TITAN
Jim

The darkgreen hull of the plane made Jim McNulty feel sick. It was the color of peasoup vomit and battle fatigues. Everything else on the plane was green too: theuniforms, seats, boxes, and netting. But it probably wasn’t really the colormaking Jim sick.

No, Jim wassick because he was just letting it happen.

Behind Jim,two grim-faced men sat with rifles in their hands. Their uniforms were unmarkedwithout names, ranks, or medals. They might as well not have existed. As far asthe military was concerned, they didn’t. Faceless men. Phantoms.

Jim hadnever ridden in a military transport and, if he ever had a say in it, he neverwould again. The passengers sat in what amounted to a wide, long, open cylinder.For some reason, it reminded Jim of a cigar holder with seats and cargo.Considering the circumstances, that thought seemed silly.

Silly.

Being silly.

It was aluxury he didn’t have anymore. Jim wasn’t sure he would ever be silly again.Not now. Not since…

God, Ihate my parents.

If theyhadn’t shipped him off, this wouldn’t have happened. He would be at homehunched over his computer watching something stupid on “YouTube.” But no. Hewas on a C130 flying from Wyoming to Washington, D.C., under cover of night. Wasit night? He wasn’t sure, but it made sense. These people did everything atnight.

A few fuckingC’s and off to Wyoming. Off to this. To these men. To the Shadow Man.Maybe Jim would have worked harder in school if he’d known this would happen.Though, he doubted this was the deterrent his parents had in mind. Theyprobably thought he’d get structure and discipline. Jim got plenty of both.

He also gotinjections.

EveryTuesday, five o’clock… what were they for?

“Just a flushot, son. There’s a nasty one goin’ round,” the old man in the scrubs hadsaid.

But that wasa big needle. Jim had never gotten a flu shot from anything that big. It waslike a dissecting probe. When Jim persisted, the old man just smiled, “We’rethe Army. We do everything big, son.”

At that, Jimhad laughed. The old man had an easy way about him. He’d never given Jim hisname or anything but shots, but he was kind. None of the other cadets got theirshots from him, though. Just Jim. Not that he had noticed anyway.

Jim was soblinded by loneliness and anger that he never questioned the needles too much.It didn’t occur to him. Not right away. Besides, he saw cadets in and out of themedical office all the time. Why would he get special treatment? Somehow, thestress of being three-thousand miles away from home and away from his friends,his girlfriend, his bed, and his car left his mind feeling like Swiss cheese.

Or was itthe shots? What were they giving me?

Jim didn’tthink anything was wrong until one night weeks after he had started getting theshots. It was just before Christmas. He had felt feverish and his joints achedall day. Between classes, while walking in the hall, his legs crippled him withpangs of agony and drove him to the floor. The pain was beyond anything he’dever experienced, but it was gone as quickly as it came. Later, with a clearermind, he thought it felt like extreme growing pains.

Like mybones were ripping apart…

A man hadhelped Jim to his feet almost instantly. Jim had never seen him before.

Where didhe come from? Was hefollowing me?

Jim neverdid see his face. At that point he was still seeing red, his skeleton throbbingwith heat and agony. Simply moving felt like grinding glass shards in hislimbs. The edges of his vision were rainbow colored explosions. Whoever the manwas, he took Jim to the old man again.

Did hework at the school?

No, Jimdidn’t believe that. Not now.

“A bit o’nausea hit you, son?” The old man asked while producing a small needle.

Jim couldbarely talk. Was someone else in the room? The pain rankled his senses and hecouldn’t focus. He couldn’t see into the back corner, which was shrouded inshadow. Was someone back there? All he could manage was, “N-no… notnaus…“

“Oh, don’tbe afraid o’ needles, sonny. You’ve had worse. This one’ll fix ya right up,”the old man said cutting him off. But Jim didn’t mind. Whatever the shot was,it felt like liquid heaven. Jim actually felt it hit his veins and move intohim. He would have drunk it if he could’ve. Cool and soothing, it washedthrough his system, seemingly in an instant, leaving him just a bit high.

