Wayne Kyle Spitzer

He looked up at his apartment window after he'd gotten out of his truck, he didn't know why, and saw Sadie sitting in the sill, staring down at him, it seemed. Hey, you little psychopath, he thought, as the snow fluttered down and clung to his face. Have you been a good girl?He was relieved to find, a few minutes later, that she had: for nothing appeared amiss either in the kitchen or the living room. The bedroom, too, seemed in perfectly good order-although Sadie was no longer at the window, which did beg the question: Where on earth was she, exactly? He began calling out her name as he moved toward the bathroom, and was surprised by how little his voice sounded, how nervous."Sadie? Saaadie?"He felt a wave of apprehension as he entered the bathroom, he wasn't sure why, but was pleased to find it normal in every respect-there wasn't even any discernible cat box odor. He laughed a little at his own paranoia. What had he expected? 'REDRUM' scrawled across the mirror in cat shit?

"Ah, yes, indeed. I see now why little Joyung was so frightened ..."The voice had come from the wagon. Instinctively, I cocked my head back as to peer beneath the visor, and saw a man older than myself yet young nonetheless leaning against the rear of the coach, his head only inches from the wine-skin, and his arms folded in front of him. There was an exquisite black cane wedged between his arms and his chest, just below the handle of which shown a single cut ruby which blinked in the dark like a cat's eye in shadow. He was a tall, well-dressed man sporting a neatly-trimmed black beard and a high-hat of the same color.The thought was but a fleeting one, but it struck me as odd that the monkey had not followed him out of the wagon."Death has come to claim its own," the sharp-dressed man nearly whispered, and strode forward with a gleam in his eye, twirling the cane as he walked. "What'll it be, ferryman? A few trinkets for the children? Some finery for the lady, perhaps?"I looked to him with sour surprise. Then, feigning insult, said, "Who would call me a ferryman?" My hand had come to rest on Rosethorn's pommel.The stranger emerged from half-light and shadow into the multi-hued glow of the lanterns."You may call me Fenris-Wolf." He smiled disarmingly, and his teeth gleamed white and perfect in the lamplight. ..". for now."

Then I was off, cruising the streets of Schenectady as though I hadn't a care in the world, relishing it every time I drew alongside some kid in his Honda, speeding up a little as I handled corners, tapping the horn as I rumbled past female joggers. The truth of it is I was under the car's spell, and didn't think to question why the girl had fallen silent (again) or who-what-the other voices had been or how a car that had been buried for 52 years had simply rolled over and leapt to life. I felt young again, vibrant, strong, as though nothing could touch me and nothing could hurt; as though the logical part of my brain had simply turned off, as it does when you smoke a good blunt; as though I were in the clouds and nothing could bring me back. Indeed, I felt free of all human constraint and concern-at least, until I saw the Lyndon B. Johnson campaign sticker on the clean, chrome bumper ahead of me, and, realizing that both it and the Beetle to which it was attached were in as perfect condition as the 'Vette-"Black Betty" it said on the 'Vette's door, I'd nearly forgotten about that-began to come out of it.That's when I really noticed it, the fact that the landscape immediately around the car had changed; that it had-reverted, somehow. I can only describe what I saw, which was that none of the vehicles at the light could have been newer than a '66, and that the light itself looked decidedly retro, decidedly quaint, at least compared to the one only a block away. More, the storefronts alongside had changed, so that a Kinney Shoe Store now stood where a Taco Bell had just been, and a Woolworth had replaced an Indy Food Mart. Likewise, the pedestrians had changed-yoga pants giving way to miniskirts, athletic shoes giving way to go-go boots and winklepickers, short hair giving way to long. And it was as I observed these things that I noticed something else-the Stingray's reflection in the Woolworth's front windows, or rather, the reflection of something which was not the Stingray but which stood-hovered-in its place: a long, translucent, green-black thing, like an enormous wine decanter, only laid on its side, which glowed slightly from within its bulbous body and seemed to warp the very air around it, to bend it, to curl it like burnt paper.What you see is the car's true form, came the voice, the girl's voice, Mia's, startling me with its clarity, seeming at once to be both inside my head and without, causing me to turn instinctively- revealing her to be sitting beside me, right there in the passenger seat. "... and the field in which it operates. That field is weak now but it will grow. And the longer it remains free-the car, the artifact-the stronger it will become, until the world itself becomes threatened. Now do you see why I tried to warn you?"

