“Rescue Eddie,” said Jack.
“But we don’t know for certain that he’s there.”
“I do,” said Jack. “He is.”
“But you can’t know for certain.”
“Oh yes I can,” said Jack. “I can feel him. In here.” And Jack tapped at his temple. “The closer we get, the more I can feel him. I can feel him, and he’s hurting.”
And Eddie Bear was hurting. He’d been kept waiting about in a concrete corridor outside a big steel rivet-studded door for quite some time now. The other Jack had passed this quite some time by kicking Eddie up and down the corridor. So Eddie was really hurting. And hurting more than just from the kickings.
Eddie felt decidedly odd. Slightly removed from himself, somehow, as if he didn’t quite fit into his body any more. It was a decidedly odd and most disconcerting sensation. And it was not at all helped by the kickings.
The other Jack squared up for another boot. Bolts clunked and clanked and the big steel door slid open.
“Thanks for that,” said Eddie.
The other Jack ticked him through the opening.
Eddie came to rest upon a carpeted floor. It was most unpleasantly carpeted. With poo. Chicken poo.
“Urgh,” went Eddie, and he struggled up from the floor.
Eddie was now, it had to be said, a somewhat unsightly bear. He was thoroughly besmirched with sewage and cell dust and now chicken poo. Eddie was not a bear for cuddling, not a bear to be hugged.
“So,” said a voice, and Eddie searched for its source, “So, Mister Bear, we meet at last.”
Eddie could make out a desk of considerable proportions and behind this a chair, with its back turned to him. Behind this chair and affixed to the wall were numerous television screens and upon these were displayed numerous scenes of American life. Most being played out via the medium of the television show.
The shows meant nothing to Eddie and so he did not recognise George Reeves as Superman, Lucille Ball in I Love Lucy, Phil Silvers as Sergeant Bilko or Roy Rogers on Trigger.
On one TV screen, Eddie viewed a newscast. It showed scenes of devastation, crashed police cars, a wrecked AC Cobra and a Ford Mustang called Sally. And a photograph was being displayed also. A mugshot of a wanted man. Eddie gawped at the mugshot: it was a mugshot of Jack.
The desk and the chair back and the TV screens, too, were all besmutted with poo. Chicken poo. Eddie Bear sniffed at the air of this room. It must have smelled pretty bad. But Eddie Bear couldn’t smell it. Eddie Bear had no sense of smell left whatsoever.
“Who are you?” asked Eddie. “Who is this?”
The chair behind the desk swung around and Eddie Bear viewed the sitter.
The sitter on the chair was no chicken.
The sitter was Eddie Bear.
“Whoa,” went Jack and he shuddered.
“Are you all right?” asked Dorothy.
“Yes,” said Jack. “I suppose so. I went all cold there. Have you ever heard that expression about feeling as if someone just walked over your grave?”
“I’ve heard it, but I’ve never understood it.”
Jack peered out through the windscreen. He had the wipers on now – there was a lot of dust. “Are we nearly there yet?” he asked.
Dorothy did peerings also. “There’s something up ahead,” she said. “It looks like some big military installation with a big wire fence around it. What are you going to do?”
“Bluff it out,” said Jack. “This is a police car. I’m a policeman. We’ll get in there somehow.”
“Seems reasonable,” said Dorothy. “Let’s just hope that there’s no real policemen around.”
“I don’t think that’s very likely out here,” said Jack.
“Out where?” asked Police Chief Samuel J. Maggott, shouting somewhat into the mouthpiece of his telephone. Sam was considerably bandaged, but back behind his desk. “Speak up, boy, I can hardly hear you, what?”
Words came to him through the earpiece.
“You’re saying what? You saw the midday newscast? The wanted maniac, Jack? That’s right. Dressed as a police officer, at your lounge? Left without paying for his chicken-fish lunch? Drove over your mechanic? How many times? That many, eh? And he’s gone on to where? I see.”
Samuel J. Maggott replaced the receiver.
And then picked it up again.
“Get me Special Ops,” he told the telephonist. “Get me Special Ops, get me a chopper and put out an all-points bulletin.”
“You look put out,” said the Eddie in the chair. “In fact you look all in. You look as wretched as a weevil with the wobbles.”
“What are you?” asked Eddie Bear. “You’re not me. What are you?”
“I’m the you of this world,” said the other Eddie.
“No you’re not,” said the Real McCoy. “Toys don’t live in this world.” Eddie Bear paused. “Or do they?”
The other Jack loomed over Eddie. “Would you like me to knock him about a bit, boss?” he asked.
“That won’t be necessary. Eddie and I are going to get along just fine, aren’t we, Eddie? We are going to be as cosy as two little peas in a little green pod.”
Eddie looked down at his grubby old self.
“Yes, you’re right,” said the other Eddie. “You really are in disgusting condition. You’re as foul as a fetid fur-ball. We’ll have to get you all cleaned up. Jack, take Eddie to the cleaning facility, see that he gets all cleaned up.”
“Can I hold his head under the water? Or use the high-pressure hose?” asked the other Jack.
“No, Jack, I want Eddie in tip-top condition. He’s very precious, is Eddie. After all, he’ll soon be the last of his kind.”
“What?” asked Eddie. “What do you mean?”
“Hurry,” said his other self. “The countdown has already begun.”
The other Jack picked Eddie up and hurled him out into the corridor.
The other other Jack, the real Jack that was, drew the police car to a halt before a little guard post. A little guard issued from this post and made his way to the car.
Jack wound down the window.
The guard wore a rather stylish golden uniform with a Golden Chicken logo picked out in red upon the right sleeve. He took off his golden cap and mopped at his brow with an oversized red gingham handkerchief.
“Good day, officer,” he said. “It’s a hot’n, ain’t it?”
“Very hot,” said Jack. “Would you open the gates, please?”
“Have to ask the nature of your visit, officer.”
“Official business,” said Jack. “I’d like to say more, but you know how it is.”
“Not precisely,” said the guard. “Could you be a little more explicit?”
“Well, I could,” said Jack, “but frankly I just don’t have the time. Would you mind dealing with this, Dorothy?”
“Not at all.” Dorothy left the police car. Walked around to the guard’s side. Dealt the guard a brutal blow to the skull and returned to the passenger seat.
“Thank you,” said Jack. “Would you mind opening the gates now?”
“Why don’t you just smash through them with the car?” asked Dorothy. “It’s so much more exciting, isn’t it!”
“This is an exciting machine,” said the other Jack.
He and Eddie now stood in another room. One of an industrial nature. There were conveyor belts in this room and big, ugly-looking machines into which they ran in and out again.
“Prototype, this,” said the other Jack. “Chicken cleanser. Chickens go in this end,” and he pointed, “through the cleansing machine, out again, along that belt there, then through the drier, then out of that, then through the de-featherer, then out again. Just like that.” And he ambled over to a big control panel, threw a couple of switches and pressed a few buttons. Great churnings of machinery occurred and conveyor belts began to judder into life. “Never went into mass production though, this model. The chickens kept getting all caught up inside. Came out in shreds, some of them. Didn’t half squawk, I can tell you.”
“Now just you see here,” said Eddie. “I don’t think that I –”