Secret of Mars Read online

  The Principal pinned Tom with an accusing gaze, like he was observing insect behavior. His intensity kicked up a notch. Tom was a mealworm to this man. “I’ve told Miles to keep an eye on you. If you have any questions, he’ll be happy to answer them.”

  Miles stuck his thumbs into his belt next to the pepper spray and handcuffs. He gave Tom a purposeful look, cold and emotionless. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Stinson.”

  Principal Davies rolled up on the balls of his feet, making himself hover even taller over Tom. “Do we have an understanding, Stinson?”

  Tom stared at his tie blankly. What has dad done? It’s not responsibility he wants, it’s obedience. “I can follow directions.”

  “Go on then. Get to your class.”

  The third bell rang, and Tom ran to his classroom, past posters of smiling kids eager to learn, and year worn lockers. There wasn’t a place to duck out anywhere. The side hall and exits were blocked off. He was trapped; there was no getting out. He’d try at first break, slipping quietly out the front doors. If his dad wanted him to show responsibility, he’d do it by not being responsible at all. Nine tenths of it was showing up. If you were on time, teachers would be happy. The rest was his time.

  Down the hall, the teacher’s face appeared in the small window of the classroom door. His hand wrapped around the edge to pull it shut.

  “Wait!” Tom yelled.

  The teacher stepped out from behind the door, his tall pear-shaped body blocking Tom’s way. He smelled of mints, and sweat dotted his forehead. “Not good,” he said. “I mean it. Being late for my class on the first day is a bad choice.”

  “The principal made me late.” Tom didn’t know what else to say.

  “That’s the best one I heard yet.” The teacher’s cheeks reddened. “Blame it on the principal. What’s your name?”

  “It’s bad enough I have to be here.”

  “Oh, you’re Stinson,” the teacher said, seemingly amused at his audacity. “I was wondering if you would show up, or if you would be out stealing. Get it straight; disrespect me and I will come down on you like a hammer.”

  Kids inside laughed, and Tom fished in his backpack for a pencil as he entered the classroom. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right. He stopped by the teacher’s desk. The only seat left in the room was up front. This was a disaster, obscurity was what he wanted. Kids in the front got called on. “Anyone want to trade seats?”

  “Mr. Richards,” the kid from the hall said, “don’t you think he should be sent to the office?”

  “Good idea, Emmett, but I prefer to torture young minds with education myself. Go on. Sit down, Stinson. That chair won’t bite; it’s more comfortable than juvie.”

  The kid who sat next to Tom laughed. “He’s a real Richard. Get it?”

  Mr. Richards blew his whistle like it was kick off time and dropped test packets onto the front row desktops. All heads turned and the laughter stopped. Twenty-eight sighs hang in the air. Twenty-eight chairs squeaked into place across the worn linoleum. Then, like a hangman at his favorite tree, Richards waved to the class. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Mr. Richards. I’m your teacher for the next eight weeks. Now put your bags under your seats. We’re taking the Standard Quality Aptitude Test. This is an assessment only, so I know what you ignored over the last year.

  “Crap,” Tom said under his breath.

  The kid next to him snorted and laughed.

  Mr. Richards stepped up to Tom’s desk. “Do you have a problem, Stinson?”

  Tom silently shook his head no. He could do this. He could make it through and be good like his dad wanted. Only seven hours to go. That was all.

  “Are you going to hand the tests out?”

  The kid next to him couldn’t stop laughing. Apparently, this was going to be an issue.

  “Winston!” Mr. Richards chirped his whistle. “Do you need a minute out in the hall?”

  Tom looked away. Even though he said he could make it through summer school, this was mindless stupid busy work. A total waste of time. There was nothing more maddening.

  Winston pulled it together and mouthed to Tom. Do it. There’s no getting out of it.

  “I’ll hand them out.” Emmett raised his hand and cracked several octaves in a pubescent voice. “This test is really easy, I’ve taken it before.”

  “Well, aren’t you, Stinson?” Mr. Richards asked, but he was interrupted by the loud sputter and pop of old plane engines.

  Before Tom knew it, he was pressed up against the windows with his class, straining to see the plane, the test forgotten.

