The Y+Thems set up an impromptu outdoor chimney in the parking lot of the Holistic-Humanist Congregation of Cass City. Soren and Dana made it out of brick salvaged from some demolished building nearby, and Avie and Kiddo, with Benjamin Franklin Phloog strapped to her torso, brought firewood back from the suburbs in the Y+Thems white van. By sundown, a bright, warm blaze was burning, and we huddled around the hearth in our almost-winter coats, warming our hands. Kozmik Kat broke out some marshmallows from the church pantry, and Jasper converted some fallen branches from trees on the tiny church grounds into sticks that we used to skewer and roast them. It was more than a seasonal ritual for us, although it had that air; it was also the Y+Thems’ job, what they had been hired to do as resident guardians of the century-old neo-Gothic church building. They planned an overnight vigil in rotating, two-hour shifts to protect the structure from vandalism, or worse, arson, on the most dangerous night of the year. It was the night before Halloween—Devil’s Night in Detroit.

Devil’s Night was the traditional night of mischievous pranks—soaping windows, toilet papering houses, and leaving flaming brown paper bags of dog poop on doorsteps, ringing the bell, and running. The alarmed homeowner would answer the door, see the burning bag, come out, and stomp out the conflagration, thereby getting shit all over their shoes. What fun!

But such benign games were for the suburbs. Within the city limits of Detroit, particularly since the fabled riots of 1967, Devil’s Night took on a more menacing, aggressive air. Windows would be broken, tires of cars were randomly slashed, and above all abandoned buildings—of which there were a growing number in a metropolis that had seen its industrial and white- and blue-collar tax-base fleeing to the outskirts over several decades—got torched. The Y+Thems were on hand to see that the church’s irreplaceable stained glass and stonework survived to see Halloween.

The flames cast our shadows as giants against the fake buttresses and stonework of the side of the church, and the white van, the only vehicle parked in the lot, reflected a ghostly glow. As for the other white van, the one I’d seen a few days earlier parked alongside Peck Park across from my friends’ apartment, neither hide nor hair of it had been spotted since.

Just as the sun began to set, the minister of the church, one Reverend Doctor Enoch Azazel Japheth, came out the door of the Community Hall—which housed both the Cass City Cinematheque and our Eats on Feets kitchen—and brought us all doughnuts and hot apple cider. Reverend Enoch was an older African-American gentleman who also taught History of Esoteric Religions at Warren Woodward University. I had seen him around the church on several occasions, but rarely had spoken with him. I was never clear whether he realized his residential commune was now populated by refugee megaheroes, rather than the post-hippie generation misfits, because the Y+Thems always tried to play it as straight civilians. I kinda figured he had to know, what with a saber-toothed tiger who walked like a man, a groundskeeper with an elastic body, and now a talking cat, but I couldn’t be sure, and didn’t want to give anything away.

After we all got a paper cup full of cider and a plain doughnut, Reverend Enoch led us in prayer:

“Dear Lord, we thank You for these guardians You have provided us on this most dangerous night. We ask that You watch over them as they protect Your House. We also ask that You protect our city—a city that is so sick with the scourge of sin, and crime, and racism. Please look after those who are young and foolish, who express their anger and frustration at society in foolish, self-destructive ways. We ask that You show them Your will, o Lord, and keep them from harming themselves or others. Evil is growing, and crime rates are rising, but we know nothing happens in this world that is beyond Your power to remedy. We ask that You show us all who dwell in this world Your will, and give us the strength to follow in Your ways. In Your name we pray, Amen.”

Avie and I, raised as Lutherans, said Amen automatically, without thinking; but all the Youthful Permutations, who I might have assumed were atheists, and Jasper, all said Amen, too. Kozmik Kat, alone among the megaheroes, remained silent.

Something the minister said gave me a horrible thought. I sidled up to him and asked, “Father, do you believe in alternate realities?”

“First of all, Clarissa, I’m not a Catholic priest, so you don’t need to address me as Father,” he said firmly but politely. “You can just call me Reverend Enoch.”

“Okay, Reverend Enoch,” I replied. “But do you believe it’s possible that there can be dimensions other than ours, where history has taken a different course?”

“Most of the major world religions believe there is another world, more perfect than this,” he said. “Plato and his followers speculated that there was a world of what is and another world, an ideal world, of what ought to be. Many denominations within the Ibrahimic religions—Judaism, Islam, Christianity—believe this world is fallen, corrupted by sin, and can be redeemed only through sacrifice, atonement, salvation—God’s grace. Asian philosophies, too, see the world as imperfect, but troubled by the ego, by desire; it is up to us to make improvements. They don’t operate on an economy of sin and forgiveness, but of self-directed improvement.”

