by R. L. Stine
“Cooper!” someone screamed just before he hit the walk up to the house, flat on his rear. His head snapped back and smacked against the wet cement with a splashing crack that brought tears to his eyes.
“Cooper!” the voice cried again. Then he heard pounding footsteps growing louder and louder until Abby and Dan were gazing down at him.
Abby dropped to her knees in a puddle by his side.
“Cooper! Are you okay?”
“Man-Bat’s lost his marbles,” the woman said before he could answer. “Tried to drag me out inna rain.”
Cooper sat up straight to look at her. She was standing where he’d left her, still underneath the awning on the porch. Behind her he could see the front door and the dimly lit hallway beyond it. And nothing else.
“Musta eaten too many Smuckers or somethin’,” the woman said. “That’s a candy, innit? Smuckers? Snuckers?”
Dan and Abby gaped at her.
“Uhh . . . Snickers?” Dan said.
“Thazzit,” the woman said. “Anywho, how’s . . . how’s . . . ?”
The hem of her bathrobe began to quiver wildly, and she held shaky hands out to her sides. Her knees were going wobbly just steps from the concrete stairs to the porch. If she fell . . .
Abby leaped up and bounded to her side.
“Whoa. You look like you need to sit down,” Abby said as she wrapped an arm around the woman’s waist. “Let’s get you inside.”
She helped the woman turn and start toward the door.
“No!” Cooper called out. “Don’t go in! There’s something in there!”
Abby glanced back but didn’t stop. “What are you . . . ?” she started to say. Her voice faded as a look of bewilderment spread over her face.
She faced the doorway again. “What’s that smell?”
“You smell it too?” Cooper said, pushing himself to his feet. “Get away from there, Abby! Get away!”
Dan put a firm hand on his shoulder. “Geez, dude,” he said. “Stop freaking out.”
“No. He should freak out,” said Abby.
She turned and started to lead the woman off the porch.
“What’re you doin’?” the woman protested weakly. “I’m gonna get all wet.”
“Better than being dead,” Abby told her. “We need to get away from the door.”
The woman cringed as she stepped out from under the awning and felt the cold, hard rain coming down on her.
“What’re you talkin’ about?”
Abby jerked her head back at the house.
“Your place is full of gas. There must be a leak, or a pilot light went out or something.”
“Pilot light?” said Dan.
Abby nodded.
“In old houses with gas, there’s this little flame that . . . um . . . well . . . has to be lit, I guess. I don’t know much about it, actually. I do know that the gas is really dangerous. If it leaks and you don’t notice it, you get all disoriented and fall asleep and die.”
“I ain’t disorientated,” the woman murmured.
Abby looked over at Cooper as she guided the woman off the last step.
“Is that why you came back and pulled her out of the house? You noticed the smell?”
Cooper thought the question over a moment and then simply nodded.
It was kind of true. And he didn’t feel like explaining. He didn’t know if he ever could explain it, even to himself.
“Come here and hold her up,” Abby told Dan. “I’ll call 911.”
“I’m okay,” the woman said. “I just wanna go back to bed.”
Her eyes rolled up into her head, and her knees started to buckle.
Both Dan and Cooper rushed over to help keep her from falling. When she seemed more-or-less stable again, Abby took her arm away and pulled out her phone.
“Nice work, Batman,” she said to Cooper with a smile. Then she turned away and hunched over to try to keep her phone dry as she dialed.
“Wow . . . and we thought you went looking for someplace to hide because you were scared of the storm,” Dan told Cooper as the woman swayed unsteadily between them. “You’re, like, a hero.”
Cooper didn’t reply. He didn’t feel like a hero. He just felt wet and cold and tired. And, despite what Dan had said, scared.
But it was a different kind of scared he realized as he looked back at the house and its open door. Not the kind he was used to. Not a child’s fear. Not dread, not terror. It was more of a wary respect for death—coupled with the knowledge that he could face it if he had to.
He was dressed like Batman, and he had a buttload of free candy. He was alive, and life was good.
