Somewhere dark and warm...he couldn't see anything. He reached out, tentatively, to try to figure out where he was. Wherever it was…it was too warm...and it stank horribly. The stench was beyond anything he'd ever smelled before. That was for certain. Then, something bright from his left blinded him suddenly. He blinked a few times as his eyes adjusted. Shapes began to resolve themselves, and he blinked again in disbelief at what he saw in the flickering light.

He was in a very dark room, unlike anything he'd ever seen before. The floors were made of rusty chain-link fencing. Below that was nothing…the space seemed to extend into blackness. It wasn't just the floor, either. He was surrounded on all sides with more rusty chain-link. The heat was oppressive, and the stench was sickening…and the room was very, very small. He felt as if the walls were closing in on him. Suddenly, he couldn't stand it, not any more, and he looked around quickly for an exit.

How am I going to get out of here? I can't see a door anywhere…

To his left, a small circular hole occupied the center of the room. Metal spikes surrounded it, rotating like some sort of grinding machine. Suspended over it was something large and heavy…he couldn't see if very well, but whatever it was, it was alight.

What the...oh my God, it's a body. A dead human body. On fire. What the hell is going on here?

He felt himself starting to overheat. Badly. Something was very wrong here, and he wanted no part of it. No part at all, thank you. He just wanted the hell out of here…but there wasn't a door or anything. Nothing he could see. He felt panic rising.

I'm not supposed to be in here. I have to get out.

But his path was blocked by a small man with a bow and arrow. A very small man, dressed like Robin Hood, who peered up at him with a frown.

Up? He's very tiny...or is it me who's large? Everything else seems tiny too…the chain-link, the body on fire, all of it. Either everything has shrunk, or…no. It must be me. I'm huge.

This was starting to get surreal. The sight of the little man lifting his bow and aiming an arrow straight at his head didn't help.

and great, I'm about to get shot at. I don't even know this guy. There's no reason for this.

He opened his mouth to tell the guy to lay off, but all that came out was a growl.

Can't talk, either. Doesn't leave me many options. Still, a good whack from my front foot should knock him right out...

...front foot? Since when?

Henry looked down at his feet. They were dark and scaly, and had fewer toes than feet should. The front ones, anyway...he couldn't see the back ones. Four feet…that was definitely new. What else had changed? He took a moment to assess his current…shape.

Four feet…scales, no hair…and a tail?

Yes, yes, and yes. Another half-second's thought told him everything he needed to know.

Oh, this is just getting better and better. I'm a goddamn lizard. A fifteen-foot brownish-green lizard. No wonder I can't sweat…or move. This is the most screwed-up dream I've ever had…

Note for the future. Whatever it was that I had last night for dinner…I'm never eating it again. Not after this. No way.

The little man in front of him spoke. "I will kill the lizard..." he intoned. He sounded like something out of a bad fairy tale. Henry snorted.

Like hell you will.

He swung one of his new heavy feet forward and smacked the little man, who flew backward and landed on his rear end, but jumped right back up again.

"Who's afraid of a reptile?" the man called. Henry stared at him in astonishment.

Are you insane? Have you looked at me? I'm easily ten times heavier than you are.

Still, the man stood there, unflinching, and Henry smirked in spite of himself.

Whatever. Fine. I'll show you again, if you really want to know!

But the arrow that hit him in the shoulder stopped him cold. He roared in frustration, and shook himself to try to dislodge it. Nothing doing there. It was stuck. His eyes squeezed shut as he roared again, this time in pain.

When he opened them, the heat and smoke were even thicker around him, like a heavy blanket. Every nerve in his distended scaly body was screaming at him. Now, the little man no longer looked like a refugee from a Mel Brooks movie. He wore a brown leather jacket, dark pants, and a serious expression. Of greater immediate interest was the shotgun in his hands.

This is not good. One of us has to go down first…and it sure as hell isn't going to be me.

A shot hit him in the foot. Then, a click and rattle, and another tore through his shoulder, near where the arrow had slammed into him before. He snarled and stamped his foot in frustration. He was far too large and slow to dodge the shots, and he could barely turn around in the confining space. Defense wasn't an option...offense was all that he had. All he could do was lumber slowly around in circles, trying to catch up.

Will…you…slow…down!

Buckshot ripped into his side and back as the little man ran nimbly around him, stopping only to fire. He felt his own blood, cold and wet, as it seeped between his scales. After a few more minutes of this, he'd had enough.