The pain hadnever come back so sharply since that day, but Jim felt other things. Hisstomach rumbled all the time, even when he wasn’t hungry. His knuckles crackedwithout provocation. His elbows and knees were always tender. But not thejoints—the bones themselves. If he simply bumped himself on the edge ofhis cot, it felt like he’d been hit with a bat.

To top itoff, they hadn’t let him go home for Christmas. The administration claimed itwas a policy for new cadets, but his roommates told him it was the first timethey’d heard of it and most of them had been at the academy for years. Jimpressed it with the administration, but he was turned down. While pretty mucheveryone else had gone wherever they called home for the holidays, Jim wasstuck with all of the bad eggs and the old man. The shots continued over theholiday. Yay.

In earlyMarch, the Shadow Man had been in the office with the old man. It was the firsttime that Jim had ever seen him. Even then he could feel something offabout him. Jim couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The Shadow Man stood, likehis moniker suggests, in the back of the office, in the dark. But it wasn’tjust that. Jim called him that because everything about the man was under thesurface, in the shadows. He betrayed nothing.

The old manwas still his usual, amenable, pleasing self, but he seemed slightly on edge.It was barely perceptible, but Jim had gotten to know the old man’s mannerismspretty well. He was trying to be less gentle than he usually was.

The oldman knew the Shadow Man was watching.It worried him.

One day whenJim entered the medical office, the old man wasn’t there. Just the Shadow Man.He sat comfortably on the edge of the exam table with one leg up. His righthand rested on the raised leg. Even in the light, the Shadow Man looked dark.Jim saw his face but could not recall anything remarkable or significant. Hewas average looking. All Jim could say was that the Shadow Man was maybe in hisfifties and took care of himself. His hair was salt and pepper and his face wasonly just beginning to show age and wear. He wore a dark gray uniform with norank, no name, and no medals. He might have been the janitor for all Jim knew,except that he was sure this guy was in the service. It was his close-croppedhair. Jim’s initial uneasiness faded.

Until theShadow Man spoke.

“Do you knowEric Steele?” Jim had been so shaken by the question that he only laterprocessed the faint accent. He wasn’t good with accents; Jim narrowed it downto European, not French, not British. It was barely noticeable under ShadowMan’s strong tone.

“What?”

“EricSteele,” the Shadow Man repeated. “Do you know him? And his father?”

“Yeah, Iknow them… what’s this about?”

The ShadowMan sighed. His face nodded to the floor and his eyes searched for somethingthat wasn’t there. At the time, Jim thought he was thinking about how best toput what he wanted to say; now he knew that the Shadow Man was calculating.He stood up from the desk and Jim saw how tall and broad shouldered he was.

Jim waitedfor an answer that wasn’t forthcoming. The Shadow Man eased over to the tablewhere the old man had always gotten his materials. There was gauze, Band-Aids,cotton balls, antiseptic, and now the Shadow Man’s gloved left hand. Somethingwas wrong with it. It was stiff, lifeless.

“Cadet, I’vetaken a special interest in you. I know from your records here that…”

Jim interrupted,“Uh. My records? Who are you?”

The ShadowMan went on as if Jim had never spoken. There was calm in his dark face and inhis movements. Jim got the feeling that the calm was carefully orchestrated.

“I know thatyour grades aren’t strong. I know your parents shipped you away after years ofunderperforming. And I know that out of every cadet who’s ever come here,you’re the only one who made it through the first week’s calisthenics withoutcollapsing. You didn’t break. Not once. But what I know that youdon’t is that you didn’t do that because you’re very fit. No. You did itbecause you’re pissed off,” the Shadow Man said with a smile. Jim juststared and watched him ooze across the room.

“Anger is agood motivator. Fear’s better. And rage is the best. Most of the heroicwar stories you’ve ever heard were not really smart, skilled soldiers coming upwith a great plan. Not at all, no. In war, a man is stripped to nothing. He hashimself and whatever’s inside. Those “heroes” were just regular men who hadjust seen their best friend’s face get splattered all over the ground. They sawwomen and children cut down. Some were wounded—even just slightly—and it setthem off. The common denominator in all of them is rage. Not anger. Rage.Anger means you might start a fight or, hell, even kill a man. But rage? Jim,those folks finish the fight. They don’t just kill a man, they destroyhim. Beat him to a pulp. Stab him fifty times. Shoot em’ a hundred. Whatever.I’m a colonel and I’ve seen it time and time again.”

