Thunderland (41 page)

Eventually, he eased into a jog. Then a brisk walk. Then he stopped.

He did not stop because he believed he had escaped Mr. Magic. In this fantastical realm, where Mr. Magic exercised god-like powers, escape was not a real possibility. He quit running because he needed to create a strategy. Unless he found a way to defeat Mr. Magic, his running would be wasted energy, and this would continue to be a lopsided game of cat-and-mouse.

He took stock of his surroundings. He was near Lewiston Avenue, a major road on the western edge of town. Every house and building looked deserted. Wounded from the beating the storm had administered, trees drooped, their broken branches littering the ground. A river of black water containing all kinds of debris streamed down the roadway, seeping into the gutters.

All in all, it was a scene that might have been painted by a landscape artist suffering from severe depression. He looked farther ahead. What he saw lifted his spirits.

Several hundred yards away, a covered pedestrian bridge spanned the width of Lewiston Avenue, in the same location that it occupied in the real world. It looked the same, too: suspended about twenty feet above the pavement; constructed of sturdy black steel, with girders and stiffening trusses; two sets of stairs, which allowed access to the walkway from either side of the street; a metal roof covering the center span. It was so identical in every detail to the real bridge that he would not have been surprised to see the same obscene graffiti imprinted on the girders.

In Thunderland, a sanctuary was too much to wish for, but the bridge was the next best thing. Once upon it, he would no longer have to run, which meant he could conserve his strength. He could survey the land from an elevated position, which would enable him to see anyone approaching before they reached him. Since flights of stairs were attached to both sides, he could not be cornered; when the need to flee arose, he could take the closest stairway to the ground.

His mind made up, he walked toward the bridge, grass squishing beneath his feet.

He came to the stairs. Raindrops glimmered like bits of silver on the steps and railing. At the top, tunnel-like darkness yawned.

He looked around. He was still alone.

He grabbed the cold railing. He climbed the stairs, his aching legs protesting at the effort.

On the walkway, a soft wind stirred about scraps of litter.

Drenched by perspiration and rain, the raincoat clung like a second skin to his body. He feared it would restrict his movements, so he removed the gun from the pocket and peeled off the coat. He dropped it to the floor.

At his house he had fired three rounds at Mr. Magic. He replaced the expended bullets with new ones.

Exhaling, he leaned against the railing. He was so tired; fatigue weighed heavily on his bones. If he survived, he would sleep twelve hours every day for a week recuperating.

Cool wind whistled down the passageway.

In
the distance, thunder groaned.

The sound of footsteps drew his attention. Someone was climbing the stairs on his right, footfalls clanging softly on the metal steps.

He spun, raised the .45.

Darkness gathered at the end of the bridge. He was too far away to peer over the edge of the platform and identify who might be approaching.

Waiting, fresh sweat streaming down his face, he balanced his finger around the trigger.

A hat rose into view: a baseball cap that sported the Chicago White Sox logo.

It can’t be,
Brains thought.
No way.

Mike Johnson, his cousin, hopped onto the bridge.

Brains did not lower the gun.

“Hey, man,” Mike said. “What the hell are you doing up here? Put down the damn gun.”

“You aren’t Mike,” Brains said. “My cousin is dead. I saw his body myself, in the real world.”

“Dead? What?” He walked forward. “Man, I’ve been here for hours looking for you and Jason and dodging that crazy-assed Stranger. He’s been chasing me all over the place. Where have you guys been?”

It sounded and looked like Mike.
Just like him.
He wore a Chicago White Sox cap, matching jersey, and shorts. Nike basketball shoes. Even a thin gold necklace with a small gold crucifix in the center. The resemblance to his cousin was perfect.

But it was not Mike. It couldn’t be. Mike was dead, beyond all doubt. Brains had been present earlier that afternoon when his aunt and uncle had identified Mike’s lifeless body.

“I know you’re dead,” Brains said numbly.

“What do you mean, I’m dead?” Distress lined his face. “How can I be dead in the real world but alive in this place? Tell me, Brains.”

“I don’t know,” Brains said, realizing how little he really understood about Thunderland. Was it possible that Mike was alive in Thunderland but dead in the normal world? Could Mike be trapped in this alternate dimension?

What if I’m trapped here, too?
Brains suddenly thought, and a crippling fear gripped his testicles.

“You don’t know? Come on, man. You’re smart.”

“Not that smart.” After the past few days, Brains didn’t feel as though he knew a damn thing about anything. “None of this makes any sense to me. You look like Mike ... but you can’t be.”

“Shit, man, you’ve lost it. Will you put down the gun? Stop aiming at me!”

Brains lowered the weapon. He wanted more than anything in the world for his cousin to be alive. Maybe this was Mike. He had admitted his inadequate knowledge of Thunderland. So why couldn’t this be Mike? He was not going to blow away his own cousin based on an unproven assumption that this was really Mr. Magic.

“Thank God,” Mike said, and blew out a whistle of air. He came forward. “Shit, you had me scared to death.”

