George R.R. Martin - [Wild Cards 18] (22 page)

Griffith Park Zoo is closed for the day—Jamal would have known that from the empty lot where school buses were usually queued up. But an
American Hero
camera crew is positioned right next to the entrance—and clearly not expecting an arrival just yet. Jamal is amused to see the crew scramble like ants. “I guess you should have called these guys, Art.”

Jamal pulls up to the entrance—knows he’s in the center of two lenses—and suddenly this is like being not only on a movie set, but as the lead. Why can’t he play an American hero?

He can feel his eyes narrow—a full Clint Eastwood—as he scans the scene, right to left and back—a modified Schwarzenegger. A path has been marked with cones leading from the entrance past the row of animal habitats.

Jamal turns on the Tom Cruise smile. “Showtime.”

He guns the vehicle forward. “Anybody behind us, Art?”

Art simply doesn’t answer.

The trip is a short one—Jamal would have to be an idiot to miss the
AMERICAN HERO SCAVENGER HUNT
, so proclaimed on a banner.

The idea that an idol is somehow secreted inside the zoo strikes Jamal as silly—but then, so has every challenge until now. Nevertheless, Jamal does not expect to go up against a rare Bengal tiger—and he isn’t.

American Hero
had built a habitat of its very own. And inside it? A brown bear, some kind of lion, a rhino—and a moat filled with snakes.

And a brand new fence that sparks and hums, electrified.

“Something for all of us,” Tiffani says from behind him. So much for getting the jump. The reflection of the brilliant midday sun precedes her. Tiffani is in full diamond mode.

Jamal has never really met the glittering Diamond girl. He wonders how many discussions there were between Berman and his production team about whether or not the ace from West Virginia had to be in the Diamond suit because of her ability to transform herself into superhard carbon.

(Then he wonders how many discussions there were about making sure Jamal Norwood, aka Stuntman, did
not
wind up in Spades.)

In her natural state she is, as they would no doubt say up in some West Virginia hollow, a purty little
thang
—red-haired, bright-eyed, not much of a figure, but a definite attitude. Jamal’s early impressions labeled her a white trash trailer park babe, but that could be the accent. Being this close to her for the first time forces him to revise his opinion to a more positive one. If Jamal didn’t have Jade Blossom to drool over, he could do worse than Tiffani. Though not today. Not with immunity on the line.

“You can have mine,” he says.

“And they say gallantry is dead.”

Jamal smiles. “You made good time.”

“They had a police escort for us.” That explains it; Jamal knows there’s no way his competitors could be here already, going the long way around in L.A. traffic!

That’s another thing he failed to anticipate… the continued interference by the
American Hero
production team. What else have they got cooked up for him? He slips along the freshly painted safety railing—surprisingly substantial, for an
American Hero
construct—noting the various booby traps laid for the contestants. Beyond the moat of snakes, there were odd-shaped pools filled with some kind of bubbling goo—acid? Surely not. Holes in walls—would something shoot out of there? Projectiles? Or balls of flame? The ground within the habitat, where the animals were clearly not walking (fenced by some low-level electrical current?), was marked with a grid. Webbing? What would happen if you stepped on it? Would you be hobbled, bound? Or would you fall through? Roaming through this habitat… three big, mean animals who somehow managed to keep from attacking each other? (A thought that inspires Jamal to look for feeding troughs—he finds them in the shadows at the rear, piled high with disgusting substances.) The question remains, of course: where is the damned idol? Come on, Jetboy, show yourself!

Tiffani nods toward the habitat. “Hey, lookie there.” She points with perfect fluidity of motion, surprising Jamal, who expects to hear grinding: Rustbelt is atop the cagelike habitat, the bars now looking aged, thanks to the ace’s touch. And a few yards away—still outside—an honest-to-God T Rex is distracting the lion. Wild Fox is here too.

Jamal is impressed with the thought that Rustbelt must have made a hell of a leap to reach the cage. Either that, or his touch was enough to protect him going across the electrified fence.

