by Bill Myers
“Hello, Middletown Taxi?” She spoke into the phone and began negotiating with the taxi company about how much they would charge to take us up to the lake.
I looked first to her and then to Opera, who was busy plowing back into his bag of chips. Yes sir, what a treat it was to know I had friends willing to go to any expense to look out for my welfare.
“Hey, Wally?” Wall Street asked. “Do you have a twenty to pay for the fare?”
Well, any expense, as long as it was mine.
Fifty-five minutes and twenty-four seconds later, the three of us climbed out of the taxi. (Keeping track of time is important when you’ve only got a few hours left to live.) Wall Street had barely paid the driver my twenty before the cabbie gunned his engine and peeled out. Rocks and gravel spit in all directions as he raced down the deserted, tree-covered road as fast as he could.
“You think he knows something we don’t?” Opera asked nervously.
“No,” I said, watching the car disappear into the distance. “I think he knows exactly what we know.” I turned to Wall Street. “So how are we going to get back?”
She patted the cellular phone in her pocket. “I’ve got his number. When we’re ready to go home, I’ll just call and he’ll come pick us up.”
“If there’s an us left to pick up,” Opera said, glancing around and giving a quiet shudder.
I nodded and looked into the dark, forbidding woods that surrounded us. “Maybe you should have gotten the number for the nearest funeral home instead.”
We stood a moment in the silence, each wondering what we’d gotten ourselves into. The sun was just starting to set as we stood all alone in the deserted foothills above our town . . . all alone except, of course, for the wild animals, underwater monsters, and glowing ghosts.
“Well, there’s the path to the lake.” Wall Street pointed.
“Yeah,” Opera said.
“Yeah,” I said.
But, of course, none of us moved.
“I suppose we better get started.”
“Yeah,” Opera said.
“Yeah,” I said.
Ditto in the moving department.
Then, after a deep breath, Wall Street braced herself and started off. A moment later Opera followed. But for some reason, I couldn’t seem to get my legs to move. I guess they had this thing about wanting to stay attached to my body and about wanting that body to live just a little while longer.
“Come on,” Wall Street called over her shoulder. “We’ve only got a little daylight left.”
I let out a heavy sigh and started forward. “All right,” I called. “But if we die, you’re going to live to regret it.”
I’m not sure how long we hiked, but the deeper we got into the woods, the darker it got. And the darker it got, the more the place gave me the creeps, until suddenly . . .
Wall Street froze. “Listen,” she whispered. We all stopped and grew silent.
click click click . . . click . . . click click
“What is that?” she asked.
We strained to listen. Something was tapping— making a strange brushing, clicking sound. It was faint, but there was no missing it. And the more we listened, the louder it grew.
Click . . . Click Click . . . Click Click Click . . .
“Sounds like . . .” Opera tilted his head to listen more carefully. “Sounds like some sort of code.”
Wall Street nodded.
I continued listening, but it was getting harder and harder to hear over my pounding heart.
“Someone is trying to communicate with us,” Wall Street whispered.
“Someone or something,” Opera shivered.
CLICK CLICK . . . CLICK . .
CLICK CLICK CLICK
It grew louder. Quickly our eyes scanned the surrounding trees, the bushes, everywhere— desperately looking for something. But what?
It was getting too dark to see a thing.
“Okay,” Wall Street whispered. “Let’s keep going. Let’s see if it follows us.”
Cautiously, we started forward. But with each step we took, it grew louder and louder. Whatever it was was nearly on top of us and still we couldn’t see it. What was it? What did it want?
And then, just when our panic was at an all-time high, Wall Street spotted it. “Wally!”
I spun around to face her. She was staring at my feet. Well, not exactly my feet, more like my legs.
CLICK CLICK . . . CLICK CLICK CLICK
To be more specific, my knees.
CLICK . . . CLICK CLICK . . . CLICK
“It’s your knees!”
“My knees?” I cried, jumping back.
“Yes.” She started to laugh. “It’s your knees knocking together.”
I looked down. She was right. I was so scared, my knees were slam dancing into each other.
Everyone groaned. But before the humiliation could be piled on too high, we heard another sound. The loud snapping of twigs.
It was right behind us!
We spun around just in time to see a bright glowing object, about the size of a human, flying directly at us. Being the cool and courageous types we were, we did what any cool and courageous types would do. We twirled around and raced down the path screaming for our lives:
“AUGH . . .” That was Wall Street screaming.
“AUGHHHH . . .” That was Opera screaming.
“AUGHHHHHH”-CLUNK, “AUGHHHHHH”- CLUNK, “AUGHHHHHH”-CLUNK. That was me screaming and running into a few trees along the way.
In about 3.2 seconds we had reached the fence that surrounded the lake. Since none of us felt any great desire to stick around and become a Happy Meal for a ghost, we turned to the right and ran along the fence.
Well, Opera and Wall Street turned to the right and ran along the fence. I forgot the turning part and ran into the fence.
K-BAM!
And then I sorta got caught and tangled up in it.
RATTLE, RATTLE, RATTLE
“I’m stuck,” I cried. “I’m stuck!”
