The Colossus Rises

CHAPTER ONE

RED BEARD

ON THE MORNING I was scheduled to die, a large barefoot man with a bushy red beard waddled past my house. The thirty-degree temperature didn’t seem to bother him, but he must have had a lousy breakfast, because he let out a burp as loud as a tuba.

Belching barefoot giants who look like Vikings are not normal in Belleville, Indiana. But I didn’t really get a chance to see the guy closely.

At that moment, I, Jack McKinley, was under attack in my own bedroom. By a flying reptile.

I could have used an alarm clock. But I’d been up late studying for my first-period math test and I’m a deep sleeper. Dad couldn’t wake me because he was in Singapore on business. And Vanessa, the au pair I call my don’t-caregiver, always slept till noon.

I needed a big sound. Something I couldn’t possibly sleep through. That’s when I saw my papier-mâché volcano from last month’s science fair, still on my desk. It was full of baking soda. So I got my dad’s coffeemaker, filled it with vinegar, and rigged it to the volcano with a plastic tube. I set the timer for 6:30 A.M., when the coffeemaker would release the vinegar into the volcano, causing a goop explosion. I put a chute at the base of the volcano to capture that goop. In the chute was a billiard ball, which would roll down toward a spring-loaded catapult on my chair. The catapult would release a big old plastic Ugliosaurus™—a fanged eagle crossed with a lion, bright-red.

Bang—when that baby hit the wall I’d have to be dead not to wake up. Foolproof, right?

Not quite. Around 6:28, I was in the middle of a nightmare. I’d had this dream way too many times: me, running through the jungle in a toga, chased by snarling, drooling, piglike beasts, whose screeches fill the smoky sky. Nice, huh? Usually I awake from this dream when a gap in the earth opens beneath my feet.

But this time, I fell in. Down into the darkness. To my death.

At the moment of contact, the Gaseous Giant burped in real life. The sound woke me up.

The coffeemaker-volcano alarm went off. And the Ugliosaurus whacked me between the eyes.

Which, in a nutshell, is how the worst morning of my life began. The last morning I would awaken in my own bed.

“@$%^&!” I screamed, which means I can’t tell you the actual words.

I sprang off my bed in agony. That was when I caught a glimpse of Red Beard on the sidewalk. Which caused me to drop to the floor, embarrassed to be seen, even by a wacked-out barefoot stranger. Unfortunately my butt landed squarely on a sharp Ugliosaurus wing, which made me scream again. That was way too much screaming for someone who just turned thirteen.

I lay there with gritted teeth, wishing I’d used the alarm clock. In my mind I saw Vanessa goading me: You think too much, Jack. Which she used to say about a hundred times a day. Maybe because I think too much. Always have.

I got off the floor, clutching my head. Red Beard was padding down the street, his feet slapping the pavement. “Next time, close your mouth,” I grumbled under my breath as I staggered to the bathroom.

I should have wondered who he was and why he was here. But I couldn’t stop thinking of my nightmare, which still lingered like the taste of moldy cheese. I tried to replace it with thoughts of math. Unfortunately, it felt about the same.

Looking in the mirror, I saw that the Ugliosaurus had made a gash on my forehead. Not too deep, but it looked pretty bad, and it stung.

I turned on the tap, dampened a washcloth, and pushed aside a mass of rat-brown hair to uncover my wound. As I dabbed it, I noticed a little tuft of blond hairs sticking out from the back of my head.

Weird. I’d never seen them before. Without Dad around to bug me, I hadn’t had a haircut in a while, so those blond hairs looked like loose wires. As I leaned closer to look, a sharp creak made me spin around.

“Vanessa?” I called out.

Aha. She’d heard my scream. I imagined her cowering behind the door, planning how not to be blamed for whatever happened. But she wasn’t there.

I glanced at the bathroom clock: 6:39. I had to leave the house by 6:45. But I wanted to see that little blond patch. I had enough time.

I pulled open the bathroom cabinet and reached for a hand mirror I hadn’t touched in years. Dad and I had bought it at CVS when I was in second grade, for an art project. Picking it up, I looked at the message I’d carved into the plastic frame.

I turned the mirror around. On the back I’d laminated a photo to the surface. In it, I was four years old and dressed in a puffy winter coat, sliding down a gentle hill on a sled. The white snow was tinged yellow-green with age. Mom was on the hilltop, laughing, wearing her favorite Smith College wool jacket. Dad was at the bottom, turned away. It was our game: Boom to Daddy. I’d slide into his legs and he would keel over, howling in pretend pain. Then he’d carry me back to the top and we’d do it all over again.

