Brad Meltzer - The Millionaires

On my right, a black man dressed like a Tiki bird steps out of a door marked “Stairway #5 – Legend of the Lion King.” Across the way, a blond female elf comes through “Stairway 12 – Ye Olde Christmas Shoppe.” Every fifteen feet, people pop out of nowhere – and no matter how calm I’m trying to act, I can’t shake the feeling we’re starting to stand out. I scour the pipes that cover the ceiling and search for security cameras. There’s only so long you can run around without a costume or nametag. If anyone’s watching, we’re running out of time. And worst of all, running blind. Three blind mice.

The further we go, the more metal doors we pass; the more doors we pass, the more the hallway seems to curve; the more the hallway curves, the more I feel like we’re walking in circles. “Park Maintenance West”… “First-Aid”… “Break Area”… Where the hell is DACS?

“This is ridiculous,” Gillian eventually says. “Maybe we should split up.”

“No,” Charlie and I say simultaneously. But it’s clear we need to change strategy.

Up ahead, an older woman in a Pilgrim costume steps out of a room marked “Personnel.” She looks about fifty years old. I motion to Charlie; he shakes his head. The older they are, the more likely they’ll ask for Disney ID. Behind the Pilgrim is a girl in jeans and a Barnard T-shirt. Charlie nods. It’s not my first plan, but we need to make a move. We both know who’s better with strangers.

“Can I ask you a stupid question?” Charlie says, approaching Ms. Barnard as he bubbles up the charm. “I usually work over in EPCOT-”

“So that’s why they let you keep the dyed hair,” she interrupts.

Never fazed, he laughs out loud. “They don’t let you have that around here?” he asks, running his hand through his blond locks. He’s trying to sound relaxed, but from where I’m standing in the corner with Gillian, I see the shine of sweat on the back of his neck.

“Are you kidding?” she asks. “That’s bad show.”

“Yeah, well, there’s something to be said about bad show,” he nervously teases. “Anyway, they sent me down here to pick something up from some place called DACS…”

“DACS?”

“I think it’s some kinda computer room.”

“Sorry – never heard of it,” she says as I bite the inside of my lip. “But if you want, you can check the map.”

Map?

She points over her shoulder. Right around the corner from Personnel.

“That’d be great,” Charlie says as he moves toward it. “And if you ever get to EPCOT…”

Don’t make jokes with her!

“… the tour of the giant golf ball is on me.”

“I look forward to it,” she says with a wide Disney smile.

Charlie waves goodbye; Ms. Barnard heads back to the maze. As soon as she passes, we calmly tear around the corner. There it is – up on the wall. “ Map to the Magic Kingdom Utilidor .”

Studying the layout, I go right for the “You Are Here” sign. The tunnels spread out from Cinderella’s castle like spokes on a wheel and weave their way under almost every major attraction. Eventually, it looks like the face of a clock. Frontierland is at nine o’clock. Adventureland is at seven. To make it even easier to read, each land is also color-coded. Tomorrowland is blue, Fantasyland is purple. We’re in Main Street – burgundy – which corresponds to the burgundy stripe that runs along the wall. Six o’clock position. Tinker Bell’s Treasures was at twelve o’clock. We ran halfway around the clock.

“I told you we were making a circle,” Gillian points out.

“And look what’s at the far end of the hallway…” Charlie adds. He pounds a finger against the top of the map. The letters practically jump out and bite me on the throat.

DACS.

Dead ahead.

Weaving between two princes, Cruella De Vil, a railroad engineer, and Piglet, I’m ahead of Charlie, but trail Gillian, who seems to have no problem cutting through the dozens of cast members who’re pouring out of the area marked “Character Zoo.” On our right, she bolts up a short carpeted ramp that leads to a glass door. “DACS Central,” it says in bold black letters.

“You sure you want to go alone?” Charlie asks me, purposely running slow. There’s no doubt which of us is faster. He’s just trying to stay by my side.

“I’ll be fine,” I insist.

Surprised by my tone, he studies me carefully. “See, now you’re getting cocky.”

“I’m not cocky. I just… I know what I’m doing.”

He shakes his head. He doesn’t like being on the other side. “Just be careful, okay?”

“Fine. Careful it is.”

As we reach the ramp, Gillian’s studying the fingerprint scanner that’s next to the intercom outside DACS. Charlie stiffens. Of all the doors we passed, this is the only one with any sort of security measure. “Is there anyone who doesn’t have one of these anymore?” she asks, pushing some buttons on the scanner.

“Don’t touch it,” Charlie warns.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she adds.

Charlie knows better than to pick a fight. “Just ring the bell,” he says.

She shoots him a look that’ll ache tomorrow morning. I’m about to break it up, but I’m not even sure what to say anymore. The closer we get to the backups, the more the two of them are primed to explode.

“Ring it again,” Charlie orders.

“I already did,” she blasts.

“Really? Then why didn’t anyone answer?”

She rolls her eyes and once again thumbs the button.

“ Can I help you ?” a female voice squawks through the intercom.

“Hi – it’s Steven Balizer… from over in Arthur Stoughton’s office,” I say, once again dragging out the big names.

“Extension?” the woman counters.

“ 2538,” I announce, praying I remember Balizer’s direct dial.

Squinting to see through the translucent glass, I spot the woman staring at me from her desk. Thanks to the smoked glass, though, I’m just an amorphous blob with dark black hair. I smile and give her my best Mouseketeer wave.

There’s a short pause, followed by a croaking ringing buzzer.

Behind me, Gillian reaches for the doorknob, then quickly catches herself. She’s not the one going inside.

I step forward; she and Charlie step back.

“So you’re all set?” she asks.

“I think so.”

“And you know where to meet us?” Charlie asks, walking backwards down the ramp.

I nod and go for the door. The longer I’m out here, the more suspicious it gets.

“Knock ’em dead, bro,” he whispers as I twist the doorknob. Just as I’m about to step inside, I take one last look over my shoulder. Charlie and Gillian are already gone – lost among the crowd of riverboat captains and fairy godmothers.

“So how you doing today?” a sweet maternal voice calls from inside.

Following the sound to the reception desk, I find a petite woman with plastic blue-rimmed glasses and a Little Mermaid embroidered shirt. But as I approach her desk, I look to my left and spot the computer servers and video screens that line the other three walls. In the center of the room, back-to-back servers form short library-style aisles and cover up most of the brown-and-white checkerboard floor. From their size alone – each server comes up to my neck – they remind me of an old rack stereo system, or one of those oversized super-computers from an old NASA movie.

Of course, my eye goes straight to the row of equipment that’s the most outdated. On the front of each glass case is an unmistakable sticker: It’s a Small World… Carousel of Progress… Pirates of the Caribbean… Peter Pan … Each attraction in its own antique mainframe. Unreal. They have a computer system that senses storm clouds so they’ll know when to put out umbrellas, but when it comes to their most famous rides, Disney still drives a Studebaker.