Hank Thompson lay blinking in the dark, just awakened from a dream.
But not the usual dream. Not the dream of the Kicker Man protectively cradling a baby—Dawn’s baby, Hank was sure—in his four arms. This one involved the Kicker Man, yes, but instead of holding a baby he was swinging a Japanese sword—one of those long, curved samurai numbers—whipping it back and forth. And then he dropped it and faded away.
But the sword remained, allowing Hank a closer look.
A real piece of crap—no handle and its blade eaten away in spots up and down its length.
But maybe it only looked like a piece of crap. Its appearance with the Kicker Man meant it was important. Somehow it figured into the future of the movement—or “Kicker evolution,” as he was calling it.
A few months ago Hank would have been asking, How? Why? Now he knew better. Somewhere along the way he’d become a sort of antenna for signals from…where? Out there was all he could say, although where that was and what was out there he had no idea. His daddy had told him about “Others” on the outside that wanted to be on the inside, and that Daddy and Hank and his sibs had special blood that would put them in great favor if they helped the Others cross over.
Daddy’s talk had sounded crazy at times, but he had a way of saying things that made you believe. That dead eye of his could see places and things no one else could. Or so he said.
But a couple years ago Hank had started having dreams of the Kicker Man, and the man had shown him things…things he’d put into a book that had sold like crazy, making him famous—or maybe notorious was a better word—and attracting a following from all levels of society, especially people living on the fringe.
Yeah, Kick was zooming toward its two-millionth copy sold, with no signs of slowing. He was rich.
Hank glanced at the glowing face of his clock radio: 2:13 A.M. He pushed himself out of bed and wandered to his room’s single window. He looked out at the Lower East Side block, just off Allen Street, one story below.
Funny, he didn’t feel rich. Not living in this single room in the Septimus Lodge. But he had to keep up appearances, had to live like his peeps. Get into conspicuous consumption and he might lose them—and that meant losing their donations. He had a few whales giving big bucks to the Kicker clubs, but most donations were small. But they added up because there were so many of them.
Well, he was used to living lean. No biggie. He could hang out until the Change came and the Others arrived. Then he’d be rewarded. But there might be no change and no Others arriving if he didn’t help open the door. And to do that he needed the Key.
Had to find Dawn, damn it. Her baby was, as Daddy liked to say, the Key to the Future.
But what about that ratty sword? Where did that fit in?
He’d have to put that on the Kicker BOLO list.