I Have a Bad Feeling About This (10 page)

“Look, it's my trap, so I'm going to let him go,” said Henry. “If somebody else wants to catch and stomp him, that's fine.” He braced himself for the sensation of Max twisting his head off, but Max didn't move. He just stood there, giving Henry a look that showed that he
wanted
to twist Henry's head off but possessed the self-control not to do so.

“Letting him go now,” Henry continued. He gently kicked the box onto its side.

The squirrel didn't move.

“You're free, little guy,” said Henry, trying to ignore Max's deadly, dagger-filled glare.

The squirrel just sat there, nose twitching.

“C'mon, time to leave. This isn't the safest place for you to be. Go on. Go home to your family.”

Still no forward momentum from the squirrel. Max's stare did not diminish in fury.

“So, uh, should I sit back down?” Jackie asked. “Or am I supposed to step on it?”

“Sit back down,” said Henry.

Max said nothing.

Jackie hesitated for a moment, wiped his hands off on his pants again, and then sat back down.

Henry gently poked at the squirrel with his toe. “Go on. Go on. Go on.”

The squirrel did not heed his advice. What was he supposed to do? Drop-kick it? Was he doing nature a disservice by leaving this squirrel in the gene pool?

“Why don't you give it a name?” asked Max. “Perhaps you could take it home, raise it like your own child, send it to private school.”

“C'mon, squirrely squirrel. Time to go.”

The squirrel finally scampered off, running back up the tree from where it had come.

Max continued to glare at Henry.

Henry tried to smile. “I did have the one working trap though, right?”

Henry suspected that he would be doing a lot of push-ups that afternoon. His suspicions were correct.

Night 8

“I swear I heard a tuba,” said Jackie.

“Are you sure?” asked Erik for the seventeenth time in the past two hours.

“Yes, I know what a tuba sounds like.”

“Did you maybe hear it from a different direction? We've gone more than three miles. This isn't right.”

“Nothing else sounds like a tuba. And how do you know we've gone more than three miles? Are you Mr. Speedometer?”

“Odometer.”

“Are you Mr. Odometer?”

“No, but I know when we've walked three miles.”

“How do we know music camp is even still going on?” asked Jackie. “Maybe this was the last day and it was a farewell tuba and that's why we haven't found them.”

“I think music camp would have left behind
some
trace of their existence,” said Henry.

“I'm bailing on this,” said Erik. “He doesn't know where he's going.”

“A foghorn sort of sounds like a tuba,” said Stu.

“Why would there be a foghorn out here?”

“There wouldn't be. I was just going back to what Jackie said about nothing sounding like a tuba.”

“I don't think a tuba sounds anything like a foghorn,” said Randy. “I mean, I'm not trying to extend this dumb argument or anything, but I really don't think the two things sound the same.”

“It doesn't matter if he heard a tuba, a foghorn, or a million flutes. That doesn't change the fact that there's no music camp around here,” said Erik.

“I agree with Erik,” said Randy.

“All in favor of turning back, raise your hands,” said Henry, who fully expected somebody to tell him that he had no authority to conduct a vote.

Everybody except Jackie raised their hands.

“Fine, be a bunch of babies,” said Jackie. “The girls are probably right past those trees right there, but that's okay. Let's turn back.”

Another vote was called and they proceeded forward. The girls were not right past those trees.

“Somebody
does
know how to get back, right?” asked Randy.

Day 9: One Day Before The Games

“I have never seen such lethargy!” Max shouted. “You guys are acting like you got ten minutes of sleep last night!”

Technically, it was just over half an hour, but nobody corrected him.

Night 9

“Get a good night's sleep everyone,” said Max. “Tomorrow, the Games begin!”

In his dream, Henry held up the glowing crystal Medallion of Amazing Ultimate Victory. Or
was
it a dream? Maybe he really had won the glowing crystal Medallion of Amazing Ultimate Victory.

A stadium filled with tens of thousands of fans was cheering his victory in the Survival Camp Games and fireworks were going off everywhere, including in the stands where the fans were sitting, setting many of them on fire, so yeah, this was probably a dream. He'd read about lucid dreaming, where you were aware that you were asleep and could thus control the dream, but he'd never experienced it.

He wondered if he could fly. Hey, cool, he had wings now! He flew into the air—not too high—and the crowd cheered louder, even the people who were on fire. Henry flexed his muscles and then flew around the stadium.

Oh, no! He'd forgotten to study for his math test!

Oh, no! He had to give a big speech and he hadn't prepared!

Oh, no! He was in his—Actually, he was
proud
to be in his underwear. Look at his muscular body! He would never wear clothing again!

He saw Monica in the stands, using his dream-enhanced UltraMegaVision, and flew over to her. He extended his arms. “Fly with me!”

