The Age of Amy: Behind the Fun Zone

by BRUCE EDWARDS

  Detective Brookings saw me to the front door.

  “Sorry I can’t be of more help,” he said.

  “Thanks for trying, anyway,” I said.

  Then the detective put on his fedora hat and tugged on the rim.

  “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

  WSVL-TV.

  “Amy Dawson?”

  “Yes?”

  “News Director Lewis will see you now.”

  I walked onto a quiet TV news set. The studio appeared to be deserted. The control room was empty. There were no camera operators. The weatherman wasn’t standing in front of his green screen.

  Then I spotted a man seated behind the anchor desk.

  “Mr. Lewis?” I said.

  He busily poured over a stack of papers, and didn’t look up at me.

  “Yes, what is it?” said the man, in a manner that conveyed, you’re bothering me!

  I tiptoed over to the desk and sat on the tall chair next to him. The lenses of the studio cameras were aimed at me, like a firing squad.

  “I have a story for you that I think you might like,” I said.

  “What’s it about?” he grumbled, still absorbed in his paperwork.

  I held up my picture of Nell. “This is my cousin. Something’s happened to her.”

  “Murdered?”

  “No.”

  “Sexually assaulted?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have video footage of it.”

  “No. She’s missing.”

  He slowly turned his face toward me.

  “That’s it?” he said. “A missing person story—no gore, no rage, no sex, and none of it caught on camera? You don’t know much about TV news, do you?”

  “Well, there is one other thing. I think her Jimmie has been sabotaged.”

  The man immediately covered my mouth with his hand. His eyes nervously darted around the room, as if a thousand eyes were watching us.

  “Jimmie?” he whispered. “You say there’s been some Jimmie fraud?”

  I pried his hand off my mouth. “I’m sure of it. Something sinister is definitely going on. You report the story, and my cousin’s whereabouts will surely be uncovered.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

  “And why not?”

  He looked me in the eye. “Young lady, do you know what it takes to run a TV station? Money. Do you know where that money comes from? Sponsors. And do you further know who our biggest sponsor is?”

  I took an obvious guess. “Monstro Industries?”

  “Covering your story would be biting the hand that feeds us. Now do you see why I can’t do it?”

  I looked at little Nell’s picture with great sadness. “What I see is that the dollar is mightier than the truth. That’s about the size of it, isn’t it, Mr. Lewis?”

  I hopped down off my chair.

  “Just a minute,” said the director. “Maybe a little political muscle is what you need. Our local congressman, Senator Colburn, is running for reelection. He promotes himself as being tough on corporate corruption, but it’s all a front to regain his senate seat. He’s actually a stooge for Big Business. If what you say is true, his connections can probably help you locate your friend.”

  Campaign headquarters.

  Please Wait for Assistance read the sign above the metal door. In the waiting area, free campaign buttons, banners, and bumper stickers were spread out on a long folding table. On the wall hung a campaign poster showing Senator Colburn, his arms crossed in a defiant pose, wearing a determined expression.

  A video monitor showed the senator’s latest attack on Representative Hicks, his rival for the senate seat.

  The commercial began with random tight shots of the senator: an American flag pin on his lapel; his saluting hand against his forehead; a wartime medal on his chest. Somber background music gave an unsettling feel to it.

  Then, a wide shot of the senator slowly pushed in on him, to the sound of a deep, baritone voice over:

  "The enemy is coming. How will you protect yourself and your family? Congressman Hicks wants to take away your last line of defense.” The senator then raises an assault rifle to his chest, takes aim at the pages of a Hicks-sponsored gun-control bill, and fires. Boom! The screen goes black, as we hear: “I’m Senator Colburn, and I approved this message.”

  It was a very effective ad. The attack on his opponent was sure to serve him well. Nothing beats injecting fear into the hearts of the voting public to get yourself elected.

  “Amy Dawson?” said a voice from a loudspeaker.

  “Yes?”

  “Senator Colburn will see you now.”

