The Schnoz of Doom Read online

  Kevin shook his head. Mr. H was a brilliant man, but even brilliant people get things all wrong sometimes. At least Mr. H was safe. Though as Kevin walked by the rabbits, which growled softly at him, he wondered if anyone would remain safe for long.

  The rest of the day passed slowly until gym class, when time came to a complete screeching halt thanks to the president of the United States. Well, thanks to a president of the United States. The one a long time ago who decided to test how many sit-ups, push-ups, and—worst of all—pull-ups kids could do. Millions of American schoolchildren have taken the President’s Physical Fitness Test throughout the years. It was the President’s Physical Fitness Test that inspired Mr. Shhh to create the Noodle-Armor and become a bazillionaire. Most people who have taken the President’s Physical Fitness Test have not become bazillionaires. Or even millionaires. Or even hundredaires. They have become tired and cranky. Kevin was no exception. Each year, the test was a disaster. To say that he hated it would be a ridiculous understatement.

  Nobody actually remembers which president started the President’s Physical Fitness Test, but Kevin had a sneaking suspicion it was Rutherford B. Hayes. He had a shifty look about him.

  Since Kevin was forbidden to have his notebook during the test, he made a mental note to create a list of suspicious presidents. It would include a president named Grover, who had starred on Sesame Street but later denied it, and Martin Van Buren, who used his bushy sideburns to smuggle food and small animals into the White House.

  One by one, Kevin’s classmates approached the bar fastened to the gym wall at a height of six feet. They jumped up and grabbed the bar, then did a series of pull-ups, counting as they went: eleven . . . twelve . . . thirteen . . .

  After a respectable number, but before their arms fell off, each kid dropped from the bar and walked off, rubbing their arms and smiling. Joules did seventeen pull-ups. She could have done more, but Stinkbomb McGee was in line after her, so her oxygen supply was limited. Stinkbomb McGee got his name in third grade after he stole his teenage brother’s stash of body spray and used a whole can on one armpit. The cologne cloud that surrounded him led to an unexpected “field trip” for the school, during which all the students spent the day in the field next to the school. It was soggy. It was filled with mosquitoes. But the air was lovely.

  After a long talk with the school nurse about personal hygiene, Stinkbomb cut back to one can per day for his whole body. After that, the cologne cloud that surrounded Stinkbomb shrank from one block to only three feet. Since the nurse did not get within three feet of Stinkbomb, she considered the problem solved. Everyone else learned to hold their breath.

  Living in a bubble of body spray had a surprising effect on Stinkbomb. Much like people who live at very high altitudes with low oxygen levels, he developed very efficient lungs. He also became very strong. Stinkbomb easily did thirty-six pull-ups before he got bored and quit.

  Kevin was next. He approached the bar and took a deep breath of lingering body spray, which annoyed his stuffed-up nose and made him sneeze. Kevin raised his arms and was about to jump up and grab the bar above his head when—SFLOMP!—Mr. Shhh slapped a pair of nylon bands around Kevin’s upper arms and fastened them shut with Velcro. Noodle-Armor. Each band was attached to a purple bungee cord, which Mr. Shhh hooked to the pull-up bar, lifting Kevin two feet off the floor in the process.

  “This will fix those noodle arms!” said Mr. Shhh, pulling Kevin’s feet toward the floor and stretching the bungees to their limit.

  “But I don’t want—”

  “Grab the bar on your way up!” said the gym teacher. “You’ll thank me when you have arms like these!”

  Twanggggg.

  Mr. Shhh let go of Kevin’s feet and struck a bodybuilder pose, showing off his bulging biceps. Kevin did not notice. He was too busy screaming and flying straight toward the bar and then right past it. He shot upward until his head was two feet above the bar. While the air that high up was free of body spray, Kevin did not have time to notice or breathe. He was too busy screaming.

  Kevin screamed as the bungees stretched to their maximum length. His ascent slowed and he stopped for one heartbeat, before hurtling toward the floor with terrifying speed. He plunged toward the ground until his tiptoes touched the floor and he stopped for one instant. Then—TWANG—Kevin shot up again. Up and down and up and down . . . Kevin bounced through the air like a kangaroo on a trampoline. He missed the bar on his way back down . . . and back up . . . and back down . . . and back . . . Well, you get the idea . . .

