Chapter 29: Chapter 28 – They Meet Them

The two Disney executives walk through Pirates of the Caribbean, down the steps carved into the plaster facade, just out of view of any riders who would normally be on the ride. (Yo Ho) A Pirate’s Life for Me echoes off the water as they climb down the end of the ride, past a waving, head bobbing Johnny Depp statue, who lounges drunkenly on a pile of gold doubloons, alongside a monkey. The ride was refurbished after the success of the first Johnny Depp movie, and refurbished again to include the new characters from the sequel to increase cross brand promotion for merchandising opportunities. 

They descend the steps, past suspended ride cars, halfway down the exit ramp, where the speakers play a loop of Johnny Depp, in his Jack Sparrow, cockney mumbling pidgin, congratulating the riders for completing the ride and reminding them to take all of their belongings with them. The main water system is still running and the distinct smell of the Pirates of the Caribbean water hangs in the air. They reach the bottom of the slope, and walk deeper into the ride. They pass rooms of fake gold and treasure, sparkling rubies and diamonds inset in necklaces, rings, and picture frames, and the water splashes up against the sides of the pathways. The lacquered plaster facade of the walls of the tunnel glisten and sparkle, illuminated by ensconced lights lining the walkway. The tunnel opens up as they walk deeper along the river. They can hear booming and muffled yells from the battlefield raging above them. The noise is mixed in with the artificial explosion sound effects of the two drunken animatronic pirates firing flintlock pistols at one another from the glowing brown rafters overhead.

“How far is this entrance?” Their footsteps echo. 

“It should be coming up soon. I think we’re almost there. When I was 16 or something, I was on a school trip here. The ride had to get shut down to solve some technical difficulty and we were stuck for about fifteen minutes. They turned on all the lights and everything. Real immersion breaking. I remember it because I was sitting with this girl, Selena Tan (we were in French class together and I sat in front of her and she used to play with my hair and draw on the back of my neck during class. When we’d watch movies, and the room was dark, she’d even hold hands with me. Like this secret thing.) And we just happened to be sitting on the ride together, right next to each other, holding hands the whole time. I remember I thought to myself, ‘damn, maybe I could make a move,’ and she was rubbing my knuckle with her finger, very sweet and loving-like. I used to wear these tight ass jeans in high school, and so was she, you know, emo music was very popular at the time, and then she’d let her leg press into mine, it really felt like our skin was touching.” 

Karen interjects — “Jesus. Does this have anything to do with our current predicament?”

“Fuck, maybe. Nothing ever happened but I remember when the ride stopped and the lights flashed on, it was a rude awakening. And I was looking at all the animatronics and decorations and how weird it looked in the light, and this guy popped out of this door there I’d never noticed in all the times I’d gone on the ride, but ever since then I’d never been able to not notice it, this symmetrical looking crack in the fake wall…this nerdy looking mechanic guy walking out of it so business-like. It’s like seeing your parents have sex or something.” 

“Is this it?” They’re at the crack-like door. It’s locked. Karen slides a credit card into the crack where the door meets the wall to unlock it, and they pry it open, both of their fingers bleeding from the lack of give on the metal, and the gritty, rough wall around the door. It opens into a brightly lit, white hallway. 

“Bingo.” 

“What a creepy looking hallway.”

#

Fritz walks through the wreckage of the entrance to Disneyland. The short tunnel that used to bisect the hill with the iconic flowers that made up the face of Mickey Mouse, like a hobbit hole— in front of which enough photos had been taken that if they were printed out and stacked on top of one another they could reach the moon. The hill is now a smoldering pile of rubble. Maybe some of those drone bombs, maybe it had taken too many bullets while being used as cover for two different sides, or maybe the fleeing masses that had run on top of it while others ran under it and pressed against the support beams had been too great to handle and it just collapsed. However it fell, it was now a pile of dirt and wreckage, with bloody and broken limbs, and half buried corpses and almost corpses sticking through the debris at irregular intervals. Fritz walks among them, listening to the disjointed chorus of moans and yelps — some sounding very far off and muffled, as though they’re coming from deep inside the fallen hill. He moves slowly, with his sidearm drawn, crouching low, tense and ready for anything — whether ambush or secondary collapse of the structure. 

