Disruption by Steven Whibley Page A

clearing the air.
    I pushed myself up onto my elbows and coughed. Bits of twisted metal and singed grass surrounded me.
    “It blew up?” I muttered. I coughed again. That wasn’t a paint bomb. The weight of what had just happened hit me all at once. In a frantic rush, I ran my hands over my body checking for injuries, and glanced at my arms and hands, expecting to see them caked with blood. They weren’t. With the exception of the ringing inside my head and some burned hair, I wasn’t injured. I collapsed back onto the grass and heaved one breath after the next, trying to will my heart to stop hammering out of control. I didn’t succeed.
    Dalson suddenly stood over me, blocking out the sun. He looked like a shadowy superhero with his hands fisted at his hips and the sun forming a halo around his head. He leaned over, grabbed me by my arm, and heaved me to my feet.
    I gestured at the bits of debris and choked on my words.
    “Don’t worry,” he said, “all the rest are deactivated. You can step freely now.” He didn’t sound upset, but then his voice was tinny and weak through the ringing in my ears.
    I took a step back, but when I moved, it seemed the ground moved too, and I staggered a couple paces to my right. I managed to stay on my feet, barely, and to will the earth to stop spinning. Dalson clamped a firm hand on my shoulder and steadied me.
    I drew a couple deep breaths, and the ringing lessened to a dull buzz. I scanned the field. A woman, one of the linesmen I’d seen before, sprayed the path I’d made across the field with something that was turning the paint-splattered grass green again. The other linesmen compared notes, and Smith crouched on the field where I’d started. He had what looked like a fisherman’s tackle box beside him and held up one of the land mines, no doubt trying to sort out if any of the other ones were as defective as the last ones I’d triggered. He snatched another hockey-puck mine out of the tackle box and carefully placed it in the grass.
    “He’s resetting them.” I meant it as a question, but it came out like a statement and sort of sounded like I was tattling on the beefy counselor.
    Mr. Dalson’s grip on my shoulder tightened. I glanced up. He eyed me carefully, but not the way you’d expect if he were trying to see if I needed medical attention. Instead, he stared at me like a damaged toy, deciding whether he should fix me.
    I just stood there dumbly as another series of questions jolted through me. Why wasn’t anyone panicking? Why weren’t they yelling? A mine had just exploded and very nearly cut me in half. Why wasn’t the camp medic rushing across the field? Why were the fabric walls still up?
    Dalson gave me a gentle shove and guided me back across the field. “I shouldn’t say this,” he said in a low voice, “but well done.”
    “W-what?” I rubbed my ears. No way had I heard him correctly. “Well done?”
    He grinned when we got to the sidelines. “The ringing won’t last long. You’re free to go get cleaned up. There won’t be any more challenges for you today.”
    I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. My mouth gaped like the fish I was. I now understood why they used that name for newbies . Newbies stood around with their mouths hanging open like mine.
    He looked around and then brought his head close to mine. “Between you and me, Cambridge, how’d you know the mines around the ball were real? What gave it away?”
    I blinked trying to understand the question.
    “You couldn’t have known just by looking at them.” He nudged my shoulder. “C’mon, how’d you know?”
    I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I felt like the explosion had knocked me into some alternate reality. One where a kid almost getting blown to bits was grounds for congratulations and where camp leaders seemed surprised when their campers survived challenges. The fact that my hands shook as though I’d just downed a gallon of Red Bull didn’t help matters.
    Dalson nodded