Thriller

by Jon Scieszka

  I nodded.

  “You crazy, Nick.” He gave an elaborate shrug. “But if they exist, they like caves, tunnels, that sort of place. That’s what Grandma says.”

  Quick as a snake striking, Brandon jammed two fingers toward my eyes.

  I blinked and moved back.

  “Flinch!” He grabbed my right arm with one meaty fist and pounded my shoulder, hard, with the other.

  “Ow!” After he let go, I rubbed my sore arm.

  The weasel guys hooted.

  “Next question,” I said. “Do Pukwudgies have any weaknesses?”

  Brandon walked around me, rubbing his jaw. “Let’s see . . . from what I remember, they like strawberry bread.”

  “Strawberry shortcake?” the redheaded girl asked.

  He arched a dark eyebrow. “You think the old-time Wampanoag had shortcake and whipped cream? Nah, strawberry bread—like banana bread, but with straw-berries.”

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  Brandon snapped his fingers. “And water. They make some kinda magic fire, so they don’t like water.”

  “Magic fi— Aaugh!” The up-close-and-personal sight of Brandon’s fist whooshing toward my nose turned my question into a shout.

  “Flinched again,” he sang. This time, Brandon wound up like a home-run slugger. His mighty punch zoomed straight for my poor shoulder, and at the last second, he turned it into a little tap.

  Uproarious laughter from his sidekicks.

  Never mind that he’d already mangled me. I held my arm protectively and wondered if Jeremy would come visit me in the hospital.

  Assuming, of course, that I managed to find him.

  Brandon smirked and rubbed his knuckles into his palm. “Any other questions, Nick?”

  Which way to the emergency room? came to mind, but I didn’t say it. “No, that’s all. Thanks for the, uh, help.”

  He spread his hands. “Anytime. Come on, guys.”

  The weasel dudes and the redhead ambled off after Brandon. They looked like pilot fish trailing a tiger shark.

  About twenty feet off, Brandon Frye turned. “Hey, Nick!”

  “Yeah?” I called.

  His dark eyes turned serious. “Watch yourself with those Pukwudgies. They make me look like a Girl Scout.”

  Weasel Number Two started to snicker, until Brandon showed him his fist. That shut him up.

  A softball rolled across the grass and stopped near my feet.

  “A little help?” cried one of the guys playing pickle.

  I cocked my foot and kicked it to him. Ball tossing would have to wait until I got some feeling back into my arm.

  By the time the last bell rang, I had patched together a plan. Sort of. I felt a bit nervous about facing a bunch of evil trolls on my own, so I went for backup.

  Leaving school, I spotted Kellen Bradley waiting at the curb for his ride. Perfect. He was a sort-of friend, the tallest boy in our grade (next to Brandon), and a total jock.

  “Hey, Kellen.”

  He jerked his chin at me. “Whassup, Nate?”

  “I’m, uh, going on a little adventure.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. Jeremy kind of got himself into a tight spot, so I’m gonna go rescue him. Wanna come?”

  The eyebrows came back down. “Is it dangerous?”

  I shrugged. “Um, a little bit. Maybe.”

  “Gee, I’d really like to. But I’ve got karate class.”

  “See, that’s why I thought you—”

  “And here’s my ride.”

  A blue-gray SUV pulled up to the curb. Kellen opened the passenger door and slipped inside. “Sorry, Nate. See ya.”

  And the car drove off.

  On the walk home, I called my dad.

  “Hey, buddy, what’s up?”

  “Are you busy?”

  He chuckled. “Yeah, I’m slammed. We’ve got that big meeting, and I won’t be home until late, remember? What’s going on?”

  Shoot. Although Dad was pretty open-minded about my “cryptid hobby,” I doubted he’d blow off a major meeting to go monster hunting.

  “Uh, nothing, I guess. Hey, can I take some money from the cookie jar for a snack?”

  “Sure thing, buddy. Just don’t max out on the sweets.”

  “I won’t. Dad, I—”

  “Yes, Nate?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing. See you later.”

