The abomination that just visited Ricky’s mind was reeling, furious in its grotesque machine. It had never been that humiliated, or overpowered by a human in a very long time. Normally visions like the one it sent Ricky turned victims into gibbering morons for at least twenty-four hours, but the boy had driven it away with a simple command. The conclusion was equally simple. The twins were strong together, even if their small minds didn’t grasp it. They supported, empowered and made each other far stronger than most normal humans.

"They must be separated."

It floated higher and he beheld the force that it had assembled in just a little more than a day. No thanks to the bumbling fools who passed for officers on this planet, of course. A thousand well-equipped shock troops from the base sat in circles, eating, smoking and playing cards. About six times as many irregulars – mostly local hicks who happened to have weapons – showed up. Three legions of war pigs (3,027, precisely) set up camp a few hundred yards away. A dozen battle-class flying saucers, remnants of Giygas’s failed invasion twenty years before, were at his call. Men were positioning laser artillery in the mountains that would be able to hammer Fourside with dead-on accuracy. And if all else failed, there was always the Doomsday Gun…

"What am I waiting for?"

It faded from existence for a moment, then reappeared in a cave a hundred yards away in front of its senior lieutenant, a higher-ranking remnant of Giygas’s Starmen Corps. It buzzed and saluted with a tentacle-like arm.

"Your worship?"

"Commence the attack on Fourside."

The Starman hesitated. "Your worship…are you positive? I mean! If we wait another day or two, we will be fully prepared for an assault!"

The juices that floated the brain bubbled. "The whelps are alive, lieutenant! They are in Fourside! If you question my superior judgment, nobody shall stop me from rewiring you with one of my many implements."

"Yes, your worship. Saucers will be off the ground in an hour, and the artillery will fire at your command. I will motivate the troops for the charge once the city is weakened. We will win, I can assure you."

"Then quit talking and get to your work!"

"Yes, your worship."

"One more thing! The whelps are mine. If either is found dead, I shall personally check to see if your pain circuits are in proper working order."

"Yes, your worship!"

The Starman vanished, then reappeared to give a quick salute before finally leaving. For the first time in as long as it could remember, the brain didn’t threaten the minor insubordination with any kind of torture. It was too busy thinking (no, worrying) about the two whelps that posed such a threat to the new world order that was rising like a bloody moon. One had psychic ability – powers supposed to be insignificant next to the brain’s centuries of practice – that bested him just a day earlier and cast him out of his mind just minutes ago. The other had a simple mind and barely a spark of psychic potential, but had the soul and heart of a thousand kings and could not be shaken by a nuclear blast as long as his brother was at his side.

"They must be separated," it repeated. It shut itself down into a state of deep mediation. If the whelps were to pay for crossing the greatest mind in the galaxy, it would need all its power…

---

Ricky sat in the shower, finally washing off the adventuring grime as well as the invisible but more potent dirt that comes with being on the receiving end of bad visions. The shower smelled funny and ran out of warm water after four minutes, but after his experiences it felt far more refreshing than any bath he took at home. Thoughts passed through Ricky’s mind as the cold water pelted his hardened skin. The enemy would strike fast and hard, then that thing would come looking for him and his brother.

"Go ahead and come then. We’ll be ready," he said aloud, then flushed, embarrassed for nobody in particular. Watch out Ricky, or this crazy adventure just might turn you schitzo. He turned off the water, dried off and put on his other change of clothes. The feelings of weakness and despair from the physically taxing encounter were fading fast, but he’d need something to eat before the inevitable confrontation. He stepped into the main room, where Krause and Brandon were finishing up telling Duster and Cecilia about the thing that they’d all fight very soon.

"Are you okay?" Cecilia asked while she petted Boney, genuine fear and concern written on her face.

Ricky smiled. "Never felt better, except I could use some real food."
"The closest thing we got to that are some microwave beans and a box of ramen noodles," Espeon said, opening the refrigerator.

"That’s better than beef jerky and peanut butter."

It was getting close enough to dinnertime, so Espeon and Cecilia decided to cook what passed as an early supper in a Fourside safe house.

"What did it say?" Krause asked Ricky as the rest of them sat around the trunk/coffee table.

"It’s coming to get us real soon."

