Amanda nods fiercely and moves to the common center. Maybeck, the tallest, raises his hand, and the Keepers pull together. Violet and the Dillard stand aside until Finn tells them to join.
“Dillard, lift your right hand!”
The group joins and cheers.
“Look! There!” Violet points to the Matterhorn.
Flickering orange flames rise from a rent in the path, sending dancing shadows up the mountain like dark matter. A lone figure stands silhouetted on an upward ledge of gray rock and ice. Even from a considerable distance, the curved horns on either side of his skull are apparent, as is the extended snout of a bull’s nose.
The beast raises his furry arms toward the swirling fumes overhead and releases a moaning roar.
“Game on,” says Maybeck.
LIKE RATS ON a sinking ship, the Overtakers come out of every crack and crevice in the crippled Disneyland, swarming the park in euphoric celebration.
In the shadows, Finn and Maybeck work to keep their swords from reflecting flashes of light. They have adopted stealth tactics in an attempt to secure some kind of stronghold or base of operations for the Keepers. With the park in ruins, its trees and lampposts scattered across the ground like pickup sticks, there’s nowhere to hide. And hide they must. The Keepers are gravely outnumbered, their DHIs sparking and failing.
If they go dark, if they slip into SBS, then all hope is lost.
“You see those guys?” Maybeck says, and points.
“Yeah.”
“They’re putting the fires out. Why would they do that?”
Two teams of pirates move from one break in the asphalt to another, snuffing out the flames with blankets. Finn studies their actions, his mind whirling.
“You’re saying, why not let the park burn?”
“Exactly!”
“No clue. Makes no sense.”
The Dillard has come up with a list of possible hiding places nearby. None is more appealing to Finn than an abandoned tunnel across the Big Thunder Trail at the base of the mountain. Eyes fixed on their destination, Finn pushes Maybeck back as a pack of snorting hyenas charges by, led by Shenzi, Banzai, and Ed.
“Shades of the ship,” Maybeck says, once they’re gone.
“Don’t remind me.”
It takes a few minutes to find the tunnel, which is in the backstage area. When they reach it, the tunnel turns out to be more like a cave, since its far end is boarded up with lumber. The interior is cluttered with painting supplies. Maybeck and Finn leave the others outside as they inspect it.
“Our DHIs can pass through that wood at the end,” Maybeck says, “Most OTs can’t.”
“Storey and Violet can’t.”
“We’ll be vulnerable from the open end.” Maybeck’s voice echoes slightly.
“Yeah, but we’ve got to have a base, a place to meet up.”
“Amanda could defend the opening.”
Finn would rather have her by his side. He hesitates to agree. “Yeah. She could push any attackers, probably even push these boards away.” He thinks it through. “Trouble is, pushing the OTs won’t stop them. It’ll just knock them back. And when Amanda does that, it depletes her. She needs time before she can do it again.”
“What if we could contain Amanda’s force, like in a pipe or something, so it’s more concentrated, like a rocket launcher?”
Finn’s immediate reaction is that Maybeck has been gaming too much—rocket launchers? But it’s not that: rather, Maybeck’s artist’s eye is imagining Amanda’s force somehow contained. “Whoa! There’s an idea,” Finn mutters. “Can you imagine that as a weapon?”
“You know we can find a big pipe backstage. They’ve got everything here. But what’s the ammo we launch?”
“Pieces of concrete? We’ve got an endless supply.”
“How ’bout the green goo? The magic brooms? If it’s in Disney World, it’s got to be here too.”
“Killer,” Finn says, enjoying his own pun. “The stage is on Tom Sawyer Island here; it faces New Orleans Square. Take Charlie. Bring back as much of that stuff as you can.”
“On it.”
“Jess and the Dillard will stay here with Amanda. The Dillard’s no physical help and Jess is better in a quiet place trying to dream up stuff.”
“One question,” Maybeck says. “If we’re being projected, even poorly, then don’t we assume the security video is probably working? So why hasn’t Security called 911?”
“If you were the OTs, what’s the first place you’d attack before causing the earthquake?”
