The Return: Disney Lands (12 page)

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?”

T
HE
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.

H
AVING LED A RECOVERING
T
IM
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.

“S
TOP
!” D
IRK
. 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.

“S
O
,
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.”