Scurvy Goonda

by Chris McCoy

  Part Five

  For over a month now, children had been missing their ab-coms. After realizing that nothing happened when they tried to think up new friends, many of these kids attempted to fill the voids in their lives by befriending inanimate objects.

  In Mongolia, young Oochkoo Bat’s fire-eating yak, Mandoni, had not returned to its normal spot in the closet. Lonely and not quite knowing what else to do, Oochkoo tried to play games with an enormous boulder that sat in her backyard, but when Oochkoo wanted to play hide-and-seek, the rock would never participate. And when she wanted the rock’s opinion on how to dress her dolls, it just stood there, like it didn’t care about Oochkoo at all.

  In Iceland, little Halldor Gundmondsson waited and waited for his fisherman rhinoceros, Bjarni, to come home. But as Halldor walked the shore in the weeks following the beast’s disappearance, he never found a trace of his friend. Eventually, Halldor stopped going outside altogether—he knew he would just be disappointed if he did—and simply sat in his room every day, rolling a wooden hat rack around on the floor, even though the hat rack would have much preferred to be left alone, holding hats.

  In Eritrea, tiny Natsinet Tenolde tried to invent a replacement for Gongab, her leaf-nosed bat, but no matter what she dreamed up—lizards or dugongs or dorcas gazelles—nothing ever appeared. Eventually, disappointment overtook her. She stopped using her imagination and, for the first time, started to notice the problems around her. Sick people. Broken houses. Failed crops. Without her imagination, there was nothing to take her away from her surroundings, and she just got sadder and sadder.

  Across the world, the mass disappearance of ab-coms had zapped the personalities of happy kids. Many of these children plopped down in front of their televisions or video game systems, and spent their afternoons changing channels and tapping buttons. Lots of kids stopped reading—with their imaginations deteriorating from lack of exercise, readers could no longer visualize stories like they could before. They stopped adventuring through forests near their houses or deserts near their tents or snowbanks near their igloos, because they no longer wondered what they might find.

  On Cape Cod, Adeline Merritt was eating a pizza-flavored Hot Pocket and staring at the ocean. She could feel tomato sauce on her chin, but she didn’t care. It was almost autumn now, but out here on the porch, the breeze was still warm, and the leaves on the trees hadn’t changed color.

  Weeks ago, she had stopped expecting a boat to sail up in front of her house and Scurvy Goonda to emerge from it with Ted and Eric. Nobody was coming home. It was all her fault. She had been mean to Ted and blamed him for everything. Then he had disappeared and hadn’t come back, and it was all because of her.

  She looked down at the blank page on her drawing pad. For weeks, she had sat with the pad in front of her, picked up a crayon, and then … nothing. Her whole life, ideas had popped into her head and she would have to draw—her family or a boat she had seen on Nantucket Sound or a picture of Eric on the beach. Something. But now, no matter how hard she tried to imagine something to draw, all she could visualize was pudding.

  “I miss Ted,” she told the kitchen mop that had been her friend since Ted and Eric had gone missing.

  The mop didn’t say anything. It never did. Stupid mop.

  “Do you think he’s found Eric?” said Adeline, but again, the mop was nonresponsive.

  Adeline took a deep breath.

  “If you don’t say anything,” said Adeline, “I’m going to throw you into the ocean.”

  The mop didn’t seem to care, so Adeline picked it up and dropped it over the edge of the deck, sending it crashing to the rocks below. She watched a wave carry it out to sea, the rope strands on its head fanning out on the surface of the water.

  Now I’m really alone, thought Adeline.

  Maybe there was something on TV.

  II

  Swamster was running, and it felt great. For the first time, he realized just how practical his swimsuit was when it came to athletic activity—no wind resistance. The air whipped through the fur on his cheeks, and he felt his gold medals bouncing against his chest—he was moving so fast that he almost believed he had earned them. When the ACORN hideout was safely behind him, he stopped for a moment and used his nose to determine the shortest distance back to Ab-Com City. He got a whiff of wedding cake and streamers drifting down from the north, so north he went. He loved eating both wedding cake and streamers.

