Warehouse Rumble (4 page)

Chet balled up his fists and stepped forward. “Maybe you should mind your own business before I topple you on your can again.”

“Try it,” Reed countered. He clenched his fists and came at Chet.

Frank stepped between the two of them, trying to head off the confrontation.

As he did, though, Bo Reid clouted the elder Hardy on the back of the head.

The sudden attack surprised Frank more than hurt him. His martial arts training enabled him to roll with the blow. He somersaulted forward and came up on his feet once more, ready for action.

“Out of the way, you!” Reid said, aiming a punch at Frank’s face.

Frank ducked aside and counterattacked. He smashed the heel of his palm squarely onto Reid’s chin. Reid staggered back, blinking in surprise.

Chet and Joe rushed forward to help, but Frank said, “Stay back. I can handle this loudmouth.”

Reid came at him again, feinting with his left and then bringing a hard right toward Frank’s gut. Frank turned away from the punch and brought a karate chop down on Reid’s left shoulder. Reid
lumbered forward into some empty folding chairs.

Frank assumed a defensive martial arts stance. “Had enough?” he asked.

Bo Reid shoved the chairs aside and whirled to face the elder Hardy. Reid’s black bowl-cut hair look like an unkempt mop; his eyes blazed with anger. With an incoherent grunt, he charged, throwing his arms wide to tackle Frank.

The dark-haired Hardy dropped and whirled in a spin kick. He swept Reid’s legs out from under him. Frank’s beefy opponent crashed hard to the floor.

A whistle blew loudly. “What’s all this commotion?” Ward Willingham asked as he pushed through the crowd that had gathered to watch the fight. “There’s no sparring in this area.”

“Reid thought he’d get in a little extra falling practice,” Chet said.

Bo Reid rubbed his chin as he rose; Frank maintained his defensive posture. “These guys tried to jump me,” Reid said, indicating the Hardys and Chet.

“That’s a lie!” Daphne said. “Reid threw the first punch.”

Willingham frowned, pushed his sunglasses down on his nose, and glared at everyone gathered in the area. “Look,” he said, “I don’t know what kind of grudges some of you may have against one another—and I don’t care. When you come onto
my
set, leave your petty squabbles at the door.

“Being tough rivals during the game is fine. In
between takes, though, you’d better make nice with one another. If you can’t do that, you can’t be on
Warehouse Rumble.
I don’t have the time or money to put up with troublemakers.

“Anyone screwing around will be out on the street in a nanosecond—whether you’ve passed your auditions or not. Do I make myself clear?” Willingham looked around the crowd, warning everyone nearby.

“Crystal clear,” Frank replied.

“Yeah, okay,” Reid said.

Joe, Chet, Daphne, and the rest of the crowd mumbled their agreement.

“You’re not throwing them out of the auditions?” Stacia Allen asked. She and her cameraman had pushed to the front of the crowd. The other reporters also had their cameras on the scene.

“Kick them out for what?” Willingham asked, suddenly becoming all smiles. “Youthful high spirits?
Warehouse Rumble
is
about
intensity.”

“Okay,” he continued after soaking up the spotlight for a moment, “everyone, back to work.” He hooked his thumb toward the audition testing stations. As the crowd dispersed Willingham pulled Reid aside. “You get me, hotshot?” he asked.

Reid nodded.

“And you,” Willingham said, pointing at Frank, “Mr. Karate, save your chops for the auditions. You’re going to need them.”

“No problem,” Frank replied.

Stacia Allen stuck her microphone toward Frank’s face, but Willingham deflected it and herded her and the other reporters away. “You can talk to the kids after the auditions if you want,” the producer said. “For now, I need them concentrating on the game. Now . . . let me tell you more about
Warehouse Rumble
. . . .” He paused only long enough to shoo Lily and Todd Sabatine away from the crime scene perimeter.

“This ain’t over, freaks,” Reid called as he walked away.

“Anytime,” Frank replied.

Daphne let out a long sigh of relief. “You know,” she said, “I think that Ward Willingham was actually
pleased
about the fight. He was trying not to smile the whole time he lectured us.”

“He’s a real publicity hound,” Joe said. “After bawling Stacia Allen out yesterday, he’s still letting her snoop around the show.”

