Wipeout of the Wireless Weenies

by David Lubar

  The opening-day limit was six fish. When Brian caught his fourth, I noticed a couple people had stopped fishing and moved behind us to watch him.

  After landing two small trout and three more bluegills, Brian caught his fifth keeper. “Admit it,” he said. “I’m the best.”

  There was almost no room to move now. Half the people on the stream had become spectators. One of them became a bit more than that. Nobody saw who did it, but someone gave Brian a push right when he was about to cast.

  He tumbled off the bank into the creek. It wasn’t deep where he fell, and it wasn’t fast, but it was cold.

  He let out a scream as he scrambled back onto the bank. I would have loved to capture that on video. He’d be at my mercy for the rest of his life. People spread out to give him room to scramble back onto the bank. He grabbed his tackle box and creel bag, and raced for his bike. I figured he was eager to get somewhere warm.

  Everyone else went back to fishing. It felt like some sort of invisible tension had evaporated from the air. I looked down. Brian had left his jar of magic bait behind. I picked it up and slipped it into a side pocket on my fishing vest.

  After the water settled down from Brian’s belly flop, Xavier caught his third fish. I still had just one. I touched the jar in my pocket. I could use it, and win. But there was no way I’d do that. I wasn’t afraid of getting knocked into the water. I was smart enough to know it was a bad idea to use it on every cast and get a bunch of attention. But that’s not what stopped me. It was the magic that stopped me.

  Catching a fish whenever I wanted, without any need for skill or even luck? No thanks. That would take all the magic out of fishing.

  SWIM SAFETY

  Karlie licked the last bits of peanut butter from the side of her thumb, then hopped off the blanket where she’d been sitting while she ate her sandwich.

  “Where are you going?” her mom asked.

  She pointed at the ocean. “Swimming.” Where else would I be going?

  “You just ate,” her mom said.

  “So?”

  “You’ll get cramps,” her dad said.

  “No, I won’t. That’s a myth or something,” Karlie said. “We learned all about it in health class.” Or maybe she’d read it on the Internet or in one of her magazines. She couldn’t remember for sure.

  “It’s better to be safe,” her mom said.

  “It’s better not to miss out on fun,” Karlie said. “Come on. Nothing will happen.” She looked at the surf, where dozens of kids, bobbing in the waves, were playing, laughing, screaming, and having a lot more fun than she was. She knew some of them must have just eaten. And they all seemed fine.

  “Look at that!” she yelled to her parents. “That boy’s eating a hot dog. And he’s in the water.”

  She couldn’t believe someone would do that. But if it helped her get what she wanted, she was happy to point it out.

  Her mom opened her mouth, like she was going to keep arguing, but then she sighed and said, “All right. Just be careful. And don’t go too far out.”

  “I won’t.” Karlie raced for the water before her parents could change their minds. She waded past the boy with the hot dog, who had mustard smeared on his chin, and the other boys and girls who were playing near shore. The water stayed shallow for a long way, so she could go far past them.

  As the water lapped above her belly, she noticed a blob of peanut butter on the side of her bathing suit. She wiped it off, then rubbed her fingers in the water.

  I don’t think sharks eat peanut butter, she thought. She wasn’t worried. There weren’t any sharks near this beach.

  But something moved in the water. Karlie froze and tried to figure out what it was.

  “Ewww…,” she said when she realized it was a small jellyfish. The transparent creature was barely visible, more a suggestion than a reality. Karlie stepped away from it. “Okay—one jellyfish isn’t a big deal,” she said.

  But it wasn’t just one. More showed up, clustering near the first one. And then, as Karlie backed farther away, even more drifted toward her. She spun around and saw she was surrounded. The sea on all sides of her was filled with jellyfish.

  They closed in on her. The thought of touching them made her gag. But she had to get to shore. She tried to wade through them. They clung to her. She realized she was lucky they weren’t the kind that stung. As the water lapped at her, they rose, clinging higher and higher on her bathing suit. They were up to her shoulders now. She was covered with jellyfish.

