Kingdom Keepers VII

by Pearson, Ridley

  Charlene gasps and immediately regrets it as several heads turn toward her. She’s invisible, not noiseless. To her ringing ears, her gasp sounded as loud as thunder.23

  She pulls her head back inside the wall and stands absolutely still, though frightened. As her limbs and body become more solid, her muscles and bones find steel studs and drywall within her flesh. The burning magnifies to an unbearable pain. Worse, the mingling of flesh and projection locks her in place. She’s stuck. If she moves her left leg, she’s going to take a steel stud with her.

  At the moment when she’s about to give up and scream her lungs out, Maybeck’s voice fills her memory. He’s joking about growing pains and shin splints, holding the Keepers enraptured as he spins tale after tale. Her imagination, or a memory? It doesn’t matter: the image floods her with mirth and humor, countering the fear. Warmth returns—not burning heat—and her legs move freely, allowing her to back out of the wall and into the empty office.

  Now Charlene can process what she has just overheard. If a head was bitten off, it has to have been by Chernabog; he is said to devour humans and feed on their souls. She takes a deep breath.

  The Overtakers aren’t just villains anymore: they’re murderers. This realization brings with it an unwanted memory of Dillard’s death. What are she and the others getting themselves into? Who will die next? Charlene takes a deep breath. She can’t believe her ears. After all the Keepers have gone through, after all they’ve sacrificed, it’s almost too much. They’ve given up so much to protect the Parks—sleep, graduation, all sense of a normal life—they’ve put their lives in danger for the sake of the Disney magic. Now the Cryptologists and Imagineers think that one of them could be the enemy? It’s completely unacceptable. For a moment, she wants to leap through the wall and tell them exactly what she thinks.24

  But Charlene controls herself. One of the great benefits of being a DHI has been to learn such powerful self-control, to be able not only to push anger to the back of your head, but to let it go completely. To be free of it.

  As she regains her composure, Charlene hears a series of sounds back inside the meeting room: a chair bumping against the common wall, voices, the clank of a glass door thrown open too quickly.

  Her entire body aches; her DHI has absorbed too many of the materials inside the wall. It’s like a tooth has been yanked without Novocain. But there’s no time for pain. She knows the thoroughness of the Disney Cast Members and people like the Imagineers—they never leave a job half finished. Her gasp troubled them and they are coming in search of her.

  For Charlene the skill—the practiced skill—is to remain unfazed, fearless. The melody of a Taylor Swift song swims in her head: Fearless. With her back to the wall, she steps into it once more, double-checks her toes and heels, and finding herself almost fully within, stands still.

  Perhaps it’s her level of excitement, or maybe Philby is tweaking some computer source code over at Stage 6, but she could swear her hearing is better, her vision sharper.

  The one place to hide is obvious: Where they aren’t looking for me.

  She takes one more step backward, through the mesh, through the second layer of drywall, and into the conference room. Into full DHI shadow. She stands, her nose pressed against the conference-room side of the wall, her bottom nearly touching the back of one of the chairs. Doesn’t want to look. Doesn’t want to allow even a smidgen of fear or concern into her DHI. Stands like a wall ornament. An invisible wall ornament.

  After a moment, she gathers the courage to take two giant steps toward the end of the conference table, moving away from where Joe sits. She doesn’t know if he’s still sitting there, because she won’t turn around. Won’t risk it.

  “Well, that was weird,” says Brad.

  From the sound of his voice, she can sense that Brad is going to run into her when he returns to his chair. She takes one more giant step to the left. Freezes again as in her peripheral vision Brad reaches out his hand, aiming directly for Charlene’s shoulder.

  “Earth to Brad,” Joe says.

  The hand stops. Brad turns and sits.

  “Nothing in the office,” Joe says. “And there wasn’t time for one of them to get down the hall without me seeing.”

  “You’re saying six of us imagined the same gasp at the same time?” One of the women does not sound happy.

  “I’m saying sound is the least dependable of the senses. We can touch, taste, smell, and see far more accurately than we can hear.”

