by R. McGeddon
“First up is a man who needs no introduction, but I’m required to give him one by law, so I suppose I’d better,” announced the deputy mayor (or the DM as I’m going to call him from now on, because I’m lazy like that). “He’s old, he used to be in the army, and he’s largely responsible for killing half the town when they turned into zombies that one time. Ladies and gentlemen … Major Muldoon!”
A gray-haired man with a toilet brush ’stache took a sharp pace forward and fired off a crisp salute.
“Indeed! Tally-ho, what?” barked Major Muldoon. “Blast those zombies, I did, by jove! Took their heads clean off. Bang! Bang! Brains everywhere. You see, you’ll always be safe if you vote for me. Make me Mayor Major Muldoon and you can all sleep more soundly in your beds, what?”
“They found a cure, though,” called a voice from the crowd. “They’d have been fine if you hadn’t blown their heads off.”
“You shot my grandma,” grumbled someone else. “And I’m not even sure she was a zombie.”
An unhappy murmuring began to spread through the crowd. The DM stepped up and nudged the major aside. “Next, let’s hear from someone with a strong view on education. It’s Tribbler the Dribbler!”
Sam, Emmie, and Arty snorted out a laugh as their teacher’s face contorted in anger.
“No!” yelped the DM. “I mean, Miss Tribbler. Not … I didn’t … The dribbling’s none of my business!”
“Oh, shut up,” snapped Miss Tribbler, elbowing the DM out of the way. “Greetings, friends,” she said, and a fine rain of saliva showered the first three rows of the audience. “A vote for Tribbler is a vote for the future. I believe education is key, which is why I’ll be introducing mandatory adult education for everyone in town, with double homework on weekends. It’ll be utterly fabulous!”
An enterprising member of the crowd began selling overpriced waterproof ponchos to the people around him.
“We don’t want to do homework!” protested a voice from the crowd.
“Me am clever enough!” agreed another.
The DM took that as his cue to bring on the next candidate. Before he could introduce her, she snatched the microphone from his hands and flashed a hundred-watt smile at the audience.
“Like, having me as mayor would be so awesome,” trilled a blond-haired girl in an expensive designer dress.
Emmie groaned. “Phoebe.”
“What’s she doing here?” said Sam.
“Vote for me and I totally swear there’ll be free spa treatments for everyone,” Phoebe shrieked. “Unless, you know, you’re way ugly, in which case what’s the point? Anyway, if you are ugly—and I can see a few of you in the audience today—I’m afraid you will be asked to leave town.”
“Oh, sit down, Phoebe,” snarled Emmie. “You’re twelve. You’re not even old enough to vote, never mind run in an election.”
“She, for example, will be the first to go,” sneered Phoebe, but then she dropped the microphone and hid behind Major Muldoon when Emmie made a lunge for her.
The crowd was growing uneasy. The last mayor was bad, but this group was even worse. Any one of them would be a disaster for Sitting Duck.
“Which brings me to our final candidate here with us today,” announced the DM.
“Here goes,” said Sam, and he realized he was suddenly feeling nervous as his dad smiled warmly and gave the crowd a wave.
“Samuel Saunders Senior,” began the DM. He looked at his notepad and frowned. “Who I don’t have any information on whatsoever.”
“No, I expect you don’t, Mr. Deputy Mayor,” said Mr. Saunders. “You see, I’m no one special. I’m just a husband and a father who loves his town.”
The crowd fell silent and listened. Sam felt embarrassed and proud at the same time as he watched his dad addressing the gathered townsfolk.
“I believe in Sitting Duck,” Sam Sr. continued. “I believe we have something special here.” He pointed to a woman in the crowd. “Like your electric wig business, Mrs. Winkins. What other town in the country can boast one of those?”
Mrs. Winkins smiled shyly as the people around her clapped her on the back and mumbled their appreciation.
