Warehouse Rumble (9 page)

Joe looked at the half-empty punch glass in his hand and gasped. “There’s something in the punch!”

Frank threw his glass to the floor. “Don’t drink any more!” he said. “The hospital’s not far away, but I doubt we should drive. I’ll see if there’s a cab out front.” He staggered through the crowd toward the restaurant entrance.

The rest of the group dropped their glasses as well. Daphne and Chet leaned against each other, looking half-asleep.

Ms. Kendall came over and asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Someone spiked the drinks,” Joe replied groggily. “Keep everybody away from the punch bowl.” He helped Chet and Daphne toward the door.

Stacia Allen tried to intercept them, but Joe pushed right past her.

“More
Warehouse Rumble
trouble?” she called after them as they staggered outside.

The world swam around Joe and his friends as they lumbered onto the sidewalk. Fortunately, Frank had a cab waiting. All four of them piled into the back.

“The emergency room,” Frank said to the driver. “Step on it.”

The cab pulled away from the curb and accelerated quickly down the street.

“What’s . . . wrong with . . . us?” Chet asked.

Frank blinked slowly and tried to focus. “Remember Willingham’s missing . . . sleeping pills?” he said.

“You think someone . . . put them in the punch?” Joe asked.

Frank looked at Daphne, dozing heavily on Chet’s shoulder. “I’m willing to bet on it,” he said.

They arrived at the hospital less than five minutes later and checked themselves into the emergency room. Frank explained what he thought had happened, and the hospital staff called Java John’s to talk to Ward Willingham and discover exactly what was in the missing prescription. The doctors quickly figured out a remedy and administered it.

A short but uncomfortable emergency room stay later, the four teens were feeling well enough to be driven home by their parents. Fortunately, no one else at the party seemed to have been affected by the spiked punch.

Ironically, Chet, Daphne, and the Hardys did not sleep well that night.

•  •  •

At breakfast at the Hardys’ home the next morning, all four teens felt angry and frustrated.

“You know,” Chet said, “someone could have really gotten hurt from that stunt.”

“Dad said the police are taking it very seriously,” Frank said.

“There’s talk they might even shut down the show,” Joe added.

“It’d be a shame to spoil everything because of one or two bad apples,” Daphne noted.

“The problems with
Warehouse Rumble
were all over the TV news this morning,” Chet said. “UAN—the network producing the show—is even talking about pulling the plug.”

“If this was some scheme concocted by Willingham to get publicity,” Joe said, “it sure has backfired.”

“There are plenty of other people who’ve benefited, though,” Frank said. “Stacia Allen, for one.”

“She was hanging around those refreshment tables,” Chet recalled.

“Most of the party centered around those tables,” Joe noted. “I don’t think we can convict her just because of where she was standing.” He yawned and stuffed another piece of French toast in his mouth. “I didn’t see Clark Hessmann at the party,
but he certainly wants to see the show stopped.”

“The media attention—whether good or bad—might help Herman Jackson sell the warehouse area,” Daphne suggested.

Frank took a long drink of milk. “I guess that Jackson wins if he can either sell it privately or get the city to buy it as a historical site.”

“I’m betting one of the contestants put the sleeping pills in the punch,” Chet said. “Having groggy opponents could make getting to the finals a cakewalk.”

“Bo ducked out just before the trouble started,” Daphne said. “Maybe he was just trying to nail us.”

“There could be some motive that we don’t know about too,” Joe said. “It’s hard to say, at this point.”

“We’ll just have to keep our eyes and ears open,” Frank said.

“Or we could just drop out,” Daphne suggested.

All four of them looked at one another and shook their heads. “Nah!”

After finishing breakfast they carpooled in the Hardys’ van back to the warehouse. Many TV vans crowded the parking lot. One of Willingham’s staff had been assigned to keep the reporters at bay and make sure the contestants and the staggering crew could get inside to work.

Willingham himself stood to the side near the old railroad tracks, speaking to a man dressed in overalls and a baseball cap. A logo on the man’s
uniform identified him as being from Pest-B-Gone Exterminating. A podium and some microphones had been set up nearby, but so far the press wasn’t being allowed to speak with the producer himself.

