by Mark Frost
“Set your watches,” said Will. “We need to be in perfect sync.”
“Two-oh-eight,” said Nick. “Central Standard Chuck Norris Time.”
“Check,” said Ajay.
“We have twelve minutes,” said Will. “Here’s how this is going to go.”
He explained their assignments. Thirty seconds later, they took off running in three different directions.
THE PALADINS
Will had never run in snow before, and this was deep; in some nooks and hollows it piled up to his knees. Heavier and wetter than it had been earlier, it was the consistency of slick pebbled Styrofoam. His rubber-soled boots squeaked and struggled for stability with every step, costing him 30 percent of his speed. As he calculated time and distance, he realized that how he was running wasn’t going to get him where he needed to be in time.
He had to run faster. In the last week, he’d twice reached into his reserves past where he’d thought possible; now he did it again. He ignored the uncertain footing. Stopped caring about his bulky coat and lousy visibility and the cold air searing his lungs. Will accelerated, and like a hydrofoil reaching cruising speed, he lifted above the snow, running on top.
He sped past the quad, across the fields where no tracks preceded him, toward the snow-covered woods. As the eye of the blizzard passed over the Center, the wind stilled, the temperature plummeted, and a cold mist rose from the cooling ground. The snow fell straight down, a blank white curtain dancing all around him. He scanned the tree line ahead, then shot the gap onto the path he was looking for.
The path through the snow-covered trees that Will had seen in his first dream about the Center.
No footprints led to the Barn. The broad plain in front of the building was a pristine field of white. The Barn wasn’t visible through the snow and thickening fog until he was less than fifty yards away.
He checked his watch. Three minutes to spare, but he needed to give the others time to get in place. He slowed to a steady trudge. The statue near the front doors materialized through the mist, its head and limbs clumped with snow like icing on a cake. He pulled the hood of the new blue parka tight around his face until only his eyes showed.
Will had guessed there would be a hidden camera so they could verify he’d come by himself. He thought there would be a speaker as well so the Paladin could drop another clue that would lead him inside. Where’d they’d be waiting to spring their trap.
He walked up to the big bronze statue. The cold eyes stared past him. Between them he noticed a small button-sized lens just inside the mask. He waved at it. Then he waved at it again.
“You’re alone,” said the same warped and filtered voice from the instant message. With a speaker hidden inside the mask as well, it was almost like the statue was speaking.
Nice touch.
He nodded.
“And you’re on time,” said the Paladin.
He pointed to his watch and gave a thumbs-up. “What now?” he asked.
“Like I said, if you want to find me … look behind me.”
Behind the statue, the front doors to the Barn swung open. Keeping his head down, he headed for the doors. He reached into the pocket of the blue parka and flicked the button on his walkie-talkie.
“Chuck Norris to Base,” he said. “They bought it. I’m headed for a Barn dance. Going in. Over.”
If he’d looked behind him, he would have noticed a black carbon-fiber canister, about the size of a thermos, attached to a hole on the heel of the statue’s right boot. And he would have seen the head of the statue, with a fingernails-on-a-blackboard screech of wrenching metal, turn to watch him.
Ajay ran full tilt through the stable and into the riding ring, where he found Elise, alone, on her black stallion, working her way around the hunter-jumper course. Ajay waved her down, and when he’d explained—in less than one hyper-articulate minute—what had happened, where they needed to go, and how quickly they needed to get there, Elise held out her hand. Ajay took hold and she pulled him up behind her on the saddle.
“I’m not overly fond of horses,” he said, alarmed.
“Too bad for you,” said Elise. “Hold on.”
Ajay wrapped his arms around Elise’s waist—no complaints about that part of the arrangement—as she spurred the horse into a gallop. They soared over the top rail of the ring, back through the stable, then thundered out the open doors into the snow.
Ajay heard a voice crackle on the walkie-talkie in his pocket, but he was too petrified to reach for it.
