Hamstersaurus Rex Gets Crushed Page 5

  “You know, Cartimandua, Hamstersaurus Rex proved he was a big hero today,” I said.

  Hamstersaurus Rex puffed out his little chest. Cartimandua yawned and went to sleep again. Hammie wilted. I tucked them both in my pockets and headed for the doors.

  Outside, a line of sensible parental vehicles lined the curb in front of RaddZone. I helped Dylan to her dad’s SUV. He was concerned about her ankle, but Dylan tried to play it off as no big deal. I think she was embarrassed about being taken out by a baked potato topping. After that, I climbed into my mom’s car.

  “Hi, Bunnybutt,” she said. “How was the big party at RaddZone?”

  “I beat Dylan at air hockey,” I said.

  “Not bad!”

  “And Wilbur Weber wants to kill me.”

  “The snails kid?”

  “The snails kid.”

  “Well, that’s just—ACHOOOOOOOO!” My mom let out a sneeze so powerful it put Mount Putta-Putta’s eruption to shame. She’s highly allergic to anything with fur, and I had not one but two hamsters in my pocket.

  “Oh, and I got, uh, covered in some pet hair,” I lied. “Sorry.”

  My mom’s eyes were already tearing up. Her nose was erupting like Mount Putta-Putta. “Pet hair?” she sniffled. “At RaddZone?”

  “Yeah. Wilbur had a weird little animal with him. I think it’s pretty dangerous. Maybe, like, a ferret on steroids. I think I need to report it.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Tonight.”

  Later that evening, after I’d safely dropped Hamstersaurus Rex and Cartimandua off at home, my mom and I pulled into Maple Bluffs Animal Control to find that the parking lot was totally full. My mom decided to wait in the car, wiping her runny nose, for fear of encountering even more pet hair if she went in.

  It felt a little weird walking toward the front door. Not too long ago, animal control agents were hunting for Hamstersaurus Rex. Still, it was my best option for professional help.

  Inside was a cluttered and dingy office that smelled a bit like wet dog. The place was absolutely packed. Maple Bluffs citizens crowded around the front desk. Behind it sat the town’s two animal control agents, Anne Gould and Ralph McKay, looking utterly overwhelmed. This didn’t look like their typical weekday evening workload.

  “. . . I saw it swimming in my swimming pool,” said Mr. Haddad, who owned a paint-it-yourself pottery shop in town. “And that was when I realized that it didn’t have feathers at all. It had fur.”

  “And you’re sure it wasn’t a platypus?” said McKay.

  “No, it wasn’t a platypus! Don’t be ridiculous,” said Mr. Haddad. “It was a duck with fur!”

  I felt a jolt of recognition. I’d seen a duck with fur before, inside the SmilesCorp animal lab. I’d broken into the place with Beefer on a dual mission to figure out how to stop Squirrel Kong and rescue Beefer’s missing snake, Michael Perkins. Then Squirrel Kong had burst in through a wall and, well, things had gotten a little out of hand.

  “Furry duck? That’s nothing,” said Ms. Maxwell, the former librarian. “I was in the park doing my yogas and I saw a dachshund with six legs. It was frolicking around without a care in the world, like it had the correct number of legs! I practically died.”

  “Dachshund. Six legs,” said Gould, writing as fast as she could.

  “I saw a chicken that looked exactly like a turtle!” yelled Craig Lindley, a gas station attendant.

  “Maybe it was a turtle,” said McKay.

  “Don’t patronize me!” said Craig Lindley.

  “My toolshed is full of scaly white mice!” said Milos Schweyer, who owned a construction company. He shuddered. “I’m scared to go in there.”

  Old Man Ohlman elbowed his way to the front of the crowd. He was Maple Bluffs’s resident crackpot—never without his shiny tinfoil hat—who could often be seen on Main Street, arguing with manhole covers and occasionally apologizing to them.

  “The other day I stepped outside and there was a mole and it looked at me real mean!” cried Old Man Ohlman. “No man should suffer to be looked at like that by a mole. T’ain’t right, I tell ya. T’ain’t right!”

  “Mean mole,” said Gould. “Okay. Got it.”

  “Nobody cares about the turtle chicken?” cried Craig Lindley. “Seriously?!”

