Belly Up

by Stuart Gibbs

  “Do you know anything about the investigation into the tiger’s escape?” Mom asked.

  Summer stopped outside a nondescript door. It was marked only with a room number—333—and another security keypad. “Not much. Daddy and Buck are playing this pretty close to the chest. . . . Although I do know Buck thinks the ALF has an inside man at the park.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  “How else could they get the ladder into the tiger pit before the party?” Summer checked her watch, then made a worried gasp. “I’ve really gotta motor,” she said, then typed her security code on the keypad. The door clicked open. “Let me know what you find,” she told us, then bolted down the hall before we could ask another question.

  Once again, the brevity of our encounter made me feel as though Summer was hiding something. Before, when I’d spent time with Summer, I’d always enjoyed every minute. But now I felt irritated.

  I wasn’t doing a good job of hiding my feelings, because Mom put a hand on my shoulder and asked, “Is something wrong?”

  I couldn’t bring myself to admit the truth; the feelings I had embarrassed me. So instead, I said, “I just wish we had some more time with her. I wanted to ask her what evidence Buck has against the ALF.”

  “Why?” Dad asked. “It wouldn’t matter.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “I’m sure Summer only knows what Buck and J.J. want her to know,” Dad said. “And that might not necessarily be the truth.”

  We entered room 333. It was a long room with a bank of windows looking out over the entrance to the park. Beyond the front gates, we could see the sea of mourners who had gathered for Henry’s funeral.

  “You don’t think anything we’ve been told about the ALF is true?” I asked.

  “Frankly, I don’t trust J.J. McCracken one bit,” Dad replied.

  I thought about asking him if he trusted Summer, but for some reason, I didn’t. Maybe I was afraid of hearing his answer.

  At both ends of the room, the walls were filled with banks of very thin drawers, each only about three inches tall, but four feet wide. In the middle of the room was an extremely long conference table. Past the far end of the table was a huge glass box atop a large pedestal. Inside the box was a model of something.

  We all headed over to it. On the way, I glanced out the window. I could see Summer three stories below, sprinting back toward the funeral, moving surprisingly fast for a girl in dress shoes.

  The model in the box was FunJungle.

  Well, it was sort of FunJungle. FunJungle with changes. They were so dramatic, I instantly forgot all about Summer.

  The most obvious difference between the model and the real FunJungle was the tower. It was the tallest structure in the park by far, jutting several inches higher than anything else. And, in case people might not notice a giant tower in the middle of the Texas plains, it had been painted a glaring maraschino cherry red. It was obviously a lookout tower, an uglier version of the Eiffel Tower, with a big flat disc jammed on the top like a crashed flying saucer.

  “What do you think that is?” I asked.

  “Probably a rotating restaurant,” Mom answered flatly, as though she didn’t approve. “Ever hear anyone mention a big tower that’s supposed to be built in the park?”

  Dad shook his head. “What’s in this spot now? A picnic area, right?”

  “There’s picnic tables, yes,” Mom replied. “They still call it a viewpoint, although it’s maybe ten feet higher than any other spot in the park. It’s got one of those idiotic African names the PR department made up. Mooboodooboo Mountain or something.”

  “So they still might be planning on building this, then,” Dad said. “That’s right in the middle of the park. If they were going to put an animal exhibit there, they would have done it already.”

  I noticed something on the far side of the model. “Mom. Dad. Look at this.”

  I was looking at SafariLand. Right alongside the monorail, a new track had been added. Only, this track was twisted, with loops and plunges in it.

  “Oh, no . . .” Mom gasped.

  It was a roller coaster. One of the new steel kinds that had only a few giant posts to support the winding track. It went right through the safari area. Some thoughtful designer had even put a herd of toy gazelles grazing under the corkscrew loop.

  We quickly scanned the model, looking for other discrepancies between it and the real FunJungle. There was a river rafting ride near Carnivore Canyon, a smaller coaster in the children’s zoo, a log flume by the Swamp—and boats in Hippo River.

