Zeke Bartholomew (5 page)

I knocked on the door, then resumed rubbing my hands together either in the hopes of staying warm or somehow miraculously starting a fire. I waited a few minutes. Nobody answered.

I peeked in the window. I couldn't see anyone, but there was a light orange couch and a throw rug and some other furniture and decorations. A mug rested on a glass coffee table, thin wisps of smoke wafting from its lip. Somebody was drinking coffee or tea. Somebody was home.

I knocked again. Harder this time.

“Just a minute!” a female voice said from inside. I took a step back and put on my best pouty face to make her feel bad for me. A moment later the door opened. Standing there was an old woman, likely in her late seventies or eighties—or maybe nineties. I think at some point it's hard to tell the difference.

She was wearing a dark brown shawl, and her gray hair cascaded around her face in smoky ringlets. Her arms and hands were dotted with liver spots. When she saw me, her eyes widened and she beckoned me to step inside.

“Oh, my goodness, child! What on earth are you doing here in the middle of nowhere at such an ungodly hour? And why are you so filthy?” She squinted her eyes slightly. “And why aren't you wearing any pants?”

I looked down and immediately felt my face flush. I'd completely forgotten that I'd tied my now-crusty sweatpants around my waist.

“I…I'm sorry. I fell into the river and—”

“Say no more.” She hustled over to a closet and swung it open. She rummaged around and came out with a pair of trousers. “Here. The bathroom is down the hall. Put these on. I'll start a kettle.”

I followed her directions and went to the bathroom. It was full of ornately decorated soaps and candles, and the bathtub was one of those old-fashioned types that rested on porcelain feet. I stripped off my nasty sweatpants, hung them on the shower rod, and pulled on the beige trousers. They were a little stiff and a little too roomy, but they were clean and that's all that mattered.

I washed my face and hands with a bar of soap, then wrung myself dry, afraid to dirty one of the clean towels. When I was finished I stepped out. The woman was waiting for me with a hot mug. She handed it to me.

“Chamomile, with a touch of lemon and honey.”

“Thank you,” I said. “My name is Zeke. You have a beautiful home.”

“Gertie Zimmerman,” the woman said. “And you don't have to lie about my home.”

“I'm not lying. It's very nice.”

“Oh, stop. It smells like old people and marmalade.”

“I was going to say freshly cut grass covered in cheddar cheese, but I see where you're coming from.”

“I can't stand this place,” Gertie sighed, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead in a dramatic gesture that signified either exhaustion or worry that her brain might leak out through her head pores. “But I'm too old to move and don't have the money to buy anything better. Sometimes I wish the Lord would just burn it to the ground so I could collect the insurance and move elsewhere.”

Come to think of it, the house did smell a bit like marmalade. And I was reasonably sure there was no actual marmalade in the house. I shuddered thinking of what the smell might actually be.

“Thanks again, Gertie. I'm lost. I was kidnapped—okay, not really kidnapped. Just, um, taken where I didn't want to go. See, I wanted to go with them at first, but then there were codes and goons and spaghetti and—”

“Sounds like you've had quite an adventure. Sit down. Get comfortable.” She waved me over to a plush sofa. I sat down gingerly, knowing I wasn't fully clean.

“Thank you for the pants,” I said. “Your husband won't mind?”

“Oh, Howard has been dead for twenty years. This is him.”

Gertie picked up a photograph and held it out. It was a handsome man with a big, bushy mustache. “My dear Howard Zimmerman. I miss combing his mustache every day of the week.”

“Wait…you're saying I'm wearing…your dead husband's pants?”

“Oh, yes. Howard refused to get rid of anything while he was alive, and our son, Harron, refused to take them. Howard always said that as long as there was room in the closet, why waste good clothes? It seemed silly to go against his wishes after he passed on. And now they've come in handy, haven't they, Zeke?”

“Howard didn't…um…die in
these
pants, did he?”

Gertie laughed so hard she held her sides. “Oh, heavens, no! Those particular pants are still hanging in the closet. Would you prefer them? They're corduroy. Nice and warm.”