“Okay. Got it.” Maybeck pauses. “So they took out Security. But there’s smoke and fire, so why hasn’t someone called 911?”
“I don’t know. Voodoo? A spell? Tia Dalma once made me believe I was killing her.” Finn aches at the memory. “We all saw her, but not Dillard. Maybe if you’re outside the park it looks perfectly normal.”
“That’s just plain strange.”
“You and Charlie build the Mandy Blaster. It’ll make this place defensible and safe. We’re going to need that.”
“Done.”
With everyone now in the painting tunnel Finn realizes the Dillard’s processing power is slow. He’s spending a lot of time with his eyes closed.
“Is he all right?” Jess asks as Finn leads the remaining Keepers into the tunnel.
“I don’t think he has a great signal, so he’s slow processing,” Finn says. “I’ve asked him to look at all the data we’ve collected before and after the earthquake and to offer a plan of attack.” He pauses, and then adds, “As a side note, I’m worried about Remy and Django. I haven’t seen them since the earthquake.”
Overhearing them Philby speaks up. “If Dillard’s processing, if he’s still connected to the Internet—which he must be if he’s doing all this data work—then why haven’t the Imagineers called someone or done something?”
“Who knows who’s connected to what?” Finn says.
The Dillard is crouching off by himself in a corner.
“What if they know exactly what’s happened?” Willa says, joining in. “What if the Imagineers know exactly what’s going on but know the only chance to beat these jerks is us? What if we’re their only shot?”
“The only shot at what?” Finn says.
“If they’re monitoring Dillard’s search requests—and you can bet they are—they know we’re looking for a strategy. They’re not interfering. Not so far. So we have every right to assume our plan is better than anything they’ve come up with. Right? Or they’d program Dillard to talk to us.”
“Brilliant!” Philby says. “Absolutely, brilliant! Listen, that also means we should be able to get messages to them through Dillard.”
“We can use the Dillard like Instagram?” Finn says.
“A medium,” Jess says. “Like in a séance.”
“Creep me out, why don’t you?” Willa says.
“Finn?” It’s the Dillard. Finn walks over to him and crouches down.
“Here,” he says.
The Dillard’s eyes open slowly. “I require a park map and a writing implement.”
Violet overhears and takes off at a run. Jess moves to join them and offers Walt’s pen.
“I think that’s only for you, Jess,” Finn says. “Who knows what it’ll do in someone else’s hands?”
“I’ll find something,” she says, and nods to Amanda. Together, the Fairlies begin to search the junk in the tunnel.
Dillard speaks in a secretive voice that Finn hasn’t heard the hologram use before. “Initial search for Storey Ming has been fulfilled.”
“We don’t need that now, Dillard.”
“Twenty-year-old Chinese-American female declared missing at sea the night of April 16. Believed washed overboard in calm seas.”
Finn stares at his friend’s partial hologram, watches as it dissolves and reappears. His mind feels numb, working over the Dillard’s words. While he and his friends have aged considerably in the past several yea
rs, Storey’s look is timeless. He knows some people—especially women—can seem to barely age, but Storey still looks like she did when they met her aboard the Dream. Coincidence? Tendrils of panic worm through him.
“Continue.” His voice is rough.
“She was lost at sea. Believed deceased.”
Finn feels an actual stab of pain in his chest. Storey!
“So she must have run away, or something.” He says this, but doesn’t believe it. Finn liked her immediately, remembers the other Keepers warning him about trusting her, and remembers how smug he felt when she turned out to be such a big help.
The others call to him. Finn is glad for it—he wants them to interrupt. Anything to mollify the sense of betrayal he’s suffering. He directs the Dillard, “You will keep this information between us until further instruction.”
“Information restricted,” the Dillard answers clinically.
With two pens, a crayon, and a park map in front of him, the Dillard directs Finn to draw. Finn passes the chore to Maybeck.
“You okay?”
“You’re the artist,” Finn replies.
“You look…sick or something.”
“I’m fine.”
