By Meara Kincade
“How do we shut it off?” I shout over the dissonant symphony created by Dr. Prismatic’s haywire machine. Thankfully, at the entrance of the hastily abandoned carnival, we’re just beyond the whirlwind’s reach.
“It was only supposed to affect the carnival—I never meant for this!” Dr. Prismatic wails, gesturing to a smog-colored cardinal that zips past.
If I got a nickel every time I heard that. But what do I expect? I’m an agent of S.I.G.H.—Syndicate Intercepting Goofy Hijinks—after all.
He grabs my partner Zeke’s shoulders and shakes him. “If the machine hits one hundred percent, the color loss will be permanent!”
I glance at the sky’s waning blueness while Zeke calmly asks, “Then how do we fix it?”
“The bright red button.” The doctor slumps against the carnival’s fence.
Crimson leeches from the soon-to-be-gray stripes on a nearby tent, and I roll my eyes. “Where?”
“Th-The back.” Prismatic shudders. “Labelled ‘Self-Destruct.’”
Of course. “Stay put. We’ll handle it.” And deal with you later.
Bending down, I check on the cleats that should help keep us grounded and nod at Zeke. Time to go in.
The concession stands and various booths protect us from the worst of the cyclonic wind as we enter, but that won’t last. The Ferris wheel creaks ominously overhead as we dart across gray grass toward the machine at the carnival’s center, our clothes flapping wildly.
Reaching Game Alley, we stare down the center to see the farthest booths and the carousel have been uprooted and now orbit the mechanical mayhem-maker.
Darts, balls, rings, and all manner of prizes—including gaping goldfish—fly through the air in front of us, adding to the deadly gauntlet. Peachy.
“Just like training, huh?” A smirk quirks up one side of Zeke’s face, and with his new smoky coloring, I can’t help thinking he looks like a silent film star of old.
Thankfully, yes. And here I’d thought S.I.G.H.’s boot camp was excessive.
We sprint down the alley, dodging the carnival’s missiles as best we can, the maelstrom’s roar increasing with every step. A giant discolored teddy bear slams into Zeke’s face, and I barely avoid a bevy of bottles.
A squirrel flies by, a kernel of popcorn slipping from his paws, and time seems to slow as his wide eyes meet mine. Instinctively, I grab him, though heaven only knows why I’m protecting wildlife while in imminent danger of being decapitated.
The vortex whips faster, trying to thwart our attempts to reach its source. The squirrel latches onto my shoulder, and I spontaneously name him Nutbutter. Forget losing my head—I’ve already lost my mind.
We reach the end of the games, and a wave of water from the dunk tank crashes into me. Despite being knocked on my bottom, I haven’t lost my new sciurine friend.
As I’m standing up, Zeke yells, “Allie!”
I look up to see the carousel barreling toward me. It’s too low to duck under, so I jump and seize the bottom of the black stallion’s pole. For a heart-stopping moment, my feet dangle wildly in midair, but I manage to pull myself to a slightly more secure position.
Nutbutter’s still attached to my shoulder, and we watch Zeke struggle through a horde of rubber duckies. Off-tempo carousel music blares, scraping at my eardrums.
The color-sucking machine’s display shows eighty-three percent desaturation, and Zeke still can’t get any closer, thanks to the whirlwind. He tries to hit the button with baseballs, but they keep getting blown off course. Nutbutter cocks his head, scrutinizing Zeke’s efforts.
“We need another option,” I mutter to myself.
Nutbutter tugs at my hair then waves his paws at himself and the button.
I blink. “Are you… saying… we should throw you?”
He nods emphatically.
What do we have to lose? We’re already out of options. “Zeke! Get up here!”
While Zeke uses the dunk tank to springboard himself up, I take Nutbutter in my hands. “The fate of the world rests in your paws.”
He salutes.
When Zeke reaches us, he clamps onto the elephant’s pole. “What’s the plan?”
“I need you to throw the squirrel.”
“Isn’t that animal cruelty?”
Nutbutter gazes at me steadily as I reply, “He wants to help, and you have the best aim.”
Zeke’s eyes light up. “So you finally admit it.”
“Shut up and throw.” I pass Nutbutter over to him. Shoot true, little buddy.
Zeke pulls his arm back and aims, frowning. “I don’t think I can hit the button through this wind.”
“Just get him close—he’ll do the rest.”
Zeke throws as hard as he can.
Nutbutter sails through the air, the gale buffeting him off course so he lands on the ground in the eye of the storm.
Ninety-six percent. Nutbutter shakes his head, trying to reorient himself.
Ninety-seven percent. He wobbles to his feet and starts climbing the machine.
Ninety-eight percent. He leaps over a jutting pipe.
Ninety-nine percent. He smacks a furry paw against the button.
A party popper noise splits the air, and confetti engulfs the machine. The tornado instantly stops, sending everything—including the carousel we’re on—plummeting to the ground. All around us, color returns in messy splotches, like splattered ink on a canvas.
As I lurch off the carousel, I decide Dr. Prismatic has the most unique version of self-destruct I’ve ever seen—the only remnant of his kooky creation is a pile of confetti.
I stumble over and retrieve Nutbutter from the paper flakes. “Great job, little buddy!”
Zeke shakes his head. “All this just because Dr. Prismatic felt cheated by a ring toss game and wanted to ruin the carnival experience for everyone else.”
I puff out a breath, one hand planted on my hip while the other holds my squirrel. “Well, we may have rescued the world from his monochrome mayhem, but where he’s going, his world will be steeped in a dozen shades of gray for many years to come.”
Rate this story:
(0 votes, average: 0.00 out of 3)
You need to be a registered member to rate this.
Loading...ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tell us your thoughts!