Charlie was telling Heather, "It's all right. They're just machines."
"But Charlie!"
I heard a high whine, beyond human ears, of power running through cords.
"Just keep close to me, luv. Nice and steady."
"Guys," I started, but the sound of gears moving and metal shifting said it for me.
"Run!"
We took off toward the door. Damnation Dino and The Ape-Thing! stormed ahead and blocked the way. What a time for them to team up. Throwing stealth to the winds, I roared my defiance and blew fire. The fully furred primate singed but didn't light up in the satisfying fireball I'd expected. Figures McThing would use fireproof materials. Heather and Charlie tried to run around them, but apparently undersized dragons do not distract maniacal mechanical monsters like you'd think they would. Other monsters of varying sizes and relative ferocities began taking their places between us and the exit, like a bad soccer team with only one mode of defense—block the goal.
Heather jinked out of the way of a lapdog-sized demon-hound of Baskerville. Her heel slipped out from under her, and she shrieked. Charlie grabbed her up while whacking the mechanical beast on the nose with his sword. Despite the mechanical cacophony, the clang echoed in the room.
"Vern!" Grace cried and made sweeping motions at the still-open door to the game room.
"New plan!" I yelled. Scooping up Heather with my tail, I dumped her on my back and ran, keeping her pinned in place with my wings. Charlie sped ahead, sword drawn, slashing at anything daring to get in our way, while Grace used magic to keep the path clear from her end.
I barreled through the door, skidding and doing a cool one-eighty on the cheap tile, while Charlie slammed it shut, and Grace sang a fast locking spell. Even so, the door shook and thudded as a pack of programmed prototype predators threw themselves at it to get their prey.
Charlie ran to Heather who was draped across my back and clinging to my neck. He grabbed her ankles, and with a quick swing of his sword, he lopped off the heels of her shoes.
"Those were Italian!" she protested.
"Now they're practical!" he shouted back.
"Sh!" I hissed. "We're not out of here yet. Can you walk?"
"Yes, yes. I'm fine." She slid off my back but refused Charlie's hand. "I could have just taken them off," she snarled. "Men! So where are we going? I can hardly see a thing."
As if on cue, the lights came on, blinding us momentarily. Charlie's IR glasses switched to shades. I looked at Grace, who threw up her arms in an “it-wasn't-me” gesture.
"Guys, stay close to me," I said.
Heather looked around then gave a delighted squeal. "Oh, my gosh! It's Munchy, Munchy Moles! I used to play this all the time when I was a kid."
The mounds I'd seen earlier were actually the upper jaw and head of blue, green, orange, pink, red, and yellow moles, the primary pieces of the game. In the board game, each was hinged onto a swinging arm at opposing corners of the six-sided board; a button let you open and close the jaw to collect marbles painted like little bugs. Ladybugs were three points; beetles, two; and roaches, one. I'd seen Jerry Costa play it with his kids; he always won until one child noticed he was putting his weight on the board to make the marbles roll toward him. Of course, the new version had a mechanical board that tilted at random. Jerry to this day regrets not having taken out a patent on that idea.
"I thought it was supposed to be Who's Da Perp?" Grace asked as she and the pixies joined us. She pulled out the museum map Rak gave us.
"Must not have updated the website," I muttered. They needed pictures of the mechanical menagerie attacking patrons while they were at it.
As if to remind us they were down but not out, the monsters smashed at the door again. It shook, but held.
"This way's the fastest way out. Through the gift shop," Grace said.
We started toward the double doors when we heard the distinct sound of a garage door opening. Five-foot marbles rolled toward us, their painted bug faces smiling gleefully.
"Run!"
A blue mole head raised its jaw and turned in our direction. I reached out with my own jaws and grabbed Grace by the backpack, pulling her out of the way just before the buck teeth came down with a crash. Heather screamed. The straps broke, but Grace hit the ground running. I spat out Grace's backpack. It fell open on the ground, equipment, medallions and bottles of Ping spilling everywhere.
A crash, and the door to the animatronics room finally gave. The Ape Thing! got himself wedged in at the hips, but smaller crawlies swarmed around him toward us.
Then the floor began to tilt.