Jamal looks for some kind of staging area, preferably one in front of a camera crew. He can still see Rustbelt hanging from the gridwork and Wild Fox’s T Rex engaging the animals. The bear roars and swipes at Rustbelt, fast and close enough to send the iron yokel sprawling. “Hey, watch it!” Rustbelt yells, his nasal Minnesota accent as annoying as a honking car. “Geez, you could hurt a guy, ya know?” Then he laughs stupidly, as if it was all just an act for the cameras. But even from fifty yards away, Jamal can see Rustbelt’s hands
shaking. He drops to the ground with a clang that echoes off the walls of the habitat’s caves, and starts sidling between two of the domed units, tipping over fake rocks and newly planted trees. There’s no obvious way in, not that Jamal can see.

What the hell.

Jamal flings himself at the electrified fence, feels the stinging spark—the total, instantaneous clench of every muscle in his body—know that can’t be good.… smells his own flesh singeing.

Then he hits the concrete apron bordering the moat. He lies on his back, panting, twitching, the sun and sky whirling. He feels as though he’s been flattened by a three-hundred-pound linebacker at full speed, or dropped from an airplane.

Come on, bounceback.…

How long? He’s not sure. He forces himself to sit up… stand up. Okay, he’s still in the game.

It’s not impossible to jump the moat, Jamal sees. Like most
American Hero
hurdles, it is designed to look more challenging than it actually is. A quick leap, and he’s over.

Though he slips on what proves to be dirt that is so hard it’s become slick. Trying to right himself, he feels as though he’s pulled a thigh muscle. Fucking idiot. The injury won’t do anything but throb and slow him down. The trauma isn’t severe enough to trigger a bounceback. Where’s the big wild card power now?

“Hey, Rusty! Look out!” Jamal turns—atop the railing, at the opposite side of the habitat from glittering Tiffani, Wild Fox has resumed his natural form, ears and tail and all, and is alerting Rustbelt to Stuntman’s approach. Jamal can’t even see the iron ace, though the grunting and snorting of bear and lion are clues to his location.

Suddenly Tiffani flashes into view, still outside the railing. “Behind you, Stuntman!” she yells helpfully.

A shadow falls across Jamal. The rhino. Wham! The beast head-butts him, sending him crashing into one of the domes covering a cave. The surface of the dome is raw concrete—it’s not enough for Jamal to be slammed into it, he’s also scraped raw, bleeding.

And trying to avoid the rhino’s feet. Miss. Miss.

Then a direct hit on his left shoulder. He can’t help screaming, can’t help hearing his voice echoing in the habitat.

He drags himself inside the habitat. The rhino, either satisified by the punishment it has inflicted on the intruder, or otherwise distracted, turns away, allowing Jamal to begin to bounceback.

One new sensation breaks through the pain: this cave is the worst-smelling place Jamal has ever been in.

He sits… tests his shoulder. Completely shattered, but rebuilding. He uses the time to search the interior of the cave for Jetboy. No, nothing but bear or rhino shit.

Presently he drags himself out of the cave, emerging to a clamor of voices—Wild Fox roaring in his latest animal persona, Rustbelt yelling like a drunk at a tailgate party, Art and the other producers keeping their cameras aimed. Something is going on out of his line of sight. Fine. It gives him time to search further.

He performs a flanking maneuver, putting one of the caves between him and the snorting rhino, who seems—if possible—to be growing more agitated at the presence of multiple aces in the habitat.

In the shadows Jamal sees not only the expected foliage and the odd box or barrel—presumably filled with feed—but other obstacles, including what could only be a limbo bar.

Who is that stupid production designer again? Or is this the work of the “writers” Jamal had seen lurking with the camera crews?

Maybe it’s his experience on films, where the action is usually broken into pieces, but he feels a strange sensation, as if he is seeing his quest as it will appear on plasma screens days or weeks hence… wide-angle habitat… lion, bear, rhino… snakes in moat… face of Tiffani… Wild Fox with his ears pricked up and his tail swooshing. Cut, cut, cut!

Rustbelt kicks over a bucket of feed, starts pawing through it.

Wild Fox is in the habitat now—and he’s taken the shape of the bear! Which one is the ace? Ah, the one stopping to search.

Tiffani, where’s Tiffani? Got to have that eye candy, people! There she is, glittering and glowing. And to Jamal’s amazement, then fury, she simply steps on the electrified wire—balancing like an acrobat as St. Elmo’s Fire envelopes her harmlessly—then simply dropping to safety in the habitat.

