Raids and Rescues

by Bryan Chick

  The scouts followed him down the brick path and stepped into one of the small buildings. Mr. Darby waited to speak until the door fell closed behind them.

  “If Blizzard and Little Bighorn disappear from the Waterford Zoo, there certainly needs to be a good reason. Our Constructor—our fake protestor—will provide that reason. We hope people will believe that a fictitious, unnamed group of animal activists abducted our animals.”

  Richie said, “And you think people will actually buy that?”

  “They will when they see the signs.”

  “What signs?”

  “The flyers that our Crosser has been distributing will be scattered throughout the Waterford Zoo.”

  Megan asked, “But don’t you think people will freak out when no one can find two missing zoo animals?”

  As the old man shrugged, a chickadee perched on his shoulder. He softly stroked the bird’s head with one finger and said, “Hello, Chubs.” It still amazed Noah to think that Mr. Darby knew all the animals’ names.

  Mr. Darby said, “I’ve decided that’s not my concern. I once believed I could offer up Blizzard and Little Bighorn as sacrifices to protect our world, but I’ve since learned that I can’t. My only ambition now is to rescue my beloved Gifteds and bring them home.”

  “What about Tank and the Descenders?” Noah asked. “How do we rescue them?”

  “The Secret Council is convening right now to take a look at some information we’ve gathered. And we’d like you to join us. Noah’s been closer to DeGraff than anyone in our recent history—he might have valuable insight. Plus we have something else to discuss with you—to propose to you, actually.”

  “Oh boy,” Richie said.

  A second chickadee touched down on Mr. Darby’s shoulder. The old man raised his hand and allowed it to jump to his index finger.

  “Why, hello there—” His sentence stopped short. He drew the bird away from his eyes and then pulled it back a few inches again, as if trying to bring it into focus. “Why . . . what’s your name, little one? I can’t seem to . . .” He moved the bird forward and back again.

  “Looks like it’s time to give up fashion for function and trade in those sunglasses for some bifocals,” Ella teased.

  Mr. Darby flicked his wrist and tossed away the chickadee, which struggled to get its wings in rhythm. “Yes, well . . .” He gently swiped the other chickadee off his shoulder and said somewhat urgently, “Let’s go, shall we?” He brushed past the scouts and pulled open the door. When he stepped outside, snow swirled around his feet. He began to walk off, the scouts following.

  “I know our time is limited,” Mr. Darby went on. “So I’ve arranged for a ride back to Giraffic Jam, which has an easy portal to the Secret Zoo.”

  “A ride?” Richie asked.

  Mr. Darby swept his arm toward a nearby building with open walls and a wooden floor—a railway platform to board the Clarksville Zoo train, which stood waiting there.

  “Care to go aboard?”

  The old man walked to the rear of the train and climbed on. The scouts piled in, Richie beside Mr. Darby, the other scouts in the seat across from them. Ella, sitting directly in front of Richie, kept banging her knees against his as the two jostled for space.

  “C’mon!” Ella said. “Give me some room, would you?”

  “I can’t!” Richie complained as he shifted his rear end to find new places for his legs. “Not without sitting on the roof!”

  “Sounds good to me,” Ella quipped. “Or maybe you could go lie on the tracks.”

  Mr. Darby smiled his patient smile, then turned and waved his hand toward the front of the train. The engineer gave a thumbs-up out the window, and seconds later the engine rumbled to life. The train jolted forward and back as old rods and rusty cranks began to turn the wheels. Megan’s glasses jumped to the tip of her nose, and the pom-pom on Richie’s cap wobbled.

  Noah watched puffs of steam spout into the air from the engine’s chimney.

  “Mr. Darby?” Noah said.

  “Yes?” the old man said as he gazed at the passing zoo. A bright yellow finch flew through an open window and landed on his arm. It tipped its head and tweeted.

  The world suddenly turned black as the train plunged into a tunnel. Noises blurred into a single sound, and slivers of light streamed by from cracks in the concrete walls. Everyone stayed quiet. After almost a minute, the train shot back out into the open and then followed a long curve in the track to rumble into Arctic Town. Noah stared out toward the Polar Pool and wondered about Blizzard, how badly he was hurt and if he was afraid.

