Child’s Play 2

by Matthew J. Costello

  Kyle wondered why she wouldn’t talk. Is she that destroyed? Was she made that crazy by the death? She’s lost it—in which case she’s not going to be able to deal with the idea of Chucky too well.

  And they’ll never believe me, thought Kyle. They’ll think I’m nuts, just like Andy.

  “Joanne,” she said again. Kyle was close enough to touch the woman’s shoulder. Tap her to make her stop all that damned sewing.

  Kyle looked down. She wasn’t sewing anything.

  “Jo—”

  She tapped her again. Harder this time. And Joanne’s foot slipped off the pedal. Kyle saw that Joanne’s hand was—what?—tied to the wheel.

  Another tap. And Joanne tilted to the side and looked up at Kyle.

  Kyle screamed and staggered backward.

  Joanne’s face was covered with thread, crisscrossed with thread, all over her face, around her neck. And one eye was held open—held permanently open by the coils of thread.

  “Oh, God, no,” Kyle said. “Oh, please no.”

  The sewing machine ground to a halt.

  “No,” Kyle moaned.

  Something moved behind her.

  Of course, she thought. Of course. Chucky’s still here. He’s been playing games with me. He’s—

  She turned around in time to see the bedspread rise up, as if it were hiding a ghost. And then a hole was ripped in the spread.

  Kyle staggered backward—bumping the mummy of Joanne.

  And then Chucky leaped out at her.

  The knife, she thought. You’ve got the knife!

  But Kyle was much too slow in getting it up. Chucky hit her hard and grabbed her around the neck.

  “No . . . ,” she said. But then she felt his little doll arm start to squeeze her neck. And his mouth . . .

  It moved! It’s human!

  . . . was right at her neck, chopping at her like a mad dog. She fell back to the wall, brushing past the mummy Joanne, whose one eye watched her.

  She hit something . . . a lamp. It crashed to the floor. She felt Chucky’s teeth bite down on some of her skin.

  His other hand held her knife down. She tried to force her hand up, to bring the knife up to Chucky, but she couldn’t move it.

  How could he be so strong? she thought hopelessly.

  She staggered again, and then fell to her knees, on top of shards of the broken lamp. Then she felt the knife move.

  Not toward Chucky. But toward her own face.

  She watched it move, slowly, toward her face. Even though she was pushing as hard as she could the other way.

  She felt the broken shards at her knees, digging in and cutting to the bone. She reached down with her free hand and picked up a big jagged chunk of the lamp.

  “You bastard,” she hissed and swung the chunk against the doll’s head. It made a great cracking noise, and the doll flew off her. As it flew away, it ripped the switchblade from her hands.

  She rubbed her throat and coughed. But then she scanned the room. Where is he? she thought. He’s so damn small, he could be anywhere. She forced herself to stand, while she watched the bed, the table, the chair, any place where Chucky could hide.

  Flopped over to one side, dead Joanne watched her.

  He’s still gotta be here, Kyle thought. He’s going to jump out—just like he did last time.

  I know it . . . I know it . . . I know it.

  She edged her way to the bed, moving to the door, snapping her head around repeatedly, checking for those red sneakers, that striped T-shirt.

  He’s got the knife, she told herself. The little creep has the knife!

  She circled the bed, keeping her legs away from the bottom, away from the dark places where he could hide.

  Maybe I hurt him, she thought. Maybe he got hurt bad and I’ll be able to get out.

  The curtains moved. They flapped slowly, sleepily. Once. Twice. And then they lay still. But she felt the breeze. It was just the wind.

  She turned from the curtain. Thinking, I almost got tricked. I must keep looking, all the time. She moved against the wall—and the wall disappeared and she fell backward.

  Into the closet. Something brushed against her head. A hanger tumbled to the floor. She pushed herself off the clothes and out of the closet.

  She ran to the door and then looked into the hall. He could be waiting for me there, she knew. But there was no one there. The curtain flapped again, and she turned with lightning speed.

  Just the wind, she thought.

  She backed into the hall.

