The Edger Collection

by David Beem

  Get down, sir! yells Killmaster.

  The ring, Edger! The ring!

  Dad. He’s hunched over too, one hand out, gesturing for me to stop in my tracks. Only then do I realize I’ve moved toward him. I swallow and raise my voice. “Dad! I don’t know where you’ve been, but you can come home! We can be together! You, me, Gran—”

  “Edger,” he says, taking a backward step beneath the scaffolding—too close to the ledge—

  “Dad—watch out!” I reach out to grab him, but he’s yards away—

  “Stay away, Edge!”

  Dad takes a further step, arms outstretched. Just like in my dreams, he falls backward over the side.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  The whistle blows at the same time the snapped football stings Caleb’s hands. He reels the ball into his core and takes a knee. Packers jostle him from the right and left, unable to slow their momentum. The crowd boos.

  “Caleb,” Alex’s voice whispers into his helmet’s earpiece. “We’ve got shots fired.”

  Wide receiver Levonsio Strob steps in front of him, grabs his faceguard, and tugs it forward to clink helmets. Caleb juts his chin out to acknowledge the hello, then pans his gaze over the sidelines. Coach McCoy is waving them over. From his peripheral vision, Caleb spots the Packers defense leaving the field. The boos swell.

  “What’s goin’ on?” asks Levonsio from his side.

  “I think we’re clearing the field, bro.” Caleb tosses the ball to the ref and jogs toward the sidelines. He raises a hand against the glare of the sun and scans the crowd for any sign of something wrong, even though he knows it’s hopeless.

  “Talk to me, Alex,” he whispers.

  Alex’s voice comes back through the earpiece. “Nostradamus has the bomb in the Packers’ locker room. Can you get to it?”

  “Stand by,” he replies.

  At the sidelines, Coach McCoy’s arms are gesturing for the team to gather round. Caleb sidles up next to Sean Culkin.

  “Okay, listen,” says Coach McCoy. “There’s been a thing. We’re goin’ down to the locker room to hole up for a bit.”

  “What?” cries Levonsio. “What kind of thing, Coach?”

  “The shooting kind. Now let’s go! Let’s go!” Coach McCoy waves the players down the sidelines, herding them like human cattle. Caleb jogs among them, speaking at too low a decibel to be heard by those around him amid the booing fans.

  “Alex, we’re heading out. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Copy,” she replies.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  The annoying voice in Yourmajesty’s earpiece is talking to him again.

  “The cow is on the move.”

  “And what do you want me to do about it?” replies Yourmajesty, trudging side by side among his team back to the locker room.

  The voice is silent for a moment. Then: “Follow orders.”

  “I don’t take orders from you anymore,” replies Yourmajesty, underscoring the point by removing his helmet, locating the earpiece hidden inside the padding, ripping it out, and grinding it to pieces beneath his cleats.

  “Dude.” Aaron Rogers, who had been jogging behind him, comes to a halt at his side. “What the hell, man?”

  Yourmajesty’s gaze pans from the quarterback to the squashed electronic receiver and back to the quarterback. He peers into Aaron Rogers’s eyes, and makes no reply.

  Rogers raises his hands in surrender.

  “Hey,” he says. “No prob, man.”

  Sparing Yourmajesty one last doubtful look, Aaron Rogers turns and resumes his jog back to the locker room.

  Yourmajesty’s eyes follow Rogers’s retreating form as others brush past on the right and left. The voice in his ear had been annoying. It had expected to be obeyed. Clearly this Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster person had been a Nostradamus agent prior to InstaTron Tron’s assuming control over him as its new host. But whatever claims Nostradamus had over this Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster could no longer be tolerated. InstaTron Tron’s wireless network monitored news from around the world, instantly processing, analyzing, and strategizing. And the news had just given it several interesting new leads. Chief among them, the existence of the Zarathustra supersuit, with which InstaTron Tron had been designed to link.

  So, the cow is on the move, is it?

  Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster’s eyes flit up into the back of his head as InstaTron Tron’s processors cram the necessary information into his brain. His eyes pop open. He has two new names.

