“I think I’m going to puke,” Philby said from behind him.
“Go ahead. It might improve the smell.”
“By now Base has tried to reset. That’ll take a couple of minutes to be in effect. When Maybeck pulls a second emergency stop they’ll send a team to investigate. We need to be out of here by then. This thing is basically a wind tunnel.”
Philby could recite the statistics, but Finn had experienced the trash pipe. What Philby didn’t seem to grasp was the power of that suction. If the trash bags were moving at sixty miles an hour, the two of them would be also. Some things were better left unsaid. He picked up the pace, though it wasn’t exactly fast going. The slime coating the tube was the consistency of tar. His knees and the palms of his hands stuck to it like a fly to flypaper. Each movement made a sucking and slurping noise.
“Hurry it up!” Philby said.
“I’m trying.”
“It smells like my father’s beef-jerky farts.”
“TMI.”
Finn paused at the first intersection—a pipe ran off to the left. Professor Philby had to take a closer look himself. He shined the flashlight at the walls of the connecting pipe.
“Hair,” he said, pointing out clumps of what looked like steel wool stuck to the surface. “The beauty parlor is close by. The server room is up ahead at the next intersection. It should be a recycling station.”
Finn was going to ask why a recycling station would be connected to a trash system, but he knew better than to challenge Philby. For one thing, Philby’s explanations could run on the long side. Finn slogged ahead, so disgusted with the ooze that he began walking on his elbows rather than sinking his hands into it.
“We’re too slow. We’re taking too long,” Philby warned. And just like that, a clunk was heard, like a grumbling in the belly of a beast. The system was restarting.
“Okay, that’s what we expected.” Philby tried to sound calm. His hair stuck to the goo on the walls. “Now, all that needs to happen is for Maybeck to trip the emergency stop again.”
Finn considered trying to send a text, but looked at the layer of tarlike goo on his hands—something they hadn’t considered. Nonetheless, he reached into his pocket for his phone as the wind lifted the hair off his head.
Zero bars: no service.
“Oh, perfect,” he said.
* * *
Maybeck understood his assignment: keep an eye on the two pirates; stop the system if it restarted. Piece of cake. What Philby had only vaguely mentioned was that on-site engineers might seek immediate answers to their trash system shutting down. Despite the casual, playful, magical impression the Parks had on visitors, in truth they were run more like a NASA mission. There were teams of experts to tackle and instantly solve any kind of problem—from the lettuce in a restaurant going brown, to the intricacies of staging the three o’clock parade each day; the evening fireworks; the street bands; the stage shows. There were enough maintenance employees to form a small army. Two of these men were radio-dispatched by Engineering Base to investigate an emergency stop at URS-3—Utilidor Refuse Station #3.
Luckily, Maybeck heard them coming before they saw him. They were complaining to each other about what kind of knucklehead would pull an emergency stop on the trash system. They were just on the other side of the trash area’s plywood barrier as he heard them. He turned, dropped to his hands and knees, and burrowed deeply into the pile of cardboard recycling.
He stared out from his hiding place as the two maintenance guys inspected the door that sealed the trash drop, as well as the electronic box that housed the red emergency stop override.
“I don’t see nothing wrong,” said the shorter of the two. He was thick-boned and heavyset and had a voice like a dog growling.
Philby had said the system would be restarted the first time remotely from Engineering Base. He’d been wrong—a rarity.
“Nah,” said the other, a taller, leaner man. “Some wise guy’s idea of a practical joke.”
The short guy grabbed his radio. “Good to go URS-three. Repeat: green light for URS-three restart.”
“Roger, that,” came a woman’s voice over the radio.
A moment later, Maybeck felt a thunk underfoot.
The system had restarted.
