tarantula flew by, coming within inches of Rosenthal and the skeletal ghost.

The skeletal ghost released Rosenthal from the headlock. The ophthalmologist was grateful. He breathed deeply but could not see. Even though he had stopped crying, straggler tears blurred his vision.

Rosenthal gasped. The skeletal ghost groped for his genitalia. He blinked; his vision cleared. The ghoul knelt in front of him. He tried kicking the ghost with the better of his two legs, the left one. The ghoul used its bony right shin to slam down Rosenthal’s leg. Granite dust rose. The ophthalmologist coughed a couple of times and closed his eyes. Upon opening them, he witnessed the ghost slicing through his Versace belt with one of its talon-like fingers. Rosenthal sat up on his elbows.

“Hey, hey, hey! What do you think you’re doing? Hey, I’m talking to you!” Beat. “I demand an answer!” Almost pleading.

The skeletal ghost pulled down Rosenthal’s pants and boxers to his ankles. Rosenthal felt bile collecting in his throat. He glanced at his right leg. What used to be his knee was now nothing but fleshy skin.

The skeletal ghost, kneeling, picked up Rosenthal’s feet. The ophthalmologist turned his head to dry heave. He did this not because the ghoul propped its skull between his legs, but because he felt the bone fragments of his knee shifting around in his leg. Since his ankles now rested on the ghost’s shoulders, most of the fragments traveled toward his thigh.

Rosenthal quit dry heaving in time to see the skeletal ghost’s skull aim for his genitals. The ophthalmologist’s body quivered. He sensed something cold and slimy touch his perineum, then his entire body went numb. The paralysis hit him with such force, he no longer sat up on his elbows. His arms had weakened, and he had collapsed on his back, his head thunking on the edge of a rock. He wondered if he suffered a concussion, and if so, would it involve unconsciousness?

11

Melody removed her hands from around the Asian man’s waist and clasped them on his shoulders. She hiked up, saying into his ear, “We have to go back. What’s that thing doing to Doctor Rosenthal? Why isn’t he moving?” No reply. “I said—”

“I heard you,” said the Asian man. “It’s too late. Your companion is now under control of the Knopfs.”

“What?”

“It will all be explained when we reach camp. Now, please return to your seat so you’re not leaning on my shoulders. It’s affecting my flying of Harriet.”

Not sure what the Asian man was talking about, Melody did as requested. She placed her posterior on the tarantula’s back. As when she first hopped onto the oversize arachnid, its bristles irritated her legs, but—as before—that sensation soon passed.

Melody saw Zack’s hands were locked around her waist, as they had been when she hiked up to speak with the Asian man.

“How are you holding up?”

“I fuckin’ hate heights,” Zack said. Melody nodded. He had yelled his comment, but the wind rushing past them had drowned out most of the volume. Made it sound like a murmur.

The tarantula stopped flapping its wings. It glided through the air. Melody glanced down. They had to be at least thirty meters off the ground. She no longer saw Rosenthal and the skeletal ghost, only the rocky field and several Venus flytrap trees.

The Asian man spoke over his shoulder. “By the way, my name is Hayata Kikujiro.”

“Melody Holiday and Zack Fury.”

Hayata bowed his head, then dug his face back into the tarantula’s fur.

Hayata

Hayata Kikujiro sat in a lotus position (with his shoes on) in the honden of a Shinto shrine. In front of him, up on the wood wall, was a rapier encased in bulletproof Plexiglas. The rapier had a glimmering tip and a jewelry-bedecked hilt.

On the wall to Hayata’s left hung a modern bow and arrow. On the wall to his right: a Remington rifle. Neither was covered in Plexiglas. Free for the taking.

Hayata popped another Percocet and took an umpteenth swig from his jug of Tamanohikari sake, which was half-empty. He pocketed the bottle of Percocets, then changed his mind. He was fumbling with the childproof lid when a shadow blanketed him. Remaining in the lotus position, Hayata leaned to his left, twisted around and squinted at who stood over him. A priest in a black, silk robe.

The priest, who smelled of musk, had kind eyes, as well as wrinkles around his mouth and on his forehead. The wrinkles complemented the old man’s jet-black hair. The priest reminded Hayata of Ronald Reagan, circa 1984. Of course, this priest would never be mistaken for the fortieth President of the United States, thanks to his prominent facial features.

“How are you, my son?” the priest said in a mellifluous voice that could create honey.

“Been better.” Hayata returned the Percocets to his suit coat’s inside pocket. He attempted to turn around and stop leaning on his left side, but he lost balance. His left hand slammed on the rubber mat.

“Easy, easy,” the priest said.

Hayata felt the priest’s veiny hand slip under his right arm and pull him up. Before you could chant a mantra, Hayata was on his feet.

“There you go,” the priest said, straightening Hayata’s tie and buttoning his suit coat.

“Thank you,” Hayata said, nodding and grinning (he wondered) like a madman. He spread his feet apart, staggering slightly, and reached down for his jug of sake. He gulped several mouthfuls of the alcohol.

“Here.” The priest took the jug by one of its two ring-size handles, and he placed his other hand on Hayata’s lower back. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”

The priest escorted Hayata out of the honden. Hayata tried remembering from his schooling about Shinto shrines. Wasn’t the honden the inner sanctuary, which was off-limits except to priests?

The two of them strode through the haiden. If memory served, this was the shrine’s oratory. Hayata stifled a titter. Interesting how he knew what the honden and haiden were, but he couldn’t remember how he got here.

Hayata and the priest exited the haiden. They were still in the shrine but were now outside. It was nighttime. A full moon shone overhead. On either side of the shrine’s wooden fence were cypress and cedar trees.

The priest led Hayata past the temizuya, a small pavilion where worshipers washed their hands and mouths.

The priest pointed at a bench. Hayata slammed down, trying to get comfortable. Kind of hard to do when you’re sitting on a slab of concrete.

“I’m Father Yamanoto,” the priest said, perching himself on the bench, back straight, hands cupped in lap. “I’m the chief priest here.”

Slouching, Hayata slurred his own name. Upon doing so, his chin touched his collarbone. His eyelids became wooden. He heard a voice. Distant. Like a radio with the volume set on 1.

“Son.”

It was the priest. What was his name again? Yamaha?

Hayata forced opened his eyes. Father Yamanoto. That was the priest’s name. His face was in Hayata’s. Hayata’s cheeks felt cold. He soon realized why. Father Yamanoto’s palm cupped Hayata’s chin—thumb on right cheek, finger on left cheek. The frigidity of the priest’s digits filled Hayata with a surge of sobriety. He jerked, jumping a centimeter off the bench.

“What, what is it?”

Father Yamanoto didn’t say anything, just sat there, smiling. His reticence unnerved Hayata. Out of nervous habit, Hayata loosened his already slackened necktie, though he didn’t undo any more buttons on his blue pinstriped dress shirt; the top button remained unfastened.

Finally, Father Yamanoto spoke: “Tell me, son, what brings you here?”

Hayata shrugged. “I had nowhere else to go.”

“Are you homeless?”

Hayata shook his head. “We have an apartment. But . . . she’ll be there.”

“She?”

“My fiancée.”

“Now why would you be afraid to face the woman you’re going to marry one day?” Father Yamanoto placed a hand on Hayata’s wrist. “You do plan on marrying her, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Why then are you afraid to go home?”

“My . . . fiancée comes from a well-to-do family,” Hayata said. “Her parents and friends have . . . expectations.”

“Such as?” Father Yamanoto asked.

“A lavish home, expensive furniture, a luxury automobile, trust funds for our eventual children. . . . The list goes on and on.”

“Do you love her?”

Hayata paused. Lately that was the question he asked himself daily. Did he love Hatsumomo? He admired her beauty, for that he was certain. Her face was beautiful by any man’s standards. Plus, there was the matter of her breasts. Not only were they the perfect size—C—but they were firm and had exquisite nipples (small and sensitive, becoming erect at the lightest lick). Then there was the sex. Intercourse with Hatsumomo was nothing short of spine-tingling and exhausting, whether it lasted thirty seconds or three hours. But was it love?

Father Yamanoto snapped his fingers. “Tokyo to Hayata.”

Hayata dropped his head. “Sorry.”

“We lost you there for a minute.”

“My apologies, Father.”

A wasp hovered between Hayata and Father Yamanoto. The priest swatted it away. The insect flew into an apricot tree.

Father Yamanoto said, “I can’t help thinking that there is something you aren’t telling me.”

“Well, you see, Father, I’m thirty-nine years old . . .”

“Yes.”

“. . . and I’m an employee of the Nakamoto Corporation . . .”

“Mm-hmm.”

“. . . and today I was passed over for the promotion of vice president of sales, for the third time.”

“What?” Father Yamanoto said.

“I feel like such a loser, Father. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’ve shamed my family, my fiancée, and the corporation that has invested so much time and resources into me.”

Father Yamanoto rose off the bench. Hayata felt the priest grab his arm and pull him up.

“Get out of my shrine,” the priest said.

“Wha—”

“I said, GET OUT OF MY SHRINE!”

Father Yamanoto’s voice echoed throughout the shrine and inside Hayata’s head.

“I—I don’t understand,” Hayata heard himself say, although he understood all too clearly.

“I will not have flotsam like you contaminating my shrine with your aura of failure.”

“But—”

“Mr. Kikujiro, you are living in an outstanding country that has produced some of the greatest warriors in the history of the world: Togo Heihachiro, Miyamoto Musashi, Tokugawa Ieyasu, even the samurai Tomoe Gozen, who was a lowly woman. These are legendary heroes who helped make Japan one of the most feared and respected countries. You, Mister Kikujiro, don’t even deserve to be mentioned with them in the same breath.”

“Wha—what are you saying?”

“You are not doing our great nation any favors by being dead weight.”

“I—”

“The spirit of the kamikaze lives to this day.”

Hayata felt his head spinning, and it wasn’t from the pills and alcohol pumping through his bloodstream.

“I . . . I . . . don’t understand. Are you saying I should kil—”

Hayata didn’t finish his question. Father Yamanoto ushered him out of the shrine. They passed between the koma-inu—two stone statues of lion-like dogs, one with its mouth open. Next, Hayata tried to keep up with Father Yamanoto as the priest descended the steps three at a time. Soon, they reached the entrance of the shrine. Father Yamanoto released Hayata, pushing him under the torii gate.

Hayata tottered outside of the shrine, on a busy Tokyo sidewalk. Inside the shrine, Father Yamanoto’s right foot stood on the bottom step, his left foot on the third step. Hayata regained balance and gawked at the priest. Father Yamanoto, sneering, coughed up phlegm and spit into a dogwood shrub that hugged the shrine steps. Then, like the last emperor, he marched up the steps to his house of worship.

Hayata hung his head. Thunder clapped, vibrating his rib cage. A cold, pounding rain commenced. Pedestrians quickened their pace. Some opened umbrellas, while most covered their heads with newspapers, purses or the shopping bags they were carrying.

Hayata still faced the shrine, his feet spread apart. He swayed. His hair, now drenched, fell into his eyes. He didn’t care. His only concerns were getting more intoxicated and not falling down. Speaking of which, where was his sake? Oh, that’s right. The priest took it when escorting him out of the honden. Two-faced priest was probably drinking it now. Hayata ground his teeth and rubbed the stubble on his chin. He contemplated reentering the shrine and retrieving his half-empty jug of sake, but decided against it. Not because he didn’t think he could do it, but because he remembered the Percocets were in his suit coat pocket. He struggled with the lid for a minute, then popped a handful of pills. He wasn’t sure how many. Didn’t care.

The rain continued to pour down. It hit the pavement so hard, Hayata wouldn’t be surprised if it created more than one sinkhole.

Growing bored with standing in one place, Hayata began to move down the street. He made it halfway down the block, until his legs decided walking required too much effort. Crashing into a wrought-iron fence, he splashed into a puddle, socks squishing.

Back against the fence, Hayata squinted. Several yards away lay a five-way intersection. On the one corner was a skyscraper. In the middle of it hung a jumbo TV screen. A commercial for a luxury car aired.

The man driving the luxury car pulls up to a street corner. There stands five beautiful women trying to hail a cab. The stud in the luxury car focuses on the prettiest of the women and purses his lips to blow a kiss. She smirks and slides into his passenger seat. The name of the automobile manufacturer flashes on the screen in big, bold white letters. The woman in the passenger seat winks at the camera. The luxury car screeches away. The commercial begins to fade. The four women left on the street corner salivate after the vehicle.

Hayata’s chin began to dip down. It touched the knot of his tie. He allowed his eyelids to flutter shut. Darkness crept in. His inner child jumped for joy, until he realized he wasn’t blacking out but overdosing. Was this what he wanted?

Mordaver Camp

1

Still riding on the tarantula, Zack kept his arms wrapped around Melody’s waist. He saw Hayata quit leaning into the spider’s fur and pat it on the side of the head. The tarantula stopped flapping its wings. Consequently, it dropped in altitude.

Despite being afraid of heights, Zack gave into the temptation of looking down. The field of rocks and Venus flytrap trees were still there, but up ahead was some sort of camp. Lots of tents.

The tarantula aimed for the camp and—Zack didn’t know how it did this—reduced speed. The wind enveloping them wasn’t so suffocating as before. It was almost . . . pleasant . . . like an ocean breeze prior to twilight.

They were now about fifty feet from the ground. Zack sensed his stomach quiver and contract. He tightened his hold on Melody’s waist (if that was possible), scooting closer toward her in the process.

The tarantula touched ground, hind legs first. In a slash of the wrist, the landing was over. Zack couldn’t believe how smooth and uneventful it had gone. The spider hadn’t landed like a plane, speeding down a runway. It simply touched down, similar to a helicopter. But with this tarantula, you didn’t have to deal with a deafening propeller.

Zack released Melody’s waist and slid down the tarantula’s rear end. Hayata dismounted by pressing on one of the spider’s leg joints. Melody was having a little trouble getting off, so two of the tarantula’s double-jointed middle legs shot up and slid under her armpits, lifting her up and placing her on the dirt ground.

“Come with me,” Hayata said to Zack and Melody. He placed a hand on the tarantula’s side. The four of them departed the tarantula landing pad and proceeded down a narrow aisle between two rows of tents. Zack kept tripping over the iron stakes and sisal/hemp ropes that upheld the tents. He began to fall behind. Becoming frustrated, he cursed Hayata and Harriet. You’d think, given the tarantula’s size, the two of them wouldn’t be able to waltz side-by-side between the tents. Maybe they took this path often, so they knew its nuances, letting them be more nimble than Jack shoplifting a candlestick.

“Ow,” Melody said. She tripped over a stake. Good, Zack thought. Now he didn’t feel like such a Doofus the Clown.

They reached the end of the aisle. Zack froze. In front of them was some kind of courtyard. It was enormous and filled with men, women and children hurrying and flurrying as if behind schedule on a strict timetable. Most of them wore some variation of Hayata’s sleeveless chain-mail tunic.

Hayata halted in the middle of the yard. The crowd swarmed around him and Harriet. Even though bodies blurred by, Zack could still make out Hayata. His one hand remained on the tarantula, while his other hand pointed. He spoke over his shoulder.

“Go to the general’s tent,” he bellowed. “It’s the one with the green flap.”

“Where are you going?” Melody asked.

“To take Harriet to her pen.”

Hayata made a beeline for a circus-size tent. Zack watched the crowd give Hayata and Harriet plenty of room.

Melody scratched her head. “Where’s this green tent? I don’t see it.”

Zack shrugged. He scanned the perimeter of the courtyard, where the tents were situated.

Suddenly, a shrieking sound emanated from the sky. Zack looked up. A blue object raced toward the courtyard. People started screaming and dashing for tents. Zack couldn’t believe how well they moved. Sure, they panicked, but not one person trampled over another. If anyone stumbled and tumbled, the person behind them picked them up.

In moments, the courtyard was empty, except for Zack and Melody, who were off to the side at the end of the aisle, where Hayata had left them.

The blue object from the sky crashed in the middle of the yard. Vibrations quaked the ground, causing Zack and Melody to knock into each other and fall down. The middle of Zack’s back hit a rope that stretched between a stake and a tent. Since the rope was tauter than a kerplunked anchor chain, he bounced off of it and landed on his chest.

During this, Zack saw somebody get thrown from the blue object. The person seemed to expect it, somersaulting through the air and landing feet first at the edge of the courtyard, thirty yards from Zack and Melody.

The somersaulter was a girl—no more than fourteen, Zack guessed. She wore her hair as a chignon on the crown of her head, and she had the type of dark skin he associated with Brazilians.

Zack blocked out the fourteen-year-old to see if Melody was all right. She lay on her back between the two rows of tents that they, Hayata and Harriet had walked up previously. It didn’t appear that Melody had hit any stakes, ropes or tents. Zack helped her up. They looked to see what crashed in the middle of the courtyard.

There sat an oversize tarantula. Unlike Harriet, who was black and tan, this one’s fur was light blue with occasional dark-blue markings. Like Harriet, its wings were transparent, but the left-front one was missing. Where that wing should have been, blood spurted out.

“Out of the way,” Zack heard a deep voice say from behind. Before the punk rocker could step out of the way, he and Melody were knocked aside, but they didn’t lose their balance.

Zack sneered. The man with the deep voice marched toward the injured tarantula. He had to be at least seven feet tall. His skin was dark bronze. And he wore sandals, a kilt, a blue shirt, as well as some weird type of headdress.

“What happened?” the man demanded as he squatted in front of the tarantula.

The fourteen-year-old fidgeted. “We were attacked by a band of Knopfs.”

“How many?”

“There were five of them, I think.”

“Were you airborne? Any Bantams?”

The fourteen-year-old shook her head. “I didn’t seen none. We were flying the whole time.”

“How did the Knopfs lacerate your tarantula? Have they developed the capability to fly?”

“No, sir. They had with them a catapult that let them shoot their sabers at us.”

Zack closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. The words the fourteen-year-old said didn’t match the movement of her lips. Why was that?

The man with the booming voice examined the tarantula’s wound. “These look like bite marks.”

The fourteen-year-old Brazilian nodded. “After we were hit with the saber, we started losing altitude. One of the Knopfs climbed up a Venus flytrap tree and, with the help of a couple flytraps, leapt through the air towards us. It bit into Henry and tore off his one wing. Luckily, I was able to kick the Knopf off of us before it hurt Henry any further.”

“Where were you attacked?”

“About ten kilometers west of the Nexus.”

“So you were on your way back from the New Arrival Field,” the man said, as if to himself. “Did you lose any mordavers?”

“No, sir. It was a fruitless trip.”

The man ran a hand down the blue bristles on the tarantula’s back. “Take him to the infirmary.”

“Yes, sir,” the fourteen-year-old said demurely. She and three others picked up the tarantula with the care of sickbay surgeons.

Back still to Zack, the tall man rested his hands on his hips like Superman and watched the tarantula carried away. He then turned around.

Zack and Melody gasped. The man had the head of a jackal.

2

Melody stared up at the man with the head of a black jackal and ears that were alert, pointed. He looked familiar. But she couldn’t remember from where she had seen him before because she concentrated on his body. It was the type that Western women salivate for. Broad shoulders, with his arms and legs toned, indicating a steady diet of weight lifting. He wore a blue, accordion-like shirt, so she couldn’t see if his chest and stomach were ripped, although his shirt had a low neckline, hinting that underneath it was indeed brawny.

The man with the jackal head stepped forward. “Greetings,” he said in what sounded like a cross between British and Arabian accents. “My name is Anubis.”

Anubis shook hands with Zack and Melody. Melody’s slender hand dwarfed Anubis’. He seemed to realize this, since he gently took her hand and cupped it between his palms. The maneuver made her feel as if she were being welcomed by royalty.

Anubis released Melody’s hand. She stared at his headdress. Like his shirt, it had horizontal accordion pleating. Unlike his shirt, the headdress was multicolored, the rows alternating between blue and tan.

“You look fucking familiar,” Zack said.

Anubis nodded. “It is conceivable you have seen me in a history textbook. After all, I was an Egyptian god.”

“No shit! I always thought that stuff was made up.”

“Most mythology is the creation of very imaginative mortals, however, even in the most fantastical or unbelievable, often there exists a kernel of truth.”

“Like a tabloid cover story,” Zack quipped.

“Precisely,” Anubis said. “Please.” He motioned toward a tent with an upturned green flap. Melody and Zack entered the tent.

In the middle of the tent was a three-meter-high pole, giving the canvas a cathedral ceiling resemblance, Melody thought. In front of the pole was a long rectangular wooden table covered with scrolls and parchment, as well as tablets that looked as if they were filled with nonsense (hieroglyphics, perhaps?). Elsewhere in the tent were swords, crossbows and shields. In the rear of the tent, next to a stack of Bible-thick texts, was a slab of stone measuring half a meter in height, a meter in width and three meters in length. On top of the slab was a firm square pillow with tassels at each corner. At the foot of this slab—bed, was it?—sat a purple, satin blanket rolled up in a ball.

“Excuse me,” said Anubis from behind Melody and Zack. The Egyptian god placed his hands on Melody’s shoulders, shifting her enough so he could squeeze by. She watched him walk on the dirt floor, around the table. For the first time, she saw a black, leather strap around his leg, above his ankle. Attached to the strap was a sheath. Inside the sheath was a dagger with a sundial on top of the handle. The dagger was on Anubis’ inside leg.

“Anubis.”

Melody diverted her attention to the tent entrance. There stood Hayata, feet apart, arms behind his back.

“Yes?” Anubis said.

“I failed in my mission to secure Mr. Prescott Wallace Rosenthal’s safe harbor to camp.” Hayata bowed his head.

“Tell me what transpired. Do not exclude any detail.”

Hayata told the tale, keeping his head bowed. Occasionally, Anubis interrupted with a question. Each time Hayata answered a question, his head rose until by Anubis’ thirteenth question, his head was fully raised. But Melody had to look away. Hayata’s words did not match the movement of his lips. It made her dizzy, like watching a dialogue-heavy foreign film with poor dubbing.

When Hayata finished his report, Zack said, “Yo, man, how come when you and that Brazilian chick talk, my fuckin’ eyes hurt?”

Anubis gave Zack an avuncular smile and said, “Due to various races of man occupying this reality, to break down the language barrier, each individual speaks in his native tongue, however, the receiver hears sentences in his own language.”

Zack scrunched his face in confusion.

Hayata addressed Anubis. “Sir, permission to be excused. My presence is required in the Tarantula Tent. I should tend to Harriet.”

Anubis nodded.

Hayata bowed, then turned on his heel and departed.

Immediately, someone else entered the tent. Melody couldn’t see whom. The person stepped to the side, to the left of the entrance, in the shadows. Apparently, Anubis recognized the visitor.

“I fail to understand why he continues to do that,” he said.

“Hayata?” said the visitor. She had a mellifluous voice.

“Yes,” Anubis said. “Time and time again, I have told him to not bow or to ask my permission to perform trivial matters.”

Melody cocked her head. Was that hissing she heard?

The woman in the shadows asked, “How did Henry look?”

“Is that the reason for your visit?” Anubis smiled. “Here I thought you decided to assist me in educating these two mordavers.”

“Mordavers?” Zack piped in.

Anubis stopped smiling. He focused on the female visitor in the shadows. “To answer your question, I do not believe Henry is going to survive. It appears the Knopfs mortally wounded him.”

“I better go pay my respects, then.” The visitor slipped out of the tent. Melody hadn’t been paying attention, so she only caught sight of the woman’s shoulder as she turned the corner of the tent entrance. The woman’s skin wasn’t green . . . was it?

Obviously, Zack had seen the woman in the light. “Yo, what the fuck, man? That wasn’t—”

“We shall discuss it later,” Anubis said. “First, permit me to explain where you are, what has transpired, and why your participation in our efforts is imperative.”

3

Zack barely heard a word Anubis had said. His mind was still on the woman who just left the tent. Was it her? Couldn’t be. Then again, maybe it was. Hell, the Venus flytraps, the skeletal ghost, the flying tarantulas and Anubis proved anything was possible in this world, wherever that might be.

“Please, sit,” Anubis said.

Zack noticed two wooden stools under the table. He pulled them out and slid one in Melody’s direction. They sat down. He tried to get comfortable. His stool creaked. He was grateful his seat wasn’t too high or too low. It was just right, his knees bending at a forty-five-degree angle; he stretched his arms ramrod straight and placed a hand on each knee. Melody seemed comfortable, too. Hands on her lap, her feet rested on one of the stool’s horizontal bars.

Still sitting on the other side of the table, Anubis stretched over to pick up an ankh. He inserted his index finger in the ankh’s loop and twirled it around. “As I am sure you are both aware, you committed suicide—”

“Damn straight!” Zack said. “I killed myself to make shit easier, not to make every fuckin’ thing harder! What’s with that skeletal ghost and those flying tarantulas? And what’s up with those goddamn Venus flytrap trees?”

Anubis nodded, no longer twirling the ankh, simply holding it. “All excellent questions. However, perhaps the best place to start is an explanation of where both of you are.”

“OK.”

“You are in Holcyon.”

“Holcyon?” Zack pronounced it as Anubis had: HOLE-SEE-ON. “So we’re not in hell?”

Anubis shook his head. “Heaven and hell do not exist, per se.”

“Caller, you say what!” Zack smirked.

Anubis said seriously, “Holcyon is the destination for those who commit suicide.”

Melody asked, “Where is this . . . Holcyon?”

“It is located in a black hole approximately one light-year from the edge of your Milky Way galaxy.”

“So,” Zack said, “if we’re not in hell, then what’s up with that

skeletal ghost? Was it the Devil, or is it a demon?”

“Truth be told, the Devil does not exist. It is a figment of mortal literature.”

“So there’s no God, right?”

Anubis’ thumb grazed the horizontal cross part of the ankh. “God does indeed exist.”

“Get the hell out of here,” Zack said.

“Impossible, I am afraid,” Anubis said lightheartedly. He dropped the ankh and stood up. “I believe the best course to explain Holcyon and why you are both here is to start at the beginning.” He cupped his hands behind his back and strolled behind his side of the table. “You shall recall that after you each committed suicide, your next moment of awareness was on the New Arrival Field.”

“You mean that place with all the rocks?” Zack said.

“Yes. The rocks populating the New Arrival Field act as homing beacons to draw you here.”

“No shit.” A light bulb flashed on in Zack’s brain. “Yo! How come me and Rosenthal woke up lying on the rocks, while we had to dig Melody out?”

Anubis’ ambling currently put him behind Zack and Melody. “One’s entry into the New Arrival Field is dependent on the person’s mode of suicide. Ms. Holiday materialized underneath the New Arrival Field because she murdered herself by provoking a crocodile to drag her underwater, thus drowning her.”

“Oh, OK.”

“I should stress that neither of you are dead.”

“We’re not?” Zack and Melody chorused.

“No.” Anubis continued to stroll. He was now on his side of the table again.

“So,” Melody asked, “that means we can go back home, right?”

Anubis shook his head. “You are neither dead nor alive. You are in a state of limbo. Here in Holcyon, your type is called a mordaver. In addition, because you recently arrived, you are also called a New Arrival.”

Zack closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Wha. . . ?”

“It is a lot to process, I know, which is why when new mordavers arrive, we distribute information in piecemeal.”

The room went quiet. Anubis returned to his chair.

Zack quit pinching his nose. He slouched. I can’t fuckin’ think straight. Feels like I just pulled an all-nighter cramming for my SATs.

Melody asked, “What about the skeletal ghost? Is that a mordaver?”

“Excellent question,” Anubis said. “The skeletal ghost—as you called it—is in actuality a Knopf. Knopfs are an order of demons that were once mortals. However, they were unrepentant sociopaths and psychopaths. Hence, upon dying, their souls were transformed into Knopfs, which is how they inhabit the afterlife for eternity.”

“And I suppose the zombie horse it was riding is called something else.”

“Correct. The horse a Knopf utilizes for transportation is called a voal. Incidentally, the Knopfs are part of whom we are fighting in this war.”

Zack snapped out of his funk. “Whao! War! What war?”

Anubis cleared his throat. “Part of the reason why you are here—both of you—is to help us prevent the Knopfs, the Bantams and their unknown leader from finding and reaching the Nexus.”

“What?” Zack turned to Melody for support, but she was staring at her hands in her lap. Zack whipped back to face Anubis. “Bantams? Nexus? What the hell. . . ?”

Anubis looked between Zack and Melody. The punk rocker twisted around to see Hayata standing in the tent entrance.

“Back so soon?” Anubis said.

Hayata gave a curt bow. “Harriet is well. She will be ready for the next scouting of the New Arrival Field.”

“Good. In all probability, Henry shall not be with us much longer, therefore, Harriet’s rotation may advance to a higher position.”

“I will let her know.”

Anubis nodded, then said to Zack and Melody, “Hayata shall escort you to the next tent on the agenda.”

4

Hayata led Zack and Melody out of Anubis’ tent. As before, they had trouble navigating down the aisle between two rows of tents. Hayata slowed down his usual brisk pace in order not to lose the two mordavers. He remembered when he first arrived at the camp and the trouble he had keeping up with his guide, Timor.

Hayata stopped in front of a tent. He looked over his shoulder to see Zack and Melody turning a corner. They quickly caught up.

Teeth clenched, Hayata inhaled through his mouth and exhaled through his nose. He hated this part. Nine out of ten New Arrivals overreacted when they saw what was inside this tent.

“Please,” Hayata said, “leave your preconceptions out here.”

“What?” Zack said. “What’s going on? What’s that hissing?” He and Melody traded anxious glances.

Hayata pulled up the tent flap. Green light spilled out. “After you,” he said.

Melody asked, “Is another god in there?”

“Not exactly,” answered Hayata. His arm—the one not holding up the flap—motioned them inside the humid tent. Melody went in first, followed by Zack. Hayata pulled up the rear.

“OH MY GOD!” Melody said. She stumbled into Zack. He lost footing and began to fall backward. Hayata slipped a hand under one of each of the mordavers’ armpits. He righted them up while bowing his head in reverence to Anubis’ second in command. Medusa.

5

Unlike Melody, who turned her back to Medusa, Zack held the Greek Gorgon’s gaze. She was six feet away, in some sort of Jacuzzi, only her head visible. Her skin was green, and she had yellow eyes with black, vertical pupils.

Hissing. Zack saw where it came from: Medusa’s head. As the legend said, instead of hair, she had snakes. Zack wasn’t a herpetologist, so he didn’t know which breed these serpents were. For all he knew, they could have been unique, as Medusa herself. It was possible. After all, the snakes were the same shade of green as her.

The snakes extended forward, their forked tongues wagging. There was no danger of their coming closer to Zack, Melody or Hayata, since the longest serpent measured—at the very most—two feet, and they were all attached to Medusa’s scalp.

Zack pondered if the snakes’ pointy fangs were venomous, and if they got close enough, could they bite? They had no eyes. Maybe their noses and tongues were the only senses they needed.

“Well, well, well,” Medusa said, smirking, “look who it is. Zack Fury from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, U.S.A., and Melody Holiday from Sydney, New South Wales, Australia. Keep an eye on these two, Hayata. Don’t let them get around any shotguns or crocodiles.”

Medusa grinned, fangs showing. Even though the fangs were diminutive, Zack wondered if they ever cut into her lip.

The snakes continued to stretch and hiss. Zack observed that even the serpents on the back of Medusa’s head elongated toward him, Melody and Hayata.

“Shh, shhhhh,” Medusa said, running her hand through her hair. Some of the snakes relaxed, licking her green hand.

“I don’t get it,” Zack said. “How come I’m not turning into stone?”

“You would if you were still mortal, but you’re no longer among the living.”

Medusa’s words reverberated in Zack’s head. She had a throaty voice.

Medusa turned around. As she rose out of the Jacuzzi, her snakes stopped stretching and hissing. Her muscular back faced Zack. From her waist down remained in the Jacuzzi. Green goo, or whatever the hell she bathed in, trickled down her back.

Zack glanced to his left. Melody had turned around.

Back still to Zack and Melody, Medusa said, “Apparently, you realize who I am.”

“Medusa,” Melody whispered, her lips barely moving.

Medusa climbed out of the Jacuzzi, back still to Zack and Melody. Hayata wrapped a towel around the Gorgon.

Next to the Jacuzzi was a ramp. Medusa stood on it, as did Hayata. They descended down it, the Japanese six feet behind the Gorgon.

Melody stammered.

“Yes?” Medusa asked motherly.

Melody quit tripping over her tongue. “I . . . I thought you were supposed to have the body of a snake.”

“Myths perpetuated by scribes and the superstitious. Next you’re going to tell me you actually believe Perseus beheaded me and presented my severed head to Athena.”

Medusa moved forward. She had no legs. From the waist down, she had the body of a fish, like a mermaid. Where her ankles might have been, her fish trunk bent at a soft forty-five-degree angle. Her tail fin pushed her forward. She now stood in front of Zack and Melody, just far enough away so if her hair of snakes acted up, they wouldn’t be within biting distance.

Zack couldn’t believe how tall Medusa was. Even with the mermaid part of her body bent, she was close to seven feet tall. Something else caught his eye: her arms were brawny—not ripped like a weight lifter, but toned in a way that hinted at regular exercise.

“Let’s get a look at you two,” Medusa said. She placed her hands on Melody’s shoulders. The Australian flinched. The Gorgon either didn’t notice or pretended not to. Medusa visually inspected Melody from head to toe, then removed her green hands from the Australian. Melody relaxed.

Medusa did the same with Zack. She placed her hands on his shoulders, except he didn’t flinch. As she inspected him, he saw almost imperceptible scars on her cheeks, near her ears. From her snakes?

Medusa released Zack’s shoulders and undulated a foot back. She did it by standing on her fin, raising herself up thirteen inches, then coming back down to the ground. Her tail fin now lay in front of her.

“Well,” Medusa said, “it was nice meeting the two of you. I will see you shortly at the Training Field.”

“Training Field?” Zack said.

“Yes. We need to prep you for battle.”

Before Zack or Melody could ask for more details, Hayata was escorting them out of the tent.

6

Once again, Hayata led Zack and Melody between rows of tents. As before, they had trouble keeping up. Hayata slowed his pace to half its usual speed, but the mordavers were still at least a dozen steps behind him, with Zack making a habit of tripping over the tents’ taut ropes that were nailed into the ground.

The New Arrivals did eventually catch up. Hayata knew they would. This part of the camp had hardly any foot traffic to further slow them down.

“Hey, yo,” Zack called, “Hiya!”

Hayata didn’t respond. If the New Arrival couldn’t say his name correctly, there was no point in acknowledging him.

“What’s his name again?” Zack asked Melody. She told him. “Hey,” the punk rocker said, “Hoyta!”

Hayata kept moving. He stopped when Zack grabbed his arm.

“Remove your hand from my elbow,” Hayata said.

Zack complied with the order. “Listen, if it’s all the same to you, I’m just gonna call you Honda. Cool?”

“My name is Hayata.”

“Yeah, but it ain’t easy to pronounce,” Zack said. “Now Honda, that rolls off the tongue like drool into an ear canal.”

Hayata scrunched up his face. Could this New Arrival get any ruder?

