Hamstersaurus Rex vs. Squirrel Kong

by Tom O'Donnell

  “What?” I said.

  “I said thank you!” said Beefer. “Jeez, how many times do you need to hear it?”

  Gratitude from Beefer Vanderkoff! That was as strange as anything I’d seen inside SmilesCorp. Stranger still was what was about to pass my lips.

  “Hey, thank you, too, Beefer,” I said, “for helping me get what I need to save Hamstersaurus Rex.”

  Beefer nodded. “Sam, I want you to know that tonight you have demonstrated the qualities of a true ninja warrior. I’m pretty sure I don’t hate you.” He ninja-saluted me and then dove into the bushes.

  I took off and didn’t stop pedaling until I’d made it all the way home.

  Hammie Rex suddenly came to as I was gently putting him back into his “Extension Cords” habitat. I was no hamster doctor, but the little guy didn’t seem to be operating at 100 percent. Squirrel Kong’s kick had left him groggy and tender. He was moving slowly and not putting any weight on his back left foot. I hoped none of his injuries were serious.

  “You’re lucky to be alive,” I said, shaking my head. “I asked you before, but now I’m telling you: you can’t ever fight Squirrel Kong again. You hear me? Never again.”

  He blinked and gave a little pained moan. I snuck back inside my house, returned my mom’s ID to her purse, and climbed into bed. She was still snoring away in her bedroom, just like before. Outside, the wind rustled the leaves. And somewhere, Squirrel Kong raged.

  CHAPTER 17

  THE NEXT MORNING, I got up early to watch the local news. I sat through the whole broadcast waiting to hear something about the disastrous night at the largest employer in Maple Bluffs. They didn’t mention it. They didn’t mention any animals except a bit at the end about a sheep in a neighboring county that had prevented a burglary. I checked the internet, too. Nobody had any stories about the incident. Not even the weirdos on truthblasters.com were talking about it.

  I ate my breakfast cereal lost in thought. Who was behind the attacks? Why was Squirrel Kong menacing its own creators? Perhaps the answers were in the file I’d saved from the lab computer.

  I opened 13108.txt again. It was just as incomprehensible, columns and columns of numbers and dates and metric system units I’d never even heard of. My eyes nearly crossed looking at it. I still wasn’t smart enough to understand it. I only knew one person who was.

  Out in the garage, I found Hammie in his hypoallergenic habitat. He stood up, a little unsteadily. I dropped a stack of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in beside him.

  “I’m going to leave you at home today so you can get better, dude,” I said.

  He started to growl in protest but then winced. Even he couldn’t pretend that he was back to full health.

  I hopped on the bus to school. When I got there, I stalked the halls until I caught a glimpse of Martha through the crowd.

  “Martha!” I called out. “Hey, Martha!”

  Martha glanced at me. Then she quickly ducked into the girls’ bathroom and didn’t come out again. I waited until the first bell rang and caught up to her as we made our way to class. She was conspicuously pretending to read a Portuguese phrasebook as she walked.

  “Martha, I really, really, really need your help,” I said. “Look, I have this data file and you’re the only one who might be able to—”

  “Where is the library?” she said quietly.

  “Huh?” I said. “You know it’s on the second floor.”

  “Onde é a biblioteca,” she said to herself as she nudged past me and kept on walking.

  All day long Martha successfully avoided me. Wherever I was, she wasn’t. Whenever I found her she seemed to disappear.

  At lunch Dylan slammed her tray down next to mine.

  “So, are you pumped for Saturday?” said Dylan. “I know it’s just an exhibition match and we’re really doing it to increase interest in the sport. But between you and me, we are going to make the Flingmasters wish they never left West Blunkton.”

  “Who?” I said, distractedly staring at Martha across the cafeteria. “Also, where?”

  “The First Annual Maple Bluffs Disc Golf Exhibition Tournament,” said Dylan, frowning. “It’s Saturday at Cannon Park. You said you’re going to be there an hour early in appropriately colored face paint. You didn’t forget, did you?”

  “No, no, I didn’t forget,” I lied. “I’m just a little distracted today . . .” I told Dylan about everything that happened the night before.

