In the morning, after they had breakfasted, Brett went to school whilst his mother, who had neither spouse nor partner, went to earn their daily bread. That evening, when his mother returned home, Brett proudly informed her that he had aced his history test.
"See what happens when you keep up with your homework?" his mother asked. "I know it sometimes seems hard to believe at your age, but teachers give you homework for a reason, and it's not just to keep you off the streets."
"Yeah, I guess so," Brett admitted. Although he could be dogged in pursuit of a goal when he set his mind to it, Brett had never been the most diligent student, and his especial failing was inconsistency in doing and submitting his homework. That was, of course, precisely the reason why his mother insisted that he do his homework each night as the price for hearing more of her tale. Brett had met that price faithfully for three weeks now, and his grades were starting to respond.
After they had dined and Brett had attended to his homework, Brett asked his mother to tell him more about her experience on Total Drama Island. Brett sat in his favorite chair, and his mother sat on the sofa. She took a few moments to collect her thoughts, and then she began to speak.
"Radiation sickness?" Hatchet pondered this remarkable conjecture for a few moments and said, "You may be right. The pieces fit." An expectant grin spread across his face. "This is better than I'd planned. When you're in a war zone, you have to be able to play through pain, or sickness, or what have you. And if it took this long for symptoms to show up, that probably means a sublethal dose. Probably won't even make your hair fall out. So, this should help keep us on schedule and might not charge us any real price for it."
Hatchet turned his attention to the other campers, who were looking on nervously. They had all heard stories about what radiation poisoning could do to its victims, and the prospect of going through similar ordeals themselves was not a pleasant thing to contemplate.
"All right, maggots, listen up!" the Master Chief announced. "As each of you drops out of the challenge, after firing the cannon you will report to the infirmary to be tested for radiation poisoning. In the meantime, we will carry on."
As the hike resumed, Hatchet made two radio calls, first to Alejandro and then to Scott. Alejandro he instructed to find Lindsay and escort her to the infirmary. Hatchet gave the big Latino no details, reasoning that he had no need to know.
Scott, on the other hand, did need to know what was going on. The redheaded redneck had risen through the ranks to become the camp's de facto backup medic, so Hatchet patiently explained why Lindsay was coming to the infirmary, what tests to run, and what to look for.
Beth's position on the carrying poles was close enough to the Master Chief that she could hear his side of the conversations in some detail. Although Hatchet tried to keep his tone businesslike, Beth was certain she heard a note of concern creeping into his voice as he instructed Scott.
Beth thought, Bless him. He really does care about us. For the first time, the nerd girl felt honored that her team had been assigned to carry Master Chief Hatchet instead of the lighter but less-respected Chris McLean.
The squad reached camp without further incident, perhaps three hours before sundown. "Company, halt! Chairs down!" Hatchet called.
Leaving the attending interns to deal with the sedan chairs and Chris to do whatever he did when he was not conducting challenges or ceremonies, Master Chief Hatchet led his trainees to the place where the reverse William Tell test had taken place three days before. The area had been converted to a proper 15-meter shooting range, with metal-backed paper targets in front of the embankment and a dozen shooting stations at the near end. Each station was marked with a camper's name. Sky and another intern were taking their ease, having completed their prep work with time to spare.
The second redshirt was a strange one. A big black lad, shorter than Owen but with a similar build (and, thankfully, a more efficient digestive system), the campers knew less about him than about almost anyone else on the island, despite the fact that he was one of the original thirteen interns who had been on the island longer than the campers. The campers did not even know what his voice sounded like.
Sky leapt to her feet and announced, "Everything's ready, Chef, er, Master Chief. We've even set up a system for moving targets."
"Moving targets? I didn't expect that," the visibly impressed Master Chief admitted.
"Oh, I think you did," Sky replied with a knowing air. "You know how B is with mechanical systems."
"Indeed I do," Hatchet admitted with a growing smile. He turned to the second intern, who was apparently called "B" for unknown reasons, and said, "I'm looking forward to seeing what you've done here." B smiled and nodded in response, but said nothing.
The Master Chief turned to the campers and announced, "Your next test is marksmanship. You'll be using paintball guns, and you will each have a different paint color so we can tell who hits what. The sad sack who gets the lowest score will be eliminated unless there's a tie for lowest. In that case, you'll all advance to the next test. I don't want to lose too many people before we get to the good part.
"The original plan was for you to use rifles and fire from the prone position, because that gives better accuracy and leaves you a smaller target for return fire; but since Private Gwen is in no condition to do that, and my orders are to neither put her at a disadvantage nor give her a free pass, we're going to do something a little different.
"Since Gwen only has one good arm, you'll be using pistols instead of rifles; and since she can't lie on her stomach very well, you'll all be lying on your backs. Has anyone heard of the Creedmore position?
Tyler raised his hand. "I've seen pictures of it. I think. Is that the one that looks kind of like the guy's doing a crab crawl?"
"That's the one," Hatchet confirmed. "It got its start with the metallic silhouette shooting crowd, and that's still mainly where you see it. Observe."
Hatchet gestured to B, who proceeded to demonstrate. At the station that would have been Lindsay's, the Silent One lay on his back, with his knees slightly raised and his lower legs splayed out to the sides. He held a long-barreled paint pistol over his right leg, with the base of the barrel resting on the bulge of his calf muscle, and lifted his head just enough to line up the sights. He fired two rounds, which painted makeshift eyes on a "standing man" silhouette target.
"Doesn't look too hard," Tyler pronounced.
Sky brought forth a box of pistols of the same design B had used. Master Chief Hatchet bade each camper take one, and resumed his briefing. "Your pistols are not sighted in, so you will start with standard bulls-eye targets. Knowing how to adjust your weapon's sights is part of knowing how to use your weapon. I recommend firing groups of five rounds between adjustments.
"When you want a fresh target, press the red button at your station to bring the target to you. You each have a pad of targets, so you can just rip off the used target to expose the one beneath. Press the button again to return the target to its place.
Hatchet gestured toward B. "Gwen, you may dictate your adjustments to Mr. LaForge here, since you probably won't be able to make them with one hand."
"You have fifteen minutes. Company, begin!"
As the campers fell to their task, Hatchet withdrew and began to converse with Sky. Presumably, the redshirt was explaining the bonus features she and B had put into the target presentation system.
Meanwhile, Dawn was heading to the interns' quarters to get a nap, for she had a late-night assignment on her schedule. As she passed the medical tent, she heard odd speech from within. The mystic sighed and detoured to investigate.
"Neutronicus expelliamus! Atomicus Radiatum abjuri! Systemen digesticus bismuthiae!"
Dawn peeked into the infirmary and beheld a sight as strange as the words that had lured her. Lindsay lay on the cot, looking pale but more than a little amused, as an intern dressed in a stereotypical wizard robe and conical hat waved a wooden wand and spoke in no known language. This wizard, a tall, lanky black fellow with an oddly high-pitched voice, seemed faintly out of breath and was sweating profusely, as if from exertion. Apparently, he had been "treating" Lindsay for some time.
"Leonard, what are you doing?"
The answer came not from the wizard, but from Lindsay. "Hi, Fawn. Lemuel said he was going to cure my… radio sickness? I think that's what Spot called it. He didn't say if it was AM sickness or FM, though."
"I see," Dawn acknowledged with a glower. "Len, you really shouldn't be bothering her. She needs rest."
"I don't mind," Lindsay assured the disapproving mystic. "He's funny."
"I'm sure he is. Nevertheless…" The wraith-girl crooked her finger to her dusky colleague in a come-hither gesture. "A word, please?"
