Free Rogue by Mark Frost Page A

this you’re okay with?”
    “I don’t know, time-travel stuff, man, it just puts the zap on my head.”
    “Then you’re right, Will. Coming back out,” said Jericho. “That’s when we’re going to need all the help we can get.”
    Everyone thought about it for a moment, but no one could come up with anyone.
    “At this point, who else can we trust?” asked Elise.
    “Well, I got a line on somebody,” said Nick. “Maybe more than one person. They’re not from the school, though, but their powers are totally awesome. And this one guy just might be able to help us recruit somebody even more important.”
    “Who might that be?” asked Elise.
    “Our old buddy Nepsted,” said Nick. “The blob in the tub, the beast from the basement. Who else besides me thinks it’s a smokin’ good notion to get Moby Squid playing for our side?”
    “Who in the world’s going to help you do that?” asked Will.
    Nick took a ragged and vaguely familiar-looking piece of paper from his pocket, one that looked as if he’d been carrying it around for many months. He unfolded it and showed it to them and Will recognized it immediately: an advertising flyer with garish blocks of print announcing an evening of professional wrestling at a local off-campus venue, featuring five theatrical portraits of the featured headliners.
    “Not this again,” said Ajay.
    “That’s right,” said Nick; then he pointed to one of the portraits. “And if this dude can’t help us get Nepsted to back our play, I’ll eat my hat.”
    —
    Nick led them to a large expanse of degrading asphalt outside of the nearest town, the vast parking lot of an old abandoned factory. Four mobile homes had been parked to form a square, creating an open area inside them where voices could be heard. The RVs looked weathered and road weary, colors faded, paneling stressed with age. They stepped to the closest trailer and knocked, loudly, on the side door. The voices in the back stopped.
    Moments later they heard footsteps inside, and the entire caravan trembled with each approaching step. The door opened six inches and a huge square face, framed by a round halo of wild kinky black hair, appeared in the crack, staring down at them.
    “What d’ya want, meat?” The man’s voice was half rasp, half snarl.
    Ajay shrank back slightly behind Nick and Will. “Why would we want meat?” he whispered.
    “He didn’t ask us if we
wanted
any,” whispered Will. “That’s what he
called
us.”
    “I see.”
    “We need to talk to ‘the Perfessor,’ ” said Nick.
    “No autographs today, kids,” said the man.
    The big man started to close the door. Will stuck his foot in the way.
    “We don’t want his autograph,” said Will. “This is important.”
    The man looked them over for a longer moment, curious; then he adopted a self-conscious formality. “And whom should I say is calling?” Will heard a note of Brooklyn in his rumbling tones.
    “Tell Henry this is about an old friend of his from Flagstaff, Arizona,” said Nick.
    The man’s beady eyes, set deep in his massive skull, narrowed and darted back and forth between Will, Nick, and Ajay.
    “Wait here,” he said.
    The door closed and he lumbered away.
    “You know who that is?” whispered Nick.
    Will and Ajay shook their heads.
    “Dudes, that’s the Barbarian,” said Nick, barely able to contain his excitement.
    Will and Ajay looked at each other and shrugged:
No idea who that is.
    Will gestured for the others to be silent; all three leaned in to listen. They heard the rear door open, then voices in the back, one rising in volume. A moment later they heard the door open again and the crushing footsteps hustled to the door, rocking the whole wagon from side to side.
    They took a step back as the door opened all the way. This time the giant man—Will figured him for at least six foot six and well north of three hundred pounds—waved them inside. His black wavy locks shook with every step and fell all the