by David Klass
“What’s the matter, Mabel?” her husband asks with a laugh. Her throwing arm slowly swings down and she drops the beanbag on the ground. “That’s a balk. Runners, advance.” Then he stops laughing as she goes limp and slack-jawed, and her whole body turns to cellular Silly Putty. “Mabel? Oh my God! Someone call a doctor!”
The cyborg re-aims. Gisco and I stay low, scuttling around rides as we try to keep him from getting a clear shot. But he’s stalking us skillfully, and we’re running out of cover. I hear a bell ringing. “Gisco! The Death Coaster is setting off!”
I’d rather have my axons blasted, the dog declares.
“Suit yourself,” I tell him, and sprint toward the nearby tracks. The roller-coaster cars rumble by, starting to gather speed for a long climb. I vault the rail and jump into an empty seat.
“Hey,” a boy behind me yells, “you can’t do that.”
“I’ll pay when it’s over,” I tell him.
A second later Gisco hurtles over the rail and crash-lands next to me on top of the safety bar. You’re right, this is the only way out. But how does this safety bar open?
It’s already locked down. Just hold on tight.
Dogs don’t have fingers!
That evolutionary failing may cost you dearly.
Gisco takes this personally. As Darwin would no doubt explain to you, dogs occupied a vital niche in the survival of the fittest and paws were a significant advancement … He ends his learned discourse as we stop climbing skyward and sit for a second looking down at an impossibly steep descent. Jack, I can’t hold on! I’m going to die!
What were you just saying about paws?
The terrified dog jumps into my lap. You hold on to me!
Impossible, old fellow. I need both hands to grip the bar.
What am I supposed to do?
Darwin would probably suggest you adapt.
Gisco looks around wildly, but there’s no one else to help him and nothing to be done. As our car begins accelerating downward, he locks his massive jaws around the safety bar.
We plummet earthward. All around me, kids bellow in joyous fear. I hold on for all I’m worth, and glance at the dog.
He now seems to be flying above our car, inverted, like a furry guardian angel. He’s literally clinging to the safety bar, and to life itself, by the skin of his canines. Enjoying the Death Coaster, Gisco?
I’ll get you back for this. Fingers can be gnawed off in ten bites.
Hold tight, Gisco. Here come the death spirals.
The speed we have built up from our plunge keeps the cars pinned with centrifugal force as we are spun upside down and whipped through five loops.
Blood rushes to my head. My fingers probably leave marks in the steel bar. I’ve never liked roller coasters.
What’s the point, anyway? By now the Dark Army has got the entire fairground surrounded.
We are on the slow part of the Death Coaster, when passengers are given a few seconds to recover. We’re rolling along a straightaway, fifteen feet above the ground. Kids wave to us. I scan the nearby exits and don’t spot any Dark Army operatives. But I have no doubt that Gisco’s right. They’re down there.
What I do see is a noisy kaleidoscope of food stands, a Fun House, a booth with a prize pig, a balloonist offering rides, a chance to take photos with a mock-up of Niagara Falls, and about a thousand screaming kids.
This fair is total chaos, I point out to Gisco. There must be a way to squeeze out unobserved. Maybe we could steal a car or hide in the back of a truck.
They can anticipate our need to flee and they’ve got super-advanced search technologies, the dog explains. If even a single hair from either of us passes out an exit, they’ll know. They’re checking every van, every car, everything with a combustion engine for our DNA.
His words give me the inkling of an idea. Something I once saw in a fair, near Hadley. Gisco, that’s it!
What’s what?
Maybe we can beat their super-advanced technologies with something primitive. But we have to get off this Death Coaster.
There’s no way off this ride. We’re starting to climb again if you hadn’t noticed.
Look! There’s a trampoline tent coming up below.
You’re kidding, right? It’s filled with kids.
They just emptied it out and they haven’t taken in a new batch yet. We’ve got to try. I contort my body and manage to squirm out from under the safety bar. I stand up in the car.
Jack, we’re too high up. We don’t have a prayer.
It’s dive or die time, dog.
