Invasion of the Road Weenies (15 page)

Usually, I don't think very fast, but some instinct made me press
REMOVE
.

I was back in the living room. This was interesting.

For the next week, I went in and out of hundreds of places. The cartoons were the coolest, but they could be pretty dangerous. I thought I was in big trouble the time I jumped in just when Wile E. Coyote was setting off a bomb. But it was a cartoon bomb, so it didn't hurt me. It felt strange. I can't really describe it except that it was like being clobbered by tons of whipped cream.

Then, I made a mistake. I was having so much fun riding a raft down this wild river that I lost track of time. At the end of the trip, I hit
REMOVE
and popped back to the couch just as Harold was walking in the room.

“Hey, how'd you do that?”

“Do what?” I asked, sliding the compartment closed.

Harold grabbed the front of my shirt and yanked me off the couch. “Do you want me to make you tell?”

What could I do? I knew I'd still have an hour to myself, even if Harold took over each day when he got home. Besides, if I didn't tell him, he'd twist my arm real bad. I showed him the button.

“Thanks. Now get out of here.” Harold grabbed the remote and turned back to the TV. He started surfing the channels. I guess he was looking for somewhere exciting to go for his first time. He kept passing by stuff, saying, “No fun,” “Boring,” or “Give me a break.”

Finally, he stopped. “That's more like it.”

I looked at his choice. “I don't think that's a good idea.”

“I didn't ask you,” he said.

“But—”

He pushed me away. “Get out.” Then he pointed the remote at the TV and pressed
INSERT.

It was interesting. I always wondered whether I vanished or faded out when I did it. Now I knew. Harold vanished instantly. I looked at the TV Yup—there he was, right in the middle of his favorite show. Harold was a real Trek fan.

Too bad he'd decided to insert himself in a scene that showed nothing but space. Too bad he didn't have a space suit. It was pretty messy, and I couldn't stand to watch. I walked over to the TV and changed the channel by hand. I guess I'll be doing a lot of that until I can get the folks to buy another remote.

I sure hope it comes with all the same features.

I
t was in the
air again. I noticed it when I got home from baseball practice. That smell of death. There was no mistake. Dad had sprayed the lawn. Death to the weeds. Death to the bad bugs. Death to the good bugs, too, I guess, but that was part of the cost of victory.

“Spray the lawn again?” I asked Dad when I walked into the open garage where he was putting away a yellow bucket with a black skull and crossbones printed on the side. I figured the stuff was either poison or it was made by pirates.

“You bet,” Dad said. “Have to stay on top of unwanted vegetation, or the lawn will get out of control. Can't let the weeds take over. Once they do, it's almost impossible to get rid of them. And the battle against insect pests requires eternal vigilance. Let your guard down, and they'll devour anything green.”

“Uh-huh.” I was tempted to ask Dad why he didn't just let everything alone. Maybe the insects would eat the weeds. But I had a feeling he wouldn't appreciate the question, so I
went inside and plunked down in front of the television. Even with the windows closed, I could still catch a faint whiff of chemicals. But after an hour or so, I didn't notice it anymore. I guess I got used to it.

A week later, I found Dad crawling across the lawn, taking a close look at the flowers that bordered the walkway along the front of the house.

“Lose something?” I asked.

“It's those darned bugs,” he said. “Look what they're doing to my
Alstroemeria
.”

I looked over his shoulder at the flowers I assumed must be the Astromania, or whatever it was he called them. They didn't look very flowery. Something had been munching down on them like they were a bag of chips. “Didn't you just spray?” I asked.

Dad nodded.

“Better get your money back,” I told him. “The stuff isn't any good.”

“It's fine,” he said. “The bugs must have developed an immunity to it.”

“Huh?” I asked, getting the sinking feeling that I was back in my first period science class with Mr. Calahan. I half expected Dad to pull out a chart and some plastic models.

“It's like this,” he said. “A spray will kill most of the bugs. But some of the bugs survive. They just have a natural ability that keeps the spray from hurting them. And some of them pass on that ability to the next generation.”