“Um, that's really okay. These are just fine. Gertie, would you mind if I use your phone? I need to call my dad and the police.”

“Absolutely. It's right over there.”

Gertie pointed at an antique rotary phone hanging on the wall. I picked up the receiver, grimacing when I thought of Howard possibly holding it at some point while wearing these pants. It took a few tries to figure out how to dial, but I finally got through to 911.

“Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?”

“Hi, yeah, my name is Zeke Bartholomew and some guys just tried to kill me.”

“Okay, calm down, Zeke.”

“I am calm.”

“Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to remain calm.”

“I am calm. Please, just listen.”

“Sir, if this is not a real emergency, I'm going to have to report you.”

“Whatever, please report me and then come get me. Look, three goons in suits tried to kill me. They're working for some guy, and I think they're planning something terrible.”

“Sir, would you like to report the threat of a terrorist attack?”

“Uh, I don't know what it is. But it's bad. They wouldn't tell me. They thought I was someone else.”

“You lied about your identity?”

“Well, um, technically yes, but why should that matter? They tried to kill me!”

“Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to calm down.”

“I am calm!”

“Sir, I'm going to report you to our supervisors. Where are you located?”

“Hold on. Gertie, what's the address here?”

“Forty-two Mulberry Lane in Thistlehaven,” she replied. “Everything all right, Zack?

“It's Zeke,” I said to Gertie, and then to the 911 operator I repeated,“Forty-two Mulberry Lane in Thistlehaven. Hurry. They're looking for me right now.”

“And you said your name was Zack?”

“Zeke.”

“As in Ezekiel?”

“Does it matter? Zeke Bartholomew. Forty-two Mulberry Lane.”

“It says here that Forty-Two Mulberry Lane is registered to a Mr. and Mrs. Howard Zimmerman. Is Mr. Zimmerman there?”

“No, he's dead.”

“Are you calling to report a murder?”

“No! No murders! Not yet, though, but if you keep me on the line, that might change if those goons show up.”

“Sir, please calm down.”

“I don't think you're very good at your job.”

“Don't take that tone of voice with me. We'll be sending a car right away, Mr. Berthieume.”

“Right. Whatever. Send it quick.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Berthieume.”

The operator hung up. It took all my willpower not to rip the phone out of the wall and stomp on it. I took a deep breath. But it was Gertie's phone. Besides, I had one more call to make.

I dialed the number. He picked up on the first ring.

“Hello?”

“Dad. It's me.”

“Oh, thank god, Zeke. Are you all right? I've been calling everybody.”

“I'm okay, Dad. I'm safe. I'm in Thistlehaven.”

“Thistlehaven? How did you end up all the way out there?”

“It's a long story. Listen, Dad, the cops are on their way.”

“Cops? Zeke, what happened?”

“Please, just listen, Dad. If anyone calls or comes to the door, if you don't recognize them, don't let them in. Especially if they're wearing nice suits.”

“Zeke, you're scaring me. Let me come and pick you up. What's your address?”

“I'm at Forty-Two Mulberry Lane. Okay?”

There was no response.

“Hello? Dad?”

There was nobody on the other end. The phone had gone dead.

I put the receiver down and picked it back up. There was no dial tone. My heart began to race.

“Gertie? The phone just went dead.”

“Is it plugged in?”

I checked the cord. Yup. All plugged in.

“That's odd,” she said. She took the phone from me and held it to her ear. “That's never happened before.”

“Did you pay your phone bill?”

“Of course. All my billing is done online through autopay.”

I decided against asking Gertie how someone her age knew how to set up autopay considering my dad couldn't even figure out how to set his TiVo, but there was a more pressing issue. Had my dad heard me? He knew I was in Thistlehaven, but it's a pretty big town, and he'd never find me going house to house. Everything was way, way too quiet.

“Just relax,” Gertie said. “Sit down. Drink your tea.”

I sipped the tea. It tasted like bathwater.

“There, now. Doesn't that help?”

“No,” I said. “There's a band of goons out to kill me because they think I have some stupid secret codes. Sorry if your Earl Grey doesn't soothe that.”