Colonel…of what? Army, Air Force, Marines?

“What doesthis have to do with me? Or with Eric?” Jim sounded small. He couldn’t help it.Something big was happening—something out of his control. Why was some guy withno name asking about his best friend at a military school across the country?He had a million more questions to ask, chief among them: Who are you? Whyare you doing this? But the questions stayed trapped behind his lips.

The ShadowMan saw right through him. Jim was pissed off. In other people, a heartbeats in the center of their chest, but a white hot furnace burned where Jim’sshould have been. Every day, every hour, every minute in Wyoming only made itworse. More coal in the fire. More gas in the engine.

The ShadowMan’s lips spread into a smile. The smile of a man who thinks it’s funny when adog gets run over and doesn’t die right away. Dangerous. Confident. He knew hehad Jim.

“Everything,”the Shadow Man said. “You’ve got rage, dontcha Jim? You feel it rightnow. You hate this place. You hate the people that sent you here. You hateeveryone who’s not here. Like Eric Steele. So you do know him.”

“I don’thate Eric. He’s my best friend. I’ve known him since we were kids,” Jim said. Thewords felt hollow on his lips. His attention turned inward to the stoked flamesin his chest. The fire burned hotter. That’s the truth… right?

“But he’snot here. He didn’t have to be… initiated like you did.” The ShadowMan’s voice was barely a whisper now, but Jim shrank from it like a shout.

Jim glowered.“Initiated? They didn’t get me. The floor sergeant had to tear MEoff of THEM!” He shouted but didn’t mean to, it escaped. The furnacebelched flames. The heat consumed his memories.

“You almostkilled those boys.”

“Those BITCHES.Bitches, not boys… pussies.”

“They camefor you at night. I read about it. They came and tried to wrap you in yourblanket...”

“They didn’tget the chance. I had stripped one of the metal bars off of my cot whenI heard about ‘initiation.’ Hank Peters got it right in the face.”

“He almostlost an eye. You broke his nose.”

“Fuck him.” Jim spat. His face was nowtwisted with the memory flashing in his mind’s eye. “They were gonna wrap me upand beat me. BEAT ME? I BEAT THEM. Hank never saw it coming. But John and that pussy, Brian,tried to run. They did half the work for me. I chased them after kicking Hankin his balls. John runs like such a bitch. I caught him by the neck and steeredhim into the wall. I smashed his head on the corner of the doorway. It clonked.It actually fuckin’ clonked, like a cartoon. And Brian…” Jim’s handsclutched an invisible metal bed strip as he recounted the story.

Jim snarled. “Brian slipped out and downthe hall. I chased him, but the little cunt is fast. Was fast. Igive him that. I do. I didn’t even think. I just threw the strip. I threw itlike a fuckin’ spear. I angled it so that it might catch him in the back of aleg, but it worked even better! It sliced right between his legs andtangled his feet. It was like a fuckin’ movie. He fell right on his goddamnpussy face. The BITCH!” Jim laughed now. “I couldn’t have planned it. I feltlike fuckin’ Batman. I ran him down. The little fuck was trying tocrawl. And do you know what he said to me? Do you know what he fuckin’ said?”

The Shadow Man didn’t listen to Jim’sstory. He only listened to the raging fire crackling in Jim’s chest. “What’sthat?”

“He said, ‘You’re not supposed to fightback. No one fights back.’ Can you believe that?” Jim grabbed an invisiblephantom, clutched in tight fists. The Shadow Man watched Jim blossom. “Ismashed his face right into the floor. Lil’ bitch was crying and I said,‘I fight back. You’re lucky I don’t kill you, you sonofabitch.’ But I jumped onhis back and beat him with my bare hands. I bashed his head and hit him andpunched him and kicked him and spat on him…”

Jim froze.