  I couldn’t believe what I was seeing—and when I looked at Mom and Dad, they seemed to be feeling the same sense of shock.

  “This is disgusting,” Dad said.

  “It’s worse than disgusting,” Mom replied. “It’s evil . How could they . . . ?”

  “Maybe they’re not really going to build them,” I said hopefully. “Maybe they’ve changed their minds about all this.”

  “The fact that they’ve even thought about it is bad enough,” Mom snorted.

  Dad headed toward the closest wall of thin drawers. “Let’s see how serious they are,” he said.

  Mom and I joined him. We all yanked open drawers.

  Inside, laid out flat, were blueprints. Mine, at the bottom right corner of the wall, were for the zebra paddock.

  Dad was at the other side of the wall. “I’ve got the aardvark pen,” he said. “What do you have, Teddy?”

  “Zebras.”

  “Must be organized alphabetically,” Mom said. She went to where she guessed the H’s would be. It only took her two tries to find what she wanted. “Here we go. Hippo River.”

  There were a lot of blueprints, as though the exhibit had been redesigned several times. Mom pulled them all out and spread them on the conference table.

  Some showed Hippo River as I knew it, detailing the design of the enclosures, the thickness of the glass walls, or the specifications for the pumps that controlled the water filtration. On one, some of the problems had been noted in red ink. Several circles were drawn around the backwater where Henry had so often chosen to relieve himself, above which someone had written “How do we get rid of this???”

  Other plans had a very different representation of the river. The overall structure was the same, but what was going on around it had changed dramatically. It was all summed up by a cheerful artist’s rendition of what the Hippo River Water Safari should look like. Several gaily-colored tour boats motored through the paddocks, filled with joyful tourist families who gasped in amazement as friendly hippos swam around them. In the background was the boarding station, where a throng of tourists seemed only too happy to stand in line for this incredible adventure.

  The picture was ridiculously unrealistic. In the first place, the crowd didn’t look like any group of tourists I’d ever seen in FunJungle. No one in line was shoving or sweating. All of the children were behaving like angels. None of the boat passengers appeared the slightest bit worried by the two-ton creatures surfacing right next to them. Everyone seemed to have stepped right out of a Norman Rockwell painting. An accurate representation of FunJungle guests would have shown one of the children trying to feed cotton candy to the hippo—and several adults tossing garbage in the river.

  Far more inaccurate were the hippos themselves, peeking from the water, mouths wide open, almost smiling, like it was wonderful fun to watch boats churn by all day long. In Africa, the only time a hippo emerged from the water with its mouth open was when it was attacking. Usually they lurked right beneath the surface, their beady little eyes poking out above the water, watching the world in an unsettling way. There was no way any self-respecting hippo would allow a constant parade of boats to motor through its home. I couldn’t imagine what the ride’s designers thought the hippos would do, but hippos in Africa were well known for attacking boats, often flipping them or knocking holes in the bottom. And now, J.J. McCracken was hoping to take tourists by the
thousands right through their territory.

  “They can’t really be thinking of doing this,” Mom said, although she sounded like she was trying to convince herself. “These have to be old plans. Surely, someone had to have the sense to point out what a disaster this would be.”

  “I don’t think so,” Dad said sadly. “They must still think this is possible. That’s what the metal groove is for.”

  He placed another set of blueprints on the table. These showed how the boat system would work. The boats didn’t have motors. They were pulled along a track. A thick wire led from the bow of each to a chain tucked in the metal groove—the chain I’d felt when I’d been looking for the murder weapon. As it moved through the groove, it tugged the boats along.

  “They want to run machinery through an exhibit with live animals?” Mom gasped. “How long do you think it’ll be before a hippo ends up caught in the wires? A day? This has to be the worst idea in theme park history.”

  “Not quite.” Dad slapped another set of plans on the table. “This is worse.”

