Kingdom Keepers: The Syndrome (9 page)

It wasn’t until Mrs. Whitman pulled the sponge away that we had our first real success: Finn’s lips twitched and kissed, as if reaching for the fresh water. His mother stabbed the
sponge into his mouth, but then backed off, barely wetting his lips. Bit by bit, drop by drop, the slumbering Finn took to the idea of water. Within minutes, the sponge was making sucking
noises.

I prepared the Gatorade. We slipped him a substitute. I provoked him to “Sip!” and eventually, after a good number of tries and another fifteen minutes, Finn drank an ounce or two of
the red lifesaver. It wasn’t much, probably not enough, but I was elated and Mrs. Whitman was beside herself with joy.

It was late and getting later by the time she could no longer contain her delight and sought out her husband to share the news.

“You’ll watch him. Just watch him, yes?” she said. I got the message. She didn’t want me stealing any solo moments watching him drink.

“Yeah. Sure.”

“What is it?”

“I didn’t say anything,” I protested.

“I can hear it in your voice.”

“It’s late,” I said. “That’s all.”

“The boy.” She wasn’t asking.

“Yes.”

“You are not to open any windows.” Again, an order, not a suggestion.

“Of course not!” I said.

“I’ve locked all the doors. I don’t see how he’s supposed to pull this off.”

“No. But I’m pretty sure he will. He’s not a deep thinker, Mrs. Whitman, if you know what I mean.”

“I know exactly what you mean!”

“We could outwit him, but more likely we need to beat him, defeat him.”

“Win,” Finn’s mother said. She looked at me for a long moment. “You said you’re strong.”

“I am. I can be.”

“Can you fight?” Mrs. Whitman asked.

I didn’t answer right away. She took that as uncertainty, which it was not.

“Your strength,” she said, trying to give me confidence I didn’t need. “My brains. Hey, I’m a real-life rocket scientist. What chance does this Luowski
have?”

“Not much,” I said, feeling better in spite of myself.

“I’ll double check the doors,” she said.

“Couldn’t hurt.”

Waiting for Luowski slowed the clock to a crawl.

Mrs. Whitman said something to herself about being “home alone,” which I didn’t understand. There were three of us, four, counting Finn. But after that, she brightened and put
me to work. We strung Mr. Whitman’s fishing line across the staircase, leaving a tennis ball on the carpet to mark the invisible line for ourselves. She loaded the room with a variety of
sporting equipment, from baseball bats to golf clubs. As it was dark out, I stood guard while she poured what remained of a five-gallon bucket of black sealant for the driveway around the base of
the tree below Finn’s window. Returning inside, she had me hold her feet while she worked with a handsaw on the only limb that neared the window.

Inside the front door, she taped down two layers of black garbage bags, making sure the door would swing open without disturbing them. She seeded flakes of laundry detergent between the layers;
the combination had to be the slipperiest surface on earth. More fishing line made a second trip wire, which we tied to the plug of the only lamp left on downstairs. The family’s vintage
video camera, with its mounted spotlight, was positioned on the top landing with Mrs. Whitman, while I was left in possession of the newer digital camera.

Mr. Whitman got into the act, too, by agreeing to be the radio man. At the first sign of any trouble, he would phone 911. He was also in possession of the only real weapon at our disposal. Mrs.
Whitman had cannibalized parts of a dog-training device for a dog the family no longer owned. Originally it had consisted of a shock collar and remote control button with which to activate it. Now
it took the form of a lacrosse stick with a barbecue fork duct taped to the end; the remote was taped on the stick’s handle. “Poke, stick, zap,” was how Mrs. Whitman told her
husband to operate it. She repeated the commands several times. Mr. Whitman practiced a lunge like the fencing champion he was not.

The preparations brought him around. Instead of battling a coma, he had a real enemy to fight, and Mr. Whitman came to life, getting into it.

It was approaching midnight by the time Mrs. Whitman brewed a stiff pot of tea for the team. We clinked cups—and then we waited.

“If he doesn’t come,” Mr. Whitman said, his face alight with mirth, “we’re going to look like a sorry bunch of paranoid idiots.”

As it turned out, that was the last time anyone laughed that night.

The first suggestion of trouble came as I heard the snap of a tree branch outside Finn’s window. It was followed by the sound of a thud, some groaning—and
silence.