  When I was finished, she was incredulous. “So you teamed up with Beefer?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Beefer Vanderkoff? The guy who once forced you to eat your own knit cap?”

  “Uh-huh. I think he might have even technically made me a ninja.”

  “And his pet snake got turned into . . . a bird?”

  “Well, it was like half a bird. Imagine a half bird, half snake.”

  “I can’t really imagine that,” said Dylan. “Look, Sam, obviously I believe you and everything.” She paused.

  “But,” I said, crossing my arms.

  “But wouldn’t everyone have heard about it if SmilesCorp had gotten destroyed by a twelve-foot-tall squirrel beast?”

  “SmilesCorp didn’t get destroyed, just the secret animal lab and the weird food-testing facility that they claim is their accounting department! Look, I’m telling you, something very bad is going on at SmilesCorp. Something downright evil.”

  “But your mom works there,” said Dylan. “They employ half the town. They’re sponsoring our disc golf tournament. Their CEO, Nils Winroth, is even throwing out the first disc. They can’t be all bad, right?”

  “Dylan, SmilesCorp is putting fur on ducks!” I said, loud enough that several kids nearby turned to stare at me. “Fur. On. Ducks!”

  “Sam, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you’ve been under a lot of stress recently,” said Dylan. “Maybe you should just take it easy for a little while.”

  “You don’t believe me, do you?” I said. “You say you do but you don’t!”

  “Of course I do!” said Dylan. “I’m trying to be a good friend, it’s just—”

  “You want proof, then look at these pictures!” I pulled my UltraLite SmartShot out of my backpack and began to scroll through the photos I’d taken inside Building Seven. I couldn’t believe it. One after another, they were dark and blurry, impossible to make out.

  “I’m not sure what I’m looking at,” said Dylan. “Are these pictures of the inside of your mouth?”

  “No, that’s a fearsome Grizzly Hare!”

  “Oh.” Dylan turned the camera sideways. “Okay. Yeah. I guess I see it?”

  I could tell she didn’t. “Well, I obviously should’ve used the flash,” I said. Finally I came to the only photo that was clear: the wall of SmilesCorp lab chief portraits. “Here, look at this. These are the people who run this creepy facility!”

  “Huh, that old lady looks kind of sweet,” said Dylan, looking at Dr. Sue Sandoval.

  “Whatever,” I said, popping the memory card out of my camera. “The pictures don’t matter. I have a data file saved on this card that scientifically proves Squirrel Kong is real.”

  “Well, that’s great news,” said Dylan. “What does it say?”

  “How should I know? The one person I know who can possibly decipher it won’t even talk to me!”

  I was practically yelling now. The cafeteria had fallen quiet all around us. It seemed that all of Horace Hotwater Middle School was staring at me. Everyone except Martha Cherie, that is. She was rapidly folding and unfolding a rice paper crane.

  “Hey, um, I know that lunch is a time for maxing and/or relaxing,” said Mr. Duderotti, sidling up to our table. “But would it be uncool if I told you you were being a smidge loud?”

  “No, Todd,” said Dylan. “That wouldn’t be uncool. We understand. We’ll keep it down.”

  “What’s on that memory card, anyway?” said Mr. Duderotti.

  “What?” I said. “Noth
ing.” I stuffed it in my pocket.

  “Hey, wait a minute. Todd’s a scientist,” said Dylan. “Maybe he could interpret the data for you—”

  “No,” I said.

  “Data?” said Mr. Duderotti. “I love me some data. Interpreting data gets me mad stoked. What’s the data, homeslice?”

  “Nothing. I’m done eating.” I picked up my tray and quickly left.

  For the rest of the day, I bided my time. Martha might be able to avoid me at school, but there was one place she did have to talk to me. After the final bell rang, I hopped on the crosstown bus to the Antique Doll Museum.

  “Yes, I’d like the full deluxe doll tour, to learn about all the different weird dolls you have here,” I said to Martha, now clad in her Antique Doll Museum blazer and pin.

  “Well, I’m sure we can find you a fully trained docent,” said Martha, scowling. “I’m just an intern.”