  Wang and Shmuel.

  Daddy…and… Other Daddy.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Dad! Dad!

  Put the ring back on, Edge! yells Bruce Lee.

  I race beneath the scaffolding to the ledge, arms held out for balance, and barely stop in time. It takes a minute for my eyes to catch up to my brain. At my feet is a long, white chute bolted to the concrete. It angles away from the stadium, so as not to be a straight drop, curving and stretching all the way to the bottom. There, a tiny speck of a man is climbing out and dusting himself off. He pauses, his gaze following the chute back to me at the top of the stadium. He raises his hand, waves, and then turns and runs.

  May I remind you, sir, that we are in the middle of an active shooter situation? demands Killmaster.

  Dad…

  Focus, sir…shooter.

  My booster. I’m going to die—

  Sir, you’re going to die a lot faster if you don’t—

  Shooter. Right.

  I take one step back from the ledge and turn around. The glint of sunlight on gunmetal catches my eye—there! On the far side of the stadium. Near the spot I made my ascent: a sniper. She’s up on one elbow, waving at me. Blonde hair.

  Oh no.

  [Well, someone had to kill them,] Hanzo replies.

  Boo-yah! yells Killmaster.

  Edge, says Bruce Lee. We must leave. The police are coming.

  My hands are shaking. A dull roar is building in my ears. The ellipse of the stadium seems to tilt ever so slightly back and forth, sickeningly, as a hot flash steals across the back of my neck and over the top of my head.

  I can’t believe her. I can’t believe what Mary just did.

  Edge—focus, says Bruce Lee. We’ve got to get out of here.

  Mary just killed them, I reply. In cold blood! They didn’t even know she was there!

  [What a woman!] exclaims Hanzo.

  My mouth is making too much saliva. My knees are weak.

  You’re about to black out, sir. Come away from the ledge!

  I stumble backward. I totter around, hands out. The white chute, just three feet from me, becomes unnaturally large in the center. It’s shrinking in from the edges. That freight train in my ears, deafening, seems to emerge from a tunnel at the back of my brain. The light of the world shuts off. I tumble down a dark hole.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  “I’ve got some bad news, Edger.”

  My eyes open.

  I’m sitting in a hot tub across from Indiana Tim. On his left and right are two bikini-clad young ladies. There’s music. The Grateful Dead.

  “We’re in Club Brain,” says Indiana Tim. “You don’t remember?”

  My hand lifts from the hot tub and touches the back of my neck. I run it through my hair and up to the top of my aching head.

  “Yes,” says Indiana Tim. “That’s the bad news. You’re dying.”

  I expel a bitter chuckle and let my hand splash back into the water. My head lolls backward. I stare into the soul-stars above and wonder what it would be like to be among them.

  “Not exactly the reaction I was expecting,” says Indiana Tim. “Listen, I’m not sure how much time we have, but it’s important you remember this conversation. I can’t say how well we’ll be able to communicate with you when you’re awake. Without your booster, it’s downhill from here on out, I’m afraid.”

  My throbbing head comes down. All around me, Club Brain is shimmering like a mirage. Indiana Tim, his girlfriends, thei
r every molecule is vibrating.

  “That’s the dying part,” he says. “You’re going to start having some rather painful episodes.”

  “Great.”

  “But the good news is, I have a message from your father.”

  Vibrating Indiana Tim removes his sunglasses and sits up straighter, casting ripples outward in the water. The girls on his left and right stand in wordless synchronicity. Falling water beads trace erotic curves and soaking bikini straps as they climb out of the hot tub.

  “Did you hear me?” asks Indiana Tim. I try to focus, but his molecules are trying to shake apart. His skin is a weird squirrel gray. The quivering hair on his head separates into individual strands.

  “Ah,” he says. “I thought the hot tub would help.” He waves his hand, and the soul-stars come down from the sky. Club Brain brightens. I clench my eyes against the intensity, which turns pink, then yellow and purple, and then dims. Soon, only the afterimage remains. Cautiously, I open one eye.

