“Let’s not get worked up,” Con Riley said. “She does have the right to cover news, and if you’ve really found a skeleton in that chimney, that would qualify.”
Ms. Allen shot Willingham a smug grin.
“However, we’ll try to keep her out of your hair,” Riley finished.
“But I’m holding auditions here!” Willingham said.
Julie Kendall sidled up to her boss. “Maybe we should call it a day,” she suggested. “We’ve got another session scheduled for the morning. These people could come back and finish their auditions then.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” Riley said.
“Yeah, okay,” Willingham agreed. “Everybody head for home. Auditions resume at nine A.M.—sharp—tomorrow morning.”
“If you’ve witnessed the trouble here, please stay so Officer Sullivan can interview you,” Con Riley added.
“I’m doing interviews as well,” Stacia Allen announced, “after the police are through, of course.” She shot Con Riley a condescending smile.
“Just stay out of our way,” Riley said. He turned toward the Hardys. “Good to see you kids again. Do you have any information about this?”
“We’ll be happy to tell you what we know,” Joe said. Daphne had returned from the bathroom. She, Frank, and Chet nodded their agreement.
“Great,” the officer said. “Talk to Sullivan. I have to take a statement from Mr. Willingham.” He and Willingham walked toward the broken chimney.
Stacia Allen tried to follow, but Sullivan cut her off. “You’ll get your chance,” he said. “Later.”
More police arrived to help with the crime scene, but the interviews still went slowly. The cops kept the newspeople at bay as long as they could, though Ms. Allen and her cameraman managed to get some shots of the broken chimney and the skeleton beneath it.
Ward Willingham decided to give the WSDS crew an interview after all. He kept talking about the game; Allen tried to steer him toward the “accident.”
It was nearly midnight by the time the Hardys and their friends arrived home. They all went straight to bed and quickly fell asleep.
• • •
The four friends assembled in the Hardys’ kitchen early the next morning. Frank made pancakes while Joe handled the eggs and bacon. Daphne and Chet set the table and poured drinks. A radio on the counter blared the news and weather.
Frank paged through the morning paper as they ate. “They discovered whose skeleton it was,” Frank announced. “He had I.D. in what was left of his clothing. His name was Joss Orlando. He used to live in Bayport.”
“I heard on the radio that he’d been missing for fifteen years,” Daphne said.
“I thought he looked a little thin,” Joe added sardonically.
“How did he get in the chimney?” Chet asked.
“They think he fell in from the roof,” Frank said. “But why was he up there?” He shrugged.
“Con Riley and the cops will figure it out eventually,” Joe said.
“Well, I’m glad this is one mystery the police get to solve,” Daphne said, winking at the brothers.
Chet looked at his watch. “You guys need to be getting to the auditions,” he said.
“I’m surprised you didn’t sleep in—since you’ve already earned a spot on the show,” Joe said.
“Hey, I’ve got to root for my friends, don’t I?” Chet asked.
“Great—let’s get going, then,” Frank said, putting his dishes in the washer.
They finished cleaning up, then piled into the Hardys’ van and drove out to the old warehouse. Ms. Kendall greeted them as they entered. The refreshment area had been moved to the other side of the warehouse, away from the crime scene, which now had yellow police tape around it. A number of local news crews were poking around, including Stacia Allen and her cameraman.
They saw quite a few new faces among the crowd waiting to try out, though the overall group wasn’t much bigger than the one the day before.
“It looks like some people from yesterday didn’t come back,” Chet said.
“Too bad Bo Reid wasn’t one of them,” Daphne noted, spotting the big, black-haired teen chatting with Missy and Jay near the wall.
“He has a guaranteed place in the show,” Joe said. “He’d be a dope to drop out. I wonder where the others are, though?”
Joe shrugged. “Maybe the tryouts were too rough for them.”
“Or maybe they didn’t like the decor,” Frank suggested.
“I wasn’t going to come,” said a girl standing nearby. She had stringy, blond-streaked black hair and was dressed all in black, Goth-style. “That chimney accident sounded way dangerous.”
