Child’s Play 3

by Matthew J. Costello

Oh boy, thought Shelton. Are they ever going to hate Andy Barclay.

  Andy watched Whitehurst losing steam. The fat kid was still holding his gun over his head—but barely. With each plodding step it wavered in the air. And Whitehurst’s jog had slowed even more. His feet dragged through the wet muck.

  Then he heard Whitehurst say something.

  “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Hang in there, Whitehurst. This can’t go on for much longer.”

  Andy was watching Whitehurst, watching the kid dying out here in the rain. So he didn’t see another cadet run beside him. He also didn’t see the cadet stick a foot out in front of Andy.

  “You’re history, asshole.” he said.

  Andy turned, and then he felt his foot catch. He went flying down, his gun tumbling through the air. His face fell into a mud puddle and the gritty water splashed over him.

  The other cadets behind Andy made a point to step on his hand or give him a little kick as they went streaming by. A few stepped in the puddle, splattering him even more with the muddy water.

  They said things to him.

  Jerk. Asshole. Dead meat.

  Boy, I’ve assimilated nicely, Andy thought.

  But Whitehurst had stopped. He extended a hand to Andy.

  “Come on, Barclay, get up.” Most of the cadets had passed and Andy’s hands stung from being stepped on. Whitehurst grabbed a hand and yanked him up. “It would be a lot easier for everybody if you’d just give Shelton the doll.”

  Andy stood up. He tasted the mud on his tips. “I don’t have the doll, Whitehurst.”

  Whitehurst shook his head. “So what did it do? Get up and walk away?”

  Andy had to smile at that. Hey, you guessed right. Now if only someone would believe me.

  But then Ellis was there, screaming at them.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Taking a coffee break? Get your asses in gear and move!”

  Whitehurst just shrugged at Andy and then turned to chase the cadets, now nearly halfway around the perimeter of the field.

  Andy looked at Ellis. One of Shelton’s flunkies. Like one of der Führer’s henchmen. Following orders. Just happy to be one of the chosen leaders.

  I don’t like that, thought Andy. And I may have to do something about it. But not now. He reached down for his gun, and then started a slow jog following Whitehurst.

  Thinking: Where’s Chucky?

  16

  Why is it, Chucky wondered . . .

  Why is it that just when I’m about to solve my Andy Barclay problems, someone always pops up to save the punk?

  Why is that?

  Maybe old Andy has some powerful mojo magic working for him.

  Chucky walked down the corridor. This is where the little cadets, the tiniest toy soldiers sleep. He heard one cry out in the night, dreaming of home, of mommy.

  Hey, this place isn’t so bad.

  I had my mommy. My crazy midget mommy with her booze and her strap, always screaming at me, pushing me around. Ranting at me about the big people, how she hated the big people.

  Gee, Mom, you should see me now. You’d love it.

  Chucky kept moving down the dark corridor. Good thing there was a room list posted out in the vestibule. Very handy, because it told me where everyone sleeps.

  He shifted the knife to his other hand. It was big and heavy. More of a machete, really. He wondered how Andy was faring, explaining things to the thoughtful officers in his dorm.

  Now, that was funny.

  Poor Andy, always babbling about his doll.

  Chucky counted off the rooms. One, two, three . . .

  And four! This was it. He stopped and looked down the corridor. Nobody here but us ghosts.

  Chucky pushed open the door.

  He saw two bunks. Two bunks, two brats. Just have to pick the right rug rat. He moved close to one bunk. Chucky looked at the kid’s blond hair.

  Nope, that was Parker, Tyler’s roommate.

  Chucky squeezed his bowie knife.

  He moved to the other bunk.

  It’s soul swapping time!

  He saw Tyler buried under his blanket.

  Chucky climbed onto the bunk and grabbed the blanket. Then he yanked it back, fast.

  To reveal two pillows.

  And a note sitting on the top pillow. Written by a kid with lousy penmanship, Chucky noted. He had to hold the note close to read it, it was so dark in here.

  What the hell is this? thought Chucky.

  He read the note.

  DEAR CHARLES,

  YOU’RE IT! COME AND FIND ME.