“Kiss me,” she said.

It was dangerous to fly and kiss at the same time. (Many people in other dreams had lost their lives after they had smashed into billboards or mountains.) But Henry didn't care. He leaned his face toward hers. She leaned her face toward his. Millimeters separated their lips and then—

Henry woke up. Monica was not kissing him.

He sighed with disappointment. Then a horde of vampire zombies burst through the wall.

Henry woke up again. Monica was not kissing him this time either. He sighed with disappointment.

“I can't sleep either,” said Randy, rolling over on his cot to face him. “I understand that we're not playing for our lives or to earn food for our district or anything like that, but I would
love
for one of us to win this thing.”

“I agree,” said Henry. “Let's go get some bragging rights.”

***

“Gentlemen, welcome to the Strongwoods Survival Camp Survival Games.” Max was still wearing a camouflage shirt; however, this one was long-sleeved, and he wore a camouflage tie. “This event will show what you are made of. Your strength, endurance, intelligence, and courage will be challenged like never before!”

The five boys stood side by side outside the barracks, arms at their sides, looking ahead, mentally preparing themselves for the ultimate challenge.

“There can be only one victor. You may form alliances, but do so knowing that they will eventually crumble. You have no true friends. The winner of these Games will receive the title of Strongwoods Survival Camp Survival Games winner and also this medal.” Max held up a golden medal.

“Is that real gold?” asked Jackie.

Max frowned at him. “Do you
think
it's real gold?”

“I don't know. I guess probably not. What I really meant was…is that gold plated? With a really thin layer. A thin layer that wasn't all gold. What I was asking is if there is any gold in that.”

“No,” Max said. “There is no actual gold in this medal. You will not be able to sell it on eBay. But if you think that ‘Strongwoods Survival Camp Survival Games winner' doesn't look good on a résumé, then you haven't yet entered the brutal job market.”

“I have a paper route.”

“Stop talking, Jackie.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Forever.”

“Yes, sir.”

“There are very few rules,” Max said. “The boundaries are clearly marked in orange. If you see an orange flag, orange paint, or orange tape on a tree, do not go past it or you will be disqualified.”

They'd noticed these boundaries about a mile into the woods while they'd been wandering around, searching for the music camp, but they hadn't known what they had meant.

“I have spent most of the night hiding care packages around the woods. Some contain food. Some contain useful survival supplies. Some are booby-trapped. But the important ones contain weapons.”

Max reached into his big black bag and took out a pistol. “This is a paint gun.” He pointed it at the side of the barracks building and fired. The pistol made a
pffftt
sound and a bright orange mark appeared on the wood. “If you receive three shots to the torso, you are dead and out of the game. If you receive six shots to the arms or legs, you are dead. Two extremities shots equal one torso shot, so if you receive one shot to the back and four shots to the leg, you are dead. Everybody clear?”

The boys all nodded.

“In a true survival situation, you would shoot your opponent in the head as much as possible. Unfortunately, these paint guns sting like freaking hell and can cause permanent damage, so head shots are strictly prohibited and will not count.”

Henry raised his hand. “Do we get anything to protect our heads, sir?”

“There might be a helmet in one of the care packages,” said Max. “Right in there with a rattle and pacifier and diapers.”

“So we don't get anything to protect our heads?”

“No. Don't put your face in front of one of the paintball shots and you'll be fine. Now guns are a useful weapon, but that's not all that's available.” He took a large hunting knife out of the bag.

Oh, crap,
thought Henry.
Head
shots
are
against
the
rules, but he's going to let us skin each other.

Max walked over to the building and stabbed it a few times. The blade retracted into the handle and left orange paint marks on the side. “I made these myself. Stab wounds count for fifty percent more than gun wounds, so if you get stabbed twice in the torso, you are dead, and if you get stabbed four times in the extremities, you are dead. One stab to the chest and two stabs to the leg and you're dead. Everybody clear?”

Everybody nodded, even though at least one of them was lying about being clear.

“One of the care packages contains a paint grenade. Use it wisely and you can take out all of your opponents at once.”

Henry hoped he found the paint grenade. That would be sweet.

“The Games can last for ten minutes or they can last for four days. It's all up to you. The longer you can survive, the more fun you'll have and the more impressed I will be. Are there any final questions?”

Jackie raised his hand.

“Jackie, I will allow you to ask your question, but I'm going to warn you. If your question annoys me, you're going to take an automatic extremity shot.”

Jackie furrowed his brow as he considered that. “I think I'm going to take the risk and ask it anyway, sir.”

“Go ahead.”

“How will anybody know if we stick to the boundaries?”

“Hidden cameras.”

“All over?”

“All over enough. I would advise you not to go past the boundaries.”

