

THE BULB PEOPLE

Coming to your town next

Book 2 of the Terror Orchard series

by Brian Bakos

cover art & photos: Brian Bakos

Copyright 2013 Brian Bakos / revised 11-2019

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to anyone else. If you want to share this book, please buy an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to Smashwords.com and obtain your own copy. Thanks for respecting the author's hard work.

Table of Contents

Prelude: What Happened Before

One: Trouble in Wonderland

Two: Things Get Worse

Three: Plans and Schemes

Four: Visit to the Burbs

Five: An Evil Plot Unfolds

Six: The Last Outsider

Seven: A Startling Appearance

Eight: The Looming Battle

Nine: Clash with the Bulb People

Brian's Other Books

#  Prelude: What Happened Before

If you haven't read Billy Conner's diary, Captive in Terror Orchard, here is some background information:

Four years earlier, Billy and Cyndy – along with Professor Jonathan Rackenfauz – outfought a terrible evil.

Morton Kasinski, a college student at the time, aided Billy and his friends. They did not tell Morton the whole story, however. Everyone just wanted to forget about it. But now they can't forget because the evil is back.

Morton still lives in Bridgestock, but the other good people have left. Plenty of bad folks are around, though.

Some people are better off gone, don't you think?

# One: Trouble in Wonderland

1. Nightmare Grove

Icy dread gripped Mr. Thromp's heart as he left his pickup truck.

Shafts of late afternoon sunlight jabbed through the clouds like death rays. Muggy heat strangled the air. He reached a trembling hand into his pocket for the whiskey flask, then stopped himself, glancing around. Somebody – or some _thing_ – might be watching.

He walked to the yellow earth mover with its big scoop and climbed aboard. A coffin lid of stillness pressed down as he settled into the cab and shut the door. The bones in his neck cracked as he twisted his head, scanning the area. Behind him stood a half-completed mansion with skeleton timbers. Ahead lay a dead orchard, its trees bent like tormented ghosts.

A big man approached. Low sun glare turned him into a dark figure fringed by a halo of light. Thromp fumbled for the wrench hidden under the seat.

"Hello, Jim," the dark figure called.

Thromp breathed a sigh of relief and returned his hand to the steering wheel. It was only Steve Cozzaglio, the construction supervisor.

"Oh... hi, Boss." Thromp tried to sound calm. "How're things going?"

Cozzaglio stepped from the shimmering heat and looked into the cab. His face was tight and his eyes carried a hard, disapproving look.

"Not too bad, Jim. I didn't think you'd make it today."

"Something came up. I'm running a bit late."

Thromp almost blurted out, "I'm running a bit drunk," which was the real reason he hadn't arrived earlier.

"You've got the whole place to yourself," Cozzaglio said. "We're packing up."

"Uh huh."

"Can't say as I envy you, working here alone."

Thromp mopped his bald head with a handkerchief. "It don't bother me none," he lied.

The last of the building crew left the mansion, walking faster as they neared their cars, until they were almost running.

"So long, Jim." Cozzaglio hurried off to join the retreat.

The whole area was deserted now, and the stifling cab suddenly felt cold as a tomb.

"Drat this place," Thromp muttered. "What am I doing here?"

He already knew the answer. Some rich guy was building his "country estate" on this site, and Thromp had been hired for the wrecking crew. First, he'd helped demolish the original house. Now he had to tear out the old orchard to make room for the tennis court and pool.

Sure, he was grateful for the job, but something about this place frightened him – especially those big trees. A ghoulish presence seemed to hang over them, like the stench of a rotting elephant corpse.

He gripped the door handle. "I oughtta go home!"

But he was already too far behind schedule. And what was waiting for him at home... Leota?

Thromp shuddered and released the handle.

Mr. Warwick, the big boss, planned to build a subdivision near town, and Thromp wanted to work on that project, too. He had to prove himself as a reliable employee, though he'd been botching it lately.

So, with a final nervous glance about the grounds, he settled into the cab like a man trying to make himself comfortable on an electric chair.

He fired up the engine – _Brooom! Brooom!_ and belched along with the roaring diesel.

Power vibrated through him, making him feel like part of the great machine. He fished the bottle from his pocket and brought it to his lips. Whiskey scorched his throat.

"Ahhh, that's better."

The alcohol eased his mind off his troubles – Mrs. Thromp, in particular. The thought of her made him take another swig.

He lurched the machine toward the grove. Its big tires gouged the earth; smoke vomited from its stack. Thromp lowered the shovel and took aim at a tree. The blade cut into the trunk and knocked the tree down with a loud _Crack!_

"Yeee-hah!"

Thromp took aim at a second tree. _Crack!_ It went down hard.

The dried and rotted trees tumbled easily. Another one fell with a tremendous snap, as if some giant had broken the granddaddy of all pencils.

"Take that!"

Thromp forgot his earlier fear. In his god-like machine, fortified with whiskey, he was King of the Universe. A magic incense of diesel fumes wafted around him.

He invaded the heart of the orchard, driving toward a particularly large and menacing tree. It glowered at him angrily. The thing seemed to have a face. Thromp blinked and ran a hand over his eyes.

Naw... it can't be.

If his judgment had ben less clouded with booze, he might have paused to think matters over, but his blood was up. He hunkered down with Kamikaze pilot determination and aimed for the great brute of a tree.

Thunk!

A violent jolt flung him against the steering wheel and back into the seat. Pain exploded through his alcohol numbness. The tree groaned backwards, partially uprooted.

"Why you lousy – !"

Anger pushed aside Thromp's pain. He wrenched the gears and backed up. _Beep! Beep!_ sounded the caution signal, but no human was around to hear.

He stopped and shifted into forward. His machine growled, a massive beast preparing to charge. Dead ahead, the tree leaned crazily. A tangle of broken roots jabbed into the air, beckoning him.

Thromp ground forward, positioned the shovel under the roots, and gunned the engine hard. A cracking-sucking noise filled the air as the tree collapsed.

"Gotcha!" Thromp bellowed, half mad with rage and triumph.

A hole gaped by the fallen tree. A rotten stench rose from it, gagging Thromp. The machine began sinking into the abyss.

"Hey!"

Thromp wrestled the gears into reverse and tried to back out. More ground crumbled away. Panic slammed his chest as he battled to keep the machine from flipping over. Tires flung globs of muck. The diesel howled, drowning out Thromp's shrieks.

The tires bit into solid ground. With a final desperate effort, the machine pulled out of its grave and hurtled backwards, crashing into another tree. Thromp bounced around the cab.

The engine died, leaving him stunned and battered in the eerie silence. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and was dismayed to see blood.

You really screwed this one up, Jim.

Was the back of the machine damaged from crashing into the tree? Thromp prepared to leave the cab and check.

Then . . .

Something slithered from the gaping hole in front of him. It was long, flat, and greenish brown – like a piece of kelp.

_It's the booze._ Thromp licked sandpaper lips. _I'm see'n things again._

Another green, ropy tendril flopped out of the pit with a disgusting _thud!_ Thromp sat frozen, eyes bulging and hands clamped on the steering wheel. The two snaky things felt around, vibrating, testing the earth.

A pointy head, sporting wiry hair, poked up from the hole. A huge pair of eyes slowly emerged, yellow and glowing with pure evil.

Thromp tried to scream, but nothing exited his gaping mouth. He wrenched open the door and fell out of the cab. He scrambled up and began to run, fell again. A horrid rustling noise followed him, snaking along the ground.

He dared not look back. Mud sucked at his boots, slowing his flight.

Somehow he made it out of the orchard and lumbered across the open field toward his truck. It seemed impossibly far away. The more he struggled, the slower he moved. Gurgling, rasping, thumping noises pursued him – coming ever closer.

He was at the truck, and his scream finally erupted. _"Ahhhhhhhhhhh!"_

Thromp leaped through the open window. His head banged the steering wheel, but he scarcely noticed the pain. Thank heaven, the key was in the ignition. Thromp nearly snapped it off in his haste. The engine rumbled into life.

Something was snaking in the passenger window. Thromp wrenched the truck into gear and stomped the gas. Roaring off toward Bridgestock, screaming all the way.

2. The Psychotic Ice Cream Man

Ryan's story

I hate this rotten town – and almost everybody in it, too!

I kick a stone hard. It clatters down the sidewalk angry and alone, just like me. I'm in an outstandingly foul mood.

More than that, I am sick of being in a foul mood. I've been in one ever since we moved here. Me, Ryan Keppen, the kid everybody used to say was so upbeat and sociable. The boy who had lots of friends and interests, a guy who the girls were beginning to notice.

Now I'm trapped in Bridgestock – the only town of any size in this whole lousy county – also known as the "Kidney Bean Capital" of the state. Well, this place sure gives _me_ a pain in the kidney. My four and a half months here have been the worst of my whole life.

_Hang on, Ryan,_ I tell myself, _there must be a way out of here._

I have to hold onto that, otherwise I'll go nuts.

The idiot tune of an ice cream truck – _The Arkansas Traveler_ – drifts down the street toward me. My mouth waters while my stomach tightens at the same moment. To buy anything, I'd have to deal with Mr. Johnson, the man in the truck, and that's too grim a thought for me to handle just now.

I walk toward the house, but a friendly voice stops me.

"Hey, Ryan! What's up?"

My day instantly brightens. Spider, Mark Cozzaglio, stops his bike on the sidewalk. He's about the tallest boy in 7th grade, and very thin. This great skinniness must be the reason for his nickname.

"How's it going?" I say.

"Fine. Thought I'd limber up on my bike before class."

"Class?"

"Yeah, jujitsu. Monday nights, most Saturdays, too."

"Oh, right," I say.

Spider and his high school brother, Carl, studied Brazilian jujitsu before they came to Bridgestock. Now that Carl has wheels, they get out every chance they can to their old haunts where the martial arts school is.

"Did you talk to your mom?" Spider asks. "Will she let you come for a trial lesson?"

"Well, she didn't say 'no,' exactly. Maybe she'll let me go next week."

"Sure, just let me know," Spider says. "We've got a nice group – me, Carl, and another high school guy, Billy Conner. He's real good, like an assistant instructor."

"Yeah?"

"Billy's usually there whenever we go. He'll teach you a lot."

Actually, I haven't talked to Mom at all. She'd probably let me go, as she is always saying I should be more involved in sports. And I doubt my stepdad would mind if I went on the two hour drive to the suburbs. That would get me out of his way for a while.

To tell the truth, I'm not the athletic type. The idea of flopping around on floor mats choking people doesn't do much for me. It would get me out of Bridgestock, though.

"We learned this really neat arm bar hold," Spider says. "Want me to show you?"

"Some other time, maybe."

"Sure thing."

The ice cream music draws closer. The white truck is several doors down with its cheery, yet somehow ominous, graphics of outsized frozen treats. A smiling clown face on the side must be intended to cheer you up, but it's downright creepy.

Now that I have some support, I'm feeling more confident. "How about an ice cream?"

"Naw, I'm broke."

"That's okay. I'll cover it."

I have plenty of spending money, as Mom has really gotten open-handed since we've moved here. She's trying to smooth the road for her guilt trip, I suspect. Besides, I enjoy being generous with my friends, and Spider is my only friend in Bridgestock.

"Okay, thanks," he says.

I hold up my hand. The ice cream truck passes me, then pulls over one house down. It sits lurking at the curb, music wailing and engine rumbling.

Spider rolls on his bike toward the truck while I walk behind. A mean, twisted face, covered with stubble, pokes out the window.

"What d'ya want?"

As always, the sight of Mr. Johnson scares the heck out of me. I'm glad Spider is around.

"Well?" Mr. Johnson says.

"I'll have the Daisy Cutter pop," Spider says, "the one with the strawberry goo center."

Mr. Johnson turns a yellowish, twitching eyeball my direction. "What about you?"

I take a step back. He's _really_ weird. Sure, I've seen adults who are rude to kids, but this guy is way beyond being a simple jerk.

"I'll have the same."

Mr. Johnson flings open a freezer and thrusts his arms into its depths. Icy mist bathes his face. He looks like a demon surrounded by hellfire smoke.

All the while the idiot tune plays through the truck's loudspeaker. No wonder the guy looks demented, listening to that music all day could warp anybody.

I fumble out the money, and Mr. Johnson gives over our Daisy Cutter pops. He returns to the driver's seat, muttering. Then he's off to frighten people on other blocks.

"That guy is definitely bad news," Spider says.

I nod. "So why do we keep buying from him?"

"Because he's got great stuff like this." Spider tears the wrapper from his pop. "You can't find it at any store. Have you tried his Bunker Buster cone?"

"Not yet."

"Get one next time. You'll never forget it – trust me on that."

I remove the wrapper and bite into the barrel-shaped pop. A tart, almost unpleasant taste stings my mouth. Sweet goo shoots out and mixes with the tartness. The combined flavor is incredible.

"How is it?" Spider asks.

"Like cold strawberry jam mixed with battery acid."

"I knew you'd like it." Spider turns philosophical. "You know, there are lots of strange people in Bridgestock. Maybe that's why Mr. Johnson can operate here without attracting too much attention."

"You've got that right. I can't imagine a guy like that running an ice cream truck back home."

I recall my beautiful street in the suburbs – the wide pavement and friendly neighbors, the graceful trees, the pleasant ice cream lady who makes the rounds in her truck . . .

"Billy Conner is always asking about this town," Spider says. "I wonder why."

"Maybe he wants to move here."

"Fat chance of that!"

We are both outsiders. Mark's dad works for my stepdad, Bob Warwick, and our families moved here in January. We were in time to start winter term at wonderful Bridgestock Middle School.

There are some really mean kids there – such as "Dirty" Larry Nolan, my stepsister's latest boyfriend. Most of the other kids are merely peculiar and stand-offish. I haven't made any friends, except for Mark.

Everybody is so grungy. I've never seen so many people with dirty, stringy hair and rumpled clothes. You see them shuffling about the 'downtown' kicking stray dogs or throwing stones at squirrels.

"This whole town is stuck in some crazy time warp," Spider says. "It's like a car stalled out at a trash dump."

"That's a good way to put it."

Of course, all this will soon change, according to Bob. Once his 'Melody Acres' housing development gets built, people will flock here bringing prosperity with them. Then the state will bash a new freeway into town, and we'll be rich, too.

Sure.

The ice cream tune drifts away. A new and frightening sound comes from the opposite direction.

"What's that?" Spider says.

I move to the curb and look up the street. A battered old pickup truck is barreling toward us going way beyond the speed limit. It runs the stop sign at the corner.

The driver's head sticks out the window. His scream grows louder as the pickup approaches:

_. . . aaaaaAAAAAAAAHH_ HHH _!_

I jump back onto the grass. The truck zips by.

The driver is a scruffy older man, bald except for a fringe of gray hair blowing in the wind. His eyes and mouth gape wide open in an expression of absolute terror.

As he disappears down the street, the scream trails off:

AA _AAHHHHHaaaahhhh . . . ._

"Who is that lunatic?" I say.

"Looks like Mr. Thromp."

" _Mr_. Thromp? Like, is he related to our English teacher?"

"Yeah, her husband," Spider says. "He works with my Dad."

"Wow!"

Spider gives his pop a thoughtful lick. "Poor guy, no wonder he's screaming his head off with a wife like her."

Mom appears at our front door, she looks worried. "What's all that noise, Ryan?"

"Nothing. Just some nutcase driving by."

"Yeah, but he's gone," Spider says.

"Come in now," Mom says, "dinner will be ready soon. Would you like to eat with us, Mark?"

Spider nudges me with his elbow. "Ask her about jujitsu."

"Not now."

Spider raises his voice. "Thank you, Mrs. Warwick, but I've got plans already."

The words _Mrs. Warwick_ grate my nerves like vampire fangs on a chalkboard.

I turn toward Spider. "See you at school tomorrow. Good luck with your class."

"Right."

Spider rides off, one arm jabbing the air with martial arts punches. I head toward the house and an evening with my Happy Blended Family.

3. The H. B. F.

The front door bursts open just as I am starting up the porch steps.

Larry Nolan rushes outside, nearly knocking me over. "Hey, watch out! What are you doing creeping around?"

"I live here."

"Oh, yeah." Larry smirks. "Too bad, ain't it?"

He jogs away, laughing. Some little kid has left a toy wagon on the sidewalk next door. Larry kicks it hard. The wagon hits a parked car, leaving a nice dent.

That is some funny joke. Then again, the dent might be an improvement on the rusty old vehicle.

Larry takes off fast and turns the corner just as the neighbor comes to his door. The guy sees the wagon crashed against his car and gives me a dirty look. I smile back.

I hope he doesn't suspect me. Do I look like a juvenile delinquent? My time here hasn't warped me that much, has it? I bound up the porch steps.

Good old Larry. Not only do I have to put up with that ugly jerk in my English class, but now he's hanging around my house, too. Inside the house lurks my Happy Blended Family – the H. B. F. Pronounce that "he-beef," as in a lot of bull.

Bob Warwick sits at the dining room table with a stack of business type papers. Smoke curls from his cigarette, and one hand combs through his thinning black hair. His neck tie runs over his spreading gut like a blue river passing through a bulging field of snow.

All this smoke does wonders for my asthma – thanks Bob.

Mom places a hand on his shoulder and kisses him on the cheek. I want to vomit.

"Can you put away your papers now, Honey?" she says.

Bob grunts something and shuffles the papers into his briefcase.

Mom and Bob have been married seven months. My real dad is in Arizona with his new wife. For a while, I thought I might be moving in with them, but I didn't hit it off with my step-mom. Besides, there are too many cactuses on people's lawns out there.

Dad didn't seem too upset by this. After all, he's "grown apart" from Mom and our family, and he needs "space to make a fresh start." Those are his exact words; I overheard them myself.

Bob maneuvers his midsection around the table and lumbers off toward the bathroom. He might not be the sharpest looking guy, but at least he dresses well – part of his effort to bring civilization to Bridgestock.

Bob's daughter, Katie Warwick, tromps down from her room upstairs. You can't mistake her booming steps, and you'd assume that some huge person was coming. Katie isn't real big, but she's solidly built – like those tough girls you see beating each other up on the TV fight shows. She can hit hard, she claims, and has offered to show me.

"Dinner's almost ready, Katie," Mom says. "Please set the table."

"Sure, Mom," Katie answers in her sweetest voice. "I'll be right there."

'Katie War Witch' is my nickname for her. In her diary, which I've secretly read, she calls herself 'Leopard Girl.' For example:

Leopard Girl finds Bridgestock to be rather dull. My dork step-brother is especially boring.

and

Leopard Girl has found a new boyfriend, he should be amusing for a while.

She notices me sitting on the couch, and her phony smile fades.

"How are you, dweeb?" she whispers, exaggerating her lip movements so I can understand.

Katie wasn't part of the original deal. She was thrown out of the house a few months ago when her mom tied up with a new boyfriend. Guess the new guy didn't like Katie much. She's a high school sophomore, so at least I don't have to see her at school.

We all sit down for dinner. It's a good meal, as Mom had enough time to cook from scratch. She stayed in Bridgestock to work at Bob's office today rather than make the long commute to her law firm's office in the suburbs. I bite into a delicious breaded drumstick.

"Please pass the corn, Ryan," Mom says.