"Find a way to cut the power!" I yelled at the pixies. I was sliding toward the red mole. I scrabbled, my claws digging but not finding purchase. A marble rolled by. I pushed off it, sending it rolling toward the mole. The mole bit down, and it cracked, sending up a cloud of chalky smoke.
"Keep away from the jaws!" I shouted.
"Right! Thanks!" Charlie shouted back. He and Heather had made it to the relatively stable center. Legs spread wide, he was managing to keep his balance while he fired the Taser at the animatronic animals with skin. He struck a wolf, which jerked, twitched, and fell. Two more leapt over it. Heather had been digging inside his pack and pulled out the Skorpion. She screamed "Down," and when he crouched, let fly with about ten seconds of uninterrupted and unaimed fire, shrieking the whole time.
"Short bursts, luv," Charlie yelled.
"You want to do this?" she screamed back.
Ten beagle-sized spiders from Arachnophobia Millennium charged at me, so I turned away from their domestic squabble and let loose some flame. Naturally the table decided to tilt, sending me face first into their flaming bodies. I managed to spin, heard Grace sing out a spell, spun again, and saw her dodging Damnation Dino's little brother, Velocilla, part velociraptor/part spawn of Hell. A bottle of Ping rolled by me, and I batted it toward Velocilla. His foot landed on it, rolled, and sent him flying.
Flying!
Cursing myself for an idiot, I launched myself into the air and snatched Grace just as a skeletal frog monster grabbed at her leg. A moment of tug-of war, and her pant leg ripped. He was left holding a piece of fabric while I flew Grace to the door. I dropped her then dove back in for Heather. She was on her stomach and pulling at a lobster that was tangled in her hair. A three-foot fallen Howdy Hug Me Bear had attached himself to her legs, his weight pulling her with him toward the waiting jaws of the green mole.
I saw Charlie bound for her, shouted for him to stop, and flew toward her. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a smiling roach boulder rolling toward him. Heather saw it, too.
"Charlie," we yelled.
He managed to leap away, at the cost of his balance. The board tilted, and he fell sliding toward the red mole.
I grabbed Heather with my tail as green mole's jaws sliced through Howdy Bear like hot butter. She fought me as the table tilted again. "Charlie! Get Charlie!"
Where was he? I twisted my neck and came face first with a grinning ladybug boulder.
Three points. Something launched itself at my wings. I went down hard, barely missing Heather.
We slid toward blue mole, fast, but not fast enough. I couldn't pull myself up, much less us both.
One wing was trapped under me. The jaws were closing. I did the only thing I could.
I pushed us into the darkness beyond its mouth.
Chapter Nine: Gonefinger
We slid down a long, winding, slick tube into the waiting nets of McThing's henchmen. I wish I could say I exited the tube snarling and ready for the fight, but it twisted and turned like some kind of sick joy ride. All I could do was fold my wings in tight, pull in my neck and tail, and hope I didn't break anything I might need later. As a result, Heather shot out face up and feet first, terrified yet nonetheless more dignified than the jumbled heap of dragon that followed.
I plopped onto the floor, felt a kick, and looked up at the starry nametag of Joe Henchman. "¿ Puedo f
umar?" I ventured.
"Give it up," he snarled and wacked me in the back of the neck with the butt of his shotgun. I saw both stars and irony while a steel net was thrown over me. I struggled weakly and felt barbs scrape the thick skin of my wings. I forced myself to focus and saw Charlie and Heather, bound, gagged, and throwing each other helpless looks. I didn't see Grace or the pixies.
A small truck, like gardeners use, backed toward me. I felt myself hoisted up and set on the bed. Spikes bit into my wings. Fighting a moan, I rolled quickly onto my side, where my weight was on my vest or my scales. With my face toward the front corner of the truck, I couldn't see where they'd taken Charlie or Heather. The puncture marks on my wings and skin began to itch in a frighteningly familiar way. Iron barbs, not steel.
Dragons don't have guardian angels. I tapped out a healing spell and prayed Grace or the Feds would find us before Charlie or Heather got killed or I got painfully inconvenienced. Then I closed my eyes and waited.
