Disaster Diaries_Cursed! Page 4

  Phoebe looked around her, without a care in the world.

  “The what?” she asked.

  “The end of the world, the Sailor’s Sleep curse?”

  Phoebe looked around her. “Oh … I thought things seemed a little quieter today than, like, usual.”

  Emmie cried out in exasperation, but Sam and Arty just giggled.

  “I was at yoga,” Phoebe continued. “Then I, like, went to the spa, for some pampering? Which to be honest, it looks like you could do with.”

  Emmie balled her fists in anger. “What. Are. You. Talking. About?” she said through gritted teeth.

  “See for yourself,” Phoebe said, holding up a small compact mirror.

  Emmie peered into it and let out a little gasp. Right on the end of her nose was a tiny green spot, which was just beginning to grow.…

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Emmie laughed and looked nervously around at the others.

  “It’s n-not the curse,” she said, unsure of herself for once. “It’s just a zit, you know. A friendly green zit. I get them all the time. They’re green because, erm, I eat a lot of spinach…?”

  Sam raised an eyebrow—he wasn’t so sure. In fact, he was downright worried for one of his best friends. To be honest, I’d be pretty worried, too. That green spot looked a lot like something you’d get if you had the Sailor’s Sleep curse. But then again, I also don’t want to disagree with Emmie, because she’ll beat me up or something. If she says she’s fine, she’s fine … right?

  “But you hate spinach,” Arty said.

  Sam just nudged him in the ribs. “Shussh, you idiot!”

  Arty got the message and decided to keep quiet, but he wasn’t happy about it. Emmie fidgeted nervously, like a badger in a beehive.

  “Or it’s just a cold,” she said. “Yeah, that’ll be it.”

  Sam nodded, but deep down he knew Emmie was ill. He had to find a way to reverse the curse before it was too late.

  “Well, whatever it is, let’s not stand around yakking about it. We’ve got a world to save!” he said. The others agreed, and together, they set off through their apocalyptic town full of statuesque people to the grand old Sitting Duck Museum, in the hopes of finding the treasure Caruthers had stolen from Merfolk Island.

  The giant, old building was right in the center of Sitting Duck, just by the Town Hall, and housed everything of interest in Sitting Duck. It even had a wing devoted to the zombie hordes and alien invasions of recent years. Frankly, I’d want to forget things like that, but no, not the eccentric museum curator, Mr. Tweedy.

  As they made their way there, an eerie silence haunted them. Emergency vehicles still lined the streets, and a thin drizzle of rain came down, dampening the people turned to living statues by the curse. Finally, they arrived at the museum and made their way up the wide stone stairs, passing tourists and visitors turned to statues, and pushed open the museum doors.

  They entered a large atrium and looked around eagerly, but, not too surprisingly, the treasure wasn’t there. That’s because no one would be dumb enough to leave a ton of gold lying around, not even Mr. Tweedy.

  “So, like, where do we start?” Phoebe asked.

  Arty looked around. “Over here, see,” he said. He pointed toward a large banner advertising the Armitage Caruthers exhibition. “Meet coin collector extraordinaire and owner of Albertus the Duck, the mighty Armitage Caruthers!” Frankly, I find the sign to be an odd choice. Why not mention the many merfolk he vanquished, the treasure he plundered, or, you know, the town he founded?

  “Like, duh,” Phoebe said. “That totally makes sense.”

  “Let’s go,” said Sam.

  Emmie started coughing, and her three friends shot nervous glances her way.

  The kids dodged the ticket collector, who was now still as stone, and ducked under the barrier. As they entered the exhibit, Sam marveled at all the cool artifacts from his hero. This was more like it! One of the walls was lined with portraits of Caruthers and his exploits. In one painting, he was wrestling a giant octopus; in another, he was swimming with dolphins; in a third, he was chatting to his pet duck, Albertus, way up in the crow’s nest of the Silver Mallard. Sam oohed and aahed. Caruthers’s exploits were a joy to behold.

  “Wow!” Sam gasped. “I wish that was me sailing the high seas.”