Yes, it was still a dark and stormy night—far darker and stormier than when he’d left home, actually—but that was okay by him now.
The Unknown Patriot
by Chris Grabenstein
“EWWWWWWWW!” SCREAMED THE PRETTIEST GIRL on the bus when Parker P. Poindexter tried to sit down right next to her. “You cannot sit there!”
“I’m sorry,” said Parker, pushing his ginormous glasses up the bridge of his nose. “But Mrs. Lipinski told me to take ‘the next available seat.’”
“Well, this seat is not available, metal mouth,” snapped the girl, whose name was Grace. She was extremely popular at Libertyville Middle School. Parker P. Poindexter was not.
“It looked available,” said Parker, giving her the thinnest smile because he didn’t want his braces to blind everybody on the bus.
“Well, it isn’t!” Grace gave Parker a disgusted huff and an eye roll.
“Parker?” called Mrs. Lipinski from the front of the bus. “Find the next available seat, please!”
“I’m trying to, Mrs. Lipinski, but—”
“Go all the way to the back.”
“Yes, ma’am, Mrs. Lipinski.”
Parker did as he was told because that’s what Parker P. Poindexter always did. He tugged on the straps of his backpack, which was heavier than usual because, in addition to his usual school projects, he had packed every single item mentioned on Mrs. Lipinski’s Colonial Williamsburg Field Trip Checklist.
“You can’t sit back here, either, tinsel teeth,” snarled Bobby Younger. He’d already claimed the entire rear row of seats so he’d have more room to stretch out and crack his knuckles.
That meant Parker had to sit in the second-to-the-last row. Right in front of Bobby Younger, who flicked Parker’s ears all the way to Williamsburg.
A three-hour drive.
Parker couldn’t really blame Bobby Younger. Parker’s ears were nearly two sizes too big for his head and made excellent finger-flicking targets.
Of course, the ear flicks made it harder for Parker to play his Doctor Who Time Travel game on his iPhone. Bobby flicked his earlobe every time Parker entered Doctor Who’s Tardis—a piece of advanced time-machine technology created by the Time Lords, the extraterrestrial civilization Doctor Who belonged to.
With all the ear whacks, Parker’s pixelated time traveler ended up being eaten by dinosaurs. Twice.
When the bus finally arrived in Colonial Williamsburg, the driver from the tour company stood up and pulled on a three-sided, tricorn hat.
“A good morning to you all, and welcome to the Revolutionary City,” she said into her microphone. “I heartily implore you to remember what that great Virginian Thomas Jefferson once said: ‘I prefer dangerous freedom over personal slavery!’ Huzzah!”
“Huzzah!” shouted Parker, and nobody else.
Grace, the pretty blonde, raised her hand. “Are there, like, bathrooms?”
“All right, boys and girls,” chirped Mrs. Lipinski. “Five minutes for bathrooms. Then we’re heading over to the Governor’s Palace.”
The horde of seventh-graders pushed and shoved and crowded into the aisle. Except Parker. He waited until Bobby Younger was three rows down before he even stood up.
When Parker finally made it to the front of the bus, the driver said, “Thank you, good sir, for your kind
attention. I wish you a splendid and adventurous day.”
“Thanks.”
Parker descended the bus steps and looked around.
He couldn’t believe he was actually here.
Colonial Williamsburg! An extremely awesome living-history museum where reenactors in authentic costumes made the 1700s come to life on the streets of a totally restored Colonial city! He was in history-nerd heaven.
“It appears you will have a most long wait for the restroom,” said the driver, who’d exited the bus after Parker.
“I don’t mind,” said Parker.
“Poppycock. I shall let you use the staff facilities, for I know the combination.”
“Oh, I don’t want any special treatment. . . .”
“And I, good sir, do not want you peeing in your pantaloons!”
“Well, it was a long ride. . . .”
The bus driver tapped a numeric code on the “Staff Only” door’s keypad: 1-7-8-1.
“Be quick about it, lad. Everyone awaits your swift return.”
