How to Curse in Hieroglyphics (19 page)

“This is CrocPot calling FlyBoy and FlickChicks! Come in Flyboy and FlickChicks … this is CrocPot calling.”

Cheryl blinked at Tweed. “Does he mean ‘CrackPot'?” Tweed shrugged.

The walkie-talkie crackled again. “Do you read, over? I said do you—?”

Tweed grabbed the walkie-talkie out of Pilot's hand. “FlickChick-Tee here, CrocPot,” she said, pressing the “Talk” button and trying to cover for her momentary fluster. “We read you, over.”

“We have a situation, over,” Artie said. He was panting heavily as if he'd been running a race, and his voice, in between wheezy gasps, sounded anxious.

Cheryl grabbed the walkie-talkie from Tweed. “No kidding, ov—uh,
not
over! We need that amulet, Shrimpcake!” She handed the walkie-talkie back to Pilot. Then she grabbed it back again and pressed the button and said, “Over.” Even in times of peril, one couldn't neglect standard operating procedure.

“Dang it, FlickChick, it'sh call-sign ‘CrocPot' or I'm
hangin' up!” Artie protested, his voice crackling with static and anxiety. And huffing with exertion. “Put Zee on the horn,” he said.

Cheryl held the handset up to the Princess's ear.

“How near do you have to be to the amulet to make the magic work?” Artie asked Zahara.

Zahara responded with a rapid-fire string of words, although Pilot and the girls couldn't understand a thing she said. When she was finished, Cheryl said “Over” for her, in keeping with communications protocol. Then she let go of the button.

There was no immediate answer, but Artie must have been holding the “Talk” button down because they could hear background sounds—carnival ride music and crowds, the sounds of scuffling and a yelp of pain, a muffled Artie exclaiming “Glaack!”—and then the noise cut out. Pilot and the girls frowned down at the handset. They waited, tense, as the silence stretched out. Then a burst of static crackle clawed at the air again and they heard Delmer's frantic voice.

“Get that plane up in the air!” he said. “Get her up and over carnival airspace ASAP!”

“What?” Pilot blinked, grabbing the walkie-talkie back from Cheryl and fumbling for the “Talk” button.

“Why—?”

“No time! Watch for the signal!”

“Sig—”

“Just do it!”

“Okay! Okay,” Pilot said. Then he tried to give the walkie-talkie back to Tweed, but she just blinked at him. “Oh. Right … sorry.” Pilot rolled his eyes and hit the button one last time.
“Over.”

With that word, the girls leaped to work. Together, the three of them formed the same kind of “bucket brigade” they'd used for the kitty crates. Cheryl unloaded stuff from the trunk and handed it to Zahara, who handed it to Tweed, who handed it to Pilot, who loaded it into the plane. Within minutes, the Moviemobile was empty, the plane was full and the twins were ready to boost the Princess up through the cargo hatch door. Cheryl retrieved Isis from the Moviemobile's back seat and handed the bundle over. Then she held her hands out, fingers laced to make a stirrup, to help Zahara make the jump up into the plane. But in the midst of all that frenzied action, suddenly the Princess became very still. Her eyes were huge and gleaming in the darkness.

She reached out and touched a finger to Cheryl's chest, just above her heart, and said, “Cee.” Then she did the same with Tweed and said, “Tee.” The twins nodded. Lastly, she pointed to herself and said, very solemnly, “Zee.”

Then she broke into a huge grin and, laughing delightedly, lunged forward to grab both girls in a fierce hug. Cheryl and Tweed stood there, a bit stunned at the sudden display of affection. Zahara spun on the heel of her sandal and leaped nimbly through the
plane's door without the need of a boost, pulling it shut behind.

“I'm gonna miss that little spitfire,” Cheryl said.

“Yup,” said Tweed. “All except for the ‘fire' bits, of course …”

With that, the girls turned and ran for the car, leaping in, movie-style, without opening the doors. Zahara wasn't the only one with the cool moves.

“We'll follow you on the ground!” Tweed yelled as Pilot strapped into the cockpit and revved the engine. The propeller clawed at the air, pulling the plane forward as it began to roll down the runway.

