The Wednesdays

by Julie Bourbeau

Noah peered over the bloodstained sweatshirt to examine Max’s eyes for himself. “Oh, she’s right. They’re … bigger and shinier or something. They do look weird.” He scooted away from Max. “Creepy.”

  Max rubbed his eyes self-consciously. If they were already turning noticeably silver, then perhaps he was even further along in his transformation than he realized.

  That very thought occurred to Gemma at the same instant. “Max,” she asked in a gravely serious voice, “are you absolutely certain that you have four more Wednesdays left?”

  But Max wasn’t sure—he wasn’t sure of anything at all. He had assumed that the week of Wednesdays started on the day that he first met the wednesdays. But what if it had started earlier? What if they had targeted him without his ever realizing it?

  He blinked back tears and tried to swallow past the lump in his throat.

  Once again, Gemma took charge of the situation. She really was unlike anyone else his age Max had ever met, and for the moment, he was grateful. “Well, you’re here, and it’s not Wednesday, so that must mean you’re still you for now, at least. But we shouldn’t take any chances. We need to be right here, at the clock, precisely at midnight on Wednesday to see if they appear.”

  This plan perked Noah up, and he nodded in agreement. “Yeah. We can be, like, your bodyguards or something, Max!” He crouched down and made karate-chopping motions in the air, which unfortunately made his nose begin to bleed even more.

  “I can’t let you do that,” Max said reluctantly. “It’s too risky. Besides, you’ve already done enough, Gemma. I’ll give you a quote for your article and then you can go back to avoiding me like everyone else.”

  But instead of looking relieved, Gemma looked annoyed. “You can’t get rid of me that easily, Max Bernard.”

  Max was confused. He’d thought that she’d be happy to get her quote and then be on her way. “Um, not to sound ungrateful, Gemma, but why do you even want to be involved anyway? You barely know me.”

  Gemma blushed slightly. “Is it so impossible to think that perhaps I’m just being nice?”

  Max and Noah stared her down until she finally answered.

  “Fine. If you insist, then I’ll tell you. The thing is, this is all going to make the most absolutely incredible story. Forget the silly old school newspaper—this is so much bigger. The local TV station will definitely want to interview me—I mean, us—and I need airtime for my portfolio. We might even get national coverage!”

  “Portfolio?” Max still didn’t understand.

  “Don’t be slow, Max. I’m going to be a television news reporter someday, and the more airtime I get now, the better my job prospects will be when I finish school.” Gemma at least had the courtesy to look slightly embarrassed by her confession. “Please, Max, let me help? I really want this scoop! It truly is the most amazing story.”

  “Okay, fine.” Max relented. “But I hope you both know what you’re getting into.” He couldn’t help but feel slightly offended by Gemma’s motives, but he also knew that he needed her help. In fact, he had a terrible feeling that he was going to need all the help he could get.

  “’m afraid I bear unwelcome news.” Dr. Conkle-Smoak greeted Max with a solemn expression on his face.

  “What, you’ve misplaced your magic wand?” Max’s mother’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

  The doctor frowned. “Madam, this is grave business indeed, and I encourage you to take your son’s well-being more seriously.”

  Max watched as his mother’s face flushed and she ducked her head in embarrassment. “I’m sorry. You’re right,” she said quietly.

  “Make all the jokes at my expense that you want—I’m accustomed to it. But you need to be aware that the test results indicate that these wednesdays are thoroughly malevolent creatures. Their condition”—the doctor cleared his throat, and then looked directly into Max’s eyes—“your condition … is progressive and irreversible.”

  “Irreversible?” Max cried out. “But that must be wrong. The helmet works—nothing bad happens when I wear the metal helmet.”

  Dr. Conkle-Smoak shook his head sadly. “An imperfect solution at best—a bit like wearing a raincoat in a flood. It’s more likely that the only thing the helmet was doing was protecting your skull from the various projectiles those lousy little gremlins like to toss your way.”

  “But what about Mr. Grimsrud?” Max argued. “He has a metal plate in his head, and the wednesdays don’t bother him.”

