Genesis. Volume 1.

August 30, 1985. Friday. 4:00 p.m. The Walker house. Arthur checked his backpack three times. A change of T‑shirt, socks, toothbrush, notebook, pen, the map with the red dots, the Crowley family photograph, the yellow ticket with the number 7. And the red thread on his wrist—he never took it off. Lisa came in without knocking, sat on the bed. "Ready?" "No. But I'm going." She nodded, as if that was all she'd expected. Downstairs, his mother clattered pots. Sofia knew they were leaving—Arthur had told her last night that he and his class were going on a field trip. For two days. To Chicago. Sofia gave him a long look, asked if he needed money, and handed him a twenty. She didn't ask any extra questions. Maybe she was tired. Maybe she'd learned not to ask. His father was at work. Arthur went downstairs, poured himself a glass of water. Drank it in one gulp. He stood by the window, looking out at the street. The day was gray, but without rain. "We leave in an hour," he called to Lisa. She nodded and went back upstairs to finish packing. August 30, 1985. Friday. 5:30 p.m. Brookfield bus station. Brookfield bus station was small—a one‑story gray brick building with a faded sign and plastic chairs that remembered the 1970s. It smelled of gasoline, cheap coffee, and other people's sweat. In the corner stood a soda machine that hadn't worked in a year. On the wall hung a schedule—yellow, with faded letters. Arthur arrived first. He sat on a bench by the entrance, set his backpack beside him. He watched the people—a woman with a child, an old man with a cane, two guys in work coveralls. Ordinary people. Normal. Lisa came five minutes later. Backpack on her back, notebook in hand. "Max?" "Said he'd be here." Max arrived ten minutes later—out of breath, with a backpack from which the sleeve of a sweatshirt was sticking out. "Are Jenny and Emma here already?" "On their way." Jenny and Emma arrived together—Emma with a cigarette in her teeth, which she stubbed out at the entrance. Jenny carried a bag of sandwiches—for the road. "I bought these. In case they don't feed us on the bus." Emma snorted but took one. Arthur stood up and walked to the ticket counter. The clerk—a heavyset woman with curlers and a mole on her cheek—stared at her monitor without looking up. "Five tickets to Chicago." "Round trip?" "One way. We'll buy return tickets later." The clerk sighed, punched the tickets, and handed them over. Arthur shoved them into his jacket pocket. "7:15. Platform two." He stepped away from the counter. "Got the tickets?" Max asked. "Yeah." They sat on a bench in the waiting area—plastic chairs, squeaky, uncomfortable. Arthur clutched the tickets in his pocket, feeling the paper warm from his fingers. "Are you sure this isn't a trap?" Max asked. "No. But we have to try." "What if she doesn't show?" "Then we'll walk around Chicago and come back," Emma said. "I've never been there." "Me neither," Jenny said. "This isn't a field trip," Lisa said. "Then what is it?" Emma asked. "We're going to another city to meet a stranger who claims to know about monsters. If that's not a field trip, what is?" "An adventure," Max said. "A dangerous adventure," Lisa said. "All adventures are dangerous," Arthur said. "Otherwise they're not adventures." August 30, 1985. Friday. 7:15 p.m. Bus Brookfield–Chicago. Boarding was announced. The bus was old, with worn seats and the smell of gasoline that never quite dissipated even with the windows open. The driver—a heavyset man in a cap—checked the tickets and nodded. They boarded and sat at the back—the last five seats by the window. Arthur by the window, Lisa next to him. Max, Jenny, and Emma across the aisle. "Good thing we're not in the front. Less shaking." "It still shakes." The engine rumbled. The bus pulled away. The city fell behind—first the residential areas with one‑story houses, then fields, then forests. Outside, it grew dark quickly. The sun set a deep crimson, and Arthur watched it disappear over the horizon, leaving a gray strip behind. "How long is the ride?" Jenny asked. "About six hours. We'll be in Chicago around midnight." "Where are we sleeping?" "I booked a room at a hostel," Lisa said. "Four beds. Girls in one, boys in another." "You've thought of everything," Max said. "Someone has to." She took out her notebook and began to draw. The pencil scratched across the paper—quickly, confidently. Arthur looked over her shoulder. Lisa was drawing a