Child’s Play 3

by Matthew J. Costello

  But Andy nodded at him, still smiling. You’re still here, huh, kid? Chucky didn’t get you.

  Unless . . .

  Unless . . . It was a possibility. If Chucky had done the soul swap, that could be Chucky.

  Waving at Andy, smiling at him. Andy started to push his way through the crowd to Tyler. I’ll know, he thought.

  I’ll know if it’s really Tyler.

  Shelton shook his head. And then—as the stretcher passed—he saluted.

  He took a breath. The paramedics unstrapped the body and—taking care to keep the face covered—they loaded it into the ambulance.

  “The man was an animal, Ellis. He was strong as an ox. Damn, he lived through two wars.”

  Ellis nodded. “They say his ticker just gave out.”

  Shelton shook his head. Cochrane’s body disappeared into the ambulance. “But why? Why now?” He turned to Ellis and looked right at him. “Why me?”

  Ellis shrugged.

  A paramedic slammed the ambulance door. It wouldn’t be hurrying to the hospital. It wouldn’t have to use its siren.

  No rush here, thought Shelton.

  And he thought: Cochrane’s passing leaves a void—a leadership void. And somebody will have to fill that void.

  Andy pushed closer, but there was a wall of cadets still cutting him off from Tyler, only feet away.

  A policeman stood behind the ambulance, holding a clipboard. Andy felt the cadets pushing at his back and he turned. He saw Tyler.

  “What are you doing up, fella?” the cop said.

  Tyler blinked at him. Andy could hear the cop, hear Tyler’s answer.

  The ambulance started up.

  “Huh,” the policeman repeated. “Kinda young. You should be asleep.”

  Tyler smiled. “I—I was playing hide-and-seek.”

  The policeman shook his head. Andy heard Tyler, and he tried to push his way closer. The ambulance slowly pulled away from the front of the building.

  “Who with?”

  “With Charles,” Tyler said.

  The policeman shook his head at the imagination of kids. The kid was playing an imaginary game with an imaginary friend.

  Andy pushed closer. It’s no imaginary game, he thought. And Charles sure isn’t a friend.

  Andy heard Tyler. “He’s my friend to the end.”

  And then the policeman gently guided Tyler inside, tugging him away from Andy, from the crowd of cadets watching the ambulance cart away their fallen leader. Tyler disappeared.

  And Andy thought.

  He’s still Tyler. And there’s still time to save him. To save him and . . .

  Stop Chucky.

  19

  A creature—part human, part gorilla—one of Kent’s gourmet chefs, plopped a ladle of scrambled eggs on Andy’s outstretched plate. The yellow glop landed on top of two sausages that looked to have the consistency, and probably the flavor, of sticks. At least the OJ looked wet and yellow.

  The mess hall was packed with rows of rectangular tables, perfectly spaced with the oldest cadets in the front and the youngest in the back.

  Andy exited the line and looked for a place to sit. He saw Whitehurst sitting at one table, but there was no room there.

  Not that anyone was talking to Whitehurst. He sat alone, looking down at his tray.

  Andy started moving, looking for some place to sit. I guess the cost of my friendship is too high. Whitehurst is already enough of an outcast without me hanging on his neck.

  Andy looked for a spot, but all he saw were unfriendly faces, looking at him, remembering the previous night’s jog.

  Someone entered from the back of the giant mess hall. It was Botnick, racing down the aisle, looking at the cadets.

  There were flags on each wall, odd flags—maybe from other military schools, famous battle groups. Andy didn’t recognize any of them.

  Botnick stopped right by Whitehurst.

  Andy watched the barber flick at Whitehurst’s hair.

  Aw, cut him some slack, Andy thought. The mess hall is filled with cadets—a few with hair longer than Whitehurst’s and you have to pounce on him?

  Andy watched a second. Botnick rubbed Whitehurst’s head and laughed—as if he were ordering Whitehurst to come by for a visit with Botnick’s shears.

  It’s not so bad, thought Andy. You get to watch cartoons and hear Botnick laugh.

  The barber kept moving through the mess hall. Andy heard him talk to another kid.

