Unlucky Charms (The Cold Cereal Saga) (2 page)

“
He’s
the reason all the magic left our world,” another man told his fellow Freemen, glancing around, his voice the reedy voice of the True Believer. “
Merlin.
He’s why it’s all trapped in another dimension with the elves and fairies.”

“Not true,” Merle muttered under his breath.

“And now he’s trying to ruin the Fay’s Grand Plan to bring the worlds together. Him and his friends. He’s
powerful
—”

“He’s just a very old man who knows some card tricks,” insisted the Freeman in charge. “Nothing more. But … assume he could be anyone. Check the women for Adam’s apples.”

The so-called wizard just to Scott’s left in the gift shop was not Scott’s father. This man in a Mets sweatshirt and an identical pair of thick black glasses was a time-traveling scientist named Merle Lynn, and the glasses had been his idea. Each pair had a tiny light in the bridge that flashed thousands of times per second, too fast to see, and did something weird to the occipital lobe in the brain of any person looking directly at them. Scott didn’t understand the details, but the upshot was that anyone staring you in the face would be transfixed by your glasses and not really notice anything else about you. These glasses were your secret identity. So even though there were evil men in the airport looking for Scott and Merle right this second, they paid no attention to the old man and the boy in the wigs and glasses standing stiffly by the Ben Franklin bottle-cap openers.

The Freemen were splitting up, showing people fake badges and asking them questions. Or maybe real badges—the Good and Harmless Freemen of America had a wide reach.

“They’re coming,” Scott whispered. “Why are we just standing here?”

“If we let ’em come to us, we’ll look like a couple a’ nobodies with interesting glasses. If we move, we’ll be a boy and an old man trying to leave. Your call.”

Scott exhaled slowly as a Freeman in khakis and a pink shirt walked right through the gift shop and showed them a very authentic-looking police badge. Scott’s wig felt like a pile of hay. He tried to maintain eye contact without looking like he was trying to maintain eye contact, which was quite a trick.

“Sorry to bother you two,” said the Freeman. “But we’re looking for a person of interest. Elderly Caucasian male? Mind if I ask you why you’re here?”

“Waiting for my brother,” Merle answered. “His flight’s late.”

“And which flight would that be?” asked the Freeman as he produced a smartphone from his jacket.

Had he really been paying attention, the Freeman might have noticed Scott and Merle tighten up inside their winter coats. Even the backpack flinched. But the fact that he hadn’t yet registered that he was already looking at an elderly Caucasian male meant the glasses were doing what they were supposed to.

“From Dallas,” said Merle.

The Freeman frowned at his phone. “You’re in the wrong terminal. The only flights from Dallas are arriving into D and F. This is C.”

“Son of a gun. Well, thanks for the help.”

“Sure,” the man told them. “You’re free to go.”

But they didn’t. Outside the gift shop an old woman was shouting, “HOW DARE YOU?” to another Freeman who had apparently just asked her to prove she wasn’t secretly a man.

“Whoop. That looks like trouble,” the pink-shirted Freeman said. And he turned to leave, but here were these two people with glasses, still staring at him like idiots. He turned back.

“Everything all right?” he added. “You don’t want to keep your brother waiting.”

“Right,” said Merle, and he tried to back away without looking away and accidentally knocked a City of Brotherly Love snow globe off a low table. And still he did not look away.

“Oopsie,” Scott said weakly.

“Brilliant plan, this,” said Mick, knowing he could only be seen and heard by a very few. “A disguise that requires eye contact. Maybe later I’ll tell yeh abou’ my idea for a bulletproof necktie.”

The Freeman backed up. He squinted. He peered at Scott and Merle as if they were one of those posters that look like noise but that reveal a dolphin jumping over a heart if you cross your eyes just right. Then he took a picture with his phone. A picture of Merle and Scott in which their glasses would not flash but would rather perch awkwardly on their suddenly recognizable faces.

“Um,” said the Freeman. Then Merle waved a white wand at him and the man fell, snoring, in a heap.