I move the bowl her way. She's so pretty and young looking, a real class act. What could she possibly see in a guy like Bob Warwick?

Bob says very little. He always seems to be mad about something, as if a huge belch of anger is ready to come blasting out of him any second. He never says angry things to me, though – he even tries to be 'friendly' sometimes. I like it better when he says nothing.

How did so many ugly things elbow their way into my life? Not long ago, Mom and I had a beautiful house in the suburbs. I went to a great school with tons of friends. Things had settled down from Dad walking out, and I sure didn't miss the constant arguments he and Mom were having.

Then Bob Warwick showed up with his big real estate schemes and hired Mom's firm to do his legal work.

And now this!

There must be a way out, I just need to find it. There has to be some mathematical formula I can apply to the H. B. F. so that Mom and me can be subtracted from it. Math is one of my strong points, or it used to be before I moved here and got my brain numbed.

If Mom is too far gone and can't leave, there has to be a way for me, at least, to get out.

And far away from here.

4. Escape to Mean Field

The sun became a fiery blob as it dropped to the horizon, bathing the earth in a frightening orange glow.

People retreated into their houses and locked the doors. They pulled the shades on every window. Night reached out. Shadows crept over Mean Field.

Mean Fields are nasty places where people with ugliness in their hearts like to go. Vagrants running from the law, robbers sleeping off their latest crimes and dreaming up new ones, murderers dumping their victims. Such persons are drawn to the Mean Field like flies buzzing to a chunk of rotting meat.

The Bridgestock Mean Field consisted of twenty-five acres out past the abandoned houses on the eastern edge of town. Nothing grew there except for prickly scrub brush and poisoned dandelions. Nothing stood in this dreary place, except for a large sign which read:

Below these words gleamed a portrait of a handsome young family – Mom, Dad, and two perfect kids. They were all bright and smiling, as if they'd just dropped in from a toothpaste commercial. Behind them loomed a picture of an enormous house with pillars holding up the front end like an ancient Greek temple.

Most people would think that constructing houses here would be as bad as building them in a pirate cemetery. The meanness of the ground would soak through your basement walls and pollute the entire house. It would give you nightmares, even in day time.

Bob Warwick saw gold in the Mean Field, though, and he'd bought the place cheap. He was convinced that people would snap up the houses as fast as he could build them, and he'd be rich. Then, he wouldn't have to depend so much on his snooty new wife with her spoiled brat kid.

* * *

A few miles south of Mean Field, things were stirring at the dead orchard. Five unspeakably horrid creatures pulled themselves out of the hole that Mr. Thromp had torn open. Each one had a body like a giant tulip bulb with wiry hair sprouting from the top.

They gave off a powerful stench, like a pond full of decaying fish and other stuff nobody would want to identify. Big yellow eyes stared out from the upper area of each bulb, and a large, gaping mouth with sharp fangs occupied the lower part. Two nostrils punctured the middle like stab wounds.

The Bulb People snapped their mouths loudly, as if they hadn't used them in a long while. They moved around the grove on stumpy legs, dragging their ropy arms. Each one was several feet long and had no hand or fingers.

A sixth bulb person, largest of them all, stood in the field nearby. The sun shot long spikes of red glare across him, making him squint. He lifted his left arm to shade his eyes. The arm had a kink in the middle, as if it had been broken at one time. But it flexed with terrible power, aching to grab and squeeze the existence out of any living thing.

The creature revolved slowly and sniffed the air. It paused, facing toward a point just east of Bridgestock. His eyes remained fixed in that direction, yellow and unblinking.

"Ung!" it said.

The other five horrors joined it. They were all the same general shape, except for one that was longer and thinner, more like a giant carrot than a tulip bulb.

"Go there!" croaked the biggest one. It gestured toward Mean Field with its bent arm.

The others grunted agreement, but the carrot-shaped one stepped forward and shoved the big, fat one.

"Me boss!" it said.

"No, Ponge!" The big fat one shoved back. "Me boss!"

"No, Grech!" howled the carrot. It grabbed the fat one with its ropy arms.

They tumbled over, flailing and biting at each other. As they fought, their grotesque bodies glowed like dull, nightmarish neon signs. They rolled on the ground, tearing up the sod and casting horrible, stretchy shadows.

Night fell before the gnashing, shrieking battle finally ended in a draw. The fighters glared across the darkness at each other with hatred shining in their yellow eyes. New gashes and bite marks scarred their horrible bodies, but they did not seem to care. Their lights flickered out.

Without further dispute, the group began walking.

Mean Field was now totally dark, but for these creatures it shown with an unholy light. They headed straight for it, walking in pairs across the open land.

They sang no melodies in the pitch blackness, just grunts and low howls that turned the blood cold of anybody who heard them. The residents of farmhouses along the route sensed the passing of this awful crew, but no one dared look outside or turn on any lights.

People secured their doors and windows. Kidney bean farmers sat in living rooms cradling shotguns in their arms, while children in upstairs bedrooms thrashed about with nightmares.

In the deepest part of night, the creatures arrived at Mean Field and began to dig. For hours the air sounded with their scraping and grunting. When they finished burying themselves at last, only their tendril-like arms still lay above ground, twitching among the weeds and broken bottles.

They began their siren call, which could be heard by only certain types of people.

5. Mr. Johnson Meets Some New Friends

Early afternoon on Tuesday, Elwood Johnson drove his ice cream truck slowly through the empty streets of Bridgestock. It was too soon to sell ice cream, as the kids were all in school, but Johnson felt restless.

He did not play music from the loudspeaker but crept along silently, prowling the streets like a vicious dog looking for someone to attack. He drove by the middle school and thought of the obnoxious, disrespectful punks that gave him such a hard time – those two yesterday, for example, the new ones from out of town. Who'd asked them to move here?

He drove past the elementary school and thought of the tender young kids sitting there in their classrooms. They'd all be hoping to go outside for recess, thinking that nothing out there could possibly harm them.

"Drat them kids!" he said aloud. "If only I had a chance to grab one of em!"

He'd never gotten the chance – yet.

This was a day for bitter thoughts. Johnson recalled how, years before, he'd applied for a police officer job and been turned down. Imagine, a clever man like himself, rejected out of hand!

A policeman could enjoy his power, Johnson knew. He'd imagined himself with a club, cracking somebody's skull in a back alley – somebody who deserved to have his head busted, of course. There were plenty such folks.

Then he'd applied for a prison guard job. He'd wanted to be the type of guard he'd seen in movies, the guys who beat up prisoners and took bribes. Why shouldn't he get extra money for punishing criminals? Nobody else cared about his constant financial troubles. Again, he was turned down.

"You belong on the other side of the bars, pal," the chief guard told him. "Now get out before I find some excuse to put you there."

Johnson had been on the other side of the bars, too. If all his crimes had been discovered, he'd still be there. These memories gnawed at Johnson as he drove along, making his stomach sour. His hands gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white.

Instead of getting a powerful, respected position, he'd ended up in this lousy town driving an ice cream truck. The whole world was against him – always had been – and somebody would have to pay for that!

Where was he going, anyway? He just moved along the empty streets wherever the truck seemed to take him. He arrived at the large vacant field on the edge of town, by the sign:

"Estates, my eye," Johnson snorted. "People wouldn't buy cemetery plots out here."

An evil idea stole into his mind like a goblin. Wouldn't this be a good place to bring some unsuspecting little kid? Nobody around to hear the screams. Even if Melody Acres ever got built, he'd be long gone before any evidence got dug up.

He'd show everyone. The world had been wrong to trifle with Elwood Johnson, and he would prove it! He stopped the truck and got out. He stomped across the field, bursting with fury.

The surroundings calmed him somehow, and he began to walk more slowly. He liked this place. It felt like home to him. This was the perfect location for his next, most fabulous crime. Why hadn't he thought of it before?

He spotted some long, brownish-green tendrils spread along the ground – like ropes of giant kelp washed up from the ocean. Johnson had never been to the ocean, but he'd seen kelp forests on TV one night when he'd been killing a case of beer.

"What're those?"

He moved in for a closer look. The long, skinny things sprang to life and wrapped around his legs with bone-crushing power.

"Ahhh!" the ice cream man howled.

The tendrils yanked him off his feet. His head bounced on the rocky ground. Eyes bulging with horror, Johnson saw a ring of huge, gaping mouths emerge from the ground. The tendrils pulled him into the razor fangs.

He screamed again, but nobody heard him. Nobody ever saw him again.

# Two: Things Get Worse

6. Unpleasant News

Mom is going out of state on legal business. That's just wonderful!

An announcement should go on my blog: "Ryan is abandoned to the wolves."

I don't have a blog, actually. Maybe I should start one: _Ryan Keppen's Misery Blog_ , or _Ryan's M-blog_ for short. People would love reading it.

But the internet service out here sucks so bad it's not worth the effort. There are so many crashes and freeze-ups you can't stand it after a while. It's nothing like the blazing fast service at our old house.

Back in the suburbs, Aunt Theresa stayed with me whenever Mom left on business trips. That wasn't very cool because my stink-o cousin Jesse usually showed up, too, but this is infinitely worse. Now I'll be at the mercy of Bob and Katie War Witch for at least a week.

Bob sits at the breakfast table scowling into his coffee cup, ignoring Mom and me as we drag suitcases out to her car.

"This town makes me sick," he says when we come back in the house. "It's like they actually _want_ to be ignorant and backward."

Well, at least he's got that right.

Mom strokes his hand. "They're just behind the times, dear. They'll come around eventually."

I want to vomit.

"I wish you'd get your house sold, Jeannine. The money could really help."

"I'm trying," Mom says. "We'll get a buyer soon, don't worry."

Bob is not comforted. Neither am I. The thought of selling our beautiful home in the suburbs makes me ill. The knowledge that it's still ours is one of the few things keeping me sane. As long as our house hasn't been sold, there's hope Mom and I can pull out of this mess.

Why can't she wise up and see things right?

If I ever have kids, I will never, ever, uproot their lives without a thorough sit-down discussion. And if they have qualms about somebody I'm dating, I'll take them seriously.

A lot of it's about control, I think. Mom is so used to taking charge of things in her profession that she can't imagine she'd ever screw up her personal life. But she has, big time, and I figure she'll do just about anything to avoid admitting her mistake.

"If only people would quit trying to bleed me dry," Bob says, "I'd pull Bridgestock into the 21st century."

Or maybe into the 19th century, if he's extremely lucky.

Bob has excuses for everything: crooked Sheriff Fergueson demanding payoffs, the "cheapskate banks," etc. The latest villain is Adlai Handcrost – the rich guy he's building a mansion for south of town. At first, Bob was delighted to be hired for the project, but things have gone sour.

Although Handcrost has retired from running a large corporation, he still wants to be in charge of something, and Bridgestock is small enough for him to be the head honcho. Melody Acres, with its supposed flood of new residents, would spoil that, so he is trying to derail Bob's plans.

Handcrost has offered a good price for the vacant land, but Bob won't take it. Then Handcrost threatened legal action, but Bob's rear end is well covered, thanks to Mom and her high-powered law firm.

Whatever. In my opinion, this town is too mean to change.

Bob gets over his self-pity routine and leaves, driving his Cadillac the short distance to his office rather than burn a few calories walking. He does this in order to "make the right impression."

If Mom didn't keep up the payments, the repo men would have probably taken Bob's Caddie by now. What kind of impression would that make?

Mom kisses my cheek. "Be good, now, Ryan."

"Yes."

She turns to Katie. "You'll watch out for him, won't you?"

"Sure, Mom," Katie replies with her most genuine phony smile. "We'll be just fine."

Every time she calls her "Mom" is an acid bath for me. I watch Mom get in her car and start the engine. Then I walk out to her.

She lowers the window. She looks so sharp in her business outfit. Her car fits perfectly, too. It's sleek and sporty with black leather interior and a stick shift. Mom's gold bracelet jingles whenever she changes gears.

"What's the matter, Ryan?"

"Does it have to be this way?"

"What way?"

"I mean... with _them_ , and this town."

"I know this has been a difficult time of adjustment," Mom says, "but things will turn our way soon."

I look back toward the house where Katie stands smiling in the doorway. Just when are things supposed to turn our way?

"Everything will look better once we have a nice new house in Melody Acres," Mom says.

She's in clueless mode again, but is there a tiny chink in her bright and optimistic armor? Is her smile a bit forced? I can't tell – I'm only a kid whose opinions don't count.

Mom pulls out of the driveway. Soon she is gone around the corner. I walk back toward the house as Katie is leaving.

She shoulders me aside. "Excuse me, twerp. See ya later!"

For the first time, I have truly murderous thoughts about Katie. As I watch her stomping down the walk in her Leopard Girl running shoes, her braids trailing in the wind, I imagine a large, bloody knife sticking between her shoulder blades. My fingers itch.

* * *

Spider arrives to pick me up for school, and I forget about Katie for a while. The weather has turned cool and damp, so I wear my jacket.

"Another big day at Bridgestock Middle School, eh Ryan?"

"Yeah, right."

"Why so glum?"

"My mom's left for the week."

"Oh, I get it." He looks back toward our cheap rented house. "That kind of leaves you hanging, eh?"

I nod. "Listen, maybe I'll take you up on the jujitsu class."

"Cool! We're going Saturday morning around 10:30. Can you make it then?"

"I don't see why not."

"We're hoping to spend all weekend. Carl is arranging an overnighter for us at one of his buddy's houses. I'm sure there'll be room for you, too."

"Yeah?"

I hadn't thought about staying overnight. I was thinking more about learning some strangle holds to use on Katie.

"They'll be going out at night to do high school guy stuff," Spider says. "You and me can stay behind and practice jujitsu moves."

"Sounds good."

Well, not really. Anything has to be better than another weekend in Bridgestock, though. I can't imagine Bob would object to getting me out of the way.

I'm feeling pretty decent about the coming weekend. Then Bridgestock Middle School comes in sight and my upbeat mood vanishes.

It's not just the unfriendly crowd shuffling on ahead, glancing back at us like we're a pair of freaks. I mean, who are the real freaks here? A lot of these kids look inbred, but I guess you can't blame them for that.

The depressing atmosphere of the school hovers around us like a poison vapor – the dark, ugly brick, the main door gaping open ready to yank us in. Maybe I'm just a spoiled UMC kid, but this whole place seems wrong.

"Hey Spider man!" Somebody taunts from the crowd. "Watch out, it's supposed to get windy. You wouldn't want to blow off."

The others laugh at this fine comedy. Mark smiles back at them.

"They won't talk like this once I'm all bulked up," he says. "That's the next thing, I'm starting this body building program and..."

We enter the school building for another fun day.

7. A Fun Day at School

A typical school day grinds past. Boring classes filled with grungy, unfriendly students and generally unsympathetic teachers – me sitting in the back row trying to be invisible.

Me rushing through the halls during breaks, ignoring the rude comments, my eyes studying the floor tiles. Who wouldn't enjoy that?

English is my worst class, but it's also the best one because Mark is there, sitting across from me with his long legs stretched out into the aisle. A patch of sunshine hovers over him in the cold room.

"Dirty" Larry Nolan is also here – Katie's romantic interest. He's at least a year older than the rest of us, probably more, as he's been held back. He is ugly and dumb, all right, in addition to being dirty. Why Leopard Girl would be interested in him is a mystery, as he seems too low class even for her taste. Worst of all, he acts as Mrs. Thromp's enforcer.

Mrs. Thromp moves through the classroom, smacking a big metal ruler on her palm as she throws her icy stare around.

"Open your books to page 194," she commands.

Whack!

We open our books.

"Read the introductory paragraph on your own."

Whack!

She's aching to hit somebody. Thank heaven the school board has recently outlawed corporal punishment. We finish reading the introduction.

"Ronald!" Mrs. Thromp bellows.

"Yes?" Ronald says, sitting up straighter at his desk.

"Begin reading."

She is tall and dark. Actually, she's very pale on the outside, like a bloodless corpse, almost. The darkness comes from inside, as if she contains a vast cavern that sucks away all warmth.

When she stalks along the rows between our desks, a cold air wave pushes along with her. She's as weird and mean as Mr. Johnson. I wish she'd go wherever he is.

Mr. Johnson disappeared yesterday. They found his truck parked at the edge of town by Melody Acres, but he wasn't in it. His room contained only worthless junk, and he hadn't paid the rent – so people thought he decided to abandon everything and get out quick.

Good riddance.

Kids take turns reciting the long poem which begins on page 194. I hope Mrs. Thromp doesn't call on me. In this class, even the best poetry comes out sour. Finally, the last reader drones to a halt.

"So," Mrs. Thromp says, "what is the message of this poem?"

Lisa raises her hand. She is the class brain, by Bridgestock standards. Back home she'd be pretty far down the academic totem pole.

Mrs. Thromp points to her with the ruler. "Yes, Lisa?"

"This poem states that all things in life have a purpose. Nothing is without meaning."

Mrs. Thromp nods, giving her palm a softer tap with the ruler. Lisa has apparently got it right, and she looks pretty satisfied with herself.

Spider pipes up. "Oh, yeah?" He points at the tile floor. "How about that scuff mark over there? What purpose does it have?"

The whole class laughs.

Whack!

We all shut up. Mrs. Thromp looks angry enough to kill somebody. Hey, it was only a little joke. We shrink down in our seats, waiting for her to explode. But she remains calm; she fixes a narrow, icy stare on Mark.

"That's very clever, Mr. Cozzaglio."

She glances at Larry Nolan. A little grin twists Larry's mouth. We all know what that means.

8. Encounter with Larry

It doesn't take long for Mrs. Thromp's enforcer to zero in.

On the way home, we are half way through the elementary school playground shortcut when Larry appears out of nowhere. For such a big slob he sure can hide himself effectively.

"Uh, oh," I say. "Looks like we've got company."

"Hey, you!" Larry bellows.

He swaggers up to us. Spider tries to ignore him, but Larry shoves him hard from behind, knocking him over.

Spider rolls and pops back up. "That's not very friendly."

"Yeah, right!" Larry advances, fists ready.

Spider shoots out a kick into Larry's knee.

"Ow!" Larry stumbles back.

Mark follows up with two punches to Larry's face. The punches do little harm, but they sure get Larry mad. He charges and bulls Spider over.

"Leave him alone!" I shout.

I look around for a weapon – a rock, anything I can bounce off Larry's skull. Maybe my geometry book will work. But things are happening way too fast for me to do anything.

Larry is on top, furiously trying to land a punch. Spider has his long legs wrapped around Larry's waist and is holding him by the hair and jacket, not allowing any room to maneuver.

Larry's face goes purple. "Gaaaaak!"

Mark has twisted around his jacket collar and is choking him with it. Larry struggles but can't escape the death grip. The zipper cuts into the skin, bringing a trickle of blood.

"Agggggh!" Larry sags.

"Stop it!" I yell. "You're killing him."

Mark releases the choke hold, and Larry collapses, gasping for air. But Mark isn't done yet. He wraps his legs around Larry's right arm and wrenches it into a joint lock. Larry shrieks, his voice going up a couple octaves.

"That sounds pretty bad. Have you got a problem?"

"Let go, you – "

"Wrong answer!"

Mark throws on the pressure, his eyes glittering with cold enjoyment. Larry's arm pops, another shriek.