“Sorry,” Brains said. “If you’d seen what I’ve seen here, you’d understand why I’m so jumpy.”

“I understand quite perfectly, you gullible little fool,” Mike said in a rich, sonorous voice that didn’t fit him at all.

Terrible comprehension swept over Brains. He swung the gun upward, but he was too slow. The Mike-replica lunged forward and backhanded him across the face with superhuman force. Brains flew backward, the revolver tumbling out of his hand and spinning into the night. He crashed against the bridge floor, tiny white spots swarming in his vision. Intentionally he bit his tongue, and the sharp pain helped bring his vision back into focus. He did not dare lose consciousness.

“I expected a more intelligent response from you,” Mr. Magic said, continuing to wear Mike’s body. “The great Brains. You’re a softhearted fool like the rest ofyour kind.”

Brains spat out a tooth, blood streaming from his lips. His mouth ached. He had never been hit so hard in his life.

He might not have a chance in hell of defeating Mr. Magic, but he was not going to give up like a punk.

“You don’t scare me,” Brains said, though shakily. Sitting up, he gathered his courage: “You can kiss my ass. I’m not running from you anymore.”

The Mike-replica laughed. “Such heroic words. I wish you could have heard your dear cousin’s screams when I drove my automobile over his fragile body. Like you, he was quite a fighter. But in the end, he was weak, too.”

Fury fell over Brains like a red hood. Screaming, he leaped up and charged the Mike-thing.

The blow came so quickly he didn’t see it. One instant he was bearing down on the Mike-replica; the next, hurtling through the air. He slammed against the metallic floor, dizzy. Warm blood filled his mouth. Probably, he had lost another tooth.

Your arms is too short to box with God.
In his delirium of pain, the phrase came to his mind, the title of a gospel play his parents had seen or something, and while he never would’ve regarded Mr. Magic as God, he was so overmatched in this fight that the expression was tragically apt. He strained to get up again and slipped, too weak, too beaten.

Grinning madly, the Mike-creature snagged Brains’s ankles. Aware of what Mr. Magic planned to do, Brains kicked, fighting to free his legs. But he could not break the thing’s powerful grip.

Mr. Magic took a step backward. He started to spin. Brains, sprawled on his back, started to spin, too. Around and around and around. The world blurred into grays, blacks, and violets.

In the midst of the spinning, Brains recalled when he was younger, when his big sister used to play with him by spinning him like this. It used to be so much fun, and he would laugh himself to tears when she finally released him and he flew across the yard like a pebble propelled by a slingshot. He wondered if he would ever see his sister again.

He did not see Mr. Magic let him go, for his world had revolved into a smudge of colors, but he felt the sudden release of his ankles. He felt himself flying in an immense, open space, and he realized that he had been cast not to another side of the bridge, but over the railing, to the hard street below.

Swiftly he plunged downward.

As he fell, he thought of Jason’s advice about being in this place, which he had never bothered to apply:
what you imagine there becomes true.
Not wasting another moment, Brains imagined himself striking the flooded road and absorbing the impact without sustaining the slightest injury. He imagined himself hitting the water like a bath toy, splashing and bobbing to the surface. He saw
himself
as a giant bath toy, capable of falling twenty feet without suffering any harm. He saw himself living to tell about this event.

But the instant he collided with the earth, all he saw was darkness.

By the time Thomas parked in front of Mike Johnson’s house, the water had, amazingly, almost completely run off the streets. Although he would have to exercise caution whenever braking or turning—the roads glimmered darkly, showing they were still wet—traveling at regular speeds was relatively safe. He appreciated the miracle that had caused this. In spite of the protection the Buick provided, driving slowly around this newly unfamiliar town had coated his forehead with cold sweat. He could easily imagine someone chasing after the crawling car, reaching it, and smashing a window and climbing inside.

He shut off the car. The engine ticked and pinged as it cooled.

“It looks deserted.” Linda gazed out of the window at the Johnson residence. “Like every house we’ve seen.”

He agreed. Curtains of darkness veiled the windows of the white two-story Colonial, and he did not see anyone moving either inside the house or around the yard.

“We have to check it out,” he said. ‘We can’t leave a single stone unturned.”

 She sighed. “I know. But I’m so worried about Jason and where he might be, I’m starting to feel sick.”

“I feel the same way. But as far as I’m concerned, after all we’ve been through, we’re destined to get through this and pull our family together again. We have to keep our hopes up.”

“And our guards up.”

“Right. Those, too.”

She smiled a little, touched his face gently. She opened her door and got out. He followed.

A slow, cool drizzle, the kind that could go on for hours without a break, pattered to the earth. Gray-black clouds capped the sky.

As they walked on the path toward the house, the shriek of spinning tires pierced the night.

They spun in the direction of the noise.

A car whipped around a corner, a couple of blocks away. At that distance, Thomas could not ascertain many details—it appeared to be a large, dark sedan-but at once he recognized the feeling it gave him: fear.