  He checked out another room, where Caruthers’s portrait stood alongside that of his ancestors. The captain sat proudly, chest puffed out, smirking mischievously for the world to see. Sam noticed that he had one green eye and one brown eye.

  Next to Caruthers were thirty or so other portraits, all of his descendants.

  “Cool,” he gasped. “Maybe I’m descended from Caruthers, too!”

  “I think your dad would have mentioned it,” Arty laughed, scanning his eyes across the pictures. As he peered closer, he noticed something weird about Caruthers and his heirs. The early Caruthers ancestors all had little plaques under each painting claiming that they were mayors or bigwigs or other fancy, rich people, and they wore colorful silk clothes and carried impressive weapons. But over time, the people in the portraits looked less successful. One of them had a mouthful of rotten teeth. Another had a ripped hat and a wooden sword. Eventually, the records stopped about fifty years ago, and then there were no more portraits at all.

  “Aw,” said Sam as they reached the end of the gallery. “Maybe I am descended from him, and it just got lost in time.”

  “But probably not,” Arty said. “I mean, you do have all your teeth!”

  Emmie let out a whistle like a frightened bird, which according to their secret whistling signal meant Come here, now!

  Arty and Sam came running over. Emmie and Phoebe stood outside a door with a sign that read RESTRICTED AREA. Like any good action hero and world-saver, she didn’t let a little thing like a sign put her off.

  “C’mon, guys,” she said, in between a cough and a sneeze. “If the treasure’s anywhere, it’ll be in here.”

  Sam couldn’t help but notice another little green spot had appeared on her forehead. His brow wrinkled with concern, but Emmie pushed open the heavy wooden door before he could say anything, and they all dived inside.

  “For the love of history!” Arty cried. “Still nothing.”

  The kids sighed; once again, there was no treasure to be found. However, they were obviously somewhere official and important, and it didn’t take long before they did find something of interest. There were glass cabinets with the doors flung open, artifacts strewn about the place, and on a huge wooden desk, dusty old parchments lay piled up just waiting to be rummaged through.

  “Maybe there are some clues here,” Arty said. “There’s all sorts of stuff.…”

  He picked up the nearest parchment and whistled. “Whoa … I think we’ve hit the jackpot. This is from Armitage Caruthers himself.… It must be part of his captain’s log!”

  Sam’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. “Lemme see! Lemme see!” he gasped.

  Sure enough, when Arty handed it over, Sam could see that it was an ancient parchment. It was crinkly and brown, as if the paper were about to give way any second. It smelled like the inside of a musty old sock drawer, but that didn’t matter because he distinctly saw the signature of Armitage Caruthers himself, scrawled in ink along the bottom.

  “Quick, what does it say?” Emmie asked.

  Sam cleared his throat. “It says…”

  Captain’s Log:

  Day 20.

  Hello there, log, just me again. How’s your bark? Ha! We do have such jokes. Obviously you don’t have bark. You’re a diary log, not a log log.

  Anywho, I thought I’d update you on some very important developments. Firstly, my big toe seems to have grown by ¾ of an inch. It’s a miracle. I’ve always wanted a large toe and now the day has finally arrived!

  Secondly, I had a rather delicious dinner of dried goat and stewed limes. My crewmates turned their noses up at it. But you know me, if it’s got hooves and
fruit in it, I’ll eat it.

  Thirdly, but of much less importance, there seems to be a curse going around the ship. At first, I thought they were just doing the good old pirate jig, but then the blighters stopped moving and wouldn’t do any work …

  The parchment was cut off midsentence, but the kids looked at one another in alarm.

  “He sounds, like, crazy,” Phoebe said. Glitterpuff yapped in approval.

  “He sounds like fun,” Sam said.

  “He sounds like he knew all about the Sailor’s Sleep curse,” said Arty.

  Emmie coughed and spluttered. She was about to reach for the scroll herself, but her body was convulsed. It looked like she was doing the old pirate jig Caruthers mentioned.

  Finally, she admitted it. “And it looks like I have it, too!”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Emmie let out a little wail and then balled her fists in defiance. Sam and Arty each placed a hand on one of her shoulders. Even Phoebe looked downhearted. Time was running out for Emmie. They had to figure out a way to reverse the curse.

