He did not say goodbye.
• • •
And so it was that Max waited until what could possibly be the last hour of the last Tuesday of his human life to gather his team and announce the change of strategy. He’d only just made up his own mind, while rocking baby Leland, and he didn’t have much time to convince the others.
“What? Have you gone completely mad?” Noah’s reaction was even stronger than Max had predicted. He’d been anxiously waiting for Max to show up for hours, and he was still sore at his best friend’s vanishing act.
“Dear boy, I’m afraid you might be making a terrible mistake.” Dr. Conkle-Smoak didn’t like Max’s new plan, either.
Only Gemma remained silent, but her eyes met Max’s with a newfound respect. She smiled ever so slightly and nodded in approval.
“But, Max, if you’re wrong—”
Max interrupted Noah. “If I’m wrong, I’ll be a wednesday forever. Trust me, I know.”
Max knew the stakes were high, but foolish or not, there was a part of him that was certain that the new plan would work. Or, at least mostly certain. Certain enough, anyway. Perhaps he was transformed enough that he was already thinking like a wednesday. Or, perhaps Noah was right and he’d already lost his mind. Whether it was the wednesday in him or just plain madness, he didn’t know, but something was telling him that he was doing the right thing.
“It’ll work. If we follow the old plan and set the clock so that it strikes early, then all of the wednesdays will suffer. But the youngest ones—the most innocent wednesdays—will suffer more. They’re smaller and weaker. For all we know, Two might barely even be bothered by the pain of Tuesday. And just look at Three’s ugly, scarred face—he looks as if he’s been through much worse than a few minutes of Tuesday.” Max was on a roll; he’d spent the last several hours thinking this over.
“And what if Two refuses to release me? Or, for that matter, what if he can’t? My transformation into a wednesday might be out of his hands. And where am I left then? Sure, you could keep setting the clock forward week after week, calling them earlier and earlier, but what good will that really do? They’ll be tortured horribly, week after week, as they show up when it’s still actually Tuesday. You all saw what happened to Ninety-nine during his two minutes of Tuesday—it was really, truly awful, wasn’t it? Two may deserve it, and the rest of his Tribunal goon squad as well, but not all of the wednesdays are bad. They didn’t ask to become wednesdays any more than I did. It’s not fair to them. And if this doesn’t work out, it’s not fair to me, either.” Max’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “That could be me next week, suffering perhaps worse than any of them.”
Noah was still shaking his head, but Max quickly explained the new plan before anyone could interrupt him. It wasn’t the least bit complicated: instead of setting the clock ahead, he would simply set the clock five minutes late. “Think about the words from their song: We’re never late—we cannot be, for then we’d miss the door. So, if the clock strike is what calls them to the door, then when the clock is late, they’ll miss the door. They’ll be trapped inside. They won’t have to suffer any Tuesday torture, and they won’t be able to come out to complete my transformation.” He gulped and tried to sound braver than he felt. “At least, I hope not.”
“But how late is ‘late,’ Max? What if five minutes isn’t enough? Why not an hour? Or three hours?” Noah refused to be convinced. “Besides, who cares if they suffer? They bloody well deserve it for everything they’ve done to you—and for everything they do to the village every Wednesday! You don’t owe them anything. Well, except maybe revenge. Let’s march up the clock tower right this second and sound the bells. Let ’em suffer until they agree to let you go!”
But Max refused to change his mind. “My plan will work,” he said firmly. It had to.
“Then I’m coming into the clock tower with you,” Noah insisted.
“Me too,” Gemma chimed in, already starting to adjust the light settings on her camera.
Dr. Conkle-Smoak shuffled his feet and busied himself with a piece of lint on his sleeve. “Um, er, I suppose that I could come in with you … if it’s absolutely necessary, er, I mean, if I can be of assistance.” Beads of sweat broke out on his upper lip. “I have magnets,” he said weakly, pointing to his bulging pockets.
