Academic Assassins Read online

  With the Tribe gone, this camp was nothing but a layer of hollow, hardened skin.

  Like me. Was I nothing but a husk of who I once had been? Sure felt like it.

  I spotted the Tribe’s insignia spray-painted across the side of cabin two. Blood-red paint had dribbled down the wood before drying, as if the cabin had been bleeding.

  The stick figure. The spear raised over its head.

  Long live Camp Cannibal.

  Long live the Tribe.

  I should never have gone back there. That camp is a dead place now.

  JOURNAL ENTRY #31

  It’s that time again, folks! Time to play another rousing round of…

  Get! It! Off! Your! Chest!

  (Thunderous applause from the studio audience.)

  The rules are simple:

  Think of somebody you haven’t talked to in a long time and get whatever you’ve been wanting to tell them off your chest.

  For those folks at home, feel free to play along.…

  Today, our returning guest Spencer Pendleton will face someone very near and dear to his heart, someone he hasn’t seen since he chickened out and turned tail when he should have taken her by the hand and walked back into the real world alongside her.

  I think everybody at home knows who we’re talking about.

  Folks, give a hand to…

  …Sully Tulliver!

  (The crowd goes wild, like a bunch of rabid badgers.)

  Hailing from Greenfield, Miss Tulliver spent her formative years palling around with Peashooter and his Tribe before striking out on her own. But our viewing audience knows that Miss Tulliver and Spencer have had a rather—how should we say this—well, an on-again, off-again “friendship” that has left the rest of us feeling pretty dizzy.

  (A collective chuckle rumbles through the crowd.)

  This should make for a spirited game today, folks! Time to let those sparks fly as we play…

  Get! It! Off! Your! Chest!

  “Hey.”

  Hey, she said—or, to be more exact, I imagined she said.

  “So…? Should I start?”

  It’s your head, not mine.

  “Okay. So. I’ve been talking a lot to myself lately. Just got to keep my voice alive—like a fire. Don’t let your voice snuff out, I keep telling myself.”

  Is there something you want to—?

  Get! It! Off! Your! Chest!

  (Thunderous applause from the studio audience.)

  “I know this is a little awkward,” I said. “Last time we saw each other, I kinda hightailed out on you without telling you what’s up.”

  Definitely not your best move, Spence.…

  “I just wanted to—”

  Get! It! Off! Your! Chest!

  (More applause.)

  “I wanted to explain why I left.”

  Fine. She shrugged. Be my guest.

  “Has it been hard out here? Sure. I wouldn’t recommend a retreat like this for everybody…But it really does wonders for your character. After the first month, you kinda get the hang of it.”

  Look, Sully said. This whole “I went to the woods because I wished to be all badass” is not doing you any favors. You’re not proving anything by hiding out here. Plus, winter’s coming. You’re going to popsicle yourself to death because you’re running out of matches and you still don’t even know how to start a fire.

  “So—what? You’re saying I should give up and come home? To the life I had before? A life of watching TV? A life of wasting countless hours trolling online? That’s not my life. That’s not a life at all.”

  Stop hiding, she said. Find yourself by facing yourself, not running away.

  A pretty profound thought for someone who’s not even there. Even when she’s imaginary, Sully always knows just what to say.

  I’m starting to see my breath now. My sleeping bag has a hole in it. The leaves are falling. The branches are beginning to look like bones.

  I see skeletons all around me.

  Find me, I wish Sully had said. I miss you, Spencer.

  JOURNAL ENTRY #43

  Hunger is a clown making a balloon animal with your intestines. Hunger is a brushfire set in your belly. Hunger is a boa constrictor coiled within your torso. Hunger is your mother hanging your insides on the clothesline to dry. Hunger is a violin with its strings made from your guts, whining a three-hour symphony. Hunger is rust corroding away the lining of your stomach. Hunger is heartache. Hunger is…

  Hunger is…

  I’m down to my last Ding Dong. The Twinkies didn’t last long.

  What day is it again?

  Nobody ever told me fishing would be this hard. Robinson Crusoe made it sound like a cinch on his “Island of Despair,” but at least he had his man Friday helping him.

  I’ve been eating moss just to keep my stomach from rioting against the rest of my insides.

  Stay away from the red berries, I have to keep reminding myself. Even though I know they’re poisonous, I’ve had to force myself to steer clear.

  Hunger is…hunger.

  When you don’t feed it, it eats you. I read somewhere that when the body runs out of things to digest, it will turn on itself. First, it breaks down the fats. Then it moves on to the organs and muscles.

  Eaten alive. I’m devouring myself from the inside out. Before long, there won’t be anything left of me.

  JOURNAL ENTRY #???

  I never knew what silence was until I came here.

  Thought I knew. I imagined I had immersed myself in solitude—but out here, in the middle of nowhere everywhere anywhere, surrounded by an endless stretch of pines, I’ve experienced a kind of quiet that makes me realize I had no idea what solitude was. Not even close.