* * *
A dim gray twilight filtered in from the casement windows in the Barn’s roof. They’d left the ceiling spots turned off and opened the grandstands, enclosing the practice field on all four sides. He walked between two sections of stands, across the oval running track, and onto the turf infield. The Knights appeared before he reached the center, emerging from gaps all around the grandstands.
There were six of them, wearing black sweats and masks from the locker room trunk: Clown. Devil. Fox. Horse. The tusked Wild Boar. The grinning Jack-o’-Lantern.
He slowed to buy time as the masks tightened the circle around him. They carried black metal police batons made of hard composite steel, with rubberized grips.
He slipped his right hand into the parka’s right front pocket, through the loops of Ajay’s blue metallic knuckle-duster. In his left hand he gripped the handle of the jump rope, coiled in the other pocket next to the walkie-talkie.
When his six stalkers reached the inside edge of the running track, one of the overhead lights turned on, and the masked Paladin stepped into view behind the closing circle.
“You don’t have your bodyguard this time, West,” said the Paladin in his droning filtered voice.
The walkie-talkie in the parka’s left front pocket crackled softly. It was Will. “Base to Chuck: In position. Two masks on the door. Go, dawg.”
“Wrong, Chuckles,” Nick said to the Paladin. “I’m right here.”
Nick dropped the hood and shrugged off Will’s blue parka. He raised his right hand, brandishing the knuckles, and assumed his guardian stance, alert and poised. He made eye contact with each of the masks as he turned slowly, whipping the end of the jump rope around in a tight, menacing circle.
“A little bummed at the turnout,” said Nick. “Only six? Seriously? No Benjy Franks or George W? And where, oh, where are your funky-fresh lids? I wanted to catch you guys stylin’.”
The Paladin stopped, then took a step back. The whole group slowed their advance, suddenly uncertain. Will’s plan had caught them off guard: So far, so good.
The Paladin raised his hand and pointed a Taser at him.
“Let’s party,” said Nick.
With five minutes left, Will crested the last hill and Lake Waukoma came into view. Veering inland to avoid the shore, he ran under the cover of the tree line, and soon the boathouse appeared. He slowed and his legs sank into the snow as he closed to within fifty yards.
As Will had expected, there were sentries on either side of the shoreside front door. They patrolled a porch that ran along either side of the building to the waterline. Will took out the binoculars Ajay had given him and focused on them.
The one-eyed Pirate and the Pigtailed Girl were guarding the door. Too cold for their oddball hats, they wore black woolen watch caps pulled tight around the tops of their masks.
Will checked the time: less than two minutes. His walkie-talkie clicked on and he heard Nick: “Chuck Norris to Base. They bought it. I’m headed for a Barn dance. Going in. Over.”
They’d all be focused on Nick now, for a short while anyway. Will scurried toward the boathouse, then crept down a slope that angled to the shore—the side where they wouldn’t expect anyone to approach from: the water.
The snow hadn’t yet collected under the eaves by the big lakeside doors. The doors were padlocked on the outside but ended just above the waterline. When he leaned down and looked under them, Will could see hulls of boats in their
slips bobbing gently.
Will clicked on his walkie-talkie and spoke softly: “Base to Chuck: In position. Two masks on the door. Go, dawg.”
Will peered around the corner and saw a side door.
“Get him!” shouted the Paladin.
All six masked figures ran toward Nick, shouting and raising their batons. The Paladin fired the Taser but Nick was ready for it. He leaned back, arching all the way down until his right hand found the floor, and felt the three darts pass just under his chin. The Paladin dropped the Taser and bolted for the door.
Nick pushed back up and twirled around. He snaked out the length of rope and whipped the handle around the knee of the nearest mask: the Wild Boar, charging at him, as enraged as its namesake. Nick yanked hard and pulled his leg out from under him. The Boar flipped a full 360 in the air, and crash-landed.
Nick dodged the first blow from a baton, turned, and smashed a hard straight right into the face of the Jack-o’-Lantern. His fat pumpkin head imploded; Nick felt the contact points of Ajay’s knuckle-duster connect with his face and pushed the button on the bend of the knuckles with his thumb. A burst of forty thousand volts shot through the guy, with a sound like a vulture hitting a gigantic bug zapper.
