– Chapter One –

The Not-so-Great War

It’s amazing when you close your eyes, what you can see. Initially nothing. Darkness. But if you try, really try, searching into the darkness, an eye emerges. A black pupil with a yellow iris, edges ill-defined. Soon the yellow consumes the black, leaving a dandelion. Shining as vibrantly as the sun, the plant’s hollow stem burrows into the ground. Then the sun becomes the moon and the flower a white ball of puff. A vicious wind arrives, spitefully dispatching whiskery seeds to the left and right, to the east and west, to the dirt and the darkened sky. The

gale thrashes on, tearing the stem, but the roots hold.

At least, that’s what Jack McKay sees.

He was busy observing this very scene during halftime of the championship final. The game had been a classic, too. Scores were tied. Jack sat, legs crossed, eyes closed, head in hands, as a worried coach addressed his players. Rest assured, Jack wasn’t worried.

Play resumed, the match ebbed and flowed. With only seconds to go and scores still tied, the coach went from

worried to hyperventilating. A little over the top for an under-13 soccer final. Jack raised an eyebrow.

As planned, Ty crossed the ball into the packed penalty area. Accelerating, Jack dived, eyebrow still raised, right foot fully extended. The keeper: no chance.

Hugged by teammates, everyone wanted to carry him on their shoulders, dance with him on TikTok, the opposition included, plus the pleading coaches. This was not the time for TikTok. Instead, Jack sauntered behind the changerooms.

Away from prying eyes, he rolled down a sock, examining the device strapped to his ankle, fixing upon the wavering, rounding signal. Just as he’d suspected— the pentagon had turned pear-shaped. Time to worry.

Jack jumped into his car. More precisely, he took a sprinting leap into a silver-plated Ford Mustang convertible, completing the movement with a well- executed tumble turn. His mother smiled at him from the passenger seat.

‘Hello, darling.’ ‘Hi, Mum.’

‘How was the game?’ ‘Meh …’

Having exchanged pleasantries, Jack held out his hands, fingers pointing up. Dutifully, his mother opened the glove box, removing a pair of the black leather variety, carefully placing them onto her son’s expectant digits.

Jack slipped the key into the ignition. With silky precision he released the clutch, pressing down on

the accelerator. Engine roaring, the Mustang reached full gallop, racing through the streets, ignoring its conventions. Traffic laws were but a rough guide for a driver of Jack’s abilities. Screeching to a halt, for the first time he noted the parking fine attached to his windscreen. ‘I thought my parking was exceptional, not just fine.’

His mother laughed admiringly. ‘What wit.’

Shrugging off the compliment, Jack strode up the driveway and into his bedroom, turning the ticket into confetti along the way.

Appreciating the irony, he paused. He too, could be confetti before the end of the day—a soul-destroying realisation that must be ignored. Logic had to prevail over fear. How could the beast be stopped?

There could be but one solution.

Jack turned on the light, opening his cupboard. Hanging inside were a dozen neatly ironed shirts, hung equal distances apart, a Walter Cross logo embroidered on each front pocket. He parted the shirts to access a keypad located on the back wall. The boy’s fingers went to work, typing in a series of numerical commands. Instantly the wall slid down, revealing an elevator shaft. A lift hummed upwards, doors parting. Inside were a jetpack, a JM16 (original edition) and a packed lunch.

He grabbed his JM16 and changed the weapon’s settings from missiles to laser beams. A flick of a switch increased the power ratio from ‘stun’ to ‘decimate’.

Next, he seized the jetpack, fastening the device to his slight frame while shoving a sandwich into his

mouth. Ham and pickles, hardly his mother’s greatest creation, but Jack didn’t like to disappoint. Wiping away the crumbs, he engaged the turbo boosters and gave his mother a shout. The bedroom roof rolled back.

There was a burst of flames as the boosters fully charged. Diligently, Jack turned off his bedroom light. Then, he rocketed.

In just moments the neighbourhood became a collection of bland dots. Still, he climbed higher, seeking out an enemy who threatened existence. Its presence was announced by a smell—a putrid and vile stench that stung Jack’s eyes and burned his throat.

Gagging, he whispered into the chamber of his prized weapon, ‘It won’t be long, old friend.’

Another friend appeared beside him—sleek, golden wings flapping, claiming its rights. He mounted the steed, jettisoned the jetpack, and stared down JM16’s titanium scope.

There was the beast, two-headed, baring razor-sharp teeth and claws. Evil dark eyes filled with rage, screeching blood and death. Jack felt the creature’s blind fury and knew that for one of them there would be no tomorrow. The question was: which one?

Little distance separated the two opposed life forces. One ancient, the other a little younger. Their battle was predestined. Tick tock, tick tock, the time had come. His hand, now on the trigger, had begun to shake. Keep calm, he lectured.

