The Return: Disney Lands

by Ridley Pearson

  They’d reached a door clear across the room on the far wall. Tim held the doorknob but waited to turn it.

  “Answer the question,” he said.

  “Okay. I’d hide them in an archive. A secret archive. And I’d hire someone to live in the basement and keep an eye on all those secrets.” Amanda paused. “Fine. I get it now. But…why bring me?”

  “You think I was going to come down here alone? I may be dumb, but I’m not stupid.”

  Amanda answered with a frank, grim expression. “There’s something wrong here. I’ll give you that much.” Chills racked her body, shooting along her limbs. “I think maybe I’ve seen enough.”

  “You realize how close you are to the history of television and video technology in the parks? Look, all basements are weird. This one in particular. But did I feel a wave of cold or fingers around my neck? No, I did not. Not even close. I just freaked myself out.” Tim smiled ruefully. “And I freaked you out, too. Hey, when I was a kid, my brother used to tie me up and leave me in the basement. We had a big house, very old, and the basement was cold and smelled bad. I still have nightmares. But I fight past it. You have to ask yourself: what are you trying to find, Amanda? And why? Don’t try the word ‘curiosity.’ I’m not buying.”

  “Fine,” Amanda said tartly, “because I’m not selling.”

  “Sure you are. You’ve been selling since we met. You just happened to want my book? Just happened to need help in my area of interest? Do you want to try again? Start all over?”

  “Think what you want,” Amanda said.

  “That’s not an answer. You’re avoiding the question.”

  “You first.”

  They locked eyes in the dark. After a moment, Tim shrugged and said, “There are some interesting historical overlaps I need verified. Technical observations. If you look closely, really closely, at the history of Imagineering, you find uncanny connections between big technological jumps in video transmission—think, television—radio/wireless devices, and Disney. There are all these rumors. I’d love to confirm or debunk them.”

  “See?” Amanda said. “That wasn’t so hard! Telling the truth is a lot easier than it sounds.”

  “Easier for me than you, apparently,” Tim said, fighting a grin. He motioned forward, but Amanda slipped behind him, allowing him to lead the way down yet another aisle framed by towering shelves. These held paint cans, replacement furniture, plumbing parts, light fixtures, toilets. It looked like a hardware superstore.

  The faintest sound startled them both. A creak. A drip of water. Gurgling pipes. The grind of distant machinery, a continuous whine from the overhead tube lights.

  Tim’s obvious anxiety was a relief to Amanda. She whispered, “Have you ever noticed that scared and sacred are basically the same word?”

  In spite of himself, Tim almost laughed. “Never.”

  A sound like a whirring kitchen mixer rose up to overpower all others.

  “What is that?” Amanda hissed.

  Ahead of her, Tim had reached an intersection of aisles; his attention was fully absorbed by the black paint stripe at their feet, which split left, right, and continued straight.

  “It’s such ancient technology,” he breathed, “I didn’t recognize what it was!”

  She wasn’t going to say anything. He resembled a bloodhound on the scent and she didn’t want to get bit. Tim checked in both directions, brushing his hair out of his eyes.

  “I can’t see it yet, but I hear it.”

  “It? Who? What?” Amanda let slip, and instantly chastised herself. “Forget I asked! I didn’t mean to say any—”

  “Shut up!” he snapped, and went back to listening intently, moving his head to hear. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do.” He backed up, knelt, and waved her down alongside. “We’re going to belly-crawl over there.” He pointed across the intersection to the same aisle they were now in. “As we do, you’re going to look right. I’ll look left. We keep low and we keep moving no matter what. Got it?”

  “No, I don’t ‘got it’! Why? What’s out there?”

  “The three-nineties have slow focus!” Tim said. “Once we’re across—”

  “Wait! What’s a three-ninety?”

  “Once across, we’ll hide until he passes. After that, we should be okay.”

  “He? Dirk?”

  “I wish!” Tim said. “Ready?”

  “No, I’m not—”

  But Tim dropped to his stomach and crawled out into the intersection of aisles. Amanda joined him, mimicking his moves.

