Welcome to the Jungle (11 page)

Evie looked over at 2-Tor, who was still chained to the fake palm tree, chowing down on earthworms. “You can't keep 2-Tor.”

“No, not him!” Grandma Condolini said. “You see, my granddaughter may be evil, but she is still my granddaughter.”

A look of clarity, followed by a look of terror, passed over Rick's face. “Oh no. Not that. Anything but that.”

Grandma Condolini smiled her sweetest grandmother smile. “That's right. Before you can get the root, I'm going to need you to rescue Vesuvia from the Prison at the Pole.”

TWO LONG LINES OF EMPLOYEES TRAILED THROUGH THE CORRIDORS OF WINTERPOLE
Headquarters. In the line on the left, people were waiting to enter the Winterpole auditorium, where the evening's entertainment was about to begin. In the line on the right, employees waited to receive their permission slips to stand in the line on the left. At her mother's insistence, Diana had gotten in the first line early. Now, permission slip in hand, she was ushered into the auditorium.

Inside, she walked down the center aisle, past rows of red velvet seats. A curtain hung over the screen at the front of the large room. The auditorium was an old movie theater that evidently had not been renovated since the silent era. Murals of angels sounding trumpets, while standing in line for craft services, adorned the walls. Diana slumped into a chair and tried to relax. Her feelings on every eighth continent–related thing were so muddled, they were weighing her down. Winterpole had been acting like a bully, as bad as Vesuvia, and Diana's mom was a part of it. The Lanes were the victims, as weird as that sounded.

Benjamin Nagg sat down three seats over from Diana, looking meticulously put together in his trainee uniform. He immediately pulled out his pocket tablet and started playing
Animon Hunters
. Diana looked away to hide her smirk. She could not wait to see Benjamin get in trouble. Only Winterpole agents level three and higher could receive permission slips to use pocket tablets in the auditorium.

Sure enough, a few minutes later one of the agent ushers approached Benjamin. “Ahem, ahem. I don't suppose you have a permission slip to be using that tablet, do you, trainee?”

“Why of course I do,” Benjamin said, smugly presenting a sheet of cyber paper. “Mister Skole awarded me with this for my exceptional performance in class.” He glanced at Diana as the usher took the paper. “Here you go. I believe it's all in order.”

The usher examined the glimmering parchment. “Very good, trainee. Keep up the hard work. You'll be as high a level as me in no time.”

As the usher walked away, Benjamin muttered under his breath, “One can only dream. Good grief.”

At last, with every seat full, the lights dimmed and the curtain parted. The screen turned on, revealing security camera footage from a small cell at the Prison at the Pole. In the center of the room was George Lane, frozen up to his neck in a block of ice. Unshaven and miserable, George ignored the camera crew and his surroundings. The rumor was that he hadn't said a word since his arrest.

Mister Snow stepped onto the stage at the front of the auditorium, casting his shadow across the movie screen. He held a microphone attached to a portable speaker. “Agents of Winterpole, welcome to a most momentous event. Director, can you hear me?”

“Good evening, agents!” The Director's voice boomed throughout the auditorium over the sound system. “I wish I could be there to witness this amusement in your presence, but alas, I must enjoy it on my private observation monitors.”

Nodding with relief, Mister Snow continued. “The moving image you see behind me is coming to you live from cell Z-99 at the Prison at the Pole, where Winterpole's great enemy, the evil George Lane, is about to undergo the first stage of his punishment.”

A metal contraption had been rigged over George's helpless form. A conveyor belt of metal buckets circled him.

“What we have devised we hope is to your satisfaction, Director. It is meant to be a testimony to our triumph, to be immortalized on magnetic tape and kept in a well-labeled filing cabinet in the basement of this very building.”

The voice of the Director of Winterpole boomed again. “Proceed at a metered pace appropriate to the task.”

Mister Snow shivered, as if this was the most delightful thing he had ever done. “Begin punishment!” he bellowed over the cheers of the agents in the auditorium.

They waited. The buckets circled. Everyone grew quiet. And then one of the buckets tipped over.