  “You’re saying…?” The same woman.

  Brad intervenes. “The HVAC, the air vent, could have coughed. It happens.”

  “Of course it does,” Joe says. “Of course it happens.”

  “It’s late,” says the woman, disgusted. “Let’s end this.”

  “What do we tell them?” asks the other woman.

  “We tell them what we know,” Brad says. “I’m a firm believer in the best lie being the truth. We lay out the orders with no wiggle room: Cross over. Do some quick spying. Cross back.”

  “And if they don’t obey?” The first woman again.

  “They lose our trust. We use them less frequently,” Joe says. “Consequences breed proper behavior.”

  “They’re getting far too powerful for their own good,” says the first woman. “More powerful than most of us in this room.”

  “Which is exactly why we brought them here,” Joe says, reminding her. “Why we need them.”

  THE NIGHT AIR SMELLS SALTY and tastes sour, like a marina at low tide. Dozens of steel cranes reach up toward the pale, glowing clouds like skeletal fingers beckoning evil spirits to descend.

  Rows of shipping containers stacked eight high stretch for nearly a half mile. The containers are in two groups: those being loaded off trucks and into the stacks, and those being loaded out of the stacks and onto trucks.

  Along the docks, behind this bustle of activity, cranes on steel frames overhead move containers on and off the ships. The Long Beach, California, container yard is the model of efficiency; engineers from a dozen countries have studied it. This, in part, is because of its enormous size. A person standing among the chaos of containers looks comically small and insignificant; it seems entirely a place of robot cranes and multicolored, trailer-size metal boxes, a child’s gift assembled alongside the Christmas tree.

  Tia Dalma handles the switch far more carefully than in Mexico. No more missing heads! First, she scouts the yard for a truck heading to Disneyland. This effort alone consumes more than an hour. Having located her quarry, she leads the Queen and Chernabog on a daring dash under truck trailers for some hundred yards and into the back of a truck’s trailer. Its load consists of hundreds of brown cardboard boxes holding plastic tableware: forks, sporks, knives, plates, and cups.

  She gets Chernabog settled, ensures that the Queen will look after him, and climbs into the truck’s cab. Hiding herself in the narrow sleeping cabin behind the two air-cushioned seats, she lies in wait for the driver.

  Her hands cuddle a woven raffia figurine, discolored by perspiration and nearly constant rubbing, worn shiny like an old brass doorknob. She used one just like it to manipulate the oil rig operator in the jungle. Knowing her dark magic is far more effective when she holds a personal item—the more personal, the better—she smears tobacco chew, discovered in a Styrofoam cup, onto the doll’s leg. The foul-smelling goo is the man’s spit laced with the tobacco’s brown juice.

  She hears a man’s gruff voice outside and catches her hair in her grip to keep the beads adorning her dreadlocks from clattering.

  The cab’s door opens. She hears the driver seat’s suspension hiss, listens to the clicks and taps as he secures his phone in a cradle and snaps on his seatbelt. She peers through a crack between blackout drapes with an unblinking eye, grateful that the only mirrors are mounted outside the truck’s cab. He’ll have to turn around to spot her.

  Her lips move in a silent incantation.

  It’s no easy task, what she has
in mind. It requires study and concentration, and the most elusive element of all: memory. She observes and mentally records the movement of the driver’s every limb: left leg rising and falling in concert with his right arm, which is doing the shifting; right foot on the accelerator; left hand on the wheel. He’s a moving marionette, a tap dancer, a drummer. Such shifts come effortlessly to him, as does the coordination of all these actions, but not to Tia Dalma, who takes additional time to understand the patterns.

  When she is confident in her knowledge, she begins speaking the curse again, this time in a soft whisper, like wind through a screen door. With each repetition of the verse her voice grows infinitesimally louder. She is in no hurry. All in good time.

