The Nerdy Dozen (9 page)

NEIL FELL INTO A SORT OF GALLOP, BALANCING THE cumbersome bag on his hips while hop-running. He tried to keep his eyes on Trevor but at times just looked for the imprints of his thick government-issued shoes. The footprints led through leaves and crawling roots, back to the beach and their group of soldiers.

By the time he reached the edge of the forest, Neil saw from a distance that the Chameleon was nearly free of sand.

“Lord Jones, your soot-colored, burlap-sacked textiles have arrived,” said Riley, pointing toward Neil and Trevor. Jones's head popped up from the opposite side of the Chameleon, the late-afternoon sun reflecting on his forehead. He looked like some kind of sand-dwelling creature crawling out of a newly dug tunnel. By the noticeable amount of sweat drenching him, Neil thought it was safe to assume that Jones had done most of the work.

“Oh, thanks for really hustling with everything, gentlemen.” Jones moaned, spitting out sand. “I've enjoyed digging us out with Spineyard here while Starshine over there took it easy.”

“Again, 'tis not me name. I am but a humble
swineherd
, and at your service, my most revered Jones,” said Riley. “And we are sentinels on lookout, a very necessary outpost indeed.”

“Never mind,” Jones said brusquely. “Fortunately the radios with Lopez and Wells still work, and the others are setting up a base camp. They're at an old, abandoned farm on the bigger island. Now that you're back, we can get moving.”

Neil and Trevor returned the dropped gear to the fighter, trying to avoid eye contact with Jones. Neil wanted to tell the major what he'd found out about the billionaire's island, but he could see that this was not the time. Biggs and Riley then hopped in, sand flying off their clothes and shoes.

“Oh, come on, not in the interior!” Jones yelled. “Were you raised by longshoremen?”

“No, wolves. Remember?” Biggs said sheepishly.

Everyone mumbled apologies and quickly buckled in as the cockpit sealed shut. Biggs typed something into the invisibility command, and soon the plane was clad in its invisible facade.

“Good-bye, weird-smells island,” Biggs said with a smile. “Not sure what kind of animal droppings you smell like, but I swear to you now, I will re-create it for television. Even if it takes all my free time. That is a promise.”

Trevor lifted the craft up and out of its embankment, whirling up sand on the beach below. Neil heard the high-pitched buzz of the invisible exterior, and behind that, so faint it almost wasn't audible, a slight whir he hadn't heard earlier.

“Humidity makes these thrusters a little noisy,” Jones said. “Grunsten, take us up slowly. We'll head to the southeast corner of the other island. You should hopefully see the barn where our team has taken shelter. On our mark, they'll open the back doors, and we can idle in unnoticed.”

“Roger that,” Trevor replied.

The invisible fighter glided across the water, tracing the edge of what Weo had called Brosiah Bay. Waves lapped below them, and wormlike ribbons of sandbars twisted in and out of the water. Trevor soon cut over the land, which was dotted with symmetrical plants, all in uniform rows.

“Hmm. Looks to be pineapples,” Jones said.

“These apples of pine, O Jones—they grow from the loam beneath our feet?” Riley asked.

“Pineapples grow from the ground, if that's what you're asking in whatever accent and language that is. Now, Grunsten, you see that barn ahead? That's our destination,” Jones said. Trevor steered toward an ancient, decrepit barn, its browned and splintering slats all leaning at an eighty-degree angle.

Steering wide of the farmer's house at the opposite end of the plot of land, Trevor landed the Chameleon softly on the ground and crept in silently between the open barn doors, like a battle-ready Prius. He slowed the jet to a stop and pressed the button to open the cockpit, which unlatched with a pleasing
whoosh
.

As Neil disembarked, he glanced over at Wells and Lopez, who were standing at attention while the rest of the crew sat transfixed, watching a documentary on historical obstacle courses being displayed on the exterior of one of the other Chameleons. That was definitely one of the coolest perks of the jet's video-camouflaging technology, Neil thought. A few kids from the other planes lay underneath the belly of the fighter, taking in a film many times their size.