Henry was pretty sure that Max was bluffing, but he had no reason to test that theory.

“Do I have to get a penalty shot?” asked Jackie.

“No, your question was surprisingly fine. Anybody else?”

Randy raised his hand. “How will we know when people die? Do you have a cannon?”

Max shook his head. “If we had the technology to digitally project the faces of the deceased onto the night sky, believe me, I'd be all over that. The process is that if you are killed, you will return to this spot and I will announce your demise over a megaphone.”

Erik raised his hand. “What if I kill somebody but they refuse to admit that they're dead. Can't they just wipe the paint off?”

Max bent down and pulled up his pants leg. There was a faded orange spot on his ankle. “I got hit three years ago. It still hasn't come off all the way.”

Henry shifted uncomfortably.

“There are cameras, but do not tarnish the integrity of the honor system. If you are hit, accept it. Cheaters will have their lives ruined. I mean this. You may be thinking, ‘Oh, I'll never see Max again after survival camp ends. There's no way he can ruin my life,' but you are wrong. There's one boy, Kirk Maynard, who buried his orange-spotted shirt and pretended to lose it. Every couple of months, I do something to wreck his life. He's twenty-two now. Never got into college. His marriage fell apart after less than a year. He curls into the fetal position every night and cries himself to sleep and I just laugh. Don't cheat.”

Henry's stomach was in a knot and he wished he could stop sweating. Insects loved perspiration. He was going to have a really bad experience if there wasn't bug repellent in one of the care packages.

Max pointed to a wooden box that rested on the ground. “This is the first care package,” he said, confirming what everybody had pretty much figured out. In fact, Randy had been inching forward just a bit in anticipation of this announcement. “Go for it if you want. Or run. Either way, the Games start in ten…nine…eight—”

Henry could tell that Randy was going to make a run for the care package. Henry was pretty sure that he could outrun his friend, but he couldn't outrun Erik if he also went for it. But if he tackled Erik, then Randy might get the care package, and they could share its contents, unless Randy turned the paint gun on Henry and said, “Our alliance is
over
, dude,” and shot him in the torso.

He'd just run. Lay low, let a couple of the others take each other out, hope to find a bow and arrow, and then hope that he was actually good with a bow and arrow, which he probably wasn't since he hadn't been aiming for the target that he hit that one time, but if he aimed for something else besides the person he wanted to hit, his luck might repeat itself.

“Seven…six…five—”

If he won the medal, he'd find Monica on Facebook and she'd know that he was not a total weenie. If he took out Erik in a dramatic manner (which he probably wouldn't) and there really were cameras (which there probably weren't), he'd ask Max if he could have the video (which he probably couldn't) and send it to her.

“Four…three—”

Please don't let him be the first one to die. That would suck so very much.

“Two—”

Henry's heart was racing. It didn't matter that this was a stupid game that probably hadn't been sufficiently play-tested. He was taking this seriously. He'd kill Randy last, but in the end, all of his opponents had to die.

“One—”

He glanced to each side. All four of the other boys were going to run for that box. Maybe they'd all take each other out in the first minute. He was cool with the idea of winning the Games without much of his own participation.

“
Go
!”

Henry raced for the woods. Didn't look back. He could hear a scuffle behind him, but that was fine. Let them fight it out. If he remembered correctly, this strategy had worked for the heroine in
The
Hunger
Games
, although she did have basic competence on her side.

He ran into the woods. No branches hit him, so he was off to a good start. He'd just run and run until he…tripped.

He pitched forward, threw out his arms to break his fall, and slammed onto the ground.

What a wonderful start. At least no parts of his face seemed to be broken.

The old Henry would have lay there for a while, groaning in pain, but the new Henry got right back up and continued running. It was a wobblier run than before. Still, he kept running.

He ran and ran, now avoiding both branches
and
the act of tripping. He was doing great. He was going to win this thing. Oh, yeah.

He ran until he could run no more, which wasn't all that far, but he was proud for pushing himself to the limit. He leaned against a tree and tried to catch his breath. As he did so, he looked around for a care package.

Nothing.

Could one be buried?

Max hadn't said anything about them being buried and he probably didn't want them going around digging up the whole forest. Still, it was something Henry should have asked about when he had the chance.

Wow, his lungs were really burning. He wondered if Max was watching him on a hidden camera right now, clucking his tongue with disapproval.

Bite
me, Max
, he thought.
You're going to be putting that medal around my neck.

Behind him, he suddenly heard a rustling.

Not just a rustling, footsteps.

Not just footsteps, fast footsteps—somebody running.

He looked back and saw Erik, a good distance away but running right at him.

“You're dead, Henry!” Erik shouted.

Henry hoped that he wasn't seeing this correctly, but…yep, Erik had a gun.