The Edger Collection

by David Beem

  “How can he? And if that’s true, why have I still got Nigel?”

  “Nigel? Who’s Nigel?”

  “No, wait,” I say. “Back up. Just so we’re clear here, are we really talking about the guy from history? The one with all the crazy prophecies? The French Revolution, World War Two, Hitler, and everything? That’s the Nostradamus we’re talking about?”

  “Is there another one?” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, but you need to listen. It’s important I share as much as possible with you now.”

  “Except whatever it is the prime minister is giving me that I need to stop Nostradamus.”

  “It’s a game, Edge. How do I tell you what you need to know without Nostradamus stealing it from your mind?”

  I frown. “I don’t know. If there’s really a five-hundred-year-old mind reader out there gunning for me, that could pose a problem.”

  “He is a mind reader,” Dad insists. “He can read your mind. He can read Mary’s mind. He could read that kid’s mind.” He points at the kid on the ground with the Nintendo Switch and frowns. “But it’s probably all Super Mario in there.”

  “Charles.”

  “Right.” Dad clears his throat. “The game is to stay one step ahead of Nostradamus by telling you part of what you need to know, but not the whole thing. Don’t you see? That way, he can’t figure it out.”

  “The obvious flaw in your plan being I can’t figure it out either.”

  “Or me,” Mary says.

  Dad brightens. “Now you’re catching on.”

  “Well, that seems the exact opposite of brilliant.”

  “Charles,” Mary says, again leaning forward. “Why are you here? If it’s such a big risk, and you can’t tell us anything anyway…?”

  “I didn’t tell you nothing. I told you quite a bit.” He nudges his fist across my chin.

  “Can he read your mind, Charles?” Mary’s eyes are tight around the corners. She scoots to the edge of the sofa.

  “Relax, Mary. I’m not a threat. But you’re right to worry. My theory is, if he’s nearby, or you encounter him without realizing it, he can steal what he needs from your mind, or mine, or his.” He points at me. “Maybe he could even mind-control you. Make you moonwalk, for example.”

  “This is for real?” Mary’s lips part and tip down. “He could do that?”

  “Dad. How can he have these powers without the Collective Unconscious?”

  Dad’s index finger makes a jabbing motion. “That’s the point. Good. Best guess is he has a strong, natural talent for the Collective Unconscious. I think it’s how he’s kept himself alive for four hundred and fifty-two years. But don’t you see? If he can do all this without the Zarathustra serum I developed, imagine what he is capable of with it. Edge—you must not let him take your blood. If he were to get your blood and InstaTron Tron? Humph. Well, then it’s game over. We’re talking end of the human race as we know it. It’s goodbye, sayonara, asta-la-pasta, see ya never, Book of Revelations, mass hysteria, Republicans and Democrats living in harmony—”

  “Okay, okay,” I cut in, taking a deep breath and releasing it. Mary’s eyes on Dad are unwavering. Her lips a little curled, her nose a little scrunched. I know that look. She thinks he’s crazier than a taco sundae. But is he crazier than a taco sundae? He could be, going by the thunderbolt hair and those bags under his eyes. In hindsight, he shouldn’t have shared the whole Superman 2 crystal-chamber thing.

  “Dad,” I say, choosing my words with care. “This all sounds so, you know…”

  “He’s immortal, Edge.”

  “Dad. People don’t get immortal. That’s Highlander. That’s a movie.”

  “There can be only one,” he says, doing his best Christopher Lambert voice. I glance at Mary, but she’s clearly done. I balloon my cheeks and blow out all my air. Yeah. It’s a good Christopher Lambert voice, but it may be time to parent the parent.

  “Dad…”

  “I know you two think I’m crazy,” he says. “But I’m not crazy. Think about it. How could he have made all those prophecies if he didn’t have a talent for accessing the Collective Unconscious? Answer me that.”

  “Dad. His prophecies are like, a duck quacks in the East and a butternut squash will ripen in the West.”

  His already bugged-out eyes widen further. “I’m unfamiliar with that one. But I can tell you if he made that prophecy, you can bank on it happening.”

