Brad Meltzer - The Millionaires

BAM!

A gunshot roars and I duck down as fast as I can. Behind me, there’s a thud against the floor. I spin around and reach out – but I can’t find Charlie.

“C’mon – let’s go! ” Joey shouted as she punched her horn, honking wildly at the blue Lincoln Town Car with the “GRNDPA7” personalized license plate. Trapped in the enormous line of rental cars and overstocked minivans that were slowly filing into the Walt Disney World parking lot, Joey was ready to rip the steering wheel from the dashboard. “Yes – you! Pump the gas and pull your rolling boat into Dopey 110! Just follow the other cars! Dopey 110! ”

“Are you not enjoying your Disney experience?” Noreen asked in her ear.

“Finally!” Joey announced as she reached the front of the line. She was about to hit the gas, but a Disney employee with a Day-Glo yellow vest was blocking the road and waving her to the left like an airline runway guide.

“All vehicles to the left, ma’am,” he called out as nice as possible.

Joey stopped short, refusing to turn. “I need to get to the front gate!” she called out.

“All vehicles to the left,” he repeated.

Joey still didn’t move. “Didn’t you hear what I-?”

Within seconds, two other employees approached her window. “Is there a problem, ma’am?”

“I need to get to the front gate. Now!”

“Y’know our trams run every few minutes…” the shorter employee pointed out.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the other employee added. “But unless you have a handicapped sticker, you’ll have to park right here like everyone el-”

Joey pulled her dad’s badge and rammed it in his face. “You know what this means, Walt? It means I’m not parking in Dopey 110 !”

Silently, the two employees backed away from the car and motioned for the man in the yellow vest to step aside. Without a word, Joey slammed the gas and sped for the front gates of the Magic Kingdom.

“Get down,” Charlie urges, yanking me by the leg.

I hit the carpet hard and a hot rug-burn scorches the tip of my chin. On our far right is the silhouette of our attacker – standing in the corner, trying to blend into the shadows. He’s bent over. Reloading…

There’s no way I’m giving him the chance. Pouncing forward, I leap up toward the silhouette. Another shot rings out. Not a gunshot… an explosion… one after the other… popping… like fireworks. Before our attacker even realizes I’m there, I crash into him and wrap both arms around his waist. It’s like tackling a vacuum cleaner. We slam into the floor with a metal clank.

The house lights slowly rise and I get my first good look at the person I’ve got pinned to the carpet. It’s John F. Kennedy.

“ In this Hall of Presidents, we look upon a mirror of ourselves ,” Maya Angelou’s recorded voice booms on the other side of the blue curtain. Along the wall, there’s an Andrew Jackson robot without a leg, a wicker basket full of ties and bow ties, and a Styrofoam head with a fluffy blow-dried wig that’s labeled “Bill Clinton.” Backstage – it’s only backstage.

“ Ladies and gentlemen… the Presidents of the United States !” Maya Angelou announces. Trumpets blare, the crowd applauds, and I glance up at the ceiling, where automated pulleys raise the main curtain. The velvet blue one that hides us is still in place.

“Let’s go, Oswald,” Charlie says, reaching down to help me up.

To our right, a man in a Paul Revere outfit bursts through a side door. He gets one look at the three of us standing over JFK. The walkie-talkie goes straight to his lips. “Security… I got a twenty-two over here… I need someone at the HOP.”

Charlie tugs on my arm, and as I fight to get to my feet, I step over JFK’s animatronic chest. Gillian’s already heading toward the side door on our left. Charlie pauses, weighing whether to follow, but the only other choices are toward Paul Revere, under the curtain and past the five hundred people in the audience, or back the way we came. Running past Charlie, I grab the back of his collar and push him forward. Even he knows when there’s no choice. We both follow Gillian.

Racing through the side door, she leads us into a red-carpeted room filled with fake antique furniture and phony Colonial American flags. Charlie grabs a rocking chair and wedges it against the door we just left. Paul Revere pounds and shouts, but he’s not getting anywhere.

Across the room, there’re three more doors along the walls. The two on the right have no visible light shining underneath. Those lead back into the theater. The one straight ahead has the last gasp of sunlight flickering across the foot of the carpet. That’s outside.

Gillian shoves the door open and we’re overwhelmed by the sudden expanse of space. Compared with the confining gray walls of the tunnels and the darkness of the Hall of Presidents, the bright openness of Liberty Square has me squinting through Disney’s fake Revolutionary-era town.

“Follow the crowd,” Charlie says, pointing toward the human wave of people flooding the streets. On my left, dozens of kids wait in line to stick their head through a fake stockade so their parents can snap a photo. On my right, hundreds of tourists line up for the world’s safest riverboat ride. Everyone else is in the streets – thousands of them milling toward the Old West township of Frontierland. It’s the week before Christmas in Disney World. Getting lost is the easy part.

“Just take it slow,” Gillian warns as we dive into the swarm of people bottlenecked in front of the Diamond Horseshoe Saloon. Within a few steps, the red, white, and blue of Liberty Square has been replaced by the muddy browns of the old-fashioned Frontier Trading Post. Gillian lowers her head and matches the pace of the moseying crowd. Wanting no part of it, Charlie runs ahead, weaving his way through the mob.

“Charlie… wait…!” I call out.

He doesn’t even turn around. I take off after him, but he’s already four families in front of us. Jumping up for a better view, I follow his blond hair as it swerves through the crowd. As he passes the Country Bear Jamboree, he glances back to make sure I’m with him, but the more I try to catch up, the further Gillian falls behind. Straddling between them, I try my best to keep it even, but sooner or later one has to give.

I look over my shoulder at Gillian, who’s finally finding some speed. “ C’mon !” I call out, waving her forward. Cutting past a family with their stroller, I start to accelerate. But as I scope ahead to find Charlie, he’s nowhere in sight. I crane my neck and scan the heads of the crowd, hunting for his blond hair. It’s not there. I check again. Nothing. I don’t care how mad he was; there’s no way he’d leave without me.

Feeling that twitch in my stomach from when we got separated before, I punch the panic button and race forward. “Excuse me… coming through…” I call to the crowd as I angle and shove between them. As Gillian catches up, I’m still searching the swarm of heads for Charlie’s hair color. The short-haired blond with the J. Crew-preppy family… the messy strawberry blond with the Louisiana State baseball hat… even the dyed blond with the visible black roots. I check each one. He’s got to be here somewhere. Across the street, a ten-year-old boy shoots a cork popgun straight at his sister’s face. Behind me, two kids chase each other with purple cotton-candy-colored tongues. Next to me, a boy cries and his father threatens to take him home. “Yankee Doodle” blares from the speakers in the lampposts. I can barely think straight. Gillian reaches out to hold my hand. I don’t want it right now. Up ahead, the street bears to the left. I’m running out of space. I give it one last shot.