by R. McGeddon
“You told us that earlier,” Emmie pointed out.
Arty blinked. “Did I?” His shoulders sagged. “Oh. Right. Why didn’t we use it then?”
“Because we can’t get close enough to get on CHARLES’s back,” Emmie said. “Remember?”
“Not really,” said Arty, gingerly rubbing a lump on the back of his head. “Why didn’t we just distract him with something?”
“Distract who?” asked Sam.
“CHARLES,” said Arty.
Sam hesitated. “I don’t know. Why didn’t we just distract him with something?”
“Pudding!” cried Emmie, who kept bringing the subject up only because she hadn’t eaten all morning, and now quite fancied the idea of some lovely chocolate pudding.
“Wait! What about the science fair?” said Sam.
Arty sighed. “Yes, I know, I didn’t win. No need to rub it in.”
“No, I mean … apart from Arty, most of the stuff there was terrible, right?” said Sam. “Like Emmie’s alarm thingy.”
“Hey!” said Emmie. “But you’re right; it was terrible, yeah.”
“And as for that mirror hat!” snorted Arty. “I mean, that was just ludicrous. It’s a hat with mirrors on it. Where’s the science in that?”
“Yes, yes, shut up,” said Emmie. “You should have won. We get it.”
“But,” Sam began, “would the alarm and mirror hat be enough to distract him?”
“No. Definitely not,” said Arty.
Sam and Emmie both groaned.
“Wait, that came out wrong. I meant almost certainly yes,” said Arty, who always got those two mixed up. “Those should confuse his sensors, but it wouldn’t give us long.”
“It’s the big game today,” said Sam. He looked at his watch. “It’s starting soon.”
“Yes, well, I think you’ll probably have to miss it,” said Arty, a little bit annoyed that his friend had changed the subject.
“No, I mean everyone will be gathering. That’s where Phoebe will be,” said Sam.
“She’s bound to have her stupid hat with her,” said Emmie. “She’ll be showing that thing off for months.”
Sam raced to the door, his baseball bat raised. “Then let’s go,” he said. “Ready?”
The others nodded. “Ready,” they said.
Together they bounded outside to punch, kick, and baseball-bat their way through the crowd of machinery.
At the field, the bleachers were already filling up with townsfolk, none of whom seemed to be all that bothered that their appliances had both come to life and turned evil at the same time. The people of Sitting Duck had put up with a lot worse over the past few months, so I suppose you can’t really blame them for just wanting to enjoy a nice day out at the ball game now, can you?
Sam, Arty, and Emmie scanned the area. They spotted lots of familiar faces. There was Old Mrs. Missus, Werewolf Alan, and the Kevin twins from chapter four. Over there was Mr. Nerdgoober from chapter one. It was a bit like a mini-reunion of all the minor characters from the story so far, and a whole host of new friendly faces as well—including the visiting team and their fans. Something glinted as it reflected the sunlight a few rows from the back of the stands.
“There!” cried Emmie, stabbing a finger toward Phoebe. She was perched on a bench, her stupid hat stuck on her stupid head, mirrors whirling around and around like a tiny fairground ride. “I found her.”
“Unfortunately,” said Arty, his voice shaking, “someone else has found us.”
Sam and Emmie both turned. Their hearts leaped into their mouths. Not literally, though, because that’s gross.
They got scared is what I’m trying to say.
There, striding, hopping, rolling, and shuffling toward them, was CHARLES and his army of decidedly unlovely electronic pals.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I’m pretty sure I’ve already mentioned this, but the residents of Sitting Duck had put up with a lot of nonsense over the last few months. You’d think they’d be pretty used to insane life-or-death situations by now, wouldn’t you?
But no.
They could handle a few rogue appliances, but when CHARLES appeared it all turned to chaos. The whole crowd started screaming and wailing and running around in panic. A few people fainted in terror. Some were so scared they puked on themselves, but let’s not dwell too much on that, because it’s not nice to look at and a bit smelly.
