The Night Sheriff, page 21
A feeling of calmness settles over me. “Tell me.”
“You’re an integral part of the park,” she whispers. “It … it can’t function properly with you gone. Too much would be out of balance. They figure that’s why the old Prognosticator went wonky to begin with. But luckily … lucky for the Park, you understand … something takes your place. It all settles back into greased grooves. Just … without you.”
“When?”
“Within seventy-two hours.”
I feel most peculiar. The refusal of the gremlins to assist me makes perfect sense now. I will lose whatever contest I will face in the next few hours, and the gremlins do not wish to start out on the wrong foot with my successor. Arguments about causality and whether I would, in fact, lose if they did assist me are pointless. I’m not saying this outcome couldn’t be changed, changing unpleasant outcomes was rather the whole idea when they built the Prognosticator, but it’s … difficult to do; rather like trying to redirect a river, I’m told, and there are often humorously ironic “unintended consequences” that take a great deal of time and effort to rectify.
No, the gremlins have seen a future where they survive. The question of my survival, while of interest, is not important enough for them to jeopardize their safety. For what it’s worth, I suspect they might actually feel bad about it, but … I bump into a wall, and with a jolt of embarrassment I realize that I am in a bit of a daze. Suddenly I become aware of a droning sound, coming from all around me.
I snap back to awareness, and I see the gremlins. Hundreds, possibly thousands of them, all around me, lining the walls and floor, standing amongst the now frozen figurines of the ride itself. They are the source of the sound. They are singing. Gremlin songs, like so much about them, are different. This is a warm, wordless sound that fills the world and suffuses me with a feeling of belonging and purpose. Slowly rising and falling in a solid, comforting sequence, it is the sound of vast, idealized machines functioning perfectly, and, I realize, they are singing it to me. They are honoring me, as they would honor a lost engineer, or a well-made part that functioned right up until it could function no more. It is their highest honor, and I find myself deeply moved. Perhaps they will feel bad about me for longer than I had thought. You might think this to be cold comfort, but considering that I had always thought I would be forgotten and unmourned by anyone or anything, it is actually quite comforting indeed.
According to the clock mounted near the door, the Park will have closed. I roll my shoulders and they crackle comfortingly. No more hiding. There will be “a lot of death”? Very well. I do not know if it will be the deaths of innocents or enemies, but I shall do my best to tip the balance as far as I can from the one to the other, while seeing to it that only a statistically insignificant amount of it will be my own.
I step out and look around. “Where to, boss?” Bone Cat is uncharacteristically low-key. Of course. My death will affect him. How? We cannot know, but change is coming.
I gently swing him off my shoulder. He stares at me with his softly glowing eyes. “I have discussed your situation with Celeste. If … when I am gone, she will attempt to bring you back. We do not know if it will work, but I wanted you to know that I have tried.”
He stared at me and then, twisting, bit my hand. “Great,” he groused. “So I get to hang around here without you. Thanks a heap.” I realize that’s the best reaction I could’ve gotten and pat his head before I again set him on my shoulder and look about.
How peculiar. I see the park with fresh eyes. How many times had I wished that I might never see it again? Now I effortlessly catalog a cherished memory for every place I glance. Now, admittedly, many of these memories involve me terrorizing or feeding upon some hapless villain, but not all of them. Not by any stretch of the imagination, thank you.
There are innumerable memories of children reunited with parents, treasured objects found, and interesting philosophical and metaphysical discussions with people over the years. Some were one-time incidents with random guests—almost every extraordinary intellect in the world has made its way here at least once. But some of the most interesting discussions were with colleagues and fellow employees, the effects of which tended to develop over years, like slow-ripening fruit. Some were moments of bonding with fellow creatures of the dark, whether through reasoned intellectual give-and-take or through a judicious use of applied violence.