This wasn’t magic, either. It was more like a futuristic Taser, Scott recalled as he and Merle plowed through people and Liberty Bell ashtrays and dashed back toward the parking garage.

“There!” shouted the man in the black hat. “Those two!” Nine men peeled away from whomever they’d been interrogating and sprinted after them.

“YOU ARE NOW ENTERING THE MOVING WALKWAY,” said an electronic voice as Scott and Merle scampered shakily onto a low-walled conveyor belt for people who didn’t appreciate having to walk a tenth of a mile to get to their cars.

“Your fault,” yelled Merle. “Just sayin’. No reason we had to get this close.”

“I had to see her,” Scott answered, probably too low to hear.

“Archimedes,” Merle said into his wristwatch. “Bring the van around.”

The narrow moving walkway created some confusion for nine men running abreast, so a number of them ran down the center of the carpeted hall instead and fell behind.

“Any o’ them wearin’ those pink goggles?” asked Mick.

“I don’t think so,” Scott answered. He didn’t want to look. “I think they’re trying to blend in.”

“Aces,” Mick said, and he zipped his cauliflower face out of the backpack. Then he hopped atop the black rubber handrail and ran back toward the Freemen.

“What’s he doing?” shouted Merle.

Scott watched Mick curl into a ball and tumble down into the narrow alley of the walkway.

“I think he’s bowling.”

Freemen tripped and knocked against one another and bounced off the handrails.

“YOU ARE NOW EXITING THE MOVING WALKWAY.”

Scott and Merle vaulted onto the carpet again and through the exit, and then they were standing in an alcove, a recessed bay of doors set into the airport building where it met the edge of the four-floor parking garage. They stepped out among the concrete pillars and ramps of the garage, where they were joined by a barn owl and a white van. The former flew to Merle’s shoulder as the latter screeched to a halt in front of them.

They had no intention of getting in the van, though. The parking garage only had one narrow exit, and it was sure to be guarded. Mick caught up, and the three of them ran right around the van and hid themselves behind a huge gray column between two SUVs.

Merle spoke to the mechanical owl, Archimedes, and Freemen began pouring through the doors in time to see the white van peel away again.

“Blockade all C garage exits,” one Freeman said into a walkie-talkie as the others moved to pursue the van.

“Wait!” said the man in the black hat. “He’s tried this trick before. There’s no one in that van.”

“Great.” Scott sighed. “They’re getting smarter.”

“Listen,” said the black-hatted man, and the others listened. “Silence. He’s still on this floor.”

The Freemen stepped lightly, spreading out, bending to check under cars. When one drew close, Merle put him to sleep with the Slumbro and Mick helped drag him behind the pillar.

“Can you bring the van by again?” whispered Scott. And with his fist and a pair of running finger legs, he acted out a little scenario.

Merle raised his eyebrows and nodded. He gave the Slumbro to Scott and set about trying to explain the plan to his supercomputing robot owl. Scott flicked the wand when a second Freeman rounded the pillar, and they stacked him on top of the first one.

“Gettin’ cozy back here,” said Mick.

Scott heard an engine rumbling close, closer, but then it was only some lady in a blue hatchback. He whispered, “How long before the van gets back?”

“Maybe a minute.”

A minute felt like a long time just now. The Freemen seemed to be everywhere—had more arrived? Maybe some of them were only passengers. A flight attendant pulling a pair of suitcases passed too close, and Scott put her to sleep before he could stop himself.

“Shoot, sorry,” he hissed. “Sorry.” Mick put her with the others.

Then Scott felt the van’s congested engine draw near. Merle was hesitating.

“Can’t do it yet,” he groused, and nodded at a clutch of passengers entering through the alcove that separated the terminal from the garage. “Regular people in the way.” Then they cleared and he added, “Archie, peel out.”

