The Guardians of Zoone Read online

  “Hello?” Ozzie called. “Who’s there?”

  No one replied, but the knocking continued. Ozzie frowned, tried the handle, and found that the door wasn’t locked. Tentatively, he pulled it open.

  There was nothing there; just a wall of bricks.

  “What the . . . ,” Ozzie muttered. He could still hear the knocking. “Hello!” he called, more loudly now. He put an ear to the bricks. He could feel them vibrating from the force of the thumping.

  It was a door to nowhere, a door he couldn’t answer—and now his mind started to run frantic laps. What was behind those bricks? Maybe it was a group of convicts who had dug a tunnel from the local penitentiary, and they had ended up here. Maybe it was some giant anaconda that had been set free in the sewer system and was now trying to bust through the wall. Maybe it was a ghost!

  Ozzie dashed back up the long set of spiraling stairs, then up the four flights to the penthouse. He didn’t stop running until he was in his bedroom, with the door shut and the blankets thrown over his head. His legs burned and his chest heaved from his escape from near-death-by-anaconda.

  “Up-down-up-up-down.”

  Ozzie peered out from the covers. It was the automaton Uncle Mercurio had built for him. She was still sitting on his bedside table, eyes slightly flickering. “Up-down-up-up-down,” she repeated. Which was strange because Ozzie hadn’t wound her up.

  Still glitched, Ozzie thought. Uncle Mercurio said he was going to fix her. But I guess he forgot.

  The next day, on the way to school, Ozzie avoided the fancy apartment building on Portage Avenue and went past the park instead. There was a street performer near the main entrance. She was young—barely a teenager—and she had awful hair. It was as if she had tried to dye it purple, but it hadn’t really worked and instead ended up a dirty pink. Her costume was equally atrocious, with striped sleeves and leggings, and she was juggling, of all things, three umbrellas.

  Weirdo, Ozzie thought as he stopped to stare at her.

  He passed by this park all the time and had never seen a street performer at this corner before, at least not one who looked like this. Though, just between him and himself, it wasn’t just her appearance that annoyed him. She reminded him of something, something he couldn’t quite figure out.

  The girl winked at him, causing Ozzie to blush. He turned to leave, but not before giving her collection hat a swift kick, sending her coins flying.

  Serves her right, he thought.

  Once he made it around the corner, he peered back to see her reaction, but she hadn’t even paused to gather her money. She just kept juggling, which frustrated Ozzie even more. He stormed back, glared at her, and shouted, “Don’t you care about all your stupid money? And why don’t you juggle normal things?”

  She ignored him, so all Ozzie really managed to do was be late for school.

  Miss Blunt had discovered his black eye the night before but hadn’t succeeded in getting hold of either of his parents, so the agonizing bully-and-principal exchanges were avoided, at least for the day. What he couldn’t avoid was an end-of-day detention (for being late too many times).

  By the time he was released from the torture chamber otherwise known as school, it was later than usual, which meant he had to head straight home. He was just about there when, suddenly, a giant cat flew down from the tree in front of him and landed at his feet. Ozzie was so surprised, he leaped backward and tripped on his untied shoelace. He ended up on the ground, flat on his back; the cat strolled over to him, crawling onto his chest and licking his face.

  “Ugh!” Ozzie grumbled.

  He wriggled free of the cat and tried to kick it, but it expertly dodged his foot, then flopped to the sidewalk and stretched out luxuriously in front of him. It was a huge creature, light gray in color, almost blue. It was also purring like a lawn mower, which only served to increase Ozzie’s irritation.

  “Just stay out of my way,” he warned, only to have the cat leap to its feet and begin butting its massive head against his leg.

  “Leave me alone!”

  He kicked at it again, but the cat only purred louder. Then it sat on the sidewalk in front of him and gazed at him with giant sapphire eyes. Ozzie had this sense that the cat was trying to smile at him. Which was nonsense, of course.

  He navigated around the feline and hurried toward home. The cat chased him, purring the entire way. It didn’t even stop when Ozzie reached his building; it just trotted up the steps, as if expecting to go inside.

