The Map Trap by Cameron Macintosh

Author:Cameron Macintosh
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Enslow Publishing, LLC
Published: 2020-11-14T00:00:00+00:00

“Yikes!” I say to Oscar. “I think we’ll take it on foot from here, don’t you?”

Oscar nods and wipes his brow with a paw.

By now, we’re on the very edge of Bluggsville. According to the GPS unit, we’re supposed to turn left in 60 feet. The strange thing is, there’s no street to turn left onto. It’s just a big patch of dusty, empty land, with a few old brick buildings in the distance. “Oh well,” I say to Oscar, “we’ve come this far. There’s no point stopping now.”

We turn left where the GPS unit tells us to. On the screen, there’s now a road stretching far off into the distance. As we walk along, I scuff the dust with my foot and see the remnants of a footpath. It’s just enough to convince me that the GPS unit still knows what it’s talking about!

“Still a half a mile to go,” I say to Oscar. “It doesn’t seem like there’ll be much to look at.”

Just then, Oscar lets out a little squeak and points a paw at the top of the GPS unit. I realize he’s trying to tell me something about the battery – it’s already down to 32 percent!

“Yikes!” I yelp. “Wherever we’re going, we’d better get there quickly!”

We double our speed and ten minutes later we find ourselves approaching a brick building that looks like a repair garage for hover-cars. There’s a small sign above its front door: Bluggsville Art Gallery Warehouse, Dorsey Memorial Wing.

It seems like a strange place for an art warehouse, but I suppose they’ve got to keep their spare paintings somewhere! I look down at the GPS unit. It tells us we’re now only 150 feet from its previous owner’s home. There’s definitely no house there anymore. All I can see is an old utility pole and some tall, weedy strands of grass.

“We may as well go and have a look around there anyway,” I say to Oscar. “Maybe there’ll be some ancient ruins in the grass.”

My hopes fade as we walk on and the GPS unit tells us we’ve reached our destination. All we find is a patch of dusty grass and a rusty old mailbox on the ground. It’s very disappointing after everything we’ve been through to get here. There’s a number on the mailbox – 230 – and a name: Aretha Dorsey. Neither of them mean anything to Oscar or me.

“Nothing to see here,” I groan. “We may as well just go back the way we came.”

At that very moment, Oscar’s ears prick up and his eyes triple in size. He seems to be looking at something behind me. I turn around and see that a van-copter has suddenly parked outside the warehouse. Three people, dressed in black from head to toe, climb out of it and gather in front of the warehouse door. In perfect sync, they take laser pens out of their pockets and aim them at the door.

They’ve obviously done this before – their beams meet at exactly the same point, and they guide them over the door until they’ve lasered a big, round hole in it.

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