  “Nelson, you need a trim too. I want to see you this P.M.”

  Nelson nodded.

  Andy saw Tyler, sitting off with the younger kids. He was playing his Game Boy, lost to the beeps and buzzes. And there was a space next to him.

  Andy walked over there.

  He heard someone laugh, but he kept on walking.

  When someone tripped him. Andy tried to get his balance, to catch himself, to stop his fall. But he tumbled forward, his tray out in front of him. He watched his plate of eggs and sausages go sliding off the end of the tray, tumbling . . .

  Upside down.

  And all the tables surrounding him broke out in laughter.

  Andy’s knees smacked into the floor hard. But he got up. He scraped the egg off the floor. Grabbed the two stick sausages. He mopped at the orange juice. A mess hall officer walked by.

  “Kind of clumsy, plebe. Better watch where you go.” The officer threw some napkins to the ground.

  Andy nodded and wiped up the mess.

  Surrounded by the giggles. Yes, Andy thought, I’ve certainly made a good impression here.

  He picked up his tray and walked to Tyler’s table.

  Andy sat down next to Tyler but the kid didn’t even notice him.

  His face was all concentration, looking at his Game Boy, pushing the buttons.

  “Tyler,” Andy said.

  The kid didn’t respond.

  “Tyler!”

  “Hi, Barclay. Just wait a minute, just a second. I’m almost there, almost—oh, darn.” Tyler looked up. “I blew the last screen.”

  Andy nodded. Tyler looked down at the mess on Andy’s tray. “Hey, what happened?”

  “Never mind, Tyler, I’ve got to talk to you about Chucky.”

  “You mean Charles?”

  “Yeah. Whatever. There’s stuff you don’t know. Have you seen him?”

  Tyler shook his head. “Not since last night.”

  Andy looked around, and he thought: Where are you . . . Charles? Where are you hiding in this place?

  He could be anywhere, Andy thought. He’s a little guy. He could be back in that kitchen, whipping up scrambled eggs.

  Andy turned back to Tyler. “Look, he’s hiding somewhere, Tyler. He’s going to lay low until he knows you’re alone.” Andy reached out and touched Tyler’s arm. “And then he’s going to come after you.”

  Tyler listened, his mouth open, trying to understand. But then he smiled, and shook his head.

  “Yeah, he just wants to play.”

  Andy pounded the table. “No! Listen to me Tyler. No matter what he says, no matter what he tells you, no matter what he promises you, you’ve got to stay away from him. You understand? You’ve got to stay away from him. Don’t let him fool you. He’s bad.”

  But Tyler shook his head.

  He picked up his game. Pressed a button. An annoying electronic song blared from the machine. “Charles isn’t bad. He’s a good guy. It says so on his shirt.”

  Andy reached out and grabbed Tyler’s arm, making him turn. “No, Tyler. He lies. He’s not a good guy. Believe me, he’s bad news. He’s hurt a lot of people. God, you’ve got to believe me.”

  But then Tyler’s eyes narrowed. Some funny thought was going through his little kid’s mind. And then he nodded, some great understanding finally achieved.

  “Oh, I see. My dad—he says if you can’t say anything nice about someone, don’t say anything at all. I understand now,” Tyler stood up. He stuck out his lip while he talked. “You’re just jealous
, yeah, ’cause Charles is my best friend now instead of yours.”

  Tyler picked up his tray.

  “No, Tyler. I have to tell you . . .”

  But Tyler stormed off with his tray.

  Andy looked around, at the other little soldiers, playing with their eggs, trying to cut the rubber sausage.

  Andy stood up.

  Thinking: Where is he? Where is the damn doll?

  Whitehurst trudged down to the Dungeon, the name the cadets gave Botnick’s combination hair salon and torture parlor. He cuts hair the way most people mow their lawns, thought Whitehurst.

  And my hair isn’t even long. But Botnick was no different from the rest of the monkeys in this zoo. Everybody loves a fat kid.

  Especially if they can make life miserable for him.

  Botnick had just finished with another kid when Whitehurst walked into the shop.

  “Oh, Whitehurst. Glad to see you fit an appointment into your busy calendar. C’mon, chubby, the chair’s getting cold.”

