by Stuart Gibbs
Everyone else turned to Natasha as well. She swallowed hard, then told the truth. Almost. She changed it slightly to protect Grayson. “I killed King,” she said. “The dog came onto my property Friday night and attacked my son. It was an accident. I was only trying to fend him off with a croquet mallet and I hit him too hard with it. The lion had nothing to do with King’s death. She’s completely innocent.”
Almost everyone was startled by this reaction—except Lincoln Stone, who appeared enraged by it. Instead of being angry at Natasha for killing King, however, he seemed more upset that his crusade against the cougar had been revealed to be a farce. “That’s a load of bull,” he said dismissively.
The Fish and Wildlife agents didn’t seem nearly as sure. They had all assembled their rifles, and now they looked to their boss to see what she thought.
“Can you prove this?” Stephanie Winger asked Natasha.
“I have King’s blood on a croquet mallet,” Natasha said. “I didn’t mean for the lion to get blamed. Please don’t kill her because of my mistake.”
Stephanie Winger took a moment to weigh the situation. Which was a moment too long for Lincoln Stone.
“You don’t really believe this story?” he asked. “It’s just a last-ditch scam to protect the lion!”
“If there’s evidence . . . ,” Stephanie began.
Lincoln didn’t wait for her to finish. “You idiots are like every other branch of the government,” he sneered. “Totally useless. Guess I’ll have to handle this myself.” He suddenly snatched the rifle from Tommy Lopez and started for the stage.
“Hey!” Tommy yelled, grabbing Lincoln’s arm.
“Get your lousy hands off me,” Lincoln said, and drove the butt of the rifle into Tommy’s stomach so hard it sent him reeling. Another agent tried to catch Tommy, but couldn’t hold his weight, and they tumbled into the fireworks control panel. Tommy’s arm smacked a row of buttons.
“No!” cried the fireworks operator.
It was too late. The buttons instantly sent a wireless signal out to the rows of canisters Summer and I had seen by the Raging Raft Ride.
Lincoln was storming out of the VIP area with the rifle. On the stage, J.J. McCracken was wrapping up his remarks. Mom still stood to the side with the chimp. Pete Thwacker was by her side. Dad was at the front of the crowd, taking publicity photos.
The canisters were all loaded with fireworks and their charges were primed. Now a dozen of the charges detonated, blasting the fireworks upward. They soared high into the sky behind the main stage—well before they were supposed to—and exploded.
The crowd oohed and aahed with excitement.
To Rocket, however, they probably sounded like gunshots.
The cat was certainly already on edge after being surrounded by so much noise all day, and the crack of the fireworks was the last straw for her. As Jerry had told us, the noise of a gun was probably even scarier to a mountain lion than being hit by a rubber bullet. So Rocket bolted from her hiding place, dashing through the tarp that draped the front of the stage.
She emerged onto the lawn from directly below J.J. McCracken, right in front of the crowd. Her sudden appearance, in tandem with the fireworks, was so dramatic that most people thought it was part of the show—just like the gag with the chimpanzee had been. A few tourists yelped in surprise, but the majority applauded enthusiastically.
Rocket paused, startled to find herself facing so many humans, unsure what to do next.
She was a healthy, impressive lion, with muscles that rippled beneath her gorgeous fur coat. The radio collar around her neck was a slim hoop of black plastic, which probably contributed to the audience’s belief that she wasn’t dangerous; with the collar, she looked like an enormous pet cat. Some idiots in the front row even tried to pet her, until Dad blocked their path.
Virtually the only people who realized the lion was a threat were the FunJungle employees and the chimpanzee, who shrieked in fear, leaped from Mom’s arms, and scrambled up into the stage’s lighting grid. Pete Thwacker fearfully attempted the same thing, only his attempt to climb wasn’t nearly as graceful, and he ended up tumbling to the stage and landing flat on his back. The audience mistook this for part of the show as well and laughed.
J.J. watched the whole display, goggle-eyed, unsure whether or not to warn the crowd or pretend like it was all an act. All he could think to say was, “Nice kitty. Nice kitty. Stay.” Like maybe Rocket really was a pet.