He’d been so deep in the memory. That awful,terrible memory. He didn’t hear the small whisper vibrating up the back of hisneck: you’re giving him what he wants… He looked down at his hands,clenched into fists. His knuckles were white from squeezing so hard. He lookedfrom his hands up to the Shadow Man’s gleaming face. Jim thought about thestory again. He couldn’t believe he had done it. It was like a monster tookover his body. The monster beat those kids. Not me, it was something else…But he remembered liking it. I amthe monster.

“That boy isstill recovering. The other two were removed from school,” the Shadow Man said.

Jim spokewithout effort, seemingly without sound. “I got off because my parentsthreatened to sue over the academy’s history of violent initiations. Adminkicked them out and kept me…”

“Of course.You defended yourself.”

The furnacecooled. Jim found himself standing amidst the ash. “I went too far… I beatthem…”

“Theywould’ve done the same to you. Wrapped in your sheets. Alone, in the dark. Theywould’ve beaten you like you were nothing.”

“I almostkilled that kid.”

“It wasjustified. Who could blame you? If someone hurts you, they deserve justice.”

Jim paused.He rolled the word “justice” around in his head. Justice? That wasn’tjustice. He knew it. But he liked it. Every minute of it. It felt likejustice…

Somehow Jimknew he’d do it again.

“Betrayersdeserve justice, Jim.” The Shadow Man had become just that—a dark shape loomingover him. “That’s why I need to know about Eric Steele and his father. They’rekeeping something from you… keeping something from everyone.”

“I knoweverything about Eric,” Jim said. But he wasn’t sure he trusted what he justsaid. He’s tricking you. Don’t help him. Eric has always been your best friend… the whisper curled up his spineagain.

“Not this.”The Shadow Man came forward. He sat down on the exam table again. The ShadowMan’s dark lips parted and he told Jim a story. Afterwards, Jim answered somequestions. He wanted to. It was all very friendly.

* * *

The C130bounced through turbulence. It shook Jim from his lousy sleep. He had been dreamingabout the old man, the shots, the Shadow Man, and the truth about Tim Steeleand, ultimately, Eric. Jim thought about it ever since the Shadow Man asked himto come along.

It wasn’ta request…The Shadow Man parsed his words with diplomacy, but there wasnever any outcome other than Jim on the plane soaring into hell. The Shadow Manwas taking Jim home. You and a squad of special ops goons… what do you thinkthey’re for?

Really, Jimdid it for Eric. The Shadow Man told Jim that Eric wouldn’t be hurt if he wentwith them peacefully. Eric was Jim’s last, best friend. Jim didn’t wantanything to happen to him. He’d already been stripped of his home, his school,his life… he couldn’t lose his friend.

And whygo to all this trouble… flying me all the way home to talk to Eric? What if hewon’t go?

He would.Jim told himself that. He came to believe it. Eric would go because Jim askedhim. Because he’d feel ashamed that he had lied for all those years.

What ifhe didn’t lie? What if it’s not true? What if the Shadow Man is lying? He is,you know… not about everything,Jim didn’t think, but enough. The doubts in his mind waged war on eachother. He knew he didn’t trust the Colonel, but what if the story was true?What if Eric really was some kind of harbinger of death? It felt unreal…impossible. This is the real world, right?

But theColonel’s story had just enough details right. Eric’s dad was in the AirForce in Alaska and he had only been in for the minimum period; thatmuch Mr. Steele had brought up in everyday conversation. But there were otherthings that he was vague about, like why he left and why they abruptly leftAlaska. The story had been told with such detail leading up to his exit fromthe service and then just: I got out and we moved to Virginia. No cutestories about plane rides or packing or the temperature change, just “we left.”Then Eric was born. They were the kind of details Jim might have nevergiven a second thought, until the Colonel filled in the blanks. Or did he?His story, too, was just specific enough to make the Steeles look likereligious terrorists or something.

A shadowfell over Jim—the Shadow. It snapped him out of his ruminations. “You’realmost home, Jim. It’s been awhile. Maybe your parents will let you stay afterthey learn what you’ve done for the country. For everybody.”

Jim felt thelanding gear extend and the plane trembled from descending wind gusts. Hethought about what the Shadow Man said. He wanted to believe it. He needed to.

