Child’s Play 3 Page 3

  Still, he was making progress—and we can’t have that, now can we? thought Chucky.

  Chucky had another dart in his other hand.

  He ran beside Sullivan, right next to him. The man kept looking forward.

  Can’t believe this is happening, right, babe? I know the feeling. He walked to Sullivan, making the yo-yo walk the dog, once, twice, before the string got all twisted up.

  “Got to have these yo-yos retooled, pal.”

  “No . . .” Sullivan groaned. “No . . .” The CEO reached up and grabbed the edge of his desk with his hands, pulling himself up, kneeling.

  Then—with Sullivan’s hand only inches away from the phone—Chucky jammed the dart down on his right hand, pinning it to the desk.

  The man screamed.

  Nasty sound, thought Chucky. That must really smart. But I don’t want you breaking up the party. Not yet. I’m just starting to have fun. I’ve been out of circulation for a long time, pal.

  I’ve got some bogeying to do.

  Chucky let the yo-yo spiral down. He grabbed the string with both his hands. Sullivan was reaching for the phone with his free hand.

  “Ah-ah-ah,” Chucky said, and he wrapped the string around Sullivan’s neck.

  And he pulled it tight.

  His fingers were touching the base of the phone.

  But then there was no air. Sullivan gasped but the string was so tight, it cut into his skin, closing his throat. He tried to gasp, then to shake it off.

  But there was nothing.

  His fingers brushed the smooth plastic of the phone, pathetically.

  His lungs demanded oxygen. He could open his mouth but nothing went in.

  Sullivan saw white flashes, brilliant sparks of light. He felt the blood pounding in his brain.

  He smelled the plastic, the fresh, new plastic of the Good Guy doll just behind him, holding the string taut.

  It’s all true, he thought.

  His tongue flapped. So much pain, and all he could think about was getting just one good gulp of air.

  It never came.

  Sullivan’s head smacked down onto his desk.

  Chucky studied the head. I want to make sure that he’s not playing possum, Chucky thought. He could be pretending.

  So he held the string tight for another minute until he was sure there was nothing going on with this sucker.

  Then, he let the string go loose.

  Chucky flexed his fingers. A job well done.

  Just like the good old days, he thought.

  The toy police siren was warbling now, the battery running down.

  He climbed onto the desk.

  “Nothing like a strangulation to get the circulation going.”

  He pushed Sullivan’s head away. A small puddle of blood had dripped from his head wound onto the polished wood desk.

  Chucky stepped into it, leaving footprints.

  I’ll have to do something about these later. Don’t want no messy little Good Guy footprints around. No, sir.

  He turned, and standing on the desk, he could see his reflection in the giant glass window.

  And he wasn’t happy at what he saw.

  He looked at that stupid Good Guy face, the blue overalls with the tiny appliqued hammers and saws and planes and baseball bats. Ain’t I cute.

  And my tiny little Good Guy sneakers.

  God, and all those freckles. Even my freckles have freckles, he thought. He opened his mouth and said, “I gotta get out of this goddamn body.”

  Right. And there was only one way to do that. Before this transformation was complete.

  There was time. Chucky turned to the computer.

  The screen still displayed the main menu.

  “All right,” Chucky said. “Let’s find where you are, you little shit.”

  He hit the keys, scrolling past directories and lists, until he found what he was looking for.

  File: Andy Barclay.

  Bingo, thought Chucky. Chucky grinned at the screen. In the dark room, he saw his face reflected back.

  It’s been eight years, Andy Barclay. Let’s see how you’re doing, bub. ’Cause your ol’ pal Chucky is going to pay you a visit.

  5

  Andy sat in the back of the yellow bus, ignored—and not minding it.

  He looked out the window. He saw signs for towns he never heard of, and gas stations and quick marts offering everything from lotto tickets to foot-long hot dogs.

  He pushed his hair off his forehead.

  The bus rumbled along, catching every pothole, every crack in the highway.

  I wish I wasn’t here, Andy thought.

  Anywhere but here.

