Child’s Play 3

by Matthew J. Costello

Except he thought: Who’d believe me?

  Barclay. But no one else. And then, what would they think?

  What actually happened to Botnick? Who was the last person to see him? Whitehurst rubbed his chin. I have to speak to Barclay, he thought, and he ran harder.

  He got to the quad and Sergeant Clark was addressing the full corps of cadets.

  Damn, thought Whitehurst. I’m way late.

  He saw his company, saw Barclay and De Silva. They were wearing blue sashes.

  God, the garbage man got eaten by his truck. Colonel Cochrane had a heart attack. Bocnick’s just had his throat cut, and they’re still—Still!—planning on having the field games?

  He heard Clark as he ran to position. He looked up and saw Shelton watching him.

  “I know,” Clark said. “and you know that Colonel Cochrane would never—under any circumstances—want us to deviate from our routine. That’s the military way, and there was no one at Kent more military than Colonel Cochrane.”

  Whitehurst gasped at the air. Some cadets giggled at him.

  I’m crazy, thought Whitehurst. What I saw—I didn’t see. I’m losing my mind.

  “Therefore,” Clark said, “the war games will proceed as scheduled. Cadet Major Shelton will command the blue team.”

  Botnick, Whitehurst wanted to scream. He’s dead. To hell with your teams, your games. Botnick’s . . .

  “Cadet Captain Rawlings will head up the reds . . .”

  Whitehurst looked up. He saw Clark waving two flags, one blue and one red.

  “The objective is simple: to capture the other team’s flag and bring it safely back to base.”

  Whitehurst saw Barclay and De Silva turn to him as he reached the front ranks of his company.

  He looked at Barclay. I must look like a crazy person, Whitehurst thought. Will Barclay be able to see what happened to me in my eyes?

  Clark shook his head, finally noticing Whitehurst’s late arrival. He was holding up a .22 rifle.

  “You’ll pick up your weapons in the armory before moving out. You’ll be using the standard-issue .22-caliber semiautomatic. And your ammo . . .”

  Clark fired the gun at the wall of a building. The sound echoed through the quad.

  Whitehurst took his place in line.

  He saw a red splotch on the wall.

  We’re going to play paint-ball, thought Whitehurst. Just paint. But he watched the splotch drip down the side of the wall.

  Barclay tapped Whitehurst’s shoulder. “You okay?”

  Whitehurst turned to him. I have to talk to Barclay, he thought. But—out of the corner of his eye—Whitehurst saw Shelton watching them. He turned back to Clark.

  “If you get hit, you’re dead. Hike back to base. Any questions?”

  Clark waited.

  Shelton still glowered at Whitehurst.

  “Good. Company commanders, assemble your men. And women.”

  Shelton turned away, to face the company. The cadet major yelled, “Sound off.”

  And, starting at the far corner of the quad, the cadets began calling out their names, company by company.

  Whitehurst felt something hit his arm. “Here,” De Silva said.

  Whitehurst, still puffy, still breathing hard, looked down at the blue arm band that De Silva just threw at him. He tried slipping it on, but it got stuck and started curling. De Silva giggled. She came close to him and pulled the arm band down, while pulling Whitehurst’s arm through.

  Then she looked at Whitehurst and ran a hand across his nearly bald scalp. “Looks like Botnick’s in a bad mood today,” she said.

  Whitehurst turned to her, wanting to say: You don’t know the half of it. His mood couldn’t be worse.

  But said to Barclay, who was watching him. “Barclay, listen . . .”

  “What’s wrong?” De Silva said.

  Whitehurst looked around. Other cadets were close by, watching, listening. They would hear. And everyone would think I’m crazy. Or worse.

  Old Botnick’s dead. He was killed by a doll.

  And Whitehurst is crazy.

  Whitehurst looked around and shrugged. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. Nothing.” And he remembered what Barclay had said. About the doll, about Tyler. He looked across the quad.

  He saw Tyler, slipping on a red arm band.

  The arm band was bright, even from here. A big bright red arm band.

  Oooh, fun and games at the old military school.

  Well, thought Chucky, that’s just great. Just peachy, ’cause I love to play.

