The Edger Collection

by David Beem

  Edge, before you go, says Dad. They’ve used their suits to set up a closed link for just you five. But we were still hiding when they did it, so we’re not able to help them. Use your suit to add us into their link.

  I stuff my hand into my jeans pocket and pull out the ring. Bracing on my back foot, I push it over my finger. The roaring in my ears is like a supersonic highway as an invisible squeegee drags over my skin. The suit globs up my finger, my arm, across my body, legs, and feet. Soul-stars streak by and, with them, the primal scream of human history ready to haunt the living.

  The heads-up display springs to life. Target locks and range finders whirl as they perform diagnostics. A red circle labeled COLLECTIVE opens from a drop-down menu.

  INCOMING TRANSMISSION: BRUCE LEE.

  Using the retinal scanner, I access it, and red letters scroll across the HUD.

  Today we slay dragons.

  I step across the threshold into a blast of desert heat. The light is blinding. I concentrate and push into Mary’s consciousness. Her focus falters. Her stomach plunges. Through her mind’s eye, the ground is spinning wildly toward her from thirty thousand feet, and a spark of mild annoyance zaps me. She regains control and resumes her flight.

  Edger, she says. We are going to have to establish boundaries.

  It’s good to feel you too.

  My skin sizzles and pops as I open my mind further. Fabio’s relief is like a tidal wave. Caleb’s is more like…released guilt? And Anna, she’s there too, her worry lifting like deadweight that’s been smothering her. Her worry that Fabio lost his best friend. But it’s sunshine now. Sunshine for all of them.

  Incredible.

  The four of them arc around midflight and head back toward me, their thoughts overlapping.

  Nice to have you back, bro.

  Dude! I’m so glad you’re okay!

  We hated leaving you like that, Edger!

  You saved my life, says Mary.

  I’ve got a ways to go before we’re even, I reply.

  Edge, says Dad.

  Oh, right. Operating the retinal scanner in the HUD, I access the circle labeled COLLECTIVE, and toggle into the closed-circuit tab, trigger the ADD button, and toggle down to COLLECTIVE.

  Thanks, says Dad. That did it.

  Charles? says Caleb. Is that you?

  Hello, Caleb. Sorry to hear you had to miss this season. The Chargers really could’ve used—

  Oh my God, says Anna. I can sense… I can sense… There’s my Aunt Muriel!

  Hello, sweetie, says Aunt Muriel.

  Poppo? asks Fabio tentatively. Poppo, is that you?

  Straighten up, Fabio! says Poppo. You’ve got a fight on your hands. And it’s times like that you’ve got to fight dirty! You hear me? Claw ’em, kick ’em, bite ’em if you have to—

  Whoa, whoa, Poppo, says Fabio. All right, all right.

  Three cracks blast down from the sky as my friends rocket overhead. Mary alights on the ground at my side and, wow, her suit is awesome. Sleeker than mine. More chrome than black. Less detailing. Her helmet softens, and the nano-meta-material melts into the suit’s neck. Her eyes search my visor, and I hurriedly trigger the HELMET OFF function in the retinal scanner. I pull her into a hug.

  “I felt you the minute you touched the Collective Unconscious,” she mumbles into my shoulder.

  I turn my gaze skyward to keep the tears from falling. The other three are circling back. They glide to the ground in front of us like Cirque du Soleil. I give them a stupid thumbs-up.

  “Go, Super Friends,” I say, while inside, I’m already making plans for a day when Mary and I can have more than a few seconds to kiss ourselves into oblivion. Maybe more than kiss ourselves into oblivion. Mary nuzzles into the hug, and our thoughts collide:

  What would sex be like connected in the Collective Unconscious?

  Anna, Fabio, and Caleb stare at us wordlessly.

  Mary pulls free and faces them. “You’re in our heads right now. Aren’t you?”

  As one, all three nod.

  “It’s cool.” Fabio shrugs. “Anna and I were already wondering the same thing.”

  “Dude,” says Caleb. “Bro foul.”

  “It’s okay, Caleb.” Anna touches his elbow. “You’ll find your special someone. And maybe we can make her a superhero one day too. Then you two can—”

  I wave for their attention. “I think what Anna’s trying to say is…we’ve got some artificially intelligent animals?”

