Warehouse Rumble (8 page)

The siren sounded, and all four teens sprinted into the hunting area. Glowing greenish paint marked the areas that were out-of-bounds. As in most of the other games, the course was strewn with rusting machinery and other “postapocalyptic” props.

A mutant popped out from behind a rotting door. Joe blasted it with his wrist blaster. The monster howled and retreated.

“Pretty cool,” the younger Hardy said.

Frank laughed and fired his fake laser as another creature appeared on a catwalk above them. The mutant shrieked and backed into the darkness once more.

After ten minutes the Hardys had tagged quite a few of Willingham’s fake abominations. They’d taken a couple of hits themselves (their wrist lasers screeched each time they got blasted), but both brothers felt sure they had run up a good score.

Occasionally, they spotted Jay or Missy lurking around the ruins. Once, they saw Stone blasting in their direction. The Hardys resisted the urge to fire back.

“He’s just wasting his time,” Frank reminded Joe.

The mutants kept falling back, leading the brothers ever deeper into the game setting. The monsters’ tactics were getting better as time wore on too. First they attacked only singly, then in twos, and now they appeared to be setting ambushes for the players to walk into.

Joe and Frank fought bravely onward. A screeching sound from the other side of a rusty wall told them that either Missy or Jay had been hit. Moments later a second screech indicated the other had been blasted as well.

“Sounds like they’re in serious trouble,” Joe said. Neither he nor Frank could resist smiling.

The brothers rounded a corner and saw Jay and Missy pinned down by five mutants. Frank and Joe waded in, blasting the monsters as they came.

“Get out of here! We don’t need your help!” Missy shouted.

Suddenly a loud
bang
resounded through the warehouse. In the silence that followed, an eerie noise began to build. It was a scrabbling, screeching sound, like thousands of rusty door hinges.

Everyone, even the mutants, stopped and looked around, searching for the source of the clamor. A dented metal bulkhead lay thirty yards away—in the out-of-bounds area of the game. The portal yawned wide, opening into the dark maintenance tunnels beneath the warehouse.

As the contestants watched in horror, an endless swarm of rats burst from the basement.

A wave of dirty-furred rodents swept out of the underground and across the wooden floor. The rats’ eyes gleamed red in the semidarkness of the warehouse. Their tiny voices squeaked and chittered, building into an awful cacophony.

Missy shrieked, but her cry was nearly drowned out by the noise from the pack.

“Everyone, outside! Quick!” Frank yelled.

The fake wreckage strewn through the warehouse hindered their progress as all four contestants, plus the mutants and Willingham’s crew, scrambled to get out of the way of the ravenous horde.

The rats scampered forward like a hideous moving blanket covering the ground. The obstacles that blocked the humans’ exit did little to impede
the vermin’s progress. The rats squeezed under rusting chicken wire and scrambled over corrugated pipes.

A cameraman stumbled and fell in the path of the rampaging swarm. Frank and Joe grabbed the man’s arms and scooped him up. The rats nibbled at his shoes as the brothers dragged him to his feet.

As quickly as they could, they dodged through the set’s obstacles and toward the nearest emergency exit.

The rats kept coming, though the swarm was less coherent now. The rats spread out, trying to find places to hide. The fake rubble set up by Willingham’s crew presented plenty of concealment.

“They’re almost as afraid of us as we are of them,” Frank said, though no one but Joe and the cameraman heard him. The three of them kept running. The rats came right behind, nipping at their heels, threatening to overtake them.

Joe turned and toppled a big corrugated drainpipe into the path of the scurrying rodents. The rats squealed and scattered out of the way, buying the Hardys a few precious moments.

“Good work, Joe!” Frank said.

The cameraman stumbled again, but the brothers grabbed him under either arm and carried him out the emergency exit and into the parking lot.

Many people, both contestants and crew, were already outside. Stacia Allen stood across the unpaved street near her news van, filming the sudden exodus. Clark Hessmann was standing near Allen, and it appeared she might have been interviewing him before the commotion started.

“Allen and Hessmann are digging this,” Joe said.

Frank nodded. “They both have something to gain from all this trouble.”

