Tycoon

A whitehead bursts under my fingernail just as I lean in toward the microphone. I wipe the gunk on my orange polyester uniform. Decency leaves you fast at a dead-end job like this. With a sigh, I begin my rote speech.

“Thank you for riding the Seawinder Coaster. Please keep your lapbelt down until the ride comes to a complete stop. And may your seaaaaas be calm! Arggh.”

Someday I’ll fuck up the safety talk, see if anyone notices. But not today.

I press the launch button.

The coaster creeps toward the first hill. As if on cue, every rider mutely raises their arms. I could set a watch by their screams at the second drop.

And I have. There are 89 more seconds to kill before I’ve gotta haul ass and help them off the ride.

Meaning, it’s soda time.

I reach for my souvenir cup of sweet, sweet carbonation. It’s become a personal challenge, seeing if I can suck the cup dry within a work day. A challenge I’m failing, as the liquid level never seems to go down. All I’ve won is an inner tube around my gut.

I take in the vista as I sip, imagining I’m on a tropical beach somewhere far, far from work. Today’s sky is vivid blue, leaving our kelly-green grass nearly painful in its saturation. It’s slow-growing, too. The Park’s been open since 1999, and I’ve never seen anyone mow it.

My years on staff are adding up. Mom thinks I should have made manager within two. But it’s hard to build seniority when there’s still no rhyme or reason to my work schedule. Sometimes I’m not called in for months, then I’m on duty for a week straight. At least I can always count on Christmas break.

I’m picking my skin again, staring at the silent queue, practically daring someone to call me out. Acne on a dude my age, it’s mortifying. Thank god my bright blue uniform separates me from the preteens.

Blue?

I frown at my shirt, because this morning I was wearing…

I swig more soda. Memory problems before middle age. Forget a vacation—I belong in a psych ward.

The coaster zooms toward me, each guest wearing an identical smile. They’re always so quiet once the ride ends, content to stare ahead. Planning out their next one, I guess.

Something unfamiliar in the sky catches the corner of my eye. I squint up at a sharp-angled airplane. The craft’s hovering just overhead, then it’s gone within a blink. Another scuzzy government project, I guess. That or too much soda.

A glorious screech comes from the Seawinder. Yes—steam! The first car, perfectly in order one minute before, has jumped its tracks. Now it dangles from the ride like the loose end of a ball of yarn. The guests within its car are suspended, sure, but they’re fine. Peaceful, even. I’ve seen this happen a hundred times.

Mechanic 2’ll take forever to find and fix this. Until then, I’m off duty. I swing my lardass off my operator’s chair and past the queue of guests already grumbling about wait times. Not my problem. I shoot a peace sign as I pass, grateful for an excuse to get my steps in.

But thunder meets me at the ride exit. There isn’t time to curse before rain pelts down, soaking my uniform within seconds. At least the umbrella stand’s only steps away, its plastic parasol spinning overhead like a cake topper. But at the front of the line, I blink. Umbrella prices, always set at $0.50, have been jacked up to $20.

“You can’t be serious.” I tell the shop clerk.

He stares back neutrally.

“This is exploitation.”

No response.

“Fine. But it’s ten with my employee discount.” I slam the money on the counter as another glint catches my eye. The airplane’s back, and I stop to assess it. Because it’s weird that I can see it through the storm clouds, right? Maybe someone brought in a drone. Illegal, obviously, but dope. I watch it swoop across the horizon, and then I gasp.

I spin around. Rub my eyes. Then slowly, I look again.

A carousel?

We don’t fucking have a carousel.

Except we do, apparently. Because it’s right there. I watch in amazement as its empty queue fills with umbrella-clad guests.

A truck musta brought it in this morning. That’s on me for not reading work emails.

I tap the closest guest, a man standing in the middle of the path, blocking traffic in both directions. “Did you see them install that carousel today?”

He won’t look at me. “I’m not paying that much for Bathroom 1.”

I roll my eyes. “Bathrooms are free, Bro.”

“I’m not paying that much for bathroom 1!”

I squint through a crowd to the bathroom. Three guests turn away with identical scowls to my lovely companion. And the glowing sign shows why.

