Henry’s attention was drawn back to the figure, which was becoming increasingly translucent. In seconds it was gone.
Greg kept his attention on Nobe, who seemed amused. Removing his backpack, Nobe tossed it and his gun on the ground behind him. He unsheathed a combat knife.
“Like your style, mate. Let’s see what ya got.”
Greg lunged, aiming for Nobe’s belly. But Nobe moved like a wildcat, twisting sideways and gliding effortlessly from Greg’s path.
Henry watched in mute terror as the combatants warily circled one another. He knew he should be doing something, helping Greg somehow, maybe trying to reach Nobe’s discarded gun, maybe just running away from this insanity. But his fear was overwhelming. Muscles refused to obey.
Nobe dodged another slash from Greg’s blade. In a blur of motion, he caught Greg’s extended forearm and wrenched his knife hand backward.
Greg released a muffled scream. The knife slipped from his fingers. He leaned over to snatch it from the ground with his other hand. But before he could recover the weapon, Nobe grabbed him from behind in a choke hold and violently twisted.
Greg’s eyes widened with shock as his neck snapped. His lips parted, as if trying to shape words. No sounds emerged. A shudder coursed through him. He crumpled to the dirt at the edge of the ravine.
Nobe stuck a boot under Greg’s midsection and shoved the body down the slope. Greg rolled and tumbled to the bottom, landing a few yards away from Loren.
Henry felt disembodied, as if he was another person, as if the horror and madness of these events were happening to someone else.
Nobe retrieved and holstered his pistol. It was just the two of them now, alone at the edge. His captor offered an apologetic smile.
“Sorry about this. Way it’s gotta be.”
Henry knew he was going to die. But at that moment of recognition, some latent survival instinct took control of his frozen limbs.
He pivoted and leaped off the edge, began running down the wall of the ravine. Surprisingly, he managed to stay on his feet for the first dozen or so strides. But then gravity and his out-of-control acceleration exceeded any capacity for remaining upright.
He fell forward. His boot caught a rock. He tumbled down the last half of the hill with the fury of a dislodged boulder.
He came to a bone-jarring stop against something warm and soft. A hundred pains tore through him. He knew he must be covered in bruises from head to toe. But, amazingly, no bones seemed broken.
He staggered upright, saw that his right palm was covered in blood. The blood had come from Loren, whose body he’d plowed into. His friend had served to cushion his fall.
Henry didn’t pause to consider his good fortune. Dashing for the trees on the other side of the ravine, he whipped his head back to the top. Nobe remained at the edge, calmly gazing down. But he hadn’t drawn his gun and was making no move to pursue.
Why isn’t he coming after me?
Loud crunching noises erupted from Henry’s right. It sounded like heavy footsteps on dry underbrush. He whirled. In one jarring instant he knew the answer to his question.
Seven hundred pounds of grizzly towered over him. Somehow, Henry maintained enough presence of mind to whip the can of repellent from his belt.
He never got the chance to depress the trigger. A four-inch claw raked his shoulder, knocking the bear spray from his grasp. He screamed as chocolate fur stinking of moldy earth enveloped him. The last thing Henry saw before the world went dark was a giant paw descending toward his face.
TWO
His world is green. He is its prisoner.
Everything shimmers with verdant hues: limes and olives; mosses, hollies and teals; other green tints too obscure to merit names.
The bars of his cell gleam emerald. They terminate overhead in a railing of jade. Above the railing, two men and a woman gaze down upon him like omnipotent gods, their faces blurred by a green haze the color of late summer grass.
A female voice – resolute, commanding – emanates from somewhere beyond the three figures. The words seem familiar. Their meaning is cryptic.
“Singularity beguiles, transcend the illusion.”
Aiden Manchester snapped awake from the green dream to the wailing shrieks of a child. Rolling out of bed, he bolted into the second-floor hallway and dashed to the front of the house. Taking steps two at a time, he raced up to the third floor.
Leah’s door was open. He rushed in, flipped on the overhead light. His seven year-old niece was awake and upright in bed, her tiny hands pasted across her chest, her elfin face twisted into a rictus of fear.
“It’s all right, honey,” he said, peeling back a bedsheet patterned with Disney princesses to sit beside her. “Just a nightmare.”
She wrapped Aiden in a bear hug and buried her face against his chest. He stroked her curly blond hair and whispered soothing words until her little body began to relax.
“You’ll be OK now. It’s over.”
She released him and turned to gaze out the dormer window. The golden light of daybreak backlit the gauze curtains. A Mickey Mouse wall clock with ridiculously large hands indicated 6:05.
“Want to go back to sleep?” Aiden asked, stifling a yawn and hoping for an affirmative response. He’d gotten to bed late after polishing off the better part of a six-pack of Yuengling. The beer, along with a forgettable cable movie, had served to power down his consciousness. A few more hours under the covers before rebooting would be nice.
“I want to get up,” Leah said.
“Up it is then. I’ll go down and start breakfast.”
“Can I have waffles?”
“You had waffles yesterday. Sure you don’t want cereal?”
She gave him the look, that blend of vulnerability and longing that melted away resistance. The look was so potent that it could get through to Aiden even on those occasions when he was nearly passed out drunk.
“OK, but if you turn into a giant waffle, don’t blame me.”
He ruffled her hair and extended his arm for their customary fist bump. Returning to his room, he slipped jeans over his boxers and trotted down the back staircase to the kitchen below.
An unpleasant surprise awaited him. Overnight, a chunkie had manifested. The brown mass had touched down on the countertop next to the oven. Worse, it had made landfall right atop his sister’s new four-slot, Cuisinart toaster. She’d bought the appliance only last week.
“Shit,” he muttered. “Shit, shit, shit!”
The toaster was ruined. The gelatinous glob had flowed down into the slots. Separating a chunkie from the inner mechanism would be a time-consuming task, likely requiring complete disassembly.
And that presumed the mass remained malleable enough to attempt cleanup. Chunkies hardened fast from exposure to air. To scrape out every squishy bit, Aiden would have had to discover the manifestation within an hour or so of arrival. Considering that chunkies always made landfall while he slept, this one was probably too far gone.
Probing with a fingernail confirmed his guess. Rock solid. Cleanup would require hammer, a chisel, and sixteen-grit sandpaper.
His first thought was to replace the toaster before his sister got home from her night shift at the hospital. But that was less than two hours away. Nearby stores didn’t open this early. And Aiden’s sandy hair likely would turn gray before Amazon drones offered ultra-express deliveries to small towns like Birdsboro, Pennsylvania.