by J. R. Brule
“If you want to live, you’ll figure it out.” Mr. Earl shoved the unforgiving barrel into his lower back. “Move! Sandy,” he said to the girl, “you stay put or daddy’s gonna get real mad.”
The knock came again, this time harder. Mr. Earl hid himself behind the door as Rudy opened it, with the shotgun aimed.
Mr. Kloom was with Finch, standing on the stoop, the cherry wood box tucked securely under one arm.
“Hey look, it’s the kid,” Finch said.
“What the hell’s going on?” Mr. Kloom asked. “Where’s Mr. Earl?”
“He’s here,” Rudy said, and the barrel nudged his lower spine. “We’re just talking about payment.”
Mr. Kloom tongued his cheek. “Why are the lights off? Conversing in the dark?”
“Yeah, the lights keep him wired.”
“You seem to know a lot about him.”
“We’ve been talking.”
Mr. Kloom stared. “Why didn’t he answer the door?”
“Moving around gets him thinking, and then he can’t sleep.”
“Well get him out here, I need him.”
The barrel poked Rudy’s back.
“I’m sorry, he just went to bed.”
“Well go wake his ass up,” Mr. Kloom said, “or I’ll come in and do it myself.”
Mr. Earl shoved Rudy forward and flung the door open the rest of the way. He aimed the shotgun at all three men, holding it steady with just one hand.
“All right, fuckers!” he said. “Just stay right there and don’t move or I’ll blow your goddamn heads off!”
Finch and Mr. Kloom raised their arms in surrender, and the cherry wood box clapped onto the ground.
“Now you listen to me,” Mr. Earl said. “You got no idea what you’ve walked into. You think you got me figured out, but you don’t. Just back out of here and forget you ever came by.”
Rudy saw the little girl creeping forward from the kitchen, a grill lighter in her hand.
Just distract him a little longer.
“We’ll leave,” Rudy said, and the barrel swung to face him. “I just want to make sure you won’t tell anyone about us.”
“I won’t report you, so long as you don’t report me.”
(she’s close now)
“I need you to promise,” Rudy said. “We could get in a lot of trouble.”
“Listen,” Mr. Earl said, “we both got leverage on one another. We keep quiet and life goes on.”
“Sounds reasonable to me,” Finch said.
The girl clicked the lighter and a flame came out. Mr. Earl turned at the noise, and she held it to his ass, pressing the fire into his pants.
“Now!” Mr. Kloom shouted.
---
A dog bowl full of food pellets—that’s what saved Rudy from his father.
Adrenaline dumped into his veins, instinct took over, and he bit into his neighbor’s hairy arm, clenching his teeth harder than he thought necessary—and then some.
The man screamed, “He’s fucking biting me!” and Rudy held on.
His father’s big hands grabbed him and pulled, and that’s when Rudy kicked the bowl, spilling pellets all over. Rudy held his teeth tight as he got ripped away, bringing a piece of flesh along with him. The neighbor lost his balance over the pellets, his arms flailing, wind-milling backward, searching for the closest thing—Rudy’s dad. He grabbed hold and they both went down.
Rudy vaulted over them and a hand clawed at his ankle,
(felt the fingernails)
missing its hold. He didn’t stop to look back—he kept running to the door, and slid it open so hard the glass shattered inside the frame.
He sprinted down the street, looking back just once to see his dad and neighbor struggling to get through the door at the same time.
“RUUUUUDY!!!!” his dad called after him.
He kept running. And suddenly, all that racing seemed important to this moment. Like it was practice to escape.
(not even close)
---
Finch punched the barrel away. The gun fired and sprayed the floor, one slug piercing the threshold. Mr. Kloom grabbed hold of Mr. Earl’s arm and held on tight. All the fight suddenly drained from the old man. Rudy watched his eyes roll to their whites, saw him collapse, and knew Mr. Kloom had done something.
(the dream, its him)
(oh god he’s going to kill us all)
Rudy grabbed the girl’s hand and bolted to the back of the house, to the deck.
“Hey!” Mr. Kloom shouted. “Get back here!”