“Or our giant bee statue, made entirely out of smaller bees all glued together,” said Mr. Saunders. “Or the custard pond. Or trees. Where else can you find those things? Nowhere. Nowhere but Sitting Duck.”
“Except the trees,” said the DM. “They’re quite common.”
“But our trees aren’t just trees, they’re Sitting Duck trees,” said Mr. Saunders, and the crowd cheered at that. “And that makes them the best darned trees in the world!”
The audience was completely on his side now. They hugged one another and exchanged high fives. Some of them even cried, the soppy fools.
“We live in an amazing place, which is why the producers of that alien invasion film chose to shoot it here,” said Sam Sr.
Emmie leaned closer to Sam and whispered. “Wait, he still doesn’t know that was real?”
“Not a clue,” said Sam.
“Sitting Duck is amazing,” Mr. Saunders cried, and the first few rows rushed forward to hoist him up onto their shoulders. “And with your vote I’ll do everything in my power to keep it that way!”
Sam watched in amazement as his dad was carried off along the street on a sea of supporters.
“You know,” said Arty, “I think your old man might just have a chance.”
* * *
Sam and Arty’s Election Pledges
You’ve heard from the four candidates in the Sitting Duck mayoral election … but what if Sam and Arty were running for office? Here are just a few of the promises they’d make to win your votes:
• No homework. Ever.
• No school, either, for that matter.
• Free game consoles for everyone under 14.
• Adult-free areas of town where grown-ups are not allowed.
• Big brothers to be rounded up, encased in concrete, then tossed into the sea.
• All dads are forbidden from dancing.
• As are all moms.
• Vegetables to be outlawed. Especially the green ones.
• Free French fries for anyone named Arty.
* * *
CHAPTER THREE
The next day, Arty ran for his life.
His legs pumped, his chest heaved, colorful spots of light danced before his eyes, but still he ran. Behind him, sharp yellow teeth snapped hungrily, closing in with each passing second.
“Dog!” he yelped, hurling himself over a garden gate and landing in a clumsy heap on the pavement.
A bundle of flyers encouraging people to vote for Sam’s dad slipped from his bag and began to blow all over the road. Arty hurriedly grabbed for them as, on the other side of the gate, an angry Chihuahua yelped and snarled.
A car pulled up beside him and Sam hopped out of the back. Sam was wearing a brightly colored button with his dad’s face on it. He helped Arty gather up the flyers, then they both hopped back inside the car.
“That was close,” Arty panted. Sam’s dad turned around in the front seat.
“Wow, sorry about that, Arty,” he said. “I really appreciate you helping like this. It wasn’t my intention to put you in danger.”
Arty nodded. “It’s okay, Mr. Saunders. I handled it. I eat danger for breakfast.”
“And cake,” Sam reminded him.
“Oh yeah. I eat danger and cake for breakfast.”
Sam reached over onto the front passenger seat and came back with two megaphones. He held one out to Arty and grinned. “Shall we?”
“Seat belts, boys,” said Mr. Saunders as he slowly began to drive toward home.
With a clunk and a click, Sam and Arty strapped themselves in, then they wound down their windows, poked their megaphones out, and began to drum up support.
“Vote Saunders,” urged Arty. “He’s never shot your zombified loved ones in the face.”
“Or spat on your children
,” added Sam.
“Samuel!” said his dad, but he smiled because he’s got a pretty good sense of humor for an adult, which is reason enough to vote for him if you ask me.
“A vote for Mr. Saunders is a vote for…” Arty began, then he drew a blank. “Er … Mr. Saunders,” he concluded. “Sorry,” he whispered. “I probably should have thought that one through.”
“Don’t worry, Arty, you’re doing great,” said Sam’s dad. “Now let’s get back home. The television coverage is about to start!”
* * *
It was strange for Sam to see his dad on local TV. He was so used to seeing him sitting at the breakfast table in his pajamas or gardening in his scruffy overalls that he barely recognized his old man there on-screen, all spick-and-span, and looking like a proper grown-up.