From Napoleon: 'The steel mesh started to break: first one joint, then another. Napoleon stood sideways on the fence like a parrot, his splay toes gripping the bars. He braced himself with his legs and pulled at the grid with his teeth. The muscles of his neck rippled; his growl was a steady trill. Metal squealed as he peeled a section back.Lightning flashed, followed by a crack-kaboom In the wash of light, the man saw the dinosaur looking at him. Glaring at him. Its color had gone blood red.He dropped the shock prod and swallowed, tasting bile. His head was swimming; he felt nauseated. The game had gone far enough. He had to end it-end it now. He stepped back over to the control box and flipped it open, sought out the RUN ELECTRIFICATION button. He punched it with the bottom of his fist.The air seemed to vibrate, and sparks exploded beneath Napoleon's hands and feet. The dinosaur was knocked off the fence instantly. It crashed into the mud with a tremendous splash, and writhed violently. Then it struggled to its feet and latched onto the fence again. Sparks popped and spit; there was the smell of burnt flesh. Napoleon backed off, cocking his head. His foreclaws opened and closed. He sniffed at the electrically charged air, and at the ground. His left foot was smoking. He didn't approach the fence again.The man stepped closer and peered through the mesh. "You're learning, aren't you?" He scooped the shock prod from the mud and wiped it on his lab coat. "You're learning not to mess with me, yeah?"Napoleon looked at him, then shifted his neck to the side oddly. He was looking at something behind the man, something low to the ground.The man turned. There was nothing there but the steel hatch to the feeding shaft, set into concrete like an oversized manhole cover. It was dotted with dried blood and padlocked heavily. He turned back to Napoleon, dismissing the behavior, and found the dinosaur craning to look behind itself. Its head was cocked as though listening to something.A pair of headlights suddenly appeared in the distance; from the direction the T was looking. They were moving through the blackness out beyond the perimeter, winking in and out between trees. The man glimpsed the car as it passed beneath a streetlight: it was a sleek white Saturn, the kind employed by Atrax Security. Its bluish spotlight scanned the area.S.O. Trevor was making his perimeter check.The man's pulse quickened. He glanced at his watch, but had to swipe a palm across it to read it clearly. 1:19. Damn--now what? His heart pounded: Get out of here. He triggered the run doors, and they rattled up out of the way.Napoleon swung his head around and peered down the shaft. His little hands opened and closed; his tail moved back and forth. He strode from the run abruptly, descending the "ladder" into his habitat. The man shut the doors. Then he took the flap of bent mesh in both hands and tried to straighten it.It was no use, he decided. The stuff was stronger than it looked. He gave up and headed for the stairs.Levi burst into the shop. Trevor was already coming up the hallway, his spit-polished shoes clicking over the tile, his keys jingling in perfect sync. Damn, Levi thought. The bastard's log would put him on Blue Level at 11:20-a full 10 minutes behind schedule.He took up his mop and started mopping.A moment later Trevor stepped into the room. "Hey, Levi."Levi looked up as if startled. "Trevor How goes it?"The guard shrugged. "Same as always. How are ..." He paused, looking down. "Forget your hip-waders or something?"'

