Fetch

by Scott Cawthon

  Dropping his bike on the concrete driveway, Greg ran to the gaping doorway and peered into the tile-covered entryway of the small one-story house. He broke out in a cold sweat when he saw muddy paw prints on the gray squares.

  “Manuel?” he shouted, taking a step into the house.

  “¿Que pasa?” a voice called from behind Greg.

  A dog barked.

  Greg whirled around. Manuel and a yellow Labrador were standing at the edge of a front yard filled with patches of grass and exposed dirt. The dog had a red ball in its mouth, and its feet were muddy.

  Greg’s heart, which had been trying to set a speed record, settled into a more normal pace. “Hey, Manuel.”

  “Hi, Greg.” Manuel’s smile was friendly but confused.

  Not a surprise. How could Greg explain why he was here?

  “Um, I sent you a text, but you didn’t respond. Needed a bike ride anyway, so I thought I’d stop by—Cyril told me you lived down the street from him. I wondered if you had time to help me with my Spanish.”

  Manuel’s confusion disappeared. “Sure. Sorry about the text. I left my phone inside. I can do it now, if Oro will let us.” The dog next to him barked.

  Greg, so relieved that he’d imagined danger that didn’t exist, grinned at the dog. “Hi, Oro. Want me to throw the ball?”

  Oro wagged his tail but didn’t move.

  Manuel laughed. “He understands Spanish. Say, ‘Tráeme la pelota.’”

  Greg repeated the command.

  Oro brought him the ball.

  Greg laughed. “Maybe I don’t need your help. Maybe Oro can help me.”

  Manual laughed, too, and for the next hour, Greg forgot all about Fetch while he played with Oro and improved his Spanish.

  The rest of the weekend passed without any disturbing incidents. And when Monday came, Greg was in a great mood. He was all about his most recent triumph, getting Kimberly as his lab partner. He’d intended it; it had happened. And after his most recent intention with Fetch seemed to thwart him, it looked like Greg was actually learning to use the Zero Point Field. Score!

  Greg and Kimberly had their first meet-up after school the next day in the science lab. Every team had been given a set time to use the REG machine Mr. Jacoby got for their experiments. Greg and Kimberly were second to use the machine.

  Their assignment was to attempt to control, with their minds, the 0s and 1s generated by the machine. Both were to focus their will on either 0s or 1s (Greg took 0s, and Kimberly took 1s) for a total of ten minutes each. They were to record their results, and then they were supposed to write a paper about some aspect of REG research and how it impacted society. Greg had thought he’d have to be the one to suggest a topic, but Kimberly beat him to it.

  Sitting cross-legged on the floor after they used the REG machine, Kimberly said, “I have an idea for the paper.” She pulled out her phone and tapped at it. Greg stared at her hands. She had the prettiest hands. Today, her nails were bright blue. They matched the tight blue sweater she wore. He tried not to stare …

  “Are you listening?”

  “I’m sorry. What?”

  Even though Greg had known Kimberly for seven years, he was pretty sure he’d never said more than two words to her at a time. Whenever he had the chance to talk to her, his brain drained down his legs and puddled in his shoes. He’d gotten her as a partner now, but how was he going to talk to her?

  “I said I think we should write about how REGs influence big world disasters.”

  Wow. She knew that?

  If he hadn’t been in love before, he sure was now.

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “That’s perfect.”

  “You know about it?” She looked up at him.

  Greg still sat in his chair, but now he slid down onto the beige-tiled floor so he could see her better. Stoked by her idea, he forgot to be nervous. “Yeah. I’ve been following the way REGs have been used to study the power of thinking for a couple years.”

  “That’s Gucci!” Kimberly gave him one of her full smiles.

  He grinned back like an idiot.

  He was so excited about her paper topic that he wasn’t as bummed about the fact that Kimberly had done better with the REG machine then he had. No matter how much he concentrated, his machine’s results were barely above a normal random readout.