“No.” Max was firm. “You’ve all done enough. I can’t protect you in there, and I don’t want anyone else becoming like me.” His friends winced when he said this. “There are only two of us they can’t destroy. Me, because it’s already too late for me, and Mr. Grimsrud because … well, I’m not sure exactly.
“Speaking of Mr. Grimsrud”—Max glanced at the time—“I’ll be right back. I have to go fetch him.”
The others looked up at the clock nervously. It was almost 11:30. They only had a half hour to wait until Wednesday, and—although none of them actually said the words out loud—to say goodbye.
• • •
On his way to Mr. Grimsrud’s cottage, Max once again wondered if he should go back home and say a proper farewell to his family. Just in case. But he still couldn’t bear to do it. He simply hadn’t been able to bring himself to tell his parents that this might be his last Tuesday ever as their son. They had watched his physical transformation, of course—they knew he was less and less himself every day. His mom spent half her days lately making long-distance calls to so-called specialists in faraway places. But his parents did not know that this might be the end of Max and the beginning of One Hundred. In fact, right now, with less than thirty minutes until his fate was determined, they thought he was sleeping safely in his tent in the backyard.
Max hoped to be back long before they woke up, with the whole nightmare behind him. He had left a note on his pillow, though, just in case things went badly. It had taken him two days to write, and even now it seemed lacking. How do you say goodbye forever? He knew that his written words were not nearly enough, and he hoped that no one else would ever have to read his letter.
Max approached the cottage cautiously, in case Thursday was loose. Fortunately, the dog was inside the house, but he sensed Max before he could even raise his hand to knock on the door. The weather-worn door rattled frightfully as the dog flung himself against it over and over again, barking and growling furiously.
Suddenly, the commotion stopped. There was silence for a brief moment, but then the dog—who was now even angrier and more vicious than Max had ever seen him—reappeared in the picture window that faced the front yard. He lunged frantically, cracking his head against the glass panes, covering them with a thick saliva foam. Max began to back away, fearful that the crazed dog might actually break through the window.
Luckily, Mr. Grimsrud showed up before that happened. He told Max to wait while he led the snarling dog into a back room, offering an apologetic pat on the head to his loyal pet as he locked him away safely.
When the old man finally came to the door, Max took a step back in surprise. Mr. Grimsrud was dressed in a formal military uniform. His entire chest was covered in badges, ribbons, and medals, and his shoes were polished to a brilliant shine.
“Wow,” breathed Max. “I had no idea.”
Mr. Grimsrud knocked sharply once on his head; but this time the gesture almost looked like a salute. “Now, just give me a moment to find Thursday’s leash and we’ll be on our way.…”
“No, Mr. Grimsrud,” Max exclaimed. “Thursday can’t come with us. Didn’t you see how he reacted when I showed up? He wants to kill me!”
“Thursday comes everywhere with me,” the old man said firmly. “If he can’t come, then neither will I.”
Max groaned and checked his watch. He didn’t have time to waste on arguments or delays. “Please, Mr. Grimsrud,” he begged. “It’s only for a little while. And just think—after tonight, you’ll be able to buy your newspaper and go to the cafe on Wednesdays, because there won’t be any more wednesday problems in the village,” he said. “Hopefully,” he adde
d under his breath.
Mr. Grimsrud grumbled and cursed, but he finally relented. “I’m sorry about this, little fellow,” he called back into the house. “I’ll be back soon, and I’ll make us a nice plate of corned beef hash to share.”
They could hear the dog’s enraged howls all the way back to the clock tower.
ack at the clock tower, the full moon glowered down impatiently upon Max and his friends.
Noah, Gemma, and Dr. Conkle-Smoak had been busy.
They had used an old wheelbarrow, a stack of cement blocks, the inner tube from a bike tire, and some long wooden planks to assemble a rickety catapult at the base of the tower. “We’ve been practicing our aim,” Noah said proudly. “We’re actually pretty good.”
