“Look out! Tasers!” he cried, tripping Willa into Charlene and intentionally sending them toppling. He pulled Maybeck down by the arm.
The stagehands fired their Tasers nearly simultaneously, but missed.
Missed the kids.
The lecturer collapsed; Christian caught him. The audience laughed and applauded as the stagehands retreated, passing Philby, who was arriving late. He drew more applause. A new group of stagehands rushed onstage and dragged the fallen lecturer into the wings. These guys, Finn realized, were the real stagehands, not Maleficent’s zombies.
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, please give a big Disney Dream welcome to the Disney Hosts Interactive!” Christian had little else to say, so he tried again, making out that this was all part of the act. His eyes flashed to Finn, demanding an explanation for the attack. Finn just shrugged. What could he say?
The Keepers, led by Willa, followed the script they’d been given for the orientation. Willa picked up perfectly on Christian’s second introduction, reciting her memorized lines. The other Keepers followed her lead. The spoke about all the fun they were going to have on Aruba, the interesting places to sightsee, and how to take full advantage of the excursions being offered.
A slideshow of the island’s features ran behind them while high seas adventure music provided background. Despite the awkward beginning, the orientation ended well.
Surprising Christian by going off script, Finn led his friends into the audience. There, surrounded by admirers, the OTs had no shot at them.
Minutes later, the theater doors swished closed behind them. The Keepers divided into two groups; Maybeck with Charlene; Finn with Philby and Willa. They would meet in 816, by prior arrangement.
Climbing the stairs two at a time, Finn was deep in thought. Piñata. Gold island, cave flower? What did it all mean?
FINN HELD OPEN the backstage door for Philby and Maybeck, who slipped through quietly. He followed them inside. It was two in the morning, the ship plying the waters for the final push to Aruba.
Maybeck had argued against a return backstage on the same night as the orientation, but Philby was determined to follow through on Maybeck’s mention of a piñata.
“The idea that the OTs have hidden Chernabog inside a Buzz Lightyear parade balloon backstage is just insane enough to make complete sense! If he’s in torpor, as Willa believes, he will require almost no oxygen. Maybeck, it’s possible you’re right. Well played.”
“I hope not,” Maybeck said.
The three boys crept across the backstage area, holding close to the backdrops. Together, they shared an anxious inhale as Maybeck led the way to where he and Finn had encountered the two stagehands.
The only sound was a slight hum of electricity and the whoosh of forced air.
They were directly below several character balloons secured to the ceiling: Buzz, Bolt, and the five members of the Incredibles family.
Maybeck pointed to himself, then up.
Philby nodded.
Maybeck climbed the ladder strapped to the wall.
* * *
From up close, the Buzz Lightyear balloon was all color and clear plastic. Maybeck didn’t know whether he was looking into the guy’s side or his arm, but what he saw caused his heart to leap in his chest.
He panicked, a rare and unnatural state for him. Throwing his feet to the outside of the rungs, he slid down the ladder like it was a firehouse pole. His sneakers squealed against the metal. He landed on the stage with a loud thud.
“Sheesh!” Finn reached out to steady Maybeck.
“We’re out of here!” Maybeck said. He took two steps.
“Who’s there?” A man’s voice carried across the stage. “Hello?” It came from their left.
Philby waved for Maybeck and Finn to follow him. The three boys hurried away to a set of dark stairs leading to the theater auditorium.
They were cornered. If they went through into the theater, they’d be seen; if they stayed where they were, they’d be caught.
Finn wasn’t going to stand around. He yanked open the door and dove beneath a seat in the first row, crawling forward and tucking his legs into a ball. Philby and Maybeck followed. The three boys lay on the auditorium floor beneath three side-by-side seats.
Footfalls pounded out onstage.
“Anybody there?” The man’s voice was incredibly present and close. “Answer me! Who’s there?”
More footfalls. One, maybe two more people.