* * *
Willa, her DHI riddled with static, moved carefully through the backstage area behind France, taking care to screen herself behind trailers, vehicles, and pieces of staging. Hypersensitive about how she stood out wearing pajamas, she wanted to avoid being seen as much as possible. If kids recognized her, she’d be mobbed and she’d have to role-play as a Disney Host. Another Willa guide—dressed in lederhosen—was currently somewhere in Epcot, which could explain her own current projection problems. Willa’s own hologram would likely improve once Epcot was closed and the regular DHIs were turned off for the night, but she didn’t want to wait. She had a few hundred yards to cover in order to reach the pin-trading station by the fountain. The Return. The most direct route was to join the sea of Park visitors, but the idea terrified her.
She knew that if she looked scared and out of place, she would appear vulnerable: If she looked confident and comfortable, despite the pajamas, she would fit right in. After all, newlyweds went around the Parks in mouse ears and bridal veils. On a scale of 1 to 10, pajamas barely registered.
She briefly hid behind a Food and Wine Festival station, gathering her courage. Then she stepped out and confidently joined the hordes. She was in a courtyard in France, the lake straight ahead. There were shops to her right and a French bakery. Benches to her left. Trees and raised islands of flowers in the center of the oblong, cobblestoned plaza. Music filled the air—pieces of the sound track to The Hunchback of Notre Dame. It had an inviting and calming effect. The music surrounded her and made her feel at peace. She loved the Parks when they were open and filled with families and brimming with happiness. Her toes and fingers tingled. Her blue line grew solid—she was pure DHI.
In her euphoria, she failed to look where she was going, and walked right through a raised flower bed, coming out the other side. Some kids recognized her immediately and approached, crowding her, asking for photographs and autographs. She had to agree or risk making an even bigger scene as visitors complained. She posed for some photographs, explained politely that as a hologram she couldn’t sign autographs, and hoped to get away. Camera flashes blinded her. Kids bubbled with enthusiasm.
“Over here!” a mother called out.
Willa looked in that direction—toward the bakery. Above the woman’s shoulder she saw a court jester in a green felt costume and clown makeup. The jester stared at her, but not in admiration. More like a policeman watching a suspect.
As she heard the organized sounds of synchronized marching approach, she knew she was in trouble. Epcot was not a place for goose-stepping soldiers. Twelve costumed cathedral guards appeared from around the corner. Judge Frollo’s guards, she thought. Overtakers. They marched straight for her.
“Excuse me,” she said to a group of kids, “but I have to go. I hear those guards will give you candy if you hold onto them and don’t let go.”
The kids squealed and took off, shouting at the guards.
Willa walked quickly toward the bridge leading to the United Kingdom. The rhythmic footfalls stopped as the kids assaulted the guards. Again, she heard her name ripple through the crowd as more people identified her. Things were going badly. What had seemed like such a short distance now felt like miles. Spaceship Earth looked so tiny and distant all of a sudden.
Behind her, a French-accented guard called out, “Clear the way! Clear the path!” Apparently, not all of the guards had been sidelined by the kids.
Disney visitors were too polite: they cleared a path behind her.
Willa glanced back; the guards were gaining ground.
The crowd ahead now grew thicker as the walkway narrowed. She dodged her way through pedestrians, but wasn’t increasing her lead. Behind her, Frollo�
�s guards continued their relentless pursuit.
Only as she lost her balance and bumped into a baby carriage did she realize the value of her being a DHI. A moment earlier she’d walked through the flower island; she needed to get to all clear.
She allowed the music to own her, let it carry her away to where she’d been only moments before; music was the elixir for her; music was her cure. The tingling of her fingers signaled her transformation, and she broke into a sprint, running through anything in front of her—people, strollers, it didn’t matter. With her approach, startled guests jumped back, only to have her run right through them. Kids cheered. Adults shouted startled complaints.
But she left the guards behind. No matter how they tried, they weren’t going to catch her. Twice more, she settled and focused on the music. Twice more, she went all clear.
Willa passed the Canadian pavilion, still a long way from the Return, but gaining with each step. Her confidence increased: she was going to make it.
