Disaster Diaries_Cursed!

by R. McGeddon

  “Well, it took a while to build…,” Arty admitted.

  “And besides,” Sam continued, “this is a temporary measure, right? Once we get a handle on the situation, we’re going to save Sitting Duck like always. We’re heroes, remember.”

  Emmie and Arty nodded. They were good kids like that—always up for an adventure.

  * * *

  Emergency Bunker

  Have you ever wanted your own emergency bunker for a potential disaster in your town? Well, want no more! The bunker could be yours in just four small steps. Check out the special features in Arty’s bunker for inspiration:

  •  Twelve-inch-thick walls to survive nuclear blasts, atomic ants, and burrowing badgers. (Burrowing badgers are a menace.)

  •  A laser detection system to blast anything that comes within a ten-mile radius. (A couple of laser pens and a battery should do the trick.)

  •  A giant tropical fish tank for maximum dramatic impact. (Also, potential food supply?) Why not make your Emergency Bunker a lair a Bond villain would be proud of?

  •  An escape slide that extends even farther into the ground if things get really bad up top. (Caution: The center of the Earth has a tendency to be rather hot. Like, lava hot.)

  * * *

  Arty led them over to a bank of computer screens. They showed maps of Sitting Duck and real-time coverage of what was happening across the town. Green blobs dotted around the screen, monitoring the disease. It was obvious that the thing was spreading like wildfire; soon the whole town would be taken over, maybe even the world.

  “This thing is horrible,” Sam moaned.

  “Pfft,” said Emmie. “It would take more than a green blobby disease to incapacitate me.”

  “Well, it managed with everyone else,” said Arty. “And we still don’t know what it is.”

  “I’ll handle it,” said Emmie firmly. “Just point me in the right direction.”

  As well as being reinforced with nuclear-attack-proof steel and having enough food to last them a seriously long time, Arty’s bunker had a full library. Emmie went down a corridor and found herself in a plush wood-paneled room, complete with an open fireplace and leather armchairs.

  “Yeesh,” she said to herself. “Maybe the end of the world isn’t so bad after all.”

  She scanned the shelves and plucked out a volume that looked interesting: Dr. Cadaver’s Morbus Liber: Diseases, Sneezes, and

  Bacteria-Carrying Weasels. It promised to chronicle every disease known to man or beast, so Emmie lugged the bricklike book to a table and got to work.

  She flicked through the index and tried to find the symptoms she already knew: green spots on the face and weird, jerky body movements like a pirate jig. She ran her fingers down the myriad entries and got excited when she discovered one that looked just right: Jumping Toad Fever.

  “‘Jumping Toad Fever,’” she read out loud. “‘Symptoms: green spots, jerky body movements. Ends with patient’s skin turning to slime. Cure: bucket of salt and a warm bath.’”

  Emmie frowned—the last symptom of Jumping Toad Fever didn’t seem quite right. She read out the next entry.

  “‘Green Apple Coughing Tree,’” Emmie began. “‘Symptoms include: green spots, jerky body movements. Ends when the victims cough up just enough apples to make a delicious sauce—goes lovely with a nice side of pork!’”

  “Arghh…,” Emmie grumbled. “That’s not it, either.”

  Suddenly, she heard a noise from the other room. It sounded like Sam was cheering. She raced back through the bunker’s corridors to the main room, where she found Sam punching the air.

  “Have you found out something?” she gasped. “What is it?”

  Sam looked sheepish.

  “Erm, no. I just beat Arty at Ping-Pong,” he said, gently putting down the paddle on the table and moving backward away from Emmie.

  Emmie exploded. I mean, not literally, but still. Good thing the bunker was bombproof, fireproof and volcanoproof, because Emmie lit up like a mixture of all three.

  “Have you not noticed we’ve got a town to save?” she blared.

  Arty and Sam looked ashamed and followed Emmie into the bunker’s library to bury their noses in a couple of books for a few hours. Sadly for Sam, Emmie noticed what he was reading and was even less impressed. In his hands was a leather-bound version of Armitage Caruthers: Tales from the High Seas. While Emmie had been researching diseases, Sam had been in an historical world of heroes and villains.