Sam and Arty were sitting on the couch, Sam’s parents wedged around them on either side. A small group of supporters knelt around the coffee table, drawing posters, designing flyers, and making more buttons. They all gave a little cheer whenever Mr. Saunders’s name was mentioned on the television.
* * *
Election Tips
Looking to get yourself elected as mayor/ president/king of the world? Here are some tips that may come in handy during your campaign:
DO smile warmly and naturally.
DON’T grimace and visibly twitch.
DO kiss voters’ babies and throw sticks for their dogs.
DON’T get these two things mixed up.
DO address voters as “sir” or “madam.”
DON’T get these two things mixed up, either.
DO listen to voters’ concerns.
DON’T offer them money to shut up.
* * *
Some Sitting Duck residents were being interviewed to get their thoughts on yesterday’s campaign speeches.
“So, who will you be voting for?” asked the reporter, thrusting a microphone into the face of a surprised-looking man.
“Yes,” he said.
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
The man frowned. “Sorry, can you ask me again?”
“Who will you be voting for?”
The man nodded. “Yes.”
The reporter sighed, then turned to someone else.
“Hey, that’s the security guard,” Sam said, recognizing the glazed-over eyes. And the machine gun.
“Who will you be voting for?” the presenter asked.
“Sitting Duck is good.”
“Right. Yes. But who will you be voting for?” asked the reporter, who sounded like she was rapidly approaching the end of her rope. “I mean, it’s not that difficult a question.”
“Questions are bad,” droned the guard. “Obedience is good.”
The reporter threw down her microphone. “Oh forget it,” she snapped, then she stormed off in a huff.
The screen changed to show the bronzed face of local news anchor Jock McGarry. He raised an eyebrow, wiggled his impressive mustache, and smiled, showing off teeth so white they actually went ting like they do in cartoons. It was amazing; you should have seen it.
“Some interesting insights there, thank you,” said Jock, in a voice like warm chocolate. “And now I bring you some exciting election news. It seems a fifth candidate has decided to enter the race to become mayor.”
* * *
Jock McGarry Character Profile
Name: Jock McGarry
Age: He says twenty-seven. I’d say closer to forty-seven, frankly.
Job: Best Darned News Anchor in the World!
Marital status: Divorced. Eight times.
Likes: Golf, shiny teeth, nodding at important things, Stephanie who does the weather, talking, sitting behind desks and shuffling papers.
Dislikes: Gavin from the sports desk, bad hair days, the price of spray tans these days.
Ambition: To discover a new type of news. Or to own a puppet. Either one.
* * *
Everyone in Sam’s house leaned forward and listened intently.
“Ladies and gentlemen—but especially the ladies,” said Jock with a wink. “We now bring you live to the home of renowned scientist Doctor Noah Goode.”
A brief burst of static filled the screen, and then an altogether much less attractive man replaced Jock. Whereas Jock was tanned, broad-shouldered, and chiseled-looking, this man was pale with skinny arms (although he did look as if someone had taken a chisel to his face at some point).
One eye seemed to be set almost an inch higher than the other. It couldn’t seem to agree with the other one on which direction to look, either. They both pointed opposite ways as if they’d had a nasty argument.
The man’s back was hunched and bent. It bulged up at the shoulders beneath his white lab coat, making him look as if his head was emerging from somewhere in his chest.
It was fair to say he was not a good-looking man, and had Phoebe been there she would almost certainly have barfed and fainted, and not necessarily in that order.
“People of Sitting Duck, I am Doctor Goode,” he began. “For weeks now, my teams have been working to rebuild the Town Hall, utilizing state-of-the-art equipment of my own design.”
“Hey, I’ve heard about this guy,” said Sam’s mom. “Doesn’t he live in that old dormant volcano outside of town?”
“What?” spluttered Sam. “There’s a volcano in Sitting Duck?”
“Yes, Mount Crumble,” said his mom. “I thought everyone knew.”
“I did,” Arty confirmed.