I smiled. Back then, I thought this game was hilarious. Every little thing we did was fun. Life was pretty perfect before Mom died. Before I started having those nightmares. Before Dad had decided home was a place to avoid.

Turning my back to the big bathroom mirror, I used the hand mirror to see behind my head. That was when I realized the blond hair wasn’t blond—it was white. And it wasn’t just a couple of hairs. I patted them down and noticed a pattern, an upside-down V. I tried to scrape it off with my fingernails, hoping it was some kind of weird stain. But nothing happened. My hair had just changed color—like in those cartoons where someone’s hair goes white with shock. Was that what the Ugliosaurus did to me? No way were the kids at school going to ignore this.

I thought about what Mom would say: Wear a hat.

Quickly I brushed my teeth. I dropped the mirror into my pack, in case I wanted to investigate further at school. Then I ran into my room and grabbed my peacoat off the floor. Peeking out from under a Wendy’s bag was my wool knit cap. I wiped off a crust of congealed ketchup and Chocolate Frosty from one side. It didn’t smell too bad, so I jammed it on my head, shoved my math notebook into my backpack, and bolted.

It was 6:43.

As I reached the top of the stairs, my cell phone beeped.

Dad!

Ugh. Our 6:30 Wednesday morning Skype session. I’d totally forgotten—and he was late! How could he do this on a test day?

I raced downstairs. Dad always insisted I take the call in the living room on the sofa—with the camera on, so he could make sure I hadn’t trashed anything.

He’s a neat freak. I’m a mess freak. And I had only five rings till the call went to voice mail. In the living room I shoved a pile of cables and joysticks to the center of the Turkish rug, along with two guitars, some comic books, three sweatshirts, a few pairs of socks, take-out containers from Wu Kitchen, a pizza box I was afraid to look into, and a half-eaten Kit Kat.

Beep…

From the middle of the pile I lifted a hook attached to four cables, which were linked to the corners of the carpet. I slipped the hook into a pulley I’d rigged to the ceiling chandelier support. A couple of strong tugs, and the rug rose like Santa’s toy sack, leaving a pristine wood floor below.

Beep…

6:44.

Plopping myself on the sofa, I accepted the call.

“Hey, Dad! Um, I don’t have much time to—”

“Five and a quarter! Tell them to sell at five and a half!” Dad was shouting to someone in his office. All I saw was his arm. “And close the door. I’m on a conference call!”

Then he was grinning happily at me. Which made me grin, too. It was the end of his day in Singapore. He looked really tired, like he’d just run a marathon with a dead gorilla strapped to his back. I really missed him. I wished his job could keep him closer to home.

But why did he have to call now?

“Heyyyy, Jackie, so sorry I’m late!” Dad said with a tight grin. “Living room looks great! But…uh, where’s the rug?”

Oops. I tilted the phone so only the wall would show in the background. “I guess Vanessa took it to be cleaned. But, Dad, look, I have to go—”

“Did she spill something?” he asked.

“I have this math test today…”

“You’ll do great!” Dad replied. “Hey, what’s the McKinley family motto?”

“A problem is an answer waiting to be opened,” I recited.

“Bravo! Hey, did you see the article I sent you about that poor kid, Cromarty? Died in the bowling alley near Chicago?”

Ugh. Current events. This always involved sad stories about kids and tragedies. Followed by a lecture. Dad’s way of scaring me into being extra-careful.

I glanced at my watch. 6:46.

“I think I skimmed it. Send me the link again. So. Wish me luck!” As I stood, my leg buckled beneath me and I almost dropped the phone. I had to clutch the sofa arm to keep from falling.

“Jackie, are you okay?” Dad’s brow was all scrunched now. “What’s that mark on your forehead? Is that a cut? Did you fall?”

“No!” I said. “I just used a flying toy instead of an alarm.”

That sounded a lot crazier coming out of my mouth than I expected. “You used a what?” Dad said.

I was feeling weak and light-headed. I took about three deep breaths and tried to stand tall, but I stumbled against the tied-up pulley rope.

Bad move. The rug hurtled downward. It sent up a cloud of dust as everything clanked to the floor. I swiveled away so Dad wouldn’t see it.

“What was that?” Dad asked.

6:47. How much worse could this possibly get?

“Nothing!” I snapped.

Dad’s eyes were wide. “Okay, that’s it. Something’s not right. I’m booking the next flight home.”

“What?” This wasn’t like him. Usually he’s explaining left and right how important his job is. Usually he’s the one to cut the conversation short. “Really?”