  “We’ll fix this,” Sam said.

  “No doubt,” Arty confirmed.

  “If we, like, have to,” Phoebe chimed in.

  Emmie smiled. If they fought this thing together, she knew they’d beat it. Either that or she’d be spending the rest of her life as a statue, probably getting pooped on by pigeons.

  Suddenly, Glitterpuff let out a shrill yip, and the door to the office slammed shut. The kids watched in horror at the two giant men looming over them. Both of them looked like barrels with legs or rhinoceroses with human faces or hot-air balloons with muscles.… (You get the idea—they were big.) One had a square chin as hard as a hammer. The other had a steely glint in his eyes that said he meant business. And by business, he meant the business of punching.

  “Fellow survivors!” Sam beamed. “We were hoping we weren’t the only ones.…”

  “Sam, I don’t think—” Arty began. But before he could finish, the two men puffed out their chests and each took a step closer to them, their towering forms casting shadows across the kids’ faces.

  “Shut it, you worms,” said one.

  “Yeah. What he said,” said the other.

  The kids looked at one another in fear.

  Arty whispered to Sam: “They’re Slim and Slimmer. They’re guards at the museum.”

  Sam wondered how Arty knew this, but then he remembered his best friend was a huge nerd and liked nothing more than to spend time at museums and libraries. He also wondered how two giant dudes like these guys ended up with names like Slim and Slimmer, and realized it must be a joke. These guys were built like sacks of potatoes.

  “What are you lot doing here?” Slim asked, making a fist.

  “Erm, we’re just admiring the plants,” Emmie said, pointing to a large begonia that stood in the corner of the room. “Isn’t it lo-ve-ly!” she said in a singsong voice that was about the most unusual thing Sam had witnessed all day.

  Phoebe played along. “It’s simply de-vine! What a miracle of nature…”

  Sadly, Slim’s and Slimmer’s large muscles didn’t extend to them also having big brains. They whispered among themselves, wondering what to do with the children. Sam heard them say things like “but the boss didn’t say anything about survivors…” and “maybe we should just bonk them over the head and have done with it,” at which point Sam decided they had to get out of there.

  Sam gave a low whistle. Emmie and Arty nodded. Phoebe didn’t know what the whistle meant, but she nodded along anyway just ’cause she didn’t want to feel left out.

  While Slim and Slimmer bickered like old ladies about what to do with them, Sam, Arty, Emmie, and Phoebe edged their way around the corner of the room. They tiptoed like cat burglars burgling a whole cattery of cats and made it to the door. Sam twisted the knob, and they silently crept out.…

  Glitterpuff let out a yap.

  “Wait a minute!” said Slimmer, who unfortunately spoke Tiny Dog. “Get back here, you slimy toads!”

  The kids made a run for it, sprinting across the shiny wooden floor of the museum. Their legs pumped and their arms flailed and they almost would’ve made it if it weren’t for Armitage Caruthers. Sam, speedy as he was, couldn’t avoid the giant stone statue in the center of the room. Before he knew it, he’d bashed right into it and fell sprawling on the floor. The others turned to help him up, but by then it was too late. They were completely cornered.

  “Gotcha, you slippery eels!” said Slim, grinning wickedly.

  Sam rubbed his sore head and opened his eyes. For a moment, he was pleased as he saw the familiar shapes of Arty, Emmie, and Phoebe come into focus around him. But then his heart sank as he realized he had no idea where he was.

  “What the—?” he began, scrabbling to his feet. “Where are we?”

  “We have no idea,” said Emmie, who by now was covered in green spots. “They blindfolded us and said they were holding us here for ‘safekeeping.’”

  Sam looked around. The walls were wooden, with no windows, and at one end of the room was a giant metal prison door. He let out a whistle.

  “We’re in a pickle this time,” he said.

  “Yeah, no kidding,” Arty agreed.

  Phoebe scolded them both. “I knew I, like, should’ve gone to my dance class instead of hanging out with you guys.”