God DAMN that hurts!

He opened his mouth to scream, but all that came out of him was some sort of green ooze. He stared in surprise as it dripped to the floor.

He's too fast for me. But there's something else I can try...the old-fashioned way.

The man had stopped running, and was staring at him open-mouthed. Then, he lifted his gun and aimed it directly at his face. Henry raised his heavy head and opened his mouth as wide as he could. He felt skin and muscle tear, but still he pulled, and his roar turned into a shriek of pain as his head split open sideways. A thought appeared in his head and vanished a moment later.

I'll swallow you up in a single bite!

Somewhere in front of him was that annoying little brown-haired gnat...he had to be…not for long, though…

But he never got the chance to find out just where. He heard the report of the gun just before he felt the explosion in the back of his head. The world went red, then white.


He was writhing in agony. Pain like he'd never thought possible ran through him. He felt his skin stretch and contract, his bones snap and re-knit, his eyes bulge and swell and crawl around his skull...it was as if every part of him was being broken down and reworked, and the pain was beyond description. It was torture.

Torture…and a rush beyond his comprehension. Every fiber of his being vibrated with electricity. He wanted to fight the thrill, but he knew there was no escape, and so he had no choice but to surrender to it and simply let go. It was terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. Some tiny corner of his mind that wasn't wracked with pain noted the novelty of the whole situation, and had only one question…

What is happening to me?


He couldn't breathe!

Wait...yes, he could. Whatever it was that was surrounding him wasn't running into his nose or mouth. He could breathe just fine. After a moment, Henry realized that that was because he didn't have a nose, and only a tiny mouth. He was several feet long, without discernible arms or legs. He wriggled, and felt numerous little movements around him.

...Feet. I have lots of little feet. What the hell am I? And where?

He was encased in some dry, particulate substance, and something was moving around above him. He sensed that he was just below the surface of whatever it was that he was in, so he pushed his head up and hit air.

He was in a large room this time, surrounded by sand. His eyes broke the surface of the sand first, and he found that he was able to see almost all of the way behind himself. Pulling himself partway out of the soft, warm sand, he peered backward. Yes, he was several feet long, and pale and segmented…a caterpillar or a larva or something like that. Where was he, anyway? As he looked around, he took in the tall walls, the sheen of the glass at one end of the room…and the little man in the brown jacket at the other end.

Bleh. Him again.

Henry spat out his frustration, which emerged as a thick stream of yellow acid that hissed as it hit the sand. Now, that was a pleasant – and potentially useful – surprise. He hauled the rest of himself up, and crawled as quickly as possible toward the little man, who promptly lifted his shotgun and pointed it straight at him.

...and the damn shotgun. Seriously, this is getting old. At least I know what happens next.

This time, he could maneuver more easily, and one swat of his thick back end sent the little man flying across the room. He and his gun landed heavily.

Heh. That's better.

He burrowed back into the sand, and spent a moment or two just enjoying the feeling of swimming through it like water. Henry had always enjoyed swimming, even though he hadn't been in the water in years, and he found that it was even better with several pairs of little feet to help push him along. They were short little feet, which would be frustrating on land, but in the sand he found them perfect.

I could get used to this...eventually.

A footstep vibrated overhead, just in front of him. He poked his head up and spat again. This time, the acid hit its target, and the little man yelped in pain and stepped backward. Henry crawled right up to the stunned man and growled in his face.

BOO!

The man jumped backward with a look of sheer terror on his face. Henry laughed to himself. Hey, this is kinda fun too...

Normally, Henry wasn't the sort to enjoy smacking little guys with guns around. Not that he'd ever had the opportunity, of course. Quite the opposite…he usually steered clear of confrontations. But then, this wasn't really a normal situation...this was a dream, and he was feeling, well, kinda frisky. For once, he was the bully, and it was a novel experience. He could understand the appeal of it.

...and back into the nice warm sand we go.

He'd toy with the man for a while longer, he thought. After all, he'd been perfectly happy to live and let live until the guy had plugged him with that first arrow back in the chain-link arena…now that he actually had a decent shot at fighting back, he had payback on his mind. Unfortunately, the little guy's shotgun skills seemed to be improving, and every time Henry came up for a spit and a whack, he was peppered with more shot. Time and time again. Even a several-foot-long heavy exoskeleton could only take so much.

