 THE ANNOUNCEMENT
ACROSS THE SEA and hundreds of years later, Tyler Gerard was in another tight situation. It was one of his worst predicaments ever, and all depended on his remaining calm.
The room was freezing. Every surface was granite, with the exception of a thick glass door leading to a snowy terrace on one side, and a huge sliding wood door on the opposite wall.
Every sound made in the cavern was stretched into weird, drawn-out echoes that blended in to one another. Rivulets of ice seeped from the ceiling, crawling like glistening veins along the bumpy stone walls down to the floor.
Ratpile. Rat Pile. The name fit perfectly. Tyler was meeting the notorious Silas Ratpile face-to-face for the first time. He had hoped that this occasion would take place under much different circumstances, such as watching Ratpile being led away in handcuffs. But here Tyler was, held captive in this frigid cave, while Ratpile paced back and forth like a hungry beast. Ratpile grunted as he hefted his bulk clumsily through the wintry cold air. His black corduroy suit, an ocean of musty fabric that was bursting at the seams, whistled musically as he ambled about.
Ratpile halted his march and pivoted on one heel. He bent forward to focus on his prey. His thin nose twitched, rodentlike, as his watery little eyes focused on Tyler’s. The wrinkles, which started just above Ratpile’s furrowed eyebrows, reached almost all the way to the top of his bald head, and his mouth was drawn into an exaggerated frown. Little puffs of steam blew out of his nostrils, giving him the appearance of a bull that was ready to charge. A few of these puffs drifted so close to Tyler that he could smell them… what had Ratpile’s latest feeding involved? Garlic? Boiled eggs? Overcooked cabbage?
Probably some revolting combination of the three. Ratpile seemed blissfully unaware of the rotten stench emitting from his lungs and pores.
“Face it, kid,” Ratpile sneered in a high-pitched voice that didn’t match his body, “the game is over. You are going to give me the code now. If you don’t, I will detonate the charges and cause the avalanche. Hundreds will die.”
Tyler thought about the resort below, now at the peak of its season. He pictured the ski school, bustling with the tiniest of beginners. The children would be bundled up in their warmest snowsuits with their arms sticking out, looking like cute little rosy-cheeked penguins. He thought about all of the mothers and fathers completely unaware that this evil man had carved out his hideaway in the undeveloped side of this huge mountain. With any luck, Tyler’s friend Brandon would have been able to defuse the explosives, removing the innocents from harm’s way, but Tyler had to assume the worst and figure out a way to stop this madman.
“Your threats won’t work on me, Ratpile,” said Tyler. “Not even you could be coldhearted enough to do that to those people. And besides, if I gave you the code,thousands would die.”
A smile crept across the villain’s face. It was a malicious grin that tested the limits of his thin lips as they stretched to reveal a set of pasty yellow teeth too big for his mouth. “Coldhearted, you say? Who in the world do you think you’re talking to? I liveup here. I sleep up here without a blanket! I love the cold. So don’t fool yourself into thinking that there is a limit to what I will do to get the code from you. The avalanche will start about fifty yards below my little viewing platform, and I will force you and your friend to witness the destruction.”
Tyler flinched at the words “your friend,” and Silas Ratpile noticed.
“Oh, yeah, didn’t I tell you? My guards caught him playing with the avalanche charges.” Turning toward the heavy wooden door, Ratpile whistled sharply. The door rumbled along its steel rollers, revealing an opening about eight feet wide. Two thin men wearing trench coats and sunglasses entered, each holding one of Brandon’s arms. They threw him to the cold floor.
“Sorry, Ty,” said Brandon, rising and brushing himself off. “I don’t know how they found me."
Ratpile was obviously delighted with the way the situation was developing. He rubbed his hands together and chuckled with childish glee. “And here’s my favorite part. After you two watch the village disappear under a couple of thousand tons of snow, I’m going to let you spend some time with my winter dogs! Uh, gentlemen?” He turned to the guards. “Would you be so kind?”
The two men wordlessly left the room. Moments later, a giant wheeled cage filled the entrance, the guards pushing it from behind. Inside the cage were the most horrific beasts Tyler had ever seen.
“The three winter dogs, I call them,” Ratpile cooed. “Their names are Alpha, Beta, and Gamma.”
