Benny Washington, unable to relate to his distant father, and wracked with guilt over the recent death of his mother, seeks solace in best friend Peter Hall, comic books, and ballet-a passion he and Peter share. When Benny learns on the Internet tha...
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HIGH ROCK TOWER
LYNN, MASSACHUSETTS
July 1854
"Come out, Spear, and bring your evil machine with you!"
The insistent pounding at the door far below intensified, but Spear's focus was on the creature suspended in midair above his head. Its pale green skin reflected the glow from the machine, its burning red eyes squinted with anger, and its thin, grasping fingers trembled as they flailed in the air.
Spear's gloved hands squeezed the metallic arms of the machine. His body within the copper and gemstone suit vibrated with the power coursing through his veins. He eyed the open maw of the machine, the swirling darkness within, and then glanced up at the flailing creature. Beneath the protective head covering, rivulets of sweat dribbled down his face and into his shirt.
"You will go back!" he shouted at the being, his voice muffled beneath the headcover.
From somewhere at the base of the tower, sounding far away, he heard, "Let's burn the place down! It's cursed!"
Angry shouts of what was clearly a mob rang out in unison.
Then another voice roared, "No! We just want the machine!"
More shouts reached his ears, but Spear did not waver. He fixed his bleary gaze on the hovering being. His sagging body spoke to his fatigue, but he knew the machine would work. He'd spent too many years building it and his comrades counted on him to prove its effectiveness.
Despite having no mouth or nose, the being made discordant sounds of fury and frustration.
"You do not belong here!" Spear sagged again as the being made grasping motions at his gloved hands.
This creature, known to the locals of Massachusetts as the Dover Demon, was strong and tenacious. It clearly did not want to return to its own dimension. Spear squeezed still harder on the arms of the machine, allowing the copper strips embedded in his gloves to make even tighter contact.
His added pressure caused the swirling blackness within the circular opening to grow thicker and more intense, like a raging hurricane. Spear felt its pull, and so did the being. Inch by precious inch, the Dover Demon inched inexorably closer to that blackness. Spear knew he would win. He merely needed to focus the power of the suit into the machine. The two were made to work in sync. One without the other would be ineffective against such creatures. That was the primary reason it took so long to design the perfect instrument for containing them.
Pounding of wood against wood distracted him a moment. The locals were breaking down the door. He tuned out the pounding and angry shouts. He'd hated using their religious beliefs against them, but it was the only way. The truth was something the average person could never accept.
The Dover Demon hung mere inches from the machine opening, its deep red eyes feral with rage. Its thin hands pressed against the metal surrounding the hole, fighting against the suction drawing it in. But Spear knew the effort was futile. He sagged, his entire body thrumming with debilitating power. His recovery time from this battle would be lengthy.
"You..." he gasped, his breathing ragged with fatigue, "...are... finished!"
With a final screech of rage, the Dover Demon vanished through the hole, intermingling with the blackness, its final cry echoing away into the void.
Spear released his hold on the machine before the being could fight its way back. The machine lost its glow, resting quiescently on the table like an odd junk sculpture a local craftsman might have built from spare parts.
Spear dropped to his knees, heaving with ragged gasps. He yanked off the head covering and sucked in the stale air of the tower room. He'd won. The God Machine was a success!
The pounding and shouting caught his attention. The splintering of wood indicated the mob was close to breaking down the door. If they captured the machine, they would destroy it in a fit of fundamentalist rage and everything he and his colleagues had worked for would be lost.
Despite rubbery legs, Spear used the edge of the table to drag himself to his feet. There was another way out of the tower. His body felt like a leaden weight as he steadied himself and caught a few more needed gulps of air. Then he placed his head covering onto the machine and wrapped both arms around it. Lifting the machine off the table, he staggered toward the only door into the tower room and squeezed through.
He knew he would escape and the machine would be safe. But would his followers always keep it safe after he was gone? That was a question he couldn't possibly answer.
The story jumps ahead to modern-day San Francisco where the repercussions of this prologue come home to roost in a big way on a grieving 12-year-old and his friends.
