Russ tapped his foot impatiently inside the truck’s cab, and poked his head out the window to look skyward again. Explodington was late. A rustling sound behind him caught his attention, and he climbed quietly out of the truck and tiptoed around to the back. Inside was a handsome Teutonic-looking man wearing a leather jacket and a hat, with a whip attached to his belt. He looked up at Russ.
“Bavaria Schmidt!” said Russ. “We meet again.”
The dark forest beckoned. Sandra could sense there was something wrong in that dense tangle of twisted, shriveled trees, but there was no other way ahead.
“They say it’s cursed,” said Gordon, his powerful frame shuddering as he looked into the woods.
“What are you scared of a forest for?” asked Sandra. “Aren’t you a lumberjack?”
Dr. Heinrich von Weinerschnitzel wiped the sweat from his brow. He was a portly man and inclined to sweating, especially so in moments like these. The dreaded word from the High Command would come any minute, he was sure. They did not suffer failure lightly. Yet hardly any of this was his fault. Some careless handlers had allowed the infected test subject to escape, apparently, which infected the entire Fahrvergnugen Air Base with the experimental virus.
He had acted quickly, sending in a team of werewolves, who apparently were also vulnerable to the virus (who knew?) and were now, by all reports, werewolf zombies, also taking up residence in the abandoned base. Reports, such as they were, were fairly vague, as there were no unzombified survivors on the base save one pilot found unconscious in a plane on the tarmac, who insisted he had no idea what had happened there.
Cassandra stared at the new girl, and the new girl stared back, at both Cassandra and the little party of villagers that had accompanied her.
Before either of them could explain anything, a group of people dressed in the finest plaid approached from the back road, stopping abruptly when they spotted the dead dragon and the gathered people. At their lead was a stout and brawny blonde girl in armor, wielding a glowing sword.
“What the hell?” said the blonde girl, speaking first.
The dragon stared balefully at Sandra, with a slight hint of disappointment, as if it had been hoping for a more formidable opponent, and a small child, albeit one armed with a sword, seemed to be a major letdown of expectations. So instead of getting to work on its prey, its head hovered hesitantly over her for a few moments before it drew back its lips to reveal enormous rows of jagged, yellow, slimy teeth, steam seeping out from between them.
Sandra stabbed it in the eye with Mr. Chu’s sword, and the dragon roared, jerking its head back in agony. Sandra, who had barely managed to hold tight to the sword as the dragon’s head pulled away, turned and ran. They were near the mouth of a cave, and she scrambled out towards the daylight. The dragon took a moment to recover and then thundered after her. It was angry from the pain, but the disappointment seemed to have lifted. Maybe it had found a worthy opponent after all!
The three girls quickly became fast friends. Amanda learned that Janey’s parents came from a long line of ninjas who had left Japan because they were tired of just being ninjas and had high hopes for their children to have a better life as scientists or accountants or maybe actors. Consequently, they were very strict about not letting Janey practice martial arts or read any ninja books, and pushed her very hard to do well in school. Her big brother Jason, whom she idolized, had already been accepted to Harvard for the fall, and her parents couldn’t have been happier. He was thinking of being a podiatrist.
Sandra’s mom and and dad owned a Chinese restaurant*.
Amanda crowded more tightly into the crawlspace as the footsteps came running right by, accompanied by taunts and jeers. The kids at this school were just as mean as the kids at the last school. At least those kids were too scared of her to do anything, she’d seen to that, but it had meant her family had to move, and now here it was starting all over again. She could have scared these kids just like the last ones, but she wouldn’t. She just didn’t want to fall down the stairs again.
It has been said that time heals all wounds, but Lord Explodington’s wounds had opened up once more and would not, for some time, be stanched. Outside in the meadow, he and Isabel walked and argued, one occasionally turning and walking away in exasperation, only to come back with more fervent remonstrances than ever.
Russ had disappeared somewhere to brood.
Eric sat alone in the cafe, staring at the bottom of his hot cocoa, feeling depressingly ordinary in the mix. Just a few days ago he had felt like quite the daring crusader, plying his trade in the very heart of danger where the merest hint of his identity would mean death, gathering up the valuable evidence he needed to help stop the most horrific of atrocities. And now after all he had witnessed, he felt small, human, and ordinary.
He slammed his fist on the table. This was no time to dwell. There was great evil afoot, and an urgent call for action. Someone had to destroy the prototype, and someone had to bring the plans to Washington. He strode outside with a purpose and interrupted Explodington in mid-snide-remark.
“That’s enough of that,” said Eric. “If one of you could find Russ, we have a plan to stop.”
“Indeed,” said Explodington, turning his attention back towards the bomb. Before he could begin work on it, however, a tank burst through the right wall, scattering debris everywhere. Children screamed and dashed away in all directions. Explodington raised a weapon-loaded arm toward the massive vehicle, which in turn aimed its gun directly at his head.
“They’re learning,” he said.
“I returned to Antarctica on board the next research vessel, and since then have heard nothing more of Robert Frost or his beautiful daughter Isabel,” said Russ.
“That is the stupidest story I have ever heard,” said Eric.
“How so?” said Russ.
“It was like unearthing the canon of early twentieth-century American literature and the remains of common sense, and alternatingly pissing on each of them.”
“There may have been one or two small inaccuracies…” said Russ.
“Robert Frost,” said Eric, “is not a evil immortal ice wizard with a sinister master plan and a collection of cryogenically frozen historical figures. He is a respected American poet.”
“If you believe the cover story,” said Russ, rolling his eyes.