Only its werewolves instead of naked girls who are going to jump out of the cake, and theyre supposed to have Uzi machineguns and grenades as partyfavors. Well, we sort of hijacked his train, and were running ten or twelve hours ahead of schedule, but if were heading into an encampment full of Wolfs waiting to catch the Territories choochooand I think thats just what were doingwere going to need all the surprise we can get. Jack ran a hand up the side of his face. It would be easier to stop the train well away from wherever Morgans hitsquad was, and make a big circle around the encampment. Easier and safer, too. But that would leave the bad Wolfs around, Richie, can you dig it? He looked down at the arsenal on the floor of the cab and wondered if he could really be planning a commando raid on Morgans Wolf Brigade. Some commandos. Good old Jack Sawyer, King of the Vagabond Dishwashers, and His Comatose Sidekick, Richard. Jack wondered if he had gone crazy. He supposed he had, because that was exactly what he was planningit would be the last thing any of them would expect . . . and there had been too much, too much, too goddam much. He had been whipped; Wolf had been killed. They had destroyed Richards school and most of Richards sanity, and, for all he knew, Morgan Sloat was back in New Hampshire, harrying his mother. Crazy or not, payback time had come. Jack bent over, picked up one of the loaded Uzis, and held it over his arm as the tracks unrolled in front of him and the smell of salt grew steadily stronger. 5 During the small hours of the morning Jack slept awhile, leaning against the accelerator bar. It would not have comforted him much to know such a device was called a deadmans switch. When dawn came, it was Richard who woke him up. Something up ahead. Before looking at that, Jack took a good look at Richard. He had hoped that Richard would look better in daylight, but not even the cosmetic of dawn could disguise the fact that Richard was sick. The color of the new day had changed the dominant color in his skintone from gray to yellow . . . that was all. Hey! Train! Hello you big fuckin train! This shout was guttural, little more than an animal roar. Jack looked forward again. They were closing in on a narrow little pillbox of a building. Standing outside the guardhouse was a Wolfbut any resemblance to Jacks Wolf ended with the flaring orange eyes. This Wolfs head looked dreadfully flattened, as if a great hand had scythed off the curve of skull at the top. His face seemed to jut over his underslung jaw like a boulder teetering over a long drop. Even the present surprised joy on that face could not conceal its thick, brutal stupidity. Braided pigtails of hair hung from his cheeks. A scar in the shape of an X rode his forehead. The Wolf was wearing something like a mercenarys uniformor what he imagined a mercenarys uniform would look like. Baggy green pants were bloused out over black bootsbut the toes of the boots had been cut off, Jack saw, to allow the Wolfs longnailed, hairy toes to protrude. Train! he barkgrowled as the engine closed the last fifty yards. He began to jump up and down, grinning savagely. He was snapping his fingers like Cab Calloway. Foam flew from his jaws in unlovely clots. Train! Train! Fuckin train RIGHT HERE AND NOW! His mouth yawned open in a great and alarming grin, showing a mouthful of broken yellow spears. You guys some kinda fuckin early, okay, okay! Jack, what is it? Richard asked. His hand was clutching Jacks shoulder with panicky tightness, but to his credit, his voice was fairly even. Its a Wolf. One of Morgans. There, Jack, you said his name. Asshole! But there was no time to worry about that now. They were coming abreast of the guardhouse, and the Wolf obviously meant to swing aboard. As Jack watched, he cut a clumsy caper in the dust, cutoff boots thumping. He had a knife in the leather belt he wore across his naked chest like a bandoleer, but no gun. Jack flicked the control on the Uzi to singlefire. Morgan? Whos Morgan? Which Morgan? Not now, Jack said. His concentration narrowed down to a fine pointthe Wolf. He manufactured a big, plastic grin for his benefit, holding the Uzi down and well out of sight. Anderstrain! Allfuckinright! Here and now! A handle like a big staple stuck off from the right side of the engine, above a wide step like a running board. Grinning wildly, drizzling foam over his chin and obviously insane, the Wolf grabbed the handle and leaped lightly up onto the step. Hey, wheres the old man? Wolf! Wheres Jack raised the Uzi and put a bullet into the Wolfs left eye. The glaring orange light puffed out like a candleflame in a strong gust of wind. The Wolf fell backward off the step like a man doing a rather stupid dive. He thudded loosely on the ground. Jack! Richard pulled him around. His face looked as wild as the Wolfs face had beenonly it was terror, not joy, that distorted it. Did you mean my father? Is my father involved in this? Richard, do you trust me? Yes, but Then let it go. Let it go. This is not the time. But Get a gun. Jack Richard, get a gun! Richard bent over and got one of the Uzis. I hate guns, he said again. Yeah, I know. Im not particularly keen on them myself, Richieboy. But its payback time. 6 The tracks were now approaching a high stockade wall. From behind it came grunts and yells, cheers, rhythmic clapping, the sound of bootheels punching down on bare earth in steady rhythms. There were other, less identifiable sounds as well, but all of them fell into a vague set for Jackmilitary training operation. The area between the guardhouse and the approaching stockade wall was half a mile wide, and with all this other stuff going on, Jack doubted that anyone had heard his single shot. The train, being electric, was almost silent. The advantage of surprise should still be on their side. The tracks disappeared beneath a closed double gate in the side of the stockade wall. Jack could see chinks of daylight between the roughpeeled logs. Jack, you better slow down. They were now a hundred and fifty yards from the gate. From behind it, bellowing voices chanted, SoundHOFF! Huntoo! HreeFO! SoundHOFF! Jack thought again of H. G. Wellss manimals and shivered. No way, chum. Were through the gate. You got just about time to do the Fish Cheer. Jack, youre crazy! I know. A hundred yards. The batteries hummed. A blue spark jumped, sizzling. Bare earth flowed past them on either side. No grain here, Jack thought. If Nol Coward had written a play about Morgan Sloat, I guess he would have called it Blight Spirit. Jack, what if this creepy little train jumps its tracks? Well, it might, I guess, Jack said. Or what if it breaks through the gate and the tracks just end? Thatd be one on us, wouldnt it? Fifty yards. Jack, you really have lost your mind, havent you? I guess so. Take your gun off safety, Richard. Richard flicked the safety. Thuds . . . grunts . . . marching men . . . the creak of leather . . . yells . . . an inhuman, laughing shriek that made Richard cringe. And yet Jack saw a clear resolution in Richards face that made Jack grin with pride. He means to stick by meold Rational Richard or not, he really means to stick by me. Twentyfive yards. Shrieks . . . squeals . . . shouted commands . . . and a thick, reptilian cryGrooooOOOO!that made the hair stand up on the back of Jacks neck. If we get out of this, Jack said, Ill buy you a chilidog at Dairy Queen. Barf me out! Richard yelled, and, incredibly, he began to laugh. In that instant the unhealthy yellow seemed to fade a bit from his face. Five yardsand the peeled posts which made up the gate looked solid, yes, very solid, and Jack just had time to wonder if he hadnt made a great big fat mistake. Get down, chum! Dont call m The train hit the stockade gate, throwing them both forward. 7 The gate was really quite strong, and in addition it was doublebarred across the inside with two large logs. Morgans train was not terribly big, and the batteries were nearly flat after its long run across the Blasted Lands. The collision surely would have derailed it, and both boys might well have been killed in the wreck, but the gate had an Achilles heel. New hinges, forged according to modern American processes, were on order. They had not yet arrived, however, and the old iron hinges snapped when the engine hit the gate. The train came rolling into the stockade at twentyfive miles an hour, pushing the amputated gate in front of it. An obstacle course had been built around the stockades perimeter, and the gate, acting like a snowplow, began shoving makeshift wooden hurdles in front of it, turning them, rolling them, snapping them into splinters. It also struck a Wolf who had been doing punishment laps. His feet disappeared under the bottom of the moving gate and were chewed off, customized boots and all. Shrieking and growling, his Change beginning, the Wolf began to clawclimb his way up the gate with fingernails which were growing rapidly to the length and sharpness of a telephonelinemans spikes. The gate was now forty feet inside the stockade. Amazingly, he got almost to the top before Jack dropped the gearlever into neutral. The train stopped. The gate fell over, puffing up big dust and crushing the unfortunate Wolf beneath it. Underneath the last car of the train, the Wolfs severed feet continued to grow hair, and would for several more minutes. The situation inside the camp was better than Jack had dared hope. The place apparently woke up early, as military installations have a way of doing, and most of the troops seemed to be out, going through a bizarre menu of drills and bodybuilding exercises. On the right! he shouted at Richard. Do what? Richard shouted back. Jack opened his mouth and cried out for Uncle Tommy Woodbine, run down in the street; for an unknown carter, whipped to death in a muddy courtyard; for Ferd Janklow; for Wolf, dead in Sunlight Gardeners filthy office; for his mother; but most of all, he discovered, for Queen Laura DeLoessian, who was also his mother, and for the crime that was being carried out on the body of the Territories. He cried out as Jason, and his voice was thunder. TEAR THEM UP! Jack SawyerJason DeLoessian bellowed, and opened fire on the left. 8 There was a rough parade ground on Jacks side, a long log building on Richards. The log building looked like the bunkhouse in a Roy Rogers movie, but Richard guessed that it was a barracks. In fact, this whole place looked more familiar to Richard than anything he had seen so far in this weird world Jack had taken him into. He had seen places like it on the TV news. CIAsupported rebels training for takeovers of South and Central American countries trained in places like this. Only, the training camps were usually in Florida, and those werent cubanos pouring out of the barracksRichard didnt know what they were. Some of them looked a bit like medieval paintings of devils and satyrs. Some looked like degenerate human beingscavepeople, almost. And one of the things lurching into the earlymorning sunlight had scaly skin and nictitating eyelids . . . it looked to Richard Sloat like an alligator that was somehow walking upright. As he looked, the thing lifted its snout and uttered that cry he and Jack had heard earlier GroooOOOOO! He just had time to see that most of these hellish creatures looked totally bewildered, and then Jacks Uzi split the world with thunder. On Jacks side, roughly two dozen Wolfs had been doing callies on the parade ground. Like the guardhouse Wolf, most wore green fatigue pants, boots with cutoff toes, and bandoleer belts. Like the guard, they looked stupid, flatheaded, and essentially evil. They had paused in the middle of a spastic set of jumping jacks to watch the train come roaring in, the gate and the unfortunate fellow who had been running laps at the wrong place and time plastered to the front. At Jacks cry they began to move, but by then they were too late. Most