by Gary Paulsen
Crack!
The box splintered open along the seam. Dim sunlight streamed through the hole.
“Good work, Amos.” Dunc started removing splinters from his hair. “A little messy, though.”
“Ohh …”
“Let’s get after them.”
“Ohh …”
•13
“Ge dis ting off a me.” Amos struggled with the bundle of jackets tied around his head.
“Hold still.” Dunc worked at the knots, but they wouldn’t come undone. “I can’t get it, and we have to get going.”
“I not gone anywha wi dis on my hed.”
“You can still breathe, right?”
“Ya.”
“You can see, right?”
“Ya. Sorba, a liddle bid.”
“Then what are you worried about? Let’s go.” Dunc went out the warehouse door and into the street before Amos could say anything.
“There’s a bus stop.” Dunc pointed to the sign. “Let’s try to get on to a bus.”
A large blue commuter bus pulled up just then, and Dunc dragged Amos to the door.
The driver looked down at them.
“Where y’all headed, boys?” It was an old man with small round glasses and a blue uniform.
“To the Bloody Ridge Ski Resort.” Dunc pulled Amos up the stairs of the bus. “We have to save Francesco.”
“Who’s that, your dog?” The driver looked at Amos oddly. “Oh, it’s a kid. Say kid, do you know you have jackets tied on yer head? That ain’t gonna do much fer the cold.”
“Gee, danks.” Amos hit his head on the doorframe but didn’t seem to notice.
“Well, you boys ain’t going nowhere, less’n ya give me some money.” The old man held out his hand.
“Money, Amos. I left mine in the room.”
“Id’s in ma coad pocked.” Amos fumbled with the pocket zipper on his forehead. “I can’t get id. Id’s on da inside.”
“Gee, I’m sorry, sir, but we can’t seem to get our money.” Dunc put on his best begging face. “Could you please give us a ride to the ski resort? Our parents will pay.”
“Why is it you need to get there so awfully bad?” The driver had no other passengers, and seemed interested in what the boys were up to.
“We’re going to save Francesco Bartoli.” Dunc sighed. “Someone is trying to sabotage his skis so he’ll lose the race.”
“The Francesco Bartoli? The world-famous skier?” The man’s eyes sparkled. “You ain’t kidd’n me, are ya, boy?”
“Would I kid you?”
“Well, why didn’t ya say somth’n earlier?” He threw his thumb over his shoulder. “Get in and sit down. This is gonna be the ride of yer life!”
He laughed gleefully and drove the gas pedal through the floor.
•14
The driver threw his uniform cap over his shoulder and reached under the seat.
“Heck, I haven’t had a chance to drive like this since my accident.” He pulled out a weather-beaten cowboy hat that said “Tex” on the front and plopped it on his head. “I’m gonna love this.”
He dug into his uniform pocket and pulled out a pair of black leather driving gloves—the kind of gloves high-performance race car drivers wear.
“Sir, we nod im dad big a rush.” Amos’s muffled plea came like a whimper. “Ya cod slow dowd a bid.”
They screamed past another bus stop. Four people waiting had to dive for safety.
“What you say’n, boy?” The man looked in his mirror at Amos. “I can’t hear ya with all that stuff on yer head.”
“Look ad da road.” Amos pointed at an oncoming trash truck.
“Ah, that ain’t noth’n. I used to ride bulls in the rodeo.” With a flick of his wrist, Tex the Bus Driver pulled the bus up onto the sidewalk.
“This is just like the movies, huh, Amos?” Dunc stood up in the front of the bus, looking out. “Like a James Bond movie.”
“Dell me wen id’s ober.” Amos crawled onto the floor between the seats and put his hands over his padded head.
“I hear sirens.” Dunc glanced out the back of the bus and then at Tex.
“Never met a smokey yet who could catch me.” Tex looked into his mirror. “They always used to chase me when I ran moonshine back in the thirties.”
The bus careened down the sidewalk.