Bathrooms. $5.

I whistle. The nickel-and-dimeing’s reached new heights.

“That’s really shitty,” I tell him. “Management’s on a power trip.”

“I’m not paying that much for—”

“I know.”

I turn, exasperated with myself as much as this idiot. Because really, why have I given the best years of my life to a place called Farts Park? Five years employed and no one even warns me about a new ride. I’ll send in my resignation via email.

I jog toward the park exit, daydreaming about my newfound freedom. Without this park’s erratic scheduling, maybe I’ll finally bag a girlfriend.

There’s a sign at the exit, with No Entry racing across in red lettering.

No shit, Sherlock. It’s the exit.

I slow to a walk, because I’m leaving Farts Park with my dignity.

Except I’m…not?

The sign’s as solid as brick, though my hands grasp only air. It’s impossible to pass through.

I spin around. Guests are reading the sign, then ambling back into the park. No one else thinks it’s freaky as fuck we’re trapped.

My eyes track skyward, looking for god, I suppose. Instead I find that creepy drone. It’s blinking just above me.

A little like a cursor.

I stare transfixed as it crosses the terrain, leaving something blue and glittering in its wake. Ah, a water plane, my mind fills in helpfully. Just a safe and boring forest fire training mission.

But there’s way more blue stuff than a dinky plane should hold.

I concede defeat with the exit and jog toward the Observation Deck. This low thrill ride’s weirdly popular, but the queue moves fast, and I’m on in five.

We climb skyward, and I scan for the new carousel. Then I rub my eyes—because the scene before me’s impossible. Farts Park has become an island. Everywhere I look, water meets the horizon.

I nudge the guest next to me. “Are you fucking seeing this?”

He smiles pleasantly out the window.

“That airplane brought the water in,” I mutter. “Military attack, you think?”

He claps as we descend.

My heart drops faster than my feet. Maybe someone laced my soda with psychedelics. I’d prefer that, actually, to my brain’s other working theories.

Shaky legs lead me to a fresh hell once I get off the ride. Farts Park’s hired on dozens of new panda entertainers, apparently. There’s practically one per guest. I snort as the imbeciles jiggle their bellies in what’s supposed to pass as a dance. All my requests for a raise fell on death ears, but there’s room in the budget for these guys?

I collapse on a bench at the Seawinder exit. Unfortunately, I’m not alone. The guest next to me is retching, and a radioactive yellow puddle appears at our feet.

“Eughh.” I draw my shoes up. “I take it the coaster’s fixed.”

The guy’s still retching so I check for myself. Then check again, because that’s not my ride. The Seawinder’s looking stretched. Twice as tall as usual, with the first descent tunneling down. Way down.

Farts Park’s rides don’t go underground.

Inner tube be damned. I take the path to the exit at a dead sprint, ignoring the growing crowd thronging the illuminated sign, because I’m about to be out like a Boy Scou—

WHACK.

Still impenetrable.

There’s a tight crowd around the exit now, so at least I’m not alone in realizing how weird this is. A gangly teen to my left starts hopping from foot to foot and I realize a horrifying second too late it’s because she has to pee.

“Don’t you dare—eaugh.”

She’s soaked my shoes.

I stare back in horror, because who won’t cough up five bucks to avoid a mortification like that? It gives me a front row seat as the drone swoops over us, plucking up the teen.

I scream as she dangles like Satan’s marionette above our heads. Ten feet, fifty feet she’s in the air, flying across the horizon, then dropped into our brand new ocean.

My scream stops at her splash, and the silence scares me most of all. I’m elbow to elbow with fifty guests, and no one else is reacting.

“Did you all see that?” I gesticulate wildly. “A girl’s just been abducted!”

I’m met with grumbling about her pee mark; some mild clapping at the pandas dancing within the mess.

It’s like they never saw her.

I sprint toward the water. Maybe the girl survived that fall. Maybe I learned enough before failing out of lifeguard training to save her.

Sure enough, there’s splashing. I sense her fear clear as a thought bubble. Help. I’m drowning.

