by Dann Gershon
“Be prepared, Fleet, old boy,” he said to himself, recalling the one and only phrase he learned at Cub Scouts before the troop’s den mother had an unexpected nervous breakdown.
A loud creaking sound startled Einstein. He eyed the cabin to be sure that he was alone. When it came to safety and sweets, one could never be too careful. Seeing nothing, Ein-stein donned a fishing cap that he had fitted with a mosquito net and liberally doused himself with bug spray. It was one of many contraptions that Einstein had prepared in advance to survive his summer at boot camp. Practical yet stylish, the cap made a statement. Einstein started toward the door and, hav-ing a second thought, turned and retrieved one of the Twinkies from his sleeping bag. Be prepared.
Suddenly, a feeling of dread swept over Einstein. Someone or something was watching him. He scanned all of the nooks and crannies of the cabin for any sign of trouble. A shuffling sound from the far side of the cabin got his attention. Ein-stein positioned himself in a kung fu stance that he had learned playing Mortal Kombat and prepared to do battle with the unknown. Before he could strike out at the invisible intruder, the shuffling stopped and the cabin was again silent.
“Is anybody there?” Einstein whispered, positioning himself to defend his stash of Twinkies. “I must warn you, I went to ninja camp last summer.”
A furry black golf ball with eight legs and large protruding fangs emerged from behind the cot. The creature stared at Ein-stein, daring the ninja master to make the first move.
“SPIDER ATTACK!” Einstein bolted out the door and ran for his life, screaming like a madman for someone to call an exter-minator.
The tarantula watched the spectacle with mild interest and then continued on its way. As it scurried toward the door and the safety of the open desert, the hairy spider became aware of another presence in the cabin. It froze in its tracks, sens-ing danger.
The tarantula never knew what hit it.
1
Cha p te r
5
B
Day One — 1:23 P.M. ig Al Mackey stood at the window and stared at Einstein, shaking his head in disgust. In his long years of military ser-vice, he had never seen such a slovenly display. The boy could not be more than thirteen or fourteen years old and yet he was already twenty or thirty pounds too heavy for his age. America had grown fat on a steady diet of junk food over the years, and its youth exemplified the condition. Big Al knew that a couple of weeks of hiking through the desert would slim the boy down, but this kid was in need of a total makeover. The boy’s clothes looked as if they had been slept in, and the remains of something white and crusty formed a trail from his mouth down to the collar of his short-sleeved khaki camp shirt. An unruly mop of curly brown hair framed his pudgy face. A pair of thick black glasses with Coke bottles for lenses magnified his dark hazel eyes. All in all, the boy looked like an oversized nerd. He was sitting down at a picnic table, sweating profusely and trying to catch his breath. It was pitiful. Sud-denly, the boy noticed Big Al staring at him through the win-dow and did something that in Big Al’s mind was unthinkable. He stared back and smiled.
“Hmmm. Fat, sloppy, and impudent,” said Big Al to no one in particular. “Well, I got my eye on you, mister.”
Einstein took a notebook out of his backpack and jotted something down as he continued to stare in the direction of Big Al. Big Al could see his eyes dart from the paper and back to the window. Shifty eyes. Beady eyes. The eyes of a real troublemaker.
“Don’t you have something better to do than sit on your butt all day?” Big Al shouted at the boy. “This is a summer camp, chubby, not a library. Why don’t you take a hike or something? The exercise will do you good.”
Einstein sized up the man in the window. He looked to be in his late fifties with short gray hair that was styled in a mili-tary buzz cut. He was wearing a tight white T-shirt with the standard camp logo. A silver whistle dangled from his neck. His ramrod-straight posture hinted at a prior life, either in the military or as a fitness instructor. The man had a look of au-thority. Einstein knew the type well. All of them felt it was their right to impose their will on others. Some people needed to be told what to do and welcomed the direction. Einstein wasn’t one of them. To him, an authority figure was just another type of bully. Maybe they didn’t use physical violence to intimidate, but there was no difference between the two. A bully was a bully and Einstein despised them all.
