by Arthur Slade
Jolted
Arthur Slade
Dava Enterprises
*Sign up for Arthur Slade’s Somewhat Incredibly Funny Newsletter and receive a book of short stories free: www.arthurslade.com
* * *
Jolted
Copyright © 2008 by Arthur Slade
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Arthur Slade
Arthur Slade’s Somewhat Incredibly Funny Newsletter
Newton’s Rules for Survival
* * *
1.Check the weather constantly.
2.Check the sky before exiting a building.
3.When thunder roars, run indoors.
4.Beware of cumulonimbus clouds.
5.Do not take a bath during a lightning storm.
6.Do not under any circumstances become angry. Count to ten. Breathe in. Breathe out.
Prologue: The Reason Why He Always Looks to the Heavens
* * *
Newton Starker knew he would most likely die from a lightning strike. The bolt would deliver three hundred kilovolts of electricity to the top of his skull, burning his scalp and popping thousands of brain cells like popcorn. Then it would arc along his nervous system, arteries and veins, frying his heart and lungs. The lightning would leave deep burns at the exit points as it blew off his shoes and scraps of his clothing.
It would all happen in the blink of an eye. Zap! One fried fourteen-year-old Newton, the last male heir of the Starker line.
Newton pressed his head back into his pillow and stared at the cracked paint on the dorm ceiling. His cot springs squeaked. Even here, at Jerry Potts Academy of Higher Learning and Survival, far from his home in Snohomish, Washington, he couldn’t escape thinking about lightning. He would rather have been dreaming about girls or tasty new recipes, but his mind always reset to this: A lightning bolt has my name on it.
Lightning had blotted out nearly every member of the Starker family tree, including his grandfather, his uncle Darwin, his mother. Sometimes it took more than one strike, but eventually they were smacked by a strong enough bolt.
Newton didn’t believe the Starkers were cursed. No. Curses were illogical. He doubted it was a gene that attracted the lightning; the scientists at the University of Washington hadn’t found a single suspect chromosome. It wasn’t chance; it was statistically impossible for so many members of the same family to be hit by lightning. No one had any idea why it happened.
The only other Starker survivor was his great-grandmother Enid, a woman who was as friendly as a pickled wolverine. He remembered each miserable visit his family had made to Great-grandmother. He’d rather have seen the dentist.
She was nothing like his mom. Delilah Starker had been warm and supportive and graceful. Newton swallowed the lump in his throat. It had been two years since the universe had dared to take her away.
I’m starting a new life, Mom. He sent this thought to the heavens. Tomorrow it all begins. A school that will teach me how to survive. No one will laugh at a Starker again.
He remembered the people who had teased him about his family’s difficulties, people who had written blogs or newspaper articles or filled the airwaves with talk shows about the paranormal.
Pallbearers carried his mother’s coffin past a gaping crowd to the hearse. “Here comes the lightning!” someone had shouted. “Duck!” Remembering that, Newton felt a giant worm of anger begin to tie itself into knots in his stomach.
He sat up in his cot, stepped onto the cold hardwood floor. Wearing only his pajamas and slippers, he snuck down the back stairs of the freshman boys’ dorm, padded across the courtyard and quietly opened the gate on the west wall of Jerry Potts Academy. Being late August, a touch of the day’s heat still hung in the air.
In moments he was standing on the flat prairie. The stars twinkled mischievously above him. He glared at the sky and raised his fist.
“Why? Why me? Why my family?” Then, with an emphatic finger poke, he growled, “I will win.”
The hairs on the back of his neck began to rise. Were those cumulonimbus clouds skulking under the half-moon? He thought he could just make out a tell-tale anvil shape blotting out the western sky, lumbering toward him.
“You don’t scare me,” he whispered, but he was trembling. It’s cold. That’s why I’m shaking.
A rumble in the distance. It had to be a train. Not thunder. Another low grumble made his heartbeat double. Then a flash.
He gave one last shake of his fist, bounded back to the dorm, took the stairs two at a time and slid under the old army blankets on his cot. The rain began to fall, pelting at his window. He closed his eyes.
A full hour later he finally fell asleep.
Excerpt from The Survival Handbook of Jerry Potts Academy of Higher Learning and Survival
* * *
Survival depends on your attitude. You must constantly be ready to stare down disaster. Exercise your body. Keep your mind mentally fit. When that plane crashes, ship sinks or train jumps its tracks, you will be the one to lead the other passengers to safety. Visualize success. Be prepared.