  I, Spencer Pendleton, have lived a life mummified in white noise. I spent my days in a suburban sarcophagus. At home, there was always some hum in the background, padding my ears. A clock ticking. A television muttering. An airplane droning overhead. Whether I was aware of it or not, those sounds shielded me from the thoughts in my own head.

  Now there is nothing, nothing but silence—and I’m left with nothing. Nothing but my memories.

  What were the last words I spoke to someone else?

  Three simple words.

  “I…”

  Sully hadn’t heard me clearly.

  “Love…”

  I could tell by the confused look on her face. Her brow furrowed, her green eyes pinching just a bit.

  “You.…”

  Then I ran. I turned my back on her and ran as fast as my legs could take me. Now I have no one to talk to.

  I tried testing my larynx just now to make sure the gears were still in working order, cranking up the ol’ voice box for a little spin.

  “Testing, testing…”

  I thought a bullfrog had crawled out of my throat. I didn’t recognize the sound of myself.

  “Microphone check, one-two, one-two…”

  My voice creaked, dry to my ears, in sore need of some oiling up. There must have been some corrosion covering the epiglottis.

  If I’m not careful, my throat might rust itself shut.

  I may never hear myself again.

  Who would I be then?

  Motor-Mouth Pendleton.

  Muted.

  I’m trying to capture what’s left of my voice. My words. It’s the only way to save my thoughts. I’m putting them down on the page before they’re gone, like trapping fireflies in an empty Mason jar.

  But don’t forget to punch holes in the lid…Otherwise your voice will suffocate.

  The leaves are changing color. The green is gone. I’m surrounded by yellow and brown now. Everything is rusting out here.

  The temperature is plummeting. Autumn is on its way. Before long, winter will be here.

  Here comes the cold.

  Time doesn’t exist the way it used to. Not out here. Not the way it did back at home. There are no clocks ticktocking in my ear, no daily calendars. It’s just sun up, sun down, a
nd the blur in between.

  And silence. Endless silence.

  Wait—did I actually think that? I feel like I’ve read that somewhere before.

  Hatchet. I picked up the copy and flipped through and read—“…in all his life he had never heard silence before. Complete silence. There had always been some sound, some kind of sound.” With those words, I felt the overwhelming sense that my life had already happened.

  I wasn’t reading about Brian Robeson, some kid whose plane crashes in the woods and suddenly has to survive on his own…

  I was reading about me.

  My life.

  I am not some character in a book. I am a human being.

  I exist. I am real.

  Get a grip on yourself, Spencer—you are not a piece of fiction.

  You are not a character.

  You are real.

  You are you.

  You are.

  You

  I just read Peashooter’s crinkled copy of My Side of the Mountain by Jean Craighead George to get my mind off Hatchet. The first sentence left me feeling pretty queasy—“I am on my mountain in a tree home that people have passed without ever knowing that I am here.”

  I ate through the book, cover to cover. My stomach tightened as I read it. But this wasn’t another hunger pang.

  This was déjà vu.

  Another passage popped out at me:

  “Let’s face it, Thoreau; you can’t live in America today and be quietly different. If you are going to be different, you are going to stand out, and people are going to hear about you; and in your case, if they hear about you, they will remove you to the city or move to you and you won’t be different anymore.”

  The more I read, the more I began to believe this book was also about me. Not just “about” me, but like it had literally been written ABOUT me. Things that happened to Sam Gribley were happening to me out here.

  Is this some kind of practical joke? Who is this Craighead anyway and why is she plagiarizing my life?

  I flipped to the copyright page.

  Nineteen fifty-eight.

  Close your eyes and count to ten, I thought. When you open them, you will be back at home—

  What home?

  In your own bed in your own room—

  Which bed?

  And you’ll realize that this has all been a very, very bad dream.

  Ten…

  There’s no Tribe.

  Nine…

  No Jaws. No Firefly. No Klepto.

  Eight…

  No Mr. Simms. No Assistant Principal Pritchard.

  Seven…

  No Yardstick.

  Six…

  No Compass.

  Five…

  No Sporkboy.

  Four…

  No Peashooter.

  Three…

  No Sully.

  Two…

  No Spencer.

  One.…

  ???

  I have run out of matches. I tried to make each last as long as I could. I had to ration them, striking them only when I absolutely needed to. I saved one match—one final match—just for an emergency.

  I kept a candle lit at all times so I wouldn’t have to ignite another. Then I was down to my last one. The wax had dwindled down to a stub. There was barely an inch of wick. Once that flame snuffed, this cave would go dark. Then nothing. Ashes, and that’s about it.

  A bonfire, I thought. I could start a bonfire and make sure it never went out. I left the cave to fetch some firewood—but the second I came back, I walked into blackness. The candle had snuffed.

  Oh no oh no oh no.

  I used my very last match to get a bonfire going. I had to keep the flames alive at all costs. The fire won’t last if I leave. Have to scan the cave. Search for something that can serve as kindling.

  The books.

  I immediately felt sick with myself for even thinking it. How could I even ponder such a thing? Books are sacred. Books are your allies. Your friends. Even Peashooter refused to burn his books.

  The light of the fire was already dimming.

