When he opened his eyes, Finn found himself sitting on the pavers of the Hub—the central square—in front of Cinderella Castle. He looked up at the statue of Walt Disney and Mickey Mouse holding hands and heard the incredibly faint hum, like the sound of an irritated insect, that confirmed he wasn’t dreaming. He’d crossed over as a hologram.
He studied his hands and looked down at his legs, admiring the radical improvements of DHI 2.0. It was like going from standard television to high-def. In its first iteration, the hologram-projecting software had created a blue outline around the edges. Now his full hologram barely even glowed in the dark, and there was no blue line whatsoever. Despite a few bugs that had yet to be worked out, he could see all the advantages the upgrade gave him and the others when battling the Overtakers.
He pulled himself to his feet, feeling the effect of his fatigue, wondering how he would make it through the day of school that would start in a matter of hours. With the ongoing battle at the Base, sleep had been an afterthought the past few weeks.
He kept in a crouch, wary of prying eyes, like a spy sneaking behind enemy lines. While many of the park characters sided with the Keepers, a significant number had joined the Overtakers in wanting to seize control of the parks and install black magic. Inconveniently, those characters aligning with the OTs typically possessed powers bestowed upon them by their creator, Walt Disney: magic, the ability to cast spells or to transfigure themselves. Some possessed a raw physical power that far exceeded that of humans—especially humans in the form of holograms. Disney had created not just memorable villains, but dangerous ones. It wasn’t only Finn’s hologram at risk, but his sleeping self back in his bed. He remained alert.
He had no desire to enter into what he and the Keepers called the Siege. It wasn’t his night for defending the Engineering Base at Disney’s Hollywood Studios—the ongoing siege by the OTs that had been in place for two weeks. More important, no arrangements had been made for backup. He’d notified none of the other Keepers—except for Philby, whom he needed to return—that he was coming here.
He had no idea where any characters that supported the Keepers might be: Minnie, Pluto, Goofy, or Ariel, among others. There was no time to seek them out. If they found him, they found him. The parks at night were a kind of no-man’s-land, filled with risk. At any location, at any attraction, at any time, an Overtaker could appear. He moved ahead cautiously, well aware that as a leader of the Keepers he would be a big prize if captured.
He didn’t love the idea of walking down Main Street, U.S.A., but it was the only way to reach the Engine Co. 71 firehouse. He started out at a cautious walk, but once onto the sidewalk, took off at a run. He hated to admit it, but sometimes not seeing or hearing anyone at all in a park at night was worse than being chased.
At the corner by the Emporium, he crouched and carefully studied every view in every direction, not wanting to lead any OTs to the apartment over the firehouse. Never mind that the old man who lived there, and had done so for decades without Finn’s help, had not been seen there in well over a year. Finn did not want to be the one who accidentally sabotaged him. Finn had no idea how the man would contact him, only that he would—the way he’d secretly contacted him several times in the past few months.
The man had taught Finn everything there was to know about being a Kingdom Keeper, about being a leader. Finn wasn’t about to question him now. He had faith that the man somehow knew Finn had crossed over, that the man would find him when it was safe to do so.
A few minutes later, when he heard the hiss from the Walt Disney World Railroad locomotive, he knew. The train had no business running in the wee hours of the night. Or if it did, it was Finn’s business. Keepers’ business. He took off at a run.
As Finn reached the top of the stairs at the station platform, the train was already moving. Finn jumped aboard and looked forward and back: empty. The only person was the engineer, seen from the back on the front side of the coal-car—the tender that carried wood or coal for the steam engine. After traveling a hundred yards or so, the train was up to speed, moving at a good pace. When Finn looked next, the engineer was gone, the locomotive driverless. Then a head popped up out of the coal-car, and the engineer struggled to throw a leg over the wall and climb down into the passenger cars. He moved through the first two cars and was wearing a smile by the time he faced Finn.