  “I tried to talk to my parents about it,” Kimberly said. “They’re pretty open-minded, but Mom said it was too ‘out there,’ and Dad said the machines were probably being set up to get the results the people wanted. But they’re not!” Kimberly leaned forward, her eyes bright.

  Greg couldn’t believe she was as into this stuff as he was. “I know,” Greg said, leaning in, too.

  “And did you know they get spikes before big sporting events?”

  He hesitated only a second before saying, “Do you know about Cleve Backster?”

  Kimberly blinked. “No. Who’s he?”

  “He was an interrogation instructor for the CIA, and he taught classes on using the polygraph machine.”

  “Okay.” Kimberly put her elbows on her knees, clearly focused on what he was saying.

  He couldn’t believe he had her full attention. He tried not to let himself be distracted by her peaches and cream perfume.

  “So what about him?” Kimberly prompted.

  Greg cleared his throat. “Well, he started using the polygraph machine to do experiments on plants, and he discovered plants can sense our thoughts.”

  “My mother sings to her plants because she says it makes them grow faster.”

  Greg nodded. “They probably do.”

  “That’s why I was surprised my mom didn’t believe the REG stuff.”

  “I think it freaks people out,” Greg said.

  Kimberly nodded. “So is there more about this polygraph guy?”

  “Yeah. So Backster experimented with the plant’s reactions to his actions. Like, he burned a plant and got a reaction, but not just in the burned plant. Nearby plants reacted, too! And then he just thought about burning the plants, and the second he had that thought, the polygraph recorded a reaction in all the plants. Like the plants had read his mind.”

  “Whoa!”

  Greg nodded so hard he felt like a bobblehead doll. “Yeah, I know!” He grinned. “Most people didn’t believe Backster when he published his results. But he kept experimenting, not only with plants but with human cells, and he proved that cells can sense thoughts. They have a consciousness.”

  Kimberly twirled a lock of her shiny hair with an index finger. “So if cells have consciousness, then why’s it such a leap to think our brains can influence a machine?”

  “Exactly!”

  “We should include that in our paper,” Kimberly said. “It’s good stuff.”

  “Yeah. I thought it was so cool that I decided to do my own experiments. My uncle got me a polygraph machine, and I started trying things with my plants. It actually works. They know what I’m thinking … well, at least the simple stuff.”

  “Wow!”

  “Yeah. I’ve been trying other things, too.” Greg hesitated. Should he tell her?

  “Like what?” she asked.

  Greg chewed his lip. Oh, why not? He scooted closer to her and lowered his voice. “Do you remember what Mr. Jacoby said about the Zero Point Field, that it means all matter in the universe is interconnected by subatomic waves that connect one part of the universe to every other part?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Well, I read about the field over the summer, and when I read it, I got really excited. I read that researchers are saying this field could explain lots of stuff no one could explain before, stuff like chi and telepathy and other psychic abilities.”

  “I have a cousin who’s psychic,” Kimberly said. “She always knows when there’s going to be a test at her school.” Kimberly laughed. “I’ve been trying to get her to teach me how to do that.”

  Greg grinned. “Then you’ll get it.”

 
“Get what?”

  “Well, I have some good stuff in my life, but there’s so much I hate. Like my dad and … well, just stuff. So I figured I could learn to use the field, you know? Communicate with it. Tell it what I want and get it to tell me what to do. So I’ve been practicing on my plants, seeing if they’d respond to my intention, and then I started just concentrating on things I wanted and seeing if I got any ideas, you know, like …”

  “Guidance?”

  “Yeah.”

  Kimberly slowly nodded. “I get what you’re trying to do.” She wrinkled up her perfect nose. “The problem is, well,” she shrugged, “I just wonder if trying to get the field to work is like a monkey trying to fly an airplane. He’s going to crash and burn before he can figure it out.”

  Greg tried not to let her see that her words felt like a kick in the gut. She obviously did see, though, “Not that you’re a monkey, I mean. I just mean quantum stuff is hard. I like it, too, and I’ve tried to read about it, but I don’t get it. Not really.”

  “Hey!” Trent White burst into the room. “You two smashing face in here or what?”