Sam tutted. “Nobody tells me anything.”
On-screen, Dr. Goode continued his speech. “With my help, though, we can do more than rebuild. We can expand. We can be better than we are. Vote for me in tomorrow’s election and I shall not merely give you ‘my best,’ I shall give you the world!”
Sam’s dad chuckled. “Typical election posturing,” he said. “Big talk now, then it all gets forgotten.”
“He doesn’t have a chance,” said Mrs. Saunders. “I mean, who’s going to vote for a creepy old scientist living in a volcano?”
Arty slowly raised a hand.
“Well, fortunately you’re not old enough to vote,” said Mrs. Saunders, ruffling his hair. “Oh no, this isn’t a problem. Perhaps if we were electing a new Bond villain he’d have a chance, but mayor? I don’t think so.”
“Yeah, he’s just weird,” agreed Sam. He got up to turn off the TV, and that’s when he noticed that Dr. Goode had pulled on a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. They were not a good look for him. If those glasses were a fashion statement, that statement would simply be “No.”
Sam reached for the power switch. But, just before he pressed it, on-screen a little antenna popped up from one side of Dr. Goode’s glasses. The lenses darkened, then began to swirl with a strange spiral pattern. Sam recognized it as the pattern from the truck that had almost flattened Arty.
The mad scientist was still talking—something about votes and being good—but Sam could now barely hear him. Instead, all his attention was focused on that swirly pattern in the glasses. It seemed to pull him in, drawing him closer and closer to the television. He couldn’t take his eyes away; he couldn’t hear himself think.
The floor beneath Sam’s feet seemed to spin. He felt the ceiling slide away. And then there was the sensation of falling. And then there was a thud as he hit the carpet.
And then … there was nothing at all.
CHAPTER FOUR
The next day was Election Day! There was a BBQ! And flags! And a rigidly controlled voting process overseen by a hard-working team of independently appointed officials! It was a fun day out for all the family, if they a) liked that sort of thing and b) were all over eighteen years of age, because a mayoral election is no place for children, thank you very much.
Sam, Arty, and Emmie were on their way for another day of sports club. This time Emmie took the lead, but every time she marched ahead she was forced to wait for Sam and Arty to catch up.
“You see the election c
overage yesterday?” Emmie asked. Sam and Arty both grunted in reply. “I only saw the first few seconds before Great Aunt Doris told me that TV was bad for me and sent me to bed. The mad bat said it would rot my teeth.”
Emmie looked at the boys, hoping for some sort of reaction. They shuffled on, barely half awake.
“Did you two stay up late watching it or something?” she asked. “You look tired.”
Sam and Arty gave themselves a shake and seemed to come around.
“What?” said Sam. “Sorry, yeah, just feeling a bit out of it today. We did watch the election stuff.…”
He turned to Arty. “Didn’t we?”
“Yes,” said Arty. “I mean … probably. I’m pretty sure we did. It’s all just a bit of a haze.”
“That exciting, was it?” said Emmie, smirking. “Glad I missed it.”
A car drew up beside them and Sam’s dad leaned out. “Morning all,” he said. “Have fun at the sports club. That’s me off to the polling booth. Fingers crossed!”
“You’ll do great,” Sam told him.
“Yeah, we have total faith,” agreed Arty.
Emmie smiled encouragingly. “Good luck, Mr. Saunders.”
At that, a glazed expression fell over Sam’s dad’s face. “Goode is good,” he said, his voice little more than a low drone.
“Goode is good,” chimed Arty and Sam together. Their faces wore the same glazed expression as Mr. Saunders’s, and their bodies snapped to attention. Emmie felt a shiver run the length of her spine.
“Um … are you guys okay?”
“Never better,” said Mr. Saunders, snapping out of it. “See you all later!”
“Bye!” said Arty.
“See ya,” said Sam.
Emmie peered at them as Mr. Saunders drove off, unsure of what had just happened.
“Er … why are you staring at me?” asked Arty.
