I looked at my brother to check if he saw the gun, but he was too busy tearing the Benz away from the wall. He managed to cross onto the divider line, engine gunning. Weirdly, he seemed to be enjoying this. I wondered how bored he must’ve been in the army, scrubbing dishes in the kitchen all day, peeling potatoes, and serving soup to soldiers returned from battle, tired, shell-shocked, even wounded. Their lives meant something important; like shedding blood for Mother Russia for real, not inked in a phony tattoo.
I felt so bad for him that I lifted the AK-47 and shoved it in front of his face. “Look!” I shouted. “This beats the kitchen, huh, bro? Better than serving soup!”
He spun around, gaped at me in shock, and saw the gun.
“What?” I said. “What did I —”
“Soup?” he growled, grabbed the barrel of the gun, and tore it out of my hands. “I’ll show you soup!”
His window slid down, and the wind roared into the car. My scarf was sucked into the opening, slapping my brother’s face. Blinded, he spun the wheel, brakes screeching. I grabbed the armrests. He let go of the steering wheel, leaned out of the window, and began firing the AK-47 at the stolen vehicle.
Tra-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta ta-ta-ta!
Crazed with sudden freedom, our Benz went haywire, missing one wall, scraping the other, running straight down the yellow line before swerving again.
My brother ducked back inside the car—“Hold the wheel, idiot!”—and arched back out to shoot some more.
Had I ever learned to ride a bicycle (Mom never had money to buy one), I would’ve been more confident. Like a dog, the steering wheel smelled my fear and began yanking me every which way. There were other distractions besides. To my left, beyond the windshield, the barrel of the AK-47 was jumping up and down in my brother’s hands, spitting flames out of its golden muzzle. Without his glasses, he was shooting up everything but the stolen vehicle. Long dotted lines of 39-millimeter holes sprouted in the vaulted ceiling. The overhead lights exploded one after another, leaving the tunnel dark behind us. I fought the steering wheel, crying to my brother to slow down, but he kept squeezing the gas pedal as hard as he was squeezing the trigger. His eye-hand-foot coordination was remarkable.
Gun blasting, hip-hop pounding, Benzes growling, we roared out of the tunnel. A wall of snowflakes walloped our windshield. The wipers kicked back into action. The brake lights of the stolen Benz bloomed bright red ahead, darting to the left, then to the right. One of our headlights was busted, and in the beam of the remaining light, I saw the stolen Benz fishtailing into a U-turn.
“Brake!” I screamed. “Brake now!”
My brother must not have heard me over the gunfire. We kept hauling at top speed toward the oncoming vehicle. I dropped the wheel and tried to yank my brother’s boot off the gas. The car lurched sideways, and when I glanced above the dashboard, the headlights of the stolen Benz blinded me. I shut my eyes.
(Bye, Mom. I forgive you for never buying me a bicycle.)
There was a loud whine of tires, a thud, a shudder. The engine choked and died.
I lay across the console, face squashed into the seat. My brother lumped on top of me. Were we dead? In the silence, I heard our Benz’s engine ticking, cooling off. The leather stank from my puke. Chilled air blew in through the open window. I shivered, pleased that I could smell, feel, and hear, even after death, but then my brother stirred and began coughing.
“Get off me,” I said.
He rolled off me, and I scrambled back into my seat. We looked at each other (not dead). We looked outside (nothing to see). The hood of our Benz was buried in snow to the windshield (we’d hit a snowdrift).
“I shot him dead for sure,” my brother said.
“Oh, yeah?” I said. “Without your glasses? Where’s the gun?”
He looked around, grinning stupidly.
Just then, his door flew open. “Come out with your hands up!” someone shouted. “Both of you!”
The man in the black knit ski mask stood silhouetted against the headlights of the stolen vehicle, aiming the gold AK-47 at us.
“Come out or I’ll shoot!” he shouted. “Now!”
With our hands up, my brother and I climbed out through the driver’s-side door. The thief looked at us for a moment, lifted the muzzle of the gun, and fired a burst into the falling snow. My brother and I ducked. The man exploded with laughter, lowered the gun, and ripped his mask off.