Pumpkinhead went down and out.
Nick pivoted to narrowly avoid another blow, but a second baton came in from an awkward angle and cracked him above the left hip. That whole side of his torso went numb. He ignored the pain, whipped the rope back out, and snaked it around the neck of the Horse. The Horse dropped his baton as his hands flew to his throat. Nick reeled him into a head-butt that flattened his long equine nose, then unspooled him toward the Boar, just getting back to his feet, knocking them both to the ground.
Nick heard a whoosh and dropped as a baton sailed past his ear. He rolled to avoid another that skipped off the ground, but a third baton smashed him square flush just below the right knee.
In a minute that is really going to hurt.
He sprang off the ground, landed on the balls of his feet, coiled, and hopped straight into the air as the Clown ran under him. As he came down, Nick twisted his legs around the Clown’s neck. He gripped hard with his thighs and punched him five times on top of the head with the knuckle-duster. Fast, like a hammer pounding in a nail. On the final punch Nick pushed off, lifted straight above him, and pushed the button on the knuckles. The Clown crumpled as the current blasted him, out cold before he reached the ground.
Nick half twisted and landed on his feet. A painful throb shot through his knee, and he nearly collapsed. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the Boar rushing at him again, aiming low. Nick spun and delivered a roundhouse kick to the Boar’s jaw that put him down and out.
The last two, the Devil and Fox, stood nearby, panting with exertion. They looked at their four friends, out cold on the ground, then at each other, and turned to run.
Nick flung the jump rope at them like a bolo. It snared them both around the ankles and sent them flying. Nick backflipped toward them and slammed them into the ground with a foot in each back, knocking out what was left of their wind. They turned, gasping for air, and saw twin fists descending toward their masks.
Nick stood up, looked around at the carnage, took a deep breath, and couldn’t resist a little breathless commentary into an imaginary mic: “Hope you enjoyed our main event here at Laughton Field House today. Another impressive outing in the steel cage grudge match for this outstanding young talent. Nick McLeish six … masks nothing.”
Nick tested his throbbing right knee; it was his only serious injury, but he could already feel it swelling. He’d have a doorknob there soon unless he got ice on it. He hobbled over to pick up his rope and parka. He took a handful of plastic garbage bag ties from the pocket, ready to hog-tie the six losers and rip their masks off.
When he heard heavy footsteps nearby, Nick looked up and was surprised to see the Paladin standing in the shadows of the aisle leading back to the front doors.
“Really, Lyle?” asked Nick. “You decided to stick around after watching your boys get schooled? Now I know you’re crazy.”
Nick started toward him. The Paladin stepped into the light and Nick realized it wasn’t Lyle. Lyle was nowhere near seven feet tall, and Lyle didn’t clank when he walked like he weighed two thousand pounds and was made of bronze.
“Farting rabbits,” said Nick.
Nick stopped but the Paladin kept coming. It lowered its head, raised its sword and hatchet, and stomped across the running track, caving in planks with every step.
“No way,” said Nick. “No freakin’ way.”
Nick retreated to a rack of track-and-field equipment. He grabbed a javelin, turned, and hurled it at the Paladin. The spear flew straight and true but clanked harmlessly off the Paladin’s chest. The Paladin kept coming. Nick whipped two discuses at him; they shattered on his shoulders like clay skeets. Nick picked up a hammer and chain, whipped it around in a tight circle, and let it fly.
The hammer arced down and caught the Paladin flush in the head with a hollow boom. The Paladin froze. “How’d that taste?” said Nick.
The Paladin shook its head once. Twice. Then continued toward him.
“Okay, dude, that’s just not fair,” said Nick.
Nick picked up a vaulting pole and ran in the other direction, his injured knee making him gimpier with every stride. As he neared the seats, he planted, pulled back on the pole, rose into the air, and cleared the grandstand. At the top of his arc, he let go of the pole and sailed toward the basketball court. He tried to tuck and roll but his injured leg buckled on impact. When Nick stood back up, his knee refused to take any weight. He hopped across the court, dragging his injured leg behind him.
