Fetch

by Scott Cawthon

  Disengaging himself from his mom, he touched the hoodie pocket and said, “I need air.” He ran to the front door, threw it open, and careened down the front stairs.

  It wasn’t raining, but if it had been, he wouldn’t have cared. He had to get away. He couldn’t face it. He couldn’t accept what he’d done.

  Because he’d done it. Obviously, he had done it.

  Greg didn’t know where he’d been planning to go when he left his house, but before he could go anywhere, he was stopped in his tracks. Was that … ?

  Yes, it was.

  Under the shore pines clustered near the back of his yard, next to the marram grass at the edge of the dunes, Fetch sat. His eyes glowed red in the now predawn light, and his ears were tilted forward, as if in question. Greg was so angry and upset he didn’t even think about running away. Instead, he grabbed the baseball bat from his dad’s pile of sporting equipment and took one step toward Fetch. Then another. And another. And then he was sprinting full out.

  Fetch stood. Eyes bright, he looked at Greg.

  If Fetch had been a real dog, Greg would have thought this was cute. But Fetch wasn’t a real dog. He was an animatronic killer made to look like a dog. Greg wasn’t going to let the seemingly happy look stop him.

  When Greg reached Fetch, he didn’t hesitate. He swung the bat at Fetch’s head.

  The first strike split open the top of Fetch’s head, revealing a metal skull and ripped wires. Sparks flew as Greg wound up for another swing.

  “What did you do?!” Greg screamed at the Fetch.

  Fetch’s mouth hinged opened in what looked like a silly grin. Greg swung the bat and whacked Fetch’s mouth. Metal teeth sprayed out, and more sparks sputtered at the end of wires that hung through the mouth opening.

  But Fetch was still looking at Greg with what looked like an eager gaze.

  “Stop it!” Greg shrieked.

  Swinging the bat in a wide arc, he brought it down on Fetch’s head as hard as he could. Metal clanged. More sparks flitted out into the wet dune grass. And Greg kept up his assault. He pounded on Fetch with the bat. Once, twice, three times, four times. Finally, Fetch’s face was pulverized. But Greg wasn’t done. He raised the bat again and battered what was left of the machine. Soon, the remnants of the animatronic killer didn’t resemble anything but a small pile of industrial debris. Still, Greg didn’t stop … not until he had blisters on his palms, and he was chomping at the sea air in frantic wide-mouthed gulps.

  Finally, he dropped the bat.

  Greg fell back on his butt in the sloppy wet dunes. He stared at the pile of metal, hinges, synthetic fur, and wires as he sat, catching his breath. The surf was loud, its rhythmic roar like the chant of a million angry men. To Greg, it was the sound of judgment. It was his accuser. How dare he think he knew enough about the field to think about luck and expect to get money? And what was he thinking when he texted Dare about the Magic Finger of Luck? He was the one who’d been wrong. How could he blame this on Fetch?

  Fetch might have been like an REG machine in that he seemed to be reacting to Greg’s thoughts, but he wasn’t an REG machine. Was he?

  Greg didn’t understand what was going on, but he thought that Fetch was responding to more than just his texts. Somehow Fetch was observing Greg’s actions and maybe he was even reading his thoughts the way Greg’s plants did. Fetch wasn’t the Zero Point Field, but he was part of it. He seemed to be acting like he was the field’s dog or something, getting whatever the field thought Greg wanted.

  Whatever Fetch was, it was Greg’s fault that Dare got his finger torn off.

  “Greg, you out there?” Greg’s mom called.

  Greg looked at the destroyed animatronic.

  “Greg?” His mother started down the steps.

  Greg and the debris were partially hidden in the marram grass, but if his mom came into the backyard, she’d see them. Greg looked around and spotted a depression under the driftwood log covered with Fetch’s teeth. He quickly shoveled all of Fetch’s parts into the hole and called out, “Coming.”

  His mom wanted Greg to know Dare would be in surgery for a while to repair damaged nerves and sew up his lacerations. It would be some time before they could go visit him, so she was going to work until then. She hugged Greg before she left. His dad was already gone. As Greg went inside, he realized he’d left the house without his phone. What if someone had been trying to reach him?