The entire audience might have continued calmly watching the show had Lincoln Stone not charged up onto the stage with his stolen rifle. “That’s not a zoo lion, you pinheads!” he shouted at the crowd. “That’s the one that killed King!”
Now it dawned on people that the lion wasn’t part of the show. Those who recognized Lincoln took his warning seriously. Those who didn’t know him thought he was a deranged lunatic. Either way, everyone started to run—only no one knew which way they should go. So the lawn was suddenly chaos.
Lincoln aimed his rifle at Rocket.
I lunged at the fireworks control panel and pounded as many buttons as I could. Out in the Wilds, dozens of fireworks blasted off at once. It sounded like a barrage of gunfire, which startled Rocket into running again.
Before Lincoln could shoot, the lion fled into the panicked crowd, disappearing into the mayhem.
Even though there were people everywhere, Lincoln still took aim at the cat. His finger twitched on the trigger.
But then Mom body-slammed him. Mom wasn’t that big, but when she was angry enough, she could take down a silverback gorilla. She and Lincoln tumbled to the stage.
Lincoln didn’t shoot, but he kept hold of the rifle. He raised it to club Mom with it, but the chimp came to her aid. The chimp was still too afraid to descend from the lighting grid, but he saw Lincoln as a threat to Mom, so he dropped his tuxedo pants and urinated on him.
Lincoln scrambled away, spluttering in disgust, and tumbled off the stage.
Fireworks were still exploding in the sky. Hysterical guests were overturning everything that got in their way. Buffet tables were upended. Landscaping was trampled. Porta-Potties toppled with unfortunate guests inside them. Charlie Connor, the actor playing Kazoo the Koala, was bowled over so hard that the head of his costume flew off. While small children shrieked at the sight of their favorite cartoon pal getting beheaded, the head rolled away and took out the actor playing Zelda Zebra.
Pete Thwacker seized the microphone and did his best to do damage control. “There is no need for alarm!” he told the frantic tourists. “I assure you that everything is under control. Please walk calmly toward the exits and do not panic. . . . Waaaugh!” He shrieked in terror as the Burmese python slithered past, then made yet another failed attempt to scramble up into the lighting grid.
A team of keepers raced past in pursuit of the escaped python.
Through it all, Rocket was on the run. I climbed a Chinese elm tree and saw her sprinting off toward the Wilds. “She’s heading out of the park!” I yelled to Summer over the noise.
“We can’t let her leave!” Summer yelled back. “If she does, someone will shoot her!”
I spotted Kevin Wilks close by, clutching a sedation rifle. He was apparently part of Hoenekker’s containment team. I didn’t feel I could count on him to do anything with the gun except shoot himself in the foot, but someone I thought I could count on was close by.
Tommy Lopez was staggering to his feet, recovering from Lincoln’s sucker punch. I leaped down from the tree to his side and asked, “Can you help us sedate Rocket?”
“Sure thing,” Tommy gasped. “But she’s moving awfully fast.”
“Leave that to me,” Summer said, and she ran off into the crowd.
I led Tommy over to Kevin. Kevin probably should have been doing some sort of crowd control, but he wasn’t the greatest at thinking on his feet—or thinking at all, really. Without direct orders, he was merely standing there, looking worried.
“This i
s Tommy Lopez,” I told him. “He’s from Fish and Wildlife, and he needs your rifle.”
“Okay,” Kevin said, and handed it over.
The rest of the Fish and Wildlife agents, along with Stephanie Winger, had run off after Rocket as well. I had no idea if they were still planning to shoot the cat or not.
Natasha Mason had split too. I saw her heading in the opposite direction that Rocket had gone, herding her family to safety. Grayson and Mason seemed far more upset that they had to abandon the dessert bar than they were about the lion.
I looked back toward the stage. Lincoln Stone was no longer there. I had no idea where he’d gone.
Mom was still onstage, though, coaxing the chimp down into her arms.
The crowds were thinning out on the lawn. Most people seemed to have fled for the exits, though many had headed in various other directions, and a few had stayed behind to do things like gather up spilled candy and loot abandoned taco carts. Somehow, the actor dressed as Eleanor Elephant had climbed up a tree. He perched on a branch, looking bizarrely like the title character in Horton Hatches the Egg.
