Fetch

by Scott Cawthon

  “Where’s Mom?” Greg asked Dare.

  “Book club.”

  Greg didn’t ask about his dad. One, he didn’t care. Two, he knew his dad would be playing poker with his buddies. That was how he spent his Saturday evenings—even if he had to play cards by candlelight.

  “Where were you boys in this weather?” Dare asked.

  “Um, can I keep that a secret?”

  Dare tilted his huge head and stroked his graying goatee. “Sure. I trust you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You want to play backgammon?” Dare asked.

  “Can I take a rain check?”

  “Ha! Good one.” Dare gestured to Greg’s still dripping coat.

  Greg shook his head. “Unintentional. Um, I just wanted to do some reading?”

  “Sure. No prob. I just came by to set up the generator for you guys. When you weren’t here and I couldn’t get ahold of you, I figured I’d stay until worry fried my circuits and made me phone the police.”

  Greg grinned. “I’m glad I made it home before you called the cops.”

  “Me too.” Dare started to reach for his magenta raincoat, then hesitated and snapped his fingers. “Oh, by the way, I heard you got your first babysitting gig. Glad you finally brought your old man around.”

  “It was really thanks to you. Once you threw your two cents in, it was three against one. I’m sitting for the McNallys’ kid next week—Jake? They need someone to watch him on Saturdays.”

  “No way! His mom and I go way back. Maybe I’ll stop by sometime, bring you guys a treat … or bring by my new puppy. I’ve been thinking seriously about getting a dog.”

  “Really? Cool!”

  “Yeah, a friend has a Shih Tzu that’s going to have puppies soon. I’m thinking I’ve been without a dog long enough. I miss having a dog to cuddle with.”

  Greg laughed. “Just be sure it’s a nice Shih Tzu. I think the beast next door is part Shih Tzu.”

  “That snaggle-toothed mongrel? Nah, no dog of mine will be like that. Remember,” Dare said, holding up his right index finger, on which he wore his favorite onyx and gold ring, “I have …”

  “The Magic Finger of Luck,” Dare and Greg said in unison.

  They laughed.

  “The Magic Finger of Luck” had been an ongoing joke since Greg was about four years old. One day, Greg was crying because he wanted the stuffed octopus in a claw machine. He hadn’t been able to get it when his mother put money in the machine and he’d tried with the claw. Dare had tapped the glass of the claw machine with his right index finger and had said in a deep voice, “I have the Magic Finger of Luck. I will get you the octopus.” And he had done it on the first try. After that, Dare called on the Magic Finger of Luck to get things to go his way. It pretty much always worked.

  Greg stopped laughing, thinking again about the neighbor’s dog.

  “Yeah, I still can’t believe that thing bit me.” The neighbors next door had moved in the year before, and two days later, their dog, a small but evil mutt with very sharp teeth and one missing eye, charged out at Greg and bit him on the ankle. He had to have ten stitches.

  “Okay, I’ll go and leave you to your reading,” Dare said. “Before I go, though, let’s make sure everything’s working right.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Greg was lounging on his double bed reading by the nice bright light of his red pendant reading lamp. Dare had gotten the family a power transfer system for the generator that hooked up to the breaker box. With the flip of a few switches, power was restored to the whole house. “Got this especially for your gaming needs,” Dare said before giving Greg another half-hug-double-fist-bump and leaving.

  Even though he really wanted to get to his reading, Greg took the time to do his nightly yoga routine before sliding under the oversize afghan Dare had knitted for him. Dare had also taught him yoga, and Greg loved it. It not only calmed him down before bed, it helped him stay in shape. Not that “good shape” was good enough.

  Greg stood in front of the mirror and examined his narrow shoulders and slight chest. Even though he had muscles in his arms and legs, his torso was still too thin. And his face …

  Greg’s phone buzzed. He picked it up and looked at a text from Hadi.

  U recovered?

  Greg snorted. As if he was scared enough to need recovering. From what? he texted back, playing dumb.

  U can’t fool me.

  OK, Greg responded. Yeah, I’m good. Need more courage I guess.

  You need Brian Rhineheart’s brain. He’s not afraid of anything.

  Greg laughed. Good point. Brian Rhineheart was the football team’s star running back. He texted, I could use his legs, too. Fast, for running away.