OK, this is losing its luster.

After several more hits, he'd had enough. He rolled up into a little protective ball, willing the man to disappear or evaporate or explode or spontaneously combust or any other option that would stop the gunfire.

It seemed to work. The shots stopped. Before the man could get any other ideas, Henry uncurled himself and made a break for it straight through the glass windows at the back of the room. Shards of glass lodged in his wounds and stung in a thousand places as the white light swallowed him up.


More agony, more screaming...but not as much this time. The changes were lesser. But, the feeling of his eyes inflating and bulging out of his head was not a pleasant one. That, he could definitely have done without.

Now, he was inside a casing of some sort. It was form-fitting, and he could barely move. Through the translucent shell, he saw nothing but darkness. He wriggled, and the casing loosened its grip. So he wriggled some more and pushed against it with his feet (those feel different, too…). With a last shake, he felt the shell flex and crack. He slammed his head into it. It split from end to end and fell away, and he stretched out in relief.

Much better. What the heck was that?...that was weird.

Nothing else feels different...a little fuzzier, but otherwise the same. Fewer feet, I think. Legs, which is good. I can feel a breeze on my eyeballs…that's weird too…and I have wings now...

I have wings now! What am I?

He struggled to remember his high school biology courses. What was that word again?

My God, Henry, you've…pupated? And then some.

Even though he couldn't see them, he could tell that his wings were large and powerful. Time to try them out. He flapped experimentally, and rose several feet into the air. Flying was a surprisingly simple thing…well, it came naturally once you became a moth, didn't it? The thrill was unlike anything he'd felt before.

Very cool. Always wondered what it would be like to be able to fly. I like wings.

His eyes caught the white glistening surfaces moving in and out of his peripheral vision…buildings? With a few vigorous flaps, he found himself hovering twenty feet above the ground.

Oooohhh...bright light...

He flew up toward the glow high above him. It seemed to be at the top of some tower, high above the surrounding buildings. The little man was standing on top, looking around frantically. Henry peered at him, the man peered back, and out of the corner of his eye Henry saw a set of stairs collapse and drop from the top of the tower. He grinned to himself in dark satisfaction.

Oh yeah. Your butt is mine. Nowhere to run now.

And so, the game began again. Despite the new wings, the basic plan remained the same. Henry swatted and spat, and the little man ran and shot. Spit and shoot…swat and shoot…it seemed that that was how this was going to work. The shotgun shells still hurt like before (where does he get all of this ammo? His pockets are nowhere near large enough to carry all of it), but Henry was better able to dodge the shots this time. His spit traveled further from a height, a bright fluorescent arc through the darkness. He hovered just above the man, swatting at him with his rump as before, turning to hit him before the gun went off.

You know, I could almost get used to this...not for the long term, but for now it isn't bad. Wish this guy would just give up, though. What's the point of fighting me?

At one point, he almost thought he had him. The man stopped firing and was running much more slowly. Then, he pulled a bottle from his pocket and chugged it quickly, and suddenly he was back up to speed. Henry watched in amazement as he danced nimbly in circles around him. It was as if he'd never been hit.

Man, what's in those? Wish I had some…well, I can hold out for now. Let's see if he can.

But, he couldn't last forever. He felt himself weaken gradually as the shotgun did its work. His shell was riddled with holes, and as he swatted at the little man, he spattered him with his own blood. Finally, he could take it no more, and he fell heavily out of the air. His eyes closed against the blinding light that filled the sky.


Agony...shrinking...darkness...cold...damp...

This time, he was surrounded by warmth and wet. Completely. He wriggled, and found himself encased in...flesh. Living, warm, blooded flesh.

I'm inside somebody's body. Strange.

It was soothing, like a comfortable blanket wrapped around him. Blood pulsed around him, and he was alive. Alive, and completely blown away by it all. Intoxicating, again…it all had been a dreamlike high so far, all of it…

Directly in front of him was something hard and vertical. It bent and moved, and he felt its flexion pull him back and forth.

Move.

The intention issued from his brain and traveled straight into the solid column in front of him. He felt his surroundings shift and move forward. How did he know to do that?

Interesting. I can control this body I'm in.

Suddenly, an image flashed through his mind. A carousel, with a man standing a short distance away. That man, again. Standing there, still as a stone and staring at him with a puzzled look. It was almost funny.

Up and at 'em. Kill Harry.

