by Adam Rex
The notes, thought Erno with a sinking feeling. He’d done his best to smuggle them out of the tree house, but they were in Goodco’s hands now.
“Wilson,” a Freeman sneered. “His sudden change of heart has been a bit too sudden for my tastes.”
“We’re watching him.”
Emily was rocking slightly, trying to calm herself. She had her arms pinned against her chest, and she plucked at the wires of her headgear. Erno scooched to her side, wrapped his arm around her. He wouldn’t tell her everything was going to be all right. She was too smart for that. He would tell her a story. He would attempt the ridiculous task of taking her mind off of all of this.
“You know what this reminds me of?” he whispered. “Our first trip to Cereal Town. Do you remember?”
It seemed to take a moment for Emily to register that he was talking to her. Her blurry-eyed stare came into focus, and she turned to look at Erno. “Wh-what?”
The surgeon moved the carts just so and organized his instruments, moving certain favorites up from lower shelves. There was a row of scalpels and other tools on the lowest shelf of a cart right next to the door of the cage. If Mr. Wilson had told the truth and that door was really unlocked, then Erno could reach through it and grab one of those scalpels. But he’d certainly be seen.
“You insisted on riding the Cereality ride,” he reminded Emily. “Even though you get sick in the backseat of a car, you had to go on Cereality.” In Cereality, you and a friend were fastened into a big pink pod and got to experience life as a Goodco cereal puff. Through a mixture of actual movement and IMAX-style wraparound screens, you had the sensation of tumbling out of the box and into a bowl, getting drenched with milk, being spooned up and into a colossal mouth, and then finally splashing down into an Olympic-sized stomach. Then your pod opened, and you left through a big door in the side of the stomach labeled EXIT, which wasn’t very realistic but was a lot more wholesome than the way food usually leaves the body.
Emily was just staring at him. She’d stopped rocking.
They’d gotten trapped in that big cereal puff, just like they were trapped now in this crate. That was the only reason Erno had brought it up—that and the fact that it had, in time, become one of those reliably popular family stories that always got everyone laughing. But now Erno was remembering that day, that ride, the way Emily changed her mind after it was too late and screamed to be let off. How the ride plummeted and rocked, spun and lurched through the air and past monolithic teeth. He remembered how he’d tried to comfort her even then, though they were much younger. How this had always sort of been Erno’s job. But Emily could not be comforted that day—she’d thrown a fit just as the lights went out and the whole ride stuttered to a halt with Erno and Emily’s pod only halfway down the esophagus. They’d stayed that way for two hours while Cereal Town’s rescue crew worked to get the ride moving again.
Emily had done it. Erno realized this now as he recalled all the flickering lights and the pink butterfly in Emily’s mouth and the tree branches that grew right into Biggs’s living room. Emily had broken a theme park ride with her mind.
And now here she was, giving herself over to Erno’s story, hanging on his every word. He was going to have to do something dreadful. He wondered if Emily would ever forgive him.
“Do you … do you remember when they finally let us out of that stupid ride? How good it felt to be outside?”
Emily might just have smiled then, barely. “Yeah.”
“It’s not going to be like that this time,” Erno told her. “We’re never going to get out of here alive.”
Emily flinched backward, away from Erno, just as fearfully as if he’d slapped her face.
“Now then,” said the surgeon as he turned to the other two Freemen. “Subject E1 has been taking the Milk-7 by auditory canal for ten years. Milk-7 being, as I’m sure you know, primarily crop-milk from the species Draco mythologicus in an alcohol-saline solution. It is, and I think you gentlemen understand my distaste of this word, magic. And in strong doses it appears to make the human subject altogether less magical.”
“Yes,” said another Freeman. “It’s that bit I don’t understand.”
“The human body was never meant to be a vessel for magic. The human mind recoils at it, builds up defenses against it, like it’s fighting a disease. As a result the subject gets smarter, more rigidly rational—”
The Freeman interrupted. “Also unpredictable, unstable, occasionally emotional—”
“Also that. And prone to physical frailty and dizzy spells. All symptoms I think we’ll neglect to mention in the cereal commercials.”
