A Problematic Paradox

by Eliot Sappingfield

  I sat there for a couple minutes in a dead panic. I was sweating like I’d run a mile, and a dozen questions popped into my head. Was my dad dead? Where would they take him? Where would I go? Who should I call? Should I hide somewhere? Was that morning’s absentminded See ya later the last thing I’d ever get to say to him? At times, the room went a bit blurry and swimmy. I stood up purposefully and then sat back down again, realizing I hadn’t the first idea of what to do. My dad had been kidnapped, and I’d just watched it on TV.

  I tried to recall everything he’d said in the past few days. He hadn’t mentioned being in trouble with anyone or owing anyone money, apart from one of our neighbors to the south who was claiming our automatic lawn mower had traumatized their cats. Our talk at dinner the night before had been about the work he was doing with anti-hydrogen, which is a kind of antimatter, but that was all theory and speculation. He had also been tinkering with an instant translator device, but for some reason it only worked when you wanted to translate Esperanto into Farsi, and even then it translated all food-related words into chicken. It would be darn useful for Esperanto speakers visiting Iran with a hankering for a dinner of chicken chicken with chicken sauce and a tall glass of iced chicken to drink. For everyone else, it needed work.

  He had also mentioned working out the details of how to construct an intelligent computer system that thought like the human brain, and how I could go about importing someone’s brain into a computer, if I ever needed to. He’d wanted to know if I had any friends looking to make some money as research subjects.

  I logged into the security mainframe with Dad’s user ID and password, which I had managed to hack ages ago because the man had some pretty ridiculous notions about how many hours of video gaming per day is appropriate. There were no logged entrances or exits other than when we left in the morning, and there were no unauthorized computer activities or other security issues, apart from what I was doing at that particular moment. Then I checked his calendar to see if he had any appointments or if he was expecting anyone. The date had nothing on it except one entry, a reminder for our standing Tuesday dinner: 5:00 pm call tacopocalypse—taco fiesta special.

  I remembered my Happybear Bracelet again and cursed my stupid desire for privacy. Sure it looked like something designed for a toddler, but I could at least have gotten in touch with Dad. Instead, I’d gotten rid of it. But where? I could have sworn I’d stashed it somewhere in the security office. I looked around the room and imagined I had something I needed to hide. That led me straight to a cupboard located inconveniently in the corner behind a heavy filing cabinet.

  A couple hard shoves later, I found Mr. Happybear staring creepily at me from under a book called Aunokw Xuogwea, which was about how to decode basic ciphers. I snatched up Mr. Happybear, pressed his nose, and waited.

  Nothing happened. The battery was dead, of course. The bracelet had been in that cupboard for a couple years, at least. I stuffed it into my pocket and went back to the security footage as I tried to figure out what to do next.

  I searched the other security feeds, rewinding and fast-forwarding through hours of recordings from six different cameras. Nothing else of note had happened. I didn’t know what else to look for. Then I rewatched Tabbabitha and Dad talking and the thugs tossing him into their car, and looked for license plate numbers. But the plates looked blurred, like there was some kind of plastic film over them.

  I fast-forwarded again until I saw the bus dropping me off after school. I was about to go back to my trailer when I noticed something else on one of the screens. The five black SUVs. They pulled into the parking lot like they did in the other footage, but something was different. What was different?

  I paused and checked the time on the recording.

  4:53 PM.

  I looked at the clock: 4:53.

  The video was live. I switched all the other cameras back to live mode. It didn’t look like anyone was moving around outside the store, and the doors on the SUVs were still closed.

  Maybe they had come back for something in the lab. No, they could have gotten whatever they wanted when they had taken Dad—he’d left the doors wide open. There was only one thing in the lab that hadn’t been there before. Me.