Downstairs, Mr. Whitman was poised behind a couch halfway between the front door and the staircase, his thumb ready over his phone’s call button. From above, I watched Mrs. Whiman
gesticulating wildly as she sought to keep him in place.

“We don’t want him for trespassing. We want him for breaking and entering. We want him caught and locked up, not wrist slapped! Oh…my…gosh!”

Mrs. Whitman was interrupted by the sound of someone kicking sharply.

“The dog door!” Mr. Whitman called upstairs. “I’m not sure it’s going to hold!”

“Good! Then we can have them arrested!”

A slender girl crawled through the dog door that entered the house from the Florida room.

“Stupid, cheap thing!” Mrs. Whitman complained. “I locked it!”

Mr. Whitman overreacted, charging into action and activating the lighting trip wire. My heart clenched as the living room went dark. The sound of him falling, followed by the sound of a lacrosse
stick tumbling across the floor, pretty much established that Mr. Whitman had lost any advantage with which he might have started.

The girl sprinted for the front door. In too great a hurry and with too little light to see by, she hit the greased garbage bags and collided with the door at full speed. Dazed, she somehow
still managed to twist the doorknob while falling backward, unlocking the front door.

The door swung open. What looked like a black bear charged through, banging the door into the girl and knocking her down for a second time as she struggled to stand. The intruder hit the plastic
bags too, slipped, and fell, smacking the back of his head on the door’s threshold.

Coming to his feet, Greg Luowski, dripping cold, black driveway sealant, froze. An apparition had emerged from the dark of the family room. It looked like a prehistoric fish with silver
fangs.

Turned out it was the lacrosse stick. Mr. Whitman jabbed the device into Luowski’s leg. The boy hollered. Mr. Whitman pressed the dog collar remote. The boy did an awkward puppet dance,
imitating a robot with its control software scrambled: his neck twitched, his arms straightened, and he broke wind sharply, like a car backfiring.

But Mr. Whitman hesitated a fraction of a second too long. He didn’t notice that the girl had reclaimed her footing. From behind, seeing her partner in trouble, she shoved Mr. Whitman
through the open door and the screen door beyond. She slammed the front door, locking it.

“We’re in!” she said. “Out through the terrace!”

“Noooo! Waaaait!” Luowski sounded like a slowed down recording.

The girl fanned the air. “Was that you?”

“There’s time,” Luowski said. “We have to end him.”

We heard his words from our position at the top of the stairs. At her feet, Mrs. Whitman had her husband’s steel barbell; we’d put twin twenty-fives on either end,
bringing the total weight to seventy-five pounds. He’d had it forever, and had probably used it three times since, but he refused to allow her to remove it from the bedroom, claiming he
intended to work out. Now it would finally serve a purpose.

Standing inside the bedroom door, representing the last line of defense, I waited with my heart in my throat. Behind me, Finn slept peacefully. I ached for him to sense the danger and awaken.
Wherever his DHI hologram might be, I urged him to press the Return and come back to us. At the thought that we would be incapable of holding off the enchanted Luowski and his banshee girlfriend, I
resorted to a desperate plea for divine intervention.

“Can’t see a thing.” Luowski’s groggy whisper came from downstairs.

“Maybe if you got that goo out of your eyes,” the girl wheezed.

“It’s drying or something. I can barely move. Wait! Here’s the stairs.”

I held my breath. Only the sound of the tarry substance smacking the carpeted steps could be heard as Swamp Thing climbed the stairs.

From outside the house, we heard Mr. Whitman reporting the intrusion to the police.

My breath caught in my throat. A police response would certainly include questions about Finn’s state of health and could very well lead to an ambulance and doctors—the last thing
Finn or his parents could afford if his DHI was to remain functional, wherever it was. Calling 911 had the undesired effect of summoning a second enemy.

The only light in Finn’s room came from a pulsing white LED on his laptop; it grew incrementally to a strong flare, and then receded to a dim glow, like a dormant animal breathing. It cast
my shadow onto the wall, then faded it out in slow motion.

“I…can’t…see…a…thing,” said the girl.

“Shh!” But it was Luowski’s sticky trudging that was making the noise.

