Will Wilder #3

by Raymond Arroyo

  The huge square block that seemed to be part of the Keep slid sideways, revealing an entryway.

  “I would have guessed the honeycomb,” Sarah said.

  “You would have lost a hand.”

  Jacob cleared the dusty cobwebs with his flashlight and entered the dank stronghold. On a stone column in the center of the room sat an aged box with a greened copper latch. Jacob flipped back the latch. Inside he found a silver amulet with a glass face on a chain. His nose started to itch.

  “What is it?” Sarah asked, stepping into the doorway, the metal helmet still atop her head.

  “The locks of Samson’s hair, I’d guess. He had superhuman strength, until a wicked woman learned his secret. His enemies chopped off his curls and stole his power.”

  “I’m familiar with the story. A reminder that you should always protect your hair.” Sarah tapped the helmet of St. Joan and laughed.

  “Frau Vaillant,” a German voice called from outside.

  “It’s Von Groll,” she whispered to Jacob.

  The colonel blocked the entrance, diminishing the light. “Your assistance is needed upstairs,” he said smoothly, limping into sight. He stared at Jacob with his blue eye. “What are you doing, young man?”

  “He’s cataloguing some new acquisitions,” Sarah explained.

  “Very well. Come, Sarah, dear.” Von Groll grabbed her hard by the arm, yanking her from the Keep. “We shall let the young curator continue his work.”

  With his shoulder, the colonel began to force the great stone block over the entryway. Jacob lunged for the exit. But he barely caught a glimpse of the colonel’s dead hazel eye before the sliding block killed the light, imprisoning him within the chamber.

  * * *

  “He is not what he appears. Escape this evil one,” a young female voice echoed inside the metal helmet on Sarah’s head. She wrinkled her brow, searching for the speaker. “Use the helmet if necessary! Escape him.” For a moment Sarah thought she was losing her mind. The sight of the colonel sealing Jacob inside the Keep shocked her back into the crisis at hand.

  * * *

  Trapped behind the stone, Jacob turned his flashlight to the corners, looking for something to pry the cube of granite away. How could the Nazi have moved that block so easily? He’s either possessed by a demon or he IS a demon.

  Save for the old box and the amulet holding Samson’s locks, there was not a thing in the chamber. Jacob grabbed the amulet and slipped its chain around his neck. His breath immediately shortened and a jolt of energy surged through his body. His muscles twitched and tightened. In the glow of the flashlight, he watched his shoulders balloon. His jacket sleeves strained to contain his bulging arms. Even his legs swelled with a heat he had never felt before.

  Jacob ran at the stone block with all the power he could muster. It shifted only slightly. He drew back his fists and unleashed them on the stone. Chunks of the block crumbled under his assault. He ran back to the middle of the room and with a yell charged at the barrier again. This time the sheer force of his effort split the stone in two, sending the two halves tumbling into the hallway. Jacob stumbled out behind them.

  A few yards away, Sarah, holding St. Joan’s helmet in her hands, crouched over the colonel, who was splayed out on the floor.

  “Sometimes a girl has to fend for herself. I couldn’t wait for you,” she said, throwing her hair back into place. Then getting a good look at Jacob, she blinked in disbelief. “I knew you were muscular but…what happened in there?”

  Jacob Wilder’s shoulders were broader, his legs and arms much thicker than before. Long, wild hair poked from beneath his pith helmet. “I’ll explain later. You’re coming with me.” As he stepped over the colonel, something caught his attention. “Sarah, look at his face. Come here.” He took her to the side room where the dead man lay against the wall and shone the flashlight on the corpse’s face.

  “Oh my,” Sarah expelled. “They’re identical. He looks exactly like the colonel. Are they twins?”

  “I’m not sure, but the shape of their faces and the eyes—”

  “We borrowed his body. Made it stronger,” Colonel Von Groll snarled, staggering into the room.

  Jacob was the first to realize that the colonel’s left shoe was missing. Instead of a foot, four enormous claws, like those of a giant rooster, protruded from beneath his pant leg.