Wayne Kresky had reached that age where he no longer seemed to grow older. He looked perfect in the train engineer’s garb: the overalls suited him, as did the dungaree cap that held down his wispy white hair. His translucent blue eyes twinkled with mischief. Finn and the other Keepers had recently discussed the man’s invincibility (he was at the top of the Overtakers’ most-wanted list), his longevity (he had to be ancient), how without him the Keepers would not exist in the first place, and how, if they ever lost him, maybe they would be lost, too.
Wayne was not one for small talk. He could be difficult to understand at times, but that was because he talked in circles or made Finn work to understand a point he was trying to make. It seemed he was always testing Finn, always pushing him and all the Keepers as if time were running out—not just to defeat the Overtakers, but because of something bigger. What that was, or could be, the Keepers had yet to figure out.
“You’re not on duty tonight,” Wayne said, referencing the Keepers’ service in defending the Engineering Base from the Siege.
“Maybeck and Charlene. Why, have you heard something?” Finn asked anxiously.
“No. It’s the same. They attack at random, seemingly trying to draw us out in order to isolate us and pick us off. To reduce our numbers.”
The Engineering Base was the electronic nerve center for all the parks. To control the Base was to control the parks: the electricity, pavilion temperatures, security video. The Overtakers were smart to go after it. Wayne had enlisted Cast Members, had called upon characters, and had recruited volunteers to act in its defense. He served as the general in charge.
The battles had been raging. The Keepers served in pairs, from midnight to four, when a dark blue seeped into the black horizon, signaling the impending sunrise and the Overtakers’ retreat. The skirmishes could be exhausting and, occasionally, life-threatening. School had become a roller coaster of exhaustion and alertness, depending on the day. If the Siege kept up much longer it was going to affect all the Keepers’ grades.
Finn raised his voice to be heard over the din of the train. “You might want to tell your friends about a possible bug in 2.0. I did a location jump.”
“Explain that, please.”
“I moved from the library to…I don’t know, a factory rooftop. But it was a time shift. A bug. The two places weren’t connected. It was a jump of some kind.”
Wayne had a pen out and was taking notes. “A jump.”
“I don’t know how else to explain it.”
“I’ll tell them.”
Finn waited a moment, enjoying the clackety-clack of the train, and then said apologetically, “They got whatever they were after at the library. Willa and I tried…bad luck is all.”
“We know a little bit about what they got,” Wayne said. It was weird: he didn’t seem to be speaking any louder than usual, yet Finn had no trouble hearing him. He attributed this to 2.0 and the software’s enhanced visual, audio, and tactile functions. “It was an Imagineering journal from 1940.”
Disney Imagineers—who combined skills of imagination and engineering—were something like magicians: they took Walt’s dreams and turned them into attractions and rides, parks and experiences. They had invented Disneyland. Disney World.
“I thought the Imagineers weren’t formed until the 1950s.”
“You’ve been studying.”
Finn shrugged.
“Correct. Officially formed in 1952. But ahead of that, in the early, early planning stages to make Walt’s dream a reality, he had his trusted advisers. They all kept notebooks and journals. Sometimes documenting meetings, sometimes W
alt’s visions, or just to sketch out ideas and concepts. The journals are among the most treasured documents, most important documents, in the Disney archives.”
“Why would Maleficent go after that particular journal?” Finn asked.
“We don’t know. We’re checking how much we have. All the journals are in the process of being scanned and stored in case of damage. We’re not sure about the one they got. Maybe we’ll figure it out, maybe we won’t. Each journal can be specific to a project or cover dozens of ideas, some that came to fruition, some that did not. We may never know exactly what’s in that particular journal.”
“Until it’s too late, you mean,” Finn said. The Overtakers were led by Maleficent, a highly intelligent and well-organized fairy. If they’d stolen a particular Disney journal from seventy years earlier, there was a good reason for it, and Finn and Wayne both knew it.
“We believe the journal contained preliminary story ideas for both Pinocchio and Fantasia.”