Welcome to the future, where women have been infected with a virus that turns them into witches and men have formed a militarized cult to exterminate them-the Witch Doctors. You can survive here, if you're lucky; but only if you swear to one of the dominant practices-Puritanism or witchcraft-and are willing to check your humanity at the door. Because in the future, being a man means donning black and white and carrying a fire-breathing musket-the better to incinerate witches by-while being a woman means to live as the undead or a white-eyed practitioner of the black arts. Either way, humanity is doomed. That is, unless a single man and woman can resist-and in so doing, find the courage to cooperate, even love, again.Will it be Satyena, the beautiful young witch prone to kindness and compassion? Patrobus, the salty platoon sergeant with a secret past? How about Aluka, the intersex witch-doctor caught between worlds? Dive into these tales of the Sex War to find out-tales told in the dystopian tradition of Fahrenheit 451 and Logan's Run-stories at once brutal and beatific, halting and surreal. Do it today, before the future they portend becomes shocking reality ...From The Witch-Doctor Diaries: Malachi suspects something-has suspected, it's clear to me now, since the raid on Medea Coven. I can see it in his eyes as we stare at each other across the War Wagon: something cool, dispassionate (even behind the smoked lenses of his gas mask), predatory, like a cat. He is on to something, he knows.My headset crackles as the driver updates our status: "Fifteen minutes to target. Check your belts and harnesses-it's going to get bumpy."I check my belt and harness, the wagon starting to rock, our tanks clinking and sloshing. Jeremiah offers me a stick of gum-but I shake my head. Nobody says anything."Remember, we're going in fast and we're going in hot," crackles Patrobus (as though he has taken up residence in our very minds), "Find the lab, extract what you can, air it out, and then get out. Is that clear?"Although he doesn't mention him by name, we all know who he's referring to: Malachi, who once let a witch escape just so he could prolong the pursuit. A witch. A woman. A carrier of the M24 virus. Something to be killed on sight."It is clear, Captain," says Jeremiah, glancing at his friend-at Malachi. "I'll make sure Doctor Aluka leaves him some targets. We'll keep him occupied.""Find the lab, Jeremiah. Find out what it is they've been doing there. Then get your men back on this side of the Transom."And then he is gone and there is just the twelve of us, our buckled hats canted low on our brows, our flame-retardant Puritan tunics black as night and white as snow, our muskets charged and ready to spew fire.At which moment Malachi looks at me, seeming to smirk behind his mask (which has been spit-shined to a gloss), and says, "How about it, Brother Aluka? A contest Who can kill the most women? That is-if you still have the jewels for it.""Lay off him," says Jeremiah. "The Medea raid was tough on everyone. Besides, his record's better than any of us."But I don't say anything, only use the time remaining to dissemble and clean my weapon, wondering: What did he see and how much does he know? And what will happen when I can no longer hide my eyes-which have begun to turn white when I sleep, witch's white, and take longer to clear each morning? How long is it until I-who am not fully man nor fully woman-have at last become neither; neither male nor female, neither Witch Doctor nor witch?

It's all come down to this.The saga is finished. There will be no more. These three signature editions contain every Flashback story ever written (1993-2023), plus the latest and final stories: This Savage and Beautiful Night, For a Devil Has Fallen from the Sky, and The War-Torn Hills of Earth. More than just an omnibus, Legends of the Flashback ends the saga with a bang--everything is resolved, nothing is left out. All the characters and situations of the Flashback/Dinosaur Apocalypse come together in a trilogy that will close out and define the saga. Join Ank and Williams, the crew of Gargantua, the kids from Thunder Road, and more as they heed the call to adventure one last time and face the very architects of the Flashback From Legends of the Flashback: The gold fog rolled and so did the water, foaming and frothing, revealing first the photonics mast and communications antennas, then The Sarpedon's black, sea-slicked sail and forward fins, then its great, dark, parabolic bow-which breached the surface at an angle, like the plesiosaurs and ichthyosaurs and mosasaurs swimming alongside-until, still steaming forward, the ship was fully surfaced and its aft fins visible; at which three people-two men and a small woman with a bob haircut-appeared in the sail."Jesus," gasped Puckett, the engineering chief, as he looked at the beasts, which filled the water for as far as the eye could see (which nonetheless wasn't very far, due to the fog). "If I hadn't seen it myself, I wouldn't have believed it. The sonar doesn't lie."Captain O'Neil was more circumspect. "But why, dammit. That's what I want to know. I've certainly never seen them migrate en masse like this-like Hammerhead sharks. What's the reason?"Both of them had to shout over the crash and commotion of the waves.Pang signed excitedly at them as the wind chopped her hair."What's she saying?"Puckett, who'd been working with her, paraphrased: "She's saying, 'What if they were called too-only in a different way'" He watched as she continued to sign. "'Or-considering the dream used sound and imagery-the exact same way'"O'Neil looked at the marine animals as they leapt and dove and swam powerfully alongside. Aye, maybe, he thought."Ho " cried Chief Puckett suddenly. "The Santa Monica Pier "O'Neil peered into the fog and saw the tiny silhouette of a Ferris wheel emerging from the gloom, then unhooked his mic. "Half ahead, revolutions 500-and mind the beasties." He looked at Pang. "Yes, I'm going to send a team ashore. And no, you're not-"And that's when it happened: that's when the pterodactyl flapped down like an oyster-white threshing machine and snatched her up by the shoulders-began rising. That's when O'Neil drew his sidearm-even as Puckett grabbed her by the ankle-but couldn't get a shot in through the pounding wings and Pang's own flailing-until there was the briefest of openings, and he did fire.Until he got lucky and the bird fell and so did Pang-still being gripped by her ankle-so that she was flipped upside down and slammed against the sail-which her head hit like a rock. So that she was knocked unconscious even as Puckett and O'Neil held tightly and ultimately dragged her back into the conning tower.After which, drearily-for they were unable to wake her or get any sort of reaction at all-there was nothing to do but take her to the infirmary and monitor her.Nothing to do, frankly, but pray.