---
Rudy had no idea where he’d ended up. He wasn’t anywhere near downtown Middleburg, but he was hungry . . . starving.
A sewer vent exhaled hot fecal odor into the air. Police sirens blared in the distance, and a dog barked somewhere in the alley. Rudy heard a trashcan get knocked over. He followed the sound down the alley and found its spilled contents: some old, half-eaten chicken wings, splattered barbecue sauce, and a moldy slice of bread.
He ate it all.
When the alley door sprung open, Rudy was fast, and he got into the dumpster before being seen. A black Hefty bag came arcing over him and landed in his lap. When he heard the door close, he tore the bag open and found a sandwich without a single bite in it.
He was afraid of being found, afraid his father was chasing him, so he stayed right where he was. To keep warm, he searched through slosh and stink, found an old sweater stained with mustard, and put it on.
---
As Rudy fumbled with the back door, he could hear Finch running toward him. He realized a wooden plank had stopped it from opening just as Finch grabbed a fistful of his shirt.
“The fuck are you trying to do?” Finch yelled. “Don’t you know how dangerous it is out there?”
“Get off me! GET OFF ME!” Rudy screamed, twisting and turning.
Mr. Kloom had his cherry wood box back under his arm, and was walking toward them. “Kid, quit acting like a fool.”
“I’ve seen it! I know what you’ll do!”
“Was I ever this dumb?” Finch said.
“Let’s have a seat at the table.”
“Where’re the ropes?” Rudy said. “For the nooses! Are they in your case? Is that what you tote around?”
Mr. Kloom patted the box. “You’ll see what’s in here soon enough.”
“I don’t want to know. Not anymore.”
“You think I’m your enemy, even after all I’ve done. It’s sad, really. What you don’t know, kid, is the truth.”
“And what’s the truth?”
Mr. Kloom’s eyes fell on the little girl. “That’s not a girl. It’s Chad Stevenson.”
---
Something banged on the side of the dumpster, startling Rudy awake.
He looked up with groggy eyes, saw someone opening the lid, saw a burning sun hot in the sky.
“Ready to come out of there?”
The sun was so bright Rudy couldn’t see the man’s face. “Who are you?”
“Now that you’re out of school, your lessons are over. It’s time to get out.”
My lessons?
Rudy’s eyes snapped wide open. How could he not have recognized the voice? “Mr. Kloom?”
As if on cue, the sun went behind a cloud, and Mr. Kloom’s grinning face became clear.
“I can’t get away,” Rudy sobbed. “I’m yours . . . just hang me and get it over with.”
“I don’t want to hang you. Chad’s been interfering, trying to turn you against me. He’s using my Gift to his advantage.”
“So . . . he’s stronger than you?”
“Maybe.”
“He kills you. I remember.”
Mr. Kloom only smiled, and extended his hand. “Come on. It’s time to leave.”
Rudy studied the hand, looked at Mr. Kloom, then reached out.
35:
THEY WERE BACK IN Mr. Earl’s home, sitting at the table. The little girl—Chad with long hair—had gotten up from h
er seat and stood there grinning at Rudy, Finch, and Mr. Kloom.
“So, you knew it was me,” Chad said, “and still, you decided to come. You’re dumber than I thought.”
“Is that true?” Rudy asked. “Why would you do that?”
“You needed to learn for yourself,” Mr. Kloom said.
“Learn what?”
“For fuck’s sakes,” Finch said.
“Shut up, all of you,” Chad said.
“What’s your plan?” Mr. Kloom asked. “You’re outnumbered.”
Chad’s grin spread wider. “Too focused on your little lessons, hmm? Didn’t feel the horde I’ve alerted?”
The kitchen window banged. Rudy saw a hand slap against the glass. Then the family room windows banged, someone knocked on the front door, and a window shattered upstairs.
“They know you’re here, and they want you, Kloom. I’ve called them all.”
“Well,” Mr. Kloom said, turning to Finch. “Looks like we’re cornered.”
“I guess so,” Finch said.