"You need to talk more polite. Didn't your mom teach you any manners? Do you even have a mom, or were you flushed up somewhere?"

"You f – "

A slight ratchet cuts Larry off in mid curse.

"I know. How about saying: 'Larry Nolan is a disgusting, ugly dirt bag'?"

"L-Larry . . . Larry is a . . . "

A shadow falls over the scene. Carl. He looks a lot like Mark, only all filled in with muscles.

"What's going on?" he says.

Spider looks up. "Am I glad to see you!"

He releases Larry's arm and stands. Larry rolls away groaning.

Carl takes Spider by the shoulders. "Are you okay?"

"Sure."

"Is that the punk you were telling me about?"

"Yeah. Larry Nolan, the school rat."

"I figured on something like this."

Carl grasps Larry's good hand and pulls him up. Larry stands rubbing his injured arm, eyes darting around for an escape route.

"You don't look too bad off," Carl says. "Here's something for you."

He throws a terrific punch. _Wham!_

Larry falls backwards as if he's been hit by a cannon ball. Blood pours from his nose.

Carl towers over him. "Try to hurt my brother again and you're toast. Got that?"

"Y-yeah," Larry says in a trembling little voice.

"Good. Just so you don't forget."

Carl kicks him hard in the gut.

"Ooof!" Larry curls into an agony ball.

The two brothers walk off together. Mark glances back over his shoulder.

"Better call the trash man, Ryan. Have him pick up that pile of crap."

Larry remains on the ground, gasping for air, blood oozing from his nose. I cannot help feeling sorry for him.

"Should I tell Katie you won't be coming over today?"

Larry says nothing. This is quite a career move for him, from tough guy to helpless jellyfish in two minutes. I hand him a clean handkerchief. I always have handkerchiefs, on account of my asthma and frequently running nose. Larry snatches it.

Man, what a deadly combination Spider has – jujitsu skill to take somebody down and an older brother to finish things off. Compared to him, I feel about as capable as an octopus thrown onto the ice at a hockey game.

I'm _really_ looking forward to that martial arts club now!

9. Across Town

After doing the gasping on the ground routine a while longer, Larry struggles to his feet.

His right arm hangs limp and useless. Worst of all, my handkerchief is a total, bloody loss. Larry stumbles and nearly falls over. I try to help him.

"Leave me alone!" he snarls.

"Okay."

Doesn't seem he's learned much from the beating. He's as nasty as always. He'll probably never start a fight with Spider again, but who can say? May as well get his other arm wrecked and be properly balanced.

He starts limping off. For some stupid reason, I follow. Maybe I feel sorry for him and think he might need help getting home, or maybe I'm just curious. Where does this creep live, anyway?

We walk through downtown Bridgestock past the Yookey Lake Bar. The door is propped open, and whiny country music blares out:

She only drinks alone,

and she only smokes when she drinks.

Nothing against people who like country music, but I'm a city kid and the stuff depresses the heck out of me. The twangy notes make me even more homesick for our beautiful neighborhood in the suburbs.

We pass the hardware & sporting goods store with its live bait vending machine out front. Worms are trapped inside that machine, lying dormant in chilled cardboard containers. I know what they must feel like. A sign in the store window announces the upcoming Carp Festival. Curious pedestrians gape at Larry. People cross the street to avoid him.

We enter the residential streets. Larry walks without purpose, turning this way and that, with me trailing a couple houses behind. The houses are run down with peeling paint and shabby lawns. They'd look nice if people took care of them, but nearly everything in Bridgestock is neglected and tacky.

Larry stops and looks eagerly around, sniffing the air. He takes off straight for the east side of town. What's he up to now? The sensible thing for me is to head back home, but I've always been way too curious for my own good. Besides, I am in no hurry to see Bob and Katie.

After several minutes, we pass beyond the final, abandoned houses on the edge of town. They are big, tumbled down places with saggy roofs and collapsing porches. One of them has a ladder propped against it beside a smashed upstairs window, as if somebody broke in and kidnapped the people living there. Junk cars on cinder blocks occupy some of the driveways.

The paved street turns into a pot-holed dirt road. A large dog lies dead across the way, a cloud of flies hovering around it. The corpse must stink pretty bad, but, fortunately, I'm upwind. A beat up car zips by, flies bouncing off the windshield like hailstones. I think it's going to run Larry over, but it swerves at the last second.

"Outta the way, moron!" the driver shouts.

Larry pays no attention.

We near Bob Warwick's real estate empire at Melody Acres. The advertising sign on the border catches my attention. A dark blotch covers the face of the smiling dad in the picture. He looks like an ogre in the midst of the perfect, gleaming family.

Bob will really be steamed when he sees that. He loves that picture, and it cost plenty. Who did it – Mr. Handcrost?

This is pretty low-class stuff; it doesn't seem a millionaire like him would stoop so low. He'd have to hire some jerk from town to do the paint job, the sort of guy who'd be at the Yookey Lake Bar shooting his mouth off over long-neck beers. Or else some high school punk who would brag to his friends.

Word would get around. This would open Handcrost up for the "big fat lawsuit" Bob is itching to have Mom file against him. So, I don't think Mr. Handcrost is behind the vandalism.

As I come up to the sign, I can see the blotch is only dark mud. Somebody with nothing better to do must have tossed it. The first good rain will wash it away.

10. A Horrifying Discovery

An eerie breeze whistles around the sign posts, like the whispering of dead voices.

I zip my jacket up all the way and glance nervously around. Something seems to be terribly wrong here – much worse than just a muddy sign. I can almost smell evil in the wind.

I've been out here once before with the H. B. F., and it wasn't all that pleasant, despite Bob's enthusiastic commentary. "Our future is waiting for us in these fields," he'd said.

Now things are a hundred times worse. Make that a thousand.

Larry doesn't seem to mind, quite the opposite. He's walking in a happy daze, like he's just arrived at the Emerald City. His feet glide over the rough ground as if they're treading on luxurious carpet. He scarcely limps any longer.

I chase after him. "Let's go back!"

He stops and turns toward me. His face actually glows, and his eyes have this dead, faraway look. His mouth twists into a maniacal grin.

I gulp hard. "Larry... w-we'd better..."

He starts moving again. Like a complete idiot, I follow him. By the time we reach the midpoint of the vacant field, I am about out of courage. Why am I being such a dope?

I should be running for home, but a stubborn, macho desire to match Larry has gotten hold of me. If he isn't scared to be out here, then neither am I.

Who am I trying to kid? I'm scared stiff!

Larry stops walking, I pause a few yards behind him. My legs vibrate as evil seeps up from the ground. Odd, greenish-brown things sprawl about. They look like thick vines twisted in among the stones and prickly shrubs. The air smells rotten.

Time freezes – Larry standing with a blubbering, joyful grin on his face, me all quiet and afraid. Two of the vines suddenly spring to life. They snap around Larry's legs and pull him down hard.

"Help!" He isn't grinning anymore. Whatever spell he was under shatters.

The vines drag him brutally over the ground, his head bumps against the rocks. A hole tears open in the ground and Larry disappears inside. His shrieks became muffled, mixed with tearing, slurping noises.

I'm too horrified to move a muscle. Two more vines slither after me!

They whip across the ground like psychotic rattlesnakes, hissing and ripping the air. I jump back, but the vines catch the tips of my shoes. In a flash I'm down and being dragged toward a hole.

I scream my head off all the way, flail my arms, try to grip the rocky ground. I am almost at the hole now. Two horrid, yellow eyes stab at me.

The tendrils slip off my shoes and I'm free. I roll away, dodging other vines snapping all about.

_Whish!_ _Whish!_

I get back on my feet and run.

* * *

Then I am at the house, charging up the front walk, with no idea of how I got here. The tacky little place seems to be on the edge of paradise.

Bob and Katie are not home to witness my frantic dash upstairs. I tear off my filthy, ripped clothes and dive into the shower. I sit there a long time, letting hot water blast over me until it runs cold.

I manage to stand and dry myself. My legs are rubbery, so I grip the towel rack to keep from tumbling over. It groans in protest but holds firm. I can scarcely breathe; I grab an asthma inhaler from the medicine chest and suck it hard.

I leave the bathroom and stagger toward my bed. It welcomes me like a fluffy cloud come down from heaven. I collapse into it and pull all the covers over my head. Despite the hot shower, I am cold, cold. I hold the extra pillow in a death grip and curl into a fetal position.

# Three: Plans and Schemes

11. Recovery Time

I spend the rest of the school week in bed – numbed, trying to keep the terror at bay, never leaving my refuge except to microwave food when nobody is home. The little bathroom attached to my bedroom enables me to avoid any outside contact.

My brain is in deep, agonized turmoil. I don't want to talk to anybody – not even Spider, not even Mom. I'm in my own private hell, and blabbing about it won't help a bit.

On Thursday morning, Bob pokes his head in my door. "Time for school."

"I'm too sick," I croak.

"Okay, I'll call in for you."

He closes the door. Thanks for the heartfelt concern, pal.

Mostly I just sleep, or try to. When it gets dark, I leave my lights burning, but that doesn't keep the nightmares away. I close my eyes and see myself back at Melody Acres, getting dragged to an unspeakable death.

Sometimes I'm watching from the outside, like somebody in a movie audience, or observing from the air. Usually, I'm right there on the ground, feeling the crushing grip of the tentacles on my feet, my head banging on the rocks.

I jerk awake in a cold sweat. Then back to sleep, another flashback, another sweat-soaked wake up.

And always, those gnashing, slurping noises play through my mind like a symphony from Hell. The stink of the creatures is in my nose, as if a rotting corpse is under my bed.

Watching Larry get destroyed was beyond ghastly, a scene come to life out of a horror movie. That's how I try to look at it – a make-believe event. This thought helps keep me from going totally nuts. Just think how awful I'd feel if someone I liked had been killed.

Physically, I'm not bad off. I've suffered some scrapes and the back of my head has a couple new bumps. My toes are bruised where the ropy things gripped them.

It's the shock that has laid me low. I've heard that many people who experience a traumatic event go amnesiac and simply blot it out. Not me. I remember every detail.

"That darn boy's malingering again," I hear Bob mutter in the upstairs hall on my second day home from school.

"I'll take care of that," Katie says.

"Naw, leave him alone. He's not worth the trouble."

I consult my dictionary: _Malinger_ _: Pretend to be ill in order to escape work or duty._

Pretend to be ill! I'd like to see how Bob would act if he'd gone through what I have – or how Katie would be if she'd come within a heartbeat of getting devoured.

My anger leaves, and truly wicked thoughts enter my mind. Yes... how would it be if those two had my experience for themselves? Or, better yet, Larry Nolan's experience – a one-way trip to _Melody Acres Underground Estates_.

I try to shove the idea from my mind. A civilized person shouldn't consider such things, right? But the thought keeps lurking in the background, waiting for a chance to spring.

Maybe I should call the cops, but I don't trust them. I've seen Sheriff Fergueson and his deputies hanging around town with their pot bellies and mean little eyes. They seem as awful as the rest of Bridgestock.

How about the State Police?

No, they'd just think I was wacko, or they'd refer things back to the local fuzz and the guys with the mean eyes would show up.

Anyway, I don't feel there's immediate danger to innocent people. Whatever grabbed Larry also grabbed Mr. Johnson. I'm certain of that. Wasn't Johnson's ice cream truck found at Melody Acres?

They were both rotten individuals. They'd gone there voluntarily, as if the place was calling them. Heck, it _did_ call them. I'd seen that hypnotized expression on Larry's face.

It can't beckon anyone decent. I know that from personal experience. I would have never gone into the fields if it hadn't been for Larry, and I'm a decent person.

If only Mom were home!

What good would that do? Even if she were right here in the room with me, Mom would still be off wandering in Make Believe Land. She can't see things that are right in front of her – like the fact Bob only wants her because she's a good lawyer and has money. Or that Katie despises her and is only nice on the surface to get her own way.

Jason, a friend at my old school, had similar problems. His mom married some jerk shortly after his dad divorced her. She was "on the rebound," Jason said, and had "lost her self-esteem." I felt sorry for him, not realizing I'd soon be in the same boat.

How could somebody as smart and beautiful as Mom lose her self-esteem? I know that Dad walking out was a terrible blow; I often heard her crying at night. It hurt me a lot, too, but... I don't know. I'm just a kid, I can't figure out how grown up people deal with the world.

Spider is the only person I could talk to about the terrors I've seen. When I'm up to talking. Then again, maybe this is something better kept to myself. Maybe this horrible problem can help me solve my own horrible problems...

12. Surprise Party for Mrs. Thromp

Friday afternoon found Mrs. Leota Thromp in an ugly mood.

She stalked the abandoned sidewalks of Bridgestock's east end like the Grim Reaper, thrashing her cane through the vegetation of overgrown lawns. Actually, she could walk fine and had no need of a cane, but having it in her hand made her feel powerful.

"That's for the skinny kid!"

Whoosh!

She decapitated a dandelion with a savage rip. The flower catapulted a great distance then came to rest on the dirt road beside a dead animal.

"And that's for the other brat!"

Whoosh!

She beheaded a second unfortunate weed.

Those out-of-town boys were ruining her class. They were always telling disrespectful jokes and riling up the other students. And that Ryan kid was so much smarter than the others that it made her look bad, like she'd failed in her educational duties.

Well, at least he'd been sick a couple of days. Maybe that would be a comeuppance for him. She thought of the Cozzaglio punk again.

"What's the purpose of a scuff mark, eh? I'll show you!"

Whoosh!

Another weed bit the dust.

Worse yet, Larry Nolan had disappeared. The talk was he'd run away from home again. Now she had nobody to help enforce discipline. And that namby-pamby school board saying you couldn't whip the kids yourself anymore.

How could she possibly keep order? Not like the good old days when you could beat and humiliate the ones who deserved it.

A terrified bunny broke from the underbrush. Mrs. Thromp's cane missed it by inches.

"Drat!"

She swung the weapon with especial viciousness, tearing a hunk out of the ground.

"That's for you, James Thromp!"

Her worthless drunk of a husband – cowering in bed four days now, babbling about some "monster" he saw on the job. Right. Saw in a whiskey bottle, you mean.

How had all these problems piled up – why did everything happen to her? She felt desperate and alone, and completely misunderstood. Then a comforting thought entered her mind.

"Yes... of course." She fondled her cane tenderly.

There was at least _one_ person she could thrash and get away with it. When she got home, James Thromp would experience the full power of her rage. She'd knock some sense into his worthless old head.

She glanced about the area. Without realizing it, her steps had taken her beyond the edge of town. One minute she was walking home from work, as usual, the next she was headed to this place. Why?

No matter, she rather liked it here – quiet, no annoying people around. And just over there were broad, open fields, a place where a person could collect her thoughts. Why rush home just to see Jim? He wasn't even worth caning. Mrs. Thromp's anger subsided, replaced by something approaching contentment.

She paused by a billboard advertising the new subdivision that was going to be built here. It sparkled fresh and clean from the rainstorm last night, its perfect family looking off to the bright future.

"Isn't that a shame? They have to wreck everything nice."

* * *

Within their burial chambers in the center of Melody Acres, the Bulb People stirred into wakefulness. Their ropey arms tingled on the open ground, sensing the approach of prey. The low, infrasound rumble of their snare song ratcheted up until it was an irresistible vibration pulsing through the ground.

They were hungry and frustrated. They'd not eaten for two days. One of their human catches had escaped their grasp, but here was another morsel.

* * *

Mrs. Thromp walked past the billboard and headed into Melody Acres. She was at peace now. Everything felt so right. It was as if something was guiding her along, relieving her of the burden of conscious thought. She inhaled the wholesome air and raised her cane in joyous salute.

"This is wonderful!"

She spotted something puzzling on the ground. A long, greenish-brown ribbon lay twisted among the rocks and weeds.

"Eh, what's this?"

She took another step and poked the mysterious thing with her cane. In a flash, it whipped around her ankle and pulled her down. She landed with a painful plop.

" _Ahhh!"_

A hole gaped open. She disappeared into it, cane and all. Her screams grew muffled. Growling, slurping, slashing noises –

Then silence.

All that remained above ground were Mrs. Thromp's wire-rimmed spectacles which had fallen from her nose. A big crow swooped down, snatched the glasses in its beak, and carried them off.

13. Visit from Katie

By Friday evening, Katie's curiosity must have gotten the better of her. Ignoring Bob's directive to leave me alone, she enters my room with a dish full of pepperoni pizza. It smells terrific.

"That looks good," I say.

"Yeah, it's the last of the leftovers."

She takes an enormous bite. Had I actually been dumb enough to think she'd offer me a slice?

"How's it going?" Katie says around a mouthful of pizza. "Feeling any better?"

"Yeah, I'm just great."

Katie laughs. "You look like a left over pizza yourself."

This conversation has definitely gone sour, very fast. I look toward my old CD/tape player/radio thinking I can put on some music – anything but country. Katie follows my gaze.

"Hey! You're not tape recording me, are you?"

She grips my arm and wrenches it hard.

"Ow!"

"I'll break your arm if you are." She pops open the tape door and, seeing that it's empty, calms down again. "Sorry, twerp. What are you doing with an old relic like that, anyway?"

My poisonous revenge thoughts return. I envision Katie being dragged over the ground with vines gripping her Leopard Girl shoes, head bouncing along, and her ugly pigtails snagging the weeds.

When I speak, it's as if somebody else's voice is coming out of my mouth. "I know where Larry Nolan is."

"Ran away from home again, didn't he?"

"I can take you to see him, if you want."

Katie's chewing slows thoughtfully.

"He's closer than you might think," I add.

Katie swallows. "No thanks."

"Are you sure?"

Katie tears off another bite of pizza. "I'm sure. He was starting to get boring."

Contrary emotions run through me – part disappointment, part relief.

"I hear that scrawny friend of yours beat him up real good," Katie says. "Is that true?"

I grunt. It seems a good enough reply.

"Jeez, what a wimp! And him always acting so tough. No wonder he skipped out."

Bob calls up the stairs. "Katie, can I see you down here?"

"Coming, Dad!" Katie turns back to me. "Gotta go, dweeb. It's been nice talking to you."

"Just a second."

"What?" Katie looks surprised that I'd actually ask her to stick around, even for a second.

"My 'scrawny friend' asked me to spend the day with him tomorrow. We plan to stay overnight in his old neighborhood."

"So, you're getting away from this dump for the weekend? How'd you luck out?"

"Could you ask your dad if it's all right?"

"Ask him yourself."

"We don't really talk much," I say.

"Yeah, I've noticed."

The thought of having a conversation alone with Bob is unbearable. I don't want to speak with Katie either, but she's already here.

"I mean, I'm used to dealing with Mom," I say. "Will you please ask him?"

"Okay – but you'll owe me one."

"Don't worry. I always pay back favors."

Katie leaves me alone with my toxic thoughts. Why _am_ I keeping this "old relic" tape player? Dad generously left it behind when he walked out, and I sort of inherited it.

I stretch my leg over and kick the thing off my nightstand. It crashes to the floor.

"Keep it down!" Bob yells from the living room.

14. Getaway

Saturday morning, I venture outside and head for Spider's house with my big leather shoulder bag.