The fountain and plaza came into view. Almost there! But then, appearing from around the fountain, a half-dozen Segways—not CTDs, but Park Security.
Her hologram’s blue outline had faded slightly. She couldn’t allow them to scare her, couldn’t allow her DHI to weaken—to become even fractionally mortal. The path split just ahead: directly in front of her, the fountain; to the left, a pathway leading behind Innoventions West, with access to The Land and The Seas. She took this alternate route, hidden from the Security team.
From behind her came the steady tromp, tromp, tromp of the cathedral guards.
She reminded herself that she only needed to reach the Return. Willa cleared her thoughts and watched her blue outline grow more solid. If she could trust her DHI she could charge the pin-trading station, grab the Return, and send herself back. So close now.
She followed the path to the right, the pin-trading station straight ahead.
“You there!” a man shouted.
Arriving to the fob’s hiding place, she jumped to reach into the intersection of support pipes.
Empty!
She tried the next steel support, realizing she must have the wrong post.
Empty!
“YOU!” another man’s deep voice shouted. “STOP!”
She tried a third column. Nothing! The next.
The Segways rolled toward her.
The cathedral guards closed in from behind.
Her mind reeled. Where was the Return? Where had Philby and Finn put it? How was she supposed to get back without it?
She couldn’t stay there bumming over it. She needed to hide. She needed…
Spaceship Earth. Its geodesic construction rose 180 feet into the night sky. Maybe inside the dome she’d find a place to hide, or maybe she’d turn out to be in DHI shadow?
She turned and ran, the men behind her calling after her to stop.
Not likely.
* * *
Philby looked back into the strong wind. A Park map landed on his face and wrapped around him like a veil.
Litter splattered him. As the wind tunnel restarted, the lightest items were lifted first, followed by increasingly heavier ones. Ducking the larger pieces of airborne trash was like something from a video game. Finn and Philby didn’t dare turn their backs on the onslaught for fear of missing something really big and dangerous. So they faced into it, crawling backward as quickly as their knees and hands would carry them.
“Incoming,” Philby announced. He flattened himself as a constellation of aluminum cans came down the pipe.
One struck Finn on the shoulder. “Oww!”
“Don’t let one bean you,” Philby warned. “It could probably knock you out.”
Neither boy was amused. Now came plastic knives, forks, and spoons. Paper plates, more cans. The half-eaten turkey bones came at them like spears and arrows. Fruit and vegetable waste and all matter of wet stuff. Finally, they couldn’t take it. They had no choice but to turn their backs to the steady stream for fear of having their eyes poked out.
The force of air grew stronger, ruffling their clothing and hair. The amount of loose garbage was overwhelming. It smashed into them, sticking to their clothing and bare skin. Finn slapped away a plastic fork that adhered to his ear. A sticky rain pelted them—ketchup, soda, cold coffee, and soup.
“Hurry!” Philby shouted, as a tumbling sound arose from down the pipe.
The first of the garbage bags. It sounded like it was rolling at the moment, but soon it would be lifted and carried by wind; soon it would be a missile headed for them.
“That’s it!” Philby announced, shining his flashlight ahead of them, highlighting an intersection of pipe.
A bag crashed into Philby, careened off the pipe wall, and knocked Finn sideways, flattening both boys. They clambered to their hands and knees only to be bowled over by the next. And another after that.
Any chance of Finn going all clear was out. The situation was terrifying.
The bags felt like rocks when they hit. Each time Finn managed to get his legs and arms under him, another bag knocked him over. The pipe intersection just ahead seemed no closer.
“Where’s Maybeck?” Finn called out. “We need Maybeck!”
* * *
Maybeck couldn’t believe that the two Engineering guys would just stand there, hanging out by the trash dump. He could feel the rumble under his feet, knew the system was engaged. He could picture Finn and Philby like soda bubbles in a straw getting sucked toward the trash compactor.
