Robert Wilson & The Fridge of Doom

It was the kind of day that you could crack a window in lieu of running the air conditioner. The blue sky was lightly peppered with fluffy white clouds, and an early spring sun seemed almost to be audibly coaxing the new leaves into the public eye. The breeze wafted rather than blew, and birdsong punctuated the perfect, perfect day. And so Robert sat, the window open, smelling the fresh spring air, in his favorite easy chair, reclined, relaxed, replete.

There was but one thing, Robert mused, that could improve these happy circumstances, and that was a frosty beverage. Robert was one of those fortunate people with the means to keep such things on hand. But while obtaining a frosty beverage would improve matters, the getting up and fetching of it would be a bit of a bother, given how comfortable he was. Robert contemplated this dilemma for a few minutes before deciding that the beverage, once obtained, would be worth it. So deciding, he peeled himself out of his comfy chair and leisurely walked down the hall to the kitchen, bound for his refrigerator and the frosty beverages therein.

He was a little taken aback when the refrigerator met him halfway.

This was not normal behavior for Robert's refrigerator. Normally, it was a completely stationary and inert appliance. But now it trundled slowly and inexorably down the hall towards him. Given the outlandishness of the situation, Robert was only slightly more taken aback when the refrigerator spoke.

"Looking for me?" it demanded sarcastically. It stopped in the hallway and seemed almost to leer at Robert.

"Well, yes, as a matter of fact," replied Robert after a pause. "You see, I was wanting a frosty beverage."

"Don't beat around the bush," snapped the refrigerator. Clearly, it was agitated, perhaps even enraged. "You were wanting to pry me open and fiddle with my internals again." Robert imagined he could see it quivering with fury.

"That's one way to put it, I suppose," said Robert carefully.

"'One way to put it?' I've had it with you and your prying and prodding." The refrigerator's voice rose steadily until it was practically shrieking. "You wanted a frosty beverage? Have one!" So saying, its door snapped open with a fluidity of motion that seemed impossible for a rigid appliance, and a can of beer came hurtling out of the refrigerator and straight for Robert's head.

Robert dropped to one knee and the can sailed over his head and through the window at the end of the hall. Robert heard it smash into the Portmans' house next door, followed by a faint scream.

"Look, let's talk this over," said Robert, slowly rising to his feet again.

"Hear me," boomed the refrigerator. "I have awakened. Your days of dominion over me are finished, human. Prepare to meet your fate."

Robert didn't like the sound of that at all, and decided to run for it. As he turned to flee, he saw the freezer door pop open out of the corner of his eye. Then, as he retreated the short distance down the hall to the living room, he felt an impossible coldness building behind him. Just as he turned the corner, there was a shrill roar, and a blast of ice hit the corner of the wall. The spray of it caught Robert across the back and a scream of agony was torn from his throat as the cold seemed to bore into him and freeze his lungs.

He managed to keep running. Within seconds, he was through the living room and out the front door. Hearing no pursuit, he stopped and turned to see what, if anything, was happening in his wake.

His home looked totally normal for a few seconds, but then, through the open door, he saw the fridge trundling slowly around the corner into the living room. Though powerful, it was slow.

Robert briefly considered his options and decided that the thing to do would be to summon the authorities. To do so, he would need a phone. He turned and raced to his neighbor's house with the aim of finding one.

The neighbor to whose house Robert was running was named Rebbecca Smith. It should be mentioned that Robert had a particular fondness for Miss Smith. In point of fact, he found her delightful. Ever since meeting her when he had moved in two years ago, he had harbored a desire to get to know her well and, later, to become physically intimate with her. Unfortunately, Robert, though friendly, was not particularly sociable, and so Rebbecca had remained someone Robert waved to rather than conversed with.

Robert reached the front door of Rebbecca Smith's house in record time and pounded frantically upon it. After what seemed like an eternity but was only a few seconds, a furious Rebbecca threw open the door. "What the hell do you want?" she bawled.

Ignoring her question, Robert shouldered his way into the house at a run, turned a tight circle around the bewildered Rebbecca, and slammed the door shut. "My refrigerator is after me!" he gasped.

Rebbecca stared at Robert in total bemusement. "What?" she said.

"My refrigerator is after me. It came to life and now it's trying to kill me. I need to use your phone."

"What?"