  At first she thought what she saw was some sort of industrial vacuum or cleaner. But it wasn’t that at all.

  A twelve-inch diameter metallic cylinder rose from its moving base to an inverted triangle of metal at the top. Perched on the triangle was a silver ball with three glass lenses aimed out. A tri-clops robot. Fat, black rubber hoses created shoulders and elbows. On one arm a claw, and the other four fingers. The head spun like an owl’s.

  Shaking with fear, Amanda crawled across the intersection and crouched by Tim.

  “It’s a robot!” she hissed.

  “A STAN three-ninety. Way ahead of its time when the Imagineers introduced it. Ancient technology now; prehistoric, really.” He urged her onto the lowest shelf behind them and climbed up alongside of her.

  “Put your back against this pallet,” he said.

  “But…I mean…a robot!”

  “Yeah. Amazing it still runs. It tracks along the magnetic strip painted on the floor. It was initially used in inventory robotics; the Imagineers wrote about three-nineties someday replacing librarians. This goes to my earlier point: the Imagineers aren’t credited with half of what they apparently invented. I want to fix that.”

  Tim seemed to be talking to himself. “A three-ninety doesn’t see well below eighteen inches,” he muttered. “If we stay low on the shelf, we should be okay.”

  “Should be?”

  “The question is,” Tim said, staring into the space before them, “who revived a three-ninety, and why? Dirk?”

  “Is it dangerous?” Amanda asked. To her surprise, Tim answered.

  “Could be, if it’s been modified. Wasn’t designed that way. It can probably record video. Possibly broadcast live sound. Dirk’s been busy, it seems.”

  “All this leaves us where, exactly?”

  “Stuck,” Tim said. “I suggest we don’t exactly test it. If we move, it’s going to see us. If it sees us and it’s broadcasting, we’re seen by whoever’s monitoring it. Once it gets out of here, we can head over to the next aisle and keep going.”

  “This does not sound good,” Amanda said.

  “Look at it this way: We must have presented some kind of threat if a three-ninety was dispatched to patrol the area. Right? This is a very good sign!”

  “It seems more like we should turn around. Go back.”

  “Are you kidding? We just got here.”

  “The farther we go, the deeper we’re in,” Amanda said.

  “I know! Fun, isn’t it?”

  THE STAN 390 GROUND ITS WAY along the magnetic stripe, turning down the aisle that harbored Tim and Amanda. As it groaned past, the two held their breaths reflexively, and then rolled off the shelf into the next aisle. The shelving in this row held bare mattresses and pillows wrapped in plastic, dozens of dressers, and hundreds of desk lamps.

  Once they escaped, they moved carefully, keeping track of the robot through gaps in the contents on the shelves. They checked in all directions, stopping randomly to listen.

  A minute later, the sounds changed. A steady groan behind them. Another ahead and well to their right.

  Tim held up two fingers. Two 390s closing in. Possibly a third the next aisle over. Tim and Amanda were being squeezed.

  Quietly, his face resolute, Tim tore open a packet of cloth napkins. He and Amanda tied them around their faces like bandits. Then they climbed up on another shelf and lay down flat. A different sound, like a garbage truck picking up
a trash can, filled the air. Tim rose on his arms as if he were doing a push-up. A claw appeared and stabbed out at his shoulder. There was a buzz; the smell of ozone hung in the air, and Tim shook, electrified. Stunned.

  Trying to keep her breathing level steady to reduce her growing panic, Amanda dragged him out of reach of the probe. The 390 readjusted its claw. Amanda dragged a box toward her, hoping to use it as a shield. But the packaging was old. The cardboard crumbled like ash, revealing a framed mirror.

  Tim moaned, coming awake.

  Amanda shifted the mirror, tilting it so the 390’s lens would aim at its surface. Behind her, Tim came up on an elbow.

  The 390 made a spinning sound, its optics—or the man running them—seemingly confused.

  But the respite was short-lived. The support beneath her shook and rattled. The 390 was pulling the shelving apart, trying to dislodge its contents. Including Tim and Amanda.

