How to Curse in Hieroglyphics (7 page)

A long, tense moment passed between Pilot and the twins …

And then Cheryl said, “Wanna go spy on ‘em?”

Tweed leaped to her booted feet and Pilot nodded, scooping up the puffy white morsel from the pie plate and popping it in his mouth.

“Needs salt,” was all he said as they ran toward the dirt road that cut through the cornfields like a line drawn between two opposing camps—the Starlight Paradise Drive-In Double-Screen Movie Theatre versus Colonel Winchester P. Q. Dudley's World-O-Wonders Travelling Curiosity Show.

“So this is what's got the whole town buzzing like somebody kicked a beehive,” Pilot murmured, staring dubiously at the carnival's fence. “Huh. Y'know … it's weird. Nothing ever comes to Wiggins.”

“What's the big deal?” Cheryl harrumphed. “I don't see the attraction. I mean, it's just a buncha rickety rides and greasy fried corndogs and old dusty junk in a tent, right? That's all a carnival is, right?”

A silence stretched out and Cheryl turned to Tweed, whose grey eyes had turned dark as storm clouds. Something was niggling at the back of her mind.

“Tweed?” Cheryl asked.

Tweed shook herself from her reverie. “Right,” she said. “Rickety corndogs …”

“Right.” Cheryl smacked Pilot in the chest. “Nothing to—”

“Carnival of Souls!”
Tweed blurted out, her gothly cool suddenly vaporizing.

Cheryl froze … and slowly turned toward her cousin, her expression tinged with creeping horror.

“Carnival of who?” Pilot looked back and forth between them.

“Carnival of Souls
, 1962. A low-budget masterpiece of psycho-terror …” Cheryl murmured. She knew, suddenly, exactly what Tweed was driving at. And why she herself had been so ill at ease. “Oh
no
…”

Tweed nodded gravely and pointed at the fence. “We
stand here in spitting distance of the most terrifying horror sub-genre of them all!”

“Circus of Fear, “
Cheryl exclaimed, “1966.”

“Carnival of Blood, “
Tweed gasped, “1970.”

“Freaks!”
shrieked Cheryl. “And by that I mean the movie, 1932! The grandpappy-most-terrifyingest carnival movie of ‘em all …”

“Funhouse!”
Pilot chimed in suddenly, caught up in the spirit of the thing. “Uh … 1980-whatever—I saw it—not fun! NOT FUN!”

The three of them stood gaping at each other, overwhelmed by the real implications of having a
CARNIVAL
suddenly put down stakes in their very midst. Cheryl, feisty as ever, was the first one to shake off the paralyzing unease. After all,
this
was not the moment for the trio to lose their nerve.
This
was a moment that

called for … that's right … ACTION!!

“Okay, Flyboy,” Cheryl whispered, turning to Pilot. “Let's do this thing. You know the drill.”

“I know, I know.” Pilot glanced around hesitantly. “We go on ‘Action!!' and not a second before.”

“Right.”

The summer heat haze made the fields shimmer like a mirage in the distance, and the afternoon was getting late. They didn't have all day. Tweed did a last-minute check on the pair of ropes dangling from the branches of one of the cornfield's big old oak trees, which conveniently overshadowed the back corner of the carnival fence.

The trio had “borrowed” the ropes from a stack of gear left untended near one of the flatbeds parked outside the carnival enclosure. They would, of course, return them . but for now, they were vital components of the equipment C
+
T would need for the “mission.”

Cheryl crept close to the eight-foot-tall fence. She put an ear to the plywood and, sensing the coast was clear on the other side, nodded to her companions. The three of them scampered up the tree and into position.

Tweed checked the knots she'd made and gave the C
+
T signal.

Cheryl nodded grimly. “Cameras rolling … aaaand …”

“…ACTION!!”

EXT. IMPOSING, VILLAINOUS FORTRESS OF DOOM --
DUSK

CAMERA PANS UP in a LONG SHOT to the sky,
revealing: two figures, DROPPING like spiders
from a HELICOPTER, on a MOTORIZED DESCENDER
WIRE into the FORTRESS.

SUPER-SPY TEE

(whispers into a mic)

Codename Cee, this is Codename Tee.
Here's the plan: we get in, get the
goods, get out, and get gone. Got it?

 

SUPER-SPY CEE

(sighing, whispering)

Codename Tee, this is Codename Cee.
Uh … sure. I mean—roger that …
(SIGH)

SUPER-SPY TEE

You sighed! What's wrong? Do we abort the mission?

