Slowly Jim craned his neck so he could look up into the underside of the bridge.

It was black. Nothing but black.

But then the black moved.

It happened naturally, almost gracefully. Giant, powerful limbs differentiated themselves from the concrete as they adjusted their clinging grip. Something the size of a boulder—a head—rolled about until Jim could see eyes burning orange like fire. The thing took a breath and it was like the entire belly of the bridge rippled at once. Then it exhaled and the force of putrid air blew Jim’s body back.

The thing let go of the bridge and dropped to the ground. Dirt billowed and trash flew into the air, and in that swirl of debris Jim saw milk cartons, two, three, four, five of them, cavorting and twirling, the grins of missing children mocking their own deaths. The thing reared back like a grizzly and the street lamps gleamed off of two horns, which tore through the overhead concrete. A mouth opened, glistening with huge, mismatched teeth. Orange eyes locked on Jim. Then arms—long, muscular pythons of matted fur—reached out.

Jim screamed. The underpass made it ten times louder, and the thing paused for just a second. Jim took that second and leapt astride his Schwinn, pushing off from the pavement. His left foot kicked past Jack’s radio, killing Don and Juan once and for all, and then he was out from under the Holland Transit Bridge, still screaming, legs churning.

He heard it behind him: the gallop of a colossal thing, chasing after on all fours like a gorilla.

Mumbling with terror, Jim pushed his pedals harder than ever before. The squeak of the training wheels became a shriek. Still the thing closed in. The ground shook with each landing of monstrous feet. It snorted like a bull and the expelled air reeked of sewage. The plastic ray gun dropped from Jim’s grip; never again would he feel the cunning strength of Doctor X. The thing behind him growled so near that the entire frame of the bike vibrated. The streetlights threw a horrifying shadow of the thing’s arm, reaching for Jim with long, sharp claws.

Jim pulled off to the left, hopping the edge of the canal, bursting through ditch weeds, and exploding onto a sidewalk. There was a fire hydrant right in front of him, red like Jack’s birthday bike—oh, Jack, Jack, what had happened to Jack? Jim tore around the hydrant and shot down the middle of the street. A car honked and veered out of his way. Jim ignored the angry shouts. He was speeding like his brother, learning how to properly ride at last, and the training wheels tore off and went bouncing down the street, useless little pieces of rubber.

Home was right there, just seconds away, and he strained down the home stretch, screeching for air, tears streaming horizontally across his cheeks. The bike lurched up the curb and collided with the white fence. Jim went head over heels before crashing down on the front lawn, his face scratched by Mom’s manicured bushes, his glasses unfastened from their Band-Aid binding.