The taller of the two Freemen in the gallery chuckled. The other, a little boiled egg of a man, did not.
“So the girl has all this magic inside her,” he said, “but still no magical … talents?”
“None whatsoever, according to Wilson’s notes.”
Emily was trembling. It hurt to look at her. So Erno looked instead at the cart covered with scalpels and tools, visible through a slit in the door, and reminded himself just how badly he needed some kind of diversion.
“They’re going to do bad stuff to us,” he whispered. “Both of us. And I think that old man is going to have Biggs stuffed. And you know… I think they’re going to do something bad to Mr. Wil … to Dad, too. Did you hear them? They don’t trust him. And why should they? They … know he loves us more than them.”
The surgeon opened the jar marked ether and dipped a cloth into the colorless liquid inside. He said, “We believe magical residue builds up in the appendix, of all places.”
“So that’s what it’s for,” said the tall Freeman merrily.
“I’d prefer fewer jokes,” said the egg. “Personally. I mean, E1 is a little girl, after all. I have a granddaughter her age.”
The surgeon coughed.
“If you don’t have the stomach for this, there’s a pageant on downstairs,” said the tall man. “Why don’t you go and watch the dancing.”
“Because I’ve been asked to attend, and to rush the girl’s appendix to Our Lady once it’s removed. You’re just here because you want to watch.”
“It’s the girl’s and the boy’s appendixes, actually,” said the surgeon. “She wants both now.”
Emily’s eyes appeared to be clouding over. Her lips were barely parted, and Erno could see a faint light coming from within: a pink light. But they needed more than butterflies now.
“Did you hear that?” he asked her. “They’re going to cut us both open.”
The little man frowned at the surgeon. “Both? Surely modern medicine already knows what a normal appendix looks like.”
“There’s some idea going around that E2 might have absorbed some magic simply by being around E1. Sounds a little hippy-dippy to me, but I have my orders. Now then. Appendectomies rarely result in the death of the patient, so we’ll have to dispose of the subjects by other means—”
Emily’s eyes shut tight. She sneezed, and the room went dark.
“What the—”
This was more like it. Erno tested the cage door. Mr. Wilson had told the truth: it swung open with a shrill creak that Erno could feel in his back teeth. He prayed that none of the men had noticed as he thrust his arm through the gap and grasped at the nearest cart for a weapon. His hand closed over something cold and smooth, and he snatched it back into the cage.
Dim orange emergency lights switched on.
“How on earth did we trip the breaker?” asked the surgeon, scanning the ceiling. “We’re probably the only Freemen on this entire floor.”
The egg-shaped Freeman stood and felt his way to the closest exit. “I’ll go find the circuit box,” he said, then he was gone.
The weak orange light barely illuminated the inside of the crate, so Erno squinted to get a better look at the prize he’d snatched. A hard, red, rubber triangle attached to a silver handle like a spoon’s. Erno grimaced at the cart outside. An entire shelf covered in knives,
and he’d managed to grab a reflex hammer.
The surgeon put his hands on his hips and shrugged. “Hm. Well, let’s get the subjects on the gurneys before Maxwell returns. I don’t expect he was going to be much help, anyway.”
The tall Freeman joined the surgeon. “He’s a sensitive soul,” he said with a disdainful air. “Never stops talking about his ugly little grandchildren.”
The surgeon dipped his cloth anew into the ether and kneeled by the cage. Erno crawled away from the door, but Emily stayed where she was—either frozen by fear or else now completely detached from what was going on around her. The tall man stood behind as the surgeon fiddled with the latch.
“Funny,” said the surgeon. “Do you know this wasn’t even locked?” Then he opened the cage door and stuck his head inside.
Erno slid forward, pulled the glasses off the surgeon’s face, and thocked him in the eye with his reflex hammer.
“OW!” said the surgeon, and a few other things besides. In his confusion he raised his good hand to his eye, the hand with the cloth in it, and recoiled a little from the smell of ether. He looked dazed.