  “What about Charlie Red?” Noah asked. “I mean . . . I can’t believe he turned on us!”

  A heavy frown formed on Mr. Darby’s suddenly stern face. “A shocking betrayal, yes.”

  “How long has he been with DeGraff?”

  The old man began to stroke his long gray beard. “Who can know?”

  “Do we even know how long DeGraff’s been in the Secret Zoo?”

  “Many months, I’m certain. Especially if we consider what he was able to do with our magic.”

  Noah knew exactly what he was referring to—DeGraff’s portal to Clarksville Elementary.

  “It no doubt took DeGraff some time to figure out how to portal beyond the boundaries of the Clarksville Zoo,” Mr. Darby said. “The Secret Society has never been able to accomplish this.”

  Megan, suddenly a bit pale, leaned over her knees. “Do you think DeGraff’s been able to build other tunnels? Portals to new spots?”

  Mr. Darby shrugged. “The prospect, quite frankly, is horrifying.”

  Noah wondered about this. Where would DeGraff go? How far could he go? Beyond Noah’s neighborhood? Outside the country? And what could he do with his magic in these places?

  “Horrifying . . .” Mr. Darby repeated.

  Noah said, “The curtain—the one from the school—did Solana give it to you?”

  Mr. Darby nodded. “She did. And our magical scientists are hard at work studying it. I assure you they have not rested since the curtain was delivered to them.”

  A second finch found a spot on Mr. Darby’s shoulder. This one was bright green. It studied the other finch and shook its feathers.

  “Mr. Darby,” Megan said, “the last few times we saw Charlie Red, he looked . . . different.”

  “Like a caricature of Charlie!” Richie injected. “Or like a mannequin—or one of those creepy wax mummies—made up to look like Charlie. And his hair was so red . . . it was like it was on fire!”

  Mr. Darby grunted in a way that made Noah and the rest of the scouts nervous.

  “What is it?” Noah asked.

  “We’re concerned that DeGraff . . .” His voice trailed off, as if he couldn’t bear to say what came next. “We’re afraid he has poisoned Charlie as well.”

  Ella sat up straight, and Richie’s eyes grew almost as big as the lenses in his glasses.

  Noah said, “We’ve talked about DeGraff changing animals—but never people!”

  “Council has always feared the possibility.”

  “Will he go after others?” Noah asked.

  Mr. Darby frowned. “One of our security guards is missing. Shortly after the incident with Charlie, he disappeared.”

  As the train steamed out of Arctic Town, Mr. Darby lifted the finches and gently tossed them out the window, where they flew off in opposite directions, marking the gray sky with spots of color. They rode past PizZOOria, the Forest of Flight, and several other exhibits.

  A minute later, the engineer applied the brakes and the train shuddered on the tracks. Mr. Darby stepped out onto a wooden platform, saying, “Come! Come! Let’s go!” and the scouts piled out and fell in line behind him.

  Mr. Darby hurried the short distance to Giraffic Jam. His walk was slightly uneven, and at one point he stumbled and brushed against the leafless twigs of an overgrown bush.

  “What the heck . . .” said Ella.

  Noah glanced over and shrugged
.

  At Giraffic Jam, Mr. Darby pushed aside the “Closed for Construction!” sign and made his way into the building, bumping his head on the open door. Inside, he quickly climbed off the winding wooden deck and strode out across the exhibit, not bothering to greet the giraffes.

  “Come!” he called out, but the scouts were already on his heels.

  “Mr. Darby?” Noah said. “You . . . ummm . . . okay?”

  “Yes, yes, fine!” His voice was now as rushed as the rest of him.

  As they stepped up to a particular giraffe, he said, “Lofty, please!” The giraffe stared down at the old man and finished chewing on a wad of leaves. Then he lumbered over to a thin waterfall and stuck his head through it. A second later, the ground rumbled and a platform slowly began to rise from it, dirt raining off its edges. Lofty had thrown a lever.

  “One of my preferred gateways,” Mr. Darby explained. “I’m too old to be crawling through tunnels and riding waterslides.”