And then there was Vandy. Ah, there is a universe of regret and unfulfilled possibilities. Masochistically, I turn my feet towards her station. I suppose I should be figuring out how to deal with the assorted security personnel …
I stop short and look about, cursing my carelessness. I don’t see any security people at all. Oh, there are the usual employees shutting down their shops, but I have been out on the street for several minutes now, and I’ll admit that I had expected to be quickly surrounded by some sort of assault force. But there is nothing. A few of the older employees see me—and wave as they pass. Usually they stop and chat, but they all look like they have somewhere to be. I detect no fear of me. Evidently my status as a dark, soulless thing of evil was only revealed to the new employees. Understandable enough, they are the ones with the guns, but I don’t see any of them.
Obviously, my enemy is trying a different tactic. I glance towards the nearest camera. It is tracking me without subtlety. So they know where I am, and they are biding their time. I glance about. The park is empty of guests; perhaps they are waiting for the employees to leave as well. Good. Now that I think about it, I suppose that it is just as well that they did not know of my friendship with—
“There you are,” Vandy says. I stare at her in astonishment, and then rub my eyes furiously. It does not feel like a glamour, but—I feel her hesitant touch upon my arm, and I know it is her. Again I stare at her. I open my mouth but I cannot speak. What is she doing here?
“You didn’t come by as I was closing, so I started looking for you, but then I realized that you could be anywhere. So I figured I’d just wait somewhere that had a lot of traffic and here you are!” She then poked me in the chest. “You sure took your time, Mister.”
“But … but you weren’t here,” I stammer.
“Yeah, I had two days off. Remember? I asked you—” She sees my face and a light dawns. She rolls her eyes. “Wait. Was I supposed to be all ‘Oh my god, it’s a monster!’ and faint or move to Bolivia or something? Please. I’ve been seeing monsters and vampires and ghosts and aliens and fairies and … and whatever on TV and in the movies all my life. It’s not this big new idea, okay?
“See, I always suspected that the government encouraged all those types of movies and TV shows because it was trying to get people used to the idea of weird creatures existing and being all cute and intelligent and stuff so that when the real space aliens landed and were all ‘Hey, yo, we’re here to like, invite you into the Space Federation and here’s a cure for war and acne,’ people wouldn’t be all like ‘Zomighod bug-eyed monsters! Kill them!’”
She looked pensive. “Of course, if they are all totally evil and come here to enslave us and steal all our water, then somebody would have totally fucked up and—”
I enveloped her in a hug, which had the added benefit of checking her nervous flow of words. She gasped, and then returned it fiercely. I allowed myself several glorious seconds, then reluctantly pulled back and held her at arm’s length. “You … you shouldn’t be talking to me. It’s very dangerous.”
“Too late,” Vandy shrugs. “I already think you’re pretty cool.” She looks me in the eye. “So I’m only asking because if I don’t, you’ll probably take another two hundred years to get around to it, but are you one of those monsters that can, you know, fool around?”
Bone Cat starts to laugh, but then discovers that he cannot, as I’m compressing him into a ball approximately two inches in diameter. “I am serious,” I snarl. “Someone is trying to kill me, which means you could be in danger.”
“Death is here,” Bone Cat whispers.
Vandy gasps, and looks around, and then starts to kick him. I stop her, and the look upon my face causes her to freeze. I realize that I have not sensed anyone else near us for quite some time. I speak quietly. “Were there any special instructions about closing tonight?”
Even before I am done, her hand flies to her mouth. “Yes! But I forgot when you didn’t show up! They’re fumigating the park or something. We’re all supposed to be out before midnight.”
It is easily past midnight now, and I don’t believe this ridiculous fumigation story for a moment. I must get her to the nearest exit as soon as possible. Vandy gives a squeak as I encircle her with my arms and lift—And we both grunt in surprise as I crash back to earth, my lifting muscles twin stripes of pain. My encounter with the McGoon had been more damaging than I had thought. “Sorry,” I mutter as we straighten up. “But we have to get you out of here.” I point towards the west. “The closest exit is that way.” I glance towards Bone Cat for confirmation that the way is clear, but he focuses on a spot immediately behind me, obviously seeing something I cannot, and slowly shakes his head. “He’s … I don’t think there is a good way to go, boss.”
