Disaster Diaries_Cursed! Read online

  •  irritability and bullying tendencies?

  •  sweaty palms, slipperier than a wet noodle?

  •  jerky muscle movements, like that one time you saw your parents “dancing” and almost called the hospital?

  •  the sensation that if you stopped moving you might turn into a statue and be encased in stone forever, with your only companions the pigeons that come and sit on your head?

  You do? Oh … I’m sorry about that. I’m just going to slowly edge away from you now.… Good luck.

  * * *

  Soon, they made it to the park and waited at the steel gates, their usual spot. Only a couple of minutes later, Emmie came rushing around the corner, Phoebe Bowles in tow.

  “Hey, Emmie,” Sam laughed, “brought a friend?”

  Emmie grumbled. Somehow, however hard she tried, Emmie never seemed to be able to shake Phoebe despite the fact that they were complete opposites: Emmie was an action star, and Phoebe was the primmest girl you could ever meet. This time, Phoebe had brought along her Chihuahua, Glitterpuff, who yapped and growled approximately every thirty seconds.

  “Apparently,” Emmie huffed.

  “Have you, like, seen all the gross people in this town?” Phoebe interrupted. “They seriously need a Makeover Monday. What’s with all the spots?”

  Sam was about to reply when his nose was assaulted by Phoebe’s overpowering scent. It was like a cosmetic shop made of oranges and limes and lemons had exploded all over her. She was practically a one-woman fruit bowl.

  “Urm, I don’t know,” he managed, gasping for fresh air. “But I’m beginning to think something bad is going down.”

  “I agree,” Emmie said. “Even Great Aunt Doris is ill. And she hasn’t had so much as a sniffle since the Great Goose Flu Panic of 1935.”

  Sam nodded thoughtfully. Things were looking strange for the young Sitting Duckers—something was definitely amiss. It wasn’t just Sam’s nose that was tingling; it was his hero sensors as well.

  As if on cue, a whirring noise like an angry metallic cat screeched overhead. Glitterpuff barked hysterically and ran in circles. The kids looked up and saw a huge helicopter dashing above them. Then it was followed by another, and another. Back down below, an ambulance scrambled past, and a huge khaki-green army truck raced behind it followed by a host of other emergency services vehicles. Sam, Arty, and Emmie looked at one another with a mix of horror and excitement.

  “What’s going on?” Emmie cried.

  “I don’t know,” said Sam. “But we’re going to find out!”

  They packed up their things and raced after the convoy heading to the center of town. Phoebe snatched up Glitterpuff and darted after them.

  “Wait for me,” she cried. “My yoga class starts in five minutes.…”

  But Sam, Arty, and Emmie didn’t care about yoga. They’d had enough saving-the-day experience to know that something bad was afoot. (To clarify, afoot means “happening.” Not the actual five-toed foot at the end of your leg. All right. Moving on.) Sam led them through the streets, crossing under bridges and hopping over walls, intercepting the convoy of ambulances and army trucks at every turn.

  “They’re heading to the hospital,” he cried as a helicopter whooshed overhead. “This way!”

  As they reached the outskirts of the huge hospital complex, they saw that the whole place was a hive of activity. The entire parking lot had been covered with giant plastic tents in bright colors. Cops and doctors swarmed around like angry bees and army personnel strutted their stuff. Helicopters landed and took off with alarming speed, and green army jeeps piled into view. Sam could smell the scent of disinfectant wafting on the breeze.

  “Whoa!” said Arty. “I haven’t seen Sitting Duck mobilize like this since … ever!”

  “It looks like disease control of some sort,” Emmie guessed, eyeing the medical supplies. “What if there’s another outbreak of Goose Flu? I’m not ready to start growing feathers!”

  “In that case, we need to figure out what’s happening,” said Sam. “And fast!”

  Sam, Arty, and Emmie edged forward to where the army convoys had screeched to a halt and medical tents had been set up. Phoebe, bewildered, clutched Glitterpuff tight. Almost immediately, a gruff-looking soldier with a jaw like a shovel stopped them in their tracks.

  “No entry, kids,” he barked.