“Hey,” Zack said, “whaddya gettin’ all offended for? That’s a compliment, being named after a kick-ass car. It’s not like I’m calling you Preparation H. Now, that would be an insult.”

Hayata inhaled and began walking again. The mordavers followed, as he knew they would.

“What’s this battle she was talking about?” Zack asked.

“She has a name,” Hayata said over his shoulder.

“Jesus Christ. All right! What was the battle Medusa was talking about?”

“I’m sure Anubis mentioned the war. . . .”

“Yeah, he did but—” Zack interrupted himself. Hayata led them around a corner and saw the punk rocker turning to Melody. “Back me up here, will ya?” Before the Australian could answer, Hayata stopped in front of a tent. The two New Arrivals came to a grinding halt.

“You can stay in here for the time being.” Hayata motioned toward the tent.

Zack said, “What about the war—the battle we were just talking about?”

“What about it?”

“Wha— Why—”

“It appears you have not yet formulated your thoughts. You may wish to meditate in order to outline your questions.”

“Meditate?” Zack shook his head, which removed a dazed look from his face. “Look, like I told that dog-faced musclehead, I committed suicide to get away from it all, not to go fighting in some stupid-ass battle.”

“It’s not stupid. We’re fighting for a good cause.”

“It’s just an expression. Don’t get your kimono all in a bunch.”

Hayata took a deep breath. He wasn’t wearing a kimono. In fact, he never even owned one. Besides, they were chiefly worn by women.

“Let me ask you this, then,” Zack said. “What would’ve happened if I killed myself and this war wasn’t going on?”

“It’s a moot point,” Hayata said.

“I know. Just humor me.”

Hayata saw Melody perk up. He switched his attention back to Zack. The New Arrival stood close, his North American height towering over Hayata’s.

Hayata shrugged. “Before the war, mortals who committed suicide entered the afterlife briefly and were returned to Earth. To show them the value and preciousness of life, they were reincarnated either in an abysmal situation or tragic circumstance. An example of the former would be being born retarded and living for several decades. An example of the latter would be being born healthy into a loving family and having your life end once you realized how fortunate you were.”

“Whoa,” Zack said.

“Ohmygod,” said Melody.

“Suicide is not a solution,” Hayata said.

Zack moved to retort. Hayata didn’t give him the chance.

“Remain in the tent until myself or someone else come for you.” Not waiting for an affirmative, Hayata bowed and strode away.

7

Zack let Melody go in the tent first. Compared with Anubis’ and Medusa’s tents, this one was compact. It was full of supplies, most in crates.

“Yo, what the hell was that?” Zack wasn’t all the way in the tent yet. He stood in the doorway, one tent flap behind him, the other over his shoulder, draping the right side of his torso.

“Huh?” Melody bounded up to sit on a crate.

Zack stepped into the tent. “How come you didn’t back me up back there?”

“Come again?”

“When I was talking to Hyundai about that battle and their so-called war, how come you didn’t back me up? You know, give me a little support.”

“You seemed to be doing fine all on your own.”

“That’s a cop-out!” Zack said, pointing a finger and smirking. He dropped his hand and the joviality that came along with it. “Seriously though, doesn’t it bother you that we’re here and that they’re gonna make us be soldiers or something?”

Melody shrugged. “I haven’t given it a lot of thought. Remember, a little while ago, I was crawling my way up through a pile of rocks.”

Zack glanced up at the low ceiling. Unlike Anubis’ and Medusa’s tents, it didn’t resemble a circus’ big top. This supply tent had a flat roof, like a canopy over a bed.

“Do you regret killing yourself?” Zack asked.

Melody nodded. “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. I still can’t believe I did it.”

“I’ve been thinking about it a long time. I actually tried killing myself when I was eighteen. I was drinking and popped thirteen aspirin before going to bed. It was weird. I felt fine the next morning.”

Beat.

“Do you regret killing yourself?” Melody asked.

“I wanna say yeah, but I was so unhappy. I mean, I’m such a social loser, no matter how hard I try to fit in, I just don’t. I think being a shy little kid in grade school really fucked me up.”

“You’re not that bad. You’re quite funny and entertaining. That doesn’t sound like somebody who has hardly any social skills.”

“Yeah, but that’s more out of necessity, you know? I mean, all comedy is pretty much masking some sort of pain. It’s like that old saying: ‘Show me somebody who’s truly happy, and I’ll show you somebody who isn’t very funny.’”

“I never heard of that before.”

Zack smiled. “That’s ’cause I just made it up.”

“Behave,” Melody said, imitating Elizabeth Hurley.

Zack began walking around. He peered into an open crate. Since he hadn’t rejoined to Melody’s Austin Powers imitation, he said in a cartoonish voice, “Hey, what is this beautiful thing?” He pulled out from the crate a cutlass.

“What is that?” Melody asked.

“Some sword, looks like.”

“No, that voice you used. It sounded familiar.”

Zack held the cutlass like a samurai. “Oh, it’s from that cartoon Ren and Stimpy. It was one of their cousins or brothers or something.”

“Which was Ren, again?”

“He was the fat one that sounded like Larry from the Three Stooges. No, wait. Ren was the skinny, small one who always said, ‘You’re an idiot.’ Stimpy must’ve been the fat, big one. Did they show it Down Under?”

“Mm-hmm. What were they again? Wasn’t one a dog and one a cat?”

Zack brought the cutlass to his side. “I think Ren was supposed to be a chihuahua. I’m not sure what Stimpy was supposed to be. Hey, did you and your family and friends sit around watching it while chowing down Vegemite sandwiches?”

“Vegemite!” Melody stuck out her tongue as if gagging. “I wouldn’t be caught dead with that crap! Tastes like the gunk one finds underneath the fridge.”

Zack laughed. He had to admit, he liked palling around with Melody. It felt weird becoming fast friends with her. He’d always had trouble making friends.

“OK,” Zack said, “since you weren’t into the Men At Work scene, what did you do in the world’s smallest continent?”

“I was the singer for a band called Polemonium.”

“Polemonium? What the hell’s that?”

“We were an indie-rock band.”

“No, your band name. Where’d you come up with that?”

“Oh,” Melody said, “it’s a flower. They’re mostly found in North America. They grow one to two feet tall and have pretty flowers during the spring and summer. I read once that some are in arctic regions and that they smell bad. Not sure how much of that is true.”

“You’re not bullshitting me, are you?”

Melody shook her head.

“’Cause if you are . . .” Zack said, “. . . I gotta warn ya, there’s a reason why they say you shouldn’t bullshit a bullshitter. You know why?”

Melody grinned. “No, why?”

“Oh, I was hoping you’d be able to tell me.”

Melody chortled. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Hey, there’s no reason to throw around twenty-five-cent words like that.” Zack took the cutlass with his right hand, tossed it to his left hand, then stabbed its tip into the dirt ground. He leaned on the handle and asked, “So tell me about your band, Pandemonium Pottery. What did you sound like?”

Melody giggled. “First of all, we were called Polemonium.”

“Blah, blah, blah. Minor details. What did you sound like? Please don’t tell me youse were all influenced by that Lilith Fair crap of the mid-Nineties. You knew, freaking Alanis Morissette, Sarah McLachlan, Tori Amos, Fiona Apple, Joan Osborne. Oh, how I hated that shit!”

“I happened to like that ‘One of Us’ song. She had a nice voice.”

Zack grimaced. “Man, fuck that holier-than-thou, right-wing, religious bullshit.”

“So why didn’t you like any of those female singer-songwriters?” An impish look came over Melody’s face. “You’re not a misogynist, are you?”

“OK, whatever you say Kathleen Hanna.”

“Huh?”

“There’s a song by the punk band NOFX called ‘Kill Rock Stars,’ where they make fun of her because she pretty much hates men. She used to be in this band called Bikini Kill, which was at the forefront of the riot grrrl movement—you know, ‘girl power.’ Anyway, I think when growing up, one of Hanna’s friends was raped or something. And she—Hanna—was also a stripper at one time, so she’s seen the worst the male gender has to offer. I guess it’s not surprising that she’s über pro-feminist. Where the hell was I going with this? Oh, yeah! There’s a line from ‘Kill Rock Stars’ where Fat Mike is like, ‘I don’t know why you’re so pissed / Just don’t call me misogynist.’ Pretty cool rhyme, huh?”

“Who’s Fat Mike?”

“Oh,” Zack explained, “he’s the singer and bass player of NOFX. He writes all their songs.”

“Ahhh. . . .”

“So what did your band sound like?”

“Well,” Melody said, “I wrote all of the lyrics, and I was more influenced by Romantic poets than anything else—Wordsworth, Goethe and Blake were my favorites. Sean was our guitar player. He would write the music, then I would go through one of my journals of poetry and pick out the lyrics I thought best fit the song. Sean’s favorite bands were The Church, Sweredriver, Sonic Youth and Fugazi. He almost always played with distortion, effects and/or feedback. He was almost a wunderkind. On some of the songs we recorded, he wrote more than a dozen guitar tracks.” She stared into space. “It was kind of nice. With any other songwriting partner, my romantic and impressionistic lyrics would have come across as sappy and syrupy, but his guitar work gave our songs a slight edginess. I think it helped that he started out as a drummer, so we had a fairly intense drum sound.”

“Cool,” Zack said. He had noticed every time Melody mentioned Sean’s name, she gulped as if choking down tears.

“So what did you do in . . . Philadelphia, is it?”

Zack nodded. “I was an exterminator. Pretty shitty job. In my spare time, I did what I liked: listen to music, go to movies.”

Uncomfortable with discussing his life on Earth, Zack turned his attention to the cutlass. He pulled it out of the ground and swung it around like Jet Li on amphetamines.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Melody said, “watch it!” She jumped off the crate.

“What’s up?”

“You almost hit me!”

“Oh, sorry.” Feeling his face shade red, Zack returned the cutlass to its crate. Afterward, he placed his hands on the side of the crate, a thought nibbling at the edge of his consciousness.

“What’s wrong?” Melody asked.

“We’re dead, so I guess we can’t die. Right?”

“I’m not sure. What do you think happened to Doctor Rosenthal after the Knopf attacked him?”

“I don’t know,” Zack said.

“Because when we were flying away, he was moving at first, then all of the sudden, he stopped.”

“Really? Huh.” Zack heard his voice rise on the second h of the word huh.

The tent went quiet. Outside, Zack heard the voices of people, none of them conversational. It was verbalization of orders being given. The punk rocker looked up. The voices were being drowned out by a flapping sound. Apparently, a tarantula flew overhead. Going to the New Arrival Field? Coming back?

Melody walked toward the tent entrance. She pulled one of the flaps back and latched it to a hook. Even though Holcyon had no sun, it did have ultraviolet rays. Light spilled into the tent.

“Better?” Zack said with a smirk.

“Mucho,” Melody said, returning to her seat on the crate.

“Yo, guess what?”

“What?”

“I’m fuckin’ bored.”

Melody shrugged. “Why don’t you take Hayata’s suggestion and try some meditating?”

“What’s that gonna do for me?”

“Might give you enough lucidity so the next time you pick up a sword, you aren’t swinging it around like an inebriated oaf.”

Zack placed a hand on the side of his stomach and pretended to laugh. “Stop, you’re killing me.” He turned serious. “So how’s this meditating thing work? Do I stand up, lie down?”

“I think, usually, one sits in a lotus position and repeats a mantra.”

“What’s a mantra?”

“You know,” Melody said, “repeating a word or sound. It’s supposed to help you concentrate and take you to another plane of consciousness.”

“Really? Hmm. . . .”

“Don’t worry, it doesn’t have to be religious.”

“Oh, it’s not that,” Zack said, “though that’s good to hear. I’m just wondering what my mantra should be. Ooo, I know!”

Zack crawled between two stacks of crates, sat Indian-style and began meditating with his mantra. He repeated the beginning of Book Of Love’s “Boy.” Sure, it was synthesized New Wave, but it was a bassy sound he had always been fond of.

“Oh, snap!” Zack said.

Melody turned around. “What’s wrong?”

“I forgot to tell you.”

“What?”

Zack stood up. He was glad to do so. His legs were beginning to fall asleep. “Medusa was who was in the back of Anubis’ tent when he was giving us that lecture.”

“So.”

“So? That’s all you can say? That’s big news! Weren’t you wondering where all that slithering and hissing was coming from?”

“Not really,” Melody said. “You act like it was this huge mystery that we’ve been obsessed with for a long time. It’s not like somebody was killed in a tent, and we didn’t know who was in the tent last.”

“You know what’s weird?”

“What?”

“She looks nothing like how they had her in Clash of the Titans,” Zack said.

“What’s that?”

“A movie. Ever see it?”

Melody shook her head. “I don’t watch much movies or TV.”

“What did you do for entertainment, then?” Zack asked.

“Well, my band keeps me busy. I also read books, and, of course, I listened to lots of music. Tell me about this film.”

“Oh, it’s pretty old—from 1980 or something. It has Harry Hamlin in it, the guy from L.A. Law. It takes place in Ancient Greece. They tell a bunch of Greek myths in like two hours. The special effects by today’s standards are pretty cheesy, but aren’t bad enough to make ya wanna turn it off. Anyway, they have a scene near the end where Hamlin breaks into Medusa’s temple and fights her. She’s all hideous and gross, with the body of a snake. Real ugly. Kinda weird how she looks nothing like that. You know?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Melody replied, “but in the tent we just came from, she was green with serpents and a fish trunk.”

“Your point being?” Zack said impishly.

“In my book, that qualifies as being ‘hideous and gross.’”

“You know what, Miss Perverted Pottery—”

“It’s Polemonium!” Melody said, smiling. “Rolls off the tongue like a Shakespearean sonnet.”

“Blah, blah, bleah. I don’t got no time for your Australian ideology. You know what? I’m creating an aura of invincibility around myself and getting back to my meditating. How do you like them pineapples!”

Zack quit joking around. He returned to his cozy corner to meditate again.

8

Grinning from goofing around with Zack, Melody listened to him utter his mantra. She wondered what it was. Kind of catchy.

Melody blocked out Zack’s meditating to think about Anubis. In some ways, he reminded her of her father. Obviously, not in appearance, but more in his personality and the way he carried himself. For instance, when he had let Zack and her enter his tent first, the sweeping gesture he made with his arm was something her father would do. Also, when he had picked up the ankh off his desk and played with it, that reminded her of her father as well. Whenever her father had been on the phone, he would pick up his sticks and either twirl them around or play air drums. It would irritate her mother to no end.

Melody stopped thinking about the similarities between Anubis and her father. Her attention focused on something outside the tent. She gripped the edges of the crate she sat on. Her arms began to shake, elbows knocking against her rib cage. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. It was the last thing she thought she would ever run into. Something straight out of a Stoker nightmare.

Outside the tent was a crocodile. The same one that killed her? She wasn’t sure. Hard to tell. She wasn’t a reptile expert, so every croc looked the same to her.

The crocodile didn’t move. It simply stared at Melody. She didn’t know what to do.

Melody heard Zack chant his mantra. He wasn’t as loud as before. His uttering of it was more lethargic now, plus, he spoke a couple of octaves lower than his normal voice. Should she try and catch his attention? Let’s chance it.

“Zack,” Melody whispered with her mouth open only a couple of centimeters. She wanted to keep her movements down to a minimum. In the river, she remembered the crocodile pouncing quicker than a hyena on a grounded koala.

The crocodile exhaled. Instead of air, mists of water exited its nostrils.

Melody sensed her intestines quiver. She wished she could see Zack, but he was out of sight.

“Zack!” she said through clenched teeth. Still nothing. Only his mantra: “Bommmm. Bommmm. Bom-bum. Bommm.”

The crocodile’s tail rose.

Ohmygod! thought Melody.

The crocodile lowered its tail and, keeping it about six centimeters off the ground, swung it back and forth. The movement was slow and—in Melody’s mind—menacing.

Suddenly, the crocodile turned and ambled away. Melody waited well after its swinging tail disappeared before she jumped off the crate. She poked her head out of the tent and watched the croc’s tail, no longer swinging, trail on the ground around a corner.

Melody did a 180 on her heel. “Get up, get up!” she said to Zack. Now that she was no longer on the crate, she could see him as clear as the Sydney Opera House.

“Bomm— What? What is it?”

“I just saw a. . . .” Melody paused. A trio of people (mordavers?) walked by, taking up the width of the tent alley. Not a moment later, in the opposite direction, two men strode past the tent. Melody rested her hands on her hips. Where were these characters when the crocodile squatted near the tent entrance?

“Saw what?” Zack asked, rubbing his eyes. “What you see?”

“A . . . uh . . . um. . . .” Melody sucked on her lips. “Never mind.”

“All right.” Zack stretched. “Whaddya say we blow this mofo and check out the reality of our surroundings.”

“But Hayata told us to stay in here.”

Zack flapped his lips. “Who knows when he’s coming back? And so what if we wander around. What’s he gonna do, throw us in the brig?”

“I don’t know.” Melody wrung her hands.

“C’mon, live a little! Jump on the edge of a skyscraper and do a frantic tap dance. Look a dragon in the eye and stick a Freezee Pop up his fire-breathing nostril. Land a public meeting with the President and yank down his pants.”

“OK. Where do you want to go?”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about! Giving into peer pressure.”

Zack performed a dance that reminded Melody of a flapper busting heels at a dance-a-thon.

“Yeah,” Zack said, “putting the ‘pee’ back in ‘peer pressure.’ That’s what I’m talking about. Know what I’m sayin’?”

“Whatever you say, Flaver Flav. Are you ready, or are going to start waxing how 9-1-1 is a joke?”

“Somebody call me an ambulance!” Zack shouted as he paraded out of the tent.

9

Zack and Melody wandered around the camp for a little bit, but they kept passing the Tarantula Tent. After the third time they came across it, Zack said, “Whaddya think? Wanna slip inside?”

Melody shrugged. “Sure.”

Zack covered his mouth with his left hand. The Tarantula Tent reeked of. . . . What was it? Definitely smelled of manure, but what else? Animal hair? Well, more like arachnid hair, since the tent was packed with tarantulas. Not a mammal in sight, excluding mordavers.

On the perimeter of the tent were pens for the tarantulas. Each pen consisted of three panes of glass—two on either side of the tarantula and one acting as a gate. A typical pen was twice the width of a tarantula and had gravel on the floor, as well as a bucket of live crickets in a corner. The crickets’ chirping was so loud, it almost interrupted your thoughts.

Zack blocked out the chirping to see that not all of the tarantulas were caged in pens. A couple flew overhead, and a few were led around on the ground by mordavers.

Cocking his head, Zack wondered how many tarantulas were in here. He did a quick count. Had to be at least fifty.

“May I help you?”

Standing in front of Zack and Melody was the fourteen-year-old Brazilian they saw when first arriving at the camp.

“Hey,” Zack said, “you’re that girl with the blue, flying tarantula.”

The teenager nodded and wiped her hand on her black shorts. “Hi, I’m Daniela.”

Daniela

June 6. That was today’s date. It was also Daniela’s fourteenth birthday and the five-year anniversary of when her parents sold her into prostitution.

Daniela lay naked on the motel bed in downtown São Paulo. She stared at the popcorn ceiling. Hands behind her head, she crossed her ankles. The room smelled of spermicide and feijoada.

Daniela’s john, a returning customer, knelt in the middle of the room, his back to her. His name was Jack Corbett. He had redressed into the outfit he wore when she and her pimp met him at the airport: penny loafers; creased, black pants; long-sleeve, cotton, white dress shirt; and two-gallon, cream-colored cowboy hat. His neck was as red now as it had been after he climaxed, when—as usual—he had pushed her off top of him and turned on his side, curling into a ball.

“We need to pray,” said the fully clothed Corbett in his Arkansas accent.

Daniela didn’t know much English (her pimp did, though), but she knew this phrase. Corbett said it after every time he came. His pleas for prayer were as predictable as her pimp’s violent mood swings.

Corbett twisted around but remained kneeling. His cheeks were wet with tears. In his hands were a string of rosaries and a New American Standard Bible. “We need to ask Jesus Christ for forgiveness.”

Daniela uncrossed her ankles and spread her legs open. She tilted her hips up.

“Please don’t tempt me,” Corbett said. “You know I’m weak for female flesh.”

Daniela took her index fingers and drew circles around her nipples. Quicker than a speeding soccer ball, they went erect.

Corbett stopped kneeling and dropped to all fours, his back cracking. He crawled toward the bed. “Please. . . .” He swatted the rim of his hat. It tumbled off his head.

When Corbett reached the bed, Daniela placed her ankles on his shoulders, then pulled him in. His tongue licked her vagina. Like every other time, he was nowhere near her G-spot. Nonetheless, she moaned as if pleasured, just as she had been trained to do.

Abruptly, Corbett pulled away. Daniela opened her eyes. He sneered and his brows formed the letter V.

“Lousy demon,” Corbett said. “I shall not do the Devil’s work!”

Corbett formed a fist and began wailing away at Daniela’s vagina. Pain ripped through her body. She attempted to defend herself, but he had her pinned down.

“I REPENT!” Corbett said. “Forgive me, Lord.”

Daniela shrieked. Corbett’s wedding ring pinched her clitoris. He slammed a hand over her nose and mouth. She blacked out.

Six-and-half hours later, Daniela woke up. The motel bed was covered in her blood. Pele, her pimp, glared down at her.

“What happened to all the money I spent on martial-arts classes for you?” he asked.

“It happened too fast.” Daniela wanted to tell Pele more, but the right side of her face was swollen. She closed her left eye; the right one wouldn’t open. Her head roared as if a jet engine resided in it.

“Here,” Pele said.

Paper landed on Daniela’s stomach. Without touching it or opening her eye, she knew what it was. Money.

“Your day’s wages,” Pele explained. “I don’t want to ever see you again. You’re useless to me.” He marched out of the room, slamming the door behind him. His Drakkar cologne lingered.

Once again, Daniela passed out. When she came to, it was three-thirty in the morning. She crawled out of bed and moved for the bathroom.

Every joint and muscle stiff, Daniela didn’t make it to the bathroom until 4:00 a.m. She turned on the light and avoided a glance in the mirror. Using the sink for support, she unlatched the mirror to peer in the medicine cabinet. On the bottom shelf was what she needed. A razor.

Rusty razor in hand, Daniela slit her wrists. She dropped both of her arms but held onto the razor. Blood—warm—oozed down her legs.

Daniela’s knees buckled. She began to black out. Her head sped toward the bathroom sink. She didn’t use her hands to break the fall. Her forehead slammed into the top corner of the still-open mirror. WHACK!

Daniela stumbled backward and fell into the tub. The green shower curtain enshrouded her. Claustrophobic, she panicked and thrashed in the tub to break free of the curtain, but jerky movements only seemed to wrap the vinyl tighter around her. She inhaled, her lungs desperate for air, not shower mildew.

Daniela screamed. Panic dulled her mouth muscles and taste buds. Any other time, she would have felt the hook from the shower curtain slipping into her mouth, and she would have spit it out. Now, it was lodged in her throat. She fought to breathe.

On June 7, at 4:04 a.m., Daniela died of suffocation by shower-curtain hook.

11

In the Tarantula Tent, Daniela listened to Zack and Melody introduce themselves. She shook hands with them.

“So,” Zack said, “the Tarantula Tent, eh? Word on the street is this is the hottest ticket in town.”

Daniela smiled. “You could say that.”

Melody touched Daniela’s elbow. “Was that blue tarantula you rode in on your own tarantula, like how Hayata has Harriet?”

“Yes. His name is Henry.”

“Is he OK?”

“Actually,” Daniela said, “that is where I just came from.” She pointed at the corner where a doctor and two assistants operated on Henry. They were obscured by a partition, similar to the collapsible kind found in Japanese restaurants. “Henry is undergoing his third operation.”

“I’m sorry,” Melody said. “Is he going to be OK?”

“I. . . . We don’t know how long it’s going to take him to heal, or if he can ever fly again. Hopefully, Doctor Koch will know before we leave.”

“Leave?” Zack said. “Where you going?”

Daniela did not answer Zack’s question. That’s Anubis and Medusa’s job. Instead, she said to the two New Arrivals, “Let me give you a little tour of the place.”

Daniela led Zack and Melody to the nearest tarantula pen. “I don’t know how much Hayata told you about how things work here, but when a New Arrival is brought to camp, there’s a process to see if he or she bonds with any of the tarantulas we have on hand here.” Before the inevitable question could be asked, the Brazilian added, “We haven’t brought any recent New Arrivals here because presently all the tarantulas have partners. Oh, and incidentally, a mordaver who is paired up with a tarantula is called a symkey.”

They reached a pen and stood in front of it. Daniela rested an arm on top of the three-foot-high gate.

“You may be wondering how a symkey communicates with a tarantula. It’s actually done telepathically. All that’s required is that they touch each other. Some symkeys—when riding their tarantula—prefer to place their face on the tarantula’s cephalothorax, so they can look into one of their eight eyes, while others like to simply keep a palm on the tarantula’s side. I, personally, like to nestle my left hand between Henry’s first and second legs, and hold onto the reins with my other hand.”

“Yo,” Zack said, “what the fuck’s going on?”

The tarantula in the pen had turned on its back.

“Oh,” Daniela said, no longer leaning on the pen, “this tarantula—Morris—is undergoing a molt. Like tarantulas on Earth, tarantulas here need to shed their exoskeleton occasionally. The new exoskeleton grows under the old one. When it’s ready to take over, the tarantula secretes a pasty liquid called exuvial fluid between the two exoskeletons, which lets it pump out of the old exoskeleton.”

“Wow,” Zack said, “that’s fuckin’ freaky.”

Daniela nodded. “What I find fascinating is that Morris here will even shed his mouth, throat and stomach lining.”

The three of them watched Morris wiggle out of his old exoskeleton.

Zack asked Melody, “Did you ever hear of this?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Wow, you’re smart.”

Melody shook her head. “Only educated.”

Daniela said, “After Morris sheds his old exoskeleton, his joints will be extremely pliable, so he’ll stretch out. That’s part of the reason why the pens are so wide.”

“Man,” Zack said to Melody, “can you imagine if humans had to go through this? Sounds like a plot line for the overdue X-Files sequel. Quick, get me Chris Carter on the phone!”

“Shhh,” Daniela said. “We don’t want to act up when near a molting tarantula. During a molt, the tarantula is very vulnerable. And loud noises can frighten the tarantula, causing it to die inside the old exoskeleton.”

Melody gasped. “Oh my God, what a horrible way to die!” she whispered.

Daniela nodded. “It often happens to older tarantulas—no matter how quiet it is—because a molt takes a lot of strength and endurance.”

“Um,” Zack said in a low voice, “but it’s pretty loud in here already, with the crickets and everybody running and riding around. Doesn’t that distract the tarantula?”

“No,” Daniela said, “that’s background noise Morris is used to.”

“Sort of like how I grew up in the city on an avenue, so the trolleys and traffic didn’t even faze me?”

“Right.”

Morris was about an eighth of the way out of his old exoskeleton. He stopped pumping to rest for a moment.

“And, actually,” Daniela said, “a tarantula doesn’t die, like how it would on Earth. Here, when it ceases being a tarantula, it transforms into a rock, which automatically is transported to the New Arrival Field.”

“Wow,” Melody said.

“Holy shit,” Zack said.

Daniela cleared her throat. “What’s really neat about molting is that a new exoskeleton provides regeneration. For instance, if a tarantula lost a leg in battle, there’s a chance he’ll grow it back.”

“So your Henry may be all right?” Melody said.

Daniela dropped her head. “We don’t know.” She raised her chin. “He recently molted, so we can’t bank on that possibility.”

Suddenly, the tour came to an end. A voice yelled from the other end of the tent: “Daniela, have you see—”

It was Hayata. He cut himself off upon seeing his two New Arrivals. Daniela noticed his ears were redder than the back of Jack Corbett’s neck.

Daniela, Melody and Zack walked toward Hayata, meeting him in the middle of the tent.

“What are you two doing here?” Hayata asked.

“What’s it look like?” Zack wisecracked. “We’re forming a bowling league. We’re thinking of calling ourselves Shotguns And Slit Wrists. Wanna join?”

“I told you two to stay in the tent.”

Daniela observed Melody stiffen and her cheeks blanch.

“That was me,” Zack said. “I dragged Melody’s ass down here. If you’re gonna yell at anyone, yell at me. I got bored and wanted to check out the camp. It’s all your fault, you know. You’re not a very good host.”

Hayata threw his hands up in the air. “I don’t have time for this!” He turned on his heel. “Let’s go!”

“Where to?” Melody asked, voice quivering.

“To the Training Field.”

Zack and Melody jogged after Hayata. Daniela watched them leave the tent, then, rubbing her jaw and flexing a fidgety fist, she returned to Morris’ pen.

12

Irritated with the New Arrivals, Hayata stormed out of the Tarantula Tent. He sensed Zack and Melody followed. Turning a corner, he didn’t bother to see if they were keeping up.

To teach the two New Arrivals a lesson, Hayata picked up the pace and zigzagged through different aisles. He augmented the punishment by marching through a tent he knew was unoccupied. The tent only had one entrance/exit. To leave it, you had to drop and roll under the canvas opposite the tent flap. Hayata rolled under the canvas in one smooth motion. He grinned upon witnessing his two New Arrivals crawling under the tent like two clumsy crooks.

Soon, they were out of the camp. Hayata decided his point had been made.

The camp now 100 yards behind them, Hayata leaned into the thirty-three-degree hill that led to the Training Field. The hill consisted of three types of rocks: white granite, black scoria and brown quartzite pebbles, although the granite and pebbles outnumbered the scoria ten to one.

Hayata stood on top of the hill. Melody was at his side. Zack still made his way up the incline. Huffing, the punk rocker stood on Hayata’s other side.

“Fuckin’ A, man,” Zack said. “We almost there yet?”

“Yes,” Hayata said, pointing ahead.

But apparently Zack didn’t notice. He pointed off to the side.

13

“What the fuck is that!” Zack said.

“That is Timor,” Hayata said, “the Roman god of fear. He is on our side.”

“Are you sure? ’Cause he’s one ugly motherfucker.”

Timor sat on a voal. The two were about seventy-five yards away on a mound outside of the camp. Even though they were far away, Zack had no trouble making them out.

Timor met Zack’s stare, but the punk rocker didn’t look away. He couldn’t. Timor’s appearance was so horrifying, you couldn’t help but gawk and gape.

Timor was tall. It was hard to tell his height, since he sat on a voal, but Zack wouldn’t be surprised if he were taller than Anubis. Also, the Roman god carried more brawn than the Egyptian god. Timor had one of those bodies that seemed destined for weight lifting and Mr. Universe contests. But, of course, he would never compete in such an earthly event. The judges would deny entry to a cyclops.

The one eye taking up most of Timor’s face was only the beginning of his grotesque appearance. Horns began at the top of his head and wrapped around the sides (where ears should have been), ending under his chin. It looked as if the tips of the horns twisted together, becoming one with his chin.

“Whoa,” Zack said, his head flinching backward, as if averting a slap.

Timor had hopped off his voal. That wasn’t what shocked Zack. What did were the god’s hands and feet. On his arms, starting at the elbows, his gray-colored skin receded to make room for shiny metal forearms and fingers. Visions of Freddy Krueger and Edward Scissorhands danced in Zack’s head. Though, Timor was no Johnny Depp.

Below Timor’s knees, his gray skin receded to make room for black iron that were feet. Except instead of a foot with five little piggies, he had one huge hog. Each foot was actually one gigantic talon, shaped like a sickle. Each talon measured close to three feet. Even weirder, the talons were close to his knees, since he hardly had shins, although his long thighs seemed to make up for the lost leg length.

Zack shook his head. He wished he’d been paying closer attention before. How did a god with gleaming blades for fingers and heavy talons for feet ride a horse? Granted, it was a voal, but still, shouldn’t his fingers at least cut through the reins?

A tugging on the sleeve.

Zack turned to see Melody release his Lawrence Arms T-shirt. “What?”

“Let’s go.”

They followed Hayata.

14

Hayata led Zack and Melody to the Training Field. Due to limited resources, it wasn’t much, simply a field of rocks with a half-dozen archery targets. Unlike the standard type found on Earth, these targets didn’t have bull’s-eyes and weren’t made of stitched-together straw ropes. The targets were still circular, but they were comprised of webbing. The tarantulas, in their spare time, spun them for New Arrival training.

Hayata, Zack and Melody reached the Training Field. They were one meter away from the archery targets. Soon, they were joined by Medusa and four New Arrivals, one of whom argued with the Gorgon. His name was Neil McClure.

As a mortal, Neil had been a primatologist. He wore black rubber shoes, khaki-colored pants and a white dress shirt with button-down collars (on closer inspection, one would see the shirt wasn’t completely white; it had thin blue lines that formed quarter-inch boxes).

Neil whined to Medusa, “How can I be expected to participate in a war when I’m only a grad student. I’m too educated to fight in battle.”

Neil had been pursuing his Ph.D. at Reston University in Arizona. Zero job prospects caused him to commit suicide by carbon-monoxide poisoning. One night he pulled into the garage in the house he rented with three other grad students, and he stayed in his Saab, windows rolled down, engine running.

“Neil,” Medusa said, “we’re in a war. Fighting isn’t an option—it’s a necessity. If you don’t fight, you will spend an eternity in enslavement.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will.”

Another mordaver stepped forward, Jacques Zulu. He had lived in a remote part of the Congo.

“War?” Jacques said. “Did you say war?”

“Yes, I did,” Medusa replied.

“Then I can redeem myself?”

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

Jacques grinned and stepped back, the three rings in his nose jingling against one another. Hayata kept his attention on the African for an extra moment. Interesting how Jacques was excited about the war against the Knopfs, Bantams and their mysterious leader. Was Jacques truly sorry for committing suicide in the Congo by rushing into battle unarmed?

Medusa spoke to the six New Arrivals: “Welcome, everyone. I hope you are all doing well and adjusting uneventfully to life here in Holcyon. The purpose of bringing you up here is to prepare you for battle. As many of you know, the Knopfs and Bantams are becoming more aggressive in their attempts to seize the Nexus.”

Hayata was standing off to the side, feet apart, hands behind his back. As soon as Medusa mentioned the Knopfs, the Bantams and the Nexus, he saw an alarmed look cross Zack’s face. Hayata prayed the punk rocker wouldn’t interrupt Medusa. They had a lot of ground to cover, and Medusa couldn’t stay long. She had to meet with Anubis to discuss battle plans and troop formation.

Fortunately, Zack didn’t cut off Medusa. Hayata sighed and relaxed.

Medusa said, “One misconception that many New Arrivals have is that because Anubis and I created Holcyon, we can conjure up anything at will. Not true. It took considerable effort to transform this reality from energy, gravity, space gas and interstellar dust, therefore, we must rely on the resources that are available to us. That is why neither of us nor the Knopfs and Bantams have automatic weapons or high-tech gadgets at our disposal. We must rely on more primitive armament to achieve our goals, which is why you primarily will see swords and this.” She pointed to the side. “Bows and arrows.”

Hayata strode to where Medusa had pointed. There, a clothesline was stretched taut between two wooden poles. Hanging from the line were six four-foot bows. Hayata unlooped the rope from one of the poles and grabbed the bows before they crashed to the ground. He distributed the bows to the New Arrivals.