“Hold on, boys.” He threw the steering wheel hard to the left, and the tail end of the bus screeched around, leveling a lamppost and a phone booth.
“Whhaaahoooo!” Tex looked at Dunc. “I call that move a Bootlegger. Dates back to my smuggling days.”
Three police cars, lights flashing, came barreling down the street straight at the bus.
“Watch this, boys!” Tex slammed his foot to the floor, and the bus’s tires screamed. He yelled out the window. “Give it up! Yer mess’n with Elmer Peasley, meanest bus driver north of the Rio Grande!”
The bus lurched and roared forward directly at the squad cars.
At the last minute, the police cars swerved to miss the bus and blew through the walls of the surrounding buildings.
“Got rid of them.” Tex smiled. “Ain’t had this much fun in a long time.”
“Uh … great. Could you please get us to the ski resort now?” Dunc realized he’d been holding his breath all the time, and now he took a lungful.
“Ya got it, sonny.”
The bus tore down the street and out of town toward the ski resort.
“There’s the van, Amos.” Dunc pointed to it as they approached the ski resort parking lot. “We’ve made it. The race hasn’t started yet.”
He was right. They would have made it with plenty of time to spare, with no problems.
Except that Tex didn’t see the stock truck full of sheep.
•15
The bus had to be going at least seventy when it hit the sheep truck.
There was a scrunch like a giant aluminum can being crushed and the sound of sheep baying. Both the bus and the stock truck came to a halt.
“Whad happid?” Amos’s padded head was jammed under the seat.
“You don’t want to know.” Dunc looked around him.
There were sheep everywhere—climbing all over the inside of the bus.
“I hates sheeps.” Tex stood up, brushed off his cowboy hat, and heaved a ewe off his lap. “They smell like sewers, and they flat mess up a bus. You boys all right?”
“Fine, thanks for the ride.” Dunc pushed a sheep aside and dragged Amos out from under the seat. “Come on, Amos, we’re there.”
A sheep nuzzled Amos in the face, licking him through the folds of his helmet.
“Duc, is dad a seep? I hear seep.”
“Yeah, and it looks like he likes you.” Dunc helped Amos to his feet. “Quit messing with him. We don’t have much time.”
They leaped from the back door of the bus and ran toward the van.
The sheep, which was so fat that it looked like a ball of wool, followed Amos closely.
Amos let a loud sneeze go, one that should have knocked him over. “Duc, is dad seep wid us? I’m allergic do wool.”
“Yeah. I’ll get rid of him.” Dunc stopped and flailed his hands at the sheep to scare him off. “He won’t go, he likes you. We’ll just have to outrun him.”
They ran to the parking lot.
“There’s no one in the van. Let’s check the back.” Dunc opened the back door.
“Rats! Its empty!” Dunc looked in at the vacant ski racks. “That means Francesco has already picked up his skis for the race.”
A loudspeaker blared from the slopes:
“Ladies and gentlemen, our first racer, John Lewiston, will now make his run, followed by Francesco Bartoli.”
“Quick, put this on!” Dunc grabbed two Team Bartoli ski jackets. “These will get us past security, into the race area.”
“I dond know uf we shodd dake dese. Iddn’t it stealing?”
“We don’t have time to worry about that—let’s mo
ve.” Dunc thrust the jacket at Amos.
They ran toward the chair lift, the sheep following. Dunc looked up to where Francesco would race—it was the meanest slope, the Disemboweler.
Amos stopped dead.
•16
“I can’t do da chair lif.”
A chair passed the boarding point.
“It can’t be that difficult.” Dunc reached out for Amos’s arm. “We just have to step up to the line and sit down at the right moment.”
“Whud if we fall off? Id’s a long way dowd.”
Another chair passed.
“Come on, Amos.” Dunc pulled Amos to the loading position.
Almost.
As the chair came swinging around, Dunc sat down with ease, but it caught Amos high in the back and toppled him over.
“Duc, I’m gonna—ummff.”
As he fell, his jacket caught the arm of the seat and held and dragged him up.
