Anton Strout - Deader Still

My memories of the foul-smelling scent were always intertwined with the night we defeated the Sectarians at the Museum of Modern Art. Hundreds of ghosts, including my then-ghost-crush Irene, had been trapped by barrels filled with the stuff. I shook it off, heading down to the path at the bottom of the steps that led up to the Needle. I crossed to the far side of the path and waited for Connor to join me.

“We don’t have anything more high-tech?” I asked hopefully. I didn’t want to bet my life on something from the summer clearance bin at Toys ‘R’ Us.

“After you just did all that paperwork to requisition a new phone from Supply?” Connor asked. “We’d do double that to get any gear for an op like this, and then add a two-week wait for signatures, plus possible back-order time. It was just easier using these.”

I flexed my finger against the trigger of the gun. It felt plastic and flimsy, like it was just waiting to snap off at a crucial moment.

“And if this doesn’t work?” I asked.

“It’ll work,” Connor said, offended.

I looked at the white streak in Connor’s otherwise sandy brown mop of hair. “I don’t want to become part of your Hair Club for Men,” I said, using my favorite name for the White Stripes.

“It’ll work ,” Connor said, and huffed. “And if it doesn’t, we’ll at least have had a fun time in Central Park blowing bubbles together.”

“You really need to work on your deadside manner,” I said.

“You really need to shut up and get ready,” Connor said, looking down the path. “It’s Don Ho time.”

“Eh?” I said, cocking my head.

Connor looked at me, exasperated. “‘Tiny Bubbles’? Get with the program, kid. Jesus, you’re making me feel old.”

“That would be your white hair talking,” I said, “and midthirties is old.”

I shifted my focus down the path. I could barely see anything through the mist covering the pathway . . . until I realized the mist was actually the see-through body of the dead jogger coming toward us. He looked exactly as we had seen him the other day in his “Sherlock Ohms” T-shirt. He appeared to be oblivious to our presence.

“Start your engines,” Connor said, pulling the trigger on his blaster. I did the same. The tiny whirr of the fans felt anticlimactic considering what we were doing here, but the bubbles started flowing freely back and forth across the pathway. If only there were a mirror ball present, we’d have had a full-on disco.

Onward ran the jogger, still not noticing us, until he hit the first of the bubbles. He stopped abruptly, like he’d been shot. One of the bubbles hit his arm and popped, and he looked down as he hissed in pain. A sticky-looking patch formed on his translucent arm. Connor frantically waved his blaster up and down around the ghost in an attempt to contain him.

“Get around the back, kid,” he said. “We’ve got to encircle him before he makes a break for . . .”

Connor’s words were cut short as the spirit shot backward. Connor and I jockeyed for position to get around him, but that was when the jogger finally seemed to take notice of us. The ghost’s eyes widened in cartoonish horror, and his face distorted beyond the way a normal human’s could.

“N-n-no!” the spirit stammered. He turned and shot up the stairs toward the needle.

“Crap,” Connor said. “Looks like were gonna have to Scoob and Shag it, kid.”

“Scoob and Shag . . . ?”

“Improvise,” he said, and dashed off up the stone steps after it. I fell in behind him, my legs already aching. The spirit limped in a circle around the base of the needle, trying to shake free of a few of the bubbles that had popped on his leg. When he saw us coming, he circled around to the far side of the needle.

“Don’t hurt me,” the jogger shouted.

“We’re not here to hurt you,” Connor said, trying to calm him. The spirit gave Connor a look of doubt.

While the two of them continued their exchange, I crept around to the jogger’s side of the needle. Connor kept talking while I snuck up on him.

“We just need to know a few things,” Connor said. He checked my position by stealing a glance at me, but the spirit noticed and twisted around. His face was a contorted mask of inhuman rage. His sudden ferocity scared the crap out of me. I pulled the blaster’s trigger, and the bubbles started blowing. The jogger stumbled back in terror to avoid them.

“Nooo,” he screamed again, and cowered toward the needle, backing through the railing that surrounded it. Although the jogger was immaterial, he fell back like he had tripped on something, and phased into the base of the monolith, disappearing altogether. The park fell silent around us. Connor hurried over.

“That could have gone better,” he said, looking around with caution on his face.

“Better how ?”

“We could have not failed completely,” he said with optimism.

“That’s not terribly mentor-y,” I said, turning to head back down the stairs. “I’m going to . . .”

I was interrupted by something akin to the screech of Godzilla coming from behind Connor. I looked at Cleopatra’s Needle. It took me a moment to identify the sound, but then it struck me—the sound of wrenching metal, coming from the pedestal at the base of the monolith. Not one, but all four of the bronze crabs were pulling free from their moorings, the sound becoming overpowering and painful to listen to. Connor covered his ears.

I shoved the blaster into my coat pocket, threw back the other side of my coat, and pulled out my retractable bat. I thumbed the switch and the bat jumped to full size.

Connor was still facing me, clutching his ears, stunned by the sound.

Not sure of what the hell they were or what to call them, I screamed over the sound of the crabs tearing free. “Umm . . . mecha-crabs behind you . . .”

Connor narrowed his eyes at me as he tried to figure out what I was saying, but seeing the bat in my hand was enough to get him to turn and face our foes.

The crabs hit the ground with an immensely solid clang.

“What was it you said?” I asked. “Nine hundred pounds of bronze? That makes each of the crabs roughly two hundred pounds!”

I looked at the thinness of my hollow bat and collapsed it back down, resheathing it.

“I say we err on the side of actually living and run,” I said. “Not that I’m ordering you.”

“No, that’s an order I can take,” Connor said, and ran for the stairs. “C’mon!”

The tiny legs of the bronze crabs clacked across the cobblestones while their claws snapped like sharp, tiny vises. That was all I needed to get running.

Connor was already down the steps and turning south along the path. I skipped the steps entirely and jumped straight to the ground in two bounds, catching up to him.

Even with my eyes somewhat adjusted to the light, it was tough following Connor through the darkness. The path led under a footbridge, the sound of rapid crab claws echoing against the tunnel walls. On this side of the bridge the path began to wind in and out of trees and my pace slowed a little as I fought to keep from losing an eye to low-hanging branches.

“Don’t slow down, kid,” Connor yelled, and then I heard him begin a low litany of “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit . . .”

I wanted to go faster, but all I could think of was a jagged branch skewering my eyeball or that, like in some movie cliché, I’d trip on an unearthed root that would be my undoing. I shielded my eyes, picked my feet up high, and ran faster. Off to either side of the path, I noticed thousands of tiny lights flickering off in the trees like I was running past a Fourth of July display.