  “All right!” he heard the boy next to him squeal. The little black kid—what was he seven, eight?—was playing a hand-held video game, pushing the buttons wildly.

  He’s in hog heaven, Andy thought. And he doesn’t even seem to be nervous about where we’re going.

  “I made the third level. Excellent!” the kid said.

  He turned and caught Andy looking at the game. The little kid smiled at him. Andy nodded and smiled back.

  “Hey, I just got to the third level. Never did that before.”

  Andy nodded. Very nice.

  The bus lurched. Everyone’s brains were getting a real good shaking.

  Andy started to turn away.

  “Hey, what did you say your name was?”

  Andy turned back.

  “Andy.”

  The boy made a face. “We only go by last names at Kent.”

  Kent Military School. A few minutes ago Andy had seen a sign announcing that the school was only five miles ahead. Kent Military School. Isn’t life wonderful? thought Andy.

  “Barclay,” Andy said.

  “My name’s Tyler.”

  The kid held up his Game Boy. I used to like video games, Andy thought. I remember I had one of the first Nintendos, before all my friends. Even though Mom couldn’t afford to buy me a lot of games, still I had some. I had Super Mario Brothers. And I had Good Guy Adventures. Help the Good Guy get out of the haunted house.

  Boy, did they have that one wrong.

  The kid dangled his Game Boy. “You wanna play me, Barclay?”

  Andy shook his head. The bus hit another hole and groaned, as it rattled forward.

  “Come on, Barclay, I’ll give you a ten point lead. What do you say?”

  Andy shook his head, looking away from the kid and turning back to the window. He looked at the farmland, dotted wilh cows chewing their cud as they watched the yellow bus roll by.

  Andy expected Tyler to keep nagging him. But, instead, there was silence. And when Andy risked looking back at the kid, he seemed intent on playing his game.

  But Andy also saw something else.

  I shut him down, Andy thought. I stepped on the little brat.

  He shook his head, annoyed at himself for being such a turd.

  “Hey, Tyler.”

  The kid kept his head down, cautious. “You’ve been at Kent a long time?”

  Tyler let his eyes drift away from the game screen. “Two years.”

  Andy smiled at him.

  Two years. And he’s only seven. Poor kid’s been in military school since he was five, six?

  Then, with Andy still looking at him, Tyler smiled. “It’s not so bad. I’m used to it. You know, when I first came to Kent . . .” Tyler lowered his voice, trusting Andy. Not wanting anyone else to hear. “I really missed my dad. A lot! But he always told me, soldiers don’t cry. So I didn’t. Not too much, anyway. And I got used to it.”

  I guess you can get used to anything, thought Andy. I’m sixteen and I feel like I’m going to prison. This kid’s got a better attitude than I do.

  Andy sniffed the air but all he could smell was bus exhaust, seeping in through the open windows, through the cracks in the floor.

  And he thought: Tyler’s about the same age as I was. The same age as when it all began. My problems with Chucky.

  He
felt bad for himself then, looking at Tyler’s shining black face, so brave.

  He thought about himself when he was eight. Fighting a doll that wanted to take his body. And no one believed me. They still don’t believe me.

  If only I had a dad, Andy thought. Maybe that might have made a difference.

  “Did you just spend the weekend with your dad?”

  Tyler shook his head, and he went back to his game. Wrong question, Andy guessed.

  Tyler made a face, pressing his lips together. As if it was no big deal.

  “Nah. He’s stationed in Japan. He says he’ll bring me there someday. No, I was staying with my cousins.”

  The game machine made a funny beeping sound. Tyler just lost his round. But he didn’t care.

  “I stayed with my cousins. Man, what a bunch of geeks. I hated it. I’m glad I’m going back to Kent.”

  “What about your mom?”

  Wanting to say: I haven’t seen my mom in a long time. The doctors say it wouldn’t be therapeutic. She’s making so much progress. Because they don’t believe her either. They don’t believe that she saw Chucky come to life.

  Or believe Kyle.

  God, whatever happened to her? She had a bad reputation before she ever hooked up with Chucky and me.