I calculate speed and distance as best I can, and throw myself over the side of the car headfirst. The boy behind me shouts, “Hey, mister, you really can’t do that.”
A second later I hear: “And neither can you, dog. I’m going to report you both.”
18
Free-failing. We waited too long to jump. We’re going to miss the trampoline and land on a merry-go-round.
I remember Eko’s flying lessons on the Outer Banks. How she made me run through a natural wind tunnel with my arms outstretched. I felt foolish. “You can learn to do this,” she chided me. “Use your whole body. Your legs. Your trunk. Your spirit.”
I try to wipe my mind clean. Hard thing to do when you’re about to go splat on rearing horses and cheerily painted sleighs. Not to mention the merry-go-round’s steel base. Can’t worry about that. No fear, no calculation, no thinking at all allowed.
I’m a beam of light swimming through a river of air. Feel its currents and eddies. Ride the wind.
Dog plunging through the air right next to me, making a valiant effort to spread his bulk flat, like a giant flying squirrel who has eaten a few too many doughnuts.
But Gisco’s doing it! He’s riding the air currents. And I’m also moving slightly sideways. The bad news is that we’ll never get ourselves far enough over in the few heartbeats we have left.
The carnival rushing up at us. Garish colors, squeaky voices, blaring music. My life flashing. P.J., sorry I couldn’t save you. I would have gone to the ends of the earth. God forgive me for getting you into this. Eko, wherever you are, farewell. I should have listened to your flying lessons a bit more closely.
The face of death appears, mouth opening wide to swallow me. It’s an aristocratically handsome face, austere, and familiar. It reminds me of Dargon, the villain of my Firestorm quest. But this is an older face. Stronger. Wiser. Crueler. Cold, merciless eyes watching me. Waiting to escort me to hell.
Crash, I come down on the merry-go-round. Bash my head open on a sleigh. A steel pole impales me. It’s agonizing. I feel myself die and …
Swoosh, no, it’s a giant pillow. At the very last second I moved myself the final few feet and landed on the tentlike roof of the kids’ jumping booth! Gisco and I fall on the plastic top and bring it crashing down. The trampoline below is like a massive marshmallow. We hit it together, and it bounces us right back up into the air.
Down we come again. The whole kiddy trampoline contraption is cracking apart from the force of our fall. Wooden base splintering. Support poles giving way.
Kids waiting on line are loving it. They shriek with laughter. “Look, it’s Dumbo! No, he’s not an elephant. It’s a fat flying dog!”
Their mothers are less pleased. Screaming and yanking them away. Calling the police on cell phones. The FBI. The Terror Hotline.
A fire alarm goes off. A sprinkler switches on. Foam is sprayed by an automatic extinguisher system. The kids hoot and bellow. Toss foam around like snowballs. Christmas in April. It’s pure pandemonium.
Gisco, come.
I’m right with you. What’s your brilliant plan?
We’re off the busted trampoline, darting between rides. I saw this part of the fair from the air, so I have some idea where we’re going. Around the Sidewinder. To the left of the Tilt-a-Whirl.
I spot its shadow first, looming, ominous, globular, pregnant. There, dog! That’s our only way out.
The Tilt-a-Whirl? Are yo
u nuts?
No, not down there. Look up!
Gisco raises his head and sees the orange-and-black balloon. A hot-air balloon? You’re kidding, right?
We’re out of options. Let’s go.
A white-haired man stands on a tall wooden platform in an old aviator getup, ignoring the confusion below as he shouts a pitch he’s probably barked out a thousand times: “Tethered rides, ten dollars a person. No reason to be afraid, we’re not going to Oz. Come one, come all, there’s nothing like riding in Houlihan’s hot-air balloon!”
This is our escape?
The Dark Army will never anticipate it. You said yourself they’re looking for us in cars, trucks, and anything with a combustion engine. I would guess that there aren’t many hot-air balloons floating around a thousand years from now.
True, but they’ve got helicopters that fly as fast as your jet planes. Once we’re up in that thing, when they figure it out, we’ll be target practice.
