“A rose by any other name…”
“…would still smell like megalomania to me.”
Peashooter flicked a fire ant crawling along his arm.
“I believed in the Tribe,” I managed to say. “What it could…could have been. But that’s not what…not what you were using the Tribe for.”
“Then help me,” Peashooter said, staring straight at me.
“Excuse me?”
Peashooter glanced over his shoulder. “What if I were to give you one last chance?”
“To what?”
“Join us. It’s not too late.”
I hesitated. “Join the Tribe? Your Tribe?”
“Just think of what we could accomplish together! The havoc we’d create!” Peashooter’s face brightened. I caught a little glimmer of hope flickering within his eyes. “Everything we need to take a stand is right here!”
A miniscule part of my brain was screaming from the back of my skull—Yes!
Then I remembered my pledge to go the straight and narrow.
“I can’t.”
The glimmer in his eyes quickly faded, as though he’d brought a hammer down on a lightbulb. “You’re either with us—or against us. You know that, yes?”
“Guess that means I’ll be calling this cage home for a while, huh?”
Peashooter stood up and dusted himself off without a word.
“Here,” he finally said, almost as an afterthought, as he pulled out My Little Friend from his pocket. My lungs nearly sang—Hallelujah.
Peashooter hung the shoestring around the end of a branch directly above my cage. I reached through the bars, but there were three inches between my fingers and my inhaler.
“Better keep breathing,” Peashooter said as he started to walk off.
“This beef you’ve got with me—it’s just between us. Why drag everybody else into it to prove your point?”
Peashooter turned to me. “You see me twisting anyone’s arm?”
“So you’re gonna brand the campers now, like you branded me? Scar them for the rest of their lives?”
“You don’t deserve to bear our mark!” The words echoed into the pines. At the sound of his shouting, the Piranhas scurried off, dashing out of the amphitheater.
Before Peashooter could betray his anger any further, he collected himself with a deep breath and recited—“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”
“Who said that?”
“Thoreau. You really should read him some day.”
“My library card got cut to pieces this summer. Long story.”
Peashooter only stared. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this. Biding my time until you showed up. Now that you’re here, the party can start.”
“Sure hope Sully got an invite.”
The expression on his face curdled. “Your girlfriend won’t be saving your ass this time—sorry.”
DAY TWO: 1300 HOURS
Dear Mom and Dad…
Camp is awesome. I’m having the time of my life. I wish I never had to leave. In fact, don’t plan on picking me up.
I’m never coming home.
I’ve made many new friends here, friends for life. They’ve become my real family now. We’ve decided to stay here for the rest of our lives.
No hard feelings. Please feed my goldfish for me.
Love, your ex-son…
Actually—it wasn’t exactly like that.
Every cannibal was required to write home to their parents.
Even me.
We were each given a postcard with specific instructions: Write about how much fun you’re having. Sound like you mean it.
No one was allowed to mention the Tribe. No one was allowed to mention the takeover.
Sporkboy was the camp’s designated redactor. He was responsible for reading over every postcard before sticking a stamp on it. If he came across any reference to the Tribe, he’d tear up the postcard and tell the camper to start over.
The older campers thought this was a waste of their time. Capone and Klepto had refused to write their cards, so the Piranhas were corralled into the amphitheater, near my cage, and put to work corresponding for the older kids.
A stack of yellowing postcards sat waiting. When the Piranhas were finished scribbling on one postcard, they placed it in the finished pile and took another.
A correspondence sweatshop.
The postcards were all the same—a faded photo of Lake Wendigo, taken fifty years ago, with a kid popping a squat in a canoe waving at the camera.
Sporkboy leaned over one Piranha’s shoulder, reading what he was writing.
“Start over,” he instructed. “Scratch that part out. Start over again. You, too.”
“Yougottobekiddingthisisstupidthisisboringwhatarewesupposedtowrite?”
Sporkboy could hardly muster enough patience to finish a thought. “Just write something like—I miss you guys. Wish you were here. That kind of crap.”
“Ifyouknowwhatwearesupposedtowritethenwhydontyouwriteitforusthen?”
“Fine. Fine.” Sporkboy jotted down his own postcard. “Just copy that, okay?”
I can’t wait to see you guys at Parents’ Day. I’m counting down the days until you come up here and I get to show you how much personal progress I’ve made. You guys are in for a big surprise….
Somebody had to make sure the Piranhas didn’t burn the camp down. Their blood sugar was at an all-time high. Whatever they could put in their mouths, they’d gnaw right through—paintbrushes, crayons, pencils. They might have lost a few digits by the end of the summer if somebody didn’t keep them occupied.
From the looks on their faces, the Piranhas hadn’t taken a bath in days. Their cheeks were smudged with dirt. Pine needles had tangled in their hair.
One of the rabid pack spotted a frog hopping across a mossy log. He picked it up and cupped it with both hands. “LookatwhatIvegot!”
The others circled, eager to see. “Lemmehaveit!”
“Quititgetbackhesmine!”