A flopping gray fish slipped out. It landed on George Lane's head with a wet smack, like a big sloppy kiss from an aunt who smells like tuna salad.

The laughter in the auditorium was deafening. Before it could die down another bucket tipped over and out came another fish. It pelted George on the head, leaving a fat bruise in its wake and fish juice all over his forehead. The auditorium shook with howls of amusement. Mister Snow beamed, his smile as wide as if he had just told some hilarious joke at a dinner party. Benjamin sounded like he was going to bust a gut. Diana really wished he would.

As the fishy avalanche continued, George remained silent. The camera zoomed in for a close up. Diana could see the pained look on his face. His expression made her feel sick.

Diana got up from her seat and hurried up the aisle to the exit. The laughter was all around her. That dark laughter. She didn't think it was funny at all.

Two ushers stopped her as she reached the doors. “Hey you, trainee. Where is your permission slip to leave the auditorium before the show is over?”

“I don't have a permission slip for that.”

“You're not allowed to leave the auditorium without a permission slip.”

Diana glared. “What if there is a fire?”

The usher dismissed her with a hand. “Our fire prevention methods are adequate.”

She looked back at the screen. Now they were raining fish on George's head two at a time. Diana couldn't believe she was a part of this nasty circus.

“Please let me out. It's an emergency.”

“Impossible,” the usher replied.

Diana put her hands in her pockets, feeling her folded up permission slip to enter the auditorium. This gave her an idea.

She shrugged. “Why is it impossible? I got in here just fine without a permission slip.”

The usher was aghast. “What?!”

“I don't have a permission slip to be in the auditorium,” Diana lied.

“Outrageous! Horrendous!” The usher shook with anger. “Get out of here right this instant, you sneaky rule-breaking wretch. I will report you at once. How did you get past our sterling security team?”

As the ushers pushed her out of the auditorium, she pointed back at her seat. “Oh, my friend Benjamin snuck me in. He's right down there.”

“Well we will deal with him!” the usher said confidently before slamming the door behind Diana.

In the hallway it was quiet and Diana was alone. She walked briskly through the deserted headquarters. Winterpole was supposed to be the good guys, protecting the environment and saving the world. None of this sat right with her. She had to talk to someone about it.

Minutes later, Diana found herself in front of her mother's office, knocking on the door. Her mother waved her in and told her to have a seat. She was on a call with the head of the legal department of some multinational corporation.

“Yes, yes, I read the report. . . . Well did you know the weaponized chemical bombs would leak when you built the transport boat? How much sea life are we talking about? . . . Global species collapse? That sounds like a lot. . . . Well, I'm glad you're concerned. It's always good to hear the groups we monitor expressing their concern for the environment. . . . It seems to me that you're in the clear on this one. You had permission slips to move weapons in that area. And oil spills happen in that region all the time. This is basically the same thing. Don't you worry. Local governments will raise taxes to pay for the cleanup and protect your subsidies. . . . I know! Your whole business model would break down if the average citizen didn't bail you out when you made a mistake . . . an innocent mistake. Yes, of course. Enjoy your vacation. . . . I
will
enjoy the opera tickets you sent. I'm so glad you remembered I love Wagner. Goodbye.” Diana's mother pulled the headphone off her ear and set it on her desk. “Yes, and what do you want, Diana?”

“I just came from the auditorium.”

“Oh that's good. How was the show?”

Diana shook her head, struggling to answer. She wanted to tell her mother what she expected to hear, but Mister Lane's punishment troubled her too much. “It doesn't feel right to be treating Mister Lane so cruelly. I know he needs to be punished for breaking the rules, but couldn't we come up with something a little more humane?”

Her mother rose from her chair and leaned across her desk. “George Lane did not simply ‘break the rules'; he has violated countless Winterpole statutes. He has refused to acquire permission slips for anything. If it were up to me, his punishment would be much more severe. Your leniency disappoints me, Diana.”

