The Bulb People

  “Oh man, that’s great!” I say. “You must be so happy.”

  Billy nods, wiping away a few more tears. “Yes ... I am – very.”

  It takes Billy a little time to get fully under control again. His tone becomes serious.

  “Mark told me about your situation, Ryan. Hang in there, it’s not your fault.”

  “Yeah, well ...”

  That’s true, of course, but I still feel pretty lousy about my situation. Hearing about Billy’s good fortune only makes me realize how far in the tank my own life has sunk.

  At least Billy knows what he’s talking about – not like that fancy psychologist Mom took me to when Dad split. I don’t think that lady had an any idea what I was feeling. Her biggest personal problem would be something on the level of a broken nail or a bad hair day.

  I glance around the car, looking for a change of subject and notice a long metal pipe lying on the back seat.

  “What’s that for?”

  “I fought Albert Grech with that four years ago,” Billy says. “I’ve kept it as a kind of good luck piece.”

  “Seems like pretty bad luck for anybody on the receiving end,” I say.

  “That’s the basic idea.”

  We drive quietly for a while. Billy misses the turn to my street, but I don’t say anything. We maneuver aimlessly through the residential area.

  “Bridgestock is sick and twisted somehow,” he observes. “It attracts twisted people. Albert Grech didn’t plant his orchard around here by accident.”

  Another long silence. I’m in no hurry to get back home and don’t mind cruising around. The car is smooth and comfortable, almost as nice as Mom’s. I stretch out and relax for the first time all day.

  But then we arrive at Melody Acres and my attitude quickly changes. Billy stops by the billboard.

  “Damn!” he says. “I didn’t mean to come out here. It’s almost like the car drove itself.”

  Rank, chilly air enters the car. I cringe as far away as possible from the open window. All the terror I felt from my previous trips here comes surging back.

  “Let’s get out of here!” I croak.

  Billy gives me a strange, faraway look. Kind of like the one Larry had, except there’s no idiot grin with it. Billy’s mouth is a hard, determined line.

  “I can’t go ... yet,” he says.

  “Kill the lights, then,” I say. “Don’t attract attention.”

  He shuts them off. They are hardly needed since the moon is shining full blast. I can actually see more details outside without the headlights – but I don’t want to see any details. Then the clouds move in and everything darkens.

  Billy grabs the metal pipe off the back seat.

  “They’re out there all right,” he whispers. “I can feel it.”

  26: Sheriff Fergueson Investigates

  Back on the road by the advertising billboard, a car pulled up and stopped. Its headlights poked the solitude, then switched off.

  “Must be some kids out partying,” Fergueson muttered.

  He hoped so, because then he could run the kids in on underage drinking charges, maybe even a DUI for the driver. These punks were ruining the town, and it was his duty to keep them under control. He could rough them up a little, too – claim that he suspected them of involvement with the disappearances. That would scare them real good, show them who was boss.

  He unhooked the metal flashlight from his belt. It was a solid, heavy thing, ideal for clubbing people. He’d creep up to the car and, at the right moment, fire the flashlight beam at the occupants.

  He’d wield his gun in his other hand, yelling: “Get outta the car! Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  With growing excitement, he started moving back toward the road. This was going to be an ideal finish to the evening, a sort of dessert. The last thing those punks expected was for the county sheriff himself to come walking out of an empty field!

  But then something stirred in the darkness nearby. Startled, and more than a little frightened, Fergueson turned on the flashlight.

  “Who’s there?”

  On the ground, twitching in the flashlight beam, was a long, ropy tendril.

  Attached to the other end of the tendril, the creature that had once been Albert Grech trembled with excitement. That was Sheriff Fergueson out there – his arch enemy. During four long years underground, rancorous thoughts of revenge had been all that kept him alive. And now he was about to get it! The other five monsters sensed his blood lust and withdrew their own snaky arms with a slithering rustle.

  Fergueson jumped at the sound.

  “What’s going on?” he bellowed. “Who’s out there?”