It's all come down to this.The saga is finished. There will be no more. These three signature editions contain every Flashback story ever written (1993-2023), plus the latest and final stories: This Savage and Beautiful Night, For a Devil Has Fallen from the Sky, and The War-Torn Hills of Earth. More than just an omnibus, Legends of the Flashback ends the saga with a bang--everything is resolved, nothing is left out. All the characters and situations of the Flashback/Dinosaur Apocalypse come together in a trilogy that will close out and define the saga. Join Ank and Williams, the crew of Gargantua, the kids from Thunder Road, and more as they heed the call to adventure one last time and face the very architects of the Flashback From Legends of the Flashback: He caught up to her and turned her around even as the wind surged all around them in a gale. "Okay: okay, okay, so-I'm crazy, fine. Whatever you like," He held up his freshly-bandaged hand. "But this isn't crazy, Lisa. This is as real as you or me, or, or Puck. And I'm telling you right now ... we have a chance to fix this, this thing. This Flashback." He gestured expansively, "This whole thing; this apocalypse, this Big Empty. We go to California-andif we succeed-well, guess what? It all goes away; every last stinking bit of it: the dinosaurs, the lawlessness, the lack of medical care-the hopelessness-all gone, just wiped clean. Just erased from the sands of time, like the untold billions lost in the Flashback, who, by the way, will all be alive again, just as alive as you or me." He stepped closer and gripped her shoulders, firmly, gently. "We'll be alive again, and not just surviving, not just-what? What is it?"And she backed away from him: dizzily, it seemed, horrified."I take it you haven't exactly thought this all the way through," she said, still seeming to reel, then gathered herself. "Okay; so just say it was possible-I mean, it isn't, but just say it was-say the time-storm was reversible ... well, what would happen to us? I mean, us now, right here, talking on this beautiful beach ... where would we go?"He thought about it, the wind buffeting his hair. "We'd ... we'd cease to exist, I suppose. Just sort of fade away to nothing." He brightened as though he'd just thought of something. "But we'd rematerialize in the past; before the Flashback ever even happened, before ..." He trailed off as though lost in thought."It's still a kind of death, Nick. A kind of total annihilation." She plopped down and looked out at the sea. "Would you really wish that on anyone? On a child born after the Flashback, say? My God, Nick, it's been seven years. Doesn't that child deserve some kind of shot at life, too?"He looked down at her soberingly, then sat down next to her in the sand."Well, what about all the seven-year-olds lost in the Flashback? Or, for that matter, all those born just before? Or still in the womb?" He put his arm around her and gazed out over the ocean. "That's what happens when someone," He glanced at the lights in the sky, "something, decides to play God. Others have to play God, too."And then neither of them said anything more but just looked at the sea and the lightening clouds-at the sun which was starting to come out-at the pterodactyls swooping and diving for fish.