“Like I got Mom's nose?” I asked.

“Yeah.” Dad nodded. “Next thing you know, all the bugs
have resistance. So it's time to switch to a different spray. Ideally, the proper technique—”

“Got it,” I said, cutting him off before he launched into a long discussion. I understood the basic concept. Some bugs just weren't hurt by a certain spray. Whatever it was about them that caused this, it could be passed along to their little bug kids. And each time Dad sprayed, and each time the bugs had kids, the spray did less and less damage, until it was pretty much completely useless. In a twisted sort of way, Dad was helping the bugs get stronger each time he tried to kill them.

I didn't give it much thought at first, but it was hard to ignore. Every week or two, I'd find Dad spraying something new, and I figured there were enough types of spray around so he'd never run out. Dad would stay happy, and I guess the guy at the hardware store where Dad bought the spray would stay happy. The only ones who wouldn't be happy were the bugs. But the bugs didn't get to vote on the matter.

Then I started thinking about the bugs. And I thought about their immunity. I wondered what else we might be changing. What if it was the stupid bugs who were being killed off? What if the smart bugs had figured a way to survive? Then they'd have smart kid bugs. And those kids—some of them would be smart, and they'd survive. Then they'd have kids. And bugs have kids a lot faster than people have kids, so everything would be speeded up.

No, I decided that was a crazy idea. Bugs were just bugs. Even a smart bug wasn't much brighter than a clump of earwax.

But if they were so dumb, what was going on in the backyard? I was the first one to notice it. The bugs had crawled from the lawn into a pile. No, it wasn't a pile—it was more like a tube.

I'd never seen bugs like these before. I moved closer to the living tube that was forming in our yard. It was tall enough to reach my chest. I leaned over to get a better look at the insects. They were a bit like beetles, but each one had an extra section—it was sort of like a small rubber ball. The sections pointed toward the inside of the tube.

“Dad,” I called, “you've got a ton of bugs out here.”

“Where?” Dad came running, armed with his latest spray. He let them have it. It might as well have been water. They didn't even seem to notice.

Then they let loose with their own spray. A greenish cloud drifted out from the tube—puffing out from each bug's extra sections and drifting through the air. I knew right away it was bad stuff.

“Run,” Dad said.

We headed for the front yard. But when we got there, we saw another cloud of gas spreading out from the Rathman's yard across the street.

I looked to the left. Several more bug tubes were spreading their poison.

I looked to the right. The air was so clouded I couldn't see anything.

There was nowhere to run. There was nothing to do. The cloud drifted over us. The smell—so sweet it made me sick—got everything inside my head spinning around. I dropped
to my knees, too weak to walk or even crawl. After a while, the cloud thinned out and I got fresh air into my lungs.

Dad was on the ground next to me. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah.” I got up slowly and looked around. We'd survived. We'd been immune to the spray. This time.

I walked over to the backyard. The bugs were gone. I wondered whether they'd return with a different spray. Maybe, if we left them alone, they'd leave us alone.

“Darn bugs,” Dad said as he ran toward the garage. “I'll get something stronger. That'll show them. I'll kill them all this time.”

I watched Dad drive off. I understood why he wanted to kill them all. But I knew that wouldn't happen. We'd end up killing the weak ones, while the survivors kept working, breeding another generation for their side of this war. Beneath my feet, the ground seemed to hum with activity. A breeze brought fresh, cool air, dispersing the last traces of the poison. I took a deep breath, enjoying it while I could.

L
ucas felt like he
was drowning. The water was pouring down so hard that it was almost a solid force. He could barely see Chuck. “You idiot!” he shouted toward the shape of his friend.

“I didn't think it would rain,” Chuck shouted back.

“Idiot,” Lucas said again. He couldn't believe he'd listened to Chuck. He couldn't believe how wet he was.

“This way,” Chuck said. “We can cut through here.” He pointed to the front entrance of Merrydale Hospital.

“What good will that do?” Lucas asked.

