Dark Parts of the Universe

Prologue

I Am the Miracle Boy

WHERE I COME from, people believe in God.

Not the new, hippie God they talk about in the cities, some metaphor for forgiveness or something like that—the real God. The angry one. The God that sends plagues and kills children.

The God that enforces His order on the universe.

Even people who didn’t believe could feel it, an energy that settled all debts and punished all debtors. It was a simple fact of life. In Calico Springs, you got what was coming to you, whether you liked it or not.

For a lot of people, this could be a depressing notion. It meant the tragedy of their lives was something they earned. All the failures, foreclosures, and funerals—they were part of a cosmic plan, decided by an all-knowing God.

You could forgive people for giving up.

But I never spent one second worrying about that.

Me and God, we had an arrangement. I was being saved for a special purpose. I knew that, because when I was five years old, I died.

You wanna know what it’s like to die?

Easy, is what it is. Everything about it, simple as letting go. All your worldly weary, disappearing into darkness. All I woulda had to do is let go of the rope, and I’d have been another stone in the cemetery, a story my parents told with decreasing frequency.

It was five full minutes, my heart stopped beating. That’s what Dad said. The exact amount of time it took to drive from the house to the hospital.

But I didn’t let go. I fought and kicked and screamed like hell. I yanked that rope until I felt what was on the other side, then pulled some more.

It was two days after that, I was passed out. Both alive and dead. Lying in a bed at St. Agnes.

In that time, everybody in town came by. All hours of the day and night, they crowded into the hospital room and prayed over me. Teachers and the folks from church, not just our church but every church, the mayor and the developers, the cops on duty and every firefighter at the station—all joining hands, praying for my survival.

And then, quick as a miracle, I woke up.

It was just Mom in the room with me. She’d fallen asleep with her head on my chest. The first thing I saw when I came back to life was her tiny cross, poking up through the blankets.

He gave you back to us. That’s what she told me. God kept you here for a reason.

Ever since that day, it became a fact they constantly reminded me of, my heroic origin story. I was special. I was chosen. I was here for a reason.

William Eckles, Miracle Boy.

That was ten years ago.

Ten years, I’d been waiting for that reason.

I never doubted. I prayed every night. I knew the day was gonna come when my purpose here would be realized.

And then, one day, I heard about the Game.

Part One

The Game

Chapter 1

GROWING UP, I thought Calico Springs was the only place on Earth.

As far as I was concerned, human beings crawled out of the muck at the Ripley County Bridge and only built civilization as far as the overpass to Highway 19. I knew other places existed, but why bother with shit that doesn’t affect you? Our world was only two miles wide; we could touch every corner in an afternoon.

Me and Bones used to ride end-to-end, knocking on random doors, trying to memorize who lived in every house. Dad called us town historians. 15 Poplar, where Miss Wilson said a prayer that made her kids disappear. 22 Willow, the creepy old house they tried to turn into a FunZone until they realized it was haunted. And, of course, Old Town, the remains of what used to be the city center, still sitting by the river in all its burnt-out, decrepit glory.

I slow-coasted past it on my bike, letting the downhill slope carry me to the river.

It was almost night, and all around me cicadas screamed and razor-thin blades of grass reached out of the ditch, perfectly still in the simmering heat. Southern Missouri summers are perpetually sticky. You just get used to it. You use bug repellent, then you become it. And there were a lot of bugs, a shit ton of them, swarming like an army of the dead, marching up from the water.

My life to this point had been defined by two enormous forces—God and the Current River.

May was its highest month, after northern snow melted and gathered steam as it rushed hundreds of miles downstream. In late fall, when the water was low, you could camp all the way down in the Basin. But days like today, when you got this close, you had to watch your step to make sure you weren’t already underwater.

Half of Calico Springs still lived within a mile of the water, and we’d have drowned every year, if not for the sheer strength of our resolve to live there. We built barricades, massive operations that had to constantly be repaired and reformed. We bought trucks with elevated lift gates that could handle high water and built houses on stilts for when the Basin flooded out. It was a war that had raged for centuries, the river vs. the town. Unstoppable force, immoveable object. Dad always said it was because for people here, the only thing worse than living in Calico Springs was living anywhere else.