  YOUR FRIEND, TYLER.

  Chucky crumpled the note and tossed it to the floor.

  “Damn,” he said. He hopped off the bed. He looked around the room. There was no place to hide in here. Chucky nodded and left the room.

  Chucky moved down the corridor. He passed other rooms, the doors closed. The kid wouldn’t hide in there, he thought. Nah, he’d wake up other kids, get in trouble. No, he’s somewhere else.

  The doll saw doors at the end of the corridor. He’s probably down there.

  Cute kid. Hope he likes having plastic hands.

  And Chucky had a neat thought. Yeah, wouldn’t it be cool if we swap bodies—no, when we swap bodies—and then Andy comes along, old Andy boy to the rescue, and he sees Tyler. And I scream—’cause I’d be Tyler—I scream—“Help me! Andy! Chucky’s going to get me.” And before the kid has a chance to say squat, old Andy boy hops on him and cuts him to pieces.

  Wouldn’t that be great?

  He kept walking down the corridor. When he heard a sound, a small voice singing from way back at the other end.

  “Oh, Charles . . .”

  Chucky spun around, but he saw nothing. He ran down the corridor, listening. But he heard nothing, saw nothing.

  Hide-and-seek. It’s too damn late to be playing hide-and-seek. The damn kid should know better. Now he’s getting me real mad.

  Then he saw him at the end of the hall, turning the corner, down to the other wing housing the administration building.

  And Tyler sang out again, “Come and find me.”

  Chucky heard giggles.

  “Damn it,” he said. And Chucky ran, as fast as his little bandy legs could carry him.

  He pulled the bowie knife out of his Good Guy overalls—with so many handy pockets. He held the knife tightly, thinking: Every game ends. And this one will too.

  The sky was crisscrossed with a net of lightning, flashing briefly, lighting the soaking field with an eerie yellow glow.

  The wind was icy, freezing Andy—who was soaked.

  Then he felt it.

  This isn’t a normal storm, he thought. It was like this afternoon, when the clouds gathered. And years ago, in the factory when Chucky was stalking me, looking for me when I was a small boy.

  Andy stopped running. He put a hand out and stopped Whitehurst.

  “Whitehurst, where do the little kids sleep?”

  “What?”

  “The little cadets. Where do they sleep?”

  Whitehurst pointed to a building lined with columns. “Over there. Why?”

  There was another flash of lightning.

  “Wish me luck.”

  And Andy jogged away, heading toward the building.

  “Hey, Barclay,” he heard Whitehurst call. “Where are you going?”

  But Andy kept running. He reached the portico, and then ran beside the columns, protected from the rain. There was a great clap of thunder.

  I know where Chucky is, he thought. I know what Chucky is doing.

  He reached a door. Andy stopped and turned around. No one saw him. He pulled on the door handle. It opened, and there was Shelton, looking right at him.

  Shelton punched him right in the stomach. A solid blow that knocked all the wind out of Andy.

  Andy gasped. “You son of a bitch.”

  Then he straightened up, still holding his stomach.

  He saw She
lton grin, shaking his head, as if he couldn’t believe how stupid Andy was.

  And that’s when Andy brought his fist up and caught Shelton on the chin. The bones in Andy’s injured hand hurt even more, but he saw Shelton stagger back from the blow. He rubbed his chin. But before Andy could get off another shot, Shelton grabbed Andy, throwing a tight headlock on him.

  “You’re gonna regret that, Barclay.”

  And holding Andy, Shelton marched him back to the field, away from the dorm.

  Away from Chucky. Away from Tyler.

  This is fun, thought Tyler. Playing hide-and-seek with Chucky, running around the dorm.

  I knew he would come back, just knew it. He said he would. And now he’s here. Boy, are Good Guy dolls great.

  Tyler hurried down the corridor to the administration wing. It was dark down here. Too dark. The boy stopped and listened for the sounds of Chucky’s footsteps. He listened.

  And he heard the padding of the doll’s steps on the floor. He’s coming, thought Tyler. He’s coming. Oh, boy, I have to hide.

  He looked to his left.

