Crypto-Punk

by George Traikovich

  “A record,” Drew answered.

  “Hain’t just a record,” Susan said. “This here is the last known recording of Gulliver Grimsby. May he rest in peace.”

  “Who?” Grady asked.

  “He was a musician of some renown, among other things, and my very first husband,” she said.

  “Was? Whatcha mean? What happened?” Spider asked.

  Her head dipped solemnly in loving tribute. “His last day on earth, he went into the recording studio and never came back out. Passed away in the middle of a session…while still recordin’.”

  “What are you talkin’ about?” Clementine asked.

  “Backmasking,” Newton said. “She’s talking about backmasking.”

  Clementine turned to Newton. “What are you talkin’ about?”

  “Backmasking is something they used to do back in the day,” he explained. “Music was recorded backward onto a track meant to be played forward. Rock stars put secret messages in the records for their fans.”

  Lazy-Eye Susan waited for them to follow his reasoning, but they weren’t getting it. “Went further than just puttin’ messages on them records.”

  “Whatcha mean?” Grady asked. “What’s on that record?”

  “Gulliver Grimsby is on the record,” she said. “His soul captured and kept there all these many years until tonight when—God willin’—he’ll walk the earth again.”

  The revelation didn’t trigger the awed hush she expected, and she could tell by the looks on their cynical little faces they weren’t buying her story.

  Newton waved his mp3 player in her face. “Ever hear of iTunes?”

  She reached into her pocket and waved her own player back at him. “I got one of them gadgets, too. But ya can’t reduce the soul to ones and zeroes and expect that gizmo to hold it. The soul is analog, not digital, and it lives ’tween the hands of the clock and ’twixt the grooves in the vinyl.”

  Newton remained skeptical. “Wait…if the Crypto is alive, how come he don’t already have a soul?”

  “Because he was made not born, and that’s the difference,” Susan said. She grabbed the lightning-in-a-bottle from the workbench and climbed the step ladder next to the Crypto. She held the bottle over his head and baptized the creature with a single drop.

  “Stand back,” she said, and dropped the needle in the groove. “If’n he didn’t have a soul before, this record will surely give him one.”

  Lightning struck the overpass above them, scorching the concrete and filling the air with the smell of ozone. The lights inside the Windmill strobed in rapid succession, and everyone looked like they were moving in slow motion. They were in the eye of the storm now, and nobody would be leaving anytime soon.

  Susan muttered to herself, repeating the same phrase over and over again, loud enough for them to hear, but not loud enough for them to make out the words. There was a rhythm to her cadence, measured and lyrical.

  “What’s she doin’?” Clementine asked.

  Grady’s jaw dropped. “I think she’s rappin’.”

  Susan scratched the record, spinning it back and forth, back and forth, working the turntable like a skilled D.J.

  Thunder pounded the Windmill, twisting the wooden frame until it cried out for mercy. Gale-force winds punched through the slats in the wall, sweeping the dust and debris inside into a swirling vortex.

  “What’s going on?” Newton shouted over the deafening rumble.

  Lightning slashed through the tin roof and struck the record player, blue sparks bleeding across the interior. Electric current arced from the turntable toward the Crypto—connecting with a jolt right where Susan marked him.

  “The thing—the Crypto!” Clementine shouted. “It’s moving!”

  Susan spun the record faster and faster, her rhythmic chanting getting louder and louder. “That’s it…that’s it,” she begged. “Come on—come on—almost there.”

  The current crackled through the Crypto’s anatomy, charging the creature’s nervous system like a battery.

  “Come on…”

  Inanimate arms and legs flailed and thrashed, dead and desiccated organs pumped anew…

  “Almost there…”

  The Crypto gasped and exhaled, then filled its lungs with air, and with its first labored breath, was born into the world.

  “It’s alive!” Grady screamed.

  The creature jumped to its feet and boogied to the rhythm, dancing through the Windmill like a tornado, splintering wood and shattering glass to the music’s beat.

  “This can’t be happening,” Newton shouted over the ruckus, but the others pulled him back down behind the overturned table.