I dropped my bike and wiped the cracked screen of my phone. It showed a map, mostly cold and colorless, except for a bright blue dot in the center, blinking like a beacon. I compared it to where I was standing—the dot was fifty feet ahead, clinging to the side of the only road that crossed the map’s central feature. It was on the bridge.

There were only four steel bridges left in Missouri, and if you asked anybody in Calico, they’d tell you this one still wasn’t finished. Massive as it was, long as it had lasted, it had the feeling of being unstable, like at any minute, a screw could come loose and send the whole thing the way of the Titanic. The steel beams were all different colors, the result of a hundred years of disjointed construction. We all knew the No Pedestrians sign was there for liability reasons—there was plenty of room on the shoulder to walk, so long as you kept your head up.

I followed the blue dot out to the center of the bridge and stopped when the marker for my location lined up with it. I was in the exact middle. I could tell because directly below me was the central truss. I spent a few minutes waiting, but best I could tell, there wasn’t anything to discover, other than the sun, fading as it set over the river.

I was about to give up when I noticed the small concrete island below me, a construction platform where the truss met the water. I checked my phone. Technically, the platform was on the blue dot too, but there was no way to get to it unless you had a . . .

I froze as I looked back to the shore.

Below the bridge on the Calico side, tied off as if it was left on purpose, there was a small rowboat waiting for me.

I first heard about the Game at work.

I only got the job in the first place ’cause Bones started baseball back in February, which meant I suddenly had a shitload of free time, and I’d outgrown all my old hobbies. I didn’t wanna get a job in town, not that anybody would hire a fifteen-year-old anyway, but there was a bait and tackle shack on the other side of the river called Short Bill’s that paid cash, so I started working two days a week when Short Bill went to his firefighter classes.

It was a Tuesday afternoon, and Rory Braun and Tyler Arrington were stocking up for a night ride. Rory and Tyler were the worst kind of townie—three years post-graduation, working for their dads, acting like the town was theirs to inherit. Along with a couple other recent Calico graduates, they called themselves Dirtbags and wore it as an aesthetic, all baggie jeans and white tanks, which was especially ironic considering Tyler’s dad was one of the only rich people in Calico Springs.

When I came back in from the dock, Tyler had his phone in my coworker Abe’s face.

"Swear to God. It can get you anything you want. All you gotta do is type it."

Abe was Bill’s son, only a couple years older than me, but he went to school across the river in Lawton. He talked to everybody like they were friends, which I had only recently learned was an act. Abe was Black, like most everybody in Lawton, and he told me some of the white folks from Calico Springs, Rory and Tyler included, were always saying crazy shit to him, talking to him like he was stupid. He tolerated it because it was his dad’s shop and he had to, but he told me on multiple occasions he had a personal policy of never crossing the river. One time, when I invited him to a fire department barbecue, he told me, Don’t take this the wrong way, Willie—but I’d rather set myself on fire.

It does what now? Abe asked them.

Couple nights ago, Tyler said, we told this thing we wanted to get laid, and it took us to a party in Summit where we didn’t know a single soul . . . and both of us pulled.

Wow, Abe said. You guys definitely wouldn’t have any reason to lie about that—

Swear to God. You don’t gotta believe us, it fucking happened.

And that’s not all, either, Rory added.

I drifted inside a couple steps, making myself invisible behind the register.

Last night, we were out at my grandma’s cabin. We told it we wanted a dog . . .

Tyler kicked at something below him in the aisle. I craned my neck and there, nipping at his feet, was a beautiful, dirt-brown mutt. A pit mix, I figured, by the size of her paws. She couldn’t have been more than a month old.

McShay said they were born three days ago. And this Game brought us straight there.

My heart started to pump as I stared at the little thing, still getting her sea legs against his sneaker. She did look like a miracle, a second too slow for the world. I’d heard stories like it before, of prayers asked and answered, but I’d never heard of somebody finding it in an app—

Hey, Blackbeard.

