“Everything?”
“Everything,” Hoyt said. “All of the construction that you saw in the bunker, that’s all part of the grant, paid for by your tax dollars. Well, not your tax dollars, but you know what I mean.”
“But what about the changes—the changes in the kids?”
“You mean the Crypto-Punk business?” Hoyt snorted. “It’s another fad. It’ll run its course. I’ve seen worse, much worse. You ever hear of Beatlemania?”
Drew cocked his head. “Just how old are you?”
“Was there anything else?” Hoyt asked.
“But the changes ain’t just a fad. They’re really happenin’,” Drew insisted, rising from his chair again. “Let me show you.”
“Stop!” Hoyt demanded. “I’m not falling for it this time.”
“Fallin’ for what?”
“Whatever prank or stunt or gag you’re trying to pull off. Not this time.”
“But the kids are changin’,” Drew insisted, “really changin’!”
“Listen to me,” Hoyt said, wagging his bony finger back and forth. “Bixby really needs this grant money, so don’t make any trouble. It’s paying for lead paint for the classrooms and asbestos installation. It’s even paying for the repairs to the water tower that you and your delinquent pals wrecked.”
Bixby had a reputation around town as being the worst school in the district and, by extension, Hoyt as the worst principal. This was the Old Man’s chance to mend a broken legacy, to leave Bixby better off than when he got there, and he wasn’t going to give up on that dream without a fight.
“So…you ain’t gonna do nothin’?” Drew asked.
“Wrong. I’m not going to do anything,” Hoyt said. “Maybe you should pay more attention during English instead of coming up with these…these cockamamie stories.”
“Cockamamie?”
“Cockamamie,” Hoyt repeated. “It’s a word, look it up.”
Drew got up to leave, but Hoyt couldn’t resist taking one last jab. “By the way, how’s Saturday school working out?”
“Oh, Mr. Frost gave us a get-out-of-jail card,” Drew said, pausing in the doorway.
“A get-out-of-jail card? What’s that mean?”
Drew could tell by the look on Hoyt’s face that this was the first he’d heard of it. “We did an extra credit project. Mr. Frost let us off with time served for good behavior.”
The Old Man didn’t say anything for a moment, then cleared his throat and gestured toward the door. “Get back to class.”
* * *
Lazy-Eye Susan watched the shaky footage on Grady’s phone beneath her flickering porch light. The grainy imagery made the already disturbing scene even more unsettling and added another layer of credibility to the story they’d told her.
“We tried tellin’ Old Man Hoyt,” Drew said. “But he wouldn’t even listen.”
“I even showed the video to my mom,” Grady said, “but she didn’t believe me. She thought it was just a commercial for another dumb shaky-camera movie.”
“Yeah. Yeah, plus, since we blew up the water tower, they just don’t believe nothin’ we say.” Spider added.
“Well, I believe ya,” Susan said, inviting them in. “Y’all ever hear of the Transylvania Brigade?”
* * *
Susan led them to the library, where most of the books were on the floor rather than the shelves, stacked in columns and propping up the walls like the ruins of an ancient Greek temple.
“Sorry ’bout the mess. I been in here doin’ some readin’ the last few days,” she said.
“So what’s this ’bout the Transylvania Brigade?” Drew asked.
“They was a soldierin’ outfit ’round ’bout the time of WWII,” she said. “Some picture studio got the idea to dress up actors as monsters and drop ’em behind enemy lines. Psychological warfare, I s’pose. Even made a movie ’bout it. Gotta book on it somewheres here.”
“Dude, all this stuff’s on the Internet now,” Grady said, blowing the dust off a particularly thick volume.
She wandered through the stacks, trying to remember where she last saw the book in question. “Not all of ’em. In fact, hardly any of ’em. These here are all outta print. That’s why I keep ’em.”
“Did it work?” Spider asked.
“Did what work?” Susan asked.
“The Transylvania Brigade,” Drew said. “Did it work?”