  The disco rampage lasted for a few terrifying seconds until the record faded and the Crypto wound down like a toy soldier.

  Susan brushed the plaster from her face. “It’s OK. I think he’s tuckered out.”

  The lights flickered on and off, then came back on for good. The kids pushed aside the debris and crawled out from their hiding places. They couldn’t believe what they’d just seen because what they’d just seen was unbelievable, but there the Crypto stood—alive.

  “Wow! He can really move!” Spider exclaimed.

  “How is this possible?” Newton said.

  “Don’tcha believe in the magic of DNA?” Susan asked.

  “DNA is not magic, it is science,” Newton fired back.

  “Sez you,” Susan chided. “DNA is like a recipe fer makin’ you and me, hain’t it? A pinch of adenine, a dash of thymine, a teaspoon of guanine, and cytosine added to taste. But all those organic molecules—all those ingredients—they only gets ya ninety-nine percent of the way there. Ya know what that other one percent is?”

  Newton shook his head and waited for her to answer her own question.

  “Well, neither do I,” Susan admitted, “and that’s why they call it magic.”

  “Where’d ya learn all this stuff, anyway?” Drew asked.

  “I been to school,” Susan said.

  “Where?” Clementine asked. “Hogwarts?”

  “Ha-ha. Very funny,” Susan said. “Went to Vanderbilt University fer a spell, I dropped out in…well, never mind what year I dropped out in.”

  “Wonder what other kinds of music he likes?” Drew asked.

  Susan emptied her satchel onto the table. “Let’s find out.”

  “What are all those?” Clementine asked.

  “These are records from my other husbands,” Susan said.

  “How many husbands you had?” Clementine asked.

  Susan started counting the fingers on her hand but ran out of fingers. “Honey, more than a few, and I ain’t done yet!”

  * * *

  They found that different rhythms evoked different reactions from the Crypto, so they’d have to be careful about what they played. A samba put him to sleep, while a polka enraged to him to the brink of violence. Fortunately, they pulled the plug before he did any more damage.

  “Dude, he really gets down,” Grady said. “He’s jamphibious—he can dance to anything.”

  “Yeah. If he can use his right hand as good as his left, he’ll be jambidextrous,” Spider said.

  “Unless he’s jambivalent ’bout the whole thing,” Drew added.

  “We should call him Jamphibian,” Newton said.

  “Dude, that’s awesome!” Grady shouted.

  “I like it,” Drew said. “Jamphibian just sounds cool. Whatcha think?”

  There were no objections, so Jamphibian it was.

  Newton pulled Drew aside while the others tried to teach Jamphibian some basic tricks, like some kind of oversized puppy. Lazy-Eye Susan’s magic—science—whatever—had solved one of their problems, but now they’d run into another.

  “I can’t find Transylvania Island on the map,” Newton said.

  “Whatcha mean?” Drew asked. “Gotta be there…somewhere.”

  “But it’s not, I looked. I found some sites for Phantasmagoria Studios,�
� Newton said, “but I can’t find the island on any map. It’s like they erased it somehow.”

  “Can the Army do something like that? Just erase a whole big island from the whole Internet?” Drew asked.

  “If they can’t, nobody can,” Newton said. “You ever hear of Area Fifty-One?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sure ya have,” Newton said. “But ya can’t find that on any map, either.”

  “Then we gotta get Frost’s map,” Drew said. “Without it, we won’t know how to get there.”

  Clementine drifted over to remind them of the obvious. “He won’t just hand it over.”

  “Then we gotta take it,” Drew said.

  “But how?” Newton asked.

  Clementine showed them the old-fashioned skeleton key dangling from her necklace. “With this. Miss Burnside asked me to get some things for her from the office last week. She didn’t ask for the key back right away. Guess I just forgot about it.”

  Newton gestured toward Jamphibian. “What do we do with him?”

  Lazy-Eye Susan put her arm lovingly around the hulking brute. “Don’t y’all worry. I’ll baby-sit.”

  CHAPTER 8

  By six o’clock, the teachers had left for the day, leaving Bixby’s halls eerily empty. Not long after, Mr. Frost left the administrative office suite, locking the door behind him.

