In The Belly of the Earth
Robert L. Fuller
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Text copyright © 2017 by Robert L. Fuller
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No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
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Published by StoryDoor Books
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ISBN-13: 978-0692942208 (StoryDoor Books)
ISBN-10: 0692942203
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Cover design by Anthony Edwards Create.com
For my wife
“Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life.” John 8:12
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Interview with the author
1
Frederick Platt loved books more than anything. Simply adored them. Worshipped the very shelves they stood upon.
“I like the smell of the pages,” he’d told his parents once when asked why he refused to part with a book at the dinner table. Pressing the binding to his nose he’d waxed eloquent like a chef describing a favorite dish. “Wood pulp pressed into paper then printed with ink...” he inhaled with relish “ahhhhh, nothing better.”
His parents had glanced at each other with no small measure of concern, then returned to their pot roast and mashed potatoes as he resumed his reading.
Fred had always been a unique sort of boy. What three-year-old, for instance, memorizes the periodic table for fun? Or how many five-year-olds can spout off the Declaration of Independence with the ease of a nursery rhyme? The boy’s mind was like a steel trap. His knowledge copious as a professor’s.
Though more than a little sun-starved, things could be worse for the boy, his parents thought. At least he wasn’t hyper or obese or, worst of all, addicted to a smart phone. Wasn’t Einstein an outcast? And Edison a misfit? Let the boy be, they mused, as visions of Ivy League danced in their heads.
But even the most ardent parental resolve often crumbles in the face of social isolation.
“He has no friends,” his mother said one night in bed, shoulder to shoulder with her husband, both of them staring at the ceiling. They wore matching pajamas and furrowed brows. “How could the boy not be lonely?”
“Calm yourself, Eunice,” his father said, patting her leg. “I have an idea.”
“What is it?”
“A few guys at the office have their sons in this outdoorsman troop called the Woodlanders. They have a camping trip this weekend open for new recruits.”
“Allen, you can’t be serious!”
“I’m nothing but.”
“Freddy can hardly step outside without sneezing. And you know how he feels about formally-arranged social settings. He’ll never go.”
“What if I bribe him?”
“With what?”
“How about a new leather bound volume of Tolkien I found down at the used book store? It’s illustrated and everything. Has a big foldable map of Middle Earth inside. He’ll love it.”
“Of course he will. But enough to strike out into the wilderness with a crowd of perfect strangers? I don’t know.”
“Just leave it to me, Eunice. It’s about time the boy gets his nose out of his books and starts making friends. All this introversion can’t be healthy.”
The woman sighed, reached over and switched off the light. “I certainly hope you’re right.”
* * *
“WHAT?” Fred’s fingers spasmed at the breakfast table just long enough to loose their hold on the book he was reading. It tipped forward and almost catapulted his entire bowl of cereal, milk and all, onto his lap. With eyes wide, he asked again. “You did what?”
Dad held his newspaper up with both hands, hiding his face. “I signed you up for the Woodlanders. You’re going camping this weekend.”
Mom refilled his orange juice and patted her son’s trembling hand. “It’ll be fun, Freddy. Just think of all the new friends you’ll make.”
The boy looked at her with pleading eyes, but quickly saw she was of one mind with his father. With frantic fingers, he began to scratch the skin of his forearms. “I think I’m getting hives,” he said. “Stress can cause them, you know. Yeah...I must be really stressed out about this.” He started shivering and then began coughing weakly into his hand, glancing up to see what effect such dramatics were having on his parents. Not much, apparently.
“It’ll be good for you, son,” his father said, lowering the paper. “It may not prove the most comfortable thing in the world. But why don’t you at least give it a go and hold your judgments to the end?”
“But what about my books?”
“No books allowed,” he said. “I want you interacting with actual flesh and blood humans.”
“But…mom!” He turned to his mother, face crimson, veins popping out on his neck like worms writhing under his skin.
“The decision’s been made, sweetheart,” she said with a compassionate smile.
Fred could only sit there in utter shock.
* * *
Three days later, surrounded by trees and bugs and strangers, Fred pondered the injustice of the world. It wasn’t so much the uniform (starchy pants and a button-down shirt that fit like he’d been stuffed into a burlap sack), or even the food (not bad for wilderness standards). It was the fabricated camaraderie; boys thrown together like a handful of roaches with hopes they might forge some lasting bonds. He’d never bonded with anyone. At least not anyone outside the page of some book.
Hunched on a tree stump on the edge of the campsite, he observed a cluster of boys as they pummeled a turtle with rocks. He’d read once about wolf pack behavior, and found the boys’ interaction uncannily canine.