I'm all packed for an overnight stay – pajamas, extra clothes, towel, mini sleeping bag, stomach and asthma meds, etc. My legs still feel a bit weak, and the bumps on my head haven't completely disappeared, but I'm more than ready to get out of Bridgestock.

Spider and Carl are pulling out of the driveway when I get there. The car stops.

"Hey, Ryan!" Spider calls out the passenger window. "I thought you weren't coming."

I trot the final distance to the car. "Who told you that?"

"Katie said you were too sick when I called. Didn't she give you my message?"

"No."

Spider shakes his head disgustedly. "That's about what you'd expect, huh?"

"You've got that right."

"I tried to get through to your cell phone, but the coverage was down, as usual."

Katie War Witch tried to sabotage my trip. That was a real favor, and didn't I promised to repay favors?

"Hop in," Carl says.

I sprawl into the back seat as the car leaves the driveway.

Spider turns toward me. "Sure you're up for this? You don't look so hot."

"I am _totally_ up for getting out of Bridgestock, but I'm going to pass on doing any jujitsu, if that's all right."

"Okay. We'll put on a good demo for you, won't we Carl?"

Carl nods.

"You just kick back and watch us," Spider says.

The walk to Spider's place has tired me out, and I'm glad to have the whole back seat to relax in. I drift into a sort of half awake dreamful-ness in which I travel through the recent past like a tourist.

I wander back to the early days of Bob Warwick – a year ago when Mom first brought him home. He seemed almost charming – although with an oily undertone that I never trusted.

You could almost see why Mom went for him. He was several years older and, supposedly, steady and mature. A man of the world who'd done it all. He seemed to appreciate her, admire her brains and abilities.

Bob never told her, "You're too damned smart!" the way Dad used to.

I think Dad was always jealous of Mom. The fact that she loved him absolutely didn't matter. He wanted an air-head type woman who would be in awe of him, and now he has one.

Also, Bob came with "a good track record" as a real estate developer. He'd turned many "lemons into lemonade" during his career and had his sights fixed on the big time. He was a risk taker who knew how to play the long odds, but nothing prepared him for the situation in Bridgestock.

Soon after they got married, Bob changed drastically. He got that angry, moody cast that is a permanent part of him now. I imagine it was always there below the surface, Mom just didn't see it.

Over time, the mask dropped off and the mean scowl underneath became obvious – to me, anyway. The problems in Bridgestock have only speeded things up.

Then there's Katie, the step sister from hell. Even her real mother can't stand her, and now she's my problem. If I could just...

"You okay back there?" Spider asks.

I stir into full wakefulness. "Uh, yeah."

"You sound like you want to kill somebody."

I straighten myself up. My bag is crumpled and crushed in my hands, as If I've been trying to strangle it.

"I'm fine."

Spider resumes his conversation with Carl. I return to my sour ramblings, though I'm wide awake now.

How far down the drain is Mom prepared to go with Bob? My great aunt has been stuck with an abusive, alcoholic bum for thirty-five years. She can't bring herself to dump the guy. Everybody says how noble she is. She's sacrificed herself to take care of him through his many illnesses, and isn't such loyalty wonderful?

I think she's an idiot.

For all her brains, Mom is acting like an idiot, too. There's no way she can expect me to go along with this rotten situation. I have to do something. What that is, I don't know yet.

We're leaving the country road now and pulling onto the freeway. Carl steps on the gas. Bridgestock and all its terrors whisk away behind a fog of unreality. If only I never had to go back there!

"How much longer?" I ask.

"If this traffic holds, about an hour and a half," Carl says.

My question really wasn't for him, though.

# Four: Visit to the Burbs

15. To the Martial Arts School

We stop at a Coney Island for lunch with two of Carl's old high school buddies.

We're in the southern suburbs. If you drove north, you'd be at our house in 40 minutes. I want so much to visit the place, but seeing the _For Sale_ sign on the lawn would break my heart.

Carl unwinds with his friends. The tight expression around his mouth melts into an easy grin. They don't pay much attention to Spider and me, but concentrate on horsing around with each other. They speak of typical high school guy things: girls, cars, sports, back to girls again. I like them all.

I'm seeing a portrait of myself as I should be in a few years. What does my future _really_ hold? Much of seventh grade has already been stolen. Out of sight beneath the table, my hands rip a napkin into tiny shreds.

* * *

Then off to the martial arts school. It's a big, open place with mats all over the floor and mirrors on the walls. Heavy bags hang in one corner where guys are throwing punches and kicks.

"The bags are fun," Spider explains, "but this school is mostly about ground work."

Plenty of that is going on. Guys – and some girls, too – are practicing take downs and struggling on the mats trying to snare each other with chokes and other submission holds.

I observe the mayhem from a fold-up chair on the sidelines. My shoulder bag is on my lap so as to keep my towel, inhaler, and stomach medications handy. I'm a rather sorry specimen these days.

Spider is pretty good. The arm lock he used to defeat Larry Nolan is his specialty, and he always tries to maneuver into it against his opponents. Carl spends a lot of time with some newcomer girls 'showing them the ropes.'

"Billy Conner's not coming today," Spider tells me between match ups. "I was hoping you could meet him."

"Some other time."

Spider gestures toward Carl who is letting one of the girls practice a choke hold on him. "It left an opening for Carl to impress the girls, anyway."

"That's usually Billy's job?"

"Yeah. Carl's good, but he's no match for Billy. That guy is great! I could see him turning professional."

"Be on that MMA show?" I say.

"Yeah, but Billy doesn't like to hit people. MMA is slanted toward hitting. The fans don't want to watch two guys struggling on the ground for half an hour."

I grunt. "Most people are dumb enough already without getting their brains scrambled, too." The anger and bitterness in my voice surprises me.

Spider gives me a peculiar look. "Right, whatever."

He heads out to the mats and a new opponent.

Would I have said something like that last year, before Bob Warwick came on the scene? I don't think so. I'm becoming a much more negative person. Maybe I'll soon be able to hear the siren song from Melody Acres – like that Greek mythology guy who tied himself to the boat mast to keep from swimming off to his doom.

Forget all that! I'm out of Bridgestock, at least for now, and I don't want it intruding on me. I turn my attention back to the mats.

This is open workout Saturday. People practice their techniques on each other while two instructors, a Japanese guy and another one from Brazil, circulate giving pointers. Formal classes are held on weeknights, Spider told me.

It looks interesting. Maybe this is the sport for me – macho and practical without being overly violent. Maybe I could even excel at it, become another Billy Conner.

Well, not much chance of that. It's pretty clear I'll never make it as a football or basketball player, though, and all that spinning, jumping stuff they do in gymnastics scares the heck out of me.

I'm tempted to put on a judoka suit and get out on the mats. Not a good idea. I am still too weak from my ordeal, and the gyro supreme from lunch isn't sitting too well. Next time.

If there is a next time. If Bridgestock doesn't swallow me up first, if the Happy Blended Family doesn't suck the life out of me. If those things lurking in Melody Acres don't grab me with their ropy arms.

I slump dejected over my bag. Every path to the future seems blocked. Then a powerful idea flutters out of the blue and smacks me hard. Of course! Why didn't I think of it earlier?

The H. B. F. is a huge problem; the Bulb People are another huge problem. I now see a way where one problem can solve the other.

It's simple. All I have to do is get Bob out to Melody Acres and the creatures will take care of the rest. If I'm correct in my 'nasty person' theory, Bob is the sort of guy who will hear the siren song and be lured into the tentacles.

How to get him out there?

Bob is too busy supervising the mansion work and running around meeting bankers to waste time looking at empty fields. In fact, he seems to be avoiding the place since things have been going south. As far as I know, he hasn't been to Melody Acres in weeks.

What if some emergency got his attention?

The billboard! If something happened to his precious, custom-made sign, he'd be angry enough to go stomping out there. Somebody has already thrown mud on it, how about more permanent damage – like spray paint? Maybe Katie would go with him, too. I'd be rid of them both!

It's a devilish idea. Of course, I'd never _actually_ do anything like that, but it is intriguing to think about as I relax in my chair with my arms folded, my eyes half closed, and the thuds and scuffles of the combatants echoing in my ears.

I stand up and stretch. "Think I'll go for a walk."

"Okay," Spider says from beneath an opponent he's been battling for several minutes. "We'll be here another hour."

I heft my shoulder bag and head for the door.

Out on the street, everything is so wonderfully average. There are rows of ordinary businesses – restaurants, shops, an insurance office. A strip mall spreads across the way with signs advertising its chain stores. Normal looking people stroll on the sidewalk having normal conversations. Somebody walks past with a dog that actually looks friendly.

Nobody else would think this area is anything spectacular, but to me it's beautiful. Months have passed since I've seen a commercial street that isn't part of the Bridgestock ugliness.

Without really meaning to, I slip into a hardware store and buy two cans of spray paint. I bury them out of sight in my shoulder bag. Next, I happen into a drug store and purchase some latex gloves. Then I return to the martial arts school.

* * *

The jujitsu session finally ends. By the time Spider and Carl finish cleaning up and socializing with their workout pals, it's late afternoon.

"How'd it go, Carl?" Spider asks.

"Great. I got two phone numbers. I'm glad Billy wasn't here to cramp my style."

"Doesn't he already have a steady girlfriend?"

"Yeah," Carl says, "but when he's around, the rest of us drop off the radar."

16. The Body Snatchers

We leave the dojo and drive to Carl's friend's house – one of the guys we'd had lunch with.

The parents are real nice and order a pizza / ribs combo with salad for us. After dinner, Carl and his friend head out to do their high school guy activities.

Spider and I are allowed to use the family room as our overnight quarters. I have my mini sleeping bag, and Spider has brought a bigger one. We roll them out on the floor and get comfortable with Cokes and bowls of popcorn. For the first time in days, I feel somewhat secure.

Spider looks through the DVD collection. " _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_! Have you seen it?"

"No."

"They made like four versions of the basic story. This is the best one. Want to watch?"

"Uh, sure."

I'm not really in the mood for a horror movie, considering that my life has recently turned into one, but I know there's no talking Spider out of it. Horror movies are his passion.

"From deep space, the seed is planted!" Spider intones as he shoves the disk into the DVD player.

"Right."

My cell phone rings. It's Mom. "Are you okay, Ryan?"

"Sure."

"Bob said you stayed home from school two days."

"I'm all right now. It was just one of those 48 hour bugs."

I feel bad telling such a lie, but what does it matter? If I told the truth she wouldn't believe it, but she'd still go into panic mode. She'd probably want to have me committed, or at least talk to some over-priced psychologist again.

"Where are you now?" Mom asks. "Bob said you left for the night."

"I'm with Mark and his brother, we're staying at one of their friend's houses." I wave Spider over. "Here, Mark can explain."

Spider takes the phone. "Hello, Mrs. Warwick."

Again, I wince at the sound of _Mrs. Warwick_.

I move to the shelf and pull down an illustrated book about whales, planning to read it while Spider gets his horror movie fix. Meanwhile, Mom gives Spider the 3rd degree. He tells her what we did, what we ate, when we're returning to Bridgestock, etc.

The lady of the house talks to Mom for a while. Finally, Mark returns the phone.

"When are you coming back, Mom?"

"Thursday, the 4:00 plane."

"Good."

I finally manage to end the call. Mom seemed upset, like she didn't completely buy that the situation on this end is okay. Is it the fabled 'mother's intuition' kicking in? Where was all this concern when I talked to her before she left? Where has it been hiding over the past year?

I try to read the whale book, but the movie soon takes over my full attention. _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_ is pretty scary. Not because it has gooey-eyed monsters in it, but because the monsters are so ordinary – just recycled human beings.

First, amoeba blob type things drift down to earth from outer space. Then they develop into these gross pods that start taking people over, replacing the person's body with a soulless, alien replica that has no emotions.

"I think Mrs. Thromp must be one of those things," Spider comments.

"No doubt."

Some people wise up to the threat. Nobody believes them, of course, until it's too late and the aliens have pretty much taken over San Francisco. The cops and the city government are the first to go alien.

Things look pretty grim, but I still expect a hopeful ending. Human survivors have managed to blend in with the aliens. Matthew, the Donald Sutherland character, even manages to destroy the pod production center.

The ending shows Matthew adapted to his new existence among the invaders. Another surviving human approaches him, at which point he jabs a finger at her and gives the terrifying alien howl.

They've gotten him, too! I'm as shocked as if it was a true story.

"That is so cool," Spider says. "In the first version, they tacked on a stupid happy ending."

"Yeah, it's... better this way."

"Of course maybe _this_ is a happy ending, if you're an alien."

"That couldn't happen today, though," I say. "With the internet and all, people would know what was going on pretty quick."

"Why not? The pods would make sure to grab the techie people first. A few mega viruses could take over the whole internet."

"You think so?"

"Yeah. We're way too dependent on communications technology. Think of all the satellites orbiting the earth. The Chinese have proved how easy it is to knock them out."

Somehow, I don't need to hear about this. My whole life is already one big trip down Paranoia Lane.

"The old Ham radio transmitters would be the biggest problem for the aliens," Spider says. "But how many of those are still around?"

I check my watch. It's going on nine o'clock.

"Let's see another movie," Spider says.

"Is it okay if I pick this time?"

"Sure. As long as there's plenty of killing in it."

I shuffle through the DVDs – horror movie, thriller, slasher type story – no lack of killing here. There're also some old Disney movies for the little girl in the house.

I hold up _Bambi_. "How about this one?"

"Oh, please!"

"The mama deer gets blown away by a hunter. You should like that part."

We hear somebody coming in the front door. Spider ducks into his sleeping bag. "Hide! It's the body snatchers."

Carl appears in the family room. He's all worried looking, with a frown on his face.

Spider pokes his head out of his sleeping bag. "You're back early."

"Pack up," Carl says. "We have to go home."

"Why?"

"I called Mom to check in. She sounded real upset, but she wouldn't tell me why."

"Oh, man. We were just getting comfortable."

"She told us to come home first thing tomorrow, but I think we should leave now. Something's wrong." Carl's tone silences further argument.

"Okay, we'll be ready in a minute," Spider says.

_Oh no,_ I think, _back to Bridgestock!_

I feel like I've just heard a death sentence. I'm so comfortable sprawled out on my sleeping bag, too. The thick carpet under it cushions me like a deep feather bed. The last thing I want is to face more hours in the car – with Horror Town waiting at the end.

But maybe this will work out for the best, after all. Maybe it's actually a blessing in disguise. I pull the shoulder bag close to me, feel the paint cans through the bottom.

I've got plans for you.

17. Hasty Return

The ride to Bridgestock is quiet and tense. The two brothers seem very worried about their home situation, and this leaves no room for the usual joking around.

Freeway miles tick past us through the night. A heavy traffic of semi-trucks hems us in much of the way. Carl weaves between the huge rigs, passing one batch only to deal with another. Mumbled curses drift from the front seat.

What could be the problem with their family? Are their parents careening toward a divorce? It seems half the kids at my old school have experienced a family breakup. I've been through one myself and, more than anything, want to go through another.

I feel bad for my friends, but I have other concerns right now – like where I'm going to sleep tonight. No way do I want to go back to that crappy house; nobody expects me, either. I have permission to spend the night elsewhere, and I don't want to waste it.

I can't ask Spider to put me up, though. Who knows what terrible situation might be boiling up at his place? Besides, I might have something important to do come early morning.

Carl turns off the freeway exit onto an empty, dark country road. We drive forty minutes through thick blackness, as if we're moving along a tunnel with nothing but deep space alongside. I look out the back window half expecting to discover a crowd of alien pod people chasing us in the red taillight.

Then we pass through the Bridgestock 'downtown.' Except for a few cars parked by the Yookey Lake Bar, the area is dead. Dim, bluish light exits the tavern window. Maybe it's dead in there, too. Maybe the bar is filled with pod people silently drinking their alien brews.

We're two blocks from my house now.

"Let me out here, please," I say.

"Why, man?" Spider asks.

"I need to stretch my legs. I've been sitting around too much."

"Okay, suit yourself."

Carl pulls over, and I get out.

"Thanks for everything guys. It was fun."

"Sure," Carl says. His face is grim under the streetlight.

"See you at school Monday," Spider says.

"Yeah, see you."

I watch them drive around the corner. Then I turn away from the house and walk the opposite direction.

# Five: An Evil Plot Unfolds

18. Big Night on the Town

It's not a bad night for a stroll, even though this is Bridgestock.

The air is warm, a bit humid, and breezy enough to keep the mosquitoes from swarming. My shoulder bag contains bug repellent, just in case. I shine my AA flashlight on my watch. It's going on 11:30.

Without my friends watching my back, the residential streets are dark and threatening. The shabby houses lean in toward me like huge beasts ready to pounce. They are filled with sleeping people I do not wish to know. Although it's late April, many of the trees are still bare. If I had any sense, I'd go straight to our house.

But I'm just being paranoid. Despite its creepiness, Bridgestock has zero violent crime. The cops make short work of any troublemakers. This is a major selling point for Bob's housing development. _"Come to charming Bridgestock and escape the pressures of big city life!"_

Where can I go? I'm really tired and need some shut eye.

That park by the elementary school is the best place to sack out for a while – lots of trees, a picnic shelter. The alarm on my watch can get me up before the town stirs into what passes for life. It will be kind of fun, actually, like a camp out.

Who am I trying to kid? This town scares the heck out of me. It's no Boy Scout campground but a sick, twisted place where any perverted thing can happen. There are some really nasty people here – but not as many as there used to be, right? Those creatures at Melody Acres have already polished off a couple.

A sudden panic grips me. Are those creatures out wandering the streets? Are they crouched in the shrubbery waiting to attack? Terror crowds into my brain. Scream or run!

I decide to run.

The _pock pock_ of my sneakers is the only sound in the deserted street. Somewhere a dog begins howling. I dash around a corner and stop. My breath comes in gasps. I suck on my inhaler, and the panic retreats.

I'm being an idiot. The creatures are like web spiders – they don't go wandering around hunting like tarantulas. They just stay put, calling out to their prey. If nothing else, those long, ropey arms would slow them down, fix them to one place. At least I hope this is true.

_Look at the facts, Ryan,_ says a reasonable voice inside my head.

I am far from Melody Acres and feel none of the vibrating horror I experienced when the monsters were close. Their terrible smell alone would give ample warning. Right?

The elementary school comes into view down the street under sagging yellow lights.

Why am I doing this?

Well, like I said, I don't want to go back to the house. The thought of spending another night under the same roof with Bob and Katie is unbearable. Also, an idea is squirming in my mind, trying to get past that reasonable voice.

I can spend the rest of the night outdoors. Then, early morning when nobody is up yet, I can sort of make my way to Melody Acres – not going in, of course – just to take a look at the sign.

It isn't too high off the ground. Bob wanted a lofty billboard, but a town ordinance forced him to keep it low. If somebody could find a ladder – like the one I saw leaning against that nearby house – why, he could climb right up to the gleaming billboard family and do a remodeling job on them with spray paint.

How would those snotty people look with blacked-in teeth and X's over their eyes? The picture window of their perfect home could be turned into a gaping mouth with fangs. The artistic possibilities are extensive.

When I get back to the house, I'll casually say: "We drove past the Melody Acres sign, somebody really trashed it."

Bob will freak when he sees it!

This is just a mental exercise, of course, a sort of game. But it could be done... if somebody _really_ wanted to.