The interns stepped outside the infirmary, and Dawn began an all-too-familiar lecture. "Leonard, how many times do I have to tell you? The Harry Potter novels are fantasy stories. They're not how-to guides, and were never meant to be."
Leonard was not a combative person by nature, but he had heard variations of this lecture once too often. "I don't see you doing anything to help her, Miss I-come-from-a-family-of-wizards-and-you-don't-so-there," he countered petulantly.
"That's because I know my limitations. Magical healing is a specialist field. It takes years of training to do competently, and I'm not even sure magic can cure radiation poisoning in the first place. That's not something people have done much research on."
"Then why not let me 'research' it? For all you know, I could discover something," the would-be magical medic insisted.
"That's what worries me. Against all odds, you might actually stumble on a real incantation that does something completely different from what you're expecting. If that happens, someone could get hurt. Magic is not a toy."
"I never said it was. I know what I'm doing!"
Dawn shook her head. "No, you don't, and that's what makes your wand waving dangerous. Don't get me wrong, you do have real magical talent—I can see it in your aura—but you don't know how the first thing about how to apply it. You can't self-teach magic, Len. You need a mentor."
"So tell me, Fairy Princess, who would this all-knowing mentor be?" Leonard asked sarcastically. "You, I suppose?"
Dawn recognized the sarcasm in his tone, but ignored it in hope of defusing his hostility. "No, I'm not ready to take apprentices. Besides, I'm more into the 'psychic' side of the Craft, whereas you seem more interested in traditional sorcery."
Leonard, sounding less hostile but still defensive, asked, "Do you know any good teachers for wizardry or sorcery or whatever?"
"I was hoping you'd ask. I do have someone in mind, if you're willing to live abroad for a few years."
Now looking genuinely interested, Leonard prompted, "Go on."
"I have a cousin in London—England, not Ontario—who has an opening for an apprentice. You're rather old for a new apprentice, but that shouldn't be a deal breaker. If I tell him you have talent and that you've been trying to teach yourself, I think he'll understand."
"Gee, thanks!"
"You're quite welcome," Dawn assured him with audible relief in her voice. "Now, all we have to do is…" A cloud passed over the mystic's face, and she gave a sorrowful sigh as she looked downward.
Leonard could guess what was troubling his colleague. "Yeah, I know. We have to survive until the show finishes shooting."
At the shooting range, Hatchet called time. Only Cody had taken the full fifteen minutes to prepare, and even then he looked unsatisfied, but that was just his perfectionism at work. Despite the science geek's misgivings, there was no reason to suppose he had not sighted in his pistol properly.
Marksmanship training began in earnest with standard silhouette targets. As Sky had suggested, Hatchet had indeed expected the mechanically inclined and highly inventive B to do something special with the target presentation system, and the silent genius did not disappoint. Armed with modified universal remotes, Hatchet and his aides put the campers through their paces with pop-up targets that dropped after a few moments or when hit, targets that remained edge-on until briefly turning to expose themselves, variable-speed running targets, and combinations. With the interns and the Master Chief each controlling targets according to their own schemes, the campers faced a sometimes-chaotic "battlefield" that sternly tested their ability to make snap decisions and acquire targets quickly.
"Cease fire!" Hatchet called. As the interns went downrange to collect and replace the well-splattered targets, Hatchet announced, "That does it for the practice round. Take ten while we set up for the part that actually counts."
"Practice round?" Leshawna asked incredulously as she wiped her forearm across her perspiring brow. "We've had whole challenges that weren't this much work!"
"But they haven't been this much fun, eh?" Ezekiel countered.
"He's got a point," Gwen seconded. "I haven't had this much fun here since the dodgeball match."
Leshawna grinned sheepishly. "When you put it that way, I guess you're right."
Duncan grinned his wolfish grin, although his face was a bit drawn, presumably from his mysterious illness. "Ah, the incomparable joys of blowing things away."
"I know, right?" Cody agreed as he grinned his goofy grin. "The original first-person shooter."
Heather stood stiffly a little apart from the others, and she, like Duncan, appeared to be in pain. "Master Chief?" she called. "Can I go to the bathroom? I think I've got the runs."
"Make it quick," Hatchet growled. "I don't want to run out of daylight before we're done here."
"Do we have any toilet paper?" the dragon girl asked as she clenched and rocked back and forth from one foot to the other in an effort to stop the dam bursting prematurely.
Hatchet tossed her a pad of bulls-eye targets. "Now hurry."
Heather returned just as Hatchet began to brief his troops. "For the scoring round, we're cranking up the difficulty. Instead of silhouette targets, you'll have combat shooting targets. There are soldiers, terrorists and so forth, which you'll score points for hitting; and noncombatant civilians, which you'll lose points for hitting. Lowest score means elimination. Battle stations!"
The first few noncombatant targets to show themselves took multiple hits because the previous round had conditioned the First Wawanakwa Light Infantry to shoot at anything that moved, but the campers adjusted quickly enough. The noncombatant targets behaved in two ways. The "decoy" targets showed themselves briefly, to draw the fire of anyone who shot reflexively and without properly identifying the target. The "collateral damage" targets moved across the range in the foreground, and tended to get in the way at just the wrong moment.
With the scene as chaotic as before, it was difficult to tell who was doing well and who was doing poorly, but everyone was having the time of their lives. The campers had been given so much ammunition, preloaded for their magazine-fed pistols, that it appeared Hatchet meant for this round to test endurance as well as skill.
The "firefight" proceeded without major incident for a time, until the campers began shooting at a certain noncombatant target as it moved across the field. This new target was remarkable for bearing the likeness of a recognizable person instead of a nondescript one.
Heather asked rhetorically, "What's everyone doing? Don't they know they're losing points?"
Katie, who was stationed next to her liege, speculated as she took a potshot at this new target, "I think it's more like they're willing to take the penalty. You're pretty bossy, you know." Indeed, the person depicted on this well-splattered target, which most of the shooters had now hit two or three times, was none other than Heather herself. "Besides, if everyone gets the same penalty, it doesn't really change anything."
"Hmph," Heather grunted in derision as the target bearing her likeness quit the field. "So I can get a leg up just by not joining in this childish DIE! DIE! DIE!"
THE IMAGINARY REBELLION
The dragon's shrieks distracted the other shooters for a moment, but only for a moment. When they saw that Heather was pumping paintball after paintball, as fast as she could pull the trigger, into the Chris target that had just emerged from where the Heather target had exited moments before, they needed no encouragement to join in; for all was as Katie had surmised.
With this single target now drawing the undivided fire of the entire company as if to a magnet, it looked as though Chris was being machine gunned. First to disappear beneath the rainbow river of paint was that hated bland smile of his, then the rest of his handsome but reviled face.
As the fusillade continued, sparks flew from the target's base and "Chris" ground to a halt. So thickly did the paintballs fly that the air itself shimmered with a veritable rainbow of color, like sunlight diffracted through the water droplets a garden sprinkler throws into the air on a summer day. Other targets continued to operate normally, but the campers paid them no heed as the Chris target tilted back precariously under the incessant pounding on its metal backing.
"Cease fire!" Hatchet called. The paintstorm continued unabated.
"Cease fire!" Hatchet bellowed again, with no more effect than before.
Hatchet drew his service sidearm—not a paint pistol, but a real pistol, albeit loaded with blanks—and fired into the air. This finally distracted the campers from their berserker fury, and Hatchet thundered, "I said, cease fire!"
In that silent moment, what was left of the Chris target finally answered the call of gravity and fell over backward.
Master Chief Hatchet turned toward the interns with an accusing glare. B stood his ground inscrutably, but Sky, whose brainchild the Chris target apparently was, shrugged her shoulders and raised her palms whilst struggling gamely to suppress a giggle. She did not quite succeed, so instead of a girlish giggle, she emitted a most unladylike snort. B cracked a half-smile at that.
