

ZACHARY PILL

Of Monsters and Magic

### Written by

"Maine's Other Author"TM

### Tim Greaton
ALSO BY TIM GREATON

From Focus House Publishing

Pheesching Sector

(A sci-fi story)

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The Santa Shop

(Book 1 in the Santa Conspiracy Series)

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The Santa Shop's Hollywood Ending

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Red Gloves

(Book 2 in the Santa Conspiracy Series)

2012

Under-Heaven

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Zachary Pill, The Dragon at Station End

Trilogy

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Bones in the Tree

(A novella)

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For the Deposit & Two Other Stories

Now Available

Dustin Jeckle & Mr. Hydel

(A Dark Story)

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The Shaft & Two Other Stories

Now Available

The Halloween Caper

(A supernatural story)

Now Available

Heroes With Fangs

2012

Contact Tim at

tim@greateastdevelopment.net

Read Tim's Blog at

timgreaton.blogspot.com
Zachary Pill

Of Monsters and Magic

(Book 1 in The Zachary Pill series)

######  TIM GREATON

### This is a work of fiction. The names and the characters are fictional. Any resemblance to living or dead individuals or to actual places or events is purely coincidental.

### ZACHARY PILL, OF MONSTERS AND MAGIC

Copyright 2012 by Tim Greaton.

The Zachary Pill (series) Copyright 2011 by Tim Greaton

Published by Focus House Publishing

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, including digital or audio sampling, internet display or download, or any other form of digital or physical display or transfer, excepting only brief excerpts for use in a literary review, without expressed written permission from the author. Original species, realms, and mechanisms of magic are all under the exclusive ownership of the author.

"Maine's Other Author"™ is a trademark of Focus House Publishing.

Published by Focus House Publishing.

Cover design by Wizards Prism Art & Media.
Zachary Pill

Of Monsters and Magic

(Book 1 in The Zachary Pill series)

###### TIM GREATON

Focus House Publishing

Wilton, Maine
DEDICATION

To Joan my beautiful wife and to my three amazing children, who were all so patient during my thousands of writing hours, I can barely find words to express my love and thanks.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To my sister Tiffany, who read so many versions of this story her head must still be spinning—Without your continued help, I'm not sure I could finish another work.

To Marilyn Nulman—I will always appreciate your storytelling expertise and friendship.

To the Saco Middle School of Saco, Maine and its Literary Specialist Patricia Martin-Evans—Thanks for introducing me to the four students who became my central focus group.

And to those four (now much-older) students, Tyler Cadorette, Maggie Evans, Abby Farrington, and Andrew Lemoine—Thank you so much for your feedback which has made this a dramatically better story. I would not be surprised to find a novelist or four emerge from within your very talented ranks.

CONTENTS

Prologue

1) A Coward and a Freak

2) A Bad Decision

3) No Way Out

4) Broken Bones and Panic

5) Hospital Fears

6) X-rays and Second Thoughts

7) Dr. Gefarg

8) A Really Bad Meal

9) Dark Plans

10) Danger in the Wind

11) All Alone

12) The End of all Things

13) Abandoned

14) An Unwelcome Guest

15) Neighbor Falls, Pills Die

16) History and Secrets

17) One Bully, One Ally

18) Casket and Snakes

19) Hospitals and Blood
Zachary Pill

Of Monsters and Magic
Prologue

"Zach, hurry!" came his father's voice, barely audible over the harsh sounds all around them. Surprisingly strong for a small man, his father dragged him by the good arm through the doorway.

"Get into the bathroom!"

Zachary ducked as a bat with blood red eyes hurtled past his head. It made a sickening splatter as it struck someplace in the bedroom behind him.

"Enough!" Zachary's father shouted in a voice so loud it made Zachary's ears hurt. Another bat bounced off the hallway wall and hurtled toward them, but his father chanted something and a bolt of blue light burst out of the wand and struck it in mid-flight.

Though he was temporarily blinded from the flash, Zachary heard the bat fall in a wet thump on the hallway floor not far from him. The air was filled with the sickly smell of charred flesh. He felt his father's hands thrust him into the bathroom and he heard the door pulled shut.

"Lock it!" his father ordered.

Ashamed to be leaving his father alone with the bats but having no choice, Zachary groped along the door and forced his trembling fingers to turn the lock. Then, he backed away until his cast struck the towel rack on the back wall. Pain vibrated through his arm. He fought the need to scream, but couldn't stop his breath, which came and went in great gasps. The windowless bathroom was pitch black. In an attempt to hear over the sound of his own sobs, Zachary clamped his good hand over his mouth.

"Krage, I'm done with this!" his father bellowed.

Simultaneously, a flash framed the bathroom door with blinding blue light. Then everything went black again. Something heavy thumped against the door. Zachary feared for the worst.

"Dad?" he whispered. Then more loudly, "Dad?"

There was another explosion of glass, maybe from his father's bedroom. The crashing and banging sounds grew louder and reverberated from all over the apartment. Suddenly, another flash of blue light left spots swimming in Zachary's eyes. Something about the following darkness was different this time, though. It was the silence. No crashing, no wind, nothing. Zachary could hear his own heart beating in his ears.
1) A Coward and a Freak

Wishing that magic really did exist, Zachary Pill kept smashing the Billy Timkin voodoo doll he had made from a white hand towel until its blue toothpaste eyes and mouth were smudged beyond recognition. When the bar of soap fell out of the Billy doll's head, he glanced up at the mirror to see his bruised cheek and swollen lip.

"I never did anything to him," he muttered.

He made a fist and debated whether to put the doll back together again and give it another good couple of whacks.

Why can't I be more like Uncle Ned?

He pulled up his tee-shirt sleeve up and made a muscle, but the pathetic little rise at the top of his arm depressed him. He sighed and let his arms drop back to his sides. No way would his uncle let someone get away with what Billy had done to him. Anyone that touched Uncle Ned would have been the one with bruises―or worse.

Disgusted, Zachary ran a wet comb through his offensive hair and managed to push a few stray cowlicks back where they belonged. He smacked the comb against his skull. Why did his hair have to be such a weird color!

"Snot hair!" he muttered.

"What hair?" a voice asked from the open bathroom doorway.

Zachary's face turned red. He wished his father hadn't heard that.

"That's what Billy Timkin called me yesterday, just before he started hitting me."

"Maybe you heard it wrong."

"No, he definitely said 'snot hair.'" Zachary already regretted telling his father.

"Then what happened?"

"I told him to shut up, so he punched me." He left out the part about trying to punch Billy back―twice. Half the students in the cafeteria had laughed when he missed both times. By today, the whole school would be talking about it.

His father squeezed his shoulder and gently moved his chin closer to the light for a better look at his bruises.

"I don't understand why the school won't do something about that kid."

The principal might have done something if she'd been called, but his father wasn't the type to argue, even to defend his own son. Besides, none of the kids who witnessed the fight had admitted to seeing anything, so it was his word against Billy's, again.

"You could have walked away," his father suggested.

"Everyone at school already thinks I'm a freak. I'd rather get beat up than be a coward." Zachary didn't bother to add that Stephanie Travis had been there. It figured that the first time he really stood up to Billy, he got beat up in front of the girl he liked.

"So, getting hit was better than getting away?" his father asked.

"Uncle Ned wouldn't have run," Zachary countered.

His father fell silent. Small and rail thin, he wasn't built for fighting. Zachary had never seen him stand up to anyone, not even the old woman with the poodle in the apartment across the hall. Zachary loved his father but hated the thought that he was growing up to be just like him. Like father, like son, they were both cowards.

"You can stay home if you want," his father offered.

Zachary shook his head. "I have finals."

"There's still a week of school to make them up, Zach."

"No, I'll be okay."

The truth was that for the last two weeks Zachary had been trying to crank up enough courage to ask Stephanie to the end-of-year dance. Of course, he had been trying to ask her out all year, and so far had only managed to say 'hi' once in the hallway. But her smile that day had been worth it. He took one more glance at his black and blue cheek in the mirror. Maybe she'd have sympathy for his injuries.

A guy can hope.

"I should call the school," his father said as left their fourteenth floor apartment and entered the elevator, "and make them stop that kid from picking on you." His left eyelid was twitching, not a good sign. Next his face would turn pale.

"It's okay, Dad, really. School gets out next week."

"As long as you're sure," his father breathed. His eyelid had already returned to normal. This was the same man who had been known to throw sour milk away rather than confront someone at the store. One time they had gone without cable TV for several weeks because he hadn't dared to complain. It wasn't until someone in the adjoining apartment had a similar problem that it got fixed.

"A new salon opened just a couple of blocks away," his father offered.

"We already tried," Zachary said.

"But we haven't tried the new salon."

Zachary shrugged and hoped his father would forget about it. The only thing more embarrassing than having green hair was having a bunch of hairdressers say how weird it was that it couldn't be dyed.

When they stepped off the elevator, Zachary hurried out the front lobby doors and jogged to the bus stop at the corner. He got there as the last of the herd was getting on the bus and followed a tall girl with curly black hair down the narrow aisle. There were only a few quiet snickers as he made his way to the back and settled into a seat beside a much younger boy who examined his bruised face for only a second before darting his eyes back out the window.

Zachary watched the passing storefronts and tried to imagine how he was going to ask Stephanie Travis out, but every plan he came up with seemed lamer than the one before. His mother would have known what to say. He touched his lip. She might also have used makeup to cover up his embarrassing injuries. He pictured her sitting beside him, long green hair cascading in soft curls around her delicate face, slender arm draped comfortingly around his shoulders. He forced the fantasy away knowing she could get caught in his head like video game music. Ten minutes later, when the bus pulled into the school circle, he still hadn't formed a single idea of how to ask Stephanie to the dance. To make matters worse, Billy Timkin was standing outside the bus, ready to give him a morning beating.
2) A Bad Decision

Billy smirked and his friends made a couple of rude remarks about his bruises, but miraculously they let him walk unmolested up the stairs.

"Meet any good fists lately?" he heard one of them say just before he walked into the school. But he ignored the comment and, just then, saw Stephanie Travis walking toward her homeroom class.

"I can do this," he told himself as he hurried to catch up, but the closer he got the heavier his shoes became. His stomach felt like he'd eaten a live goldfish and his body trembled with fear. He opened his mouth to call out.

"Steph...," he croaked, but somehow the rest of her name got stuck in his throat.

What's wrong with me?

It didn't matter, though, because she never looked back before disappearing into her homeroom. Like a robot with a rundown battery, Zachary came to a stop in the middle of the hallway. Several students bumped him as they moved past.

Coward! Coward! Coward!

How could he have screwed up such a perfect chance? He couldn't fight. He couldn't ask girls out on dates. What _could_ he do? But he already knew the answer to that: he could grow up to be just like his father and avoid confrontation at all costs. He could cross the street or hide behind doors rather than face a single argument or disagreement. Zachary was fated to become just like his dad, and the thought of Stephanie going to the dance with someone else because of it made him furious.

Feeling like a total failure, Zachary turned and trudged back towards the Team C hallway. A number of kids in his first two classes laughed and made fun of his bruises from the botched fight the day before, but he hardly noticed because couldn't get the image of Stephanie Travis disappearing into her homeroom out of his mind.

"She was right there," he muttered to himself on the way out of third period gym. The last to leave, he had been pulled aside by Coach Winton who was worried that he might have gotten his injuries during dodge ball the day before. When Zachary assured the heavyset man that his bruises had nothing to do with gym class, the coach had dismissed him with no more sympathy than an exterminator might have given a wounded mouse. At least his job was safe.

Now Stephanie will probably go to the dance with that track kid who keeps passing her notes in English class. Why couldn't I talk to her?

"Who needs a ball," he heard someone say as he reached the first landing in the stairwell.

Zachary stopped. At the top of the stairs, four familiar boys were surrounding a shorter, plump kid he didn't recognize—a sixth-grader probably. Laughing, the older boys kept pushing the kid back and forth like an oversized hockey puck.

Zachary felt his stomach cramp. He was so sick of the scared feeling that he wanted to scream! Everything in his life was crappy because of fear. He might already have had a date with Stephanie if he hadn't been too scared to ask. He might also have won that fight with Billy if he hadn't been too scared to learn how to fight and stand up for himself in the last few years.

What was he so scared about? What could possibly be worse than his current life? Maybe it was time he took a lesson from his Uncle Ned who had probably never taken grief from anyone in his whole life. Maybe it was time for someone else in the Pill family to stand up for himself!

Because they were still busy pushing the helpless younger boy back and forth, none of the bullies had yet noticed Zachary. He forced his stomach to unclench, took a deep breath and climbed a couple of stairs. Hoping he sounded braver than he felt, Zachary spoke up.

"Leave him a-alone."

The largest of the boys glanced down, and for the briefest second Zachary thought he saw fear in the dark-haired boy's eyes, but then his wide face split into a grin.

"Look, guys," Billy Timkin, said. "It's our buddy..., snot hair."

The taller blond boy to Billy's right was Jason Kelly, and though he didn't look nearly as rugged as Billy, he had a similar reputation as a bully. Zachary didn't know the names of the other two skinny boys, but he had seen them skulking around with Billy at various times.

All four boys glared down at him.

The sixth grader gave Zachary a thankful glance and raced away. It was a big school, and he didn't slow down until long after his footsteps could no longer be heard. At least he would be safe.

Too bad I can't say the same.

Billy and his three friends moved to form a vicious, sneering wall at the top of the stairs, making Zachary realize—too late—that he probably should have gone to the top of the stairs before interfering. As it was, he was trapped.

"I need to get to math class," he said.

"You weren't in a hurry a minute ago," Billy pointed out.

By that time, Zachary's stomach had cramped into such a tight ball that he was glad he hadn't eaten much for breakfast. His heart yammered like a scooter engine and he could feel tiny beats of pain in his bruised cheek and lip. He wanted to run, needed to run, but a brave little voice in his head kept telling him to hold his ground. As he stared at the small army above him, he began to hate that little voice.

"I need to take my math final," Zachary said, surprised that his voice did not crack.

"D'you hear that?" Billy said. "Grass head needs to go somewhere."

"Too late, slate," Jason said.

Billy smacked his taller friend in the arm. "That didn't make sense. What's 'slate'?"

"It rhymes with late," Jason said lamely.

Zachary forced a trembling leg to step upward.

"Looks like you'll be missing that class," one of the skinny boys said.

"Yeah," Billy said, "don't think you'll be making it."

Zachary looked from one angry face to another. He doubted there was any way out of this, and he was rapidly realizing what a huge mistake he had made. His entire body started to quake.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "Now, can I please go?"

The four boys—as one—shook their heads, and Billy rubbed his thick hands together. "No such luck, chump."

Trying to remember some of the fighting stories his Uncle Ned had told him over the years, Zachary let his book bag drop to the stairs. His uncle had once said that if you had to fight, it was best to surprise your opponent by attacking first. But how could Zachary surprise four boys who already knew he was there? Besides, surprise or not, it didn't seem likely he could win against four of them. After all, he didn't have his uncle's fighting experience or built-like-a-truck muscles.

More and more, Zachary regretted his decision.

At that moment, his father's advice to "walk away" was making a lot more sense, especially considering neither his classmates nor Stephanie Travis were in the stairway to see him run off. But where could he run to? Billy and his friends had him completely blocked. Maybe with more headroom, he could have jumped over their heads, but what if they grabbed his feet?

"Bet you wished you minded your own business now, snot hair," Billy taunted.

Zachary's stomach was so tight it hurt. He considered racing back down to the gym, but Coach Winton always locked those doors between classes. No, it was going to take more than jumping or running to get him out of this. Maybe there was another way.

His voice quavering, Zachary said, "You too scared to fight me alone, Billy?"

Billy's gaze settled on Zachary's bruised cheek and lip, and he gave a cruel smile.

"I already beat you pretty good yesterday, snot top. Today, I think I'll share. Why should I be the only one to have fun?"

Zachary forced breath in and out of his leaden lungs and shifted his gaze to the tallest boy. He lifted his arms and made two awkward fists.

"Come on, Jason. Just you and me then."

"Good try, grass head," Billy said, "but now we're all mad."

In unison, all four boys moved down one step.

Zachary backed down one.

Jason Kelly was punching one hand with the other, surely not a sign of someone who intended to hang back from the fight. The two skinny boys didn't look quite as ready, but even if they only held Zachary down, it would be bad. To lose a fight against one person would hurt. To lose a fight against two people would probably hurt twice as much. But, Zachary figured, losing against four people might cripple him for life. The brave voice in his head had long since disappeared. Given half a chance, he would happily have bolted for safety.

He backed down three more steps and grabbed the railing with both hands.

The wall of boys descended one stair closer.

He waited. They descended another stair.

_One more_ , he told himself.

The bullies took another step down, and just as they did Zachary leapt over the railing. Sailing down, he landed painfully on the concrete floor. Nothing seemed broken so he stood and sprinted toward the doors to the gym.

Just as he had feared, they wouldn't budge.
3) No Way Out

Coach Winton had started locking the gym doors a couple of months before because someone had spray-painted "YOUR BALLS ARE GETTING OLD" all across the basketball court floor. Zachary pulled at the doors again, but neither of them would budge. He was trapped.

"You're not getting away, Pill!" Billy hollered.

He rushed down the stairs, careened around the lower landing and lunged his heavy body straight at Zachary. Zachary dodged to one side and managed to knock the bigger boy's first punch with his elbow. Not surprisingly, Jason also rushed down to join the battle. The blond boy tried to grab his shirt, but Zachary had a new plan. He took three huge steps and jumped as hard as he could. As though there were springs under his shoes, he flew twice his height into the air and grabbed the steel railing halfway up the stairway.

"See that!" someone hollered, "he really is a freak!"

Seeing both Billy and Jason grasping for his legs below, Zachary swung his feet up over the railing. Unfortunately, one of the skinny boys was already there, and even though bangs covered both his eyes he didn't have any problem seeing Zachary's feet and shoving them back out into the open air. At the same time, the other skinny boy began prying Zachary's fingers from the railing.

Zachary gritted his teeth and held on for as long as he could, but his grip finally failed.

Four voices laughed as he fell downward.

Twisting to land facing his adversaries, Zachary accidentally kneed Jason in the face on the way down. The tall blond boy screamed, but Zachary had no attention to spare for him because as he hit the floor, Billy's large boot arced straight for his chest. He scrambled backwards and barely avoided getting his ribs broken. Billy tried to kick him a second time, but Zachary was better prepared and managed to dodge to the side. He looked up, hoping to get past the two high level guards, but one of the skinny boys had already moved to the top of the stairway while the other stayed in the middle. He was trapped.

"Get down here, you cowards," Billy called up to two boys on the stairs, but neither of them moved.

Damn!

Zachary dodged another of Billy's awkward kicks but wasn't quite able to duck the follow-up punch. The bigger boy's knuckles slammed into the side of his nose.

White hot pain exploded behind his eyes!

Trying to imitate his Uncle Ned, Zackary took a ragged breath and attempted to shake off the pain. No single punch would ever have stopped his uncle; it would only have made him angrier. Zachary made two fists and ducked another of Billy's jabs, one aimed at the side of his head. Though Zachary didn't know the first thing about karate, he did know how to kick. Ignoring the blood running from his nose down into his mouth, Zachary leapt up on one foot and kicked out with the other. His sneaker caught Billy solidly in the chest. Like air from a bottle rocket, the breath whooshed from Billy's lungs as the heavyset boy tumbled backward into the concrete wall.

The big boy recovered quickly, though, and charged. Zachary fended him off with a standing kick, but this time the Billy managed to get hold of his sneaker before it drove into his chest. Billy shoved upward just as Jason stooped down behind Zachary. The combined tag-team move sent Zachary pitching backwards. He tried to brace his arms behind him for the fall, which might have worked if Billy hadn't chosen that exact moment to jump on top of him. The added weight drove against the already awkward angle of Zachary's left arm. Pain and arm bones exploded simultaneously as Zachary's head smashed against the concrete floor. The resulting crack echoed like a gunshot through his head.

Dazed, he felt Jason crawl out from under him. He wanted to cry out as the movement jarred his shattered arm, but he refused to scream. He held it in! He would never give Billy the satisfaction. Never!

He had trouble breathing and tried to roll Billy off from him, but the larger boy was like a train lying across his chest. The pain in his crushed arm was unbelievable and getting worse by the second. Red and white dots swam across his vision. He coughed and felt blood backing up from his nose into his throat. Gagging, he sensed consciousness slipping away.

Is this how it feels to die?

As Billy Timkin rolled to his feet, Zachary's broken bones grated together like two branches in a storm. New waves of pain brought him back to full consciousness. He drew several gasping breaths and blinked tears away as Jason rushed up the stairs, blood raining from his nose. Billy stood wobbling at the foot of the stairs.

"See you next time, snot hair," he said. Then he rubbed the back of his head, and limped to join his three friends. In moments, all four disappeared from Zachary's view. He could hear them hobbling through the hallway somewhere above him.

As quickly as that, the fight was over.

Zachary braced himself with his good right arm and tried to sit up. White hot agony shot from his broken arm straight to his throbbing skull. Gasping, he tried to imagine that his mother would meet him at the nurse's office if only he could get to his feet. But not even the sheer agony of his injuries could wash away the cruel fact: it had been two years.

She was never coming back.

Feeling like the butt of a cruel and terrible joke, Zachary slumped to the floor. Broken bones ground together as great wracking sobs reverberated off the concrete walls of the stairwell. Zachary Pill the Coward had just become...the World's Biggest Crybaby.
4) Broken Bones and Panic

The class bell had already rung by the time Zachary Pill made his aching way through the empty halls to Nurse Jacobs' office. Alarmed, she wiped the blood from his nose and put his arm in a temporary sling. When asked what happened, Zach told her that he was protecting another student from bullies when he was beat up. He knew from experience that naming Billy Timkin and his gang would only lead to the school siding with the other kids. After checking the throbbing lump at the back of his head, she picked up the phone.

"You need to come to my office right away," she said to whoever was on the other end of the line. "It's the Pill boy."

Zachary knew he was in trouble when, two minutes later, Vice Principal Galloway entered the room. Large and imposing, he was dressed in a white shirt & blue tie.

"You look like you've had a rough morning," he said.

Zachary chose to stare at the floor rather than answer. He knew nothing he said would satisfy the Vice Principal, and his arm and head hurt too much to argue.

The big man had a brief whispered conversation with Nurse Jacobs, during which his foot tapped impatiently. His eyes dripped with disappointment as his size thirteen feet crossed the room to where he picked up the phone and dialed a number from a file he held in his thick, clamp-like hand.

"Mr. Pill?" he said, his voice firm and commanding.

Zachary couldn't hear the other end of the conversation.

"This is Peter Galloway, Vice Principal of East Boston Junior High School. Yes, Zachary has gotten into a bit of trouble again. This time his arm has been broken, and Nurse Jacobs fears he may have a concussion. It's her opinion that we should get him over to Mass General's Emergency Room right awa—"

Mr. Galloway paused for a moment then glanced toward Zachary.

"I'm not sure you understand, Mr. Pill. It's not just his broken arm." He turned away and lowered his voice, but Zachary could still hear him. "Your son's nose might be broken, and he's got a large lump on the back of his head. I don't believe waiting is an option."

There was another pause and whatever was said caused Mr. Galloway's broad shoulders to stiffen. He turned and glared at Zachary.

_Thanks, Dad,_ Zachary thought. Of all the times for his father to grow a backbone, why must it have been when he was beat up and bloody in front of this man? Zachary felt certain he was going to throw up. He tried to focus instead on the pain in his shattered arm, and the throbbing in his nose and the back of his head. He felt like a crash-test dummy from one of the car commercials.

Mr. Galloway held the phone out to Zachary. It looked like a toy in his huge grip.

"Your father would like to speak with you."

Awkwardly, Zachary tried to get to his feet but winced as his broken arm jiggled like hamburger in its sling. Mr. Galloway motioned for Zachary to sit as he and his enormous feet brought the cordless phone to Zachary. It even hurt to move his good right arm as Zachary accepted the phone and held it up to his ear.

"Dad?"

"I told you not to fight," his father said. Though he wasn't yelling, Zachary instantly recognized a tint of anger in his voice. His father never got angry.

"Billy and his friends were picking on a little kid. I tried to stop them...I mean, I did stop them, but―"

"This is serious, Zach. The school wants me to meet you at the hospital."

Anger flashed across Zachary's mind. He sat there battered and broken, and all his father could think about was the inconvenience of taking time off from work.

"Fine. I won't go―"

"Just listen, Zach. There are things you don't know, and one of them is that you can't go to a normal hospital. Not ever!"

Thinking the crack to his head must have been worse than it felt—which would have been really bad—he tried to fathom why he couldn't go to the hospital? Weren't they for everyone? He knew a lot of kids that had been, some many times. Confused, he glanced toward the vice principal and Nurse Jacobs who were whispering back and forth, neither looking particularly happy, neither likely to be impressed if he gave in to the urge and vomited all over her floor.

Swallowing and trying to convince his stomach to calm down, he said, "I don't understand."

"Zach, you have to trust me. I'm leaving the office to get you right now, but this is very important: don't let the nurse touch you again! And, no matter what happens, don't let them put you in an ambulance! I will be there in less than twenty minutes. Okay?"

Zachary nodded. Then, remembering his father couldn't see him, said, "Yeah, okay. Want to talk to Vice Principal Galloway again?"

"No," his father said then added, "and stay away from plants, Zach."

"Plants?"

"Just stay away from any flowers, trees—whatever—inside or outside the school. Okay?"

Zachary felt like he'd been trampled by at least two elephants. So why was his father worried about plants? But his body hurt too much to talk anymore.

"Okay."

"Good." His father hung up.

"Zachary," Vice Principal Galloway said, "since we can't call an ambulance, Nurse Jacobs would like to give you a closer examination?"

Though his stomach writhed like he'd eaten a grass snake, Zachary shook his head "no."

"I'm sorry," the vice principal said. He wasn't used to people disagreeing with him.

"I don't want to be examined again," Zachary said. He swallowed hard.

"This is my school, Zachary," Vice Principal Galloway warned, "and I wasn't asking."

"No," Zachary said, no longer sure if his stomach wanted to heave from pain or fear of the huge brute in the shirt and tie. His need to vomit and the throbbing pains in his arm and head made it hard to focus. How had things gotten so out of control? Suddenly, he remembered the crazy warning his father had given him. His eyes scanned the room. The only plant in the room was a drooping spider plant that he sensed needed water. It was two seats away.

Vice Principal Galloway whispered to Nurse Jacobs again. She glanced toward Zachary and shook her head.

"It's his choice."

Judging from his narrowed eyes, Vice Principal Galloway would happily have thrown Zachary into an ambulance or even directly onto an operating table. But, instead, the huge man paced the room, making Zachary wish his father would get there soon. He used his right hand to hold his knees together, because for some reason they had begun to quake.

The next fifteen minutes were spent in silence, except for the few occasions when Vice Principal Galloway stopped pacing long enough to ask Zachary about the fight. Zachary tried to explain that he'd helped a younger boy get away from bullies, but when the vice principal's eyebrows rose in disbelief, Zachary fell silent. The throbbing in his head made it hard to concentrate, and he refused to make the effort for someone who was never going to believe him anyway. Besides, if they got caught, Billy and his friends would ultimately blame it on him and—four against one—the school would believe them, as had always happened in the past.

His body aching all over, Zachary tried several times to close his eyes but each time had an odd compulsion to get up and touch the spider plant in the corner. Eerily, it was as if the plant were calling to him. His room at home was filled with plants, and he had always had a knack in caring for them. But this was something different. It seemed to him as though the spider plant was actually trying to communicate with him. He even imagined its long slender leaves were reaching out to him.

Knowing he must be going crazy, Zachary rubbed his eyes and gasped from the pain of accidentally touching his swollen nose. He then shifted in his seat so he couldn't see the potted plant out of the corner of his eye, but his pain-filled mind could still sense it calling to him, inviting him to touch its leaves, to enjoy the peaceful state of just _being_. He had a vision of himself sitting in a pot of soil, luxuriating in the warm sunlight that shone through the window. As a plant, he could sense the frenetic nature of humans and the ongoing suffering caused by incessant movement, but to Zachary in his little pot those concerns would be distant; peace and tranquility could be his if only he would join with the little plant. All he had to do was reach his hand—

Suddenly, Zachary realized he had risen to his feet and was about to take a step toward the spider plant in the corner.

"Are you okay?" Vice Principal Galloway asked from where he had sat in a chair on the other side of the room. There was genuine concern in his voice.

Zachary glanced warily at the spider plant and eased back into his seat. How could his father have known? And, apparently having been right about plants, could he also be right about the dangers of a hospital? Come to think of it, Zachary didn't remember ever being in a hospital. As a matter of fact, he couldn't remember ever having been sick or even hurt...at least not until the bruises Billy had inflicted on him the day before. But that couldn't be right. Kids got sick all the time. They got colds, flus, sore throats. But, sitting there, a swollen mass of bruises, Zachary couldn't remember ever having had a single illness.

All these strange thoughts ran through his mind as he sat silently across from the unusually quiet vice principal and the concerned nurse. Zachary didn't want to look at either of them but also didn't dare to look toward the spider plant again, so he stared down at his hands. The one sticking out of his sling had started to turn deep purple, giving him the distinct impression it might soon be black if something wasn't done soon. Had his father made a mistake by not letting them call him an ambulance?

Just then, Zachary heard his father's distinctive fast footsteps coming down the hall, the quick pace he guessed coming from a career in sales, always hurrying from one appointment to another. As a young child, Zachary often had to run just to keep up unless his mother slowed everyone enough for his little legs to walk at a comfortable gait. Missing her more than ever, Zachary wondered when thoughts of his mother would finally stop haunting him.

When the elder Pill finally burst through the nurse's office door, his eyes locked on Zachary.

"Are you alright?"

"Been better," Zachary replied.

"How could you people let something like this happen?" his father said, turning forcefully toward Vice Principal Galloway.

The tall muscular man, who Zachary thought could probably have lifted a car if he had a mind to do it, looked directly into his father's eyes from his seated position.

"We can't control students every minute of every day, Mr. Pill. And, in this case, we don't even know what happened because your son doesn't seem to want to discuss it. I did overhear him tell you that 'Billy' was involved. I assume that's the same Billy Timkin he fought with yesterday?"

"My son didn't start either of those fights." There was a steely edge to his father's voice that Zachary had never heard before.

Getting to his feet, Mr. Galloway towered over everyone in the room, including Zachary's father who was an inch shorter than Zachary.

"No matter who started it, Mr. Pill," he said, "these altercations must stop. You will need to discuss this with Principal Coldwell before your son can reenter the premises."

"Are you saying my son is being expelled for getting picked on?"

His pain forgotten for the moment, Zachary listened intently. He had never seen his father like this. What had happened to the meek and mild man he had lived with his whole life?

"With all due respect, Mr. Pill," Vice Principal Galloway said, "this is the second time in two days that your son has been in the middle of problems like these."

Zachary was proud of what his father did next. He stabbed a finger up at the much bigger man's nose.

"You're right," Roger Pill said, "but my son has been the victim, not the bully! How many times has Zachary told you and your staff about problems only to have you believe the other kids? I think it's time this school screwed its head on straight and realized what's really going on here. I've sold you people a lot of office supplies over the years, and there's always a line of students in the Principal's office. It's like a hotbed of...of...bad students!"

So, Zachary's father wasn't exactly quick with words—but it was amazing to hear him talk back to anyone, forget a man twice his size! By this time, Vice Principal Galloway's face had turned bright red. He looked like an overfilled water balloon ready to explode. Nurse Jacobs stepped between him and Zachary's father.

"All this talking won't heal this young man's injuries," she quipped. "Zachary needs to see a physician right away!"

His father's eyes moved from the vice principal to Zachary's swollen nose and sling-held arm. "You're right," he said with finality. "Mr. Galloway, we'll discuss this at another time."

"Take it up with Principal Coldwell," the big man said. He walked rapidly from the room, his heavy footsteps as angry as his last expression, and disappeared down the hall. Roger Pill nodded to the nurse and turned to lead Zachary out into the hall.

"I expect to get a call from either your son's doctor or a hospital this afternoon, Mr. Pill," the nurse said. "Otherwise, I'll be forced to report this to the Child Welfare Department."

Zachary's father nodded.

"Someone will call," he said then led Zachary down the hallway and out the front doors to the parking lot. "Stay off the grass," he said to Zachary, "and don't go near the trees."

Alarmed by the strange thoughts he'd been having about the spider plant, Zachary did as asked. He followed his father to the white company car but suddenly felt dizzy when they reached it. His vision had grown blurry.

"You okay?" his father asked, using a surprisingly strong grip around his waist and on his good shoulder.

"I don't think so," Zachary answered honestly. If it weren't for his father's support, he felt certain he would have fallen over. The throbbing in his head had gotten worse, and his broken arm felt like a thousand tiny soldiers were beating on it with hammers and swords. His body swayed to one side, but he couldn't stop it. His father somehow held him upright while opening the car door and easing him onto the front seat.

"Hang in there, son. Just hang in there. We'll be in Chicago soon."

_Chicago?_ Zachary thought through a pain-clouded mind. _Isn't_ _that a long way from Boston?_

What happened next Zachary wasn't entirely sure. His father seemed to suddenly become a racecar driver, dodging from one lane to the next, zooming through dozens of intersections, not seeming to worry whether the traffic lights were green or red. Dozens of cars screeched and slid at odd angles outside Zachary's window as they soared through intersections. Gripping the dashboard with his one good hand, Zachary tried to make sense of their mad dash through the streets of Boston. He had almost convinced himself that it was all a nightmare when he began to hear sirens, lots of them. Shifting painfully to look out the side mirror, he could see at least four flashing blue police cars rushing up on them from behind. But his father wasn't making it easy. Their car cornered violently every few blocks and several times Zachary felt certain they were going to flip over. His seatbelt and grip on the dashboard were the only things that kept him from smashing like a pinball into the windshield and against the door beside him. By this time, the city scenery was flashing past so quickly he had lost all sense of time or direction. All he knew for certain was that each skid or pothole rammed the bones in his arm together like branches in a hurricane, and each time it sent shards of pain straight to his brain.

