Chapter 12: Choice

(December 30, 2015)


Even inside the vehicle, even through the heatproof windshield, they could feel the heat of it. The bonfire blazed for two minutes or longer before beginning to die down. Where the nest had been now lay a charred shallow crater, the asphalt burned completely away, red-hot embers glowed—the aggregate, the sand and pebbles that the asphalt had bound together. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Dipper made out two figures over at the driveway. "Mabel and Fiddleford!" he said.

"We did it, man," Wendy said. "Do we need to make sure?"

"I'm . . . pretty sure already," Dipper said. "I know we must have hit that nest with whatever the fuel in Fiddleford's flamethrower was. The burned patch is about fifteen feet in diameter."

"Now I'll have to pay to have it re-paved," Wendy sighed.

"Let's go," Dipper said. He got out, still holding her hand, and she slipped under the steering wheel and stepped out, too."

You guys are all right!" Mabel yelled as she ran toward them. Fiddleford came more slowly, peering at the burned patch. "Jehoshaphat, that was one hum-dinger of a campin' fire!" he said. "How big a blast did you give the consarned critters?"

"Just one," Wendy said.

"Reckon that'd 'bout do her! That juice flames at near a thousand Celsius! Done a job on the parkin' lot, though, didn't it?"

Mabel leaped to hug Dipper, and he let go of Wendy's hand so she wouldn't overwhelm him. "Whoa!" he said.

And then—weird—he had the sensation of something inside him, racing around in his body, something like a crazed mouse, fluttering and scrabbling. His head reeled. He pushed Mabel away and turned to Wendy, whose eerie evil grin had returned. She drew back a fist as if to slug him—

He lurched and grabbed her other hand. —Hold on, hold on, hold on!

Dipper, they're still inside me! They had me there for a second!

To Mabel and Fiddleford, Dipper said, "Stay away from us! I think we—somehow—I think we're infected!"

He gasped out the story. Fiddleford scratched his head. "Never heard of nothin' like that," he said, "'Course, that there's more Ford's territory. Why come you're normal-like now?"

"Because we have this strange, I don't know, connection—"

"Mental voodoo!" Mabel said. "When they hold hands, they kind of merge their brains or some deal!"

"It's gonna be late even in Hawaii, but I reckon we don't have any more choice than a possum in a gator's gullet," Fiddleford said. "Let's get in touch with Stanford."

They went inside—no scrawls, good sign—and down to Stanford's labs. Fiddleford made the call, apologizing, but explained that it was an emergency. Dipper took the phone and spilled the whole story to his great-uncle.

"Remarkable," Ford said. "I remember your demonstrating how you had the talent of telepathy when that Numina business occurred. You still have it?"

"In a way," Dipper said. "But only when we're touching, direct contact, like holding hands."

"How long did you touch the nest?" Ford asked.

Wendy said, "About five minutes, I suppose."

"About five minutes," Dipper offered.

"Hm. And you did insulate yourselves, correct? You wrapped it with a towel, or carried it in some kind of basin?"

"No, just our hands," Dipper said.

"Oh, dear," Ford murmured. "That could be bad. All right, let me get off the line and make some calls. Put Fiddleford on first, though."

Dipper handed his phone to Fiddleford. "He wants to talk to you."

Fiddleford adjusted his spectacles as he held the phone to his ear. He didn't say much—just "This here is me, Stanford." From then on it was "Goshamighty! Them rascals? I see. Gotcha. Yeah, I'll do 'er." And those came between long pauses as he listened to whatever Stanford was saying. Finally, he said, "Bye now" and hung up, handing the phone back to Dipper. "Uh—" he said, looking uncomfortable.

"What is it?" Wendy asked.

"Well, kids, first thing, I can't let y'all go to sleep. 'Cause iffen I do, those droll-bugs might short-circutify your consciousness an' hijack your bodies. So y'all have to stay awake until Ford figures out some way to cure you."

"How . . . long will that take?" Dipper asked.

"He's callin'—well, you recollect them fellers from the Agency?"

"Not them!" Mabel said.

"Yep, 'fraid so. Ford said to tell ye that it's OK, he's done worked out some deal with 'em and they'll treat you fair and square and won't lock you up to study you or nothin'. Iffen it looks like it's gonna take some time—longer than you can stay awake—uh."

"What?" Dipper asked. "You'll have to shoot us?"

"Naw, naw!" Fiddleford said. "But there's a hidden bunker—"

"We know," Wendy and Dipper said together.

"And, uh, they's cryotubes there—"

"You're going to freeze us?" Dipper asked.

"Last resort, last resort," Fiddleford said hastily. "And that would just be temporary-like, until we can rig a cure, and then we'd unfreeze you."

"And we'd be OK?" Wendy asked. "Freezing wouldn't kill us?"

"No, no, no!" Fiddleford said. "Not at all. You'll be fine. Uh, probably."

"Probably?" Dipper asked, more worried for Wendy than for himself.

"Well, yeah, nineteen out o' twenty white mice that Ford experimentated on was froze and revivified with no bad effects."

"What . . . happened to number twenty?" Mabel asked.

"Uh, it busted."

"What!" Wendy said.

"Uh, it kinda slipped outa Ford's grip an' hit the floor and shatterfied up into little mouse bits."

"Oh, boy," Dipper said.

"So—lissen, I'll brew us up some strong coffee while we wait," Fiddleford said. "That oughta keep ya'll bright-eyed and bushy-tailed."

"Yeah," Wendy said, squirming a little. "But I already kinda got a problem . . .."

A minute later, in the guest bathroom, Dipper knelt in the tub, the shower curtain drawn, with his hand holding onto Wendy's. "This is embarrassing, dude," Wendy muttered.

Everybody's got to tinkle, Dipper told her mentally. I can't see you, anyway.

