didn’t dare turn their backs on the onslaught for fear of missing something really big and dangerous. So they faced into it, crawling backward as quickly as their knees and hands would carry them.
“Incoming,” Philby announced. He flattened himself as a constellation of aluminum cans came down the pipe.
One struck Finn on the shoulder. “Oww!”
“Don’t let one bean you,” Philby warned. “It could probably knock you out.”
Neither boy was amused. Now came plastic knives, forks, and spoons. Paper plates, more cans. The half-eaten turkey bones came at them like spears and arrows. Fruit and vegetable waste and all matter of wet stuff. Finally, they couldn’t take it. They had no choice but to turn their backs to the steady stream for fear of having their eyes poked out.
The force of air grew stronger, ruffling their clothing and hair. The amount of loose garbage was overwhelming. It smashed into them, sticking to their clothing and bare skin. Finn slapped away a plastic fork that adhered to his ear. A sticky rain pelted them-ketchup, soda, cold coffee, and soup.
“Hurry!” Philby shouted, as a tumbling sound arose from down the pipe.
The first of the garbage bags. It sounded like it was rolling at the moment, but soon it would be lifted and carried by wind; soon it would be a missile headed for them.
“That’s it!” Philby announced, shining his flashlight ahead of them, highlighting an intersection of pipe.
A bag crashed into Philby, careened off the pipe wall, and knocked Finn sideways, flattening both boys. They clambered to their hands and knees only to be bowled over by the next. And another after that.
Any chance of Finn going
The bags felt like rocks when they hit. Each time Finn managed to get his legs and arms under him, another bag knocked him over. The pipe intersection just ahead seemed no closer.
“Where’s Maybeck?” Finn called out. “We need Maybeck!”
Maybeck couldn’t believe that the two Engineering guys would just stand there, hanging out by the trash dump. He could feel the rumble under his feet, knew the system was engaged. He could picture Finn and Philby like soda bubbles in a straw getting sucked toward the trash compactor.
He watched as the shorter guy grabbed his radio. “Awaiting instructions,” he said.
“Roger that,” came back a voice, thinly. “We’re waiting on Base.”
“Copy.”
The two guys were obviously in no hurry-were used to waiting.
Maybeck eyed the red emergency stop button, wondering what to do.
Willa ran up the long ramp leading into Spaceship Earth, out of breath. The Segways, ridden by Security guards, were only yards behind her. She slid like a baseball player under the chains blocking the entrance, scrambled to her feet, and took off running again. Behind her, the Security guards had to dismount the Segways, costing them precious seconds. Behind them, the phalanx of Frollo’s cathedral guards followed up the ramp. The Security men turned to face the marching unit. “Stop!” one of them hollered, raising his outstretched palm. He’d never been in this situation before.
The guards stood there in formation, their eyes straight ahead like true soldiers. Not one of them said a thing.
“Did you hear me?” the Security guy said. “Fun’s over.”
The lead guard signaled his group forward. They marched toward the Security man.
“What the heck?” the Security man complained.
Willa hurried through the dark, crestfallen to look down and see her own feet. Spaceship Earth was not in DHI shadow.
The ride was running, though its seats were empty. The Park was closing down for the night. She climbed aboard the first car that passed.
First things first: she would hide until she came up with a plan. At their meeting they’d discussed why Charlene had been crossed over into the Park. Philby had thought it was to debrief her as a spy. But now a second, more insidious motive presented itself: by putting Charlene into Epcot and knowing she would try to escape, the OTs could follow her to the Return and steal it. Without the Return, and without Philby’s back door on the server, any Keeper who crossed over would have no way back. Crossing them over one at a time made so much sense: when working as a team the Keepers had never failed, but as individuals they were far more vulnerable. They would be stuck in the Syndrome. Locked in a coma in their beds at home.
Not just overnight.
But forever.
The flashlight fell out of Philby’s hand as the next bag of trash struck him down. In the swirling light, Finn watched a bulging trash bag approach at the speed of cannon fire. He ducked, and it flew overhead. The flashlight rolled at his feet. Finn lunged for it, but missed. Affronted by a windstorm of sloppy trash and deadly bags, he inched toward the intersection of pipes.
“Philby?!” he cried.
The wind in the tunnel was at full speed-hurricane force. Finn was sliding backward, clawing at the goop, trying not to lose track of Philby. Suddenly, a hand appeared. Finn grabbed it. He felt himself braked as he and Philby joined hands-Philby had caught on to the edge of the intersection. Together they strained to hold on, Finn repeatedly struck by flying trash bags. Then the wind all but stopped. He and Philby were in the adjoining pipe.
Light shone through a circular crack a few yards ahead.
Philby saw it, too. “That’s the way out! The system has supplementary pressurization stations,” Professor Philby explained. “There are dozens of extra fans along the route. All connecting pipes must be airtight.”
“Maybe another time,” Finn said.
Philby led Finn to the end of the short section of pipe. Together they managed to unlock and push open a maintenance door against the drag of the wind. Philby used a plastic bottle to jam the bottom of the door open. Finn climbed out first, down a metal ladder. Philby followed. They were behind heavy equipment, a cardboard compactor, in an alcove off the Utilidor.
The boys were disgusting-covered in a layer of stinking brown sludge from head to toe. “We cannot just walk out there like this,” Finn said. “How are we ever going to pull this off?”
Philby’s eyes ticked back and forth-the professor at work. He poked his head through a network of smaller pipes. “Got something,” he said, crawling through. He returned a moment later with a small, greasy hand towel. They took turns cleaning each other’s face.
“We’re still a mess,” Finn said, indicating his clothes. “I’m like a human booger.”
“This is a cardboard recycling station.”
“Yeah? So?”
“It’s closing time. Everyone wants to get home. You think anyone’s going to look twice at a couple of kids coming down the hall wearing cardboard boxes?”
“I like it!”
The boys snuck around to the side where dozens of collapsed cardboard boxes leaned against the wall. Philby sized up two of them, and the boys reassembled them, overlapping the flaps to make them square and sturdy again. Philby then tore sections out of the flaps: one for Finn’s neck, and one for each of his legs on the opposite end of the big box. It was marked doritos. Philby’s was sun chips. They got past the machinery, and Philby quickly helped Finn into his box so that it hung on his shoulders and ended just above his knees, making walking awkward.