  “What the…?” Tim slurred, as he and Amanda slid to the edge.

  Amanda saw no other choice. She pushed the 390. It fell over. Again.

  Sounds of twisting metal filled the room like a soda can crushing under a shoe. An array of sparks was followed by a puff of smoke.

  “Can you move?” Amanda asked.

  “Did you do that?” Tim croaked.

  “Follow me,” she said.

  “How did you do that?”

  “Shut up and follow me!”

  Amanda slipped over the side of the shelf and climbed down, her face pinched with worry.

  HAVING LED A RECOVERING TIM back to the laundry room, Amanda crossed to the far door, hoping to reach the elevators. A loud buzz on the other side of the door spurred her into action. A 390.

  “No good! Help me!” she called.

  She and Tim slid a heavy piece of machinery forward to block the door.

  “The other door!” A 390 could be heard there as well. Moving fast, she and Tim shut the door and blocked it with a cabinet.

  “Trapped,” Tim gasped.

  The doors banged and shook; the doorjambs cracked and gave way. As both doors pushed open an inch or two, Tim uttered an expletive Amanda would rather not have heard.

  “Steady!” Using her phone as a flashlight, Amanda surveyed the room. The industrial clothes dryers might be large enough to hide in, but once in, there was no way out. Towering coiled springs arced over the ironing tables, meant to hold the wire away from the hot iron.

  Pulling himself together, Tim spotted two identical wood-slatted cabinets. “Dumbwaiters!” He pushed the button to the side of the door. Nothing.

  “No power!” Tim complained loudly.

  “What did you say?” Her brain had confused the word “power” with “powder.” No powder!

  She spotted a group of metal garbage cans alongside the laundry machines. Inside was white, powdery detergent.

  The force on both doors continued. The barriers Tim and Amanda had put in place were slipping and giving way, the doors slowly opening.

  Tim wandered across the room, his eyes trained onto the ceiling. He banged into a folding table.

  “Hey, snap out it!” she called.

  “Shut it! I’m working, princess.”

  “I need help over here.”

  No response. Realizing Tim was useless, Amanda dragged the first can of detergent to the closest door and dumped its contents onto the floor. Soap flakes, like a pile of sand. She dragged another toward the opposite door.

  “A little help!” she called. The cans were heavy; she was out of breath. “Please!”

  “Not now, princess.”

  “Do…not…call me that!” Amanda managed to dump the second can in front of the opening door.

  “Got it!” Tim called out.

  Both doors continued to move. They’d be open in a matter of seconds.

  “Masks up!” Amanda hollered, pulling her own napkin covering back into place.

  Tim stood in front of an electrical panel. His eyes were vacant and bright, fixed on a spot in the distance.

  “Electricity,” Amanda said, wonder in her tone.

  “That’s the idea! For the dumbwaiters!” he called back, tripping one circuit breaker after another. Most did nothing—and then the overhead lights flashed on.

  To Amanda’s left, the 390’s electronic claw maneuvered inside and—amazingly!—swept the piece of heavy machinery aside as if it were an empty cardboard box. The door gave way.

  Amanda ran to the washing machines. She worked furiously to unscrew the hoses but couldn’t overcome the decades of rust. Involuntarily, she formed a fist and pounded the machine out of sheer frustration.

  The washing machine slid five feet along the floor.

  Amanda gasped as the hose she’d been battling tore off from the back of the washer. She’d pushed without thinking about it. Without focusing. With her fist! A first! She seized the hose and cranked a stubborn faucet. The hose burped, jumped, coughed, and spit. Brown water shot from it like a fire hose.

  At the same instant, a 390 grumbled through the nearest door and rolled forward into the pile of laundry detergent that covered its magnetic floor stripe. Its underlying wheels and rollers crunched; the robot sprayed dry detergent behind it like a dog digging a hole.

  Amanda aimed the water stream into a long, high rainbow arc. It fell short. She raised the hose higher. The detergent roiled into suds as the stream splashed at the base of the robot. Sparks exploded, smoke coiled. The robot belched a nasty gray haze and went silent. Dead.

