Child’s Play 3

by Matthew J. Costello

  Never catch me sending my kids here. All that stupid marching and playing with guns.

  Al spit into the open maw of the back of the truck. Into the nut crusher, as he called it.

  He watched the toy soldier walk up to one of the full cans.

  He won’t even look at me, Al thought. Just wait. The guy’s carrying something to throw away, and he won’t even look at me.

  Al stood there, watching him. Go ahead, buddy. Pretend you don’t see me. Go ahead.

  He watched the man push something into an already full can.

  Hey, genius! Can’t you see? The can’s full.

  Then Al saw what he pushed into the can. It was a doll. Aw, somethin’ the matter with your widdle dolly? Or did you steal it from one of the brats who goes to this concentration camp?

  The man turned from the garbage can.

  Probably holding his breath, Al thought. The officer walked away, back to the front of the building. Al shook his head as he snatched up another garbage can. A great white pile of what looked like mashed potatoes sat on top of the can.

  Al took a big snort of air. It had looked like rain before, like a real nasty thunderhead was rolling in. But, hey . . . it was gone now. Things looked okay now. He did not like working in the rain.

  He tossed the can of kitchen scraps into the back of his truck, getting it nice and full before making the nut crusher bite down.

  He snatched another can, dumped it, and the garbage was up to the lip at the back.

  “Okay,” Al said, “it’s chow time.” He reached up for the lever and pulled it down. The engine whined and a big metal flap started pressing down on the garbage, pushing it down and into the truck. Al heard the snaps and pops of crushing cans and plastic, surrounded by a constant gushy sound.

  Damn, it was a powerful sound.

  Then he moved the lever up, and the metal flap quickly slid back up, awaiting another pile of garbage.

  “Okay,” Al said to himself. It didn’t concern him that he talked to himself. Not at all. After all, who else was there to talk to?

  He shook his head and laughed. “Nobody.” That’s who.

  He grabbed two more cans and dumped them in. He threw the empty cans onto the ground, and they rolled away. He liked the idea of the toy soldiers bending down and picking up the scummy cans.

  Al grabbed the can with the doll. It was jabbed headfirst into the can. Use to be, he’d bring something like that home for his kids. Used to be.

  But they were older now. They liked other things. Things Al didn’t want to know about.

  He watched the doll with red and blue coveralls tumble into the dumpster. He saw the doll’s hair, a big bright mop of red hair. Weird looking doll. Al laughed.

  “Never lose it in a crowd.”

  No sir.

  He tossed the empty can away and pulled the lever down. Got to back the truck up now, he thought. Pick up the dumpster. Then, I’m outta here. Hi-yo, Silver, and on to my next stop.

  And Fast Al, one of the quickest trash handlers in Cook County, walked to the front of his truck, the compactor whining behind him.

  When he heard a voice.

  “Help! Hel-l-p!”

  He stopped dead in his tracks. “Jesus,” he said, turning to the back. It was a voice, a goddamn kid’s voice coming from the compactor!

  Jesus H. Christ!

  “Help!” the voice screamed.

  Oh, God. How did a kid get in there, Al thought? How in the hell did a kid get in there?!

  He threw the lever, just as it started to press against the garbage. Al waited, praying. Please let the voice still be there.

  He looked at the garbage, just starting to be pressed together. There’s a kid in there.

  “Help me! I’m stuck.”

  “Okay, kid. Okay. I hear you. You’re okay. Now what I’m gonna do . . . what I’m gonna do is, I’m gonna throw the lever the other way. Open up the compactor. Get you right out, okay? You got it?”

  “Help me.”

  Fast Al took his time to look at the lever, at the switches. Had to get this right or the kid is so much toothpaste, squeezed flat.

  He threw a switch up and then grabbed the lever. That should do it.

  “Hang in there, kid. Just hang in there.”

  Al pulled on the lever, and the giant metal flap of the compactor started coming up.

  Phew, Al thought.

  Al looked at the sea of garbage, the colorful mixture of paper and food and wrappers and magazines.

  He didn’t see any little boy.

  “What the . . .”