I pass a wooden fence with a gate. A terrifying scene from _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_ enters my mind – the one where pod people grope their arms around a wooden gate, tying to break in. A gate like this one!

My heart jumps into my mouth; I start running again. Aliens chase me through the darkness. They intend to change me into something I don't want to be,

I force myself to stop. _Calm down, Ryan!_

The elementary school is close now. Carefully avoiding the pools of street light, I maneuver into the park – the same park where Spider and Carl clobbered Larry Nolan. I find a spot behind the trash barrel at the picnic shelter, where nobody can see me from the street.

I wrap my sleeping bag around myself and bury my face in it. The panic tries to grab me again – I see the creatures in Melody Acres looming out of the ground, reaching for me with their tentacles. I look out into the darkness.

The night is maximum creepy, with insect whirring and various strange noises. Are other things besides bugs lurking out there? I shift myself, trying to find a less uncomfortable spot on the concrete. A huge question occupies my mind:

What are those creatures at Melody Acres?

Odd, I haven't even asked myself this before. My brain was too shocked to think in such terms, but now I've recovered enough to speculate.

Did they drop from outer space like in the movie? I don't think so. They are similar to the pods in some ways, however. According to Billy Conner's diary, six evil people were buried alive in the old grove. The trees must have turned them into something even worse. Those monsters are actually recycled human beings.

With these pleasant thoughts running through my mind, I drop off to sleep.

19. Morning

My eyes pop open, like that pod guy on the massage table getting ready to take over Jeff Goldblum's body. The darkness is just beginning to lift.

I've had a few blessed hours of sleep – no aliens chasing me, no vine arms wrapping around my legs. One second I was dead to the world, the next I'm wide awake. And back in Bridgestock. I toss my things into my bag and prepare to move out.

A huge black bird perches on the trash can with its head cocked, observing me. Like the raven in that Poe story.

"What are you looking at?"

My watch alarm goes off, nearly giving me a coronary. "Ah!"

The bird flies away with a harsh, mocking caw.

I head east, toward the dawn. Masses of other birds are making a racket as I walk the gloomy streets. I've always hated that early-morning sound. It comes at a time when I should still be asleep, and it reminds me that a long, hard day lies ahead.

I'm moving on auto pilot. The crazy plan that entered my mind yesterday is playing itself out, with me as an involuntary participant. I can't deviate from it, even if I want to.

* * *

The ladder is still leaning against the abandoned house on the far side of town. It's rough and gray from weather exposure. Maybe a heavier person couldn't use it, but it holds my weight as I climb up to the happy blended family on the Melody Acres sign.

What the heck am I doing?

I'm level with the smiling dad now. He looks like those phony dads everywhere who have daggers in their hearts, behind their glittery smiles. Men like _my_ dad, like Bob Warwick. You just know he's getting ready to walk out on this beautiful family and take up with some cheap girlfriend. I want to smash my fist through his face!

Instead, I shake the can of black spray paint. This jerk will look a lot better with horns and his eyes X-ed out. Mom and the kids I'll leave alone because they've done nothing wrong. Instead I'll move on to the house and trash it with red paint. Then the finishing touch – a single word added to the text:

When I'm finished, I'll throw the paint cans out into the field. Bob will go after them. He'll want to dust them for fingerprints, but there wouldn't be any fingerprints, or paint on my hands either, because I'm wearing latex gloves.

Yes, Bob will be out in the open fields when he hears the snare song. He won't be able to resist. He'll wander off to the tentacles with the same stupid look on his face that Larry had . . .

What's going on?

I pause with the paint can in mid-air, right in Dad's face. My finger trembles on the spray button. I'm ready to take an irreversible step into the world of evil.

But none of this is my fault! I'm just a kid. And I'm only sort of arranging an invitation. Bob doesn't have to take it, does he? It's not like I'm going to drag him into a hole myself and tear him up.

Who asked him to put this stupid sign here, anyway? My finger stops trembling, and I prepare to X out the jerk's eyes.

I hear them calling to me.

It's a low, soothing rumble beckoning me out to Melody Acres. I'm not sure if it's in my ears or just my mind. I look at the spray paint in my hand. What am I doing with this when there are more important matters?

I take a step down the ladder.

_No Ryan!_ a panicky voice screams in my head.

I'm exhausted, and the song promises me rest – relief from all the troubles of this world. I take another step down.

The full horror of what's going on slams into me. I've become one of the nasty people. The creatures' siren song beckons! But I didn't really mean anything bad; it was just a sort of game.

I'm almost completely down the ladder now.

You have to fight!

My cell phone rings, breaking the spell. I tumble off the ladder and sprawl on my back. A rock punches my kidney, and I roll away in pain.

The phone is still ringing. I wrench it off my belt. "H-hello?"

"Hey, Ryan!" the phone says from a million miles away.

"Spider?"

"Yeah. Can you come over right away?"

"...what's this about?"

The connection breaks.

What could Spider want that's so important? I try calling him back but can't get through. Typical Bridgestock dead zone service.

The last murk clears from my head. Why am I here in this undignified position? A ladder stretches above me; a can of spray paint lies nearby. Now I remember. The low, rumbling lullaby is starting again.

"No!"

I scramble to my feet and knock the ladder over. It breaks apart hitting the ground. I snatch up the paint can along with my bag and run.
20. Retreat to Spider's House

Daylight is taking firm hold, but nobody seems to be up yet.

Block after block of dreary houses moves past me. Everything is deserted, as if body snatchers are lurking inside the buildings. As I pass through downtown, I fling the paint cans into a trash barrel. The gloves go into another barrel.

The last faint murmurings of the lullaby cease.

A terrible surprise waits for me when I round the corner to Spider's block. A moving van is parked in front of his house, and men are carrying furniture into it.

Spider must have seen me gaping on the sidewalk. He comes through the front door and bounds down the steps. "Glad you could make it. Sorry about the crack of dawn phone call."

"Spider? What's..." I'm too shocked to say anything more.

"We're getting out, back to the suburbs."

My heart turns to a concrete ball. It seems as if a giant hearse, instead of a moving van, has arrived to haul away my only friend in the world.

"Why?"

"Because of the disappearances, and that weird incident with Jim Thromp last Monday."

I watch the moving men carry a load of boxes from the house, still unable to believe this disaster.

"Mom decided she was leaving with me and Carl," Spider says. "She told Dad he could stay, but he's getting out, too. Mrs. Thromp was the last straw."

" _Mrs_. Thromp?"

"She never got home after school Friday. She disappeared, like the others."

I'm too stunned to answer. My commitment to secrecy is melting away fast. I can't hide what I know any longer – not from my best and only friend who is dropping out of my life.

I grip Spider's arm. "I know what happened to Larry Nolan, and probably to the others as well."

He grins. "The Body Snatchers again?"

"I'm not joking. I saw it."

His eyes widen. "You _saw_ it?"

"Yeah. I followed Larry after the fight."

Spider draws me away from the moving van where nobody can overhear us. "What happened?"

"Out in the empty fields. Melody Acres... I..."

"What?" Spider's voice is a hoarse whisper.

"Something with long, ropy arms grabbed Larry and pulled him underground," I blurt. "It ate him. Another one almost got me."

Spider's mouth drops open. A gasp rushes in.

I tell him the whole story – in full, gory detail. As he listens, astonishment shoots across Spider's face, followed by disbelief.

Finally he smiles. "You're kidding... right?"

I shake my head.

"Come on, you've been ill. You must have imagined the whole thing – an hallucination. That and too many horror movies."

"This was no hallucination. I didn't imagine it because I was sick; I was sick because of what happened."

Spider turns deadly serious. "Wow! I never thought... wow!"

Mrs. Cozzaglio appears at the door. "Mark!"

"Yeah, Mom."

She looks really tense and upset. I wave to her. All I get back is a worried frown and a head shake, as if she feels sorry for me.

"Dad needs your help," she says. "Get in here, now!"

"Okay, in a minute."

"Make it a quick minute."

Spider turns toward me. "You'd better tell somebody about this."

"Who, the cops? They're probably as crazy as everybody else around here. Mom's still out of town, and I'm sure not gonna tell Bob."

We stand silent for a while.

"I know," Spider says, "talk to Mr. Kasinski."

"The Science teacher?"

"Yeah, I was in his class. He's cool, he'll listen."

Mrs. Cozzaglio reappears at the door, she's really steamed now. Spider moves toward the house.

"It's been great knowing you, Ryan. Good luck! Maybe we can meet up at the jujitsu club."

"Yeah, sure. Goodbye."

He disappears into the house. I turn away from the awful sight and walk toward my neighborhood. The spring day has turned dark and heavy. I lug its weight on my drooping shoulders.

# Six: The Last Outsider

21. Conference with Mr. Kasinski

Mr. Kasinski is alone in his classroom at the start of lunch hour Monday.

It's a typical science lab with counters, sinks, and high stools. A chart of the atomic elements covers one wall, and wildlife pictures decorate the others. Less fortunate animals, frogs and stuff, fill specimen jars on the back counter.

The room has a formaldehyde odor, like a morgue maybe; though I've never been inside one to know precisely how it smells.

Mr. Kasinski is sitting behind his desk, leaned back in a chair studying a book. With his free hand he munches a granola bar. Who'd want to eat in a stinky place like this? The lunch room is bad enough.

I walk in quietly and stop before his desk. The book he holds is titled _: Speak Portuguese Today_.

"Excuse me."

He looks up, startled. The front legs of his chair bang onto the floor. "Yes, what is it?"

"Uh, I'm not in your class, but I was wondering if I could talk to you a minute."

Mr. Kasinski brushes granola crumbs off his shirt. He seems embarrassed at being taken by surprise. "What about?"

"I'm a friend of Spider's."

"Spider? ... Oh yes, Mark Cozzaglio." Mr. Kasinski puts down the book and granola bar. "Is he all right? I heard his family moved out in a hurry."

I like Mr. Kasinski at once. You can tell he cares about people just by the tone of his voice. He's younger than most of the other teachers – maybe around Mom's age. Hard to tell, though. His curly blond hair and glasses might make him look younger than he actually is.

"Mark's fine," I say. "I saw him yesterday as they were leaving."

"Good." Mr. Kasinski brushes more granola crumbs off his tie. "Can't say I blame them for taking a French leave, this town being the way it is."

"What's a 'French leave?'"

"When you take off without telling anybody."

"Yeah, a lot of people are taking 'French leaves' lately."

Mr. Kasinski gives me a peculiar look. "So, what can I do for you...?"

"Ryan, Ryan Keppen."

"Okay, Ryan. Shoot."

He leans forward, resting an elbow on the desk. His face is serious, but you can tell by the way it's set up that he's used to smiling a lot. I glance about to make absolutely sure nobody else is around.

"I'd better close the door."

Mr. Kasinski frowns a little but does not object. After shutting the door, I pull a chair up close to his desk. Then, talking rapidly in a low voice, I tell him the whole story – beginning with Mr. Thromp tearing past in his truck and ending with Larry's disappearance and my narrow escape.

As I speak, Mr. Kasinski's face becomes grimmer and grimmer, until it is covered by deep frown wrinkles. His lips clamp tight. By the time I come to the part where Larry gets grabbed, he's covered his face with both hands and is massaging his forehead.

Finally, I stop talking. The room is as dead and quiet as the frogs in the specimen jars.

"You don't think I'm crazy, do you?" I say. "You don't think I'm making this up?"

"No, you're not crazy." Mr. Kasinski's voice comes out muffled from behind his hands. "And I only wish you were making all this up."

He brings his hands down. He looks as if he hasn't slept in a week.

"Did you talk to anybody else about this?"

"Just Spider, and he told me to see you. Mom is still out of town, and my step dad, well, he's... "

Mr. Kasinski nods, as if he understands about crappy step dads. It occurs to me that I haven't mentioned my plot against Bob. Maybe I'm not willing to spill all my secrets after all.

"I don't know what to do," I say. "Should I tell the police?"

His eyes widen. "No!"

I flinch back in my chair.

"Sorry." Mr. Kasinski lowers his voice. "There're bad people in positions of authority around here. We don't want them involved."

He pulls a laptop computer out of a leather case and flips it open. "There's somebody I need to inform about this – if the dang internet is working."

"What should I do?" I say.

"Go back to class, and don't tell anyone what you told me, okay?"

"Okay."

"And _don't_ go near that field again."

I nod.

"Not for any reason, understand?" It's as if he's figured out my sign wrecking plot.

I get up from my chair. "Thanks for listening."

"Can you meet me after school, at the town square?"

"Sure."

I leave the room to the sound of Mr. Kasinski tapping furiously on the keyboard.

22. Interview with Mr. Thromp

As I sit by myself on the park bench waiting for Mr. Kasinski, I squint my eyes down and try to pretend I'm someplace nice.

Through my eyelashes, the big, white courthouse alongside the town square floats like some magical mansion. Its broad stairs and high columns look very elegant. A warm breeze tickles my skin. The scent of flowers drifts by, and everything seems fine.

When I open my eyes, the town comes back into full, depressing focus. The courthouse is really an ugly hulk, more like a haunted castle. Its white marble has discolored into a blotchy yellow; its high windows glower threats at me. People creep up the stairs as if they're on their way to the hangman.

Around my bench, seagulls fight over scraps of food. Pigeons walk by with jerky-head steps. An aggressive gull approaches, demanding a handout. I wave my notebook at it.

"Get away!"

The bird struts off, protesting loudly. The wind shifts, bringing a greasy, fried-food odor from the Yookey Lake Bar.

Mr. Kasinski arrives. "Sorry I'm late. Let's go."

I slide off the bench. "Where to?"

"I think we should see Mr. Thromp, first. We need to find out exactly what happened to him last week."

"That's a good idea."

"And we need to find out if he knows anything about Mrs. Thromp."

I nod. It won't hurt to ask him, but Mr. Thromp can't say anything about his wife's disappearance that I don't already know.

After a ten minute walk, we arrive at the Thromp residence. It's a big, old-fashioned place set on a double lot. Like most of the houses in town, it's pretty tacky. The porch sags and the walls are covered in gray, peeling paint.

A high ladder leans against one side, though, and part of the wall had been repainted a cheerful blue. A pile of old furniture and other junk lies at the curbside waiting for the trash pickup. Mr. Thromp is busy cutting the front lawn. He's singing something, though I can't make out the words.

"Hello!" Mr. Kasinski calls over the lawnmower racket.

Mr. Thromp jerks his head up. A smile spreads over his face. "Well, hello, young man!"

He shuts off the motor. James Thromp appears nothing like the guy screaming out the truck window last week. He looks fit and strong, with a reddish sun tan taking hold on his face and bald head. His hearty voice fills the lawn area.

"Excuse me if I'm a little surprised. I ain't used to visitors, you know."

"I'm Morton Kasinski, and this is Ryan Keppen. Sorry to disturb you."

"Think nothing of it. I need a break anyway." Mr. Thromp points to the side of the house with its section of fresh paint. "It's gonna take me a while to square things away."

"It looks nice so far," I say.

"Just give me 'til Labor Day, and you won't recognize the place."

"I'm a teacher at the middle school," Mr. Kasinski says, "along with your wife."

Mr. Thromp collapses within himself, crumbling before my eyes into a broken-up old man. His ruddy complexion turns ashy gray.

"W-what about my wife?" he squeaks. "She didn't come back, did she?"

"No, sir, I'm afraid not."

"Oh... is that so?" Mr. Thromp wipes a handkerchief over his face. His color begins to return. "It's just that everything's happened so quick. Such a shock. I mean, you can imagine how I feel."

Yes, I can imagine very well how he feels.

"If it isn't too much trouble," Mr. Kasinski says, "we'd like to ask about the incident last Monday. You seemed rather frightened driving through town."

Mr. Thromp strokes his chin and narrows his eyes, as if trying to figure out whether we can be trusted. "All right. I guess the story needs to be told. We'd best sit down, though."

He brings us to the front porch chairs and leaves us while he goes inside the house. A minute later, he returns with two Cokes and a 24-ounce can of beer. He hands the beer to Mr. Kasinski.

"A little early in the day," Mr. Kasinski says.

"I wish you'd take it, young man. I'd like to get rid of it."

"Okay, thanks."

"I ain't touched alcohol for a whole week, but if I gotta talk about what happened, I might want to fall off the wagon."

I trade glances with Mr. Kasinski. He pops the tab and takes a long swig of beer, then clears his throat. "If you could tell us what happened, we'd be grateful."

Mr. Thromp sits on a battered old swinging couch. He fortifies himself with a slug of Coke.

"Okay, you asked for it."

He tells a horror story every bit as bad as mine – except he didn't have to watch somebody get yanked underground and eaten. While he talks, the sunny porch gets colder and darker, until it's as spooky as the dungeon in Castle Dracula. Mr. Kasinski's eyes get wider and wider behind his glasses. He drains the beer and crushes the container in his hands . . .

Mr. Thromp finishes his account. "I seen them Bulb People with my own eyes. They was comin' straight from Hell to get me, but I escaped. Why do you suppose that was?"

"I don't know." Mr. Kasinski's voice is almost a whisper.

"Me neither." Mr. Thromp tosses up his hands. "But I'm making the most of whatever time I got left. You can bank on that."

Mr. Kasinski stands. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Thromp. This has been most edifying."

"You could call it that, I suppose."

We take our leave. The chill follows us onto the bright sidewalk. Mr. Thromp remains on his porch. He looks worn out, but also calm and relieved.

"Thanks for stoppin' by! It felt good to get this off my chest."

Maybe his chest feels good, but a heavy weight is crushing mine.

23. Reply from Brazil

Mr. Kasinski mops a handkerchief across his forehead. He's sweating a lot, and his hair is even curlier than before.

"That was some narrative. What do you think, Ryan?"

"I believe everything Mr. Thromp said. His story fits right in with mine."

We walk half a block without talking. Mr. Kasinski shoves a stick of gum in his mouth and chews furiously. He offers me a stick, but I'm not up for it yet. The sweet taste could unsettle my stomach more than it already is.

"What next?" I say.

"Let's go to my place and check the email."

"Sure."

"Maybe Doctor Rackenfauz has written back from Brazil. He might know what to do." Mr. Kasinski mops his forehead again. "I sure don't."

"He's in Brazil?"

"Yeah, the professor runs a botanical research station there. Hopefully he's in his lab today and not wandering the rain forest."

We come to a square, two-story building on the edge of the commercial district and climb to the top floor.

Mr. Kasinski's apartment isn't bad, but you can tell nobody is around to make him keep the place neat. The 'living room' is really a sort of office with a big desk and some other shabby furniture. A map of Brazil hangs on one wall. Landscape type posters cover the others.

"Nice place you've got here, Mr. Kasinski."

He flops into a stuffed chair and loosens his necktie. "Please forget the 'Mr. Kasinski' routine. My friends call me Morton."

"Okay... Morton."

He sure looks blown out, as if he's been dragged across Melody Acres by the "Bulb People" as Mr. Thromp called them.

"This would be a good day to take up smoking," Morton says. "Too bad I quit already."

An exhausted silence falls over the apartment. I fill it by asking a question that's bothered me all afternoon. "You seem to be pretty cool. Why are you living in this crappy town?"

A smile crosses Morton's face. "Well put. What do you think?"