  The weight pulled at her. She opened her mouth to scream, but something flowed into it, stifling her scream before it could emerge from her throat. It had a familiar and unexpected flavor. As her face got closer to the water, she noticed that the jellyfish surrounding her weren’t totally transparent. They had a tinge of color. They were light purple, like they were made of grape jelly.

  The peanut butter, she thought as the weight of the jellyfish pulled her beneath the surface of the water. That’s what had attracted them.

  Karlie realized her parents were right: It was dangerous to swim after eating.

  DRAWN THAT WAY

  “You need to slay your own demons.”

  That’s what my art teacher always used to say. I took lessons from him for three years. Mostly pencil drawing, because that’s what I like the best, but also a bit of acrylic painting and some pen-and-ink. Then, one day, he packed up his stuff and left town. I guess he had his own demons to deal with.

  I suppose the saying could mean a lot of different things. I think it meant you had to solve your own problems, or maybe deal with the stuff that really scared you and held you back. Until recently, I didn’t think about it all that much. But then, about a month ago, I started having bad dreams. I’d see this creature walking down a dark road, miles away from my house, sort of like I was seeing him through binoculars. Even far off, as soon as my eyes focused on him, he could tell I was watching. And when he knew he had my attention, he’d whisper, “I’m coming for you.”

  I’m coming for you.

  The words froze my blood.

  He’s large. It’s hard to tell for sure, since there are no people in the scene. Based on the way he looks against the road, he’s at least seven feet tall. However tall he is, he’s definitely strong. His muscles look like thick ropes beneath his skin.

  Darkness robs color. You can’t tell cobalt blue from royal purple at night, not even in dreams. But the tones that splash across his body seem, in the moonlight, to suggest shades leaning more toward red than green. It’s a dull red, like old, spilled blood. His eyes aren’t dull. They glow with pits of yellow fire that surround deep black pupils. His nose is a gash that looks like it was dug from his face with a pickax.

  His claws are jet black, too. As are his teeth.

  When I wake from each nightmare, frozen in terror, I can see that the time is always around 2 A.M.

  At first, I assumed the dreams would go away. I’ve had my share of bad dreams. Even had some that shocked me awake, sweat drenched and screaming. Each of those nightmarish incidents had happened only once. These dreams were different. They’re as steady and dependable as the sunset. Only one thing changed from dream to dream. Each night, he got closer.

  At first, the background could have been anywhere. He was walking along the faded center stripe of a two-lane paved road. Gradually, I made out familiar portions of the landscape. First, I saw the water tower that rises to greet people when they drive into town on the west side. Then, the creature moved past the old dairy store, with its fallen-down barn and vine-covered silo. Eventually, he reached my neighborhood.

  I tried a variety of cures to banish the nightmares. On the chance that a full stomach was the cause, I skipped dinner. That wasn’t easy. I had to pretend I was sick to get away with that one. I went right up to bed, even though that was the last place I wanted to be. My mother watched me carefully the next day.

  “You seem pale,” she’d said.

  Of course I
’m pale. A demon is coming for me.

  I didn’t share my thoughts.

  I tried staying awake. You can’t dream when you’re awake, of course. But that’s not a long-term solution. And the more tired I was when I slept, the more frightening the inevitable dream.

  And, always, there were those words: I’m coming for you.

  Eventually, he reached my front door. I knew my next dream would be unbearable. I stayed awake for two nights. On the third evening, I realized my only hope was to try to slay my demon. I took my drawing pad and my pencils to bed with me. As the sun set, I started to draw.

  I sketched a rough outline first, just the way I’d been taught. The eye flows from left to right because that’s how we read. I put the monster on the right, full height, blocking the eye from leaving the page. I put myself, in armor, swinging a two-handed broadsword, on the left. The eye follows the sword from the hero to the target. I slay my demon.