"Hang on, Zach!" his father said as they careened around one particularly tight corner. For a moment, the car tilted up on only two tires, but came back down as they fishtailed and straightened out again. The pain in Zachary's arm made his teeth grind. Disbelieving, he stared in the side-view mirror as two police cars slid off the road behind them. One rolled upside down onto the sidewalk, pieces of wood and other debris exploding from the porch it struck, and the other slamming through a store window. Just then his father rounded another corner, hiding the accidents from view. After several more violent turns that forced Zachary to dig his feet into the floorboards and grip the dashboard like an emergency handle, they squealed to a stop in front of a cemetery gate. The sound of sirens seemed to have fallen behind.

"Danielson & Derek Memorial Park," read a large black & white plaque on one of the cemetery's iron gates.

Zachary had the fleeting fear that he was dying, but who ever heard of dying from a broken arm? Then there was also the damage done to his nose and the back of his head. Even then, he couldn't be dying, could he? He tried to rub the painful pins and needles under his sling, but just touching the swollen flesh was agonizing. Car chases and injuries obviously didn't mix very well. He fought back tears that had been threatening to come ever since they left the school and yearned for his mother to appear. He would happily have curled into her lap until the pain went away. Before Zachary could shake the thoughts of his mother, an elderly man appeared on his father's side of the car. He wore a black suit with a bow tie and a hat that reminded Zachary of limousine drivers he'd seen on TV. As his father rolled down his window, Zachary realized the sirens were getting louder!

"Better make it quick, Mr. Pill," the elderly man said. He tipped his hat and peered in at Zachary. His smile displayed dozens of gold-covered teeth.

Zachary was both fascinated and repulsed at the same time.

"Where can we catch a ride today?" his father asked. "We have to get to Gefarg's."

Confused, Zachary struggled to understand. Why would anyone catch a ride in a graveyard? Were there bus stops or car pools at a cemetery? And why had his father been in such a mad rush that he was willing to get arrested?

"Try the Verra Family tomb at the north corner," the doorman said. "And you might want to step on it. They're right behind you."

Suddenly, the large metal gates hinged inward, and his father gunned his engine. A second later they were soaring dangerously fast through the narrow cemetery roads. Zachary glanced back in time to see what looked like dozens of blue lights flashing at the gates that had already closed again. Multiple sirens pierced the air.

They were going to be arrested!

Beautiful lawns and trimmed shrubbery blurred past as they zoomed along the tombstone-lined roads. Zachary's arm ached miserably and his head felt even worse. In one way, he was glad they were going too fast to read the names on the tombstones because he had an irrational fear that "Zachary Pill" might be imprinted on one of them.

After a harrowing series of zigzagging turns, they finally came to a jerking halt on the grass behind a stone mausoleum, his father's apparent attempt to hide their car. Even though the sirens were growing louder, Zachary glanced all around and couldn't see any signs of blue lights. He turned to ask what they were doing—just in time to receive a puff of white powder in the face.

His eyelids slid shut.
5) Hospital Fears

Zachary vaguely remembered being carried up a set of stairs, but when he came to full consciousness he was slouched low in the back seat of a car. His nose, arm and the back of his head all throbbed with agony. He could hear raucous sounds of traffic and looked past his father's head to see tall buildings moving past the windows. Pushing himself painfully to an upright position, he could see gray curls cascaded down from under a bright red baseball cap in the front seat. A certificate with a picture of a smiling older man hung next to the driver's sun visor. They were in a cab. Remembering the hair-raising journey from the school to the cemetery, Zachary thought it was probably wise his father wasn't driving.

"You're awake," his dad said.

Zachary grunted. Realizing he had been drooling, he wiped his mouth. "What happened?"

"'Guess I'm a little rusty with the sleeping powder," his father told him. "How do you feel?"

"Like my skull's filled with bulldozers." Even as he said it, he felt his neck bending with the weight of his own head. He forced it upright. All his muscles felt tired. "Sleeping powd―"

"Right here is good," his father said, interrupting him. He leaned toward the driver. "Drop us right here."

"Sure," came the driver's deep voice. He stopped the car and turned to wink at Zachary, his yellowed smile splitting several days of beard growth. He held out his hand so Zachary's father could stuff several bills into it. "Thank you for riding with me."

"Keep the change," his father said.

He helped Zachary out of the car and barely had time to shut the door before the orange taxi zoomed away. Zachary's arm throbbed painfully. He tried to adjust his sling, but that only made it worse. They were standing on a busy sidewalk in a part of Boston he didn't recognize. Dozens of people stood in line several businesses down. Zachary glanced up at the sign that read: "CHICAGO DAN'S ICE CREAM SHOPPE."

"I'm not hungry."

"We're at the clinic," his father said, pointing across the street at a two-story, narrow brick building with a long stairway that ended at a double set of tall doors. Above the doors hung a poorly painted, crooked sign: "CHICAGO SPECIAL CLINI—"

"What's a clini?" Zachary asked.

"Should be clinic," his father said. "The sign is broken."

Zachary squinted and realized his father was right. The jagged end of the sign looked almost as if a giant mouth had chomped it. The rest of the letters had been painted in red with long drips scattered throughout. Zachary shivered at the thought of going into such a dumpy-looking doctor's office.

"There has to be someplace better than this," he said.

"This is the only safe option, Zach. It's Gefarg's clinic."

"Gefarg?"

"Some people call him Doctor Gefarg," his father said, "but his kind is better at killing than healing."

Along with a large group of other people in the crosswalk, Zachary had been about to follow his father across the street, but he stopped.

"What do you mean by 'killing?'"

His father glanced around. Zachary knew they were attracting attention and might actually get run over if they didn't finish crossing, but he wasn't taking another step until he understood what his father meant. Yes, it was true his body ached terribly but, last he knew, pain was a heck of a lot better than death.

His father gripped him firmly, and painfully, by the right arm and started to pull him across the busy intersection. The cluster of people they had started crossing with was nearly to the other side. The expression on his father's face suggested he wasn't expected any argument.

"Son, you and I are in a lot of trouble right now, and there'll be plenty of time to discuss this. But if we don't get you taken care of, your body could―something terrible could happen. We have no choice but to trust Gefarg. I don't like it either, but he's the only one that can help you. We have to do this."

"What's wrong with a normal hospital?"

"It's just that if anyone finds out what you are—what we are—it will be bad. It's bad enough that Gefarg will find out we're still around."

Zachary found it hard to think past the pounding ache of his nose and the back of his head. He felt unsteady on his feet. A large bus roared through the intersection beside them, leaving a strong diesel odor behind. No other vehicles were moving.

"What's so different about us?"

His father gently gripped him around the waist and steadied him. "I promise we'll talk about all of this, son, but the lights are about to change and we have to get out of the street. Trust me on this, okay?"

Zachary nodded and touched the top of his tender head. He knew he was probably imagining it but it felt as though his skull had grown taller. How had a simple school fight left him in such terrible straits? Ignoring the drivers that honked and shouted at them, he allowed his father to lead him the rest of the way across the street, up a set of chipped granite stairs and through the tall double doors of the clinic. He swayed against his father as they stood in a dim entryway where a muscular man in a stained security uniform directed them through another set of double doors on their left which opened into a large waiting room.

The banks of bright fluorescent lights were almost blinding after coming from the dimly lit entryway. Apparently much cleaner inside than out, the placed smelled pleasantly of lemons with a mild disinfectant. The cafeteria janitors at Zachary's school could definitely have learned a few tricks from whoever kept the place so spotless and shiny. Even though the place was crowded with people, the chrome arms and legs of the furniture shone like mirrored surfaces and the white walls were immaculate. Even the white floor had a shine so deep that Zachary could see everyone on the other side of the room clearly reflected in its polished surface. All manner of people crowded the seats that lined every side and filled the middle of the sparkling clean room. Directly in front of them were two service windows, and two women in white nurses outfits were giving instructions and handing out clipboards to everyone who approached. Zachary and his father stood at the back of the shortest line, but there were still six or seven people in front of them.

"Why don't you find a seat and rest," his father suggested.

Still dizzy, Zachary nodded and moved across the room to the only two open seats he could see. Just as he got there, a young brunette girl, maybe around nine years old, slid into one seat and draped her legs over the second.

"These be taken, wizard," she said.

It was a weird comment, especially since she had no other fantasy playmates in view, but Zachary shrugged. Most little kids were weird. He looked toward his father, who was focused on the line in front of him, then turned back to the girl and smiled.

"Maybe I could sit until your family gets here," he suggested.

"You'd best not smite me amongst these many eyes!" the thin girl said fiercely.

She seemed genuinely afraid of him, but not enough to remove her legs from the spare seat. She continued to glare with an I'll-die-for-this-chair look, so rather than argue he scanned the room a second time, shook his head and moved back beside his father.

"No seats," he said.

Feeling dizzy, he leaned against his father's back. Fortunately, the line was moving quickly and in less than five minutes they were standing before one of the service windows. Either the floors inside the booth were high or their nurse was quite tall, because even in her seat they had to look up at her. Without glancing away from her computer screen, she slid one of the clipboards with paper forms though the open window.

"I'm Nurse Nightshade," she said. "Please fill out both sides of the form with all the proper information, including species, world of origin, and whether or not your ailment is Terrain or other. Then in the last few lines describe what seems to be the problem. Any questions?"

Zachary expected to see a smile— _species and world of origin_ ―but she hadn't even looked their way and seemed entirely serious. This was turning out to be a really strange place.

"My name is Roger Pill," Zachary's said quietly.

Nurse Nightshade's dark eyes bolted from the computer screen to stare at him. Zachary couldn't help noticing several of the nearby patients and even the nurse in the next window had also turned to look. His father turned to look at half a dozen pairs of eyes now watching them.

"What's going on?" he whispered angrily through the open window. "What has Gefarg been telling you people?"

The tall nurse put her finger to her lips and gestured toward the white door beside them. Zachary and his father shuffled sideways as Nurse Nightshade closed her service window and came to open the door and wave them inside her office. Zachary had been right; she stood at least two feet taller than him, and her shoulders were as wide as Uncle Ned's. Not the sort of nurse you wanted to make angry.

"Mr. Pill," Nurse Nightshade said sternly, "a lot of people have been looking for you, especially since Merlin died."

"I know," he said. "But how did they recognize my name?"

That got Zachary's attention.

Is our last name a fake?

Nurse Nightshade pursed her lips. "People around this clinic know more than you think, Mr. Pill," she said, "and that's usually more than they should. Either way, what's done is done. I'm very pleased to see you're okay. I feared Merlin might have been the last of your kind on this side of the corridors."

Corridors?

"I was hoping that's what everyone would think," Roger Pill said.

"Fate usually won't allow us to hide from our destiny," Nurse Nightshade said. Oddly, she stared at Zachary as she said it. Her voice softened. "You probably don't remember me, young man, but I was your nurse fourteen years ago."

"When I was born?" Zachary said.

"Yes, when you were born. Your mother was so excited and anxious to meet you that day."

"She was, wasn't she," his father agreed. The words seemed to catch in his throat. He recovered his composure, however, and said, "I'm surprised you remember."

"I remember all the important things."

The nurse's eyes flicked up and down Zachary's young frame. Then she smiled, warm and friendly, as though she had known him for years, which—even though Zachary couldn't remember it—she had. Zachary couldn't quite say why, but in that moment he instantly liked this burly woman. She reached out and ruffled his hair.

"Nice shade of green," she said, "just like your mother's."

He smiled. He couldn't remember anyone outside his family ever complimenting his hair before. Most people didn't like it. Come to think of it, he didn't really like it either.

"So what happened to you?" she asked, her eyes examining his nose and then settling on his sling.

"I broke it in a fight."

"Must have been quite a fight to break one of your bones," she said.

The comment struck Zachary as odd. Was she suggesting there was something different about his bones—and, if so, what? His questions about his family were growing by the minute, and Zachary intended to get answers from his father very soon.

Nurse Nightshade ran her fingers down both sides of Zachary's nose. He braced himself for the pain, but she was surprisingly gentle for such a big woman; he barely felt a thing. She then asked him to turn around so she could examine the lump on the back of his head, and finally she checked the buckle on his sling.

"Why didn't someone put a brace on this?" Nurse Nightshade asked. The look of contempt on her face was unmistakable.

"The school nurse wanted to send Zach to a Boston hospital to do that," Zachary's father said, "but I thought it was wise to come here instead."

Nurse Nightshade gave him a withering look.

"It's not like he has green blood, Mr. Pill." There was acid in her voice, but when she turned to look at Zachary, she smiled again. "How long ago did you break it, Sweetie?"

Zachary glanced around the room for a clock, couldn't find one and shook his head. "I was asleep for a while."

"It happened around eleven o'clock Boston time," his father said. "That would be about three hours ago."

Zachary hadn't been in the clinic long, and the drive to the cemetary had been frighteningly fast. That meant he had slept for almost two hours! And what did his father mean by Boston time? He remembered the Chicago signs he'd seen outside the clinic.

"Where are we?" Zachary blurted out.

"Now's not the time," his father said.

Nurse Nightshade turned kind eyes to Zachary.

"You're in the City of Chicago. It sounds like your father hasn't been very open with you about some things." She gave his father that withering look again.

Uncharictaristically, his father scowled back at her.

Zachary knew Chicago was hundreds of miles from Boston, so why would his father have come all this way? And how did he manage to do it in just two hours? It seemed to Zachary even an airplane would have taken longer than that, and since when did airplanes pick passengers up in cemetaries?

Nurse Nightshade's eyes had narrowed. She snatched the clipboard from his father's hands.

"Three hours! Don't you realize what could happen if his bones started to sprout?"

Zachary's father paled.

"I didn't have any choice."

"Obviously you did!" she snapped. "You should at least have called for advice before waiting all this time."

Zachary's mind swam. What did she mean by "bones starting to sprout?" It's not like he was a spinach plant. What was going on?

"Well, what's done is done," Nurse Nightshade said. She picked the receiver up from a phone and pressed one of the many lighted buttons. "Doctor, we have a member of the Pill family up―" She fell silent for a moment, then said, "It's Roger Pill and his son."

Another pause.

"But I wanted to send them to x-ray first. The boy's arm is broken, and because he's half fay―"

She seemed to get cut off again. For a moment she suddenly seemed bigger, taller and wider, but then she returned to her previous size. Weird.

Zachary rubbed his eyes.

"Of course, Doctor," Nurse Nightshade said. "You're the boss!" She slammed the phone on the cradle, which caused the entire office to shake.

"Doctor Gefarg is waiting for you in his office." She glanced at her computer screen and huffed. "But he can keep waiting." She reached down and grabbed Zachary's good hand. "You're going to x-ray first."

"Is that wise?" Zachary's father asked. "If Gefarg wants―"

"Haven't you caused enough problems for one day?" Nurse Nightshade said. "You may already have forced us to prune your son's arm."

Both Pills fell silent as Nurse Nightshade marched them out into a long hallway and through a pair of shiny chrome doors. Zachary was beginning to think that something had happened to his brain, because whoever heard of pruning an arm? As they walked, he was again struck by how bright, clean and modern the clinic was, nothing like the ramshackle sign and gloomy entryway would have suggested. He was just starting to ponder why his father had asked how Nurse Nightshade had recognized their "Pill" name when his eyes acted up again.

"X-rays in Use," a sign on one of two polished chrome doors read at first glance, but then the words changed to, "No Orcs Allowed!"

He blinked as they passed through the doors.

Orcs! Weren't they imaginary creatures like goblins and trolls? And how had the words changed on a painted sign. Surely he had imagined it.

Then why did it seem so real?

He really wanted to turn back and check the sign, but Nurse Nightshade had a vise-like grip on his good arm, and he got the distinct impression she wouldn't have let him loose for any reason. Shaking his head, he walked obediently beside her to another large, bright and clean waiting room. There were only a few people in this one. She motioned toward a bank of cream and chrome chairs against the wall. Zachary settled down and winced as his broken left arm bounced against his leg. His father sat beside him.

Nurse Nightshade spoke rapidly to another nurse at a window similar to where they'd met her then came back and said, "If anyone, especially Doctor Gefarg, asks you to leave before the x-rays are done, you have that nice woman call my station immediately." She ruffled Zachary's hair again and smiled. "Don't worry. We'll have that wand arm fixed up in no time."

Then she left.

"What's a wand arm?" he asked his father.

"Ruined arm," his father said. "She meant ruined arm."

Just then, a gaunt, prune-faced old nurse showed up.

"Let's go!" she snapped. "And you can stay right where you are," she said to his father who was getting to his feet.

"I'll be joining my son," he said forcefully. As recently as yesterday, his father would never have spoken up like that.

"Listen," the cranky nurse said, "if you want an x-ray, then shut-up and stay put. Only the troublemaker needs to come with me."

"My son's not a troublemaker!"

"I suppose the bruises and broken bones came from picking his nose then?"

"Where he goes, I go!" his father announced.

"Fine," the nurse responded. "You can take it up with Doctor Gefarg. Clinic policy says only nurses and patients are allowed in the x-ray room. We'll let the doctor decide if he wants to make an exception."

Zachary's head ached and his arm felt worse. He just wanted to get it over with.

"I'll be alright," he told his father.

"You're sure?" he said.

Zachary nodded, and his father reluctantly returned to his seat though never stopped glaring on the old crone. Zachary followed the nurse through another set of swinging chrome doors. As he walked behind her sickly thin frame, he couldn't help thinking that standing up to Billy had easily been the worst decision he'd ever made. His father had been right all along: cowardice was the better course of action. Zachary's feeble attempt at courage had gotten him beaten to a pulp, kicked out of school and had likely messed up any chance he had of getting Stephanie Travis to go to the dance with him.

Fearing that Doctor Gefarg's clinic would further prove what a disaster he had created, Zachary followed the grim nurse through a doorway to the right. The heavy wooden door sounded like a casket lid as it thumped shut behind him.
6) X-rays and Second Thoughts

Zachary couldn't help thinking the old nurse was like a set of bones you might see standing against the wall in science class. If it weren't for the pulsing blue veins beneath her pale skin and the graying strands of hair that were stuffed like dead grass beneath her white nurse's cap, she could easily have been a cemetery resident. Her skeletal hand gestured for him to sit up on a long padded table in the center of the small x-ray room. A large machine with a single robotic arm stood beside the table. The end of the arm looked like a huge camera with a moving platform below it.

"Go on, get up!"

Zachary slid onto the padded table where she promptly yanked his sling loose. Agony ripped through his mangled arm as it twisted and fell into his lap. Zachary tried to stifle the scream, but a tiny yelp still escaped his throat.

"'More of a weed than a tree," the nurse said.

Zachary supposed it was an insult, but his arm throbbed so badly he could barely think. Suddenly, the nurse reached out and yanked his wrecked limb onto the platform below the x-ray camera. Every nerve in his arm screamed in agony.

"You're trying to kill me!" Zachary exclaimed.

"Quit your whining or I'll tug it again!"

She belongs in a horror movie!

Why hadn't Nurse Nightshade let him go to Doctor Gefarg's office first? It couldn't have been any worse than spending time with Nurse Pain! Even as he thought it, her bony fingers bit into his skin and pushed his arm to the side. He swallowed and tried to calm his pain-wracked nerves enough to speak.

"Just tell me...where you want my arm. I'll do it myself." His body still quaked from pain.

"Wouldn't be so much fun," she said with no hint of a smile on her pinched face. "Now stop moving, or I'll have to adjust it again."

Becoming statue-like, Zachary was determined not to give her any excuse to put him through that again. She laid a heavy pad on his lap then retreated behind a glass window to one side of the room. A whirring sound came from the x-ray camera above his arm. When the nurse came back she, of course, reached out as though to jerk his arm again.

Zachary flinched. Daggers of pain shot straight to his brain.

"Maybe I was going to be gentle," the nurse said, her transparent skin stretching over a skeletal grin.

Zachary glared at her.

Gray lips thinned and eyes narrowed, but the old nurse was more careful as she repositioned his arm the second time. She then ducked her behind her glass window and let the x-ray machine whir again. Coming back, she said, "That's it."

"I can go?"

She gave him a full smile―a sight better suited to a Halloween party than a clinic—and said, "Unless you're having too much fun." Her grin widened, and for a moment Zachary could have sworn he saw fangs.

He hurriedly pulled his arm away from the machine and slid to the floor. Though he ached with every move, he didn't trust her to put his sling back on. Instead, he draped it over his shoulder and held his shattered limb like you might hold a sick cat.

"Sure you don't want to stay?" she said.

Zachary hurried out the door.

_Probably pulls the legs off bugs for fun_ , he thought as he slipped out into the hallway and made his way back to the waiting room. The whole way there he tried to tell himself he had imagined the fangs, but he knew what he had seen. He was relieved to see his father in the waiting room.

"This might be a good time to tell me what happened at school today," his father suggested as he helped Zachary buckle his sling back on.

Happy to be thinking about anything other than the ghoulish nurse, Zachary leaned against the back of his oversized seat and said, "Billy and three of his friends caught me on the stairs."

"And you couldn't get around them?"

He shook his head. "They had me cornered."

"Then I hope you got in a couple of good licks."

Zachary couldn't believe his ears. Was this the same man who had been warning him since birth to never fight? And, after today, Zachary had come to believe the truth of that advice. If he hadn't stopped Billy and his friends from picking on that younger boy, they would probably never have noticed him, and he could have continued up the stairs to math class. He might even have dug up enough courage to ask Stephanie Travis to the dance when they got to fifth period social studies class. Even as he thought the last part, though, Zachary knew it wasn't true. He had been standing right beside her in the hallway that very morning and hadn't mustered the courage to say anything to her.

"None of this is your fault, Zach," his father said. "It's mine. I should have stuck up for you when that Billy kid first started picking on you, but I was...." He let his voice trail off.

"It's okay, Dad," Zachary said. He paused. He wanted to add that he knew his father wasn't the type to argue or stand out―but unbelievably all of that seemed to have changed in the last few hours: his father had stood his ground with Vice-Principal Galloway and against two of the clinic nurses, not to mention their brush with the police during their hair-raising drive from the school to the cemetery. In the span of half a day, his father had gone from totally spineless to insanely courageous.

"What's going on, Dad?" Zachary found his mouth asking before his brain could stop it.

His father ran a hand across his balding scalp and shook his head. Knowing he was already in dangerous territory, Zachary plunged onward.

"Pill isn't our real name, is it, Dad?"

"No. Legally, Pill is our name...but it's not the name your uncles and I were born with."

"What's our real name then? And how come it got changed?"

His father shook his head and stared at the floor.

"Not yet, Zach; it's not safe for you to know."

A sudden thought blew into Zachary's mind. Goosebumps formed on the flesh behind his neck. "Did Mom leave because of any of this?"

His father rubbed his eyes. "No, your mother had her own reasons for leaving, and I doubt they had anything to do with the problems we inherited from your grandfather."

Zachary didn't know much about his grandfather except that he had died in a chocolate factory accident before Zachary was even born. What kind of a problem survived someone's death? Before he could ask, Nurse Nightshade reappeared.

"I take it everyone's favorite x-ray technician was her typical charming self."

Zachary held his comments.

Nurse Nightshade's eyes narrowed.

"She didn't hurt you did she?"

Zachary said only, "I'm fine."

"I hope so," the imposing nurse said, "because otherwise she and I would be having a talk."

Zachary smiled and wished he could see that conversation, but he held his tongue.

"Well, if you gentlemen are ready," Nurse Nightshade said, "I'll take you to meet the resident troll."

Zachary's father cleared his throat.

Nurse Nightshade gave him a dirty glance then smiled at Zachary.

"I meant Doctor Gefarg, of course."

Zachary got the distinct impression that something unspoken had just passed between the nurse and his father. Was it possible that Doctor Gefarg was even worse than his father made him out to be? Was he the kind of doctor who cut up his patients, one limb at a time? Under normal circumstances, a thought like that might have been funny, but after his ordeal with the ancient nurse, it made Zachary shiver. He could still envision the old crone's fangs.

"I had the lab put a rush on your x-rays," Nurse Nightshade said. "The doctor should have them by the time you get to his office." They walked along a lengthy hallway and passed several busy intersecting corridors.

"This elevator's not working," Nurse Nightshade explained as they passed a set of chrome doors off to the side. Three men were working on the ceiling in that area, and their bright spotlight threw an odd spiderlike shadow on the wall as they passed. Zachary tried to figure out what could have caused the weird image, but the only objects in the hall were the workmen and the three of them—his father, Nurse Nightshade, and him—walking past. Confused, Zachary followed the nurse and his father through a series of long corridors, each one as clean and bright as the next. They walked for what seemed like a very long time.

"How can this place be so big?" he finally asked. "It looked kind of small from outside."

"Since your father has been so free with information," Nurse Nightshade said, "I'll let him answer that one for you." Before his father could respond to her obvious sarcasm, Zachary correctly predicted what he was going to say.

"We'll talk about it later," the elder Pill told him.

"He's on the twenty-seventh floor," Nurse Nightshade said when they finally came upon another set of chrome elevator doors. "When you get off the elevator, go straight. Doctor Gefarg's office is the last one on the right."

Zachary knew he had taken a good knock to the head but nothing was making sense.

"How can we go up to the twenty-seventh floor when this building is only two stories tall?" he asked.

Nurse Nightshade grinned. "The Chicago Special Clinic has thirty-seven floors, but only two of them are aboveground."

"So we're going down twenty-seven floors," Zachary said.

Nurse Nightshade nodded. "Technically, you're going down twenty-five floors." She gave his shoulder a friendly squeeze then turned to give his father a disapproving stare. "Don't leave your little sapling alone with Doctor Gefarg for even one minute. Not for a single minute! Do you understand?"

"He'll be safe," Zachary's father assured her. He patted his left thigh, and Zachary realized for the first time that a slender stick protruded from the top of his father's pants pocket. Glowing blue letters or symbols flashed along the otherwise black surface when his father's hand came close to the polished finish. What could it have been?

It's not a gun, but what?

Nurse Nightshade gave Zachary one last smile and wink. Then she disappeared back into the long maze of clinic corridors from which they had come. Zachary tried to get a better look at the long black shaft in his father's pocket, but the elder Pill seemed to intentionally block the view with his hand as they got into the elevator. Maybe that's why he hadn't noticed it before.

Almost as soon as the doors closed, Zachary started to think about the mysterious Doctor Gefarg. Why did his father insist they had to see him while at the same time warning how dangerous he could be? And Nurse Nightshade hadn't made any secret of her own dislike and distrust of the doctor. How could Zachary trust his health and maybe his life to this man? By the time the elevator came to a gentle halt at the twenty-seventh floor—which was underground—Zachary found himself beginning to panic. When the doors swished open, he couldn't bring himself to move.

"You okay?" his father asked, stepping out of the elevator.

Zachary hung back for a few seconds before reluctantly following him out. Being courageous once today had already gotten his arm broken, so being brave a second time wasn't coming easy. He gulped and followed his father down the brightly lit corridor that didn't at all seem like an underground tunnel. Soon they were standing before the last door on the right. A shiny black and white placard in its center read: "Dr. Gefarg."

By this time, warning bills were ringing in Zachary's head. It just didn't seem right that his care should be trusted to a man whom both his father and Nurse Nightshade didn't trust. Suddenly, living with a broken arm and a few bumps on his head didn't seem like such a bad idea. Zachary fought the urge to run when his father knocked.
7) Dr. Gefarg

"Come in," a deep voice said.

Bright and immense, Doctor Gefarg's office had a high ceiling and room to fit at least fifty patients. Three for-real skeletons hung like unhappy clients against the wall to the right. One looked to be human but the other two were larger and might have been—what had his science teacher Mrs. Hawking called them: N _eo-somethings?_ On the wall to the left, above three chrome seats with cream colored upholstery, hung a dozen framed certificates. They, no doubt, had to do with Doctor Gefarg's education but Zachary didn't bother to read them. He gave everything else in the room only a cursory glance because his eyes were immediately drawn to the massive man who sat behind an equally massive desk at the further end of the room. Dressed in a red tie and a white doctor's smock, he had an extra-wide face and three chins that dropped like a set of upside down steps to his chest. The front of his head was bald, but patches of white hair from further back were combed behind unusually large protruding ears. His eyes were large gray pie pans with almost no white around the edges, and—as if Zachary needed any more reason to be nervous—they stared at him unblinking. Three men in blue clinic security uniforms stood to the right side of the huge man's desk. There was something odd about the guards, but Zachary couldn't quite place what.

"You have your orders," the large man said to the guards, never taking his eyes off from Zachary, "now leave."

"You sure, boss?" one of them asked, giving the patient and his father a wary glance.

"I said GET OUT!"

The lead guard shrugged; then all three hunched their shoulders and shuffled from the room. As the door closed, Zachary realized what struck him as so unusual about them: they looked and moved exactly the same, like triplets. And the way they moved, it was with an odd shuffling gait, as though their knees didn't quite bend like everyone else's did. Was it possible three brothers had all become guards and had gone to work for the same clinic?

When his gaze returned to the massive man behind the desk, Zachary got the got the distinct impression the doctor was even taller and wider than he looked. It was the same sensation he'd had about Nurse Nightshade's size and the x-ray nurse's fangs. His head must have taken a worse pounding than he thought.

"It's been a long time," Doctor Gefarg said to his father, finally shifting his eyes away from the younger Pill. His deep rumbling voice was like thunder.

"I hoped it would be a lot longer," his father said. "But my son got into a fight at school this morning. His arm is broken."

"A human school?" Doctor Gefarg asked.

"What else?" his father said.

"It's hard to believe any human could have broken _his_ arm," the huge man said.

_Why did he say 'human?'_ Zachary wondered. Did all doctors refer to people as humans?

"Enough with the questions," Zachary's father said. "Just take care of him so we can get out of here."

The doctor's gaze made Zachary feel like an insect under a microscope.

Suddenly, Doctor Gefarg's skin turned blue!

Zachary blinked and the blue was gone. He shook his throbbing head. What was happening to him?

Just then a pretty young nurse hustled into the office and handed the huge man a folder before leaving. The doctor pulled out two x-rays, stood, and slid them onto a lighted panel on the wall behind him. Even from across the wide desk, Zachary could clearly see the damage Billy had done to his arm.

"How long since this happened?" the doctor asked, staring at the x-rays.

"Less than four hours ago," his father said.

The doctor tapped a thick sausage finger against image on the right. "Young, Mr. Pill, do you see how the breaks in both your ulna & radius bones have separated by a quarter inch or more?"

Zachary wouldn't have known which bone was which or what they were called, but he could see the gap in both of them. He wondered if the miserable old nurse in the x-ray room might actually have made them worse.

"Will it take long to heal?" he asked.

"That remains to be seen," Doctor Gefarg said, pointing to the x-ray on the left. "Do you see the radix growing along both sides of the break?"

"Radix?"

"Sprouts or roots would be a better term in your case," Doctor Gefarg said. "If we don't do something soon, in another hour or two those little shoots will block your bones from coming together. Given four hours, some of those shoots would pierce your skin and ultimately form new limbs."

Disgusted but fascinated at the same time, Zachary asked, "How come I never heard of anyone growing extra arms before?"

The big man glanced at Zachary's father. "He doesn't know?"

"I'm not here for a child-rearing lecture, Gefarg. Just take care of his arm."

Doctor Gefarg let his bulk collapse back into his seat.

"So how many arms would you like to grow today?"

Zachary felt a lump slide from his throat down into his fear-cramped stomach. Had the massive doctor just threatened him? Not daring to say anything, he looked to his father who in the last few seconds had pulled the black stick from his pocket. It now pulsed with blue light and was pointed at Doctor Gefarg's chest.

"Relax, relax," Doctor Gefarg said with a rumbling laugh. "I was just having some fun with the little half-breed."

Zachary made a mental note of the "half-breed" comment, one of an increasing number of things he intended to ask his father about as soon as they got away from this horrid man. His father jabbed the glowing stick at the doctor who, alarmed, shoved his chair back away from it. Zachary stared at the shining rod. Could this be what Nurse Nightshade meant when she said "wand arm?" How could something like that even exist?

"Let's not get carried away, Roger!" Doctor Gefarg rumbled as his chair rammed into the wall behind him. "What–what I'd like to do...is get your son straightened out before that break does any permanent damage."

Zachary's father leaned forward, the magic wand held like a pistol in front of him.

"That might be a wise thing for you to do, Gefarg!"

His wide face sagging in relief, the doctor heaved his bulk from the chair and lumbered around the desk and to the door. He ducked his head under the doorframe and tried to push himself through sideways. His massive body stuck like a cork in the doorway for a moment before he grunted and made it out into the hall. Zachary and his father followed the enormous doctor several doors down. Once again the doctor ducked and thrust himself through the opening to another room.

Hesitantly, Zachary went inside.

"Hop up," Doctor Gefarg said, patting a padded table in the middle of what was apparently an examination room.

Zachary paused for a second in the entry as he again got the eerie sense that the doctor was even larger than he looked. He shook his head and tried to clear his double vision. He was starting to fear that his head, not his arm, might be most in need of x-rays—though, no matter what, he would never subject himself to the skeletal old nurse with fangs again!

Trying to keep from jarring his broken arm, Zachary leaned sideways onto the padded table and, with his father's help, slid the rest of the way up as gently as he could.

"Nightshade," Doctor Gefarg said, jamming a thick finger into a phone on the wall.

"Yes," her familiar voice came back.

"What took you so long to answer?"

"You're lucky I picked up at all," they heard the nurse say over the speaker phone. "Now, what do you want?"

"I need one of those potted trees from the lobby. You know, the tall ones with pointy leaves."

"There are only two trees in the lobby," Nurse Nightshade said, "And they're both the same—ficus, in case you wanted to know."

"I don't care what they're called!" the doctor snapped. "Just get one down here—now!"

"Since I assume it's for the Pill boy, I'll make sure it gets there." She hung up.

"We'll be ready in a few minutes," Doctor Gefarg said, clapping his thick hands together like two cymbals. He said something else, but Zachary didn't catch it because the doctor's hands had suddenly turned blue! Just as quickly, they returned to flesh color.

Zachary reached up and gently rubbed the large lump at the back of his head and again got the distinct impression that his skull had grown. Was he going to turn into a freak with multiple arms and a gigantic head?

"Let's get a gander at that." Doctor Gefarg said and roughly pulled Zachary's fingers away from his wounded scalp. "Now cram your head down."