“Speaking of which,” Chet said, “you guys better get back to the auditions if you want to make the cut. They’re picking finalists between now and lunch.”

Joe nodded. “Wish us luck.”

“Break a leg,” Chet replied.

Frank, Joe, and Daphne went back to the tests. Because this was their second day and they didn’t need to prove themselves that much more, they quickly completed their remaining tasks and soon rejoined Chet in the refreshment area.

The auditions wrapped up just after noon, and it took Willingham and his crew about forty-five minutes to make the final cuts. The
Warehouse Rumble
team thanked everyone who had tried out, then announced the names of the people who would be competing on the show.

The Hardys and Daphne joined Chet and Bo Reid on the final list. So did the Sabatines, Missy Gates, and Jay Stone, among numerous others. Thirty-two contestants were finally selected. Each day of shooting, some teams would be eliminated.

“All right!” Willingham said, flashing a big Hollywood smile. “Most of you already have partners for the competition. Those of you who don’t should check with Ms. Kendall. She’s got a list of the pairings. The final preparations and briefing will take thirty minutes. Then we’ll begin the first contest.”

“Our staff will go over the rules with each group of teams,” Ms. Kendall added.

“I want to congratulate all of you for making it this far,” Willingham continued. “Now comes the fun part. I want you to play fair, and play hard. Let’s all work together to make
Warehouse Rumble
the hit I
know
it’s going to be!”

“Hey,” Joe whispered, “I thought we were a hit
already.
”

Julie Kendall took the Hardys and their friends, along with four other contestants, aside to brief them and answer questions. Willingham and the
rest of the staff briefed the other contestants.

“
Warehouse Rumble
is set in the future,” Ms. Kendall said. “The world is a wasteland, and resources are scarce. Teams of adventurers wander the countryside in search of fortune. On their quests they’ll have to overcome numerous obstacles, as well as combat other teams and the monstrous mutants that lurk in the ruins of the old civilization.”

“Sounds like a fun place,” said Chet. His friends and the rest of the contestants laughed.

Ms. Kendall smiled. “It’ll make fun TV, that’s for sure. We have team T-shirts for each of you ‘Rumblers’ to wear. You can customize your outfits if you like by adding accessories—but we
must
be able to see your team colors at all times. The TV audience needs to know who you’re playing for—and against. Remember, this is supposed to be a grungy future.”

“Like the
Road Warrior,
” Frank said.

“Exactly. Throughout the challenges there will be treasure for you to discover—so keep your eyes peeled for them. Securing the final treasures will determine who wins the Warehouse Rumble.” Ms. Kendall paused and looked around the group. “Any questions?” She looked around; no one looked confused. “No? Good. Get costumed up, and then meet near the refreshment area for your first assignments. You can use the bathrooms at the far end of the warehouse to change.”

As the group broke up Chet said, “The Sabatines will fit right in with this scenario. No costumes necessary.”

“Maybe they’ll be given bright pink costumes,” Daphne mused, smiling.

“That’d really compliment their Goth look,” Joe quipped.

Ten minutes later all the teams assembled once more. Some had taken the time to work on their costumes, while others looked more or less normal. Daphne chose to wear her leather jacket over her team colors; Chet wore his Bayport High jacket. Frank and Joe both slicked down their hair and rolled up the sleeves of their T-shirts. Both Bo Reid and his partner, a buff, redheaded kid the Hardys didn’t know, had torn their shirts in strategic places. The Sabatines wore their T-shirts like bandannas; they looked very postapocalyptic.

Willingham allowed the TV cameras to get a look at the assembled contestants. Then he ushered everyone but his own crew out of the warehouse. After a final rousing pep talk, he sent the teams off to compete in the different events set up throughout the abandoned warehouse complex. Daphne and Chet headed out to the old docks, while Frank and Joe remained inside.

The Hardys’ first challenge was a relay race through a maze-like obstacle course, that had been constructed from fallen girders and other broken
pieces of the old building. Frank, being slightly thinner, elected to take the first leg—which involved squeezing through some tight places. Joe would finish up the second leg, which required pushing through obstacles and confronting another contestant.

“It’d be nice if we knew who we were competing against,” Frank said as he and Joe set up at one end of the course.

