Child’s Play 3

by Matthew J. Costello

  Another step, and the box, the shiny brown wrapping paper so slick in his hands, slipped away. Tyler tried to stop it, but he felt as if he might fall. So he reached out for the handrail and let the box tumble down.

  He heard it cartwheel down the steps. The edges of the steps smacked into the box, denting it.

  Tyler stood there, frozen, while the box tumbled down the steps.

  Oops, Tyler thought. I’m not doing such a good job at this.

  Finally, the box came to rest, sliding across the floor leading to the door.

  It was dented in a dozen places. The paper was torn, and Tyler saw a bit of color, some yellow and orange.

  Tyler shook his head and went down the stairs to retrieve it. Thinking, whatever’s in there is having a rough trip.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Tyler crouched close to the box. He saw the torn flap of brown paper, the yellow, the orange. Bright yellow cardboard.

  There was something familiar about that yellow, he thought. He saw a letter in red. A big G. The flap of paper was there. Tyler couldn’t resist, he grabbed it and gave it just the tiniest pull.

  Two more puffy letters came into view. Now he saw GOO.

  Tyler held his breath. Could this be what I think it is? he thought. He gave the torn paper another small yank.

  GOOD G—

  He stopped.

  “Oh, yeah, oh, great,” he said, his voice echoing strangely in the tiled hallway. He grabbed the box and pulled it close, giving it a good rattle. Sure, that’s the sound, yeah, that’s the sound a Good Guy would make.

  Wow! My new best friend, Andy Barclay, is getting a Good Guy.

  “Most excellent!” he said.

  Then Tyler looked at the dented box. That wasn’t so great. Maybe Andy would be mad. But then Tyler thought: Barclay’s a big kid. He’s sixteen. Would he even want a Good Guy doll?

  No way! So what would he do with it?

  Tyler said the magic words aloud.

  “He’ll give it to me.”

  Tyler hurriedly picked up the battered box and, using his butt to push open the doors, he left the administration building.

  With every step across the quad, the box felt heavier. The only thing that kept Tyler going were the magic words.

  It’s a Good Guy. There’s a Good Guy doll in here.

  A few senior cadets watched him, grinning at him struggling to carry the box. But Tyler didn’t let that bother him. Barclay was in the armory as usual at this time, and Tyler was going to see that he got his package.

  He saw the gate leading to the armory, a place that Tyler had never been. They didn’t let the little kids in the armory. He saw a sign: Authorized Personnel Only.

  I could get in trouble, thought Tyler. But wait—Sergeant Clark asked me to deliver this, didn’t he? No, he ordered me. I’m just following orders.

  He entered the gate and walked up the steps into the stone building.

  As soon as he opened the door, he heard gunshots from the back. Neat, he thought. This is great. This is where I’ll learn to fire real guns, just like my dad.

  Tyler stopped in the hall. Got to keep moving, he thought.

  But where is Barclay?

  Looking over the box, Tyler saw rows of guns and shelves filled with bullets, all protected by a mesh fence that went to the ceiling. Someone sat at a desk, behind the gate.

  He’s going to look up, Tyler thought, and ask me what I’m doing here.

  Gotta move.

  He turned left, moving down the hallway, the gunshots echoing from the firing range outside. There were giant windows on his left, and the afternoon sunlight poured in. The light hit the box. The yellow cardboard, the red letters, seemed electric, as if they were alive.

  Where is Barclay? thought Tyler. I’ve never been in here before. He turned another corner. There were boxes here, stacks of boxes, probably filled with old school records. He saw a few doors, but they looked locked.

  There was no one around. Tyler stopped. He put down the box.

  He saw the yellow, the red.

  GOOD G.

  He pulled at the paper a bit more.

  The full words leaped out, as if they were eager to be free.

  It was too much, too much temptation, Tyler thought.

  I just want to look. I just want to look at the doll, see it. Maybe take it out of its box. To touch it.

  Then I’ll hunt for Andy Barclay.

  He looked around the deserted corridor. The gunshots echoed in the distance. So far away. There was no one around.

  Just me, Tyler thought.

  And this Good Guy.

