by Chris McCoy
“Hi?” said Ted when the man was hovering about ten feet away, but this time, the man actually did something. He smiled.
The smile, slick and clearly well-practiced, caused a bolt of fear to shoot up Ted’s spine. Ted darted for the meadow, running as fast as he could, but the strange man simply advanced more quickly, easily closing the gap between them and whipping around to confront Ted face to face.
“Well, well, well. I don’t think you should be here at all,” the man said, his voice deep and smooth as honey.
In the split second before Ted felt a hard blow on the side of his head and the world went black, he caught a second glimpse at the smile. White. Sharp. Fanged.
But then again, vampires always have good teeth.
Part Two
Persephone Skeleton stood in front of a full-length silver mirror combing her hair—or, more precisely, her wig. Over the past three hundred years, she felt she had evolved quite nicely into her fleshless, skinless, featherless appearance. She knew which looks worked for her and which didn’t, and she was secretly pleased that her weight had remained consistent. She was, after all, just bones—no skin, no feathers, just bones.
More specifically, she was just cockatoo bones, for Persephone Skeleton was a big, skeletal bird.
“Fabulous!” said Persephone. “Lovely, lovely me. Gorgeous!” It had taken Persephone a long time to reach her position of power, but here she was at last, looking down upon Ab-Com City from the uppermost room in its tallest building. Each time she crossed her window, she heard the crowd below roaring. From her exalted perch, she could see posters depicting her smiling, government-approved bird-skull image plastered on every building, hanging in every window. Never in the history of Middlemost had a politician won the presidency in such a ridiculous landslide. Pretty soon everything would be ready for her to start making good on some of her promises, and then things were going to get really exciting.
She pressed a button on her desk, and a moment later her assistant, Swamster, entered the room wearing a red bathing suit and several gold medals. Swamster was a unique abstract companion—half Olympic swimming champion, half hamster.
“Yes, beloved President Skeleton,” said Swamster, his whiskers quivering.
“Come faster next time, Swamster,” said Persephone. “The fact that you’ve been with me for years doesn’t mean your job is guaranteed.”
“Absolutely, most adored President Skeleton.”
“Now, tell me the status of our very special guest,” said Persephone.
“He … attempted to eat one of the guards.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, just that the guard we sent to retrieve him found him sitting in the middle of a field eating a ton of bacon. The guard approached him, but you see, the guard was a pig, and he ended up slaying the guard and then running off with his belly.”
“His belly?”
“That’s right. His belly. The other guards only found him when he made a campfire to roast up the guard’s belly.”
“But I trust that the other guards did manage to subdue him?” asked Persephone.
“Oh, they did, they did. Well, eventually they did, and I’ve been told they tied him to a camel using thick ropes. They should be on their way as we speak.”
“Camels are terribly slow.”
“Yes, but they are the best thing for our fragile ecosystem.”
Persephone leaned toward her assistant, all her bones clacking together as she moved.
“Wait,” said Persephone. “What?”
“Nothing, President Skeleton.”
“You talked back to me.”
“That was more of an … explanation.”
“And now you’re doing it again.”
“So sorry, President Skeleton.”
Persephone paused and Swamster trembled.
“Get out and don’t come back until he’s arrived,” said Persephone.
“Yes, Madam President.”
“And shave some of your fur and make me a hat out of it.”
Swamster liked his fur, but thought it best not to argue.
“Yes, President Skeleton. Be delighted to. Capital idea. Right away.”
Persephone rubbed her eyeholes in frustration and patted the spot where her beak used to be, wondering if it would improve her looks to have somebody’s nose chopped off and fastened to her skull.
But then, of course, I would have to have somebody else’s face removed to go ALONG with the nose, thought Persephone. A lone nose simply wouldn’t do. And THEN I’d have to have somebody’s scalp removed to go with that face, and I’d have to start thinking about what kind of hair would be prettiest with the body, and if
I’m going to do that, I might as well just get a whole skin SUIT to fit me properly.