  He drew his gun, then moved in to investigate. Tendrils gripped his legs and pulled him down. His screams shattered the night. The gun could not save him.

  27: Retreat from Melody Acres

  Billy’s right hand holds the pipe in a death grip, trembling with the strain. With his other hand, he mops sweat from his forehead. He looks white as a sheet in the surrounding gloom.

  Off in the fields, a ray of light stabs the Melody Acres darkness – followed by a horrible scream:

  Ahhhhh!

  Followed by a gunshot:

  BAM!

  Then another scream, choked off:

  Ah-ghhh – !

  I practically hit the car roof. “Let’s get out of here, Billy!”

  Whatever spell he was under abruptly snaps. Billy wrenches the car into gear and tromps the gas pedal. We take off like a drag racer, wheels spinning on the dirt road.

  “They got another one!” I cry. “Just like Larry and the others.”

  Billy flicks on the headlights an instant before we’re about to crash into a tree stump.

  “Look out!”

  Somehow, Billy manages to swerve back onto the road and cut down to a less demented speed.

  “Oh man! That scared me real bad, Ryan,” he says. “I don’t mind admitting it.”

  He wipes his forehead again. His sharp features are hard and pale in the dim light, as if they are chiseled out of marble.

  “We’re all scared,” I say. “What normal person wouldn’t be? This whole place sucks!”

  “You’ve got that right,” Billy says. “I feel like I’m back inside my diary.”

  Soon we are in the town proper, my panic attack subsides to manageable levels. I never thought I’d be so happy to see the Bridgestock streets again – the crappy houses, the beat-up cars parked along the curbsides.

  Billy turns onto my street.

  “Pull over here,” I say, “my house is only a block away. You don’t want Bob and Katie to see you.”

  He stops the car.

  “Be careful, Ryan,” he says. “Don’t go back there for any reason until this is over.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I say.

  Then I ask the question that has been troubling me.

  “You seem to have it made now,” I say. “Why don’t you just go to California and forget all this?”

  “Don’t think I haven’t considered that,” Billy says.

  “Well, why not, then?”

  Billy lets out a sigh. When he finally speaks, he seems to choose his words very carefully, as if he has to pay for each one.

  “Because I’d never feel right again if I didn’t try to do something,” he says. “Maybe it’s my fate.”

  “That’s some lousy fate.”

  Billy nods.

  “Deep down, I always figured something like this would happen,” he says. “It’s like the past four years have been preparation time. I’ve tried to harden myself, practicing at the martial arts club and stuff.”

  The car is silent, full of regrets. Then:

  “You read the diary,” he says. “You know I could have killed Albert Grech, but Cyndy stopped me. I was glad she stopped me. And Dr. Rackenfauz couldn’t bring himself to shoot those cruds. We thought the trees would do the dirty work for us, and now look!”

&nb
sp; “It’s not your fault, man,” I say.

  “I know you’re right, but I still feel a responsibility.”

  “I wouldn’t bother if I were you,” I say. “Only rotten types go out to those fields. You felt the atmosphere. It scares away decent people.”

  “Eventually, somebody will figure out what’s going on,” Billy says, “then they’ll try to use those monsters for their own purposes. A whole lot of decent people will suffer then.”

  “Who’d do something like that?” I say.

  “Sheriff Fergueson, other cops, Mr. Handcrost – they’re all corrupt,” Billy says. “This town attracts corrupt people for some reason. That’s why we have to handle it ourselves.”

  “You and Morton will handle it, you mean,” I say, “along with that Professor Rackenfauz guy.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Billy says. “Just like in ‘the old days.’”

  He gives a sad little chuckle.

  “You know, I was about your age back then. How did we manage to luck out?”

  “Maybe it is fate at work,” I say.

  I leave the car and gently close the door behind me.

  “Bye, Billy.”

  “Take care, Ryan.”

  He turns the corner and is gone.

  ***

  In a way, I’m glad that somebody else will be dealing with this awful situation. But I am very disappointed, too. My whole life I’ve done the ‘smart’ thing. I’ve kept quiet while others tackled the big issues. But where has playing it safe ever gotten me?