  He pulled the paper. The tearing sound was so loud.

  10

  Each tear of the paper sounded like a buzz saw, like the one Uncle Will used to cut down the dead tree in the backyard. And with every tear, Tyler looked around, just to make sure no one caught him.

  I shouldn’t be doing this, he thought. This isn’t a good thing to be doing.

  He grabbed another flap, releasing another wonderful explosion of yellow and orange and red. The front of the box was facing away from him. Tyler peeled some more of the paper off. It was just too wonderful.

  He turned the box around, most of the wrapping paper off. And now he saw the doll behind a cellophane window, and its face, the smiling Good Guy face.

  Tyler smiled back at it.

  Then the face suddenly came to life—and with a blurringly fast head butt—the doll poked through the cellophane.

  “God!” Tyler said.

  He fell back on his bottom, hard, then scrunched away a few inches. Maybe I did something wrong, he thought. Maybe I did something that you’re not supposed to do with Good Guys.

  The doll pushed itself out of his box, headfirst, and then the little hands grabbed the outside of the box and he stepped through the broken cellophane window.

  Tyler thought he heard the doll muttering to itself.

  I didn’t know they did that.

  And this was like something he once saw. A bug, an insect, crawling out of an egg. Or something. Like it had to chew through this stuff. If it was going to get out, it had to chew its way out.

  It was only a little bug. But it scared Tyler.

  Like this.

  Then the doll leaped out of the box and stood before Tyler.

  These Good Guy dolls are fantastic, thought Tyler. Really amazing.

  This one looked up at him and grinned. It was not a friendly grin, kind of a mean grin, like the faces Shelton’s gang make. That kind of smile.

  And the Good Guy said. “Who the hell are you?”

  Now Tyler scrunched back another few inches—until the wall made him stop. Good Guy dolls don’t curse. They’re supposed to be nice, Tyler thought. Maybe I broke this one when I dropped it. Maybe . . .

  “C’mon, baldy, who the hell are you? And who’s been playing basketball with the goddamned box!”

  Tyler shook his head. The doll is talking to me! The doll can’t really talk, can’t really hear my answer.

  Tyler opened his mouth. The stone floor felt cold. Now he wished someone would come.

  “It—it isn’t nice to swear. You’re a Good Guy. I thought you could say only three sentences.”

  The doll took a step toward Tyler. Another step, and there was nowhere for Tyler to go.

  The doll bent down, close, looking over Tyler.

  “I’m new and improved.”

  Tyler nodded. “I—I never saw a doll like you before.”

  The doll nodded.

  I’m talking to a doll, Tyler thought. That’s impossible. I can’t be talking to a doll. How can I be talking to a doll?

  Is there a computer inside, a tiny computer that makes the doll talk? I thought Good Guys could only say. “Wanna play?” and “Let’s be friends.” And . . .

  The doll backed up, looking left and right. Tyler didn’t like the grin on its face. “Okay, kid, fun’s over. Where the hell’s Andy?”

  Tyler shook his head. For a secon
d he drew a blank on the name.

  “Andy . . . ?”

  The doll bent over and picked up some of the torn paper. “Here. Look. See. Andy Barclay. Can’t you read? He was supposed to get this package.” The doll stuck a hand out at Tyler and then raised a finger. “Did you know that tampering with mail is a federal offense, buddy boy? You could do some time in the slammer.”

  Tyler nodded.

  Maybe I should get up, Tyler thought. Just stand up, and walk away from the crazy doll. It’s broken. That’s it. I broke it. There’s something very wrong with this doll.

  And maybe I shouldn’t have opened the box. It was addressed to Barclay.

  “I’m sorry,” Tyler said. “Is Andy your best friend?”

  The doll’s smile broadened. Almost a real smile now, Tyler thought. A big, happy grin. The doll pounded the empty box and it made a thumping sound. “My friend? Why he’s more than that, baldy. Andy’s my new lease on life. Hey . . .”

  The doll’s smile faded. I don’t like the way his face changes so much, Tyler thought. One minute he’s happy, and the next . . .

  “Just wait a sec, here.” The doll looked like he was thinking, figuring things out. “I’ve got a new body.”