  It’s not long before the driver shakes his head as if fighting off fatigue. Rubs his eyes. Pinches the bridge of his nose. Checks the cab’s air-conditioning system. Rolls down his window, ruffling the blackout drapes. Tia Dalma leans back. She does not interrupt her chant, which she now speaks in a normal voice; he can hear her well enough, yet he does not react. By now her voice is like music in his head, a song he’s never heard but can’t get out of his thoughts. A song that owns him.

  Tia Dalma owns him. Her fingers have begun working the doll, testing her control—little gestures such as bringing a hand to his cheek or tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. Soon she’s the puppeteer, the one driving the truck. She accidently weaves the big rig out of its lane on the highway, drawing honking horns; she grinds a few gears, but gets the hang of it.

  “You will do as I say,” she tells him, and is pleased when he does not respond. “You will do as I wish.” She allows that a moment to sink in. “Acknowledge.”

  “I will do as you say. I will do as you wish.”

  “Drive on,” she says, willing him into a semiconscious state that allows him to follow his course yet question nothing. He utters no complaint, offers no resistance.

  “Drive on,” he echoes.

  She seeks this control not for the mundane business of driving a truck, but for the opportunity to take over once the driver has delivered them inside Disneyland’s backstage area. She must be able to cleanly start the truck from a stop, drive to a different destination than the one he intends, and pull over in an area less populated by Cast Members. An area that will allow her to unload her precious cargo.

  For now, she sits back and lets him drive. Everything in good time.

  * * *

  Back inside the container on the truck’s trailer, things aren’t going as smoothly. The Evil Queen grows concerned.

  Chernabog is clearly impatient. He keeps fidgeting, trying to get comfortable, growing frustrated by their confinement. Without warning, he lets loose a hideous roar and slams his elbow into the container wall. The metal screeches in protest.25

  “Calm down!” the Queen says. But they both know who’s in charge. Chernabog doesn’t speak; his communication seems to involve a combination of telepathy, body language, and facial expressions. She hears or senses his desire for her to mind her place; hears or senses that he’s tired of the backs of trucks; understands he’s tired, and likely hungry and thirsty too. She watched him in the temple tunnels, feeding on rats and mice like they were finger food, drinking gallons of water at a time. For such a massive beast, he has lightning reflexes.

  But patience is not his most salient quality. The Queen doesn’t appreciate being locked in a warm container with him.

  His power may be a great asset, but it is also a problem. He does not know when or how to stop killing. Death is his solution to everything. Tia Dalma is right to worry about the consequences of his actions. There’s no telling when he might decide that one or another of the Overtakers is a threat, no telling what he might do in that instance. But they need him. He is the chosen one, the most evil of Walt Disney’s creations. His judgment can be compared to that of a child, swift and often emotional, not logical. This dangerous combination of attributes is enough to cause concern; but his power so transcends that of any mortal being that it more than makes up for his deficiencies. Her job is to humor him. 26

  “It will not be long, my Lord,” the Queen says. “Upon arrival there will be much to feast upon. Your kingdom awaits!”

  His eyes glow yellow, then red, signaling rage. In the months of their confinement she has learned to read him—knows him better than the Black Mamba, better than he knows himself. In this way, the Queen has her own powers, powers she has chosen not to reveal just yet. She covers her ears. He lets out a roar loud enough for others outside to hear.27

  She wants to tell him to shut up, but she likes having a head on her shoulders. She knows better than to rile him.

  Her problems are compounded when the truck encounters stop-and-go traffic. The starting and stopping throw her and the Beast repeatedly off balance. It’s uncomfortable and bruising. His impatience builds. She tries to console him.

  “It is the others, my Lord. The iron horses. They form long lines. We are but the tail of the snake, never able to reach the head.”

  We are the might and power above all else, he somehow communicates—so clearly, like a voice in her ears. We are the head of the snake, the heart of the lion, the teeth of the jackal. We part the clouds and shake the earth. Who dares challenge such claims?

  The Queen wonders if she’s simply imagining his thoughts, if fear triggers such impulses. The brooding look in his over-size bull’s eyes assures her that she has understood him correctly.

