Going Bovine

  We’ve left the moment. It’s gone. We’re somewhere else now, and that’s okay. We’ve still got that other moment with us somewhere, deep in our memory, seeping into our DNA. And when our cells get scattered, whenever that happens, this moment will still exist in them. Those cells might be the building block of something new. A planet or star or a sunflower, a baby. Maybe even a cockroach. Who knows? Whatever it is, it’ll be a part of us, this thing right here and now, and we’ll be a part of it.

  And if it’s a cockroach? Well, that will be the happiest fucking cockroach on the planet. I can tell you that.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  In Which We Are Unprepared for the Unexpected

  “I … I believe I see it!” Balder gasps. “There on the horizon, where the sun bleeds—it’s my ship. It’s Ringhorn!”

  Gonz and I squint out at the ocean going golden-hot with fading sun. The glare’s bad, but I don’t see a ship. Balder runs along the shore speaking excitedly in Norse. “I must have my possessions,” he says, a note of worry in his voice. “I left them in the car.”

  “Relax. I’ll get them. You just keep your eye on your ship,” I say, and hoof it to the parking lot. Two cops on bikes patrol the sand, blocking my way to the car. Crap.

  I turn and run smack into a guy with a mustache, mirrored sunglasses, and a baseball cap. “Hi there! Can I take a minute of your time to talk to you about safety?” he asks.

  “Uh, you know, right now’s not a good time—”

  “It’s always a good time to be prepared for the unexpected.

  How will you protect your loved ones in the event of the eventful?” he asks.

  I’ve got my eyes on the cops. They’re biking away. Yes!

  “Hey, what’s your name?”

  “Junior. Junior Webster.”

  “Really? ’Cause I think you’re Cameron Smith and you’re in some deep trouble.” He grabs my wrist in an iron-tight grip. His baseball cap reads UNITED SNOW GLOBE WHOLESALERS. “This is Employee number four fifty-seven calling base,” he says into a walkie-talkie. “Terror suspect in custody. Got the other two in my sights. Request backup. Over.”

  A muffled voice worthy of a drive-thru window answers him.

  “Roger that. Let’s go get your friends,” he says, yanking my arm up and behind my back.

  “Please,” I say, swallowing hard. “You’re making a big mistake. I’ve been trying to save the world—you guys included!”

  He angles for some cuffs. “Just hold still.”

  I didn’t come this far to go back now with some armchair vigilante who spends his days stocking snow globe emporiums. “You’re not my daddy!” I shout. “I won’t get in your van! You’re not my daddy!”

  “What?” he says.

  “Hey! Leave that kid alone!” In the parking lot, a hulking tattooed biker gets off his motorcycle and rolls up his sleeves.

  “This is a terrorist!” Employee #457 shouts back.

  “Don’t make me come kick your ass!”

  Employee #457’s grip goes a little slack, and I take this opportunity to break for the beach.

  “Hey! Hey!” The vigilante walkie-talkies for immediate backup.

  Gonzo’s stretched out, relaxing in the sand. He sees me hauling ass toward him. “Gonzo—the water! Get to the water!”

  “Dude!” Gonzo shouts, pointing. I chance a glance behind me and count two more guys in baseball caps and sunglasses running toward us. Then three and four. Five big guys in mirrored sunglasses and United Snow Globe Wholesalers hats.

  “Shit,” I mutter. Behind us is only ocean. And what would we swim to?

  “Okay. Evasive maneuver,” I say, eyes searching. “Gonz, you break left for the taco shack. I’ll duck right and try to make it to the pier. And Balder—”

  He stands firm in the sand. “I stay right here to wait for Ringhorn.”

  “But Balder—”

  “I shall wait!” he insists. “Those men cannot harm me. I shall be a worthy distraction. Do what you must and leave me to it.”

  “All right,” I say. “Two … three … go!”

  Gonzo and I run in opposite directions. With a war cry, Balder advances on the snow globers, wielding that piece of driftwood like the badass warrior he is inside. One guy’s coming after me full speed.

  My legs and lungs burn, and I stumble. I try to get back up, but I’m having a hard time. My E-ticket meter’s nearly blank—there’s just a tiny shred of Tomorrowland hanging on.

  “Cameron!” Dulcie’s here, reaching out. “Hold on!”

