Twenty-Three

Edgar froze, startled so tremendously by the strange laughter that he almost came out of his skin.

“I knew you’d be here,” a voice called. “What a dumb redneck! Wearing that stupid raincoat all around town and everything. It’s not even raining, you dumbass.”

It was Weedy.

The bully’s evil chuckle rang out into the night. Edgar strained in the moonlight to see, and there, in the doorway of the cabin, stood his dark silhouette against the warm glow of the lantern. His figure was skinny, angular, threatening, and totally unmistakable.

“Jesus,” sighed Edgar. “I thought you were somebody. You scared me for a second!”

“Oh, Edgar,” said Chris joyously. “Don’t you know? I am somebody!”

Still yards away from the cabin, Edgar nodded and clenched his fists.

“Yep,” he said in his best get-down-to-business voice. “I’m right here, Weed.”

Edgar knew by the way Chris was blocking the doorway, with arms folded and chin high, that the kid had no intention of moving.

“You alone?” asked Edgar, glancing around the woods.

“Of course I am!” chuckled Weedy. “Who else would I need?” Edgar could see that Chris was clenching his fists, too.

“You do realize,” said Edgar, taking a small step toward toward Chris, “that there’s an evacuation going on around town, don’t you, idiot?”

“Oh yes,” said Chris. “Which is what made it easy to find you! And Flounder, too. Have you seen him? I have . . .”

“Weedy, I am going to say this just one time. I don’t have time for this. You better get out of my way.”

Silence ensued as they glared at each other. Edgar knew his injury was too much to sustain a fight—a fight that he couldn’t survive, all half-exhausted and half-medicated as he was. He couldn’t punch through wet parchment paper right now, let alone Chris Weedy. He only had one option left, and it would have to work, or else.

He would have to bluff.

He took another step towards Weedy and tried not to limp this time. He would have to keep his weakness a secret.

“Are you crazy?” hissed Weedy, his eyes widening. “I know your leg is hurt! I saw you limping through the door of the Wal Mart, you idiot.” The bully departed the door frame and stood straight, taking a menacing step toward Edgar, but even so Edgar took a relentless step towards him.

A pissed Weedy shook his head angrily, like an obstinate grizzly being taunted by a badger, and raced toward Edgar. Enraged, he marched into the night and stood before Edgar, who glared back at him.

Just as Edgar hoped, Chris raised his fist to strike, and as he reared back, Edgar grabbed both the flaps on his father’s raincoat and thrust them open wide, revealing a terrible sight: there, dangling from his shoulders and all across his chest, was stick upon stick of red, interwoven dynamite, all roped together by long strands of black electrical tape.

Weedy shrieked and yanked his hand away from the wired-up Edgar.

“Are you . . . crazy?!?!” he squealed. “What is the matter with you?” Backing away from Edgar, he half-tripped across a tree root and almost lost his footing.

It was hilarious.

“Yes, I believe I am,” admitted Edgar, limping past him towards the cabin door. Standing in the glow of the room, he turned and said to Weedy, “Now get out of here. For your own good.”

Edgar watched hopefully as the bully glanced down the trail—even taking a step towards town. But, then, his heart sank. Chris Weedy turned around and had turned, seemingly seduced by second thoughts. His brow had suddenly ruffled. He massaged his chin and studied Edgar, just like he’d done back in Van Rossum’s class when Edgar had told him his dad was dead.

Suddenly a look came over Weedy, an all too familiar one. There was that scowl on his face, his eyes churning, his brow wrinkled in contortions of rage. A scowl reverberated from his whole being. The kid scratched his curly blonde hair, and he smiled.

“Oh wow,” Weedy said thoughtfully. “I almost forgot about you!”

“What did you forget?” asked Edgar, breathlessly, his heart beginning to pound again. And suddenly, Weedy was moving dangerously towards him again.

“You almost had me fooled!” the bully cackled. “But then I remembered: you’re the biggest liar I’ve ever known.”

Edgar stood in the doorway and thought about just turning to the hole and jumping in, escaping this idiocy, but he couldn’t. He needed time to pack all his stuff for the trip, so he had to stay and see this through.

He opened his raincoat flaps again and waved them. He warned Weedy. “I’m telling you,” he shouted. “If you attack me, you’ll blow us both up. And at this point, I really don’t care.”

