The Waddling Dead: Tight Squeeze

Book Three in The Waddling Dead Series has arrived and with it a young duck with an unusual power. Tight Squeeze is a contortionist, but he changes his mind as often as he changes his shape. Will he be a duck lamppost, a duck violin (without the strings), or a duck porcupine? Will he save the Kingdom of Waddle when the orchard catches fire? Can any of his shapes command the Volunteer Feather Department or guide the driver of a fire truck who can’t drive? Share the suspense in Waddleland with this out of proportion adventure!

Joan Spilman has an MFA in Creative Writing from Wichita State University where she was awarded the fellowship. She has published in literary journals such as “The Laurel Review,” “Short Story International,” “Willow Springs” and many others. Her awards include the John Maier Award, the George Garrett Prize for Best Prose, and a PEN Syndicated Fiction Award. Joan has owned one duck, Digger, who now resides at the Blenko Glass Factory Pond for retired or ill-tempered ducks.

Award-winning author and illustrator Ashley Teets is a 2012 summa cum laude graduate of Alderson-Broaddus College where she earned a B.F.A focusing on visual art with a minor in creative writing. After completing two semesters of graduate work at West Virginia University Ashley continued her graduate study through the Simmons College satellite graduate program at the Eric Carle Museum of Picture Book Art in Amherst, Massachusetts.

She holds a Masters in Arts Administration through the University of Kentucky. Ashley is also a portrait artist, muralist and art instructor. For more information visit www.AshleyTeetsIllustration.com.

Joan Spilman Illustrated by Ashley Teets

The Waddling Dead: Tight Squeeze

by Joan Spilman illustrated by Ashley Teets copyright ©2018 Joan Spilman All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents, except where noted otherwise, are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any other resemblance to actual people, places or events is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any other form or for any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage system, without written permission from Headline Books.

To order additional copies of this book, or for book publishing information, or to contact the author: Headline Kids P. O. Box 52 Terra Alta, WV 26764 Email: mybook@headlinebooks.com www.headlinebooks.com Ashley Teets—Art Director Lucas Kelly—Design/Layout Published by Headline Books Headline Kids is an imprint of Headline Books ISBN-13: 9781946664181 Library of Congress Control Number: 2017957131

P R I N T E D I N T H E U N I T E D STAT E S OF A M E R IC A

For James, as simple as that.

When zombie blood rises, wonderful things happen to zombie ducks.

John grew a full set of teeth while hatching and was named Megachomp on the spot. He became a dentist.

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Charlotte Clutterguts was poking through the trash when the power ignited and she ate the kitchen sink, plus three tin cans and a rusted pipe. She became a walking garbage disposal.

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Heather Hot Feet was learning the alphabet when the heat hit, causing her webs to scream like ripe tomatoes.

She plunged them into the moat, which turned into a hot tub, soothing all 250 of Crunch the Crocodile’s aching bones.

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But what if zombie blood only rises a drop or two?

What if it comes and goes like a wave touching the shore?

Take James.

Poor James.

He knew he had zombie blood because sometimes his body did strange things. There’d be a shiver, followed by a quiver, and one or more of his body parts would change.

His webs might expand to the size of dinner plates or his beak grow as knobby as a carrot in a snowman’s nose.

Sometimes, his wings curled together in a big umbrella that swelled and closed without ever lifting him off the ground. Then, poof! He was himself again.

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Often the changes happened so fast that James wondered if they’d ever happened at all.

The most embarrassing poof occurred during a Sunday dinner. His beak turned into an anteater’s tongue, knocking over the minnow soup. Minnows went everywhere, flipping on the tablecloth and sticking to the walls. But the tongue disappeared before anyone saw it, and James was sent to his room for bad manners.

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That night, as he poked about in his nest, James called for his zombie blood to rise.

The next day it did.

The ducklings were gathered in the Great Throne Room for the king and queen to assign chores. Esmeralda would scratch out a job in duck scribble, and hand it to Albert, who would then proclaim it.

“Clutterguts,” said King Albert.

“Garbage detail around the Volunteer Fire Department.”

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“Oh, thank you!” Clutterguts was excited, for the area around the VFD was littered with good stuff like nails and coins. She had a preference for shiny things.

“Megachomp, trim the shrubbery.”

“I did that last week!”

Albert looked at him the way he looked at turtles before he cracked open their shells. Megachomp sat down.

“Hot Feet, ironing!”

“Yes, sir!” Heather Hot Feet was always happy to show off what her feet could do.

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She’d barely taken her seat when James felt the shiver, then the quiver, followed by a sensation he’d never felt before. It was a ZAP that ran from his beak down to his hind toe!

He began to grow.

And grow.

And grow.

His legs stretched thin as stilts, his body ballooned, and his neck became a long column of white that shot up until his head hit the ceiling.

“Our brother is a giant!” screamed Endless Scream.

“Cool!”

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But James didn’t remain a giant for long. Over the next few minutes, his family watched as he turned into: A duck lamp post.

A duck violin (without the strings).

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A duck porcupine, whose feathers sharpened into quills.

Dr. Squawk was called and came grumbling every waddle of the way.