“Not so smart, after all, are you?” Chad said. “And to think, I couldn’t find you for the longest time. How sad. How anticlimactic.”
Mr. Kloom nodded. “It’s true. I’m done for, aren’t I?” and he patted his cherry wood box. “Nothing I could do.”
Rudy heard dozens of shuffling feet on the porch. Someone flung themselves into the back door, breaking through the glass and landing on the floor. Like zombies, the Gifted poured inside the home, sniffing the blood of Kloom. Oblivious to Chad, they moved past him, coming for who they really wanted.
“You’re good,” Mr. Kloom said to Chad, “but you’re not that good.”
With that, he opened the box.
What followed was immediate:
An explosion of quiet.
Absolute, utter quiet.
And everyone paused to take notice.
Then, a melodic whistle played from the insides, and, emerging like a spirit from mythology, a humanoid figure stood from the box, only distinguishable by its fuzzy edges outlining a see-through, shimmering body.
This thing started to dance to the whistling, and to fight, throwing elbows and hips and hands, smacking the horde one-by-one, its nearly invisible limbs whooshing like the effervescent smoke of dried ice. Chad got hit in the stomach and thrown back into a wall. The thing grew larger, expanding, strengthening, knocking three Gifted back with one arm, and two Gifted with one foot. It kept growing, and meanwhile, Mr. Kloom and Finch both got up from the table. As they moved, they left behind hundreds of copied shadows, so Rudy could see a Mr. Kloom sitting, a Mr. Kloom just getting up, a Mr. Kloom just getting up a millisecond later, and the same for Finch, all the way until they were out the door, so that each man’s traveled path looked like some paranormal road of the past.
And Rudy followed their route.
The being from Mr. Kloom’s cherry wood box had grown so large that its fists were pounding through walls. The roof of the house separated from the rest of the structure, lifted by its head, and was discarded on the lawn. All the while, the whistles grew louder, sounding more like a high school band of French horns.
Rudy got into the backseat of Finch’s car while Mr. Kloom put it into gear.
The whistles . . . Rudy heard something laced inside them, and he thought he understood what Mr. Kloom had been telling him all this time.
Whistle—left punch.
Whistle—right kick.
Whistle—better duck, or you’ll get hit.
Rudy ducked, and he felt his hair stand up as if grazed by static electricity.
He looked at Mr. Kloom, who told him, without opening his mouth:
Good guess, but not what I’ve been saying.
---
When they got far enough away, the silence dissipated, and that shadowed after-effect stopped trailing them. Rudy wondered why the effect only happened to Finch and Mr. Kloom, and not for himself.
“What the hell was that?” Rudy said.
“What was what?” Mr. Kloom said.
“Don’t play with me. Not anymore.”
“Just a little creation of mine.”
“You made that thing? How is that even possible?”
“The same way this is,” Mr. Kloom said, and snapped his fingers. Finch disappeared from the front seat. “Or this.” Another snap, and the car was gone. The road was gone. They were in the market, and Finch was there again, at the register.
“What the hell is going on!” Rudy screamed.
“I’ve tried telling you all along.”
“Please, I’m listening, please tell me now!”
“I can’t,” Mr. Kloom said, and hopped up onto the counter.
“Why? Why, why, why?”
“Because now, I die.”
36:
THE SMELL OF GUNPOWDER told Rudy everything he needed to know.
His dad walked toward them from between two aisles, holding a shotgun in his hands. But he wasn’t actually Rudy’s dad—his body was made of television static, void of color, just a swarm of black and white bees. In fact, Rudy heard him buzzing.
And then he pulled the trigger.
The shot cracked, and Mr. Kloom blasted off the countertop. He flew into the market’s wall, leaving a big bloody print as he slid lifelessly to the floor. The twin barrels smoked. Rudy’s dad grabbed Rudy’s wrist, his fingers galvanized, feeling just like Brian’s hand in the lunchroom.
Is he dead? Is Mr. Kloom actually dead?
Rudy had a sinking feeling in his stomach.
He can’t be . . . I need him.
His dad smiled before slamming the butt of the gun down on Rudy’s head.