  Someone?

  Let’s get real. He meant Fetch. Had Fetch sent him a text before Greg had spotted him?

  Yes. Fetch had texted, Greg discovered when he reached his room. Fetch had asked Greg how he was going to use the Magic Finger of Luck.

  This question put Greg into a fetal position on the bed, and it brought on a fresh wave of tears. Kimberly’s words played on a repeat track in his head: “He’s going to crash and burn before he figures it out.”

  Crash and burn.

  Crash and burn.

  Crash and burn.

  Greg sat and up and yelled, “Noooo!” He grabbed one of the books from his nightstand, and he fired it at the biggest plant in his collection. The plant went flying off the shelf, and dirt exploded into the air. Greg snatched up another book, threw it. Another book, threw it. He did this over and over until every one of his plants was on the floor, and dirt was everywhere. He breathed in the musky scent of the damp earth.

  He laid back down and tried to calm his breathing. This brought the tears back, but that was okay. He laid there and cried until he fell asleep.

  When he woke up, the sun was dropping in the west. It was midafternoon.

  As full consciousness returned, he remembered everything.

  “What a complete tool,” he berated himself.

  What had he been thinking? Did he really believe he could figure out what no one else—not the CIA or the universities or the experts had figured out? If it could be done, wouldn’t it have been done?

  Such an egotistical little twerp he’d been. He realized now how little he knew and that meant that whatever he thought he knew, whatever he thought had been the right thing to do, could have been exactly the opposite of that. Was he really guided to the restaurant? Or did he come up with the lame idea himself? And if he was guided, what guided him? He’d assumed he was doing something to get him what he wanted, but …

  When his phone rang, he froze.

  Then he realized he was being stupid. Fetch didn’t call; he texted. Greg looked at his phone. It was Hadi.

  “Hey, dude, you okay? You weren’t at school.”

  Greg stared at his destroyed plants. He’d forgotten all about school. He’d forgotten all about life.

  “Yeah. Something happened to Dare.”

  “What? Is he okay?”

  “Dude. I’m sorry.”

  Greg could hear Hadi talking to someone else.

  “Cyril says he’s sorry, too,” Hadi said.

  “Thanks.”

  “Can we do anything?”

  “Not unless you can do magic.”

  “Sorry to disappoint, dude.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hey, I’m not sure it’ll make you feel better, but Kimberly was looking for you just now.”

  Greg sat up and finger-combed his hair, catching himself and rolling his eyes. It wasn’t like she was in the room. “Really?”

  “Totally. She said you have a good paper idea and she’s ready to work on it.”

  Right. The paper. He slumped. He’d been so excited about that, and now he didn’t want to even think about the topic.

  Still, if it meant spending time with Kimberly …

  He noticed Hadi was talking.

  “What? Sorry?”

  “I said, after listening to you moon over that girl forever, it would be nice to see you with her.”

  “It hasn’t been forever. Just since second grade.”

  Had it really been that long that he’d loved Kimberly?

  “Whatever.”

  “Yeah, it w
ould be nice to see her.”

  “Well, then don’t miss your chance. Call her and get busy on that paper. Win her over, dude!”

  Greg grinned. Then he frowned. It felt wrong to feel hopeful after what had happened to Dare.

  “I gotta go,” he said.

  “Sure. Let us know if you want to hang out.”

  “Okay.”

  Greg put down the phone and went to take another hot shower. He stank of sweat and salty sea air.

  When he got out of the shower and got dressed, he picked up the phone to call Kimberly. That’s when he saw a text from Fetch … sent five minutes ago. It said:

  Will retrieve.

  “Noooo,” Greg groaned.

  Greg shoved his phone in his pocket and tore out of his room. He galloped down the stairs and out to the dunes.

  Would Fetch even be there?

  When he reached the edge of his yard, he slowed. He was almost afraid to look. But he had to.

  He edged into the dunes, and he looked under the driftwood log.

  Greg’s legs gave out. He sank to his knees in the wet dune grass.

  Although a few small screws, metal pieces, wires, and a hinge were strewn out under the log, the vast majority of the scraps were gone. Gone.

