Invasion of the Road Weenies

by David Lubar

  “Thanks,” Cindy said. She thought about giving one to Beth, but Beth hadn’t earned it. Beth had been scared. “This isn’t bad,” Cindy added as the man opened a door for her. She stepped through the doorway, but still looked back at the man. There was something else she wanted to tell him. “It wasn’t scary, but I wasn’t expecting all that much from someone’s homemade haunted house.”

  “Oh, this is just the entrance,” the man said. “The haunted house is on the other side.” He smiled and closed the door.

  Cindy turned around and looked. The walls on either side of her were old and rotting. The floor was thick with dust. In the darkness ahead, something shuffled and stirred, waiting for her.

  Cindy listened.

  Chains rattled. Bits of dry flesh fell from bones and hit the floor with muffled thumps. Fangs smacked together in anticipation. Creatures howled.

  Cindy wasn’t scared. Not now. This time, Cindy was terrified.

  NUMBSKULL

  Someone hasn’t been brushing,” Dr. Peterson told me as he examined my X ray.

  “I brush,” I said. I looked at the X ray, too, trying to figure out what it was that he was seeing.

  That’s when he said those words. Up until then, I’d never heard them directed at me, though I’d feared them. It was like hearing a jury say “Guilty.” He opened his mouth and told me, “You have a cavity.”

  I felt my stomach try to leap out past my throat. My lungs went flat and fluttered like deflated balloons. My intestines started dancing. “A cavity?” Maybe I’d misheard him. Maybe he’d asked me if I had a canary. Maybe he asked if I had a favorite charity.

  Dr. Peterson nodded. “Yes, a cavity. Fortunately for you, I had a cancellation. You won’t have to wait. We can take care of it right now.”

  “Uh, maybe I should come back . . .”

  “Michael,” he said, “it’s best to get it over with. It’s not that bad. Honest. Now, you have a choice. If you don’t like needles, I can just drill the cavity. That will hurt a little. Or I can give you a shot. The shot will hurt for a tiny bit, but then you won’t feel any pain when I drill.”

  What a choice. “No shot,” I said. But as the words left my lips, I thought about sitting there while he dug inside my mouth with a power tool. The idea of him making a hole in my tooth was more than I wanted to deal with. “Wait, I’ll take the shot.”

  “You sure?”

  I nodded. I almost changed my mind when I saw the size of the needle. It looked like something my mom would use to put icing on cookies. The needle got bigger and bigger as he brought it near me. Then it turned fuzzy as it got too close for my eyes to focus on. When he gave me the shot, it stung for a second. But once it was over, I had to admit the experience wasn’t as bad as I’d thought it would be.

  In a few minutes, my mouth was numb. Not long after that, Dr. Peterson had drilled and filled my cavity.

  “All set,” he told me after I’d done one final rinse and spit. “But be careful for the next hour or two. Your mouth is going to be numb. Watch your tongue. Be careful you don’t bite it.”

  “Okay.” I climbed out of the chair. One side of my mouth was totally numb. My tongue didn’t have any feeling, either. I wondered if I was drooling.

  “Not too bad, right?” Dr. Peterson said as I left the room.

  “For you,” I said. “What else do you do for fun—stomp on baby animals?”

  Yikes. I don’t know why I’d said that. Dr. Peterson just stood there with his mouth open—which was a switch since it’s usually not the dentist who has his mouth open. I turned away from him and left the office. I hoped he wasn’t the sort to hold a grudge. I didn’t want him angry with me the next time he started poking around inside my mouth with those sharp tools.

  But I was happy to be outside and free. Mom had dropped me off on her way to the store, and I had to walk home. It wasn’t far. I hadn’t gone more than half a block when this guy came up to me and asked if I knew where Thurston Street was.

  “What do I look like? A tour guide?” I clamped my jaw shut, not believing what had come out of my mouth.

  “Well, aren’t you a rude little brat,” the man said before he walked off.

  I had this sudden fear that I’d bitten my tongue and didn’t even know it. That thought was enough to make me unclamp my teeth. I touched my tongue, then looked at my finger. There was no blood. That was good.

