Going Bovine

Going Bovine Page 140

I hold up my E-ticket bracelet, blocking the words with my fingers. “I’m press.”

The guy peers at it. “Aren’t you a little young to be press?”

“I won it. One of those Last Wish things.” I cough for effect.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” the guy says. “I didn’t know.”

“Yeah. My last wish was to see the Copenhagen Interpretation play. And meet them.”

He shakes his head, slips me under the ropes, and points me toward the band huddled just offstage.

“Hello again,” the interpreter relays. “The sky is frowning.”

“Yes. It’s frowning big-time,” I say. Sweat beads on my forehead. “And it’s gonna get worse unless we stop it.”

As quickly as possible, I tell them my plan. They exchange glances.

“Will we end up in the shit again?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know. I don’t even know if this will work. But if we don’t try, the world’s gonna end very shortly.”

A tech guy makes his way over. “Sorry, guys. With the storm, it’s not safe to go back out. The concert’s been canceled.”

“What?” I shout. “No! You have to uncancel it!”

The tech guy shrugs in apology. “We just got these guys back. Can’t have ’em going up in smoke.”

“Please,” I beg, ignoring him. “Just one song.”

The Copenhagen Interpretation forms a tight huddle. Their heads bob in discussion. They call for their interpreter.

Murmur. Mur. Murmur. Stop.

“It’s like fishing in fake snow, checking your line.”

“Right.” I nod. I have no idea what they mean.

Against the advice of everyone at YA! TV, the Copenhagen Interpretation agrees to play one last song in the hopes it will send the fire giants and the wizard back through the Higgs Field to wherever they came from and close the wormhole so they can’t come back. A roadie ushers me out onstage. People cheer until they realize I’m not anybody. Down in the pit, Gonzo, Drew, and Balder shout my name anyway.

“Cameron! Save the universe, pendejo!”

Soon, the crowd’s chanting, “Save the universe, pendejo!” and they have no idea.

The blaze has gotten even closer. In the distance, I hear fire-truck sirens. I take the Calabi Yau toy from my backpack and rig it to one of the amplifiers as best I can. It sags like a half-emptied piñata. “Please,” I whisper. “Just … please.”

That sky’s looking really ominous. The clouds start to pull in. Lightning shoots out like loose electrical lines. Now people are getting nervous. They turn to leave. Any minute we’ll have a stampede on our hands. I can’t see Dulcie and I hope wherever she is, she’s okay. I run into the wings just as the Copenhagen Interpretation takes the stage again, and for one second, the crowd explodes with manic happiness. But it’s quickly replaced by fear. They don’t know if they should stay or go. On the one hand, it’s the Copenhagen Interpretation. On the other, there’s the fire and the sky.

The interpreter steps to the microphone.

Murmurmrumumurmurmurmurmuuuurmrrrrmmrurr. Long stop.

“In our travels, we have come across many equations—math for understanding the universe, for making music, for mapping stars, and also for tipping, which is important. Here is our favorite equation: Us plus Them equals All of Us. It is very simple math. Try it sometime. You probably won’t even need a pencil.”

“Hey. Hey! What is that?” a girl screams.

The fire giants have reached us. We’re completely sealed off by a circle of them, an angry army looking to be satisfied, except they can never be satisfied, and so they just keep burning. Those bottomless black eyes make my throat dry. The crowd screams and cowers together, holding each other up. But the Copenhagen Interpretation doesn’t flinch. They stand firm; they have more to say, and the interpreter relays every word.

Murmur. Murmurmurrmrurururmmmurururururmmm-mmrururururu. Stop.

“Please. We know. These are hard times. The world hurts. We live in fear and forget to walk with hope. But hope has not forgotten you. So ask it to dinner. It’s probably hungry and would appreciate the invitation.”

The fire giants throw their heads back and howl for all they’re worth—the horrible screech makes my skin crawl. In the crowd, people scream in fear. The interpreter has to shout into the microphone. “This is a song. It is called ‘Small World.’”

The drummer clicks the sticks together—two, three, four—and knocks the Calabi Yau off the speaker. Fuck. They’re playing, but without the amplification, it’s not enough.