“Try to crack its shell,” the tallest of the group said. His name was Craig. He had a head of hair the color and texture of a dirty mop and a merciless case of acne. Judging by his behavior, he was definitely the alpha male of the group. He stepped within five feet of the creature and threw a baseball-sized stone as hard as he could. The projectile struck the turtle with a sickening crack. Had not their troop leader showed up the next minute, the turtle would have been smashed to oblivion.
“Boys!” he shouted. “Stop this instant!”
Mr. Howard picked up the hapless creature and delivered it safely into the nearby woods. When he returned, his mouth and his mustache were frowning something terrible.
“We treat animals with respect,” he said, shaking his head and pointing to each boy in turn. “We live in harmony with nature. Understand?”
“Yes, Mr. Howard,” every boy answered, though Fred could see Craig and his cronies mocking the man behind his back. When their leader walked off to gather wood for the evening’s fire, Craig grew even more brazen.
“One with nature….one with the universe!” He raised his hands high and the other boys were in stitches, falling on the ground and clutching their si
des. Fred thought it wasn’t all that funny. He knew they were just trying to impress him. Increase their rank in the pack.
“I present to you,” Craig announced, pulling a spray can from his backpack and holding it up for all to see, “my manly anti-stink elixir. Puberty, gentlemen, is upon me.”
The other boys mumbled with apparent envy and gathered close as Craig demonstrated the proper application of aerosol deodorant. Fred fought back a smile as half of them were enveloped in a bilious cloud.
“What are you grinning at, powder puff?” Craig shouted across camp. It took a moment for Fred to realize he was the object of the taunt.
“I’m sorry?”
“You will be sorry if you don’t wipe that stupid look off your face. Haven’t you ever seen a kid with testosterone? I bet you won’t stink under your arms until tenth grade and won’t shave until you’re thirty.”
Everyone laughed. Fred looked around hopefully for Mr. Howard, who was, of course, nowhere to be seen at the moment.
Craig stepped away from the others and walked right up to the stump where Fred still sat. He leaned down until his face was level with Fred’s, his breath puffing out in sour gusts. “Mr. Leader’s not here to help you, powder puff.”
Before Fred could respond, he found himself shoved hard in the chest and flying backward. His shoulder hit a rock jutting up from the ground and his head smashed into a pinecone. His ears rang and his eyes watered.
“Oooohhhhh….” Craig jumped onto the stump and leaned over, sticking out his lip. “Is powder puff gonna cry? Does he need his wittle bwanket?”
Fred’s head cleared just enough for him to notice how precarious the bully’s position was at the moment. Without so much as a thought of the consequences, he swung his leg at Craig’s ankles and knocked them clear into the air. Craig screamed, fell, and smashed his shoulder against the stump beneath him. Every pair of eyes stared wide as silver dollars as Craig, face flushed crimson, recovered himself and leapt upon Fred with lightning speed.
“Now you’re gonna pay, powder puff!” he growled through clenched teeth, clutching Fred’s uniform collar with a death grip.
“What in the world?” Mr. Howard dashed from the trees and descended upon them. Craig let go at once and fell upon the ground in instant tears. Everyone pointed to Fred with shouted accusations.
“He just kicked Craig for no reason!”
“Yeah! What gives?”
Of course, the only visible injury was Craig’s—a long scrape along one ankle from Fred’s hiking boots. Mr. Howard knelt at Craig’s side as he babbled through a sheet of tears. Once their leader managed to clean up the wound with a wad of paper towels and a splash of water from his canteen, Craig finally stopped crying, though his chin still quivered. An act worthy of an Oscar, Fred thought.
“Tell me what happened,” Mr. Howard said.
Craig pointed at Fred. “He kicked me.”
“Is this true?” the man asked.
“Yes, but….”
“No buts...only answers.”
Several boys chuckled and shook their rear ends from side to side.
Fred looked at the ground. “It’s true, but...”
“See?” Craig crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. “I say you send him home.”
Mr. Howard scoffed. “I’m not going to ruin a trip we’ve had planned for six months just because you two can’t get along. I’m sure this ‘kick’ was not unprovoked. Am I right?” He looked at Fred, and then at Craig, then nodded with a satisfied smirk.
“I thought so. Okay,” he stood to his feet and grabbed both boys by the arm. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.” He led them to the far edge of camp, down a hill and to the center of the latrine, which was little more than a series of scattered mounds of dirt and a shovel.
“You’re going to take turns leveling out the dirt and then you’re going to lay down some lime, which I’ll bring you in a little bit. I want this area smelling sweet as honeysuckle once you’re done.”
“I’m telling my Mom!” Craig said, kicking the ground. “This is cruel and unusual punishment.”
“You go ahead and do that,” Mr. Howard said. “I’d bet you a year’s allowance she’d thank me like I was Moses.” He let their arms drop and trudged back up the hill.
