Genesis. Volume 1.

July 24, 1985. Wednesday. 9:00 a.m. Emma's house. Emma woke in a cold sweat. The dream had been sticky, heavy—she was standing on the stage of the Rivoli Theater again, and before her was not Elias but Crowley in his clown costume, his smile growing, stretching, swallowing the entire world. She sat up, ran a hand over her face. Her cheeks were damp—not with tears, with perspiration. Outside, the sky was gray. The clock on the nightstand showed a quarter to nine. She hadn't slept properly in three days—since returning from Cleveland. She kept thinking. Remembering. Turning over every word Elias had said in her mind. Black eyes without pupils. The cold ticket. "She's more important than you think." Who—Jenny? Why? She got up, pulled on jeans, a black tank top. In the mirror—a pale face, red eyes, hair unwashed for two days. She didn't care. She took a sheet of paper from the table, covered on both sides with writing from the night before—phrases, individual words, intonations, even though you couldn't write those down. She shoved it into her jacket pocket and went out. Her mother had already left—a note and cold coffee on the kitchen counter. Emma didn't drink. July 24, 1985. Wednesday. 10:00 a.m. Abandoned garage on Third Street. The garage was damp and cold, as always. The wind blew through the broken window, stirring the pages of an old newspaper forgotten on a crate. It smelled of gasoline, rust, and that sweetish smell that no longer dissipated—it had soaked into the walls, the concrete, the air. Emma came last. The others were already sitting on the crates—Arthur, Lisa, Max, Jenny. Lisa was drawing without looking up. Max was twirling an empty lighter between his fingers. Jenny clutched the ring with the letter "B"—she no longer took it off, wore it on her finger like a talisman. Arthur drank cold tea from a thermos, not tasting it. Emma didn't sit down. She walked to the crate that served as their table and laid out the written sheet. "I didn't sleep last night. I was thinking. Remembering his words." "And?" Max asked. "He said: 'Crowley was needed. He held back the others.'" Emma ran her finger along a line. "I asked how many others. He didn't answer. He just looked and said: 'Count the red dots.'" Arthur pulled out the map—the same one with six dots. He spread it on the crate, weighing down the edges with a mug and Max's lighter. "Six. We already know that." "No." Emma shook her head. "I was at the library yesterday with Lisa. We found something else." Lisa put down her pencil. She pulled from her backpack an old book in a leather binding, with a worn spine and faded lettering. A world map, published in 1924—the same year the circus had come to Brookfield. She opened the book to the flyleaf. In the margins were drawn red dots. Dozens. Hundreds. In America, in Europe, in Asia, in South America. Dots covered the map like a rash. "This is from the city hall archive. Mr. Cross let me look at it. He said it was an old circus guide. But I noticed." "What?" Jenny asked. "The dots match places where children later disappeared." Lisa ran her finger across the page. "Not just in America. Everywhere these dots were, yellow tickets were later found. Or bodies. Or nothing." Arthur took the book, ran his finger over the page. The dots were everywhere. Not six. Not a hundred. More. "Elias said Crowley held back the others. And now he's sealed. And they're waking up." "All of them?" Max stopped twirling the lighter, gripped it in his fist. "I don't know. Maybe not all. But those nearby. Those who felt the balance was broken." Arthur placed the map next to the book. Six dots against hundreds. "We can't stop all of them." "We don't have to." Lisa spoke quietly but firmly, as if she'd rehearsed all night. "We need to find others. Those who know. Those who can take Crowley's place. Or seal them one by one." "That'll take decades," Max said. "We have decades." "And what about the next victims?" Jenny asked. No one answered. Only the wind whistled through the cracks, only a mouse scratching somewhere behind the wall. "Elias said they're different." Emma swept her gaze over all of them. "Not all like Crowley. Some are scarier. Some are smarter. Some don't appear in clown guise." "What guise then?" Arthur asked. "He didn't say. Said we'd know when we meet them." "And how do we recognize them?" Max asked. "By the smell," Lisa said without looking up from her drawing. "That sweetish smell. It's the same everywhere." Arthur folded the map—carefully, along the old creases—and tucked it into his backpack. Lisa took the book for herself, pressed her notebook on top of it. "We can't travel to other countries right now. We have no money, no documents, no weapons." "But we can reach out to those who are there." Lisa looked up. "If there are people like us in other cities, they're searching too. Reading newspapers too. We can leave a sign." "What kind?" Max asked. "A circus ticket," Emma said. "A copy. With a number Crowley doesn't have." "Zero?" Jenny asked. "No." Emma shook her head. "Seven. A symbol that we're looking