Of course, it wouldn’t be a fun house without those curvy mirrors that distort your reflection. I sat down on a folding chair to massage my aching toe, while Zac gazed at his deformed mirror image. He positioned himself to make his body appear squashed, like a crushed beer can.
“Look at me,” said Zac, “The eighth dwarf.”
I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Excuse me, please,” said a nerdy-looking boy with glasses. “May I borrow your chair?”
“Of course,” I said, standing up.
“Thank you.”
The courteous boy folded the chair, raised it over his head, and without hesitation, flung it at the mirror Zac was peering into.
Crash!
Zac dropped to his knees to avoid getting hit by flying glass.
The boy with the good manners then casually walked off, displaying a fiendish grin of delight.
Zac brushed himself off. “Another dream come true, I suppose.”
Most people think of a dream as a cherished desire—a longing for a happily ever after, but the Fun Zone did not discriminate between pleasant dreams and wicked ones. These kids had come to the Fun Zone to live their fantasies, and their wishes were being fulfilled, no matter how destructive they might be.
Everywhere I looked something was being wrecked. A gang tipped a photo booth over onto its back, with someone still inside. A player-piano splintered into pieces from a mighty shove off the second floor. Carpet was torn up. Windows were smashed. Graffiti covered the walls. I looked for some security guards to put a stop to the vandalism, but there were none.
“This really is a crazy house,” I said.
“No crazier than we are for being in it,” said Zac. “I think we’ve seen enough.”
We pushed through the exit door on the upper level, onto an outdoor balcony. I was relieved to get away from that chaotic mess, but looking out over the park revealed the real madness yet to come.
The Fun Zone was under siege by thousands of unruly teenagers, destroying property and hassling other guests. I watched in horror as a gang viciously assaulted an old man in a wheel chair. As they tipped him over, the man’s head split open on the concrete like a watermelon. Thankfully, the victim was only a robot!
“Well, what do we try next?” asked Zac.
“I wish I knew,” I said.
“What about your Jimmie? Maybe it can give us some direction.”
“Jimmie,” I said, to my internal device, “show me where Nell is.”
“You’ve got a lotta nerve,” it said bluntly, “asking me for help with something that’s none of your business.”
“What’s with the attitude? Why are you suddenly turning on me like this?”
“You shouldn’t have come here. You’re fighting forces you have no hope of defeating.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Now, are you going to help me or not?”
“Not!”
“Fine! Be that way, but that won’t stop my search for Nell.”
“Then you’re a damn fool! Quit now and go home, before you make the list of missing teenagers.”
Zac stared at me wide-eyed. “Well, what did it say?”
“It said, losers shouldn’t ask for favors.”
The only way back to ground level was by sliding down a spiraling tube. I slid down to the 1st floor, jumping away from the tube as I reached the bottom. Zac came right after me, but he didn’t jump clear as his feet hit the ground.
“Move out of the way,” I said, “if you don’t want the next guy to crash into you.”
Zac stepped off to one side, but no one else came down the chute.
Through a shattered window, Zac and I peered inside the Crazy House. The capacity crowd had dwindle to only a few dozen people.
“Where’d they all go?” asked Zac.
“There must be another exit,” I said, “or, they’ve gone someplace only Stephen Hawking would know about.”
The cries of the sideshow barkers drew us to the Midway. Fun Zone guests were called over to try their luck at the game booths. Tune a TV to your most hated program, then smash the screen with 3 pitched balls. Throw darts at inflated balloons of celebrities, with equally inflated egos. For entertainment, the Punch and Dismemberment puppet show offered carefree fun, while glorifying violence.
But not all of the wishes being granted were meanspirited ones. Across the drawbridge of a fairytale castle rolled a crystal coach, pulled by white horses. Inside rode a pretty girl, dressed and primped to looked like a royal princess. She waved to her loyal subjects to the blare of palace trumpeters. If only she had seen the boys under the bridge holding fistfuls of mud from the moat!
As Zac and I drank in the bizarre sights, we kept our eyes peeled for any sign of our missing companions.
“We’re not doing so well, are we?” said Zac.
“The night is young,” I said. “What do ya say we grab a bite?”
Hotdogs were being served from a nearby food cart. Frankfurters had been a park-goer’s favorite for more than a century. I felt that we should continue the tradition, but this vendor’s menu was distinctly nontraditional:
Hotdogs without mustard.
Hotdogs without ketchup.
Hotdogs without onions.
Curiously, a long line had formed to try out the vendor’s bland offering. Just for fun, I asked the vendor a silly question:
“Do you have hotdogs without relish?” I asked.
“Sorry, lady,” he said, “we don’t serve that here.”
Collodi’s read the neon sign above the Italian restaurant. Zac and I went inside and immediately ducked our heads to avoid being struck by a flying dinner plate. The disorderly patrons gleefully smashed dishes and glassware, and no one did anything to stop them. The corner table seemed relatively safe. We sat down, keeping a watchful eye out for any more airborne dinnerware.
It was a quaint eatery, with bread sticks on checkered tablecloths, and grape vines hanging from wooden lattices. Accordion music filled the room with the charm of old Italy.
