Going Bovine

  “Dulcie! Where’ve you been?”

  “You said you wanted to be left alone.”

  “Yeah.” I trace a crack in the tile with my foot. “Sorry. I promise not to be an asshole from now on.”

  “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Dulcie says, laughing. Like a pair of excited puppies, her wings perk up and spread out till they touch the walls of the narrow hallway. I glance nervously toward the restaurant. “You might wanna ix-nay on the ings-way?”

  “What? These?” She fluffs them so I can see today’s artwork, a mural of rainbows. “Don’t worry—people only see what they want to see.”

  Right on cue, a lady barrels into the narrow hallway and asks if Dulcie is in line for the bathroom. Dulcie shakes her head, and the lady goes right on in without so much as an extra blink.

  “I’m just curious, what did she see?”

  Dulcie shrugs. “Who knows? Everything hunky-dory in Camland? It’s been a while.”

  “Yeah. It’s been a weird couple of days.” I tell her about missing the bus, CESSNAB, the party, and Balder.

  “I’m special, you’re special,” Dulcie sings.

  “How do you know—”

  “Must’ve been on a greatest hits CD. Great and special,” she says quickly. “Anyway, I’ve been thinking—I know you said to leave you alone, but I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Cameron. You need me.”

  “I need you?” I try to think of a comeback, but the truth is, I’m just happy to see her.

  “You’ve got grape jelly on your cheek,” she says, brushing it off. “Oh, also? Something just came in.”

  “Came in where? Angel Central?” Dulcie doesn’t answer me. “Wow, do you have cubicles? Is there middle management and one annoying angel who drinks all the coffee but never remembers to make a fresh pot?”

  Dulcie gives me a playful punch in the arm. “Very funny, Cameron. You know, I’d love to tell you all about it, but, sadly, then I’d have to kill you. Anyway … this just showed up. It’s recent footage of Dr. X.”

  She pulls out an MP7 player and presses Play. Grainy video rolls. A guy in a lab coat in a white room. It’s vaguely familiar. “Wait—I’ve seen this guy before! The night the fire giants showed up, I did an Internet search and it led me to him. It led me to Dr. X.”

  “Everything’s connected,” Dulcie says softly, and ups the volume.

  The quality’s crap, and every few words are replaced by a mumbly hiss. “… So close to finding the answer … pssssttttt … The passage of time is an illusion; time … pssstttt … does not exist, or rather, we live in all time, always … psssstttt … as if we could reach out and touch what has come before, what is yet to be … pssstttt … and here is the most important thing of all … psssssttttttt …”

  Suddenly, the video jumps to something else. It’s like the channel’s been turned and we’re smack-dab in the middle of somebody’s vacation footage—jumpy shots of people in shorts walking around, crowd sounds, chirpy music, furry cartoon characters waving. The camera pans over a gate studded with colorful planets and gears. A sign reads: TOMORROWLAND—THE FUTURE THAT NEVER WAS. The video freezes and a little Play Again triangle pops up.

  “What the hell happened?” I ask.

  Dulcie sighs. “Sorry. I was lucky to even get this.”

  “What does he mean by all that ‘time doesn’t exist’ stuff? I mean, how about, ‘Hey, here’s the cure you need. Oh, and let me tell you how to close the wormhole and save the universe. Just turn left in Alabama and you’ll be fine.’”

  “I’m sorry, Cameron. I know this is frustrating.”

  “You think?”

  “And I don’t mean to make it harder, but I think our clock is ticking a little faster now. If the wizard gets to Dr. X first, they’ll pull him back through the wormhole, and then it’s all over.”

  “Great,” I say.

  She bites her bottom lip. “Did you get a sense from that? Anything at all?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing.”

  Dulcie’s expression is unreadable. “Okay. Well, I’m going to see what else I can find out about Dr. X. You keep pushing on, following whatever signs you find.”

  “So you’re going again?”

  “I’m here whenever you need me.” She breaks into a goofy grin, and I want to tell her not to go, to stick around and meet the gang, have some pancakes. I want to say something cool, something to keep her smiling, but I can’t think of anything. “Você é a vaca do meu contentamento,” I say, quoting a Great Tremolo song.

  Dulcie gives me a weird look and bursts out laughing. “You are the cow of my contentment? Wow. I’m speechless.”