He steps on a mostly buried face and it cries out, dirt projects from its half dead lungs. Fritz doesn’t slow his pace. He’s not in the mood to be attacked from the rear while trying to dig out a body. He’s not a first responder and this isn’t 9/11. It’s more like what came after. Fallujah or Korengal. No time to worry about possible survivors when there are still killers on the loose. 

As Fritz creeps through the human garbage dump, and passes by a clump of smoldering flowers, a strong hand breaks through the dirt and grabs his ankle. A voice below it screams out “Help me! My name is Richard McGullahey” Fritz examines the hand fumbling at his ankle and boot laces. “My family is down here too. Thank God you’re here—please dig us out.” Fritz reaches down, grabs the hand, and wrenches it back, savagely. The bone snaps inside the forearm and muffled shrikes emit from below. Fritz smirks and stands back up. “Nice try,” he says aloud, “But I don’t fall into traps that easy.”

Fritz traverses the mound and finally reaches firm ground. He stands on the once pristine red pavement near the turnstiles that let people into the front entrance of Disneyland.The turnstiles are bent and bullet riddled. One row had been tipped over during the panic fueled stampede caused by the start of the battle. A few dozen corpses on the ground are turning bluish gray. Gunfire pops off behind Fritz’s, accompanied by the acoustic booms of heavy artillery. Ahead of him, he can hear humvees rolling towards California Adventures, and the erratic gunshots slowly building rhythm that mark an escalating gun battle within. Scattered civilians run through the no man's land between the two parks. Sirens whine far away. 

Fritz climbs over the fallen turnstile and surveys the path ahead of him. A few Disney mercenaries arrogantly exit a ticket office, laughing to each other while they wantonly swing their firearms. Fritz dives to the ground and fires off three rounds before his body touches pavement. Two of the men drop dead, with holes in their faces, and a third tries to run, one hand gripping his freshly injured shoulder. He attempts to lift the Uzi he’s holding with his weakened hand, but Fritz sends off a few more rounds before he can get the weapon above waist height. The sorry soldier drops dead like his comrades. Fritz crouch-runs to the ticketing booth and sits against it. He pokes his head around the door but no one is inside. More sounds of chaos emit from California Adventures. 

Fritz is happy as he plans out the route he’ll follow into the park. There’s a clear line to the entrance, which is marked by a now collapsed arch, in a mirror to Disneyland’s collapsed Mickey Mouse hill across the way. The entrance to California Adventures gapes open, creating a hole large enough that a humvee could drive through, and one does just now. Fritz makes his move. He runs ahead, sprinting now, while remaining crouched low. The area is too wide open to hope for any cover, better to cross fast, as crawling wouldn’t prevent an enemy from seeing him. He holds his gun pointed ahead while he sprints, ready for anything. He gets to the mawlike entrance and takes cover behind a fallen arch next to a bathroom. 

The cacophony of battle is all around him now. Disney mercenaries, U.S. military, and SWAT teams exchanging fire, bullets bouncing everywhere. Fritz joins the fray. He runs through a row of gift shops toward the backs of some Disney mercenaries who are using it like a bunker. He shoots into their backs and kills a couple. The rest scatter and start firing back. Fritz ducks down behind a service counter. He pulls a grenade from his bag of death, rips out its pin, and tosses it at the room from where his enemies are firing. Before throwing it, he holds onto it for a few seconds, so it explodes in the air before reaching them. He then jumps the counter and runs in. In the confusion caused by the grenade, the mercenaries are disorganized. Fritz fires mechanically, finding each target in the room with deadly speed. Two in the head for the one in the corner, three in the sternum for the one reloading, one to the back of the head for the one playing dead or really dying on the ground. He clears the room of life while the smoke from the grenade disperses throughout the room. He runs across the boulevard between the row of gift shops and the hangar above the food court. He finds a place and huddles behind a corrugated steel wall of the fake airport hangar. He peers out at the park where the battle transpires. Disney mercenaries and U.S. soldiers exchange furious gunfire. The ferris wheel with Mickey Mouse’s face on it is on fire.

