Camp Creepy Time_The Adventures of Einstein P. Fleet

by Dann Gershon

  “I’m sorry, comrade,” Roxie said softly. “I tried to get you  out of the werewolf outfit as fast as I could, but I guess I wasn’t  fast enough.”

  “It was the salt tablets, wasn’t it?”

  Roxie nodded.

  “SALT is an acronym for Synthetic Alteration of Life Trans-formation. I’m not sure exactly how it works, but the cos-tumes play an integral role in the process. The tablets create a  chemical reaction that causes a genetic mutation, combining  your DNA with anything you are wearing. The result is a total  transformation. In effect, if you’re dressed as a werewolf, you  become a werewolf.”

  “I don’t feel like a werewolf,” Einstein said.

  “To achieve that requires encyclopedia-like knowledge of

  115 the material,” Roxie told him. “Every camper at Creepy Time  has that in common, except for you. They were handpicked  out of thousands of candidates for that reason. Between the  countless hours spent watching reruns of the old horror flicks  and reading vintage comic books, they have become experts  on the material. That expertise creates the inner monster, so  to speak. It’s known as the ARMS effect.”

  “The what?” Einstein asked. “Absorbed Reaction to Media Stimulation,” Roxie replied,  and then repeated the letters in the acronym slowly.

  “So, let me see if I have this straight. I’m going to look like  a werewolf, but I’m not going to act like one.”

  Roxie nodded again.

  “This really sucks,” Einstein groaned.

  “Look at the bright side, Houdini,” the ghost said, tugging  on the boy’s beard. “If you ever get out of here, you’ll be able  to go to an R-rated movie without being carded.”

  Einstein ignored him and tried to wrap his arms around the  problem at hand. Every problem had a solution. All you needed  to do was find it. “Toss me a Twinkie, will you, Greeley?” Ein-stein said. “I think better on a full stomach.”

  “Could I have one too?” the ghost asked, eyeing the pile.

  “NO!” Roxie and Einstein shouted in unison.

  Einstein paced across the room, eating the Twinkie while  he pondered the problem. Why would anyone want to trans-form kids into monsters? It didn’t make any sense. Big Al and  his crew were either insane or being paid for their efforts, ei-ther of which was possible. If they were being paid, whoever  was paying them was just as crazy as they were. Who in their  right minds would release a plague upon the Earth? Suddenly,  it dawned on him. “That’s it!” he shouted. “It’s a plague!”

  “What are you talking about, Fleet?” Roxie asked.

   “I’ve uncovered some conspiracies in my time, but this one  takes the prize. It’s absolutely brilliant. Why would you want  to turn kids into monsters?”

  Roxie and Greeley both shrugged.

   “I’ll tell you why in two words,” Einstein said. “Fear and  profit. Who stands to benefit the most if real live monsters  were released into the general population?”

  “Is it a multiple-choice question?” Greeley asked.

  “The government and the big pharmaceutical companies  would,” Einstein shouted, pounding his fist on the chair. “The  government benefits by getting increased budgets for military  spending all across the board. The big pharmaceutical com-panies make out on both ends. They make money selling the   government the salt tablets to create the disease and even  more on the back end.”

  “What back end?” Roxie asked.

  “They sell everyone who has been infected the antidote!”  Einstein shouted.

  “If there is an antidote,” Roxie asked, “how do we get our  hands on it?”

  “That’s the part I haven’t worked out yet,” Einstein replied  as he headed for the door. “But I will.”

  “Where you going, Fleet?” Roxie asked.

  “Out for some fresh air,” he told her. He grabbed a fresh  Twinkie and pointed a hairy finger at Greeley. “It’s still a bit  ripe in here, if you get my drift.”

  11 “Be careful out there,” Roxie warned as he walked out the  door. She waited until he was gone before saying another word.  Roxie could feel the ghost’s eyes burning a hole in the back of  her head. “What is it?”

   “Don’t  you  think  you  should  have  told  him  the  whole  story?”

  “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Greeley replied. “Look what  happened to me.”

  Cha p te r

  5

  IDay Seven — 10:32 A.M.

  ’ve been thinking, honey,” Shirley said to her husband. Norman put down his newspaper and stifled a groan.  Anytime his wife started a sentence with “I’ve been thinking,  honey” it always signified trouble.

  “Thinking about what, Shirley?” “I think you should give Einstein a call to make sure he’s  all right.”