It's all come down to this.The saga is finished. There will be no more. These three signature editions contain every Flashback story ever written (1993-2023), plus the latest and final stories: This Savage and Beautiful Night, For a Devil Has Fallen from the Sky, and The War-Torn Hills of Earth. More than just an omnibus, Legends of the Flashback ends the saga with a bang--everything is resolved, nothing is left out. All the characters and situations of the Flashback/Dinosaur Apocalypse come together in a trilogy that will close out and define the saga. Join Ank and Williams, the crew of Gargantua, the kids from Thunder Road, and more as they heed the call to adventure one last time and face the very architects of the Flashback From Legends of the Flashback: "Okay, but ..." A middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair stepped out: Peter, the airline pilot. "It's all come down to what, exactly?"Williams just looked at him-as though the answer should be obvious. "Why, raising an army, of course. Building an armada. Dusting off the weapons from the Big One and getting to it; getting busy."Gasps and shocked utterances, muttering, disbelief.He stood and addressed the crowd. "Listen: don't ask me to explain all this because I can't, okay? I mean, Ank might be able to do it but unfortunately only I can hear him-so you're just going to have to take my word for it. All I know is that we need to go, like, now, this eve-meaning that an advance team should set out even while the main column is being raised." He scanned the throng. "We'll need warriors. Who among you will travel with me? Red? Satanta?""I travel alone," said Satanta, standing amidst the crowd sans warpaint. "But I will prepare Blucifer immediately and meet you in the hills.""And I'll oversee the armada," said Red. "It'll be just like when we defended against Szambelan.""I'm in," said Travis. "Once a Marine, always a Marine. Semper fi.""I'm in, too," said an albino girl that I knew only as Luna. "Because you're going to need me on this one. I can just feel it."Williams thought about it and then nodded. And then he climbed up Ank's tail and addressed everyone from the beast's back: "Hear me, hear me, men and woman of the free state of Montana Know that-even as we've argued and debated over the vision and how best to respond to it, know that there have been others-hundreds, even thousands-elsewhere, who have been doing the same thing; and that it is in that that we may take comfort, for we need not face the threat alone. But also know this: which is that when one side is summoned-so must be the other; and work as if there is no time at all-for indeed, there may not be. And may God be with us."

Jonesing for a drive-in theater and a hotrod El Camino?It's the dawn of the 1970s and everything is changing. The war in Vietnam is winding down. So is the Apollo Space Program. The tiny northwestern city of Spokane is about to host a World's Fair. But the Watergate Hearings and the re-entry of Skylab and the eruption of Mount Saint Helens are coming...as are killer bees and Ronald Reagan.Enter 'The Kid, ' a panic-prone, hyper-imaginative boy whose life changes drastically when his father brings home an astronaut-white El Camino. As the car's deep-seated rumbling becomes a catalyst for the Kid's curiosity, his ailing, over-protective mother finds herself fending off questions she doesn't want to answer. But her attempt to redirect him on his birthday only arms him with the tool he needs to penetrate deeper-a pair of novelty X-Ray Specs-and as the Camino muscles them through a decade of economic and cultural turmoil, the Kid comes to believe he can see through metal, clothing, skin-to the center of the universe itself, where he imagines something monstrous growing, spreading, reaching across time and space to threaten his very world.Using the iconography of 20th century trash Americana-drive-in monster movies, cancelled TV shows, vintage comic books-Spitzer has written an unconventional memoir which recalls J.M. Coetzee's Boyhood and Youth. More than a literal character, 'The Kid' is both the child and the adult. By eschewing the technique of traditional autobiography, Spitzer creates a spherical narrative in which the past lives on in an eternal present while retrospection penetrates the edges. X-Ray Rider is not so much a memoir as it is a retro prequel to a postmodern life-a cinematized "reboot" of what Stephen King calls the "fogged out landscape" of youth.Want to go for a ride?

