THE MONDAY AFTER
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Danny Phantom. Butch Hartman does.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Rodeo was used by the Beef Industry as the background music during it's "Beef, it's what's for dinner" TV campaign. I thought it would be appropriate for the situation:-)
Out of the Dust by Karen Hesse. Okay, I know this is a book about the Oklahoma dust bowl and has nothing whatsoever to do with mold, but Lancer thought he was inhaling dust not mold, so that's why I chose it. Also, it's a really good book.
PART THREE: TAKING OVER
Mr. Lancer stepped lightly down the stairs to the basement of Casper High, humming Aron Copeland's Rodeo under his breath. He stopped before the massive wall of beef-filled crates and regarded it carefully.
"Hmmm, we appear to be down two T-bones and three London Broils," he murmured.
Turning, the school's vice principal took a clipboard off the wall behind him, and began check-marking items on the list with a pen attached to the clipboard by a string. He slowly walked along the row of crates, pausing to examine the invoice attached to each one, making notes and muttering to himself.
Stachy waited patiently as Mr. Lancer paced the length of the crate row. It had been planning its revenge since being struck by the mysterious slime. It had been growing stronger and stronger, spreading covertly up a dimly lit corner and along the edge of the still-moist floor. When the time put its plan into action grew closer, Stachy detoured a part of itself up a dryer part of the wall. While it was painful to sacrifice some of itself to a slow, drying death, Stachy knew it was the only way to release its spores.
If only he would come closer. Stachy thought. If only . . .
Mr. Lancer reached the end of the row, and turned to go back, then stopped and spun around. He stepped around behind the wall of crates to inspect the back of them. After the devastating loss caused by the leaky pipe and resulting mold, he wasn't taking any more chances with his precious stash of meat.
Yes! That's it! Come closer!
Mr. Lancer reached the end of the row which was near, but not close to the corner of the wall. The tall crates cast a shadow in the corner, so he knelt down to feel the bottom of the crates and the floor for any sign of moisture or mold. The concrete was cold, but dry, and the wooden crates were solid and secure. Mr. Lancer sighed with relief. Everything appeared to be in order. While they were running low on some items, the containers were uncontaminated by mold. He recalled the quiet tears he shed as two cases of tainted meat were disposed of just a few weeks earlier.
"Excellent!" He exclaimed.
Excellent! Stachy thought. Sending a silent signal to its dry dead tendril, Stachy instructed: NOW!
Just as Mr. Lancer was about to stand up, a whirl of dust-like particles poofed in his face, flying into his nose and mouth. He coughed and sneezed violently for several minutes before regaining his composure.
"Out of the Dust! I'll have to remember to get someone to come down here and sweep," he said, sneezing again.
The teacher squeezed past the boxes along the wall, replaced the clipboard on the hook, and took one last longing look at the meat crates before shutting off the light and ascending the stairs.
Mr. Lancer awoke the next morning feeling miserable. His throat burned, his sinuses ached and his brain pounded inside his skull. He briefly contemplated calling in sick, then remembered the special faculty meeting he had scheduled that morning to discuss candidates for the school councilor position. That Spectra woman, who had come so highly recommended, had abruptly vacated the position without notice, leaving them completely in the lurch. It wouldn't do, he decided, to miss his own meeting.
He rose and forced himself through his morning routine – he took a shower, made coffee, and read the paper. On this particular morning, he also consumed a large glass of orange juice to combat what he suspected was yet another cold or flu bug he'd caught.
Inside him Stachy's spores were hard at work. Slowly but diligently they reproduced themselves, spreading through the human's body. Powered by the strange substance their parent ingested, the spores grew strong, their parent's voice rang in their collective heads:
Avenge me, my children! Avenge me!
"Hey, Danny, how's your arm today?"
"It's a lot better, Sam," Danny answered smacking his locker door shut. "I don't even think it'll leave a scar!"
"That's great news!" Sam said, adjusting her books on her hip.
Danny and Sam began walking down the hall to class when a tall shadow fell over them. The two paused and pressed themselves against the lockers as Mr. Lancer passed by them. He was disheveled, slumped over and looked positively green. The kids remained silent until their teacher turned the corner.
"Man! He looks awful!" Sam said, keeping her voice low.
"Yeah," Danny agreed. "I hope he doesn't breathe on me, I'd hate to catch whatever he's got!"
The two students continued down the hallway, when Danny shuddered and the familiar mist wafted out of his mouth.
"What the . . . That's odd," he said, looking around. "I don't see any ghosts."
"Maybe it was just passing through," Sam said with a smirk.
Danny groaned. "Good one, Sam! Very original!"
"Heh! C'mon, we're gonna be late for Biology!"
Mr. Lancer closed the door to his classroom, then sat down behind his desk and moaned. His illness was progressing at a much faster rate than any flu he'd ever had before - his throat felt swollen; he could barely swallow or breathe, his joints ached and his skin felt like it was on fire.
"I really should just leave now," he murmured. "No point in staying and infecting the entire staff and student body."
The morning's meeting to discuss Miss Spectra's sudden resignation and her possible replacement ended with no resolution, and by the time the hour was up, Mr. Lancer was not feeling well enough to care. Several of the teachers commented on how terrible he looked, and it didn't fail to escape his notice that most of the students were giving him wide berth through the hallways. Yes, he should give up. Call it a day and go home.
He began gathering up his papers and books, when he noticed something odd on the back of his hand. Lifting his hand, he closely inspected what appeared to be a small black smudge on his hand. Mr. Lancer frowned and picked at it with his fingernail, but the blotch didn't budge; it did, however, quiver a bit, and appeared to grow.
Mr. Lancer squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. I must have a higher fever than I thought, the startled teacher thought. I'm seeing things!
When he looked at his hand again, it was almost completely covered with a thick, black mass that was spreading quickly over his fingers and around his wrist. He opened his mouth to cry out, but his throat was suddenly too tight and no sound came out. As he watched in horror, a slimy black and green substance oozed from the skin on his hands and arms; he soon felt it on his scalp and the back of his neck as well. Before Mr. Lancer could react, run, or call for help, the alien material spread down his forehead and into his eyes, enveloping him in sudden darkness like a kidnapper throwing a bag over his head.
In the darkness, Mr. Lancer realized he wasn't alone; some . . . thing was in there with him. Something he felt was strong, powerful, and very angry. At him.
Who are you? Mr. Lancer said in his mind, somehow knowing the other entity would understand him. What do you want?
Silence surrounded him for a long moment, then a low hum began, like the sound of a thousand whispering voices, growing stronger and louder until Mr. Lancer finally made out what it was saying:
Revenge! Revenge! Revenge!