“Right. Thanks.”
Parker went into the staff restroom, but before doing what he needed to do, he studied the map in the Colonial Williamsburg app he’d downloaded the night before.
Funny. He saw the public restrooms, but no separate Staff Only facilities. He figured they didn’t bother putting those on the map since tourists weren’t supposed to use them anyway.
After washing his hands and checking in the mirror to make sure he didn’t have anything stuck in his braces, Parker trotted to the door.
He yanked on the handle, but the door wouldn’t budge.
He noticed there was another keypad lock on the back of the door.
Weird.
Whoever heard of a combination lock on the inside of a bathroom door? Fortunately, Parker had seen the numbers the bus driver keyed in. He tapped the same sequence on this second lock: 1-7-8-1.
There was an electric whoosh—way too loud for the tiny lock’s little latch.
And, weirdest of all, the door creaked open all by itself.
When Parker stepped out, the visitor center was gone!
“Good day, sir,” said a man sitting in the driver’s seat of a carriage. It had big wooden wheels and two harnessed horses up front. The driver tipped his three-sided hat to Parker. “We have been expecting your arrival.”
“I know,” said Parker. “I’m here on a field trip.”
“We must make haste. The milliner awaits!”
“Excuse me?”
“Your hat, sir.”
“I don’t have a hat.”
“Indeed. And that is why we must visit the milliner.”
“But we’re supposed to go to the Governor’s Palace first.”
“New orders.” The carriage driver handed Parker a rolled-up tube of parchment. Parker unscrolled the sheet and read what was written in blotchy black ink: Make haste to the milliner’s shop!
“Oh,” said Parker, “Mrs. Lipinski must’ve changed her mind. Do you work with the bus driver lady? She has the same hat as you.”
“Aye. She is our transportation coordinator.”
Parker heard something go plop. Something stinky.
“Um, I think your horse, the one on the left, just pooped. You should probably scoop it up.”
“We haven’t the time. Benedict Arnold rides this way. He aims to reclaim Williamsburg for King and Crown.”
“Oh, right,” said Parker, tossing his backpack into the carriage and then climbing into the back seat. “I read where he comes to Williamsburg and raises the British flag and junk. I didn’t see it on the schedule today.”
“Neither did any of us,” said the driver. He clicked his tongue and flicked his reins. The wagon rumbled forward.
Parker dug into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out his iPhone.
“I think I should text Mrs. Lipinski. Let her know we’re on our way. Hmmm. No bars.”
“I beg your pardon?” said the driver, his eyes focused on the road ahead.
“Is there a stronger cell area around here?”
“Aye,” said the driver. “The cells are most prodigiously strong at the public jail.”
“Oh,” said Parker with a nervous chuckle. “I get it. The jail has strong cells and probably lots of bars, too, huh?”
“Indeed so. Quiet now, lad. We approach the Governor’s Palace Green.”
Parker looked around. All he saw were reenactors dressed in costumes and wigs from the late 1700s. There weren’t any tourists or students on class trips.
“I don’t see any schoolkids.”
“Aye. And they cannot see you.”
“Well, I’ll see them at the milliner’s shop.”
“Nay. The transportation coordinator did not deem your traveling companions worthy.”
“Worthy of what?”
“Our noble cause. Alas, so much has gone awry since that spectacularly magnificent fourth day of July five years past.”
“So,” Parker said nervously, because he was afraid he already knew the answer, “what’d you guys do back then that was so, you know, magnificent?”
“Why, we boldly declared our independence from the English Crown! For we hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are created equal!”
Parker just nodded. Then he nodded some more. He tasted metal in his mouth. And it wasn’t from his braces. It was from pure fear.
Parker did some math he really didn’t want to do.
Hmm, 1776 plus 5, carry the one . . .
“So, uh, is this 1781?”
“Aye. And the future of our newborn nation has never seemed darker or less secure.”
Parker nodded some more.
Because he was remembering the combination to the Staff Only toilets that had, somehow, turned into his own time traveling Tardis: 1-7-8-1.