"You seem awful calm about it," Duster noted. "I mean! We shouldn’t panic or nothing, but it looked like it was giving you quite a beating even though it wasn’t even here! If you can dig it…"

"Things are gonna get ugly fast, Duster. Don’t think I’ve been the first one to say it, but it’s true. This thing is evil, maybe more than the pig king was, and it might be almost as strong. But I’ve beaten it twice, and I dunno if flukes can happen twice. So it’s gonna come at us with everything it’s got. We’ve gotta get ready for anything. This thing’s wicked nasty, and it might tear this whole city apart until we’re all dead."

"You sound awful calm about it, Ricky," Krause said.

"Listen up. So far we’ve been able to beat anything the Pig King – or whoever took over – has thrown at us. Maybe that prophecy’s full of what makes the grass green, maybe not! But you’ve made me believe that we can beat this thing."

"But we have to be careful," Brandon added.

"Of course. I have a feeling we’re going to have to get what we can and leave here soon, and I’m a psychic."

Duster looked out the window. Below a tank and a squad of troops from the militia cleared the street as a low-flying jet rattled the building above. "What have ya’ll dragged me into?"

After a quick dinner with minimal conversation, Duster pulled up a piece of carpet and opened a safe loaded with illegal weapons. Brandon stuck to his laser gun, Espeon slung an anti-personnel shotgun over his back in addition to his pistol and whip and Cecilia chose a light rifle. Krause picked an automatic pistol that he spun in his hand like any spaghetti western’s idea of a gunslinger. Ricky picked up a heavy pistol, but hesitated and set it on the trunk.

"You gonna get a gun?" Espeon asked.

Ricky shook his head. "No, I think I’ll stick with my bat."

Espeon looked at Krause, then spoke softer. "Kids should never have to take up weapons like that."

"No," Ricky agreed. "They shouldn’t."

"I promised to protect you, Ricky. It was a long time ago, but in Summers we only lie to tourists. I’d feel horrible if I lost you or Krause again."

"I know how you feel, but I don’t think I’ll need a gun to win."

"Please take it. I know you’re very gifted, but…I’d feel better if you took it."

Ricky looked at the gun on the trunk. He hadn’t fired anything heavier than a pellet gun, and he was more likely to hurt himself than any pig if he tried to fire it. But empathy took over and he nodded.

"I’ll take it for you."

Ricky strapped the hefty gun onto a belt, then fastened it around his waist. Duster was struggling to heft a rocket launcher, a sniper’s rifle and a duffel bag over his scrawny shoulders while Boney jumped up on him, providing much-needed laughs before the confrontation.

"Come here, Boney!’ Krause said after a minute or two. Duster finally secured his gear and stood tall despite the weight.

"Why didn’t you do that sooner?" Duster asked, raising his arms with indignation. Another round of laughter swept the group, but this time a strange noise interrupted them and they fell silent, except for Boney’s whimpering. A distant blast echoed outside and the building’s foundation quaked for a moment. Espeon realized that he was holding Cecilia’s hand, and the two gave each other an awkward smile before letting go.

"They’ve started already," Cecilia said, fingering her weapon. Brandon nodded helpfully and turned to the door as the emergency sirens blared.

"Where are we going?" Espeon asked.

"They’re probably going to pound the bridges first to halt anything on the roads," Brandon said. "We ought to make for the docks. Duster, how well do you know this city?"

"I know where the docks are at…"

"We should split into two groups. Duster leads one and I lead the other. We meet up at wharf #4, the one that handles the ferry to the south side of the bay."

"Good thinking, chief," Duster said.

Another blast sounded outside, this one closer.

"Who’s with who?" Brandon asked, clutching the gun tighter.

Of course, Ricky, Krause and Espeon stuck together, and Boney didn’t want to leave the twins’ sides. They were to follow Duster while Brandon would go with Cecilia.

"Kinda uneven, but whatever," Duster said as a pair of explosions rocked the city like an angry, stomping giant. Weapons in hands, they hustled down the stairs and into the mayhem outside. Wide-eyed militia in fatigues and kevlar helmets and equally frightened and uniformed cops were busy trying to direct the panicked traffic with the barrels of their rifles. The blare of the air raid sirens, car horns and the occasional shout that was able to top the chaos beat the group’s ears like a bongo, and the twins weren’t able to deny the fear welling up inside of them.