When I looked up, Tyler had turned his attention to me. Don’t go getting any ideas, all right? I don’t think this could find you a new eye. He brought his bait up to the counter, raising a finger to flick my eye patch. Where’d you buy these things, anyway? They got an eye patch bin at Walmart?

I shrugged. I’d been one-eyed since I lost my right at age five. We couldn’t afford a prosthetic then, so most days I wore an eye patch, and there were only a couple jokes people could make about it. At this point I’d heard them all so many times even the comebacks were stale. Your mom knitted it for me, I told him. Her technique’s getting sloppy.

Tyler didn’t even flinch, just shook his head and laughed. You’re a wild dude, miracle boy.

This was how things went for me in Calico Springs. Everybody knew my story. They’d all been there when it happened; they could see it every time they looked at my face. As a result, they treated me different. Fragile, I guess. I’d insulted Mrs. Arrington straight to Tyler’s face, and he didn’t even take me seriously enough to get pissed about it.

As he set his phone down on the counter, I snuck a look and saw the logo for the first time—

MANIFEST ATLAS

Losers, Abe mumbled once they were out of the store. Imagine how much free time you gotta have to make some shit up like that, with the dog and everything . . .

I ignored him. I was already downloading it from the App Store. When Manifest Atlas opened, the screen dissolved into a perfect black sky, stars hurtling forward, flowing and blurring, dissolving into a river of text that read—

PREPARE TO CHANGE YOUR DESTINY

God damn, Willie, Abe said, glancing over my shoulder. You paid eight bucks for that?

I tapped through the prompts, agreeing to the Terms and Conditions and Rules of Use, landing on a blank screen with a small blue box in the center. The graphics were old-school, robotic, and pixelated, with just three words at the top. A question:

WHAT’S YOUR INTENTION?

A lot of people say they believe in God, but not a lot of them actually live it. Most only believe when it works the way they’re used to, like good things happening or sports teams losing. But if you really believe, you realize God’s will is everywhere, hidden in everything.

God talks to us in funny ways, Mom said. But He’s always talking.

And if He’d delivered a miracle to Calico Springs, I sure as hell had to make sure Rory Braun and Tyler Arrington weren’t the ones to receive it.

I didn’t have to think, I knew my first intention. Ask for a miracle. I typed—

A SIGN

I climbed down to the water carefully, double-checking every time I set my foot down to make sure the mud wouldn’t collapse below me. The boat was an old dinghy, with a chipped-up oar laid across the middle like it was just asking to be borrowed. There was an inch of stale water inside.

I’ll bring it back, I said out loud to nobody, shaking the knot off the channel marker it was tied to, and kicked out into the water.

Immediately, the current whipped me downstream. I paddled hard, angling toward the platform. Our side of the river was part-swamp, so over the years, I got good at being on the water. In fact, the only people I knew who could pilot a boat better than me were Dad and then Bones, in that order.

When I got to the central truss, I steered into a break in the concrete and let the current hold the boat in place. I steadied my balance against the truss, kept hold of the rope as I pulled myself onto the platform.

It was a hell of a lot bigger up close. The steel was deep maroon, chipping silver at the joints, with a few long plates holding it together. I had to shuffle to see the whole thing, checking up and down for signs of life. The Calico side was untouched. I couldn’t imagine anyone had been out here in ages.

I kept my steps small, my body clinging to the steel, even as the rope yanked and pulled in my hand. I got around to the other side of the platform and froze.

It was the first thing I saw, taking up the entirety of the plate. I chanced grabbing the steel with my rope hand so I could confirm on my phone, to be sure I was seeing it right.

This was it. The blinking blue dot. The target I was given. A sign.

I stared at it, my heart in my throat.

It was simple graffiti, written at eye level. The message was clear and obvious, an answer for those who seek it.

In bright red spray paint, someone had written—

MORE WILL FOLLOW

Chapter 2

EVERY TIME BONES made a bet, he made it with his chest.

He could do that, I think, because he genuinely believed every strain of bullshit that came out of his mouth. There’s no risk betting when you know you’re right, which meant he’d always bet the house and never accept defeat.