Dad was looking at me funny. “Stay safe until I get there. Do not let yourself out of Lorissa’s sight. Make her take you to school.”

“Vanessa,” I said. “Lorissa quit. And so did Randi.”

“Okay, stay close to her, Jack,” Dad said. “Be safe. And good luck on that math test.”

“Thanks!” I said. “Bye, Dad! Love” —the image flickered off— “you.”

The screen was blank.

6:48. I had to book.

“Vanessa!” I yelled, running into the kitchen. As I snatched two bags of fruit-flavored Skittles from the counter, I saw a note taped to the fridge.

I darted back to Vanessa’s bedroom door and pushed it open. The little room was tidy and neat. And totally empty.

One more catastrophe to explain when Dad got home.

Shutting it out of my mind, I bolted out the back door and got my bike from the garage. The air was cold and bracing, and I quickly buttoned my peacoat.

As I sped onto the sidewalk, I leaned right and headed toward school.

If Red Beard was there, I didn’t see him.

CHAPTER TWO

THE ACCIDENT

“YO, SPACE MAN, watch out!”

I didn’t hear the warning. I was at the end of my bike ride to school, which involves a sharp turn around the corner of the building. You’re supposed to walk your bike by that point, but I was in too much of a hurry. Not that it matters, because most people are too smart to stand close to that corner anyway.

But most people doesn’t include Barry Reese, the Blowhard of Mortimer P. Reese Middle School.

There was Barry’s hammy face, inches away, his eyes as big as softballs. As always, he was involved in his favorite hobby, making life miserable for littler kids. He was hunched menacingly over this tiny sixth-grader named Josh or George.

I slammed on the brakes. My front wheel jammed. The rear wheel bucked upward, flinging me over the handlebars. The bike slid out from under me. As I flew forward, Barry’s face loomed toward me at a zillion miles an hour. I could see three hairs sticking out of a mole on his cheek.

Then the worst conceivable thing happened.

He caught me.

When we stopped spinning around, I was hanging from him like a rag doll. “Shall we dance?” he said.

All I could hear was cackling laughter. Kids were convulsing. Barry grinned proudly, but I pushed him away. His breath smelled like bananas and moldy feet.

Josh or George scrambled up off the ground. No one offered to help pick up his books, which had been scattered all over the playground.

I don’t know why Barry was a bully. He was rich. Our school was named after his great-great-grandfather, who’d made his fortune creating those little plastic thingies that protect the toilet lid from hitting the seat. Personally, if I were rich and the heir to a toilet-thingy fortune, I’d be pretty happy. I wouldn’t pick on smaller kids.

“I don’t dance with apes,” I said, quickly stooping to pick up my bike to lock it to the rack.

I stole a look at my watch. The bell was going to ring in one minute.

“My apologies.” Barry elbowed me aside and scooped up my bike with exaggerated politeness. “Let me help you recover from your ride, Mario. From the cut on your head, I guess you had a few crashes already.”

I tried to take back the handlebars, but he was too fast for me. He yanked the bike away and began walking fast toward the rack. “Hey, by the way, did you finish the bio homework?” he said over his shoulder. “’Cause I was helping my dad with his business last night, and it got late. And, well, you can’t think about homework before profits. Not that I wouldn’t get all the answers perfect anyway—”

I pushed him aside and grabbed the bike. “No, Barry, you can’t copy my homework.”

“I just did save your life.”

As I locked the bike to the rack, Barry leaned closer with a twisted, smilelike expression. “Don’t think there won’t be some financial reward…”

Before I could answer, he took two quick steps to the side. Josh or George was making a break for the safety of the school yard, clutching an unruly mass of papers and notebooks. Barry thrust his arm out as if yawning. He clipped the kid squarely in the chest and sent him flying, the papers scattering again.

The blood rushed to my head. I wasn’t sure if it was from the Ugliosaurus hit, the crazy bike ride, the near crash, or Barry’s extreme obnoxiousness. Math test or not, he couldn’t get away with this.

“Here’s my homework!” I blurted, yanking a grocery list from my pocket. “You get it if you pick up Josh’s stuff and say you’re sorry.”

“It’s George,” the kid said.

Barry looked at me as if I were speaking Mongolian. “What did you say, McKinley?”

I was shaking. Dizzy. Maybe this was fear. How could I be so afraid of this doofus?

Focus.

Barry reached toward my sheet, but I pulled it away, backing toward the street. “Tell him you’ll never do it again,” I insisted. “And don’t even think of saying no.”

