Darkness Creeping (3 page)

The various items Mr. Zybeck made off with from the police station were stockpiled in the garage. Marty systematically went through them, searching for things that he could use. There was a stun gun, but it was missing its charger. There was an entire case of pepper spray. There were batons and police lights, but none of them could be retooled for Marty’s big scheme . . . until he saw the spike strip rolled up in the corner. Marty had seen spike strips before. In a police pursuit, they were rolled out in front of a speeding car to pop the tires and bring the chase to an end. Mom and Dad had used the strip once to stop Marty’s older sister from sneaking out at night—but it was only effective the first time. This is exactly what he needed! Maybe he couldn’t stop the ice-cream man, but four flat tires would slow him down to a crawl! With surprising stealth and cunning, Marty set his trap, and waited until he could spring it.

Fables tell of a tortoise who manages to beat a hare in a race.

The hare started out in the lead, but he was so sure of his victory that he took a nap as he neared the finish line, and slept while the tortoise slowly but surely took the gold. Of course, in reality, the hare was probably eaten by a pack of wolves, and that’s why the tortoise won the race, because, after all, nature is cruel, but it doesn’t lessen the moral of the story: slow and steady (and a really hard, fang-proof shell) wins the race.

This was a lesson Marty always took to heart. He was always last. He was always behind—but in the end Marty always reached his goal—and he had a tough enough shell to ignore the bites and pecks of others who would much rather see him fail.

Marty waited with uncommon patience until July Fourth, when at 8:40 in the evening, he heard a familiar tune piercing the twilight. He wasted no time—he started his stopwatch and ran into the street.

The streets were deserted, as everyone had gone down to the lake to watch the fireworks that would be starting at any moment. It would be perfect! There was no one to get in Marty’s way!

Instead of following the music, as he usually did, he ran across the street, through two backyards, until he came out onto another street. His neighborhood was like a maze—streets that wound back and forth. It was easy to get lost if you didn’t know where you were going.There were only two entrances into Marty’s subdivision. A vehicle moving at the breakneck speed of sixty miles per hour could wind through the streets from one entrance to another in exactly one minute and forty-five seconds.

By cutting through backyards, he got to the first entrance in fifty seconds. Sitting there, on the sloped street, was his sister’s car. His sister had recently gotten her license, and was forced, in spite of the utter embarrassment of it, to drive their mother’s old Buick station wagon. Marty had promised her his dessert for three weeks if she would just park her car in this exact spot.

Now he pulled open the door, put the car in neutral, and moved away from it. It began to roll backward, where it hit a plastic trash bin resting in the gutter across the street. Marty had positioned that trash bin there, and filled it with bricks, so it would stop the rolling car. It did the job. Now the station wagon was blocking all traffic in and out of the neighborhood.

As for the Creamy-Cold truck, it had come in from the other entrance. It would try to get out this way in exactly twenty-five seconds. When it couldn’t, it would have to turn around to go out the way it came. Even as he ran from the station wagon, he could hear the truck drawing nearer. But he didn’t wait for it. Not here.

He took off again, stumbled over a picket fence, then crossed through more backyards, until he emerged on the other end of the subdivision. By now the ice-cream truck had tried to escape, but the station wagon would have blocked its path. It would be heading this way now. In fact, he could hear the music growing louder.

He pulled out the spike strip, which he had hidden under a hedge, and rolled it out so that it spanned the entire width of the street.

His timing was perfect, because ten seconds later, he saw with his own eyes, for the first time in his life, the Creamy-Cold truck! It had screeched around a corner and was heading straight for him. CATCH ME IF YOU DARE, the sign had said. Now the truck would be at his mercy!

Marty stepped out of the way as it came crashing past, bringing an icy wind in its wake, then it hit the spike strip.
Boom! Boom!
All four tires blew, the spike strip flew from the street, snagging in a hedge, and the truck lost control. It spun a full three-sixty before hitting a streetlamp so hard, it blew out its light.

And there it sat with four flat tires. It was pure white, with a shiny silver grille. Its front windows were dark, so he couldn’t see in. The music it always played had fallen silent, and all Marty could hear was the engine in a menacing idle.

Marty slowly approached it, ready to relish his victory. The solid steel gate of the service window was down, but as he drew near, it slowly began to rise, and fog spilled out; the icy breath of the mechanical beast. Then, inside, someone began to sing in deep, gravelly tones.

In the darkness of the truck, a figure came forward to the service window. A man. He was entirely bald, but had a bushy brown beard covered in frost. He wore a white-and-pink polka-dot outfit. The official uniform of the Creamy-Cold man. “Well, well, well,” he said. “A customer!”

“I caught you fair and square. I want my ice cream.”

The man leaned on the window’s little silver ledge. “It’ll cost you,” he said.

Marty pulled out a dollar from his pocket and looked at the pictures of ice-cream choices. “I want a Cosmic Raspberry Swirl Bar. Now!”

The man reached his hand toward the dollar, but he didn’t take it just yet. He hesitated, then said, “Are you offering me this money in exchange for my ice cream?”

“Of course I am.”

The man smiled, his lips stretching so thin, they disappeared between the hair of his mustache and beard. “Well then. The bargain is made.” He took the dollar, then turned around, reached into his freezer, and produced an ice-cream bar. He held it out to Marty. “One Cosmic Raspberry Swirl Bar.”