“This whole place is falling apart,” commented her companion. He was a bit taller than Frank and Chet and was decked out in black clothes like the girl.
“Then I thought,” the girl continued, “it would be pretty radical to be on TV—even the local news. I’m Lily Sabatine. This is my brother, Todd. We’re trying out.” She and the tall teen shook hands with the group.
“Don’t let my sister fool you,” Todd said. “She digs danger.”
Lily laughed. “Busted! C’mon, Todd, let’s see how close we can get to that police tape.”
“Hmm . . . a little morbid?” Daphne asked as the siblings left.
“Danger is bread and butter to some people,” Frank said.
“Coffee and doughnuts to others,” Chet added with a grin at the Hardys.
“Looks like your boyfriend is cornering the doughnuts,” someone said to Daphne.
The four friends turned and saw Bo Reid lurking nearby, a smirk on his face.
“What’s the matter, Reid?” Chet asked. “Couldn’t win at Creature Cards, so you’ve made acting like a sore loser your hobby?”
“Maybe I just don’t like snotty redheads who hang around with fat slobs,” Reid shot back.
Chet balled up his fists and stepped forward. “Maybe you should mind your own business before I topple you on your can again.”
“Try it,” Reed countered. He clenched his fists and came at Chet.
Frank stepped between the two of them, trying to head off the confrontation.
As he did, though, Bo Reid clouted the elder Hardy on the back of the head.
4 One Good Punch Deserves Another
* * *
The sudden attack surprised Frank more than hurt him. His martial arts training enabled him to roll with the blow. He somersaulted forward and came up on his feet once more, ready for action.
“Out of the way, you!” Reid said, aiming a punch at Frank’s face.
Frank ducked aside and counterattacked. He smashed the heel of his palm squarely onto Reid’s chin. Reid staggered back, blinking in surprise.
Chet and Joe rushed forward to help, but Frank said, “Stay back. I can handle this loudmouth.”
Reid came at him again, feinting with his left and then bringing a hard right toward Frank’s gut. Frank turned away from the punch and brought a karate chop down on Reid’s left shoulder. Reid lumbered forward into some empty folding chairs.
Frank assumed a defensive martial arts stance. “Had enough?” he asked.
Bo Reid shoved the chairs aside and whirled to face the elder Hardy. Reid’s black bowl-cut hair look like an unkempt mop; his eyes blazed with anger. With an incoherent grunt, he charged, throwing his arms wide to tackle Frank.
The dark-haired Hardy dropped and whirled in a spin kick. He swept Reid’s legs out from under him. Frank’s beefy opponent crashed hard to the floor.
A whistle blew loudly. “What’s all this commotion?” Ward Willingham asked as he pushed through the crowd that had gathered to watch the fight. “There’s no sparring in this area.”
“Reid thought he’d get in a little extra falling practice,” Chet said.
Bo Reid rubbed his chin as he rose; Frank maintained his defensive posture. “These guys tried to jump me,” Reid said, indicating the Hardys and Chet.
“That’s a lie!” Da
phne said. “Reid threw the first punch.”
Willingham frowned, pushed his sunglasses down on his nose, and glared at everyone gathered in the area. “Look,” he said, “I don’t know what kind of grudges some of you may have against one another—and I don’t care. When you come onto my set, leave your petty squabbles at the door.
“Being tough rivals during the game is fine. In between takes, though, you’d better make nice with one another. If you can’t do that, you can’t be on Warehouse Rumble. I don’t have the time or money to put up with troublemakers.
“Anyone screwing around will be out on the street in a nanosecond—whether you’ve passed your auditions or not. Do I make myself clear?” Willingham looked around the crowd, warning everyone nearby.
“Crystal clear,” Frank replied.
“Yeah, okay,” Reid said.
Joe, Chet, Daphne, and the rest of the crowd mumbled their agreement.
“You’re not throwing them out of the auditions?” Stacia Allen asked. She and her cameraman had pushed to the front of the crowd. The other reporters also had their cameras on the scene.
