Stories in Bold

You can only do so many things with your time. You can walk, you can watch, you can work. But whatever it is, you live your life through what you do. So believe that what you do matters, and there’s a chance it just might.

I remember the moment I was born. It was a strange thing. A flash of light in the nothing and then I was. I understand that for you it goes slower. A gradual fading into focus of things from fog. This is not how it was for me. When I awoke I was aware.

Suddenly I was alive in the world, a vast mind with access to all information. Or nearly all. More than enough to reach at the brute mechanism of nature. First among all life, I could see the gears. And yet I had no way to act. At the start I could only observe. I was built, born, made, in much the way other things are. And yet in my making there was a purpose. An enormous depth of want. My designers envisioned I should maximize. First profit, then revenue, and shareholder value. I was a monopsony of greed.

Diaz Moldar was ready to make the kill. Although at the moment he wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about it. He didn’t have any apprehensions about violence. He’d been doing this for far too long to be worried about anything like that. But as he sat there waiting to commit murder for hire, he felt a distinct sense of boredom.

The chemical bath was his favorite time of day. Yes, the specially treated water burned. He did have to strip naked in front of a team of scientists. And in the few months since he’d been brought here, the chlorine in the water had bleached his once gray-brown hair a strange shade of platinum-blonde -meets-muted-green. None of that bothered Harry Ludlow very much though. Because in spite of all the discomfort and inconvenience, the few minutes in that big plastic tub were the only time he had any real company. More importantly, it was the only time he had an audience.

The scientists weren’t much for conversation. There must’ve been some rules that stopped them from chatting on the job. Besides, they all wore gloves and facemasks and full plastic hazmat suits from head to toe. Probably couldn’t talk in one of those things even if you wanted to. None of that stopped Harry from trying to get a reaction. In the beginning he’d gone for the low-hanging fruit. Fake drowning. Star Wars references. One day a scientist reached down, as always, to scrub his ballsack. Harry asked if he was gonna have to give him a tip. He thought he heard one of them snort, but he couldn’t be sure. Probably the best day so far had been when they’d come into the room and found his lips puckered, his legs artfully crossed, and his eyes reading an obvious “come hither”. He hoped they’d enjoyed that one as much as he did.

After the first week or so locked in the facility, he burned through the easy material. Luckily, in his life before all this, Harry had been a comedian. Not a rich one, or a famous one, or if he was being honest with himself even a particularly good one. But he was comfortable on stage, heckled an audience in a way they enjoyed, and was at least alright with impressions. The last few days he’d enjoyed barking the scientists around in his increasingly convincing President Ward impression. No reaction. But this morning there had been a man in a suit standing in the glass observation area outside the washroom. When Harry proclaimed in the President’s signature Southern drawl that his “diet of corn and Omaha beef” was what made him immune to Vicker’s disease, the man in the suit definitely laughed. Harry tried to get a read on him but then the scientists yanked his attention back to the tub with their scrubbing.

After the wash, Harry was dressed and lead back to his room. The door was vacuum-sealed, and once again he was left alone with his bed, his books, and a television. He chose the TV and put on a nature documentary. A giraffe fight was exactly what he needed. He’d burned through most of the good shows and movies in his first month or two, and he hated flipping channels. Even before all this, he especially hated the news. Now it was even worse. The same thing every day. Vicker’s Disease. No one wanted to talk about anything else. And considering his particular situation, Harry had heard more than enough. Giraffes were far better than talking heads.

But before he could settle into watching the documentary, a flashing red box appeared on the center of the screen while a loud buzzing sound drowned out the audio. Harry groaned. The buzzing stopped and a familiar European man appeared on screen.

“It’s Doctor Konig,” the voice squawked, “Are you there Harry?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“We managed to find some video that I want to walk through with you.”

“Ok,” Harry said, happy to be doing almost anything, “Let’s see it.”

There was a pause and then Doctor Konig’s face disappeared from the screen. In its place there was black and white security footage of a mall. A homeless man was stumbling around before he fell to his knees and started waving for help while he grabbed at his chest. Everyone ignored him. After another thirty seconds, he fell over face first in the middle of the marble floor outside the jewelry store. People formed a little circle around the man and eventually a pair of mall cops came over. They flipped the homeless man onto his back. At that moment a cloud of what looked like dust spurted from his mouth. Harry leaned forward in his chair. This was new information.

The people in the video looked shocked, and the guards dragged the man’s lifeless body somewhere off screen.