“I’m coming! Just—hold on.” I attempt to wade in, but the water’s as impenetrable as the no entry sign. My feet won’t let me submerge. How can—she’s drowning—I don’t…

Before my mind can sputter the scene into order, she’s vanished.

Just—poof.

There’s no time to process before the drone returns with another pair of dangling legs. I cover my head as the second guest plummets through solid matter.

This time I turn away before they vanish.

Slow feet take me back to the Seawinder. The longer I take, the longer I can hold out hope someone will wake me from this psychosis.

There’s vomit ankle deep along the exit path. Every guest comes off as green as our fake-ass grass, then pukes within it. The queuing crowd watches without reaction.

A captive audience. Maybe they’ll listen to me.

I join the end of the queue. It’s time to utilize the full power of my operator’s shirt. I suck in air for a booming voice. “Attention guests! There’s a murderous drone in the park. We’ve gotta break out together.”

The queue ignores me for a fresh round of dancing pandas.

I shake the shoulders of the guy in front of me. “I’m not shitting around. We have to act. Now.”

He turns to me with fire in his eyes, and my heart surges in hope.

“I’ve been queuing for Seawinder Coaster for ages.”

I deflate. “No. You haven’t. You literally got here a second before me.”

“I’ve been queuing for—”

“SHUT UP!”

A shadow covers us. I don’t need to look up to know it’s the dangling legs of another park guest. My corporate overlords are turning this minimum wage job into the sandbox from Hell. Did we get too tedious, I wonder, schlepping through the minutiae of our days? They needed to stir the pot?

“Guys. Look UP.” I point at the dangling victim.

The pandas take a bow. Everyone claps.

There’s nothing to do but run. Back to the water, to another attempt at rescue. I reach it quickly—almost like the Park’s shrinking—and watch, helpless, as splashing gives way to stillness.

But the shoreline’s changed, and I’m met with a bridge that extends to nowheresville. No time to contemplate that it shouldn’t exist at all; I just push my wheezing bulk toward it.

Twenty seconds of huffing, and I hit springy grass on the other side. This land wasn’t visible from the Observation Deck, and I watch, transfixed, as my familiar world rebuilds around me. The employee parking lot still reeks of pot, and the expressway thunders in the distance. I’m close enough to unlock my Honda Civic.

I’m free.

Every impulse tells me to book it to my car, but I can’t resist looking over my shoulder to see who’s following me out.

And it’s… everyone? An ambling herd is moving toward the bridge.

It takes me way too long to wonder why they’re following me.

Then I see it. The drone’s making walking paths disappear. Guests caught unawares spill across the perfect grass like ants, but most continue their steady march forward.

I swallow. The drone seems to have an agenda, but maybe I can be faster.

“Guys!” I cup my hands around my mouth. “Hurry across!”

Neutral faces amble toward me.

“Faster!”

The path’s still disappearing one square at a time.

And suddenly, I understand.

Heart in my throat, I scream out with the last of my voice. “Actually…stop! Reverse! Get off the fucking bridge before—”

I’m too late.

The drone swoops beneath the crowd. With a click, the bridge flickers and disappears. Hundreds of guests float down like dandelion fluff.

I plug my ears, cover my eyes, but I can’t block out the synchronized splashing of a mass drowning.

And all at once, it’s quiet.

I peek between my fingers. Farts Park’s shrunk to a dozen guests peacefully milling the far bank like feedlot cattle. Trapped at the mercy of the drone.

But I can’t spare them a tear. Not when the drone’s speeding toward me. Blinking, bright enough to blind, and I wince, waiting for the snatch, the drop into water sharp as concrete.

But it stops. The cursor bounces against invisible glass. It’s hit a barrier as impenetrable as the no entry sign.

I’m out of reach.

I pull in a breath, staring at the pathetic guests about to become its consolation plaything.

There’s nothing I can do to save them.

So I unlock my car. Because fuck this job, seriously. I’d be better off stealing cars. Or maybe I’ll take Mom’s advice and apply for the zoo across town.

The thought perks me up nearly as much as finding Tom Petty on the oldies station. Zoo Tycoon sounds cool. Rumor says they offer health insurance.