That was the worst thing Diana's mother could have said. She didn't want to be a disappointment. The whole reason she joined Winterpole in the first place was to make her mother happy. Diana's stomach scrunched up like a balled fist. It was scary to tell her mother the truth, but she had to do it. “I don't like it here, Mom. Everyone is so serious all the time. And mean. And the Director. What's up with that guy? Why does he talk so funny?”

“You fool!” Diana's mother cried out, a look of demented terror in her eyes. “Don't you
ever
question the Director. He is the Director. He—” She trailed off, smoothed down her uniform, and stepped around her desk, making her way to the door. She looked back at Diana. “Honestly, sometimes I don't know what you're thinking.” She shut the door behind her, leaving Diana alone in the office.

Diana rubbed her cheek. She should have known better than to go to her mother for advice. No one understood how she felt. The people here were completely devoid of compassion.

Who would have thought Winterpole could be so cold?

RICK PULLED THE OARS WITH ALL HIS MIGHT, PROPELLING THEIR INFLATABLE RAFT THROUGH
the choppy ocean. The mist was blizzard-thick. He squinted into the bleak gray vastness, fearful of every shadow.

“We should have taken the
Roost
,” Evie said for the seventh time. But that was impossible. Grandma Condolini had told them the prison's sensors could detect any electronic signature in a five-mile radius. Rick's skinny arms were the only engine that could get close, and they would use the radio inside the lead-lined backpack they brought along to call Sprout for a pickup when it was time to flee the scene.

What they were about to do didn't sit right with Rick. He was no stranger to breaking Winterpole's nearly infinite list of rules and regulations, but this was different. He had always violated Winterpole's statutes for the greater good. This time it was to free a dangerous criminal.

“Vesuvia is just misguided,” Grandma Condolini had said as they departed New Boca, leaving 2-Tor in the care of the Big Game Huntress as collateral. “I hope prison has cooled her temper. She may come out of the experience a different person.”

Rick remained skeptical. He pulled up the zipper on his parka until it covered his chin. The next time he staged a prison break he swore he would pick one closer to the equator.

“Look, there it is!” Evie pointed ahead.

Rick squinted into the mist. The Prison at the Pole emerged, a white mountain on the black sea, a monument to frigid misery. Rick had always been taught that the location of this terrifying place was one of Winterpole's most carefully guarded secrets. But somehow Grandma Condolini had known where it was. A little bird had told her, she'd said.

As the enormous iceberg loomed ahead, Rick made out a number of mounted hoses on the rampart. Freeze rays. If they were detected now, he and his sister would be turned into a couple of ice cubes.

Evie squinted into the mist. “I have a visual on our point of entry. This is going to be fun.”

“No, Evie. This is definitely not going to be fun,” Rick said as he rowed.

“Sure it will!” Evie looked back at him. “Climbing. Sneaking. It's gonna be awesome! Sprout would find it fun.”

Rick snorted. “It's obvious you don't know Sprout the way I do, or you would never say that.”

“Psssshh. Yeah, right. I know Sprout so much better than you do. That's why we're friends.”

“Just don't go bungling our mission again,” Rick said, ignoring her. “In and out. No getting creative. No trouble.”

The raft bumped against the icy exterior wall of the prison. Evie seized the raft's anchor and jammed it into the ice as Rick tucked the oars onto the raft. They each grabbed a pair of metal climbing picks and hoisted themselves out to begin their ascent.

Fifty feet up from the water, they stopped on a narrow ledge. A small hole no bigger than a loaf of bread had been cut out of the ice and covered with a grate of icicles.

Evie put her face close to the grate. “Hoo! What is that stench?”

“I don't know.” Rick shivered. “I'm too cold to smell anything.”

They attacked the grate with their climbing picks. The icicles shattered. Shards around the hole cracked and flaked away. As the hole widened, the stench inside became so pungent, even Rick's red runny nose got a whiff.

Hundreds of fish spilled out, flopping from ledge to ledge down into the ocean. Pressed against the wall to avoid the fishy deluge, Rick exchanged a perplexed look with his sister. “Let's go . . . I guess,” he said.

They had expanded the hole enough to crawl through. Three feet in, the hole morphed into a circular tunnel like a sewer pipe, large enough for Rick and Evie to walk upright.

