King of the Mutants (4 page)

Trust me, creepy.

“Gator,” he jeered, “come out, come out wherever you are. Time to play-aay with Yorgi.”

HOW TO DEAL WITH THE FACT THAT YOU MIGHT HAVE BEEN HATCHED FROM AN EGG

Six-foot-five and two-hundred-sixty-some pounds of pure muscle, Yorgi was one dude you didn’t want to run into. His entire body was covered in skull, bone, and devil tattoos right up to the back of his huge, bald, potato-shaped head. As mean coming as he was going, even the back of his big beefy neck wrinkled into a permanent frown. And you should have seen him in his clown make-up. Pure evil.

Freddie gave me a blank stare, but before he was able to open his mouth to speak, I held my trembling finger up to my lips to quiet him. You know when somebody says they are going to turn a place inside out to find something? I’m eighty-nine percent sure
Yorgi
tore up the joint.

Suddenly, the ruckus stopped and the familiar sound of Burt’s footsteps scraped into the tent.

“Any luck?” asked Burt.

“No,” said Yorgi. “Yorgi looked everywhere.”

“My little daisy, my sweet Peaches, is threatening to leave me if I don’t do something about him. You have to find him. I want that mutant’s head on a stick.” Burt’s voice lowered to a psychotic whisper. “Hmpf. It’s not as if his death would cause any kind of uproar or anything. He’s not even a real kid.”

My knees buckled underneath me and my legs went to rubber.

“What is Gator Boy?” came Yorgi’s anticipated response.

Holding my breath, I waited for Burt to answer the one question I’d been asking all of my life. Silence hung in the air until Burt’s laughter rocked the place. “Why he’s nothing but an experiment gone bad, a monstrosity hatched from an ostrich sized egg!”

I clasped my hands over my mouth and muffled back a cry.

“An egg?” repeated Yorgi.

“Yep, I bought him from a freak farm, some fancy pants laboratory, in New York City.”

My throat constricted so tight, I couldn’t swallow. It couldn’t be true. What was he talking about? I didn’t come from a freak farm. My nails dug half-moons into the palms of my hands. Was I really so messed up I wasn’t even born the normal way? I was hatched? I wasn’t human?

“Dr. Greizenheimer has been making new ones too,” said Burt. “All kinds. It was time for an upgrade anyway. The doctor wants to get rid of the mistakes, the ones he can’t use. Truth is, Gator’s disappearance works out well for us. He would have been a third-rate attraction once we get the new batch in.”

My toes vibrated. Sweat squished in between my toes. I breathed through my nose, trying desperately not to believe what I’d just overheard.

“So Burt gets some new freaks for the show?”

“You bet and Grumbling’s is going to make a fortune. This new lot will put us on the map. Some kid with flippers instead of arms. Can you imagine it? The freak lives in a fish tank, too.”

“Yorgi hates freaks,” muttered the evil clown with a disgusted sigh. “You really want the mutant’s head on a stick?”

Shivers of fear shot right down to the tip of my tail.

“No, bring that science experiment back here. I’m sure Peaches would love to get her claws into him like the last guy,” said Burt. The evil glee in his voice permeated my bones. “Grab your posse and hunt that freak of nature down. He can’t be too far, and besides, nobody would help a monster like him out.”

Footsteps crunched on the gravel and then there was silence.

Man, oh man, this was bad. Death threat aside, there was only so much shocking information a kid could digest at one time. Waves of nausea swallowed my body from the inside out. Dizziness set in. I grabbed a tent pole to try and balance myself, hoping it wouldn’t fall down. Freddie put his hand on my shoulder, just as I hung my head in shame.

“Look, Mav,” he said. “I don’t think I want to join the circus after all. I mean, I was envisioning something way different. That conversation? Well, it’s just so messed up. What kind of place is this? What are you going to do?”

I bit down on my bottom lip and met Freddie’s concerned gaze.

“Clearly, I’ve got to bolt seeing that they want to lob my head off,” I said.

Freddie’s eyes widened in question. Or maybe it was fear. I went silent for a moment to think about my options. My tail went mental when New York City was mentioned.

I had nothing to lose.

I ran my tongue over my teeth, a bad habit that crops up when I’m nervous. The taste of freshly drawn blood saturated my mouth. I swallowed it down, gulped, and finally managed to stutter out, “Guess I’m going to the Big Apple to find out if all that stuff they said about me is true.”

