Kill Switch by Jonathan Maberry Read Free Book Online Page A

the picture on the laptop screen. His touch was gentle and on his face was an expression of self-aware pleasure that Greene thought looked beatific. There was text beneath the image, and Prospero read it in a soft voice. “‘Naked, they dress only in their majesty and their mystery.’” He turned to the doctor. “Don’t you get it? This isn’t me copying what they did. This is me finding other people like me. Other people who have seen the things I’ve seen. Not just Ernst. Others. André Breton, Louis Aragon, and Philippe Soupault.” He laughed and then rattled off a long list of names. “Paul Éluard, Benjamin Péret, René Crevel, Max Morise, Man Ray, Roger Vitrac, Gala Éluard, Salvador Dalí, Howard Phillips Lovecraft, Joan Miró, Marcel Duchamp, Jacques Prévert, Yves Tanguy…”
    Greene held a hand up to stop him. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re trying to tell me.”
    â€œThey saw what I see. They knew it’s real. They wrote about it, painted it, told people about it. They knew, Doc. They knew that my world exists. Do you know how much I needed that? To know that I’m not crazy, that this is real?”
    Greene said nothing. This was a dangerous moment for the boy and he had to decide if he had reached a new level with Prospero or if the boy had revealed just how far his psychosis ran.
    Before he could organize a comment, Prospero snatched up the sketchbook and hugged it to his chest.
    â€œI think I understand now,” he declared. “Those devices I’ve been building? The ones my dad keeps taking from me and selling to the military? They’re nothing. That was just me starting the wrong way. No … no, it was me getting up to speed. But this, this,” he said, thumping his palm against his sketchbook so hard that it seemed he wanted to push the book into his own heart, “this is what I needed to make me stop doubting myself. God, it’s like a light went on in my head the way it does in cartoons. Wow. I know, Doc. I really know what I have to do. The writers, they’ve been dropping clues for years. Lovecraft, Derleth, Howard? All of them, the ones everyone thinks were writing stupid horror stories? They weren’t. Oh no. Oh, hell no. They were dropping clues. They were sending up smoke signals, knowing that someone like me would be out there, watching, looking, waiting for contact.”
    â€œProspero,” said Greene evenly, “I’m going to need you to calm down. Why don’t you take a seat and let’s do some control breathing together—”
    â€œShhh, Doc,” said Prospero, “you need to listen now. This is so big. This is so huge my head feels like it opened up on hinges. I can feel the truth in there. I can feel the answers. They’re whispering to me. They want me to find them.” He cut Greene an almost conspiratorial look. “You’ve been a big help. You kicked me in the butt and now I know what I have to do.”
    â€œWhat is it you think you have to do?” asked Greene carefully.
    â€œI have to find the books. They all hinted about them. Those writers, they weren’t writing about fake monster stuff. They were making sure the clues got out there. Most people—the human herd—they think it’s all nonsense and junk. But it’s not. No. I need to find those books and then I need to get to work building it.”
    â€œBuilding … what?”
    â€œMy God Machine,” said Prospero as if that answer should have been obvious to even the meanest intelligence. Laughter bubbled out of him. “I bet my dad would even help me. He’ll have to. He’ll want to.”
    â€œWhat is a God Machine, Prospero?”
    The boy walked slowly across the room, still clutching the sketchbook to his chest. He stopped by the window and raised his face to the warm sunlight.
    â€œIt’s how I’m going