Sixteen floors up the sheer glass face of Pitfall Industries’ main tower, I cling to Sticky Kitten’s back as she climbs. Suction fluid seeps through the sapphire Spandex of her skin-tight super suit, adhering me to her and her forearms and shins to the building. My purple cape snaps in the wind against
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Samuel T. Clemens stared down the white sugar slope. He had a task before him that would cause many a man’s knees to melt. Not him though; he wasn’t some soft butterscotch cookie. No, his was a legacy of proud, hard, gingerbread men.
Samuel’s piercing green frosting eyes measured the distance. “Come on!”
“Tell me, Eliza Booker. Do you really think you can cheat death?”
Smoke filled my lungs; my breath came in strangled puffs. Around me, a circle of fire blazed—all thanks to the pyre-loving poltergeist smirking like a Jack-o-lantern amid the chaos.
Its appearance continually shifted, like shadows that couldn’t latch onto a form.
“Take this,” Mother says, her usually-shining blue eyes muted and sorrowful. “Remember, Lyskkia, you’re not alone. The Allfather is with you, and the land will fight for us as long as we fight for it.”
I accept the staff with both hands, the weight of the ancient, polished wood making this all-too-real.
“You’re telling me that in the future, Australia is overrun by cannibalistic koalas called drop bears?”
I blinked at my large companion—Squatch, our resident bigfoot—as I tried to make sense of the vision that had guided me and my cryptid companions Down Under.
He adjusted his Outback hat. “Yup.
As a general rule, Reynolds didn’t go into junior high girls’ bathrooms. But when three corpses turned up in a school lavatory stall all in one day, he tended to make an exception. Plus, he’d been called in to investigate.
All the way from New York City.
Reynolds squatted in front of…
The thumb drive is in my coat pocket, slapping my leg with every step as I weave through the hypogeum. The Colosseum’s floodlights illuminate the broken walls from above while small lights along the ground light up the path. Blood seeps from my shoulder and trickles down my arm, dripping from my fingers and…
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“We hit this gas station”—I point at a crease in the map spread out over the RV’s dining table—“grab food, toilet paper, gas—”
“And slushies,” Martin chimes in.
“—and slushies. Then we hightail it to the monument, here.”
I survey my crew. Martin, my younger brother, looks like a…
Mark ducked away from a barrage of hail moments before the gunshot clacked. The bullet skimmed his shoulder as a gust, gritty and wet, kicked him to the sidewalk. The tornado slashing through the Indiana countryside was closing in—debris and trees rotating in a torrid sky like dust in a vacuum.
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Clowns. Dudley Keene dismounted from his sorrel and cursed. He unsheathed his Winchester rifle from its saddle scabbard and pumped the lever. I hate clowns.
His dirt-stained boots plodded through tall grass until he reached an island of wreckage in the sea of prairie. An abandoned carriage stood idle beside a caravan of upturned covered
A musket ball whizzed past Lizzie Ozark’s ear and smacked the skull of a neighboring soldier. Warm blood splattered her cheek. She chanced a look and stifled a cry.
Through the haze a hundred yards away, gray uniforms shifted, progressed, and reformed ranks. Injured comrades groaned around her feet.
Her regiment’s tattered Union
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