  The door buzzed, then jarred open.

  I entered a long hallway, and heard the popping of gunfire in the distance. I crept toward the sound, then opened a door onto an indoor shooting range. There stood the senator in a bullet-proof vest, wearing protective earmuffs, firing at paper targets with a handgun.

  “Mr. Senator?” I said.

  He didn’t respond, my voice unable to penetrate his hearing protectors.

  “Senator Colburn!” I shouted.

  That worked.

  “Oh, hello,” he said, removing his earmuffs. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you. What can I do for you?”

  “My name’s Amy.”

  “Are you a reporter from the high school newspaper?”

  “No, sir. I was sent here by Mr. Lewis at WSVL.”

  He put his hands up. “Whatever it is, I didn’t do it!”

  “You don’t understand. I’m not a reporter.”

  “Thank God. Lewis can smell a scandal a mile away, and he’d love to catch me in one. Why are you here, then?”

  “I need your help.” I showed him Nell’s photo. “This is my missing teenage cousin. I’ve been to the police and to the Media, and no one believes my story. I’ve been told you might be able to pull a few strings to reveal where she is.”

  The senator looked closely at the picture and smiled kindly. “I’ll do all I can, Amy, believe me.”

  I was surprised to hear his gentle, sympathetic voice. My first impression of him was that of a cocky politician. Instead I found a compassionate, concerned public official.

  “How much do you know about your cousin’s disappearance?” asked the congressman.”

  “Not a whole lot,” I said, “but it’s somehow connected with her Jimmie-cam. It shows her in one place, when she’s really somewhere else.”

  He turned an ear toward me. “My ears are still ringing a little bit. Did you say a Jimmie is involved?”

  “Yes, sir. Nell’s Jimmie-cam generates images of things that aren’t there.”

  The senator picked up his earmuffs and put them back on. “I can’t help you.”

  Again? This was my third rejection. The senator’s refusal to help me pushed me over the edge.

  I ripped off his headgear in anger.

  “It’s Monstro, isn’t it?” I cried. “Their millions are backing your reelection campaign.”

  He grabbed his earmuffs back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You phony! You said you would help me. It’s your job to serve the public. You took an oath, remember?”

  “I do serve the public. I serve them well, but I can do nothing without first getting elected. It’s a sad fact, Amy, but that’s the way it is.”

  The hopelessness of my situation had me tearing up. Everywhere I turned for help just led to another dead end. But then, who was I kidding? How can anyone find their way when the rich and powerful own the road.

  “I don’t blame you for being angry,” said the senator.

  I ran my finger under my damp nose, then said calmly, “I’m not angry. I’m beyond anger. You reach a point where rage and frustration just trail off into disappointment. It’s a terrible feeling.”

  It was dark by the time I got home.

  I quietly climbed the stairs to my attic bedroom, then texted Fred. I waited several minutes, but he didn’t re
ply. Then I called his Jimmie Phone. It went straight to his voice mail. Finally, I called Fred’s home phone.

  “Hello,” answered Fred’s dad.

  “Hi. It’s Amy. Can I speak to Fred, please?”

  “He’s not here. He’s spending the night at his Uncle George’s house. I’m surprised he didn’t tell you.”

  My mouth was open, but I couldn’t speak. Two people I knew had already disappeared without a trace. Now I could add Fred to that list. I wondered how many other teenage Jimmieheads had vanished.

  “Are you still there?” asked Fred’s father.

  “I, um, got another call. Gotta go!”

  I hung up.

  I went to my window and opened it onto a crisp, clear night. Against the velvet sky shined the evening star, all alone in the blackness of space.

  I gazed up at its twinkling light, then recited a verse I hadn’t spoken since I was a toddler:

  “Star light, star bright, first star I see—”

  How desperate does someone have to be to wish upon a star for help. But a star was all I had left.

  “Please,” I said, folding my hands. “I don’t know where else to turn. My dearest friends are lost, and I can’t find them, but maybe you can. If you know where they are, please show me the way.”

