Dinner was rushed that night. Martin’s tuna noodle casserole was one of the most ordinary meals he prepared. It contained no surprises. The family ate partially dressed up at the table. The girls in their flowery dresses, the boys in slacks and button-down shirts. Lloyd was going to change backstage, it felt more professional than walking through Bowl Valley High School wearing armor.
“There’s going to be some kind of party after the show. Cake and stuff,” said Lloyd.
“Is it going to run late?” Pauline asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, do you have any idea?”
“No, but I’ll find out and come out and tell you.”
“It’s late for the girls, but if it’s only going to be twenty or thirty minutes, there’s no problem.”
“If it’s going to run later I’ll get a ride home with someone in the cast.”
The small talk went on like that, but Floyd couldn’t pay attention. It wasn’t a time for small talk, it was a time for big talk. Floyd put up with it as long as he could.
“There’s not going to be a party,” said Floyd darkly. There was no nonsense in it, just weariness.
Martin looked over. “Why? What have you heard?”
“There’s no party. Never gonna happen.”
Lloyd rolled his eyes. “Just ignore him. He’s been weird lately. Even for him.”
“Just ‘cause you don’t want to hear it…"
“Nobody wants to hear it.”
“Okay, what is going on with you two?” asked Pauline.
“Nothing’s going on, Mom,” Lloyd answered. “It’s just stupid.”
“When is this nonsense going to end?”
“I don’t know. When’s he gonna stop being a weirdo?”
“Floyd? What did you do? What is the problem?” Pauline asked.
Floyd said nothing, at first, but the look on his face was a mixture of helplessness and exhaustion. He was tired. Tired of being ignored. Tired of being despised. Tired of being laughed at. Most of all, he was tired of carrying the world on his shoulders. His eyes fixed on his mother. She saw a profound sadness in them.
“The problem is that I’m Floyd,” he said.
Floyd was restless in his seat. People were still chattering and walking up and down the auditorium aisle. Floyd knew that what excitement and good-spirited feeling there was would soon be squashed by the astonishing play about to be put on. He wasn't exactly sure what the audience’s response would be, but it hardly mattered. Floyd didn't know exactly what time the scene between Peyton and Lloyd would come on, because he hadn’t really sat through the whole play, but he had a general understanding of the plot, and he would cut out about fifteen minutes before to investigate what was going on beneath the stage.
When the lights dimmed people hushed and settled. Floyd wanted to scream. It was on.
The curtains spread and standing there was an eleventh grader named Russel. He was dressed like Jupiter, the main Roman god who was pretty much Zeus. The Romans had changed all the Greek gods' names for some reason, and Floyd didn't understand why. How can you change a god's name? He didn't think most gods would put up with that, particularly Zeus. He was the lightning bolt god, and gods that throw around lightning are the hardest ones to deal with.
Jupiter stepped up toward the audience. He was carrying a trident, which Floyd knew was actually carried by Neptune, the ocean god. Mr. Moderick must have thought it looked good. Russel thumped the trident on the stage three times.
"Listen, ye all, for I speak, and I am Jupiter. Rome was blessed with prosperity by the gods for the many sacrifices it made to us. But since the closing of the Colosseum, the sacrifices have stopped. Not good to anger the gods! Not good!"
Floyd winced. The line was ‘not wise’, not ‘not good’. It sounded ridiculous, but what lay forward would challenge everyone’s notions of ridiculousness. Floyd's attention then wandered away, because encroaching, deadly catastrophes tend to distract a person. He wasn't sure what to do. Peyton and Lloyd's big scene was an hour away, and the last thing Floyd wanted to do was actually watch the play.
He excused himself and walked down the aisle and stopped at the base of the stage. He wondered, since he'd worked on the play, did he have the security clearance to walk across the stage to the back moments before the show? Something felt wrong about it. He took a left and found an alternative route to the next floor down to where the trap room was. When he got to the familiar staircase, however, he found himself staring at a locked, expanding security gate at the top of the steps coming out of the wall. There was only one way down, and this was it. His eye caught a padlock on the right side of the gate. That was the only thing keeping him out. He needed to find a way to cut through stainless steel using things you found lying around in a high school theater. Floyd doubted Bowl Valley had ever put on a musical adaptation of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, so power tools were out.