Max smiled weakly at the contraption. It was a nice thought, but he didn’t have the heart to tell his friends it would probably just backfire on them if they used it against the wednesdays. He handed Mr. Grimsrud the stun gun and quickly introduced him to the rest of the group.
“Max?” asked Gemma. “Are you sure that you don’t want me to come in with you? It only takes two people to work the catapult.”
Max shook his head and gestured to her video camera. “No, you were right. You should stay out here where it’s safer and record this.” He didn’t want to say it out loud, but they were all thinking the same thing: Gemma should capture the night’s events just in case Max was never seen again. “I want you to document that I went into the tower as myself.…” He gulped. “And the people in the village should see who—or what—comes back out.
“Well, it’s now or never, I suppose.” He took a deep breath and held the door of the clock tower open for Mr. Grimsrud. “Shall we?”
“No, lad. After you. You’re leading this mission, after all. I’m just along for backup.” The old man propped the door open ceremoniously, then stood at attention and waited for Max to enter the tower first.
“Good luck,” Gemma said softly.
“Blast ’em to bits and send them away forever!” Noah’s farewell was as expected.
Dr. Conkle-Smoak bowed slightly, a solemn expression on his face. He placed an elaborate turban that he had made from tinfoil onto his head in preparation. “Just in case, Max. Just in case,” he explained in response to Max’s questioning glance.
Max inhaled deeply and glanced at the clock. It was 11:51. “Let’s go,” he said, and entered the tower.
• • •
Max reached the top of the spiral staircase. He looked back to see that Mr. Grimsrud was struggling several stories below him and was wheezing badly. “Oh, no,” Max groaned out loud. They didn’t have time for this!
He rushed back down the stairs to give the old man a hand. He tried not to act impatient, but he could feel his heart thumping anxiously in his chest. “Just a few more steps, Mr. Grimsrud. We really need to hurry, please.”
“You’re going to give me a heart attack, you whippersnapper. Settle down—we’ll get there in due time.” Mr. Grimsrud seemed to be moving in slow motion, and his face was a worrisome shade of plum.
When they finally reached the top, it was 11:57. Only three more minutes until Wednesday.
Max rummaged through his pockets to find the diagram he had copied out of his library book; it showed how to adjust the time of the clock. Max had been dismayed to learn that changing a clock tower’s time was far more complicated than changing the time on a watch or a regular alarm clock. In fact, the huge clock’s mechanism, with all of its dials, gears, pendulums, and weights, looked to him as complex as a rocket engine. He had studied the diagrams enough, though, that he thought he could get the job done.
The clock was open-faced, and in maneuvering his way around the tower’s bulky machinery, Max found himself standing in what was essentially an open window crisscrossed by the filigreed metal clock hands that were as thick as his leg and nearly as long as he was tall. From where he stood, behind the clock’s elaborate face, the timepiece was backward, as if he were looking at it in a mirror. Max glanced down at his friends, waiting in the village square far below, and suffered a staggering blow of vertigo.
“Afraid of heights, lad?” Mr. Grimsrud was already in a firing stance, his feet shoulder width apart and the stun gun held out in front of him like a pistol. His breathing had returned to normal, and he looked very much the soldier. Max was suddenly intensely grateful for his presence.
“A—a bit, yes,” Max stammered. He forced himself to turn his back to the window, and he commanded his muscles to stop their quivering.
He turned his attention to the gears in front of him, comparing them to the picture in the clock repair manual. He had studied the clock before but never actually changed the time, not wanting to draw suspicion. He located what his book called the drive plate, which looked sort of like a simple clockface, complete with numbers inscribed on the metal surface. Sixty holes were drilled through the metal plate—one for each minute of the hour. With one last glance at the diagram, Max held his breath and reached for the spring-loaded pin that would enable him to rotate the plate that controlled the clock’s minute hand. He simply needed to rotate the pin back five holes for the clock to move back five minutes.
Just as his sweating fingers gripped the pin and prepared to pull it from its locked position, though, Max heard a loud, metallic THUNK that sounded ominously similar to a gun being cocked. He froze, knowing from his careful readings of the clock repair book that this was what clockmakers called the clock’s “warning,” and that it indicated the strike mechanism had already begun to run. He had to stop it.