  Feeling incredibly foolish, I lowered my hands to my side. But as I reached up to close the window, a bright light flashed across the night sky. A few moments later, I saw it again, just beyond the hills, over the horizon. It was the Fun Zone lighthouse, come to life by some miracle!

  This light was way better than a wishing star. It was a ray of hope, calling me to follow its brilliance. I laughed out loud, as the beam swept across the sky again, and chased away my tears.

  Chapter 7

  Missing Pieces

  "Nell isn’t here,” said Aunt Dolly, from her front door. “She’s spending the night at Summer’s. Didn’t she tell you?”

  Those were the exact same words she had used the day before.

  “Didn’t Nell stay at Summer’s house just last night?” I asked.

  “Heavens, no. She was at home, and slept in her own bed.”

  “That’s not what you told me yesterday.”

  “Yesterday?”

  “I was here at around this same time. I watched TV with Uncle Abner. Remember?”

  Dolly looked back into the living room. “Abner? Why didn’t you tell me Amy was here yesterday?”

  “I didn’t, because she wasn’t,” replied my uncle.

  Were these two deliberately trying to confuse me, or just pulling my leg?

  “But I was here, Aunt Dolly!” I insisted. “You made me breakfast. You threw pancake batter at the newsman on the TV, then you lectured me on using the M-word.”

  “The what?”

  “You know,” I whispered, “Manipulitis.”

  “What a strange word. I’ve never heard it before. Are you feeling alright?”

  I felt fine, and was in full control of my faculties. There was no question now that something incredible was happening. An evil force had taken charge of my aunt and uncle’s brains—and its name was Jimmie!

  Everyone knew that the device collected personal data to sell advertising, but they had forgotten that Jimmies weren’t only transmitters, but receivers. Without realizing it, Jimmieheads had left the door wide open for Monstro to march in and take over. Jimmies were now giving the orders, and demanding absolute obedience.

  What had started out as a friendly visit with Nell, had turned into a fact-finding mission to find her.

  I faked a headache by rubbing my forehead.

  “Actually,” I said. “I am feeling a little light-headed.”

  “Poor dear,” said my aunt. “Why don’t you come in and I’ll make some hot chocolate.”

  Uncle Abner was settled in his recliner chair, facing his TV, watching the morning news.

  “Mornin’, Ab,” I said. “What’s happening in the world?”

  “Same ol’ same ol’,” he said, his eyes glued to the screen.

  “Anything about the old Fun Zone reopening? They say that the lighthouse came on last night.”

  “No reports on it.”

  “How about all those kids who mysteriously vanished into thin air?”

  “Not a word.” Then he laughed. “And there wouldn’t be. Things like that just don’t happen in sleepy ol’ Shankstonville.”

  “True,” I said, “but if they did, I would hate to hear that Nell was among the missing.”

  “But she’s not missing. She’s playing video games in Summer’s bedroom. I just saw it on her Jimmie-cam.”

  “Woo-woo!” signaled my aunt from the kitchen. “The hot chocolate express is arriving at the station.”

  “Alright, Aunt Dolly!” I answered. “Just need to go upstairs and wash up.”

  Why hadn’t the news reported on the reignited lighthouse? Was I the only one who saw it? Not likely. But whatever the reason, I needed to find its connection to Nell’s mysterious disappearance.

  At the top of the stairs was the door to Nell’s bedroom. I quietly opened it and crept inside, then donned my Sherlock Holmes hat (not really) and went searching for clues.

  Unfinished homework on binder paper lay strewn across her desk. Hearts were drawn in the margins alongside the names of boys. No clues there. I tried to decipher the doodles on the discarded pages in her wastebasket, but nothing spelled out Fun Zone.

  A purse slung over the back of a chair held only makeup. I dug through her dresser drawers, and the pockets of the clothes in her closet.

  Nothing!

  “Chocolate’s getting cold!” yelled Aunt Dolly up the stairway.

  “Be right down!” I yelled back.