  But something was wrong. I was saying stuff I never would have dreamed of saying. I couldn’t control my tongue. It had to be the shot. I knew I’d be fine as soon as it wore off. Yeah, that’s all I had to do—wait until the numbness was gone. After that, everything would be okay. And if I was ever unlucky enough to need another filling, I’d just skip the needle.

  A couple of hours—that’s what Dr. Peterson had said. I’d just go home and stay inside until then.

  “Hey, snothead, what’s new?”

  I looked up—right into a ton of trouble. Standing just two feet from me was Smasher Dolenze, the meanest bully in the school. The safest answer was something wimpy like, “Nothing. What’s new with you?” But I didn’t trust my tongue. I clamped my teeth shut.

  “What’s the matter, nerd boy? Got nothing to say?”

  I shook my head and clamped my jaw down even harder. I could feel the muscles in my neck straining.

  Smasher took a step closer to me. Now he was right in my face. “What’s wrong? Think you’re too good to talk to me?” He pushed me on the shoulder.

  I stepped back a step. He followed. “Is that it? Think you’re too good?”

  I shook my head again and tried to look innocent. Smasher jabbed his fingers into my stomach.

  He didn’t jab me hard, but it was enough to make me open my mouth. Once my mouth was open, it was all over. “You pathetic loser. You worthless bullying piece of garbage. You aren’t even fit to be seen with real humans.” It was all spilling out and I couldn’t stop it. “You low-life slime-faced monkey brain. I’ve seen better things than you on the bottom of my shoes. I’ve seen—”

  I couldn’t stop it, but Smasher could. I saw the punch flying toward me at ninety miles an hour. Then everything went black.

  For a moment, when I woke up, I had no idea where I was. Someone was in my face. I tried to get away.

  “Easy, there. Take it easy. Everything’s all right.”

  I recognized the voice. It was Dr. Peterson.

  “What happened?” My mouth hurt when I spoke. I must have been unconscious for a while. I could feel again. The novocaine was wearing off.

  “You’re a lucky boy,” Dr. Peterson said. “Somebody found you and brought you in here. The damage isn’t too bad. Everything can be fixed.”

  “I’ll be okay?”

  “Certainly. The bad news is that you’ll have to make five or six visits. There’s a lot of repair work for me to do. But there’s good news, too.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Well, we already know you aren’t afraid of a little needle. And that’s a good thing. The work I have to do would be very painful without novocaine. But lucky you, you don’t seem to have any problem getting a shot. That’s pretty good news, wouldn’t you say?”

  I nodded, but I really didn’t know what to say. Worse, I really didn’t know what I’d be saying later, either.

  A LITTLE NIGHT FISHING

  Wally Klein was a fishing nut. All us kids fished a bit—some more than others—but no one came close to Wally. He lived and breathed fishing the way other kids lived and breathed basketball or music or food. As much as he loved fishing, Wally never talked you to death on the subject. But if a kid came up to Wally and said, “My dad’s taking me up north for pike. What’s a good lure?” then Wally would talk for as long as anyone wanted to listen on the subject of pike lures or jigging techniques, or just about anything connected to fishing.

  So I wasn’t really surprised when he walked over to me on the playground and asked, “Want to go fishing?”

  I�
��d fished with him once in a while. It was fun. He seemed happy whether he caught fish or I caught fish, or even if we were just fishing and didn’t catch anything. “Where?” I asked.

  “New spot. Out past the old abbey.”

  Wally was always looking for new places to fish. I remember seeing a bunch of maps scattered on the floor of his room the last time I was there. The old abbey hadn’t been used for years. I think it belonged to a bunch of monks ages ago. “Sounds good. What time?”

  “Seven.”

  “Isn’t that a bit late? It’ll be dark by eight.”

  “Night fishing. You’ll like it.”

  “Okay, I’ll meet you in front of the school.”

  “Good.” Wally nodded and took off.