"All right, you've had your fun," Hatchet growled. "Can't say I blame you, but you've made more cleanup work for yourselves. You might as well get to it."
The Master Chief turned to the campers and bellowed, "When I give you an order, I expect it to be obeyed the first time! Your inattention just bought you fifteen laps around the range. Now!"
As the campers rose to begin their penance, Duncan quipped to his neighbor, Tyler, "It was worth it."
"I know, right?" Red Jock seconded.
As the teens finished their run, each came before Hatchet and stood at attention by his command. When the last, Gwen, had finished and fallen into line as she winced and held her good hand on her damaged ribs, the Master Chief addressed his troops as the sun stood barely its full height above the horizon.
"I was going to eliminate whoever had the lowest score here, but your stunt with that last target left you all so far in the red it would be pointless. I guess I'll just have to advance you all to the next test." With a wicked little grin, he warned, "Just remember… you asked for it."
The Master Chief marched his squad to the lodge at a double-quick pace. Once there, he said, "You have fifteen minutes to eat before night training begins."
"Night training?" several campers repeated incredulously.
Gwen asked, "Master Chief? Where's the food?
Hatchet gestured to several garbage cans lined up beneath the serving counter. "You're looking at it."
"You're kidding, right?" the Goth asked acidly, although in her heart she knew the answer.
Tyler opened one of the cans and confirmed his fear. "This is the garbage from last night's dinner."
"Damn right," Hatchet shot back. "When you're at war, you take what you can get."
"I am not eating this!" Heather declared.
"Me neither!" Courtney seconded. "I am going to be running for office one day, and no one is going to pull up a file of me eating garbage!"
Hatchet looked at the Alpha Females of Wawanakwa and shook his head. "I expected better from you two," he said, his voice soft with disappointment. "Very well. Go fire the cannon and report to the infirmary for testing."
The girls gaped. "You're kicking us out of the challenge?" Heather all but shrieked. "No way!"
"This is part of the challenge," Hatchet explained. "You refused to participate. So yes, you're out… unless you'd like to reconsider."
"I've changed my mind. I can handle this," Heather answered as fast as she could get the words out.
Courtney, however, stood her ground. "This is not in my contract. I'll sue!"
Hatchet was not impressed. "You don't have a case, and we both know it."
Courtney did know it, but she had made her threat reflexively. "Fine," she conceded with a resigned sigh. "It wasn't my intention to drop out."
Hatchet nodded. "Very good."
As the campers began to scrounge, Chris poked his head into the lodge. "Yo, Master Chief! I'm heading over to Craft Services. Coming?"
Hatchet shook his head. "Have one of the interns bring me something. I can't leave my unit."
Chris grinned. "You're an inspiration, Chief. A real 'father to his men'. Sometimes I wish I could care that much about them. Occasionally. Okay, maybe once or twice. If we define 'care' broadly enough."
"Just remind yourself that you wouldn't have this cushy gig without them. You'll care."
"You've got me there," Chris admitted cheerily.
With Hatchet distracted, Duncan and Ezekiel slipped unnoticed into the kitchen. They hoped to find some real food, or at least what passed for real food during this game, but it was not to be. Hatchet had apparently anticipated such a raid, and everything edible was locked away. It was to be garbage or nothing.
Ezekiel was not dismayed. "The grease traps! Grease is mostly fat, so it'll fill us up. Besides, it'll probably taste as good as anything we could get in the stuff Chef set out, eh?"
"Sounds good. All we need is something to—score!" The delinquent had spotted an empty coffee can. With a single scoop into the trap, he had enough congealed grease to feed their entire team. More, in fact; but with a challenge in progress, the grease thieves were not about to offer the Eagles any of their "booty", such as it was.
With no way to know whether Hatchet was watching the door, the partners in crime decided to play innocent. If they were caught, Duncan pointed out, it was easier to get forgiveness than permission. Hoping for the best but prepared for the worst, they casually strolled through the swinging door into the common area.
"Duncan! Ezekiel! Front and center!"
The thieves felt a flash of disappointment, but it passed. Lady Luck had forsaken them, but silver-tongued Persuasion might yet see them through.
Hatchet gestured to the can of grease. "Well?"
Duncan explained, "You said yourself, M.C., 'When you're at war, you take what you can get.'"
"Besides," Ezekiel added, "we may not have followed the letter of your orders, but we followed the spirit. It's just kitchen grease. That can be considered garbage, eh?"
"He's got you there, Master Chief," spoke a familiar voice from behind Hatchet. Alejandro stood in the doorway with Hatchet's dinner in hand.
"Kitchen raiding is a basic soldier's skill," Hatchet muttered rhetorically as he stroked his deeply cleft chin. He turned back to the red-handed raiders. "I'll allow it. Good initiative, soldiers, but you have to share it with Eagle Company as well as your own. Carry on."
Pickings in the garbage pails had been slim, so the campers were glad to have the purloined grease. Spread on bread crusts and suchlike, it made a passable butter substitute; and while it was not especially tasty, it could mask a variety of less pleasant flavors. Gwen quipped, to general agreement, that they'd had worse at the camp.
Night training consisted of calisthenics and things very like calisthenics under the glare of the amphitheatre lights, for that was the only outdoor venue in camp equipped to properly illuminate nighttime challenges. Between bouts of jumping jacks, lunges and other exercises that could be done with only one good arm, Hatchet fired up a boombox and led his troops in the latest now-forgotten line dance, or shouted chants and led the campers in variations of the haka, the Maori posture dance which the All Blacks, New Zealand's rugby union team, brought to a worldwide audience. These dance segments served two purposes. First, they were more photogenic than simple calisthenics. Second, they were less strenuous, enabling the campers to catch their breath and thus prolong the training session; for in this evening session, as in the morning hike, the Master Chief was determined to continue until at least one player dropped out, but he had his reasons for not wanting to end the session quickly.
Hatchet himself needed these "breather" segments more than he liked to admit. Although he was physically fit, he was no longer young; and "the Big 4-0", traditional threshold of middle age, was staring him in the face.
As night training dragged on, Gwen's two injured ribs troubled her ever more. Although their fractures were mere hairlines, and simple calisthenics were unlikely to expand those cracks, the exertion worsened their soreness until every breath brought fresh pain. Gwen gritted her teeth against this torment, determined to endure for Leshawna's sake, but it looked increasingly like the Goth would be the next to fall.
Duncan was also having problems. He was holding up well enough physically, but he was getting bored, and a bored Duncan was a lazy Duncan. He began to entertain himself by periodically telling Courtney, at whose side he was stationed by design and not by accident, that he was going to drop out. Courtney naturally responded by telling him the team needed him, threatening dire consequences if he gave up before his flesh gave out, and so on.
"Why, Princess, I didn't know you cared," Duncan needled during the first such exchange.
"I don't," Courtney hissed, mindful of the need to keep her voice down. "I just don't want to lose this challenge."
"Are you sure that's the only reason?" the delinquent pressed in a tone implying that Courtney was fooling no one.
"What other reason would I have?"
"It's obvious you want me," the delinquent 'explained'. "I know it, you know it, everyone knows it, so here's a tip: if you try to kiss me, I might let you."
The Muskies' nominal leader snorted in derision. "I'd rather kiss the wrong end of Owen's digestive tract."
Subsequent exchanges between the law scorner and the lawgiver were similar, with Duncan claiming to see repressed desire in every response Courtney gave. Courtney became so exasperated that she began to consider dropping out herself just to shut Duncan up.