“It’s a bit hot for physical activity,” he shouted back at Big Al, “but if you feel the need to hike through the desert, by all means don’t let me stop you.”
“Get moving, four-eyes,” Big Al commanded, “or I’ll roll you in honey and tie you to an anthill.”
Einstein shot Big Al a final defiant glance and abruptly pulled down the mesh net on his cap. He turned his back to the man, then yanked his shorts down to his knees, bent over, and mooned him. Satisfied that he had made his point, Einstein pulled up his shorts and moseyed down the road in search of a more secluded location.
Big Al pondered the boy and how to best deal with the problem. His future was tied to this little venture, not to men-tion his entire life’s savings. There was no way on Earth that he was going to allow anything, let alone an oddball like Einstein, stand in the way of completing his mission.
He turned to Bucky and pointed at the boy. “That’s the Fleet kid, right?” he asked, the years of command clear in his tone. “The one without a costume?”
Bucky looked out the window and nodded. “He puked all over my brand-new Nikes,” he said, pointing down at the splotches on his sneakers.
“Which cabin is he assigned to?” “He’s in Cabin C with the Armstrong kid and the rest of the werewolves.”
Big Al turned around slowly and smiled. “A couple of days with that crew ought to put some hair on that chubby little chest.”
“I don’t know, boss. He doesn’t look like werewolf material to me.”
“Find him a costume,” Big Al ordered, “and let’s see.”
/> Cha p te r
E
Day One — 2:22 P.M. instein stared at the empty barn and couldn’t believe his luck. The place was perfect. Abandoned and left to rot, it would provide him with a refuge away from the other camp-ers and the prying eyes of camp management. Most of the red paint had peeled off long ago and what little was left looked like random splotches of dried blood. The wood walls, warped from age and exposure to the elements, appeared lopsided, like an old man sagging under the weight of time.
Einstein searched the perimeter of the barn for an entrance. He walked around until he found a small door. The handle was missing and the hinges were rusted shut. Einstein tried to pry the door open, but it wouldn’t budge. It would call for an-other solution. The boy backed up about ten yards and took a deep breath.
“Ramming speed!” he screamed, charging like a bull. The door collapsed upon impact and Einstein fell headfirst into the barn. He got up and dusted himself off, wondering if he should go any farther. The inside looked dark and scary. It might even be haunted or, worse, crawling with all sorts of blood- sucking spiders just waiting to hitch a ride in his shorts. He stood still for a moment or two, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness, before he mustered up the courage to continue.
“No guts, no glory,” he whispered to himself. The inside of the barn was eerily quiet. The support beams that held up the roof were rotted away and appeared to be un-stable. Several planks were missing from the sides of the barn, allowing beams of sunlight through. Patches of tall weeds grew in the areas that the sun was able to reach. Dark green moss covered everywhere that it wasn’t.
An old pickup truck was parked in the center of the cav-ernous space. There was an official-looking insignia on the side door. It had worn away with time, along with the words that used to circle it. Only one word remained that was still legible—it read postal. The back of the truck was loaded with several dozen cases of painter’s and electrician’s tape. Considering the entire camp was in dire need of repair and a paint job, the large quantity of tape made sense. Still, Ein-stein thought it was odd. He decided to take a closer look and headed toward the truck. Einstein took a few steps forward, then stopped dead in his tracks as soon as he saw a diamond- shaped pattern of silky strands. The truck was covered in cob-webs, and where there were cobwebs, there were spiders. His eyes scanned the area for any sign of life as he backed away from the vehicle. Rather than risk a run-in with a horde of eight-legged man-eaters, Einstein turned tail and ran as fast as he could for the door.
Safely outside again, he looked for a place to sit down and catch his breath. He stumbled upon a picnic table and grate-fully took a seat. As his breathing returned to normal, Einstein mulled over the events of the day. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but everything about this place felt wrong. There was only one thing to do. He would explain the situation to his parents and request that his sentence be reduced to time served. Ein-stein knew it was an exercise in futility, but he reached into his pack and removed his notebook and a black felt-tipped pen. Einstein ripped out a page and starting writing.
