Field of Screams

by R. L. Stine

  Except me. I was miserable.

  How was I going to get back to my own time?

  I stood in line, waiting to board the bus. When I climbed the steps, I stopped in shock.

  Behind the steering wheel sat the old man from the house on Fear Street! Ernie Ames!

  He was here with me in the past!

  My heart jumped in my chest.

  If he made it to the past—maybe he could bring me back to the future.

  Maybe.

  8

  “It’s you!” I cried. I lunged at Ernie and grabbed him by the collar of his jacket. “I didn’t mean it. Take me back. Take me back home. I don’t want to be stuck here! Please!”

  “Well, if you get out of everybody’s way and let go of me, I’ll be happy to take you back.” The old man gave me a friendly smile.

  “Really?” I gasped. “You will?”

  Ernie laughed. “I’m the bus driver, Buddy. That’s my job.”

  “No, I mean send me to the future. You can do it—can’t you?”

  Ernie’s smile faded. I saw him shift his gaze to someone behind me.

  The coach clapped a hand on my shoulder.

  “Buddy took a knock today, Ernie,” he told the bus driver. He pointed to his head. “Fastball right to the old noggin.”

  The bus driver nodded knowingly.

  “Come on, Buddy. This way,” the coach ordered, steering me away from the driver. He frowned down at me. “Maybe we better have a doctor check you out when we get home.”

  I grasped the coach’s arm. “Please, you have to believe me! I’m not Buddy Gibson!”

  The coach’s frown deepened.

  “I’m not!” I insisted. “I’m Buddy Sanders. And I’m from the future. I live in 1997!”

  “Oh! So that’s what this is.” Coach grinned at me. “Sure, Buddy. You’re from the future. And I’m the Lone Ranger. I’m just riding this bus until Silver comes along. He’s my wonder horse, you know.”

  Laughter rang out all around me. Everyone on the team cracked up like this was some kind of joke.

  I sighed, realizing the truth. No one believed me.

  I turned and let the coach lead me to a seat. Why should they believe me? I thought. I sound completely crazy.

  Coach stopped at a seat and pointed. “There you go, Buddy. And there’s your book, right where you left it.”

  I glanced down. A novel lay on the seat. Tom Swift and the Amazing Time Machine.

  “You and your science fiction,” Coach grumbled. “I don’t know why you like that stuff so much. It’ll rot your brain.”

  He picked up the book and leafed through the pages. “Where were you from last week? Mars, right?”

  A short, sandy-haired kid with big buck teeth plopped into the seat next to me. “Yeah,” he said. “Buddy was John Carter from Mars.” He laughed.

  The coach scanned the rows of seats. Then he walked up to the front. “Okay, Ernie. Everyone’s here. Let’s head out.”

  The bus jerked into motion. We pulled away from the Oneiga ball field.

  “That Buddy’s got some imagination,” I heard the coach say to Ernie, the driver. “What a joker!”

  This was awful. Not only did no one believe me—they didn’t even think I was acting unusual. This Gibson kid made things up all the time.

  We made a left turn at the end of the street and pulled onto a two-lane road. I stared out the window—we should be getting on the interstate! A six-lane highway! What happened to it?

  I slouched back in my seat. It’s 1948, I reminded myself. The interstate isn’t even built yet.

  Two seats in front of me, the big, ugly left fielder stood up. “Hey, guys, check this out,” he called.

  He pointed his arms straight out in front of him. “I am Buddy Gibson,” he said in a robot voice. “I am from the future.”

  The kids sitting around him burst out laughing.

  I glanced at the kid next to me. His face was covered with dark freckles. His big buck teeth stuck out even farther when he grinned at the fielder’s joke. But at least he didn’t laugh.

  “What’s your name?” I asked him.

  “Don’t play with me, Buddy. You’ve only known me your whole life.” Then he frowned. “Say, how hard did that ball hit you?”

  “Pretty hard,” I told him. I leaned over and whispered, “I think maybe I have a little—what do you call it? Oh, yeah, amnesia.”

  The kid’s eyes widened and he grinned. “Whoa! No kidding? That’s neato!”