Sam, Arty, and Emmie were separated by the throngs of thrashing scaredy-cats. Sam clambered up the side of the bleachers, trying to get to Phoebe. As luck would have it, she was so transfixed by her own reflection, she’d completely failed to notice that anything was happening at all.
Sam hurried toward her, fighting his way against the tide of fleeing bodies. Behind him, CHARLES reached an enormous hand down and snatched up Hot-Dog Dan the Hot-Dog Man’s hot-dog stand. It was shaped like an enormous hot-dog bun, and Dan was squashed into the middle like a sausage.
“Mmm. This look delicious and nutritious,” CHARLES said, in a voice that rolled like thunder across the sky. Hot-Dog Dan was about to live up to his name.
CHARLES was just opening his metallic mouth, ready to chomp down on the human-y hot dog, when a high-pitched screech split the air. His LED eyes blinked in surprise, and he turned slowly, searching for the source of the sound.
Emmie stood before him, holding up the alien-detecting alarm she’d built. It was screeching even though there were no aliens present, but that’s because it wasn’t really an alien-detecting alarm at all. Emmie had just said that to get extra credit at the science fair. The alarm was actually activated by a big red button with ACTIVATE ALARM written on it.
CHARLES reached for the screeching siren, letting Hot-Dog Dan the Hot-Dog Man tumble back to the ground. Hot-Dog Dan bounced off the floor, squashing a huge tub of ketchup that sent bright red goop splashing across the ground.
Emmie ducked and darted out of CHARLES’s reach, forcing him to bend lower. Seizing his opportunity, Arty hurled himself onto the back of his robot’s leg. Despite not being the most athletic person in the world (or even in the top six billion), Arty knew the fate of everyone in Sitting Duck rested on his shoulders.
Clenching his downgrader gizmo between his teeth, Arty reached up and slowly began to climb.
“Yoink!” cried Sam, snaffling the hat off Phoebe’s head. She blinked in surprise and tried to grab it back. Only then did she spot the enormous robot and realize that the rest of the crowd had fled in panic.
Phoebe sighed. “OMG, not another end-of-the-world thing?”
“’Fraid so,” said Sam. “We need your hat.”
“Like, whatever,” Phoebe said. “Just try not to turn me into a zombie this time, mmmkay?”
“I’ll do my best,” said Sam.
He gave her a nod and then turned back toward CHARLES. He was bending over, trying to grab the fast-moving Emmie and her earsplitting alarm. The top of the robot’s head was more or less level with the top of the bleachers.
Sam rocked on his heels and took a few deep breaths. (Four, if you were wondering how many.) He would get only one chance at this. If he failed, then the town was done for.
He couldn’t hesitate, couldn’t hold back. He just had to go for it. There was no other choice. He just had to go.
He had to get it done.
No more hanging around.
There was a job to do, and he was going to do it.
This was it.
The moment of truth.
No time to wa—
“Oh, get on with it!” Phoebe cried.
Sam launched himself along the bleachers, bounding onto the seats and racing as fast as his legs would carry him. CHARLES’s head was a dozen yards away now. Eight. Four. One!
Sam leaped through the air.
CHARLES, detecting the human child sailing toward him, looked up. His eyes blazed red as his lasers locked on Sam.
“Keep your hat on, CHARLES!” Sam quipped (it sounded funnier when he
said it) as he plonked the mirror hat on the robot’s metal skull. It didn’t fit quite right, but Sam managed to set it at a stylish, jaunty angle.
The mirrors jiggled around on their little arms, and CHARLES was immediately transfixed. “Targets identified,” he began, but then he fell silent and knelt down, admiring his own robotic face.
Sam bounced off CHARLES’s shoulder and plunged toward the ground. Luckily, several hundred hot-dog buns and a pool of ketchup had spilled out all over it, which nicely cushioned his fall.
Emmie helped him to his feet, and they both stared up at Arty, who had now crawled halfway up CHARLES’s back.
“It’s all up to him now,” Sam said.
