The Gorgon Slayer Read online

  IF LOOKS COULD KILL

  “Gorgons don’t just vanish into thin air,” Warren said.

  “There’s nowhere else for her to hide.” Rick paused. “Unless she’s behind the—”

  His eyes opened wide. A horrid shriek erupted from behind the stairs and clammy, leathery wings exploded into Warren’s face. He slammed his eyes shut and beat the Gorgon off, hearing Rick’s sword swish through empty air. Warren dove back, rolled on his shoulder, and came up clear, his sword slicing in every direction and his eyes fixed on his shield as he flashed it around the basement.

  The Gorgon was perched on Harper’s stony arm. She was sixty pounds of boiled-down ugly with a face like a living nightmare. Snakes danced around her head, hissing and striking at Rick’s sword as he waved it in the air. Her gold-and-black eyes were slit like a cat’s, and her teeth were in worse shape than Princey’s.

  With one clawed hand, she gathered the dust off the top of a pipe and threw it at Rick’s shield.

  “Aagh! She messed up my shield! I can’t see a thing!”

  Panic crawled across Rick’s face, the same look that was frozen on Harper’s. He dropped his shield and turned toward the Gorgon.

  “Don’t look, Rick!”

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  SHILOH, Phyllis Reynolds Naylor

  MISSING MAY, Cynthia Rylant

  THE SECRET FUNERAL OF SLIM JIM THE SNAKE,

  Elvira Woodruff

  AWFULLY SHORT FOR THE FOURTH GRADE,

  Elvira Woodruff

  THE SUMMER I SHRANK MY GRANDMOTHER,

  Elvira Woodruff

  HOW TO EAT FRIED WORMS, Thomas Rockwell

  HOW TO FIGHT A GIRL, Thomas Rockwell

  BEETLES, LIGHTLY TOASTED, Phyllis Reynolds Naylor

  YEARLING BOOKS are designed especially to entertain and enlighten young people. Patricia Reilly Giff, consultant to this series, received her bachelor’s degree from Marymount College and a master’s degree in history from St. John’s University. She holds a Professional Diploma in Reading and a Doctorate of Humane Letters from Hofstra University. She was a teacher and reading consultant for many years, and is the author of numerous books for young readers.

  For a complete listing of all Yearling titles,

  write to

  Dell Readers Service,

  P.O. Box 1045,

  South Holland, IL 60473.

  Published by

  Bantam Doubleday Dell Books for Young Readers

  a division of

  Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.

  1540 Broadway

  New York, New York 10036

  Copyright © 1995 by Gary Paulsen

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  The trademarks Yearling® and Dell® are registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-80390-0

  Series design: Barbara Berger

  Interior illustration by Michael David Biegel

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Dear Readers:

  Real adventure is many things—it’s danger and daring and sometimes even a struggle for life or death. From competing in the Iditarod dogsled race across Alaska to sailing the Pacific Ocean, I’ve experienced some of this adventure myself. I try to capture this spirit in my stories, and each time I sit down to write, that challenge is a bit of an adventure in itself.

  You’re all a part of this adventure as well. Over the years I’ve had the privilege of talking with many of you in schools, and this book is the result of hearing firsthand what you want to read about most—power-packed action and excitement.

  You asked for it—so hang on tight while we jump into another thrilling story in my World of Adventure.

  CHAPTER 1

  Warren Trumbull grunted as he pedaled up the hill. He didn’t grunt because the hill was steep —after pedaling up it every weekday since summer vacation had begun, he was used to it. He grunted because he was pedaling for speed. Along the hilltop ran a unicorn crossing.

  Warren didn’t like anything mythological, and ’corns were the worst. All that stuff the MPS (Mythological Protection Society) put out about them—that they were noble and majestic and held the beauty of the universe in their horns—was garbage. What ’corns did was pop bike tires.

  He reached the crossing and sped down the other side of the hill. A shrill whinny and galloping hoofbeats sent a chill up his spine, and he pushed down on the pedal as if he were trying to drive it three feet into the asphalt. Horn hissed on rubber just as he shot away.

  “Not today, pinhead!”