The “dogs” paced back and forth, their toenails sounding like hammers rapping on the steel floor of their pen. They were not ordinary dogs, though. First of all, they were freakishly tall: about five feet. They were hairless, and beneath their tight veined skin rippled some unnaturally large and well-defined muscles. Their eyes were a washed-out, reddish color. When one dog turned toward Tyler, the flesh covering its mouth peeled back, trembling. The animal’s set of razor-sharp teeth the size of sniper bullets dripped with ropes of shiny, slimy drool. Its jaws clamped onto one of the thick steel bars, which indented from the immense pressure.
“Their mommies and daddies were wolves,” explained Ratpile breathlessly, “but I did a lot of work on them to sort of spruce up their DNA. Now they are unstoppable killing machines. My unstoppable killing machines. They have cold blood running through their veins, so they don’t need furry coats. Just like me.” He paused, as if expecting somebody to laugh at his joke. Shrugging, he continued, “And you two fellows are going to be their lunch after the snow show. That is, unless you give me the code, in which case you go free.”
“No deal. You can’t be trusted, Ratpile. Forget about the code.” Tyler’s mind was racing. Days earlier, he had carefully sewn a length of piano wire along the seam of his pants. The guards had missed it when they had frisked him. Will that wire be enough, though, to take out those monstrous wolf things? he thought. Or even to subdue oneof them? Probably not. And even if it is enough, Brandon and I will still have to deal with Ratpile and his goons!
Tyler wondered if Brandon had been able to hang on to the gas pellets he sometimes carried with him. That would be very helpful.
“You might as well do what you’re going to do or admit you’re bluffing,” said Tyler, “because I will not compromise the whole country’s safety by letting you have access to that code.”
Ratpile’s face hardened into an expression of ruthless determination. “I don’t bluff,” he squeaked. “If you believe that I’m kidding around, you are gambling with your life and you will lose. I will give you one minute to reconsider about the code, and then I will move decisively. Believe it.”
Tyler did believe that this guy meant business, but giving Ratpile the code was out of the question. He decided to use his minute of silence to brainstorm; he desperately needed to figure out a way to save himself, his best friend, and the skiing village without giving up the acutely sensitive information. The problem, of course, was the sociopathic Silas Ratpile. He was a man with no remorse. He cared about nothing in the world except for himself. There would need to be a way to make the man hold off his plan for selfish reasons.
He glanced over at Brandon, who was nodding almost imperceptibly. Yes, Tyler thought, Brandon still has the gas pellets.
“Time’s up!” announced Ratpile. “I must tell you I’m very disappointed. I was hoping you would have a normal sense of self-preservation.” He stared at Brandon, then at Tyler, as if to give them one last chance to reconsider. “Oh, well,” he sighed. “Let’s go make an avalanche.”
Ratpile strolled casually toward the glass door leading outside. Pushing the door open, he swung his arm in a theatrical gesture of direction. “Right this way, boys.” The two guards approached Tyler and Brandon, ready to force them out onto the terrace.
It was even colder outside. The wind lapped angrily at every bit of exposed skin on Tyler’s face and hands. The terrace was about fifteen feet by fifteen feet, with no safety rails. Safety didn’t seem to be a priority for this particular maniac.
Tyler slid his hand down to his hip. He pretended to be nervously rubbing his leg but was actually feeling around for the piano wire. Finally, it jabbed the palm of his hand. He stopped rubbing and pinched the wire with his thumb and forefinger. He tugged about three inches of the wire loose from his jeans, wrapped that section around his finger, and then peeled off a couple more inches.
Snow was falling, but it was too light and fine to obscure the goings-on below. The deck of the lodge was packed with resting skiers enjoying lunch and hot cocoa. Little kids were carefully ambling sideways up the bunny slope. The serpentine trails spanning the mountain’s groomed face were dotted with vacationers zigzagging down the slope.
Silas Ratpile cleared his throat and raised his wireless detonator. It was the size and shape of a can of tennis balls, with a thick plastic button protruding from the top. “Now, boys, witness what your stubbornness has done to all of these poor folks.”
“Wait!” shouted Tyler. “I can’t let you do it! If you put that thing down, I’ll give you the code.”
“Nice try, kid. I’m not letting go of the detonator. Just tell me the code right now.”
“What about your guards? Do you want to share the power with them? Do you want them to know the code as well?”