Marty grabbed the bar, ripped off the paper, and took a bite.

It was, just as he suspected, the most marvelous, the most creamy, the most flavorful ice cream he had ever tasted. The sensation was so overwhelming it took over all his senses. Bite by bite, he devoured the bar, and when it was done, he licked the stick clean. Only after the last bit of ice cream had dissolved on his tongue did he notice that he wasn’t standing where he had been standing before. He was still looking at the ice-cream man, but now Marty was standing
inside
the truck, and the ice-cream man was standing in the street. The man was smiling even wider than before.

“Wait a second,” said Marty. “How’d I get in here?”

“The bargain has been made. Enjoy your ice cream.” He bowed deeply to Marty, but it was more a mocking gesture than a respectful one, and when he rose from his bow, Marty realized that the man wasn’t wearing the uniform anymore. He was wearing clothes that were so small on him, they were popping at the seams. A red shirt, white pants, with a red baseball cap covering his bald head. It looked like a Little League uniform.

“It took thirty-nine years for someone to catch me. Now I’m finally free.” Then he began to back away.

“Hey, ice-cream man, wait! You get back here! I demand to know what’s going on!”

“Oh, I’m not the ice-cream man,” he said, and pointed a long-nailed finger at Marty. “You are.”

And sure enough, when Marty looked down, he saw that he was wearing a white uniform with pink polka dots.

“As for me, my name is James,” said the man in the Little League outfit. “But my friends call me Jim-Jim.” Then he turned and ran away.

Marty’s whole body suddenly felt as cold as the ice cream he had just devoured. He tried to climb out of the service window, but the steel gate came crashing down and sealed the window shut. He went to the driver’s door, but there was no handle to open it.

Then he felt a strange rising sensation.
It’s the wheels!
Marty thought.
The wheels are healing themselves, and filling with air!

In his fear, Marty found himself hyperventilating and getting dizzy, so he slowed his breathing down, closed his eyes, and tried to face the reality of his situation.
Fact
: he had made a bargain with Jim-Jim Jeffries for the ice cream in this truck.
Fact
: Jim-Jim had been trapped in this freezing place for thirty-nine years.
Fact
: Marty wasn’t going anywhere.

But that wasn’t exactly true, was it? Yes, he was trapped in a cursed truck, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t
go
anywhere. The truth was, he could go everywhere. . .

. . . because even a cursed truck needs a driver.

When Marty opened his eyes again, he felt much calmer. Calm enough to reach into the freezer and pull himself out another ice-cream bar. That freezer was full of them. In fact, it seemed bottomless. Then he sat in the driver’s seat, put his hands on the steering wheel, and stepped on the accelerator, feeling the engine rev. He didn’t know how to drive, but that hadn’t stopped Jim-Jim, had it?

With frost forming in his hair, he grabbed the stick shift, threw the truck into gear, and peeled out. As he did, he heard the music begin to play, blasting out of the speaker on his roof.

There were neighborhoods to visit. Hundreds of them. And there were thousands of kids to roust out of the warmth of their homes, all clutching dollar bills and spare change, running through the streets in search of an ice-cream man that they’d never catch.

Just the thought of it made Marty floor the accelerator, and he let loose a wild cackling laugh . . . because for the first time in his life, Marty Zybeck was fast!

 

 

 

 

Fair. It’s a word I truly know. It’s a word I understand inside and out. Fairness is the reason why I get the job. It’s the reason why
they
pick me. Who are they? Well, I’ll let you figure that out for yourself.

It starts on a Saturday morning. My mother figures out a way to unlock my door, as she always does, and manages to get in, pushing away the various obstacles I’ve put in front of the door to keep her out. The obstacles are there because every Saturday morning I hold out a thread of hope that maybe this time she’ll give up, and let me sleep. Unfortunately my mother, like me, is not the surrendering type.

“Danielle, there was a call on the machine. They need you for an early game today.”

I groan and put a pillow over my head. “I’m sick.”

She takes the pillow away.“No, you’re not.”

“I’ve got the flu.”

“No, you don’t.”

“But what if I do?”

She sighs. “If you’re really sick, I won’t make you go.” She pauses to make it clear she wants the truth. I hate the Truth-Pause. “Are you sick, or aren’t you?”

It annoys me that I can’t lie to her when she gives me the Truth-Pause. I’m just not the lying type, as much as I’d like to be sometimes.

Instead of answering her, I sit up in bed. “So how early is the game?”

“Seven o’clock.”

“
What?
I didn’t even know there were league games at seven!”

“Apparently there are, and they need a referee. They need
you
.”

I had thought I was going to get out of it this week. There were no calls last night. No calls this morning, and yet sure enough, there’s a message on the machine, like it just magically appeared there. This should be my first hint that something’s a little bit off, but I’m still not awake enough to catch it.

It was just last month that I got certified as a junior soccer referee. It’s not entirely my fault. Frankly, I blame my little brother, Cody. Six weeks ago, he joined up to play in the seven-and-under peewee league. I don’t know what possessed him to do it, and I don’t know what possessed me to volunteer. I’m not the volunteering type, but I just happened to be there when the coach asked for refs, and I saw my hand go up. Totally bizarre. Then two weeks later, my brother quits the team, and I’m stuck. Now they call me every week, like clockwork, to ref other kids’ games—and my parents won’t let me quit.

“You have to learn to follow through on your commitments,” they tell me.