  Kimberly blushed deep red.

  “Shut up, Trent,” Greg said.

  “Shut up yourself. Your time’s up. Our turn.” Trent gestured toward his project partner, another school athlete, Rory.

  Greg still couldn’t believe they were both in Advanced Scientific Theory.

  “We’re done.” Kimberly scrambled to her feet.

  She and Greg left the room. “Let’s get together over the weekend to talk more about the paper,” she suggested.

  “Sure.”

  After Greg got home from school, he texted Hadi and Cyril, asking them to come over.

  While he waited, he looked at the latest text from Fetch:

  2EZ.

  “What’s too easy?” Greg responded.

  AOTA.

  “All of the above what?” Greg asked.

  411.

  All of the above information was too easy? What did Fetch mean? Was he talking about Greg’s conversation with Kimberly? Was he saying that Greg was making the Zero Point Field too easy? And why did Greg care about the opinion of an animatronic dog anyway?

  He wanted to ignore Fetch, but then Fetch texted:

  REG M2.

  Fetch then texted a link to a website that sold small REGs.

  Greg didn’t understand what Fetch meant by REG M2. Did M2 mean “Me too?” Did that mean Fetch was saying he wanted an REG, too? Or was he saying he was an REG? Or like an REG?

  Greg frowned and texted back, Thx. He figured whatever Fetch was saying, he should stay on Fetch’s good side.

  Hadi and Cyril came over and brought pizza. Surprisingly, Greg’s parents were home, but they were caught up in some intense discussion and they both said, “Okay,” when Greg asked if his friends could come over with pizza.

  The boys spent their first fifteen minutes wolfing down pepperoni pizza and guzzling Coke. When Hadi burped, loudly, Greg decided it was time.

  “We need to talk about what happened the other night.”

  “Do we really?” Cyril asked.

  “Yeah,” Greg said. “Fetch is out there somewhere!”

  “Well, now you’re just being a moron,” Hadi said. “That’s what bothers you? That he’s out there somewhere? Yeah, he’s out there. For sure. Fetch is animatronic, and you obviously managed to turn him on. But how about the fact that Fetch dug up the spider for you or the fact that he killed a dog for you?”

  “Yeah, there’s that,” Greg agreed.

  “I think we should destroy it,” Hadi said.

  “I think we should stay away from it,” Cyril said.

  “Yeah, but will Fetch stay away from us?” Greg asked.

  Hadi glared at him. “You’re the one who activated it.”

  Greg threw up his hands. “I didn’t even know what I was doing!”

  “Well, you need to figure it out,” Hadi said. “You’re the smart one.”

  “Yeah,” Cyril agreed.

  “You sound like you’re mad at me,” Greg accused his friends.

  Cyril looked at his tiny feet. Hadi said, “Well …”

  “You are mad at me! What did I do?”

  “You’re the one who wanted to go there in the first place,” Cyril said.

  Greg opened then closed his mouth. He got up. “Fine. You two can head home then. I’ll take care of it.”

  Hadi and Cyril stared at him then looked at each other. “Whatever, dude,” Hadi said. “Come on.” He got up and gestured for Cyril to follow.

  An hour later, wearing threadbare sweats and an old tie-dyed T-shirt, lying on his back in bed in the dark, Greg said to the ceiling, “I need money.”

  If he had money, more money than he could get from babysitting anyway, he could get whatever he needed for his experiments. He could set up his own consciousness project. Then he’d know what to do about Fetch.

  Greg grabbed his phone. Over the summer, he’d read an article about this thirteen-year-old entrepreneur who set up a home business and was making tons of profit. Greg was fourteen, and he was smart. Why couldn’t he have a business? He thumbed in a search, “how to make money fast.”

  He spent the next hour skimming through “make money at home” sites. By the end of the hour, he was frustrated, confused, and tired. So he got ready for bed. Just before he laid down, he picked up his phone and sent Dare a text: I need the Magic Finger of Luck. Can U teach me how to make money?