Of course. Stuntman is flesh and blood. He gets hurt, then bounces back. Tiffani is transformed into one of the hardest substances known, a lousy conductor. A few stray volts of electricity wouldn’t even curl her hair, assuming it could be curled. She shoots the camera a smile so bright that Jamal can see it from behind, the way it shines on the crew’s faces.

She turns. “Get going, Stuntman!” Cut. Cut. Cut.

Then it’s Rustbelt, ducking under the sweeping paw of the brown bear. (What the fuck does he think he’s doing?) Cut.

Wild Fox-as-the-bear pulls apart one of the cavelike habitats and begins picking through its contents in a very fastidious, unbearlike manner. “What have we got here?” he says.
Shit, does he have the Jetboy idol?
Jamal wonders.
Am I screwed?
Cut.

Then Jamal himself, Stuntman, is suddenly face-to-face with a lion. For one fraction of a second, he wants to laugh at the image… black man with a lion! Like some black-and-white jungle movie.

He’s been electrocuted and stomped. He can’t handle being slashed.
Gotta go, gotta move.
Make it more like the football field: run, spin, stop, reverse.

His bad leg slows him as he tries to clear a casing that covers pipes and a faucet.
Wham!
Jamal hits again, not hard by Stuntman standards, but enough to knock his wind out.

Tiffani screams at the lion, causing the beast to turn—it freaks out, if a lion can freak out—at the sight of her.

Under the tipped casing, Jamal sees the damned idol, Jet-boy, lying on his back. He rolls so he can crawl toward it.…

Zap.
He can’t fucking do it! That grid in the habitat floor—it’s some kind of nonlethal weapon, a wireless taser, slowing him down! Reach, crawl, reach.…

“Hey, Rusty!” He can hear Wild Fox.

Where? Jamal turns away from the glittery idol—still out
of reach—can’t see either Wild Fox or Rustbelt—no Tiffani, either. But they must be closing in. Three camera crews are scrambling closer.

Then there are the animals. He can smell them.…

Boom!
Here comes Drummer Boy, all arms and attitude, yelping as he hits the taser field, but snatching Jetboy out from under the casing before Jamal is within five feet of the thing. “Tough luck, superstar!”

Not
Drummer Boy:
Wild Fox!
As he turns, Jamal reaches out, finds his tail. He can’t see it, but it’s there. He gives it a yank, and “Drummer” loses his balance, turns back into Wild Fox… and sits down in a pile of bear shit. He hits hard and loses the idol.

Jamal finally gets to his feet. Dragging himself after the figurine, he sees it picked up by Rustbelt… it instantly changes color and texture. Seeing his immunity in the Minnesotan’s hands—a stocky, stupid-looking kid who acts like an ape with a hand grenade—Jamal loses his temper. “You ruined it, hotshot!” Jamal shouts.

Rustbelt reacts as though Jamal has slapped him. And while he is distracted, Tiffani appears next to him and snatches the idol from his hand.

“Hey!” Rustbelt is even more wounded.

“Don’t let her do that, goddammit!” Wild Fox snaps. He scrambles over the fence and out of the habitat. Rustbelt stands frozen as Tiffani actually poses with Jetboy, like a hostess on a game show, all glittering girlishness. “Purty, ain’t it?” Her accent is as thick as Jamal has ever heard it. He knows what she’s doing. Four cameras are on her and the male aces flanking her. The first one to make a move will look like a mugger attacking a cheerleader.

With one last look over his shoulder—yes, there’s the damned rhino, looking as confused as Rustbelt—Jamal joins the group in front of the cameras. “So much for teamwork,” he says.

“Come on, Jamal, what did you expect? We can’t share the idol.”

She’s right, of course. They were never teammates. Jamal rejected the idea. He realizes that he resents the way she’s got
the idol: not from her wild card ability, which is no more useful than Jamal’s, but from
being a girl.

“You haven’t got back with it yet,” Rustbelt says, the longest, most coherent sentence Jamal has heard him utter.

For a moment, the sentence seems to take shape and hover in the air… a tangible challenge.

Tiffani realizes that her feminine immunity might be in danger.

As the cameras follow, she starts running for her vehicle.