Panda-monium

by Stuart Gibbs

  Right before it reached me, something landed on it.

  It was big and it dropped right onto the bear’s head, making an enormous splash like a depth charge detonating. I was doused with water once again. The salt stung my eyes and clouded my vision, so I couldn’t quite see what was going on in front of me. I could only make out blurry shapes. The big white one, which I figured was the polar bear, had been driven underwater by a big tan one.

  I wiped my eyes with my hands, and my vision cleared. What I saw was so astonishing, I thought maybe I still wasn’t seeing things quite right.

  Marge O’Malley was in the tank with me.

  Jumping in like she’d done had been insane, but she seemed amazingly serene in the face of death. “Hold on, Teddy,” she told me. “I’ll get you out of here.”

  The bear recovered quickly, resurfacing beside us with a roar. It raised a paw the size of a baseball mitt out of the water, claws extended, intending to swat Marge’s head right off her neck.

  Marge calmly sprayed it in the eyes with pepper spray.

  Now that she’d been barred from using guns or Tasers, it was the only weapon she was still allowed to carry. It caught the bear completely by surprise. It yelped in pain, then reeled away from us and thrashed in the water as its eyes burned.

  “Ha!” Marge laughed triumphantly. “Not so tough now, are you?”

  Unfortunately, there was still one more polar bear in the exhibit. The second one, which was even bigger than the first, had now joined the hunt. It stalked toward the edge of its ice floe, growling ominously.

  “How much more spray do you have?” I asked.

  “Uh, that’s it,” Marge said, not so confident anymore.

  “Teddy!” a voice above me yelled. My favorite voice in the entire world. Summer. “Catch!”

  An emergency life ring plunked into the water next to me, attached to a rope that snaked up over the railing. I quickly wrapped it around my torso.

  Maybe I should have offered Marge the chance to go first. After all, she’d saved my life. And it would have been the chivalrous thing to do.

  But I was well past chivalry. I was cold and wet and scared—and I was relatively sure that Summer couldn’t pull Marge out by herself. Which meant neither of us would get out alive.

  The rope went taut as Summer hauled on the other end.

  My adrenaline was kicking in with a vengeance. Even though the wall was slick and wet, I somehow managed to find hand- and footholds on it. I couldn’t have scrambled out on my own, but it was enough to give Summer a bit of help as she struggled to reel me in. In only a few seconds, I was up the wall, over the railing, and back to safety.

  Marge was still in serious trouble, though.

  I shrugged off the safety ring so we could use it again. There wasn’t even time for a hug from Summer. She took the ring from me and threw it back into the water.

  “Marge, grab on!” she yelled.

  In the exhibit, the second polar bear leaped from the ice floe, belly flopping into the water.

  Marge clung to the ring. She didn’t even bother to try putting it over her torso; there was no way it was going to fit around her body. It would have been like trying to get a Life Savers candy around a potato. The best she could do was stick an arm through it and cling on tight.

  Summer and I hauled as hard as we could on the rope, but it was no use. We couldn’t budge Marge an inch.

  Luckily, help was on the way. People were racing over from the penguin tank. I realized, to my astonishment, that I had barely been in the polar bear exhibit any time at all. Though it felt as if I had first cried for help hours earlier, it had only been a minute, if that. The tourists were coming to the rescue.

  Behind them, I caught a glimpse of James Van Amburg, his bald head gleaming in the blue light of the penguin tank. Now that his attempt to kill me had failed, he was fleeing the scene.

  He was heading the opposite direction of the crowd, shoving people aside left and right.

  “Stop that man!” I yelled. “He’s the one who threw me in!”

  It only came out as a hoarse croak, though. My throat was fried from yelling and swallowing salt water. Most people either didn’t hear me, or they didn’t believe me, or they knew there was something much more important at stake: saving Marge. Only one person made an attempt to stop James, but the big bald man swatted him aside like a mosquito.

  Everyone else grabbed the rope and yanked on it as hard as they could, straining to haul in Marge. I did too. In my wet clothes, I was freezing, but I couldn’t just sit by while Marge was in trouble. Not after what she’d done for me.