  It was time to set aside abject terror and consider my options. I could probably hide in the SuperMart for a month or more. The place was a mind-boggling maze, and I knew every inch. I doubted a newcomer could even locate the bathrooms without GPS. That would work for a while, but they were sure to find me eventually. They’d only need to wait me out. I could call the police, but if I called the cops, would the kidnappers just leave and come back later? Would the cops put me in foster care until Dad was returned? Would I be any safer in foster care at some stranger’s house than I was in my dad’s fortress of a laboratory? I grabbed Mr. Happybear from my pocket and pushed his nose again. Nothing.

  Dad had probably known people were looking for us and wanted me to have a way to find him, and I’d thrown it away because I wanted to be trusted like an adult. It turns out I wasn’t the one he mistrusted. I shouted at the cartoonish plastic bear head and, in frustration, threw it on the floor. It hit with a sharp crack and split neatly in two. A single watch battery bounced free and rolled away.

  Something important to remember in moments of crisis: your brain stops working at 100 percent if you aren’t careful. For instance, I’d forgotten that it’s possible to change batteries in gadgets.

  I snatched up the bracelet, retrieved the battery cover, and threw open a filing cabinet door, revealing a pile of thousands of batteries of all sizes, styles, and shapes, all brand-new.

  A minute later, I was holding a reassembled Mr. Happybear, whose eyes were glowing a rather threatening shade of red, which meant it was on. I went to push the emergency nose button but was suddenly hit with a wave of doubt.

  Dad had drilled into my head that I should never push the button, except in a major emergency. In hindsight, I probably should have asked him what constituted a major emergency. Had he meant hazardous waste spills? Creepy girls with unsettling propositions? Unexplained absences?

  Maybe I was being paranoid. What if the vans had come to drop Dad back off? Maybe he’d fainted, and they’d taken him to a hospital. Tabbabitha had let me go without a fight that afternoon.

  I went back to the security monitor and saw the doors on the front SUV swing open. Four people emerged from the darkened interior. Three were tall and burly-looking, and while I could not make out a face, there was no mistaking the mailbox-shaped figure that hopped out and started waddling toward my front doors. She was carrying something—was that a sledgehammer?

  I pressed the bear’s nose as hard as I could. The eyes blinked for a moment and then . . . kept blinking. Nothing was happening.

  I pushed the button a second time. Nothing again. I pushed it about three hundred times in the next four seconds—still nothing. Then I remembered I was supposed to wear it. Just as I slipped it over my wrist, a startling crash rang through the store, followed by a second crash. I didn’t need to see the monitor to know the sound of a sledgehammer meeting the bullet-resistant glass on our front doors.

  Mr. Happybear’s eyes quit blinking. A tinny computerized voice spoke from the bear. “Say! It seems like you’re kinda freaking out a little bit! Is everything okay?”

  God, I hate voice response systems.

  “No,” I said as clearly as I could. “Contact Melvin Kross.”

  “Out of range. Cannot contact. Sorry, Nikola. What seems to be the problem? Tell your friend, Mr. Happybear!”

  “Out of range?” I roared at the bracelet. “How far could he have gone in the last hour? What’s your range?”

  Mr. Happybear’s eyes blinked sarcastically. “Gosh, I’m just not able to answer that question. I’m sure sorry, Nikola! What seems to be the problem? Tell your friend, Mr. Happybear!”

  I had a few things I w
anted to tell Mr. Happybear, all right, but kept them to myself. “People are breaking into the house and my dad has been kidnapped,” I said instead.

  Mr. Happybear thought about this. “It sounds like you’re having a problem with ABDUCTION and maybe a little bit of HOME INVASION. Is that correct?”

  “Yes!” I screamed at the bracelet, realizing the crashing noise I was hearing over and over wasn’t just my heart but the steady noise of someone about to break through the front doors.

  “Awww,” Mr. Happybear said with infuriating slowness. “Sounds like you’re having a pretty tough day on account of the ABDUCTION AND HOME INVASION. I’m sure sorry about that, Nikola. I’ll tell the security system. Have a great day!”

