by J. R. Brule
They all chugged, tipping back their heads, the only audible sounds their irregular swallowing. Mr. Kloom finished first, and the bottle made a sucking sound as he pulled it from his lips. He drew big breaths, saying woooo in an unenthusiastic tone.
But Rudy was neck in neck with Finch. He saw the lazy eye swivel toward him, almost like Finch had aimed it there in monitor. The champagne’s carbonation stung his stomach and his throat was an ice slide. But he couldn’t stop. He wanted to win. Maybe he wanted to impress Mr. Kloom.
He couldn’t see Finch’s progress, so he didn’t let up. When he finished and pulled the bottle away, he held the empty upside down, showing off its dropless splendor.
“Finchy-boy?” Mr. Kloom said. “You let my associate beat you?”
Finch finally finished and pulled the bottle away, exasperated. He slumped over and slammed the bottle on the counter, catching his breath. “That . . . little shit . . . has a goat’s stomach.”
They laughed.
“You know the rules, Finchy-boy.” Mr. Kloom popped open two more bottles and handed one to Rudy. “Strip down to your tighties.”
“We’re not actually playing by the rules, Klum. It’s just friendly competition.”
“Fine. But these drinks are on you.”
“Like I had a say in the matter.”
Mr. Kloom choked on a mouthful and spit bubbly onto the floor. “SHIT!”
“What?” Finch asked.
“Ah, fuck, fuck, fuck, kid.” Mr. Kloom put the bottle down and worked to get on his jacket. “That old FUCKING man never sent his money order. I can’t be drinking until the job’s done. I’m going to knock on that prick’s door myself.”
Before Rudy had a second to think, Finch slid in. “Let the kiddo do it.”
Mr. Kloom stopped and turned, tilted his head in question. He’d only gotten one arm inside his coat.
“He made a great sale today,” Finch said.
Mr. Kloom appeared reluctant, but said, “Fine.”
“Try not to finish all the drinks before I’m back,” Rudy said. A moment later he was starting up the white Subaru and flicking on its headlights. The moon was like a glowing volleyball in the sky.
This trip is for business and nothing else . . . not even if you see SOS written with hot breath on the glass.
Not even then.
29:
THE NEXT MORNING, THE telephone woke Rudy up. He went downstairs and saw his dad reading the paper.
“Morning, champ.”
“Hi, dad.”
“You know, today was the day we were going to see your mother.”
“I know.”
His dad cleared his throat. “Every time the phone rings, I’m reminded . . . and in my mind, she dies all over again.”
Don’t worry, dad.
(all about illusion)
---
Rudy heard voices—a lot of voices—coming from the bleachers—a whole school worth of voices.
The race.
It’s not too late to turn back, buddy, not too late to just slink away, not too late to—
“Look who showed up!” Ben yelled, pointing at him.
“Yep, I’m here,” Rudy said, coming through the gate.
“He’s here, he’s here!” Ben shouted to the crowd, who responded with applause, cheers, and half-assed whistling. Some kids stomped their feet and some hollered things like Get em, Rudy! and You SUCK!
Rudy saw his own group of friends up there, isolated from the rest of the crowd, waving at him and yelling down obscenities. They lifted a sign, a big white cardboard square with bold black letters.
RUDY > HANDLEY
John Handley was in short green compression shorts, brand new neon yellow Nike’s, and no shirt, showing off his hairless muscular body. His combed blond hair seemed to glow in the sunlight. He grinned, hopping from side to side in preparation. Chuck Loore stood on the sidelines, swinging a whistle around his finger, wearing a pair of shades too big for his face. He had on a baseball cap and a full set of windbreaker clothing. He looked like a high school football coach.
“I had my doubts you’d even show up, Booby,” John said.
Chuck Loore came between them, and said, “All right, this is a best-of-one race, so you got one shot to win. I want no trash talking, no tripping, no cheating, no cursing, and no crying if you lose. Understood, boys?”
Rudy nodded and John said, “He can’t promise the no crying part.”
