Phantasos

by Robert Barnard

  Rodney glanced around the arcade, gave a menacing scowl that read as: Yeah, it’s me. Do something about it. Then the arcade goers lost interest, returned to their games of Galaxian and DigDug, and the noisy laughter and chitchat once more filled the room.

  Rodney Frye came up to the prize counter, slapped a five-dollar bill on the glass, and said to Danny, “Change me out.”

  Danny stood up—and it shouldn’t have bothered him, should it? If Aaron’s plan went off without a hitch, Planet X would be a charred crater in the earth any day now. So what did it matter if some fat, little twerp didn’t have manners? He was the kid who ran over poor little Alley Emerson; who’d expect him to say “please” or “thanks?”

  But it did bother Danny, so Danny politely took the bill from the counter, opened the till, and said, “Young men should say please when asking for a service.”

  Rodney said, “Thanks for the lecture, pops. Can you please hurry up and give me my quarters, dick hole?”

  Danny wasn’t even upset; in fact, he almost laughed. Seeing such a plump little teenager say the words dick hole was the most sincere entertainment Danny had in weeks. Still, Danny thought, What a little shit.

  Danny tossed the twenty quarters onto the counter haphazardly, just short of throwing them at Rodney, then said, “Enjoy.”

  Rodney nodded, picked up the quarters with his hammy fists, and toddled off towards the machines.

  Aaron appeared from the back of the arcade. He found Danny finishing up at the soda cooler and said, “Have you seen them?”

  “Seen who?” Danny said.

  “The lawyer and his creepy daughter. They’re still in town. And they’re here.”

  “Who cares? He mentioned that she liked the arcade, and when they visited, none of the machines were on. She probably wanted to play around.”

  “I think he knows.”

  “Knows what?”

  Aaron tilted his head. “The thing…the thing we’re going to do.”

  Danny laughed. “That’s impossible.”

  “I don’t know, dude. He gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

  “Me too, but, whatever. Don’t let it bother you. Just play it cool.”

  “Yeah,” Aaron said. “Cool.”

  As if on cue, Mr. Bloom appeared at the prize counter, his daughter in tow. She held out the fifteen paper tickets she earned and pointed at a knock-off Barbie doll in the display case. “That one!’

  Mr. Bloom smiled, took the tickets from his daughter, and handed them to Danny.

  Danny frowned uneasily, said, “I’m sorry, sir. These aren’t enough.”

  Mr. Bloom said: hmph. Then he pulled out a thick wallet from his back pocket, thumbed through the bills inside, and yanked out a twenty. “Will that cover it, Mr. Feist?”

  “Sure.”

  Danny unlocked the cabinet, pulled out the dusty box that encased the fake Barbie, and handed it over to the small child.

  Mr. Bloom said, “Now what do you say, Vega?”

  Vega said, “Thanks a bunch.”

  “Close enough,” Mr. Bloom said with a grin. He nodded to Aaron and Danny, said, “See you boys in a couple of weeks,” then left the arcade hand-in-hand with his daughter.

  “See what I mean?” Aaron exclaimed, eyes widening.

  “You’re just paranoid. He’s stuck in town with his daughter, where else do you expect him to go? What else is there to do for fun around here?”

  “He knows, man. He knows. Look at that power play he just pulled. You heard how he said ‘see you in a couple of weeks?’ It was a threat! What he meant by it was: better not see you before then.”

  Danny wanted to correct him, but he was too in shock. While he was distracted by the lawyer and his daughter, Aaron and him weren’t paying attention to Phantasos, like they had been each and every day. The ugly quarter hog practically repelled customers on its own, but that wasn’t enough. Unable to unplug it or seal shut the quarter slot, they’d been reduced to manually shooing away whatever few customers showed interest in the machine.

  But with the lawyer—that big, giant, awful man standing in the way—Danny and Aaron lost sight of Phantasos, if only for a moment.

  And a moment was all it took. The goggles had descended, the orchestral music had started to chime its sinister song, and somebody was playing the game.