  “Right,” says Anna. “Each of us has the antiserum stowed in our suits. You do too, Edger. Whoever gets close can do it, but the animals do seem to have a better chance. It’s just a matter of which of us can reach Nostradamus first.”

  “My money’s on Super Goat,” says Fabio.

  I fold my arms and nod. Weird to hear him use the name already rolling around in my head from Dad’s information sharing.

  Caleb taps my elbow. “Come on, bro. We’ve got a world to save.”

  Mary’s helmet re-forms. I trigger mine too, and we zoom into the sky.

  HISTORIC FAMILY REUNIONS AS CHRONICLED BY HERODOTUS (C. 484—C. 425 BCE)

  Four stoners and one documentarian race down the stairs, insistent chirping and cursing at their backs.

  “The hell were you doing back there?” snaps Wang.

  “I was going to ask you the same thing,” Ralph fires back.

  “You knew we had reinforcements coming,” says Christine. “You couldn’t muster a backbone for one friggin’ minute?”

  “Guys,” says Wang. “The act was all part of the plan. I would never sell you out like that.”

  “I had the weirdest dream?” says Shmuel, fingering his medallion. “It was like…thinking wasn’t hard?”

  They exit the stairs and round a shoji screen into a room much like the last one. Hardwood floors, weapons displays… But it is the person in the center of the room that draws the eye. And not simply because he is standing in the center of the room. No, the person in the center of the room draws the eye in the same way that one doomsday meteorite drew the dinosaurs’ eyes. To say the person in the center of the room is a mere man is to grossly misrepresent what it is to be male. For example, the person in the center of the room is not overweight, two sheets to the wind, and reclining in a La-Z-Boy in front of a Packers game. In fact, the person standing before them has more in common with the Packers than he does with humanity writ large.

  This is because he is a Green Bay Packer.

  Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster is six-foot-five inches tall, weighs two hundred ninety-six pounds, can deadlift nine hundred pounds relatively no problem—and, as the penultimate boss battle to the final level, he has in no way fallen into confusion resultant of the bird-and-pig attack one flight up. Seeing his Twitter parents in the flesh, on the other hand? Well, that may do the trick.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  “Daddy? Other Daddy?” asks a confused Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster.

  “Butt baby!” cries Shmuel.

  “Shut up, Shmuel.” Wang removes his mask, wincing as it scrapes and catches on the bandaged remains of his hairspray-encrusted locks, then raises his hands in a placating gesture.

  From beneath his Green Bay Packers helmet, Yourmajesty frowns. “Is that a new look?”

  “Do I know this guy?” asks Consuelo.

  “He really seems familiar,” says Christine.

  “Shut up,” whispers Wang over his shoulder, focusing on Yourmajesty and inching closer.

  “It’s us?” Shmuel rips his ninja mask off with bravado. “Don’tcha remember all the good times we had? Don’tcha remember the Harry Potter?”

  Yourmajesty shakes his head like a confused bull. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

  “Why are you here?” Ralph scratches his head. “And why are you wearing your football uniform?”

  “I’m the final henchman before getting to the big boss.” Yourmajesty shrugs like this point should be obvious. “It’s a pagoda. D
idn’t you ever see Game of Death?”

  At this, everyone nods.

  “Did the boss send you down?” asks Yourmajesty.

  “You could say that,” says Christine. “Hey, uh… The boss wants you to help us find all the…you know…”

  “Rubbers?” asks Yourmajesty, his head tilting.

  Wang snaps his fingers. “That’s it!”

  “All that stuff’s in the basement. Big warehouse down there. You guys came in the totally wrong way. How did you get in anyway?”

  “You’re not being mind-controlled right now?” asks Wang.

  Yourmajesty shakes his head. “Not yet.”

  “Why are you so familiar?” asks Christine, removing her mask and running her fingers through her hair.

  Yourmajesty frowns. “Are we family too?”

  “I think so…” mutters Consuelo. “This is so weird. I didn’t know I was related to a football player.”

  “That’s not just any football player.” Ralph wags his finger. “He’s notorious. I lost a thousand bucks because that bastard kneed Tom Brady in the nuts!”

  Yourmajesty shakes his head. “The replay wasn’t conclusive. They never proved that.”

  “He fell over holding his nuts!”