Floyd knew something was screwy. Of course, vandalism was a very good reason to secure this area in the evening. How ironic. This gate was rarely used, though. Mr. Moderick would never allow closing off the prop room; he was changing his mind about decorations constantly. Who would do this? And why now? A smart vandal wouldn't generally wait until several hundred helicopter parents have filled up the auditorium to strike. Floyd wouldn't, that's for sure, and he was the best vandal he knew.
Floyd turned around and walked the tedious path back to his seat. He started to consider what his options were. Should he charge the stage? He didn’t think he could do that. Causing a huge commotion was just not Floydian. He could see himself making a half-hearted attempt, standing in the center of the room, waving his hands, coming off looking like he was auditioning for the pep squad. If he went that route, he would need to do something more noticeable. Like stealing a motorcycle and doing a wheelie right down the center aisle.
Should he pull the fire alarm, then? There was a pull station next to the side student entrance, but everybody knew that Principal Graham had fitted clear locked lids (quite illegally) over most of them to prevent false alarms, and nobody had bothered to do anything about it. It was the same management principle behind collapsing restrooms that were built by custodians. It might gain him some attention, but what would he do once he had it? The fire may or may not be prevented, but the culprit could escape. It might only delay the attack until some other time he didn’t know about. Floyd had a very intense feeling that tonight was supposed to be the end of this thing. Whatever you would call this, this was his one and only chance. If the guy got away, who knows what would happen? Would they ever find Piers?
Thirty minutes out from the big scene, Floyd was beyond nervous. He couldn't believe that the lives of people he loved were in his hands. It was unfair to them that he was their only chance. He was suddenly longing for the simplicity of his former life, when he only had himself to worry about. That was a million times easier than this. Maybe two million times. He was just Floyd, what could he do? Being Floyd wasn't being a hero, it was being a disaster. Eventually, he could no longer sit, so he excused himself, again, and made his way back to the gate. Everything was the same. The gate was untouched, so was the lock. Floyd didn't know what to do. Once again, he returned to his seat to think things over. His parents were getting annoyed with his restlessness. When there was only fifteen minutes to go, he shot up from his seat and walked away again, his mother following him with her eyes. She didn't know what was going on, but she didn't like it.
When Floyd got back to the gate, he searched his mind. Did his father have any bolt cutters at home? Floyd tried to imagine a world where Martin Piccolo owned a pair of bolt cutters, or anything tool-related that would be useful. That world was even more ludicrous than this one. Floyd remembered that Mr. Manse had left a cardboard box full of tools somewhere. If the man hadn't come for them, they might still be there. Floyd spun around and raced around a corner and toward the scene shop. Inside, all the actors were standing around fully costumed. Floyd began running around, searching corners and under tables for the cardboard box. When he found it, he tore through, discarding everything useless until he had the claw hammer he'd known was there in his right hand. He spun around and fired like a rocket out of the shop. In moments, he was facing the gate, once again.
He seized the lock in his left hand, took a quick look at it, judging where to hit it, then he cuffed it with the hammer. It made a satisfactory clank when the hammer found home, and it wasn’t as loud as he thought it would be. So, everything was going smoothly. Nobody had followed him, or even noticed his antics in the scene shop. Nobody cared what he did, so they had no reason to be suspicious. He had caught a glimpse of Peyton's pitying stare before she looked away. He was pretty sure, no matter what happened tonight, that look on her face would never go away.
None of that mattered now. Floyd tore the padlock off the gate and tossed it aside. The gate slid with very little effort, though its joints stuck a little. He turned around, expecting something like this to attract the attention of someone, but no heads poked around the corner. He took a deep breath before stepping through the gate. He suspected he was headed into the unknown here, and he was both fascinated and scared at the same time. When he reached the trap room's door, he could see that it had moved since he'd last been here. He wasn't sure what to do. He carefully reached out a hand and touched the door with his index finger. It didn't move. Something on the other side was blocking it. He listened. Not a sound came from inside. It was as quiet as a crypt.