My heart pounded, threatening to break through my rib cage. Finn, Luowski, the police. Suddenly the odds seemed insurmountable. I took a step back toward the bed, wanting to be closer to Finn,
to protect him. But memory drove me forward again. The Kingdom Keepers did not step back and let trouble come to them. They teamed up and aggressively fought to stop it. The early DHI
technology—version 1.6 and earlier—had failed to account for the power of fear. By giving into fear, the Keepers found their holograms more material, more vulnerable to injury. They
quickly learned to push the feeling away, to overcome its material claim and thus protect themselves from attack. I wouldn’t do Finn any favors by retreating. Desperation required action.

I stepped to the open door and mentally declared myself a force impossible to pass.

In the soupy black gloom before her, the girl could just make out Mrs. Whitman, standing tall at the top of the stairs. Mrs. Whitman stood her ground defiantly.

“Go away,” she said. “Go away and we won’t hurt you.”

The sloshing stopped.

“Last warning,” Mrs. Whitman said.

“I’ve called the police!” Mr. Whitman shouted from outside the house.

“You’d better move, lady,” Luowski said in a growl.

“You were warned,” said Mrs. Whitman. Her foot pushed the barbell, which rolled like an axle and sent the weights careening down the stairs.

But she turned on the lights a moment too soon. A half-second more of darkness, and Luowski would have been mowed down at the shins by seventy-five pounds of steel and iron. He might have broken
both ankles, been knocked to the bottom of the stairs. No matter what, his advance upstairs would have been halted.

Instead, the high school state all-star in both football and track vaulted the barbell. It slipped beneath him and took the girl down like a bowling pin. She fell, face forward, screaming.
Tangled in the barbell, she flew back down the stairs, thumping her way to the ground floor.

Luowski was horrific, covered in black tar, wood splinters, and grass clippings. Still, he directed his vengeful, defiant green gaze at Mrs. Whitman. Taking two stairs at a time, he arrived at
the top and swung his mitt of a hand at her.

I hip-checked Mrs. Whitman off her feet and down the hall, taking her place as Luowski’s blow connected with my arm.
Whoosh!
I flew to the side and into Mrs. Whitman, clearing the
way into Finn’s bedroom for Luowski.

The beast reached the landing, glanced in our direction with fiery eyes, and turned towards the comatose Finn. I leaned against the banister for support. Then, overcome by rage, driven
by…love, I pushed.

There: I admitted it. Jess had been arguing with me for months now. “It doesn’t have to mean romantic love,” she said, “but it’s a depth of care and concern that
goes beyond simple friendship.” She was right. This push was like no other. I knew that the moment my arms extended, knew that as the post behind me cracked, unable to support the force of my
effort.

Luowski lifted off his feet and hit the wall like a truck. The door to Finn’s room crashed open further—then tore from its hinges. Finn’s bed moved. A lamp flew off and smashed
into the same wall as Luowski.

“You will not hurt him!” I screamed, coming to my feet. Something else was new, too: I didn’t feel tired, just energized. A first. I was just getting started.

Luowski sagged to the floor, but somehow he collected himself and stood. The wallboard was cracked from the impact of his body. He had to be under a spell to still be moving.

He glowered. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

I moved toward the doorway, brought my hands up, and hit him again. The bedcovers lifted like sails, covering Luowski as he slammed into the wall, fracturing it further. Glass blew out of both
windows. I thought I heard Mrs. Whitman call out to me, but the wind I’d generated drowned out whatever she’d said.

Another two steps closer. I could crush him now, collapse his rib cage into his lungs, kill him. My power no longer had an on-off switch; rather, it had an accelerator pedal. I had
control
. And I had to control myself.

Luowski staggered toward Finn’s bed. He looked as if he was on cruise control, a marionette controlled by a puppeteer. No human boy could go through what he’d just gone through and
come back for more.

“No,” I said in an eerily calm voice. “Not now. Not ever.”

I lifted my hands, stepped to the left and said good-bye.

Luowski flew backward through the open window. Gone.

Finn, dressed unusually grown-up for him in a button down shirt and khaki chinos, lay on the unmade bed, the blankets thrown off, only a sheet caught at his ankles. His shirt
had come untucked at the waist. It bunched at his collarbone. The shirt’s chest pocket stood up, unnaturally rigid.