Arty was trying not to let the pressure get to him. He’d never really seen himself as the brave hero type—that was Sam and Emmie’s job—but right now there was no one else who could save the day.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out something that looked a bit like a screwdriver. It was a screwdriver, actually, which explains the similarity. His hands shook as he undid the four screws holding the access panel in place.
“Here goes,” he muttered, then pried the panel off. Immediately, a little speaker built into CHARLES’s back crackled into life.
“Self-destruct countdown initiated,” said a high-pitched voice. “Ten seconds until detonation.”
“I knew that was a bad idea,” Arty said, cursing himself for filling CHARLES’s legs with enough explosives to level half the town.
Arty’s fingers trembled as he yanked out the old wiring.
“Five,” chimed the voice. “Four. Three.”
Finally, he gained access to CHARLES’s chip.
“Two.”
Arty yanked out the upgrade chip.
“One.”
With a frantic yelp, he shoved his gadgety-gizmo doohickey into the slot.
And CHARLES exploded.
Only he didn’t. Not really. Not in a self-destruct kaboom kind of way. Instead, the additional pieces he’d attached to himself fell away at once. They rained like massive metal raindrops, squashing the electrical appliances below.
Arty fell, but luckily no one had tidied away all those hot dog buns yet, so they cushioned his fall, too.
(Ah, hot dogs. Is there nothing they can’t do?)
With a soft bump, CHARLES landed on the ground between Arty and his friends. His LED smile was warm and welcoming, his eyes were very definitely not shooting lasers all over the place, and he was back to his normal size.
“Hello, friends,” said CHARLES as Sam, Arty, and Emmie looked at him with relief. “This place looks like it could use some tidying up!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The next day, things were already getting back to normal. Emmie was out early walking Attila the cat in Hetchley’s Park, and Sam and Arty had decided to join her. Arty had brought CHARLES, too, because he was back to being his friendly old self now and wasn’t showing any signs of wanting to clean everyone out of existence.
Sam was disappointed that he didn’t get to play in the ball game, but on the other hand he was pretty pleased that they’d successfully saved Sitting Duck from danger yet again. His dad had let Sam keep the game ball, once he’d finally climbed out from under his desk. He’d said it was the least the town’s residents could do to show their thanks.
The three friends were strolling through the park, enjoying the peace and quiet. Most of the machines in town had gone back to their normal selves, and stillness had fallen over the town like a blanket. But a blanket made of silence, if you can imagine such a thing.
Except …
Everything wasn’t quite silent. There was a muffled sobbing coming from somewhere in the park. Sam looked around, searching for the source of it, before finally pinpointing the culprit.
Earl Brute was hidden high in the leaves of a tree, clinging on to a branch like his life depended on it.
“Hey there,” Sam called.
“G-get that th-thing away!” Brute wailed, glaring in terror at CHARLES.
“I’m your electronic pal,” CHARLES chimed, but from the way Brute sobbed hysterically, it was clear he wasn’t convinced.
“Oh, while you’re up there,” Sam began, “we need the remote control for the doors. Sitting Duck doesn’t need to be under an electrified dome anymore, really.”
“Wh-what?” Brute stammered. “No! It’s dangerous out there.”
“It’s more dangerous in here,” said Emmie, unclipping Attila’s leash. The cat hissed at her, then immediately shot up the tree.
Brute screamed as he released his grip and plunged to the ground. Attila scampered back down the tree after him, and clamped himself to Brute’s face, tail wrapped around his throat like the angriest and tightest scarf in the world.
“Mmmf mmmf ummpf!” Brute mumbled, searching frantically in his pockets. He tossed the remote control onto the grass, then got up and ran off, Attila still holding tightly to his head.
“At least now we can open the doors,” said Sam.
“At least now we don’t have to keep walking the cat,” said Emmie.
“At least now we can play some ball,” said Arty.
Sam looked at his friend and frowned. “What?”
“I feel bad for making you miss the game yesterday,” Arty said.