“Now,” Medusa said, “our first lesson shall be on proper foot position.” She smirked. “I know, how can someone like me with a fish trunk and no feet teach about foot position? We’ll manage.”

Hayata and a few New Arrivals laughed at Medusa’s self-effacing joke.

Smiling, Hayata leaned against one of the wooden poles. He always enjoyed watching Medusa teach, even when he was a New Arrival and overwhelmed with the reality of Holcyon. She possessed such a confident, amiable style, you had to have a huge chip on your soul to dislike her. Hayata especially liked her arm gestures. For the most part, her arms were bent at ninety-degree angles, her hands touching one another at the fingertips, fingers spread apart. Occasionally, when she wanted to emphasize a point, her hands would separate so one of her arms could make a sweeping motion. Anubis made similar movements when giving speeches. Hayata wondered who imitated whom. Which came first, the Egyptian god or the Greek Gorgon?

“Hayata,” Medusa said, “the arrows, please.”

Hayata nodded and walked behind one of the archery targets to pick up a knapsack. He gave each mordaver three arrows from the sack.

Medusa told the New Arrivals, “Usually, we take better care of our arrows. You may have noticed in some of the supply tents, the arrow racks in back corners. Most of the arrows you are holding are damaged or warped beyond serious usage. We’re only going to be using them as guides to ascertain the ideal foot position for each of you.

“Please take one of your arrows and place it on the ground with the tip pointing at the target. Good. Now, take another arrow and place it on top of the first arrow, but perpendicular to it, just as Melody has done, so it looks like a plus sign.”

The New Arrivals were in a row, following Medusa’s instructions. At the end, farthest away from Hayata, was Natasha Zakharenko, a mordaver he had scooped up from the New Arrival Field on the scouting mission prior to picking up Zack and Melody. Natasha had been the daughter of a high-ranking KGB official. She had spent her time on Earth as a substance abuser. At the age of forty-four, she suffered a stroke while standing on a Volgograd street corner, waiting for her dealer. Obviously, Medusa’s comment to study Melody’s example was for Natasha’s benefit.

“There are basically three foot positions,” Medusa said, “even stance, open stance and closed stance. The open stance is the most popular, the closed stance is the least common, and the even stance falls somewhere in between. Let’s start with the even stance. Now, since you all are left-handed, your right side will face the target.”

This was Hayata’s favorite part of being Medusa’s assistant, watching the latest crop of New Arrivals’ confused faces as they realized they were left-handed. On Earth, about ninety percent of the population is right-handed, but once one crosses over to Holcyon—upon becoming a mordaver—they become left-handed. One time, Hayata asked Anubis about this, but the Egyptian god had no answer why all mordavers were left-handed. Interestingly, all Knopfs and Bantams were right-handed. Hayata sometimes pondered which hand the enemy’s elusive leader used. Was he/she/it ambidextrous like Anubis and Medusa?

“Now,” Medusa said, “with the even stance, your toes will almost touch the arrow that is pointing toward the target. You will want to place a foot on either side of the perpendicular arrow.” She scanned the row of New Arrivals. “Good. Take the last arrow Hayata handed you and pretend you are about to shoot. Don’t worry about form. We’ll touch on that later. We’re giving you the arrow to help you discover your best foot position. Incidentally, you should never bend a bow and release without an arrow. It can damage the bow.”

Hayata observed the New Arrivals. All but one were novices at archery. Surprisingly, the exception wasn’t Jacques. If Hayata were a gambling man, he would have bet on the Congolese, with his warrior background. Perhaps Jacques’ tribe eschewed archery for more modern guerrilla weaponry.

Melody was the New Arrival who was evidently an experienced archer. Without instructions from Medusa, the Australian switched from the even stance to the open stance. Her right foot angled with her toes over the pointing-at-the-target arrow. Her left foot was behind the perpendicular arrow and stepping on the target arrow.

“Excellent,” Medusa exclaimed. “Melody is demonstrating a perfect open stance. See how her face, chest, hips and feet are slightly toward the target? That is what you wish to accomplish. Good job, Melody!”

Melody blushed pink.

With the open-stance instruction complete, Medusa demonstrated the closed stance. Since she hadn’t brought her bow, she borrowed Zack’s. The closed stance consisted of turning your body slightly away from the target. You angled the right foot in front of the perpendicular arrow, stepping on the pointing arrow, and you positioned the left foot behind the perpendicular arrow, with your toes touching the pointing arrow.

A scream erupted from down the row of mordavers. Sandwiched between Natasha and Jacques was Omar bin Abdul Aziz, a suicide bomber whose mission for Allah hadn’t gone as planned. Omar threw down his bow, then took the arrow he held and raised his right leg to snap it across the part of his thigh near his knee.

“Ow!” Natasha said.

Hayata dashed behind the New Arrivals. When he reached Natasha, she was on the ground, hand over her face. He pulled her hand back. A splinter was in her cheek, just below her left eye.

Omar shouted, “This is utterly and absolutely insipid!”

“Really?” Medusa snaked toward the Arab.

“Step back, woman!”

“Or what, you’ll kill yourself?”

With Natasha still in his arms, Hayata watched Omar shade purple.

Medusa stood one meter from the Arab. “I’ve been briefed about you, Omar.” Pause. “Your suicide bombing didn’t go off as planned, did it?”

“Silence!” Omar said.

“You had that bomb strapped to your chest and ran into the first bus you saw. But you failed to observe that the bus was empty, thus, only killing one person. Yourself.”

Omar gnashed his teeth. “Be quiet, woman.”

Hayata helped Natasha to her feet. He smirked at Medusa’s jab at Omar.

Fortuitously for bus riders the day Omar committed suicide, luck had not been on his side. That morning, the mass-transit agency had changed routes and schedules for all its buses, trains and trolleys. Omar had planned on blowing up the bus that stopped on the street he lived on. He had timed it so he would activate the time bomb while at his apartment’s front door, ensuring it would explode when he was on the bus. What he hadn’t realized was starting that day, when the bus coasted down his street, it was off-duty. That particular afternoon, the driver (against company policy) had left the bus idling in the middle of the one-way street to dart into a convenience store for an energy drink. Omar, with adrenaline impairing his rationalization, was well into the bus before he started to question why the bus wasn’t parked at its usual stop, why the front door had been open, and why there were no passengers in any of the seats. But before he could deactivate the bomb, the red numbers on its LED display turned 00:00.

Hayata knew why Medusa had stretched the truth. Omar viewed himself as a martyr for a noble cause. By mocking him, she took the first step in reversing the religious brainwashing he had been victim to as a mortal. A mordaver with staunch theological beliefs was—nine times out of ten—more of a liability than an asset. They had a tendency to repeat the same major mistake in Holcyon as they did on Earth. The last thing Anubis and Medusa needed was another mordaver becoming property of the Knopfs. Their numbers were low enough without losing more to the other side. Hayata bowed his head, still ashamed over losing Doctor Prescott Rosenthal.

Natasha said to Hayata, “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Hayata nodded. “Your skin has pushed out the splinter.”

“I . . . I don’t understand.”

“As a mordaver, you heal quite quickly.”

A perplexed look crossed Natasha’s face. Hayata assumed Anubis or Medusa hadn’t explained everything about being a mordaver. He was about to do so but froze.

Omar broke from the row of mordavers. His body a blur, he charged for Medusa while yelling a warrior’s cry. She chuckled at him, the way one would at an inept con man. She did not move—didn’t even flex a muscle—until he was within half a meter of her. In a flash, she took the bow she was holding and slammed it over his head. With the bow and its string around his neck, she yanked it so one of the ends dug into his skin. He went to remove the bow from around his neck, but she was one move ahead of him. Holding onto the one end of the bow, she dug her tail fin into the ground and spun around. He was caught off guard. He tripped over his feet, however, he didn’t fall down. Both of his hands were on the bow and string rubbing against his neck. He tried pushing it over his head, but he never got it up further than his chin. She was spinning too fast. She was near the end of her second rotation when she released the bow. He went tumbling backward, toward the archery targets. He fell down in front of them, limbs tripping up as if a body thrown from a Tilt-A-Whirl.

Medusa bent down and picked up four arrows, two from Zack, the other two from Melody. The Gorgon turned around and stalked toward Omar. She tossed two of the arrows up in the air. A couple of her snakes—one above each ear—grabbed the arrows with their mouths.

Apparently, Omar didn’t hear Medusa approach. He was too busy trying to sit up and remove the bow from around his neck.

Hayata laid his right forearm horizontally across his stomach and cupped his hand so his left elbow could rest on it; his left hand covered his chin and mouth. Amused, he wondered where this confrontation would head. After all, Medusa was a legendary warrior whose bravery put legendary military leaders to shame.

Omar succeeded in ridding himself of the bow. He flung it aside and got to his feet. Staggering, he glared at Medusa. She took the arrow in her right hand and hurled it at him. The arrow pierced his baggy tunic on the left side, above his hip. Hayata could tell the arrow didn’t scrape Omar’s skin, though the tip of the arrow did pierce the archery target. This had made the Arab stumble back a half a meter. Currently, he attempted to yank the arrow out of the target and his tunic. But Medusa was sliding up to him. Her left arm extended, she brandished the other arrow. She reached him and thrust the arrow under his right armpit. It went through his baggy tunic and into the archery target.

Omar cursed. “I’ll kill you dead, woman!” His movements were restricted, an arrow on either side of him pulling his loose-fitting tunic tight.

“Quiet,” Medusa said. “Don’t move.” Her two snakes holding arrows pointed the tips at Omar’s eyeballs. The Arab gulped, his Adam’s apple seeming to throb.

Hayata grinned. Obviously, Omar hadn’t heard him tell Natasha that mordavers heal quickly in Holcyon. Even if Medusa stabbed Omar in the eyes and drove the arrows way past the retinas, back into his brain, he would heal. It would take longer than a splinter being ejected from the skin, but his vision would eventually (painfully) return. The only real threat to a mordaver was being enslaved by the Knopfs.

“I’m only going to say this once,” Medusa said, “and I don’t want to be interrupted. Understood?”

Blinking, Omar nodded.

“Your religious beliefs have no place here. You would be wise to forget them, or at the very least, block them out. They are nothing but a piece of fiction. Now, I understand the majority of your identity is wrapped up in your religion, but the sooner you realize that any organized religion is a lie concocted by the social elite to keep its subordinates in line, the better off you’ll be, and the more likely you will be victorious when battling the Bantams and the Knopfs. Are we clear?”

“Yes,” Omar whispered.

“Good.” Medusa removed the arrows pinning Omar to the target. Her snakes released the arrows they were biting. Medusa caught them before they hit the ground.

Omar returned to the row of mordavers, head hung low.

Medusa addressed all six New Arrivals. “Your next training session will occur shortly. In the meantime, I would like each of you to experiment with the three foot positions I showed you and find the one that works best for you. Also, I would like each and every one of you to strengthen your left shoulder. You can do this by finding a stack of heavy crates in one of the supply tents. Simply lock your shoulder and push against the crates for a little bit.”

Neil raised his hand. Medusa acknowledged him. He asked, “How long should we push against the crate?”

Medusa smiled. “If we were on Earth, I would tell you to push and lock your shoulder for thirty-second intervals, and do twenty repetitions about three times a day, but here in Holcyon—as I’m sure some of you have noticed—time does not exist. You could try and count off thirty seconds either verbally or silently, but you would lose concentration somewhere around ten seconds. No passing of time here is a side effect of mordavers not requiring food, liquids or sleep. You may have noticed you do not need to urinate or defecate. Also, if you pay close attention, you will notice that none of you are ever truly tired or hyperactive. If you lie down with the purpose of taking a nap, you will not fall asleep. All of this, of course, relates to why Holcyon does not have a morning, afternoon or evening. It’s always dusk here.”

Hayata observed the New Arrivals. They absorbed the information. He made a mental note to tell them later that even though they couldn’t fall asleep, they could pass out if struck on the head or if they were prone to fainting.

Hayata paraded in front of the New Arrivals. “Please follow me,” he said. “You may leave the bows and arrows on the ground. I’ll escort you to a tent where there are unused bows and arrows.”

Hayata led the mordavers single file away from the Training Field, down the hill and back to camp.

15

Medusa watched Hayata lead the New Arrivals back to camp. The vision of them disappeared, blocked out by a pack of flying tarantulas, a symkey riding each one.

Medusa picked up the bows and arrows off the rocky ground and returned them to where Hayata had fetched them. As she strung up the last bow and retied the rope to the pole, she thought about her confrontation with Omar. A situation like that hadn’t occurred for a while, not since Patrick Knickerbocker arrived at camp. Like Omar, Patrick was a religious fanatic. Patrick’s mission had been to annihilate an abortion clinic and exterminate its sinful inhabitants. His bomb may have only blown up a quarter of the clinic, but in addition to killing himself, he took the lives of thirteen innocent mortals.

Medusa placed a hand over her face—thumb on one temple, middle finger on the other temple—and sniffed. Why did a fraction of mortals have to be so cruel? They had such potential to be good, and many were, but the ones who killed themselves or murdered others filled her with such sadness.

Running her knuckles across the outer corners of her eyes, Medusa wondered if her sudden sorrow was connected to how she had squandered her life as a mortal. What she wouldn’t give to go back and not be so vain. Now, she was ashamed at having been obsessed with her looks and her, then, tresses of blond hair. That narcissism was what had influenced her to seduce Poseidon in Athena’s temple. Medusa would never forget the look on Athena’s face. The moment the Greek goddess had stormed into the temple, Poseidon stopped riding Medusa doggie-style. The Gorgon flipped around to lay on her back so the Greek god of the sea could ejaculate on her chest and stomach, however, his semen was so potent, the first squirt bounced off her hard right nipple and landed on the cheek of a sculpture of Athena. Medusa, lying on the altar, pushed on her head (arching her neck in the process) to see upside down at a slant the real Athena—not the sculpture—standing there, fuming. Medusa snickered, while Poseidon finished up his business, then he sprinted out of the temple. Athena was filled with such rage, an earthquake shook every square mile of Greece. And it didn’t help that Medusa laughed in the Greek goddess’ face. When the earthquake stopped, Athena’s face was still purple, her breathing heavy. Medusa sauntered away from the altar, her back to Athena, the temple full of the smell of incense that the Gorgon had lit when first bringing Poseidon here. Medusa was running her hands through her golden hair when she heard Athena scream. Pain ripped through Medusa, and she saw a white flash, as if a lightning bolt slapped her cheek. She looked down to see from the waist down she had the trunk of a fish, and her hands no longer touched luxurious hair but slimy scales. At that moment, a slave boy entered the temple, carrying on his shoulders a pole with a pail of water on each end. He took one look at Medusa and turned to stone, the pole and two full pails clacking and splashing. Medusa picked up one of the shiny pails off the temple floor. It gave off enough of a reflection to reveal she had fangs, green skin and, instead of golden tresses, hissing serpents. Athena flew out of the temple, chortling all the way back to Mount Olympus.

Withdrawing from that flashback, Medusa’s thoughts returned to suicide bombers like Omar and Patrick. When the first suicide bomber, Kim Jennings, arrived in Holcyon, Medusa and Anubis were baffled. Because Kim was a murderer, shouldn’t she have become a Knopf? But once Medusa and Anubis discussed it, they realized people like Kim fit in at the mordaver camp because of their faith. Kim may have committed an act that was inherently wrong, but she did it under the mistaken belief it was for the common good.

Although all religions were fictitious by nature, many of their texts did hold lessons on how a mortal should live their life. Unfortunately, for people like Kim, Patrick and Omar, they took the stories at face value without reading into the subtext, or they were misled by manipulative leaders. Nonetheless, not every suicide bomber became a mordaver. Plenty became Knopfs. Those were the kind that killed not in the name of God, but for the sake of anger and hate.

Medusa shook her head and proceeded down the hill to the camp. Time for a soak.

16

As promised by Hayata, the six New Arrivals were in a supply tent. Melody, who sat with Zack in a corner near the entrance/exit flap, noted that this tent was much bigger than the one she and Zack had occupied before.

Currently, Zack meditated once more with his unusual mantra: “Bommmm. Bommmm. Bom-bum. Bommm.”

On either side of the entrance/exit—still inside the tent, though—Natasha practiced foot positions. Instead of using two arrows on the ground as guides, she had drawn a giant plus sign in the dirt. She held a bow, but not an arrow. Melody wondered if there weren’t any in the tent.

To the right of the Russian, Jacques strengthened his shoulder by pressing against the top crate on a stack of four. On the other side of the crate stood Neil, trying to hold it in place for the Congolese (Melody assumed the crate was too light to leave unattended). Presently, Jacques was snapping at Neil. The primatologist had trouble keeping the crate in place. Jacques spit out a stream of curses, followed with, “Get up here! I’ll hold the crate. You obviously need the practice more than me.”

Meanwhile, Omar knelt in the middle of the tent. Crouched over, he muttered a prayer that consisted of saying Allah at least once every five words. He clutched a dagger, both of his hands around the handle, and shouted, “MECCA!” He thrust the dagger into his stomach and toppled over. Everyone turned to look at him. Melody shook her head, and Zack, with one eye open, said, “Asshole.” The five mordavers of sane minds returned to what they had been doing. Omar panted, dagger lying beside him, his self-inflicted wound beginning to heal.

Bored, Melody stared out of the tent. Per usual, mordavers sped by as if behind schedule on an important project.

Melody perked up. One of the passing mordavers had a guitar slung across his back. It looked like . . . Sean. Couldn’t be. But what if it was.

Melody dashed out of the tent. She expected one of her fellow New Arrivals to say something, but none did.

Outside the tent, Melody bumped into an Eskimo. He pulled off the hood of his parka and scowled at her. Looked to be about eighty.

“Sorry,” Melody said and dashed after the mordaver with the guitar. He was only three meters ahead. She strode to close the gap. She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Sean! Sean!”

No acknowledgment. He turned a corner.

As if preplanned, dozens of mordavers stepped out of nearby tents and ambled in different directions. Unfortunately for Melody, they created a congestion at the corner where Sean(?) turned. She fought through the flow of foot traffic. Felt like swimming against a current.

The side of Melody’s knee hurt. She glanced down to see a male, middle-aged midget pull back his fist. “Hey, watch where you’re going!”

Melody didn’t apologize. She started jogging. Have to find that mordaver. Where did he go?

The crowd thinned out. No sign of the mordaver with the guitar.

Melody slowed down from a jog to a lengthy gait. Her eyes watered. She gulped hard, postponing any tears that might be ready to leak.

Reaching a new intersection, Melody was grateful that only a handful of mordavers strolled by. But where was the mordaver with the guitar? She did a 360. Nothing. No, wait! She squinted. Down the aisle to her right, about twenty meters up, someone ducked into a miniature tent.

Melody raced down the aisle, skipping over spikes and ropes like an Olympic hurdler. Halfway there, somebody pushed out of a tent an empty crate. Melody jumped over it with lithesome ease.

Reaching the miniature tent, Melody inhaled through her nose and exhaled through her lips. Neither of the tent flaps were pulled back. She felt her cheeks grow warm. A trickle of sweat dripped diagonally down the front of her neck.

Melody ducked and stepped into the miniature tent.

Once inside, Melody went rigid. What just happened? This couldn’t be the tent she entered. Outside, it was diminutive, a little wider than an airplane restroom. Inside, the tent was bigger than Anubis’ and Medusa’s tents combined. And it was empty. Why would the mordaver with the guitar slip in here? Did he leave already through another passageway?

“Hello?” Melody said. “Sean?” Couldn’t see anything. So dark in here. Maybe she should pin up one of the tent flaps. Get a little light in here.

Melody froze. The tent smelled like a tropical rain forest. Similar to the type of odor when—

Rattling.

Melody’s breathing quickened. The rattling came from the left. She looked over there. Still very dark in here.

Melody gasped. Two red eyes glowed, but they were at an odd angle.

Not thinking twice, Melody stepped back. To her surprise, she took several strides before reaching the tent flap. That couldn’t be. When entering, she had taken only a few steps—four at the very most.

Melody held up one of the tent flaps. Light entered the tent. Her skeletal frame shivered.

The owner of the red eyes was a crocodile. The same one as before? The croc hissed at Melody. On the tip of its flicking tongue was a ninja star, which clinked against its teeth, creating the rattling sound.

Melody wanted to sprint out of the tent, but the crocodile’s position stupefied her. Its feet were attached to the tent wall. How was that possible? Never mind the tent wall was at a forty-five-degree angle, so it almost looked like the croc hung upside down. But the tent didn’t even sag from the croc’s heft. It was as if the reptile weighed ounces, not pounds.

The crocodile inched toward Melody. It still stuck to the tent wall, the canvas not rippling from the movement. Mist exited from the croc’s nostrils, the ninja star continuing to rattle against its yellow teeth.

Melody’s heart pounded so hard, her neck throbbed. She was about to unfreeze herself and make a run for it when the crocodile leapt toward her. The unexpected movement shook the tent. Melody heard wood creaking. The pole supporting the canvas in the middle of the tent?

The crocodile zoomed toward Melody. It was like the river episode near Darwin all over again. Except this time the croc had red eyes and a ninja star attached to its clammy tongue.

Melody raised her arms to her face and rushed backward. She started to scream but stopped.

Melody was back in the supply tent with her fellow New Arrivals.

Zack no longer meditated. Standing, he asked, “You all right?”

“Yeah, I. . . .”

Melody’s legs felt weak. The last time they felt this supple was the first time she performed, at the age of thirteen, when she played drums in her first band, Esoteric Contact.

Melody’s knees knocked together and she lost balance. She felt Zack slip a hand under her armpit.

“Whoa, whoa,” he said. “You OK?”

“Yeah, I— What happened?”

“You were standing in the doorway with this glazed look on your face, like you were in a trance or something. Then you snapped out of it and stumbled back in here.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Melody placed a shaky hand over her mouth. She felt hungover: heart struggling, head pounding and every muscle aching. But wait, those horrible sensations were abating.

Feeling normal again (well, as normal as you could in this reality), Melody brought her head up to see Neil, Natasha and Jacques gawking at her. But that was short-lived because of Omar’s actions. Still kneeling, he babbled a series of phrases, his back erect, head knocked back to exhibit the left side of his neck.

“What the fuck’s he doing?” Zack asked.

“I don’t know,” Melody said.

Jacques moved toward Omar. Melody assumed the Congolese intended to slap the Arab, since his palm was open, arm raised. But two steps away from Omar, Jacques screeched to a halt. The Arab withdrew the dagger from between his legs. Jacques wasn’t the only one to freeze, Melody noticed. She, Zack, Neil and Natasha inhaled audibly in unison.

For the umpteenth time since Melody met Omar, he shouted the name Allah, then he did something she never would have predicted, no matter how long she knew him.

He slashed his neck, making sure he gouged his jugular.

Each mordaver in the tent had their own exclamation. Zack’s voice drowned everyone else out with “DUDE!”, his voice vibrating Melody’s rib cage.

The five New Arrivals leapt out of the way of the gushing blood. Melody hopped away from the entrance/exit to stand next to Zack, in the spot where he had been meditating. Neil and Jacques ducked behind the crates they had been using to strengthen their shoulder muscles. And Natasha crouched down in a corner, her bow over her head, as if it were an umbrella.

Omar continued to kneel on the ground, a grin on his bloody face. Melody gaped at his mouth. She didn’t think teeth could stain red so quickly.

To Melody’s surprise, Omar didn’t spin around in an attempt to drench everyone with his copious, torrential blood. He remained in one position.

Omar’s blood surged from his jugular. It hit the part of the tent to the left of the entrance/exit, where Natasha had been practicing foot positions. The blood streamed from Omar’s vein at such a high pressure that it created a hole in the tent canvas. Around the hole, blood sprayed the canvas; the farther away from the hole, the more intermittent the crimson became. It reminded Melody of abstract expressionism.

Eventually, Omar’s blood supply went dry. He quit grinning. A dejected look crossed his face. Suddenly, the blood on the tent wall (and the little bit on the ceiling and the ground) returned to Omar’s body, via his jugular vein. Melody’s jaw dropped. It was like watching a film clip in reverse. She couldn’t tell if the blood reentered his body at the same speed it exited—it was such a bizarre sight, she lost all sense of comprehension. She soon snapped out of it to witness Omar staring into space, as if stricken with shock.

“What . . . the . . . fuck?” Zack said.

All of Omar’s blood was back in his body. Not a trace of it could be found on the tent or the ground, however, the coin-size hole the deluge had formed was still on the tent wall.

Natasha, Neil and Jacques came out of their hiding spots. Melody and Zack stepped toward Omar. The Arab, kneeling, wailed and hunched over to slam his fist on the ground.

Jacques shook his head. “You’re a pathetic excuse for a mordaver.”

“Face the facts, jack,” Zack said to Omar, “you’re here for good. Suck it up and deal, bitch.”

Lying on his stomach, Omar stretched out and punched the ground while kicking his feet. Natasha, Neil and Jacques ignored him; they went back to what they had been doing before. Melody and Zack spoke to one another simultaneously.

Melody: “I’m going to take a walk.”

Zack: “I’m bailing.”

They laughed and exited the tent. Outside, Melody was tempted to ask Zack if he planned on heading anywhere in particular, but she resisted that itch because she didn’t want the question reflected back on her. Unsure why, she didn’t want to tell anybody where she was going. And before she could reconsider, Zack was joking around.

“OK,” Zack said, “I trust you have your itinerary. I’ll take your puzzled expression as affirmative. We’ll rendezvous back here at oh-nine-hundred hours.” He held out his bare wrist, palm down. “Synchronize Swatches.”

Giggling, Melody turned away. “You’re too much.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Zack said. “You don’t need a watch. You have an internal clock. Godspeed with your mission, Agent Holiday.”

“I’ll see you later,” Melody said over her shoulder.

17

Medusa entered her tent. Standing next to her Jacuzzi was Timor. “Hi,” she said.

“Hello,” Timor replied. Because the end of his horns merged with his chin, he had no jaw, as well as no lips. When he spoke, his blowfish cheeks ballooned. His tongue formed words, however, it never left his mouth, just pushed against his fluorescent blue teeth, which were bonded together. To a New Arrival, it probably looked as though Timor grimaced constantly, but Medusa knew better.

“When did you get back?” Medusa asked.

“A little while ago.”

“How was it?”

“Unproductive,” Timor said.

“Come here.”

“What?”

Medusa slithered across the tent. She hugged Timor, his height of thirteen feet dwarfing her seven feet.

“You’re so tense, Tim,” Medusa said, looking up into his eye. His sclera, iris and pupil were the same color. Black.

“I’m irate that I failed in my mission.”

Timor was supposed to find out where the Knopfs and Bantams were hiding. Anubis and Medusa believed that if they knew the location of the hideout, they could weaken the enemy’s offense.

Medusa rested her head on Timor’s stomach and hugged him, whom she had been with since the fall of the Roman Empire. She rested her hands on his muscular hips and tiptoed to kiss his ripped chest between his gills, which took the place of nipples. The gills helped him breathe, since he had no nose.

“What are you doing?” Timor said.

“I missed you,” Medusa replied between pecks. Her hand slipped under his chamois loincloth.

“Ow!” Timor jerked back.

“What’s wrong?”

“One of your damned snakes bit me!”

Medusa ran a hand through her hair, searching for the culprit. No luck.

“Let me see,” Medusa said. Timor showed her his right bicep. It was only a nick. She kissed it. “All better?” She smirked.

“Yes.” Timor moved for the hammock in the corner.

Despite feeling lustful, Medusa decided not to entice Timor with the prospect of sex. Instead, she removed her garment and slipped into her Jacuzzi. The Jacuzzi’s warm green, thick liquid helped keep her scales from becoming too dry and flaky.

Medusa flicked her fin on the bottom of the Jacuzzi to stir up the sediments that sometimes collected down there. Dipping her head back into the fluid for her snakes’ benefit, she fought the urge to ask Timor why he hadn’t stopped at the Training Field to say hello to the New Arrivals. Evidently, he was upset with his fruitless mission. Then again, he wasn’t the most outgoing of gods, but she wouldn’t have it any other way. She believed that because he wasn’t a social butterfly, he saved all conversations and confidences for her. Back on Earth, she theorized the wider one’s social circle was, the harder it was for that person (or god) to communicate with their lover or soulmate. After all, how many times can you repeat the same story or line of thought?

Timor cleared his throat. “Did you and Anubis do anything fun while I was gone?”

“No,” Medusa said, “only the usual. Train New Arrivals and prepare for the trek to the Nexus.”

Timor grunted.

A few moments of silence passed.

“How’s your arm?” Medusa asked.

“Fine.” Timor picked a feather from his right talon. “Anything on our agenda?”

“We have a few more training sessions with the current batch of New Arrivals,” Medusa answered. “Afterward, we must attend Anubis’ meeting with the mordavers in the Tarantula Tent.”

Timor nodded.

18

Outside the supply tent, Zack walked in the opposite direction of Melody. He strutted down the aisle between two rows of tents. Hands in jean pockets, he bobbed his head to the song looping in his brain. Cringer’s “Blasphemous.” He was up to the break, so he sang it via mumbling: “Sometimes I can’t find the strength inside / Sometimes I just want to hide / Sometimes I need it to survive / Sometimes it’s all a petty lie.”

Next, Zack hummed the two refrains and whistled the guitar notes plucked during each verse. Eventually, that pop-punk classic slipped out of his mind, replaced by Minor Threat’s “Out of Step (With the World).” But when that one-minute-and-fifteen-second hardcore treasure ended in his head, he realized he hadn’t listened to any music since killing himself on Earth.

Zack stopped. “Fuck.” What he wouldn’t give to listen to some punk rock blaring from a stereo. Shit, I’d even take five minutes from a one-speaker piece of shit.

That thought flittered out of Zack’s mind as he felt something ram into him. He lost balance, tripped over his feet and fell in front of a hunched-over old man. The senior had olive skin and wore a flimsy red-and-white checkered bathrobe over a V-neck T-shirt, blue Speedo, knee-high argyle socks and green-with-white-stripes Keds. The old man shuffled around Zack and whacked the punk rocker on the neck with his cane. “Ow!” Zack said. He watched the senior shamble away, muttering under his octogenarian breath.

The face of a thirty-something slid into Zack’s view. “I am so sorry,” she said in a Texan accent.

“Huh?” Zack lay on the ground.

“I rushed out of the tent so quickly, I didn’t even look to see where I was going. Are you all right?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Here, let me help you.”

She outstretched her right hand. Zack took it, and quicker than you could say, Who was that old man?, he was on his feet.

“Uh, thanks,” Zack said.

“My pleasure.” She shook Zack’s arm like an overeager used-car salesperson. “Mary Jane Baker. So very nice to meet you.”

Zack introduced himself and withdrew his hand in mid-pump. He was glad he did. Mary Jane’s left hand had risen to probably land on their shaking right hands, but since he had withdrawn his, she did what any self-respecting schmoozer would do. She clapped her palms together. He took note that her hands went stiff and formed a praying gesture.

Mary Jane smiled at Zack without showing any teeth. Her brown eyes—the color of dog shit—stared at him with a vacant glaze. He broke eye contact to study her other features. She had a round head and a pug nose. Her short dirty blond hair was pulled back into a chignon. And she wore a baggy paisley dress that covered everything from her neck to her ankles. He wondered what kind of figure she had. He couldn’t tell if she were thin or tubby, flat-chested or well-endowed, hairy or clean-shaven. Two things were for sure, though. She was a little over five feet tall, and she had not one iota of sex appeal.

“Oh,” Mary Jane said, “we should step out of the way of these fine, hard-working people.”

Zack felt one of Mary Jane’s warty, callused hands seize his elbow and yank him aside. They stood to the right of the tent she had exited. He watched countless mordavers zip by in both directions. Previously, they must have marched around Zack and Mary Jane when the two of them stood in the middle of the aisle. Zack didn’t know for sure. Hadn’t been paying attention.

“Look at all of these lovely creatures with a sense of purpose,” Mary Jane said. “God bless them all.”

Zack rolled his eyes. “So tell me, Mary Jane. . . .”

Mary Jane withdrew her attention from the passing foot traffic. “Yes, my brother.”

“Brother?”

“Yes. We’re all brothers and sisters acting according to the Lord’s plan. Praise be to Jesus!” Mary Jane blessed herself.

Zack took a step back, noticing Mary Jane’s left eye wasn’t real. “Hey, is that a glass eye?”

Mary Jane nodded, that Scientology smile still smearing her face. “Praise be to Jesus, it is. At the tender age of sixteen, our savior—the Lord Jesus Christ—had the wisdom to take the vision from my left eye.”

“How’s that?” Zack asked.

“I was leaving school for the day, and as I walked across the parking lot, a stray javelin from the track field landed in my eye.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. I would never lie. It’s the Ninth Commandment.”

Zack started to laugh, but stopped. “Oh, you’re serious.”

The Scientology smile left Mary Jane’s face. “I never joke about my faith.”

Zack glanced around. Gotta get away from this nut job. He hoped to catch sight of someone he knew. Any excuse to flee from this religious freak.

Mary Jane wrapped her right arm around Zack’s left arm and pulled herself close. Zack’s back muscles went taut.

“I know why He took my vision,” Mary Jane said.

“Oh yeah?” Zack leaned away.

“He was teaching me a lesson.”

“Is that so.”

“Oh, yes. You see, six weeks before—on a Saturday afternoon—I was all alone in my bedroom after bathing myself. As I was lying on my bed, giving myself a gynecological exam, I thought of Biff Anderson. Immediately, I stopped examining my vagina and gave into the temptation of sin.”

For a moment, Zack quit thinking of escaping. He smirked. “You masturbated.”

Mary Jane withdrew her arm from around Zack’s and placed her hands over her ears. “Please don’t say that awful word.”

“What, it’s not like I said you were fingering yourself.”

“Ahhhhh!” Mary Jane clamped her hands tighter over her ears and shook her head. She recited an abbreviated version of the Apostles’ Creed.

Grinning, Zack crouched down so his face was level with Mary Jane’s. “So tell me, how much pressure did you apply to your clitoris?”

Mary Jane closed her eyes, joined her hands together in a praying position and bowed thirteen times. “Please, Jesus, forgive him. He does not know of what he speaks.” Then her lips moved without emitting any words or sounds, and her closed eyelids fluttered, as if she were trying to wake up but couldn’t.

Zack looked around. The foot traffic had thinned out. This was his chance for a clean getaway. If he ran into Mary Jane later, he could say he thought she was deep in a trance, and he didn’t want to disturb her.

Mary Jane’s eyelids opened.

Shit. Zack mentally kicked himself.

Mary Jane clutched Zack’s left elbow with both of her hands. “Don’t you see?”

“Sure,” Zack said. “I’m the one with twenty-twenty vision and two healthy eyes, remember?”

“God took half my sight because on the sixth day of the month I saw Biff Anderson practicing throwing the javelin, and I lusted for him. Six weeks later, on a Saturday afternoon—the sixth day of the week—I touched myself, wondering if Biff had a six-inch penis. Six weeks after that, I was hit by a javelin that Biff was throwing. Don’t you see! Six is the Devil’s number, and it is rampant in my unholy behavior.”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

Mary Jane released Zack’s elbow. “Please, no profanity, Brother Zachary. It’s the tool of heathens and pagans.”