The
Warehouse Rumble
cameraman thanked the brothers and joined the rest of the game crew. Moments later Chet and Daphne exited another area of the warehouse. They looked pale and shaken, but otherwise unhurt.

“Suddenly there were rats everywhere,” Daphne said breathlessly, going over what had just happened.

“Our event was located in Rat Central Station,” Joe replied.

“Ugh!” Chet said. “Where did they come from?”

“We heard a loud
bang,
and then they just started swarming up out of the underground,” Frank said.

Ward Willingham emerged from the old warehouse looking angry and shaken. Stacia Allen and her crew rushed over to him. “What can you tell us about this latest setback to the trouble-plagued
Warehouse Rumble
?” Allen asked.

“There were rats in the warehouse,” Willingham replied. “Is that
my
fault? We’ve had some bad luck, is all.”

“You’ve had more than your share of misfortune,” Ms. Allen said. “Some people are saying that all this trouble is an attempt to drum up publicity for show that hasn’t been getting a lot of attention from your network.”

Willingham’s face reddened. He took off his sunglasses and glared at her. “Your show has been getting more publicity out of this than I have,” he said angrily. “Maybe
you’re
behind all our problems. Maybe
you
set those rats loose!”

Ms. Allen didn’t back off. “So you admit there’s been a lot of trouble?”

Clark Hessmann poked his head into camera range. “I told you there would be. I told you there were hidden dangers in these warehouses. Production should be closed down until a thorough—”

“That’s enough!” Willingham said, cutting Hessmann off. He put one big hand over the lens of Allen’s camera so that filming would be futile, then lit into the reporter and the activist. “You two can either back off or I’ll have you ejected from this property. Hessmann, you shouldn’t even be here to begin with.”

“The restraining order only covers my proximity to Mr. Jackson. I’m well within my rights.”

“And the unpaved road leading to the factory is public property,” Ms. Allen added. “My van is parked on the road.”

“Well, right now you’re in
my
parking lot, and in
my face,” Willingham growled. “So move it or lose it. Our truce is over. Get away from my production before I call the cops.”

Reluctantly, Ms. Allen, her crew, and Hessmann retreated from the lot and returned to the WSDS van across the street. Once there, Allen began interviewing Hessmann again—though her camera often seemed to be pointed in the direction of Willingham and the crowd outside the factory.

“Bet she’s got that zoom lens working,” Chet ventured.

“Focused on Willingham, no doubt,” Frank said.

Willingham wiped the sweat off his forehead and raised his hands to silence the crowd. “I’ll talk to you all about this incident in a moment,” he said. “Just hang in there with me. We’re not licked yet. Not by a long shot.” He turned to Ms. Kendall. “Get me an exterminator,” he said. “I want the best. I want the set cleared out and ready to go tomorrow, no matter what the cost. The network will back me up.”

“Yes, sir.” Julie Kendall pulled out her cell phone and began dialing, then walked to a secluded area of the lot, away from the noise.

“All right,” Willingham said to Hardys and the rest of the crowd, “this isn’t the kind of wrap-up I’d planned for today’s shooting. But, given the circum-stances, I think we’re done for the day.”

A disappointed murmur ran through the crowd.

Willingham raised his hands once again for silence. “However,” he said, “there is some
good
news to go along with the bad. First is that we got some great footage today. The competition is really shaping up, and
Warehouse Rumble
is going to be a
super
television show.

“Second, we’ve got a cast party tonight at Java John’s in downtown Bayport. You’re all invited, and I hope to see every one of you there. There will be food, refreshments, and music—all on the house, of course.”

“Woo-hoo!” Jay shouted.

“Festivities begin at seven o’clock,” Willingham said, putting on his best, though obviously forced, cheerful face. “Be there or be Rumblekill!” He pumped his fist in the air, and everyone applauded. “That’s it. Head home and freshen up for tonight’s blast. See you there!”

He turned and went to speak to Ms. Kendall, who had finished talking on the phone. Stacia Allen tried to snag a few folks for interviews as the crowd left, but all the contestants and staff gave her the cold shoulder. The Hardys, Chet, and Daphne ignored Allen too, and climbed into the Hardys’ van.