Neil looked up from the underside of the plane to see Sam, watching from the auxiliary seat in the open cockpit.

“Hey, Sam,” Neil said, moving closer as she climbed down from the jet.

“Neil,” Sam said, her voice just above a whisper. “Everything okay? You were gone for a while.”

“Oh, yeah.” Neil said, feeling his ears grow red. “Just your classic net inci—”

“All right, soldiers,” Jones said, interrupting Neil and the movie everyone was enjoying. “Wells, Lopez, and I are headed for recon and to see if we can get our communication to the aircraft carrier restored. We think whatever knocked it out in the air is still keeping a signal from getting to us. All of you just stay here. Only rule is nobody leaves the barn. Period.”

Neil realized this was his chance to make sure Jones at least heard his intelligence on the islands. “Major Jones, before you leave, you should—”

“Save it for later, Andertol. I need you, especially after last time, to just not touch anything.”

Jones turned and slipped out through the swaying back doors. Wells and Lopez followed, silent as ever. The doors shut, and then they were gone.

“Do those guys ever talk?” Trevor asked.

“Wells and Lopez? Now that I think about it, hardly at all,” Jason 1 said. Sam and Corinne turned in to form a circle, both of them nodding in agreement.

“Yeah, we're actually wondering if it's a competition between them to see who can talk less. Or if they're just cyborgs,” said Corinne, who spoke with a nasally confidence.

“Wells is a robot for sure. I don't think he's even said a word to us,” Sam said. “And I watched him do three hundred push-ups in a row, which I'm pretty sure can't be done by a human.”

“Lopez is all about extended periods without eye blinking,” Corinne said. “Count in your head next time and try not to feel your eyes get scratchy. Terrifying.”

The twelve kids formed a jagged oval, anxiously talking to one another.

“Were you saying something about a net?” Sam asked Neil to the side. “What were you talking about earlier?”

“Well, we took, uh, a detour. On descent, I
misplaced
our gear from the plane. But we got to see the other islands around here,” Neil said, feeling his armpits begin to sweat again. “There's a big fortress-type thing on one of them—metal fence, secured entrance. Apparently owned by a billionaire. Even looks big enough to hold a stolen jet . . . just saying.”

“Dude!” Biggs's voice cut in. “We're settling this old school.” He and the others were still arguing over which soldier was more of a cyborg. “Team Lopez on this side, Team Wells on the other. Somebody get a rope. It's tug-of-war time.”

 

The sun was almost fully set, and a few shoulders nearly dislocated, when Jones, Wells, and Lopez returned with news. A wireless grid had been set up around the islands, blocking all communication or radio to the outside world. Any outgoing signals were completely trapped.

“In this darkness and without any communication, we won't be able to do much, soldiers. The place is swarming with guards. So we're staying here for the night. From what Wells and Lopez intercepted earlier, we still know the general location of our men and plane. They're in a warehouse on a separate island in the chain.”

That was my discovery
, Neil thought, feeling a little validated that today hadn't totally been for naught.

“We leave at oh-five-hundred tomorrow morning. We'll have dinner now and then it's lights-out,” Jones said.

After sitting in a circle for dinner and prodding their MREs—meals ready to eat, each of which consisted of a lukewarm plastic bag of fake beef—everyone crawled into their emergency blankets. Each recruit had been given a crinkly silver square, mainly used for survival or in case of a fire, but when unfolded, it provided immense heat without much weight or thickness. If he hadn't been lying on a dirty barn floor, Neil probably would have been pretty cozy. Jones, Wells, and Lopez laid their blankets near the barn's exit to make sure no one got in—or out.

 

After an hour, the soldiers in command were sound asleep, their breathing loud. They looked so comfortable, Neil thought they must be trained for sleeping in unfamiliar terrain. Jones snored—loudly. He sounded like two hungry, vicious possums fighting over food. At times it even seemed as if a third was getting into the mix.

The snoring unceasing, Sam slowly crawled between bodies over to Neil.

“You awake?” she asked softly.

“Yeah,” Neil replied.

“What do you think that is?” Sam cupped her hand around her ear. Through the splintered slats of the barn, Neil and Sam heard chanting, or music of some kind. It started out softly, but it was soon clear that whatever it was, was only going to grow louder.