Oh—1781!
“I, uh, need to get back to m-my school group!” he stammered. “You guys take this reenactment stuff way too seriously for me.”
“We need you at the milliner’s shop.”
“But all school groups are really supposed to stick together. It’s against the rules for me to go off on my own.”
“It was against the rules for us to declare our independence from England,” said the driver, “but declare it we did.”
“Well, that was different,” said Parker. “I need to go back. . . .”
“When you are ready to return, the transportation coordinator will arrange your departure.”
“I’m ready to return now! So where is she?”
“Be still. We approach Duke of Gloucester Street. Not all of Williamsburg remains sympathetic to our cause.”
Parker could hear grumbling from citizens milling about in the market square.
“Benedict Arnold is on his way!”
“Where is General Washington?”
“Fie upon it, where is Governor Jefferson?”
“Where is my son?” cried a woman. “I grow so weary of war.”
A tough-looking boy, who reminded Parker of an old-fashioned version of Bobby Younger wearing knickers and a straw hat, went up to the old woman and finger-flicked her ears.
“You and your idiot son should’ve thought about the consequences of this foolish war before you both committed treason against the Crown, madam!”
“That’s young Mordecai Morris,” whispered the carriage driver. “He is a Tory and a loyalist!”
Parker hugged his backpack close to his chest as the carriage rolled down the street. Soon, they were outside Margaret Hunter’s Millinery Shop.
“Hurry inside,” said the carriage driver.
Parker hopped down and went into the quaint shop, which was filled with frilly dresses, fancy shirts, and all sorts of hats.
“Good day to you, young sir,” said the woman behind the counter. She was wearing a bonnet. The only other lady Parker had ever seen in a bonnet was his grandmother, but hers was made out of crinkly plastic, and she only wore it when she had curlers in
her hair.
“Are you ready to take up the task decreed by the hat?”
“A hat’s going to tell me what I’m supposed to do? Is this like in Harry Potter?”
“I know not this potter named Harold, but our mutual friend has secreted your instructions in its seams.”
“And whatever it says might help you guys win the Revolutionary War?”
“Indeed so, brave sir.”
“That kid, Mordecai Morris up the street—he’s for the British, right?”
“Aye. For five years, he and his family have been taking names of ‘traitors and spies,’ hoping for a chance to turn us all over to someone as villainous and merciless as that turncoat General Benedict Arnold.”
She went to the windows, closed the shutters. “We must get you out of those clothes.”
She handed Parker a bundle wrapped in brown paper. “Put these on. Quickly now!”
Parker went into a changing room, slipped off his T-shirt, cargo shorts, and Nike LeBrons, and put on his official Colonial kid outfit: a waistcoat, linen shirt, breeches, and stockings, which looked kind of funny, especially since his breeches ended just below his knees. Black leather shoes with brass buckles completed the disguise.
Parker tucked his iPhone into his backpack and came out of the dressing room looking like he belonged in 1781. Except for the braces. And his glasses. And the backpack. But other than that, he was good to go.
“Now then,” said Mrs. Hunter. “’Tis time to see what you have been brought here to do!”
She lifted a velvety blue tricorn trimmed with white fluff off a hat stand. “It arrived only yesterday from Philadelphia. Mr. Franklin’s associates have stitched your special instructions into the lining.”
“Um, are you talking about Benjamin Franklin?”
“Aye. For he is the one who brought the time transportation system here to Williamsburg.”
“Is it another one of his inventions?”
“’Twas not Mr. Franklin alone who did invent the time portal. You see, in his early experiments with electricity, Mr. Franklin found himself oddly transported into a time he did not recognize when three bolts of lightning did simultaneously strike the key attached to his kite. Taken to that time yet to be—an epoch beyond that which even you call home—Mr. Franklin met a fellow inventor who gave him knowledge unknown to those of us residing in the eighteenth century. Thus began the work of the Franklin Transportation Authority. When one time period needs assistance from the future, our associates in far-flung eras can transport those who can most help history follow its true course.”