“I’m not talking about what ought to be,” I said. “I mean just two garden-variety, imperfect dimensions—any two realities that is…are. If they were combined, either accidentally or willfully…I mean, do you think that accounts for the increase in crime, in evil, in hatred we’re seeing in recent years?”

“I suppose if you were doubling reality, so to speak, you’d be doubling all those things you mentioned,” he said thoughtfully. “But you’d also be doubling peace, and hope, and love, and opportunity…and justice. Wouldn’t you? Some of those elements would cancel one another out, other qualities might stay the same; yet many other attributes would simply be rearranged. In the aggregate, human nature would remain more or less what it is: selfish, callous, and errant. There’s plenty of evidence to suggest things seem to be getting worse than ever these days, as I just mentioned in my prayer. But I remain optimistic. You’re here, after all, sent by God to help us mere civilians.” I wasn’t sure if he meant that literally. “Why, what do you think?” He gave me a penetrating look, as if eagerly awaiting to analyze my response.

“It’s just that, as you prayed, I wondered if our universe was so fucked up—pardon my French, Father—I mean, Pastor—I mean, Reverend—because certainly realities that never belonged together have gotten all conflated.”

“You’re going to have to clarify your terms,” said Reverend Enoch. “Universes, realities, dimensions. Each of those terms evokes a different discourse—dimension is a term from physics, for example, and so on. I can only consider the problem from a spiritual angle, if you will. Let me ask you: Do you think if you could split apart the universe, the crime rate would drop—and you’d be able to prevent Devil’s Night?” He chuckled softly after he said this.

He had a point. After all, our reality was on the eve of World War II when it was split apart by the Thirteenth Scientist—but that didn’t prevent World War II from happening. It still happened, with a vengeance, in both the Megaton and Meltdown Universes.

“No, I suppose not,” I said.

“Your train of thought reminds me of certain mystical speculations,” said Reverend Enoch. “The Nerenes, for example.”

“The Nerenes?” I replied.

“Followers of Nere,” said the Reverend. “I’ve seen some of their literature here about. They claim that a Great Coalescence will precede the coming of the Deliverer, and the generation that is alive today is in the midst of it and will not pass until seeing that great event. They don’t use the language of physics, of course—dimensions and such—but of spheres and stages of enlightenment and whatnot. I’m not endorsing that point of view, of course. Someone keeps stocking Nerene tracts in our rack of literature in the church narthex. I thought perhaps you’d seen them.”

“No, I hadn’t,” I said. “But I’ll have to pick them up, now.”

“They’re a kind of midcentury homegrown apocalyptic sect,” said the Reverend, “started by housewife in Missouri who had a revelation, if I’m not mistaken. I’m not judging such ways of thinking one way or the other, you understand. Holistic-Humanists believe in all-encompassing love as the underlying unity of world religions, and above all in intellectual freedom and creative exploration in pursuit of spiritual growth. But we don’t assert a particular creed; we don’t pretend to provide answers about God or the afterlife; we merely try to pose ever more intelligent, probing questions. Come to church some Sunday morning, if you are a seeker.”

“I’ll do that, Father,” I said. “I mean, Reverend Enoch.”

“By the way, Ms. Megaton Man, your sister Avie tells me you play the clarinet, ,” he said with a devilish smile.

“You know I’m a megahero?” I said. “But of course you do.”

“Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me,” he said. “I’d be a fool to offer refuge to your friends if I were completely oblivious to their bizarre backgrounds. They like to keep that to themselves, and I respect that. There’s a network of us—like-minded civilians—who provide shelter for your kind in these unusual times. Suffice it to say I trust them, and they trust me.”

My kind? Something about that phrase made me apprehensive.

“Do you really think we were sent by God?” I asked.

The Reverend broke out in loud laughter. “You caught that, didn’t you?” he said. “Who knows? Perhaps Ms. Megaton Man is the forerunner to the Deliver.”

The October wind was getting chilly down the back of my coat—I wished I had worn my megahero uniform underneath my street clothes.

“So, how about the clarinet?” he asked again, cheerfully.

“I used to play clarinet back in high school,” I said. “But I haven’t kept it up in college. Why do you ask?”

“We have a small ensemble that plays for special services,” said Reverend Enoch. “Rehearsal is on Wednesday nights…. See you there.”

The Reverend turned and said goodnight to everybody, and thanked them again, and went back into the church.

We stood there, drinking cider and eating doughnuts, warmed but also illuminated by the fire, as the darkness of Devil’s Night fell over Detroit.

