Some Assembly Required (14 page)

The girl circled around the family in a panic. “You need to stop!” she yelled at the husband “The baby is going to swallow the dowels. Can’t you hear me?”

Patrick swooped in and snatched her in his arms. “Shh, shh, you need to get in the car.”

“W-why?” she croaked.

“If you don’t want the Weople to take you away, get in the car!”

Before she could protest, he ripped open the passenger door and then shoved her inside. The wife screeched in surprise. Both of them had witnessed the door opening and slamming by itself.

Patrick’s hand went numb from manipulating reality. He shook it off as next to him the husband shivered.

“Damn, did it drop out here by twenty degrees all of a sudden or what?” he asked as he shivered obliviously from Patrick’s fading aura.

The Gloom hung back There was nowhere Patrick could go, and with CASA blocked off, it was only a matter of time before they took him.

But he was on the clock.

“You’re in my way!” Patrick howled as he shoved the husband aside from the open PISA box. The contact of human on spirit sent Patrick tumbling back, numbing his left side. Trembling from the shock to his system, Patrick forced himself to stand.

Inside the car, the girl screamed and crawled into the backseat.

“
Stay put
!” he bellowed at her.

A warning chime and the squeaking sound of tiny wheels echoed through the garage. The scent of a burned refried bean burrito carried over the stink of gasoline and particleboard.

“Jabba,” Patrick bit out, cursing roundly in his head. Perfect. He turned back to the PISA box. Patrick didn’t have time to think as he concentrated on gripping the thick boards and shoving them aside. The husband had opened the damned box upside down, and the hardware packet was on the very bottom.

A menacing, gurgling chuckle made the hair on the back of Patrick’s neck prickle. Jabba was close.

He had only seen the most powerful Weople once. And once was enough. He might have been slow, but he didn’t need to be fast. Guides that lost enough of their energy had no fight left in them if they had gotten this far. If the Gloom was the annoying Wallville crowds as thick as a Black Friday sale, Jabba was Wallville’s most valued customer.

Patrick had no chance of stopping him.

The living family grabbed their baby and danced back, pressing themselves between two neighboring cars, terrified of the paranormal happenings that they couldn’t begin to understand.

Patrick struggled through the planks of the PISA. He threw the last thick plank aside and the bag of hardware went flying with it.

“Fuck!” he snapped and spun on his heel as the bag bounced and rolled across the pavement. “Stay there!” he commanded the girl in the car.

Patrick sprinted toward the bag and then dropped into a slide to snatch the bag.

Only to snatch empty air.

He swallowed and slowly glanced upward, his gaze following the contours of the gleaming red motor scooter and basket. A breath hitched in his throat.

Jabba loomed over him like a terrible giant from the darkest fairy tales. His four-hundred-pound frame—shoved into Spandex shorts and a tank small enough to be a bikini top—balanced precariously on his tiny scooter. He held his refried bean burrito between his teeth like a cigar, and the bag of PISA hardware between his hairy sausage fingers.

“I remember you,” Jabba gurgled in a rattling groan.

Patrick scowled. “Here’s something else to remember me by.” He stomped his heel hard against the front tire of Jabba’s scooter.

The force knocked Jabba off balance, and he toppled to the ground. The pavement trembled under him.

The bag bounced out of his grasp, and Patrick seized his chance. Jabba made another reach for the bag, and Patrick kicked it away. Jabba would need a minute to get to his feet, which left Patrick with enough of a lead. Patrick shot to his feet but staggered hard to the left when his vision went black. He shook it off, blinking through the fog.

He shuffled to the bag and then tried to scoop it up, only for his fingers to pass through as his solid mass flickered.

“Dammit.” He tried again, and his fingers passed through. “Dammit, dammit, dammit!”

“I can help,” the girl called. “I can help!”

Patrick dismissed her. Jabba had recovered and was back on his scooter. Hefting a PISA shelf, Patrick tried to push aside the screams of the living customers at the apparent floating board. Patrick dug deep for the last bursts of energy he had to hang on to the shelf and defend his turf. The shelf trembled in Patrick’s grip, and he struggled to keep his hold on it.

The girl kicked the car door open and tumbled out end over end. She wobbled on her feet from the energy burst. Distracted, Patrick pursed his lips in confusion over her ability to manipulate reality. By all logic, as an Impression she couldn’t, but Patrick welcomed any help he could get. Maybe there was something special about Impressions after all.