Silas Ratpile seemed to contemplate this question, eyeing his accomplices as if to consider whether they could be trusted. The two men shifted uncomfortably. Ratpile looked back at Tyler. “Approach me slowly, and then whisper it to me.”
Tyler gently nudged Brandon’s elbow with his own and uttered beneath his breath,“Feed those dogs.”
Keeping his gaze fixed on Ratpile’s face, Tyler took three tentative steps forward. Then, suddenly, Ratpile’s eyes widened. His mouth formed a perfect little circle as he sharply drew his breath in surprise. Behind Tyler, the two guards began to yell. Obviously, Brandon had delivered a gas pellet.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Tyler rushed toward Silas Ratpile, yanking the piano cord completely free from the hem of his pants. He wound the loose end around his free hand and lunged. He managed to wrap the wire completely around the man’s broad shoulders and quickly position himself behind him.
Tyler leaned over the steep drop beyond the edge of the platform and strained to drag the man over with him. He was unable, though, to pull Ratpile off of his footing, and all would be lost if they remained higher than the explosives.
Tyler spun without releasing the wire and faced in the same direction as Ratpile. He braced his feet against the rim of the platform so he could try to pull the villain backward, throwing all of his own weight into it. Ratpile remained immobile, and he started to laugh at Tyler’s futile efforts.
From this new perspective, Tyler could see inside the cave, where the gas was erupting at full steam. The winter dogs were lying motionless on the floor of their cage. Brandon was preparing to drop another pellet, this one outside, and the guards were running in either direction to dive off of the platform.
Anybody remaining on the platform, even outdoors, when the pellet hit the floor would not survive the fumes. Tyler needed to pull the big criminal off of the platform, but he had badly underestimated the man’s weight and strength. Brandon saw this and thought fast. “Yo, Silas,” he hollered. As Ratpile looked up, Brandon faked throwing the pellet directly at him. This caused Ratpile’s balance to falter just enough. Tyler won the tug-of-war, and he and Ratpile toppled over the edge.
After a twenty-foot free fall, Tyler hit the snow first. Ratpile landed heavily on top of him, badly knocking Tyler’s wind out. The momentum pulled them downward, and they tumbled helplessly down the steep slope. Tyler saw stars the whole way, and he struggled to breathe as snow filled his nose, mouth, and clothing.
They stopped rolling well past the explosive charges. Ratpile was, incredibly, still clutching the detonator.
“You won’t do it, Ratpile. I know you,” panted Tyler. “After all, where’s your ‘normal sense of self-preservation’ now? You’d never cause an avalanche if you were in its path.”
Ratpile appeared blinded with rage. “You are going to tell me that code,” he snarled through gritted teeth, “or I will bury you in the snow right here and then climb back up to finish what I set out to do.”
“You won’t have time to do that,” retorted Tyler, “because you are about to disappear. I can hear my mother calling me.”
“What on Earth are you talking about, you little punk?”
“I can hear my mother calling me. I’m about to wake up. And when I do, this dream will be over, and you will disappear. You are nothing but a figment of my imagination, and this is just a dream.”
A ripple of confusion spread across Ratpile’s face, replacing the fury. “What do you mean, a dream?” His face began to waver out of focus.
Tyler smiled. “Just wait.”
The snow-covered madman seemed to panic as he started to melt away. The sound of his shouts and of the wind began to die down.
“Tyler!” called Mrs. Gerard as the whole scene faded to black. “Time to wake up!”
It was just a dream.
The snow was gone, the mountain was gone, and Silas Ratpile was gone. Tyler Gerard’s eyes fluttered open, and his safe, comfortable bedroom swam into focus. Tyler stretched out in his soft, warm sheets and sighed contentedly.
* * *
After briefly reliving his dream, trying to recall and savor all of the details, Tyler found himself in a great mood. He had a lot to be happy about: it was a Saturday morning, and he was cozy in his bed. The fresh springtime air blowing gently through the window filled his head with wonderful thoughts about summer vacation. In two weeks, Tyler would complete the seventh grade at Eisenhower Elementary School, and his plans for the next two and a half months included… absolutely nothing.
Many people might have been concerned about having such an empty schedule, but Tyler saw it differently. It was a summer of endless possibilities. He could do almost anything he wanted to do (anything his parents would allow, anyway). He could learn a new sport, build a tree house, organize a parade…. The possibilities were as limitless as his imagination.
