Rabbits(135)

I turned my head to see who it was.

That’s when the light hit me, and the world exploded in a blinding flash. I was stretched thin and twisted, all emptiness and cold.

And then the light was gone, and I was choking on the darkness.

I couldn’t move or breathe. I felt like I was in a sensory deprivation tank filled with wet black cement.

And then I was back in the car with Emily.

Through the windshield, I could see the twisted shape of the gray shadow thing that had torn the Magician apart in that Super 8 film.

It was swaying back and forth, a melty twist of dark burning smoke.

I saw Emily close her eyes as she squeezed my hand tight.

I opened my mouth to scream, and suddenly I was a black hole, and I was pulling everything that existed into me.

There was a screaming from the burning heart of the world and everything exploded in a brilliant blaze of liquid fire and darkness.

And then there was nothing.





45


    A THREE-HUNDRED-LANE FUCKMONSTER SPEEDWAY


I woke up alone in a large bed.

Sunlight streamed into the room through two sets of leaded glass windows.

I was in a medium-size bedroom in what appeared to be some kind of cottage-style country house. I could see a thick grove of evergreens through the windows, which led me to believe I was probably still somewhere in the Pacific Northwest.

I could hear a song playing from a distant room.

It was “Third World Man” by Steely Dan.

I slipped out of the bed and followed the sound of the music.

It was coming from the kitchen. Somebody was in there, and it sounded like they were cooking. I moved down a long hallway, turned a corner, and saw Alan Scarpio standing in front of a stove making what appeared to be French toast.

“Good morning,” he said. “I hope you’re hungry.”

Scarpio looked pretty much the same as the last time I’d seen him, although this time he was wearing dark jeans, a black long-sleeve cotton shirt, white Stan Smiths, and an apron with a saying on the front that read: MR. GOOD-LOOKIN’ IS COOKIN’.

“Where’s Emily?” I asked.

He shook his head. “You were alone when I found you.”

I nodded and tried to remember what had happened in the car after we’d turned off the headlights.

Scarpio held up a spatula. “We got French toast, eggs, and some kind of vegan bacon.”

“Where are we?” I asked.

“We’re in Lakewood, in the summer house of somebody named…” Scarpio picked up a piece of mail from the kitchen counter. “Morris Peterman, apparently.”

“How did I get here?”

“I went for a walk and found you just off the road in the middle of the driveway. I carried you up to the house.”

“How did you get here?”

“I arrived a couple of hours before I found you. But I actually rented this place about six months ago, after I received this postcard in the mail.”

Scarpio handed me a postcard. On the front was a familiar photograph. It was the willow tree that I’d last seen hanging upside down on the wall in the reception area in Crow’s penthouse. On the back was a typed message with the address of this house and what I assumed was today’s date.

“You received that postcard six months ago?”

Scarpio nodded and smiled. “Yep,” he said.

I sat down on one of three high wooden stools positioned along the kitchen counter.

“How did you end up out there on the road, if you don’t mind my asking?” Scarpio asked.

I gave him a quick summary of everything that had happened from the moment we’d discovered the map in The Horns of Terzos until I woke up there in that house.

“Wow,” he said. “That’s one hell of a series of events.”

I nodded. “Yeah, it sure was. Where have you been?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You were missing.”

He nodded. “Over the next little while, you’re probably going to notice a number of discrepancies between what you remember about the game and what others experienced while you were playing. I’d suggest saying as little as possible to anyone until you have a firm grasp of their understanding of events, but that’s up to you.”

“So you were never really missing?”

“Let’s just say that I was working on something off-grid, something I needed to keep…to myself.”

“Something you kept from your entire company?” I asked.

He nodded. “Yes.”

“Were you playing Rabbits? Is Rabbits connected to the multiverse?”

“You sure you don’t want to start with French toast?” He smiled. “You must be hungry.”

“Do you mind if we talk a bit first?”

He smiled and nodded. “Sure.”

“Is Rabbits real?”

“Of course,” he said.

“What about the Meechum Radiants?”

“I’m pretty sure they exist, but I suppose it depends on who you ask.”

“So, what are they?”

“Are you familiar with theoretical physicist Michio Kaku?”

“A little,” I said.

“Kaku, using an analogy to discuss alien intelligence, referenced an anthill sitting next to a ten-lane superhighway. His question was: Would those ants be capable of understanding what a ten-lane superhighway was?”