Always carry a sharp knife.
The Old, Odd School
* * *
Jerry Potts Academy of Higher Learning and Survival sat like a fortress on the edge of Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, Canada. The wolf’s-head crest howled eternally from the turret that rose above the iron gates. Through those gates, surrounded by a stone wall, was a stone church, a
brick armory, four brick classroom buildings and three brick dorms. A brick belfry stood right behind the stone statue of Jerry Potts. The main office, in the center of it all, was constructed of stone. The academy exuded permanence and authority. Its Gaelic motto was Seasamh tro Inntinn Fraodh: “survival through fierce intelligence.”
At 6:45 in the morning, the belfry’s bronze bell began to toll. Newton rubbed his eyes, crawled out of his cot and splashed water on his face from the old
metal sink in the corner of the room. The rusty taps ran water direct from the North Pole.
Newton’s room was as plain as an army barracks, containing only a World War Two–era cot, an ammunition box that served as a trunk and a green aluminum closet. Pinned to the wall was a calendar of recipes, and a framed photo of Newton’s dark-haired mother sat on the window ledge, her chalk white skin glowing. Next to her photo was a framed drawing of a human hand, skin peeled back to reveal the tendons. It was his mother’s work; she’d been a medical illustrator.
Get your thoughts together, Newton. This would be the first day of orientation, and he could barely figure out how to do up his uniform kilt.
When Newton had arrived the night before, a ruddy-faced instructor, Mr. MacBain, had checked off his name on a list, then tossed him a kilt and barked, “Welcome, laddie! You attach the right apron to the left buckle, the left apron to the waist and hip buckles, and the kilt comes to the center of your knees, no further. The sporran hangs three fingers below the waist-coat. If it’s too low you’ll get demerits. There’s hose, flashes and ghillie brogues. Wear them with pride, son. You get your sgian dubh tomorrow. Got that, laddie?”
Newton had only understood welcome and laddie. “Uh, yes, sir.”
“Good. Now, be off with you. Any fool can wear a kilt. I’m proof of that.”
The Scottish uniform was the hallmark of Jerry Potts Academy. Jerry Potts himself had been half Scottish. Kilts made it easier to wade through ponds or to swim, should a student have to dive fully clothed into a river to save a drowning companion or escape a herd of charging cattle. And the academy got the kilts at a discount. Students could only wear pants or regular clothes during leisure time.
Newton held the red, green and blue plaid kilt up in the dull light, trying to make sense of the belts and folds and pins. It was a Celtic jigsaw puzzle. As he tried to fasten it around his waist, several synapses sparked a memory.
A Shocking Array of Kilts
* * *
The memory that piped its way into his thoughts was of something that had occurred four years earlier. Newton, his mother and his father had walked out of their geodesic dome home, climbed into the ancient Volvo station wagon and driven from Snohomish, Washington, through the Rockies and the hills of Montana, to Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan. They had checked into the Temple Gardens Mineral Spa, then taken a deep collective breath and putted over to the Welakwa Home for the Elderly to visit Great-grandmother Enid Starker.
Within the first thirty seconds, she had said Newton was “small enough that one static shock could obliterate him” and then referred to Newton’s father, Geoffrey, as “the dome-headed wonder boy.” His head was slightly bald.
“We’re not wanted here,” he said to Delilah and Newton.
“You’re not wanted anywhere,” Enid cackled.
“Well, I didn’t drive all this way to be insulted by an ungrateful prune.”
“Oh, ouch!” Enid crinkled her face. “At least this prune has personality.”
“Time out!” Delilah shouted. She grabbed her husband and son and dragged them to the lobby. “We’re going for a drive to cool off.”
After checking the sky to be sure the weather hadn’t changed, they piled into the car and drove aimlessly around Moose Jaw. “Let’s go home,” Geoffrey hissed.
“Dad’s right,” Newton said from the backseat.
“No!” Delilah said. “Both of you, be patient. Enid’s mean and angry, but she’s the only blood relative I’ve got besides Newton.”
Geoffrey was silent. The spot on the top of his head that turned crimson when he was perturbed gradually cooled to pink. “I’m not dome-headed, am I?”
“Not even in the slightest.” Delilah rubbed his shoulder.
