Genesis. Volume 1.

July 27, 1985. Saturday. 1:00 p.m. The Walker house. Arthur sat in the kitchen finishing cold macaroni and a meat patty—his mother had left it on the stove, covered with a plate. The food was bland; he chewed mechanically, staring out the window at the gray sky. Rain had threatened all morning but never quite arrived. Upstairs, Lisa was moving around—he could hear her walking across the room, opening the closet, closing it. Then footsteps on the stairs—she came down, holding a large sheet of paper rolled into a tube. "Ready?" Arthur asked. "Almost." Lisa unrolled the paper. "I finished the list today. Thirty cities." He looked at her. The same dark circles under her eyes, her face pale, but her eyes held a fire. Lisa had changed over these two months. She'd grown older, harder. Sometimes he looked at her and didn't recognize the girl who'd been putting on mascara and listening to the radio on the day the clown knocked on the door. "We're meeting at the garage at two. I'll call Max." She nodded and went back upstairs to finish her drawings. Arthur finished his cold tea, rinsed the mug, set it on the drying rack. He put on his jacket, checked his pockets: money, keys, the red thread on his wrist. He stepped outside. July 27, 1985. Saturday. 2:00 p.m. Abandoned garage on Third Street. Lisa arrived first. She sat on an upturned crate, the large sheet with neat rows spread before her. Thirty city names, written in her calligraphic hand. Arthur walked over and looked over her shoulder: New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, Dallas, Seattle, Boston, Detroit, Atlanta. And twenty-two more names he'd only ever seen on a map. "This is just America," Lisa said, smoothing the sheet on the crate. "Cities with red dots on the map from the mansion. I cross-referenced with the book from the archive." Max came next, silently sitting down beside her. Jenny and Emma entered together—Jenny carrying two cans of cola, Emma a pack of cookies. They set them on the crate; no one opened anything. "Thirty cities," Max leaned over the list. "And in each one—a Devourer?" "Or one who held it back, like Crowley," Lisa said. "But now that Crowley is sealed, they're waking up. All of them." "Elias said not all," Emma objected. She took a can of cola, opened it—the fizz echoed through the garage. "Only those nearby." "Nearby Brookfield?" Jenny asked. "Nearby in terms of time. Those whose waking cycle coincided with ours." "And how many are there?" "I don't know," Lisa admitted. "But we have to be ready for any number." Arthur tore his gaze from the list. The garage was quiet—only the wind humming through the broken window and water dripping somewhere from the roof. "We can't go to all these cities. We don't have money, cars, or parents who'd let us." "But we can contact those who are there," Emma said. "Like you suggested. Tickets with the seven." "Thirty cities—thirty letters," Max calculated. "Who's taking them to the post office?" "I will," Lisa said. "Some of them. The rest of you take the others." "What if the police intercept them?" Jenny asked. "Then the police get a bunch of old tickets and won't understand a thing. They're looking for a killer. Not clowns from a circus that closed a hundred years ago." Emma took a sip of cola, grimaced—the soda was warm. "What if someone else answers?" Max asked. "Then we meet them in a public place," Arthur said. "Not the garage. A café. Talk. And decide whether to trust them." "What if it's a trap?" "Then we stick together. Like always." Emma picked up a pencil from the table, twirled it in her fingers. The tip was broken—she took out a pocketknife and sharpened it. Her fingers trembled—or maybe it just seemed that way. "I have a better idea. Not just a ticket. A ticket with an address. Not our real one. One we can check." "Like what?" "Let them write to the local newspaper office. 'General delivery.' We'll pick up the letters once a month." "That's smart," Lisa said. "I'm smart," Emma replied, but without her usual smirk. Only weariness. July 27, 1985. Saturday. 3:00 p.m. The garage. Dividing the cities. They divided the cities. Each took five or six addresses, splitting the list into pieces—Lisa cut the columns with scissors. Arthur looked at his list: New York, Chicago, Detroit, Boston, Philadelphia. Cities he'd never been to. Lisa took the West Coast—Los Angeles, San Francisco, Seattle, Portland, Sacramento, San Diego. Max took the South: Atlanta, Houston, Dallas, Austin, New Orleans, Orlando. Jenny took the Midwest: Kansas City, St. Louis, Indianapolis, Columbus, Milwaukee, Minneapolis. Emma took the leftovers—cities no one had heard of: Akron, Toledo, Fort Wayne, Des Moines, Omaha, Tulsa. "What about outside the country?" Max asked. "Not yet," Arthur said. "We don't have stamps, addresses, or languages. First America. Then the rest of the world." "The world is big," Jenny noted. "And we're patient." He rolled up the list, tucked it into his jacket pocket. Lisa gathered the drawings—a stack of tickets with the number 7—and tied them with twine. "Meet in two weeks. Bring answers, if there are any. And news." "And if there aren't?" Jenny asked. "Then we wait longer." Arthur stood up, stretched. His back was stiff—they'd been sitting a long time. July 27, 1985. Saturday. 4:00 p.m. Street in front of the garage. They stepped outside. It was muggy, with the smell of an approaching storm. The sky was overcast, but the rain still hadn't come—only the wind tearing dusty leaves from the trees. "I'll go to the post office tomorrow," Lisa said. "Send mine." "Me too," Max nodded. "My mother's at work anyway, I can sneak out." "And you?" Jenny turned to Emma. "Monday. I still need to buy envelopes." They split up. Arthur and Lisa walked home—past the old pharmacy, past the barbershop, past the park where the swings creaked in the wind. Lisa walked in silence, clutching her notebook. At the corner of their street she stopped. "Arthur. Do you believe anyone will answer?" "I don't know. But we have to try." She nodded and quickened her pace. At home, their mother had already set the table—dinner was waiting. Arthur didn't eat. He went upstairs, lay on his bed, stared at the ceiling. Somewhere on the hill, the Genesis mansion stood dark and silent. No one burned in its windows. But Arthur knew: Jack was there. Watching. Waiting. "We'll come back," he whispered. "I promised." He closed his eyes. Outside the window, the wind rustled. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled—the first, a warning.