He climbed onto the belt. He had to climb over the dolls to get to Kyle, but he managed to grab her hand and tug at her.
“Kyle! Wake up. Come on, Kyle, you have to wake up!”
The machine popped open, and Andy smelled the body, the blood.
He kept on tugging. The X-shaped machine was ready to eat someone else.
“Kyle!” he screamed.
She opened her eyes.
“What?” she said.
Andy looked to the side, just off the conveyor belt. It was a big fall.
The machine hissed.
Andy pulled with all his might, jumping to the side—pulling Kyle off with him.
They tumbled to the concrete floor just as the machine closed on nothing.
Kyle looked at Andy. Then up at the conveyor belt. She pulled him close and hugged him.
It felt good. And Andy thought he might cry. No. I can’t cry, he thought. Not now.
Maybe not ever.
“Are you okay?” he asked Kyle instead.
“Yeah. My bones hurt, but . . . what happened?”
Andy turned and pointed at the vat and the pile of melted goo next to it. “Look,” he said.
Kyle tried to get up, and Andy grabbed her hand and helped her to her feet. She walked over to what was left of Chucky. The cut steam tube danced all around it.
Kyle went up to the pile and stopped a second. She leaned down over the pile. Andy saw the one eye, kind of floating there.
“Jesus, Andy . . . What did you do to him?” She squatted down. And she grinned. “I got to hand it to you, kid. You really did it. He’s . . .”
Andy was grinning too, smiling, real proud. I took care of him, he thought. I took care of the—
The eye moved. Or maybe it just shifted a bit in the gooey plastic. Maybe—
No, it moved. It looked up, toward Kyle. And before Andy could scream or yell or anything, the goo seemed to rise up. There was a shape, almost like a head, coming out of the goo. Half a head, dripping, with the eye locked on Kyle.
And then, as Andy grabbed Kyle to pull her back, something else twisted out of the goo. An arm. And bits of fingers.
And then a great big bubbling hole. A lopsided hole that made grunting noises, gurgling like the big white bowl you spit in at the dentist’s.
The hand with the twisted gooey fingers grabbed Kyle’s shirt. She screamed.
We were stupid, Andy thought. We were stupid to think we could ever kill Chucky.
The hole, the mouth, kept snapping at the air, then closer to Kyle, as the fingers held her.
Andy stood there, watching. I’ve got to pull him off. I’ve got to get him off of her!
Kyle backed away and bumped into the hose. She tried to grab it, reaching around, always a second too late as it danced away.
Why does she want the hose? Andy wondered.
Then, thinking of his last birthday party, he knew why.
Come on, Kyle, he thought. Get it!
Her hand closed on the hose.
Chucky’s mouth snapped at her.
“Eat this, you son of a bitch!” Kyle yelled. And she stuck the hose right into the mouth, then deep, inside the gooey ball.
The Chucky-thing—it wasn’t like a doll anymore—tried to grab at the hose. But Kyle forced it down.
Chucky’s eye rolled around in the head. It came to rest staring at Andy.
He’s scared, thought Andy. Good.
Kyle pushed the doll off of her. The steam whooshed inside Chucky. The head was bubbling, then growing bigger and bigger.
“Come on!” Kyle yelled, pulling Andy away. They ran, hand in hand, as fast as they could.
Kyle ducked under the conveyor belt, pulling Andy down. But he turned and took one last look at Chucky, who was getting bigger and bigger. Like a birthday balloon when someone just doesn’t stop blowing—until . . .
Kyle pulled him down.
He heard the explosion. The giant popping sound. And then above them they saw the air fill with thousands of tiny pieces blasting up, up, and then falling down, like rain, all over the factory.
The pieces covered everything. Kyle held Andy’s hand, holding him there for a long time, until it was all over.
And then she pulled him out.
Andy looked around.
There was Chucky goo everywhere.
“Let’s get out of here,” Kyle said, as she pulled him along.
While Andy took care not to step on any of the pieces.
They made their way back to the loading door, and after looking around, Kyle found the button that opened it. Another alarm went off, but that didn’t matter anymore.
As soon as the door opened, Andy saw the sun, just ahead, a bright red ball. The light felt good on his face. And the breeze. The air smelled wonderful and clear.
They walked down the steps.
“Where are we going?” Andy asked.
Kyle shrugged. “Home.”
Home? he thought. What does that mean? Home. My home’s gone . . . for now.
“Where’s home?” he said.
Kyle held him close, walking to the gate out of Play Pals. The parking lot was still deserted . . . it must have been too early for the workers.
“I have no idea,” she said, turning to look at him. “I guess that means I’m stuck with you, kiddo.” And she smiled at him.
“You’ll get used to it,” he said.
They were well away from the building, going through the entrance gate, when Andy looked over his shoulder.
Right at the big Good Guy waving at them, its arm moving up and down, so slowly. Good-bye, it seemed to say. See you real soon.
Andy took Kyle’s hand.
Knowing that he’d go . . . wherever she took him.
Epilogue
The plastic resin, the melted parts of Chucky, had exploded into the air. The air filled with the pieces, like a blinding hailstorm.
But still the doll-making machinery labored on. Spitting out heads. Attaching arms and legs. Sticking eyes into doll skulls.
Alarms rang from every corner of the factory.
And inside the vat of bubbling plastic, right on the surface, something landed—and floated on the thick plastic scum.
Something blue and glassy.
A piece of Chucky.
His eye.
It floated for just a few seconds before the suction inside the vat caught it and pulled it down . . . into the pipes.
Into the head-making machine.
The pipes rattled—there shouldn’t have been anything solid in the mixture. And then the sprayers seemed to have some trouble, as though something was still melting down here, where the heads were sprayed.
Then everything was once again all right.
A new torso, from an endless line of Good Guy torsos, rolled into place. And the head-spitting machine spit out an eyeless, bald doll head.
The sockets were dark, empty, much in need of eyes.
The doll moved on to the next stage.
But as the doll moved past the vat, the face moved.
Just a bit.
As if it wasn’t quite time.
The cheeks curved up—just the slightest bit. Curved into the beginning of a grotesque smile.
Then the face relaxed.
Patient, ready to wait . . . for the rest of its body, for its new eyes.
For its new life.
Table of Contents
Backcover
Titlepage
CHILD’S PLAY 2
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
19
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26<
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27
28
29
30
Epilogue
Child’s Play 2 Page 21
