The Eyes of Kid Midas (13 page)

Kevin screamed, the lens sparked, and the wire cutters turned into a rose. The thorns pricked Josh's fingers.

"Ouch!" Josh hurled the rose down into a pile that contained a sponge, a carrot, and a banana, which had originally been pliers, a hammer, and a monkey wrench. "If you don't stop doing that, we won't have any tools left!" complained Josh.

"Stop torturing me!" yelled Kevin. The glasses sparked, and an iron maiden of the Inquisition variety appeared in the corner and clanged to the ground with a deep bell toll. Kevin grabbed his blanket and covered himself head to toe.

"You should be good at shutting off your brain," said Josh. "You've had enough practice."

A Chinese star flew through the air, the four- pointed steel disc just missing Josh's head, and embedded itself deep in the wall.

Josh looked at the weapon and shuddered. "You're really good at getting rid of people you don't like, aren't you?" said Josh. "First Bertram, then Hal . . . Am I going to be next, Kevin?"

"I'm sorry," said Kevin, "it was an accident." But even so an apology seemed useless. "We're still friends, right, Josh?"

"Yeah," said Josh, "of course we are." But Josh couldn't look him in the face.

"Kevin, you said you can stop the glasses from working," said Teri. "Tell us how."

Kevin looked away from Josh. "It has to be cold," he said, "dark . . ."

"The garage!" said Josh.

Kevin slowly came out from under the blanket. It could work! It might not work for long, but it would buy them time. In the hallway, the extent of Kevin's mental meddling became clearer. It wasn't just the Mona Lisa hanging crooked on the wall, or the roast turkey on the bookshelf, or even the suit of armor by the linen closet that may or may not have contained a medieval knight. Worse were the changes in the house itself. Suddenly angles didn't look right. The floor seemed to slope off, windows weren't quite square, and the walls weren't quite straight. The ceiling seemed farther away, and in the hallway, which somehow seemed longer, there were doors that had never been there before.

It was the type of house Kevin might have passed through in a nightmare.

Teri looked around, troubled. "It's like I'm losing my mind," she said. "I can't remember what's supposed to be here, and what's not."

Kevin knew that as an outsider, Teri could never see things the way he, Josh, and Hal Hornbeck did. If no one told her what was wrong with the picture, it would all seem normal—just as it would to their parents when they got home. Kevin could imagine his mom hanging towels on the armor and his dad carving the turkey for dinner, as if turkeys always appeared on bookshelves for no apparent reason. It was amazing how normal the world could seem to others, when, through Kevin's eyes, it was so incredibly screwed up.

"Trust me," said Kevin, "
none
of it is supposed to be here."

They climbed down the not-quite-straight stairs, opened the not-quite-rectangular door to the garage, and stepped in.

The garage had taken on the same dreamlike quality as the rest of the house. The ceiling seemed to disappear into darkness; the cinder-block walls were damp and covered with mildew. The air was stagnant, like the inside of a tomb, and in the corner, the boiler had begun to take the shape of a face, with the fiery mouth of an iron monster.

The glasses sparked once, and
whack!
a door that had never been there before appeared against the far wall.

"What's on the other side of the door?" asked Josh.

"Disneyland," said Kevin with a sigh.

No one felt like checking.

"Drain the glasses, Kevin," said Teri. "Do it now."

With the simplest thought, Kevin snuffed out the gas fire beneath the boiler, and blew out the single light bulb against the wall. Weeds sprouted up, blocking out the light pouring in around the big garage door. They sat down in a tight circle in the middle of the room.

"Mom will be home soon," said Teri.

"Shh," said Kevin. "This won't take very long." The temperature in the room was already dropping. The glasses still sparked every few seconds, like a slow strobe light, and in the darkness around them objects splat and clanged and fluttered by with each spark. No one moved. No one wanted to know what miscreations—animal, mineral, or vegetable—haunted the house around them.

"Know any good ghost stories?" said Teri.

"Don't even . . ." warned Kevin.

Fifteen minutes later the room was in a deep freeze. Kevin could hear Josh and Teri's teeth chattering along with his own—but it was working. Now the glasses sparked only once or twice a minute.