  I’d never gone night fishing. It sounded like fun. I hung around the playground for a while and shot some more hoops, then went home to get my stuff ready. I had a rod and reel my uncle had given me a few years back. It was a pretty good setup. And I had my own tackle box, crammed full of stuff I’d picked up over the years.

  I thought my folks might stop me from going out at night, but Dad just said, “Wish I could join you,” and Mom said, “Have a nice time, dear.”

  Wally was waiting for me at the school. “Here,” he said, handing me a small cooler. “You take this, and I’ll take the rods.”

  “Crawlers?” I asked.

  He nodded. “And a couple of sodas.”

  “Great. Is night fishing any different?” I asked.

  “Not much. You can’t see your line very well so you have to go by feel. The fish will hear the bait hit, then find it by smell, so there’s no problem there.” He went on, giving me a mini-education in the art of night fishing as we walked up the hill to the old abbey.

  We went past the building, then turned down a small path that led to some woods. “This way,” Wally said, disappearing among the trees.

  “Wait up.” The setting sun cast just enough light so I could see him ahead of me. We walked for ten or fifteen minutes, then broke into a clearing near a large pond. I could just make out the opposite bank, maybe fifty yards away.

  “I’d guess it’s about six acres,” Wally said, anticipating my question. “There’s a whole world under that water—a whole world we aren’t part of.” Wally almost sounded sad when he said that. I passed him the cooler. He pulled out two containers of night crawlers, put one in the pocket of his fishing vest, and gave the other one to me.

  I pried up the lid and grabbed a crawler, then baited my hook with the large, plump worm. I lost sight of my bait as the cast went out, then heard a splash in the distance when the worm hit the water. I got a nibble almost immediately. Moments later, I had my first fish—a largemouth bass. “Nice spot,” I said to Wally as I unhooked the bass and put it back in the water.

  “I think it’s special here,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s like something is calling to me. I feel like I belong here.”

  I had no idea what he meant. I went back to fishing. We both caught a lot of bass at first. And some catfish. The action lasted for about an hour. I hooked something real strong, but my line broke. Then things died down. We didn’t get a bite for a long time.

  “Ready to quit?” I asked.

  “Not yet. I think I’m getting a nibble.” He said nothing for a moment, then shouted, “Whoa, big hit!”

  I watched his rod bend. Wally held on with two hands. Something had grabbed his bait, something that had no plans to come in without a fight. Wally took a step forward, his foot just touching the edge of the water. He pulled back on the rod, then reeled in as he lowered the tip, gaining a bit of line. But he soon lost what he’d gained when the line started feeding out again.

  “This is the one,” he said. “This is the fish I’ve been waiting for all my life.”

  It was weird. The line wasn’t ripping out fast like there was a fish trying to get away—it was spooling out slowly. Wally fought back, bringing in more line. He took another step forward. His whole right foot was in the water now, up to the ankle. I didn’t think he noticed.

  “Wally, you’re getting wet.”

  He paid no attention. He just held on to the rod, cranked a bit, then stepped forward again.

  Both feet were in the water.

  “Wally, you’re going to ruin those shoes.” It sounded pretty stupid, but I had no idea what to say to get through to him. “Come on, Wally, let it go.”

  He stepped forward. The water was almost up to his right knee.

  “Wally!” I tried to pry the rod from his hands. His fingers were locked so hard I couldn’t move them at all. Whatever was on the other end of that line, I could feel its strength through the rod. It scared me enough to make me let go and back off.

  Wally mumbled something. I wasn’t sure what he said, but it sounded like, “It wants me.”

  I ran for my tackle box. I threw the lid open and fumbled for my knife. Wally might kill me for doing it, but I was going to cut the line. A sharp sting shot through my hand. One of my lures snagged my palm. I yanked the hook out, ignored the pain, and kept looking. There—I found the knife. The stupid blade was rusted stuck. After breaking the nail on my index finger, I finally got the knife open. I turned back to Wally.

  He was gone.