of Morgans carefully culled Wolf Brigade, handpicked over a period of five years for their strength and brutality, their fear of and loyalty to Morgan, were wiped out in one spitting, raking burst of the machinegun in Jacks hands. They went stumbling and reeling backward, chests blown open, heads bleeding. There were growls of bewildered anger and howls of pain . . . but not many. Most of them simply died. Jack popped the clip, grabbed another one, slammed it in. On the left side of the parade ground, four of the Wolfs had escaped; in the center two more had dropped below the line of fire. Both of these had been wounded but now both were coming at him, longnailed toes digging divots in the packed dust, faces sprouting hair, eyes flaring. As they ran at the engine, Jack saw fangs grow out of their mouths and push through fresh, wiry hair growing from their chins. He pulled the trigger on the Uzi, now holding the hot barrel down only with an effort; the heavy recoil was trying to force the muzzle up. Both of the attacking Wolfs were thrown back so violently that they flipped through the air headoverheels like acrobats. The other four Wolfs did not pause; they headed for the place where the gate had been two minutes before. The assorted creatures which had spilled out of the bunkhousestyle barracks building seemed to be finally getting the idea that, although the newcomers were driving Morgans train, they were a good deal less than friendly. There was no concentrated charge, but they began to move forward in a muttering clot. Richard laid the Uzis barrel on the chesthigh side of the engine cab and opened fire. The slugs tore them open, drove them backward. Two of the things which looked like goats dropped to hands and kneesor hoovesand scurried back inside. Richard saw three others spin and drop under the force of the slugs. A joy so savage that it made him feel faint swept through him. Bullets also tore open the whitishgreen belly of the alligatorthing, and a blackish fluidichor, not bloodbegan to pour out of it. It fell backward, but its tail seemed to cushion it. It sprang back up and leaped at Richards side of the train. It uttered its rough, powerful cry again . . . and this time it seemed to Richard that there was something hideously feminine in that cry. He pulled the trigger of the Uzi. Nothing happened. The clip was spent. The alligatorthing ran with slow, clumsy, thudding determination. Its eyes sparkled with murderous fury . . . and intelligence. The vestiges of breasts bounced on its scaly chest. He bent, groped, without taking his eyes off the werealligator, and found one of the grenades. Seabrook Island, Richard thought dreamily. Jack calls this place the Territories, but its really Seabrook Island, and there is no need to be afraid, really no need; this is all a dream and if that things scaly claws settle around my neck I will surely wake up, and even if its not all a dream, Jack will save me somehowI know he will, I know it, because over here Jack is some kind of a god. He pulled the pin on the grenade, restrained the strong urge he felt to simply chuck it in a panicky frenzy, and lobbed it gently, underhand. Jack, get down! Jack dropped below the level of the engine cabs sides at once, without looking. Richard did, too, but not before he had seen an incredible, blackly comic thing the alligatorcreature had caught the grenade . . . and was trying to eat it. The explosion was not the dull crump Richard had expected but a loud, braying roar that drilled into his ears, hurting them badly. He heard a splash, as if someone had thrown a bucket of water against his side of the train. He looked up and saw that the engine, boxcar and flatcar were covered with hot guts, black blood, and shreds of the alligatorcreatures flesh. The entire front of the barracks building had been blown away. Much of the splintered rubble was bloody. In the midst of it he saw a hairy foot in a boot with a cutoff toe. The jackstraw blowdown of logs was thrown aside as he watched, and two of the goatlike creatures began to pull themselves out. Richard bent, found a fresh clip, and slammed it into his gun. It was getting hot, just as Jack had said it would. Whoopee! Richard thought faintly, and opened fire again. 9 When Jack popped up after the grenade explosion, he saw that the four Wolfs who had escaped his first two fusillades were just running through the hole where the gate had been. They were howling with terror. They were running side by side, and Jack had a clear shot at them. He raised the Uzithen lowered it again, knowing he would see them later, probably at the black hotel, knowing he was a fool . . . but, fool or not, he was unable to just let them have it in the back. Now a high, womanish shrieking began from behind the barracks. Get out there! Get out there, I say! Move! Move! There was the whistling crack of a whip. Jack knew that sound, and he knew that voice. He had been wrapped up in a straitjacket when he had last heard it. Jack would have known that voice anywhere. If his retarded friend shows up, shoot him. Well, you managed that, but maybe now its payback timeand maybe, from the way your voice sounds, you know it. Get them, whats the matter with you cowards? Get them, do I have to show you how to do everything? Follow us, follow us! Three creatures came from behind what remained of the barracks, and only one of them was clearly humanOsmond. He carried his whip in one hand, a Sten gun in the other. He wore a red cloak and black boots and white silk pants with wide, flowing legs. They were splattered with fresh blood. To his left was a shaggy goatcreature wearing jeans and Westernstyle boots. This creature and Jack looked at each other and shared a moment of complete recognition. It was the dreadful barroom cowboy from the Oatley Tap. It was Randolph Scott. It was Elroy. It grinned at Jack; its long tongue snaked out and lapped its wide upper lip. Get him! Osmond screamed at Elroy. Jack tried to lift the Uzi, but it suddenly seemed very heavy in his arms. Osmond was bad, the reappearance of Elroy was worse, but the thing between the two of them was a nightmare. It was the Territories version of Reuel Gardener, of course; the son of Osmond, the son of Sunlight. And it did indeed look a bit like a childa child as drawn by a bright kindergarten student with a cruel turn of mind. It was curdywhite and skinny; one of its arms ended in a wormy tentacle that somehow reminded Jack of Osmonds whip. Its eyes, one of them adrift, were on different levels. Fat red sores covered its cheeks. Some of its radiation sickness . . . Jason, I think Osmonds boy might have gotten a little too close to one of those fireballs . . . but the rest of it . . . Jason . . . Jesus . . . what was its mother? In the name of all the worlds, WHAT WAS ITS MOTHER? Get the Pretender! Osmond was shrieking. Save Morgans son but get the Pretender! Get the false Jason! Get out here, you cowards! Theyre out of bullets! Roars, bellows. In a moment, Jack knew, a fresh contingent of Wolfs, supported by Assorted Geeks and Freaks, was going to appear from the back end of the long barracks, where they would have been shielded from the explosion, where they had probably been cowering with their heads down, and where they would have remained . . . except for Osmond. Should have stayed off the road, little chicken, Elroy grunted, and ran at the train. His tail was swishing through the air. Reuel Gardeneror whatever Reuel was in this worldmade a thick mewling sound and attempted to follow. Osmond reached out and hauled him back; his fingers, Jack saw, appeared to slide right into the monsterboys slatlike, repulsive neck. Then he raised the Uzi and fired an entire clip, pointblank, into Elroys face. It tore the goatthings entire head off, and yet Elroy, headless, continued to climb for a moment, and one of his hands, the fingers melted together in two clumps to make a parody of a cloven hoof, pawed blindly for Jacks head before it tumbled backward. Jack stared at it, stunnedhe had dreamed that final nightmarish confrontation at the Oatley Tap over and over again, trying to stumble away from the monster through what seemed to be a dark jungle filled with bedsprings and broken glass. Now here was that creature, and he had somehow killed it. It was hard to get his mind around the fact. It was as if he had killed childhoods bogeyman. Richard was screamingand his machinegun roared, nearly deafening Jack. Its Reuel! Oh Jack oh my God oh Jason its Reuel, its Reuel The Uzi in Richards hands coughed out another short burst before falling silent, its clip spent. Reuel shook free of his father. He lurched and hopped toward the train, mewling. His upper lip curled back, revealing long teeth that looked false and flimsy, like the wax teeth children don at Halloween. Richards final burst took him in the chest and neck, punching holes in the brown kiltcumjumper he wore, ripping open flesh in long, ragged furrows. Sluggish rills of dark blood flowed from these wounds, but no more. Reuel might once have been humanJack supposed it was just possible. If so, he was not human now; the bullets did not even slow him down. The thing which leaped clumsily over Elroys body was a demon. It smelled like a wet toadstool. Something was growing warm against Jacks leg. Just warm at first . . . then hot. What was it? Felt like he had a teakettle in his pocket. But he didnt have time to think. Things were unfolding in front of him. In Technicolor. Richard dropped his Uzi and staggered back, clapping his hands to his face. His horrified eyes stared out at the Reuelthing through the bars of his fingers. Dont let him get me, Jack! Dont let him get meeeee. . . . Reuel bubbled and mewled. His hands slapped against the side of the engine and the sound was like large fins slapping down on thick mud. Jack saw there were indeed thick, yellowish webs between the fingers. Come back! Osmond was yelling at his son, and the fear in his voice was unmistakable. Come back, hes bad, hell hurt you, all boys are bad, its axiomatic, come back, come back! Reuel burbled and grunted enthusiastically. He pulled himself up and Richard screamed insanely, backing into the far corner of the cab. DONT LET HIM GET MEEEEEEE More Wolfs, more strange freaks charging around the corner. One of them, a creature with curly rams horns jutting from the sides of its head and wearing only a pair of patched Lil Abner britches, fell down and was trampled by the others. Heat against Jacks leg in a circle. Reuel, now throwing one reedy leg over the side of the cab. It was slobbering, reaching for him, and the leg was writhing, it wasnt a leg at all, it was a tentacle. Jack raised the Uzi and fired. Half of the Reuelthings face sheered away like pudding. A flood of worms began to fall out of what was left. Reuel was still coming. Reaching for him with those webbed fingers. Richards shrieks, Osmonds shrieks merging, melting together into one. Heat like a branding iron against his leg and suddenly he knew what it was, even as Reuels hands squashed down on his shoulders he knewit was the coin Captain Farren had given him, the coin Anders had refused to take. He drove his hand into his pocket. The coin was like a chunk of ore in his handhe made a fist around it, and felt power ram through him in big volts. Reuel felt it, too. His triumphant slobberings and grunts became mewlings of fear. He tried to back away, his one remaining eye rolling wildly. Jack brought the coin out. It glowed redhot in his hand. He felt the heat clearlybut it was not burning him. The profile of the Queen glowed like the sun. In her name, you filthy, aborted thing! Jack shouted. Get you off the skin of this world! He opened his fist and slammed his hand into Reuels forehead. Reuel and his father shrieked in harmonyOsmond a tenorvergingonsoprano, Reuel a buzzing, insectile bass. The coin slid into Reuels forehead like the tip of a hot poker