Zachary leaned forward so large fingers could painfully poke and prod his lump.

"Does this hurt?" the brutal doctor asked.

"Yeah!" Zachary blurted.

"That's a good sign," Doctor Gefarg said. He jabbed Zachary's scalp several more times, apparently just to torture him, then stepped back and looked at his father. "His head is fine. There's a little cranial growth caused by the trauma, but rooting should take care of that."

Just then someone knocked on the door. One of the security guard triplets shuffled in carrying a potted ficus tree. Zachary had a smaller one on his windowsill at home. The plant looked happy, its leaves the exact green color of health.

"On the floor right there," Doctor Gefarg said gruffly, pointing.

The guard did as asked, placing the large pot next to Zachary's dangling feet then shuffled out the door. Just before the door closed, Zachary realized the guard's head nearly touched the top of the doorframe. He was huge but in comparison to Doctor Gefarg looked small.

"Okay, Pill, take your shoes and socks off."

Zachary did as told.

"Now stick your feet in the pot, and move your toes until they dig into the dirt."

He glanced at his father who was still pointing the magic wand—Zachary was now certain that's what it was—at the doctor. The older Pill nodded.

Zachary placed his feet into the potted dirt. As he wiggled his toes to bury them, he stroked the ficus' leaves apologetically for invading its space. Once all ten of his toes were covered with dirt, he watched Doctor Gefarg pour a small pitcher of water into the pot. At first his feet were cold, but soon Zachary felt a warm tingling sensation spreading from the bottom of his feet up into his ankles. It wasn't long before the pleasant sensation emanated all the way up his legs and throughout his entire body. Ridiculous as it seemed, the throbbing aches in his arm, nose, and the back of his skull began to fade.

"Read the letters on that chart aloud," the doctor said to Zachary, pointing at an eye exam poster a few feet away.

Zachary did as asked and was halfway through the third line when the sinister doctor grabbed his arm and jammed his broken bones together. Like a white hot firecracker, pain exploded in his arm and shot straight to a spot behind his eyes. Zachary gasped for breath and felt himself falling backwards. Then everything went black.

When he came to a few minutes later, he found his arm encased in a plaster. Though still aching, it did feel better with solid protection around it. At least Doctor Gefarg and his vampire nurse couldn't abuse it any more. He sat up and realized his feet were still toe-deep in the ficus' dirt. Though he didn't know how or why it worked, he could still feel the warm tingle flowing from his feet like waves up into the rest of his body. He stroked the tree's slender trunk and thought, _Thank you_.

He couldn't say how he knew, but the tree let him know he was welcome.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" Doctor Gefarg said.

_Not if you like pain,_ Zachary thought, but he kept his mouth shut.

"You're welcome," Doctor Gefarg said—adding, "you little brat," under his breath so that only Zachary could hear.

"You can put your socks and shoes back on now," he said more loudly.

Zachary attempted to lift his feet, but his toes were stuck in the plant pot.

"Pull a little harder," the big man suggested. "And, in the future, I wouldn't fall asleep on any lawns if I were you."

Clueless about what the doctor meant, Zachary pulled harder and his feet came free. The tingling stopped.

"That's everything?" his father asked.

"Everything I know to do," Doctor Gefarg said gruffly. "He'll be fine."

"That's good to hear," Zachary's father said. He slid the wand back into his front pocket. Zachary noticed the symbols stopped glowing as soon as his hand came away.

"Do you have paper towels to wipe off the dirt?" Zachary asked.

"Nonsense," Doctor Gefarg said. "Leave it the way it is. Wouldn't hurt you to put a little dirt in your socks every day, actually."

Frustrated, Zachary wiped the dirt from between his toes before awkwardly pulling his socks back on with his good hand. He seldom untied his sneakers and was able to slide them on as usual.

"You ready to go?" his father asked.

Doctor Gefarg cleared his throat.

"Don't expect any thank you," his father said. His hand swung dangerously close to his wand.

"I was thinking more about a proper payment," the massive doctor grumbled. "There is a particular favor I need from you."

"I'll pay in cash on the way out, just like everyone else," his father said.

"I don't need cash!" the doctor spat. "I need access to the Corridors."

"I haven't been near them since I was a kid," Zachary's father said. "But even if I knew how to get inside, why would I help you?"

"Because I just stopped your son's arm from sprouting branches, for one thing."

"That's your job," his father said, leading Zachary out into the hall. "I'll pay at the nurse's station."

Zachary heard Doctor Gefarg yell something, but the deep exclamation was cut off when his father slammed the door shut. Soon, they were in the elevator, on their way up to street level. Though his father didn't seem in the mood to talk, Zachary had too many questions to remain silent.

"What are the Corridors?" Zachary asked as they exited the elevator and went in search of Nurse Nightshade's office.

"This isn't the time, Zach," his father said as they rounded their fifth turn in as many minutes. How his father knew where he was going, Zachary had no idea.

"Dad, I haven't even started to ask about your magic wand. Something simple like Corridors should be easy."

"Nothing about any of this is easy, Zach, especially a discussion about the Corridors."

"So let's talk about the magic wand," Zachary suggested.

"I'm not getting dragged into this, Zach. I had good reasons not to tell you any of this, and those reasons haven't changed. You should be thankful I kept you out of it this long."

"I'm almost fourteen years old," Zachary said. "I have a right to know about my own family!"

Suddenly, it seemed to Zachary that his father grew several inches. His shoulders also seemed to grow wider as he grabbed his son's sleeve. Zachary forced himself to continue staring into his father's piercing green eyes.

"We're in a lot of trouble, here, Zach," his father said. "And right now, I have to get us someplace safe. Once that's done, I'll think about how much I can tell you. But in the meantime, you have to stop asking."

Zachary wasn't satisfied but adjusted his cast in the sling, and nodded. He had no intention of forgetting the discussion, however. One way or another, he would get answers...to all of his questions!
8) A Really Bad Meal

The trip home was just as bizarre as the journey to the clinic had been. He and his father took a taxi from Doctor Gefarg's clinic all the way to Union Station. Once inside Chicago's central train station, Zachary was awed by the huge curved glass ceiling above what a nearby sign called "The Great Hall." But Zachary didn't have time to appreciate the sight because his father immediately led them into a shoving and pushing funnel of people moving down a wide staircase that led to underground trains that came and went every few minutes. Once at the lower level, rather than waiting with everyone else, his father shoved their way to a side door and stairs that delved even deeper below the busy station. They could hear the sound of trains rumbling above as they descended at least seven more flights of stairs to a dimly lit section of basement that echoed loudly with every step they took. They walked for several minutes before coming to a series of benches placed against a concrete block wall.

"Why here?" Zachary asked as his father motioned him to sit. The truth was that Zachary welcomed the rest. It had been a trying day.

"You wouldn't understand," his father said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bottle. Before Zachary could gather another single thought, his father unscrewed the cap and blew a white cloud into his face.

Zachary fought it this time but, in less than a second, his eyelids slid shut.

Waking in his own bed, Zachary glanced toward the dark window. He tried to rub his tired eyes and pain shot from his wrist to his elbow. Wincing, he repositioned the cast in its sling and sat up. The last thing he remembered was his father blowing white powder—sleeping powder—in his face for the second time. He ignored the obvious question of "Since when was sleeping powder real?" and tried to focus instead on why his father kept putting him to sleep.

The heavy aroma of spaghetti wafted in through his partly open bedroom door and reminded him that he hadn't eaten a single thing since morning—

Of what day?

The way his stomach grumbled, he could easily have believed two or more days had passed. He made his way to the kitchen where his father was stirring sauce into a pan of spaghetti pasta.

"You're finally up," his father said.

"Is this the same day?"

"If you can call ten at night the same day," his father said, "I guess it is."

Zachary shook his head. It was hard to believe that only eleven hours earlier Billy and his friends had cornered him on the stairs. A lot had happened in a short span of time. It would take several days just to think it all through.

"Smells good," he said, reaching up to pull a couple of plates down from the cabinet with his good right arm. From his stretched vantage, Zachary could see the top of his father's bald scalp. Until that moment, he hadn't realized how much he had grown during the seventh-grade: at least three inches. It wouldn't be long before he was as tall as Uncle Ned―as tall but never as muscular.

"Slop should be ready in a few minutes," his father announced.

Zachary smiled. Spaghetti was a veritable feast in comparison to the only-meat meals his mother use to make. The opposite of a vegetarian, she refused to eat a single piece of fruit or vegetable. She refused to even look at plants most of the time, which was one of the reasons she seldom went outside or looked out the living room windows where a small corner park with trees could be seen across the street. As always, Zachary's thoughts turned down the familiar paths of missing her, wondering where she was, and hating her for not being there. He also wondered how much she had known about his father's connection to magic.

Zachary fumbled a plate. It clattered to the table.

"Careful," his father said.

"Sorry."

His father placed his stirring spoon on the counter. "You feeling better?"

Zachary hadn't thought about it since waking, but his headache was gone, and the throbbing in his arm was minor compared to what it had been. Considering what a mess he had been when entering Doctor Gefarg's clinic earlier that day, he felt much better.

"I'm okay," he answered.

"That's good, because we've got a busy few weeks ahead of us."

"Busy?"

"We have to move, Zach."

"Because of the police?" Zachary asked, suddenly remembering his father's mad race from the school to the cemetery.

"I wish our problems were that simple, son. The truth is the police aren't looking for me, not anymore. It seems they remember chasing a red sports car, not a white sedan. And they also remember seeing an Arizona, not a Massachusetts, license plate."

"How―?" Zachary started to ask, but he already knew. "Magic!"

His father nodded. "That's part of the reason we have to leave, and it's a good lesson to remember: using magic leaves traces that can be followed like crumbs. You will always need to be careful."

"So, I'm like you?" Zachary asked. "Is that why I can jump so high?"

"Not exactly," his father said. "You get that from your mother. I'm pretty sure you can run scary fast, too."

Zachary pondered that. "But I don't usually win races in gym class."

His father tasted the spaghetti sauce and nodded approvingly.

"You don't win races because you're surrounded by the concrete and brick of a big city. If you were out in the woods, I think we'd both be amazed at what you could do."

"So I'm kind of like Tarzan?"

They both broke into laughter.

When the laughter died down, Zachary asked, "Do you think I'll be able to finish my final exams?"

Will I have another chance to see Stephanie Travis?

"Yes," his father said. "I'll just have to make your principal realize you didn't start either of those fights. I doubt she'll have a problem when she realizes that boy Billy has been harassing you all year."

"You think she'll believe you," Zachary asked, "after the way Vice-Principal Galloway acted? They haven't believed me all year. Besides, every parent probably says their kid is innocent."

His father nodded and stared out the window.

"If your mother were here, she could convince her."

Zachary's breath caught. That's exactly what he'd been thinking! It was times like these that he missed her the most. Not only could she have easily convinced Principal Coldwell that Zachary was innocent, she would also have nursed him night and day until he felt better. He tried to hide the torrent of emotions. Why did he still miss her so much?

"She loves you," his father said. He was looking at Zachary now.

"So why hasn't she called, Dad?" Zachary shook his head and wiped at his eyes. When it came to his mother, it never took much. "Why hasn't she come to see me? It's been two years."

Shutting off the stove and pushing the spaghetti pan onto the back burner to cool, his father said, "There are things you don't understand, Zach. Things about your mother, things about our families.... It's complicated."

Emotions swirled like a storm in Zachary's head. He was angry at his mother for abandoning him, but he knew he would forgive her if only she would come back. Mostly, however, he felt guilty that she might have left because of him. Maybe he should have kept his room cleaner or picked up around the house more. Maybe he should have gotten rid of his "mini-jungle," as his mother called it. He would have, if only she would have changed her mind. Though he loved the plants that crowded his bedroom windows, they had always been a problem for her. That same fear of plants, Zachary suspected, might have been the reason she and his dad had moved to Boston in the first place. What better place to avoid plants than a city? Zachary remembered how she had always kept his bedroom door closed so she wouldn't have to look at the greenery, and he remembered the way she used to walk backwards into his room whenever she put his clothes away or returned toys to his toy box—anything to keep from looking at his leaf-filled windows.

All of that, however, made it hard to understand why she insisted his father buy more plants for each of Zachary's birthdays and on every Christmas. But then when the plants arrived, she would stay in the bathroom until his father could get them stashed into his room. The thought of her hiding like that made him cringe inside. He should never have accepted the plants. He should have lied and said he hated them. He should have refused to keep any of them!

He tried to blink away the moisture in his eyes.

"You'll see her again," his father said. "I promise."

"Maybe I don't want to see her!" Zachary burst out, but they both knew he didn't mean it; he would have forgiven her—had forgiven her—if only she would come back home.

His father reached out and gripped his arm.

"She really does love you."

Embarrassed by the tears running down his cheeks, Zachary pulled his arm back and sat at the table.

"Then how come she abandoned me? How come she abandoned both of us?"

"I can't be sure, son. But I know she gave up a lot to be with us. All she ever wanted was for us to be happy."

Wiping the tears away with a napkin from the table, Zachary said, "I'm okay." Besides, all the crying in the world wasn't going to change the fact that she had been gone for two years. It seemed pretty certain to him that she was never coming back.

His father grabbed the pan and settled down into his seat. He scooped a large tangle of spaghetti onto both their plates. Zachary breathed in the aroma and remembered how hungry he was. He took a bite. The first taste of tangy sauce was wonderful. For all his faults, his father sure knew how to cook. The chopped bits of green peppers made his tongue tingle.

After a while, his father said, "So where should we move to? Hawaii? Africa?"

"Could we really go anywhere?" Zachary asked.

"I don't see why not."

Zachary tried to imagine what it would be like to live on a warm beach where he could swim all year round, or maybe they could move into the mountains where their closest neighbors would be deer & moose. Then he wondered if there might be a place with both mountains and beaches. Suddenly, the energy drained out of him. How could they move?

His father turned to stare out their fourteenth floor window at the thousands of lights that shone like funeral candles in the night sky. The distant look in his eyes suggested he already knew what his son was about to say.

"How would she find us?" Zachary asked.

"If—when—she comes back, I can make some arrangements," his father said. "I'll know when she comes around."

His father's first word "if" struck Zachary like a slap on the face. For all the fights and discussions they'd had over the past two years, neither had ever talked about one thing: what if something terrible had happened to her? What if his mother had been hurt or worse?

Zachary shook off the thought. Better to be angry at her for abandoning them than to believe that. He concentrated on the meal and began sucking in long strands of spaghetti. One especially long string was hanging from his mouth when he noticed movement in his father's plate!

Worms!

Gagging and spitting spaghetti across the table, Zachary leapt back, knocking his chair over. He accidentally smashed his cast against the end of the table, which sent pain rocketing straight to his brain.

"My cooking that bad?" his father asked.

Zachary stabbed a finger toward his father's plate which was now full of squirming worms.

His father scrambled up and somehow managed to spit half-chewed pasta against the window as he, too, retreated from the slithering creatures. A quick glance assured Zachary there were no worms in his plate. But had he eaten any? The thought made his stomach wrench. Fighting the urge to puke, he poked at the strands on his own plate.

Where had the worms come from? Wouldn't his father have noticed them in the pan, and even so why hadn't they died in the boiling water? Horrified, he watched the slimy things wriggle like miniature snakes.

"Get down and stay down!" his father hissed.

Confused, Zachary backed away from the table while his father scurried down the hall. Horrified, Zachary watched a shape form in his father's plate—no not a shape exactly: one worm had curled itself into the letter "C"!

He crept closer. It must have been a coincidence. What else could it have been? Worms moved wherever they happened to move. They didn't know how to form letters.

"Zach, get away from there!" his father ordered, coming back into the room.

"They're just worms, Dad." But then his eyes swung down to see other letters forming. Disbelieving, Zachary saw the worms arrange themselves into a full word: "COM E."

More bodies wriggled and coiled, and two more words came into focus on the plate. A tremor ran up his spine. Horrified, Zachary stared at the message that kept flexing and jiggling like the living things from which it was made. Though he didn't know what it meant, he instinctively knew it was bad.

"COME HOME PILL!"

"I told you to get away from there," his father ordered, halting only a few steps from the table, glowing wand in his hand.

"Maybe it's one of Uncle Ned's tricks?" Zachary said, backing toward the living room. But even as he said it, he doubted it. There was something malicious about the message, especially the method of delivery, and—if anything—Uncle Ned would have been rushing to protect them from whoever was behind it.

"Zachary, get out of sight," his father hissed. "They might not have seen you yet!"

Confused and frightened, Zachary ducked around the corner―but not before his own plate presented its own worm message. Goose bumps swept across his shoulders and back as he read: "HELLO ZACHARY."
9) Dark Plans

"Lip Fraize Abla Berrace!" Zachary's father bellowed. The alien pronouncement was followed by a huge flash of blue light and the crash of broken glass.

Blinking bright spots away from his vision, Zachary peered around the corner to see their kitchen table flipped upright against the outside wall. Like a catapult, his father had used it to magically launch both plates and their squirming heralds out into the Boston night sky.

"You can come out," his father said, his angry expression calming. "It's safe...for now." He breathed heavily and moved to stare out the only intact kitchen window.

"What if someone was down there?" Zachary asked, referring to the busy street and sidewalk fourteen stories below. Kids at school often said if you dropped a penny on someone's head from that high, it would kill them. What kind of damage would two plates have done?

"Nothing will fall until it hits the Atlantic," his father said, stuffing his wand into his front pocket where its blue symbols fell dark. "Chances of any boats being there, a mile off shore, seem pretty small."

Zachary used his good hand to tip the table back down onto its legs. A quick glance at the empty floor confirmed that everything—silverware, glasses, worm-filled plates—had been launched through the shattered window at the same time. An ocean breeze flowed through the remaining jagged pieces of glass, flapping the curtains and bringing with it the faint scents of salt and seaweed. Normally, Zachary loved that smell, but tonight it made him feel small in comparison to the world and its dangers, many of which he had never even imagined when the day began.

His father stood there unmoving, eyes locked on the night sky. Zachary wanted desperately to ask a thousand questions, but given the intense look on his father's face he instead got a cloth from under the sink and began wiping sauce from the table and window frame.

"Careful," his father warned.

Zachary nodded and stayed clear of the glass shards that hung like jagged knives from the window frame. He had no intention of cutting himself and requiring a return to Gefarg's clinic. A fleeting thought of the skeletal nurse sent shudders down his spine.

He was rinsing his cleaning cloth out for the third time when his father said, "I'm sorry, Zach."

"For what...the worms? You're the one that got rid of them."

"No, I'm sorry I screwed things up so badly." He turned toward his son. "Now that he knows about you, we have to leave right away. You won't be able to finish your finals...or talk to Stephanie Travis."

"St-Stephanie?" Zachary gawked at the older Pill. "I never told...how'd you—?"

His father tapped the wand in his pocket. The blue symbols flashed briefly with each touch.

"I'm beginning to think I should have used it more often over the last fourteen years. I had hoped that by hiding I could keep you safe." His gaze fell to the floor. "But I was wrong."

Suddenly, a missed opportunity with a girl he hardly knew didn't seem to matter much at all.

"Where will we go?" Zachary asked.

"Most anyplace away from here would be safer for you."

"Then what?"

"Then he's going to pay!" His father slammed a hand down on the newly washed table! There was a horrendous crack, and a good-sized chunk of the wood table broke free and bounced on the floor.

Zachary's mouth fell open.

The table was over two inches thick!

He wouldn't have thought that even his uncle, with muscles stacked on top of muscles, could have done that. But there was no denying the splinters hanging from the table and the chunk of wood on the floor. Zachary suddenly saw his father in a whole new light. Maybe it was good he had never chosen to get into fights.

They were both still gaping at the hole in the table when an urgent knock came at the door.

"Is everything all right in there?" the elderly woman from across the hall asked.

"Sorry, Mrs. Whitaker," Zachary's dad said. "I was...fixing our table."

"You're sure nothing is wrong? I could come in if―"

"We're fine, Mrs. Whitaker," his father interrupted.

"If you say so," the nosey woman said with a harrumph.

As soon as they heard her door close across the hall, his father spoke again. "I have to call your uncle, Zach. Don't worry about the mess. Rest your arm. I'll take care of it in a little while." Not waiting for a response, his father disappeared into his small office.

Glued in place, Zachary continued to stare at the large bite taken out of their table. How could his meek, violence-hating father have done that? This was the same person who allowed their car to be stolen right in front of them a few months before. Rather than try to stop the red-haired man, his father had pulled Zachary into the nearest store and warned him to be silent until their car was long gone. One time when the building superintendent had warned him about their dog pooping in the hallway, rather than explain they didn't have a dog, Zachary's father had promised not to let it happen again. Zachary had always assumed it had been fear that kept his father from speaking out or taking a stand, but a man who could smash a two-inch thick piece of wood out of a table certainly had little to fear. No, his father had instead been trying to keep their heads down; by avoiding issues with landlords, police, and even the staff at Zachary's school, his father figured they wouldn't be noticed by whomever had sent the worms.

Suddenly, Zachary's entire view of his father changed. How many times had the older Pill swallowed his pride just to keep Zachary safe?

A million!

"Your uncle's coming," his father announced, stepping out of his office. "We'll need to have everything packed and ready. He's bringing a truck tomorrow."

"Uncle Ned has a truck?"

"No," his father said. "He's more of a sports car kind of guy, but I imagine he'll rent one."

"Was it Doctor Gefarg?" Zachary asked, unable to hold the question in. "Is he the one who's after us?"

"No." His father rubbed his eyes. "But he must have given our address away. I knew he couldn't be trusted!" The older man's face was drawn and pale, much the way it had been when Zachary's mother had disappeared two years earlier. That had been a rough week for both of them.

"Maybe you should get some sleep," Zachary suggested. "I'll clean up this mess. At least there aren't any dishes to wash." He gave a weak smile but his father seemed to miss the joke.

"Just leave everything 'till tomorrow, Zach. You've had a rough day and we have to start packing early." He paused, eyes drifting down to the right the way they did when he was thinking. "I've got a few calls to make." He shook his head, disappeared back into his small office and shut the door.

Even though questions about Doctor Gefarg's clinic and the worm messages spun wildly through his head, Zachary still found room to be excited at the prospect of seeing Uncle Ned who usually only swooped into town every few months. Often, when he did, freaky things would happen like a six-legged frog suddenly appearing on the kitchen floor and like windows turning black as he passed then turning clear again when he moved away. There was one visit when all the faucets had turned on by themselves, almost flooding the apartment. Of course, Zachary's father had always referred to those events as "parlor tricks," but they had obviously been a lot more than that.

His head still swam with the thought of it: magic was real! And he was from a family of real magicians! Zachary knew that he should have been terrified that some mysterious person was after his family, but he couldn't deny the exhilaration of being part of something so amazing. Unfortunately—

He lifted his cast.

Being the son of a wizard hadn't helped him defend himself.

Zachary began cleaning up the wood splinters from his father's assault on the table. The cast made things awkward, forcing him to step on the dustpan while sweeping with his good hand, but he finally got the job done. Finished, he leaned against the kitchen counter and stared at his father's closed office door.

Who's he talking to?

Tired and sore but still filled with nervous energy, he settled into his mother's favorite green living room chair and flipped on the TV. He tried to watch a show about turtles but couldn't find a comfortable position for his broken arm, which had begun to ache again. He also couldn't stop thinking about the unbelievable events that had suddenly turned his life upside down. He wanted— _no, needed to_ —know more!

Completely abandoning the turtle show, he kept thinking of reasons to get up: going to the bathroom, getting a drink, filling the pitcher to water his plants, checking his bruised nose and even brushing his teeth—twice. Each trip required him to pass the closed office door where he caught tiny snippets of his father's conversations:

"I didn't tell Gefarg anything about the Corridors..."

"No, I don't know how my father got us out. No one does..."

"Yes, I heard about the prophesy, but I can't believe Merlin took the old witch's word for it..."

"...something must have happened..."

"I think Gefarg must have contacted Krage..."

"No, I don't have a clue who the child Guardian is supposed to be..."

"Who is guarding Earth right now?..."

"What do you mean no one ever found Merlin's body?..."

After his fifth or sixth bathroom trip, Zachary dropped back into his mother's chair and tried to make some sense of the eavesdropped clues. Of course, he'd only heard his father's side of the conversations, but one thing was for sure: something in the magical world—a world he was just beginning to learn about―was wrong. Warlocks, a child guardian, a prophesy: what did it all mean? And what had that been about his grandfather escaping? Had his family been prisoners? Zachary wished he knew more about their history, but his father had never revealed a single detail about where he grew up, where he went to school, not even what kind of pets he owned when he had been a kid. His childhood was a complete mystery to Zachary.

Knowing he didn't have enough information, Zachary gave up for the moment on the family past and instead considered the name "Merlin." Nurse Nightshade had said something about someone named Merlin dying, and he had overheard his father saying that no one had found Merlin's body. Who was Merlin? Zachary was certain his father had never mentioned the name before. The only Merlin he'd ever heard of was from "Tales of King Arthur." In the stories, he had been the wizard.

A chill coursed up and down his back.

It all comes back to magic!

The knowledge that magic was real and that his father had a magic wand still seemed unbelievable. It was like finding out that Santa Claus, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer and the Easter Bunny not only existed but all lived in the same apartment down the hall. However, as he had already seen with the messenger worms, magic wasn't as happy and cheerful as holiday characters.

Grabbing the TV remote, he flipped through a dozen channels before settling on an old black and white western. He usually got a kick at how the good guys were always spectacular shots and yet the bad guys could never seem to hit anything. Tonight, however, he barely noticed which was which. Most of the cowboy movie had passed in a preoccupied haze by the time his father emerged from his office.

"Thanks for taking care of the mess, Zach," he said.

Zachary wanted to blurt out his list of questions right then and there, but the look on his father's face stopped him. A combination of fear and determination, his expression was like nothing Zachary had ever seen before.

"Are you alright?" his father asked in a tight voice. "I know a lot happened today."

"Most of it happened to you, too," Zachary said.

Other than starting that stupid fight!

"It hasn't been a great day for either of us, that's for sure." His father's face hardened and he shook his head. "But it'll be better when we get you someplace safe." He forced a smile. "Your nose doesn't look so swollen."

"It's doesn't hurt either, unless I touch it."

"Tomorrow will be better, son. I'll make sure of it."

Zachary nodded.

"I'm going to bed. You should probably do the same, Zach. We have a lot to do tomorrow."

"Goodnight, Dad."

After his father's bedroom door closed, Zachary shut off the TV and walked to the living room window where he could stare out at the sparkling Boston skyline. Even late at night, fourteen stories above the street, he could still hear the murmur of traffic below. Boston never stopped. He tried to focus on the headlights that scurried like fireflies below, but he couldn't get his father's frightened expression out of his mind. At that moment, while staring out at the city he had known his entire life, Zachary knew they were in trouble.
10) Danger in the Wind

Zachary gave his father half an hour to fall asleep before slipping into the little office to see if he could find any information. Unfortunately, the desktop and drawers were clean of any notes or other hints, and his father's briefcase was locked. The trash can was also empty. He moved his father's desk away from the wall in hopes that some clue might have fallen behind, but the only thing he found was a wallet-size photograph. Picking it up, he could dimly see a face through the coating of dust. Expecting to see either his or his mother's green hair, he wiped the grime away and all thoughts of Stephanie Travis immediately fled his mind. The girl in the image had bright red hair, freckles and a beautiful smile. The pink flower on her head made her hair made her red hair all that much more stunning. She seemed to be about his age and for some reason that thought made his face flush.

What am I doing?

He knew nothing about the girl in the photo, and it didn't seem possible she could have anything to do with the current crisis. He meant to slip the picture under the grocery list in the top drawer of his father's desk, but somehow it wound up in his pocket instead. He had pushed the desk back and was just looking around the room for any other possible places he could check when a loud thump came from the other room.

Then another.

Zachary's stomach clenched with fear. Something was wrong, really wrong. Swallowing hard, he crept down the hallway and peered into the living room. A shadow crossed the window.

A shadow outside the fourteenth floor?

Most birds didn't even fly that high.

Another shadow darted past. Then a third came straight toward Zachary and smacked into the thick living room glass. For just a moment, before falling away, red eyes glared at him.

Horrified, Zachary looked to the kitchen where a steady breeze caused the curtains on either side of the broken window to flutter like flags on a pole. Anything could come through that window. To make matters worse, the lights suddenly went out. He didn't know what caused it, but there wasn't a single light in the apartment. What was happening? Suddenly the home that had sheltered him since birth had become a real-life house of horrors.

"Zach!" his father yelled. "Get in here!"

Zachary didn't need a second invitation. Hand groping along the wall, he stumbled down the dark hallway and shoved his father's bedroom door open. It took him only a second to run into the bed. Even the soft impact of the mattress sent shards of pain through his arm. A shadow thumped against the bedroom window.

"Dad?"

"Bats," his father said. "Damned things are bats!"

Zachary slid his hand along the wall and tried to flip on the light switch several times.

Click, click. Click, click.

"Don't bother," his father said from somewhere down near the floor. "I shut off the breaker. It's better if they can't see us."

Another large shape slammed against the window, and Zachary could have sworn he heard the faint chink of cracking glass. He wanted to run so badly that he half-turned toward the door before realizing that leaving the apartment would mean running past the opening left by the broken kitchen window. On second thought, he wasn't going anywhere near that.

"Help, Zach," his father said in an urgent voice. "My wand rolled off the bed."

Zachary heard a louder thump against the window and saw more red eyes pressed against the glass. Wishing he had grabbed the flashlight out of the kitchen drawer, he got to his knees and ignored the pain as he pulled his broken arm out of the sling and immediately began searching the floor with his hands. His cast made swishing sounds against the carpet as he and his father scrabbled to find the wand.

Suddenly, they heard an explosion of glass coming from the living room and the sound of wind rushing through the apartment. The bedroom door blew open and slammed against the wall. The air was filled with loud screeches, squeaks, and flapping sounds.

"Got it!" his father yelled, scrambling to his feet. "Get behind me!"

Zachary had no idea how to accomplish that since his cast made it difficult to extract himself out from under the bed, but he didn't have long to think about it. A sudden flare of blue light momentarily filled the room. The mattress above him sagged as his father rolled across the bed and jumped to the open bedroom door. He was yelling in a singsong language Zachary couldn't understand when, all of a sudden, there was a brighter flash of blue light. Hissing sounds came from the kitchen end of the apartment.

"Come on!" his father shouted over the hurricane of air that literally blew pictures off from the bedroom walls.

Zachary braced himself against the bed with his good hand and got to his feet. He couldn't locate his sling so he was forced to leave his broken arm dangling painfully at his side. He squinted in the darkness and tried to block his eyes as a glass lamp blew off the dresser and smashed on the floor just inches from his feet. Dozens of similar crashes came from the other rooms as well.

"Zach, hurry!" came his father's voice, barely audible over the harsh sounds all around them. Surprisingly strong for a small man, his father dragged him by the good arm through the doorway.

"Get into the bathroom!"

Zachary ducked as a bat with blood red eyes hurtled past his head. It made a sickening splatter as it struck someplace in the bedroom behind him.

"Enough!" Zachary's father shouted in a voice so loud it made Zachary's ears hurt. Another bat bounced off the hallway wall and hurtled toward them, but his father chanted something and a bolt of blue light burst out of the wand and struck it in mid-flight.

Though he was temporarily blinded from the flash, Zachary heard the bat fall in a wet thump on the hallway floor not far from him. The air was filled with the sickly smell of charred flesh. He felt his father's hands thrust him into the bathroom and he heard the door pulled shut.

"Lock it!" his father ordered.

Ashamed to be leaving his father alone with the bats but having no choice, Zachary groped along the door and forced his trembling fingers to turn the lock. Then, he backed away until his cast struck the towel rack on the back wall. Pain vibrated through his arm. He fought the need to scream, but couldn't stop his breath, which came and went in great gasps. The windowless bathroom was pitch black. In an attempt to hear over the sound of his own sobs, Zachary clamped his good hand over his mouth.

"Krage, I'm done with this!" his father bellowed.

Simultaneously, a flash framed the bathroom door with blinding blue light. Then everything went black again. Something heavy thumped against the door. Zachary feared for the worst.

"Dad?" he whispered. Then more loudly, "Dad?"

There was another explosion of glass, maybe from his father's bedroom. The crashing and banging sounds grew louder and reverberated from all over the apartment. Suddenly, another flash of blue light left spots swimming in Zachary's eyes. Something about the following darkness was different this time, though. It was the silence. No crashing, no wind, nothing. Zachary could hear his own heart beating in his ears.

"Dad?"

The knob jiggled.

"Get away from there!" his father hollered from somewhere in the kitchen.

Blue light flashed again revealing dark curls of smoke coming from under the door then something heavy struck the bathroom door. Zachary coughed and grabbed for a towel to cover his nose and mouth from the smoke that was making it hard to breathe. He heard feet run past the bathroom door.

"Tell Krage I'm coming for him!" his father yelled. "Tell him I'm coming!"

The next blue flash was diffused by the thickening smoke. Then everything went silent again.

"Dad?" Zachary coughed and blinked his smoke-stinging eyes. It was getting harder to draw even small breaths through his makeshift filter. Was their apartment on fire?

He knew he had to find fresh air or risk suffocating.

"Dad?"

Still no answer.

Staying low, the way he learned in school fire drills, Zachary tried to crab-walk on all fours to the door. His broken arm, however, made that impossible. Instead, he was forced to shuffle forward using a combination of his knees and his good right arm. It was almost impossible to breathe now. He fumbled with the lock and yanked the door open. Several small fires were burning on the hallway floor, and the apartment smelled like a barbeque pit. A gust of wind blew past and cleared enough smoke that he could suck in a breath. The small floor fires flickered and went out. His good hand touched something hot and slimy on the floor in the doorway. Yanking his hand away, he took another deep gulp of air.

"Dad?"