  Mr. Richards waved the test packets. “Get back to your seats!”

  Tom couldn’t help but look either. It wasn’t everyday a plane flew so crooked. It was perplexing. Either the pilot was incredibly stupid, trying to show off, or he was in serious trouble. “What’s that guy think he’s doing?” he asked.

  “Isn’t that why you’re here?” Emmett asked.

  Winston pressed his forehead against the window, straining his neck to see. “I think he’s in trouble.”

  Emmett flicked Winston in the arm. “That’s stating the obvious. The better question is where’s it going to crash?

  A loud pop came from the plane and thick orange smoke billowed from one of the engines. “It’s turning,” Tom said.

  “Get back to your seats!” Mr. Richards blew his whistle. Then he saw the plane. “That’s too low. It’s coming in for a landing right at the school. Get under your desks, move.”

  The shadow of the plane darkened the classroom. Kids cascaded towards the door in a wave of arms and legs, knocking Tom to the ground. He hit the floor hard. Scuttling out of harm’s way on his hands and knees to avoid the trampling feet he crouched behind a tipped-over desk and watched the plane’s approach through the open slats of the half-drawn blinds.

  At the last second the plane’s engines roared and it thrust up, but it was unable to clear the tree line. The wing clipped the top of a tree and the plane spun like a top in the air, plunging to the ground and bursting into a flaming cartwheel that tumbled across the schoolyard. A section of wing stuck into the ground like flaming shish kabob five feet from the classroom window. Fire and orange smoke billowed from the wreckage, clouding the playground.

  Mr. Richards pulled it together and blew his whistle. “Eyes on me. We are okay. It’s okay. Calm down.”

  The sun was cold on Tom’s face. His knee was shaking uncontrollably and he realized he was holding a girl’s hand. He cursed himself for not running out of the classroom.

  He stood slowly as the smoke blew away from the wreckage. Nobody was hurt, not that he could tell. The classroom windows were intact. Some students rushed back to the window, taking pictures with their phones. A small group of kids huddled in the corner crying for their families. It was chaos.

  “Is it going to explode?” The girl said, and ran from the room.

  The kid Winston was speaking into his phone like a reporter. “It’s me at T.V. Middle, get it? This is the scariest thing that has ever happened at school, and the coolest. I saw the whole thing. It was unreal. The plane was out of control. It hit the trees in slow motion and then, WHAM. And it’s like RIGHT THERE. Any closer and it would have killed us for sure.”

  Mr. Richards pushed the kids away from the windows and drew the blinds. “The plane is out there. We are safe in here. We need to wait until we hear what to do from the principal.”

  Tom saw something move in the smoke, and he pulled the blind open. “There!” he yelled, but no one heard him. The Winston kid was interviewing whoever could get it together enough to speak, shouting about how he was going to go viral and get sponsors.

  But Tom couldn’t look away from the wreckage. Orange smoke, why orange? It didn’t seem natural. “There. There. There.” He yelled, but Mr. Richards was too preoccupied with getting the kids huddled in the corner to stop crying. Then, through the fire and smoke, one of the pilots staggered from the wrec
kage, his clothes torn and burnt. His body was bent as if his back was broken. His torso flip-flopped from side to side as he weaved his way toward the school. Tom sank into the window, “He should be dead!”

  “There’s Mr. Yee!” Emmett pushed Tom out of the way to see.

  Mr. Yee the gym teacher was a former paramedic. He moved towards the pilot, waving his blue-gloved hand back and forth as a signal to the pilot to stay. He kneeled down, pulling a silver blanket from his kit and shaking it out, but the pilot didn’t stop.

  The pilot shifted from one foot to another, swaying as if he was going to fall over. He turned to Mr. Yee, then his body coiled like a snake and struck, flinging himself through the air and knocking Mr. Yee over, pinning him to the ground.

  Mr. Yee’s arms went up in defense. His face contorted. The pilot’s head tilted up toward the sky, and red froth ran from the sides of his mouth as his jaw unhinged like a wildflower waking with the morning sun. The pilot clamped onto Mr. Yee’s shoulder.

  Winston focused his phone on Mr. Yee and popped off pictures, curcha, curcha, curcha. He yelled, “What is that? What was that?”