  “We discussed that,” Norman said. “It’s against the rules,  remember?”

  Shirley gave him the look. After twenty years of marriage,  Norman knew that look all too well. He had one of two choices.  He could either make the call or prepare himself for a full day  of the silent treatment.

  “What’s the number?” He sighed.

  Shirley read him the phone number listed in the brochure  and he dialed. After twenty rings he hung up and dialed again  with the same result. “Nothing,” Norman grunted. “Not even  a machine.”

  “Try the operator and see if the number is working.”

  Norman called the operator and waited. On the fifteenth

  10 ring, he was connected to an automated service. After a half  hour of inane questions and rerouting through the system, he  finally reached a human being. She spoke in a monotone drone  that made the automated voice seem positively cheerful. The  operator attacked Norman with a barrage of silly questions as  to why he couldn’t follow instructions to get what information  he needed from their state-of-the-art automated service. Only  after she had succeeded in making Norman feel like a com-plete and total slacker did the operator relent and agree to see  if the number was in service. Ten minutes later, she finally got  back on the line and told him that not only was the number  not in service, but that there was no Camp Creepy Time listed  in Saugus or anywhere else in California for that matter. Before  Norman could say another word, sh
e called him a bonehead  and then severed the connection.

  “What did she say?” Shirley asked.

  “She said that there isn’t a listing for Creepy Time.” He  could see the look of terror on his wife’s face and tried to ra-tionalize the situation to calm her down. “Maybe they went on  a field trip or something and forgot to leave on the answering  machine.”

  “Maybe there was an accident!” Shirley screamed, working  herself into a frenzy.

  Norman shook his head. “If there was an accident, some-one from the camp would contact us. It just doesn’t make  any sense.”

  “I told you that he wasn’t ready for sleepaway camp,” Shir-ley said. She put her face in her hands and started to sob.

  “What are you talking about?” Norman replied defensively.  “You were the one who insisted that a summer of fresh air was  just what the doctor ordered, remember?”

  “Well,” Shirley said, the tears beginning to flow. “Maybe I  was wrong.”

  “Maybe we were both wrong,” Norman replied.

  “I want to see Einstein,” Shirley said between sobs.

  “Me too,” Norman said as he rifled the drawer for his keys.   “I’ll go outside and fire up the Volvo while you get dressed.   We’re taking a road trip.”

  11

  Cha p te r

  T

  Day Seven — 11:20 A.M. he code name for the plan is Operation Knuckleball,” Ein-stein announced to the others. “Our mission is to locate the  antidote. Our objective is to do so without getting killed. Any  questions so far?”

  Roxie raised her hand.

  “Yes?” Einstein said, taking her question.

  “How do you plan to do that?” she said. “Beside the fact

  that we are outnumbered and outgunned, we’re not even cer-tain there is an antidote, let alone how to find it.” “First of all, we need to even the odds,” Einstein began. “To  accomplish that, Greeley will have to possess one of them.” He  stared down the ghost. “You think you can handle that?”

  “Piece of cake,” Greeley snapped back. “It’s all in the hand-book.”

  “What handbook?” Einstein asked.

  “Possession for Dummies,” Greeley quipped. “There’s a whole  chapter on the subject.”

  “Great,” Einstein replied. “From there we move on to phase  two of the operation and give camp management a taste of  their own medicine.”

  “You mean to feed them salt tablets?” Roxie asked.

  “That’s exactly what I plan to do, Agent Rosenberg. Unless  Nurse Knockwurst changes into a beauty queen, I’m sure that  they will lead us directly to the antidote.”

  “We don’t even know if the antidote exists,” Roxie reminded  him again.

  “Second, we need to retain a positive attitude,” Einstein re-plied, wagging his finger at Roxie. “Negative thoughts produce  negative results.”

  “What about weapons, Fleet?”

  “It’s already been taken care of,” Einstein replied. He picked  up a burlap sack and dumped the contents on the floor. “How  did we do, Greeley?”

  “It’s all there,” he answered, grinning like a ghoul. “Rolls of  lanyard material, Popsicle sticks, superglue, marbles, balloons,  masking tape, and everything else you asked for, including every  last salt tablet I could find.”

  “Good work, comrade.” Einstein gave the old man a pat on  the back. “My uncle is a bigwig at the post office. If we come  out of this in one piece, I’ll put in a good word for you.”

  “I’m permanently retired,” the ghost replied, “but thanks  anyway.”