  Mr. Darby took the scouts down a quick flight of steps that led down into the hole the platform had revealed. Then he took them into a corridor with four branches: the Grottoes—gateways into the Secret Zoo. One branch had a velvet curtain, and a sign above it read “The Secret Giraffic Jam.” The scouts followed Mr. Darby through the curtain and out onto a wooden deck in a sector of the Secret Zoo. A man with a mohawk and a leather jacket with velvet patches was standing nearby. A Descender, an older one than the scouts were used to dealing with.

  “Mr. Darby,” he said, “I have—”

  The old man hushed him with a wave of his hand. Then he stumbled over to the deck railing and met a giraffe’s gaze.

  “Aerial—my jacket, please.”

  Aerial took a few steps and craned her long neck into a tree. Mr. Darby’s velvet jacket was draped across a branch, and the giraffe worked her head under it. Then she swung down her neck, delivering it to Mr. Darby, who quickly pushed his arms through the sleeves after taking off his other jacket.

  “Mr. Darby?” the Descender said.

  The old man, his back to the Descender, held a single finger into the air. Then he leaned his hands onto the rail like someone catching his breath. Seconds passed.

  Beneath her breath, Ella sang, “Awk-waarrd . . .”

  Mr. Darby finally turned around to face the Descender. “Yes?” he said in his familiar, friendly tone, as if nothing unusual had just happened.

  “Sir . . . I’m afraid we have a problem.”

  “And what is it?”

  The Descender opened his mouth, and then closed it. His eyes shifted one way, and then another. “Perhaps you should come with me, sir.”

  CHAPTER 4

  THE MESSAGE

  The scouts and Mr. Darby followed the Descender out of the Secret Giraffic Jam and across Species Park and its wild assortment of animals: bears, koalas, orangutans. They turned onto the streets of the City of Species and hurried across its brightly colored sidewalks, stepping over streams and dodging the feathered rumps of peacocks. They cut through alleys, through the Library of the Secret Society, and through the wavering shadow beneath the Wotter Tower.

  “Over there!” the Descender said, and Noah looked where he was pointing—the main entrance into the Secret Creepy Critters. A large group of animals and people had gathered there.

  Mr. Darby hollered, “Move! Move!” as he stepped through the crowd, bumping aside anything in his path. As he and the scouts made it to the front, Noah saw what everyone was interested in. Boots, a hat, two jackets, and a backpack lay on the ground. They belonged to Tameron, Sam, and Hannah—the Descenders trapped by DeGraff.

  A young teenager hurried over. He had bright blue eyes and hair shaved so short that it looked like the stubble of a days-old beard. Another Descender. Mr. Darby reached down to the pile of things and lifted a boot. Purple leather. Hannah’s.

  “Derek . . .” Mr. Darby said to the young Descender. “These things . . . When did they get here?”

  “Ten minutes ago. Fifteen, maybe.”

  “From the portal?”

  Derek nodded. “It just opened and everything flew out.”

  “Did you see anyone?”

  The young Descender shook his head.

  “Any demands?” Mr. Darby asked. “Was there a letter?”

  “No—no message.”

  Mr. Darby dropped the boot and picked up a tight-fitting knit hat with a short brim. Tameron’s. “The clothing . . . it is the message.”

  “Huh?”

  The old man set the hat back onto the pile. “DeGraff wants us to know that our friends no longer have their gear. Send the crowd away. Pull some Descenders from their posts and close off the city streets for a five-block radius.”

  “Yes, sir.” Derek turned and began to wave away the crowd, which went compliantly.

  Noah watched Mr. Darby put his foot on the canvas backpack to feel the hard, winding coils of Tameron’s tail. Then the old man looked to the velvet curtains—their bright sheen, their vertical folds, their tassels.

  He clenched his hands and took a step toward the curtain. “What do you want?” He spoke softly, more to himself than to the man hidden somewhere inside the sector. “Why have you come back?”

  But Noah himself already knew the answer. DeGraff was here to conquer the Secret Zoo.

  Mr. Darby abruptly turned and headed off, almost stepping on the tail of a wandering platypus. “Come!” he said to the scouts. “We must hurry—now more than ever!”

