I Have a Bad Feeling About This (17 page)

“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Grand over the megaphone. “It appears that we have another special guest to introduce to you!”

“It's me,” said Jackie. “Sorry.”

Henry, Randy, Erik, and Monica simultaneously let out a frustrated sigh.

“Well,” said Randy, “I for one kind of thought that was going to happen. Wish I'd said something.”

“It's the same deal as last time,” said Mr. Grand. “Show yourself or he dies. And this time, I promise you that we are not bluffing.”

“Does that mean they were bluffing the first time?” Erik asked. “Because I've gotta say, I had that gun to my head and I didn't get the feeling that anybody was bluffing.”

“At least we weren't arrogant about what we thought was our victory,” Henry said. “That would make this sting a lot worse.”

Everybody let out another frustrated sigh.

“Here's what we've got,” said Monica. “A few rifles without any ammunition—”

“I've got a gun,” Erik told her, holding up the gun he'd taken from Mr. Grand and making everybody flinch a bit. “Thank God for the Second Amendment.”

“I'm pretty sure the Second Amendment has nothing to do with a gun you stole from somebody who was trying to kill you,” said Henry.

“Hey, this gun might save your life!”

“I'm not saying it won't come in useful. I'm just saying that it being useful has nothing to do with a constitutional amendment. You swiped it from a gangster. I'm sure it's not a legally registered weapon.” Henry wasn't sure why he felt the need to debate this. Had he been possessed by the spirit of Stu? And did this mean Stu was dead?

“These guys aren't actual gangsters,” said Erik.

“Sure, they are.”

“No, they aren't. A gangster would be somebody who—” Erik trailed off. “Okay, I don't know what specifically defines a gangster. I didn't think it was these guys, but I might be wrong.”

“May I continue?” asked Monica, not using her most polite tone of voice.

“Yes, I'm sorry. You know what it was? I was thinking that gangsters wore those pinstripe suits. That was really stupid of me. I'm exhausted and stressed out from the whole gun-in-my-face thing. Ignore me.”

Monica did. “We've also got a bow and some arrows.”

“That's perfect,” said Randy. “Henry's a master archer.”

“Good,” said Monica, handing Henry the bow.

“I'm kind of overrated,” Henry admitted. “Maybe you should take it.”

“I've never shot a bow and arrow in my life. I'm only good with bludgeoning weapons.”

“Okay, I'll take it. But I want it out in the open that I'm a complete archery fraud. I don't want anybody to think that I put Jackie's life in danger out of my own pride.”

“Noted. We also have canteens, sticks—why are there sticks in here?—matches, water purification tablets…nothing useful in a siege.”

“Are there grenades?” Randy asked.

“No.”

“Darn. I thought there'd be grenades.”

“All right,” said Henry, “so this isn't as good as a machine gun or pack of dynamite. That's fine. We're not the same wieners we were when we started Strongwoods Survival Camp and we're not afraid to go on the offensive! We're going to show those scumbags that they can kill the strongest of us but they can't kill the weakest!” Henry considered that for a split second. “That's not at all what I meant to say, and right now I can't think of a better way to phrase it, so be inspired by what I meant instead of what I said!”

The others did not seem intensely motivated.

“We've been the underdogs long enough,” said Henry. “Everybody laughs at us. Maybe they don't laugh at Monica so much and maybe not Erik. But Randy and I get laughed at all the time and we're tired of it! That changes now. This is our moment! This is our time of redemption! And like all good times of redemption, there's the chance that we'll mess it up and need even more redemption when we're done, but I'm willing to take that risk! I think we can do this! And in the end, that's what life is all about—carefully calculated risk!
Let's do this
!”

After some more brief discussion, everybody reluctantly decided that yes, they should probably do this. The warriors headed off into battle.

***

Jackie had discovered that having a gun pointed at you made you blink a lot. It also made you ask the person to please not point the gun at you, although so far, the man hadn't agreed to stop doing it. It wasn't as scary as being threatened by, say, a buzzing chainsaw, but Jackie's heart was racing. His legs were trembling and he was crying a little bit.

