Genesis. Volume 1.

August 31, 1985. Saturday. 9:00 a.m. Hostel, Chicago. The city woke Arthur with a rumble—low, bassy, nothing like quiet Brookfield where mornings brought only birds and the occasional car. Chicago grumbled like a huge beast that wouldn't let anyone sleep. Doors slammed, newspaper vendors shouted, taxis honked somewhere below. Arthur lay listening to the noise, unable to decide whether he liked it or not. Max was already sitting on his bed, pulling on jeans, fumbling under the nightstand. "There," Arthur said without opening his eyes. "I already looked." "Under the nightstand." Max peered—the sneaker lay in the dust, coated with a gray film. "How did you know?" "You always throw them there." They dressed in silence. Arthur washed in the hallway with ice-cold water from the tap—it smelled of chlorine and rust—wiped himself with a thin towel and glanced in the mirror. Pale, hair sticking up, shadows under his eyes. But his gaze was alive. He put on his jacket, checked his pockets. Money, keys, the red ticket with the number 7—the paper soft, warm from his body. A knock at the door. "We're ready," Lisa's voice from the hallway. They went downstairs. Jenny and Emma were waiting in the lobby. Emma drank coffee from a plastic cup, Jenny picking tiny pieces off a sandwich. "Breakfast on the go. The meeting's at twelve, we have time." They stepped outside. The wind off the river cut across their faces—cold, smelling of exhaust and water. The sky was gray, the sun hiding behind the skyscrapers, shadows on the sidewalks long and sharp. "The library on Michigan Avenue," Lisa checked her map. "About twenty minutes on foot." "Let's go." Past red-brick buildings, glass towers, still-closed shops. People hurried with briefcases, bags, children. No one looked at anyone. "Like we've stepped into another world," Max said. "Another world," Emma echoed. "Same monsters." August 31, 1985. Saturday. 11:30 a.m. Library on Michigan Avenue. Arthur had never seen a library like this. In Brookfield there was only one—small, with dusty shelves and Mrs. Grove, who would never return. Here there were stone lions at the entrance, columns reaching to the sky, heavy oak doors with brass handles. They stopped on the steps. "Beautiful," Jenny breathed. "Scary," Max said. "Same thing," Arthur said. Inside it smelled of old books and wax. A floor clock ticked with its pendulum. Footsteps echoed off the marble floor. Sunlight streamed through stained-glass windows, scattering red, blue, and yellow patches across the floor. "Is she here?" Max looked around. "I don't see her. We have half an hour." They stood by the stairs to the second floor. People flowed past—students with books, old people with newspapers, women with children. No one paid them any attention. Only one man in glasses glanced at the red ticket in Lisa's hand and quickly looked away. "Twelve-oh-five," Max said. "We'll wait." Lisa gripped the ticket; the paper had grown damp with sweat. She wiped her palm on her jeans but didn't put the ticket away. At 12:10 a girl approached them. Tall, thin, long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her face was pale, dark circles under her eyes—she hadn't slept in several nights, maybe weeks. A worn jacket, jeans, sneakers laced carelessly—one knot had come undone. "Are you from Brookfield?" Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper, as if she was afraid someone might overhear. "Are you Claire?" Arthur asked. She nodded. She looked at the ticket in Lisa's hand. "Seven. Why seven?" "Because six was already taken. One is the first victim. Two—the second. Seven is the start of a new count." "A new count?" "We don't know how many there are. But we want to find every one of them." Claire gave him a long look. In her eyes—weariness, pain, and something else. Resolve. She pulled a yellow circus ticket from her pocket. Worn, nearly crumbling. The number 4. "This was found on my brother. In his jacket pocket. When he was gone." "What happened to him?" Lisa asked. "He went to Grant Park, not far from our house, and didn't come back. We searched for three days, wore out our feet, combed every corner. Found him in the basement of an abandoned house on the south side. Sitting in a corner, smiling. He wouldn't talk, wouldn't eat, wouldn't sleep." "Like Bryce," Max said quietly. "Who?" "A classmate of ours," Arthur explained. "He was found with the same smile. Then he came to himself and didn't remember anything." "My brother didn't come to himself. He died three weeks later. The doctors said exhaustion. He just stopped breathing." Silence fell. Lisa lowered her hand with the ticket. "I'm sorry," Jenny said. "Don't be. That's not why I came here." "Then why?" Arthur asked. "For the same reason you did. To find who did this. And stop them." "We have a name. Thomas Crowley. But he's sealed. Not here—in Brookfield." "Then who's here?" "Another one," Emma said. "We don't know the name. But he leaves tickets too. Children are disappearing in Chicago." "Three in the last year." Claire spoke quickly, breathlessly. "I know them all. I went to their parents. No one says anything. They're afraid. Afraid the police will think they're crazy." "And you're not afraid?" "I am. But I've spent a whole year doing nothing but being afraid. And that's worse than fear." Arthur looked at her. The same fire burned in her eyes as in Emma's when she'd decided to go to Cleveland. "We're looking for others. People like us. Who know. Who want to help." "I do. I know how to search. I found you." "How?" Lisa asked. "Your ad in the newspaper. 'If you've seen it—come. Abandoned garage. Brookfield.' I couldn't come—school, parents—but I wrote." "And you did the right thing. We're here." "So what now?" "Now you're our person in Chicago," Emma said with a faint smirk. "If anything happens—call. If you find anyone else—write." "And you?" "We'll go back to Brookfield. Keep searching. Other cities." "There are a lot of them." "We know. That's why we need helpers." Claire nodded. She took Arthur's pen and notebook, wrote down a number and address, handed them back. "I'll manage." "We know," Lisa said. Claire looked them over—five pale teenagers from a small town hunting monsters. She smiled, not mockingly, just tiredly. "You look like me. Just as pale." "We haven't been sleeping," Max said. "Then we'll sleep later." She turned and walked away quickly, almost at a run. The door closed behind her with a dull thud. August 31, 1985. Saturday. 12:20 p.m. Library exit. "Let's go," Arthur said. "Where?" Max asked. "Home. We still have Detroit and Seattle to find." They stepped outside. The sun was bright, but the wind off the river cut to the bone. Chicago rumbled on, living its own life. Cars honked, street music played somewhere. "Do you believe her?" Jenny asked Emma. "Yes. She has the same eyes as us." "What kind of eyes?" "Tired ones." Arthur stared at the skyscrapers, the low sky. Somewhere in this city, in the basement of an abandoned house, someone was waiting. Not Crowley. Another. With a different name, a different ticket. "We'll find all of them." "I know," Lisa said. "We always do." She took his hand. Her fingers were thin, cold. They walked back to the hostel to pack. Ahead lay Detroit, Seattle, New York. Endless roads and monsters waiting. August 31, 1985. Saturday. 10:00 p.m. Bus Chicago–Brookfield. The bus sped down the highway. Outside, darkness, only the occasional lights of farms and gas stations. Arthur pressed his forehead against the cold glass. Lisa slept beside him, her head on his shoulder, breathing evenly. Max across the aisle read a cheap detective novel. Jenny and Emma chatted quietly up front. Arthur thought about Claire. About her brother who had stopped breathing. About the yellow ticket with the number 4. About how they now had someone in Chicago. The network was growing. He closed his eyes. Beneath his lids—shadows. Somewhere on the hill, in the Genesis mansion, a gray light glowed. Someone with a red eye watched the road, the bus, them. "We'll come back. I promised." The bus flew into the night. In Brookfield, a new dot on the map was waiting, new letters, new monsters. And hope—small, weak, but alive. Like a candle in the distance.