  Warren laughed at the beautiful white stallion with the golden mane and silver horn as it pranced in frustration behind him. It was the first time in three days that his tire had escaped the ’corn. Today Princey wouldn’t threaten to fire him for being late for work. The day was shaping up nicely.

  Warren worked for Prince Charming’s Damsel in Distress Rescue Agency, doing the assignments that no one else wanted—genuine damsel rescue went to the older guys. Warren was eleven, too young for a real job. He was stuck doing whatever work he could get. Working for Princey wasn’t much, but twenty bucks a day out of Princey’s grimy pockets was better than nothing.

  Some of the guys were already waiting in the bleachers when Warren pedaled up—Rank Frank Divine and his admirers, and a new guy Warren had never seen before. Rank Frank leered at him as he parked beside the garbage can.

  “Hey, Piggy, where’s the pinhead? You’re supposed to show up in fifteen minutes with your tire flapping!”

  “Suck on a Hydra, Frank.” Warren took a seat three rows up, close to the new guy and well away from Frank and his crowd. They didn’t call him Rank Frank for nothing.

  “Is Princey here yet?” he asked the new guy, who was wearing a shirt with “Rick” stitched over the pocket.

  Rick something-or-other’s long head shook slowly on its long neck. “Nope.”

  “Wouldn’t you know it? I’m finally on time, and Princey shows up late.”

  “That’s the breaks, Piggy.”

  “Don’t call me Piggy. My name is Warren.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  Warren shrugged his soft, heavy shoulders. “That’s all right.”

  “Okay. My name is Rick Howell. Sorry about the piggy thing.”

  “Forget it.” Warren wished he could forget it. The problem was that the nickname fit him so well. He had pink skin and a little piggy nose, turned up at the end so that his nostrils stared everyone he talked to right in the face. His ears stuck out and up—little piggy ears. He looked a little piggy all around.

  “Hey, Piggy,” Frank called, “why are you here so early? Did someone wake you up by huffing and puffing and blowing your house down?”

  Everyone laughed except Warren and Rick. That Divine, he was a real funny guy.

  “You know what Neptune’s trident is, Frank?” Warren asked.

  “That big fork he carries around? I’ve seen him with it on TV. So?”

  “So go sit on it.” This time no one laughed but Rick.

  It used to be that everyone called Warren Warren. That was before he
learned that the old hag who lived next door to him was a witch—a real witch. She caught him late one night raiding her garden. She said that if he was determined to eat like a pig, she’d make it easy for him.

  Warren ran around on all fours, squealing, for two whole months. Dr. Fileberg said he was lucky to have recovered as much as he had, but it would go beyond luck for him to recover any further. Warren’s father said he hoped Warren had learned his lesson. Warren had.

  “Ba-blee-ba-blee-ba-blee, that’s all, folks!” Rank Frank whooped.

  “Do you know where I live?” Warren asked him.

  “Yeah, on Twelfth. Out back in a sty, right?” Frank honked a laugh.

  Warren forced a smile. “Good one. Anyway, right next door lives this nice old lady. Growing in her garden are the best watermelons you’ve ever tasted.”

  Rank Frank sat forward, suddenly interested. “Really?”

  “As soon as the sun goes down, they’re yours for the taking.”

  “All right! Thanks, Piggy!”

  “Don’t mention it.” Warren only hoped that the old hag was into garden slugs now instead of pigs.

  The sound of backfire ripped the morning air, and Princey’s rusty pickup struggled into the agency’s driveway. Princey was a Cyclops, with one eye in the middle of his bald head, scrub brush bristles growing out of his ears, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, and a constant snarl showing yellow, pointed teeth.

  “GRR-OW WITCH!” Princey groaned as he unfolded himself from the pickup’s cab. Princey was tall, over eight feet, and pickups were small. Driving to work never left him in a very good mood.

  He trudged to the side of the dispatching office—really an old garage—hacked, spit, and unlocked the door. He went inside, and a moment later the garage door opened to reveal Princey leaning on the desk he’d built. He scowled even more than normal and smacked his lips as if he’d eaten a bad skunk for breakfast. His bleary eye scanned the bleachers.