  Kevin’s classmates stopped their push-ups and sit-ups and counted his attempts to grasp the bar as he zoomed past . . . Twelve! . . . Thirteen! . . . Fourteen! . . .

  When suddenly . . .

  BAM!

  A loud noise echoed through the halls of the school. The crowd of students watching Kevin, including Joules, ran into the hall to see what was going on.

  Joules looked down the hall and saw a tall, unfamiliar woman dressed in purple. The woman had blond hair, square glasses, and a very large nose. The woman pushed her way through the excited crowd of students, turned the corner, and disappeared.

  “Waiiiiaaaaiiiiiaaaaiiiiitttttt!” Kevin yelled.

  Joules did not wait. She elbowed her way into the crowd and—

  CRASH!

  The students surged toward the noises, sweeping Joules along in their current to the biology room. They rounded the corner and stopped. The hallway outside Mr. H’s classroom was littered with broken chair bits. The group pushed into the room, which looked as if a tornado had ripped through it. Chairs were knocked over; textbooks and broken glassware littered the floor. Next to Mr. H’s desk sat the remains of two empty metal cages, which had been blown to shreds.

  “Stand back!” yelled Mr. Shhh, jumping in front of Joules. “This is a job for someone with arms like these!”

  He pumped first one bicep, then the other. The students applauded.

  “They are impressive, aren’t they?” said Mr. Shhh, making his biceps pop up and down. “Wow! This is a mess. Whoever did that had some very impressive arms indeed. They must use the Noodle-Armor!”

  He struck a new pose and the students applauded again.

  Joules knelt beside the destroyed cages and picked up a clump of greasy gray fur that smelled like the gunk at the bottom of her fish tank after a long vacation. A very long vacation. Mr. Shhh was wrong. The force that had torn the metal cages to shreds did not come from someone who used the Noodle-Armor. It had not come from a person at all. She picked up one of the curved metal fragments strewn across the floor. They had been blown apart by the force of the monsters inside them. Monsters that were now gone. A sick feeling hit Joules as she looked around the room and realized something much worse: Mr. H was gone, too.

  Joules looked for Kevin among the students who stood applauding Mr. Shhh’s biceps poses. He wasn’t there. Joules ran back to the gym, where she expected to find Kevin suspended in the Noodle-Armor, yelling for help. Instead, she found a silent gym. The only sign that Kevin had been there was a shredded heap of nylon and Velcro that lay on the floor.

  Joules scraped her fingernail over the Velcro and pulled away a wad of—you guessed it—fur. Greasy gray fur.

  She stood up and looked around the empty gym.

  “Kevin!” she yelled.

  No answer.

  She walked to the bleachers, unzipped her backpack, and pulled out a large spray bottle of splurp. She rezipped the compartment and tossed her backpack and Kevin’s under the bleachers. She grabbed the spray bottle with her left hand and grabbed a lacrosse stick with her right, just as the bell rang. For the next thirty seconds, the halls were crammed with teachers and students racing for the exits. After one minute, the halls were empty.

  “Okay, bunnies,” said Joules, “you asked for it!”

  Joules tested the spray bottle. A mist of stench filled the air and made her gag. She tightened her grip on the lacrosse stick and stepped into the hall. She hoped that Kevin was wrong and that the stinky concoction that lingered in the air would be enough to help her save her brother and Mr. H.

  It had to be, she realized.

  It was all she had.

  Joules’s footsteps echoed down the halls of the empty school. Every few steps, she stopped, held her breath, and listened.

  Silence.

  Joules moved on quickly. Standing still was not her style. She searched hallway after hallway, stopping for only a heartbeat before jumping inside each classroom with her raised spray bottle of splurp and her lacrosse stick.

  She had searched half the school and was just starting down the kindergarten hallway when suddenly . . .

  Tlink. Tlink.

  Joules stopped and listened. A faint noise echoed through the hall.

  Tlink. Tlink.

  Tlink. Tlink.