Finally, at the stroke of midnight, one soldier turned into a proverbial pumpkin. A sudden cessation of the music during a line dance segment heralded the surrender.
"Master Chief?" Gwen said dejectedly as she winced and moved her good hand from the boombox controls to her injured ribs, "I can't take anymore." The Goth hung her head, unable to meet her commander's gaze.
"Stand at attention. Look at me," Hatchet ordered. Gwen complied with an effort.
"You have nothing to be ashamed of," the Master Chief said softly. Raising his voice enough for the others to hear clearly, he added, "In fact, you will be advancing to the next test with everyone else, because of how I decided to accommodate your disability."
Relief and confusion vied to be expressed, and confusion won out. The Goth admitted, "We weren't doing anything that needed two good arms. I thought that was my accommodation."
"It was," Hatchet admitted in turn, "but I had something else, too. I decided that if you were the first to drop out, I would pass you if you could last two hours. You gave me nearly four. Well done."
Someone in the ranks said in disbelief, "We've been at this for four hours?"
Master Chief Hatchet lifted his eyes, searching for the speaker, and bellowed, "Did I tell any of you to speak? Because I don't recall telling any of you to speak! You'll speak only when I tell you to speak! Is that clear?"
"Yes, Master Chief!" the campers answered in unison.
Hatchet announced, "We're done here! Back to the lodge!"
The campers sat at the lodge tables with pen and paper in front of them. Several were yawning or trying to stifle yawns, for it had been a long and eventful day. Dawn and Shawn sat inconspicuously on the fireplace hearth.
Hatchet announced, "Your next test is to write a 300-word essay about how much you love… me. Anyone who falls asleep or fails to complete their essay will be eliminated!"
Beth raised her hand. "Master Chief? How much time do we have?"
"More than enough. If anyone needs more paper, one of our interns can get it for you. If you need to use the can, one of them will escort you to the confessional outhouse. The confessional camera's power switch has been disabled for the duration of this test, so don't think you can go there to get away with a nap.
"No talking amongst yourselves. Begin."
The campers picked up their pens, and Hatchet motioned to the redshirts to step outside with him. Safely out of the campers' hearing, he said, "I'm going to get some shuteye. If I'm not back by 2:30, one of you come get me."
"Good night. Sleep tight," Dawn said.
"Don't let the zombies bite," Shawn added.
Almost three hours later, all the campers had finished their essays and were struggling to stay awake with nothing to do. Those who had taken longer to finish their essays thus had the advantage, and the subsiding pain in Gwen's ribs likewise proved an unlooked for blessing. Dawn and Shawn conversed quietly, largely to help themselves stay awake whilst they monitored the campers. Master Chief Hatchet sat in a corner, reading something and periodically looking up to monitor his trainees. He had returned promptly at 2:30.
"Time!" Hatchet announced at the stroke of three. As he collected the essays, he lightly rapped Heather's arm with his baton to wake her, and pronounced the queen bee out.
Hatchet skimmed Duncan's essay, then began to read aloud. "I love Master Chief Hatchet because he is very, very, very, very…" The Master Chief turned his baleful gaze to the delinquent and bellowed, "This is nothing but five pages of 'very's!"
"It's 300 words exactly," the scorner of laws pointed out. "You can count if you want."
The Master Chief was not amused. "I take a dim view of people who try to game the system. You're out! Now drop and give me twenty!"
"I don't think so, Chef. You said I'm out, so I'm going to go catch up on my sleep."
"You'll sleep when I tell you to sleep! You still belong to me until this challenge ends!" Hatchet thundered. Seeing that Duncan was about to respond, with nothing to suggest that said response would be in any way respectful, Hatchet cut him off. "In case you're thinking of defying me again, you should know that our C.O. has authorized me to summarily eliminate anyone who gives me too much trouble."
"Been there, done that. You already said I'm out, remember?"
"Not from the challenge, from the game."
The other campers gasped, but Hatchet was not done. In a deadly, matter-of-fact tone, he added, "The staff can always use new people, so if you don't shape up and do as you're told, you just might find yourself spending the rest of the summer as… an intern."
This threat left the other campers too stunned even to gasp, for it was not hard to guess why the show constantly needed new interns.
Duncan looked into the Master Chief's eyes and saw no trace of jest or mercy. The delinquent said slowly, "I… think… I'll… just… keep my big mouth shut… and do as I'm told."
"Glad to hear it," Hatchet replied. "Now, I ordered twenty pushups, and that's what you're going to give me. First thing in the morning, fire the cannon and report to the infirmary for testing."
Hatchet scanned Leshawna's paper and frowned. "This is all in French."
"You didn't say it had to be in English, sugar."
"You will address me as Master Chief!"
"Sorry, Master Chief sugar," the homegirl offered with a wink.
"Your insubordination just bought you twenty pushups! Now!"
After Leshawna grunted and panted her way through her punishment, Hatchet demanded, "Now tell me, soldier, what's with the French essay?"
"French is my first language," the homegirl reminded him, "and I speak English better than I write it. You wouldn't discriminate against a luscious francophone like me, would you?"
"Political correctness has no place in war," Master Chief Hatchet declared before softening his expression. "But I have to admit, it does look like you followed your orders as stated—in both letter and spirit," he added with a glare at Duncan. "I'll accept your essay if it's in order otherwise. Wells!"
"Sir? Er, Master Chief?" answered Dawn.
"Are any of you interns fluent in French?"
"I think Scarlett is," the wraith-girl offered.
"Get her."
"But it's three a.m.," Dawn protested. "With all due respect, you do not want to be around her when she's sleep deprived."
"I know what time it is, but this can't wait," Hatchet explained. "The survivors have another training session in a couple of hours, and I need to know whether the maggot who wrote this is eligible to continue. You have your orders."
As the wraith-girl went to fetch her colleague, Hatchet began to read the essays written in English. The drudgery of word counts he delegated to Shawn, the zombie master. Hatchet pronounced Tyler out for excessive sloppiness, because Red Jock's paper had so many strikethroughs and corrections that it was hard to read. Athletics, it seemed, was not the only area where the jock of all trades lacked coordination.
The Master Chief began to read Gwen's paper and smiled. The Goth had clearly felt charitable, which was no surprise in light of Command's efforts to keep her in the game and keep her competitive in the wake of her horrific ATV crash three days before. Gwen had written:
I love Master Chief Hatchet because he's a blue collar Renaissance Man. He's just like the Heavy Dragoons of song and story:
If you want a receipt for that popular mystery,
Known to the world as a Heavy Dragoon,
Take all the remarkable people in history,
Rattle them off to a popular tune.
The pluck of Lord Nelson on board of the Victory—
Genius of Bismarck devising a plan—
The humor of Fielding (which sounds contradictory)—
Coolness of Paget about to trepan—
The science of Jullien, the eminent musico—
Wit of Macaulay, who wrote of Queen Anne—
The pathos of Paddy, as rendered by Boucicault—
Style of the Bishop of Sodor and Man—
The dash of a D'Orsay, divested of quackery—
Narrative powers of Dickens and Thackery—
Victor Emmanuel—peak-haunting Peveril—
Thomas Aquinas, and Doctor Sacheverell—
Tupper and Tennyson—Daniel Defoe—
Anthony Trollope and Mr. Guizot!
Take of these elements all that is fusible,
Melt them all down in a pipkin or crucible,
Set them to simmer and take off the scum,
And a Heavy Dragoon is the residuum!