“What happened?” asked the tall man, crouching low.
On little more than instinct, Erno tugged the cloth from the surgeon’s hand and pressed it firmly to the man’s nose and mouth. He tried to back away, but soon shuddered and slumped forward. Half inside the crate, half out.
“Little devils,” growled the tall man. The surgeon’s body partly blocked the crate door, but there was still more than enough room for the tall man to reach inside and pull Emily roughly through the gap.
She struggled now in the arms of the tall man in the dim room, kicking and howling. Erno started to climb over the logy body of the surgeon, then thought better of it and first heaved the man farther into the cage. Then he climbed over and out the door, crammed the man’s legs inside, and locked him in. He rose, light-headed and panting from the effort.
“Open that!” barked the tall man as he struggled to keep his hold on Emily. “Let him out this instant!”
Now Emily really had the shakes. The tall man looked down at her with some dawning recognition that Mr. Wilson’s notes might not have been entirely accurate. He pinned Emily down on one of the gurneys and fumbled with the leather restraints. Her hair began to stand on end. Pink glow stick smudges appeared before her eyes, tracing out nonsense in a quickening hand.
Erno ran for the jar of ether, but the liquid ignited in his hands. He tossed the jar aside in a panic, and it shattered against the floor, spreading glass shards and a spatter of flames.
The tall man saw the flames, saw the weird light show, and quailed. He backed away from the gurney, from Emily, and into a cart full of tools. Here he grabbed a pair of lean scissors and held them over his head. Erno braced himself to rush in for a tackle when there was a bright flash, and the scissors clattered to the floor, and the tall man was still standing there but with a flower for a head.
He staggered, then reached up with quaking hands and tore at the petals. Atop his neck was an enormous pink rose in full bloom, its innermost petals quivering as if trying to speak. He reeled about as Erno watched in terror.
Then, just as suddenly as it had changed, it changed back. The tall man was intact, his horrified face maybe still lingering on whatever thoughts one thinks when one’s head is a flower. He gaped at Erno, then Emily, and with a strangled cry he turned and ran, tumbled over a cart, and cracked his head on the marble floor.
The overhead lights came back on.
Erno investigated the tall man where he lay. He was still breathing, so Erno tied his hands and feet with some rubber tourniquet bands. Then he went to unbuckle the restraints that held Emily, now passed out, on the cold gurney. Then he turned to see the little egg-shaped Freeman standing in a doorway.
“What happened?” asked the Freeman as he descended the stairs. “Are they…”
“The one on the floor was a flower, but he’s better now,” said Erno, and he stepped between the advancing man and his sister. “The doctor’s asleep in the cage.”
Too late Erno realized that he should be looking for a new weapon. The little man got there first. He picked up a small mallet, like a metal gavel, from the nearest tray. He held it like a remote control in front of him and drew slowly closer. Erno cast about. The tall man’s scissors were near his feet. He would go for those.
Then the little man kneeled down on the floor and turned the mallet around so that he was holding the head. The chrome handle pointed at Erno’s chest.
“Hit me hard,” said the man. “Here,” he added, indicating his temple.
Erno just stared.
“Make it look good.”
“What?”
“I can’t have them thinking I helped you,” said the man. He looked up at the gurney. “She’s just like Chloe, my daughter’s girl.”
Erno took the hammer. “Really?”
The little man shrugged and smiled. “They all are.”
Erno wound back his arm and brought the hammer down in one swift motion.
“AH! OWWW!” groaned the little man. He curled up and clutched at his head. “Jeez, ow ow ow ow ow. That … that really, really hurt.” He coughed and breathed heavily. Erno examined the man’s temple.
“Do you want me to do it again?”
“NO! No, no, no. Man … why didn’t that work? I thought it would knock me out.”
“I only thought it ’cause you thought it.”
“Jeez.” He pushed back and sat down.
“Maybe you can just pretend to be unconscious,” Erno suggested. “They’ll believe you. Your head’s even bleeding a little.”
“Yeah, maybe. Hey, look who’s up.”
Emily had slid down from the gurney. She came around to stand between them.