“Krookin?” my brother said, amazed. “What did you steal your own car for?”
Krookin’s gold teeth sparkled. “Steal my car?” he managed to squeeze through the laughter. “What did you think your tryout was about? Shoveling snow?”
My brother glared at Krookin, and then he turned to me. “Put your hands down.”
I put my hands down.
“You responded well,” Krookin said. “The job you tried out for is known for its element of surprise. Your driving’s good, but your shooting is lousy. You’ll need some practice.”
My brother started walking away.
“Where are you going?” Krookin said, confused. “You got the job.”
“Are you coming or what?” my brother called to me over his shoulder, and kept walking.
I looked at Krookin. He stood under the falling snow, holding his shiny gun, his open mouth full of shiny teeth. “I don’t get it,” he said to me. “He doesn’t want the job?”
“I guess not.” I ran after my brother.
“Krookin told you I served in the kitchen?” my brother said after I caught up with him. “What a jackass.”
We walked for a while without talking. The snow was coming down hard. It was freezing.
“Want some ice cream?” my brother said.
“Now?”
The ice cream places were all closed, but a supermarket was open. My brother bought two vanilla sandwiches, and we ate them outside, shivering in the snow.
GENERAL POOPHEAD
BEING AN ACCOUNT OF THE AFTERLIFE OF BENEDICT ARNOLD, TRAITOR TO THE UNITED STATES
BY LAURIE HALSE ANDERSON
1. IN WHICH THE BOY WITH CLENCHED FISTS EMERGES FROM A NASTY PLACE
The wheel of time spun, and the bloodstained war ravens flew across the Forgotten Sea toward their appointment. When they reached the seven-masted Ship of the Darned, on that cursed voyage of lost souls, they landed, eager for what would happen next. Perched on the rigging, the war ravens stared down at the boulder that rested on the ancient deck: a giant lump of dried pelican poop.
One of the ravens chuckled. (It was pretty funny until you thought about how big the pelican must have been in order to deposit a turd the size of a recliner.)
Suddenly, an enormous wave made the ship buck and leap like a snake-bit horse. The giant poop boulder began to roll across the deck. The empty-eyed sailors dived out of the way while the ravens flapped their wings and croaked in excitement. The boulder crashed into the mainmast so hard that it cracked open like an old egg.
A boy tumbled out.
He looked to be about ten years old. He wore filthy pants that ended just below his knees, and a torn shirt that had last been seen in the American Colonies in 1752. He lay on the deck, looking more dead than alive, but if you had the sharp vision of a war raven, you could see his chest rise and fall.
An empty-eyed sailor dumped a bucket of seawater over the boy’s head. The lad jumped to his feet, sputtering and wanting very much to say the worst words he knew but not being quite brave enough to say them. Instead, he clenched his fists.
“Why did you do that?” he yelled.
“You stink of pelican manure,” said the empty-eyed sailor.
“I beg your pardon,” declared the boy. “I do not—” He turned his head to smell his sleeve. “Oh, dear,” he said. “That’s disgusting.”
“Indeed.” The sailor yawned. “Do you remember your name, boy? Do you know why you’re here?”
The boy narrowed his eyes in suspicion. Something was very wrong, b
ut he couldn’t figure out what it was.
“Of course I know my name, you dunderhead.” The boy frowned. “It’s, ah, it’s a famous name. A worthy name, known all the world over. Just a moment, I, ah . . .”
He scratched at his head. ’Twas an alarming thing to wake up fresh-hatched from a massive pelican turd. It could make anyone forget his name for a while.
The empty-eyed sailor leaned on his mop. “Where do you come from?” he asked wearily. “Sometimes you remember that first.”
“Connecticut,” said the boy. “Everyone knows me there. I’m a smart lad, they say—strong and fearless.”
“I heard you like a good fight.”
“The only good fight is the one you win.” The boy spat on the deck. “I almost always win.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Tastes like something died in my mouth. Have I been sick?”