  “He was a willing sacrifice,” the colonel said, eyeing the dead man. “Our spirit can assume the outer form of the victim. We absorb their strength. Once he summoned me, I had to take him—as I will take you now.”

  The colonel ran toward them, lifting his left leg. Brandishing lethal claws and a sharp spur on the backside of the leg, he hurtled toward them. Before he could make contact, Jacob touched his thumbs and forefingers together. A red and white ray blasted from the triangle of his digits, hitting the colonel in the chest. The Nazi was thrown into the hallway. A hole in the center of his body opened up, swallowing his arms, his head, and finally the twitching rooster leg until it resolved into a foul green mist.

  “Still think he’s charming?” Jacob asked, taking Sarah’s trembling hand. “You need to come with me. Assuming I can still fit, it’s time to get to the sarcophagus.” He glanced admiringly at his swollen arms. “I may want to stay like this.”

  “You were perfectly fine before.” Sarah pulled him back, a crooked smile on her face. She reached around his neck and grasped the chain that held Samson’s locks. “Things we want can at times distract us from the things we need.” For a moment he tried to stop her, but finally permitted Sarah to remove the locket.

  “Don’t lose that or Joan’s helmet.” Jacob gave her a quick peck on the cheek and they raced into the darkness of the Louvre. As they ran, Sarah hummed the lilting tune of the music box upstairs. With each step, Jacob felt his body contracting to its normal size. His nose started to tingle.

  Had he returned to the strange sunken room near the Keep, he would have discovered that the dead man was no longer reclining against the wall. The colonel’s slashed twin was now on his feet, shambling into the hallway, searching for Jacob and Sarah and the relic they now possessed.

  Like an unloved potted plant, Will Wilder’s legs protruded at odd angles from a trash can in the center of the Perilous Falls Middle School locker room. How he got there was only a mystery to those who knew nothing of Will’s relationship with his classmate, Caleb Gibbar.

  Caleb sat across the row from Will in the back of their homeroom. He was a big kid with a jutting forehead and a hairline that started just above his thick, yellow eyebrows. Some of the kids, especially those jealous of his size, called him “the blond ape.” Since grunting was Caleb’s preferred means of communication, he and Will rarely spoke. Though they did share a friend in Andrew Stout, their only interactions were when their teacher, Mrs. Belcher, questioned the class about history.

  Will was a B student, but time spent at the museum founded by his great-grandfather, Jacob Wilder, had sparked a love of history within him. From the start of the school year, Will had devoured his history textbook and occasionally conducted independent research in the museum library. With all that knowledge, Will’s philosophy was: What’s the good of knowing something if you keep it to yourself?

  “Who led the French forces to victory in the Siege of Orléans? This person was injured and still continued to fight.” Mrs. Belcher’s eyes roved over her students on that day. “Caleb? Any guesses? I mentioned this in class just last week. Remember our ‘Unlikely Heroes’ chapter? French leader? Battle of Orléans?”

  From Caleb’s panicked expression, it was obvious he didn’t know the Siege of Orléans from the Siege of Gondor. Not that he cared. He remembered the things he needed to remember. Caleb was quarterback of the Perilous Falls Middle School football team, not a Jeopardy! contestant. No one in the entire school could throw a ball farther than him. N
o one could execute a pass plan like him. But when it came to unexpected questions like this one—with the whole class staring at him—the pressure caused Caleb to freeze. He wiped the perspiration away from his upper lip.

  “George Washington?” Caleb mumbled.

  A restrained chortle sounded from across the aisle. He turned to find Will Wilder, hand up in the air trying to get the teacher’s attention. Exactly like the year before, every time Caleb blundered in class, every time he whiffed on a question, he felt Will was there, waiting to humiliate him.

  “Yes, Will?” Mrs. Belcher asked, nodding toward the back of the room.

