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been a pleasure compared to what was waiting for them in
New Victoria. I knew something of the endless horrors that
preyed upon sleeping men, but I’d heard only rumors of
the hell awaiting women foolish enough to rest their heads
within the nightmare-fashioned city. Now my own dark
curiosity was beginning to take hold.
“I’m not entirely certain,” I replied. “But it would be a
terrible waste of mystery not to find out.”
“Yeah, well, I’m willing to skip the mystery, if ya don’t
mind. Y’know, on account of the whole dying in a nightmare
city thing.”
I simply nodded at Grimes, feeling no need to contribute
more to the topic. For the next few minutes, we both sat
silently in the bus, watching the dread city materialize from
the fog of distance and dust. Finally, the military barricades
and piles of soaring wreckage all but blocked our forward
passage, and I could feel the vehicle’s momentum drain
away.
“So, yer really goin’ in there, huh?” Mr. Grimes asked,
throwing the bus in park and flinging open the swinging
doors. We disembarked, looking clearly for the first time on
the Victorian reimagining of bygone Boston, darkened by
dreams blacker than pitch.
“Indeed I am,” I said.
“Before ya take off, I gotta know,” Mr. Grimes said.
“Why didn’t you kill me? You coulda just driven the bus on
yer own. You didn’t need me.”
I wasn’t quite sure how to answer him, as the question
required a galaxy of nuance. “I dislike driving standard
transmissions,” I offered.
“Huh,” Mr. Grimes said with a smile, not believing
a word. “Fair enough, I guess. One more thing—those
weapons really made of yer own family?”
“Of course,” I replied.
“Yeah, kinda figured they were,” he said, eyeing the
protruding head of my father warily. “Well, I doubt yer
46 | Mark Anzalone