Insert Coin to Continue

by John David Anderson

  Suddenly it dawned on him. That’s why she’d done it. She knew. Of course she knew. Everybody knew.

  Bryan looked toward her house, but she was already inside, the door shut behind her. She had made his decision for him, distracted him on purpose. Made certain he was somewhere else when his time to meet Wattly rolled around.

  Which meant . . . it meant . . . Bryan wasn’t sure, but he knew it meant something. Maybe it meant he should go knock on her door. Tell her that he remembered exactly what the message on the valentine candy heart was. Tell her about the lip gloss that he’d saved. Okay, maybe not that. That was a little too weird. But he would at least tell her that it was okay to be crazy.

  Maybe tell her he was crazy too.

  Bryan’s phone buzzed, startling him.

  It was a text message. From Oz. But not really from Oz.

  U R late, it said. I am still waiting.

  And I have your friend.

  4:37 p.m.

  Middle School Kombat

  Bryan had to stop long enough to catch his breath. He wasn’t used to running that far. He looked across the parking lot at the face of Mount Comfort Middle School. There were pockets of students waiting for their rides from chess club or cheer practice. A procession of parents honking their horns and waving impatiently. The drum corps for the school’s marching band was just now filing out through the double doors. But no sign of Oz anywhere. Or his captors.

  Bryan hadn’t shown up when he was supposed to. A big enough deal. But now he realized it was more complicated than that. Now it was a hostage situation.

  He had forgotten to take his phone off vibrate after school, so he’d missed the previous twelve messages and the one panicked phone call. All he got was the text message from Wattly saying that if he didn’t show, then Oz would pay the price. Bryan glanced over at the bike rack and thought about making a run for it; let Oz fend for himself. He was the one who’d gotten Bryan into this mess to begin with.

  But he knew there was no way he could do that to his friend. Wattly was going to get his hands on Bryan one way or another. This was what the whole day had been building to, after all. All roads led here. Tennenbaum. The mouse. The Boss. Even Jess. All side quests. There was only one way this day was ever going to end.

  Bryan walked cautiously through the parking lot and around the back of the school. He didn’t even make it to the alley and its Dumpsters. They spotted him from across the baseball diamond and immediately came to intercept.

  There were only four of them. Three of Wattly’s football buddies—Zach Rollins and Bobby Mizaro and some kid Bryan and Oz just called Mr. Happy Face because he always looked supremely ticked off. And Tank, of course, rolling steadily toward him. Squished between the four of them was Oz. Bryan had expected a ringside audience complete with bookies and commentators ready to dish out a play-by-play. Wattly delivers a punch, and there go all of Biggins’s teeth, straight down his throat. Maybe there had been. Maybe the crowd had waited for a while and then given up. He pictured Mikey Gerard throwing his two dollars on the ground in disgust. It was a small consolation, knowing that nobody else would see him get pulverized.

  Except Oz. But that was okay. He wanted Oz to watch. When his spine was crushed and he was confined to a wheelchair, Bryan decided, Oz was going to be solely responsible for pushing him around and feeding him applesauce.

  Their eyes met and Oz put a hand up in a pathetic wave. He had some grass stains on his knee, and the swollen nose from gym, but that was a basketball’s work. No bruises or scrapes. They stopped with twenty feet between them. Tank looked even bigger than usual, casting his shadow so far in front of him that it nearly stretched to Bryan’s feet. Bryan noticed Wattly had one hand on Oz’s shoulder and was squeezing hard enough to give Oz a hunch.

  “You finally decided to show up,” Tank said.

  Greetings, chosen one. I have been expecting you.

  He looked at least six feet tall. Sure, he’d had to repeat a grade, but no thirteen-year-old should be that tall. Bryan nodded toward Oz. “Let ’im go, Chris,” Bryan said. “He has nothing to do with this.” It seemed like the right thing to say, even if it wasn’t at all true, even if Oz was just as much to blame—if not entirely.

  The Wizard of Elmhurst Park began to blubber. “Bryan, I am so sorry. I was ambushed, I swear. They snuck up behind me. There was nothing I could—”

  Oz didn’t finish his thought because Tank gave him a one-handed shove that sent him stumbling into the waiting arms of Rollins, then motioned toward the empty bleachers behind the dugouts. Wattly’s three friends dragged Oz through the mud. He had stopped talking, but the look in his eyes screamed one word.