“IsawhimfirstIsawhimfirst!”
Almost at once, the other Piranhas began to yank at the boy’s arms. They pulled and pried at his hands, but he wouldn’t let go.
The boy snapped his teeth.
“Hesmineminemine!”
The Piranha holding the frog lost his grip. The amphibian leapt to the ground and tried to retreat up the main path.
But Sporkboy brought his foot down.
SQUISH!
The Piranhas froze. Collective tears welled up in their eyes at the sight of the green intestines dangling from Sporkboy’s heel—but brimming behind their heartbreak, I could see rage.
“Youkilledhimyoukilledhimyoukilledhim!”
The Piranhas swarmed with such ferocious speed, all eight sets of legs collectively charging at Sporkboy, you would have thought they were one very hungry, very perturbed beast.
“Stay back.” Sporkboy rolled over a log and started crawling along the ground on his belly. “Get away, I’m warning you!”
The clack-clack of the Piranhas’ gnashing teeth grew louder.
“Don’t do it,” I spoke up.
The Piranhas snapped their heads toward me and tilted their necks.
“Sure you could rip him to pieces,” I reasoned. “But what would that accomplish?”
“Nothing,” Sporkboy whimpered. “Absolutely nothing!”
“Hewouldbedead,” one particularly ticked-off Piranha said.
“Kill him and then the rest of the camp has to come and kill a couple of you guys, and then you have to retaliate by killing a few more of them, and on and on…”
“Soundslikefunfunfunfun.” The Piranhas all gnashed their teeth.
“I’m not saying Sporkboy doesn’t deserve it. But think of it this way: Martin Luther King Jr. once said, ‘Nonviolence is directed against forces of evil rather than against persons who happen to be doing the evil.’”
All eight collectively cricked their heads to one shoulder.
“What he’s saying is, you should seek to defeat the true source of evil—we’re talking Evil with a capital E here—not just somebody who’s been victimized by Evil themselves. And just look at Sporkboy. He’s a pawn in somebody else’s master plan. Does he really strike you as someone who’s perpetuating a capital E kind of Evil?”
The Piranhas mulled this over before stepping away from Sporkboy, muttering under their collective breath—
“Hegotluckywewouldhaveeatenhimalivetherewouldbenothingleftbutbones.”
The pack burst into eight separate campers and ran off.
Sporkboy rose, dusting himself off. “Thanks. I think.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Been a while, hasn’t it?”
“Peashooter says I’m not supposed to get all friendly with the prisoners.”
“You don’t actually do everything Peashooter tells you to do, do you? I mean, you and me used to be pals….”
“He said you’d say something like that.”
There had been a time when Sporkboy feared being called everything from Lard Bucket to Garbage Disposal to Barf Bag. But this new Sporkboy didn’t seem to think about what anybody else called him.
In fact, he didn’t think at all. Peashooter had that covered.
“What else did Peashooter say about me?”
“He said you’d try to convince me to let you out.”
I acted like I was offended. “He actually said that?”
Sporkboy nodded. “Peashooter said you’d try to undermine his authority by saying how we used to be friends and that you’d say anything to get me to doubt what he says because you’re a…a…a submersive influence.”
“I guess there’s no pulling one over on you, is there?”
“Peashooter says I’m supposed to…”
“Okay, okay—I get it,” I cut him off. “Whatever Peashooter says, goes.”
Sporkboy kicked his heel through the dirt.
“Just following orders,” he mumbled. He looked over his shoulder. When he saw the coast was clear, he turned back to me and whispered, “There is this one little eensie-weensie favor I wanted to ask you, though….”
This was my chance.
“Name it.”
Sporkboy’s face brightened. “Really?”
“Just between you and me.”
He clapped. “I stole this book on Greek mythology from the younger kid’s cabin. It was a picture book, but whatever—the drawings were pretty cool. My favorite part was the chapter on Scorpio killing Orion. Do you know the story?”
“Scorpio…?”
“Yeah! Orion was this loudmouth who couldn’t keep his trap shut, so Artemis sends this ginormous scorpion down to fight him, and guess who gets stung to death? Now they’ve both got their own constellations in the sky….”
“I’m not really hearing the favor part of your request here.”
Sporkboy grinned. I caught a glint of the ol’ craziness flickering at the back of his eyes. “I was wondering if, you know, you wouldn’t mind a little reenactment.”
“I don’t know, Sporky,” I backpedaled a bit. A lot. “I’m a Libra. I wouldn’t even know how to play Scorpio.”
“Don’t worry about that,” he said. “I’ve already found somebody.”
•••
“Time to plaaaaaaay…The Dangling Death!”
Klepto and Capone, along with a few other cannibals from camp, entered the amphitheater, lured in by Sporkboy’s game-show-host impression.
How does one play The Dangling Death, you ask?
The rules are simple:
1. Sporkboy catches an animal. Preferably one with pincers. Or fangs.
2. Sporkboy ties its tail to a string.
3. Sporkboy dangles the animal from a tree branch and slowly lowers it into my cage until it bites/stings/claws me and I die a most painful death.
