I Have a Bad Feeling About This (3 page)

“Weapons,” said Max. “Weapons are a good thing. As satisfying as it is to kill something with your bare hands, that's not always practical.”

The five boys stood outside in a clearing. On the other side of the clearing, about a hundred feet away, five paper targets were mounted on bales of hay. Max, now wearing a heavy black vest, paced in front of them.

“In a survival situation, you may find yourself encountering an individual who wishes to do you harm. That individual may be a puma operating on pure instinct or a human operating on pure evil. The one thing these two individuals have in common is that they both do poorly against a grenade.”

Max reached inside his vest pocket and pulled out a grenade. All five boys took a great big step back.

“A hand grenade, though deadly to your enemies, is perfectly safe to you as long as you remember to throw it. Forgetting to throw a grenade is one dumb way to lose an arm.”

He pulled out the pin and just stood there.

“Ummmm—” said three out of the five boys.

Max continued to stand there.

Was he really going to blow off his arm just to make an educational point?

After about ten seconds, Max tucked the grenade back into his vest. “Had that been a real grenade, you would have all been hit by bone fragments. Getting hit in the eye by a shard of arm bone because you were too stupid to move out of the way is one of the least intelligent ways that you can go blind. So in the future, when you see a presumably deranged man standing there holding a live grenade, you
duck
and
cover
!”

“Yes, sir!” said Randy.

“Let's try that again.” Max reached back into his vest and pulled out the grenade.

The boys dove to the ground. Henry put his hands over his eyes and cringed as he waited for the explosion.

He waited some more. No explosion yet.

The next few moments of waiting were also explosion-free.

After another few moments, Henry began to suspect that there would not be an explosion.

“Everybody on your feet,” said Max.

Henry and the others got back up.

“In a survival situation, it is important to use the information that has been provided to you. If you know that your enemy is holding a fake grenade, don't drop to the ground and act like it's going to blow up. That's just ignorant.”

“Sir,” said Erik, “how can we
trust
you when you say it's a fake grenade? Our enemy could be making up stories about phony grenades so that we'll lower our defenses.” He smiled a bit at his own cleverness.

“Excellent point. What if it is a real grenade and I just hadn't released the lever?”

Max released the lever, which popped off the grenade and landed on the ground.

Erik screamed.

Randy screamed.

Jackie screamed.

Stu screamed.

Henry fainted.

***

Henry opened his eyes. All he saw was dirt. He rolled over. Randy was crouched over him, looking concerned.

“How long was I out?”

“Three days,” said Randy.

“For real?”

“No, more like thirty seconds.”

Henry sat up. Max, who still had all his limbs and facial features, did not look impressed with him. Henry brushed the dirt off his shirt, thinking that preserving his dignity might be a challenge.

He'd never fainted before. To be honest, he hadn't even thought that people really
did
faint from fear; he'd always just sort of assumed that it was something that happened in the movies but not real life, like talking to yourself in the mirror.

“Are you all right?” asked Max.

“Yeah, I'm fine.”

“You're sure? Not feeling all swoony like you've just seen Justin Beeder?”

“Justin Bieber,” Henry said.

“I hope you don't think that you earned more respect by correcting me.”

Henry got to his feet. He still felt a little woozy but forced himself to remain upright.

“In a survival situation, fainting means death,” Max told everybody. “Do you think that if you fainted in front of the Nazis, they'd give you smelling salts and wait for you to recover? One of the simplest rules of self-defense is that it's easier to keep your enemies at bay when you are conscious. Do you understand, Henry?”

“Yes, sir.”

“As I hope you've all noticed, that was not a live grenade. We do have live grenades, carefully locked away, and I will indeed show you how to throw them. But as Fainting Boy has proven, you're not ready yet. Instead, we will be learning archery.”

He walked over to a large black bag that rested on the ground, knelt down beside it, and unzipped it. He took out a bow.

Randy almost bounced with excitement.

“How many of you have shot a bow and arrow before?” Max asked.

Erik raised his hand.

“Anybody else? Stu? Jackie? Randy? Swooning Henry?”