  “You can’t come in here,” Ozzie told the cat as he inserted his key in the apartment building’s front door. The cat was so persistent that he had to kick it again—forcibly—then quickly squeeze through.

  The cat sat down on the other side of the glass door, looking like a massive triangle of blue fur. Ozzie was sure it was frowning. But if a cat couldn’t smile, he decided, then it couldn’t frown, either.

  30

  Opportunity Knocks

  The next day was Saturday and Ozzie was feeling bored and empty. He didn’t even feel like blasting zombies. He decided to go sit in the park and try out some of the manga Aunt Temperance had given him. He stuffed the books into his bag and at the last moment decided to take Uncle Mercurio’s automaton.

  Maybe I can tinker with her myself and figure out what’s wrong with her, he thought.

  The giant blue cat was waiting for him on the front steps. In fact, it looked like it hadn’t moved since yesterday and as soon as it saw Ozzie approaching the door, it rose to all fours and began pacing back and forth, tail twitching like a whip. When Ozzie opened the door, the cat tried to bolt through.

  “There’s nothing in here for you!” Ozzie insisted, blocking the cat with his leg. “And I’m going out.”

  The cat looked dismayed. Ozzie wandered down the sidewalk, the cat trailing behind him, its fluffy tail still twitching.

  Weirdo cat thinks it’s a dog, Ozzie thought.

  He reached the corner of the park to see that the street performer was there again. She must have made another attempt at dyeing her hair, because now it was a brighter color, almost purple.

  Inappropriately purple, Ozzie decided, though he wasn’t sure where that idea had come from.

  The girl was juggling umbrellas again. Ozzie paused to watch, and the cat sat down beside him.

  The girl threw a cryptic glance at Ozzie and winked again. That deserved another kick of the collection hat, but he decided against it and headed into the park, toward his favorite bench, which was in a quiet, secluded corner. It was his thinking place. His calm place. Except, today, there was someone there.

  A very strange someone.

  Everything about her was . . . elongated. Her neck was stretched out, her arms were thin and spindly, and she even wore a very tall hat, which made Ozzie wonder about the shape of her head. She was standing very still, with her arms spread wide, and she was completely swarmed by pigeons. Some were even perched on her. She didn’t so much as flinch when Ozzie approached.

  He wasn’t about to give up his favorite spot, so he slipped quietly onto his bench, casting surreptitious glances at the statuesque woman. The cat trotted over to her and began brushing up against her long skirt, which was when Ozzie realized how old-fashioned her outfit was, all buttons, clasps, and intricate floral patterns. Her costume only added to her strangeness but, at the same time, she felt familiar to Ozzie.

  Then she turned, ever so slowly, and smiled at him. Her eyes were intensely green, causing a shiver to dance down the back of his neck.

  Weirdo, he thought, inching down the bench, just to put a little bit more distance between them. He opened one of the manga and tried to distract himself in its pages. The cat jumped up beside him, curled into an enormous ball of fur, and was soon purring. Ozzie tried to nudge it out of the way, but it was heavy. It was so firmly ensconced it would take a bulldozer to shift it, so he sighed, resigned himself to the unwanted company, and continued to read. The next time he looked up, it was to see that
the girl with inappropriately purple hair had moved into the corner, close to Pigeon Lady. Except now, instead of juggling umbrellas, she was juggling blenders!

  Where did she get those from? Ozzie wondered.

  The blenders looked way too heavy to lift, let alone juggle, but the girl didn’t miss a beat, didn’t drop any of them. Then, right in the middle of her act, the girl waved at Ozzie.

  Ozzie gaped at her, wide-eyed. It took a moment for him to realize something was vibrating at his side; it was coming from his knapsack. He opened it up, peered inside, and saw the automaton’s head spinning round and round.

  “Up-down-up-up-down!” she warbled.

  “Quite the assortment of friends you have.”

  Ozzie looked up, startled. It was Pigeon Lady. She was still covered in the birds, but had somehow maneuvered to stand in front of him. Ozzie hadn’t heard her move; in fact, he had a hard time imagining her possessing the ability to walk. But here she was, and now she leaned down—way down—to stroke the bluish cat. It meowed happily in response.

