Under the Rug

The latest Burdick Mystery. Enjoy.

            He pushed his round spectacles up his nose. He straightened his purple bowtie and checked that his belt was cinched tight. Running his hands over his mostly bare head, brushing the tufts that resolutely clung to the sides, he took a deep breath. He was ready.

            He kicked in the door with one slipper-shod foot. A burst of hot air immediately struck his face, steaming up his glasses. Blind, he ducked down, scanning the floor with his hands. He found it! He rose and flailed the heavy wrench. CLANG! The steam-spewing pipe bent, shooting straight up harmlessly.

            An old boot fell onto his head. He looked up and a swinging pipe took his legs out from under him. Gnashing gears and clanking pipes and shrieking spouts created a cacophony on par with a tornado during an earthquake. He waited on the floor. Finally the other shoe dropped.

            He rolled away from the falling boot and scrambled toward the back of the room. Loose screws pinged off his unprotected pate, the furnace released scorching billows of stygian smoke, unrelenting pieces of rebar swung out, ball bearings scattered across the floor amongst wildly erratic bouncy balls. He ducked, rolled, slid, counterattacked with his wrench and even picked up a hard hat, which he used as a shield until a rogue Bunsen burner melted it away.

            At last he reached the back wall of the basement. Just as he had suspected, the pipe casing on the photoionic reactor sheath was loose. With his free hand he shoved the ugly tangle of wires into the casing while he batted away a swarm of wingnuts with the wrench.

            He crammed a slipper into the extra space to hold the wires back then swiftly grabbed his krazy glue from his back pocket. He quickly slathered the threads in glue and began to screw the casing closed with the wrench. A three-foot machete and a rubber ducky punched into the wall, scraping just past his shoulder. One of them fell to the floor. With a curse, he gave the wrench a final turn. Only two things left to do.

            He sprinted, as best he could in the hazardous environment, back to the stairs. He lost one sleeve of his sweater, had multiple holes singed into his pant legs, not to mention countless contusions caused by marbles. One last desperate lunge got him to the circuit switch ahead of a surging anvil.

            He threw the switch and dove. A dirty fly swatter caught him full in the face and a staple gun shot him in the buttock seven times before he landed. But he had made it at long last. He unplugged the toaster.

            Instantly a hush fell in the basement, a thin hiss of residual steam the only surviving sound. Tools and parts came to a halt. Clearly the Dark Matter Newt Teleporter still had some issues. He would reset the slinky and the Higgs Boson Injector and try again. After he got a new Newt (the other one had evaporated). And after lunch.

            Carl Burdick trudged up the stairs musing over his luncheon menu. He knew there was pastrami, mozzarella, and pickles leftover from the pizzas they had made for dinner the night before, but it wasn’t enough. Surely, it would make a good sandwich, but to be a great sandwich it would need a little extra kick.

            As his mind moved, so did his feet. He breezed through the kitchen, giving the refrigerator a stare; he tried to penetrate the door with his gaze to discern what else it held that might improve his sandwich. He would return to the kitchen in a moment, but first he had to address the needs of other internal organs. Carl moved down the hallway to the bathroom.

            It was no exaggeration to say that over half of Carl’s inventions had begun as seeds, nurtured in the very room where he now sat. Many germinated, and some even came to full bloom while he rode the white throne. All they required when he was finished was construction: the full plans were already made in his head.

            Unfortunately, such inspiration did not seem to extend to great sandwiches. When Carl was all finished he washed his hands and exited, still at a loss for what ingredient would round out his sandwich. He mentally discarded peanut butter, anchovies, and soy sauce as he retraced his path through the hallway.

            Before he knew what had happened, or whether or not a habanero chili pepper was the right choice, he was on the floor. Carl shot a look at his feet. Clearly they had betrayed him. But as he gave them an accusing glare, he noticed the rug rising. It was as if something was trying to poke through.

            Carl adjusted his glasses as he crouched next to the bulge in the floor. He stretched out a hand, but the shape retreated. The floor was flat again. Then the rug began to rise once more. Carl watched, keeping his hands to himself.

            For a full minute the rug pulsed. Slowly, rhythmically, always in the same place, never bigger or smaller, it rose and fell. Then, for no apparent reason, it didn’t recede. It remained raised up. Carl gave it the evil eye. He couldn’t get to his sandwich until this was resolved.

            Carl rose to his full height (five foot five, hardly impressive) and stared angrily at the bulge. It gave no sign of retreating, so Carl attacked. He jumped straight up into the air and slammed both feet down on the protuberance. When he landed he could detect no anomalies in the floor beneath him. It was once again flat.

            He backed away several steps, never taking his eyes away from the unruly patch of floor. It seemed the rug rebellion was over. Carl walked backwards into the kitchen, not fully trusting that the event was ended, but unable to ignore the rumbles emanating from his stomach.

            A sudden thought burst upon Carl’s confused mind. He rushed down to the basement. The Easy Bake had been acting strange recently, perhaps it was the cause of this. But the basement was still and silent when Carl arrived.

Hands on his hips, mystified, Carl headed for the fridge. His hungry brain shifted gears, contemplating a graham cracker with chocolate sauce, Reese’s peanut butter chips and chopped pine nuts as a way to round out the imminent meal.

            Two weeks passed and it happened again. This time in the second-story hall, which meant there was no way the Easy Bake could be blamed. A man who spent his life unraveling and harnessing mysterious forces, Carl was upset that this one was so elusive.