  Thirty-Four

  IN TOTAL, BENJI HAD SPENT TWO hours at Lauren’s house. They would cry, talk a little, cry some more, argue, and then still cry. The two couldn’t find a single ledge of common ground between them in regards to how to deal with all of the anger and frustration and sadness each was feeling. Neither was right, neither was wrong, and neither was going to change the other’s mind anytime soon. They didn’t know it then, but it would take much longer than an afternoon together to understand the magnitude and range of the emotions they were fumbling through.

  At the end of the second hour, Benji hugged his friend and decided he should get home before either of their parents came back from work. It was an unspoken rule between Benji’s parents and Lauren’s that the two were never to be left alone, unchaperoned. Of course that had never been a problem, since Alley was always in the mix.

  How times had changed.

  Benji stepped outside, saddled his bike beside the Emerson’s porch, and pedaled towards the sidewalk on Shady Reach. He looked right, then left, and that’s when he spotted him: Rodney Frye, his giant ass hanging over the seat of his five-speed, chugging along towards downtown main street.

  It made Benji’s stomach turn sour, seeing Rodney huffing along, able to enjoy the summer and pleasure of a bike ride. Not like Alley. But there was no time to dwell on that; Benji rode quietly along Shady Reach, stalking Rodney from a distance, a predator shark chasing its prey.

  Benji trailed Rodney for a mile and a half, watching his lumpy body and legs struggle with the pedals of the bike, his colossal frame swaying from side to side. It was hard for Benji to travel so slowly that he remained a safe distance behind—Rodney was riding at a snail’s pace.

  Once they reached downtown, Rodney pulled over at Tom’s Convenience Store on the corner of Shady Reach and Lake Street. Benji waited a building back, on the side of a used record store, peeking out occasionally to try and catch Rodney. After what felt like forever Rodney finally left the store, a glass bottle of Coke in hand. He guzzled the soda in a matter of seconds then tossed the bottle onto the sidewalk, before swinging a leg over his bike and pedaling onward.

  Benji hopped back onto his bike and resumed the stalk. After a few more patient minutes Rodney stopped in front of the Planet X Arcade, chained his bike to a parking meter, and stepped inside.

  You have to be kidding me, Benji thought. His plan all along required cornering Rodney at the arcade, but actually getting the pudgy bastard in to the arcade was a key component of his plan that he had yet to figure out. The universe had handed Benji a gift, neatly wrapped.

  Benji locked his bike in front of the arcade then waited outside of the front window. He watched Rodney walk in like he owned the place, go up to the prize counter, have a short disagreement with Danny, then slip between the arcade machines.

  This was it. This was his time to strike.

  For Alley.

  Benji slipped into the arcade, brushed past teenagers and children busying around machines, and found Rodney finishing up a game at the old Centipede machine.

  Like a ninja, he crept up behind his rival; and as Rodney turned away from the machine, the two nearly bumped into each other.

  “Hey, Rod,” Benji said. He was almost smiling.

  “Hey, ball sack,” Rodney said, then he grunted. “I’m sorry about what happened to your boyfriend.”

  Oh, how on any other day a remark like that would be met with Benji’s fist. But Benji continued to smile, fought back the urge to slug Rodney, and calmly said: “Accidents will happen.”

  Rodney grinned, then pushed past Benji. “Get out of my way, turd.”

  “Rodney
,” Benji said. “I just wanted to ask you something—”

  “Ask me what, Bauer? On a date?”

  “If you’d be interested in a friendly challenge. Just to show there’s no hard feelings for that night on the Emerson’s lawn, and…the accident.”

  “Get out of here.”

  Benji followed Rodney as the two snaked between the rows of machines.

  “Come on, Rodney. Are you afraid I’ll get the higher score?”

  Rodney scoffed. “Against you? No, loser.”

  “Then come on already.”

  The two were standing directly in front of Phantasos, and Benji knew it—he just knew—that if he could convince Rodney to play a game, Rodney would see whatever horrors it was that Alley was seeing in his final days.

  Maybe it would be enough to drive him crazy.

  “Fine,” Rodney said. “Street Fighter.”

  Benji drummed his fingers on the control panel of Phantasos. “How about this one?” His heart was beating out of his chest.