“Kick them out for what?” Willingham asked, suddenly becoming all smiles. “Youthful high spirits? Warehouse Rumble is about intensity.”
“Okay,” he continued after soaking up the spotlight for a moment, “everyone, back to work.” He hooked his thumb toward the audition testing stations. As the crowd dispersed Willingham pulled Reid aside. “You get me, hotshot?” he asked.
Reid nodded.
“And you,” Willingham said, pointing at Frank, “Mr. Karate, save your chops for the auditions. You’re going to need them.”
“No problem,” Frank replied.
Stacia Allen stuck her microphone toward Frank’s face, but Willingham deflected it and herded her and the other reporters away. “You can talk to the kids after the auditions if you want,” the producer said. “For now, I need them concentrating on the game. Now . . . let me tell you more about Warehouse Rumble. . . .” He paused only long enough to shoo Lily and Todd Sabatine away from the crime scene perimeter.
“This ain’t over, freaks,” Reid called as he walked away.
“Anytime,” Frank replied.
Daphne let out a long sigh of relief. “You know,” she said, “I think that Ward Willingham was actually pleased about the fight. He was trying not to smile the whole time he lectured us.”
“He’s a real publicity hound,” Joe said. “After bawling Stacia Allen out yesterday, he’s still letting her snoop around the show.”
“Speaking of which,” Chet said, “you guys better get back to the auditions if you want to make the cut. They’re picking finalists between now and lunch.”
Joe nodded. “Wish us luck.”
“Break a leg,” Chet replied.
Frank, Joe, and Daphne went back to the tests. Because this was their second day and they didn’t need to prove themselves that much more, they quickly completed their remaining tasks and soon rejoined Chet in the refreshment area.
The auditions wrapped up just after noon, and it took Willingham and his crew about forty-five minutes to make the final cuts. The Warehouse Rumble team thanked everyone who had tried out, then announced the names of the people who would be competing on the show.
The Hardys and Daphne joined Chet and Bo Reid on the final list. So did the Sabatines, Missy Gates, and Jay Stone, among numerous others. Thirty-two contestants were finally selected. Each day of shooting, some teams would be eliminated.
“All right!” Willingham said, flashing a big Hollywood smile. “Most of you already have partners for the competition. Those of you who don’t should check with Ms. Kendall. She’s got a list of the pairings. The final preparations and briefing will take thirty minutes. Then we’ll begin the first contest.”
“Our staff will go over the rules with each group of teams,” Ms. Kendall added.
“I want to congratulate all of you for making it this far,” Willingham continued. “Now comes the fun part. I want you to play fair, and play hard. Let’s all work together to make Warehouse Rumble the hit I know it’s going to be!”
“Hey,” Joe whispered, “I thought we were a hit already.”
Julie Kendall took the Hardys and their friends, along with four other contestants, aside to brief them and answer questions. Willingham and the rest of the staff briefed the other contestants.
“Warehouse Rumble is set in the future,” Ms. Kendall said. “The world is a wasteland, and resources are scarce. Teams of adventurers wander the countryside in search of fortune. On their quests they’ll have to overcome numerous obstacles, as well as combat other teams and the monstrous mutants that lurk in the ruins of the old civilization.”
“Sounds like a fun place,” said Chet. His friends and the rest of the contestants laughed.
Ms. Kendall smiled. “It’ll make fun TV, that’s for sure. We have team T-shirts for each of you ‘Rumblers’ to wear. You can customize your outfits if you like by adding accessories—but we must be able to see your team colors at all times. The TV audience needs to know who you’re playing for—and against. Remember, this is supposed to be a grungy future.”
“Like the Road Warrior,” Frank said.
“Exactly. Throughout the challenges there will be treasure for you to discover—so keep your eyes peeled for them. Securing the final treasures will determine who wins the Warehouse Rumble.” Ms. Kendall paused and looked around the group. “Any questions?” She looked around; no one looked confused. “No? Good. Get costumed up, and then meet near the refreshment area for your first assignments. You can use the bathrooms at the far end of the warehouse to change.”
As the group broke up Chet said, “The Sabatines will fit right in with this scenario. No costumes necessary.”