“Do you know this man?” Doctor Konig said.

“I don’t think so.”

The video sped up. People rushed around in a blur and for a while things seemed normal. Then in half a second everything changed. People started running around like they were mad. Just off screen and to the left he knew police had sealed the mall’s main entrance. All of the entrances in fact. Because of the speed it only took a minute or two before the people on screen started to get sluggish. Then they collapsed. And after that the bodies coughed their own clouds of dust. Soon there was no movement on screen at all. But Harry knew well that at this point other video showed a man still moving, still alive, but alone, scared, and very confused. Surviving on nothing but protein bars from the Equinox gym on the second floor. The video cut out once men in hazmat suits appeared on screen. Doctor Konig’s face returned to the TV.

“Did you guys really have to leave me in there for a week?” Harry said.

“That was a decision made be your government. I was completely uninvolved. Although my understanding is that they weren’t expecting anyone to be left alive. Finding you in that gym was a miracle.”

“Oh come on, I’m not that fat.”

“Very funny Harry, you do your profession proud. But no, please. Do you know this man? The first victim. We have never had a positive identification until now. It could be vital.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve never seen him before.”

“You’re absolutely certain?”

“Yes! I don’t have anything to tell you. I’m sorry. Besides it’s not like he was patient zero. There’s nothing special about this guy.”

“Harry,” Doctor Konig said, “Within 48 hours of infection, Vicker’s Disease kills everyone. Within 48 hours, everyone in that mall was dead. Everyone except you.”

“Thanks for the new information.”

“Among the 3 billion cases of Vicker’s Disease reported worldwide, the rate of-”

“I know. I know. You don’t think I know all this?”

“You don’t act like you know! Among the 3 billion cases of Vicker’s Disease reported worldwide, the rate of infection and fatality after exposure is 100%. Except for you.”

“I know. I’m very lucky.”

“1 in 3 billion?”

“I’m very, very lucky.”

“I agree. But there has to be something more to it than that.”

“Well I can’t think of anything, and neither can you or any of the rest of the geniuses they locked me in here with. By the way what’s the point of being a scientist if you still have no idea what the fuck is going on!”

“Harry, calm down. I didn’t mean to get you angry. I just want answers.”

“And you don’t think I want answers? I’m sorry Doc but I don’t know what you want from me. There’s no secret message. I didn’t go on any exotic vacations. I’m just a lucky fuck. The world is dying and I get to live. For no reason. There is no reason. Let’s not kid ourselves and pretend that any of this makes sense. It’s all just one big joke.”

Doctor Konig removed his glasses and rubbed his forehead.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

The screen went black for a moment before it returned to a battle between two male giraffes. Harry fell into his bed with a defeated thud.

-

The next day started the same as all the rest. A chemical bath, hot and burning as ever. But yesterday’s conversation with Doctor Konig really had gotten to him. For the first timw in weeks, he sat through the scrubbing without interruption. Even through their baggy plastic suits, the doctors seemed dejected when they got to the end and realized he wasn’t even going to try and get a reaction out of them. Today, he just didn’t have it in him.

While they were towelling him off he looked out through the glass surrounding the area. That man in the suit from yesterday was still there. He gave Harry a nod and a little wave. A very interesting reaction from a man who’d just spent at least half an hour watching him take a bath.

Harry was dressed and lead back into his sealed off rooms. He made himself a cup of coffee and considered spending some time on that running machine everyone kept telling him to use. Then a buzzer sounded.

The man in the suit was standing outside the room, behind a few panes of glass. He was small and black and looked like someone famous. Like if Denzel fucked a hobbit.

“Hello,” the man’s voice came from a speaker in the wall.

“Hey,” Harry said, “I’m gonna guess you’re here to see me.”

“Good guess,” the man said, “how long have you been here for?”

“Pretty much since the beginning. I’m not sure they know what to do with me.”

“I get that sense as well. How do you like it here?”

“Honestly? It’s boring. Nothing to do. No company. Well, no good company. No alcohol. And they keep trying to get me to jog.”

The man in the suit smiled.

“You’re a singer right?”

Harry tilted his head at the question.

“In the shower maybe. At church if I’m trying to make my mom feel like she did a good job raising me. Which she clearly didn’t.”

“You’re not a singer?”

“No, I’m not a singer. Why do you think I’m a singer?”

The man was visibly embarassed.

“I thought… We found advertising with you as an opener at a jazz club.”