  “And what is that?” she demanded, snatching at the book. (Honestly … you don’t want to get on the wrong side of Emmie. Didn’t I tell you she has a temper?)

  Sam protested. “It’s research, too! I just got distracted.” He snatched the book back and held it aloft so Emmie couldn’t reach it.

  “In fact,” he said, with a note of triumph in his voice, “I think I’ve found something.”

  He excitedly flipped the pages. The book described Armitage Caruthers’s journey across the Atlantic, the different pirates he fought, and the storms that lashed the ship along the way. But the most important part was about the Silver Mallard, the ship that Caruthers and his men were sailing in, and the one that Mayor Saunders and Mr. Tweedy from the museum had restored for Sitting Duck’s 350th birthday celebrations.

  “‘A mysterious disease wiped out the crew, leaving the ship in grave danger,’” Sam read. “‘Strange green spots appeared on the men, for which no known reason could be imagined.…’”

  Arty and Emmie looked at each other in alarm.

  Sam swelled to the big finish. “‘There could be but one explanation,’” he read. “‘The Silver Mallard was cursed!’”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Arty and Emmie burst into spasms of laughter. They heaved up and down like bouncy castles letting out all their air at once, their guffaws echoing around the concrete bunker.

  “A curse?” Arty scoffed. “You do know there’s no such thing, right?”

  “That’s basically magic,” Emmie added. “It’s right up there with witches and broomsticks and goblins and friendly teachers. They don’t exist!”

  Sam’s face turned pink. He didn’t like being told he was wrong, especially when it was about his hero, Armitage Caruthers, and the founding of Sitting Duck.

  “It’s true,” he said desperately, reading the story out loud. “Listen to this.”

  According to the legend, Armitage Caruthers and his men had found a lost island in the middle of the Atlantic. It wasn’t on any of the maps, but it was covered in tall trees with emerald-green leaves and beautiful white sandy beaches. So, desperate for supplies, Armitage and his men decided to use it as a stopping point in their long journey.

  But what they found surprised them. On the rocky coast of the northern side of the island, there were caves and tunnels filled with treasure beyond their wildest dreams. We’re talking gold and rubies piled in heaps, crowns with diamonds encrusted in them, and swords with silver handles. The pirates thought that all their holidays—and birthdays and double rainbows—had come at once.

  So, they set about loading as much of the golden treasure on board as they possibly could. The sailors worked day and night to clear out the caves and pile all the goodies onto the Silver Mallard. But what they didn’t know was that the treasure belonged to mermaids and mermen—but remember, everyone, merfolk are evil. The merfolk knew all about the thieving sailors—in fact Armitage Caruthers had once been imprisoned by the queen of the merfolk herself for impersonating a monkfish. So, they’d placed a curse upon the jewels. Anyone who touched the treasure of would be cursed for all eternity. Ugly green spots like precious emeralds would appear on their faces, they’d dance uncontrollably like the unruly pirates that they were, and, finally, they would turn to stone. The curse would spread, and no one would be spared.

  Once Caruthers realized the jewels were cursed, he was left with no choice but to leave the treasure untouched on the boat. Even when he finally sailed into Sittin
g Duck Port, the men weren’t allowed to take it with them.

  “The mermaids and mermen called the curse the ‘Sailor’s Sleep’!” Sam finished breathlessly. “When Tweedy and his men restored the ship, they must have unleashed the curse once again!”

  This time, Arty and Emmie didn’t laugh. Even though it sounded like a wild tale the likes of which they’d never heard before, the curse did sound like the disease that was spreading around Sitting Duck. And it did happen just after the Silver Mallard arrived, newly restored, in the Sitting Duck docks. If it were true, then they were dealing with something much scarier than what Emmie found in Dr. Cadaver’s Morbus Liber, something that the world had not seen in hundreds of years.

  Suddenly, a loud BLEEP broke the silence. They rushed over to see to Arty’s flashing and whirring computer system. Arty pored over the data and system messages.

  “The disease has peaked, and the infection level is falling,” Arty cried. “It looks like it’s safe to go outside.”