Max felt the blood rush from his head as the gears began to rotate, pulling the large strike hammer back in preparation for the clock to strike the hour. He looked at the clock in disbelief. It was only 11:59; he should have another full minute left!
With his heart pounding in his ears, he suddenly remembered from his studies that some clocks begin their complicated strike process in advance so that the first chime is poised to sound exactly on the hour. He was too late!
He frantically pulled the pin and rotated the heavy minute plate back five slots anyway, hoping to at least delay the strike. Nothing happened for a split second, and Max briefly believed he had actually managed to move the clock back in time to prevent the chime. As he eased the pin into the correct opening, though, the movement triggered something deep and disastrous within the clock.
The strike hammer released.
GONG went the deafening first stroke.
GONG went the heartbreaking second stroke.
“No!” Max screamed out as he grabbed desperately at the spinning, fanlike piece of metal that had started the whole process. The strike governor, his diagram called it, and he held on to it as if his life depended on it.
The spinning piece was awkwardly situated deep in the clock’s mechanism, and it was vibrating and whirling as if it had a life of its own. Max braced himself, elbow-deep in gears and levers, and held on tight. He was vaguely aware of a sensation of wetness; he looked down to see blood dripping from a gash on his hand. But he felt no pain as he clung desperately to the clock parts. He knew that this was his last chance.
ilence.
At least for the moment, there were no more gongs—Max had successfully stopped the clock from completing the rest of its strikes.
But he knew from his clock manual that once he let go of the metal strike apparatus, the clock would finish its chimes—the very chimes that would determine his fate. He tightened his grip and blinked rapidly as a trickle of sweat dripped into his left eye.
Even as Max held on, a sickly green glow began to fill the clock tower. With his ears still ringing from the strikes, it took him a moment to notice a buzzing sound growing louder and louder all around him. Max looked up into the tall rafters of the clock tower’s spire. The buzzing was coming from the wasps’ nest! Woken either by the chiming of the clock’s bells or by the looming presence of the wednesdays, wasps began streaming out of the nest.
; “Watch out!” Max shouted to Mr. Grimsrud to warn him about the danger. It quickly became apparent that he needn’t have bothered, though, since the wasps were no threat to them. The insects fled their nest and hurriedly flew out of the tower in a single, buzzing mass. They’re running away from the wednesdays, Max realized. He was grateful that he hadn’t been stung, but the fact that the wasps feared the wednesdays enough to flee their snug nest in the middle of the night brought Max to an entirely new level of panic.
The air thickened and darkened around him, and for a moment Max thought the wasps had swarmed back into the tower. He closed his eyes, bracing himself for a sting.
When no sting came, he slowly looked up and then gasped. Before him was a blurry, shifting figure. It took him a moment to realize that it was Two, materializing before his very eyes.
As the clock’s internal gears and levers turned, they seemed to be literally churning Two out of the clock’s mechanism. Deeper in the clock’s innards, Max could see several more figures emerging from between the gears. The rotten, swampy smell of the wednesdays struck his nose, and Max recoiled, nearly losing his grip on the strike wheel.
Two’s eyes were closed as he emerged, and he was hunched over in fetal position as his appearance changed from a barely perceptible fog to a more solid form. He seemed to smell Max, though, because his nose twitched and wrinkled as if he had sniffed something tantalizing. His silver-gray eyes popped open in response. It took a moment for his bleary vision to focus, but once it did, his fanged mouth drew up into an evil, masklike grin. “Next,” he mouthed. No sound left his lips, but Max knew exactly what he had said nonetheless. Two coughed violently, clearing his throat, and a sticky spray of putrid phlegm hit Max’s face. “Welcome to Wednesday,” Two croaked, his voice sounding as if it was being filtered through a century’s worth of cobwebs, dust, and rot.
The Wednesdays Page 14