  I grab her hand and we’re flying over the beach. I wrap my legs around her. “Whoa!”

  Dulcie turns my face to hers. “Just don’t look down and don’t let go.”

  “Trust me. I will not do either of those things.”

  Something zips past. Dulcie cries out and we’re tumbling through the air. We land in the sand. Dulcie’s curled up.

  “You okay?”

  “Bad landing.” She sits up, grabbing her shoulder. Singed feathers fall from her wing.

  “What happened?”

  In answer, a bullet zips past. A USGW employee is making his way through the sand, gun glinting in the sun.

  “Grab hold,” Dulcie croaks.

  “You can’t fly like that. Can you?”

  Dulcie doesn’t wait. She draws me to her and we sort of half fly, half trot on the beach. But with Dulcie’s injured wing, we can’t get enough lift.

  “Ahhhh!” A bullet grazes Dulcie’s other wing and we drop onto the pier. “Run out!” Dulcie instructs.

  This time I pull her. We’re bordered on all sides by the ocean.

  She tries to smile, but I can see the pain in her eyes. “The water, Cameron.”

  “No. No water,” I say.

  “You’ll be okay.”

  “Is that a sure thing or a destiny-can-be-changed thing?”

  She doesn’t answer. “Cameron,” she whispers. It’s like the cooing of doves. Her wings smell of rain and smoke. She pushes me hard and I fly backward into the ocean. The water’s cold and heavy, like being wrapped in a blanket soaked with snow. Feels like I’m going to drown, like when I was five. Dulcie’s on the edge of the pier. United Snow Globe Employee #457 aims a long gun with a spray nozzle at her. “Gotcha,” he growls.

  Dulcie closes her eyes as he hits the trigger. There’s a blinding flash. When it clears, Dulcie’s gone. Where she was standing, there’s nothing but a snow globe.

  “Dulcie!” I scream. “Dulcie!”

  “You’re next.” Employee #457 aims the nozzle at my head.

  I take a deep breath and let the ocean carry me down.

  “Cameron? Look at that! Isn’t it wonderful?”

  Mom’s pointing to a marionette Inuit boy pulling a fish out of the hole again and again. The snow glistens. A kids’ choir sings that it’s a small world after all. It’s the most amazing thing, this ride. I love it. I want to go on it again and again and again.

  “I want to play in the snow!” I tell Mom.

  “We have to stay in the boat, honey.”

  I notice a tiny door behind the igloo. “Where does that door go?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Somewhere. Oooh, isn’t that cute?” Mom points out a dancing girl to Jenna. Dad puts his arm around me. I’m here and I’m safe with my mom and dad and sister. But I can’t help it. I want to know where the door goes. I want to play. Over there.

  And then I’m in the water, going under. Above me the surface gleams with color and light. Muffled screaming filters down. But it’s peaceful here, and I could just reach out and touch that other shore. My lungs can’t hold back anymore. I open my mouth and the water rushes in.

  With a loud gasp, I break the waves and stagger toward the sand. Employee #457 is waiting with the weird gun in one hand and the Dulcie snow globe in the other. “Knew you couldn’t stay down there forever.”

  “Give … her … back,” I pant.

  “Sorry. She’s a threat that must be contain
ed. Now. Smile pretty. Maybe we’ll call this one Beach Break.”

  He lowers the nozzle. I hear it making a weird wheeeeee sound as it fires up.

  “That’s the creep!” The motorcycle guy is back with the bicycle cops. “He was trying to kidnap a kid.”

  “Officer, you’ve got it wrong. I’m working with United Snow Globe Wholesalers.” The vigilante points to his cap. “We’re working to protect your safety!”

  The wail of sirens fills my ears. Cops scramble down the dunes and cuff the snow globe guy.

  “Dude!” Gonzo waves to me from his protected spot behind a parked car. But I can’t stop staring at the snow globe. It’s got an angel inside. Her hands are pressed against the glass and her tiny plastic mouth is open in a scream.

  “Dude! Now!”

  I’m dazed and my body hurts. Gonzo half drags me behind a dune, leaving the snow globe behind. I try to fight him to go back, but I don’t have the strength, and the beach is crawling with USGW employees.