  “YES!” Tim cheered.

  Amanda swung the hose to her right. The other 390 had also faltered in the detergent. It tipped over and smashed to the concrete. She doused it, rendering it a smoking heap of short-circuited metal.

  “Over here!” Tim held a dumbwaiter open. “You first,” he said, motioning her inside the small box—an elevator for laundry baskets.

  “Who’s there?” a old man’s voice called into the space.

  Dirk, Amanda thought angrily. Dirk the Jerk.

  “I’ll take the other one,” Tim whispered. “Hurry!” He pushed her lightly, urging her in.

  “But the button’s on the outsi—”

  Tim stuffed her inside, slid the wood-slatted barrier down, and pushed the button.

  Nothing happened. He cursed and slapped the dumbwaiter’s call button once, then again.

  The small cage shook and groaned. For Amanda, everything went dark.

  “STOP!” DIRK. His voice was furious and loud.

  Tim wedged himself into the remaining dumbwaiter. As Amanda had pointed out, one couldn’t trip the call button from inside because the gate had to be lowered first.

  He pulled the gate shut, kicked hard, and broke one of the slats. He reached through and punched the button. The dumbwaiter ascended. But Tim’s wrist was stuck, caught between the slats. As the dumbwaiter dragged upward, his hand would be cut off.

  Dirk pushed through the laundry room door.

  Tim yanked his hand free just before it would have been severed. The dumbwaiter’s interior went dark. From where Dirk stood, he saw only the last few inches of an ascending dumbwaiter and, through its gate, a pair of blue Converse All Stars.

  The image of the shoes lodged firmly in his mind as he looked down and cried out, bemoaning the destruction of his beloved 390s.

  “SO, HOW WAS IT? You look sweaty,” Jess told Amanda as she entered their dorm room.

  Amanda collapsed onto the bed beneath her lavishly decorated wall. Her hair was plastered to her forehead, and her cheeks were deeply flushed.

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Nothing special. Just a big basement.”

  “You smell like laundry soap, and your shoes are wet. So are your pants. You’re beet red, too, and your hair’s a mess.”

  “We found the laundry room. We were a little…active. It’s not much, believe me.”

  “I want to believe you,” Jess said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”
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  “It means you’re not telling me something and you don’t sound like yourself.”

  “Look, if I tell you, Jess, and anyone asks you about what happened down there, you’ll have to lie. And you don’t want to be part of this. Right?”

  “So what, you’re protecting me now?”

  “I’m trying to, yes.”

  “If you’re protecting me, something bad happened.”

  Amanda said nothing.

  “What about the archives?”

  Nothing.

  “So you’re not going to tell me anything? This is me, Mandy!”

  Nothing.

  “You’re mad at me for not going.” Jess sounded sick. She sat back blindly, dropping down onto the bed. “We do everything together, but I didn’t do this, and you’re mad.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “You pushed! Oh my gosh, you pushed! That’s why you’re so tired. How did I miss that?”

  “Stop. Please, Jess. Just stop.”

  “I care about you!”

  “This is what you wanted. You need to think about that.”

  Amanda undressed, putting on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. She climbed into bed and rolled over, giving Jess her back. “Go to sleep,” she said softly.

  “Just because Finn can’t let go doesn’t mean you have to hold on, too.”

  “Go…to…sleep.”

  Jess turned off the light and sat in bed, staring across the room, wondering at the divide that existed there—a space so much bigger than the gap between their beds. For the first time in their life together, something had separated them. That distance felt wider than the Grand Canyon, though to be fair, she’d never seen the Grand Canyon.

  Confused and stung by her exclusion, Jess’s vision blurred with tears.

  “Please?” she whispered.

  Amanda didn’t speak, just sighed and tugged the sheet higher on her shoulders.

  In the dark, her eyes were wide and sad.

  “I hate this,” Jess said. The words were still swimming around her head when she fell asleep thirty minutes later.