Phantasos

by Robert Barnard

  Maybe it was how exhausted Benji was, or the overwhelming frustrations of the day, but he was tired of dodging confrontation with Rodney—especially if they’d have to spend the whole summer together in the same town. There’d been an animosity between the two simmering for years, long before the destruction of Rodney’s bicycle tire or Walkman. Rodney had taunted Benji since grade school, and perhaps Benji finally brought that confrontation from a simmer to a boil.

  Except that, judging by the look on Rodney’s fast approaching face, it was less a cooking pot brought to a boil and more an activation of nuclear launch codes. Rodney was steaming angry, and he was marching towards the front porch of the Emerson’s home like a baboon, one arm swinging in front of the other, hunched forward.

  “You’re going to get your ass beat,” Lauren whispered.

  Benji said, “Thanks for believing in me.”

  “He’s twice your size, Ben,” she said. “Let’s go inside—”

  “The hell you just say about my parents?” Rodney demanded.

  “You heard me, lard-ass,” Benji said, surprised by his own words. He was losing composure. He nearly stuttered the word “lard” and he thought of how embarrassing that would have been if his mouth had fumbled. His entire body felt warm and fuzzy, and his heart was beating faster, and faster, and faster, until—

  Benji lost it. He charged from the steps of the front porch, a stampeding bull, his crosshairs locked on Rodney. Hell, even Rodney was surprised. The two collided, only the second most devastating collision in Grand Ridge that day, then tumbled into the front lawn together, a dizzying clump of teenage boy.

  “Stop it!” Lauren screamed.

  “I didn’t think you had the nads, Bauer,” Rodney said. “I’m still going to tear you a new one, but I have to admit—I’m a little impressed.”

  “Fuck you,” Benji said, practically foaming at the mouth. The two were tossing end over end across the yard—Benji on top, then Rodney, then Benji again—until they finally came to a stop, Benji resting above Rodney’s gelatinous frame.

  Benji reeled back a fist and landed it square on Rodney’s face. Rodney saw stars, then started wheezing for air. Benji brought both hands down around Rodney’s neck, struggling to grasp him through the meaty folds. Once he had a firm hold, Benji squeezed, and squeezed, and squeezed—all the while, Rodney’s arms flailing beside him.

  “You asshole,” Benji shouted, and he almost cried—how humiliating that would have been—as five years of bottled up emotions flooded to the surface.

  Benji squeezed harder, until he felt a hairy fist grab at his shirt collar and pull backwards, a lion picking up its cub.

  A voice boomed, “Get in the house, Lauren,” then the hand swung Benji backward until he fell flat on his ass, disconnected from Rodney.

  A six-foot-five behemoth stood on the front lawn between Benji and Rodney, a terrifying tower of a man silhouetted by streetlights and the night sky.

  Mr. Emerson.

  “You, get home. Now.” Mr. Emerson ordered, pointing a long, thick finger at Rodney and his bike. Rodney pulled himself to his feet, walked back to his Huffy, and yelled to Benji: “You fucking psychopath.”

  “Now,” Mr. Emerson ordered again, his voice thundering on the quiet street as Rodney pedaled away.

  Benji sat on the dewy grass, his body shivering from the adrenaline, still shocked by the situation.

  “I have enough going on in my household already,” Mr. Emerson said, “to come home late from work and find this happening on my front lawn. I expected better from you, Benji.”

  “I—I, uh…I…”

  “Rodney Frye is a little shit,” Mr. Emerson said, “but that doesn’t give you an excuse to act like him. Not ever, and least of all with my daughter out here, understand?”

  “I—I understand.”

  “Good. Get home, Benji. Goodnight.”

  Benji stuttered, “G-g-goodnight,” then ran across the street towards home.

  Benji stretched out on his bed. No sooner had he pulled a cover over his head, three rapid blinks of a flashlight flickered into his room. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone, but Alley was probably curious about the confrontation, so he reached to his nightstand and picked up his walkie.

  “What happened? Over.”

  Benji paused. Thought about how to answer that.