Persephone really wanted to look good. For Scurvy.
She took another stroll by her window, prompting hurrahs from her fans below, which cheered her up. Her eternal pirate love would be here soon enough, and if he resisted—well, if he resisted, she would have him killed and stuffed and placed above her mantel, which might be almost as satisfying as having him alive and all to herself. Either way, Scurvy would be hers. Forever.
II
Ted could feel his brain floating around in his head, bonking against the inside of his skull. He could also feel the heat of a campfire, on the other side of which sat the vampire who had assaulted him. He checked his neck for holes.
“Not to worry,” said the vampire. “You’re not my blood type. I’m forever an O-positive guy, and you’re an AB-negative. Much too bitter for my taste.”
Ted pushed himself to a sitting position. He’d been lying in the dirt, and he could taste leaves in his mouth.
“Apologies,” said a different voice. “We bet on how many leaves we would be able to cram in your mouth.”
“Perhaps you would like to introduce yourself to our humble roundtable?” the vampire suggested.
“My name is Ted,” said Ted.
There were murmurs from the group, and money changed hands, most of which was going to the vampire.
“I said that you look just like a Ted,” said the vampire. “But my companions bet that you must be a Gustafson or a Zhang.”
“Zhang?”
“They’re not terribly good wagerers, but you’ll soon learn that for yourself,” said the vampire.
“Not much elssse to do at night assside from talking and betting,” boomed another voice, whose owner sounded like he was sucking in water and spit as he spoke.
Ted looked at his own feet and saw that he was barefoot.
“What the—” he said, his reaction sending a ripple of laughter through the group. More money changed hands.
“We also bet on how long it would take for you to discover that we threw your shoes into the fire,” the vampire explained.
“Why would you do that?” said Ted.
“Because you insisted on staying unconscious,” said the vampire.
“You knocked me unconscious! Who are you, anyway?”
“I knocked you out only to make sure you came along, but we’ll get to that in a moment,” said the vampire. “As for your question, may I first refer you to the well-sculpted gentleman?”
“Sculpted?”
“The well-sculpted Monodon monoceros to my left—Dr. Narwhal.”
“Pleasssed to meet you,” said Dr. Narwhal, but Ted was unable to reply, awed as he was by the sheer mass of the Arctic narwhal, who was covered in rolls of fat that spilled over each other and trembled every time Dr. Narwhal moved. In the center of Dr. Narwhal’s head was a ten-foot-long tusk that resembled a javelin. From biology class, Ted somehow remembered that the tusk was actually a long tooth, which no doubt accounted for the narwhal’s difficulty with pronouncing the letter s. Hanging around the narwhal’s enormous neck was a stethoscope.
“And to my right,” continued the vampire, “you’ll see the sensitive artistic genius Vango.”
“Can I
call you Theo? Agh! Itchy! Sorry!” said Vango. His Dutch accent was thick, and he was scratching at the bandage that covered his left ear.
“But my name is Ted,” said Ted.
“Like from Theodore? Bats! In my hair!” said Vango.
“Yes,” said Ted.
“But that’s so close,” said Vango. “Swirls! In my eyes!”
“Please just call me Ted.”
“You’ll find that Vango often colors his sentences with additional details,” said the vampire. “He sees the world differently than the rest of us.”
“Who are you?” said Ted.
“Ah. I am Dwack,” said the vampire. “Member of the eternal undead, and the unofficial tailor for this group.”
“He’s great at hemming,” said Vango. “I should have had him hem my ear.”
“He stitched me a nice jacket,” said Dr. Narwhal.
“You should wear that jacket more often,” said Dwack. “It’s slimming and—”
“STOP!” said Ted.
The three turned to look at him.
“You still haven’t told me where I am,” said Ted.
“Ah, apologies,” said Dwack. “You’re in Middlemost, the place where we abstract companions are born.”
“And the place to which we return when we’ve been tossed assside,” said Dr. Narwhal.