“Man, I hope after all that shit, you at least came like a phalanx of Roman soldiers.”

“Excuse me?”

In exasperation, Zack threw his hands up in the air. “I hope you had an orgasm that would make a fellatio teacher proud!”

Mary Jane cupped her hands close to her chest. “Such a foul-rotten mind.”

“Hey,” Zack said, “before you go off again and pray like a serial killer on death row, let me ask you this: On that Saturday afternoon, did you come six times?”

“You’re disgusting!”

“So what are you trying to say, before getting crucified, Jesus grabbed Mary Magdalene and sat on her—”

“DON’T YOU DARE TAKE THE NAME OF OUR SAVIOR IN VAIN!”

Mary Jane might as well have shouted the punchline of Lenny Bruce’s most obscene joke. Every mordaver in eyeshot froze and gaped at the frumpy, holier-than-thou Mary Jane Baker. She squeezed her eyes shut and pulled out from a pocket a black crucifix. Pressing it against her twitching lips, her free hand formed a fist.

Zack stepped in the middle of the aisle. “Thank you, thank you, everyone. We’ll be here all week. Don’t forget to tell all of your friends—mordavers and Knopfs alike—of the Pedantic Texan. She’s so simpleminded, she uses religion as a crutch. Watch as she genuflects a thousand times an hour. See her break into a hymn at the drop of a palm frond. Hear her spew self-righteous phrases, like this one.”

“May each and every one of you rot in hell for all eternity,” Mary Jane exclaimed.

Zack laughed. Gotta love perfect timing.

The foot traffic resumed, mordavers speeding away for unknown chores. Zack joined them, leaving the Jesus freak kneeling near her tent. She held her crucifix high and shouted, “I will be rewarded! I WILL BE REWARDED!”

19

Melody approached Anubis’ tent. At the entrance, one of the two flaps was pinned back. She poked her head in. “Anubis?”

The Egyptian god sat at his desk, poring over maps and laid-out scrolls. “Ms. Holiday, to what do I owe the pleasure?” He didn’t look up or smile, but there was a lilt in his voice.

Melody wrung her hands. “I need your help.”

Anubis locked eyes with Melody. One of the parchments he had been studying rolled back up. “What is it?” he asked like a concerned father.

“I’m being stalked. By a crocodile. What, what is it?” Melody noticed Anubis had relaxed.

Anubis smiled. “You have nothing to worry about. Please, come in.”

Melody sat on the same stool when she had been here before with Zack.

“Now,” Anubis said, “how many times have you seen the crocodile?”

Melody sucked on her lower lip, thinking. “Two.”

“And both times was someone in the vicinity meditating?”

“Yes. Zack was.”

“That is partly the cause,” Anubis explained. “You see, because you are a New Arrival, you carry a certain amount of ‘mortal residue,’ as Medusa and I call it. You committed suicide via crocodile, correct?”

Melody nodded.

“You have no reason to be alarmed,” Anubis said. “These are simply hallucinations, albeit vivid and, I’m assuming, frightening ones.”

“Mm-hmm,” Melody said almost imperceptibly.

“What I suggest is whenever Mr. Fury—or anyone whom you feel a bond with—is meditating, remove yourself from that area.” He paused. “Permit me to revise that caveat. As a precaution, I would suggest that whenever one of your fellow mordavers is meditating, you should remove yourself from that area ASAP.”

“So these crocodiles I’m seeing aren’t real?”

“No, but I would not ‘tempt fate,’ to use a cliché. These visions may be fictitious, however, if you intentionally stand next to Mr. Fury during his next meditation session, the end result could be disastrously permanent. Permit me to explain.

“Once, a mordaver named Helen Nardalos occupied our camp. She had committed suicide via hanging herself. Like yourself, she experienced hallucinations, however, hers—appropriately enough—consisted of a noose taunting her. She sought my counsel, but discarded my advice. The next time her lover meditated, she stood near him. Predictably, she experienced another hallucination. However, it never left her. From that moment on, nooses haunted her. Mordavers would speak to her, but instead of lips, she would see ropes. Also nooses danced in her vision, even when she closed her eyes.”

“What happened to her?” Melody’s heart pounded like a double bass-drum solo.

Anubis dropped his head and looked at his lap. “She developed an extreme case of dementia. We tried containing her, but when Timor was caring for her, she overtook him and fled to the New Arrival Field, where she encountered a gang of Knopfs. We believe she purposefully sought them out. Her irrational cognition must have rationalized that the only way to cure her dementia was to become property of the Knopfs. Of course, that was a foolish act. Defecting to the Knopfs and Bantams provides no escape. In fact, a mordaver is—without question—worse off in that situation.”

“I’ll be sure to steer clear of anybody meditating,” Melody said.

“Outstanding!” Anubis slammed his palm on the table. His ankh, along with maps and scrolls, jumped up several centimeters.

Melody watched Anubis walk around his desk. He moved with the serious countenance of a nonprofit manager.

“I appreciate your coming to consult me regarding this issue, Ms. Holiday. Now that it is resolved, I am sure you are eager to return to your training. How are you finding Medusa as an instructor?”

Melody was about to answer when she realized she was standing at the tent entrance. Wow, he’s so smooth, he picked me up out of my seat and guided me to the door without my knowing it.

“Uh,” Melody said, answering Anubis’ question about Medusa’s teaching, “she’s . . . um . . . uh . . . fine, I guess.”

“Excellent. Take special heed to her instructions. She is a wise warrior who has faced predicaments no mortal or god should have survived, but she has—time and time again.”

“OK.” Melody felt Anubis let go of her arm. She knew that was her cue to leave, but something trivial gnawed at the back of her brain. It had been there ever since she and Zack first arrived at the camp. She had to say it.

“Before I go, can I ask you one last question?”

“Certainly,” Anubis replied.

Melody studied him to see if he were being polite. Often, she found, people would say something, but their body language would indicate the opposite. Anubis didn’t seem annoyed by her one last entreaty. If he did mind, he hid it well.

“It’s sort of stupid,” Melody said, “but—”

“There are no stupid questions,” Anubis said, smiling, “only ignorant instructors.”

“I was wondering if that’s a bed in the rear of the tent?” She was referring to the slab of stone with the velvety pillow and purple, satin blanket.

Anubis arched an eyebrow. “Why, yes, it is.”

“I’m sorry. I know it’s rude to ask. It piqued my curiosity. It seems strange, your having a bed, since you’re a god.”

“Yes, I could see how that might be construed as out-of-sync with how most mortals perceive gods, but, Ms. Holiday, I am going to edify you on a little known fact. Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of gods are not immortal. We have life spans, however, because we can transport between temporal worlds like Earth and celestial dimensions like the afterlife, we are not governed by the rules of time. Therefore, we age at a slower rate and do not so much as die as fade into a new energy form that benefits the universe.”

“Huh?”

“I apologize. It is a complex topic. Perhaps we can discuss it sometime, but it is impertinent to our current discussion.

“To answer your question, I have the bed to lie on occasionally. Similar to mordavers, I am unable to sleep, but I find it useful to recline in a horizontal position and close my eyes when faced with a problem whose solution requires serious contemplation.”

“Oh, OK,” Melody said. “Sorry for being nosy. I was just curious.”

“I understand.”

Melody exited the tent. “Bye.” She waved.

“Goodbye,” Anubis said.

20

With the departure of Melody Holiday, Anubis returned to his desk. However, upon sitting down, he could not concentrate. He picked up a quill and brushed his chin with the feather.

Melody Holiday’s visit reminded Anubis of Senet, daughter of an adviser to Pharaoh Pepi II Neferkare. The incident involving Senet proved to be Anubis’ downfall. It supplied Osiris with ammunition to dethrone Anubis from his prominent position.

Before Senet entered the picture, circa 2200 BCE, Anubis was lord of the dead and Osiris was the embalming god. However, Osiris despised serving under Anubis. Anubis knew Osiris was unhappy in his position, but Anubis’ duties and responsibilities kept him busier than a one-armed single mother. Egypt was in the midst of a ravaging famine, and the bodies kept piling up. Anubis’ job was to steady the scales on which each dead person’s heart was weighed against the feather plucked from Ma’at, the goddess of truth. (If the heart were lighter than the feather, Anubis would lead the soul to the afterlife; if the heart were heavier than the feather, Anubis would feed the soul to Ammit, who would devour and destroy the twenty-one grams.) Anubis was so inundated with work, he failed to note Osiris amassing support by spreading lies about him. One fabrication Osiris disseminated through the god grapevine was that Anubis would sneak into dying women’s chambers and rape them—his orgasm killing them. But what caused the most damage to Anubis’ reputation was the scandal surrounding Senet.

Typically, when a mortal died, Osiris would fetch the body and take it to Anubis. However, when Senet died, Osiris was running an errand for the god Thoth. Consequently, Anubis had to retrieve Senet’s body from its burial tomb. He transported the corpse to his atelier and commenced extracting her heart to weigh it. Halfway through the procedure, he halted. She was still alive, her heart beating ninety times a minute. Evidently, she had not died of breast cancer, as reported by Osiris.

At that moment, Ennead, the divine council of nine gods and goddesses, barged into Anubis’ atelier; Osiris hovered in the rear. Anubis stared at his superiors, jowl agape, Senet’s heart throbbing in his hand.

During the criminal trial that followed, Anubis discovered Osiris’ smear campaign had occurred in three stages. First, Osiris had gossiped with other gods about Anubis. Next, Osiris had damaged Anubis’ credibility by questioning his leadership capabilities. Finally, Osiris had circulated lies of Anubis’ fetishes, such as feasting on bodies after their soul was judged. The destruction of Anubis’ character had the intended effect. He was guilty before the trial started. And it did not help that Senet—like Melody Holiday—had been a gorgeous girl by both god and mortal standards. The state portrayed her as an angelic martyr, which the judge and the jury accepted as gospel. In addition, whenever Anubis’ lawyer objected to Osiris’ perjurous testimony, the judge slammed down his gavel (a lightning bolt), shouting “Overruled!” before the attorney could explain why she was objecting.

When the sneering judge and the self-righteous jury announced the guilty verdict, Anubis scolded himself with the vehemence of 6,000 scorned scorpion siren. How could he have been so obtuse? He should have been more aware of the political backstabbing from the start, or at least questioned Osiris when he claimed he had to run an errand for Thoth. How absurd! Thoth was the messenger of the gods. Pride in his work prevented him from outsourcing even menial tasks.

Anubis’ punishment wasn’t too severe, considering the kangaroo court atmosphere of the trial. The jury of his peers had suggested he suffer by becoming human, “preferably a limbless mute,” the foreman urged. Surprisingly, Osiris pleaded with the court to only cast Anubis out of the Other World, allowing Anubis to remain non-mortal. The judge agreed.

Even now, sitting in his tent, Anubis wondered why Osiris had intervened on his behalf. Feelings of guilt? Perhaps. Or maybe the former embalming god did not wish to make Anubis too much of an enemy. A moot point. After the trial, Osiris was crowned lord of the dead, and he quickly rose through the ranks to become the top god in Ancient Egypt.

Anubis quit brushing his chin with the quill. The thought popped into his head that Osiris was the one leading the Knopfs and the Bantams. Nonsense!

Mind clear, Anubis touched the quill on an empty scroll and jotted down notes for the speech he would give in the Tarantula Tent to motivate the mordavers.

21

Medusa lay on her bed, Timor at her side, snoring. She brought a shaky hand to her upper lip. It was spotted with perspiration. She wiped it away with her index finger and thumb.

Medusa wanted to get up to stretch, but she was too exhausted. Timor had made love to her aggressively and energetically. Usually, he was gentle, but during this copulation, he had been rough. She hadn’t minded—something different—but now she wished she had told him at least to slow down his frenzied pumping. She was so sore, the frightful possibility flashed through her mind that she wouldn’t be well enough for the next session up at the Training Field. I’ll be fine, she convinced herself.

Sitting up, Medusa untied the band that pulled her hair back. Her snakes wriggled in delight, happy to be free again. She petted her little darlings. One of them licked her palm with its forked tongue. Tickled.

Medusa slid off the bed and moved for her Jacuzzi. Boy, did she ache.

Slipping into the green goo, Medusa smiled as she felt the warm liquid slip into her vagina. Ah, feels good. She closed her eyes and let her conscious and subconscious battle it out to where her thoughts should wander.

Medusa relived making love with Timor. He was such an outstanding sexual partner, she sometimes lamented that she was human no longer. As a mortal, she had found men enjoyed when, in the missionary position, she wrapped her legs around their waist, thighs or buttocks.

Medusa’s smile widened into a grin. She recalled from the recent copulation how Timor talked dirty. He usually didn’t, claimed he couldn’t improvise such language; he had to script it beforehand and practice alone in a room. But this time he had no problem inventing risqué phrases, such as “I love the way your clit rubs against my shaft” and “I’m not going to stop until your come six times.” No problem there. She climaxed seven times.

Arms resting on the edges of the Jacuzzi, Medusa was thankful Timor’s deep voice faded from inside her head (she had been getting aroused again). Yawning, she stretched and recalled the events leading up to the first time she met Anubis.

Permutation After Pompeii

1

It is the last half of the first century. I’m residing in a cave a couple of miles outside of Pompeii. I’ve been here about nine months. Things are going well. I like it here. Pompeii inhabitants don’t come out here too often, for which I’m grateful. Occasionally, I’ll become lonely and depressed, but I’ve found a cure.

Late at night, I’ll hike into town and visit Pompeii’s library to borrow a handful of parchment scrolls, always returning the ones I picked up on my previous trip.

When not reading, I play the classics on my lyre. Because I’m deep inside this cave, I don’t worry about attracting the attention of the sporadic passerby. The stalactites in this cave absorb most of my music.

I’m content to spend the rest of my days here in this cave. Sometimes, the seclusion causes me to cry for several hours straight, but it could be worse. Athena left me off fairly easy, considering. I only wish she didn’t slow down my heartbeat so that I now may live a million years, and I can’t commit suicide because the wound heals eventually, albeit painfully.

Presently, it’s August 79 CE. I’m in the middle of rereading Plato’s Republic. Suddenly, I hear footsteps.

Without thinking, I roll up the parchment scroll I was reading, swipe up my bow as well as my quiver, and retreat farther back into the cave.

2

Squatting out of sight on a ridge, I wait for my intruder to stumble into view. How did he (or she) make it through the entrance of the cave? It’s filled with stalagmites. You have to know how to maneuver through them. Maybe my unwelcome visitor is a child. Zeus, I hope not. The last thing I want to do is turn another youngster into stone.

I continue to wait for my intruder. I’m certain it’s a man, one who has bathed recently. The aroma of olive oil cuts through the stale smell of the cave.

To placate myself, I stroke one of my snakes. I’m having trouble believing the intruder squeezed and zigzagged through the 100-yard stretch of stalagmites at the mouth of the cave. Maybe after this episode is over, I should revert to the scare tactic of placing outside the cave the stony figures of the people, animals and insects I’ve petrified.

My intruder steps into view. Brandishing a spear and shield, he’s of average build and height, is hairy, and wears a cuirass over a white tunic.

I pull out an arrow from my quiver and draw my bow, then I whistle like an exotic bird. The intruder flinches. I release my arrow. It whisks through the air and hits him between the eyes. He falls to the ground, dropping his spear.

I climb down from the ridge and stand over the intruder. He lies prostrate, his back arched due to the tail of my arrow resting on the ground. I kick him on the shoulder to flip his body over onto his back. The shield never leaves his arm—it’s strapped to his forearm. I yank out my arrow and, as a precaution, insert my face in his line of vision. He turns to stone. He was still alive.

I take the stony figure by the feet and drag him to the place where I deposit all of my intruders: a large lake in the middle of the cave (where I swim daily). I heave in my stony intruder. Cold, black water splashes on my arm.

Staring at the bubbles as the statue sinks, I wonder if he was sent by Titus. Almost every Roman emperor since Caesar wants my head. They’re under the mistaken assumption that if a bounty hunter cuts off my head, a general can rush into battle with it, turning the enemy into stone. Silly sovereigns.

3

Sliding away from the lake, I head to the entrance of the cave. I’m curious to see how my intruder snuck in.

I drop my bow. The stalagmites at the mouth of the cave are gone, now nothing but stumps anyone can walk over.

I kneel and slide my fingers across one of the stumps. It’s as smooth as a pane of glass, like the other three dozen or so stalagmite stumps—each cut clean and perfect. I examine the ground between each stump, in which lay copious amounts of sparkling dust. The intruder dissolved the stalagmites by obtaining magical powder from a sorcerer.

I stand up and squint. Sunlight shimmers on the stalagmite stumps near me.

“Mm-hmm,” says a voice behind me at the mouth of the cave, more like a cough than an affirmation.

4

I spin around, swipe up my bow and draw an arrow. Outside the cave stands a portly man in a white toga. He sports a stubbly black beard and has a chubby face that conceals his eyes. His skin is a dark tan, and he plays with a gold coin in his right hand, as if he is a black-market shyster.

I assume my face is shadowed, otherwise, he’d be dead.

“Is Petronius here?” the visitor says.

“No. Leave here.”

“My dear, I own more than half of Pompeii and its surrounding territories. I shall come and go as I please.”

Not replying, I keep my arrow drawn. The visitor’s voice echoes in the cave. He speaks with a croak, reminding me of a frog.

“My name is Numerius Caligula Severus. Perhaps you have heard of me.”

I remain quiet. I relax by removing the arrow from my bow. They hang from my hands, limp at my side.

“Are you certain Petronius hasn’t been here?” Severus asks. “He is my son.”

“No one is here,” I answer. “Now, I’d appreciate if you would leave.”

Severus plays heads-or-tails with his shiny gold coin. “I do apologize for being so persistent, but are you sure no one has come by here? After all, I see the stalagmites are missing.”

Tired with this aristocrat’s game, I move forward to turn him to stone, but he darts out of view. I hear hands clap twice, quickly.

At the mouth of the cave materialize thirteen gladiators.

5

Three of the gladiators look at me and turn to stone. The remaining ten slam down the visors of their scuffed-up, bronze helmets.

I slither forward and hiss. Whenever going into battle, I hiss like an irate rattlesnake. It’s an effective scare tactic.

One of the gladiators trips over a stalagmite stump. My fin kicks off his helmet so he can look at me.

Another gladiator turns to flee. I grab him by the shoulder and slam him against the wall. Three of my snakes pull up his visor. Screaming, tongue wagging out of his mouth, he turns to stone.

The remaining eight gladiators walk backward out of the cave. I glide after them.

With the cave twenty feet behind me, I slip onto a pasture of grass. I draw an arrow and shoot. One of the gladiators, who is beefy and burly, deflects my arrow with his sword. I shoot another arrow. This one kills a short gladiator by entering his neck to the right of his Adam’s apple and exiting below his left ear. He topples over.

I glance around. Severus is nowhere in sight. Did he scurry back to town for reinforcements?

I take note that it’s midafternoon. The sun shines down on my green skin, causing me to perspire. A flock of orioles coast overhead, followed by a pack of quails. In the distance, Mount Vesuvius emits a puff of white smoke.

One of the gladiators breaks from the pack and goes on the offense. He has the skin color of a Moor. Because he relies on his sense of hearing, my snakes and I quit hissing. I let him walk by me, then I drop my bow and slip out of my quiver. Before he can react, I throw the leather strap of my quiver over his head and around his neck. He drops his sword, his hands shooting for his neck. He wriggles for some breathing room. I yank on my quiver strap harder. His body goes limp.

I drop the Moor and toss the quiver back over my shoulder, the strap crossing my chest again. I take in my opponents. Six down, six to go.

Two rush in my direction. I pull out a couple of arrows, leaving my bow on the grass. When the two gladiators are within striking distance, I lean forward, my hands around the fletching of each arrow, and use the tips to raise the visors. The two gladiators turn to stone, shocked looks on their faces.

Not wasting any time, I slip behind an alive gladiator and whisper in his ear, “Romans turn me on.” As the words settle in, I reach for the dagger on his waist, remove it from the sheath and in one swift movement, rip off his helmet with my free hand while slicing through both of his cheeks with his own dagger. He spins around, hand on face, blood gushing from his slit cheeks. He looks at me with horrified eyes. In an instant, he’s petrified.

Peripherally, I catch sight of another gladiator. I pirouette on my fin and pick up a rock. I fling it at the gladiator. The rock hits him in the middle of his breastplate, denting the armor. He stands still for a moment. Urine drips down his leg. He keels over. Weak heart.

With only two gladiators left, I remind myself not to become complacent or conceited.

I pick up two swords, one from the Moor, the other from the heart-attack man. The Moor’s sword is the heavier of the two.

I approach the last two gladiators standing. My snakes and I hiss. No sense in adopting stealth. It’s possible these two are the most skillful of the thirteen.

My assumption proves true. They both have a keen sense of hearing. They rush for me. My swords clang against theirs, sparks flying. We’re close to the cliff hanging over the Bay of Naples.

I drop to the ground and slam the tips of my two swords into the grass. My palms gripping the sword hilts, I raise my fin and slap one of the gladiators on the neck. He shrinks back. Meanwhile, I bring my fin down and knock his ankles together. He falls down. I pull my heavier sword out of the grass and poke his groin with it. He jerks and, before he can stop it, falls off the cliff, descending to the jagged rock in the surf.

The last gladiator hears his partner’s fading yelling. He stiffens to attention.

6

I stand up, discarding the heavier sword and yanking the lighter one out of the grass. The gladiator and I are ten feet apart. He seems to sense how close we are to the cliff. He’s stepping sideways, toward the cave, which is about 300 yards away.

This is the gladiator who earlier deflected my arrow with his sword. The leader?

The gladiator curses and taunts me in Gothic. I don’t know the language, but his words brim with hate.

The ten-foot gap remains between the gladiator and me. I consider where to strike him. His large legs and enormous arms are defiled with tattoos, scars and burn marks.

The ground rumbles. We stagger in an attempt to stay upright. I lose balance. The gladiator leaps forward. I roll out of the way of his sword, sunlight gleaming off it. I hear it WHOMP into the ground. He grumbles and tugs his sword out of the earth, clumps of grass flying up in the air.

The earthquake passes. I’m vertical once more. The gladiator extends his arms and spins his sword around counterclockwise. Abruptly, he stops swinging his weapon and kicks me in the waist. I drop to the grass, losing my sword, bow and quiver. I curl into a ball. Oh, Zeus, does it hurt!

The gladiator stands over me. He chortles, his shadow stretching across my torso. He slams his sword down. I cringe as the blade cuts into the lower part of my fish trunk, about a foot above my fin. My snakes feel the pain, too. They recoil.

Over the gladiator’s shoulder, through teary eyes, I see Mount Vesuvius erupting, black-white ash spitting at the sky. I smell sulfur.

I block out Mount Vesuvius’ activity. The gladiator raises his sharp sword for another strike. I block his blow with my sword, but my weapon flies out of my hands. It clinks on a mound of rocks.

The gladiator sneers. He taps my neck with the part of his sword near the hilt, as if a lumberjack readying to chop down a tree. But I don’t give him the chance to pull back and attack. I mentally give my snakes the order. They stretch from my scalp and all twenty bite his hands. He drops the sword, screams for a few seconds, then clocks me on the left temple. My head whips to the side. Blood oozes from the gash on my fish trunk. The gladiator pounces on me.

We begin to wrestle and roll around. When given the opportunity, we punch each other. Eventually, I push him away. We’re back where we started. At the mouth of my cave.

The gladiator jumps toward me. I tear off his helmet.

The gladiator is bald with numerous nicks on his scalp. And he has cataracts, but he’s not completely blind, which means he’ll turn to stone slowly. His bronze skin already shades ashen.

My energy at a low ebb, I scurry into the cave. Predictably, the gladiator follows. His muscles solidifying, he plods after me, like an arthritic dragon crawling uphill against a windy rainstorm.

I pass my living area and wonder what is going through the gladiator’s mind. Why chase me when he is about to die via petrifaction? Perhaps he is so ignorant or brainwashed, he views everything as a fight to the finish. I feel a tinge of pity for him. So obtuse, he doesn’t know when to set the alpha male thinking aside and act like a human being.

I reach the place where I’ve led the gladiator—the lake in the middle of my cave. I dive into the water. Even though its temperature is chilly, the water soothes my wound.

I reach the center of the lake and stop swimming. I turn to see the gladiator at the shore. Stubborn mule he is, he stomps into the water. I yawn. Finally, he turns completely to stone. Only his head remains above water.

I swim toward the shore and crawl out of the water on my hands and fish trunk. My elbows buckle as exhaustion tightens a grip on me. Lying on my back, black sand adheres to my skin. My snakes are just as fatigued as I. Most of them have already passed out. Not a bad idea. My eyelids flutter shut.

7

I wake up sore and storm out of my cave.

It’s late morning by the time I reach downtown Pompeii. I carry two gladiator swords and my quiver is packed with arrows. Whomever I don’t turn to stone, I kill with my bow and arrows or slice and stab with the swords. After about ninety minutes on this rampage, I realize I’m standing in two feet of ash. I squint up the street and see Mount Vesuvius erupting.

Knowing I don’t have much time, I rush to Severus’ house and find him hiding in his cellar with his art collection and trunks of money. I turn him to stone with a wicked grin on my face.

I then flee Pompeii. Coughing up smoke, I dive into the Bay of Naples. At first, it’s as if swimming through sludge, thanks to the volcano ash landing on the water, but once I’m a kilometer out, things clear up. Soon, I outdistance ships and skiffs, their oars stuck in the muddy/ashy waters.

When my arms grow tired of stroking, I flip over and assume the position of back floating. I let the current act as my guide. My snakes and I bask in the hot sun and warm water.

8

Inevitably, I reach land. I drift to shore. I am in Aegyptus.

I wander around for a few days and run into Anubis, who is holed up in King Tutankhamen’s pyramid. I brag about my revenge on Pompeii. Suddenly, I break down and cry. My indignation was with Severus, not Pompeii’s citizens. I start to hyperventilate when I tally that I killed at least 100 innocent people, many of them infants and adolescents.

Kneeling at Anubis’ feet, I run my hands through my snakes. “What have I done?”

Anubis rests a hand on each of my shoulders. “Many of them would have died anyway from the eruption.”

“But I’m a murderer.”

Anubis smiles avuncularly. “Not anymore.”

Countdown to Battle

1

Medusa’s memories of Pompeii fading, she stepped out of the Jacuzzi. Green goo dripped off her naked body. She patted herself dry with a chamois towel.

Timor continued to sleep. Medusa wrapped the towel around her body and stared at her lover. It never failed to fascinate her how he was one of the handful of gods who could nap like a mortal. She smiled, remembering when she met him on Easter Island in 1000 CE. He had a reputation of being an ogre, but he approached her with all the confidence of a shy schoolboy.

Medusa removed the towel and slipped into her one-piece garment that covered her torso and privates. She picked up her bow and arrows, then shook Timor awake. Their presence was requested on the Training Field.

2

Leaving the Training Field with his fellow New Arrivals, Zack practically skipped down the hill that led back to the camp. He liked what he learned at that training session.

Medusa and Timor had taught the New Arrivals how to shoot a bow and arrow. Zack never realized what an art form it was. Besides having the proper foot position, you had to keep your head erect so both sides of your back muscles could work against each other for more consistent releases. Also, you weren’t supposed to grip the bow handle. You simply had to push the bow with your palm while keeping your fingers relaxed. Medusa had explained that closing your fingers on the bow created tension in the hand and forearm. That caused each arrow to hit a different spot on the target.

But the hardest part of shooting an arrow was being left-handed here in Holcyon. Zack still couldn’t get over that. On Earth, he was right-handed. It felt weird to hold the bow with his right hand and to shoot with his left.

Reaching the camp, Zack realized his thoughts occupied so much of his mind that he had drifted away from the rest of the New Arrivals. He was about to rejoin them when his favorite Holy Roller popped into his path.

“Praise be to the Lord, Brother Zachary,” exclaimed Mary Jane.

“Yeah!” Zack said, making a Satanic hand gesture (thumb, index finger and pinkie extended, with the middle finger and ring finger curled into the palm). He lowered his hand and belted out the second verse of “Pope on a Rope” by the Meatmen.

Mary Jane blessed herself. “I’ve never heard such blasphemy. How in God’s name can you say such things?”

“Hey, don’t murder the messenger. I didn’t write the lyrics. They only come courtesy of one of the greatest punk-rock bands of all time. The Meatmen.”

“The . . . Meatmen. . . ?”

“You’re darn tooting,” Zack said, making fun of Mary Jane’s Texan accent. “Tesco Vee is a gift from the gods. I think it’s safe to say the world is a better place with songs like ‘French People Suck,’ ‘Pillar of Sodom’ and the homage to the Beatles, ‘One Down, Three to Go,’ though it should probably be updated to ‘Two Down, Two to Go.’ Know what I’m saying?”

“Brother Zachary,” Mary Jane blurted, “I’ve come to save your soul!”

“Wait a minute. You’re not stalking me, are you?”

Mary Jane’s cheeks went pink. “I did wait for you, only because your soul needs saving.”

“Well, OK, if you insist.”

The Texan did a double take. “You—ah—um—you. . . .”

“All right,” Zack said, “let’s get this party started. We doing it here?”

“We can, but I would prefer to do it in the sanctuary of my tent. I have all the necessary tools for a complete conversion.”

“If that’s how ya wanna do it, that’s cool, but I’d rather do it out here. I like the whole voyeur aspect.”

“Voyeur?” Mary Jane said.

“Yeah, ’cause you’re gonna suck my dick, right?”

Mary Jane gasped and glowered. She crossed her arms.

“So we’re doing it here, then?” Zack began unbuckling his pants. “I gotta warn you, though, if you use your teeth, all bets are off.”

“Brother Zachary, what are—” Mary Jane cut herself off. She redid Zack’s belt, hooking it one loop tighter.

“What are you doing?” Zack said in mock exasperation. “I thought you were gonna save my soul?”

“There will be no fellatio here, Brother Zachary!”

“When, then? Soon? Come on, I really need to get my freak on, and you’re just the naughty little Catholic matron to make all my sacrilegious fantasies come true.”

“First of all, I’m Protestant, and sec—”

“Hey,” Zack interrupted, “wanna hear my best pickup line?” Before Mary Jane could answer, he licked his finger, then wiped it on the sleeve of her dress. “Let’s get you out of those wet clothes.”

Mary Jane shuddered. She hugged herself. “You’re insufferable. ‘It is not what goes into a person’s mouth that makes him ritually unclean; rather, what comes out of it makes him unclean.’”

“Ah, come on, where’s your sense of humor, or have you never had one?”

“I have an excellent sense of humor!”

“Oh yeah? When’s the last time you told a joke?”

Mary Jane nibbled on her lower lip.

“How about this,” Zack asked, “when’s the last time you laughed?” Mary Jane moved to respond, but Zack held up a hand. “And it doesn’t count if you busted up after seeing someone punished for a ‘grievous sin.’”

Mary Jane took pause, palming her chin and tapping her temple with her index finger. Zack had the feeling that if this were a comedy sketch, right about now they would cue the jingle from Jeopardy!

“I know!” Mary Jane said. “I was watching Everybody Loves Raymond and—”

“Everybody Loves Raymond,” Zack shouted. “That’s about as funny as a case of the clap! A stupid, insipid, safe sitcom that’s basically a reiteration of the formula Desi Arnaz came up with in the Fifties for I Love Lucy. Jesus Christ doubled over with diarrhea, next you’re gonna tell me King of Queens is groundbreaking comedy.”

Mary Jane looked to the ground.

Still joking but somewhat serious, Zack went on with his rant. “And another thing, my name’s Zack. When I popped out of my mom’s womb, they didn’t call me Zachary, but Zack. Got it? Oh, and I ain’t your brother, so stop calling me that! I’m an only child. I got no brothers or sisters. ‘No siblings, señor.’ Ya dig?”

“I’m sorry. I—”

“And stop trying to convert me! It ain’t my scene, OK?”

Mary Jane nodded and slouched. “It’s just that my faith is very important to me. It has filled me with such happiness, I want to share that joy with everyone.”

“Look, you have to face facts. Your religion is nothing but a crutch. Some people go through life addicted to drugs or booze, others escape the horror of life through a career, you choose religion. It’s time to let it go. Listen to what Medusa has been saying.”

It looked like Mary Jane was going to nod, but at the last moment, her lips hardened and her eyebrows furrowed. “No, the Lord Jesus Christ is our savior, and I will be rewarded in heaven for a lifetime of faith and devotion.”

“You do realize you are in Holcyon, right? The reason you’re here is ’cause you killed yourself. How did you kill yourself, by the way?”

“I have to go. It’s time to pray.” Mary Jane clutched Zack’s arm. “Won’t you join me?”

“Sorry,” Zack answered, “but if I want to waste time, I’ll watch reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond and King of Queens.”

Mary Jane pouted and marched away like a Hitler Youth.

Mary Jane

Closing her bedroom door behind her, Mary Jane Baker tiptoed across the room, which smelled of dirty laundry, thanks to an overflowing hamper in the corner. She reached under her bed for two objects. She placed the objects on the bed, then turned on the air conditioner and lowered the blinds, blocking out the midday Texas sun.

Returning to the bed, Mary Jane picked up one of the two objects, a DVD. She inserted the disc into her Apex player.

As the copyright notice displayed on the thirteen-inch TV screen, Mary Jane hurried out of her clothes and hopped on her mattress. She picked up the other object she had retrieved from under her bed. A noose. She looped the rope through a hook in the ceiling, above her bed. The hook was to hang a potted plant, but years ago she came up with another use for it.

The feature presentation of the DVD began. Mary Jane picked up the remote and forwarded to the chapter she desired in this episode of The L Word. With the sex scene selected, she dropped the remote and slipped the rope around her neck.

The noose tightening around her neck, Mary Jane ran one hand across her breasts and another into her vagina. Like the 1,000 other times she performed solo autoerotic asphyxiation, her senses were heightened. Outside, the chirping birds and speeding traffic reverberated inside her head. Inside, the humidity of the room made her sweat like a decathlon entrant.

Mary Jane lifted her feet off the bed. She rubbed her clitoris and felt the rope dig into her neck. Her eyelids fluttered. In several seconds, it would be time to yank the noose free of the ceiling hook, so she could free fall and climax, ending with her slamming onto the mattress.

A tear rolled down Mary Jane’s cheek. Maybe she should kill herself. No, that was the devil talking.

Mary Jane squeezed her eyes shut. Suicide may be the answer. She would no longer be slave to her sexual compulsions and feel remorse for being attracted to other women.

Yes. It’s the only way. God will forgive me when I cross over into His kingdom.

Mary Jane Baker of Waco, Texas, pulled her feet back until her heels touched her butt. The noose tightened. She had the best orgasm of her life.

Then, her body went limp.

4

Melody exited the supply tent with Neil, Jacques, Natasha and Omar. They walked toward the Tarantula Tent. Halfway there, Melody saw Zack staring down a tent aisle.