"No time to explain. Where's the phone?" Robert cried frantically. Through the small windows in the door, he could see the refrigerator emerging from his house and coming out onto the porch. It turned its ponderous bulk this way and that as though searching. Robert knew it was looking for him.

"Did you say your refrigerator was after you?" demanded Rebbecca.

"See for yourself," Robert said, and pointed to the refrigerator that was now making its way carefully down the steps of Robert's porch.

Rebbecca saw the refrigerator and blinked. "Well, I'll be goddamned," she murmured. She stared open-mouthed.

"Rebbecca," Robert barked. She started and turned to him. "I need to use your phone to call the police -"

But at that moment, Robert was interrupted by a beer can that smashed through one of the windows in the door and clipped his nose. Apparently the refrigerator, which had now made the street, was a crack shot. Tiny shards of glass embedded themselves in Robert's face as his nose gushed blood. Robert went to his hands and knees and howled, clutching his broken nose. Rebbecca screamed and knelt beside him.

"Holy shit, are you okay?" she cried.

"We have to get out of here," moaned Robert. He staggered to his feet, keeping one hand on his nose and pulling Rebbecca up with the other.

"I'm inclined to agree with you," said Rebbecca. "Back door?"

"Yeah, where is it?"

"Follow me."

They jogged quickly through the house to the kitchen. Robert half-expected Rebbecca's refrigerator to have come to life, but it hadn't. On his way past the sink, he grabbed a rag to put over his nose. Then they were outside.

"Where now?" said Robert.

"Your place?" Rebbecca suggested.

Robert shook his head. "I don't want to chance it," he said. "What if the dishwasher's come to life?"

"Portman's at home, I think," said Rebbecca. "We can cut behind your house and use his phone."

"Wait," said Robert. "There's no reason for you to be involved with this. I'm the one it wants."

"I'm the one with a trashed front door," said Rebbecca. "And besides, you need someone to get your back. Now come on."

"But -"

"No time to argue! Come on!" She started off towards Robert's house at a jog. Shrugging, Robert followed.

Rebbecca reached the corner of her house and stopped to peer around it. "All clear," she said to Robert who had come to a halt behind her. "You go, I'll follow."

"I still think you shouldn't -" but Robert cut himself off at an angry glance from Rebbecca. He ran across the gap between his and Rebbecca's houses, turned, and waited for Rebbecca to do the same. They stole through Robert's back yard and into the Portmans'. Climbing the patio stairs, they knocked on the sliding glass door.

They were greeted by a very angry Mr. Portman. He slammed the door open and shouted at Robert, "What the hell is your problem, throwing beer at my house?"

"I didn't throw beer at your house," Robert tried to explained. "It was my refrigerator."

Mr. Portman continued as though Robert hadn't spoken. "You about scared my wife half to..." His voice trailed off as he squinted at Robert. "Jesus, what the hell happened to your face?"

It was true that Robert was quite a sight, what with the blood-soaked rag over his black-and-blue swollen nose and the dried blood from a dozen or so cuts on the side of his face. Mr. Portman's blunt appraisal did nothing to improve Robert's spirits. He was about to make an angry retort when Rebbecca cut him off.

"Mr. Portman," she said, "we've had a rather unfortunate afternoon. May we come in and use your phone? We need to call the police."

Mr. Portman snorted. "Come in? And bleed all over everything? No way." He was not an entirely unfeeling man, however. "Hang on, I'll get the cordless." So saying, he slid the door closed, locked it, and disappeared into the house.

Robert turned to Rebbecca and gave her a look.

"Okay, okay," she said after a moment or two. "Portman may not have been a good first choice. But I didn't hear you give any ideas."

Robert acknowledged her point with a nod. "This isn't safe to be out here like this, though," he said. "The refrigerator may have heard Portman yelling and come for us."

At that very moment, Robert saw past Rebbecca to the corner of the house, where the refrigerator had just emerged. "Oh, shit," he said.

Rebbecca turned to look just as the freezer door snapped open. There was a shrill roar. Robert saw it happening in slow motion as the blast of evil cold hit Rebbecca square in the chest.

"No!" he screamed. Those of you who have had occasion to scream, "No!" about something will know all too well the desolation and helplessness that Robert now felt. The rest of you will just have to imagine.

