Central Park, New York
There weren't no warning, no message, not nothing. Just these things arriving in the sky and crawling out of the ground. I don't think anyone coulda rightly said what they all were… just a mess of horrors from the worst of our nightmares and memories.
There were rotting ghouls with faces out of a deep-sea dive, full of impossibly long teeth. The inky wings of a demonic bat bigger than Manhattan covered half the sky. Fleets of iron black Soviet bombers drowned out rational thought with the sound of their mechanical drones, etching our minds with the certainty that each was a nuclear bomber. Tentacled monsters that shifted in and out of earthly geometries. Thousands and thousands of individual nightmares made real, swarming towards us, blocking out the sun.
I froze on the spot, not knowing what to do. My buddy, Cliff, simply hunkered over his pigeons, somehow trying to hide them. We've served our country, we're no strangers to fear – but this was different. This was… it seemed so unreal that it was unwinnable. You just couldn't think straight – nobody could. All most folk could do was scream.
Except for the really young kids. They didn't scream right away. Maybe it's because, to them, nightmares are always more real… so it made the most sense to them to fight their nightmares the way they'd been taught.
Now, you and me, you'd think that the way to fight nightmares is to remember that they're not real (which is a lie – plenty of nightmares are plenty real). But kids are raised on stories. Stories from books, stories from their family, stores from the TV and movies and them video games. Stories that they tell each other and stories from history books. And stories always tell you that nightmares are fought with dreams and heroes.
One girl – couldn't have been older than ten – picked up a stick and shouted, "For the honour of Grayskull!" (whoever that is) and transformed into some eight-foot warrior princess. That stick was now some hefty, sparkly sword and she just went to town on the nearest monster while her mom was shrieking her head off.
That was what sparked off all the rest. A motley bunch of kids in tatty clothes held hands and bellowed out, "Shazam!" Now that one I know. Did my heart proud to see the Big Red Cheese and his folks fly out and start whaling on the bigger monsters. One young poppa picked up a picnic plate and, by the time he'd wound up to fling it at a ghoul, it was a mighty shield and he was the Star Spangled Man With a Plan.
As dozens of teenagers were picking up sticks and turning them into laser-swords and wands, I realised how they were doing it and I turned to my old buddy.
"Cliff, you remember back when we watched Buster Crabbe and played at Flash Gordon?"
He was non-plussed for moment, but answered, "Yeah. I always wanted to be Vultan."
"I felt younger than I had for decades, my voice feeling deeper and my hands looking strong and free of liver-spots. "Ain't right that there are kids fighting out there for us. That's our job. Care to lend a hand?"
Without looking, I knew I was now sporting a rocket pack and wearing a dashing red tunic. Reaching to my side, I drew out a ray pistol and rapier.
Cliff drew himself up and I saw the vitality and strength ripple through him until he wasn't just a strapping man in his prime anymore – he was Prince Vultan of Sky City. He grinned and took off.
"Onward, my brave hawk-men!" Behind him, a hundred pigeons became a thousand proud hawk-men. Grinning, my rocket pack roared to life and I flew up beside my friend to thwart the bombers.
Below us, I caught sight of a tramp striding into battle as Uncle Sam; trash collectors becoming Ghostbusters; Disney princesses singing monsters into submission; and scores of plastic masks turning into colourful suits of armour. In the distance, Lady Liberty was wading through the harbour with a thunderous look of determination.
New York has seen nightmares before… but New York knows how to dream big.