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A duck turned into a lamp post, a violin, and a porcupine?

Impossible! But when he stepped into the Great Throne Room, Dr. Squawk dropped his black bag.

James lay on the floor in the shape of a fried egg, his beak and webs meshed together to form a giant yolk. His black eyes looked like blinking bits of pepper.

“He’s sunny side up!” said Clutter Guts, hungrily.

“He’s your brother!” hissed Hot Feet.

“He’s a contortionist!” shouted Dr. Squawk. “And a good one, too, though he needs to get his talent under control. Concentrate, my boy, concentrate!” Dr. Squawk clapped his wings, as James turned into a cumulus cloud.

“He’s a shape shifter! An acrobat!”

“Acrobat, smackrobat, what can he do?” squawked Esmeralda. She liked her children to be useful, not just spectacular.

“Housework!” squawked Raine, for the Queen’s sharp tongue had pierced James’ feelings, and he’d fallen to the floor in the shape of a sponge. “We’ve been looking for a wipe to clean the leaded windows. He’ll be good in a tight squeeze!”

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“Tight Squeeze he is!” King Albert honked.

Raine plucked James up, still a sponge, and carried him to the kitchen. Bonita waddled close behind.

All that day Tight Squeeze was dipped in and out of juice from the bottom of a green jar. Every time he tried to slip back into his duck shape, one of the housemaids shouted, “Concentrate!”

He spent the night preening, hoping he didn’t smell like a pickle.

On Tuesday, he was a broom.

On Wednesday, they coaxed him into a clothes tree and hung robes on his outstretched wings.

On Thursday, he was a mop.

On Friday, he was a feather duster, his legs extended so that he could reach the cobwebs and bat’s nests. That night he sneezed and two hundred baby spiders blew out his nose!

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Monday came and Tight Squeeze was again assigned to Raine and Bonita.

Once more, he was a sponge.

On Tuesday, he swept the second floor.

Wednesday came too soon. He stood in the courtyard while Raine and Bonita pinned the royal underwear to his beak and wings.

“Stop fidgeting,” said Raine. Tight Squeeze hissed. He hated clothespins and he especially hated them pinned to his nose. “Be a good boy and I’ll give you a—“ Raine stopped. She craned her neck to the right and the left.

“What’s that smell?”

“Smoke!” shouted Bonita.

Suddenly, Randy, an Indian Runner Duck, raced into the courtyard, honking, “Fire in the orchard! Fire in the orchard!”

“What?” gasped Raine. “How?” “Duck delinquents, ma’am, but settle your feathers.

They’ve been arrested and wing cuffed,” he said. “Now, I must speak to the King about an important matter.”

“What’s that?” asked Raine and Bonita.

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Randy shifted from web to web. He’d forgotten. Ducks are like that; they can only hold one thought in their heads at a time. Randy had been told to go to the palace ASAP. Was it his fault he’d forgotten the reason why?

“We understand,” said Raine, finally.

Bonita gave him a wink. “I hope they lock those rascals up and throw away the key.”

“That’s it! Clutterguts ate the truck key!” he cried. “I must tell the King!”

“Why bother?” asked Raine, bending her knees. “It’ll all come out in the end.”

Randy looked troubled again. Obviously, he’d forgotten another detail. Then, he shrugged. “I must report to the King and Queen.”

He ran up the steps as fast as only an Indian Runner Duck can go.

“An edict to go splat?” laughed Raine.

“Dad can’t order her to go splat,” said Tight Squeeze, spitting out underwear. “Splats just happen. Even if he could, it wouldn’t matter. By the time she passes the key, the entire orchard will be burned!”

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The smoke had spread in a low, heavy cloud over the orchard. Tight Squeeze willed himself not to be afraid. He must concentrate. The kingdom was at stake.

His tail became a propeller and he flew at top speed to the VFD. 23

Everything was in chaos. Only a few ducks stood by their water barrels in the fire truck. The rest were milling about, snapping at insects and each other. Two were throwing mud balls at a fire pole.

Ed, a Call Duck, who wore a red hat that read FIRE CHIEF in yellow letters, was sitting behind the wheel of the truck, his wings folded tightly about him while he banged his head against the steering wheel. “I shouldn’t have taken this job,” he muttered.

As for Clutterguts, Tight Squeeze spotted her standing on a clean sheet and complaining loudly as Dr. Squawk poured a vile smelling tonic down her throat. Every time she opened her beak to protest, Dr. Squawk poured in more.

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“Doctor, how long before she goes?” asked Tight Squeeze.

“Haven’t a clue,” replied Dr. Squawk, shaking his head.

“She ate an entire bottle of glue. Gobbled it right off my shelf. Said she couldn’t resist the gold cap.”

“I’ll never do it again!” wailed Clutterguts.

Dr. Squawk took this opportunity to pour the remaining liquid down her gullet.

“That’s enough for the whole flock,” he observed. “Shouldn’t be too much longer.”

As Tight Squeeze waddled to the fire truck, his zombie blood began to rise.

Concentrate, it sang, only you can save the day! He hopped on the seat next to the Fire Chief with great optimism. “I can help,” he said.