I was young when I learned I could use that to my advantage.

Bullshit, he called when I told him about Manifest Atlas. Tyler and Rory are fucking with you, and you bought it.

Except I saw the dog, I told him. How do you explain that?

A coincidence. And not even a crazy one. McShays have, like, a thousand dogs. I bet a new one’s having babies every day.

What about my message?

Imagine finding a spot in Calico that wasn’t covered in spray paint—

Then bet me, I said. If you’re so sure it doesn’t work, then back it up. Bet me.

Like a game show host, I gestured to the garage in front of us, afternoon light and sawdust giving our dad’s old shit a golden glow.

Ever since Mom kicked Dad out of the house, they’d been at war over the boxes in the garage. Mom said he had to get them out, so she could park her car during storms. Dad said he didn’t wanna move it all out just to move it back in again when she changed her mind. Mom told him she was gonna sell it, and Dad called her bluff, so she hung a few signs around the neighborhood and deputized me and Bones, even said we could keep the money, so long as we got rid of it.

Bones’s eyes stopped in the middle of the room, landing on Dad’s old recliner.

I want the chair.

Fine, I agreed. But if I win . . . I get your room.

I watched his face drop. You’ve thought about this, he said. I shrugged and he studied me, hard, looking for breaks before finally, like a good little fish, he took the bait.

Deal, he said. If this thing works . . . you can have my room when I leave.

He’d just come from baseball practice, and infield dirt still spotted his face and hair. Pound-for-pound, Bones and I had the same genes, but he had them better. He got all the parts of Dad that people brought up in public—the watery blue eyes, the sticky blond hair that clumped and fell and swooped in the right places, skin that would tan in the summer—and I got stuck with our mother’s round nose and murky brown eyes, skin so pale I was almost see-through, even in July. It was as clear a sign from God as you could ask for that he was born to be a front man, and I was born to sing backup.

That’s how it had been our entire lives, but I didn’t mind the arrangement. A lot of people found it poetic to say their brother was their best friend—but me and Bones actually were. We spent all our time together. Growing up, it was every summer day on our bikes, walking to and from school. When I got to high school, the other upperclassmen left their siblings to the fishes, but Bones did the opposite. He invited me everywhere, dropped me off and picked me up at work, brought me along on every trip. He let me hang out with his friends, so much that they’d become my friends. I hadn’t hung out with anybody my own age in years. I went to prom as an eighth grader. In my grade, I was a fucking legend.

But that’d all be over at the end of the summer. Bones was headed to Westminster in Fort Woodman, two hours away, on a baseball scholarship. We always knew God gave Bones an unholy anger, but sometime around sixth grade, he figured out how to channel it into a fastball and became the best pitcher anybody in Calico Springs could ever remember. This spring, a coach from Westy’s baseball team came to watch him pitch, and they offered him a full ride by the third inning.

We didn’t talk about it, though. Bones didn’t like bringing it up or looking past the summer at all—almost like sometimes he forgot it was happening. That was just fine with me; I hated talking about it, too. It wasn’t just Bones—our entire friend group was leaving me behind. It’d be just me and Mom in the house. I didn’t have my license yet, so she’d have to drive me everywhere. I’d have to make all new friends. I’d be on my own for the first time ever. I was content to live in the summer like it was never gonna end.

Me and Bones set up two long tables across the bottom of the driveway and arranged the items in order of value, best as we could figure it out. It started with old magazines and posters, CDs of bands we’d never heard of, shoes and old jackets, and finally, an ancient stereo system.

As we worked, I found myself watching Bones, not animated like usual, strangely focused on the task at hand. He kept checking his phone, even though I knew he wasn’t texting anyone, and glancing at the street around us.

You good? I asked at one point. He shook off the question.

When we finally finished, we set up two folding chairs and opened a box of cash with twenty dollars in fives that Mom had given us to make change. As we sat waiting, he finally turned to me with a serious look on his face.

I got some news, he said.

I had to squint into the sun to look back at him. Yeah?