If you want a receipt for this soldier-like paragon,
Get at the wealth of the Czar (if you can)—
The family pride of a Spaniard from Aragon—
Force of Mephisto pronouncing a ban—
A smack of Lord Waterford, reckless and rollicky—
Swagger of Roderick, heading his clan—
The keen penetration of Paddington Pollaky—
Grace of an Odalisque on a divan—
The genius strategic of Caesar or Hannibal—
Skill of Sir Garnet in thrashing a cannibal—
Flavor of Hamlet—the Stranger, a touch of him—
Little of Manfred (but not very much of him)—
Beadle of Burlington—Richardson's show—
Mr. Micawber and Madame Tussaud!
Take of these elements all that is fusible,
Melt them all down in a pipkin or crucible,
Set them to simmer and take off the scum,
And a Heavy Dragoon is the residuum!
This poem was actually the lyrics to a song Hatchet knew well, for it fit closely with his self-image, and he idly wondered where Gwen had learnt of it. From Noah, he supposed. Thanks to the recently departed bookworm, several campers knew parts of this song; but so far as Hatchet knew, the artistically inclined Goth was the only camper still on the island who knew it in its entirety. And yes, Hatchet did not fail to note, Gwen's "essay" did exceed 300 words, even if most of those words were not Gwen's own.
Dawn returned with a young woman whom the campers could only assume was Scarlett, for the campers knew most of the interns by appearance but not by name. The campers failed to recognize Scarlett at first, for she looked very different than she did by day. She usually looked like a librarian or an old-style schoolmarm, with large eyeglasses and her fiery red hair in a bun. Now, though, her waist-length hair was wild; and without her glasses, her green eyes had a distinctly beady look. She had not bothered to put on her uniform, and still wore the nightshirt she normally slept in.
That garment was most remarkable for the artwork imprinted on it. Gwen, Courtney and Ezekiel recognized the images as visions of Hell from Heironymous Bosch's famous painting, "The Garden of Earthly Delights".
When Ezekiel explained to Duncan the significance of Scarlett's unusual taste in sleepwear, the delinquent quipped, "So, Izzy has an evil twin. Who knew?"
The bleary-eyed intern's attitude was also very different from what seemed normal for her. From what little the campers had seen of her, Scarlett seemed rather stiff but not unfriendly. Now, though, the campers could have sworn they felt a brooding malice emanating from her like body heat, as if at that moment she should have liked nothing better than to watch the Master Chief being torn apart by dogs, much like the armored knight depicted on her nightshirt.
Master Chief Hatchet either did not notice the intern's baleful gaze or, more likely, did not care. "Can you read French?" he asked simply.
"Of course," the hellshirt replied, as if everybody who was anybody would know French.
"These maggots were supposed to write an essay about how much they love me," Hatchet explained. "Our francophone decided to write hers in French. The word count is fine, but I need you to tell me whether the content passes muster."
"Let's see it."
Scarlett read the paper silently and without apparent effort, suggesting that her glasses were a matter of fashion rather than need. She had an excellent poker face, so her expression revealed none of her amusement when she discovered that Leshawna had written, "I love Master Chief Hatchet because he's not a total narcissist like the host of this show" and had devoted the rest of her essay almost entirely to insulting Chris (whom Leshawna had carefully avoided identifying by name, lest Hatchet notice and spoil the joke) in increasingly colorful ways.
The grumpy intern handed the paper back to Hatchet. "It's fine. May I go back to bed now?"
Hatchet replied, "I have an assignment for you in the morning. Come see me after breakfast. Dismissed."
Hatchet turned to the campers and announced, "Your next training session will be an obstacle course, so girls, dress appropriately. Reveille is at 0500. That gives you time for one full sleep cycle if you don't waste it, but I'll be happy to cut that in half if I hear any complaints."
The campers, some already half-asleep, shuffled out without a word.
BODIES IN THE MUD
Less than two hours later, the surviving trainees assembled at the obstacle course. The cannon sounded in the distance to announce the fall of the Dragon Queen.
The obstacles were fairly standard, but to accommodate the squad's wounded warrior they emphasized legwork rather more than a typical obstacle course might. There was a set of huge tires the trainees had to high-step through; a mud pit to crawl through with fearsomely sharp axes swinging overhead; a climbing wall with a muddy landing area on the far side; another mud pit with two trails of stepping stones; suspended tires to squeeze through, albeit with much thicker tires than are common; yet another mud pit that was apparently meant to be simply slogged through; a set of hurdles that an athletic runner could jump over and a less athletic runner could vault over with the aid of one or both arms; a rope swing across a mud pit; and more.
The campers noted with distaste the course's particular emphasis on mud. Ezekiel also noted the large inventory of oversized tires, and quipped to Beth that perhaps the Master Chief was a fan of monster trucks or tractor pulls.
Master Chief Hatchet announced, in his drill sergeant style, "You will all run this course until you can all complete it in under a minute. Gwen, your target is 90 seconds because some of the obstacles will take longer with only one good arm, but it can be done. We had our smallest, scrawniest intern test the course with one arm. If Dave can do it, so can you."
"Oh, so that's his name," Gwen mused rhetorically. "The little black guy with the big glasses?"
"No, that was Cameron," Hatchet answered. "He fell in battle a while back. Good kid."
In the distance, the cannon thundered again.
Hatchet resumed his briefing. "If I see anyone slowing down or not giving it their all, that sad sack may be eliminated at my sole discretion. Any questions?"
Beth raised her hand and was duly acknowledged. "When do we get breakfast?"
"When and if I'm convinced you've earned it."
There were no further questions, so Master Chief Hatchet let slip the dogs of war. The eight remaining trainees tasted their legs as the antique artillery piece spoke for the third and final time, heralding Tyler's washout from the boot camp.
As expected, the handicapped Gwen proved slower than most of the other trainees; but she had the will, and so found a way. The one-winged Goth navigated the axe pit by scooting along on her back; she wriggled through the suspended tire by merely holding her bad arm against her side as she engaged the obstacle; and the rope swing could be done almost as easily with one arm as with two, although it did pose a potential stamina problem if the campers had to run the course many times.
Only the wall stumped her at first. Normally an obstacle based on upper body strength, the usual way to attack the wall was to leap onto it high enough to get one's arms on the top, and then muscle oneself over. Even with two good arms, though, Gwen's upper body strength was unremarkable; and with only one arm fully functional, she did not see how she could possibly manage it; yet the Master Chief had promised there would be a way.
Gwen scanned the wall, in haste lest Hatchet think she had given up, and spotted her accommodation. Near one end of the wall were several small indentations which she surmised were meant to be footholds. She leapt upon the wall once but failed to scale it when her foot slipped; yet this attempt was fruitful for all that, for she had glimpsed something atop the wall that was clearly meant to be a handhold. The Goth gamely tried the wall again; but this time she had better footing, grasped the handhold, and gained the summit.
The other trainees could presumably have used Gwen's accommodation had they wished, but most had little to gain from it, for it was slower and taxing in its own way. Only Beth found it advantageous, for the squat little farm girl needed an accommodation herself. The mysterious malady that burdened so many of the campers had hit her hardest of all, and the standard method of scaling the wall proved too much for her.
As midmorning approached, Scarlett, now looking like she usually did, arrived with several papers in hand. Hatchet quickly read these, frowning and muttering darkly. He conversed with the academic-looking redshirt for a time, keeping one eye on the trainees' progress. After dismissing Scarlett, Hatchet placed a radio call to Chris, asking the Generalissimo (or General Nuisance, as the trainees had taken to calling him) to meet him at the lodge.
"Company, halt!" Hatchet called. "Everyone, to the lodge. It's time for breakfast."
The trainees arrived at the lodge to find their less hardy comrades waiting for them, presumably because Hatchet did not want to cook for the washouts separately. Lindsay, Tyler, Heather and Duncan were naturally eager to know how the challenge was going, even though they had hoped to resume their normal camp routine, or at least what passed for normal.