Everybody else shook their heads.

Max looked disgusted. “Are you all telling me that you've spent sixteen years on this planet and you haven't ever shot a bow and arrow?”

“I'm only thirteen, sir,” said Jackie.

“Then you're excused.”

“I've shot arrows before,” said Randy, “but they had suction cups on the end. If that counts. I'm guessing it doesn't.”

“You know what, Randy?” said Max. “The bar has been set so low that I'll count that.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Max took several arrows out of the bag, set them on the ground, and then zipped the bag shut again. He picked up one arrow and stood up.

“The arrows we will be using have steel tips. Steel, when shot at a high velocity, will puncture flesh. This means that if you shoot yourself in the foot, you see a lot of blood. Do not shoot yourself in the foot. Do not shoot your fellow campers. If I have to take your bows and arrows away from you due to safety concerns, it will accelerate my spiral into depression and camp life will not be pleasant. Does everybody understand?”

Everybody indicated that they understood.

“Mr. Fainty, before I demonstrate proper technique, I need somebody to demonstrate the incorrect way. So why don't you shoot the first arrow?”

Henry was surprised to discover that he looked forward to being the first one to shoot the arrows. This could be his chance to redeem himself. This could be his opportunity to make Max gasp and say, “Holy frack! This guy can shoot! I'll leave him alone for the rest of camp!”

He could show Erik, Jackie, and Stu that he wasn't the most inept kid in the group. Randy, of course, had too much inside information; Henry could shoot a million arrows into a million targets and score a million bull's-eyes and his best friend would still know that he wasn't truly cool.

And worst-case scenario, he'd miss. So what?

Well, okay, in the worst-case scenario, the bow would slip out of his hands a few times and everybody would have a merry laugh. Then he'd put the arrow in the wrong way, maybe even sideways. Max would yell at him for a few dozen hours. Henry would vow to get it right this time, so he'd carefully notch the arrow, pull it back, take careful aim, and then the string would break. The arrow would go wild and Henry would think
Please
don't let it hit anybody, but if it's absolutely necessary that it hit somebody, please don't let it be Randy,
so naturally, the arrow would go right through Randy's head, protruding out the other side, and he'd get that silly expression that people do when an arrow goes through their head.

Randy's brain wouldn't be functioning properly because of the arrow in it, so he'd run, smacking right into Stu and jabbing him in the head with the protruding arrow. They'd both drop to the ground, dead…or close enough. Jackie would be so traumatized by the sight that he'd yank out all of his green hair and flee deep into the forest, never to be seen again.

Henry would look over at Max and give a sheepish grin as if to say,
Yes, I realize that I inadvertently caused a horrific bloodbath, but killing three people with a single arrow is a pretty sweet accomplishment, right
? And then a tiger, not even native to this region, would leap out of a tree and kill Erik. Then Max would explain that his insurance policy only covered him up to two camper deaths, unless he could prove that it was the work of a masked slasher, since he'd purchased extra mad slasher coverage just in case. Max would strap on a hockey mask and pull the starter cord on his motorized machete and Henry would scream and scream and scream—

But that was the worst-case scenario. Why dwell on the negative? What if he shot the arrow using flawless form and got a bull's-eye? He'd shrug, indicating to everybody that it was no big deal, and then shoot again. This arrow would split the first arrow right down the middle. Then he'd shoot two more arrows that split the two pieces of the first arrow down the middle and then four more arrows that split each of those four pieces down the middles.

This would enrage Max, because deep inside he knew that he could barely split a single arrow into two pieces, much less eight. “I'll teach you to make me look foolish!” he'd bellow, and then he'd trip, looking foolish. Everybody would point and laugh as he ran away to nurse his wounded pride.

Max held the fiberglass bow out to Henry. He took it. Seemed pretty straightforward. Not too heavy. Unlikely to snap in half and send a piece of fiberglass deep into his nostril. He could handle this.

Max handed him an arrow. “Show us what you've got.”

Henry stepped over to the line and faced the target. In his peripheral vision, he could see Randy and the others backing away, but he didn't take offense. They were going to learn that he was a force to be reckoned with. He would become one with his bow and arrow. He would be the Archery Master.