  And then—a stroke of good fortune—he reached a road where a convoy of presidential trucks was ferrying fresh fruits to the wedding. Swamster flagged one down.

  “Where you headin’?” said one of the drivers.

  “Ab-Com City, same as you,” said Swamster.

  “Was it rainin’ where you came from?” said the driver, nodding to the umbrella.

  “No. I just escaped from ACORN,” said Swamster. “I know exactly where they are.”

  “Buncha anarchists, them ACORNS,” said the driver. “Come on. We’ll get you back to Ab-Com City and you can tell everybody what you know. Hop up front.”

  Swamster hopped into the front seat with the driver.

  “Looks like you worked up a good sweat,” said the driver.

  “I ran all the way from their tree cave,” said Swamster.

  “You smell kinda good,” said the driver. “Someone should make an air freshener outta you. I’d hang you from the rearview mirror here.”

  Swamster wasn’t quite sure how to respond to the driver’s idea. He was slightly uncomfortable for the rest of the ride because the driver kept taking long sniffs, but soon they pulled up to the gates of the Presidential Palace.

  Swamster hopped off the truck and raced through the front doors of the palace. The information he possessed was going to change the face of the fight against ACORN, as was the fact that he had managed to acquire this umbrella. President Skeleton’s scientists could analyze the solution that the umbrella had been dipped in, and use it against ACORN. Swamster pictured the surprised look on the faces of ACORN fighters as they began to pop!

  President Skeleton was going to be so proud of him. Vice President Swamster. Hmm, why not?

  He raced through the central courtyard, which was now cleared of most of its trees. A team of day workers was in the process of installing a golden carpet, while another group of workers was building a long bar along one of the stone walls.

  “What cocktails will they be serving?” said Swamster, racing past the bar.

  “Champagne and soda pop,” said a talking mime.

  Swamster stopped.

  “No signature cocktail? Something distinctive?” said Swamster.

  “Oh yeah, mint-inis,” said the mime. “You know, minty martinis.”

  Classy enough. Swamster nodded, satisfied.

  He climbed the stairs toward President Skeleton’s bedroom two at a time, but when he reached the top, a thick arm whipped out in front of him and grabbed him by the shirt. The arm belonged to a baseball player wearing the Presidential Guard insignia on his sleeve and holding a Louisville Slugger.

  “NOT so fast,” said the baseball player. “This is a private floor.”

  “I have specific business up here,” said Swamster. “I am President Skeleton’s beloved assistant.”

  “And I am President Skeleton’s extremely distant cousin,” said the baseball player, dragging Swamster by his sweatshirt. “Everybody’s got a connection. Talk to somebody who cares.”

  Swamster was chucked into a small room where Dulfond, a high-ranking advisor to President Skeleton, was sitting at a table, flipping through a copy of Modern Bride magazine. Swamster had worked with the goblin for a long time.

  “I’d go with the sugared-fruit centerpiece,” said Swamster.

  “Huh?” said Dulfond.

  “I couldn’t help but notice that you were looking at centerpieces for the reception,” said Swamster. “I think that bowls of sugared fruit can sometimes be a fun alternative to normal flower centerpieces.”r />
  “Who are you?” said Dulfond.

  “What are you talking about? You know me. I’m Swamster. I’ve been President Skeleton’s assistant forever.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” said Dulfond.

  Swamster was stunned. He had scheduled hundreds of meetings with Dulfond. He had organized fundraising raffles with him. How could he not—

  “Oh,” said Swamster, smiling, “I understand what’s wrong here. I normally wear a different-colored swimsuit, but you see I just escaped from that horrible ACORN, and my regular suit was stained purple.”

  “You escaped from ACORN?” said Dulfond.

  “I thought you might appreciate that,” said Swamster.

  “Well, where are they?”

  “I’d prefer to deliver my news in person.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

  Swamster shuffled his feet. He had counted on being let in to see President Skeleton immediately.

  “If you’ve got something to say,” said Dulfond, “I’ll write the message and give it to her. Go on, then.”