Breakfast was a thick, pasty gruel that tasted like wet cardboard, but whether this signaled the Master Chief's displeasure with his troops' performance was hard to say. Indeed, some of the campers considered the lack of flavor a blessing, considering some of the things they'd had to eat at the camp.
As the teens ate, Chris arrived with Dawn and Ella in tow. Hatchet led the three outside.
"I might have known you'd have the prettiest women on the island waiting on you," Hatchet observed dryly.
Ella blushed and seemed about to speak, but Chris spoke first. "Maybe they are, but I've got another reason. These two have irreplaceable skill sets, so I actually have to try to keep them alive." Chris shook his head theatrically. "Heavy are the burdens of command."
"Roger that," Hatchet said.
"So, Chief, what's up? You said it was important. It had better be, to interrupt my morning manicure."
"I've seen the test results for the trainees who've washed out of boot camp so far, and I don't like them. Tyler's fine, but the others…"
"Was Cody right? Is it radiation sickness?" Ella fearfully asked before Chris could.
"What she said," added Chris with a glare at the admittedly beautiful intern.
"That's the weird part," Hatchet answered. "I had one of the interns read up on it this morning. The pattern of who's sick and who's not fits, but the symptoms don't quite match. Turns out diarrhea and especially vomiting start right away and usually mean a lethal dose; so if that was the cause, the players who are sick now would probably be dead by now."
"So it's probably an ordinary bug. Why can't you just give them some antibiotics?"
"Because even though it looks like radiation wasn't the direct cause, it might still have been an indirect cause. Lindsay, Heather and Duncan all have pretty low white cell counts. We're probably going to see the same with the others who are sick. Their immune systems have been compromised, so we might be seeing what's called an 'opportunistic' infection."
"Meaning…?" Chris prompted uncertainly.
"I've got basic medical training," Hatchet explained, "but this is outside my expertise. These kids need a real doctor."
"Do you know what a real doctor costs?" Chris whined. "I can't run this show on stone knives and bearskins."
"You mean without your full massage budget," Hatchet translated. "Look, Chris, I know the producers don't like to spend a dime if a nickel will do, but what do you think will happen to the show's ratings if half the players get too sick to do the challenges? Or if they're feeling so crappy that they just go through the motions? For all we know, this could get worse before it gets better."
Chris nodded grudgingly in belated understanding. "Right. Get a real doctor out here. Unless…" His eyes lit up with sudden inspiration. "Say, Ella, we've seen some of the things you can do with your singing. I don't suppose you can heal the sick, can you?"
Ella looked confused, so it fell to Dawn to explain. "I'm afraid it doesn't work that way. Ella is what we in the Craft call a wild talent. Yes, she can do some wondrous things with her songs, but rarely if ever can she evoke those effects consciously, except maybe for the animal summoning. In other words, she doesn't sing to make things happen, she sings because she likes to sing. The extraordinary effects just follow naturally."
Hatchet sent Ella into the lodge to round up the campers. When she was safely out of earshot, the Master Chief said to Dawn, "From what I've heard, and what I've seen, her singing tends to be appropriate to the situation, with appropriate effects. Is that correct?"
"Of course," the mystic replied. "That's part of her Gift."
"I have an idea." Hatchet quickly laid out his proposal.
Dawn nodded. "It just might work. It certainly couldn't hurt to try."
Chris smirked and needled, "You're going soft, Chief."
"Not at all," Dawn countered. "He's a father to his men, something you wouldn't understand."
Before Chris could respond, the lodge door opened and the campers filed out, escorted by Ella singing the Caisson Song:
Over hill, over dale,
We will hit the dusty trail,
And those Caissons go rolling along.
Up and down, in and out,
Counter march and left about,
And those Caissons go rolling along,
For it's high-high-he,
In the Field Artillery,
Shout out your numbers loud and strong,
For wher-e'er we go,
You will always know,
That those Caissons go rolling along.
The campers, now in high spirits, soon joined in as they marched back to the obstacle course, for it was part of the Singer's uncanny gift that all who heard her sing knew the words and the tune as well as she. Even language was no barrier.
Hatchet looked at Dawn and grinned. "Appropriate to the situation, all right."
When training resumed, Hatchet drove his troops as hard as before; and though Ella's song had left the trainees feeling like they could take on the world, the effect was fleeting. A more mundane but more enduring benefit was the encouragement of their washed-out teammates, who were now on hand to cheer the trainees on.
Beth vomited barely a half hour after returning to the course, after which her performance began to decline. In the fullness of time, the farm girl stumbled on the stepping stones and took a header into the mud. She got up slowly as Hatchet came to check on her.
"Too… much… mud," the nerd girl groaned.
"Fire the cannon and report to the infirmary," Hatchet commanded. "You have been honorably discharged."
The Master Chief turned to face the trainees who had gathered to see what was wrong with Beth. He bellowed, "Back on the course, soldiers! Now!"
Katie had been looking haggard ever since what passed for breakfast, and vomited soon after Beth's dismissal, but the Thin Twin felt she had too much at stake to give up and persisted through sheer willpower. Not only was her head likely to be on the block if her team lost, but she had pledged to carry on for Sadie and could not—would not—let her BFF down.
As the afternoon wore on, two more trainees fell. Hatchet discharged first Gwen, then Cody for visibly declining performance. After pulling the science geek off the course, the Master Chief said in consoling tone, "Listen here. You have nothing to be ashamed of," then shouted, "except for being a little baby who let your team down! Beth is sick and Gwen is wounded. What's your excuse?!"
The sun began to sink beneath the horizon. Leshawna's performance was declining severely, but Hatchet elected not to remove her, possibly because discharging the homegirl would have left the visibly ill Katie as the only remaining Eagle against three Muskies. Finally, in the deepening dusk, Hatchet announced, "We're done for today! Katie, D.J., front and center!"
Master Chief Hatchet told the brickhouse and the yinless yang, "You were the only two able to consistently run the course in under a minute. Well done, soldiers." He favored the pair with a crisp salute, which D.J. and Katie were pleased to return.
THE BRICK MacARTHUR MEMORIAL KITCHEN RAID
After a "gruel"ing excuse for dinner, the campers headed back to their cabins, but Duncan was not ready to call it a day. The delinquent approached Ezekiel, and the pair then approached Courtney.
"That gruel wasn't exactly satisfying," Duncan said. "What say we get some peanut butter and jam sandwiches?
"Are you kidding? I'd love it," Courtney admitted, "but Chef will never give them to us."
"That's the problem with your thinking," Duncan explained. "The trick is to not ask for it."
Courtney longed for decent food, but she was also a stickler for the rules. "But if we get caught…"
"If we get caught, it's easier to get forgiveness than permission," the delinquent assured her.
"You won't get caught," Dawn said. The three Muskies gasped and flinched, for they had no idea the mystic was present. Then again, she might not have been present until just that moment, for anything the conspirators knew to the contrary. Hers were mysterious ways.
As soon as Courtney trusted her voice to sound steady, she said, "I really wish you wouldn't do that."
"Apologies," the mystic offered, "but do you remember what Chef said when he made you eat the garbage and Duncan and Ezekiel tried to get something better?"
"I remember," Ezekiel said. "He said, 'Kitchen raiding is a basic soldier's skill.' I get it now. For all we know, this could actually be part of the challenge, eh? That would explain why he isn't dragging us into 'night training' again."
Dawn nodded. "Exactly. As long as you're reasonably careful and don't try to just walk in, there's no reason why you shouldn't be able to pull this off."