Sporkboy had tied his string around the crustaceous torso of a scorpion.
There are around fourteen hundred different subspecies of scorpions in this world. Only twenty-five of them are known to carry venom capable of killing a human being.
I really didn’t feel like pressing my luck and finding out how venomous this particular scorpion was.
“Place your bets, boys,” he said. “How long until the Rat gets it?”
The cannibals circled around my cage.
“I got a buck on him getting stung in less than a minute,” Capone said.
“Two bucks on thirty seconds,” Klepto said back.
“You’re on!”
“All bets are in,” Sporkboy said. “Time to play!”
I crouched as far down into my cage as I could, hoping to avoid my descending houseguest. Its claws retracted back and sprung open, ready to snap.
“Everybody keep your eye on the claws,” Sporkboy proclaimed as if he was a sports announcer. “All eyes on the claws!”
The cheers grew as more campers entered the amphitheater. Before long, a dozen cannibals had surrounded my cage, all rooting for my opponent.
“Scorpio! Scorpio! Scorpio!”
I spotted Charles pushing through the crowd. As soon as he forced his way up front and saw what was happening, he pleaded, “Quit it, guys! You can’t do this!”
Capone shoved him and he fell to the ground.
“Go play somewhere else, beaver-teeth.”
Charles scrambled back to his feet and rushed out.
“Scorpio’s going in for the kill!” Sporkboy cried.
My back was pressed against the cage. I inched to one side, only for the scorpion to spin toward me on its string and snap at the air.
“Scorpio! Scorpio! Scorpio!”
Only inches remained between us.
Four inches…
The scorpion’s claws had me cornered.
Three inches…
Its tail stabbed the air just before my nose.
Two…
Yardstick raced into the amphitheater with Charles following behind. He plowed through the crowd and grabbed the string.
Just in time.
The scorpion halted, its tail missing its intended target by millimeters.
“Hey!” Sporkboy yelled. “That’s mine!”
Yardstick spat back, “Want to explain to Peashooter how our prisoner died on your watch?”
I cringed underneath the scorpion as its tail kept jabbing at the air, so close to my nose.
“You’re no fun,” Sporkboy muttered, straining.
Yardstick yanked the string hard and Sporkboy lost his grip. The scorpion flew from my cage high above everyone’s head.
I leaned my head back. We all did, watching it ascend, claws clasping at the air—only to freeze mid-flight, before beginning its descent back to planet earth.
Towards me.
My cage.
My face.
My early grave.
“Watch out, watch out, watch out,” Klepto yelled and jumped back. “It’s coming in for a landing!”
Everyone scampered to avoid the free-falling scorpion. Capone pushed Charles out of his way as he rushed up the main path.
All I could do was press against the side of my cage in hopes that it didn’t crash through the lid.
Here it comes….
Here it comes….
Here it…
I lost sight of the scorpion. One second, it was only a few yards away from the ground
. The next, it just—vanished.
Sporkboy had craned his neck along with everyone else, toward the sky. When he looked back at the rest of us, we all saw the scorpion sprawled across the front of his face.
From between its claws, I could see Sporkboy’s wide-open eyes.
“Huh—huh—help.”
The scorpion had perched its hind legs on Sporkboy’s quivering bottom lip and reeled back its tail, ready to sting him on his forehead.
“Swat it off!” I shouted.
Sporkboy batted the scorpion away with one sweep of his arm, but not before the forward-curved stinger jabbed him—twice—above the radius muscle, delivering its venomous payload.
I could sense the collective wince from everyone—chests locked, breaths held, muscles tensed.
Sporkboy glanced down at his arm as if he’d never noticed he had one before, then looked up to the rest of us.
“I’m feeling a little woozy, guys….”
Sporkboy’s eyes fluttered up into his skull, and he belly-flopped to the ground.
“What do we do?” Yardstick panicked.
“Somebody’s got to suck the poison out,” I said.
Everyone stood stock-still.
“Now,” I insisted. “He doesn’t have much time!”
“No way.” Klepto shook his head. “I’m not doing it.”
“Somebody’s got to!”
“Count me out,” Capone muttered.
“Just drag him over here,” I said. “I’ll do it.”
Nobody moved.
“Yardstick!”
He snapped out of it and turned to me.
“Drag him over!”
Yardstick lugged Sporkboy toward my cage.
Sporkboy’s head rolled over his shoulders. His arm was already ballooning up from an allergic reaction to the poison. I grabbed his wrist and flossed his arm through the bars. A droplet of yellow venom seeped out from each sting wound.
Sure hope this works….
Leaning over, I wrapped my lips around Sporkboy’s arm and began sucking.
An acidic liquid rushed over my tongue. I spat it out, half-expecting it to sizzle when it hit the ground.
I leaned in and leeched the venom from the second wound.
“What do we do now?” Yardstick asked.
Camp Cannibal Page 10