  Down on the beach, Balder’s still kicking ass. No matter what they throw at him, it bounces off. They can’t catch him, and they can’t kill him. Suddenly, Balder looks out to the horizon, and with a shout of glee, drops the driftwood.

  “Ringhorn!”

  In a flash, USGW Employee #457 grabs the stick and plunges it into Balder’s back. It comes straight through his chest. Balder looks surprised, especially when he can’t pull it out. But it doesn’t stop him; he runs straight for the water, ducking under the waves, disappearing from sight.

  I want to run after him, but we can’t chance it, so we stay hidden behind the dune, watching. Two of the vigilantes wade out and drag Balder back in, laying him on the sand. More cops are on the scene now. One kicks Balder with his foot.

  “There’s your terrorist,” the cop snickers. “A yard gnome.”

  Statements are taken, witnesses’ phone numbers given. The last people to leave the scene are the vigilantes.

  “Should we take the gnome in for processing?” Employee #458 asks.

  “Nah. Just leave it,” answers Employee #456. “Let’s go back to the hotel. They have Casino Cash on the channel options.”

  “Can I have him?” a little girl with a plastic shovel asks.

  “Sure,” Employee #458 says, and the kid starts burying our yard gnome in the sand.

  “At least we got this one.” Employee #458 flips the snow globe in his hand, and my heart flips along with it.

  As I watch, frozen, they cover Dulcie in bubble wrap, pack her away in a box of other snow globes, and load it into their truck. I memorize the license plate number: USGW 3111. They drive it across the street and park in the lot of the Ancient Mariner hotel. They secure the door with two different combination locks, and my heart sinks.

  “Dude,” Gonzo says quietly. “Balder.” And I know there’s nothing else I can do right now.

  We run out to rescue our valiant Viking, who is buried up to his neck, the driftwood still sticking out on the sides.

  I offer the kid ten bucks. “For the yard gnome.”

  We carry Balder to a more secluded spot. “I saw it. I saw … Ringhorn.” We help him to his feet. He winces. “Cameron? Are you … all right?” he asks.

  “They got Dulcie. They turned her into a snow globe.” I’m trying not to cry. My eyes sting.

  “I am … sorry,” Balder says. He pulls on the driftwood spear but can’t dislodge it.

  It’s really wedged in there. “Could you?”

  Together, we manage to yank it free. The end is slippery and it stains my hands red.

  “Oh. My,” Balder says. He stands there, arms wide, gazing at his chest in total wonder. And that’s when I see it: a small trickle of blood burbling up and spilling down the front of his shirt. Balder is bleeding.

  Gonzo’s eyes are wide.

  “Oh my,” Balder repeats. He puts a hand to his chest and the blood seeps between his closed fingers, a thin red waterfall. “That stick …” He examines the end. A small cluster of white berries sprouts from a tiny knob. Balder rubs the berries between his fingers, inhales their scent. “Mistletoe.”

  “Balder!” I shout as his legs give out. I grab hold and we drop to the sand, Balder cradled in my arms, as his warm, sticky blood pools in my hands. “Balder.”

  Our Viking’s breath comes fast and shallow. “All pledged no harm to Balder … save for the mistletoe, who was too young. But Loki, Loki the trickster … he must have known. …”

  “Shhh, don’t talk. We’ll get you in the car.”

  “No,” he says, and coughs. “No. Leave me here on the beach. For Ringhorn.”

  It’s gotten dark. The fishing boats are heading in. Their lights cast lonely pools of white on the water. There’s no Ringhorn.

  “We’ll come back for your ship,” I lie. “You need a doctor.”

  “No. Ringhorn will come. Wait. Wait with me,” Balder urges.

  When I look over, Gonzo’s got his arms crossed. He’s kicking at the ground and crying without making a noise except for a little strangled sob deep in his throat.

  “Wait with me,” Balder asks again.

  We keep our vigil through the night, checking on the truck when we can. Sometimes, Balder mumble-sings a few words in Norse. He grabs at the air for something we can’t see, something just out of reach. “The dark does not weep,” he whispers. Toward dawn, he gets so quiet I’m afraid. Early-morning surfers take to the waves. Seagulls circle us.

  “I like … that sound,” Balder says, his words pushing out on shallow gasps.

  At first I think he means Gonzo’s sniffling. “What sound, Balder?”