At least we’ll be up, up, and away. Do you have a better idea?
No, but that doesn’t make your idea good. The dog and I race up the steps of the platform.
“Hi,” I tell the man, “we’re ready for our trip.”
He’s wearing what looks like a World War I flying ace’s uniform. Helmet. Goggle glasses. Flying jacket. Leather gloves and boots. “I don’t take animals up,” he says. “It’s against the law.”
I open my wallet. Hold out a hundred dollars in soggy twenties. A week’s worth of stacking crates in Boston. “Are you sure? He’s a very well behaved dog.”
The old balloonist glances at Gisco appraisingly, then looks at the money, and licks his lips. “Well, I suppose I could make an exception. Are you sure Fido there won’t panic and jump out of the gondola?”
My dear fellow, once we’re airborne, a force-five hurricane couldn’t dislodge me.
“Positive, but we need to go up right now.”
The flying ace hesitates a second more and then takes the cash. “I don’t know what your hurry is,” he says, “but climb in.”
19
We climb into the wicker basket. “How high does this go?” I ask. “Hot air rises, so theoretically it can keep going up and up, right?”
The old aviator bends to the controls, switching on a small propane heater. “We’re anchored,” he points out. “The tether rope is fifty feet. You’ll get a good view when we’re all the way up.”
We start to rise gently. This certainly beats the Death Coaster. Feather-soft and uplifting in the truest sense of the wood. Ask the gentleman if a meal is included with the flight.
I hesitate, but I’m also ravenous. “Do you by any chance sell food up here?”
He looks at me like I’m mad. “What?”
“Like theme snacks?”
“This is a balloon ride, not a buffet.”
I smell pastrami. He’s holding back.
Chill, dog. “So, how far can one of these fly?” I ask the grumpy balloonist.
“What’s with all your questions?” the old guy demands. “How high, how far, who cares? We’re tethered, get it? Anchored like a boat to a dock. We ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
“I get it,” I assure him, glancing at the tether rope, which is clamped to the side of the gondola. We’re about thirty feet up now, and rising quickly. “It’s just that I’ve seen on TV how billionaires in balloons circle the earth and set new speed records and stuff.”
“Those are helium balloons. This is just hot air. They’re built for distance. This is an inflated piece of nylon and a basket. You’re talking about a completely different animal. This is as high as we’re going today.”
There’s a bump as the tether rope pulls taut and we stop climbing. “There’s the Hobbleville Little League field,” the old fellow says in a bored tour guide voice. “That’s the Gaines family apple orchard. Over yonder’s the Maplewood garbage dump.” He stifles a yawn with the back of his hand. “And there, you can see the Hudson River over the hills. Nice, huh? Ready to go down now?”
Jack!
I see them! Helicopters, racing toward the fair. Perhaps the cyborg dressed like Lincoln summoned them. They’re still far off, tiny mechanized bugs crawling over the hills. But they’re moving fast!
“Not quite done yet, sir. One last question. Are you insured?”
Old Houlihan wrinkles his nose. “You mean if one of my passengers gets hurt?”
“No, sir, I actually mean against theft.”
He chuckles. “Who’s gonna steal an old balloon?”
“I’m afraid that we are,” I tell him. “Gisco, keep him over on that side of the gondola. I’m going to cast off.”
“Not so fast. I knew you two were trouble,” the old guy says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pistol. “Now put your hands in the air.”
20
I slowly raise my hands. The balloonist swings the gun toward Gisco, who sits down on his rump and raises his front paws. It would be comical if we weren’t in such dire jeopardy. “This here is a licensed handgun,” old Houlihan grunts, his gun hand shaking. “I was attacked by a crazy owl once, and I keep it handy to scare away birds. I wouldn’t want to use it on a young fella or a dog, but don’t you even think about moving a muscle till we land and I turn you over to the police.”
He bends and his eyes flick to the controls of his propane heater.
I steal a quick glance at the copters. They’re much closer. Gisco, we’ve got to do something.
What do your suggest?