  He was in the armory, the rows of guns and ammo behind him. The building was deserted. Everyone was out in the quad, listening to the rules of the game.

  Chucky looked out the window at the two teams. There’s Tyler, and there’s Barclay. And—hey, look at that!—they’re on different teams. Is this fate or what?

  Rules. They can be such annoying things.

  Chucky slipped down from the window ledge.

  Yes, he thought, I’m a big advocate of changing rules. Makes the game more interesting.

  He turned back to the metal cage filled with weapons. He clambered over the fence—his sneakers fit the mesh perfectly—and then scooted down the other side.

  “Now, let’s see what we have here . . .”

  He saw a box of grenades. Better take one or two of those, he thought. Don’t want to run short.

  He pocketed two grenades. Then he came to the rifles, arranged in two large sections. Some of the rifles had red markings and some had blue markings.

  Chucky grabbed the top red rifle. He emptied the magazine and saw paint bullets where live ammo would go. He tilted the gun and dumped out the red pellets.

  “There we go,” he said. Now he looked up. On a high shelf he saw smaller boxes labeled .22 Ammunition.

  Chucky climbed up on one shelf, and he stretched up to the box. He brought the box down and started filling the magazine with live bullets.

  He chuckled to himself.

  “This ought to slow down that dork Barclay . . .”

  He filled the gun.

  Of course, he thought, it will still make a red stain. More of a permanent stain.

  Now the game will be real interesting.

  21

  This gun is nearly as big as I am, Tyler thought.

  Too bad it’s only filled with paint. I’d like to fire a real gun, like Barclay, on the rifle range. That would be neat.

  But then Tyler thought, as he followed his team marching through the woods, this is a real gun—even if it’s loaded only with paint pellets.

  As Tyler marched, he wondered: Where’s Charles? Where’s my new friend? Tyler smiled. I bet he’ll come out here to the fields. I’ll bet he’ll watch the games. Charles likes to play games.

  Like hide-and-seek. And what’s that other game he wanted to play?

  Swap the soul? Never played that one before. Bet it’s fun.

  Tyler looked over his shoulder at the other end of the field. He saw the blue team, Barclay’s team, marching into the woods at another spot.

  We have to get their flag, and they have to get our flag. I hope I get to shoot Barclay, he thought.

  This is going to be fun.

  There was one good thing about this nonsense, thought Andy. It gets me and Tyler away from the school. Maybe out here Chucky won’t find us. He looked back to the school buildings. He saw the red team moving into the woods.

  Maybe Chucky won’t come out here.

  I hope that’s true. Because how can I help Tyler if he’s on another team?

  Playing paint-ball. God, is this dumb or what? thought Andy. Paint ball. We’ve gone from gung-ho to gung-dumb.

  He looked over at Whitehurst. So quiet, marching by himself, struggling with his heavy pack, the gun. What happened to him? thought Andy. What happened to Whitehurst that he won’t talk about it? What could make him go white as a sheet?

  Let me guess.

  Would it be, by any chance, maybe . . .

  Chuc
ky?

  I have to talk to Whitehurst. Later, after he’s calmed down. Talk to him, warn him, and maybe get him to help me.

  The forest was ahead, thick with branches that reached into the trail as if trying to snag the cadets’ backpacks.

  It was uphill now. Andy grunted, humping his pack toward the blue team’s outpost.

  The blue team had a perfect location, on top of a hill, overlooking the whole valley.

  Andy raised the binoculars and started searching the woods below, looking for splotches of red. He scanned the woods and finally saw some movement. A line of cadets, wearing red arm bands.

  The enemy!

  Nuke ’em. Drop the big one right on their heads. He moved the binoculars to follow the line of cadets, looking for Tyler. He didn’t see him. Andy licked his lips, feeling cold standing here.

  God, where is Tyler?

  Finally he saw Tyler, up near the front of the line. The boy was hauling a gun that looked ridiculously big. Good boy, Andy thought. Stay near the front of the line. Just stay right there, where the rest of that wonderful, red team can keep their eyes on you.