  Whatever happened to her?

  “My mom—she went to heaven when I was a little kid. Me and my dad are on our own. He says she watches us, that she can see how good I’m doing . . .” Tyler turned away. “How good I’m doing on my own.”

  “You’re pretty young to be out on your own.”

  Tyler scrunched up his face indignantly. The look on his face was so stern Andy almost laughed.

  “I’m seven and a half. That’s not so young.”

  Andy nodded. If this rug rat can face Kent, then I can. He turned back to the window. Then the bus passed a sign. Kent Military School, 1 mile. Just ahead. The bus started climbing a hill, groaning, fighting its way sluggishly up the hill.

  Not so young . . .

  For a lot of things.

  “No,” Andy said. “I guess not.”

  The dreams had never stopped. Doctors told Andy that the dreams would end. And they never did.

  And long ago, Andy thought he figured out why.

  The dreams didn’t stop because everyone told him that it all never happened. But he knew that it had.

  It was just a little difference of opinion.

  And some nights he dreamed that he was in his apartment with his mom, when it was just the two of them. Celebrating Christmas, getting each other presents. Sharing ice cream or a deep-dish pizza from Tonio’s. Mom worked hard so that Andy could have things. Even popular, expensive things. Things like the Good Guy doll.

  And he would relive the battle in the apartment; Chucky coming after him, mumbling those words, words that Andy never forgot.

  Ade due. Damballa! Kenye due. Damballa!

  His mom saved him. But in the dream, sometimes, his mom is too late. When Andy opens his eyes and looks down, he sees the blue overalls, the Good Guy sneakers. And when he looks up, to a mirror, he sees himself with Chucky’s maniacal grin.

  And he whispers . . .

  “I’m you, buddy boy. I’m you!”

  “Hey,” Tyler said, and the vision vanished slowly, melting away from some screen inside his mind. “Hey, I got something you might like.”

  Andy turned back to Tyler. The kid dug in his pants pocket. He took something out and then extended his hand to Andy. Andy stuck out his hand.

  “What? What is it?”

  Tyler put it into his hand.

  Andy saw a compact pocket knife with just one blade.

  “Go on,” Tyler said. “It’s yours.”

  Andy shook his head. “No. Sorry, Tyler, but I can’t take your knife.” He started to give the boy back the pocketknife.

  But Tyler shook his head. “Go ahead, Barclay. I got lots of them. My dad sends ’em to me from Taiwan. I don’t need this one.”

  Andy felt the knife in the palm of his hand. He didn’t want to slap the kid down again. What the heck, it’s a gift. Take it, he thought. He smiled. He opened the knife, exposing the blade. It was sharp, silvery. This was no dull Scout knife. Andy let his thumb touch the blade. A bit of pressure and it would easily cut his skin.

  Andy looked up. “Thanks.”

  “Sure. You know, my dad says a good soldier is always prepared. You should always have a weapon.”

  A seven-year-old Rambo.

  There were shouts from the other kids on the bus. Andy looked up and saw a sign that said Kent Military School.

  “Don’t worry, Barclay,” Tyler said. “You’ll learn the ropes.”

  And Andy nodded as the bus entered the gate to the school grounds.

  The bus chugged past the open gate. Andy saw two cadets in full uniform standing guard.

  As if we were entering Fort Knox, Andy thought. Or Oz.

  I may not be able to deal with all this.

  To the right, he saw more cadets—a mixture of boys and girls standing beside two trees. He saw a girl, dark haired, very pretty, tightening a rope suspended between the two trees.

  “That’s De Silva,” Tyler said. “She’s nice.”

  Coed military school. Things could be worse, Andy thought, as he watched De Silva demonstrate how to cross the rope bridge, shimmying with hands and feet. She was pretty. But she also looked like one tough cookie.

  The bus veered right, and a giant field appeared, dotted with clusters of cadets, some marching, some climbing wood walls covered with rope netting. Drummers were marching in a line, beating out a rhythm.

  The place looked ready for war.