“I think we should go check it out,” she said.

“I don't know. I mean, we're not supposed to leave here. And what if it's, like, something dangerous?” Neil replied.

“Oh, come on,” Sam urged in a convincing tone Neil remembered from countless games. “Besides, how are we gonna have any luck sleeping with hacksaw Jones here?”

She did have a point. Neil did wonder if at some point in the night, local wildlife might try to see what type of animal sounded like it was struggling for life inside the confines of the withered barn.

But before Neil could throw off his crinkly blanket, Biggs darted upright like a movie monster brought to life. He cocked his head and listened for barely a second before peeling off his emergency blanket. He groaned like a zombie hungry for a midnight brain snack.

“Hey, Biggs,” Neil whispered, but Biggs didn't respond. He walked to the side of the door opposite Jones, where a wide wooden slat was loose, and pulled at its sides.

“Biggs, slow down, man. What's up?” Neil asked his friend. Biggs still said nothing, and with another tug at the barn's ancient carpentry, he had made a hole just big enough for him to crawl through.

“Druuuaa . . . mmmsss buh . . . buhongo . . . ,” Biggs mumbled, and slipped outside.

Neil and Sam turned to each other. “I mean, we can't just let him go alone, can we?” Sam asked. Neil knew she was right. Maybe Biggs was a sleepwalker? Or maybe his body, after years of vegetarianism, just got up in the middle of the night to find the nearest steak?

“Okay,” Neil half whispered reluctantly.

He quickly tied his shoes, trying his best to be quiet, but everyone else was rustled awake in the process. Most had never fallen asleep, likely unable to tune out the sonic assault of Jones's deviated septum. The others looked up from their makeshift beds, eyes blinking in confusion.

“Hey, guys,” Neil whispered to the rest of the crew, “Biggs just stumbled outside, sleepwalking. We're gonna go make sure he's okay. You comin'?”

Before Neil had even finished talking, everyone was already stealthily tying their shoes too. Sam propped open the rickety slat on the side of the barn, exposing a huge bonfire in the distance, and made her way outside.

Neil peeked his head out of the opening, took a deep breath, and then wiggled through. Staring out in the distance at the rows of pineapples and his sleepwalking zombie friend, Neil crept into the night, uncertain of what was in store.

NEIL HAD NEVER SEEN SO MANY STARS. THE NIGHT SKY WAS bold and unending, brighter than he'd ever seen it at home. The stars all scattered in every direction as if they'd been thrown, two-handed, from a basket.

The light of their glow grew fainter as Neil got closer to the roaring fire at the island's center. The group of recruits approached it carefully, moving forward slowly over the spongy and thick grass. The fire was magnetic, sending sparks popping with dark orange-and-blue flames. Near the fire's edge, Neil spotted the shadow of his sleepwalking friend staggering toward the glowing embers. People were circling around the large bonfire in a flurry of claps, yips, and yelps, all tossing logs and huge pieces of driftwood onto the blaze.

“Biggs!
Psst
, Biggs!” Neil shouted, but his friend continued on, stumbling hazily around a dark cluster of trees. Neil raced after him, turning the corner and running into the back of a hulking local. He and a few others had formed a circle around Biggs.

“Hey, stop! Biggs, run!” Neil yelled, assuming this was some kind of midnight brainwashing.

Neil tried squirming through the wall of strangers to break his friend loose, but it was like fighting a losing game of red rover. And then, suddenly, the circle broke open on its own, and Biggs emerged from the center, his shirt and signature cap now replaced by a small bongo drum, a fringed leather vest, and what looked to be a plastic toy ostrich beak over his nose.

“Neil! It's a drum circle, my man!” Biggs exclaimed, now completely awake. He slapped the tops of the drums, and a thousand-watt smile stretched across his face.

Neil smiled, relieved. “I was worried you were gonna sleepwalk right into the fire or something.”