Vandy says nothing, an indication that she is taking this seriously. As we move, I extend my perceptions until I can hear the worms humming their endless roundelay symphonies beneath our feet, and yet it is Vandy who sees the child in the distance. He is thin, dark-skinned, and indifferently dressed, leaning nonchalantly against a closed Weasel-Fruit stand. When he sees that we are aware of his presence, he silently dashes off towards the Cavalcade of Mismatched Socks ride.
This is certainly not the first time I have discovered a child determined to live the dream of making Zenonland their new home, but the timing certainly could not be worse.
I briefly consider ignoring him, but Vandy is already after him. I clash my teeth in frustration and catch up to her. My hand upon her arm stops her dead. “I will deal with this rapscallion,” I assure her. “You get out of the park and inform a Night Manager that there is a child loose within.”
The logic of this preempts any objection she might have, and she nods once. Then, before I understand what she is doing, she leans in and gives me a peck upon my cheek. She has kissed me.
“See you tomorrow, Sheriff,” she calls over her shoulder as she trots off.
She has kissed me. What kind of foolish, misguided impulse led her to do that? She has no idea what I am capable of and that I am going to be dead or worse within hours and whoever thinks that they can simply stroll into my kingdom, destroy my resting places, kill innocent people, and try to prevent me from dressing Vandy down for that impertinent kiss are going to be very sorry indeed. I am in such a state that I am almost upon the young man before his behavior finally rouses me from my inner maelstrom.
We are in the Great Green Square, which was built as a direct architectural rebuttal to the Soviet Union’s Great Red Square (occasionally Mr. Bartholomew’s more patriotic ideas looked better on paper). I see him clearly now. For some reason I had thought him older, but as I study him, I see he cannot be older than twelve. I have a shock of recognition. This is the urchin who was sitting in my office. He is standing directly in the center and is just staring at me. Waiting. Not like a child who has been caught doing something naughty, but like … a hunter.
Ironically, I have the McGoon to thank for my continued existence. Instinctively, I leap upwards, but stall out less than six inches up. Thus the shot the boy snaps off with the rifle he had concealed behind his back passes over my head, instead of catching me square in the chest. I shift to near immateriality just in time. A second shot rips through my center and I feel it burning as it passes through. These must be the “enhanced” bullets that were being handed out to the security personnel. Even though they wouldn’t kill me, I dare not become solid enough that one can lodge within me.
I roar at him and open my senses to catch a hint of fear—Nothing. There is nothing. This child is as devoid of emotion as a charred log. No, I lie. There is a flicker of annoyance. Like you’d find in a bricklayer who saw that his spirit level was slightly off true. His eyes narrow and the next shot goes through my head, and it stings like a hot coal shoved up one’s nose. Fury fills me now, but all I can do is turn and flee. I cannot touch him. If I tried, the geas would kick in and I’d solidify enough that the next shot would assuredly do permanent damage.
As I flow towards the Buster Buttons House O’ Chees-Cones, a girl steps out from behind the Cheddar-hound statue. She looks like she’s ten, but she handles the Uzi in her arms like an Israeli commando, and easily two dozen rounds burn through me before I can dive into the shrubbery. I want to pause and assess the damage, but I know better than to do that. Even so, the true horror of what is happening is rolling over me. Children. Herr Zoiden, I presume, is using children to attack me. Again, what kind of person am I dealing with? I wonder if I will last long enough to find out?
This trap was well laid, but since I am not dead, I have to believe that it is not yet complete. For a brief second, I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the most tantalizing aroma I have ever smelled. Unhesitatingly, I whip my hand up and brutally squeeze my nose closed. Through watering eyes, I peer through the foliage and see a third girl, twelve at most, standing upon the giant Shogi board. During the daytime it’s occupied by the endlessly moving anthropomorphic pieces. But at night, just before the parade, they march off to their giant lacquered box. In this empty space, she is using what looks like some kind of powered caulking gun to methodically spray white goop in a circle before an array of lights, to which she holds an activation switch. This goop must be the fabled goat-derived sour cream listed in the Gremlin’s notes. I would have succumbed to that if I hadn’t been aware of its existence. One final gift from them.