  “Rodney and I had a skirmish. Over.”

  “That’s so rad,” Alley said. “Did you kick his ass? Over.”

  “I don’t know. I guess. Over.”

  “It’s been a long time coming between you two. I wish I could have seen it. Over.”

  “No you don’t. It was wrong of me to act that way. Over.”

  “I heard Lauren say you made fun of his parents, and he turned into the Incredible Hulk. Over.”

  “Something like that, Alley. Over.” And his stomach turned sour for the first time all night—not from the fight, but from the thought of Lauren thinking less of him because of his behavior.

  “My dad was pretty steamed. Over.”

  “I know. I’m embarrassed. Over.”

  “Don’t be. Rodney’s a douche. Over.”

  “I should probably get some rest. Over.”

  “I can’t sleep anymore. I’ve been sleeping all day. Over.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Al, but I’m exhausted. Over.”

  “I wish we could play Mario. Over.”

  “Me too. Over.”

  “Lauren said you were only sticking up for me. She tried explaining that to dad. Over.”

  “That’s good, I guess. I’m going to sleep, Alley. Over.”

  “Goodnight. Over.”

  “Goodnight. Over.”

  Twenty-One

  AROUND A QUARTER PAST ELEVEN IN the morning, Danny heard a knock on his apartment door. Danny was shuffling around the kitchen, preparing his own lunch—a grilled burger with some stale potato chips smattered beside it on the plate—when he left his stovetop to answer the door.

  “Danny!” Aaron said excitedly as Danny swung open the front door of his apartment. Aaron stood in the frame of the door, wearing a worn Fraggle Rock t-shirt and carrying just one bag of luggage.

  “Aaron,” Danny said, and he hugged his old friend. “You’re so early!”

  “Yeah, dude, I’m sorry. My folks were being a couple of cranks after I told them how I was driving out here to help you, so I hightailed it out of Dodge.”

  “It’s fine, it’s fine, I’m just surprised.” Danny leaned forward and patted his old friend on the shoulder. “I’m just making lunch, let me whip you up something quick.”

  “I stopped for a bite to eat on the way over, I’m good,” Aaron said, rubbing his stomach.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “It’s been so long,” Danny said.

  “Well, like they say,” Aaron said. “I wish it could have been under different circumstances.”

  Danny and Aaron had first met in the early eighties, in a computer engineering class at Portland Community College. Danny was making his first serious attempt at a legitimate profession, and figured that—with computers being the wave of the future—applied computer programming was the way to go.

  He quickly discovered, however, that he was terrible at disassembling and reassembling motherboards and circuits. Which is where Aaron came in—Aaron was a pro at it, long before he ever took a class on the subject. He’d been a successful entrepreneur, helping small businesses fix and repair failing Apple II and Apple III computers. The III’s in particular had a nasty habit of overheating, and Aaron made a killing helping out cubicle jockeys who treated the office Apple with the same reverence as witchcraft or wizardry.

  So Aaron and Danny forged a mutually beneficial friendship—Aaron helped Danny finish complicated assembly projects, and in return, Danny gave Aaron pretty decent bud. Both were happy.

  Around ’83, Danny dropped out and drove to California with a hair metal band he had forged.
He played rhythm guitar and sang, and although the band had a ridiculous name—Gutter Voltage—they actually weren’t too bad. The band toured around, playing small gigs until eventually dissolving. Afterwards, Danny moved up to Grand Ridge. Not long after that he met Todd, and Planet X was formed.

  Aaron didn’t finish his degree, either. He was making good enough money without it; the paper certificate was a formality he was pursuing just to appease his parents. Around ’85, the computer industry started to really boom. Offices used them, video games used them, movies used them for effects, even music was starting to use them—the damn things were everywhere; analog was facing extinction. And with that rapid spread of technology, Aaron’s astute knowledge of the devices suddenly became less and less unique. Work was harder to find, and it started to pay less. The same cubicle jockey’s that he once charged enormous repair bills to now knew basic coding and repairs themselves. Aaron went belly-up, working odd jobs here and there, until eventually he had to move back in with his parents.