It was all alie, but Jim had hope for the next day or so. After that, he wouldn’t have evenhope.

* * *

The housewas always neat and clean. Magazines and newspapers were in their proper placeson a nice wall rack, pillows were seated in the corners of the couch angledlike diamonds, and the doilies were situated evenly parallel with the edges ofthe coffee table and end tables. The color scheme was muted: green and burgundywith some light gold flourishes here and there. It was a basic living roomoriented with the TV as its focus. A full couch with a bed pullout, a loveseat, and a green reclining chair curled into a half circle around the coffeetable. All of the distances between everything were precise and even. This wasEric’s house—a neat freak’s dream.

Eric oftentook the cleanliness and precision for granted. He had to admit that some ofhis mother’s cleaning peccadilloes had rubbed off on him, though she would havedisagreed. Friends’ and neighbors’ homes, even tidy ones, looked unkempt bycomparison.

Whatfriends?

It hadn’talways been this way. His mom, Nancy, had always been clean and proper, but itbecame a way of life, a religion, about ten years earlier. The day theworld changed. Their world. His world.

Somethingstirred inside. An emotion? Longing? Memory? Whatever it was, Eric foundhimself standing in front of the shelves flanking the TV. There were lots ofcarefully arranged photos. But they were old pictures from years past. Theyhadn’t taken many pictures lately.

A smilecurved his lips. One picture was from his first hockey game. He and Jim used tobe defensive partners for their community league. They were broken up on thehigh school team, but sometimes they’d get paired together during a bad linechange or if they led by a big margin. Eric loved being out there with hisfriends at the same time. It was more fun that way. Drew had played hockey foryears before high school, but coming together with his buddies on the same teamhad formed some of Eric’s happiest memories. Those were just memories now, too.

The pictureseemed foreign now like he didn’t recognize those people anymore. In a way, hedidn’t. Some of those old feelings were hard to grasp now. Hard to remember,even. They were hidden beneath the shell he had built. It protected him, sure,but he missed some of the feelings and memories it filtered out.

Not longafter everything changed for Eric and his parents, they had visited DisneyWorld. It was something they had never done before. The picture beside thehockey photo showed Eric, his parents, and Tigger posing in front of the bigcastle in the Magic Kingdom. Everyone was smiling and happy, even Tigger.Especially Tigger.

Eric hadalways wanted to go to Disney World, but he didn’t make it there until he wasin the seventh grade. Throughout the years, as all of his friends and the otherkids in class went, Eric begged his parents to go. Their answer was always thesame: “Eric, you know we can’t.” And, of course, the reasons were obvious; evento a little boy.

As happy ashe was to go when he did, it was disappointing. Disney World is for kids. Hegot there about four years too late. The sense of wonder and joy at seeingcharacters he watched in cartoons and movies for years was gone. Like most kidsin junior high, he was “too cool” to get excited about it. For as bad as hewanted to go as a child, he wished he had never gone at all. Memories thatothers had made as children would fuel the need for future visits to re-imaginethem and live them again. But Eric’s memories were like bread just gone staleor cool water—close, but not quite.

What heremembered most was how excited his parents were when they announced the trip.They had probably remembered every single time he had asked and, subsequently,every time they had to say “no.” Eric remembered that his dad was beaming whenthey told him. His mom was excited to go, too, to see what all of the hubbubwas about. His parents had never been to Disney before either. Their parents,Eric’s grandparents, were poor, blue-collar folks from Buffalo, NY, so the tripwas just as exciting for them.

But afterthey arrived, Eric saw in their faces what he had felt—close, but not quite.In some ways, he felt worse for his parents. They felt disappointed that the“magic” of the experience was beyond them, but also that it was beyond Erictoo. One night, in Disney’s Contemporary Hotel, Eric overheard his parentstalking. They thought he was asleep. His dad sounded sad.

“He doesn’tlike it,” Tim had said.

“I thinkhe’s too old. Maybe we shoulda gone to Universal. He’s talked about the ‘Jaws’ride forever,” Nancy agreed.

“The worstpart is that I really wanted to like it here too. But I don’t. It…misses something. I think if Eric and Sarah had been young kids and we’d beenable to come, we could have… I dunno, lived through them. Ya know?”