“Zack!”

Zack jumped and whipped around. “Yo.” He jogged in her direction. Jacques, Neil, Natasha and Omar didn’t bother to stop.

“What are you doing?” Melody asked.

“Oh,” Zack said, “I was just babbling with that Jesus freak. What’s going on?”

“Anubis is giving a speech in the Tarantula Tent. Did you forget?”

“Hard to forget what you weren’t told. Know what I’m sayin’?”

“Didn’t you hear Medusa mention it up on the Training Field?”

“Guess not. I was too busy trying to shoot those freaking arrows. But it was all worth it. Here, let me show you my ripped back muscles.”

“Quit goofing around!” Melody said, amused. They were a couple of meters from one of the Tarantula Tent’s seven entrances. “Come on, scoot-scat!”

Zack grinned. “‘Scoot-scat?’ What the hell’s that, some Australian slang?”

“No, but. . . .” Melody zoned out. The phrase scoot-scat had come off the top of her head, but now that Zack poked fun at it, she was thinking it might make for some decent song lyrics. There were tons of words that rhymed with scat, and she could always reverse the phrase to scat-scoot if she had trouble coming up with lines to finish a verse.

Entering the Tarantula Tent with Zack, Melody grew excited about penning lyrics to “Scoot-Scat.” She played with a melody in her head. It sounded different from what she usually wrote. Most of her lyrics were harmonious but tended to be more mellow than energetic. “Scoot-Scat” was already turning out to be a hyperkinetic number. It almost had an urban hip-hop flavor to it.

Melody cursed herself. Why did she have to go and commit suicide? This would have been the perfect time to be around Sean. He had always been open to new ideas and instruments. After their first seven-inch, he said he wanted Polemonium to sound different on each album, but Melody’s conservatism and dependency on stability locked them into their indie-pop sound. On the one hand (she often thought), their patented style helped them cement an audience, but on the other hand, it prevented them from experimenting and branching out.

“A bow for your thoughts?” Zack said.

“Huh?” Melody snapped out of her introspection.

“What’cha thinking?”

“Oh. . . .” Melody came to her senses to see they were well inside the Tarantula Tent. There were at least 1,000 mordavers in here, standing and sitting in the middle of the tent. On the perimeter, the tarantulas lounged in their pens. As when Zack and her were here before, the tent reeked of manure and was loud from the chirping of crickets.

A tugging on Melody’s sleeve. She turned to Zack.

“You all right?” Zack asked.

Melody waved a hand. “Yeah, fine, fine. I just zoned out for a minute.”

Zack said something. Melody couldn’t hear because the decibel level in here rose, courtesy of the crickets’ chirping and the hundreds of mordaver conversations chattering concurrently.

“What?” Melody said.

Zack shook his head in the international gesture of never mind and motioned at the floor.

They sat on the dirt ground. Around them stood mordavers. Through the legs and around the torsos, Melody saw a platform raised one meter off the ground. It was about fifty meters away.

Before Melody could ponder the purpose of the platform, she and Zack were joined by their fellow New Arrivals: Jacques, Neil, Natasha and Omar. Five of them chitchatted. Omar didn’t join in on the mordaver games. He was too busy being silent and sullen. Scowling, he placed two fists in his lap.

Soon, Hayata, Medusa, Anubis, Timor and Daniela entered the tent through the entrance closest to the platform. The five of them stepped on the platform—nay, the stage—and sat on armless wooden chairs with high backs.

Timor stood up. “QUIET!”

All of the mordavers hushed up. New Arrivals who hadn’t seen Timor yet gasped at the sight of him.

“Sit,” Timor ordered.

Everyone did so. The 1,000-plus mordavers in the Tarantula Tent faced the stage. Timor sat down, and Anubis rose.

“I would like to thank everyone for congregating here,” Anubis said.

Melody wondered if the arrangement of the leaders up on the stage was intentional or accidental. Probably the former. It couldn’t have been a coincidence that the two best warriors of the camp sat on either side of Anubis (Medusa on his right, Timor on his left). And what was the significance of Hayata on the right end and Daniela on the left end? Since those two symkeys managed the Tarantula Tent, were they equal with Anubis, Medusa and Timor, or a rank below in the hierarchy? If Melody were forced to guess, she’d say Hayata and Daniela served under Anubis, Medusa and Timor because even though they were symkeys, they were still mordavers.

Anubis cleared his throat. “I would like to begin by addressing the New Arrivals. You may be asking yourselves, ‘Why am I here?’ The question can be answered in two parts. First, you committed suicide, which brought you here to Holcyon. Second, you are here to assist God.” The Egyptian god held up a palm, as if a stop signal. “Yes, God does indeed exist. He is omnipotent, but such great power is not perpetual. His divinity can be quite draining.”

“What!” somebody said from the back of the tent. Melody couldn’t tell if it was male or female.

“As hard as it may be to believe, occasionally, God needs to close down and recharge to regain optimum levels.”

New Arrivals (making up a quarter of the crowd) began whispering to one another. Several meters away, Melody watched a wan woman in a paisley dress close her eyes and bless herself, then rock frontward and backward as her lips twitched.

Timor rose halfway from his seat and growled. The crowd quieted.

Anubis said, “The last time God needed to close down was approximately one million Earth years ago. He did so uneventfully, however, upon ‘waking up’”—the Egyptian god made quote marks with his fingers—“He discovered the Bantams were in the midst of a mutinous plot—a coup d’état, if you will.

“The Bantams are a legion of angels. They were high-ranking angels until God discovered their plans for Him. The Bantams’ motivation was quite elementary. They desired more power and believed they deserved more benefits in the afterlife.

“The Bantams’ rebellious behavior, however, had a silver lining. God began planning for His next closedown. He asked Medusa and I to oversee Holcyon while he recharged.

“You may be asking yourself, ‘Where is God now?’ He is in a place called the Nexus. As I give this speech, an army of mordavers is protecting the Nexus from the Bantams, the Knopfs and their unknown leader.

“We shall be departing the camp shortly to fortify the Nexus. It is important to realize that the Knopfs are the Bantams’ underlings. The main function of the Knopfs is to enslave mordavers, thus enlarging their ranks.”

Anubis clapped his hands together. Almost every New Arrival in the audience jumped, including Melody.

“It is imperative God not be disturbed before He is fully recharged,” Anubis said. “As difficult as it may be for some of you New Arrivals to accept, it is not a coincidence that every mordaver here committed suicide. God intentionally allowed you to inhabit Holcyon because even during closedown, He believes it is His duty to teach a lesson. Committing suicide is inherently wrong. It is a cowardly, selfish act. I am sure most of you have belatedly come to that conclusion.

“You have been given a second chance. Not many mortals were given that opportunity. Do not waste this gift. If you do, dire consequences will affect us all.”

5

Anubis continued with his speech, now addressing the entire assembly, not just the New Arrivals. He gave words of encouragement on why every mordaver in the Tarantula Tent could defeat the enemy and defend the Nexus.

But Zack was only half-listening. He was in shock that there was a God. His whole life he was sure no Supreme Being existed. How could there be a God when innocent children are molested and murdered; when a woman’s worth depends on her temporary beauty; and when kindhearted citizens are forced into poverty because they’re not cutthroat enough to prosper in a capitalistic society?

“Zack,” Melody said.

“What?”

“Come on. The speech is over. Time to get ready for the march to the Nexus.”

“What?”

“Are you OK? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I. . . .” Zack had trouble forming words. He came to his senses after a New Arrival bumped into him.

“He said there’s a God,” Zack said.

“Who? Anubis?” Melody said. “I know. I was sitting right here.”

The two of them got separated from their peers: Jacques, Neil, Natasha and Omar. Zack and Melody stepped into the rhythm of the exodus from the tent. Similar to before the speech, numerous conversations filled the air, but now the voices were filled with an intangible energy.

“I’m an atheist,” Zack announced.

“Really?” Melody said.

“I always thought there wasn’t any God, but after listening to Anubis, I’m not so sure anymore.”

“What made you think there was no God?”

Zack shrugged. “Just the way the world works. It seems that immoral and unethical behavior always triumphs over what’s right and good.”

“Have you ever thought that’s part of God’s plan?”

“What?”

“For instance,” Melody said, “you know how people die of cancer or from some obscure allergic reaction. Maybe their deaths aren’t in vain. Maybe it’s God’s way of helping doctors figure out how to cure that cancer or minimize that type of allergic reaction.”

“So it’s like one huge learning process?”

“Right. God could intervene and protect us from every harmful threat, but then how would we learn? It’s like the kid whose parents always do his homework for him. They may think they’re helping him, but when he gets older, he can’t even function in normal society because he has trouble dividing—I don’t know—forty-nine into some odd number, like five thousand and ninety-nine.”

They exited the Tarantula Tent. Mordavers shuffled away in separate directions. Zack assumed they were going to gather supplies for the march to the Nexus.

Zack touched Melody’s elbow. “I’ll see you back at the tent.”

Melody nodded and merged into a line of mordavers heading in the direction of the supply tent.

Melody’s talk having cheered Zack up, he strutted over toward the person who caught his eye. “Whaddya say, M.J.?”

Mary Jane Baker gave Zack a baleful look, her arms crossed over her ambiguous chest.

“Hey,” Zack said in a mock Texan accent, “what’s wrong, little lady? Lose your ticket to tonight’s lethal injection? Hey, I know what’ll cheer you up. How ’bout a free ticket to this weekend’s NASCAR race?”

“I’m not amused by your immature, Yankee, elitist antics,” Mary Jane said through tight white lips.

“What if I do ’em while poking a cow, will you like me then?”

Mary Jane cracked her knuckles.

Zack asked, “How come you’re standing here? Shouldn’t you be getting ready for the ‘Exodus to the Nexus,’ as Anubis called it?”

“I’m not going, and I’m standing out here waiting for Anubis so I can give him a piece of mind.”

Zack decided not to tell Mary Jane that after the speech, Anubis, Medusa, Timor, Hayata and Daniela exited through the same tent flap they had entered in, near the stage. The Texan must have missed that.

“I’m surprised you’re so peeved,” Zack said. “I thought you’d be all ecstatic.”

“Ecstatic?”

“Yeah, looks like your God actually does exist. I’m surprised you’re not standing on your head, reciting the ‘Our Father’ or some other popular prayer.”

“There’s nothing to be joyous about,” Mary Jane said. “What Anubis said was nothing but lies and propaganda. My God would never have to ‘close down.’ He’s all-powerful with dominion over the entire universe. Whatever is at this so-called Nexus isn’t God, and when He finds out His sacred name has been tarnished, He shall seek retribution. Because He is a vengeful God who demands a eye for a eye, a punch for a punch, and eternal damnation for spreading lies and falsehoods.”

“How come you just don’t go to the Nexus with the rest of us and prove Anubis wrong on the spot?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well,” Zack said, “you could go there and see what the Nexus really is like and rub Anubis’ face in it.”

Mary Jane massaged her chin. “Yes, and after I prove him wrong, I could save his soul because I’m convinced he has a dog head due to sinful living—it’s a curse, you know.”

“Whatever you say, sweet cheeks.” Zack slapped Mary Jane on the ass as if a trainer urging its prize horse out of the stall. “Now go out there and make us mordavers proud!”

Mary Jane strode away, a dismayed look on her face. Zack wasn’t sure if it was shock or sexual arousal. Probably the latter.

6

“New Arrivals,” Medusa said, “a word.”

The seven of them—Medusa, Neil, Jacques, Natasha, Omar, Melody and Zack—stood outside of the camp with the rest of the mordavers. Each mordaver carried a sword, a shield, and thrown over the shoulder were a bow and a packed quiver. Off to the side were tarantulas, their wings buzzing, eager for flight.

“I usually save this piece of information after the last session on the Training Field,” Medusa said, “however, since we need to start moving, we will hold the last training session after we arrive at the Nexus.”

Neil raised his hand.

Medusa didn’t acknowledge the primatologist. “The last training session will involve how to fight with a sword and a shield. Elementary instruction, compared to how to shoot a bow and arrow.”

Neil’s hand went down.

“Before we move out,” Medusa said, “you need to know how to defend yourself against a Knopf, should we come across any during our march to the Nexus. It’s important to remember that Knopfs can’t be killed. Fortunately, they can be injured.

“As Mr. Fury and Ms. Holiday can attest, a Knopf’s most dangerous weapon is its tongue.”

Natasha tittered.

“I know,” Medusa said with a half-smile, “it sounds a bit Freudian, but it’s the truth. A Knopf uses its tongue as an anesthetic and as a way to enslave a mordaver. You do not want that to happen. If you become a dominion of a Knopf, we have no way of rescuing you. You are completely under their control.”

Anubis’ voice rang out, ordering mordavers to line up double file.

“Injuring a Knopf is very simple, New Arrivals,” Medusa said, “you simply tear out its tongue. You’ll have to be very careful, though, because of its lethal teeth. After yanking the tongue out of the Knopf’s mouth, I would suggest squashing it with your foot. Destroying the Knopf’s tongue saps its strength for a while. Of course, the tongue will eventually grow back, but at least you’ve incapacitated it for an interim. If you are unable to reach in and detach the tongue, I suggest you yank bones out of the Knopf’s sockets and toss them away as far as possible. Like the tongue, the bones will eventually grow back, but most Knopfs choose to chase down detached limbs.”

Medusa clapped her hands together. “That is all we have time for now. Please save any questions you may have for your final training session at the Nexus. Now, as I’m sure you heard Anubis say, buddy up and form two lines, one head behind the other. . . .”

7

Zack partnered with Melody as the mordaver army of 1,000 marched toward the Nexus. Behind them stood the abandoned camp.

Flying tarantulas carried what little supplies the mordavers needed. The supplies were packed in burlap sacks. Each sack had two thick sisal/hemp ropes. A rope started on one end of the sack and ended on another, forming a loop; these two loops crisscrossed over a tarantula’s back. Zack looked up at Harriet. With the sack hanging from her, she almost looked like a warped balloon. A Holcyon version of Around the World in 80 Days?

Still looking up, Zack studied the purple sky. It seemed darker than when he had first arrived. How long ago was that? Oh, that’s right. Time doesn’t exist here. Keep forgetting that.

“Hey, watch it!” said the mordaver in front of Zack.

“Oh, sorry,” Zack said. He’d been so busy looking up at the sky, he hadn’t been paying attention to where he was going.

Melody gave Zack a mock reproachful stare. He replied with two middle fingers and a smile. Both of them busted up laughing. The mordaver whom Zack had bumped into shot a sneer over his shoulder.

After their clowning around died down, Melody said, “I’m scared.”

“Me, too.” Zack felt his stomach tighten. “And this is the first time I can’t run away and hide, you know? My whole life, anytime anything even remotely confrontational came up, I’d run and hide. A bully beat me up in the schoolyard, I’d hole myself up in my parents’ house. Girls reject me at the high school dance, I’d quit going out on Saturday nights. Couldn’t land the job I dreamed of, I’d take a boring nine-to-five clock-watcher type of gig.”

“I’m very afraid of what we’re going to find at the Nexus. What do you think it’ll be like?”

“I don’t know. For some odd reason, I can’t get that crappy Steven Spielberg movie out of my head. You know, the one with Tom Hanks and Matt Damon. Saving Private Shithead.”

Melody giggled. “What?”

“Saving Private Ryan. God, how I hated that movie! It was so fuckin’ stupid! How did a piece of crap like that even get made? Yeah, a whole platoon is gonna rescue some snot-nosed twenty-something just ’cause his other brothers were casualties of war. Fuck, it may have happened, but that doesn’t mean it makes for watchable art and/or entertainment. Shit, when I was a kid, my cousin once got hit by a car. She flew up in the air, bounced off the trampoline we had in our front yard, and splashed in the pool. That doesn’t mean it would make a funny skit. Wait, that would make a funny skit.”

Melody said seriously, “I can’t get that Vietnam image out of my head. You know the one, where the South Vietnamese police chief executes a Vietcong by shooting him point-blank in the side of the head.”

“Sorry,” Zack said, “just zoned out. I started having all these visions of Vikings going into battle. Those fuckin’ smelly, horned-helmet-wearing, boozing-out-of-skull-cups, rotten S.O.B.s.”

“Actually, a lot of what people think today about Vikings isn’t true. They didn’t wear horned helmets, drink out of cups made from human skulls and rarely bathe. In fact, in a lot of Vikings’ tombs, they found at least one comb.”

“So what you’re saying is that besides being an unfunny cartoon, Hägar the Horrible is also historically inaccurate.”

“Right,” Melody said. “Myths about Vikings. . . . Hey, that would make a great title for a song, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, and you could get all Ebonics and say something like, ‘A myth, that’s all you is.’ Whaddya think?”

“I’ll try and work it into the break.”

“You the man!” Zack said. He enjoyed this lighthearted exchange with Sydney’s most wanted, and he was about to continue it, when he saw something drop out of one of the sacks a tarantula carried. He jogged for it.

“Hey,” Melody said, “where you going?”

Zack answered Melody while trotting backward. He then turned around and spotted the fallen item. It was cylindrical, about twelve inches in length. Looked like a cross between a vibrator and a relay baton. He sniffed it to make sure it wasn’t the former.

Zack switched the green-colored vibraton to his other hand and was amazed he had spotted it from so far away. He shrugged, replacing that thought with a new one: Wonder what Melody’ll make out of this.

Zack was about to return to the mordaver march, but froze. He stood in front of a Venus flytrap tree. Where did that come from? He didn’t follow up that rhetorical question with any others. Something on the tree mesmerized him. He hadn’t seen anything like this on any of the other trees.

On the Venus flytrap tree, at about chest level, was a knot of bark. It drew Zack in, as if a postmodern painting crossed with impressionistic art.

Zack stepped toward the tree, though careful to steer clear of the seemingly sleeping flytraps. He crouched to examine the tree knot. Fascinating. It was like a kaleidoscope. The knot’s bark appeared to simultaneously twirl clockwise and counterclockwise, while the center formed numerous tiny starbursts.

Shaking his head, Zack mumbled, “Should get back.” He glanced over to see the tail end of the mordaver march. Christ, how long was he over here? His spot next to Melody was in the middle of the double line.

Zack moved to rejoin the exodus to the Nexus. But he couldn’t. His head gravitated toward the kaleidoscope knot on the Venus flytrap tree. He slammed his hands on the sides of the tree. That didn’t help. His head kept inching toward the kaleidoscope. He tried planting his feet into the rocky ground. No luck, either.

“Shit,” Zack whispered. He hoped the drooping Venus flytraps remained inactive. The last thing he needed was one of them chomping on his butt. That thought sent a shiver down to his sphincter.

Despite feeling as if he were in the most powerful headlock ever, Zack continued to fight against the pull of the kaleidoscope knot. His nose now was only six inches from the knot’s swirls and starbursts. He prayed the bark didn’t have any aggressive ants or termites.

“Fuck. . . .”

Zack’s face was less than an inch from kissing the knot. Got to fight it. His upper back muscles twitched from the strain.

Behind him, Zack heard Melody call his name. Faintly.

Zack fought against the intense gravitational pull of the kaleidoscope knot, but it was no use. As soon as his nose and forehead touched the tilting and twirling, it overpowered him with the ease of a wind gust blowing over an empty paper bag.

Speeding toward the tree, Zack gasped and gulped. Melody yelled his name again, but it sounded muffled, as if a thick wall separated them. Zack squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the worst.

Threnody

1

Zack felt moist air envelop his head. The air smelled fetid. And his ears picked up something odd. Sounded like a hybrid of a cricket chirping and a frog croaking.

Zack opened his eyes. His heart picked up tempo. It was dark in here. He couldn’t see. His hands and knees slapped a smooth, cold, perspiring surface. He began to hyperventilate, but stopped when a light appeared at the end of this . . . tunnel, was it? The closer he slid toward it, the brighter the light became.

Zack screamed.

The light at the end of the tunnel was a 100-foot drop. Zack panicked, groping for anything to prevent a fall. No luck.

Zack inhaled. He fell faster than a plummeting anvil. A few moments later, he reached the bottom of the 100-foot drop: black-green water.

Popping to the surface, Zack saw he was in the middle of a swamp creek. He fought the current and swam toward the shore. To his right, a five-foot-long eel with a rattle for a tail and a hood for a neck (like a cobra) screeched and slithered away.

Reaching the shore, Zack felt the slimy swamp water drip from his body. He looked down and saw he held the vibraton in his right hand. He stuffed it in one of his rear jean pockets.

Zack stared at the creek. Swimming by was a leatherback-size porcupine with flippers. And on the opposing shore were seven-foot-high sea horses, grazing.

Zack inserted his hands into his Levi’s front pockets and looked up at the ceiling of this cavern. Numerous holes were up there. He tapped his chin. Maybe each hole led to a different Venus flytrap tree.

Suddenly, a strange sound emanated from the ceiling. The holes up there were being plugged up. Black lava traveled down from the top and stopped at the end of the hole, where the ceiling was. The lava protruded at the mouth of the former hole in a convex shape. Reminded Zack of an ice cream scoop. Dark chocolate.

The sound made by the holes filling up sounded similar to how movies depict earthquakes. But as soon as lava stuffed a hole, the sound stopped, similar to a guitar chord cut off before it could be completely heard.

Zack shrugged as his socks and sneaks squished on the shell-laden sand. He headed into the swamp forest, swallowed up by verdant foliage.

2

Twigs cracked under Zack’s feet. He realized it was humid down here in this subterranean world, unlike in Holcyon, where the temperature was seventy degrees with no breeze or humidity.

Hopping over a mossy log, Zack whistled J Church’s “Open Road.” Halfway through the second verse, he quit butchering Lance Hahn’s piece of pop-punk perfection.

Zack’s mind switched gears. He recalled when he was ten years old, how each day he read a different comic book. One of his favorites was Swamp Thing. He loved Martin Pasko’s story line and Tom Yeates’ artwork. Too bad the movie sucked more than Jenna Jameson on a first date.

Fuck, why did I have to kill myself? Zack reflected. Sure, he had been (was) a dysfunctional mess, but anybody would be if they grew up under a domineering mother and an unemotional, introverted, alcoholic father. And it didn’t help that Zack was a skinny schoolboy who constantly got beat up or picked on, and most girls wanted nothing to do with him. Damn. Instead of killing himself, he should’ve gone into counseling. Even though therapy wasn’t cheap—especially on his working-class salary—he could have found a way if he tried. What had stopped him were pride and the conundrum of what attracted psychiatrists to spend their days listening to people’s petty problems. Maybe shrinks chose their field because they were selfless individuals who wanted to help less-fortunate fellow human beings.

Leaves from a cypress tree slapped Zack in the face, snapping him out of that route of regret. A few moments later, he came across countless vines hanging from several trees. He parted them, as if slipping through a beaded curtain in the shop of a voodoo seamstress. The vines smelled like turpentine.

Zack entered a field of marsh grass. It came up to his midriff. He ran a hand on top of the grass. Tickled.

The field ended to make way again for swamp forest. Zack took six steps down a path, then he froze. To his left, a voal grazed. Was it alone? Did it have a Knopf? If so, where was it?

Zack stood still. Should he turn around? Damn, wish I walked down the swamp shore instead of coming into this jungle.

After much inner debate, Zack decided to stay on this path. He proceeded with the caution of a cat burglar who breaks into a mansion while the family is still home. After each slow-motion footfall, the punk rocker paused, waiting for something to happen that was meant to be a surprise. The suspense was nerve-racking.

On his fifth footstep, Zack prayed there weren’t any traps around here. He hadn’t seen any, but that didn’t mean they didn’t exist. The last thing he needed was to get yanked up in the air by a net trap, or for his leg to get clamped by a rusty iron jaw trap.

Zack took another step and looked at the voal. The equine quit chewing on marsh vegetation. It lugged its head up and stared at him with uninterested eyes. Even from this distance, he saw various insects flying around the horse’s head, a few probably feeding on its rotting flesh.

The voal returned to feasting on the grass. Zack wondered if the horse needed the nutrition, or if it was going through the motions, like an old married couple making love not because they were attracted to each other but because they were lonely and sex helped fill the void.

Zack took another step. Shit. His foot seemed to be stuck in a patch of mud. He tried pulling his foot up, but the mud was stickier than flypaper. He took hold of his calf and gave it a good tug. His foot rose an inch, but he lost balance. His other foot plopped into the mud. He cursed mentally, stopping in mid-word. Realization struck him. He was sinking.

“No,” Zack whispered.

He was in quicksand!

Zack’s breathing increased. He twisted around, looking for something—anything—to act as assistance. One hundred yards away, the voal continued to graze, its slopping reverberating in the punk rocker’s head.

Zack noticed he was sinking quicker, faster. It seemed that the farther he submerged, the faster it happened. He was up to his waist in quicksand. Balls! He couldn’t move his legs. It was as if they were lodged in drying concrete.

A ripple of excitement ripped through Zack. To his right dangled a vine. He reached for it. Too far away. He rocked toward it. Yes! He wrapped the vine around his hand, but the violent movement had made him sink even deeper. The top of the quicksand kissed his solar plexus.

Bristles on the vine irritated Zack’s hand—he blocked out that discomfort. He slapped his other hand on top of the one clutching the vine and pulled, spittles launching off his lower lip because of a forceful grunt and exhale.

Nothing. Although, he was no longer sinking.

Still holding onto the vine, Zack knocked his head back. Something dripped into the four-foot-wide patch of quicksand. It came from an object sitting on a tree branch twenty feet up. All he saw was the rump of a midsize animal with the rough skin of a rhinoceros. From its diminutive tail trickled a light-brown liquid. Bile collected in the back of Zack’s throat. He suspected the quicksand was the warped creature’s feces.

Zack relaxed. Wait a minute. If I can’t die up in Holcyon, then I probably can’t drown down here. But I don’t want to spend God knows how long stuck completely in quicksand.

“Ahhhhh!”

Zack let go of the vine and sank down to his shoulders. He looked up at what startled him.

A Knopf.

The demon rested its skeletal hands on its hips and tilted its head to the left and right, smiling with those bleach-white teeth.

Zack knew what was coming, so he made a wisecrack. “You really ought to go see an orthodontist. ’Cause those teeth of yours are about as attractive as Sarah Jessica Parker.”

The Knopf raised a foot and pressed it to Zack’s face. The punk rocker didn’t appreciate tasting swamp gunk and grime, so he shook his head to move the demon’s nasty foot on top of his head.

Zack’s back stiffened. The Knopf pushed down on the top of his skull, its heel on his forehead. It hurt, similar to getting whacked with a rake.

Soon, quicksand engulfed Zack. He held his breath and kept his eyes closed. It didn’t sit well with him that the quicksand was basically a vat of rhino diarrhea. That thought dissipated as quicksand rushed into his ears, resulting in his eyes tearing and his nose itching. The quicksand filling his ears had another effect. His equilibrium seemed off-kilter. He wasn’t sure, but it felt as if his head drifted to the right side. Nonetheless, he kept his eyes closed and continued to hold his breath.

The sluggish sinking finally got to Zack. He began thrashing around. The plummeting picked up speed. He opened his eyes, but still held his breath. Everything was a brownish blur.

In a halfhearted attempt, Zack tried swimming up, but the pull of the quicksand was too great. He sank deeper and deeper and deeper and deeper. . . .

3

Zack stopped sinking. He felt air surround his feet, and he began kicking. The air reached his legs, up to his hips. Eventually, he was free of the quicksand. He fell through dank air.

Hitting flat rock, Zack landed on his hands and knees. Since the fall wasn’t of skyscraper proportions, he wasn’t injured.

Zack rolled over onto his back. Quicksand dripped off his body in clumps, reminding him (for some odd reason) of oatmeal. He quit holding his breath and inhaled.

Zack saw that he lay on a floor made up of irregular-shaped rectangular stones. The spacing between the stones was inconsistent. In some spots, it was narrow only for an ant to squirm through; in other spots, it was wide enough to insert a chubby finger.

Speaking of fingers, Zack examined his hand, the one that had gripped the vine. His entire hand was red. An allergic reaction?

Zack felt the quicksand drying on his skin. He wiped off as much as possible. Afterward, he looked up at the part of the stony ceiling where he had fallen through. The quicksand was still there, but it didn’t drip to the floor. It hung down in a dome shape, similar to how the blacktop lava had plugged up the holes above the swamp.

“What the fuck?” Zack mumbled.

The quicksand moved around in the dome that prevented it from gushing to the floor. It gurgled and had swirls, like a dark drink in a blender.

Zack scratched his head. Strange how he had fallen through the quicksand dome. You’d think he would have landed at the bottom and banged on the force field, or whatever it was.

Turning away from the quicksand dome, Zack reached for one of the torches lining both sides of this corridor. The torch projected from the wall at a slant. He had to use both hands to wrench it from its black-iron holder, which was screwed into the wall.

Zack held the torch to the right of his face and debated which way to go. Both directions descended into vanishing points.

Zack decided on the direction his back was facing. He spun around on his heel and screamed. There stood two Knopfs looking not only menacing, but also reeking of rotten fruit and vegetables.

Zack dropped the torch.

4

The Knopf on the left opened its mouth and rattled its alloy tongue against its molars. Zack stepped back, careful to avoid his dropped torch rolling toward the wall. He was about to run down the corridor in the opposite direction when the Knopfs grabbed his arms.

The three of them proceeded up the corridor in the direction the Knopfs had come. Zack tried digging his feet into the floor, but it was no use. The Knopfs—one on each side of him—were too strong, and the floor (in spite of sporadic gaps between stones) was too smooth.

The torch-lit corridor spilled into a wide hallway with fifty-foot-high pillars on either side. The Knopfs escorted Zack too quickly for him to study the pillars, but he did notice the floor was made up of mosaic tile. He couldn’t tell what image the tiles formed, even though it was better lit in here than in the corridor, despite the absence of torches.

The Knopfs moved with synchronized wide strides. Zack was tempted to curl his legs up and let the demons carry him, but best to have a little self-respect, even if a huge sense of foreboding filled him.

Zack and the Knopfs exited the hallway. The demons stopped. The three of them had entered a brightly lit court. In front of them was a six-foot-wide red carpet with tassels at the two corners. The Knopfs stepped on the carpet, yanking Zack along for the ride.

5

Zack tripped over the edge of the red carpet that seemed to stretch into eternity. Keeping in character, the Knopfs did not wait for him to stumble to his feet. They flitted as if nothing happened. However, and for this Zack was grateful, they marched at half the pace when in the corridor and hallway. It still wasn’t what he would call a comfortable gait, but when you’re a hostage with no means of escape, you’ll take what you can get.

The slower pace not only gave Zack the chance to catch his breath, it also let him take in the bustling activity of the court.

The court was huge—the size of a football field split at the fifty-yard line and set side by side. Zack guessed there were at least 200 individuals in here, maybe even as many as 500.

To the left, in a corner, Zack observed dozens of voals cramped in a pen. The pen consisted of interlocking horizontal and vertical logs. Something straight outta Animal Farm or Charlotte’s Web. As that thought ended, he cringed and turned away. A meandering voal had stretched toward a gelding and taken a bite out of its left buttock. The gelding didn’t react.

The Knopfs continued to hold onto Zack’s arms. He found it fascinating that none of the onlookers tread on the carpet. Many stood on the sidelines, staring with the smugness of suburban snobs. Most of them held champagne flutes, though the liquid in them wasn’t any wine the punk rocker recognized. It was lime-green with yellow sparkles.

Tap-dancing. Zack caught sight of a black spider eleven inches in height, with six legs. It was entertaining a small audience to the punk rocker’s right. The spider stopped tap-dancing and stood on its two rear legs. Out of nowhere materialized oversize tarot cards, a large gilded ring and a lit torch. Quicker than you could say Penn and Teller are esteemed atheists, the spider’s middle two legs shuffled the tarot cards, and its right-front leg held the gilded ring, while its left-front leg steadied the torch. The spider blew at the torch. Fire shot through the ring. The flames ascended, forming earthly objects, such as sparrows, crosses and curtsying schoolgirls. Those shapes rose and rose, performing a mini-play before evaporating. Zack was impressed. He would’ve applauded if the Knopfs didn’t have his arms in a near vise. No matter. The spider’s audience did enough cheering and clapping to make even the neediest entertainer blush.

The Knopfs seemed to pick up pace. They didn’t march as quickly as in the hallway, so Zack had no trouble keeping up.

Zack hunched his shoulders. It seemed to get cold in this court, and the lighting went from bright white to soft yellow. Also, he took note that no humans were in this section of the court.

Up ahead, to the left, stood two figures who studied Zack with the interest of apathetic executives. The figures were twelve-foot-high trees.

Each tree wore a black kimono. Their face had a thin, pointy nose; tiny pursed lips; and eyeballs like a mammal, with the eyelids made of bark and the long lashes consisting of brown blades of grass. Above their faces, leaves and branches entwined in a bouffant hairstyle. Over each ear dangled a ringlet vine.

But what struck Zack the most were the trees’ mannerisms. They appeared to speak in hushed tones, and their eyes roved the crowd, never resting on one individual or object—not even for a moment.

Zack wondered if the two towering trees were dignitaries. Was one male, one female? Had they, or one of their kind, spied on him in the swamp?

Those questions went unanswered, as the Knopfs carried on with their consistent, synchronized strides. They were almost at the end of the red carpet. About fifty yards away was a . . . throne, was it?

Collective guffawing snapped Zack’s attention from the carpet’s end point. Off to the side, another eleven-inch-high spider entertained members of the court. This spider performed back flips, then shot out webbing from its jaws and formed gray balls, which it proceeded to juggle.

Zack’s gaze drifted away from the spider to a blob of purple goo. Somebody walked by the goo, and it transformed into the shape of a naked, muscular man with a horn sprouting from its forehead. Interestingly, it remained purple.

The purple goo locked eyes with Zack. He couldn’t look away. The goo changed into a naked woman with high cheekbones, big breasts and long legs. Hmm. That’s odd. Looks a lot like M—

Zack’s thought was interrupted by the juggling spider, who now wore a stovepipe hat. The spider no longer juggled, but it did something that made many in the vicinity gasp.

The spider had jumped in front of Zack, on the red carpet. The Knopfs seemed unconcerned. They kept on treading toward the throne. The spider scuttled backward, keeping a distance of a yard between itself and the two Knopfs.

The spider shook its head and snapped its jaws. Eventually, words exited, though—to Zack—they sounded like Klingon. The spider shook its head again. It began speaking in a language Zack recognized but did not understand: French. The spider gave its head one last shake, followed by a succinct snapping of its jaws. It spoke in English, albeit from the Victorian era:

“My sincerest apologies for the technical difficulties, governor. Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Basildon.”

Still scurrying backward, Basildon bowed and removed his stovepipe hat. The Knopf on Zack’s right growled through clenched teeth. The spider returned the hat to his head. It tilted to the side.

“Sorry about the language of errors, governor,” Basildon said. “I must have lost my manners for a moment. All’s well that ends well, eh?”

