A girl’s translucent shape appears and then vanishes. Then reappears, flickers, and solidifies. Willa’s DHI looks at the boys—and then at the swirling wraiths at the far end of the terrace.
“That’s interesting,” she whispers. A moment later she takes in the Legend statue without reaction; she might as well have crossed over beneath an oak tree.
“Let’s go,” Finn says.
The Keepers pair up without discussion. Philby and Willa crouch and move to the right of the terrace; Maybeck and Finn crouch and scurry to the left.
“You ever see something like that before?” Maybeck whispers.
Finn doesn’t answer. A memory of Splash Mountain is playing in a loop in his head: he’s wet from the waist down, hearing a sound as creepy and unexplained as these ghostly shadows swirling in and around the office building door.
The wraiths have shriveled human skulls, and black smoky capes trail behind them. Witchlike, they appear more female—and uglier—up close.
“Can you say ‘Dementors’?” Maybeck cracks. “If they try to suck your face off, my suggestion is to bolt.”
Maybeck and his wisecracks. Finn shakes his head wryly, lost in the memory of another encounter: the frightening sounds behind him and Philby that turned out to be a T. rex breaking loose from a painted scene on the wall in Big Thunder Mountain Railroad. The dinosaur chased the boys down the train tracks, its jaws snapping like a hungry alligator’s. They outwitted it, but only because it was so big and clumsy. These wraiths and demons do not look big and clumsy.
“You’re not helping,” Finn says.
“Chill,” Maybeck snaps.
“I will once we’re returned.”
“So serious. We’re 2.0, dude. What are they going to do to us?”
Finn can’t argue about the benefits of the software upgrade. Among other problems, version 1.6 had stability issues: personal fear could trigger a decay of the hologram and therefore physical vulnerability, and physical objects that were not part of their DHIs when they crossed over could present difficulties. It could be—unpredictably—impossible to move or pick up certain things in certain circumstances. The 2.0 upgrade—carefully protected and secured by the Imagineers—has removed those bugs and more: they’ve gained high-definition projection and audio; their sensory stimuli have been enhanced. All in all, there’s no comparison.
“And then there’s your Superman thing,” Maybeck says, reminding Finn of the perplexing but welcome strength he inherited after a brush with electricity in the bowels of the Disney Dream cruise ship. Struggling with Tia Dalma, he’d collided with a power source. Finn still doesn’t know if it was the electricity, some miscalculated spell that backfired on the Creole witch doctor, or a combination of the two, but he came away from the encounter with surprising strength, the kind of strength associated with guys who are six feet six and two hundred forty pounds. More than that, even. Much more.
“Do you actually think Chern—?” Finn starts.
Maybeck cuts him off. “I don’t know.”
The Keepers have been together so long that they can complete each other’s sentences, share each other’s thoughts. But despite all their experience, neither of them knows how to battle wraiths and demons.
“I just hope it’s not like bear cubs,” Maybeck says.
“Chernabog’s dead or, at the very least, still trapped in the labyrinth,” Finn says. “Philby’s right: if these belong to anyone, it’s Tia Dalma.”
“I know that, and you know that. But do they?”
The boys move closer, within a few yards of the door.
“No blue lines,” Maybeck says. DHIs rendered in version 1.6 had thin glowing blue borders around the projected images, signaling that they were holograms, not real. The absence of blue edges suggests that the wraiths and demons are not holograms either. Projected in 2.0, the boys lack the blue outlines as well, which should convince their opponents they too are real.
Philby and Willa have worked their way on their bellies through the grass to the edge of the patio walkway bordering the building. Philby points up. Finn nods.
“Does he think we don’t see them?” Finn says softly to Maybeck.
“No idea what he’s doing.”
Finn nods more enthusiastically. Philby shakes his head and points sharply again, gesturing to a spot above the door. The wraiths are swirling like black smoke into a vent.
“You okay?” Maybeck asks.
“Not really,” Finn admits, unconcerned about being teased—even by Maybeck. The Keepers have long since crossed such boundaries. There’s no need to exaggerate with each other, no need to lie. Finn can say what he feels and thinks, more so even than he can at home. It’s the safest group of friends he’s ever had.