“You could say that.” The empty-eyed sailor scrubbed at the glistening loogie with his mop. “Concentrate, lad. What’s yer name?”
“Same as my father’s name, and his father before him.” The dirty boy frowned again. “A proud name, to be sure. One of my forefathers was the royal governor of Rhode Island.”
“You say that every blasted time,” muttered the sailor. “I don’t know why they keep trying.”
“We come from a long line of distinguished Englishmen,” continued the boy. “Father loved telling tales of their bravery, their cunning, and their gold.”
“Did he tell them tales when he was drunk or when he was sober?” asked the sailor.
The boy glared. “Don’t talk about my father that way.”
The sailor shrugged. “I heard it from you in the first place, your last time here. Fond of the bottle you said he was. A terror to your mother.”
The boy’s shoulders slumped. “Aye, he was that,” he said quietly.
For a moment the Forgotten Sea seemed to calm, and the fog began to lift. The boy took a cautious step backward, watching the expressionless sailors who limped around the deck and glancing at the curious unkindness of the ravens gathered above him. But then he scowled.
“What is this ship?” he demanded. “Where are we going? And why do you act as if you know me? I’ve never met you before.”
The empty-eyed sailor gave a tired sigh. Being cursed to sail on the Forgotten Sea for an eternity is the most boring fate of all. “Remove your head from your hindquarters, young master, and pray tell me your name.”
“Does he remember yet?” called one of the ravens.
All over the ship the empty-eyed sailors shivered at the sound of the war raven’s voice.
“Hurry up, lad,” said the sailor with the mop. “Them gods are waiting.”
“Gods?” The boy clenched his fists tighter. “What are you talking about? Are you daft, old man?”
The empty-eyed man spat out a string of words that sailors like to use when they are angry, then he said, “You’ll never learn, will you? No matter how many times we go through this. Waste of bloody time, if you ask me.” He thought about his miserable fate and sighed again. “Which they never will.”
The fog, which had been keeping a respectful distance, rushed at the ship.
“What’s your name?” The empty-eyed sailor’s voice had turned angry. He stepped toward the boy and suddenly seemed to be made of iron and rage instead of rags and sadness.
“Is that fog . . . red?” the boy asked, shrinking a bit from the sailor. He gave his head a shake. “Can’t be,” he muttered to himself. “There’s no such thing as red fog or a fog that smells of death.”
The ravens on the rigging screamed. The fog rolled in faster.
The empty-eyed sailor roared. “What! Is! Your! Name?”
A wave of fear jolted the boy’s memory. “Benedict,” he cried. “My name is Benedict Arnold.” He stared at his fists. “I’m a soldier, I think. Or I will be a soldier. Or I was, a long time ago.” He looked up as the bloodstained war ravens on the rigging flapped their wings. “What’s happening to me?”
That’s when the ravens descended upon the boy in a terrible storm of feathers and beaks and plucked him from the deck.
2. IN WHICH THE BOY WITH THE CLENCHED FISTS BECOMES THE BROKEN HERO
The ravens surrounded young Benedict in a tornado of black feathers, then carried him down the stairs, level after level after level. (This was a cursed ship, remember, with dark magic lurking everywhere. The inside of the ship was much larger than the outside could possibly contain.)
Once deep below, the birds dropped him to the floorboards with a thud. The boy who had been ten years old above deck now appeared as a man of some thirty years, dressed in a Continental uniform with tarnished buttons and muddy boots. He stood slowly and limped a few steps, for one leg was now shorter than the other, and it pained him terribly. Holding his head in his hands, he spoke to himself. “Must have fallen from my horse. I’ve gone all muzzy-headed, thinking myself a boy at sea again.”
“Benedict.” A low and dangerous voice called his name. A woman’s voice.
He slowly raised his head, peered into the gloom, and gasped. He was standing in an enormous hall, warmed by fireplaces large enough to drive an oxcart through. The air smelled of cooking meat, gunpowder, and the stench of people who have gone years without a bath. A long table stretched the length of the hall, crowded with chairs and covered by bleached bones, overturned mugs, and rock-hard crusts of bread. Candles flared and guttered on the table and along the dark walls.