  I was about to ask what that meant when a completely different voice spoke. It seemed to come from everywhere in the building all at once, as if the building itself was speaking.

  “Securing facility,” said a reassuring woman’s voice. This was followed a tenth of a moment later by an entirely unreassuring sound. A huge booming crash ripped through the lab, sounding like ten eighteen-wheelers had hit the building from all directions at once. A glance at the security monitors told me what had happened: a giant metal door had slammed shut over the entrance and presumably over every other route in or out as well. Had they always been there, hidden in the floor or over the ceiling? I reminded myself to ask Dad how he’d done it when I saw him again.

  On the security camera, Tabbabitha was sitting in front of the door, holding the splintered handle of her sledgehammer, regarding it like she’d never seen anything like it before. The woman’s voice spoke over the intercom again: “Passive resistance mode activated. Please proceed to Mobile Housing Unit B.”

  Mobile Housing Unit B was Dad’s affectionate nickname for my trailer. I didn’t know what good it would do to go there, but it was a plan that didn’t involve talking to Mr. Happybear, flapping my hands in panic, or curling into a fetal position on the floor. Two seconds later, I jumped onto the golf cart and put the pedal to the metal. Dad’s golf cart rocketed forward at the alarming speed of twelve miles per hour, which didn’t seem as fast as it had earlier that afternoon.

  The lab suddenly looked frightening and inhospitable. More so than usual, anyway. All the main lights had gone off, and there were alarms and strobe lights flashing all over the place. This must have been by design, because while I could navigate the lab with my eyes closed, a stranger would have a hard time with the canyons of crates, equipment, chemicals, and other random objects. At least, I hoped this was the case, because as I drove, I could hear a massive roaring and crashing sound coming from the front doors. Someone was ramming an SUV into the security doors. They would be inside before long.

  By the time I rounded the second corner of our mini-golf course, past the Christmas decorations and plutonium storage unit, which marked the halfway point, I could tell they were inside the building. By the sound of it, at least one of the SUVs was taking care to crash into everything it could on its way to find me. The racket was deafening, and a distinct odor of chemistry told me that some compounds that weren’t supposed to be combined were mingling somewhere. The lab was about to become a difficult place to breathe.

  There was another skidding and crashing sound—had they just hit the piano? My golf cart crept along, slowing as the battery power depleted. It hadn’t been charged all day, after all. I passed a couple dead ends, rounded the third corner, and was now technically driving farther away from the trailers, which was the only way to get there. It was nerve-racking, but if the path to the trailers had just been straight, they would have run me over already. I was almost to the last turn when I was greeted by a shadow on the far wall of the building: it was an outline of the cart and myself. The SUV’s headlights were pointed right at my back.

  I pushed the accelerator as hard as I could, but it made no difference. The SUV revved its engine and squealed forward, less than fifty yards away from me. I screamed at the cart, “Go, go, go! Come on!”

  Maybe it was my screaming, or maybe the SUV crossed the wrong sensor, but at that moment, the reassuring woman spoke from the intercom once again. “Active resistance engaged. Plug your ears, please.”

  Because I was swinging the cart around the final corner, I needed my hands and couldn’t reach my ears at that moment. A second later, I wished I had. From somewhere high above the rafters, a tongue of blinding blue light reached down and met with the roof of the SUV. Lightning. Indoor freaking lightning struck the SUV. The sound was incredible. I’ve never heard anything like it, and neither have you. Trust me. It was so loud I felt it—like getting slapped on the entire right side of my body all at once. The shock spun my cart around and actually pointed it in the right direction. Down the aisle of crates and newly flaming junk, I could finally make out the trailers. There was a welcoming golden light shining on the closest one, and I drove straight toward it. My ears were ringing like crazy, but I could just make out the engine of the SUV trying to start again. The lightning must have blown out its electrical system.

  After what seemed like ages, I made it—jumped off the cart, dashed into the trailer, and turned to push the door closed.