Emmie snorted. “Why, because you built a living robot that tried to destroy us all?”
“Yes, because of that,” said Arty, blushing slightly. “So, I thought I’d make some modifications to CHARLES.”
Emmie and Sam both groaned. “What is it this time?” Emmie asked. “Human-seeking missiles? Child-chomping jaws?”
A panel on CHARLES’s chest unfolded and a baseball bat attachment swung out. Arty grinned. “Not quite,” he said.
“Cool!” laughed Sam. “Looks like I’m going to get a game after all.”
“We shouldn’t be playing. We should be figuring out a way to destroy the dome,” Emmie said.
“Then watch this.”
Sam grabbed the spare baseball from his backpack and took a few steps back. With all the strength he could muster, he tossed the ball to CHARLES. The robot swung and connected with a ker-ack that shook all the leaves off the nearest trees.
Sam, Arty, and Emmie watched the ball rocket through the air, high above the rooftops of Sitting Duck. With a sonic boom, the ball broke the sound barrier, and the reinforced glass dome, too.
“I don’t think we need to worry about that,” said Sam, grinning happily. “I’d say demolition has already begun!”
Read them all!
Disaster strikes the town of Sitting Duck again … and again … and again.…
DISASTER DIARIES
Read on for a sneaky look at the disaster-defeating wisdom you don’t want to miss out on in this book.…
Sam, Arty, and Emmie have barely gotten over a recent zombie infestation when their sleepy little town finds itself the victim of an alien invasion!
But the aliens are very small and kind of, well, cute—how dangerous can they be?
SPOILER ALERT: They’re VERY dangerous. And when they disintegrate the mayor with their ray guns, it’ll be up to Sam, Arty, and Emmie to save the day. Again.
* * *
Defend Yourself from an Alien Sneak Attack
So aliens have invaded your planet? Bummer. Don’t worry, I’ve put together this list of techniques you might want to put into use should one of those pesky invaders try to kill you in unpleasant ways. Be aware that some of these techniques will only be effective against specific alien races. While it is possible, for example, to tickle a member of the Fluffpuffle race into submission, this strategy will be somewhat less effective against the captain of a Venusian Death Fleet.
• Tie up its tentacles when it isn’t looking.
• Shoot it with a ray gun (note: requires ray gun).
• Stuff cotton wool in its gills.
• Tell it a difficult-to-understand joke.
• Impale it o
n a massive spike (note: requires massive spike).
• Bamboozle it with mirrors.
• Pretend you can’t see it and hope it goes away.
* * *
DISASTER DIARIES
Read on for a sneaky look at the disaster-defeating wisdom you don’t want to miss out on in another book.…
Ravenous zombie hordes and swarms of power-hungry tiny aliens are just some of the disasters the town of Sitting Duck has faced.
But danger never sleeps and a new evil genius has arisen, and he’s planning world domination with the aid of his homemade brainwashing device! Are Sam, Arty, and Emmie brave enough to save the day for the third time in a row?
If they aren’t, everyone—including you, dear reader—will totally lose their minds!
* * *
HELP! My Friend Has Been Brainwashed!
So a friend or family member has been brainwashed and you’re not sure what to do. Have no fear! Here are some possible suggestions for ways you might deal with them:
1. Lock them in a cupboard.
2. Lock them in a different cupboard.
3. Tie them to a tree.
4. Stuff their ears with cotton balls so they can’t hear any commands.
5. Remove their eyes so they can’t see any commands, either.
6. Actually, forget that last one. Get a blindfold. Much less messy.
* * *
* * *
HELP! I Want to Brainwash My Friend!
Oh, it’s like that, is it? You want to try brainwashing your friend or family member to do your bidding? You naughty person, you. Well, some of these might help …
1. Wave your hands about in front of their face and say “Do as you are bid!” in a spooky voice.
2. Jab them repeatedly with your finger while going, “Are you brainwashed yet? Are you brainwashed yet? Are you brainwashed yet?” over and over again.