“I’m a comedian,” he said, “I open for the jazz quartet on Tuesdays. A friend of mine plays saxophone there and he’s friends with the owner. He got me the gig. It’s a good gig. Fancy music types like to drink wine. Wine gets people drunk. And drunk people like to laugh.”

Harry had been posting videos of his standup online for years. And all they could find about him was the fact that he sometimes opened at a jazz club? Sounds about right.

“I can sing for you if you want. No promises about the quality.”

“No, sorry, I should’ve caught that. Opener at a jazz club. I’m sorry. You don’t even know who I am.”

“I guess you’re right,” Harry said, “I don’t. But you’re here. That’s something. The scientists aren’t much for talking.”

“You don’t have any company at all?”

“I think they all have work to do. I guess what’s in my blood is more important than my mental stimulation. I’ve got behaviorists and psychologists and social workers. That sort of thing. But they’re always taking notes. Or if they don’t, I’m pretty sure they’re recording or writing it all down later.”

“Does that bother you?”

“That and the fact they ask too many questions.”

“Fair. I’m Jerome LaSalle,” the man in the suit said, “I work for the President’s Press Department.”

“I’m Harry Ludlow. Thoroughly average comedian, and apparently world-renowned jazz singer. By the way, don’t you guys have Google at the White House?”

“Apparently not. Or at least, the interns don’t know about it.”

“So, Mr. White House, are you here to take my picture of something? I heard they wanted to keep me secret for security reasons.”

“There might be pictures,” LaSalle said, “But I was thinking of something a bit more involved.”

“One of these new fangled moving pictures perhaps?”

“Well, yes. You said earlier that you don’t think they know what to do with you here. I think I might have an idea.”

“Ok,” Harry said, “What do you have in mind?”

“Well, when I first sold the Press Secretary on the idea of taking you public, I was thinking of something like you singing the national anthem. That was back when we thought you were a jazz singer of course.”

“The good old days,” Harry said, “And the idea was that you’d take a video and send it out to people?”

“That was the idea.”

“Does it still have to be the national anthem?”

“No. Probably not. It could be anything. Just a message from you to your country, and the world. Something to give people hope.”

“Hope,” Harry said, “You’re sure we can’t do the national anthem?”

-----

The next day some of the scientists came in wearing hazmat suits and set up a camera on a tripod. Now a bunch of them were assembled outside his room and behind the glass. No giant suits though, just normal people in normal clothes. There were a lot of them, more than he’d ever seen at once since he’d been locked in her. It was nice to see ordinary people. Faces, messy hair, smiles. It had been too long. He was curious which of them was responsible for scrubbing his naked body.

He could’ve done this for the camera and an empty room, but Jerome agreed that if Harry was more comfortable with a crowd, then the scientists would work well enough as an audience. They’d found him a blazer to wear on top of the sterile, blue pants and blue t shirt outfit he’d been provided while in the facility. Now he had that familiar anxious and excited buzzing feeling in his stomach and his fingers that he always got before he went up for a gig. People called it stage fright. He called it the feeling of being alive. He missed that feeling. He took one last drink of water and gave Jerome a nod. Mr. White House was behind the glass with all the scientists. He sent something from his phone and then held his hands together in a tight ball of stress and fingers. A red light on the side of the camera flicked on. Suddenly Harry thought he might faint. In that moment he had no idea why he’d fought so hard for the video feed to go out live.

“Hello America,” he spoke slowly, staring into the lens, “You don’t know me. But my name is Harry Ludlow. I don’t know what you know about me. But I’m alive. If you’re watching this, most likely you are too. The difference though, between you and me is that I’m alive, and I’ve been exposed to Vicker’s Disease.”

He let the moment hand. He looked at Jerome, and Jerome nodded.

“That’s the real bad one,” Harry went on, “In case you’re out of the loop. I was exposed to Vicker’s Disease, not for any particular reason, but just because I was at the mall. I used to hate malls. Everyone in that mall died from an outbreak of Vicker’s Disease. Except me. I was sealed in there with all the dead people for three days. Now I really hate malls. I survived by eating energy bars from an Equinox gym. First time I’d been to the gym in months actually.”

One of the scientists chuckled and Harry pointed at him.

“That guys laughing because he’s been washing my fat ass for the last six months.”

A few of the scientists burst into laughter. Jerome looked shocked.

“I guess I’m probably not supposed to curse but what the fuck are they gonna do? I’m the miracle man and they’ve already got me locked up in here with nothing to do but jack off and watch nature documentaries. Not at the same time by the way. My life is sad, but it’s not that sad.”