  The doll looked down at itself. Tyler didn’t know what he was talking about.

  I could stand up, Tyler told himself. I could run down the hall. The doll has only little legs, and . . .

  “And I ain’t told anyone my little secret yet. No sir. Nobody knows that I’m”—the doll looked at Tyler—“back.”

  The doll walked around to Tyler’s side. He put a doll hand on Tyler’s shoulder. The boy smiled. It felt creepy.

  Real creepy. Like the time he stayed up late and watched a horror show. It was called Monsters. And there was this stuffed animal that came to life. Except it wasn’t a stuffed animal, and when it opened up its mouth, it had all these teeth.

  Tyler cried that night, while trying to fall asleep in the dark.

  The small doll hand patted him.

  Tyler looked at the Good Guy’s face, all friendly now, just like in the TV commercials.

  “So, kid—what’s your name?”

  Tyler smiled back.

  “Tyler,” He gulped, and then said, “What’s yours?”

  The smile grew even broader. “Chucky.” He leaned close, putting his doll mouth right next to Tyler’s ear. Tyler felt the tiny breath of his whisper.

  “But my real name is Charles Lee Ray.”

  Tyler nodded.

  Wanting the doll hand to let him go.

  Wanting Chucky’s mouth to move away from his ear. He thought he smelled something on that breath. Something more than new plastic and the smell of cardboard. Something he didn’t like.

  But Chucky kept his hand on Tyler’s shoulder.

  The cadet firing range was behind the armory.

  Andy looked at the gun and wondered how he should hold it. Despite watching countless movies with well-armed drug dealers and Nazis getting blown away, Andy didn’t have a clue how to hold the rifle.

  He squinted, trying to line the gun sight up with the target. But it felt all wrong. Maybe I should try the other shoulder, he thought. He shifted the gun, but that felt even more bizarre.

  The noise out here in the shooting range was loud even through his muffling headgear.

  He felt someone behind him. He turned and saw Whitehurst, shaking his head.

  Andy pushed the headgear away, hearing the crackling pops that filled the room.

  “What am I doing wrong?”

  “Do you want a list?” Whitehurst joked.

  And Andy grinned.

  He also saw De Silva, in the next stall, leaning down and taking aim. Andy saw her target filled with black dots clustered around the bull’s-eye.

  “Looks like we have Annie Oakley here,” Andy said.

  Whitehurst didn’t hear him and gestured, putting a hand to his ears.

  Andy repealed the words, “Annie Oakley here.”

  De Silva turned and looked at him, a big smile on her face.

  What a woman, Andy thought. Not only is she gorgeous, not only can she build a mean rope bridge, but she’s even a hell of a shot.

  Andy smiled back. Then, he said, “Is there anything you can’t do?”

  De Silva put down her gun and nodded. She came closer to Andy.

  “Can’t cook worth a damn.”

  Whitehurst cleared his throat. “Er, Barclay, meet De Silva.”

  Andy stuck out a hand and De Silva look it. A strong handshake, but still, somehow, amazingly feminine.

  “Hi. You’re new?” she said. “That can be tough.”

  “Tell me about it.” Andy felt her powerful stare, as though she were taking him all in, seeing everything.

  No, Andy thought. Not everything.

  Nobody sees everything.

  He moved his eyes away, breaking the contact. He gestured at his gun. “So, you wanna show me how to shoot—before I do damage to myself?”

  De Silva laughed. “Sure.”

  She walked to Andy’s gun, while Whitehurst gave Andy a nudge to the ribs. When Andy looked up, Whitehurst was rolling his eyes. Apparently De Silva wasn’t usually this friendly. Andy felt himself redden.

  “Okay, Barclay. First thing you have to do is grab the gun correctly. Here,” she said, extending the rifle to him.

  Andy took the gun and started to aim the way he had before, leaning on the counter, taking aim at the target.

  “No,” De Silva came up behind him. She leaned over him, and Andy felt her body pressing against him. Yeah, he thought, like I’m really thinking about shooting now.

  “Okay, get the stock right into your shoulder.” De Silva pushed the gun stock back until it was tight against Andy’s shoulder.

