Vyx Starts the Mythpocalypse: The Vyx Trilogy, #1

By Thomas Pluck

What if on the worst day of your life, you also learned that all the folklore and myths you love were real? Vyx is a twelve-year-old kid who just wants to draw and be accepted for who they are—until their parents are dragged away by the government. Terrified, but determined, Vyx embarks on a rescue mission, journeying through a rapidly changing America where the unimaginable has become the everyday: wild weather, a frightening pandemic, avaricious dragons who attack the post office, talking foxes hungry for disco fries, and government officials who can suddenly do what their acronym says, and freeze families into blocks of ice.

 

The climate's not the only thing that's changing, and the system isn't the only thing that's broken: a rift between worlds has been opened, unleashing terrors and wonders. Armed with clues left by their father and survival gear collected by their mother, Vyx must travel across the country while facing increasingly unknown dangers and making fantastic allies, as they learn that the unbelievable doesn't always mean the terrible. They will outsmart diabolical homeroom teachers and ravenous creatures from folklore, discover a magical faery world beneath us, and even sail with the living constellations of the night sky in order to restore their family and maybe even fix the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Goombah Gumbo Press
• Release date: Mar 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224325139

Thomas Pluck

Thomas Pluck has slung hash, worked on the docks, trained in martial arts in Japan, and even swept the Guggenheim museum (but not as part of a clever heist). He hails from Nutley, New Jersey, home to criminal masterminds Martha Stewart and Richard Blake, but has so far evaded capture. His latest is Life During Wartime, a story collection that made Out of the Gutter say "this man can write." He is the author of Bad Boy Boogie, his first Jay Desmarteaux crime thriller, and Blade of Dishonor, an action adventure which MysteryPeople called "the Raiders of the Lost Ark of pulp paperbacks." Joyce Carol Oates calls him "a lovely kitty man."

Book preview

1. Living in History Stinks

My name is Vyx, and I’m writing this in my Fox Diary.

The thing about history is you don’t know you’re living in it until it’s over. There was so much going on that we didn’t notice. We knew climate change had started before we were born, and everyone remembered the last fun thing they did before the pandemic.

We totally missed the Mythpocalypse.

We didn’t see the signs until we were smack dab in the middle of it. And things would have to be pretty wild for you to miss stuff like dragons streaking across the sky, and creepy little people offering you magical powers.

Check the news. I’ll wait.

Is the weather weird? Are fire tornadoes still a thing? Do adults look confused when they don’t think you’re looking?

Yup? Still wild, then. So, you could be forgiven if you missed a story about UFOs being real or a dragon eating a post office. I hope you’ll give me a break, too.

The first time I knew I was living in history was when the Ice Men took Mom and threw her in a van.

It was three months into the ’rona and school was remote. Miss Villeneuve, my homeroom teacher, had given me another demerit for ‘disrupting’ class. Like it’s my fault the other kids sing What Does the Fox Say when I’m on video? Okay, maybe it is a little, but it’s not all my fault.

She always hated me, ever since the school year started.

It all started last summer, when a scrawny fox stole my peanut butter and banana sandwich—Dad called that sandwich ‘the Elvis’—at Island Beach State Park.

I was sitting there in the sand, having lunch, when this fox pops up over the dunes and began sniffing around. Now, I like animals. More than I like human people, sometimes. I tossed it a chunk of banana with peanut butter. Just being friendly, you know? Hospitality. I mean, this was their beach, we were just visiting. How was I supposed to know foxes liked peanut butter so much?

They gobbled it down, then dashed up and snatched the rest of my sandwich right out of my hand! I ran after them over the dunes. And then I got to see the vixen feed it to her little fluffy kits. Which was kind of cool. But I was left hungry, because I don’t eat animals, and Mom only packed ham sandwiches for her and Dad.

This is why you don’t feed wild critters, Mom said.

I’d only fed animals on Grandpa’s farm in California. He raises chickens and goats, but he doesn’t eat them. Neither do I. Not gonna lecture you, it’s just something we don’t do.

Oh well. Dad gave me some of his taralli. (They’re spicy Italian pretzels.)

When we got home, I checked out every book on foxes I could find from the Jersey City Public Library.

The other thing that happened that summer was I grew way taller. My feet got huge; I had to replace my favorite Chuck Taylors. I looked like one of the Ramones on mom’s poster in the living room. I drew myself with a motorcycle jacket and a fox tail and ears like some of the characters in the manga I was reading. And I started calling myself Vyx Ramone.

