Chapter 7: Short Circuit

Chapter 7: Short Circuit

The world compressed into a cage of metal and shadows. Through the narrow slats of the grate, Leo watched the monster approach. Rolfe DeWolfe moved with the unnatural, twitching gait of a life-sized marionette whose strings were being pulled by a spastic demon. Thump. Hiss. Thump. Hiss. Each step was a tremor that vibrated through the floor, a death knell getting closer and closer. The arcade’s cacophony faded into a dull roar in Leo’s ears, replaced by the frantic, panicked drumming of his own heart.

Rolfe stopped directly in front of the “Captain Commando” cabinet. For a horrifying second, he was still, his head tilted. In the strobing light, his painted, toothy grin was a promise of violence. The red glow in his eyes seemed to burn through the metal grate, pinning Leo in place. He wasn't searching anymore. He was savoring.

Then, with a screech of tortured metal, his claws tore into the cabinet.

There was no finesse, no attempt to open the service hatch. It was an act of pure, brutal force. The animatronic’s steel fingers, designed to hold a lightweight puppet, punched through the thick particle board as if it were cardboard. Wood splintered inwards, showering Leo with debris. The entire cabinet shuddered and rocked, throwing him against the humming guts of the monitor. The pain in his mangled hand exploded anew, a white-hot nova that made him bite back a scream.

He was a rat in a can being opened by a bear.

Rolfe let out a sound, a distorted, garbled burst of static from his voice box that might have once been his signature “Ha-ha-ha-HA!” Now it was a sound of mechanical fury. He braced one foot against the base of the machine and pulled. The heavy metal grate shrieked as it was torn from its clips, bending and warping under the inhuman strength.

A gap opened. Cold, stale air rushed into Leo’s sweltering hiding spot. Through the widening tear, he could see Rolfe’s face, inches from his own. The red eyes were hypnotic, promising a swift, brutal end just like Maya’s.

It was in that moment, surrounded by the machine that had become his prison, that the terror was pierced by a single, desperate thought. He was a mechanic. He knew how these things worked. And he knew how they broke.

His good hand, his left, scrambled in the darkness behind him, scrabbling against the warm plastic shells of capacitors and the thick, insulated snakes of wiring. His fingers found what they were looking for: the main power harness, a thick bundle of wires leading from the transformer to the monitor and motherboard. It was a lifeline. It was a weapon.

With a final, violent wrench, Rolfe ripped the grate completely off. It clattered to the floor, exposing Leo to the flashing lights of the arcade. He was revealed, cornered, with nowhere left to run. The wolf animatronic loomed over him, its claws raised, its jaw clicking open with a pneumatic hiss.

But in that instant of exposure, Leo saw his opening. As Rolfe’s arm had torn through the side of the cabinet, the decorative fur had ripped away from its chassis near the shoulder joint, exposing a tangle of hydraulic lines and wiring beneath the steel endoskeleton. A gap. A vulnerability.

With a roar of defiance that was part terror and part rage, Leo acted. He ripped the handful of wires from their moorings. The arcade cabinet’s screen instantly went black, its chiptune anthem dying with a pathetic whine. He didn't hesitate. As Rolfe’s clawed hand descended, Leo lunged forward, out of the cabinet's carcass, and thrust the frayed, sparking ends of the live wires deep into the exposed gap in the animatronic’s shoulder.

The effect was instantaneous and spectacular.

BZZZZZZZZT-CRACK!

A blinding flash of blue-white light erupted from Rolfe’s chassis. Every light in the arcade flickered and dimmed as the power surged. The animatronic seized in a violent, full-body spasm. Its limbs locked and shuddered, its head whipping back and forth with bone-jarring speed. A shower of hot sparks rained down, singeing Leo’s hair and clothes. The smell of burning plastic, melting rubber, and frying synthetic fur filled the air, a toxic, acrid stench of technological death.

From Rolfe’s voice box came a final, horrifying sound: a dozen of his pre-recorded lines playing at once, sped up and distorted into a demonic shriek of electronic agony. “…friend-o-mine-HA-HA-HA-what-a-crowd-DON’T-TOUCH-THE-PUPPET…”

The sound died in a gargled, static death rattle. The red light in the animatronic’s eyes flickered and went dark. With a final, shuddering groan of failing servos, Rolfe DeWolfe collapsed, crashing to the floor in a smoking, twitching heap.

Leo scrambled back, his breath coming in ragged, painful sobs. His left shoulder screamed. He glanced down to see a deep, four-pronged gash, a parting gift from Rolfe’s claws, welling up with dark blood. He was a wreck. Maimed, sliced, and bleeding from a dozen smaller cuts, but alive.

He pushed himself to his feet, stumbling over the dead animatronic. The arcade was suddenly much quieter, with several machines now dark and silent from the power surge. The relative peace was more terrifying than the noise. He had to get out.

He staggered out of the arcade's flashing maw and back into the cavernous gloom of the main dining hall. He was alone. The stage was a place of desecration, Dale’s body a discarded prop. The tables and chairs were a silent, stone-faced audience. He was the only one left. The last survivor of the show.

He took a shaky step towards the back exits, his mind racing. Maybe with Rolfe down, the lockdown would fail. Maybe some circuit had been tripped. It was a sliver of hope, but it was all he had.

Then he heard it.

It wasn't a hiss of pneumatics or the stomp of a mechanical foot. It was a single, low, resonant musical note. A bass note, played on an electric keyboard.

Dooom.

Leo froze, his blood turning to ice. The sound had come from the far side of the room, near the giant, multi-colored ball pit. His eyes snapped to the source.

Fatz Geronimo was no longer on the stage.

The massive gorilla animatronic sat at a small, portable keyboard propped precariously near the edge of the pit, an instrument used for private birthday parties. His huge, dark form was a mountain of shadow against the brightly colored plastic balls. He wasn’t hunting. He wasn't rampaging. He was just sitting there, one thick, fur-covered finger resting on a key.

Dooom.

He played the note again. A deep, mournful, menacing tone that vibrated in Leo’s bones. Then, slowly, the animatronic’s huge head lifted. The familiar, faint red glow ignited in the depths of its plastic eyes, and they fixed directly on Leo. Fatz wasn’t blocking an exit. He was guarding it. He had been waiting his turn.

Leo looked from the hulking, patient monster in front of him to the arcade he had just barely escaped. He was grievously wounded, bleeding from multiple injuries, and running on nothing but shock and adrenaline. He had survived one performance. Now, a new act was about to begin, and he was the only one left in the audience. He had a choice: run back into the darkness and hide, or face the music.