for others." Arthur looked at her—at her pale face, her red eyes, her hands that no longer trembled. Or she had learned to hide the tremor. "Do you think they'll understand?" "If they've been through what we have—they'll understand." He nodded. "Okay. We'll print copies. Send them to newspaper offices in cities with red dots. With a short note: 'If you've seen it—come. Abandoned garage. Brookfield. Every month, the first Sunday.'" "That's dangerous," Max said. "Anyone could come." "We'll check them. First ourselves. Then decide who to trust." "And if no one comes?" "Then we keep searching. Alone." Outside the garage walls, the wind rustled. Somewhere on the hill stood the Genesis mansion, and its windows held a gray light—invisible by day, but they knew. And in other cities, other countries, other monsters were waking. "We can't save everyone. But we can try." "You can always try," Lisa said. She took a pencil and a blank sheet. She began to draw—slowly, carefully, tracing the lines. A ticket with the number 7. It came out quickly—she'd already had practice. "We need a lot of these. Twenty, thirty. For all the cities." "We'll help," Jenny said, taking a pencil. "I can draw too." "Me too," Emma said. Max silently pulled a blank sheet toward himself and took a pen. They drew in silence. Only the scratch of pencils on paper, breathing, the wind beyond the walls. Arthur watched them—the five of them in the dim light of the garage, bent over their drawings. Lisa, tracing the number 7 with the same precision she used for protective circles. Max, sketching carelessly but quickly. Jenny, carefully copying Lisa's template. Emma, gripping her pencil as if it might break. "We'll manage." No one answered. But no one doubted either. July 24, 1985. Wednesday. 1:00 p.m. Rose's Diner. After the garage they went to the diner—cold and hungry. The day was cold, un-July-like, and even the sun gave no warmth. They ordered fries, hamburgers, Coca-Cola—everything on the menu that fit their budget. Emma didn't smoke. She sat with a cup of black coffee, warming her hands. Jenny pushed a plate of fries toward her—Emma took one, held it, put it back. "Eat. You haven't eaten in three days." "How do you know?" "I know everything." Jenny looked at her. "You're pale as a sheet." Emma didn't argue. She took a fry, bit into it. She couldn't taste it—only salt on her tongue. Arthur chewed a hamburger, staring out the window at the gray sky. Lisa was drawing—not tickets now, but a sketch for the notice. Max drank his Coke, gurgling, annoying himself. "When do we start sending them?" "Today. I'll take New York and Chicago. Lisa—the West Coast. Max—the South. Jenny—the Midwest. Emma—the rest." "Detroit?" Max asked. "Detroit later. First the ones with dots on the map." "There are a lot of dots," Jenny said. "That's why we'll start with the big cities. More chance of finding someone." They finished eating in silence. Left money on the table, didn't wait for change. Walked outside, inhaled the cold air—it smelled of gasoline, wet leaves, and a freedom they didn't have. "Meet in two weeks. Bring answers, if there are any." "And if there aren't?" "Then we'll come up with something else." They split up. Arthur and Lisa went home, Max in the other direction, Jenny and Emma together. July 24, 1985. Wednesday. 8:00 p.m. The Walker house. Arthur sat in the kitchen, going over the list of cities. Lisa had gone upstairs to draw notices. Their mother was clattering pots at the stove, their father reading the newspaper in the living room—occasionally coughing, turning pages. A normal evening. A normal life. Arthur stared at the list and thought about the hundreds of red dots on the old map. About how Crowley had been only one of many. About how now that he was sealed, others were beginning to wake. "Why aren't you eating?" His mother set a bowl of soup before him. "Not hungry." "Eat. You're skinny as a rail." He took a spoon, raised it to his mouth. The soup was hot, with noodles and chicken—his mother made it on Saturdays, but today was Wednesday. Which meant she was worried. She always made soup when she was worried. Arthur swallowed a spoonful, then another. He couldn't taste it. "Going anywhere tomorrow?" His father glanced into the kitchen. "No. Tomorrow we're home." "Good." He nodded and went back to the living room. Arthur finished the soup, put the bowl in the sink. Went upstairs, sat on his bed. Pulled out the map, spread it on the blanket. Six red dots. Soon there would be more. He folded the map, tucked it into his backpack. Lay down, closed his eyes. Beneath his lids—dancing shadows. Somewhere on the hill, a gray light glowed. Someone with a red eye was watching the city. "We'll come back. I promised." Outside the window, the wind rustled. Somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaked. His mother turned off the kitchen light. Arthur sank into sleep—heavy, dreamless. On the table lay a sketch of a ticket with the number 7. Lisa hadn't taken it. A corner of the paper lifted in the draft—and went still. The network was beginning to grow.