Finn used the loud sound to cover his rolling onto his back and wiggling forward to beneath row three.
Philby had the nerve to grab hold of him to try to stop him. Finn shook off his hand a little too harshly, pulled himself to sitting, and peered through the spaces between seats.
He saw a squat but wide-shouldered stagehand looking up into the dark where Maybeck had climbed. Finn sensed the other man before he ever saw him, a man standing as still as a predator cat, only the whites of his eyes ticking left to right as he searched the auditorium. Finn didn’t so much as blink. The man was looking right at him. He held his breath; fought to keep from moving.
At last, the stagehand turned away. A second later he could be heard descending the stairs.
Finn finally rested his eyes, relief flooding him.
The stage stood empty.
The boys gingerly extricated themselves from under the seats and moved quietly into the aisle. They crept toward the back of the theater and the glowing exit signs.
“You! Stop!” The sneaky stagehand had tricked them.
“Don’t show them your faces!” Finn told Philby and Maybeck as the three ran.
The stagehand jumped and took off after the boys, supernaturally fast.
“Go!” Finn shouted to Maybeck and Philby as he skidded to a stop and turned to face the man coming for them.
Finn possessed a confidence acquired over time by being the unanointed leader of the group. But usually it was Maybeck or Charlene, not him, who stuck around for the battles. Without thinking now about what he was doing, he dropped to one knee, grabbed hold of either side of the aisle carpet, and pulled. Pulled hard.
Nothing happened. What the heck had he been thinking?
The stagehand drew closer. Anger and frustration overcame Finn. He gave the carpet one ferocious tug. To his surprise, this time it tore loose and rose like a wave, rippling powerfully as it pulled free. The wave surged beneath the stagehand—a magic carpet— dumping the man flat onto his back and knocking the wind out of him.
The boys ran out the theater’s main doors reaching Mickey’s Mainsail shop in record time.
“What was that, Whitman?” Maybeck asked.
“No clue.”
“Since when do you go for the Superman stuff?”
“Since never.” Finn panted. As if to prove it, he was out of breath.
Then, arriving down the opposing hallway alongside White Caps, came the second stagehand, the one with the shoulders of a weightlifter. He glowered at the three boys.
“Well,” he growled, “if it ain’t the Three Stooges.”
“Split up!” Philby shouted as the three boys took off.
Finn and Philby headed aft; Maybeck peeled off and bounded down the amidships stairs.
The stagehand ignored Maybeck, increasing his odds by going after two of the kids.
Though he tried to focus on fleeing, Finn couldn’t help wondering what had happened back there. That surge of strength…was it a fluke? Something he could learn to do? He glanced over his shoulder.
No question the man was after him, not Philby. Time to act.
Finn bumped Philby, sending him tumbling.
The stagehand ran past Philby, just as Finn had surmised.
Finn put his newfound power to a test, ascending the Atrium’s grand staircase. He huffed and puffed as usual. Was slow, as usual.
The man labored behind him.
Finn was running on fumes by the time he headed through the Vista Gallery, ran down the
long port companionway leading to the District, and then through the warren of nightclubs. He needed oxygen. He needed a paramedic.
When he looked next, the stagehand was nowhere in sight. Finn climbed the aft staircase, feeling like he was a hundred years old.
He stopped at Deck 8, his lungs ready to burst, wanting desperately to find out what had happened.
To find out if he could ever do it again.
* * *
“It’s him!” Maybeck rarely sounded frightened.
He, Finn, and Philby were outside on the veranda of Finn’s stateroom.
“Chernabog?” Finn worked to keep disbelief from his voice.
“He’s inside the Buzz Lightyear balloon.”
“You saw him.” Philby swallowed so hard it looked like he’d gulped a mouse.
“Most of the balloon is colored. I saw an eye, and part of a horn.” Maybeck allowed this to sink in. “An extremely, unbelievably big eye.”
Maybeck was no chicken. Just the way he’d bailed down the ladder told Finn he’d seen something horrific.