"Ready?" Brandon shouted over the din. Everyone nodded and braced as a fifth and sixth shockwave hit. Cecilia ran to Brandon’s side and everybody else formed on Duster. Espeon turned to Cecilia.

"I’ll see you there?" he shouted.

She nodded heavily and the two groups went their separate ways.

---

"Worship, the artillery are striking strategic locations with surgical precision! The western bridge and the police station took serious damage and the airport control tower has been flattened! There’s significant damage to the main runways as well and things are going as planned!"

"Did I ask for a damage report?"

"No, your worship…"

"Do you think I care about bridges and police stations and airports?"

"No, your-"

"Then why do you waste my time with this drivel? Tell the artillery to keep doing their jobs. I shall personally attack when the time is right!"

"Yes, your worship! The saucers are ready for launch. Shall I give the order?"

"Yes, yes, why not? Order them to fire at will."

"Yes, worship!"

---

Ricky, Krause, Espeon and Boney followed Duster through the gridlock. Many people were leaving their cars and trying their luck on foot while a pair of motorcycles and a few bikes wove between the cars and authorities still tried to maintain some order. Duster held the rifle’s butt in front of him, and was doing his best to clear a path through the growing crowd. A gray-bearded man clad in a cardboard sign jumped in front of them.

"It’s over! It’s over!" the man declared. "I told you, but you never listened! But NOOOO! He’s just a crazy old coot! Well look at what’s happening right now! Repent now, and you will be – OJEE! Pain!"

"Take a hike, killjoy!" Duster said, ramming the barrel into his gut. "We’ve got work to do! C’mon!"

A brilliant flash of blue light enveloped the world, and the screams ahead were soon drowned out by an enormous blast of heat and white light that burned through one’s closed eyelids like the sun. When the glare was less blinding, Ricky found himself lying on the trunk of a famous yellow taxi. Ahead of him, a blazing inferno towered two stories and a column of death-black smoke billowed into infinity. Heart pounding, he rolled off the trunk and stood on two shaky legs. There was a pain in his left side and he felt dizzy, but he knew his fate could have been much worse.

"Krause!" he screamed.

"What?" Krause screamed back, albeit a bit muffled.

"Where are you?"
"Somewhere dark! You sound nearby!"

"So do you!"

Ricky blinked at both the smoke and in thought, then laughed in spite of himself. He focused his mental power and flung the trunk open. He found Krause laughing too, maybe in spite of himself or maybe not.

"I grabbed a hold of you when I saw that light, and we both got flung back. I’m guessing I landed in the open trunk and you closed it when you landed on top of it. What’re the chances of that, huh?"

"If that coot hadn’t stopped us, we would’ve been toast…"

"Where’s the others?" Krause exclaimed, bolting upright.

An elderly black woman with a lunatic’s eyes ran by them, shouting, "Vietcong attack! Incoming bogeys six o’ clock! Hit the deck!"

Ricky grabbed Krause and they dove to the burning-hot pavement to avoid a flaming tire that smashed through the taxi’s roof. They looked up, but instead of buildings and overturned cars, there were tall hardwood trees and boulders. The acrid smoke turned into the familiar fragrance of the woods in summer and the fire’s hellish roar turned into the rustle of animals and the singing of birds. Fourside was gone, and they were back in the woods in Einesville, playing paintball with their friends.

"We gotta get out ‘fore the Vietcong hit us again!" Ricky barked militaristically.

"What? We still got men back there! We never leave a man behind!"

"That’s the Rangers’ motto. We’re the 101^st Airborne, remember?"

"Oh yeah…"

"What’re you waitin’ for? Move out, private!"

They climbed to their feet, held their weapons against their chests and hustled, stooped over for cover, through the concrete forest.

---

Espeon’s eyes cleared and he smelled, then felt, his smoldering shirt.

"Fire! Fire!" he shouted, tearing the shirt off of his body and trying to stand up. He didn’t get very far, because he was in a full dumpster. He would’ve kissed the pavement five feet below if he hadn’t executed a last-minute defensive roll. Standing but reeling, he examined himself. Whip, check. Pistol, check. Rifle, no. Satchel, check. Limbs, check. Boots, check. And pants, check. He had just survived a laser artillery blast with not just the skin of his teeth, but also his pants, and not everyone could boast that. He was lucky today…

"Where’s the others?" he said aloud. He had landed in alley not far from the blast that had turned into a wall of fire that would make most firemen wet themselves.