Maybeck calls for something with a straight edge. Willa finds a broken piece of wood trim.
Finn understands what’s going on shortly after Maybeck extends the first line from a spire of Small World out over the peak of the carousel in Fantasyland and beyond—off the map.
“Why did we not think of this ourselves?” Philby asks.
“We were a little busy with the Skyway Station,” Willa reminds him.
The group has reformed, huddling around the Dillard and Maybeck.
“The theory is based on two points of origin,” the Dillard explains. “Both are elevated and difficult to access: the spire tower at It’s a Small World and the branch in what is now Tarzan’s Treehouse. Mr. Disney could ill afford to place such clues at ground level. He was aware the park would change multiple times over the years. But he could also be confident that two of his iconic attractions would never be torn down or replaced.”
“Small World and Tarzan,” Philby says, somewhat in awe.
“At the time, Swiss Family Robinson, but yes.”
“From Tarzan—”
“Draw a line directly over that cupola,” Finn says, interrupting the Dillard. As Maybeck draws, the two lines intersect at the entrance to the Mark Twain Riverboat ride.
“The boat is made of wood!” Philby declares. “And it was never going to be taken out of the park. That’s where we find the missing piece! Brilliant, Dillard!”
“That’s a lot of boat to search,” Finn says.
“And we can’t bunch up,” Philby says. “We can’t give the OTs that kind of target.”
“I wish we knew where Remy was,” Finn says, eyes searching the tunnel. “I’m worried about him.”
“Rats tend to do better than humans in a natural disaster.” Philby is clearly not worried. “They actually thrive. The plague, for instance.”
“Shut up!” Charlene says.
Maybeck offers to “fly solo” on the mission to retrieve the magic brooms’ green goo as part of their arsenal. He makes a point that these are exceptional circumstances and that they can’t pair up for everything. Finn is about to argue, but he knows Maybeck is right. He accepts the change in plans.
“Go, now,” he tells Maybeck. “We’ll all meet back here in no more than an hour.”
Maybeck nods, stares intensely at Charlene, who silently mouths, Be careful, and he takes off.
Finn instructs the Dillard: “Make two teams out of me, Philby, Storey, Violet, and Charlene. We need to search the vault in the Disney Gallery and the riverboat on the Rivers of America. Consider efficiency for both discovery and defense.”
Philby leans closer as the Dillard closes his eyes. Typically, he and Finn decide the teams, usually based on which relationships are the most stable at that particular moment.
“Willa, leading Philby and Charlene,” the Dillard says after a moment’s hesitation. “Finn leading Violet and Storey.”
“You rigged that,” Philby says.
“Did not,” Finn fires back. “Maybe the Imagineers, but not me.”
The Dillard speaks up, uninvited. “The relative under-development of your leadership ability, Dell Philby, may somewhat compromise your analytical skills if you are placed in a position of responsibility. At this moment, the need for access to your intellect supersedes any other mitigating factors.”
“You’re a real piece of work,” Philby says.
The Dillard thanks him, which cracks everyone up. All but the Dillard, whose attempts at displaying emotion come too late to be relevant.
* * *
Willa leads her team with a barely contained sense of personal achievement. For six years, she and Charlene have been sidelined, left to watch Philby and Finn struggle for power. The two girls have borne the brunt of Maybeck’s disparaging sarcasm, have fought to get their ideas heard and be recognized as better qualified than the boys for particular missions. Neither girl blames the boys. Finn, Philby, and Maybeck have never intentionally pushed them aside; it’s more like they couldn’t open their eyes or ears, couldn’t see the girls.
It’s funny, Willa thinks. She’s never felt comfortable around other people. It wasn’t until her DHI audition that she found a sense of belonging. Adults are adults; little kids are just that, little. But people her age confuse her. Some want to be fast on a field, others gorgeous, thin, witty, or funny. She never considered herself any of those things. Then came celebrity when she became one of the hologram guides in the parks, the ones you could swipe your hand through. Little did those guests making comments about how real she appeared know that she felt like her DHI: insubstantial.