After breaking their sworn oaths in a fit of forbidden passion, a sacrificial bride (Shekalane) and her fearsome escort (the ferryman Dravidian) find themselves alone and on the run in the subterranean river-world of Ursathrax.From the book: Permission would not have been granted, nor did he ask; instead, he went straight to the detention block after his meeting with the prefect and located Shekalane's cell. It was easy to do, for it was the only one with a light beneath its door. Indeed, it was the only one in the entire cellblock that was occupied."Shekalane," he whispered, crouching, and braced the meal flap open with his finger. "It's Dravidian."At last she said, sounding distant and utterly confused: "I cannot see you. Opening the flap triggers a light: It-it hurts my eyes, and burns the skin of my face. And yet it is cold-the cell, I mean. So cold."He withdrew his finger, allowing the flap to close, and thought he heard her teeth chatter. The dragger's great paddle wheel churned."Why have you come to me, Dravidian of the ferrymen?""You are about to be interviewed by the prefect himself, Asmodeus. During this interview you will be asked about your involvement with Valdus and his revolution. Answer him truthfully-names, dates, tactical information-he has assured me personally that you will be spared if you do so. Do you understand?"A silence followed. "Spared. That's a curious choice of words. I trust by this you mean I will not be punished or killed ... but that I will still be delivered into sexual slavery.""Shekalane ...""I've had a great amount of time to think, Dravidian. It's-it's in our nature; we women, that when faced with a closed door yet another door opens ... in our minds. And I've decided that Valdus is right: the Lottery must end." She paused as the great ship rumbled all around them. "And I've decided something else; which is that his methods are justified. Indeed, what is death-physical death, I mean-when compared to imprisonment and the suffocation of one's soul? The former at least provides an escape; but the latter .... No, Dravidian, I will not cooperate. Not even if I am tortured to death.""You don't mean that, Shekalane.""What know you of what I mean and what I do not? You, who mistook a ploy, and a successful one, for an expression of love for Valdus? You, who in turn used that to retreat into your former self and turn your back on all that we have learned and experienced? No, I tell you plainly that I will not submit, and you-your order-will be forced to destroy me. Now please, go away. For, although I love you, I cannot abide by what you have done."At last Dravidian lowered his head. "Nor can I abide by what you have done, Shekalane. For by aiding and abetting Valdus, if only in bringing him comfort, you did also turn your back-on all his crimes and victims. And you would aid him still." He stood and swung his mask around on its strap, prepared to put it on. "It would seem we are at an impasse, at last. Whatever our fates, then ..." He fingered the fa ade's velvety lining. "Know that you, too, are loved."Then he whirled to leave and, whirling, came face to face with a brownie in a dung-colored goblin mask and holding a tray-who quickly looked away and just as quickly looked back, as though recognizing him as someone personally significant to him. Dravidian stared at him for perhaps two breaths, taken aback by the directness of his gaze, and sensing, too, something-well, he could not define it, and quickly placed his mask to his face and depressed the pad at his temple, sealing it with a hiss.

I entered the building-which, despite its name, was just another steel barn-from the east, taking out my Maglite and turning it on. The chickens were there; sleeping (I presumed), although it was hard to tell with animals who routinely slept with one eye open (as they had often done on my grandfather's farm, an evolutionary adaptation, he'd explained, that allowed them to rest while also watching for predators). I suppose that's when I first noticed it, the fact that the chickens seemed bigger (I mean, bigger even than earlier in the day), more robust, and that their combs seemed more colorful-not brighter, per say, but deeper, redder, more fearsome, somehow. Yes, I decided, sweeping the Maglite's beam across them, stirring them not at all, they were definitely sleeping. I swiveled to inspect the other pen, the one on the other side of the walkway-and promptly froze. For there was a chicken-a great, golden rooster-staring back at me through the mesh. Just staring, his amber yet bloodshot eyes gleaming. And so startling and unexpected was this that I recoiled virtually immediately and gripped the Maglite tighter-ready, on pure instinct, to use it as a bludgeon-before turning and exiting the structure, wondering why I had been so compelled to go there in the first place and why too I had napped and dreamed of chicken shopping in the hours right before work; a dream in which I'd reached for a package of breasts and realized that what was pressing against the clear plastic was not chicken at all but a human face.

"Well, now we are getting somewhere," says Sula, glancing him up and down, appearing victorious. "But she was not a witch like me, else she would not have done what she did. For that is exactly what happened, isn't it? Jadis became infected by M24 and slew her own son, and your son too. And then you spent the next year and a half wandering a world you no longer recognized, a world where the dead were stacked on every street corner and the bonfires burned day and night, until you stumbled into a beer hall one night because they were offering free bread and heard a powerful orator talking about male superiority and cleansing the world; and you listened, at first just because it felt good to have something in your stomach, but later because you were swayed, and that orator's name was Kill-sin, who would go on to found New Salem and rule it with an iron fist. Am I warm, Witch Doctor?"

Detective Rowe: Let's go back now-to when you first saw it move. Is that all right?Westbrook: Sure. Like I said, I'd just woken up from the dream when I heard it, just rumbling across the field where they'd been working on the road-Detective Rowe: The I-890-North Schenectady Corridor.Westbrook: Sure, I guess. So I went to my window-you know, to see what was going on, and saw it sputtering to a stop near the office trailers and other equipment-which were all covered in snow-just shutting down with a rattle, like it had been running for a long time. That's when I first noticed it, how clean it was-there was no snow on it at all. Like-Detective Rowe: But it was there when you went to sleep, isn't that correct?Westbrook: Yes, of course. Covered in snow. It hadn't moved since December, when they had that accident-you know, where the worker was killed.Detective Rowe: Clarke. The foreman. I seem to recall they had several accidents; including when they rammed into that layer of concrete.Westbrook: (inaudible)Detective Rowe: What?Westbrook: The Meyers. James and Mia. That's where the concrete was at. I used to talk with them sometimes, before the accid-Detective Rowe: You knew them?Westbrook: Before the traffic accident. The one with the semi. Last summer.Detective Rowe: Yes, I seem to recall that too. Something about them accelerating out of control-Westbrook: I think they did it.Detective Rowe: I'm sorry?Westbrook: The bugs.Detective Rowe: The ... bugs.Westbrook: (inaudible): In the concrete. Where the Meyers buried them. At least, until the road grader came along ...

