Field of Screams (4 page)

But I had to get out of here before that game!

Then my mind flashed to another part of my
conversation with Ernie. My wish. I told him I wanted to play on the best Shadyside team ever.

Was that it?

Was my wish coming true?

“Strike three. You're out!” the umpire bellowed.

Three outs. The game was over. We won.

But it wasn't a victory I could enjoy.

As we were jogging in, the big left fielder pumped a fist in the air. “That's what you get when you play the Doom Squad, boys. A big ‘L' in the score book. We are your doom!”

Doom. I shuddered at the word.

I
really
had to get out of here!

Then I thought of something. If I landed in the past because of a wish, maybe a wish would get me back to my own time!

I had to try. Outside the dugout, I tossed my glove down and shut my eyes tight. I balled my hands into fists.

I want to go home! I screamed in my mind. I want to go home!

“Okay, boys. Gather 'round,” a voice called.

I opened one eye. Then the other.

The first thing I saw was the coach with the slicked-back hair.

I groaned. It was still 1948.

Everyone on the team gathered around. I joined them.

The coach stood with his hands in his jacket pockets. A cigarette dangled from his lips. Gross.

“Okay, guys, good job today,” the coach said. “Keep playing like this, and we're on our way to the trophy for sure. We're just one game away. We'll be the champions of 1948! Let's hear it!”

“Yeah!” everybody cheered. Guys pounded me on the back.

I just stood there and tried to smile.

The players gathered their stuff. We crossed the parking lot to the bus. Everybody chattered away, laughing and happy.

Except me. I was miserable.

How was I going to get back to my own time?

I stood in line, waiting to board the bus. When I climbed the steps, I stopped in shock.

Behind the steering wheel sat the old man from the house on Fear Street! Ernie Ames!

He was here with me in the past!

My heart jumped in my chest.

If he made it to the past—maybe he could bring me back to the future.

Maybe.

“I
t's you!” I cried. I lunged at Ernie and grabbed him by the collar of his jacket. “I didn't mean it. Take me back. Take me back home. I don't want to be stuck here! Please!”

“Well, if you get out of everybody's way and let go of me, I'll be happy to take you back.” The old man gave me a friendly smile.

“Really?” I gasped. “You will?”

Ernie laughed. “I'm the bus driver, Buddy. That's my job.”

“No, I mean send me to the future. You can do it—can't you?”

Ernie's smile faded. I saw him shift his gaze to someone behind me.

The coach clapped a hand on my shoulder.

“Buddy took a knock today, Ernie,” he told the bus driver. He pointed to his head. “Fastball right to the old noggin.”

The bus driver nodded knowingly.

“Come on, Buddy. This way,” the coach ordered, steering me away from the driver. He frowned down at me. “Maybe we better have a doctor check you out when we get home.”

I grasped the coach's arm. “Please, you have to believe me! I'm not Buddy Gibson!”

The coach's frown deepened.

“I'm not!” I insisted. “I'm Buddy
Sanders.
And I'm from the future. I live in 1997!”

“Oh! So that's what this is.” Coach grinned at me. “Sure, Buddy. You're from the future. And I'm the Lone Ranger. I'm just riding this bus until Silver comes along. He's my wonder horse, you know.”

Laughter rang out all around me. Everyone on the team cracked up like this was some kind of joke.

I sighed, realizing the truth. No one believed me.

I turned and let the coach lead me to a seat. Why
should
they believe me? I thought. I sound completely crazy.

Coach stopped at a seat and pointed. “There you go, Buddy. And there's your book, right where you left it.”

I glanced down. A novel lay on the seat.
Tom Swift and the Amazing Time Machine.

“You and your science fiction,” Coach grumbled. “I
don't know why you like that stuff so much. It'll rot your brain.”

He picked up the book and leafed through the pages. “Where were you from last week? Mars, right?”

A short, sandy-haired kid with big buck teeth plopped into the seat next to me. “Yeah,” he said. “Buddy was John Carter from Mars.” He laughed.

The coach scanned the rows of seats. Then he walked up to the front. “Okay, Ernie. Everyone's here. Let's head out.”

The bus jerked into motion. We pulled away from the Oneiga ball field.

“That Buddy's got some imagination,” I heard the coach say to Ernie, the driver. “What a joker!”

This was awful. Not only did no one believe me—they didn't even think I was acting unusual. This Gibson kid made things up all the time.

We made a left turn at the end of the street and pulled onto a two-lane road. I stared out the window—we should be getting on the interstate! A six-lane highway! What happened to it?

I slouched back in my seat. It's 1948, I reminded myself. The interstate isn't even built yet.

Two seats in front of me, the big, ugly left fielder stood up. “Hey, guys, check this out,” he called.

He pointed his arms straight out in front of him. “I am Buddy Gibson,” he said in a robot voice. “I am from the future.”

The kids sitting around him burst out laughing.

I glanced at the kid next to me. His face was covered with dark freckles. His big buck teeth stuck out even farther when he grinned at the fielder's joke. But at least he didn't laugh.

“What's your name?” I asked him.

“Don't play with me, Buddy. You've only known me your whole life.” Then he frowned. “Say, how hard did that ball hit you?”

“Pretty hard,” I told him. I leaned over and whispered, “I think maybe I have a little—what do you call it? Oh, yeah, amnesia.”

The kid's eyes widened and he grinned. “Whoa! No kidding? That's neato!”

Neato?

Nerd-o! I thought.

“So—who are you?” I asked again.

“Johnny Beans. Center field. Remember?”

“Oh, yeah. Now I remember,” I said. I wasn't lying. I
did
remember the kid—from the photograph the old man on Fear Street showed me.

“Who's the big doofus?” I pointed to the left fielder.

“That's Boog. Boog Johnson.”

“He doesn't like me much, does he?” I asked.

“No, I guess he doesn't,” Johnny agreed. “In fact, he doesn't like you—period.”

Boog turned in his seat. He smirked at me. “Hey,
what's the news, future man? Who's going to win the World Series this year?”

Actually, I knew the answer to that. It was in one of my baseball books. The Cleveland Indians won in 1948. They beat Boston.

But I wasn't going to tell this jerk about it!

Boog stretched out his arms to either side. He ran up and down the aisle of the bus. “Get me. I'm Gibson in my very own space rocket. Zoom! Zoom!”

“Knock it off back there,” the coach yelled. “No running around on the bus!”

Boog slinked back to his seat. He shot me a dirty look—as if it were my fault he got in trouble.

Turning my shoulder to Boog, I asked Johnny some more questions. He identified everyone on the bus for me. I sat back and pretended that it was all coming back to me.

As Johnny talked, I stared hard at the back of Ernie's head. Did he recognize me? Did he remember our meeting on Fear Street? I couldn't tell.

But he had to be the key to why I was here.

Maybe he did know who I was, but he didn't want to say so in front of all these people.

I had to find a way to talk to him when no one else was around.

I stared out the window, watching trees and buildings whiz by. Yes, I decided. That was—

I suddenly heard the sound of squealing brakes.
The bus shuddered to a stop. I pitched forward, banging my chin on the seat in front of me.

“Oof!” “Ow!” “Hey, watch it!” I heard my teammates holler.

“Sorry, guys,” Ernie called back to us. “That truck in front of us skidded. We almost slammed into it. It was pretty close, but we're okay.”

The accident! I thought. Sure, we're okay now. But soon a big old train really
will
slam into this bus! And if I don't do something, I'll be
in
the bus when it does!

No way. I had to get back to my own time before the train wreck happened. Before the championship game.

I turned to Johnny Beans.

“Tell me again. How many more games before the championship?”

Beans grinned. “Just one. Then we take the championship—and the trophy will be ours. Best in the state!”

It sounded great. But I knew the truth.

The Shadyside team wasn't going to win the championship game. They were doomed.

And if I didn't think of something fast—so was I!

T
he bus pulled into town on Village Road I stared out the window. Would I recognize Shadyside in 1948?

We passed the fire department. And the police station. They both seemed pretty much the same.

But when I looked to my left, my mouth dropped open. Division Street Mall was gone! Or I guess it wasn't there yet. Neither was the ten-plex movie theater. Dalby's Department Store stood all by itself on the corner.

Across the street, the bowling alley stood as always, but a sign hung from it saying
GRAND OPENING.
Where the Rollerblading rink should have been, there was only an empty lot.

The bus continued along Village Road until we
reached the parking lot of Shadyside Middle School. I recognized the red brick building, even though the sign said
SHADYSIDE JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL.

Coach stood up at the front of the bus. “Okay, boys. We have one game before the championship. And I don't just want to beat this last team. I want to
destroy
them!”

“Yeah!” everybody yelled.

“I want them shaking in their shoes when we run out on that field!”

“Yeah!” the team replied.

“And why?”

“Because we're the Doom Squad!”
the team roared.

“You bet we are.” Coach nodded, looking satisfied.

Wow. My coach—my
real
coach, back in 1997—never talked like that. He said stuff like “Just remember, we're all out here to have fun.”

Weird.

Coach put a hand on my arm as I was climbing off the bus. “How's the head, Buddy?” he asked. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah, Coach. I'm fine.” I answered quickly.

I didn't want anyone to send me to a doctor. Who knows what medicine was like in 1948? What if they still used leeches to suck your blood or something?

“Glad to hear it,” Coach said, smiling. “We can't afford to lose you. We might manage with somebody else hurt, but you're the star. We need you.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Boog Johnson glaring at me. What was his problem?

As he walked past me, he leaned close to my ear and growled, “You think you're so hot.”

“Forget him. He's just jealous,” Johnny Beans whispered.

“I'd like to forget him, but I think he's going to pound me!” I said, worried.

“He wishes. I don't think he'd dare. Not until after the season anyway. His dad would kill him.”

I started to walk toward my house on Spring Street. Then I remembered.

In 1948 I didn't live on Spring Street.

I wasn't even born yet.

My
parents
weren't even born yet!

I turned back to Johnny Beans. “Uh, I forgot where I live,” I mumbled.

He shook his head. “Jeez, Louise, you
do
have amnesia!”