Freddie stared at me for a long moment, his lips pinched in concentration. “I’m going with you,” he said matter-of-factly. “I grew up there, I know the city like the back of my hand, and I really, really want to get back to my old neighborhood. Running away to this circus didn’t quite work out. So my schedule is totally open. You up for it?”

At first I didn’t answer him, but then I thought about it. Freddie didn’t seem like a bad guy, I didn’t know the city at all, and truthfully I was scared. Plus, I had someone on my side for once. Once he got over his initial shock, Freddie didn’t seem to judge me. Don’t get me wrong, I loved Snaggletooth, but maybe I’d found my first human friend? That alone gave me the extra push I needed. I shrugged and shot Freddie a nervous half-smile.

“So us two guys are going on a road trip?” Freddie nodded his head excitedly. “The girls better watch out—”

“Mmm-hmmm,” I agreed, although girls were the last things on mind. I had more pressing issues. Like we were still stuck in between the tents, Yorgi and his crew wanted to hunt me down so they could make alligator fritters out of me, and we had to get to New York from Florida.

“How are we going to get there?” Freddie asked, practically reading my mind.

“Let me think on it,” I said. I didn’t have a clue, but for Freddie’s sake, I pretended to be confident. “We can’t book it out of here just yet anyway. We’ll attempt our escape when it’s dark out. Until then, we just have to wait it out.”

I slumped to the ground and stroked Snaggletooth’s head.

Between the heat and the looming death threat, I was just a tad traumatized. We trembled in the dark and didn’t speak for what seemed to be hours. As I suffered through a bout of severe heart palpitations, Madame Zoltarano’s strange threat kept coming to mind: Get to New Orleans and see a woman named Sarah Feena. Even though I thought Zoltarano’s act was one big sham, that ever-familiar tingle in my tail told me that before Freddie and I headed for New York we needed to take a minor detour to the Big Easy—and soon.

Shouts of angry excitement pierced the air. Yorgi screamed for Otto and Caesar. From what I could gather, the clowns were setting off into town to see if any of the locals had spotted me. Which was made clear when the Hummer’s engine roared to life. The killer clowns were leaving the encampment in one of Grumbling’s extravagances—a huge black truck, tricked out with bizarre custom features. Chrome rims lined with deadly looking spikes. A graveyard of silver clown skulls jutted from its hood. The bright neon green under-carriage lights emitted a sickly glow as the truck screeched by our tent.

If there was ever a time to escape it was now. With the clowns out of our hair, we stood a chance. I turned toward Freddie and whispered, “Do you, um, know how to drive?”

Freddie furrowed his barely-there blond eyebrows. “Why?”

“Because we’re going to steal us a nice slice of pie,” I said.

“Huh? I don’t know how food is going to help us out. But I am kind of hungry. Actually, pie sounds good.”

“We don’t have time for food,” I explained. “Grumbling is pacifying Peaches and we’ve got to bolt before those maniac clowns come back. So it’s now or never unless you want your life to be over.”

Freddie looked confused. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“Just keep your tail up.”

“Tail up?”

“Sorry, forgot you were a gilly, an outsider. Anyway, tail up is the command we give our elephants. In plain old English it means follow me,” I said, sounding as self-assured as I could. Still, I had no idea if the plan I hatched up in my head would work in real life.

I gave a nod to Freddie and he followed me back into the animals’ tent, Snaggletooth in tow. We crawled on our stomachs, shoved my stuff through the cramped space, and slithered past the sleeping bear. I threw my guitar over my shoulder, Freddie grabbed my duffle bag, and I put my fingers over my lips.

Before we attempted our bold escape, I had to check outside. The night was as dark as a bat’s wing, but a dingy, yellowish light sputtered from the cookhouse. The sounds of bowls clanked amongst the rowdy laughter of the midgets. Dinnertime—the perfect hour to dare such an outrageous getaway.

My heart galloped, beating against my chest like racehorses on a track.

“This way,” I whispered.

Hidden in the shadows, we skulked through the darkness like thieves, mainly because that’s what we were about to become. We made it past the cookhouse without any issues, but my tail went insane as we passed by Madame Zoltarano’s tent. Freddie stopped, his jaw dropped open. I tried to push him on, but he wouldn’t budge. Then I saw why.