  “Charles,” says Mary, “why don’t we take this conversation upstairs. Surely it’s—”

  “Get down!” Dad leaps to his feet. Mary whips around, drawing her gun. She’s flung into the air. Her gun spins out of her hands. She careens sideways across the room and crashes into the far wall.

  “Behind me, Edge! Behind me!”

  Dad touches his noise-canceling earbuds, and armor plates begin locking into place over his head like Iron Man. The armor continues forming around his neck, shoulders, body—

  My butt leaves the sofa; I pitch forward, my arms and knees lifting into the air. I’m weightless—wait, what? My stomach flops up, then down. I’m yanked backward as if by some invisible rigging. Dad goes by in a blur. I twist at the waist, searching for what’s got me. There’s nothing. I flop onto my back behind another sofa. My hands make a quick inventory: chest, armpits, crotch. There’s no harness. No rigging.

  I peek over the top of the sofa.

  Mary’s lying on the floor unconscious. Her chest is rising and falling. No blood—please be okay!

  Oh crap—Dad.

  He’s fully armored. But this isn’t the Kurosawa space-ninja look of my suit. His is more War Machine on steroids. Machine guns rising from his shoulders. A whiff of gun oil. Rocket launchers popping out of his forearms. Clack-clack-clack. He’s gained a good foot in height and another hundred pounds at least. This is the supersuit of a person expecting to fight World War Three. The question is: Where’s World War Three?

  Dad jabs his finger in the direction of the grand piano. It lifts straight into the air, and the hairs on my neck stand on end. His hand slashes left, and the piano obeys, following the indicated trajectory—nine-hundred-some pounds hurling toward the front door—at a second armored man, crouching, two hands raised.

  The incoming piano halts in midair.

  I duck down and press my back into the sofa. I don’t want to see anymore. I’m losing my mind. It’s got to be that. Oh crap—I can’t catch my breath. Am I hyperventilating? I stare straight ahead and focus on steadying my breathing. The unconscious businessmen are shaking, the lapels on their coats vibrating. Is my vision going wonky? Is this straight-up terror—or something else?

  The lobby shakes; an earsplitting cacophony of exploding wood, hammers, and snapping strings is so loud, it nearly stops my heart. The noise is visceral. I’m on my feet without thinking, staggering backward, fists up, ready to throw down against—what?

  The armored man by the door is raising his hands like an orchestral conductor signaling a crescendo. The kid with the Nintendo Switch lifts from the ground; the UConn girls follow. The Japanese businessmen, the family of four, the entire room of unconscious people are rising like sleeping ghouls for the magical zombie apocalypse.

  “Edge! Get out of here!” yells Dad, his voice booming like Darth Vader in that suit.

  I grab the sofa back and gasp for air. I can hardly breathe. My heart is banging like a thrown piston rod. My legs are shaking. I think I’m gonna puke.

  Don’t panic! Don’t panic!

  Wait—the Z-ring!

  I drop below the sofa. Oh man, Mary’s going to be so pissed. Put on the Z-ring, she says. It could save your life, she says. My hand is shaking so bad, I can’t get it in the pocket. Wait—there!

  Sleeping bodies zoom overhead like missiles, each of them triggering unconscious, startled convulsions in my arms. I pull out my ring—drop it—no, it’s rolling away! Crawling on all fours. The ring tilts, rolls toward the elevator. Projectile bodies zoom overhead. I freeze; the bodies rapid
ly decelerate before they can slam against the wall. They’re lowered, laid on their sides, hands in praying positions and tucked under their heads. What is even happening right now?

  Crawling again. The ring tips over and wobbles to a halt. My shaking hand snatches it. My fingers are flopping like fish as I try to line it up over my finger. A voice whispers into my mind.

  Sleep, Edge… Sleep…

  My arm goes limp. The ring drops—ting, ting—rolling away. I reach, but the strength drains from my limbs. My arm slaps my side. My head tips to rest on the floor. More bodies whiz overhead. Chairs, luggage… There goes a purse. A granny walker. A granny.

  Sleep, Edge!

  The world darkens. I roll to my side, stare into the golden elevator doors, my eyelids like two lead blankets.

