by Bryce Clark
RED
SHIRT
KIDS
RED
SHIRT
KIDS
Bryce Clark
Kim B. Clark
Copyright © 2013, Bryce Clark. All rights reserved.
Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts in published reviews.
Sourced Media Books
29 Via Regalo
San Clemente, CA 92673
www.sourcedmediabooks.com
ISBN–13: 978–1–937458–57–7
Printed in China.
This publication is designed to provide entertainment value and is sold with the understanding that the publisher is not engaged in rendering legal, accounting, or other professional advice of any kind. If legal advice or other expert assistance is required, the services of a competent professional person should be sought.
—From a Declaration of Principles jointly adopted by a
Committee of the American Bar Association and a
Committee of Publishers and Associations
For Steph and our Red Shirt Kids:
Spenser, Madison, Parker, Olivia, and Max
CONTENTS
FOREWORD
PROLOGUE
Chapter 01
Chapter 02
Chapter 03
Chapter 04
Chapter 05
Chapter 06
Chapter 07
Chapter 08
Chapter 09
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
FOREWORD
Kim B. Clark
WHEN SUE AND I started our family, we decided that I would begin my workday early so that I could be home at night. When our children were young, the evening hours were precious. We had dinner together, wrestled with homework, took baths, read scriptures, said prayers, and had story time before the children went to sleep. By default, I was left in charge of the stories.
When I first started to tell the children stories, I used stories that were familiar to me. I have been an avid reader of books from the time I was old enough to read. I knew a lot of stories, so this worked fine for a while. However, I needed a story every night. I soon realized I would need to make up the stories.
One night, I got the idea to create a story series built around the adventures of children just like ours. I wanted the stories to capture their interest, and be fun and exciting, but also teach them important principles. I began that first story with the children exploring the dark and dusty attic in their grandparents’ house. I had the children find an old chest. They opened it, looked inside, and saw … what? In that moment, I just said out loud, “red shirts.” Then, I thought of having one of the children in the story take a shirt out of the chest, put it on, and promptly disappear.
That is how the Red Shirt Kids stories were born. Of course, I had to create lots of adventures where the kids and their shirts saved the day. But that moment in the attic was the beginning.
That first story really worked. The children loved the shirts, being invisible, and having adventures. They wanted a Red Shirt Kids story every night. They looked forward to those stories even more than TV shows or most movies.
I was happy the children liked the stories, but it meant I had to come up with a lot of them. The children would not let me do re-runs; they wanted fresh material every night. So, in addition to my main job, I had a new part-time storytelling job—and, in some ways, this new part-time job was more challenging!
As long as I was going to tell all of these stories, I decided to try to teach the children important principles. I tried to weave into the stories principles like being a good friend, helping other people, being a good brother or sister, telling the truth, obeying the law, and having courage, patience, and kindness.
As the children got older, they often challenged me with demands for more action, or more powers. They also peppered me with questions, like why can’t they fly? This was my answer: The Red Shirt Kids had the power to be invisible, and they needed to use that power to do good things. If they could have any power they wanted, it would not be much of a challenge for them. This way, they have to use their minds to solve the problems.
The children grew up, and I retired from my storytelling job. But the Red Shirt Kids lived on. Our grandchildren started hearing some of those stories from our children. And then Bryce, who had begun to write screenplays, made the Red Shirt Kids really come alive for his children and their cousins.
Bryce took the basic idea and created a whole new world with additional powers and a mythological back-story. He wrote a screenplay called Red Shirt Kids. He shared it with the family, and all the grandchildren who read it loved it. Many of his professional colleagues had the same reaction: this would make a great book for kids. Bryce turned that screenplay into this book.
I never imagined that those stories I made up long ago would inspire Bryce to write this book. To the parents who read this book: You may not know exactly what the time you spend with your kids will bring, but it is always time well spent—and sharing stories is a great way to spend it. To the young people who read this book: Listen to what your parents say. You never know just how useful it might be someday. Who knows? Maybe you’ll grow up and write a book of your own!
—Kim B. Clark
PROLOGUE
THE NIGHT THE children were taken was not like other nights.
The roads were deserted, and all the stores on Main Street were closed, including a family-owned hardware store, which displayed a modest neon sign: Hardy’s Hardware. There was not a Home Depot or Wal-Mart to be seen on this Main Street, in this town.
The special aspect of this night was that the carnival had arrived. All but the infirm and truly anti-social were there; and in Falton, New Hampshire, the list of infirm and anti-social was a short one.
The town welcomed the traveling carnival as the signature event for three days every summer. The rides and games, as well as the tattooed and pierced workers, were things the town enjoyed, but not something they would have desired year-round. Falton, New Hampshire, was the kind of town where parents let their children play outside after dark, and locked doors were optional.