  LOL How about Steve Thornton’s shoulders? Powerful enough to thump scary things.

  Greg laughed again. But Hadi was onto something. If Greg was going to do what he’d set out to do, why didn’t he pick and choose what he wanted?

  Okay, he typed in, but I want Don Warring’s chest, too, then.

  Greg grinned at the idea of constructing a body from football players’ parts. He needed a good face, though. Especially if he was going to get a girl to pay attention to him.

  I want Ron Fisher’s eyes, he texted.

  RGR. How about Neal Manning’s nose?

  Greg smiled and typed, OBV.

  Mouth?

  Greg thought about it. He responded, Zach’s.

  BFG.

  Greg smiled. He could picture Hadi’s “big freaking grin.”

  Hair?

  I like my own, Greg replied.

  Ego much?

  Greg laughed.

  GG

  Greg typed in, BFN.

  Greg flopped onto his bed.

  He picked up his journal and the book on the Zero Point Field he needed to check. He glanced over at his plants before he started reading. They were the key to this, weren’t they? They made the exchange he’d just had with Hadi more than just a silly game. Well, they were at least the catalyst. Learning about Cleve Backster’s experiments is what had launched him down the road he was on.

  But the plants wouldn’t help him tonight. He needed to review what he knew about Random Event Generators, or REGs. He flipped through his book. Yes, there it was. Machines and consciousness. Cause and effect. He put the book down and skimmed his last journal entry.

  He hadn’t misinterpreted what he’d gotten, had he? No. He didn’t think so. He was either on the right track, or he wasn’t. And if he wasn’t, he didn’t think he wanted to know what track he was on. The way he’d been drawn to that place couldn’t have been a coincidence.

  The storm hung around another day, but it fizzled out late Sunday night. Power came back on. School was in session as usual Monday morning.

  Greg endured the first half of the day and was relieved when 1:10 p.m. finally rolled around and he got to go to Advanced Scientific Theory. Advanced Scientific Theory was an AP class reserved for freshmen who had won science fair prizes in the previous two years. The class had only twelve students. It was taught by a visiting teacher, Mr. Jacoby, who also taught at Grays Harbor Community College.

  As always, Greg was the first one in the classroom. He sat in the front. Only Hadi would sit near him.

  Mr. Jacoby was practically bouncing at the front of the yellow-walled classroom when the bell rang. Tall and lanky but so full of energy he reminded Greg of a long, coiled spring, Mr. Jacoby was an enthusiastic teacher who was undaunted by disinterested students. Greg loved science, all science, not just tech, and his passion had earned him the title of teacher’s pet.

  Mr. Jacoby always lectured while darting around the front of the classroom like he had bugs in his pants. Sometimes he scribbled on the whiteboard. More often, he just rambled. But it was interesting stuff. This small room, filled with tall wooden lab tables and counter-height chairs, was one of Greg’s favorite places in the school. He loved the Periodic Table and the constellation posters on the walls. He loved the sm
ell of the fertilizer that fed the hybrid plants growing at the back of the room, it made him think of science and learning.

  Running a hand through unruly red hair, Mr. Jacoby began, “In quantum physics, there is something known as the Zero Point Field. This field is scientific proof that there is no such thing as a vacuum, no such thing as nothingness. If you empty all space of matter and energy, you still find, in subatomic terms, a bunch of activity. This constant activity is a field of energy that is always in motion, subatomic matter constantly interacting with other subatomic matter.” Mr. Jacoby rubbed a freckled nose. “Are you all with me?”

  Greg nodded enthusiastically. Hadi, who sat next to him at the three-person lab table, nudged him. “Hey, this is your shtick.”

  Greg ignored him.

  Mr. Jacoby grinned at Greg and took his nod to represent the entire class, which was unwise, but Greg was fine with it.

  “Good,” Mr. Jacoby continued. “So this energy is called the Zero Point Field because fluctuations in the field are still found in temperatures of absolute zero. Absolute zero is the lowest possible energy state, where everything’s been removed and there should be nothing remaining to make any motion. Make sense?”

  Greg nodded again.

  “Great. So the energy should be zero, but when they measure the energy, mathematically, it never actually reaches zero. There’s always some remaining vibration due to continued particle exchange. Still with me?”

