A World of Trouble (28 page)

Elinor takes my hand. We've been moving through the crowd in a crooked line, so after I recover from the pleasant shock of her
fingers in mine, I reach behind me and take Gabby's hand. She reaches behind her for Abe's, who pulls back but gives in when Gabby locks her eyes on his. He doesn't take Lemon's hand, but he does look over his shoulder to make sure our fire starter's still with us.

Then, like an impenetrable wall of Trouble, we push through the rest of the pack, reach the back door, and burst outside.

“This way!” Elinor releases my hand and runs.

We follow. As we hurry down a dark street, I try to e-mail GS George twice. But looking at the K-Pak screen throws off my feet, which automatically stumble over rocks and litter. So I wait until we stop.

At the Blackhole Fun Spot. Where, according to the rusty sign dangling over the entrance, a superfun, amazing time awaits the entire family.

“False advertising,” Lemon says.

He's probably right. Because superfun, amazing times usually include smiling. Giggling. Laughing. But all I hear is moaning. Crying. Weeping.

“The arcade.” Elinor points to the large building to our right. “That's the adults' sauna.”

Despite the circumstances—and what I just witnessed in the IncrimiNation math class—this makes me smile. The closest Mom's come to a video game is the doorway of my bedroom. That's as far as she's willing to go to tell me it's time to turn it off and go to bed—a request that takes all of five seconds but still makes her cringe and cover her ears. Imagining her in a room filled with dozens of loud, beeping, ringing, dinging pinball and other assorted machines, especially after what she did, isn't exactly unpleasant.

“HALT!”

We're about to pass through a turnstile. At the command behind us, we freeze.

We don't have to look to see who's there.

Their stench gives them away.

DEMERITS: 465

GOLD STARS: 300

D
id he just say what
I think he did?” Abe asks.

“Do you think he just said ‘halt'?” Gabby asks. “Rhymes with salt? Malt? Faul—”

Abe looks at her.

“Yes,” she says. “He did.”

“Might us well give up now!” Mr. Bull bellows. “Save your energy! That bottomless pit you're headed for is
deep
!”

“Abe.” I glance behind me. A large herd of messy misfits is running toward us, swinging sports equipment and lawn tools
overhead. The dust cloud they kick up is so big, the road and buildings behind them disappear. “Forget it. It's not worth it.”

“No way. This is ridiculous. They kill our helicopter. Then they kidnap us. And now they think they can—”

He stops. At first I think this is because Lemon takes him by the hood of his coat and tries to yank him through the turnstile. But then I notice his leg's stuck. And I realize it's because he almost lost a limb to one half of a pair of ancient hedge trimmers. The blade's wedged into the turnstile stand, two inches from his left shin.

“This way!” Elinor shouts. “Hurry!”

We do as she says. Or Lemon, Abe, and Gabby do. I'm last in line and the turnstile arm decides to lock when it's my turn. I shove it with both hands. Lean all my weight into it. Once. Twice. Three times. I throw another look over my shoulder, make accidental eye contact with a female IncrimiNator who then hurls an enormous bag of fertilizer my way, and duck under the arm. The delay costs me ten seconds—plus another three when the heavy sack hits the ground where I just stood.

In my last glance back, I note the unopened bag's weight.

Fifty pounds.

That would've hurt.

“Seamus!”

Darting in the direction of Elinor's voice, I pass through a small concrete courtyard filled with faceless clown statues, cracked penguin sculptures, and other former photo ops. The first door I reach is hanging by a hinge. Its glass is broken. Its sign is faded, but the words are still legible.

NOW ENTERING THE TRACK OF TERROR!

DRIVE CAREFULLY . . .

. . . OR DIE TRYING!

“There's one!” a male voice shouts.

I don't have to turn around to know the IncrimiNators have entered the courtyard. I smell them before I hear them.

I'm about to shoot through the doorway when my eyes catch something reflected in a shard of broken glass by my feet. It's a word. And after many trips to the old Cloudview Putt 'n' Play arcade with Dad, it's one I'm familiar with.

Skee-Ball.

As has been happening more and more lately, my mind quiets while my body shifts into autopilot. With the IncrimiNators quickly gaining ground, I turn and lunge toward a cardboard box.
Holding my breath, I rip open the flaps and find exactly what I'm hoping for.

A dozen heavy wooden balls. Perfect for rolling up a long, lit ramp and into a small hole.

Or for stalling your enemy.

I grab one ball, then another and another. I chuck, toss, and drop them. I'm careful not to throw too hard or aim higher than ankle height. These kids might be dangerous, but
I'm
not. I don't want to hurt anyone—and I don't have to. The balls collide with feet, making kids teeter, then topple. Most take down others while fighting to stay upright. I smile as more fall, thinking of how proud Ike would be to see this. When I'm down to the last two balls, I fire them at the two biggest feet of the bunch.

They belong to the child giant. Who stumbles. Flails his arms. Howls. And collapses backward, knocking out five IncrimiNators around him, who knock out at least twenty more around them. Soon the entire group is on its collective rear end.

“Bull's-eye,” I whisper.

And then I run.

I find Elinor and Capital T at the Track of Terror. Or, more
accurately,
on
the Track of Terror. In Go Karts. Wearing helmets and goggles.

“That's yours!” Elinor shouts over the buzz of motors.

I follow her nod to a brown toy car. “Where are we going?” I shout back.

“Who cares?” Abe yells. “Hop in, Hinkle!”

The only car I've ever driven was a virtual one, but I do as I'm told. My helmet and goggles are on the seat; I put them on and buckle up. I start to reach for the steering wheel when I remember one very important thing.