“Loons? There are loons out to get you? Aren't they extinct?”

“GOONS,” I shouted. “Ugh, never mind. Do you have a cell phone?”

“No. Those things will microwave your brain.”

“Yeah, well, if the microwave had a way to get in touch with my dad or the cops…”

“I do have my laptop. Grandkids got it for me for my birthday. Darned if I use it for anything other than solitaire.”

“A laptop? Where is it?”

“Here. I'll show you.”

Gertie led me up a rickety flight of stairs to a guest room. It was swathed in beige fabrics, and the air was so stale I could probably levitate on it. There was a fairly new Apple laptop sitting on an antique makeup table and plugged into the wall.

“This is perfect. Thanks, Gertie.”

I pushed the power button on the laptop and it began to boot up. I figured even if the phones didn't work, I could email my dad with the address.

Then, just as the friendly little Apple logo appeared on the screen, a massive reverberation shook the house. Every light went out. And the computer went dead.

“What…what was that?” Gertie asked, her voice disembodied in the dark.

“Oh…that's not good,” I whispered. The reverberation. I knew what it was. The same thing had happened in a spy movie I'd seen. The good spy was infiltrating the enemy camp, and set off something called an EMP. EMP stood for electromagnetic pulse. The EMP was a burst of radiation that caused a fluctuating electric and magnetic field, damaging or simply knocking out any circuitry within a given area. When the spy set off the EMP pulse, it blew out any and all communications devices and sent a barely perceptible surge through the enemy camp.

I know it was just a movie…but I could swear this felt exactly like that.

First the phone dying. Now all the electronic devices were dead. The laptop ran on a battery, so even if there was a downed power line the battery should have still powered it. But, no—the battery was dead.

We were in the dark. Cut off. And I was pretty sure we weren't alone.

“I need to get out of here,” I said, bolting up from the table.

Slivers of light streamed in through the windows, allowing just enough light to illuminate the stairway. I cautiously made my way down, Gertie following me.

“What…where are you going, Zeke?”

“They found me,” I said, slowly walking through the foyer toward the barely visible front door. I squinted. It was a silhouette in the darkness. My heart hammered. I was sweating through Gertie's dead husband's pants. The only way I could have possibly felt ickier is if I were wearing Gertie's dead husband's underwear under his pants.

“Where are you going to go?” Gertie said, concerned. “It's pitch black outside.”

“The longer I stay here, the more trouble you're in.” I should have felt brave saying that. After all, I was offering to leave Gertie's house to protect her. Naturally she would beg me to stay, but I would heroically shrug off her offer and march out into the darkness, alone and unafraid.

“Okay, then. Try not to get lost.”

“Wait, that…that's it? You don't want me to stay?”

“Why in the blue heavens would I want that?” Gertie asked. “If you're telling the truth, and loons are after you, why would I want them near my bedroom? So get on with you. But do let me know that you got home safely.”

“Yeah. Right. Thanks, Gertie. I'll be sure to call first thing.” I wasn't very good at sarcasm, but I felt I had laid it on nice and thick.

I clutched the front door knob and looked back to see if Gertie had changed her mind. It might have been the darkness, but she just stood there.

“Whatcha waiting for? Doors don't open themselves.”

“Bye, Gertie.”

I turned the door knob…and suddenly an explosion threw me backward. My body slammed against a wall, and I crumpled to the floor, dazed.

“What the heck…” I muttered, slowly getting to my knees. I looked up. And after how I reacted to what I saw standing in the decimated doorway, I'm pretty sure nobody would ever want to wear those pants again.

In the doorway was a massive man, nearly seven feet tall. He wore a suit of startling bright white, every inch of the outfit striated with red tubes that crisscrossed along the seams. It appeared as though a red liquid was running through the tubes. He had on a clear visor, and below that visor was a face that glowed a terrifying bright red. He was bald. His eyes were wide open, tinged the color of burnt amber.