***

Avie sidled over to me. “How do you like the Reverend?” she asked. “Isn’t he great?”

“He’s spooky,” I said. “I have a feeling he knows a lot more than he lets on.”

“I think he’s wise,” she said. “We should hook him up with Grandma.”

“Thanks for telling him about my musical past, Avie,” I said. “I don’t even know if I could find my clarinet, before Mama and Daddy sell the house. And where am I going to buy reeds?”

“Don’t worry. It’s in the attic, like everything else,” Avie replied. “Mama wanted to pitch out, along with all those coverless comic books I rescued. I said we could sell it, but then I just put it back. All that stuff’s Daddy’s problem now, and you know he can’t pitch out anything, so it’ll still be there. I’ll bring it down next time I’m by the house. Playing it again would be good for you—you need to relax.”

“I’m not going to have time to practice the clarinet on top of everything else, Avie,” I said. “I live in an apartment—my neighbors would freak. Besides, I was never better than third chair.”

“You can practice in the sanctuary,” said Avie. “All that beautiful woodwork and stained glass—it’s so serene in there, and hardly anyone uses it during the week. You can practice in there whenever you want.”

We argued like sisters about that and other topics to while away the time. Me, Avie, and Dana had drawn first shift on the night watch; everyone else had finished their cider and doughnuts and gone back inside the residence Actually, since I really had no obligation to the church, I was just keeping Avie and Dana company until ten, when Kiddo and Soren would take over, followed by Jasper and Tempy at two.

I suppose I was still feeling a bit overprotective toward my little sister, after watching her phantom image get killed in the bowels of Megatonic University—especially on this night. More police sirens screamed by, it seemed, than on a regular night in Detroit, and random gunshots could be heard intermittently in the distance—directed toward the night sky, one hoped—all part of the joyous revelry of Devil’s Night in Detroit.

Now, you might be wondering why it took all of the Y+Thems—plus Rubber Brother, Kozmik Kat, Ms. Megaton Man, and Avie, the lone civilian—to protect a simple church from harm. You may even be wondering why America’s Nuclear-Powered Hero—namely, little ol’ me—couldn’t have just cleaned up the entire city of Detroit and bring the crime rate down in the bargain single-handedly if she’d wanted to.

For one thing, as I mentioned, the Y+Thems were trying to keep a low profile and not draw any more attention to themselves than necessary, since they were effectively still under contract to Bad Guy and essentially had signed a non-compete clause. But more fundamentally, the myth of megaheroic omniscience is the stuff of comic books, not real life. If you had grown up reading coverless comics as Avie and I did, you’d be forgiven for thinking that fictionalized characters like the Simpler-Era Mugging Strong Man and his partner, the Tie-Dyed Tabby—or real-life megaheroes like Ms. Megaton Man—could bring all wrongdoing in a metropolitan area in one night. If you believe that, you probably also believe that Santa Claus can deliver toys to billions of children on Christmas Eve, or the Tooth Fairy can dispense coins for all those teeth, or the Easter Bunny can hide a zillion hardboiled eggs. But I can tell you, based on my two years’ experience as a megahero by that point, such things are impossible.

I’ll tell you why: In the first place, even megaheroes can’t be everywhere at once. Secondly, we’re not infinite, nor inexhaustible—we’re quite finite and exhaustible. Megaheroics is a very tiring line of work, let me tell you. In fact, whenever I forget I’m a megahero, like when I moved all my furniture from Ann Arbor to Detroit up and down all those stairs, or whenever I’m waiting tables into the wee hours and I’ve been on my feet all night, I get pretty tuckered out. Even when I remember I’m a megahero and summon all my strength, I can become too pooped to participate after not very long. When I wrestled the Human Meltdown, for example, it took all my strength and then some; I slept in the car all the way past Pittsburgh while Avie drove us home. And when I took that artillery shell in the back from the Arms of Krupp, I was stiff for a week. Even when I tossed around a few robots in the labs of Megatonic U, my arm and leg muscles ached the next morning, like after an adult softball game. Maybe I was out of shape, but after a few experiences like that, you don’t feel any incentive to go looking for trouble in the Murder Capital of the World. Not when you can just relax and take it easy.

I know a lot of people who would be outraged by this. After all, where’s your sense of morality? Your social obligation? How about giving back to the community? With megapowers comes mega-responsibility, and all that. Fooey. What has society ever done for me? I got homework. And I gotta pay the rent. Watching over a church and volunteering in the food pantry—and now playing clarinet—that’s a full schedule.