---
I’m dreaming again.
It’s the bathroom . . . the nooses are back. That shadowy man is in the doorway, I can see the blond ponytail. It’s Mr. Kloom, I know.
But wait . . .
That hair . . . that long golden hair. Who else could it be?
The little girl. Chad.
It’s Chad.
Chad is going to hang me.
But if there’s two nooses . . . who’s the other for?
---
Rudy woke up.
He was in a dimly lit room, and he was gagged. His wrists were tied and suspended over his head. Some sort of tune played . . . Elton John?
The other end of the rope was fastened around a cleat on the ceiling. There were no windows, but a couch against one wall, and one closed door behind him.
His father stood in one corner, his static body undulating like a strained frequency.
This place . . . I’ve been here before.
The door opened.
The little girl that wasn’t a little girl walked in front of Rudy, her hair now cut into the shape of a bowl. It was Chad, and he hadn’t aged a day. He was dressed in jeans and a plaid green flannel, chewing on a stalk of wheat.
He brought out that metallic slug from his pocket, and popped open the top. He pressed his nostril into the opening and sniffed hard.
“Fun dip?” he offered.
Rudy could only stare. The gag in his mouth prevented him from forming coherent words.
“Guess not,” Chad said, pocketing it. “You might wish you had some once I get started here.”
Chad left the room, and came back with two ropes coiled around his arms. He installed them into the ceiling joists, taking his time, having to bring in a chair to stand on. He made the ends into loops, and when he was finished, stepped down to admire his work.
He whistled. “Think they’re sturdy enough to hold? Let’s check.” He tugged on one, then hung by his hands from each individually, bouncing in test. “Oh yeah, baby. These things aren’t coming loose.”
He dragged the chair over, humming to Elton John, and swung it in front of Rudy. Sat on it backwards with his arms folded across the top.
“It’s almost over, Rudy. But I think it’d be rude not to let you know why you’re here. I really do apologize for your disa
dvantage . . . being young and unlearned, that is. You’ve been manipulated by all of us, at different times, in different ways, and you never even knew what was happening.”
Chad took another sniff. “Do you want to know what the nooses are for? I’ll tell you. One’s for you and one’s for me. Now, you’re probably wondering why I’d hang myself, but the truth is, I don’t want to die. I just want to come as close to it as possible.” He leaned further forward in his chair. “It’s an experiment. I think your buddy Kloom found out something extraordinary . . . by almost dying, I believe a man can unlock new ideas.
“Alas, I figure it’s fair to answer some questions before you’re sent to the gallows. If you misbehave, the gag goes back in, and we proceed. Clear?”
Rudy nodded.
“All right.” Chad unlatched the gag and leaned back, resting it on his knee.
Rudy stretched his jaw and wiggled his tongue. His wrists were still bound, his hands still helpless.
“Get on with it,” Chad said.
“H-h . . . how many have you killed?”
“You start with the hardest fucking question, huh? I don’t know kid. Lost track after hitting three digits.”
“Who was Mr. Earl to you?”
Chad smiled. “Ah, that old cunt. I had to get to Mr. Kloom somehow. When I found you inside that school, that place Kloom thought was safe, I knew I could use his own Gift against him. He’d follow you anywhere. You were his pupil, his little prize. To get you was to get him. So for that, I thank you. For being so dense. Mr. Earl was my disguise, my marionette. Just like your father is now.”
“Who is Mr. Kloom?”
Who is Mr. Kloom?
Who is . . . Mr. . . . Kloom?
(imperative to present the goods as an opportunity, never an item)
Am I the opportunity?
Being a good salesman is all about making the customer feel special, like it’s all about them, when really, it’s all about you.
(yes, yes, kid)
Chad was talking, explaining something, but Rudy wasn’t listening—yet he was listening, listening to himself, listening to his own thoughts, listening to what he knew.
There’s always someone out there trying to fuck you.
“Are you listening?” Chad said.
Listen . . .
Always let them come to you.
Rudy met Chad’s eyes with a new clarity. He wasn’t afraid—he was listening.