“Hey!” Chuck said. “What’d I say? No trash talking.”
“Sorry, coach,” John said, not sounding sorry at all.
“You got two minutes to get limber,” Chuck said. “Meanwhile, I’ll warm up this crowd.”
Pat handed Chuck a megaphone and Rudy stretched out his hams.
The megaphone shrieked as it turned on, echoing through the stands, making kids recoil. “Sorry about that folks," Chuck said, “just a little technical difficulty.”
Someone shouted You SUCK! for the second time that afternoon.
“Right back at you! Listen up, listen up, listen UP, boys and girls! Welcome to the first ever Middleburg track-off!” Claps and cheers, not so half-assed this time, resonated from the stands. Chuck read from a cheat-sheet in his palm. “John Handley holds the current all-time school record for the 50-yard dash, beating out former track star James Noley and his 1982 record. Today, a challenger appears, one Rudy Cloven, a prodigy raised by two fathers.”
“That’s not true,” Rudy said. Jake and crew booed.
Chuck continued: “Saturated with his own success, Rudy taunted Mr. Handley by posting ugly mug shots all over his locker!”
The crowd cheered and laughed at the same time.
“Hey, don’t spread that around, boner ball!” John said.
Chuck waved a hand to calm John down and then continued. “My friend Ben here will be recording the whole thing, just to be sure nothing funny happens. Now, what do you say we get this party started?”
The crowd cheered.
“I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”
They cheered louder and Chuck turned back to them with a huge grin. “You hear that? I made them love you both. Remember that name, Chuck Loore, because one day, I’ll be a star.”
“Just be ready to blow the damn whistle,” John said.
Chuck wheeled to the crowd and said, into the megaphone, “To your positions!”
Rudy lined up on the 2 line while John lined up behind him on the 1 line.
“Oh look, our markers are foreshadowing the results, Booby,” John said. “I’m going to smoke you out of this school.”
“Oh, shut the fuck up already, or I’ll cut your hand off.”
Rudy didn’t know where it came from, but John did shut the fuck up. John looked like every gear in his head worked overtime to process what Rudy said.
Maybe slow him down.
Chuck went behind them and tucked the whistle between his lips.
“Ready!” he called out into the megaphone. “Set!”
Rudy stretched his leg as far back as it would go, again not in proper position, and buried his chin into his chest. He closed his eyes. Took deep breaths.
Then the whistle blew, and he sprang forward.
---
Rudy turned off the headlights as he pulled into Mr. Earl’s neighborhood.
Why turn them off? I came for business, not to climb through a window.
He parked right in front of the lawn, next to the driveway. Only two lights were on in the whole house, both dimmed by the drawn curtains: one upstairs and one downstairs.
Rudy killed the engine and sat there a moment, staring, trying to think of what he was going to say.
I’m just asking for payment, not coming up with a lie. This isn’t a game of Guess Who.
But I know he’s got someone locked up in there. What if he’s watching me now, prepared to snatch me up?
“That’s right, sonny boy, step right in and I’ll show you the cellar.”
Rudy took a de
ep breath—he was being ridiculous—and got out of the car, closing the door as soundlessly as possible. Then he walked across Mr. Earl’s lawn toward his front door.
The surrounding trees jittered their naked branches. Higher up, the clouds were lit silver by the moon, floating on the wind like petrified spirits crossing the sea of Hades. In fact, the moon lit more than just the clouds—it lit something very thin and nebulous hanging alongside the house like a strand of a spider’s web.
If Mr. Earl saw him now, he’d likely charge out with his cane, whipping it through the air, telling Rudy to Piss off or I’ll sick Chester on your pasty ass!
Mr. Kloom was right: thinking too much was poison to the mind. Better to just get the damn thing over with and forget it once and for all.
So Rudy marched right up to the front door and had his hand up to the doorbell when something hit his cheek—scratched his cheek, actually. He slapped his face and caught what he believed was an insect.
But it was fishing line, and it was connected to something higher up.