“You wannago home?”

“No… I thinkwe need to stay. He always wanted to go. Maybe it’ll pick up. We still haven’tseen everything…”

That thinginside stirred again. Eric heard how disappointed his father had sounded. Hewished he could’ve masked his reaction better. Like I can now. It’s easy now… Eric had been gratefulfor the trip (and still was), but he couldn’t have helped feeling what he hador, perhaps more accurately, hadn’t felt.

Forinstance, when he looked to the large photo that dominated the rest on the topshelf, he felt nothing. Without his shell, he would have felt something. Thatparticular feeling was familiar and he had learned to shield it well. Thepicture showed a chubby, bald baby in a diaper lying across the chest of a girlabout five years old. They were on a pink and blue blanket on the floor. Thegirl was beautiful, with long, flowing brown hair draped across a pillow insilken waves. Her skin was the color of milk; with freckles dotting rosy cheeksthat tugged the edges of an amazing, full smile. But there was something not rightwith her. Her wrists were slightly bent and her hands extended, but… strained.One of the stiffened hands rested lightly on the baby’s back and the girl’seyes were locked on him—alive and soft.

Somethingbroke through Eric’s shield and he smiled. He touched the picture. His eyeswere wet and he didn’t know it.

He was thebaby; Eric Steele, one year old. The girl was his big sister, Sarah Steele, agefive. She was as beautiful and glowing as ever.

Sarah wasdead now. Ten years next month.

* * *

NancySteele’s had a routine—wake up, pee, put on her bathrobe, go to the kitchen,feed the cat, mix some chocolate milk, sit down, read the newspaper, and smoke.These things were done over the course of ten minutes every day and until theywere completed, she didn’t speak to anybody. It was the routine.

She strayedfrom it once—ten years ago.

Eric knewthat talking to his mom would do no good, but he always tried anyway. Sherarely responded and when she did, it was usually something gruff. Eric didn’ttake offense.

On thismorning, when Eric finally left the photos in the living room, he strolled pastthe table more awake than he had been a few minutes ago. In part because thepictures stirred him up inside, but also because he wasn’t feeling so well. Sleepwas still a challenge. He couldn’t get cool. The sheets were too warm. Thecovers. His tee shirt. His underwear. Even the pillow cover. Everything madehim feel feverish. Heat was really seeping off of him.

The truthwas that sleep had been difficult for a while now. Maybe it was just Melanie,but he was starting to think that it was something else. He couldn’t rememberhis dreams. Sleep, as it was, came in stretches of twenty minutes before he’dwake up clutching the bed. Once, he ripped his comforter. He hid the tearbehind pillows and careful bed-making. The cover was expensive and Nancy wasn’tpartial to untidiness.

Whatever waswrong with Eric, it was so obvious that his mom broke the silence to comment onit.

“Eric!” she saidwith surprise. Nancy put the newspaper down and swiveled. “Look at you. You’reall red.”

His hands and face were sweaty. Thick, feverish, saltysweat covered him like dew. His shirt stuck to him, but he thought it had beendry only moments before. He looked at his arm and they were red. It looked alot like muted sunburn.

“Whoa.”

Nancystepped out of her seat and pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. “God!You feel like you’ve got a bad fever.”

Ericshrugged. “I feel fine. A little hot, but I know how a fever feels.”

She felt hischeek. “Are you sure?”

He pulledaway and went to the cereal cabinet. After some rustling, Eric produced anoatmeal packet. He poured it into a small dish and crossed to the fridge formilk.

“You’regoing to school.” This was not a question but a hybrid question and command.Eric’s mom always thought he was trying to skip school.

“Yeah, Ma,”Eric said without looking at her. “I feel okay. A little warm, maybe. I didn’tget much sleep.”

Nancyfrowned and returned to her chocolate milk and cigarette. “S’cause you stay upso late.”

“Not bychoice. I’m not tired. Not for the last week or so anyway.”

Nancy pickedup the newspaper and scanned the comics. “S’that girl, isn’t it?”