Opera and Wall Street spun around and raced back. “It’s your pants,” Wall Street shouted. “Your pants! They’re hung up!”
I threw a look back into the woods. The snapping and cracking was quickly approaching. The thing was still bearing down on us. Any second it would emerge and—
“Go on,” I shouted. “Save yourselves!”
“No!” Wall Street yelled as she began pulling. “If you die, we all die!” (Although I appreciated the thought, I didn’t find it very comforting.)
They pulled on me harder, and harder some more, until . . .
RRIIIIP
I was free. Well the I part of me was free. The pants part wasn’t so lucky. They were still attached to the fence. I staggered to my feet, just me and my Fruit of the Looms, when suddenly, a bright light flashed down on us from above.
At first I hoped I had died, and it was an angel coming to take me to heaven. Unfortunately, I wasn’t that lucky.
“What’s going on down there?”
Wall Street and Opera froze. But I recognized the voice. It belonged to Mr. Snavely. I peered into the light. He was standing on a levee about fifteen feet above the lake and holding a giant flashlight. Beside him were a bunch of valves and stuff.
“Who’s there?” he demanded.
“It’s me,” I shouted. “Wally McDoogle.” I threw a look over my shoulder to see how many milliseconds we had before we became ghost kill. But, strangely, whatever had been chasing us had suddenly disappeared.
“Wallace?” Mr. Snavely called. “Wallace, what are you doing here?”
“We just came to do a little exploring,” I called.
“Exploring? Tonight?”
“Yes, sir.”
“In your underwear?”
“It’s a long story.”
“This lake is off-limits; you know that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I suggest you turn right around and get yourselves home.”
I
threw a nervous look back up the path. “But what about the ghost?” I asked.
“Ghost?” he yelled. “Don’t tell me you believe those silly rumors.”
I swallowed hard and continued to stare up the path. “I don’t believe them sir, but I think the ghost might.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mr. Snavely growled. “Now you kids get on home before I call the Sheriff and have you arrested for trespassing.”
“Yes, sir.”
We glanced at each other. It was a tough decision: stay around and get thrown in jail for trespassing or head back up the trail and run into Casper with the glowing hair.
But since we could no longer hear the ghost, we reluctantly decided to take our chances with the path. We turned, then just before we started, I called back up to the levee. “Mr. Snavely?”
“What is it now?”
“Do you need some help up there?”
“Help? Of course not.” But even from the distance I could hear him nervously clearing his throat. “Somebody just uh, well, somebody opened one of the valves up here. Not very smart with this contaminated water and the city just below. Anyway, I just uh, well, the only way to close it down was to come up here personally, so here I am. Now run along and remember work starts at 8:30 sharp tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
We turned toward the path and started the hike back to the main road. But I could tell Mr. Snavely was lying. Whatever he was up to, he was pretty upset that we’d caught him at it. Which, as you can guess, made me even more nervous about showing up for work tomorrow.
But the good news was we still had the ghost. Maybe with some luck, it would be waiting for us on the path. And maybe with even more luck it would tear me limb from limb so I wouldn’t have to go to work.
Then again, we all know about my luck. . . .
Chapter 4
Here We Go Again
“Mr. Snavely? Hello. Mr. Snavely?”
It was 8:30 in the morning when I entered the Water Management Facility.
This was the last place in the world I wanted to be . . . so, of course, it was the only place I could be.
I tried believing what Mom had said about God being in charge of everything and that we should trust Him and “bloom where we’re planted.” But that stuff is kind of hard to remember when you’re busy stepping into your own custom-designed nightmare.
The phone call I’d overheard yesterday was still rattling in my head: “If that stupid kid is here, I have the perfect alibi—everyone will believe it’s his fault.”
“Mr. Snavely?”
Still no answer.
I entered the room with the monitors. The lights were on, the screens were going, and all the gauges were working. But for some reason no one was home.
“Hello?”
I crossed over into the office. Yesterday’s disaster had been cleaned up, but there was still no one around. And then I saw it: a note on Mr. Snavely’s desk. It had my name scrawled across the top. I moved around the desk and gave it a read.
Wallace,
Have the flu. Had to go home. You’re in charge.
Don’t worry, everything is automated. Don’t do a thing, and you’ll be fine.
Mr. Snavely
WHAT? Leaving me in charge?! Was he out of his mind?! Didn’t he know my reputation??
I leaned on the desk trying to steady myself. I looked down at the note again. Don’t do a thing, and you’ll be fine. Well, okay, maybe I could do that. Just as long as I didn’t touch anything important . . . or move . . . or breathe.
Slowly I turned and, ever so cautiously, headed back into the room full of monitors.
So far, so good. No major disasters, no Water Management Facility meltdowns.
I crossed to the desk that overlooked the monitors. Then I carefully pulled out the chair and took a seat.
Still no catastrophes. Wow, I was setting some sort of record here. Who knows, maybe I was starting a brand-new trend. Of course I knew better than that. After all, I did have my reputation to keep up. Major destruction was on its way, it was just a matter of whether it was coming before or after lunch.