  “But … what’s going on?” Sam asked.

  “That is classified information. Civilians will be informed if necessary.”

  Sam stepped back. He wasn’t about to take that lying down. He was about to take that standing up and sneaking around. He gave the soldier a friendly salute and yanked the others away.

  “This way!” he whispered.

  Because Sitting Duck had a bad habit of being useless in the face of a crisis, the whole place was in chaos. Together, they skirted the edges of the cordon and moved away from where the bulk of the soldiers were to find themselves a quiet spot. The place was lined with police tape, but the kids easily ducked that and made their way into the tented area.

  “What are we doing?” Phoebe moaned. “I need to get to yoga!”

  Emmie shushed her as they crept alongside one of the giant plastic tents.

  “Look,” Sam said. “In there.”

  The four kids peered around the opening of the tent. Inside, a laboratory was set up with a lot of complex equipment whirring away. Right in the center of the space, three people in bright yellow hazmat suits spoke in hushed tones. They looked like canaries about to go on a space mission. The kids leaned in farther to hear them talk.

  “It’s spreading like double jam on toast,” the first guy said. “There’s nothing we can do to stop it.”

  “And we don’t even know what it is,” the other replied. “If we don’t find a cure, Sitting Duck is doomed!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sam, Arty, and Emmie looked at one another in alarm. As if they didn’t have enough to worry about, what with homework and school and brushing their teeth twice a day. (Frankly, that seems a little excessive to me.) Now they had to deal with another Sitting Duck problem, or the town wouldn’t survive to see its 351st anniversary.

  Then, right on cue, like the annoying ball of glittery fur that he was, Glitterpuff decided to start yapping and make things a whole lot worse.

  “No, my little prince of loveliness, be quiet!” Phoebe tried.

  But it was no good. Glitterpuff had something to say, and he wanted to say it. I mean, I don’t know exactly what he said because I don’t understand Tiny Dog. (Large Dog is a different story. I’m fluent.) It went something like:

  “Bark, bark, woof, barkety-bark!”

  Phoebe tried to shush him again, but it was too late. The barking pup caused just enough of a ruckus to alert the scientists in their bright yellow hazmat suits. They came rushing from the tent like spacemen running for an intergalactic bus.

  “Hey, kids! You’re not supposed to be here!”

  Sam and friends didn’t waste any time hanging around. They’ve had a lot of practice with escaping, running, fleeing, etc. As the scientists reached for them, they dodged the scientists and sprinted out of the tent and through the hospital cordon. After they’d safely lodged themselves in some bushes for camouflage, they made sure the scientists weren’t following them and then hunkered down to try and figure out what to do.

  “That Chihuahua of yours nearly got us caught!” Emmie hissed.

  “Woof,” he barked but sadly the children also don’t speak Tiny Dog, so they ignored his apology.

  “I’m sorry!” Phoebe said. “But he never listens to me. It’s like we speak different languages.”

  It was exactly like that.

  “Never mind,” Sam said. “We need answers. Let’s go to the Town Hall. My dad will be there, and he can tell us all about what’s going on.”

  The kids untangled themselves from the bushes with only a couple hundred thorns in their butts and made their way across town agai
n. They passed several more green-spotted individuals, looking pale and unwell, and shuddered. Whatever it was, the illness had gained ground.

  * * *

  So, You’re Learning to Speak Dog

  There comes a time in every human’s life that communicating with a dog is necessary. You might not be able to bark fluently, but it’s easy to read your pet’s body language. Keep this handy guide on file for all your pet-talking needs:

  •  Wags tail: “I’m so happy! Happy, happy, happy!”

  •  Sniffs the ground: “Do I smell a squirrel? Or another dog? Or a cat? Or a person? Or you? Or me? Or nothing?”

  •  Lies on the ground and rolls around: “My back itches.”

  •  Points ears up and holds head high: “IS THAT A SQUIRREL?! WHAT IS THAT? I HOPE THAT’S A SQUIRREL!”

  •  Sits in a chair, smokes a pipe, and reads the newspaper: “I am not a dog.”