Using the doorframe to pull himself to his feet, he stepped over the slimy heap that must have been a dead bat and turned right toward the kitchen. He stumbled and tripped over several more lumps on the way to the kitchen where dim light coming in from the Boston skyline allowed him to see silhouettes of bat corpses on the counter. He groped along the wall and tried to flip on the hallway light. Nothing happened. The breakers were still off. Stepping gingerly over the disgusting lumps that littered the slippery floor, he made his way to the kitchen counter and pulled a flashlight out of the top drawer on the left. Switching on the light, he gagged at the sight of dead and burnt bat bodies everywhere, their blood spattered like red paint all over the furniture, walls and floors. Larger than he thought bats were supposed to be, the nearest corpse had leathery wings splayed across both sides of the kitchen sink. One glance at the creature's long fangs was enough to make him fear for his father.

"Dad!"

Terrified, Zachary hurried to his father's bedroom, then to the office, and finally to his own bedroom, which had somehow survived the onslaught without any damage. Though there were dozens of dead bats strewn across their apartment, his father was nowhere to be found.

His stomach now tied in a tight knot of fear, Zachary checked the front door and found the bolt and chain lock were both still secured; no one could have gone out that way. His father also wasn't on the fire escape outside the kitchen window, and it didn't seem possible he could have climbed all the way up to the roof or down to the ground in such a short time. Zachary looked down and couldn't see any flashing emergency lights, and the few late-night pedestrians seemed to be walking normally along the sidewalk. No one had fallen there. Looking out the broken living room and bedroom windows revealed more of the same. Thankfully, no one had fallen below them, either.

Where are you, Dad?

"Dad!"

Terrified and confused, Zachary checked the entire apartment again. He even stuck his head out the windows to make sure his father wasn't hanging from any pipes or ledges. But he found absolutely no sign of him. It was as if he had flown right out into the night—

Zachary's breath caught.

Could one or more of the bats have carried him away?

He dismissed the thought immediately. Though huge for their species, none of the bats he had seen would have been able to carry a small dog, forget a full grown man. No, there had to be another explanation. But what?

Dad, where are you?
11) All Alone

Terrified, Zachary fished around in the office until he found his uncle's phone number. Fortunately, it still worked. His uncle was famous for moving around and changing phone numbers every few months. After dialing, Zachary put the number in his pocket. The phone rang five times before a woman answered.

"Yes?"

"I need to talk to my Uncle Ned," Zachary said. "Is he there?"

"Big Ned is here all right," the woman said, "but he's sound asleep. Can he call you back in the morning?"

"Could you wake him please?" Zachary begged. "It's really important!"

"Sure thing, Sweetie. Wait a minute." Zachary heard rustling noises and several deep groans before his uncle came to the phone.

"What?" his uncle said.

"Uncle Ned, it's Zachary. Something really bad happened."

All sleepiness gone from his voice, his uncle said, "Let me talk to your father."

"He's gone, Uncle Ned! I don't know where. Bats attacked our apartment. Dad used a magic wand―" Zachary paused. It seemed strange to talk about something so outrageous, but surely his uncle knew about such things. "My dad killed a lot of the bats. But when I came out of the bathroom, he was gone."

"Did you see anything else?"

Numb, Zachary shook his head.

"I didn't see much." He was ashamed that he had hidden the whole time. "Dad made me lock myself in the bathroom."

"Did you hear anyone talking?"

"No...but Dad was yelling. He said someone should give a message to Kage—no Krage."

Uncle Ned paused for a long moment. Zachary waited.

"You said your father is gone?"

"Yeah, but I don't know how. The door was locked and he wasn't on the fire escape. I don't know where he went."

"Zach, you're in serious danger! I'm leaving right now to get you, but I'm in California and it's going to take at least an hour."

Zachary couldn't imagine how anyone could travel from California to Boston in one hour, but he didn't have time to think about it because his flashlight beam and eyes were riveted to several of the dead bats on the hallway floor outside the office. He could have sworn one just moved.

"What I'm going to tell you won't make much sense," Uncle Ned said, "but you have to do exactly as I say, Sport."

Zachary nodded, forgetting that his uncle couldn't see him.

His uncle continued, "I need you to rub your hand under the alligator's stomach."

Of all the things his uncle could have said, this was the last thing Zachary expected. He was no doubt referring to the stuffed alligator that his father had kept behind the couch in the living room ever since Zachary could remember.

"Why?" he asked.

"We don't have time for explanations, Buddy. You'll just have to trust me for now, okay?"

Of course Zachary trusted his uncle. He put the phone down and made his way out to the blood-spattered living room. Each step got more frightening because at least half of the bloodied bats were beginning to flap and jerk weakly. Zachary tried not to think about their fangs. He pushed one of the creatures out of the way with the toe of his sneaker and grabbed the back of the couch to pull it away from the huge stuffed alligator behind it. Half-suspecting his uncle was nuts, he squeezed behind the couch and ran his hand along the alligator's hard and coarse belly. He didn't feel anything taped underneath and couldn't detect any knobs or latches. What was he looking for?

Suddenly the alligator's head snapped around, its razor sharp teeth stopping only inches from his face. Large dark eyes stared at him.

Zachary froze. He didn't dare move and knew full well that one chomp of those teeth could easily rip his head off. The alligator's tail slapped against the living room wall. Terrified, Zachary crawled up on the back of the couch and accidently stepped on a bloody bat. Alive, the creature squealed horribly. Zachary leapt to the floor, certain the alligator would attack and tear one of his legs off.

As if it knew what he had been thinking, the large creature twisted over the couch and lunged at Zachary's feet—or more correctly, where his feet had just been. Long jaws snapped together, forever silencing the squealing bat. A quick flip of the reptile's neck sent the bat's entire body into the alligator's craw.

The bats no longer seemed quite so imposing to Zachary. The choice between tiny fangs and huge bone-crushing jaws was an easy one, and to prove it he raced willy-nilly for the office, avoiding as many slimy bats as possible but mostly just worrying about those deadly jaws snapping him in half. In a desperate rush, he slipped as he rounded the hallway corner and dove into his father's small office. He used his feet to slam the door shut behind him.

His body trembling like the groundhog he'd once seen dying in the park across the street, Zachary cradled his throbbing arm and scuttled toward the desk. He knew the flimsy office door would never keep a monster like the alligator out. He was trapped!

Panicked, Zachary flashed his light around the small room until he saw the phone receiver on the floor. He punched in 9-1-1.

"Sport," he heard. Surprised he put the receiver to his ear.

"Sport, did it work?"

Realizing his uncle hadn't hung up yet, Zachary said, "You almost got me killed! That alligator nearly ripped my foot off."

"I doubt that," Uncle Ned said.

"I'm serious." Zachary's entire body was still trembling. He could hear the alligator thrashing in the next room. The thumps and horrific squealing sounds coming through the closed office door suggested the bats weren't having as much luck as he had in getting away. Unfortunately, it would only be a few minutes before the six-foot-long creature ran out of bat flesh and started looking for him.

"You should be safe now that the slumber guard is awake," Uncle Ned said.

"The slumber what?"

"The alligator," Uncle Ned said, "it's called a slumber guard. Your grandfather gave one to both your father and me. They're sort of like bodyguards."

"But it's been in our apartment since I was a baby," Zachary said. "How can it move after all this time?"

"You already know the answer to that."

Zachary did and it started with an M and ended in A-G-I-C.

"I'll explain more when I get there, Partner. Just keep the slumber guard nearby and you'll be fine."

During the last few seconds, Zachary had noticed the thrashing and squealing sounds had been replaced by pounding at the front door.

"Someone's here," he whispered to his uncle.

"At the door?" Uncle Ned asked.

"Yeah."

"Don't let them in, no matter what," his uncle warned. "I doubt the slumber guard would attack a normal person but it's better to be safe."

"It's probably the super wondering about all the noise."

"Just say the wind broke two windows and you're cleaning up."

The pounding on the door was growing louder.

"Charlie will want to see for himself," Zachary said.

"Just don't let him in," his uncle warned. "I'm on my way. Call if anything happens, but I should be there within the hour."

Zachary hung up and forced himself to open the office door a sliver. Though he trusted his uncle, the alligator terrified him. He peered out and didn't see any sign of the monstrous creature. Maybe it had jumped out a window, which would have been fine by Zachary.

The door knocking grew more urgent.

"Hey, what's going on in there?"

Zachary recognized Charlie's voice. As the building superintendent for as long as Zachary could remember, he did everything from plumbing to electrical repairs, and Zachary had even once seen him change a part on one of the delivery trucks out front. He was usually as cheerful as he was large, but he didn't sound all that cheerful at the moment.

"Roger, I've got three floors of neighbors complaining! What the heck is going on in there?"

Unable to get the sight of those deadly alligator jaws out of his mind, Zachary played his light in every direction as he crept down the hall. He couldn't see the so-called bodyguard anywhere. Praying his uncle was right about him being in no danger, he hurried across the kitchen.

"We're okay, Charlie," he said through the door. "The wind blew out two of our windows, but no one was hurt." Zachary found the last words clotting in his throat. How could he say no one was hurt when he still didn't know where his father was? His knees trembled and he found himself leaning on one of the kitchen chairs. He tried not to think about why the wood floor felt so slimy. The whole day starting with the fight with Billy had been tough, but his entire world had come crashing in on itself over the last hour.

"Let me in to take a couple of measurements," Charlie said. "I'll cut some plywood to put over the windows tonight. We'll worry about the glass tomorrow."

Zachary heard a scraping sound behind him. Terrified, he spun and flashed his light on the alligator that stood on its hind legs like Godzilla in the hallway beside his father's open office door. Its tail rasped back and forth across the tiles.

"Don't attack me," he begged softly.

"What?" Charlie asked.

The alligator's yellow eyes watched Zachary passively. Though it made no attempt to move toward him, he was still terrified.

Please don't eat me.

"Zachary," Charlie said, "I could hear you better if you'd open the door."

"My dad's sick!"

"No problem," Charlie said. "I hardly ever catch colds."

"No, this is worse." Zachary scoured his brain for some excuse to keep the big man outside. Something they had been talking about in science class came to mind. "He might have Ebola."

"Ebola," Charlie said. "Like African Ebola? Here in Boston?"

Zachary gave the alligator another glance. It seemed to respect his need for distance.

"Yeah, that's what my dad said. He sold some office supplies to-to the zoo. Might have gotten it from a gorilla that spit in his eye. Very catchy the doctor said. They won't have tests back until tomorrow."

"You better put some plastic bags over the windows then," Charlie said, "because I'm not going in 'til I see a doctor's note. Period!"

"Probably a good idea," Zachary said. "I'll tell my dad when he wakes up. He's asleep with a fever right now."

"I'm also going to have to talk with the doctor's office, too," Charlie warned, "to verify the note."

"I'll let him know," Zachary agreed.

There were additional voices on the other side of the door by then, but they were too low for Zachary to make out. He did, however, hear Charlie say, "Okay, everyone, back to your apartments—no, we're not going to quarantine the Pill's apartment. He's probably just got the flu or something. Until we hear more, get back to bed...and stay away from this door." There were more voices, then the sounds of several doors slamming. Shortly afterward, Zachary heard the super's heavy footsteps recede down the hall.

He hoped his Uncle would get there soon because he half-expected that a government health agency would be at their door bright and early. Why had he picked Ebola? Couldn't he just have said measles or mumps?

He flashed his light around the wrecked apartment. Every picture in the house had been smashed to the floor, and all the cabinet doors were open, the cabinet contents lying in pieces on the counters and sink. Like a gruesome art project, bat blood was spattered everywhere. At least he hoped it was only bat blood.

Dad, where are you?
12) The End of all Things

Shortly after Charlie left, the alligator shuffled into the living room and stood on its hind legs in front of the large broken windows. Zachary could no longer see any bats, living or dead, and guessed the alligator had been making up for a lot of hungry years behind the couch. Checking first to make sure the vicious creature didn't move, Zachary started down the hall to search his and his father's rooms one last time. But—faster than any creature that size had a right to be—the reptile charged past him, its scales scraping past his legs, and threw itself between him and his father's bedroom door. Its sparkling white teeth paused only inches from his chest.

Zachary jumped back!

The message to stay away from his father's room was clear. But why?

Not sure if the alligator would permit him to go into his own bedroom or the office, Zachary retreated to the kitchen. Besides, it was the one room with an exit. Since the floor and most everything else in the apartment was covered with gore, he pushed the table out of the way and sat on the only clean spot on the floor to wait for his uncle to arrive. Several times he closed his eyes, but images of the horrible things that might have happened to his father forced him to open them again. Two years ago, he had lost his mother. Was it possible that his father was gone, too?

Tears crept down his cheek.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed before he heard rustling sounds coming from his father's bedroom. Glass cracked and several loud thumps suggested things were being thrown against a wall. Zachary got up and grabbed the kitchen door handle. He was fully prepared to bolt out into the hall and start screaming at the top of his lungs. Only his uncle's warning to keep things secret kept him from doing it. He heard more thumps and more breaking glass. He flashed his light on the motionless alligator.

Some bodyguard you are.

Zachary slowly slid the chain off the door and gently turned the lock, but before he could turn the knob, the alligator charged into the kitchen and forced him away from the door. Stumbling backwards, Zachary slipped and fell on the slime. His flashlight struck the floor and went dark before it rolled away toward the cabinets. Fearing his chances for survival were nil, Zachary scrambled through on three limbs into the living room. Along the way, he thought he might have cut his palm on a piece of glass and his broken arm had come loose from its sling and now throbbed like an open wound. When he reached his father's recliner, knowing there was nowhere else to run, he crouched behind it and drew his knees up to his chest. Even if he had wanted to, there was no way to control the tremors that wracked his body. He could hear someone or something ransacking his father's bedroom, and the alligator seemed hell-bent on making sure he couldn't escape to safety.

Some bodyguard!

Suddenly, light flooded the entire apartment. Zachary squinted. The breakers were back on, and the wash of light made the apartment look as though a wrecking crew had gone through and destroyed everything. Silverware, broken dishes and plastic cups and bowls were strewn across the floor, broken knick knacks and pictures littered every surface. And to make matters worse, blood and bat guts were splattered not just across the floor but also against the walls and furniture. If there were such things as vampires (and Zachary truly hoped there weren't) this was what he imagined would be left after one of their parties. The thought would probably have made him shudder, but it was hard to tell since he'd been doing that for the last few minutes anyway.

Just then, he heard the bedroom door burst open.

Zachary surged to his feet. Heavy footsteps were coming down the hall. Terrified, he scanned the living room for any kind of a weapon but saw only shards of glass and pottery from the broken windows and two ruined lamps. He considered darting into the kitchen to grab a knife out of the drawer but feared the alligator would take a bite out of him if he tried. He was just getting ready to pick up the largest fragment of glass below the windows when a deep voice called out.

"What are you doing, Sport?"

Relief washed over Zachary as he turned to see his uncle's broad shoulders silhouetted in the light from the kitchen. Wearing one of his impeccable dark suits and a flat cap like you might see on a golf course, he looked completely out of place in the shambles of their apartment.

"You got rid of whoever was at the door, I see," his uncle said.

The tension melting out of him, Zachary found it hard to stand. He wobbled toward the couch and used his good hand to hold himself upright. He wondered how his uncle had gotten in without coming through the door or using the fire escape, but he was too woozy to ask.

"Take it easy, Partner. Everything's going to be alright." His uncle turned and pulled one of the few remaining cups out of the cupboard, filled it with water, and brought it over to Zachary who had already settled onto the gore-covered arm of the couch. He took a sip.

"I told Charlie that Dad might have Ebola. Kind of stupid, huh?"

"That is a nasty one," his uncle said, making a face. "Melting flesh, blood coming out of your eyes and ears. Sounds like good thinking to me."

"But what happens if city inspectors come to see about the disease?" Zachary asked.

"Won't matter," his uncle said. "We'll be long gone by then."

"Gone?"

"I'm getting you out of here tonight," Uncle Ned said.

"What about Dad?" Zachary asked, following his uncle into the kitchen.

"Believe me, if your father's as angry as I think he is, he's not the one you should be worried about. Trust me when I say, your father can take care of himself."

Zachary remembered both the chunk his father had busted out of the table and the bright blasts of blue light from his wand. He hoped his uncle was right.

"He's probably tracking Krage's minions right now, and it's about time if you ask me." Uncle Ned turned and knelt beside the lower kitchen cabinets where he immediately began tossing pots and pans out into the middle of the kitchen floor.

"Who is Krage?" Zachary asked. "Dad and Doctor Gefarg both mentioned him."

His uncle stopped pouring through the contents of the cabinet long enough to turn and look at him. He had a neatly cropped beard and mustache and, though much of it was hidden by his hat, Zachary knew he had a full head of dark hair. Gold chains dangled from his uncle's muscular neck, and a large golden tiger pendant draped across the open collar of his white dress shirt.

"Krage is someone you never want to meet," his uncle said. His voice grew cold. "Your father mentioned that something happened at school, but why did you have to see Gefarg?"

"I got into a fight and broke it." Zachary held up his casted arm. "Dad said he was the only one who could fix it"

"That blue-skinned tub-of-lard shouldn't be trusted to fix a splinter," his uncle growled. "Your father never should have taken you there."

"You think my doctor had something to do with the bats?" Zachary asked, ignoring the blue-skinned description he didn't understand.

Uncle Ned got to his feet. His dark jacket couldn't hide his muscular frame. Though only a few inches taller than Zachary, he had an enormous chest and thick limbs. He rubbed his mustache. Gold rings adorned most of his powerful-looking fingers.

"No, Gefarg didn't do this," he said, "but you can bet he's the one that told Krage where to find you and your father."

"Who's Krage and what does he want with us?" Zachary asked.

"Buddy," his uncle said, "I know your father kept a lot of things from you, and I definitely think it's time for you to know more, but right now we have to get you out of here. So go get packed. You have ten minutes."

"It's not enough time."

Uncle Ned cocked his head and stared at him. "Not as long as you're standing there. Get busy. Now that Krage knows about this place, it's no longer safe."

"Where will we go?" Zachary asked.

"New Hampshire," Uncle Ned said.

Zachary shook his head at the realization of what he meant.

"No. I can't."

"It's the only choice," Uncle Ned said. "And Krage will never think to look there."

"I can't live with Madame Kloochie," Zachary said. "She's crazy. You know how weird she is."

Uncle Ned approached Zachary and put a thick hand on his shoulder. "Your dad's gone, sport, and I have to find him. We don't have a lot of choices here."

"I could go with you."

Uncle Ned shook his head. "No you can't. You have no idea how dangerous Krage can be. He's killed more members of our family than you'll ever know about."

"I'm not going to stay with Madame Kloochie," Zachary said. "I can't." He had never before spoken back to his uncle like that, but he didn't feel as though he had any choice.

Uncle Ned's eyes narrowed and his hand leapt from Zachary's shoulder to his left ear. He tugged just enough to let Zachary know how painful it could be.

"I'm happy to see you're growing up and getting more independent," he said, "but this isn't up for discussion." He gave one last painful tug for emphasis and smiled. "Am I clear?"

Zachary nodded.

Ear tugging from anyone else would have been mortifying, but his uncle was rough by nature. He didn't mean to be abusive, only to get his point across. That didn't make the idea of spending time with Madame Kloochie any more appealing, but Zachary could see there was no point in arguing. Realizing the kitchen had grown dim, Zachary glanced back into the living room to find the window frame had turned black. But there wasn't even glass there.

"How do you do that?" Zachary asked his uncle. "I know it's magic, but you didn't use a wand or anything."

His uncle smiled, grabbed him in an affectionate but brutal bear hug and squeezed until Zachary could feel his ribs creak. "Welcome to the family secret, Sport. Maybe sometime I'll teach you a few of the tricks I've picked up."

Zachary couldn't remember his uncle ever using his real name. He always called him sport, or partner, or buddy, but never Zachary. Come to think of it, he never seemed to use his father's real name, either. Was there a reason for that?

His uncle released him and said, "Now go get packed and carry everything down to the lobby."

"I can't." Zachary held up his casted arm. "Broken, remember."

His uncle studied the cast for a moment and winked.

"Let's see what we can do." He went out the apartment door and in less than five minutes returned with a two-wheeled dolly in tow. "Don't take too much," he said. "Making room in Kloochie's mess won't be easy."

"You're not going to help me?" Zachary asked incredulously.

"Look, Partner," his uncle said, "your arm's broken, not missing. Now get busy. I have some things to find before we blow this clambake." He delved back into the cabinet below the sink and began tossing things onto the floor again.

Frustrated but helpless to do anything about it, Zachary spent the next half hour packing his clothing into two suitcases his mother had bought for their Disneyland trip three years earlier. All the while, he could hear the sounds of cabinets and closet doors opening and closing all over the apartment. Items clattered and thumped as his uncle searched for who knew what. At one point, he heard glass shatter and could smell the strong tang of soy sauce. He would have gone out to help clean up the mess, but he still had several drawers and an entire closet of his own to pack. Besides, he wasn't in any hurry to get to Madame Kloochie's.

As he worked, questions kept nagging at him. Where had his father gone, and how had he gotten out of the apartment? For that matter, how had his uncle gotten into the apartment? And, maybe most important of all, who was the mysterious Krage, and what had gotten him so mad at Zachary's family? Surely, magic must have been involved, but he didn't know enough about magic or his own family to even guess at the answers. Once he finished packing his clothes, Uncle Ned appeared with a large empty box.

"That won't even fit half my plants," Zachary said.

"We've already taken too long," his uncle responded. "You'll have to leave them."

"No one's killing my plants. They go or I stay." The strength of his response surprised Zachary, but he was serious. His uncle could pull his ears all he wanted, but he wasn't leaving a single plant behind. They needed him.

Uncle Ned shrugged.

"It's your arm. There are a couple more boxes in your father's closet."

Zachary ran a hand through his green hair. The fight, Doctor Gefarg's clinic, worms, bats, his father missing—it was all starting to catch up with him. His body trembled. Zachary didn't know how much more he could take. He took several shallow breaths and tried to bury his fear for his father. He mentally repeated that everything was going to be alright, but he couldn't make himself believe it. The truth was, his father was in terrible danger and instead of allowing him to help, his uncle was dragging him off to a crazy woman's house. Barely able to contain his frustration, Zachary packed his video game system, sports gear, and action figures in the large box. That left only his plants to worry about. Like a small jungle, his windows and shelves were filled with leaves and flowers of all types. One way or another, they were all going with him.

"Almost done?" his uncle asked, stopping by his doorway.

"Just my plants left," Zachary said. "Where do you think my dad went?"

"I don't know," Uncle Ned said, "but I intend to find him."

Zachary's stomach clenched.

"I should go with you."

His uncle's forehead creased into lines similar to those of his father. The big man shook his head. "I told you, it's not safe. The worms, the bats, they're just the beginning. Now that Krage knows about you, he won't stop until he either kidnaps or kills you. Somehow, I have to find your father before he does, then together we'll eliminate the threat."

"But I could help," Zachary pleaded.

His uncle shook his head again.

"I'm not even sure your father and I can figure this out. The best thing is for you to get safely hidden."

"I shouldn't get left behind again. It's not fair!"

His uncle crossed to the plant-filled window. He pulled one of the leafy pots away and stared at the glass panes that had, of course, turned solid black.

"We don't have a choice, Zachary." He turned. "YOU don't have a choice!"

Zachary shook his head. He couldn't go along with this. He couldn't lose his father, too. Losing his mother had been bad enough, but this—

No. Never!

"Please. I can help," Zachary pleaded. "I'm not like my father was. I'm not...." Zachary's words trailed off. He stared at the floor.

"What?" his uncle said. "Go ahead and say it. Say it. You think your father is a coward."

"That's not what I meant." Zachary sagged onto the edge of his bed. He had already figured out that his father had only been acting like a coward to protect him.

"Then what?" his uncle asked.

Staring into his uncle's eyes, Zachary said, "I don't want to abandon him."

"Like your father abandoned your mother, you mean?"

Zachary fought the tears. It had been two years since he had last seen her, but not a day went by that he didn't imagine her singing in the kitchen or dancing around the living room.

"Why didn't Dad stop her?" Zachary asked.

"He wasn't even home when she left," his uncle said. "You know that."

"But he had to know," Zachary insisted. "He must have known something was wrong."

Still staring at the black windowpane as though he could see through it, his uncle nodded.

"You may be right, sport. Maybe he should have seen it coming. Maybe he should have known something was wrong." He faced back into the room. "But he didn't. And nothing you or he can do will change that. Right now we have to make sure you're safe so I can find your father."

Tears streaked Zachary's cheeks.

"There must be someplace else I can go," Zachary said. "We only went her house once, but she's crazy and filthy."

"Madame Kloochie isn't crazy," his uncle said. His eyes darted sideways. "Not that crazy, anyway."

Zachary noticed he didn't say anything about the filthy part.

"I'd rather be killed by bats!" Zachary exclaimed. And he meant it. How could he spend even one day in Madame Kloochie's smelly pigsty? His family's one visit when he was about six years old had been so traumatizing he still remembered it. Those had been several of the most horrifying hours of his life. Even talking to the woman on the phone every few months gave him the heebie-jeebies. "My father would never make me go there."

His uncle's beefy hand reached out and gripped his shoulder.

"I don't like it either, Buddy," he said. "But this is serious. If given half the chance, Krage will kill you." He knelt down to look directly into Zachary's eyes. "I know your father hoped this was behind your family. But it never was. He just hid from it for a while."
13) Abandoned

Frustrated, Zachary loaded a couple of his boxes onto the dolly then rolled it though the apartment, down the hall, onto the elevator, and ultimately down into the lobby. By the second trip, he felt certain that his uncle would offer to help. Uncle Ned, however, took little notice as Zachary trundled past the closets and cabinets he was emptying as fast as his gold-ringed fingers could go. Though the muscular man was throwing most of the things he found onto the floor, the good-sized box beside him was slowly filling up. Throughout the ordeal, Ernie the lobby man offered to help a couple of times but Zachary knew his advanced age and cane made it hard for him to do much.

"I'm all right," Zachary assured the kindly old man.

It took four trips in all to get everything down to the first floor. Pushing the last dolly full of plant boxes up against the lobby wall, he looked out the large front windows. He didn't see any sign of a rental truck or car parked in front of the building. A soda delivery truck and surprisingly busy middle-of-the-night traffic made it hard to see the other side of the street.

"My uncle said he parked out front, Ernie," Zachary said. "Do you know where?"

"Right there." The old man pointed with his cane.

Zachary peered out again but couldn't see a vehicle other than the soda truck on his side of the road. He gave Ernie a puzzled look.

"Your uncle came in that truck," the elderly doorman said, chuckling. "The last time it was a limousine, but this time it's a soda truck." One of the side panels was open and sidewalk lights illuminated cases of soda reaching from the floor to the ceiling.

"Where am I supposed to put my stuff?" Zachary asked.

"In the truck, Partner," his uncle said stepping out of the elevator with the box he had been packing. "Where else?" His uncle strolled through the lobby and outside. Through the window, Zachary saw him set his box down and lift an entire stack of soda trays as tall as he was. With apparent ease, he placed the stack on the sidewalk and brushed at his suit sleeves.

Zachary stepped outside. Though it was the middle of the night, the Boston streetlights illuminated everything brightly. His uncle had moved several more stacks of soda to the sidewalk.

"Where's your stuff?" Uncle Ned asked, putting his box in the nearly cleared storage area.

"Where will you put the soda?" Zachary asked.

"Don't worry about the pop," his uncle said. "I'm sure someone will want it. Now hurry it up. I don't want to be on the road come daylight."

"You could help this time," Zachary suggested.

"And you could walk to New Hampshire," his uncle suggested.

Zachary groaned and went back inside. As he rolled out his belongings, his uncle lifted everything into the compartment. It was only a few minutes before they were done and Zachary was scrambling up into the truck cab. Though clean, the cab interior smelled faintly of burnt toast. He heard his uncle slide the side panel shut before he went around and pulled himself up into the driver's seat.

"Ready, Sport?"

"I'll never be ready to stay with her," Zachary said.

"Don't blame you there," his uncle said. He gunned the truck engine and swerved out into traffic. Horns blared and tires screeched from every direction.

"Go pack sand!" Uncle Ned yelled out his open window.

Zachary double-checked his seat belt and gripped the door handle as his uncle darted the big truck in and out of traffic, drove through three red lights and almost hit a group of three teenagers who were crossing the street. One of them yelled something, but Zachary couldn't make out the words over the sounds of angry horns blaring.

His uncle sure wasn't making friends.

"How long have you had this job?" Zachary asked when they got out onto the freeway where his uncle's driving was somewhat less scary. Thank goodness it was the middle of the night. Zachary didn't want to imagine what the drive would have been like during rush hour or even during the day when there would have been a lot more cars.

"What job?" his uncle asked. He yanked the steering wheel to avoid a car going only the speed limit.

"Jerk!" Uncle Ned hollered.

"How long have you been driving this truck?" Zachary clarified.

Uncle Ned snorted and grinned. "Since about ten minutes before I got to your place."

"Then how―"

"Picked it up across town," Uncle Ned interrupted. "Driver thought the motor was on fire. Course, I did toss a grilled cheese sandwich on the manifold while he was in a store. Smoked up a storm there for a few minutes."

"You stole this truck!" Zachary exclaimed. His eyes darted toward the highway in front of and beside them and into the mirror to see if any police were following. He'd already been involved in one police chase with his father and wasn't looking forward to another.

"That other fella didn't want it with all the smoke and whatnot," Uncle Ned said, "so it was available. Now stop asking so many questions. I have to concentrate. These Boston drivers are crazy."

Zachary slumped into his seat and started to think it was a good thing his family knew how to use magic, otherwise they would all have gone to jail. Even if his uncle managed to not get him killed in a car accident or arrested for truck theft, he still had Madame Kloochie's disgusting home to look forward to. He could still remember wading through waist-high trash to get across her living room and then having to clean off a seat just to sit down. He also remembered how mean she had been whenever his mother made him say "hi" on the phone. Madame Kloochie would usually return his greeting with some rude comment like "Hope you're not growing up dumb." or "Better not be a meathead!"

No, Zachary was definitely not looking forward to spending time with her.

Two hours later, when they finally drove down Madame Kloochie's dead end street, it was pitch dark and Zachary still felt chills from his uncle's many near-miss accidents. Gears ground together and the big truck jerked several times as it came to an abrupt stop halfway down the hill in front of Madame Kloochie's house, which was a two-story building dimly lit by a single street lamp. Though too dark to read, a sign hung over one of the two front doors. Zachary vaguely remembered that she lived upstairs from some kind of a store.

"Move it, Partner," Uncle Ned said. "I need to get back to Boston while your dad's trail is still hot."

Zachary worried that the police would be looking for the soda truck by now, and the way his uncle had been driving it was a miracle they hadn't found it already. "Maybe you shouldn't drive the truck back there."

"You've got a lot to learn, Sport," his uncle said. "There are better ways to travel than cars and trucks." He patted the steering wheel. "I'll leave this little gem over the border in Maine. The soda company will find it sooner or later."

"So how will you get to Boston?" Zachary asked.

"I've got a couple of other stops to make first, and it's probably best you don't know the various ways we Pills travel just yet," his uncle said.

"I have a right to know!" Zachary said. "My dad's been keeping secrets from me my whole life."

Uncle Ned reached over and squeezed his shoulder. "Sport, I would have told you a lot more over the years, but your dad thought it was safer to keep our family history quiet. Who knows, maybe he was right."

"At least tell me where you and Dad grew up?"

Uncle Ned's expression grew hard and his eyes bored into Zachary's. "It was a bad place, Buddy. No place anyone wants to talk about. It's called Pandemone."

"Where's that?"

"That's a little harder to explain," Uncle Ned said.

"That doesn't tell me much," Zachary said.

"But that's all you're getting," his uncle said. "I've got to get moving."

They both got out. Uncle Ned came around to the passenger side, opened the storage panel, and started piling things onto the dark sidewalk. After stacking Zachary's suitcases and boxes, he pulled out the box he had packed.

"These are your father's things," he said. "Find a safe place to keep them...and leave them alone."

Zachary nodded.

"I'm not kidding, Sport. The stuff in this box could get you in a lot of trouble. That's why I couldn't leave it in the apartment."

"I could use some help this time," Zachary said motioning toward the second floor of Madame Kloochie's house. "It's not like there's an elevator."

"There are a lot of things I don't do," Uncle Ned said, "and visiting that woman is one of them." Without further discussion, he placed the box filled with his father's items on the sidewalk and pulled the truck panel closed.

"At least help me unhook that." Zachary pointed to the metal dolly he had used to bring things down from his apartment.

His uncle shook his head.

"I can't use the dolly?"

"Nope," Uncle Ned said. "I have to go and it belongs with the truck. Leaving it would be stealing."

"What do you call taking the whole truck?"

His uncle shrugged. "Borrowing. They'll get it back."

"You also left stacks of full cases of soda in front of our apartment building in Boston."

"That's what I like about you." Uncle Ned ran fingers his fingers through Zachary's green hair and grinned. Then, he walked around the truck and climbed inside. Before starting the noisy engine, he said, "I'll call you in a day or two, just to make sure you got settled in."

Still fuming, Zachary watched the truck back into a driveway across the street. His uncle's hand, filled with sparkling gold rings, waved before the truck drove back up the street and disappeared around the corner.
14) An Unwelcome Guest

Dejected, Zachary stared up at the second floor windows of Madame Kloochie's house. He could see faint lights flashing as though a TV was on but no one had yet looked out the window.

"I-I can h-h-help," someone stuttered.

The voice came from a house diagonally across the street from Madame Kloochie's. It was too dark to make anyone out, but whoever it was sounded young, maybe Zachary's age, and male.

"I didn't think anyone in New Hampshire stayed up this late," Zachary said.

"Th-They don't, un-unless their parents are b-both doctors who work d-d-double shifts."

A gray shadow descended the stairs and started to cross the street. As he got closer, Zachary could see the boy was stick thin. Dressed in a button up shirt, dress slacks, and black shoes—an outfit that Zachary would only have worn to a wedding or funeral—the boy moved closer until the streetlights illuminated his blond hair and protruding cheekbones. He looked kind of sickly but was smiling.

"I could use the help," Zachary said, holding up his cast. "Not easy to do much with this."

"N-No problem," the boy said. "I'm B-B-Bret."

"I'm Zachary."

"Y-You're visiting M-M-Madame Kloochie?" Bret asked. His stutter was painful to hear.

"I'm staying for a while," he said, pointing at his stuff.