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Ed stopped just short of another head bang and looked up. ‘Your sister ate my key!”

“I can become one,” said Tight Squeeze.

“What?”

Tight Squeeze decided not to explain. “Put your web to the pedal and get ready to press down. I’ve got a solution.”

Truly, he did. Tight Squeeze had a wonderful solution bubbling and brewing in his brain.

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“All ducks to the fire truck!” he shouted.

They piled in the truck, and stood by their water barrels at attention.

Tight Squeeze began to concentrate on the ignition. He concentrated so hard that his body began to shrink, taking on various dents and notches that a key might make. His muscles bunched together and became hard as steel because, suddenly, he was the key!

“Pedal to the metal!” he called to Ed, and slipped into the ignition.

The fire truck roared off.

It was a wild ride. It was a dangerous ride. It was an unforgettable ride because Ed couldn’t see over the steering wheel!

Ed was a small Call Duck, and couldn’t keep his web on the pedal and look over the windshield at the same time.

He’d hop up long enough to make sure the vehicle was still on the road, then hop down to give it some gas.

Up and down. Stop and start. Tight Squeeze stayed the course in the ignition, hoping the engine didn’t flood.

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They arrived at the orchard. Ed stopped the fire truck by sitting on the brake, then fainted on the floorboard.

Tight Squeeze eased out of the ignition, changing back into his duck shape.

The tree was roaring with flames, along with the grasses underneath. Soon, other trees would burn. They didn’t have a second to spare.

Tight Squeeze turned his beak into a megaphone.

“Fire Ducks at the ready!”

The ducks filled their buckets.

“Line One, drench the tree!”

“Line Two, drench the grass!”

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The ducks did as they were told with surprising ease, for ducks naturally walk in a line and they followed one after another to the tree without spilling a drop. Tight Squeeze repeated this order until the fire was out, down to the smallest blade of grass.

Ed recovered in time to see the last flicker and threw his hat high, “Yippee!” he honked.

The hat sailed through the air, until it landed on the head of Tight Squeeze. It was a perfect fit!

“Tight Squeeze the Fire Chief!” the ducks chanted, stomping their webs and clapping their wings.

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“You don’t mind?” Tight Squeeze looked down at Ed. “Not a bit,” said Ed, then whispered. “I’m a terrible driver.”

The ducks continued to chant, until a deeper honk entered the mix and changed the words.

“Speech, speech, Fire Chief!”

Tight Squeeze looked out and saw his father making his way to the front of the crowd. The King was followed by the Queen, his siblings, Raine, Bonita, and even Crunch the Crocodile who’d crawled from his moat to survey the damage. Crunch knew Tight Squeeze’s rescue of the orchard would be the stuff of living legend, and he wanted to get it down for his travel guide.

“Speech, Speech, Fire Chief!”

Everyone had taken up the King’s chant and Tight Squeeze felt his heart burst with pride—and relief.

He’d never have to be a clothes tree again. The thought brought tears to his eyes that he hid by pretending to preen.

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“Oh, if you insist,” he looked over at the crowd, gathering his thoughts. “Family, friends, fire ducks, Ed, and my reptilian friend,” he began, casting a look at Crunch.

“I’d like to say…“ BOOM! BOOM! KA-BOOM! The ground shook, limbs fell, and clouds broke apart as an incredibly awful odor came from the direction of the VFD. There, an exhausted duck staggered from a pile of muck, holding a key.

The wait was over.

“Sign this,” said Ed, gasping.

Tight Squeeze penned his name to a contract that included web and dental and was immediately installed as fire chief.

(For who knew when Clutterguts would strike again?)

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Book Three in The Waddling Dead Series has arrived and with it a young duck with an unusual power. Tight Squeeze is a contortionist, but he changes his mind as often as he changes his shape. Will he be a duck lamppost, a duck violin (without the strings), or a duck porcupine? Will he save the Kingdom of Waddle when the orchard catches fire? Can any of his shapes command the Volunteer Feather Department or guide the driver of a fire truck who can’t drive? Share the suspense in Waddleland with this out of proportion adventure!

Joan Spilman has an MFA in Creative Writing from Wichita State University where she was awarded the fellowship. She has published in literary journals such as “The Laurel Review,” “Short Story International,” “Willow Springs” and many others. Her awards include the John Maier Award, the George Garrett Prize for Best Prose, and a PEN Syndicated Fiction Award. Joan has owned one duck, Digger, who now resides at the Blenko Glass Factory Pond for retired or ill-tempered ducks.

Award-winning author and illustrator Ashley Teets is a 2012 summa cum laude graduate of Alderson-Broaddus College where she earned a B.F.A focusing on visual art with a minor in creative writing. After completing two semesters of graduate work at West Virginia University Ashley continued her graduate study through the Simmons College satellite graduate program at the Eric Carle Museum of Picture Book Art in Amherst, Massachusetts.

She holds a Masters in Arts Administration through the University of Kentucky. Ashley is also a portrait artist, muralist and art instructor. For more information visit www.AshleyTeetsIllustration.com.

Joan Spilman Illustrated by Ashley Teets