  The three friends looked at one another. If they stayed inside, they could play Ping-Pong and stay nice and warm by the fire, no problemo. But, of course, they weren’t those kind of kids. They all knew it was time to get ready to ship out.

  “Whatever we find out there,” said Sam, “we’ll face it together.”

  Sam picked up his backpack and shoved his baseball bat in there. Emmie gathered her things and ripped a couple of pages out of the medical book to take with her. Arty, good old Arty, he ran and got the one thing that mattered most: his Swiss Barmy Knife.

  “What is that?” Emmie asked.

  “Oh, this?” Arty said proudly. “It’s like an army knife, but it’s a barmy knife. It has every possible attachment you could think of: a knife, a spoon, keys, a lollipop, a feather duster…”

  Emmie zoned out as Arty continued to list all the useless things on his so-called “knife.” Sam snapped them both to attention.

  “Let’s get out of here, guys—we haven’t got all day!”

  Arty punched in the code to the security system, did his funny little dance and stuck out his tongue, and the steel door to the bunker swung open. The three friends made their way up the spiral stairs and out through the grass-covered trapdoor they’d entered earlier that day.

  The first thing they noticed was the silence. Arty’s street was eerily quiet, like a meditating mouse or a monk with a mouthful of cheese. The chaos of before was completely gone: There were no car noises in the streets, and even the birds in the sky seemed to have taken a break from their warbling.

  “Whoa. It’s like the inside of Great Aunt Doris’s head,” said Emmie. “Quiet and totally empty.”

  Sam and Arty couldn’t bring themselves to laugh. They crossed the lawn and peered inside the window of Arty’s house. There seemed to be someone inside, so they went in through the back door to take a look.

  Arty gasped in horror at what he saw.

  In the middle of the living room, his brother, Jesse, stood, staring at himself in the mirror. This, to be fair, was pretty normal for Jesse, who did rather like to look at his square jaw and to play around with his boy-band hair. But something was different.

  That’s actually an understatement. Let me revise: Something was more than different; something was catastrophically wrong. Jesse wasn’t moving at all. In fact, his arms were stuck in midair like he was shaking maracas, and he had turned as gray as a wet Sunday, and a cloud of smoke was slowly wafting up into the air around him.

  Arty gave him a shove, but he was rooted to the spot. His skin was rough like stone, and there was no movement whatsoever in his body.

  “Whoa…,” said Arty. “I mean, I always wanted to shut my brother up, but this…”

  “I’ve never read about a disease like it,” said Emmie. “This is next level!”

  Sam, however, was convinced he knew what was going on. “You haven’t read about a disease like it because it’s not a disease,” he insisted. “The Sailor’s Sleep curse is real. And Sitting Duck is in trouble.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Arty and Emmie were alarmed. They weren’t usually ones to believe in curses. They were all about science and reason and, you know, things that actually exist. Sam, too, was normally like that, but he was firmly convinced that the Sailor’s Sleep curse was real. Arty and Emmie decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  “We need to find out what we’re dealing with, one way or another. So what now?” Emmie asked.

  Sam nodded. Arty rubbed his chin, which was always a good sign. It meant that he was coming up with an idea. (Either that or he was scratching his invisible beard.) The more he rubbed, the better the idea. Eventually, his eyes lit up, as if a light bulb had appeared above his head.

  “If Tweedy and his staff did move the treasure, then it would be at the museum, right?” Arty said. “We should go there and see what we find.”

  “That’s true,” Sam said. “And if the treasure is there, we take it back to the Silver Mallard and the curse will be lifted.”

  Emmie was skeptical, but it was the best (and only) idea they had. So, they left poor Jesse where he was standing, unable to move, and headed back out into Sitting Duck.

  As they entered the town square, they found another eerie scene. It was as if the whole of Sitting Duck itself had been turned into a weird kind of museum. Old Mrs. Missus was out walking her pet poodle, but the poodle was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Mrs. Missus just stood stock-still, leash in hand but nowhere to go.