Colorful beads hung down from the doorway—parted just enough to see Madame Zoltarano in the company of twelve midgets, their backs toward us. All the midgets were dressed like pirates in puffy, white shirts and tight, red pants with yellow stripes. Their legs looked like hot dogs doused with mustard. Half of them wore patches over their left eyes. The other half wore long red beads around their necks that hung to the ground. I had no idea why they were dressed so weird. Like Freddie, I stood in stunned curiosity and we watched the bizarre scene unfold right before our eyes.

Madame Zoltarano took off her turban. Her hair fell to her knees in an unruly tangle of gray. It looked like old seaweed that had washed onto the shore of a beach—probably smelled like it too. On the metal table in front of the group, her crystal ball flashed. One of the midgets picked up the purple turban and put it on, laughing. Then, Madame Zoltarano and her creepy little crew chanted a bunch of gibberish and polka music started to play. Even weirder? They danced the Cha-cha-cha in a frantic circle.

“What the heck is going on here?” hissed Freddie.

“Sssh, we don’t want them to see us,” I hissed back.

Too late.

In a cage toward the back wall, a large owl twisted its head around one hundred and eighty degrees to face us. His bright, yellow eyes opened wide and he hooted—a sign of bad luck! Madame Zoltarano turned her head in our direction (the normal way) and her gaze pierced right through us. She threw her head back and laughed. “Good riddance, mutant!”

I grabbed Freddie by the wrist and dragged him away.

Both of us held our hands over our mouths to keep from screaming as we skidded into the Big Top. Without the crowds and lights, it was spooky quiet and dark. We could barely make out the color of the red and white striped canvas above our heads. The Flying Forsinis’ trapeze swung in the breeze. The aerialist’s silks fluttered around like opaque ghosts. Freddie and I caught our breath on the hippodrome track—the path that surrounds the three performance rings.

“This is the creepiest place I’ve ever been to,” said Freddie. “Are all circuses like this?”

“Ringling’s is the best for a reason.” I paused and looked Freddie straight in the eye. “You really chose the wrong crew to hook up with.”

“You think?” said Freddie. Then, he burst out into hysterical laughter. I guess everybody deals with situations differently.

We exited through the back of the Big Top and weaved our way through a maze of semi-trucks, RVs and pimped out school buses—the latter of which served as housing for our army of midgets.

We ran until I stopped in front of Grumbling’s RV. Freddie’s jaw went slack and his entire body stiffened. It wasn’t for the faint hearted. Now a recreational vehicle painted with red, orange, and blue flames may sound typical, but when you add the freaky evil clown and midget ghosts crawling out of the fiery pit, painted so they appeared to be freshly executed or tortured, well, Burt’s RV looked like somebody had driven it right out of the eternal fires of hell. One ferocious ride, it was fittingly named “Demon’s Revenge.”

“Dude,” was all Freddie could say. He shot me a nervous eye.

Much as I wanted to, there was no time to offer an explanation. To the side of Grumbling’s wicked wheels, our one and only chance for escape sparkled under the full moon like a gorgeous supermodel in a tight sequined dress.

Cherry Pie.

“There’s our dessert,” I said, pointing.

“Oo-kay, um, Mav, I’ve never driven one of those before,” Freddie gasped. “So this is what you’ve been talking about. Righteous.” He whistled through his teeth. “Sure is sweet.”

“Yeah, she is.”

Cherry Pie was Grumbling’s baby—a 1948 Indian Chief Motorcycle and sidecar that had been completely restored and pimped out. The only time I was even allowed near her was when I was forced to clean her. Apparently it was an honor, but I didn’t think it was all that great. If I even left a speck of dirt on her chrome details, or heaven forbid, a thumbprint on her cherry red physique, Burt would smack me hard on the back of my head, and then he’d make me clean her all over again.

“I wonder where Burt keeps the keys,” I said, taking my duffle bag from Freddie. I unsnapped a black cover and stuffed it and my stuff onto the floor of the sidecar.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Freddie. “You’re serious? You want me to drive this thing?”

“No, I want you to ride this thing. So if you have a better idea I’m all ears.”

“Well, no, but—”

“Then it’s all set.”

Freddie stared at the chrome engine glimmering in the moonlight and whimpered, “What’s NOS?”

“Oh, she’s got a custom nitrous oxide tank which means we basically have two speeds,” I explained with an ear-to-ear grin. “Sonic and supersonic.”

Freddie hunched over, his hands on his knees.