He pulled the freezer open as quietly as possible, wincing at the squeak of the handle and the pop of the door’s rubber lining. He opened the door just wide enough to squeeze through, then pulled it shut behind him.
The light went out.
Danny made a noise that he was very glad Wendell wasn’t around to hear. Not that he was scared or anything. It was just . . . unexpected. Startling. And cold. Yep, it must have been the cold that made him squeak like that.
He rummaged around for the wall and a light switch. Icy metal shelves met his hands, and bags of plastic covered with frost.
It was incredibly cold.
At last his fingers found the light switch, and he snapped it on. He was surrounded by tightly packed metal shelves covered with boxes and bags. His breath steamed out in clouds as he read the labels on the boxes, looking for hot dogs. He hoped they weren’t in the back. His dragonish metabolism generally kept him pretty warm—he hardly ever needed a sweater in the winter—but it was really cold in the freezer. Plus a lunch lady might come in at any minute. He sighed, a little smoke mixing in with the steam.
When he finally found the boxes, Danny could have kicked himself—of course they were right on the floor in front of him—they’d been serving hot dogs yesterday, after all.
“GRADE B WIENERS—400 COUNT” the box proclaimed in bold letters.
This wasn’t terribly helpful. Danny walked around the stack and crouched down to read the back of one of the boxes. Maybe there’d be something there—ingredients, warnings, something he could take back to Wendell.
But the back of the box was blank. Danny chewed on his lower lip. Maybe there was another box somewhere—
The freezer door opened.
“I don’t know, Mabel,” said the lunch lady over her shoulder, stepping into the freezer, “I thought there was another bag in here.” She turned back and grumbled. “Somebody always forgets to turn the light off.”
Danny huddled into the smallest ball he could manage behind the stack of boxes, not daring to breathe, lest the steam give him away.
“Coleslaw . . . ” she muttered, scanning the shelves, “coleslaw, coleslaw, where’s the coleslaw . . . I don’t want to dig through the Big Freezer . . . ”
Please hurry, Danny pleaded silently, feeling his chest tighten as he held his breath.
“Aha!”
She grabbed a bag off the shelf. It squished unpleasantly when she hoisted it. Danny hadn’t realized that coleslaw came in bags. There was something nasty about a whole bag of slaw squelching.
The lunch lady opened the door, and without glancing in Danny’s direction, flicked the light off and left.
Danny exhaled, feeling light-headed.
He tried to feel his way back to the light switch but tripped over a pile of boxes. Cardboard crunched, and something cold and hard rolled under his foot. It felt pretty much exactly the way a frozen hot dog would. Danny winced.
He made it to the light switch.
The boxes were scattered around the floor. The box he’d stepped in had broken open, and a pack of hot dogs had fallen out.
He picked up the package. It didn’t say “GRADE B WIENERS.” It said something quite different.
LUNCH MEATS
“Were-wieners,” said Wendell thoughtfully, turning the package over in his hands.
“Dude, I was afraid they were going to catch me. I barely got out of there.” Danny felt that Wendell was skipping over his heroism a little too quickly.
“Were-wieners . . . ” muttered Wendell again, scratching at the hair on his back. “Does this mean I’m going to turn into a were-hot-dog?”
“That would be wicked!”
Wendell stared at him.
“Just picture it! The full moon! The light streams down through the window. The iguana sits in his room, looking normal. All is right with the world. And then! Suddenly! Without warning!” Danny flailed his arms. Other students in the hallway glanced over at the wildly flailing dragon, saw that it was Danny, and looked away again.
“Oh. Hm.” Danny considered. “I guess it’s not quite like being a werewolf, is it? No legs, for one thing ...”
“That’s what we have to find out,” said Wendell grimly, shoving his glasses up on his nose.
LICAN-SOMETHING
“The library?” Danny could hardly contain his dismay. “You’re making us stay after school to go to the library?”
“All knowledge is contained in the card catalog.” Wendell went to an open computer terminal and began typing.
Danny loitered behind him and wondered if he could sneak over to the science fiction section before Wendell noticed.
He’d gotten several feet and was just about to begin strolling away when Wendell scrawled something on a scrap of paper, stood up, and collared him.
“Come on. It’s in Mythology and Folklore.”
Danny cheered up a bit. Mythology and Folklore was probably the most fun of the nonfiction section, after the books about dinosaurs and wild animals. He followed the iguana between the shelves.
“Werewolves . . . werewolves . . . ” Wendell ran his finger along a shelf. “Here we go.” He pulled down three books and handed one to Danny.
Danny stared at his book, which was titled A Child’s Garden of Lycanthropy. “What’s lycanthropy?”
“Werewolfism.”
“Neat!”
“Flip through it and see if there’s anything about were-wieners,” Wendell ordered, sitting down on the floor.
Danny obeyed.
The book was fascinating. “Did you know that they have were-leopards in Africa?” Danny said. “Isn’t that awesome?”
“Riveting,” said Wendell in the tone of one who is not in the least bit riveted. He was working his way through the index of a large book with a plain black cover. What Danny could see of the page was covered in tiny dense print. The dragon shuddered and turned back to the illustrated were-leopards.