Balling and unballing his fists, Barry stepped closer. His white, fleshy face was taking on the color of rare roast beef. The bell rang. Or maybe it didn’t. I was having trouble hearing. What was happening to me?

“How’d you get that little cut on your head, McKinley?” Barry’s voice was muffled, like he was speaking inside a long tunnel. “Because I think you need a bigger one.”

I barely heard him. I felt as if something had crawled into my head and was kickboxing with my brain.

I struggled to stay upright. I couldn’t even see Barry now. The back of my leg smacked against a parked car. I spun into the street, trying to keep my balance. The blacktop rushed toward me and I put out my hands to stop the fall.

The last thing I saw was the grille of a late-model Toyota speeding toward my face.

CHAPTER THREE

FLATLINING

BEEP…

Beep…

Harp strings? What was that noise?

The street was gone, and I could see nothing. I felt as if I were floating in a tunnel of cold air. I had dreamed my own death, and then it had really happened. I pried my eyes open briefly. It hurt to do it, but in that moment I had a horrifying realization.

The afterlife was beige.

I tried to cry out, but my body was frozen. Odd whistling sounds drifted around me like prairie winds.

Slowly I began making out voices, words.

Peering out again, I hoped to see cherubim and seraphim, or at least a few clouds. Instead I saw nostril hairs. Also, really dark eyebrows and blue eyes, attached to a man’s face that loomed closer.

I felt a hand push my head to the side. I tried to speak, to resist, but I couldn’t. It was as someone had turned the off switch on all my body functions. “Extremely odd case,” the man said in a deep voice. “No diabetes, you say? He had all inoculations? No history of concussion?”

“Correct, Dr. Saark,” came an answer. “There’s nothing that would indicate these erratic vital signs. He’s a healthy boy. We haven’t a clue what’s wrong.”

I knew the second voice. It was my family doctor, Dr. Flood. She’d been taking care of me since I was a baby.

So I was not dead, which was a big relief. But hearing your doctor’s voice is never a cheery thing. I was tilted away from the voices, and all I could see were an IV stand, electrical wires, and a metal wastebasket.

It had to be Belleville Hospital, where I hadn’t been since I was born. I must have been hit by a car.

The math test! I had visions of a blank sheet of paper with a big, fat zero. I willed myself to open my mouth. To tell them I was all right and had to get to school. But nothing moved.

“A highly rare set of symptoms,” Dr. Saark said, “but it fits exactly into the recent research I’ve been doing…”

Dr. Flood exhaled loudly. “We’re so lucky you were in town and could rush here at such short notice.”

I felt fingers at the back of my head, poking around where the upside-down V was. I felt a rush of panic. I figured I was about to become the first kid in the world with a prescription for Grecian Formula.

Heavy footsteps plodded into the room. “Excuse me?” Dr. Flood said. She sounded confused, maybe annoyed. “What are you doing here?”

“Chaplain,” a gruff voice answered. “New on job.”

While Dr. Flood dealt with the chaplain, Dr. Saark pushed my head back and slipped something in my mouth. He held my mouth shut, forcing me to swallow. From under his sleeve, I could see a tattoo that looked like two winding snakes.

What did he just give me? Could he see my eyes were open? What kind of doctor had a tat like that?

What was a chaplain doing here?

“But…I never sent a request for a chaplain,” Dr. Flood said, sounding completely confused. “Are you sure you’re in the right room?”

“Yes, correct,” the man replied. “For last rites. Hospital rules. These situations…you know.”

Last rites? As in, the prayers spoken over people about to die—those last rites?

I panicked. I was obviously in worse shape than I thought. Then my body lurched violently, and everything turned white.

“He’s flatlining!” Dr. Saark shouted. “Dr. Flood, notify the OR. I need a gurney, stat!”

My body convulsed. I heard choking noises—my own. And hurried footsteps as Dr. Flood left the room.

The room was a blur of colors. The two men—Saark and the chaplain—were on either side, strapping my arms and legs down. My head jerked backward, and I thought it would crack open like an egg.

Hold on. Don’t die.

Dr. Saark stood over me, his face red and beaded with sweat. “Now!” he said.

The chaplain was nearly a foot taller than Dr. Saark and at least fifty pounds heavier, but he snapped to, fumbling for something in his inner pocket. I could see his face for the first time—green eyes, ruddy skin, curly red hair, and a deep jagged scar that ran down the left side of his cheek and disappeared into a bushy beard. He pulled out a long syringe with one hand, and with the other wiped my arm with an alcohol pad. As he leaned down, I realized I’d seen him before.