"Ricky! Krause! Duster! Boney!" he shouted. Of course they wouldn’t answer. He unhooked his whip, gave it a lash to see if the fire hadn’t ruined it, and ran into the open. At once he was overwhelmed by the carnage. Overturned cars littered the street like discarded soda cans, black bones and debris were strewn about like broken toys and the screams that rose above the flames’ roar curdled the blood.

"You’ll pay for this!" he shouted to the sky as another, more distant blast sent a small earthquake through the city. His eyes darted around. A few rugged, beaten survivors were fleeing at varying speeds, but two boys hustling around the street corner like soldiers caught his eyes.

"Ricky! Krause! It’s Espeon!"

Of course they didn’t hear him. He took off running as they vanished into the crowd on the sidewalk.

---

Ricky and Krause ducked into a thicket that seemed to sway in the wind like a chanting fanatic.

"We can hide out here and shoot ‘em when they show up," Ricky said.

A small tree’s branch swung like an arm and clubbed Krause’s head before it rushed past them. "What was that!? This ain’t no thicket!"

"Keep your head on! We’re moving out!"

A concussion sounded in the distance as they dodged through the angry thicket. Countless black trees that consumed the sunlight loomed over them, stomping every which way, some of them stopping to take a clumsy swing at each other or shoving the twins out of the way with their branches. Ricky threw himself against a cliff face, breathing through his mouth.

"Ricky!" screamed Krause as he ducked to avoid a sinister branch. "We’ve gotta get out of here!"

"They’ve turned the jungle against us!" was Ricky’s response. His dark brown eyes gleamed like a tiger’s. He drew his pistol and fired a round in the air, sending him off balance but clearing the trees around him. "Follow me! We’re getting out of here!"

The twins dove through the gap in the hostile trees and out into a field of tight-packed boulders and the occasional tree swaying in the warm breeze.

"I don’t remember this place!" Krause shouted. "What’s going on?"

Ricky leaped onto a boulder, bat in one hand and pistol in the other. "Faster! They’re right behind us!"

"Ricky, no! This ain’t Einesville! This ain’t even a field!"

"What is it then?"

"It’s…" but he couldn’t say anything else. Where were they? It seemed to float just beyond Krause’s conscience, slipping away every time he thought he had a good hold.

"Did I tell you to move or not? Watch your step! One slip between these boulders and you might break something!"

Krause uttered a desperate wail and crawled and jumped after his brother on the boulders that reminded him of cars and trucks.

"Cars and trucks?"

A familiar voice rose above the howling wind that probably wasn’t the wind. Krause turned for a moment, and a smile and a laugh broke his face.

"Ricky!" Krause cried, pointing to the man standing on a truck-shaped rock maybe a hundred feet behind them. "It’s Espeon!"

Ricky’s burning, bloodshot eyes narrowed in rage. "Giddown! Commie at six o’clock!"

"What’s wrong with you?" Krause screamed, throat raw. "This ain’t paintball and it ain’t Vietnam either! Snap out-"

He was silenced as Ricky raised his gun with both of his hands and stood in the firing position.

"No!" he managed to say. Time seemed to warp, and maybe it did. Krause turned to Espeon, who seemed to shout frantically. His brother’s trigger fingers moved, and Krause rammed him with his shoulder. The muzzle flashed, the gunshot rang, and they both opened their eyes on the hot pavement below. Ricky looked up at his brother, scared eyes wide and a drop of blood running from his open mouth. At once, he threw Krause off of him and staggered to his feet.

"Espeon!" he screamed, looking at the truck in a traffic jam that had been a big rock in a field seconds ago. Neither the lone Vietcong nor Espeon stood on the cab. Ricky’s mouth and eyes hung open in anguish as the drop of blood from his mouth turned into a trickle, forming a picture that said far more than a thousand words. The smoking gun clattered to the street and he bolted through the maze of cars. Krause shouted after him.

"Wait, Ricky! You might not’ve…"

But his brother now just another face in a crowd hurrying to either their doom or a bomb shelter. Krause tried to scream, but his voice croaked and he braced against a car, feeling more exhausted than he could ever remember feeling. He was past brooding. The world was collapsing around him and he had to do what he could. But what could he do now? He stared at the blue sky crossed with smoke, waiting for an answer.

---

Miles away, a brain cackled.