Not this…

Eric hatedwhen his parents got involved with his personal life. On the one hand, he couldtell they genuinely cared; on the other hand, they didn’t seem emotionallyequipped to deal with the issues seriously. He didn’t blame them—they had beensapped emotionally. Sometimes people’s feelings can dry up after they’ve beenused and used. Like a well, human emotion has a bottom—a limit. Eric shieldedhis; Tim and Nancy emptied theirs. Whatever the case, his parents criticizedhis feelings as though he didn’t have a right to them. It seemed to himsometimes like friends of a murder victim chastising a friend of a rape victimbecause their pain was worse. But how do you compare? You don’t. You can’t.

But hisparents tried. Eric decided to just keep them in the dark. Denying a problemwas less frustrating than hearing how he “shouldn’t feel that way.”

He knewNancy was referring to Melanie. Eric wanted to deny it coolly, but where shewas concerned he had a hard time faking. Plus, Nancy could needle him like onlya mother could.

His responsewas cold. “No.”

“Your fatherand I broke up once or twice before we finally stayed together,” she said anyway.

Eric triedto end the discussion. “I’m not you and that won’t happen here.”

For all thetimes his mom could be gruff and cold, there were others when she had a greatdepth of compassion. Maybe the well wasn’t dry yet.

“It hurtsbad now, but that’s because it’s new. You never had a girlfriend before. It’shard to see it now, but you’ll get past it. There are plenty of other girls,”Nancy said before returning to her newspaper and smoke.

Only momcould crack the shield. Her words were comforting and the sentiment behind themmore so. She was right. If it had only been a matter of losing a girlfriend,she might have reached him better. But it was more than that. A line of dominosthat Eric watched fall around him. No. It was more than just a break up.

It wasalienation.

Themicrowave chirped and then hummed to life. His oatmeal spun on the littleceramic dish inside. Sometimes he just stared at food spinning and cookinginside. It occurred to him that harmful microwaves were probably whittling awayhis eyesight.

My eyesare stronger.

His glasseshad hurt his eyes recently. The prescription was becoming too strong. Drivingat night gave him headaches now. The street lights weren’t glaring bulbsanymore; they were focused beams that stabbed his eyes.

Loud beepssignaled the end of the oatmeal’s rotation. It burbled and popped. A big chunkof it spat onto his wrist with a sizzle.

But hedidn’t feel it.

* * *

Jim’s planedidn’t land at any airport you’ve heard of. The C130 touched down south ofWashington, D.C., close to Quantico. Its mammoth wheels grinded to a halt andthe craft settled near an old hangar. It was early morning and the rising sun wasgolden on the eastern horizon.

The two menthat sat behind Jim on the flight walked one in front and one in back of him onthe way off the plane. He assumed they expected him to run for it, but afterflying for about six hours straight, the only place he would run is to is abed.

Jim’sescorts stopped him about thirty yards from the plane and waited for everyoneelse to file off. He had stared at most of them on the way here, but this washis first time really seeing them. They were normal. Odd as it mightsound, Jim was astounded by how average everyone looked. Loaded onto a plane inthe dead of night by strangers who seemed to know everything about him, Jimexpected these folks to at least wear a good sneer or a curled mustache.Maybe some horns. Maybe his paranoia—valid as it was—colored his judgment? Wasit giving him nightmares and fantasies that weren’t there?

Fantasy?Like what the Shadow Man told you about Eric? That fantasy? Right… they just want to talk to Eric. Thenyou get to go home and live in the happy, froo-froo land of bunnies.

And WHATwere those shots for?

The ShadowMan exited just before the pilots. With the morning sun bearing down on him,there was no darkness to hide his features. What looked normal the other nightwas now… something else. In the sanitized light of the academy medical station,the Shadow Man looked older with grayed hair and a slightly wrinkled face.Beneath the sun, the natural light of God, Jim saw the man behind the shadow—atwisted old man with a frowning smile and hard, almost translucent, skin. Hecarried his overcoat across his left arm and descended the stairs like everyoneelse.

But he’s not like everyone else. No. Jim was sure of that now. He was suddenlyvery afraid for Eric. Deep down, though, he was more afraid for himself.