  Al bent over the pile and started sifting through the garbage. Where is the kid? Al pushed away garbage with his gloved hands, digging deeper into the pile.

  “Hey, kid? You still in here?” he said, talking to the garbage. Thinking: This has gotta look crazy, me plowing through the garbage, talking to it.

  He didn’t imagine the kid’s voice, did he? He didn’t imagine that?

  Al climbed into the mouth of the back of the truck, kicking at the garbage, digging at it.

  Deeper, to a layer of crushed garbage that had already started being pressed together, forming a weird new substance.

  “Hey, kid,” Al yelled. “Where the hell are you . . . ?”

  That was close, Chucky thought. Real close. Too close.

  He popped up on the side and saw the garbage man—thank Damballa he’s got ears—on his knees, digging through the garbage. Quickly, Chucky jumped outside the truck.

  “Hey, kid!” he heard the garbage man yell into the back of his truck. Poor slob didn’t see me, Chucky thought.

  C’est la vie.

  Chucky looked up and saw a big metal stick, a lever. And a switch that had worn, raised letters. Open . . . and close. He threw the switch. The click was barely audible. Yeah, especially if you had your head stuck in garbage.

  Then Chucky reached up to the lever. His hand closed around it and pulled down.

  The mechanical jaw started down.

  Chucky watched the garbage man look up, horrified. The man turned to the lips of the truck and tried to stand up in the garbage, to get away from the mouth about to crunch down.

  Chucky watched. This is kind of interesting, he thought. Will he make it or won’t he?

  Chucky shook his head.

  The garbage man’s mouth was open, screaming.

  “No . . . !”

  He slipped on some garbage, lost his footing, and went crashing down on the pile of garbage.

  Ooops, Chucky thought. The metal flap of the compactor was right over him. Chucky bent down. He watched the garbage man scramble on top of the garbage, clawing his way forward.

  Chucky shook his head again. Not enough time. The opening, the gap to freedom, shrunk to a foot. The garbage man’s hands closed around the lip. The opening shrunk some more, to just inches.

  That’s it, Chucky thought. He’s snagged. Chucky, bent down, could see the garbage man’s face pressed into the garbage. And he saw that face look over and see Chucky looking back.

  “Hidey-ho,” Chucky said.

  The man screamed.

  And the scream grew, swelled, as the compactor went flush to the garbage, and still pressed down.

  Amazing, thought Chucky. I can still hear him, can still—

  More screams, and Chucky looked around.

  Now, he thought, where was I . . . ?

  Coming off the firing range, Ellis made Andy’s squad jog around the armory.

  Well, thought Andy, if nothing else I’ll be in great shape by the time I’m out of here. And that was something he had best work on. Getting out of here, and soon.

  They jogged to the back of the armory, and Andy heard the whine of a garbage truck, and then . . .

  Screaming.

  Muffled, horribly muffled, but someone was screaming.

  Ellis stopped the company. Andy was in front, looking at the truck.

  The screaming stopped.

  “What the . . .” Whitehurs
t said, panting.

  Ellis took a step toward the truck. He flicked the lever. The garbage truck stopped grinding down.

  Then someone said, “Oh, my god . . .”

  Andy looked. Red goo started dripping from the back of the truck, oozing from the seams of the jaw. Dripping onto the ground.

  The screams had stopped.

  Ellis walked to the truck.

  He reached for the lever, to start the jaws moving up.

  Someone’s in there, Andy thought. Someone is in there, and now . . .

  He’s dead.

  The blood kept dripping. The back of the truck looked like a crusty mouth, drooling red.

  Andy heard someone hacking behind him. Someone tossed his cookies.

  Andy just stood there with the other cadets, waiting, witnesses, while Ellis raised the lever and opened the truck’s mouth.

  14

  Incredibly enough, Andy watched everyone drift to their classes. A military school could not come to a stop just because someone died. Forward men, and don’t forget your notebooks.

  Andy went to his history class. He sat near the back, looking out the window, not really listening to the teacher, a woman, drone on.

  He kept thinking about things, disconnected things, disturbing things.

  Cochrane with the doll.

  The garbage man crushed to death. He must have been drunk, Whitehurst had said.