It was going to be a great summer.
“Tyler!” called his mother from the bottom of the stairs. “Now Brandon is here to see you, honey. You really need to get out of bed. It’s beautiful outside!”
“OK, Mom!” replied Tyler. “I’m already awake. Could you let Brandon come up to my room?”
It was obvious that Brandon hadn’t waited to be asked, for Tyler could hear him noisily bounding up the stairs already. It was OK; Brandon Giles was Tyler’s best friend. The two boys had known each other since before either could remember. Brandon even had a picture of them together from when they were newborns. Tyler’s mom and Mrs. Giles had been good friends for a long time, and the boys were born days apart from each other, in the same hospital.
Sometimes, Tyler’s parents had teased him, saying that they had switched him with Brandon in the hospital as infants “because it would be ‘a hoot.’” After a few years of growing increasingly tired of this teasing, Tyler had struck back. One day, when he was about ten years old, Tyler was angry about being forbidden to see a movie with some friends because it was rated PG-13. He had suggested to his mother, “Maybe you should switch me back with Brandon so Mrs. Giles can let me see the movie.” This had finally stopped the nursery-swap teasing.
The reason the switched-at-birth gag had been so persistent was that Tyler and Brandon were alike in a lot of ways. They were almost equal in height (Brandon was only half an inch taller), and they weighed the same. Both had brown eyes and sandy blonde hair, although Tyler’s hair was a couple of shades darker. The most obvious physical differences between the two were man-made: while Tyler had 20/20 vision and naturally straight teeth, Brandon needed to wear thick hornrimmed glasses, and a plastic retainer that had just replaced a mouthful of braces.
Brandon and Tyler also liked the same things. They spent much of their time talking about or playing baseball. They both loved video games and rock and roll, but above all, they were fascinated by every kind of adventure—or adventure story—known to man.
Still lying in his bed, Tyler propped himself up on one elbow and watched Brandon stumble into the room. Brandon was out of breath, had a nasty case of bedhead, and was sweating profusely. He looked as though he had been chased across town and up Tyler’s stairs by a rabid grizzly bear.
“Hi, Ty,” he panted. “I just ran all the way over here. I have to show you something now! Is your laptop turned on?”
Tyler gave Brandon a confused look. What could be so important that it had to be told in person? Brandon was always great at coming up with crazy things to do. That was part of the reason why Tyler was so excited to have no plans for the summer…. His best friend was always the man with a plan. Judging from the look on Brandon’s face, Tyler figured that this one must be a biggie.
“Yeah, my laptop’s on.” said Tyler. “Did you uncover a web site that shows kids how to fly, or something? You seem pretty excited.”
Brandon calmed down a little and folded his arms. “Nope. Nothing about flying. But it’s something real, something that’s actually happening, and it is just about as good as learning how to fly. Let me give you a hint…. Can you say Professor Fielding Atlas?”
“Ohhh…kay,” replied Tyler, narrowing his eyes. “Something about Professor Atlas. You definitely have my attention now. What’s up?”
Tyler and Brandon were highly interested in everything having to do with Professor Fielding Atlas. Professor Atlas described himself, on his web site, as a “global explorer who knows no limits.” The boys’ favorite pastime was reading about Professor Atlas’s many incredible adventures. It seemed that Atlas had been to every interesting corner of the globe, and in each place, he made amazing discoveries while escaping great peril. He was always using his special skills and knowledge to free himself from tricky situations. In other words, he had a life that any seventh grader would kill to have. There were some who thought that the stories were all fiction and that the professor was a phony, but Tyler and Brandon were full believers. Professor Fielding Atlas was their hero.
“Go to the web site,” said Brandon. “Everything is explained right there.”
Tyler finally rolled out of bed and plopped down at his desk. He tapped on the spacebar of his laptop, and the web site, “Professor Fielding Atlas’s World of Adventure,” flashed onto the screen. Tyler left his computer on this site at all times for occasions such as this one. He wanted to always be able to check in on the professor at a moment’s notice. Right away, Tyler spotted something new on the site: a banner, in the lower left-hand corner of the page, announcing, “Hey, Atlas fans! What are YOUR plans for this summer?”
Brandon was looking over Tyler’s shoulder now, his arms still folded. “Go ahead, click it,” he said, knowing that Tyler must already have spotted this new link on the homepage. After all, anybody calling himself a true Atlas fan knew the look of this web site by heart.