"Sh-She a relative?" Bret asked.

"Sort of," Zachary said. "A friend of my mom's."

"S-Staying long?"

Zachary shrugged. "Not sure. My father was―" He paused, deciding not to talk about any of the unbelievable stuff. "I got into some trouble at school. Maybe I won't get into as much trouble out here in the country."

"Th-Then you better w-w-watch out for the k-kid across the street." Bret pointed at the driveway where his uncle had just turned around. It was between Bret's house and a long abandoned building across the street. "S-Stemson likes t-t-to fight."

In the darkness, Zachary couldn't see any house.

"S-Sits way b-b-behind the trees," Bret said.

"He can't be any worse than the kid that broke my arm," Zachary said. "Billy Timkin's the jerk of jerks."

"I don't know," Bret said. "Stemson's p-p-pretty bad."

"I assume I go in through that door?" Zachary motioned toward the door to the right, the one furthest away from the store sign.

"I-I-I think so," Bret said, "but I've never b-b-been inside."

Zachary pushed on the door bell and waited. When nothing happened he tried it a second time. Still nothing. Finally, he knocked and put his ear to the door and couldn't hear anything. He turned the knob and was surprised to see the door push open.

"M-M-Maybe she expects you t-to just go up," Bret suggested.

Feeling like he was breaking and entering, Zachary stepped inside and heard paper crumpling under his feet. It was pitch black and something smelled rotten. If he'd had an extra hand, he would have held his nose. Unfortunately, his good hand was needed to run along the wall in search of a light switch. He fought the urge to gag when his fingers touched several sticky spots before finally settling on some sort of a knob. He turned it.

Suddenly, light flooded the garbage-strewn hallway. If anything, it was even filthier than Zachary remembered. A corridor, ankle deep in trash, led off to the left, probably a side entrance to the store. Rising out of the trash to the right was the stairway, also buried in garbage. Kicking several newspapers and bags out of the way, he felt his foot land on something soft and sticky. He lifted his sneaker and found the remains of a jelly donut hanging from the sole. It didn't look old enough to be causing the terrible smell. Something else, maybe several somethings, must have been rotting under all the mess. He used one of the empty bags on the floor to wipe the worst of the jelly and off his shoe.

Right then, Zachary wished he could turn and leave. But to where?

Lacking any option, he climbed the narrow stairway covered in old paper, empty pastry boxes, and dirty clothes. How could anyone live like this, he wondered? Making a face, he kept his good hand on the rail, kicked the trash aside as best he could and somehow managed to wade all the way up the stairs. There, on the top step, he found a crushed chocolate cream donut, and on the wall above it a slimy frosting ring where it must have hit before falling onto the stairs.

Zachary's stomach lurched.

Averting his eyes and taking a couple of deep breaths, he knocked on the door.

"One minute, Sweetie," came a woman's voice. "Just one minute."

She sounded friendlier than Zachary remembered from the last time he'd heard her on the phone more than two years before. Shuffling, scraping and grunting noises came from the other side of the door. Worried that some animal might spring out at him, Zachary backed down one step.

"I'll be right there, Honey Pie," came the pleasant voice again.

As the shuffling and scraping got louder, Zachary backed down another step. There was one last grunt like a large animal getting ready to charge, then the door swung inward.

"I'm so happy to see you, Honey Pie!" Madame Kloochie exclaimed.

She was even bigger than Zachary remembered and in the dim hallway light he could see her face was so thickly coated in makeup that it looked like a kid's paint project. Her brilliant orange hair (which he he remembered being blue the last time he'd seen her) looked like it hadn't been combed in months. Zachary looked past her to see his memory about that had been right. The apartment floor and what might have been furniture beyond were just as covered with garbage as the hallway. Zachary could see the path she had cleared to the door.

The stench wafting out at him was even worse than the hallway.

"Where's that wonderful uncle of yours?" she asked.

"I'm alone," Zachary said, fighting his gag reflex.

Madame Kloochie's face scrunched. She peered further down the stairs.

"Then how'd you get here?" she asked, the sweetness draining from her voice.

"Uncle Ned did bring me," Zachary said. He didn't bother to mention he had stolen a truck to do it.

"Oh, good!" Madame Kloochie exclaimed. "I haven't seen Neddy in years. Where is that luscious mass of muscles?"

"He left already."

Zachary tried to take only short breaths but the horrible smell wasn't getting any better. How could he manage to breathe, forget live, in a dump like that.

"Neddy left?"

"He was in a hurry," Zachary explained. Of course, anyone that knew his uncle would know he was always in a hurry.

"That coward!" Madame Kloochie exclaimed, all evidence of friendly now gone from her voice. "He's afraid of a good woman, that's his problem!"

Zachary backed down another step.

"And where do you think you're going?" she asked, her thickly eyelined eyes focusing on him.

"Maybe I should bring my stuff up," he forced himself to say, all the while wondering if he'd be better off living out in the woods someplace. Besides, without using a bulldozer first, where would he put his things?

She stabbed what looked to be a frosting covered finger at him.

"Every last scrap had better come up here," she said. "Because if you leave anything in front of my store, I will sell it. Do you understand me? I-WILL-SELL-IT!"

Zachary nodded.

"You get the room off the dining room," Madame Kloochie said. "It's a little cluttered, but that's your problem."

Zachary wanted to run for fresh air but paused to make sure she was done talking.

Her eyes narrowed and her hands went to her wide hips.

Zachary waited.

"Are you a meathead?" she asked. "Because I've got no use for meatheads around here."

Zachary shook his head. Maybe he should have said something else, but he got the impression she wasn't done talking. So they stared at each other for a few seconds.

"Yep, a meathead!" she finally said, ducking inside and slamming the door.

More confused than angry, Zachary knocked again.

"No meatheads allowed!" she said. He heard her giggle after she said it.

Zachary had had enough! After everything he'd been through in the previous twenty-four hours, the last thing he needed was some crazy old weirdo playing mind games and slinging insults.

"I didn't even want to come here!" he said so loudly it surprised even him. He couldn't remember ever being intentionally rude to an adult, but somehow it felt right at that moment. "So you can either let me in or I'll hitchhike back to Boston. Either way, I don't give a crap what you decide!"

He paused, wondering if there was any chance he could find his father or his uncle. Truthfully, he doubted it.

Madame Kloochie opened the door and grinned.

"Okay, so maybe you're not a meathead. You can bring your things up. But do it quickly, and when you're done, I want you to scrape off that rocket fuel." She pointed to the frosting ring on the wall. "And don't forget the donut on the stairs, either."

He almost asked her "Which one?" before she turned and shuffled across her trash-filled floor.
15) Neighbor Falls, Pills Die

It took the two new friends five trips each to carry all the boxes and suitcases up the stairs and into the disgusting room that Madame Kloochie let him use as a bedroom. The job would have gone a lot easier if they hadn't been forced to wade through two feet of garbage and dirty clothes and if Bret hadn't vomited on their way up the stairs the third time. Apparently he was as sickly as he looked and had no tolerance for bad odors which obviously meant he never should have entered a trash heap like Madame Kloochie's house.

Zachary brought his box to the top of the stairs then hurried back down to grab the heavy suitcase from Bret. When he deposited it on top of what looked to be several weeks of dirty clothes on the living room floor, he glanced over at Madame Kloochie who was perched atop her garbage-strewn couch.

"Skinny kid should be more careful about what he eats," she said.

Ignoring her, Zachary hurried back down to see his new friend lean against the railing and puff on an inhaler. Zachary grabbed several loose newspapers they had earlier kicked out of the way and used them to cover the vomit mess his friend had made. Not having seen any remotely clean towels anywhere in Madame Kloochie's apartment, Zachary pulled off his tee shirt and offered it to his new friend. Bret shook his head and wiped a few speckles of barf from his lips with the back of his hand. Fortunately, he hadn't gotten much on his clothes and only had a few splatter marks on the tips of his shiny black shoes.

"N-No, it's okay," he said, waving the tee shirt away. "I-I'll clean my shoes with th-th-the papers. I just have a weak stomach s-s-sometimes."

"You should probably get some fresh air," Zachary suggested.

He grabbed Bret's elbow and helped him down the stairs. Zachary was shocked at how little meat or muscle there was. The thin boy's arm consisted basically of bones covered with skin. He might have given the skeletal nurse from Doctor Gefarg's clinic a challenge for thinnest frame. They had only been outside long enough for Zachary to pull his shirt back on, when Bret lifted another box, ready to carry it upstairs.

"What are you doing?"

"H-h-helping."

"I really appreciate everything you did," Zachary said, "but I don't think it's a good idea for you to go in there again."

"I-I'll try not t-t-to puke again."

"No one could blame you if you did," Zachary said, and he meant it. He had never seen a more disgusting place in his life. And it was even worse than Zachary remembered from when he had visited that one time as a kid. Zachary reached out and tried to take the box from Bret but the thin blond boy pulled away.

"I-I-I'm not making y-you finish by yourself," Bret said.

Even under the dim street light, Zachary could see the determination in the blond boy's eyes.

"Okay," he said. "We're a heck of a pair, though: sick and crippled."

Both boys grinned.

Zachary lifted one of the boxes filled with plants and balanced it across his cast. Though he could live with the aching throb, he hoped using his arm so soon hadn't caused any permanent damage. But what choice had Uncle Ned left him with? That led him to thoughts of Krage, the person who had apparently been behind the bat attack, and the same person his father and now uncle had gone after. Where was Krage leading his father? And would his father be okay?

Zachary didn't have answers to either of those questions, but he feared the worst.

Please be okay, Dad!

Bret not only helped him move everything into the room off from the dining room, he also insisted on helping Zachary clear enough space to store his things and to sleep. Zachary's first act of rebellion was to open the window and let some fresh air mingle with the room's overwhelming smell of rotten food and old sweat. He and Bret then removed a mountain of used donut pastry boxes from one corner; after stomping them flat, they stacked the entire pile in the dining room. Finally, they gathered a dozen armfuls of dirty clothes, making them both wonder if Madame Kloochie ever wore the same outfit twice, and carried them to the bathroom where the big woman indicated the washer and dryer were located. As might have been expected, that room was so filled with clothes they literally poured out into the kitchen when Zachary opened the door. Uncertain how he would survive these conditions, Zachary opted to pile all the dirty clothes from his room in the middle of the kitchen floor.

"You do plan on washing those, don't you?" Madame Kloochie asked as the boys carried the last two armloads towards the kitchen.

Zachary paused in the rubbish-strewn dining room and stared through the archway at the huge woman sprawled across the mounds of clothing and trash that layered her couch. Looking like a circus clown, messy orange hair sitting like a huge scrubbing pad on her head and a face so coated in colorful makeup she no longer looked quite human, Madame Kloochie grinned, which told Zachary everything he needed to know. He wasn't just a visitor to her; he was, instead, to be her personal cleaning slave. He glanced at the dining room table beside him, which was of course covered with dirty dishes, more empty pastry boxes, dozens of magazines and newspapers, and a myriad of food containers and indefinable garbage. There wouldn't have been room to place a single soda bottle on the crowded surface, that is, not unless you removed one of the empty bottles he now noticed in and amongst the other refuse. His eyes moved to the two cabinets against the wall which were equally covered in clutter and garbage and then down to the floor that was knee-deep in clothing and trash except for the trail that he and Bret had cleared earlier by simply kicking things to either side.

"I'll help you," Bret whispered.

Wondering if Bret knew how close he was to telling Madame Kloochie to clean her own damn house, Zachary held his tongue and moved into the kitchen where they dropped their last loads of dirty clothes for the night.

"I have to go," Bret said, pulling a cell phone from his pocket and checking the time.

Zachary had never owned a cell phone but he glanced at his watch and was shocked to see it was almost three in the morning. Suddenly, he also realized how tired he was. It felt like he had been moving things for days, and the way his arm ached only made things worse. He followed Bret to the door and watched him descend the path they had made down the stairs. He tried not to think about how long it would take to clean just the hallway as he closed the door and turned to Madame Kloochie.

"Do you have any—" He wanted to say 'clean' but settled for, "—spare sheets and blankets?"

"Maybe in the closet of your room," she said. "Don't worry, though, because I'll have Porky Stanley bring us several bottles of laundry detergent tomorrow."

Who was she to be calling anyone "porky," Zachary thought, but he said nothing as he rubbed his eyes and went to his new room.

As should have been expected, the closet floor was filled with more dirty clothes. Like forgotten party decorations, two of Madame Kloochie's bright outfits were the only things hanging in the closet, one pink and the other yellow. On the shelf above them, he found half a dozen full milk jugs, and given the disgusting blue and green colors he could see through the plastic, they had been there for quite some time, maybe years. Careful not to open or drop any to let the smell out, he moved the jugs out into the dining room beside the pastry boxes.

Retreating to his horrible new room, he grabbed one of the two pillows he had insisted on bringing from Boston and fell onto the bare, lumpy bed. His arm aching, he felt like just one more chunk of trash among the many piles that still surrounded him as he fell asleep.

His last thoughts were of his father and the danger he was in.

When Zachary woke the next morning, he found a broom leaning against his bed, a rusty dustpan on the floor and box of large trash bags on the mattress beside his feet. Not exactly a subtle hint regarding what Madame Kloochie had in store for him. Just like Uncle Ned, she seemed unconcerned about making him work with a cast. So, miserable but feeling as though he had no choice, Zachary got out of bed and began clearing garbage from his room. He had only been working for a couple of minutes, however, when urgency gripped him. He hurried out into the dining room and asked to use the phone.

"It's important," he said.

"On the wall in the kitchen," Madame Kloochie instructed. "But don't think you're spending the whole day talking. There's a lot of work to be done around here."

_Yeah,_ Zachary thought, a _ll the work you haven't done in the last ten years._

Zachary dialed his Boston number and was surprised when a woman answered the phone. "This is the Pill residence," she said. "May I ask whose calling?"

"Who are you?" Zachary blurted out.

"My name is detective Angela Warren of the Boston Police Department. Again, could I ask who this is?"

"Can't you see it on the caller I.D.?" he asked, starting to feel that he had made a big mistake.

"Young Man," she said, "please tell me who you are and from where you are calling."

Zachary hung up and tried to quell the fear that rose in his chest. Could the police have been there because they found his father? Had something horrible happened? Zachary forced himself to breathe and tried to think clearly.

His uncle! He needed to call his uncle.

Reaching into his pocket to find the number he'd taken from his father's office, he pulled out the picture of the pretty red haired girl. At another time, he might have stopped to admire her smile and the sheen of her hair but he had more important things to think about. Slipping the picture back where it had been, he fished his uncle's number out of his other pocket and dialed.

It rang and rang.

To be sure, Zachary tried again but the phone just kept ringing.

Praying the police were there only in response to the noise or his report of Ebola virus and not because something had happened to his father, Zachary returned to his room. For the briefest moment, he imagined Charlie trying to explain to the police about Ebola, and that thought made him smile. The smile was short-lived, however.

Be okay, Dad. Please be okay!

In the furthest corner of his room, Zachary found a mound of discarded toilet paper tubes and used wrapping paper that went almost to the ceiling. Having no idea why anyone would save such things, he grabbed a trash bag and in a few moments had stuffed it full. It wasn't long before he had five similar bags, all bulging at the seams with the useless tubes and gift paper. He had just started filling his sixth bag when, underneath all the mess, he discovered a bureau for his clothes and a small stand he could use for plants. Inside the bureau drawers, he found hundreds of plastic spoons, forks, and cups—and all of them looked to have been used! The entire box of ten trash bags were crammed full by the time he got the bureau and the rest of the corner cleaned out.

He glanced at his watch. It was already eleven o'clock. Though his stomach growled with hunger, the nauseating smells around him made it hard to imagine eating. Besides, he couldn't get the image of rotting jugs of milk out of his mind.

"I'm out of trash bags," he announced, stacking the last two full ones in the dining room.

Madame Kloochie seemed to spend most of her time on her couch. Her orange hair was particularly matted on one side, and her matching orange lipstick was smeared making her lips look twice as large. She had a half-eaten donut in her hand and a familiar pastry box sitting beside her. Turning away from what sounded like a morning cartoon, she sized up Zachary and the ten bags of trash stacked like huge green pompoms in her dining room.

"Porky Stanley should be here with more trash bags pretty soon," she said then nodded toward the kitchen. "You can take the full ones out to the street through the back."

"Is it trash day?" Zachary asked. In Boston, the trash only got picked up once per week, except for the large buildings where it was either incinerated or specially trucked off.

"Porky Ben picks up the trash whenever I call," Madame Kloochie said.

Wishing she would stop making fun of fat people, Zachary nodded and dragged one of his overstuffed bags through the kitchen to the back door. For most of his school life, Zachary had been teased about his green hair, and he knew overweight people and even skinny people often got teased for similar reasons. Though he was no saint, he wished everyone would just leave everyone else alone.

Missing a second healthy arm that would have allowed him to carry a second bag, he easily carried the light but awkward trash bag down the back stairs, around the building to the driveway and past a large brown station wagon that he had a hard time imagining Madame Kloochie ever actually drove. He knew for a fact that she had never driven to Boston to visit his mother. He dropped the bag on the sidewalk but not so it would be in the way of the car, just in case.

An engine backfired as a badly dented red pickup truck careened around the corner at the top of the hill and charged down towards him. Under normal circumstances, Zachary could have jumped over the truck before it ever had a chance to hit him, but with his body so sore from everything that had happened in the last day, he retreated behind the front fender of Madame Kloochie's brown station wagon. He need not have bothered, however, because the truck came to a squealing, if not expert, stop on the street in front of the station wagon. A sign stuck on one dented door read: "Pork 'ie Farm Market and Pizza."

Weird name.

And then it occurred to him Madame Kloochie hadn't been saying "Porky Stanley," she'd been saying, "Pork 'ie Stanley."

He watched as a heavy driver got out of the truck with a stack of six pizza boxes. Not having seen a line of cars parked on either side of the street, Zachary wondered who was having the party. In answer, an old man hurried out of the house next door. Spry for his age, he hustled down the stairs and grabbed the pizzas as though fearing the driver was about to drop them.

"Thanks, Stanley," he said; then added, "Mount Everest cocoa and caramel...back pocket."

Seeming genuinely excited, the dark haired boy reached into the old man's pocket and pulled out what looked to be a large chocolate bar.

"Thanks, Gerald!"

"Don't drink German soda with that," the old man warned, climbing his stairs, "unless you want to lose friends."

Zachary moved gingerly out onto the sidewalk.

"I'm Zachary," he said, introducing himself to both the driver and the elderly man. He was just getting ready to ask if he brought any bags for Madame Kloochie when the old neighbor spoke up.

"Didn't see you over there, young fella," he said. "'Name's Pill, isn't it? 'Heard you're staying with Flora. You're a brave one, I'll give you that."

"You must have talked to Bret this morning," Zachary said.

"Not since a day or two ago," the old man said. "Nice boy, though."

"Then who told you I was staying here?"

"I'm Gerald Gains, but you can call me Gerald."

"Nice to meet you," Zachary said. He decided not to be rude and ask the same question twice, but he really was confused how the old man knew about him.

"I suspect someone at Pork 'ies might have said something," Stanley offered. "Madame Kloochie mentioned she had a young friend moving in." He grinned, revealing the most crooked teeth Zachary had ever seen. "But I could probably have figured it out from all the cleaning supplies she ordered."

Zachary groaned. It was bad enough to be her slave, but to have everyone in the neighborhood know it somehow made it worse. He wished his uncle hadn't put him in this predicament.

Holding his tall stack of pizzas, the old man stepped inside his house and, before closing the door, said, "I'm sure I'll see you again, Zachary."

Stanley opened his dented passenger door and pulled out a large box filled with milk, cereal, a box of donut pastries, several types of bottled cleaners and at least five large boxes of trash bags. Zachary reached out to grab the box but Stanley wouldn't give it to him.

"I'm not making you carry this," the large older boy said. "Your arm's broken, Bud."

"You're the first one to notice, I think," Zachary said. "I guess you can leave everything in the hallway if you want. I'll carry things up a few at a time."

"Naw, I'll take it up," the large boy said. "I do it every day."

"You don't mind the mess?"

"Better than my parents' place," the heavy teenager said. "They've got over a hundred pets living right in the house. I don't like to even sleep there anymore."

Zachary didn't know much about pets, but he knew that anyplace worse than Madame Kloochie's was a house he never wanted to visit. He gave a weak smile and followed Stanley up the stairs. "Pork 'ie Farm Market and Pizza" was also printed on the back of his shirt.

Stanley balanced the large box on one knee at the top of the stairs and, without knocking, turned the knob and shoved the door open, nearly falling inward in the process. Zachary figured he wasn't used to having a path cleared in front of the door. The big boy somehow managed to catch himself without spilling the contents of the box and trudged over to place the large box on top of a stack of magazines, newspapers and dirty socks at the end of the couch.

"Thank you, Porky Stanley," Madame Kloochie said, already reaching her hand into the pastry box.

"Is that how you pronounce it?" Zachary asked as Stanley started to leave.

The heavy boy shrugged.

"People say it both ways. "Twenty years ago it was just Pork Pie Market, but one of the 'P's' on the sign got broken. When my grandparents finally got enough money to fix it, the customers complained, so they got rid of the 'P' again." His job done, Stanley descended the stairs, whistling the whole way. A couple of minutes later, his truck squealed and backfired as it pulled a U-turn and sped back up the hill.

Zachary spent the next couple of hours cleaning out the rest of his garbage-filled room and was thankful it started to smell better as he carted the bags, one after the other, out to the street. The last chore was to scrub out the bureau and unpack, which also meant setting his plants up where they'd each have the proper amount of sun. By the time he finished, it was hard to tell he had a window because plants pretty much blocked its view. He grabbed an empty milk jug from on top of the cluttered dining room table and watered every pot before deciding that food had to come next.

"Could I have a donut?" he asked Madame Kloochie, who was protecting the pastry box like a mother goose would her egg.

"Of course you can, Sweetie," she said in a soft, friendly voice.

Zachary took two steps toward the living room before noticing her arm had cocked back with a half-eaten chocolate cream donut in hand. Fast as a Little League pitcher, she launched the donut at his head. Zachary ducked but not in time. The pastry grazed his cheek before striking a picture of a panda bear on the further dining room wall. Fortunately, the picture didn't have a glass frame so nothing broke. Unfortunately, the picture didn't have a glass frame so a splotch of frosting remained on the bear's face after the donut fell onto the garbage-covered floor.

"Why'd you do...?"

Zachary paused when he realized Madame Kloochie was shaking with laughter on the couch. Growing angrier by the second, he stared at the mountainous mess around him. Not only was she the sloppiest pig in the world, she had actually thrown a donut to make things worse _on purpose_!

Finally, after wiping the frosting from his cheek, Zachary said, "Do you think I could have a donut to eat, not wear?"

"No, but there's cereal and milk," Madame Kloochie managed to say through waves of giggles. She pulled the unopened gallon jug out of Stanley's delivery box. Zachary didn't even want to ask why she hadn't put the milk in the refrigerator earlier. And he refused to think about the rotten jugs of milk he'd already thrown out.

Of course, there weren't any clean bowls, or clean dishes of any kind for that matter, so Zachary was forced to wash one. It turned out to be a long, arduous process because he had to avoid getting his cast wet. Somehow he managed, though, and did eat a bowl of cereal on his bed, the only clear place he could find to sit in the entire apartment.

Bret showed up late that afternoon. They worked hard and Bret had to use his inhaler twice, but somehow they managed to clean the dining room, most of the kitchen and moved enough dirty clothes out of the bathroom so that they could use the washer and dryer. By the time Bret left, every muscle in Zachary's body ached. He forced himself to thoroughly clean the tub so that he could take a shower. It was worth it, he decided as the warm water cleaned away the stench of Madame Kloochie's filthy home from his skin.

As he flopped onto his bed, which still had no sheets or blankets, he stared at the picture he'd found. Who was the pretty redhead? And why did his father have a picture of her? As with most things in his life, Zachary had more questions than answers. He tried to focus on the girl's beautiful smile, but fear of what might have happened to his father crept steadily into his mind. He slid the picture under his pillow.

Where are you, Dad?

On the second morning after arriving in New Hampshire, Zachary woke to the sound of someone yelling his name. He forced his stiff body upright and tried to figure out where the sound was coming from.

"Zach!" the urgent voice came again through the partly open window.

Zachary pushed his spider plant aside and peered outside. Though it hadn't rained in the last couple of days, Madame Kloochie's elderly neighbor stood on the roof next door dressed in a bright red rain suit that made his thin frame look puffy. His age-wrinkled face was barely visible beneath a matching red rain cap. Having tied a rope to his chimney, the old man held it like a mountain climber to keep from sliding down the steep slope.

Zachary stuck his head outside. "Hi, Mr. Gains."

"I told you to call me 'Gerald'."

"Okay, Gerald."

"Did you see them last night?" The old man pointed toward the sky and apparently forgot to keep hold of his support rope. His red arms windmilled as his body tipped dangerously backwards. Terrified but unable to help, Zachary held his breath as his elderly neighbor teetered then finally tipped forward onto his knees. Gnarled fingers scrabbled to get hold of the rope again.

"Probably should have a second rope, huh?" Gerald said, looking over at Zachary with a grin.

"Or tie that one around your waist," Zachary suggested. For fear of hitting the bruised back of his head on the window, he went to push it further open and accidentally struck his cast against the windowsill. Pain rang like a plucked guitar string from his wrist to his elbow.

"Ahhh!"

"You okay?" Gerald asked.

Zachary gently shook his broken arm.

"Yeah, I just keep forgetting about this cast. I'll be glad when it's gone."

Gerald stood and lifted his binoculars to study the mountain peak that loomed beyond the end of their short street.

"'Don't know where they all came from last night," he said.

"Where who came from?" Zachary asked.

"Bats," Gerald said.

Zachary froze. A chill spread from his chest to the back of his neck. Goosebumps broke out across his arms. "You saw bats?" he managed to ask.

"There were thousands of them. Circled over our street for quite a while before flying over the mountain. I'm surprised you didn't hear all the squeaking."

Zachary's thoughts spun. Had Krage found him? Since the bats hadn't attacked it was probably just a coincidence, but what if it wasn't? Though he hoped he was just being paranoid, he had to keep his eyes open.

Gerald put his binoculars to his face, making him look like a red beetle with bulging black eyes. "You have a boot-shaped freckle on your nose," Gerald said.

Not remembering any freckles, Zachary brushed at his face.

"Oops," Gerald said, balancing on the roof while he turned the binoculars and wiped the lens against his red suit. "Broccoli, I think."

"Did the bats come near anyone's house?" Zachary asked. He tried to sound nonchalant but shivered at the prospect.

Gerald scrunched his bushy eyebrows into a V then shook his head.

"Nope, they stayed up there for the most part." He pointed at the sky.

"I imagine that must happen around here a lot," Zachary said hopefully.

"Nope," Gerald said. "And certainly not a herd that size. Or would that be flock―oh, what's the difference? There were a lot of them."

"I can't believe I didn't wake up," Zachary said.

"Try taping one eye open," the old man suggested. "It works for me." He straightened his red rain cap. "You don't want to be caught sleeping at the wrong time around here. Some of the stuff on this street would scare the spots off a tiger."

Zachary opted not to mention that leopards, not tigers, had spots. Just then he heard the sound of a familiar motor backfire at the top of the hill. Tires squealed as Stanley's dented red truck swerved and zoomed down the small dead end street known as Station End.

"Ha!" Gerald exclaimed. "My morning pizza!"

Zachary couldn't believe the old man had already eaten the six pizzas that had been delivered the night before, which made twelve pizzas yesterday alone. Stanley squealed to a stop in front of Gerald's one-story ranch. His truck continued to bounce even after Stanley got out balancing a stack of six more large pizza boxes in one hand. Zachary turned his attention back to Gerald and saw that the old man was crouched at the edge of his roof, facing a flagpole a few feet away.

"No!" Zachary yelled. But it was too late.

Things might have gone better if one of Gerald's boots hadn't tangled with the rope, but when it did, the old man's leap fell short, his fingers missed the pole and he pitched headfirst toward the ground.

Zachary fought the urge to cover his eyes as—

Blinking and rubbing his eyes, he struggled to understand. It didn't make sense. Gerald's red rain cap had fallen to the ground but the rest of his body had jerked to a stop and now floated upside down in midair!

"Help!" the elderly neighbor yelled.

Had magic followed Zachary all the way from Boston to New Hampshire? What other explanation could there be? Until a few days before, Zachary hadn't believed in magic, and now it seemed to be everywhere—

Or not.

Just then, Zachary noticed the chimney rope curled around Gerald's ankle. It was the rope—not magic—that held him from falling to the ground.

"Less gawking, more helping!" Gerald exclaimed, his red sleeves flailing.

Zachary yanked his head back inside and hurried with bare feet into the dining room. Snorts and snores came from Madame Kloochie's blanket-covered mass on the couch. He slipped into the kitchen, passed the mountain of dirty clothes, ran out the back door, down the stairs and into the neighboring yard where he found Gerald hanging above him like a huge, red Christmas ornament.

"It's about time," the old man said. "Go save the pizzas, Zach! Stanley can't be trusted with pepperoni. Hurry!"

Zachary stared up at his red rain-suited neighbor.

"Go, Zachary!"

Torn between saving Gerald or doing as asked, Zachary finally sprinted around the house where he found the heavyset delivery boy sitting on Gerald's front steps with a tall stack of pepperoni-smelling pizza boxes resting on his wide lap. His pudgy fingers looked suspiciously ready to open the top box.

"He coming or what?" Stanley asked. "These might spoil, you know."

"He got hung up," Zachary said, using his good hand to gently remove the pizza boxes from Stanley's grip. Balancing all six boxes on his cast, he slid them safely onto Gerald's porch. Then, once the pizzas were safe, he explained that Gerald had fallen and might soon turn as red as his rain suit. "Will you help?"

"Sure," Stanley said. "He's our best customer."

Zachary didn't know if that meant a bad customer would have been left dangling, but the point seemed moot since few people seemed likely to wind up in that position. Stanley turned out to be exactly the right person to ask. He pulled his beat-up pickup truck into the back yard, stood on the truck roof―leaving two more good-sized dents―and pushed Gerald like a tire swing until wrinkled fingers could grab the flagpole. Once Stanley untangled his foot, the old man flipped right side up and slid safely to the grass.

By the time Zachary got back upstairs, Madame Kloochie had heaved herself to a seated position on the couch. Except for the orange color, her tangled hair was like the mess you might find at the bottom of a shower drain. Purplish, fat feet stuck out from under a pink blanket.

"Where have you been?" she asked, angrily. Without giving him a chance to answer, she added, "I've decided to have you open the store today—by nine."

Zachary groaned but didn't argue because anything had to be better than spending another day cleaning. He did say, "Couldn't you hear Mr. Gains yelling outside?"

"That old coot is always making some kind of noise," she said. "Belongs in a nut house if you ask me."

"He was hanging off the roof out there." Zachary pointed to the window beside her bedroom door.

"I don't look out the windows," she said matter-of-factly. "Now get ready for work."

"But I don't know anything about running a store," Zachary said, more to warn her than to get out of it.

"This'll be a good time to learn," she said.

Zachary heard a crunching sound as he stepped on an empty pastry box that Madame Kloochie must have dropped after he'd gone to bed the night before. What was the sense of cleaning if she kept throwing her garbage right back on the floor? It occurred to him that maybe they should get a large trash barrel for each room. At least he'd have a place to throw Madame Kloochie's trash as he cleaned up behind her.

Praying that his uncle would change his mind and come back to get him, Zachary trudged back to his room. He'd only been in Madame Kloochie's house for one day and already hated it beyond belief. Her filth was nearly as disgusting as the worms Krage had put in the spaghetti back in Boston, and even if he spent a solid year cleaning, he wasn't convinced he could get rid of the sickening smell of the place. Easing his sore back onto the bed, he wondered how things could possibly get any worse.

As if in answer, a sudden ear-piercing scream filled the air.

Zachary rushed to the window and peered through his plants. Back on his roof, Gerald had replaced his rain suit with baggy blue coveralls and a baseball cap. Crouched, his elderly neighbor was getting ready to leap onto the flagpole again. Zachary jammed his head out the window.

"What was that noise?"

"No idea," Gerald said, straightening up.

"'Sounded like a baby screaming," Zachary said.

Gerald lifted his cap and wiped sweat from his nearly bald scalp. "No, it definitely wasn't human."

"An animal then?" Zachary asked.

"Not one I ever heard." The old man pointed at a stack of boards leaning against his chimney. "That's why I'm building a catwalk."

"A cat what?"

"It's like a watch tower," Gerald said. "Something's not right around here, and I intend to find out what it is." He faced the flagpole and crouched.

"You could fall again," Zachary warned.

"'Just need to grab my binoculars." Gerald patted his chest. "'Forgot them in the refrigerator."

"Your binoculars are in your fridge?"

Gerald shrugged and said, "That's where I keep the milk," as though that was somehow supposed to make sense.

"Zachary!" came a shrill voice. "Zachary!"

He waited just long enough to see Gerald slide safely to the ground then hurried out into the dining room where he could see Madame Kloochie standing in the living room holding the phone receiver.

"Your coach is on the phone," she said.

Zachary didn't have a coach.

She tossed the handset on top of a pile of dirty socks in the chair beside her, then slumped back onto her couch. The long seat sagged―as it had every right to do―then sprang back up in the middle. Whoever made that particular piece of furniture deserved a statue.

"Don't keep him waiting," Madame Kloochie said, eyes narrowing. "I'm sure your _coach_ must be anxious to have your skinny butt playing football for him."

By this time, Zachary suspected who might be on the phone and, judging from the look on Madame Kloochie's face, she suspected it, too.

"I figured joining the team would toughen me up," Zachary said. He lifted his cast. "That way I won't get picked on so much."

Madame Kloochie's eyebrows rose.

"I'll get it in the kitchen," he said.

The big woman continued to glare as he hurried through the swinging kitchen door and grabbed the wall phone. Of course, it had frosting smeared all over it.

"I've got it!" he yelled so she could hear in the other room. He made a face and wiped most of the frosting on his pants.

"Is that you, Zach?" a poorly disguised voice asked.