“Security seems light,” Rick said, struggling to keep his balance. The floor was wet and slippery and stank of fish and waste.

Evie pinched her nose with two fingers. “I dunno. They're warding me off pretty well.”

At the end of the tunnel was a ladder of curved metal bars embedded in the ice. A red hazard light provided the only illumination.

“All right, here we go.” He climbed the ladder, hand over hand. The metal was so cold, he could feel it through his gloves.

The hatch at the top had a long handle. He pulled it slowly and quietly. The mechanism squeaked in protest. Taking a deep breath, Rick pushed the hatch open.

A dark hallway, which, like the others, was carved from ice, stretched out before him. Small alcoves with metal doors lined the hall. These must have been cells. No guards or security cameras were in sight.

Rick called down to his sister. “Evie, come on. The coast is clear.”

They closed the hatch and crept down the hall. As they passed the rows of cell doors, Evie said, “Hey Rick, wait a second. I just thought of something. Dad's been missing all this time. And Winterpole was on
Evie's Paradise
.”

“We're not calling the eighth continent that. But anyway, so what?”

“Well what if Winterpole captured Dad. Wouldn't they bring him here? Isn't that what they wanted all along?”

Rick glared at her. “Evie, what are you saying?”

“I'm saying he could be here in this very building. At the very least maybe if we hack into their systems we could find out where he is.”

“I seem to remember the last time we were creeping around a Winterpole facility you got a similar idea and it nearly got us both killed!”

Evie rolled her eyes. “You're always bringing that up. Come on, Rick. There's a chance, right?”

Rick wanted to find his father more than anything. The responsibility of being the person in charge was stressing Rick out. The irony of this, considering how hard Rick always worked to
be
the one in charge, was not lost on him. But Dad would know how to fix all their problems, and he would put Rick at ease, as he so often did. Unfortunately, there was no proof he was here. And the Prison at the Pole wasn't like Winterpole Headquarters. Every moment they wasted, their lives were in danger.

Letting out a resigned sigh, Rick said, “Okay. We'll try it.” This was not something he was excited to do, considering how much work they had already put into not being discovered, but if they wanted to be sure if Dad was in the Prison at the Pole or not, then there was only one way to find out. Arching his back, Rick let out his loudest bird call. “Koo ka-koo ka-KOO!!!” It was their family call, the one that, no matter what, would bring other Lanes running. “Koo ka-koo ka-KOO!!!”

Silence was the only reply.

After a long wait, Rick put a comforting hand on his sister's shoulder. “Forget it. Okay, Evie? Now let's go, in case some Winterpole guards heard us. We have a mission. Do you want to save the eighth continent or not?”

Evie gave in too. “Of course I do.”

“Good. So where are we going next?”

Evie whispered, “Remember what Grandma Condolini said—they're keeping Vesuvia on the top floor with the other maximum security prisoners. We're going to have to find some stairs or an elevator.”

“There's a sign for the stairs just down this hall,” Rick said, pointing. “Let's check it ou—wah . . . ACHOO!” Rick panicked. “Uh, do you think anyone heard that?”

“Let's not wait to find out,” Evie replied, pulling him into an alcove.

“Sorry, it was an accident,” Rick said as soon as they were out of view.

“You
never
accept that excuse from me. You know, you wouldn't get colds like this if you ate more veggies.”

Rick glared. Evie had chosen a heck of a time to pick a fight. “I eat plenty of vegetables. All I did was sneeze. You're the one who lost the super root and got us in this mess. And anyway, you never cared about eating greens until Sprout came along talking about how cool they are.”

“That's not true. There isn't anything in the world more delicious than a green bean.”

“You're a green bean.”

“Then I guess I'm delicious!”

Rick sighed, once again at a loss due to his sister's immunity to logic and reason.

Fortunately, no one had come to investigate Rick's sneeze. Convinced the coast was clear, he and Evie moved quickly and quietly to the stairwell. They pushed through the door and ran up several flights of stairs.

When they reached the top floor, Evie knelt down and placed her ear against the doors.

“Hear anything?” Rick asked.