“Welcome to Collodi’s,” said our portly, Italian server. “What can I a-getta for you this evening?”
“Can we see a menu, please,” I asked.
“But of course.”
The server bowed to us, unfazed by the flying fork that stuck like an arrow into the wall behind him. He handed Zac and me poster-sized menus, which was weird because it only showed one item:
Spaghetti without meatballs.
“Is this all you have?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am. A bed of pasta covered in rich, meaty tomato sauce, with our classic blend of tomatoes, basil, and oregano, served with a side of garlic toast.”
“Is it good?”
The stout server let out a belly laugh. “It must be. Everybody who comes in a-here orders it.”
“What if someone wants something different? You should think about adding more items to your menu.”
“What?” he said indignantly. “And insult our customers? We only serve a-what our guests want.”
“But—”
Zac abruptly interrupted us.
“Two spaghettis without meatballs will be fine,” he said.
“Good a-choice,” said the server. Then he took our menus and left.
“What did you do that for?” I said. “I was trying to tell him what a mistake it is not to offer more variety.”
“But, it’s not a mistake,” said Zac. “It’s an old salesman’s trick. Limit the choices, and you’ll be forced to take what the seller wants you to have. Why do you think movies, music, and books all look and sound the same? How well something sold yesterday determines what gets offered tomorrow. It’s a gimmick that’s been around for centuries. People stricken with Manipulitis are especially vulnerable to it.”
“You know about the M-word?”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
Just then our server returned.
“I’m a-so sorry, we’re all out of meatballs. May I suggest sp
aghetti without sausages?”
Zac quickly stood up. “That’s alright. Maybe some other time.” He grabbed my arm and yanked me out of my chair. “Time to leave Wonderland now, Alice.”
Zac rushed me through the dining room.
“What’s the hurry?” I said.
“Take a look around. This restaurant is becoming a business without customers.”
Zac was right. Steaming plates of spaghetti cooled in front of empty chairs. Waiters had stopped taking orders. In the short time we had been there, half the room had emptied.
No one paid much attention to us as we maneuvered around the tables. But when we reached the front door, a beep sounded. A light above the doorway turned green as I passed under it, then glowed red for Zac!
A wailing alarm sounded.
“Uh, oh!” said Zac. “Busted! They know I don’t have a Jimmie.”
Our server poked his head out through the kitchen door a looked at us.
“Jimmie!” he yelled. “Code red. Security breach! Security breach!”
Zac grabbed my hand.
“Run!”
Chapter 11
Donkey
We were on the run. Zac and I charged out of the restaurant onto the boardwalk, blending in with the crowd as best we could.
Distancing ourselves from that place was our first objective. The wood planks under our feet soon turned to straw, as we entered Scream Town, home to carnival rides like the Tilt-a-Whirl, the Rock-o-Plane, and the Octopus.
“Keep your eyes open,” said Zac. “Security could be anywhere.”
“Why bother?” I said. “It’s only a matter of time before they find you through my Jimmie-cam. Maybe we should split up.”
Then I heard a noise behind me:
“Psst!”
I turned around and saw the Spook House. I thought maybe someone in line was calling me, but their heads all faced the ride.
Then I heard it again:
“Psst!”
The ride’s operator waved me over to him.
“Come here, quick!” he said, in a loud whisper.
The man was appropriately dressed as the Grim Reaper, wearing a black robe with a pointed hood and carrying a scythe.
I grabbed Zac’s arm and hurried toward the ride.
“Where are you taking me?” he asked.
“To a really good hiding place,” I said.
Spooky rides were a staple of the old amusement parks. Riders boarded a skull-shaped car. A black velvet curtain parted, sending the fright-seekers along a winding track into little more than a darkened room. They weren’t very frightening by today’s standards, but were no doubt spine-tingling in their day.
“What’s inside there?” asked Zac.
“Probably not much,” I said. “A dark room with a few mechanical skeletons and some spooky sound effects.”
“Is it scary?”
“Not unless you’re afraid of the dark.”
The hooded ride operator motioned us to the empty car parked at his feet. Zac and I climbed in, allowing me a close-up look at our spooky friend. His eyes were hidden behind sun glasses, an odd accessory to be wearing in the middle of the night.
“Why did you call us over here?” I asked the man.
“Quiet!” he demanded. “I’ll see you inside.” Then he lowered the safety bar onto our laps. The motor under us hummed, and off we went.
Moans of the undead poured out over distorted speakers as we were plunged into darkness. Rubber bats on strings glowed under a black light. Dummy ghouls feasting on body parts lined the route. Every now and then a red devil would jump out and try to poke us with his pitch fork.
“This isn’t so scary,” said Zac.
We watched the car up ahead of us as it passed through a curtain of smoke, that billowed up from the floor. To our horror, when it emerged from the black cloud, the car was empty!
Zac tapped my elbow. “Okay, now I’m scared!”
“I’m with you on that,” I said. “Let’s get outta here!”
We both pulled up on the lap bar, but it was locked down tight. I tried to squirm out from under it, but I was hopelessly pinned to the seat.
We continued toward the ominous smoke screen at a steady pace.