  It seemed that weirdo animals were everywhere! And I knew exactly where they came from. They were all SmilesCorp escapees, inadvertently set free when Squirrel Kong attacked. They sounded strange, sure. But from what I could tell, none of them were trying to hurt people, unlike the horrible little beast in Wilbur’s backpack.

  I eventually nudged my way to the front desk and waited for a break in the complaining to make my own complaint.

  “Um, hi,” I said. “My name is Sam Gibbs. We’ve met before.”

  Agent Gould cocked her head. “Did we remove a live trout from your toilet tank?”

  “No, no,” I said. “There was a thing with a squirrel. Anyway, I’d like to report another strange animal in town.”

  She sighed. “Great. Go ahead.”

  “Well, it was small and furry and superstrong,” I said.

  “What kind of animal was it?”

  “Not sure. It could have been a rat. Or maybe a mongoose? But you should be careful. It’s really dangerous.”

  “Anything else?”

  “It had these little . . . eyes. They were intense.”

  “Little furry animal, superstrong,” she narrated as she wrote. “Penetrating gaze.”

  “So you think you’ll be able to catch it?” I said.

  “As you can see, we’re swamped right now. I’ll add your complaint to the end of the queue,” said Gould. “Looks like it’s”—she flipped through her notepad—“number fifty-three. We’ll investigate when we have time. Maybe next month? That’s the best we can do.”

  “But that thing is still out there,” I said. “It could hurt someone.”

  “Sorry, kid,” said Gould. “I’ve got a furry duck and a bunch of scaly mice to bring to justice first.”

  I walked back outside toward my mom’s car. It was night now. The streetlights of Maple Bluffs twinkled in the darkness. A cool breeze made me shiver. Once again, a horrible mutant creature was on the loose, and once again it was up to me and Hamstersaurus Rex to stop it.

  CHAPTER 8

  THAT NIGHT, I periodically checked on Cartimandua in her shoebox in the garage. From what I could tell she stayed awake the whole time, apparently fascinated by the prospect of several completely new walls to stare at. Hamstersaurus Rex stayed awake in his hypoallergenic habitat, too. I think that with Cartimandua there, he was just too nervous to sleep.

  The next morning I got to school early and quickly dropped off Hammie at Meeting Club HQ. Then I went to sneak Cartimandua back into her cage before anyone noticed she was missing.

  The hallway was clear, so I ducked inside Mr. Copeland’s classroom and unlocked the PETCATRAZ Pro™.

  “Hello, Sam.” Martha slowly swiveled in Mr. Copeland’s chair to face me. She did not look happy.

  “Whoa,” I said, jumping roughly three feet in the air while simultaneously trying to hide Cartimandua behind my back. “Hiya, Martha! How’s it going?”

  “Not well,” she said, steepling her fingers. “Not well at all.”

  “Oh, what seems to be the problem? Did you get an A-minus or something? Crazy weather we’ve been having lately. Lots of clouds. Too many? How’s the Antique Doll Museum? I like drawing. Talk to you soon. Gotta go. Bye.” I started to back toward the door.

  “Not so fast,” said Martha. “Where’s Cartimandua?”

  I looked at the empty hamster cage. I looked at Martha. I looked back at the empty hamster cage. “Oh no!” I said. “She’s been kidnapped!”

  “It was a rhetorical question,” said Martha. “You’re holding her behind your back right now.”

  “Um, case closed,” I said, gently placing Cartimandua back in her cage and patting her on the head. “This w
as, uh, a test. And you passed, Martha. You’re a fantastic Hamster Monitor. And also very intelligent in general. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  “Most authority figures and all standardized tests,” said Martha, crossing her arms. “Sam, what did I say about taking Cartimandua out of her cage?”

  I sighed. “Not to do it.”

  “So why did you disobey a direct order from your Hamster Monitor commanding officer?”

  “Commanding officer? As I recall, you quit and promoted me and—and it’s just lanyards you printed and cut out at home anyway! Look, I was just trying to spread a little love in this cruel world. Two lonely hamsters finding a connection! So I took Cartimandua to RaddZone. What’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal? I heard that Wilbur’s party was rife with go-kart sabotage and falling tiki gods! Cartimandua could have been killed!”

  She was right, of course. And that annoyed me even more.