  I draw, filling in the details. If I can draw it well enough—real enough—I know it will become real and I will slay the demon.

  As much as I am focused on my art, I also glance at the clock.

  Inevitably, 2 A.M. arrives.

  I keep drawing.

  Downstairs, the front door swings open. The nightmare progresses, though I am awake.

  I’ve finished the demon. I hurry to complete myself.

  The footsteps on the stairs move with excruciating slowness. I’m grateful for the time to finish my work, but I hate the drawn-out terror.

  My door bursts open.

  I roll from the bed and thrust the drawing in front of myself, using it as a talisman to slay the demon.

  He looks up at me.

  Up?

  His armor glows with the light of righteousness. I drop the pad and stare at my own hands, covered with dull-red flesh. I raise my clawed hands as he swings his broadsword.

  The sword strikes.

  I am slain.

  WIPEOUT OF THE WIRELESS WEENIES

  Clickita-clickita-tappity-tap-tap.

  It was all around me. Clicks, taps, and flashes of light rose from every seat as images of all sorts flickered across tiny screens. Everyone had a smartphone except me. All the kids in class had them. So did the teacher. She was so busy texting, she didn’t even notice all the other texters, surfers, and gamers. The whole world had turned into Wireless Weenies, sucking gigabytes of data out of the air.

  I looked down at my work sheet. Even there, I was the only student who wasn’t wirelessly wired to the Internet, with its wealth of answers and information. I had to do the work myself. So they all had lots of extra time for their phones after they did their work.

  It just wasn’t fair.

  I’d asked, begged, pleaded, and reasoned with my parents, trying to get a phone. I’d failed. The closest I ever got was, “We’ll see, Amanda.” More often, the answer was, “Not right now.” It all felt like “never.” As much as I mocked the Wireless Weenies, I wanted to be one of them.

  I was only about halfway through the work sheet when I noticed movement outside the window. Something was pushing up through the ground. The asphalt in the parking lot bulged. Cars started to slide as the hill rose higher. Finally, the ground burst open.

  A creature that looked sort of like a cross between a squid and an amoeba flowed through the cratered opening and rippled toward the school.

  “Hey!” I shouted.

  Everyone looked up from phones and mini tablets.

  “A monster!” I pointed out the window.

  “Awesome!” Danny Harker said. “I’ll put it on YouTube.” He raced out the door, followed by three other boys and two girls.

  Once they reached the parking lot, they ran toward the creature, their hands thrust out like vampire hunters wielding crosses. They captured some awesome video.

  Then the creature captured them. It wasn’t pretty, but it was pretty fast. It wrapped tentacles around them and pulled them into its flowing body.

  “Got it!” Tom Lanslow said, leaning out the window with his phone aimed at the creature.

  The creature kept coming, moving toward the school.

  There were some screams now, but there was a lot more clicking, scrolling, and tapping.

  “I’ll Google ‘squid monsters,’” Eric Loomis said, swiping his finger across the screen of his tablet.

  “No!” Mike Trujilo said, “go straight to Wikipedia. It’s way better.”

  “I have a monster ID app,” Braydon Clark said. He moved closer to the window and pointed the back of his phone at the creature.

  Eric and Mike crowded around Braydon, all furiously searching for information.

  Then all three were plucked from the window.

  “Get out of here!” I shouted toward the rest of the class.

  Nobody listened. They were all texting their friends, calling their parents, or searching for a way to survive a monster assault.

  I went up front to see what our teacher was doing. I glanced over her shoulder. She was on the teacher’s union Web site, looking up what the penalty was for abandoning her students.

  I’d seen enough. I headed for the hall. It was crowded with kids. They were all on their phones.

  I pushed my way through the crowds. “This way!” I shouted. “Go out the back. We’ll be safe if we head that way.” It was only a quarter mile to the park, which was bordered on one side by a dense stretch of woods. Unlike us, the creature wouldn’t be able to fit among the trees.