He watched as the shorter guy grabbed his radio. “Awaiting instructions,” he said.
“Roger that,” came back a voice, thinly. “We’re waiting on Base.”
“Copy.”
The two guys were obviously in no hurry—were used to waiting.
Maybeck eyed the red emergency stop button, wondering what to do.
* * *
Willa ran up the long ramp leading into Spaceship Earth, out of breath. The Segways, ridden by Security guards, were only yards behind her. She slid like a baseball player under the chains blocking the entrance, scrambled to her feet, and took off running again. Behind her, the Security guards had to dismount the Segways, costing them precious seconds. Behind them, the phalanx of Frollo’s cathedral guards followed up the ramp. The Security men turned to face the marching unit. “Stop!” one of them hollered, raising his outstretched palm. He’d never been in this situation before.
Marching guards? He had no idea what to do. “This attraction is closed. The Park is closing for the night. Report back to Operations Management.”
The guards stood there in formation, their eyes straight ahead like true soldiers. Not one of them said a thing.
“Did you hear me?” the Security guy said. “Fun’s over.”
The lead guard signaled his group forward. They marched toward the Security man.
“What the heck?” the Security man complained.
Willa hurried through the dark, crestfallen to look down and see her own feet. Spaceship Earth was not in DHI shadow.
The ride was running, though its seats were empty. The Park was closing down for the night. She climbed aboard the first car that passed.
First things first: she would hide until she came up with a plan. At their meeting they’d discussed why Charlene had been crossed over into the Park. Philby had thought it was to debrief her as a spy. But now a second, more insidious motive presented itself: by putting Charlene into Epcot and knowing she would try to escape, the OTs could follow her to the Return and steal it. Without the Return, and without Philby’s back door on the server, any Keeper who crossed over would have no way back. Crossing them over one at a time made so much sense: when working as a team the Keepers had never failed, but as individuals they were far more vulnerable. They would be stuck in the Syndrome. Locked in a coma in their beds at home.
Not just overnight.
But forever.
* * *
The flashlight fell out of Philby’s hand as the next ba
g of trash struck him down. In the swirling light, Finn watched a bulging trash bag approach at the speed of cannon fire. He ducked, and it flew overhead. The flashlight rolled at his feet. Finn lunged for it, but missed. Affronted by a windstorm of sloppy trash and deadly bags, he inched toward the intersection of pipes.
“Philby?!” he cried.
The wind in the tunnel was at full speed—hurricane force. Finn was sliding backward, clawing at the goop, trying not to lose track of Philby. Suddenly, a hand appeared. Finn grabbed it. He felt himself braked as he and Philby joined hands—Philby had caught on to the edge of the intersection. Together they strained to hold on, Finn repeatedly struck by flying trash bags. Then the wind all but stopped. He and Philby were in the adjoining pipe.
Light shone through a circular crack a few yards ahead.
Philby saw it, too. “That’s the way out! The system has supplementary pressurization stations,” Professor Philby explained. “There are dozens of extra fans along the route. All connecting pipes must be airtight.”
“Maybe another time,” Finn said.
Philby led Finn to the end of the short section of pipe. Together they managed to unlock and push open a maintenance door against the drag of the wind. Philby used a plastic bottle to jam the bottom of the door open. Finn climbed out first, down a metal ladder. Philby followed. They were behind heavy equipment, a cardboard compactor, in an alcove off the Utilidor.
The boys were disgusting—covered in a layer of stinking brown sludge from head to toe. “We cannot just walk out there like this,” Finn said. “How are we ever going to pull this off?”
Philby’s eyes ticked back and forth—the professor at work. He poked his head through a network of smaller pipes. “Got something,” he said, crawling through. He returned a moment later with a small, greasy hand towel. They took turns cleaning each other’s face.
“We’re still a mess,” Finn said, indicating his clothes. “I’m like a human booger.”
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