May became June, which became July, which became August, and I didn't see Ghost ... although I left him something every day, something which was always gone when I returned, at least at first. By September, however, he'd stopped taking what I left him completely-nor would he appear when called-and I began to worry. That would have been about the time I started getting serious with Jenny-holding hands at the indoor skating rink, kissing for the first time in the balcony at The Muppet Movie-as well as my first growth spurt, all in the legs, which made me feel gangly and insecure but also made me taller than Jen, which I liked, and which she liked, too.It was also around the time the murders started happening, and what become known as the Comet's Tail Mangler-at first just in the local paper but soon the national ones as well and finally the NBC Nightly News-started making waves across the country. Nor was that the only national news story to touch me; for my parents' missing flight was back in the spotlight also-primarily because the business tycoon who had resumed the search (after the Coast Guard and Federal Aviation Administration abandoned it) had now given up, too.For Shad and my grandma, it was case closed-again. For me, it was the beginning of a season of denial that would last clear through September and into the school year; a season in which I became more convinced than ever that my parents were still alive. "Denial can be a powerful thing," my mother had once said (I believe it was in the context of someone's rumored drug and/or alcohol addiction), but for me, in that fear-addled fall of 1979, it became something more; something akin to an obsession or even a psychosis; something which rendered me deaf, dumb, and blind-to the news of wreckage having been spotted by a private flight out of Honolulu in the wee hours of Christmas morning; to the reports of the victims of the Mangler having been mauled as if by an animal-mauled, and partially eaten. Indeed, I had even begun looking forward to introducing them to Jenny (when they were finally picked up from Gilligan's Island, which is how I imaged their circumstances), had even selected a date: New Years, 1980-the day the call would come. The day the news would be announced that survivors had been found and that they were in good health; the day we would drive to the airport in Grandma's black GTO and watch my parents descend the steps like soldiers returning from Vietnam, their faces tanned from the South Pacific, their necks adorned with leis.

It would be hard to describe how elated I felt upon returning to our fishing spot and finding the trout gone, though in truth I couldn't be sure if Ghost had gotten to it or some other predator-at least not until I stepped through (having had some difficulty in locating the portal, I confess) and saw the fresh prints.And yet of Ghost himself there was no trace, even after I'd called out to him-in the hopes he might recognize my voice- and laid the new fish down (a giant halibut which had cost me my entire allowance); positioning it halfway in and out of the portal so I could monitor it even while studying on the nearby rocks.Nor did I have to wait long, for I'd barely cracked my history book when I just happened to look up and see the halibut yanked all the way in, at which I stood abruptly and approached-but was beat to the mark by Ghost himself, whose snout emerged out of thin air and was quickly followed by his neck and body-even the entirety of his tail-until we were facing each other next to the Mohawk River: Ghost still swallowing and licking his non-lips, and both of us, I think, chilled by the November wind."That's it," I said, rubbing my gloves together, splaying my empty hands. "No more. At least not today."He cocked his head at this, his pink, rabbit's eyes blinking, before rearing back and barking at the sky-like a sea lion, I thought-just yark, yark, yark "Nope. All done. You're just going to have to wait until tomorrow-when I'll try to bring more. Can you do that?"He just looked at me, his little fore-claws opening and closing-a kind of prehistoric hand-wringing, I supposed. And it occurred to me-not for the first time-that, at least in the short-term, I might be his only means of survival; that, indeed, if I didn't feed him he might very well starve.What did not occur to me, at least until he began sniffing the air between us and slowly moving toward me, is that I myself might be in danger-that, in lieu of more fish or perhaps even a big dragonfly, he might try kid. Might try lying little turd-wad who was going to start 7th grade next year. Might try Denial Boy who was still convinced his parents were marooned on a desert isle and would turn up any day.Which is when, having begun backing away, I tripped over an above-ground root and fell, sprawling, onto my back, at which instant the animal's snout darted for my head and I screamed-only to find, seconds later, that it had not attacked me at all ... but begun licking me; yes, licking me, sliding its great, pebbly tongue up and down my face, slathering my cold cheeks in gooey spit, breathing into my nostrils-filling the world with dinosaur. Filling it with heat and musk and stench.And filling it, too, with something else, something I'd been missing since the last time I'd seen my mother; a thing frowned upon in Grandma's house (where the nape of the rugs always lay left to right and the plastic floor runners always gleamed and the books in their glass-faced cabinets always stood so silent, to be viewed and not read).Mere touch. Mere contact. Mere things coming into contact with other things. Like what I felt for Jenny or even my favorite T-shirt and wool blanket-the one with the U.S.S. Enterprise on it-like what I felt for my plastic model kits and comic books and beat-up fishing pole (even though I never used it).Something familiar, something secret. Something, I supposed, like love. Or what a boy could know of it.