Zack didn’t reply. He was ogling the former purple blob, still shaped like a voluptuous, twenty-something sex symbol. She stood at the edge of the carpet, the bustling crowd behind her. Everything about her shouted seduction. The heavy eyelids, the finger tugging her lower lip, the tongue peeking out of her mouth. Zack felt his face flush. Her pert nipples went erect as her hand (not the one on her lip) stroked her flat stomach. He couldn’t believe how horny he was getting. After all, she was purple; the color of Barney the Dinosaur, for Christ’s sake.

“Look away, look away!” Basildon said.

“Huh?” Zack managed to utter.

Basildon no longer pranced backward on the red carpet. He weaved through the crowd on the border of the rug. “You best avert your gaze whenever coming across a Shape-shifter. That’s what they are. More trouble than a jet-setting spouse, they are.”

“What?” Zack felt his boner deflating.

“Shape-shifters!” Basildon motioned his stovepipe hat toward the purple damsel. “They use their clairvoyance to tempt one with your deepest desire. Whores of the court, that’s what they are.”

“Really?”

“Yes, sir, and this one is top-notch. You’re seeing one image, while a dozen other guests of his highness are seeing something completely different.” Basildon removed his hat and covered the side of his mouth, as if to prevent the Shape-shifter from reading his lips. “If you saw one in its true form, believe you me, you’d become permanently impotent. Piles of puss their true colors are.”

Zack nodded, avoiding the Shape-shifter’s leer.

Basildon plopped his hat back on top of his head and disappeared into the crowd. Zack suspected not by accident. They were at the end of the red carpet. In front of Zack and the two Knopfs loomed the throne.

6

The throne was lavish. It had red, plush cushions and ornate, gold arms. The back of the throne rose thirteen feet. Above the back cushion were jewels and gemstones. Zack couldn’t help but notice that the same precious stones decorated the Knopfs’ sword handles. That observation evaporated as he examined the top of the throne. Instead of two knobs, like on the back of most chairs, there were two big, bright brass wings. They sparkled, despite the absence of substantial light in this section of the court.

Intense weight on Zack’s shoulders. What the. . . ? The Knopfs were forcing him to kneel. He slammed on one knee, sounding like a hollow, plastic bat hitting a Wiffle ball. After genuflecting, he was yanked back to his feet by the Knopfs, who then released him. His biceps were glad to be free from their he-man clutches.

The idea of making a break for it materialized in Zack’s mind, but he swatted it back into the recesses of his gray matter. There was nowhere to run.

Standing on either side of the throne were two angels with evil auras. They each had white wings, bleach-blond hair, ashen skin and black eyes with no sclera. Both of them wore reflective black leather that covered everything from the collarbone down.

A voice echoed in Zack’s head: <<You are wise to not make a break for it, as you say.>>

Zack jerked. Who said that?

<<I did.>>

Sitting on the throne was a four-foot-high, bluish-gray humanoid. It had dark bug-like eyes, no ears, a small nose, no mouth and stringy arms and legs. One leg was draped over the other, similar to how a woman sits. But there was nothing feminine about this . . . thing. It was asexual, not only with the absence of genitalia, but also in the way it carried itself.

“Wait a minute,” Zack said, “I know you! You’re that type of alien from Close Encounters and The X-Files!”

The alien nodded and seemed to smirk, despite having no mouth. <<Guilty as charged,>> it said inside Zack’s head. <<I am Threnody.>>

What the fuck? Zack thought.

Threnody placed its elbows on the armrests of the throne. The alien took one of its childlike hands and pointed a long forefinger at Zack, the thumb and other two fingers curling into the palm. <<I believe you have something that belongs to me.>>

What’s that, a tongue and tonsils? Zack quipped mentally.

Threnody quit pointing and snapped its fingers. The Knopfs began frisking Zack.

“Hey, hey,” Zack said, “what the fuck?” Fearful of what was to come, he made a joke. “Hey, watch the family jewels! Ya never know when I’ll need ’em again.”

The Knopf on the right pulled out the vibraton from Zack’s pants. Instantly, the Knopf dropped to a knee and handed the cylinder to one of the avaricious angels, who in turn placed it in Threnody’s palm.

<<This sigmoidoscope>>—Threnody twirled it through its fingers, like a drummer—<<was the only reason I allowed you to last as long as you did after you transported through the Venus flytrap tree.>>

Ohhhh, Zack said, so that’s how the Knopfs get to the New Arrival Field.

Threnody replied but Zack didn’t hear. He was riveted by the goings-on to the right. An enormous Venus flytrap thrashed in a corner. Its stem was buried in a mound of white-speckled soil. Zack shrank back. The flytrap hissed at him. He wasn’t sure why he had cowered. The flytrap was twenty feet away, too far to reach over and bite him with its Cadillac-size mouth and drool-drenched teeth.

Threnody handed the sigmoidoscope to the angel on its right. The alien motioned toward the Venus flytrap, which was bigger than an adult elephant. <<Another one of my inventions,>> Threnody told Zack telepathically. <<A Queen Venus flytrap, if you will.>>

Huh? Zack said.

<<Watch.>>

The Queen Venus flytrap threw her head back and stretched her mouth open until the jaws resembled a straight line, tongue wagging to convey overwhelming pain. Suddenly, a glowing orb popped out from the middle of the mound of soil. From behind Threnody’s throne, a Knopf on a voal trotted by, picked up the orb and galloped down the side of the court to the hallway. Guests of the court stepped aside.

“What the fuck?” Zack whispered.

<<I assume Anubis and Medusa have not informed you of the origins of the Venus flytrap trees,>> Threnody said. <<Of course not, because they are ineffectual leaders.>>

“So what’s up with the vibraton?” Zack asked. “Why’s it so important to ya?”

<<It is called a sigmoidoscope, earthling.>>

Zack returned to communicating mentally. I say vibraton, you say Sigmund-scope. It’s all the same thing. Though, I like vibraton better. It’s a cross between vibrator and baton. Get it? He raised his eyebrows a few times in a comical flirtatious manner. Hey, I should call Melody up and see if she can whip up a song, making fun of the Beach Boys’ “Good Vibrations.” Call our version “Good Vibraton.”

<<You and your kind are nothing but primitives. I cannot wait until your universe is mine.>>

Hey, I just realized something. That’s your picture in that hallway on the tile floor. Damn, that’s pretty egotistical. Man, you’re more narcissistic than Elvis.

<<Are you finished?>>

Zack stuck his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and pretended not to hear Threnody’s question. Yo, that vibraton looks a lot like an anal probe. You’re not falling into that UFO stereotype, are ya?

Threnody didn’t respond. The alien’s black bug eyes narrowed. With hate?

Zack stopped speaking telepathically. “It is, isn’t it? Dude, you’re one sick sonofabitch! You’re probably building one big anal probe assembly line, right?”

“Psst.”

Zack turned around. Standing at the front of the crowd was Basildon. “Psst,” the spider said again. “Master Mordaver, ’tis not wise to antagonize or insult his highness.”

Zack smirked. “Caller, you say what?”

Basildon removed his stovepipe hat and held it in his two front legs, claws twitching on the rim of the hat. “Please, sir, I beg you to grant proper respect to the court.”

Zack mimicked a barrister about to launch into his closing argument. He tugged on imaginary lapels of a make-believe suit coat. “I shall do no such thing,” he said in a faux British accent. “I am a man of honor and integrity. The last thing I would ever dream of doing is bowing down before this charlatan.”

Threnody leaned forward. The alien squinted its bug eyes. When its eyelids opened, a flash of light and the smell of ammonia made Zack duck and cover. Behind him, he heard Basildon curse.

“Blimey!”

Histoire de Fantôme

1

Zack opened his eyes. His head hurt, while his arms and legs felt as if they had been injected with lead.

“What the fuck?” he mumbled. Where am I?

Zack appeared to be in a basement that had been converted into a den. It was gigantic. Had to be at least 1,000 square feet. It was bigger than some clubs he had frequented. Two hundred people could fit down here, no problem.

The den was an example in extravagance. Plush beige carpet; fresco walls painted light green; white popcorn ceiling; brown leather sofa, love seat and recliner; stocked bar; and entertainment center with wide-screen television, surround sound, VHS/DVD-combo player, dual cassette deck, record turntable, multi-disk CD player and four-foot-high speakers.

Zack lay in the center of the den, in front of the turned-off TV, on a Persian rug measuring thirty inches by ninety inches. The overhead tubular fluorescent lights weren’t on. The room was dimly lit, thanks to ultraviolet rays coming through the bay windows above the couch, despite dark clouds littering the navy-blue sky.

“Mother of God.” Zack rolled over and groaned to his feet. He noticed quicksand still caked to his skin in spots, and his knee throbbed from where the Knopfs had forced him to genuflect. Stupid cock-knocking Knopfs.

Zack saw nobody else was in the den. He leaned on the couch with his good knee and looked out the windows.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he muttered.

The house’s backyard stretched with no property line in sight. The grass was verdant green, and different types of trees were planted intermittently. Directly behind the house were a Great Gatsby patio and an in-ground pool big enough for an Olympic competition. Beyond the prodigious patio and pool were several flower beds. A gardener tended to one, a sombrero shading his (her?) face.

The gray clouds in the sky chugged to the west to make room for a posse of white cumulus clouds. Two of them parted to let a ray of sunlight shine down. It beamed over Zack’s shoulder.

Turning his back to the windows, Zack went to explore the den, but he froze when passing the wide-screen TV. Something was wrong. He squatted in front of the Toshiba.

“What the fuck?” Zack’s index finger tapped the TV screen. It created a clinking sound, as it should have, but he had no reflection. “What am I, a fuckin’ vampire?”

“Not exactly.”

Zack jumped and fell over, the lamp on the end table between the couch and the end table vibrating. Who said that? He walked around the corner, toward the back door. Off to the side was a laundry room. On top of the washer sat Basildon.

“Good day, Master Mordaver.” The spider lifted the stovepipe hat off its head in salute.

“What the—” Zack scratched his head. “What the fuck’s going on? Where the hell am I?”

Basildon stood on the edge of the washer to take a peek at the den. “If I was to ponder a guess, sir, I would say we’re in a residential basement.”

“Well, duh. I mean, where are we? Are we in Holcyon, that subterranean world, Mars. . . .?”

“If I may be so bold, Master Mordaver—”

“Oh,” Zack said, “stop calling me that! Master Mordaver. What kind of crap is that? I ain’t no freakin’ lord of the manor or king of the castle, bitch!”

“I am truly sorry, sir. Please accept my humblest apologies and deepest regrets.”

“Kick it down, Buster Brown. Quit acting so British.”

Basildon removed his hat and wrung it in his hands. “But it is who I am.”

“All right, Yosemite Sam. Just—”

Zack stepped out of the laundry. He heard a jangling sound akin to a cowboy parading down Main Street.

“You hear that?” Zack asked Basildon in a whisper.

“Why, yes, I do,” the spider said, hopping off the washer onto a pile of white laundry. “My hearing is quite exquisite.”

Zack did a double take. That last time he heard the word exquisite was on a home-decorating show hosted by a dubious metrosexual.

The jangling got louder. It was coming down the steps. Two shapes formed at the foot of the stairs. The scent of a feminine perfume wafted in Zack’s direction.

2

Catherine Theuriau gripped the railing at the bottom of the steps in the family den. At the end of the dimly lit den—near the laundry—was the silhouette of someone. Was it Charles playing a practical joke? No, it wasn’t her eccentric husband. Charles was lanky, while this person was skinny but filled out.

“Hello?” Catherine said. “Who’s there?”

No answer. The stranger turned toward the laundry.

Catherine reached for the light switch. Her rottweiler, Capote, who had been at her side, darted across the den. She flipped the switch. Nobody was there.

3

“Fuck,” Zack said.

The rottweiler raced toward Zack. His fear of dogs paralyzed him.

The barking rottweiler launched for Zack’s groin. The punk rocker covered his private parts and closed his eyes. A strange sensation came over him, like shivering on a sizzling summer night. He opened his eyes. The dog was behind him, in the laundry.

What the. . . ?

The rottweiler dove for the pile of laundry. Basildon leapt off the mountain of whites and climbed onto a wooden shelf of washing supplies. The spider picked up a sheet of fabric softener and waved it in the air.

“Yoo-hoo,” Basildon said, “catch me if you can, you Hound of Baskervilles.”

The rottweiler went ballistic. It knocked over a hamper and drying rack while crouching down, its underside brushing the white linoleum floor. It barked so loud, Zack had to place his hands over his ears.

The woman at the foot of the stairs called the dog’s name. Her arms were crossed over her small chest. She was big-boned, had pale skin and sported a blond pageboy (an obvious dye job since her eyebrows were brown). She wore white-pink sneakers, black spandex and a blue-purple windbreaker.

The rottweiler tried reaching the shelf—the one Basildon danced on—by using the pile of laundry as a ladder. Predictably, the maneuver had disastrous results. The whites flew every which way but in the shape of a steady, solid mass.

Up on the shelf, Basildon leaned against a box of open detergent and sang “Up Where We Belong.” Zack had to admit, as much as he hated that song, the spider had an extraordinary singing voice.

The woman called for the rottweiler again. The mutt stayed in the laundry. She sighed and stomped across the den. Zack slid out of the way and planted his shoulders against the wall outside the laundry, the back of his head touching an oil painting of a beach sunset.

4

“Capote!”

Catherine stood in the archway of the laundry. Capote had created chaos of tornado proportions. Oh, well, the maid will have to straighten things up.

Capote, a pair of boxers hanging from his left ear, barked at the shelf above the washer and dryer. After every fifth or sixth bark, the rottweiler glanced at Catherine, as if seeking approval.

Rubbing her temples with her right hand’s thumb and index finger, Catherine looked up at the shelf. What was he barking at?

“That’s it!” Catherine said. “Enough!”

Catherine grabbed Capote’s collar, removed the boxers from his ear, threw them in the corner and dragged him out of the laundry. With the dog now in the den, she returned to the laundry and opened the dryer to pull out what she came down here for in the first place. A pair of pants.

Catherine stepped out of the laundry and bumped into Capote. The rottweiler stared at the wall—where the beach-sunset painting hung—growling.

“Enough.” Catherine clapped her hands twice. Capote stopped growling and dropped his head. She pointed. “Upstairs.”

5

Zack watched the rottweiler trudge toward the stairs. The woman breezed past Zack. She didn’t seem to notice him, even though her left elbow came within an inch of his stomach.

“Toodles,” Basildon said, waving the sheet of fabric softener. He hung from the side of the laundry’s door frame.

The rottweiler turned, as if it heard Basildon, but the dog didn’t rip across the room. The woman said something in the same foreign language she had used during the entire episode. The rottweiler went up the stairs, its dog tags jingle-jangling. The woman followed, but halfway up, she halted and surveyed the den. That only lasted a second. She recommenced heading up the steps, taking two at a time.

“All right,” Zack said to Basildon, who now sat on the carpet outside the laundry.

Zack paused. The lights went out. There must have been another switch at the top of the stairs.

“Mind telling me what the fuck just happened?” Zack said.

“’Tis fairly apparent,” Basildon said, “innit?”

“If it was, I wouldn’t be asking you, now would I, Sherlock?”

“I always preferred Watson, meself. Much more likable and characterized, I say.”

“What in God’s name are you talking about?” Zack asked.

“Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Only one of the finest authors and series her majesty’s empire has ever produced.”

“Basildon.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where are we?”

“Judging by the lady’s accent,” Basildon said, “I would say France.”

“France?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Wha—” Zack ran his fingers through his hair. “Wait a minute. The last thing I remember is being in that court, talking to Threnody. What happened after that?”

“His highness believed it wise to send you here. I happened to be in the vicinity, hence, I was transported as well.”

Zack had so many questions. He didn’t know where to begin. Basildon helped by saying:

“We’re ghosts.”

“Come again.”

“We’re spectres, apparitions, spirits, phantoms. Call it whatever you wish. Mortals cannot see us.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. I, Basildon—an official jester of his highness’ court—may have been called many names in my illustrious career as an entertainer, but a liar isn’t one of them. Yes, sir, I shoot straight as an arrow, walk a tightrope without a net, carry a pistol strictly for show. That be me. Why, down at the pub, from day one, they’ve called me Basildon the Brownnoser. If a Bantam saddles up next to me stool, why, I have no qualms whatsoever of dispensing tidbits of information they may require. Call me a snitch if you like, but I prefer to stay on his highness’ good side.”

“Bantam.” Zack touched his own chin. What did Anubis say about them? Before he could recall, Basildon launched into an explanation:

“Bantams are his highness’ right-hand men. Well, not men, really. They be angels with an unhealthy lust for power.” The spider slapped four of his hands over his mouth. He cowered and dropped his voice. “You didn’t hear that from me. By Jove, if they got wind of me bad-mouthing them, I’d be banished from his highness’ court for sure. You won’t tattle, will you?”

“So those two cats guarding Threnody’s throne were Bantams, right?”

“Aye, that be them.”

“Interesting.” Zack made his way over to the couch. He lounged and picked up the remote control for the entertainment center. “Hey, how come my hand didn’t pass right through that?”

“We can operate inanimate objects, however, living entities pass right through us.”

Zack nodded. That would explain why the rottweiler gave him the chills when it had gone for his groin.

“How about walking through walls?” Zack asked. “Can we do that?”

“Alas, no. Moreover, although living entities—such as humans, animals and insects—can pass through us, we cannot approach them and do the same. If you attempt to do so, it shall be as if you were trying to walk through a wall. You’ll simply meet resistance by bumping off of them.”

“Weird.”

“Aye.”

Zack tossed aside the remote control. “Well, since I’m back here on planet Earth, might as well go home. See if my apartment is still up for grabs. Ya ready?”

“Uh, excuse me, sir, but I regret to inform you that leaving this residence is not possible.”

“Huh?”

“We are bound to the property lines of this residence.”

“Are you shitting me?”

“I shit you not.” Basildon smirked, obviously pleased with his wit.

“We can’t leave?” Zack stood up. “What kinda crap is that?”

Basildon shrank back. “Those are the rules forged by his eminence. Please do not be vexed with me. I am only the messenger.”

Zack cracked his knuckles. “Fuck it. Could be a lot worse.” He gazed out the bay windows at the endless backyard. “We could be confined in a cell or something.”

“There you go, sir!” Basildon bounded forward. “Always look on the bright side of life, that’s what I say.” He began whistling the Monty Python tune.

“You’re not gonna nail yourself to a cross for comedic effect, are you?” Zack smiled.

“Sir?”

“Come on.” Zack marched for the stairs. “Let’s go check out the rest of this prison.”

6

“Holy shit on a crucifix,” Zack said, “can you believe this motherfucking place?”

“Aye,” Basildon replied, “’tis one to admire and behold.”

They had just walked through the kitchen and now were heading up a hallway thirty feet wide. On its walls were poster-size book covers in glass frames. On the left were romance ones with the name Catherine Theuriau, and on the right were horror ones with the name Charles Theuriau.

The 100-yard hallway ended and spilled into an entranceway that would make Marie Antoinette envious.

“Yeah,” Zack said, “something tells me the Theuriaus got a little money.”

“Right you are, sir.”

The entranceway was the size of a small ballroom. The ceiling was dome-shaped with an apex of 200 feet from the parquet floor. A chandelier hung down between two wide, limestone staircases. As in many mansions, the two staircases met at the top. Zack ignored the upstairs for a moment. He listened to the double front doors hiss open.

In plodded a petite figure about five feet and five inches in height. A black veil obscured the figure’s face. It wore a black dress, navy-blue fishnet stockings and white Reebok sneaks. Zack assumed it was a girl, probably a teenager. She carried a large shopping bag that was pink with white lettering. She selected the staircase on the left and shuffled up the steps, one foot not moving to the next slab of limestone until the other foot joined its compatriot. Christ, Zack thought, she moves slower than a zombie in a Romero movie.

Basildon nudged Zack’s ankle with one of his six legs. “There goes one sad sack of potatoes, I reckon.”

Zack didn’t reply. He peeked outside before the front doors hissed shut. He caught sight of a front porch and a cul-de-sac.

On the porch, a musclehead leaned against a stone pillar. He wore a red beret and a tight, blue-and-white, horizontally striped T-shirt. Add an oily mustache and he’s a perfect stereotype. Zack let that thought fade away as he took in the cul-de-sac.

In the center of the cul-de-sac was a water fountain that put to shame the one near Philadelphia’s Art Museum. Parked in front of the fountain was a white Rolls-Royce. A chauffeur stood in front of the limo, white-gloved hands cupped at waist level. He wore a black uniform. His visored hat shadowed his face.

The house’s front doors clicked shut. A speaker in the corner, above an oak table piled high with newspapers and magazines, announced in a RoboCop voice, “Perimeter secure.”

The morose teenager was long gone. Zack turned to Basildon and motioned toward the stairs. “Shall we?”

“Yes, we shall.” Basildon hopped across the parquet floor and jumped on a newel at the bottom of the staircase on the right. His little legs then hurried; he scaled the railing to the second floor. Once there, he did a short Bojangles dance, ending it by taking off his stovepipe hat and waving it while saying, “Great mother-of-pearl, I can see the Nexus from here.”

“Oh,” Zack said like a frumpy old lady, “you’re such a card.” To emphasize the imitation, he flicked his wrist with arthritic flair.

Zack took the staircase on the left. At the seventh step, he picked up and pocketed a swipe card that the teenager must have dropped when doing her imitation of Snuffleupagus.

Reaching the second floor of the Theuriau manor, Zack said, “I gotta tell ya, so far, this has been about as much fun as sitting through an American Idol marathon.”

Basildon flipped his hat up into the air. It somersaulted and landed on his head in the same position as before—tilted to the side. “The situation shall improve with excitement by the bucketful, that I promise you.”

7

Zack and Basildon ambled down the hallway. It was about half the width of the one downstairs with the book-cover posters, though, this one did stretch for an eternity.

About ten feet from where the hallway began, two doors were open, one on either side of the corridor. Zack and Basildon walked into the one on the right.

“Jesus getting a hummer at the Last Supper!” Zack slapped a hand over his nose and mouth. His eyes watered.

The room reeked of garlic, onions and bad beer.

Zack spoke through his fingers. “Can’t you smell that?”

“Sadly, no,” Basildon said. “The five senses are reserved for mordavers like yourself. I can only see and hear.”

Zack removed his hand from his nose and mouth. He sniffed. The stench was still horrendous, but not as bad as before.

“Riddle me this,” Zack said, “I can’t eat or piss or shit, but I can see, hear, touch, taste and smell awful shit like that.” He pointed at a man lying facedown on a bed.

“Permit me to correct meself, sir,” Basildon said. “You only have four senses. As a mordaver, you are without taste.”

“That makes sense.” Zack motioned toward the snoring sleeper. “I wonder what his deal is. Who the fuck sleeps in the middle of the day, anyway?”

“Takes all kinds.”

Zack frowned and looked around the bedroom. On the walls were movie posters from vintage B films: Plan 9 from Outer Space, The Incredible 2-Headed Transplant and Zontar the Thing from Venus were a few of them. On the mahogany bureau and chest of drawers were wooden or ivory statues of demons and occult artifacts. To the right of the bed, a nightstand supported an array of burning candles.

The top nightstand drawer was open. Zack peeped inside. The drawer was packed with Ziploc bags overflowing with either cocaine or pills. The latter were different colors. Pink, purple, blue, green, yellow. . . . You name the color, it was in there.

“Well,” Zack said, “that explains why he’s conked out in the middle of the afternoon.”

Basildon exited the room.

Zack examined the snoozing drug addict. His head was sandwiched between two pillows, and a red satin blanket covered half of his body.

“Sweet dreams, derelict.”

Zack left the druggie’s bedside to follow Basildon.

8

Basildon was in the bedroom across the hall. This one smelled of attar and potpourri. It had a feminine feel, with paintings of sunsets hanging on the pink wallpaper. Unlike the room across the hall, this one was neat and tidy. It was almost picturesque.

Basildon sat on the middle of the white bed, his eyes closed. Zack shrugged. Maybe spider jesters need rest, too.

Zack exited the bedroom, which he assumed belonged to the woman from the den, since she was in almost every picture tucked into the edge of the chiffonier mirror.

Zack entered the room that neighbored the bedroom. It was a large office. In front of a window was a chestnut desk large enough to hold a computer tower, a twenty-inch flat-screen monitor and an Epson printer. To the left of the monitor were about a dozen books of various sizes squeezed between two bookends. The computer tower was to the right of the monitor. In front of the tower were an open, 2,000-page dictionary and a closed, 1,000-page soft cover called a Flip Dictionary. Whatever the hell that was.

On the wall opposite the desk and window—in the corner—were a huge leather chair and an eight-foot-high, fluorescent floor lamp. At the end of this wall was the doorway Zack had stepped through. In the leather chair sat the woman from the den. She now wore a blue blouse, black slacks and designer, casual shoes. The lamp was on, and she read a mass-market paperback. She stopped reading, her finger on the page, and leaned over to a small table where there was a college dictionary.

“Uh-oh,” Zack said.

At the woman’s feet lay the rottweiler, but Zack’s fear proved unnecessary. The dog was napping.

The woman read the definition in the dictionary and returned to her book. She pushed her bifocal lenses up the ridge of her nose.

Zack turned on his heel and crossed the threshold. Let’s see what else this hallway has to offer. So far, I’m bored stupid.

9

Next to the office was another bedroom, this one belonging to the girl who had trudged up the stairs fifteen minutes ago.

Zack froze. Holy shit. He could recognize passing of time. Guess we’re not in Holcyon anymore, Toto.

The girl, about sixteen years old, lay supinely on her bed. The veil rested on her nightstand. She had dark brown hair. Her sneaks sat on the floor. Ankles crossed, she stared at the ceiling with her arms tucked behind her head.

Zack placed the girl’s security card in her purse.

Basildon pranced into the bedroom. “Aye, there she is.”

“What’s up?” Zack asked.

“I say, ’tis safe to assume she is the one.”

“One? What one?”

“Why,” Basildon said, “the one you have to convince to commit suicide, of course.”

10

Zack and Basildon were down the hall in a library. The ceiling-high bookcases that lined the walls contained novels written by Catherine Theuriau and short-story collections penned by Charles Theuriau (Catherine’s published work was three times that of Charles’). The light from the hanging pendant in the middle of the ceiling gave off a yellowish hue.

“No fucking way!” Zack said. “I am not gonna tell some down-in-the-dumps teenybopper that she has to kill herself.”

“Well,” Basildon began, “in actuality, you can’t specifically tell her, due to the fact that she is unable to hear you.”

“Oh, they can’t hear us?”

“Afraid not, although if mortals could, it would liven up the proceedings a bit, eh?”

Zack sucked in his lips. Guess he didn’t need to drag Basildon down here to have this conversation. They could have stayed in the girl’s bedroom.

Basildon sat on a circular, teak table measuring three feet in diameter. The table was in the middle of the room. The spider pulled out the piece of fabric softener from the laundry and waved it around like a magician on the verge of performing a trick.

“I’m not doing it,” Zack said.

“I’m afraid you don’t have much of a choice,” Basildon said. “However, I do believe a precedence has taken place. Never before has a mordaver been transported to Earth without first having his soul become the domain of a Knopf.”

“So that’s how Threnody is building an army. So what, when somebody first hits the New Arrival Field, a Knopf swings by and makes ’em a slave?”

“Yes, sir. Half of the enslaved mordavers are sent back to Earth, and the other half assist the Knopfs in Holcyon.”

Zack nodded.

“Sir,” Basildon said, “may I be so bold to ask a question, which is slightly off-topic?”

“Go ’head.”

“When in the presence of his highness, why were you so insulting and antagonistic?”

“I knew I was pretty much fucked. He obviously wasn’t going to let me go, so I figured I might as well have a little fun. What’s the worst that could happen? I was already dead.” Zack shrugged. “I guess it’s sort of like how you were taunting that rottweiler. You were having a little fun, right?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Hey,” Zack said, “I got a question for you. What was up with that orb that popped out of the Queen Venus flytrap?”

“Oh, that was a seed. The Knopfs take them to the New Arrival Field. Once planted, Venus flytrap trees sprout almost immediately.”

“That’s interesting that Knopf ran away with it because when I was going down the creek, all the holes that led up to the Venus flytrap trees were plugged up with the stuff that looked like black asphalt.”

“The Knopf may have acted purely for show, per his highness’ orders. His highness was the one who sealed up the paths to the New Arrival Field after he became aware of your presence in the swamp.”

“Weird.” Zack stuck his hands in his front jean pockets. “I’m still not making that girl kill herself. And there’s nothing nobody can do to change my mind.”

Basildon lowered his head and cast his eyes down.

11

Over the next few days, Zack learned much about the Theuriau household—their mansion was in eastern France, on the German border.

Catherine Theuriau was wife of Charles and mother of Melissa. Catherine was a best-selling romance author in Europe and Australia. About half of her 100-plus novels were published in North America, where they sold enough for paperback publishers to keep them in print, but not enough for the first edition to appear in hardcover.

Charles Theuriau was the same age as his wife, fifty, and a cult horror writer. His specialty was short stories in the tradition of Edgar Allan Poe and H.P. Lovecraft. Since short stories didn’t pay as well as novels, he freelanced for Paris newspapers, writing book critiques, movie reviews and an occasional article on pop culture. Zack wasn’t sure why Charles wrote nonfiction. Evidently, his wife supported him. Swallow your macho pride and face the fact that you’re not the main breadwinner.

Melissa was Catherine’s daughter from a previous marriage. Apparently, Melissa cared for neither reading nor writing, but she did paint, draw and do graphic design in her spare time, which she had mass amounts of because she had no friends. Zack got the impression that when school was in—she was currently on holiday—her peers teased and taunted her because of the way she dressed. And it didn’t help that she was a shy introvert.

Zack sat on a bench chair on the patio, the pool a few feet away. The sun beamed down and gnats flittered about. In the back of the yard, Capote the rottweiler ran in circles, chasing his tail.

Zack lounged out here to get away from Catherine’s frantic typing. Disciplined to a fault, she woke up at 6 each morning and wrote from 6:30 a.m. to 12:30 p.m. It was now noon. After finishing her day’s writing session in a half-hour, she would go to the gym, return in midafternoon, then shower and read until 6 p.m., when she started dinner.

Charles’ work habits were a little odder. Unlike his wife, he wasn’t a fast writer (Catherine bragged at dinner if she surpassed her daily writing goal of 2,000 words). Charles started his day at 6 p.m. after six hours of sleep. He ate dinner with his wife and stepdaughter, then surfed the Internet, kissed ass on the phone or went club hopping. From 2 a.m. to 6 a.m., he wrote slower than a dopey tortoise. On a good day, he wrote one page on his Selectronic typewriter. Zack noticed that, unlike Catherine, Charles did no rewriting. His first draft was his last, but Zack couldn’t help but wonder if Charles would have been more productive if he wrote for a few more hours a day, and if he didn’t drink and do so many drugs. Hard to believe Catherine turned a blind eye to her husband’s annihilating of brain cells, although, he didn’t snort, pop or shoot up in front of anyone. He did most of his drinking and drugging from 6 a.m. till noon, while reading or watching TV.

Zack quit thinking about the dysfunctional Theuriau household. He replayed the conversation he had last night with Basildon up on the roof. It had been a beautiful summer night, and Zack grilled the spider to fill in the holes of Holcyon and how the afterlife operated before God’s closedown.

Basildon had explained that before God closed down to recharge, when a mortal died, they could enter the afterlife if they had a pure, loving, sinless existence on Earth. If they had not led a good life, they were sent back to be reincarnated. The only mortals who were not given another opportunity, via reincarnation, were sociopaths and psychopaths. They transformed into Knopfs and could not leave the afterlife.

Zack found it fascinating how no heaven or hell existed in the afterlife. There was always a fifty-fifty balance between good and evil.

Regarding Holcyon, Basildon informed Zack that Anubis and Medusa created it just as God was closing down. They did it quite quickly, which was why they were unaware that Threnody had produced a subterranean world underneath Holcyon. Basildon confessed that he and most of the occupants of Threnody’s court were from different worlds the alien had captured. Mordavers who did exceptional work under the Knopfs were allowed to reside in the rear of the court.

Zack stopped replaying last night’s conversation in his head. He watched Basildon exit the Theuriau house and walk across the patio, his claws clinking on the tile.

“Hey,” Zack said, “just the spider I was wanting to see.”

“Pardon?”

“I was just thinking about all that shit you were telling me last night about Holcyon, the afterlife and Threnody; and I just realized something. What about the people on Earth who are dying right now? What’s happening to them?”

“Aye, they are collecting in the Queue, awaiting for God’s return.”

“So,” Zack asked, “are they conscious?”

Basildon shook his head. “They are in a state of suspension, similar to a deep sleep.”

“But they aren’t dreaming, right?”

“Correct.”

“Interesting.” Zack rubbed his cheek. “Hey, what about people who are old and insane. What happens to them?”

“Their lives are judged up to the point of the last moment of lucidity.”

“And those who are crazy who killed themselves?”

“They continue to be reincarnated in a mentally ill state until they live a life in which they do not kill themselves,” Basildon said. “In addition, senior citizens who euthanized themselves are viewed as suicides, hence, they are reincarnated with mental or physical handicaps, or are born into loving families with short life spans. Euthanasia is not the answer. God wishes you to die of natural causes.”

“Damn,” Zack said. “Freaky.”

A horn blasted. Zack jumped up. “What the fuck was that?”

“A horn, I gather,” Basildon said.

“No shit, Sherlock.”

A truck backed into the yard. It was colored yellow, and on its side was a clown painted in black.

12

Charles Theuriau’s alarm clock shrilled. He slammed a hand on the snooze button. Christ, was it six o’clock already?

Nine minutes later, the alarm blared again. Charles turned off the infernal contraption. Eventually, he sat up.

Charles’ head throbbed and his heart thumped. Ugh, I feel like shit. Well, only one cure for that. He opened his nightstand drawer and pulled out a bag of cocaine. Belatedly, he checked to make sure his bedroom door was closed. It was. He snorted six lines up each nostril, then wiped the remaining coke off the nightstand with his index finger and brushed his teeth with it.

“Mmm, yummy.”

Charles opened his blinds. He stared out at the backyard. The rental place was finishing setting up the tables and tent for the party tonight.

“Yes!”

Moving away from the window, Charles rubbed his hands together. He skipped across the room, repeating the word party numerous times in his head. He opened the door and sobered up.

Ambling down the hallway was not only a skinny guy in a white T-shirt and blue jeans, but also an oversize spider with a stovepipe hat.

“Hey,” Charles said, “you aren’t supposed to be up here!”

The skinny guy stopped walking and turned slowly on his heel. He looked at Charles as if gawking at a ghost.

The spider said something in English and ran down the hall, ducking into the library. The skinny guy followed suit, leaving the door to the library open.

Charles moved to race after them. He stopped when his wife stepped out of her office.

“Oh, hi, sleepyhead.” Catherine kissed Charles on the forehead. “Don’t forget to shower and shave. Remember, my party’s tonight.”

“Did you—” Charles cut himself off.

“Did I what?”

Charles waved a hand. “Never mind. I’ll see you out back.”

“OK, hon.” She touched his shoulder and headed for the stairs.

Cocaine high in overdrive, Charles marched down the hall toward the library.