  We hung up. I’d almost told him I loved him. That was nuts. This was just going to be a quick in and out—find Jeremy, grab Jeremy, run like heck. No big deal.

  Right?

  So why was my stomach doing flip-flops?

  It took about fifteen minutes to collect everything I needed and stuff it into my book bag. Then I rode my bike to the supermarket and picked up the last items.

  Assuming Jeremy had seen Pukwudgies, and assuming that’s who had him now, and also assuming Brandon hadn’t lied—a lot of assumptions—I was left with two likely places to search.

  The caves and the storm drains.

  I really hoped it wasn’t the storm drains. They gave me the creeps. Many times, Jeremy had tried to talk me into exploring them, and I’d always found an excuse not to.

  Until now.

  But the drains—big concrete tunnels that sluiced rainwater away from the town—were much closer than the caves. So that’s where I went first.

  A cold breeze whipped through my jacket as I pedaled past the last houses and out to the Little League diamonds. The season was over. The grass had turned brown, and that metal thingy on the rope kept striking the empty flagpole with a lonely ting, ting, ting.

  I was all alone.

  A deep gully snaked around the outer edge of the far diamond. At its widest bend lay the hungry mouth of the storm drain.

  Oh, boy.

  I leaned my bike against an oak tree, hefted my book bag, and stepped over to the edge of the gully. I promised myself I’d take a look—just a look—before moving on to check out the caves.

  “He’s probably not here,” I muttered.

  Scrambling down the bank, I was thankful that it hadn’t rained for a week. Only a trickle of water burbled down the gully. But it was enough to create a wide muddy spot at the edge of the concrete apron.

  Tracks crisscrossed the mud. Tennis shoes, dog and raccoon prints, and the traces of something my old Cub Scouts training hadn’t covered.

  The tracks looked like those of a barefoot human, only wider. But with claw marks. And only four toes.

  A shiver danced down my spine.

  I sighted along the footprints, and they seemed to head straight for the black, gaping mouth of a tunnel. The storm drain.

  Something orange caught my eye. Then I saw it—up behind the bushes on the opposite bank: Jeremy’s bike.

  Great. He must have hidden it there when he went to investigate.

  And now it was my turn.

  I checked my watch. Maybe an hour of daylight left. I wiped my palms on my jeans. Something in my gut told me I really didn’t want to be down in the tunnels when night fell.

  Hands patted pockets for a final check. Flashlight. Cell phone. Pocketknife. Squirt gun.

  I was as ready as I’d ever be.

  “Stop stalling,” I mumbled, approaching the rusty metal grille that blocked the tunnel mouth.

  My hands gripped the cold iron bars.

  Probably won’t open, I thought. Probably rusted shut.

  A firm tug, and the grille swung upward with a moan.

  I flinched so violently, Brandon could’ve slugged me three times.

  So much for the element of surprise. I flicked on the flashlight, squeezed under the grille, and stepped into a puddle of water.

  Shoot. Galoshes. I knew I’d forgotten something.

  The flashlight beam played over a concrete tunnel a little taller than me, walls stained dark with water, and floor covered in rubbish and rocks. After about twenty feet, the glow of my light was swallowed by pitch black.
>
  I gulped.

  On one wall, in red, some joker had spray-painted a skull and crossbones over a message:

  KEEP OUT, DUMMY!

  Good advice. I ignored it.

  Taking a deep breath, I crept forward, one hand on the flashlight, one on the side wall for balance. My every footfall echoed and reechoed.

  A faint cabbagey odor mingled with the rich smells of earth and water. Now and then, I got a whiff of some animal’s poop. Ripe.

  About fifty feet in, I turned to look back. The entrance had shrunk to a circle of light about the size of my fist.

  My heart thudded unevenly. Just a nice little underground stroll, I told myself. Nothing to get spooked about.

  Right.

  I pushed on. Not far ahead, more of the creepy-looking tracks crossed a patch of mud. A faint light spilled from above. Craning my neck, I saw a shaft with a grille at the top. I figured I was under a street.

  Splashing echoed in the tunnel ahead. I pointed the flashlight. Red eyes glowed in the dark.