"That's it," the man urged. "Come on ... Come on ..."He backed away slowly, his hands opening and closing on the prod. Napoleon emerged into the storm-light, pausing at the start of the run. He shook himself as though offended by the cold. His color was a dull gray.The man cursed; so long as the animal remained in the doorway, he couldn't trigger the doors. He would have to lure it further in. "Come on, killer Fresh meat " he shouted, and retreated along the fence, raking the prod over the amply-spaced steel mesh, making a tat ... tat ... tat sound.Napoleon padded into the run cautiously, his feet squishing in the mud. He sniffed the air, and stretched his limbs. He was painted in gridiron shadows from the mesh-work.The man halted by the control box, but didn't hit the doors yet. Napoleon was fast-if he triggered the gates too soon, the spring-heeled devil might dash forward into the paddock (God knows, it'd tried last night). Instead the man maneuvered the tip of the prod through a square gap in the mesh and waited.Napoleon cocked his head, hesitating. He snorted, and clouds of pale breath billowed from his nostrils. Then he moved forward, looking from side to side. His footprints exposed the run's concrete floor.The act didn't fool the man for one minute. That's how the bastard had nearly gotten him the first time, by pretending not to see him. Never again, he thought determinedly.Napoleon stepped in front of him, and paused.The rain came down in waves, back-lit by the harsh glare of the security lights, and the man squinted. It was hard to see the animal this close to the paddock. Not impossible, but hard. He could make out the profile of its head and neck, but the details were a wash. And the nylon wasn't helping.Lightning flashed above them, and thunder cracked. It was a sharp, ragged sound-like the crunch of a busting tree trunk. The man flinched, and Napoleon turned to face him. The two of them stared at each other through the rain and the steel mesh."So, we meet again," the man joked, though his intentions were no laughing matter. He expected the sound of his voice would set the animal off.But nothing happened.The man swallowed."I know you can see me," he said at last, and found he had to holler just to pierce the storm's din. "I know you can see me-because I can see you "The Nano-T didn't move.The man laughed brusquely, and shook his head. "What's the matter-forget about last night?"Rain pounded on metal and roared down the gutter. The T remained still.The man was confused. Why wasn't it attacking? Was it wary of the shock prod? Was it sick? He readied his thumb over the prod's switch. There was only one way to find out ...The Nano-T dipped its head to the ground suddenly, sniffing the mud, and the man hesitated. He withdrew the prod and shuffled forward, peering through the mesh ...It wasn't mud the animal was sniffing. It was its own-Something wet and foul hit the fence, splattering, and the man jerked away. The T's narrow muzzle darted between the bars-and slammed to a stop. Its teeth gnashed; the fence shook. Its eyes stared out at him from its wide head, their golden coronas close to the mesh.The man fumed; it had flung its shit at him He hit the LADDER DOORS plunger and the PADDOCK plunger simultaneously.Steel pulleys whirred, and iron doors slammed into the mud. Napoleon pulled back from the mesh, bleeding. He looked at the closed gates, owlish eyes blinking, and brushed at his lacerated snout with a fore-claw.The man closed the control box and jabbed him in the hip with the prod. The Nano-T jumped, squealing, and banged its head on a crossbeam. Hot orange sparks rained down in the mud. The man laughed, his mouth hung wide, and struck the animal again.Napoleon howled at the sky.