SUPER-SPY CEE

No. No … it's
nothing. It's

just … y'know. Nice patter. Again.

CUT TO:

INT. HELICOPTER CABIN

The PILOT hears this exchange on his HEADSET.
He ROLLS HIS EYES.

CAMERA SHOOTS UP as the SUPER-SPIES descend.

HELICOPTER PILOT

(heard off-camera)

Cut the chit-chat, ladies! You're
puttin' a strain on the ropes. Wires.
Whatever …

 

CUT TO:

The CHOPPER's controls tug at PILOT's hands …

The CHOPPER bucks wildly in the air!!

 

The DESCENDER WIRE mechanism, straining. The
reel shudders loose and TEARS FREE of its
moorings! The CHOPPER bucks wildly!

The DESCENDER WIRES SNAP!! Our SUPER-SPY
heroes SPIRAL toward the ground, far
below …

SUPER-SPY CEE

AAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!

SUPER-SPY TEE

NNNNOOOOOOOOO!!! …

CUT TO:

The ground RUSHES UP, the SPIES land, roll,
spring back up …

READY FOR ACTION!!

 

SUDDENLY! a GNARLY HAND comes out of nowhere
and CLAMPS DOWN on AGENT CEE's shoulder!

SUPER-SPY CEE

GAH!!

SUPER-SPY CEE FLIPS the unknown ASSAILANT
over her shoulder in an expert (totally cool)
JUDO THROW!

SUPER-SPY CEE (CONT'D)

Keeee-YAH!!

 

CUT TO:

SUPER-SPY TEE pins the ASSAILANT to the
ground with her BOOT.

SUPER-SPY TEE

Professor Nefarious! How did you find
us?!

CAMERA CLOSE-UP on: a pale, scrawny,

bespectacled (but undeniably PURELY EVIL)

MAD SCIENTIST type. This is PROFESSOR

NEFARIOUS -- Master of the Imposing,

Villainous Fortress of Doom! …

“CUT!” Cheryl hissed, annoyed that her attempt to pull off a perfect stunt-double shoulder roll had produced less-than-perfect results, even if the follow-up evildoer judo throw had been pretty great. “Bartleby! It's only
you
…”

“That right! It's me. So I'm an evil perfesser today, am I?” Artie Bartleby sputtered as they tussled in the dirt. “You girls better make up your weirdo minds before you start whaling on me again!”

Beside the tangled, brawling knot of Artie, Cheryl and Tweed—all flailing limbs and flaring tempers—Pilot dropped lightly to the ground from his perch up in the tree. He kicked at the broken branch that had held the “descender wire” rope the girls had used to get over the fence.

“Next time I'd suggest a more thorough equipment check,” Pilot observed dryly.

Tweed squirmed free of Cheryl and Artie and climbed to her feet, brushing off the knees of her black stockings. “Never mind that now. We're in. The mission is still a go. Repeat: the mission is still a go.”

“Tell
them
that,” Pilot nodded toward the still-tussling twosome. “If they don't cut it out, we're gonna get busted.”

“Check. I'll handle it. Heads up, Codename Cee!” Tweed barked. “Eyes on the prize! Focus power!” she said and several other catchy phrases designed to make Cheryl stop fighting with Artie.

Cheryl grudgingly let Artie back up onto his feet, eyeing him with suspicion. “Were you spying on us, Artie Bartleby?” She stood, hands on hips, pigtails askew.

“How did you get in here?”

“Yeah! How
did
you get in here, Shrimpcake?” Tweed asked pointedly.

Artie ignored the dig with an air of sudden superiority, somewhat undermined as he vigorously shook a pant leg in an attempt to empty the sand that he'd acquired in the brawl out of his undies. “I walked in,” he said. “Through the front gate. Like a
normal
person.” He went and stood next to Pilot. “Wasn't locked or nuthin'. Geesh.
Girls
, huh, Armbruster?” he scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest.

Pilot just frowned down at him. He wasn't about to take sides with Artie. Not against the twins, certainly. Although he did glance down at the broken branch at his feet and wonder fleetingly why
he
hadn't suggested they use the main gate. Then again, he supposed, that wouldn't have really been “spying,” now, would it?

“Anyway,” Artie was on a roll, “I'm the one who should be askin' the questions here! Like—why the honkin' heck are you sneakin' over the fence to get in here? Or is breaking and entering a new hobby of yours?”