Going Bovine

“The Norse like to keep things Wyrd,” Balder chimes in.

“Good one,” Gonzo says, giggling.

“Free the snow globes!” I shout to the sky.

“Free-ee the snow globes, free-ee the snow globes …” Balder turns it into an opera riff, and we join in till we’re laughing too hard to continue.

We’ve left the moment. It’s gone. We’re somewhere else now, and that’s okay. We’ve still got that other moment with us somewhere, deep in our memory, seeping into our DNA. And when our cells get scattered, whenever that happens, this moment will still exist in them. Those cells might be the building block of something new. A planet or star or a sunflower, a baby. Maybe even a cockroach. Who knows? Whatever it is, it’ll be a part of us, this thing right here and now, and we’ll be a part of it.

And if it’s a cockroach? Well, that will be the happiest f**king cockroach on the planet. I can tell you that.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

In Which We Are Unprepared for the Unexpected

“I … I believe I see it!” Balder gasps. “There on the horizon, where the sun bleeds—it’s my ship. It’s Ringhorn!”

Gonz and I squint out at the ocean going golden-hot with fading sun. The glare’s bad, but I don’t see a ship. Balder runs along the shore speaking excitedly in Norse. “I must have my possessions,” he says, a note of worry in his voice. “I left them in the car.”

“Relax. I’ll get them. You just keep your eye on your ship,” I say, and hoof it to the parking lot. Two cops on bikes patrol the sand, blocking my way to the car. Crap.

I turn and run smack into a guy with a mustache, mirrored sunglasses, and a baseball cap. “Hi there! Can I take a minute of your time to talk to you about safety?” he asks.

“Uh, you know, right now’s not a good time—”

“It’s always a good time to be prepared for the unexpected.

How will you protect your loved ones in the event of the eventful?” he asks.

I’ve got my eyes on the cops. They’re biking away. Yes!

“Hey, what’s your name?”

“Junior. Junior Webster.”

“Really? ’Cause I think you’re Cameron Smith and you’re in some deep trouble.” He grabs my wrist in an iron-tight grip. His baseball cap reads UNITED SNOW GLOBE WHOLESALERS. “This is Employee number four fifty-seven calling base,” he says into a walkie-talkie. “Terror suspect in custody. Got the other two in my sights. Request backup. Over.”

A muffled voice worthy of a drive-thru window answers him.

“Roger that. Let’s go get your friends,” he says, yanking my arm up and behind my back.

“Please,” I say, swallowing hard. “You’re making a big mistake. I’ve been trying to save the world—you guys included!”

He angles for some cuffs. “Just hold still.”

I didn’t come this far to go back now with some armchair vigilante who spends his days stocking snow globe emporiums. “You’re not my daddy!” I shout. “I won’t get in your van! You’re not my daddy!”

“What?” he says.

“Hey! Leave that kid alone!” In the parking lot, a hulking tattooed biker gets off his motorcycle and rolls up his sleeves.

“This is a terrorist!” Employee #457 shouts back.

“Don’t make me come kick your ass!”

Employee #457’s grip goes a little slack, and I take this opportunity to break for the beach.

“Hey! Hey!” The vigilante walkie-talkies for immediate backup.

Gonzo’s stretched out, relaxing in the sand. He sees me hauling ass toward him. “Gonzo—the water! Get to the water!”

“Dude!” Gonzo shouts, pointing. I chance a glance behind me and count two more guys in baseball caps and sunglasses running toward us. Then three and four. Five big guys in mirrored sunglasses and United Snow Globe Wholesalers hats.

“Shit,” I mutter. Behind us is only ocean. And what would we swim to?

“Okay. Evasive maneuver,” I say, eyes searching. “Gonz, you break left for the taco shack. I’ll duck right and try to make it to the pier. And Balder—”

He stands firm in the sand. “I stay right here to wait for Ringhorn.”

“But Balder—”

“I shall wait!” he insists. “Those men cannot harm me. I shall be a worthy distraction. Do what you must and leave me to it.”

“All right,” I say. “Two … three … go!”