“Yeah, at first,” she said. “But then the other side tried the same thing, and things just got outta hand. Weren’t ’til afterwards that both sides figured out that they was just a bunch of regular folks in makeup. Wait…right here it is.”
She cracked open the book and laid it flat across the table in front of them. “I figure one side must’ve had a breakthrough and come up with some kinda concoction that really does change folks.”
“But why kids?” Grady asked. “Why not soldiers? They’re bigger and stronger to start with.”
“Good question,” Susan said. “Maybe ’cause it won’t work on grown-ups. Maybe ’cause it only works on young’uns during a certain time in their life, maybe just as puberty is ’bout to happen. These kids that changed—bet they were bigger than the others, more growed-up, yeah?”
She had a point; Harley, Donovan, and Ramone were just about the biggest elementary school students in captivity. And Harley’s mom was never around—she might not have even noticed the change.
Newton flipped through the book, glancing at the photographs. The monster suits looked quaint by modern standards, and it was hard to see how anybody could fall for them. “Lucky we came to you, Miss Susan. You sure know a lot about this kinda stuff.”
“Just followed my shadow to where it led me is all,” she said.
Spider and Grady turned to Drew for an explanation.
“Never mind, I’ll explain later,” Drew said. “What do ya think we should do?”
She paced back and forth, biting her nails and trying to come up with an idea, but she kept coming back to the same thing. “We gotta have more information. We don’t know what we don’t know. We only know what we do know. That make sense?”
“I guess,” Drew said.
“Y’all need to get as much information on this Frost fella as ya can,” Susan explained. “Y’all start with that.”
* * *
The Cadillac blew past the stop sign, belching black exhaust and chuffing like a panther, all black lacquer and gleaming chrome.
Drew pedaled his Stingray down Second Avenue with Clementine and Newton huffing and puffing right behind him. They followed the Caddie, weaving in between parked cars and around the red maples lining the street, brown and yellow leaves crunching beneath their tires.
They ducked behind a parked car and watched the Caddie slide in tail-first between a busted-up Hyundai and a late-model VW on the opposite side of the street. A second later, Mr. Frost got out of the driver’s side and climbed the steps of a three-story townhouse.
“What’s he doin’ now?” Clementine asked.
“Nothin’ at all, just like he’s been doing the last few days,” Drew said. “Chillin’ and runnin’ errands, goin’ to the store. Nothin’ at all.”
“This was a dumb idea,” Newton lisped.
Their frustration was starting to show. They’d been following Frost back and forth across town for a few days now and weren’t getting anywhere. They were just about to head back to the Windmill when they heard a familiar voice.
“Hey. What are you kids doing on my side of town?”
Mr. Birdsong strolled out of the Laundromat carrying a basket of folded clothes in the crook of his arm. His paint-splattered sweatshirt read “Property of Bixby Elementary” in big block letters, and he hadn’t shaved in days, but otherwise, he seemed the same as before.
They knew they’d run into him eventually and weren’t sure what kind of reception they’d get, but he seemed genuinely glad to see them.
“Hey, ya dropped something, Mr. B.” D
rew said. He bent down to pick up the quarter, but got waved off.
Birdsong put the laundry basket down and flipped his wrists for the kids to see. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. Two wristbands—one on each hand. Each wristband has a string attached to it at one end and a quarter at the other, like a yo-yo.”
“Pretty cool, Mr. B,” Clementine said.
“Yeah. I was an Olympic alternate on the U.S. competitive yo-yo team.”
“Greco-Roman or freestyle?” Newton asked.
“Both,” he bragged, reeling the quarter back in. “I can hit a Laundromat coin slot or a parking meter with these from twenty feet away.”
“Wow. You’re like the cheapskate Spider-Man,” Drew said.
Clementine agreed. “Yeah, except your super powers are doin’ laundry and ridin’ the bus for free.”
Birdsong laughed, even though the joke wasn’t that funny, and opened his car trunk, tucking the basket inside. “Sorry I can’t stick around longer,” he said, “but I’ve got a job interview at a school out in the suburbs. I gotta get back to my apartment and get ready for it.”