  Neato?

  Nerd-o! I thought.

  “So—who are you?” I asked again.

  “Johnny Beans. Center field. Remember?”

  “Oh, yeah. Now I remember,” I said. I wasn’t lying. I did remember the kid—from the photograph the old man on Fear Street showed me.

  “Who’s the big doofus?” I pointed to the left fielder.

  “That’s Boog. Boog Johnson.”

  “He doesn’t like me much, does he?” I asked.

  “No, I guess he doesn’t,” Johnny agreed. “In fact, he doesn’t like you—period.”

  Boog turned in his seat. He smirked at me. “Hey, what’s the news, future man? Who’s going to win the World Series this year?”

  Actually, I knew the answer to that. It was in one of my baseball books. The Cleveland Indians won in 1948. They beat Boston.

  But I wasn’t going to tell this jerk about it!

  Boog stretched out his arms to either side. He ran up and down the aisle of the bus. “Get me. I’m Gibson in my very own space rocket. Zoom! Zoom!”

  “Knock it off back there,” the coach yelled. “No running around on the bus!”

  Boog slinked back to his seat. He shot me a dirty look—as if it were my fault he got in trouble.

  Turning my shoulder to Boog, I asked Johnny some more questions. He identified everyone on the bus for me. I sat back and pretended that it was all coming back to me.

  As Johnny talked, I stared hard at the back of Ernie’s head. Did he recognize me? Did he remember our meeting on Fear Street? I couldn’t tell.

  But he had to be the key to why I was here.

  Maybe he did know who I was, but he didn’t want to say so in front of all these people.

  I had to find a way to talk to him when no one else was around.

  I stared out the window, watching trees and buildings whiz by. Yes, I decided. That was—

  I suddenly heard the sound of squealing brakes. The bus shuddered to a stop. I pitched forward, banging my chin on the seat in front of me.

  “Oof!” “Ow!” “Hey, watch it!” I heard my teammates holler.

  “Sorry, guys,” Ernie called back to us. “That truck in front of us skidded. We almost slammed into it. It was pretty close, but we’re okay.”

  The accident! I thought. Sure, we’re okay now. But soon a big old train really will slam into this bus! And if I don’t do something, I’ll be in the bus when it does!

  No way. I had to get back to my own time before the train wreck happened. Before the championship game.

  I turned to Johnny Beans.

  “Tell me again. How many more games before the championship?”

  Beans grinned. “Just one. Then we take the championship—and the trophy will be ours. Best in the state!”

  It sounded great. But I knew the truth.

  The Shadyside team wasn’t going to win the championship game. They were doomed.

  And if I didn’t think of something fast—so was I!

  9

  The bus pulled into town on Village Road I stared out the window. Would I recognize Shadyside in 1948?

  We passed the fire department. And the police station. They both seemed pretty much the same.

  But when I looked to my left, my mouth dropped open. Division Street Mall was gone! Or I guess it wasn’t there yet. Neither was the ten-plex movie theater. Dalby’s Department Store stood all by itself on the corner.

  Across the street, the bowling alley stood as always, bu
t a sign hung from it saying GRAND OPENING. Where the Rollerblading rink should have been, there was only an empty lot.

  The bus continued along Village Road until we reached the parking lot of Shadyside Middle School. I recognized the red brick building, even though the sign said SHADYSIDE JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL.

  Coach stood up at the front of the bus. “Okay, boys. We have one game before the championship. And I don’t just want to beat this last team. I want to destroy them!”

  “Yeah!” everybody yelled.

  “I want them shaking in their shoes when we run out on that field!”

  “Yeah!” the team replied.

  “And why?”

  “Because we’re the Doom Squad!” the team roared.

  “You bet we are.” Coach nodded, looking satisfied.

  Wow. My coach—my real coach, back in 1997—never talked like that. He said stuff like “Just remember, we’re all out here to have fun.”

  Weird.

  Coach put a hand on my arm as I was climbing off the bus. “How’s the head, Buddy?” he asked. “Feeling better?”

  “Yeah, Coach. I’m fine.” I answered quickly.