  In the exhibit, the first polar bear was still wailing in pain from the pepper spray. The second one had almost reached Marge.

  Marge aimed her pepper spray canister at it and hoped for the best. But only a tiny trickle came out. So she threw the spray bottle at the bear, clonking it on the head.

  This didn’t repel the bear at all. Instead, it got angrier.

  There were now over a dozen people on the rope, though. With a mighty heave, we hoisted Marge out of the water. Or, at least, part of the way out of it. In addition to her usual bulk, her uniform was soaked, increasing her considerable weight. Water cascaded out of every pocket and crease. All of us working together only managed to pull her up a few feet.

  Which meant her legs were still dangling in the water. The bear lunged for her. Marge swung her feet away, but the bear snagged the leg of her pants with the claws of one paw and pulled down.

  Now we were in a tug-of-war, us versus a polar bear, with Marge serving as the rope. She clung to the life preserver as tightly as she could, but she was slipping.

  So she dealt with the bear the only way she knew how: She got angry at it.

  “Let go of me, you stupid bear!” she yelled, kicking at it with her other foot. “Back off, or I’ll make a rug out of you!”

  The bear was putting up a heck of a fight. All of us on the rope were yanked toward the railing as the bear struggled to drag Marge down. The rope started to slide through our hands, burning our palms.

  The second bear shook off the pain in its eyes and rejoined the action, swimming back toward Marge.

  More people scrambled to help, grabbing what was left of the rope and clinging on tight.

  As the second bear bore down on her, Marge managed to finally land a good kick on the first. She drove her foot right into its nose.

  The bear reared back and sneezed, losing its grip on Marge’s pants.

  All of us on the rope suddenly found ourselves in a tug-of-war with no one on the other end. We sailed backward, crashing to the floor, while Marge rocketed up and slammed into the railing.

  “Ouch!” she yelped, then turned her anger on the people who had just saved her life. “Watch what you’re doing, you idiots!”

  For a moment, it appeared that everyone was considering letting her drop back into the polar bear exhibit.

  But we didn’t. Instead, we held on tight while Marge clambered over the railing to safety.

  In the exhibit, the polar bears gave up the hunt and calmly swam back to their island, as though this sort of thing happened every day.

  Now Summer finally had the opportunity to rush to my side. She threw her arms around me and asked, “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Thanks to you—and Marge.”

  It seemed like I should be exhausted after the ordeal, but it hadn’t taken all that long, and my body was humming with adrenaline.

  Marge appeared to be having the same experience. She didn’t collapse with exhaustion—or bother to thank anyone for their help. Instead, she looked around the room, then frowned and asked me, “Teddy, where’s the jerk who threw you in there?”

  Much of the crowd gasped, stunned to hear someone had done this on purpose.

  “It was James Van Amburg,” I said, pointing toward the door. “He ran that way.”

  “How much of a head start does he have?” Marge asked.

>   “At least a minute,” I replied. “We’ll never catch him.”

  “Maybe not on foot,” Marge told me. “Luckily, I have a vehicle.”

  HOT PURSUIT

  Marge’s golf cart was parked right outside the Polar Pavilion, next to an overturned trash can that she had apparently run into while parking it. A disgruntled janitor was scooping all the scattered trash into a plastic bag.

  Marge slid into the driver’s seat. Since she took up the whole thing, Summer and I had to jump into the backseat. It was probably better that way, though; neither of us wanted to be pressed up against Marge, who now stank of fish guts in addition to her usual funk.

  Not that I smelled much better myself. Plus, my clothes were still partially frozen, while my shoes squelched wetly on my feet.

  Normally, I might have left Marge to take up the chase herself, not wanting to end up in more danger. But Marge needed the extra eyes to keep a lookout for James Van Amburg in the crowds—and frankly, I wanted to make sure the guy paid the price for pitching me into the polar bear moat.

  “There he is!” I shouted, pointing.

  In the distance, James Van Amburg was racing through the crowded concourse, heading toward the park exit.