  And he saw Colonel Cochrane’s office. He tried the doorknob. It was open, so he slid into the office. He saw the secretary’s desk and the door to Cochrane’s own office.

  Pad, pad, pad. He heard Chucky coming down the hall.

  Tyler giggled. This is fun. He ran inside Cochrane’s office.

  Tyler looked around. There had to be a place to hide in here. Somewhere.

  He saw a closet. Tyler ran into the closet and shut the door behind him.

  He covered his mouth, he wanted to giggle so much.

  And he waited in the dark.

  The little brat! Chucky thought.

  What an obnoxious brat, running around like this, and now he’s disappeared into someone’s office. But at least it offers the hope of trapping the little bastard.

  He hurried as fast as he could, down the hall to the office. Chucky stopped by the door and looked up at the sign.

  Colonel Cochrane, the sign said.

  Oooh, the big guy’s office. The head muckamuck, the toy soldier who held me by my hair this afternoon.

  I’ll fix his wagon before I’m done.

  Chucky stepped into the office. He kept moving slowly, the knife in front of him, past the secretary’s desk, gliding to the open door of Cochrane’s office.

  Only one way in, Chucky saw. One way in, one way out. Great.

  I just about have this situation wrapped up here.

  Put all this doll garbage behind me.

  He stepped slowly. He saw a glass case to his right filled with toy soldiers and medals. Nothing there, thought Chucky.

  He looked left. No nooks and crannies to hide in.

  Chucky heard the wind. Now where could the little brat be?

  “Tyler!” Chucky sang the word. “Oh, Tyler . . . come out, come out, wherever you are!”

  He stopped and waited.

  “Olly-olly-oxen-free.”

  Still nothing. He is in here . . . isn’t he?

  He saw the closet.

  Oh, yeah.

  That’s where he is.

  He walked to the closet. And he said: “Get out here, you little . . .”

  Tyler muffled his giggle. That Charles does like to curse. He’s getting mad. Because I’m winning the game. I hid real well. Except . . .

  It sounds like he’s coming here, coming toward the closet.

  Tyler squirmed inside the darkness. It was uncomfortable. Maybe it was time to come out.

  Maybe Charles was really getting mad.

  Whitehurst moved close to Andy. They were just marching now, plodding through the mud, their guns still over their heads.

  “What’s with you, Barclay?” Whitehurst sounded exhausted. And irritated, as if he was starting to join those who blamed Andy for the midnight romp. “What was that running away garbage all about?”

  Andy kept watching Tyler’s dorm.

  “Forget it,” Andy said.

  Why am I watching the building? he thought. What do I expect to see? Chucky dangling Tyler outside a window? Lightning hitting the building?

  I just hope the little kid is fast.

  And Andy made a promise. Get through this night, Tyler. And I’ll be there for you. Just get through this night.

  “Come on, Barclay. Try me.”

  Andy looked at him. Try me, he says. Andy shook his head. Try me.

  Okay. You asked for it.

  He stopped Whitehurst, grabbing his arm. The rain didn’t let up, pouring over his face.

  “All right, Whitehurst, you wanted it. Here it is. The doll’s alive. He wants to take over Tyler’s body.”

  Whitehurst looked at him. Then the fat kid kind of half grinned and turned away, nodding. “You’re right. Forget it.”

  Andy let go of Whitehurst. The kid marched away. Well what did I expect? You tell someone something absolutely crazy and they act as if you’re crazy. That makes sense.

  Whitehurst seemed to pick up his pace a bit, as if he wanted to put distance between Andy and him.

  Funny. Maybe I just lost my only friend here.

  And Andy looked at the dorm, coming close now.

  He spoke loud enough for Whitehurst to hear.

  “I just hope the kid can take care of himself.”

  Tyler started to sit up, to push open the closet door when it started to creak open.

  Kind of spooky. Creaky, like a haunted house door. Tyler sat there in the darkness.

  He found me. Charles found me. I guess the game is over.

  The door creaked all the way open.

  It was Charles, looking inside the closet. He held something in his hand. Tyler couldn’t see what it was.

  Chucky said something.

  He said, “Gotcha.”

  Ivers grabbed De Silva’s elbow.