into a tub of butter. A vile dark fluid, the color of overbrewed tea, ran out of Reuels head and over Jacks wrist. The fluid was hot. There were tiny worms in it. They twisted and writhed on Jacks skin. He felt them biting. Nevertheless, he pressed the first two fingers of his right hand harder, driving the coin farther into the monsters head. Get you off the skin of this world, vileness! In the name of the Queen and in the name of her son, get you off the skin of this world! It shrieked and wailed; Osmond shrieked and wailed with it. The reinforcements had stopped and were milling behind Osmond, their faces full of superstitious terror. To them Jack seemed to have grown; he seemed to be giving off a bright light. Reuel jerked. Uttered one more bubbling screech. The black stuff running out of his head turned yellow. A final worm, long and thickly white, wriggled out of the hole the coin had made. It fell to the floor of the engine compartment. Jack stepped on it. It broke open under his heel and splattered. Reuel fell in a wet heap. Now such a screaming wail of grief and fury arose in the dusty stockade yard that Jack thought his skull might actually split open with it. Richard had curled into a fetal ball with his arms wrapped around his head. Osmond was wailing. He had dropped his whip and the machinepistol. Oh, filthy! he cried, shaking his fists at Jack. Look what youve done! Oh, you filthy, bad boy! I hate you, hate you forever and beyond forever! Oh, filthy Pretender! Ill kill you! Morgan will kill you! Oh my darling only son! FILTHY! MORGAN WILL KILL YOU FOR WHAT YOUVE DONE! MORGAN The others took up the cry in a whispering voice, reminding Jack of the boys in the Sunlight Home can you gimme hallelujah. And then they fell silent, because there was the other sound. Jack was tumbled back instantly to the pleasant afternoon he had spent with Wolf, the two of them sitting by the stream, watching the herd graze and drink as Wolf talked about his family. It had been pleasant enough . . . pleasant enough, that is, until Morgan came. And now Morgan was coming againnot flipping over but bludgeoning his way through, raping his way in. Morgan! Its Morgan, Lord Lord of Orris Morgan . . . Morgan . . . Morgan . . . The ripping sound grew louder and louder. The Wolfs were abasing themselves in the dust. Osmond danced a shuffling jig, his black boots trampling the steeltipped rawhide thongs woven into his whip. Bad boy! Filthy boy! Now youll pay! Morgans coming! Morgans coming! The air about twenty feet to Osmonds right began to blur and shimmer, like the air over a burning incinerator. Jack looked around, saw Richard curled up in the litter of machineguns and ammunition and grenades like a very small boy who has fallen asleep while playing war. Only Richard wasnt asleep, he knew, and this was no game, and if Richard saw his father stepping through a hole between the worlds, he feared, Richard would go insane. Jack sprawled beside his friend and wrapped his arms tightly around him. That rippingbedsheet sound grew louder, and suddenly he heard Morgans voice bellow in terrible rage What is the train doing here NOW, you fools? He heard Osmond wail, The filthy Pretender has killed my son! Here we go, Richie, Jack muttered, and tightened his grip around Richards wasted upper body. Time to jump ship. He closed his eyes, concentrated . . . and there was that brief moment of spinning vertigo as the two of them flipped. 37 Richard Remembers 1 There was a sensation of rolling sideways and down, as if there were a short ramp between the two worlds. Dimly, fading, at last wavering into nothingness, Jack heard Osmond screaming, Bad! All boys! Axiomatic! All boys! Filthy! Filthy! For a moment they were in thin air. Richard cried out. Then Jack thudded to the ground on one shoulder. Richards head bounced against his chest. Jack did not open his eyes but only lay there on the ground hugging Richard, listening, smelling. Silence. Not utter and complete, but largeits size counterpointed by two or three singing birds. The smell was cool and salty. A good smell . . . but not as good as the world could smell in the Territories. Even herewherever here wasJack could smell a faint underodor, like the smell of old oil ground into the concrete floors of gasstation garage bays. It was the smell of too many people running too many motors, and it had polluted the entire atmosphere. His nose had been sensitized to it and he could smell it even here, in a place where he could hear no cars. Jack? Are we okay? Sure, Jack said, and opened his eyes to see whether he was telling the truth. His first glance brought a terrifying idea somehow, in his frantic need to get out of there, to get away before Morgan could arrive, he had not flipped them into the American Territories but pushed them somehow forward in time. This seemed to be the same place, but older, now abandoned, as if a century or two had gone by. The train still sat on the tracks, and the train looked just as it had. Nothing else did. The tracks, which crossed the weedy exercise yard they were standing in and went on to God knew where, were old and thick with rust. The crossties looked spongy and rotted. High weeds grew up between them. He tightened his hold on Richard, who squirmed weakly in his grasp and opened his eyes. Where are we? he asked Jack, looking around. There was a long Quonset hut with a rustsplotched corrugatedtin roof where the bunkhousestyle barracks had been. The roof was all either of them could see clearly; the rest was buried in rambling woods ivy and wild weeds. There were a couple of poles in front of it which had perhaps once supported a sign. If so, it was long gone now. I dont know, Jack said, and then, looking at where the obstacle course had beenit was now a barely glimpsed dirt rut overgrown with the remains of wild phlox and goldenrodhe brought out his worst fear I may have pushed us forward in time. To his amazement, Richard laughed. Its good to know nothing much is going to change in the future, then, he said, and pointed to a sheet of paper nailed to one of the posts standing in front of the Quonsetbarracks. It was somewhat weatherfaded but still perfectly readable NO TRESPASSING! By Order of the Mendocino County Sheriffs Department By Order of the California State Police VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED! 2 Well, if you knew where we were, Jack said, feeling simultaneously foolish and very relieved, why did you ask? I just saw it, Richard replied, and any urge Jack might have had to chaff Richard anymore over it blew away. Richard looked awful; he looked as if he had developed some weird tuberculosis which was working on his mind instead of on his lungs. Nor was it just his sanityshaking round trip to the Territories and backhe had actually seemed to be adapting to that. But now he knew something else as well. It wasnt just a reality which was radically different from all of his carefully developed notions; that he might have been able to adapt to, if given world enough and time. But finding out that your dad is one of the guys in the black hats, Jack reflected, can hardly be one of lifes groovier moments. Okay, he said, trying to sound cheerfulhe actually did feel a little cheerful. Getting away from such a monstrosity as Reuel would have made even a kid dying of terminal cancer feel a little cheerful, he figured. Up you go and up you get, Richieboy. Weve got promises we must keep, miles to go before we sleep, and you are still an utter creep. Richard winced. Whoever gave you the idea you had a sense of humor should be shot, chum. Bitez mon crank, mon ami. Where are we going? I dont know, Jack said, but its somewhere around here. I can feel it. Its like a fishhook in my mind. Point Venuti? Jack turned his head and looked at Richard for a long time. Richards tired eyes were unreadable. Why did you ask that, chum? Is that where were going? Jack shrugged. Maybe. Maybe not.


They began walking slowly across the weedgrown parade ground and Richard changed the subject. Was all of that real? They were approaching the rusty double gate. A lane of faded blue sky showed above the green. Was any of it real? We spent a couple of days on an electric train that ran at about twentyfive miles an hour, thirty tops, Jack said, and somehow we got from Springfield, Illinois, into northern California, near the coast. Now you tell me if it was real. Yes . . . yes, but . . . Jack held out his arms. The wrists were covered with angry red weals that itched and smarted. Bites, Jack said. From the worms. The worms that fell out of Reuel Gardeners head. Richard turned away and was noisily sick. Jack held him. Otherwise, he thought, Richard simply would have fallen sprawling. He was appalled at how thin Richard had become, at how hot his flesh felt through his preppy shirt. Im sorry I said that, Jack said when Richard seemed a little better. It was pretty crude. Yeah, it was. But I guess maybe its the only thing that could have . . . you know . . . Convinced you? Yeah. Maybe. Richard looked at him with his naked, wounded eyes. There were now pimples all across his forehead. Sores surrounded his mouth. Jack, I have to ask you something, and I want you to answer me . . . you know, straight. I want to ask you Oh, I know what you want to ask me, Richieboy. In a few minutes, Jack said. Well get to all the questions and as many of the answers as I know in a few minutes. But weve got a piece of business to take care of first. What business? Instead of answering, Jack went over to the little train. He stood there for a moment, looking at it stubby engine, empty boxcar, flatcar. Had he somehow managed to flip this whole thing into northern California? He didnt think so. Flipping with Wolf had been a chore, dragging Richard into the Territories from the Thayer campus had nearly torn his arm out of its socket, and doing both had been a conscious effort on his part. So far as he could remember, he hadnt been thinking of the train at all when he flippedonly getting Richard out of the Wolfs paramilitary training camp before he saw his old man. Everything else had taken a slightly different form when it went from one world into the otherthe act of Migrating seemed to demand an act of translation, as well. Shirts might become jerkins; jeans might become woolen trousers; money might become jointed sticks. But this train looked exactly the same here as it had over there. Morgan had succeeded in creating something which lost nothing in the Migration. Also, they were wearing blue jeans over there, JackO. Yeah. And although Osmond had his trusty whip, he also had a machinepistol. Morgans machinepistol. Morgans train. Chilly gooseflesh rippled up his back. He heard Anders muttering, A bad business. It was that, all right. A very bad business. Anders was right; it was devils all hurtled down together. Jack reached into the engine compartment, got one of the Uzis, slapped a fresh clip into it, and started back toward where Richard stood looking around with pallid, contemplative interest. This looks like an old survivalist camp, he said. You mean the kind of place where soldieroffortune types get ready for World War Three? Yes, sort of. There are quite a few places like that in northern California . . . they spring up and thrive for a while, and then the people lose interest when World War Three doesnt start right away, or they get busted for illegal guns or dope, or something. My . . . my father told me that. Jack said nothing. What are you going to do with the gun, Jack? Im going to try and get rid of that train. Any objections? Richard shuddered; his mouth pulled down in a grimace of distaste. None whatever. Will the Uzi do it, do you think? If I shoot into that plastic junk? One bullet wouldnt. A whole clip might. Lets see. Jack pushed off the safety. Richard grabbed his arm. It might be wise to remove ourselves to the fence before making the