  Marge punched the accelerator. The golf cart took off with surprising speed, nearly flattening the janitor, who had to leap out of the way. He dropped the bag of trash he’d collected, and Marge promptly ran right over it, scattering all the garbage once again.

  The janitor shouted something at us that the FunJungle Employee Handbook expressly forbade employees to say in front of the guests.

  To pursue James, we had to cut directly across Adventure Road, the main route around the park. It was wall-to-wall tourists, but that didn’t slow Marge for an instant. She just plowed straight ahead and let everyone else fend for themselves.

  Tourists scattered, screaming, as the cart bore down on them. They scrambled onto benches, dove into the landscaping, and shimmied up trees. And Marge yelled at all of them like somehow they were at fault. “Watch out!” she bellowed. “This is an emergency! FunJungle Security coming through!”

  Luckily, James Van Amburg was easy to keep an eye on. His big size now worked against him. He stuck out above the crowds, and his bald head shone brightly in the hot sun. Plus, as a big man, he wasn’t that fast. We were gaining ground on him, thanks in part to Marge’s staunch refusal to go around any obstacles. Instead, she made a beeline for our target, not caring what was in the way.

  We clipped two more garbage cans, toppling them and scattering their contents. We plowed through a decorative flower bed, steamrolling the tulips. And we caromed off a popcorn cart, which promptly rolled down a hill, upended over a railing, and tumbled into the camel exhibit. As if there wasn’t enough commotion already, every wild bird in the area immediately sensed there was free popcorn around and homed in on it. Clouds of pigeons made a beeline for the camels, along with a few stray seagulls and peacocks. Any unfortunate guests caught in their path were strafed with bird poop.

  Through all of this, Summer and I clung on to the golf cart for dear life. Several times, we were almost pitched out of our seats.

  In the oppressive heat, my frozen clothes were defrosting quickly, creating rivulets of water that trickled down my body. It occurred to me that there was something I still needed to say to Marge: “Thanks for saving me.”

  “I was just doing my job,” Marge replied gruffly, then yelled at a Japanese family, “Get out of the way, morons!”

  The family bolted so quickly, their Li Ping ears fell off. Marge drove right over the souvenirs, crushing them into pulp.

  “It was still dangerous,” I said, hanging on as we jumped a curb into a topiary garden.

  “When you’re in security, it’s your sworn duty to serve and protect.” Marge smashed through the plants, reducing a few topiary warthogs to twigs.

  Summer and I shared a concerned look. Marge seemed surprisingly blasé about the whole rescue. Either she was in shock, or despite working at FunJungle, she’d never bothered to learn anything about polar bears. I figured it was probably the latter—but I wasn’t quite sure.

  We hurtled onward through the garden, guillotining a topiary rhino, then roared back out onto the concourse, leaving a trail of shredded bushes in our wake.

  Marge snapped her radio out of her holster and sent out a broadcast. “This is Officer O’Malley. I am in hot pursuit of a suspect in the Li Ping kidnapping, currently heading toward the front gates by way of Hippo River. Requesting backup immediately.”

  “Marge?” Hoenekker asked over the radio, sounding worried. “Did you say ‘hot pursuit’?”

  “Yes sir. I have spotted James Van Amburg and am running him down.”

  “That golf cart is not intended for high-speed chases!” Hoenekker warned. “Especially inside the park!”

  “I won’t have to chase him much longer if I get my backup,” Marge replied. “Now, I need a barricade erected across the front gates with a whole mess of armed guards to prevent the suspect from leaving the property . . . Whoa!”

  As the crowds scattered in front of us, a small child had been left behind. Marge veered wildly to avoid him, losing her grip on her radio, which flew from her hand and sailed into a lemur exhibit. “Crud!” Marge exclaimed, then yelled back at the toddler, “You owe me a radio, you lousy rugrat!”

  Ahead of us, James Van Amburg raced past Mulumbo Point and disappeared behind the waterfalls of Hippo River.