The thought escaped him and traveled on its way to his host's brain. He felt himself being lifted vertically, then flesh contracted and expanded around him. Ideas were flowing from his consciousness into the flesh, so quickly that he was almost unaware of it. He saw a hand – his hand – raise a gun and shoot at the man, who staggered and stared with a stunned look at him as he advanced.

Kill Harry.

...who's Harry?

The body was painfully slow to respond. Henry would have gritted his teeth in frustration, if he'd had any. He moved forward so slowly, as the man unloaded round after round from his shotgun into his body. It was a two-way thing, this transfer, because now he could feel the shots ripping through, feel the blood running down onto his clothes and dripping to the metal floor of the carousel. He staggered under the barrage…two steps forward and one step backward. At least there was a gun in "his" hand…

Kill Harry...

This must be Harry, then.

He lifted the gun and pulled the trigger. It clicked. Empty.

Damn it!

Reloading it would take more time than it was worth, if he even had any more bullets. He tossed the gun away and lifted his hands to Harry's neck. For the first time, he was able to look into the eyes of his attacker, this Harry, and the face he saw was an ordinary, amiable one, the face of a good man under a great deal of strain who was nevertheless hell-bent on eliminating the threat facing him.

Can't really blame him there…

These hands of his were strong, and Harry struggled in his grip. After a few seconds (feels like forever), he freed himself and reached into his pocket. Another of those drinks, probably…or another weapon? The hand emerged, and in it was a transparent plastic bottle, like a sports bottle. In its bottom was a small amount of red liquid. Harry's thumb popped the top open, and he gripped the bottle tightly.

Then, Henry felt a sudden dread. Somehow, he knew what was coming. There was nothing he could do to stop it. He tried to run, but the damn body wouldn't move fast enough...instead, he watched as Harry lifted his arm in slow motion and drew the bottle back, then threw it with all of his might right at his head. The bottle bounced off of his nose, but the liquid hit his face, and it burned through his skin like acid. He screamed in agony. The flesh of his body spasmed around him, squeezing him painfully hard. He felt as though his shell would crack under the pressure. If he didn't get out, he was dead. He ripped at the muscle and skin with his little legs and feet.

I have to get out of here...I'm going to die in here...

Then, he was free of the wet flesh. He was crawling across the hard floor, desperately seeking a place to hide. The last thing he saw was the rubbery tread of a size 11 Chuck Taylor coming down toward him.


No pain this time, nothing but squirming and a thousand little bugs crawling under his skin. Unsettling, but not actually painful…nor thrilling. Was he getting used to it? He hoped not…

Instantly, he was surrounded by light. White, brilliant light, that warmed him and made him feel whole. It bound him, though, and he struggled to break free. He was stronger now, much stronger, and the light shattered into a thousand fragments around him as he threw off his bonds. Two legs, two arms…different, still, but more familiar. Even better, he had wings again…powerful wings. As he rose into the air, he felt enormous, like a god…

A god. I am a GOD!

He could feel the power running through his muscles and veins. It was a heady feeling, far beyond any previous experience. Just a little longer, and the universe would be his to command. As he surveyed his domain, a question popped into his head.

If I'm a god…what am I a god of? All of this?

And there was that man again. He had a rifle now, and was pointing it right at him. Henry was vaguely aware of other people in the room, but he was focused squarely on Harry and his rifle, mere speed bumps on his road to glory.

For you, Harry, I'm a god of death. This is it.

A shell ripped into him, and he shrieked in pain and anger. Then another, and another…

Wait! I'm a god…I shouldn't have to put up with this. I've had enough of you. Time to die, you little bastard!

He stretched his fingers forward and at his command, red lightning shot toward Harry. The rifle dropped, and Harry started running as fast as his legs could carry him. Henry blasted him again, and again, and again. He took a grim pleasure in the thought that he could fry this man to a crisp if he'd just stop running. Ah well, running kept it interesting…

Henry tried to blast him one more time, but came up empty.

Damn. Maybe I have to recharge. Ah well, he'll wait.

He hovered there, gathering himself, for a moment. Then, Harry lifted the rifle again, and Henry knew what was coming. Pain ripped through him. Once, twice, three times…

I didn't know that gods could bleed.

After the sixth shot, Henry knew he was ready.

Zap! Zap! BOOM!