  “Wasn’t it Joan of Arc who won the Siege of Orléans?” Will asked. At the teacher’s affirmation, a self-satisfied smile broke across Will’s face. It wasn’t spiteful. He just liked being right once in a while. “Oh, and I think Joan was hit by an arrow during the battle. She yanked it out, got up, and led the soldiers to beat the English. My friend Mr. Bartimaeus told me that story before I read it in the textbook. He’s from New Orleans and they have this thing for Joan of Arc there.”

  Had the teacher not been in the room, Caleb would have knocked Will right out of his chair. Instead, he tightly folded his arms and shot Will a hostile look. Over and over, in class after class, this pattern repeated. Caleb took it personally. Will barely noticed.

  So it only stood to reason that when Will Wilder ventured onto the football field that fall Friday afternoon to try out for the team, Caleb Gibbar was ready for him.

  Gangly and tallish, Will was not exactly built for football. His friend Andrew, who was a lineman on the team, warned Will that football might not be the best after-school activity for his talents.

  “What about chess club or debate, Will-man?” Andrew suggested in the locker room as they got into their gear. Will’s friend Simon Blabbingdale had urged him to “rejoin the Scouts,” which he lost interest in and didn’t have time for, given his training at Peniel. Simon, being a five-star, triple-badged Falcon scout, was relentless. He missed having one of his closest friends along for campouts and hiking trips and did his best to stoke Will’s sense of adventure.

  Unmoved, Will ignored his pals’ advice and signed up for the second (and last) round of football tryouts anyway.

  From the moment he walked onto the field that day, Will’s nose burned. He cautiously checked the stands and the edges of the field for anything fishy: a shadow or a creature waiting to pounce on him. It wasn’t allergies or a cold. It was the same sensation he felt any time demonic activity was present. But nothing out of the ordinary presented itself.

  “Wilder! Join the guys on that scrimmage line and let’s see what you can do,” Coach Runyon barked in Will’s direction, adjusting the PF-emblazoned hat on his head.

  The oversized shoulder pads and helmet swallowed Will as he ran. From the stands, it looked as if a jumble of football gear was floating onto the field of its own volition. Coach Runyon ran a thumbnail across his forehead. “Wilder, you run long. Practice that move we discussed. Caleb, you know what to do.”

  “Got it, Coach,” Caleb said. He licked his fingers and awaited the snap.

  The moment the ball hit Caleb’s hands, Will ran the figure-eight pattern that the coach had asked him to execute. He blew past all the other guys. Finishing the figure eight, he looked up just in time for the ball to hit him in the face mask.

  “Wilder! Keep your head up. You’ve got to search for the ball, son,” the coach yelled.

  As Will reached down to pick up the pigskin, four guys landed on top of him. He ached everywhere—and his nose was tingling worse than ever. A whistle sounded and someone pulled at the back of his shirt. “Get up, Joan of Arc!” His helmet had turned sideways from the impact and now blocked one of Will’s eyes. “Can’t wait to see how you lead this army.” It was Caleb lifting him from the turf, and he was not smiling.

  Everyone reassembled on the scrimmage line. At the snap, Will sped to the backfield in another uncoordinated figure eight. But this time, he kept his head up as he ran. Caleb threw him a spiral pass. The ball was so fast, it slipped through his hands. But he jammed his legs together and caught it between his knees. The reception might not have passed muster in the NFL, but he had caught his first ball. When he looked up, four big guys were coming at him.

  Will shuffled to the left as the opposing team rushed him. He knew he could outmaneuver them. Just as they closed in, he faked them out and dashed off to the right, running for the end zone. He was really moving now. No one in sight, nobody even close. He looked back to find the other boys just staring at him. Take that, dudes, Will thought as he chugged along. They were in obvious shock. The coach’s whistle went off as he crossed the goal line—his nose burning. Touchdown. First time I’ve played the game and I already scored a touchdown!

  Will held the ball overhead and did an awkward chicken dance in the end zone.

  “Wilder!” the coach barked from the sideline. “What are you doing?”

  “I made a touchdown, right?” Will unfastened his helmet.

  “Yes, you did.” The coach suddenly broke into a big grin. “You made it for the other team. Your end zone is over there, Wilder!” The coach poked a finger toward the opposite side of the field. Raucous laughter burst out of the guys in uniform, with the sole exception of Andrew. No one laughed longer or louder than Caleb Gibbar.