A Ferris wheel, placed in the exact center of a park at the edge of town, loomed high over Falton. The park was a community gathering place with lots of green grass surrounded on three sides by dense forest. In the center of the park stood a bronze statue of Ulysses Falton, a Civil War soldier and one of the town’s founders. It was the only manmade thing in the park, which made it even more … noticeable.
On this night that was not like other nights, kids screamed while riding the Tilt-a-Whirl and lost their money at various hit-this-win-that games in pursuit of stuffed animals. Parents sat at picnic tables eating fried dough while a few policemen stood by to keep order.
All w
as as it should be in Falton, New Hampshire.
Diane Miller stared up at the Ferris wheel. Her brother, Darren, had dared her to go on the ride, and she’d said yes. But now, here, staring up at tons of steel and plastic, she had doubts. In fact, she’d changed her mind. No way was she getting up on that thing.
“It’s not upside down or anything. Come on, don’t be a baby,” said Darren, a lanky eleven-year-old with cropped hair and a Red Sox T-shirt.
“Shut up. I’m not a baby. You go,” Diane retorted.
“Mom said I can’t leave you,” said Darren.
Diane smiled. “Who’s the baby now?”
“Fine,” he sighed. “I’ll go by myself.” Darren got in line and handed his orange ticket to the attendant in a torn AC/DC T-shirt.
“Buckle up, little man,” said the attendant.
Darren rolled his eyes and got in the cart alone.
Diane watched as the Ferris wheel began to move. Darren waved at her, and she waved back. She breathed in deep, relieved not to be up there with him. She was only nine, after all.
Diane turned at the sound of rustling leaves behind her. She was standing near the edge of the forest, but she couldn’t see anything in the dense foliage to account for the sound. Probably just the wind, she thought. She looked back up at the Ferris wheel, trying to locate Darren, but his cart had disappeared from view. She took a few steps back, trying to see how high he was.
Darren sighed as the wheel stopped to let more riders on. His cart was near the top, and he had a great view of the whole town laid out before him. He could see his school and his house. They seemed much closer than he had thought. He ran his hands over his hair and then looked down to find Diane. To wave to her. To show her it was no big deal to ride the Ferris wheel, even at the very top.
He didn’t see her right away, so he turned to the other side, thinking that she’d moved to get a better look. But she wasn’t there, either. Darren looked left, then right, trying to get his eyes on his sister. His throat began to clench when he couldn’t see her. Then he looked in the distance and shuddered at what he saw.
Diane was holding hands with a tall man in a dark overcoat with a hood. The man was leading Diane away from the carnival, towards the woods at the back edge of the park. The Ferris wheel began to move again. “Let me off! Let me off!” Darren screamed, twisting, trying to get the attendant’s attention.
The attendant heard the commotion and stopped the wheel at Darren’s cart. “Are you all right?” the attendant asked.
Without answering, Darren took off, racing after Diane and the mysterious man. He flew past the picnic tables and game booths, knocking a few kids aside and spilling more than one tub of popcorn. He streaked past the Tilt-a-Whirl, his eyes trying to find Diane and the man.
Darren saw them heading towards the carnival’s trucks and trailers parked on the grass at the edge of the forest. Darren slipped as he turned the corner around a large trailer. He looked up and saw Diane and the man holding hands, facing away from Darren. They stood before two trees that bent into each other, forming a natural entry into the dark forest.
The man did not turn as he spoke. “Hello, Darren.” His raspy voice sent horrible chills through Darren’s body.
Darren approached slowly, surprised that the man knew his name.
“I won’t hurt her if you come with me. I promise.” The man’s voice was calm, yet frightening.
Diane turned slowly, and Darren saw that she’d been crying. A glowing, amber rope encircled Diane’s wrist and extended all the way up the man’s long, black sleeve. As strange as it seemed, the glowing rope appeared to be made from tree sap. He could smell the maple.
The man turned, the hood still concealing his face. “Come closer, Darren. Don’t try anything. I know you want to. I know what you think you can do. But don’t. Come closer. Closer.”
Darren inched forward, focusing on Diane.
“Good. Good. Come closer.” The man reached out his long, pale fingers and revealed a hand with broken, scarred flesh—disfigured as if by fire. There were no fingernails.
Darren froze. His repulsion quickly gave way to fear as a glowing amber substance began to drip from the man’s exposed fingertips. Darren stared in horror as the glowing, saplike liquid formed a line streaming from the man’s fingers and floated through the air toward Darren.
Darren stepped back, stumbling. The man skulked closer, the liquid amber flowing toward Darren like a snake stalking its prey.
“Don’t be afraid,” said the man.
But Darren was afraid. Diane stared at him, frozen. The man glided closer, his dark hood slipping away from his face, revealing a horrific mass of mangled flesh. His lidless eyes bulged in their sockets, and his mouth without lips looked ghoulish in the moonlight.