  But something caught her feet, tripping her. Her arms went out—too late—to break her fall. And she tumbled backward onto the hallway floor.

  23

  He slammed his sneaker right on her neck.

  “You bitch, you hurt me!”

  Kyle tried to suck in air. Chucky climbed on top of her chest, still pinning her throat. She could see him clearly now. His face moved like a human face, but it was this sick doll’s face—pudgy and rosy-cheeked, on a squat doll’s body. Blood was oozing out of his doll’s nose.

  Andy was right, she thought. He has to get out of that body, or he’ll be trapped forever.

  Chucky moved his sneaker away and replaced it with the point of the blade. “Nice pig-sticker you got.” Chucky traced a figure eight at her throat.

  But with the red sneaker gone, she could breathe. And if she could breathe, she could talk. “You . . . you don’t want my soul,” she gasped. “Believe me, it’s worthless.”

  He sneered and reached down and grabbed her scarf. He pulled it off her neck and brought it up tight to his nose.

  “I’ve got other plans for you,” he honked from the folded-up scarf. “It’s the kid I need and”—he pressed the point of the knife into her skin, just the tiniest bit—“you’re going to help me. I’m running out of time.”

  He took the scarf off and changed its folds, looking at the blood. “Shit,” he said, looking at it. Then he stared at Kyle and said, “I’m running out of time, babe.”

  He eased off her body, moving the knife from her neck and then down, around to her back.

  “Now get up very slowly . . . very”—he jabbed with the knife—“slowly.”

  “What are you going to do with me?” she said. Her voice sounded thin, distant. As if she didn’t know who was talking. She kneeled forward, pulling herself up.

  The tip of the blade never left her skin.

  “You’re going to get the car keys, kiddo. And then”—the blade was planted at the bottom of her spine—“you’re going to take me for a little ride.”

  Kyle slowed down, pulling the station wagon beside a car with two men in it who looked over at her with undisguised interest.

  She told herself once more, I’m not going to die. Not now. He needs me. And the longer he needs me, the longer I do what he wants—the longer I live.

  One of the men in the car smiled at her, a toothy grin that had all the attractiveness of an alligator’s yawn.

  She looked ahead. “How much farther?” he asked.

  It wasn’t a doll’s voice anymore. He could obviously turn that on and off, at will. Now it was a demented voice, like a gangster on helium. He was sitting beside her with the knife point aimed at her rib cage.

  I bet he knows just where to stick someone, she thought. I bet that’s no problem for him.

  The light changed to green, and the studs next-door gunned their Japanese sports car and screeched away. Pretty darn impressive, Kyle thought sarcastically. Never fails to make me shiver.

  “How much?” the doll-man repeated.

  “A ways . . . not much farther.”

  The tip of the knife danced around. He’s letting me feel it, Kyle thought, reminding me of how close I am.

  I don’t want to die, she told herself. I’ll do whatever I have to do to live. Anything he needs.

  She grinned sadly to herself. And here I thought my life was worthless, she thought. All you need is an experience like this to demonstrate just how mu
ch you want to stay on the planet.

  “Step on it!” he snapped. “Go faster.”

  She nodded and pressed down the accelerator.

  The station wagon moved through the quiet streets. What time is it, Kyle thought. “What’s the big rush?” she said.

  He shoved the bloody, sopping scarf in front of her face. “This—you see this? If I don’t get out of this body soon, I’ll be trapped in here.”

  She nodded. That’s why he needs Andy. That’s why we’re going to the center.

  And I’m helping the little prick.

  Because anything’s better than dying.

  Anything.

  She took a corner fast, and the wheels screeched. Chucky’s knife hand was steady against her. She looked up to the rearview mirror. She saw a reddish blur, and then she heard the siren.

  “Shit!” Chucky said.

  She saw the cop hurry right on her tail, flash her with his brights. The red light swirled round and round.

  “What do you want me to do?” she asked Chucky.

  “Floor it!” he yelled, his voice even more stressed out and hyper.

  “Get real,” she said. “This is a station wagon.”