Concentrating on Jabba, Patrick took the offensive and swung the PISA shelf into Jabba’s chest. The board shattered on impact, and the force flung Patrick against the girl. She squealed and rolled across the pavement.

He coughed and struggled to stand. “The bag…. Get the bag!”

The girl nodded and scurried on her hands and knees.

Jabba closed in at a snail’s pace, and Patrick prepared to charge him again. Taking another PISA shelf, Patrick steadied himself. He couldn’t hurt Jabba; he wasn’t strong enough. But his scooter seemed to be an even match.

Patrick took another breath, and the girl squealed in excitement. “Got the bag!”

Patrick relaxed his muscles, letting the tension go. That day in the café filled his thoughts.

He pointed his fingers like a gun at Benji and smiled, full of smugness. “Don’t tell me. Derrick, right?”

Benji smiled crookedly, confused by the question. “Sorry? I’m Benjami—Benji.” He nodded. “Benji. Only my mother calls me Benjamin.”

Patrick sucked in an overdramatic sigh and snapped his fingers. “Dammit. Swore you looked like a Derrick. I’m usually so good at that.”

“So, you’re psychic.” Benji smirked.

“No.” Patrick pulled a face of mock hurt. “I’m Patrick.”

Shaking his head with a grunt, he focused on the weight of the board in his hands, the tang of sweat on his upper lip.

“Get in the car,” he called to her. “Get in the car!”

Jabba closed in, and Patrick took one last breath as he let himself flicker out of existence and back in as Jabba passed through his essence. Patrick heaved from resuming his form, but he had one last shot. He spun on his heel, swinging the PISA shelf at the support bar of Jabba’s seat. The support bar snapped, and Jabba crashed in a hard slam to the pavement. Patrick staggered from the rumbling quake of Jabba’s energy.

“Remember
that
,” he said and spat at Jabba’s feet.

Shambling to the car, the girl waved frantically. “Get in, get in, get in!” she screeched and scrambled into the front seat.

Patrick yanked the back passenger door open and flopped across the backseat.

“What are you doing? How do we get out of here?” she asked, terror evident on her face as she looked back at him from the driver’s seat.

“What’s… your name?” Patrick mumbled, his consciousness fading.

“Angie.” Her lip quivered. “How are we going to get away?”

Patrick shivered from the cold. Too cold. Much too cold.

“You’ve… driven go-carts… before, right?”

She nodded quickly.

He raised a shaking finger. “You’re going to go backward…. Put the stick thing in the middle on the R and hit the gas. It’s the skinny pedal. You know the difference between the gas and the brake, right?”

“Y-yeah. Like go-karts….”

“Good.” He pointed a trembling finger. “You need to press on the gas pedal really hard… okay? Keep your… foot on it. Okay?”

“O-okay.” Angie hunkered down in the driver’s seat. “I’m not going to get in trouble, am I?”

Patrick chuckled. “Sweetie, you’re with me… I am trouble.”

Jabba crashed against the back windshield, flinging shards of glass. Angie screamed as Jabba clawed for Patrick.

“Hit the gas!
Hit the gas
!” Patrick roared.

The car jerked out of the space. “My foot slipped!” Angie called to him.

“Hit it!” he commanded as Jabba growled over him.

Angie obeyed, and the car bolted out of the parking space. Patrick shoved Jabba off him, and the car went airborne as they ran over his titan frame. The car wobbled on two wheels and then came down in a hard crash. Angie screamed.

“Keep going!” Patrick hollered over her crying.

The car wobbled on the uneven pavement and righted itself into a straight enough line.

Patrick had never been a praying man, but he whispered under his breath, “Please, Agnes, don’t kill me. Please, Agnes, don’t kill me….”

The car smashed full force into the CASA garage entrance and came to a stop in front of the empty escalator. Thank God for closing time.

“Did we do it? Did we do it?” Angie squeaked as she looked over her shoulder at him.

Patrick gave a trembling thumbs-up.

Karin and Agnes were over him in a white-hot second.

“What in God’s name is the meaning of this?” Agnes raged as she ripped Patrick from the car.

Karin helped Angie from the car, but Angie broke away and hurried to Patrick’s side.

“He’s my friend. He saved the baby!” Angie hugged Patrick to her.