III
Scurvy was strapped to a foul-smelling camel, and his back was sore from fighting with Persephone’s guards—an Irish athlete holding a hurley, which was an ax-shaped stick used in the sport of hurling, and an Indian man holding a cricket bat.
“Like eating that rope, do ya? Like the way it tastes?” said the Hurler, smacking Scurvy on the back of the head.
“Mmmf,” said Scurvy.
“Mmmf is right,” said the Cricketer.
“Trfl ee nfng prrsph,” said Scurvy.
“Take off the gag for now,” said the Cricketer. “It’ll be fun to put it on him again.”
The Hurler removed the gag.
“What do you want to say?” said the Hurler.
“Just curious,” said Scurvy, spitting out some sand that had been bugging him, “why ya felt tha need tah abduct me while I was minding me own business eatin’ bacon, and if it might have something tah do with Persephone’s recent political victory.”
“You are supposed to call her the Most Honorable President Skeleton,” said the Hurler.
“Honorable? That bag of bones ain’t ever been right in tha noggin!” said Scurvy. “And now she’s got all this bleedin’ political power! What a nightmare.”
“And why does she want to see you?” said the Cricketer.
Scurvy paused. “Never ya mind that,” he said.
“Fine, then,” said the Hurler, moving toward Scurvy with the gag.
“No, wait, not tha gag,” said Scurvy. “I’ll tell ya. Perseph—er, the Honorable President or whatever she is, she used tah be me bird.”
“Your bird, as in, your lady?” said the Hurler.
“Me bird as in tha bird that used to sit on me shoulder when I was sailing tha high seas. She was me little skeleton cockatoo,” said Scurvy.
“She’s tall now,” said the Hurler.
“Guess she can afford a bit of tha old chop-chop cosmetic surgery,” said Scurvy.
“So why does your old pet want to see you?” said the Hurler.
“Well,” said Scurvy, “I always got tha feeling that me Persephone was a bit different than tha birds me mates had, aside from being a skeleton and all. Their birds might sit on yer shoulder and take some food out of yer hand, but ya always got tha sense that they were just birds—they’d look out at tha water, they’d squawk, but ya knew they had little brains and ya knew they were gonna be tha same tomorrow as they were today.
“Not my Persephone, though. When I looked into that bird’s eye sockets, there was something strange there. This is gonna sound mad tah ya, but that bird loved me—I’d be willing tah bet me life on it. I used tah be trying tah captain my ship, and she would just sit on me shoulder and stare at me. Stare at me like we were on our honeymoon, and without eyeballs at that.”
“Birds do such things, lad,” said the Hurler. “I had a bird. I put a mirror in its cage—the thing used to look at itself all day long.”
“But it wasn’t just tha staring. You know how birds talk? ‘Polly want a cracker,’ that kind of stuff?”
“Of course,” said the Cricketer.
“Persephone never said anything like that. She’d go like this: ‘Squawk! I love you! Squawk! You fulfill me! Squawk! Let’s have some fledglings! Squawk! You’ll learn to love me!’ I swear to ya.”
“Now you’re just wasting our time. Help me out, mate,” said the Hurler.
The gag went back into Scurvy’s mouth.
Scurvy felt the up-and-down motion of the camel underneath him. He examined the sand. He was destined for water, and this landscape was quite unnatural to him.
Despite his predicament, Scurvy wondered where Ted was, how he was doing, how his first month of school had gone. Scurvy hoped he was happy. It used to break his heart watching Ted get beat up every day. Slicing open packages of bacon was one thing, but Scurvy knew that cutting off the head of a high school bully wasn’t allowed, as much as he might want to do it. Ab-coms couldn’t interfere to that degree. It was against the rules set by the founders of Middlemost thousands of years ago and still adhered to by all ab-coms.
More than anything, Scurvy was angry at himself for not telling Ted things he should have told him much earlier. Like not telling Ted how important he was. He hoped that all the ab-coms hadn’t yet been called back from Earth, because if they had, terrible things were in store.