I was still aware of our progress up and through the butte, but every bump sent barbs into my skin and brought a new round of pain. I lost track of the turns. The spell kept the worst of the poison at bay; nonetheless, by the time we arrived at our destination, I felt prickly on my skin, sore in my joints, and vaguely nauseous.
A voice over an intercom said, "Is that any way to treat such a distinguished guest?
Surely, we can restrain him in a somewhat more fitting manner? And do wash down his wounds before you present him here. I appreciate the fine effort you put into making sure he was safely transported, but we don't want to distress his friends."
I didn't resist—in fact, I didn't move—as my captors pulled off the net and placed manacles on the three legs they could reach. Let them think I was still unconscious.
"Let's cut off his vest," Joe said. Bucking for another star, no doubt.
He wasn't the only one who could be proactive. I lolled my head just enough that my mouth rested against my upper pocket. I reached in with my tongue, wrapped it around my lockpick tools and had them settled into the pocket of my check by the time they'd sliced my vest and pulled off one side. They wrapped a chain around my middle. Then they rolled me over, cut away the other half of my vest, and hooked the ends of the chain, effectively trapping my wings at my sides. I allowed my eyes to open marginally as they manacled my last leg. They forgot the tail as usual. Funny how humans underestimate the usefulness of a dexterous tail. No one was getting a star for thinking outside the box today.
Someone turned a high-pressure hose on me. Maybe they intended it to hurt, but it cleaned out my wounds and felt wonderful. I actually let out a low moan of pleasure, though I'm sure they took it for pain. I heard the chrk-chrk! of rounds going into the chambers of shotguns.
"Where are my friends?" I slurred.
Joe answered. "You'll see them soon enough. Off the cart, please."
Please? Well, since he put it that way...
I climbed out, miserable and slow, wincing as I stepped on one of the iron barbs. I twisted my foot; the barb broke off in the pad. Four guards surrounded me. I stared at them groggily; then my stomach heaved. I twisted my head and vomited on two of them.
"Ugh!" One jerked back. With one hand holding the gun (now pointed at the ground), he used the other hand to brush off his uniform. The other henchman actually flung the soiled weapon away from himself.
The third guard snickered, but Joe exclaimed, "That's disgusting!"
"'Scuse me?" I replied. I leaned my head down to wipe my mouth with one manacled paw, palming my lockpick tools in the process.
"You two can't see Mr. McThing like this. There are...pink chunks."
"Those would be—"
"I don't want to know!" Joe shouted. "What a mess. Ralph, Chuck, get a shower and change uniforms. You!" He swung his rifle so the barrel rested on my nose. "You get the urge to empty your stomach again, you turn your head away from everyone. It's only basic manners."
Before I could protest I was surrounded, he gave my snout a poke. "I'll try," I muttered.
Joe called to Ralph, "Pull off your belt and give it to me." With the other guard covering him, he wound the wet leather around my snout and buckled it. "It's loose enough so you can answer McThing's questions, but I don't think you'll be able to try anything funny," he told me.
"You obviously haven't caught my night club act," I retorted without much energy.
With two, rather than four, guards flanking me, I limped my way into the evil overlord's lair.
* * * *
Lairs by Larry had struck again. The large room they escorted me into held a huge flat-screen TV encased in a walnut frame that perfectly matched the hardwood floors. The screen alternated between the italicized caption, "Please enjoy your captivity," and various landscape videos of Alcatraz, Guantanamo Bay, Devil's Island... I could only hope they were being ironic.
A macaroni-shaped conference table in a complementing wood, with plush office chairs in blue, green, and burgundy, presented its broad curve to us. The rest of the room seemed furnished for casual day—ottomans, poufs, and divans of matching colors were scattered about, along with some trendy little tables that looked like giant hands, elephant's legs, and British butlers.
A henchman sat at either end of the table. Despite their casual postures, their hands caressed the triggers of their machine guns. They probably had to have a minimum number of "I can sit alertly!" stars before being allowed to take those positions—literally and figuratively, of course.
At the center of the curve, not sitting, but leaning on its edge, posed McThing. I do mean posed. Butt against the table, ankles crossed, left arm across his stomach, one hand supporting his right elbow. He kept his other hand pressed against his mouth except when talking.