Rudy ran the line through his hands, bringing whatever was at the bottom up for inspection. And, as he suspected, something was attached to it—something balled up and no bigger than a gum wrapper, but squishy. Whatever it was, it was not just attached but wrapped dozens of times over with the line, suggesting that someone really didn’t want it going missing.
Rudy looked up, following the line’s track to an upstairs window—the same one the face had appeared in. The string twanged when he pulled, but didn’t loosen. He’d gone fishing enough times to know that he couldn’t rip it with his hands—line that thin sliced flesh. Instead, he used his teeth to chew through it. The line was tough and he thought he damaged a tooth in the process, but the thing did come off.
Then the door flung open, flooding yellow light over the yard.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING AT MY HOUSE?” Mr. Earl yelled.
Rudy’s first reaction was to pocket the tiny ball. He didn’t think Mr. Earl saw him do it—or maybe the old man could care less what he’d put inside his pocket.
Rudy tried to remember why he’d come to Mr. Earl’s house in the first place. He’d forgotten his business, too pre-occupied with the hanging line, and wished he’d just stuck with the plan. He glanced down in thought, and spotted a gleaming red dot in the bushes.
Is that a motion sensor?
Don’t look so surprised or he’ll know you’re up to something. You’re here on business.
Rudy straightened, his mission suddenly clarified. “Mr. Kloom sent me.”
Mr. Earl frowned.
“Did you get the note we left?”
“Course I got your note,” Mr. Earl said. “That doesn’t answer why you’re on my doorstep in the middle of the night though, does it? Avoiding my doorbell and sneaking around. Well, boy? SPEAK!”
“Delivery’s tomorrow morning. Do you have the payment?”
“Why should I pay for something I don’t have? Bring me the shipment and then I’ll write you your check. I should have just slammed the door on you fellows when I had the chance.”
“Mr. Earl—”
“What? What, now? I never told you my name!”
Shit. Think fast, Rudolph.
The mail. I stuck that note in his mailbox.
“I saw your mail, when I dropped off the note.”
Mr. Earl harrumphed.
“And Mr. Kloom doesn’t take checks, he—”
“If he wants to get paid he will! Now, remove yourself from my property, before I locate my shotgun.”
Rudy listened and removed himself very quickly, not looking back this time.
---
“She’s dead,” Rudy’s dad said. “God damn postal service. If they’d deliver on Sundays she’d still be alive. We’d have known sooner.”
“We can’t blame ourselves . . .”
His dad stood so quickly his chair toppled backward. “Did I not tell you to shut your mouth, you little SHIT?” He brought his hand to his ear, arched it through the air, and connected with Rudy’s face, slinging him to the floor.
(not like him at all)
Rudy looked up as his dad towered over him with balled fists and streaming tears. His whole body shaking, Rudy closed his eyes until he heard the bedroom door slam shut.
(not him not him not h)
---
When Rudy got back to the store, both Finch and Mr. Kloom drunkenly shouted, “RUDYYYYYYYY!”
---
Rudy flew through the air, hanging there for one half-second, finding the first touch of softer-than-asphalt track. The whistle was still blowing when he made contact, and still blowing as he got in his first few strides.
From the football field, something caught his eye.
Chad Stevenson with his bowl cut and jeans, was chewing that stalk of wheat with his hands in his pockets, smiling at Rudy. When they made eye contact, Chad exploded into a full on sprint, barefoot, kicking up gobs of turf as he flew toward Rudy.
If John Handley was ahead of Rudy, he wouldn’t be for long—Rudy doubled his speed and didn’t stop when he hit the finish line. He hopped the fence and ran all the way home, just knowing Chad was still after him.
---
Finch and Mr. Kloom were leaning against the checkout counter, smiling at him.
“That’s cool,” Finch said, pointing at Rudy with his drink.
“What is?” Rudy asked.
“You’re fading again,” Mr. Kloom said. “You’re swapping in and out of here, where it’s real.”
Rudy blinked. “Where it’s . . . real?”