13

Zack stood in the middle of the library, his hip hitting the circular table. “What do we do?”

“By thunder, here he comes!” The spider, who had been on top of the table, jumped for a half-full bookshelf. He hid behind the last three volumes of an encyclopedia set.

Charles Theuriau stormed into the library. Zack met the horror writer’s bloodshot eyes. Something was off. It was almost as if the Frenchman looked through him.

Charles muttered in French. He scanned the room.

Basildon crawled out from the bookcase and hopped on the table. “Whew, close one, I say. I do not believe he can see us anymore.”

Zack kept his eyes on Charles. “How come he saw us out in the hallway?”

“I do not know. Only children below the age of five can see us. Perhaps his drug use coupled with awakening from a deep slumber caused the aberration.”

Zack smirked. “So he can’t see us anymore?”

“’Tis appears to be the case.”

Charles strode around the table, his heavy breathing reeking of halitosis. He reached the doorway and trod into the hallway.

“Time for a little fun,” Zack said.

Once Charles was out of sight, Zack slammed the library door. The punk rocker heard the horror writer scream and run down the stairs.

Zack laughed.

“Good one, sir,” Basildon said.

14

About nine o’clock that evening, the party guests arrived, most of them flooding into the backyard. About three-quarters of them seemed to be friends of Catherine’s, with the rest either acquaintances or colleagues of Charles’, Zack observed.

Zack and Basildon were in a corner of the tent. Basildon sat on top of an upright-rectangular, plastic, dark-brown cooler that contained Long Island Iced Tea. Zack stood next to the cooler, which was on a wooden table. He locked his hands behind his head and did one of his favorite pastimes. People-watching.

The tent was jam-packed with boozers and schmoozers. So many people were in here, the temperature rose a few degrees because of an overabundance of body heat. Zack surmised more partygoers would have stayed out by the pool and patio if it weren’t drizzling.

Most of the guests appeared to be either celebrities or worker bees in the entertainment industry.

At the buffet were Clive Barker and his family talking with Poppy Z. Brite. Zack recognized the former and only knew the latter’s name because she, like almost all of the guests, wore a name tag.

By the tent entrance, Charles seemed to have recovered from his run-in with Zack and Basildon. The Frenchman was talking to a bored Englishman with hollow eyes and a long droopy face, whose name tag read James Herbert.

Near the middle of the tent, Catherine sat at a round, wooden table draped in yellow linen. She talked animatedly with three women. Their name tags identified them as Jayne Ann Krentz, Sandra Brown and Danielle Steele. Zack knew Steele was a romance writer—he assumed the other two were as well. He enjoyed watching the four of them converse. They seemed happy, content and comfortable with one another.

Zack’s attention moved to Catherine’s daughter. Melissa sat in a part of the tent where it was dark thanks to a nearby blown-out droplight and the extinguished candle on her table. Audrey Tautou spoke to Melissa, trying to cheer up the teenager. Zack recognized the French woman from the movie Amélie. Had the actress played herself in that whimsical film? After all, most people attend parties to have fun, not to take on a charity case.

Tautou left the table, taking her glass and Melissa’s, both of which were empty; Zack assumed the actress was leaving to refill their drinks. As soon as Tautou disappeared into the crowd, Melissa quit glaring down at her lacy black dress—she played with the hem—and bolted out of the tent. Tautou returned a moment too late. The actress twirled around, eyes searching the crowd, a frown forming on her angelic face. Predictably, a man approached her. He took one of the drinks and his other arm wrapped around her shoulders, guiding her into the crowd. Was he her manager? Boyfriend?

Zack said to Basildon, “I got a bad feeling ’bout Melissa. I’m gonna follow her. You coming?”

“Sure, why not. Nothing terribly exciting going on here, I’m afraid.”

15

Melissa retreated to her room. She lay on her bed, head sandwiched between her pillows. Her bedroom smelled of dirty laundry. The hamper in her bathroom overflowed. No matter. The maid was coming in tomorrow.

Melissa tried to cry but couldn’t. She was too depressed.

Every afternoon, it was getting harder and harder to crawl out of bed. Melissa slept thirteen hours a day. And when not snoozing, she watched TV. It didn’t matter what aired, as long as it distracted her to postpone thoughts of suicide.

Is this what the rest of life was going to be like? Each day gloomier than the previous. It was too much to bear: the hum inside her heart, the lump always in the back of her throat.

Melissa knew she should go into therapy, but last week, when she tried broaching the subject to her parents after dinner, her mother said they would talk later because she had to give an interview to Arabella Magazine. And her stepfather didn’t even respond. He was too busy writing on a napkin the draft of his umpteenth letter to Stephen King to help him get published by a major book house.

Stupid parents. All they care about are their stupid careers.

Melissa jumped out of bed and marched for her bathroom. She was going to do it this time.

Not bothering to turn on the bathroom light, Melissa knew by touch the location of the item she needed. She yanked open the mirror to the medicine cabinet, but did it with such force, the mirror bounced back, catching on the latch. She opened it again and grabbed the bottle of sleeping pills and dumped into her palm at least fifty capsules. Tears collected on her eyelashes.

Melissa returned to her bedroom, but something strange happened. Her hand jerked.

The pills rained onto her plush, pink carpet.

16

Zack stood at the foot of Melissa’s bed, waiting to see how the teenager would react to his slapping the pills out of her hand. She reeled rearward. Her back was now planted against the bathroom doorway.

Basildon sat on the bureau. “By thunder, what in the deuce have you done?” He pulled his stovepipe hat over his head. “I daresay our fortunes shall change drastically.”

“What are you babbling about?” Zack said. But before Basildon could answer, Zack dropped to his knees, the lamp on the nightstand vibrating, and started moving the blue pills on the carpet to form a word.

“Please,” Basildon said, hat no longer over his face, “I beg you, please reconsider before you write a message to that young lady.”

“Oh, pipe down, Rub A Dub Dub. Do me a favor. Turn on that lamp.”

Basildon did as requested. The lamplight illuminated the word Zack had written out with the sleeping pills:

LIVE

“Oh dear,” Basildon said, “oh my, oh dear.”

“That’s supposed to be live, as in ‘live your life,’ not ‘live from New York.’ Know what I’m sayin’?”

The second Zack finished his explanation, Melissa’s fingers tapped her cheeks, then she hurdled over the bed and ran out of the room.

“So,” Zack said to Basildon, “do ya think I scared the suicide out of her?”

17

A few hours later, Zack sat at the top of the staircase leading to the second floor of the Theuriau mansion. His right elbow rested on a bent knee, head leaning on the knuckles of his closed, right hand.

After Melissa had fled out of the house, she ran into Sandra Brown and Jayne Ann Krentz. The two romance writers were sympathetic to the teenager’s ramblings. Zack watched it from the window in Catherine’s office (it had stopped raining). Brown and Krentz led Melissa into the tent.

It was now 2 a.m. The party had broken up over an hour ago. A few stragglers wandered around downstairs, but they weren’t why Zack had a dismayed look on his face. He was shocked because of something he saw in a bedroom across the hall from the library, the one packed with Catherine and Charles’ books.

The bedroom could have been designed by Hugh Hefner and Traci Lords. Over the queen, heart-shaped water bed—on the ceiling—had been a mirror. From the walls had been hooks and bars holding whips, chains, nipple clenchers, rolls of electric tape and leather masks with zipper mouths. Suspended from each corner of the ceiling, strobe lights had filled the room with all the colors of a perverted rainbow. The stereo by the door had played R&B ballads, the bass turned up loud enough to give Barry White a boner.

On the water bed, Catherine had sported a black-and-red dominatrix outfit with stiletto, diamond heels. Also, she donned a fluorescent blue strap-on. Despite the flashing strobe lights, her dildo had glistened with the sheen of Vaseline.

But what had made Zack flee from the room was Catherine kneeling over the naked, chained-up Charles to urinate in his mouth.

Zack shivered. The memory of the Theuriau golden shower still sickened him. Gross.

To help erase that twisted sex act from his mind, Zack descended the stairs and turned left. He ambled down the hallway adjacent from the one featuring the framed, poster-size book covers of Catherine’s and Charles’ works. Zack had never been down this hallway. He wondered what it contained and where it led. Couldn’t tell at the moment. The only light was at the end of the hallway, about 150 yards away.

The light went out. No, wait. It was still on. Somebody blocked it.

“Mr. Zack Fury. I have been informed that you have been incredulously noncompliant.”

That voice sounded familiar. Zack walked toward the voice. The punk rocker squinted, careful to walk up the center of the hallway, so he didn’t bang into anything valuable on the walls.

The man at the end of the hallway clapped his hands together. “It is going to give me great satisfaction to discipline you, Mr. Fury.”

Who the hell was that? It couldn’t be Charles; he was upstairs performing the role of passive spouse. It wasn’t Basildon, was it? Maybe playing with a trick of the light and making his voice sound as if he were from the upper northeastern corridor of the—

Zack knew who it was. “You.”

“Yes.”

The man—no longer a stranger—quit blocking the light. He strode toward Zack. The punk rocker picked up pace. Soon, he was nose to nose with the man he hated since their first meeting.

Doctor Prescott Rosenthal.

18

“Have any boulders land on your leg recently?” Zack quipped.

“Why, yes, there have,” replied Rosenthal, whose white lab coat was ripped at the top of the right sleeve. “However, if anything, the experience has only made me stronger.”

“Well, goody-goody gumdrops for you.”

Rosenthal harrumphed like a displeased plantation owner and turned on his heel. Zack followed him into the room with the light on. It was a library the size of a high school basketball court. Seventy-five percent of the shelves were packed with books, magazines and newspapers. Both of the cherry-wood tables in here had green desk lamps, the kind you might find in a law library.

“Sit,” Rosenthal said.

“Say, you’re not a Republican, are you?”

“As a matter of fact, I was.”

“Yeah, see,” Zack said, “I trust Republicans about as much as having pedophile serial killers over for dinner, so I’ll just stand.”

Rosenthal licked his teeth, his lips remaining closed. “As you wish.”

Rosenthal, who no longer wore glasses, walked over to a nearby rolling ladder and stood on the sixth step. Zack smiled and shook his head. Just like an upper-crusty asshole, establishing dominance.

“Threnody is extremely displeased with your efforts,” Rosenthal said. “The one chance you had to encourage Miss Melissa Theuriau to commit suicide, instead of clamping that handful of pills into her mouth and forcing her to swallow, you knocked the pills out of her hand. A grievous mistake, Mr. Fury.”

“Blah, blah, blah, or should I say: wah, wah, wah.” Zack pretended to cry.

“Do not make light of a serious situation, Mr. Fury.”

“Why, what are you going to do, not accept my insurance?”

Rosenthal’s face shaded pink. “You should look at your new position as an opportunity. My Knopf has informed me that the chance of advancement—”

“Your Knopf? Who, the one who had its tongue up your ass?”

“He is now my overseer. Under his supervision, I have delivered one hundred mordavers to the New Arrival Field.”

“Hold up,” Zack said. “Are you telling me that since you’ve been working for Threnody and the Knopfs, you’ve convinced one hundred people to kill themselves?”

Rosenthal placed a hand on one of his white lab coat’s lapels. “I am proud of my performance. Threnody congratulated me personally due to the majority of the mordavers I delivered being healthy and of warrior spirit.”

“You sick shit! Do you know what you’re doing? Besides doing something wrong like making people kill themselves, you’re helping Threnody and the Bantams.”

Rosenthal beamed. “My Knopf has informed that with each mordaver I deliver to Threnody, I am one step closer to securing my future.”

Zack leaned on one of the tables. “What do you think it’ll be like if Threnody wins?”

“No more wars, poverty, struggle. . . .”

Rosenthal leapt off the ladder. He placed a hand on each of Zack’s shoulders. The punk rocker flinched.

“Join us,” Rosenthal said.

“Fuck off.”

“I see being under Anubis and Medusa’s thumbs hasn’t improved your vocabulary.”

“Yeah, well, at least I’m not a—”

Zack’s wisecrack was interrupted by Rosenthal’s forehead flashing toward him.

19

Rosenthal head-butted Zack. The punk rocker’s back slammed onto a library table, and he rolled around on it, knocking over one of the lamps.

“Auggh,” Zack said, “you fuckin’ cock-knocker!” He fell off the table.

With little effort, Rosenthal jumped up onto the table, his lab coat billowing behind him. “Care to restate your answer, Mr. Fury.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ!” Zack’s hand covered his forehead. He lay in a fetal position. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“I am of sound body and sane mind.” Rosenthal’s penny loafers click-clacked on the table. “You, on the other hand, appear intent to remain on the losing team. It is my task to reverse that course of thought.”

Zack sat up. Head uncovered, he blinked. “You’re off your fuckin’ rocker. I’ve talked to manic-depressive crack whores who make more sense than you, you fuckin’ upper-class kook.”

Rosenthal hopped off the table and crashed onto Zack’s lap. The punk rocker, who had been sitting up on his elbows, crashed back down. The ophthalmologist formed two fists and—with the force of a boxer in his prime—hit Zack in the head, the right punch landing on his left temple and the left punch whacking his right cheek. Rosenthal felt the forces of the punches ripple up his arms to his collarbone. He chuckled.

Zack kicked Rosenthal off of him. The ophthalmologist gave the punk rocker that riposte. He could have fought it, but why bother. He had the upper hand.

Rosenthal tackled Zack. The two went tumbling out into the hallway. They stood up simultaneously. The punk rocker grabbed the ophthalmologist by the sleeves and threw him against the wall. The movement knocked the wind out of Rosenthal. Lying on his side on the Oriental carpet, he watched Zack limp down the hall to the foyer.

20

Breathing labored, Zack stumbled through the foyer. He paused at the front of the hallway that led to the kitchen. The Theuriau family was at the top of the stairs. Melissa sported yellow-and-blue, polyester pajamas, while Charles and Catherine each wore a silk bathrobe. The parents’ stench of sex and Vaseline was potent.

Zack knew none of the Theuriaus saw him. Their eyes were in the direction of the downstairs library. They jabbered in French. Charles disappeared and returned with a rifle. He cocked it.

Rosenthal strutted up the hallway. “Come back here, Mr. Fury! I’m not finished with you yet!”

Zack fled toward the kitchen. Gotta hide. A little rest was all he needed before fighting Rosenthal again. He felt some of his energy returning as the wounds on his face healed. How come I’m tired? I thought I wasn’t supposed to get tired or energetic. Maybe it’s ’cause I’m back on Earth.

Zack heard a rifle blast followed by Catherine speaking frantically in French and Melissa screaming soprano. Did they see Rosenthal, maybe his shadow? Or was Charles antsy for some ammunition action?

Zack couldn’t resist the temptation to stop and examine the drama in the foyer. He had a clear view, since he was only ten yards down the hallway.

The front door banged open. The bodyguard and the chauffeur held automatic weapons. They shouted at the Theuriaus. Rosenthal waltzed in front of the chauffeur, grabbed his pistol and shot Charles. The horror writer dropped the rifle, clutched his stomach and tumbled down the stairs. Melissa shrieked. Catherine picked up the rifle and fired. The chauffeur fell to the floor. Another rifle blast. Flooring at the bottom of the stairs ripped up chunks of tile. A cloud of dust rose.

“Mr. Fury!” Rosenthal’s voice boomed. He reached the mouth of the hallway that led to the kitchen.

Fuck, Zack thought. He jogged down the hall.

Upon entering the kitchen, Zack saw an object on the counter. What was it doing there? Who cares. He swiped it up and stepped off to the side.

Rosenthal ran into the kitchen. Zack bounded out of his hiding spot—to the side of the refrigerator—and brandished the tool he had picked up off the counter. It was a handheld gardening cultivator with five finger-like prongs, the middle one sticking out the furthest.

Zack sliced the air with the cultivator. It made a whiffling sound that caused Rosenthal to shrink back and trip over his own feet. The ophthalmologist slammed to the floor so hard, the nearby oven door plunked open.

Rosenthal attempted to scramble to his feet, but Zack stomped on his thigh. The ophthalmologist cried out, his back and skull thumping on the black tile. Zack squatted over Rosenthal’s hips.

“I know this’ll heal,” Zack said, “but I take pleasure in that it’ll hurt anyway.”

“No!” Rosenthal went to raise his hands, but Zack slapped them aside.

Zack throttled the cultivator into Rosenthal’s face, the middle prong digging into the ophthalmologist’s right eye. Rosenthal’s limbs quivered as if undergoing shock treatment. Blood gushed from the ophthalmologist’s eye socket, staining the right side of his face. The punk rocker sneered, his arm muscles twitching from exertion. The other four cultivator prongs ripped into Rosenthal’s nose and cheeks.

“Take that, you jerk-off!” Zack gave the cultivator one final push, then jumped up and kicked Rosenthal in the groin.

Basildon entered the kitchen from the den. “I say, what is the cause of all this hubbub?” The spider cringed at Rosenthal thrashing on the floor, his one foot banging against a cabinet.

“My word,” Basildon said, “did you do this?”

Zack nodded. “He fucking attacked me. Asshole.” He wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand.

Rosenthal sprang up. Cultivator hanging from his socket, he screamed and tackled Zack. They landed on the kitchen table. It collapsed. The table’s sugar jar, napkin holder, and salt and pepper shakers flew up into the air. The contents of the sugar jar sprinkled Zack’s nose and mouth. He flapped his lips and blew his nose while scrambling to stand up. He focused in time to catch Rosenthal racing toward him, the ophthalmologist hunched over like a mad scientist’s assistant.

21

Melissa, her mother and the family’s bodyguard stood at the edge of the kitchen. The sixteen-year-old surveyed the damage. It would have shocked her if she had not just seen the deaths of her stepfather and the family’s chauffeur. She still wasn’t sure how it happened. Everything occurred in a blur.

“Oh my God!” Catherine said.

Melissa couldn’t believe it. The kitchen window was breaking, glass showering the patio. It was as if somebody crashed through the window from inside the kitchen. But that wasn’t possible, was it?

The bodyguard motioned for Melissa and Catherine to stay in the kitchen. He opened the back door and crept toward the patio.

Melissa jerked and squealed.

Catherine took Melissa’s hand. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Something touched my ankle!” Melissa hugged her mother and balanced on one leg, her hand wrapped around her violated ankle.

22

Basildon heard Melissa seek her mother’s comfort because of his brushing past her ankle. It couldn’t have been avoided. He had raced across the kitchen in order to witness the tussle between Zack and Rosenthal.

Vaulting through the smashed kitchen window, Basildon held onto his stovepipe hat. He landed on a cushiony patio chair and hopped to the top of a table’s umbrella to view the two mordavers.

Zack had his hands around Rosenthal’s neck. How successful the punk rocker was at strangling the ophthalmologist was anybody’s guess. However, it soon became a moot point.

Rosenthal forced the two of them into the deep end of the pool. Chlorine-smelling water splashed in Basildon’s direction. Yelping, he skirted out of the way.

The Rescue

1

Melody Holiday inhaled. It was dark and dank in here. She reached up. Air engulfed her hand. Not again, she thought. Wriggling, she reached for the surface.

“Ahhhh,” Melody said. Her head, chest and arms were no longer submerged.

I can’t believe it worked. She was in a den. Ahead was a vast entertainment center; to the left, a laundry room; and to the right, a stairwell.

Melody reached down for the carpet and pulled the rest of her body out from between two couch cushions. She thought how peculiar the sight might seem: a brown-skin Australian dressed up like a Roman legionary, crawling out between a back cushion and a seat cushion. But Anubis had warned her that transporting to Earth—even temporarily—wasn’t without its glitches.

On her hands and knees in the Theuriau den, in front of the wide-screen TV, Melody felt more nauseated than the time she and Sean had gone bungee jumping. She knew part of the reason she felt so nauseated was because, unlike in Holcyon, time passed here.

Melody’s stomach rumbled. She retched. Bile sprayed out of her nose and mouth.

“Gross,” Melody said as she turned over to lie on her back, coughing a couple of times. She noticed the cushions she had crawled through were still in place. Made sense, since they were stitched to the couch.

Have to hurry. Melody clambered to her feet. Not much time. She ignored the fact that she was right-handed again, not left-handed as in Holcyon.

Shooting and splashing.

Melody looked out the bay windows. A man was shooting into the in-ground pool. Two figures splashed in the pool, fistfighting. In the background stood a large party tent. A handful of people exited it, but didn’t approach the commotion at the pool.

Melody dashed up the den steps. In the kitchen, a teenager and an older woman (her mother?) cowered under an archway.

“Hi,” Melody said. She scowled at herself. They couldn’t hear her. She was a ghost.

The kitchen door was open. Melody went outside. Between the tent and the pool, a rottweiler barked at the excitement, its chain jangling.

“Greetings and salutations,” said a British voice.

Melody drew back. Who said that?

“Down here, miss.”

Melody looked down at a circular patio table. There sat an eleven-inch-high spider removing a stovepipe hat from its head. “Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Basildon.” The spider returned the hat to his head.

“Uh . . . um . . . uh . . . nice to meet you.”

Firing of a handgun, echoing. Melody covered her ears. The man with the pistol shot again at the two people duking it out in the shallow end of the pool. Wait, one of them was Zack! And his opponent was Doctor Rosenthal.

Zack nestled his shoulders in a corner of the pool and planted a foot on Rosenthal’s chest. He pushed the ophthalmologist away. The punk rocker climbed out of the pool. Melody observed the guy with the gun fixating on Zack. He must have been able to see the punk rocker because of the water dripping off his body. She scooped up an ashtray off the table and flung it like a discus, butts and ashes spinning everywhere. The ashtray hit the gunner’s thumb. He cried out and dropped the pistol into the pool.

Plop.

Basildon cleared his throat and addressed Melody. “You do realize that if the gentleman had shot Zachary, the gunshot would have healed.”

Melody nodded impatiently. “I know, but I don’t want him injured anymore than he already is for the trip back.”

“I say, where do you plan on taking him?”

“Back to Holcyon.” Melody noted she was so stressed and tense, her words were running into one another.

“My dear lady, why in the deuce do you wish to return him to Holcyon?”

“We need him.”

“Pray tell—”

Melody interrupted the spider. “Excuse me.” She picked up the glass top of the patio table. Basildon slid off it, protesting all the way. She held the three-foot-wide obscured glass over her head and hurried across the patio.

The former gunner recoiled, obviously frightened by the sight of table glass levitating through the air.

Melody grunted and threw the glass into the pool toward Rosenthal, whose waist was at the waterline.

THWACK!

The table glass landed on Rosenthal’s head. His knees must have buckled, Melody thought, because his body tilted sideways. The glass crashed into the water, pushing him underwater.

Melody rushed around the former gunner. She grabbed Zack’s arm. “Come on, we don’t have much time!”

“Yo, where the—”

Melody didn’t give Zack a chance to finish. She yanked him toward the house. They passed Basildon.

“By thunder,” Basildon said to Melody, “aren’t you a little spitfire!”

The kitchen door was closed and locked. Melody, cursing, jammed a fist through the pane of glass closest to the knob. She reached in to unlock the dead bolt. The teenager and middle-age woman hugged each other, the former’s teeth chattering. Melody glared at them, guiding Zack to the den—Basildon on their heels.

2

Zack held Melody’s hand. She rumbled down the carpeted stairs to the den, taking two steps at a time. When they reached the den, she let go of his hand.

Standing between the couch and the entertainment center, Zack rubbed his side in an attempt to get rid of a cramp. He took deep breaths through his mouth. In the distance, he heard police sirens.

Melody paced the length of the den, as if looking for a lost item. She kneeled in front of the couch, separating cushions with her hands.

Having caught his breath, Zack asked, “What’cha doing?”

“Looking for a way out. Anubis said it would be different from the way I came in.” Melody’s head dug between a seat cushion and a back cushion. “I hope we didn’t miss the window.” She stood up. “Can you imagine if we got stuck here, you and Doctor Rosenthal fighting all the time? The people who own this place would probably think there’s a poltergeist here or something.”

“I think Threnody and a bunch of Bantams and Knopfs would stop by before any of that happened.”

“Who’s Threnody?”

Zack didn’t answer. He gaped at the bay windows. Outside, Rosenthal leapt out of the pool. He removed the garden cultivator from his eye and cocked his head to the left, to the right and to the left again. Cracking his neck?

“What’s wrong?” Melody said. She looked out the window. “Uh-oh.”

Rosenthal stalked across the patio like a fatigued but persistent zombie.

“Fuck him,” Zack said. “There’s three of us and only one of him.”

“Actually,” said Basildon, who was on an end table, “I regret to report that I shall be of no assistance to either of you. I’d rather not get involved in this violent mess. In addition, in view of the fact that I am a jester of his highness’ court, there’s a conflict of interest, you see.” He curled his legs under his body and settled between a candle and a box of tissues.

“Well,” Zack said, “two of us, then. And look at you!” He spoke to Melody. “All decked out like a Roman soldier. Who’s gonna mess with someone that can crucify ’em at any second?”

Zack stopped joking. Upstairs, Rosenthal crashed into the kitchen. The Theuriau women screamed. Frenzied footsteps. Those two running out of the room?

“Fury,” Rosenthal called, “I’m coming for you and that little cunt-slut who threw the tabletop into the pool! You hear me?”

“Oh dear, oh my, oh dear,” Basildon muttered from his alcove on the end table.

Rosenthal started down the stairs. He took his time, his shadow stretching into the den with the menace of a burglarizing rapist.

Melody entered the laundry room and exited with an iron, cord wrapped around its sides, but the plug dangled, so she tucked it into her palm. She assumed the stance of a baseball pitcher.

Zack was going to suggest they flee out the back door (buy themselves some time), when a loud crack, like a thunderbolt, filled the room.

The ceiling peeled back to reveal the faces of Anubis, Medusa and Timor—ten times their normal size. A bright, white light served as a backdrop. The Egyptian god’s hand swooped down, scooping up Zack, Melody and Basildon. The punk rocker tried stealing a glance of Rosenthal, but Anubis’ arm blocked his view.

Afterlife Battlefield

1

Melody, Zack and Basildon slid off Anubis’ King Kong-size hand. She whipped around. Anubis, Medusa and Timor were normal size, but the Roman god was ducking out of the tent.

Melody realized she, Zack and Basildon were sitting on the ground. Medusa helped her up. Anubis gave Zack a hand. Basildon adjusted his stovepipe hat, which had shifted down, blinding him.

“Mission accomplished?” Anubis said amiably.

Melody nodded. “Uh . . . sure.” She regained composure. “What happened?”

Medusa said, “The portal to Holcyon was supposed to be the television screen, however, an unknown disturbance made the path unstable. Consequently, we had to take matters into our own hands, so to speak.”

“Do you think the Bantams and Knopfs’ leader was causing the interference?” Melody asked.

“Unquestionably,” Anubis said.

“Yeah,” Zack interjected, “fuckin’ Threnody.”

Anubis, Medusa and Melody gave Zack a collective blank stare.

“He, or it—whatever you wanna call ’im—is the turkey pulling the Bantams and Knopfs’ strings. He’s one of those little gray aliens. You believe that shit?”

“Threnody, you say.” Anubis rubbed his chin.

“Uh-huh,” Zack said. “Just ask Basildon. He knows all about it.”

Basildon blushed, removing his hat. “I beg your pardon to be excused from this line of inquiry. Alas, I prefer not to involve meself in such political affairs. A humble, hapless entertainer is all I am.”

Anubis snapped his fingers. “Sit.”

“Well, if you insist. Guess I better loosen the old vocal cords, eh? I say, you wouldn’t happen to have any tea on hand, would you? No? Ah, no bother. So what would you like to know about his highness?”

2

After Anubis and Medusa’s lengthy interrogation of Basildon, Zack knew more about Threnody than he cared to. Apparently, the alien reigned over a universe near this one. Anubis explained to Zack and Melody that there were an infinite number of universes, each one run by a different omnipotent being. None of these beings ruled over the others. Threnody wanted to change that. He had already taken over one universe; he now had his bug eyes on this one.

Zack and Melody left the command tent. Anubis and Medusa wanted to talk with Basildon a little more.

Zack and Melody walked down an aisle between two rows of tents. They went a few feet until the punk rocker swayed. He leaned over toward a nearby stack of shields for support.

“What’s wrong?” Melody asked. She placed a hand under Zack’s arm.

“Fuckin’ dizzy,” Zack answered.

“It’s because you’re back in Holcyon after all that time on Earth. It’ll pass.”

Zack doubled over. The light-headedness faded away. He righted himself. “Hey, you’re right. I feel fine.”

Melody let go of Zack’s arm. “Never doubt the wisdom of an Australian aboriginal.”

“I’ve learned my lesson.” Zack warbled his voice like an insecure teenager: “Please don’t hurt me.”

They started walking again.

“Hey,” Zack said, “how did youse know where I was?”

“Oh, Anubis and Medusa had this orb they meditated over. It showed exactly where you were in eastern France.”

“Cool.” Zack stopped and stood on his tiptoes. He heard an odd sound, but couldn’t see its source. “What the hell is that?”

“I better show you.”

Melody led Zack down to the end of the aisle. The sound got louder. Reminded him of an angry Ozzfest audience on a sweltering summer afternoon. Melody hopped up on a ridge. Zack did as well.

“What the. . . ?” Zack felt the dizziness returning in a double dose.

Down below was a battlefield more horrifying than anything out of a book, film or painting Zack had ever read, watched or saw. On the ground, thousands of mordavers fought Knopfs with swords, bows and arrows, as well as with their hands. Up in the air, symkeys on tarantulas clashed with Bantams. And in the distance, over the horizon, was a yellow-white glow.

“What’s that,” Zack asked, pointing at the glow, “the sun?”

Melody shook her head. “The Nexus.”

Zack squinted, trying to make it out.

“Come on.” Melody tapped Zack’s elbow. “Let’s get you suited up.”

3

Zack sat in a tent in the middle of the camp. The noise of the battlefield was audible but muffled because of the closed tent flaps.

A nonagenarian man helped Zack into his soldier outfit. The punk rocker was naked, except for his underwear. The old man shuffled over with chain mail shaped in the form of boxer shorts.

“Here, put this on.”

Zack took the chain mail, but hesitated. The old man (with one eye always squeezed shut) said, “It’s made of a tough material that makes it tougher for the Knopfs to suck the soul out of you. Hopefully, you’ll be able to knock the Knopf away, or—at the very least—have a comrade come to your aid.”

“OK.” Zack slid the chain mail over his Fruit of the Looms. Oddly, the chain mail was snug and comfortable. Felt like silk.

“I’m Zack, by the way.”

“Isaac,” the old man said.

Isaac dug out from a burlap sack a maroon tunic. Zack wiggled into it. The thin fabric fell to the middle of his thighs.

“No pants?” Zack asked.

Isaac shook his head. “Anubis, Medusa and Timor found they were too constricting.”

“But isn’t it easier for us to get all cut up in this getup?”

Isaac shook his head again. He frowned, the insides of his scabby, ruby lips showing. “You need the freedom to move around. The Knopfs are quite quick. Not to mention the Bantams, who swoosh down every once in a while.”

“Is that why we don’t wear armor like a knight?”

“You don’t want to wear that bulk. It weighs you down too much.”

“OK,” Zack said.

Isaac handed over a pair of sandals. Zack slipped them on. Their straps left his ankles bare but crisscrossed around the bottom quarter of his calves.

Next, Isaac lifted a cuirass from a crate. He fastened it on Zack. It covered his shoulders and ended at the top of his hips. The old man adjusted the hooks on the front, tightening the armor.

Zack waved his arms around. “Mama, I can’t breathe!”

Isaac’s pale face went even whiter.

“Just kidding.” Zack kissed his fingertips and rose his hand up in the air like Arsenio Hall. “I’d like to send that inferior imitation out to Raj and the whole What’s Happening? gang—whatever car show they’re signing autographs at.”

Isaac turned to the pile of supplies.

“Can I ask you something?” Zack said.

“Serious?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Depends.” Isaac’s hunched back faced Zack.

“Why are you here?”

“Because I killed myself.” Isaac approached with a helmet.

“I know. I mean. . . .” Zack took the helmet. Its sides exposed his ears but covered his cheeks. There was no plume like on Melody’s.

“This is gonna sound blunt”—Zack wiped a perspiring palm on his tunic—“but I can’t come up with a way to sugarcoat it.”

“Go ahead.”

Zack inhaled. “You’re kinda old. Couldn’t you held out and died of natural causes?”

“But I did die of natural causes. At least that’s what my death certificate says.”

“Huh?”

“I had colon cancer but died of a heart attack,” Isaac said. “For most of my life, I was either full of anger or felt sorry for myself. I never had the courage to change. All those years of bad thoughts eventually affected my health.”

“Wow,” Zack mumbled.

“You’ll find mordavers like myself here. People with negative mind-sets whose bodies eventually bottomed out.”

Zack became silent.

Isaac picked up a tunic that had fallen to the floor. He folded it and said, “On your way out, you may want to pick up a javelin and shield.

“Good luck.”

4

In the command tent, Anubis stretched the map of the Nexus across the wooden table. He leaned over the map and tapped his snout with his ankh.

“We need a new strategy,” Medusa said.

“I know,” Anubis said. “Timor, any thoughts?”

Timor shrugged. “I’m fresh out of ideas.”

Anubis nodded. His mind drifted to Melody, when she had stormed into the tent, begging him to rescue Zack. Anubis agreed for several reasons, the most important being they needed as many bodies as possible. Of course, the rescue proved worth the effort, with Basildon’s information on Threnody. Fortunately for the mordaver army, Holcyon limited Threnody’s omnipotent powers to the point where he could only dispense orders to the Knopfs and the Bantams.

“We need to do something—anything,” Medusa said. “Soon we’ll be outnumbered two-to-one.”

Anubis nodded. If that happened, not only would they be unable to protect the Nexus, but the Knopfs and the Bantams could invade the camp.

Anubis dropped his ankh and met Medusa’s stare. “We only need to defend the Nexus for a little longer.” His left ear twitched. “How many mordavers have not seen battle yet?”

“About two hundred.”

“I would prefer to have double that number, but we shall make due with the two hundred. I want you and Hayata to lead an phalanx into the battlefield, five mordavers to a row. . . .”

5

Zack exited the tent, javelin and shield in hand. Melody greeted him with a wan smile.

“Ready?” Melody said.

“Ready, Freddy.”

They marched down the aisle. Zack’s large rectangular shield seemed to get lighter by the footstep. He noticed Melody didn’t carry a javelin, but attached to her cuirass was a sword in a sheath.

The two of them continued up the aisle between two rows of tents. The din of the battlefield got louder. Very young and old mordavers passed by them. Zack assumed they were too feeble to fight in battle. Probably stuck here in camp, running errands.

Zack and Melody proceeded around a bend. They froze. She reached for her sword. The sound of screaming and whooshing filled the air.

“Holy fuck,” Zack whispered.

A tarantula and its symkey flew overhead, twirling around like a shot-down plane. In unison, Zack and Melody ducked, even though the flying arachnid was twenty feet up in the air.

The tarantula screeched. In pain? Panic?

Zack listened to the tarantula crash. The ground shook. He and Melody staggered but didn’t fall. A rope sailed through the air. Did the tarantula smash into a tent?