  “Oh, I’m just fine, thanks for asking,” I said. “None of that stuff was about her, you know. Not sure if Wilbur Weber lost his mind or he’s working for SmilesCorp or what, but he had some sort of . . . creature, and it attacked Hamstersaurus Rex and me! Cartimandua snoozed through the whole thing.”

  “Like it or not, Hamstersaurus Rex is a target,” said Martha. “First Beefer was out to get him. Then Squirrel Kong and Roberta Fast. Now it’s Wilbur’s deranged animal familiar. Wherever Hamstersaurus Rex is, danger follows.”

  “That’s not his fault,” I said. “Just because he’s got awesome dino-powers, it seems like every creep and crazy in the world wants to take him out.”

  “Exactly! That puts those around Hamstersaurus Rex—you, me, Dylan—at risk,” said Martha. “It’s bad enough that you somehow convinced me to hide him in that closet instead of in a PETCATRAZ Pro™ under twenty-four-hour surveillance. I may not be able to protect him, but I can at least make sure nothing bad happens to Cartimandua.”

  “Nothing will!”

  “From this moment on, Cartimandua will not leave her cage, except under my direct supervision. Do you understand?” said Martha. “And for the indefinite future, I’m putting you on Hamster Monitor desk duty.”

  “No fair!” I said, and stormed out. I was halfway down the hall before I realized I didn’t even understand what Hamster Monitor desk duty was.

  I swung by Meeting Club HQ again to check in on Hamstersaurus Rex. The little guy was lying facedown, emitting a soft, continuous moan. I had a feeling this was Cartimandua-related. After all, RaddZone hadn’t been a very successful hamster date. If only I could help him feel better somehow. But the ways of the hamster heart were still a mystery to me. Poor Hammie Rex.

  “Cheer up, pal,” I said. “Remember when you saved me from that deadly surfboard attack? Your old buddy Sam: not dead, because of you. Yay.”

  He kept on moaning. I turned off the light and quietly closed the door.

  I waited by the sixth-grade lockers for the first bell to ring. Wilbur didn’t show up to school. But Dylan did, on crutches. On her foot was a cast and one of those bulky medical boots.

  “So how bad is the sprain?” I said.

  “Luckily no sprain,” she said. “It’s the hairline fracture of the tibia that’s the problem. I broke my ankle, Sam. On sour cream.”

  “I knew that stuff was bad for you,” I offered weakly. “Er, sorry, Dylan.”

  Dylan sighed. “I’ll probably be on the disabled list for the rest of the disc golf season. Also I flunked yesterday’s history quiz. Oh, and on the way to school, two birds pooped on my head.”

  “Two birds?”

  “Separate incidents,” said Dylan ominously. “Don’t stand too close to me, Sam. Unless you want to get struck by lightning.”

  “It’s just bad luck.”

  “This goes beyond bad luck,” said Dylan. “It’s the curse of Horace Hotwater’s ghost!”

  “Horace Hotwater’s ghost?” said Tina Gomez, overhearing us. “Maybe that’s who took my irreplaceable pencil eraser.”

  “I saw you replace it!” I said.

  “If I had my camera, maybe I could take a picture of the ghost,” said Dwight Feinberg. “But I don’t. Because nobody solved the Case of Dwight Feinberg’s Missing Camera.” He gave a heavy sigh.

  “I’ll find your camera, Dwight,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t hold out too much hope,” said Jared Kopernik. “The ghost probably ate it.”

  “Ghosts don’t eat,” I said. “How is it that I don’t even believe in ghosts and yet I seem to be the only one at this school who knows anything about them?!”

  The other kids shrugged.

  “Look, I’ll admit some strange things have been going down around here lately. But I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation,” I said. “Probably related to weird animals of some kind.”

  “Speaking of weird animals, where’s Hamstersaurus Rex?” said Julie Bailey. “I thought today would mark his triumphant return to school and I wanted to present him with this tiny homemade medal of valor.” She held up a lentil with thread glued to it.

  “He’s, well, he’s just kind of lying low for a while,” I said. I dropped my voice to a whisper. “Because he’s on a very important detective stealth mission.” I tapped the side of my nose.

  “So cool,” said Julie. “I’ll make him another medal for espionage!”

  The bell rang. Dylan and I continued on to our classroom.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m going to put this whole ghost thing to rest today.”