They said their goodbyes and watched the beat-up Volvo backfire and stutter before Birdsong shifted into gear and got up to speed, disappearing around the corner in a puff of diesel exhaust.
“He must be havin’ a hard time if he can’t even pay for laundry,” Clementine said.
“Anybody else see the blankets and pillows on the back seat?” Drew asked.
“Maybe he’s living outta his car,” Newton said.
Running into Mr. Birdsong like that brought back memories—good and bad—but mostly they felt guilty for getting him fired in the first place. And because they couldn’t do anything to help him, they hated Frost that much more for replacing him.
They turned their attention back to the townhouse with renewed devotion to their cause. They didn’t have to wait long for Frost to reappear.
“Be cool,” Drew said. “Here he comes.”
He was almost to the Caddie when Miss Croy, barefoot and wearing jeans and a snug black turtleneck, came bouncing down the steps after him.
“You see what I see?” Clementine asked.
“Miss Croy,” Newton mumbled. “But what’s she doin’ with Frost?”
“Maybe she lives there,” Drew said, “in that building.”
They watched her hand him a manila folder and lean in to whisper something in his ear that made him smile. They’d seen the same interaction at school before, but this was different. Something about the way they stood seemed more…familiar.
“They standin’ awfully close together,” Drew said.
“Yeah. Why don’t they just go ahead and share a strand of spaghetti like in Lady and the Tramp,” Clementine said.
“She’s gotta be in on this with ’im,” Drew said. “Maybe the other teachers, too. Maybe that’s why they ain’t done nothin’ ’bout the changes in the kids.”
They watched the Caddie screech out into traffic, and then resumed their stakeout.
* * *
They didn’t have money to pay the admission, so they waited until the attendant’s back was turned and hopped the Municipal Zoo’s turnstiles, disappearing into the throng.
They tracked Frost to the primate house, while keeping their distance. Fortunately, there was enough of a crowd to lose themselves in, but not so much that they lost track of their target.
“Who’s that guy with him?” Clementine asked.
Newton peeked out from behind the kiosk. “Looks like some kinda doorman.”
“How can you be that blind with glasses that thick? That’s an Army uniform,” Clementine said.
“I can’t hear nothin’,” Drew said. “We gotta get closer.”
He started forward, but Newton held him back with outstretched arms. “Stop. I can read lips.”
He furrowed his brow and focused, taking off his glasses for dramatic effect. “Libby Lion stole the marmalade from Silly Snake…and would not—would not give it back.…Silly Snake…Silly Snake then went to find Rocky Rabbit in the enchanted…”
Clementine clamped her hand over his mouth. “You’re an idiot!”
Drew crept forward. “Come on. Let’s get closer.”
* * *
General Hyde blew his nose, his jowls quivering like a hound dog coming in from the rain. “So in the end, Lilly Lion and Silly Snake shared the marmalade in the enchanted forest.”
“That’s a charming story,” Frost said, already checking his watch. “And I’m sure your grandchildren enjoy hearing you read those stories as much as I do hearing about them.”
“Yeah, I love kids,” Hyde wheezed. He took his glasses off and rubbed his bloodshot brown eyes. “Sorry, allergies.”
Frost had expected a battle-scarred, leather-faced, granite-jawed man of action when they first met.
But Hyde was none of those things, and less. His main qualification seemed to be that he looked like a general—at least Hollywood’s version of one; blunt, wooden features carved into an emotionless mask and crowned by a salt and pepper ‘fro.
A few visitors trickled by, slowing down to gawk at the odd pair. They were drawing attention to themselves, and that’s the last thing Frost wanted.
“By the way, I thought these meetings were supposed to be more or less secret,” Frost said casually.
“They are. That’s why I came in disguise.”
“But you came in uniform,” Frost said.
“I’m an Army general, but today I came dressed as an Air Force general—an Air Force general.”
Frost just shook his head. “Right. Anyway, Phase I is almost complete. Enzyme Seven has been administered, and it’s working. We begin Phase II in a week.”