“Meaning?”
“As you know, the film Pinocchio tells a story about a boy who must prove himself brave, truthful, and unselfish.”
“And his nose.”
“The book is a little more complicated than that. Like the movie, it has the Blue Fairy, but Pinocchio’s journey is more difficult and his fate far darker. It could be said of you—the Keepers—that you are not unlike the wooden boy. You, too, are proving yourselves brave, truthful, and unselfish. You also exist in two worlds—Pinocchio’s wooden world is like your electronic world.”
“But why would Pinocchio’s story matter to the OTs?” Finn asked.
“If they are searching for a way to be rid of you, the early stories could be of great value.”
“You mean like research?”
“Exactly.”
The train continued on its track, circling the Magic Kingdom. Wayne paid the train no attention whatsoever, though Finn continually looked in the direction of the locomotive, feeling ill at ease with no one at the controls.
“When you said Pinocchio had a darker fate, what did you mean?” Finn asked.
“You’re capable of reading, last time I checked,” Wayne said. “So read the story. You’ll see. We don’t need to waste our time with that.”
Finn hated it when Wayne treated him like a kid. He stifled his rising anger. Why should he go to the bother to read an entire book when Wayne could answer a couple of key questions? “Give me the 411,” he felt like saying.
Why’s he lost interest in me? Finn wondered. Because Philby is picking up the enhancements in 2.0 faster than me? Give me a chance!
“So what about Fantasia?”
“As to that—” Wayne said. But he was immediately cut off as two animals leaped onto the moving train. They were just blurs, but Finn reacted instantly by jumping to his feet and putting himself between Wayne and whatever now occupied the car behind them.
“You saw that, yeah?”
“Yes,” Wayne said, also standing. He reached out to stabilize himself against the train’s movements.
A fox poked its head up over a bench. The thing was so cute it was hard to take it as any kind of threat. But Finn had learned to trust nothing.
Next, a cat appeared, bounding from one seat to the next, its fur tousled by the wind as it moved toward them.
The fox’s eyes flashed golden.
“I must warn you,” Wayne said, “as adorable as these creatures may be—”
“I know,” Finn said.
“The fox could do some real harm.”
“To you,” Finn said. “Not to me. With me, he only gets a bite of light.”
“Unless he challenges your fear level.”
“Version 2.0 changes all that,” Finn said confidently.
The fox bared its teeth and hopped up over the bench seat, now a bench closer to the two.
The cat continued toward them along the far edge of the train car.
“How do you want to handle this?” Finn asked.
“You’re the leader.”
“Not with you around.”
“Yes you are, Finn. Now and always.”
“What about Philby?” he blurted out. He caught sight of the older man’s troubled eyes, as if Finn knew something he shouldn’t. That’s what I thought. The moment passed.
“Do you know these animals?” Finn asked.
“Well, no. Not by name. But seeing as how we were discussing Pinocchio…”
“Yeah?”
“It is a fox and a cat that lead the wooden boy astray.”
“Seriously? Oh, perfect. So they’re after me?”
“I would doubt they’ll discriminate.”
“Okay, you take the cat,” Finn said, finally having a plan. He liked cats; he couldn’t see trying to hurt one.
“And the fox?”
“Is all mine,” Finn said.
“He’ll go for me,” Wayne said. “The elderly have many more complications with rabies treatment. The fox can bite as strongly as a dog and is probably twice as quick.”
“This is not cheering me up,” Finn said.
“Nor is it intended to. His instincts will dictate he go for either the throat or the Achilles.”
“Yeah, well, I won’t let him get that close to you.”
“I’m not talking about my throat, Finn.”
Finn swallowed hard; 2.0, he reminded himself, knowing it hadn’t been put to this kind of test. So, he thought, we have a fox, a cat, and a guinea pig.