  He brought the binoculars down, and noticed Whitehurst, standing alone. Now’s the time, thought Andy.

  He walked over to Whitehurst. The fat kid didn’t see him for second, but then he turned—acting startled. As if he wants to get away from me, thought Andy.

  Whitehurst looked up, and—seeing Andy—started to move away. But Andy ran to him and grabbed his shoulder.

  “Whitehurst, what’s going on?”

  He held Whitehurst tight. The kid tried to shrug off Andy’s hand.

  Whitehurst shook his head.

  Wrong, thought Andy. Wrong. You’re lying. Because you’re afraid of what they’ll say. Like what they’ve said about me and my mother and Kyle.

  That we’re crazy.

  “You saw something, Whitehurst, didn’t you? You saw him.”

  Whitehurst looked up. His face still had that same puffy-scared look that it had had when Whitehurst burst onto the quad late.

  Andy stepped closer to let him know this was just between them. Andy wasn’t going to announce it to the whole company. “You saw Chucky, didn’t you?”

  Whitehurst shook his head and licked his lips.

  Andy let his hand fall, and Whitehurst started marching back to the outpost. Andy ran alongside him.

  “Hey, damn it, don’t wimp out on me now, Whitehurst. I need your help. That kid needs your help. If you saw Chucky, tell me. I need your help!”

  Whitehurst turned and yelled at Andy. “I didn’t see anything, okay? I didn’t see anything at all!”

  Right, Andy nodded. And that’s why you’re hysterical now, scared half to death.

  Whitehurst turned and quickly walked away to the safety of the other cadets.

  You saw him all right, thought Andy. You saw what Chucky can do, who he is. And that scared you. You don’t want him coming for you.

  Can’t say that I blame you.

  Not at all.

  I didn’t want him coming after me either. But he’s not after me. And he’s not after Whitehurst.

  He’s after Tyler. And—funny thing—Tyler thinks that the doll is his friend.

  Friends to the end.

  Which may be coming very soon.

  Night came so much faster in the woods. One minute it was afternoon, and the tents were being pitched, while Shelton had two cadets cooking franks and beans. The next minute it was dark and everyone was gathered around the camp fire.

  Andy sat off to the side. De Silva sat with her friends—Ivers and another girl, Williams. Ellis had a few younger cadets throwing heavy logs onto the fire. Shelton marched around the camp as if he were in the Ardennes the evening before the Battle of the Bulge.

  Andy would have liked to go into his tent, to get some sleep. But even after carrying that pack five miles into the woods, somehow he didn’t feel like sleeping.

  Guess I’m a bit preoccupied, he thought.

  He moved closer to the camp fire. He saw De Silva glance up at him. She was telling a story to her friends.

  Andy smiled at her good old-fashioned camp fire horror tale.

  Andy stood and listened.

  “The baby-sitter heard a thump thump thumping”—De Silva acted out something heavy, flopping—“like something being dragged across the upstairs floor. And then she thinks to herself . . .”

  De Silva put a finger into the air, acting out the witless baby-sitter to perfection.

  Andy laughed, and De Silva looked up at him again.

  “She thinks, I haven’t checked the children. So she hurries to the stairs, and up at the top”—De Silva lowered her voice—“she sees . . .”

  Andy took a step closer, caught by her tale.

  “She sees her boyfriend.” And now De Silva raised her voice. Her eyes went wide. “Completely dismembered . . . dragging himself along the floor with his chin . . .”

  De Silva bobbed her head up and down, miming the horrid action.

  “Thump . . . thump . . . thump.”

  De Silva’s girlfriends were sitting very close.

  Ivers spoke first. “That’s gross. Real gross. Like, it makes me want to throw up, De Silva.”

  Andy felt the smile fade on his face. He stared into the fire.

  He remembered the fireplace. His mother.

  That was gross. Real gross.

  And it wasn’t a story.

  Chucky was going to kill them. Andy, an eight year old, knew that.

  He remembered, even tonight, when that thought had hit home.

  Chucky’s going to kill my mom. And then he’ll take my soul and kill me. And the only thing that could stop him was his mother.