“I hear you,” Maybeck says. This is as close as Maybeck will get to an admission of fear; at such moments, he is still something less than one-hundred-percent candid, as if that makes him older or cooler than the others. They’ve learned to accept this. Maybeck is never the first to adapt.
“The lights!” Finn says. “Philby’s pointing to the lights.”
“There are no lights.”
“That’s the point.”
The only light emanating from the Frank G. Wells Building is the sterile bluish-white brilliance of the emergency fixtures, the same kind of lighting the Keepers have encountered in attractions throughout Disney World when they are inside the parks after hours.
Behind the glare cast by the emergency lights, the edifice looms, a gray obelisk against an eerily glowing sky lit by the light pollution from urban sprawl. The cardboardlike silhouette of mountains serves as a backdrop.
“Power’s out.” Maybeck speaks reverently, a hush whispered in a cathedral.
“Yup,” says Finn.
By lifting his arms with his hands gripping an invisible lever, Philby signals back that he and Willa will attempt to reinstate the electricity. The two turn and slither off through the grass like gators, moving away from the entrance. Typical Philby, Finn thinks; he’s probably memorized the studio map and all the buildings’ blueprints, including mechanical specifications.
Maybeck attempts to sing. “‘Just the two of us…’” A music machine, Maybeck has managed to mine the database of his aunt’s oldies collection and come up with a Bill Withers hit from forever ago. Finn only recognizes the lyric because his parents play the same music in their car nonstop and sing along like college freshmen.
“Not now,” Finn says. “There’s work to do.”
“Work is a term for those who don’t enjoy their particular enterprise. You and I, on the other hand, relish the chance to put the Overtakers back where they belong. This isn’t work, Finn. This is what we do. And we do it well.”
“We’ve never battled wraiths.”
“It’s the brooms I’m worried about. And that green goo in their buckets.”
The Fantasia brooms have been known to carry a toxic acid in their work buckets that is capable of melting glass—and more frighteningly, metal, wood, flesh, and bone. The only broom Finn can make out through the floor-to-ceiling windows appears to be standing guard at an internal door. The body of a Security guard lying on the floor against a wall—hopefully unconscious, not dead—remains a top priority for Finn.
He hatches a plan. Maybeck is strength and quickness deployed with the creative accuracy of a painter’s mind. Finn is strategy, cunning, and calculation. They make a good pair.
“You see Starbucks?” Finn asks.
“Hardly a good time for a latte.”
“That’s you. In behind the bar, you’ll find a fire extinguisher—”
“Says who?”
“—that you’ll use to hit the flying uglies. There’s toxic powder in those canisters, Maybeck. It’ll blind them at the very least.”
“You can be very mean.”
“As you crash and blast your way through them, I’ll make for the door and check the guy on the floor over there. That’ll draw the bucket brigade, so
don’t dawdle. I’m going to need reinforcements.”
“Crafty. Even devious. I approve.”
“You first,” Finn says.
* * *
At the westernmost side of the building, across from the electrical substation, Philby and Willa’s DHIs rise to their feet. Philby takes Willa’s hand and heads about eight feet to the left of a door. The two disappear through the solid wall.
* * *
Maybeck’s DHI walks through the plate glass window as if it isn’t there; technically, he’s the one who isn’t there. He enters the Starbucks and walks through, not around, the counter. A fire extinguisher is strapped to the wall next to a first aid kit. Maybeck doesn’t waste any time wondering how Finn knew the extinguisher would be there or doubting his faith in Finn’s knowledge. Maybeck is not the type to get all sentimental about how they have each other’s backs, how they complement each other’s deficits, how they work so well as a team. He’s not a sports guy; he doesn’t have “team” in him. He’s an artist, and he considers himself something of a loner (though that has changed since his feelings for Charlene have grown); he feels like a discard, because he’s been raised by his aunt Jelly and not by his biological parents. He has issues.
Maybeck focuses. The 2.0 software makes touching, smelling, hearing—all five senses—seem perfectly normal and real. He unclamps the fire extinguisher, turns, pulls the safety pin, and squeezes the handle.