  Or would it?

  I had a moment of doubt. I looked around. There were plenty of kids with smartphones. Maybe one of them could look it up. What would be the best search term? Can giant squids get through forests? Squid flexibility?

  I shook my head. That was ridiculous. It was better to take my chances than waste time trying to find out.

  I heard a crash as the monster broke down the side of the building.

  “Come on!” I shouted one last time. “This way!”

  None of the Wireless Weenies followed me. I ran out the back door and headed for the woods.

  When I got there, I stopped to catch my breath.

  The school was a mess. The police showed up a couple minutes later. Then the army came in helicopters.

  The choppers had a pretty easy time destroying the monster. I saw a replay of it on the news that night.

  My parents were so relieved that I’d survived, they wouldn’t stop hugging me. I figured I could get anything I wanted, just by asking for it. I thought about asking for a phone. But that seemed pretty pointless now. There wasn’t anybody left for me to call.

  SHELL SHOCKED

  A midnight swim seemed like an awesome idea until the turtle bit me. It was just our second night at the cabins. There were seven of us. My brother Jake and I were there with our folks. Our neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Yawinski, were there with their three kids. The Flackners, who we run into every year, were there with Kent, and the Baldridges were there with Mitch. We were staying in the cabins for a whole month. My mom had to work during the week, but she came back for the weekends. So did Mr. Flackner.

  It was Kent who suggested we go for a swim. Our folks didn’t mind, as long as we promised to keep an eye on each other. The weather was clear. The air was warm. Only Mitch tried to weasel out of it.

  “It’s not safe,” he told Kent. “We won’t be able to see anything.”

  “No clouds tonight,” Kent said. “And the moon will be full. There will be plenty of light.” He was a big astronomy fan. He knew the constellations and even where to look to spot satellites. So I wasn’t surprised he kept track of the moon.

  “I’m not going,” Mitch said.

  So, naturally, when it started to get dark, the six of us grabbed him and carried him to the lake. But he got loose before we could throw him in.

  The sun was down by then. Kent was right—it was fun swimming in the dark. But then, about an hour later, when I was just floating on my back, staring up at the stars, something bit my foot, rig
ht on the heel.

  “Owwww!”

  I yelled and tried to stand up. That’s not possible in water that’s just deep enough to cover your head. I swam for shore, afraid I’d get bitten again.

  But I made it out okay.

  “What’s wrong?” Jake called.

  “Something bit me.” I climbed up on the bank and twisted my leg so I could see my heel. “It’s bleeding,” I said.

  “Maybe it’s time to get out,” Jake said.

  “It was probably a rock or something,” Kent said.

  “I guess.…” I wasn’t sure. I hated to leave, but I didn’t like the idea of another bite. Still, it wasn’t bleeding all that much. I’d cut myself worse than that sliding into second. I sat on the bank and watched the others swim. I figured I could hang out there until they got tired.

  Later, I saw something climb out of the water about fifty yards away. It was too far to tell for sure, but it looked like a large turtle. I didn’t feel like getting up and checking. I was feeling sort of tired. So I stayed where I was.

  Finally, everyone was ready to head back. I went right to sleep. I didn’t even think to look at my heel until the next morning. It wasn’t all that bad. I’d definitely been bitten, but the wound had closed up. I washed it when I went into the bathroom, but I figured that by then, it didn’t really matter. Any germs had already had plenty of time to do their damage. But it looked like I’d been lucky. There wasn’t even any swelling.

  We kidded Mitch about cutting out on us. But he’s a good guy, and the best ballplayer in the group, so we didn’t mock him too hard. The next time Kent suggested swimming at night, two or three days later, Mitch went right along. Nobody got bitten that time. Nobody got bitten the week after that, either.

  The vacation was almost over when Kent suggested one final nighttime swim. Once again, Mitch tried to get out of it.