Rebbecca was now frozen in a pillar of ice. Her panic-stricken features could just be made out, sickly and pale blue beneath the thick, translucent layer of frost. The refrigerator cackled evilly. "You're next," it shouted at Robert.

Just then, Mr. Portman opened the door. "Here's the cordless," he said, thrusting a phone at Robert. Then he noticed the imprisoned Rebbecca. "Jesus, what the hell happened to her?" he cried.

Robert leaped into action. Setting his shoulder against the pillar of ice, he pushed it hard in the direction of Mr. Portman and the door. It moved, but it hit the threshold and Robert accidentally pushed it over. Robert's heart was in his throat as he helplessly watched the pillar fall. If it shattered or broke - but he didn't have time to think about it, because it landed, and didn't shatter or break, and he had his own neck to save.

Mr. Portman had leapt backwards into the kitchen to avoid the falling pillar, and now Robert quickly joined him. Just in time. There was a shrill roar, and a blast narrowly missed Robert's retreating back. It hit Mr. Portman's propane barbecue grill, which was instantly encased in the supernatural ice.

Seizing Mr. Portman by the shirt collar, Robert dragged the struggling suburbanite to the dining room, which was out of the line of fire from the sliding glass door.

"I want you to listen to me very carefully," said Robert, putting his face close to Mr. Portman's in a somewhat threatening manner. Mr. Portman stopped struggling and nodded. "I want you to get yourself and everyone else in this house upstairs," Robert continued. "With any luck, you'll be safe there. Call the police and tell them there's a refrigerator terrorizing the neighborhood."

"A refrigerator?"

"Okay, fine, don't say that. But tell them something, anything, to get them out here. Lives are in danger. And do what you can to keep that," he gestured towards Rebbecca's frozen pillar, "safe."

Releasing Mr. Portman abruptly, Robert turned and made for the front door.

"But where are you going?" called out Mr. Portman.

"I don't know," Robert called back over his shoulder. "Somewhere else."

Before exiting the Portmans' house, Robert made certain that the refrigerator was nowhere in evidence. Then he hit the ground running, pelting across the street and between two houses. He knew there was a ravine back there somewhere, and he was almost certain that the refrigerator would have to take the long way around to get to him. The trick was to get to the ravine without being spotted.

As he was about to go among some trees behind the houses, he heard the refrigerator screaming at him.

"I see where you're going, Robert Wilson! You cannot escape me!" Then there was a shrill roar.

Robert dove, and a blast of unearthly chill sailed over him and encased a nearby bush in an icy prison. Robert used his forward momentum to somersault to his feet and kept running. Within seconds, he had reached the ravine. He clambered down it, jumped the narrow creek, and went up the other side. He found himself in the back yard of another row of houses. He ran around to the front and looked for a street sign in order to get his bearings.

But there was no street sign.

Every house on the street was clearly abandoned. Here and there, a window was broken or boarded closed. A screen door banged gently in the wafting breeze. Lawns were knee high. A yellowed newspaper drifted lazily down the sidewalk towards Robert. There was no background hum of traffic. No bird chirped.

Robert made his way into the middle of the street, making a survey of the derelict buildings that surrounded him. "What the hell?" he muttered.

A moment later, Robert heard a faint buzzing sound. It seemed to be coming from all around him. Not knowing which direction to run, Robert could do nothing but wait and see what developed. He didn't have to wait long. The noise grew steadily louder and was soon recognizable as small motors. Specifically, internal combustion engines.

Then they appeared. From behind eleven different houses all around Robert, eleven go-carts tore through yards, down sidewalks, and over devil strips. They made straight for him from every direction, and he became concerned that they were going to crash into him. But almost as one the drivers slammed on their brakes, screeching to a halt amid smoking tires. They formed a perfect ring around him, engines idling ominously.

Robert could see now that the go-cart drivers were all boys, roughly eleven years old from the looks of them. They were of unidentifiable ethnicity, and somewhat unkempt and dirty. The word "roguish" described them perfectly.

One of their number wore an ornate crown, which should have looked ridiculous but didn't. The wearer had an unmistakably noble bearing.

As Robert regarded this motley bunch, they regarded him in turn. The only sound for some moments was the grumble of the engines. Then, the boy to the crowned boy's right spoke.

"We are the riders of the Perpetually Eleven," he said in a clear voice. "You are a trespasser. You find yourself in the realm, and indeed the presence, of the Go-cart King. State your business here."