  These were for the rafting ride, which was to be set inside the Asia Plains. The artist’s representation showed another group of irrepressibly happy people strapped into eight seats on a huge circular raft—sort of an inner tube designed for public transportation—which careened down an artificial river. Although the water was stained Ty-D-Bowl blue, several dozen antelope contentedly drank from it, ignoring the constant parade of tourists. A small herd of elephants joyfully sprayed the boats with their trunks, unfazed by the deadly crocodiles sunning themselves nearby.

  “Maybe they’re fake,” I said hopefully. “Like robots.”

  “There’s no robots in the blueprints,” Mom said. “I can’t believe this. They expect the animals to drink this water? Do you know how many chemicals they use on a ride like this?”

  “It won’t work, will it?” I asked.

  “Not the way they expect it to, no. But after a few animals die, they’ll probably find a way. They’ll put in fake animals and try to convince everyone they’re real. Or hell, maybe they’ll drug the real ones so they don’t attack the boats.”

  “But even building it’s going to be bad for the animals, right?” I asked. “Won’t having a rafting ride or a roller coaster in the middle of their homes affect them?”

  “In the worst possible way.” Mom angrily stared out the window at FunJungle. “J.J. lied to us. He told us that this park was all about the animals. About the research. He crows about conservation and providing the highest quality care . . . but it’s all just lip service.”

  I noticed another set of blueprints. They were for an array of fireworks cannons to be used for a “FunJungle Fireworks Fantasy.” While not as insidious as building a roller coaster in the breeding grounds, the idea of doing a nightly fireworks display was still dangerous. Twenty minutes of loud explosions every evening would probably stress every animal in the park into having a heart attack.

  “J.J. has advisors, right?” I asked. “Someone must have told him this would be bad for the animals.”

  “I’m sure someone has,” Dad replied. “That doesn’t mean he has to listen to them.”

  “But why would J.J. plan this? I thought he wanted to build the world’s best zoo.”

  “No,” Dad said. “He wants to build the world’s most profitable zoo. My guess is, he’s testing the waters now. Seeing if the animals bring enough guests through the gates to make him rich. And if they don’t, he’ll build something that will.”

  “He said he was different,” Mom spat. “But he’s not. These plans are proof: J.J. McCracken cares more about his money than his animals.”

  A funeral dirge suddenly blared through the speakers outside. The ceremony for Henry had finally begun. Startled by the sudden burst of sound, I dropped a roll of blueprints. It rolled under the conference table and I got down on my knees to grab it.

  “We need to tell someone about this,” Mom said. “We need to stop them from going through with it.”

  “Who are we supposed to tell?” Dad asked. “McCracken owns the park. He can do anything he wants. These plans might be cruel and idiotic, but they’re not illegal.”

  “Unlike breaking and entering,” someone said.

  I peered through the legs of the conference table. Several men had entered the room. Most wore the sensible shoes of building security—although one wore cowboy boots. Those went with the southern drawl I’d heard: Buck Grassley.

  “Arrest them,” he said.

  The security guards rushed my parents. No one noticed I was under the table.

  “We’re not breaking the law!” Dad protested. “We’re allowed to be here! We’re park employees.”

  “You’re covert members of the Animal Liberation Front,” Buck shot back. “Caught red-handed plotting another attack.”

  “That’s a lie and you know it!” Mom shouted.

  “I can prove it, should I need to.” I could imagine Buck smiling as he said it.

  Mom and Dad were unarmed and outnumbered. From under the table, I watched in horror as they were quickly subdued. I could hear the metal clicks of handcuffs being snapped on their wrists. More than anything in the world, I wanted to protect my parents, to attack the legs I saw before me, bite and kick if I had to, but I knew it’d be futile. I’d end up getting arrested too. Unfortunately, I had no idea what else to do.

  Mom and Dad dug their feet into the carpet, struggling to keep from being dragged away. Mom pleaded with the security guards, urging them to think for themselves and let her go. Dad was shouting at Buck: “You’re making a big mistake here! McCracken’s going to have your ass when he finds out about this!”

  “McCracken?” Buck laughed. “Who do you think sent me here?”