  “Is that what it says?”

  “’Fraid so.”

  “I knew that.”

  “Course you did.” Her laugh dies. She shrinks back, her eyes wide.

  “What’s the matter?” I say, following her gaze to the front of the restaurant, but I don’t see anything unusual. A hostess behind the cash register next to a stack of menus. People paying. A guy in a United Snow Globe Wholesalers shirt wheeling in a dolly full of boxes. A man picking his teeth with a toothpick. Bus boys and waitresses running back and forth with trays and loaded bus tubs. The guy delivers the box, and the hostess opens it up. She pulls out a snow globe, which she shakes vigorously before mounting it on a high shelf above the cash register.

  “Dulcie?”

  “It’s nothing,” she says weakly. “See you down the road, cowboy. Here’s the paper. And Cameron? Be careful.” And just like that she’s gone.

  “Hey, you forgot your player!” I say, but she doesn’t materialize.

  I give Dulcie’s paper a quick scan. There’s the usual mess of the incomprehensible mixed in with the ridiculous, but I do see an ad for cheap tickets to Daytona Beach. I take that as a sign we’re on the right path, though truthfully, it’s as right as any other random thing I want to assign meaning to—cartoons, the Great Tremolo, the way Staci Johnson flicks her ponytail. I smooth out Junior Webster’s scrap of a compass—to live—fold it neatly, and tuck it back into my pocket along with the MP7.

  When I get to the dining room, some kind of fight has broken out. People are clumped together in spectator fashion, cheering.

  “What’s going on?” I ask the guy next to me.

  “Some kinda wrestlin’ promo, I think. It’s entertainin’, I’ll say that much. Them little guys got lots of spunk, I tell you what.”

  “Little guys?” I croak. Oh no they di-in’t. “Excuse me, excuse me!” I say, pushing through. Balder’s on the table, and people are lined up, throwing whatever they’ve got at him—knives, forks, coffee cups, rocks. One little girl hurls her waffle and it bounces off his round belly like a spongy boomerang.

  “Two dollars a shot! All comers welcome!” Gonzo shouts. He’s running between everyone, gathering money in Balder’s Viking helmet.

  “I cannot be injured, for I am Balder. …” A knife sticks into his arm, but he keeps going. “Son of Odin …” A fork lodges into his skull. “Brother of Hoor,” he says, pulling them both out. “Immortal.”

  “Yeah? Let’s just see about that.” A guy in a mall security guard uniform pulls out his piece and shoots Balder in the chest. There’s a gasp from the crowd. Instead of going down, Balder does a little dance.

  “Boo-ya!” he says, and I’m pretty sure that’s the original Norse.

  “Well, I’ll be,” the mall guard says. Everyone claps and cheers.

  “Two bucks!” Gonzo insists, pocketing greenbacks from the shooter.

  “Okay, show’s over!” I announce, running up and yanking Balder off the table. “You’ve been great. Be sure to come out and see our show at the monster wrestling truck arena this weekend. Thank you. Thanks so much. Thank. You.” As the breakfasters settle back at their tables, I level a sharp gaze at both Gonzo and Balder. “Way to keep a low profile, guys.”

  “He started it,” Gonzo grumbles.

  Balder gives me one of his courtly bo
ws. “I did not mean to cause trouble, Cameron the Noble.”

  “When I said ‘bond,’ I meant, like, tell some stories, trade a few fart jokes, draw pictures of the waitress with a mustache. Not cause a scene.”

  “Look how much cash we got, though.” Gonzo shows me Balder’s helmet full of green. They’re both so excited, it’s impossible to be mad at them anymore.

  “All right. Okay. But don’t do that again. Look, let’s just pay the check and—” I smell an acrid stench that makes my eyes water. There’s something familiar about it. “Do you smell that?” I ask, goose bumps rising on my arms.

  “Smell what?” Gonzo asks.

  Wispy black smoke slithers across the floor and coils around my legs, and they start trembling. My body feels as if it’s on fire. My throat muscles clench.

  “Guys …,” I croak.

  “Cameron?” Gonzo asks, his eyes full of concern.

  “It’s them,” I manage, just as the kitchen doors are blasted off their hinges with the force of an explosion. The fire giants have found us.