  So Swamster told Dulfond everything he remembered about the layout of the caves and what roads he’d crossed while he was sprinting to freedom and what mountains and forests he’d been able to see on the horizon and how far he’d run. When he was done, there was no doubt exactly where ACORN headquarters was located.

  “Well done, Swamster,” said Dulfond. “Well done indeed.”

  “Oh, wait, there is one more thing that I found out while I was escaping,” said Swamster, running his paw over the handle of the umbrella. “But I insist on telling President Skeleton about it in person.”

  “Nobody sees President Skeleton without an appointment.”

  “But she was the one who sent me into the field,” said Swamster. “What I have to give her is very important.”

  Dulfond thought about this and then stood up.

  “Come on,” he said.

  Swamster followed Dulfond to the door outside the library that served as Persephone’s office when she was at the Presidential Palace. A single chair stood against the wall opposite the door.

  “Sit,” said Dulfond. Swamster did so as Dulfond disappeared into the library. He reemerged a moment later and skittered away busily down the hall.

  “Dulfond,” called Swamster, “am I—”

  “Somebody will be out to deal with you in a minute,” said Dulfond, and then he was gone.

  Swamster waited outside in the hallway for hours, listening to the scuffling and stomping on the other side of the door. He needed to use the restroom, but he didn’t dare get up from his seat for fear of losing his place in line—even though he was the only person in line—so he tapped his foot on the floor and closed his eyes to calm his nerves. At last, the door opened.

  “M-mister S-swamster?” said a small voice.

  Swamster opened his eyes and looked down at a small honey possum barely as tall as his knee.

  “P-president Sk-keleton will see you n-now,” continued the honey possum.

  Swamster didn’t move.

  “Who are you?” said Swamster.

  “I’m B-bugslush,” said Bugslush.

  “That’s your name,” said Swamster, who was starting to get a sick feeling in his stomach. “I asked who are you?”

  “I’m P-president S-skeleton’s assis-assistant,” said Bugslush.

  Swamster’s world came crashing down.

  “You are certainly NOT President Skeleton’s assistant,” said Swamster. “I am President Skeleton’s assistant.”

  “S-sorry, I am,” said Bugslush, mad that somebody didn’t believe him. He’d worked hard at this job.

  “No, I am,” said Swamster. “And I have been for years.”

  “The P-p-president didn’t m-mention a S-swamster,” said Bugslush.

  Swamster took a deep breath. He and President Skeleton would work out this misunderstanding once he was inside the library.

  “Okay,” said Swamster. “That’s fine. I’ll take my meeting now, Bugslush.”

  Bugslush led Swamster into the library, where President Skeleton was standing on a pedestal, in the middle of being fitted for a wedding dress. The gown was dreadful—one sleeve was sea green and the other was mauve. The middle was made of denim, and the train consisted of long strings of feathers that had been sewn together to resemble glorious plumage.

  “Dear me!” said Swamster, momentarily not in control of what he was saying. “This would have never happened on my watch.”

  A multiarmed octopus seamstress stood in front of Persephone, pins in her mouth, fitting the delicate fabric to the president’s skeletal torso. She heard Swamster’s comment and whipped around, shooting him a scathing look.

  Persephone heard the comment too, but all she could do was laugh.

  “Oh, my dear Swamster,” said Persephone, looking down on him. “You always were terribly conventional.”

  “I mean, it’s, to say, quite unusual,” said Swamster.

  “It doesn’t really matter what you think,” said Persephone. “Now, why are you here?”

  Swamster was confused.

  “Because I’m back,” said Swamster. “You sent me into the field, and now I’m back for my job.”

  Persephone laughed.

  “You don’t honestly think that I would have sent you into the field if I had wanted you to come back, do you?” said Persephone. “I fired you, Swamster.”

  “But it was temporary.”

  “The temporary part of it was that I figured you wouldn’t live very long,” said Persephone. “But I am surprised you’re back. Well done. Did you hide until you thought enough time had passed?”

  “I was captured!”

  “Of course you were,” said Persephone. “And then your captors threw you back into the world like an undersized fish, without your having learned a thing, no doubt.”