  “The gulls. Cry. And the waves. Answer. They wash … over the shore. Say, it is all …” His eyes move back and forth in his head like he’s searching for the word, the thought. He looks at me as if he’s said it. “Right?”

  I listen, but the only thing I can hear are those damn birds wailing. One starts and the rest follow. They’re all crying at once. It’s a terrible sound.

  “Balder …,” I say.

  His mouth is still open in that weird little smile. His eyes are fixed and staring. The gulls fly off, leaving nothing but the soothing whoosh of the tide rushing up, washing back out, again and again. All. Right. All. Right. All. Right.

  It takes us a while to get everything we need. Scavenging along the beach, we find a surfboard, a cardboard Taco Shack tray, an abandoned T-shirt, seashells, and handfuls of seaweed and small sticks. We duct-tape the cardboard tray to the surfboard and rig the Caddy’s bull horns to the front. We load the tray with his Sammy the Surfer outfit and all my Great Tremolo CDs. When it’s ready, we place Balder’s lifeless body gently on top of the tray, in his chain mail and helmet, just like a Viking warrior on his way to Valhalla. Last, we add a hand-lettered sign: RINGHORN.

  “What do you think?” I ask Gonzo.

  “Good.” His eyes are red. He takes a puff off his inhaler and puts it in Balder’s hands. “The air might be crap there.”

  He hands me a disposable blue lighter we found half-buried by the Taco Shack. I put it to the dry seaweed, which starts to smoke immediately. The flames eat through the cardboard pretty fast. In seconds, they surround Balder in a hot orange halo. I lift my foot, Gonzo gives the surfboard a final push, and the sea does the rest. The water’s pretty choppy. It buffets our makeshift pyre back and forth, and finally over, till the only thing left on the peach-pink horizon are those crazy bull horns.

  And then, even those are gone.

  An hour later, the United Snow Globe Wholesalers truck, license plate number USGW 3111, pulls out of the hotel parking lot. One minute after that, we follow.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  In Which the Coyote and the Roadrunner Go Again

  “You still see him?”

  “Yeah. He’s four cars up,” Gonzo answers. “Dude, shouldn’t we be going after Dr. X and your cure?”

  “Not going,” I say.

  “What do you mean?”

 
“I’m going after Dulcie.”

  “Cameron, this is crazy.”

  “Just keep an eye on that truck.”

  For the next hour, we drive in silence. No talk. No music. Nothing but the white noise of asphalt under tires. The road sways in the afternoon sun. Little waves of clear heat spiral dance in front of me, bathing everything in shimmery motion. I keep glancing in the rearview mirror, expecting to see Balder in the backseat, and the emptiness of it presses down on me, along with the last sight I had of Dulcie. The signs are starting to blur into big globs of reflective green and white that hurt my eyes. Sometimes on the sides of the roads I see things that aren’t there: Mom and Dad holding each other. Balder running through the grass toward a glimmering hall. Glory switching out the bag on an IV pole. The old lady with her garden shears; she waves to me. The coyote. The road-runner. The Copenhagen Interpretation playing Hacky Sack with the Calabi Yau. Just a bunch of travelers on the same road. But I don’t see Dulcie, no matter how hard I try to make her appear.

  The Caddy veers over the yellow line, nearly hitting a big truck, whose horn blast has me swerving back into our lane with a jerk.

  “Holy shit,” Gonzo says, putting his hands on the dash.

  “Sorry,” I say. I pull the car over to the shoulder and rest my head on the steering wheel. I’m clammy, and my muscles ache.

  “You okay?” Gonzo asks.

  “Yeah,” I lie.

  USGW 3111 turns on his blinker and hits the exit, stopping at a Freedom Waffles. There’s a salvage yard on a dusty yellow road to the right of the diner. I park beside the chain-link fence and the mile-high towers of tires and cut the engine.

  “Can you keep watch?” I ask, and then I remember how Gonzo got our asses stranded by not looking out for the bus. Seems like years ago. “Never mind. I’ll keep an eye out.”

  “No, man. It’s okay. Get some sleep. I’m on it.” And I can tell he is.

  “Thanks. You know, for everything. You’re a great wing-man,” I say.

  Gonzo smirks. “Yeah. Well. That’s what you get when you sign up the Dwarf of Destiny, cabrón.”