  The doll hesitated. Then, “Damn. Pull over. But don’t try any shit, you hear me?” The knife pressed against her side.

  She slowed the car, and then she found a space to pull into. The cop car was right on her tail, slowing behind her.

  She waited there, watching the shadowy figure of the cop in his car . . . calling in the license plate, checking to see whether the car was stolen.

  They don’t know about Joanne yet. Or what really happened to Phil.

  She started to think what she could do—

  Then Chucky leaned close to her. “Behave yourself, sweet-cakes. Because if you don’t, I’ll kill you.” She heard him close the switchblade, but he kept the closed end touching her side. Ready to spring open in a second.

  The cop got out of his car and lumbered toward her, slowly, cautiously. He came next to her window and rapped on the glass. Kyle rolled the window down. “Let’s see your driver’s license, Miss,” he said.

  She dug around in her purse and pulled out the laminated card.

  She handed it to him. He studied it as if there were a secret message encoded on it. Then he tapped it against his palm—a hostage—and said, “You were clocked doing sixty in a forty-five zone. What’s the hurry?”

  She felt the closed blade nudge her side.

  He’ll kill us both, she knew. No question about it. That’s not a big decision when you’re a maniac.

  She smiled at the cop. “I . . . I’ve got a date.”

  He nodded. “You’re going to have to do better than that.” He looked at her, then past her. “Hey, isn’t that one of those Good Guys?”

  She turned to Chucky. The doll sat beside her, staring out the windshield.

  “Yes . . . yes it is.”

  And please don’t get close to him, Officer. You look like a nice man. You’ve probably got kids and stuff. Don’t get too close to him because, you see—he’ll slit your throat.

  “I just love those things.” He stuck his head in the window, looking at the doll.

  No, she wanted to say. Please.

  “What’s your name, fella?”

  She waited. It seemed to take an eternity.

  But Chucky turned slowly, deliberately, and looked right at the cop. Just what a Good Guy is supposed to do. And he said, “Chucky.”

  It was almost a Good Guy voice.

  Almost.

  The cop grinned. “Wow. That’s amazing, isn’t it?” he said, looking at Kyle.

  Kyle took a breath as the cop pulled his head out of the car, both his ears and his jugular vein intact. “I’ll say.”

  “Really.”

  The cop stopped, and Kyle turned to look at Chucky. His nose had started leaking blood again. A tiny red stream trailed down from one plastic nostril, down his cheek.

  “Hey,” the cop said. “What the hell is that?”

  Don’t ask, she wanted to scream. Just don’t ask. You don’t want to know from nothing about this particular Good Guy.

  She felt Chucky’s hand moving on his switchblade.

  Oh, no.

  “You’ve seen those dolls that pee?” Kyle said quickly. “Well, this one bleeds.”

  The cop screwed up his face, then shook his head. “Bleeds. Hell, what will they think of next?”

  How about dolls that cut your head off? she thought.

  The cop backed away from the window, perhaps a bit disgusted by this novel idea for a doll. “Okay.” He handed her back her driver’s license. “Just take it a bit slower, okay?”

  Kyle smiled and took back her license.

  The cop shook his head again at the doll and then walked back to his squad car.

  Not knowing, Kyle thought, just how lucky he really was.

  Kyle felt Chucky’s hand padding around the seat, searching for the scarf. He wiped his cheek. Then he turned to her and spoke through the soaked material.

  “Now start the car.”

  Mrs. Poole tucked Andy in, nice and snug. She smiled at him and ruffled his hair.

  But he knew—knew—what she had to be thinking.

  I did it to Phil. I made him fall. I’m the reason he’s dead. Because no one believes in Chucky. No one—except my mom.

  And that policeman who saw Chucky was still alive—after they had burned him and ripped him to pieces. Still alive.

  ’Cause nothing can kill Chucky.

  Mom was away somewhere, where they put people who tell lies, crazy lies. And the policeman—was he? Probably in the same place, he thought. And that’s probably where they’ll send me.

  Mrs. Poole stood up. She smiled nicely at him. She’s a nice lady, he thought, but he knew it had to be an act.