  Got to keep them…open… Got to…

  Straining metal; the elevator doors bow outward. The right door is torn away. It hurtles overhead with a whoosh like a fighter jet. The floor at the base of the elevator rumbles and cracks. The din of groaning metal harmonizes with the ringing in my ears. My eyes, so heavy. Some part of my brain won’t let go. If I sleep, I die.

  The left elevator door flies off—spins like a helicopter propeller overhead—chop, chop, chop. Tiles and concrete at the floor at the elevator’s base explode. A large metal box crashes out of the wall, speeds straight for me—

  I’m about to die…

  Dad…

  Mary…

  CHAPTER Twenty-SIX

  The conversation coming from the rear of the van for the last two hundred miles is less interesting than two paper clips. Fabio shifts to his left butt cheek. He shifts to his right. Nothing is helping the knot in the middle of his back. He stifles a yawn and scans the rearview mirror.

  “Wait. Who’re you?” asks Wang for the hundredth time.

  Danny’s head turns. “CIA.”

  “Oh,” says Wang. “That’s right.”

  A bug splats the window. Fabio squirts the washer fluid.

  “Wait. Who’re you?” asks Wang again.

  “C-I-A.”

  “Whoa,” says Shmuel.

  “Wait,” says Danny. “Who’re you?”

  “Wang.”

  “Right. Right.”

  “You wanna join our cult?” asks Wang.

  “Join a cult?” asks Danny. “No fucking way.”

  “I’ll give you one of these.”

  Fabio checks the mirror. Wang’s leaned over for Danny to examine the gold medallion hanging around his neck. Danny expels a burst of air in a puff, his eyebrows rising.

  “Nice. That’s nice.”

  “Thanks,” says Wang. “Got a whole box of ’em in the back.”

  “You got a box of these? You could sell ’em.”

  “I’m not gonna sell ’em,” says Wang, snatching his medallion away. “Join our cult if you want one.”

  “I’m just saying. I got an aunt who travels around and sells shit like that. Makes a lo-ot of money.”

  “It’s not for fucking sale, all right? If you want one, you gotta join the cult.”

  “Derp. I’m stoned,” says Johnny Gemini.

  “A bit more emotion there, Johnny,” says Ralph.

  “Derp. I’m sto-oned. Dude.”

  “Perfect!”

  Consuelo makes a fart sound. Christine giggles.

  “I meant no offense,” says Danny. “I’m just saying, these look valuable.”

  “Well, of course it’s valuable,” replies Wang. “It’s the official pendant key chain for the Church of the Ladder Day Dudes.”

  “The what, now?”

  “Our cult, goddammit.”

  “Is that like, Dudeism? Like, from The Big Lebowski?”

  “Fuck no. They’re the Latter-Day Dudes, with two t’s and a hyphen. We’re the Ladder Day Dudes, with two d’s and no hyphen. It’s the hyphenless ladder to heaven. Totally different.”

  Danny nods, and for a while, they drive on in silence.

  “So what do you do in this cult?”

  “So far?” Wang shrugs. “Honestly? Get stoned and drive to Indiana. Try not to get blown up before we get there.”

  “And I get one of those?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay, fuck it. I’m in.”

  Fabio checks the mirror again. Wang’s frowning.

  “Wait, wait,” says Wang. “Who’re you again?”

  Danny leans his head back and closes his eyes. “CIA.”

  CHAPTER Twenty-SEVEN

  I’m riding on the back of Sam the Eagle—the way Gandalf might in Muppet Middle Earth—when a viselike grip jostles me awake.

  “Oh my God, Edger!”

  I open my eyes. Mary’s alarmed expression triggers my memory. I sit up, fully alert.

  She rakes her fingers through her hair, bites her thumbnail, and strides to the window. Wait—we’re in her room. She’s wearing the same jeans and tank top as when we were in the lobby. I’m in the same clothes also.

  “Edger. I remember being lifted into the air and being thrown into a wall. Tell me I didn’t get lifted into the air and thrown into a wall.”

  I open my mouth to tell her what she wants to hear, then shut it. Her eyes gloss over. Back to chewing her thumbnail.

  “Okay,” she says. “So I did get thrown into a wall. But, Edger, it felt like… Like…”

  “Like the Force.”