  Clementine hid in a door well, waiting for him to pass. She listened until his footsteps grew quiet and then stuck her head out to make sure he was gone. Once she was sure, she gave the signal.

  Drew and Newton emerged from their hiding places on cue, tiptoeing down the hall toward the office. Clad in black, their faces painted in abstract monochrome patterns, they floated through the darkened hallway, slipping from one door well to another.

  “We look like tranny-militants,” Drew sighed.

  “It’ll work,” Newton assured him. He’d come up with the idea for the dazzle makeup from the book on WWII they’d looked at in Lazy-Eye Susan’s library. During the war, cargo ships used the abstract camouflage patterns to blend into the churning waves and avoid enemy detection.

  “But we ain’t invisible,” Drew insisted.

  “They might be able to see us, but they won’t be able to identify us on the security cameras. And that’s just as good for what we’re doing…like adding static to a TV signal.”

  That was the theory, anyway. Newton had already explained this on the way over, but Drew still had his doubts. “OK, I get the idea behind the makeup—even though we ain’t in the ocean—but why all the glitter?”

  “No reason,” Newton said. “I just kinda like the way it sparkles—dazzle!”

  “Yo! Could ya stop with the jazz hands every time ya say ‘dazzle’?” Drew pleaded.

  They came to a dead stop at the administrative office door. They’d replaced the old locks with keypads, rendering Clementine’s key useless.

  “What now?” Drew whispered.

  Newton tapped in five numbers and tried the handle. Nothing.

  “Try again,” Drew said.

  He guessed again. Nothing.

  “Hurry up,” Drew snapped.

  Newton thought for a moment and then tapped in five numbers and tried the handle again. The door swung wide open.

  “F-R-O-S-T,” Newton said. “What an egomaniac.”

  * * *

  Clementine checked her watch, wondering why they were taking so long. “We’re off to see the wizard, the wonderful…wait…who’s whistling?”

  The Vice-Principal appeared around the corner, walking back down the hall toward her.

  “He’s comin’ back,” she gasped, and pulled back out of sight.

  She got a text out just as he passed and retreated into the door well as far as she could. She closed her eyes and waited for him to turn and grab her, but he didn’t. Instead he just kept going, whistling that same annoying tune.

  Frost was about to punch in his code when the Principal stuck his head out of the classroom opposite the office, his hat and coat in hand.

  Clementine exhaled. For once, she was actually glad to see the old man, though she wondered how they’d missed him in the first place.

  “Burning the midnight oil, Principal Hoyt?”

  The Principal closed the door behind him and limped into the hallway. “No, I’m on my way out. Miss Burnside set off the sprinklers during class this afternoon. Just wanted to check the damage for myself before I call the district.”

  “Yeah. Gal that size really shouldn’t wear corduroy pants.”

  Hoyt laughed. “Yeah, I saw her in a bathing suit from behind one time at a teacher’s retreat. I thought I was watching two manatees hugging.”

  A few awkward seconds ticked by while each waited for the other to signal the conversation was over, so they stood there, smiling and clearing their throats until Hoyt took Frost by the arm. “Dick, I’ve been meaning to have a word with you about the special studies program.”

  * * *

  Drew got Clementine’s text, but didn’t read it. He knew they were in trouble—the silhouettes against the office door window told him so.

  “What do we do?” Newton asked.

  “Be cool and just keep lookin’,” Drew whispered. He turned the latch on the window and tried lifting the sash, but it was no use; layers of paint accumulated over the years had formed an airtight seal as hard as concrete around the casing.

  Newton flipped through the folders on the desk. “Wait…I think I got it.”

  “Well?” Drew whispered. “You got it or not?”

  Newton stuffed the folder into his backpack. “Jackpot. I got the map.”

  “Whatcha doin’ now?” Drew asked.

  “Wait…there’s something else,” Newton said.

  “What?”

  Newton quickly skimmed the thin folio’s pages. “It’s Dr. Camaro’s journal.”

  “Who cares who he’s got a crush on?”