Yeah, and after I finish, we're gonna have to change places, right?

Well . . .

Fortunately, Dipper was holding her right hand with his left, so they only had to do a dosey-do—figuratively, they weren't really square dancing—to change places. He caught a strange kind of amusement coming from Wendy.

What is it?

Nothing, Dip, but guys really go for a long time!

Way we're built, I guess.

They washed their hands—that is, his left washed her right and vice-versa. Scared though they both were, they got the giggles. As they were about to leave the bathroom, Wendy said, "Check your zipper, man."

And she reached over and zipped it for him.

"This," he said, "is definitely strange."

An hour later, after Fiddleford's appalling but stimulating cup of—well, it didn't taste like coffee, but it must have been, because Mabel went running around in the gift shop firing her grappling hook up into the rafters and swinging like Tarzan on a vine, while yipping "Whoop-whoop-whoop!"—anyway, after everyone had gulped down two cups of the stuff, Dipper didn't feel the least sleepy.

The Shack phone rang, and Fiddleford answered. He identified himself, listened, and said, "Sure, I can do that. Just a minute now." He studied the keypad—Soos had finally replaced all the old rotary phones with new ones—and punched a button. "That do her?"

Stanford's voice came from the speaker: "I don't know. Can you all hear me?"

"Grunkle Ford!" Mabel yelled. "I love you, man! I think I'm drunk!" She fell on her back, kicking her feet in the air and giggling.

"You're on speaker," Dipper said. "What have you found out?"

"Just a second. Agent Powers?"

"Here, sir."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Mabel yelped. "Not Mr. Baldy! How's your 'stache, Mr. Powers?"

"I'm here," the man's voice said after a short but tense pause.

"All right. The Agency has had some experience with these things. I'm going to tell you what steps we need to take, and Agent Powers will correct any mistakes I make."

"Yes, sir."

"Listen, then." Ford took a deep breath. "It's difficult. Because you touched the nest for so long, bare skin in contact with it, you've become infected with at least one of the drolls. They are—it's a difficult concept, I'm sorry, I can't be very clear—they are virtually inside your bodies. Not actually. That is, their physicalities are still within the reference space of their own dimension, not here on Earth, but they have a kind of psychic anchor lodged in you. The drolls' essences, their, oh, for a better word spirits, are locked in null-space between Dimension D207—the drolls' dimension—and ours. They will stick with you—drolls don't ever sleep—unless we can jar them out."

"How do we do that?" Wendy asked.

"Agent Powers?" Ford asked.

"We aren't sure," the man said. "We do know that if the infected person dies, the link is broken and the droll dies at the same time—its consciousness cannot return to its own dimension, and the link is broken."

"Hold on!" Mabel said, her voice shocked. "You're gonna cure my Brobro and Wendy by killing them? Not cool!"

"Not necessarily," Powers said. He hesitated. "Perhaps the affected person should leave the room."

"You kids skedaddle up to th' attic," Fiddleford said, his expression troubled. "Don't fret none. We're a-gonna find a way out of this."

"Come on," Dipper said. He and Wendy walked hand in hand up the stairs and to his old room. They sat on the bed.

Wendy said, "Oh, Dip, I'm so sorry I got you into this."

"We'll find a way out," Dipper assured her. "It'll be all right."

They leaned together, holding hands tightly, as if their lives depended on their grip. Which, in a way, they did.


"I am not leaving!" Mabel insisted, balling her fists. "Not when you're talking about what you're talking about!"

"Mabel," Ford said, "I think we may have a way of curing them. But it will be drastic, and you won't like it. Please, let us discuss it without you. I give you my word we have Dipper's and Wendy's well-being at heart. Trust me."

Mabel felt a sharp pang. Trust me. Fateful words.

Her voice trembled: "Grunkle Ford, swear to me—swear! That you're gonna find some way not to kill Dipper and Wendy. Not even to hurt them!"

Gently, Ford said, "I swear that we'll try our very best. I can't swear anything else and be honest with you. Trust me, please."

"Fine," she said, biting her lip. She left the gift shop and went back to the guest room, where she sat on the floor with her head leaned back against the door.

Because sometimes that way she could pick up voices.


"I can rig it up," Fiddleford said. "Take me couple of hours. Be ready not long afore sun-up. But I hate to do this!"

"I hate to ask you," Ford said. "If I could, I'd fly straight there and take this off your hands, but there's no way I can get there in time. They'll have to sleep, and if they sleep, I'm afraid we'll lose them. Powers, how certain are you that this will work?"

"Just a second. I'm calculating. All right—better than a fifty-fifty chance. A lot depends on how brave the kids are."

"But if we don't try—"

"Like you said, sir. We'll lose them." Silence grew like a puddle beneath a light rain shower. "Should I dispatch the ready crew, just in case?"

Heavily, Ford said, "Negative. I take full responsibility. But stand by in case Fiddleford calls you. Be at alpha alert."

"Understood, sir. Good luck."

"Thank you."

When Powers signed off, Ford said, "Fiddleford, I'm depending on you. Send Mabel up to keep Mason and Wendy company and to make sure they don't go to sleep. Or let go of each other's hands! That's vital."

"Mabel will keep 'em awake, but I don't think anything could make 'em let go their holt on each other," Fiddleford said.

"Very good," Ford told him. "See to that. Then you get everything ready."

"I will, Ford, but you realize you're gonna have to explain to me how you got all mixed up with these Agency varmints. We swore we weren't never gonna work for them any more a long time back."

"The situation has changed," Stanford said. "But I promise, when we get back from Hawaii, I'll walk you through the whole story. Go on and—do what you must. And call me when it's over. No matter which way it goes."

"And God help us," Fiddleford said.

"Amen," Ford said.