experiment, he said. Okay. At the ivycovered fence, Jack trained the Uzi on the flat and squashy packages of plastique. He pulled the trigger, and the Uzi bellowed the silence into rags. Fire hung mystically from the end of the barrel for a moment. The gunfire was shockingly loud in the chapellike silence of the deserted camp. Birds squawked in surprised fear and headed out for quieter parts of the forest. Richard winced and pressed his palms against his ears. The tarpaulin flirted and danced. Then, although he was still pulling the trigger, the gun stopped firing. The clip was exhausted, and the train just sat there on the track. Well, Jack said, that was great. Have you got any other i The flatcar erupted in a sheet of blue fire and a bellowing roar. Jack saw the flatcar actually starting to rise from the track, as if it were taking off. He grabbed Richard around the neck, shoved him down. The explosions went on for a long time. Metal whistled and flew overhead. It made a steady metallic rainshower on the roof of the Quonset hut. Occasionally a larger piece made a sound like a Chinese gong, or a crunch as something really big just punched on through. Then something slammed through the fence just above Jacks head, leaving a hole bigger than both of his fists laced together, and Jack decided it was time to cut out. He grabbed Richard and started pulling him toward the gates. No! Richard shouted. The tracks! What? The tr Something whickered over them and both boys ducked. Their heads knocked together. The tracks! Richard shouted, rubbing his skull with one pale hand. Not the road! Go for the tracks! Gotcha! Jack was mystified but unquestioning. They had to go somewhere. The two boys began to crawl along the rusting chainlink fence like soldiers crossing nomansland. Richard was slightly ahead, leading them toward the hole in the fence where the tracks exited the far side of the compound. Jack looked back over his shoulder as they wenthe could see as much as he needed to, or wanted to, through the partially open gates. Most of the train seemed to have been simply vaporized. Twisted chunks of metal, some recognizable, most not, lay in a wide circle around the place where it had come back to America, where it had been built, bought, and paid for. That they had not been killed by flying shrapnel was amazing; that they had not been even so much as scratched seemed wellnigh impossible. The worst was over now. They were outside the gate, standing up (but ready to duck and run if there were residual explosions). My fathers not going to like it that you blew up his train, Jack, Richard said. His voice was perfectly calm, but when Jack looked at him, he saw that Richard was weeping. Richard No, he wont like it at all, Richard said, as if answering himself. 3 A thick and luxuriant stripe of weeds, kneehigh, grew up the center of the railroad tracks leading away from the camp, leading away in a direction Jack believed to be roughly south. The tracks themselves were rusty and long unused; in places they had twisted strangelyrippled. Earthquakes did that, Jack thought with queasy awe. Behind them, the plastic explosive continued to explode. Jack would think it was finally over, and then there would be another long, hoarse BREEEAPPP!it was, he thought, the sound of a giant clearing its throat. Or breaking wind. He glanced back once and saw a black pall of smoke hanging in the sky. He listened for the thick, heavy crackle of firelike anyone who has lived for any length of time on the California coast, he was afraid of firebut heard none. Even the woods here seemed New Englandy, thick and heavy with moisture. Certainly it was the antithesis of the palebrown country around Baja, with its clear, bonedry air. The woods were almost smug with life; the railway itself was a slowly closing lane between the encroaching trees, shrubs, and ubiquitous ivy (poison ivy, I bet, Jack thought, scratching unconsciously at the bites on his hands), with the faded blue sky an almost matching lane overhead. Even the cinders on the railroad bed were mossy. This place seemed secret, a place for secrets. He set a hard pace, and not only to get the two of them off his track before the cops or the firemen showed up. The pace also assured Richards silence. He was toiling too hard to keep up to talk . . . or ask questions. They had gone perhaps two miles and Jack was still congratulating himself on this conversionstrangling ploy when Richard called out in a tiny, whistling voice, Hey Jack Jack turned just in time to see Richard, who had fallen a bit behind, toppling forward. The blemishes stood out on his paperwhite skin like birthmarks. Jack caught himbarely. Richard seemed to weigh no more than a paper bag. Oh, Christ, Richard! Felt okay until a second or two ago, Richard said in that same tiny, whistling voice. His respiration was very fast, very dry. His eyes were halfclosed. Jack could only see whites and tiny arcs of blue irises. Just got . . . faint. Sorry. From behind them came another heavy, belching explosion, followed by the rattling sound of traindebris falling on the tin roof of the Quonset hut. Jack glanced that way, then anxiously up the tracks. Can you hang on to me? Ill piggyback you a ways. Shades of Wolf, he thought. I can hang on. If you cant, say so. Jack, Richard said with a heartening trace of that old fussy Richardirritation, if I couldnt hang on, I wouldnt say I could. Jack set Richard on his feet. Richard stood there, swaying, looking as if someone could blow once in his face and topple him over backward. Jack turned and squatted, the soles of his sneakers on one of the old rotted ties. He made his arms into thighstirrups, and Richard put his own arms around Jacks neck. Jack got to his feet and started to shag along the crossties at a fast walk that was very nearly a jog. Carrying Richard seemed to be no problem at all, and not just because Richard had lost weight. Jack had been running kegs of beer, carrying cartons, picking apples. He had spent time picking rocks in Sunlight Gardeners Far Field, can you gimme hallelujah. It had toughened him, all of that. But the toughening went deeper into the fiber of his essential self than something as simple and mindless as physical exercise could go. Nor was all of it a simple function of flipping back and forth between the two worlds like an acrobat, or of that other worldgorgeous as it could berubbing off on him like wet paint. Jack recognized in a dim sort of way that he had been trying to do more than simply save his mothers life; from the very beginning he had been trying to do something greater than that. He had been trying to do a good work, and his dim realization now was that such mad enterprises must always be toughening. He did begin to jog. If you make me seasick, Richard said, his voice jiggling in time with Jacks footfalls, Ill just vomit on your head. I knew I could count on you, Richieboy, Jack panted, grinning. I feel . . . extremely foolish up here. Like a human pogo stick. Probably just how you look, chum. Dont . . . call me chum, Richard whispered, and Jacks grin widened. He thought, Oh Richard, you bastard, live forever. 4 I knew that man, Richard whispered from above Jack. It startled him, as if out of a doze. He had picked Richard up ten minutes ago, they had covered another mile, and there was still no sign of civilization of any kind. Just the tracks, and that smell of salt in the air. The tracks, Jack wondered. Do they go where I think they go? What man? The man with the whip and the machinepistol. I knew him. I used to see him around. When? Jack panted. A long time ago. When I was a little kid. Richard then added with great reluctance, Around the time that I had that . . . that funny dream in the closet. He paused. Except I guess it wasnt a dream, was it? No. I guess it wasnt. Yes. Was the man with the whip Reuels dad? What do you think? It was, Richard said glumly. Sure it was. Jack stopped. Richard, where do these tracks go? You know where they go, Richard said with a strange, empty serenity. YeahI think I do. But I want to hear you say it. Jack paused. I guess I need to hear you say it. Where do they go? They go to a town called Point Venuti, Richard said, and he sounded near tears again. Theres a big hotel there. I dont know if its the place youre looking for or not, but I think it probably is. So do I, Jack said. He set off once more, Richards legs in his arms, a growing ache in his back, following the tracks that would take himboth of themto the place where his mothers salvation might be found. 5 As they walked, Richard talked. He did not come on to the subject of his fathers involvement in this mad business all at once, but began to circle slowly in toward it. I knew that man from before, Richard said. Im pretty sure I did. He came to the house. Always to the back of the house. He didnt ring the bell, or knock. He kind of . . . scratched on the door. It gave me the creeps. Scared me so bad I felt like peeing my pants. He was a tall manoh, all grown men seem tall to little kids, but this guy was very talland he had white hair. He wore dark glasses most of the time. Or sometimes the kind of sunglasses that have the mirror lenses. When I saw that story on him they had on Sunday Report, I knew Id seen him somewhere before. My father was upstairs doing some paperwork the night that show was on. I was sitting in front of the tube, and when my father came in and saw what was on, he almost dropped the drink he was holding. Then he changed the station to a Star Trek rerun. Only the guy wasnt calling himself Sunlight Gardener when he used to come and see my father. His name . . . I cant quite remember. But it was something like Banlon . . . or Orlon . . . Osmond? Richard brightened. That was it. I never heard his first name. But he used to come once every month or two. Sometimes more often. Once he came almost every other night, for a week, and then he was gone for almost half a year. I used to lock myself in my room when he came. I didnt like his smell. He wore some kind of scent . . . cologne, I suppose, but it really smelled stronger than that. Like perfume. Cheap dimestore perfume. But underneath it Underneath it he smelled like he hadnt had a bath for about ten years. Richard looked at him, wideeyed. I met him as Osmond, too, Jack explained. He had explained beforeat least some of thisbut Richard had not been listening then. He was listening now. In the Territories version of New Hampshire, before I met him as Sunlight Gardener in Indiana. Then you must have seen that . . . that thing. Reuel? Jack shook his head. Reuel must have been out in the Blasted Lands then, having a few more radical cobalt treatments. Jack thought of the running sores on the creatures face, thought of the worms. He looked at his red, puffy wrists where the worms had bitten, and shuddered. I never saw Reuel until the end, and I never saw his American Twinner at all. How old were you when Osmond started showing up? I must have been four. The thing about the . . . you know, the closet . . . that hadnt happened yet. I remember I was more afraid of him after that. After the thing touched you in the closet. Yes. And that happened when you were five. Yes. When we were both five. Yes. You can put me down. I can walk for a while. Jack did. They walked in silence, heads down, not looking at each other. At five, something had reached out of the dark and touched Richard. When they were both six (six, Jacky was six) Jack had overheard his father and Morgan Sloat talking about a place they went to, a place that Jacky called the Daydreamcountry. And later that year, something had reached out of the dark and had touched him and his mother. It had been nothing more or less than Morgan Sloats voice. Morgan Sloat calling from Green River, Utah. Sobbing. He, Phil Sawyer, and Tommy Woodbine had left three days before on their yearly November hunting tripanother college chum, Randy