  “Only fools, my Lord,” she answers. One doesn’t contradict a twelve-foot-tall bat god. She has seen him in this state before—irreconcilable, unpredictable, unstoppable.

  She wills the truck to start moving, begs him to stay calm, but this monster knows no such state. Since Tia Dalma restored him to power in the ceremony at the jungle temple, Chernabog is an entity unto himself—forthright, impatient, and inconsolable.

  He growls, takes several steps to the back, and dents the container wall with a blow of his massive fist. He tears through the truck’s back door, not minding the possible consequences.28

  “My Lord, to reveal oneself to the enemy prematurely is not a decision to take lightly.”

  As she speaks, he tears the hole wider.

  The car trailing them pulls over to the side of the road. The driver has his window down and phone out, videoing the strange occurrences in the truck ahead.29 The Queen would like to throw a curse onto the driver, but it’s more important to keep Chernabog off the video. She dares to reach out and tug on his folded wing. Her Lord does not appreciate such contact.

  His wing extends, throwing her into the boxes. He pivots, prepared to strike.

  “The mortals have magical memory,” she says, crawling away from him. “The metal bricks they hold capture our every movement.”

  He clomps toward her. Snorting, he glances back toward the gaping hole. She can feel him contemplating whether or not to confiscate the driver’s phone. She can see that cloven hoof, so close he could stomp the life out of her.

  “Better not to be seen just now, don’t you think?” Depending on what the driver does with the video, they could already be in serious trouble. Life is a stage—immortal life a vast stage indeed.

  “They can make stories with these bricks. Stories like ours, yours, and mine. We do not need such stories—incorrect ones—poisoning thought prior to the beginning of the End. They will only serve to challenge our position.”

  He blinks his strange inner eyelids. She perceives that he understands, though can’t explain to herself how it might be so.

  “Best we surprise them.” She knows he understands surprise.

  He grunts.

  The Evil Queen accepts the small victory showing absolutely no expression.

  INSIDE THE TOWERING CONFINES of Stage 6, one boy sits alone, cross-legged in a sea of green. He seems small and insignificant, drowning in all the color.

  A tired Finn Whitman glances at his watch for the umpteenth time, shoots a look at Philby in the control r
oom, and shakes his head in disappointment. Adjusting the microphone of his headset, Finn says softly, “You think she can’t fall asleep? The excitement or something?”

  “I told you: she crossed over thirty-five minutes ago.”

  “Makes no sense.”

  “I see her!” It’s Willa’s voice, crackling over the headset. “The back of the Frank—”

  “I’ve got her!” says Maybeck over the airwaves. He and Willa can’t see each other, but between them, they’re able to keep watch over the three back lot streets with access to Stage 6.

  “Finally!” Finn says, standing.

  “Go easy on her, Finn,” Maybeck says. “If she’s late, there’s a reason.”

  “The reason being, she’s your girlfriend?” asks Willa.

  “Shut…up!” Maybeck says. Three peals of nervous laughter fill the headsets.

  Charlene enters the cavernous space. Like Finn, she appears to have shrunk; she looks tiny and insignificant against the enormous soundstage. She gracefully crosses to Finn, excited and with a palpable sense of urgency, rushing her words as she spills out the news of what she has overheard in the conference room. Her report is delivered in broken sentences punctuated by purposeful pauses as she collects her thoughts, trying but failing not to color her tale with emotion. The others hear her breathlessness over Finn’s headset microphone; she sounds like a young child whose closet door pops open of its own accord, awakening her in the middle of a deep sleep.

  “Once again,” Finn says, once Charlene has finished.

  “‘An enemy within,’” Charlene repeats. “A mission for us, but they don’t trust us, and they fear our power.”

  “The OTs murdered some guy?” Finn’s hopeful tone begs her to correct him, to tell him he’s heard her wrong.

  “She’s nodding,” Finn tells the others via the headset. “She’s nodding and she’s scared.”

  “Took his head off,” Charlene gasps.

  “So it’s come to this,” Finn says, his voice full of unmistakable desperation and profound disappointment. “First Dill. Now some complete stranger.”