I'm stumped. Why would any normal person stay here if he didn't have to?

"Is it because of a girlfriend?" I finally ask.

"You're very bright." Morton finishes taking off his tie and tosses it onto a chair. "She was a teacher at the elementary school. She didn't want to leave town, family and all that, so I stayed, too."

"What happened to her?"

"Must have changed her mind. She left town over Christmas break – with another guy."

"Oh."

Morton shrugs. "Things probably worked out for the best. At least I'm getting out myself now."

"You're going, too?"

"Yeah. I was planning to take a French leave, but thought better of it and decided to finish the school year. I'll be taking off right after finals."

My heart sinks. First Mark goes, and now the only other worthwhile guy in Bridgestock is packing up, too.

"Actually, I'm taking a Brazilian leave." Morton points to the wall map. "I'm going to visit Dr. Rackenfauz and work in his lab. I've been studying Portuguese, but I think it's a lost cause."

I don't care what language they speak in Brazil. I'm too worried about things in Bridgestock. Soon I'll be the only sane person here – if I don't crack up. Morton clears a space on the desk and sets up his computer.

"Let's see if Dr. Rackenfauz has gotten back to us, okay?"

"Yeah, sure."

Morton opens his email. The inbox contains a message from Dr. Rackenfauz:

Morton!

These creatures – did they come from the orchard by the old house south of town?

How could I have been such a fool? I should have told you everything, but I didn't want you involved more than necessary.

The attached document tells the whole story. I'm working on some antidotes. Will let you know the results as soon as possible.

Jonathan Rackenfauz, Ph.D.

Morton taps a reply: _Yes, they came from the orchard. I spoke to the man who accidentally dug them up with an earth moving machine._

He takes off his glasses and strokes the bridge of his nose. He looks even younger without the heavy plastic frames. "This has been quite a day. I'd like to kick back with a no-brainer movie and some more beer."

"Yeah."

"Though I guess we'd better read the professor's attachment."

Morton downloads the file, just before the internet service crashes again. The title page reads:

Captive in Terror Orchard

my diary

by Billy Conner

"I know that name," I say. "Mark has a friend named Billy Conner at the martial arts school."

"That would be him. He's a fanatic martial artist." Morton sends the document to the printer. "This could take a while to read. Can you stay? I'll order pizza."

"Yeah."

"You'd better call home to see if it's okay."

I pick up the landline phone and jab in our number. Sure wouldn't want everybody to be worried about me.

I pretend the phone is a launch computer that will send a missile crashing into our lousy rented house, blowing Bob and Katie sky high. Mom will return from her business trip to find a huge crater.

"Well, that's the end of that," she'll say. "Let's move back to our beautiful home in the suburbs, Ryan."

Katie answers after one ring. "Oh, it's you."

"I'm at a friend's house. Ask your dad if I can stay for dinner."

Katie yells something, and Bob yells back. They both sound ticked, as usual.

Katie returns. "He says it's okay. Now get off the line, I'm expecting a call from somebody important."

One thing you can say about Katie, you always know where you stand with her.

The next hours pass with Morton glued to his computer monitor and me parked in the stuffed chair reading the hard copy.

_Captive in Terror Orchard_ is the most horrifying thing I've ever read. Compared to what Billy Conner went through four years ago, my experience at Melody Acres seems like party time.

I devour half the pizza, scarcely tasting it – shoveling in food with one hand and flipping pages with the other. Somebody could have given me the pizza box top and I would have eaten it without noticing.

24. Evening Relaxation

After his usual Monday night dinner at Ruthie's Kraut House Café, Sheriff Bradley Fergueson strode out onto the sidewalk and ripped a tremendous belch into the darkness.

Blechhh!

"Dang." He patted his ample belly. "Ruthie sure knows how to make good roast beef."

Not only that, but she always let him eat free. She liked having a "strong law enforcement presence" in her establishment, she said, and the least she could do was offer a free meal. Ruthie wasn't bad looking, either. She waited on him personally and always had plenty of time for pleasant conversation, no matter how many other customers she might have.

Wouldn't it be convenient if that dirt bag husband of hers got into trouble with the law again and wound up back in jail? Things could move on to a whole new level with Ruthie. Something to think about, anyway.

It was nice that at least one person in town appreciated the efforts of a dedicated peace officer as he struggled to maintain law and order. Fergueson chewed his mint-flavored toothpick with authority and let out his belt a notch.

He was feeling his oats tonight, or was it the roast beef? No matter, he considered himself to be right up there with the great lawmen of history – Wyatt Earp, Matt Dillon, J. Edgar Hoover.

Of course, sometimes he had to look out for his own financial interests – a little skimmed off the top here and there, the usual thing. That came with the territory, didn't it? No lawman received fair pay. Everybody knew that.

A gentle wind rustled the leaves and carried the scent of spring flowers. A full moon spread silvery light. Sheriff Fergueson gave little attention to these things, however, as a heap of trouble occupied his mind. The recent vanishings had put him on the spot.

Nobody cared about Elwood Johnson, of course, and people assumed the Nolan punk had run away again. Leota Thromp was a different matter, though. She was a long-time resident and an upstanding school district employee. Her disappearance had aroused suspicions. People were drawing the conclusion that these events were related.

Sheriff Fergueson liked things quiet and peaceful because he was a man with much to keep secret – like that nasty business four years ago at the Grech place south of town.

He snapped the toothpick and tossed it away. The pleasant memory of dinner receded. One of his angry, paranoid moods took hold. If he could only hit somebody, then he'd feel better! He headed for the town square.

Fergueson walked quietly, with one hand on the butt of his holstered pistol, ready to whip it into action. He dearly hoped to find some wrongdoer he could knock around and toss in jail. He had to settle for a harmless old vagrant sleeping on a park bench.

"You, there!" Fergueson flicked on his big flashlight. "What're you up to?"

The vagrant stared up into the beam, his eyes wide and frightened. "N-nothing, sir... just resting."

"Don't you know that's against the law?" Fergueson barked.

He drew his big revolver. This usually did the trick, as far as terrorizing people. Anyone not sufficiently scared could expect a whack across the face with the gun barrel.

"Oh, Lord. Please don't shoot!" The man tumbled off the bench and scrambled into the darkness, dodging through the bushes as he ran.

Fergueson chose not to follow, in consideration of the pot belly hanging over his brown Sheriff's uniform pants.

"Lousy criminal." He aimed his gun at the fleeing suspect. "I oughtta put a bullet in you."

That wouldn't be wise, though. He'd have a lot of explaining to do. Every degenerate bum these days was more important than the decent, law-abiding folks.

Fergueson reluctantly put away his gun. This paltry incident had lightened his mood. He decided on a stroll to work off his heavy meal.

He left the downtown and walked into the residential area, passing block after block of houses. In each one, people lived safely under his protection – not that anyone appreciated his efforts.

"Rest easy, folks. I'm on the job tonight." Fergueson belched again.

Without realizing it, he'd turned his steps eastward. By the time he reached the large vacant area on the outskirts, his thoughts had drifted back to the events of four years ago when Judge Franklin Gulp controlled the county.

The judge had been in tight with Albert Grech – the old crank who lived in that place south of Bridgestock which had recently been torn down. The two of them had cooked up something big and were keeping it to themselves. Sheriff Fergueson never did find out what went on there.

One day Grech's neighbor, Gregory Ponge, came to him proposing a deal. Sheriff Fergueson had jumped at the chance to cut himself into whatever the action might be, while eliminating Judge Gulp at the same time. Ponge had been light on details, however – said he'd tell Fergueson more when he found out himself.

Then, the whole lot of them vanished – Grech, Ponge, their wives, Judge Gulp, even the cook.

Fortunately, he'd had some dirt on the old judge. Fergueson released details of the judge's past misdeeds to the press. He accused Gulp and the others of being "fugitives from justice." In this way he became a public hero and won re-election as sheriff.

Fergueson chuckled. "Ah, the good old days. You could have a fun time back then."

He breathed in the night air, enjoyed the vista of flat, empty fields spread out before him. Yes, 'Melody Acres' was a good name for this place. It made you feel content, in harmony with things. A hum vibrated in the ground, like the rumbling of his beloved old jalopy from high school.

Heavy clouds moved in and smothered the moon, adding to Fergueson's pleasure. The darkness felt like a comfortable old coat.

"I wonder whatever happened to Judge Gulp? Hiding out somewhere. Maybe closer than you'd think."

Fergueson glided into Melody Acres.

# Seven: A Startling Appearance

25. Frightening History Lesson

By 8:30 we've finished reading _Captive in Terror Orchard_. We flop back in our chairs, stunned.

"That's some story," I say.

Morton nods. "I knew some of it already, but I didn't know about those trees – or why Billy was brought to the Grech house."

"Those are the most important details."

"The professor thought he was right to hush things up," Morton says, "but don't you hate it when people keep things secret – even if it's supposed to be 'for your own good?'"

"Yeah."

I'm thinking of Mom's big surprise wedding announcement seven months ago. That had been a wonderful event, about as welcome as a root canal or a car wreck.

Morton heads for the door. "Man, I could use another beer. Do you want anything from the Speedy Mart?"

"No, thanks."

He clatters down the stairs to the ground floor. I watch him leave the building from the main window. He's walking hunched over, as if he's carrying a huge load on his shoulders.

I stretch my tensed up muscles and try to digest what I've read. It doesn't taste good.

According to the diary, Dr. Rackenfauz had been the original nutty professor. He'd spent years in South America developing a bizarre orange tree he considered the "Tree of Life." He was so blinded by ambition he didn't realize he'd gone wacko.

"The tree imparts great power and long life. There's a lot more than science in it; there is evil magic from the dark forest."

In Brazil, Rackenfauz met Albert and Amitha Grech. They came back together and planted a grove of these horrible trees outside Bridgestock.

Eventually, the professor came to his senses and tried to destroy the orchard. Albert Grech foiled his plans and buried him alive in the orchard as fertilizer.

"I was supposed to die . . . I fought them in my mind, though."

By the time Billy and his friend, Cyndy, dug him up four months later, Professor Rackenfauz was in terrible shape. The trees were transforming him into something else. He managed to recover although his skin kept its greenish tint.

Billy Conner had been a state ward delinquent. Albert Grech got ahold of him under a foster care scam. Grech planned to bury him for live fertilizer, too. Cyndy was the niece of Gregory Ponge, a neighbor with crooked designs of his own.

Judge Gulp provided legal cover. The tree sap was supposed to make some super powerful drug, and they hoped to get rich selling it. Gregory Ponge wrecked these plans.

Billy, Cyndy, and Professor Rackenfauz turned the tables. At gun point, they forced Grech, Ponge, and Gulp down a tunnel to the tree roots. They also drove three evil women underground.

At the time, Morton Kasinski was a university grad student. He'd picked up Billy Conner during his first escape attempt. Later, he helped Billy, Cyndy, and Rackenfauz get away from the Bridgestock area. End of story.

Only it isn't the end, obviously.

Before the trees died out, they did a conversion job on the people tangled among their roots. Rackenfauz should have counted on this, but he didn't. He couldn't bring himself to shoot the people, and he thought the trees would finish them off.

In his own words: "How could I have been such a fool?"

It's easy to sit here making judgments – years later and full of pizza. I know how bad circumstances can force you into hasty actions. I'm so grateful to Spider for ruining my revenge plan, even though it means Bob and Katie are still around. I'll have to get rid of them some other way.

* * *

Morton returns with a large bottle of beer. He pours a glass and plops down in his chair.

"I haven't drunk so much in one day since I was in college." He drains the glass. "Come to think of it, if I hadn't drunk so much, I might have finished college on time – instead of three years late."

"You don't need to explain anything."

"Right." Morton examines the bottle. "You know, I have a better idea."

He goes to the kitchen and dumps the remaining beer down the sink. Somebody knocks at the door.

"Answer that, will you?" Morton calls from the kitchen. "Tell whoever it is that I've disappeared or something."

I open the door.

26. Return of the Captive

A high school aged guy is standing in the hall. Somehow, I know it's Billy Conner.

He is slim, medium height, with straight brown hair. He's dressed in denim and has powerful blue eyes – like he can see right through people. There's sadness in them, too, as if he's seen all kinds of things others can only imagine. He looks tough and gentle at the same time.

I move aside, and he steps into the apartment without saying a word. Morton returns from the kitchen with a bowl of potato chips. He almost drops it.

"Billy!"

"Hello, Morton. You don't look too glad to see me."

Morton moves across the room and shuts the door.

"Of course, I'm glad." He shakes Billy's hand. "Why did you come back? This town is dangerous for you."

Billy moves to the stuffed chair and sits down. He looks tired, his face tense in the light from the table lamp.

"I came back because _they_ have."

The apartment goes silent, as if the word "they" has put a curse on it.

"Did Mark tell you about... them?" I say.

Billy turns his laser eyes my direction. "You must be Ryan Keppen. Mark talks about you a lot."

"Yeah, that's me. How's Spider, I mean Mark, doing?"

"He's okay. I saw him at the martial arts club a few hours ago."

"And?" Morton says.

"He told me bad things are happening here. I didn't need a crystal ball to figure out what's wrong."

"You should've called," Morton says. "We could have met someplace else."

Billy shakes his head. "The trouble is here, so I am, too." He points to the _Captive in Terror Orchard_ manuscript on the coffee table. "Dr. Rackenfauz sent that?"

"Yeah," Morton says.

"You've read it?"

"The whole thing."

"You know the history, then. Let's make some plans."

Morton stands gripping his bowl of chips like it's a security blanket. "You shouldn't be involved. You know what the cops are like here. What if you run across them?"

"Forget the cops. I'm not leaving until this is over."

"All right – do what you want!" Morton flings up his hands, spilling chips on the floor. "Just keep a low profile."

Billy moves to the computer and reads Dr. Rackenfauz's email. "What are these 'antidotes' the professor is talking about?"

Morton joins him by the laptop. "Beats me. I hope he can help us."

They stand at the desk, their backs turned, ignoring me.

"What can I do?" I ask.

They look my direction, then at each other. They come to a silent agreement.

"I think you've done all you can," Morton says.

"Yeah," Billy says, "we'll handle things now. Let me drive you home, okay?"

A few minutes ago, I was in the thick of things. What I had to say mattered. Now I don't count at all.

"It's not fair," I say. "I mean... it's not far. I can walk."

That's the story of my life. The 'responsible' people do whatever they want, and I get shoved aside. For a while, I thought I could do something important for a change. Silly me.

"Come on, Ryan," Billy says. "I have to move my car off the street, anyway."

"Yeah, park it in the garage when you get back," Morton says. "Don't draw unnecessary attention."

27. The Long Drive

I expect Billy's car to be tough-looking, like him, but it's all new and sporty.

"Nice car," I say as we pull away from the curb.

"Thanks. My dad gave it to me."

"Your diary said you didn't know who he is." I immediately regret my stupid comment, but Billy doesn't seem offended.

"He showed up a few months ago. Better late than never, huh?"

"Does he live around here?"

"He's in California," Billy says. "I'm going there to spend the summer with him. I might stay for good."

I am totally astonished and can't help pressing him further. "How did all this happen?"

Billy lowers the window and sticks his elbow outside.

"Dad's wife divorced him last year. He was so bummed he started traveling around the country on a motorcycle, looking up old friends and stuff, trying to figure out what everything meant."

"A 'mid life crisis?'"

"Yeah, something like that," Billy says. "He tracked down Mom at the rehab center. They'd had a brief relationship when Dad was in college and Mom was a townie girl."

Man, this is like something out of a movie!

"Dad left school and went to California without knowing Mom was pregnant. She lost track of him and never told him about me until he found her again."

I am awe struck. Billy's dad sounds wonderful – not much like mine.

"I'd been in foster care for years because Mom couldn't raise me by herself. Then this stranger pops up. 'Hi, I'm your father,' he says. That was quite an experience."

Billy laughs, then wipes tears from both eyes. "I kept thinking 'this can't be true,' but we've done the DNA test. He's my dad alright."

"You must be so happy."

Billy nods and wipes away a few more tears. "Yes, I am – very."

It takes him a little time to get fully under control again. His tone becomes serious. "Mark told me about your situation. Hang in there, it's not your fault."

"Yeah, well..."

That's true, but I still feel lousy. Hearing about Billy's good fortune only makes me realize how far in the tank my own life has sunk.

At least Billy knows what he's talking about – not like that fancy psychologist Mom took me to when Dad split. That lady had no idea what I was feeling. Her biggest problem would be a broken nail or a bad hair day.

I glance around the car, looking for a change of subject, and notice a long metal pipe lying on the back seat. "What's that?"

"I fought Albert Grech with that four years ago. I've kept it as a kind of good luck piece."

"Seems like pretty bad luck for anyone on the receiving end."

"That's the idea."

We drive quietly for a while. Billy misses the turn to my street.

"The house is on Elm," I say.

"Mmm." Billy keeps driving.

We maneuver through the residential area. I think of Morton's warning about the cops, but Billy seems the type of guy who can handle pretty much anything.

Besides, if we're pulled over, I can mention my high-powered lawyer mom who has a liking for "big, fat lawsuits," especially federal ones, outside the jurisdiction of local judges.

Billy interrupts my train of thought. "Bridgestock is sick and twisted. It attracts twisted people. Albert Grech didn't plant his orchard here by accident."

Another long silence. I'm in no hurry to get home and don't mind cruising around. The car is smooth and comfortable, as nice as Mom's. I stretch out and relax for the first time all day. We arrive at Melody Acres and my attitude does a 180.

Billy stops by the billboard. "Damn! I didn't mean to come out here. It's like the car drove itself."

Rank, chilly air enters the car. I cringe as far away as possible from the open window. All the terror I felt from my previous visit comes surging back.

"Let's get out of here!"

Billy gives me a strange, faraway look. His mouth is a hard, determined line. "I can't go, yet."

"Kill the lights. Don't attract attention."

He shuts them off. Since the moon is shining full blast, I can see plenty of details outside – but I don't want to see any.

Clouds move in and everything darkens. Billy grabs the metal pipe off the back seat.

"They're out there all right," he whispers. "I can smell them."

28. The Sheriff Investigates

Sheriff Fergueson wandered far out into Melody Acres, enjoying the peace and solitude.

"Ahhh, this is even better than arresting somebody," he said with deep satisfaction.

Back on the road by the billboard, a car pulled up and stopped. Its headlights poked the darkness, then switched off. Fergueson's mood soured.

"Must be kids out partying."

He hoped so because he could run them in on underage drinking charges, maybe a DUI for the driver. These punks were ruining the town, and it was his duty to control them. He could rough them up, too – claim he suspected they were involved with the disappearances. That would scare them real good, show who's boss in this area.

Fergueson unhooked the metal flashlight from his belt. It was a solid, heavy thing, ideal for clubbing people. He'd creep up to the car and, at the right moment, fire the flashlight beam at the occupants.

He'd wield his gun in his other hand, yelling: "Get outta the car! Keep your hands where I can see 'em."

This would be an ideal finish to the evening, a sort of dessert. The last thing those punks expected was the county sheriff himself appearing from an empty field.

Something stirred in the darkness nearby. Startled, and more than a little frightened, Fergueson turned on the flashlight.

"Who's there?"

On the ground, twitching in the beam, lay a long, ropy tendril.