They sat inside the dining hall. Both of the men (a third was outside in Max's truck) seemed really unhappy, especially the one with weird facial hair. Jackie had thought that his own green hair was punk rock, but this guy looked like he'd actually ripped his facial hair right out. His face was even bleeding a little. Now
that
was hardcore.

The other man, the one who was pointing the gun at him, had an extremely red face and kept massaging his forehead with his free hand. It had clearly been a very stressful day for these men.

“You're not going to kill me, are you?” Jackie asked.

“We very well might.”

“What did I do?”

“You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, kid.”

Jackie nodded. “So it's not anything about me personally?”

“Nope.”

“Okay. Good.” Jackie didn't want to die, period, but if it did happen, at least it wasn't because these guys didn't like him.

***

Chad yelped as the wires shocked him for the sixth time. But his attitude brightened as the truck roared to life.

“Bring the kid out!” he shouted. “We're good to go!”

Mr. Grand, Ethan, and the green-haired kid hurried outside. They squeezed into the truck and slammed the door shut.

“Where are you taking me?” asked the kid.

“Someplace bad,” said Mr. Grand with a grin. “Someplace very, very bad.”

Chad put the truck into reverse and they pulled out of the parking spot. Chad wasn't one hundred percent sure which bad place Mr. Grand was talking about; however, he could think of at least three possibilities back at home, and he was glad he wasn't that kid. Real glad.

***

At the sound of the engine, Henry, Randy, Erik, and Monica picked up their pace. This couldn't be good. Well, it
could
be good if that was the police who'd mastered the art of teleportation or who just happened to be doing a clarinet bust at the music camp. Or it could be good if Mr. Grand and his associates just said, “You know what? This whole kidnapping thing is quite a bother. Let's leave the youngster here safe and sound and go on our merry way.”

But no. Henry could see Max's truck and Jackie was in there with the bad guys.

“I'm gonna try to shoot out the tires,” said Erik.

“No, no, no!” said Monica. “They know how many shots you have and they'll know if you run out! They can't know we're out of ammo! Save the bullets! Henry,
you
shoot the tires!”

There was no time for Henry to say, “What? Who? Me? But I already said that I'm not an adept archer! Somebody else should take on this enormous responsibility!” This needed to be the most important arrow he'd shot in his life and the fact that it was only arrow number two did not detract from the enormity of the task at hand.

He grabbed the arrow that Monica held toward him, notched it, took not-so-careful-because-the-truck-was-only-about-fifty-feet-away-and-there-wasn't-time aim, and launched the arrow.

It sailed through the air, straight and true.

Then it continued to sail through the air right over the truck.

“Shoot more of them! Shoot more of them!” said Monica, handing him another arrow. He notched it and shot.

This time, the arrow struck the front hood of the truck, shattering into three pieces on impact. The truck screeched to a halt, but then, the moment of confusion apparently resolved, the tires squealed as the truck rocketed forward, the gas pedal to the floor.

“Shoot more! Shoot more! Shoot more!” said Monica.

“More! More! More!” said Randy, agreeing with her.

Henry notched another arrow. What he lacked in accuracy he would make up with quantity. This arrow struck the windshield, creating a giant spiderweb pattern in the middle of the glass. He knew there was a chance that he was creating a horribly ironic moment (“How sad that Henry slew the kid he was trying to protect! It pretty much sucked every bit of joy out of his accomplishment.”), but he had to go for it.

He notched another arrow and tried to imagine that he was Katniss Everdeen from
The
Hunger
Games.
She wouldn't miss. Katniss wouldn't have any self-doubt. She would launch the arrow at her target, knowing that it would land exactly where she intended.

Or maybe she did have self-doubt. Maybe she had to imagine herself as Robin Hood. That's what Henry would do. He'd imagine that he was Katniss imagining herself as Robin Hood. Or maybe William Tell. No, wait. He couldn't remember if William Tell had successfully shot the apple off his son's head or if it ended sadly.

Whether it was winning a brutal competition in a dystopian society, robbing from the rich to give to the poor, or saving an emotionally needy green-haired kid from gangsters, they were all true heroes. Henry could feel the heroism of those who'd come before, even if they were made-up characters, flowing through his veins. They guided his string-pulling-back hand. They swiveled his eyeball to the exact right place to take perfect aim.