  “The pilot bit Mr. Yee!” Emmett grimaced and stuttered.

  Tom looked for his pack and put it on. “This isn’t what I wanted.”

  “Wanted what?” Emmett pulled at his hair, unable to understand Tom.

  Emergency vehicle sirens sounded in the distance. Mr. Richards’ hands trembled as he half sat on the window sill. He struggled to speak with a forced smile. “Get in your seats and calm down! Help is on the way.”

  Tom struck the window. “Don’t you see what’s happening out there?”

  Mr. Richards pushed Tom into a seat. “Sit down, Stinson.”

  Tom stood right back up and grabbed Mr. Richards by the shirt. “Don’t you see? The pilot is eating Mr. Yee.”

  What The?

  Across the playground, three teachers ran to help. As they approached, their pace slowed and they moved in cautiously. Mr. Yee held his hand out for help. The pilot stood, his mouth red with blood, chewing a mouthful of Mr. Yee’s flesh. He stepped forward.

  Bile spewed from between the leading teacher’s fingers as she saw what the pilot was doing and tried to cover her mouth.

  Pushing her aside, the second teacher charged forward, his arms held up like a boxer’s, he kicked the pilot away from Mr. Yee. The pilot’s back snapped in half and he crumpled to the ground in a heap of flesh.

  The third teacher dropped down, kneeling by Mr. Yee’s side, putting pressure on his bleeding shoulder.

  Unable to stand, the pilot crawled across the grass towards Mr. Yee and the teachers. The teacher who knocked the pilot down circled around and grabbed him by the foot, pulling him away and disappearing into the thick orange smoke from the plane.

  Choking on the smoke, the teachers worked together. They picked up Mr. Yee to carry him to safety. Mr. Yee’s arms shot up and he took hold of a teacher by the arm, tearing at her shirt. Her mouth opened wide, but the howls of her pain were drowned out by the wails of fire truck sirens pulling into the parking lot.

  Dropping Mr. Yee, the teachers struggled to get free. They kicked and punched. They tried to pry his hands away, but it was too late.

  In the parking lot the firemen and paramedics jumped into action, pulling hoses and carrying rescue gear. They rushed in, but their attempt was stopped cold as the first rescuers fell to the pilot and teachers. Suddenly, they turned and attacked the other firemen and paramedics, all of whom in turn attacked the police officers who just started to arrive. That’s when it got ugly.

  Gunshots rang out; rescue workers and teachers fell and got up again, and again. Policemen stood their ground emptying clip after clip.

  “What the hell?” Tom said. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t real. Planes don’t just crash. People just don’t walk away. He couldn’t explain this to his dad. There was no way he’d believe him. Nobody would.

  “What are they?” Emmett asked.

  Tom knew. This wasn’t rocket science. “Don't you play games?”

  “Not like in any game I’ve seen; shooting tentacles, purple and pus green. They look like walking Dionaea muscipula. Everything smells like fruit salad mixed with cat food. They don’t fit the criteria. Those aren’t zombies!”

  “What the hell is Dee-On-E-Uh musci-whatever?”

  “Fly traps.”

  A staccato of rapid pounding on the door caused the entire class to screech. Miles the school security guard burst into the room. His uniform was torn and he was drenched with sweat. His arrival pulled the students’ attention back into the classroom, causing many to realize that what was outside could come inside. They backed away from the windows and the door into the rear corner of the room, huddling against the alphabet-stained wall. “Mr. Richards, come help us, man. Help us figure out a way to get the kids out of here. We’ve blocked the west and south entrances and a couple teachers went to get a bus and back it up to the north doors.”

  “Why me? I mean, who’s going to watch these kids?” Mr. Richards looked around the room and crossed his arms, seeking approval. “Right kids?”

  Miles snapped, “Now! Wake up, man! You gotta help. It’s madness out there. I thought you were a teacher?”

  Mr. Richards’ head hung low; he pulled his wallet and car keys out of his desk. He knew Miles was right. “Stinson, bad kids know how to get out of trouble. You’re in charge. Lock this door.”

  Tom’s heart beat in his ears and his shirt felt two sizes too small. “Why me?”

  The door slammed shut.