Suddenly, a contingent of U.S. Marines punch through a roadblock set up by Disney mercenaries. The humvee gets through and behind it follows a line of more Marines, shooting their way into the squads of Disney mercenaries defending the roadblock. Fritz lets a smile spread onto his face as he watches his brothers in arms take hold of their position. He begins to say the Pledge of Allegiance under his breath, but then is shocked to see a line of U.S. soldiers dropping like flies, as though the hand of God had reached down and extinguished their heartbeats like you or I would pinch a dying candlewick. “It’s them…” Fritz looks frantically around. He points his firearm to where the bullets could be coming from, but can’t find a target to shoot at. He lowers himself to the ground, and crawls along on his belly toward Soarin’ Over California. He hears faint pops coming from within the ride. Just now, his damn buzzer starts ringing. He taps his earpiece and growls, “What the fuck is it?”

“Use the tracker. Please. You’re near him. You’re so close, just use the GPS tracker.”

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“No.”

Fritz taps the earpiece again to hang up. He crawls toward the end of the hangar-like food court, then freezes. He can make out the orange reflection of a muzzle flash against one of the glossy white painted corners of the back wall. He slides closer on his belly. Ever so slowly. He reaches the corner of a doorway, and sees a pile of chairs stacked up and bent together to provide flank cover, the muzzle flash coming from within. He pulls his pistol upward, ready to aim through the spaces in between the chairs. In an instant, the semi-regular muzzle flash stops, and the chairs explode. Fritz rolls out of the way and a line of bullet holes appears where he’d been laying. He takes cover behind the wall and a chunk of plaster comes out of it. He jumps to the ground and starts shooting into the hole. The aggressor stops firing for a moment, and Fritz rushes into the doorway where the chairs had exploded. The room is criss-crossed with wires, and he sees a shadow flitting down the longer hallway. He navigates the trip wires and when he gets to the other side of the room, the shadow is now just the vague whisper of an echo of footsteps on linoleum flooring. 

Fritz takes chase, running full speed ahead, his bag of death slapping against his hip. The shadow slams a metal door, which Fritz reaches momentarily. He tries the handle. Locked. He shoots at it, and kicks it, but it doesn’t budge. He finally looks around and realizes he’s in the Soarin’ Over California ride. He tries all of the doors in the dimly lit hallway, but none of them move, either. Fritz punches a substantial dent into the door and screams in rage. Finally, he checks the GPS tracker on his phone and sees the little red dot blinking. It’s moving. Toward Disneyland.

#

The Tourorist runs through the maze of service tunnels in the back of Soarin' Over California. They find an exit and see the shooter and his companion walking outside, cavalierly. They head toward the shooter who immediately twists around and points their rifle at them. The Tourorist puts their hands in the air and talks smoothly. “I’m on your team. Legally, I’m not allowed to interfere or help you directly, but if you happen to get in a vehicle, that I happened to be driving, and I drove it out of this boring empty shithole where there’s bound to be some long guns from the U.S. military taking pot shots at you from afar, you know— like the no man’s land between the trenches in WWI— and got you over to the real park, where there’s some real action for your broadcast there…that wouldn’t hurt anyone, would it?” 

The shooter contemplates the Tourorist for a moment down the barrel of his weapon. He takes in the lithe, ghoulish figure in front of him, with their long, slicked back, ashy blonde hair. Their eyes meet his unflinchingly. “Sure. Where are you going to acquire this vehicle you speak of?” 

The Tourorist smiles and then says, “It’s right here.” The Tourorist steps back through the employee exit, and whirrs out on a California Adventures branded golf cart. “Hop on. You don’t mind providing cover fire from the passenger seat, do you?” The Tourorist pulls a submachine gun from its thigh holster and rests it on the dashboard of the gold cart. “I’ll help too.”