“Don’t sweat it,” Joe replied. “Whoever it is, we’ll come out on top.”

A member of the staff gave Frank a baton with a glowing lightstick inside it, then took Joe out of sight to the place where he’d begin his leg of the race.

Frank set himself into position and waited for the Klaxon signal to start. When it came, he sprinted off the starting line. He dodged between two “fallen walls”—actually fakes, constructed by the show’s crew—and then squeezed through a half-open metal door.

As he ran he caught a glimpse of someone moving through the parallel course to his right. It was the buff, red-haired kid—Bo Reid’s partner.

Frank gritted his teeth and surged forward through the remaining obstacles. He crawled under one last girder and handed the glowing baton to Joe. “You’re facing Reid,” he said, gasping for breath.

Joe’s blue eyes gleamed at the prospect. He bulled his way through the first challenge: a set of
hanging punching bags that bumped into one another like a series of swinging walls.

He sprinted up a slick incline, and then a swung on a rope over a pit. Joe guessed that the cameras wouldn’t see the thick, dark cushions in the bottom of the pit—placed there in case he lost his grip. Next, he shoved aside some heavy “columns” made of chicken wire, plaster, and paint.

Forging ahead, Joe came to another pit. This one had a rope net stretched over the top of it. There was an entrance onto the net on either side of the course, but only one way off, at the far end.

Joe could see the finish line just beyond the netting. At the same time, he spotted Bo Reid at the other entrance.

Both of them lurched onto the net, toward the exit at the far side. As they struggled forward, it became obvious that they’d have to battle each other to reach the exit.

“I got a message for your brother and Morton,” Reid hissed. “The word is . . .
pain
! Too bad it’s your turn to play delivery boy.”

“I think I’ll mark this one ‘Return to sender,’” Joe quipped. He and Reid now stood less than ten feet apart.

Suddenly the doors to the warehouse burst open. Someone with a megaphone yelled, “Hold it! Stop everything!”

Willingham’s security rushed toward the front entrance as Clark Hessmann and a well-dressed woman strode into the warehouse. Julie Kendall hurried to cut them off. “You can’t come in here!” she sputtered.

“This paper says we can,” Hessmann replied, holding out a piece of white parchment with printing on it.

“It’s a restraining order,” said the well-dressed woman. “I’m Helen Scott, Mr. Hessmann’s lawyer.”

“This paper says you’ve got to stop filming in Jackson’s warehouse,” Hessmann said proudly.

Ward Willingham blew his referee’s whistle and yelled, “Cut! Cut! Everybody take five until we can figure this out.” He hurried over to where the
guards had converged on Hessmann and his lawyer.

The members of the crew stationed around the warehouse put down their cameras and relaxed.

Joe Hardy and Bo Reid eyed each other across the short expanse of rope netting that separated them. “You got lucky this time, Hardy,” Reid said. “No way I’m tussling with you off-camera.”

“Nice excuse,” Joe shot back. “Maybe next time something else will come up to save you.”

Reid went red in the face but said nothing more. Instead he went to the far side of the course and lowered himself off the net and onto the ground. Frank met Joe as the younger Hardy did the same.

“Glad you’re okay,” Frank said.

“I could have taken him,” Joe replied.

“I know. Let’s see what all this commotion is about.” Frank and Joe joined the crowd that had gathered around Hessmann and Willingham. Daphne and Chet arrived a few moments later.

“This is ludicrous,” Willingham was saying.

“The court believes that filming in this warehouse may be hazardous to your cast and crew,” Scott replied.

“We’ve got all the proper permits,” Willingham argued. “We have permission of the buildings’ owner. We have a legal right to be here.”

“Not until a cause of death is determined for the corpse of Joss Orlando,” Hessmann said. “He could have been killed by toxic waste, for all you know.
You could be shooting this show in a toxic-waste dump.”

“That’s absurd,” Julie Kendall said. “There are no records of toxic materials ever being used in this factory.”

“What about in the years it’s been shut down? Who knows what might have been stored here,” Hessmann said. “Not to mention the fact that the building’s unsafe. Part of that chimney collapsed the other day.” He pointed to the big hole where they’d found the skeleton.

“You’re just doing this because you have a problem with Herman Jackson,” Willingham said accusingly.