Duncan grinned his wolfish grin. "This won't be as much fun if Chef's going to turn a blind eye, but hey, if we're getting better food out of it, who am I to complain?"
"Okay, I admit this all sounds plausible," Courtney conceded. "We all know Chef's nicer than he lets on."
Ezekiel said, "I just thought of something. If this is part of the challenge, then Katie and Leshawna need to either come with us or make a raid of their own. D.J. should also come with us, since he's still in the challenge."
Duncan shook his head. "Six people? That's an awful lot for a kitchen raid. We'd be getting in each other's way."
"Well, you don't have to come," Courtney observed archly. "In fact, maybe you shouldn't. I realize this was your idea, but you did wash out of the challenge last night. I like the idea of a joint operation. That way, if we're wrong and Chef gets mad, he won't have an excuse to disqualify us and award the challenge to the Birdies by command decision."
Duncan had no desire to leave such a "delicate operation" (as he put it) to others, but he could find no flaw in Courtney's argument, so he excused himself and went to tell D.J. of the plan. The goodhearted brickhouse required little persuasion.
Courtney, meanwhile, sought out the Eagles girls who were still in the challenge. Katie readily agreed, saying only that it sounded like fun. Leshawna was more skeptical of Courtney's motives, to which the onetime CIT replied, "That's not how I roll. I'm not Heather." Courtney finally convinced Leshawna to participate by explaining how Courtney herself had been convinced, but nothing would be gained by repeating it here.
Ezekiel had no one to persuade, but nevertheless felt the need to tell someone, so he sought out Beth; and it was ill luck that he did, for it set in motion events none could have foreseen.
When the raiding party assembled, Duncan was there to see them off with a final suggestion. Their target should be the Craft Services tent, he said, not the lodge kitchen. Craft Services was where the staff ate, as has been told of before, and it was no secret that the staff got better food than the campers did. Duncan also noted that Craft Services, being housed in a tent, might be easier to infiltrate than the lodge, which was a permanent structure. The raiders saw wisdom in the delinquent's counsel.
The Joint Strike Force embarked on a circuitous route to their target as Dawn watched them go from a discreet distance. The wraith-girl pulled out her radio and placed a call.
"Eos to Black Ramsay. Come in, Black Ramsay."
"Black Ramsay here. Report," came Master Chief Hatchet's filtered voice in reply.
"They took the bait. The Brick MacArthur Memorial Kitchen Raid is a go. Their target is Craft Services, not the lodge kitchen."
"Ambitious," Hatchet said with audible surprise in his voice. "Black Ramsay out."
The raiders, well camouflaged with bits and bobs of brush, reached Craft Services without incident, but an unforeseen complication stymied them for a time. The interns had apparently eaten in two shifts, although this was not standard procedure, and the second shift was still in the tent. There was nothing for it but to wait, which the five did for over half an hour.
Katie felt increasingly nauseated, and she finally excused herself long enough to purge nearby. Better that, she thought, than to have her gruel come up of its own accord at a less convenient time, which it seemed likely to do. Besides, she told herself, this way she would have more room for the delicacies that she hoped awaited them. After doing what she had to do, the Thin Twin rejoined the others.
In the fullness of time, the interns finished their repast and went about their business. The raiders moved in soon after. Courtney, being the smallest and least conspicuous of the group as well as a former summer camp CIT, volunteered for the dangerous job of sneaking to the entrance to reconnoiter whilst her squadmates went to the tent's opposite end.
Chris and Chef sat in the dining area, for they preferred to eat fashionably late when the shooting schedule permitted. They were conversing and seemed in no hurry to go anywhere, so Courtney presumed they would keep each other occupied for the duration of the raid.
By the time Courtney rejoined her fellow raiders, they had found a likely entry spot. The fabric of the large, semipermanent tent looked too heavy to slash easily with the small knife Duncan had loaned to Ezekiel; but even were it not, damaging the tent would risk incurring the Master Chief's wrath, not to mention Chris'. The classic method of sneaking into a tent—lifting the fabric in one spot high enough for the sneakers to sneak under—looked no easier, but D.J.'s finger strength was equal to the task.
Courtney peeked under the tent to verify that the kitchen area was deserted. Satisfied that the coast was clear, she went in past her shoulders for a better look before withdrawing to brief her band of brothers.
"Duncan was right," the CIT-cum-snack burglar admitted. "The kitchen area is too small for all of us, so here's how it's going to work. D.J. will stay here to let us out when we're ready. Leshawna, you go watch the tent entrance; but watch D.J. too, because if anything happens to him, we'll need you to let us out.
"Zeke and Katie will go inside with me to get the goods, but be careful. There's a partition, so it doesn't look like Chris and Chef can see much of the kitchen from the dining area, but there's no door, so we'll have to be very quiet. It's too dangerous to turn on the overhead light, but we can use the refrigerator light to see what we're doing. Just be careful where it casts your shadow."
There were no objections or counterproposals, so Courtney grinned and said, "Let's do this. 'Cry "Very quiet havoc!" and let slip the dogs of war.'"
Despite some nervous moments and a false alarm, the raid went off without a serious hitch. The raiders got away clean with not only soft drinks and the basic ingredients for peanut butter and jam sandwiches, but also bananas, cold cuts, tomatoes and a head of lettuce, a few savory sandwich spreads, and even some cold pan-fried bacon. They could have gotten even more, had they brought enough sacks to carry it all. The raiders snuck away from the tent until they thought they had reached a safe distance. Then, no longer able or willing to contain their emotions, the five abandoned stealth and dashed back to their cabins, whooping and squealing with glee.
Duncan was stationed near the porch of the girls' cabin when he heard that noisy approach and knew it could mean only one thing. He knocked on the door and, when Lindsay answered, announced, "Party at the boys' cabin. Come one, come all."
The girls who had not participated in the raid answered the summons as quickly as they might, just in time to see the raiders lay out their booty. Courtney did a quick head count and asked, "Where's Beth?"
Lindsay explained, "When Doug invited us over, Belle said she needed to talk to Alamogordo about something. She said she'd be back pretty soon."
"I guess we can start without her," Courtney said. "We've got all night, and there's enough for everyone. We got enough that we might even have leftovers."
"As if," Cody retorted with that goofy grin of his.
"What he said," Katie seconded.
The campers set up a sandwich bar, and had scarcely completed this task when Beth arrived with a large and apparently heavy sack slung over her shoulder. "I got something for our party," she said as she set the sack down.
"Cool," Heather pronounced as she looked inside. "Let's see what you've…" The queen bee lifted her head and stared at the nerd girl, eyes wide with shock and admiration. "Beth… I knew you had connections to the redshirts, but this… this is beyond the call."
"What did she get?" Lindsay asked excitedly, sensing that it was something wonderful.
Heather reached into the sack and drew forth the topmost item. She triumphantly held aloft, for all to see, a six-pack of beer. "There's more where this came from," the Dragon Queen assured her awestruck colleagues.
Duncan gave a low whistle of appreciation. "Beth, if your braces weren't so disgusting, I'd kiss you."
Beth answered shyly, "If you were my type, I'd let you." She seemed to be averting her eyes, but Duncan and few others noticed that she was actually glancing at Ezekiel.
"Fair enough," Duncan said with a knowing smirk.
Courtney said, "Just remember, don't overindulge if you're still in the challenge." She grinned impishly and added, "At least, not if you're on my team. If Katie and Leshawna want to overindulge, that's fine by me."
With nothing to delay them further, the campers began to enjoy their first proper food in two days. Tyler said, "Beth, I don't suppose you managed to arrange a DJ for us? Or are two miracles too much to ask for?"