One of us creates a diversion, and the other grabs his gun. Since I’m better at grabbing guns, I think you should be the one to make the first move. Go for it.
This old guy’s twitchy. The first one of us who moves is likely to get a bullet between the eyes.
I think you were right about that pastrami. He must have a sandwich packed for lunch. I’ll give you first dibs on it.
Gisco considers hungrily. The balloonist has lowered the flame on the heater. We’re descending quickly. Down to about twenty-five feet. It’s now or never.
Gisco stands and growls.
“Back off, Fido,” the old balloonist says, “or they’ll be stuffing you for the window display of the Tipperville Taxidermists.”
Gisco glares back at him. Lets loose an even more threatening growl.
The old guy raises the pistol. “Or maybe I’ll have your head mounted above my pool table.” His right hand shakes as his trigger finger starts to tighten.
He takes his eyes off me for a second as he aims. I make a dive for his gun hand.
The pistol goes off with a CRACK. The shot misses Gisco. I have enough presence of mind to jerk the old guy’s wrist so that the bullet also misses the balloon.
Houlihan doesn’t put up a fight. In a second, I’ve taken his gun away, and he’s lying on his back.
“Please don’t hurt me,” he pleads. “I have grandkids. Well, I don’t exactly have them yet, but I will if that good-for-nothing son of mine ever settles down. Please, I have a loving wife. Well, she would be loving if she wasn’t bitching at me night and day.”
“Calm down, we’re not going to hurt you,” I assure the scared geezer as I bend to the propane stove.
“Your dog’s about to rip out my jugular.”
“He might back off if you tell him where your sandwich is.”
“In the backpack there. My wife made it. He can have it. It’s got sweet gherkins. I hate those damn pickles. She knows that, but she puts them in anyway.”
I crank the flame back up. We start rising again, and I unclamp the tether rope. “How much propane do you have?” I ask him.
“Just what you see there, and one spare tank on the ground. Where do you plan on going?”
Where are we headed? I ask Gisco.
The Amazon, he replies matter-of-factly.
What?
You heard me. Keep watch on him. I’m going after that sandwich.
What do you mean, the Amazon? And how can you think about food at
a time like this? Don’t you have any self-control at all?
I happen to like sweet gherkins. Even with pastrami.
The big dog begins rooting around in a corner of the gondola like a truffle pig in search of the mother lode.
“We’re going to the Amazon,” I inform the balloonist.
He looks back at me and then, terrified as he is, bursts into laughter. “What have you guys been smoking?”
“You don’t think we’ll make it to the Amazon?”
“You couldn’t make it to Albany in this thing. It has a range of fifty miles, max. And the winds blow west-east, not north-south. Why don’t you nuts give me back my balloon and go your way, and I won’t call the police.”
Found it! Gisco begins ripping his way through a brown paper bag.
Didn’t you hear what this guy said? How are we going to make it to the Amazon?
First things first. Sustenance.
My own stomach rumbles. I realize that I can’t even remember my last meal. Okay, sustenance. Give me half.
I’ve already eaten half. Half is now half of half.
I thought we were partners. Share and share alike.
Be grateful for small favors. I think I smell a bag of potato chips. What are we going to do with the Red Baron? We can’t take him with us.
I pop the quarter sandwich in my mouth and chew it slowly, savoring the rye bread and pastrami, not to mention the sweet pickles. We’re traveling at about thirty feet, blown by a strong breeze. We’ve moved away from the fair, out over a forest.
There’s a small lake coming up below—actually little more than a pond.
“We’ve got business in the Amazon,” I tell Houlihan. “So we’re gonna take a shot at it, winds or no winds.”
“You’re loony.”
“Do you wanna come with, or you do wanna get off?”
“I don’t travel with loonies.”
“Can you swim?” I ask.
“Like a fish.” Then, suspiciously: “Why?”
“Stand up,” I suggest. “The dog’s not going to hurt you. He’s too busy eating.”
“You got that right. Look at him gobble it down. He even ate some of the waxed paper.”
My compliments to the chef.