Glover, owned a luxurious hunting lodge in Blessington, Utah. Glover usually hunted with them, but that year he had been cruising in the Caribbean. Morgan called to say that Phil had been shot, apparently by another hunter. He and Tommy Woodbine had packed him out of the wilderness on a lashedtogether stretcher. Phil had regained consciousness in the back of Glovers Jeep Cherokee, Morgan said, and had asked that Morgan send his love to Lily and Jack. He died fifteen minutes later, as Morgan drove wildly toward Green River and the nearest hospital. Morgan had not killed Phil; there was Tommy to testify that the three of them had been together when the shot rang out, if any testimony had ever been required (and, of course, none ever was). But that was not to say he couldnt have hired it done, Jack thought now. And it was not to say that Uncle Tommy might not have harbored his own long doubts about what had happened. If so, maybe Uncle Tommy hadnt been killed just so that Jack and his dying mother would be totally unprotected from Morgans depredations. Maybe he had died because Morgan was tired of wondering if the old faggot might finally hint to the surviving son that there might have been more to Phil Sawyers death than an accident. Jack felt his skin crawl with dismay and revulsion. Was that man around before your father and my father went hunting together that last time? Jack asked fiercely. Jack, I was four years old No, you werent, you were six. You were four when he started coming, you were six when my father got killed in Utah. And you dont forget much, Richard. Did he come around before my father died? That was the time he came almost every night for a week, Richard said, his voice barely audible. Just before that last hunting trip. Although none of this was precisely Richards fault, Jack was unable to contain his bitterness. My dad dead in a hunting accident in Utah, Uncle Tommy run down in L.A. The deathrate among your fathers friends is very fucking high, Richard. Jack Richard began in a small, trembling voice. I mean its all water over the dam, or spilled milk, or pick your clich, Jack said. But when I showed up at your school, Richard, you called me crazy. Jack, you dont under No, I guess I dont. I was tired and you gave me a place to sleep. Fine. I was hungry and you got me some food. Great. But what I needed most was for you to believe me. I knew it was too much to expect, but jeepers! You knew the guy I was talking about! You knew hed been in your fathers life before! And you just said something like Good old Jacks been spending too much time in the hot sun out there on Seabrook Island and blahblahblah! Jesus, Richard, I thought we were better friends than that. You still dont understand. What? That you were too afraid of Seabrook Island stuff to believe in me a little? Jacks voice wavered with tired indignation. No. I was afraid of more than that. Oh yeah? Jack stopped and looked at Richards pale, miserable face truculently. What could be more than that for Rational Richard? I was afraid, Richard said in a perfectly calm voice. I was afraid that if I knew any more about those secret pockets . . . that man Osmond, or what was in the closet that time, I wouldnt be able to love my father anymore. And I was right. Richard covered his face with his thin, dirty fingers and began to cry. 6 Jack stood watching Richard cry and damned himself for twenty kinds of fool. No matter what else Morgan was, he was still Richard Sloats father; Morgans ghost lurked in the shape of Richards hands and in the bones of Richards face. Had he forgotten those things? Nobut for a moment his bitter disappointment in Richard had covered them up. And his increasing nervousness had played a part. The Talisman was very, very close now, and he felt it in his nerveendings the way a horse smells water in the desert or a distant grassfire in the plains. That nerviness was coming out in a kind of prancy skittishness. Yeah, well, this guys supposed to be your best buddy, JackOget a little funky if you have to, but dont trample Richard. The kids sick, just in case you hadnt noticed. He reached for Richard. Richard tried to push him away. Jack was having none of that. He held Richard. The two of them stood that way in the middle of the deserted railroad bed for a while, Richards head on Jacks shoulder. Listen, Jack said awkwardly, try not to worry too much about . . . you know . . . everything . . . just yet, Richard. Just kind of try to roll with the changes, you know? Boy, that sounded really stupid. Like telling somebody they had cancer but dont worry because pretty soon were going to put Star Wars on the VCR and itll cheer you right up. Sure, Richard said. He pushed away from Jack. The tears had cut clean tracks on his dirty face. He wiped an arm across his eyes and tried to smile. A wi be well an a wi be well An a manner a things wi be well, Jack chimed inthey finished together, then laughed together, and that was all right. Come on, Richard said. Lets go. Where? To get your Talisman, Richard said. The way youre talking, it must be in Point Venuti. Its the next town up the line. Come on, Jack. Lets get going. But walk slowIm not done talking yet. Jack looked at him curiously, and then they started walking againbut slowly. 7 Now that the dam had broken and Richard had allowed himself to begin remembering things, he was an unexpected fountain of information. Jack began to feel as if he had been working a jigsaw puzzle without knowing that several of the most important pieces were missing. It was Richard who had had most of those pieces all along. Richard had been in the survivalist camp before; that was the first piece. His father had owned it. Are you sure it was the same place, Richard? Jack asked doubtfully. Im sure, Richard said. It even looked a little familiar to me on the other side, there. When we got back over . . . over here . . . I was sure. Jack nodded, unsure what else to do. We used to stay in Point Venuti. Thats where we always stayed before we came here. The train was a big treat. I mean, how many dads have their own private train? Not many, Jack said. I guess Diamond Jim Brady and some of those guys had private trains, but I dont know if they were dads or not. Oh, my dad wasnt in their league, Richard said, laughing a little, and Jack thought Richard, you might be surprised. Wed drive up to Point Venuti from L.A. in a rental car. There was a motel we stayed at. Just the two of us. Richard stopped. His eyes had gone misty with love and remembering. Thenafter we hung out there for a whilewed take my dads train up to Camp Readiness. It was just a little train. He looked at Jack, startled. Like the one we came on, I guess. Camp Readiness? But Richard appeared not to have heard him. He was looking at the rusted tracks. They were whole here, but Jack thought Richard might be remembering the twisted ripples they had passed some way back. In a couple of places the ends of railsections actually curved up into the air, like broken guitarstrings. Jack guessed that in the Territories those tracks would be in fine shape, neatly and lovingly maintained. See, there used to be a trolley line here, Richard said. This was back in the thirties, my father said. The Mendocino County Red Line. Only it wasnt owned by the county, it was owned by a private company, and they went broke, because in California . . . you know . . . Jack nodded. In California, everyone used cars. Richard, why didnt you ever tell me about this place? That was the one thing my dad said never to tell you. You and your parents knew we sometimes took vacations in northern California and he said that was all right, but I wasnt to tell you about the train, or Camp Readiness. He said if I told, Phil would be mad because it was a secret. Richard paused. He said if I told, hed never take me again. I thought it was because they were supposed to be partners. I guess it was more than that. The trolley line went broke because of the cars and the freeways. He paused thoughtfully. That was one thing about the place you took me to, Jack. Weird as it was, it didnt stink of hydrocarbons. I could get into that. Jack nodded again, saying nothing. The trolley company finally sold the whole linegrandfather clause and allto a development company. They thought people would start to move inland, too. Except it didnt happen. Then your father bought it. Yes, I guess so. I dont really know. He never talked much about buying the line . . . or how he replaced the trolley tracks with these railroad tracks. That would have taken a lot of work, Jack thought, and then he thought of the orepits, and Morgan of Orriss apparently unlimited supply of slave labor. I know he replaced them, but only because I got a book on railroads and found out theres a difference in gauge. Trolleys run on tengauge track. This is sixteengauge. Jack knelt, and yes, he could see a very faint double indentation inside the existing tracksthat was where the trolley tracks had been. He had a little red train, Richard said dreamily. Just an engine and two cars. It ran on diesel fuel. He used to laugh about it and say that the only thing that separated the men from the boys was the price of their toys. There was an old trolley station on the hill above Point Venuti, and wed go up there in the rental car and park and go on in. I remember how that station smelledkind of old, but nice . . . full of old sunlight, sort of. And the train would be there. And my dad . . . hed say, All aboard for Camp Readiness, Richard! You got your ticket? And thered be lemonade . . . or iced tea . . . and we sat up in the cab . . . sometimes hed have stuff . . . supplies . . . behind . . . but wed sit up front . . . and . . . and . . . Richard swallowed hard and swiped a hand across his eyes. And it was a nice time, he finished. Just him and me. It was pretty cool. He looked around, his eyes shiny with unshed tears. There was a plate to turn the train around at Camp Readiness, he said. Back in those days. The old days. Richard uttered a terrible strangled sob. Richard Jack tried to touch him. Richard shook him off and stepped away, brushing tears from his cheeks with the backs of his hands. Wasnt so grownup then, he said, smiling. Trying to. Nothing was so grownup then, was it, Jack? No, Jack said, and now he found he was crying himself. Oh Richard. Oh my dear one. No, Richard said, smiling, looking around at the encroaching woods and brushing the tears away with the dirty backs of his hands, nothing was so grownup back then. In the old days, when we were just kids. Back when we all lived in California and nobody lived anywhere else. He looked at Jack, trying to smile. Jack, help me, he said. I feel like my leg is caught in some stuhstupid truhtruhhap and I . . . I . . . Then Richard fell on his knees with his hair in his tired face, and Jack got down there with him, and I can bear to tell you no moreonly that they comforted each other as well as they could, and, as you probably know from your own bitter experience, that is never quite good enough. 