The cat stretched and looked in the direction of the fox. It seemed just for a moment as if they’d communicated. Wayne was a good five feet from the path of the cat. Finn wanted to remind him about their assignments, but he kept quiet.
The fox launched himself at Finn. Wayne lunged for the cat.
Finn extended both arms and almost knocked the flying fox off the train. The animal squealed—a sound that cut Finn to his core—then rolled and slammed onto the floor.
Wayne miscalculated. By moving to intercept the cat, the feral creature put the move on him, feinting to the inside and slipping easily between Finn and Wayne. Finn caught this out of the corner of his eye, but his concentration remained on the fox. It came to all fours, reared back, and bared its teeth. Its eyes filled with golden light and it growled viciously, raising the hair on Finn’s arms.
It pounced.
Finn caught it just beneath its front legs as the force pushed him back onto the bench. The fox snapped for Finn’s throat, spraying drool. The guttural sounds it emitted turned Finn’s stomach—it meant to kill him. Another snap for his throat. And yet another. This time, it bit through the hologram. Without 2.0 it would have torn through Finn’s flesh.
Wayne backed away, afraid of both animals. Finn had never seen him like this.
Finn hollered, “The cat!”
He threw the fox hard and high. It flew through the air and landed in the next car back. The moment it landed it charged again, coming at Finn like an airborne missile.
In that briefest of instants, Finn had gotten a look forward: the cat was streaking toward the locomotive. “The cat!” he said again, sensing the trouble before it happened.
Wayne climbed awkwardly over the seat, slow and uncoordinated. The fox landed on Finn, its glaring teeth leading the way. The creature was small in his hands, but unruly, strong, and slippery as a snake. It scratched with its feet and snapped its jaws. Finn reacted instinctively to avoid the teeth, hoisting it high overhead. He smashed it onto the floor of the train car. It let out a sickening cry. Finn felt consumed with guilt; he never hurt animals! But he thought back to the monkeys and ravens in Animal Kingdom, the orangutans bearing down on him—sometimes there was no choice but to fight back.
The fox whimpered and skittered off under the bench. Finn’s guilt got the better of him, freezing him. Then the creature tried to lock its jaws onto his heel, snapping nothing but light. Finn screamed, thinking he’d been bitten, then kicked out and connected with the fox.
A shudder passed
through his legs. Had the fox managed to bite him? No; the sensation was flooding up both legs—the train was gaining speed. One glance confirmed this: a pair of cat ears stuck up from the locomotive’s controls. The cat was running the train.
Wayne had crawled into the coal-car.
The train roared ahead faster.
Working as a team, the fox had been a distraction. The real threat was the cat at the controls. The train cars rocked side to side; the speed increased.
Finn snatched the fox by the neck, whirled around, and let go. It flew off into the woods as the train sped ahead.
Finn grinned. But then: a brown blur between the jungle and the last train car. The fox had jumped back on.
It raised its tiny head, eyes glowing, and, leaping from one bench to the next, raced forward.
The train was moving at top speed, making it hard to stand. Each time Wayne attempted to get to his feet he was thrown to the opposite side of the coal-car and fell again.
The train’s wheels lifted off the track. As it passed Space Mountain, it leaned to the outside. Metal twisted and cried out. Finn felt weightless as the inside wheels lifted off the rail and the train car briefly balanced on its outside wheels. It held there—suspended halfway between rolling over and derailing or returning to the track.
Finn turned toward Wayne, offering his back to the approaching fox. Wayne was planted against the coal-car’s wall, his eyes bugged out, frozen in terror. Finn clambered over the benches, taking them like a hurdler.
As he reached the coal-car, he looked down and knew what had to be done.
He slipped between the coal-car and the first passenger car, the train still balanced precariously on only its outside wheels. The fox, teeth dripping drool, deftly jumped from one bench to the next.
Finn reached down and worked the heavy iron clamp that joined the two train cars together. With one look he understood how the mechanism worked. He pulled a piece of the clamp with all his strength. The tilting train shrieked.
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