Nearby they heard the fuss of the engine, the shriek of tires, the high whine of a belt that probably needed replacing. The van lurched forward, and so did Scott, Merle, and Mick, four bodies running at once toward the same finish line, and Scott really hoped Archimedes had a firm grasp of the geometry of the situation.

“There they are!” shouted someone, and a dozen undercover Freemen in their polos and chinos began to crab walk back through the sea of cars toward the terminal entrance. The fat white van hurtled around the corner, and Scott, Mick, and Merle crossed directly in front of it at top speed, with Archimedes flapping behind.

The van was braking now, filling the garage with a kind of angry whale song.

They threw themselves back into the bay of doors, pitched through those doors and into the terminal, then turned just in time to see the reeling white van parallel park itself neatly inside the alcove.

It was close. The driver’s side mirror was nearly touching the door glass. Freemen tried to squeeze through a gap between the van and the wall, but Scott reached through a crack in the terminal doors and put them to sleep.

“Hold back!” the Freeman in the black hat ordered.

On the terminal side, a man with a duffel and a suntan and rubber sandals was just starting to take in the scene.

“Hey,” he said. “My car is out there.”

The black-hatted Freeman stood out of range of the wand and glared through the gap.

“That was your mom that disappeared, wasn’t it, kid?” he asked. “What did you do to her?”

“We sent her into the future!” Scott called back. Exactly a year into the future, to be precise, but they didn’t need to know that. “She’s
safe
from you people!”

“C’mon,” Merle urged. Mick climbed back into the backpack.

“Is this some kind of flash mob or something?” asked the man in the rubber sandals. “Are you going to move that van soon?”

“Sorry,” said Scott, and he and Merle proceeded to leave.

“But my car’s out there. I need it for driving.”

“Sorry!”

They jogged back the way they had come and turned toward a down escalator to baggage claim.

“Stop right there!” someone shouted, and they turned to see the same Freeman who’d interrogated them in the gift shop, running down the moving walkway.

“What’s he doing awake already?” said Merle.

Scott squinted at the Slumbro. “You know you have this set on
NAP
?”

“What? Give it here.”

The escalator was crowded, so they fast stepped down some stairs.

“She’s … she’s really safe, right?” asked Scott. “Just in the future?”

“What can I say that’ll make you believe me? I double-checked the math. Archie triple-checked it!”

“And Emily checked it too?”

Merle sighed. “Yes, Emily checked it too.”

The Freeman was negotiating the escalator behind them and speaking into a walkie-talkie.

“Repeat, subjects are entering C baggage claim. Over.”

Baggage claim was a wide tiled hall encircled by doors and big windows, filled with people and luggage and luggage carousels. You could turn in either direction to head outdoors, where the curbsides were packed with shuttles and taxis.

Scott was beginning to understand how to spot the Freemen. They all appeared to be wearing at least a little pink—a scarf, a shirt, maybe a hatband—and a number of them were coming to join him at the base of the stairs. So was a bald and topknotted Hare Krishna in white robes, who’d been slouching over a rattling tambourine and handing out pamphlets near two suitcases in a corner. Everyone else in baggage claim had been doing their best to ignore him, such that most had not even noticed his tall stature or the fact that he’d been chanting “Hairy Christmas” for twenty minutes. But now, standing straight, he towered over Goodco’s pawns like the white king on a chessboard.

Scott and Merle stopped on the stairs about a half flight from the bottom, so the Freeman on the escalator just passed them, slowly, with an embarrassed look on his face.

“All right, you two,” another Freeman in a pink tie said to Scott and Merle and, to a lesser extent, Mick. “You can’t put us all to sleep.”

“Can’t we?” Scott whispered.

“Prob’ly not.”

“Um, sir?” A Freeman addressed the tall figure in white. “This isn’t safe here—please step away.”

Just then the Hare Krishna’s two suitcases unzipped and released a brown-skinned boy and a pale and dainty little girl. And the tall figure threw off his robe and stick-on topknot to reveal a blockheaded monster of a former librarian. Nearby people gasped, and a family of four burst into applause.