  Dad made a last attempt to wriggle free. He almost did it, but the guards overpowered him. They all flailed about for a moment, and then one fell to the floor.

  He landed on his hands and knees. . . . And found himself staring right at me. “There’s a kid!” he gasped.

  “Run!” Dad yelled.

  I was already on my way. I burst from under the table, gunning for the door.

  Buck Grassley’s satisfied grin quickly gave way to shock as I appeared. He lunged for me, but fell short. His fingers brushed the back of my neck as I sprinted into the hall.

  “Go, Teddy!” Mom called out. “Don’t worry about us!”

  I wanted to turn back to her, to see her and Dad, but there was no time. Buck and his security men were right on my tail.

  So I ran. Through the hall, down the stairs, and out the loading dock doors. I put everything I had into it. I had no idea where I was going. I only knew that if I wanted to help my parents, I couldn’t get caught.

  The security men stayed right behind me. They were all in great shape, as fast as I was. Even Buck proved to have surprising stamina for an old man.

  FunJungle was almost empty. Nearly every guest had decided the funeral was too important to miss. Normally, there would have been ample crowds to lose my pursuers in, but that day, it appeared there were only security guards in the park. Two more emerged from behind Hippo River and tried to cut me off.

  So I ran toward the only cover I could think of. The funeral.

  The Archbishop was beginning his eulogy as I exited the park. “Ladies and gentlemen, friends and families, we are gathered here today to honor the memory of a wonderful hippopotamus. . . .”

  The sea of mourners stretched past the front gates. I plunged in.

  It was a strange crowd, to say the least. Some people stood reverently and wept. Others had merely set up folding chairs and brought a picnic lunch. Some people wore somber black. Others were dressed from head-to-toe in Henry paraphernalia. In the distance, at the front of it all, was a stage where the most distinguished guests sat. I could barely make out J.J. and Summer, along with Summer’s mother, Martin del Gato, the governor of Texas, and both state senators. The Archbishop stood before them all at a podium while beh
ind him, the crane slowly winched Henry’s giant coffin off a flatbed truck and maneuvered it toward the grave.

  “It is with great sadness that we mark Henry’s passing, and beseech you, O Lord, to welcome him into Hippo Heaven. . . .”

  I did my best to slip lightly through the crowd. The security men weren’t nearly as reverent. They elbowed mourners aside and stomped on people’s picnics. “Stop that kid!” Buck ordered. “He’s wanted in connection with Henry’s murder!”

  Thankfully, only the people within close range heard him. The speakers were cranked so loud, his order was mostly drowned out by the thundering eulogy.

  Still, I was in trouble. Many people were too stunned to act, but a few were spurred to action. One burly guy almost got me, but I gave him the slip by ducking through a small cluster of orthodox Jews reciting the kaddish.

  “Henry was no mere hippo. He was a friend to millions of people he never met. A beacon of hope to the world. An ambassador of love and honor from the animal kingdom to our own . . .”

  Another mourner made a grab for me. I now realized that coming into the crowd was a mistake. I had to get back out again, but that wouldn’t be easy. I couldn’t see very far ahead: Almost everyone was standing and I only came up to their chests. For all I knew, the sea of mourners went on another mile in every direction except the one I’d come from—and going back was out of the question because Buck’s men were right behind me.

  The only thing I could see was the crane. I knew no one was gathered around that. Pete had made sure there was a wide empty swath underneath the path the coffin would travel, just in case something went wrong.

  So I went that way. Buck kept shouting at people to stop me. Occasionally, someone turned from the ceremony long enough to try. Hands lashed out at me, but I kept ducking and jiving. One hefty woman in a commemorative Henry T-shirt managed to snag my arm, but I wrenched her pinkie back and she released me with a howl.

  “As many of you know, Henry didn’t always have an easy life. FunJungle rescued him from a run-down circus where he was treated poorly. But luckily, his years of struggle and torment were rewarded with a wonderful life here, in a state-of-the-art facility more suited to a hippopotamus of his caliber. . . .”