Melody seized Zack’s wrist. “Oh my God! Do you think anybody was hurt?”

“I don’t know,” Zack said.

Voices shouting, feet running. A makeshift EMT team seemed to be on the way.

“Come on!” Melody said, releasing Zack’s wrist.

Zack and Melody broke into a run, but after a few feet, they skidded to a stop.

Blocking their path was a Bantam. Zack knew it wasn’t one of the two who had guarded Threnody’s throne. This one did have bleach-blond hair, ashen skin, black eyes and shiny, black leather that covered everything except the neck and head. But it differed from Threnody’s guards by having broad shoulders and the bulk of a sumo wrestler turned defensive tackle.

Melody drew her sword from its sheath, sounding like a match striking flint. Zack gripped his javelin, not sure how much good it would do.

The Bantam smirked. Not surprising to Zack, it was the same type of joy found on the faces of conceited politicians and British aristocrats.

The tall and large Bantam brought up its right hand. It held a tarantula leg, colored tan and brown, measuring three feet. Probably from the tarantula that just crashed, Zack thought.

Peripherally, Zack saw Melody inch her sword backward. Intending to strike? But she didn’t. Her hands slackened, the tip of her sword dipping down. Revulsion filled her face.

The Bantam bit into the tarantula leg. Craaack. The angel slurped down cartilage. Tarantula bristles clung to the Bantam’s lips.

“Man,” Zack said, “you’re one sick sonofabitch.”

The Bantam threw its snack down and shrieked like a hawk.

“Can it understand English?” Melody asked.

“Who the fuck knows,” Zack said. “Ready?”

Melody gulped and nodded.

They sprang forward. The Bantam spread its feet twenty inches apart and bent its knees. It shrieked again.

Zack sucked on a corner of his mouth. He probably only had one good stab of the javelin. Gotta make it worthwhile.

The Bantam stretched its arms toward the two mordavers and flicked its wrists back, fingers and thumbs curled into the palms.

Melody swung her sword at the Bantam’s left knee. The angel leapt five feet into the air, its humongous white wings unfolding from its back. Its hands were no longer in the tae kwon do position; they hung at hip level.

Zack cast his javelin. Yes! The javelin pierced the center of the Bantam’s right wing. The angel twisted its head around, tongue wagging in agony.

The Bantam crashed to the ground behind Zack and Melody. They whipped around. The angel’s wings were still extended. The appendages knocked down two tents. No one seemed to be inside either of the tents. The canvasses collapsed, sending puffs of air in the mordavers’ direction. Zack blinked and turned his head away for a moment.

Growling, the Bantam reached for the javelin lodged in its wing. Zack wondered if the angel berated itself for having been such an open target. It yanked out the javelin. A few feathers floated to the ground.

Melody skipped forward. Zack stepped out of the way. She brought her sword down. Faster than the Flash, the Bantam twirled the javelin around, then—with a hand near each end of the javelin—it blocked Melody’s offense. She removed the sword from the vicinity of the angel and did something that impressed Zack. Her feet did a little dance. That distracted the Bantam enough for her to swing her sword again. But this time, she sliced up instead of down. Her blade smacked the underside of the javelin, taking the angel off-guard. The javelin whirled through the air in the direction where the tarantula had crash-landed.

The Bantam appeared unfazed by this development. It rose two fists, knuckles cracking.

Melody jumped forward, sword over her head. It proved her first foolish move. The Bantam kicked her in the chest. She flew rearward, bouncing into a tent rope. The tent did not topple. She landed face first on the hard dirt, her sword sliding under the tent.

The Bantam grinned, its chin almost touching its collarbone, shadowing its black eyes.

“All right,” Zack said. “Let’s go, you Aryan asshole.”

The Bantam jabbed its right fist. Zack held up his shield. The fist put a dent in the top of it. Undeterred, the punk rocker pushed forward. The angel punched the shield in a one-two staccato manner. Zack’s arm shook from the stress of holding the armor. Even though he pushed the Bantam back, the angel was putting up a good fight. Pretty soon the shield would be useless, nothing but a dented piece of metal.

Hey, Zack thought, how come the Bantam doesn’t fly away? Is its wing too fucked up? Or maybe it’s having too much fun whacking my shield.

Suddenly, Zack’s feet tripped up with the Bantam’s. They rolled on the ground, fists flying. Zack lost his shield and helmet.

The Bantam pinned Zack down. Its breath was cold and smelled like a freezer that hadn’t been defrosted in decades.

The Bantam’s head shot up. Someone stood a few feet away. Zack couldn’t see whom. The person said with a drawl, “Take that, you evil angel.”

An arrow shot from a bow. The Bantam hissed. Heat warmed Zack’s face. Instinctively, he closed his eyes and turned his head to the side. He felt the Bantam hop off his body. The overwhelming warmth passed. The punk rocker opened his eyes. He jerked in shock.

The arrow had landed in the Bantam’s mouth. But that wasn’t what astonished Zack. The arrowhead was a ball of fire. Flames rose up toward the Bantam’s nose and temples. The angel’s mouth was wide open, filled with fire. It appeared that around the arrowhead was a rag. This filled the Bantam’s mouth, causing its cheeks to expand. Zack wondered how far back the arrow rag went. To the angel’s tonsils?

The Bantam had been reeling back. It stopped and attempted to yank the arrow out of its mouth. The arrow snapped in half. Immediately, the flames from the head of the arrow traveled down the shaft. The angel bent over. To Zack, it looked as if the Bantam tried spitting out the aflame arrow.

Zack got to his feet. He saw the mordaver who had shot the fiery arrow was Mary Jane Baker.

“Brother Zachary,” Mary Jane said with a nod.

Zack didn’t return the greeting. He wanted to see what the Bantam was up to. “Whoa,” he said.

The Bantam had removed the arrow from its mouth. Extinguished, the arrow lay at its feet. The angel’s mouth remained open, wisps of smoke twirling out. The Bantam gazed at Zack and Mary Jane with weary hatred.

From the other end of the aisle, behind the Bantam, someone said, “There it is!”

Seven mordavers rushed forward. They each either held a flacon or a canteen.

“Hurry!” said another one of the septet.

They removed the stoppers from their flacons and unscrewed the caps from their canteens. Quicker than a wolf pack, they surrounded the Bantam.

The mordaver who had spoken first said, “One, two, three!”

The seven of them splashed the Bantam with the contents of their containers—a clear, gooey liquid. The angel dropped to its knees. Zack didn’t hear the Bantam scream, but it did raise its hands to ear level and wave in apparent pain.

A brushing on Zack’s arm. He saw Melody standing at his side, watching the seven mordavers empty their flacons and canteens on the Bantam.

“Holy shit,” Zack muttered.

The Bantam’s black uniform disintegrated. What the hell’s in those flacons and canteens, Zack thought, sulfuric acid?

A burly, ruddy mordaver tossed his empty canteen over his shoulder. He slammed a foot on the back of the Bantam’s neck. The angel slammed face first onto the ground. The mordavers ripped off pieces of the uniform that the liquid hadn’t dissolved. Once finished with the rear and sides, the mordavers kicked the Bantam over and worked on the front. Zack found it interesting that the angel had no nipples, navel, genitalia or body hair.

The Bantam appeared to have passed out, but Zack could see from his position of a dozen feet away, it was awake, eyes bulging out of the sockets.

The mordavers turned the Bantam back over onto its stomach. The burly one slid his sword from its sheath and knelt down to saw off the angel’s wings. As soon as the blade touched the base of the right wing, the Bantam reared to life by making an effort to stand. The other mordavers clamped down the angel’s limbs. The burly mordaver started sawing. No blood spurted, but cockroaches raced out from inside the Bantam’s body. None of the mordavers seemed alarmed. Zack soon found out why. The roaches scrambled only a few moments, after which they flipped onto their backs and crumbled to black ashes.

The burly mordaver stood up and wiped his sword on the flap of a nearby tent. He slid the sword back into its sheath. The other six mordavers got to their feet, one of them kicking aside the pair of detached wings. The septet stared at the Bantam. The angel panted, shoulders heaving.

“Is it dead?” Melody asked.

“I don’t know,” Zack said.

Four of the mordavers grabbed a limb each of the Bantam, picked it up and proceeded up the aisle, away from Zack, Melody and Mary Jane. Two mordavers stood on either side of the angel, and the burly one pulled up the rear.

“What the fuck just happened?” Zack asked.

Mary Jane handed Zack his helmet. “Y’all have witnessed how a Bantam is disabled.”

Melody said, “Like how the Knopfs can be injured but not killed?”

“Correct,” said Medusa, who undulated toward them. “The liquid that was sprayed on the Bantam is a concoction of Anubis’. It disintegrates the Bantam’s uniform, the main source of their awesome, brute strength. The uniform is part of their skin. It will grow back via their pores. That is the job the cockroaches perform inside the Bantam—their excrement seeps through the Bantam’s pores, creating a new uniform. It takes a while, though, long after we dispose of the Bantam from camp.”

“What about the wings?” Melody asked. “Will they grow back?”

“Of course,” Medusa said. “From what I understand, the regeneration of wings is a painful but quick process.”

“Man,” Zack said, “fuckin’ roaches for blood.” He shivered.

“Actually,” Medusa explained, “despite a Bantam assuming a humanoid form, its internal organs are quite different from yours and mine. It’s an intricate, complex system, in which the cockroaches play an integral part. For instance, they have a short life span but clone constantly.

“However, this is a discussion best saved for later. Right now, we need to protect the Nexus.”

Zack, Melody and Mary Jane trailed Medusa down the aisle. He listened to the jangling of his and his fellow mordavers’ uniforms.

“Miss Holiday,” Medusa said.

“Yes?”

“Do not for one moment feel pity for the Bantam. It is an evil agent that wouldn’t have hesitated on making you a slave to a Knopf.”

“How did you—”

Medusa interrupted: “It was evident from your posture. Remember, no Knopf nor Bantam is your friend. This isn’t a war where one of them is a sympathizer or wishes to defect to our side. The battle lines are distinctly drawn. There are no gray areas.”

“Medusa,” Mary Jane called from behind Zack and Melody, “do we have to worry about any other Bantams invading the camp?”

“No. That was the only one. And the only reason it had made it so far was because it hijacked a tarantula.”

The four of them reached the end of the aisle. It spilled into a clearing that overlooked the battlefield.

6

Melody, Zack and Mary Jane trailed Medusa to a group of mordavers dressed up like Roman soldiers. The Australian guessed there had to be at least 200 standing here. Beyond the mordavers, the battle raged on. From here, Melody couldn’t tell who was winning.

Three meters to Melody’s left, Medusa conversed with Hayata and Daniela. After much nodding, the two symkeys departed. Melody couldn’t take her eyes off Medusa. The Gorgon did something the Australian never would have predicted.

Medusa dipped a hand into her head of snakes and yanked one out from the root. Melody cringed, touching her own hair. Medusa placed the snake on one of the rocks that made up this ridge. Melody noticed the green snake had white rattles on its tail. Medusa caressed the snake several times from head to tail. After the fifth stroke, she stopped and stepped away. The snake slithered in place and grew into the size of a horse. Mordavers close by jumped back in fright. Glad I’m not the only one taken aback, Melody thought.

“Jesus drunk at the Last Supper,” Zack exclaimed.

Medusa mounted the horse-size snake. Oddly, her fish trunk slipped between two of the snake’s scales, leaving only her upper body visible (from the waist up). How was that possible?

“Wow,” Zack said to Melody, “check that out! It’s got a thorny tail.”

Sure enough, the snake no longer had rattles for a tail, but three or five thorns. Melody wasn’t positive about the number. The tip of the tail counted as one thorn, then the other two or four projected out a little farther up. But she didn’t know if four thorns grew out of the snake’s skin, or if two thorns went through the tail, because the trajectory of one traveled in a straight line.

“Listen up,” Hayata said. He stood on a boulder to the left of the grouping. “Mordavers, listen up! Who does not have a weapon? You will need to be armed.”

Two dozen mordavers raised their hands, including Zack. Daniela tossed him a long, large machete.

“That’ll work,” Zack said to Melody. “Hey, you’re not experiencing any feelings of saber envy, are you?”

“Hardly, especially since that’s a knife, not a saber nor a sword.”

“Petty little details,” Zack smirked.

Melody rested her left palm on the hilt of her sword. Good, it was still there in the sheath. She had retrieved the weapon after the Bantam had knocked her unconscious.

Hayata and Daniela had finished handing out swords and knives. Now, without asking for a count, they distributed bows and quivers filled with arrows. When the Japanese reached Zack, he also handed the punk rocker a shield.

Melody listened to the rumblings of the mordavers. The conversations were low in volume and had a sense of seriousness—no mordavers joked or laughed. Except Zack, who talked with Mary Jane.

“So look at you,” Zack said. “All dressed up, rearing to go. Still intent on saving Anubis’ soul?”

“Absolutely, Brother,” Mary Jane answered. “But first, I must prove that the Nexus is a hoax. After that, I can save Anubis’ soul.”

Zack pointed his nose to the middle of the battlefield. “What do you think that glow is then?”

“Smoke and mirrors, Brother Zachary, smoke and mirrors.”

Melody quit paying attention to the exchange between Zack and Mary Jane. She watched Medusa sitting on top of her horse-size snake. Hayata slipped leather reins over the serpent’s head. Peculiarly, the reins didn’t slip down the snake’s body, though they should have, since the serpents’ body was slippery and smooth.

Hayata handed Medusa the other end of the reins. As soon as they were in her green hands, she cleared her throat, the snakes on her head wriggling. Excited? Nervous?

“Mordavers,” Medusa said, “we are going to form a phalanx and march into the battlefield, but before we do, I want to reiterate how dire our situation is. As you can see from here, the Knopfs and Bantams outnumber us two-to-one.” She paused; her horse-size snake hissed. “You are our last hope. If we fail, God will cease to be, and this universe will fall under Threnody’s dictatorship.”

From the edge of the battlefield, a kilometer away—a mordaver cried, pleading for his life. Melody’s eyes watered. She sniffed.

“Everyone of you is vital to our mission,” Medusa said. “We have no surplus, no second-stringers. . . . Our objective is to reach the Nexus and refortify it until God comes out of closedown. We’re going to form a phalanx consisting of forty rows, five mordavers to a row.”

Hayata and Daniela began moving the mordavers to form the phalanx. The two symkeys put Melody and Zack in the middle of the formation, Melody in the third position in a row, Zack to her left. Behind them, she heard a Victorian voice.

“Pardon me, excuse me,” Basildon said, zigzagging through the phalanx. “Pardon me, excuse me. Thank you kindly.”

“Basildon, what are you doing?” Zack asked.

Basildon stood in front of Zack. The spider bowed, taking off its stovepipe hat and bumping into the mordaver in front of the punk rocker, Jacques Zulu. The Congolese glowered over his shoulder. “A million apologies, sir,” the spider said, replacing his hat. “Won’t happen again, I promise.”

“Basild—”

The spider interrupted Zack. “I know what you’re going to say. I should be at the camp. And I was, but it’s so dreadfully boring back there, and I’ve always preferred to be in the midst of the action.”

“Are you sure? You were pretty noncommitted back there in the Theuriaus’ basement. And, from what I hear, the battle we’re going into is going to be pretty ugly.”

“It’s no bother. Besides, after all we’ve been through, we’re a supercalifragilisticexpialidocious team.”

“What the hell’s that mean?”

Basildon climbed up the right side of Zack’s body, stopping at his shoulder. “It means that you and I are inseparable, like your world’s Laurel and Hardy, Abbott and Costello, Penn and Teller.”

“What?” Zack said, smiling. “Bitch, you’re crazy.”

Melody blocked out Zack and Basildon’s banter. They may have been able to joke, but she couldn’t join in on their comedic games. The Medusa-led mordavers were about to go into battle. Who knew how it would pan out. She hoped no horrifying hallucinations of the crocodile appeared. No reason it should. Ever since talking to Anubis, she steered clear of Zack or anybody when meditating.

Melody looked behind her. Hayata and Daniela arranged the last rows of the phalanx.

Off to the side, Medusa twirled a finger around one of her snakes, its tongue licking her palm. She ended that nervous gesture by pulling out a broadsword and tugging on the reins. Her horse-size snake undulated to the front of the phalanx.

Melody watched Daniela and Hayata hurry around the perimeter of the phalanx. The two symkeys handed a hammer to each of the perimeter’s eighty-six mordavers. The hammer looked like something out of the Bronze Age: large piece of wood for a handle, with a squarish rectangle rock at the top (the center of the rock had a hole filled by the wood, and—for good measure—reddish-black rubber bands crisscrossed over the middle of the rock).

With all the hammers handed out, Hayata and Daniela hastened to the rear of the phalanx and hopped on their tarantulas. Melody could feel the air currents created by the flapping of the wings, even though they hadn’t taken flight yet.

Most of the mordavers around Melody remained still, shields and swords in hands, bows and quivers fastened to their backs. A few mordavers shuffled their feet in place. The one in front of her clicked his heels together.

Daniela pulled out an ivory horn from her saddle pocket. She cocked her head back and blew into the horn’s cone-shaped mouthpiece. It blasted a note reminiscent of a buccaneer battle cry.

In front of the phalanx, Medusa raised her broadsword in the air for every mordaver in the formation to see. Despite the lack of sunlight, the tip of her sword glinted.

“Charge!” Medusa said.

The phalanx of 200 mordavers followed Medusa riding on her horse-size snake. In the rear, Hayata and Daniela took flight on their tarantulas.

7

Palms sweaty, Zack tightened his grip on his machete. The phalanx jogged down a slope toward the battlefield. At the end of the 100-yard slope, the rocky ground dipped down a foot. Each row of mordavers jumped over the ditch. They now were on flat land. The momentum of the slope caused them to keep jogging.

On Zack’s shoulder, Basildon crouched down, one leg holding on to his stovepipe hat. Did the spider regret coming along? Probably not. He would have bailed if he did.

The phalanx continued jogging on the rocks. No sign of any action yet, but the stench of Knopfs made Zack want to cover his nose and mouth. He refrained, though.

Zack noticed that most of the New Arrivals he had trained with were close by. Jacques in front of him, Neil to the Congolese’s left and Natasha two heads behind Melody. The only one not nearby was Omar. Was he here?

Finally, the phalanx reached the edge of the battlefield. ’Bout fuckin’ time, Zack thought. We’ve only been running for—what?—half a mile.

To the left of the phalanx, a group of mordavers shot flaming arrows up into the air. The fiery arrows ascended in an arc. Zack’s eyes followed their trajectory. He hoped that group of shooters knew what they were doing. The last thing their side needed were more casualties.

The phalanx slowed down to a march. Knopfs, swords drawn, rushed the first row of mordavers.

8

Medusa brought down her broadsword. She mowed down three Knopfs, one of which had been in mid-leap for her throat.

Artemis, the snake Medusa rode on, stretched forward and opened its mouth—fangs showing. The snake picked up one Knopf by the ankle and threw it aside, knocking over two approaching Knopfs.

“Keep moving,” Medusa yelled over her shoulder. “Stop for nothing!”

9

Anubis stood on a ridge at the edge of camp. He viewed the battle through a handheld telescope. He focused on the phalanx of 200 mordavers, the Nexus, and back again to the phalanx.

Anubis collapsed the telescope and dropped it into one of his kilt pockets. From another pocket, he pulled out his ankh. He tapped it against his snout and ground his teeth.

10

Melody kept pace with her row of mordavers. Her helmet slipped down her perspiring forehead; she took the tip of her saber and pushed on the plume so she could see again.

Scratching an itch on her chin with her shield, Melody saw why Hayata and Daniela had distributed Thor-like hammers to the mordavers on the perimeter of the phalanx. The hammers were to smash the Knopfs. The demons surrounded the phalanx. Mordavers on the perimeter whacked Knopfs before they could attack. It didn’t seem you had to put much muscle into the hammer. They smashed parts of the demons with the lightest of taps. Had Anubis made them magical? Melody didn’t know. Regardless, she was grateful the hammers scared off the Knopfs. Half of the advancing ones came no closer than five meters, however, they did chant in their metallic voices: “JOIN US.”

“Yo,” Zack said over the Knopfs’ taunting, “where the fuck are all the mordavers? All I see are goddamned Knopfs.”

Melody knew Zack was exaggerating. There were mordavers, but only one to every five Knopfs.

Neil answered Zack’s question. “Right after a Knopf sucks out a mordaver’s soul, a Bantam flies down and picks up the body. Timor thinks they’re taking them to the Nexus.”

“What for?” Zack asked.

“No one knows, or if the do, they aren’t saying.”

The phalanx continued moving forward toward the Nexus. It was about three kilometers away. And even though Melody was in the middle of the phalanx, she saw the battlefield had a circumference of five kilometers—almost every square centimeter packed with combat. She assumed the Nexus was in the center of the battlefield.

Despite being surrounded by Knopfs, the phalanx kept marching ahead. The 200 mordavers were less than a kilometer from the edge of the battlefield. The closer they got to the Nexus, the more mordavers Melody witnessed fighting Knopfs with either swords or their hands.

Overhead, symkeys on their tarantulas fought Bantams.

11

Daniela held on to Morris. Her original tarantula, Henry, had ceased to be after his third operation, consequently turning into a rock for the New Arrival Field.

Daniela and Hayata zoomed through the air toward a band of Bantams. There were five of the avaricious angels. They formed a chain, each Bantam’s arms linked around its neighbors’.

Daniela leaned into Morris. They flew next to Hayata and Harriet.

“Now!” Hayata said.

They split up. Daniela and Morris dove to the right, Hayata and Harriet to the left. To an observer on the ground, Daniela thought, it may have looked as if the symkeys and their tarantulas were avoiding the Bantams, but at the last moment, Harriet and Morris shot up and bit an ankle of a Bantam on the ends of the chain. Surprised by the maneuver, both Bantams shrieked and separated from the chain. Harriet and Morris wound their heads to the side and hurled the two Bantams at one another. The angels collided in a ball of confusion—for one moment forming a sixty-nine position.

The two Bantams plummeted to the battlefield. One landed wing-first into a voal and a gang of Knopfs. The other Bantam righted itself before hitting the rocky ground. It zipped through the air in the direction of the phalanx, vindictiveness planted on its face.

12

Zack’s jaw tightened. On the perimeter of the phalanx, in the row behind him, to his left, three Knopfs overtook a mordaver. As the terroristic trio dragged the mordaver away, he dropped his hammer. Zack went to grab it, but the mordaver behind him swiped it up, assumed the MIA mordaver’s position on the perimeter, and smashed the next advancing Knopf.

While this went on, the phalanx didn’t miss a beat. It persisted on marching toward the Nexus.

Basildon still sat on Zack’s shoulder, but he now curled into a ball on the punk rocker’s left side. Why the spider had switched shoulders, Zack did not know. And too much was happening for him to ask such a trivial question. Got to stay sharp. Mind clear.

A sound like a supersonic jet passed overhead. What was that? The sound returned, fading in, coming from behind. Zack caught a blur. He blinked. Next thing he knew, Neil was gone.

13

Neil felt himself swooped up by a Bantam. “No, no!” The primatologist was up in the air fifty feet when he dropped his sword and shield. He didn’t see where the sword landed, but the shield smacked a mordaver—not part of the phalanx—on the base of the neck. The mordaver went down. Ten Knopfs lunged for the piece of mordaver meat, tearing off his Roman-esque uniform.

The Bantam held Neil by the armpits, which hurt. Felt as if being pinched by pliers.

Panicking, Neil kicked his legs. Afterward, he reached for his bow and arrow, but the angle he was at prevented it. Darn.

“Please, please!” Neil said.

He hyperventilated. The Bantam continued to ascend. How far up were they going to go? Neil’s shoulders shuddered. He was afraid of heights.

“Oh God, oh God.”

Neil tried to swallow, but couldn’t. Too much air rushed at him.

The Bantam started to shake around. Neil looked into the angel’s eyes. It’s taunting me.

They were about a mile off the ground. Neil had a clear view of the Nexus. That wasn’t what he thought he saw, was it?

Abruptly, the Bantam threw Neil up in the air. The primatologist spun around a few times. When he stopped, the Bantam’s snide face filled his vision. They were so high up, roaring wind enveloped Neil. His eyes teared.

The Bantam slapped Neil. Immediately, his cheek stung. He placed a hand on it, but he soon forgot about the forming welt.

Neil fell toward the ground. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the inevitable, which came sooner than he had anticipated.

Slamming into the ground, Neil felt the wind knocked out of him. The back of his head jabbed a pointy rock, cracking his skull. This being Holcyon, his injury would heal. But before he could regain his senses, a Knopf knelt over him and tore off his chain-mail shorts, long skeletal nails scratching his legs.

The Knopf’s alloy tongue exited its mouth and licked its bleach-white teeth. It flicked its tongue toward Neil’s genitals.

“Join us,” the Knopf said, its voice vibrating Neil’s torso.

“No, no, noooooooooo!”

14

Daniela had watched the Bantam pick up Neil, play with him, and toss him to the ground for the Knopf lunch. She had wanted to help the mordaver because the angel was the one Morris had bit, but the remaining three Bantams from the chain had unlinked arms and ambushed her. Hayata couldn’t come to her aid. He and Harriet fought two Bantams that had seemed to appear out of nowhere.

One of Daniela’s Bantams hopped behind her, sat on Morris’ back and lassoed his arm around her neck. His black, leathery arm applied pressure to her windpipe. Both of her hands wiggled under the angel’s arm in an attempt to weaken its Herculean grip.

Meanwhile, the other two Bantams worked on Morris. One chomped into the arachnid’s side, while the other tried breaking the tarantula’s jaw. But at least Morris was having more success than Daniela. The tarantula shot webbing at the Bantam that tried breaking his jaws. The webbing splattered the angel’s face. The Bantam growled and retreated, hands on face now sticky with webbing.

Daniela felt dizzy, her breathing becoming labored. The Bantam’s grip was too tight. Plus, its cold breathing on the back of her neck sent shivers through her bloodstream.

The Bantam on the side of Morris tore off one of its wings. The tarantula wailed. The angel sniffed the wing, licked it, grimaced, then cast it aside. The wing twirled away like a samara.

Morris’ fangs dipped down. It tilted to the left, speeding toward the ground.

The Bantam with the web-splattered face jumped on Morris. The angel sat in front of Daniela, their knees touching. The webbing covered most of the Bantam’s face, but the angel had poked a hole for it to see out of one eye and to breathe through a nostril.

Daniela went limp. The Bantam behind her didn’t relent on choking her. Her eyelids fluttered. The angel in front of her tightened its white lips and examined her via its blue iris.

The Bantam that had torn off Morris’ wing clambered to the front side of the tarantula. The angel ripped out Morris’ right fang. The tarantula didn’t protest. The Bantam took the fang and stabbed Morris in one of its eight eyes.

Was Morris on the verge of ceasing to be? Daniela wondered, because he didn’t react in the least bit. Couldn’t be. His other three wings flapped.

Daniela stopped thinking about Morris. She began to pass out, chin touching her collarbone.

The Bantam with webbing on its face grabbed Daniela’s ponytail, lifted her head up and sucker-punched her in a staccato manner. The angel pounded her face until the moment before Morris crashed onto the battlefield. At the last instant, the three Bantams dashed off the tarantula, hooting like a cabal of gremlins.

15

“Basildon,” Zack said.

“Yes.”

“Do me a favor.”

Basildon hesitated. “What may I do for you, sir?”

“Hop on my helmet and keep an eye out for any more swooping-down Bantams.”

“Why, certainly.” Basildon climbed off Zack’s shoulder with a click-clack.

The phalanx no longer marched. It moved at a steady one mile per hour. The closer they got to the Nexus, the more Knopfs they encountered. In the past quarter-mile, they lost twenty mordavers. The phalanx now consisted of 150 members.

“Incoming!” Basildon yelled.

From the rear, a Knopf catapulted through the air. It landed three rows in front of Zack. The mordavers in that row lifted their shields and deflected the demon. It bounced off to the side, joining its skeletal comrades.

Fifty yards to the right of those Knopfs, Zack saw seven mordavers trying to disable a Bantam, but the angel soon had tons of backup. Countless white wings circled the mordavers. An empty flacon flew up into the air and smashed on an obsidian rock. The seven mordavers screamed as if locked in a gas chamber.

A chill permeated Zack’s joints. To calm himself, he stared at the back of Jacques’ head.

The phalanx tramped forward. Zack hoped the Nexus wasn’t much farther.

16

Medusa swung her shield upward. The top-right corner wedged under a Knopf’s chin. She put a little more shoulder into it. The demon’s skull popped off the top of its spine. Artemis finished off that Knopf by bringing around its tail. The demon’s body now in three separate parts, it was out of commission—at least for a little while.

Body drenched in sweat, Medusa continued to lead the diminishing phalanx for the Nexus. They were almost halfway there.

Galloping.

A Knopf on a voal raced at Medusa from her right.

“Artemis!” Medusa said.

The horse-size snake sliced its thorny tail toward the approaching enemy. The Knopf tried changing course, but Artemis was too quick. Its serpentine tail severed three of the voal’s legs. The horse and the Knopf toppled to the ground.

Medusa slid out of Artemis, sounding like a plunger losing suction. The Knopf stumbled to its feet. She slammed her broadsword up. The blade cut through the Knopf’s wrist. The demon’s hand and saber disappeared into the distance. As the Knopf stared after its weapon, Medusa chopped off its other arm.

Medusa—shield in one hand, sword in the other—turned to remount Artemis, but she paused. The Knopf, instead of retreating (as she had anticipated), stretched its right foot to pick up off the rocky ground an abandoned sword. The demon stood on its left foot and waived the sword around with its right foot. Baiting.

Medusa yelled over her shoulder to the phalanx, “Keep moving! Don’t wait for me.”

The phalanx continued its trek at a pleco’s pace. Medusa and Artemis were off to the side, the latter fending off a dozen Knopfs.

Medusa plunged at her Knopf. Their swords clanged, creating sparks. She couldn’t believe how skillful the Knopf was for hopping around on one leg.

The Knopf’s sword whooshed toward Medusa. The blade sped at an angle where she couldn’t block it with her sword, so she slid out of the way, but not fast enough.

The tip of the Knopf’s sword slit the skin of her left upper arm diagonally. It was nothing, though. Hardly a scratch, only a flesh wound.

Medusa smiled.

A mordaver behind the Knopf bumped into the demon while dueling with two other Knopfs. Medusa’s opponent slammed onto its back. She slithered forward, aiming her broadsword for the demon’s right ankle. But even on its back, the Knopf was quicker than a well-rested Ninja. The demon blocked Medusa’s strike. Their swords formed a cross. Medusa wished she had feet to kick this persistent Knopf.

Nevermind.

Medusa broke the deadlock. Just in time, too. The toes of the Knopf’s left foot had curled in a thrust for her right breast.

Medusa panted and contemplated her next move. She sensed the warmth of the Nexus on the side of her face. The rear of the phalanx passed her.

The Knopf got to its feet by using its handless arm. The hilt of the sword was in its mouth, the tip of the blade pointing at the Gorgon.

Medusa raised her shield. This time, she would let the Knopf make the first move.

But it never came down to that.

A shadow stretched over the Knopf. The sword dropped out of its mouth.

Artemis smashed on the Knopf, crushing it to smithereens. Bone dust wafted in Medusa’s direction. She sneezed.

Artemis undulated up to Medusa. The snake licked her cheek.

“Enough excitement for you today,” Medusa said. She dropped her sword and shield to stroke Artemis five times from nose to tail. The snake shrunk to normal size. She scooped him up and returned him to her scalp.

Picking up her shield and broadsword, Medusa chased after the phalanx.

17

The phalanx ground to a stop. Too many Knopfs surrounded it.

“What are we going to do?” said a mordaver several rows behind Melody. Good question.

A mordaver four rows in front of Melody danced around. It was Omar. “Aiieeeeee,” he said, “get it off me, get if off me!”

Omar’s panic spread throughout the phalanx. Melody soon saw what caused the commotion.

Dozens of Venus flytraps wormed into the phalanx, nipping mordaver ankles. Melody wondered if these flytraps were from trees, or if Threnody created them solely for this purpose.

The phalanx broke up, mordavers fleeing in different directions. Mary Jane shrieked, a Venus flytrap clamped around her thigh.

Melody would have helped Mary Jane, but she had a flytrap of her own to contend with. It had already snipped at a strap on her left sandal and now was coming in for a second pass. She slammed down her saber. The tip of the blade stabbed the flytrap in the center. When its tail quit thumping, she withdrew her saber with the help of her foot planted on top of the flytrap.

A mordaver in front of Melody stood with his mouth open, no sound emitting. His sword and shield lay at his feet. Two Venus flytraps munched on his hands, blood squirting from his wrists. The mordaver found his voice. He screamed and ran into a Knopf. The demon flipped the mordaver upside down and sucked out his soul (the mordaver wore no chain-mail shorts).

A few meters to the left, Melody saw Omar retreating back to camp. A mordaver—a female Muslim—grabbed him by the shoulders, slapped him, and scolded him for shaming Allah.

Melody quit paying attention to that Eastern exchange. A Venus flytrap crept past her, its minute nose sniffing. She swung her saber like a golf club. The flytrap sailed forty meters. It crashed into a Knopf, rattling inside the demon’s rib cage.

The golf swing caused Melody to lose balance. She bumped into Zack. A Venus flytrap chomped on his machete. He flung it like a fisherman casting a line. The flytrap traveled half the distance of Melody’s flytrap.

Melody and Zack pressed their backs together. Her eyes darted for any oncoming Knopfs or Venus flytraps.

“Whaddya think,” Zack asked, “keep moving for the Nexus or get the fuck outta here?”

Melody didn’t answer. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

18

Medusa cursed. Because of the Venus flytraps, the phalanx lost all hope of reforming. Less than fifty mordavers were left standing, the others now property of the Knopfs. As soon as a Knopf sucked out a mordaver’s soul, a Bantam swooped down to pick it up.

Medusa caught sight of Zack and Melody. They were back to back, on guard for any additional attack. Wait, Melody was gawking at something. What was it? The Gorgon followed the Australian’s eye line.

Medusa did a double take. No, it couldn’t be! It was a hallucination. Threnody was playing tricks on her. Or perhaps this war finally gave her a nervous breakdown.

No, none of the above. What she saw was real. A sad truth, one that on a subconscious level that made perfect sense.

Fifty yards ahead, a Bantam and a Knopf conversed with Timor.

Timor’s cyclopean eye fell on Medusa. He dismissed the Bantam and the Knopf with a nod, then marched toward the Gorgon. His black-iron, sickle-shaped talons thudded down. Knopfs stepped out of the way, bowing respectively.

“Tim,” Medusa said, voice shaky. “Why?”

“Why not,” Timor said, blowfish cheeks expanding and contracting, his height of thirteen feet towering over Medusa. “I want to be on the winning side for once. Besides, I’m sick of standing by like a peon servant while Anubis and you prance off to his tent for one of your little trysts.”

Medusa couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Was her lover of two millennia so insecure that he imagined her relationship with Anubis was more than a professional arrangement?