  “No, I talked to Patricia in the admissions booth and she assured me that you know more about the creepy dolls than anyone who is actually paid money to work here,” I said, crossing my arms.

  “Fine,” said Martha. “If you want me to show you the dolls then I’ll show you the dolls. And I’ll answer questions about dolls and only dolls. Nothing else.”

  “Fine,” I said. “That’s what I came here for: all these scraggly old dolls. Like that one.”

  Martha mechanically gestured to a small, shriveled figure displayed on a nearby shelf. “This doll dates all the way back to 1892 and happens to be made entirely of beef jerky. She’s on permanent loan to the Antique Doll Museum from the Greater Tucson Institute for Jerky Art. Her name is Misty.”

  “Cool,” I said. “And is it okay if I take Misty and put her in my pocket and walk right out that door?” I pointed to the museum exit.

  “What?” said Martha. “No. Obviously, that would be stealing.”

  “So you wouldn’t let me steal Misty, then?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s my job,” said Martha, pointing to her lapel pin. “In case you forgot our conversation from forty-two seconds ago and/or how to read: I’m an Antique Doll Museum intern.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “So if you didn’t work here, then it would be okay for me to steal Misty.”

  “Again, no,” said Martha, frustrated. “Stealing is wrong, Sam. Even you should be able to understand that.”

  “Wow,” I said, stroking my chin, “it’s almost like a person has a duty to do what’s right, even when it’s not their job.”

  Martha frowned and crossed her arms. She sighed. “All right, fine,” she said at last. “I’ll look at the data file.”

  “Yes!” I said. “Thank you, Martha! You’re saving Hamstersaurus Rex! And, look, I’m so sorry about lying before. I should have never let you resign as Hamster Monitor.”

  Martha nodded. “Well, at least you’re taking the job seriously. There’s no other reason you’d visit the Antique Doll Museum twice in a week.”

  “I mean, I think these old dolls are pretty exciting, too,” I said. “It’s cool that you’re into them.”

  “Come on, Sam,” said Martha. “You have to stop with the mendacity.”

  “Okay, you’re right,” I said, looking around the museum at the hundreds of pairs of shiny glass eyes staring back at me. “I’d feel more comfortable in an abandoned hospital haunted by the ghosts of dead clowns.”

  Martha escorted me to the back offices of the Antique Doll Museum. They were just as deserted as the rest of the place. It was early evening and it seemed that the minimal staff had mostly gone home for the day. We walked through a dusty glass door that said “Technology Center” into a room full of old green filing cabinets and piles of loose papers. Martha fired up an ancient-looking computer and popped my memory card in.

  “. . . Are these photos some sort of abstract art project, Sam?” said Martha, scrolling through my pictures of the lab. “Like are you trying to make some sort of statement about the fundamental nature of blurriness and the lack of proper lighting?”

  “Forget those, just look at 13108.txt!”

  Martha opened the file and began to read it. Her face turned serious.

  “How did you get this file?” she asked. “No, wait, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

  I shifted in my seat impatiently. “So, um, what do all these numbers mean?”

  “Hang on. Let me finish,” said Martha. “Wow . . . Fascinating . . . Huh. Very interesting . . .”

  “What? What’s interesting and what’s fascinating? What?”

  “Well, it appears to be the case history of Specimen #13108.”

  “Right, that’s Squirrel Kong.”

  “Apparently, SmilesCorp scientists gave a genetically modified squirrel a concentrated dose of something called Huginex-G.”

  “Whoa, that’s crazy! Is it crazy? What’s Huginex-G?”

  “Looks like it’s a proprietary compound that SmilesCorp developed to make Halloween pumpkins bigger. Anyway, by giving Huginex-G to Specimen #13108, they were able to temporarily increase the squirrel to colossal size for up to one hour.”

  “Temporarily? So somebody is still dosing the squirrel with more of that Huginex stuff?”

  “According to their logs, they were never able to make #13108’s size change permanent. I guess they needed to add more receptors to her genetic code or something?”

  “You lost me at the end there, but wait . . . Squirrel Kong’s a girl?”