  Andy nodded.

  The teacher, Sergeant Frazier, looked like an emaciated owl, her hair pulled back tight, her body all bones. She carried a pointer.

  “Napoleon waged an assault, unprecedented in the history of Europe—unprecedented in its scope, its ambition.”

  Andy looked out the window, at the afternoon sky, darkening. I think . . . I think I have to get out of here.

  “But as we’ve seen, his campaign was destined to end at Waterloo.” Frazier took a step closer to Andy, pointer at the ready. “Can you tell us why, Mr. Barclay?”

  Andy heard his name and snapped around. Sergeant Frazier had him fixed with her beady eyes, ready to pounce. Andy licked his lips. The other cadets looked over at him. Most did nothing to hide their smiles.

  “Er, what was the question?”

  Laughter. The crowd in the arena was glad that someone else faced the hungry lion.

  Frazier shook her head. “I realize that we’re all shaken up by what happened today, but let’s make an effort, shall we, Mr. Barclay?”

  Andy nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

  Having drawn first blood. Frazier smiled. She turned back to her map, pointer at the ready. “Napoleon’s defeat boiled down to this: He was overconfident. He underestimated the enemy. And that is the cardinal sin in warfare, ladies and gentlemen. Never underestimate the enemy . . .”

  Andy listened. Thoughtful. Upset.

  Andy heard taps sounding over the field, a mournful sound marking the end of a damned mournful day. Looking out the window of his room, he saw two cadets with trumpets and two other cadets bringing down the flag. The sun was down, below the hills. Andy touched the glass.

  Is this worse than the foster homes? Or better?

  He didn’t know.

  He went back to his bed and picked up the pocketknife Tyler had given him. He opened it and shut it, still upset, disturbed.

  Whitehurst was spit polishing dress shoes. Already they gleamed.

  Whitehurst looked up. “Hey, better get unpacked, Barclay. Shelton loves to stage surprise inspections.”

  Andy nodded. He closed the pocketknife and put it on his desk. He grabbed his duffel bag and started taking out the clothes he hadn’t unpacked yet.

  “What are you doing?” Andy said.

  Whitehurst shook his head. Duh . . . “What’s it look like I’m doing? I’m polishing Shelton’s shoes.”

  “What? He makes you polish his shoes?”

  Whitehurst laughed. “No, I offered to do it out of the kindness of my heart. Jeez.”

  Andy watched Whitehurst spit on the tip of one shoe and then buff the spot into a reflective gloss.

  Andy knew what was bothering him. He decided to mention it to Whitehurst. I need all the friends I can get, he thought. Every single last one of them.

  “Whitehurst, did you see Cochrane with that doll today?”

  Whitehurst looked up and squinted. “No. A doll? What doll?”

  Andy took a breath. “He was carrying a Good Guy doll.” Another breath. “Just before the accident in the garbage truck.”

  Whitehurst nodded, and then went back to Shelton’s shoes. “Oh, Good Guys. I remember those.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “But nope. Can’t say I saw that. Cochrane doesn’t look like the doll-playing type.” Whitehurst laughed.

  Andy looked down at his clothes. He pushed the pile closer to the trunk at the foot of his bed.

  “There!” Whitehurst said. Andy looked over, just in time to catch Whitehurst spitting inside one shoe, and then letting the phlegmy goo drip from the heel down to the toe. “The finishing touch for old Shelton.”

  Andy grinned.

  Whitehurst stood up and grabbed his shaving kit. “I’m gonna get washed up, Barclay. Lights out in a few minutes.”

  “Right,” Andy said.

  Whitehurst left the room. Andy turned to his duffel bag and took out some more clothes.

  Well, now, Chucky thought, sitting in the dark. Sounds like old Andy boy is all alone.

  Maybe he would like a little company.

  Chucky stood up, inside Andy’s big footlocker. I can smell it, Chucky thought . . . the smell of a stream of cadets with their smelly jockstraps and dirty socks. That worries me. My senses are kicking in fast.

  The meter is running.

  Chucky pushed opened the lid.

  He saw Andy, sorting his clothes, tossing some in the bottom of his closet.