The llama galloped past, pursued by two keepers.
A flatbed truck pulled up next to us. It was the one that Sanjay Budhiraja had been shooting fish from. The fish cannon itself and several ice chests full of seafood still sat on the back. Dad was at the wheel, with Sanjay and Summer crammed into the passenger seat beside him. “C’mon!” Summer yelled to Tommy and me. “Rocket’s getting away!”
There was no time—or space—to climb into the front seat, so Tommy and I leaped onto the back of the flatbed.
Before Dad could drive off, Dash, Ethan, Violet, and Xavier raced up and jumped on with us. Xavier needed a little extra help, but he made it.
“You think you can have all the fun without us?” Dash asked.
Ethan pounded on the roof of the truck and said, “Let’s go!”
Dad hit the gas and raced across the lawn in pursuit of Rocket. The lawn was now clear enough of people that Dad could drive relatively quickly, but a lot of things had been left behind that got squashed underneath our tires: abandoned plates of food; commemorative souvenir soda cups; a chocolate fountain from the dessert buffet; the disembodied mascot head of Kazoo the Koala.
Those of us in the back stood, hanging onto the cab, keeping an eye out for Rocket. The fish cannon was strapped down well, but the ice chests weren’t. They were skidding around with us, and every time we hit a bump, frozen herring would fly out.
We roared past the stage. Mom was comforting the chimpanzee, who had finally deigned to come down (although Pete Thwacker had finally managed to climb up into the lighting grid and looked like he planned to stay there). J.J. McCracken was simply staring at the ruins of his party, in shock.
Ahead of us, the lion was racing past Carnivore Canyon, heading for the Wilds, moving at a good twenty miles per hour.
A FunJungle Land Rover skidded onto the walkway behind her. My friends and I caught a glimpse of the man behind the wheel.
“That’s Lincoln Stone!” Violet shouted.
I figured Lincoln had stolen the Rover from a FunJungle employee. He looked like a man possessed. He tended to ignore facts when making his arguments much of the time, and now he wasn’t about to let them get in the way of avenging the death of his dog.
Dad gunned our engine to go after him, but as he did, someone moved into the path ahead of us, blocking our way.
It was Mr. Putterman. He was in a wheelchair, with a back brace as well. He stared us down defiantly, determined to help Lincoln.
“Putterman!” Ethan yelled. “Get out of the way!”
But Putterman didn’t move. Dad had no choice but to hit the brakes. On the narrow path, there was no way around Putterman, leaving Lincoln free to pursue Rocket without us.
But then, with a rebel yell, Marge O’Malley zoomed into the road ahead of us in her own wheelchair. She bore down on Putterman, her broken leg pointing in front of her like a knight’s lance, and slammed directly into him. It was like wheelchair bumper cars. The force of Marge’s strike sent Putterman careening backward along the path, which dipped downhill toward the Australian section of the park. Putterman quickly picked up speed, screaming in fear, then crashed into a railing so hard that his wheelchair upended, flipping him over into the wallaby exhibit. He slammed to the ground and was instantly beset by curious marsupials.
“My back!” Putterman screamed, obviously having reinjured his ruptured disc. “Someone help me! I can’t move!”
A wallaby is probably the most gentle animal that exists, but Putterman didn’t know that. I certainly wasn’t going to take the time to tell him. In fact, I did the opposite. “Careful, Putterman!” I yelled. “Wallabies are vicious and bloodthirsty!”
“And they can smell fear!” Xavier added.
Putterman wailed in terror as the adorable little creatures bounded to his side and sniffed him.
Marge rolled out of our way, having cleared our path, and saluted.
“Thanks!” Dad yelled to her, and hit the gas once again.
Unfortunately, we had lost a lot of ground. Rocket and Lincoln were now far ahead of us, already at the construction site.
Rocket sprang over the wooden fence without breaking stride. She simply leaped to the top, then bounded down on the opposite side.
Lincoln didn’t slow down either. He plowed straight through the fence and continued after the lion.