I’ve been thinking hard about it . . . he started slowly. For the last couple months, really, but especially these last few weeks. I decided . . . I’m gonna stay in Calico next year.

A smile rippled outward across his face, so wide I thought he was fucking with me, but he wasn’t laughing.

You’re serious? I asked.

Dead serious. It doesn’t make sense, starting over, going to some random school nobody’s ever heard of. If I stay here, I can build my empire.

He threw his hand out, so I took it and dapped him, which became a hug. I felt my heart start to race, my chest flooding with relief. I wouldn’t have to start over, either. I wasn’t out on my own.

Are you gonna stay at the house? I asked.

Not for long. Soon as I’ve got the cash, I’ll get my own place, probably something by the developments. And you can come stay, party, anytime you want.

It didn’t take hardly any imagination to picture it. . . . We’d daydreamed it before. We used to bike past the golf course houses, when the golf course was still open, picking out which ones would be ours. What about Westminster? I asked.

Bones’s face twisted up. What about it?

Uh, I mean, you’re not going, then?

Fuck Westminster! Bones spat. What’s the point? Play for a team nobody cares about? Nobody goes to their games, Willie. They’re smaller than here. I’m not wasting the time and money—

But you got a scholarship—

You still gotta pay for shit, Willie! Food, books, housing . . . If I stay here, I can make money. Trust me. I got a plan. I’m gonna take this town over.

I dapped him again, my head spinning. Excited as I was, it still felt a little rotten. It had only been a couple weeks ago they’d announced his scholarship at the Seniors Night game, and we’d gone out to dinner afterward to celebrate. That night, the scholarship was the thing we were all excited about.

But Bones didn’t have a shred of doubt, as he looked out across our street, our town, our world. This is where I belong, Willie, he said. I’ll get my own place, my own truck . . . He turned back to smile at me. And you and me will keep tearing up these streets.

When she got home from her shift at Dairy Queen, our neighbor Rodney came to help us with the sale. She was still wearing her bright red polo, which had become a sort of uniform for the hot girls at our high school. Donald, the creepy manager, was known for only hiring blond-haired high school girls, which Rodney hated, but as she often reminded us, a job’s a job.

"How come your dad has so many Playboys? she asked, thumbing through a stack. Doesn’t he know about the internet?"

Someone told him they’re gonna be valuable, I explained. Like Beanie Babies.

It took her less than a minute to look it up. You can get this one on eBay for forty cents.

Rodney was a genius, one of those rare kids in Calico who actually had a plan, and for reasons Bones sometimes wondered aloud about, she had been our best friend for ten years.

Rodney’s family moved in when she was in second grade, same grade as Bones, the year I started school. Both of her parents were pastors, the serious kind, so at her house, she had all kinds of rules. She figured out pretty quick it wasn’t like that at our house. She started spending every summer day with us, watching movies with our dad that would make her parents cry. That became every day of middle school, and every day of high school when Bones started driving. When Rodney got a job, me and Bones started hanging out at Dairy Queen. When Bones made varsity, me and Rodney went to watch his practices. For ten years, we’d traveled as a pack.

She was going to Mizzou in the fall, one of the two Calico kids who got in every year, but on an honors program. She was even going up early for a computer camp. It was a big deal, even if she didn’t act like it. So I was surprised she didn’t have much of a reaction when Bones told her about his change of heart.

Oh, she said. Build an empire of what?

Bones looked taken aback that he had to explain. There’s money everywhere, he said casually. Trust me, I got a plan.

Sure. Rodney zeroed in. What’s the plan?

Bones flicked his eyes between us, like he was trying to decide if he could trust us, before finally whispering a single word. Land.

He dropped it like it was a bomb, like the idea alone merited an explosion, but neither of us said a word, so he explained. Real estate. Cheap as shit right now, but the more they build, the more it goes up. It’s the perfect time. I’ll get a job at the developments for the up-front cash, start with one property, then flip that into a couple more, develop those—next thing you know, I own half of Calico Springs.

Rodney took it in. I waited for her to poke a hole, tell him he had