“There’s nothing in here about were-wieners . . . ”
Danny said after a while. “The last entry is for ‘were-whales.’ But dude! Were-whales! Can you imagine?”
“Seems very inconvenient,” said Wendell.
Danny thought about this. “Well . . . yeah . . . you’d need a really big swimming pool . . . ”
“Nothing,” said Wendell in disgust, slamming the covers of his book shut. “No were-wiener anywhere.”
“Could you try curing, y’know, general lycan—ly—werewolfiness?”
Wendell shook his head. “Not without knowing more. It’s very specific. You can cure being a werewolf with wolfsbane, but to fix a were-jaguar you have to steal his jaguar-skin cloak—which also works with were-swans. And to cure a bakeneko—a Japanese were-cat—you have to cut its tail off.”
“Hmmm. I see the problem.” Danny considered. Cutting Wendell’s tail off seemed awfully drastic, and Wendell’s mother was bound to blame him, no matter how many periodic-table bandages they put on the stump.
“I can’t even find anything that might be remotely related to were-wieners. The closest I can find is a legend that you can supposedly get lycanthropy by eating the brain of a wolf.”
Danny had a cast-iron stomach, but the notion that he’d routinely been eating wolf brains on a bun since kindergarten did give him a bit of an internal twinge. “Yecck.”
“Tell me about it.” Wendell gnawed on a clawtip.
“Well!” Danny leaped to his feet. “We’re not going to take this lying down. We’ll go clear to Transylvania if that’s what it takes!”
1-800-HELP
“You mean we don’t have a single relative in Transylvania?” Danny couldn’t believe it. “Mom! Are you sure?”
Danny’s mother gave him a mild look. “Not that I can think of, no.”
“Third cousin? Roommate from college? This is important!”
She sighed.
“What about Dad’s side of the family? He does have really sharp teeth.”
“He’s a d
ragon, Danny.”
“I’m afraid I can’t think of anything, dear. Now please, I’m trying to get this article finished . . . ”
Danny plodded downstairs to deliver the bad news to Wendell.
“Apparently we don’t have any relatives there. I’m sorry, Wendell, I thought—I mean, we’ve got them all over, and it’s Transylvania, which is crazy with mythical stuff, you’d think we would—”
“Oh.” Wendell stared blankly at Danny, and then at the ceiling. After a minute he slid a hand under his shirt and began scratching. “So that’s it then. I’m going to become a were-hot-dog.”
Danny couldn’t take it.
“We’ll go to Transylvania anyway,” said Danny. “I’m sure the bus goes there. We’ll find the—the hot dog farm, or factory, or ranch or wherever they make hot dogs, and we’ll make them give us the cure!”
Danny pulled out his crumpled bus schedule and went through it. “Transylvania . . . Transylvania . . . well, crud.”
Wendell put his head in his hands, not sure if he should be feeling relief or despair. “There’s no bus to Transylvania?”
“Not directly. We’ll have to take a transfer. Err . . . two transfers.” Danny shoved the bus schedule back into his pocket. “There’s one that leaves from the mall, but it’ll take a while. Um. Quite a while, actually.” He patted Wendell on the shoulder. “Don’t worry though, buddy. We’ll get you to Transylvania or die trying!”
“Do you know anything about Transylvania?” asked Wendell, staring out the window and contemplating a future that included shaving his back.
“Maybe there’s another option,” said Wendell, pulling out the package of were-wieners. It was starting to thaw. He shook hot dog juice off his fingers, grimacing. Then he turned the package over. “Look, there’s a note here . . . ”
“A note?”
“Yeah. Under the ingredients. It says ‘In case of missing product, damage, or lycanthropy, call 1-800-WURST-R-US.’”
Danny frowned. “You want to call the 1-800-number?”
“Well, it does say ‘in case of lycanthropy.’”
“What if they’re in on it? What if it’s a diabolical plot to enslave the kids of the world through the diabolical arm of the cafeteria?”
Danny heaved a sigh. Calling the company did not hold the same appeal as storming a factory in the vampire-ridden Carpathians. Still, he wasn’t the one turning into a were-hot-dog, which was kind of a shame, because he secretly suspected that he’d enjoy it much more than Wendell.
“Fine, we’ll use the phone in the kitchen.”
Wendell pulled the phone down, checked the number, and dialed. Danny crowded up next to him to listen, but the iguana obstinately retained control of the mouthpiece.
“Wurst-R-Us, Reginald speaking.”
“Hello,” said Wendell, taking a deep breath. “I’m calling because of the note on the packaging—the one about lycanthropy—”
There was a sigh from the other end. “Another batch? What’s the serial number?”
“Um . . . ” Wendell turned the package over until he found the numbers stamped on the end. He read them off to the operator.
There was a rustle on the other end, as if the speaker had turned away from the phone, and they heard, distantly, “Vlad! Another batch of the were-wieners went feral!” followed by even more distant cursing.