  Andy saw a big stone building faced with heavy columns and windows that seemed to stretch almost two floors in height.

  “What’s that?” Andy said.

  “That’s the administration building. That’s where Colonel Cochrane’s office is.”

  “What, no general?”

  Andy laughed but Tyler said, “He’s a nice man, I like him. You’ll probably meet him first thing.”

  “Your recommendation is good enough for me.”

  The bus passed the administration building and moved next to a row of boxy buildings, the cadets’ dorms.

  Finally the bus stopped. The brakes screamed out in protest. There was a whoosh—and the doors finally opened. Everyone in the front of the bus stood up and started streaming out.

  Andy stood up, next to Tyler, towering over him.

  “Let me know if you need any help,” Tyler said.

  Andy smiled at him.

  “Thanks,” Andy said, forcing himself to sound as earnest as possible. “I will.”

  6

  Andy stood, feeling this crazy desire to snap to attention. He felt Colonel Cochrane looking at him, checking him out.

  Andy used the opportunity to study the room. There was a glass case against one wall, filled with toy soldiers. Toy soldiers, real ones—it’s all the same to the colonels and generals of the world. A bookcase which, Andy guessed, didn’t have too many volumes of poetry in it. He saw only lots of books on World War II and the Persian Gulf.

  Cochrane’s desk was neat and orderly, ready for action. A large standing globe was off to one side, right next to a trophy case. It looked as if the Kent cadets did things besides drill and study. Basketball. Football.

  Cochrane saw Andy looking around.

  “Come here, Barclay. I want you to see these.” Cochrane walked over to a display case. Andy followed, and saw rows of medals laid out, treasured items.

  “That’s the Purple Heart, Barclay.” Cochrane tapped the case. “There’s the Medal of Honor . . . the Silver Star.”

  Andy felt Cochrane look up, staring it him. “They’re just medals, Barclay. Just symbols. What counts is what’s in here.” Cochrane pointed to his heart.

  “That’s what got me and my men through ’Nam in one piece.”

  Andy nodded. And landed you this wonderful gig running
a play school for military wannabes. And some who don’t wanna . . .

  The stuffy air made it hard for Andy to breathe. This interview was the first step in his introduction to the Kent way of life. Probably no big deal.

  Usually.

  But Andy could guess what was coming next.

  “Take a seat, Barclay.” Cochrane pointed to a wood chair facing his desk.

  Cochrane walked to the desk and sat on it, facing Andy. Informal. Just us men talking and all that.

  Andy looked up.

  “Courage, that’s what those medals stand for. Courage, and the ability to do the hard thing, Barclay. To sacrifice for others. You know what I’m talking about?”

  Andy nodded.

  He felt an impulse to say, “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s the ideal that Kent was built on.”

  Cochrane slid off the edge of his desk, the informal, fatherly side of the interview obviously over.

  There was a manilla folder on Cochrane’s desk. The colonel walked behind the desk and sat down. He flipped open the folder, taking a moment, nodding to himself before he looked up.

  Still nodding, Cochrane fixed Andy with his best press on, men stare.

  “You realize that you have your work cut out for you, Barclay. Jumping in midway through the semester. You’ll be the new kid. It won’t be easy.”

  Andy nodded. “It wasn’t my idea.”

  Wrong answer, Andy thought. The colonel pushed back from his desk a bit. His face turned a notch more severe.

  Cochrane tapped the folder. “I see that for the past”—Cochrane leaned forward, looking at the top sheet in the folder. “eight years you’ve been in one foster home after another. Mind if I ask why?”

  “They took me away from my mother. She’s . . . under special care.”

  So special that I haven’t seen her in nearly a year. It would bring it all back, the doctors say. Her fantasies, her crazy fantasies about the doll.

  “I know that,” Cochrane said. He nodded. “But how come you never got settled anywhere?”

  Andy looked away. He heard drumming from outside. Teenagers barking orders to little kids, playing soldiers. It’s parade dress, boys and girls, and don’t forget to wash your hands after you pee.

  “Adjustment problems.”