peeling, but I could see no biological stains that would have indicated
that a dead body had been rotting here recently.
“The Mystery Train was never built, ” I said, “so Delacroix never went
to … the other side. Never opened the door.” Bobby said, “Never got
infected or possessed. Whatever. And he never infected his family. So
they’re all alive somewhere? ”
“God, I hope so. But how could he not be here when he was here and we
remember it? ”
“Paradox, ” Bobby said, as if he himself were entirely satisfied with
that less than illuminating explanation. “So what do we do? ”
“Burn it, anyway, ” I concluded.
“To be safe, you mean? ”
“No, just because I’m a pyromaniac.”
“Didn’t know that about you, bro.”
“Let’s torch this dump.” As we emptied the gasoline cans in the kitchen,
dining room, and living room, I repeatedly paused because I thought I
heard something moving inside the bungalow walls. Every time I listened,
the elusive sound stopped.
“Rats, ” Bobby said.
This alarmed me, because if Bobby heard something, too, then the furtive
noises weren’t the work of my imagination. Furthermore, this wasn’t the
scuttling-scratching-squeaking of rodents, it was a liquid slithering.
“Humongous rats, ” he said with more force but less conviction.
I fortified myself with the argument that Bobby and I were just woozy
from gasoline fumes and, therefore, couldn’t trust our senses.
Nevertheless, I expected to hear voices echoing inside my head, Stay,
stay, stay, stay … We escaped the bungalow without being munched.
Using the last half gallon of gasoline, I poured a fuse across the front
porch, down the steps, and along the walkway.
Doogie pulled the Hummer into the street, to a safer distance.
Moonlight mantled Dead Town, and every silent structure seemed to harbor
hostile watchers at the windows.
After setting the empty fuel can on the porch, I hurried out to the
Hummer and asked Doogie to back it up until one of the rear tires was
weighing down the manhole. The monkey manhole.
When I returned to the front yard, Bobby lit the fuse.
As the blue-orange flame raced up the walkway and climbed the front
steps, Bobby said, “When I died …”
“Yeah? ”
“Did I scream like a stuck pig, blubber, and lose my dignity? ”
“You were cool. Aside from wetting your pants, of course.”
“They’re not wet now.” The fuse flame reached the gasoline-soaked living
room, and a firestorm blew through the bungalow.
Basking recklessly in the orange light, I said, “When you were dying .
..”
“Yeah? ”
“You said, I love you, bro.” He grimaced. “Lame.”
“And I said it was mutual.”
“Why did we have to do that? ”
“You were dying.”
“But now here I am.”
“It’s awkward, ” I agreed.
“What we need here is a custom paradox.”
“Like? ”
“Where we remember everything else but forget my dying words.”
“Too late. I’ve already made arrangements with the church, the reception
hall, and the florist.”
“I’ll wear white, ” Bobby said.
“That would be a travesty.” We turned away from the burning bungalow and
walked out to the street. Harried by the witchy firelight, twisted tree
shadows capered across the pavement.
As we drew near the Hummer, a familiar angry squeal tortured the night,
followed by a score of other shrill voices, and I looked left to see the
troop of Wyvern monkeys, half a block away, loping toward us.
The Mystery Train and all its associated terrors might be gone as if
they had never been, but the life’s work of Wisteria Jane Snow still had
its consequences.
We piled into the Hummer, and Doogie locked all the doors with a master
switch on the console, just as the rhesuses swarmed over the vehicle.
“Go, move, woof, meow, get outta here! ” everyone was shouting, though
Doogie needed no encouragement.
He floored the accelerator, leaving part of the troop screaming in
frustration as the rear bumper slipped from under their grasping hands.
We weren’t in the clear yet. Monkeys were clinging tenaciously to the !
luggage rack on the roof.
One nasty specimen was hanging by its hind legs, upside down at the