And up.
“Duc, I’m gonna—” Amos looked down. “Wahhh!”
“Hold on, Amos!” From the chair Dunc tried to grab for Amos, but he couldn’t. “I can’t reach you. I’ll fall if I do.”
“Dat wouldn’t be zo bad.” Amos was mad.
He hung there, over a hundred feet in the air, like a mouse dangling in a hawk’s talons.
“Hey, look at that TV!” Dunc pointed toward an enormous video monitor that stood over a large crowd. “That’s the biggest screen I’ve ever seen.”
“Imagine how mush ah care.” Amos tried to find a grip without looking down.
“That must be the ski race.” Dunc looked down over the crowd. “Amos, check the screen. Look at what’s on!”
Amos twisted around.
There in Technicolor was Amos being an air chicken, blowing a hole in the window and flying into the stuffed bear.
Then it showed Francesco helping him up, and the crowd cheered.
“It looks like Francesco got some good publicity from your stunt, Amos.”
“Gread, I’m zo glad I could hep him oud.” Amos looked up at Dunc. “Ya now sumding? For all dis trubble, Melizza bedder marry me.”
“Amos, heads up!” Dunc pointed toward the oncoming ramp.
Amos ignored Dunc’s warning. “Ya don’d eben care aboud whad happeds do me do ya? I mean, I dink ya like do zee me ged in trubble all the ti—”
He hit the exit ramp—headfirst.
His “helmet” saved him from any permanent injury, but when he hit, he skipped and dragged. Snow embedded itself in his clothing before his jacket ripped and he fell free. He tried to drag himself up from the snow.
“D-D-Duc, c-c-cold.” Amos tore at his clothes. “Godda ged dis off.”
“Leave it. There they are.” Dunc pointed to the two men, dressed to look like skiers, standing in the crowd. “Let’s get ’em.”
“Duc, l-l-listen.” Amos stopped.
The speaker echoed again. “And in two minutes, Francesco Bartoli, the defending champion, will attempt to set a new record as the world champion slalom speed racer.”
“We’ve got to get his skis before he races.” Dunc looked at the men. “You go for the skis—I’ll go get the police and bust the men.”
Dunc pushed Amos toward the starting chutes before he could argue and ran off toward the men.
“B-b-but …” Amos let it trail off and bumbled for the gates.
“One minute to Bartoli’s run,” the intercom called again.
Amos looked behind him for Dunc, but he saw only the man with the sandpaper voice, running straight toward the platform as fast as he could, glaring at him.
“Five.”
“F-F-Frandesco, are ya up dere?” Amos ran up the stairs and into the chute.
“What is it?” Francesco’s voice came from behind the door. He had taken his skis off to check the bindings and was about to put them back on.
“Four.”
Amos opened the door. “You can’d race. Dey mezzed wid yer skeez.”
“Three.”
“I can’t understand what you’re saying, with all that stuff on your head.” He had his helmet and goggles on and was just about to step into the ski bindings.
“Two.”
“No, don’d.” Amos desparately grabbed at the skis.
“One.”
Amos then did something he would question for the rest of his days. He stepped into the bindings. Whatever his reasoning, he had committed himself.
“Go!”
Then the world fell away.
And Amos fell with it.
On the Disemboweler.
•17
It took a fraction of a second for Amos to realize what had happened.
The Disemboweler.
The most professional ski run in the world, and he was on it after only three hours of skiing.
The slope dropped vertically, and he screamed down it, somehow staying up—barely staying alive.
He came to a bend in the run and tried to snowplow to slow down.
He shouldn’t have.
As he brought his feet together, Bartoli’s finely sharpened edges dug into the slope and his skis somehow crossed. He didn’t fall. Instead, he seemed to pick up speed. I am on sticks of death, he thought, with my legs tangled.
On the Disemboweler.
The world seemed a blur to Amos. He managed a backward glance through the slit in his jacket helmet.
There was nobody there.
He was all alone.