Connected to the other end of the tendril, the creature that had once been Albert Grech vibrated with excitement. That was Sheriff Fergueson out there – his arch enemy.

During four long years underground, rancorous thoughts of revenge had been all that kept him alive. Now he was about to get it! The other five monsters sensed his blood lust and withdrew their own snaky arms with a slithering rustle.

Fergueson jumped at the sound. "Who's out there? Show yourself!" He drew his gun. "I'm warning you."

He moved in to investigate. Tentacles gripped his legs and pulled him down. His screams shattered the night. The gun could not save him.

29. Retreat from Melody Acres

Billy's right hand holds the pipe in a death grip; it trembles with the strain.

With his other hand, he mops sweat from his forehead. He looks bleached in the surrounding gloom. Off in Melody Acres, a ray of light stabs the darkness – followed by a horrible scream: _Ahhh!_

A gunshot: _BAM!_

Another scream, choked off: _Ah-ghhh – !_

I practically hit the car roof. "Let's get out of here!"

Whatever spell Billy was under breaks abruptly. He wrenches the car into gear and tromps the gas. We take off, wheels spinning on the dirt road.

"They got another one!" I cry.

Billy flicks on the headlights an instant before we're about to crash into a tree stump.

"Look out!"

Billy swerves back onto the road and cuts down to a less demented speed.

"That scared me real bad," he says. "I don't mind admitting it."

He wipes his forehead again. His features are hard and pale, as if they're chiseled from marble.

"We're all scared," I say. "This place is evil! I wonder who they got this time."

"Who knows? I feel like I'm back inside my diary."

Soon, we're driving through the town proper. My panic attack subsides. I never thought I'd be so happy to see the Bridgestock streets again – crappy houses, beat-up cars parked along the curbsides. Billy turns onto my street.

"Pull over here," I say. "You don't want Bob and Katie to see you."

He stops the car. "Be careful, Ryan. Don't go back there for any reason until this is over."

"Yeah, I know."

I ask the question that's been troubling me. "You seem to have it made. Why don't you go to California and forget all this?"

"Don't think I haven't considered that."

"Why not, then?"

Billy lets out a sigh. When he speaks, he chooses his words carefully, as if he has to pay for each one. "Because I'd never feel right again if I didn't do something. Maybe it's my fate."

"That's some lousy fate."

Billy nods. "Deep down, I always figured something like this would happen. It's like the past four years have been preparation. I've tried to toughen up, practicing at the dojo and all."

The car is silent, full of regrets.

"You read the diary," he says. "You know I could have killed Albert Grech, but Cyndy stopped me. I was glad she did. And Dr. Rackenfauz couldn't bring himself to shoot those cruds. We thought the trees would do the dirty work for us – and now look!"

"It's not your fault, man," I say.

"I know, but I still feel a responsibility."

"I wouldn't bother if I were you. Only rotten types go out to those fields. You felt the atmosphere. It scares away decent people."

"Somebody will figure out what's going on," Billy says. "They'll use those monsters for their own purposes. A whole lot of decent people will suffer then."

"Who'd do that?"

"Sheriff Fergueson, other cops, Mr. Handcrost – they're all corrupt. That's why we have to handle it ourselves."

"You and Morton will handle it, you mean, along with Professor Rackenfauz."

"Yeah, like in 'the old days.'" Billy gives a sad little chuckle. "You know, I was about your age back then. How did we luck out?"

"Maybe it is fate." I leave the car and gently close the door. "So long."

"Take care."

He turns the corner and disappears.

In a way, I'm glad somebody else will be dealing with this awful situation, but I'm disappointed, too. My whole life I've done the 'smart' thing. I've kept quiet while others tackled the big issues. Where has playing it safe ever gotten me?

Dad leaves; Mom ties up with some jerk. 'Guess what, Ryan, you've got a new sister!' Nobody asks my opinion. I just have to go along.

I want to put my own mark on important events. As I walk toward our crummy house, plans form in my mind. At first, my legs feel rubbery from the scare I've had. By the time I get to the porch, I'm in full control. I intend to remain that way.

# Eight: The Looming Battle

30. Ugly Tuesday

School on Tuesday is much worse than usual.

Kids move aside when I walk down the hall. Nobody sits by me during class, and I have a whole table to myself at lunch. In English class, the desk Spider once occupied stands empty and cold, accenting my isolation.

The assistant principal is filling in for Mrs. Thromp. Word has it none of the usual substitute teachers dared to take on this 'unlucky' job. He gives us a writing assignment while he sits at the desk working on papers. The room is as quiet as Melody Acres when the Bulb People aren't feeding.

When I look up from my desk, the AP is staring at me over the top of his reading glasses. His lips are pressed tight, as if he's sucked on a lemon. I can tell he's dying to hit me.

"You there, Keppen. Get back to work!"

Like Billy, I don't need a crystal ball to figure out what's going on. Terrible things are happening in Bridgestock, and outsiders, such as me, are under dark suspicion.

At my old school, we read a story called "The Lottery" in which they choose one person each year to stone to death. I feel like I'm living that story for real. There hasn't been any drawing, but I'm the 'winner' just the same.

The other kids seem afraid of me, but that will soon wear off. Then they'll close in.

Worst of all, Morton is gone. When I stop by his classroom, a substitute teacher is sitting at his desk. She looks frazzled, as if she'd rather be someplace else – anyplace else. She seems scared of me, too.

The big news going around is about Sheriff Fergueson. Nobody has seen him since he left Ruthie's Kraut House Café last night. At first the kids are saying he's run off with somebody's wife. Another rumor is he's stolen a bunch of money and blown town. There is also talk of a mysterious gun shot.

The story I overhear after lunch is that criminals bumped off the sheriff because he knew too much about a drug deal. The kids shut up as soon as they notice me listening in.

"Maybe he didn't like the Kraut House food," I say. "What better reason to leave town?"

They ignore my joke and edge away, as if I have a contagious disease.

* * *

The weather is gloomy, matching my mood. A chill, drizzly wind whips through the town square, tossing bits of trash and pushing me along as I walk home after school. I want to call Morton but can't find a suitable public telephone.

My cell isn't working. It usually doesn't in Bridgestock, and when it does, the reception is lousy. It's like even the cell phone signals want to avoid this place.

The Yookey Lake Bar has two pay phones, but they're in the lobby with people coming and going. Besides, a mean-looking drunk is talking on one of them. He gives me a look as if he wants to bite me in half. The Speedy Mart has a phone, but it's also very exposed, and I don't want anyone to overhear me.

I think of walking to Morton's apartment but decide it best not to draw attention to myself. I'm a fugitive whose every move is watched by hostile eyes. The Lottery crowd is gathering; they're picking up rocks.

The only option left is to use the landline at home. This carries some risk, but I simply have to know what's going on. I take the cordless phone into my room and shut the door.

Billy answers. "Hi, Ryan. How are you?"

I'm in no mood for small talk. "What's happening? Morton didn't come to school today."

The line goes silent. "Billy?"

"I'm supposed to keep quiet," he finally says, "but I think you have a right to know. Professor Rackenfauz sent us the antidote recipe."

"What's that?"

"A mixture of poisons – a kind of super weed-killer. Morton went to the city to buy the ingredients. He's a certified chemist, so he can get the stuff without too much hassle."

"What are you going to do?"

Another pause.

"Spray the monsters. Kill them, or at least mess them up pretty bad. We'll be going out tonight, and – "

I think I hear something from the other receiver on our line.

"Gotta go, big history test tomorrow. Bye."

"Bye?" Billy sounds confused.

I hang up. Maybe I'm being paranoid, but I can't risk having Katie or Bob find out anything. What more is there to talk about, anyway? Billy, Morton, and Rackenfauz have already made the big decisions – without consulting me.

Heck, if it wasn't for me, they'd have no clue about the real situation. But when it comes time for action, I don't count for much.

Once they've polished off the Bulb People, everything will return to 'normal.' The disappearances will stop. Mom will come back in a couple of days, and life will continue with the H. B. F. Then I'll start getting beat up at school.

Crap!

Billy sure has it made. Tonight he'll be in the thick of things, a real hero. After that, he'll take off for California with his fancy car, while I'm still trapped in this rotten town. Morton, too – he'll be off to Brazil.

Well, they aren't going to brush me off so easily! When they go to Melody Acres tonight, _I_ will be there, too.

I've learned a painful lesson over the past year: If you just sit around, nothing good comes your way. I've been doing that while one disaster after another has slammed into me. Any kind of action must be better than this slow death.

I don't know how anything is going to work, but this mess with the Bulb People might be the break I need. Things have gone bad for so long it's time they finally went my direction.

Right?

Somehow, I have to turn things to my advantage and get myself out of Bridgestock for good. One way or another.

Hopefully, I'll still be alive.

31. Preparations

Bob returns early from his office, along with a bucket of fried chicken.

Nobody calls me to eat, and it isn't until the aroma works its way to my room that I know food is available. By the time I come downstairs, Bob and Katie have already taken the good pieces. Just the bony, weird-shaped ones are left.

Katie sits at one end of the dining room table, her plate heaped with more food than she can possibly handle. Bob has spread out his business papers on the other end and is writing with one hand, while munching a drumstick from the other.

"I'm really busy, Ryan," he says around a mouthful of chicken. "Take your meal upstairs and keep quiet, okay?"

"Sure." _Nice to see you, too, pal!_

I dump a couple of chicken blobs onto my plate along with some coleslaw. The potato salad is already gone. Katie shoots me a wicked grin and bites into a juicy white meat as I carry my feast to my room.

Having Bob planted at the dining room table complicates things. I'd counted on him working late, as he's been doing the last few days. In order to go out, I'll have to make up a cover story and I'm fresh out of those. Where could I say I'm going? Bob knows my only friend has left town – he's been raging about Mr. Cozzaglio's "defection" for two days.

He might decide to be a jerk and say "no" if I ask to leave. I can't risk that. But if I sneak away without permission and Bob discovers my absence, what would happen then? What if he catches me trying to slip back inside?

So what!

If things go well tonight, his opinions won't matter. And if they don't go well... Bob will be the least of my problems. The important thing is to get away from this place and out to Melody Acres in time.

I have preparations to make. Dinner doesn't take long – a few sporkfuls of coleslaw and nibbles of chicken. After this banquet, I put fresh batteries in my flashlight and tie on my hiking boots. I pocket my jackknife.

That didn't take long. I'm about as ready to go as possible. What do you bring to a monster bash, anyhow? Morton and Billy are providing the heavy artillery, the "antidote," as they call it.

I throw an old towel on my bed to protect it from my boots and flop down to rest a while. Daylight is still blazing outside, and I figure it will be some time before the action starts. I ponder my situation.

I desperately need an antidote myself, so does Mom. I've recently seen her drinking on the sly when she thought nobody was watching. She hit the bottle hard when Dad left but tapered off as she adjusted to the shock. By the time Bob came along, she was back to being a light social drinker. Now she's upping the alcohol again.

Where is it going to stop? I realize I love Mom more than anyone in the world. She is my greatest friend, even through she's gone off the rails this past year. I don't want to be mad at her anymore. I wish I had a magic wand to make everything better.

Why am I so inadequate?

Mom must have felt like this, too, trying to hold things together on her own, blaming herself for Dad's actions, struggling to protect me. But she's become stubborn and is ignoring my real concerns. She's convinced she knows best. She's become Super Mom who can't admit a mistake.

Everybody needs to grow up here. We need to hit the reset button. Above all, we have to get out of this hole.

32. An Eerie Departure

When the time seems right, I creep partway down the stairs and peer into the first floor.

Bob is still at the table and, worse, Katie is sitting in the living room watching television. She glances toward the stairs, and I jerk back.

She gets up. I pray she won't see me crouching in the shadows as she walks past the stairs and into the kitchen. The freezer door opens. Tense moments pass, then:

"Dad! This ice cream is too hard for me to scoop. Can you help?"

Bob mutters something irritable and follows Katie into the kitchen. I can't believe my luck! As quietly as possible, I slink across the living room and out the front door. TV noise covers my escape.

Outside, the final sun rays slant through Bridgestock, bathing everything in a hard, golden glow. I hope I haven't waited too long.

My thinking is Billy and Morton will enter Melody Acres before dusk falls. They'll want as much light as possible in order to locate the Bulb People, but they'll also want darkness to provide cover against any witnesses who might happen along. They'll be operating in the Twilight Zone, so to speak.

If they'd bothered to ask me, I could have told them it's easy to find the monsters. Just follow your nose and your fear. Well, they'll just have to figure out on their own when to use their antidote sprayers.

But I'll be there to help.

The thought fills me with excitement – and extreme anger. Those creatures tried to kill me, and I owe them payback, big time. The trauma of watching Larry getting devoured will stay with me forever.

Twenty years from now, when I've got kids of my own, I'll still be having nightmares about it. My kids will think I'm wacko, terrifying them with my screams.

As I walk the deserted streets, my anger cools, and I have an eerie sensation of being observed. By the time I reach the town square, I can feel eyes boring into my back. I stop by a park bench and glance around.

Nobody.

The courthouse bulks like Castle Dracula in the gathering dusk. Its discolored marble throws off a dull, unearthly gleam. Music drifts from the open door of the Yookey Lake Bar, along with the sounds of a fist fight.

On the other side of the square, Ruthie's Kraut House Café looks inviting with soft glow coming through the windows. I'd like to escape there and have some pie instead of continuing with this mad mission.

A huge crow, or raven or something, lands on the back of the bench, right beside me. It's the big granddaddy of the one I saw in the park Sunday morning.

"Ugh!" I cringe away.

The horrible bird carries wire-rimmed glasses in its beak – the sort Mrs. Thromp used to wear. It jerks its head my direction and runs its black eye over me, as if it's sizing me up for a coffin.

"Nice birdie." I edge farther away.

I think of running, but I'm afraid it will fly after me. Instead, I flick open my knife and jab at the bird.

"Go on, get out of here!"

The crow flies off at last.

"Good riddance."

I leave the square, but my satisfaction at this little victory doesn't last long.

As I move into the residential area, a constant presence creeps behind me. I spin around and think I see a figure slip behind a tree. No, that isn't anybody... is it? My feeling of adventure is long gone, replaced by fear and dread.

Why am I being such an idiot?

Back in the safety of my room, fighting the Bulb People had seemed like a wonderful idea. Sweet revenge. For the first time in my life I'd be a hero. But out here, alone on these creepy streets – with somebody stalking me – I'm rapidly coming to my senses.

Face it, Ryan. You're no hero.

I imagine the Lottery crowd sneaking up behind me with fistfuls of rocks, or maybe it's the pod aliens. I feel the powerful tendrils of the Bulb People gripping my toes as they drag me into a hellish pit.

It's all becoming too much for me. Maybe I should head back to the house, but first, I have to shake off whoever is following.

I turn a corner and conceal myself behind a lawn hedge. I wait among the prickly branches for what seems a long time, though it's probably only a minute.

Across the lawn, the house is dark and silent. A clunky rhythm floats on the breeze, like the sound of wind chimes made from human bones.

You're paranoid, Ryan. Who'd waste their time following you?

I'm about to slip away when I hear footsteps turning the corner. I crouch back down. The steps move right past my hiding place. They are quiet, but heavy and firm – like those of some large, dangerous person. They halt.

My heart stops with them. I grip my flashlight hard. It might work as a club. My jack knife? No, I'd probably cut off my own fingers if I try to use it. Finally, I can bear the suspense no longer, and I peek through the branches out to the sidewalk.

It's Katie!

I'm so astonished I nearly cry out. As perverted as it sounds, I am almost glad to see her. She stands perfectly still, hands on her hips, her head rotating as she scans the area like an owl looking for mice. She sniffs the air, just as Larry did.

Katie takes off – pock-pocking along the sidewalk in her Leopard Girl shoes. Straight for Melody Acres.

33. Pursuit

This is just great!

Unless I can stop her, Katie will ruin everything. It'll be all my fault, too. Billy and Morton will never forgive me. All thoughts of turning around blow out of my head. I leave my hiding place and dash after her.

We run an absurd race through the darkening streets – Katie moving farther ahead, me stomping along in my hiking boots. She could easily detect me if she looked back, but she's running under the Melody Acres spell, and nothing else matters to her.

By the time we reach the dirt road on the outskirts of town, I've given up any hope of catching her. But then Katie loses her footing on some loose stones. She falls sprawling.

"Ooof!"

She's back on her feet, examining her skinned elbow when I catch up to her. I'm too winded to move another step.

"Katie," I gasp, "what are you doing out here?"

She glances away from her elbow toward an item of lesser interest – me. The fall must have broken the Melody Acres spell because she's as sharp and mean as ever.

"What am _I_ doing here?" she snaps. "I could ask you the same thing, twerp!"

"Uh... well..." I have no cover story prepared.

"You're up to no good, that's for sure," Katie says.

"Am not!"

"Yes, you are. I heard you talking to that guy on the phone."

"What guy?"

Katie places her hands on hips and gives me a hard look, Mrs. Thromp style. "The one who said you were going out tonight. Thought you were smart hanging up, eh? 'Gotta go, big test tomorrow.'"

"How much did you overhear?"

"Not much, but I'll find out what's going on."

"Nothing's going on."

"Yeah, right!" Katie barks a laugh, a sound a hyena might make on a bad day. "Did you think I called Dad into the kitchen by accident? I knew you were hiding on the stairs waiting to make a getaway."

Man, have I been faked out. When it comes to underhanded maneuvers, Katie is way above my league.

"Well, I'm going home now," I say. "So you can forget about everything."

"Fine, I'll go on alone." She points toward Melody Acres. "You've got something planned out there, right?"

I make no reply.

"Don't worry, I'll find out what it is," Katie says.

"What about your dad? He won't like this."

"How's he gonna know? He thinks I'm at a friend's house." Katie rolls her hand into a fist and takes a threatening step toward me. "You won't tell him anything different, will you?"

"It could be dangerous out there."

Katie laughs again. "I doubt anybody _you'd_ hang out with is very dangerous."

I'm beaten. Whatever happens tonight will include Katie, like it or not.

She prepares to start jogging again. "Coming, twerp?"

"Stop calling me that."

"Okay. Coming, dweeb?"

She takes off, her braids flapping. I clunk along behind. What choice do I have?

Before long, Katie passes the billboard and moves into the open fields. It's getting pretty dim now. The ground is rough, so Katie can't keep up her full Leopard Girl pace. I manage to stay within a few yards of her.

She stops abruptly. "Over there. I see them!"

I see them, as well. Two figures walking in the last of the daylight, each pulling a wheeled contraption – Billy and Morton.

Katie stoops to pick up a rock. In her other hand she hefts a pointed object that looks like an iron railroad spike.

"You won't need that," I say.

"Probably not, but it never hurts to bring a conversation piece."

I can imagine what sort of "conversation" she has in mind.

Things have been happening so fast I've scarcely noticed where I am. But now, grim reality is sinking in fast. The terror returns with a vengeance. Fear vibrates into me from the ground.

Katie has no such problems. She acts very casual, as if she's taking a stroll in some delightful park. "Are you coming with me, dork, or are you gonna chicken out?"

All my anxieties evaporate as truly wicked ideas enter my mind. I tried to keep her away, didn't I? No one can say I haven't given it my best shot. So, if something unfortunate should happen to her, it won't be my fault.

