Piscatagua - Prologue

“Run for your life!” shrieked teenagers, stampeding out of the warren through every hidden portal. “Granite Mountain’s contaminated! It’s gonna blow!”

“Go to the safe house in Jackson,” wheezed Chas Riley, clutching his chest. “At the end of Old Jackson Road.” Nobody heard him—or didn’t want to. No taller than a five-year-old, the seventeen-year-old felt like a blighted twig overrun by spiderlings.

Dorm lights polka-dotted the New Hampshire night and then occupants spilled out clad in pajamas, barefoot or wearing flip-flops or slippers—some fuzzy, some silly.

Ben Turner grabbed Chas by the arm and spun him around. “We gotta get these guys outta here!”

Chas jounced his hands out to his sides. “But they won’t listen to me!”

“Trip them!” hollered Ben, extending a foot.

Chas hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “But…but what about Katrina?”