That’s when they spotted Jerry Potts Academy of Higher Learning and Survival.
Geoffrey cranked the wheel, shot up the driveway, slammed on the brakes and leaped out of the car.
“Gothic Revival. That’s got to be Tyndall stone. Tyndall stone!” he shouted, pointing at the main building. “The creamy-colored mottling is evidence of prehistoric burrowing marine creatures. If we got up close, we’d see fossils trapped in the limestone. But that’s not all; look at the tracery!” Geoffrey was a structural engineer and tended to get excited about such things.
Delilah spun in her seat and clutched Newton’s shoulder. “Not safe,” she whispered. Her eyes (one blue, one gray) narrowed. “The sky is never, ever safe. There’s a cloud out there. I see it, hiding just beyond the school walls. If there’s lightning the car will protect us. Lightning will travel down the sides and into the earth. Just don’t touch the door handles.”
“I know, Mom,” he said sniffily, “it’s rule number seven: The interior of the car is safe, but don’t touch any metal parts.” She squeezed his shoulder gently.
“Good boy.”
Newton was impressed by the sense of permanence that Jerry Potts Academy projected. This compound could stand up to a severe thunderstorm. Even a cyclone. On the steeply pitched roof of the central building, several sword-shaped lightning rods stuck up into the sky like points on a crown.
Then, as though they’d been waiting for the Starker family’s arrival, the front gates opened, and out marched a regiment of senior students in kilts, their sporrans and clan pins bright in the sun. Bagpipes were squealing. It was such a shocking array of kilts that Newton gaped.
“Ah, bagpipes!” his mother said. “Good for what ails the MacStarker heart. A shame we dropped the Mac from our name.”
To which Newton responded in a barely audible whisper, “One day, this will be my school.”
Meanwhile, Back at the Kilt Buckles
* * *
It took a few attempts to fasten them. Newton studied his student manual and adjusted his sporran—the brass-plated pouch with a broom of horsehair—so that it hung over his belly button. He pulled his hose up to his knees and slipped his feet into ghillie brogues, high-laced brown shoes with extra-grip soles for climbing. He smoothed out the wrinkles in his white dress shirt and added a vest, a black argyle jacket and a bow tie. The bow tie was impossible to knot neatly. Neckties had been banned by the academy because they interfered with outdoor activities. A few students had been using them to snare ground squirrels.
The kilt seemed secure. Newton gazed in the speckled mirror on his door. It looked as though a blind clown had dressed him. His mother had always said he was handsome, “in an Edgar Allan Poe kind of way.” That meant he was pale, and his hair dark, like hers.
One eye was sky blue, the other a cloudy gray. Mismatched eyes were a Starker family trait. He liked to think his eyes made him look older than fourteen and, maybe, a little spooky.
Thinking of the Starker rules, he flipped open his laptop and went to the weather page. Sun and clear skies and no chance of rain or thundershowers. He was safe. And he was late! He scooted down the stairs and outside, all the while feeling the cool on his bare legs. He joined the orientation class.
“Ach, good of you to finally show up, laddie,” Mr. MacBain shouted. He was short and built like a bulldog and had bristly gray hair. He had shouted his way through private school in Buckie, Banffshire, Scotland, then shouted himself up to the rank of sergeant in the British army, then shouted out a position in the Special Air Service. He shouted his way across every continent, through several death-defying missions, then shouted, “Ach! I’m retiring!” Finally he shouted himself into a place as an instructor at Jerry Potts Academy.
All fi
fty-two grade-nine students were clad in their kilts. Some had fastened them expertly, others kept their hands on their belts, expecting gravity to play a prank. They all turned as one to stare at Newton. The faces were black, white, Asian, male, female—a mix of intelligent and sleepy faces. Newton was relieved when they turned their attention back to Mr. MacBain.
“We shall visit the mess, where there’s haggis for breakfast,” Mr. MacBain announced. Several students groaned. “What? Groaning! There’s nothing better than sheep’s heart and liver minced with onion and boiled in the stomach of a sheep. It has a delectable nutty flavor! And it’ll put hair on your chest. Except you gals; it makes you taller. Anyway, I jest—haggis is for dinnertime. After your morning gruel we shall conduct a tour of the library, the stables and your classrooms.” He paused. “But first, the annual MacBain Poetry Spout-off !”