He held the bow in his left hand and notched the arrow with his right. Henry pulled back the string. More tension than he'd expected, but that was okay. He could handle it, no problems here. He stared at the target, willing it to become larger, which probably wouldn't work, but again, that was okay.

He pulled the string all the way back.

He imagined Max's face on the target, which was way more legal than aiming at the real Max's face.

He was the Archery Master.

Maybe he should close his eyes and let the arrow guide itself. The spirits within the wood would find their way to the target.

No, that would be stupid. He'd shoot somebody.

“Any day now,” said Max.

There had to be thousands of clever responses to that, but Henry couldn't think of any of them. He put Max out of his mind and focused on the target—that beautiful yellow bull's-eye…or that lovely ring of red around it. Even the white part would be okay. As long as he hit somewhere on the bale of hay, he could consider himself redeemed.

He released the string.

It actually hurt his fingers as the arrow launched. Not in an “Aah! Aah! The agony is unbearable!” way, but he hadn't expected it to hurt.

The arrow sailed through the air. It had not gone straight up or straight down, which was nice.

Unlike bowling, where you got to stand there watching for a few seconds, frantically trying to control the ball through sheer mind power before it went into the gutter, this was over in a split second.

Bull's-eye.

It wasn't a perfect enough bull's-eye to make him think he was the chosen one or anything. It was right on the edge of the yellow, but still, it was a bull's-eye!

He'd shot a bull's-eye! An actual bull's-eye!

He didn't even care that it wasn't the same target he'd been aiming at!

The other kids applauded. Randy gave him a respectful “Woo!”

Henry lowered the bow and looked over at Max.

“Your technique was appallingly pitiful,” said Max. “But in a survival situation, all that matters are results. If a yeti is gnawing on your leg and your inept kick knocks it down the mountain, you've still knocked a yeti down the mountain. Nice work, Henry.”

Henry beamed. He'd gained the approval of a madman.

“Would you like to shoot again?” asked Max.

“No, thank you, sir.”

“Stu, you're up.”

Unlike Henry, Stu was given actual tips on how to correctly shoot an arrow, though he missed the target on ten out of ten attempts. One of the arrows went straight into the ground in front of him, missing his shoe by a couple of feet, which wasn't all that close of a call, but it
could
have been close, and so it was a bit unnerving.

“Very disappointing,” said Max, gesturing for Stu to get back in line. “Erik?”

Erik did better than zero out of ten. Eight of his shots hit the target, though none hit the center two rings.

Jackie missed nine times, but his tenth shot struck the upper-left corner of the bale of hay. He seemed satisfied with that.

As Randy walked up, he did a strut that Henry had never seen before. It wasn't a strut that contained actual
rhythm
or anything, but it did display confidence. He took the bow from Max, gave a thumbs-up to Henry, and then took his place.

Swish!
“Practice shot.”

Swish!
“Another practice shot.”

Swish!
“Just getting the feel of the bow. This one is balanced different than the one that shot the suction-cup arrows.”

Swish!
“Practice shot.”

Swish!
“Hmmmm.”

Swish!
“Archery sucks.”

Thwack!
“That bird shouldn't have been there.”

Swish!
“Practice shot.”

Swish!
“Oh, God, why didn't I go help that bird? That's not the real me! I'd never act like that when a bird got hurt! I never wanted to hurt anybody! I have to see if he's okay!”

Randy rushed into the clearing, past the target, and began searching for the fallen bird.

“Did you find it?” Henry asked.

“Not yet. There's a dead bird on the ground, but I don't think it's the same one.”

Henry glanced over at Max, predicting that he would look annoyed. Henry's prediction was correct.

“Found him.” Randy walked back over to the boys, cradling a robin in his hands. It had some blood on its wing, but it was still breathing. “I think he's going to make it.”

“Are you planning to nurse that bird back to health?” asked Max.

“Yes, sir.”

“For food?”

“No, sir.”

Max sighed. “If you give that bird a name, it's a McNugget.”