The Big Nap (7 page)

What was that punk doing here?

Fred-o was a wasp in the ice cream of life, a stink bomb in the toilet of happiness. Trouble stuck to him like dumb on a dingbat.

And I knew that the party was about to get a lot more lively.

After collecting a hefty piece of earwig cake, I sat beside Sammy on the couch. I glared at Fred-o the muskrat.

"
Mmf
... why's that ...
mmfw
... wrong-o at your party?" I asked around a massive mouthful.

Sammy glanced where I was looking. "You mean Fred-o? He's no wrong-o; he's just misunderstood."

"Yeah. He's misunderstood, like I'm the queen of the quahogs."

"Look, your majesty, I hate to burst your bubble," said Sammy, "but he's actually a nice guy underneath."

It was fruitless to argue with the weasel. Friendship had blinded him.

"Okay," I said. "If you say so."

I checked out all the happy kids feeding their faces. No zombies in sight, so I relaxed a little.

Still, I kept a wary eye on Fred-o while polishing off my cake and licking the plate. When he made his move, I'd be waiting.

Before I could grab a second piece, the maid reappeared. This time, she staggered under a box big enough to hide a Shetland pony and his sister. Fred-o helped her carry it.

"Party favors, everyone!" grunted lovely Rita, weasel maid.

The guests flocked to the box like raging moms at a bargain basement sale, elbowing one another and grabbing. Sammy's siblings helped pass out the presents, which turned out to be handheld video games—the latest Weasel Boy, I had no doubt.

Sammy handed me a game. "Here, Chet. This is for you, from Sandy."

I eyed the gizmo. "I thought the birthday girl was supposed to get the gifts."

"Not in this family," he said. "Dad says that giving is better than receiving. Enjoy!"

With that bit of Santa Clausian philosophy, he moved on to pass out more party favors.
Oohs, aahs
, and
cool
s followed in Sammy's wake.

All over the room, kids plopped down with their new toys.

Beep-bop boop,
came from one corner.

Beep-bop boop,
answered from another corner.

Soon the room reverberated with more
beep-bops
than a robot class reunion. Nearly everyone was playing a video game, cake and candies forgotten.

I inspected the crowd for Fred-o the muskrat. He'd disappeared.

I looked at my empty plate, then at the game. Three guesses which interested me more (and the first two don't count). I started to rise.

A paw touched my shoulder.

"Don't you like my present?" Sandy stood behind the couch, pouting like an Olympic finalist in the sulk marathon.

"Uh, sure, I..."

"I picked it out just for you," she wheedled. "Won't you try it?" She took my plate, saying, "I'll get you seconds."

I shrugged and turned on the game. It couldn't hurt to play a quick round before I finished my cake and went to find Fred-o.

The tiny screen lit up, spelling out mystery busters in green letters.

Hmm,
not too boring. Using the buttons, I guided a detective character into a haunted house and walked him down the halls.

Over the game's beeping came the chatter of more kids showing up at the door. The party was growing. But somehow, I couldn't tear my eyes off the screen.

The little detective on my game screen tramped back and forth ... back and forth ... down, down, down...

This wasn't like any video game I'd ever played.

Sights, sounds, and sensations faded away. The whole world narrowed to the tiny screen.

My eyelids started sinking like the
Titanic's
last lifeboat—the one with the hole in it. I was sliding into a dark, deep, haunted place from which no detective ever returns.

I didn't know it, but I was about three heartbeats away from falling into The Big Nap.

And I couldn't lift a finger to stop myself.

F
a-tchoom!

Something furry hit the video game and sent it flying from my hands.

I blinked. Each eyelid felt as thick and heavy as a triple-decker whale blubber sandwich. Echoing through a tunnel came a strangely familiar voice.

"Hurry, hurry, hurry! Step right up! The magic is about to begin."

I blinked again. This time, my eyelids moved easier. My brain still felt like lukewarm oatmeal. It sent an order to my eyes.

Like rusty wheels, my eyeballs obeyed. They turned left and saw a big furry butt.

I knew that butt.

It spoke again, clearer this time. "Ladies and jelly-spoons, boys and grills, prepare yourself for feats of presto-digitation like you've never seen before.
Hur, hur.
"

A talking butt?

My head wobbled on its neck like a broken-down jack-in-the-box on a spring. Before me rose a furry back, a furry head, and above that, a ratty-looking top hat.

"I am the Great Waldini," said Waldo. "And for my first trick, I'll need three common objects."

He grabbed a couple of video games from the limp paws of two mice. They blinked vacantly. Waldo plucked a banana from a nearby fruit bowl.

His juggling was pretty pathetic. Twice, Waldo missed the banana and knocked some kid's cake flying.

"Hey! We didn't order a magician." It was Fred-o the muskrat, back in the game. His eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Feeling was flowing back into my body like a milk shake into a glass. I shifted and scanned the room. Most of the kids were still staring, hypnotized, at their video games. A handful watched Waldo.

Fred-o and the weasels had gathered into a knot at the back of the room. They frowned like a pack of vice principals uncovering vice.