“Nah. Sorry if I scared ya, though. I do have a history of sleep-drumming, and I have a way of finding these types of things. It's, like, my sixth, possibly seventh, sense,” Biggs said as he tapped out a simple beat. “And thanks for coming to find me, Neil. That means a lot. And since I'm journal-less, if I get inspired to dictate some of the smells I encounter, would you mind trying to jot 'em down?”

“Sure thing.” Neil shrugged.

The rest of the group shuffled around the bend of trees, heading in their direction.

“Dudes!” Biggs waved over the rest of their new friends as they sheepishly walked around the edge of the circle, the rise and fall of drumbeats filling the warm night air. Strangers with sunburns and beads in their hair greeted the group, offering tambourines and thin, plastic glowing jewelry, the kind that look like straws with ends that snapped together. Getting into the spirit of things, Neil grabbed a neon-yellow glow bracelet and put it on. The other kids—all gamers in the truest sense, and therefore fans of loud noises and a blatant disregard for curfews—seemed equally entranced by the drum circle.

Sam grabbed Neil's wrist, and they cut through the outer ring of people, followed by Yuri and the two Jasons.

“We have a bonfire at my boarding school,” Yuri said, putting his hands on Jason 1's shoulders like people do on a conga line. “It's the closing ceremony for our geometry Olympics.”

The ring of people kept turning, a mess of noise amplifying in all directions.

“Guys, I've got a good chant we can do,” said Jason 1. “You ever play Uncle Tony's Pro Football Dynasty? They have this chant the crowd does—”

But Jason 1 was cut off by a local girl wearing a tie-dyed headband and an ostrich beak similar to the one Biggs had on. Her short, matted hair was still damp with salt water.

“Did you say ‘Uncle Tony's Football'?”

“Yeah, I love it! You have it here? I could go for a game right now,” Jason 1 said, his voice squeaking with hope.

“Maybe later. My friend has a copy in his surf shanty. Top secret, though, since only one game's allowed on the island,” she replied. “We've been playing every week. Trying to catch this kid in first place. He's been unstoppable.”

Jason 1 blushed and stayed silent as he and the girl edged into the ring of drummers closest to the fire. Neil shrugged, following along, while Jason 2 and Yuri lagged behind, busy seeing how many glowing bracelets they could link together. Drums, cymbals, bells, and tambourines had started to find their way into the fireside orchestra. Neil even thought he heard a gong banging somewhere. Soon, though, Neil began to feel the crowd closing in, and heat of the fire started to get to him.

“Want to take a break?” Neil asked his fellow recruits, and the others nodded. Neil quickly ducked out of the circle to sit cross-legged in an open patch of grass. Yuri, Jason 1, and Jason 2 were right behind him.

“Man, that was great,” said Jason 1, staring up at the tiki torches in the grass.

“And I heard that girl talking about that game,” Neil said. “Aren't you the guy in first place?”

“Yeah, I try to play it cool, though,” Jason 1 said sheepishly. “Most people just want to challenge you right there on the spot, so I tend not to bring it up.”

“Yeah,” Neil said quietly, running his fingers through his hair, just grazing over his almost-forgotten bald spots. “So do you know where everybody else is?”

“Hey, man! Don't just sit there. You gotta join in,” said a local in light-blue board shorts, his chest painted sparkly silver.

“We just got out of— I mean—we're good,” Yuri answered.

“Here, play this,” the guy said, handing a mahogany bongo drum to Neil.

“Well, okay. Thanks. Hey, so is this Brosiah Bay?” Neil asked, remembering what Weo had said earlier.

“Sure is!” the stranger replied, and danced off toward the fire.

Neil then saw some of the other recruits still in the crowd and tried to wave them over. Soon JP, Corinne, Waffles, and Dale joined them, creating a big circle in the grass.

“Music truly is the universal language,” Biggs said as he walked up, his neck surrounded by roughly thirty-seven glowing rings.

“I beg to differ!” shouted JP. “Binary! Numbers!”

Before Biggs could utter a worthy debate response, a ball of flame shot into the air from the fire pit, illuminating them in light so bright that, for a split second, it seemed like daylight.

“Now, let's do this the
right
way!” Waffles shouted, arranging four drums from smallest to largest. “You guys like that game Professional Musician: Loud Noises Edition?”