He wasn’t certain what to do next. He didn’t know what he would find on the other side of the door. He didn’t hear anything, and he didn’t see any light glowing underneath it. Should he burst through it? What then? He pressed his hand to the door and gave it a little push, the door moved a little, but not much. He used both hands and it moved a little, then a little more. Then there was enough of a space for him to peek in his head in. It was completely dark, and there was a powerful smell coming from within. Floyd felt it sting his eyes. Still, he heard nothing, and saw only darkness. Was someone hiding in there in the dark? That seemed unlikely. It seemed more probable that his fiddling with the gate scared whoever it is off. Was that all he needed to do? He wasn’t sure. It felt wrong. Something about it felt incomplete.
He placed his hands on the door, once again, and gave it another little shove. A strong hand from within seized his arm and yanked him inside. Floyd's head struck the door jamb and everything went blank.
When you come to after being knocked unconscious, your head feels like a sandbag full of wet cement. Floyd was very familiar with the sensation. He'd been knocked out eleven times. This one, his twelfth, was above average in its aftereffects. He was awake almost immediately, long before most anyone would be. He'd been hit in the head so often that his body had gotten good at it. It was a good hit, but he'd had far worse. He remained on the floor pretending to be unconscious, just until he knew what was happening.
Even in the dark, Floyd recognized the tall, pot-bellied form of Mr. Manse. The man was fooling with something on the stage elevator. Floyd couldn't see what it was from where he stood, but he knew what the bundle Mr. Manse was working on must be: a bomb. It could be nothing else.
What was going on? Floyd couldn't figure it out. The thick smell in the room had to be some kind of flammable liquid. Was he going to set the backdrops all on fire? Why? Was it just because he was crazy? Or was there some kind of reason behind it? He supposed even crazy people had reasons for doing things. It wasn't really important to know, right then.
In the meager light, Floyd caught a glimpse of his hammer lying just on the inside of the room. Should he go for it? What did he do with it when he had it? He certainly wasn't going to clock Mr. Manse from behind. He just couldn't do that. No matter if the man was crazy or not, Floyd just wasn't capable of doing such a thing. So, what options did he have left? Perhaps if he just held the hammer in his hand and waved it around threateningly?
Floyd carefully stood up, not making the least noise. He was unsteady for a second, his head boggled a little while everything started to come together again. He took a step toward the door. His left foot set down without making the faintest sound. He leaned forward on the foot and tried to bring his right one forward. Mr. Manse turned, his huge body swung to the right. Floyd paused mid-stride. Frozen. The large man caught sight of Floyd in the side of his eye and instantly spun at him. Floyd leaped to the floor and got hold of the hammer in his right hand. He held it out in front of him as he pushed himself up the wall to a standing position.
"What are you doing, Mr. Manse?" said Floyd. The words leaked out of his mouth. The two stood facing each other. Floyd, never more nervous in his life, just kept talking. "You gotta stop! You gotta stop now! You're gonna kill everyone! You..."
Mr. Manse grunted but made no attempt to answer. He edged forward. Floyd tensed, took a few swings with his hammer. Mr. Manse suddenly leaped at the boy, moving with alarming speed. The teacher swatted the hammer out of Floyd's hand, then he shoved the boy against the wall. Floyd crumpled to the floor, but was immediately up, again. Mr. Manse turned away, not realizing that Floyd was already back on his feet like nothing at all had happened. Mr. Manse quickly was back to fiddling with his bomb. The teacher seemed to think, quite wrongly, that he'd just put out Floyd's lights. He had not.
Floyd leaped onto Mr. Manse's back, and the man was completely surprised. He groaned, grabbed Floyd by the hair, and yanked. Floyd cried out in pain, but he didn't let go. The teacher dislodged Floyd and pushed him. The boy rallied instantly. Mr. Manse stepped forward and struck Floyd in the face. Floyd stumbled back, but to the teacher's surprise, the boy, once again, didn't go down. The teacher knew he had to do something about this student. He couldn't leave him here to dismantle the explosive. What Mr. Manse didn't seem to understand was that he was dealing with someone who knew pain better than most. Someone who understood it, was ready for it, and was not the least bit scared of it.
Floyd freakin' Piccolo!