  Rodney squinted his eyes and laughed. “I’ve never played it before. Besides, it’s one player. Come on, you little shit, you wanna play Street Fighter or not?”

  Benji grinned. “We’ll take turns. Whoever gets the higher score wins. I’ve never played it before either, it’ll be fair. I hear it’s amazing.”

  Rodney crossed his arms and looked over Phantasos. When his eyes caught the quarter slot, he scoffed again. “I’m not paying a buck to play some dumb game I’ve never heard of, Bauer.”

  Benji was trying not to scream. “I’ll pay. For each of us.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You like to pay for your men, huh Bauer?”

  Again, Benji choked back what he really wanted to say. “I’ve heard rave reviews,” he lied. “I’m curious to play it. That’s all.”

  “Fine,” Rodney said, slamming a fist on the side of the machine. “You want to play your sissy machine? We’ll play it.”

  Benji nodded, leaned forward, and pulled four quarters from his pocket. He slid them in one by one, and after the fourth one plunked into the quarter tray, a horrible jingle started to play from the top of the machine. A pair of rubber goggles affixed to a robotic arm descended from the top of the cabinet, and Rodney Frye stepped forward, resting his left hand on the joystick before him and his right hand over the buttons.

  Benji said, “Good luck.”

  Rodney pressed his face firmly into the goggles and started to play. He was quiet for a moment, jiggling the joystick and clicking at the buttons, until his mouth suddenly fell open and he said: “What kind of dumbass prank is this, Bauer?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Rodney stepped back from the machine. He looked bothered. The goggles ascended into the top of the machine, and the cabinet went quiet.

  “Was that some kind of joke, you nerd?”

  “Was what some kind of joke?” Benji said.

  Rodney shoved Benji in front of Phantasos and said, “Find out for yourself. It’s your turn, Bauer. The score to beat is one-twenty-six.”

  Benji stood in front of Phantasos, trembling. He had no desire to play. He gulped, and just as he was about to pull out another dollar’s worth of quarters, Danny stepped between him and Rodney.

  “What are you boys doing?” Danny asked.

  “Playing your shitty arcade game,” Rodney said.

  Danny gave Rodney a blank stare. “No—we’re not letting anyone play this right now. It needs servicing.”

  Rodney said, “Worked fine for me.”

  Danny swallowed. “That’s great, Rodney. No one else is allowed to play it. Both of you back away.”

  “Listen, old man,” Rodney said. “Bauer and I are competing for a high score. I already played. Now it’s his turn.”

  Benji turned to Danny, who looked worried. When their eyes made contact, the expressions on both their faces said they knew what the other was thinking. It was an unspoken understanding: Phantasos is very dangerous. Benji felt relieved that he wasn’t crazy, that there was someone out there who knew what he knew: Phantasos was a problem for all who played it.

  “It’s fine,” Benji said, trying to assure Danny. “It’s fine. Trust me.”

  Danny crossed his arms and before he could be stopped, Benji slipped in his first quarter. Then a second, third, and fourth. The goggles dropped again, the wretched tune began to play from atop the machine.

  Benji stepped forward and pressed his face against the goggles. The screen was dark at first, then the word PHANTASOS flickered across the screen, hovering in 3D space above a blanket of twinkling stars. The virtual reality effect was like nothing Benji had ever seen before.

  Beneath the title of the came appeared the words: COPYRIGHT VIDTRONIX GAMES, 1990. Beneath the copyright blinked the words: PRESS START.

  Benji closed his eyes tight, then pressed the start button. Almost immediately the goggles retracted, the mechanical arm that held them whirring up into the cabinet.

  “What the hell was that?” Rodney demanded.

  “I don’t know,” Benji said, and he gulped hard. “I guess I lost pretty quick. I was terrible at it.”

  “Bullshit!” Rodney hollered. “The only button you pressed was start. The game didn’t even have a chance to play.”

  “No, I started to play…and I lost, quick. I guess you won.”

  “You’re a filthy liar, Bauer. If you played it, what was it about?”

  “It was about…a spaceship...flying through…space.”

  “You’re a liar,” Rodney said. “A damn liar.”