‘You are Jack McKay. You are Jack McKay. You are …’

‘I am Varilees,’ the beast hissed.

Holding his breath, Jack took aim for Varilees’ one weak spot: his shiny, violet birthmark.

But those piercing cries—deafening, distracting.

So be it, he shut out the chaos and pulled the trigger.

Clunk fweet!

‘No … No …’

Searing pain radiated across his forehead; he refused to scream. He clutched for JM16 and found air. All was lost. The screeching—unrelenting.

Then a new sound. ‘McKay.’

A panic-stricken thought reached out through the haze.

The creature must be upon him. ‘Oi, McKay!’

The haze cleared, revealing a mortifying truth. Oh, bugger, dubiano. An enemy far worse had come calling. The Shark.

‘McKay, are you with us? Or are you in Fairyland?’ Unless there’d been an outbreak of muggings in

Fairyland, Jack wasn’t there.

‘How many times have I told you to pay attention in my class?’

How many times? He’d have to be a mathematical genius to answer that question, and Jack wasn’t one of those.

Sitting at his desk, his hand went to his throbbing forehead, a sizable lump having already formed. He shifted slightly to the right, feeling for a second lump. On that occasion, the metallic whistle had deflected off a wall before finding its intended target.

‘Well?’

‘Two spring to mind, sir.’ ‘Twice?’

Jack’s PE teacher looked as if he’d been politely asked to drink a glass of poison.

‘Twice, hey. We’ll give you twice as much detention and see how you like that.’

There was an obvious answer to the question. Jack decided to ignore it. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘And tomorrow there’ll be twice as many laps.’

Sigh. Physical Education really shouldn’t have been so difficult. Jack was actually pretty athletic—he just had a minor issue with floating. While competent enough in a bathtub, he struggled in bodies of water with any greater volume. A pool, for example. Jack’s legs would turn to lead and his arms to jelly. This unfortunate combination made it very difficult to swim. He’d thrash around with little forward progress. Exhaustion would follow, leaving him gripping the side, lungs craving air.

Of course, Butch Redden loved teaching swimming. The man was a walking tank, with muscles growing upon muscles and hands made for hitting things. Swimming gave Butch the chance to parade around like a peacock in uncomfortably small togs—uncomfortable for the wearer and the watcher. While in parade mode, he’d glare down at Jack with those beady eyes of his. Eyes that never blinked. Then the Shark would sneer, pushing Jack back into the treacherous deep.

‘Come on, buttercup. I’ve seen pansies swim faster than you.’

While this seemed highly unlikely, Jack’s mouth was always too full of water to argue.

How he hated the Shark. Sadly, this wasn’t the only class in which Jack struggled. He produced consistent academic results—consistently poor, that is. And the remarks accompanying those grades were most unflattering. Mrs Fiona McKay had an ever-growing collection of woefully worded reports. What’s more, even Jack had to admit they contained a fair whack of truth.

But changing them? That couldn’t be more difficult. He knew the general idea of going to school was to learn a thing or two. Jack had told his mother again and again, this year would be different. This year we’d see the new Jack McKay.

That chap attended school with the best of intentions: greeting teachers politely, listening carefully, trying to convince himself of the lesson’s great worth. Until the voice became a drone, impossible to understand. The drone would soften, creeping into silence, and the teacher would blur, then disappear altogether. Leaving the lame ‘run-of-the-mill McKay’ and his dreams.

Dreams of creatures, incredibly vivid and disturbingly clear. But not only that, Jack swore he could feel them. Their touch on his hands, their breath on his face. Even more, he could really feel them. He knew how they were feeling—an outpouring of emotion that would often leave him drained.

Jack did his best to avoid detection, holding up something to conceal his glazed eyes. Ty would also do his best to come to Jack’s aid, elbowing and nudging. But neither of their bests were much good.

Punishment for the crime was always swift. Luckily, only the Shark used Jack’s head as a target. Most teachers settled for the more traditional form of torment.

Like so many other days, the sound of the school bell meant the start of a depressing journey. Going first to the headmaster’s office, Jack was told of the chosen detention room for the day. He arrived at the auditorium to find the orchestra in full cry, competing with the sputtering roar of the school’s ride-on lawnmower. It was a surprisingly close contest.

As the contest raged, Jack chose a desk near the room’s sole clock and wrote the first of his lines. A sentence so familiar he could write the words backwards, sideways and upside down. Once he’d tried texting them, which didn’t go down too well. This time, embracing diversity, Jack wrote left-handed. For whatever the method, he knew the words would not be obeyed. They were laughable. Absurd. Delusional. A notion, inconsistent with reality. In short, they didn’t quite fit the author.

‘I Must Not Daydream.’