With nothing to do but hang around and wait for doomsday, I thought I’d pass some time by pulling out ol’ Betsy and getting back to my superhero story:
When we last left Tidy Guy, he was zipping toward Planet Getalife, which is being held hostage by the ever-so-sinister and notorious non-tooth flosser...Chaos Kid.
As our hero arrives, he lets out a ghastly gasp. It’s worse than expected:
——Cars are no longer staying in their lanes.
——Preschoolers are connecting their dot-to-dot pictures in any order they want.
——Baseball runners are having to search all over the stadium for the next base.
Still, it’s been a long, hot journey, and Tidy Guy must chill down with a little Baskin-Robbins break. As his spacecraft settles into the parking lot, crushing only a handful of cars along the way, he sees that everyone is fighting, yelling, and screaming. There’s so much mayhem that he thinks he’s landed in the middle of an MTV awards show until he sees there are no cameras or screaming crazies or people running around with major body parts pierced.
He climbs out of his ship and fights his way toward the store. Once inside, he is amazed that everywhere he looks there is nothing but, you guessed it...CHAOS. He spots a customer shouting at the clerk behind the counter, “Chocolate I the Whammie Surprise thought was the month of flavor!”
Once again our neat freak turns on his Acme Unscrambler and listens for the translation:
“I thought Chocolate Whammie Surprise was the flavor of the month!”
“That was back when we had months,” the clerk explains.
“Wait your turn,” someone screams. “My number is next.”
“Not anymore! Now any number follows any other!”
All this over elevator music with no melody and nonsense lyrics. (Hm, maybe he is at that awards show after all.)
Such disorganization is more than our hero can stand. If this is what’s happening in public, he can only imagine what’s going on in homes: people squeezing toothpaste tubes in the middle, toilet lids being left up, and worst of all worsts——family members not turning their socks right side out before throwing them into the dirty clothes.
But before Tidy Guy gets his underwear in a bunch, an unbearable pain shoots through his jaw. He grabs his mouth and screams: “AUGH! What’s happening? What’s going on?”
“It’s Chaos Kid!” a woman wearing a skirt over her head and a blouse around her legs cries. She points at his mouth with the Reebok high-tops she is wearing for gloves. “He’s rearranging your mouth. He’s mixing up your teeth.”
“No way!” Tidy Guy cries. “After all the dough my folks dished out for braces?”
“He’s disorganizing everything!” she screams. “Even our schools. Teachers are teaching our kids their ABQs, geography professors insist Portland is the capital of Guatemala, and——”
“What’s that?” our hero interrupts, pointing to a giant luxury liner heading the wrong way down the freeway.
“That’s him!” a man cries through the open fly of the Levis covering his face. “That’s Chaos Kid’s headquarters.”
Quicker than you can say, “Isn’t this just a little much, even for a McDoogle story?” Tidy Guy hops back into his starcruiser and roars off toward Chaos Kid.
But the closer he roars, the more disorganized he becomes. Soon his shirttail comes untucked, next the creases in his superhero tights disappear, and worst of all worsts——his hair actually starts to get mussed.
Oh no! Who knows what awful anguish awaits our acne-free hero, what terribly untidy traumas are in store?
And then, suddenly——
BZZZZZZZZZZZ
I leaped higher than a pole-vaulter with hiccups. After crawling back into my skin and restarting my heart, I realized that some sort of alarm was going off in the Water Management Facility.
&n
bsp; I scanned the room. Everything looked normal. Everything, that is, but the red alarm flashing under one of the monitors.
I raced to the wall of TV screens for a better look.
I wished I hadn’t.
It was the Knox Lake monitor. Actually, it was the gauge under the monitor. The one that read “Lake Capacity.” The one where the needle had just dropped below 78 percent.
Now I’m no math whiz, but since all of the other lakes and reservoirs registered 100 percent, I figured we might just have a little problem. And when I glanced up at the screen showing Knox Lake, I realized we had a very major problem.
The water level had dropped a whole lot since last night.
Someone was draining the lake!
Not only that, but if what Mr. Snavely had said was true, then the toxins that were dumping out of that lake were heading straight toward our city!
I had to do something. But after five minutes of yelling for help and throwing myself down on the floor for a good cry, I realized I might want to try another plan. Unfortunately, no other plan came to mind . . . except one.
I remembered Mr. Snavely had said the only way to shut off those valves was to go up there on a motorbike and do it in person.
Wonderful . . . me on a motorbike, all alone at Knox Lake. I could hardly wait. Then again, I guess I really wouldn’t be alone. After all, there was still that ghost and still that monster and still who knows what else waiting up there for me. By the looks of things, I guessed I’d be having plenty of company.
And for once in my life, I’d guessed right.
Chapter 5
Ghost Bustin’
Anybody can drive a motorbike, right? Just hop on board and fire up the puppy. I’d seen it done a million times on TV, so no sweat.
Not exactly . . .
First there was the problem of getting it started. I hopped onto the bike and tromped down on the foot lever just like a pro. Except a pro would probably not have chosen the wrong foot lever on the wrong side of the bike, which managed to send the whole thing crashing onto the ground.