  Einstein grabbed a handful of Popsicle sticks and went to  work. He glued the sides of six sticks into a perfect hexagon,  then filled the inner space with marbles and gently squeezed.  In a few seconds the glue set and the sticks were locked in  place. Einstein carefully wrapped layer upon layer of yellow  lanyard around the sticks, stopping every so often to check  the tension.

  1 “What are you doing?” Roxie asked.

  “These seemingly harmless items can be obtained almost  anywhere, but in the hands of a master such as myself, they are  actually the most lethal weapons that the L.A. public school  system has to offer unless, of course, you happen to own an  Uzi.” Einstein loaded a marble into the makeshift peashooter  and blew. The glass ball sailed across the room and hit the wall  with a loud thud. “Think of it as a weapon of class destruction.  Just a little something I picked up during my formative years  in the jungle.”

  “You learned to make a peashooter out of Popsicle sticks  in Africa?”

  Einstein shook his head and laughed. “Junior high school. I  was talking about the other jungle.”

  “Can you make me one of those?” Greeley asked.

  Einstein reached into his pack and pulled out several pea-shooters. They were longer than the homemade version and  looked a lot sturdier. “Here you go, Greeley. We use them as  giveaways when you sign up for membership on the website.  Take one and pass the rest out to your friends.”

  The ghost examined the weapon and smiled. On the side it  read, Compliments of The Smoking Peashooter. “Thanks. I’ve always  wanted one of these things.”

  “Why did you bother to make a peashooter if you already  had an arsenal stashed in your pack?” Roxie asked.

  “You know what they say about idle hands,” Einstein re-plied. He looked down at his watch and checked the time.  “Speaking of which, we’d better go to work.”

  Under Einstein’s direction, Greeley dissolved several hand-fuls of salt tablets in a shallow bowl filled with water. The ghost  stirred until they were whipped into a fluffy white paste and then  injected the mixture into the center of a dozen Twinkies with  a straw. Einstein inspected his work, resealed the cellophane,  and then loaded the spiked Twinkies back into the twelve-pack  carton. That done, Einstein poured more in the bowl and stirred  the remaining salt tablets until they liquefied. The water was  murky, but no worse than the water that came directly from the  tap. He put a funnel into the mouth of one of the counselor’s  canteens and poured. Einstein marked a second canteen with  an X and filled it to the brim with fresh tap water.

  “Who’s that for?” Roxie asked.

  “It’s for me,” he replied. “It’s hot as an oven in here. I’m  thirsty
.”

  Greeley picked up a balloon and began to inflate it. With  a few twists and turns the balloon took on the shape of a toy  poodle. “I love these things,” he cackled.

  “Me too,” Einstein said. He selected a yellow balloon from  the pile and went to work on the next item on his list. He care-fully filled the balloon with superglue until it was about a quar-ter of the way full and made a whoopee cushion. Einstein had  tested the item once on his vice principal’s swivel chair and  it had worked like a charm. In addition to receiving a three- day suspension from school, his parents had to cough up sixty  bucks for a new pair of slacks.

  “Peashooters and glue balloons.” Roxie sighed. “How did I  let you talk me into this?”

  “This battle will be won with wits, not weapons,” Einstein re-plied. “Besides, we have the element of surprise on our side.”

  15

  “Not for long,” Greeley said, pointing at the window. Einstein peeked outside and saw the pickup truck. Bucky  and Curly were headed straight for the cottage.

  “Any other bright ideas, General?” Roxie asked.

  “Just one,” Einstein whispered. “Everybody hide!”

  Cha p te r

  C

  Day Seven — 11:45 A.M. urly watched as Bucky drove off, leaving a trail of dust be-hind. They had flipped a coin to see who would check out  the cottage and who would go to the infirmary to help Nurse  Knockwurst load the mummies into the pickup. Curly won the  toss and selected the easier of the two assignments. The cook  had expected to find the cottage deserted, but he was wrong.  From the pile of contraband sitting in the center of the room,  it was obvious that someone had been here. Judging by the  collection of crumpled cellophane wrappers strewn about the  floor, that someone had to be Einstein. He scanned the room  for any sign of the boy. Taking no chances, Curly pulled a flat  metallic object out of his pocket and held it in front of him.  “This here is a Gregorian Model 3-P6 Plasma Blaster, one of  the deadliest weapons ever made,” he shouted. “It has three  settings: stun, sting, and kill.”