  Greg nodded enthusiastically. He’d had no idea Mr. Jacoby was going to talk about this today. What were the odds? He grinned. There were no odds. It was the field. He was so excited that he missed the next few minutes of Mr. Jacoby’s lecture. It didn’t matter. He knew this stuff.

  He did tune back in, though, when Kimberly Bergstrom raised her hand. Well, he sort of tuned back in. He heard her question: “Is this just theory?”

  He also heard the start of Mr. Jacoby’s answer. “Not entirely. Consider the scientific trend. Before the scientific revolution …”

  That’s where Greg tuned out again. He got caught up in watching Kimberly. Who wouldn’t? Long inky black hair. Amazing green eyes. Prettier than any model Greg had ever seen.

  Greg felt himself flush, and he whipped his gaze away from Kimberly before someone caught him staring.

  Too late.

  Hadi nudged him again, and when Greg looked over, Hadi made goofy goo-goo eyes at him. Greg shifted his attention back to Mr. Jacoby.

  As usual, Greg was the last one out of the room when class was over. Mr. Jacoby smiled at him as Greg gathered his stuff, and Greg gave another thought to talking to his teacher. Then he felt his phone vibrate. Waving at Mr. Jacoby, Greg pulled out his phone as he stepped into the hallway. He looked at the screen.

  The phone number wasn’t familiar. Greg looked around. Who was texting him? He entered: I’m fine. Who’s this? Then he watched his screen.

  “Oh very funny, Hadi,” Greg muttered. He texted what he said.

  The reply wasn’t what he expected:

  ?4U.

  What’s your question? Greg texted.

  Greg rolled his eyes and entered, You’re hilarious.

  Greg felt a tap on the shoulder. “You’re going to be late for Spanish, amigo,” Hadi said.

  Greg whipped around. Hadi raised an eyebrow. And Cyril, who stood next to him, took a stutter step back.

  “Why are you texting me if you’re right here?” Greg asked Hadi.

  “Dude, you wacked? Do I look like I’m texting you?”

  Uh, actually, no. Hadi’s phone was nowhere in sight.

  Greg looked back at his phone. Whoever was texting him had repeated:

  Greg looked at Cyril. “Did you text me?”

  “No. Por qué habría?”

  “I don’t know why you’d text me. And stop speaking in Spanish,” Greg said.

  Cyril ignored him. “Venga.” He tugged on Greg’s sleeve.

  “I hate Spanish,” Greg said.

  Cyril looked past Greg and said, “Hola, Manuel.”

  Greg turned to look at Manuel Gomez, who had transferred into the school a couple weeks before from Madrid, Spain.

  “Hola, Cyril. ¿Como estas?”

  “Estoy bien. ¿Tú?”

  “Bueno.”

  “Oye, Manuel, ¿conoces a Greg?” Cyril asked, gesturing at Greg.

  “No.” Manuel smiled at Greg and held out his hand. “Encantada de conocerte.”

  “He just said, ‘Nice to meet you,’ ” Cyril told Greg.

  “Lo sé,” Greg said. “I’m not a total Spanish spaz.”

  “Close enough,” Cyril said.

  Manuel laughed.

  “Greg tiene muchos problemas con el español,” Cyril told Manuel.

  “I’d be happy to help you with Spanish anytime,” Manuel said to Greg. “Want me to give you my number?” He held up his phone.

  “Sure.” Greg swapped phones with Manuel, and they exchanged numbers.

  “Yo, Mousie,” someone called out to Cyril. “How’s your mom doing? She still a freak like you?”

  Greg turned and faced Cyril’s bully. He cleared his throat and said loudly, “Remember this, Trent. ‘Three things in life are important. The first is to be kind. The second is to be kind. And the third is to be kind.’ So said Henry James.”

  Trent shoved Greg. “You’re a freak.”

  As Trent sauntered away, Hadi nudged Greg. “You read too much.”

  “You don’t read enough.”

  In unison, they said in exaggerated deep voices, “The universe in balance.” They bumped fists and finished with, “Cha!”

  A couple of kids in the hall deliberately jostled Greg, and one of them said, “You guys are weird.”

  “And proud of it,” Greg sang.

  Hadi shook his head.

  Manuel touched Greg’s shoulder. “I like Henry James, too.” He grinned and held out a fist.