  Danny interjected. “Maybe it wasn’t working. I told you kids it doesn’t work right. That’s why we don’t want anyone wasting their money on it.”

  Rodney stormed out of the arcade, but before he left he turned around and shouted, “Then you should put an out-of-order sign on it, nimrod.”

  Thirty-Five

  RODNEY PANTED AFTER EACH AND EVERY push of his pedals for the entire two-mile bike ride home.

  If only that idiot kid hadn’t jumped out in front of me.

  And it was true. Until the accident, there was absolutely no one in town who would have complained about him driving his stepfather’s old Challenger. Besides, even if someone had made a fuss about it, his uncle was a county sheriff. His punishment would have been a slap on the wrist—from the officers, at least. The beating that his mother’s new husband would inflict would be far worse than anything the juvenile justice system could ever dish out at him.

  And it wasn’t difficult to sneak the Challenger out, either; his parents were rarely ever home to stop him.

  His joyrides were perfect, and they could have went on until he was actually old enough to drive, had it not been for Alley Emerson running out in front of his car like a total idiot.

  It wasn’t that Rodney wasn’t bothered by the accident, or that he didn’t feel bad for Alley—he just couldn’t fathom why he would be held accountable. Alley ran out into the street in front of him, whether he was old enough to drive the damn car or not. Why weren’t people able to understand that very important fact?

  Rodney rode to the back of his cul-de-sac, where the Frye family home stood in the center of a well-manicured loop. It was an impressively sized Ranch, not too ostentatious but clearly the biggest on the street.

  Sweating and exasperated, the boy dropped his bike on the front lawn—where he was constantly told not to leave it—and stood in the driveway for a bit, hunched over, catching his breath.

  He looked up quick when he saw the curtains in the bay window facing the yard flutter back and forth. It was as if someone peeking out backed away before they could be noticed. Which was odd—his mother wouldn’t be home until five, and his stepfather until even later.

  Rodney jammed his house key into the front door—locked—twisted it, and toddled through the front entrance way.

  “Hello?” he called out.

  No answer.
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br />   The lights were off, and even in the mid-afternoon the home was dark, quiet, and still. The drapes were heavy and blocked out light, no matter the time of day. Just the way his stepfather liked it.

  Back when his folks were still together, the home was always brightly lit.

  He turned his head towards the living room. There was no one there.

  Rodney shrugged and stomped off towards the kitchen. He opened the fridge, grabbed a can of soda, and sat down at the table in the corner. He popped the can open and slobbered down the fizzy beverage, small rivers of it pouring out and over the corners of his lips, meandering down towards his chin until finally falling off in little, bubbly drip-drops. He slammed the can down—empty—wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve and let out a thunderous belch.

  Outside, he heard a car pull into the driveway. The engine shut off, a door slammed, and a moment later the front door opened.

  “How many times have I told you about that Goddamn bike on the front lawn?” Rodney’s mother yelled.

  Rodney sat at the table, unmoved, staring out the window over the sink.

  His mother walked into the kitchen on heavy feet. “You gonna answer me?”

  Rodney shook his head.

  “The next time I find that fucking bike on the lawn, I’m throwing it in the county dump. You ungrateful little prick.”

  His mom threw her purse onto the kitchen counter, rummaged through it, and fished out a twenty. She tossed the crumpled bill at Rodney, and it landed on the table.

  “For dinner. Your father and I are going out.”

  Rodney said, “He’s not my father.”

  His mother heaved forward, eyes flickering with anger, an expression on her face that read: No…not this shit again. She reeled her hand back and slapped her son across the face.

  Rodney didn’t even flinch. He took it, then sat quietly, his cheek flushed and stinging.

  “He’s your father now, and you better be grateful for it. Chad is twice the man your sperm donor ever was. It’s his fault, you know, that our family is paying for your mistake. He didn’t want you cramping up his home in the swamp this summer. He’d rather spend the days playing golf and bending his secretary over the dining room table, than have to feed and take care of your fat ass for the next two months. If he held up his end of the bargain for once, I’d have a break from you, and you wouldn’t have ran down that kid.”