  Whitehurst walked over to the barber chair. Botnick quickly covered him with a white sheet. The barber had a cigarette in his mouth, dripping ashes on the sheet.

  What a slob, thought Whitehurst.

  Botnick grabbed his electric razor off the counter. He clicked it on. A puff of smoke blew in Whitehurst’s face and he coughed.

  Botnick started running his trimmer over Whitehurst’s scalp. He moved to the front, trimming Whitehurst’s spiky tufts down to peach fuzz.

  “You know, Whitehurst, you are the sorriest excuse for a soldier to ever disgrace these halls.”

  Whitehurst turned away. God, I’m trapped here with this abusive monkey on my case.

  Botnick moved to the left side. “Face it. You’re not cut out for this. Why don’t you do yourself—and the school a favor—and leave Kent?”

  An ash fell close to Whitehurst’s face. More second-hand smoke wafted from Botnick. “If I had any choice in the matter, I would.”

  Botnick made his razor swoop close to Whitehurst’s ear.

  “Smart ass,” he said. Then he shut off the razor. He pulled the sheet off Whitehurst.

  “There you go, princess. You’re bald.”

  Whitehurst looked in the mirror. That mirror reflected the back mirror, creating an infinity of images, an infinity of Whitehursts. All of them bald, all of them looking pissed off.

  Botnick chuckled.

  A real mental case, thought Whitehurst. He could be institutionalized—if he wasn’t already in an institution.

  Whitehurst started to leave.

  “What—no tip?” And that brought a great har-de-har-har from Botnick.

  A Cro-Magnon if there ever was one.

  Botnick laughed again.

  What, no tip?

  Very funny. The fat kid didn’t like the joke though. No sense of humor.

  Botnick swept up the piles of hair—a good morning’s load—and then bent down with a shovel and swept the clippings into a trash barrel.

  All set for this afternoon’s lot, he thought.

  What? No tip?

  Very funny.

  Still laughing, Botnick walked over to his razor. He unplugged it and wrapped the cord around it tightly. He liked cutting hair in the afternoon better. The toons were on then. Duck Tales. Tiny Toons. Some wacky animals were always good for a laugh.

  He carried the razor over to the cabinet, just to the side of the barber chairs. He opened the cabinet and started to put in the razor.

  When he felt something.

  “What?” He felt some more. His fingers closed on something. “What the . . .”

  He pulled out whatever it was.

  He pulled out a doll.

  “Damn,” he said. “How’d this get in there?” He looked at the doll. Hey, he thought, the synapse finally firing. I’ve seen this doll before. Yeah, on TV. It’s one of them . . . one of them . . .

  The actual name of the doll escaped him.

  Then he remembered something else. These dolls can talk. Yeah, that’s the big thing. They can talk.

  Botnick looked at the door to his barber shop, checking that no one was coming in. Then he held the doll out at arm’s length. He grinned, feeling just a bit stupid. Just a bit silly.

  Then he said, “Hi.”

  And damned if the doll didn’t come to life, twisting its head left and right.

  And boy, all that head twisting reminded him of something. Kind of weird.

  The doll clicked his eyes open and spoke. Just like the TV commercial said it would.

  “Hi! I’m Chucky! And I’m your friend to the end! Hidey-ho, ha-ha-ha!”

  Botnick laughed aloud. If this isn’t the damnedest thing, a talking doll. Ugly sucker. Hidey-ho. What a wacky toy.

  He laughed while he also studied the doll. It kind of looked like a demented kid. The head was real large, and the eyes were way too big.

  But nothing was worse than that hair.

  Way too long.

  “Not regulation length,” Botnick said, and he laughed again, doubled over at his own bountiful wit.

  He shook, holding the doll. He was still holding the razor. He looked at the bright orange hair.

  And Botnick had an idea.

  20

  Botnick laughed. Ugly little doll, all that orange hair. And that outfit.

  The doll may talk, but he dresses for the birds.

  Botnick held the electric razor. “That mop ain’t regulation, Chucky. How long’s it been since you had a trim?”

  The doll turned its head again.