Undeterred, Weedy continued to step toward Edgar.

“Don’t you remember?” Weedy said thoughtfully, moving slowly towards the cabin door, as if entranced. “All your lies? Well, I do. Like when you said your dad was ‘dead.’ Or when you faked your death and stole my phone. Well, that was another lie.”

Edgar stiffened and readied himself as the boy approached. He wouldn’t just let Weedy wail on him.

“And now,” Chris continued triumphantly, “you expect me to believe that that is real dynamite? C’mon man! Ha ha!”

Face to face now, with Weedy’s breath on Edgar’s nose, the two glared at each other.

“This dynamite is armed,” Edgar hissed. “If you knock me down, it will detonate. You can believe me or not.”

“Blah blah blah,” growled Chris. “What a truck load of shit.”

Suddenly he lunged for Edgar, and Edgar deftly jerked backwards and fumbled at the dynamite, trying to unstrap it so he could fight. However, it was far too heavy and far too tightly wrapped wound around his body, and it was much too late. He was basically tied down, over-encumbered, and was suddenly at the mercy of the wild Chris Weedy. The tape—stuck to his skin and to the red dynamite—was also sticking to the inside of the yellow raincoat. He was like a stuck fly on flypaper.

As Weedy rebounded and stepped to the threshold, snarling, looming with a raised fist, Edgar covered his head and braced for the brutal punch, but then, the most wonderful thing happened.

The punch never came.

Just as Weedy’s fist came hurtling across the night, a wide open blur like a speeding train came out of nowhere and lifted Weedy off his feet, thudding him into the ground with the force of a jackhammer. Weedy was crushed by the weight of one hundred and twenty pounds of charging Anthony Artese and was driven to the forest floor like a big sack of rocks. With a satisfying squeal, he crashed to the dirt and rocks and rolled over in pain, clutching his gut.

Flounder! Flounder had been watching, and waiting, and miraculously, he’d saved Edgar’s butt.

Then, with all the weight on his knees that pinned the awful Chris Weedy to the ground, Flounder hovered over the bully’s limp frame like the grim reaper. Just as Weedy began to regain his breath—since it had been clearly knocked out of him—Flounder balled his fist and raised it over Weedy’s face.

“Had enough?” shouted Flounder into Chris’s contorted face, grabbing a hold of Chris’s shirt and lifting him up. “I said, do you still want to fight?”

Coughing, Chris murmured, “No. Truce.”

When it was clear that Weedy was finished, Flounder rose and stood over him and smiled, nodding at Edgar and pumping his bloody fist. Edgar, relieved, allowed himself to enjoy the moment. Behind him, Weedy rolled over and groaned in the pine straw, clutching his stomach and face.

Good for you, Flounder, he thought.

Instantly he turned back to the cabin. Now that that’s out of the way, I must get down to business. He walked to the hole and gazed down into it, peering into the bitter darkness. Then he bent and yanked the hook-end of the rope from the floor—the one tied to all his supplies in the net—and slung it over his shoulder, readying himself.

“Hey!” called Flounder, who happily jogged to the doorway. “What are you doing, Edgar? Hey! Who whacked Weedy, remember? Don’t leave me hanging, right?”

“Anthony did,” said Edgar glumly, turning. He tried trying to manage a victorious smile.

“What are you doing?” asked Flounder, his voice softening, the realization coming to him. “Why are you running away? Don’t go down there.”

“I have to go,” said Edgar.

“But . . . why?”

“Because, Flounder. I have to save my dad.”

A puzzled look emerged on Flounder’s face. “By going down there?”

“Yeah, listen,” said Edgar, “I really don’t have time to explain. Just . . . get him out of here, OK? It’s really important. Y’all can’t be here much longer.” Edgar nodded at Weedy who was now whimpering audibly on the forest floor. “One more thing. Whatever you do, don’t come back here tonight, OK? Promise that.”

Then Edgar turned back to the hole. “I’ll see you again when the fire is out,” he said, over his shoulder.

Then shoving the big ball over the edge of the hole, Edgar held up a hand and saluted his friend.

“Thank you for saving my ass!” he said, then leapt down into the darkness after his ball of supplies. Flounder watched helplessly as the rope uncoiled, and just like that, Edgar was gone, off into the Earth.

As Edgar fell, tears rose, which squirted out and lifted in freefall.

They continued all the way down to the core.