“Yeah, man!” yelled Biggs.

“I'm going to a tournament next month. This will be good practice!” said Waffles.

“Awesome!” Biggs exclaimed. “Circle of positive energy time! Show us what you got!”

“Circle of what?” Waffles asked, spinning each drum to secure it in the thick grass.

“Positive energy! Good-time vibes! Everybody has to contribute! You first!”

Without needing any further urging, Waffles began flailing his arms like two electrified noodles. Then he started to play in a flurry of rhythm, eventually building a solid tempo that switched between the two drums in front of his bent knees. He looked up at the group surrounding him. “Come on, guys!” he yelled, still frantically pounding at the drums. “Who's next?”

Biggs stepped into the center of the circle. He produced a hacky sack from his pocket and kicked it three times, the last time high up in the air. It landed perfectly in the center of his forehead. He grabbed the beanbag from his head and bowed, hopping out of the circle's center. His eyes went to Neil, but Neil quickly looked away. An impromptu dance party wasn't something he'd prepared for.

Instead, Corinne jumped in, moving in some kind of dance that Neil had never seen before: fast, fluid movements slowly turning into short, jerky, machinelike dancing. She tossed her head from side to side, her shoulders rolling in different directions, her arms robotically chopping in short bursts.

Then Jason 2, with drumbeats and claps all around him, walked to the center of the group, set his feet, and leaned forward. “I used to take tumbling classes,” he said before executing a perfect backflip. Nailing a flawless landing, he brought his head up with the aplomb of an Olympian. The crowd around him, growing bigger as more of the locals joined the gamers, all cheered as loudly as they could.

“I think that's gonna get him through to the next round, Bob!” Biggs exclaimed, holding an imaginary sportscaster microphone in front of his mouth.

Neil turned to Corinne, who'd moved next to him in the circle and was still swaying in that way he couldn't place. “You seem so . . . familiar?” he blurted out.

“Semaphore,” she replied, shouting over the commotion.

“Huh?”

“S-E-M-A-P-H-O-R-E,” she said, contorting her body to look like each letter she was saying. “National Good Old Spelling Bee Champion five years back. I'm the child, well, prodigy from that video.”

“Wow, that's you? Of course I know your video,” Neil exclaimed. “You've got, like, nine million views on YouTube.” He couldn't believe it. She was basically a celebrity.

“So you won that spelling bee thing?” Biggs said, overhearing them. “Is it true that when you win, they give you a secret page from the back of the dictionary with words no one has ever heard of?”

“Maybe,” Corinne replied. “Top secret, though. If I told you, I'd have to . . . Let's just say I can't tell you.”

Just then, Sam jumped into the middle of the circle and grabbed Neil's elbow, pulling him inside. Neil hesitated, but she smiled at him reassuringly. Against his better judgment, and neglecting his personal track record of embarrassment inside circles of humans, Neil followed.

Sam lifted the end of an extinguished tiki torch and held it out toward Neil. He grabbed on, realizing what Sam wanted to do, and held the stick at chest level.

“Limbo!” Sam and Neil both shouted. They looked at each other and smiled.

Maybe he
could
be friends with a girl, Neil realized in surprise as a line of euphoric island surfers started to form.

As Neil and Sam led the group in a round of “how low can they go,” Trevor and Riley came running up in a hurry.

“Hither, my brothers in arms, lend me your ears! We have discovered ye olde za shop!” Riley proclaimed, wheezing and out of breath. “And the midnight oil of the piesmith burns long into this perfect eve!”

“Huh?” said pretty much everybody.

“We found a pizza place. It's still open. Let's go!” Trevor translated. Neil's stomach growled hungrily in response.

Abandoning the limbo game, he and the others followed Trevor and Riley out of the packed crowd and saw a welcoming, warm orange sign in the distance that read
PENELOPE'S ISLAND PIZZA
. It hung over a fairly large building, which was made of natural wood and reeds. It didn't look like any pizzeria Neil had ever seen, but after a day of military training, flying, and eating MREs, he nearly sprinted inside.