  And through it all, the wild band days, the golden age of PC repair, Danny and Aaron always stayed in touch. Needing help at the arcade was a serendipitous moment for them to reconnect—another mutually beneficial moment for the two. Danny needed the help, and Aaron needed the money and a place to stay.

  “I’m so sorry about Todd, man,” Aaron said, settling into a recliner in Danny’s living room. Danny, sitting on the couch, legs kicked up on a coffee table and chewing a mouthful of burger, shrugged.

  “I don’t think it has hit me yet,” Danny said. “I just…a few nights ago, we were out drinking, you know? Now he’s just…gone.”

  Aaron nodded, looking at the floor, never knowing what to say at times like these.

  “The phone rings, I expect it to be him. A knock at the door—I expect it to be him. And what the cops keep telling me, if it’s true—and I don’t believe it’s true—it makes me feel like I failed him, dude. Let him down big time.”

  “What do you think happened?” Aaron said.

  “Few things would upset Todd, or get him really worked up. But when it came to Shelly…that always struck a nerve. So we never really talked about her. I think in the days before his, um, passing—I think someone was messing with him. Either by pretending to be Shelly, or taunting him about her. I found him one night in the back office at the arcade, sobbing hysterically. He ripped the Goddamn phone right out of the wall and obliterated it. I tried to be there for him, I did… I took him out for a night on the town, tried to listen to him… He just wouldn’t let me in.”

  Aaron looked forward blankly. “Shit, dude. That’s heavy.”

  “I know. I know. The worst part is, the cops won’t even listen to me. They’re convinced he did what he did intentionally. Either out of grief or anger over Shelly, or something. It’s open and shut for them.”

  Aaron was quiet, and Danny felt bad—he knew it was an uncomfortable situation, and no matter what either of them said it wouldn’t be the right thing to say, one of those awkward conversations where the best thing to do was just distract yourself and move past it, because the only other option was wallowing.

  So, Danny said: “Want to play some Nintendo?”

  The afternoon lightened up past that point. Danny and Aaron took turns playing Punch-Out and, for the first time in twenty-four hours, Danny laughed. It was good to have some positivity around to counteract all the darkness and sadness. After a few rounds of Punch-Out and some seriously competitive Duck Hunt, Danny checked his watch and turned off the Nintendo. He said, “Well. I guess it’s time for your first day on the job.”

  The two drove to the arcade in Aaron’s station wagon, the old Buick hiccupping big plumes of smoke from the exhaust after each red light.

  “You made it from Portland in this beast?” Danny said.

  “Surprising, right?”

  They pulled up to Planet X, and Aaron parked in the alley behind the arcade. Danny yanked his keys from his pocket and, for the first time ever, prepared to open for business without Todd.

  Danny walked in, flicked the lights on, turned the A/C down cool.

  Aaron was impressed. “It’s bigger than I remember, dude.”

  Danny said, “It’s a pretty giant space. It’s why we pay out the nose for rent.”

  “There’s more machines than last time, too. Way more.”

  “Well, it’s been a couple years since you’ve visited. Todd, well, bless him—he had a habit of installing extra cabinets, even if they weren’t always in the budget.”

  Suddenly, Aaron froze in place. He stood, terrified, as if he’d seen a ghost. He raised one hand and pointed forward.

  “What? What’s wrong?” Danny said.

  “What the hell is that? Why do you have one of those in your arcade?”

  “What are you talking about?” Danny said, and he could see that Aaron was pointing at Phantasos. “An arcade cabinet? Well, Aaron, you might be surprised to know that the key to any successful arcade business is having, you know, games.”

  “No. No, no, no, no. When did you get this?” Aaron said.

  “A few days ago.”

  “You gotta get it out of here, man. Pronto.”

  “All right. Well, we can’t.”

  “What do you mean we can’t?”