GS George. What good is getting out of here if he doesn't come back for us? After all, these aren't Kilter golf carts. There's no way they'll make it two thousand miles. At least not without encountering some serious obstacles along the way.

I hold up one finger to tell Elinor and my alliance-mates I'll just be a second. Then I take out my K-Pak, turn it on, and start typing. For speed's sake, I ignore every capitalization and punctuation rule I've ever learned.

TO:
[email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

SUBJECT:
PLEASE COME BACK

HI GEORGE SORRY WE ARE LATE BUT HAVE ELINOR AND READY TO GO CAN YOU PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE COME BACK FOR US PLEASE MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH STILL IN BLACKHOLE BUT SOON WILL BE JUST OUTSIDE LOOK FOR FLARE

PLEASE

THANK YOU

SEAMUS

I hit send, shove the K-Pak inside my coat, and press the green button next to the steering wheel. The Go Kart shakes and shudders, but eventually starts up. I thrust my right foot forward. It doesn't hit anything, so I try the left one. That doesn't hit anything either, so I shift in my seat and peer around the steering wheel. I see the pedals, which is good and bad.

Good because there
are
pedals.

Bad because I'm too short to reach them.

I slide forward until the steering wheel digs into my stomach. Stretch my foot and point my toes. It's no use.

Ahead of me, Elinor, Lemon, Abe, and Gabby line up in their
Go Karts. Behind me, the IncrimiNators grow closer.

I take out my K-Pak again. It's about five inches long. If I rest the top of it on the gas pedal, I should be able to tap its bottom with my foot. Then when I need to slow down I can just—

“Get in!”

I look up. Elinor left the line and is now parked next to me.

“I just remembered that one doesn't work! It starts fine, but it doesn't run! So get in mine!”

I wait for my body to switch back into autopilot so I can hop out of my Go Kart and into hers. Unfortunately, my head gets in the way. But who can blame it? For one thing, each Go Kart has only one seat. For another, with the dim track light shining above us and a light breeze making her hair float around her face, Elinor's never looked prettier. For another—

“Also, I think that one was custom built!”

“What?” I ask, even though I heard her perfectly.

“Your Go Kart! It's extra long! Probably because it's Shepherd Bull's!”

I check the fronts and backs of our toy cars. They line up evenly, which makes me want to slide down my seat until my head hits the pedals.

She knows I can't reach. And she's just being nice to try to save me from being even more embarrassed than I already am.

A roar sounds near the Track of Terror entrance. I jump—then use the momentum to launch out of my seat and into the small space between Elinor's headrest and the side of the car.

“Liar,” I say.

“Thank you.” She grins and punches the gas.

As far as speed goes, the Go Kart has nothing on Annika's golf cart. But for a rusty toy car, it has impressive pep. We breeze easily past Lemon, Abe, and Gabby. Elinor waves for them to follow. They do. As we race toward a gap in the track wall, I grip the headrest with one hand and the side of the car with the other. The ground's inches away, so if I fell off, I'd probably survive. . . . But why take a chance?

“Um, Elinor?” I ask as we near the hole in the wall, which seems to shrink the closer we get. “That doesn't look . . . Are you sure it's . . . I think it might be too—”

Narrow. That's what I would've said if I didn't lunge toward her and close my eyes instead.

“Wa
hoooooo
!”

I open my eyes. Sit up. Look over my shoulder.

We made it through. So did Abe, who's driving right behind us, pumping one fist in the air. Gabby follows with a squeal. Her hands clap as fast as a hummingbird's wings, then grab the steering wheel when the car hits a rock and swerves. I watch Lemon approach on the other side, and shake my head as he shoots forward. His car must be wider than the rest. There's no way he'll clear it. The sides will hit. He'll get stuck. The IncrimiNators will—

Not get him. Because he slips right through.

I smile. He presses his right pointer and middle fingers together, brings them to his forehead, and gives me a mini salute.

The Track of Terror must sit on the outskirts of Blackhole, because we reach the crater's edge in no time. I'm thinking our toy cars have zero chance of making it up the ninety-degree dirt wall when Elinor turns left and drives on a parallel path. I check our tail every five seconds, but no one's chasing us. Maybe these are the only Go Karts that still work.

“Pout!”

I turn back from my last check. “Pout?”

“Yes! Or frown, yell, rock back and forth, or punch my arm. Whatever makes you look really mad!”

The Go Kart slows slightly. I look up and see flashing lights. They're attached to an iron gate that sits to the right of an old crooked phone booth.

“Tell the others!” Elinor shouts. “Hurry!”

Abe's behind us. I wave for him to come closer before shouting Elinor's instructions as quietly as possible. He turns and shares them with Gabby, who shares them with Lemon. I feel bad when they all grimace and glare, but then I realize they're not unhappy with the orders. They're just following them.

By the time I face forward again, we're pulling up to the gate. A small sign's nailed to the top.

DARK HOLLOW CAVERN. ADMITTANCE BY NK PERMISSION ONLY.

ALL TRESPASSERS WILL BE PUNISHED. SEVERELY.

NK. Nadia Kilter.

The phone booth door screeches open. A kid steps out. He looks older than we are, maybe about Ike's age. He's wearing ripped black pants, a torn black T-shirt, and a baseball hat with
DHC SECURITY
scribbled across the front in black marker.

“What's up?” He nods to me. “Who's he?”

It takes me a second, but I frown. Rock back and forth. Ball my hands into fists and thump them against my legs. I feel
ridiculous, but my performance must be convincing because he turns his attention to Elinor.

Who whistles. Grinds her teeth. Yawns. Spits. Whistles again. If it's possible to sound annoyed while making a bunch of random noises, she does.

The security guard nods. Grunts. Shakes his head.

And opens the gate.

We shoot through the entrance and into the cavern.