He heard the Paladin crash into the grandstand he’d just cleared, hacking and slashing through a mass of wood and metal stanchions. Nick fumbled out the walkie-talkie:
“Yo, Chuck Norris to Base,” said Nick. “Six masks down, but the Paladin flew the coop. Could be headed your way. But, uh, there’s another Paladin here? Only this time—and, dude, I know how freaky this sounds—it really is the statue.”
No response. Sword and hatchet whirling like thresher blades, the Paladin broke through into Nick’s side of the stands. The Paladin spotted Nick and headed toward him, steel boots leaving cracked footprints in the hardwood court.
“Uh, over,” said Nick.
Nick shoved the walkie-talkie into his pocket, pushed through the nearest doors, and limped down the long corridor into the depths of the Barn.
Will heard a scuff of footsteps to his right. A third mask, the Ghost, stepped onto the far end of the walkway, heading for the waterline. Will ducked back around the corner.
The Ghost stopped and looked out toward the woods, checking the perimeter. Will focused on the back of his head and pushed a picture at him:
An image of the door near the water, standing open a few inches.
The Ghost turned and hurried to the end of the walkway. He stopped just outside the door. Will heard the Ghost try the knob. It was locked. Will closed his eyes, shuddering with effort, and pushed again:
An image of himself, hiding behind some crates inside the boathouse.
Will heard a key slide into the lock. The knob turned. The door opened and the Ghost stepped inside the boathouse. Will gave him a moment, then hurried around the corner and snuck in behind him.
The boathouse was a lot bigger than it looked from outside. It consisted of three sprawling, rambling stories above a stone foundation at the waterline. The first two levels were all open flooring and exposed timbers. The only light trickled in from small windows along the sides. Dampness rising off the lake made the dead, still air feel even colder.
The Ghost was looking for him behind some racks packed with sculls and canoes. Will reached for a rowboat suspended just above him on ropes and pulleys. He grabbed the boat and shoved it as hard as he could. The Ghost heard the creak of rope and wood and turned to look, just as the boat swung in. It
slammed into his mask. He shuffled his feet for a moment, twirled once, and then dropped to the ground.
Will dragged him behind the racks and stripped off the Ghost’s jacket, watch cap, and mask: It was Wendell Duckworth, from the cross-country team. He secured Duckworth’s hands behind his back with two plastic garbage bag ties, then put on Duckworth’s coat, mask, and watch cap.
Will looked around. Wooden ladders on the walls led to the loft space above. There had to be some enclosed rooms on the top floor above that. From somewhere upstairs, one of the black campus phones rang. He heard footsteps as someone walked to the phone and answered.
Will’s walkie-talkie crackled to life. He heard Nick’s voice, faintly:
“Yo, Chuck Norris to Base. Six masks down, but the Paladin flew the coop. Could be headed your way. But, uh, there’s another Paladin here? Only this time—and, dude, I know how freaky this sounds—it really is the statue.”
Will heard a male voice shout from somewhere near the top of the building: “Everybody upstairs! Get up here now!”
#8: ALWAYS BE PREPARED TO IMPROVISE.
Will climbed one of the ladders to the second floor. Boats and gear filled most of the space. A windowed door led to a small office tucked against the right wall. Straight ahead, an interior staircase led up from the front doors to a landing, then turned and continued to the third floor. The Pigtailed Girl and Pirate who’d been stationed outside hurried in; they spotted Will as they headed up the stairs.
“You heard him,” said the Pirate to Will. “Move your ass.”
Will fell in behind them. His peripheral vision halved by the edges of the mask, he followed them up a flight of narrow unfinished stairs toward what looked like an attic. They passed through a narrow door at the top of the stairs into a cramped landing. Through an open door ahead, Will caught a glimpse of the dark room they’d seen in the video feed.