“Eavesdropping, anyone?” Joe asked.

“Let’s give it a shot,” Frank replied. “It looks like they’re keeping reporters away, not contestants.”

He and the rest wandered close enough to catch Willingham’s conversation.

“Darn foolish having one of your folks creeping around while my crew was working,” the exterminator said. “My liability insurance won’t cover that kind of stuff.”

“I’m telling you,” Willingham whispered back, “it
wasn’t
one of my people. We were all at the party last night—footage from a half-dozen news shows can prove that.”

The exterminator took off his hat and scratched his head. “Well, someone was lurking around the warehouse last night,” he said. “I saw his flashlight. Couldn’t find him when we looked, though.”

“Maybe it was one of your own people,” Willingham suggested.

“You think I don’t know where my own crew members are?” the exterminator asked, offended.

“No, no, that’s not what I’m saying,” Willingham replied. “Look, you’re sure the job is finished?”

“Finished as it can be overnight,” said the exterminator. “You shouldn’t set off any more fireworks
in those tunnels, though. That smoke bomb is probably what stirred up the rats. I’d avoid any more pyrotechnics if I were you.”

Willingham looked puzzled. “But, we weren’t using any pyro in the tunnels.”

Ms. Kendall came over and nudged the producer’s elbow. “The vultures are restless,” she said, glancing at the assembled media. “And we’re pushing our shooting schedule as it is.”

“Okay,” Willingham said. “Let’s get started.”

He went to the podium and began speaking. Most of what he said the Hardys had heard before: bits about being proud of the show, about not having any more troubles than usual for a start-up TV program, and about how proud he was to be filming in Bayport.

He also denied rumors that his network, UAN, was close to pulling the plug on
Warehouse Rumble.
Though Stacia Allen’s cameraman covered the briefing, she herself was conspicuously absent.

“Off digging up some more dirt, no doubt,” Chet said.

“It wouldn’t surprise me if
she
was the one sneaking around the warehouse with a flashlight last night,” Daphne added.

“She’s certainly unscrupulous enough,” Frank said. “I’m wondering why she’s not in the front lines here, though.”

“Avoiding Willingham, maybe,” Joe suggested. “How much more do you think he’ll put up with
before he gets a restraining order against her?”

“Not much, probably,” Frank admitted.

About ten minutes into the “news conference,” Ms. Kendall gathered the contestants and ushered them into the warehouse to begin preparations for shooting. If possible, the building looked even more ramshackle and run-down than it had the day before. The exterminators had clearly been pretty heavy-handed in rooting out the hidden rats. If she noticed the extra messiness of the sets, or the bitter tang in the air, Ms. Kendall didn’t mention it.

“Even more postapocalyptic,” Joe noted.

Chet and Daphne headed off for their new event while Frank and Joe met with Ms. Kendall about what they would be working on that morning.

The mutant hunt of the previous day had been declared a draw even though Frank and Joe had been well ahead on points at the time of the rat invasion. Ms. Kendall explained that the footage they had gotten of the rat swarm would make a great, unexpected end to that game segment.

“Gotta go with what makes good TV,” Frank whispered to Joe.

“Even if it messes up our ranking,” Joe replied. He sighed and shrugged.

“Don’t sweat it,” Frank said. “We’ll ace whatever they throw us into.”

Because of the change, the brothers would be facing Missy and Jay once again. This time the four
would compete in a race across the catwalks that arced high above the warehouse floor.

“Due to the danger of the setting,” Ms. Kendall said, “there will be no head-to-head confrontations in this race. If you meet an opponent on the course, you are both to stop and walk past each other. Any interference will result in the disqualification of the contestant responsible. Do you understand?”

The Hardys, Missy, and Jay all nodded that they did.

Staff members escorted the two groups to their starting points, and they all waited for the signal to begin.

With the sound of the siren the Hardys raced side-by-side up the metal stairway and onto the first catwalk. Illuminated arrows had been painted on the grating, so the brothers knew which way to go to the next checkpoint. At each station they had to retrieve part of a golden key that would help unlock the door that lead to the next challenge.