Kevin's arms and legs felt lifeless, as if they were nothing more than bones with a faint memory of muscle. His joints ached, his head throbbed, and he wondered if he'd have to feel this way forever just to keep the world safe and sane. How long would he last? He wished he could see a future for himself, in a time long after he had escaped from this trap, but he couldn't see any future for himself at all.

A spark lit Josh's face. His skin seemed almost purple in that unearthly light, and Kevin began to wonder if he had, in fact, turned Josh purple. He felt fairly certain that he hadn't.

Josh spoke and when he did, his voice surprised everyone. It seemed hollow and airy, as if they were in an immense cavern, rather than a two-car garage.

"You know how we sometimes sit and talk about time travel and spaceships and the universe and stuff?" said Josh.

Kevin remembered those talks well. Every once in a while, when the mood was right, they would sit in Kevin's darkened room and freak each other out with really Big thoughts—all those wild impossibilities that came teasingly close to making sense.

"You mean you two actually talk about something other than girls and baseball cards?" said Teri.

"Sometimes," said Kevin, his voice weak and wispy.

Josh explained. "Like, what if the whole universe is actually a single atom in someone's fingernail, in another really gigantic universe? And, when you beam up to the Starship Enterprise, what happens to your soul and stuff? And, what if, when you die, you live your life all over again, only backwards?"

"Wow, really deep," said Teri. "I think you guys are retarded."

"Remember this one, Kev?" said Josh. "What if the whole universe is like just a single thought in God's mind?"

"Yeah, so?"

"Well," said Josh, "I think maybe you stole his thought . . . maybe now we're all inside
your
head instead."

The glasses had stopped sparking now. Kevin's strength was completely gone.

"I'm not God," croaked Kevin.

"No," said Josh, "you're not."

The glasses never did run down enough to stop working entirely. Perhaps they drew on radio waves and microwaves and who knew what other forms of energy that zipped invisibly through the air. The glasses were, however, too weak to spark those orphaned thoughts out of Kevin's mind.

With what little energy remained in the glasses, Kevin imagined a barge out in the middle of the ocean; then he imagined all the things he had created onto the barge. Finally, he imagined the barge torpedoed and sinking to the bottom of the sea. When the waves in his mind were clear of debris, he knew it had been done. All of the objects he had dreamt up were gone from the house—but he couldn't change everything. The mysterious doors were still there. The listing walls and crooked ceilings had not returned to normal.

In his bedroom, feeling like death's poorer cousin, Kevin curled up tight beneath his blanket. Josh kept him company. "You know, Josh, the worst part is that I don't even get into trouble for it," he croaked. "At least I could get grounded, or suspended or anything . . . but no one knows what awful things I've done."

"I know," whispered Josh.

Downstairs, the garage door ground into action as Kevin's mom returned home from work. His father would be home soon, too, but Kevin would be in a deep sleep that would, if he were lucky, take him to the far ends of the universe and let him stay there a long while.

Teri would cover for him, making up some completely reasonable story to explain why her brother was sleeping at five in the afternoon. His parents would believe it, or at least accept it—in any case, they wouldn't challenge it. His mom would feel his forehead and worry about the flu season. His father would promise to talk to Kevin about his strange sleeping habits, but by the morning, assuming Kevin acted halfway normal, his father would forget.

They don't ask because they 're afraid of the answer.

Kevin felt the icy talons of sleep drag him down into a numb, dreamless slumber.

Josh got barely a moment's rest that night. He had no way of knowing whether Kevin's glasses would begin to spark again. If they did, not even Josh's bedroom would be safe from Kevin's creations. The rules had changed; the only limit to what
could
happen was the limit of Kevin Midas's overactive imagination. Anyone could be a victim now.

Before they had climbed the mountain, Josh had always prided himself on never giving in to fear— but now it seemed-he was afraid of everything; shadows, noises—and worst of all, he was afraid of that awful feeling he would have when he woke up, of not
really
waking up at all—of waking up in what Mr. Kirkpatrick called "The Dream Time."