IV
Ted was awakened at the crack of dawn by Vango, who was brushing his cheek with a horsehair paintbrush, a contented look on his face, murmuring something that sounded like “pretty as a picture,” though in the fog of half sleep, Ted couldn’t be entirely sure.
“Good morning, sweet Theo,” said Vango. “Sweet like a macaroon!”
“Time to leave!” said Dwack.
Ted had slept fitfully, dreaming of the Crusher and claustrophobic tunnels. A nervous feeling washed over him.
“I’ll stay here,” said Ted. “You go on ahead.”
Dwack and Dr. Narwhal just looked at Ted while Vango removed a canvas painting from its easel and slipped it into a bag. Ted caught a glimpse of the picture, which appeared to be a portrait of him with his eyes closed. Had Vango been painting him while he was sleeping?
“You don’t know anything about where you are,” Dwack said to Ted.
“True. But where are you going?” said Ted.
“We just have to keep moving because, technically, what we’re doing here is illegal,” said Dwack.
“WOULD SOMEBODY PLEASE TELL ME WHAT IS GOING ON?” screamed Ted, his voice echoing above the forest.
V
Ted had picked an unfortunate time to shout, for at the same time he was demanding to be told what was going on, one of President Skeleton’s hot-air surveillance balloons was floating high above. A three-eyed emu named Ewd, who was operating the balloon, heard his voice echoing all around her.
“What the—” said Ewd, whose job was to search for ab-coms who, through either insanity or suicidal tendencies, had decided not to obey the presidential recall decree. The emu leaned over the side of her basket, batted her telescope into position using the side of her head, and peered through the eyehole, looking straight down at the forest below.
A thousand feet below her, she caught glimpses of a narwhal shuffling ponderously across the forest floor, an artist cleaning his teeth with a paintbrush, and a vampire arguing with a teenage boy.
The emu pressed the button on her talkie-talkie.
“I’ve located four deserters,” said Ewd. “Request permission to blow them up.” The emu glanced at her bag of TNT, which she had been itching to use ever since she’d gotten her surveillance job.
“What
do the deserters look like?” came the static-drenched response.
“Hmm … a narwhal, a vampire, an impressionist artist, and a teenage boy.”
“Early impressionist?” came the response.
“Hard to tell from here,” said Ewd. “Maybe postimpressionist, but that’s just a gut feeling based on the way the guy is dressed, his palette, his choices of color.”
The emu was proud of her art-history knowledge, having been the ab-com for a New York City child whose parents forced high-level cultural lessons on him as a toddler.
“Anything strange about the teenage boy?”
“Looks like he and the vampire have something going on together. Again, request permission to explode them, boom.”
“Request denied. We’ll send out a recon team. Seems worth following them if there’s a chance that they might lead us to an ACORN cell. Keep an eye on them until we get there.”
“Fine, fine,” said Ewd. “I never get to do anything combustible. Out.”
Ewd put down her talkie-talkie and let the wind push her hot-air balloon along. As a bird that couldn’t fly, she liked having this perspective on the world, looking down on everything, imagining what it would be like to blow everything up, wondering how high the resulting clouds of smoke would rise. Would they drift all the way up here? she thought, disappointed that she couldn’t obliterate the deserters and find out right away. She had been told that her impatience was one of the reasons that she wasn’t chosen for a higher position in the Presidential Guard. It would be best to show everybody that she could control her impulses. For now.
Six years ago, when she was living a wilder lifestyle, she would have blown the deserters sky-high and danced over their ashes. She had definitely matured.
“Ack! Where are they?” said Ewd, once again craning her neck over the side of the basket. If she’d lost sight of them, her bosses were going to be quite miffed. She swung the telescope around. Still nothing. The deserters had deserted.
“Crud!” said Ewd out loud. “I’m always messing things up.” She sighed and then stuck her head in her bag of TNT, hiding from the world and all her mistakes.