He spots an attacking airborne wraith in a reflection on the plastic face of a coffee timer. Yellow dust hits the wraith in its horrid, withered face. A sound like a baby pig being sat upon ricochets off the walls, rattles the coffee mugs, and shakes the teacups. Maybeck identifies terror bubbling up in his DHI, a sensation he does not expect and could never have anticipated. It’s uncomfortable and irritating.
The wraith crashes into a wall, sending a stack of mugs to the floor. It writhes on a shelf, clearly injured by the impact. Regaining its strength, the wraith turns its hooded, hollow-eyed leathery head and stares darkly at Maybeck. A bony hand shoots out from beneath its smoky cape. Palm to chest, the hand attaches to Maybeck’s sternum like a suction cup.
Maybeck looks down in surprise: the gray hand should have passed through his DHI, but as Philby warned, something is wrong. The hand attaches to his chest, palm forward. Colored pixels collect at his chest in a brilliant flare, first red, then blue, yellow, white, and suddenly a blinding burst brighter than sunshine. The particles migrate from Maybeck’s side and extremities like electronic blood draining away. His DHI turns gray at the edges. His arms and legs grow weaker; it’s harder to think. He’s losing consciousness. This creature is sucking the light out of him. The melody of “Killing Me Softly” floats through his head.
It’s a light show. Maybeck can’t take his eyes off the sparking, shooting rays leaping from his chest. It’s a supernova, beautiful in a way. He understands the creature is killing him, but he’s so transfixed, he’s helpless to do much about it. This, he realizes, is the secret of the wraiths’ power—they mesmerize.
The realization briefly breaks the spell. Maybeck struggles to lift one pale, dimming arm. It takes all his concentration. His hand and skin are dull gray, the tips of his fingers dissolving as the last of the photons flow up his forearm to collect at his shoulder. With his other hand, he manages to take hold of the espresso machine’s steam tube and bends it to aim at the creature. The thing sees him—its skull shifts slightly in the machine’s direction—but the wraith has conjoined with Maybeck using its right arm, and it lacks the flexibility to reach far enough.
Wraith and Keeper look at each other. The creature smiles.
All of Maybeck’s color is now drained, gathered in a ball in his chest like a backed-up sink. Maybeck turns the plastic knob, opening the valve.
Boiling hot steam rushes from the nozzle with a delicious hiss and blasts the wraith directly in its hollow eye sockets. The leathery skin bubbles and sizzles. Tethered as it is to Maybeck, there’s no way for the wraith to avoid the scalding blast.
Seconds before passing out, Maybeck feels the cold inside him replaced by a welcome warmth. The ball in his chest disperses as luminous color rushes back into his extremities.
The wraith finally releases Maybeck in order to shield its face from the steam. The struggle has taken only perhaps twenty seconds—twenty seconds that feel like many long minutes.
Maybeck swings the fire extinguisher overhead and crushes the wraith’s skull. Bone cracks and shatters. There’s a puff of gray ash, and the creature is gone.
Staggering, finding his strength and balance, Maybeck turns to face the onslaught of wraiths flying toward him. But he’s got game now. He understands the objective. He swings the fire extinguisher canister like a baseball bat back and forth, connecting with the skull of each wraith as it nosedives to attack. The creatures burst into gray ash on contact.
He dispatches four, then spins around to check behind him and sees the impossible: the wisps of ash are drawing together on the floor like magnetic particles; re-forming, the ash begins to take shape—the edge of a cape; the top of a skull. Wraiths are immortal, Maybeck thinks. Maybeck can’t guess how long it will take for the wraiths to restore themselves, and he’s not sticking around to find out. He charges through to the lobby, where he sees Finn leaning over the fallen Security guard.
Overhead, a wraith. It slows and hovers above Finn. His full attention is on the guard.
“Look out!” Maybeck shouts.
* * *
After passing through the wall, Philby and Willa find themselves in a stairwell.
“Perfect,” Philby says.