  Dad leaves; Mom ties up with some jerk. ‘Guess what, Ryan, you’ve got a new sister!’ Nobody ever asks my opinion about anything, I just have to go along.

  But now I want to try something daring for a change. I want to put my own mark on important events. As I walk toward our crummy house, plans start forming in my mind. At first my legs feel weak and rubbery from the scare I’ve gotten. But by the time I get to the porch, I’m back in full control.

  I intend to remain that way.

  Clash with the Bulb People

  28: Ugly Tuesday

  School on Tuesday is very weird, much worse than usual. Kids move aside when I walk down the hall. Nobody sits by me during class, and I have a whole table to myself at lunch. In English class, the desk Spider once occupied stands empty and cold, accenting my total isolation.

  The assistant principal is filling in for Mrs. Thromp; word has it that none of the usual substitute teachers dared to take on this ‘unlucky’ job. He gives us a writing assignment while he sits at the desk and works on some papers. The whole room is quiet as a graveyard – as quiet as Melody Acres when the Bulb People are not feeding.

  When I look up from my desk, the AP is staring at me over the tops of his reading glasses. His lips are pressed tight, as if he’s sucked on a lemon. I can tell that he’s just dying to hit me.

  “You there, Keppen,” he snaps. “Get back to work!”

  Like Billy, I don’t need a crystal ball to figure out what’s going on. Terrible things are happening in Bridgestock, and outsiders, such as me, are under dark suspicion.

  At my old school, we read a story called The Lottery in which one person is selected each year to be stoned to death. I feel like I’m living that story for real. There hasn’t been any drawing, but I am the ‘winner’ just the same. The other kids seem almost afraid of me now, but that will soon wear off. Then they’ll close in.

  Worst of all, Morton is gone. When I stop by his classroom, a substitute teacher is sitting at his desk. She looks pretty frazzled, as if she would rather be someplace else – anyplace else. She knows nothing about Mr. Kasinski’s absence.

  The big news going around is about Sheriff Fergueson. Nobody has seen him since he left Ruthie’s Kraut House Café last night. At first the kids are saying that he’s run off with somebody’s wife. Then, the rumor is that he’s stolen a bunch of money and blown town. There is also talk of a mysterious gun shot.

  The story I overhear after lunch is that somebody has bumped off the Sheriff because he knew too much about a drug deal. The kids shut up as soon as they notice me listening in.

  “Maybe he just didn’t like the Kraut House food,” I say. “What better reason to leave town?”

  They ignore my lame joke and edge away as if I have some contagious disease.

  ***

  The weather is gloomy, matching my mood. A chill, drizzly wind whips through the town square, tossing bits of trash and pushing me along as I walk home after school. I want to call Morton, but can’t find a suitable public telephone.

  My cell phone isn’t working. It usually doesn’t in Bridgestock, and when it does, the reception is lousy. It’s like even the cell phone signals want to avoid coming here.

  The Yookey Lake Bar has two pay telephones, but they are in the lobby with people coming and going. Besides, a mean-looking drunk is talking on one of them. He gives me a look as if he wants to bite me in half. The Speedy Mart has a phone, but it is also very exposed, and I don’t want anyone to overhear me.

  I think of walking over to Morton’s apartment, but decide that it would be best not to draw attention to myself. I feel like a fugitive whose every move is being watched by hostile eyes. The Lottery crowd is starting to gather, picking up rocks. I finally decide to call from home on the landline. This carries some risk, too, but I simply have to know what’s happening.

  I take the cordless phone into my room and shut the door. Billy answers.

  “Hi Ryan,” he says, “how are you?”

  I am in no mood for small talk.

  “What’s going on?” I say. “Morton didn’t come to school today.”

  The line goes silent for a while.