8 The fence was new back then, Richard said when he could continue speaking. They had walked on a ways. A whippoorwill sang from a tall sturdy oak. The smell of salt in the air was stronger. I remember that. And the signCAMP READINESS, thats what it said. There was an obstacle course, and ropes to climb, and other ropes that you hung on to and then swung over big puddles of water. It looked sort of like bootcamp in a World War Two movie about the Marines. But the guys using the equipment didnt look much like Marines. They were fat, and they were all dressed the samegray sweatsuits with CAMP READINESS written on the chest in small letters, and red piping on the sides of the sweatpants. They all looked like they were going to have heartattacks or strokes any minute. Maybe both at the same time. Sometimes we stayed overnight. A couple of times we stayed the whole weekend. Not in the Quonset hut; that was like a barracks for the guys who were paying to get in shape. If thats what they were doing. Yeah, right. If thats what they were doing. Anyway, we stayed in a big tent and slept on cots. It was a blast. Again, Richard smiled wistfully. But youre right, Jacknot all the guys shagging around the place looked like businessmen trying to get in shape. The others What about the others? Jack asked quietly. Some of thema lot of themlooked like those big hairy creatures in the other world, Richard said in a low voice Jack had to strain to hear. The Wolfs. I mean, they looked sort of like regular people, but not too much. They looked . . . rough. You know? Jack nodded. He knew. I remember I was a little afraid to look into their eyes very closely. Every now and then thered be these funny flashes of light in them . . . like their brains were on fire. Some of the others . . . A light of realization dawned in Richards eyes. Some of the others looked like that substitute basketball coach I told you about. The one who wore the leather jacket and smoked. How far is this Point Venuti, Richard? I dont know, exactly. But we used to do it in a couple of hours, and the train never went very fast. Running speed, maybe, but not much more. It cant be much more than twenty miles from Camp Readiness, all told. Probably a little less. Then were maybe fifteen miles or less from it. From (from the Talisman) Yeah. Right. Jack looked up as the day darkened. As if to show that the pathetic fallacy wasnt so pathetic after all, the sun now sailed behind a deck of clouds. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees and the day seemed to grow dullthe whippoorwill fell silent. 9 Richard saw the sign firsta simple whitewashed square of wood painted with black letters. It stood on the left side of the tracks, and ivy had grown up its post, as if it had been here for a very long time. The sentiment, however, was quite current. It read GOOD BIRDS MAY FLY; BAD BOYS MUST DIE. THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE GO HOME. You can go, Richie, Jack said quietly. Its okay by me. Theyll let you go, no sweat. None of this is your business. I think maybe it is, Richard said. I dragged you into it. No, Richard said. My father dragged me into it. Or fate dragged me into it. Or God. Or Jason. Whoever it was, Im sticking. All right, Jack said. Lets go. As they passed the sign, Jack lashed out with one foot in a passably good kungfu kick and knocked it over. Way to go, chum, Richard said, smiling a little. Thanks. But dont call me chum. 10 Although he had begun to look wan and tired again, Richard talked for the next hour as they walked down the tracks and into the steadily strengthening smell of the Pacific Ocean. He spilled out a flood of reminiscences that had been bottled up inside of him for years. Although his face didnt reveal it, Jack was stunned with amazement . . . and a deep, welling pity for the lonely child, eager for the last scrap of his fathers affection, that Richard was revealing to him, inadvertently or otherwise. He looked at Richards pallor, the sores on his cheeks and forehead and around his mouth; listened to that tentative, almost whispering voice that nevertheless did not hesitate or falter now that the chance to tell all these things had finally come; and was glad once more that Morgan Sloat had never been his father. He told Jack that he remembered landmarks all along this part of the railroad. They could see the roof of a barn over the trees at one point, with a faded ad for Chesterfield Kings on it.  Twenty great tobaccos make twenty wonderful smokes,  Richard said, smiling. Only, in those days you could see the whole barn. He pointed out a big pine with a double top, and fifteen minutes later told Jack, There used to be a rock on the other side of this hill that looked just like a frog. Lets see if its still there. It was, and Jack supposed it did look like a frog. A little. If you stretched your imagination.


And maybe it helps to be three. Or four. Or seven. Or however old he was. Richard had loved the railroad, and had thought Camp Readiness was really neat, with its track to run on and its hurdles to jump over and its ropes to climb. But he hadnt liked Point Venuti itself. After some selfprodding, Richard even remembered the name of the motel at which he and his father had stayed during their time in the little coastal town. The Kingsland Motel, he said . . . and Jack found that name did not surprise him much at all. The Kingsland Motel, Richard said, was just down the road from the old hotel his father always seemed interested in. Richard could see the hotel from his window, and he didnt like it. It was a huge, rambling place with turrets and gables and gambrels and cupolas and towers; brass weathervanes in strange shapes twirled from all of the latter. They twirled even when there was no wind, Richard saidhe could clearly remember standing at the window of his room and watching them go around and around and around, strange brass creations shaped like crescent moons and scarab beetles and Chinese ideograms, winking in the sun while the ocean foamed and roared below. Ah yes, doc, it all comes back to me now, Jack thought. It was deserted? Jack asked. Yes. For sale. What was its name? The Agincourt. Richard paused, then added another childs colorthe one most small children are apt to leave in the box. It was black. It was made of wood, but the wood looked like stone. Old black stone. And thats what my father and his friends called it. The Black Hotel. 11 It was partlybut not entirelyto divert Richard that Jack asked, Did your father buy that hotel? Like he did Camp Readiness? Richard thought about it awhile and then nodded. Yes, he said. I think he did. After a while. There was a For Sale sign on the gates in front of the place when he first started taking me there, but one time when we went there it was just gone. But you never stayed there? God, no! Richard shuddered. The only way he could have gotten me in there would have been with a towing chain . . . even then I might not have gone. Never even went in? No. Never did, never will. Ah, Richieboy, didnt anyone ever teach you to never say never? That goes for your father as well? He never even went in? Not to my knowledge, Richard said in his best professorial voice. His forefinger went to the bridge of his nose, as if to push up the glasses that werent there. Id be willing to bet he never went in. He was as scared of it as I was. But with me, thats all I felt . . . just scared. For my father, there was something more. He was . . . Was what? Reluctantly, Richard said, He was obsessed with the place, I think. Richard paused, eyes vague, thinking back. Hed go and stand in front of it every day we were in Point Venuti. And I dont mean just for a couple of minutes, or something like thathed stand in front of it for, like, three hours. Sometimes more. He was alone most of those times. But not always. He had . . . strange friends. Wolfs? I guess so, Richard said, almost angrily. Yeah, I guess some of them could have been Wolfs, or whatever you call them. They looked uncomfortable in their clothesthey were always scratching themselves, usually in those places where nice people arent supposed to scratch. Others looked like the substitute coach. Kind of hard and mean. Some of those guys I used to see out at Camp Readiness, too. Ill tell you one thing, Jackthose guys were even more scared of that place than my father was. They just about cringed when they got near it. Sunlight Gardener? Was he ever there? Uhhuh, Richard said. But in Point Venuti he looked more like the man we saw over there. . . . Like Osmond. Yes. But those people didnt come very often. Mostly it was just my father, by himself. Sometimes hed get the restaurant at our motel to pack him some sandwiches, and hed sit on a sidewalk bench and eat his lunch looking at the hotel. I stood at the window in the lobby of the Kingsland and looked at my father looking at the hotel. I never liked his face at those times. He looked afraid, but he also looked like . . . like he was gloating. Gloating, Jack mused. Sometimes he asked me if I wanted to come with him, and I always said no. Hed nod and I remember once he said, Therell be time. Youll understand everything, Rich . . . in time. I remember thinking that if it was about that black hotel, I didnt want to understand. Once, Richard said, when he was drunk, he said there was something inside that place. He said it had been there for a long time. We were lying in our beds, I remember. The wind was high that night. I could hear the waves hitting the beach, and the squeaky sound of those weathervanes turning on top of the Agincourts towers. It was a scary sound. I thought about that place, all those rooms, all of them empty Except for the ghosts, Jack muttered. He thought he heard footsteps and looked quickly behind them. Nothing; no one. The roadbed was deserted for as far as he could see. Thats right; except for the ghosts, Richard agreed. So I said, Is it valuable, Daddy?  Its the most valuable thing there is, he said.  Then some junkie will probably break in and steal it, I said. It wasnthow can I say this?it wasnt a subject I wanted to pursue, but I didnt want him to go to sleep, either. Not with that wind blowing outside, and the sound of those vanes squeaking in the night. He laughed, and I heard a clink as he poured himself a little more bourbon from the bottle on the floor.  Nobody is going to steal it, Rich, he said. And any junkie who went into the Agincourt would see things he never saw before. He drank his drink, and I could tell he was getting sleepy. Only one person in the whole world could ever touch that thing, and hell never even get close to it, Rich. I can guarantee that. One thing that interests me is that its the same over there as over here. It doesnt changeat least, as far as I can tell, it doesnt change. Id like to have it, but Im not even going to try, at least not now, and maybe not ever. I could do things with ityou bet!but on the whole, I think I like the thing best right where it is. I was getting sleepy myself by then, but I asked him what it was that he kept talking about. What did he say? Jack asked, drymouthed. He called it Richard hesitated, frowning in thought. He called it the axle of all possible worlds. Then he laughed. Then he called it something else. Something you wouldnt like. What was that? Itll make you mad. Come on, Richard, spill it. He called it . . . well . . . he called it Phil Sawyers folly.  