Foliage rustles behind me. Closer than I can credit. These children know how to move and track through vegetation, even at night. Who are they? A shot tears through my arm and I scream. The strain of trying to stay insubstantial in my wounded state is beginning to tell on me. A fourth assailant. I see him now. He is atop the reproduction of the information kiosk from Grand Central Station, wearing what looks like some very sophisticated night vision goggles. I lurch to the side just before he shoots a second time, and a spurt of fire buries itself in the ground beside me. He is using some sort of tracer rounds. I cannot imagine what those would feel like, and I have no wish to find out.
I run towards him, which he does not expect. Time seems to slow, and an age passes as his rifle swings down towards me. He is firing off shot after shot even as the gun moves. I flow past him and my perception of time returns to normal. The flat cracks of the rifle are joined by the sounds of the other weapons opening up as their owners catch sight of me. On the other side of the copse, the night turns into day as the girl triggers the lights. In anyone else, I’d suspect it was done out of frustration, but with these preternatural children, I cannot guess. The shots cut off—apparently the unexpected light has temporarily blinded them. I crouch down and move while I can.
Unfortunately, I am limited in my choices as to where to go, and they are well aware of this. Even as muted and dead as their emotions are, I can sense satisfaction. Now they are fanning out, trying to herd me in a specific direction. I analyze their actions. If I could fly, I’d evade them with ease … I consider this, and then scoop up Bone Cat and fling him skywards. Less than ten feet up, he strikes something, and hangs there, thrashing, stuck on some sort of adhesive. I can see it now, almost-invisible netting, faintly silhouetted against the lights. Instantly he is caught in a crossfire that literally takes him apart before my eyes. I shiver. This is why I despise prognostication. I become all too aware that every trivial decision I make is becoming larded with the possibly that it could be the one that seals my doom.
Bone Cat reforms on my shoulder. “Asshole,” he mutters. “That always hurts, you know.”
Reflexively, I reply with the old Gilbert Shelton joke: “Nonsense. I’ve killed lots of people. It doesn’t hurt.”
But avoiding the net is only a short-term victory. I am still being successfully herded towards the lake. I point towards the stairway that leads up towards the Land O’ Milk and Honey, and with a grimace, Bone Cat dashes towards it.
I keep going towards the lake. This seems like a poorly chosen trap. It will be an effort, but I can still become insubstantial enough that I can stride across the surface of the water, or, if worst comes to worst, although I’ll admit that I have not done so for close to a thousand years, I’m pretty sure I can remember how to swim. As I arrive upon the shore, I hear Bone Cat begin to mangle the yodeling song from the Oscar-winning cartoon ’Alp! I’m Afraid of Heights! followed almost instantly by a brief flurry of shots from behind me.
They found him rather quickly. This guess is verified as he reconstitutes himself upon my shoulder and smacks the back of my head. “That stung too, you jerk.”
I ignore him as I take this precious moment to examine the lake. The lights of the Submarine Racetrack across the way shine cheerfully in the distance. Too easy, I can hear Mr. Mortimer mutter. My pursuers have not made a mistake so far; I cannot count on them starting now. Guided by nothing but instinct, I gingerly touch the surface of the water before I trust my weight to it. The pain causes me to pull back, hissing like a broken radiator. My finger gives off a wisp of smoke. Someone has blessed the water of the lake. The entire lake! It must have taken them hours.
Creating genuine holy water is not accomplished with just a flurry of hand-waving while shouting domine a half a dozen times. It requires salt, for one thing, and not just any salt. It must be pure. Then you have to consecrate it and then recite the proper prayers as you mix them together. This all takes time. And before you lose all faith in the scientific underpinnings of the world, let me assure you that the inverse-square law, at least, most certainly still applies. Thus, you cannot wave your hand about, toss in a saltcellar, and sanctify the ocean. For a lake this size, I calculate they must’ve repeated the ritual at least fifty times and poured in no less than a hundredweight of salt.