  Ivers, a girl that De Silva knew didn’t belong at Kent by any stretch of the imagination—maybe Bloomies, Neiman-Marcus, even Ikea. But not Kent Military School.

  Ivers grabbed her, just outside Cochrane’s office. Uh-oh, thought De Silva, old Karen Ivers is losing her nerve. The cowardly clothes horse.

  De Silva turned to Ivers, the light catching Ivers’s fire engine red lipstick.

  The girl would wear makeup to her own funeral.

  “I—I can’t believe that I let you talk me into this.”

  De Silva shook her arm free. “Hey, quit your whining. And be quiet.” De Silva looked at Cochrane’s office. The door was open. Now, that was odd. It should be shut, even locked. She had brought a pick to open it.

  But the door was open. Pretty strange.

  She turned to Ivers. “Stay here and keep your eyes open. That’s all you got to do, Okay?”

  Ivers nodded and rolled her eyes. “Oh, I just live for moments like this.”

  De Silva laughed. Ivers’s sarcasm was a great antidote to the stiff upper lip of the Kent colonel. De Silva stepped into the room, aiming the flashlight in front of her. The outer office was empty. De Silva looked back at Ivers.

  Who was putting on a fresh coat of lip gloss.

  Never can tell who might come by. Girl could get lucky.

  De Silva turned back to Cochrane’s office. She moved into the office. Slowly. She saw the glass case. Cochrane’s trophy vault, his desk, a closet. She saw the file cabinet. The office was nice and quiet. And Ivers is watching my back, she thought. Everything’s . . .

  Then . . .

  She thought she heard something. A movement. Something. She froze. Then the wind rattled the glass panes and De Silva nodded. That’s what it was. She moved to the file cabinet. She saw the top drawer, marked with the letters A–G. She licked her lips and grabbed the handle of the cabinet. She pressed the button, hoping that the drawer wasn’t locked.

  She heard a click, and the drawer slid open.

  She brought the flashlight up and aimed it at the files, flipping through them with her other hand.

  De Silva found it quickly.
<
br />   Andy Barclay. A sizeable folder, a lot larger than that of any of the other cadets. Good, she thought. I can find out what the story is with this new plebe, Barclay. There’s something intriguing about him—more than his dark eyes.

  She pulled the folder out. And she heard Ivers hissing at her from outside. “I don’t know what you see in that guy, anyway.”

  De Silva opened the folder. She saw his birth date, photos of a little kid, a cute kid, a newspaper clipping, yellow, about . . .

  “He’s different,” De Silva said, “different from everyone else here.”

  The clipping was about an accident in an apartment building. She flipped up the clipping. “And he’s pretty cute, too. He’s been in foster homes, it says here. No wonder he’s so quiet. I wonder.”

  De Silva heard giggling.

  “Ivers, was that you?”

  “What?”

  “Did you just laugh?”

  “No, not me.”

  De Silva heard the giggling again. She grabbed the flashlight and turned.

  “Yeah,” Ivers said, “I heard that. What was that?”

  De Silva aimed the light at the closet.

  This was a new game, Tyler thought. He recognized De Silva’s voice. He was going to call out to her. That would have been fun.

  But then Charles covered his mouth. A new game, Tyler figured. Guess we’re going to surprise De Silva.

  But then it was quiet. Charles kept his mouth covered.

  Tyler saw the glow from De Silva’s flashlight.

  Though Tyler’s mouth was covered, he still laughed.

  This was so funny.

  17

  De Silva turned to Ivers and put a finger on her lips. She gestured at the closet. Someone was in there—and this was going to be fun.

  De Silva reached out and grabbed the handle of the closet. She whipped it open, spraying the inside with the glow from her flashlight.

  “Ah-ha!” she said.

  And there was Tyler, curled up inside the closet, giggling. He was holding a doll, a big mop of orange hair on its head.

  “Tyler!” she said.

  Tyler climbed out, pulling the doll behind him.

  “So you took the doll. Shelton will have you court-martialed if he finds out.” Ivers came alongside of De Silva, looking at Tyler.

  “What were you doing here, dwebe?” Ivers said.