Mr. Kloom cocked his head. “Haven’t you learned anything?”
---
Rudy didn’t know where he was, but he knew it was Chad’s voice speaking to him.
Kloom may be strong, but he hasn’t seen anything yet, kid. Let me prove to you just how real this place is.
30:
RUDY GOT TO JAKE’S and knocked on the red front door. Rudy somehow understood that this day was after the race.
“Rudy!” Jake said, “Come in! Sam’s over, too.”
---
Get ready, kid, Mr. Kloom told him.
He was back in the dark place again, that place of nothing.
For what?
Chad’s disrupting our connection. We’ll cut in and out until I get him ejected.
What connection?
Where do you think we are right now?
. . .
---
Rudy ran all the way home after the race, poured a glass of water, sucked it down, and filled it again. There was a knock at the front door. Rudy
(DON’T ANSWER!)
dropped the glass on the floor, and it shattered.
The knock came again, and now he heard laughing.
Still, Rudy didn’t move. He heard the door open and someone call out “Ruuuuuudy!”
He’s here . . . Chad’s here . . . where’s Mr. Kloom? Where are you, Mr. Kloom?
From around the corner, a smiling Jake appeared, with Jud and Sam behind him, and Rudy nearly fainted.
“You did it!” Jud said. “You beat John Handley!”
---
Mom’s . . . dead? Gone forever?
It didn’t really register. How could someone be on the Earth and then just . . . not . . . be?
His dad sobbed into Rudy’s shoulder. “She may have gone a little mental toward the end there, but we loved her, son.” He smiled weakly and popped his glass eye out, held it up for Rudy to see. “She made her mark, didn’t she? It’ll be impossible to forget that woman.”
His dad ran a hand through Rudy’s hair, stroking it, and after a while, his gentle strokes turned into more of a yanking. “You look so much like her, you know. Warm eyes, soft skin . . . full lips.” His dad’s hand dropped from Rudy’s head and cupped the side of his face, his thumb making circles. “God, you look just like her.”
“Dad?” Rudy asked, now convinced his father was deeply disturbed. “Can I go to Jake�
��s house?”
---
Rudy followed Jake up the carpeted steps and into a big room, where
(guardian heroes)
Sam sat on a long leather sofa. “Nice, a third player! Maybe now we can kill this boss.”
“What game?” Rudy asked.
“Guardian Heroes,” Jake said, and handed Rudy a third controller. “You get to be the ninja.”
---
Patiently, Chad Stevenson let Rudy have his time inside Mr. Kloom’s reality—none of it mattered anymore. The kid was a slow learner, still hadn’t fully opened his Gift, and was a long way off from being a threat.
Kloom, on the other hand, was in for a nice surprise.
Chad had spent a lot of time reading those messages on the wind, those tidbits of life gone afloat. Interestingly enough, Mr. Kloom was more famous than he was, and no one even knew his real name, the Kloom name. But there were whispers. Mr. Kloom had made a footprint as he traveled the globe. Some had an idea of his powers, but not as many as Chad would like.
So he put out his own little message. He let it take to the skies like a soaring eagle, and let it snow down over the world like fairy dust, alerting the minds of the others to the treasure that was Mr. Kloom. Alone, they’d never stand a chance. But with their combined forces, together they could win.
And now the other Gifted were migrating—moving across state lines, taking planes, boats, what have you—coming to claim a piece of the pie. Of course, Chad would have the whole pie . . . but they didn’t know that.
---
“Interesting way to celebrate,” Jake said, nudging Rudy’s side, “running all the way home. We tried to follow and couldn’t even see your ass.”
“Got any ice cream?” Sam said, picking up an umbrella and popping it open over his head. “Setting a new school record calls for some ice cream.”
“New record?” Rudy asked.
“Yeah,” Jud said. “They’re saying you broke John’s old one.”
“Really?” Rudy asked, pulling open his freezer. An icy mist blasted him.
“Ben recorded the whole thing,” Sam said.
If I beat the record, it’s not because I was faster than John. I was running for my life.