It was not anger he felt but a burst of hot, dizzying excitement. That was it, all right; that was the Talisman. The axle of all possible worlds. How many worlds? God alone knew. The American Territories; the Territories themselves; the hypothetical Territories Territories; and on and on, like the stripes coming ceaselessly up and out of a turning barber pole. A universe of worlds, a dimensional macrocosm of worldsand in all of them one thing that was always the same; one unifying force that was undeniably good, even if it now happened to be imprisoned in an evil place; the Talisman, axle of all possible worlds. And was it also Phil Sawyers folly? Probably so. Phils folly . . . Jacks folly . . . Morgan Sloats . . . Gardeners . . . and the hope, of course, of two Queens. Its more than Twinners, he said in a low voice. Richard had been plodding along, watching the rotted ties disappear beneath his feet. Now he looked nervously up at Jack. Its more than Twinners, because there are more than two worlds. There are triplets . . . quadruplets . . . who knows? Morgan Sloat here; Morgan of Orris over there; maybe Morgan, Duke of Azreel, somewhere else. But he never went inside the hotel! I dont know what youre talking about, Richard said in a resigned voice. But Im sure youll go right on, anyway, that resigned tone said, progressing from nonsense to outright insanity. All aboard for Seabrook Island! He cant go inside. That is, Morgan of California cantand do you know why? Because Morgan of Orris cant. And Morgan of Orris cant because Morgan of California cant. If one of them cant go into his version of the black hotel, then none of them can. Do you see? No. Jack, feverish with discovery, didnt hear what Richard said at all. Two Morgans, or dozens. It doesnt matter. Two Lilys, or dozensdozens of Queens in dozens of worlds, Richard, think of that! How does that mess your mind? Dozens of black hotelsonly in some worlds it might be a black amusement park . . . or a black trailer court . . . or I dont know what. But Richard He stopped, turned Richard by the shoulders, and stared at him, his eyes blazing. Richard tried to draw away from him for a moment, and then stopped, entranced by the fiery beauty on Jacks face. Suddenly, briefly, Richard believed that all things might be possible. Suddenly, briefly, he felt healed. What? he whispered. Some things are not excluded. Some people are not excluded. They are . . . well . . . singlenatured. Thats the only way I can think of to say it. They are like itthe Talisman. Singlenatured. Me. Im singlenatured. I had a Twinner, but he died. Not just in the Territories world, but in all worlds but this one. I know thatI feel that. My dad knew it, too. I think thats why he called me Travelling Jack. When Im here, Im not there. When Im there, Im not here. And Richard, neither are you! Richard stared at him, speechless. You dont remember; you were mostly in Freakout City while I was talking to Anders. But he said Morgan of Orris had a boychild. Rushton. Do you know what he was? Yes, Richard whispered. He was still unable to pull his eyes away from Jacks. He was my Twinner. Thats right. The little boy died, Anders said. The Talisman is singlenatured. Were singlenatured. Your father isnt. Ive seen Morgan of Orris in that other world, and hes like your father, but hes not your father. He couldnt go into the black hotel, Richard. He cant now. But he knew you were singlenatured, just as he knows I am. Hed like me dead. He needs you on his side. Because then, if he decided he did want the Talisman, he could always send you in to get it, couldnt he? Richard began to tremble. Never mind, Jack said grimly. He wont have to worry about it. Were going to bring it out, but hes not going to have it. Jack, I dont think I can go into that place, Richard said, but he spoke in a low, strengthless whisper, and Jack, who was already walking on, didnt hear him. Richard trotted to catch up. 12 Conversation lapsed. Noon came and went. The woods had become very silent, and twice Jack had seen trees with strange, gnarly trunks and tangled roots growing quite close to the tracks. He did not much like the looks of these trees. They looked familiar. Richard, staring at the ties as they disappeared beneath his feet, at last stumbled and fell over, hitting his head. After that, Jack piggybacked him again. There, Jack! Richard called, after what seemed an eternity. Up ahead, the tracks disappeared into an old carbarn. The doors hung open on a shadowy darkness that looked dull and motheaten. Beyond the carbarn (which might once have been as pleasant as Richard had said, but which only looked spooky to Jack now) was a highway101, Jack guessed. Beyond that, the oceanhe could hear the pounding waves. I guess were here, he said in a dry voice. Almost, Richard said. Point Venutis a mile or so down the road. God, I wish we didnt have to go there, Jack . . . Jack? Where are you going? But Jack didnt look around. He stepped off the tracks, detoured around one of those strangelooking trees (this one not even shrubhigh), and headed for the road. High grasses and weeds brushed his roadbattered jeans. Something inside the trolleybarnMorgan Sloats private trainstation of yoremoved with a nasty slithering bump, but Jack didnt even look toward it. He reached the road, crossed it, and walked to the edge. 13 Near the middle of December in the year 1981, a boy named Jack Sawyer stood where the water and the land came together, hands in the pockets of his jeans, looking out at the steady Pacific. He was twelve years old and extraordinarily beautiful for his age. His brown hair was longprobably too longbut the seabreeze swept it back from a fine, clear brow. He stood thinking of his mother, who was dying, and of friends, both absent and present, and worlds within worlds, turning in their courses. Ive come the distance, he thought, and shivered. Coast to coast with Travelling Jack Sawyer. His eyes abruptly filled with tears. He breathed deeply of the salt. Here he wasand the Talisman was close by. Jack! Jack didnt look at him at first; his gaze was held by the Pacific, by the sunlight gleaming gold on top of the waves. He was here; he had made it. He Jack! Richard struck his shoulder, bringing him out of his daze. Huh? Look! Richard was gaping, pointing at something down the road, in the direction in which Point Venuti presumably lay. Look there! Jack looked. He understood Richards surprise, but he felt none himselfor no more than he had felt when Richard had told him the name of the motel where he and his father had stayed in Point Venuti. No, not much surprise, but But it was damned good to see his mother again. Her face was twenty feet high, and it was a younger face than Jack could remember. It was Lily as she had looked at the height of her career. Her hair, a glorious bebop shade of brassy blond, was pulled back in a Tuesday Weld ponytail. Her insouciant gotohell grin was, however, all her own. No one else in films had ever smiled that wayshe had invented it, and she still held the patent. She was looking back over one bare shoulder. At Jack . . . at Richard . . . at the blue Pacific. It was his mother . . . but when he blinked, the face changed the slightest bit. The line of chin and jaw grew rounder, the cheekbones less pronounced, the hair darker, the eyes an even deeper blue. Now it was the face of Laura DeLoessian, mother of Jason. Jack blinked again, and it was his mother againhis mother at twentyeight, grinning her cheerful fuckyaifyoucanttakeajoke defiance at the world. It was a billboard. Across the top of it ran this legend THIRD ANNUAL KILLER B FILM FESTIVAL POINT VENUTI, CALIFORNIA BITKER THEATER DECEMBER 10THDECEMBER 20TH THIS YEAR FEATURING LILY CAVANAUGH QUEEN OF THE BS Jack, its your mother, Richard said. His voice was hoarse with awe. Is it just a coincidence? It cant be, can it? Jack shook his head. No, not a coincidence. The word his eyes kept fixing on, of course, was QUEEN. Come on, he said to Richard. I think were almost there. The two of them walked side by side down the road toward Point Venuti. 38 The End of the Road 1 Jack inspected Richards drooping posture and glistening face carefully as they walked along. Richard now looked as though he were dragging himself along on will power alone. A few more wetlooking pimples had blossomed on his face. Are you okay, Richie? No. I dont feel too good. But I can still walk, Jack. You dont have to carry me. He bent his head and plodded glumly on. Jack saw that his friend, who had so many memories of that peculiar little railway and that peculiar little station, was suffering far more than he from the reality that now existedrusty, broken ties, weeds, poison ivy . . . and at the end, a ramshackle building from which all the bright, remembered paint had faded, a building where something slithered uneasily in the dark. I feel like my leg is caught in some stupid trap, Richard had said, and Jack thought he could understand that well enough . . . but not with the depth of Richards understanding. That was more understanding than he was sure he could bear. A slice of Richards childhood had been burned out of him, turned insideout. The railway and the dead station with its staring glassless windows must have seemed like dreadful parodies of themselves to Richardyet more bits of the past destroyed in the wake of everything he was learning or admitting about his father. Richards entire life, as much as Jacks, had begun to fold into the pattern of the Territories, and Richard had been given much less preparation for this transformation. 2 As for what he had told Richard about the Talisman, Jack would have sworn it was the truththe Talisman knew they were coming. He had begun feeling it just about when he had seen the billboard shining out with his mothers picture; now the feeling was urgent and powerful. It was as if a great animal had awakened some miles away, and its purring made the earth resonate . . . or as if every single bulb inside a hundredstory building just over the horizon had just gone on, making a blaze of light strong enough to conceal the stars . . . or as if someone had switched on the biggest magnet in the world, which was tugging at Jacks belt buckle, at the change in his pockets and the fillings in his teeth, and would not be satisfied until it had pulled him into its heart. That great animal purring, that sudden and drastic illumination, that magnetic yearningall these echoed in Jacks chest. Something out there, something in the direction of Point Venuti, wanted Jack Sawyer, and what Jack Sawyer chiefly knew of the object calling him so viscerally was that it was big. Big. No small thing could own such power. It was elephantsized, citysized. And Jack wondered about his capacity to handle something so monumental. The Talisman had been imprisoned in a magical and sinister old hotel; presumably it had been put there not only to keep it from evil hands but at least in part because it was hard for anybody to handle it, whatever his intentions. Maybe, Jack wondered, Jason had been the only being capable of handling itcapable of dealing with it without doing harm either to himself or to the Talisman itself. Feeling the strength and urgency of its call to him, Jack could only hope that he would not weaken before the Talisman.  Youll understand, Rich,  Richard surprised him by saying. His voice was dull and low. My father said that. He said Id understand. Youll understand, Rich.  Yeah, Jack said, looking worriedly at his friend. How are you feeling, Richard? In addition to the sores surrounding his mouth, Richard now had a collection of angrylooking raised red dots or bumps across his pimply forehead and his temples. It was as though a swarm of insects had managed to burrow just under the surface of his protesting skin. For a moment Jack had a flash of Richard Sloat on the morning he had climbed in his window at Nelson House, Thayer School; Richard Sloat with his glasses riding firmly on the bridge of his nose and his sweater tucked neatly into his pants. Would that maddeningly correct, unbudgeable boy ever return? I can still walk, Richard said. But is this what he meant? Is this the understanding I was supposed to get, or have, or whatever the hell . . . ? Youve got something new on your face, Jack said. You want to rest for a while? Naw, Richard said, still speaking from the bottom of a muddy barrel. And I can feel that rash. It itches. I think I got it all over my back, too. Let me see, Jack said. Richard stopped in the middle of the road, obedient as a dog. He closed his eyes and breathed through his mouth. The red spots blazed on his forehead and temples. Jack stepped behind him, raised his jacket, and lifted the back of his stained and dirty blue buttondown shirt. The spots were smaller here, not as raised or as angrylooking; they spread from Richards thin shoulder blades to the small of his back, no larger than ticks. Richard let out a big dispirited unconscious sigh. You got em there, but its not so bad, Jack said. Thanks, Richard said. He inhaled, lifted his head. Overhead the gray sky seemed heavy enough to come crashing to earth. The ocean seethed against the rocks, far down the rough slope. Its only a couple of miles, really, Richard said. Ill make it. Ill piggyback you