  “TRUMBULL! YOU’RE ON TIME!” Princey said everything in capitals.

  “Yes, sir,” Warren answered.

  “WHERE’S O’ROURKE, CHEN, AND HARPER?” Princey waved away any answer. “FORGET IT. I KNOW WHERE THEY ARE.” He studied the tattered spiral notebook that served as a work log. “HERE’S TODAY’S ASSIGNMENTS.” Princey wasn’t much for small talk.

  “DIVINE, COME HERE.” Rank Frank rose and grinned his way to the desk. He could grin because he knew he was getting the best assignment available. He wasn’t named Divine for nothing—his dad was Jupiter, the king of the Olympian gods, and Princey always stayed on Daddy’s good side.

  “DIVINE, A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG PRINCESS IS TRAPPED IN AN EVIL WARLOCK’S TOWER. TRY TO HAVE HER OUT BEFORE CLOSING, WILL YOU?”

  Rank Frank was still grinning. “Sure thing, boss.” He wrote down the address from the log and was gone on his fifty-eight-speed touring bike—a gift from his father—before anyone could tell him what a lucky scuzz he was.

  “RODRIGUEZ.” Rodriguez stepped forward. Princey didn’t like Rodriguez, especially when he’d first had to be nice to Frank. “OLD MAN FREDERICK WANTS HIS HORSE BARN CLEANED OUT. FIND A RIVER AND SEE WHAT YOU CAN DO.”

  Warren groaned in sympathy for Rodriguez. Three thousand years ago, Hercules had cleaned the huge and extremely filthy Augean stables by diverting a river through them. Ever since, Cyclops like Princey always assumed that rivers were the only way to clean stables. Most humans were not as strong as Hercules—actually no humans were; they had to use a shovel. Rodriguez had a manure-filled day ahead of him.

  Princey handed out the work assignments, one by one. Thurston had to capture an escaped winged horse; Doolittle had to shingle a witch’s candy house with chocolate bars. The bleachers emptied until only Warren and Rick were left.

  “TRUMBULL AND … YOU, THE NEW GUY.”

  “Howell,” Rick said.

  “RIGHT, HOWARD. COME UP HERE.”

  “Both of us?” Warren asked. He’d never been part of a two-man assignment before.

  “BOTH OF YOU. YOU’RE GOING TO TRAIN HOWARD.” Princey scanned the work log. “MRS. HELGA THORENSEN CALLED IN THREE DAYS AGO ABOUT A GORGON IN HER BASEMENT. I SENT OUT O’ROURKE, THEN CHEN, AND THEN HARPER, BUT THEY …” He waved his hand again. “WELL, YOU KNOW WHAT GORGONS DO.”

  Warren knew—if you looked at one, you turned to stone. There were animated Gorgons on television commercials, but the censors kept how nasty they looked to a minimum. The commercials always began with a green winged female monster with snakes for hair moving into some poor sucker’s attic. Does the sucker want to get rid of her? Of course he does! Run down to your nearest convenience store, sucker, for a jumbo-size can of Gorgon Gone! And if you act now, you’ll also receive a free blindfold!

  But the trouble was that Gorgon Gone didn’t work. Instead of wasting their money, most people ignored the commercials and called in professional Gorgon exterminators.

  “YOU TWO SEE WHAT YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT.”

  Or two eleven-year-old boys.

  Rick didn’t look as if he was feeling very well, but he was a rookie and unused to this. Warren didn’t feel well because he was more than used to this. He was sick and tired of getting these bottom-of-the-barrel assignments —he’d taken out at least a dozen Gorgons already this summer. They were boring.

  The only problem anyone ever had with them was turning into stone, which wasn’t much of a problem if you knew what you were doing. If you did harden up, when—or if—someone later exterminated the Gorgon, you’d reflesh with nothing more than a splitting headache, sore muscles, and a gritty taste in your mouth.

  If the Gorgon flew off while you were stone, then the problem became much more than just a problem. About all you could hope for then was a nice spot in the park and a nearby sign that read Please Keep the Pigeons Off the Statue. But that never happened. Well, hardly ever, anyway.