As if on cue, someone knocked at the door. The campers fell silent, suddenly fearing that all this was too good to be true and the other shoe was about to drop. Gwen nervously answered the door.
The hour was growing late, so Brett's mother left off her tale and suggested that he prepare for bed.
NOTES:
* The improvement in Brett's grades as an indirect result of his mother's storytelling parallels King Shahryar's increasingly benevolent attitude toward Shahrazad in The Book of the Thousand Nights and One Night. Shahryar had originally planned to execute Shahrazad after their wedding night, as he had been doing to his brides every night for the previous two years (being the king, he could order women to marry him) after becoming convinced that women were inherently unfaithful. This is why Shahrazad ends with a cliffhanger every night, to buy her another day of life. As the tales wear on and Shahryar gets used to having Shahrazad around, signs appear that he is increasingly open to reconsidering his bloodthirsty plan, and he eventually abandons it entirely as part of the book's happy ending. Similarly, albeit with much lower stakes, Brett's mother is using her tale as bait to encourage Brett to keep up with his homework in the hope that such diligence will become second nature to him.
* Chef calling B "Mr. LaForge" refers to Lt. Commander Geordi LaForge, the Enterprise's Chief Engineer in Star Trek: The Next Generation. Whether this is B's actual surname or merely a nickname he acquired on the island is left for the reader to decide. B is canonically a contestant in Total Drama Revenge of the Island.
* "Sad sack", short for "sad sack of crap", is Army slang for an incompetent soldier.
* Leonard is canonically a contestant in Total Drama Pahkitew Island.
* The Leonardspeak-English translation of, "Systemen digesticus bismuthiae!" is "Bismuth for the digestive system!" Unlike most heavy metals, bismuth (atomic number 83, one higher than lead, and the highest-numbered element that is not radioactive) is not only nontoxic but actually medicinal. It's the "bis" in Pepto-Bismol, an over the counter remedy for upset stomach.
* In military parlance, "take ten" is short for "take a ten-minute break".
* Hatchet's suggestion to Chris about how the latter can make himself care about the campers refers to the fact that, on the rare occasions when Chris expresses concern for the players' well-being in canon, he always does so for selfish reasons.
* "Carry on" is a military command meaning, "Go back to doing whatever you were doing before I interrupted you."
* Gwen "turning into a pumpkin" at the stroke of midnight alludes to the story of Cinderella.
* Despite superficial similarities, Hatchet's threat to demote Duncan to Intern is not based on fallen contestant Dakota becoming an intern in Total Drama Revenge of the Island. Hatchet simply needed a threat Duncan would take seriously.
* The sloppiness of Tyler's essay paper alludes to his physical clumsiness, as opposed to any "dumb jock" stereotypes.
* "C.O." is short for "Commanding Officer", which in this case means Chris.
* The song Gwen transcribes for her essay is "If You Want a Receipt" from the Gilbert & Sullivan operetta, Patience. This song is also Chef's theme both in this reimagining and in Total Drama Island, by Gilbert and Sullivan, and interested readers may find a video link on the author's profile page. The only Gilbert & Sullivan patter song not sung at least in part by the comic lead, it consists of little more than a list of names, mostly historical but a few fictional, all of which were well known in Gilbert's time but many of which are all but forgotten today.
* Scarlett is canonically a contestant in Total Drama Pahkitew Island. Her appearance when she comes to the lodge to grade Leshawna's essay alludes to her big reveal in that season.
* Dave, the unseen obstacle course tester, is canonically a contestant in Total Drama Pahkitew Island.
* The campers taking to the obstacle course includes allusions to two Shakespeare quotes, from Julius Caesar ("Cry 'Havoc!' and let slip the dogs of war," i.e. let the soldiers do their thing) and Twelfth Night ("Taste your legs, sir. Put them to motion.")
* "Stone knives and bearskins" is more or less how Spock described 1930s technology in the Star Trek (original series) episode, "The City on the Edge of Forever", although Chris doesn't know this.
* "The Caisson Song", also known by other names, was originally written by three artillery officers of the United States Army in 1908. The version Ella sings was written in 1918, with the original tune arranged into a march by that most famous of march composers, John Phillip Sousa. This version and its variants was the unofficial U.S. Army song until 1956, when an official song with the same tune but less artillery-centric lyrics was adopted. The 1918 version also gained an enduring place in popular culture beyond the Army. A video link is available on the author's profile page.
* Eos was the goddess of the dawn in classical mythology. One of the Titans, the generation of gods who preceded the Olympians, she was fortunate enough to keep her job after the Olympians defeated and largely supplanted the Titans. The Romans called her Aurora.
* Hatchet's code name, "Black Ramsay" alludes to celebrity chef Gordon Ramsay.
* Brick MacArthur is canonically a contestant in Total Drama Revenge of the Island, where his archetype label was "The Cadet". In this reimagining, he was an intern, like all of his ROTI castmates who have appeared or been mentioned. Naming a "memorial kitchen raid" after him suggests that (a) he is dead, because interning on Total Drama Island is hazardous work; and (b) he was an accomplished kitchen raider. Brick's surname, which is canonical, comes from the famous American general, Douglas MacArthur (1880-1964).
* The description of Courtney as a "snack burglar" is a play on "cat burglar", i.e. a burglar who relies on stealth instead of more thuggish methods.
* "Havoc" was a command given to English armies in the Middle Ages. It meant, "start pillaging". Courtney's "very quiet havoc" line is the chapter's second reference to the quote from Julius Caesar. This quote is famous enough that Courtney's knowledge of it does not necessarily imply more than ordinary knowledge of Shakespeare's works.
* Alamogordo is a small city in New Mexico best known for its association with the first atomic bomb test in 1945. It is also the location of the infamous Atari video game burial of 1983.
CHALLENGE STATUS:
Eagles still in (2): Katie, Leshawna
Muskies still in (3): Courtney, D.J., Ezekiel
Washed out (7): E-Lindsay (hike); E-Heather, M-Duncan, M-Tyler (essay); M-Beth, E-Gwen, E-Cody (obstacle course)
INTERN UPDATE:
Original intern corps: Alejandro, Anne Maria, B, Brick, Cameron, Jo, Lightning, Scott, Staci + 4 others
Pregame: unidentified intern dies (eaten by sharks)
Episode 2: unidentified intern dies (mauled by bear)
Episode 4 pregame: two unidentified interns die (construction accident)
Episode 5 pregame: Rodney, Shawn + 11 others arrive
Episode 5: Anne Maria + unidentified intern die (burned to death fighting the amphitheatre fire)
Episode 8 pregame (the "Boney Island Massacre"): Jo dies (killed by giant beavers, essentially rodent versions of bears); Lightning + several unidentified interns die (rockslide)
Episode 10 pregame: Beardo, Dawn, Dave, Ella, Leonard, Sky + 7 others arrive
NOTE: Additional intern deaths not mentioned in the narrative should be assumed.
Confirmed dead (4): Anne Maria, Cameron, Jo, Lightning
Presumably dead (1): Brick
Status uncertain (1): Staci
Presumably alive (8): B, Beardo, Dave, Leonard, Rodney, Scott, Shawn, Sky
Confirmed alive (4): Alejandro, Dawn, Ella, Scarlett
NOTE: Although it's technically possible for an intern to die within seconds of their last "sighting", for purposes of this listing anyone who appears on the most recent day of the story's chronology is "confirmed alive" unless otherwise noted. Any intern who has appeared in the last week or so of the story's chronology is "presumably alive".
(A/N): My apologies for the delays in finishing this chapter. This is regrettably becoming a habit, but I'm trying to get my schedule back on track. As always, feedback is greatly appreciated, because that's my only way of knowing what people liked or didn't like.