Despite the decrepitation of the warehouse, the metal catwalks had held up well over the years. As the brothers ran, they noted that some sections had been chained off and marked with large yellow “Radiation Warning” signs. Clearly the staff had checked over the skyway and had closed any area that they’d felt might be remotely hazardous.

The brothers claimed the first two parts of their
key quickly and without incident. As they approached the long bridge that spanned the two sections of the course, they spotted Jay at the far end. The bridge crossed the same area where the toxic pool event had happened two days before. The water-filled tank had been reassembled, and hidden machines made the dyed liquid bubble and look very dangerous. Clearly the producers had hoped that the contestants might meet in this very spot. The whole setup probably looked great on TV.

Stone and the Hardys dashed across the metal grating, each hoping to gain the advantage on the scaffold before the rules forced them to slow down and walk past one another.

They met closer to Jay’s side of the bridge than the Hardys’, and all three of them stopped dead still. Their eyes locked, and they stared one another down for a long moment.

“You can’t block my progress,” Jay sneered. “Those are the rules.”

“You’ve got to step aside too,” Frank said.

Reluctantly the three teens flattened themselves against opposite railings of the catwalk and edged forward. Just as they met, Missy appeared at the far end of the bridge. She was panting and out of breath, but dashed forward to catch up with the rest.

As she ran the whole bridge suddenly shook.

Missy fell onto the metal-grate walkway, and the
three boys had to grab the railings to stay on their feet.

“What’s happening?” Missy cried, panic written across her face.

Frank’s eyes darted to the link in the bridge behind her. The bolts holding the sections of the catwalk together had been shorn through. “Everybody hang on!” he called.

With a sudden lurch, the catwalk split in two.

The abrupt movement forced the teens to their knees. Each clung desperately to the catwalk’s metal rail. The metal flooring behind Missy dropped away and, for a second, it looked as though she’d plunge to the warehouse floor twenty feet below.

At the last instant she grabbed hold of the nearest railing. The rail halted her descent, but she yelped in pain from the jerky stop. The bottom half of Missy’s body hung precariously over the edge of the walkway. Her feet dangled in the open air. She tried to pull herself up, but didn’t have the strength. Sweat beaded on her forehead.

“Don’t let go!” Joe yelled.

“Like I would!” Missy hissed through gritted teeth.

“Grab on to my arm,” Frank said, thrusting his
hand toward Jay, who had both arms wrapped around the catwalk railing.

“We can make a human chain,” Joe said. “We can pull her up.”

Reluctantly, Jay pried one arm loose and grabbed Frank’s hand.

“Don’t let go,” Frank cautioned.

“Don’t
you
let go,” Jay shot back, his voice shaking.

Joe grabbed on to Frank’s other hand, and the two of them edged toward Missy. They flattened themselves on the catwalk as much as they could, hoping that spreading out their weight might slow the bridge’s collapse.

He stretched his hand as far as he could, but Joe still couldn’t reach Missy.

“Don’t let me die!” she cried.

“We won’t,” Joe said, trying to sound more sure of himself than he felt. He twisted around and extended his legs toward her. The extra length brought his feet well within her reach. “Grab hold and climb up!”

What remained of the bridge shook as Missy edged forward and grasped Joe’s shoe and then his pant leg.

“Hurry up!” Jay called. He was sweating almost as much as Missy; his eyes darted around frantically. “This isn’t gonna hold much longer!”

“I’m
trying
!” Missy shrieked back. She had climbed far enough now that Joe could reach down and grab her hand. He pulled her upward, and she
scampered over the brothers and past Jay. As she did, she knocked the Hardys’ cell phone from Frank’s back pocket. It tumbled down, smashed on a metal strut, and splashed into the mock-toxic water.

“Let’s go! Let’s go!” Jay shouted as the brothers pulled themselves back up. He almost seemed ready to drop them, but Frank clung tightly to his hand.

As soon as Frank and Joe reached him, Jay turned, scrambled across the bridge, and headed down the nearby stairway. The catwalk shook as he went, swaying to either side. Frank and Joe nearly toppled off. Both got a good look at the bubbling green water in the pool below them.

“Anybody up for a high dive?” Joe asked.