"Hold on a second..., Coach." Zachary pushed the door open and saw Madame Kloochie had the living room phone pressed to her ear.

"I've got it!" he repeated.

She scowled but placed the receiver back in its cradle. He heard the click in his own handset and ducked back into the kitchen.

"Uncle Ned, did you find him? Is my dad all right?"
16) History and Secrets

"Not yet, Sport, but I'm working on it." His uncle's garbled voice sounded more like a mouthful of bread than the foreign accent he was trying for.

"I need to help find my dad," Zachary said. "I'll go anyplace you want, do anything you want. Please come get me!"

"She's not on the line, is she?" his uncle asked, his poor disguise still in use.

Pushing the door open a crack, Zachary could see Madame Kloochie hovering over the phone. He eased the door closed. "She's off but probably not for long. Will you come get me?"

"Things are worse than I hoped," his uncle said, dropping the disguise. "Your father has gone off planet."

"Off planet!" Zachary said. Then more quietly, "What does that mean? Like he went to the moon or something?"

"I can't get into it over the phone, buddy," his uncle said. "But it looks like your dad went back to Pandemone our home world, which is not out in space, at least that's not how people get back and forth. There are corridors, very long magical corridors."

Zachary immediately remembered Doctor Gefarg talking about the Corridors. "Is that where Krage is," he asked, "on the world where our family comes from?"

"Yeah, Sport, it is."

Zachary forgot about his throbbing arm, aching back and even the rotten stench of Madame Kloochie's house. Instead, his mind was focused on one thing: his father was in danger!

"You're not getting into any fights, are you?" his uncle asked.

"How could I," Zachary said. "I've been cleaning ever since I got here."

"You'll survive, Buddy."

"I hope," Zachary said. Just then, he pulled a gray piece of cloth from between the refrigerator and stove. Horrified, he realized a pair of women's underwear hung from his fingertips. Four people could have crawled inside. Disgusted, he threw them onto the stack of dirty clothes he and Bret had piled up the day before. "But there were a lot of bats last night."

"Bats!"

"Yeah, bats. The old guy next door said there were thousands of them last night."

"Did they try to get into your house?" There was urgency in his uncle's voice.

"No, but they circled above the street for a while."

"Sounds like Krage hasn't pinpointed you yet. But he's getting close. I hoped that having you live so close to the nostrils would have confused him."

"The nostrils?" Zachary asked.

"Look, Sport, it doesn't matter right now. The important thing is that you're reasonably safe right now."

"I should be with you."

"You have to trust me on this, Sport. This isn't a game. I know you're not having a good time, but things are too dangerous right now. Your cousin Ted was found dead the night before you and I left Boston. That means you, me and your dad are the only Pills left."

Zachary fell silent.

"They found Ted in the backyard with his head cut off."

"Gross, Uncle Ned! I'm still a kid, you know."

"You need to understand that Krage is tracking down our entire family and killing us one by one. I don't want you to be the next dead Pill."

"I'd be safer with you."

"The last thing your dad and I need is to worry about you."

Wiping at the tears that suddenly streaked his cheeks, Zachary said, "Does Krage know my dad is going there?"

"Maybe," Uncle Ned admitted. "Krage has ruled Pandemone ever since he stole the throne from your grandfather over forty years ago, and kings know a lot."

"My grandfather was a king?"

"On Pandemone our family name was Lip," Uncle Ned said. "My father—your grandfather—reversed it when we escaped to Earth over forty years ago. And, yes, he was Mer Sevilip, Pandemone's king. Your dad would probably have been king by now if it hadn't been for Krage's rebellion."

"So that's why Krage is killing all of the Pills? He's afraid we'll take the throne back?"

"Your father never wanted to be the king of anywhere, but Krage made the mistake of putting you in danger. And your dad will do anything to protect you, Sport."

"Even if it means taking on an entire world by himself?"

"Your dad is one of the most powerful wizards that ever lived, on Earth or Pandemone."

"Stronger than you?"

Uncle Ned laughed.

"The most powerful wizards don't need muscles. They rely on magic instead."

"Is Dad stronger than Krage?"

"That's why I called, Sport. Your dad might beat Ker Sevikrage but he can't fight the entire Krage family alone. I have to go help him."

"I could fight," Zachary said.

"Sport, you're a helluva kid, but you're not a wizard."

"I could learn."

"You're only half Pandemone, Sport, so I'm not sure you can learn magic; but even if you could there's no time to teach you."

"I can study as we travel!" Zachary insisted.

"I'm sorry, Sport, but for now it's better that you stay with Flora. I know she's odd, but she'll keep you safe."

"But—"

"But nothing. I'll find your dad and get him back here. I promise."

Zachary mind swam. He wanted to ask a thousand questions, but at that moment the dining room floor creaked. He started to ease the door open, but it suddenly jerked forward and pulled him into the dining room where he fell and hit his head on the table leg. Somehow, he managed to keep his grip on the phone receiver.

"Give me that!" Madame Kloochie exclaimed. "I know who's on the phone!"

"I'll be to practice on time, Coach," Zachary said hurriedly. "My arm should be healed by―"

Madame Kloochie snatched the receiver. "Hi, Sweetie."

Uncle Ned must have hung up because her expression grew sour. Thick lips twisted and she glared down at Zachary.

"That man has a crush on me," she said, "and you better―" She reached into the kitchen and slammed the phone receiver onto its hook. The extra flesh under her arm jiggled like a bag of water. "―tell him to stop fighting it and visit me!"

Under different circumstances Zachary might have laughed, but as Madame Kloochie stomped back to her couch, all he could think about was that his cousin Ted was dead and his father might be next.
17) One Bully, One Ally

Zachary rushed to get dressed so he could open Madame Kloochie's store on time. Though he had no idea what he would be doing, it made sense to be on time given how angry she had been about Uncle Ned's call. Unfortunately, it was a minute past nine when he hurried through the dining room. Madame Kloochie sat on the couch with one hand on her lap and the other hidden suspiciously behind her back. Newly applied purple lipstick smiled wickedly at him.

"I told you to open my store by nine o'clock," she said. "You're late."

Zachary gauged the distance to the front door: about six steps. Could he make it?

Her arm snapped back.

Too late!

Zachary raced through the living room and yanked the hall door open.

"I warned you," Madame Kloochie exclaimed as a Boston cream donut hurtled toward his head. Zachary jumped through the doorway and slammed the door just in time to hear the gooey pastry smash against the other side.

"Don't forget to turn the sign to "OPEN" and unlock the front door," she yelled.

He leaned against the stairway wall and let out a sigh. No wonder he and Bret had been forced to wash a dozen spots of frosting off the walls the day before. Happy to have escaped her attack, he trudged down the filthy stairway, waded through the trash around the corner, and for the first time opened the door to her so-called store.

Hinges squealed as musty air wafted out like poisonous gas. Holding his fingers to his nose, he flipped on the light switch and a string of florescent bulbs flickered, slowly illuminating torn couches, broken chairs and stained mattresses. Zachary gagged at the mildew odor and forced himself further inside to see scarred bureaus, crooked bookshelves and a nightstand that was missing one leg. More like a furniture graveyard than a retail shop, the entire store's contents should have been thrown away from what Zachary could see. The only good thing he could say about the place was that the floors were clear of trash and clothes. He continued past dusty chairs, scratched tables and odd cabinets to the nicest item in the store, a tall and shiny cash register that stood on a counter facing the front glass door. The register's chrome sides sparkled with swirls and ridges, and its few exposed sections of wood shined as though just polished. Zachary guessed the machine to be at least a hundred years old. It took several tries but he soon figured out how to open the cash drawer, where he found a few bills and coins inside.

More or less ready, he turned the rusty "OPEN" sign toward the sidewalk and unlocked all four locks on the front door. He barely had time to get back behind the counter before someone pounded on the door.

A customer already?

Dark glasses studied him through the glass for a few seconds before a tall boy pushed his way inside. Though slim, he had pudgy red cheeks that looked snowball sore. He strode up to the counter and slammed both hands down. Dust settled and glass tinkled throughout the shop.

"So you're the new kid."

Along with a white tennis visor and sunglasses, the boy wore a yellow golfing shirt and cream-colored pants. The stain on his visor and a ragged blue patch sewn onto one knee of his light pants were the only things that hinted he might not be as rich as he tried to look.

"I'm, Zachary."

"Why don't I just call you, Ack," the tall kid said.

Though better than "Snot Hair," the nickname still grated on Zachary. This must have been the trouble-making kid Bret warned him about.

"And you're Kevin Stemson," Zachary said.

"The one and only."

"Sorry, Kevin," Zachary said, "but I'm only supposed to have customers in here." The truth was Madame Kloochie hadn't said any such thing, but he could already tell that the less he saw of this boy the better he would like it.

"Maybe I am a customer," the taller boy said, crossing to one of the front windowsills. He lifted a dusty vase and juggled it from one hand to the other. "Besides, who's going to make me leave?"

"You really need to go," Zachary said bristling at the comment. No wonder Bret hated him. "I mean it."

"Ooooh," Kevin said, wiggling his fingers, "the cripple boy is bossing me around."

With every passing moment, Kevin reminded Zachary more of Billy Timkin. That combined with the frustration of being stuck in a dusty junk shop when he should have been out helping his father sent Zachary's anger meter right to the top. He gripped the counter with both hands, which made his broken arm ache, and said, "I'm not kidding, Kevin. You have to go."

"Seen the little thief next door in a bikini?" Kevin asked, pushing on a large oak mirror that hung from one of the store posts. It rocked from side to side.

"Time's up," Zachary said. He had no idea who Kevin was talking about, and he had no desire to discuss girls with a jerk who went around calling them names.

"Don't you want to know about the criminals living next door?" Kevin asked.

"No," Zachary said.

"Sure you do," Kevin said. "Both her parents are in jail right now. And big thieves raise little thieves."

"Thanks for the news," Zachary said. "Now go home."

"You going to make me?" Kevin asked.

"Maybe."

"Sure, Cripple Boy." Kevin turned and marched toward the side of the store. Zachary followed and wondered if he was about to get into a fight on just his second full day in New Hampshire.

"Might's well see if she's outside before I quit this dump." Kevin stopped at a dirty window and stared out the side of the store. "I knew it. Nice bikini!"

Zachary leaned over Kevin's shoulder and peered outside. He couldn't see anyone.

"Ha, ha...made you look."

"Funny," Zachary said. "Now get out."

Just then the neighbor's door opened, and a girl about his age strode onto the porch. She wore jean shorts and a green tee shirt, and her blazing red hair hung in a long ponytail down to her waist. A large daisy sprouted from one side of her hair. The breath caught in Zachary's throat. He had no idea how it was possible, but he immediately recognized her as the pretty girl from the photo he'd left under his pillow, the one he had found in his father's office. But he had been wrong about one thing: she wasn't just pretty; she was beautiful!

Like an orange beach ball with legs, a little boy raced out of the house behind her. She smiled and chased him onto the back lawn where she grabbed his arms and whirled him around. Zachary was thinking about how much he'd like to see her smile at him like that when Kevin turned and marched back to the front of the store again.

"Time to blow this clambake," he said to Zachary, who followed close behind. The tall boy pushed the mirror so it rocked against the post again. Zachary stopped it.

"You've got some choices to make," Kevin said, pulling the front door open. Zachary didn't bother to ask what choices. He couldn't have cared less what the bully thought he should or shouldn't choose.

"You need to decide if you're with the winners or losers on this street," Kevin finished.

The door closed behind him. Before he even stepped off the sidewalk to cross the street, Zachary's choice was made.

After making sure the bully was gone, he snuck back to the side window where he could watch the girl next door play with the little boy who he assumed was her little brother. To say Zachary was attracted to her would have been an understatement. Already, the image of Stephanie Travis had faded to the recesses of his mind. All he could see now was long red hair that swept out beautifully as his neighbor chased after the little boy who must have been her brother. At the back of his mind, he couldn't help wondering what his father had been doing with her picture, but at the moment he was just thankful she was there. He continued to watch and smile for ten more minutes, until she and her little brother went back inside.

It wasn't long, however, until thoughts of her faded to be replaced by worry for his father. There he was, stuck in Madame Kloochie's junk pile of a store, while his father's life was in jeopardy. Why wouldn't his uncle let him help? he asked himself as he stared at the jumble of dust-covered surfaces from behind the front counter. The only other person who came into the shop that first day was a middle-aged man, who after a two-minute tour seemed to come to the same conclusion that Zachary had reached earlier that morning: everything was junk. He left without buying anything.

Come three o'clock, the stairs creaked and dust shook loose from the ceiling as Madame Kloochie stomped down the stairs and lumbered through to the front of the store.

"From now on, I'll take the three to five shift," she said, settling onto the stool behind the counter. Zachary couldn't take his eyes off from the rickety old stool that by all rights should have collapsed beneath her weight. It seemed happy enough to hold her, however, so he looked up to see her pulling all of the money out of the fancy cash register and stuffing it in her shirt pocket.

"Shouldn't you leave some for tomorrow?" he asked, more curious than concerned.

"Don't you worry about that," she said. "They'll be seventeen dollars and seventeen cents in the drawer when you get back here in the morning.

Though it was an odd number, it was the exact amount he had found in the drawer earlier. He shrugged. What was it to him anyway? If she wanted to take money out and put it back in for no reason, that was up to her.

"Can I go upstairs now?" Zachary asked.

"Might's well," she said. "You've got a living room to clean, anyway."

"Great," Zachary muttered as he made his way back through the store to the trash-filled hallway that led upstairs. Suddenly rebellious but not enough to completely quit working, he decided to clean the hallway instead of the living room. After retrieving a fresh box of trash bags, the broom and the dustpan, he started sweeping all the trash down the stairs and had already filled five bags by the time Bret rang the doorbell.

"S-S-Still at it, huh?" Bret said as Zachary kicked enough garbage out of the way to open the door.

"For the next ten years at this rate," Zachary said.

"I-I would have been here earlier," Bret said, "b-b-but my parents said I had a f-f-fever and made me stay inside. Th-They just wen t-t-to work."

"You didn't miss much," Zachary said. "I had to sit in the store all morning. What a bunch of crap."

"Could have told you that," Bret said, apparently having already seen Madame Kloochie's inventory.

He glanced around, nodded at the stairs which were already free of debris and offered to help. In a short time they had filled twelve more bags with mostly old newspapers and paper bags, but there were also quite a few smooshed donuts, many with maggots crawling all over them. The smell was terrible. By the time they finished and carried the first two bags out to the street, Bret's complexion had turned almost as green as Zachary's hair.

"You shouldn't make yourself sick," Zachary said.

"I-I'm okay," Bret insisted. He took several deep breaths of the afternoon air but then returned to the hallway to grab his next bag. It took them six trips in all with Zachary needing only one good hand to carry each bag but Bret straining with both hands to carrying his.

"I really appreciate all the help," Zachary said when Bret followed him up to Madame Kloochie's disgusting mess of living room, which was obviously going to take hours to clean, "but it's not your job."

Bret's sudden firm expression made him look a lot older.

"H-How many friends d-d-do you have on this street?" Bret asked.

"One," Zachary said truthfully.

"Me too," Bret said before kneeling down to begin gathering dirty clothes.

They worked steadily for the next few hours until they ran out of both bags and spray cleaner. Though the living room couldn't yet have been considered clean, you could at least see the floral carpet and that the large room had two only overstuffed chairs not three. The last mound in the corner turned out to be a stack of old women's shoes that had been covered with years of trash. Zachary held up several shoes of different colors and determined that either Madame Kloochie used to be much smaller or they belonged to someone else entirely. He knocked on her closed bedroom door, where she had disappeared shortly after closing her store.

"Yeah, what?" she barked.

_Come clean your own damned mess,_ Zachary wanted to say but, "What should we do with these shoes?" was what came out of his mouth.

"Toss them in the woods for the other girls," she said.

Zachary and Bret gave each other the _she's-crazier-than-we-thought_ look.

"Maybe we could throw them in the trash instead," Zachary suggested.

"I said TOSS THEM INTO THE WOODS!"

Knowing it would be useless to argue, they retrieved a large box that Zachary had found blocking the attic stairway and filled it with shoes. Once filled, however, neither boy could pick it up—Zachary because of his cast and Bret because he wasn't strong enough—so they instead carried the shoes, a few pair at a time, down the back stairs and out to the woods behind Madame Kloochie's house. Knowing it was insane, they threw dozens of colorful heels, pumps and sneakers into the thick woods. Soon, it became a game about who could make the most shoes stick up in the trees. By the time they were done, moonlight illuminated dainty shoes of every color peppering the upper branches of the forest.

"L-L-Looks like Chr-Christmas," Bret said.

Both boys were laughing as they returned to their respective homes.

For Zachary the good mood didn't last long. He collapsed into bed with a worry-filled mind. If Krage had already managed to kill off most of the Pill family, including Zachary's grandfather who had apparently been a powerful wizard in his own right, what chance did his father have? He tried to convince himself that Uncle Ned was right, that his father was one of the most powerful wizards alive, but Zachary's memories were filled with a weak man who never dared to stand up for himself. The barrage of doubts and fears made Zachary's head hurt. He tossed and turned for most of the night, and only dozed off when his body was too exhausted to stay awake any longer.

By the next morning, as Zachary—late—made his way downstairs with a sticky chocolate stain on the shoulder of his tee shirt, he felt as though he hadn't slept in a month. Fortunately, Bret arrived at the front door early to keep him awake. He didn't want to imagine what Madame Kloochie could do with donuts if she ever caught him sleeping on the job. Bret was dressed in a neatly ironed pair of dark dress slacks and his typical button-up shirt. Zachary wondered if he even owned a tee shirt. The blond boy brushed particles from the orange overstuffed chair beside the front counter before he sat down. Unfortunately, his weight sent a puff of dust into the air. For a minute it looked as though he was going to sneeze, but then he squeezed the tip of his nose and waved the dust away.

"If I can find a vacuum cleaner, I'll try to use it down here tomorrow," Zachary offered.

Bret shook his head. "I-I'm okay but you look l-l-like you didn't sleep."

Zachary blinked and rubbed his tired eyes.

"I kept thinking about my dad being in danger all night."

"Is he in the military?"

"Sort of." Zachary remembered what his uncle had said about his father taking on Krage's entire world. He tried to block out images of his father being taken prisoner and tortured.

No one came to shop at Madame Kloochie's hopeless junk shop that day, but neither of the two new friends noticed because they spent their day talking. Bret explained how he and Kevin Stemson had become enemies, which mostly amounted to Stemson being a constant jerk and doing things like throwing him into the river or tying him to his front porch until his parents got home from work and found him. Zachary revealed his own history of being teased, which included a long list of green hair nicknames like seaweed brain, spinach top, army cap, and of course Billy Timkin's most recent: snot hair. They also talked about the way Bret's parents, both doctors, were gone for long hours nearly every day, and how Bret usually spent a month or more in the hospital every year because of severe asthma, allergies, and several other maladies he could barely pronounce. Zachary shared the story of his mother's disappearance and how much he missed her. Though he never actually gave away the secrets of his family's magic or their dangerous enemy Krage, he was able to hint about those things without Bret digging for more answers. After a while, they both realized that no matter how different their lives had been, they had both lived through difficult challenges. Somehow, for Zachary at least, having someone to share those experiences with made him feel better.

They had moved on to less serious subjects and were discussing some of the New Hampshire teachers Zachary would be having when the stairs creaked with Madame Kloochie's descending weight. Glass rattled and dust fell like dandruff throughout the store as she trundled through the aisles and slid a box of donuts on the shelf under the register. Thumping a bottle of cherry cola down on the counter, she settled onto the stool. Having cooked up an afternoon plan, both boys were already standing by the front counter.

"How'd we do today?" she asked.

"No customers," Zachary said. He paused, trying to figure out the right wording to ask for a few hours of freedom. He cleared his throat, but couldn't think of exactly how to say it.

"You two going to block my view all afternoon?" she asked, her eyes narrowing.

"I was hoping Bret could come up to my room for a while," Zachary said.

Her eyes flitted from one boy to the other. "You still have laundry to do, and that kitchen's not clean."

"I can do it after," Zachary said.

"After what?" Madame Kloochie asked, suspicion oozing from her expression.

"T-To look at c-c-comics/To play videogames," they lied at the same time.

"W-We're going to check out s-s-some comics to see if th-the games have all the s-s-same characters," Bret said, impressing Zachary with such a quick cover story.

Madame Kloochie's thick, ring-laden pointer finger punched the register's cash key. The drawer shot open with a loud ring. Scrooge-like, she snapped up the bills and smelled them.

"Okay," she said, pointing at Bret. "But you're out at seven. Zachary has dishes, laundry, and a few rockets to clean upstairs."

Zachary groaned as he led his friend back through the store to the hallway.
18) Casket and Snakes

Zachary pulled his videogame system out of the closet and started hooking the wires to the ancient TV he and Bret had found under one of the piles of garbage in the living room. He and Bret had decided to leave a game on just in case Madame Kloochie checked on them later. Though Zachary didn't actually own any comic books, he found two gardening magazines and tossed them onto his bed. Chances were she'd never notice the difference. Bret leaned down to rub at a smudge on the toe of one black leather shoe.

"S-So what'd you want to sh-sh-show me?" he asked.

"I hope you have an open mind," Zachary said. He had decided that in order to help his father he needed to learn more about magic. He had also decided that Bret could be trusted to help. He brought out the box of his father's items and pulled out the green wand that had been sticking out of the slot at the top of the closed box. Just as it had the night before, the wand erupted into brilliant yellow symbols all along its length as soon as his fingers came in contact with its smooth surface. He held it out to Bret.

"Wh-What size batteries d-d-does it use?" Bret asked. He didn't make any effort to touch it.

"I doubt it uses any," Zachary said.

"S-So it's like a disposable fl-fl-flashlight?"

It had never occurred to Zachary that Bret wouldn't recognize the wand for what it was. But, come to think of it, he probably wouldn't have guessed it himself if he hadn't seen his father use a black one just like it.

"It's a magic wand."

"Can you pull a rabbit out of a hat?" Bret joked.

"So far all I can do is make it light up," Zachary admitted, "but I'm not kidding, it's a real magic wand. I saw my father use one." Zachary stared at his new friend. He hadn't realized how much he needed Bret to believe him.

Bret's expression grew serious.

"It-It's real?"

"I swear it is." Zachary pushed some plants out of the way, opened his window and pointed the wand toward Gerald's backyard. He shook it. Nothing happened.

"M-Maybe you need to say, 'A-A-Abracadabra,' or something?"

Zachary was relieved that Bret either believed him or was at least giving him the benefit of the doubt.

"You might be right," Zachary said. "My father made some chanting sounds when he used his black wand." He thrust the wand toward Gerald's yard. "Abracadabra!"

Still nothing.

"M-Maybe it can do s-s-something else?" Bret suggested.

Zachary shrugged. "The only thing I ever saw my dad do was laser some bats. Maybe I'm the problem. Want to try?" He held out the flaring yellow wand.

His friend backed away.

"Uncle Ned said I might not be able to use magic," Zachary confided. Frustrated, he threw the wand. It stopped glowing the second it left his hand and was dark green by the time it hit the cream-colored bedspread he and Brett had washed the day before.

"I already b-b-believe you," Bret said. There was no hint of sarcasm in his voice or on his face. "S-Some crazy stuff happens here at S-S-Station End. I used to think that I imagined it, but I don't th-th-think so anymore. And I don't th-think you're lying."

Zachary looked with appreciative eyes at his new friend. How many kids would have taken his word for something as outlandish as this? He glanced over at the wand. Though it, apparently, wasn't going to work, that didn't mean his uncle hadn't left him with other magical items. He dropped to his knees beside his father's box and pulled open all four flaps.

Zachary lifted the first thing on top: a brown leather box about the size of his hand that looked like it might contain a watch. He placed it on the floor and flipped the cover up...and found four identical rings. Large and heavy, each had a cut green stone in the center with tiny words imprinted around the edge.

"Cl-Class rings," Bret suggested, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Zachary squinted but couldn't make out the tiny words surrounding the stones.

"Can you read this?" He lifted one of the rings out and handed it to Bret.

"D-Doesn't look like English," Bret said, holding the ring up to his eye.

Zachary reached for one of the other rings, and the second his fingers touched the metal surface, a wave of dizziness washed over him. Suddenly, his mind was filled with strange memories of hospitals and doctors' offices. He remembered having to spend days, sometimes weeks in bed at a time. He remembered missing his parents, who seemed to be working all the time, and he remembered the humiliation and anger of getting picked on nearly every time he went outside his house. One particularly terrifying event happened when he was eight years old. All alone, as he often was, he had been sitting at the edge of the river fishing with one of his father's poles when someone grabbed him from behind. He kicked and fought back, but his attacker was a much stronger kid who easily yanked the fishing pole from his hands and then proceeded to pull off all of his clothes. Zachary remembered trying to get up and run several times, but each time he would get knocked right back down. The day ended with him naked and crying on the shoreline as all of his clothes floated downriver. The last thing he saw was Kevin Stemson's laughing face—no not Kevin exactly, it was a younger version of the bully, younger but with the same red cheeks and the same cruel smile.

How was this possible? Zachary hadn't known Kevin Stemson when he was younger, and he'd never been in any hospitals or doctors' office before his visit to Doctor Gefarg's Chicago clinic a few days before. Even as Zachary tried to unravel what was happening to him, more memories flooded his mind. Many more of them involved Kevin Stemson's cruelty, but even crueler was that most of his childhood memories took place alone. He remembered his parents being so intent on their medical careers that they were seldom home, and even when they were home they remained so absorbed with each other and stories of patients that Zachary might as well have been a piece of furniture in the room. Depression settled over Zachary like a heavy blanket. Lonely day followed lonely day, with him often being sick with the only bright spots in his life being a few kids he talked to at school and the one girl he talked to who lived across the street. Zachary's mind reeled because the girl in his memories was the same red-haired girl from the picture, the one who lived in the house next door—no, across the street! Before he could unravel his confusion, more images flooded his mind. He remembered talking with a younger version of the red-haired girl about their common enemy, Kevin Stemson, and he remembered seeing a half dozen police cars swarm their dead end street the day her mother was arrested. Zachary remembered feeling bad for the girl, now having lost both her parents to the prison system, but he also remembered not trusting her quite enough to be her friend.

Months of unhappiness and boredom passed as they always did until one night a soda truck rumbled down Station End and parked across the street in front of Madame Kloochie's store. A muscular driver got out of the truck and disappeared around to the other side. He heard metal doors roll open then under the streetlights saw a boy about his age appear at the rear of the truck. He was pointing angrily at the back of the truck. Soon, the big man got back into the delivery vehicle and drove off, leaving the new boy standing beside a heap of boxes and suitcases late at night. Though Zachary wasn't used to making friends, he remembered walking over to introduce himself to the late-night arrival with green hair and a space between his teeth—

Suddenly, Zachary understood. He was experiencing Bret's memories through Bret's eyes. He also realized something else: as difficult as things had been for him lately, his life had been wonderful in comparison to Bret's. Though both were gone at the moment, Zachary's parents had loved him and always made sure he knew it. For most of his childhood, Zachary had lived in a loving home where both his parents doted on him, loved him and made sure he always felt wanted. Maybe most important of all, one of them was always home. Until the last few days, Zachary couldn't remember ever being without one or the other of his parents.

As the wave of dizziness passed and Bret's memories were absorbed, Zachary's mind returned to the present. He was standing in his room, staring down at Bret who had never enjoyed the warmth of a loving family. He'd instead been forced to live his life mostly alone and always lonely. Though his parents provided a home, food and clothing, they had never given him the one thing that was even more important: love.

Bret gasped, dropped the magical ring to the carpeted floor, and fell sideways on the bed. Zachary had seen his asthma attacks several times before and realized his friend was struggling to breathe. Terrified, Zachary grabbed the inhaler from Bret's dress pants pocket and held it to his friend's mouth. He didn't realize he was holding his own breath until Bret drew in several strong breaths and took the medicine into his own hand. Confused, Zachary remembered having dozens of similar asthma attacks of his own, but they weren't his memories.

Bret sat up and stared at Zachary, his blue eyes wide.

"Your mother was beautiful," he said.

"It happened to you, too?" Zachary said.

Nodding, Bret pointed to the ring on the floor. "Must have been when we touched those."

"Magic memory rings," Zachary breathed.

"Friendship rings," Bret corrected.

Zachary stared at this sickly boy who he now knew probably better than he knew himself. If anyone deserved a friend, it was Bret. But more importantly, if anyone in the world could ever be trusted as a friend, it was him too. He smiled.

"Yeah, friendship rings."

"Your parents," Bret said, "loved you so much."

Zachary knew boys their age weren't supposed to talk about love, but there could be no secrets or embarrassments between them now. After all, they had shared the best and worst events of each other's lives. Already, Zachary found his brain organizing the memories into two sets, his and Bret's. They might as well have been brothers.

"I miss her," Zachary said.

Nodding, Bret said, "It's really weird but so do I."

Zachary paused and thought about that for a moment. Was it possible that by sharing his memories of a caring family, Bret had washed some of the unhappiness from his own life? He hoped so. Bret deserved that.

"Where's the wand?" Bret suddenly asked.

Zachary's eyes snapped to the bed. At first, he thought Bret might accidently have pushed it onto the floor when his asthma attack struck, but he had slumped the other way. There had to be another explanation. Making sure neither of them had unknowingly moved the wand while sharing memories, Zachary glanced down at the friendship ring in one hand and the ring box on the floor.

"One of the rings is missing, too!"

He picked up the box and held it out so that Bret could see there was now only one ring left in the case. There had definitely been four to begin with. Mentally, Zachary counted again. He had one in his hand, Bret had dropped one, which meant there should have been two in the box. What was going on?

"Zachary?"

"Yeah?"

"I thought we closed your door," Bret said. "Does it pop open on its own?" He pointed to the door that was now ajar by at least a couple of inches. Zachary's eyes slid from the open door to Bret. "Say something else."

"What?"

"Say a couple of sentences."

Bret stood up. "What are talking about? Am I missing something?"

"Yeah," Zachary said, "a stutter."

"What do you—" Bret paused in mid-sentence, and his face broke into an infectious smile. Zachary also had a grin smeared across his own face.

"My stutter," Bret said. "It's gone. I'm talking without a stutter? It the first time...EVER! But I don't understand...."

"Must have been the rings," Zachary said. "Maybe when we swapped memories, I got the st-st-stutter."

Bret's eyes flew wide in obvious horror.

"No, no," Zachary laughed. "I'm just kidding. I can talk fine...well, at least as well as I ever could. Whatever happened, I'm really glad for you." And he was.

"I feel like I should be practicing tongue twisters," Bret said. "How's this: 'Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.'"

"That's better than me," Zachary told him. "I'm not even sure I could say the whole thing without messing up. Sounds like you're cured." Zachary moved towards his door and peered out into Madame Kloochie's dining room. Bret was still grinning when he glanced back and put a finger to his lips.

"What?" Bret whispered.

Zachary put his finger to his lips again and pointed toward the dining room. Gently, he pushed the door open so that Bret could see, too. The entire room was peppered with donuts. There must have been three dozen jelly and frosting spots on just the two walls they could see from the doorway. As one, they crept out into the larger room and saw that both the living and dining room walls looked like they'd developed a case of the measles, and the floors looked like lunchtime in the cafeteria at Boston Junior High.

"Madame Kloochie!" Zachary called out.

"Why didn't we hear anything?" Bret whispered. "And when did she have time to do all this?" He checked his watch. "We weren't in your room for that long."

"If she was up here," Zachary said softly, "I bet she has the wand and the ring, but why?"

"Or how she did it so fast," Bret added.

It only took a couple of minutes to determine that she wasn't upstairs, so Zachary left Bret in his bedroom hurried down into the store. There he found Madame Kloochie sitting on her stool beside the open cash register drawer. Oddly, she had just counted out the money and slid it into her shirt pocket just as she had earlier. She must have spent all her time taking the money out and putting it back in.

"What happened upstairs?" Zachary asked her.

"Madame Kloochie, please," she said.

"Huh?"

"You should address your elders properly." She reached for a donut.

"Madame Kloochie, could you please tell me what happened upstairs?"

"Seems pretty obvious to me," she said.

"So you threw ALL those donuts? But why?"

"I had my reasons and now you have some cleaning to do."

"How'd you make such a big—" For reasons that included the filled powdered donut she held like a warning in one hand, he rephrased his question: "How did all that happen without Bret and me hearing it?"

Madame Kloochie grinned, her thick orange lips a horrific site. "You and your friend were a whole lot more fun when you were younger. Quicker, too."

"Could you at least tell me where the wand and the ring are?"

Having already taken a huge bite out of her donut, she mumbled, "Don't know."

Zachary gave up. If there was anything he'd learned since arriving at Station End, it was that Madame Kloochie seldom said anything of value. As she wiped her powdered sugar-covered lips on one thick forearm, he wondered if she even knew what a napkin was.

When he got back upstairs, Bret had already started cleaning the dining room mess. Though Zachary insisted several times that he could take care of it, Bret insisted on helping. So, they worked side by side which went pretty smoothly until they got to the living room. The couch and chairs made it difficult to reach the walls, pieces of smashed and crumbled donuts were all over the end tables, the seats, and even under much of the furniture. But when they started pulling the furniture out, something they hadn't had a chance to do when they cleaned the first time, they discovered the worst of it. There were half a dozen partially eaten, rotten donuts on the carpet, and worst of all three bowls that seemed to hold science experiments. With one hand covering his nose, Bret held one of the bowls out like hazardous waste.

Zachary reached over the couch to take it and gagged. The smell was horrendous! He could see cereal O's covered in blue hair-like mold with milk that had transformed into hard cracked lumps. Bret was obviously having all he could do to keep from vomiting, so Zachary hurriedly shoved the entire bowl—contents, spoon, and all—into the trash bag beside him. He did the same with the other two bowls they found under the chair beside the couch. Not waiting until the bag was full, Zachary dragged it out onto the back porch. If Madame Kloochie could lose all three bowls and spoons long enough to grow clumps, she obviously wouldn't miss them in the trash.

From the look on Bret's face, they got rid of the stink just in time.

