“No way!” said Foul-Mouth Fabian, although he did squeeze in a third word in the middle.
“Wow . . . ,” said Jill.
“Just like my mother said,” Jix told her. “Todo tiene su propósito. Everything has its purpose.” It had been a wild gamble, but he had a feeling that the coin was waiting for him. It frightened him that he had been right, almost as much as it would have frightened him if he had been wrong.
The Bopper, now taking the role of High Priest, carefully lifted the coin up in his fingertips and went over to Wurlitzer. Then, with his free hand, he pulled off the quilt. Wurlitzer’s neon glow lit the room in shades of yellow, green, and red. The moment the jukebox was revealed, the Neons fell to their knees, including the little Greensoul boy, savvy enough to get with the program.
The Bopper dropped the coin into the machine, and it rolled around, then dropped into the coin box with a clink. Then he said, “Oh, mighty Wurlitzer, what should we do with Jix and Jill?”
“Avalon already asked that,” Jix reminded him. “It said to let us go.”
“That was then,” said the Bopper. “But things change.”
Then he pushed a button, and Wurlitzer came to life, its record bank spinning like a wheel of fortune. Everyone waited in anticipation, and Jix grinned, wondering what song it would choose.
In her book Caution: This Means You!, Mary Hightower has this to say about Objects of Power, or O.O.P.s:
“One may, on occasion, come across Objects of Power. These are, like many things in Everlost, best left alone. They usually come in the form of a machine that has crossed over—often due to sunspot activity—never because someone loves it. Nobody loves an Object of Power. Thus, love is exactly what it craves. It will, however, settle for subservience. There are those who feel that these objects are possessed by some unknowable spirit, but I say they are merely filled with some faint leftover consciousness of creation, like the irritating static spark when you grasp a door handle on an exceptionally dry day.
Foolish Afterlights will argue until the end of time whether such objects are forces of good or evil—but I know the answer. They are neither. These so-called Objects of Power serve no one but themselves. Therefore if an entity or object:
A) takes something of value from you,
B) claims to know things it can’t possibly know, and
C) draws followers like rotting meat in the living world draws flies;
then lift your slowly sinking feet out of the earth, and run as fast, and as far, as you can, for the thing in question will never do you any good.”1
CHAPTER 24
Face the Music
The smile lingered on Jix’s face, his mouth refusing to accept what his ears were telling him. When you’re alone, and life is making you lonely, You can always go . . . Downtown!
The Neons all looked to one another—this was one song it didn’t take a high priest to interpret. They all listened to a mockingly upbeat woman repeat the word “Downtown” in almost every line as she sang about the city’s energy and itsneon signs.
“It said Neons!” Someone shouted! “The song knows our name!” and they turned to Jix and Jill with sudden singular purpose, becoming a raging mob.
The friendships that Jix had formed, the way he had delicately woven himself into the Neons’ social structure—none of that mattered now . . . because Wurlitzer had spoken.
“Downtown!” shouted the Neons. “They’re going Downtown!”
And all at once Jix realized his folly. It was the coins! They should have been a tip-off. Anything truly helpful—anything truly good—would never demand an Afterlight’s coin. Such theft was reserved for monsters and dictators, and, yes even “His Excellency,” who, when it came down to it, was not excellent at all, only power hungry.
As the song reached its chorus, both he and Jill were grabbed by dozens of maniacal hands that practically tore them apart as they lifted them off the ground. Downtown! The song sang, Everything’s waiting for you . . .
And as Jix looked one last time at that shining, faceless jukebox, he couldn’t help but feel that it was laughing at him.
The Neons had to take Jix and Jill up before they could push them down. For the first time since the attack on the train, all the Neons climbed the stone steps and walked out through the gift shop wall into the Vortex of the Aggravated Warrior. It was daytime, and although the Alamo was open, it was a slow day. Only a few tourists milled about the grounds in the living world—and none of them within reach of either Jix or Jill. There were so many hands holding them, they could barely move, much less reach out toward a fleshie and skinjack their way to freedom.
“Take them out the front gate,” the Bopper ordered, then he turned to Jix, offering a moment of sympathy. “Sorry,” he said, “but Wurlitzer knows best.” Jill spat at him, which did not help the situation. He scowled at her then turned to the Neons and said, “We’ll throw them into the river. That way, they’ll be sure to sink fast.”
Then, as they were carried out through the Alamo’s main gate, Jix saw a glorious sight.
Boy scouts!
At least twenty of them, milling around just outside the main entrance. Never had Jix been so pleased to see living, breathing human beings.
“Do you see that?” he called to Jill.
“I’m way ahead of you!” she answered.
The Neons, who never paid much attention to the living, just walked right through the mob of scouts, and the moment they did, Jix pushed himself into the first fleshie he came in contact with and—