“Baby?” Agnes and Karin asked in unison.

Angie nodded, and reached in her pocket for the PISA hardware. “It’s how I died. I punctured my throat with the screws, but the baby was going to swallow the dowels.”

Patrick smirked. “You… did good….”

Angie smiled and seemed self-aware, older than her years. “It’s time for me to go now, isn’t it?”

“Y-yeah….” Patrick reached out and Agnes took his hand. She felt warm and he was like ice. “K-karin?”

“On it,” she said and took Angie by the hand. “Come with me, sweetie. Would you like some dessert?”

Angie nodded quickly, bouncing on her heels. “Can I have a tiramisu?”

Patrick lay back and took slow shallow breaths. Agnes loomed over him as Karin led the little girl away.

“You know what I’m going to say,” Agnes said in that calm, disapproving way.

“You’re… dis… disappointed…. Got it.”

Agnes hauled him upright. “No. Benjamin is going to kill you.”

Despite looking like someone’s frail grandmother, Agnes had no trouble carrying Patrick’s lifeless brawny body over one shoulder. Benji danced back as she slammed him across the counter and then primly straightened her glasses. Benji had spent the past twenty minutes desperate to get Patrick within reach, but now that he was here, sprawled inelegantly across the faux granite in front of him, he was so sick with anger that he could barely look at him.

“Now there’s just the matter of dealing with the car,” Agnes said as they looked at Patrick.

Patrick mumbled something unintelligible that was probably an attempt to explain his side of the situation, but Benji was past caring.

It seemed Agnes had had enough of Patrick’s bullshit too. “Count yourself lucky that I didn’t leave you out there, you miserable bastard.”

Patrick flung an arm out and mumbled more gibberish that seemed to disagree.

That was what pissed Benji off the most. Patrick didn’t seem to care about anything that wasn’t whatever he was focused on in the moment. He didn’t care who he hurt. He never stopped to consider how his actions affected others. Watching the Weople advance on Patrick had been the most frightening thing Benji had ever seen. The heart he knew didn’t beat anymore had been racing, and he’d felt physically sick. There wasn’t anything in his stomach to throw up, but that hadn’t stopped the queasy, throbbing panic in his belly when Patrick had picked up that board and fought with the huge man on the scooter. Watching the fight had been torture. Logically he knew it hadn’t taken more than a few minutes, but it had felt like hours.

And now Patrick was here in front of him, looking wrecked and half-dead, trying to play it off like it had been an afternoon of tackle football or something.

“What were you thinking? What? What could possibly have been important enough to risk your life like that?”

Patrick grumbled a response. Consonants and vowels slurred together and then echoed off the laminated countertop, and the effect was that of a drunk man speaking a foreign language.

Frankly, Benji was surprised Patrick was bothering to try to explain at all. Then again, there was no guarantee that the unintelligible words coming out of Patrick’s mouth were actually an explanation. It was far more likely that Patrick was telling him off.

Patrick lifted an arm in a weak gesture to back up a particularly vehement point, and Benji winced when it smacked back against the counter with a thunk.

Agnes eyed them both with something that bordered on amusement, though with her it was hard to tell. There was the tiniest curve to her lips, which Benji was pretty sure indicated a smile. Hell, for Agnes it was practically a beaming grin.

She reached down and grabbed Patrick by the scruff of his neck to haul him upright, supporting him until his bone-white cheeks gained a little color. He still looked gaunt and weak, but Benji didn’t think he was in imminent danger of winking out of existence. He knew Agnes could fully recharge Patrick if she wanted to, but he also knew that she wouldn’t. The ball pit was an important ritual, especially to Patrick. The strict rules Patrick had concocted for purgatory were part of what kept him sane, and Benji wasn’t going to be the one to interfere with that.

Agnes held on until Patrick was strong enough to brush her off. He leaned heavily against the counter but was able to support his own weight. His eyes blinked open to half-mast, and even that was clearly an exhaustive effort.

“I gave him a good ten minutes. Your touch will help,” she said sotto voce as she edged by Benji. She wrapped her fingers around his wrist, and he felt the usual staticky zing that accompanied her touch. The boost was both physical and emotional—he felt less muddled and a bit stronger as well. She gave his wrist a squeeze before letting go. “And that was so he doesn’t drain you the second you touch him.”