“When we get in there,” I said, “hold your breath.”
“What good will that do?”
“You got a better plan?”
With only seconds to spare, the car stopped.
A recorded voice came over the sound system: “Please remain seated while we clear the tracks of some grumpy ghosts. Your ‘scare trek’ will resume momentarily.”
I heard coughing from the other side of the smoke, and saw a pair of hands waving it away.
It was our ghoulish ride operator.
“Nasty effect,” he said, flailing at the smoke. “Probably full of carcinogens.”
He turned a large valve on a thick pipe, cutting off the smoke, then opened a door to the outside. With his back against the wall, he cautiously looked out into the night, glancing all around, like a fugitive from justice. Then he fanned the rest of the smoke out the door—all of this while still wearing his sun glasses.
“Isn’t it hard to see through those shades?” I asked him.
“I’m wearing them for your own protection,” he said. “Jimmies can’t see in the dark, and night vision won’t be available until Jimmie 7. Monstro will see you through my Jimmie-cam without them.”
Then, for no apparent reason, the man jumped up, like a ghost had just tapped him on the shoulder.
“What was that?”
A harmless moth had flown in through the open door and was fluttering over his head. He swished away the pesky insect and slammed the door shut.
I asked, “Those kids in the car in front of us, where did they go?”
“To a place no one knows anything about,” said our jittery host.
Then he leaned into us. “Listen to me! You need to leave the Fun Zone before that happens to you.”
“I don’t understand. Why are you telling us this?”
“Because I know why you’re here.”
He reached into his robe and brought out two souvenir photos from the Log ride. Riders are photographed as they plunge down a steep, watery flume. The faces of Nell and Fred were in each of them, their hands in the air and smiling.
“These are the people we’re looking for!” I cried. “Where are they?”
“In that unknown place I told you about. Your friends went down the flume, but vanished before they reached the bottom. I’m sorry, Amy.”
“How do you know my name?”
“Miss Jeffries, your science teacher. She belongs to a secret organization established to expose the truth about Manipulitis. She’s in hiding, but she knows of your quest.”
“Is she alright?”
“She’s fine, but I don’t think she’ll ever teach again.”
“Poor lady. Teaching was her dream job. Why do some dreams have to get shattered?”
“There are two kinds of dreams, Amy. One wishes good will for others. Then there’s the selfish dream, the one that begins with, ‘I want . . .’ Every teenager dreamed of getting a Jimmie. Well, they got what they wanted. Now it’s all this. As far as I’m concerned, they had it coming. Take what you want, get what you deserve.”
A rubber bat fell off its string and hit the floor with a thud. The man jumped again.
“What was that?”
“Calm down,” I said. “Why are you so jumpy?”
“Like your teacher, I also advocate spreading the word about Manipulitis. But speaking out is risky business. Most who do are never heard from again. I don’t want to be the next victim.”
“But why—”
“I’ve said too much already.”
He reached for a button on the wall. The motor under our car began to hum.
“You might as well know,” said the Reaper. “Not a single missing teenager has ever been found.”
“That may be,”
I said, “but I’m going to keep looking for my friends.”
Our skull car began to move.
“Then I wish you Godspeed, Amy,” he said. “But stay sharp. The Fun Zone will take you without warning, anywhere at anytime. I can only offer you this piece of advice: Beware the donkey!”
We picked up speed. “What do you mean?” I shouted back to him.
The Grim Reaper’s voice trailed off into the distance.
“Beware the donkey!”
Zac and I slouched down on a park bench, hiding our faces behind foldout guide maps. The bench faced a merry-go-round that was packed with kids. They rode on fanciful animals—striped elephants, polka dot zebras, and paisley ponies, to mention a few.
“I think it’s time we switch to plan-B,” I told Zac, knowing full well we had no backup plan. “All I know is that plan-A isn’t working.”
“Be quiet,” said Zac, peeking over the top of his map. “I’m watching something.” He pointed to the merry-go-round. “See that girl riding the pink animal?”
“Yeah. So?”
“Watch!”
The girl went around and around, waving to park guests with each revolution. I counted the number of times she went past us, two—three—four. Then on the fifth pass, she was gone! The pink animal had no rider.
“That’s happened to at least two others,” said Zac.
“Maybe she jumped off in the back, where we couldn’t see her,” I said.
“You think so? Look at that animal she was on.”
My jaw dropped. “It’s a donkey!”
“The Grim Reaper’s donkey. It must be. He told us to keep clear of it because he knew it was a portal to the other side.”
Zac put down his map and stood up.
“Where do you think you’re going?” I said.
“To ride the pink donkey.”
“You can’t!”
“There’s no other way. We’re never going to find Nell if we stay out here. Wherever she is, that donkey will take us to her.”
“Then I’m the one who should do it. As soon as the ride stops, I’ll—”
But before I could finish, Zac had already leaped onto the revolving platform, and mounted the donkey to another world.
I counted each revolution, one—two. My heart pounded with each pass, but every time the donkey came into view, Zac was still on it. He went around several more times, three—four—five. He shrugged his shoulders at me each time he came into view.
The Age of Amy: Behind the Fun Zone Page 9