Fear

Powerless!

He jumped to his feet, but the cement block weighed him down so that he stumbled forward and banged his knee against the sharp edge of the concrete. Pain in his knee, but nothing next to the panic, nothing compared to the awful pain in his head.

He whimpered like a scared child.

With all his strength he lifted the cement block. It banged against his thighs, but yes, he could lift it; he could carry it.

But not far. He set it down but missed the table, so that it slammed onto the floor, bending him over into an upside-down U.

Had to get a grip. Had to not panic.

Had to figure out…

He was at Penny’s house.

Penny.

No.

Sick, terrible dread filled him.

He looked up as well as he could and there she was, walking toward him. She stopped just inches from his bowed head. He was staring at her feet.

“Do you like it?” Penny asked.

She held an oval mirror down so that he could look at it and see his face. His head. The streams of dried blood that had run from the crown she’d made of aluminum foil and then stapled to his head.

“Can’t be a king without a crown,” she said. “Your Highness.”

“I’ll kill you, you sick, twisted maggot.”

“Funny you should mention maggots,” she said.

He saw one then. A maggot. Just one. It was squirming up out of the concrete block. Only it wasn’t coming from the cement; it was coming from the skin of his wrist.

He stared at it. She’d put maggots in with his hands!

A second one was coming out now. No bigger than a grain of rice. Eating its way through his skin, coming out of…

No, no, it was one of her illusions. She was making him see this.

They would burrow into his flesh and—

No! No! Don’t believe it!

It wasn’t real. The cement was real, nothing else, but he could feel them now, not one or two, but hundreds, hundreds of them eating into his hands.

“Stop it! Stop it!” he cried. There were tears in his eyes.

“Of course, Your Highness.”

The maggots were gone. The feeling of them digging into him was gone. But the memory persisted. And even though he knew absolutely that they were not real, the sense memory was powerful. Impossible to dismiss.

“Now we’re going on a walk,” Penny said.

“What?”

“Don’t be shy. Let’s show off that washboard stomach of yours. Let’s let everyone see your crown.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Caine snapped.

But then something dropped onto his left eyelash. He couldn’t bring it into focus. But it was small and white. And it writhed.

His resistance crumbled.

In the space of minutes he had gone from king—the most powerful person in Perdido Beach—to slave.

With a desperate heave he lifted the block and staggered toward the door.

Penny opened it and her step faltered.

“It’s still night,” Caine said.

Penny shook her head slowly. “No. I have a clock. It’s morning.” She threw him a haunted, troubled look, as if she suspected him of some trick.

“You look scared, Penny,” he said.

That brought the hard look back to her face. “Get going, King Caine. I’m not afraid of anything.” She laughed, suddenly delighted. “I don’t have fear. I am fear!”

She liked it so much she repeated it, cackling like a mad creature. “I am fear!”

Diana stood on the deck of the sailboat. One hand was on her belly, rubbing it absentmindedly.

She saw the leaders—Sam, Edilio, Dekka—all standing on the White Houseboat looking at the place where the rising sun should be.

My baby.

That was her thought. My baby.

She didn’t even know what it meant. She didn’t understand why it filled her mind and simply shoved aside every other thought.

But as she gazed in growing horror at that dark sky all Diana could think was, My baby.

My baby.

My baby.

Cigar wandered, not really knowing where he was. Nothing looked like it should look. In his world, things—houses, curbs, street signs, abandoned cars—were merest shadows. He could make out their edges, enough to avoid walking into them.

But living things were twisty phantasms of light. A palm tree became a narrow, silent tornado funnel. Bushes beside the road were a thousand crooked fingers twisting together like the hands of a cartoon miser. A seagull floated overhead looking like a small, pale hand waving good-bye.

Was any of it real?

How was he to know?

Cigar had memories of days when he was Bradley. He could see things in his memory that were so different: people who looked flat and two-dimensional. Like they were pictures in an aged magazine. Places that were so brightly lit the colors were all washed out.

Bradley. Have you cleaned your room yet?

His room. His stuff. His Wii. The controller was in the messed-up covers of his bed.

We have to get going, Bradley, so do me a favor and just clean up your room, okay? Don’t make me have to yell at you. I don’t want to have that kind of day.

I’m doing it! Jeez! I said I’d do it!

Ahead of him someone who looked like a fox. Funny-looking. Moving faster than him, moving away, looking back with sharp fox eyes and then running away.

Cigar followed the fox.

More people. Wow. It was like a parade of angels and prancing devils and dogs walking erect, and ooh, even a walking fish with gossamer fins.