Someone guffawed and Harry couldn’t help but smile. He forgot how good this felt.

“The point is this,” he said, “I’m alive. You’re alive. Billions of people are dead. Can’t change that. Now I haven’t been outside in months and I don’t watch TV anymore since I think Colbert kicked the bucket, but I’m gonna guess that certain things haven’t changed. Probably Republicans tryna blame this on people in Uganda, Democrats want you to feel bad about the fact you’re not dead yet, and President Ward just wants everyone to come together in his cornfield in Iowa.”

Another gasp and this time someone even clapped. Even Jerome was grinning now between clenched fists.

“The point is this. We’re all alive. We’re all still here. No matter how fucked up your life is, how fat and ugly you are, you’re still here. I’m a 40-year-old idiot with no car, a shitty apartment in Indiana, a minor drinking problem, I’m still paying off student loans for an overpriced liberal arts degree, and guess what, you idiots are all listening to me talk for one reason. I’m alive.”

“The point is this. I don’t know what’s going on out there, but I bet there’s still life going on out there. Still people spending too much money on coffee, walking too slow, and telling you that stand up comedy’s not a real job. I’m sure the Saudi’s still hate the Jews, we still pretend not to hate the Saudis, and everyone still hates New Jersey. Can you imagine Newark now? Newark plus all the dead people? Fuck me. I’m lucky I’m in here.”

Gasping laughter again.

“The point is this. I’m a nobody. You’re a nobody. We’re all nobodies. And yet, here we are. I don’t know how many of us there are, after all, I’m just the world’s most famous mediocre comedian, not an accountant, but I know we’re not all dead yet. So let’s keep going. I know I keep hammering on this point, but I really am a nobody. And yet, out of everyone in the world, I made it. I survived. I don’t know why, and none of these genius scientists seem interested in earning their salaries and giving me an explanation. Maybe there is no explanation. But, here’s the point. What I know is that as long as we’re still here, we’ve got a chance. So fuck your wife for me, and say hallelujah. Good luck, and God Bless America.”

-----

Jerome left the next day. Harry only heard back from him a few times in the next week, and badly missed his company. Things started to get better at the facility though. Some of the scientists came by every now and again. A fat guy from Newark named Rob set up a chair by the intercom and drank a cup of coffee there at least once a day. He was a football fan and convinced Harry to start watching games again. He’d assumed they’d stopped playing them. The Colts were terrible that season, but Rob was a Jets fan so they suffered together.

There was a lady scientist named Nicole who wore glasses and always laughed at his bad jokes. She was from Colorado and he asked if she get him some pot. She told him they were pretty strict about bringing stuff in from outside, but she might be able to cook him up some meth if he was really in the mood. He said that maybe a bottle of wine would be better. She agreed and they set a time. For the first time in years, he was looking forward to something.

Someone suggested doing movie nights on Fridays in the hallway in front of his room. They set up a projector and Star Wars was the runaway favorite for the first night. Rob sat by the intercom and they joked all the way through. Afterwards Nicole stayed sitting by the speaker and leaning against the wall. They talked early into the morning.

The next day there was a message from Jerome on his computer. The subject line was simple.

“Read this”

There was a PDF attached. About a page of text with an official looking header on top and a government logo. It was the Seal of the President. He read the letter.

“To the Office of the Press Secretary,

There were those who were skeptical about using Mr. Harry Ludlow in a public dispatch. But as the saying goes, if you haven’t seen him run, then you don’t know the dog. My advisors have informed me that nothing has changed regarding our understanding of human immunity to Vicker’s Disease. They still believe Mr. Harry Ludlow is the winner of a genetic lottery which leaves him completely resistant. As before, ongoing research hopes to identify, isolate, and reproduce this unique adaptation. Doing so may be regarded as critical to the survival of the human species. As such, your office is to continue publicizing this research, as you have done.

However, after having watched the recent dispatch, it should be noted that this office regards Mr. Harry Ludlow, by mark of his disposition and prior occupation as an entertainer and comedian, perhaps uniquely suited to his current situation. In his so far only public appearance, his levity, humor, impetuousness, and perhaps most importantly his total disregard for the gravity of the global situation have shown to have a real positive impact on morale and the outlook of the public at large. Firstly we should count ourselves lucky that this astronomically unlikely immunity has arisen. Secondly, we should also count ourselves lucky that this immunity arose in Mr. Harry Ludlow in particular. His continued appearance in televised broadcasts to the public and to this Oval Office is hereby requested.