The room crackled with the power that Henry felt flowing through him. Harry staggered backward, and pulled something from his pocket as he started to run. Henry couldn't see what it was that he was doing, but whatever it was seemed to help him…his step quickened, and he dug into his pocket and reloaded his gun.

Henry roared in frustration.

How the hell am I supposed to kill this guy if he keeps shooting at me and I can't do a damn thing about it?

He felt himself weaken with every shot. Harry was just too fast for him…his bolts of lightning missed more often than they hit. He couldn't take much more of this. But he was a god…this was unthinkable…

Then, his wings wouldn't flap any more, and he fell heavily to the ground. As the life drained from him, he saw his world go dark, and one last thought passed through his mind.

This isn't over, Harry Mason. You haven't heard the last of me…


His face was pressed into something soft...fabric.

Henry opened his eyes. Whatever it was was light-colored and smooth. It smelled familiar. His hands slid up to his shoulders, and he pushed himself up and looked around. After a second or two, he realized that he'd been lying face-down on his own bed.

Another nightmare.

He flopped back down, then rolled onto his back and stared at his ceiling fan as it spun round and round.

Another crazy-ass nightmare. Two in one night...that's a first. Thank God.

Then he remembered something.

No, I'm wrong. I had two last night...if you count the second one as a nightmare.

Last night was the first time he'd had the dream about the ghost and the blood on the walls. He was very sure of that. But after he'd gone back to sleep, he'd dreamt about the class tarantula from first grade. It was the biggest bug he'd ever seen at the time. It had been huge and hairy and dark and crawly, and he'd been simultaneously fascinated and repelled by it. It always seemed to be watching everything around it with its big bulbous black eyes, and he suspected that it understood a lot more than it let on. People who watched other people a lot usually did.

One afternoon, during lunchtime, he'd somehow ended up alone in the classroom with the animal in its cage, and he'd watched it for several minutes before he suddenly had the urge to take it out of the cage and stomp on it. He'd stopped himself then, and felt very bad about wanting to kill it. After school, he'd told Mom, and Mom had hugged him and told him that he'd done the right thing, and then she'd given him a cold bottle of chocolate milk and let him sit in the kitchen with her as she prepared dinner. She'd even let him help with the salad. That day hadn't turned out so bad after all, and Henry had felt good about it in the end.

But in the dream...no, in the dream he'd opened up the tarantula's cage. He'd taken it out and let it crawl around on his hand, feeling its hairy feet pulling and pushing lightly at his skin. He'd raised it up to his face and stared into its round eyes, and known that it was staring right back. Challenging him. It could see right into his head…those beady black eyes could see everything. They had to. He didn't like the idea of this thing in his head…not at all.

He lowered his hand to the floor, and the tarantula crawled off and sat there, momentarily still. Still watching him. Then, he'd lifted up his sneaker and the spider had gone SPLAT in a wet, furry mess, all over the floor. His sneaker treads were filled with short dark fur and spider guts that left sticky footprints as he walked out of the room. He could hear the wet squashing noises as he walked away. It felt good, really good. That thing…it was evil, he knew it. And now it was gone. Killing it had made the world a better place. He remembered smiling...

He'd woken up then, almost as freaked out as he'd been after the first nightmare.

That's not me...I wouldn't have done that. I wouldn't do it now. But if it wasn't me, who was it?

Yes, that counted as a nightmare. He wasn't sure which had been worse…the knowledge that he'd killed the tarantula, or the incredible rush that had come from killing it. But this one had been far worse.

Usually I don't remember them, but I won't forget that one any time soon. It was so real...well, it seemed real. From here, it seems insane. But in there...it was happening...

The weirdest thing is...I felt good smacking that man, Harry, around. Like stomping on that tarantula last night. Like it was my single mission in life, like he was in my way. Like it was what I was supposed to do.

But that's not me. I don't go around trying to kill people like that...I avoid people when I can. Anyway, what did he ever do to me? I don't know the man. Not at all. Never met him, never even heard of him. Doesn't seem like the type to do something to deserve getting shot at by lizards and bugs and gods.

Why did that feel so damn good? I didn't want…I don't want it to…

Henry shook his head. He immediately regretted it, as his headache was back with a vengeance.

Whatever. It's just a dream. Healthy expression of aggressive urges or some pop-psych crap like that. Never going to actually happen, right?

The sun was shining warmly through his window. It was sometime in mid-morning. Henry sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Time to start his day.