He took one look at me and said, "Oh, my! This is wonderful! This is just...too amazing.
A dragon. A real dragon."
Yeah, even undersized, bound, gagged, and suffering from iron poisoning, I had that effect. I settled myself into as regal a posture as I could, sitting upright with my tail around my front paws. My tail was actually out of proportion to my present size—for some reason, when God gave me back bits of my length, He chose to put it there—but it's really quite useful at times like this. The wider part of my tail covered my clawed fingers, the end of my tail, which split into two independently moving appendages, tucked neatly behind my front leg. Thus, no one could see me pulling my lockpick tool from between my claw; nor would they hear me working on the locks if I could get a diversion. I finished letting him geek out on my greatness while I counted henchmen. Two more—one at each exit. Six total. I wondered if the appropriately named Chuck and Ralph would join us, and how much time I had until then, if so.
"I just, so wish we could have met under different circumstances. But the muzzle!" He drew little circles with his fingers, his elbow never leaving the support of his other hand. He tapped his lips with a knuckle. "Joe? Was that your idea? Brilliant. Truly brilliant. VIRA, be a dear and register Joe for a star for initiative."
Behind him the scenery (ocean waves lapping against the beach of some prison island) narrowed into a thin line, and a Doppler pattern showed when the voice said, "Of course, Mr.
McThing. Congratulations, Joe. Good work."
Through the corner of my eye, I saw Joe preen. I tilted my head at McThing. He had to be kidding.
"Are you wondering about VIRA? Virtual Intelligence Reaction Apparatus. We use a somewhat simpler version in our toys. Howdy Hug Me Bears (Trademarked!) for example."
"Where are my friends?" I sounded bored, even to me. I was too tired and sore to go for menacing.
"Oh, they'll be joining us momentarily, Vern—may I call you Vern? But speaking of—
Joe? I thought we had four guards on our guest."
"My fault," I said. "I lost my lunch. They got in the way. Joe sent them to make themselves presentable"
"Which is why I wanted this time alone with you; to personally apologize o
n behalf of my staff for your deplorable treatment. I do encourage base-level initiative, but sometimes they get, well, overzealous."
"So hard to find good help," I sneered.
"Oh, on the contrary. I'm quite proud of my staff. But let's talk about you. Is there anything we can get you? Some ginger ale? Or maybe a bucket."
"I'm fine." I snarled as my stomach heaved again. My cheeks bulged.
"Oh, my! This won't do. Clay? Clay, please find Vern a large bucket just in case? I'm sure the janitorial staff can help you."
And then there were five.
"Tell me; iron…is it like kryptonite?"
"I'm not an alien." But I was feeling my own natural magics fading under the strain of fighting off the poison in my blood. I was also getting an interesting blind spot between the eyes.
I remembered one of the Costa kids who used me as a science project remarking that I shouldn't be able to see directly ahead because of the position of my eyes. Great time to find out she was right. The Feds will be here any time, I told myself. Just lower the odds and stall.
My foot was really starting to hurt. I shifted my weight.
"Something wrong with your paw?"
"I think there's a barb in it. Want to play Aesop's fable and come pull it out?"
"I hardly think that's wise." He smiled.
I glanced at Joe, who glared at me and took a step back. I shrugged and, awkwardly because of the manacles, twisted my front paw around so I could pull it out with my teeth. Then I targeted a convenient foot and spit.
Henchman Henry gave a most satisfying shriek as the narrow, sharp barb sliced through the leather of his shoe and embedded into his skin.
Joe whacked me on the nose with the barrel of his gun. I saw stars of my own for a moment, but another henchman was out of commission. I opened my mouth as wide as I could, licked at my own wound, careful to keep the now-unlocked manacle in place, studiously ignoring the momentary chaos as a hopping mad—and just plain hopping—henchman was directed out of the room, to the first aid station, I assumed. No one came to take his place. My foot felt better, but I'd pricked my lip on the barb, and I could feel it swelling like a bee sting. I pursed my lips against the numbness, oblivious to McThing's commentary. I was losing my edge—and my patience.
Live and Let Fly Page 10