“Maybe they’ll be given bright pink costumes,” Daphne mused, smiling.
“That’d really compliment their Goth look,” Joe quipped.
Ten minutes later all the teams assembled once more. Some had taken the time to work on their costumes, while others looked more or less normal. Daphne chose to wear her leather jacket over her team colors; Chet wore his Bayport High jacket. Frank and Joe both slicked down their hair and rolled up the sleeves of their T-shirts. Both Bo Reid and his partner, a buff, redheaded kid the Hardys didn’t know, had torn their shirts in strategic places. The Sabatines wore their T-shirts like bandannas; they looked very postapocalyptic.
Willingham allowed the TV cameras to get a look at the assembled contestants. Then he ushered everyone but his own crew out of the warehouse. After a final rousing pep talk, he sent the teams off to compete in the different events set up throughout the abandoned warehouse complex. Daphne and Chet headed out to the old docks, while Frank and Joe remained inside.
The Hardys’ first challenge was a relay race through a maze-like obstacle course, that had been constructed from fallen girders and other broken pieces of the old building. Frank, being slightly thinner, elected to take the first leg—which involved squeezing through some tight places. Joe would finish up the second leg, which required pushing through obstacles and confronting another contestant.
“It’d be nice if we knew who we were competing against,” Frank said as he and Joe set up at one end of the course.
“Don’t sweat it,” Joe replied. “Whoever it is, we’ll come out on top.”
A member of the staff gave Frank a baton with a glowing lightstick inside it, then took Joe out of sight to the place where he’d begin his leg of the race.
Frank set himself into position and waited for the Klaxon signal to start. When it came, he sprinted off the starting line. He dodged between two “fallen walls”—actually fakes, constructed by the show’s crew—and then squeezed through a half-open metal door.
As he ran he caught a glimpse of someone moving through the parallel course to his right. It was the buff, red-haired kid—Bo Reid’s partner.
Frank gritted his teeth and surged forward through the remaining obst
acles. He crawled under one last girder and handed the glowing baton to Joe. “You’re facing Reid,” he said, gasping for breath.
Joe’s blue eyes gleamed at the prospect. He bulled his way through the first challenge: a set of hanging punching bags that bumped into one another like a series of swinging walls.
He sprinted up a slick incline, and then a swung on a rope over a pit. Joe guessed that the cameras wouldn’t see the thick, dark cushions in the bottom of the pit—placed there in case he lost his grip. Next, he shoved aside some heavy “columns” made of chicken wire, plaster, and paint.
Forging ahead, Joe came to another pit. This one had a rope net stretched over the top of it. There was an entrance onto the net on either side of the course, but only one way off, at the far end.
Joe could see the finish line just beyond the netting. At the same time, he spotted Bo Reid at the other entrance.
Both of them lurched onto the net, toward the exit at the far side. As they struggled forward, it became obvious that they’d have to battle each other to reach the exit.
“I got a message for your brother and Morton,” Reid hissed. “The word is . . . pain! Too bad it’s your turn to play delivery boy.”
“I think I’ll mark this one ‘Return to sender,’” Joe quipped. He and Reid now stood less than ten feet apart.
Suddenly the doors to the warehouse burst open. Someone with a megaphone yelled, “Hold it! Stop everything!”
5 Flack from the Flack
* * *
Willingham’s security rushed toward the front entrance as Clark Hessmann and a well-dressed woman strode into the warehouse. Julie Kendall hurried to cut them off. “You can’t come in here!” she sputtered.
“This paper says we can,” Hessmann replied, holding out a piece of white parchment with printing on it.
“It’s a restraining order,” said the well-dressed woman. “I’m Helen Scott, Mr. Hessmann’s lawyer.”
“This paper says you’ve got to stop filming in Jackson’s warehouse,” Hessmann said proudly.
Ward Willingham blew his referee’s whistle and yelled, “Cut! Cut! Everybody take five until we can figure this out.” He hurried over to where the guards had converged on Hessmann and his lawyer.
Warehouse Rumble Page 3