  “This part of the wrestlin’ show?” a man at the next table asks his friends.

  A second explosion rocks the Konstant Kettle. People scream as debris rains down and flames pop from the walls. But I can see they’re more than flames; they’re ginormous, burning men with black holes for eyes and mouths made of sharp, flickering teeth. They’re fast and determined and merciless, and they bring chaos in their wake. With glee, the fire giants leap from the walls and land wherever they like, smashing tables, kicking chairs, ripping up flooring; everything they touch burns down to ash. Two of the creatures crawl along the ceiling, biting into it with their teeth, tearing huge holes in the cheap white acoustic tiles. The place fills with choking smoke. Mothers grab children; truckers leave their All-U-Can-Eat Freedom Pancake Towers untouched; the waiters and busboys abandon the kitchen and coffee stations and run for the safety of the exits, screaming in panic.

  “Cameron! Dude! We gotta get out of here!” Gonzo’s offering me his hand, but I can’t move. My legs won’t work.

  The smoke parts, and the Wizard of Reckoning gleams in the firelight like some cyborg knight, a black cape fluttering behind him. He’s added a cape, cheeky bastard. He seems taller and stronger than the last time we met. My brain’s saying run but my body won’t translate the command. The wizard points right at me, and my stomach goes into free fall. Leg muscles jerk and twitch and tighten up completely, and I crumple to the floor.

  “Cameron! Get up, dude!” Gonzo shouts.

  Using my arms, I drag myself under the table and hug my knees to my chest, struggling for breath. Across the restaurant, the Wizard of Reckoning peels his space suit from his chest. In the center is a big black abyss, and I feel like I’m being pulled in.

  “No,” I croak. “Not yet.” I close my eyes tight, trying to resist the pressure squeezing me on all sides.

  And then, I feel nothing.

  Open my eyes, and I’m lying in the grass blinking against the light of the sun. The choking smoke is gone. In fact, the air smells sweet. Really sweet. Like flowers. I sniff in a big noseful of it.

  “That’s lily of the valley you smell. Delightful, isn’t it?”

  “Ahhhhh!” I scream. I sit up quickly and scramble backward on my hands, spider style. My eyes do a quick inventory: flowers, grass, paper lanterns, bright sun overhead. And a few feet away is the old lady from the hospital. She’s still in her gown with her tags around her wrist, but now she’s also wearing a wide-brimmed sun hat and a cow-hide-patterned apron. She snips at things in her garden with a pair of long, thin shears.

  “What’s going on? Where am I?” I gasp.

  The old lady smiles and opens her arms wide. “This is the place I told you about—my house by the sea.”

  “What? This is crazy—two seconds ago, I was in a restaurant and it was burning and …” I hear it. The sea. I turn around. Behind me is a two-story farmhouse overlooking a calm ocean. The waves lap the rocky shore, back and forth, back and forth, making me sleepy. Peaceful.

  “For lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth.” The old lady scrutinizes me. “You’ve got a spot of jelly on your cheek, dear.”

  I wipe at my face. “Okay, seriously? I’m starting to freak out.”

  “No need for that,” she says, and hums to herself. “The Copenhagen Interpretation. I just love them! I hear they’re Inuits?”

  “I … I left my friends in the diner with the fire giants and the freaking wizard.”

  “Agents of chaos,” she snaps. “Oh, these are frightening times. Are you sure you’re all right, dear?”

  “I’m so tired. Just want to sleep.”

  The old lady purses her lips as she flattens out the long stem of one weed, trying to figure out where to make the cut. “You could do that. There is a bed right upstairs with a window that looks out on the sea. Very good for sleeping. But I thought you were searching for that doctor, the one with the cure for what ails you.”

  “Dr. X?” I murmur. Sleep sounds so nice right now. “Yeah. I’m supposed to find him. That’s what Dulcie told me.”

  The old lady cuts the stem and the weed shrivels up and dies. Something else comes up right away, a blue flower. “Well, you could stay here, if you like. Get off the road. Go to the beach. Or we could make waffles. I adore waffles, do you?”

  “Waffles are good,” I say.

  “They didn’t have waffles in that wretched hospital. Just that damn gluey oatmeal,” she snipes.