  Danny sighed. “It was some deal Todd agreed to last week. The machine doesn’t make any money, but the company who manufactured it is paying us to host it in our space. Some big, long, legal agreement. They’re paying us $500 a month to have it in the arcade.”

  “Vidtronix,” Aaron said.

  “Yeah,” Danny said. “How’d you know?”

  “Danny, have you two been living under a rock out here? I know Grand Ridge is kind of in the boonies, but jeeze—don’t you pay attention to anything? You have to get rid of that damn machine.”

  “Okay,” Danny said. “I don’t really care for that damn machine myself. But the agreement is airtight. I can’t just haul it out back. Even if I wanted to, that $500 a month is going a long way towards rent. We’ll capsize without it.”

  “I don’t care. It has to go.”

  “Dude, I asked you out here to help me make money, not lose it. What has got you so worked up about it?”

  “It’s cursed.”

  Danny laughed. “I don’t believe in curses.”

  “Todd’s dead, isn’t he?”

  Danny’s smile vanished. “That’s messed up, Aaron—”

  “And I bet before he died, he played a game of Phantasos.”

  Danny crossed his arms. “I’m not going to let you stand here and make light of all of this, over some crappy urban legend one of your stoner buddies told you—”

  “Danny,” Aaron said, looking serious. He put two hands on Danny’s shoulders and said, “Listen to me. Just hear me out. Earlier in the year, one of these things tipped over on a kid up in Washington. Tipped over on him. Whether you believe it’s because it’s cursed or not is irrelevant. You have to admit it’s a top-heavy sonuvabitch.”

  Danny uncrossed his arms. “It is. They almost knocked it over delivering it.”

  “A few months after that, one of them caught on fire in Beaverton, at an arcade in that big mall they have over there. Damn thing almost burned down a theatre of people watching the Ninja Turtles movie next-door. They had to evacuate the entire mall.”

  Danny said, “Okay.”

  “Okay, so, again: cursed or not, that should be a warning sign, right? If it’s a machine that’s prone to overheating and catching on fire, that should raise a flag, don’t you think? A few weeks back rumors of this thing started circulating. I didn’t believe it at first either, so I checked it out for myself. The company that makes it—Vidtronix—no one seems to know anything about them. And the people who play their games? I’m sorry, game, singular; Phantasos is their only one. The people who play it are either hurt, or die mysteriously, or hell—one kid even vanished! He played it, went home, and evaporated right out of his bedroom. No one can
find him, Danny!”

  By this point, Aaron was yelling.

  “Whether you believe it’s cursed, or you don’t, this bastard brings trouble anywhere it goes. You’re worried about what Vidtronix will do if you cancel your agreement? Do you think it could be worse than what’ll happen if your Phantasos tips over on a kid? Can you imagine the lawsuit? You’ll lose a lot more than $500, that’s for sure. Same goes for if it burns the whole damn place down.”

  Danny nodded. If everything that Aaron was saying was true, then it was alarming.

  “And tell me honestly,” Aaron said, “that it doesn’t give you the creeps. Tell me that deep down, when you stop to think about it, it doesn’t have any connection to Todd’s death.”

  And Danny couldn’t say that it didn’t, so he dropped to the floor, leaned behind the machine, and unplugged it from the wall.

  Twenty-Two

  ALLEY SAT IN THE BACKSEAT OF the Emerson family car, an ’85 Toyota van. He watched despondently as the scenery along Shady Reach blurred by, fanning himself with his hand. The van’s air conditioning was acting up again.

  “I’m hot,” he said, and his mother looked up in the rearview mirror.

  “We’re almost there.”

  “I don’t want to be doing this today.”

  “I know you don’t, Alley. It’ll be over before you know it, and you’ll be home hanging out with Benji. If your father ever lets him in the house again.”

  “Rodney Frye busts my balls a lot, mom.”

  Mrs. Emerson raised her eyebrows. “Language, young man.” The van gently rolled to a stop at the red light on Shady Reach and Inglewood.

  “Well, he does. He busts on Benji sometimes, too, but mostly on me. It’s been this way for forever. Rodney got what was coming to him.”