The man didn’t look like a man at all.
And Darren screamed.
01
MIKE SMITH STOOD in his bedroom. It was empty except for a few packed moving boxes in one corner. Mike was eleven and looked more like his dad each day, with his light blond hair and blue eyes. On this day he wore a New England Patriots T-shirt and blue shorts. As usual, he had scrapes on his knees and a film of dust over his hair and face. Mike played hard.
Mike ran his hand over a tiny hole in the wall near his closet. He’d fired a BB gun at the wall about a year ago, and the BB had made a mark. His mother had been upset, and Mike had been grounded for a week. Mike looked at that hole now with wistful nostalgia. It was the last time he would ever see it again.
This was the only bedroom Mike had ever had in his life, and he didn’t want to leave it. Mike knew that his dad had gotten a better job and that they’d be moving into a bigger house in New Hampshire, but he would miss his Boston school, and his friends, and his bedroom.
Mike turned as the door opened.
Laura, Mike’s mom, smiled at him from the doorway. “Come on, Mike, the truck’s almost loaded.”
“Okay,” said Mike glumly.
“Hey, you’re going to love it up there. It’s going to be great. We’ll have a bigger house, a backyard, and there will be lots of kids in the neighborhood. You’ll make new friends,” said Laura.
“Yeah, right.” Mike shoved his hands into his pockets. He took one last look around and said a silent goodbye as he followed Laura out the door.
Amy, Mike’s sister, sat on the bare floor in the front entryway of their house. Packed moving boxes were stacked all around, and movers lifted them outside to the moving truck. Amy drew with a charcoal pencil on a sketchpad.
Amy was twelve and somewhat of a tomboy, though today she was wearing a pink tank top that her mother insisted upon her wearing at least once a month. Amy was very pretty. It wasn’t a matter of opinion or even a compliment; it was just a fact. She had the natural beauty that would make Hollywood actresses envious. Of course, Amy wasn’t aware of her looks—and even if she had been, she couldn’t have cared less.
Mike and Laura came down the stairs. “Amy, come on, let’s get moving,” said Laura.
Amy didn’t look up. “I’m almost done,” she said, focusing on her drawing, which depicted a man sitting at a desk. Mike thought the drawing was beautiful, although he would never say so out loud.
Mike leaned against the wall and watched. He knew what was going to happen. His mom was going to look at the picture and declare Amy a genius. As usual.
“Come on, let me see what you’ve drawn,” said Laura, reaching down for the drawing.
Amy shyly handed over the drawing to Laura, who looked at the sketch with the eyes of an experienced artist. A man sat in an office, his back to the door, working at a computer. “This is amazing!” exclaimed Laura. “The materialist angst of the faceless proletariat captured in a single mundane activity.” Mike didn’t know what proletariats were, but he was fairly certain Amy had just been declared a genius. He gave himself props for predicting the future.
Amy nodded and smiled. Her mother’s pride was obvious, and Amy baske
d in the compliment.
Mike rolled his eyes, trying not to be jealous.
Laura looked across the entryway at the door to a home office. Laura held Amy’s drawing up and saw that it was exactly the same as what she now saw before her—her husband, David, sitting at his computer, his desk surrounded by packed moving boxes. Laura stepped forward. “You have to see this.”
David turned from the computer and adjusted his glasses. “What?”
Laura handed him the drawing, and he looked it over. “Is this me?”
“Of course it’s you,” said Laura. “But see the symbolism in it.”
“Amy drew this?” asked David.
“Our daughter is a genius.” Laura beamed, and Mike shook his head. He was definitely jealous.
“Are the movers here, yet?”
“No. But you should get off the computer. We need to get going.”
Outside, in front of a two-story brownstone townhouse, the family piled into a Volvo SUV as movers slid the door of a yellow moving truck closed. Laura started the Volvo and drove away.
Inside the SUV, Laura drove while David rode shotgun. Amy sat in the middle row, and Mike sprawled himself across the third-row seat. Amy drew on her sketchpad.
As they pulled down the street, Mike turned in his seatbelt, getting one last view of his old home. Mike knew his life was about to change. But he had no idea just how much.
02
THE SKY WAS dark when the Volvo SUV took the Falton, New Hampshire, exit and wound its way through town, passing Main Street and Hardy’s Hardware store. Some of the lamps on the street were missing, and dark shadows twisted across the Volvo’s path.
The SUV took a turn and began to climb a hill. At the top of the hill was a cul-de-sac. Laura maneuvered the SUV around it and up to a sprawling, three-story Victorian mansion.
The moving truck was already parked, ready for unloading the next day. Laura and David got out of the SUV as Mike and Amy shuffled out behind them.