  Disclaimer: Scientific accuracy unproven

  * * *

  Reaching the Town Hall, they bounded up the steps. Instead of going through the door, they went straight through the giant hole in the side. (Sitting Duck has been through a lot. Not all buildings have fancy decorations like walls and doors, you know.) When inside, they ran up the stairs to the mayor’s room and bumped right into Sam’s dad.

  “Oh, hello,” said Mr. Saunders, with a broad smile on his face. “What brings you here?”

  “Haven’t you seen what’s going on?” Sam asked. “The whole town is in chaos.”

  Mr. Saunders popped his head out of the window and noticed the people wandering around like headless hamsters. He then peered around the office, where a team of plastic-suited health officials sprayed down his belongings with chemicals.

  “Oh yes,” he said. “I thought there was something different around town today.”

  Sam despaired. Sometimes adults had about as much sense as a talking Chihuahua. He spotted a TV in the corner of the office and reckoned a bit of Live Action News would show his dad just how serious things were.

  “Look!”

  He flicked the switch and up popped Jock McGarry, Sitting Duck’s answer to a question nobody asked. He wore a snazzy black suit, had a mustache that jiggled across his top lip like a particularly hairy worm, and a dazzling smile that was so shiny it could be used as a spotlight. McGarry had presented the news for as long as anybody could remember, except he never got it exactly right. When the zombie hordes attacked, he dismissed it as a spot of nasty weather.

  Right now, he was doing a special report from outside the hospital. Doctors ran behind him in panic. Nurses wielded strange medical instruments. And all of them had deadly looking green spots covering their faces. McGarry pulled one person aside for an interview.

  “Nasty cold you got there, sonny,” he began. “What is it? A flu?”

  The green-spotted doctor grabbed McGarry by the striped tie, panic seared across his face. “It’s the worst contagion I’ve ever seen in my life!” he yelled. “This is the end of Sitting Duck. It could be the end of mankind. We’re cursed, gosh darn it all. CURSED!”

  Then the doctor’s face stilled. His limbs began to shake, and his arms shot up into the air. It was like he was doing a bad dance at a wedding or a rowdy pirate jig. His body stopped jerking, and there was a puff of gray smoke. As the smoke faded, it revealed the doctor, his skin now turned gray and his body completely frozen.

  McGarry looked back to the camera, away from the man still frozen beside him. “So, as you can see, it’s all a fuss about nothing folks, just like those fun alien guys and those cuddly spider critters.…”

  Unbeknownst to McGarry, a great big green spot had just appeared on the end of his nose.

  Sam switched off the TV. “See!” he said. “McGarry thinks it’s fine. So it must be a catastrophe!”

  This seemed to snap Sam’s dad to attention. Mr. Saunders puffed out his chest and straightened his tie. “By the ghost of zombies past and present, I think you’re right!” he shouted.

  He sprang into action. Sam had never seen his dad act so decisively. Mr. Saunders yanked the penholder in the middle of his desk, as if it were a lever. The entire desk flipped upside down, exposing a small glass box containing a big red button.

  “Get to safety, kids. I’m activating Emergency Protocol 54-F/Geronimo,” Mr. Saunders boomed. “Oh, and you should cover your ears.”

  “But what about you, Dad?” Sam asked.

  Sam’s dad took off his tie and wrapped it around his forehead. He looked off into the distance and put on his best action-hero voice. “It’s my duty to stay here and protect this town, son, just like all the other times it’s faced danger.”

  Sam, Arty, and Emmie looked at one another, eyebrows raised. They couldn’t remember exactly when Mr. Saunders had helped them save the town when it was being overrun by the past five disasters.

  “Now go!” he said.

  Mr. Saunders slammed his fist down on the glass box, shattering it, and thumped the red button. For a moment, there was stillness, but then an alarm rang out that could have reawakened the dinosaurs. Sam hesitated, but the others yanked him away.

  “He’ll be fine!” Arty said.

  “Yeah,” Emmie agreed. “He clearly has that hero vibe the same as you!”

  Sam supposed they were right. He nodded, and the four of them sprinted out of there as fast as their little legs could manage.

  “Where are we going, guys?” Emmie asked as they ran out into the street.