  Emmie grumbled. She was struggling with the Sailor’s Sleep curse, and her body was starting to turn stiff and gray, but she still managed to take a swipe at Phoebe. “Well, then maybe you should have,” she spat. “Your stupid little rat dog got us caught and nearly did Sam in altogether.”

  “Hey!” Phoebe said. “He’s not a rat dog. He’s a precious wittle wovey dovey cute fluffy wuffy…”

  Phoebe continued in this way for some time, so the others put their minds to work figuring out where they were.

  Arty pointed out something disturbing he’d found in the corner of the room while Sam had been out for the count.

  “Looks like this guy didn’t make it out alive,” Arty said. He pointed at a grisly skeleton in the corner of the room. His clothes hung off what was left of him like rags, his jaunty hat just barely hanging on to his skull.

  “Yikes,” said Emmie. “Poor guy.”

  Sam looked closer and rummaged around in the skeleton’s shirt pocket.

  “Hey, look,” he said. “There’s a letter.…”

  He pulled out an aged piece of paper.

  “‘Dearest Jennifer … I am in prison now, but I will be out of here before thy knowst it,’” Sam read.

  “Yeah, good luck with that, pal,” said Emmie.

  “Shhh,” said Sam. “Look at this. It’s signed by someone called Boatswain Rogers.”

  Suddenly, a heaving motion flung Sam off his feet. He barreled right into the skeleton, sending the bones scattering around the cell. Then the room seemed to crash down again, pinning the children to the floor.

  “What in the name of science?” Arty asked as he was flung about the place like a penny stuck in a washing machine.

  But deep down Arty knew what was in the name of science. After surviving five disasters, he was becoming almost fluent in catastrophe. He put two and two together. Luckily, this time he came up with four.

  “First, the weird wooden cell, then the letter from the boatswain, and now we’re bobbing up and down like kittens in a puddle,” he cried. “It can only mean one thing.…” Then he paused, to add a bit of drama … Then a bit more … Then finally …

  “We’re on board the Silver Mallard! And it’s setting sail!”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Sam’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. He couldn’t believe that he was on the very same ship as Armitage Caruthers, about to sail the high seas. Or, the sea just off Sitting Duck. Or, at the very least, the Leaky Tap River.

  “This is awesome,” he gasped. “I haven’t been this excited since at least last Tuesday.” Sam thought back to last Tuesday. Ah, what a day. Gril
led cheese for lunch and a walk in the park with his dad. When Sam’s not an all-out action hero, he likes the simpler things in life. Which made him think, Maybe I should really get on with the business of getting out of here and saving my parents and one of my best friends.

  “This is so not awesome,” Arty protested. “We don’t even know where we’re going!”

  “And who on Earth is steering this thing?” Emmie asked. “Slim and Slimmer?”

  Sam didn’t have the answers to all these questions, but he was sure as sugar that he was going to find out.

  “Well, let’s get out of this place, then,” he said. “Quick, Arty, do you still have your Swiss Barmy Knife? We could really use a skeleton key right about now.”

  Arty rummaged around in his pocket and pulled out the knife. He flicked through the attachments—colored pencil, magnifying glass, banana—until he eventually alighted on just what he was after.

  “That’s funny,” Arty said, “because I have a skeleton key right here!”

  Arty put the key in the lock and jiggled it around a bit. The creaking, old iron gate screeched like a cat in a tornado, but it was no use. No matter how much he tried, the lock wouldn’t turn. He tried to wrench it one more time, but the key snapped, and he had to fish the remains of it out of the lock.

  “Oh man!” he cried. “What are we going to do now?”

  The kids bobbed up and down as the Silver Mallard sailed to who-knows-where. They all looked green around the gills, apart from Emmie, who was turning an alarming shade of gray as the Sailor’s Sleep took hold.

  “I have an idea,” said Phoebe.

  Sam, Arty, and Emmie turned to her in surprise. Phoebe Bowles didn’t have ideas. Phoebe Bowles usually had complaints or pink glittery hair bands. Phoebe Bowles drank fancy juice and did yoga, and she didn’t notice when apocalypses struck her town. Her favorite juice drink was orange, strangeberry, and banana fizz. Her favorite yoga pose was the Flying Ballerina.