  Joules followed the sound to Miss Bee’s classroom. The door was open a few inches and she peeked inside. Miss Bee’s room was the kind of overdecorated classroom Joules hated. The walls were plastered with construction-paper bees encouraging kids to “bee good” and “beehave” and “beeware of tooth decay.” Miss Bee’s boundless energy and sunny personality made her the perfect kindergarten teacher, even if her spelling was lacking. Clearly, Miss Bee took her name very seriously. She had a keen interest in flowers and yellow-and-black-striped clothing. She was as sweet as honey and busy as a—well, you know. Miss Bee flitted from student to student and from project to project, never stopping for long before buzzing off to the next thing. It was easy to imagine the classroom bustling with laughing children. Without them, the silent room had an eerie, sinister feeling.

  Tlink. Tlink.

  Tlink. Tlink.

  Joules stepped into the empty room.

  Tlink. Tlink.

  She followed the sound to the yellow-and-black curtain stretched in front of the coat closet.

  Tlink. Tlink.

  I’ve got you now, she thought as she raised the spray bottle and stepped closer to the curtain, holding her breath.

  “Ha!” she yelled, knocking the curtain back with the lacrosse stick and spritzing splurp into the closet.

  The slimy juice splattered the glass wall of a terrarium, where a fat brown toad stared blankly at her, stuck its tongue out, jumped full force against the glass, and fell back, knocking its water dish against the terrarium wall.

  Tlink. Tlink.

  Joules exhaled.

  “Dumb toad,” she said.

  Joules grabbed a fistful of tissues from one of the dozens of boxes of Snottie’s Tissues in the closet and wiped down the terrarium. The toad stuck out its tongue and jumped full force against the glass again.

  Tlink. Tlink.

  Tlink. Tlink.

  Joules closed the closet curtain and went back to the hall. She leaned against a poster for the upcoming school chili supper and thought about Kevin. Where was he?

  Tlink. Tlink.

  Tlink. Tlink.

  She followed the sound down the kindergarten class hallway and turned the corner and listened.

  Tlink. Tlink.

  The sound came from the lunchroom. Joules knew one thing about the lunchroom at TBD School. It might have a lot of very nasty food, but it did not have toads.

  Joules tightened her grip on the stick and tiptoed toward the lunchroom. The lunchroom at TBD School was a vast concrete-block room with folding tables that were pushed against the walls except at lunchtime. A large kitchen was connected to the lunchroom, and through that kitchen was a smaller kitchen, which had been the original kitchen when the school was built.

  The lunchroom was empty. Only the sticky globs of lunch goop and the straws littering the floor showed that anyone had been there recently.

  Tlink! Tlink!

  The sound came from the kitchens.

  Joules raised the spritzer and tiptoed into the big kitchen.

  Tlink! Tlink!

  Tlink! Tlink! Tlink!

  Nobody was there. Along the far wall was an industrial drum labeled “SLAW.” Joules had seen it many times. There was always a container like it at lunch. Normally, Joules loved slaw. But she loved the good kind that people eat at lovely picnics along scenic rivers or in the shade of majestic mountains. This was military-grade slaw that Principal Posner got at a “super-great discount” from the local army base. Rumor had it that the slaw was used as a secret weapon by the military. It was not a very good secret. The slaw’s smell could knock over a tank, and its sour power could strip paint from a jeep. Since TBD School did not have a tank, a jeep, or students foolish enough to eat the slaw, it lasted forever, which made it an even better bargain.

  A mountain of empty tomato cans, chili sauce bottles, and five-gallon bean canisters rose up beside the industrial stove, where eight enormous brass cauldrons bubbled loudly. Their lids popped up every few seconds, spewing a cloud of steam into the air before settling back onto the cauldrons.

  Tlink! Tlink! Tlink!

  Joules tiptoed to the stove, leaned the stick against the wall, and lifted a lid from one of the cauldrons. A delicious cloud of chili vapor rose from the bubbling red brew. Chunks of meat, tomatoes, and beans bubbled to the surface, then sank again. It looked and smelled delightful. Joules loved chili, and she especially loved the school’s chili. It was the only thing she loved at school lunch, but it was very good. In fact, the chili was so good that the school’s annual chili supper brought people from all over town and raised a lot of money for the school’s Drum and Beagle Corps.

