his parents what he' d done had been, until that point, the most mortifyingly embarrassing moment of Timmy Graco 's life.
And it had totally been worth it.
At the bottom of the hill, beyond the lush, rolling pasture, was a small hollow with a thin stream running through it' s center, emptying into a deep pond, complete with diving board, boat dock, and a tire swing hanging from a drooping willow tree. Next to the pond stood Luke Jones ' s threestory farmhouse and a long barn, both white with green tiled roofs. Several other outbuildings sat clustered around the two larger structures. The view beyond the farm was clear for miles and miles the paper mill' s stacks belching white smoke into the sky, the twin towns of Colonial Valley and Spring Grove, and in the distance, on the horizon, the forested tops of Pigeon Hills and the radio transmitter tower for 98YCR nestled among them. On a quiet day, visitors to the cemetery could hear the distant whine of traffic on Route 116, which cut through Spring Grove and passed by Colonial Valley on its way to Hanover and Gettysburg. The far end of the cemetery was bordered by a cornfield, which bridged the pasture to the side with the older graveyard, shed, and vast forest beyond them. It was at the intersection of the cemetery, cornfield, and the electric fence that the boys had built the Dugout. It sat only a few feet away from the blacktopped cemetery path, invisible to passersby (except, apparently, Timmy's grandfather), and the electric fence skirted the fort's far edge. They weren' t sure whose property it was on, the churches or Mr. Jones
'sand in truth, they' d never stopped to consider it. At twelve, they saw all of the area as theirs, and begrudged the adults their usage of it. Had Timmy been able to figure out a way to tax all the grownups for their usage of the surrounding countryside, he 'd have happily done it.
They rode down the pathway, searching for Barry. The smell of fresh cut grass hung thick in the air. A bird chirped happily overhead. White and yellow butterflies hovered over a puddle leftover from the rainstorm two days before. Honeybees buzzed in a patch of clover.
As he pedaled, Timmy watched the gravestones flash past; sarah myers 19001929; abby luckenBAUGH 19221923; BRITNEY RODGERS, AGE 5; BRETT SOWERS 19131983, WWII VETERAN, KENNETH L. RUDISill 19231976. He'd spent so much time amongst these markers that the names and dates were as familiar as the kids in his class. A lot of the people buried here were children, many of them infants, many more around his age. That had always disturbed him. Timmy normally felt immortal, like the Eternals, another of his favorite comic books. He didn 't like to think about the alternativethat somebody his age could die. But here was proof, carved in stone, that it happened all the time that kids his age died. His grandmother was buried in this section as well. Timmy didn' t remember her very well, just vague impressions. Her perfume, the way she 'd always tried to get him to eat more when they visited, how she' d squeezed him when they hugged. He often had to look at photographs just to remember her face. Next to her gravestone was a matching marker for his grandfather; Dane Graco' s name and date of birth were already engraved in the marble, just waiting on his death to complete the inscription. Timmy didn 't like to think about that either, and as a result, he avoided his grandmother' s grave whenever possible. Seeing his grandfather 's name along with that blank date, as if the stone were just waiting for Dane Graco, gave Timmy the creeps. Behind them, five archshaped stained glass windows on the rear of the church stared out, overseeing the cemetery. They' d also always given Timmy the creeps. Often on Sunday mornings, when the sermon was especially boring, he'd stare at the windows and make up spooky stories about the scenes depicted in them.
Sometimes he even wrote them down in the margins of his church bulletin, much to his mother ' s chagrin. She told him it was disrespectful, bordering on blasphemous. Timmy didn 't understand that. The Bible was full of scary stories and characterswitches and black magic, zombies and demons, giants and sea monsters, murder, even cannibalism. Why were his little tales any worse? Why wouldn 't God like them? He told some of the stories to Barry and Doug, and they' d asked him for more. Their eagerness had inspired something inside Timmy. He thought that when he grew up, he might like to write comic books. Not draw them, of course.
He was lucky if he could draw stick figures. Doug was the artist in their group. He 'd been working on the map for the last four months, and couldn' t wait to unveil it. Timmy couldn ' t wait, either. Doug was much more talented at drawing than Timmy, but Timmy could write, and comic books needed writers to tell the artists what to draw. Maybe he'd grow up to be like Steve Gerber or J. M. DeMatteis or even Stan 'the Man' Lee.
