Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

Harold doesn’t see why anyone comes around to visit anymore. It’s never pleasant for anyone, since the medication makes him prone to moodiness and outright bouts of rage. And it’s no secret that the children would rather be somewhere–anywhere–else, given the amount of time they spend on their game systems each visit.

Nevertheless, one a month, Harold entertains portions of his family. He suspects that they have a rotation, probably designed to keep anyone from having to visit two consecutive months. Sometimes it’s his divorced granddaughter Charlotte and her three and a half kids–she takes after her mother, that one; Harold sees very little of his late son in her. His grandson Gregory never comes, but sends his wife and the twin girls instead. The wife is Sandy, and Harold can never remember what to call the girls…they have some terribly modern, terribly ugly names with trendy spellings.

And, sometimes, Jason visits–Harold’s great-nephew, the only son of his only sister’s only daughter. When Charlotte or Sandy ask after him, Harold always says the same thing:

“There’s a reason nobody after Julius Caesar had much to do with their great nephews.”

“It’s about time,” the Libyan sergeant cried in Arabic. “We’ve been waiting for a new maintenance crew all week!”

The Chadians continued their advance, and a moment later a look of complete and utter horror dawned on the Libyan’s face…one which brought a smile to Williamson’s own.

“Fire! Open fire! They’re not reinforcements, we’re under attack!” The Soviet-made tanks and armored personnel carriers behind him began to cough and smoke to life.

“Right now, boys,” Williamson whispered. “Just like we practiced.”

The Toyotas in front parted, revealing a line of trucks with anti-tank missile launchers welded to their beds. The Libyans didn’t even have time to fire a single round before the rockets were inbound and angry.

Powmia Johanssen had been named after her father’s abiding belief that U.S. servicemen, including his aviator brother Kevin, were still being held prisoner somewhere in Southeast Asia. He’d never been able to quite articulate why, after so many years, the Vietnamese, Laotians, or Cambodians would see fit to hang onto prisoners, save speculating that Kevin’s reputation as a ladies’ man might have endeared him to a female jailer after his F-104 vanished over a sector of thick jungle.

As with any child who isn’t named John or Mary Smith, Powmia was teased for her name throughout grade school, first because of the punchiness implied by the “pow,” and later–as the children grew more sophisticated–for the beliefs behind it. She tried a variety of responses over the years, from asserting that the name was a heroic tribute to insisting (unsuccessfully) that she be called simply Mia.

After a research project in the sixth grade, Powmia had confronted her father about a supposed inaccuracy. “Dad, it says in this book here that the correct status is ‘Killed In Action – Body Not Recovered.'”

After considering this for a moment, Mr. Johanssen had retorted “Kiabnr doesn’t have quite the same ring to it. And if we add in the POW’s–who are in no way shape or form dead to anyone but the kleptocrats in Washington–it’d be Powkiabnr. And that’s just too much of a mouthful when you’re late for dinner.”

“So you’re working as a lifeguard over the summer, huh?” the girl said.

“Yeah, that’s right,” I said, sucking in my gut and hoping that the loose t-shirt I wore gave the impression of muscles lurking beneath.

“That must be hard if you can’t swim.”

“Who said I can’t swim?” I said.

“You did,” the girl purred. “To Betsy, two tables down, just a minute ago.”

My face instantly was red as a beet.

“I, uh, er…that is…um…” I sputtered.

My brain was trying to come up with something witty and subtle to say that would quickly evaporate the incident into a cloud of soft laughter. All I came up with was a sort of stutter. Doubtless, I would wake up in the middle of the night a week from now with an absolutely perfect line, but it’d do me little good now.

Cary’s behavior was just too odd to place–normally so open, subterfuge seemed completely contrary to her nature. And why had she wanted to keep Winslow occupied for so long?

“Seems like everyone got together and decided to make this the summer of crazy,” he said, climbing the stairs to the good old fourth floor.

The door to his apartment was ajar. Winslow had seen too many movies to just stroll in—for all he knew, there could be a chainsaw wielding, hockey mask wearing burglar inside waiting for him to do just that. So Winslow ran up to the security room and asked the guard if anyone had gone into his apartment.

“Yeah,” the guard said. “Had a key. Short guy with blond hair—I’ve seen him around before.”

His footsteps rang down the hallway in quick succession. Even though he could hardly see the floor in front of him, Mark could hear the footfalls to the rear, gaining. Adrenaline rushed through his veins, but his leg muscles were beginning to cramp.

“I can’t keep this up,” he wheezed in a panic. “I’m dead.”

As if to underscore the point, more echoes emerged from the darkness—grimy sneakers, tattered dress shoes, and heavy, labored breathing. The night terrors were closing in with a speed and singlemindedness that belied the fact they’d once been human.

A stitch had been growing in Mark’s side, and at this crucial juncture it flared up, joining his legs in demanding an immediate and unconditional rest. “No…” Mark said. “Don’t you understand…you worthless…appendages? If I stop…you die!”

Despite this exhortation, he continued to slow. Moments later, he felt the first probing fingertips on his back and neck.

Flying…

Ben was touching the sky.

He soared high over the lands below, crashing through flocks of birds, tearing through clouds, skimming low over lakes and rivers. An irrepressible grin was plastered across Ben’s face, and an incredible rush of life surged through his body.

Nothing could slow him down.

In the back of his mind, though, two darker thoughts churned beneath the exhilaration, the raw life force: a nagging suspicion that he was dreaming again, and Terrie’s face, contorted with shock and disbelief.

“I…I don’t think we have much time left…” Dave’s voice sounded thin, tired, even through the static.

“Hang on!” Sally said. “I’ll get help. I’ll do something!”

“It’s too late for that, I think,” said Dave. “You need to get out of here before it’s too late.”

“No!” Sally cried.

The cable had been strained to its breaking point, and it gave way with a sharp metallic twang. The steel beam, deprived of its support, toppled over, taking tons of concrete and metal with it. Four other cables were snapped by the rain of debris, and the pillars they supported collapsed as well.

Few places are as intimidating as a dark corridor at night.

The absence of the usual background noise makes any sound seem twice as loud, and any doors along the hallway’s length were fertile breeding ground for the imagination. The one on Jameson’s left seemed to be slowly breathing in and out, while the one on his right seemed to have simply faded away, appearing only in moonlit snatches.

The light switches could only be worked with a special key—part of the latest round of cost-saving measures—so there was no prospect of light ahead. Moonlight only did so much.

Something skittered noisily across the floor in front of him. A rat? A bauble spilled from a thief’s bag? He wasn’t sure which was worse, but the answer wasn’t long in coming.

Dark winter nights, filled with drifts of snow and gusts of wind, are a fine time to spend behind an antique picture window with a blazing fire in the hearth.

They are not the best time to be on the road.

On this particular occasion, the prayers of thousands of schoolchildren had given the asphalt a sheath of ice and a sprinkling of snow. The moonless night had sheathed the hazard beneath a light crystalline dust.

Harry, preoccupied, didn’t even notice that his Buick had begun to spin out of control until the front tires had already skidded off the road. By the time he stood on the brake, the hydraulics were snarled in the foliage and snapped.

A cold sort of darkness closed in; Harry’s last conscious thoughts turned to the package on the seat beside him.