  Greg looked around. The only footprints he saw in the sand were his own. But the sand did tell a story: around the driftwood, the wet sand was grooved with ragged drag marks. At least a dozen smears stretched out from under the log, and then they angled toward each other until they formed one messy drag mark that ended at a flattened clump of dune grass.

  Greg struggled to his feet and backed away from the dunes. Turning, he galloped into the house and up to his room. There, he sank to the floor and put his head in his hands.

  Snapshots of the last several weeks flashed through his head. The spider. The dead dog—the torn-up dead dog. Dare’s severed finger.

  All Greg had wanted was some luck. He didn’t want his uncle’s finger. But Fetch obviously took things literally.

  Greg had no doubt Fetch was active again. How? Greg didn’t know, didn’t need to know. He just did know that Fetch still worked.

  So if Fetch interpreted his request for luck as a need to rip off Dare’s finger, how exactly would he “retrieve,” and more importantly, what, or who, was Fetch going to retrieve? Especially now that Greg had beaten him up?

  “No!” Greg jumped up and stuffed his phone in his pocket. Shoving his feet into black running shoes, he flew out of his house.

  Kimberly lived about a mile away, farther south on the same street he lived on. It would be a straight shot.

  Grabbing his bike, Greg pedaled hard. Of course the wind was picking up again, and it was coming from the south. His lungs were screaming by the time he’d gotten halfway to her house. He ignored them and pushed on. He had to reach Kimberly before Fetch did.

  If it wasn’t too late already.

  When he reached Kimberly’s house, he leaped off his bike and prepared to rush up to the door. But he caught himself when he realized the house was dark. No cars were in the driveway; no one was home.

  Kimberly had mentioned her mom usually picked her up after school, and they often stopped to run errands on the way home. If Kimberly was still at school when Hadi called, Greg probably beat them here.

  Greg leaned over to catch his breath and picked up his bike. Carrying it to the bushes at the edge of Kimberly’s yard, he hunkered down to wait.

  He considered searching for Fetch, but he didn’t know when Kimberly would get home, and he could miss her if he was off looking for Fetch. He couldn’t risk it.

  He waited.

  While he waited, he tried to calm himself with yoga breathing. It didn’t work.

  He was so tense by the time the sun started going down at four thirty he felt like his limbs would break if he tried to unbend them from his crouched position. He figured he’d better try to move now before Kimberly got home.

  Just as he started to stretch out his legs and stand, he spotted headlights coming up the street. He bent low again.

  The car went past, but before he could straighten, another came after it. This was the one.

  A dark blue SUV pulled into the driveway. The passenger door opened, and Kimberly, wearing jeans and a cute green top that matched her eyes, bounced out of the car. She was chattering to her mother as she did. “I think if we put the oregano in, it would be good.”

  “Maybe with basil, too,” her mother said.

  Tall and slender, with a pretty face and short graying black hair, Mrs. Bergstrom was in her midsixties. When they were in second grade, Kimberly told him her mother was fifty-one years old when Kimberly was born. “I was a miracle baby,” Kimberly said. “I figure that means I should be nice to my parents.” She laughed her musical laugh.

  Greg knew Kimberly’s dad was even older than Kimberly’s mom. He was retired. He’d owned a couple of the hotels in Ocean Shores, and he’d sold them the year before.

  “He mostly plays golf now,” Greg overheard Kimberly tell a friend.

  Greg had met both of the Bergstroms. Although Mr. Bergstrom was a little grumpy, Mrs. Bergstrom was nice.

  But would she listen?

  Greg prepared to step out of the bushes and tell Kimberly she was in danger, but he realized how insane his story was going to sound. Maybe if he could talk to just her, she could convince her parents to listen.

  Before he decided what to do, a black sedan pulled in behind the SUV. It crunched over gravel strewn across the asphalt driveway, and Mr. Bergstrom got out.

  The wind picked up speed just when Mr. Bergstrom’s feet hit the ground. It blew off his red baseball cap, and Kimberly skipped after it.

  “Thanks, sweetie,” Mr. Bergstrom called. He smoothed down thinning white hair and hugged his daughter.

