downstream.
Across the stream, he could see their house, the windows dark, empty, and forlorn. The water extended almost to the front door. And water wasn’t the only problem, five outriders lay curled up on themselves halfway down the ridge, ready to spring into action if anybody came into their range. And the ones on this bank still patrolled.
“This is impossible,” he said aloud.
He was confused to see the water getting closer, looming up toward him. Then he realized that he was seeing it through Trevor’s eyes. His son was scrambling down the bluff right toward the patrolling outriders and the thundering river.
Martin raced down behind the last of his children, throwing himself forward, trying to reach him, to at least get his attention—whereupon one of the outriders on this bank turned from its patrolling and came straight toward him…but past Trevor, whom it did not seem to see.
And indeed, Martin felt a surge of fear, he couldn’t help it. The thing’s metal fangs moved so fast that they sparked.
“Run downstream, son,” Martin bellowed. He picked up a rock and threw it at the thing. It bounced off the head, causing it to rear back and hiss, and making two more of them come prancing toward him.
To his utter horror, Trevor walked right into the flood. “Son! SON!”
He could not escape the outriders and Trevor was about to be killed. But he could escape, all he had to do was to leave his fear, leave his mind, let himself happen. He paused in his headlong dash, closed his eyes, and emptied his mind. He put his thought on his roaring blood and the roaring water. His prayer came to him then, Franny’s prayer, and joined itself to the whisper of his blood.
When he opened his eyes, he found himself face to face with an out-rider. Its eyes stared straight at him, its jaws moved slowly. Carefully, he stepped around it, then past another, so close that he could see that there was venom caked to its abdomen, and a stinger tucked in the size of a butcher’s meat hook.
Trevor was now well out into the flood. Martin threw himself in and began swimming.
The water grabbed him as a giant would, and he saw a great oak, stately, from somebody’s yard over in Harrow, no doubt, come sweeping toward him and with it death in the tangle of branches, drowning as he was swept away.
Trevor still waded forward, though—and then seemed not to be wading but walking. He was visible inside the water—but not affected by it. Walking inside it. “Trevor!” Martin forced himself to dive to avoid the oncoming tree, forced himself to swim, felt the water ripping at him—and then saw Trevor beside him walking easily as water and limbs and pieces of cars and houses and bodies and drowned cattle went not only around him, but through him. In the other world, of course, the stream wasn’t in flood, so crossing this way would be easy.
He looked down at his own body, and saw that a great limb of the tree was moving through him, and a human arm, white and bloated, and a spatula and dozens of poker chips, all passing right through him and leaving not the slightest sensation. A lawnmower went through him, then theater seats, a TV, a tangle of shrubs.
He took another step forward and the flood was gone. Instead, he was on the far side of the Saunders. Behind him, the little river flowed quite normally, tinkling faintly where it hurried across some stones.
“Be very, very careful, Dad. I don’t know what’s going on up there.”
“I can’t hear your thoughts.”
“Not over here, it doesn’t work.”
Martin looked back toward the Saunders. The bluff was there, but everything was quiet, washed with golden early sun. It was a view he’d looked at a thousand times, and on summer Sundays heard from here the faint bells of the town.
They had gone through the gateway, and on this side, in this universe, the Saunders wasn’t in flood.
“Come on, we’ve gotta see what gives with that Hummer.”
“It looks like typical army issue.”
“Their military’s Hummers are all camouflaged. This is something the seraph brought here.”
“They’re here?”
“Apparently.”
Trevor started off, moving quickly up the familiar hill toward the familiar house. As he walked behind his son, Martin experienced a sense of deja vu so powerful that it was actually disorienting, even painful. This looked like home and it felt like home but it was not home. It was not home.
Trevor stopped. “They’re noisy,” he said.
“It’s dead quiet.”
“That’s the problem. His car is in the garage, but it’s just really quiet.”
He saw what looked like a Saab in the open garage. “It’s blue.”
“Their cars have all sorts of different colors. Blue, red, white.”
Martin had never heard of anything so outlandish. Who would be willing to drive around in a colored car? Cars were black. This Wylie must be an eccentric, which fit the literary pretensions, he supposed.
Trevor approached the place cautiously, moving up the steep hill, his eyes always on that Hummer.
Martin whispered as loudly as he dared, “Trevor!”
His son motioned at him furiously. The message was unmistakable: Shut up!
Trevor dropped down on all fours, then onto his stomach. The Hummer was between him and the house, but he could almost certainly be seen if anybody looked closely enough. From the Hummer, definitely.
Then he motioned again, this time indicating that Martin should come forward.
Eagerness flashed through him. He jumped to his feet. Trevor’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open —and then there was a terrific crash and something went whanging off into the woods. “Get your ass outta here,” a voice crackled. “We got you in crossfire, shitheel!” A shot whipped past him so close that he felt a hot blast of wind.
He threw himself to the ground. “No,” he called, “we’re friends!”
Another shot kicked up gravel beside his head. He tried his best to back away, attempting to reach the brow of the hill so that he could slide back down.
But then a shot rang out behind him, and this one was closer, much closer. There was only one thing to do. He stood up and raised his hands. “Okay,” he said, “okay.”
From the woods came a boy’s voice, “It’s a guy, Dad. A guy and a kid hiding by the Hummer. Back wheel.”
Silence.
“We mean no harm,” Trevor called. “Please, we need to talk.”
The boy appeared coming up the far side of the driveway. He carried a big rifle, hefting it expertly. Martin realized what was happening here, that this was an historic meeting, the first contact between human beings from two different universes.
“Hello,” Trevor said as he stood up. He walked out from behind the Hummer, into full view of the house. “Mr. Dale, I’m Trevor.”
“You got the laptop?” Wylie Dale asked.
“No.”
“This is my dad, Martin,” Trevor said. “We need to look at the book again.”
“The laptop was stolen. Plus, it’s been rough around here. Real rough. I haven’t even thought about writing.”
Martin realized that the smell he had been noticing was meat, and it was coming from the Hummer. As he walked closer, he could see blackened ruins in it, the shattered bodies of seraph. And then, around the side of the house, one of the outriders. For a moment, he froze, but then he understood that they had destroyed it, too.
“So you’re Trevor,” Wylie said. “Hey, Brooke, here’s the people from my goddamn book, come to life!”
The boy had walked up to Trevor. “Hiya, Nick,” Trevor said.
“Hey.” Nick put his hand out.
Trevor looked at it. “Can we?”
“Dunno.”
Martin watched. Wylie watched. His wife Brooke watched. A little girl’s voice said from behind the very lovely mother, “Bearish thinks it’s okay.”