  “You all set, Andy?” He nodded. “Good. I’ll be here late tonight. So if you need something, anything at all, just call me.”

  How about a G.I. Joe bazooka, Andy thought. Maybe that would stop Chucky.

  And as Mrs. Poole turned to leave, he was amazed to discover something. Something about himself.

  He wasn’t scared of Chucky. Not like before.

  No. He wanted only one thing. He wanted to get Chucky. To stop him. If that was possible.

  Mrs. Poole walked to the door. “Good night, Andy.”

  “Good night,” Andy said back.

  She walked out the door. Andy lay in bed, in the dark room, and waited.

  He heard her footsteps moving away, down the hall. When he couldn’t hear her anymore, he popped up in his bed. He ran over and pulled a wooden chair to the door. He tilted the chair back on two of its legs. Then he pushed the back of the chair under the doorknob.

  He had seen it done in a movie once.

  He pushed the chair hard, and he felt it jam against the floor and the doorknob.

  He stepped back.

  There, he thought. It might not keep Chucky out, but at least I’ll know if he tries to get in.

  With that comforting thought, he hurried back to bed, off the cold floor—and pulled the covers over his head.

  24

  They were closer, just blocks away.

  Kyle knew that as soon as they got there, as soon as they got to Andy, her life would end. Chucky wouldn’t need her anymore.

  He’ll go into Andy’s body . . . and Andy?

  Kyle thought of the boy trapped in the doll’s body. Trapped, for as long as Chucky would let him live. He’d probably toss him in an incinerator, or a trash compactor. He couldn’t have a doll running around saying, “Hi, I’m Andy—and the little boy is a mad killer.”

  She passed another corner, another block closer to the center.

  “Can’t you get this heap to move faster?” Chucky whined. Then, taking care to keep the re-opened switchblade jutting into her side, he stood up and leaned close to the dashboard for a better look at the windshield. “Would it help if I got out and pushed?
”

  Kyle sighed. Her pulse was racing. These are my last minutes, she thought. There has to be something I can do, a way to stop . . .

  “We’ll get stopped again. Cops are everywhere this time of night.”

  Chucky shook his head.

  And she got an idea.

  She reached to her left and pulled the seat belt over to her right, as quietly as she could.

  It didn’t matter. Chucky was ranting now, making a ton of noise, banging on the dashboard, racing against time.

  “Forget them!” He turned to her, just a second after she slid the seat belt into its buckle. “And forget you—you’ve already wasted too much of my time.”

  His doll eyes went wide, and his plastic lips pulled back from his teeth in a grisly sneer.

  She was going sixty. Sixty-five miles per hour. Seventy.

  And she hit the brakes.

  While the car screeched and the engine died, Chucky shot through the windshield like a cannonball. The glass shattered and sprayed over Kyle. She tried to watch him fly, to see where the little bastard landed, but the station wagon spun around and around, banging against something, tipping to the left. It felt as if it might just roll right over. She thought she would throw up.

  But then it stopped.

  She wasted no time in looking through the windshield. She saw him, flat on his belly, just ahead. The switchblade was feet away.

  She started the car.

  She watched Chucky.

  He got up, slowly, stunned by his flight through space. He got up on his doll knees and looked around for his blade.

  “Oh, no,” Kyle said.

  Chucky turned and saw her. He was smeared with dirt. There were fresh bloody streaks on his face. She watched him look around for his knife again.

  No you don’t, Kyle thought, and now she put the car into drive and floored the accelerator. Chucky ran for the blade, but she aimed right at him, the car slowly picking up speed, momentum.

  He looked at her charging at him, his bloody, dirty face clear in the glare of the headlights. He stopped, seeing that he wasn’t going to be able to get the knife. He quickly jumped back to his left, away from the car.

  Kyle hit the brakes. In the rearview mirror, she saw him running toward the blade again. She flipped the automatic transmission into reverse, and barely a second after she had it in place, she sped backward. She kept her eyes on the mirror, watching him move to the blade.