Frost expected him to be more excited by the news, but the General’s face stretched into something halfway between a grin and a frown, like a kid trying not to tell his dad about a broken window. “You may not get to Phase II.”
“What’s wrong?” Frost asked.
“We’re getting some blowback from the Senate Appropriations Committee,” Hyde said.
“What happened?”
“Another black project we’re funding had a little mishap. Now, all black projects have come under scrutiny, and funding is being reviewed on a case-by-case basis,” the General explained. “There’s a push to see some results from all the money we’ve been pouring into these programs.”
Frost absorbed the news coolly. He’d put too much work into this project to give up so easily. “Then why not show them?”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re almost ready for the trials. Why not invite the brass over and show them our prize Cryptos in action?”
Hyde thought about it for a moment, giving himself time to consider the potential pitfalls, but he couldn’t come up with any. “Yeah, that might work. That might work. A little preview might be enough to get the committee off our back—for a while anyway. But nothing too crazy.”
“No, nothing too crazy,” Frost promised. “We’ll come up with some kind of war game—some kind of scenario to show the Cryptos in action. Something that shows them off without being too much of a challenge.”
A vivid imagination wasn’t a requirement for sitting behind a desk at the Pentagon, but even Hyde could see the plan’s merit. “This could work…this could work. A little show-biz sizzle might be just what we need. But nothing over the top.”
“Agreed. Nothing over the top. But that brings up another problem,” Frost said. “We’ll need some kind of setting—something dramatic, but isolated.”
Hyde unfolded a map from inside his briefcase. Running his finger across the longitudinal lines, he came to a speck of land a few miles off shore. “Bingo. Here…Transylvania Island.”
“Transylvania Island?” Frost said.
“It’s an old theme park…used to be run by a movie company, Phantasmagoria Studios.”
“I remember them,” Frost said. “They used to make all tho
se old monster flicks, didn’t they?”
“Yeah, but that was a while ago, before they went bankrupt. Anyway, one of our missile tests malfunctioned and took out a big chunk of the park’s infrastructure. So now the Army has this burned-out amusement park and no idea what to do with it. No idea.”
“Transylvania Island…I kinda like the way that sounds,” Frost said, warming to the notion.
“Yeah, but what about security?” Hyde asked.
“We’ll hide in plain sight,” Frost said. “We’ll float a press release, something to the effect that the studio is running under new management. We say we’re there filming a low-budget horror film. The Army is there only as technical advisors. No need for the press to investigate something we’ve already gone public with.”
Hyde smiled. The plan was brilliant in its simplicity—or simple in its brilliance. He wasn’t quite sure yet. They hashed out the remaining details before shaking hands and leaving through separate exits.
CHAPTER 6
Spider waved the photo back and forth, waiting for the ink to dry while he searched for an open spot on the Windmill’s wall. Surveillance pics documenting Frost’s every move the last few days covered every inch, so space was at a premium.
Grady stood over Spider’s shoulder watching him work, but found himself mesmerized instead by Frost’s shiny head. “Dude, if I blur my eyes, the pictures look like some kinda nature documentary about a herd of hard-boiled eggs migrating ‘cross the city all at once.”
“Come over here. I got something I wanna show you all,” Newton said.
Spider found an opening and tacked the photo to the wall, then gathered with the others around a makeshift table made from an old door and a pair of sawhorses.
Clementine pointed to the twin cages in the middle of the table. “How’d Romeo and Juliet get out?”
“Mouse witness relocation program,” Grady said.
“The what?” Clementine asked.
“Mouse witness relocation program,” Grady repeated. “They take mice that might be witnesses to crimes and stuff and give ’em new identities until they testify—like they do on TV.”
Clementine’s head cocked at an angle while she decided if he was serious.
“Dude, I’m just messin’ with ya. When you guys were at the zoo, Spider and me just walked in and grabbed ’em,” Grady said.
“Loser,” Clementine huffed.
“Won’t Frost miss ’em?” Drew asked.
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