  Moments later, Miles and Mr. Richards appeared in the schoolyard, coming from the north doors and leading a small group of students toward the parking lot. They held baseball bats as weapons and folding chairs like shields. Mr. Richards had lost his shirt and Miles hobbled as he moved.

  A school bus with flashing blinkers reversed toward the doors with the rear emergency exit open. The bus jumped the curb and crashed through the fence.

  “They’re leaving without us?” Winston cried. “They can’t leave us. We’re kids. They’re supposed to get us out of here.”

  “They’re not leaving us,” Tom said. “They’re going to make it out and then come back for us. That’s what Miles said they were going to do. All we have to do is stay here and wait.”

  “They’re not coming back, and you’re in charge,” Emmett said.

  “What makes me in charge, like I know anything more than you do?”

  “Mr. Richards said.”

  Tom realized he was holding his breath, and inhaled deeply. If he was in charge, he was going to do what was expected of him. Any adult would say to stay.

  Creatures appeared from behind the outdoor science trailer, halting their escape. Miles backed the kids up. Mr. Richards swung his bat wildly and pushed the creatures back with his chair. Tentacles shot out of one creature’s mouth, wrapping around Mr. Richards’ bat. He swung the chair, beaning one in the head, but lost his balance. The rest overwhelmed him and he disappeared under the pile of creatures. Acting fast, Miles jumped and kicked his way into the fray, knocking them off Mr. Richards. He aimed his bat and swung with precision, but there were just too many. A tentacle wrapped around his neck. He looked desperate. His leg buckled, and he dropped to his knees. Then, somehow, he managed to stand; in his hand was the broken bat. He stabbed at the creatures, puncturing them with the splintery end. They fell one after another. He was unstoppable. He made it out and ran behind the science unit. The students scattered, running in every direction.

  One of the kids in the room panicked and ran out the door. “I’ll get a teacher.”

  Seconds later the fire alarm went off. Terrified shrieks added to the din from the hall. Tom pressed his face against the classroom door’s window to see. Students stood outside the class across the hall looking in the direction of the cry. The alarm told them to evacuate, but they recoiled into the room and slammed the door as a creature in a fireman’s coat came after them.


  Tom fell back from the door, it was worse than he thought. His chest heaving, he pulled at his collar. “They’re in the school. Why’d the teacher put me in charge?”

  “We’ve got to do something,” Winston said, as he pushed the teacher’s desk toward the door. “Or they’ll get in here. Help me!”

  A few kids moved to help. No one wanted to die.

  “Wait. It doesn’t matter.” Tom said, and quickly opened and closed the door. “The door opens outward. Blocking it isn’t going to do any good.”

  “Lock it, lock it!” Emmett pulled on Winston’s arm.

  Tom twisted the lock, but it didn’t move. He had to make his case. “Door’s busted. We can’t lock it. If they’re anything like zombies in games, they’re too dumb to pull open a door.”

  Emmett pushed Tom out of the way and looked out. “They’re not zombies; green and purple, hungry for flesh, I’ll give you that, but tentacles?”

  Another kid freaked out, and squeezed out the window on to the playground. “I’m not waiting for you all to decide.”

  “No!” Tom yelled and raced across the room, grabbing at his leg to stop him. Nobody could make it out across the field.

  All eyes were on the kid. He struggled past the zombies, jumping over debris, fire hoses and the transforming.

  Emmett push his hands flat against the glass. “He’ll make it!”

  “The smoke is too thick.” Winston strained to see, his hands scraping at the window sill and pulling up chips of paint.

  Tom caught a glimpse of the kid. He was as deft as a squirrel being chased by a cat. But there was no tree to use for escape. “There he is, just past the fire truck!”

  “Make it!” Emmett cheered.

  Winston covered his mouth. “They’re right behind him, go, go!”

  “Keep your eyes on him.” Tom said. “Come on!” If the kid could make it, so could they. He pounded his fist against the wall. Everyone in the classroom was rigid with expectation.

  A few yards past the fire truck the kid slipped. The ground was muddy from the hoses. He scrambled on all fours, trying to regain his feet. Half a policeman caught him by the leg, pulling him down. He punched and rolled, kicking and twisting to get free, but it was over.