Tyler moved slowly, allowing himself to enjoy the feeling of not knowing what he was about to discover, but knowing that it was going to be… awesome. He allowed the cursor to float over the word “fans” for a couple of seconds, and then… he clicked.
“Tyler!” shrilled his mother’s voice from downstairs again. “It’s time for breakfast. Why don’t you ask Brandon to join us, if he hasn’t eaten yet?”
“In a minute, Mom! I just have to see something up here first.”
Tyler gave Brandon a shrug before turning back to the computer. Neither boy cared too much about breakfast at the moment; there was Atlas business that needed their attention.
On the screen, in big, red block letters, appeared the announcement:
“THIS COULD BE YOUR GREATEST SUMMER VACATION EVER! IT’S A ONCE-IN-A-LIFETIME CHANCE TO LIVE LIKE THE PROFESSOR!”
Tyler’s heart started pounding. Live like the professor? Now THAT would be a dream come true! He read on.
Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls! We are hereby announcing that your favorite adventurer, Professor Fielding Atlas, is looking for some help! For the five weeks starting July 10th, Professor Atlas will be studying a site in England upon which a medieval castle once stood. He is inviting two fellow explorers to come along and assist him in this effort. After giving a test to see who has what it takes to be “a global explorer who knows no limits,” Professor Atlas will personally select his two assistants. It all takes place at ten a.m. on Saturday, June 2nd, in the gymnasium of Eisenhower Elementary School. All applicants must arrive in pairs. But be warned! Professor Atlas’s test will be a tough one, and only the real Atlas fans will have a chance!
This announcement, and even the possibility of going on a trip with the Fielding Atlas, was much better than anything Tyler would have dared to imagine. “You’ve gotta be kidding me!” he shouted. “This is the greatest thing I’ve ever heard of! It soundsamazing! But something like this… There’ll be hundreds of people trying out, and we’ve only got a week to get ready for it! Do you think we’d even have a chance? And what about our parents? Do you think they’d ever let us do this?”
Brandon rubbed his chin, deep in thought. Now he seemed less like a kid trying to avoid becoming grizzly bear food and more like one trying to work out a baffling riddle. “Um… I don’t know. I mean, yeah, I definitely think we’d have a chance… a really good chance, in fact. Nobody knows more about Professor Atlas than we do. Whatever test he’s giving… we’d do better than anyone else. And about our parents… Well, I know that if we beat out all those other people to get this, my mom and dad would never… y’know, let me get so disappointed by saying I couldn’t go. I’m sure your parents would be the same way. And besides, it’d be totally safe. There would probably be lots of supervision. It would be just like summer camp, only in another country.”
Tyler stood up from his desk so he could put his hands on his friend’s shoulders and look him in the eye. “Brandon,” he said, “it’s not me you need to convince, Buddy. I’m in. We just gotta… and I mean gotta… figure out how to make this happen. And I think you’re on to something. Let’s just go down to the school next week and try to get selected. Then after that, we can worry about getting permission to go.”
Brandon folded his arms again as Tyler took his hands off of his shoulders. “Right. Cool. That’s how we have to do it. Oh, wow, could you imagine? We have to win this. I feel like… like now there is no way we could have a good summer without getting to do this.”
Tyler suddenly felt that they needed to start testing their “Atlas I.Q.” right away. “Pop quiz! What did Professor Atlas use to escape from the vine maze in the Congo?”
“That’s easy,” shot back Brandon, “a magnifying glass and a slingshot. How about this one… Where does he record all of his findings?”
“Duh… The Book of Ancient Legends. Ummm… Where was he born?”
“Oregon. How did he defeat the polar bear in Greenland?”
“He hypnotized that sucker! I’ve got one… What kind of fighting—”
“Tyler!” yelled Mrs. Gerard from downstairs once more. “Your breakfast is getting cold!”
“OK, Mom, we’re on our way!” Then, turning back to Brandon, Tyler continued, “What kind of fighting technique did he learn in Korea?”
“Kung Jung Mu Sul. Face it, Ty, we really know a lot about the professor. We should keep brushing up all week, but we can’t let this chance get away from us.”
“You got that right,” said Tyler. “Now let’s go grab some breakfast!”
Continues... |
|
No comments:
Post a Comment