The war ravens soared along the high ceiling, circled the hall three times, then—to the amazement of Benedict Arnold—one by one their wings turned into arms, their tails folded and joined with their legs, their beaks retracted into noses, and their feathers turned into clothes. Thus, most of them transformed into their oldselves. A few turned into wolves, one took on the shape of a lean octopus, and the last became a gray rat the size of a walrus.
These were the ancient gods of war, from nearly every culture and almost every age. No matter how many reminders were sent out, a few gods always mixed up the meeting dates or got sidetracked by a battle or an old-fashioned nose punching contest that would lead to years of bloodshed and thousand of corpses until no one could remember why they started fighting. But all things considered, it was an impressive showing that filled most of the seats around the council table. The crimes of Benedict Arnold were the worst sort. Judging him was serious work.
The gods of war sat down and reached for mugs suddenly filled with ale and for plates that overflowed with fresh-roasted meat.
Benedict blinked. He knew that these were gods without being told, and he knew that they’d come to judge him. But he did not know how he could understand such a thing. He felt his head for lumps. I’ve been knocked about by some scoundrels, he thought. Or mayhaps this is a fever dream. But if this truly is happening, then I must leave immediately.
Keeping his eyes on the feasting gods, he slowly limped toward the stairs, thinking to get back to the main deck.
The largest man at the long table, the one who most resembled a craggy mountain, suddenly appeared in front of Benedict. The man raised his hairy arm and pointed, motioning for Benedict to stand in front of the largest fireplace, where all could observe him. A woman stepped from the shadows and met him there. She was tall and powerful, a warrior with glowing eyes, beautiful and horrifying at the same time.
“Benedict,” she repeated.
She’s a Valkyrie, thought Benedict, a spirit of carnage, though again, he didn’t know how or why he knew that.
“Welcome back,” the Valkyrie said. Her voice sounded like a sharp blade scratching upon a gravestone. “This court is now in session.”
“Court?” Benedict snapped. “This is no court; it’s witchcraft.”
“Not at all, General,” she said. “You have been brought before the gods of war to answer for your crimes.”
“Balderdash,” Benedict spat. “I’m not staying for this nonsense.” He turned toward the stairs again, but found he
could not move his legs. His feet had sunk into the floorboards, up to his ankles. He swallowed hard and thought fast. “Have I been arrested for dueling? A tavern brawl? Surely the gods of war can’t object to a good fight. Can they?”
“Don’t try to be funny, you fool,” warned the Valkyrie. “It never works here.”
“Where is here?” Benedict held up his hands and looked around the strange hall. “I wake up as a smelly boy, I turn into this me after being assaulted by birds that are not birds, and now I’m held fast in this impossible place where I know things I can’t know.”
The Valkyrie winced, as if she were developing a terrible migraine and just wanted to take a nap on a soft bed. She rubbed her forehead. “They keep promising me that one of these times you’ll remember everything. I’m beginning to think it’ll never happen.” She smoothed her hair and studied Benedict. “You’re mostly dead, you nitwit. Been that way for hundreds of years, as your people measure such things.”
Benedict frowned. “Mostly dead?”
“Not fully dead yet because neither Heaven nor Hell will let you in. Because of your crimes, you’ve been cursed to travel on the Ship of the Darned, to contemplate your misdeeds. Whenever the wheel of time turns, you’re given another trial and a chance to repent. The gods of war are much nicer than most people realize.”
“They entombed me in pelican poop,” Benedict pointed out.
“Think of it as a spa treatment.” A weathered scroll appeared in the Valkyrie’s hands. “Let’s get this over with. During the American Revolution you bravely led a command of more than a thousand men through hundreds of miles of winter wilderness to Quebec.”
“I did,” Benedict said in a clear voice. “The weather prevented us from taking the city, but it still counted as a success. Thomas Jefferson told the Continental Congress of my great deeds.”
“You were wounded?”