  “Aaugh!” I jumped.

  Then I relaxed.

  Trapped in my beam was a fat raccoon. It grumbled at me. But when I chucked a rock in its direction, the animal hissed and retreated down a side tunnel.

  When I reached the passage, I shined the light down it. The raccoon was nowhere to be seen.

  Weird.

  I continued down the main tunnel. A minute later, the smooth concrete pipe ended. From here, the passage was made of individual stone blocks fitted together like a wall. It looked really old, like Pilgrims old.

  Pukwudgie territory.

  I moved slower, trying to keep quiet. The tunnel curved, then widened into a section where big stone pillars held up the roof. Lots of the strange footprints crisscrossed the muddy floor.

  Another side tunnel led off to the right, glowing faintly from deep inside. I heard a distant chuckling, like an underground stream or far-off voices—it was hard to tell which.

  The flashlight beam revealed a regular Pukwudgie freeway of footprints headed this way.

  I shrugged the book bag off my shoulders and took out the white bread and strawberries. Then I crept to the far end of this wide chamber, opened the packages, and started making strawberry sandwiches, smooshing the fruit to release its smell.

  I laid the sandwiches on some sheets of notebook paper. Come and get it! Then I tiptoed back and stepped behind a pillar, close by the entrance to the side passage.

  Off went the flashlight. I crouched against the column to wait.

  Time passed. I didn’t know how much.

  I thought about how dumb I’d feel if the raccoon returned and ate the sandwiches.

  I thought about how scared I’d feel if I was still down here at night.

  The darkness crowded in. The weight of all that earth above me seemed to press down like a giant hand. I could picture the ceiling collapsing and burying me under the rocks, so archaeologists from some future time would find my bleached bones.

  This is why I’m not so crazy about tunnels.

  My fingernails dug into my palms. I opened my eyes wide, but all I could see was more darkness.

  Then, a faint light. Were my eyes playing tricks?

  Slowly, steadily, it strengthened, bringing the far wall into focus—as if the glow came from the side tunnel. Stealthy little shuffling accompanied the light.

  I held my breath.

  Something passed by on the other side of the pillar. Ever so sneakily, I peeked around the corner.

  A possum?

  The raspy-looking, gray-furred beast waddled along, sniffing the air. It caught scent of the strawberries and perked right up. Then, it scampered toward the far side of the chamber, much faster than a possum could move.

  When it reached the feast, it raised a weird cry.

  That cry was echoed in the side tunnel. And suddenly, a dozen or more creatures hurried past, following the possum.

  The hair on my neck stood up.

  Light from the torches they carried revealed gray-skinned, muscular, potbellied creatures. Their hair hung long and matted, their noses and ears were grotesquely huge, and their long fingers reminded me of spider legs. The creatures stank of wet dog and cabbage.

  They looked like something from a particularly nasty fairy tale.

  Pukwudgies.

  The creatures stood maybe a foot shorter than me. But I wouldn’t want to face one in a dark tunnel, let alone a dozen. The last of the bunch descended on the strawberry feast, jabbering and arguing in their strange tongue.

  The possum turned into another Pukwudgie.

  Cool! My very first cryptids. I reached for my cell phone to photograph them.

  And then I remembered where I was.

  Time to move.

  Heart hammering like crazy, I tiptoed around the pillar and into the side passage. The torches’ glow petered out after about ten feet, so I cautiously switched on my flashlight, shielding the beam with my fingers.

  The floor was clear of rubble, so I hustled along as quietly as I could. Up the tunnel, around a bend, and suddenly, there I was.

  A high-ceilinged cavern opened up before me. Glittering stalactites hung from above. Torches lit a comfortable crash pad for trolls. Stolen blankets lined sleeping nooks, pilfered plates rested on a flat rock by a fire pit.

  And on the other side of the pit, a sad figure slumped, tied with ropes to a stone pillar.

  “Jeremy!” I hissed.

  His head snapped up. “Nate?”

  Jeremy’s glasses were askew, his curly hair was full of dirt and twigs, and his clothes were a muddy mess. But he was alive!