Through the plane's side window, Cheryl and Tweed saw Pilot twist his hat around backward and thrust out his jaw. His shoulders rolled forward as he worked the throttle, and then the plane began to pick up speed. Tweed glanced at Cheryl, remembering what Pilot had said about the plane having picked up a shimmy. A hiccupy flying machine wasn't exactly an ideal situation, all things considered. Still, if anyone could get Zahara to the place where she could open her portal and go home, Pilot could. Of that the twins were absolutely certain.

Getting the amulet that would let her
do
that … less certain.

Clearly, Delmer and Artie were working on a plan. But Cheryl and Tweed were utterly mystified as to what that plan could possibly be. Well, there was only one way
to find out. The girls hit the gas and took off, heading back the way they'd come.

Driving parallel to the runway, the Moviemobile seemed almost as if it were racing the plane, roaring neck and neck with it across the field until the wheels of the plane lifted off the ground and it soared into the lead, drifting up into the moon-washed night sky. The old car roared down the road, accompanied by a dual soundtrack of chase music from the front speakers and delighted giggling from the bouncing pet carriers in the back seat. At least the Bottoms boys seemed to be enjoying the ride.

With any luck at all, the girls would soon be able to hand them back over to their parents, de-scaled and less toothy, with no one the wiser—even though this was a job that, under normal circumstances, would have demanded triple-time with a double Fudgsicle bonus.

13

LIGHTS … AMULET… ACTION!!

N
ot that they actually had a plan, Artie had been thinking, scampering for dear life in and out between the legs of carnival-goers, but if they
had
had a plan, he was fairly certain that present circumstances would have meant that it had gone horribly awry.

The Colonel, fuming and yelling, was hot on his heels, and Artie had an ancient amulet clenched between his jaws. As he ran, the carnival whipped by on either side—a swirly mess of bright colours, flashing lights and laughing faces looming above him. Up ahead, Artie could see the Ferris wheel spinning, and the brightly painted barrel of the Human Cannonball's cannon, which was resting in a horizontal position since he was between shows. The memory of the man in the flame-bright
jumpsuit soaring through the sky tweaked something in Artie's brain.

Flying …

Like a bird. Or a
plane
.

Artie risked a glance over his shoulder and saw that Dudley was gaining on him. Fortunately, Delmer was gaining on
him
. And then Artie saw the walkie-talkie clenched tightly in Delmer's fist. And, in a flash, the missing plan revealed itself. In all its crazy glory.

Artie zigzagged through the ankles of a pack of teenagers standing next to the Dunk Tank and, digging in with his hind claws and using his tail for leverage, executed a sharp ninety-degree turn. Colonel Dudley overshot him and crashed through the back wall of the Fortune Teller's tent. The time it took for him to untangle himself from all the hanging strings of beads, twinkle lights and fringed scarves gave Artie enough of a breather to skitter back to Delmer and grab the walkie-talkie. He spat out the Eye of Horus into his other hand and hit the “Talk” button.

“This is CrocPot calling FlyBoy and FlickChicks!” he said frantically. “Come in Flyboy and FlickChicks … this is CrocPot calling. Do you read? Over. I said do you—?”

“FlickChick-Tee here, CrocPot,” Tweed's voice cut in. She actually sounded a little flustered. “We read you. Over.”

After a brief exchange, Artie had the final piece of
information he needed to set his plan in motion. He asked Zahara how near she needed to be to the amulet to make the magic work, and she told him that she only needed to be close enough to see it.

Well, Artie was about to make sure she saw it, all right.

And
that it was far enough away from the carnival when she did. Pilot had guessed earlier that she'd need a good fifty or sixty yards clear on all sides—about half the length of a football field. They wouldn't get that kind of clear, open space at the carnival. Not on the carnival grounds. But in the air
above
the carnival?

While Artie was working out the logistics in his head, the Colonel suddenly burst through the crowd right in front of him, his face red with fury. He grabbed Artie by the wrist. Artie yelped in pain, exclaimed “Glaack!” and dropped the handset. Then he bit the Colonel and took off running again when he let go. As he ran, Artie yelled a garbled version of his plan to Delmer over his shoulder, hoping against hope the carny would understand.

Legs pumping, Artie tore through the crowd, heading straight toward the cannon. In the distance, he heard Delmer's frantic voice yelling into the walkie-talkie: “Get that plane up in the air! Get her up and over carnival airspace ASAP!”

