quake struck. Marty had the gun all along. And it was full of blanks.
Which meant…
Which meant all those times Buck was pitching himself as a series, talking about what a well-developed character he was, Marty was selling to himself.
Buck was already a character. A totally fictional one.
Buck did not exist. He never did.
“Oh my God,” Marty muttered to himself, falling to his knees and closing his eyes, letting the gun fall to the ground.
No wonder Buck sounded just like that voice in his head. Buck was that voice in his head.
That Red Cross nurse was right, Marty thought, he did take a severe blow to the head. He’d been hallucinating for days.
His conscious mind tried to warn him, over and over again. Buck was one-dimensional. Buck’s actions were cliches. It was impossible for Buck to survive the flood; it was an extraordinary contrivance that Buck found him impaled on that spike.
Why didn’t he see that before? Why couldn’t he accept it?
Because I needed Buck.
Without Buck pushing him, challenging him, forcing him to examine himself, he never would have survived. Marty had come to that realization long ago. Buck was there for Marty when he needed him and was gone when he didn’t.
I’ve gone totally, completely insane, he thought. Maybe all of this is in my mind. I’m not even here. Maybe I’m still under my car, buried beneath a pile of bricks.
He was afraid to open his eyes. He didn’t want to know the truth.
“Marty, oh my God, Marty.”
It was Beth’s voice. But was it real or, like Buck, a figment of his imagination?
He felt her arms around him, her tears on his cheek. “Please, Marty. Say something, are you all right?”
Slowly he lifted his head and opened his eyes.
Beth was on her knees in front of him, her lovely face, her adorable band of freckles, exactly as they were when he left her two days ago.
“I am now,” he said.
She hugged him hard and he hugged her. They whispered, “I love you” again and again to each other. He would tell her all about his adventures and someday he might even tell her about Buck. Or maybe he’d just write about it instead.
Over her shoulder, he saw Clara standing there, a sad, lost look on her face. Marty gently pulled away from Beth. “Honey, I want you to meet Clara.”
Beth turned, wiping the tears from her eyes, and looked at the girl for the first time. Maybe Beth saw the blue eyes and the freckles and also saw herself. Or maybe she just saw a frightened child.
“She’s alone now,” Marty said.
Beth reached out her arm to Clara. “No, she isn’t.”
Clara ran over and joined their hug.
Martin Slack was finally home.