There was total silence. Either Henry had achieved total concentration, or he'd suddenly gone deaf. He hoped it was total concentration.

Henry Lambert released the arrow.

The
swish
sounded like a heavenly choir, albeit a heavenly choir that sang in swishing sounds instead of beautiful voices.

The arrow sailed through the air, slicing through trillions of air molecules…and then it struck the truck's tire.

As with the targets from before, Henry had been aiming for a different tire, but he didn't care. “I did it!” he cried out as the truck screeched to another halt. “Five hundred points!”

Monica gave him a quizzical look.

“Sorry,” said Henry. “I almost got through that whole thing without thinking about it in video game terms.”

“Shoot again! Shoot again!”

Henry notched another arrow and fired, puncturing the tire he'd been aiming for the first time. He
was
an archery master! He made Katniss and Robin Hood look like bumbling fools who didn't know which way the pointy end should go!

The truck veered off course, smashed into a tree, and stopped moving.

Randy picked up a rifle. “Let's finish them off!” he shouted.

Before anybody could say, “What do you expect to do with a rifle that has no ammo?” Randy showed them what he expected to do with a rifle that had no ammo. He flung the rifle at the truck, hitting and shattering the windshield, and then reached for another as the others joined in.

As the second tire deflated, Mr. Grand screamed for Chad to floor the gas pedal, which he'd been doing since the first arrow. The truck went out of control and smashed into a tree. Well, three trees to be accurate.

“You idiot!” Mr. Grand shouted, as if it were Chad's fault that the forest contained inconveniently placed vegetation.

“At least they don't—” Ethan's sunshiny and optimistic observation, whatever it might have been, was cut off as a rifle struck the windshield, spraying glass bits all over them.

Another rifle hit the front hood.

“What are they doing?” Mr. Grand demanded because the answer of “Flinging weapons at our vehicle” seemed too bizarre to be the correct answer.

A canteen struck the driver's side window, cracking but not shattering the glass.

“I'm getting out of here!” shouted Chad, throwing open the door. He knew Mr. Grand would fire him and then send other associates to kill him and then send other associates to kill his family, but he couldn't just let himself get clobbered to death by weapons thrown by geeky teenagers. That was no way to end what had been a pretty decent career in the criminal arts.

Chad got out of the truck just in time to be bonked on the head by a canteen. It wasn't filled with water, so it was more embarrassing than painful.

Then a rifle hit him in almost the exact same spot, which was more painful than embarrassing.

Chad clutched at his head and ran. Another canteen got him, this one striking his fingers right where they clutched at the rifle wound, which did not feel good. Another canteen missed his head but landed right where his foot touched the ground in the process of running, causing him to make a noise that was not representative of his standard dignity. He fell, somehow managing to bash his head in the same place.

Instead of lying on the ground and crying until the police showed up, which sounded like a nice plan at the moment, Chad got back up and staggered forward, wishing the world would come back into focus. He stumbled and fell again, which did not make things less blurry, and then got back up and continued staggering, praying that another canteen would not hit him.

Something else smacked him in the head. It was a water purification kit, although Chad was too dizzy to know that. He continued running, looking for sanctuary, anyplace he could be protected from this onslaught. Though he would never, ever admit this to anybody, he wanted his mommy.

There! A building just ahead! Safety! Sweet, sweet safety! He'd barricade himself inside there until he felt his own sanity begin to return!

Chad opened the door to the barracks and slammed it closed behind him, gasping for breath and almost sobbing with relief. They couldn't find him here. Nobody could find him here. He was safe! Safe! Ha! Ha-ha! Ha-ha! Safe! Ha!

Did giggling over stuff that wasn't funny mean you'd gone crazy? He was pretty sure it did. But being locked inside his own giggly mind was better than the situation in the real world, so he was okay with that.

Something chirped.

It sounded like a bird, though in his current mental state it could have also been a rhinoceros.

Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.

He looked around the barracks; however, his vision was still blurry and he couldn't see anything except a little dot that seemed to get bigger and bigger until—

“Aaaaiiiiiiieeeeee!!!” Chad remarked as the bird began pecking at his face. He ran around, flapping his arms as if he might be able to fly too until he crashed into a cot. He fell to the floor and hit his increasingly fragile head once again. This time, his brain said, “Okay, I've had enough of this” and shut down into unconsciousness.