The brothers and their friends went home, showered, and changed their clothes. Frank and Joe took some time to fill in their parents on recent events, then did the same for Callie and Iola (though Iola already knew much of the story from
Chet). The Hardys’ girlfriends were too busy with their volunteer work to go to the party, though they wished the brothers continued luck in the game.

The four
Warehouse Rumble
contestants hooked up at Daphne’s house at 6:45, then headed downtown together.

Java John’s was a coffeehouse and eatery located on the first floor of a renovated building on Main Street, near the center of the city. Parking was usually plentiful in the area, but when the Hardys arrived, they found all the spots already taken. Many were occupied by vans from local TV and radio stations.

Joe pointed at one of the satellite trucks. “I guess we shouldn’t be surprised that Willingham invited the press.”

“I don’t see Stacia Allen’s WSDS truck, though,” Frank noted.

“Maybe she’s annoyed Willingham enough for one day,” Chet suggested.

They found a parking spot two blocks away and walked back to the restaurant.

Java John’s was fairly narrow but very deep. Mirrors along one sidewall gave the impression that the eatery was wider than it actually was. The front area had the coffee shop and a traditional soda fountain. The rear dining area had been roped off for the party.

A crowd of local reporters snapped the teens’ pictures as the four friends moved to the back of the restaurant to join the festivities.

“I’ll be signing autographs in the greenroom later,” Chet said, pointing toward the kitchen to indicate where the media should meet him. The Hardys and Daphne laughed.

The food was good, and the fruit punch was just what they wanted after the long day. They mingled with the other contestants and members of the show’s crew. Despite Chet’s earlier joke, all four of them avoided talking to the media as much as possible.

Willingham’s own people were covering the event as well, and the teens did a few interviews with them. “It’s in your contract,” the Hardys heard a staff cameraman remind Lily.

“I thought we were the only camera-shy folks here,” Joe commented to Frank.

“I guess most people who didn’t want publicity would skip this event altogether,” Frank said. “I notice Lily’s here, but I don’t see her brother. I wonder if his ankle’s acting up?”

“I see Missy Gates, too,” Daphne said, “but not Jay Stone.”

“I see Bo Reid,” Chet said. “Unfortunately.”

Reid was standing near the front of the party room, talking animatedly with a local reporter. After a while he gave up and headed for the refreshment
tables, near where the four friends were standing. Reid spotted them and gave a sneering half-smile.

Chet waved at him.

“Don’t press your luck,” Joe whispered to him.

“It looks like Chet isn’t the only one pressing his luck,” Frank said. “Look.”

Stacia Allen and her cameraman appeared at the front door of Java John’s and headed toward the party. Ward Willingham moved to intercept her.

Allen and Willingham spoke heatedly for several minutes. Then Willingham stepped aside with a slight bow, and Allen and her cameraman swept in.

“Another victory for diplomacy at lens-point,” Daphne said.

Willingham walked with Allen for a while, smiling obsequiously. Then—when he seemed certain that she wouldn’t be trouble—he went back to mingle with the other members of the news media. The Hardys and their friends noticed, though, that Ms. Kendall was keeping a close eye on the reporters from WSDS.

“I could use a refill,” Chet said, holding up his empty punch glass.

“Me too,” agreed Frank.

All four of them headed toward the punch bowl. They ignored Ms. Allen, who was hovering around the food, cornering people with her microphone. Bo was her current target, though the Hardys and
their friends had trouble feeling sorry for him.

As they refilled their glasses, Bo stormed out of the restaurant.

“Is applause appropriate?” Chet asked.

“Since we don’t have tomatoes to throw,” Daphne replied, taking a sip of her drink.

As Ms. Allen spotted the teens and began angling in their direction, the friends ducked back into the crowd. The restaurant had grown more crowded as the evening progressed. It was now quite hot, and almost unbearably noisy.

“I’ve had about enough of this,” Frank said to the rest.

Joe nodded his agreement. “Let’s thank Willingham for inviting us, and then head out.”

“Wha—?” Daphne asked. She looked very bleary-eyed and disoriented.

“Are you all right?” Frank asked.

Daphne didn’t respond, but Chet said, “I feel kind of woozy myself.” He tottered back and leaned against the wall.