“I’m sorry, Emily,” said Erno. “I’m sorry I… I couldn’t think of any other way—”
Emily cut him short with a look. Then she gave the same look to the little egg man.
“I’m sorry too, Emily,” he said. Then she touched him behind the ear, and he fell asleep.
CHAPTER 29
Even between the two of them, Scott and Mick could only drag Biggs a few feet at a time. They had managed to pull him, in this fashion, through a large but empty kitchen, into a service elevator, out of the service elevator, and down a long and dimly lit hall across a piebald red carpet. Neither boy nor elf had yet admitted that they had no idea where they were going, that they were moving for the sake of movement. Every so often Mick paused to force some of the contents of a bottle of brandy down Biggs’s throat.
“Is that really a good idea?” Scott asked finally. “I mean, he’s already unconscious—”
“Best thing for a cold body, is brandy,” said Mick. “Well, second to a roarin’ fire. Or a blanket or some warm clothes. Or an electric heater or what have you. But if ’n you haven’t all those things? Brandy.”
“Mmpf,” said Biggs suddenly, and he sputtered and twitched. Mick tried to hold his head up. “Muh … muh babies. Where…”
“Erno and Emily?” asked Scott. “We … don’t know. We’re trying to find them.”
This roused Biggs, and he struggled to get to his feet.
“Take it easy,” Mick told him. “Your time in the freezer’s made yeh logy. Or maybe they drugged yeh too. Did they drug yeh?”
“Dunno. What that noise?”
There was a noise. Scott hadn’t even registered it. Was it applause? It might have been coming from below them. There were two doors in this hall, one labeled MEZZANINE A and the other MEZZANINE B. Scott tested the first and opened it a crack.
He looked down across a dark and nearly empty seating area. Here and there sat robed figures—some hooded, some with hoods drawn back to reveal wizened, spotty heads and feathery white hair. Two were in wheelchairs pushed up against the guardrail in front. Also at the front of the sloping mezzanine sat a man with headphones before a wide console studded with switches and controls
. He touched one of these, and music swelled. He touched another, and lights rose in the auditorium below.
They were overlooking a vast hall with a proscenium arch and stage at one end. It was curtained in black and pink and flanked by two tremendous pillars carved to look like wheat. Atop each of these was a bowl, and atop each bowl was a sphere—one painted to look like the Earth, one solid black.
There were more seats beneath him, Scott supposed, probably filled with Freemen. But he couldn’t see for sure without stepping away from the back wall, out of the shadows, and risking detection by the old men in the mezzanine. What he could see was the stage with its amber glow, its intricately painted backdrops. It gave the impression of a sunlit glen peopled with trees and flowers.
Mick and Biggs were at his side now. “What is this?” Scott whispered. “Are they putting on a play?”
“It’s an initiation, I expect,” Mick whispered back. He seemed transfixed by the top right corner of the stage.
“This is lucky then. They’re all probably watching the show. Meanwhile we can find Erno and Emily and get out of here. What are you looking at?”
“The dark globe,” said Mick. “Look. ’Tis Pretannica: the magical world.”
Scott looked again. Now he could see that he’d been mistaken—the globe wasn’t solidly black after all but had a small round patch of blue and green where England might conceivably be.
“These folk know things,” Mick added. “Think it might do to watch this li’l mystery play.”
“No,” Biggs rumbled. “Have to find the kids.”
“Just for a wee bit,” promised Mick.
While they’d been talking, a man’s name had been called, and this man just now stepped onto the stage and squinted awkwardly into the harsh lights.
“SHAWN HIGGINBOTTOM,” a disembodied voice boomed. “YOU ARE THIS NIGHT A KNIGHT OF THE ROUND, HAVING ACHIEVED THE THREE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-SEVENTH LEVEL OF FREEDOM.”
Thunderous applause.
“TAKE NOW THE SEAT OF HONOR BENEATH THE SICKLE AND THE SPOON, AND UNVEIL THINE EYES TO THE GRAND MYSTERIES OF THE UNIVERSE.”