  Yourmajesty shrugs. “Probably a rough night with Gisele?”

  “In the fourth quarter?”

  “Delayed reaction?”

  “I feel like we’re straying from our purpose,” says Christine. “Mr. Ball Buster, sir, would it be possible for you to take us down to where you keep the rubbers?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” asks Consuelo.

  “I’m supposed to stay here for when Zarathustra arrives.”

  “Zarathustra is coming here?” asks Wang.

  Yourmajesty nods.

  “When?”

  “Sometime soon, I guess,” answers Yourmajesty. “Supposed to be a big final battle kinda deal. Boss wants to pull out all the stops. I heard there’s gonna be monkeys or something?”

  “Goddamn monkeys,” mutters Wang.

  “So it’s true he can see the future?” asks Ralph, and Yourmajesty nods.

  “Think so. But he didn’t say anything about you guys coming in from the top floor.”

  “The top floor?” asks Ralph.

  “Well, yeah,” says Yourmajesty. “You were supposed to come in from the bottom. He’s got something special planned for you. You do know there’s a code, right? To get into the vault?”

  “Eight-six-seven-five-three-oh-nine,” says Wang. “Fucking lazy-ass bastard.”

  “I thought so too, to be honest,” offers Yourmajesty. “He’s got the entire planet under his mind control and he can’t come up with a more original code than ‘Jenny’? You know, I think he’s got too much in his head. Sometimes I worry about him.”

  “You don’t say,” says Ralph.

  “Okay, okay,” says Wang. “This has been fun and everything. But we really do need to be going. Good luck fighting Zarathustra again. Hope it goes better for you than last time.”

  “Thanks,” Yourmajesty replies. “I’m a little nervous about it, to tell you the truth. I don’t have Tron-Tron in my head anymore, so there’ll be no ninja moves or anything like that. I was thinking about trying to knee him in the nuts. They say you should stick to what you know.”

  Consuelo scoffs. “Oh, come on. That’s too obvious. Kneeing people in the nuts is your signature move. You don’t think Zarathustra will see it coming?”

  “Brady didn’t.”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  “Edge, buddy, are you seeing this?” asks Fabio.

  A phosphorescent green fog rolls out from the pagoda. Inside it, swirling tattered cloaks, darkly translucent. Goose bumps march over my skin. My synapses sputter and stall. I tap the side of my helmet, but the view through the HUD doesn’t change. The fog reaches for miles, gobbling up all the tiny anomalies dotting the flat desert. A car wreck to the north. A large cage to the east, and, people swarming around…catapults?

  “Okay, okay,” says Fabio. “This is no problem. We’ve got supersuits, people. We’ll just, um, cross the streams or something?”

  “Who are the people with the catapults?” I ask. “Over there.”

  “Ten bucks says they’re Wang’s people,” says Fabio. “Probably shooting watermelons or something gross like that.”

  The fog swallows them next, the ghouls rising and falling like Loch Ness monsters. Red letters scroll across the HUD.

  MUFASA: Do not let the ghosts touch you. It is possible, though theoretical, they intend to hack into your closed network through physical contact.

  “Oh boy,” I mutter. “Not sure what to do about that.”

  “Guys,” says Fabio. “My HUD is giving me their names and histories. Just focus on one of those Dementor things and, I don’t know how it works, but your targeting thingy locks on and, well, like that guy there. His name is Sam Schmidt. Kind of a boring name for such a terrifying death ghoul, but there it is.”

  “Ooh!” cries Anna. “I found Genghis Khan!”

  “Alexander the Great!” cries Caleb.

  “Hang on,” says Fabio. “Why do you guys get famous people and all I get is this lousy Sam Schmidt?”

  “The HUD’s telling me more information about Genghis Khan,” says Anna. “Ooh! Says here: Genghis Khan was the founder of the Mongol Empire. Wow. It’s like a Google Knowledge Panel, but for death ghouls! A Ghoul-gul Knowledge Panel, hee-hee.”

  “My guy’s a produce manager,” says Fabio.

  “Well, I’m sure only very naughty produce managers would hang out in sketchy green smog with ghouls like them,” says Anna.

  “Oh yeah,” says Fabio. “Probably got a rotten cabbage up his sleeve.”