  I didn’t want anyone to send me to a doctor. Who knows what medicine was like in 1948? What if they still used leeches to suck your blood or something?

  “Glad to hear it,” Coach said, smiling. “We can’t afford to lose you. We might manage with somebody else hurt, but you’re the star. We need you.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Boog Johnson glaring at me. What was his problem?

  As he walked past me, he leaned close to my ear and growled, “You think you’re so hot.”

  “Forget him. He’s just jealous,” Johnny Beans whispered.

  “I’d like to forget him, but I think he’s going to pound me!” I said, worried.

  “He wishes. I don’t think he’d dare. Not until after the season anyway. His dad would kill him.”

  I started to walk toward my house on Spring Street. Then I remembered.

  In 1948 I didn’t live on Spring Street.

  I wasn’t even born yet.

  My parents weren’t even born yet!

  I turned back to Johnny Beans. “Uh, I forgot where I live,” I mumbled.

  He shook his head. “Jeez, Louise, you do have amnesia!”

  Jeez Louise? Man, these guys talked weird.

  “Don’t you remember?” Johnny continued. “Your house used to be in North Hills, but your folks moved last month. Now you’re staying with Coach Johnson until the season’s over.”

  “Oh—thanks,” I said.

  “Let’s go, Gibson,” someone shouted.

  I turned and saw Coach standing by a humongous blue car. He waved at me. Boog stood next to him.

  “Get a move on. I’m hungry,” Boog bellowed.

  I trotted over. Coach must be giving Boog a ride home.

  Boog opened the front door.

  “You get in back, son,” the coach ordered. “Let Buddy ride up front with me.”

  Son?

  That’s when it hit me. Boog Johnson? Coach Johnson?

  I groaned. I couldn’t believe it! I was staying at the coach’s house—that meant I was staying with Boog. The kid who wanted to pound me.

  Great. Just great.

  I climbed in and tried not to notice the stare Boog gave me.

  I tugged hard on the heavy door to get it shut. Then I settled into the seat. Whoa! The coach’s car was built like a tank!

  Whoops! Have to buckle up, I thought. I dug around in the seat cushions.

  “What are you doing?” Coach Johnson asked.

  “I’m looking for my seat belt.”

  “Seat belt? What’s a seat belt?” Boog scowled at me from the back.

  Uh-oh . . . 1948 again. Maybe they didn’t have seat belts in those days! “Heh-heh. Just joking,” I mumbled.

  “Seat belts,” the coach snorted. “I’ve read about them. Death traps, that’s what they are. No, sir. I’m not letting anybody strap me into a car so I can’t get away.”

  We drove out of the school parking lot and headed down Hawthorne Drive. We made a right turn on Park.

  Then the coach turned right again—on Fear Street.

  I should have guessed that’s where Boog would live.

  We cruised up the street, then turned left into the drive of a rambling two-story house. I got out of the car and glanced across the street.

  A familiar-looking house stared back at me. Then I realized how I knew it. It was the house from my own time. The house where I met Ernie Ames, the bus driver.

  The house where everything started.

  Only now it didn’t look abandoned. It was a little shabby, maybe, but the paint wasn’t peeling off or anything.

  An old car pulled into the house’s driveway. The engine died and the bus driver stepped out.

  He waved to me. I waved back slowly.

  Did he recognize me? I mean me, Buddy Sanders?

  I’ve got to talk to him, I thought. Alone. I need to find out why he sent me here—and how I’m supposed to get back to my own time.

  “Buddy,” Coach Johnson called. “Come on inside.”

  “Sure,” I said. I walked slowly toward the Johnsons’ house.

  Everything is going to be okay, I told myself. All I have to do is stay calm.

  Calm—hah! If I knew then what was about to happen to me, I would have run screaming down Fear Street.

  Because my nightmare was just starting!

  10

  We tromped up the wooden steps to the front door. A lady who had to be Boog’s mom stood in the doorway, waiting for us.

  Her red hair hung to her shoulders, and her cheeks had a rosy glow. She wore a dark blue dress with a white lace collar.