  The security system must have known where I was, because the moment I closed the door, every light in the building went dark, and I could feel a deep vibration thrumming beneath my feet.

  It felt like an earthquake. Breakfast dishes vibrated off the table, and cups slid off shelves in the kitchen. The pitcher of milk problem solved itself. Over the ringing in my ears and the clatter of falling dishes, the reassuring woman’s voice spoke one last time: “Please fasten your safety harness. Departure in ten, nine, eight . . .”

  Safety harness? The room was black, I was more scared than I had ever been in my life, and I was being asked to fasten a safety harness? In the kitchen? I had trouble finding the butter, let alone a harness I had never seen. I figured the closest thing was my recliner in the living room.

  “Five, four, three . . .” Another loud crash outside. One of the vans had just smashed into Dad’s trailer next door. I dashed into the living room, jumped into the recliner, and, for whatever reason, pulled the lever to stick the footrest out so I was basically lying down.

  “Two, one, departing . . . Thank you for engaging the security system. We hope you are very satisfied with your security enhancement experience. If there have been any problems, please call . . .” The woman continued talking, but I stopped paying attention about the same time that everything in the trailer went rocketing past me, like the whole unit had been stood on its end. Either that or the trailer was moving very quickly, very suddenly. If you could sit inside a bullet and get shot out of a gun, I think the sensation would be pretty similar.

  No matter what was actually happening out in the darkness, I think it’s safe to say that I was not very satisfied with my security enhancement experience. I closed my eyes, held on, and, as I always do in difficult situations, recited the ABCs over and over in my head, both forward and in reverse. Before long, I would either be safe or dead.

  Either way, my problems were over.

  3

  GOING TO IOWA. ON PURPOSE.

  The next few minutes were kind of a blur. There was a lot of movement, an incomprehensible amount of noise, and a smidgen of mindless terror. I felt as if I were riding in a poorly designed bullet train, or maybe a roller coaster, but without the comforting shoulder harnesses or being able to see where I was going. Tables, chairs, books, dishes, and every other item in the unit bounced around violently. A framed cheeseburger wrapper fell from the wall, cracking the glass. Occasionally, everything in the unit, myself included, would slam against one wall or another, indicating either a turn or that the entire place had gone on its side. There were sharp bumps that lifted the recliner and me completely off the floor, and swooping dips that reunited myself, the recliner, and the floor with bone-rattling suddenness. I was able to muster one
positive, conscious thought: unless those SUVs had rockets in the back, they weren’t going to catch me anytime soon.

  Eventually, the ride slowed and stopped with a thud. Everything slid forward with a final, exhausted lurch, and faint light streamed in through the curtains. The sudden motionlessness and silence were startling in contrast.

  I couldn’t tell, but I thought the light was sunlight. It looked like natural evening light—my trailer had always lived under the glow of a bank of fluorescent lights, so the warmer, uneven illumination was difficult to identify. First thought: I really needed to dust.

  After weighing my options and considering several courses of action, I decided to grip the armrests of my chair and whimper for a minute or twelve. After I’d done that, nothing had changed, so I got up and went to the door. I drew in a deep, fortifying breath, opened it, and found myself face-to-face with a small gray goat.

  The goat made eye contact for a moment before sidling roughly past me with a grunt. It strolled into what had recently been my living room and pooped on the floor. It was like he’d been waiting all day for me to open the door so he’d have a warm place to poop. He looked up at me, said “NA-a-a-a-a-a!” and started eating a portion of the living room rug he had not defecated upon. Apparently, the goat considered himself a homeowner and wasn’t worried about my opinion on his redecorating.

  I took a last look around my trailer. I wanted to crawl into my bed, put on a movie, and wait for everything to blow over. But you can’t escape from someone and then wait for them to find you. You have to keep moving. I grabbed a bag and a change of clothes, and threw open the door a second time.