  “Ah, yes, Mortimer Grimsrud. He was a few grades ahead of me in school way back when; I know him well.” Dr. Conkle-Smoak hesitated for a moment, as if unsure how much he wanted to share. “Unfortunately for you, my dear boy, Mr. Grimsrud has an advantage that you do not. You see, he is quite mentally unbalanced—has been since the war. Perhaps it’s the combination of madness and metal that protects him, like some sort of special, metallurgical cocktail, but I’m only speculating here. The only thing that’s clear is that you are getting worse every day.”

  Max wanted to protest further, but he knew the doctor was right. Small things had started to go wrong around him, almost as if he was leaking wednesday symptoms in spite of his helmet and in spite of his best efforts to keep his thoughts under control. He had resorted to singing a constant refrain of silly Christmas songs in his head to prevent himself from thinking any unkind thoughts that might end up hurting someone.

  His mother began to cry softly. Max wanted to put his arms around her to comfort her, but he couldn’t risk it. Earlier that morning she had burned her hand on a stove that she swore had been cool just a moment before. It had happened as soon as Max walked into the kitchen. At the time, he had hoped it was an unfortunate coincidence, but now he had to admit that it was probably something more sinister.

  Dr. Conkle-Smoak pulled out a measuring tape and wrapped it around Max’s head. He muttered under his breath as he took several more measurements of Max’s limbs and then checked the figures against his notes from the previous week.

  “It’s different from last time, isn’t it? I’m different.” Max didn’t even wait for the doctor to answer. He already knew. None of the clothes in his closet fit him properly anymore, and just that morning he had seen in the mirror that his head was starting to look bigger and more squarish than normal. His reflection had made him think of Two’s evil, mossy grin, and he had brushed his teeth more forcefully than necessary for several long minutes.

  “I’m almost a wednesday,” he whispered to himself.

  “How much longer does he have, Doctor?” His mother was sobbing by now.

  “It’s hard to say, madam.” Even the doctor had tears in his eyes. “A few weeks, give or take. But I can’t be certain. This is all theoretical. I have scoured every book, contacted every colleague who could possibly know more than I do about this subject, and I’ve even consulted some of the … darker sources of knowledge. Unfortunately, no one seems to know anything at all about these wednesdays of yours.”

  A thought occurred to Max. “Dr. Conkle-Smoak,” he began, “would it help if you could see the wednesdays for yourself? What I mean to ask is, would that possibly help you find a cure?”

  The parapsychologist paled. “Oh, dear boy. I am a scientist, not a … soldier.” He pulled at his ear nervously.

  “Although …” He stopped to think. He pressed his index fingers to his temples violently, hunched his shoulders, and turned his back to Max and began to mutter.

  He was talking to himself. Max exchanged a worried look with his mother, and then leaned forward so that he could make out what seemed to be a heated discussion between Dr. Conkle-Smoak and … himself.

  “For alchemy’s sake, good man.… This is your chance—think of the treatise you could write. You’d be the talk of the Esoteric Cosmology Convention this year.… Maybe even the keynote speaker!” The robed man shook one finger at himself and then the other.

  For several minutes the doctor vigorously argued both sides, alternating between sudden loud excl
amations such as “It’s too risky, you fool!” and “Knowledge must prevail!”

  Dr. Conkle-Smoak finally sighed deeply, then turned back to face Max. He mopped his brow, straightened his robe, and nodded gravely. “I have reached a decision. At great personal peril, I shall accompany you to make the acquaintance of these wednesdays.” His voice cracked. “I am a scientist of the psyche, and I must treat the unknown as my laboratory. I cannot falter in my pursuit of the truth.”

  Max was surprised at the amount of relief he felt, even if his new ally did tend to be melodramatic and quite possibly slightly insane. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said gratefully. “I’ll do whatever I can to protect you from them.”

  As his mother cried in the corner as if her heart would break, Max instructed the doctor when and where to meet.

  he observers arrived at the clock tower within minutes of one another. As they crept from the shadows and gathered in the square, each of them glanced up fearfully at the silent clock, wondering if the lofty tower might really be just minutes away from belching up a group of monstrous creatures. Eyeing the time nervously, Gemma and Noah breathlessly compared stories about how they had managed to sneak out of their houses undetected. “I’ve never been out of the house on a Wednesday before,” Noah said. He jumped slightly as the minute hand ticked forward a notch. “It already feels like an adventure, doesn’t it?” He crouched down into his favorite karate stance and then shouted out at the top of his lungs: “Stay back, you lousy wednesdays, or I’ll give you a taste of my kung fu!”