  “Nate! You—”

  “Shhh!” I dashed to his side. “They’ll hear you,” I whispered.

  I opened the pocketknife and began sawing at his ropes.

  “How did you find me?”

  I sat back on my heels. “Through some genius investigative work, actually. See, I figured you were after a cryptid, so I went on the web and searched for—”

  “More cutting, less talking.” Jeremy shot a worried glance at the tunnel mouth.

  “Right.”

  Before long, I had sawed through the last rope. I helped Jeremy to stand. Together, we made our way across the chamber to the exit tunnel and started down the passage.

  “Seriously, dude,” Jeremy whispered. “How’d you find me?”

  “You texted me about cryptids.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  With my free hand, I fished my cell phone from my pocket and handed it to him. “Look at our messages.”

  He punched several buttons. “Where’s the . . . ?”

  “Here, let me.” As we kept walking, I called up the menu and opened the saved texts. “See?”

  Jeremy scrolled through them. “I never actually said I’d found a cryptid. And especially not—”

  We stepped out of the side tunnel and nearly bumped into a pack of . . .

  “Pukwudgies!” we screamed.

  “Gaaahhh!” the savage trolls screamed back.

  In that frozen moment, every detail stood out like on high-def TV. The beady black eyes of the creatures. Their honking big noses, their batlike ears, the smears of red fruit on their faces and beards.

  The sharp claws on their long, grasping fingers.

  I had time to think, We are so dead.

  Click went the camera flash on my cell phone.

  Then, poof! They disappeared.

  Jeremy and I exchanged a brief, confused look.

  “Yahhh!” we cried, rushing forward in a blind panic.

  I thudded into two or three invisible bodies. Hands snatched at me, but I blew through them.

  With Jeremy right behind, I barreled up that dim tunnel as fast as I could go. Around the bend, back into the smooth concrete pipe we ran.

  Angry hisses and unearthly growls filled the dark behind us, echoing off the walls. Many footsteps pounded.

  “Faster!” Jeremy shouted.

  We dashed
past the raccoon’s side tunnel, past the shaft leading up to the street.

  I stumbled over a rock and pitched forward. Only Jeremy’s swift grab kept me from doing a face-plant.

  “Hurry!” he cried. “They’re catching up!”

  “This is hurrying!”

  The tunnel entrance appeared ahead—a faint, small circle.

  I ran like I’d never run before. My breath came in ragged gasps, my side ached like someone had stabbed me with a hot knife.

  With agonizing slowness, the entrance grew bigger.

  The Pukwudgies’ footfalls were deafening; it sounded like an army was running right behind us. No way could we beat them to the tunnel mouth.

  And then, twenty feet from the entrance, the sound of pursuit stopped dead.

  All I could hear was Jeremy’s and my footsteps.

  “Do you . . . think they . . . gave up?” I panted.

  “Dunno.”

  We slowed enough for me to shine the flashlight behind us.

  The dark exploded with chittering. Winged bodies rushed straight at us.

  “Bats!”

  “Vampire bats?” cried Jeremy.

  Electrified by fear, we bolted for the entrance, jamming through the tunnel side by side.

  “Me first,” grunted Jeremy.

  “No, me!”

  Together we hit the iron grille like the front four of the Green Bay Packers.

  Bam!

  It swung upward. Bats swept past our shoulders, through our hair.

  “Eeeauugh!” Jeremy yelled.

  The flying rodents spilled through the gaps in the grille and out into the cool twilight air.

  We staggered forward onto the concrete apron. My shoe caught on a rock, and this time I did go down—plonk!—face-first into the mud.

  I rolled over, arms raised to protect myself from the killer bat attack.

  But no attack came.

  The bats fluttered past us and dispersed into the gathering night.

  “Were those Pukwudgies,” said Jeremy, helping me up, “or real bats?”

  I looked at the tunnel, then at the bats. “Either way, let’s beat it.”

  We grabbed our bikes and pumped like crazy for home, setting a new speed record in the process. In fact, we didn’t slow down until we turned off Brainerd Street onto my block.