By Matthew Fu

Part 1: CPL Clyde

Clyde bumped his car onto the post in front of the parking spot for the 32nd time, and almost skipped into the main building before regaining his dignity and walking. He had gotten through his first month at Unit 48 no problemo. As he entered the lobby, a clanking sound was heard. It was officer Warren, limping towards him on his prosthetic. Warren had lost his leg to a haunted sports car, but still fought like a tank. “Hey kid. Hope you chose a vehicle by now, because you got your first major mission,” Warren said delightedly, patting Clyde on the back. Clyde followed Warren to the General’s office. There, he was greeted warmly by Austin himself, and handed a folder titled “the drummer’s house”. Clyde shivered. Unit 48 had a nasty reputation for supernatural conflicts. From mutated insects to haunted cars, the crew of unit 48 had really seen it all. Austin wished Clyde luck, and sent him on his merry way to his doom. After a quick detour to the inventory to pick up an MP-5, Clyde was speeding out of the garage on his Tacoma. He turned up the grunge and went over his case. There was a mansion where a famed drummer once lived, just outside of Boise, Idaho. People had heard drum beats come out of the house, though its owner died decades before Clyde’s mother was born. The chiller of this case was that apparently the drummer died with the drumsticks in hand. What significance that bore, Clyde had no idea. After 4 gas refills, 12 candy bars, and a fast food restaurant, Clyde finally arrived at the mansion.

The house was massive, and dark brown, the color of the unpainted timber walls. Clyde loaded the MP-5 up, and opened the door, pointing the barrel of his gun around the room. The whole first floor was deserted. Same went for the second floor. A few days here and there, but nothing else. As Clyde left the bedroom, a pounding started in his head. It sounded like a kick drum, pounding every second. The sound grew louder and louder. Clyde clutched at his ears. The pounding continues, if not louder. Then a short rustling sound was heard, in sync with the kick. A high hat, Clyde thought. He walked around the house again, trying to find the source of the noise as it grew, but there was nothing. Then it occurred to him: Unit 48 had dealt with spirits before. “Oh god, no no no no no…,” Clyde muttered. He ran around the house, as the sound grew louder. To make matters worse, a cymbal was thrown into the cacophony, making Clyde’s teeth jar and his ears feel like exploding. All the while, The kick drum continued, threatening to burst Clyde’s brain. He screamed in utter agony at the sonic onslaught. The door, he thought frantically, wrenching at the handle. It wouldn’t budge. Panic seized Clyde, and he fired his MP-5 at the door. The bullets bounced off the seemingly rotten timber. All the while, Clyde couldn’t even hear the gun over the drums. A bullet sliced open a cut on his cheek. The drumming grew louder. Clyde collapsed on the floorboards, writhing and helpless. Just as his skull felt like exploding, the sound ceased. Clyde slowly got up, and tested the door one last,  helpless time. To his shock, it opened. He climbed into his tacoma, turning to a quiet jazz station on the radio. That’s strange, Clyde thought as he turned the volume up. “I’m not hearing anything. This truck will have to see the mechanics”. He took the ride back to base. As he got out, Warren greeted him. Clyde looked at Warren’s leg. It wasn’t clanking. Warren’s mouth opened and moved in a series of movements. “What are you saying?” Clyde asked. To his shock, he couldn’t hear himself. Frantically, he grabbed a sticky note and a pen from his pocket, and showed Warren the words “I’M DEAF”.

Part 2: CPL Clyde

Lydia walked through the halls of unit 48 at a brisk pace. Her new assignment was investigating a mansion which drummed people deaf. “So…our guy’s deaf?” she heard Sergeant Enrique ask behind her. “Yeah. Wrote it to me. Didn’t speak. Poor guy. Barely got on the job”. That was officer Warren. Lydia spoke quietly up front. “Let’s hope Enrique knows enough sign to communicate,” she murmured. They reached the medical bay, where a figure lay prone on the bed. Enrique whistled. “That’s more than deafness. Look at that cut on his eyebrow. What did you say his name was, Warren? Chet?” he said. “Clyde,” Warren responded. The figure groaned, rising up off the bed. Enrique signed. “Hi man”. Clyde looked at him for a second, then felt for his hearing aid. “I…I can hear now,” he murmured in wonder. Lydia gasped, and punched his shoulder. “Way to go, man!” she exclaimed. Clyde smiled weakly. “Two weeks of silence. Now…it’s like I never went to that mansion,” he murmured softly. The four walked to the garage, where Vincent was just parking Enrique’s van. “Good news, sarge. I cleaned Warren’s bloodstain off your van,” Vincent said, grinning lopsidedly. In front of the van was Clyde’s tacoma. Enrique climbed into shotgun, armed with an M9 and a SCAR. Clyde’s old MP5 sat in the driver seat, where he left it. Lydia and Warren climbed into Enrique’s van. Lydia stomped on the van’s pedal, and Clyde fumbled to chase after the Chevy van. 

As they hit the highway, Enrique fished the folder out of a compartment in the truck and started reading. He grimaced. “Idaho? That’s…quite a way away”. Clyde said nothing. They stopped at a fast food restaurant, where they got some food, and switched drivers. After a few minutes, Clyde spoke up. “So…what are your thoughts on this case?” he inquired. Enrique snickered. “My only thought is that I hope Lydia brought enough earmuffs,” he quipped. Clyde nodded.