  Chucky on Andy’s leg. Andy saw blood. The doll was like a dog, biting, holding down. His mother kicked at it.

  Andy screamed.

  No. Mommy. No. Stop him. Stop Chucky.

  She kicked the doll. He went flying across the floor. She kicked him again, and he went into the fireplace. And she screamed for Andy to come and help.

  She held a screen in front of the fireplace and Chucky pushed against it. Andy was scared. He couldn’t move, couldn’t help his mother.

  “Andy,” she screamed. “Please. Help me.”

  Andy nodded. Then, slowly—a good boy—he did what his mommy asked. He went to one end of the fireplace screen. Chucky was cursing, yelling at them.

  Andy held the screen, pushing it flush against the fireplace. He saw his mother reach behind her, trying to get the matches. While Chucky screamed at him.

  “I’m going to get out, Andy. Yeah. And I’m gonna kill your bitch of a mother, yeah, and then I’m going to get you, Andy boy!”

  Andy remembered crying. The fireplace, the metal screen, went blurry, because he was crying.

  His mother couldn’t reach the matches. She stretched a bit more. Chucky was almost able to push the screen away. Andy put his whole weight against the screen. He heard Chucky growling like a dog, an animal.

  His mother got the matches. She shook one out. Lit it. And then stuck it into the fireplace.

  Chucky’s clothes, his plastic skin, the newspaper in there, the log. It all went up so fast, cooking Chucky, melting him. Turning him into this black goo.

  We thought it was over.

  We thought it had all ended in that fireplace.

  We were wrong.

  Andy looked at the camp fire.

  There was nothing funny in horror stories anymore.

  De Silva spoke to him. “Hey, your turn, Barclay. You got a scary story?”

  Andy shook his head. No. No scary stories.

  “No.”

  “Oh, c’mon, Barclay.”

  Andy shook his head. “Sorry.” He turned from the fire and started to walk away. “I’m going for a walk.”

  Doubt if I could sleep now, Andy thought.

  No way.

  As he walked into the darkness surrounding the camp, he heard Ivers start telling he
r story.

  Chucky pushed at the bush.

  My, my. Doesn’t that look cozy. Those little cheerleader cadets sitting around the old camp fire swapping horror stories. Gross? They gotta be kidding. I could tell them gross.

  How about some fillet of Botnick? Or the tale of the garbage man who really got into his work.

  And there’s Andy, standing near the fire, listening.

  Maybe he hopes that he’ll get lucky.

  No, Chucky thought, seeing Andy’s expression as he turned away.

  No, getting lucky wasn’t on Andy’s agenda tonight.

  Chucky crouched down, hiding more carefully behind the bush, watching Andy drift away from the others.

  Uh-oh. He’s going off on his own.

  Now, isn’t that con-venient.

  He watched Andy walk into the darkness. Poor boy must have a death wish.

  I know I do.

  For him.

  And I like to make my wishes come true.

  Chucky crouched lower—and watched Andy walk away.

  22

  Andy walked farther up the slope, to a bluff that overlooked their campsite.

  I could climb it, he thought, and see all around here. See where the other camp is—the red camp.

  He started up the bluff, grabbing at a dead bush sticking out of the ground. Looking for a foothold. When he heard something behind him.

  Andy froze, his hands locked on the bush. The dirt started to shift at his feet.

  He turned, and saw De Silva.

  “Hey, it was only a story,” she said.

  Andy smiled. He nodded. “That’s not it. I’m just . . . getting away.”

  He look another step.

  “Mind if I come along?” she said.

  He stopped. “Oh, I’m sorry. Sure. Here.”

  Andy stuck out a hand and helped her climb to the first outcrop of rocks. She fell into him, and they both pressed against the bluff.

  Andy looked to the top of the bluff. “It’s a bit of a climb. Probably not much for you.”

  De Silva smiled and then nodded in a mock expression of macho.

  “Yeah. Probably.” She laughed. And so did Andy. Boy, he thought, do I like her. He turned back to the bluff and started climbing.

  After a few feet the dirt shifted, and he lost some ground. De Silva quickly shot out a hand and, putting it on his butt, stopped him from sliding any further.