  Newton waved the journal back and forth. “Not his diary, stupid. His experiment journal. Everything we’ll ever need to know about Enzyme Seven is probably in here.”

  * * *

  “Right, but Superintendent Boggs covered all of that at the PTA meeting,” Frost said.

  “Meeting? What meeting?” Hoyt asked.

  “The other night—Tuesday,” Frost said. “I’m sure Miss Croy put it on your calendar. Maybe it just slipped your mind?”

  Hoyt rubbed his chin back and forth a few times, trying to remember if it had been on his calendar. Missing meetings wasn’t like him—at least it didn’t used to be like him.

  Frost tapped his watch, punctuating their conversation. “Sorry, Wilhelm, I have an appointment that I’m running late for. You’ll have to excuse me.”

  Hoyt lingered for a moment, not quite sure how to react. This was still his school after all—at least until the end of the year—and he wasn’t used to being dismissed like that. But that wasn’t the only thing about Frost that bothered him. It was a lot of little things of late, like the way he let the Zero Avenue kids out of detention without asking him, or the way Miss Croy fawned over him of late, or the fact that he wore wingtip shoes with no socks.

  But it was late and he was tired, so instead of blowing the slight out of proportion, he lowered his brim and hobbled down the opposite end of the hall toward the exit.

  * * *

  Halfway into the administrative offices, Mr. Frost came to a stop. “I must have punched the code in before that idiot came into the hallway,” he muttered.

  The lights in his office were off, but the computer’s screen saver gave off enough ambient light to see by. He grabbed his coat from the rack. “I must have punched in the code.”

  He took a step and stopped. “Did I punch in the code?”

  Nothing in the room seemed out of place at first glance. The file cabinet’s top drawer was askew, not completely out, but not all the way in either.

  Maybe he forgot to close it the last time he used it. <
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  Or maybe…

  He crept forward, folding his fingers into fists. “Fee-fi-fo-fum,” he whispered. “I smell the blood of a little punk kid.”

  “Gotcha!” he shouted, and lunged at the cabinet.

  His clumsy tackle sent loose papers fluttering across the room like snowflakes, but there was nobody there.

  “What a mess,” he groaned, rubbing his aching knee “But I can clean it up tomorrow. Right now, I need a drink.” He chalked up the episode to his imagination and closed the door behind him, making sure to lock it this time.

  * * *

  Drew and Newton were already outside and in full sprint when Clementine ran out from behind the hedges.

  “You get it?” she asked, matching their pace.

  Newton pointed to his backpack. “Got it.”

  Drew wiped the makeup from his face. “Let’s get outta here.”

  * * *

  The knock at the Windmill door took Lazy-Eye Susan by surprise. She wasn’t expecting anybody, and nobody knew she was there. “Who could it be?” she wondered, peeking through the knothole.

  The decrepit postman stood outside the door on wobbly knees, wearing baggy trousers pulled up so high they looked like they were trying to eat him. “Delivery,” he announced, knocking again.

  “My package,” she remembered, and swung open the door.

  “Hello, little girl. I have a package for your mommy,” he said with a big, yellow grin.

  She rolled her eyes and forced a polite smile, just knowing that it was going to be one of those days.

  “What on earth is that noise?” he asked, trying to make himself heard over the sound of crushing metal and splintering wood. He craned his neck for a better look, but she blocked his view.

  “My nephew,” Susan said.

  Jamphibian sat at the table with his back to them, oblivious to their conversation. She’d cut a hole into the bandages where she thought his mouth was, and the big brute immediately started shoving things into it.

  The postman handed her a pen. “Hmm…Used to be we’d take a boy like that and lock ’im up in the attic with a bucket of fish heads. But guess times have changed.”

  Susan smiled politely but said nothing and signed the receipt, shutting the door behind her. “So when’d yer folks let you out?” she muttered under her breath. “Dang. Wish I’d said that when he was still here.”

  She tore the package open, and the records slipped out across the table. Arranging the albums chronologically was like tripping backward through time, the memories filling her with a kind of misty nostalgia. “My stars, I hain’t seen some of these in ages.”