  Many schools have a traditional Drum and Bugle Corps. As you know, they involve drums and bugles. However, the secretary at TBD goofed up on the invoice for equipment and ordered ten drums and thirty beagles. Since most people were afraid of the school secretary, they said nothing and a new tradition was born. The Drum and Beagle Corps was a mixed success. Everyone loved the beagles. The beagles, however, did not love the drums and ran away each time someone hit the bass drum. (Which, as it turned out, was during every song.) The school quickly started the chili supper to pay for dog food and replacement beagles.

  Joules put the lid back on the first pot and lifted the lid from another. She leaned close and sniffed. A horrible stench bubble burst into the air two inches from her face and made her gag. She dropped the lid, which clanged loudly on the concrete floor as the smell of swamp slime hit her in the face like a pie. A stink pie, that is. A stink pie made with slimy, oozy pond scum mixed with skunk juice.

  Joules suddenly felt dizzy.

  “Blech,” she said, reaching for the lid.

  She grabbed the lid and slammed it onto the bubbling cauldron.

  “Girl student!”

  Joules wheeled around and dropped the copper lid onto the floor, knocking over the lacrosse stick, which skidded out of reach over the smooth concrete.

  “Why are you here?” asked Principal Posner, who stood only three feet away.

  “Uh . . .”

  Joules could not answer. She could only stare at the principal’s nose. Her enormous bobbing schnozzle of a nose.

  “Principal Posner?”

  “Who?” asked the bobbing-schnozzled figure. “Oh yes. That is a bad name. I am now Principal Grunt.”

  “Grunt?” asked Joules.

  “That is my name,” she said. “Do not wear it out.”

  Principal Posn—er, Grunt—stepped closer to Joules, who stepped back and raised the spray bottle.

  “Get away,” she said.

  “Ha!” said Grunt, leaning forward.

  Joules backed up toward the entrance of the small kitchen. Grunt smiled, revealing very sharp teeth.

  “You are nosy,” said Grunt. “I should know what nosy looks like! Ha ha ha! I am funny.”

  She stepped toward Joules, who backed into the small kitchen. Again, Grunt stepped closer and closer and Joules moved back and back and . . .

  CRASH!

  Joules slammed into an enormous metal tube dangling from a huge contraption standing in the middle of the kitchen.

  “Wha—?”

  “Do you like our invention?” asked Grunt, her schnoz wobbling faster.

  Joules looked at the tangled mess of metal and plastic pipes jutting out from a three-wheeled tank that looked like a fat water heater with a motor. A showerhead tied to a hockey stick with dirty tube socks dangled above everything.

  “What is that?” asked Joules.

  “This is the machine that will bring the human race to its knees!” said a voice from behind the contraption.

  A triangular man with huge biceps and an enormous wobbly nose stepped out from behind the weird machine. His nose wobbled up and down as he sniffed the air. He stamped his tiny feet rapidly on the floor.

  “Humans are weak and silly!”

  “Mr. Shhh?”

  “Do not say ‘shhh’ to me!” said Mr. Shhh. “I am Captain Belcher.”

  “Belcher?” asked Joules. “Where is Mr. Shhh?”

  “Ha!” said Belcher. “That gym man thought he was strong. He did this, but it did not save him.”

  He struck a pose, flexed his biceps, and glared at Joules as his eyes began to swirl faster and faster. He stamped his puny feet rapidly on the concrete floor. He moved closer to Joules. A putrid odor hit her and she gasped.

  “Blech! Get back!” she said.

  Spritz! Spritz!

  Joules sprayed Belcher squarely in the schnoz.

  He paused for a moment and breathed it in. He sighed happily. Breathed in again and stretched . . . No, he did not stretch. Right before Joules’s eyes, Captain Belcher grew six inches taller.

  “That was delicious,” he said, grabbing at the spray bottle. “Give me that.”

  “I want some!” said Grunt, inhaling deeply.

  “Yum!” she said. “So much power! Just what I need after our long journey!”

  “The Earthlings contain no power, but they are a crunchy snack,” said Belcher. “The gym teacher tasted like gym socks. I like gym socks, but they are not good food.”