Time to move.

I lurched to my feet. "Ladies and germs, for his next trick, the Great Waldini will do his famous disappearing act."

Waldo shot me a puzzled frown. "Ur, what do you mean?" he whispered. "I'm just getting started."

I grabbed Waldo by the elbow. "Everyone, please close your eyes and count to three," I said. "One ... two..." Those who weren't hypnotized still stared at us.

So much for that trick.

I looked out the window and gasped like a soap-opera star just before a commercial. "Look, it's ... it's ... the Mighty Maguffin!"

That did it. As everybody turned to look, I stumbled rubber-legged into the hall, with Waldo in tow. We waded through the thick carpeting toward (I hoped) the door. I wished I'd left a trail of bread crumbs.

"W-what's the big idea?" said Waldo. "I was a hit. I was killing that audience."

"Yeah. And if you'd stayed, they would've killed
you.
"

Waldo pouted. I staggered. We came to a fork in the hallway—right or left?

"Which way's it gonna be, buster?" someone said. I stepped forward.

"Natalie!" I cried.

She leaned against the wall of the right-hand corridor with an easy smirk. "Well, it ain't Trey Bien, the French Fried Potato Bug," said Natalie.

Angry voices clamored behind us.

"Sounds like I'm just in time to save your bacon," she said. "Good thing I followed you. I had a feeling..."

"Hold that feeling," I said. "And let's go!"

She pointed along the right passageway, and we trotted down its winding length.

"Does all this have something to do with Zombie Central?" asked Natalie. She flapped just above us—the hallway was that wide.

"Yup," I said. "Waldo was right. Fred-o is the zombie master, and he's tricked these poor weasels into helping him."

Waldo gaped. "I was right?"

"They're using video games to turn kids into zombies—stealing their souls somehow."

"Me?" said Waldo. He grinned hugely. "I was right?"

"This ain't no time for ticker tape parades, furball. We gotta find the door, pronto!"

We skidded around a corner—
whumpf!
—right into a tall weasel wearing a white lab coat. Round glasses covered his eyes, and a fancy stethoscope
dangled from his neck. Even though we'd bumped him, the weasel stayed as calm and unruffled as a cement pond.

Sammy's dad! He'd soon put a stop to this spooky business.

"Uh, Mr. Weasel," I said.

"That's
Viesél,
" he replied in a voice smooth as fresh chocolate milk.

"You don't know me, but I'm Sammy's friend."

He nodded and smiled. "Mmm, indeed?"

Voices echoed down the hall, drawing closer.

"Listen, this evil muskrat zombie master has corrupted your kids. He's using them to turn my classmates into zombies. You gotta stop it."

Mr. Viesél's bristly eyebrows inched up slightly. "He's corrupting my children? Well, well." For a concerned father, he didn't look too concerned.

"Chet's telling the truth," said Natalie.

The tall weasel nodded again. His bushy tail twitched. "Oh, I believe him," he said, "except for one small detail."

I frowned. "What's that?" I asked.

"You see, my children are corrupting Fred-o." Mr. Viesél's glasses twinkled. "And actually,
I'm
the zombie master."

Darn.

He reached for us, grinning like Dracula's dentist on National Cavity Day. Behind us, shouts rang in the hall, "There they are!"

Once again, my gecko reflexes saved me. Almost before I could think, I found myself halfway up the wall, scrambling out of reach.

The tall weasel tried to follow, but he slid back down the smooth surface and landed with a thump. "Oh, bother!" he said.

Natalie flapped airborne. In the confusion, Waldo slipped past Mr. Viesél and trucked on down the hall, top hat and all.

Our pursuers appeared: The big muskrat and several weasels.

Mr. Viesél barked orders. "Fred-o, Shi-Shi, and Sylvester," he said, "go get that ... that—whatever it is." He pointed in the direction Waldo had taken. The muskrat and two weasels trotted off.

I climbed farther up the wall. Natalie perched on a nearby chandelier.

"Sheena and Santiago," said Mr. Viesél, "go fetch the zombies. Sammy, you stay with me."

Natalie raised an eyebrow. "Shi-Shi, Sylvester, Sheena, and Santiago?" she muttered. "What kind of cruel dad are you?"

"I heard that," said Mr. Viesél. He and Sammy glared up at us. Their eyes were colder than the Ice Queen's tootsies. "Don't mock my family," he growled. "Family is everything."

"So," said Sammy. "The great detective and his partner, caught like cockroaches in a roach motel."

"Hah!" I said. "You haven't got your hands on us yet." I sneered at him. I can give good sneer when the occasion demands. "You're quite the little actor, Sammy boy. I almost fell for it."

Mr. Viesél rubbed his paws together. "Enough chatter. Soon I will steal your immortal souls, so you might as well surrender and make it easy on yourselves."

I crawled farther along the wall, away from Natalie. The weasels followed.

"If we're making things easy," I said, "then why not tell me why you're turning Emerson Hicky into Zombieville?"

The tall weasel chuckled. "Why not, indeed?" he said. "We're actually doing the parents and teachers a service."