  Greg bumped fists with Manuel; then, shoving his phone in his pocket, Greg followed Cyril and Hadi to Spanish. He wasn’t going to talk to them about the texts now. But he didn’t stop thinking about the texts, either. If neither Hadi nor Cyril sent them, who did? Was someone else in the restaurant with the boys on Saturday night? Is that what that slamming door was? Or did someone see them leave, then go in and find Fetch?

  The idea that they’d been watched made Greg’s skin crawl. But the idea that they hadn’t been watched made all the hairs stand up on Greg’s arms. Could it be? He wouldn’t think about it. Not yet.

  By the next day, he was thinking about it. Hard. In that time, he’d received a dozen texts from Fetch. By now, he realized the texts had to be from the animatronic. They couldn’t be from anyone else because no one else could know everything Fetch was texting about. Obviously, Fetch was dialed into Greg, so to speak. It quickly became clear that Fetch was synced with Greg’s phone, and he was trying to live up to his name. When Greg told Cyril he needed more time to do some homework, Fetch sent Greg a link to a time-management article, and a clock app appeared on Greg’s phone. When Greg looked up REGs online, he received a link, from Fetch, to an article about the latest research into intention and REGs. When Greg finished the article, Fetch texted:

  This baffled Greg until he thought about the article he’d just read. The article talked about the experiments being done that used REGs to measure whether a person could think hard enough to have an effect on an outcome in the physical world. Greg knew REGs generated random 1s and 0s. Ones and zeros, Greg thought. Was it possible?

  Greg copied Fetch’s text into a binary-to-text converter, and sure enough, Fetch had texted, “Okay?” in binary code.

  Greg shivered as he texted back, OK. He wasn’t sure it was okay at all. It was more spooky than okay.

  Then things got stranger … as if getting texts from an old animatronic dog wasn’t bizarre to begin with.

  One day, Greg told his mom on the phone that he was craving chocolate. She said what she always said when he mentioned candy. “
Not good for you. Have an apple.” Later that day, when she got home from shopping, she pulled a chocolate bar out of the bag.

  “How’d this get here?” she said in annoyance, tucking her chin-length blonde hair behind an ear. “I didn’t buy this.” She checked her receipt and discovered the bar was on the order she’d placed online.

  “Must be a glitch,” she said. “I’ll have to email them.” When she caught Greg watching her, she said, “Well, it’s your lucky day,” and tossed him the bar.

  As he caught the candy bar, he was pretty sure he couldn’t eat it yet. He was too excited. If he was right, Fetch had just fetched him a candy bar.

  What else could the animatronic dog do?

  And how was he doing it?

  Greg could accept, barely, that Fetch was synced with his phone. But Fetch wasn’t synced with his mom’s phone, was he?

  The text messages continued day after day. Sometimes Greg responded, just because. Sometimes not. Either way, he kept a log in his journal. This was giving him important feedback for his project.

  A lot of his exchanges with Fetch made no sense. Like the day Fetch texted:

  DDAS

  Why would I do anything stupid? Greg responded.

  Dunno.

  Sometimes, the texts were clear. One day, Greg texted Cyril that he was having trouble with the Spanish homework, and he needed the translation for “I don’t know how to make banana bread without eggs or flour.” Cyril didn’t respond, but Fetch texted:

  No sé cómo hacer pan de plátano sin huevos ni harina.

  Cyril didn’t text back until late in the evening. When he did, his translation was the same as Fetch’s.

  Was it time for Greg to tell his friends what was going on?

  He decided to wait.

  But then came the spider.

  One Saturday, a couple weeks before Christmas, Greg was home taking care of Jake, his now usual Saturday babysitting gig. Dare—or “Uncle Dare” to both Greg and Jake thanks to Dare’s close friendship with Mrs. McNally—had suggested he come over with “a rainy day picnic,” complete with a yellow smiley face picnic blanket, some potted plants, rubber toy insects, and a wicker basket full of creative sandwiches like artichoke salad with provolone and raisins on pumpernickel and chicken and peanut butter on rye. Fortunately, Dare knew Greg wasn’t as adventurous with food as he was, so he included a couple of ordinary tuna salad sandwiches, too. They set up their picnic in the living room, in front of the big picture window overlooking the dunes and the ocean. You could barely see the ocean through the rain—one shade of gray merged with the next.