At twelve, Timmy's entire world pretty much revolved around comic books. His father had bought him his first two when he was sixan issue of The Incredible Hulk, in which the jadejawed giant fought a group of villains called the UFoes (before that, Timmy' s only exposure to the Hulk was the television program on Friday nights, and the Hulk hadn 't been able to talk in that) and an issue of Star Wars that featured a blastertoting, mansized, talking bunny rabbit named Jax who had helped Han Solo and Chewbacca ward off a bounty hunter.
After finishing these comics, he was hooked. Like any other young boy's hobby, it soon became an obsession.
Each week, he rode his bike down to the newsstand and bought his weekly fix of comics. His selections varied, but his favorites were Transformers, The Incredible Hulk, Sgt. Rock, Marvel TwoInOne, The Amazing SpiderMan, Moon Knight, The Defenders and Captain America.
He supplemented his newsstand purchases with mailorder comics from a company called Bud Plant. He preferred underground books like The First Kingdom and Elfquest, and wished he could figure out a way to get their Xrated, adultsonly material like Omaha the Cat Dancer and Cherry Poptart without his mother' s knowledge. In addition to the new monthly issues, he bought every back issue he could find. Sometimes he saw advertisements in the backs of comics for comic book stores, but the closest one was Geppi 's Comic World in Baltimore, and he' d only been there twice (but the visits were enough to impress upon him that the proprietor, Steve Geppi, was a god among men). The next closest was in New York City, four hours away. Instead, Timmy scrounged back issues at yard sales and the Colonial Valley flea market. On Sundays, he'd ride his bike there and buy old back issues for fifty cents each. The woman who ran the flea market had roughly 5,000 comic books at home ranging from the 1950s to the mid1970s. According to popular rumor, they 'd belonged to her son, who was killed in Vietnam. Timmy didn' t know much about Vietnam, other than that both his father and Barry 's had fought there. Timmy' s dad had been in the Airborne and Clark Smeltzer served on a riverboat. Timmy was sorry her son had died, but he liked to think that whoever the guy was, he 'd appreciate his comic collection now being enjoyed by kids like he once was. Every Sunday, she'd bring in a new box. She was beloved by all the neighborhood children, and loathed by their parents, whom the kids begged for more money. Last Christmas, his grandfather had bought him a copy of the Overstreet Comic Book Price Guide.
When Timmy saw what some of his comics were worth, it fueled his obsession even more.
Needless to say, Timmy had amassed quite a comic book collection. His father often groused about getting rid of them, that they took up too much space, and that a boy his age should be more interested in sports than reading 'funny books,' which is what Randy Graco insisted on calling them. But Timmy had no interest in playing professional sports. Anybody could throw a football or baseball, but making up a story about how the Devil had taken over Earth, like J. M. DeMatteis had done in The Defenders #100that took real talent.
Riding beside him, Doug panted, out of breath. His bike's spokes flashed in the sunlight.
'You need to lay off those Twinkles,' Timmy teased.
'Screw you.'
'Your Calvin Klein's are sticking to your thighs, man. Gross.'
'Least I got designer jeans. You're wearing those same old Levis from last year.'
'Only reason you got Calvins is because your mom bought them at the thrift store. It's not like she shops at Chess King.'
'Bite me.'
Laughing, they punched at each other, almost crashing their bikes in the process. They found Barry near the end of the cemetery, right on the border between the graveyard and the budding cornfield. Over the next three months, the stalks would go from anklehigh to towering over their heads. Barry was raking two car tire tracks out of the grass, smoothing out the damage. He waved as they approached, and flipped his long blond hair out of his face. Even at twelve, his lean muscles flexed beneath his black Twisted Sister Tshirt, the result of many days of hard labor. Although they 'd never admit it, both Timmy and Doug often felt selfconscious when standing next to their blueeyed friend. The girls at school paid attention to Barry, and ignored them, for the most part. As they got closer, Timmy could hear the tinny strains of Def Leppard's 'Die Hard the Hunter' coming from the earphones around Barry's head.
'Hey guys.' Barry stopped his Walkman and removed the earphones, letting them dangle around his neck.