  Run.

  Maybe four words, once you added for your life.

  Bryan shook his head. He couldn’t just leave Oz with Wattly and his goons. He carefully considered his other options. He was pretty sure Tank couldn’t spell the word “diplomacy,” let alone know what it stood for, but it was worth a try.

  “Listen, Tank. I’m sorry for what I said. I shouldn’t have said it. I probably shouldn’t have even thought it. And I promise you, I never said anything about your mother being stupid. Somebody made that up.”

  Tank shrugged. “To be honest, I could care less what you say about her. We don’t really get along. But you can’t go around bad-mouthing me to people, hobbit, and just get away with it. I have a rep to consider.” Wattly advanced as he spoke, only ten feet away now. On the bleachers Oz was surrounded. He had his hands clasped over his eyes, afraid to watch.

  “I’m not going to fight you, Chris,” Bryan said. He had heard somewhere, in a movie maybe, that if you used peoples’ first names, it humanized them. Made them like you more or something.

  It didn’t work.

  “I don’t expect it to be a fight, really,” Wattly said. “That’s why I’m going to do you a favor and at least give you the first shot before I break your nose.” Tank took another step closer.

  Then let us begin, warrior, so I can wallow in a bath of your cruor.

  Bryan didn’t want anyone bathing in his cruor. He wanted to keep his cruor inside his body where it belonged. He took a step back, keeping the buffer between them. “Seriously, man, what is this going to prove? That you’re stronger than me? I don’t think that was ever in question. I’m just a waste of your time.” All else fails, defer to the enemy’s sense of superiority. Give him enough lip service and maybe he won’t bust your own lips open.

  That didn’t work either, though.

  “Are you kidding? I’ve been looking forward to this all day.” Tank reached out with one hand and gave Bryan a shove. “What are you waiting for?”

  “I’m not going to hit you,” Bryan said.

  Another push. Hand to the face this time. Wattly’s hand smelled like boiled ham. Bryan stumbled two steps back.

  “Come on, Biggins. Do it already. Right here.” Wattly pointed to his chin. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll take me out in one shot. Maybe today is your lucky day.”

  Wattly thrust his face into Bryan’s. Bryan stared at that chin, with its fissure and its swath of fuzz, punctuating a face that he had dreaded seeing from the moment he stepped foot in the halls of Mount Comfort Middle School. How many times had he daydreamed about doing just what Chris was asking him to? Or fantasized about Wattly choking on a green bean at school and keeling over? Maybe today was his lucky day. Bryan felt his toes curl, followed by his fingers. Wattly reached out with both hands.

  This time Bryan was shoved hard enough to tumble onto the wet dirt of the pitcher’s mound. His bag fell from his shoulder as he landed on his already-bruised backside.

  Wattly sneered down at him. Bryan heard a bass drum start to thud from the opposite side of the school. Starting low and slow at first. Thwump. Thwump. Thwump. Thwump.

  “Stand up.”

  “No.”

  “Come on, Biggins!”

  “No,” Bryan spit. Every part of him felt brittle, stretched so thin he felt
he might tear in half in the wind. His bottom lip quivered. The pounding of the drums grew faster. Louder. Thwump, thwump, thwump.

  “Stand up, coward!”

  Wattly’s face was half obscured in the sunlight slinking behind him. He didn’t look evil. Just determined. His eyes didn’t burn with rage the way the Demon King’s did in Sovereign of Darkness. They just looked kind of empty, like two black marbles. But Tank’s mouth was set in a sneer, a grin that told Bryan how much he was enjoying this. Standing over him. Taunting him.

  Daring him.

  Bryan pulled himself back to his feet and clenched his teeth.

  “There you go, hobbit. That’s the spirit!”

  From out of nowhere the snare drums joined in with a roll, softly, barely audible over the sound of Bryan’s own heartbeat, which continued to thud in time to the deeper drums. Bryan could feel it building, all of it, tightening into a core that started in his chest and pulsed out along his arm to his clenched fingers. When he spoke again, it wasn’t much more than a whisper, but he said it slow so even Wattly could understand.

  “Promise me that no matter what happens, this will be the end of it.”

