Going Bovine (45 page)

But I can see in Balder’s eyes that he’s homesick, and we’re by the beach right here, right now. “Who wants to play in the surf?” I ask.

Balder’s eyes light up. “But your mission, Cameron?”

“Can wait for a few hours,” I lie.

“When I am once again in the company of Odin and Freya, I shall tell them of the two bravest souls I ever met. Your names shall ring in the golden hall of the gods,” Balder says, sniffling a little.

“Just don’t tell ’em you keep your runes near your gnomy bits, amigo,” Gonzo jokes. “’Cause that is seriously off-putting.”

We drive down a few miles to a quiet part of the beach. No college revelers here. Just a few families with their kids, a handful of old people camped in their beach chairs facing the late-day sun. We move far away from them, not that they’re watching us anyway. They’re enjoying their own paradise bubbles.

Balder’s back in his surfer uniform. He pulls up the leggings, takes off his flip-flops, and wades out to the edge of the water. A wave nudges his toes.

“Oh my,” Balder says. I’ve never seen him so happy. “That is … wonderful.” He cups his hands over his eyes to cut the glare and keeps watch for his ship.

A piece of driftwood has washed up on shore. I take it and write my name in the sand. The water rushes over my name, makes it into some new word, then erases it completely. Using the driftwood as a walking stick, I hike along the shore, thinking about Dulcie, about the way her wings felt, smooth and soft except for the spines in each feather. Nestled into all that velvety down was something solid but supple, something hard to break, hundreds of them fanning out around me like the softest, most improbable shell. It makes me smile to know she’s in the world. That’s all.

A feather drops onto my head, followed by another, and another. Feathers fall like snow from the sky. A great big pillow fight of feathers coating my skin, the beach, the water, till all I can do is twirl and laugh in them, a character in my own broken snow globe.

We stay longer than we should, probably. The day is spent talking and building badass sand castles, taking Balder for rides on the waves. It’s all been so nice just being together that I haven’t wanted to leave. Now the sun’s low in the sky, and Gonzo and I sit in the sand while Balder finishes constructing a moat around his castle, waiting for Ringhorn, which he assures us will come with the evening tide.

“Thirty more minutes,” I tell him.

“It will come,” Balder insists, and goes back to looking.

“Hey, you wanna see if we can crash that shit by the taco stand?” Gonzo nods in the direction of a small party that’s sprung up off to our right.

“Nah,” I say.

A wave rushes over my toes and back out. The sand goes soft and sucks at my foot. Seagulls congregate on a dune, pecking at a piece of bread. An old couple parks their chairs near the boardwalk. The wind shifts, carrying the sounds of a volleyball game down the shore.

“Seems like we should be doing something,” Gonzo says.

“We are doing something.”

“Yeah. Guess so.”

We sit staring out at that vast ocean, Gonzo and I, just watching the sky colors drip into the sea like a giant percolator, making something sweet and strong, something to keep you going when all you’ve got left are fumes.

Maybe there’s a heaven, like they say, a place where everything we’ve ever done is noted and recorded, weighed on the big karma scales. Maybe not. Maybe this whole thing is just a giant experiment run by aliens who find our human hijinks amusing. Or maybe we’re an abandoned project started by a deity who checked out a long time ago, but we’re still hardwired to believe, to try to make meaning out of the seemingly random. Maybe we’re all part of the same unconscious stew, dreaming the same dreams, hoping the same hopes, needing the same connection, trying to find it, missing, trying again—each of us playing our parts in the others’ plot-lines, just one big ball of human yarn tangled up together. Maybe this is it.

Or maybe there’s something to what Junior said about those black holes singing. That B-flat? Maybe that’s the last sound we make when we join the universe, something to say, I was here. One last “Whoo-hoo!” before we’re pulled into the vast, dark unknown and shot out into some other galaxy, some other world, where we have the chance to do it differently. I don’t know. It’s something to think about, though.

“This is pretty fucked up, dude,” Gonz says, giving me that big, lovable lopsided grin.

I know what he means, and I want to say something back, but I can’t find the words for how incredible this is any more than I can pin the sky in place. I’m happy to be right here, right now. And I know, even as I’m surrounded by this feeling, that it will take its arms away soon enough. Tears sting my eyes. I turn my head so Gonzo can’t see.

“Hey, new bumper sticker,” Gonzo announces. “This car powered by the Dwarf of Destiny!”

I wipe my face against my shoulder. “Everyone says you’re paranoid.”

“The Norse like to keep things Wyrd,” Balder chimes in.

“Good one,” Gonzo says, giggling.

“Free the snow globes!” I shout to the sky.

“Free-ee the snow globes, free-ee the snow globes …” Balder turns it into an opera riff, and we join in till we’re laughing too hard to continue.

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 contained. 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.