Anyway, it was bad enough just having to stand out in the freezing cold for four hours in the relatively safe North Cass District; I wasn’t about to fly over Detroit’s more dangerous neighborhoods on the one night of the year every unhinged reveler was looking for trouble.

***

During our watch, I got the feeling Dana was pissed off at me for some reason. She stood off to the side, with a Thermos full of something—I don’t know if it was alcohol or caffeine—but she didn’t offer to share with any of us. She just stood there sipping from the chrome cup, and would do so all evening. I tried engaging her in a conversation about her gig as an art model at the Self-Important Art School, a.k.a. the Kirby Center for Visual Studies. But she would only reply tersely, “Why not drop by and see for yourself, if you’re so curious?” Meekly, I said I would do that, and let the subject drop.

It started to rain about twenty minutes before ten o’clock, pouring down hard for about ten minutes. The flam in the chimney continued to glow—it was protected—but we didn’t have umbrellas, so we got drenched. Dana, who wore her hair in a stiff, spikey Mohawk, looked like a bedraggled poodle—an angry, bedraggled poodle—with long, wet locks of hair now plastered down around her face.

After a chilly—in more ways than one—but otherwise uneventful shift, Kiddo and Soren appeared to relieve us. They had umbrellas, the bastards. The rain had now trailed off into a light drizzle. Avie crunched up her empty paper cup and tossed it into the temporary brick chimney and announced, “G’night, y’all,” and bounded up the stairs.

I said goodnight to Dana, who didn’t reply, and turned and marched back to my apartment, which was two doors down the street.

Dana, angry, threw her empty Thermos in the church bushes and marched after me. Out of earshot of the others, she hissed, “I thought you trusted me, Clarissa!”

“I do,” I said. “What’s your problem? You’ve had a stick up your ass all night.”

“You’re so afraid to leave me alone with Avie,” she said., all jacked up now on whatever she’d been drinking. “Does it really bother you so much that your kid sister is living in a communal arrangement with a lesbian? Because it shouldn’t; I’m not into her; she’s not my type. I mean, she’s a nice girl and everything, and I’m really fond of her, but despite her feminist political sentiments, she’s boy-crazy—absolutely boy-crazy. I couldn’t interest her unless I grew a penis, and I’m not about to grow one. Besides, don’t you think I’d have put the moves on her by now—like, inside the residence—rather than wait until we were alone and freezing our asses off outside?”

I was horrified. “Is that what you think I was doing? Chaperoning you and my sister? Oh, for God’s sake, Dana.”

“Why else did you feel the need to hover over us all night?”

I hadn’t really hovered over Avie—at least I hadn’t realized I had. But I suppose that’s what I was doing, unconsciously, of course—shielding Avie every time I heard a distant gun go off or a police siren careen down Woodward Avenue, one block over.

I explained to Dana what I had witnessed at Megatonic University—how I could have sworn Avie had been killed because she’d come in after me—although that tragedy must have taken place in another dimension, one parallel but slightly different from ours. In this reality, Kozmik Kat had prevented Avie from going down a stairs that were concealed in a kiosk on Ann Arbor’s Main Street. But in the one that was only visible through my Ms. Megaton Man visor, she had gone down those stairs, and was murdered by a Bot. I was still shaken up about what I had witnessed; moreover, I mourned the fact that it happened all, even if it had taken place in another reality—I knew in that other dimension, Mama and Daddy were grieving the loss of their daughter, and I the loss of my half-sister.

“That makes sense,” said Dana, softening. “That makes a lot of sense. Here, I thought you were suspicious of me. You seemed so concerned when I mentioned I was modeling nude for Nancy’s art class, and when you brought that up, I just thought…”

“No, really,” I said. “Avie and Nancy are both big girls. If you want, take your best shot. Be my guest. I don’t think Nancy is really into girls, long-term; she was just figuring things out. And Avie…no way you’re going to convert her, as you said. But Jesus, Dana, you really bottle things up.”

“I suppose I do,” said Dana, sheepishly. “It’s just…”

“What?” I said. “Spit it out.”

Dana, who’s a good half-foot taller than me at least, suddenly took me in her powerful arms and kissed me. It was abrupt, and a bit violent at first, but quickly softened into something very sensuous and warm. I have to admit, I felt a tingle run through my whole body, from my lips down to my other lips.

After she released me, she said, “I have a crush on you, damn it. I have a crush on you, Ms. Megaton Man! Damn it all.”

Domina, the most powerful Youthful Permutation on the Y+Thems, hated having to admit she was at the mercy of something like a simple, unrequited attraction.

“You are pathetic,” I said. “Anything you can’t have…”

“I know, I admit it,” said Dana. “But you’re so doggone likeable, Clarissa. Why can’t I get a good girl like you?”