  Salmonella, says Nigel. That bastard gave me salmonella! Curse you, Sam Schmidt!

  “Um, hello?” says Fabio. “This line’s superfriends only, pal.”

  “Stop fooling around,” says Caleb. “We’ve got Mister The Great and Chaka Khan down there.”

  And the notorious Sam Schmidt, says Nigel. He’s only responsible for the greatest E. Coli and salmonella outbreak Britain’s ever seen.

  “Right.” Fabio zooms to a halt at my side, gleaming in his chrome supersuit. “We’ll be sure to wash our hands when we’re done kicking his ghost butt.”

  Ignore Schmidt at your own peril, says Nigel, and his psychic sense recedes.

  Mary streaks to a halt in midair on my other side, followed by Caleb and Anna. Like fish in a barrel, the ghosts swim in the green murk blocking the pagoda entrance. Over and under each other, twisting and turning, and, finally, lining up in rows facing us, their tattered shrouds swirling.

  “I think they spotted us,” says Fabio.

  “Ya think?” says Caleb.

  “Well, you heard Mufasa,” says Anna. “We can’t let them touch us.”

  “Then how are we supposed to get to the front door?” asks Fabio. “We can’t get through that!”

  The smog begins to tremble.

  “Guys,” says Mary. “My HUD’s audio sensor is picking up a low rumble.”

  “Something’s happening,” says Anna, and the pagoda itself begins vibrating.

  Below us, the fog parts and new ghosts emerge. But these aren’t wearing death shrouds; these look like translucent people. Some of them more than a little familiar: Bruce Lee in his yellow track suit; Hattori Hanzo in his ninja duds; a cigar-smoking, machine-gun-toting Lieutenant Killmaster, shirtless in a flak jacket and a bandana tied around his head. Even Nigel brandishing his sales briefcase!

  Come and get some, Sam Schmidt! he yells, swinging his briefcase back and forth.

  “Dude! Right on!” cries Fabio, and our ghost reinforcements charge into the green smoke screaming like it’s Avengers: Endgame.

  My HUD starts whirling like a slot machine.

  NAME: GEORGE WASHINGTON. OCCUPATION: FIRST PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

  NAME: ELVIS PRESLEY. OCCUPATI
ON: KING OF ROCK ‘N ROLL.

  NAME: BRAD BRADMEISTER. OCCUPATION: DOG SURFING INSTRUCTOR.

  “How do I turn this thing off?” asks Fabio, both hands on his helmet.

  “There’s a drop-down menu,” says Anna, and Fabio’s telepathic sense spikes.

  “Whoa!” cries Fabio. “I mean… Um.”

  “What is it?” asks Anna.

  “It’s just…” Fabio’s gaze takes in Anna from head to toe, lingering a bit too long here and there. “It’s nothing.”

  “You activated the X-ray vision, didn’t you?” she says.

  “Not necessarily,” he replies.

  “Moses!” cries Mary, pointing.

  NAME: MOSES. OCCUPATION: SKETCHY WILDERNESS GUIDE.

  He brandishes his staff, his long white beard and cloak billowing behind him, and slams it on the ground. The green smog parts. To his left, the spirit of Abraham Lincoln is speaking. The HUD’s audio sensors lock in and amplify.

  “…a house divided against itself cannot stand…”

  A flash of light to his right draws my attention. A woman slashing her broadsword through a death ghoul.

  NAME: JOAN OF ARC. OCCUPATION: BADASS WARRIOR SAINT.

  “They’ve given us our in,” says Mary. “It’s now or never.”

  Microeruptions of sizzling energy zip through my veins, and I propel myself like a guided missile. My range finder locks onto the two pillars at the front entrance, which seem to shrink in scale as the massive red-and-gold pagoda sweeps up in front of me.

  “No doubt Nostradamus is on the top floor,” says Anna, zooming in on my right. “You always put the big boss on the top floor.”

  “Maybe we should go in from the top,” says Fabio, zooming in on my left. “Take down the Big Bad first and all the rest fall into disarray?”

  Bang!

  Doors crashing open. A burst of seagulls beeline overhead, forcing us to the ground.

  “Too late!” Anna covers her head. “It’s already in disarray!”

  Mary charges between the front pillars and through the open doors.

  I bolt after her.

  “Mary, wait!”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight