License to Thrill (11 page)

The twins gulped.

“And how are you going to do that?” Coke asked defiantly.

“Oh, you'll find out. When I'm good and ready,” said John Pain. “I'm in no rush. It could be five minutes from now, or it could be tomorrow. Or it could be the next day. But you can bet that I'm going to kill you. And it's gonna to be an awful, painful death.”

“I thought cowboys were supposed to be
nice
,” Pep said.

“You shouldn't stereotype people, little lady,” John Pain said. “Some cowboys
are
nice. Others ain't so nice. I would belong in the ain't-so-nice category.”

“If Dr. Warsaw hates us so much, why doesn't he kill us himself?” asked Coke. “Why is he always sending
people like you to do the dirty work for him?”

“The good doctor is, shall we say, incapacitated,” John Pain told them. “He's in no condition to harm anybody. But I am.”

The cowboy took a cigarette from his shirt pocket and skillfully lit it by flicking a match with one hand against the bottom of his boot.

“Cigarettes can kill you,” Pep pointed out.

“It's true, little lady,” said John Pain. “You know what else can kill you?”

He took the canvas sack he'd been carrying and tossed it into the pit.

“Snakes.”

W
ell, that just goes to show that you can't believe everything you read in a book. Especially
this
book.

You are
so
gullible!

It's time you learned that people who write fiction are a bunch of liars. In fact, lying is their
job
. If one of them tells you there isn't going to be a snake attack in a story, you can pretty much bet there's going to be a snake attack in that story.

Of
course
there was going to be a snake attack! How could there
not
be a snake attack? Didn't they
teach you about foreshadowing in school? There was no reason to have Coke and Pep see a sign warning them about snakes if there wasn't going to be a snake attack later on.

The canvas sack that John Pain tossed into the pit began to slither toward the twins.

“Snakes!” Coke yelled, backing against the dirt wall. “Why did it have to be snakes?”

After wriggling around for a few seconds, a brownish head popped out of the sack's opening. The snake seemed to have enlarged scales at the top of its head and a light stripe behind the corner of its mouth. It opened that mouth ridiculously wide and flicked a forked tongue out. Two sharp fangs were visible. Pep gasped.

“I'd like you to meet Herman,” said John Pain. “He's a Mojave rattlesnake. I named him after my good friend Dr. Herman Warsaw.”

Herman slithered all the way out of the canvas sack and began to explore the pit. He was about three feet long, with a greenish-brown diamond pattern along his back. Coke and Pep jumped to get out of his way.

“Did you know that seven thousand people are
bitten by venomous snakes in the United States each year?” asked John Pain.

“Venomous?” asked Coke. He was sweating profusely.

“Oh yeah,” said John Pain. “The Mojave rattlesnake is the most potently venomous snake in the United States.”

“Great.”

Herman slithered to the other end of the pit. The twins jumped over him to get as far away as possible.

“Help!” Pep screamed uselessly. “Somebody help!”

“Herman's lookin' for food, I reckon,” John Payne said, ignoring her. “You might wanna keep still. His vision ain't so hot, but he's really good at perceivin' movement.”

“You're crazy!” Coke yelled.

“Herman also has a keen sense of smell, and a set of heat-sensin' pits in his face that help 'im locate prey,” John Pain said casually. “He's got such a big appetite, he only eats once every two weeks.”

“When did he eat last?” Pep asked.

“'Bout two weeks ago, I reckon.”

“Help!” Pep screamed again. “Somebody help!”

The twins cowered in the corner while Herman explored the other end of the pit.

“He's lyin' in wait, y'see,” said John Pain. “When he finds somethin' that looks tasty, like
you
, he'll shake
his rattle as a warning, and then pounce. Grab you with them fangs of his. That's how he injects his hemotoxic venom. It'll travel through your bloodstream—”

“Shut up!” Coke hollered. “Why do you lunatics always have to explain how you're going to kill people?”

“'Cause that's half the fun, son,” John Pain said. “After Herman bites ya, you'll feel a tinglin' sensation at first, and you'll start in sweatin'. As the venom destroys yer body tissue, you'll feel weakness and nausea. You may throw up. There'll be swellin', internal bleedin', and intense pain. I love pain. You know what they say—no pain, no gain.”

“We gotta get out of here,” Coke muttered.

“A few minutes after he bites you, you'll have paralysis and heart failure,” John Pain said. “By then, of course, you're a goner.”

Herman turned around. It looked like he was eyeing the twins.

“Coke,
do
something!” Pep yelled.

“What do you want
me
to do?”

“I don't know!” Pep shouted. “Didn't you take karate for five years?”

“Are you crazy? Karate moves on a
snake
?”

Herman was on the move again, slithering back and forth.

“After its prey is dead,” John Pain continued, “the Mojave rattlesnake eats the head first. It'll even digest the bones. Amazin' creature, when you think about it.”

Herman hissed and made a rattle sound with his tail.

“He's about to strike!” Pep screamed.

“Tell you what,” John Pain said. “If you two can figure a way outta this mess, I'll let you go. How's that for fair?”

“Quick!” Pep yelled to her brother. “Do you have anything in your pockets? Maybe we can stab him with something.”

Coke searched his pockets. The only thing he came up with was the package of freeze-dried ice cream from the Very Large Array Visitor Center. Frantically, he ripped the package open and sprinkled the contents on the ground around Herman.

Herman didn't seem interested.

“Snakes like to eat
livin'
things, pardner,” John Pain said, amused. “Like birds and mice and lizards. They don't eat freeze-dried ice cream.”

Herman made the rattling sound again.

“I'm going to have to kill it with my bare hands!” Coke said.