This was nice for Chad because otherwise he would have felt it as Randy's bird pecked, pecked, pecked at his head. The bird had had plenty of rest over the last few days and didn't get tired of doing this anytime soon.

***

“He left us!” Ethan wailed. “He left us!”

“We don't need him,” said Mr. Grand as about a dozen small rocks hit the truck at once.

Jackie didn't think that Mr. Grand and Ethan would just let him excuse himself and leave the truck, but he felt that this was probably a pretty good opportunity for him to take advantage of the chaos. So he grabbed Mr. Grand's nose between his index finger and thumb and gave it a great big twist.

Mr. Grand howled in pain.

Jackie began punching Mr. Grand in the stomach over and over again. Then a rock hit him on the shoulder and he realized that his friends were not necessarily the most accurate projectile hurlers in the world. An arrow sailed past his face and he yelped.

***

Henry lowered the bow. He'd gotten overconfident about his arrow-shooting abilities and almost skewered Jackie. That wasn't cool. He needed to remember that he was still basically incompetent and plan his moves accordingly.

As far as Henry knew, there was a gun remaining in play, but Ethan didn't seem to be taking advantage of that. “I'm going in,” said Erik, holding up the gun he'd stolen from Mr. Grand and then rushing out onto the road.

“Freeze!” Erik shouted, sounding like he practiced it in the mirror every morning. “Let Jackie go!”

Ethan did not freeze. He opened the passenger-side door and then fled, speed-limping back toward the buildings. Clearly, he felt that Erik would not shoot him in the back.

Henry hoped Erik wouldn't shoot him in the back. That would end things on kind of a downer note.

“I'm going after him,” said Randy.

“What?” Henry asked. “Why?”

“Because he's a loose end. If we let him run away, the tables could turn again, and somebody else could get kidnapped. It could be you or me getting kidnapped next, and I won't allow that to happen!”

“Don't you think we're more likely to get kidnapped if we go after him instead of just letting him run away?”

Randy considered that. “C'mon, Henry, everybody else got their big moment.”

“Two of them ran away. Were you going to go after both of them?”

“No. Just one. I mean, I'm not dumb.”

“He's right,” said Monica.

“Who? Me or him? About which part?” asked Henry.

“Can I finish?”

“Yes.”

“Randy's right.”

“About not being dumb?” asked Randy.

“We need to take them out now. Henry, you keep Erik covered while he keeps Mr. Grand covered. Randy and I will go after the other two guys.”

Henry didn't like the idea of them splitting up, but they had a point. It was best to finish off Ethan and Chad while they were at their most laughably pathetic. “All right,” he said, “but promise me that Monica will go after whichever one is harder to beat.”

“I promise,” said Monica. Then she gave him a kiss on the cheek and she and Randy hurried off.

Henry just stood there, stunned. She'd kissed him. The location and duration of the kiss weren't anything more than he'd expect from his grandmother, but still…she'd kissed him. She didn't consider him a repulsive troglodyte. Even if it wasn't a “
muah-muah-muah-muah
[slobber][slobber]” kiss, he could now say that he had been kissed by Monica.

He could die now, happy.

Though he preferred not to die now. And in fact, it was probably best for his continued survival if he stopped thinking about the peck on the cheek (he hoped there was a lipstick stain there as proof, though Monica didn't look like she was wearing lipstick) and focus on the extremely dangerous events unfolding in front of him.

Mr. Grand got out of the truck, holding Jackie in front of him by the hair.

“Let him go!” said Erik.

“Put the gun down or I'll break his neck,” said Mr. Grand.

“I'm serious! Let him go or I'll shoot!”

“You think I can't snap this little twerp's neck like a toothpick?” Mr. Grand asked. “Drop the gun. Now.”

Henry notched the last of his arrows. Jackie was pretty short, so both he and Erik had a reasonably clear shot at Mr. Grand, but neither of them were professional marksmen. What if he took the shot and hit Jackie instead? When people wrote about their amazing victory, the stories would contain an asterisk, like the world records held by disgraced athletes who used performance-enhancing drugs.