  “Just follow me,” said Arty. “I’ve been preparing for this moment all my life.…”

  Sam, Emmie, and Phoebe were puzzled but had no other choice than to follow Arty. Thousands of residents swarmed about in the streets, all terrified by the high-pitched emergency alarm that was blaring through the town. Sam hadn’t seen a crush like it since Phoebe Bowles fell in love with Arty’s brother. No, seriously, though. By crush, I mean a LOT of people all piling into one another. There are multiple meanings of the word crush, you know. Look it up if you don’t believe me.

  The kids grabbed one another’s hands and formed a human chain to keep themselves from being swept away by the tide of spotted residents, all shaking with illness. Whatever the disease was, it had firmly taken over Sitting Duck.

  “Hold on tight, guys,” said Arty as he led the way.

  Sam felt his grip loosen on Phoebe. Several twitching townsfolk crushed against them, and he only just managed to hold on. Phoebe began to twist and turn, and Sam realized she was actually trying to get away from him.

  “What are you doing?” he yelled. “We’ve got to get to safety!”

  “You don’t understand,” she replied. “I’m going to be really late for yoga.…” Sam tried to keep hold, but it was no use. Phoebe ripped her hand free and took off in the other direction.

  “No! Come back—” Sam began, but it was no use. Phoebe’s love of stretching like a clown’s balloon was going to get her ill. Or worse. (Cue the dramatic music; I suggest the theme from the 1986 classic Horror in the Hair Salon. It has a lovely beat.)

  He felt a tugging on his other arm, as Emmie dragged him in the other direction. Something told him she was less bothered to see Phoebe go.

  They scuttled their way out through the crush and into a side street to catch their breath.

  “So what now, big brain?” Emmie asked. “How do we survive this one?”

  Arty smiled and said three words. “Awesome. Emergency. Bunker!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  In a little corner of Sitting Duck sat Arty Dorkins’s house. And behind that house was a garden as boring as you could imagine: grass, shed, tree—all pleasant and proper. But, underneath that garden, below the soil and the worms and the buried secrets and the hidden treasure, was a surprise bigger than them all.

  “This way!” Arty yelled. “Help me find it.…”

  Sam, Arty, and Emmie crouched down on the grass. He told them they were looking for a daisy. But not just any daisy. This daisy had
yellow leaves and a white center, instead of white leaves and a yellow center. It was one in a million, but if they found it, they’d be saved. Arty had made it unique for security purposes, but as it turned out, it was quite hard to locate in a crisis.

  After several minutes of scanning the ground, Sam clenched his fist in delight. “Got it!” he cried. You see, he wasn’t a hero for nothing.

  Arty rushed over and examined the tiny flower. “That’s it, all right,” he said. “Stand back.”

  Arty tugged at the daisy and something amazing happened. Because it wasn’t just a normal daisy, oh no! Instead, it was a switch. And when Arty pulled the switch, the ground gave way and a set of stairs appeared from nowhere.

  “Holy smokes!” Sam cried. “What is this thing?”

  “This is where we wait out the end of the world,” Arty said proudly.

  Sam, Arty, and Emmie barreled down the stairs until they reached a giant steel door. Arty punched in the code, did a pirouette, picked his nose, stuck out his tongue, and counted backward down from ten in French.

  “It’s a very sophisticated lock system,” he explained.

  A loud bleep sounded from the lock, and then the steel door swung open. A whoosh of air thwacked them in the face, and the kids rushed inside the mysterious bunker, the door shutting behind them with a dull thud.

  Sam and Emmie both stared, wide-eyed.

  “WHOA!” they said in unison.

  What they saw was pretty cool, I have to admit. I’ve seen my fair share of emergency end-of-the-world bunkers (in fact, I’m in one right now—top-secret location, obviously), but the one Arty had created topped them all.

  It had concrete walls and steel beams to keep it safe from attack, and it contained all the survival necessities anyone could need, including food, beds, water, Ping-Pong tables, and a lifetime supply of smooth peanut butter.

  “Where was this place when the aliens attacked and the spiders were trying to kill us?” Emmie asked.