It took them another half hour to clean the rest of the mess, at least as clean as they could make it, then they returned to Zachary's room. The three friendship rings still sat on the bureau in the open leather box where Zachary had left them. They hadn't seen any sign of the wand or the last ring.

"Zachary." Bret pointed outside.

Thinking Gerald was in trouble again, Zachary shot his gaze toward the window. Taking a couple of steps closer, and not seeing the old man next door anywhere, he shook his head.

"On the windowsill."

Zachary's gaze dropped, and in disbelief he stared at the green magic wand sitting on the sill—outside the screen. How had it gotten out there? Where was the missing ring? And, more importantly, who had taken them in the first place?

Zachary returned the wand and the small box of rings to his father's box and was getting ready to close the flaps when a tiny coffin barely large enough for a chipmunk or a small bird caught his eye. A woman with wild hair adorned its lid. Glancing uncertainly at Bret, who swallowed but didn't otherwise move, Zachary picked up the coffin and slowly lifted the tiny lid. A huge column of thick smoke immediately billowed from the box, but rather than filling Zachary's bedroom, the blackness swirled violently towards the floor and formed a charcoal black table and chair. Next, a pair of large green butterflies shot up out of the coffin—

No, not butterflies! Hands! Two putrid green hands!

Zachary plugged his nose and stumbled backwards, dropping the coffin. One of the severed green hands having grown to full size, swooped and caught the miniature casket, which it then placed gently on the midnight black table. More smoke, this time grayish white, spewed upward like volcanic ash and soon a 3-dimensional woman's head appeared in the fog-like cloud. By this time, Bret had slipped toward the door and was ready to turn the knob and bolt at any moment. Zachary stood next to his ficus tree and tried to imagine why his father had such an eerie item. Though fog swirled around it, he couldn't take his eyes off from the woman's hair, which wasn't really hair at all, and was instead several dozen writhing snakes. The way their tiny tongues darted in and out of their fanged mouths gave Zachary the willies.

"You have five thousand, four hundred, and thirty two messages," the woman said, her eyes were focused not on Zachary or Bret, but instead on a lower spot.

"Messages for me?" Zachary asked.

She continued to stare down at the black chair.

"M-Maybe you need t-t-to sit," Bret said.

Zachary noted that his friend's stutter had returned as he tried to ignore the prickles of fear coursing up and down his back. He took a deep breath and settled into the black chair. The creepy green hands floated down to hover over the dark table in front of him. Why did they have to smell so bad, worse even than moldy cereal?

"You have five thousand, four hundred, and thirty two messages," the woman repeated, only now she was focused on Zachary. With her dark eyes and perfectly smooth olive skin, she would probably have been considered beautiful if not for the writhing creatures that covered her head.

"They must be for my dad," Zachary said, trying to ignore the ghastly green hands that seemed to be typing on an invisible keyboard in front of him. Black liquid oozed from the severed wrists and what looked to be bones protruded through the ooze. Unfortunately, they also smelled like the leftovers from a rotting corpse, which they obviously were. He fought the urge to gag.

The sentence "They must be for my dad." appeared below the snake woman's head. The dead hands were typing what he said!

"All five thousand, four hundred, and thirty-two—make that thirty-three—messages are for you," she said. Her words also appeared in typed form below her head.

"You know who I am?" Zachary asked. He tried to push his chair further back from the disgusting sight and smell of the severed hands, but it wouldn't budge.

"You are young Zachary Roger Pill," the woman said.

"How do you know that?" Zachary asked.

"I am Medusa of the Gorgans, and as a representative of the U-ghoul system I know many things. Would you now like to review your messages?"

"Are any of them from my dad?" he asked.

Medusa's eyes turned white for just a fraction of a second. "There are no messages from Roger Penbolt Pill."

"Are any from my Uncle Ned?"

Again her eyes went white momentarily. "There are no messages from Francis Neddleson Pill, either. Shall we continue guessing endlessly," she asked, "or would you prefer to know from whom the messages originate?"

Zachary glanced over at Bret, who was pressed like a poster against the door. His friend's eyes were glued to the snakes that writhed and weaved like dancers atop Medusa's head. Zachary looked back to see the woman's piercing black eyes.

"Who, uh, whom are the messages from?" he asked.

"'Who' would the correct locution," Medusa said. "One message is from the U-Ghoul system, welcoming you to our service. The other five thousand, four hundred, and thirty-seven messages are from His Lordship Ker Sevikrage of Pandemone."

"Krage," Zachary muttered. "But how did he find me?"

"You would be wise to use his full title when addressing him directly," Medusa said. "However, to answer your question―"

Zachary heard a loud wheezing sound and turned to see Bret inhaling heavily from his asthma puffer. "You okay?"

Bret nodded but kept the puffer pressed to his lips.

Medusa cleared her throat and continued, "His Lordship Ker Sevikrage found your address by doing a simple search of the U-Ghoul system, one of the most complete data systems available to wizards, gnomes, trolls and all other supernatural and corridor realm beings." She sounded suspiciously like an advertisement, which made Zachary wonder something.

"Are you a real person?"

"Of course," Medusa said. "I am half-mortal and as real as you are."

Zachary nodded as though he knew what half-mortal meant. Obviously she wasn't a machine, though. "Can you erase my messages?" he asked.

"Certainly," she said, "though that would alert His Lordship Ker Sevikrage that you had done so."

"N-No!" Bret advised from his ready-to-run position at the door.

"I guess I'll leave the messages," Zachary said. "But if I use the—what'd you call it?"

"U-Ghoul system," she said.

"But if I use your system again, can you separate his messages from anything I get from my father or uncle?" Zachary still couldn't get over how the ghoulish green hands typed every word he said. How could they even hear him without ears?

"Theoretically, the messages are already separated," Medusa said, "but you can, of course, ask for all messages other than those from His Lordship Ker Sevikrage at any time."

Zachary gestured toward the smoke desk apparatus and asked, "How do I turn you―I mean the system―off?"

"Roger Penbolt Pill never taught you any of this?" Medusa asked.

"You knew my father?"

"I know everyone in the supernatural and corridor realms, Zachary Roger Pill. That's my job. If your father never taught you how the U-Ghoul system works, then you probably don't realize that anything we talk about or anything that I observe during our conversations goes directly into the U-Ghoul database."

"Is that important?" Zachary asked.

"Under the current circumstances," Medusa said, "as soon as our communication ends, His Lordship Ker Sevikrage will be able to search the U-Ghoul system and find out where you are, which I assume from your earlier comments is intended to be a secret."

If Krage finds out, I'm dead!

Zachary envisioned bats raging through Madame Kloochie's house.

"But I haven't told you where I am," Zachary countered.

Medusa's eyebrows rose. "I can see out your window that the sky is clear and the trees beyond that first rooftop are a mixture of small-leaf maple and oak. I can also see evergreen and birch to a lesser degree. That would mean you are somewhere in the Northeast United States. Furthermore, I can see protection spells crisscrossing your windows. Since they are of fae origin, I can only deduce that you are currently residing in Madame Kloochie's home."

Zachary understood little of what she said, but the important thing was that as soon the conversation was over, Krage would know where to find him!

I never should have touched Dad's stuff!

"Wh-What if Zachary l-l-leaves your system on?" Bret asked.

Zachary waited for Medusa to answer. When she didn't, he finally asked, "Aren't you going to answer him?"

"The U-Ghoul system has strict rules against interaction with humans," Medusa said. "You are taking a large risk with the magistrates by merely allowing him to be in the same room as my system."

"I don't know what the magistrates are," Zachary said, though his uncle had mentioned something about them during one of their phone conversations, "but I do know Krage has it in for me and my family. Would you keep my secret if I never turned your system off?"

Medusa shook her head, and at least half a dozen of the snake heads mimicked her action. "Whether or not your viewer station is on, all information from our conversations is drained automatically into the U-Ghoul data core. Within just a few minutes that information will be available to him."

"So that's it," Zachary said. "I have no way to keep Krage from finding me?"

"There is an option available to you," Medusa said. "If you had asked me earlier, I would already have given you the solution."

"Solution?"

"You can purchase our U-Ghoul Deluxe Privacy Package to go with your service," she said.

"Privacy Package?"

"With the purchase of our never-share Deluxe Privacy Package, you get one hundred percent drainage separation of any learned information regarding your interactions with the system."

"So you would promise to not add information about me into your databas—data core?" Zachary said.

Medusa and many of her snakes shook their heads. "Actually, we would continue to drain your information, but it would be inaccessible to anyone other than you."

For just a moment, Zachary was relieved but then remembered something.

"I don't have any money."

Medusa shook her head and pouted her lips, reminding Zachary how pretty she would have been without all those snakes on her head. "The U-Ghoul system has no use for money, at least not the kind of which you are thinking."

"Then what?" Zachary asked. "How do I pay for the Privacy Package?"

Medusa's mouth drew tight. "The U-Ghoul system has a way of collecting its dues. One day a request will be made, and you will have no choice but to grant it."

"What if I don't like the request when it comes?"

"That would be unfortunate," Medusa said. "But I will need to ask for your commitment to the U-Ghoul Deluxe Privacy Package soon. At any moment, His Lordship Ker Sevikrage could access our data core and determine your location."

Panicked, Zachary looked to Bret who nodded. What choice did he have?

"Okay, I'll take it," Zachary said. "I'll take the Deluxe Privacy Package."

After they had concluded their business, Medusa explained that shutting the system down was as simple as tapping on the coffin. Since he had no intention of rubbing against the putrid zombie flesh, Zachary got up and moved around to the other side of the table to do it. As he touched the lid, Medusa and the furniture disappeared in a roiling cloud of black smoke that swirled like a tornado before getting sucked back into the little casket. The floating green hands deposited the tiny coffin softly to the carpet floor before shriveling back to miniature size and fluttering inside. Before Zachary could close it, tiny green fingers pulled the lid shut.

Bret still had the asthma puffer pressed to his lips. The sight of his friend's white knuckles and horrified expression shamed Zachary. His friend had lived a difficult life and he was making things worse.

"I think we've seen enough," Zachary said.

Not surprisingly, Bret nodded his agreement.
19) Hospitals and Blood

By the time Zachary finished washing the dishes, it was already dark outside. Bret had left several hours before which, for better or worse, had given him a lot of time to think. Apprehension about his dad had been wearing on him, but he also bore the burden of having exposed Bret to magic and the danger that Krage represented. The look of sheer terror on Bret's face when Medusa appeared was something Zachary never wanted to see again.

"Good night," he said to Madame Kloochie, who was in her usual spot, sprawled across the couch with the living room TV blaring. She grunted as he passed through the dining room to his bedroom.

Zachary kicked off his sneakers, flipped the light off and collapsed onto his bed. The moonlight through his plants cast forest-like shadows on the ceiling over his bed. He watched the leaf shadows sway with the evening breeze as he tried to unravel the mess his life had become. Not only was Krage out to get his entire family—

Only three of us are left!

—but the evil wizard king seemed to be zeroing in on Zachary's location. On the one hand, he felt he needed to learn about magic as fast as he could in order to help his dad and defend himself. But on the other, he didn't want to drag Bret any further into danger.

Friends protect friends.

After coming to the conclusion that Bret could no longer be exposed to the items in his father's box, he allowed his eyes to close and his mind to drift off to sleep. He tossed and turned all night with visions of robotic parents who shared their home but not their time or their love.

The next morning, Zachary woke to the wailing sound of a siren not far from his bedroom window. Feeling certain that Gerald had fallen off the roof for real this time, he jumped out of bed and ducked his head outside. He was instantly relieved to see Gerald standing on the newly built catwalk on his roof, but he was watching something across the street. Zachary's eyes slid sideways and his breath caught. There was an ambulance parked in front of Bret's house. Not waiting to pull on a shirt or shoes, Zachary rushed out through the apartment and raced down the back stairs. Ignoring the pain of sharp rocks along the edge of Madame Kloochie's driveway, he bolted across the street and only stopped at the bottom of the stairs because two emergency medics were rolling a stretcher out of Bret's house. He recognized his friend's shiny dress shoes sticking out from under the sheet that covered everything but his feet and his face.

Terrified, Zachary asked, "Is he going to be okay?"

By that time, Bret's parents had followed the stretcher outside and down the stairs. Zachary had only seen them from a distance once or twice, but up close they were stunning, both dressed in immaculate dark clothes, a suit and tie for his father, dress slacks and a jacket for his mother. But what struck Zachary most was how tall and graceful they were, absolute pictures of health. So why, then, did they have such a sickly child?

Bret turned his head toward Zachary. He was trying to say something but the oxygen mask over his face muffled the words.

"I can't hear you."

Bret shook frantically from side to side, apparently strapped to the stretcher.

"You must be Zachary," someone said, suddenly blocking the view of his struggling friend. A full foot taller than Zachary, Bret's father reached out a strong hand, which Zachary shook.

"Bret has really livened up since you moved in."

"What happened? Is he alright?"

Bret's father frowned.

"He might be...if you leave him alone!"

Zachary felt as though someone had just kicked him in the stomach. He couldn't find the words to respond.

"I'm sure you're a nice enough boy, Zachary. But my son, our son—" Bret's mother was suddenly standing beside her husband with a similar stern expression. "—can't be involved in any kind of excitement."

I'm so sorry, Bret!

"He can't be running and playing like other kids," Bret's mother said. "He's not strong enough for that."

"We didn't run at all," Zachary said, but he knew he'd exposed Bret to something worse, much worse.

"My son is on his way to the hospital," Bret's mother said, "so I think you've done enough."

Zachary wanted to defend himself, to say he would never do anything to hurt Bret. But, at the same time, guilt forced him to recognize she might be right. The experience with Medusa the night before had obviously shaken Bret to the core.

"This ends now," Bret's father said calmly. He reached out and clutched Zachary's arm in a vice-like grip that caused Zachary to wince. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Zachary bit on his lower lip and nodded.

You're saying I have to abandon my friend.

"When my son gets home, he'll be grounded. There won't be any more jaunts across the street. Nor will there be visitors to our side of the street."

"Can I at least call him?"

"No, I don't think that would be wise," Bret's father said. Then he turned and walked toward his white Volvo, one of two identical cars in their driveway. The siren wailed as the ambulance pulled a U-turn in the middle of Station End and drove up the hill and away from the dead end street. The two white Volvos followed, leaving Zachary standing alone on the sidewalk.

As he headed back across the street, Zachary's feelings of guilt quickly morphed into anger, not just at himself but at Bret's parents. Yes, it was true the sight of Medusa had been too much for his friend, but what had made his constitution so weak? If he hadn't lived such a sterile, unhappy life, maybe he wouldn't have been so frail. If he had parents who actually loved him, maybe he would have been stronger.

Stop it!

No matter how terrible they had been as parents, Zachary knew they were right. He, alone, was responsible for whatever had happened to Bret. If he hadn't exposed his friend to magic, Bret wouldn't have gotten scared or sick.

"Those two won't be happy until they kill that boy," Gerald said

Zachary stopped in Madame Kloochie's driveway and looked up.

"It was my fault."

"Pshaw! You're the best thing that's happened to that boy since he discovered shoe polish."

Zachary might have smiled if he hadn't remembered Bret's shoes sticking out from under the stretcher sheet. One thing was for certain: Bret was on his way to the hospital and Zachary was the reason why. No, he couldn't think of a thing to smile about.

It had been two days since Bret had been hustled away in an ambulance, and for Zachary they had been two of the most difficult days of his life. He had already been worried about his father and his uncle, and now he also feared that his friend might die. And what turned his stomach most was that all three people had him to blame: if he hadn't gotten into that stupid fight with Billy, his father wouldn't have taken him to Doctor Gefarg's clinic, Krage wouldn't have found them, and his father and uncle wouldn't have run off to Pandemone. Then, apparently not satisfied to have put two people in danger, Zachary had exposed Bret to Medusa and the zombie hands.

Maybe I should just contact Krage and end all this!

With an attitude as dark as the U-Ghoul furniture, Zachary took a cold shower in hopes of shocking himself into a better mood. It, of course, didn't work. Knowing that Madame Kloochie would have a conniption fit if he didn't open the store on time, he grabbed the tiny U-Ghoul casket out of the closet and hurried to the front door. Hurrying made no difference, though, because two gooey donuts still came straight for his head. Ducking both, he realized that sometimes Madame Kloochie threw just them because she felt like it. He almost wished the second one had hit him when it instead slammed into the TV and dripped jelly down onto the knobs. He had learned from experience that those knobs were a pain to clean. Madame Kloochie already had a third rocket cocked and ready to fly, but Zachary slipped into the hallway and down the stairs before she could let it loose. He was thankful _not_ to hear a thump against the wall. One less donut he'd have to clean later.

Zachary went through the side door and made his way to the front of the junk furniture store that he had come to view as a prison with dirty windows rather than bars. Why Madame Kloochie bothered, he didn't know. To his knowledge there hadn't been a single sale since he had arrived. Why she couldn't see that no one wanted to buy dusty, broken junk, he didn't know. Suddenly, Zachary wondered how Madame Kloochie managed to pay her bills and keep Stanley delivering endless amounts of donuts, milk, and cleaning supplies. He was beginning to suspect she was rich, or at least well off.

As he unlocked the four locks on the front door, he realized that other than the U-Ghoul unit he had forgotten to bring any of his father's items to study. Though he hadn't made much progress—if you could call stretching the magic wand out like a walking stick and causing a miniature whirlwind with a spray bottle labeled "Googin's Mind" progress—he knew it was important to keep trying.

Since returning upstairs was not an option, Zachary decided to clean the store as best he could. Though Bret might never be able to visit again, it would at least keep his mind off from the fear and worry that seemed to follow him around like a bad habit. He started with an old broom and cleared the cobwebs from the ceiling and corners of the walls. Next, he found a torn tablecloth and ripped it into pieces that could be used for dusting. He then wiped dirt and dust from everything he could reach for over an hour, but depressing thoughts continued to swirl through his head. Though he knew it was pointless, he couldn't help blaming himself for Bret's condition.

What if he dies!

Just then, Zachary heard a car coming down the street. He dropped his cloth on the broken bookshelf he'd been dusting and rushed to the front of the store where he could look out the grimy windows. He was ecstatic to see one of the white Volvos pulling into Bret's driveway. Soon, three people were walking up the stairs to Bret's house.

Bret was one of them!

He seemed to be fine and was well ahead of both his parents. Zachary hoped he'd turn and wave, but all three went straight into the house and closed the front door. Feeling more enthusiasm than he had since the morning of the ambulance, Zachary hurriedly finished dusting the shelf then went to the front desk and retrieved his father's U-Ghoul unit. After carrying it to the back of the store, he opened the casket lid. It only took a few seconds for the smoke fashioned desk set and Medusa to appear. He slipped into the seat.

"Good morning, Zachary Roger Pill," Medusa said. "You have eight thousand, three hundred, and twenty-two messages from His Lordship Ker Sevikrage, but I see no messages from anyone else."

"Popular guy, aren't I?"

Medusa never seemed to smile but her eyes did crinkle with amusement. "Not many people receive over a thousand messages a day."

"Doesn't count if they're all from the same person," Zachary countered.

"If you say so, Zachary Roger Pill."

"Couldn't you just call me Zachary?"

"No," Medusa said matter-of-factly, but he wasn't going to let that ruin his mood because Bret was okay.

After thanking her for checking, he shut the system down and returned to the front of the store where he slid the tiny casket back on the shelf under the counter. Again he wished he had brought at least one of the other items from his father's box. One day soon, he might be forced to defend himself against Krage, and without magic he was as good as dead.

Settling onto the stool beside the cash register, Zachary hoped to see Bret's parents head off to work. Whether they liked it or not, he intended to call his friend and make sure he was alright. Friends could talk without doing more dangerous things. Unfortunately, the entire morning passed without the Volvo moving.

Zachary was dusting a chair made from an old wooden barrel when an elderly woman came in that afternoon. After browsing for over an hour, she offered to pay fifteen dollars for three old table legs. He felt bad that there was no fourth leg and offered to sell them for six dollars instead. Thrilled, the woman handed him a ten dollar bill.

He had just made his first sale. Oddly, it was kind of fun.

As Madame Kloochie had instructed, Zachary placed the bill on the register above the drawer while making change. He handed the gray-haired woman her four dollars change, closed the drawer and carried the table legs out to an old but neatly kept car. After the woman opened the trunk and he deposited the legs gently inside, Zachary returned to the store and discovered the forgotten ten dollar bill on the register. That's when something really bizarre happened: he opened the drawer and found exactly seventeen dollars and seventeen cents.

That's impossible!

He had counted exactly seventeen dollars and seventeen cents in the drawer that morning, so after giving the old woman four dollars there should have only been thirteen dollars and seventeen cents left.

Zachary glanced around the store. Could Madame Kloochie have come down and replaced the money he had given to the customer? Even as he thought it, Zachary doubted it. First of all, Madame Kloochie wasn't known for moving quickly (not including the still unexplained hundred-thrown-donuts event a few days before) and if she had put money in the drawer, why wouldn't she have taken care of the ten dollar bill on top of the register. It just didn't make sense!

Confused, Zachary slid the ten dollars into the drawer and closed it. A few minutes later, he opened the drawer and recounted the cash. That's when something impossible happened a second time: there was still just seventeen dollars and seventeen cents in the drawer! Zachary grabbed all the money this time, then closed and reopened the drawer. Once again, he found exactly seventeen dollars and seventeen cents in the register!

He stared at the money on the counter and at the exact same amount in the cash register. He emptied it again and again, and the same thing kept happening. Soon he had over two hundred dollars sitting beside the register. He then tried adding extra money to the drawer several times, but no matter what he did there was always seventeen dollars and seventeen cents left in the drawer when he opened it.

Madame Kloochie's cash register was magic!

Zachary wished he had somebody to share his discovery with, but he had sworn to protect Bret from magic (though the cash register's magic seemed harmless enough) and Madame Kloochie had obviously known about her cash register long before then. At least he now understood where all her money came from.

When she showed up at three o'clock that afternoon, she asked, "How were sales today?"

Zachary told her about the three chair legs, which really seemed to please her. He didn't bother to tell her what the woman had paid, and she didn't ask. As he went upstairs, he formed a plan to offer lots of discounts in the future, at least until there was enough room to walk comfortably between the aisles of junk. And that moldy couch in the far corner, that was definitely going to be a gift to the next person who would take it. In Zachary's mind, the store already smelled better, and what difference would prices make to Madame Kloochie? She had free money whenever she wanted it.

He had been upstairs for less than an hour when the doorbell rang. He went downstairs and found Bret dressed in typical dress slacks and a button-up shirt. His black shoes were shiny as ever.

"You okay?" Zachary asked.

Bret gave a half-hearted smile and shrugged. "The doctors at the hospital said I don't exercise enough."

Zachary noted with pleasure that Bret's stutter was still gone.

"That's it," he said. "That's all they figured out after two days?"

"And I apparently don't like hospital food," Bret added.

Zachary wanted to give his friend a hug, but there were some lines that a guy just couldn't cross.

"So where are your parents?"

"They just left, working back to back late shifts, of course."

"At least you got to see them while you were in the hospital," Zachary said, leading the way upstairs and into his room. He had already determined his closet door would remain closed.

"Not really," Bret said. "My father works in the maternity wing, and my mother had too many emergency patients in the last couple of days to come up to my room."

Once again, Zachary found himself thankful for his own parents. Though they weren't with him now, he knew they loved him—wherever they were. Before he could turn the brief thought of his parents into the usual self-pity party, he asked Bret something that had been driving him crazy ever since the medics had taken him away.

"What were you trying to tell me that day on the stretcher?"

"I wanted you to ignore my parents," Bret said. "I knew they'd try to blame you." He wiped at his eyes, and Zachary looked away rather than embarrassing his friend. "They can't tell me who my friends are."

"I don't want to make trouble—" Zachary started to say.

"What about the rest of your dad's stuff?" Bret asked, obviously trying to change the subject. "Did you try anything else?"

Zachary didn't know what to say. He was really glad to be hanging out with his friend, but he'd promised himself he wouldn't put Bret in danger again, and he meant it. The silence became uncomfortable.

"I heard what my father told you," Bret said, "and he was wrong. I didn't get sick from anything we did. It was because of a fight I had with him and my mother."

"But―"

"Zachary, if it weren't for that night I'd still be stuttering, and I wouldn't have realized how screwed up my family is. So, tell me what else you've found out."

Talking about it didn't mean Zachary had to get Bret involved, so reluctantly he said, "Okay, I figured out how to make the wand stretch out this long." He held his hands as far apart as possible. "I also fund a spray bottled that makes a miniature whirlwind for a few seconds at a time. It would be great at the beach. Oh, yeah, and Krage is leaving me over a thousand messages a day. How could anyone even have the time to do that?"

"So you haven't learned any more about your father's magic?"

Zachary shook his head then remembered and told his friend about the antique cash register's magic.

"Don't let Robin find out," Bret said. "She'd steal it."

"I thought that was just a story that Kevin made up, her being a thief and everything."

Bret shook his head.

"Did we get all of each other's memories?"

Zachary shrugged. "A lot of them, I think."

"See if you can remember Robin breaking into my dad's shed."

Zachary concentrated on Robin's beautiful red hair and smile. He remembered having a lot of brief conversations with her and remembered walking to Pork 'ies with her and her brother recently but nothing about a shed came to mind.

"Can't remember her breaking into anything," Zachary said, which suited him just fine.

"Try picturing her with short hair and glasses," Bret suggested. "She also used to have braces."

Zachary found it difficult but imagined the changes and was rewarded with several dozen memories of a younger Robin. The most surprising thing about them was that Bret had obviously never found her to be attractive. Zachary shuffled through the memories and was soon rewarded with the memory of catching Robin breaking into his father's shed one night. She claimed it was open and she just wanted to borrow a rake, but he/Bret told her it was never open and he knew she had picked the lock. He also said he knew that Madame Kloochie had caught her stealing from the store.

Rather than searching the jumble of Bret's memories, Zachary asked, "What'd Madame Kloochie do?"

"You did get those memories, too." Bret grinned. "From an upstairs window, Madame Kloochie threw donuts at Robin's house for several weeks. Robin's mother never called the police—for obvious reasons."

Like they're all thieves.

"Finally after two weeks of cleaning jelly and frosting off their porch several times a day, Robin's mother made her return whatever she took. She also made Robin promise Madame Kloochie that she'd never do it again...and I don't think she ever did."

Zachary remembered seeing Robin with his own eyes. She looked so beautiful with the daisy in her long bright red hair, and he found himself hoping to meet her soon. Bret was staring at him, and he felt his cheeks begin to burn. He glanced away.

"Want to look at more of your father's stuff?" Bret asked.

"Probably safer if we don't." Zachary said. He wasn't about to send Bret to the hospital again.

"You're going to have to, sooner or later," Bret said, "and the way that Krage guy is leaving messages, it should be sooner."

"I'm not putting you in danger again!" Zachary blurted. He hadn't meant to say it out loud, but he'd been thinking it constantly since the ambulance had driven off with Bret.

"I told you that didn't have anything to do with you. I got into a fight with my parents. I hate them."

"But they're your parents," Zachary said, though he knew from Bret's memories he had good reasons to feel the way he did.

"Not very good ones," Bret countered. "You're the one who had real parents. And I'm pretty sure your dad would want you to be able to defend yourself if Krage attacks."

"But you got so scared—"

"I know," Bret said, "but I'm not letting you do this alone. And I know from your memories that you feel like something bad's going to happen if you don't learn more about magic soon. Besides, how can we help your dad without magic?"

Zachary was torn with indecision. Obviously, it would be safer to have Bret's help to investigate his father's items, and it was true he would be a sitting duck if Krage found him right then. However, neither of those reasons would allow him to trade Bret's safety for his own.

"I'll keep studying, but not with you—"

"I'm helping," Bret said, "whether you like it or not!" He turned, opened Zachary's closet and pulled his father's box into the middle of the room. "Now are you going to pull the stuff out, or am I?"

Bret's hands were shaking.

"I'll do it," Zachary said.

Settling to his knees on the floor, Zachary handed his friend the tiny U-Ghoul casket, the brown leather ring case—minus one ring, the green wand, and the "Googin's Mind" spray bottle. Bret lined the _already investigated_ items up on the bed.

The next item in the box was a polka-dotted cloth bag with a draw-string at the top. Zachary lifted the sack and felt the heavy contents shift. He pulled the drawstring open, revealing hundreds of colorful marbles inside. Lifting a translucent red one out, he could see a dark figure in the center. Zachary peered closer and saw a tiny face pressed against the glass. Its hands started waving.

Startled, he dropped it.

"There's someone in there!"

"N-No way!" Bret reached a trembling hand to pick the marble up from the carpet.

Zachary pulled a blue one from the bag and, once again, saw someone or something inside. Though more or less person-shaped, the tiny occupant didn't seem to have a nose, mouth, eyes, or hair, and its cream-colored body was indistinctly formed like a clay sculpture he might have made in first grade. But first grade art projects didn't move on their own. The other marbles all seemed to have similar occupants, all waving excitedly, and some even jumping up and down.

"They're like tiny prisoners," Bret said.

"Kind of like blob people," Zachary added.

Pleased to see that Bret hadn't yet started trembling, Zachary gently returned the marbles to the bag, pulled the drawstring tight and handed it to Bret to be arranged on the bed.

Curious, Zachary next grabbed a carry tray with half a dozen matching bottles, all with corks. Zachary lifted one out. Its label read: "Snuffington's Sneezing Powder."

He slid it back down and read the next one: "Snuffington's Itching Powder."

Two others were for "Sleeping" and "Coughing." As he read the last label aloud, it struck both Zachary and Bret as particularly unusual: "Mrs. Snuffington's patented Make Him Fix the House Powder."

"Grrrr."

"D'you hear something?" Zachary asked, handing Bret the entire bottle carrier.

Bret shook his head, but his eyes were wide as he placed the bottles on the bed.

Thinking maybe it was a magic instruction book, Zachary gingerly pulled out a black, leather bound notebook stuffed so full of pages it looked ready to explode. He barely touched the single taught leather strap which held it together when picture-filled pages burst like party confetti into the air. Growls, snarls and roars filled the room as Zachary grabbed for the nearest fluttering page. Before his fingers could snatch the paper a golden-red dragon picture came alive and lunged out at him. He wrenched his hand back, but not in time. Tiny fangs tore a gash across his pinky!

THE END

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**Preview of**

### ZACHARY PILL

### With Dragon Fear

### Tim Greaton

### 1) Venomous Consequences

Zachary watched the page slip to the floor where the vicious golden-red dragon image faded, leaving nothing but a blank sheet. He wanted to warn Bret not to touch any of the pictures but his mouth wouldn't work. He felt as though a pump was forcing air through his ears, and the growing pressure inside his skull made him dizzy. His arms felt heavy and wouldn't respond.

Distantly, he heard Bret say, "Ar-Are you okay?"

Within moments, the pressure in Zachary's skull had grown into a full-fledged headache. He wanted to ask for help, but couldn't move. Helpless, he could only watch as Bret stared back at him.

"Z-Zach. Zach?"

Zachary couldn't answer, couldn't even blink. His forehead throbbed and the tops of his shoulders began to burn. He tried again to speak but his jaw was locked in place. Had he turned to stone?

"Wh-What's wrong?" Bret asked. "C-Can't you t-t-talk?"

Unable to respond in any other way, Zachary shifted his eyes downward toward his pinky. Bret's blue eyes followed his gaze and grew larger at the bite marks that they saw.

"It-It bit you!" Bret exclaimed. "I-I'll get Madame Kloochie!"

By that time, Zachary's burning shoulders had begun to itch as though being assailed by a thousand biting mosquitoes. Between that and his pounding head, he didn't think he could stand much more. Bret had already gone. Rustling and banging noises from the direction of the dining room mingled with the animal sounds on the floor all around him. How was it possible for pictures to be alive? If only his father had taught him more about magic.

He heard cabinets and drawers opening, closing and banging sounds. Madame Kloochie must have been searching for something. Moments after the noise stopped, the big woman stomped into his room, strode past him and shoved him from behind, nearly tipping his rigid body over.

"Don't be so clumsy," she said, grabbing his arm in her strong grip.

Strangely, Zachary felt better, much better. Both the headache and the itching had disappeared.

"A dragon picture bit me!" Zachary said, now that his mouth would work again.

Madame Kloochie roughly lifted his hand and squinted at his pinky.

"It's just a paper cut," she said.

"I never heard of paper coming alive to do the job," Zachary countered. He shook his arms and bent down to rub his legs. Everything seemed to be working. Madame Kloochie's eyes swept across the room, taking special interest in his father's box and the pictures spread across the floor.

"Nothing but trouble," she said. "You'd be best off to throw all this crap right in the trash." She pointed to the cloth bag of marbles on his bed. "And those little buggers are sure to be trouble. I'd toss every last one of them into the river."

"You know what's in the bag?" Zachary asked, not sure if he was angry at her for snooping or more curious about what she knew.

"I don't have time for this," Madame Kloochie huffed as she tramped from his room.

Zachary thought he heard one of the pictures grunt as her heel struck it on her way out. Bret offered to help pick up the pictures, but Zachary could see his friend's hand tremble as he reached for the first one.

"I'll get them, Bret," he said. "It's okay." Though he had agreed to let Bret help, he didn't intend to put his friend in any danger that could be avoided. Besides, it didn't take long to gather up the picture sheets. Though a few lashed out with tiny paws or growled at him, by lifting only the corner of each page, he was soon able to gather them safely back into a pile.

"I think that's enough fun for one day." Zachary sucked a tiny bit of blood from the tip of his pinky.

"Yeah, I should probably get home before my parents call," Bret said, his stutter gone once again. In just a couple of minutes, the boys had returned everything to the box. Zachary slid it back into his closet and closed the door.

"You okay?" he asked Bret.

His friend smiled. "Yeah, I'm alright but I am kind of hungry for instant noodles."

Just the thought of noodles reminded Zachary of the worm-filled spaghetti he and his father had shared. That wasn't a meal he intended to ever repeat.

"See you tomorrow," Bret said.

After his friend left, Zachary cleaned Madame Kloochie's evening mess, including the chocolate frosting she had smeared on the refrigerator and the jelly she had somehow gotten on the dining room ceiling. The whole time his finger ached. Though not deep, the tiny dragon bite was surprisingly painful. He finished up his day watering plants and pruned several leaves from a large peace lily he'd had since he was eight years old. Though he'd tried several locations, it still seemed to be getting too much light so he moved it to the top of his bureau, the side furthest from the window.