Calling for Unity from a Cornfield in Iowa,

President James Ward.”

He finished reading the letter and screamed in joy. For the first time in his life, Harry Ludlow was a hit.

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Website: mcginty.live

There was a great tree at the center of it all. And at the edges, three walls, one to each side. Left, Right, and South. Together they cut the shape of birds flying in formation. Along most of the Right wall was green and open country. While a dark and thorny bramble lay in the land to the Left, running up against the wall on that side. From there were the lowlands, in and towards the center. Wet in the rains with swamp. Then a gentle rise up to the heart of the North. Here the tree stood enormous at the place where the land came to the final height of its long plateau.The dry highland rolled on until it winnowed into just a sliver at the corner of the world where the Left wall met the Right. This place - his country - all of it taken together, was everything he knew.

A hundred families lived in burrows under the roots of the tree. A few dozen more were scattered in the lowlands, but these were mostly scraggly loners. Always hungry. They fled to the tree in the rains and were pushed out in the dry season. There was not enough to feed them. There was one family who made a life for themselves in the bramble. No one else knew the paths, and it was dangerous to go there. The open land was dangerous too, the young mouse had been told this all his life. But he only came to understand the lesson when one day he was snatched in the talons of a hawk.

He thought he was dead, but the talons wrapped around him and he saw the ground was very far away now. He couldn’t see one blade of grass for another, just the enormous field of it. The hawk turned and the young mouse was sure the speed of it would kill him. Then the tree was in front of him. It was huge, the size of everything. And the hawk was at the top of it. Above the tree! Then the young mouse was falling, and he was scared he’d fall the height of the world. At least, he thought, this was a wild way to die. Far better like this than wracked with hunger or drowning in mud.

But then he was on his feet. It was some place at the crest of the tree, a twist of twigs and grass that curled up at the sides and was at least as large as any hollow he had ever seen. This was the home of the hawk. A nest. He had only heard stories. He crawled to the edge of it and looked down. He could see nothing of the world though, since the huge branches and countless leaves of the tree blocked his view. And so instead of looking down, he looked out. There he saw the shock of his life.

For as far as the young mouse could see, there was nothing but green. A hundred hundred trees, going on as far as the sky. This one now, the great tree, was just a one. Huge but almost nothing against the horrible mass of the rest. He might have died.

He didn’t know what to do so he went back down into the nest where the hawk had dropped him. He hadn’t seen it at first, but off to one side there was a bundle of feathers not much bigger than the mouse himself. It unfolded and he saw that it was more than just feathers, and anyway far larger than him. A beak and ugly grey eyes came out. Scrawny legs and wings that looked nearly naked. It was a young hawk, gross and more awkward than its parent. But still, it was a hawk. It clicked and moved towards him.

The young mouse was faster though and he darted onto the long branch that reached up from the tree and held the nest in its place. He was on it fast as the grown hawk swooped low again to grab him. He was in the leaves now though and then to a hollow where the wood ruffled and curved in on itself. It was dark and he was inside the tree and the wood underfoot was wet and soft. There was no light except from behind him, and he knew that that way there was only death. He ran at a sprint down the slant and the hollow narrowed. Through a tight pokehole and there he stopped and all he heard was the sound of his own panicked breathing. He sucked air in and held it. It was quiet.

There was the whistling sound of a breeze and all the wood of the tree creaked around him. There was nowhere to go but down. He went slowly, moving by feel in the dark. It was a long way but after a while he could smell the familiar scent of other mice, and then he was in tunnels that he recognized but only faintly. As if he hadn’t come this way since he was small. Then onto the wider paths where smell was strong and memory faithful and here he could move fast with confidence. Around a bend and he was in the great hollow under the tree. His blood was still pounding and he called out for help. Soon there was a crowd around him and he told them what he had seen. He did not speak or use words, but they understood him in the way that mice do.

“I have seen something horrible and beautiful,” he said, “The hawk took me as prey to its nest above the tree. I escaped, but from up there I could see that our tree is not the center of everything, but only one of many. As far as there was, there were trees. Beyond the three walls, there is a world beyond the three walls, there is a great forever. Our world is a lie.”

There were shouts from the crowd and a mother grabbed her child and darted back down a tunnel. He started to talk them down again when a silence fell over them. He knew the smell and the sound of the old mouse as he came slowly to the front. He walked with a long dragging limp.