  “But you said you were going to promote me,” said Swamster.

  “HA!” said Persephone. “Promote you to what? Jester? You weren’t promotion material before, Swamster, and you’re not now, even after your field experience. Give me one reason I should promote you.”

  Swamster’s paw tightened around the handle of the umbrella.

  “I suppose there isn’t one,” he said.

  Persephone looked at him like he was something dead on the side of the road.

  “That’s what I thought,” she said. “Bugslush, show Mr. Swamster out.”

  “V-very good, P-president Skeleton,” said Bugslush, leading Swamster to the door. Swamster followed obediently, shell-shocked. He had spent his entire Middlemost existence working for Persephone, only to be laughed out of the room. She was never going to promote him. He’d heard it whispered in coffee shops and seen the headlines in the underground newspapers, but now it had truly hit him—Persephone Skeleton was an awful, awful creature.

  And he had betrayed all of ACORN. For her.

  III

  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

  Ted felt the vibrations of a horrible pounding above and all around him, followed by the shouts of thousands of ACORN fighters running for cover.

  VZZZ!

  Ted could hear something whirring as chunks of rock were plummeting from the ceiling and fracturing on the floor, firing shrapnel in all directions.

  “Stay da calm!” yelled Brother Dezo at the hordes of abstract companions pushing toward the exits.

  The falling rocks soon caused entire sections of the ceiling to collapse, cutting off exit routes and sending ACORN fighters leaping for safety.

  As he ran for cover, Ted witnessed ab-coms being crushed—right next to him, a porkpie-hatted Egyptian dog and an academic in a turtleneck were squashed. He stopped to try and pull a velvet stork from the ruins, but he couldn’t get a firm grip on its wings and had to leave it behind, despite its desperate squawks for help. Next he barely managed to jump out of the way of an entire crumbling wall that had fallen sideways into the corridor. Ted ducked and wove hi
s way past frantic voodoo dolls and rock stars, toward the small hallway alcove that he knew Dwack, Vango, and Dr. Narwhal shared.

  Dr. Narwhal was holding up the ceiling while Dwack and Vango stood nearby, watching the narwhal with great concern. His fins were trembling under the weight of the ceiling, which looked like a huge tangled thicket.

  “Focus, Dr. Narwhal,” said Dwack, as calmly as was possible given the circumstances. “I’m going to help you through this.”

  “What happened?” said Ted.

  “He saved us,” said Vango. “The roof fell and he somehow caught it.”

  “Urrghh,” said Dr. Narwhal. Every muscle in his aquatic body was straining under its burden.

  “You two should stand back,” Dwack told Ted and Vango. “Dr. Narwhal, I want you to try to move your flippers along the bottom of the rock and edge your body as close to me as possible.”

  Inch by inch, Dr. Narwhal carefully scooted his flippers underneath the lump of ceiling while Dwack levitated off the ground until he was even with the rock.

  “I can’t… hold itsss weight… much longer,” grunted Dr. Narwhal.

  “You won’t have to,” said Dwack. “I’m going to count down, and when I say GO, you’re going to throw it all forward. In the meantime, I’ll be pushing it at an angle so that it doesn’t come down on top of you.”

  “Count it, pleassse!” said Dr. Narwhal as he struggled.

  “Three. Two. One. THROW!” said Dwack, hurling himself against the branches and tree trunks that were coming down.

  Dr. Narwhal didn’t do anything, continuing to hold the rocks.

  “What are you doing?” said Dwack.

  “You told me you would sssay GO,” said Dr. Narwhal. “But you sssaid THROW!”

  “Oh for the love of—” Dwack said, and then quickly calmed himself. “No, you’re right. I should be more precise. Let’s try again.”

  “Quickly!”

  “Three! Two! One! GO!”

  “Oof!”

  Dr. Narwhal reared back and launched the ceiling chunk as far away from his body as he could while Dwack pushed on it to make sure it didn’t split Dr. Narwhal’s skull. An avalanche of branches and splinters crashed down in front of them, but Dr. Narwhal jumped out of the way and Dwack soared up and away from the cascade.