“Shh . . . something muffled. Give it a second.”

They waited.

Finally, Rick couldn't contain himself. “You know, Sprout told me he likes my ideas for how to rule the eighth continent.”

Evie glared. “Oh yeah? Well he told me he likes my ideas.”

“He's
my
friend, Evie. He wouldn't say that to you.”

“Well he did.”

“Well you're lying!”

Evie snorted. “Whatever, Rick. If you think that's true, then you're not as much of a genius as you think you are.”

Rick's face felt hot enough to melt the whole prison. He was about to tell his sister to stuff her face with green beans when she pushed open the doors a crack and said, “Okay, I think we're clear. Take a look.”

Rick pressed his eye against the crack between the doors. Two big snowmen stood at the end of the hall. But there was something off about them. Something mechanical. And then the snowmen moved! As they turned and disappeared down another hall, Rick caught a glimpse of their faces. Where there should have been black coal for their eyes, there were blood-colored infrared lights.

Once they were sure no one was watching, Rick and Evie moved into the hall. They started checking the cell numbers for Vesuvia: Z-100, Z-99, Z-98, Z-97.

As they neared the end of this latest hallway, the door to cell Z-99 hissed and slid open. Several Winterpole agents emerged, and Rick and Evie ducked into another alcove just in time.

“Nice work, crew,” said the biggest man Rick had ever seen. Like the other prison guards, he was dressed in white instead of standard-issue black. “Good shoot,” he told the other agents, who Rick now realized were carrying film equipment. “Take ten, then back to your posts.”

The big man and the film crew walked away in the opposite direction from Rick and Evie. “That big guy must be the Polar Bear,” Rick said, releasing a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The Polar Bear was something else Grandma Condolini had warned them about. He was the warden of the Prison at the Pole and one of Winterpole's most fearsome agents. Rick did
not
want to cross paths with him.

“Why do you think they call him the Polar Bear?” Evie asked.

“I'm not sure. Maybe because he's almost as big as a bear.”

“I hope that's the only reason,” Evie said.

“Come on.” Rick urged her to follow him to the next hallway. “Let's go rescue the pink princess.”

A few minutes of cautious sneaking later, they found what they were looking for. A little corridor led off from the main hallway. At the far end was a single door. Carved into the ice beside it was the label Z-01
.
Vesuvia's room.

Evie's hand hovered over the open button next to the door. “Are we really going to do this?”

Rick frowned. “Do we have a choice?”

“Fair point,” Evie replied, pushing the button.

The door slid open, but then the whole hallway went dark. Red warning lights flashed. Sirens blared. A voice came over the loudspeakers. “Attention. Attention. Escape attempt in progress in Sector Z.”

“That wasn't my fault!” Evie said. “You totally can't blame me for that.”

The loudspeaker voice again. “Repeat. Escape attempt in progress in Sector Z. Dispatch a Kill Team to investigate.”

A Kill Team?
That sounded worse than polar bears or snowman guards. Rick grabbed Evie and pulled her into the nearest cell, shutting the door behind them.

He jammed their climbing picks into the door, locking it. “That should hold them.” As soon as he said this something heavy slammed into the door and growled. Then they heard someone or something pushing the open button. It clicked and hummed in struggle, but the door didn't budge. “Uh . . . for now.”

Rick reached into their backpack and pulled out a flashlight. He switched it on and used the circle of light to explore the dark cell. Shadow icicles grew and twisted on the walls.

“Hello?!” he called out.

From back in the darkness, something groaned.

Rick and Evie followed the noise, searching the walls for the source of the sound.

Then, at the back of the cell, they found the cause. A girl had been frozen into the icy wall, so that only her head and hands stuck out. Her wiry blond hair draped like rags around her face. Her fingernails were dirty brown cat claws. She was too weak to shiver.

Evie approached the prisoner. “Vesuvia . . . Vesuvia . . . is that you?”

The girl raised her head. It
was
her. But she looked like a wind-up toy who'd had her spring ripped out. Her eyes struggled to focus on the two people before her. “E- . . . Eee . . .”