He had, once more, the urge to smash his fist against the wall, just so that he could feel real, normal pain in his knuckles. But now he was terrified to do even that . . . because what if he hit the wall and it turned out to be made of green cheese instead of plaster?
Anything was possible
as long as Kevin was stuck to those glasses,
anything
—from Santa Claus coming down the chimney to a child- eating monster hiding in his bedroom closet. How could he sleep? How could he ever close his eyes again?

"You're losing it, Bro," Josh told himself. "This must be what it feels like to go completely psycho."

Josh kept his vigil until the first rays of dawn, when he finally gave in to sleep.

CHAPTER 14

The Chariot of Helios

Kevin was hauled out of sleep by his alarm clock at seven in the morning. Even before opening his eyes, he knew that the glasses had begun to charge. They were feeding on the sunlight that was shining through his window and hitting his face. The crippling weakness he felt the night before was already gone, and when he opened his eyes, all seemed right with the world.

The crack on the left lens was actually healing itself. It was only half its original length, and from what Kevin could tell, it had stopped sparking.

He timidly swung out of bed and dressed, every moment expecting sparks to fly from the lens, but they did not come. By the time he went downstairs, he was actually beginning to believe that the worst could be over.

His father, already back from his morning run, was cooking breakfast today, which must havemeant he was celebrating the most recent pound he lost.

"I had a craving for waffles and whipped cream," he said.

"Lucky us," said Kevin's mom.

Teri had already scarfed her first one down and was waiting for a second. The moment Kevin came into the room, she eyed him like a hawk.

"Feeling okay, Kev?" she asked.

"Couldn't be better."

"Early to bed and early to rise," said Mr. Midas. "A good night's sleep never hurt anyone." He dropped a waffle on Kevin's plate and squirted it full of whipped cream. "You must have been wiped out."

"You could say that," said Kevin.

"I like your glasses," commented Kevin's mom. "They're very sharp."

"I can't stand them," mumbled Teri. "I wish they would shrivel up and die."

"Teri," said Mrs. Midas, "if you don't have anything nice to say, then stuff your face." She plopped the remainder of her waffle on Teri's empty plate, then got up to clean the eggshell-and- Bisquick mess Mr. Midas had artfully created. She turned on the radio above the sink, and revolting Musak filled the room. Mrs. Midas claimed that this sort of music helped her window-box cuttings grow.

Currently it was winding down an unnatural violin version of "No Money Down, Deadman," one of Teri's favorite heavy-metal songs.

"I'm going to be sick," commented Teri, as she did every time her mother turned the station on.

For a moment, Kevin was able to forget his troubles, and he smiled a big whipped cream grin. These dumb family mornings were something he had never appreciated before.

"It's good to be back to normal," said Kevin.

On the radio, the song changed to a flowery choral version of "Sunrise, Sunset." Mom sang along, and that was always bad news, because Mom never remembered the words quite right.

" 'Sunrise, sunset,' " mumbled Mom. " 'Sunrise, sunset, quickly, day by day . . .' "

"Normal? There's nothing normal about this family," remarked Teri. "With or without your glasses, this place is a nuthouse."

Mr. Midas sat down with an oversized waffle and made it disappear beneath a mountain of whipped cream, while Mom continued to sing.

" 'One season da-de-da de dum-dum, lifetimes of happiness, my dear . . .' "

And then the morning was shattered by a single thought—one spark that sprang from the hairline fracture in Kevin's glasses.

Teri saw the spark and put her fork down.

"Kevin?"

Kevin sat, frozen, the color slipping from his face. "Oh no."

" 'Sunrise, sunset . . .' " their mother continued to hum.

"What did you do, Kevin?
What were you thinking about?"

Kevin swallowed. "The song," he said. "I was thinking about the song."

"No! You didn't! Tell me that you didn't, Kevin!
Tell me!"

Mr. Midas looked up from his plate. "Something wrong?"

That's when all hell broke loose. The glasses, which had been gradually building up energy all morning, had finally begun to spark once more, with wild and random bursts.