“So we report him to Security.” Philby sounded disappointed.
“You realize, this could be the beginning of the end for the OTs.” Finn sounded stunned. “No Chernabog. Security realizing something big is going down. That we’re not a bunch of lunatic kids.”
“You and I go to Security.”
“What about me?” Maybeck complained.
“You hang back. If Security detains us, we may need a jailbreak.”
* * *
“Let me get this straight,” Uncle Bob said to the two VIPs. “You’ve demanded to speak to me at three in the morning because you say Chernabog, who is a Disney character who has never sailed with us, is hidden inside the Buzz Lightyear inflatable backstage in the Walt Disney Theatre.”
“Correct.” The redhead, Philby, was bright-eyed despite the late hour. The other boy, Finn, seemed more quietly confident, like a person in charge.
“And how did this monster get aboard?”
“A plane landed on Castaway Cay. He was the cargo.”
Bob said nothing, revealed nothing in his face. He’d been told of guests having seen a plane landing. At the time, he’d not believed it.
“I saw it,” Philby said. “I was there.”
“And how did everyone else miss this event?” Bob purposely didn’t reveal that some had in fact reported similar happenings.
“The fireworks,” Finn said. “They were used as a diversion. The plane didn’t turn on any lights until seconds before it landed.”
“So the sound was covered by the fireworks,” Uncle Bob said, trying not to appear interested. He faked a laugh. “Okay. This is part of your show, right? The late-night video dump? I thought you weren’t supposed to know about—” His expression changed dramatically. “Listen. Sorry. Okay? We’ll look into it.”
Finn didn’t understand what had just happened. Uncle Bob had gone from suspicious and confrontational to apologetic and chummy.
“By ‘show,’” Philby said, his tone confrontational, “do you mean our role in the parks or something? Look. We’re not asking you to believe any of the stories about us, sir. We only ask that you inspect the Buzz Lightyear balloon’s contents.”
“We are in the process of that as we speak,” said Bob, now a different man. Finn and Philby exchanged perplexed glances.
“We’re serious.” Finn had a sense Bob was not.
“As am I. I have a man on the way there now.” Bob worked the radio at his waist. “Yup. He’s on his way.”
“What did you mean just now by the ‘video dump’?” Professor Philby said. When Bob shot him a look of ignorance, Philby continued. “I’m aware that the ship uploads the larger data packets to the satellite at night when the guests are asleep and there’s more bandwidth on the satellite link. But isn’t that mostly for the media tours or the special events?”
Bob looked as if Philby had tricked him, as if his brain was trying to catch up. That expression gave way to one of impatience, and finally, determination.
“I was referring to the three-six-five you’re shooting for Disney Channel. The director uploads after hours.” A Disney 365 was a two-minute video publicity piece that ran on the Channel.
Finn was having trouble focusing, his brain too tired. He understood Philby’s concern about high-volume video dumps: the transmission of DHI data required enormous bandwidth—that was how the Imagineers had been able to track the movement of the Overtakers’ server to a possible ship at sea. This ship. This sea.
If the ship performed a video dump at night, sending the 365 to the company’s studio, the huge bandwidth requirements could diminish the quality of Amanda and Jess as DHIs. Philby was trying to figure things out in order to avoid complications.
Bob touched his ear. “Did not copy!” The man listened intently. “Roger that.”
He looked at the two boys quizzically. “Okay, so what’s going on?”
The boys offered only puzzled expressions.
“If it was an accident, I need to know that right now. If it’s found to be vandalism and you’re trying to pull my chain, heads are going to roll.”
“We don’t have a clue what you’re talking about,” Philby said.
“Don’t mess with me.”
“Not happening,” Finn said. “No clue.”
Bob studied them. “The condition of the Buzz Lightyear balloon the last time you saw it? And I advise you to think carefully before giving me your answer.”
The boys stared at each other, dumbfounded.