But as a DHI, she wasn’t alone. She was one of five, and those four others—fast, gorgeous, thin, witty—appreciate her for what she is: smart. You can’t wear smart. You can’t fashion it or show it off on a playing field, and if you show it off in the classroom, you’re even more alone. So you learn to disguise it. But it grows in you, as it grew in her. She was so afraid others would see it. But at that moment of panic, the time in her life when she knew it would be impossible to keep it under wraps, the Keepers came along. Philby came along, a guy as smart as she. Four people accepted her, and that became something to build on.
Now, in the middle of a sea of devastation, sweeping in hologram form through displaced concrete and smoking holes in the pavement, Willa feels giddy with happiness. Whatever her path, it has led her to this moment: to be in charge and take the lead. If Chernabog wants to strike her down, then he’d better do it now, when she feels like nothing in the world could be as sweet as this.
Willa, Philby, and Charlene arrive at their destination, a nearly unscathed building on Main Street. Two royal-blue window awnings hang like fake eyelashes, revealing cracked panes. A burned but readable banner over the central doors reads: ANIMATION CLASSICS. Beneath it is a sign written in elegant script: Disneyana.
With a cry, Charlene stoops to help two birds on their backs, wings flapping frantically. She picks one up and tries to help it fly, but it’s no use. The bird dies in her hands and she drops it, holding back tears. Philby and Willa are waiting.
Willa gestures for Philby, directing him to go all clear and pass through a wall far away from the main doors; Charlene will climb the facade, slip in, and come down from the second floor. Neither scowls nor questions her decision; Philby parks his sword against the outside wall and stands ready. She and Philby wait for Charlene to climb into place. Then, on a silent finger countdown from three, they glide through solid matter.
Willa sweeps through the main doors. A witch soldier from the Wizard of Oz stands sentry by the open vault, holding an iron halberd like a tall cane, a fuzzy hat secured to his head with a leather chin strap.
He stands his ground, leveling the halberd’s deadly point at Willa, while its ax-like
blade glistens, ready to cleave. The man’s dark eyes twitch, taking in Philby, who’s crouched behind a glass case on a walnut table. The room is made to look like a turn-of-the-century bank, all elaborate carvings and ornate molding. It is not a place meant for a fight.
Willa battles her own busy mind, aware that her overactive brain gets in the way of all clear. She need not contemplate how it is that her hands can grasp while her hologram remains fluidly transparent; that she can hit, yet not be hit herself.
The witch soldier glowers but does not speak. It makes him all the more menacing. His sole intention is to skewer Willa with the tip of the halberd and slice Philby’s head off his shoulders.
The tingling in Willa’s limbs confirms her worst fears: she can’t trust that she’s all clear. Philby’s blue outline pulses from bright to dim, suggesting that he’s faring the same way.
The soldier doesn’t move away from the vault. The halberd sweeps side to side, aimed at Willa, then Philby. Even if they charge him simultaneously, one of them is sure to fall. Philby shakes his head. Willa eye-signals the interior wall, which produces a moment of confusion in him, but then she watches his blue outline strengthen. She’s directing him away from the confrontation, allowing him to regain all clear.
Willa makes her first big mistake as a sliver of Charlene’s face oozes through a wooden door to the soldier’s left. It looks as if the door grows a pretty girl’s eyes. Charlene disappears as quickly as she revealed herself, but Willa’s distraction alerts the witch soldier, who glances in that direction.
As the soldier turns his head, Philby runs for the wall. The witch soldier spins and hurls the halberd like a javelin. He catches Philby in the shoulder, spinning him. Already halfway through the wall, Philby loses all clear and screams horrifically, his shoulder pierced, a solid wall running the length of him. It feels like he’s been severed in half.
Willa experiences his agony as her own. He’s more than a friend; he matters to her. She can’t stop her feet from running to him; she pays no attention to the witch soldier’s simultaneous advance. The soldier hooks her throat in the crook of his elbow and, lifting her, throws Willa against the outer wall. She slams and falls, breaking the glass of a display case.
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