  “You’re going to investigate the haunted basement?” said Dylan.

  “Yup, Hammie and I will check it out,” I said. “I bet Wilbur’s beast somehow did the flying bulletin board trick with its . . . superstrength. Anyway, you’re welcome to come along if you want.”

  “I, uh, totally would,” said Dylan, tensing up, “but, you know, my ankle and stuff . . .” She trailed off and stared at the floor.

  “Right,” I said. “No worries.” I didn’t press it, but I could tell she was terrified. I wasn’t used to seeing her like this. Normally she wasn’t afraid of anything.

  “Just be careful,” said Dylan.

  “Don’t worry about me,” I said. “I know Horace Hotwater’s weakness.”

  “You do?”

  “Yep. Chunky soup.”

  Dylan didn’t laugh.

  The school day passed without incident. Did I learn anything? I’d like to think that I did. We don’t need to get into specifics. Anyway, after the final bell rang, I made my way to Meeting Club HQ. I found Hammie Rex lying facedown, right where I’d left him.

  “All right, pal, up and at ’em!” I said. “You’re the hamster champion of all that is good and right in this nutty world. Time to confront the mysterious evil that may or may not lurk in our school’s spooky basement!”

  The little guy didn’t move. Today, he was the hamster champion of moping.

  “I know you’re still bummed out,” I said. “But you know what that poster at the dentist’s office says: ‘A frown is just a smile that needs to get flipped sunny-side up! Always remember to floss!’ Hmm. Now that I’m saying it out loud, I feel like the first part is more relevant. Anyway, time to go.”

  With a pitiful sigh, Hamstersaurus Rex rolled over onto his back and stared up at nothing in particular. I practically had to scrape the little guy off the floor.

  “We have to be prepared for whatever we find at the bottom of those stairs,” I said as I carried him down the deserted hallway. “I’m ninety-nine percent sure it’s not a pioneer ghost, but it’s sure to be something weird, possibly a ferret on steroids. Maybe a bionic lemming? High alert, okay?”

  Hamstersaurus Rex squinted at me and made a noise that was almost like “ugh.” He’d certainly never done that before.

  I paused at the top of the creepy basement stairs. Once again I got that strange staticky feeling, like the hairs on my neck were standing up. I felt my no-ghost confidence dropping a few percentage points. I w
anted to turn around and go home. Instead I took a deep breath and headed down.

  Inside the stairwell, the cinder-block walls were scrawled with graffiti that, in my imagination, took on a sinister tone. “Fuzz Was Here.” Okay, so where was Fuzz now? What happened to Fuzz? Why won’t anyone tell me what happened to Fuzz?!

  At the bottom of the stairs there was on old wooden chair with a broken leg—perhaps set aside to be repaired by a custodian, but long ago forgotten. Behind it was a rusty door that said “Boiler Room.” Through that door, I could hear the heave and groan of Horace Hotwater’s heating system. At least, I hoped that’s what was groaning.

  “You ready, pal?” I whispered to Hammie.

  He looked at me with forlorn, red-rimmed eyes and whined. I paused.

  “You know what? You’re right. I’m way too scared to go through that spooky door, too,” I said. “We should probably just turn around and leave. On account of being total chickens.”

  I turned very slowly, as though I meant to walk back up the stairs.

  Hamstersaurus Rex growled. Then he shook himself like a dog that had run through a sprinkler. The little guy pawed the door, and I could now see that a bit of his old vim and vigor had returned. The reverse psychology had worked.

  “Now that’s more like it,” I said.

  I pushed the door, and it swung inward with a tortured creak. . . .

  CHAPTER 9

  BEHIND THAT CREEPY door was . . . a boiler room. There were no ominous pools of blood. No werewolves. No masked, machete-wielding lurkers. Not even a stray cat to knock something over and give us a false scare. Instead there was just a hot-water heater, some rusty pipes, and lots and lots of cobwebs. A single dangling bulb lit the small room. With the light on, it wasn’t even that creepy. I almost felt disappointed. Still, I had to make a full investigation. I owed Dylan that much.

  I turned the light off again and pulled out my UltraLite SmartShot digital camera. Then I set it to night-vision mode. Not sure why, but night-vision mode is what all the “paranormal investigators” on TV use when they’re looking for ghosts.