  “The thing is, I’m supposed to save the universe, ’cause it … it needs saving,” I say, but I’m so exhausted. “Maybe just a quick … nap.”

  I lay my head down in the soft grass and go to sleep. At one point, I open my eyes, and I’m back in my bed at St. Jude’s, the TV showing the coyote chasing the roadrunner, the numbing hum of the respirator and feet padding down corridors filling my ears. I drift back into sleep. But in my dream, I see Gonzo and Balder back in the diner, trying to fight off the fire giants and the Wizard of Reckoning by themselves, and I think, I’m the one who got them into this mess. I can’t sleep; I have to go back.

  I wake with a start. The old lady’s still tending her garden. “Feeling better, dear?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Did you make up your mind about those waffles?” she asks, examining another long vine, her scissors paused above it.

  “I can’t,” I say. “I have to get back to my friends.”

  The old lady lets the vine spring back and moves on to another. “Very well. Another time. Oh, my dear, I left my watering can over there. Could you bring it to me?”

  “Where?”

  She waves in the direction of the green fields. “Out there. You’ll find it.”

  Tromping through the tall grass, I’m stopped in my tracks by the sight of a roadrunner. It’s standing there calmly, just watching me.

  “Hey,” I say, inching closer. “Hey there, little fella.”

  The minute I get close enough to touch it, the roadrunner takes off. It stops about a hundred yards away and looks back at me, like it’s waiting for me to come after it.

  “I’ll be right back with that can!” I yell.

  The old lady keeps singing her song, something about sand castles and ninjas. I chase after the roadrunner, going faster and faster, reaching my hand out to touch its feathers. My fingers close around air, and I hit the ground hard, coughing and hacking as the dirt fills my mouth like smoke.

  “Cameron! Cameron!” Gonzo’s holding a wet napkin to his mouth with one hand and trying to pull me out from under the table with the other. “Come on, cabrón—move your bony ass!”

  I give one good cough. My legs finally get the command and I push out of there with enough force to take Gonzo with me.

  “Where’s Balder?” I scream.

  “I don’t know!”

  “I am here!” The world’s most badass Viking yard gnome is on the counter by the
cash register using a dinner plate as a shield and a steak knife as a sword. “No doubt Loki has sent this treacherous wizard and his dragons to test me,” he shouts. “Fear not! I will slay them all and use their bones to adorn my table at Breidablik before I would allow them to harm you, noble Cameron!”

  “I’m here, too, you know!” Gonzo shouts.

  “Live to fight another day, my friend,” I say, grabbing him and pushing through the door into the smoky parking lot. People race away from the burning restaurant, searching for a safe spot in the madness. The sky’s unnaturally dark. Lightning boxes the clouds with quick uppercuts of electricity. Howling, the fire giants stretch over the top of the restaurant and beat their chests in triumph.

  Just then, an enormous boom rattles the entire parking lot, and everything—the Konstant Kettle, the Mister Motel, the cars and trucks—is sucked into the swirling black hole above. The sky closes. There’s nothing left but flames and smoke and bystanders, and curiously, the restaurant’s collection of snow globes.

  Across the freeway, the freaked-out patrons of the Konstant Kettle wave down cars, yelling for help. We run as fast and as far as we can, until we’re about a mile down the road. In the distance, a fleet of fire trucks screams toward the big orange fireball that used to be a restaurant. The Kettle is Konstant no more.

  Gonzo comes toward me, wild-eyed. He makes a time-out T with his hands. “Okay. Pause game: what the hell just happened?” He’s panting.

  “From the depths of Hel,” Balder whispers.

  “That guy was the same one we saw in New Orleans,” Gonzo continues. “What’s he doing here with those creepy fire acrobats? And don’t tell me this is about some old dead jazzman’s gambling debts, ’cause I ain’t buying that mierda anymore.”

  “I—I think they’re following us.” I’d cry, but I’m too scared.

  Gonzo puts his inhaler so far into his mouth I think he’s going to eat it. “Holy Shithenge,” he says when he can talk again. “Why? What did you do to piss them off? Whatever it was, tell them you’re sorry!”

  Balder strokes his beard. “This is some treachery brought about by Loki, I’ve no doubt. The trickster god is ever in play and will do his part to bring about the twilight of the gods.”