Toxic thoughts of revenge gurgle in my brain. Now that I'm thinking in tune with the surroundings, I no longer feel afraid.

"All right, Katie, let's go. Family should stick together, right?"

Katie grunts sarcastically.

We move deeper into Melody Acres. Toward the Bulb People.

# Nine: Clash with the Bulb People

34. The Avengers

Katie slows her pace over the uneven ground, moving low and quiet in her best Leopard Girl style.

"Get down!" she commands.

I crouch and sidle along behind. If she intends to throw that rock, I need to grab her fast. Ahead, Billy and Morton walk grim and stiff, like they're marching in a funeral procession, dragging their deadly machines behind. In his free hand, Billy carries his "good luck piece" metal pipe.

The devices appear to be weed sprayers with hosed nozzles, motors, and tanks. The lawn service guys used similar things in our old neighborhood.

We're very close before Morton spots us. He jerks with surprise, nearly upending his machine. I slip from behind Katie.

"It's me – Ryan."

Morton takes a few steps our direction. "Ryan! Wh... how did you find out?"

Leopard Girl lunges forward. "What are you doing here? You're trespassing!"

She stands sideways to Morton, the rock gripped in her hidden throwing hand, ready to brain him. I prepare to jump her from behind.

Billy approaches, holding up his empty hands. "It's my fault. I told Ryan, but I didn't ask him to come."

Katie's attitude changes instantly. The rock slips from her fingers and thuds to the ground. She steps over to Billy, brushing up against him.

"Hi! You're not from around here, are you? My name's Katie Warwick, what's yours?"

Billy edges back, eyes wide. I'm equally astonished. Then again, Billy does have that 'tough' look Katie favors – though he's nothing like the jerks she usually goes for.

"Not gonna tell me your name?" Katie says. "You'd rather be a 'mystery man,' huh? I like that."

"Never mind," Morton says. "Please leave, Katie, and take Ryan along. You shouldn't be out here."

"Oh, yeah?" Katie turns threatening again. "My Dad owns this property. I've got a lot more right to be here than you do!"

She brandishes her railroad spike, ready to slug it into Morton's gut. It's his turn to do the wide-eyed surprise routine.

"Hold on a minute." Billy takes her arm. "Can't we talk this over?"

Katie melts at Billy's touch. "Sure we can talk. Let's get away from these losers. Do you have a car?"

"Yeah. Why don't you go wait there for me while we take care of business."

"What business?" She points to the sprayers. "You gonna have a dandelion killing party?"

"Something like that." Billy slips an arm around her waist. "You know, Katie, I didn't realize there were any cute girls in Bridgestock, until now."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"The guys here are all duds, too – totally boring," Katie says. "So, tell me something about yourself."

"Sure, Katie. Let's get to know each other real good."

Billy leads her back toward the road, smooth-talking every step. It's getting dark, and he flicks on a flashlight.

The Bulb People are close, I sense. Terror barges into my mind. My hands shake so much I can hardly pull my own flashlight out of my pocket. We're wasting time with this nonsense!

A rotten smell drifts in the breeze as darkness grabs Melody Acres in an iron hand. I shine my light into the distance. Something twitches on the ground.

"Over there!"

My knees buckle; I barely manage to keep standing. I want to take off after Billy, keep running until I'm far away from this cursed place. I twist around toward the road. My feet take a few steps.

"That's it, Ryan," Morton says in a quivering voice. "Keep going."

He's scared, too, yet he's willing to stay by himself, to protect me.

I turn to face him and say the hardest thing of my entire life. "No."

"Ahhh ha ha ha ha!" Katie's shrill laughter pierces the gloom. "Not so fast, big boy. I'm not that kind of girl – yet!"

She breaks away from Billy and runs toward us. She's laughing and waving a flashlight beam around. Billy chases after her.

"What are you doing, Katie?" Morton says. "Go back."

"Your friend's quite a guy! Not like those cheese weenies in town." Katie grabs the nozzle of Morton's machine. "What's this for?"

"Put that down. It's dangerous."

"Yeah, right. My old boyfriend had one of these. We used to attack stray dogs with it."

Before anybody can stop her, she turns on the motor.

"Hey, be careful!" Billy cries.

He tries to approach. Katie points the nozzle at him, freezing him in his tracks.

"Take it easy, all right?" Billy says.

Katie laughs. "Come on, let's have some fun."

She aims the nozzle toward the dark center of Melody Acres and lets fly a jet of poisonous liquid. A powerful chemical odor burns my nose.

"Wow," Katie yells, "what a blast! This must be the supercharged model."

An unearthly screeching erupts – not tremendously loud, but ear-splitting on a psychic level. Like it's coming from inside your head. The earth shakes, and choking dust fills the air.

Katie gasps. "What'd I do?"

35. Combat

A semi-circle of grotesque shapes rips out of the ground not ten yards away. At first they are only dark outlines, then they flare with a sick multi-color glow, like Christmas trees from hell.

They plod toward us on stumpy legs, the ground shakes under their weight. Katie stands frozen, gripping the hose nozzle so tight Morton cannot wrench it away.

Billy fires up the second machine. "Use this one!"

Morton joins him. They advance together, Morton wielding the sprayer, Billy his steel pipe. The monsters close in – except one which lumbers toward me and Katie. I practically collapse with terror, but manage to hold my ground.

The things are lumpy and bulb-shaped, like walking garlic bunches – but their stench is far more powerful.

"Take that!" Morton shouts.

Zeuuuu!

His machine fires herbicide at the monsters. A burning stench enters my nose. I hear terrible screeches as the Bulb People fall back, arms thrashing. Billy dodges the flailing tentacles and attacks with his pipe. Heavy thuds fill the air. I can pay no more attention to the battle because one of the Bulb People is almost on me.

"Spray it!"

Katie remains frozen.

"Katie!"

The approaching creature shines with a hellish red glow. I try to get the nozzle away from Katie, but the monster grabs me around the waist with its snaky arms and lifts me up. Its horrid fanged mouth splits open.

Katie finally springs into action; she aims the nozzle at the creature.

"Out of the way, Ryan! You're blocking my shot."

"Mgfffh," I reply.

I'm paralyzed with terror. The fangs draw closer. Savage yellow eyes glare. A blast of foul breath washes over me as I near the gaping mouth. The stench is so powerful it spurs me to desperate action.

I kick hard, where the monster's snout would be if it had one. It howls and flings me away.

Raaar!

I land on the sprayer machine. The poison tank falls over and spills its contents. I'm way beyond noticing any pain.

The monster grabs Katie and dangles her by her feet.

"Help! Save me!"

I lift the heavy tank and stagger forward, ready to slosh the remaining poison over the monster . . . I hesitate.

A golden vista appears out of the gloom – a vision of life without Katie. No more tattling, no more shoves, no more being humiliated. A beautiful new world opens up for me.

Yes, why not wait a little? Let the creature have dinner first. Gleaming joy blots out my fear. I set the tank down.

Katie screams as teeth close in on her head. The heart-wrenching sound forces me out of revenge mode.

"Leave her alone!"

I heft the tank and fling it with all my strength. Poison spills over the Bulb creature. Hissing smoke pollutes the air. With a savage roar, the monster drops Katie and scrambles away on its stubby legs.

The other creatures are running, too, across Melody Acres to the fields beyond. As they retreat, their lights flicker out. Billy and Morton chase after them, but soon lose track in the dark.

Between the terror, the physical exertion, and a looming asthma attack, I cannot remain standing any longer. I crumple, battered and exhausted, to the rocky ground. From my position in the dirt, I see Katie walking up. Thank heaven she's okay. I feel brotherly affection for her.

"You little creep!" She kicks me in the ribs. "You got that junk all over my new running shoes."

She takes off.

36. Aftermath

I lie on my back staring into the night sky.

My body is numb, but not so much that I can't feel the stones jabbing into me. Morton and Billy appear.

"Are you okay?" Morton asks.

"Wonderful. It only hurts when I breathe."

I move, and pain shoots from the top of my head down my toes. Another move, another jab of pain. I struggle to a sitting position and get out my inhaler.

"Nothing seems broken, at least," I say between tokes.

They help me to my feet.

"Let's get out of this place," Billy says.

"I'm for that," Morton says.

As we walk out of Melody Acres, I shake some life back into my arms and legs. The numbness leaves, replaced by a general bruised sensation – the way a basketball might feel after an NBA game. My skin burns where the herbicide got on it.

"You did great," Billy says. "This whole town has been saved, thanks to you."

"That's right," Morton says. "We couldn't have done it without you."

I know they're just trying to make me feel better. Actually, I've almost ruined the whole plan. And the pay off? Bridgestock gets to survive. Why doesn't that cheer me up?

Billy's car is concealed in the garage of an abandoned house. Along with it are several containers of water. We use them to wash the herbicide off ourselves.

"That stuff is nasty!" Billy says.

The whole side of his face is covered with rash. Morton has pretty good coverage, too.

"It's lot nastier to those creatures," I say. "I loved the way it made them smoke."

"As long as we didn't swallow any, we'll be okay," Morton says.

My skin feels much better with the poison rinsed off. I can concentrate more on my other pains, which are shrieking for attention.

"Do you think we gave them a fatal dose?" Billy says. "They were still moving pretty good when we lost track."

"I think so," Morton says. "It'll take a while for the antidote to work through and dissolve them. I wish that girl hadn't grabbed the second tank."

Billy nods. "Yeah. Guess I came on too strong."

"Let's get you home, Ryan," Morton says.

We pile into Billy's car. I get the whole back seat to sprawl out. It's a luxury sofa from heaven. The leather upholstery soothes my raw skin; its scent caresses my nostrils.

It isn't long before we reach my neighborhood. We stop a block down from my house.

"Okay, Billy," Morton says, "you promised to leave town as soon as this was over."

"Yeah. I can take a hint."

Billy reaches back and shakes my hand. "Come out to the club. I know Mark would be happy to see you."

"I'd like that."

"The way you handled yourself tonight, maybe you could teach _us_ a few things."

He's exaggerating, but I can't help feeling a bit puffed. "Thanks."

"And tell Katie I think she's hot."

I start to laugh, but it hurts too much. Billy drives off leaving me and Morton on the sidewalk. As we near the house, I see Mom's car parked in the driveway.

"Mom's back already. She was supposed to be gone until Thursday."

Yells fly from inside the house, blasting us on the sidewalk. Bob, Mom, Katie – I can't make out their words and don't want to.

"Maybe you should leave now," I say.

Morton brushes off his clothes and squares his shoulders. "No, I'm coming in with you."

As we climb the porch steps, the door bangs open and Mom appears. Her hair is frazzled, and she has a crazed look on her face. Car keys jangle in her hand.

"Ryan! I was coming to look for you."

She grabs me in a tight hug, nearly knocking me over. I wince with pain.

"Hi, Mom."

She holds me at arms' length. "You're hurt!"

"Only some bruises and scrapes. I'm not bleeding to death or anything."

"I _knew_ something was wrong."

Bob's voice bellows from the living room. "Close the door, already!"

Mom brings me inside, Morton follows. The house looks like a tornado whipped through. A lamp is knocked over, Bob's papers are scattered on the floor, and a cup of coffee is dumped over the dining room table. Katie's ruined shoes lie in the middle of the living room.

Leopard Girl herself is flopped on the couch, red-faced and crying. Bob sits next to her with one arm over her shoulders.

"Don't cry, Katie Ann. Daddy's here." He looks up and jabs a finger at Morton. "Who are you?"

"Morton Kasinski, I teach at the middle school."

" _Waaaaa!"_

Katie lets out another long wail. Bob wipes a handkerchief over her face.

"It was terrible, Daddy. And it's all Ryan's fault!"

Bob shoots me a poisonous look. "Why, you little – "

"That's enough!" Mom yells. "Shut your damn mouth!"

"What did you say?" Bob's voice is dark and threatening.

He rises from the couch and moves toward Mom, his hand rolled into a fist. Morton steps in front of him. His normally pleasant face is hard and angry.

"Calm down, mister. Right now!"

I move beside Morton. "Yeah, back off!"

Bob looks us over with fury in his eyes. He seems to think better of things and goes back to Katie. Her sobs trail off into the handkerchief.

"Let's go get your injuries taken care of," Mom says. "You, too, Mr. Kasinski."

She opens the door, then turns toward Bob. "We're not coming back."

Bob looks like he's been kicked in the gut.

"The movers will come for our things," Mom says, "and you'll be hearing from my divorce attorney."

Bob jumps to his feet. "You won't get my real estate holdings!"

"Don't let them rob us, Daddy!" Katie wails.

Mom gives her a disgusted glance; she looks at Bob. "That depends on you, _Mr_. Warwick. Play it square, and everything in this rotten town is all yours. Give us a hard time, and I'll take your last cent."

We step outside; Mom slams the door behind us. It sounds like a guillotine blade cutting off a nightmare chapter of my life.

I can scarcely believe what's happening. Every trace of pain vanishes from my banged-up body. My feet bounce off the driveway as I jump into Mom's car. They'll never step in this horrible place again.

We roar off into the night.

"Where're we going, Mom?"

"First to the clinic, then to our house."

"You mean... it hasn't been sold?"

"It's still ours."

"Yes!"

I see our house clearly in my mind – my beautiful room, the basement gym, the huge backyard. I'll never complain about raking leaves again. My old friends will be waiting for me. Spider will be coming over, too, after jujitsu – and Billy.

"You'll probably have to take summer classes to make up for your lost school work," Mom says.

"No problem!" I almost shout.

The way I'm feeling now, summer school seems the absolute greatest thing imaginable. I'm ready to burst with joy, shout out that I am back from the dead.

But I keep silent. This moment is so perfect I don't want to spoil it by talking any more. Everything I've dreamed about is happening all at once, a waterfall of good luck.

"Thanks for standing up for me back there, Mr. Kasinski," Mom says. "I don't know what I ever saw in that jerk."

"Don't mention it, and, please – the name is Morton."

"Of course, Morton."

Mom reaches over and squeezes the back of Morton's hand. He turns it over and laces fingers with her. They drive this way a while, holding hands. Then Mom takes hers away to work the stick shift.

A warm glow drifts back towards me from the front seat. Things might be turning out even better than I dared hope.

I look out into the night. Somewhere, the Bulb People are fleeing across the lonely fields, wounded and terrified – dying, probably. I almost regret the thrashing we gave them. After all, they're responsible for finally getting me out of Bridgestock.

"Thanks," I whisper into the darkness.

Could the Bulb People have possibly survived our attack? Morton didn't think so, and he's the chemist. But if they _did_ survive, where would they go next? That will have to be somebody else's problem, as I'm officially resigning from the hero business.

Well, maybe not.

THE END

Moral of the Story

Should bulb people move to your town, don't chase them away until they have eaten _all_ the nasty people.

Thanks for reading! You must have liked the story if you got this far, so why not write a review? Just a few words, either at the online bookstore where you obtained this book or in any other medium you wish. May numerous blessings come your way.

# Brian's Other Books

Here are brief descriptions of my other books for young readers. They are available at all major online retailers in eBook format. Also, please check my Smashwords author page.

The Lost Country

Crown Prince Rupert struggles against ignorance and superstition to rally his countrymen against a dire threat coming from the mysterious Eastlands. When disaster finally strikes, it's up to Rupert and his band of often questionable allies to win through or face destruction of his kingdom and everything he holds dear.

Young adult action / adventure fantasy

Captive in Terror Orchard

Book 1 of the _Terror Orchard series_

To the authorities, Billy Conner is just a rebellious and defiant juvenile delinquent. To his foster parents, he's a pawn in a fiendish drug plot. He's much more than anyone realizes, though – he'd better be, or the consequences will be unspeakable. Assisted by unlikely allies, one of them literally "dug up" from the orange orchard, Billy struggles for his freedom and for the lives of countless other potential victims.

light horror / action adventure

Disaster Productions

Matt's struggle to win media fame by his 14th birthday leads to escalating disasters. Matt knows that he is too much of an impractical dreamer achieve this goal on his own. He needs help from a smart collaborator. Enter manipulative genius and borderline frenemy Stephan "Duals" Chrono.

The resulting power struggles and unexpected consequences drive the story. Throughout the chaos, Matt develops the focus and leadership skills necessary for true success and, incidentally, does become famous in a totally unpredictable way.

humor / satire

Raptor Aces

The terrifying Zone of Destruction – ZOD, the absence of God. It has taken over the Raptor Aces, an elite Youth League air squadron.

Its leader, Dytran is the cream of his totalitarian country. His world unravels when a poor decision goes horribly wrong, resulting in death and destruction. He grabs at a chance to volunteer for support aviation duty in the war. At the front, he and his comrades are swept up in violence and revenge until escape seems beyond reach.

New Adult / Action-Adventure / War

A Hurricane in Your Suitcase

Brett's constant lying is getting him into serious trouble. Can big brother Joe stop admiring himself long enough to help turn things around? A strange mixture of cautionary tales leads to a showdown with the Giant Hill.

Children's humor / satire

The Daring Rooftop Rescue

"Coming up in the world" can bring unexpected problems as Johnny Badger learns the hard way. Despite his new-found wealth, Johnny is no match for the complicated political situation in Forest Towne. His own bumbling arrogance adds to his woes.

Children's humor / satire

TIME BEFORE COLOR TV SERIES

Follow the adventures of Amanda Searles and her friends as they make astonishing discoveries, invent new stuff, and generally save the world. Based in 1950's USA, they branch out into strange realms of the wider universe to set things right. It's all in a day's work.

Middle grade – Young Adult humor / adventure / fantasy

How Raspberry Jam got Invented

Book 1 of the _Time before Color TV series_

The last summer picnic turns into an astonishing disaster! Melissa's snotty arrogance involves the friends in a situation they may not survive, but maybe they will.

Middle grade humor / adventure / fantasy

The First Ring Rainbow

Book 2 of the _Time before Color TV series_

1950's cold war tension at it's scariest. Anything can happen during the Atomic Summer. Amanda struggles to deal with the era's sexist restraints, her fugitive Russian communist grandparents, and the appearance of a bizarre creature at Secret Pond. Somehow, everything ties together.

Middle grade humor / adventure / fantasy

Adventure Bike Club& the Tire Giant

Book 3 of the _Time before Color TV series_

The huge tire on the freeway outside town is not an advertisement, as people think, but a vessel from another universe on a sinister mission. Can Amanda and her friends make it back out alive? The fate of the world might hinge on the outcome. Not only that, but the town mayor stands to lose a fair amount of money.

Middle grade humor / adventure / fantasy

The Great Flying Adventure

Book 4 of the _Time before Color TV series_

Amanda and Quentin fly to an alien universe where Quentin competes in a brutal sports tournament to determine the fate of the Earth and of human civilization. Amanda falls for the enemy team captain, and things become terribly complicated.

Tween humor / adventure / fantasy

Return of Mr. Badpenny

Book 5 of the _Time before Color TV series_

Tommy gets more than he expected from a mysterious two-headed coin. The power it gives him goes rapidly to his own head, setting him on a course to moral decay. Solution? Hand it off to Melissa, who also goes off the rails with her new found power. Eventually, they team up to battle the danger.

Tween humor / adventure / fantasy