  Over the sound of all the angry tourists screaming at Marge for driving like a maniac, I heard music. Festive dance music. I looked through the trees in the direction of the front gates and saw something very large moving behind them.

  “Uh, Marge . . . ,” I said.

  “Not now!” Marge snapped, swerving through a horde of guests. “I need to concentrate!”

  “But Marge . . .”

  “Shut your trap, Teddy!”

  “Marge! There’s a parade ahead!”

  For the spring, J.J. McCracken had decided to institute a parade at FunJungle every afternoon. “Everyone loves parades,” he’d claimed. “Disney World must have seventeen a day.” This was a massive exaggeration, but when J.J. wanted something done, it got done.

  And so, the FunJungle Friends Dance ’n’ Sing Parade was born.

  The annual San Antonio Battle of Flowers Parade had recently taken place, and afterward, J.J. had snapped up several used floats for a bargain. They had originally been covered with live flowers, but the Special Events and Entertainment department had swapped those out for plastic ones, then slightly modified the themes to be more relevant to a zoo. (The local Elks Club’s “Remember the Alamo” float had become, with a slight bit of modification, “Remember the Armadillo.”) Then some attractive girls and guys were hired to wear skimpy clothes and dance on the floats, while all the FunJungle mascots were ordered to abandon their usual posts and join the festivities. The route began near the front gates, where it would draw the most attention, then looped the park on Adventure Road. It wasn’t a very impressive parade, but the tourists seemed to appreciate it, and on occasion, FunJungle would spice it up a bit by inviting a local high school marching band to play. (According to J.J., the great thing about high school bands was that you didn’t have to pay them; they would happily perform in return for free FunJungle tickets.)

  A marching band was playing that day. I heard them before I saw them. Being a typical bunch of high school musicians, they were butchering whatever song they were performing so that it was completely unrecognizable. But they had drawn a good-size crowd nonetheless. It was probably mostly their families, but since a standard school band had over a hundred kids in it, that was still a lot of parents and siblings.

  We zoomed around Hippo River to find our path blocked by a sea of people. They were lined up three deep on both sides of Adventure Road while the parade passed between them.

  Ahead of us, James Van Amburg was rudely shoving his way through the crowd. He
knocked two little kids on their butts, then ducked between the marching band and the “Hooray for Hippos!” float.

  Marge yelped and stomped on the brakes. We skidded wildly, but there wasn’t room to stop. Rather than mow down some innocent parade-goers, Marge swerved into the landscaping. Unfortunately, the particular spot she chose had a small hill in it, which was perfectly sloped to form a ramp.

  “Bail out!” I yelled to Summer, although she had already realized this was the smart thing to do. Marge didn’t. As the cart crashed through the small barrier hedge, Summer and I both leaped off. We landed on the grassy hill and tumbled down it, while Marge and the cart rocketed off the top.

  “Look out!!!” Marge howled to the crowd ahead. Thankfully, her voice was loud enough to overwhelm even the marching band. The tourists scrambled out of her path just in time. The cart crashed to earth and skidded into the middle of the parade.

  The band’s song ended abruptly in a blare of frightened trumpet blasts as the musicians scattered. Marge sluiced through them and slammed into the “Salute to Marsupials” float head-on. The float stopped so abruptly that all the dancers and mascots were thrown off their feet. While most collapsed into a pile on the float itself, the poor actor playing Kazoo the Koala sailed through the air and landed atop the roof of Marge’s golf cart with such force that the head came off his costume. Dozens of children shrieked in horror as their favorite koala was decapitated right in front of them. The enormous disembodied head then rolled through the marching band like a bowling ball, knocking over the trombone section like tenpins.

  I scrambled to the top of the hill, spitting out grass, to see that James Van Amburg had made it through the parade route and was well on his way to the front gates. Some FunJungle security guards were racing into the entry plaza and probably could have stopped him—but they were too distracted by the chaos Marge had caused. They ran toward us, rather than James, allowing him to slip right past them.

  Summer and I both shouted to the guards that they needed to turn around because a major criminal was getting away, but they couldn’t hear us over the cacophony of startled guests and screaming children.