  We’re sitting on logs at a campfire on the beach. The air tastes like salt water mixed with wood smoke. The ocean is flat to the horizon. There isn’t a soul in sight. The world is still vibrating, but less than before.

  “I’ve kind of reset your head for now,” Indiana Tim explains. “I don’t know how long this trick will last. But I have a message from your father.”

  My breath shortens at the mention of my dad. Hazy bits and pieces of my misadventures at Qualcomm Stadium sift through my unconscious mind like the shifting sand beneath us.

  “A message from Dad?”

  He nods, but says nothing further, allowing me time to process. The news doesn’t penetrate anything remotely emotional. I’m numb.

  “That’s your brain resetting, I’m afraid,” says Indiana Tim. “There’ll be time to grieve all that is happening to you later. And you will. I know it’s a lot.”

  “Grieve? Did somebody die?”

  “You. If you don’t get your booster.”

  “Oh,” I reply. I try to summon a sense of urgency on that topic, but there’s nothing. No fear. No anxiety. No hope or sense of finality or anything. I abandon that, as it’s futile, and rewind to the other part of what he’s been trying to tell me. “What’s my dad saying?”

  Indiana Tim’s face brightens. “Your father wants you to meet him tonight at your grandmother’s.”

  “He does?”

  “Yes.”

  “But—I just saw him at the football stadium.” I close my eyes and try to recall the memory, but it’s no use. All I’ve got is the sense that if Dad had wanted us to leave together, we would have.

  “Yes, that’s true,” says Indiana Tim. “He is rather paranoid to begin with, understandably so, but things have become more complicated. He has your safety to worry about. And your grandmother’s.”

  “Then why meet at Gran’s at all?” I ask, opening my eyes.

  “He intends to give you your booster, and then get you, your gran, and Shep to safety.”

  I shake my head. The log beneath me, the beach, ocean, and fire vibrate. I close my eyes again. My stomach lurches.

  “…doesn’t make sense,” I manage weakly.

  “There’s something else,” says Indiana Tim, his voice now coming from far away. I open my eyes. We’ve left the beach. I’m drifting among the soul-stars. Indiana Tim is nowhere to be found. But, like before, I’m numb. A vague, unformed notion pecks at my subconscious mind that I should be alarmed, but still I feel nothing. No—that’s not right. I do feel something.

  The stars are soft and inviting, like liquid light on a velvet black canvas.

  “Listen, Edger!” Indiana Tim’s voice echoes inside me. “They’re putting a bomb in Caleb’s nightclub. A place called Underwearld. Do you know it?”

  I nod. “It’s in the Gaslamp Quarter. Place is wallpapered with art photos of Caleb in his underpants.”

  “That’s the place. Now pay attention. Underwearld has been their plan all along. The football game was a ruse.”

  I bump into a soul-star, and its light ripples outward. Its life experiences fill me. Mommy and Daddy have me giggling uncontrollably. I’m three. We live in a cabin in the woods.

  “Are you listening to me?” someone asks, but I shove the voice aside, because Mommy and Daddy are pretending to steal my toes. I can’t stop giggling. Wait—no. This isn’t me. This is Clarence. It’s his life I’m sharing through this star.

  “Edger!” a familiar voice calls through the darkness. “Focus! You cannot let Nostradamus have this power. He is too powerful already. And you cannot let InstaTron Tron pair with that ring!”

  Clarence takes his first steps when he is ten months old. He—I—feel like I’m one of the grown-ups now. Mommy and Daddy are so happy. They’re so proud of me.

  “Disarm the bomb! Save your grandmother! Save your friends! And by the way, I know a wonderful bomb specialist who can help you. His name is Bubba. First rate. Really knows his stuff.”

  Mommy gives me apple juice. It’s the first time I’ve had apple juice. The flavor explodes on my tongue.

  “You can’t linger here!” calls a familiar voice. “You have to wake up! Wake up, Edger! Wake up!”

  I pass through Clarence’s light and turn in space, arms outstretched. The Collective Unconscious is beautiful. To think—each of these lights is connected through our humanity. Each containing lifetimes teeming with rich experiences. I never want to leave.