mansion. Not the Genesis—another one. Tall, with towers, dark windows, a rusty fence. Smoke rose from its chimneys. "What's that?" "I don't know. Just imagining. What the house of whoever's waiting for us in Chicago probably looks like." "Or whoever we're looking for." "Or whoever's looking for us." The bus sped down the highway. Outside, lights from rare farms, motel signs, and billboards flashed by. It smelled of exhaust fumes and plastic. The interior lights came on—dim, yellow, instantly making everyone drowsy. Someone in the front was snoring. Someone was reading a book by the light of a small flashlight. A child in the next row—a girl about six—stared out the window with wide eyes. "Arthur," Emma called across the aisle. "Yeah?" "What if she turns out to be one of them?" "One of who?" "The Devourers. Or someone who serves them." Arthur paused. "Then we'll find out. And we'll act accordingly." "What if we can't escape?" "We can. We've always escaped." "Not always," Jenny said. "Jack didn't escape." Silence. The bus hit a bump, somewhere glass rattled. "Jack didn't escape because he didn't want to. He stayed. That was his choice." "What if she wants to stay?" "Her choice. Not ours." Arthur turned back to the window. August 30, 1985. Friday. 11:45 p.m. Chicago. Bus station. The bus entered Chicago around half past eleven. The city greeted them with lights—neon, headlights, yellow squares of windows in high‑rises. Skyscrapers rose to the sky, blocking out the stars. It smelled of exhaust fumes, the river, and something sweet—that very sweetness they now recognized everywhere. "Wow," Max pressed his face to the glass. "Bigger than Brookfield." "A hundred times bigger." The bus braked at the station—a huge building with metal pillars and the sign "CHICAGO UNION STATION." The floor was tiled, worn by thousands of footsteps. The hum of voices, shuffling feet, announcements over the loudspeaker—all blended into a single continuous noise. They stepped onto the platform. The air was cold—not like August. "The hostel is two blocks away," Lisa said, checking her map. "We'll walk." They walked down deserted streets. Streetlights burned, but there were few people—only occasional cars and a group of teenagers on the corner, smoking and laughing. One of them—in a leather jacket with a shaved nape—looked at them, spat, and turned away. "Don't look at them," Arthur said. "No need," Emma said. "We're strangers here ourselves." The hostel was small, with a faded sign reading "GRAND HOSTEL" and a creaking door. Inside it smelled of cheap shampoo, laundry detergent, and something sour—spoiled milk or old shoes. Lisa spoke with the clerk—an elderly woman with thick‑lensed glasses—and got the keys. Two keys on wooden key fobs with numbers: 7 and 8. "Girls on the second floor, boys on the third." August 31, 1985. Saturday. 12:00 a.m. Hostel. Rooms. The boys' room had two beds, a nightstand, and one window facing a brick wall. The wallpaper was yellowish, with bubbles. The sheets were starched, smelling of bleach. Max tossed his backpack onto the bed by the door and sat down. The springs squeaked. "Tomorrow's meeting is at twelve at the library. We leave at eleven." "What if we can't find the library?" "We will," Lisa said, peeking in. "I marked it on the map." She closed the door. Her footsteps faded down the hallway. Arthur lay on the narrow bed, staring at the ceiling. A crack ran from corner to corner, like a river map. Next to him, Max was breathing. "Asleep?" "No." "Me neither." "Thinking about tomorrow?" "Yeah." "Scared?" "A little. You?" "Yeah. But less than when we first went to the mansion." "Why?" "Because then we didn't know what was waiting. Now we do. And we're still going." "That's called courage." "Or stupidity." "Same thing." Arthur closed his eyes. Sleep didn't come right away. Before his eyes stood the girl from Chicago—Claire, sixteen, whose brother had disappeared a year ago. Arthur didn't know what she looked like, but he pictured her thin, pale, with red eyes—like all of them. "Tomorrow. Tomorrow we'll know." Through the wall, in the girls' room, Emma wasn't sleeping either. She sat on the windowsill, watching the city lights. Somewhere in the distance, neon flickered—red, blue, yellow. Jenny was curled up, asleep. Lisa was drawing—a sketch of the library on Michigan Avenue, where they were supposed to meet. "Go to bed," Emma said without turning. "In a minute." The pencil scratched across the paper.