“Thank you for informing us,” said Reginald, coming back on the phone. “If you cut off the end of the package, you can mail it to us, and we’ll send you a full refund, plus a free gift certificate for Wurst-R-Us’s new chokewurst, containing artichoke hearts and cheese, perfect for family gatherings, parties, grilling—”
“I don’t want a gift certificate!” Wendell broke in. “I want a cure!”
There was a lengthy pause. “Look, kid, it’s the gift certificate or nothing,” said Reginald, sounding tired. “We don’t have the budget to come out and take down your alpha wurst for you.”
“The pack leader,” said Reginald. “If you kill the alpha wurst, the rest of the hot dogs lose their power.”
“Will that cure my lycanthropy?” asked Wendell.
“Yeah, it should.” There was another pause, and then Reginald said, “Look, corporate will have my head for telling you this, but you don’t have long. The incubation period for lycanthropy is three days. You have to find the alpha wurst before then.”
“I don’t even know where it is!” said Wendell, frightened.
“They don’t like to travel,” said Reginald. “Comes of having no legs. It’s probably got a den near where the packages were opened.”
“The school cafeteria!” said Danny, punching the air.
“Cafeteria?” Reginald sounded worried. “If it was a big batch, then anybody who ate an infected wiener—or was bitten by one—could be changing soon. The alpha wurst can control them. They’ll try to protect it.”
“It’s already been a day and a half . . . ” whispered the iguana in horror.
“You don’t have long, then,” said Reginald.
Danny yanked the phone from Wendell’s limp fingers. “Reginald! Danny Dragonbreath here—how do we kill the alpha wurst?”
“Silver skewers,” said Reginald. “Holy water mixed with mustard might also work. You won’t be able to get close enough, though, not after a day and a half. Not without help. It’s probably already got minions.”
“Thanks,” said Danny.
“Good luck,” said Reginald, and hung up.
Danny hung up too and then started plotting. “Okay, silver skewer, mustard, and holy water.”
There was just one thing bothering him.
THE WORST WURST
“A day and a half . . . ” moaned Wendell, slumping back against the counter and putting his face in his hands. “In just a day and a half, I’ll be a permanently hairy were-minion under the control of the alpha wurst.”
Danny didn’t know why Wendell was always so negative. A day and a half was a pretty long time, especially when you were at school. Time always moved extra slowly there. Math class in particular took several centuries a day. He tried to comfort the iguana.
Danny wondered what it said about their friendship, if Wendell was more worried about the goldfish he’d won at the fair years ago than about biting Danny. Still, his best friend was probably just distraught.
“It’ll be okay,” the dragon said firmly. “We just have to stop the alpha wurst. We need silver.”
Wendell considered. “Well . . . there’s the silverware my grandmother left us . . . ”
“Is it real silver?”
The iguana shrugged. “Mom always calls it ‘the good silver,’ so probably. It’s in a box in the china cabinet.”
“Good. That’s a start.”
“Should we tell the school? Maybe they could stop it . . . ”
Danny gave Wendell the withering look this deserved. “Do you think grown-ups can really be trusted with this?”
Wendell sighed.
“No,” said Danny, “no, we’ll have to enlist the aid of the ancient enemy of the hot dog.”
It took Wendell a minute, and then he remembered. “You mean potato salad?”
“The batch last spring. It’s in the storm drains somewhere.”
“Why would it help us?”
“We let it go!” said Danny indignantly. “Are you implying that it can’t feel gratitude, just because it’s potato salad?”
“No, but . . . ” Wendell spread his hands, wondering how he got into these conversations in the first place. “How do we find it? What if it’s dead?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Danny, heading for the door, “you can’t kill a potato salad.”
“I can see a problem already,” said Wendell a few minutes later as he and Danny stood on the curb and looked down into the storm drain.
“Hmm,” said Danny, unwilling to admit defeat, but not entirely sure what to do next. “This is the drain where I saw the potato salad . . . ”
&
nbsp; The opening to the drains was a large rectangle cut in the curb, and it looked big enough for a small dragon or iguana to wiggle into. The problem was the weather. It had been raining all day, and the water was pouring into the storm drain.
“We could go anyway,” said Danny dubiously. “I mean, it’ll be wet, but I’m game . . . ”
Wendell shook his head. “Some of the drains are probably flooded. And if the rain really started coming down, we could drown under there.”
“Hmm,” said Danny again, more gloomily.
“It’s supposed to be sunny tomorrow,” offered Wendell.
“Well . . . ” said Danny slowly, “I guess . . . if I spend the night at your house tomorrow, we can sneak out tomorrow night and get the potato salad, and then try to take out the alpha wurst over lunch the next day. But by then it will have been almost exactly three days.”
Wendell chewed on his lower lip.
“It’s up to you,” said Danny.
“We don’t have any choice,” the iguana said finally, scratching at the hair in question. “The important thing is to kill the were-wiener. Even if I’ve—if I’m a—well, anyway, if you can take down the alpha, Reginald said that would fix it.”
“Well,” said Danny, “if we go tomorrow night, we’ll have time . . . ”
Curse of the Were-wiener Page 2