            When the swelling of the floor knocked the lamp from its table, Carl lost control. With both hands he grasped the antique chair next to the small table. It too had been wobbling from the ferocity with which the floor was pulsing. But Carl was intent on doing more than merely stabilizing the faltering furniture piece.

            Teeth bared, seething with anger at this enigmatic force, Carl whipped the chair above his head. With a feral cry he brought it down on the lump with brutal force. The poor chair exploded into countless pieces. Carl stood above the wreckage, chest heaving. The floor rose again slowly, haltingly, before subsiding.

            Carl pushed his glasses up his nose and straightened his bowtie. He took a deep breath and collected his thoughts. It was unreasonable for him to patrol the house at all times in case of further actions by this inscrutable force. In any case, they would run out of furniture eventually. Molly wouldn’t be happy about the chair either.

            Carl marched down both flights of stairs with determination. A dim plan was forming in his mostly bald head. He entered the basement and began to work.

            The days passed in a blur. Carl worked through meals and slept very little. When he did sleep he was bothered by nightmares. In one particular dream, the bulging floor popped. A hand erupted through the floor and launched a ferocious attack on the rug surrounding it. Carl awoke and immediately went down to the basement to continue his work.

            Finally his preparations were complete. A man’s house was his castle and Carl had armed his castle with a fantastic security garrison. He grinned then put the bugle to his lips. He blew the activating charge and watched his army take their places.

            Ranks of gauntleted rabbits marched up the stairs. Each a different color ranging from fire engine red to Christmas tree green, each held a hefty rubber mallet. Miniature fusion packs protruded from their backs, vaguely resembling the Energizer Bunny, if the Energizer Bunny was prepared for war.

            In addition to the arm protection, each rabbit wore a helmet. The burnished steel gleamed as the foot-high rabbit climbed into the house. The springs loaded into their feet were concealed by fur, but multiple rounds of testing had proven their efficacy.

            Next came the copters. Tiny rotors whirring, the flying spheres puttered past Carl’s head. Less menacing than their furry companions, the copters were designed to monitor the house. With 360 degree surveillance cameras mounted on gyroscopes, the flyers were the eyes for the blunt instruments of the rabbits.

            Carl’s castle was ready to defend itself.

Feeling prepared, Carl relaxed a bit. He returned to his normal work, shared stories with Molly and the kids during dinner.

One day Archie and Abby mentioned something about a Ninja Day. He didn’t see them at all, but pulled several ninja stars out of the kitchen wall and his shoulder.

At all times the rabbits stood sentry in every room on every floor. The copters hovered around, patrolling ceaselessly. Carl waited patiently for the house to make a move.

The house did not disappoint.

It happened on a Tuesday. The wail of a Bagpipe Alarm pierced the silence of lunchtime in the Burdick house. (The Bagpipe Alarm was installed in each copter, as well as Carl’s alarm clock. It never failed to wake him. Or Molly. Or Archie or Abby on the floor below. Or the neighbors.)

It was coming from the second floor. Without pausing to remove the napkin from his shirt collar, Carl dropped his spoon into the applesauce drenched pancake casserole and charged up the stairs.

He arrived on the scene just in time to see the rabbit in Archie’s room pound the bump under the rug into submission. One hit might have been enough, but the rabbits were programmed to be thorough. The mallet slammed the floor a dozen times even though the protuberance showed no sign of returning after the first strike.

Suddenly bagpipes sounded downstairs. Carl now had no doubts on the effectiveness of his system. He waltzed serenely down to watch another rabbit beat the unruly floor into submission.

Before he reached the bottom of the stairs, another set of bagpipes went off, probably the third floor. Then another set, and another. The air filled with the sounds of Scotland, melodies fluting in and around each other. The muffled percussion of mallets kept an erratic beat.

Carl’s eyes went wide and his glasses sagged down his nose. He could see the living room, the hallway, and a tiny bit of the kitchen from where he stood. In all directions he could see bulges in the floor. Pulsing up and down, the bumps rose and fell. Rabbits scurried to and fro, clobbering left and right liked some crazed game of Whack-A-Mole.

The floor bubbled up furiously as if something beneath the rug was boiling. The crescendo of bagpipes and hammers grew and grew. Carl began to feel dizzy when he noticed that there were also lumps growing from the walls. He was certain that hands and arms would sprout from these protrusions, just like his dream.

Rabbits began bouncing around, utilizing the springs Carl had engineered into them. Spots were popping before his eyes when Carl felt the house begin to shake.

The raw energy of the rebelling house came to a head with an apocalyptic explosion. Something erupted from deep beneath the kitchen, tearing the basement door from its hinges.

At that exact moment everything came to a halt. The floor had resumed its normal flatness. The walls no longer moved in any way. Bagpipes no longer heralded pending danger. Rabbits remained floor-bound. Mallets ceased to beat.

Carl gathered his courage. Whatever was the cause for such a cataclysmic disturbance had arrived. And it was in his basement.

He shuffled slowly forward in his house slippers, trying to catch his breath. He approached the gaping doorway. A thin pall of smoke oozed into the kitchen. Standing in the empty doorway at the top of the stairs, Carl looked down.

Fear of the unknown clutched his heart with cold hands. A chill went down his spine. The hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention.

At the base of the stairs, where there had previously been nothing, was a door.