To no one's awareness inside the bank, the death of Professor Arthur Lark down the road awakens a remodulated Johnny. Pulling off the white sheet over his body, he sits up at a ninety degree angle.

People huddled as one...a bank...sheet over my form signifies presumed death...where am...conquer the county seat...conquer...conquer...

Conquer what?

What or whom you choose...

Stiff as a drink, numb as a coma patient, he arises. Children attempting to find gaiety in tight spaces in the bank become unnerved by this inhuman walker and seek a different playground. The adults, defeated, distracted or otherwise disengaged take no notice. Larry is simply another lost soul.

He positions the white sheet around him as a cloak, a pale spy in plain view. Searching for a proper mode of attack...no. A proper time. Yes. Find the right one, the right face to instill terror. This sounds better in his dominated mind. See many but pick one, squeeze the ripest fruit. Watch. Study. Conquer...

Frederica Musa is more herself as minutes compound. Wandering about the faces as well, she wraps bandages for the elderly, tucks blankets under cold feet. One friendly hand returns the favor, handing her a damp wash rag. As she patrols, white powder from the Great Unknown is removed. The goosebumps and tingle subsides, leaving behind a tickling whisper near the carotid artery. Crank returns to this reality.

Back from the flip side.

She passes the man in the sheet hood to motivate towards a welcome sight. But Brown Hair, the lady behind the concession stand at the Fenwick, makes her move.

"Hey, honey. Remember me?"

"Io...ah, si. I mean, yes. You wanted Benny." English feels weird, Italian too though less so. Distant, as if something else could be Crank's mother tongue. But that's impossible. "Nothing is impossible."

"What's that, honey?"

The eyeballs of Crank double in size. "Hmm? Oh! Uh, I was thinking aloud about other places. Like this one. But not this one. I mean, the same town but different Earths with different his...stories. Ah..."

"Right." Brown Hair gives the slow head lift and fake grin. "Listen, sugar, I just wanna say I'm sorry about the theatre and am so grateful for what you and the fellas have done fighting for our city." She extends a hand for shaking. It's a marble smooth, young hand. Perky!

Crank shakes it with her small, pale but strong hand with the layered callouses. Brown Hair winces. "Sure, sure, sister. It's yesterday's news-- oh my! Excuse me." She bolts past Brown, peepers fixated on an object in the corner.

Is it an end table? Is it a bar? No, not quite.

"Is this a...? Yes! A McLagan phonograph!" She hugs the mahogany stand, rocks it back and forth on its four spindly legs. Cautiously, Crank lifts the lid. Gasp! "The grid blocking over the speaker. It's the Italian Renaissance model. My mother used to crave one of these. Someone took very good care of it. Records!"

Before Brown Hair can pose a question, Crank is off on the hunt.

"This joint needs some tunes!" In and out of cots she goes, scooting between people, asking if anyone has a record.

She hunts. Johnny trails behind. He'll wait.

***

"Hold on, Larry! Hold on, brother!" The Aero Sedan lacerates the corner of Fifth Street. Skinny has one trembling hand on the steering wheel, the other applying pressure to Larry's wound. Blood smears lick the seat, doorknob and the unfortunate kids in the back. It took all three to load him into the car. Skinny is paler by the second, envisioning what should go on his headstone. But he drives.

Larry stares at passing skies, oblivious. A perfect shade of blue tinctures his bottom lip. Kids are aghast in the back seat.

Skinny doesn't pause to make the left on Broadway. But he does apply sudden, ample pressure on the brakes, holding Larry in place. The kids zoom forward, bouncing off the back of the front seats like billiard balls. Skinny brings the car to a dead stop, but not due to Slicks, or even blood loss. Larry watches it and grunts. The kids see it too. Skinny gets out of the Aerosedan, groaning in pain.

It's snowing.

In one small area of the city, snow white and gray and unlike snowflakes altogether drifts in the wind. It coats the spacious brown Victorian home, the street, post office...

"Crank? That Crank's car?" Skinny feels tingly inside as snow meets skin. He rubs it between thumb and index finger. They twitch. "Nobody...? Hey! Fuse!" He sees the truck through the soft blanket of this queer weather. Fuse stops cold.

Roy Fuse stops setting up a tripod of exotic machinery to scan an indistinct horizon. "Skinny! I just sent some guys out-- oh, God! What happened? Medic!" No more stopping. Fuse burns rubber.

Skinny walks to meet him halfway, but his legs quiver. The body increases in the numb feeling, while his back boils from freezing. The street looms closer. Fuse changes in Skinny's sight as he closes in. He's an ST warrior, a samurai, a Victorian woman in purple adorned with weaponry. He's convinced death is imminent. His eyes must be lying to him. The static cloud about them makes the world flicker every second.

Fuse catches the burly soldier right on time. "Skin! Skin! Can you hear me?" Skinny widens the stare but the eyes don't really see what's before them. Fuse gently slaps the man's face while rubbing his own eyes. Skinny shifts, the face is different men, variant races, ones known and unknown. Fuse shakes his head. Clear out those cobwebs. "What the heck is going on?"

The medic skids to a halt, barely avoiding breaking his neck. "This stuff's slippery! Some kinda fuel?" He stabs Skinny with a syringe of potent morphine, turns him over to assess the cut.

"Something like it," Fuse mumbles. The eyes are doubtful but the mind wonders. "Fuel for imagination..."

"What?"

"Nothing. Hey! There are kids in the car! You got Skinny?"

Medic nods. "Spine isn't hit, only muscles. He'll make it." Fuse races to the car, stunned at first to see Larry sliding off the front seat. Day just keeps getting better. He rips open the door and children pour out, tears plunging Niagara as they grip this welcome stranger. Fuse hugs back, while angling for his comrade.

Larry is colder than today's catch. "Medic! Hey, you guys! Get these two in the truck and to the bank! Now!" That last word reverberates down the street. Soldiers double time it with sulfa powder for possible infection, bandages, cots to move them. Fuse supervises the move. Fluid. Rapid. This is not Roy's first rodeo by far. It takes little to convince the kids to go with the truck full of brave soldiers. It takes off, leaving Fuse and three soldiers behind.

It vanishes in the white fall, this Army truck that appears like a Conestoga wagon, a draft horse, a car with a front propeller as it rumbles down the road. Fuse almost rubs his eyes again, sees the glimmer of white on fingertips. "Maybe not."

"Now, maybe we can look into La Donna. I've a feeling she holds the key to winning this war." Popping open the door, Fuse gets in behind the wheel. Hands go numb. Salem through the windshield changes. It takes time for the eyes to realize time is the issue. Salem flickers like radio static.

An impossible forest ripens, only to succumb to the might of a million axes.

Roads on concrete stilts bear the weight of vehicles unfamiliar.

Planes soar lacking propellers.

Men, long in hair, frilly in shirt, chop down ancient trees.

He hears smacking sounds. Then...

A slap to the face does the trick. "Sorry. Me and the boys were losing touch too. Came to just in time but you were..."

Fuse grips the wheel. He doesn't get mad. The smack was a wake up call. "No worries. What in the world--? Correction. What out of this world..." Deep breath! Let the words sink in. "...do we have here?" Powder has his hands feeling like they're dancing the Waltz on Venusian clouds.

Broadway creaks up ahead. Slicks are marching along.

Soldiers take crouching positions behind the car. One runs to the tripod. Fuse sees the coming forces in the dozens.

"Guess we find out now or never what this old girl can do."

Key in the ignition, he turns it.

Slicks raise their weapons.

Everything goes white.