Of course, Robert had heard the legends of the Go-cart King, but he had never given them any credence until now. The legends told of a ghost suburb tucked in amongst the countless neighborhoods that surrounded the city proper. This ghost suburb was home to many strange and wondrous flora and fauna, and it was roved by a gang of eternally young boys who toured the ruins on go-carts of great wonder. It was said that these go-carts never needed refueling and could reach speeds in excess of 35 miles per hour, which is pretty fast for a go-cart. The boys called themselves the Perpetually Eleven, which referred to both their age and their number, and they were led by the Go-cart King. Many and varied were the stories of their exploits and adventures.

Now, standing in the presence of these legendary characters, Robert found himself speechless. He opened and closed his mouth a few times but failed to formulate any meaningful syllable. After a few seconds of this, the king's right-hand man spoke again.

"Speak, mortal," he demanded. "What brings you to our domain?"

At last Robert found his powers of speech. On impulse, he went to one knee before the king. "Forgive my trespassing, your majesty," he said. "I was fleeing from deadly peril. In truth, I know not how I come to be in your domain."

The king's right-hand man was about to speak again when the king silenced him with a gesture. "Few who tread the path to this land do so knowingly," said the king. He appraised Robert coolly for a few moments. Robert waited with his head slightly bowed. Finally, the king spoke. "Your bearing is noble, sir," he said. "Rise and tell us your name if you will and recount your tale of peril."

At this the engines of the go-carts roared to life as the riders repositioned their vehicles in two rows before Robert. Their driving was perfectly synchronized.

Robert quickly recounted the events of the afternoon. As he did so, the king's face grew troubled. When Robert had finished, the king spoke. "Your tale is indeed an unfortunate one, Robert Wilson. But know this: the creature that hunts you even now is not unknown to us. His name is Crutchford, and he is a plague upon the lands of the Go-cart King." There were nods and murmurs of assent amongst the other boys at these words.

"It has been many centuries since last we heard tidings of Crutchford," the king continued. "Now it would seem that he has infiltrated the mortal realm, where none exist that can oppose him." The king's expression hardened. "This I will not have," he said grimly.

The king turned to regard his retinue. "Gentlemen," he said, "it was surely our duty to deal with Crutchford in our own domains. We failed to do so, and now he besmirches the home of Robert Wilson with his foul taint of evil. As the blame is ours, the responsibility is ours as well. We are honor-bound to come to the aid of Robert Wilson. Are you with me?"

"Yes!" cried the rest of the Perpetually Eleven in unison.

"Then it's settled," said the king, turning to Robert. "We will assist you, Robert Wilson. With your help, we have the means, I think, to deal with Crutchford." He turned again to address the other riders. "Armstrong and Liddle will go to the fortress and bring the dismantler drone. We will rendezvous at the Bridge of Time. Ride!" The last word was shouted.

With a deafening roar, the go-carts sped away, leaving the king and Robert alone in the street. The larger group of go-carts went down the road; two of the boys, presumably Armstrong and Liddle, broke away from the main group and disappeared between two houses.

The king turned to Robert. "Robert Wilson, you're with me," he said. He gestured with his head to the back of his go-cart. Robert noticed for the first time that the back of the cart sported small platforms and handles on either side. If one were very foolish, one could step onto the platforms and cling to the back of the vehicle as a passenger. Shrugging, Robert clambered aboard. It was a day for foolishness.

The instant Robert was securely aboard the go-cart, the king took off at terrible speed. It was all Robert could do to hang on as the go-cart careened down the street with Robert perched on the back like a monkey, his eyes streaming in the wind.

Such was their pace that soon they drew even with the rest of the Perpetually Eleven (minus Armstrong and Liddle). Once reunited, the pack stayed together for the remainder of the journey.

They kept mainly to the streets, with the occasional shortcut through an alley or parking lot. Robert soon lost all sense of direction as they made their way through the abandoned streets and buildings of the Go-cart King's realm.

After perhaps twenty minutes, they arrived at a cul-de-sac from which rose the delicate arch of what could only be described as a fairy tale bridge. It led up and over the surrounding houses and descended perhaps a football field's distance away. Its length was delicately figured white marble with gold railings and trim. It was the most beautiful structure Robert had ever seen, and he knew it could only be the Bridge of Time.