After a good hour, the setting sun cast long shadows over the land. The first stars were coming out as the four arrived at the mansion. Enrique parked jerkily, and hopped out. Lydia and Warren loaded up on their Revolvers. They entered the house, earmuffs on. The house was empty as ever. As Lydia approached the kitchen, Clyde called out. “I didn’t go in that-“. He was cut off by crashing sound, as the floor opened up, and Lydia fell through. “Hey Lydia!  What’s it like down there?” he asked. Lydia called back up. “It’s like a basement…oh no…it’s starting…,” she muttered. The kick drum started, pounding in their heads. However, it was dulled by the earmuffs. Warren stuck an arm over the side. “Can you reach?”. Lydia responded in the negative. Enrique grabbed Warren’s ankles and dangled him over the hole. “‘Bout now?” the Sergeant asked. Lydia grabbed on and was hauled out. The drumming was getting close to unbearable. The four began to panic, until Enrique broke a window, and they all hopped out. “What is causing that?” Warren asked. Outside, the drumming could no longer be heard. Clyde took a few steps back to look at the house…and it hit him. He throttled Lydia. “I got it, I got it!”. Lydia looked at him, bewildered. “Yo…you gone insane or something?” she asked. Clyde pointed to the house as they gathered round. “The main building…it’s a cylinder…like a kick drum! The tower things around it are cymbals! That’s what makes the noise! It’s like that ghost car thing you all had half a year back: the ghost of the drummer was absorbed into the house!” Clyde explained excitedly. Warren grunted. “Another half baked idea making perfect sense,” he said. “Once a ghost is absorbed, if the absorber is destroyed, so is the ghost. If we destroy the house, the drummer is gone for good,” Enrique put in. “Let’s come back, with something to break this mansion,” Lydia said firmly. The team nodded and headed out of Idaho for base. As Clyde left the house, he smiled. Nothing could go wrong…right?

Part 3: CPL Clyde (Yeah the world revolves around Clyde)

“I thought you said they were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago,” Warren commented mildly. “They were. But, you see Warren, GIANT WRECKING BALL CRANES are heavy, making it harder to transport,” Enrique said acidly. “For all we know those beasts killed the trucks they’re being shipped on,” Clyde commented glumly. His hearing aid whistled. “You’re gonna need that hearing aid fixed or the rest of us will need one too,” Lydia muttered. A few minutes later, a truck pulled in with a wrecking ball crane on it. Enrique watched with mild amusement as the truck, with the crane’s mass adding inertia to it, failed to brake in time, and slowly smashed through the gate. “Well, at least the crane wasn’t scratched,” Warren said. Another identical truck carrying an identical crane came in, followed by a minivan that was amusingly small compared to the trucks. As the four headed down to the road where the trucks were parked, one of the drivers of the trucks greeted them. “You’ll carry the cranes in these trucks. There’s four of you, so 2 to a cab will provide ample space,” he said. “Why not just drive the cranes over? Why the trucks?” Lydia asked. “No one wants those beasts tearing up the highway, miss,” the truck driver said. Lydia nodded, and the four of them got into the trucks, while the truck drivers piled into the minivan and drove off. Clyde sat in the cab with Enrique during the day, and slept under the stars (and under the crane) at night.

At last, the drummer’s mansion loomed into view. The pairs unloaded the cranes and pulled up to the house. “So…loudest first? We can go for a tower,” Warren called. “Sure,” Clyde replied. Enrique mashed the joysticks, positioning the crane in front of the tower, earmuffs on, windows up, to minimize noises. He twisted the cab a 90, then swung the wrecking ball at the tower. It collapsed with a ripple through the air heading for Enrique. A few seconds later, Enrique toppled out, clutching at the earmuffs. “Ah…agh…the crash…so loud…,” he groaned. Warren took Enrique’s earmuffs off. “Easy, sarge…whoa…your ears are bleeding. Literally,” he said, grimacing. Enrique’s hand went up to his ear…and came back crimson red. “Holy smoke,” Lydia muttered. Clyde put on Enrique’s earmuffs, and climbed into the cab of the crane. With one tower gone, he turned off his hearing aid and drove his crane towards the next tower. A rattle came from the crane as it continued to function after the first decimating barrage. The ball swung. Clyde couldn’t hear the sonic onslaught, what with his hearing aid turned off, but it grew to be too much for the crane. The glass on the windows and windshield shattered, shards flying. Clyde opened his mouth and did what he hoped was a scream. A moment later, he regretted it as a particularly small shard cut his lip, and he spat it out. Clyde felt a searing heat behind him. He turned around to see the engine of the crane smoking. “Oh god-,“ he began. The crane exploded, tossing him a few feet away. When he looked back, the crane was little more than burnt metal husk. Lydia wasted no time, quickly speeding at the main building, and demolishing it. As it went down, the crew of four heard the worst noise ever. A mix of Tom, snare, bass, and kick drum, along with about half a dozen cymbals, all in an uncoordinated jumble. Enrique screamed as his bleeding ears let out a stream, as Clyde quickly turned his hearing aid off. The crane, with Lydia, was hurled back a few feet. The other three were swept off their feet and tossed like rag dolls a good five meters. Just as suddenly as it started, the noise ceased. The mansion crumbled, even the most solid bricks turning to dust, as a strong gust of wind carried it off. The drummer’s house was no more. Not even the paving in front was there. Green grass sprouted, and for the first time, silence settled upon the drummer’s house. That silence was broken by Clyde. “We owe Bull and Dozer’s a nice new wrecking ball crane”.

Stay tuned for the special holiday release in the December Issue!