  So weird, just like that kid in The Exorcist.

  He blinked his eyes.

  God, they almost look like they can see.

  “Hey! Wanna play?”

  Again Botnick laughed. What a killer. “Okay,” he said. “You asked for it.”

  Still holding the doll, Botnick reached over and plugged the razor in. He flipped the switch with his thumb. This was going to be good. Yeah, seeing that stupid-looking doll with a real haircut.

  Botnick started bringing the razor close to Chucky’s head.

  When the doll’s arm moved, fast. I didn’t know it could do that, Botnick thought. Didn’t know it could move like that and . . .

  He watched Chucky turn his head. The doll looked at the counter. And then a little doll hand grabbed something, a straight razor, sitting in a jar of sea blue liquid.

  Chucky whipped the blade out.

  “Wha—” Botnick moaned. “No. Hey.”

  The barber didn’t think to let go of the doll. He still held the Good Guy out in front of him while the straight razor arced toward him.

  Quickly. Professionally. The doll was someone who knew how to handle a razor.

  It sliced through Botnick’s throat.

  At first, he didn’t feel anything. Just a small pain, as if he had just gotten a paper cut at his collar line. But then he felt the liquid running down his neck. He opened his mouth to talk.

  That was a mistake. Botnick felt the skin pull apart. He tasted blood in his mouth.

  He heard the doll say something.

  “A little off the top.”

  Botnick shook his head. More pain, more tearing. He hurt now. He thought: I’m in big trouble. This doll isn’t a good doll. And I’m in very big trouble.

  Chucky grinned at him. “Oh, it’s definitely you.”

  Botnick tried to moan. But instead all he heard was a gurgle. Coming from down there, down where the slit was.

  He felt his knees melt. Finally, he dropped the doll. And Botnick crumpled to the floor. He saw blood spatters on the clean white linoleum floor. The doll stood there watching him. Botnick fell forward.

  The electric razor flew from his hand. And he watched Chucky quickly scoop it up, still buzzing. He walked close to Botnick’s head. Botnick saw the sneakers, covered with cute pictures of planes and space ships and tools.

  He heard the doll talk to him.

  “What you need is a whole new image.”

&nbs
p; Everything was red. The floor, the walls. Everything was covered with a red film. He heard the razor, but it sounded as if it was muffled by cotton.

  He felt—barely—the razor on his head. Cutting his hair.

  And the last thing Botnick heard—the very last thing—was Chucky cackling in his ear.

  Damn, thought Whitehurst. Why did I have to forget my book bag in Botnick’s dungeon?

  He walked down the steps to the barber’s shop.

  It will just give him an excuse to dump on me some more. You don’t belong here, Whitehurst. You and Kent don’t go together. Tell me about it.

  Whitehurst pushed open the door to Botnick’s house of horror.

  “Sergeant Botnick, I forgot my . . .”

  The first thing Whitehurst heard was the whirr of the electric razor. And then, the sound of something gurgling, like a tap running slow.

  His hand locked on the doorknob. As he looked down to the floor, he saw Botnick. The pool of red surrounding his head was still spreading.

  And the doll, the Good Guy doll standing next to the head, cutting Botnick’s hair.

  And he heard laughing, as the doll trailed the razor up and down Botnick’s head.

  Whitehurst felt frozen. He tried to back up. Just back up and get out of here. Before, before . . .

  The doll turned. His face looked like the face of a maniac. The doll’s lips were pulled back from his teeth. And the plastic teeth looked gleaming and wet.

  The doll nodded.

  It was a threat. A promise. Like the way kids looked when they were about to beat Whitehurst up. Like—we’re going to get you.

  The doll opened its mouth. And he said, “Boo!”

  Whitehurst bolted from the door, and ran up the steps, away from the barber, away from the blood.

  Thinking: Barclay was right. God, Barclay was right.

  Either that—or I’m losing my mind.

  Whitehurst ran to the quad. He was late, everyone was supposed to be assembled by oh-one-hundred. Whitehurst puffed as he ran, gasping at the air. It was clear, almost cool. And he kept thinking about what he saw.

  I have to tell someone, I have to get help.