When he got close enough, Artie saw that there was a mechanism on the side of the cannon's base that allowed the barrel to be raised or lowered. Helping out around his
parents' gas station garage had given Artie a pretty good understanding of mechanical things—plus the helpful, comically exaggerated UP and DOWN arrows on the cannon's levers were a pretty big clue. Artie figured it out: once the Human Cannonball climbed down into the barrel, Artie guessed that an assistant—probably a pretty girl in a sparkly costume—would activate the lever that raised the barrel to aim it at a net on the far side of the midway. Once in position, a powerful jet of compressed air (made to look like gunpowder with the addition of fireworks and smoke-and-sparkle) would blast the stuntman into the sky.

Artie clambered up onto the platform and set the mechanism to point the cannon
not
at the net, but right straight up at the heavens. Then he ran around to the cannon's mouth and, winding up Babe Ruth-style, pitched the Eye of Horus at the barrel.

Only this time, it
was
more like “Bob Ruth”—Artie's aim, which he'd been so proud of earlier, was off.

Not that it was really his fault, of course. Artie's aim was off because Colonel Dudley had tackled him just as the medallion was leaving his hand. The two of them landed in a tumbling heap on the cannon stage while, off to one side, Artie heard the muffled shouts of a crowd of carnival-goers cheering on the unscheduled bout of “alligator wrestling.” He thrashed his tail and wriggled free of the Colonel, who couldn't seem to get a grip on Artie's scale-armoured hide. Artie looked up to see that
the amulet was caught on a hook at the mouth of the cannon where the Human Cannonball hung his helmet when he wasn't using it. The Eye of Horus swung gently, knocking against the flame-painted headgear, as the cannon slowly began to crank upward.

“Glaack!” Artie shouted for the second time in just a few minutes.

He jumped to his feet and took a flying leap for the barrel, catching it with his clawed fingers, and he hung on tight as the cannon lifted him into the air. It occurred to him, not for the first time since Zahara had emerged from her sarcophagus, that being transformed into a turbo-charged monster definitely had its perks. He'd have to remember that the next time Cheryl and Tweed cast him in a villainous role in a game of ACTION!!

When the cannon barrel was pointing straight up into the sky, Artie struggled to pull himself up and made a desperate lunge for the amulet. But the Colonel had climbed up the opposite side of the barrel, where there was an emergency ladder, and now stood teetering on the top rung. His face split in a triumphant, evil grin as he grabbed first the amulet, and then Artie.

“You'll make a fine addition to my freak show!” he crowed.

Somehow, in all the chaos of the carnival, Artie still managed to hear the drone of Pilot's plane, coming in low.

“Bandit at six o'clock!” Artie shouted, pointing behind the Colonel, inspired by Cheryl's hero patter of earlier that evening.

Startled, Colonel Dudley lost his balance. His arms windmilled for a moment and then, with barely a yelp, the carnival shyster showman and all-around bad guy toppled into the cannon barrel, still clutching the amulet.

Well, that was that, Artie thought. There was only one thing left for him to do. He reached over and, with one claw, snagged the chinstrap of the Human Cannonball's helmet. Peering down into the black depths of the Cannon's tall barrel, he could see the Colonel glaring up at him, the Eye of Horus clutched in his shaking fist, a litany of bad words pouring from his mouth to bounce and echo off the cannon walls. Artie shook his head and
tsk
ed. Then he dropped the helmet down the barrel. He heard it bonk off Dudley's head, followed by more bad language in a British accent.

“If I were you,” Artie called, “I'd shtrap that helmet on!”

Then he slid down the barrel of the cannon as if it were a fireman's pole, his gator claws screeching worse than fingernails on a chalkboard and gouging little curls in the cannon's fiery paint job. His feet hit the deck and he leaped for the comically oversized bright-red button that said “KA-BLAAAMM!!!” on it.

Which, of course, led to a mighty …

KA–BLAAAMM!!!

Somehow, Pilot heard the blast of the carnival's cannon, even over the protesting whine of the plane's engine. It was almost as if he could feel it in his bones. He saw the now-familiar flame-painted helmet of the Human Cannonball soaring up, up into the sky in the distance, but he knew that something was different this time. He knew that this was the signal that Delmer had told him to watch for. More than that.