  Chucky pushed the lid open higher.

  It’s almost family reunion time.

  And won’t he be glad to see me?

  Friends to the end.

  But then the door to the room opened. Chucky popped down into the blackness and heard the other kid, the porker, talking.

  Whitehurst came back, scratching his head.

  “Yo, Barclay. Jeez, I almost forgot. Sergeant Clark wanted to know if you got your package?”

  “What package?”

  “He said that you got a package in the mail and that the little squirt Tyler was bringing it over to you. You didn’t get it?”

  Andy shook his head. A package? Who would send me a package? Who do I know that would send me a package?

  “No, I got nothing.”

  Whitehurst shrugged. “Well, Clark wanted me to ask.” Whitehurst started out the door again. “You might want to check with Tyler.”

  And Whitehurst was gone.

  That’s strange, thought Andy. He grabbed his socks, scooping them up in both arms, and walked to his trunk. He crouched down and caught the lid of the trunk with his shoulder.

  Slowly, Andy started easing it up, higher, higher until he could flip it wide open.

  He looked inside. It was empty. Nothing left but the poor soul who passed through this room. Andy let his socks tumble. Then he grabbed his pants and shirts and put them in there.

  I don’t have much, he thought. My world, my life has kind of shrunk lately. He slammed the lid of the trunk down, and turned back to his desk.

  He stopped.

  The pocketknife had been there.

  Right on top of the desk.

  It had been there, and now it’s not.

  Did Whitehurst take it? thought Andy. Wouldn’t that be a bummer. A kleptomaniac for a roommate. Or maybe it slipped to the floor. Maybe I’m losing my mind, and I never even put it there.

  He patted his pants pocket, feeling nothing.

  Then Andy crouched down on the floor, looking under the desk, under the bed.

  He caught the flash of the blade out of the corner of his eye. The hand holding the blade
. A tiny hand, malformed.

  The knife sliced out and cut his ankle. Andy screamed and rolled backward. He reached up to grab at the bed, to stop his fall. But he grabbed the open duffel bag, pulling it to the floor. Some more clothes fell out and his copy of Playboy.

  Andy smacked against the floor.

  And he looked straight ahead, under his bunk, and watched Chucky come out, from the shadows, knife in hand. Wearing that same sick smile that haunted Andy’s dreams.

  “No,” Andy moaned. He grabbed at his ankle to stop the bleeding. “No . . .”

  Chucky stood up, pointing the blade right at him.

  Andy shook his head. I’ve gone crazy. This isn’t real, this can’t be.

  “Long time no see, pal. Looking good.”

  No. Andy shook his head. “You’re dead. We killed you.”

  The doll, the madman, took another step toward Andy, the knife point leading the way. “Well, you know what they say, buddy boy . . .” The doll laughed. “You just can’t keep a Good Guy down.”

  Chucky shifted the blade to his other hand, then back again, enjoying Andy’s terror.

  He’s one sick little doll, Andy thought. Then he saw Chucky’s eyes move to the right, scanning the Playboy magazine. Chucky’s eyes widened.

  “My, my, how you’ve grown, Andy boy.”

  Andy put up a hand. His back was against the right wall. Only feet separated him from Chucky and his knife.

  Andy remembered something, something important.

  “You’re not going to kill me. You need me. You need to transfer your soul into my body!”

  But Chucky shook his head. “Wrong again, wimp. I got some fresh meat lined up, and I’m not gonna let you spoil it. Not this time.”

  Andy remembered something else.

  You got a package, Barclay.

  Whitehurst had said that.

  Andy whispered the name. “Tyler.”

  Chucky grinned, a disgusting leer. “Yup. Just think . . . Chucky’s going to be a bro! Bitchin’.”

  Now Chucky laughed, a weird cackle that was part witch, part demented electronic toy. Andy looked to his left.

  He saw one of Shelton’s shoes sitting on Whitehurst’s chair. Andy reached out and grabbed it. Without taking any time to aim, he threw it at Chucky.

  Hitting the doll right on the head, sending him flying backward. The knife tumbled to the floor, flying back and underneath the bed.