  “Don’t take another step without taking those muddy shoes off! I just scrubbed these floors,” she scolded. Then she smiled. “So, how did we do today, boys?”

  “A feast for your conquering heroes!” Coach Johnson teased.

  Mrs. Johnson laughed. “I guess you won again.”

  “Don’t we always, Mom?” Boog asked.

  “It was a close call though,” the coach said. “We almost lost our star player to a fastball to his head.”

  Mrs. Johnson gasped. “Oh, no! Here, Buddy, let me see.” She tipped my head to the side and probed gently at the bruise. She made a soft “tsk.”

  “It looks painful,” she told me. “But I think you’ll live. Not a lot of swelling. Any dizziness, Buddy? Are you feeling sleepy?”

  “I’m okay,” I mumbled.

  “Good. Now, you boys run upstairs and wash up for supper. Everything’s ready. Go on, scoot.”

  I followed Boog up the stairs, thinking that people were sure a lot less careful in 1948. In my own time, Mom and Dad would have sent me to the doctor as soon as I was hit.

  I stopped at the top of the stairs and looked around, confused. Boog stood in a doorway. “Well? You just going to stand there?” he snapped.

  “I don’t remember—”

  Boog’s eyes narrowed. “What’s with you, Buddy?” He pointed to a door down the hall. “In there. I got dibs on the bathroom.”

  He stepped into the bathroom and slammed the door. I heard water running. Good. He was out of my way. Now I could really check the place out.

  I went down the hall and opened the door to the room Buddy Gibson was staying in. It was smaller than the one I had at home, but it looked nice and cozy. It had a shelf filled with Hardy Boys and Tarzan books. Hey! I read those—way in the future. Gibson had a few of those Tom Swift books too.

  I looked around for the stereo. It was nowhere to be found.

  Maybe he’s got a TV, I thought. But I couldn’t find one of those either.

  Duh—1948. Hardly anyone had TVs back then.

  So what did people do for fun around here?

  I spied a window at the far end of the room. I walked over to it and lifted the blinds.

  Yes! The window faced the front. I coul
d see Fear Street, and Ernie the bus driver’s house.

  I glanced down. A rose trellis clung to the side of the house—right below the window. Perfect for climbing out after dark. All right!

  Someone knocked on the door. I dropped the blinds.

  “I’m done in the bathroom. You’re up, goofus,” Boog bellowed from the other side.

  “Keep your shirt on, you big loser,” I muttered under my breath.

  There was a chest of drawers positioned against the wall behind me. A mirror was placed over it.

  I stooped to open one of the drawers, and caught my reflection in the mirror. There it was again. Buddy Gibson’s face, with the blue eyes and the scar. I shuddered.

  Looking like someone else—being someone else—was the creepiest part about this whole nightmare. A guy just doesn’t expect to see someone else in the mirror.

  I opened one of the dresser drawers. Inside I found shirts and pants, neatly folded and sorted. The shirts were all plaid. That wouldn’t have been so bad if they were flannel. But they weren’t. They were this scratchy cotton material. They had short sleeves and narrow collars.

  The pants were mostly jeans. Stiff, dark blue jeans that looked like they could stand up all by themselves.

  I changed into fresh clothes, then glanced in the mirror again. Geek city! I wouldn’t be caught dead in these clothes back home.

  But this was 1948. I’d probably blend right in with all the other nerds here.

  The door opened again, and Boog came in. “Come on, supper’s waiting.” He jabbed at me with his fist. I jerked backward.

  “Hah! Flinch!” he said, and grabbed my arm. “Frog!” Then he hit me hard in the muscle of my left arm.

  “Ow!” I cried. “Hey, that hurt.” I made a fist.

  When Boog saw it, his lips curled in a mean smile.

  “You flinched, tough guy,” he reminded me. “So I get to frog you. That’s the rule, and you know it. Or are you too big a sissy to trade licks?”

  He sneered and pushed me backward. “Huh?” he challenged. He shoved me again. “How about it? You too much of a baby? Or maybe you want to go outside and fight for real?” He shoved me again.

  I had just about had enough of this guy. He was big. But I didn’t care. Nobody pushes me around like that.