In the wallaby exhibit, one of the animals gave Putterman a friendly lick. “Somebody save me!” Putterman cried. “It’s trying to eat me!”
We bore down on the hole that Lincoln had left in the fence. The flatbed was wider than the Land Rover, though. Dad hesitated a moment, but Summer told him, “It doesn’t matter if you break it! My dad will understand!”
Dad sped up again while those of us in the back took cover. The flatbed took out a few extra feet of fence on both sides, leaving a trail of splintered wood in our wake.
Instantly, the landscape turned to dirt. We raced along it through half-built buildings and dormant construction vehicles. Ahead of us, Rocket was still on the run, but the cat was tiring and now Lincoln was gaining on her. Rocket juked left and right a few times, trying to shake her pursuer, but Lincoln stayed behind her.
A gunshot rang out. A bullet sparked off a cement mixer just behind Rocket. The cat yowled and scurried onward.
I spotted four people in camouflage gear racing through the framework of the Black Mamba roller coaster.
“That’s the Barksdales!” Xavier shouted.
Indeed it was. In addition to their forest camouflage clothing, they all had taped twigs and branches to themselves. In the woods, this might have hidden them. However, in the barren construction site, where there was no greenery at all, it made the family stick out. There really wasn’t anything more noticeable than four human-size bushes running through a half-built theme park.
While the rest of his family raced ahead, Pa Barksdale scrambled up a large hill of sand to try for a better shot at Rocket.
“He’s going to kill her!” Violet exclaimed. “She doesn’t have any cover!”
Which was true. Rocket was out in the midst of a wide, flat expanse of open ground.
Ethan asked Tommy Lopez, “Can you shoot that guy with a tranquilizer dart?”
“No way,” Tommy said. “Sorry, but the amount of sedative in here will kill him.”
I looked after Rocket helplessly. Lincoln Stone was bearing down on her with the Rover, the Barksdales were coming, and the poor cat had no way to defend herself.
But we had a way to defend her.
Before I could even think about what I was doing, I grabbed the launch tube for the fish cannon and fired up the generator. “I need you guys to load this for me!” I yelled.
“With what?” Dash asked.
“Fish!” I exclaimed.
My friends immediately leaped to work. By now, half the frozen fish had tumbled out of the ice chests, so we w
ere up to our ankles in seafood. Dash, Ethan, Violet, and Xavier snatched up the fish and dropped them into the loading area while I held the tube as steady as I could.
Pa Barksdale had reached the top of the sand hill. He was taking careful aim at Rocket.
I blasted him with a fusillade of frozen fish. My aim was off at first—it was hard to balance in the back of a moving truck—so my first salvo came in low. I stitched the hill with a school of capelin, leaving them embedded in the sand like fence posts.
It was enough to startle Pa Barksdale, though. His shot went wide and he hit the Land Rover instead. The front tire blew, throwing the SUV out of control.
Pa apparently thought we were shooting real ammunition at him, because he turned from Rocket and aimed his gun at us.
So I made my next shot count. I pegged him right between the eyes with a herring.
Pa flew backward and tumbled down the hill, splatting face-first in a foundation of wet cement.
Meanwhile, Lincoln was struggling to steer the damaged Land Rover. A person who was thinking clearly probably would have stopped the SUV, but Lincoln was determined to go after Rocket no matter what. He didn’t brake at all, so as his front tire deflated, he lost command of the Rover and it skidded into a row of Porta-Potties. The latrines burst apart one after the other, coating the Rover—and Lincoln, who had the window down—in human waste. The Rover finally spun out in the middle of a pool of filth.
Lincoln wasn’t done yet, though. If anything, being covered in feces made him even more determined to get Rocket. Roaring with anger, he leaped from the driver’s seat with his rifle and set after Rocket on foot.
Meanwhile, the remaining Barksdales were still coming in from the side.
I leveled the fish cannon at them. My friends kept loading seafood into it.
I fired at the Barksdales. I was getting better at aiming the cannon now. My first blast cut them off at the knees, pegging them with flying fish. They went down hard, crashing to the ground, their rifles flying from their hands.
“Let us off!” Dash yelled. “We’ll handle them from here!”