  * * *

  Sitting Duck’s Historical Curses

  Sailor’s Sleep wasn’t the first instance of Sitting Duck being cursed, you won’t be surprised to hear. In fact, this town has survived more scourges than you can imagine, which is why I will list them here for you. You’re welcome.

  •  The Curse of the Witch’s Tomb: When local witch and popular lass Hortensia Hardbottle died, she left a curse on her tomb. Any would-be grave robbers would do well to leave it alone, lest their legs turn to brooms and their noses turn into snakes!

  •  The Saddles of Doom: When legendary rodeo rider Bill Buckin’ Buckley was thrown from his horse back in Sitting Duck’s Wild West years, he cursed the town as he lay dying. From then on, saddles caused sore butts. Even when you’re riding a bike.

  •  Dunderson’s Revenge: Unlucky Gus Dunderson, true to his name, was the most unfortunate fellow in all of Sitting Duck. While on one of his usually fruitless bird-watching expeditions, a duck fell on his head. The duck was fine, but Gus was not. With his final breath, he cursed the town of Sitting Duck to be as unlucky as he was. Which, now that I think about it, explains quite a lot.

  * * *

  Sam and Arty both hoped their parents were okay. Wherever they were, it couldn’t be as bad as being stuck outside like a statue. Emmie was less bothered and even had a cheery smile on her face.

  “Finally, no more Great Aunt Doris. She’ll be as still as a statue right now,” Emmie beamed. “Just think, no more toenail-cutting duties. No more tiptoeing out of the house, ducking under the alarm system, and dodging evil old Attila.” (Emmie’s great aunt Doris had an unfortunate cat that rather enjoyed making Emmie’s life a misery.) She smiled like a dog with his favorite bone. “What a time to be alive, eh?”

  Sam and Arty just nodded, unconvinced, but happy for Emmie nonetheless. Still, something Emmie said made Sam think.

  “If your great aunt Doris had ended up a statue, like all these people in this street, that means that no one is left in Sitting Duck. There are no adults, no more kids, no one to tell us what to do.…”

  “And that means we’re in charge!” Arty finished.

  The children’s eyes lit up. Okay, the apocalypse had pretty much come to pass, and there were no humans that could move a muscle in at least a ten-mile radius. But that didn’t mean something good couldn’t come out of it, right? Sam, Arty, and Emmie were just looking on the bright side. I, for one, would be happy for the world to end and finally prove my predictions
of doom are true. I mean, why do you think I keep writing these tales?

  “We wouldn’t have to go to school,” Sam gasped. “We could drive around in fancy cars … play baseball from dawn until sunset … eat junk food whenever we wanted.…”

  Arty giggled and broke into a dance. He caught sight of Mrs. Jenkins’s World of Candy down the street, doors wide open and no one looking after the place. His mouth watered at the thought of triple fudge delights and candy zombies. (With candy zombies, you get to eat their brains.)

  Sam’s eyes widened as he thought of being in charge of a whole town, all by himself. He spotted another statuesque resident of Sitting Duck down the road: Officer Hardnose. Hardnose had always stopped him playing ball in the park after that one time Sam had accidentally hit a home run that also smashed the blue and red lights on the top of Hardnose’s car. Turns out cops are really into those flashing lights and they don’t appreciate them being destroyed.

  Sam now took his revenge the only way he knew how and pantsed the officer. He snickered at Officer Hardnose’s boxers, which were covered with hearts.

  “Nice work!” said Arty, who’d returned from Mrs. Jenkins’s shop with a bagful of candy and a sugar-crazed twinkle in his eye. “That sure taught him!”

  Sam nodded. It definitely had taught him. Although somehow it wasn’t as fun when he couldn’t see Hardnose’s temper go through the roof. They had the town to themselves, but it didn’t even feel like home.

  There was a scream from behind them, and Arty and Sam turned in unison to see Emmie wide-eyed and trembling with fright. They rushed over to see what was wrong.

  “It can’t be,” she said. “It can’t be.…”

  Sam and Arty followed her trembling finger, until they saw the familiar figure of Phoebe Bowles trundling up the street with Glitterpuff.

  “H-h-how did you survive the apocalypse?” Emmie gasped.