“Me, a good girl? Where do you get this romantic, idealistic nonsense?” I said. “I told you, you’re not my type. I’m not into that strap-on Leather Nun Catholicism. I thought for sure you were past this. Can’t we just be friends?”

“I thought I was over it, too. But I guess I’m not,” said Dana, suddenly more vulnerable than I’d ever seen her—maybe it was the bedraggled Mohawk. After a long silence, she said, “So, are you going to invite me up? I’m freezing my ass off.”

“Who told you to wear just your leather thong in October?”

***

Despite being cold and wet and sleepy, I had to admit I was also very, very horny. Not for Dana in particular, whom I had long ruled out as a potential partner. But for somebody. Anybody. To be honest, I was really in the mood for a man, ever since I met Gene Griffin on his stakeout in his white van over by John R Street. I wanted Gene Griffin, to be exact; unfortunately, the only white van I had spotted all night was the one parked in the church parking lot—the one owned by the Y+Thems.

So, reluctantly, and against my better instincts, I invited Domina up to my attic garret apartment. It was drafty as hell, but the steam heat was cranking, and before long we were out of our wet clothes and making out under the sheets and blankets on my bed.

I was content to keep on kissing, but at some point Dana announced, “I’m going down on you.” So, she threw of the covers, knelt down on the carpeting, and went down on me. I laid back on my pillows, ran my fingers through her soft, wet hair, and just enjoyed it. At first, she licked me like a horse, all rough and aggressive. “Easy does it,” I said. She slowed down after that and too her time. Really, she turned out to be a generous lover, very thorough and tender. I don’t know how she did it—I could have sworn she had both her hands on me at all times, although I kinda lost track—but every time I moaned, she moaned. Somehow, she was pleasuring herself, and whenever she growled, the vibrations of her vocal chords went directly into my groin. We formed a feedback loop that had us both coming multiple times.

Sometimes, I would whisper, “Slower,” “Faster,” “Left,” “Right,” etc. She took direction well. At one point, I said, “Put your tongue in deeper.” She looked up at me and said, “Try, ‘Put your tongue in deeper, bitch,” or “Put your tongue in deeper, you dirty little slut.”

Now, I have no talent for dirty talk, but I tried my best to comply. “Eat me, you naughty little parochial school girl!” I said. Or, “Lick it, you nasty cunt-lapper from the other side of the tracks!” I felt stupid, but I must have said it with conviction, because she was really into it. I began running out of things to say—“Don’t let up, you murderous whore from the wharf district!”—but the sillier and more infantile my orders became, the more she reveled in it. I could have just uttered nonsense syllables like “Goo-goo, gaga!” or “Yabba-dabba doo!” in a stern tone of voice, and it would have had the same effect on her. She loved every minute of it.

After I couldn’t take any more coming, I grabbed her by the hair and pulled her off me. She got up and stretched out next to me on my twin bed. We were both overheated now and covered in sweat, and both exhausted. Or so I thought.

After she caught her breath, Dana turned to me. “Well?”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said. “You’re still not satisfied?”

She shook her head. “No.”

Christ, I wasn’t about to reciprocate by going down on her—I was too tired, for one thing. Just like a guy, I thought, going down on you only to get you to go down on him. Besides, I’d heard Dana swear like a sailor—dirty talk for her would be the most intense verbal abuse imaginable, and I didn’t feel like having my self-esteem permanently shattered.

Call me unfeeling, but I reached over and just started fingering Dana instead. She wasn’t at all pleased by this, although she let me continue for some time.

Finally, she pushed my hand away and went at it herself. Eyes shut, she masturbated herself as if I wasn’t even there, completely ignoring me. With nothing else to do, I played with her nipples; she moaned whenever I did this, and whenever I thought she was done, I closed my eyes and dozed off. Next thing I knew, a few minutes later, she was at it again, cumming with a shudder and moans loud enough to wake me up again. This went on for—God—like ninety minutes. I knew this because I would check the LED display on my cheap clock radio on the milk-crate shelving at the foot of my bed.

Finally, I went to sleep. When I woke up some hours later, morning light was seeping in through the windows. Domina was gone. “So much like a guy,” I thought, “but without the cock.”

Jesus, what I really needed was some cock.

I lay there till sunrise, masturbating myself to several more rousing orgasms, all the while fantasizing about Gene Griffin and me in the back of his espionage van.

Finally, I got up and got dressed, and trudged off to class. In the morning light, I passed the First Holistic-Humanist Congregation of Cass City; it was still standing.

It had survived Devil’s Night.