Today’s Word: Faux


Mance and Horner's alter-self entered a copse of trees in the center of the park. No trace of this area remained in old Horner's mind – time's folds of memory were like analog waves, reaching him only at peaks and valleys, with gaps in between. He had to go on faith – time was leaving him blind.

He rushed through the tangle of vines, leaves and thick branches, chasing the younger men like a beat cop, pre-Empyrean style. But within the space of several minutes the younger men were far ahead, and Horner lost sight of them.

He wouldn't turn back, even if he never found them. He'd die in this faux forest in the middle of New Chicago if that's what it took. Either way, he would have another chance, and another; as many as it took to end this.

A thicket of blackberry bushes darkened a rocky outcropping just ahead. Almost by rote, as if he'd repeated this action a thousand times before, Horner's feet took him to that spot. Ignoring the thorns, he brushed a great swath of briars from the rock face, revealing a cave opening.

"Time be not a fool, my young seed," said Horner.

He entered the cave.


To be continued