  “It’s not Wednesday yet,” Dr. Conkle-Smoak chastised him. The doctor was wearing a faded gray sweat suit under his velvet robe. He had dark circles under his eyes and looked as if he would much rather be at home in bed.

  Max was already waiting for them when they arrived. He’d told everyone to be at the clock at ten minutes till midnight, but he arrived much earlier. He had needed the time to think. “Don’t get too close to me,” he cautioned the new arrivals. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to you on account of my … wednesday-ness.” He tossed a large duffel bag toward the others.

  Noah looked confused as he pulled three metal mixing bowls out of the bag. “What, we’re baking cookies for them now?”

  “Sorry about that; I had to improvise a bit. I couldn’t find any more helmets, so I brought those bowls and some duct tape. Use the tape to make a chin strap so you can wear the bowls on your head. It might look a bit silly, but it will hopefully give you at least some protection. Metal may not stop the wednesdays, but it at least shields your head from whatever they toss our way.”

  Max had spent the last few days making himself scarce. It was simply too stressful to watch terrible things happen to everyone around him, knowing it was all his fault. Hiding away might have made things easier, but in his self-imposed solitude he had found himself plagued by a constant stream of melancholy thoughts. What if this is the last time I get to eat my mom’s lasagna? What do wednesdays eat? What if I can’t even remember anything from my normal life once I become a wednesday?

  His only comfort had come from planning and plotting.

  “Listen carefully,” he addressed the small group. “We only have a few minutes until midnight. Be sure your bowl helmets are taped on tight, don’t touch any of the wednesdays, and try not to look them directly in the eye. Some of them are harmless enough, but the bigger and the uglier they look, the more dangerous they are. Watch out for the biggest one—the one with a giant scar across his face—that’s Three, and he’s incredibly strong. And no matter what you do, watch out for Two. He’s meaner and more dangerous than the rest of them combined.”

  “How will we know which one is Two …?” Noah trailed off as the clock tower started to glow with an eerie green light. A soft, humming noise seemed to be coming from the bricks themselves, and several bats flew out of the openings in the tower. Suddenly, the door burst open with a crash.

  But it’s not time yet! Max was startled to see a wednesday come hurtling out of the door as if the building was on fire. In fact, the creature was acting as if he was on fire, even though there were no visible flames. The wednesday was screaming and howling in terrible agony, clawing at his own face and skin. The dreadful noise was nearly unbearable to witness as the creature writhed and kicked on the ground. It didn’t seem possible, but the screams continued to grow louder and louder.

  Ninety-nine! Suddenly, it made sense to Max. Ninety-nine had been sentenced to two minutes of Tuesday. Max’s eyes flew to the clock: it was 11:58.

  “Oh, this is just horrible! Can’t you make it stop?” Gemma cried out to no one in particular, her eyes filling with tears as she watched the creature’s suffering.

  “You’re a doctor—do something!” Max shoved Dr. Conkle-Smoak toward the flailing, shrieking wednesday.

  The doctor looked terrified as he approached Ninety-nine. He glanced over his shoulder, clearly hoping someone else would volunteer for the dangerous task.

  “Help him,” Gemma screamed, covering her face with her hands.

  But just as Dr. Conkle-Smoak nervously reached out to the wednesday, he was thrown back with a powerful force. He landed on the ground several feet away and winced in pain as he examined his hand, which was quickly turning an angry shade of red.

  Max saw what had happened, but as Ninety-nine continued to wail in agony, he couldn’t just stand by and watch. He ran toward the small wednesday, but just as the parapsychologist had been thrown back, so was Max. He landed roughly on the sidewalk, his skin tingling painfully as if he had been burned. Noah wordlessly helped him to his feet.

  For two long, terrible minutes, the group watched helplessly as Ninety-nine suffered. Gemma sobbed softly and turned away. Noah seemed frozen in place. Dr. Conkle-Smoak took out a pad of paper and sketched furiously, wincing from the pain in his hand. Max stared at the clock, silently pleading for the hands to move faster to put an end to Ninety-nine’s torture.