When we went back to school, I made the mistake of signing the attendance sheet that way.

Ms. Villeneuve sneered at the paper. "Who’s Vyx?"

Everyone muttered. Some laughed.

If we’ve got a stranger in town, I’ll have to keep the herd in the corral for recess, she said. She always joked like we were in a Western movie and she was the sheriff.

She scanned the paper again, and stared at me. Victoria Morrone?

The whole class turned and looked at me.

She smirked. If you need help spelling your name, you can stay after class.

Everyone laughed. But they called me Vyx, even if they did it to tease me.

Mom taught me the only person’s behavior you can control is your own. So I didn’t let them bother me.

When we had to do a presentation for class, I did mine on foxes. I made fox ears and a tail out of one of Mom’s holey baseball tee-shirts, and Dad helped me sew it together.

I told my classmates that foxes can live in the woods and the city, because they are survivors. Humans have hunted them for thousands of years, but they still creep close to us to steal our food and tasty garbage. I showed the class how in the winter foxes jump high and land nose first to catch mice and voles hiding under the snow. I had to practice a lot to land on my arms, just like Mom did when holding the scorpion pose for yoga.

Everyone took pictures with their phones. Ms. Villeneuve sent me to the principal’s office for disrupting the class.

She handed me the slip to give to the principal. You were such a sweet girl last year. What happened to you?

I don’t know why, but she didn’t like me.

I’m glad other teachers, like Mr. Holloway, did.

Mom had to lose half a day’s work to pick me up. She had an argument with the principal about how the rules only applied to some of the other students. Not that it helped.

Foxes are crafty, Mom said as we drove home. You have to be crafty, too, so people can’t use the rules against you.

My classmates kept calling me Fox Girl and making that annoying noise from the song. They already teased me because I like my hair cut short, so it was nothing new.

I sewed the fox ears and tail onto my favorite hoodie and wore them to school.

They stopped laughing when I stopped caring.

Crafty. I used their games against them. Like a fox.

I liked to wear that hoodie when Mom and I walked to the protest outside the detention center where they were holding my dad.

It reminded me of him.

ICE arrested him while he waited to pick me up from school. He’s lived in America since he was three years old, but they said that didn’t matter. Something about parking tickets he didn’t know he had. Mr. Holloway saw it happen. He pulled me inside and called Mom. I cried and tried to run to Dad, but Mom said what Mr. Holloway did was right. Otherwise, they might have given me to Protective Services.

Dad loves this country and wanted to visit a National Park in every state. He bought postcards featuring old posters of the parks on them. Artists made them back during something called the New Deal. We were going to mail each one home after we visited the park painted on the front. I brought them with me to the protests in my backpack. We’ll make it to all of them, someday.

Mom and I held up our protest signs. We put in a few hours there on most nights. The immigration lawyer said it helped when we were on the local news. The detention center was crowded. In other cities, judges had released people with a court date, because it was safer than jailing people during a pandemic. We had to try.

Mom and I waved to other families we recognized, even in their masks, from other protests.

Hey, Alexis, I said and waved to a girl I knew from school and she waved back. We weren’t really friends, but she would nod to me in the hallway. Alexis was a year ahead of us sixth graders, but she stood up for me when Kyle Lassiter made fun of me for wanting to be called Vyx. He kept calling me a boy like it was an insult. I didn’t get it. There’s nothing wrong with being who you are—unless you’re a jerk.

Alexis told him to shut up. Vyx is a kick-butt girl.

I told her thanks, but I’m just me.

Alexis’s half-brother was in the detention center. We didn’t talk about it. It hurt too much.

A local news van was parked out front, because a councilperson was giving a speech. There was a chance to get some notice. We chanted our slogans and held up our signs. Mine read: I MISS MY DAD. I had drawn a picture of us and Mom, using a photo we’d taken in Acadia National Park as a model. Mom’s sign read: FAMILIES BELONG TOGETHER.

This time there were counter-protesters. I couldn’t understand people who would come out here at night to try to keep my dad locked in a cell. I would have rather been home reading, but I wanted Dad home again. I guess they had nothing better to do, with the lockdown and everything. Sometimes they chanted, lock them up, or worse things.

I couldn’t understand their hate. Mom said they wanted to make us angry. They were miserable and wanted us miserable, too.

We made sure to stay on the sidewalk so the police couldn’t say we were blocking traffic or jaywalking, and close the protest down.

Tearing families apart is un-American, the councilperson began. She was a good speaker. I’d seen her before. This policy has gone on for far too long.

Stay close, Mom said. I don’t like the looks of them.

She pointed at a group of men in black uniforms with no badges who stepped out of unmarked vans. They wore helmets but no masks. A group marched four across, filling the sidewalk. Coming right for us. Their leader looked like a giant baby, the way he strutted on chunky legs.

It suddenly felt very cold.

What are they doing?

Mom looked at me strangely. Then I saw it, too.

Her breath was frosty.

In June.

What the heck?

Vyx, language.

The uniformed men marched closer. Others lingered by the vans.

They started pushing people into the street. Jaywalking violation!

They grabbed people’s signs. When protesters fought back, they began arresting them and throwing them in the vans. People dropped their signs and ran.

The counter-protesters began to cheer. Lock them up!

Littering! The uniformed men were running now, a wall of cold rushing before them.

Mom pushed me down the sidewalk. Vyx, go to the bodega. I’ll meet you there.

What?

Just go!

Two men in black gear shoved through the crowd. Mom stumbled into the street. They tore her sign away from her and wrenched her arm. Resisting arrest!

Hey, I’m not doing anything!

I’d never seen Mom afraid before. It was scary. It was wrong. Mom!

Vyx, run! Run home!

Unaccompanied minor! Two of them ran for me, their breath coming out in a fog.

I dashed between parked cars and ran as fast as I could. They yelled for me to stop. I dropped my sign and cut down an alley. I hid behind a dumpster until they ran past.

My sign had a boot print on it. Right on the drawing of my face.

I headed back and saw Alexis and her dad running down a side street. Everyone who didn’t run was cuffed with zip ties. I couldn’t see Mom anywhere.

I ran to the bodega. The little bell on the door rang when I burst inside.

Syed, the owner, looked up from his newspaper. Hey, Vyx. We got your green Pocky in.

I dashed over to the candy aisle. I couldn’t breathe. I pretended to look for the green tea flavored candy sticks while I peeked around and looked out the gated front window.

Isn’t it a little late for a school night?

I broke out crying. I can’t find my mom.

running fox scene break

I ate Pocky under my mask, and flipped through a trashy newspaper while Syed made my favorite, his veggie Cuban sandwich.

They usually process everybody by morning, he said from behind the deli counter. I make bank because I’m the only place open, and everybody’s hungry. You got a key?

I nodded.

A junk newspaper had a totally fake picture on the front page. The headline read: FRACKING RELEASES ANCIENT DRAGON! AND HE’S MAD!!!

Real news uses fewer exclamation points.

The national paper’s headlines were about getting more hundred-year storms every year, and groups of protesters gathering outside hospitals to say the pandemic was a hoax. It was hard to tell what was real anymore.

Syed made a face as he slapped my sandwich in the panini press. I dunno how you eat this stuff, Vyx. I mean, I love animals too, but meat tastes good. He was about to lick mustard off his finger, then remembered his mask, and wiped it off on his fluorescent green tank top instead. His favorite color.

I like your shirt.

He flexed. Hulk smash!

I laughed because he’s shorter than me and could probably squeeze through a chain link fence if he tried. It felt good to laugh.

Let me make you some special disco fries for breakfast tomorrow. Real mozzarella, and veggie gravy.

You’re awesome, Syed.

I know, Vyxy. I’m the Sorcerer of Sub Sandwiches. He grinned and packed everything together, and added napkins wrapped around a plastic fork.

I bought a fresh shaker can of Spicy Creole seasoning, since ours was nearly empty. It made everything taste good. But Syed’s food usually didn’t need any extra spice. I held out a crumpled bill.

Uh-uh. He held out a fist. On me. Until your mom comes home.

Thanks, Syed. We bumped knuckles.

I tried not to cry on the walk back to the apartment. I flipped through Dad’s postcards, all the way home.

2. Fox on the Run

Lenape Trail

Mom wasn’t home by the time I usually left for school.

She had her phone, so I couldn’t call anyone. I only know where Grandpa lives, and that’s all the way in California. I sent him an email from the laptop. Maybe he could drive out here in his special wheelchair van. But he doesn’t read his email often. He likes to sit with the animals and read his books.

So did I.

He has a pony named Geoffrey who he can pull himself up on and ride. And goats he milks for cheese, and chickens he raises for eggs. He likes to say, I don’t eat animals, but I don’t mind if they have a job. He makes the best goat cheese omelets.

I nuked some of my veggie disco fries. Syed had given me like a whole pound of them. I ate and watched the door until the last minute I could, until I had to leave or be late for class.

running fox scene break

I couldn’t afford to be late. I spaced out all day in class. Usually, I raise my hand when I know the answer, but not today. I like school, even with teachers like Ms. Villeneuve. But I drew all day in my notebook, grinding my pencils down. I drew the cruel men with the fog breath getting stomped by the dragon from Syed’s newspaper. And Syed was a wizard, shooting them with lightning bolts.

Anything to keep my mind off waking up to an apartment all alone again. I slept bad and had awful dreams. Ms. Villeneuve ran the jail Mom was in, and wouldn’t let her go.

"Victoria? Victoria! Come out of your foxhole."

I gasped and snapped the point off my pencil. Wha-?

Ms. Villeneuve tilted her head. The answer is sour grapes. From the fable with the fox? I thought you, of all people would know.

She laughed, and the class did, too.

What’s this? She snatched my drawing notebook. My Fox Diary.

Give that back!

Watch your tone, young lady. Or you’ll earn yourself a trip to the principal’s office. She flipped through my sketches.

I pulled my hoodie closed by the strings.

Is . . . is this supposed to be who I think it is?

Um . . .

I’d drawn Ms. Villeneuve in her cowgirl outfit. Except as the Wicked Witch of the West.

"That’s very flattering, Victoria, she said. You’ll get this back after class."

Kyle Lassiter snorted and called me a brown-noser, under his breath.

running fox scene break

I somehow managed not to get in any more trouble that day. But I was afraid, and that made me act stupid. I thought Mom would pick me up from school. She’d tell them that she had to pick up her kid, and they’d let her go. They would have to!

But they didn’t. I was the last kid. Everyone else had been picked up.

What if Mom never came home?

Could they do that, just tear us apart?

I knew they could. They’d done it to other families, and they would do it to us.

Are you okay, Vyx? Mr. Holloway was on duty, making sure we all got picked up. He pushed up his steel glasses. He had his bicycle helmet under his arm, ready to go.

Yeah, I forgot, I stammered. My mom said to meet her at the bodega!

I took off before he could ask me more.

running fox scene break

A bald man in a black uniform stood on the front steps of our building, talking to the superintendent. He had his back to me and didn’t wear a helmet, but the way he carried himself, like a giant baby, reminded me of the leader who had rushed us at the protest.

I cut down the alleyway like I’d been going there all along. I sneaked around back and hid behind a dumpster, trying not to freak out.

What was I gonna do?

I knew from Alexis, that they didn’t put families together. They tear us apart, so we’ll think no one wants us here, she said.

But I had family. I had Grandpa.

I clambered up the dumpster, grabbed the rusty ladder, and climbed up the fire escape.

I was good at the outdoor obstacle course in gym class. I pretended it was like that, and not five stories high.

By the time I got to our apartment, they were already banging on the door.

It felt cold in there.

Our super would let them in once he heard the banging.

I found Mom’s emergency bag. One time we had to evacuate our building for a gas leak. After that, Mom kept a go-bag with clothes, my old hiking shoes, bottled water, wipes, energy bars, some cash, and other stuff. Since the pandemic, she’d been stocking it with other things: a water purifier bottle, space blankets, extra masks, gloves, trash bags, rain ponchos, flashlights, a lighter I’m not allowed to play with, and a multitool because she’s handy.

I threw as much as I could into my go-backpack. Pens and paper for writing and drawing. Dad’s postcards and stamps. His atlas of the United States, with all the parks and hiking trails, and star maps in the back that glow in the dark.

I missed climbing the fire escapes up to the roof to look at stars with him.

I grabbed the lumpy coffee mug I made for Mom in art class, that the teacher had baked in the kiln.

I thought about taking her laptop, but where I was going, there might not be wi-fi. If they were coming for me, it probably meant Mom wasn’t coming home anytime soon. Just in case, I doodled a turtle on a piece of notepaper and left it where she would find it.

She’d know what it meant.

running fox scene break

In the park, I sketched out a route across New Jersey on the Lenape Trail. It was named after the people whose land we lived on. We hiked