  He started to squint, taking aim.

  “No. Don’t squint. Keep both eyes open. Eventually you’ll see through the sight just fine.”

  De Silva used her hand to push Andy’s cheek close to the gun. Then, she actually leaned close to him, looking at the sight of his gun. Close enough so that Andy could smell just a hint of perfume. And there was the wonderful scent of just-washed hair.

  “Okay. Looks good,” she said. “Now, here’s the important part, Barclay. Keep your sight on the target. Hold your breath. You don’t want to move at all.”

  Andy did as ordered.

  “Now, squeeze the trigger. Nice and gently. Squeeze it . . . don’t pull it.”

  Andy put a small amount of pressure on the trigger. He felt it give, just a little.

  “Nice and easy . . .”

  De Silva’s body pressed close against him.

  I wonder, he thought, does she know that she’s driving me crazy? I’m going to do more than fire this gun if she doesn’t slide off me.

  “That’s it,” she whispered. “Squeeze.”

  The gun fired. Andy let out his breath.

  He looked up. His target remained unmarked.

  “Damn.”

  De Silva’s voice was close to him. “You’re not concentrating.”

  You got a point there, he thought. At least, I’m not concentrating on marksmanship.

  “Try again.”

  Andy nodded. De Silva was still close to him, looking through the sight, checking that the gun was held tight.

  “Squeeze.”

  Another blast, and Andy looked up and saw that the target hadn’t been touched.

  Andy rushed the next shot, another miss.

  He looked at De Silva, who shook her head. “Just keep at it,” she said.

  “That was great, you know,” Andy said. De Silva looked at him, not understanding. “What you did to Shelton, back there at formation.”

  De Silva smiled. “Well, Shelton’s a major dick.”

  “Tell me about it. The guy thinks he’s in Full Metal Jacket.”

  De Silva laughed. “Yeah, and I’ll fry his buns every opportunity I get.” She gestured at his gun. “Back to school. Go ahead, take some mo
re shots.”

  Andy nodded. He leaned on the counter and pressed his cheek close to the gun. He forced both his eyes to stay open. He pulled the trigger.

  And Whitehurst slapped his back.

  “Hey, guy, you hit it,” Whitehurst said. “You nicked the damn target just there, in the corner. Way to go!”

  Andy turned to De Silva. She nodded, quite pleased with herself, and moved back to her gun.

  “Well, there’s plenty of room for improvement,” she said.

  And Andy heard Whitehurst giggle.

  11

  This kid is a sucker, thought Chucky.

  Everybody’s a sucker. Everybody’s waiting for someone to feed them a line. So damned eager to give away their money, their life, their soul.

  But this was too easy.

  Old Andy boy at least made it interesting.

  And oh, will I fix that little bastard. Though he ain’t so little anymore. Still, our day of reckoning is coming. This mess could have been cleared up years ago if he hadn’t made life so difficult for me.

  This kid Tyler, though, is just perfect. Real polite and interested. So interested in Good Guys that, yes siree! he’ll get to be one.

  In just a few seconds.

  “Tyler, I want to play a game with you.”

  Chucky forced one of those trademarked Good Guy smiles. He had to force his chubby plastic cheeks up.

  I’m one Good Guy, he thought, who’s far more comfortable with a sneer. That dopey smile just ain’t natural on me.

  Tyler smiled, eyes wide. He’s with me now, Chucky thought. Just got to lay off the cursing. Got to act like the dopey dolls in the commercials. Friends to the end. Hidey-ho!

  Which should be in about five minutes.

  “Sure!” Tyler said. “I like games.”

  Chucky pushed Tyler on his chest. “Great, buddy boy. All you gotta do is lie down, and . . .”

  Tyler slid down to lie on the floor. Such a cooperative boy. Absolutely stellar. Though looking at the boy in his uniform, Chucky did see a problem.

  I’ll have to get out of this GI junior academy here. Getting myself to the Play Pals mail room, and all wrapped up, had been mostly an exercise in careful planning. Getting out of here may not be too easy. He felt the smile slip from his face.

  Tyler’s face looked concerned as he lay on the floor.