In the ensuing silence, the two boys stood side by side in a graveyard of excrement. The smell and the flies were thick in the stifling summer heat. Fred spotted the shovel leaning against a nearby tree. He took a deep breath, and carefully picked his way along like he was crossing a minefield. He’d read a whole book on germs the year before and knew all too well the nasty powers of bacteria. He sighed in relief once he reached the shovel, having successfully avoided contamination. Never in his life had he wanted a biohazard suit more than that moment.
“Did you know that bacteria can eat you alive?” he asked, more to keep his mind alert than engage in conversation.
Craig shook his head and moved to a patch of grass, where he sat down in a huff.
“It’s true,” Fred continued. “There’s a kind of bacteria that eats up your flesh like a microscopic smorgasbord. And do you know how much bacteria lives in human feces?”
“Shut up,” Craig mumbled.
“With the possibility of mutation….some bacteria can go airborne.” Fred began the process of patting down the mounds with the underside of the shovel. “So if you think about it, we could be breathing in airborne, flesh-eating bacteria this very moment.”
“I said shut up, powder puff.”
Fred shrugged and continued with the work. For several minutes Craig simply stared at him, watching with narrowed eyes, like a snake - evil, coiled and ready to strike. Fred tried to tune out the death glare through a mental recitation of the elements.
Actinium.
Aluminum.
Americium.
Antimony.
Argon.
Fred had gotten all the way to Xenon by the time Mr. Howard returned with a five-pound bag of lime. He noticed Craig sitting on the ground and his frown deepened.
“Get up!” He tossed the bag into the boy’s arms, almost knocking him backward. A cloud of white powder emanated from the bag, hovering about his head.
“My asthma!” Craig cried out.
Mr. Howard was unmoved. “You don’t have asthma.”
“I think I do,” Craig began to wheeze. He dropped the bag and gripped his neck with both hands. His eyes bulged out like a squeeze toy.
The troop leader stole a glance at Fred and gave him a secretive little grin that made Fred feel a lot better. Craig wasn’t fooling Mr. Howard after all. When Craig was through with his faked respiratory emergency and it was clear no one was calling an ambulance, he frowned and lowered his hands.
“How long till’ we’re finished?” he asked.
“Well,” Mr. Howard said. “Considering the fact that you’ve yet to lift a finger while Fred here has done all the work, I’d say you won’t be done until the entire area is dusted white. Use the whole bag...distributed evenly. Don’t come back until it’s done or I’ll make you start over from scratch. Understand?”
Craig’s face reddened, but he did as was told. By dusk the latrine was flat as a giant checkerboard and white as a January morning. As the boys made their way back to camp in growing darkness Craig finally spoke.
“I’m gonna end you, you know.”
Instant chills ran up Fred’s spine and lifted the hairs on the back of his neck. It wasn’t so much the words, either. It was how he said it. So calm. So cool. As if he was talking about eating a cheeseburger.
With hands shoved in his pockets, head tilted back in thought, Craig continued. “I’d have to get you somewhere completely isolated...where no one could see us. That’s where I’d do it. And you’d be lost forever. Your picture slapped on the side of a milk carton years before they found your bones.”
Surely he’s kidding. Fred thought. He’s just trying to freak me out. But for a moment th
ere, Fred felt sure he was walking beside the devil himself.
A hundred yards short of camp, Craig stopped and grabbed the edge of Fred’s shirt. With eyes wide, Fred turned to look, thinking he would see a monster, smell his dragon breath, look into a pair of glowing red eyes.
But Craig was smiling, and his grin widened as he took in Fred’s face, read it out as clearly as a newspaper’s headlines.
“Oh my gosh! You actually believed I was serious. Priceless!” He busted out laughing at the top of his lungs and slapped Fred so hard on his shoulder it shook him all the way down to his shoes. “Come on, dude,” he said with a seemingly light-hearted shrug and led the way back. Fred stood motionless as the other boy’s footsteps crunched away over gravel and dirt, fading into the sound of cricket song.
Staring after Craig, Fred couldn’t help but wonder:
Was he really joking?
Was he really?
2
The next morning, all twelve boys of Troop 354 clustered at the base of a fifty-foot cliff for their maiden foray into rock climbing. Mr. Howard had spent hours setting up ropes and clips and carabineers to ensure the boys’ safety. He now stood before them in his harness and helmet, ready to show them proper form.
“Remember, boys, this is serious business. Any of you start messing around and you could fall to your deaths.”
Fred’s heart rate sped up, and he wondered if such stark diction was Woodlander policy, to scare feckless boys into compliance.
“Your harness thingy looks like underwear!” Craig blurted, followed by a burst of laughter quickly silenced by the cold glare of their leader.
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