(*
Henry
shot
his
friend
in
the
face
with
an
arrow
by
mistake, so it's important to note that when you take all of the elements into consideration, he's not all that awesome. In fact, Jackie's parents think he pretty much sucks.
)

(**
Also, while Henry and Erik were all like “Oh, no! Jackie is dead!” Mr. Grand escaped and he was so mad that he went on a killing spree, all of which we can safely blame on Henry as well. One of the people who died would have become a legendary pediatrician, saving the lives of hundreds of children. Henry, if you're reading this footnote, you're a total douche.
)

(***
Henry
is
not
reading
this
footnote, though, because an angry mob stormed his house and carried him away. Serves him right.
)

Henry couldn't tell if Erik was going to lower the gun or not. Mr. Grand twisted his handful of Jackie's hair, making him wince.

“
Now
, Erik! Do you want his death on your conscience?”

Erik did not look like he was going to lower the gun. Erik was closer to the villain, but from Henry's angle, a much larger section of Mr. Grand was exposed. Henry needed to take the shot.

He envisioned a tiny little target on Mr. Grand's side, with an arrow above it pointing down and a flashing sign saying “Shoot here.”

He shot the arrow.

It took about a thousandth of a second for Henry to realize that this arrow was not going to hit the target. Erik cried out and dropped the gun as the arrow went right through his arm.

Henry gasped. That was not
at
all
what he'd meant to do. And since he was the only one with a bow, it was going to be difficult to pretend that he didn't do it.

Erik dropped to his knees, screaming in pain.

Mr. Grand shoved Jackie aside and went for the gun.

Henry rushed out of the forest.

***

Though he'd never admitted it to any of his coworkers, this was not the first time Ethan had been defeated by scrawny teenagers. It wasn't even the second time. If he survived this, Ethan vowed that he would never again go near anybody between the ages of thirteen and eighteen. They brought nothing but misery to his life.

He limped toward the buildings, trying not to think about how much his face hurt. Facial hair was not supposed to be ripped out like that.

Not that he could tell anybody how much his face hurt or they'd say “Your face hurts? Well, it's killing me too!” He knew they would. And then they'd laugh and laugh, as if they'd made that joke up themselves.

The buildings were too obvious of a place to hide—nobody would be stupid enough to choose them—so he hurried past them, figuring that he would just limp through the woods until he found civilization or until he ran off the edge of a cliff and fell to his death.

No, wait—an outhouse!

Nobody would look for him in an outhouse.

He opened the door, went inside, and then quickly shut the door behind him. The aroma was not the finest he'd ever inhaled, but it wasn't the worst either. And as long as nobody needed to actually use the facilities, he could wait here until things calmed down.

But what if somebody
did
need to use the outhouse? What if it was that violent girl? Ethan didn't think he could handle another beating.

He lifted the lid and gazed down into the darkness below. He now had a very important decision to make. What he chose to do next could save his life, but it could also haunt him until the end of his days.

He didn't want to go to jail. Could two or three days down there be worse than spending the rest of his life in prison? He could always get therapy.

He said a silent prayer and then lowered his right foot into the hole.

What was that?

Had that sound come from below?

Ethan froze, listening carefully.

Was something
slithering
down there?

Ethan continued to listen. He thought he heard a soft rumble, like some unearthly beast was rising from an ancient slumber. What sort of nightmarish creature lurked beneath his feet? If he'd proceeded with his original plan, he would have been devoured! Or was it possible that this outhouse was the portal to the very pits of hell?

“No…
no
—” he whispered. He'd never felt such fear, such terror. This outhouse was a place of great evil, a structure into which nobody should ever venture, and the only way to save humanity was to burn it to the ground!

He realized that tears were streaming down his cheeks, but he didn't care. There was no shame in weeping in the presence of something this scary. He was standing near things that no human being should ever stand near.

The slithering down below continued.

Ethan pulled his leg out of the hole, imagining a tentacle reaching up to wrap around his ankle and pull him into the darkness. He screamed a thousand screams as he threw open the door and rushed out of this accursed house of the Devil.

Randy smacked him in the head with a very large branch and Ethan went to sleep for a while.