  “What?” Tank said.

  “No more threats. No more pushing. No more pranks. We just leave each other alone for the rest of the year. Oz, too.”

  “Man, when I’m finished, there won’t be enough left of you to scrape off of my shoe.”

  “Just promise me,” Bryan said.

  “Fine. Whatever. But you should know that if this is the last time I ever get to mess with you, I’m going to make the most of it.”

  The drums paused. Just for a moment. Tank turned and smiled at his friends on the bleachers, looking away, just for a second.

  So am I, Bryan thought. And he took his shot.

  He swung with everything, and he connected. Fist planted on that big, square jaw. Bryan heard a sickening sound, bone driven into bone through too-thin layers of skin and muscle. Saw Tank’s head jerk back and to the side. Felt the driving pain shoot through his own fingers and clear up his arm.

  From the other side of the school, the drum corps exploded with sound.

  Tank rocked backward, both hands reaching for his jaw with a grunt. Bryan stepped back, shaking out his mashed fingers, bringing his knuckles to his mouth. He saw the words appear in red above Wattly’s head, and he felt all the blood rush to his own.

  +5 DAMAGE.

  He did it. He actually hit Tank Wattly. Bryan looked toward the bleachers, saw the stunned looks on all four faces, including Oz, who had taken his hands down and just stared at Bryan with his jaw in his lap. Then Oz pointed, but too late. Bryan saw Wattly’s fist just as it drove its way into his gut like a piston firing.

  -10 HP.

  Bryan doubled over, trying to catch his breath as Wattly advanced, one hand still rubbing his jaw but the other ready to deliver another blow. Bryan dropped to one knee on the pitcher’s mound, choking.

  “Stand up, Biggins. We’re just getting started,” Tank growled.

  Bryan huddled tight, crouched low but still on his toes. He bit down on his lower lip. It hurt to breathe. He felt Wattly’s hand on his jacket, grabbing a fistful, ready to wrench him back onto his feet. Then he grunted and lunged, driving his head between Wattly’s legs, wrapping one arm around each of them, sweeping Tank’s giant tree trunks out from under him. Wattly hit the ground hard, slamming his head against the packed dirt as Bryan scrambled to his feet. From the bleachers he heard Oz cheer. In the space above Tank’s head he saw the letters.

  +8 DAMAGE.

  Tank got to his feet and spit out a glob of pink saliva, rubbing the back of his head with one hand. From the bleachers Bryan heard someone—Mr. Happy Face?—yell out, “Come on, Tank. Finish this twerp. Coach is going to be ticked enough as it is.”

  But Wattly didn’t look like he’d heard. His eyes were fixed on Bryan. He smiled big enough that Bryan could see the blood in his teeth.

  Then he charged.

  Bryan stood up straight, then at the last second he rolled to his right. Wattly’s hand grabbed again at Bryan’s jacket, nearly tearing it in half, but Bryan pulled himself free, leaving Tank with his back turned. Bryan kicked as hard as he could, driving his foot into the soft spot behind Tank’s left knee. Wattly buckled, then took another kick in the side.

  COMBO +2.

  Wattly turned and lashed out with one hand, but Bryan jumped back in time, then stepped forward with another kick, this one somehow finding Tank’s armpit.

  COMBO +3.

  And lodging there. His foot actually stuck in Wattly’s armpit, leaving Bryan one-legged, like a floundering flamingo. He struck out with both fists, one to each of Tank’s ears. Then twisted his leg free, pulling hard and landing on his back. Above Tank’s head he saw:

  MAX COMBO. +20 DAMAGE.

  Bryan turned and scrambled up to his hands and knees, crawling, when he felt a giant hand grab him by his jeans, pulling him backward. Before he knew it, he was airborne. Literally lifted off the ground by his pants, his underwear riding up painfully. Bryan heard a grunt and then felt weightless for a moment before slamming hard into the ground. His teeth jarred against one another. He blinked through black and yellow splotches. He couldn’t see above him; there were words there, no doubt, telling him how many hit points he’d just lost—a thousand, probably, that’s what it felt like—but he could barely see straight. He flipped over just as Tank’s tread buried itself in his side, right beneath his ribs, a swift kick that exploded throughout his whole body. There was a flash of red. Then another and another. Bryan rolled, trying to get away. He felt hands on him, underneath him, pulling him up, wrapping around him, around his neck.