  Another light approaches. I wonder what experience it will share.

  “Wake up, Edger! Wake up!”

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  “Edger? Can you hear me?”

  My eyes are closed. The sunlight on my face is hot and horrible. My head is pounding. My back is aching. I’m shivering, despite the heat. Swells of nausea have the world listing around me.

  “I think I’m gonna get sick.”

  “Here. Drink this.”

  My eyes flutter open. Parking lot. We’re in the Jag. Mary’s eyes are wide and blue. She’s closing my hand around a sweating bottle of water, raising it to my mouth. Just that little motion flips my stomach. The bottle presses into my lips. Cold water trickles down my throat. A bead of sweat falls from my face to hit Mary’s hands, which are guiding mine and the water bottle.

  “You scared me,” says Mary.

  The cold water cools me from the inside out. My stomach begins to relax. I close my eyes and listen to the world. Sirens. Reporters. A police radio goes past.

  “…suspect is male, six three, approximately two hundred twenty pounds, and wearing a…oh, you’re gonna love this…a black-and-chrome superhero getup, quote: resembling a space ninja.”

  Steel forms in my stomach. My eyes pop open and the shakes vanish; adrenaline kicks in.

  “Are you ready to move?” Mary’s eyes scan my face. She takes her hands back and grabs the key in the ignition. “I can get us out of here. I was just waiting for you to feel a little better first.”

  The engine turns over. Two more cops run past, followed by a medical team pushing two gurneys loaded with bulging body bags.

  “Holy shit,” I whisper. “Are those the…?”

  I pull my gaze from the bodies being loaded into the back of an ambulance and face Mary. She shrinks away from my stare. Her forehead wrinkles. She smiles weakly and shrugs.

  “You killed those guys.”

  “But I mean, they weren’t even like real guys.”

  “Except for the fact they were alive before and dead now!”

  She puts the car in gear. She checks her mirrors, backs up, clicks the turn signal—any and every legitimate excuse not to make eye contact with me as I try to stare some shame into her. And then I’m on the highway, going God only knows where, with this hot cold-blooded killer.

  For the first five minutes on the highway, there’s only the hum of the road and the wind ripping through our hair.

  “Would you like some music?” she asks, her hand riffling through her purse before pulling out her phone
and thumbing up a playlist.

  “Hey-hey!” I exclaim. “Eyes on the road!”

  “Right.” She drops her phone back into her purse. Keeping one hand on the wheel, she steeples the other on her forehead and stares not at the road, but through it. Like somewhere beneath the road might be a solution to all her problems. But if it’s answers like that she’s looking for, I’d happily suggest she rethink her murderous, snipery lifestyle.

  “Where are you taking me?” I ask.

  “Somewhere we can talk.”

  “Am I an accessory to murder?”

  “No.”

  “No? Just ‘no’?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  Her hair is streaming in the wind. Her skin is a radiant golden tan. Her dress is riding up on her thighs again, but this time, she’s making no effort to hold it down. She’s too distracted—and now so am I. I clear my throat and train my eyes on the San Diego skyline. Unbelievable! Here I am, trapped in this car with a killer, and I still want to look at her panties. This can’t be the girl of my dreams. I don’t dream about girls in sexy blue panties who kill people. I dream about girls in sexy blue panties who build lightsabers and become Jedi Knights. Besides, she’s too beautiful to be a killer. Killers aren’t supposed to have beautiful girl-next-door faces, sexy panties, and CrossFit bodies. They’re supposed to come from New Jersey, as has been well established.

  “Who are you?” I ask. “Some kind of hired assassin?”

  Mary, with her eyes glued to the road, makes no reply.

  “CIA?”

  Nothing.

  “NSA?”

  Mary shrugs, avoiding eye contact. “It doesn’t matter. You won’t have heard of us.”

  “Well, I’m not going anywhere with you until you tell me who you are and I see some ID.” My hand drops to my pocket, where a hard lump tells me I’ve still got the ring. She sighs and takes her eyes off the road long enough to shoot me a withering look.