  The ocean wasn’t as loud now as it had been that morning when Greg was running in the dunes. Was it seriously just that morning that he had found out about Dare and tried to destroy Fetch? It felt like a year ago, at least.

  Even though it wasn’t as loud, the ocean’s insistent murmur drowned out what Kimberly and her parents were saying as they walked toward the house. Greg started to rise again, still not sure what to do.

  Just as he rose, Mr. Bergstrom’s hat blew off once more, and he strode after it. The hat landed right in front of the bush Greg hid in, and Mr. Bergstrom spotted him.

  “Hey, kid, what’re you doing in the bushes?” Mr. Bergstrom’s voice was strident and sharp.

  Greg squared his shoulders and stood up. He had to try to warn them.

  “Hi, Mr. Bergstrom,” he said.

  “Who’re you? No, wait. I’ve seen you.”

  “Greg, what are you doing here?” Kimberly called out from her front walk. She came toward Greg and her dad. Mrs. Bergstrom followed.

  “Um, Kimberly, I know this is going to sound crazy.”

  “What’s going to sound crazy? What’s the meaning of this?” Mr. Bergstrom snapped.

  Greg took a deep breath and dove into his explanation. “Kimberly, you’re in danger. Like, serious danger. I think, well, I think, someone, er … something is going to try to kill you.”

  “What?” Mr. and Mrs. Bergstrom erupted in unison. Mr. Bergstrom’s tone was rough and outraged. Mrs. Bergstrom’s tone was a high-pitch shriek of fear.

  Kimberly said nothing, but her eyes had widened.

  “Kimberly, you know what we were talking about, the REGs, the plants, the cells, the shared consciousness, the guidance?”

  She nodded.

  “I have no idea how to explain this, but part of the guidance I got was that I had to know what was inside that abandoned pizzeria. So I got Cyril and Hadi to break in there with me …”

  “You what?” Mr. Bergstrom sputtered.

  Greg ignored him. “And we found this animatronic dog that’s designed to sync up with your cell phone.”

  Mr. Bergstrom tried to interrupt again, but Greg talked louder and faster. “I was c
urious, so I poked around at it, and I couldn’t get it to work. Or at least I thought I couldn’t get it to work. But apparently I did, because it’s been texting me and doing things for me. At first it did helpful things, but then it started doing things I didn’t want it to do. It killed a dog that bothered me …”

  Kimberly, a dog lover, Greg knew, sucked in her breath.

  He shrugged at her. “Yeah, I know. It was awful. I mean, this was a horrible dog, but still, it was a dog, and the way it was killed was … Anyway, then I was wanting some luck, and my uncle had this Magic Finger of Luck, and I wished I had that, too, and then I found his …”

  “Young man,” Mr. Bergstrom shouted.

  Greg ignored him and talked even louder. “I found his finger. And so this afternoon, I said, well, I said I wanted to be with you, and now I’m afraid Fetch is going to—”

  “Young man!” Mr. Bergstrom yelled.

  Greg stopped because, well, what else could he say?

  That’s when he noticed Mr. Bergstrom put a cell phone to his ear, “Yes, could you please send an officer to my home? Some crazy teenager is stalking my daughter. I want him arrested.”

  Greg looked at Kimberly. She mouthed, “Sorry.”

  He shook his head.

  He’d failed again.

  When the police officer questioned Greg about breaking into the restaurant, Greg kept telling himself Kimberly would be okay. She was fine now, and if Fetch was following what was going on through Greg’s cell phone, he’d surely know Greg wanted Kimberly to be left alone.

  “I’d forgotten all about that old pizzeria,” the middle-aged cop said when Mr. Bergstrom reported Greg’s break-in. “Is it still there?”

  Is it still there? Greg thought. Was the place like Brigadoon or something?

  When the police officer put Greg in his SUV and took him to the police station, Greg kept telling himself Kimberly would be okay. Her parents would be on guard. Fetch wouldn’t be able to “retrieve” her.

  But no matter how often he told himself everything would be fine, he dreaded going back to his house. It took two hours for the police to process him and question him. It took another two hours for the police to locate his parents and another hour and a half for them to get to the station because they were both in Olympia. What if Fetch had gotten to Kimberly in that time?