“The new section,” Chuck said. “We can cut across, and get all the way over to Perry Street. It will save us three blocks. And it'll get us out of the rain.”

Lucas followed Chuck through the doors. The sudden shelter was almost as much of a shock as the sudden storm. For a moment, he just stood and dripped, angry with himself for letting Chuck talk him into walking home. It had seemed like a good idea at the time—they could take the
long way through town and stop at the arcade. But the downpour had turned the adventure into a disaster.

“Let's get moving,” Chuck said. He grabbed Lucas by the arm and headed down a corridor. Their wet sneakers squeaked against the floor.

“We shouldn't be here,” Lucas said. To one side of the lobby, he saw a guard. The guard caught his eye and started to walk over. Lucas hurried down the hall. “I think the guard spotted us,” he whispered to Chuck.

“That's okay,” Chuck said. “There's no rule that says we can't be here. It's a public place.”

Lucas followed Chuck, who headed down a stairway next to a row of elevators. “I think this will get us over to the other side,” Chuck said.

“Are you sure?” Lucas asked.

“Yeah.”

They reached another corridor. Lucas heard footsteps on the stairs. “Someone's following us,” he said.

“That's silly,” Chuck told him. “Who would—”

“Hey, you kids! Stop!” The voice came from behind them.

Lucas froze for a second. Chuck started running. Lucas made up his mind and ran to catch up with Chuck. They turned a corner at the end of the hallway.

“In here,” Chuck said. He dashed through a pair of swinging doors.

Lucas followed. They could hide until the guard was gone, then get out of the hospital. He crouched next to the door, trying not to let his heart beat so loudly that it gave
away their hiding place. He couldn't believe all the trouble they were getting into because of one simple shortcut.

In the hallway, he could hear running steps. The steps stopped just outside the door. A face peered through the small window in the door. Lucas scrunched down even lower. He looked over at Chuck, who put his fingers to his lips and went, “Sssshhhhhh.”

Lucas nodded. The guard glanced down. Then he pushed at the door. It swung inward. “They know better than to leave this open,” the guard said. The door closed. There was a jangle of keys. Then there was a worse sound.

Click.

A bolt slid in place as the guard locked the door. He turned away. Lucas heard him chuckle, then say, “Of course, there's no way those kids went in there. No way at all.”

He walked off.

No way?
Lucas wondered what he meant. For the first time, he looked around the room.

“Oh no . . .” In the middle of the room, Lucas saw four tables. Three were empty. One had something on it. There was a sheet over the table, but it didn't hide the fact that the shape underneath was human.

Across the room, Lucas saw a wall filled with drawers—like file cabinets, but a lot larger and made of stainless steel.

Lucas reached up and pushed against the door. It didn't open. “We're locked in,” he said.

Chuck nodded.

“You know what this place is?” Lucas asked.

Chuck nodded again. “Do you?”

“Yeah.” Lucas didn't want to use the word “morgue.”

“Hey, no big deal,” Chuck said. “We all end up here sooner or later.”

Behind him, Lucas heard a slithery sound. He spun, flattening against the wall. On the table in front of him, an arm had slipped down. A hand poked out from beneath the sheet.

“It moved!” Lucas shouted.

“Calm down,” Chuck said. “It's dead. It can't do anything to us.”

Lucas stared at the hand, waiting for it to move again. But it didn't. “Stupid shortcut,” he said, glaring at Chuck.

Chuck shrugged. “I didn't know . . .”

Lucas looked toward the door again. There were more footsteps in the hallway. He looked right out the window this time—less afraid of being caught than of being locked in the morgue.
This can't get any worse,
he thought. At the end of the hall, he saw someone who looked like a custodian. The guy was carrying a mop, wearing headphones, and bobbing his head as he walked. Lucas realized the guy was listening to music. When he turned the corner, he reached out and flipped a wall switch.

The lights went out.

The hall was pitch-black. The morgue was pitch-black. There were no windows. Lucas lost it. “HELP!” he screamed, slamming against the door. “WE'RE LOCKED IN!”