  A ripple spread across the water in the moonlight. I didn’t even think. I just jumped in and tried to follow the muddy bottom of the pond. The water made the blackness complete. I couldn’t see anything. I could only feel around. Over and over, dive, swim, breathe, dive again. . . . Nothing. I finally crawled out and collapsed on the bank.

  As soon as I got my breath back, I ran toward town. The closest place I could stop for help was the fire station. They organized a search. Everyone tried their best. All they ever found was his rod. There was no line left on the reel.

  I stayed away for a month, but I knew I had to go back. And I knew it had to be at night. I stood by the water, thinking about what had happened. There’s only one way I can explain it to myself. While Wally was fishing for bass, something down there was fishing for Wally. And, just like Wally wasn’t mean or evil, maybe whatever got him wasn’t mean or evil, either. Maybe he was caught because he belonged down there. I was thinking about this, and wondering whether it was a crazy idea, when I saw him.

  At first, I thought it was a trick of the moonlight, but then I knew it was real. He was under the water, looking up, pressing his hands against the surface like it was glass or a mirror. He opened his mouth and spoke.

  No sound came out, but I could tell what he was saying. “Join me.”

  I almost ran. But in my heart, I knew that if I ran, I’d be running for the rest of my life. So I waited. It might have been minutes. It might have been hours. Time didn’t exist on the water that night. I waited until Wally sank back down. Or maybe he faded. I’m not sure which it was. Either way, he was gone. I stood there until the sun began to rise above the woods, thinking about Wally. I thought about Wally, and fishing, and life. Then I left.

  I fish a lot now. I guess it’s my way of keeping his memory alive. Sometimes, when I’m near water, I still hear him calling.

  PRECIOUS MEMORIES

  Dad’s going to kill me. I can’t believe I did it. It was so stupid. But it was an accident. I was running out of the house, late for basketball practice, when I remembered that they were showing Frankenstein on cable. So I threw in a tape and set the VCR. It wasn’t until I got home and checked the tape that I saw what I’d done. I could feel all the blood drain from my skin as I held the tape in my hand and read the label—YELLOWSTONE NATIONAL PARK, SUMMER VACATION, followed by the date.

  I’d just taped over one of Dad’s vacation videos. This was serious. Dad spent just about every minute of our vacations with the video camera in his hands. He’d gotten the camera before I was born. I think he was the only parent in the neighborhood who hadn’t gone digital. It was a big old thing, and he lugged it everywhere we went. I
t was almost like he didn’t even know whether he’d had a fun vacation until he looked at the videos. Nothing was real for him until he saw it on television.

  And now I’d wiped out Yellowstone Park.

  There was no way I could hide it from him. He looked at the tapes all the time. He was always going through them and making special tapes by combining clips from lots of vacations. He’d been working on a state park tape for a couple weeks. He didn’t even do it on the computer. He used a couple VCRs he’d hooked together.

  My best chance was to tell him the news when he was in a good mood. Mom was making lasagna tonight, so I figured Dad would be stuffed and happy after dinner.

  “Dad, I had an accident,” I told him as he burped and pushed his plate away.

  “What kind of accident, Ricky?” he asked, glancing toward me like he was about to go to sleep.

  “One of your tapes . . .”

  His eyes shot open. “Which tape?”

  “Yellowstone,” I said, my voice dropping to just above a whisper.

  “Yellowstone?” Dad frowned. “I’d love to go there some day. But I don’t have any tapes of it.”

  “But we went there back in . . .” I stopped and tried to remember. I could have sworn we’d been there, but now I couldn’t find a single memory.

  “Help your mother with the dishes,” Dad said.

  “Sure.” I might have been puzzled, but more than that, I was relieved. I wasn’t going to get punished.

  The next day, I erased Williamsburg. I’d had a rotten time on that vacation. I had some sort of stomach virus. All I wanted to do was throw up, and Mom kept dragging me around to look at candle makers and all this other colonial stuff.

  As soon as I started recording over the tape, the memory began to fade. It was as if the bad experience had never happened.

  “Dad?” I asked at dinner that night.

  “Yes?”

  “Have you ever wanted to go to Williamsburg?”