  “Does he have a name?” Pigeon Lady asked.

  Her voice was slow and sweet, like syrup, but Ozzie found himself shrinking away from the peculiar woman. Now that she was so close, he could see her almond-colored skin was as rough and wrinkled as bark. She was far older than he had first realized.

  “Well?” Pigeon Lady coaxed, returning to full height.

  “It’s not my cat,” Ozzie managed at last.

  The lady gave him a skeptical look. “He certainly seems like your cat.”

  “Yeah, well, are those your birds?”

  The woman responded with a flowery laugh, which sent many of the pigeons fluttering away—only to alight on her hat and shoulders again a moment later. “No, I suppose not. Birds only belong to birds, that’s what I always say.”

  Ozzie tilted his head at her. “Then why do they come to you? Did you bespell them?”

  Pigeon Lady’s eyebrows arched in curiosity. Ozzie couldn’t help noticing they were a greenish color. “That’s a fancy word. You’re an intelligent boy, aren’t you? A dreamer.”

  “No, I’m not!”

  Pigeon Lady put her hands on her hips. Her arms were so long that they reminded Ozzie of branches.

  “Well, so what if I am?” Ozzie demanded. “What’s wrong with dreaming?”

  “Nip me in the bud—I meant no offense. I meant it as a compliment. Seems to me that you could use one.”

  “What does that mean?” Ozzie retorted. “You don’t even know me.”

  “Don’t I?” Pigeon Lady wondered. The pigeons cooed, as if in support. “I believe I know your type.”

  Ozzie let his manga drop to the bench and crossed his arms. “Yeah? And what type is that? Sensitive? Too sensitive?”

  “Frost and fungus!” Pigeon Lady laughed. “Being sensitive means you understand. That you’re in tune. How can you be too good at that? All around us, the worlds hum and—”

  “Worlds?”

  “There are more worlds than this one. Or didn’t you know that? Sensitive boy like you. The type who knows things, deep down inside. That’s sensitivity—that’s what I think. If you ask me, a lot of people aren’t sensitive enough. They don’t listen. To themselves. To the hum of the worlds. To the opportunity knocking.”

  Ozzie stared at her in bewilderment—and slight frustration. The blue cat was licking one of his elbows, but Ozzie kept his arms crossed and his eyes locked on Pigeon Lady.

  She returned his gaze from atop her impossibly long neck. “Tell me. Are you listening?”

  “Yeah. Sure. I think so . . .” She was staring at him expectantly, so he quickly added with as much decisiveness as he could muster: “Yes.”

  Pigeon Lady smiled, causing her wrinkles to twist. Ozzie could almost hear them creak. “Well, then,” she said, “you’d better answer.”

  Ozzie narrowed his eyes at her. “Answer what exactly?”

  “I told you. The knock of opportunity.”

  Is she talking about the door in The Depths? he wondered. How could she know about that?

  “What if . . . what if the door is blocked?” Ozzie asked quietly.

  “Oh. That.” The lady thrust out her arms in what Ozzie perceived to be a shrug. “You just need to find the right key.”

  Then, with a final cryptic smile, she made a ponderous turn and wandered slowly away, a halo of pigeons circling her hat.

  “Weir . . . do,” Ozzie muttered, though even he could hear the lack of conviction in his voice.

  The lady eventually disappeared from sight. The cat purred. The girl with inappropriate hair juggled. “Up-down-up-up-down!” the automaton chimed.

  Ozzie sighed. He gathered his things and headed back to the apartment building, the pesky blue cat weaving happily along in front of him. As soon as he opened the front door—just a crack—the cat curved around it like a letter “S” and bolted down the hallway.

  “Hey, wait!” Ozzie called, racing after it.

  The cat seemed like it was on some sort of mission. It scampered past Apartment 2B and pawed at the door to the cellar.

  Ozzie could hear the thumping from below. The cat butted its head against the door, as if overcome with a sense of urgency. Ozzie frowned, opened the door, and the cat soared down the stairs like a streak of blue. Its paws didn’t even seem to touch the steps on the way down.