Too tired to change into pajamas, Zachary settled down onto his bed fully clothed and reached under his pillow for Robin's picture. Even his throbbing finger couldn't keep him from falling almost immediately to sleep...a sleep filled with horrible dreams...

From his perch atop the mountain, Zachary could see several creatures moving in the stormy green ocean below him. His studied their sleek movements and determined none were large enough to make a satisfying meal. Sniffing, he recognized the musk of something better, something bigger. He inhaled again and listened for the telltale sounds of claws scrabbling along the cliff face below him. At first he thought he might have been mistaken, but then he heard it again, several hundred feet below him. His stomach rumbling in anticipation, he spread his wings, leapt out and dove! Zachary rushed downward and saw his prey clinging up the mountainside. Fire shot from his lips and singed the creature's black fur just before his claws ripped its shrieking form from the cliff. It was still screaming when his fangs pierced tasty warm flesh—

Horrified, Zachary struggled to wake! But instead the scene changed...

He was standing in a wide tunnel facing hundreds of dirty creatures with blue skin and bloated bodies. Though shorter than him, their bodies were muscular and stout, and they held massive clubs and axes in their thick grips. At any moment, he knew the trolls would attack. Unafraid, he opened his jaws and spewed fire at the first dozen—

Zachary jolted awake! Moonlight trickled through his plants in front of the window and left patches of light on the walls and ceiling. He could hear Madame Kloochie's steady snoring from two rooms away. The horrible dreams faded as he lay there with his blanket pulled up around his chin. The clock on his bureau claimed it was four o'clock in the morning. He held his wounded finger up in the moonlight, but in the dimness couldn't see any evidence that the golden-red dragon had bitten him at all. He rubbed the gash back and forth across his thumb and realized it didn't hurt anymore. Had he imagined the whole thing?

Suddenly, the memory of biting into that poor animal filled his mind. He could still taste its burnt flesh! The thought made him gag. No, those dreams came from someplace, and he felt certain the dragon bite was to blame.

Desperate to get that aftertaste out of his mouth, he sat up, rubbed his cheeks and ran fingers through his green locks. Forcing himself to his feet, he gathered fresh clothes and hurried through the dark house to the bathroom where he kicked enough of Madame Kloochie's dirty laundry away to make room in front of the sink. After brushing his teeth and rinsing his mouth twice, he started to undress. First went his tee shirt, then his sneakers and socks, and finally Zachary stripped off his pants—

Pressure rushed into his skull!

Gasping, he recognized the pain from the dragon bite the day before. It grew more agonizing with every passing second. The fiery itch was also back and spreading across his shoulders like a thousand biting ants. He wanted to scratch, but more desperately needed the pain in his head to stop. He had to do something!

Preparing to run for help, he yanked his pants up—

And the pain stopped. The itch also disappeared.

Relieved, Zachary splashed cold water on his face and shoulders. Something about his reflection caught his eye. Confused, he leaned into the mirror and saw a golden-red color staining his shoulders. When he tapped the discolored area, it thumped like wood.

Wood?

He ran fingers from his bare chest to his collarbone. Somewhere near his neck the skin grew stiff and hard. Zachary tapped again and prodded for several minutes, but he couldn't find a seam. The hard covering blended right into his skin. He rubbed the textured surface and tried to remember why it felt so familiar. Then it came to him. His shoulders felt like the slumber guard's hide! He must have caught a disease from the alligator the night the bats had attacked in Boston. Horrified, he wondered if that meant he, too, might turn hollow and half-dead. He thumped his shoulder again and shivered at the prospect. Staring at his discolored flesh, it made sense: the hard crust, the texture, everything...but the color—

Zachary's breath caught.

He knew where he had seen that color before. It was an image that would stay with him for a very long time. His shoulders had the same hues as the dragon from the picture. He hadn't caught a disease from the slumber guard. No, he had contracted toxin the old fashioned way: through a bite—a paper dragon's bite!

Forgetting the shower, Zachary yanked on a fresh tee shirt. He had to see Bret. He didn't want to believe he was turning into a dragon but the nightmares from earlier supported his theory. He remembered the poor cliffhanging creature from his dreams, and the way he had scorched and crunched it down like a chicken dinner. His stomach roiled at the thought. He couldn't let this happen. He had to do something—fast!

He stripped his pants down, and pain burst like a fire hose into his head! Doubling over with the ferocity of it, he struggled to breathe as his shoulders broke into a blazing itch. Zachary yanked his pants back up.

The agony stopped.

Slowly, he let the jeans fall again. Excruciating pressure swelled his skull. He pulled them up, and the distress ended. Knowing he couldn't survive many more experiments, he came to a silly but obviously true conclusion: his blue jeans were magic. But who ever heard of magic jeans? And why would they have become magic all of the sudden? He had worn the same jeans dozens of times.

No, there had to be another explanation.

He groped around and discovered a lump in his back pocket, a pocket he never used. Reaching in, he drew out a black disc embossed with the image of an old man in flowing robes. The man leaned heavily on a staff and seemed to be standing against a hurricane wind. The image was so detailed that Zachary could see individual hairs on the old man's beard. He flipped the medallion over and found the exact same view only from the back. The metal loop on top suggested the disc was meant to be hung from a chain. So how had it gotten into his pocket?

The answer was obvious: Madame Kloochie. She must have slipped it into his pocket after the dragon bit him, likely when she "accidentally" shoved him from behind. He flipped the coin over several times. Apparently it warded only against pain because it hadn't stopped dragon scales from forming on his shoulders. And that probably also meant it would not keep him from turning the rest of the way into the fire-breathing monster from his dreams. Closing his hand around the medallion, he tried to force the memory of his midnight snack from his mind. But he could still hear the helpless creature's screams and taste its charred flesh as he crunched its bones—

He had to do something!

Zachary finished changing then hurried to the living room where Madame Kloochie was just sitting up. Her hair, newly died purple, was matted down on one side like a damaged helmet and drool had caused one corner of her thickly applied red lipstick to run like tomato sauce down her chin.

"Did you put this in my pocket?" He held up the medallion.

"Why would I do something like that?" she asked, a mocking grin curling her thick lips.

"Look what happened to me." Zachary leaned down and pulled the collar of his tee shirt back so she could see the golden scales. He tapped on them, letting the hollow rapping further make his point.

Madame Kloochie shrugged. "Could be worse."

"Worse than turning into a dragon?"

Suddenly, her face contorted in anger.

"You've no idea what could be worse! Try skin like crust, immovable limbs, thoughts so slow they might not exist at all!"

Zachary backed into the dining room. Though always borderline insane, she wasn't usually quite so over-the-top angry. Then, as though nothing had happened, Madame Kloochie's fury melted away. Calmly, she used her remote to change the TV from news to a cartoon.

"You're planning on opening the store on time, I hope," she said.

"Sure," Zachary said and returned to his room.

Even though she had to be the one who had slipped the wizard's disc into his pocket, she obviously didn't intend to talk about it. Sitting on his bed, he threaded a heavy string through the medallion's hole then draped the resulting necklace around his neck. He paused to examine the old man on the medallion again.

Somehow the wizard had moved and now held his staff above his head!

Was it safe to wear? What if the old geezer tried to poke him with his staff, or worse? Knowing the alternative would be to have his head explode with pain again, Zachary sighed and let the amulet fall beneath his shirt. It wasn't as though he had any choice.

"I'm going to Bret's for a few minutes," Zachary said as he hurried through the dining room.

Thinking Madame Kloochie wouldn't be ready so early, he was surprised when her right arm snapped back and hurled something straight at his head! Zachary ducked and expected dough and frosting to strike the wall beside him. Instead, he heard only a deep belly laugh. Confused, he looked over at the couch.

"You thought I shot something," Madame Kloochie managed to breathe between bursts of laughter. "You really thought I shot something." She was laughing so hard Zachary had to smile. For the first time since arriving in New Hampshire, he thought he might learn to like this woman whose moods were as volatile as Boston weather.

Zachary hurried out the door, down the stairs, and across the street. Along the way, he wondered how long it would be before he started to grow wings. He shivered, realizing that his time was running out.

He came up short when he saw both Volvos parked in Bret's driveway. The sun was just coming up and his parents were both there. Before he could figure out his next move, his scrawny friend opened the door and slipped out onto the porch. Already, he had on his trademark button-up shirt and slacks, but only brown dress socks adorned his feet.

"I saw you out the window."

Meeting his friend on the porch, Zachary nodded and pulled back his tee shirt collar. He rapped on the golden-red scales.

"Whoa!"

"D'you ask M-Madame Kloochie about it?" Bret asked.

Zachary nodded.

"If she knows anything, she's not saying."

Bret moved to the stairs and sat down on the top one. "Wh-What are you th-th-thinking?"

"I'm thinking I need to find a cure for dragon poison before I start eating pets." He wanted to smile but couldn't force the expression. Apparently, there was little humor in becoming a monster.

"Y-You need a doctor!"

Zachary had already thought of that. "I can't imagine someone like your mother or father being able to help."

"Wh-What about the doctor you already s-s-saw?" Bret pointed at his cast.

"No way! Doctor Gefarg is the one that told Krage how to find us in Boston. I don't need him showing up here at Station End."

"But he knows about magic, right?"

Zachary nodded.

"M-Maybe you can call him th-th-through that little c-c-coffin."

"You stutter when you're upset, you know," Zachary said.

"Are y-you going to use M-M-Medusa?"

"If it will get rid of these shoulder pads," Zachary said, "you bet I am."

He hurried back across the street and up the stairs. By the time he grabbed his father's U-Ghoul unit, dodged a maple donut and rushed downstairs to open Madame Kloochie's Store, Bret was already waiting at the front door, a grim look on his face.

### 2) Three Eyes and a Monster

"What about your parents?" Zachary asked as he let Bret into the store.

"They didn't get in till early," Bret said. "I doubt they'll wake up before noon."

Zachary led Bret to the back of the store between a bureau with a missing drawer and a pool table lacking cloth on the top. Before opening the casket lid, Zachary waited for Bret to take several steps back. Maybe seeing Medusa the last time hadn't put him in the hospital, but that didn't mean he wanted to get too close. As always, snake-haired woman and the disgusting ghoulish hands were there to greet Zachary as he settled into the U-Ghoul's seat.

"You have seven thousand and twenty-two messages," the olive-skinned lady. "All are from His Lordship Ker Sevikrage. There are no messages from Roger Penbolt Pill, Francis Neddleson Pill, or anyone else."

Zachary heart sank as it did every time he talked with her. No news meant that his father and maybe even his uncle could be locked in a life or death struggle with Krage or worse. Instant anger fueled Zachary's desire to know more about magic. He would have carried the fight to Krage if he had any idea how to do it.

"Zachary Roger Pill," Medusa said coolly, "I assume you do not want to review your new messages."

"No," Zachary said, shaking his head, "but I need to contact someone. Can I do that?"

"Yes," Medusa said. "You simply need to summon the person you want to reach. As long as that person is in our U-Ghoul data core, I can put the communication through. If he or she is not available, you will then be able to leave a smoke impression."

"A smoke impression?"

"A message," Medusa said.

"And I can talk the same way I'm talking to you," Zachary said.

Medusa nodded. "My image will disappear so that you can converse unobstructed."

"But you'll be listening?" Zachary asked.

"The U-Ghoul system hears everything," Medusa acknowledged, most of her snakes nodding in agreement, "but your Deluxe Privacy Package ensures that all information will remain confidential. Who would you like to summon?"

"Doctor Gefarg," Zachary said. "Is he in your system?"

"Of course," Medusa said. Her eyes turned momentarily white. "Doctor Bullwark Boffal Gefarg does not list a personal portal, but I can connect you to the main portal at the Chicago Enclave Clinic."

"Fine," Zachary said, anxious to find a cure for the dragon venom.

Medusa, true to her word, disappeared and was replaced by a bizarre woman with a third eye in her forehead.

"Chicago Enclave Clinic," she said. "Oh. Hi, Zachary."

Zachary knew he should have recognized her. There was something about her mouth and her hair—it was Nurse Nightshade with three eyes! She also seemed much larger against the U-Ghoul's smoky backdrop than he remembered her. Had Doctor Gefarg done something hideous to her?

"You look surprised," Nurse Nightshade said. "Since you're using the U-Ghoul system, I assume you've learned more about your magical roots. But your expression suggests you didn't know our clinic is under a camouflage spell. Though most of us are not human, we have to look as if we are to avoid problems with the locals. What you're seeing now is my true nature."

"Sorry, I didn't know," Zachary said.

She smiled and, three eyes or not, seemed as friendly as before. "I assume you'd like an appointment to remove your cast?" Zachary shook his head. Nurse Nightshade's upper eye winked or blinked at him.

"I...uh...I was hoping to talk with Doctor Gefarg about something else."

Nurse Nightshade's expression grew serious.

"Probably not a good idea," she whispered, leaning forward. "I suggest you talk with your father first."

"My dad's missing!" Zachary blurted.

"I knew something wasn't right during your last visit," she said. All three of her eyes were squinted in anger. "I take it Ker Sevikrage found you?"

Zachary nodded. "Bats attacked the night we got back from the clinic. My dad went after Krage. I'm stuck living with—"

"Shhh!" Nurse Nightshade said. "Don't announce your location. It's bad enough Doctor Gefarg can probably figure it out by reviewing this impression."

"I have a big problem," Zachary said. "I didn't know who else to ask but Doctor Gefarg."

"I'm not a doctor," Nurse Nightshade said, "but we nurses run most everything around here anyway. Maybe I can help?"

Zachary nodded and went through a brief description of getting bit by the dragon picture, having Madame Kloochie slip a magical disc into his pocket and the scales that had grown across his shoulders. He didn't bother to mention the horrifying dragon dream that still seemed frighteningly real to him. Zachary gasped as two right hands came up to Nurse Nightshade's face. One pinched her lip while the other scratched her head. She had more than two arms!

Nurse Nightshade either didn't notice his reaction or chose to ignore it. Either way, she said, "I think you need to summon Larzell. Even if Doctor Gefarg could help you—and I'm not sure he could—I believe the gnome would be the best person to talk to about this."

"The gnome?" Zachary asked.

Nurse Nightshade smiled.

"Medusa will know. Just ask for the Guardian of Earth."

Zachary might have said more, but Nurse Nightshade kindly cut him off.

"The less we say during this communication, the better," she said. "But feel free to summon me at my home portal nights or weekends." Two of her three eyes winked. "I have the Privacy Package, so old blue skin won't get involved. Good luck Zachary."

Suddenly, Medusa's face appeared again.

"I can summons Larzell Begstone Brekklestone, Guardian of Earth if you like," Medusa said.

Zachary paused, a little spooked that she'd been listening in, then nodded.

"R-Red alert!" Bret whispered. Zachary looked over to see his friend urgently gesturing toward the front door of the store.

"Sorry, got to go!" Zachary tapped the casket and suddenly fell to the floor. He waited a second for the smoke and severed hands to be sucked inside then picked himself and the U-Ghoul casket off the floor. The latter he tried to stuff into his pocket but it was much too big.

"It's S-S-Stemson!" Bret said.

Realizing Bret wouldn't want to face his lifelong bully, Zachary said, "You wait here. I'll get rid of him."

Kevin Stemson was already inside and leaning over the front counter when Zachary got to the front of the store. "Hey, Ack. What's cooking in junk land?"

"I told you, I don't want you in here."

"That's no way to treat your new buddy, Ack." Kevin reached out and flicked Zachary's nose, then laughed.

"Tell you what," Zachary said to the slightly taller boy. A sudden cluster of Bret's memories of getting viciously bullied didn't help matters any. He paused and tried to get his anger under control.

"Yeah, what?" Kevin said.

"You get out and I won't punch you in the face with my cast."

Zachary was more surprised by his lack of fear than the words that burst out of his mouth. In the few fights he'd ever gotten into, he'd always been nervous enough to want to puke. But not this time. He didn't feel a single tremble.

Kevin snickered but backed away from the counter.

"I'm not afraid of you, Ack."

"You should be," Zachary said, further surprising himself. There was something recognizable about the fury building inside him, but he couldn't quite place it. He moved out from around the counter and toward the bigger boy.

Kevin gave another scoffing laugh, but it ended abruptly.

"Very funny, Zach."

Zach not Ack?

"We're going to have a lot of fun in school this year," Kevin added. "Those little kids will pee their pants when they see us coming."

Zachary grabbed Kevin's white polo shirt and crinkled it in his good fist. He held his casted arm out like a club, and Kevin's face melted into fear. Zachary thought the taller boy might start crying. How many times had Kevin done this very thing to Bret? Zachary tried not to review those memories for fear of what he might do. There was something exciting about the anger that coursed through his veins.

"I want you to turn around and get out," Zachary snarled. "I don't want you to talk or even breathe. Just—Get—OUT!"

Given the terrified expression on Kevin's face, Zachary wasn't surprised when the taller boy did exactly as asked. Of course, once he got outside he turned back and yelled, "You'll be sorry, Ack. You messed with the wrong guy this time."

Zachary slammed the door closed and leaned against it. He had finally remembered when he'd felt that same kind of frenzied rage, felt that same kind of power. It had been in his dragon dream, just before he ate that poor creature.

He felt like vomiting.

"You were amazing!" Bret said.

"No I wasn't," Zachary responded. "I acted like every other bully in the world. I was acting like this thing." He pounded angrily on one of his hard shoulders.

Kevin had no more than crossed the street when a rusty blue pickup truck pulled up in front of the store. A young brunette woman came around to the passenger side and offloaded first one then a second toddler, who both followed her into the store like colorful little penguins.

"Do you have any bureaus?" the woman asked.

Zachary pointed to a small grouping of mostly intact ones that were cluttering the right side of the store. She hurried that way, but failed to take her children, who might have been twins. Like newborn puppies, they stood on wobbly legs and looked up at Zachary. One was dressed in tiny pink overalls with dark stains on the knees. The other wore a checkered red dress with a large safety pin holding one torn sleeve. The same girl wore two socks of different colors.

"Monster," the one in pink overalls said, pointing at Zachary.

The other one nodded and burped up a white milky substance onto the front of her dress. Zachary would have tried to clean her off, but Madame Kloochie kept no paper towels in the store, and he had hopelessly dirtied all of his dust rags. Besides, after the dragon bite he wasn't sure he could be trusted near children. He could still hear the screams of the poor creature he'd eaten in his dream.

He backed a couple of steps from the children.

The woman returned to the front counter, pulled a napkin from her bag and wiped the mess from her baby's dress. Then she picked the little girl up while the other toddler hid behind her legs and said, "Monster," again.

"No, he's not a monster, Betsy," the mother said to the toddler. "He just has a cast on. He hurt his arm."

"Booboo," the little girl said.

"Yes, he has a booboo." The mother reoriented on Zachary. "Could I get a deal if I took two of those bureaus?"

Zachary didn't know if it was because she and her children really seemed to deserve a break or if it was more to prove he wasn't a monster, but either way he said, "How's free sound?"

She smiled brightly and insisted on paying, but Zachary waved away the few bills she pulled from her pocketbook. Besides, with Madame Kloochie's magic cash register, it made no difference what she paid. It only took Bret and him a few minutes to load both bureaus into the bed of the rusty blue pickup, and fortunately they were able to lay them down because Zachary hadn't seen any rope in the truck.

Bret went into a small sneezing fit when they returned to the store. Of course, he carried his own handkerchief for just such occasions. After he sneezed for the third time, he leaned against the front counter, where Zachary had just realized the young mother had surreptitiously left a twenty dollar bill near the edge of the antique cash register. Zachary punched the correct buttons, and when the drawer shot open he slipped the bills inside where they would soon disappear. Who knew, maybe the antique register required money to be added every once in a while. Either way, that was his job.

Bret sneezed again.

"I tried to clean a little," Zachary apologized.

"I noticed," Bret said. "It really does look better."

Zachary was thankful that Bret hadn't been there during any of the cleaning. The clouds of dust would surely have made him sick.

"You probably should try to reach that gnome guy," Bret said, "before someone else comes."

### 3) He Finally Calls

Doesn't she _have other customers to talk to?_ Zachary wondered when Medusa reappeared in the swirling U-Ghoul fog. He had never seen another operator. Even if there weren't that many supernatural customers, it seemed that sooner or later someone else would try to communicate with her at the same time as him.

"You have seven thousand, two hundred and fifty-six messages," Medusa said.

"Are they all from Krage?" Zachary asked.

"All but two messages are from His Lordship Ker Sevikrage," she told him.

Zachary felt his insides tremble.

"Two are from someone else?"

"One is from the U-Ghoul administrators who wanted to thank you for your order of our Deluxe Privacy Package." She remained unemotional, but Zachary got the distinct impression that some of the snakes on her head were grinning at him.

"And the other one?" Zachary asked.

"It is from Francis Neddleson Pill," she said.

"Uncle Ned!" Zachary exclaimed. Was his father all right? Were they both back on Earth? "Please show me his message."

Medusa disappeared to be replaced by his Uncle Ned, but not the way Zachary had ever seen him before. His face was dirty and his clothes were in tatters. Blood streaked one of his cheeks. He seemed to be in some sort of a dirt tunnel. The light was dim and flickering, possibly from a torch or candles.

"Sport," Uncle Ned said, "I assume you've figured out how to use your father's U-Ghoul by now. You never were one to follow orders overly well." He smiled and wiped at his forehead, leaving another streak of blood. "You might have guessed from looking around that things aren't going so well at the moment. Don't worry, though; Pills always find a way."

"Except for when they die," Zachary muttered, remembering most of his family had already been lost to Krage.

"I received news from the Pandemone corridor, sport. Your dad is definitely still alive, or at least he was a day or so ago. Unfortunately, that's the last I heard because he slipped through the barrier and is now somewhere on Pandemone. I—"

Zachary realized that sometime during his uncle's message he had stopped breathing. He forced himself to gulp some air.

"—barely remember Pandemone," his uncle continued, uninterrupted, "because I was only five or six years old when my father escaped with us. But your dad was ten at the time, so he should remember enough to get around okay."

Suddenly the light in his uncle's tunnel went dark and flickered on again.

"There isn't much time," his uncle said, "so I better get to why I called. First, you should know that I had a friend package up your slumber guard and ship it to you. It should arrive any day. Remember you need only to rub its belly for it to wake. It will usually return to sleep on its own, once it determines any danger has passed."

The tunnel light flickered again and Zachary could see dirt falling in clumps not far behind his uncle. Zachary wiped at his unbidden tears. Why was this happening to his family?

"Here's the most important thing, sport," his uncle said. A clump of dirt fell in his hair and he brushed it off. "The corridor realms are buzzing with rumors that a new wizard is destined to become the Guardian of Earth. Since Merlin disappeared, his lionbrarian has been holding the fort. But gnomes aren't very good with magic, and it's doubtful he'll be able to manage things for long. There are some rumors that the new Guardian will be a boy. Here's the part you won't believe, partner: since you're the only boy wizard with Pandemone blood on Earth that I know of, I'm afraid that boy is probably you."

Zachary's mouth fell open. This was impossible; he knew nothing about magic and had no idea what a Guardian of Earth was!

The light in Uncle Ned's tunnel flickered, went black then came back on more dimly than before. "If you can avoid it, buddy," Uncle Ned warned, "stay away from that gnome. Believe me, you don't want to be saddled with Merlin's wand or that Guardian position. It would make you the target of every magical crazy on the planet. And since you're already a Pill...well, let's just say your odds of making it to adulthood wouldn't be great."

Zachary heard snarls and growling coming from somewhere close to his uncle. The big man grimaced and flexed his massive chest.

"Guess that's it, buddy," he said. "I've got an ogre hound or two to deal with. Remember, stay away from the gnome!"

The smoke screen went black for a moment before Medusa reappeared.

"Do you have any summons you'd like to make?" she asked.

"How long ago did my uncle send that message?" Zachary asked.

Medusa's eyes turned white for just a moment. "His smoke impression was made forty-three minutes ago."

"Can I reach him?" Zachary asked. He glanced over at Bret and knew his friend was rooting for him.

Medusa's eyes went white for almost a full minute before she focused on him again. "I'm sorry, but Francis Neddleson Pill doesn't seem to have a U-Ghoul portal on the system."

"Then how did he leave my message?" Zachary asked.

Medusa shook her head. "We don't currently know, but our administrators are looking into it."

Zachary brushed at the tears streaking both his cheeks. Was it possible that he would soon be losing both his father and his uncle? How could any of this be fair? Hadn't he suffered enough? Wasn't the loss of his mother enough?

"Maybe you'd prefer to shut the unit down," Medusa said. It was an odd comment, coming from her, and he wondered if he should take it as advice.

He looked over at Bret. "What do you think?"

Bret's eyes were wide. "I-I don't really understand what y-y-your uncle was talking about, b-but he doesn't know about the d-d-dragon bite."

Zachary knew his friend was right. There was no way his uncle would have thought that becoming a dragon was safer than talking to the Guardian of Earth. He turned to Medusa.

"I need to talk to Larzell, the gnome."

You can purchase the rest of

Zachary Pill, With Dragon Fear

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**Preview of**

THE PHEESCHING SECTOR

Tim Greaton

"The Pheesching Sector is off limits to all spacecraft," a metallic voice said. "Please turn your ship now."

Casper glanced up at the large overhead screen. Against the blackness of space, he could see the flashing red signal of the yet another warning buoy. He wiped a trembling hand across his forehead and glanced down at his own smaller navigation screens. The buoy showed up as a small red blip.

The recording repeated itself.

"The Pheesching Sector is off limits to all spacecraft. Please turn your ship now."

Casper made his decision, switched off the radio and powered up the ansible.

_If Blander finds out_ —

Casper didn't complete the thought.

"S.O.S.," he whispered urgently into the hyperspace communicator's microphone. "Fleet Patrol, this is first officer Casper Van Soulier aboard scout ship two-dash-zero-zero-three. We have an S.O.S.! Do you read me? Over."

Static erupted along with a barely audible voice from the speaker.

"This is Fleet Patrol Base, Sector Seven. SOS ship, please adjust your output filters. Your signal is garbled."

Casper tapped the ansible override and slid both modulators to maximum.

"Can you hear me now? This is first officer Casper Van Soulier aboard scout ship two-dash-zero-zero-three. We're in the northwest quadrant of Sector Six, location seven-six-three-four-seven-two. Do you read? We are low on fuel. Do you read?"

Another static filled explosion filled the speakers, this time with no voice. He adjusted the reception filters several times but Fleet Patrol was gone.

So much for the wonders of hyperspace communication.

Casper contemplated trying the radio but the chance of catching anyone else in this empty region of space would be astronomical. No one but Blander would have been stupid enough to stray so far from civilization. Casper couldn't believe he had allowed himself to go along with this. His trembling fingers darted quickly across the keyboard. Another series of numbers representing a new filtering configuration appeared on the screen. He gently rolled the ship fifty degrees and waited for the ansible masthead to reposition itself toward Sector Eight.

"Fleet Patrol, this is first officer Casper Van Soulier aboard scout ship two-dash-zero-zero-three! We have an S.O.S.! Do you read me? Over."

"What the hell are you doing, Casper?"

Casper slammed his hand down on the power switch. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Captain Blander standing in the small doorway.

"Nothing, sir. Just running a few final scans before the jump."

"Bullshit!" Blander said.

He squeezed his heavy-set frame through the doorway and gripped the back of Casper's chair. Trying to ignore how close those massive hands were to his scrawny neck, Casper waited helplessly as the captain scanned the monitors.

"What's that?" Blander spat, jamming a big finger towards the open ansible screen.

"I-I was-was going to call...my niece," Casper said.

"Sure you were, twerp!"

Blander leaned down until greasy snarls of his brown hair brushed against Casper's cheek. Casper fought the urge to flick the disgusting mess away.

"You've got one last chance to tell me the truth," Blander hissed, his bad breath spewing out like poisonous gas.

"I tried to reach Fleet Patrol on the ansible," Casper blurted, "but just to-to get help, sir. The fuel—"

"Will be plenty," Blander cut him off. He spun his first mate's chair to face him and leered down at him, revealing plaque-coated and discolored teeth.

Casper cringed and wished he could sneak away to brush his teeth and take a shower. His worst nightmare, other than dying at the buffoon's hands, was that Blander's slovenly condition might somehow infect him.

"So how'd that call go, Cas?" Blander's mouth twisted into a smirk.

"It didn't," Casper admitted. "There's a problem with the output filters."

Blander took two short strides and dropped his bulk down into his maroon and black luxury, padded captain's seat—a seat which, despite all of Casper's arguments and cited regulation breaches, Blander had confiscated from a pirate's vessel they'd boarded two weeks earlier. Blander had thrown his own torn seat out an airlock as soon as they were out of range of the pirate ship. His reason for the delay in tossing it had been, "Pirate captains have less attitude when they have to sit on the floor." Casper hadn't bothered to point out that the next ship to encounter that particular pirate vessel was sure to lose its own captain's perch, possibly beginning a perverted and never-ending cycle of musical space chairs.

Blander still wore a sinister grin.

"What?" Casper asked.

"I knew I couldn't trust you," Blander said.

"I'm not the one trying to get us killed out here at the edge of the galaxy!"

"Let's face it, Casper. You're a nitpicking, stiff-necked little jerk. So," Blander pulled a small circuit module out of his pocket, "I removed this from the ansible decoders. Those clowns at Fleet Patrol wouldn't have understood you if you'd been sitting on the roof at headquarters."

"I should have known," Casper mumbled.

"Now, First Mate Casper Van Screw up, please start the jump without any more nonsense."

Casper stared into the mocking, unshaven face of his captain. Though he hated the stained and wrinkled excuse for a commanding officer, there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it—at least not yet. His allotted minimum assignment time wouldn't be up for another three months. Unfortunately, Fleet Patrol Operations Manual, chapter six, section three, subsection two was perfectly clear on that point. Casper had read it so many times that when he placed the book on his nightstand it automatically opened to that page. Casper could quote it from memory: All apprentice crew members are to remain on initial assignment for a minimum of six Terran months. This is to insure that any minor personality conflicts will have had time to dissipate.

Dissipate—hell!

Their grating of personalities didn't have a prayer of abating. The two of them were like opposing polarities. Blander's sloppy appearance was exceeded only by his outright distain for regulations. How Fleet Patrol had given him command of even this tiny cruiser was completely beyond Casper. To him, Blander wasn't qualified to keep a lavatory clean forget command a ship. And, worse yet, his captain seemed to revel in his authority to force Casper into his same haphazard mode of operation. Probably in defense, Casper struggled to be even more meticulous and found himself holding his Fleet Patrol Manual the way a zealous monk might wield a Bible. His and his captain's personality difference wasn't so much a conflict as it was an out-and-out war.

"I said, start the jump sequence!"

"Yes, sir," Casper answered in resignation.

As it was, they didn't have enough fuel to return to civilization, but somehow his genius of a captain now wanted to leap even further into the galactic hinterlands. For the first time, Casper was thankful Rachel had dumped him. If she hadn't hooked up with the Centauri Governor's son, they might already have married and maybe even had a child or two. Though it might have served Rachel right, he would never have wanted to leave a family behind the way his father had left him and his mother during the first hyper-war. No. If he had to go, dying single with no ties would be better. Of course, not dying at all would have been his preference, and his only consolation was that Blander would also be taking the same one-way trip.

He brought the navigation system up on screen two. Because of the gravitational pull of the black hole in this sector, there was only one survivable jump destination from where they sat: the Pheesching Sector. He waited for the nav to complete the calculations then double-checked it against the holo-projection that now spun slowly above all three of his console monitors. Like all hyperspace trajectories, their planned leap showed up as a spiral dotted, yellow line, which in this case swept around half the circumference of a black hole that looked like a swirling drain. The leap would position them safely at the exact opposite side of the singularity but the blinking red symbol at the top of the projection illustrated what Casper had been saying: they would be damn near out of fuel when they got there.

Following Blander's order would seal both their fates.

I should jettison the last of the chocolate cake while Blander is still unconscious after the leap.

Even as Casper considered his petty plan for revenge, he knew he wouldn't do it; unlike Blander, he wasn't cruel. Casper punched in the final series of numbers that would inevitably leave them helpless in the Pheesching Sector.

"COORDINATES ACCEPTED:" the nav screen flashed. "PLEASE ENTER YOUR PERSONAL ENGINEERING CODE TO BEGIN JUMP SEQUENCE."

"Captain, fuel aside, you do know we could both be court-martialed. That sector is off limits. This is ludicrous."

"If you mean silly, Casper, say silly—not ludicrous. Now get this boat moving!"

Casper leaned forward and _accidentally_ switched the radio receiver on.

". . . Pheesching Sector is off limits to all spacecraft. Please turn your ship now.

"Shut that off, Cas!"

"The Pheesching Sector is off —"

Casper obeyed. But the recording had been a frightening reminder of the danger they were placing themselves in. He said a silent prayer as he punched in his code.

You can purchase the rest of

THE PHEESCHING SECTOR

at Smashwords.com
ALSO BY TIM GREATON

From Focus House Publishing

Zachary Pill, With Dragon Fear

Zachary Pill, The Dragon at Station End

Trilogy

Purchase Here

Water Golems

(Two stories in the Zachary Pill Universe)

Kindle Only

Pheesching Sector

(a 6,000 word Sci-Fi Story)

Purchase Here

The Santa Shop

(Book 1 in the Santa Conspiracy Series)

Purchase Here

The Santa Shop's Hollywood Ending

Purchase Here

Red Gloves

(Book 2 in the Santa Conspiracy Series)

2012

Under-Heaven

Purchase Here

Bones in the Tree

Purchase Here

For the Deposit & Two Other Stories

(A collection of three short stories)

Purchase Here

Dustin Jeckle & Mr. Hydel

(A short story)

Purchase Here

The Shaft & Two Other Stories

(A collection of three short stories)

Purchase Here

Halloween Caper

(A supernatural story)

Kindle Only

Heroes With Fangs

Coming Spring 2012

Tim Greaton's Blog – The Perfect World

Read Here

Contact Tim at

tim@greateastdevelopment.net