when you need it, Jack said, unwittingly exposing his conviction that before long Richard would need to be carried again. Richard shook his head and made an inefficient stab at shoving his shirt back in his trousers. Sometimes I think I . . . sometimes I think I cant Were going to go into that hotel, Richard, Jack said, putting his arm through Richards and halfforcing him to step forward. You and me. Together. I dont have the faintest idea of what happens once we get in there, but you and I are going in. No matter who tries to stop us. Just remember that. Richard gave him a look halffearful, halfgrateful. Now Jack could see the irregular outlines of future bumps crowding beneath the surface of Richards cheeks. Again he was conscious of a powerful force pulling at him, forcing him along as he had forced Richard. You mean my father, Richard said. He blinked, and Jack thought he was trying not to cryexhaustion had magnified Richards emotions. I mean everything, Jack said, not quite truthfully. Lets get going, old pal. But what am I supposed to understand? I dont get Richard looked around, blinking his unprotected eyes. Most of the world, Jack remembered, was a blur to Richard. You understand a lot more already, Richie, Jack pointed out. And then for a moment a disconcertingly bitter smile twisted Richards mouth. He had been made to understand a great deal more than he had ever wished to know, and his friend found himself momentarily wishing that he had run away from Thayer School in the middle of the night by himself. But the moment in which he might have preserved Richards innocence was far behind him, if it had ever really existedRichard was a necessary part of Jacks mission. He felt strong hands fold around his heart Jasons hands, the Talismans hands. Were on our way, he said, and Richard settled back into the rhythm of his strides. Were going to see my dad down there in Point Venuti, arent we? he asked. Jack said, Im going to take care of you, Richard. Youre the herd now. What? Nobodys going to hurt you, not unless you scratch yourself to death. Richard muttered to himself as they plodded along. His hands slid over his inflamed temples, rubbing and rubbing. Now and then he dug his fingers in his hair, scratched himself like a dog, and grunted in an only partially fulfilled satisfaction. 3 Shortly after Richard lifted his shirt, revealing the red blotches on his back, they saw the first of the Territories trees. It grew on the inland side of the highway, its tangle of dark branches and column of thick, irregular bark emerging from a reddish, waxy tangle of poison ivy. Knotholes in the bark gaped, mouths or eyes, at the boys. Down in the thick mat of poison ivy a rustling, rustling of unsatisfied roots agitated the waxy leaves above them, as if a breeze blew through them. Jack said, Lets cross the road, and hoped that Richard had not seen the tree. Behind him he could still hear the thick, rubbery roots prowling through the stems of the ivy. Is that a BOY? Could that be a BOY up there? A SPECIAL boy perhaps? Richards hands flew from his sides to his shoulders to his temples to his scalp. On his cheeks, the second wave of raised bumps resembled horrormovie makeuphe could have been a juvenile monster from one of Lily Cavanaughs old films. Jack saw that on the backs of Richards hands the red bumps of the rash had begun to grow together into great red welts. Can you really keep going, Richard? he asked. Richard nodded. Sure. For a while. He squinted back across the road. That wasnt a regular tree, was it? I never saw a tree like that before, not even in a book. It was a Territories tree, wasnt it?  Fraid so, Jack said. That means the Territories are really close, doesnt it? I guess it does. So therell be more of those trees up ahead, wont there? If you know the answers, why ask the questions? Jack asked. Oh Jason, what a dumb thing to say. Im sorry, RichieI guess I was hoping that you didnt see it. Yeah, I suppose therell be more of them up there. Lets just not get too close to them. In any case, Jack thought, up there was hardly an accurate way to describe where they were going the highway slid resolutely down a steady grade, and every hundred feet seemed to take it farther from the light. Everything seemed invaded by the Territories. Could you take a look at my back? Richard asked. Sure. Jack again lifted Richards shirt. He kept himself from saying anything, though his instinct was to groan. Richards back was now covered with raised red blotches which seemed almost to radiate heat. Its a little worse, he said. I thought it had to be. Only a little, huh? Only a little. Before long, Jack thought, Richard was going to look one hell of a lot like an alligator suitcaseAlligator Boy, son of Elephant Man. Two of the trees grew together a short way ahead, their warty trunks twisted around each other in a way that suggested violence more than love. As Jack stared at them while they hurried past, he thought he saw the black holes in the bark mouthing at them, blowing curses or kisses and he knew that he heard the roots gnashing together at the base of the joined trees. (BOY! A BOYs out there! OUR boys out there!) Though it was only midafternoon, the air was dark, oddly grainy, like an old newspaper photograph. Where grass had grown on the inland side of the highway, where Queen Annes lace had bloomed delicately and whitely, low unrecognizable weeds blanketed the earth. With no blossoms and few leaves, they resembled snakes coiled together and smelled faintly of diesel oil. Occasionally the sun flared through the granular murk like a dim orange fire. Jack was reminded of a photograph he had once seen of Gary, Indiana, at nighthellish flames feeding on poison in a black, poisoned sky. From down there the Talisman pulled at him as surely as if it were a giant with its hands on his clothes. The nexus of all possible worlds. He would take Richard into that helland fight for his life with all his strengthif he had to haul him along by the ankles. And Richard must have seen this determination in Jack, for, scratching at his sides and shoulders, he toiled along beside him. Im going to do this, Jack said to himself, and tried to ignore how greatly he was merely trying to bolster his courage. If I have to go through a dozen different worlds, Im going to do it. 4 Three hundred yards farther down the road a stand of the ugly Territories trees hovered by the side of the highway like muggers. As he passed by on the other side of the road, Jack glanced at their coiling roots and saw halfembedded in the earth through which they wove a small bleached skeleton, once a boy of eight or nine, still wearing a moldering greenandblack plaid shirt. Jack swallowed and hurried on, trailing Richard behind like a pet on a leash. 5 A few minutes later Jack Sawyer beheld Point Venuti for the first time. 39 Point Venuti 1 Point Venuti hung low in the landscape, clinging to the sides of the cliff leading down to the ocean. Behind it, another range of cliffs rose massively but raggedly into the dark air. They looked like ancient elephants, hugely wrinkled. The road led down past high wooden walls until it turned a corner by a long brown metal building that was a factory or warehouse, where it disappeared into a descending series of terraces, the dull roofs of other warehouses. From Jacks perspective, the road did not reappear again until it began to mount the rise opposite, going uphill and south toward San Francisco. He saw only the stairlike descent of the warehouse roofs, the fencedin parking lots, and, way off to the right, the wintry gray of the water. No people moved on any portion of the road visible to him; nobody appeared in the row of little windows at the back of the nearest factory. Dust swirled through the empty parking lots. Point Venuti looked deserted, but Jack knew that it was not. Morgan Sloat and his cohortsthose who had survived the surprise arrival of the Territories choochoo, anywaywould be waiting for the arrival of Travelling Jack and Rational Richard. The Talisman boomed out to Jack, urging him forward, and he said, Well, this is it, kiddo, and stepped forward. Two new facets of Point Venuti immediately came into view. The first was the appearance of approximately nine inches of the rear of a Cadillac limousineJack saw the glossy black paint, the shiny bumper, part of the right taillight. Jack wished fervently that the renegade Wolf behind the wheel had been one of the Camp Readiness casualties. Then he looked out toward the ocean again. Gray water lathered toward the shore. A slow movement up above the factory and warehouse roofs took his attention in the middle of his next step. COME HERE, the Talisman called in that urgent, magnetic manner. Point Venuti seemed somehow to contract like a hand into a fist. Up above the roofs, and only now visible, a dark but colorless weathervane shaped like the head of a wolf spun erratically back and forth, obeying no wind. When Jack saw the lawless weathervane tracking leftright, then rightleft, and continuing around in a complete circle, he knew that he had just had his first sight of the black hotelat least a portion of it. From the roofs of the warehouses, from the road ahead, from all of the unseen town, rose an unmistakable feeling of enmity as palpable as a slap in the face. The Territories were bleeding through into Point Venuti, Jack realized; here, reality had been sanded thin. The wolfs head whirled meaninglessly in midair, and the Talisman continued to pull at Jack. COME HERE COME HERE COME NOW COME NOW NOW . . . Jack realized that along with its incredible and increasing pull, the Talisman was singing to him. Wordlessly, tunelessly, but singing, a curving rise and fall of whales melody that would be inaudible to anyone else. The Talisman knew he had just seen the hotels weathervane. Point Venuti might be the most depraved and dangerous place in all North and South America, Jack thought, suddenly bolder by half, but it could not keep him from going into the Agincourt Hotel. He turned to Richard, feeling now as if he had been doing nothing but resting and exercising for a month, and tried not to let his dismay at his friends condition show in his face. Richard could not stop him, eitherif he had to, hed shove Richard right through the walls of the damned hotel. He saw tormented Richard drag his fingernails through his hair and down the hivelike rash on his temples and cheeks. Were going to do this, Richard, he said. I know we are. I dont care how much crazy bullshit they throw at us. We are going to do this. Our troubles are going to have troubles with us, said Richard, quotingsurely unconsciouslyfrom Dr. Seuss. He paused. I dont know if I can make it. Thats the truth. Im dead on my feet. He gave Jack a look of utterly naked anguish. Whats happening to me, Jack? I dont know, but I know how to stop it. And hoped that that was true. Is my father doing this to me? Richard asked miserably. He ran his hands experimentally over his puffy face. Then he lifted his shirt out of his trousers and examined the red coalescing rash on his stomach. The bumps, shaped vaguely like the state of Oklahoma, began at his waistline and extended around both sides and up nearly to his neck. It looks like a virus or something. Did my father give it to me? I dont think he did it on purpose, Richie, Jack said. If that means anything. It doesnt, Richard said. Its all going to stop. The Seabrook Island Express is coming to the end of the line. Richard right beside him, Jack stepped forwardand saw the taillights of the Cadillac flash on, then off, before the car slipped forward out of his sight. There would be no surprise attack this time, no wonderful slambang arrival through a fence with a trainful of guns and ammunition, but even if everybody in Point Venuti knew they were coming, Jack was on his way. He felt suddenly as if he had strapped on armor, as if he held a magic sword.