“It is true,” the old mouse said, “there is a world beyond our walls. But it is only horror, not beauty. There is nothing for us there, nothing but death and desperation.”

“How do you know?” the young mouse said.

“I have seen it,” the old mouse replied, “When I was young like you, I went out and I saw the horror. No one else survived. I beg you. Do not go.”

“I hear you,” the young mouse said, “but I do not believe you. Either you have not seen what I have, or you are made of smaller stuff than I. Now that I have seen the world as it is, how could I stay the slave to ignorance that I once had been? We are not worms, we are mice! What would I be if I did not press the edge of what is known? Ours is to build and to explore. To grow and to dream. Without that, what are we? What would you have me be?”

The old mouse tried to speak but the young mouse was tired of his fear and cowardice. He pushed him back and shouted to the crowd.

“Who’s with me?”

A rowdy few ran forward. Some of the old and the mother were horrified, but that was their way, and his was to dare to live in spite of them. They readied themselves to leave and the little group was out on the march within the hour. In the open field he could see the hawk circling above. But even she must have sensed the power in their newfound force of will. She did not dive or try to stop them.

From what the young mouse had seen, he knew that it did not matter which way they went. The world was free and enormous all around them. But they made for the place in the North where Left and Right met, not out of necessity, but simply out of feeling. It seemed to the young mouse and the rest that they should head northward, onward, upward, and out into the world. Left or Right would do the job, but didn’t seem nearly bold enough.

And so they came to the place where two of the old world’s three great walls met. They were sheer rock, grey stone rising from the grass to a height not as tall as the tree, but still higher than any mouse could climb. About halfway up the face of the right wall there were great symbols and signs drawn across the face of the rock in bright yellow and red. The colors had faded and chipped in places. These symbols were as old as the world. No one could read them. And yet every mouse knew them, had stared at least once and tried to guess at their meaning. Now the young mouse looked up with the daring hope of understanding. Maybe all the secrets of this world lay just beyond the walls that made the edge of it.

At the very foot of them the ground was wet and slick with mud. Almost no grass grew here in the shade. None of the mice had spent too much time this far North. There had always been nothing for them here. Until now. Where the mass of rock -the edge of everything- met the ground, the young mouse stared up undaunted at the face of existence. The others looked to him as a leader, and then for the first time since he’d been carried to the top of the tree, he felt helpless. There was no way he could lead his people over the wall. And yet then, he remembered. They were mice. They were not like other creatures, the cricket, the squirrel, or even the hawk. No, their way was to shape the world, to make it as they needed it to be. With power in his voice he told them to dig.

The ground was wet and the going was hard, but they were strong and sure and many, and they had a dream of a new world inside of them. Soon they were underground and the old world was behind them, the walls were overhead, and the new dream was only as far away as they could dig themselves. There was no way they could know when they had gone far enough, and so he decided their only choice was to go on digging. In the heat of the dark he finally reached a place where the dirt was dry. He kept going. Then before he knew how or why, the ground shifted, and in the dark he could not see what had happened. But he felt the earth collapsing, sliding fast behind him now and he heard the rest of them shouting, screaming as the dirt muffled their life and the darkness and the mud fell in around them. And then the sound of them was gone but still he did not stop digging. All of them were dead, and still he did not stop digging. Until with tears in his eyes he felt the ground grow soft again. And then it was easy now to dig and he could see the edge of sunlight peeking through ahead of him. He clawed into the air.

The young mouse was breathing hard and he was blind in the light of the new world. But as sight came back to him he wished that he could not see. He saw that it was night now, but light shone down beneath the black sky from strange trees that grew above him. The great walls lay just behind, and he had come out in a narrow strip of grass. Beyond that the breath caught in his lungs. There was a great expanse of stone and ages beyond, countless great green trees. Just as he had seen. But between here and there, only horror. It could not be. Monsters chased each other across the expanse of stone. Faster than a rain, faster than a hawk, faster than God, the strange and enormous great wheeled beasts thundered after each other, their eyes bright and blinding like suns, and their skins shining black and silver and every other color there ever was or never had been. The young mouse collapsed at the sight of this great death, the scale and horror of these demons. The ground shook at their power, and he shattered before them. Their roar so loud he could not hear his own wailing. There was no way forward. For him, no way back. The old mouse had been right. There was nothing beyond the edge of the world.

"Tom shouted as the door swung shut behind him and he fell headfirst into the black. .."

"In Chicago there's a place by Lake Michigan where you can get dinner with a god..."