Dear Mom and Dad, HELP!!!!!!!!!!!!
The bus ride to camp was worse than expected. Considering the fact that most of my fellow camp-ers are one step removed from Neanderthals, I’m surprised that I survived the trip at all. Did you know that this is a theme camp for monsters? Thirty-six kids, including yours truly, were hand-picked to take part in this mad experiment based on their answers to the questionnaire. Congratula-tions, Dad! You passed the test with flying colors. I’m officially a werewolf.
The pictures in the brochure were grossly misleading, but I suppose you can’t fault camp man-agement for good marketing. Compared to Creepy Time, a maximum-security prison would be consid-ered a five-star hotel. My lodgings are dismal. The cabin (if you consider a shanty a cabin) is crawling with bugs and snakes, most of which are poisonous and most likely man-eaters. The lake (if there
ever was a lake) must have evaporated from the heat, along with the stable full of horses. The “Olympic-sized” swimming pool is more like a swimming hole, although the toxic green waste and algae it is filled with is a tad less inviting than the clear blue water pictured in the brochure. The long list of “activities” was also a lie, unless you consider vomiting, sweating, or building a birdhouse out of Popsicle sticks a boatload of fun.
Danger lurks everywhere and the odds of surviv-ing eight weeks in this place are slim at best. I had my first run-in with upper management just hours after my arrival. (Actually, it was more of a staring contest than a run-in, but it was still unnerving.) The staredown was with none other than Big Al Mackey, the infamous warden here at Creepy Time. Although I drew first blood, the senile old geezer looks like he enjoys a good fight and will no doubt be gunning for a bit of payback.
I beg you to arrange for an early pardon. I will not hold you responsible. I will not bear a grudge. Clearly, the strain of parenthood has finally taken its toll and you no longer possess the mental capac-ity for rational thought. The long and short of it is simple. Please arrange for my immediate release while I’m still in one piece. The clock is ticking.
Sincerely Yours, Einstein P. Fleet P.S. In the event that I do not survive, please feel free to rent out my room. Einstein reviewed the contents of the letter one last time to make sure that he had properly conveyed the seriousness of the situation in simple terms that even his parents would un-derstand. Satisfied that he had made his point, he then folded the paper into three equal parts, placed it in an envelope, and prepared to lick the seal.
“FREEZE!” Einstein did as ordered, leaving his tongue dangling in midlick. He raised his hands above his head and assumed the position.
“Don’t shoot,” Einstein shouted back. “I have a little over three dollars in cash and a Twinkie. You can have the cash.”
“Turn around and put your hands down, kid. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Einstein did as he was told and was relieved to see a fellow camper standing in front of him instead of a desert desper-ado. She was barely five feet tall but exuded the confidence of someone a lot bigger. Her long brown hair was streaked with blue and her green eyes sparkled in the sunlight. She was wear-ing faux-leopard-spotted pants, ankle-high Doc Marten boots, and cat glasses embedded with rhinestones. Part grandma, part grunge. The girl was thin but wiry, wearing a tight short-sleeved T-shirt that simply stated, camp sucks.
Einstein dropped his arms back down to his sides and sighed with relief.
0 “Trust
me, kid,” the girl snapped, snatching the envelope out of his hand. “You don’t want to lick that envelope.”
“Why not?” he inquired, surprised by her speed and agility. “The contents of this letter are of a private nature. A matter of national security, actually.”
“I can sum it up for you in just one word.”
Einstein thought she was joking at first, but from the ex-pression on her face he knew she was serious.
“What’s that?” Einstein asked.
“Germs.”
“Germs?” Einstein repeated.
“That’s right. Germs.” The girl let the information sink in for a moment and then explained. “The slightest infection can kill you, especially in this environment. Why take chances? Who knows where that envelope has been? It was probably manufactured in some third-world country teeming with ex-otic diseases. Malaria, cholera, whooping cough, plague, and probably some stuff we haven’t even heard of yet. You want to lick something like that, be my guest. Personally, I’d rather kiss a lizard on the lips.”