  Just one measly book, a voice in my head whispered. Just to keep the flames going while you look for firewood.

  It sounded an awful lot like Firefly. Was he here? With me? Maybe I wasn’t alone after all….

  Pick one at random, he said. But don’t look. That way, once it’s burning, you won’t know which one it is.

  I tossed my tattered sleeping bag into the fire. It was cinders in seconds. If I didn’t act fast, the fire would go out and I wouldn’t have anything—no fire, no warmth, no reading light.

  All would be lost if I didn’t make a decision.

  And dark. And cold.

  I decided to pick a book that I had already read. Something I could let go of.

  Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury. What were the odds?

  I averted my eyes from the cover for as long as possible, but the back flap slipped open and I saw Ray staring back at me from his author photo, almost pleading—

  How could you do it to me, Spencer? How could you?

  Forgive me, Ray.…

  I held the book over the famished bonfire. The flames sensed the fresh kindling above, as if they could smell the pages, ripe for burning. Each flickering tongue reached out for the book in my hand, pleading—

  Fee­dme­fee­dme­fee­dmef­eee­eee­edm­eee­ee­ee.…

  I guess I wasn’t the only one starving. Fires need to eat, too.

  Please don’t make me do this, I said to myself. Please.…

  I turned my head away and dropped the book into the fire. The flames pounced on the paperback, devouring every page. The cover curled into itself, wrestling against the blaze.

  Staring into the flames, a quote from the burning book came back to me—“Light the first page, light the second page. Each becomes a black butterfly. Beautiful, eh? Light the third page from the second and so on, chain smoking, chapter by chapter, all the silly things the words mean.…”

  And then—there was no more book. The fire extended its flames as if they were grasping hands of gluttonous children—More! More!

  For those few extra seconds of warmth that Bradbury offered, I had never felt more cold in all my life.

  ?

  I’m down to my last pen. The rest have all run out. There are too many things to say, and now I don’t have enough ink to write them all down. The words are already fading. Every letter is getting dimmer.

  Quick. Before I can’t write any longer—

  I’m sorry, Sully. This isn’t how I wanted things to turn out, and I don’t know how to fix the mistakes I’ve made.

  I don’t know how to find myself. I thought I could find out who I was out here, but I’m more lost now than I ever was before.

  You didn’t deserve this. Please forgive me.

  I’m sorry

  I

  “A schoolroom is a dead place,

  Dead as dead can be.

  First it killed my brother,

  Now it’s killing me.

  All are dead who teach there,

  All are dead who preach there,

  The only thing to learn there

  Is never to return there.”

  —The War Between the Pitiful Teachers and the Splendid Kids by Stanley Kiesel

  “I’m afraid of children my own age. They kill each other. Did it always use to be that way?”

  —Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury

  MISSING “WILD CHILD” RESPONSIBLE FOR RECENT ATTACKS IN WILDERNESS

  Local authorities have apprehended a missing teenager allegedly responsible for a recent spate of thefts and attacks on campers in and around the local woodlands. It appears the youth had been living in complete isolation within a nearby cave system for the last three months.

  The boy, whose identity is being withheld from the press pending notification of his family, was believed to have attended Camp New Leaf, an alternative summer camp for teens with behavioral problems. Earlier this year, sev
eral of New Leaf’s underage occupants held their counselors hostage until authorities intervened days later.

  Craig Macneill and his wife were the first to report an attack by a “wild child” during a weekend camping trip. “He was pretty delirious,” Macneill said. “He thought we were his parents. Kept calling me Dad. Then he bit me.” Macneill suffered minor injuries to his hand, which required stitches. “Sure hope that kid got his tetanus shots,” he said.

  Sources say police led a search party through the surrounding woods after the boy was initially reported missing, but called it off after a month with no results. It appears the boy had been sustaining himself on food foraged from the forest, and he began stealing from campsites when food supplies grew scarce.

  While authorities refused to comment on the boy’s physical condition, one deputy remarked that “it’s a miracle he survived for as long as he did out there, all by himself. I don’t know if I could have done it.” Sources say it took numerous officers to subdue the boy, and at least three were sent to the hospital for minor injuries, including bites to the extremities.

  In addition to reports of food going missing from campsites, several sightings of the wild child were related throughout the summer. Reports of a “feral boy Bigfooting his way through these here woods” were coming in regularly to the police. The sheriff has yet to comment on why it took the police department as long as it did to apprehend the youth.

  The boy is being held for questioning regarding his involvement in the “kiddie coup” at Camp New Leaf. Charges may be forthcoming, authorities say.

  —The Greene County Gazette, 11/13/15

  There never was a Spencer Pendleton.

  There. I said it.

  The Spencer you’ve read all about in the papers, the revolutionary mastermind who allegedly had a hand in overthrowing his summer camp, the turncoat who hightailed it into the woods while his comrades were apprehended and left to take the blame, the feral child who lived off algae and moss for months, who caught possums with his bare hands and ate them raw, who terrorized hikers until authorities dragged his bony ass back into civilized society to face his crimes—that Spencer is nothing but a myth, an urban legend made up to scare boys and girls.