He looked forward again just in time to catch the first slalom flagpole across the face. The helmet padded it enough, but the flag went with him, dragging behind like a streamer.
He hit the next one and took it with him too.
Soon he had three, then four of the flags hanging off of him, trailing out behind him.
The dragging flags slowed him somewhat, but another bend was rocketing toward him. He managed a quick cross-legged turn—not bad, considering he was doing over sixty miles an hour—and with much relief glided onto what seemed to be a gentler slope.
He looked again and couldn’t believe his eyes. It seemed like he was coming to the edge of the earth. Just ahead, everything dropped into nothing. Then he remembered the brochure he’d read about the race. It wasn’t just a slalom—they had added something.
The jump.
The last stage of the race.
As his body hurtled toward the edge of the jump, Amos mentally flashed on whose skis he was wearing—Francesco’s.
He had forgotten all about the resin intended to destroy Francesco’s control. At the high speed of the drop into the jump, more heat was generated and the resin finally kicked in.
As he hit the jump itself, what little control he had disappeared. His legs spread apart as the resin turned his skis to grease, and he rocketed up the jump sideways and spun like a pinwheel into space.
He flew up over the crowd in a graceless arc that carried him into the pine trees lining the course, where he hit a tall pine. The tree gave when he hit, bent toward the ground, and set him down gently—almost.
With a wooden groan, the tree righted itself and catapulted Amos back above the crowd straight at the ski lodge. Dunc would swear later that he had left a smoke trail through the air. The wind screaming past Amos’s head moved the jacket away from his eyes enough for him to see that he was aimed at the picture window.
Again.
They had worked all night repairing it, and the new glass shone brightly in the sunlight.
Amos arrowed in directly in front of the lodge, bounced once, leaving a steaming crater, and blew through the window. He somehow managed to stay on his skis until he hit the bear.
Again.
But they hadn’t rebolted the bear to the floor, and this time it didn’t slow him down much. Both Amos and the bear went flying out of the lodge through the window on the other side.
The window shattered in a cloud of glass. Amos and the bear plowed into the parking lot. The landing would have been more painful if he hadn�
�t landed on the bear.
Amos lay there stunned in the snow on top of the bear. Smoke or steam rose from his clothing. His legs were still crossed, and where his jacket-helmet was torn, there was stuffing hanging out. He tried to stand, but he was tangled in the slalom flags and crossed skis and nothing seemed to work right.
He rose finally to his knees, raised one hand, and pushed the jacket-helmet up off his eyes.
He was looking right into the wide eyes of Melissa.
Then, once more, he fainted dead away.
•18
“Hold still, it looks like the doctor missed a few splinters.” Dunc used tweezers to pick something out of Amos’s forehead.
They had made it back home and were watching TV in Dunc’s room. Amos’s face had swollen shut from a reaction to the bear fur embedded in his nostrils—he had received another shot for that. He still had problems sitting down because of it.
“I can’t believe how big a fool I was.” Amos had been dwelling on it ever since they left the ski resort. “Even my family saw all the stunts I pulled on national TV.”
“Well, I promised that you would be more popular.” Dunc plucked another sliver. “Besides, the police did catch Bill and Harley.”
“You don’t think Melissa will recognize me, do you?” He ignored Dunc’s optimism.
“You don’t have to worry about that. She was too busy laughing to recognize anybody.” Dunc arranged the slivers in a neat pile on the end table. “Twenty-seven.”
“What?”
“Twenty-seven slivers. That’s how many the doctor missed.” He threw them in the trash can. “You did set a speed record. You even beat Bartoli’s. You just gave the race officials the wrong name.”
“That’s because I couldn’t remember my name. Now Melissa is never gonna know I was the one.” Amos rolled over on his side. “I saved Francesco, and she’ll never know.”
“If it’s any consolation, my parents have already decided to go back next year.” Dunc smiled at Amos. “You know you’re always welcome to come along.”
Dunc almost, but didn’t quite make the door before Amos hit him with a tennis shoe.