  Her ocean-blue eyes lift to meet mine, and more pieces come rushing back. The grand piano. Flying bodies. The elevator ripped right out of the wall!

  But, then—who brought us up here?

  “Dad!”

  I race out of Mary’s bedroom and into the common area of our suite. I leap over the couch in the sitting room and charge into my room.

  Empty.

  The bathroom?

  Door’s shut. I knock.

  “Dad?”

  Nothing. I crack the door, then push it all the way open. Empty.

  Mary’s hand slides onto my shoulder. Her reflection in the mirror gives me a sad half smile. I step around her, cross to the bed, sit. A beat later, she joins me.

  “Before I passed out,” she says, gazing straight ahead, “I saw someone in a supersuit in the front door.”

  “You won’t believe it,” I say. “It was like the Force. No joke. Mary, the piano flew. The elevator came right out of the wall.”

  She glances sideways at me through narrowed eyes.

  “Dude, whatever,” I say. “You’ll see when we go downstairs.”

  “The man in the door,” she says, her hand covering her mouth. “The last thing I saw… He was about this tall.” She stands and holds her hand up. “And his body armor… It wasn’t like yours. It was, well…” She shrugs.

  “More like a medieval knight,” I say. “Except sci-fi.”

  “Yeah. With red and blue and white…” Her hands trace the front of her chest where the different-colored panels were on his supersuit. Her eyebrows spring up as she grabs my forearm. “Do you still have your ring?”

  Oh, crap!

  I pat my pocket. The telltale Z-ring lump is hard under my hand. I pull it out. The black-and-chrome nodules encircling the Z glimmer in the light. My shoulders slump in relief.

  “Edger, you’ve got to make it second nature to get that ring on your finger when there’s trouble. I can pick off the Dr. Seuss clones all the livelong day, but this is escalating. That suit will protect you if anything happens to me. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I say. “You’ve made your point.”

  “Good. Because my job is to protect the world’s first superhero. I’m not sure what happened down there, whether it happened the way we think it happened—”

  My head tilts. “Wait. You think we hallucinated the whole thing?”

  “Easier to believe than a random Jedi death match at the Plaza.”

  “Technically it’d be Jedi/Sith, but, point taken.”

  “You’re in danger either way. We need to go. It’s three o’clock. Our meeting�
��s in an hour.” She grabs my arm and tows me out the door.

  “That’s plenty of time,” I say, tugging a bit against her grip, but she squeezes and pulls harder.

  “You’re not thinking,” she says. “We’ve got to run. This Sith Lord knows where we live.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  In the lobby, there’s a hole in the wall—

  And the floor—

  And the outside wall—

  Each is about the size of a one-car garage. Where the elevator had been, there is now caution tape crisscrossed every which way, billowing out and then snapping back toward the shaft as the air pressure in the room changes. Cables dangle inside, their jagged ends sparking. My skin is crawling.

  “So that’s why the elevator is out of order,” Mary deadpans.

  Our two gazes pan to the hole in the exterior wall on the far side of the lobby. The elevator itself is attached to a bulldozer dragging it out onto 5th. The lobby shudders under the weight of 2,600 pounds, rattling my teeth, and raining glass and splintered wood as the elevator clears the front wall of the hotel. The remains of the piano, which had been sticking out from the other side of the front door, come crashing down, the metal frame clanging and the bass tones of the instrument booming. We press our hands into our ears and exchange disbelieving frowns.

  “You can’t be here now,” says someone from the hotel staff. Our hands come down as he ushers us toward the stairwell and the exit at the landing. “We apologize for the inconvenience—”

  I stop listening. My ears are ringing. My brain has hit the Mute button on the outside world, which seems to teeter as we move through space. Mary and I are shuttled into the alley, which has also been cordoned off. On the far side of the police tape stand cops, press, and a stunned throng of New Yorkers. Mary and I wander to the end of the tape, dazed. A cop lifts the plastic to let us out. We force our way through the scrum and cross 5th into Central Park. Mary’s slender fingers work into mine. She directs us toward a park bench. We sit, arms at our sides, eyes straight ahead. After a minute, she pulls out her phone. Pigeons march up to us, their inquisitive eyes investigating our laps, their heads jerking and turning in odd intervals.