They drive into the smoke between the two parks. The golf cart is quiet enough that it evades detection under the noise of the raging battles in the distance, and the commotion of humvees, tanks, and squad cars roaming around not far off in the smoke filled no-man’s land. The shooter looks into the smoke, his rifle propped up on his knee. He pats Ryan on the back, who sits nervously in the back seat of the golf cart, peering into the smoky wasteland behind them, gripping his pistol tightly and holding it between his knees. If you couldn't see the gun between his hands he’d look like he was praying, or like a little boy sitting on a bench outside the principal’s office, awaiting sentencing. “See anything back there?” The shooter asks him. 

“Nothing yet.” 

“Stay frosty. Never know when a bad guy’ll come knockin.” Ryan tries to put on a brave smile. It doesn’t look brave. 

They get to the back entrance of Disneyland without issue, but as they’re pulling onto the tree lined path where the entrance is hidden, they can hear the roaring motor of a humvee approach. The shooter says “Step on it, cabbie— some shit is on our tail.” 

“As you can see, my foot has been pushing the pedal to the metal this entire time. It’s a golf cart.” 

The pursuant Humvee explodes out of the smoke and barrels toward the back of the golf cart with alarming speed. Ryan screams. The Tourorist yells, “Ditch the cart!” The shooter hops out and grabs the college student in one motion, and yanks him to the ground. The Tourorist slams the steering wheel to one side and jumps out, tilting the golf cart over so it tips onto its side. They dive out of the way of the wheels of the Humvee as it runs into the back of the overturned golf cart and crushes it under its tires. The Humvee smashes the golf cart into a large log facade near the back entrance, its owner apparently unable to see much farther in the smoke. The Tourorist yells to the shooter “Get into the park. We’re almost there.” 

The shooter and Ryan run to the back door. It won’t open, so the Tourorist fires a few rounds into the keyhole. The door slumps onto its hinges, and the Tourorist pries it open for Ryan and the shooter to walk through. As they squeeze past the metal door, the Humvee door slams open, and Fritz emerges. He’s bleeding from a broken nose— he’d apparently forgotten to put his seatbelt on before crashing the Humvee. He swings on his bag of death and runs for the broken gate, blasting with an M-4 rifle. The Tourorist slips through the exit behind Ryan and the shooter. They spray through the opening in the door with their submachine gun to discourage Fritz from following too closely. 

Ryan follows the shooter to take cover behind the boulders that mark the exit and fast pass line for Splash Mountain. The shooter steadies his rifle on top of a humanoid bear carving made of plaster, colored and textured like it was carved from the stump of an oak tree. After laying down some more suppressive fire through the crack of the broken door, the Tourorist looks back at the shooter. “I’ll hold him here. You guys get to the park. Get as far away as you can. Plenty more action that way.” More bullets pound the metal door punching dents next to the Tourorist’s head. They blast back with more suppressive fire. The shooter watches for a moment, then nods resolutely. 

“They’re right. Let’s fucking go.” The shooter grabs Ryan and they run down the tree lined path, past the fake carved wooden bears, toward the rest of the park. 

#

After a long exchange between Fritz and the Tourorist, the door has taken on the appearance of swiss cheese, now more hole than actual door. The Tourorist drops a smoke grenade then sprints toward the park. They get about a hundred yards down the path when they hear the clang of the door as it’s ripped off its hinges. The Tourorist crouches behind a smoldering churro stand and fires into the smoke expanding in the opening where the door used to be. No return fire. They start running again. Zig zagging along the path and firing off shots behind them at randomly spaced intervals. The strategy seems to be working because none of Fritz’s return fire lands anywhere near the Tourorist. As the oak trees of the Splash Mountain area give way to the bayou evocative willows around the Haunted Mansion, the Tourorist can see the black tips of the spires reaching up from the roof above the titular mansion. They toss a flash bang alongside their next smoke grenade. They veer to the right, toward the entrance of the ride, a brick wall lined porch. They yell ahead “Go in here. He’ll never find us in here” and then enter. They fire toward Fritz’s general direction, and wait. A few moments later, bullets crack the wood paneling on the entryway. The Tourorist returns fire, then sprints into the labyrinth of the mansion.

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