  “He asked me to keep quiet,” Billy finally says, “but I think you have a right to know. Professor Rackenfauz sent us the antidote recipe.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a mixture of herbicides – a kind of super weed killer,” Billy says. “Morton went to the city to buy the ingredients. He’s a certified chemist, so he can get stuff like that without too much hassle.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Another pause.

  “We’ll spray the monsters,” Billy says. “We might be able to kill them, or at least mess them up pretty bad. We’ll be going out tonight, and ...”

  I think I hear something from the other receiver on our landline.

  “Well, gotta go,” I say, “big history test coming up tomorrow. Bye.”

  “Bye?” Billy sounds confused.

  I hang up. Maybe I’m just being paranoid, but I can’t risk having Katie or Bob find out anything. What more is there to talk about, anyway? Billy, Morton, and Rackenfauz have already made the big decisions – without consulting me in the least.

  Heck, if it wasn’t for me, they’d have no clue about the real situation! But when it comes time for some action, I don’t count for much, do I?

  Once they’ve polished off the Bulb People, everything will return to ‘normal.’ The disappearances will stop. Mom will come back in a of couple of days, and life will continue with the H. B. F. Then I’ll start getting beat up at school.

  Crap!

  Billy sure has it made. Tonight he’ll be in the thick of things, a real hero. Then he’ll take off for California in his fancy car, while I’ll still be trapped in this rotten town. Morton, too – he’ll be off to Brazil, of all places.

  Well, they aren’t going to brush me off so easily! When they go to Melody Acres tonight, I will be there, too.

  I’ve learned one very painful lesson over the past year: If you just sit around, nothing good comes your way. I’ve been sitting around while one disaster after another has slammed into me. Action, any kind of action, has to be better than this slow death.

  I don’t know how anything is going to work, but this mess with the Bulb People might just be the break I need. Things have gone bad for so long that it’s time a break finally came my direction. Somehow I migh
t be able to turn things to my advantage and get myself out of Bridgestock for good. One way or another.

  I just hope I’ll still be alive.

  29: Preparations

  Bob returns early from his office, along with a bucket of fried chicken. Nobody calls me to eat, and it isn’t until the aroma works its way up to my room that I know food is available. By the time I come downstairs, Bob and Katie have already taken the good pieces. Just the bony, weird-shaped ones are left.

  Katie sits at one end of the dining room table, her plate heaped with more food than she can possibly handle. Bob has spread out his business papers on the other end of the table and is writing with one hand, munching a drumstick with the other.

  “I’m really busy, Ryan,” he says around a mouthful of chicken. “Take your food upstairs and keep quiet, okay?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  Nice to see you, too, pal!

  I dump a couple of chicken blobs onto my plate along with some coleslaw. The potato salad is already gone. Katie shoots me a wicked grin and bites into a juicy white meat as I carry my feast up to my room.

  Having Bob planted at the dining room table complicates things. I’d counted on him working late, as he has been the last few days. In order to go out, I’ll have to make up some kind of cover story and I’m fresh out of cover stories. Where could I say I’m going? Bob knows that my only friend has left town – he’s been raging about Mr. Cozzaglio’s “defection” for two days now.

  He might very well decide to be a jerk and say no if I ask to leave. I can’t risk that. But if I sneak away without permission and Bob discovers my absence, what would happen then? What if he catches me trying to slip back inside?

  So what!

  If things go well tonight, his opinions won’t matter. And if things don’t go well ... Bob will be the least of my problems. The important thing is to just get away from this place and out to Melody Acres in time.

  I have preparations to take care of. Dinner doesn’t take long – just a few sporkfuls of coleslaw and nibbles of greasy chicken. After this excellent meal, I tie on my hiking boots and put fresh batteries in my flashlight. I pocket my jack knife.

  Well, that didn’t take long. I’m about as ready to go as possible. What do you bring to a monster bash like this one, anyhow? Morton and Billy will be providing the heavy artillery, the “antidote,” as they call it.

  I throw an old towel on my bed to protect it from my boots and flop down to rest a while. Daylight is still blazing outside and I figure it will be some time before the action starts. I ponder my situation ...