  Only one thing worried Warren. Three guys had already screwed up. There had to be a reason.

  “WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?” Princey demanded. “CHRISTMAS?”

  Rick sighed. “Do we have to take this one?”

  Princey leaned over the desk. “ROOKIES SHOULDN’T BE SO CHOOSY, HOWARD. REMEMBER, YOU’RE ONLY WORKING ON A TRIAL BASIS.” He turned his eye on Warren. “WHAT ABOUT YOU, TRUMBULL? DO YOU WANT TO PASS ON THE ASSIGNMENT, OR DO YOU WANT TO KEEP YOUR JOB?”

  Warren wasn’t sure. He was saving the money he earned for a new camera. The goddess of love, Venus, was coming to town on the first stop of her latest world tour, and he wanted to get some good pictures. But was a camera worth always getting stuck with the most boring assignments?

  Worse yet, what if he and Rick failed? Once they refleshed they’d have to live with the nickname “rockhead” for the rest of their lives. No nickname was as bad as that, except maybe Piggy.

  But still, pictures of Venus were worth a few risks.

  He looked at Rick. Rick looked at him. They both nodded.

  “Could I get that address from you, Princey?” Warren asked.

  CHAPTER 2

  With Princey’s bellow of “COME BACK A ROCKHEAD, AND I’LL DOCK YOU HALF YOUR PAY” ringing in their ears, Rick and Warren set out to do something Rick had never done and Warren didn’t want to do. Even so, it would be an easy, if dull, day’s work.

  “Where do we start?” Rick asked. He didn’t have a bike, so he was balancing on Warren’s handlebars. He was too tall for Warren to see over, but so thin Warren could almost see through him.

  “At Happy Harry’s Rent-All,” Warren said patiently. “That’s where we get our equipment. Princey has certain procedures we’re supposed to follow with Gorgons.”

  “Procedures?” Rick asked.

  “Harry will explain it to you.”

  Happy Harry’s Rent-All rented everything. Everything. If you needed to get somewhere in a hurry and wanted to stay neat doing it, Happy Harry would have a magic carpet with stain guard waiting for you. If a pesky giant was hiding in the clouds
above your yard, you could get rid of him with an ax and a magic bean from Happy Harry’s. If you needed it, if you wanted it—or even if you didn’t—it was waiting on Happy Harry’s dusty shelves.

  For a price, of course.

  “What can I help you good-looking young men with?” Happy Harry asked, his fat cheeks crowding out his Happy Harry smile. “I bet you’re helping your dad shingle the roof, and you dropped and lost your hammer. I have just the thing for you.”

  He pulled a large stone mallet from beneath the counter. “This is Mjollnir, the hammer of the Norse thunder god, Thor. Drop it, and it comes right back to you. I’ll let you have it cheap.”

  I’ll just bet that’s Thor’s hammer, Warren thought. He’d heard of scam artists selling counterfeit heavenly artifacts for a hefty fee. Thor himself had spent four months in jail for peddling fakes. They caught him because he’d forgotten to file Made in Taiwan off the hammer handles. Nobody ever said thunder gods had any brains.

  Warren ignored Harry’s offer. “We need two Gorgon extermination kits.”

  “Gorgon problems? Well, it’s that time of the year.” Harry shook his head in sympathy, though his smile remained the same. “Lucky for you, I just happen to have two of the best kits on the market in storage. I’ll be right back.”

  He waddled into his maze of shelves, humming, banging things together and raising a huge cloud of dust, then waddled back with two shiny shields and two swords.

  “This is the Perseus Mark Four Ultra Gorgon extermination system. Let me demonstrate.” Harry slipped a shield over one hand and picked up a sword with the other. “Using the sword is obvious—if you can’t figure that part out, you better hire a professional. Just remember to aim for the throat. The only way to kill a Gorgon is to cut the head off.”

  “I know all this,” Warren said, “but you better explain it to him.”

  Harry turned to Rick. “As far as the shield goes, just read your history book. How did Perseus perform the first extermination?”

  “He used his shield as a mirror,” Rick said, “to keep from looking at the Gorgon.”