scanned the pavement in front of his building for a brick, a broken chunk of pavement, anything. Butted up against the high granite curb, he found a bent piece of rebar. The weight felt good in his hand.
He crept down his buildingâs concrete steps, past the fetid odor of trash bins well overdue for pickup. He could feel the Polybiusâs slick pull. He gripped the doorknob and lifted his key, about to unbolt the door, but the knob twisted easily and opened without even the whisper of a click . He took a deep breath and pushed through.
Into an empty apartment. And he saw it at once.
The machine was gone.
For one frantic moment, he thought maybe he was in the wrong apartment. But no, it was his, all right. Shitty twin bed, half-eaten bowl of ramen, worn-out socks on top of an overflowing laundry bagâit was all there, everything he owned.
Everything except the Polybius.
And in the spot where it should have been, he saw something else: the crushed butt of a Newport Light.
JARROD POUNDED ON Ludwigâs door. âLudwig, you better answer this door! You canât just steal stuff from people.â He had to be home. His truck was still outside. âLudwig! Ludwig! You betterââ
Fuck it! Jarrod thought. He wasnât here to play nice. He was there to put an end to that thing. If Ludwig didnât like it, he could take it up with the police. He turned around and was about to give the door a solid mule kick when he noticed a small terra-cotta pot off to the side of Ludwigâs door. Inside was a plastic plant jammed into some green foam. Not exactly the kind of thing that needs fresh air and sunshine. Jarrod yanked out the plant, and at the bottom of the pot was the key to Ludwigâs door.
He pushed in and was immediately hit with the stench of ozone. âLudwig,â he called out. âLudwig!â He crossed the threshold, smacking his palm with the rebar.
He spotted the Polybius. It had been set up in the middle of Ludwigâs living room. Next to it, sprawled out on the dingy carpet, was Ludwig, his hand still gripping the gameâs mangled power cord.
âLudwig?â
He didnât answer. Didnât move.
Jarrod crept closer. âLudwig?â
Still no answer. Jarrod poked him with the end of the rebar. Nothing. He poked harder. Still nothing. No . . . no . . . no . . . this isnât happening.
But it was. The rebar slipped from his grasp, landing on the hardwood with a dull thud.
Jarrod bent down, wrapped his jacket around Ludwigâs arm, and pulled the plug from the wall, letting it dangle there in Ludwigâs lifeless hand. He felt for a pulse, just to be sure.
Dead as dirt. Deader.
Heâd spent enough time around loose wiring to know that 120 volts wasnât usually enough to kill. But Ludwigâs two-pack-a-day habit would have contributed. Jarrod shook his head. Ludwig might have been a schemer and a lowlife, he might have been a thief and a bastard, but he didnât deserve this. Looking at the hunk of meat that had been his boss, his normally decent boss, Jarrod could only think what a waste it was.
The room was rimmed with shelf after shelf full of toys and other mementos of Ludwigâs childhood. Footballs, basketballs, a worn hockey stick, Matchbox cars, Star Wars action figures, a couple of water pistols that had been painted black as if for a Halloween costume, an eight-track tape player, some kind of Erector set, and moreâincluding a half-smoked pack of Newports on the table next to a brown corduroy recliner.
The lighter sat right on top of the pack. It would be so easy. He could feel himself drifting toward them. He saw his hand reaching for them. He could almost taste that first sweet hit of nicotine.
No. This is where champions are made , he told himself. No cigarettes, and no . . .
And no . . .
And no Polybius, either.
Jarrod tensed every muscle and locked them in
He crept down his buildingâs concrete steps, past the fetid odor of trash bins well overdue for pickup. He could feel the Polybiusâs slick pull. He gripped the doorknob and lifted his key, about to unbolt the door, but the knob twisted easily and opened without even the whisper of a click . He took a deep breath and pushed through.
Into an empty apartment. And he saw it at once.
The machine was gone.
For one frantic moment, he thought maybe he was in the wrong apartment. But no, it was his, all right. Shitty twin bed, half-eaten bowl of ramen, worn-out socks on top of an overflowing laundry bagâit was all there, everything he owned.
Everything except the Polybius.
And in the spot where it should have been, he saw something else: the crushed butt of a Newport Light.
JARROD POUNDED ON Ludwigâs door. âLudwig, you better answer this door! You canât just steal stuff from people.â He had to be home. His truck was still outside. âLudwig! Ludwig! You betterââ
Fuck it! Jarrod thought. He wasnât here to play nice. He was there to put an end to that thing. If Ludwig didnât like it, he could take it up with the police. He turned around and was about to give the door a solid mule kick when he noticed a small terra-cotta pot off to the side of Ludwigâs door. Inside was a plastic plant jammed into some green foam. Not exactly the kind of thing that needs fresh air and sunshine. Jarrod yanked out the plant, and at the bottom of the pot was the key to Ludwigâs door.
He pushed in and was immediately hit with the stench of ozone. âLudwig,â he called out. âLudwig!â He crossed the threshold, smacking his palm with the rebar.
He spotted the Polybius. It had been set up in the middle of Ludwigâs living room. Next to it, sprawled out on the dingy carpet, was Ludwig, his hand still gripping the gameâs mangled power cord.
âLudwig?â
He didnât answer. Didnât move.
Jarrod crept closer. âLudwig?â
Still no answer. Jarrod poked him with the end of the rebar. Nothing. He poked harder. Still nothing. No . . . no . . . no . . . this isnât happening.
But it was. The rebar slipped from his grasp, landing on the hardwood with a dull thud.
Jarrod bent down, wrapped his jacket around Ludwigâs arm, and pulled the plug from the wall, letting it dangle there in Ludwigâs lifeless hand. He felt for a pulse, just to be sure.
Dead as dirt. Deader.
Heâd spent enough time around loose wiring to know that 120 volts wasnât usually enough to kill. But Ludwigâs two-pack-a-day habit would have contributed. Jarrod shook his head. Ludwig might have been a schemer and a lowlife, he might have been a thief and a bastard, but he didnât deserve this. Looking at the hunk of meat that had been his boss, his normally decent boss, Jarrod could only think what a waste it was.
The room was rimmed with shelf after shelf full of toys and other mementos of Ludwigâs childhood. Footballs, basketballs, a worn hockey stick, Matchbox cars, Star Wars action figures, a couple of water pistols that had been painted black as if for a Halloween costume, an eight-track tape player, some kind of Erector set, and moreâincluding a half-smoked pack of Newports on the table next to a brown corduroy recliner.
The lighter sat right on top of the pack. It would be so easy. He could feel himself drifting toward them. He saw his hand reaching for them. He could almost taste that first sweet hit of nicotine.
No. This is where champions are made , he told himself. No cigarettes, and no . . .
And no . . .
And no Polybius, either.
Jarrod tensed every muscle and locked them in
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