The boy charged, again, and Mr. Manse grabbed him and struck him on the top of his head. One of the man's fingers snapped, he screamed in pain. Floyd got around behind the huge man and jumped on his back, again. Floyd got his arm around the teacher's neck. The man's giant hands seized Floyd. Even with a broken finger, his strength dwarfed the boy's. Mr. Manse pulled Floyd up and over his head and slammed him on the hard concrete floor. The teacher stepped back. He was winded, certain he'd killed Floyd. When he saw Floyd start to stir, he groaned in annoyance.
Mr. Manse whipped something out of his pocket. It was a lighter, and with a flick of his wrist and flame popped and the teacher tossed it at the wall. The large Almost, Maine backdrop immediately was ablaze, and the dark room lit up on all sides of them. He ran to his homemade explosive, poked at it for a few seconds, then he ran out of the room.
A minute later, Floyd was back on his feet. Dizzy, but not nearly subdued. He lurched to the stage elevator and looked over the bomb Mr. Manse had left behind. The explosive was stuck to a crate by what looked like several rolls of duct tape. The crate was cemented to the inside of the elevator by something, and it wouldn't budge. The bomb looked like something out of an old movie, with several pipes taped together with an old alarm clock centered on it, the kind with numbers that flipped over every minute. The clock read 0:03. Three minutes.
Floyd tore at the layers of tape, but it was rolled so thickly that the bomb was as if mired in concrete. He turned and sprinted from the room and down the hall. He entered and flipped up the light switch, and rows of shelves were revealed. It was the prop room, again. His eyes scanned the wall, looking for something useful. He saw nothing. He ran up and down the rows, his head crazing in all direction, until he saw something that might work sticking up out from a box. He grabbed it by the handle. It was a prop sword. He touched the tip, the edge was as dull as the corner of a kitchen table, but it was the best he could find. He turned and ran out of the room and back up the hall.
Floyd jammed the sword into the tape, it made little more than a scratch on the surface. He started to saw back and forth, further scraping the top layer of the tape, but not making a lot of progress. The time shown on the clock face on the bomb was far less than he needed. He had a little more than two minutes left. He spun around and ran out of the room again, back to the prop room. He grabbed what looked like a kind of devil's pitchfork and rushed back. Once again, he attacked the tape ferociously, denting it but making very little progress. He helplessly flailed at it, like he was trying to dig a hole in cement. He dropped the fork and almost rushed off again, but then stopped. He saw something on the floor, tucked in a corner, and had an idea. It was a plastic gas can, the one Mr. Manse had used to douse the room.
With flames blazing all around him, Floyd snatched the can up and poured some on the outer edge of the duct tape. He then made a trail from there down to the floor, making a puddle while backing out of the room. At first, nothing happened. Floyd, knowing that only a minute or so was left on the bomb's timer, tried to quickly formulate a new plan. To his right, Floyd heard shouts coming down the hall. A few seconds later, adults started coming around the corner. Floyd put up his hands.
"Don't come down here!" shouted Floyd.
But one of the adults, a teacher whose name Floyd didn't know, kept coming. "Get away from there! Are you out of your mind?" the teacher yelled.
The man almost overtook Floyd, who quickly dashed back into the trap room. He picked the prop sword up off the floor. The duct tape had caught fire and was charred somewhat. Floyd attacked the tape, which now burst apart. He dropped the sword and yanked the tape up, tearing it. He walked around the elevator, pulling the tape off as he went. The teacher, by then, had followed Floyd into the room, but suddenly backed out, and was now staring on, not sure what he was seeing happening. Floyd finished ripping up the tape and was holding it, and the bomb, in his arms. He ran for the door. The teacher stood right in Floyd's way, completely unaware of the situation.
"What is all this, goddamit?" the man demanded. "What are you doing?"
"Get out of my way!" Floyd screamed.
"Wait!"
Floyd blew by the man. He realized he didn't know what to do. The hall ended abruptly, and he certainly couldn't run the other way, back to the stairs. So, without really thinking, and with no other alternatives, he ran into the prop room and hurled the bundle in his arms up into the air. It arched over the rows of shelves but exploded before it ever hit the floor. The room erupted, shelves and props going every which way. Floyd was blown out into the hallway, where he crumpled to the floor and lay still.