  CHAPTER 5

  THE ROOM OF REFLECTIONS

  The scouts gazed up at the library, a twenty-story, octagonal building capped with a stained-glass dome. It had taken little more than ten minutes to get here from the Secret Creepy Critters, and on their way they’d been joined by Solana, a Descender and a good friend of Sam, Tameron, and Hannah—DeGraff’s hostages. Some of the animals that the scouts knew also came along: Podgy, an emperor penguin capable of flying; P-Dog and his coterie of rambunctious prairie dogs; and Marlo, who’d taken his usual perch on Noah’s shoulder.

  Inside, tall trees and towering bookcases shared the large, open space. Shelves were fastened to tree trunks, and rows of books were lined up along horizontal branches. Monkeys in vests climbed up and down, pulling books for patrons.

  “This way,” said Mr. Darby.

  They hung a left and came to a glass elevator big enough to fit them all, Podgy beside Mr. Darby and the prairie dogs racing around everyone’s feet. As they rose, Noah stared down at the passing balconies and at people lounging in pillowed chairs, sipping from steamy mugs, their attention buried in thick books. Dozens of monkeys were climbing around, plucking books from shelves like fruit from branches.

  Within a minute, the marble walls of the library turned to glass, and Noah realized the elevator had ascended into the domed roof. As the world exploded with bright light, the scouts squinted out across the City of Species, and Noah saw the pillars of the Wotter Tower, the hard walls of Metr-APE-olis, and a narrow wing of the Secret Creepy Critters, which weaved through the other buildings like a wild branch of ivy.

  The elevator doors parted and everyone exited onto a clear floor that made a room of the top of the dome. The walls were stained glass.

  Noah looked down. The glass floor was so spotless that it felt like they were standing in the air.

  “Okay . . .” Ella said, “now this is kind of freaky.”

  Richie said, “Are . . . are we confident this floor can support all of us at once?”

  “Us and a lot more,” Solana said.

  In the middle of the room were more than a dozen men and women seated in glass chairs. They were members of the Secret Council—Noah could tell by their velvet coats. Off to one side was Evie, the leader of the Specters, six girls who could blend themselves into their surroundings by using chameleons and magic. She was sitting with one leg drawn up against her on a table made entirely of glass. Her long bangs were draped over the better part of her face, and she was twisting a drawstring on
her hooded sweatshirt.

  The chairs were all facing the same direction, away from the elevator. Mr. Darby quietly led the scouts to a place in front of the group, and then held his arms out, saying, “The Room of Reflections.”

  Noah wondered why it was called that, but didn’t ask.

  Mr. Darby swept an open palm toward Evie. “I’ve asked the leader of the Specters to also join us today. And Solana will be representing the Descenders.”

  Evie did nothing to acknowledge the scouts or Solana. She continued to sit on the table, twirling her drawstring around and around her finger.

  “We only await the arrival of Zak.”

  “Zak?” Noah asked.

  “A Teknikal. He should be here any—”

  Ding!

  The doors to a second glass elevator parted, and out wafted a cloud of smoke. A figure appeared—a young teenage boy waving an arm in front of his face. He stepped out of the elevator pulling a wobbly cart behind him. The cart had a metal plate with “Don’t touch! Property of Teknikals!” engraved on it.

  “Zak?” Mr. Darby said. “Is there a problem?”

  The boy shook his head. As the smoke cleared, Zak came into full view. His blue overalls and white T-shirt, both streaked with oil and smeared with soot, sagged on his skinny frame. He had a crooked, unkempt Mohawk and round goggles with tinted lenses and a wide rubber strap. As he pulled his squeaky cart near the scouts, he tripped once on his own feet, then opened one of the cart doors and ducked his head inside.

  “Where’s all the smoke coming from?” Richie asked.

  “Ohhh . . . that’s nothing, bro,” Zak answered as he nosily fumbled around for something, his voice echoing in the confined space of the cart. “Another project.”

  Mr. Darby raised an eyebrow over his sunglasses and said, “I hope that’s not the project for the Conservation Committee” in a tone that was uncharacteristically stern.

  Zak stayed silent in a way that communicated it was.

  “I trust you’ll have it working soon?”

  Zak stayed silent again, this time to show he wasn’t sure.