“If I’m hearing you,” Philby said, “you’re telling us something’s happened to the balloon?”
“The longer you mess with me,” Bob said, “the deeper the hole you dig.”
“We’re not messing with you,” Finn said. “Give us a lie detector test or whatever, but when we last saw that parade balloon it was inflated and secured to the ceiling backstage.”
“Why?” Philby said. “Your guy found Chernabog?”
“My guy found a deflated balloon, cut—not torn—from one end to the other with a sharp object. That’s a five-thousand-dollar prop. As in dollars,” Bob added for their benefit. “You’re trying a clever plan to pretend someone else did this and get yourselves off the hook.”
“So we dreamed up Chernabog,” Philby said, allowing fatigue and anger to color his voice. “We dreamed up a plane landing on Castaway. Yeah!” he said, sarcastically. “We did that to make sure you wouldn’t bust us for popping your Buzz Lightyear balloon.”
“You be careful with that mouth of yours, son.”
“We’re in danger here, Dad. You’re under attack and in trouble, and we’re apparently the only ones trying to keep your ship from being overtaken by people—by things—you will not believe. When you finally do, it’ll be too late.”
Bob’s face was scarlet.
“We were told we could work with you,” Finn said. “Wayne Kresky told me you were the one person we could trust.”
Mention of Kresky’s name stood Bob up a little taller. The rogue designer, the man accused of running a secret agency within the Imagineers. Who were these kids to tell him about Wayne Kresky?
“You will answer for the damage to this balloon,” he said.
“Seriously? You think we’re that clever? To turn ourselves in at three in the morning in order to take suspicion off of us?”
“I wish we were that smart,” Finn said.
“Return to your rooms. You’ll hear from me.”
“Chernabog is gone,” Philby said. “You guys have got to find him!”
“I acknowledge that you and your friends are special guests aboard this ship, young man”—Bob directed this at Philby—“but I will determine what I have to do. Not you. Now get out of here before I change my mind.”
A BOY WALKS DOWN a dark tunnel. A shadow climbs the wall to the left, runs along and rolls down the rocks like a snake. There are sounds—his feet? Someone else’s?
; The sound of rapid breathing suggests danger lurking. The boy is afraid, deathly afraid. Yellow light leaks into the confined space.
The boy continues through a square tunnel of some kind. A park attraction? There are no lights, no music, no sounds other than water splashing.
Something is chasing the boy. It’s monstrous. It makes hideous, guttural sounds that drive the boy forward, deeper down the tunnel.
Whatever is back there, whatever is coming—it means business.
It means to kill him.
Jess’s eyes snapped open. She was looking at the underside of a mattress, held up by wire mesh. Her natural instinct at such moments was to reach for her sketchbook, switch on the battery-operated book light, and take the pencil out from the binding. She did just that and started to draw the image of a frightened boy in a square stone tunnel, knowing that Amanda was so attuned to her process that at any second her head would come over the edge of the upper bunk.
And it did.
Amanda knew better than to speak. Nothing could come between Jess and whatever images lurked in her thoughts. The dream needed to be preserved. Jess’s premonitions contributed to the Keepers’ efforts like information from a spy. The more detailed and accurate her drawing, the better.
Amanda lowered her head to her pillow and stared at the ceiling. Three glow-in-the-dark stick-on stars gave her dull green images to focus on. Patience was everything. The persistent scratching of pencil point on paper was all she heard…and the occasional dull rubbing sound of the eraser.
The eraser meant a lack of confidence; it was the sound of Jess changing her mind or not liking the way something had come out. Amanda knew her to be an expert illustrator. Her crude drawings of a year or two earlier had evolved into sophisticated realism.
The sounds of sketching finally stopped. Jess sighed, as if she had held her breath for the past ten minutes—an unintentional signal. Amanda slipped off the top bunk.
“Can I see?” she whispered, painfully aware of Jeannie Pucket sleeping only a few feet away.
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