“That's a knee-slapper!” John Pain said, doubled over laughing.

“Kill it?” said Pep. “I'm against cruelty to animals. I did a report in school—”

“It's him or us!” Coke shouted. “Somebody's gonna die here!”

Herman moved toward the twins.

“I think he likes you,” John Pain said.

“Take your shirt off!” Pep yelled at her brother.

“What? And do
what
with it?”

“I have an idea,” Pep said, grabbing the canvas sack from the ground behind Herman. “Just give me your shirt!”

Coke pulled his shirt over his head and handed it to his sister. She put it around her neck. Then she held up the canvas bag, with the opening facing Herman.

“What are you
doing
?” Coke asked. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Maybe,” Pep said softly.

She was moving the sack back and forth slowly, like a bullfighter taunting a bull. Herman raised his head slightly, moving it left to right as if it was trying to get a better view. Pep's fingertips were trembling.

“Careful,” Coke said.

And then, in a flash, Herman rattled his tail and jabbed his head forward to strike at Pep. He hit the center of the sack with his face and Pep quickly closed it around his head. Then she took Coke's T-shirt and
wrapped it around the end of the sack, tying a tight knot. Herman's head was trapped inside while the rest of his body was sticking out of the sack.

“Nice!” Coke shouted. “Did you learn that in Girl Scouts?”

Pep grabbed Herman at his middle. Then she swung him like a baseball bat against the side of the pit.

Coke's eyes bugged out. He had never seen his sister do
anything
as aggressive as that. Up until this moment,
he
was usually the one who got them out of these situations.
He
was the one who forced them to jump off the cliff back in California.
He
was the one who gave the boot to Dr. Warsaw back in Wisconsin.

After she smashed Herman's head into the rocks, Pep turned around and swung him against the
other
side of the pit.

Her eyes were on fire now. She was in a frenzy, slamming the rattler from one side of the pit to the other. Poor Herman didn't have a chance. But Pep just kept going, grunting with each swing.

“Stop! Pep!” Coke finally shouted at her. “Stop! He's dead!”

Pep whacked Herman a few more times for good measure. Then, panting, she let go of the sack and fell against the ground. There were tears in her eyes.

“Wow!” her brother exclaimed. “I thought you said
you were against cruelty to animals.”

“I don't know what came over me,” Pep said, still gasping and sobbing. “I killed a living thing! It wasn't some bad guy. It wasn't a robot. It was alive, and now it's dead because of what I did. It was an instinct, or adrenaline, or something.”

“It was
awesome
,” Coke said, putting his arm around his sister.

Up above, at the edge of the pit, John Pain clapped his hands in appreciation.

“Impressive!” he said, reaching down to help the twins climb out of the pit. “You're almost as sadistic as I am, young lady.”

“So you'll let us go?” Pep asked.

“I'm a man of my word,” John Pain said. “I said if you got outta this mess, you'd be free to go. So skedaddle! But needless to say, if your parents find out about this, I'll kill them.”

“Don't worry,” Pep told him. “Our parents don't believe anything we tell them anyway.”

“Let's blow this pop stand!” Coke said.

The twins took off before John Pain had the chance to change his mind. As they were running away, he shouted to them, “But you two ain't seen the last of me, I promise you that.”

C
oke and Pep ran. They just
ran
. They didn't know where. It didn't matter. Anywhere. Away from that lunatic, John Pain.

“That guy was nuts!” Pep said after a couple of blocks. She stopped to catch her breath.

“I can't believe you killed the snake!” Coke said.

“I can't believe
you
tried to feed it freeze-dried ice cream!”

Across the street, a lady was pushing a stroller. Coke jogged over to ask her how to get back to Albuquerque's Old Town section. She pointed out the
direction, and from there it wasn't hard for the twins to find the Rattlesnake Museum. Their parents were standing out front, looking worried.

“Where's your shirt?” asked an exasperated Mrs. McDonald as soon as she saw her son.

Not
Where have you been?
or
Are you okay?
His mother's overriding concern was with what happened to Coke's shirt.

“Funny you should ask, Mom,” he replied. “Pep wrapped it around a rattlesnake's head so she could beat it to death.”

“Very funny,” said Dr. McDonald.

“It's true,” Pep insisted. “You don't have to believe him if you don't want to.”

Mrs. McDonald simply shook her head, counting how many perfectly good T-shirts Coke had ruined on the trip so far. Five? Six? She had finally reached the point where she wasn't going to fight about it anymore. There was no use. The boy was a T-shirt-wrecking machine. She made a mental note to buy him only cheap T-shirts from now on.

The McDonalds had a quick dinner and checked into the Econo Lodge West for the night. It was just a few blocks from Coronado Freeway—also known as I-40—which was the main road heading west out of Albuquerque. In the morning, the family got on the road early. It would be a long day, in more ways than one.

Almost immediately, the highway flattened out. The stores and gas stations became few and far between. Pep worried silently, trying to figure out where Dr. Warsaw might decide to set off his nuclear bomb, and what they could do to stop it. Coke daydreamed, thinking about John Pain and the last thing he'd said to them: “You two ain't seen the last of me, I promise you that.”

There wasn't much to look at out the window, except for the occasional billboard, announcing things like
INDIAN VILLAGE
and
MOCCASINS FOR THE ENTIRE FAMILY
!

“Ooh, can we go?” Pep asked.

“Those places aren't
real
Indian villages,” Mrs. McDonald told them. “It says in the guidebook that they're just tacky souvenir shops.”

“Ooh, can we go?” Coke asked.

About an hour from Albuquerque, the speed limit slowed down to 35 miles per hour and a few stores
popped up here and there. And then this appeared at the side of the road. . . .