“You amaze me!” Willa says, a little too adoringly, and stutters. “Your…accuracy. Your…aim. Right where we want to be.”
She hopes he can’t see her blushing face, but the emer-gency lights in the stairwell are superbright and not hiding much.
Ignoring her discomfort, Philby takes off down the stairs. “It’s likely they—” He cuts himself off as, rounding a landing, he finds himself fifteen feet from a broom. The broom is having trouble with its small legs on the stairs. One hand holds the rail; the broom clearly needs the support for balance.
Willa can see the green goo in the broom’s bucket—it’s the same stuff Maybeck and Charlene encountered in Disney Hollywood Studios three years earlier, an acid that would quickly dissolve human flesh and bone. Willa accepts that she’s not the most physically coordinated Keeper. But she has better balance than most and can hold her own on a climbing wall. Her fellow Keepers think of her as brainy and quiet. Philby knows her better than any of the others, but even he probably considers her more bookworm than athlete.
It’s not what others think of you, Willa reminds herself; it’s the truth you know about yourself. Since the devastating confrontation in the Mexican jungle at the end of the Panama passage, the Keepers have adopted the motto No Limits. Willa doesn’t remember who came up with it, and she doesn’t care. She only knows that it resonates inside her, reminding her that she is limitless in her abilities, effort, and success. The Keepers battle for good; only good can come of it. Only one person can stop her from accomplishing her objectives: herself.
She mounts the railing sidesaddle, balances, and lets go with her hands, racing down before Philby can stop her. The broom is slow to turn; Willa catches the upper part of one of its arms and slides off the railing, spinning the broom around in a full circle. Her momentum dislodges the broom’s grip. It staggers, its bucket swinging nearly horizontal. Willa grabs hold of the opposite handrail and whips the broom behind her, propelling it off the stairs and onto the lower landing. The bucket spills its contents across the cinder block wall and door, instantly burning a small hole through the door and scarring the concrete wall.
Philby practically flies past Willa and leaps from the fourth step. He lands directly on the yellow wood of the broom handle, splintering it in two. Its hands spasm, twitch, and stop moving.
“Kindling,” Philby says.
“Nice move.”
“Thank you.”
He sizes her up, head to toe, seeing something in her he hasn’t glimpsed in a long time. “Really nice move.”
“Again: thank you.” She feels like an idiot.
With Philby in the lead, they step over the broken broom. Together, he and Willa pass through the acid-burned hole in the wall and approach an unmarked steel door halfway down the long corridor—and step right through.
“Yes!” Willa cheers, sounding a little too much like Charlene for her liking.
They face an array of gray electronic panels, conduits, and boxes. A metal lever with a red rubber end cap is in the off position. Philby grabs it and forces it up.
“And then there was light,” he says.
* * *
As Finn looks up, the wraith floating above him dives, aiming at him, one palm outstretched as if to push him.
“Don’t let it touch you!” Maybeck shouts.
Finn tears a metal sign off the wall, swings it, and bats the wraith across the room. Seeing Maybeck’s stunned expression, Finn realizes that the sign probably weighs more than he does. His unusual strength has kicked in.
The lights come on.
The wraiths shriek and twist and roll in the air. They waste no time fleeing, swirling out the door and into the night, where they disappear. File folders and papers, notebooks and binders cascade to the floor in their wake.
The demons—there are fewer of them, more slow-moving and plodding—remain, not to mention the broom that stands sentry, blocking the door to the Archives.
“These guys aren’t terribly smart,” Finn says, leading Maybeck’s DHI through a section of glass wall. He slams the door on the broom and locks it before the thing has time to turn around.
“He’s just going to burn his way through,” Maybeck says.
“Let’s hope it takes him a moment.”
Sure enough, the doorknob starts to rattle.
“I told you,” Finn says, “not smart.”
The two boys find themselves in the Archives’ small library with several tables in the center of the room surrounded by chairs and walls of shelves packed tightly with books. There’s an administrator’s desk at the far end, and an open doorway to its right shimmers with fluorescent-tube lighting. From this room comes the sound of items falling to the floor.
Kingdom Keepers VII Page 4