  My hunt for solid evidence wasn’t going too well. But as I grabbed the door knob to leave, I discovered a wall calendar tacked to the back of the door. Nell had written, Movie with Amy, on yesterday’s date, then scribbled it out and wrote Fun Zone in big letters above it. Finally, the link I had been searching for! The Who and the Where of my investigation had been answered. The What, How, and Why remained unsolved, and would require a lot more snooping.

  With my belly sufficiently warmed by Aunt Dolly’s hot chocolate, I drove out to my high school. All this weirdness started the day Miss Jeffries got booted out of Science class. More clues to the missing-teen puzzle might be hidden in her classroom, waiting for me to uncover them.

  The empty school grounds felt haunted, as I marched down a long corridor with fellow student Gregory Lampwick. His father had been the school superintendent, and was kept on after the closure to watch over the campus. Greg had been recruited to help out. I told him that I had accidentally left a book in my science class, and asked if I could be let in to retrieve it.

  Greg fumbled with a collection of keys on a large, metal key ring, while searching for the one that fit the science lab door.

  “It’s gotta be one of these,” said Greg, shaking his head in frustration.

  “Take your time,” I said. “I’m in no hurry.”

  A loud click, and the classroom door swung open. The faint scent of sulphur still hung in the air from our last chemistry experiment.

  “Let’s see, now,” I said. “Where did I leave that thing?”

  Of course, there was no misplaced book, but I figured that my detective work was important enough to justify telling a little white lie.

  I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for, just anything pointing to Miss Jeffries’ knowledge of Jimmie abuse. I peeked behind every shelf and opened every cabinet in the room, including the teacher’s desk drawers.

  Greg sat comfortably behind a student desk and stared out the window, twirling the key ring around his finger. Then he asked me, “Are you going?”

  I looked up from a storage box labeled Teachers Only.

  “Am I going, where?”

  “To the Fun Zone, dude. Didn’t you see the Jimmie ad?”

  All this time the clue I was looking
for wasn’t in a cupboard or a drawer, but in Greg’s big mouth.

  “I, uh, yes,” I stammered. “I can’t wait to go.”

  “Well you better get on it, dude, while you can still get in.”

  “I have a terrible memory,” I said. “What’s at the Fun Zone, again?”

  “Just the greatest time of our lives, that’s all! The place gets all lit up at night. You can ride all the rides, see all the shows, and eat all the food you want—and it’s all free! Everyone I know has already been there.”

  “How did they like it?”

  “Don’t know, actually. I haven’t seen any of them since they got back.”

  With the schools closed, all of the local kids were on permanent holiday. Who wouldn’t accept an invitation to an all-night bash at the Fun Zone?

  Odd, how totally ignorant I was of the whole thing. Even without a Jimmie, I would have at least heard rumors about it. Social media would have been flooded with selfies from that place.

  What worried me most was Greg hearing nothing from his friends who had gone there. Maybe they intended to go, but changed their minds. Or, maybe they did go, and never came back!

  “When are you going?” I asked Greg. But instead of answering me, his face displayed that classic Jimmie stare.

  I asked again, “When are you going there, Lampy?”

  “What?” he said, coming out of his trance. “Going? Where?”

  “To the Fun Zone.”

  “Why would I wanna go to that old broken-down place?”

  Greg was drawing a blank, as if his short-term memory had been erased—just like it had for my aunt and uncle. Obviously, Greg was revealing too much information about the Fun Zone, and Jimmie didn’t like it.

  “Are you gonna take all day in here?” said Gregory Lampwick. “I’ve got things to do, ya know.”

  I still had an hour of sunlight left, so I drove the winding road up to Summit Lake.

  Next stop: the Fun Zone.

  A rusty metal fence with a No Trespassing sign prevented me from entering the park. On the other side of a padlocked gate, a cracked, asphalt road led to the main entrance. The grounds were a mess. Broken light bulbs from the entryway arch littered the pavement below it. Ticket booths were barely visible above the tall weeds.