  Bryan couldn’t breathe. He clawed for Tank’s arms. Kicked out with his heels against Tank’s shins. He felt dizzy. He was sure he was just going to pass out. In the bleachers everybody was screaming.

  Then he remembered something he had seen before. Not in a video game but on TV. About how a 90-pound stick figure of a woman had thwarted a 220-pound burglar who had come up behind her with a knife. Something about leverage and balance. Grabbing in just the right place and twisting just the right way. Pure physics.

  Bryan planted his feet, grabbed hold of Wattly’s right arm with both hands, and twisted. With a surprised grunt Tank rolled across Bryan’s shoulder, all sixty tons of him, headed for the wet grass. But one hand still had hold of Bryan, dragging him down on top of him, both of them crashing to the ground.

  Bryan felt himself land hard. Knees first.

  He heard a sound. The crash of a cymbal, ringing in the sky.

  NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

  All the air escaped Wattly’s lungs in a cough that turned into a throaty groan. Bryan saw the boy’s face instantly purple as he twisted away, hands reaching between his legs, whole body deflating like a burst balloon, curling like a worm stuck on the summer sidewalk.

  The letters above Tank’s head flashed.

  CRITICAL HIT. +50 DAMAGE.

  Wattly lay in the grass, whimpering, eyes shut, as Bryan pulled himself woozily to his feet and wavered above. The boy’s hands were still cupped between his legs, his body curled up fetal, his face contorted in pain.

  “Finish him!”

  Bryan turned to see Oz shouting at him from the bleachers.

  “FINISH HIM!”

  Bryan looked down at Chris’s scrunched face, his body a twisted knot, rocking back and forth. One more kick to the face would do it. Break the kid’s nose or maybe even knock out his front teeth. He thought about all those times pressed up against the locker. Pushed up against the wall. Books scattered across the floor. All those times he had been told to go back to the Shire. And all the things unheard, whispered by Wattly or someone like him into the ear of some girl, and the laughter that followed. All the writing on the bathroom walls.

  He thought about the demon. About how far you had to go to win the game.

  Beneath him, Chris Wattly started coughing. />
  This wasn’t a game. He was just a kid. They were both just kids.

  Bryan dragged himself slowly back to the pitcher’s mound and bent down for his backpack and his jacket, then came back to Tank. He reached into his pocket for his quarter—Oz’s quarter—and dropped it on the ground beside Wattly’s head.

  “Here. You probably need this more than me.”

  Behind the dugout the rest of Wattly’s crew stood up in unison, and for a moment Bryan thought they were going to gang-tackle him. Drag both him and Oz back to the Dumpster and make them eat trash, or just throw them inside and sit on the lid. Bryan walked toward them anyway, knuckles scraped, knees wobbling, bruised and bloodied, but determined not to flinch. They parted wordlessly.

  Oz grabbed his bag and galloped down the bleachers, nearly falling over himself. “Dude, that was so . . . ,” he started to say, but Bryan cut him off with a cold stare.

  “Just shut up and walk,” he said.

  They started slowly, walking backward. Then a little faster, finally spinning around and daring to breathe. As they crossed the field, Bryan looked back to see Wattly’s friends standing over him. They weren’t bothering to help him up. They were just staring at him as if he were some strange bug they had discovered and were thinking about stepping on.

  And above Chris’s body floated familiar words, but Bryan could barely stand to look. It made him sick, seeing them there, Wattly unmoving beneath them.

  When he was sure they were far enough away, Bryan stopped and leaned against a tree that had just started shedding. His legs gave out beneath him and he collapsed into the leaves.

  Oz took that as his cue to start talking again. “Oh my God, man! Did you see that? Did you just see what you just did?”

  What he just did. Bryan wasn’t even sure what he had done. It all blurred in his head. He could still feel it, though. Everywhere. From ears to ankles. Everything pulsed and pounded and throbbed.

  “You, like, totally obliterated him. He was, like, all, Grrrrr, and you were like, Umm, and he was like, Ungh, and you were like, Oh yeah? Then take this, and he was like slam, and then you went crack and he was all, Oooohhh.”