  Dare didn’t respond. Greg figured he was probably asleep. Dare usually went to bed earlier than Greg did.

  Before he turned off the light, his phone buzzed. A text from Fetch:

  GNSD.

  “Sweet dreams to you, too,” Greg responded, ignoring the chill that skirted down his spine.

  He frowned, bothered by something; but he wasn’t sure what it was. He was so tired he wasn’t thinking straight. He couldn’t keep his eyes open. So he closed them, and he was asleep immediately.

  When Greg woke up, it was still dark out. He erupted from the bed and blinked frantically to focus. His last text! What had he been thinking?

  “Idiot!” Greg grabbed his phone and deleted his text to Dare.

  Then he called Dare.

  No answer.

  He pulled up Dare’s landline number and called it. Even if Dare was asleep, that phone would wake him.

  No answer.

  What should he do?

  Greg had no way to get up to Dare’s place on his own. It was too far to bike. No buses ran up there. How could he get to Dare and warn him?

  A ride. He needed a ride. From who? No way could he ask his parents.

  He thought about Mrs. Peters three doors down. She was always nice to him. Maybe …

  Greg tore off his PJs and pulled on gray sweats and a navy blue hoodie. He grabbed his phone and ran out of his room.

  He wasn’t sure how he was going to explain to Mrs. Peters why he needed a ride at—what time was it? He checked. Four thirty.

  Well, he’d just have to figure it out.

  In his stocking feet, Greg took the stairs two at a time. Inside the front door, he stopped to tug on his rain boots in the entryway. Then he threw back the deadbolt and flung the door open. He started to charge through the door.

  But then he looked down.

  His legs went out from under him, and he crumpled to the ground. He started to heave, covered his mouth, and looked away from what lay on top of the WELCOME FRIENDS mat.

  Looking away didn’t help, though. The image was indelibly etched into his retinas. In his mind’s eye he could see Dare’s thick finger, the base torn and bloody, part of the bone jutting through the gore. The finger was dusky and had tufts of light hair. The blood was bright red. Even just in memory, the details were excruciating. Greg even noticed that the blood had congealed before the finger had been dropped on the mat because the white M wasn’t bloody.

  “Greg? What are you doing down here?” Greg’s mom wa
s coming down the stairs.

  Greg didn’t think. He snatched up the finger and stuffed it in the pocket of his hoody. Grabbing the doorframe, he pulled himself to his feet and shut the door.

  “I think I was sleepwalking,” Greg said. Lame. But he was too out of it to come up with something better.

  Then he noticed his mom was crying.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  Her eyes and her nose were red. Her mascara was smeared. Her cheeks were wet. She wore nothing but her pink fuzzy robe over a white frilly nightshirt. She wiped her cheeks and sank down onto the third step from the bottom of the stairs.

  “What’s wrong?” he repeated. He rushed to the stairs and sat next to his mom.

  She took his hand. “I’m sorry. It’s not the end of the world. I’m just shocked, is all. It’s your uncle Darrin.”

  Greg stiffened.

  “You won’t believe this!” his mom said, sobbing. “He got attacked by some kind of wild animal. It tore off his finger!”

  Greg couldn’t breathe. He looked down at his hoody pocket. He put his hand over it, feeling the ring still wrapped around the grotesquely ripped base. When Greg had seen the finger, he’d have known it was Dare’s even without the presence of the onyx and gold ring. But the ring? That, more than the exposed bone and veins, was what had dismayed him the most. Now his eyes filled with tears. He cleared his clogged throat and managed, “That’s terrible!”

  “He’s all scratched up, too, mauled. He’s been airlifted to the hospital. I just can’t believe this.”

  Greg couldn’t comfort her. He was too busy realizing.

  “Oh no, no, no,” he groaned.

  His mother, not understanding, wrapped her arms around him. “It’s okay. Really. I’m sure he’ll be fine. He’ll probably make a joke out of losing his finger.” She burst into tears again.

  “No, no, no,” Greg repeated. It was like a mantra, like he could say it enough and it would make everything stop and go back to the way it was.