On one hand was a massively padded white glove that looked like it could dislodge a train from its tracks. The other hand was gloveless—and it glowed the bright red of a well-kindled fire. Tendrils of smoke emanated from the exposed hand. Wood from the shattered doorway glowed red, several shards ablaze. Had he done that with his freaky red hand?

“Ezekiel Bartholomew,” the man said, his voice guttural, amplified through what sounded like speakers in the visor.

Not Derek Lance. Ezekiel Bartholomew. He knew who I was.

“Wha…how do you know my name?”

The massive white hulk didn't respond. Instead he crossed the doorway, each footstep causing the floor to tremble. I backed up against the wall. He crossed the foyer in seconds. I was barely up to his shoulders. The gigantic man stood in front of me. Looked me over for a brief moment. Then reared the ungloved, red hand back and…

“HOLY CRAP!” I shouted, diving out of the way a split second before the huge appendage came hurtling forward, lodging itself in the wall right where my head had just been. Ever wondered what a grapefruit would look like after getting hit by a nuclear weapon? I'm pretty sure that's what my head would have resembled had the punch connected.

I rolled out of the way and sprinted into Gertie's living room. The hulking man yanked his fist from the wall, leaving a small fire in its wake. I watched in disbelief. Somehow the man's skin possessed the ability to create spontaneous combustion.

I only had a moment to feel dorky about knowing the term “spontaneous combustion” before the man lumbered after me into the living room. By that time, the fire from the doorway had caught onto the curtains. Flames began to lick at the ceiling.

“Gertie!” I shouted. “Run!”

“Way ahead of you, kid!” I saw Gertie sprint toward the door. Well,
sprint
isn't the right word. No, she
ambled
the best an elderly woman could. I heard a set of car keys jingling in her hand. “Thanks for setting my house on fire, Zeke! Now the insurance company will have no choice but to pay through the nose! Oh, and try to stay alive!”

Then Gertie was gone.

I ran behind the old couch. The ghostlike hulk stopped in front of it.

“Now, hold on a freaking second!” I shouted. “I'm not Derek Lance. I'm Zeke Bartholomew. I'm in the seventh grade. I suck at dodgeball. I got a
C-
on my last social studies test. And I don't have any stupid codes!”

“You know about Operation Songbird,” the hulk said. “For that, you cannot live.”

I ducked down just as a huge boot sent the couch hurtling over my head. Oh, sure, best dodgeball move I've made in my life, and of course nobody from school was there to see it.

I scrambled out of the living room and into the kitchen. The white hulk followed me.

On the counter was a rolling pin. I picked it up, turned back to the monster, and hurled it at his face with every ounce of strength I could muster. I let out a manly
PHNEGH!
sound as the rolling pin left my hand.

I watched it fly as if in slow motion—as it harmlessly bounced off the man's visor and plunked to the ground, where it lay, seeming to mock my ineptitude. I turned back to the hulk. A backhand with his gloved fist sent me face-first into the refrigerator.

The blow nearly knocked me unconscious. Woozy, my reflexes were just intact enough to sidestep a punch from the ungloved fist. The fist shattered the fridge, plowing through its metal door.

Suddenly I heard a high-pitched noise so loud that I had to cover my ears. I looked up to see the hulk withdraw his hand from the freezer. He stared at it, the face beneath his visor contorted into a look of pure agony. White steam was pouring off his hand, and small blisters were forming and then popping, a disgusting red ooze flowing out from the burst pustules.

He quickly snapped the glove back over his wounded limb and doubled over in pain. This was my chance.

I ran from the kitchen. The entire house was bathed in red flames. Wooden beams were crashing down around me. I could feel the heat singeing my eyebrows. I coughed as I drew smoke into my lungs. The bashed-in doorway was a ring of fire. I had no choice. The hulk was certainly regrouping somewhere behind me.

“Just like gymnastic class,” I said, with a complete lack of confidence, considering I'd once fallen spread-legged on the balance beam, necessitating a daylong stay in the school nurse's station with bruised…never mind.

I closed my eyes. Sucked in one last lungful of air. Then leaped through the fiery doorway.