  Martha squinted at me. “And why wouldn’t Squirrel Kong be a girl?”

  “I mean, I don’t know, I just never thought—I mean, Squirrel Kong just doesn’t seem—I mean . . . I don’t know!”

  “Women can do anything that men can do, Sam! Even be rampaging, bloodthirsty rodent monster beasts!”

  “Okay, point taken,” I said.

  “Hmm, it looks like they deliberately induced a Pavlovian aggression response in Specimen #13108 to a particular flavoring.”

  “I’m guessing Funchos Flavor-Wedges.”

  Martha nodded.

  “But why?” I said.

  “Doesn’t say here,” said Martha, with a shrug. “But Squirrel Kong was apparently so dangerous that, for safety’s sake, SmilesCorp developed an antidote to the Huginex-G that they called ‘Microcyll.’ It’s administered via nasal spray.”

  “Nasal spray!” I said. “That must be what Mr. Duderotti used when he spritzed Squirrel Kong in the face and she shrank down to normal size. But how did he get his hands on . . .” I suddenly had a nagging feeling in my gut. “Martha, can you please open the last photo that I took?”

  “Sure,” said Martha.

  She clicked on the thumbnail picture of the SmilesCorp lab chiefs, and now it displayed full size. Sue Sandoval’s twinkly eyes stared back at me through her glasses. But I wasn’t interested in her.

  “Zoom in on that portrait to the right, the bald guy.”

  Martha did. Now the frame was filled by the sharp-featured face of SmilesCorp’s current Lab Chief: Gordon Renfro.

  “Does that man look familiar to you?”

  “Uh, no,” said Martha. “I mean, he looks a little like my old Portuguese tutor. But Flávio moved back to Funchal.”

  “Imagine if Gordon Renfro, here, had sunglasses?” I said. “And a ponytail?”

  Martha used the rudimentary drawing tools in the image program to color in two black circles over Gordon Renfro’s eyes and add a long, squiggly ponytail on his head. She gasped.

  “SmilesCorp has a plant working inside Horace Hotwater Middle School,” I said. “Gordon Renfro? More like Todd Duderotti!”

  Just then we heard a noise behind us. On the other side of the glass door, the silhouette of a figure quickly ducked out of sight. Martha and I stared at each other, our eyes wide. Someone had been listening to everything we had said.

  CHAPTER 18

  MARTHA AND I stood and crept toward the door. Whoever was listening had frozen on
the other side of the glass, just out of sight.

  “Who’s there?” I asked.

  No response. I turned the handle and pushed. With a slow creak, the door swung open.

  “Norton, is that you?” asked Martha. “Are you on a routine patrol?”

  No response. I stepped out into the dimly lit hallway. It appeared to be empty. Just then I heard something behind me. I turned to see a stack of boxes marked “Ginny Gossamer—Gift Shop Replica.” The pointy tip of a brown leather shoe poked out from behind the stack. Someone was crouching there, in the darkness.

  I turned to Martha. She shrugged, her eyes as big as saucers.

  “Gotcha!” I cried, leaping toward the boxes.

  “Hey, I know you! Sam Gibbs, winner of the Little Mister or Miss Muscles competition,” said Roberta Fast, standing up from her hiding place. She grabbed my hand and shook with just the right amount of firmness.

  “Ms. Fast, were you, um, listening in on our conversation?” said Martha.

  “No, I was just counting these boxes!” said Roberta Fast. “Let’s see. One, two . . . seven. There are seven boxes. Yep, everything checks out.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t hear anything?” I asked. “Anything that might have sounded weird?”

  Roberta Fast bit her lip. “Okay, I admit it. I overheard everything! SmilesCorp putting spies in our public schools and creating mutant killer animals that they’ve unleashed on an unsuspecting public! It’s juicy stuff. Evil, of course, but juicy.”

  “Well, it’s all true,” I said.

  “Sam, I worked at that company for nine years,” said Roberta Fast. “I believe you.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “It’s good to finally hear that from someone and know they mean it.”

  Roberta Fast shook her head. “Honestly, this is exactly why I left. SmilesCorp has no ethical center! Profits above all. They’re capable of anything.”