  It seemed to take an eternity, but the clock finally reached midnight, and the screaming ended as the bells began to toll. Max raced toward Ninety-nine at the first of the twelve strikes of the clock. This time he was able to approach without being burned or flung back.

  Max was doing his best to comfort the traumatized wednesday, who lay moaning and shaking on the ground, when the glow from the clock tower grew brighter and the door creaked ever so slowly open. A single-file line of wednesdays, led by Two, began staggering out in numerical order. They were softly chanting the wednesday song, but their voices sounded listless and hoarse.

  Two spotted Max and headed for him, but he was moving stiffly and slowly, as if just emerging from a long slumber.

  “Quick, they’re coming,” Max whispered to Ninety-nine. “I need to know—how much longer do I have?”

  The wednesday did not yet seem capable of speaking; he moaned unintelligibly.

  “Please! Tell me before they get here!” Max crouched warily, prepared to run.

  Ninety-nine looked fearfully at the slowly advancing wednesdays. Two drew a finger menacingly across his throat as a clear signal for the younger creature to remain silent. Max started to stand, figuring he’d never get his answer with Two so close, but Ninety-nine pulled him back down with surprising strength.

  “The ceremony is next week. The Tribunal chose you six Wednesdays ago. Do whatever it takes. Don’t let them get you. Whatever it takes,” Ninety-nine whispered forcefully into Max’s ear before slumping to the ground in an exhausted faint.

  Max had what he needed. Two was still several feet away, but he was grinning evilly. “Hello, Next. You brought friends. How very thoughtful of you.” His snake’s hiss of a voice had a threatening tone that spurred Max into action. He had to protect his friends.

  “Everybody, run!” Max yelled.

  But Noah, loyal friend that he was, held his ground. “Give him back to us!” he shouted at the advancing creatures. “We won’t let you take Max!”

  Max grabbed his friend roughly by the
shirt, spinning him around. “Not now, Noah! Run!”

  As Max, Noah, and Gemma ran, a power line came crashing down in front of them, blocking their path. The live wire sparked and twisted dangerously, and Noah leapt out of the way just in time to avoid being electrocuted.

  “Keep going, I’ll meet you there!” Max had already instructed everyone to meet in his backyard if they became separated. This time they didn’t argue—just nodded and ran on.

  He looked back. Dr. Conkle-Smoak was slowly backing away from the wednesdays, but his attention was focused on the measurement tool that he was pointing at the creatures. The device was beeping wildly and shaking so violently that the doctor could barely hold on to it.

  “Watch out!” Max saw that Three had separated from Two and was sneaking around behind Dr. Conkle-Smoak.

  The doctor looked up and saw the trap. Instead of running, though, he began to rummage frantically through the pockets of his robe.

  Max watched in horror as Two narrowed his eyes, preparing to strike out against the doctor. At the very last second, Dr. Conkle-Smoak found what he was looking for. He removed a hefty, horseshoe-shaped magnet from his pocket and hurled it with all his might at the leader of the wednesdays. Two grinned malevolently at the object as it flew toward him, clearly confident in his ability to thwart the missile. But then … THUD! The magnet made direct and solid contact, hitting Two squarely between the eyes and knocking him to the ground. Only then did Dr. Conkle-Smoak, braver than anyone had given him credit for, turn around and run as fast as his tangled, billowing robe allowed.

  Max also turned to run, but he paused to look back one last time. Two sat on the ground, rubbing his head and shouting angrily at Three. The rest of the wednesdays looked bewildered. Relieved that they were focused on each other rather than on his friends, Max hurried away into the midnight shadows.

  alfway up the steep slope of Mount Tibidabo, barely a minute into Wednesday, Max ran fast, but he did not run directly. Instead of heading straight to his backyard, he raced through the narrow, meandering streets of the Wednesday-darkened village. He wanted to keep running, farther and faster, until the clock’s terrible message couldn’t possibly reach him—if such a distance even existed. He ran until he could scarcely breathe, until his eyes stung from sweat and his leg muscles quivered. But the feeling still remained.