  “Can I try again? I understand it now,” Will begged the coach, his nose causing his eyes to water.

  “Monday,” the coach said, adjusting his cap. “We’ll have final tryouts on Monday, Wilder. You can have another go at it then. But”—the coach’s flat mouth and raised eyebrows said it all—“nobody’s good at everything, son.” Will had bungled the tryout badly. Over the coach’s shoulder, Caleb ran a hand through his blond hair and smiled the way a fox cornering a newborn rabbit might.

  Will removed his oversized helmet and glumly shuffled toward the locker room. A pale boy in the first row of the aluminum bleachers next to the tunnel called out to him. “You sure do move fast.” The kid had a scratchy voice and a scrawny body, lost in what looked to be his dad’s sweater. He leaned over the railing. Due to his turned-up nose, his nostrils were the most prominent features on his face.

  “Thanks,” Will said, closing in on the locker room.

  “Don’t let ’em get you down. Guys like us are stronger than we look.” He guffawed. “And a whole lot smarter.”

  “Yeah.” Will nodded and smiled to himself as he walked on. The kid in the bleachers was so pasty, he made Will’s pale friend, Simon, look like a sun worshipper.

  In the locker room, Will quickly changed out of the uniform and into his blue button-up shirt and khakis. While lacing up his red high-tops, he heard a commotion in the hallway. It was Caleb yelling.

  “Back off, runt!”

  Will’s nose started stinging again. Then, from the edge of the locker room, something like a small dog scampered across the floor. Only it was walking on two feet. What is THAT? Will tilted his head around the lockers, trying to see what the thing was. That’s when Caleb burst through the locker room’s swinging doors.

  “There’s little Will of Arc.” He threw his helmet down and pounded toward Will. “Let’s get something straight. Forget being on the team. You’re a lousy player.”

  “I had a bad day, Caleb, but…”

  “You’re going to have a bad year if you’re on my team. You’ll drag us all down. Just drop it.” The much bigger boy closed in on Will. “You’re weak, Wilder. None of us want you here.”

  Will looked toward the doors, hoping one of the other players would interrupt.

  Caleb glanced back at the swinging doors, then smiled at Will. “I told the coach I needed to hit the bathroom. Nobody else is comin’.”

  “I’ve got to get going. I have an appointment.” Will checked his watch and noticed the ring on his
finger. A worried expression washed over his face. His great-aunt Lucille had given him the ring a few months back. The ring’s tiny glass dome held the dried blood of a saint. Whenever either he or his great-aunt Lucille were in danger, the blood would liquefy and bubble beneath the glass—as it was doing right now. Will couldn’t stop staring at it.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Caleb asked.

  “Nothing.” Will quickly put the ringed hand in his pocket and grabbed his backpack. “I’ve gotta run. See you Monday. You can’t stop me from being on the team, Caleb.”

  “Really?” Caleb blocked Will, grabbing him by his belt and his shirt collar. He hoisted Will into the air like a rag doll. “You might have all the answers in class, but I’ll always be bigger and stronger than you—and there’s nothing you can do about it.” He carried Will across the room and dumped him face-first into a slatted metal trash can. “I better not see you on that field Monday. Don’t come back.”

  Through the trash can’s slats, Will watched Caleb lumber out of the locker room. The small black creature skittered after him before the doors closed. “I’ll be there, Caleb. You watch me,” Will yelled, pathetically trying to keep the surrounding trash out of his mouth. He helplessly kicked back and forth, trying to free himself from the can. Throwing his weight to one side, he capsized the trash bin and wiggled free. His nose was on fire. He wiped it in disgust.

  There is no way I’m letting that big oaf scare me away. I’ve squared off with demons; I can take Caleb Gibbar. I’ll get on that team if it’s the last thing I do….

  The soft bleating coming from the hall stopped Will’s inner monologue. He grabbed his pith helmet from his locker and ventured toward the sound in the hallway.