  Ozzie followed the strange creature. He expected it to scamper right to the door to nowhere, but instead he found it scratching at a different door, one in the opposite corner of the cellar. Ozzie obliged the cat, swinging the door inward with a lazy creak, and the cat whisked through. Ozzie fumbled along the wall until he discovered a light switch. It was a small room—a glorified closet, really—crammed with cardboard boxes, crates, and chests.

  “Just storage,” Ozzie said, waving away the clouds of dust that had been stirred up by the blue cat as it leaped from box to box.

  The air was stale and thick; Ozzie guessed no one had been down here in years. The cat continued exploring the stacks, as if it was hunting for something. Probably mice, Ozzie hazarded. Bet there’s hordes of them down here.

  At last, the cat settled on a large steamer trunk. It was very old, tattered at the corners, and papered with stickers that had the names of different cities and countries on them. The cat leaned over the edge and batted at the clasps.

  “It’s probably locked,” Ozzie warned, but he decided to humor the cat, so he dropped to his knees. That’s when he noticed a tag dangling from the handle. He flipped it over to read: Augustus Sparks. “This used to belong to my great-grandfather,” Ozzie told the cat, and it purred happily in response.

  Ozzie tried the clasps; they were sticky, and he had to jiggle them, but at last they clicked open. The cat hopped down and Ozzie lifted the lid. He was immediately assaulted by the smell of must and mildew.

  “Books,” Ozzie announced. “Old ones.”

  The cat jumped right inside the chest and began scratching at the book right on top.

  “Hey!” Ozzie scolded. “You’re going to rip it even more.”

  He shooed the cat away and picked up the book. As soon it was in his hands, he felt it rattle.

  Ozzie looked at the cat in surprise. “There’s something inside!”

  The cat meowed in agreement, its tail swishing so excitedly that it thumped against Ozzie’s arm like a baton. Ozzie slowly opened the book to see that someone had cut a deep, square compartment into the pages. Resting in the hollow was a key. Ozzie plucked it free and held it up in the faint light. It was ancient and tarnished, with a “Z” for its bow.

  “Aunt T’s key,” Ozzie murmured. “Isn’t it?”

  There was a cord attached to the key, which the cat snatched in its teeth and began earnestly pulling.

  “Tug, tug, tug,” Ozzie said. “What do you think this opens . . .”

  He trailed off.

  He knew what it opened.

  Of course he did.

  He leap
ed to his feet; the cat was already bolting out of the room, down the dark corridor toward the door to nowhere. By the time Ozzie caught up, the cat was sitting in front of the door staring intently at the lopsided letter “Z” like it was a canary in a cage. Ozzie plunged the key into the waiting hole and turned it with a satisfying click. Then he clutched the handle, yanked open the door to see . . .

  No bricks.

  Not any longer.

  Just blackness.

  “Come on, Ozzie.”

  With a start, Ozzie looked down at the cat. “Was that you? Did you . . . speak?”

  The cat gave a knowing twitch of its tail.

  “All right then,” Ozzie said.

  And he stepped through the door.

  31

  Scoot and the Shutdown Sequence

  Ozzie was back in the command center. Everything was the same as when he had left; his friends were still huddled in the center of the room, surrounded by a ring of motos, and Klaxon was still at his control panels, hands on the levers. The only difference was that everyone—everyone who wasn’t a moto anyway—was gaping at Ozzie in utter confusion.

  “This is im-im-impossible,” Klaxon sputtered. “How did you escape the chair? The Machine?”

  Ozzie suddenly realized he was clutching the key to Zoone in his hand. He stared down at it, triggering a blurry memory of wrenching it free from his neck, straining to jam it into the console of the chair to release his shackles, then marching across the room and through the door. It was like he had been sleepwalking.

  But he was awake now.

  Fully awake.

  He slowly raised his gaze back to Klaxon. The moto-man’s face was twitching, his helmet lights flashing like alarm bells. Whatever thoughts—whatever program—was running inside of Klaxon was glitching hard. Ozzie had no desire to explain anything to him. As Klaxon feverishly began pushing buttons and tapping dials, Ozzie squeezed through the ring of motos to reach his friends.